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. PTSD.
Dib07: Sorry for the length of the chapter... there was... urm... a lot of stuff to cover... I would recommend reading it in two parts ^^ Seriously, it's huge and I didn't want to take anything out! I promised I would never remove anything again since I kinda did that before with Saving Zim...
Your reviews keep me alive and rock en' rolling. Hope you enjoy...!
Thanks to Invader Johnny and Ikainica for suggestions about the ship's name! I am giving them consideration - and will start implementing the ship's name soon!
Guest:
Thanks so much! Glad you found this story and want to learn more! Dib is also wondering what that worm thing was, it was really gross, especially the way it... urm... appeared!
Not From Here
"Hey."
She sat on the stool looking like one of those survivors from a train wreck. Blood matted her hair, her clothing, even the pallor of her porcelain skin, but when he passed her a steaming mug of coffee, her smile broke some of the tightness she had been holding onto.
"I think I do pretty okay for a seamstress." She said. Then she held the mug close, breathing in the steam. "How's that crazed robot of his?"
It was a wonder she was still coherent. Maybe life, helped along by simulations from her games, had desensitized more than he realized.
Maybe a part of her knew she had to stay strong for the four of them.
His voice betrayed him on the first word, so he instantly closed his mouth.
Hesitantly, he looked over at him.
The curtains obscured the bright, cheery sunlight to cast soft, pastel shades over the Irken. Even though he had removed the sheets and pillows stained to the core with purulent green, the clean ones were already soaked in sweat and the fever of the dying.
They couldn't save his arm.
Dirt and filth had ingrained most of the infected, fleshy rags of what remained, the hand having been smashed to pieces. The odour had caused Dib to run to the nearest bucket to puke while his sister took one of his bottles of scotch and liberally poured it over lacerations where clothing and flesh had fused.
His breathing was intermittent, his broken chest not always rising.
Purplish veins jaggedly ran from under the skin, seemingly coming from the PAK. They had left it well enough alone, knowing it was damaged, that something 'alien' had come from it, and they hoped their conversant pursuits would allow the PAK to take care of itself, and its broken host...
-x-
Regret punched a hole through his ambitions, ambitions that had once guided him to the end. As shock rippled through the sturdy pillars of his foundations, he began to realize how stupid it was to leave his grieving sister behind. If something were to happen to him, she would never know, and his absence would leave a hole in her heart as Zim had done for his.
"Holes... holes in the sky..." Came a tinkering little voice.
Dib weakly smiled, watching those cyan eyes brighten. "Are you okay, Gir?"
"My fuzzy wuzzy!" He said suddenly, looking around for what Dib figured was the otter. When Gir found it he pressed it tightly to his chassis.
The human took a moment to breathe. The hull was holding, and they weren't going up like a firework.
There was no sign of the other ship; it was unlikely the guard would pursue them when he had nearly flown into the cataclysm head-on, and his exploding ally would have caused massive system damage.
That Irken, he... he just flew into the explosion...
He wasn't sure how he should feel about it.
He had burnt ants to death when he was a kid, using a magnifying glass as a weapon. Like a slow-burning laser he'd direct the light and watch them first burn and then melt. As soon as one dropped, mandibles and torso sticking to the floor, he'd observe more of them arrive to touch the fallen soldier with their antennae. He'd give them a moment to grieve or do whatever it was that ants did and burnt them too until he had a long trail of twisted, charred corpses.
Resigning himself not to feel guilty wasn't possible like he had with the ants. Irkens, he tried to comfortably reason, didn't hold the same moral weight as human beings, but as he mused over the problem, trying to soften the blow of murder, he realized he couldn't do that either.
If he believed that Irkens amounted to nothing, then Zim amounted to nothing.
With the ship protesting, the excessive heat of the engines brushing against sections of dented hull, the computer made a diagnosis. The Irken interval had left the starboard turbine damaged, and he disquietly realized that he needed to dock for repairs. Zarvius, one of the planets from the list, boasted heavy industrialization, but the recent run-in with Zim's angry kin made him less keen to settle anywhere 'Irken.'
I need to come up with a better story the next time I encounter the 'town guard.'
He turned in his seat to look at the violin case tethered to the wall. He couldn't explain why he felt so relieved to see it intact.
Shaky, mouth dry, he stiffly unhooked himself from the seat only to lean forwards and hold his head in his hands. It's a selfish thing I'm doing. Dad thought the same way... disregarding everything else. I never wanted to be like him...
I don't know what's right anymore.
He threw his head up, feeling worse as the gap between him and Earth inexorably grew.
It was useless trying to wall off the remorseless and ugly self-pity holding him together. He'd pushed Zim away. Not because he wanted to. After the funeral, he didn't know what to do, how to continue.
Pain was in the mornings when he woke to remember. Pain was in the evenings when he couldn't drink it away.
Keeping it distant in his mind never worked.
Nothing had ever worked.
When he had gone to the mausoleum, he hadn't been in a clear frame of mind: he was too woozy with a head whirling from the day spent drinking. That was when he heard the faint, sensuous sounds reaching and winding through the night. It had carried across the mausoleum, this eerie, willowy sound that plucked the hairs on the back of his neck.
He closed his eyes against the memory. When he slowly opened them, the warm plethora of instrumentation was still there, and so was the little robot. He'd been abandoned too.
"I'm sorry, Gir." He choked out of dry lips. "That was... kinda crazy, wasn't it?"
Well, you better hope Zim wasn't on Zoth 19 because there's no way in hell you can go back now. And what if he isn't even occupying a planet? What if he's in transit between stars, between galaxies, and I'm passing him by with trillions of light years between us?
He might have gone back to Elysium...
He might be dead...
The Voot's signal could not be detected. He had scanned the invertible dark, the transceiver's satellite whirring around to try and pick up any thread of Zim's passage, but he got something else, something wrong.
Out there, somewhere, past proxima centauri was a signal that the ship could not decipher: a horrible, haunting sound of a million orchestral voices humming as one. He shut off the signal immediately, breaking out into a cold sweat, skin crawling as the warbling song echoed in his head.
Gir had looked up at him quietly while an inner cold gripped him in fear.
What the fuck 'was' that?
I... I don't think I want to know...
The cosmos devoured life: anyone dumb or brave enough to venture very far simply disappeared. Nebulas pulsed to the gravitational pull of cataclysmic shifts; entire galaxies were ripped open by extending hands of quasars. Old stars cannibalised their surrounding solar systems. Creatures of unimaginable horrors were out there, lurking in that primordial darkness...
He shifted around the tiny cabin like a ghost doomed to tread the same path, hunger finally drawing him away from the delirium. He soon returned to the command chair with a small meal to fitfully gaze at the darkness threaded by stars.
"Those Irkens, they called me a vortian spy..." He said glumly, not sure what a 'vortian' was.
"Boop a doop doop." Gir was rocking himself back and forth, eyes upside down crescents. It was obvious he hadn't endured the attack too well either when nothing would normally rattle the robot.
He turned to the console screen, running a clammy finger up a panel. "Computer, what's a vortian?"
"Dirty, scuttling beasts, that's what." Retorted the ship.
Dib flexed his hand over the console. "Just a straight forward answer would be nice!"
The computer begrudgingly responded; "Vortians once allied themselves with the Empire, working to manufacture weapons and technology beside Irken scientists to destroy the opposition. But the vortians weren't happy with how they were being treated, and there was an insurgence. Most of the dirty beasts were either killed or imprisoned."
He leaned back, biting his lower lip, wondering how many species had been abolished and terminated to pave the way for Irken industry as they fed the growing machine.
Gir was looking intently at him in a desperate kind of way.
As if the computer was tired of feeding him more information, it showed him a holographic figure of a vortian dressed in white priest-like robes. Their appearance struck him instantly. The skin of the creature was a purplish grey, with what appeared to be two segmented, horn-shaped appendages on its head.
To see an alien he had never seen brought back the wonder.
Okay, so Irkens hate vortians... but to label me as a spy the second I open my mouth? It... It wasn't because I was asking after Zim, was it?
"Computer... who were the Irkens fighting on Elysium?"
"Prohibited information!"
"Damn you!" He hit the console with his fist, the regret of causing damage secondary. Amber eyes flashed Gir's way, anger and frustrations crushing him out, only to see sad crescents stare listlessly at the stars through the windshield. He drew out a long, aggravated sigh. "Ship. What do you know about... cybernetic worm things?"
"You're being very nonspecific."
Trying to curtail his anger, he looked to the flashing stars gliding past, their ghostly wisps gone in seconds. "Did the worm become attached somehow? Like a parasite? Or did Zim use it as a kind of... Irken... thing?"
Gir turned away, keeping his wavering, haphazard focus elsewhere.
"Yeah, yeah, I know..." Dib dismissively sighed, "I should have just asked the bastard, but some things are too painful to mention..."
To think we saved his rotten life, and this is how he repays me and Gaz...
Zarvius's data popped into holographic detail on the dash, the slightly translucent planet existing in perfect miniature. It slowly rotated, with two moons banking her orbit. The planet had spiralling wraps of purplish atmosphere, accompanied by a pale blue G star. Its diameter was larger than Earth's and the air was breathable: carbon based life forms, however alien, were not all that different to the fundamentals of the universe, not that it wasn't any less horrifying. When Zim had violently come back to Earth, aborting that worm, Dib wasn't sure he wanted to have anything to do with 'space.' There wasn't much to learn from it either, not when it was a purplish and blue pulsing gloop after his sister was done with it.
The purplish planet Zarvius was circled by two rings, the outer ring some thirty miles above the bottom tier. He wondered what they were for as he watched segmented lines of pink pulse between planet and rings.
"Hey, idiot." Came Tak's abrupt and coy voice. "Why don't you just open a worm hole? It'll be faster."
It took a second for him to 'wake up.' "Worm hole?"
"What, you wanna sit here for another twelve hours with that thousand yard stare?"
"Alright... so long as it doesn't pull me apart..." As Dib reached for the controls he realized Zim might have used a worm hole to leave Elysium. It explained the state of his wounds, though some of them, particularly the arm, had started to turn gangrenous. You never forgot that kind of smell.
He hit a few buttons, hoping he wasn't making a perilous mistake while the computer guided his ministrations.
The hole appeared like an opening eye in the night: a flourishing, vibrant cosmic rose unfurling its purple petals. Its bright heart was dazzling, its light spearing his soul apart. Even when he shut his eyes he could see poisoned novas printed on the backs of his eyelids in stunning detail.
The sickly purple filled Gir's eyes completely. "Holes in the sky." He muttered dreamily.
The rose seemed to be flying towards them, and as it opened, the ship shot down its celestial throat, the dark of space silently closing behind them.
The ugly, florid purple continued, making it nearly impossible to see. Something started to crank and rattle, and when he dared to look through the slits of his fingers he saw pink electric arcs purr and crackle over the ship's windshield.
Just when he was sure the ship would blow, they dropped back into space, the absence of light so sudden he thought he'd gone blind. The flower closed, turning into a hot red bead of light before disappearing entirely.
Th-that was amazing!
He had been seemingly 'plunged' into another quadrant of darkness, but instead of unbroken black dotted with sequins, a rising planet filled his lenses.
The twin bands of metal ringing the dusky planet showed incomparable feats of engineering. They pulsed to an alien tempo, with ships dotted near or far around certain sections. From this distance the ships looked like fireflies, their sides gleaming with every bright and gaudy colour.
This planet looks like the goddamn capital and command centre!
"Planet Zarvius." Iterated the ship's computer, "Discovered in 4077, and noted for its resources of metal. Zarvius had one of the largest drug facilities and repair stations on record."
Repair stations, huh?
The ship started to align itself, the computer activating the appropriate engagements.
The patrolling Irkens were always quick to pick him up, singular units detaching themselves from main clusters to bee-line straight for him like wasps targeting intruders. It was possible they had noted him long before he had even come within range and were just waiting to see what he would do.
He was hailed, the computer flashing with the 'incoming message' notification that amplified the dread. He hit a series of touch panels, feeling that sharp tug of déjà vu when an Irken glowered from the screen of his side monitor. After some tweaking, the ship translated the Irken's language into English.
He took a breath. It was time to put his rehearsals into use.
"You are entering Zarvius space." The soldier's voice was as cold and as rough as the last one. Alarmingly, his skin was also marred by dark splodges, some of which ringed his eye. "What's your business here?"
Gir took this opportunity to point at the unfortunate human pilot. "Mary's hired by the Armada! To... urm... pocket... Irkens!"
Dib tried to smile, feeling the sweat running off him. Here we go. Gonna end up as one big firework...
"You h-have a S.I.R unit?" The Irken lifted a claw to scratch under his impossibly sharp and mottled chin. "And you're a hunter? The Armada don't usually..."
He tried to keep up that trembling smile. Just go with it! "Well, that's why they hired me!"
"But you're..." The Irken looked him up and down, "...an alien! What kind of law would allow a pale, ugly abomination to hunt defunct Irkens?"
As he was fighting to think, a thought splintered though the concentration: did he just say 'defunct' Irkens? Is that what hunters... do? "Th-that's the... point! They won't suspect me!"
"Hang on, 'hunter,'" he drew up a holographic chart, overlooking lists and names. "What's your registration ID?"
Sweat trickled like water down his left temple. "I can't give it to you. My existence has to be of utmost secrecy! What will the..."
"Tallest!" Gir helpfully suggested.
"T-Tallest think when word spreads that my identity has been discovered? Do you know how close I was to bagging that... urm... Irken called Colton or whatever? I was this close!" And he held the tip of his forefinger and thumb shy of two millimetres apart. "...And he got away!" He was blurting out words at this point, he wasn't even really sure what he was saying half the time. All the Irken had to do was call out his bluff. "You don't secure your database very well, do you? Who knows who else is looking?"
"I still cannot allow you to enter Zarvius without some form of ID!" As the Irken waved a gloved hand, more scouting ships were inbound as if a delay in 'accosting passing visitors' warranted immediate backup.
"ID... ID..." He said, patting his shirt and pockets as if he had misplaced the imaginary credentials.
"Hurry up, you pale, sweaty...!"
"Ah! Here it is!" He grabbed a leaf of packaging from a pack of cookies he had forgotten to put in the bin and flashed it in front of the monitor screen before the Irken had a chance to properly look at it. "And this is the Irken I'm hunting!" He traded the slip of packaging for a Polaroid photo of Zim. It was the clearest photo he had of the solider without his disguise. His aim had wobbled slightly, cutting Zim's arm out of frame. "This is Zim! He has a cybernetic arm and he screams a lot so he's kinda hard to miss!"
All the anger was leaking out, he could feel his cheeks burning. Desperation had a rush to it, the sense of doom cutting out the cowardice as he stared lividly at the alien before him.
There was a glint of something in the Irken's red orbs for eyes but it was hard to determine exactly what it was.
The Irken's growing hesitation only gave him strength. "Don't you have any listings of every stupid Irken who goes in and out of this planet?"
"I do." The Irken said at length, his probing eyes like an x-ray.
If they shared Zim's predatory traits, these Irkens could sense weakness on a profound level, like a polar bear scenting blood thirty kilometres away. A shift of the eyes, a drop of sweat, the subtle language of one's body, any one of these things could give him away.
"Well?" Dib had to rely on the hope that Irkens admired authority as much as they revered height. If he floundered, even slightly, they'd know, in the same way a limping deer revealed its weakness to the wolf.
Irken ships began to surround them, their styles and shapes garish with purple or pink trim. They pressed close like playful tigers, bristling to the ribbons with every size and type of plasma cannon, laser pointer and juggernaut mortar, all aimed at his little ship.
The Irken was viewing the registry, using his claw to scroll through the listed names.
If this works, I have to keep up this bogus occupation no matter what...
"I believe we have a winner. Is this the Irken you're after?" The scout pulled up a listing and turned it around. Dib was suddenly staring at Zim's profile. Alongside his image were reams of red Irken writing. "No wonder you're after him." The scout's lips lifted into a half snarl. "He's quite the troublemaker."
He couldn't believe it. He stared at the image, recognising the kinked left antenna, the tired and insolent stare from pained eyes.
Is it really you?
The mask threatened to drop, and he had to quickly pull it back up again before the wolf could see the limp.
He crossed his arms, looking unimpressed. "What did I tell you? Do you know how much time I waste, having to explain myself to bozos like you whenever I call upon a station or planet? I will pass your 'obstruction' along to the Tallest so that..."
"No, no that won't be necessary!" The Irken clacked his claws together, the smile an upturned grimace. "You are free to enter Zarvius!"
Remember. Irkens rarely show appreciation. A mocking smile will just about do it.
He hit the console a little too roughly, smiling coldly at his entourage. When he pulled back on the throttle, the ships immediately parted in a hurry, allowing more than enough room for his passage.
Don't look back.
Zarvius rolled towards him, the creams and purples of its clouds like swirling cotton candy. His heart was racing, his mouth as dry as sun baked sand. He tried to hold it together, tried to keep his emotions buttoned down, but the smile crept out anyway until he was laughing. I've found you, you bastard!
But the anger made a sharp comeback, pounding against his walls until he could hardly breathe.
He'd come to reluctantly believe that Zim might have been killed. If he'd run into trouble, he would have found some way to contact him, so why hadn't he?
The ship kept course, entering the atmosphere and landing requiring the expertise of both pilot and computer. He surveyed the hulking swathes and plumes of purplish dust and cloud. In space, the planet looked serene and alluring, but as his ship tipped down, the nose following the planet's curvature, the atmosphere was rock-hard, the descent a violent and destructive welcome as the hull tried to endure sudden pressures as it left the icy void.
The old aching rattle returned, and two view screens popped up to flash red: WARNING DAMAGE. ENGINE. EXTERNAL HULL BREACH.
Grey and lavender clouds hit his ship like a pounding rockslide, gases having the crushing force of an avalanche. The light of the planet's sun was lost for an instant in the buffeting, suffocating gloom, Dib believing he was flying through a sand storm. He toggled the landing gear lights, not all of them functioning, and the gloom was barely punctured.
Again Gir went eerily quiet, watching the descent with hardly any expression to lighten his smile. It was possible that any rough descent, enough perhaps to stress the ship, reminded him of when Zim crashed into boulders and trees...
The swirling storm abated, the sensation of speed and turbulence an unwelcome, old familiarity he'd rather do without. He felt the cabin lift and bounce; he was trapped in a rampant and lunatic ride he couldn't escape, and when the clouds turned aside, the ship finally cutting through, the ground opened up, andin an instant the panic was pushed back by awe.
Below were swathes of cities, like some pink and bristly carpet that was all lights and shine. Towers branched out like trees; lanes were awash with smoothly shaped capsule-like crafts. Huge and brightly coloured neon advertisements stuck out from every canopy and cluster, each one carrying a sickly carnival vibe.
And I thought human advertisement was out of control...
Huge metal-shaped slide things looped in and out from the eastern district of a congested metropolis, and as Dib descended, it took him a few seconds to realize that there were coasters racing along these convoluted and nonsensical tracks, like Irkens had a rollercoaster of sorts within the city.
Maybe it's their bus service, who knows?
The natural terrain couldn't be discerned; so much had been built on top of it that the planet's surface might as well have been metal.
He pulled up on the throttle and levelled the ship.
Do you see how enormous this 'one' city is, Dib? How are you going to find one tiny nymph of an Irken in this sprawling nightmare?
As he lost altitude, the colours and complexity of an intimidating metropolis came into its own. Black and menacingly purple spires coiled upwards like something out of a Lovecraftian fantasy. Thorn-like protrusions that could either be buildings, offices or weapons reared over the smaller dwellings like guardians, giving the eerie impression they could move around at any given moment. Though they didn't exactly replicate the spires Gir had drawn, the robot still tucked the otter doll in front of his eyes so that he couldn't see them.
Lanes that were thread-thin from above quickly grew into ludicrously wide tracks that had a metallic shine. Spaceships passed overhead, almost so close that they practically brushed his wingtips. The huge rings he had seen from space were perhaps the scariest of all. They could be seen wherever you looked: they filled the sky like twin giant arms reaching out across the world, creating immense shadows that ran over the surface of the world for miles, and in that dark spot nothing was built save dusty tracks, slum-like settlements and slouched outposts.
He was pressed so far forwards that the harness dug into his shoulders and hips. He leaned back, eyes trying to capture and see every little facet, point, shine and bolt of colour.
The monstrous billboards rose above him, stupid faces, slogans and food gimmicks dominating every corner, lane and patch of space. Shops had been squeezed in wherever they would fit, many lesser dwellings having strange oblong or curved shapes that were built around or on top of each other.
As he looked, he began to notice something a little strange.
With so many buildings clumped and cloistered together, doors basically opening against other doors as he flew over angular rooftops, he noticed that the metal paved avenues and districts were mostly empty of Irken occupants.
Maybe the planet's one big gas station or inn, and tired Irkens stop by to eat and rest before moving on again?
Towering black Irken insignias, the singular eye crowned by antennae and the upside down triangular point, dominated every area above that of the adverts, each one symbolising a specific business or enterprise in the city by way of its centre icon. The plain black orb probably represented military posts or establishments, while others differed, with either an equal four-pointed cross that might signify medical and technical facilitation, with others adopting a heart symbol, or in some cases a star.
A far thought came to him as he surveyed the pink, black and silver-capped city. There's so much I don't know about your culture, Zim. And here I am in the thick of it all.
He aimed his ship towards what looked like a runway; it had marginal lights and a long purple strip that bled into the shadow from the oversized ring encircling the planet. As he approached, he saw a long row of docking stations. Changing his trajectory he came to land in a vacant hangar that was large enough to easily fit two cruise ships.
After nearly two days spent confined and cramped to the cabin he was desperate to get out, stretch his legs and breathe air that didn't have a slight metallic flavour to it.
Dumping excess plasma fire from the underbelly to counteract the ship's weight for a gentle and steady landing, the hangar's roof closed above him like one of those automated garage doors.
"Five metres and dropping." Intoned the computer. He killed the engines and he was almost thrown out of the harness when the ship dropped, its underside hitting the floor. Massive absorbers cushioned most of the impact, the stabilisers helping to protect the pilot and its instruments from being rattled out of alignment.
The hull continued to thrum and oscillate as engines cooled, its power winding down.
Gir was already unbuckling himself, whooping in eagerness now that the long flight was over.
He was still rattling himself. It took awhile for his clumsy fingers to find the clip in his harness and push the button, and when he dropped out of the seat like a drunk, he clambered for something to hold onto before his jelly legs collapsed.
He smashed his thumb on the windshield button, and when the cockpit opened the claustrophobia didn't ease. Shit! The space suit!
As he reached to grab it from under the seat, the windshield parted all the way, and he breathed air that he imagined to be purple and ghoulish, like poisoned vapour rising from a witches' cauldron. With the diaphanous suit in hand, he took another breath, wondering how long it would be until he started coughing as he asphyxiated in fumes. Even though the ship had given him the planet's oxygen content, he hadn't trusted the information when firsthand experience would be his only experience.
But the air wasn't killing him, and it was warm on his cheeks, like he'd just stepped into a temperate oasis.
Peeking around like an ermine peeping from its hole, Dib realized that he had the hangar to himself. Smoke and plasma vapour rose from the steamed and sweaty chassis of the ship, and when he awkwardly clambered out, still clutching his spacesuit, he saw the damage. Just before its port turbine and inches from the landing vent was a melted hole the size of his head. When he took a closer look, being careful not to scorch himself on her still-burning chassis, he noticed that the internal walls were thankfully still intact. The inner hull had been bruised, the resilient metal having withstood the lasers. The repair would require more of the same tough material to patch up the hole, and he doubted it would come cheap.
Got a ticket for the return trip?
Gir jumped out after a brief 'eye flicker,' tucking the ropey, droopy otter under his arm.
He scratched at a sweaty patch of forehead under his wet hair, wondering how long the lie of 'hunter' would hold until his glass-thin story broke under Irken scrutiny. "Thanks, urm, Gir," he said, unable to iron out the shakes in his body and voice, "for back there, the hunter thing..."
Gir brightly smiled.
The hangar was lined with pulsing arteries – and when he ran a hand along one of these fleshy tubes he was shocked to discover how warm they were.
The walls opened up unexpectedly, and as he shrank back, holding the diaphanous suit, the walls moving aside to represent the city outside.
Meticulous avenues of pink-like iridescent glass joined other speedways and lanes, some of which went up, down or around buildings with room for ships to glide along.
Huge ships passed by, the windshields impossibly dark so that he couldn't get a look at the pilots.
Fear came creeping back, knocking down some of the awe when he recognised the militarism and capital that made the flying juggernauts. And they weren't all smooth, pretty constructs. Like wounded birds that had come from afar, they carried the marks and scars of a brutal life. Engines were dented, with worn hulls showing hasty repair over older repairs.
Alongside shiny avenues were grubby metal pathways that little sentry robots kept to, trekking back and forth in clustered groups. Like spherical balls, they glided along without legs or wings, their smooth, basic heads as large as car headlights with a red light pulsing out. They moved in this way like urgent New York commuters hurrying to and from their destinations.
Tucking the suit back into the cockpit, he quickly overviewed which things he should take with him. He could already hear Gaz's voice in his head telling him not to be stupid and bring only the essentials.
In his backpack was a sheathed hunter's knife, though he wasn't sure what it would do for him in a fight against creatures that could instantly heal unless he struck somewhere vital. Over the years Zim had involuntarily taught him a few things worth remembering, and that, in a way, he should treat Irkens like vampires.
He clipped the knife's scabbard to his belt that his jacket covered up so long as the wind didn't blow, and proceeded to stuff a few tools into his duffel bag. When he thought that would serve, his eyes happened to land on the violin case tethered to the wall of the cockpit.
It's just a stupid instrument. Leave it!
He threw the duffel over his shoulder, the blade a comfortable weight hanging from his belt. As good as daggers got, he wished he'd brought a firearm.
Dib moved into the sepia light of a pale sun.
They started to appear, hurrying to the border rails with their persisting stares, bulbous insect eyes as luminous and as colourful as Christmas tree baubles.
He was struck by their appearance. It was like someone had pressed a button and cloned them all.
They carried themselves with wary aloofness, their curiosity met with suspicion and disdain. Glittery mosaics for eyes contained cosmic stardusts swirling with greens, purples, reds or pinks.
They were not cluttering the street, there weren't nearly so many, but after having only experienced Zim's lonely company, seeing five or even ten of them was an eerie phenomenon.
They wore little black and polished booties, but not all of them wore gloves. Their claws were lean and green, the points flawlessly sharp as they hugged the railing. Their antennae were bristling, moving organs that were distracting on their own, especially when they were so many flickering and twitching at once.
There was undeniable relief to see the occasional alien in their ranks. Their distinguished appearance stood out amongst the median populace of Irkens: some of which were covered in fur, had horns, and generally walked on two legs. They wore robes or sometimes not very much at all, but they always stood to one side to give Irkens right of way. They were usually tall, perhaps as tall as he, and he wondered if they were slaves of a planet that was once theirs, or if they had come here as merchants.
He took another step out of the hangar, raising the collar of his jacket as if that could hide him, Gir following along carrying his sagging, old otter toy. As if he was emitting a terrible smell, the Irkens began to back away from the rails, their eyes a bewitching, eldritch unknown that could completely mask their emotions. Even anger could be superseded under that cold vulpine stare.
He tried not to stare back and act not at all aware of them, taking pains to look at a shop window directly across the avenue. The shop sign was a giant wall of neon letters, and from his basic understanding of Irken 'squiqqles' it could have read 'Glupee' in flashing greens and sickening yellows, but it might also have read 'drugs.'
Gir was sucking the ear of his tired toy, and looked no more pleased with the situation anymore than he did. He believed that Gir would effortlessly 'mingle' with the species who had made him, but he wasn't attempting to get any closer to them.
Dib ruefully looked down at the robot, wondering if it was better to keep him here with the ship. Taking a S.I.R unit with him might only attract hostile attention.
He bent down, looking into those warm eyes of cyan. "Can you wait here for me, Gir? I don't want you getting lost, okay?"
He huffed, tracing the toe of his foot on the floor.
"You can guard the ship. It's a pretty important job, and I know you can do it."
The eyes started to flicker, the left one blacking out for five, long seconds.
"How about this?" He began gently. "You can work on communicating with the Voot Runner using the computer. I've tried and failed, but you know the ship better than I do. Think you can do that Gir?"
The robot huffed again, clearly unhappy with Dib's suggestion. "Okkay."
I'm leaving a broken, malfunctioning robot with my only means of transportation. If the ship wasn't damaged I might have been worried. "Thanks, Gir. When I find that idiot 'master' of yours I'm bringing him here, understand?"
The robot resignedly saluted with a whimper.
Approaching the main street, eyes and senses blitzed by neon signs and swirling dust, he paused, deciding where to start.
A braver Irken was walking towards him, its focus and stride faltering when it drew closer, its eyes alighting on his strangeness with that cold and impassive scrutiny. Dib was beginning to discover how tall he was in comparison, and that even the tallest Irken could only reach to his shoulder. His 'impressive' height seemed to both intimidate and interest them.
When the creature approached he didn't know if he should move aside or to just ignore it.
"Nimasiz?" The Irken's brackish tongue was like sandpaper to his ears. It was simultaneously guttural and chirpy, the tongue aggressively clicking in a vulgar and clattering tone. A crow had a silkier voice. But, he supposed, human language probably sounded equally as aggressive to an alien species that couldn't understand what was being said without context. "Menga javob ber!"
Maybe he's asking me out to dinner.
He gave the Irken a shy half glance, lifting his hand in an awkward wave. Fire filled his cheeks, heart thundering away in his chest when he knew he was being challenged. It took every ounce of willpower not to go for the knife.
The Irken stood defiant, feet spaced apart, eyes a burnished blood-red.
The telltale rash was a continuing theme, as if they were all suffering some kind of contagious blight. Purple sores covered the thing's neck, with the vibrant tunic of its uniform covering up the rest of it.
"Yo'ldan chiq!" The Irken rushed forwards, forcibly pushing him aside, and Dib hit a shop wall with a gasp.
"Zim! I'm here for Z-Zim!" He threw out his dog-eared photo, his words a blended whoosh, "I need to know his whereabouts! The Tallest sent me!"
He had no way of predicting what the Irken would do, and his crotch was at perfect punching height.
"Umga! GAK nima umga!"
The thing sounded pissed. And Dib stood, drawing breath in sharp sips, praying he wouldn't be sprayed with bullets of plasma, the Irken snapped round on its heels, but even as it walked away it kept throwing him looks as if it didn't know what to make of him.
"Sorry!" He called lamely after it, not sure what to make of it either.
Hearing that much Irken dialect all at once helped sever any ruse and power he thought he had. Zim chirped in his native tongue when he was either asleep or in one of his trances, and to him it had sounded more like birdsong, light and delicate, and not at all like the varied and caustic aggression he was now hearing.
Dib stood aside, letting the angry things pass him by. They looked him up and down, taking in his foreign footwear, other worldly clothing and insipid skin. One came up and started examining his jacket, tugging on his sleeve and plucking almost angrily at the material as if he was a shop mannequin displaying an outrageous outfit for sale.
He had to suppress the urge to slap the creature away before it revealed the dagger, having recognised the subjection in the eyes of other aliens who 'shared' this world. Showing resistance might invoke all-out-war when they were already wary of him. They twitched and moved around like erratic, frightened predators who knew what pain was, and would strike first if need be.
"I'm just passing through," he said, knowing they could understand everything he said, "I'm a hunter. Have you seen Zim or know of his whereabouts? He's... urm... small, has a metal arm and does a lot of damage..."
They snuffed and snorted at him, wrinkling their nigh-invisible nasals at his distinct and alien odour. This seemed enough for many to give him a wider berth, holding the place where their noses should be and gesticulating rudely as if Dib had the glands of a skunk.
He was particularly wary of those in crimson uniform. They kept their distance, eyes hateful and dark, their waists bristling with shiny armaments, PAKs glowing as hot as their weapons.
Dib feverishly realized that standing, gawking, was only adding to his exotic weirdness. If he acted confidently, and looked like he knew what he was doing, it might shake off their predatory interest.
I have to act like I belong here. If something happens to me, Gaz will never know...
When he started to walk he eased his chin up, lowering his shoulders in the same way Zim had done. He was sure two or even five of them were following, but he stamped on the urge to look around, focusing only on the obnoxious shop signs and neon lettering that bathed the pink avenues with hypnotic, dizzying lights.
The shops looked more like nightclubs, with the occasional Irken sitting at booths or tiny, elegant seats drinking questionable liquids from prim and slender crystal vials. They liked to eat a lot, apparently, which was new to him. Every block of space was taken by eating venues, which incorporated a lot of snacking.
He was pleasantry surprised at the quality of the food. There were no high-energy capsules here, no dry, lifeless brown packaging or pills to be found. Dishes came served in flowery glasses which were intricately decorated, with cherry-like fruits frozen in tiny little cubes that might be ice, gelatine or something else.
Some of the chalices served jelly-like fruits that were blue or red, and he spied something that looked like a cut melon, only its mantle was pink and its fleshy centre was white with black pips. They drank out of chalices with flowery looking straws, chopstick things and smoothly curved spoons. When the vending doors clanged open and shut, he caught the scent of burnt syrup, a radish-bitter aroma, and the distinct but unmistakable smell of cinnamon. He thought of going into one of these alien establishments, sitting down and ordering something random just to shirk off the suspicion his presence was generating, but he didn't want to look stupid when he had nothing to pay with.
He wondered how Zim had survived living so long on Earth when he had not being able to eat any of the weird and wonderful victuals these Irkens seemed to enjoy daily, unless he 'enjoyed' taking pills.
He drew away from the shops and approached sterner establishments, the walls a deep-rooted black that twinkled with inlaid sequins of purple. Ships docked from the high plateaus above, looking like bird roosts that served another way in. The base of the enormous hexagonal-shaped building was solid, the impossibly smooth surface producing a super clear image of his reflection.
He finally dared to look behind him when he couldn't go another step without taking note of his pursuers.
The few who had chosen to follow gave the human sharp, idiosyncratic looks, his appearance too fascinating or vulgar to simply ignore. It was possible they came into contact with thousands of alien species, but 'humans' seemed utterly bewildering to them. He would wave at them and they would flinch, shattering the unbridled intensity in their stare.
He couldn't quite place it, but he felt a little demoralized by what he was seeing. Though he was glad he wasn't being torn apart, there were obvious signs of decrepitude. Their skin was peeling off, exposing raw green underneath. And there weren't as many of them as he'd come to expect.
Whenever he happened to see an alien in the ranks of antennae, (usually cat-like creatures or reptilian bipeds) his heart would lift and he'd feel a strange affinity with them. They, like him, belonged to a different world in the heart of a different galaxy; surrounded by doctrinism and severity. You could see in their eyes that they did not belong. They carried themselves with a solemn and beaten air, their heads would drop, and they would avoid looking at Irkens at every opportunity.
He wanted to know what they were a part of, and why they were here.
As he paused to look around, trying to pinpoint shop signs and street logos so he could map his way back, he had to step aside for Irkens, and if he forgot they either pushed him out of the way with surprising strength or they'd shout a relentless tirade of spitting cusses from twisted and snarling teeth.
An Irken watched in the shadow of a building, arms folded. Dib recognised the soldier's apparel: the smooth and subtle armour coating chest and hips, with the prominence of artillery hugging its belt. He did not like to think what should happen if that soldier were to step out of the shadows with a gun in its claws.
Wherever he went, desperation clawing his patience to ribbons, he held up the photo to hateful and contemptuous faces. "Have you seen this Irken? Does the name 'Zim' ring any bells?"
They aren't listening! Why aren't they listening to me?!
He kept moving, hoping his swift and wary passage looked credulous and even a little naive, but he felt the danger, and the fear rose. Just keep moving! Don't hesitate! I can't look like a witless rabbit every time they look at me!
But the climbing displacement continued, opening up fissures of panic. He felt cold all over, his steps jerky as his surrealism expanded. He wanted to sit down somewhere and take a breath, let it all sink in so that he could cope a little better with the environment and the impossible, that he was among aliens in an alien dystopia.
He was jetlagged beneath everything else weighing him down, and he hadn't even got over the disorientation of space travel.
A purple face peered back in the sparse but growling group of green snarls. The strange crown of drooping 'horns' caught his attention, and the demure way it held itself. That's... that's a vortian!
At the time he would have been unable to explain why seeking out that particular vortian was so important to him, but, in the moment, surrounded by the unfamiliar and hostile, he reached out to it, recognising something in its tiny blue eyes.
"Hey! Have you seen this bastard?" He strode over in two long strides, but the vortian broke away from the crowd as if it was either too frightened or simply did not want to be questioned. On deer-slender legs it glided down one of the intersections.
Leaving the goggling, staring Irkens, he dived down something of an alleyway to even grittier areas where little black scuttling things twitched and crawled over leftovers provided by an industrious and tireless city.
He looked for the 'vortian,' hearing only the scuttle of trash rolling from scampering, fleeing vermin-like things. "Hey! Hey, urm... you!"
White eyes from bird-like creatures watched from dark corners before darting away. The floor swirled with chemical spillages, corkscrews and mechanical effluvium from the curbs and corners shiny motes of diesel. In rancid pools of ooze floated needles and inhalers of some kind.
He was honestly shocked by the filth, and stared at the horror of neglect as if it did not belong here.
Dib kept going, hoping this kind of dereliction was rare, but the disenchantment was a cold hand pressing on his throat.
There was a shadow, fleeting and sudden, and he headed that way to be soon enveloped in soft purple glowing from two neighbouring metal walls. He heard the high keen of a passing ship and the distant tread of boots. There was a tangy reek in the air, something like bleach and hay that caused his eyes to water.
There was a body lying on the street.
Vortian forgotten, Dib made his way over, certain it was just a heap of rubbish or an unfortunate alien worker who had collapsed.
He was wrong on all counts. Feeling his world spiralling away, his legs became shaky, weak stilts struggling to support him.
The Irken was lying on their side, both antennae had been ripped to stalks, and something like purple drizzle was trickling from its mouth. Flies with glowing yellow abdomens hovered over the body, drinking every spill of blood and fluid.
He choked out a sound, hand coming to rest on the Irken's cold cheek. The pain barely lifted when his heart told him that it wasn't Zim. The body conformation was all wrong – besides, they had both their arms and their PAK was perfectly smooth.
"Hey...? Hey there?" He started weakly, his throat managing half the words.
The stiffness turning the body to stone, and the cold radiating off Irken and PAK told him that the creature was dead.
He sat back on his heels, unable to understand or fathom why he suddenly felt so sad.
It took awhile for him to remember there was a world to come back to, and when he lifted himself to his feet and turned round, there was no one there. Anger rushed in, like fire sweeping through a dusty cornfield. "Where are you all now, huh? What's with you bastards? You can't just leave him here!" His cries echoed like bullets ricocheting off metal.
There was only the buzzing of the flies and the distant hum of passing ships.
Gir... if Gir had seen this...
"Curse you fuckers!" His shout was hoarse. "You have it all! Power, control, technology! And this is how you live?"
As those final word echoed he slowly bent down, knees hitting the cold metal and slipped his arms under the Irken to feel the body's unsettling stiffness. The uniform, a marred porcelain white with purple trim hung off dainty arms and legs. The PAK was a bulk he was familiar with, knowing to place his arm around it rather than under it.
When he parted into the neon lighting of the main subway with dusky motes of blue sunlight falling onto his glasses he walked into the fray of screaming, fleeing Irkens. As soon as they saw what he carried they all ran in different directions.
"Why are you running!?" He screamed after their shadows.
It wasn't long before he was utterly alone with nothing but alien music wafting like a bad smell down the empty street.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there in the middle of an alien metropolis holding a dead Irken, and he might have continued standing there in the choking fumes had he not heard the nearby but closing clanking and whirring of something big and heavy making its way towards him.
With care he deposited the Irken on the metal curb before reluctantly backing away, the noise shattering the calm with clanking metallic shrieks that made everything else ring.
Sheltering behind a faded sign, he watched a bipedal mech plod its way into the street. Its legs were inverted, bending out like giant elbows, with giant paddle-like claws branching out to take its weight. The arms had been incorporated into cannons, though it was questionable if they still worked.
As the horror lumbered into full view, its conical head scanning the area as if it had eyes, Dib peeked over scrap metal to notice that was no pilot to speak of. Ports on its front that served as headlights stuttered on, with only two out of the six working. Its chassis was grubby with old oil leaks, and something kept smoking from its backside.
Dib hunkered closer to the floor, terrified. Paralysis rooted his feet to the floor, and even seemed to freeze the breath in his lungs. He didn't know what it would do to him if it found him, what sensors it had, what the thing was for...
As it observed the area, gears miserably whining as it turned, something that served as its voice box kept repeating the same guttural message: "Cok haal tay fek! Cok haal tay fek!"
The fear was a growing storm inside. He suddenly felt as powerless as a child. If it should come his way, should he try to run...?
Its lights rotated towards the dead Irken. For a moment it only stood there, gears sparking, the repeating message blasting the quiet to bits. Pincers extended from one of its cannon-like arms and settled them over the Irken's PAK. A ripping sound followed. Dib ducked even lower, eyes squeezing shut, hands covering his ears.
"Cok haal tay fek! Cok haal tay fek!"
Kneeling in filth and flies, he waited, teeth locked over a bloodied and trembling lip. There was more shuffling, a thump, and when he dared to peer round the mangled sign, the sentry mech was plodding away, and the Irken was gone.
Dispensed, erased, cleaned up...
Jesus, what kind of place is this?
What... what even was that... thing...!
He stared, pupils dilating, hands glued over his ears long after the sentry mech had wandered away.
It took longer for him to start moving again. He spent a particularly long time standing where the Irken had lain, staring at the footprints left by the beast.
What's going on here?
This wasn't the utopia he'd imagined.
He supposed it was foolish to believe in a better fantasy.
As strange, exotic purples began to deepen the sky, he glided lifelessly down knotted alleys and streets, body a numbed shell while the hurt lingered inside.
I... I don't belong here...
This place... it's hell.
The disillusion and loss crept in. As he searched, looking for those who might help, even a directory of sorts, he ended up back in the same district where the Irken had died.
Treading over abandoned tools and torn up boxes with faded logos, he stepped into a porous and smoky glow to peer into another rundown street. Pale sickly light poured out from oval windows, the avenue littered with spoiled food and debris. Tired Irkens lingered outside outlets and venues. He could smell the stench of chemicals from here, and observed an Irken squatting by a vibrant and glowing red wall, puking his guts up.
Tiny tick-shaped black bugs fluttered and buzzed over stinking spoiled heaps. Vents from the floor heaved up more bleach-like smells that made him cough and gag.
A gaunt figure wearing rags was clearing away debris with a broken broom where the metal handle had snapped in half. Bare feet, blistered and cut up, followed deft flicks of the broom as the tiny creature whisked the clutter into a pile. The Irken moved with telling atrophy, as if core muscles were stiff and weak, but the creature's fuchsia eyes would brightly watch and survey and glare at whoever passed by.
Something of a metal collar clung to an emaciated throat, emitting a red glow that cupped his chin and the hollows of a collarbone in soft cherry. Even from this distance Dib could see the tracings of emerald veins running across the breadth of a chest as though the skin was transparent.
The hands and arms were so encrusted with dirt or oil that he couldn't tell if one of them was mechanical.
But there was something else. The Irken's unusually short stature stirred something inside, and he drew closer.
The left antenna had a dent in the middle, but both were ragged at the apex...
He stopped short before he crossed the street.
Tussled fabric slipped off the Irken's shoulder, revealing metal.
No. It can't be you...
A kind of madness was knocking at his door, threatening to undermine every hope, every scrap of faith.
The Irken straightened in his broom-sweeping duties, ragged and frayed antennae rising like ears on a cat when he sensed approach, eyes glowing from gaunt sockets. The dark under the ghostly fuchsia suddenly paled, broken broom falling from hooked claws.
He knew that look. He knew those ancient eyes. But they stared back from a face he no longer recognized.