And now we swap to a more Zim-centric chapter.
Trigger/Content warning.
Chapter includes: descriptions of (faux) infanticide. Panic attacks. Strangulation/suffocation/descriptions of restricted air. Blacking out. A tldr will be available for sensitive parties at the end of this chapter. Please read at your discretion.
Dead Weight
Ch. 2
Irk
Zim nearly cursed, feeling the precariousness of his situation. He was too young for this. Perhaps in a few rotations, he'd grow strong enough to handle fully equipped PAK legs, but for now, these ridiculous training ones were doing him no favors.
Stupid she-Irk, he cursed. Were it not for her, he wouldn't even be here.
Zim had other things he could've been doing. Productive, important things. He could afford the distraction, of course; he was the greatest thing to have ever been born from the Hatchery—save for his almighty Tallest. But still, his peers were beginning to notice his fixation on the smeetling. A distance had been imposed between them. Several of the less stupid ones recognized his claim on her attention and had begun to spread the word around. Or so Zim suspected, given the wary looks and sudden mindfulness of being too close to either of them. Zim wanted to scoff. Fools. The smeetling was attractive, surely, but his true interest lay in founding an alliance. Perhaps once the she-Irk admitted to her vicious nature, she'd then be worthy of Zim in other ways, but for now, his focus came from a strictly professional standpoint.
. . . Mostly.
Currently, he hovered on his PAK legs, each one skewered to keep him plastered flat against the domed roof. He winced at the amount of damage he was doing towards the building, but it was all cosmetic. Surely scratching two of the thousands of support beams would be of no consequence to anything.
Below him, the object of his most recent fixation was in the middle of receiving a lecture.
Technically, Zim could be removed from the training program for his eavesdropping, but it would be worth it if he could get the intel he was after.
The smeetling had been more irritable than usual lately. She hadn't been obvious, lacking any twitchy mannerisms or other visibly anxious behaviors, but Zim was a genius. He'd recognized the sign of her building nerves, had taken note that her superiors were keeping an even keener eye on her, and had recognized some sort of individual exam was afoot.
Granted, he had the advantage of recognizing the signs of testing from his own days of being assigned a private mission, but still. He could've figured it out.
Probably.
Admittedly, even eavesdropping, the words echoing up to the ceiling were jumbled and difficult to understand. From what he could decipher, this was about Gaz's simulations. He should've known, honestly; Zim had never seen an Irken so single-minded in their primary pursuits. They seemed to be trying to persuade her towards an alternative path. Certainly she was a fantastic technician, but she was just as gifted in combat. Was she sure she wanted to continue in this specialization?
As flat as ever, Gaz seemed to be reaffirming her selection. Stubborn smeetling. She probably hadn't even registered the defiance of her actions. An overseeing Taller usually wasn't "suggesting" anything when they told the smeetlings to reevaluate their paths. Usually, cowering young Irkens got the hint and simply nodded along with whatever the panel said. Judging by the angry twitching of the Taller's antennae, this was not the first time Gaz had obviously declined their "offer."
Zim had to keep his snickering muffled by his glove, lest it echo down to the panel below and get him caught.
"Very well, 6198," the Taller continued. "Your preference has been . . . noted. Please provide the panel with your most recent simulation."
Gaz at least seemed to have the sense to bow politely. It was hard to tell this far up. Zim caught sight of a screen flickering on, awaiting an input. Gaz continued to stand in the center of the room, connecting her handheld device.
Frowning, Zim realized he wasn't going to be able to see it from this angle. Since revealing his hacking and thievery of her previous simulations, the female had been much more careful and protective of her device. She carried it in her PAK, never leaving it in her room or even in her locker. The wireless signal had been deactivated, and Zim suspected it could only be accessed via her direct PAK uplink. Discovering her encryption method was the main motivator behind his sneaking about this morning.
Sure enough, her PAK produced a cable that connected to her simulation device. Several seconds passed before it unlocked itself with a 'ping.'
Zim growled low under his breath. Troublesome she-Irk. She thought her precautions would stop him? Pfft. Now that he knew her secret, he could—.
In the midst of spidering about the beams to try and get a better view of the projection, his PAK leg slipped. He caught himself quickly, embedding the untethered PAK leg into the nearest surface.
A very troubling crunching noise had his antennae going limp.
The entirety of the room gave a low, draining hum before all lights and technology within the room went out.
As he was still a developing young Irken himself, it took his eyes much longer to adjust to the darkness than the Tallers below. Nearly immediately he could see their glowing opticals looking around the room with alarm.
Well . . . he meant to do that! Yes, of course! He wanted to discover the location of the fuse box! Yes! For . . . mischief! And other such things . . . yeah . . .
He bolted.
He didn't see Gaz again until training that afternoon. She was absent from their morning regiment, and was nowhere to be found during their lunch hour. He was beginning to panic, though ever mindful of his composure. Gaz was smart; if she caught him looking anxious, perhaps she would suspect his unintentional sabotage. He was usually grumpy or bored in her absence. He needed to feign boredom. Tired. Disinterested.
It didn't come easy. Pushing the female and her temper aside, talk was beginning to spread of an outage in the simulation department. No one was quite sure what had caused it, but it sounded like the Tallers were pretty unhappy. Some suspected a generator failure—the engineers were known to slack off, since the systems essentially ran themselves. Zim had feared the little female would be blamed, fearing the Tallers would blame her simulation somehow for the overloaded system, but thankfully, no accusations had cropped up. By the time he saw Gaz, the vicious bite of his nerves had settled into a gnawing discomfort.
She pointedly refused to make eye contact after an initial mutual glance, but Zim didn't read into that much. Gaz's strategy of ignoring him only worked when he allowed himself to be ignored.
His left eye narrowed wordlessly, noting her unusually empty hands. The distinct lack of a simulation device made the previous gnawing feel closer to teething.
She seemed to take note of his expression in her peripherals as they lined up, but she didn't audibly comment. Her shoulders hunched, nails digging into her own palms.
He feigned silent pondering for several seconds before his lip twitched. She was simply too adorable when angry, the funny little thing. Whatever comment was about to come purring off his tongue was interrupted by the squelching slap of hurriedly approaching footsteps.
Zim's expression soured considerably. Ugh. Him.
"Greetings, peers," the source of his irritation began, bowing. It was a sign of prostration that Smallers rarely demonstrated towards non-senior Irkens, which made it all the more obnoxious. Doubly so at the fact that Gaz was only a few ligas taller than him.
"Skoodge," Zim said flatly, if only to hasten the conversation along.
"Sir!" Skoodge barked in kind, saluting militantly. After a beat, his hand fell, sliding into place on Gaz's other side.
He was the only Irken consistently stupid enough to shoe-horn his way into Gaz and Zim's . . . thing that they had going on. Whatever it was. Zim would've found the trespass offensive and antagonistic, were it not so obvious that it wasn't Gaz the littler Irken had taken a shine to.
Gaz didn't bother with a verbal acknowledgement aside from a grunt. It greatly embittered Zim at how tolerant she was of Skoodge. Zim largely suspected her tolerance came not from a genuine like of the fat Irken, but from the fact his presence always annoyed Zim.
"I heard the simulation department suffered a blackout today," Skoodge said conversationally. "I hope it didn't interrupt your—."
"It did," Gaz said tersely. Zim was conflicted; he wasn't sure if he should be pleased that Gaz's good will towards Skoodge had so immediately soured, or irritated that Skoodge had upset her. He settled with shooting a disapproving scowl over Gaz's PAK. The pudgy Irken wilted beneath its might.
"O-Oh," Skoodge squeaked, fidgeting his fingers. "I'm . . . sorry to hear that."
Zim scoffed. "Typical Skoodge. Apologies are a sign of weakness! One must never apologize! Never!"
"You should apologize for your face," Gaz sneered. The two shared a mutual glare before their supervising staff cleared their throat at the center of the arena.
Some announcement was being made today. Supposedly, they were nearing the end of their training regime for this rotational cycle. Soon, the Control Brain would be making decisions on who would be proceeding as an Invader, and who would be relegated to labor. Clearly, the imminent decision weighed heavily on some of his peers, if they're hunched shoulders and subtle quivering were anything to go by. A glance towards Gaz showed she was unaffected by such worries. For now, anyway.
"Tomorrow," their supervisor began. "You will be tasked with a final exam. It will be your most daunting task yet, and will be your last opportunity to prove your ruthlessness, tenacity, and level-headedness. Due to the potentially strenuous nature of the task ahead of you, training will be canceled before and after this exam. As well as the rest of the day. Dismissed."
Everyone in attendance was visibly surprised. Training had never been canceled before. A stir rose amongst their peers, whispers and speculation running rampant.
Wordlessly, Gaz turned and began to make her exit. Zim quickly followed, preventing Skoodge's further presence with another glare that pinned him in place. He maintained the heated eye contact until the two of them rounded the corner.
He harrumphed, crossing his arms across his chest. Insolent little shorty.
"He should know his place," he muttered, unable to contain the sentiment inside himself.
Gaz glanced his way, snorting darkly. Aside from that, she clearly felt his comment didn't warrant a reply.
He cleared his throat, feeling the nerves settle back in. Act casual. Be casual.
"I know what you did."
He froze up.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said through his teeth.
"Whatever," she dismissed, her chin only slightly turning his way. "How long were you planning on playing stupid?"
His hands balled into fists. She knew. Of course she knew. She probably was aware the moment he came into the room, or anticipated his presence from the beginning. He'd given his hand away already, of course, by admitting how enamored he was with her simulations. She'd encrypted her simulator, for Irk's sake. Of course she knew.
"Idiot," she scoffed, though there was a touch of amusement in the twist of her lips. Amused at his expense, clearly, but amused all the same. "You're terrible at hiding things."
Zim expected her to be angrier. It was on the tip of his tongue to comment on it, one of his eyes already narrowed warily.
And then he paused again.
. . . She wasn't angry with him. At all. Or, no more than she usually was.
Zim hissed at her, antennae flattening against his skull. "You don't don't know what you're talking about."
Lying, tricky little thing. She was far too clever for her own good. Her potential was as fascinating as it was infuriating.
Gaz's lips pulled wide enough to warrant being referred to as a smile. Her chest shuddered with wordless laughter.
"I'd say I can't believe that almost got you, but it'd be a lie," she replied, teeth flashing. After a beat, her smile dropped. Zim resisted a disappointed sigh. Those smiles of hers never lasted long, but he missed their fleeting presence all the same when they left. "If you want to keep it a secret, you should be less twitchy."
It was his turn not to answer her. He huffed, earning another sidelong glance from the female. He wasn't pouting, he reasoned. He was just expressing his irritation with her. The female wasn't the only one who could be sullen.
One eye narrowed in disbelief. "You're really not going to tell me what you did?"
"No," he said firmly, though a touch curious. He leaned towards her slightly, chest first. "Have I piqued your curiosity, little Gaz?"
She rolled her eyes. "You're not usually shy about whatever stupidity you managed to get up to today."
"Admitting interest is unusual for you," he pressed. It was his turn to flash a grin, though his was far more wicked. "You are intrigued, no?"
"I'm hoping this streak keeps up," she replied flatly. "I thought it was a sign you finally realized I don't care."
She stopped pointedly at the hallway that led to their dormitories. Zim did not resist the eye roll. She was so protective of her domain now, refusing to budge further until he took his leave. In a way, she was holding herself hostage. Normally, Zim took advantage, but he didn't want to press his luck today. He was lucky the female's pride was keeping her from interrogating him for details as to his 'trouble.' For once, Zim chose a path of caution rather than continue to gamble. Their evaluation was tomorrow, after all. He didn't want to show up injured and missing an antennae.
Snickering, he reached out, patting the female companionably on the shoulder. Her snarl chased him down the hallway as he fled, cackling.
He couldn't be too cooperative, after all.
The following rotation had them up early—not that anyone slept much anyways. The whispers of what was to come had kept many awake in the clutches of their own anxiety.
Zim made a point of weaving his way amongst his peers, further inciting gossip and horrors. No no, it's not two Blortian rats in a cage, it's ten.
Gaz happened upon him whispering towards a group of trembling would-be Invaders (if they could keep from wetting themselves long enough to pass this mystery exam, of course), describing in great detail the size of teeth on a adolescent Slagbeast. He seemed to be using his narrow forearm for scale.
"Their venom is said to be some of the most deadly on this side of the galaxy," he hissed, eyes wide. He had his audience captivated—too captivated to notice his wicked, mocking grin. Apparently a Slorgbeast's venomous tooth was too great a distraction. She rolled her eyes.
While Zim's mockery may have gone unnoticed, Gaz's disdain apparently had not. A female she-Irk with bright blue eyes that she didn't recognize sent her a scathing, offended scowl.
"I wouldn't be so confident, Gaz," she sneered. "With your height, you'll be lucky to make it out alive, let alone pass."
Ah. Gaz remembered her. She understood the she-Irk's grudge; she'd been one of Gaz's early testing dummies for her simulations. One of the smeets that had cried.
"Given your previous testing scores," Gaz began, blandly going through the process of adjusting her uniform. They were in full formalwear today; rather than a unitard and leggings, they'd been dressed down in a burgundy, long-sleeved tunic and matching bottoms. "You're lucky to even be here, let alone taking the placement exam."
The she-Irk balked, enduring the mean laughter of their peers with grit teeth and bunched shoulders. She stomped off, though the huddled group followed after her, shaking off the bite of their nerves with the joy of picking on a vulnerable party.
Zim tilted his head after them, only slightly disappointed that his audience had abandoned him. "You know her?"
Gaz shrugged.
Realizing that was the best answer he was going to get, Zim pressed on. "She's annoying."
"Takes one to know one," Gaz replied, a thin smile on her mouth. It edged towards sincerity at the sight of Zim's irritation. "So, nine-rows of teeth, huh?"
It took Zim a moment to backtrack. Right. The Slorgbeast. "Each row sharper than the last."
Gaz seemed to mull this over a moment. After a bit, she nodded in approval. "I hope it shreds you to pieces."
"A beast capable of slaying the almighty Zim will require at least a dozen rows of teeth to even be a challenge," he boasted.
Gaz's sidelong glance said plenty more than words could regarding what she thought of his competency. It made Zim bristle, sharp, scolding words on the tip of his tongue before they heard the barking commands of their superiors.
"Tallest to shortest," shouted the Commanders as they began to shove and cajole the recruits into something akin to a formation. "Hurry up! Come on!"
While Zim was by no means a candidate for Tallest, he was certainly on the Taller end of the spectrum. Normally, he looked forward to lording his height over anyone and everyone within his vicinity. It was, however, unfortunate that it would spell his separation from Gaz. He'd been hoping to eavesdrop on her testing scores.
Although, considering how yesterday's attempt at eavesdropping had gone, perhaps it was better that he minded his own business today. The last thing he wanted to do was spell her expulsion from the program because of a faulty power system.
"Good luck, little Gaz," he cooed in parting.
"Die screaming," was his future partner-in-crime's adoring response.
He snickered as he took his leave in line, the good mood carrying him until Taller's began shuffling ahead of him. The sight of so many of his genetic superior's in bulk was a bit of a buzzkill though.
At the beginning of the line, he caught sight of two of his former Hatchery mates. Their names escaped him at the moment, but he did remember them. They seemed to have hit a growth spurt, though it was difficult to tell who was the taller between them. Neither seemed willing to give up their position as first place, standing next to one another resentfully. They must've been within a quarter of a ligas of one another. Hmm. Interesting. Zim fully anticipated their advancement to Invader training. With their height alone, the final exam seemed to be redundant for them.
Tch. Well, Zim didn't need height to guarantee his spot in the Academy. He'd make it on skill, talent, and showmanship.
He tried to keep track of Gaz, but she was so far back that the effort was a waste of eye-strain. Zim would probably be done before she ever got close to her exam center. Good. Maybe he could find a way to linger around the area, get a feel for how she'd done the moment she came out.
The anticipation was the worst of it. For all his heckling, Zim wasn't immune to the fears of what potentially lay ahead.
The feeling only got worse when previously unseen sectors on the roof began to alight, enormous circular domes throughout the room glowing and fading to a menacing red one by one.
"Attention future Invaders," a voice boomed over the speakers. "You may have noticed the security protocol occurring above you. Drink it in, smeetlings; if you're lucky, you'll never see that glow again. As of right now, none of you without proper override authorization are able to utilize the offensive or defensive functions of your PAK."
A clamor went out amongst the young Irkens immediately. Zim's skin itched, a flash of anxiety twisting inside him hard enough to make him hunch. His eyes darted around, catching sight of multiple individuals looking over their shoulders with narrowed eyes, clearly trying to force a response that wasn't coming.
Reluctantly, Zim did the same, though he hoped he was more subtle about it.
. . . Nothing happened.
". . . They're trying to cull the smaller ones," hissed a voice farther up the line. Whoever he was talking to snickered, their cruel words echoing back to Zim. "If they can't fight with their PAK, they're done for."
"Even Blortian rats need toothpicks," someone else jeered.
Howling laughter broke out amongst their ranks before they were quickly quieted by their supervisory staff. Orders for silence and decorum were barked out. Properly scolded, the younger Irkens fell into silence.
Fear grabbed Zim by the throat and sunk its teeth into his skin.
Strangely, fear for his own safety was secondary. Primarily, his eyes went darting into the distance, so far that even his optics couldn't see the end of the line.
Gaz.
It was ridiculous to worry about another Irken while he was very possibly facing his own demise, but it couldn't be helped. A fussy, prickling anxiety was eating away at him and drawing his concern further into the bowels of the exam room.
He shook himself. Why should he be so fixated? Gaz was surely fascinating, yes, and he fully intended to sway her over to his side of thinking eventually. And she was pretty, of course, but Zim was hardly so . . . insatiable. If the she-Irk failed her exam, it would be disappointing, yes, but he'd move on. If she failed, she was unworthy of Zim, after all.
. . . but if she perished . . .
The thought lingered, his mouth going dry.
No. No no, he was being . . . the female was a warrior capable of besting even him in combat. She'd be completely fine. No monster, Slorgbeast or otherwise, would live to boast about managing even a scratch on the little demon. No, she'd be fine. Completely and utterly fine. Zim would rejoice in his own victory and spend the rest of the day accepting the gushing praise of his would-be . . . partner. Just a partner. Right . . .
This new line of thought distracted him.
His attachment to the female these past months had only grown more complicated. Zim had never been in the habit of keeping company before—especially when that company made it abundantly clear that his presence was completely unwelcome. He reassured himself by reminding himself that Gaz didn't understand yet. She was far too indoctrinated into Irken propaganda directed at lesser minds. It was holding her back, a needless limitation that oppressed her full potential. They'd danced around the revelation since that initial confrontation in her living quarters. She still rebuffed his every attempt to change her way of thinking, but she hadn't managed to get rid of him yet. Zim recognized in her what he saw in himself. They were made for this. He just had to—.
"You," barked a supervisor, startling him from his line of thought.
Zim fell into a salute at one. "Sir!"
He pointed a sharp finger towards one of the teleportation pads. "You're up. Go."
Zim nodded sharply, hand falling firmly to his side in dismissal before moving onto the pad. He had to wait for two Irkens ahead of him. Although the wait wasn't long, it seemed to suspend time indefinitely. Once the last wary-eyed soldier had dissolved in a ray of light, Zim took a breath and steeled his face. He tried to ignore the way his eyes once more roamed, eager to catch sight of a venomous purple-eyed female that would steady the worst of his nerves. He didn't expect to see her, in reality, but her absence felt like the first physical blow of the day.
When the light faded, he found himself in a strangely sterile, unassuming room. Only the half of the room where he'd phased in was lit, a stark comparison to the ominous darkness smothering the other half of it.
Zim found himself off-kilter. Eerie as that darkness was, the room was far taller than it was wide. Furthermore, the room seemed very . . . fragile. This was no battle arena. What was this?
A tapping noise caught his antennae. He looked up sharply.
A supervisor stood behind a transparent strip that went horizontally around the entirety of the room, a glass equator separating two halves of the room.
"Welcome, future soldier," she said curtly. "Congratulations on making it to your final exam."
Zim nodded slowly in acknowledgement. His hands flexed at his sides, antennae twitching in anticipation of some sort of surprise attack. It was simply too obvious for the darkness not to hold some untold evil. Perhaps that was the test; not allowing the sterile, unassuming room fool him into letting his guard down.
"If you're ready," she said. "We'll begin now."
"I'm ready," Zim said, emboldened by the steadiness of his own voice.
"Good," she gestured loosely with her tablet pen. "Please direct your focus 97 degrees to the right."
Swallowing the bile in his throat, Zim did so.
"When the lights come on," she began politely. "Please eliminate the target."
Zim steeled himself. He knew it. The room was a trap. Now able to focus his optics, he could make out the shape of something small, something that likely grew exponentially in the light. Genius. Any moment now the walls were going to part, leaving them in an arena much more suited for—.
The lights came on.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
There was nothing on Irk that could've prepared him for this. Nothing.
It was a . . . smeet.
His mouth opened, as though to point out the error. That thing on the ground was no monster screaming for blood or violence. It was a dewy green sack on the floor.
The moment his gaze went to the supervisor, expecting to see his own surprise reflected back at him, his spooch went cold.
She met his eyes firmly.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Whenever you're ready," his evaluator droned, passively holding his tablet aloft. "Begin."
Zim couldn't formulate an intelligent argument. He hadn't felt he'd need one. Usually, words were just as much his weapon as his fists, but they escaped him completely now.
He blinked rapidly, trying to keep the fog in his mind at bay. "I don't—."
"You're training to be a soldier, 4177," the drone interrupted, voice eerily calm. Through the glass, she gestured vaguely towards the sniffling smeet. "Deal with it as a soldier would."
"You . . . I don't—."
"Terminate it, 4177," she huffed.
It was so small. It didn't even have a PAK. It was doomed. A pathetic, mindless, weak husk. Useless to the Empire. Pointless.
Zim didn't understand. Why do this? Why make this? What was the point? Surely there were other creatures that could serve the purpose of first kill? Why a smeet? Why?
The word resounded in Zim's PAK, a blaring echo as he forced his feet to move forward. His head rang, a piercing whine that he knew came only from the short-circuiting of his organic body rather than his PAK. His steps were shuffling, an embarrassing representation of his inner turmoil. Each step felt like a momentous effort, and each more strenuous than the last. He felt like his footsteps shook the very ground beneath his boots. He felt sick.
Somehow, he found himself in front of it. The smeet.
It breathed so shallowly. Its skin was dry, no longer slick with the fluids of its hatching pod. Zim watched its ribcage appear and disappear with each labored breath. It lay on its side, arms limp, legs bent towards its middle in standard fetal pose.
Shaking, he raised one hand, rolling it onto its back.
It was a mistake. He knew it was a mistake the moment he was able to see its face. He knew it was a mistake as it sighed softly, trembling in the chill of the room. So small. Had he ever been that small? So diminutive and pathetically vulnerable to the elements?
Then it opened its eyes, and Zim stopped breathing.
He recognized the color. It must have been a trick of the eyes, or some horrific act of cruelty, but he knew the color. A deep purple, nearly maroon at its core.
Just like Gaz.
It wasn't Gaz, he insisted viciously. It wasn't.
It could've been, another voice whispered.
The Empire held dark secrets. Secrets darker than any could've imagined. The Empire brought up smeets for slaughtering rituals, for tests. They were in a resource drought, and yet they still relegated enough for this . . . this blasphemy. An Irken killing another Irken. A smeet.
He saw no physical defect as he rolled its face around in his palm. Perhaps it had rejected a PAK. Perhaps its organic composition held an internal mutation that could only be discerned by the keen scanners of the hatchery.
Or perhaps it is a random choice, his mind once more whispered. Perhaps the smeet's only wrongdoing was being in the wrong pod at the wrong time. It could've been you, it said. Zim's spooch squeezed so tight in his abdomen that he could've been sick as its purple, bleary eyes blinked his way, trying to focus on the face of the creature palming at it.
It could've been Gaz.
He jerked away as if burned, stumbling several steps away.
It wasn't. It wasn't.
But it could've been.
"4177."
The flat, unmoved voice of his instructor startled him, whirling around in a defensive stance.
Her apathy was horrific. What was wrong with her?
"Is something wrong?" She pressed, one eye narrowing.
A horrific question that needn't have been asked. Of course something was wrong. This whole test was wrong. An atrocity. A dark mark on the glorious sheen of the Empire. The fact she even felt inclined to ask such a thing made his hands curl. The desire to lash out was powerful. His instincts—his entire life's teachings—demanded he protect the smeet at all costs. Zim held no delusional paternal instinct, but . . . it was a smeet for Irk's sake! Surely he wasn't in the wrong for wanting to wring the she-Irk's neck for even suggesting such a blasphemous thing!
A growl rumbled in his chest, his fingers twitching by his side. He could do it. The she-Irk was thin, and only a handful of ligas taller than him. He could kill her. But then what? What would happen to him if he did it? What would happen to the smeet if he did? It made him sick to even think about it's dull eyes, so very like—.
Gaz.
It wasn't Gaz.
Because Gaz was in line, in another training room, ignorant of the horror she was about to face.
No.
His head rang, white noise that faded even his own vision, tunneling it until the only thing he could see was his hands wrapping around the throat of the smeet and squeezing.
It was worse that it didn't thrash. Its abdomen barely trembled, a body putting up the most minimal fight against an attacker it couldn't hope to defeat. Zim felt tears building up in his eyes, fighting viciously to keep them from falling. He had to do this now. He'd wasted too much time. All he could think of was Gaz—the ridiculous, infuriating, tiny female, barely older than a smeetling herself—waiting ignorantly in line. He had to stop her. He had to get out of here.
He felt the exact, awful moment it died. The smeet had already felt so weak and limp, suddenly became boneless beneath his hands. It's minute twitching ceased. Mercifully, its eyes slid closed, no longer looking sightlessly at the ceiling.
"Termination successful," the drone hummed. "Thank you, 4177. You're dismissed for the day. Please remember that the contents of this exam are confidential, and all participants are strictly forbidden from discussing it. You may go."
He barely heard the orders, barely registered them. His body was demanding he flee, but he forced his steps to be measured. He marched out of the room, chin carefully level with the floor. From the corner of his eye, he watched his supervisor type something on her tablet.
Gaz found herself edging closer and closer towards the pod. As one of the youngest—and inarguably smallest—of their division, there were only perhaps a couple dozen remaining Irkens in her subgroup.
The PAK deactivation had been startling, but she begrudgingly admitted it was a good fear tactic. Her peers were idiots; the Empire wasn't sending them into a death trap. Why spend so much time training soldiers just to slaughter them? Morons. The Empire wasn't typically known for its waste, especially now, when resources were rumored to be increasingly scarce. Elite status may have only been awarded to the best of the best, but there was always room for trained foot soldiers.
It took some time for her to even see the teleportation pods. The longer they waited, the more anxious her smaller peers were getting. Their fidgeting was driving Gaz crazy. She hoped there was a venomous Slorgbeast at the other end of that teleportation pod. At least then she'd have something to take her rage out on.
Gaz suspected that the moment they were teleported, they were going to regain full access to their PAK's and be hurled into a fight. Half the battle was just a test of nerves and composure. She could manage that fairly easily. Gaz had to fend off Zim and his stupid poking and prodding daily, all while managing the emotionless façade of a true Elite. This was nothing.
"Whiners," she mumbled.
After a crawling pace, she finally saw the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.
(Or not so proverbial, the teleportation pods made a pretty bright zap when it activated.)
"You!" Barked a supervisor, approaching rapidly. He scanned his tablet—or seemed to. Like many around them, he wore a helmet, his voice coming out synthetic and gruff. "6198?" Gaz nodded. "Come with me."
Dozens of scowls followed after her as she bypassed the line via her escort. Gaz kept her gaze straight ahead of her, shrugging off their animosity. Petty idiots who couldn't decide whether they wanted to face the unknown trial now or later, and took out their own hostile anxiety on her. She didn't have any interest in it.
The supervisor slotted her in behind a few Irkens awaiting teleportation. It was one of the ones more out of the way. Gaz noted it carried different symbols than the rest, though she was unfamiliar with the order. Maybe a model number?
Soon enough, she was slotted next in line.
Deep breath. Cool headed. She could do this. Whatever she faced, she was going to be able to handle it.
Her vision fizzled, dissolving in electric white for several seconds. When it faded away, she immediately went on the defensive.
She took in the room glancing warily at her surroundings. An evaluator stood a floor up, behind a panel of glass, tablet in hand. He seemed largely bored. Still, Gaz's instincts had her antenna twitching irritably. She could feel something alive in the room with her, watching her.
He frowned, glancing down at his tablet. "Er, you are . . .?"
"6198," she replied, standing at attention.
"Oh," he nodded. "An Elite, I see. Very well."
Gaz was only half paying attention. She knew enough about her own instincts to recognize something lurked in the shadows of the unusual room. Her eyes glanced again around the room, noting a lump in the shadows where the room hadn't yet been fully lit. What was—?
The room went dark.
Gaz froze, her instincts going on high alert, desperately wishing her PAK was working. She'd give anything to have at least the illumination of her PAK in the darkness. Her optics were adjusting themselves, but not fast enough.
A hand clamped unrelentingly over her mouth, something like iron slamming over her arms, pinned them in place. Gaz's hands flexed uselessly at her sides, her feet leaving the floor moments later as she kicked uselessly. Whatever had her didn't give. She was jerked backwards, bent forwards and curled into its vicious embrace.
Very quickly, she realized she wasn't getting oxygen. Her reserves were depleting, her organic brain becoming dizzy at the deprivation. Her kicking became more desperate, wiggling as hard as she could. It was no use. Gaz's eyes flew open, the darkness swallowing her. She tried to scream, tried to make any noise that would pierce this blackness she now faced, but she had no air left to do so. She was going to die. She was going to die, smothered by a faceless monster under the critical, invisible gaze of her disappointed supervisor. 6189: Failed.
She blearily noted her killer lowering them to the floor as her legs gave out, clinging feebly to her consciousness. She expected the sharp snap of her neck, or another burst of pain that would only last an instant before her organic host perished.
Lower and lower still they went, her heels only scuffing against the floor in weak bursts. Her consciousness began to sway.
She felt the cold tile of the floor, the shock of it nearly painful against her skin. It took several sluggish moments to realize she HAD passed out, and was now waking up on the floor. Her body screamed to gulp in as much air as she could, but she remained frozen against the instinct.
Why had the monster let go? Where was it? If it thought her dead, perhaps it was wise of her to feign death. At least until her optics kicked in. There was no chance in fighting a monster she couldn't see.
It was a shock to feel something brush past her. She took slow, shallow, silent breaths. The creature hadn't gone far, then. But what—?
An awful, sickening snap just beside her antenna had her very veins freezing.
She recognized that snap. Gaz had been responsible for it more than once. The sound of bones snapping. These were hollow, small sounding. Perhaps a finger, or a hand. Nothing stronger than a wrist, at best. It'd been quick. She was surprised to feel no pain, and wondered if there was nerve damage somewhere. Perhaps she should've counted herself lucky.
Suddenly, something brushed in front of her mouth. Gaz couldn't suppress the puff of surprise before it was too late. She'd been revealed.
Tallest damn it all!
A firm pressure on her arm had her dragged upright. She lashed out, her vision finally discerning a silhouette in front of her.
The silhouette dismissed her weak attack with little more than a shove. It hauled her to her feet, and she waited for death.
Two hands cupped her face.
Irken hands.
Several heartbeats later, her vision finally flickered to accommodate the lack of light, her inner pupil dilating.
She nearly collapsed all over again.
Zim.
What the fuck?
Sabotage. Sabotage of the highest order. There was no fucking way he was in any way involved in her exam. There just wasn't any way that was possible. None. Which meant he was here doing something fucking stupid again, messing up her test, doing Irk knows what!
He saw the flash of fury on her weak facial features. She was recovering quickly from her oxygen deprivation, as expected. He needed to be quick. He didn't have time for this. But he needed to warn her.
"Whatever you do," he whispered, a hiss in the dark. "Don't react."
And he disappeared. Gaz swore she could hear the scuttle of PAK legs, but she couldn't discern anything in the dark now that he'd darted off. Without the enhancement boost from her PAK, she was blind to anything outside her immediate radius.
The lights came on. Gaz winced, squinting against their flare.
The room looked no different, but the instructor was absent. Gaz peered through the observation window, trying to figure out where he could've gone.
Suddenly, a panel slid away, revealing a door. The Irken looked flustered, but relieved.
"Oh, they came back on. Perfect. Now, 6198, I'd like you to—oh."
Gaz frowned at his obvious surprise, his antenna twitching.
"Oh," he repeated. "You've done it already. Well, I suppose I could've expected this from an Elite. Well done, 6198. That looks to be a clean break. Very efficient."
What on Irk was he talking about?
Gaz followed his gaze over her shoulder.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sight.
Whatever you do, he'd said, don't react.
. . . Nothing but her arch-nemesis, apparently.
It WAS a clean break, her shocked mind thought distantly.
"You do seem to have a preference for breaking bones," the Irken mumbled to himself, offering her a pleased half-smile. "Your ruthless dedication to your Empire is admirable, and noted. You're excused."
Don't react.
Whatever you do, don't react.
Gaz said nothing. Without a word, she swept from the room, oblivious to the pleased hums of her evaluator.
It was dead. A dead smeet with its neck snapped. It's glassy, half-lidded red eyes haunted her as she made her way back to her quarters.
Zim knew. He knew. He'd known. Of course he'd had; he'd gone ahead of her. Tallest to shortest. He'd gone first.
He'd killed that smeet.
She paused, one hand braced against the desert hallways. No one lingered in them. Not tonight. It seemed everyone had the same idea as her, the same shock, disgust, and confusion barreling through her so hard that the room swayed. Or perhaps it was the lingering oxygen deprivation. That could've been it. She knew it wasn't. Gaz was distantly aware of her PAK reactivating itself nearly the moment she'd left the training center. She used one leg to steady herself as she continued to make her way back to her room in a fog, biting her tongue to keep from being sick in the corridor. Judging by the stale scent of disinfectant, others that had traveled this way before hadn't been able to do the same. She pressed on, chin level, determined not to join the ranks of those with a physical reaction.
(She had no room to ridicule them. They had killed their targets—smeets. She didn't understand. She didn't understand.)
Seeing the door of her assigned living quarters come into view caused a shiver of relief to flow through her. Unable to resist it, Gaz merely pressed on. She waved herself in. The doors slid aside, a soft, welcome embrace into the safety of her private sanctuary.
She paused, barely a foot over the threshold.
There he was. Just sitting on her bed, glancing up at the sound of the hydraulics.
She shouldn't have been surprised to see him there. She really should've expected this. On any other day, she would have anticipated this. But it wasn't any other day. It was rotation day 161, and Gaz's head felt like it was spinning against the axis of the planet.
Neither of them spoke. Gaz only shuffled into the room, allowing the door to slide shut behind her. She made her way to the bed, seating herself.
They sat in silence. Gaz's eyes flickered only briefly to his hands—hands that had snapped the neck of a smeet, that had done it for her, and she didn't know why—only once. The sight of them made her sick. There was no blood, but it was almost worse that there wasn't any.
The only thing keeping her sane was looping through the logic of the situation. The fact that he knew the details ;s of the test enough to intervene on hers meant that he had passed his. And if he had passed, that meant Zim had killed two smeets today. Gaz had only gotten a glimpse of her . . . assignment. It had been enough to leave her as she was now, disoriented and ill. But—.
"I could've done it," she said quietly. She marveled at the fact her voice didn't waver. Just quiet.
Zim shifted beside her. A part of her bristled as he raised a hand, a sudden surge of adrenaline crashing into her as she remembered the unrelenting force of his surprise attack. It was frustrating beyond measure; Gaz had beaten Zim in combat an innumerable amount of times. Arrogant and obnoxious as he was, even he was wary of her outbursts. But when it came down to it, Zim was physically stronger than her. And older. Eventually, their developments would be equal, but for the time being, he was taller, stronger. Even his opticals had developed further along than hers, allowing him to adjust to the blackout he'd somehow caused much quicker than she had. In a PAKless surprise attack, Zim emerged the victor. Her instincts warred with the desire to flee and submit, while her head bristled at even the idea of treating him as her superior. She wouldn't do it. She'd never do it. This test didn't matter. Zim had robbed her of the opportunity to prove herself.
HIs hand fell softly on her shoulder. He didn't squeeze or clap it, as she'd seen other soldiers do during outbursts of victory. It simply rested there, an anchor tethering her to the meager stability of the present.
"I know."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Gaz didn't cry. Gaz had made a promise to herself as a genuine smeet, listening to the whining wails of her peers, that she would never cry like that. It was a petty promise, but one she'd always kept. Gaz didn't cry when the Robot Arm took away her nourishment bottle, as the rest of her hatchery-litter did. Gaz didn't cry when her PAK was assigned, the searing, agonizing pain over in a literal flash of consciousness. No matter how many times she was humiliated in front of the sim development team, her simulations always lacking, criticized, and dismissed, she never cried. She took everything on the chin.
She didn't break her ancient promise to herself now. Not even when Zim's hand slid over to her opposing shoulder, arm loosely steadying her. The room remained silent, neither of them compelled to speak further. Gaz simply sat, numbed, watching her fingers and wondering if she'd ever have survived knowing what those fingers looked like wrapped around the neck of a smeet.
Zim watched the smeetling's face in the reflection of her own mirror, oblivious to his observation. The usually stoic she-Irk had clearly been swallowed alive by hypotheticals. He hadn't been able to get a good look at the second smeet, ever-aware of the timer he was working on. The she-Irk had gone down slower than he'd expected, leaving him little time to make his escape and complete his mission. Furthermore, snapping the neck of the smeet was perhaps a kinder death than the purple-eyed smeet he'd been given. It'd gone quickly. But it wasn't that thought that he latched onto for comfort.
The she-Irk only had hypotheticals to lament over because she hadn't had to do it herself. Zim had prevented that. His harmless, antagonistic flirtation had somehow escalated into an act of defiance that would guarantee his expulsion from the Academy. He'd killed two smeets, for Irk's sake. The truth of this made him want to vomit (again). And yet, all he'd been able to think about, piercing through the haze of his traumatic encounter, had been this stubborn brat on the bed beside him. He didn't regret not lingering to see her face when the power had returned to her testing room. If he was thankful for anything, it was that he would never know that expression. She'd passed her test unsullied. He'd succeeded.
. . . He would continue to succeed.
He watched his own hardened resolve form in the reflection of the mirror mounted above the opposing wall.
Tallest damn it all, this was serious, wasn't it?
He watched the she-Irk softly flex and squeeze her fingers, antennae sagged against her neck, and felt a snarling blackness encompass his mind. He would continue to protect her, from this and anything else he could manage. He already burdened her every step as a means to annoy her. Their rivalry had spawned rumors, certainly, but they held no merit in them. It wouldn't have been unusual, of course, for the female to fall for his dashing good looks and amazing brain, but that wasn't the point. He'd meant to spurn an entertaining rivalry mixed with antagonizing flirtation. Gaz's retorts had always been brutal and imaginative enough to have him giggling hours later just at the thought of her puffy-faced scowl.
This was different. Zim didn't care about some rivalry or imminent partnership. He didn't care about any of it. He just wanted—no, he needed the little she-Irk to be safe and whole. He could do that. Zim could provide her protection unlike that of any Irken before.
He wanted the little thing to be his mate.
A strange dread had his skin crawling, but he largely felt a grim sort of acceptance fall over him. Now was hardly the time to be worrying about future courtship or any such nonsense though. Right now, the she-Irk needed his steadying presence, whether she wanted to admit it or not. The rest could wait for later, when he wasn't feeling completely unhinged regarding every aspect of his future.
Neither of them slept that night. At best, they sat slumped in a light doze, resting, but never sleeping. Zim would've been sincerely surprised if anyone had gotten a wink of uninterrupted hibernation.
He escorted the she-Irk wordlessly to her post. If anyone took note that he came straight from her quarters, no one dared comment on it.
Idiots, he sneered. They probably already drastically misunderstood their relationship. Not that it really mattered anymore. Perhaps he'd been deluding himself about his intentions with the female from the beginning.
Gaz shrugged off his hand. He'd barely noticed it taking up space on her lower back, but clearly she was still held together enough to continue with a little of her usual surly attitude. Apparently, their mutual refuge of company last night had dissolved the moment they'd left her quarters. It made Zim snort, but he relented under her venomous glare.
A scan around the room proved what Zim had suspected; no one looked well-rested. Everyone seemed varying degrees of haunted, frazzled, and angry. The anger was surprising. Such visible animosity toed very dangerously close to defiance.
Upon a platform in the center of the gathering, a tall, slender Irken cleared her throat.
"Welcome, soldiers," she called, her enhanced voice booming around the room. Her eyes scanned the area, seeming to linger on every exhausted face. "Congratulations, you are all one step closer to your acceptance into the Academy. You may note the dwindling of your numbers. Within this room are solely those who passed their final exam, and are now eligible for advancement."
Her smile was wicked, and so gleeful as to be offensive in the context of their present situation.
A growl rumbled unbidden out of Zim's chest. It was quiet, hardly audible over the murmuring of the room's inhabitants.
The heel of Gaz's boot dug into the side of his, pinching painfully.
A warning.
His growl stopped, and after a lingering beat, her foot edged away.
"Now, of course, some of you may be rather . . . confused regarding the nature of your exam."
Another ripple of discontent echoed around the room.
She raised a hand, quieting the stirring. When the noise had died down again, she continued.
"You should consider yourselves lucky to have passed. Those of you within this room will leave here today bearing the following confidential information. The confidentiality will be hardwired into your PAK."
From her coat pocket, she removed—.
Zim stiffened. It seemed everyone did. Zim glanced Gaz's way once more, finding her hands folded behind her back, at attention. While her posturing was no different, her hands seemed to be digging into one another.
The she-Irk on the platform howled with laughter so loud that Zim sincerely feared a mutiny.
She shook the limp smeet in her hands. "Fear not for your genetic kin, loyal Irkens."
A gasp went out as she began tossing it lightly between her hands.
"The creature before you now, and the creature before you at your exam, was but a robot. A realistic recreation designed to exactly replicate an Irken smeet." The smeet—robot—was held aloft once again. To the wide-eyed discomfort of many, she jerked the head aggressively.
With a sickening twist, the head . . . came off.
Many turned away, sickened in spite of their commanding staff's claims. Zim forced himself to hold still, unseeing eyes trained on the gruesome sight.
"It's a bot," Gaz muttered next to him, barely audibly among the retching and outraged exclamations around them. "Look at the neck."
At his companion's direction, he refocused.
. . . She was right. Though his eyes were uncharacteristically cloudy, that was no spinal column coming from the head of the fake smeet. It was a metal attachment, typical in SIR units. Fake.
"The Empire has no desire for the senseless death of smeets," she continued, parading the headless bot for all to see. "We only demand your loyalty to the Empire above all. Even," she added with a sharp smile. "Each other."
The room quieted with the weight of the secret.
Zim suddenly understood, the pieces sliding neatly into place. Those not in the room had proved disloyalty. This was a test designed to root out traitors or potential defectors. While they'd all certainly proved their tenacity to kill, that had never really been in question. There was not an Irken amongst them who wasn't ready and eager to prove themselves the most deadly thing in the galaxy. Their bloodlust was never the question.
But the Empire could not allow a disloyal soldier into the ranks of the Elite. And now, those disloyal soldiers had painted a target on their back. They would never know the smeets had been fakes. The resentment would stir. They were still being tested.
Gaz's soft, bemused scoff next to him let him know she'd come to the same conclusion.
"Wonderful!" She cooed, clapping her hands together curtly. "Now that we've cleared that up, let's move onto your confidentiality encodement! Your training will be eased for the next several days while the Control Brains prepare to make their final verdicts. Please, little soldiers, if you would," she gestured towards the exits. "Direct yourselves towards an exit for processing."
It was difficult to discern the general mood of their peers. Zim noted a great deal of relief, and yet, some still seemed unable to let go of their resentment at the trick.
"It's still a test."
Zim's eyes went to her profile. Gaz wasn't looking at him, merely continuing to observe the tall she-Irk on the platform before them. Her microphone was now off, and she jovially directed the underlings to form neat lines towards the exit.
"She's being irritating on purpose," Gaz continued quietly. "They're still looking for traitors."
Her gaze did slide to him, expression unreadable.
They lingered, gazes locked.
We only demand your loyalty to the Empire above all. Even each other.
Zim's gaze flicked back towards the she-Irk, who was now commenting sourly on how disheveled someone looked. Said Irken bristled under the commentary, teeth baring at the sides of their mouths.
Even each other, she'd said. Zim's lower lip pursed as he considered it.
"Hey."
"Hmm?" He hummed, watching the antagonized Irken tear himself away from his commanding staff.
He did not anticipate the blooming pain across his bicep. He shrieked, clutching the abused arm.
"Stay out of my room," Gaz said gruffly.
Zim sputtered for words, offended and outraged. He chased after her, babbling through his complaints while the younger female completely ignored him.
Even each other.
No, Zim decided, flinching away from the female's searing glare. Not each other.
Chapter Summary:
Whilst spying on Gaz's most recent sim evaluation, Zim accidentally causes a power outage. Though he escapes unnoticed, he has a close call when Gaz nearly tricks him into revealing what it is that he's so nervous about. Later, the duo, along with the rest of their class, are given their final exam. As it turns out, the final exam is not a venomous Slorgbeast, but a directive to kill a defenseless smeet. As Zim is taller than Gaz, he goes first. The trauma shakes him to his core, but he is able to hold onto a semblance of his sanity long enough to realize he has to save Gaz from the same fate.
Oblivious, Gaz is suddenly pulled from her lineup by an 'unidentified' soldier and directed towards an exam room. There, Zim turns the power off, knocks Gaz out, and kills the smeet, warning her briefly before disappearing. The two recuperate together, though their comradery doesn't last long for Gaz. Zim, on the other hand, realizes he wants the little she-Irk to be his mate, and mentally swears an oath to protect her.
The next morning, an inappropriately cheerful commanding officer reveals that the smeets were actually robots, and that any who failed were eliminated from the program. Gaz and Zim realize that the true nature of the test was a loyalty evaluation, and note that the test is still ongoing. Traitors and disloyal Irkens are being weeded out and picked up left and right. Though Zim is no traitor, he mentally refuses to put the Empire above his buddying affections for an oblivious Gaz.