Session Log I

The walls had no clocks. That was the first thing Zim noticed. No primitive mechanical clocks bolted to the walls. No inferior outdated digital clocks on the shelves. And no windows or skylights, either. No external methods of monitoring time at all.

Not that it should have mattered in the first place—he ran on Irk-time anyway—but accurate chronometers were essential on a foreign planet. The one installed in his PAK kept a perfect track of all time zones—

PAK Command: Report time.

ERROR. TIME NOT FOUND.

—Or it would if Zim could access it. A minor issue. Easily fixed. Nothing to worry about. It was only a clock, but still… he needed a time monitor. Right now. Zim couldn't pinpoint why, but he did.

Fixing the chronometer could wait; he had more important matters to attend to. Grinding the Earth beneath the heel of his boot for one, figuring out where he was and how he got here for another, with a quick stop at the taco stand somewhere in between. Not necessarily in that order.

His antennae twitched at the crisp scent of freshly disinfected metal, new electronics, and good upholstery. Really good upholstery. He tried a few experimental bounces in the armchair he couldn't remember climbing into, within the room he didn't remember entering. A domed ceiling gently arched above his head, a checkerboard of soft lights in the curves. Perfect acoustics for the gentle music that wafted through the room—the stuff of medical offices and elevators and license evaluations. Stasis songs to pacify the anxious, the impatient, and the damned. (Perhaps this was one of those infamous dentist appointments the skoolchildren whispered of?)

The last thing Zim remembered, Ms. Bitters had been mid-lecture about how to properly knit a bulletproof vest using simple materials found around the house. Not that Zim had been paying attention; he'd completed the assignment in a third of the time using the polymer from an old bodysuit and spent the rest of the morning configuring the schematics of his gnome decoys. In the midst of this, some dirt child whined about getting a needle in their eye, the one called Smackey bragged falsely of his 'sick knitting skills', and The Dib… what had he been up to? He'd been suspiciously quiet that entire morning (this morning?) taking his stupid little notes and watching, always watching, that loathsome little…

Zim's gloved claws dug into the chair's cushion. Dib had something to do with this; he always did. And he'd been watching more closely than usual that day, too. Constantly checking the windows and the doors, no doubt on the alert for when his pathetic counter to Zim's glory would manifest. That or waiting for his monthly ectoplasm samples to be delivered.

It had been the start of the skoolweek. A Tuesday, because he'd skipped Monday in favor of tweaking the blueprints for Phase II: Stage 46.7 (the part with the radioactive glowsticks) and waiting for his delivery of GIR's Plookesian gummi worms. They'd kept him waiting all day, too. Callnowia usually had much faster response time than that.

PAK Command: Report date.

ERROR. DATE NOT FOUND.

No residual burns coated Zim's throat, so he'd never forced down that sludge of human nutrients at lunch period. Or he'd never gone to lunch at all. Shortly before the sun-zenith, Skool officials summoned him to their quarters to meet with something called a "psychologist". Why they needed Zim's aid in studying the logic of psychics, Zim couldn't say.

He'd left the classroom. Marched down the hall. Dodged the faulty semi-automatic turrets above the water fountains. Turned the corner into the office wing…

And then this place.

There had to have been something in between: a walk, summoning a ride, being dragged down the hall biting and screaming, or coming through a door. Where were the doors? This room didn't have a reception pad for teleportation—not that most human facilities even had teleportation, the savages—and there didn't appear to be any openings in the roof. No air vents to crawl through, either. Just little pinholes in the walls piping in that music. A hairline of light cracked through the left wall, chasing the decorative blue stripe that wriggled through the lavender paint. It kind of resembled the doors they'd used in research laboratories on Vort. In fact…

Zim took in the harsh geometry of the walls, all hard corners and bitter angles. Nothing like the scattershot and arbitrary hodgepodge of Earth's design elements, nor the smooth and lovely efficiency of Irken architecture. This was simple. Clean cut and unconcerned with presentation. A Vortian design. Vortian furniture, too. He let his gloves skim the smooth plush of the armchair with perfect lumbar support and cushions soft enough to curl up and take a nap. Yet the cables threading the ceiling and walls, the soda machine in the corner, the proud monitor that devoured the back wall, the red and purple banners hanging from the desk next to that monitor… all of it was Irken.

Wherever he'd been taken, it was no Earth facility. He should have guessed that from the clean quarters, honestly.

"What is this?!" Zim sprang to the top of the chair's backboard. He squinted, surveying the area and prepared to claw the eyeballs of the one responsible for these shenanigans. An Irken rival eliminating competition? An enemy of the Empire looking to make a name for themselves by assassinating Irk's most treasured and beloved Invader? Dib? Zim couldn't see how or why Dib would get his greasy boyhands on Vortian hardware, but at this point, he put nothing past his nefariousness. If he didn't have a part to play in this, Zim would eat his own boot.

Something about the room's combination of Irken and Vortian elements set Zim's teeth on edge. A touch of Vort influence here or there could be expected—they'd assisted with much of Irk's tech design—but not to this degree. This felt like collaboration. He glowered at his reflection in the glossy blue tile beneath him. Indeed, the place resembled a Vort break room, from back when Vortians were still permitted lunch breaks, newspapers, and other heedless luxuries. Much of this equipment became obsolete decades ago. Nobody had seen these snack machines since at least Era 24. That soda machine had to be over fifty years old but it gleamed as if it had come fresh from the factory.

"HEY! What IS this, huh?! I demand someone explain themselves this instant before I unleash the full wrath of the Irken Elite upon—"

A human stepped through the doorway. A female that bore light eye-sags distinctive of the elder-class, though none of the wrinkles. Older than most of the parental units, younger than true decrepit elders, and far younger than Ms. Bitters. She moved with the certainty of a retired commandant. Perhaps she was. But to Zim's knowledge, most commandants didn't traipse about in sheep hides (sweat-hairs, he'd heard them called) and colorful polyesteroids. Or maybe they did? Zim hadn't encountered many human commandants.

"Hello there, Zim. I'm glad to see you're finally awake. You could have just used the intercom instead, you know." She gestured to the panel installed in the side table by the armchair. "Oh, but I'm sorry to interrupt. You were saying something about the wrath of… something?"

Zim stared a moment, frozen atop the armchair with his hackles raised like a flupwaff caught in eyelights. This didn't feel right. What would a human be doing in a Vortian (Irken?) facility? He scanned the human again. No gills or scales or ownership tags. No sign of non-humanness. Her scent didn't make him want to retch in his mouth like the others, if that counted.

Absently, he brushed his hand along the curve of his wig—still securely fastened, along with his contacts. Yes, still a normal human boychild as far as the interloper knew. In that moment of startled confusion, brief as it was, Zim had nearly forgotten himself. Bad form. In the midst of enemy territory, danger lurking in every atom, an Invader couldn't afford to forget themselves. Not even for a moment.

The human still stared at him. She wanted an answer.

"Oh, er. The wrath of my…" Zim wriggled his fingers, grasping for the word. Curse it, what did these dirt creatures unleash their wrath upon? "…my masterful dodgeball skills upon the court of… dodgeballs. At recess."

"Recess?" She considered this a moment and smiled. "Oh, you were practicing a game! Is that what this 'Irken Elite' you mentioned is? A dodgeball team?"

"Ha-ha! Ha. Oh yes, merely a child's fantasy game for children. We play it all the time." Zim's brittle smile cracked across this face in a manner indicating childish frivolity and mirth and not at all the expression of someone soaking the lining of his wig with panic pheromones. "We have so much fun together, we children of Ms. Bitters' class. Such fun!"

"I'm happy to hear that, Zim. Human children need to have games and play together. Some say it's the building blocks of the whole society, did you know that? Learning how to play nicely with others when you're little teaches you how to play nicely when you're bigger and older. It's all a part of learning and becoming the person we're meant to be." The human in the sweater approached slowly, not quite making eye contact. Zim couldn't recall if that was a sign of deference or avoidance in humans. It didn't mean aggression, usually, but who could tell with these creatures?

"Yes, yes, fascinating. Life's a miracle. Can I ask you something?"

"Anyth—"

"Who are you, where am I, how did I get here, declare your weapons immediately, and where are the quickest points of exit?" One of those wasn't a question, but whatever. "I demand to—augh!" Zim's boot sank into the backboard's pliable cushioning and nearly slipped out from under him.

"Oh—careful! Are you okay?"

"Fine!" Zim held a hand up before she came any closer. "I'm fine."

On closer inspection, this hadn't been the stablest of perches. Most human children didn't normally stand on the backs of chairs, either, but it was a reasonable sacrifice to keep the tactical high-ground. He compromised by squatting on the chair's backboard instead.

The human circled the armchair to meet Zim face to face. He bared his teeth at her. Up here, her head only came up to his knees. Beneath him, as all humans should be. As all humans would be.

"You seem a little tense," she said. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"Did Zim not specify already I was fine?" His claws gripped the backboard. "I'm not 'tense', I just need to get back to class. We're learning how to craft bulletproof garments. If I'm gone too long, they'll—"

The human relaxed. "Is that all? You don't need to worry about that. I came to talk to you for a little while on behalf of your Skool learning hub; they know all about it. There's been some concern about you lately, and we just wanted to check up with you. You know, to be sure you're healthy and everything's running the way it's supposed to."

Zim squinted. "You're the psychologist."

"Yes, I—"

"ZIM needs no psychoanalytics!"

Now he knew where he'd heard that word before. Psychologist: a word Dib spoke of in bitterness and fear. A word other humans spat with derision, pity, and mockery. A psychologist was a kind of medic that one was assigned to when their brains didn't function properly. Psychologists were for crazies and lunatics. Crazies and lunatics went to facilities and facilities had scalpels and picks and hooks to carve into skulls and remove brains. They would know they beheld no human lump of grey matter barely capable of sentient thought, but a brain leagues superior to their own. And then they would bring the REAL tools out. More scalpels, more saws. Skin peeled back and organs lifted out of chest cavities. Screaming and surgeries. Sliced open like any common plooka. And his mission! His whole mission compromised! Not Zim. Not today.

"NO PSYCHOANALTICS! None! You hear me?! Zim is normal! My brain functions at full capacity—FULL! AND NORMAL!"

The psychologist took a moment to clean Zim's spittle off her glasses. "Who said you weren't? It's very normal to see psychologists. It's just two people talking, what's so strange about that?"

An obvious lie. If attending a psychologist were normal, humans would treat it as normal. Dib saw them, and no one—absolutely no one, ever—called Dib "normal". Plenty of other things, but never normal.

"You've already been excused from class until our sessions are over, and I've personally notified your house. Everyone knows exactly where you are. No one will worry." The psychologist, like most humans, kept her eyes on Zim's face. Fool.

A communicator peeped out of Zim's PAK hatch, ready to go the moment Zim's boots hit the ground. It would be a simple escape: running start, blast through a door or ten, call GIR for a ride on his way out. Go home. Done. Zim glanced across the room, guesstimating how many paces it'd take to reach… the…

Where did the door go?

Zim stared at the wall where he'd seen the human enter before. The strip of outside light between the door and the walls had vanished. No hatch seams. No entry sensors. Nothing. A wall and nothing more.

The psychologist stepped into Zim's line of sight. "You're only here until the end of our sessions and then you can go home, I promise. We'll just talk for a little while. Is that okay?" She furrowed her eyebrows, followed Zim's line of sight to the doorless wall. "What are you looking at?"

"Uh. Nothing." The communicator slipped back into the hatch. Zim shifted his PAK out of the human's view. Why did she need to stare at him all the time? Did she suspect his brilliant escape plot? Unlikely; no Earth creature could parse the intricacies of Irken subterfuge. Still, he needed to get her eyes off of him. At least until he got the chance to contact GIR for emergency breakout procedures. "…Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. We talk." He could play along for the moment. Zim was nothing if not patient.

"Wonderful! And you know, I have a feeling we'll have a lot to discuss." The human worm put her hands in her pockets and laughed to herself, though Zim saw nothing amusing about the situation.

Nothing, save for the inevitable shrieks of misery when Zim shoved her through a processing cube for wasting his valuable time. The gelatinous coating for the hybrid weasels' cocoons was on a strict schedule, and he didn't trust GIR to apply new slime coats on the hour. This section of Phase II: Stage 42.2 needed precision on all fronts, but in timing most of all. All this presuming The Dib didn't get his sweaty hands all over it and ruin everything. If the Skool knew of Zim's absence, so did he. Dib would use this opportunity to— wait.

Wait. Human eyes didn't vibrate, did they?

"…that said, I'd say we're ready to start," the human finished. At some point, she'd started in on another round of prattle that Zim's brilliant mind, too preoccupied with gelatin configurations, had filtered out. Also, she'd started doing that vibrating thing. Zim felt at least 87.3% certain human eyeballs did not vibrate.

And now not just the eyes anymore. The human's form flashed and stuttered and jumped like film caught in one of those projector devices Ms. Bitters wheeled in when she wanted to take a nap. Zim knew this technology: a holographic disguise. Indeed, a projection upon the screen of an eye, tricking the brainmeats into viewing a false body laid over the real one. That mad and arrogant upstart, Tak, came cloaked in one. Which meant…

Layer by layer, blink by blink, the human disguise peeled away. On the last blink, an Irken stood in her place. A mess of contradictions. Not counting the long antennae, she had the height of Frylords and Commanders, but none of the muscle or presence that came with it. This one had never seen a day of basic training. A light breeze could knock her over, yet she still moved with that senior commandant confidence. The corners of her soft pink eyes crinkled when she smiled at him.

And the robe. Zim couldn't stop staring at her robes. Not the dirty white of engineers or bio-technicians. The science robes trailing at her feet were the color of ashes, trimmed along the edges with the rich violet of a bruise.

She moved toward him.

The texture of the room changed. Or the atmospheric pressure. The gravity. Something. It still looked the same. Smelled the same. Felt the same. It wasn't. It wasn't the same and Zim didn't know why. His tongue brushed the gritty sweetness of gauze and blood, but there was no blood or gauze in his mouth. His legs and arms went stiff, though nothing held them down. The space around his eyes and skull felt tight. Way too tight. Zim scratched at the edge of his contacts.

The Irken's antennae perked. "Do you remember me, Zim?"

Zim blinked.

The room clicked into place: a Vort break room, Irken furnishings, a desk and monitor in the corner. Two Irkens. One chair. A room like any other room.

He squinted. Something about her did seem familiar, though nothing stood out. Not that it surprised him; so many witnessed the greatness that was Zim on a daily basis. He couldn't remember every single admirer who came to call. "Eh. Should I?"

She conceded with a shrug. "That's alright, it's been a while. I'm not surprised that—oh, those look a little uncomfortable." Her light purple glove reached for his contacts. "May I?" Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed one. The contact came away with a crack, the edges crusty and dry, as if he'd been wearing it for weeks. "When's the last time you changed these?"

"…Yesterday." Yesterday or something like it. Rubbing his itchy eye, Zim removed the second contact himself. He must have been so focused he'd forgotten to take them off. Turning the midnight toil, as the humans put it. He smacked the glove away. "And keep your hands to yourself!"

"You seemed uncomfortable, so I took some initiative. But if you insist—"

"Yes."

"—then I'll remember from now on." She raised the crusty lens to the light, turning it over to admire the sticky backing. "It's completely physical? The whole thing?"

Zim threaded his fingers through the synthetic man-hairs of his wig. Warm air brushed his scalp as he removed it. "Obviously."

"My, I haven't seen a completely physical disguise since… goodness, at least since the Snack Wars. Vintage Era 24, I love it." When she bent down to return the lens, light winked off the little neural implants clustered behind her antennae. "I see why everyone in the military is so eager to become Invaders." She removed the false glasses and tucked them into her robe. "It's fun to pretend to be someone we're not, isn't it?"

Fun, she called it. Zim's right eye twitched. Fun. Over an Earth-year of research and toil, of struggle and unyielding discipline. The utmost dedication to the downfall of humanity, to the lament of metropolitans and crumbling of continents, and all the time looking over his shoulder. Threats slithered under every square of concrete, tucked themselves deep in the fat of rain clouds, and glinted in billions of eyes swiveling in his direction. Everywhere. Every day. All in the name of "fun".

Atop the armchair perch, his shadow arched across the interloper's dumb naive smile. The corner of Zim's mouth curled into a sneer. "Hm. Yes, I suppose from a sightseer's point of view, the novelty of a new planet may seem, as you put it, 'fun'." Zim emphasized his air quotes just so she'd understand that it was not, in fact, fun in the least. "However, for SOME of us, this is no mere vacation. While you're busy traipsing around like a tourist doing your touristy things—"

The tourist held up a finger. "Actually, I'm—"

"And interrupting a decorated military officer on top of it! I thought our elders and forerunners respected the title of Invader. Apparently, even Zim can be wrong. Well, while you're seeing the sights and having 'fun', the TRUE Invaders are hard at work laying their very lives down for the Irken Empire."

"Yes, they are. And they do." Yet the gentle roll of her voice stayed level, as if they still discussed matters of skool and recess. She seemed to understand on a basic level. Perhaps the gravity of the situation hadn't stuck her yet. "The role of an Invader is very important work, isn't it?"

"The utmost. Impeding official Irken military business is a Class 20 offense. I could have you sent to the data mines for this, you know. The mines if you're lucky. Why, if Zim felt less generous, well…" Zim chuckled darkly. "A call to The Almighty Tallest might be in order."

"Actually, The Tallest were the ones who sent me."

"Then, oh THEN would you truly see the folly of your touristic interloping and—" Zim paused. He squinted at the interloping tourist's expensive science robes. And the work/travel pass she'd just pulled out of her robe pocket. "Give me that." He snatched it.

The Tallest seal didn't smudge when he rubbed it, nor did the hologram flicker when he poked it. The edges tasted of donut frosting with just a hint of arsenic and leather. Indeed, this had come from the hands of The Tallest. Personally.

"I am Extract—"

Zim spun on his heel to jab his finger in her face. "IDENTIFY YOURSELF!"

"Of course." The intruder bent her head. "I am Extractor Foma. In spite of that little bit of fun with the disguise, what I told you before is still true. I've been sent for a personal evaluation, due to some… concerns about you. We discussed it, The Tallest and I, and together we decided you were due for an appointment. This sort of thing's usually done over a call, but I felt that a personal visit would be best in this situation." Her PAK opened to drop a data tablet into her hands. "No better way to get information than direct observation, right?"

Zim tilted an antenna. "Isn't that a six-month trip?"

"More or less. Two, with a N.Y.O.O.M. drive."

"And you…" Slowly, his eyes grazed over her. He sat, and the two Irkens watched each other a moment, face to face. "You came all the way out to a top-secret outpost to check in with me?"

"I did. Everyone working remote assignments gets one of these remote calls eventually—the Invaders, Researchers, Infiltrators, and so on—you know, to be safe. But you're an exceptional case, Zim. Exceptional cases have exceptional requirements."

"Yes…" It all came together now. "A disguise to aid in observation maneuvers. Not the worst plan. Sounds like a little much for a progress report, though." Zim gestured at the oddly large facility (or whatever) around them. The retro Irk/Vort look alone must have cost a fortune. Maybe the evaluator felt nostalgic and it was just personal taste. "But then, I am a special case."

Foma nodded. "Absolutely."

With a specialized mission such as Zim's, the information gathered would need protection, too. The Irkens couldn't let valuable data float through the streams where any yokel with a dish and a cipher suite might pick it up. Oh, his poor Tallest. They must have been gravely concerned about him if they'd sent an evaluator of such high rank. Zim resolved to double the number of personal reports at the end of this.

"Pity you came all this way for nothing, though."

The evaluator blinked slowly. "How so?"

"Zim needs no evaluation. My greatness shines clear for even the most casual observers, so surely you've noticed the astounding feats and triumphs I've accomplished. The mission so far is a complete success. Zim's grade is S++." He shook her hand and motioned to where the door probably should have been. "Well, have a safe trip back, wear your seatbelt, and be sure to check out the gift shop on your way out, it'll be a crater next week. I'll send you a Probing Day card." He wouldn't, but it was the statement of the thought that counted.

Zim waited for the evaluator to thank him for his time and leave.

The evaluator did not thank him for his time and made no motions to leave. She wrote notes on her tablet instead, which was poor time management on her part. She had the entire trip back to write the final log of how astounding Zim's progress had been. "I'd love to give you an S++ but—"

"Buts?" Zim chuckled. "There are no buts. The presence of buts is unnecessary, just like your presence. You got your footage, right?"

"Right."

"Logged your observations?"

"I have."

"Taken notes?"

"Oh, yes. Extensively."

"Then you've all you need, evaluator."

"True," she said. "Everything except the interview portion. I still need to understand how you feel about the mission to have a full picture. I couldn't report back to The Tallest with an incomplete report, could I?"

Also true. They would accept nothing less than perfection. Luckily for her, Zim had the solution, as always. "I can give them my own evaluation, personally. In fact, call them right now." Zim put his hand on his hip and waited. The monitor stayed blank. "Well?"

"Don't you think giving your own evaluation report could be a little biased?"

Zim rubbed his chin. "No? Why would it be?"

That said, Zim called The Tallest with personal reports of his latest plans, revised blueprints, progress, promising discoveries, and formal complaints about the significant lack of mech armies on his doorstep at least twice a month, local time. All standard protocol. A formal evaluation might have different requirements. Besides, The Tallest would never take the word of some data drone over their best Invader.

"Think of it as a collaboration," Foma said. "You and I work together to tell the complete story of what you've been doing down here for the past…" She double-checked the data pad. "I believe it's been nearly two years, local time?"

"First of all, Zim is a perfectly capable storyteller with no need for collaboration." Especially not from some squishy observer with little to no military experience or the fickle nuances of the Invasion process. "Second of all, it has NOT been nearly two years but precisely one year and…"

And how many months? That annual hideous business with the "snow" hadn't happened again, nor the Halloween candy-zombies. So less than eight months, more than five.

PAK Command: Report exact time; Invasion Duration
ERROR. DATA NOT FOUND.

The evaluator waited while Zim shuffled through his PAK's data files. "Is there a problem?"

"The only problem is that you exceed the time frame. This planet's cycle isn't nearly that close to finishing yet."

"Well, the sun does move quickly here, so I rounded up. But you're right, accuracy is best." A holographic calendar sprouted between them. Foma flew through the weeks with a flick of her finger. "You landed exactly one year, seven months, two weeks, three days, aaaaand ten hours before this session, Local Time. One year, nine weeks, and eight days, True Time." She isolated the cluster of Zim's mission days from the calendar and let them spread outward.

Zim watched the mission year shrink to months. Months collapsed to weeks. Weeks disintegrated into days. The clean line of days stretched wall to wall, and compressed into tiny boxes just to fit into the room. Every single one of those days was a day he hadn't yet conquered the Earth.

"When we look at it all spread out, that's a long time to be away," Foma said. "Isn't it?"

Larb. Stink. Flobee. Skoodge. All Invaders below his caliber. All Invaders in the final stage of their missions, if not already done.

"Yes, well, a secret mission is a delicate process, evaluator. These things take planning and…" Zim glanced at that endless line of days. "…time. The process of evaluating and preparing a planet is always a challenge. Even with missions as easy as Larb's." Irk's sake, they might as well have just given him a Vort senate seat. "But these are no normal circumstances."

The evaluator nodded. "Earth can be a difficult planet to live with."

"Much less conquer." Zim swung his legs over the side of the backboard with a huff. "Under the circumstances, I'd say I've made good—no, excellent time for an Irken working under these deplorable conditions."

One of Foma's antenna perked as she scribbled notes. "Can you describe some of these conditions for me?"

"Where do I start? They're COUNTLESS! Burning liquid projectiles from the sky, putrid dog-beasts of teeth and drool and carnage, the wretched unyielding stink EVERYwhere—eugh, that constant, CONSTANT stink! Oh, but that's only the environment. Then there's the absurd complications of human behavior and rituals. All their stupid little holidays and courtships and friend-groups and international communications—whatever happened to one nation on one continent?! Just smash everything into a collective city-state; it's not that hard! That's to say nothing of the festering pig-smellies themselves."

"The humans."

"The humans." A shudder ran from his shoulders to the tips of his antennae. The scent of them stuck to him still—fluids and mud and toilet matter and ink and digestive gasses and whatever else those third-tier sapients rolled in that day. "I'm sure you've encountered the shuffling horde by now. Seen them huddled in their crude little hovels, drooling over feasts of boiled flesh and peeled roots, oozing and dripping from their pores like the slugs they are."

"I kept my distance through most of the observation stage," the evaluator admitted. That explained her ignorance of the hardships Zim had suffered here, though he couldn't say he blamed her. Given the option, he'd keep these things at firearm's length too. "But I did meet a few. The one with the bulbous head seemed—"

"Yes. DIB." The word spat through Zim's teeth. "I'm not surprised that's the one you saw. The Dib-human has been a thorn in my side from the minute I touched down. If not for the meddlesome interference of his meddling, I would have had the planet under Irken control months ago. But his eyes are always upon me, watching, waiting for Zim to make a mistake. HA! He'll be waiting forever; Zim never makes an error!"

The evaluator began to write faster.

"It began as a mere inconvenience, but as of late, the human-child has redoubled his efforts. Nothing to truly threaten the might of an Irken Elite, of course. Even at the height of his ability, his counterstrikes are but mild setbacks. Distractions at worst, and trifles, at best." Zim put his hands behind his back and paced along the edge of the backboard. "Yet these trifles build a blockage in the artery of my mission trajectory." He tossed his head and barked another laugh, short, sharp, and sure. Paced faster. "Little does the foolish worm know that it is HE who slithers into my clutches. That's right, into the very heart of my plot. Then—ohh, then he shall—WAUGH!"

His boot slipped on the fabric and the backboard rushed out from under him. Zim's claws scrambled for purchase. A PAK leg shot out to snag the chair. Too late.

Wind whipped at his cheeks. The tile rushed up to meet him. Zim pulled back, braced for impact and—

Zim sat up in the Vortian armchair.

The evaluator knelt beside him, tucking a blanket behind his back and over his lap.

"Oh hey, thanks. It was getting a little cold in here."

"You're welcome, Zim."

The extra cushioning against his back soothed the sharp pain in his shoulder and the aches that shot through his spine when he moved. He must have been sitting in this stupid chair for too long. "'Pinnacle of Vortian furniture design' my rotted spooch." The blasted thing had given him a horrible cramp.

Zim rubbed the knot at the back of his skull and let himself sink into the blanket. Little tufts of fluff tickled the bottom of his chin. If Zim didn't watch himself, he might fall asleep. "Mmm, this is heated, isn't it? Nice."

"I like to think so," Foma said. "It's Fweezian."

He leaned back, carding his claws through the fur lining. "Made by Fweezians or made from?"

"Both, I think."

" Nice ." Zim cleared his throat before another yawn crept up. "But enough rest and relaxation. Where were we? Ah, yes, Dib. The Dib who slithers innocently into my clutches. The Dib, heedless of the ingenious plot that lies in wait for him. Handcrafted and devised by none other than ME! ZIM!"

A grim chuckle rumbled through Zim's chest. The chuckle built to a laugh until it exploded into a Victory Cackle, full and soaring and great with joys of promised bloodshed. "Then! Ohhh, then that human shall rue the day he dared cross Zim's path!"

The evaluator looked up from her tablet. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"HE SHALL—" Zim paused mid-rant, antenna perked and one fist still in the air. "Do what?"

"You said 'the day he crossed Zim's path'," said Foma. "Not 'my path'."

"No I didn't."

"I'm sorry, but I'm quite certain that you did."

"Feh. You're certain of a lot of things, that doesn't mean they're true."

Foma stood and dipped her head. "That is an excellent point. Computer? Replay minute seven-point-eight-five, if you please."

The giant monitor fuzzed. It showed Zim and the evaluator from a few minutes ago. Watching, Zim couldn't help but think he looked disproportionately small in the footage. True what they said: the camera subtracted five inches. "And then, ohhh then he shall rue the day he crossed Zim's path!" cried Past Zim On Camera.

Current Zim In Real Life blinked. He processed this for a moment and shrugged. "It was a slip."

The evaluator blinked back and didn't say anything. She didn't seem especially convinced.

"Okay, maybe that one time just now, but that doesn't mean I always—"

"I have noted at least six instances of you referring to yourself in the third person. And that's only when I bothered to start counting; I know there were at least a couple more." She glanced back at the monitor. "We could check, if you like."

"No." That number had been rounded up and over-estimated. But running through all of these supposed instances would only be a waste. "What about it, anyway?"

"Just curious. It seems to be a unique habit of yours. It's an interesting way of talking about yourself. Sometimes it's almost as if you're talking about someone else. Someone who isn't Zim. I only wondered if it meant anything."

"It doesn't."

"Alright."

Absurd. How could Zim name himself and mean anyone but Zim? There could be only one Zim.

As she walked by, Foma let her hand linger on the backboard of the chair. "How is your back feeling, by the way? That looked like a painful fall."

"What?" Zim leaned across the arm of the chair and craned his neck to keep her in sight. Bad idea. Pain shot through his left shoulder when he moved it. Why hadn't the painkillers kicked in yet? "I didn't fall."

On the monitor, Past Zim slipped off the back of the chair and fell PAK-first on the tile. Past Foma rushed to his side and said his name a few times. Past Zim didn't seem to hear her. After a few more tries to rouse him, Foma gathered him up and set him back in the chair with the blanket.

Behind his chair, the gleaming tile had been cracked. A pale pink bloodstain squiggled beside it. Zim's fingers trailed across the sharp twinge in his spine all the way up to his PAK's dented entry hatch. How hard had he hit the floor?

Foma returned in a hoverchair she'd fetched from the little research station. It hadn't been properly calibrated to suit the planet's gravity, jerking and pitching as it settled across from Zim. "Does this sort of memory lapse happen to you a lot?"

"You need to fix that chair before it throws you through a wall," Zim told her.

"I'll keep that in mind. But about the memory—"

"It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Zim, I really think—"

"What are you, an evaluator or a med-drone? Get on with the interview section so we can finish and I can get back to work."

"If you're sure you're alright…" Still eying him as if he were an injured smeet, she settled into her chair and called up a holoscreen. "We left on the subject of this 'Dib-Human'. I understand this has been your opposition throughout most of the mission?"

"Correct."

The evaluator opened her mouth, thought, and closed it again. She frowned. The holoscreen zipped through a series of candid Dib snapshots. It landed on a shot of Dib poking a dead (undead?) bird with a stick. She squinted. Frowned more.

"Um. I haven't been on Earth a long time, so I could be wrong." Her gloved finger tapped the crest of Dib's hair-spike. "Isn't… isn't this just a human smeet?"

Zim scoffed. "There is nothing 'just' about that human, I can assure you. Nothing like the others, either."

"I'll take your word for it," the evaluator told him, "but now that you mention it, what about the others? I went through your submitted data logs and couldn't find any of the standard information. What's the humans' sapient class?"

"Low. Class 5 at best."

"So, aside from the special exceptions, they're not very clever."

"Is that not what I just said?" What was with her and the listening problems?

Foma turned her chair toward the holoscreen's short list of mission logs. Reaching up, she pulled the holographic calendar down from the ceiling. "In that case, I truly can't understand why you've dragged out your time this way." She folded her hands in her lap as the chair hovered closer. "Now, I know caution is important, and I understand that your The Dib complicates the process. I do. But Zim, I really have to emphasize that it's been over a year ."

Zim hopped to his feet. "Oh, come on! You can't—" The chair cushion wobbled under him and the pain in his back lurched. Okay, maybe not the best plan right now. Slowly, he settled back into his seat. "You can't expect me to wrap up the planet for the Armada in under a year, that's absurd."

"Maybe not, but you ought to have more than this. The planet catalog doesn't even have basic atmospheric data."

Indeed, the entries under Earth/Urth appeared more… barren than Zim would have expected. Odd. He had submitted initial findings from his first recorded month here himself. Atmosphere, weather patterns, snacking prospects, geological features, vegetation, all the basics. Had they gotten lost somehow? After all, the entries for Valentines Day and human height-to-stupidity ratios were several pages long. Some of it had to have gone through.

"It's an error in the data entries," Zim decided. "Nothing more. Take it up with Records."

"It's not only the data entries. Hearing you, I have to wonder: if your nemesis is such a problem, why not eliminate him?" Foma held up a hand as Zim began to protest. "Or if that's not ideal, why not abandon the learning facility entirely? The local research lab must have some worthwhile information. If the humans aren't smart, it wouldn't be a problem blending in even among the smartest of them, right?"

"Uh. I… well, that's technically true, but—"

"Actually, if you really wanted to keep the school-grub persona, why not pose as the spawn of a human in power? All it would take is a standard elimination/emulation program. It comes standard in most Spittle Runners."

A Spittle Runner Zim did not have. The way she phrased it, it almost sounded as if Spits came standard for Invaders. He scratched the edge of his collar. "I could have, but you see…"

Foma sat expectantly. Waiting. Staring.

This was pointless. Why theorize and debate on the possibilities of what he could or couldn't have done? The data logs could be resubmitted personally with a trip to the home base. Everything Zim hadn't cataloged himself still rested in his computer and GIR's memory files. (Presuming he could track down GIR in time.) The majority had been reported to The Tallest themselves; the Empire already knew this information! Besides, the only reason the evaluator couldn't find the standard Invader Sapience Class and Environmental Reports was a glitch in the system or some idiot drone in Records.

In fact… Zim squinted at the data logs. In fact, the whole thing was—

"WRONG!" Zim's mighty finger of correction pointed at the log folder. "Look! Look and behold the typos in the very title of your folder catalog! THIS ENTIRE THING IS WRONG!"

Foma looked for herself. She even pulled the folder down to eye-level so they could both investigate. "It is?"

"I—are you BLIND?! Right there—Earth is still labeled 'Unclaimed'!"

"I can see that, Zim."

"So you knowingly dragged me over basic material for no reason? I don't believe this! There's no telling how much time I've lost with your pointless…" He unclenched his fist, glaring at the windowless walls. "How long have I been here?" Zim's chronometer wasn't working. It should have been working.

"Since the time I brought you here."

"I—" Zim stopped himself. It could have been an hour or a day or ten years, but it was too long, whatever it was. Time lost arguing was time missed. "Release me. Now. I can't stay here, I have work to do! IMPORTANT work—work the likes of your feeble sciencey mind could never comprehend."

"You do?" The other Irken blinked her soft pink eyes slowly. She leaned forward, curious. "What sort of work would that be, Zim?"

"Fool. You know the name of Zim and not of his magnificent exploits? I am ZIM—Invader Zim. Keystone to the downfall of planet Earth and handpicked by the Almighty Tallest themselves! And you and your so-called 'evaluation' are keeping me from my mission."

Foma tilted her head. "Invader? Is that your encoding?"

"Is that not what I said? Was Zim not clear?" The idiocy of this one. The gall. The ineptitude. Zim spoke slow and enunciated. " Invader ."

"No, I heard you very well." Foma shook her head and smiled at him in a way nobody had ever smiled at him before. It was sad, and it was gentle and… kind. It was very kind. "Oh, but Zim. We both know that's not true."

The room pinholed.

His tongue flopped in his mouth. Dry. Useless. Stupid.

"I… you… but we!"

Words. Not enough words. So many words inside Zim. No words coming out of Zim. Just gibberish. Gibberish and junk.

"We JUST went over—"

"I can see that this is a difficult subject for you. That's alright. These things take time." Her smile was so, so kind. "We'll come back to it when you're ready."

"No." Too little, too late, Zim's tongue came back. "No, we're settling this RIGHT n—"

END OF SESSION I.