Halo 05: Doom in a Capsule

"YAAAAAAAY! I'M A PONY!"

"No, you're not, GIR. Now get off of that."

"YA-HA!"

"GIR! Argh…"

Zim snapped frontward in his seat and buried his head in his hand, elbow on the ship dashboard, the other arm draped deceptively languidly across the controls. GIR was jumping around the cargo hold in one of his usual fits of mania.

This would not be such a problem if the cargo hold was underneath the ship, as it was in all proper Irken commuter crafts. Therefore, GIR and Zim's precious cargo of three Earthling personal computers (which were sliding around the 'cargo hold' dangerously and slamming into walls with any deviation in velocity) were all in the cabin. They would be comfortably nestled together for an estimated full Earth season. Though Zim knew this would happen well in advance, he still elected to use his designed-for-speed mini-cruiser in hope that he could get back to Irk in perhaps three months instead of six. Six more months of the Doom Song would be his end.

It had been ten minutes since liftoff.

Zim clenched his forehead until his hand seized up and slipped off of his skin, then pounded the dashboard with his fist. The ship responded with a vehement series of beeps.

"GIR! HOW MANY TIMES TO I HAVE TO TELL YOU—"

"Yahooooooo! All right!"

"Argh." Zim half-closed his eyes and stared straight out the window. "I guess that Ritalin solution I used to wash his central processing unit did absolutely nothing…"

"HEY-YEAH! I'M ALL RIGHT! I'M-A-MARIO!"

"No, you are GIR, and you are going to sit down—" Zim pointed to the seat next to him. "—and be silent for the entire trip back to Irk. Are we clear on this?"

GIR did not respond. After ten seconds of silence during which Zim's already-tight nerves experienced a mounting of apprehension, he turned around.

GIR was happily tapping on a keyboard with a blunt fore-appendage and making small noises of amazement.

Did he plug that thing into the ship's power supply all by himself? I left it hooked up as it was on—waitaminute…

"GIR! Step away from that NOW!"

GIR looked up at Zim, smiled vacantly with his tongue lolling, and pointed at the screen. "I found us some music."

"NO, GIR. That's Irken experimental evidence-property now, specially requested by the Tallest themselves…wait…"

Zim turned around fully in his seat. "Are you getting internet access up here?"

"Uh-huh!"

"With that POS satellite we got out of the dumpster at Computer Shack?"

"Yup!" GIR clicked on something. His mouth contracted into a funnel. "OOOH…"

"How can—that's impossible—it didn't work on Earth when we were just yards away from a radio tower—"

"SONG DONE! SONG DONE!"

GIR double-clicked clumsily on something, then watched the screen with rapt attention.

The "Macarena" started.

"NO! NO NO NO!"

"YAY! DANCE PARTY!"
"NO! GIR, WE ARE ON BUSINESS! BU-SI-NESS! AND THAT IS PROPERTY OF THE IRKEN—"

GIR had already jumped up and was enthusiastically doing his own special version of the "Macarena" with the music, which involved quite a bit of pelvic swirling and leaping around the cabin.

"—EMPIRACAL GOVERNMENT. NO!"

GIR jumped onto the newest CPU and did a rendition of the can-can. Zim growled and half-lunged out of his seat.

"Warning," said the ship. "Entering planetary atmosphere. Switching to emergency landing mode."

"W-what?"

"YE-HAW! I'M DANCING! SHOW ME YOUR HOTTEST MOVES! UH-HUH UH-HUH UH-HUH!"

Zim turned around to leave GIR to perform rather suggestive thrusting motions in the air and scanned all of the data flashing across his control panel. The data clearly indicated that they were entering the upper atmosphere of a planet of magnitude comparable to that of the Earth, and that they would not be able to pull out of its gravitational field.

The only problem was that there was no planet in front of them.

"Um… computer!" Zim typed several commands into the computer. "What is this nonsense about a planet?"

The computer clicked and rechecked its data.

"The data is not in error. There is, in fact, a planet in front of us, and we are about to land on it."

When the computer spoke in clear terms, it was obviously feeling resentful of being piloted by something so blind. Irkens were like humans; they relied on their sight as the ultimate indicator of truth.

"Besides, can you not feel the pull and turbulence on the ship?"

"I can, but…" Zim pushed himself up onto his arms and leaned across to the window. He saw nothing. "Are you sure this isn't a black hole?"

"Negative."

"ZOOT ZOOT ZOOT! BEEP!"

Zim ignored GIR's launch into some version of "Night of Fire" and swiveled his head around, checking all angles of visible space for any sign of a planet. The Earth was not far behind him, and they were not nearly close enough to the moon for any sort of interference yet—

The ship hit a second layer of atmosphere. The ship jerked dangerously.

A planet appeared the second that the ship removed through an almost reflexive layer of atmosphere. The land below was richly forested and spotted with grasslands that looked exactly like Earth vegetation from this vantage…

Zim blinked. He blinked again. He removed his eyes from their sockets and replaced them, then blinked vigorously.

"What the HELL?"

Zim grabbed the edge of the control panel as the ship jerked again and began a zigzag barrel toward the land. "COMPUTER! Where are we? Is this Earth?"

"The data reports negative."

"Then where? This isn't on a single Intergalactic Federation chart!"

"The computer has concluded that this planet is… uncharted."

"Uncharted? A new discovery?"

The music died with a sickening crunch as the computers and GIR slammed into one side of the ship. Zim was thrown from his seat and into a side locker.

"AAAAAAH!"

"WEEE! WE'RE FALLING! WE'RE GONNA DIE!"

Zim pulled himself back upright. Flames were licking over the windshield, a normal occurrence during any reentry. The cabin was growing hot.

The ship was nose-diving into a forest.

"………AAAAAAAAAAH!!"

"WOOOOOOOOOO!"

-----------------------------

Dalet pulled another pair of wire-cutters out of the small toolkit he had broken open by his leg and squeezed them to break the film of rust that had formed over the gears. He was sitting on a tree next to the wounded shoulder of his Alseides, just outside the burning city. The others had already set off for the Vione. Dalet had made up an excuse about being unable to fly his Alseides back without fixing the error – something about the flight levers being broken or something else, mumblemumble, so I'll see you back at the base after you report to Dilandau-sama – so now he was stuck trying to make it look as if he had actually made progress on something that needed to be fixed in the hangar anyway.

This isn't safe.

Dalet brushed sweat off of his brow with the gauntleted back of his hand and looked toward the violent red and orange flames several miles away, now sharply contrasting with the blackening sky. The metal stuck to his skin as he rubbed it with a paradoxical form of friction that came from the damp and the slick.

The entire damn forest is probably going to go up in flames. Shit… Rather be here right now, though. Chesta can play the hero and be messenger-boy today.

Dalet returned to work and tried to debate with the guilt-worm that was now gnawing at his insides. He had a mixed record with the worm. He often won his debates in the name of practicality and the fact that people can care for themselves, but at the times when it was fiercest it was particularly stubborn.

Dalet stopped working for a second and listened to the forest. Over the distant crackling and intermittent collapse of a building he thought that he could hear a distant, high-velocity whining, growing closer.

He shrugged and returned to his work until the whining reached such levels that it was difficult to ignore. He draped his wrist over his leg, still loosely grasping the wire-cutters, and tilted his head.

The whining reached dynamics often associated with low-flying jets.

Dalet plugged his ears and looked up.

A fireball shot across the treetops, knocking liberal showers of leaves down into Dalet's area. Dalet screwed his eyes shut against the light and the noise, feeling the faint rain of scorching flora. The fireball's whine crashed into a nearby clearing.

Dalet clutched the tree as the forest shook. The silence that followed was absolute.

Dalet opened his eyes and brushed the leaves off of his shoulders and hair. White smoke was pouring out of the clearing; something industrial was hissing and spitting in anger.

"…whoa…"

Dalet jumped out of the tree with practiced grace and ran into the clearing.

A violet and magenta contraption consisting entirely of spheroid components had its nose buried in the now-scorching loam. White, fluffy coolant was spurting out of several robotic arms that extended from the undercarriage, thoroughly coating the contraption until it became no more recognizable than a snow drift.

Dalet hesitated and sniffed the air. The coolant smelled familiar and clinical, not at all foreign. He slowly drew his sword with a scrape against the sheath and began to circle with a sideways, crossing-ankles motion.

"All right." He cleared his throat. "If you be friends of the Zaibach Empire, show yourself now and state your case. I am an elite solider from the Dragonslayer unit. I won't hurt you if you don't hurt me."

A hatch slammed open, spattering the clearing with foam. GIR poked his head out of the cruiser.

He grinned.

"HI!"

Dalet blinked. "Uh… hi…"

GIR climbed out of the cruiser happily, humming the Macarena to himself in a 'do-do-doo' fashion. He ran up to Dalet and tilted his head.

"…hey, Macarena! WOO! HOW'YA DOIN?"

GIR stood on the tips of his proverbial toes and waved. Dalet stared down at this new visitor.

Well, it seems friendly enough.

"I'm… doing fine. How are you doing?"

GIR thought about this for a moment.

"…MACARENA! WOO!"

"…Ma-ca-re-na. All right. Macarena. You spoke a little SNG a moment ago."

"SNG?"

"Standard New Gaean. It's the language in my country and most of the countries now. You must be from around here, or you're some sort of artificial-intelligence creature with translation abilities."

"…I like apples."

"Oh, that's cool." Dalet sheathed his sword and kneeled down. He offered his hand. "Well, uh… My name is Dalet Kaine, and…uh… I am a soldier in the Zaibach Army. Who are you and what are you doing here? You're… uh… well, you're sort of encroaching on a secret operation right now."

"GIR! Get away from that alien-creature!"

Zim climbed out of the open hatch, slid down the side of the cruiser, and marched over to Dalet. He stopped and put his hands on his hips, drawing himself up to his full height and puffing his chest with air.

His full height stood to Dalet's chest when Dalet was on one knee.

"Greetings, Alien-Creature. I am ZIM, a representative of the Irken Empire, and I seem to have crash-landed on your planet with a rather odd reflective atmosphere that has prohibited my sensors from seeing its whereabouts."

"…uh…"

"You are not charted on any of my maps, therefore, you are not a member of the Federation. You look like an Earth-Creature. Are you a colony of the Earth? Slave, perhaps?"

"…the what? Hey… Did you ask if I was a slave?"

"Your planet really needs to look into altering that reflexive atmosphere. It's dangerous, quite frankly, and because of it I have been severely delayed in my journey to report important evidence to my government."

"…WHAT?"

"Now, Alien-Creature, what do you call yourself? I know that you speak my language, so you must respond or the protocol of the Federation concerning non-Federation creatures states that I must—"

"Excuse me." Dalet narrowed his eyes. "In the first place, I think you're fucking nuts, and in the second place, if I am not a part of any sort of Federation, I am not subject to its laws. You hold no jurisdiction over me because of what your organization says, savvy?"

"Dare you try to mock me?"

"Yeah. If you didn't understand me in the first place, I basically said that you can suck my balls if you don't like what I do and do not tell you."

"Aha! So, you are a male-creature! GIR! I won the bet!"

"Aw…"

"Bet?"

"I thought you were a preee-ty la-dy," said GIR, twisting his toe on the ground with his hands behind his back.

"Oh, for… I'm used to it. But don't my shoulders—"

Zim tapped Dalet's shoulder armor. "Hidden by this nonsense. I thought you were compensating for something."

"Hey, if I were a woman I'd show it off with that really revealing useless armor, all right?"

"And as far as ball-sucking goes, ah, yes, I know all about your ball-sucking. It is an Earthling habit. Zim does not engage in such things. It is LEWD and—"

"Wanna computer?"

"—what?"

Zim looked over his shoulder. GIR had at some point darted off and was now hauling the newest CPU out of the cruiser by its chords, pulling them over his shoulder and using his back for support. Half of the chords had already come detached from the strain, and more were getting close to that point.

One of the pin-screwed chords snapped off.

Zim's jaw dropped open in horror.

"NO! NONONONONONONONO GIR!! NO!"

Zim ran toward the cruiser waving his arms just as GIR dropped over the side, panting. The CPU fell on top of him with a sickening crunch.

The shell broke open, spilling the inner cards and workings onto the forest loam.

"…NO!"

GIR wormed out from under the computer and poked around through the damaged innards of the computer. "I've got dancing music in here somewhere…"

"Um…" Dalet pointed at the computer, mouth still half-open from its initial reaction to the drop. "What is that?"

GIR help up the Ethernet card triumphantly. "I found my file!"

"NO! GIR, that is not a file! Put it down!"

"Aw… I wanted to dance with my new friend..."

Zim snatched the card from GIR and kneeled before the fallen computer, trying to salvage what he could from the dirt and stick it into slots. He blew dust and bits of dead vegetation off of the cards and brushed more of the same matter out of the inside of the computer.

Dalet hovered over his shoulder, watching the workings carefully. Emerald green cards encrusted with gold and silver runes and workings, all in slots, tapes and wires running about inside the box. It was a technology he had never seen, though its workings seemed somehow familiar.

"What is this thing?"

Zim brushed him away. "None of your business, Transvestite-Man. It is an Earthling tool for communication and establishing the base and menial tasks of creative writing and playing video games, a small-minded amusement indeed. It is the basis of their modern society, which is why we are taking these three CPU units back to Irk to—and WHY am I telling you this?"

Dalet shrugged. "You started it, Green Man."

"And how old are you, anyway? You're not a man! You're a boy!"

"I'm almost sixteen, thank you very much."

"Hm… the age of the height of Earth adolescence, crazy. Hm… yes…Tell me, boy, are you adolescent?"

"My name is Dalet Kaine, and yes, I am."

"Success! I have found a missing link of Earth to the rest of the galaxies!"

"But we're as isolated as any other planet. Isn't Earth an old term for the Mystic Moon?"

"Um… yeah-sure-whatever, kid. Look…" Zim dropped a hard drive into the computer with a small crash and turned to Dalet. "I really need to get going, and I'm going to chart your pathetic excuse for a hellhole of a planet on my charts as 'Zimdom'. I'll probably be back to conquer it someday." Zim sniffed the air and looked toward Fanelia. "Is something burning?"

Dalet gave Zim a flat look. "You just noticed?"

"My mind has been on more important things. Now listen." Zim got into Dalet's face. "You must not tell a SOUL about my existence or this evening, do you understand me? Your very life depends on it."

Dalet flicked Zim's forehead with his forefinger. Zim clutched his forehead and staggered backwards into the computer.

"Right, squirt."

"A-WEEE!"

"Not NOW, GIR!"

"Hey!" GIR yelled from inside the ship. "Let's bribe him! Bribe him!"

"WHAT?"

"I dunno, it's like… 'BRIBE BRIBE!' on TV and stuff. Doesn't that work?"

"Hm…" Zim leaned back against the computer. "You know… for once, you might have a good idea, GIR."

"If you're going to do that, I'll take your ship off your hands for you."

"Out of the question." Zim stomped toward the ship. "Here…"

Dalet waited as Zim hauled an entire computer, monitor, speakers, a printer, a mouse, a keyboard, a satellite, and a mass tangle out of his ship and set it on the ground at Dalet's feet. He followed Zim's progress in utter confusion.

What in the hell is all of this stuff?

"Here." Zim slammed a heavy Ziploc bag of manuals on top of the CPU. "Everything you need to know. The satellite never worked worth anything, and the thing runs on Windows 98 SE. May your non-atheist perception of a divine deity have mercy on your soul."

"…huh?"

"In exchange for your silence. Take this gift as a token of Irken friendship."

"…" Dalet picked up the satellite and hefted it. He looked at it from various angles.

"It runs on electricity. You have that, don't you?"

"Of course. We're the most advanced country in the world."

"Good. Be careful with it, don't clank it around, follow the manuals, 'a' equals 'b' and so forth." Zim marched back toward his fallen CPU and stared to haul it back into the ship.

"Remember our promise, Dalet-Creature. Nothing about Irk. Perhaps if you are true to your promise I will reward you richly when I return to take over this miserable little planet."

"Okay. Sure."

Zim hauled the computer into the hatch.

"BYE!"

GIR waved enthusiastically. Dalet waved back vaguely, a smile starting to grow.

"GIR!"

Zim pulled GIR into the cruiser and slammed the hatch.

Dalet stared at the cruiser. He looked down at the satellite in his hands and hefted it once again.

"Tool for modern communication, huh…"

"ARGH!"

Dalet jumped and stared at the spaceship. The hatch burst open once again, and Zim climbed out wearing a welding mask and lugging a box of tools that looked as if it weighed more than he did.

"…" Zim flipped his mask up. "What are you still doing here?"

"Um… nothing."

Zim flipped his mask back over his face, kneeled, and proceeded to weld his damaged craft with a blue flame. Dalet watched him for a moment.

"Do you need any—"

"No. This is a job for Irken Invaders only. You don't know my ship."

"…all right." Dalet paused. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, now scat."

Dalet set the satellite on top of the CPU and carefully lifted both of them, the satellite sliding around on top of the CPU and forcing Dalet to constantly rebalance his grip and tilt the box to center it.

Holy shit, this is so cool. I can't wait to get home and see what this does—argh—this is heavy—no, don't fall! …there…

…I wonder what Migel is going to think about all of this…

-----------------------

You've really done it to yourself this time, Folken.

Folken stared at his reflection in a clear patch of the steam-frosted mirror and gently touched the wound over a large knot in the back of his head. He winced. It was going to give him hell for a while. He had suspected a mild concussion and had lain down in his room with all of the lights off and the fan running after he had secured the captive young man in his lab where, hopefully, the Sorcerers would not find him or dare to tread.

And I don't know what gives you that idea. They stormed on the ship under my jurisdiction and demanded evidence. Seem to think that I am ungrateful for all they have taught me. I paid their due several times over already. Aah…

A wave of pain blinded him momentarily, pushing behind his eyes. Folken closed his eyes and waited for the wave to subside.

The edge of the sink grated under his claws.

Damn it. Folken opened his eyes and examined the new minute scores in the porcelain. Nobody had access to his bathroom but himself, and he really didn't care about the appearance anyway so long as it was clean. The brief wave of irritation subsided.

I just seem to mangle everything that I touch…

The steam had entirely cleared from the mirror by now. Folken sighed and examined his reflection once again. He was only wearing a blue towel around his waist, and his hair was still wet, unstyled with the liberal amounts of gel (and needless time, one reason that made him wonder why he even bothered) that it took to form it into spikes and was, instead, hanging in his eyes. He had scrubbed the blood out of his hair in the shower, which at least made him look considerably less ill.

It shouldn't remind me as much of my old self as it does. I look completely different than I did ten years ago.

For one thing, there was that damned bionic arm that remained in the back of his mind until he started this sort of analysis, at which point it caught his eye before his own face did. He was also much taller. He blinked and focused on the mirror image of the person staring back at him. Without the flare of his purple cosmetics he looked plain, though the purple tearmark was still etched under his right eye. Long face, plain features, no expression. He was of the opinion that he was not at all attractive, though Naria and Eriya always had things to say about his appealing qualities. He had often wondered if they were blind or flattering him.

Well, yes, they're cats; perhaps they have different sensibilities about what is and is not attractive. And why the hell am I standing here analyzing my own levels of relative 'attractiveness'? Oh, by the way, in case you forgot, you just burned the capitol of your former country to the ground and slaughtered the citizens. Why don't you dwell on that instead?

Wasting time like this always made him feel as if he was doing that by the meaning of the term –wasting time – though he always had more of it to waste than he thought that he did. It somehow made him feel less guilty to sit in front of a stack of paperwork and stare at it,  half-daydreaming for two hours, than to go off and do something of his own interest and come back to achieve the same volume of work.

"Psychology is not as logical as I would like."

"The look on your face tells me that you're being too hard on yourself again, Master."

The second voice was raspy and almost nasal. Folken spun around and clasped sink behind him, managing to keep his look of surprise to a bare minimum. He took a silent breath.

"… Zongi, how long have you been in the wall?" Veins in his ears were still throbbing against what he would be willing to bet was his eardrums if he didn't already know better.

"I just got here, Master."

Zongi was lying, and they both knew it. Folken straightened and fought the urge to cross his arms defensively.

"Come out. It's all right."

Zongi emerged from the still-wet tiled wall behind the shower glass and walked through the remnants of water, stepped over the edge of the shower, and stood in font of Folken, slumping as he always did to make their actual equality in height less prevalent. He never tried to appear even remotely taller than his master. He thought it was grave disrespect. Folken had given up telling him to stand up straight. He was shrouded in his mantle, weakly clasping the hems as if expecting to need to shield his face from some sort of assault or, more likely, a piercing stare.

"I give you my most grievous apology and beg your humble forgiveness, Master. I was merely…"

Zongi couldn't seem to find a good answer for what he was 'merely' doing, other than watching Folken take a shower. Folken stared at him and was glad that he was wearing a towel, though it didn't make much difference anyway. Zongi had already seen what he wanted to see.

"Zongi, I know that I gave you permission to follow me around at times, but could you please not follow me in here for any reason?"

"Once again, I am most—"

"Don't be sorry. Just keep this in mind. I do have a want of privacy." Or a dire need for it.

"As you wish, Master. I will never violate your privacy again."

"Thank you."

Folken had a feeling that this was not the first time Zongi had observed his showers. He felt an odd, loss-of-gravity sensation in the pit of his stomach and remembered the last time he had even made a weak attempt at masturbation before growing disgusted with himself and giving up. That was one of the last things on earth he wanted anybody to even know about. He wanted to see if he could take his mind off himself for any period of time, but it was a futile attempt, and he knew it. He had just ended up getting embarrassed and clenching his good hand behind his back while reprimanding himself for being so silly about something that was 'normal'.

"…there was a reason I came in here, originally. I have a message from Sorcerer Garufo. He wants to talk to you. He said that he'll meet you on the main deck at 18:00 hours."

Folken brought his awareness back to current realities and glanced into Zongi's eyes. He saw his own reflection in the translucent, green glass.

"…thank you. Tell him I will meet with him."

Zongi stood awkwardly for a moment as if wanting to say something more, but stopped himself.

"What, Zongi?"

"Nothing. I just still feel bad, Master. Um… do your wounds still pain you? Do you want me to get painkillers or ice or something?"

Folken sighed. "Don't worry about it, Zongi. Just allow me to get dressed."

Zongi bowed and mumbled some form of an affirmative before backing into the tiled wall. Folken sighed heavily and turned back to the mirror. His hair was already drying, which was the best time to start spiking it, but…

Folken looked at the closed canister of gel on the side of the sink for a moment.

I still don't know why I even bother…

-----------

He can't defeat me. He can't defeat me. He can't defeat me… HOW? This doesn't make any fucking sense!

Dilandau ground his teeth as he took laps around the guymelef hangars with his Dragonslayers, stripped down to his violet undershirt and black pants but still wearing red boots that sharply contrasted with the soft hues of his outfit. Silver hair was dashing into his face without his coronet to hold it out of his eyes. It was a minor annoyance that he had learned how to ignore.

His mind wasn't in the current reality anyway, such as it was.

Am I not the greatest and most fearsome soldier in the entire empire? The leader of the very elite? I could fell any of my men in one fell swoop, and yet I'm challenged by some ratty refugee with knives that aren't fit for a butcher. Hell, had Folken not interfered I would have gut him like a dog.

Dilandau turned a sharp corner and growled to himself, not from physical exertion, but from utter loathing. These laps were nothing to him. He took a numb notice of his dog tags inside his shirt beating rhythmically against his chest and then bouncing to the inside of the fabric.

Shit, I should be in a good mood. I just watched Folken-fucking-Fanel take a nose dive down a flight of stairs and end up belly-up with a crack up his skull, then learned that his superiors are here to tag on his ass and make his life a living hell. Then this fucking prisoner has to come along and ruin my day, and now Dalet's fucking late with 'mechanical problems', whatever the hell that means. When he gets back I'm going to make him wish his mother had never spawned him.

The thought of whaling on Dalet only sent a momentary mental flash of some sort of silver lining to this cloud, but as always it was only a minor distraction and an output for his aggression that could never be satisfied without seeing his enemy's head on a spike.

Johnny C. Johnny C. Johnnnnnny…

That pale, cadaverous excuse for a head, hollows under eyes smeared with black makeup, ratty hair, beady eyes, toothpick of a body. Snap. Snap. Snap. Every limb should snap like timber. Such a skinny, pathetic runt. And what the hell was all of that intellectual crap he was spouting?

One of Dilandau's numerous pet peeves was intellectuals. If he had his way, they would all be locked into rooms doing that for which they were truly useful: making weapons of mass destruction for his use. At least they had more use than politicians, who were only good for moving target practice and technique dummies to show his men how to better kill people.

Another of the aforementioned peeves was people who didn't lie down and die when he commanded them to do so. Then there were the so-called 'gothics', all of them depressed and spouting shit about how they wanted to die, and nothing else. This Johnny looked like one of them. As far as Dilandau was concerned, they should all do the world a favor and jump off a cliff. Shouldn't it make them happy if they wanted to die? Everybody would win.

The repressed pants of his Dragonslayers were beginning to burst through the barriers of their masters' trachea more intermittently. Dilandau snorted. They knew damn well that if any of them showed any signs of even remote fatigue, he would make examples. This was a light exercise for the elite. Ten russas was nothing.

Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.

Dilandau's thoughts floated back into the red haze. The bastard had to die, and painfully, as an example; there was no other option. Chesta had seen his defeat, and by now surely the story had spread through his troops. Yes, this Johnny had to die in front of them all so as to kill any ideas that he might be anything less than perfect.

It wasn't a defeat. Hell, it ended in a draw. And didn't Johnny lose more than you did because he allowed Folken to grab him? If I were in that position I would have had the instinct to dodge attacks from either direction.

Yes… yes, this is more the natural order of things. I keep telling myself this. Technically, you won.

Dilandau grinned, but faltered as soon as he remembered the faint cut on his collarbone. It would heal without any problems, but it was proof that his enemy had touched him. His enemy had drawn blood when he had drawn none.

…shit. Shit. Shit. Shit…

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

The Dragonslayers stopped as their master drew his sword and madly attacked a wall, hacking, slicing, and yelling--short barks and yells, then roars--showering sparks all over the metal lattice gangplank. Through the haze it was Johnny… Johnny… subjects of aggression, smirking at him, the words, Chesta saw him, Chesta saw him…

Dilandau's strained and worked against the wall, already beginning to glisten. Droplets of sweat scattered from the tips of his hair. He barred his teeth and roared at the wall, took one last slash at the wall, and threw his sword at it.

Panting echoed in the deep chamber.

Dilandau clenched his fists until his nails dug furrows in his palms and collapsed to his knees, ignoring the ribbons of blood running down his curled fingers. His harsh breathing began to slow.

The mist began to lift.

"Lord Dilandau?"

Gatti. Gatti was behind him. Dilandau didn't face his soldier and instead focused on a point in the depths of the chamber through one of the regular holes in the gangplank floor. Holes. Hollows in eyes. Holes for eyes.

"What, Gatti?"

 "…Dalet just arrived in the main hangar, sir."

Dilandau thought about this for a moment. He could feel Gatti tense behind him, though he was one of the very few who would not show outright fear. He sighed and stood up, pressing bloody palms into the gangplank and ignoring the blood that dripped through the metal weave, thick metal rope woven into a pattern with diamond-shaped spaces. He would not be surprised to see his wounds turn black with the filth on the surface.

"All right. The rest of you, keep running until I get back. No slowing." Dilandau took a few steps toward the door and stopped. "And I don't think I ever told you to stop in the first place. Do not think that I will forget."

There was a dull chorus of affirmatives. Dilandau lifted his heavy, metal-plated jacket off of the chair by the door and shrugged it over his shoulders, not even bothering to pull on the sleeves. It was too bloody hot for the leather nonsense.

Dalet was just getting out of his Alseides when Dilandau reached the hangar, pulling some ivory-toned object out of the cockpit of his melef and replacing it as soon as he heard footsteps on the gangplank. Dilandau arched his eyebrows.

And what in the hell has Dalet found this time?

"Dalet, you're late."

Dalet snapped to attention and remained motionless as Dilandau walked down the stairs to the foot of the melef. The Dragonslayer was clenching his jaw and already had a thin trail of sweat running from his temples hidden somewhere behind that sheet of hair. Ooh, he knows he's in trouble…

"Technical problems, I heard?"

"Um… yes, sir."

"I see." Dilandau touched the deep score in the melef's armor where gears and a belt were clearly visible. "Oh my, this is even worse than what Chesta did to his melef. Tell me, did those backwater hicks give you trouble?"

"No, sir."

"Did a little fairy do this, then?"

"Yes. I mean, no, sir. It was the dragon, sir. It's magical, sir."

"Yes, I know. I already got a full report." Dilandau continued to examine the melef. "You know, I honestly don't give a flying fuck about the dragon, Dalet. However, I do care about the state of these Alseides units."

"…sir."

"What?"

"Yes, sir."

"We just had them painted, you know."

"Yes, sir."

"Redone, refurbished. These are the newest models."

"Yes, sir."

"And you went and ruined it in some little hick republic run by an infant king with melefs that are old enough to belong in a museum."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you the elite, Dalet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Say that again. Are you the elite, Dalet?"

"…yes, sir."

Dilandau stared at Dalet. Something about his tone was antagonizing. "…get down here."

Dalet jumped off of the cockpit platform. Dilandau grabbed him by the collar, kneed him in the stomach, and threw him onto the ground. The Slayer collapsed and gagged.

Dilandau kicked Dalet in face. Dalet landed on his back.

"I don't like your attitude, Dalet."

Dilandau paced around his supine victim and watched the expressions on Dalet's face with mild boredom. Dalet's face was twisted in pain and already bleeding from the mouth and nose, though he was trying his hardest to control his expressions.

"Aw. It's a shame to wound such a pretty face." Dilandau ground his heel into Dalet's bruised stomach. Dalet retched and gasped.

"Aren't you shaming yourself? You're ruining your face because you can't do a job properly."

Dalet gagged. Dilandau dug his heel in harder. "I asked you a question."

"….y…yes…"

"I made you commander, you know, and you shamed me and my entire operation. You've slandered my reputation as a judge of ability. Oh, don't worry. Chesta got his reward as well. But you were late." Dilandau smiled slowly. "I remember your enthusiasm about being appointed to such a high office. Oh, don't worry, it will never happen again. But you failed as a commander, and as such, you will pay penalties fitting for your office."

Dalet gasped shakily. The air was being crushed out of his lungs through his diaphragm. Dilandau lifted his heel off of Dalet's chest and hauled the Slayer upright by his collar once again.

"Do you see that mud on the melef right there? Do you? Nod. Good boy. Remember what I said? You do?" Dilandau's voice was almost comforting. "Well, no worries, Dalet, you'll keep a toothbrush. Oh, you'll need it. You're going to lick it off. All of it."

Dalet looked shocked by this. Beatings were routine, but this sort of punishment involving disgust more than physical pain was a rarity. Dilandau knew this. Pain was so much more fun to administer, and dirt disgusted him too much to deal with it anyway in most circumstances. But there were times when the Slayers were such worms that they needed this treatment.

Dilandau dragged Dalet over to the melef and shoved his nose into the small patch of mud. "Come on, now. I haven't got all day."

Dalet gagged and twisted his face away. Dilandau smashed his nose into the melef and felt already broken bones shift.

Dalet cried out.

"Weakling." Dilandau kicked him in the back. "Get on with it."

Dalet shakily ran the tip of his tongue on the grime and shuddered. Dilandau maintained a firm hold on the back of his neck until he had cleared the area of mud. He finally wretched and vomited.

"…pathetic." Dilandau released Dalet. Dalet barely caught himself on the edge of his melef to keep himself from falling into his own mess. "That is utterly disgusting. Go clean yourself. Never fail me again."

Dalet remained where he was, shaking badly and trying to catch his breath. Dilandau turned his back on the pathetic spectacle, climbed up to the cockpit, and looked in to see just what Dalet was hiding. There were ivory-colored pieces of some sort of technology, though it looked more like junk to him.

"…been out scavenging?"

Dalet did not reply. Dilandau looked down at his bloodied Slayer and snorted.

"Rather sad, really."

Dilandau smashed a speaker against the side of the melef and jumped off. He walked to the stairs.

"Dinner in half an hour. Either show up clean or don't show up at all. I don't want to see your face at all; at least don't make it disgust me more than it already does at the moment."

---------

Jazzing for legality. We all know that Invader Zim is not mine. That, like the wonderful JTHM, belongs to Jhonen Vasquez. I'm ripping him off a lot.

Windows 98 SE, for the bloody hell of it, is not 'mine' either, and I'm glad it's not.