Greyline
By Nano-Moose
Okey-day, chilluns. Welcome shmelcome (and other such stuff) to my hopefully pan-chapterly fic. In response to my three reviews, I get much of my style from such writing greats as Matthew Reilly, Eion Colfer, and that guy who wrote Shatterpoint. Something Stover. So yeah, I have a reputation for simplistic smartness. I read quite a lot and that's bolstered my vocabulary, with the result that I sound like a pretentious little brat in my stories. Hooray. My sister seems to like it though. And she's nearly my beta reader. Oh yeah, that's another thing: I HAVE no beta reader. All my stuff is pure 'type type F7 spellcheck type type finish read over delete crap type read over upload'. I'm a good speller though, so it probably won't bother you.
Disclaimer: Sadly Invader Zim and all related entities belong to Nickelodeon and Viacom, however neglectful as parents they may be. They are, however, still the intellectual property of Jhonen Vasquez and they can't take that until they remove his brain or something. The OC's you may spot are mine, the plot is mine, and the various new stuff around is mine. Oh yeah, and if you've heard of 'the lizard of odd', or Liz Bailey, then you'll know that I used some of her stuff for reference, mainly referring to Irken culture. I've been RPing it for a while and it sticks. Make sure you go visit her site, cause she rocks and draws incredibly. Now with that out of the way…
3…2…1…let's jam…
Chapter 01: Catalyst
The Massive cruised through the silent black void of space.
It was aptly named – a gargantuan ship that dwarfed the swarms of star-fighters surrounding it into glittering metal specks, which could barely be discerned against the backdrop of stars. Hundreds upon thousands upon millions upon billions of them, most of which were surrounded by multiple planets, some of which were infested with life.
It was this life that the Massive - and the fighters it was surrounded by - hoped to extinguish.
These ships all followed the same basic design - Irken, as was proclaimed by the antennae-pronged symbol sprayed on any readily visible surface. They were all smoothed and rounded, with bizarrely organic bulges in their hulls, all following the same colour scheme of deep red and dark purple, all sharp edges and gleaming weaponry.
And all of them were part of the same mission.
They were the Armada, and nothing stood in their way.
The current leader of the race that commanded it – strictly speaking, one of the current leaders – inspected the cloud of fighters, tapping his foot impatiently. He was extremely tall – the tallest, one might say – and dressed from head to foot in violet, which matched his gleaming eyes. These were set in a face that was pale green, with long, expressive antennae sweeping back from his forehead.
"I dunno," he stated, scratching his neck with one of his two remaining fingers.
His fellow leader, identical to him in every way except in that his clothes and eyes were scarlet, batted irritably at an attendant who was attempting to fan him.
"You don't know what?" he muttered, snatching a bag of chips from the attendant, and stamping heavily on his foot.
His counterpart turned to him. "Do we really need to bring in the Invaders? I mean, those guys are such jerks. And half of them aren't even that tall. Aren't we supposed to be all about – y'know – crushing the opposition with unstoppable might, and that?"
Red drew himself up to his full, impressive height – though it would have been somewhat more intimidating had his mouth not been crammed full of chips. "Yeah," he mumbled indistinctly, "What's your point?"
"How are we supposed to keep up that reputation if our elite soldiers are little titchy weenies?"
"The alien guys did kill one of the Invaders, and the Advisors aren't so happy about it," Red reminded him.
Purple nodded, rubbing a contemplative hand across his chin. "Yeah, that's true. Well, if we're going to bring in the Invaders, does that include Skoodge? I really don't like that guy."
"Not Skoodge," said Red. "Too short. We'd be a laughing-stock."
There was a pause as they both thought about the other Invading embarrassment.
"What about Zim?" said Red, finally.
They both looked at each other and at the same moment stuck out their arms and yelled "Unstoppable Death Machine!"
"No," sighed Purple, "definitely not Zim. In fact, let's not say anything about this to Zim."
Red nodded happily as he crumpled the empty chip packet and threw it at another attendant who was trying to give him a report. "An accidental over-sight kind of thing."
"Yeah," said Purple, "We don't want too many defectives. Those guys always cause so much trouble…"
Yet another attendant, his face mask and heavy red tunic identifying him as a technician, chose that moment to scurry into the room, breathless from carrying a thick data-pad that obviously had too many special features to warrant making it compact. This he handed to Red, who took it and glanced it over.
"The FX is certified for flight, My Tallest, we just need to get the – the special crew you requested-"
Red leaned forward, enjoying, as he always did, the way the shorter being wilted slightly as The Tallest loomed over him. "Do you know where they are?"
"Y-yes sir," the Tech stammered, "The female defective appears to be operating around Kurish and the male is trucking fries to Foodcourtia – the other two have already been pulled from training and are awaiting assign-"
"Well, hurry it up," Red snapped. "We don't have time for messing around with theories and I want that ship there in case this doesn't go so well. If we don't see this thing up and running by the time we're halfway there, you'll be laundering strait jackets at the IIMD. Understand?"
"Yes My Tallest. Right way, my Tallest." The Tech finally got the message to the appropriate limbs and bowed clumsily, before back-pedaling frantically and nearly falling over a table-head drone.
Red grinned derisively as he watched him go.
"I love it when you get all leaderly like that," Purple said mildly.
Red shot him a very dirty look. "I'll be glad when this is over."
Purple grunted. "It'll be over soon. Unstoppable might, remember? We'll be fine as long as Zim doesn't get involved. Which he won't. He's on that backwards little planet that's no one cares about, remember?"
It was not only Zim they had to worry about, however…
Irken Heavy Gunner Krit, second-in-command of the Flash-Finder, was, for once in his life, having a remarkably good day. It might have been the weather – there had been no energy storms or meteorite showers to fly into for days now. It might have been his recent promotion to captain. Or it might have been the continued absence of their former captain, one Commanding Officer Trang, who had previously taken it upon himself personally to make Krit's life a living hell.
He was on a routine mission to chart the landmarks on one of the myriad planets of the Irken Empire. A few days ago, one of their Observer Drones had reported what was either a big ship or a small meteor that had landed - or crashed – on the one of the older planets. Ruinish. They had already started mapping the crash area when Trang – with many snide allusions to Krit's lack of observation – had picked up a distress signal, a distinctly Irken signature, coming from one of the wrecked buildings that, oddly, still remained after the planet's life had been scoured from it. He'd said he should investigate himself, since Krit would probably screw it up.
They had been looking for him for the past three days. Their CO had gone into the building with two of Krit's squad mates to investigate the signal and had not returned. Three days was the required time limit before the Second-in-command had to take over his officer's position, and if they could not find their missing leader in a week, then he was assumed dead and the position made permanent.
Krit was not unduly worried. After all, he was confident that they would eventually find their missing CO, because all Irken Paks came packaged with transmitters to help locate their hosts. Trang was no exception. They would find him. But until they did find him, Krit was perfectly happy where he was. Ves and Murf were both about to land and begin their third search. It was just a matter of time. They would find him.
"Stupid piece of junk," said his Pak communicator. Krit recognized the sharp bark of Murf, the squad's other Heavy Gunner, a beefy individual who had a real problem with Krit's authority.
"CO Krit, are you receiving?" That had to be Ves, the pilot – she'd been the only other Irken left on the ship dispensable enough to send down.
Krit gestured and the mike extended from his ID Pak to hover at a convenient height near his mouth. "I'm receiving loud and clear, Ves. Confirm your position. Oh, and Murf – no personal comments."
Murf started swearing just before Ves managed to cut him off. "We are approaching the building where Trang last reported – it's a run down pile of nix, by the way – at co-ordinates 19: 543-5. "
"Confirmed position, co-ordinates 19: 543-5. Just like yesterday."
"And I take it we have permission to enter?"Krit grinned. "Sure do. Just like yesterday."
"Eh," said Ves's voice, "I'll be glad when we find him so we can get off this prakkin' rock. Get back to the action."
"It won't be long," he assured her, "I fixed your locator up, it should be much more powerful. I daresay he's found an old snack-machine or some-"
"I thought you said no personal comments, CO," Murf growled.
Krit could just imagine his smirk. Idiot, he thought. I hope Trang finds a reason to put him on punishment cycles.
Ves stood in a puddle as she surveyed the building, keeping a careful eye on the shadows that leapt from her pak-light every time she moved. There had once been light, here – the round protrusions, polished smooth, still remained on the ceiling as a testament – but since the life has been vaporized, nothing was left but dark and damp.
It summed up the building as a whole, really. It may have once been beautiful – columns rose and joined to the ceiling in smooth tapering arches, and the walls were covered in intricate carvings. There were the faded, scorched and tattered remains of hangings and shattered remnants of objects cast in some bright metal that refused to dull, even now. But there was no life – nothing rustled the hangings, no one disturbed the faint drip…drip that resulted from the unidentifiable moisture.
The air was cold. Icy cold. Cold enough to make her shiver.
Ves advanced carefully into the stillness, keeping her antennae pricked to the sounds that echoed, searching for a sign of her lost CO. She closed her eyes for a moment and listened… the dull sixth sense that emanated from her pak told her…left…
She opened her eyes and glanced down the dark, damp passage that was to her left, a vague, prickling sensation creeping up along her arms.
"Murf," she said aloud, knowing the pak mike would pick up her voice and transmit it to her companion. "You seen any sign of our beloved CO?"
"Not a fraggin' thing, Ves."
"My locator says he should be down this here tunnel…have we checked it before?"
"Just a sec…transmitting map and known passages."
"Received," she said, watching a rough blueprint draw itself in mid-air. Her position was labeled with a pulsing dot. "Nope, unexplored tunnel. I'm gonna check it out. Don't wait up for me."
Murf chuckled. It sounded like a rush of static. "Prak no."
"Thanks for boosting my paranoia."
"Just part of the job, Ves. Murf, cutting transmission."
Ves sighed. He was a good gunner, Murf was, but he hardly had the right temperament. He was not as cool and calculating as many of the officers she knew, preferring instead to try to 'raise moral' in his squad-mates. Odd behaviour. Still, she liked him – he was frank and honest, and detested keeping what the higher-ups called 'dangerous knowledge' out of the hands of the foot soldiers.
She was just trying to remind herself that she was supposed to be totally focused on the mission when the metallic pulsing in her mind reached a peak, and the tunnel opened out onto a much, much larger chamber. The same bright metal gleamed on the walls here, set in a beautiful and elaborate pattern. There were no windows, yet something about the place made her feel…watched.
Ves followed the pattern with her eyes, down and down, to where it joined to the floor and merged with the-
With a sudden yell that echoed in the desolate atmosphere, Ves ran forward to the side of a still, delicate figure that lay curled up, limp and unmoving. Her pak-light reflected off something on his back, the light lancing briefly into her eyes. An Irken pak.
"Trang," she whispered, "CO Trang, can you hear me? Where are the others? Are you- Oh dear Slark!"
She had turned him up to reveal his face…or what was left of it. It was a horrific sight – his normally smooth green skin was dry, flaking…grey, the grey of tarnished metal. Even the act of moving him caused a flurry of something like dust. Ves choked as she realized she was breathing in her dead CO. A wave of disgust crashed in on her and she backed carefully away, accidentally skidding on a puddle and landing on her rear. An observer may have been tempted to laugh. But the situation was not even remotely funny. For a moment, Ves could do nothing but stare into his still-open eyes.
They were drained of colour. Dull and completely blank, like worn marble.
Ves choked as bile rose in her throat. She forced it down, hurriedly glancing away.
"Prak…Murf! I found him! He's in bad, bad shape…"
Murf hissed. "Damn. How bad?"
"He's grey…and dry…and…well…dead…it looks like some kind of virus." Ves wondered, somewhere under her utter horror, why she sounded so calm.
"Prak!""I…don't think we're gonna find the others…"
"Then just get his chip and leave him!""What about our…" Ves made a half-hearted attempt at sounding professional, then the overwhelming need to just get away took over. "Removing memory chip. Frag, Murf, we need to get back to the ship, find out what happened."
Ves tried not to look at her Commander's face, swallowing as she flicked his memory chip out of his pak. Then, without a backwards glance, she raced out of the chamber, tripping on rubble and slipping on puddles, going faster and faster…
Back to the ship, she told herself, get back and analyse…
Without realizing that, step-in-step, someone or something was silently following.
Round and shiny. That was the way GIR liked his toys. Round and shiny and squishy. Because if they were squishy, Master wouldn't yell at you so much when you threw them at his head, and if they were shiny you could find them easier when you dropped them in the taco-sauce, and if they were round, they were easier to hug.
GIR liked hugging things. It was an odd deficiency in his programming as a horribly destructive robot slave, and Zim was trying to rectify it. With, it must be said, some success – if GIR would only stop attempting to play with the equipment.
Zim snatched his tool-kit out of the diminutive robot's hand, snapping at him to "keep his FILTHY little metal digits away from the sensors". Zim did not know what GIR had been playing in, but whatever it was left bubbling black streaks on anything made of glass - not at all desirable near his very delicate equipment.
He was trying very hard to keep his minion properly strapped down so he could get at the deranged little robot's head cavity, but for all his massively advanced technology (which was arranged in a suitably creepy manner around his base) he was finding it extremely difficult to get GIR to sit still.
"You may be my undyingly loyal minion, GIR, but that doesn't exempt you from common hygiene!" Zim was trying to look impressive. It was a tough job at three feet high. "You must remember to ALWAYS wash your hands after you've been gathering information outside. That is why I had the antiseptic field installed in the elevator! Why don't you use it?"
GIR stared at his master for quite a long moment, before stating, "Piggy dun like the swooshy blue thing! He say it gives 'im the itchies!"
Zim made an irritated noise that roughly equated to 'Gack' in English, popping open GIR's head whilst he twirled a bizarre device in his left hand. "Yes, GIR, but itchiness is a small price to pay when you consider the chances of catching some horrible stinky Earthen disease and – HNGAAK!"
Zim hastily withdrew his glove from the nether regions of GIR's head clutching a damp, squishy object that had morphed into something completely indescribable, though it may have once been a sandwich. GIR spotted it and clapped his metallic hands together with a faint clink. "Look! It's a taco!" he squealed.
"Errgh! Ew ew ew!" Zim danced on the spot before tossing the object into his garbage chute. He turned back to GIR, furious, ramming his tool into the middle of GIR's circuitry with more force than could be considered necessary.
"Sandwiches!" Zim yelled, ripping out a few vital circuits. "Tacos, pizza, putrid Earthen stink beasts drooling whenever I get too close! Gah, if it were not so necessary for me to remain on this filthy spinning clod I would have pulled whatever force I could out of the Armada to reduce these humans into dripping goo! Goo which would then be used as hot-sauce in the finest restaurants this side of the Northern Spir-"
"-Skritchak Sector co-ordinates 4393-488-23, eighth planet orbiting the Jathum star. Message repeats. All Invaders-" said GIR.
"-eh?" Zim stared at the little robot, who was suddenly completely limp, his normally glowing cyan blue eyes flickering dangerously. Then he glanced at the wires in his hand. They were loosely kept in a bundle by a piece of tape labeled 'TRANSMISSION BLOCKER – DO NOT REMOVE'.
GIR was still speaking, and not in his normal high metallic edged squeal. "-that can be spared from their conquering duties are ordered to report to Conventia for re-assignment to battle stations. All SIR units must remain at the assigned planets to maintain bases and leadership until the Invaders return. Further information will be available upon arrival. This is not a drill or a set-up. Invaders that cannot be spared from their duties must transmit all useful research and any captured slaves to the Skritchak Sector co-ordinates 4393-488-23. Message ends."
Zim stared incredulously at his robotic minion. "An announcement?" he gasped. This was incredible. No, this was impossible. Announcements were never so generalized except in cases of utmost importance – for example, when a new Operation was beginning, or in the case of war. SIR units, too, were never to be left alone on their planets unless the unit's master was either dead, on trial or…or called to battle.
"By Slark," Zim breathed, grinning wildly at GIR's still flickering eye-lights. "They've declared war."
And so there it ends, for now. Just so you know, this chapter is…ugh, not even I like it, and I wrote the prakking thing. Yesh, this is the main style for the fic. Maybe I will improve as I go along. Be awaiting more and shinier chappies, when I will be able to stop flicking between viewpoints like so and get down the meat. Of course, before we have the meat, we must bite through the bread – and this is it, all the necessary foreshadowing and crap. Review and stuff. It'll make me life shinier.