Greyline

By Nano-Moose

Noosh. Chapter 2. There is art up at my DeviantART homepage for this fic if you wanna see. Look at the link in my bio or if you're lazy it's www.nowingedvulture. took somewhat longer to write this for some reason. Sitting there, pounding away at what I affectionately call "Spiky Toshiba" and the rest of the time "fragmuffin"… I don't know, I neglect my duties in order to pound away at my other love: the end of society, or 'gaming' as I call it. I'm sure you people won't mind. You are, after all, completely at my whim since I have no obligation to you whatsoever; this is done entirely within my own time, without pay. Of course the fact that I probably would have pay if I stopped wasting time on this stuff is just another reason to finger-point: YOU are the reason I'm unemployed.

So there.

Now that I have completely lost your respect:

Ahem. The usual salutations, and the disclaimer: I own squat, 'cept for Silcia and 'Shade'. Dun sue me.

Chapter 02: Defection

The starship Scryer hung in the void, its engines set to cruising speed as it powered towards its destination. Smooth-lined yet bulky, there was something about its design that vaguely suggested it had an Irken pilot – one who had decided to abandon the typical bloody reds and purples and instead go for a simple and practical steel-grey. An odd, hooked symbol had been painted on the underside, but even this had nearly been worn away by what looked like several decades of hard flying – and fighting.

Inside the ship all was silent. The practically battered motif continued to the interior. There were only two real rooms on the Scryer, and that was including the cramped and desperately sparse prison cell that lay unoccupied, separated from the cockpit by a thick, electronically secured door.

Usually, or at least sometimes, that cell would be occupied with a protesting alien criminal. Right now it contained several snack wrappers. Nothing important was ever kept in there, or the occupants might have been able to use it to escape, and escape meant getting into the cockpit and killing/injuring the pilot. Therefore, everything of even the faintest use was locked beneath the pilot's chair, which unlike the cell was currently in use.

The ship's pilot was female and very strange looking, stick-thin and delicate, with smooth, hairless green skin and long curling antennae that right now lay slack as she stared blankly into nothingness. Strangely for her species, something about her suggested taut, sinewy strength. Apart from that, she was very typically Irken. Dressed in armor and clothing that was just as battered and useful as everything else she owned however, she was rather more imposing than usual, for a creature just under five feet high. The final, distinctly odd aspect of her appearance was the delicate, flimsy-looking silver headset that enclosed her skull, its sharp points glinting against her skin.

The deep space silence was broken by a faint buzzing noise. The ship's pilot stirred from her reverie and mumbled tiredly, raising one gloved claw to neatly tap one of dozens of incomprehensible buttons that were arrayed before her.

"Vggrrzz?" she said, then grimaced and tried again. "I mean, yeah?"

A creature that looked something like an extremely hairy lizard appeared on the low-res communication screen. "This is Margran hailing Silcia, do you copy?"

Silcia yawned behind her hand; her teeth were joined and serrated. "Silcia copies, Margran, what the hell do you want?" Her voice was oddly deep and scratchy. It did not sound human, which wasn't really all that strange considering she wasn't one.

"You on a job right now?"

"No." I am so un-job doing right now that I'm going to Mallirai for fries, just for something to do. "My last mark had to go and get himself killed before I could get to him." Silcia rubbed her temple, the memory bringing on a headache. "Something about internal politics, mass-murder…blah blah blah. The usual sad story. Why, have you got something for me?"

The hairy-lizard-thing smiled. It was not a reassuring expression. "So what, I can't just give you a social call?"

Silcia's jewel-red eyes narrowed suspiciously, though she did smile a little. She knew Margran of old – he'd been the captain of the last starship she's stowed away on, and had been the one to suggest she become a Bounty Hunter. While she wouldn't call him a friend, precisely, he usually knew what he was talking about. "As it happens, Margran, no, you can't. Why'd you call me?"

Margran laughed, or at least made noises that suggested a laugh. Either that or chronic lung seizure. "I think someone's a little bit testy. And I also think I know you too well – I fully expected you to say that. Okay, here's what I got for you: a message came for you on Kurish."

Silcia's reply sounded something like "Beh".

"Which I can tell doesn't exactly thrill you." The lizard thing made a short huffing noise that sounded strange over the out-of-date equipment. "It's from the Irken Empire."

She sat up at that, knocking an empty box of Icky Chips off the console.

Margran sniggered. "Thought that would get your attention. I'll transmit it to you over the com frequency, shouldn't take a sec. See you sometime. Maybe then it really will be a social call."

She nodded at him by way of respect as the lizard's face fuzzed into blankness, though her mind was suddenly in turmoil. Calls from people who thought she was following them, yes. Calls from former employers trying to trace her location, yes. Calls from relatives/friends/accidental widows, yes. Irken Empire, never, except for that one time when they tried to trace her location and she'd ended up leaving the guys who came after her in the middle of a Harjae bar-fight. Totally accidental, of course. But the sending of seven SecGuards to the meds and one to the incinerator had convinced them to leave her to her own devices, at least until she became an active threat.

Silcia frowned heavily. She was pretty certain she hadn't done anything particularly threatening to the Empire lately, but then, their method of processing non-military operations was notoriously slow and bureaucracy-riddled. Especially if it didn't concern the Tallest.

The console blinged. Cracking her knuckles then swearing loudly when they retaliated with a sharp stab of pain, Silcia selected the "NEW COM" function, then "PLAY ALL".

After a moment of electrical stuttering, the message began.

"Ex-Invader Trainee Ex-Table Drone No. 74029 Now Convict Level Five. Silcia." The creature that appeared on the console screen was also obviously Irken, though he was dressed much more officially and traditionally. He was tall too, which meant important. That much was confirmed by the use of her full (and tediously long) station-name. Silcia snorted. It was hard to believe she'd rated personal contact by management – this would probably end up being a trap.

"I understand we have not been introduced. That is fine, for the moment. We will not be. Introduction is not important. What is important is the preposition I am about to outline to you. Realize that this is not merely for the sake of our particular race – it is vital to this entire galaxy."

Vital. To the entire galaxy – which to the average Irken meant about as much as something found stuck to the underside of his boot.

"You no doubt are aware that at the moment we are engaged in a war with the insurrectionist forces near the western spiral arm. Although our forces are already in motion, and victory is certain, we have been ordered by the Almighty Tallest to contact you in order to discover if you would consent to being part of a secondary operation – a back-up plan, if you will."

Which meant that they were worried. Interesting. And that they had decided that either they needed her or that they had spotted an opportunity to get rid of her. Somewhat less interesting. But the fact that the Tallest had ordered this made her very curious indeed. What kind of plan could the worst military tacticians in existence possibly think up that would involve a Bounty Hunter who didn't give a Jorglin's end what happened to them?

"If you are interested, we will pick you up at Buyercentria and give you further briefing. I understand this does not tell you much about the proposed mission, but I can guarantee it will involve many explosions.

"I hope you accept this, Convict Silcia. Remember that millions of Irken lives may depend on your decision – and alien sc- alien lives as well. It is your choice. Transmission end."

And indeed it did, cutting off and winking back into a smaller icon on her console screen.

Buyercentria was a shopping mall planet, conquered and named by the species that brought such imaginative names as Conventia, the convention planet, Dirt, a garbage dump planet and Foodcourtia. Silcia sighed theatrically. It was very far off her course and would require a lot of fuel that she barely had the creds to pay for. If even she decided to go.

For a moment, she vaguely considered it. It was probably pretty important if they were willing to stoop so low as to ask a Bounty Hunter that was not even supposed to exist for help. And the many explosions thing might have been true too – though they were wrong if they thought she would accept solely on the idea that there might be explosions.

But then her reason cut in and informed her that several decades ago she'd made a promise to herself that she would never associate with the Irken race again, or even acknowledge that she was a member of it. And the Irken officer's words came back to her. "It is your choice."

So choose, Convict Silcia.

She did, and keyed in the flight pattern that would take her back to Kurish. Then she took one final glance at the only message she'd ever received from the race that had made her who she was.

"Almost had me convinced there, Officer boy," she said, and hit the delete button.

Dib dragged himself from the garbage chute and flopped heavily to the floor of Zim's base, dropping his bulky backpack momentarily, all caution lost in a moment's pained retching. It had taken him over half an hour to figure how to avoid getting incinerated in the chute's workings, and that had been half an hour's worth of clambering through nameless alien filth and other things that had probably once been of human origin, but were now decomposed to something grey, jelly-like and thoroughly gross.

But it would all be worth it, all the garbage crawling and taunts and organ removal. That would all make it worthwhile once he exposed Zim to the world.

Dib felt absurdly comforted by the thought and stood up, pulling the sandwich-thing out of his dark, spiky hair and tossing it aside, then whipping off his glasses and trying to get the worst of the gunk off. When he could see through them again he slid them on and blinked in order to focus on his surroundings.

He'd been in Zim's base before and was surprised to note that not much at all had changed since then. He'd assumed that all aliens had some kind of outpost rearrangement device to prevent enemies from memorizing the layout of their bases. Oh well – this was a good thing. It meant he could move about with a little confidence, and getting out would be easier too.

After fumbling in his bag for a moment, Dib produced the kind of black, shiny, knob-covered, compact, feature-ridden camera that would have made a journalist wheeze. An observer would have noticed how carefully he handled it, as though it were made of paper or would explode upon contact. Also how avidly he checked to see if the lens cap was off, if the battery was charged, if the film was present and wound and that it was in focus. Then he started snapping photos.

Alien machinery that seemed to be made up of tubes and buttons. Click. Various containment cells that held an assortment of animals and one very vacantly smiling human child with several tubes in his head. Click. A device that was covered in specifications labeled in the blocky, tapering letters Dib suspected were the Irken language. Click.

Dib began to suspect that Zim had gone out, which was a bit strange, considering he'd almost never seen the deranged little wannabe overlord anywhere apart from his base or the Skool. Unless of course he was enacting some new evil plan. Or finding new ways to screw up spectacularly. If the base's owner had been at home, Dib should have been able to hear GIR screaming, but instead there was just silence. Utter stillness.

…Except for the faint noises he could hear coming from the corridor on his right. Dib struggled for a moment with the urge to get out before he was noticed, but then his innate curiosity got the better of him. He straightened his trench coat and began to move quietly down the corridor.

"-will have to go. I am needed! The transmission said all Invaders, and I am the greatest of us!"

GIR stopped reciting transmissions long enough to say, perfectly accurately, "No you're not!" and was ignored.

"Besides, I have the most logged battle experience on the Frontline Mechs." Which was true – because he had managed to destroy a good-sized portion of Irk's civilization in one, simultaneously ruining the original Operation: Impending Doom. "The Tallest need me. Who am I to deny them?"

Zim's computer interjected at this point, something like worry crackling through its mainframe. "Uh, I am detecting an unauthorized heat source located in the vicinity of Research Lab-"

"Silence!" Zim pounded one hand on GIR's head as he attempted to reattach the transmission blocker and caused GIR to jerk and suddenly shriek "THAH SPACE MONKEY IS COME!"

"GIR, since you are so vital a robotic slave, you must be fully functional in this critical battle. So quit squirming! I need to jam this back in your head!" Zim put all his weight into holding the robot's head still and with his free hand quickly snapped the wires together and welded them in place. It looked like it had worked – GIR's eyes stopped flickering and he sat up, holding his cone-shaped feet and rocking back and forth childishly.

Zim nodded, satisfied, then slid the welder back into his toolkit and pulled up his goggles. "GIR! Perform systems check!"

GIR nodded and saluted, his eyes flicking red. "Yes, my Lord! All systems operational and ready for use." Then they went blue again and his tiny plastic tongue popped out. "Mah head feels squealy!"

"Excellent! I …eh…think. Computer! Prepare the Voot! I will need supplies to travel long…ways…and stuff." Zim waved his hand vaguely. "You know what to do in this situation, right?"

"Preparing Voot Cruiser for interstellar flight. But Zim, really, if you think about this, the transmission did say to leave the SIRs where they w-"

"SILENCE! I will not be contradicted!" Zim hissed, and made a good go of stalking villainously to the elevator. "I go and must prepare for battle!"

Dib froze at this pronouncement and had to stop himself from letting out an audible gasp. War. Alien wars – Zim thought he'd been called away to fight for his species. And even if that wasn't the case, it was obvious that something was going on with the Irkens. Something big.

Something bad.

Something I can investigate.

Creeping around the shadows, Dib peered into what served as a hanger and quickly spotted the rounded and vaguely ridiculous silhouette of Zim's personal Voot cruiser. Although he had come to suspect that the machine was obsolete by Irken standards, he knew it contained an atmosphere-tight cargo space, used for containment of botanical specimens and other things that required oxygen.

Dib measured the distance between his hiding place and the Voot with his eyes. He could make it, of course – it was part of his duty as a Paranormal Investigator to be proficient in sneaking and concealment (at least according to the U.F.O. zines Dib read with near-religious dedication). He felt in his bag, reassuring himself of its contents. The camera, still intact, which was remarkable given the fate of all his previous cameras and film. Compact laptop, complete with all the features and several slightly unorthodox modifications compliments of his father. Some gadgets Dib had put together himself, mainly scanners and a few scavenged Irken/human technology hybrid things. Spare film. Spare batteries. Battery charger. His tool kit. A cheese sandwich. Water bottle. And a water pistol – in case Zim caught him and he had to fight his way out.

Not the kind of supplies he would have chosen had he been aware of what he would encounter. But this was a chance to see what aliens were really out there, and if he came back, he would have proof for the world.

If he came back.

Dib only hesitated for a moment. He leapt from his hiding place and scrambled to the Voot, unsealing the cargo container and hauling himself inside. It shut with a pressurizing shhhhh noise, and the light from the hanger vanished, leaving him in the dark, with nothing but his own unsteady breathing to keep him company.

Yaaaay, complete! With an introduction to leetle Sil and everything. Please tell me she isn't a Mary Sue. And she does get much more personality later – hopefully when things really kick off, which should be some time around the next chapter or so. There will be other fun characters as well. Mostly Irken, since Irkens are kinda the ones who own this story.

Well, yeah. Thank you for your previous reviews (and highly undeserved compliments!). I look forward to more reviews (and hopefully some actually deserved compliments) next chapter. And you did indeed make my life shinier. Good night everybody! (ninja poof)