(A/N: Man... sorry about putting you guys on hold for so long. College started up again, and the sudden pressure to study launched me into a quagmire of blocked writerness. I tried writing anyway, the results were disastrous and discouraged me from doing anymore until recently, when I deleted a large chunk of what I had created and wrote it anew. I like this better. Hope you do too.
Disclaimer: STILL I do not own! I vy and I vy and I vy some more for ownership of Invader Zim, but Viacom will not give it to me! NERRRRRRR! )
Chapter Six
"AAARRGH! FOOOOOOOLISH SHIP! YOU DARE RESIST ZIM'S ATTEMPTS TO REPAIR YOUR INFERIOR METAL HIDE? BE FIXED!" Zim ranted, running a sparking, penlike extension from his Pak over the Voot runner's cracked carapace. Part of it caved in despite his efforts. "AGH!"
"I told you to take the spare cruiser," the computer said dryly. Zim's penlike tool was attached to his Pak by a cord; he let the Pak reel it in by that cord and faced a nearby monitor angrily.
"SILENCE! DO NOT BACKSASS YOUR MASTER!" he snapped irritably. "And I don't like the spare... too clunky."
"Better clunky than broken," the computer returned. "I told you the Voot wasn't repaired, but you took it anyway, and now it's even worse."
"That's why I'm FIXing it," Zim grumbled, turning back toward the ship and taking in the damage with a growl.
"You know, 'Master', I'm more than capable of repairing it myself. If you would just turn the ship over to the automatic repairs system - "
"You take too long!" Zim retorted, sliding on a pair of goggles and bringing out of his Pak a tool shaped somewhat like a pair of forceps, each forked end equipped with so many tools it was like a highly advanced jack knife. "My superior brain is infinitely more capable of repairing the ship quickly and efficiently... besides, I've been meaning to upgrade it, anyway."
"Whatever," the computer sighed. "I don't understand why you went out of your way to save this Dib kid. I thought you hated him."
"I DO!" Zim cried. "I mean - eh..." A high-pitched alarm began to blare simultaneously from multiple sources all over the base. "EH?"
"Unauthorized accessor to the 'bionic-chicken-making room of DOOM'," the computer alerted, quoting Zim's name for the sector ad verbatim.
"An inTRUDER!" Zim clarified, throwing off the goggles as his Pak resorbed the jack knife-forceps thingy and bolting to the aforementioned sector. "But who?"
The small Irken darted through machine-lined halls, ducked under hanging cables, and battled a one-eyed amoeba monster that had escaped its tank until he at last arrived at the bionic-chicken-making room of DOOM. Wrenching a mechanical part from its machine base with a tug, Zim tossed said part at the amoeba monster. The part sank into the monster's gelatinous bulk and unleashed a dangerous wave of electricity. The electrocuted amoeba groaned and sank away submissively. Smiling triumphantly, Zim jerked his foot free of a sticky pile of amoeba jelly, reclaimed his boot and entered the chicken sector.
Zim's eyes and antennae swept the area suspiciously upon entry. It was a small space, walls and standing bookcase-like units lined with chickens kept in clear, rounded jars. Each poultry had had at least one part removed and replaced with a mechanical part, as useful as a laser cannon wing or as ridiculous as a kitchen mixer for an eye. The birds were varying ranges of cyborgs, some only partially bionic, others almost entirely robotic but for the stray feather. Zim crept through row after row of altered barnyard variety warily, his antennae twitching at the mechanized squawks, crows and clucks, pleading for freedom from this horrendous place or from ever more torturous life.
Suddenly, a blue light shining through some of the chicken jars caught his attention. Eyes narrowing, Zim hopped up onto the third shelf of the chicken case facing the light source, squeezing through an empty space between the jars and falling to the floor on the opposite side. Zim groaned softly at the rough landing and cracked an eye open at the figure sitting in front of him.
"YOU!" Zim cried accusatorily, leaping to his feet and pointing dramatically. The blue light was generated by a laptop, which was plugged into a nearby wall computer that monitored the chickens' statuses. Seated on the floor before it, Dib quirked an antenna and a brow in unison and turned his head to look at Zim.
"I can't believe you!" Zim hissed. "I give my hospitality, A ROOF OVER YOUR GIGANTIC HEAD" - Zim threw his arms up in a wide gesture - "and THIS is how you repay Zim's kindness? By breaking into my base computer and spying on my secret chicken technology?"
"I thought I 'no longer pose a threat' to you," Dib retorted.
"I - YOU DON'T! You're just a huge ANNOYANCE!" Zim grabbed Dib by his antennae and hauled him to his feet, then shoved him ahead. "Now GET OUT OF MY BIONIC CHICKEN ROOM before you BREAK something!"
"Fine." Dib glared at Zim over his shoulder. "I'm leaving! But remember this, Zim: I've thwarted your plans before OUTSIDE your base. Now that I'm in it, you can plot and plot against Earth all you like, but I'll stop you before you even have a chance to unleash whatever you cook up. I don't even care what happens to Earth anymore - I'll do it to spite you." With that, he left the chicken quadrant, leaving Zim momentarily silent, though he was quick to make up for it.
"THAT'S WHAT YOU THINK, DIB! JUST TRY TO STOP ME! YOU MAY BE AN IRKEN, BUT YOU'RE STILL INFERIOR!" Zim gritted his teeth. "Stupid Dib. I don't have to worry about what he does... he's just another experiment to me now. YOU HEAR THAT DIB? YOU'RE MY PROPERTY!" And with that, he stomped out via the exit opposite the one Dib had used.
The cut was gone, leaving only the long tear running through the bland gray "smiley" on Dib's T-shirt as a reminder. Well, mostly gone; the skin was healed over, but a dull ache in his abdomen indicated there was still some damage left deeper inside. Dib sighed and folded both hands over his middle, remote control in one, as he settled down in the couch and continued to watch the "Mysterious Mysteries" rerun. A marathon had started at 3 AM, and he'd been watching it for hours since, despite having seen each episode at its premier. Except for the more recent one covering his own live dissection, of course; thankfully, that one had ended and the Chickenfoot one was on in its place.
"Can we watch the Scary Monkey Show?" GIR asked, popping up right in front of Dib's face and interrupting the TV's drone.
"No," Dib answered despondently, leaning to the side to view the screen past GIR's head. Twelve seconds passed.
"Now?"
"No."
Eight second pause.
"Now?"
"NO."
Five seconds.
"How about now?" Dib's eye twitched.
"For the three hundred, ninety-third time..." Before he could finish, the sound of the pseudo toilet flushing caught his attention. Sure enough, Zim stepped out of the bowl. Wig and contacts in place, he proceeded to leave the kitchen and enter the living room, headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Dib inquired coldly as Zim neared the couch.
"To school," Zim replied, "not that it's any of your business." He smirked. "Ironic, isn't it? Why, I fit in with the stink-pigs better than you do now. I guess you could say, I'm more" - he fought back a nauseous twitch at the thought, keeping the smirk - "human." Anger sparked, Dib leapt down from the couch and stood directly in front of Zim, blocking his path to the door and glared at him as darkly as he could. Zim returned the glare with the same intensity. Approximately the same height, the Irkens squared off equally, neither winning, neither losing.
"What are you going to do, Dib?" Zim said finally. Dib, had no answer; reluctantly, he stepped aside. Zim grinned wickedly at his adversary as he passed, relishing; he'd won.
Dib stood completely still as Zim shut the door behind him, tense with restrained fury. At precisely the wrong moment, GIR piped, "Can I watch the Scary Monkey - " Dib grabbed the remote and threw it at GIR's head as hard as he could, the remote hitting its target straight-on with a resounding metallic CLANG. Oblivious, GIR picked up the remote and switched to his desired channel, cheering at the monkey's rabid visage as Dib stormed off.
"So an ALIEN in OUR class? WHO'DA THUNK IT?"
"I know! I mean really... but then, it like, was DIB."
"Hehe... yeah."
Zim winced and did his best to ignore the irritating pig-squabble of the students behind him. School had resumed almost instantly, unfortunately, and the media had moved on to the next biggest story - genetically engineered penguins. He was already beginning to wish he'd stayed home, though his mission pressed him to attend; these horrible smellies were wearing him down to the last nerve already. And something about Dib's absence made it all the worse - he found himself glancing at the empty seat on the far side of the room periodically, expecting a glare back. He kept reminding himself, The Dib is at the base now, remember? The stink-beast has been conquered... he's practically a slave now. But something about that seemed wrong - for one, if he was a slave, Dib was certainly the most impertinent, disobedient slave there had ever been. For another, the thought of no more feuding with said stink-beast left him with an empty feeling. Zim shuddered and tried to focus on what that HORRIBLE human excuse for an instructor was saying now.
"...in a fit of deranged madness, van Gogh lopped off his own ear and sent it to his former lover. Shortly after, he went to bed and stayed there until he DIED a fitful, lonesome death. And so class, this covers why paint flakes are NOT a nutritious part of your daily breakfast. Any questions?"
"Inferior human hearing organs," Zim muttered to himself. "Dib should be THRILLED with his obviously more efficient Irken body..."
"MS. BITTERS!" some baldish child screeched, fool enough to take the wizened teacher up on her last sentence. His movements were difficult and jerky, as though he'd had a stroke recently (a lot of children moved like that in this skool, actually). "IF DIB WAS A, A A A ALIEN, THEN DOESN'T THAT MEAN THERE MIGHT BE MORE ALIEEEENS?"
"While I fail to see how this relates to mentally imbalanced artists, Melvin, yes. Yes, there probably are," Ms. Bitters verified.
"Why don't we go find them and PUNCH them until they're gooey... green stuff," a squat orange-haired boy named Chunk suggested, emphasizing the word PUNCH by slamming his fist into his waiting palm.
"FOOLS! You think you can merely PUNCH the Irken Armada into submission?" Zim snapped, leaping atop his desk, the better to shout maniacally at the entire classroom. "Don't get all cocky because you managed to capture one of us temporarily! I intended for it to happen... Your race is too incompetent to have managed it on its own. WE WILL RULE YOU!" Two metal claws shot out of the floor and clamped onto his arms at that instant.
Zim cried out in shock, fighting his restraints as a screen lowered from the ceiling, bearing a familiar face.
"No," the onscreen Professor Membrane replied, his normally jovial tone cold. "I don't think you will."
Next update should come soon enough, if you enjoyed this one. NOW FOR READER REPLIES!
Castoro Charo: But I AM still working on it! I AM! I SWEAR IT!
shears: Dib hasn't demanded to be changed back because he's at a low point where he just resents everything around him, humans especially, so much so that he really has no desire to rejoin the ranks of humanity at this point. Hope that cleared that up!
And to everyone who left obscenely complimentary reviews: THANK-YOU! Your devotion fuels me! I WILL NOW RULE THE WOOOeeeerrrr proceed to write more. Yeah, that. Keep it up!)