Zim reached through the force field and tore through Dib's shirt with his claws, drawing blood where he had grazed Dib's skin. Dib bit his lip.
I won't let him hear me scream.
The scalpel was cold. Much colder than metal ought to be. Zim laid it on several parts of Dib's torso, as if trying to decide where to cut first. But Dib knew better. The alien enjoyed his fear.
A sharp flash of pain tore across his stomach and he gasped in shock. Rolling away to the side, he hit the force field and blacked out.
…………………………………………………………
Zim scowled. The real enjoyment of this torture was supposed to be having Dib conscious! Grabbing a small chip from the lifter, he drilled a small hole in Dib's skull and slipped it in.
…………………………………………………………
Adrenaline shot through his veins as Dib started awake. He stared at Zim in confusion.
"Just a little device to ensure you are alert throughout the entire operation." He assured darkly. He picked up a twisted, sharp instrument and resumed.
The pain was like nothing Dib had ever felt. Every shredded cell screamed in agony. Dib could hardly keep his own screams back. He clamped his teeth together for all he was worth.
"You must be a bit nervous, Dib-beast. Your stomach is boiling like…" the Irkin frowned. Dib gasped as Zim lowered his face into the gaping hole that had been his stomach.
"That isn't a stomach." Zim muttered. "That looks like…" Suddenly the alien became frantic. He snatched instrument after instrument from the lifter and made rapid cuts and tears. As he dug deeper into Dib's body, the pain eclipsed his reason and control.
His scream shook the ship and resonated through deep space. His vocal cords stretched until he felt they would snap, but the scream kept coming.
Zim took no notice. He was too intent on his work. Pausing briefly, he jotted down something on a computer pad, then spoke to the computer. "Computer! Sew him back together."
Analyzing wound and tissue damage. Preparing sutures and anesthesia.
"No. No anesthesia."
The pain might kill him.
"He's too strong for that. Just do it."
Processing request.
"Request? I am Zim! I do not request."
Processing command.
"Much better."
A robotic arm extended from the wall and lowered to Dib's torso. He could not see what was being done, but he could feel it. Hundreds of needles stitching every slice, every cut, in seconds. But it was worse than feeling Zim's cutting tools. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came. Only a faint hissing.
In under a minute, Dib was whole again.
Status report. Intestinal damage: repaired. Stomach punctures: sealed. Spleen rupture: recovered. Lung collapse: re-inflated. Missing vertebrate: replaced. Blood loss: replenished. Squeed—
"Enough," hissed Zim. "How long before he recovers enough to walk again?"
Two to three weeks before I can safely remove stitches from his stomach, four weeks total before he can walk without internal injuries.
"Very good. Turn off the force field."
Acknowledged.
The buzzing that had surrounded Dib ceased. Zim stood and stared at Dib, his red eyes betraying bewilderment. Crossing his antennae, Zim turned on his heel and walked out. Dib finally slipped into blessed unconsciousness.
Note: Aaaaack! My brain's been scrambled. I kept typing Zib over and over instead of Zim. This is what happens in highschool, your brain gets flipped around, turned upside down, shaken, stir fried, and served sunny-side up at your local bed and breakfast.
