Saving Zim by Dib07
Summary:
When you had it all. When old age forces you to change. When life isn't what you'd imagined. When you aren't prepared to be so powerless.
When a soldier's undetermined future remains his greatest fear.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine.
Cover art beautifully made by TheCau! All credit goes to her, please do not use without his permission, thank you :)
Warnings:
Character angst. Blood. Swearing.
Dib07: Hi all! Thank you all for being supportive. The reviews I have received keep me going. Welcome to the first few chapters that have had a good dollop of polish on them, and in many cases, a full rewrite in some sections, and a few new scenes or even chapters. Please feel free to review or comment, I always reply to every single one, and because of your love and support I will keep updating and improving this story for you!
Special thanks to some very remarkable reviewers and supporters who flooded my heart with SUPREME FEEDBACK! And thank you Piratemonkies64 for the youtube audio chapters!
For all those who are new to this story, this novel is for the adults who have grown up with these characters, and want something a little darker.
Chapter 3: Problems Surmounting
He stood over the sink in front of the mirror, scrubbing his hands and fingertips using the bathroom cloth because he had no brushes or anything that could effectively scrub out the green more easily.
He bleeds like a stuck-pig. He's never bled like that. Once he receives an injury, it's gone again in minutes.
'I fell down some stairs,' he says. He doesn't even pretend to make a better story. His pride will kill him one of these days.
He stopped to look at himself in the mirror, noticing the strands of grey in his mop of ebony.
Who'd have thought he'd be so... gaunt beneath that uniform? I've never seen him naked before, not completely. Due to the whole-blood episode thing I only briefly looked at what he has going on downstairs before wrapping him to the nines in blankets, worried he'd go into shock. Was he always that thin?
Dib turned on the faucet and watched old green swish and glug down in a flash of hot water. He wanted to be rid of it, not because it disgusted him, but because it left a bitter aftertaste of mortality in his mouth; that revolting second layer beneath life. He never really suspected that he could lose Zim just as fast as any other. His screams would fill the spaces in the darkest moments just before he shut his eyes to go to sleep, and he'd see the silver of the wire strung out before him, shiny with dew-drops of emerald.
With a squeak of the tap he turned the faucet off, dried his hands and went downstairs to the kitchen to retrieve the soldier's uniform from the washing machine. He had to reach in to retrieve every tiny glove and boot, and meticulously hung them to dry on the rails of the drying rack. The tunic sported a gaping hole, and he felt around its edges with a finger. All of the green had been washed out; presenting an impossibly soft yet tough insulated fabric that was somehow stretchy and ductile. He hoped none of the fabric had got inside the Irken, and as he pinched the rip closed, he was certain a tiny piece was missing.
He left the tiny apparels to dry before retreating to the bedroom. He closed the door and locked it from the inside by running home a single bolt. Old worries and habits never changed, especially when Zim was by and large alien by nature and design. He had come to fear the Irken's PAK more than he feared the alien who carried it. Sometimes his eyes would flash down to it, that subtle and mostly ignored metal dome. Things could spring out of it at any moment to fulfil the owner's demands. Zim's fragility was such a loud contrast in comparison, and it helped explain why he leaned on his cybergenetic half so heavily.
He dressed down to his boxers and slipped in under the cold bedcovers, craving a cigarette even though he never smoked in the bedroom. He opened his nightstand drawer and fished around past the box of cigarettes for his gun. It was a Walter p.9, a useful handgun that he had bought when he had come of age. He had never used it, but dreaded the day when circumstances demanded that he pull the trigger.
Zim had provoked him, and hurt him since he was young and this led him to seek the initiative, and leave little to chance. He was pretty sure Irkens were vulnerable to bullets as they were to wires. But, as prepared as he thought he was, forever trying to guess the soldier's next steps as if they were locked in a dance, he doubted the alien would even leave the couch. The bleeding had soaked through the gauze and padding.
He squeezed his eyes shut when he knew he should have kept the pressure on it.
In the safety of his base – where his computer bows to his every need and want – how could he have received such an injury? Had something happened outside his military controlled vicinity, and he had walked all the way home, only to collapse on the floor where I found him? He won't even go near the subject as if it embarrasses him. He's always been a stupid creature.
He thought of slipping the gun under the pillow before deciding to leave it on his nightstand where he could look at it, knowing it was within reach.
I didn't think about installing CCTV in my lounge or anywhere downstairs. I guess I'm not as prepared as I think I am.
With his little lamp burning bright, he plumped up his pillow and leaned against it, facing the locked door. Occasionally he would look to the window across from him as the moon drifted through the silvery dark sky.
What if he keeps bleeding? He shook his head within moments of the thought occurring. He can handle it. He always manages. In an hour or so he'll be up and wrecking the place. I'll be lucky if I even still have a house by the time the sun rises.
He asked himself if this resurgence in caution was necessary when he had gladly driven around with Zim sitting next to him in the passenger seat of his car, Gir jumping around in the back as he drove the distance to the Earlstone Mansion and many other haunted locations, and they had briefly toured Scotland in the hopes of seeing the Lockness Monster for themselves. He'd even driven him home from the heartlands of Montana after the Irken's supposed 'crash landing.'
Several times his grumbling old Toyota had churned to a stop during these expeditions, overheated, smoke billowing out from the cooked engine, and several times Zim had reluctantly jumped down from the seat to fix it, with nothing but the tools from his PAK and his know-how.
Dib's eyelids lowered as he tied to maintain his draining vigil. He must have fallen asleep because he woke up to find the gun in his hand, with the sunlight streaming in through the window. The birds were warbling out their tunes as cars rushed along the road in the foreground. Dib looked to the door to see that it was still locked tight with no holes in it.
Leaving the bed and tucking the gun away into a drawer, he slid the bolt aside and opened the door onto the landing. There was no word to describe the enormous relief that blew through him. The landing, bathroom and guest room were just as he had left them.
He quickly changed into his spare clothes and creaked down the stairs, making sure to straighten his back and lower his shoulders to adopt that look of confidence. "Zim?" He called as he went. "Don't jump round any corners, okay? I'm coming down."
He was surprised to hear a faint reply coming from the lounge.
Zim carefully sat up, one eye slanting down in a wince, his remaining antenna arched forwards to hear him better. Blankets were huddled around him, most of which were stained in fresh dabs of that purulent green. His eyes were sharply rimmed in exhaustion which caused his wrinkles to appear deeper. "Dib stink. Don't go back on your promise. If you so much as..."
"I won't." He frowned at the new stains, but didn't comment on them. He had hoped that if he encouraged the Irken to rest, he would heal all the quicker, but the results weren't quite what he had been expecting.
-x-
"Well, here you are." He parked along the sidewalk and applied the handbrake. Directly beside them was the Irken's house. It stood with its usual solemn air - the ghastly lawn gnomes staring off into space as they bordered the pristine garden path. The flamingos looked more crooked as of late, as if weather or time had softened their armature frames. Even the glowing green walls of the narrowed house looked dull, with less of that alien vibrancy Dib had got so accustomed to seeing. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe it hadn't changed at all, and his perceptions had. Sometimes the early morning winter light paled things beyond recognition.
From the front passenger seat on a cushion to boost his height, Zim looked shyly out of the car window. He was so small that his feet dangled off the lip of the seat, and he couldn't even look over the dashboard to view the world from the windshield.
The experience with the human had been a long and insufferable affair, and he'd rather not have to endure the ignominy of him for another minute. He looked to the human who in turn smiled back. It was a smile that was worn at the edges, but it was always genuine, which Zim found more than a little unnerving. Since when did the sole defender of Earth treat him with such civility? The situation had to be in Dib's favour somehow, and he would later use whatever information he had gleaned in the near-future.
Somewhere along the way of growing up, Dib had eventually lost interest in Zim, and had instead gone after jobs, girlfriends, and there was a time when he was busy house-hunting. As Zim fell down the agenda list, he began to realise why. He had stopped trying to take over the Earth.
When the computer asked him for a mission report, he stood there, hunting for excuses, and it told him in banal tones that he had not reported to the Tallest in over five years, and had not made a significant advancement in his mission for a decade. Even his status report read: SUSPENDED as if the computer had somehow moderated his actions from afar and had sent little notifications to his leaders. He had drawn away from the console on that day, struggling to remember what had started this stagnation, and what kind of punishment this might entail – not just for him, but for Gir. With one word the Tallest would send him back to Irk and have him stand once more before his peers on trial to determine his existence as an example to the others before eradicating him. He remembered the way they had looked at him from the tiers as if he was already a ghost.
"Aren't you getting out, Zim?"
Dib was watching him, one hand resting on the leather grip of the steering wheel. A glint of mellowed sunlight caught the left lens of his prescription glasses.
Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Zim weakly gripped the door handle and pulled. The car door clicked and opened and fresh winter air stole over his pale face with brushings of snow.
Releasing the seatbelt from his diminutive shoulder, he gingerly stepped out onto the gravel of the asphalt road, the pale cold sunlight emphasising the paleness of his countenance. His injured side was stiff and feverish, but he was able to move around. He was back in his uniform that helped reinstate his indomitability, but the sleek fabric smelt strongly of chemical agents humans used to wash things with, but he was pleased it was blood-free. Dib had done well to get the stains out. All that remained was a raggedy hole in his side where stained gauze showed through.
"Fudgekin?" Dib called when he still hesitated by the car. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I am perfectly fine, Earth smeet!" He rebuked with a harrowing growl. Even though Dib was a young man, Zim often demoted him with insults he used to call him when he was a boy. "But just because you sheltered me for one night does not make us friends. And thanks to you my uniform now smells of lilac and rosebuds! It's disgusting!"
"Don't get your dress in a twist."
"It's not a dress, and it's not twisted!" And with that, he slammed the car door shut and marched around the front of the car to his garden path.
Dib shook his head and released the handbrake. "Aliens." He muttered as he drove away.
Zim stood at the purple door, watching the car drive away. He knew he really should hurry and get inside. Anybody would see his antennae and fuchsia eyes, but he didn't move until Dib's car had disappeared over the brow of the hill.
He could hear the big-screen TV blaring out cartoons through the door but he remained hesitating as cool wind blew around him. Checking his rear to make sure no humans were watching, he gathered the shreds of his failing courage and reached for the doorknob. As the pale sunshine shone on his PAK, he heard the door unlock from within. He felt his nerves tighten up before he had managed to step back, gloved hands clenching into fists at his sides. The door had barely creaked open when Gir flung himself at him before he could prepare for it, and little metal arms were hugging him tight. "Oh Master! I missed you so bad!"
His heart was racing. "All right! Enough! Let me inside my own house Gir, before someone sees!"
The robot barely gave him room to move, so he more or less struggled up the porch steps and through the doorway with the robot's arms tortuously wrapped around his middle. He shut the door behind him with the aid of an elongated metal spider appendage. Safe within his private chambers, the tight cords within refused to loosen. Gir was nuzzling him like a child nuzzling a father who had returned from a long, unplanned absence. Zim didn't know what to do or say. Maybe Gir simply hadn't realized what he was doing, and hadn't understood the consequences. Gir's brain capacity was very limited, for his thinking process was different to that of a sentient being. Perhaps now the robot understood, and would not do it again, or maybe a bit of reprogramming was all that was needed.
Zim patted him weakly on the top of his metal head. "I missed you too, Gir. Just be a little more careful next time when you urm... play! Irkens are notorious bleeders. How about I make you some waffles or something?"
"Waffles!" And Gir hugged him even more tightly before letting go to dance merrily about the room.
Zim watched him, a little relieved, but he did not discard his stiff posture as if he still expected a disarmed bomb to blow. There was nothing to suggest that anything was wayward with the robot. Gir was like his old self, except, there was something different. Keeping four steps away from Gir at all times unless the robot crossed the boundary himself, he noticed that there was a digit missing on his hand. "Where on Irk is the rest of your hand?"
Gir stopped dancing a moment and looked down at the appendage as if he had only just realized that a part of him was missing. Gir guiltily peered up at his master and did a little shrug. "I dunno."
Zim rolled his eyes. Every time Gir went to approach him, he automatically backpedalled to maintain a safe distance. "I don't have spare S.I.R unit appendages on standby, you know. Ah well. It's the least of my problems anyway. I'll have to find you a new... eh... thumb later."
He strolled into the kitchen, hands behind his back as he began to unwind, the TV blaring away behind him. He stopped before the cooker, and started searching through the cupboards for the ingredients, some of which had passed their sell by dates.
"Was you at a party?" Gir asked, trailing after him. The Irken grabbed a pan and poured waffle mixture onto its surface. He didn't bother to put an apron on. His uniform was already ruined besides, and he'd need to pick out a new one later.
"No, Gir. I was at that Dib's place. Usually I'd yell at you for allowing that pig monkey anywhere near our home, but I suppose you did sort of save my life. Just don't do that again. I can't trust him. For all I know, he's stolen something, or implanted a spy camera somewhere!"
"Ooh. You're sad." The robot exclaimed.
"No, Gir. I'm just... glad you're okay." He thought of bending down, and showing some affection, but that moment passed, and he turned up the heat on the stove and the pancake mixture started to sizzle.
"You're making pancakes." Gir pointed out.
Zim grumbled. He had trouble telling the difference between waffle and pancake mix. "Oh well. Just eat it. I have work to do."
"Aww." The robot whinnied. "But you always work. You should dance! Like McDuck!"
Zim muttered some incomprehensible response in Irken. He added butter to the mixture, something he did very carefully, lest it splash and burn his skin. He flipped it over once with the spachelor and turned down the heat. He wasn't quite sure why he was doing this. Really it should have been the other way round, with Gir catering to his needs as a way of an apology, but keeping busy helped divert his mind from his ever-spiralling anxieties.
He neatly removed the pancake from the frying pan and coasted it into an awaiting plate where he then drizzled it in maple syrup and sugar, both of which he enjoyed himself. Then he passed it to Gir who was sporting a big grin on his metallic face.
"There. Now leave me in peace for an hour! And keep the TV volume down this time! I can't afford to have neighbours complaining of the racket you make!"
Gir guffawed as he literally drank down the pancake. Maple syrup splashed all up the robot's face. Zim grimaced in disgust.
He made it to the toilet with a slight stagger and sunk down into the depths. The conduit took him deeper and deeper until comfortable warmth from the temperatures below filled him with sleepy serenity. This was his place, his domain. Nothing else on Earth, or perhaps even in the known universe made him feel safer. Here, he was cocooned by his aegis of technology. It was his helm of control, his haven, his armour. Out there, among humans, even among the stars, he did not feel as safe or as welcomed as he did here.
He stepped out of the conduit to one of his lower floors and started marching in a stiff-sided walk to the main computer console. He soon came across a dark, dry puddle of green blood. He stopped on the instant, a clawed hand rushing to his lips. This was where Dib had come down to find him before hauling him back to the surface.
"Computer!" He yelled.
"Yes?" The computer replied. Its voice boomed through the warm confines from seemingly everywhere at once.
"Playback the last eleven hours! Did that human weasel filch anything from my database, or the base itself?"
A large pink monitor wormed its way out of a wall of tubing and the screen showed him surveillance footage from precisely eleven hours ago. On the bottom right was the allotted time and day. The camera had a perfect view of the tunnel leading down from the main entrance, and on the floor, sodden with blood was Zim himself many hours before. The Irken tried to view his own self with cold indifference. He knew what had happened to him, and didn't really care for a reminder. In the footage, Gir was kneeling by his side, trying to rouse him by shaking his body and pleading with him. Blood was all over his little metallic hands, and his pleading made it look as though he had no connection or even any awareness of what had just happened.
"Computer! Fast-forward! Take me to the moment when that weasel shows up!" Soon he could hear the background elevator whirring away, and as the time ticked down on the recording, Dib presently arrived on the scene carrying a backpack. He was wearing his customary trench coat and those goofy glasses of his. He stood for a few moments, warily eyeing the base with recognizable fear and apprehension. He had likely arrived not long after this supposed 'phone call' that Gir had made, but how the robot had learnt and remembered Dib's home number was the true mystery.
He watched the human approach his comatose self, and shadow Gir's posture by kneeling down beside him.
"Zim?" He was whispering in the recording. There was no sign of him having any more interest in the place than was necessary, which Zim found unusual. What more opportunity could the human want? What was he waiting for? He was grossly unsupervised, and could steal what he wanted, and go where he pleased, taking pictures with that infuriating camera of his!
He growled in irritation when his left antenna could not pick up the audio. "Computer! Turn the volume up!"
"Yes, Master."
"Zim? Zim!" He watched the human in the recording eye up the blood before dipping his fingers into the rapidly cooling pool of green goo. Yes, it's blood, Dib. Get on with it! "Jesus! What the hell happened?"
"He won't get up!" Gir was lamenting. "I think he ate too much apple juice! Can you maybe stitch him back up before he loses anymore?"
There was some static zipping across the screen, and Zim ignored it. Now would be the perfect time for Dib to sneak in a picture or two, or take a souvenir, but he was surprised yet again when the human did no such thing. He watched him wrap up his unconscious self in his trench coat and then the man promptly asked the computer for a quick route back up top, which the computer did with infuriating ease, accepting this whole debacle/kidnap without resistance. He watched the human disappear from the angle of the camera before the footage faded to black.
"End of recording." Droned the computer.
Zim ran a careful hand down his crooked antenna, causing him to flinch. He grumbled again.
The bottom-line of their relationship hadn't changed. They were still at war, the truce was just a line drawn in sand. "There must be some mistake."
There had been something in Dib's eyes last night while he had lain impotent on the couch, as if he knew something. He had been acting strange for months, as if he was... sad, like he had lost something, and couldn't get it back.
Human emotions were beyond him, and remained an uncomfortable enigma. He was still learning their behaviour after all this time for survival's sake, and when he finally thought he had cracked it, they surprised him again, forcing him to start from scratch.
"Computer!" The underlining strength in his shout was returning.
"Yes, Master?"
"I demand to know why you let the enemy remove me from my base!"
"Intervention was required. I determined that Dib Membrane was of no threat."
"You determined? You're a computer! You calculate! You obey! You do not determine anything!"
"I apologize Master. Your vitals were becoming critical and he provided..."
"Never do that again! I will raise the security if I must! Protocols must never be breached!"
"Master..."
"Silence!" He went to kick at a loose bit of tubing imbedded in the wall and when his boot connected with the metal cylinder he felt something split in his side. "Ywouch!" He hobbled backwards, slapping both hands to his bandaged side. "Damn this PAK!" He cringed, coughing. "Why hasn't it healed me yet? This kind of injury should take a day to heal completely!"
He limped over to the console and started running his claws over its translucent keys. Had the PAK run dry of painkilling analgesics already? It felt like it had never had them to begin with.
"Computer. Run an efficiency test on my PAK. What is its functioning capability?"
A portable apparatus descended from the ceiling and a beam of light erupted from its moveable dome-like head. The beam pinpointed into a concentrated red line from a slit in the dome, and then the line expanded until it became a curtain of pink light. This light descended over Zim's PAK like a soundless waterfall as it scanned the exterior and interior of the artificial organ. The process only took mere moments. Soon the portable dome had packed itself away and the computer was digesting the data. Zim presently waited with about as much patience as he could manage. Finally the computer replied with a visual display of numbers running down the giant main console screen. These numbers were often accompanied by red Irken symbols.
Zim tried to read through the data analytically, setting his feelings aside into a sealed, cold vacuum. He was glad that he had been trained like he had, or he may have broken down on the spot.
He scrolled through the results, his claws tapping on the keys occasionally like he was playing the piano. In an ironic way he had been expecting these results. They matched what he had slowly started to suspect.
"I strongly advise contacting the Tallest." The computer recommended in its intoned indifference.
He stared at the descending symbols, barely reacting with that same solemn indifference he had started to exhibit through the years; with defeats and failures pouring over the walls he had built.
Like a summer greenhorn he had come to Earth with so many ideas that his head had almost burst with them. His youth and cybernetic prowess had driven him carelessly through defeats or victories with the iron fervour that had driven him through warzones, battles and strife. Irkens moved forwards like a relentless battle train. But that summer had come and gone. A certain cold had crept in, and there was a winter ache in his heart and in his bones. He found himself shivering when the temperature was at nominal levels, and he was constantly trying to rub or scratch away a stubborn ache from his knees and hips.
Turning to the console, he disconnected himself carefully from his PAK, which was a risky thing to do when he was still healing.
With the PAK neatly landing on the console before him, he opened it up using a special dismantling tool. The protective outer mantle parted, revealing delicate, blinking circuitry. The high-tech instruments that served as a brain keeping his organs running at optimum efficiency were now out of date. Every warrior Irken, or even a simple engineer, knew their time would come one day, and usually a war-bred Irken hoped to meet his end in battle where he could make his race proud. But sometimes an Irken lived far longer than expected despite the high-stresses of military life, and soon came the day when they were evaluated to have their PAKs possibly replaced, and upgraded so that they could serve their military term for another hundred years or so. If they were deemed unfit however, their PAKs were cast aside, leaving the Irken to die miserably before a crowd of onlookers, should he live long enough to fail.
Nervous whenever he detached himself from his life-support, Zim looked through the wiring and glowing nodules, finding that some of it was starting to fray. A few nodules had coverings of dirt on them, or deposits of a calcified substance. Parts that made up his life-support could not be replaced by any rogue Irken. The Tallest were wise to pick and choose the elites they wanted to keep for the future of the Empire, and the riff-raff were left to wither away. Only Technicians knew how to safely restore mechanical cybernetics, and their expertise was sacred in its secrets. Common drones were not trained on how to modify or attempt deep PAK repair. Sometimes Irkens did try, only to fail and end up dying from their botched attempts. None had ever succeeded. Only Irkens with high rankings and certain promotions were allowed PAK upgrades to ensure that their encoded memory and expertise survived into another generation. The Empire was very selective, only keeping and replenishing the toughest of the toughest.
If nothing changed, he was sentenced to die a natural death.
This was how the Tallest lived for so long, their body chemistry never aging. Since they were Irken leaders, they were basically immortal, their PAKs automatically upgraded every dozen years or so.
He tried to clean out some dust that had settled around the little nodules and synthetic arteries, being careful not to nudge anything out of place, but there was little else he could do, and there was certainly nothing he could do about the corrosion, or the settling of sediments that looked like an accretion of calcified deposits. He'd have to drill some of it away, but with his life clock so short, and him so nervous and shaky, he wasn't sure he was ready to face the task.
Recovering the sides of the mantle over his PAK and sealing it closed, he stood patiently while it redelivered itself back into the slots of his spine. The connection was briefly uncomfortable as an electrical discharge burned down his system. Once it had passed, he straightened, breathing deeply only to then splutter with coughs.
A call to the Tallest was essential, but if he asked for his PAK to be officially repaired and refurbished, he would have to leave Earth to be evaluated.
His hand was hurting. He stopped and looked at it, uncurling the fingers from the palm he had been squeezing. There were rips in the material of his glove.
"Computer. What is Gir up to?"
Another monitor squeezed through a miasma of tubing to present itself, and on the screen was a LIVE feed of Gir bouncing and flailing on the couch. On the TV was a Pokémon commercial. Gir was being his usual, stupid self.
Zim sighed and pushed the monitor away. In response the screen folded up and disappeared back into the confines of the wall.
He brushed down his uniform to disperse it of wrinkles, and he tried to cover some of the loose material over the ugly greenish gauze showing through the hole. And though he tried to flatten his crooked antenna as much as it made him wince, it always sprung back up again as bent as before, its shredded parts mostly anaesthetized from its grisly amputation. He then poked and jabbed at his wrinkles under his eyes, positive the skin had widened into deeper crevices since last he'd looked.
Though he tried to make himself presentable, he still looked a mess.
He clenched his fists, the claws digging into his palms, the gloves squeaking from the pressure.
"Computer." He said soberly. "Contact the Tallest and uplink their feed onto the main view screen."
