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: Boom! Update! I was inspired by Guest's review, and Lestat-akemi's inspirational Invader Zim slow burn fanfic recommendation list on tumblr! I made that list! Holy awesome! Please, take this chapter! It was ready and waiting, and it's due time I wheeled it out!
Guest:
Oh my gosh thank you! I had no idea how well these polished chapters were doing, I've had little to no feedback regarding them, so I reined in my enthusiasm, not sure how to go about it, but your review put things into perspective for me, and I'm really pleased the characters have this glue, this connection, as well as this mysteriousness that clings to Zim. He has so many levels to him, so many dimensions and secrets that even I will never tap into, that what's what makes him so unique.
little side-note:
Please review, same as always, it might make new chapters appear faster!
Chapter 7: Downward Spiral
He was edgy when Gir strayed close behind him as he marched along the sterile corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly before them. After using the conduit to descend to the fifth level, he proceeded with less of the stiffness that took the hard knock out of his tread, and though he was incredibly anxious to get to the repair bay he mastered his composure and kept his steps rhythmic, hoping his shallow serenity would bestir Gir into equal tranquillity as well. If he ran down the corridors at full speed, all care thrown to the winds, the robot may comply with an equal reaction as though his moods were but a dial click away.
During the way there, Gir was his usual, delinquent and happy self. He chanted some out-of-tune song without paying any particular attention to where Zim was going or doing.
The Irken reached the repair bay, a soft crease appearing on his smooth forehead as he looked at it with undisguised disdain. It used to be one of his larger chambers, but as of late it had become cluttered with failed experiments alongside heaps of broken-down machinery and bits and parts he had no other allocated place for. Since his 'slowing-down,' he had come here less and less, adding one more pile of rubbish in the hopes of one day fixing it or recycling it. The piles had added up, making it look more like a repository for hoarded antiques than a repair bay. To an Irken, this kind of disorderly mess was blasphemous, but he merely surveyed the collection dully from wrinkled, lack-lustre eyes. Amongst the towering piles was a smooth, oval shaped dome.
"Gir." He snapped to parade-rest, turning to his metallic protégé. "Step into the Assessment Chamber for analysis."
"Will it hurt?" Gir looked worried. His display of emotions was often too elaborate for something made out of screws and bolts, but he was aware that Irken technology was insanely sophisticated when it came to A.I.
The Assessment Pod didn't exactly look welcoming, as it wasn't intended for biological entities. It was roughly egg-shaped, and narrower at the top, with an oval doorway to accommodate small to medium sized components. Within was a dark array of fibre-optic wires that acted like nerves. It was basically a giant scanning tool. There were also mechanical arms inside, ready to hold and then repair the selected item.
"Of course not, Gir. The computer is only going to assess you. It's going to scan you like my medical bay does for me. Only instead of organs and flesh, this Assessment Pod will scan your data and circuitry and upload it for analysis on the main screen. You don't even have to stand in there for very long."
"I don't?"
Zim remained patient. "If something's wrong with you, Gir, and it's a simple fix, the Assessment Pod will take care of it. Now get inside."
Gir looked from the Pod, to Zim, and back again. Zim shook his head angrily and stepped forward, both claws on Gir's shoulder pads as he pushed him towards the Pod, but touching Gir had his heart racing. How could he predict his behaviour now? He could switch in the next second or in the next five minutes until he had a clearer understanding of the trigger, if there was one.
Gir started to struggle. As the entrance grew taller above the robot, Zim said in apology, "If you go in, I'll give you an ice tart afterwards. That's if you're good!"
Gir stopped struggling and entered the pod on his own accord. Zim stepped back to access the control panel beside the Pod and tapped once on a green button. The door of the Pod flushed downwards, sealing Gir inside. Zim then activated the chamber's synchronization, and tubes and wires were promptly fed into the robot while the main computer began to scan him for defects. This was the part where Zim could only wait.
"I don't want to play this game anymore." He could hear Gir lament through the metal of the door.
"It won't last long, I promise. As I said, it's only a preliminary evaluation. If the computer finds anything out of place, it will painlessly correct it." He was never very sure how much Gir understood as he painstakingly tried to explain things.
A live feed of Gir's analysis appeared on-screen above the control panel. So far, everything looked normal. Physically, there was nothing wrong with him. There were a few dents in his armour, some cosmetic scorch marks, and the missing digit of the robot's left thumb that he had yet to replace. Then the Pod began its more complex task of scanning Gir's circuitry, behavioural inhibitors and memory drives. Not long after its initialization, the on-screen diagram of Gir's schematics began to flash red.
So I'm not losing it. Zim thought with two parts relief, one part dread. "Computer. State current problem of the S.I.R unit."
"Error code 103. Behavioural modifier damaged. Error code 422. Modulator burned out."
He rested his claws on the console, his heart suddenly pounding harder against his chest wall. "Rectify these errors at once!"
"Cannot comply. Authorization needed."
"What?" He almost screamed back. "But I am Zim! I am authority!"
"Authorisation code 219. In order to install new components, proper approval is needed."
For a moment he was in a tiny cage, barred by regulation, the teeth of Empiric restriction slamming closed on every opening. His lower jaw parted, eyes staring ahead for the better part of thirty seconds. The computer spoke clearly and loudly as programmed to combat his one-sided deafness, and he was sure he had heard correctly. "H-How do I get proper authorisation?"
"By uplinking with the Tallest and asking for their approval."
"What is 'Authorisation code 219?'"
"Under Brain Control jurisdiction, S.I.R unit customisation and tech is strictly prohibited and must be firstly approved by any commanding superiors. Minor adjustments and repairs under regulation are automatically approved, but any enhancements or adjustments of the S.I.R units must be requested."
Zim tried to digest this. It was a way of controlling Irken soldiers, or some warrior might get it into their head to acquire superior technology and turn his or her S.I.R unit into a wizard. The Tallest feared 'lowly' Irkens acquiring any kind of higher power, so obtaining approval and endorsement wasn't easy for a common Irken, especially for a soldier who was stuck at the bottom tier of his rank.
"Under full penalty of law," continued the computer when Zim merely stood, baffled, "if an Irken modifies or customizes a S.I.R unit without approval, they are sent to Trial for an official hearing, and then they are executed for deviation of equipment."
"But... that's okay," Zim stammered, feeling like he had just been hit in the spooch all over again, "I can just call them. It's not like I'm asking for S.I.R unit machine gun parts or laser sights. I'll merely be requesting a new modulator and behavioural modifier. That's fairly standard... stuff." He turned to the metal Pod door. "Gir!" He shouted, "Just hang on a little longer. I'm going to contact the Tallest for new parts. This should only take a moment!"
"Okie dokie!" Came a little voice from within the Pod.
There was a giant main view screen in the repair bay as well, saving him time going upwards to his main chamber. After requesting an audience with his leaders and waiting for the computer to set the co-ordinates, the main screen unfolded downwards and opened out, revealing zigzag lines of static as the computer's transmitter hunted for the Massive's signal. Sometimes the line was busy, and he had to wait days until the Tallest finally answered his call.
The fuzz started to fade and he could hear his leaders before he could see them through the static. It sounded like they were bickering amongst themselves. "I say we conquer them! Look at their sleazy towers and their blue carpets! I hate blue! It's a mockery for our eyes, looking at those carpets!" It sounded like Tallest Red.
"I know!" Agreed what must be Purple. The static was clearing a little more, and Zim, standing small and diminutive, saw his two leaders resting in their high seats. "And the snacks they served! Despicable! That paste on Glak tasted better than the trollop they served!"
"I agree. Say, how about we see if there's any fresh smor lying around? Then we'll consider conquering Shacoozia."
"I like that." Then. "Hey! We've got a transmission. What an ugly... oh wait. It's Zim."
Zim bowed his head, placing a fist on his chest before peering up at them, always aware of the state of his left antenna. They commented on his height and appearance wryly from time to time, or anything they found even faintly amusing. "Greetings again, my dear Tallest. I hope things are going smoothly for you. As it is..."
"Yes?" Tallest Red straightened in his chair. Neither of them had bothered to rise. "Get on with it. Every time you call it's always because you want something. Well, what is it this time?"
"Happy that you could get to the point! You see, it's this silly authorisation code 219. It's my S.I.R unit. He's been acting... violently as of late, and rebuking my commands. You see this?" He quickly turned round slightly and pulled up his pink uniform to show the gauze-covered wound. "He did that." He lowered his top back down. "I need a new modulator and behavioural modifier."
"Those things are hard to damage." Purple addressed sullenly.
"Yes. Yes they are." Red quipped. "I am quite unsure how exactly they got impaired, but with you, anything is possible."
"Wait just a second!" And Purple grabbed the collar of Red's armour and pulled him closer, "First he wants his PAK repaired, and now he wants a SIR unit repair?" He whispered this so loudly that even partly deaf Zim could hear.
"You're looking old, Zim." Red declared as if he had never really given the soldier a proper look in years.
"Am I? I'm so busy destroying the humans that I just don't... notice. And the parts? Will you grant them to me?" His smooth antenna dipped forwards in hope.
Purple conferred quietly with Red for another moment. Their words were whispered behind their claws, and Zim had no idea what they were saying this time. Red laughed amid the heavy whisperings until finally both of them turned to face him. Even in the main view screen they looked like giants leering over his frail form. "Very well. We shall grant you the parts that you so require, to thank you for being so..."
"Ugly." Purple added.
Zim bowed again, his knees almost touching the floor. "Thank you, my dear Almighty Tallest. I knew you'd come through for me."
"Just... one more thing." Red said. "Before we go, could you just... maybe... run around on all fours? And bark like one of those human dog things?"
He frowned. "If you like, my... Tallest." Though he saw no value in the act, he knew it wasn't wise to deny a request from his leaders, no matter how bizarre. His life and that of Gir's depended upon cooperation and obedience.
Hesitantly he bent down on all fours, feeling stupid and sad about it.
"Yes, that's it." Encouraged Purple, who was reaching over for something off-screen. When he retracted his claws a bag of snacks dangled from their long points and he started munching loudly on the chips.
"Urm..." Zim started to crawl forwards miserably. "Bark. Bark... b-bark?"
Red and Purple burst into new gales of laughter. "You're doing it p-perfectly!" Red tried to say between fits of hysterics, eyes flooded with tears.
Zim crawled round in a small circle, dragging his aching knees across the floor. "Bark? Bark, bark?"
Purple could barely summon words through the giggling. "Now poke yourself in the eye!"
Zim stopped crawling and hesitated again, looking up at them in the hopes that he had misheard the order.
"Do it now, soldier." Red replied, his carefree smile slowly cooling. Purple was still laughing. It looked like he was in pain, but he was laughing anyway.
The Elite swallowed. He stood up, managing to hide the tremor in his knees and raised his right hand. He looked at those claws in dismay.
"Hurry it up, Zim." Red snapped. "Do you want your supplies or not?"
The three black digits of his claws phased in and out before him as he tried to brace himself against the pain he'd knowingly inflict. Taking a deep breath did not help ease the tremors, or the tension building inside him.
The two tall leaders pressed closer, their shadows thrown across him and the sequinned floor. If he hesitated for another second, they'd order him back to the Irk to await trial, back to the dark place where they would laugh at him, where something would sink into his PAK from behind, and jerk it out of his spine.
He threw his claws into his eye and the heat was instant as fire swelled in the orb and ran down his claws and cheek. Sharp, shrieking pain stole up his face as viscous pinks spilled from the lobe and onto the floor in heavy splatters.
Satisfied, Red and Purple leaned back in their high chairs looking pleased. As usual, Purple was trying to repress his giggles, his claws caged over his smirking lips, so it was Red who spoke. "You've done well, Zim. You may make us proud yet. End transmission." And the screen was suddenly filled with dark, lonely static.
"Oh Irk... oh no..." Hot pink splattered onto his claws and floor. The vision in his left eye was darker than night. He tried to blindly find his way to the wall where a tiny medi-unit waited. One medi-unit was in the repair bay: accidents came easy due to the nature of his work; there was another in medical, and one in his resting chamber.
The medi-unit only functioned for basic treatment, but it was enough. Quickly grabbing a dispensed vial, he opened its top and splashed its medicinal liquid over his burning eyeball, screaming when the solution scorched the damaged tissue.
His PAK hummed in response as worn components began damage repair. Already drained from trying to heal his side, the mechanisms gave a strangled groan within the mantle, a noise that made him clench up, his claws scrabbling for support as his knees unbuckled him from beneath. The crunching and whirring went away, the usual humdrum hum returned, and he forced in deep breaths, hands just steady enough to plaster on clean padding over his damaged eye to ward off infection, and so that he didn't have to look at the hole he was sure he'd see there. The chance of getting an infection was incredibly low, but it was the human world above and the virulent bacteria therein that would increase the risk.
He returned to the Pod, and the strange and unnerving rattle within the PAK didn't come back, its customary purr continuing. "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting, Gir." He turned to the control panel and hit a few buttons with gloves still wet with pink fluids. The pod's inner door opened, and the tubes and wires holding Gir inside detached. The little robot tiptoed out, looking sheepish.
"Did you go to market?" He asked pensively. "Can I have my ice tart now?"
Zim shook his head, one hand held over the padding on his eye. "I ordered new parts from the Tallest. They should be arriving shortly."
"But Master! Your face! What you do? What you do?"
Zim shrugged. "Accident. Fell down some stairs. Now, in the meantime, I need to keep you offline. It's best for us both. That way you can't get into trouble and I can't come to any harm. Now hold still and I'll turn you off until I can get you repaired."
As he bent down to access Gir's head panel one-handed, the robot's eyes switched colours. More cautious since the last time, the invader was better prepared and jumped back, his spider legs carrying him to a safer distance. A carbine rifle perched on the end of a turret emerged from Gir's cranial compartment. The carbine was infamous for flushing out hostiles on a hostile planet. Now Gir was using it to flush out his own Master.
"Gir! Stop! Stop it please!" The laser beamed out like a line of pure sunlight, cutting or burning its way through machinery and whatever it touched, tough metal inlays and tubes melting as though they were as fragile as cardboard. With only one eye to see out of, his periphery hindered, he blundered into a pile of disused robot parts. His PAK birthed a tiny wielding laser, chiefly used for the separating or melding of machine parts, and pivoted it round to aim at the robot. Power flowed into it, a process that took a tenth of a second, when sudden pain bloomed into existence in the same moment, forcing him to clench at his chest with his claws. "Computer! H-Help me!"
Tethers, grappling monstrosities and hooks flashed to the fore, and every length and cable coiled around Gir, locking him in place.
He had the province of his base to turn the robot into a scorch mark if he desired it, but his need to protect him was stronger.
As he lay in the pile of rubbish, his spider legs pinned around him: ready to send his body upwards to avoid another attack, Gir's red eyes warmed to their convivial cyan, and he was looking at the tethers locked around his arms and legs with childish stupidity.
His spider legs realigned themselves with his PAK ports and slipped inside as it was too tiring to keep them activated.
"You got sauce all down yerself again!" Gir commented from his prison of cables, grappling claws and tubes. With barely a look out of one eye Zim coolly noted the cut on his arm, the muscle opening like wet tissue paper, and dark green was running down the sleeve of his glove to his lap. "Don't be sad." The robot continued. "I get sauce on myself too sometimes."
Zim shakily found his feet, trying to clear his throat. The coughs came at the most inconvenient of moments, and he struggled to speak through them. "I... I don't know what to do with you, Gir."
"Can I watch TV?"
His right antenna nervously bobbed up and down while a hand alternatively clutched at his arm and chest. He waited for the soft happy cyan to divulge into hard, activated crimson: that gentle, amiable smile to wick away to a thin twitching line.
He took a tentative step back and heard something metallic crunch under his boot heel, his one eye flickering to Gir's smiling countenance.
"So long as you promise not to follow me."
"Okie dokie."
Gesturing with his arm, the computer understood his signal and yielded its talons. Gir rushed past him to the conduit. As the robot passed by, Zim recoiled, PAK hitting the wall, claws closing over his chest, but in the next moment Gir was riding the conduit back to the top and the soldier was left to contemplate a messy room. Inhaling and exhaling heavily he planted a hand on the wall to keep himself from falling.
The floor was beginning to flutter and sway. He wasn't sure if it was just tiredness, the beginnings of rinauh withdrawal, or the effects of stress. He had already inhibited 'sleep mode' from his PAK once despite the harsh reprimands of his computer. He had gone without rest for months at a time, the work and toil always too demanding to ignore, and he had relied exclusively on external 'aids' to relieve his dwindling reserves of energy.
"Computer. Some advice would be appreciated."
"Please state specific action or problem for advice." Returned the imperturbable voice of his computer.
He rested the back of his head against the wall and lingered there for a few moments before peeling himself away from the support and wandering without poise or purpose to the conduit.
-x-
His resting chamber had been built like a cocoon, layered to protect him from nuclear fallout with reinforced doors that had lock-down technology. Within the chamber he had a cold-room pantry and a medi-unit dispenser beside his incubator. Tacked on the wall over his cot was an isolated oxygen supply by way of a portable apparatus with self-fulfilling oxygen tanks.
It was the warmest chamber in his base and it was where he felt the safest, often coming here whenever he felt sick or frightened.
The walls were a warm, rosy pink, and the main bed that was placed to one side was a raised incubation pod. It had steep sides with a warm, cushiony soft centre, and each end of the pod narrowed off like a banana.
Slipping out of his uniform he cast the ripped and soiled clothing to the floor so that the computer's helpful hooks could recover it and dump it in the garbage chute. He plodded to the little oval mirror without stopping to notice the exhaustion he knew he'd see, and started to ritually peel off the gauze wrappings around his middle. Once the soiled wrappings lay about his ankles, he was spooked to discover that it hadn't healed as well as he thought it might. His midsection appeared bruised and swollen as he turned in front of the mirror. The flesh bulged out a little at the site of the injury, and when he pressed the point of his claw to it, only feeling some pain, the tiny puncture hole oozed out a smelly, yellowy liquid. He snorted worriedly. To banish it from sight he pulled off fresh gauze from a dispensary, covered the offending wound with a pad and wrapped the gauze tightly around his gaunt middle, tacking it in place with a clip.
His good eye flickered upwards to judge the state of the countenance staring back. The padding on his right eye had started to go a little lopsided, giving the appearance of a tired and defeated soldier who had tried to escape from a blast too late.
Gone were his smooth curves and the velvety, graceful nymph slenderness of his body. What stood before him was a gaunt little thing that had knobs of bone protruding beneath the skin in one too many places. The sunken eye stared from its own personal chasm, and he was eternally forced to acknowledge the scrappy leavings of his left antenna that hung in its misshapen, misplaced way.
Wrinkles had started to seemingly grow around the base of his neck, and the veins in his throat looked more distended than before. He poked and prodded these new abnormalities as if he could hardly believe they were a part of him.
He looked less of a valiant soldier and more of an emaciated lunatic.
You're strong. You're invincible. He told himself, but the self-versed mantra could not comfort him.
One eye dropping away from the dishevelled reflection, he turned to the medi-unit on the far wall to access special pink healing gel and the hypodermic syringe that contained the drug rinauh. The gel he liberally applied on his damaged arm. It acted like a salve and encouraged natural healing. The syringe he picked up between two thin and trembling claws. Soldiers battling through punishing wounds took this drug to keep them fighting. The PAK had its own analgesics, but sometimes that process was a little too slow when were you were in the middle of a battle. This drug delivered instant pain relief, and instant level-headed calm. It helped with his breathing, and he had begun to lean on it more and more to help curb back all his growing discomforts.
Not bothering with the elastic cord this time that restricted blood flow above the injection site, he jabbed the sharp point into the tiny line of vein in his arm, hissing when it went in. He was never great at this, and sometimes didn't bother to look where it went in.
He did not order or request the drug, as it would have raised questions if he kept ordering a steady supply. After researching the main ingredients that went into this enhancer-drug, he ordered them separately in bulk and formulated them in his lab. It didn't take much effort, what with a super computer to help, and viola, he had his own supply.
He jerked the needle out and placed the empty hypo back into the medi-unit dispensary where the computer would remove it and replace it with a new one. He rubbed at the puncture mark, already feeling that slow, reassuring tide wash over him. That creature in the mirror peered back at him from its one tired eye.
It was getting harder to stay true to his proud and indomitable physique. He had to appear and be indomitable, but time was undoing him from the bottom up and he wasn't sure how long he could keep hiding it for.
He slipped into his light pink thermals that doubled as sleep garments and dragged himself into his incubation pod. The instant warmth of the pod calmed him, with the drug mollifying the pain in his joints and anywhere else. His breathing came to him more easily, and there was no more coughing.
Lifting the soft electric-heater blanket that Dib had given him, he curled under it and attempted to sleep. He had deployed full lock-down: not only was the single entryway blocked by three titanium doors some eight inches thick, but there were laser walls behind all three. There was no way Gir was getting in, but he still lay there, trembling despite the heat bathing his frail body, with impregnable walls guarding his every side.
Eventually exhaustion climbed over his walls and he slipped unknowingly into dreams. Every so often he twitched and turned in his cocoon bed. So far gone in dreams, he did not hear the computer notifying him of the doorbell, and later, of the phone ringing. His exhausted mind was down the pathway of dreams, and close behind them were nightmares.
