Debacle (R) - Subject Zim
Summary:
All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, not everything falls so comfortably into place.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine.
Warnings:
Dark themes, gore, psychological issues and angst throughout.
Prisoners
Look at it.
No blemishes. No visible pores.
Such delicate bone structure.
I wonder which constellation it's from, and how far it has travelled.
I told you! I told you they were real!
It's an alien. A real alien.
What ugly eyes you have.
Biology and evolution still has many things to teach us.
Why is it green?
It's so... small. Like a mouse. I imagined aliens to be... taller.
(Never thought it would come to this, did you?)
Before he had come to any real awareness, he was conscious of the bickering voices. They seemed to get louder, like rising waves as a storm blew in. There was a strong bleach-like smell, and bright probing lights searing his closed eyelids. He went to raise a hand to test the bruise he knew he had there, he could feel it throbbing, but his arm would not follow suit as if it had been tied down. He did not remember falling asleep, or really submitting to any kind of unconsciousness.
Groggily opening his eyes, he could hardly comprehend what he was seeing, and if it had any authenticity. Humans had gathered in one big intimidating group, and they were throwing their arms at each other behind an observation screen. The tallest among them stood in the midst, trying to calm the situation while a scientist and a human in military fatigues tried to strangle one another. Their hands would often come within inches of making contact before the professor could part them aside with sweeps of his long arms.
This human pomposity was soon flung far from his immediate concerns when he again went to move. Blinking stupidly, head hurting, he saw without really seeing the black cuffs hugging his wrists to the steel of a platform. He tried moving his legs, and the same resistance impeded them in the same way. The panic was there, behind his chest wall, surging suddenly like a bubble, and he tried to swallow it down before he lost his immediate senses.
He was confronted by that same malodorous stink that made his antennae curl: scents of the cold and sterile, with the sickly undertones of antiseptics and sweat, all suffused by the collective odour of man. There was another smell coming off his skin and torn uniform: the fumes of fusion vapour.
He opened his dark magenta eyes to their fullest, twice reflecting the fluorescent strips of lighting above and the observation mirror directly ahead. Above the main window that ran from wall to wall was a second, smaller screen, and in that screen was a familiar face staring back.
The human's words sliced perfectly through his barriers. He could still feel his hands on his throat.
(Never thought it would come to this, did you?)
His claws twitched and flexed at the steel shelf underneath.
(Any last words?)
He made to lean forwards, discovering the nylon strap secured across his chest. When he clenched his fists he did not feel the soft pliability of his gloves. His toes were exposed too. He wiggled them, and they wiggled back.
Panic shot into him in sharp, convulsive spurts, and this would have goaded the PAK to activate, promptly stimulating him with whatever battle-ready chemicals and enhancers were needed, but the PAK whirred uncomfortably instead, its metal underside overly hot against his spine like it had been left to cook in the sun all day.
He stared at the men in their white coats staring back, and the man in the military fatigues had stopped fighting a moment to gaze at him as if he was something distasteful –like something on the bottom of a shoe.
(Well? Aren't you going to say anything?)
His antennae hitched up like taut cables, eyes snatching looks at the gormless faces behind the screen. Some wore face masks, hiding their mouths and noses, while others wore high collars or goggles. They appeared less like beings of mortal flesh and blood, and more like soulless apparitions or machines. His nightmares had always centred on something like this, with beings like these, him trapped in a cold, vast room where there were no windows, no colours or warmth, only white and grey walls that imposed helplessness and fear. He'd wake, twisting out of hot and sweaty sheets, not sure if he had screamed, and Gir would be there to see if he was okay. The Angry Monkey show would be on TV like every morning, and he would...
"Well?" Asked the man in the fatigues to his stupefied colleagues. They stood, uncertain behind the glass as if they were looking in on something rare and impossible. "This isn't an exhibit! Give me that!" And he went to grab a microphone. He was shouting into it, the intercom above Zim relaying his officious barks. "Where do you plan to invade first? How many of you are we dealing with? Answer me!"
Another colleague brushed up against the sergeant, trying to retake the microphone: "Is there life after death?"
Professor Membrane was forced to push both of them from the microphone again. "Gentlemen! Please!" His voice boomed through the intercom. "There is plenty of time for you to..."
Carlson, the man in the fatigues, jabbed the bony point of his finger into the professor's chest. "That thing is an enemy and has already shown what it can do! Our Division should take full priority of this threat! There may be no time! They might be coming right now!"
The professor did not look perturbed. "I don't think that is the case. My son has clearly stated that..."
"I read his files! And it means nothing! He can't predict an invasion anymore than you can!"
"It's looking at us." Dr. Williams said softly. "I wonder what its thinking. Its use of our language is..."
"Flawless." The professor said. "Here. Let me try something." He moved the microphone closer to his collar and asked fluently: "Und wie geht es dir heute?"
Zim looked at him directly and snapped back in perfect German: "Geh und fick dich selbst!"
There was a great gasp from the community of onlookers.
"I'll be." Murmured Dr. Williams.
"Observe the subject's sophisticated understanding of the human language." Membrane continued, fully composed, "He prefers to speak in English, rather than that of his own language, if indeed he has a language of his own."
"That damn thing's a spy! Adapted to speak any human language!" Carlson did not look nearly as perplexed or as bemused as the others. His hardened scowl and tinder-dry growl remained. "We are not here to play games with it. I want results, now!"
I'm not an IT! Zim inwardly raged as he watched them gawp. I am your worst nightmare! I'll fight you all! I will break you sooner than you'll ever break me!
"We need a brilliant and remarkable psychologist for this, I believe!" The professor looked amongst the small gathering of scientists and the sergeant, but they looked to him expectantly, without volunteering. "We have a doctor, a mathematician and a technician! Oh scrap that. We did have a technician." He said soberly. "In any case! I shall take the position for now!"
"How is she? The tech? That thing took her arm clear off." Torrent had his hands on the deck of the console, close to the microphone, eyes rapt on the little thing in the centre of the wide and polished room.
"It was an accident." Membrane said softly. "She didn't follow protocol."
"Neither did you." Torrent gave him a look out of the corner of his eye. The others seemed to be looking at the professor too with that same icy mistrust. "In any case," the scientist's voice remained bitter, "it's too much of a coincidence that the little monster targeted the technician. It has already shown us how important that machine is on its back, and it can't stand anyone touching it."
The professor had watched the tragedy unfold during Zim's initial arrival. Groggy and battered, the creature had been in a semi-conscious state. Worried of harming it further by infusing drugs into its system to keep it compliant, they had opted to offload the creature from the vehicle immediately into a metal crate, but while the creature was still in transit, four long gangly steel rods had burst out from within, promptly followed by a pink laser that had cut through the crate's metal and metal mesh interior.
The scientists had scrambled to and fro like rats trapped in a fiery barn, clambering for the exit. The creature had looked on, awash with the same hysteria that had so gripped the humans. He could barely stand, the chrome of the prosthetics flowing out like additional claws. Lucinda had come up behind him with a cattle-prod. She had managed to hit him with it, directly onto that tortoise-like shell and the creature had staggered, pain causing his arm to dangle a moment as his antennae and eyelids sporadically twitched. Two of the four prosthetics swept her off her feet with a simultaneous and elegant transition that was proficient as they were fast, and in the same heartbeat the other two sword-arms sliced into her deltoid muscle, ripping it free from her shoulder. Red blood splattered that green and pale face, red blood that made him hiss and swat at the air as if her very blood was toxic. Dr. Williams came with a net as if the alien was no more than a wild dog that needed to be coerced back into its cage, and with one perfunctory sweep of a chrome leg he too was swept aside as if his weight counted for nothing.
Used to lab animals that cried and whimpered behind metal bars, the scientists had little experience with a non-compliant creature of intelligence and weaponry, and were only just beginning to understand what they were dealing with.
Dazed, head habitually dangling from time to time, Zim met their charge with angry and frightened desperation, crimson blood slashed across his face and eyes. The PAK legs rose like crooked tarantula limbs, elongating his height and runtish size to something truly formidable.
The professor had stood in the centre of this debacle; hands behind his back, watching his colleagues run and scream. He waited for the moment. The alien was tiring, his eyes haplessly trying to keep up with his numerous targets, his wounds smoking or bleeding with fusion damage.
"Zim."
The alien turned to look up, one eyelid sunken down, face twisted in hurt and terror. The professor brought up a hand to draw him close, and the creature was so exhausted and delirious that he did not see the syringe. He stuck the needle into his neck; Zim withdrew, gasping, groping insanely for the needle and plucking it out – only to stare wildly at it from those clawtips in surprise. Slowly those eyes lifted to look into his, and his knee wobbled. He went crashing to the floor, his spider legs retracting as smoothly as silk back into the oval device.
"No!"
His knees also crashed to the floor seconds later beside the Irken, his belly filling with ice. He reached out, trying to shake the Irken back to life – life that had been there moments before.
"What in god's name have you done?" Dr. Williams was beside him. Both of them could hear weak screams coming from Lucinda who was holding what was left of her shoulder.
"I gave him a narcotic, a sleep-inducing narcotic!" For two moments he could not remember the name of the drug. "K-Ketamine!"
Dr. Williams did not spare a moment to question his decision. He spoke into the radio transceiver fixed to his lapel. "Torrent, I'm going to need an antidote for Ketamine. Get it now, and bring it to the main foyer!"
The sergeant coughed into the back of his hand before straightening, bringing Membrane out of his daydream.
"Uh?" Came the high squeal from the alien. They held their collective breath, looking at this tiny creature sitting on its metal chair-like platform: the tatters of its salmon-pink sleeve sagging down its right arm. "Excuse me? Zim requires your attention."
"Zim? What is a Zim?" Carlson's voice fell to an impatient whisper.
"That's the little one's name." The professor answered amiably, "He tends to refer to himself in third person."
Torrent jabbed a dark look in his direction.
The creature blithely continued. "There's been a mistake. I'm no alien! Now release me, and I'll be on my way!"
Some of the men in white coats started scribbling away in their notebooks or datapads.
The creature, realizing he was being ignored, started to struggle against the restraints. "Release me, before I activate something... horrible! Like a tornado full of shopping baskets! Or... Or a giant pig that releases gas or something! I can drop every kind of filth down upon you all, and watch you drown in cheese!"
More notes were scribbled, with comments busily exchanged between them.
"Subject seems to resort to threats." Dr. Williams observed.
"The thing's emotional. What did Dib say about it? From those files?"
"That it has a tendency to go into 'rages?'" Rick asked, who had briefly skimmed through the files.
"I am no subject!" Zim shouted behind the glass, "I am ZIM! I will make you scream it before I'm done with you fools!"
Dr. Williams was tapping away on his datapad. "Subject continually uses intimidation, and resorts to insults on most occasions. Either the subject is rehearsing the words it has been taught without putting them into context, or the subject is extremely intelligent, and knows exactly what it is saying."
"Well, he certainly is confident." Said the professor.
"Aggression." Carlson murmured as if to himself. "It's part of this thing's military programming, as your son stated quite clearly in his files. And it pretended to be one of us. All this time." When there was no forthcoming answer from the gaggle of men in white, he added, "Dib Membrane alerted us of its presence, and we ignored him. Can you imagine this alien running around, disguised as a human, infiltrating our systems for the 'coming invasion?'" He quoted one of Dib's lines from his documentation reports.
Zim pushed against the nylon strap that had started to cut into his chest. His eyes would flicker upwards at the top observation screen, and he'd see the shine of those glasses, and the scythe of hair, and additional lines would appear around his eyes and mouth when a renewed snarl twisted his lips.
"Cowards!" He squealed into the numbing anaesthesia of their watchful stupor, the emptiness of his prison echoing with his cries. "Release me or suffer!" He pulled and pushed against the restraints, calling upon the PAK from every linked neuron. His PAK would jostle internally, the mantle's ports desperately trying to part ways to expose their armaments.
"Are we recording this?" Dr. Williams asked.
"We record everything." The professor patted the monitor screens gently.
"You buffoons! Wasting time!" The sergeant reached for the microphone. "Why are you here? How many of you are out there? What kind of military power do you possess? What weaknesses have you discovered?"
Membrane pried it back off him. "No, no no! Biological study must come first! We need to know what his capabilities are; his limitations, what his blood culture is, what diseases are present, and then we can refine our studies by cross-examining him and..."
The sergeant straightened, fixing eyes of steel upon the professor's reflective goggles. "Your son tells us that this thing can miraculously heal itself, and that it possesses super fast regenerative powers! That's what the military is invested in, and that's what you're invested in!"
"All in due time."
"To do what? Ask what kind of music it likes? What color it prefers? Your son mentioned an 'Armada!' They could be on their way, right now!"
"You misunderstand the process." Membrane answered softly. "We could be dealing with a very delicate organism. The drug Ketamine for instance, induced a type of anaphylaxis. We believe it has something to do with his metabolism: his body can quickly soak up any drug. We need to sedate the subject in the correct way before any further..."
"No! Sedation? Are you out of your cock-a-doodie mind?" He was ramming his finger against the professor's chest, "We need to determine its pain threshold, its endurance levels and abilities! Restrain it by any means possible, but we are not numbing that thing on drugs! Understand! I'm in charge! I can just as easily take this institute and the creature away and have my men run all the tests! This is America! And by god I will protect this beautiful country, even if it means tearing this place to the ground! Do I make myself clear?"
Membrane stood there a moment, neither yielding nor complying. Eventually he gave a slow nod. "I understand."
"You scientists like to dote on figures and algorithms for deductions but we rely on sterner truths, and quicker results. You underestimate the worth of affliction, gentlemen. This alien will tell us everything with proper persuasion."
-x-
Williams adjusted the right cuff until Zim couldn't lift his wrist a millimetre from the steel arm. The Irken spat and growled; trying to get his teeth into anyone who came too close. He had almost succeeded. Williams, the older of the two with white tufts of hair sticking over his ears, had placed monitoring pads over his chest. He tried to jam his teeth over the fat fingers of his glove, but always missed by inches.
They had gently removed the last shreds of his uniform without ceremony, exposing him to his gaping and gawping audience. Warmth rose into his cheeks, turning them avocado green, and his eyes could no longer hold onto the menacing faces of those scrutinizing him.
His uniform was then carted off on a trolley as if it was a specimen of its own and he watched his belongings depart with a kind of cold, sinking horror.
Wait... that's... mine.
After watching his clothing disappear, he pushed and fought against his fetters with renewed despair, which always presented the same dead-end results. More telemetry pads were placed on his diaphragm and sternum, and on both sides of his skull. He could not shake them off. These lines running over him were hooked to a little machine nearby. Numbers and pulsations bleeped back. In one clap the rage was back, his ankles jerking against the restraints, restraints that were insulated in heavy-duty plastic to reduce friction from sores and rub marks. All he wanted was to bring up a thigh to hide his undercarriage from the gawpers, or maybe a hand so he could throw it over his eyes to try and hide from them. Rattling in the metal of his prison produced more sweat, more breathless hisses and more humiliation.
Two tall humans with faces enclosed behind helmets entered the room wearing hazmat suits. The others remained exclusively stationed behind the safety of the glass, watching with the same baffled expressions.
The professor stood off to one side behind the screen, arms folded, goggles without expression. As much as Zim knew he shouldn't be tempted, he lifted his eyes upwards to see his nemesis staring back. He expected the young man to be waving condescendingly, or laughing while he endured these degrading tests and frequent manhandling, but the human was looking down with a set expression that revealed very little.
The little platform began to hum as it tipped him suddenly backwards. He yelped to watch the floor sweep away, his feet dangling in the air. Gloved hands came to help manipulate the sitting platform into more of a table. His bound ankles and wrists remained just as secure as before, though he fought and pulled and struggled. His PAK was slotted through an opening. And then the table was turned, him strapped to its centre, and he realized with slow deliberation that the table could turn or flip to a full three-sixty. If they wanted him upside down, a simple turn on the dial would do it. They could even position him to lie horizontally upside down, like he was a fly trapped on sticky paper.
They flipped him round so that he was confronted with the floor. His antennae dangled in front of his eyes, and he was aware of their big, clumsy boots and their hulking shadows cast on the polished linoleum. His weight was transferred to his wrists and ankles as he leaned against the restraints.
He was consumed with the urge to pee. His bladder was tight, and any movement made it worse.
"Hmm, vitals seem stable." Dr. Williams was presiding over the monitor feed, watching numbers rise and fall.
"How do you know if what you're seeing is normal?" His colleague and inferior asked.
"We'll see, in due time, won't we? Torrent, grab that soldering pen and begin the procedure. Remember, this is very delicate! We just want to fuse the seams together like last time. Do you think you can do this?"
"If we truly want to disarm this little mouse, why don't we just remove whatever the hell this oval thing is?" Torrent grabbed the device from a tray beside a category of surgical tools. The device was similar to a tazer. The scientist held it above the creature's upturned and exposed PAK that sat snugly from the opening in the table like an exposed metal belly. Three pink ports glowed a resplendent pink that seemed to ebb and flow as if it was following a pattern or an internal rhythm. Pink radiated against the translucent plastic of their helmets.
"I wouldn't try to remove it." Membrane's voice echoed back from the overhead intercom. "Not until we've understood more of this creature's biological makeup, and how his body interacts and functions with this mechanical construct."
"It does appear to be attached..." Williams nudged the base of it gently, earning a growl from their patient beneath the table.
"And how do you know it hasn't just got missiles packed away in there?" Torrent turned to the professor standing behind the observation screen.
"Torrent! Concentrate!" Dr. Williams gestured at him over the shiny and glowing metal dome.
Holding the soldering pen between his thumb and index finger, Torrent poked it into a tiny slot into the side of the subject's PAK. Zim howled in reply as walled-off chemicals and reservoirs of warmth, painkillers and nutrients entered his system all at once.
Torrent lifted up the pen and looked to Williams with a confused look on his face. Williams was shaking his head. "Let me! You hamfist everything!"
Back in the observation room, the professor muttered aloud, "They shouldn't really be touching it."
"If it was up to you and your bumbling fools, it would take you months to learn anything from this alien!" Growled Carlson.
Zim could smell the corrosion as they worked. Battering himself against the manacles only wore himself out, and when fighting and pushing and shoving did nothing, he fell back on demands that had more of a mewling ring to it: "S-Stop! Fools! You don't know what you're doing! Let me go!"
Williams tenderly went around the near-invisible seams as if he was merely drawing out lines for images in a colouring book. The soldering pen went smoothly along the curved mantle, exacting a strong effluvium of burning metal and plastic. "I'm in the process of inhibiting its metal contraption with some success. It appears to be a component powered by some kind of energy from within. We'll perform an ECG reading on it, and other tests to scan what's inside, and to verify how it works. If we seal the seams, it should temporarily keep parts of it from opening."
"It could be radioactive!" Torrent was swapping looks between the portable ECG and EEG readings to the tortoise-shell of the device. "Dib called it a 'PAK,' but even he doesn't know what that stands for, or what the damn thing is or does!"
"Patience, Torrent, patience. There are no immediate answers in science. There now. I believe we are done."
"What about those ports? They're still glowing, like they're radioactive or something!"
Williams sighed. "Don't you have a job to do? Take a sample of its blood. Unless you're quite happy to sit back and watch of course." He tapped the table, and it slowly swung back into a vertical position holding Zim upright, the weight now on his ankles.
Torrent watched the creature's right antenna flicker towards him, its length tense and rigid. "It's gonna bite my arm clean off!"
"Don't be such a baby and do as you are told!" William shoved the capped hypodermic needle into his hand. "Now take the sample!"
"You're not sticking anything in me, you freaks!" Squealed their angry subject.
Torrent uncapped the needle, which was a fiddly job with gloved fingers, and pushed down on the plunger before approaching the alien. Its skin looked pale under their bright florescent lights and he could see the visible fabric of delicate bones beneath. If one looked really carefully with a magnifying glass, you could see its dark veins networking across the papery thinness of its skin. As it breathed, its chest swelled up and down like the humble carbon-based life form that required oxygen to live.
Not quite knowing if it had a vein to draw from, he stuck the needle into its arm above the elbow joint and heard the thing rattle out a scream that hurt his ears even through the thick plastic of his helmet. He pulled on the plunger, and dark algae green began to fill the syringe. One of its antennas jerked again; wriggling like the leg of a woodlouse. Torrent jerked to get away from it, ripping the skin as the needle tore free. The syringe bounced across the floor. Rich green spluttered out of the needle hole, but when William turned to grab something to stem the flow, he saw that there was no need. In the next second the bleeding had stopped, and the aperture of damage had coagulated.
As Williams stared, Torrent dispensed the wasted syringe into a machine. "Fuck's sake!"
"I'll do it, like I have to do everything. Good god boy, where did they get you from?" Williams prepped a new sterile needle, and with professional tenderness, tightened a strap above the elbow, and pierced the steel tip into Zim's other arm.
"Stop it!" The creature snorted, trying to twist pinkish teeth his way. "You savages!"
"We really ought to gag it." Torrent remarked. "And I hate wearing these damn suits. They make everything awkward. That thing almost bit me because I couldn't move away in time! What if it has rabies or something?"
"Will you shut it, boy?" He took the second sample, and again the needle hole healed over, leaving little more than a bruise that also faded before his eyes.
The sergeant and the professor had seen this sudden healing, but could not bring themselves to say exactly what they'd seen. It was simply too impossible. It was too early to make any assumptions until they knew more about their strange and otherworldly subject.
"Fuck you both!" Zim bucked and arched, trying to worm his way out of his constraints.
Williams went about his duties with that same calmness. "Torrent. Hold his head please. Do you have that bottle?"
"Excuse me? What?"
"I need to check the alien's gums and teeth. They're usually the best indicator of malnutrition or disease."
"You owe a drink, old man." He put his gloved fingers towards the creature's skull, clamping his fingers down on both sides towards the back of the neck whilst trying to avoid the antennae as they swept and moved around.
Employing a metal clamp similarly used on horses to look at their teeth, Williams tried to tease it into the Irken's mouth without preamble. Zim protested, locking his teeth together to resist the intrusion. A spurt of ice cold water from a bottle made his muscles wind into cords, and he gasped out, and in went the metal clamp. It was colder than the spray, and jabbed and filled his mouth with its uncomfortable bulk.
"Now, now." Williams said. "We're just checking your teeth and throat. No need to worry." But he spoke to him as one would speak to a dumb and deaf pet.
"You're not supposed to be talking to it." Torrent was always a remark away, watching the intentions and actions of the team as if he worked for someone other than them.
"And why ever not? If it helps with its anxieties, it helps with mine until the professor tells me otherwise." Adjusting the external crank he grinded Zim's teeth apart.
"Gods he's strong!" Torrent was still holding his head, keeping the subject from swinging away from Williams, and keeping him from knocking them out with it.
With his mouth open, Williams shone a medical flashlight along its zipper-like teeth and slightly tainted pink gums. "Tongue appears very different to ours. It's long, thin and tapered, much like a lizard's. It has indents, or lines segmented along its length. It's dark purple in colour."
"Uuuukk!" The Irken tried gurgling whatever vulgarity he was trying to articulate.
"Teeth are tainted pink, as are its gums. Gums seem pale, but this may be normal. Throat looks healthy. There seems to be no sign or indication of dehydration. The teeth show wear and tear, but there are no fractures, no missing teeth and no discoloration. There were molars at the back, but the frontal and middle teeth were all of similar size and shape. It seems one shape serves every purpose, whether it is for biting, cutting or grinding."
"Like a shark's mouth." Torrent was only too happy to add.
William looked irritably at the younger man as he took his fingers away from Zim's mouth. The clamp was removed; the Irken took a relieved breath, and was then spitting and yelling at them with curses.
The signal was made from the professor, and Torrent produced a gag – little more than a cloth really – and held it out at either end, walking towards their biting, complaining subject. "Don't you dare!" The alien's screams were painfully high-pitched, and Torrent could hear bells chiming in his ears. It was a relief when the alien was only too happy to chomp on something: pink garish teeth grinding over the flaccid and dusty material, and Torrent quickly tied it round the back of its neck. The alien muffled and tried to scream through it, eyes squeezed shut as he struggled, but the pacifier to the bleating and overall racket was a paradise.
Grabbing a measuring tape, Williams recorded Zim's length, measuring his toes to his skull, and recorded a height of 70 cm which equated to 27 inches. His antenna made up another 28 cm. He measured the width of his chest and length. Next he examined Zim's left arm and felt along it, feeling how supple the muscle was in rest, and how strong the bone when he put pressure on it.
"We need to run some tests without these restraints." He spoke to the onlookers in the observation room. "To see how he moves, and how his skeleton and muscles respond to stimulus. I believe it is quite a muscular creature, but not with the muscles we have. There are no obvious bulges of muscle and no obvious fatty tissue. It doesn't have the biceps we have, or the thickening of tissue present in muscle composition."
Torrent meanwhile was growing impatient. "Maybe it's not muscle at all." He pointed out. "What do insects have?"
"Exoskeletons." Williams replied over the sound of the creature's desperate mumbles. "Hmm... maybe it's a combination of both?"
"You're saying it's a bug? A dirty, crawling insect?" Torrent asked. "That would explain its ugly eyes. But insects don't breathe through their mouths! They don't have lungs! This... this is a goddamn monster created in someone's fucking basement!"
He got more annoyed when Williams just continued to stand there, prodding and poking its arm as the alien lay on the table like some special sarcophagus that could not be opened by regular means.
"Does it even have organs?" Torrent continued. "For that matter, do insects have organs?"
"That, they do," Said Williams, "They have an open circulatory system as opposed to our closed circulatory system. Our blood is confined within blood vessels, arteries and the like, whereas insect blood flows freely throughout the body. Like mush. It's all in the same fluid. Some arthropods have pumps that act like a heart." William folded his arms in front of his chest. "To open up this creature - alive - will be the most memorable and ambitious event mankind has ever known. The world will remember what we did, and discovered, for all time."
Torrent looked ill as he stood by the monitoring machine. "A vivisection."
"I'm invested in cardiology and natural science, Torrent. Biology still has much to teach us. And this creature may be our only way of finding out what evolution is capable of. We could create new medicine, new drugs and enhancements from our studies, even if it means cutting pieces off it, one by one."
"Uh huh." Torrent was used to dissecting mice. They were tiny, and didn't verbally complain or fight back. Dr. Williams meanwhile had travelled the world learning and studying just about every animal ever to exist, often making remarkable breakthroughs in biology even to this day, whereas Torrent was just an ordinary in comparison; he had no specific key skill or profession. He carted things around, cleaned up the blood, counted the drugs going in and the dispensaries going out.
"Where is that electromagnetic scanner?"
The device came down, a massive dome with glistening energy beams flowing through its glass rim. It settled over Zim without touching him, but the Irken's struggles were suddenly emphasised, and his mutinous squeaks and rants were back. He had managed to shake the gag out of his mouth. "The Armada is going to destroy yooou filth!"
"Did you hear that? He said 'Armada.'" Torrent looked to the machine as it dropped over their little subject entirely, walling him off from view except for his legs that still strained against their bonds. Raw marks were beginning to appear around the bone of his ankle joints.
"Release me!" Came more angry grunts and squealing; "Now! And I'll only blow up some of the planet!"
Torrent stared at the machine cocooning the creature. The sergeant meanwhile was looking rather comfortable as if he had won a valued prize but was too respectable to boast about it. "That there, gentlemen, is the secret. Once we crack it, all will fall into place."
The creature's struggles continued. "Stop it!" His scratchy squawks could be heard over the low mechanical drone: "You have no right! You're all gagging for conquest! I hate you! I hate you all! You fifthly dirt fuckers!"
All that met Zim in answer was the desultory hum of the machine.
-x-
"Wonder what it eats? Human flesh?"
"According to that nutty Membrane kid, it's been running loose on Earth for years. So it's found something to feed on."
"Maybe it's acclimatized to the environment and eats from local food sources?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know! Human flesh?"
"Doesn't it say anything from that insane kid's files?"
"Not on food it doesn't."
He watched the two scientists plonk food onto their plastic meal trays and walk away, side by side; chatting away as if what they'd seen was no more extraordinary than a tiger up-close. Perhaps they were simply perplexed; an alien had been dropped into their laps.
Perhaps he was suffering a kind of abrupt perplexity, though he didn't know its cause.
He'd hardly slept, and the eggs and toast he'd had in the morning tasted like soggy cardboard. Most, if not all the food he had eaten kind of ended up tasting like soggy cardboard.
"Weight, 19 lbs. Temperature, 37 degrees Celsius. Heart rate, three hundred and seventy."
"That thing on its back must weigh some of that." He heard Torrent saying. "What kind of monster has a contraption that can produce weapons or stilts from its back like that?"
They ticked off numbers and data as if they were discerning an abnormal lump of flesh. Their indifference, especially Dr. Williams', made him cringe behind the observation glass. He reminded himself that these were the same people who experimented on animals with no guilt or emotion whatsoever, and went home to their families as if the horrors they had committed were nothing remarkable.
So why do they still give me funny looks? Why do they still refer to me as 'insane?'
That wasn't how it was supposed to work. Where was the instant promotion that sent him soaring up the social ladder?
He sat in his private observation office on the topmost section above the gathered committee as if he were some high-paying entrepreneur. The private chamber never felt cosy, or warm, in fact it was more likened to a waiting room in a hospital, or a solitary office space that was never meant to hold much warmth or comfort. It had ample room for a fridge, a sofa, and any luxury while he contentedly watched them perform the preliminary evaluations on subject A01. Short for Alien Subject One in the assumption they may find more 'subjects,' and that the alien (his alien) was the first.
Zim was no longer Zim. He was a thing now, an interesting topic, a formula to some secret they were completely obsessed with, or an unsightly beast that had to be strapped, caged, and provoked. When pioneers first stepped foot on darkest Africa, and climbed into those misty mountains, they encountered the gorilla for the first time, and shot them on sight: believing these creatures to be purely aggressive based on their monstrous appearance, when in fact they were one of the gentlest species on the planet. They reacted to Zim much the same way, cautiously keeping their distance as if he was a set spring, and disregarding the fact that Dib, among many other people, had maintained close contact with the Irken over the years.
Separating himself from the majority of the experiments and hands-on approaches was his father's idea. He resisted at first, wishing to be at the forefront of every inspection and debate – it was partly to be in control – to be continually recognised as 'the one' who gave them the alien. But he began to see why his father had persuaded him to sit comfortably in the back row.
He could never acquire an appetite in this place. The scientists all ate readily every meal time, as if their experimentations and daily torture routines were an ordinary part of their lives that governed no conscience. He could imagine them all sleeping like babes at the end of every shift, never once being haunted by what they had done to Zim, or any animal; perhaps because medical breakthroughs deserved the sacrifices necessary for human lives to essentially survive where disease, old age and cancer was rampant in society. He'd seen the puppies. Usually they were a Labrador breed, or beagle, most being twelve weeks old. They'd continually whimper behind the bars of their overly small prisons, wagging their tails and poking their noses between the bars whenever Dib approached. Puppies were habitual testers of cosmetics, new cancer drugs, and cancer itself. Bigger animals usually gave more reliable results, their metabolisms slower than that of rats or mice.
Zim was now part of this statistic, and was now an unwilling subject doomed to give up his biological coding to 'better' humanity. Dib was therefore contributing to human society, regardless as to the methods they would extract from the alien in time.
He sat on a lone table, overlooking his tepid offerings of dry bacon, dry eggs and oatmeal bread. With Zim out of the way, this would hopefully shut down all other Irken machinations – such as the terrible and looming Armada. He had nightmares that made him spring awake, gripping the bed sheets in the middle of the night, dreaming that Zim had been leading an army of Irkens, that they had stormed Earth, and were enslaving and killing wherever they went. Sometimes he'd dream of his leaders leering down from high above: their monstrous forms and monstrous thoughts filling him with terror of what they might do to him should they ever meet. Each day was another day given without being conquered, and he knew he had to do something before the next day eclipsed all hope.
His phone started to jingle out the 'Mysterious Mysteries of Strange Mystery' theme song. Normally he had it switched off. Personnel had their phones confiscated when they entered the deeper levels of Geneva.
He slipped it from his pocket, and sighed when he saw her name pop up on the screen. For the total of two seconds he considered rejecting the call. He lifted it to his ear. "Yeah?"
Her voice grated into his ear as if she was sitting directly beside him. "Do you realize what you've done?"
Her words had this habit of hitting him as if they were bricks. His defences were never worth a damn with her, as she always effortlessly got through them. Disappointment smouldered from within him, as empty as dark corridors before anger could shoulder it aside. "What do you mean? Of course I realize! I saved the world!"
"You didn't do it for the world."
Eyes were on him. The white coats tried not to be too obvious about it, but he caught the quick, curious glances like the children in class whenever he loudly proclaimed something. Their conversational noise around the tables had fallen dramatically as well. He turned away from them as best he could. "What are you getting at? A bit of gratitude is all I ask."
"Gratitude?" Her voice grated as stone grated against stone. "Of course. This has always been about self-gratification with you. Well. Whatever. You'll sleep like a baby, won't you?"
"You're wrong, Gaz! I'm the selfless one here! Risking my life, while you sat playing your stupid video games!" He heard the deadening click as he was cut off. He sat with the phone still raised to his ear; still catching up to the realization that she had ended the call.
He had risen to fame so quickly and so suddenly that he had probably earned some jealously from his usually apathetic sister. He was no longer the backseat achiever, no longer the laughing stock; the punch line to the joke. His school life still haunted him, knowing he'd always be the one set aside, the one who would always be treated differently, as if he had a tattoo on his forehead telling the world of his ostracism.
Once he had Zim in chains, all that hurt would go away.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket with more force than was necessary and stood up, food untouched. His eyes were dry and ached all the time, while his head pounded. Leaving the canteen seemed to lift the mood, for the men in white coats started nattering away again.
He entered the elevator feeling more confused about the situation than anything. He had done the right thing. The world was finally safe. Children could play outdoors without ever having to worry about a marauding monster from the stars.
He went towards the executive's exit in the hopes of avoiding the press and went through the doors onto the plaza.
The interviewers and news reporters spotted him almost at once, and they started stampeding towards him with their microphones, cameras and clipboards.
It felt good to be recognised, like he actually meant something, to be an icon in human history where he would be remembered forever as the first human to reveal and incapacitate an extraterrestrial.
His father was noticing him more, listening to him more. He had patted him on the shoulder this morning, as though acting on guilt for having shut him out all this time. No longer would he be pushed aside, or overlooked. Carlson had even shaken his hand, promising him a shiny medal for saving America.
Dib turned to face the paparazzi, throwing up a bright victory smile as the cameras started to bombard him with pulverising flashes. His vision was nothing more than white and black afterimages.
"And how did you secure the alien?" A soft-felted microphone was shoved towards him, the interviewer looking at him with equal hunger. Other interviewers pressed around him, penning him in the centre like a cornered thing unable to escape. Usually he had his father beside him, or Dr. Williams who took the heat of the technical questions so that he was free to wave, smile and sign autographs.
So this is what being a celebrity feels like.
He had always shared some celebrity status and recognition thanks to his father's endeavours, but that was only because he'd been engulfed by his shadow, and was mostly ever a side-attraction, and even that had its labels: labels that seemed to hold sway over him. Now they were finally falling asunder: he was the young man who had resisted opposition: the one who believed when others doubted. His tenacity would go on to inspire others.
Zim's downfall was enough to pave the rest of his life in gold.
There were more people today, holding up posters and boards behind the immediate wall of the pressing media, and slapped boldly on these boards were the slogans:
'ALIENS HAVE RIGHTS TOO.'
'FREEDOM FOR ALL LIFE.'
'RESPECT EXISTENCE OR EXPECT RESISTANCE.'
'SAVE THE ALIEN!'
More microphones were coming his way until they practically filled his vision.
He wished his father was by his side.
"How long have you known about the creature?"
"Why is it green?"
"What gave the advantage?"
"What other secrets about it can you tell us?"
"Where's its ship?"
Dib kept up his smile. "I regretfully can't answer all your questions at the moment, as I cannot reveal too much until they learn more about the alien."
They didn't seem to hear him. They pressed closer, microphones practically pushing him into more microphones behind him. "Should we be worried? Will there be an invasion?"
"How safe are we?"
"The scientists will tell us." Dib informed them in desperation.
"How many of them are out there?"
"What about the children? How safe are they?"
"Can we believe your statements? Aren't you the insane child?"
Dib began to sweat as the microphones and cameras pressed forwards like a collective army; human faces lost beneath lightning flashes and metal domes. Prof. Membrane suddenly appeared, coming between him and the media like an extending wall of protection. "That's enough for today." The professor said in his no-nonsense voice. He seemed to rise up amongst them, pushing them back with just a word. "I'm sure we're all very excited about Dib's discovery and the alien, now safely secured by the authorities! If we have any new information, we'll be sure to let you know!" He turned to Dib while the interviewers stood idly around them, reluctant to leave. They continued to blast off snaps with their cameras, filling the plaza with conflicting, sporadic flashes.
The professor led his son away, and the paparazzi parted, dropping back to the protesting rabble holding the posters and boards. There was an intermittent mix of praise, questioning and hate aimed at the two of them as they made their way to the public parking allotment. Dib turned back to look.
The news reporters and freelance journalists had gathered around like a herd of animals and weren't moving as if they intended to stay all day and night. Some of them had even spread out as if to dominate the lower lab exits in the hopes of pinning down some other hapless victim for questioning if they tried to leave the building.
"I think our Hero of the World deserves a break from all the attention, wouldn't you say?" He amicably said, pounding his son on the back or shoulder, wherever his giant hand happened to land, and Dib was almost thrown forward by the physical applause.
Dib forced out a tepid smile. He was tired, from the attention, and from the sudden crazy uplift of euphoria at the dawning surrealism of a life now changed, forever. It was hard to believe that this was really happening, even when he'd fought so hard, and risked so much just to gain some legitimacy.
See, dad? I told you so. I was right. All those times you pushed me away, claiming my assertions as 'fake,' for 'attention.' As 'crazy.' Now do you see?
His father offered him a ride home, even when his old beat-up blue Toyota was there in front of them. Dib took him up on that offer, choosing to enjoy the attention and fatherly care he had been missing out on. He could enjoy these privileges for as long as he could.
-x-
The house was quiet. He went in and turned the hall light on, and a certain silence seemed to fill his ears and head and heart as if his home wasn't really a house filled with light and furniture, but a space where only old memories were contained, breathing back past hurts and old regrets.
He didn't bother taking his jacket off or his boots. He tramped into the kitchen and opened the fridge to see what little he had there. Still, there was champagne.
He grabbed the bottle, wrestled off the cork that went off with an enormous POP and poured himself a glass. He took the glass and bottle with him to the parlour where he sat on the couch, recounting the ways Zim had taunted him and hurt him, and nearly destroyed him.
"Well, your wish has come true, Dib, congratu-fucking-lations." He toasted the air, before slurping down the contents of the glass. The champagne was pleasantly cold, and fizzy, but without flavour, only bitterness. When he closed his eyes, he saw Zim dangling from their arms, and then saw him sitting, tiny and alone, strapped to that metal device, surrounded by white leering walls. There was a fragility that hadn't been there before.
Despite the final victory, the recognition, and the fame, he felt empty. Maybe it was the shock. He thought he'd wake up, that he'd still be that loser, that outcast, and Zim would still be free.
He finished off the glass and poured himself another, thinking of choosing something stronger for his celebration drink.
On his coffee table was a copy of the ZIM files he had produced for the scientists and the military to read from. It was their Irken Bible to start them off: gleaning everything Dib had learned or discovered over the years from fighting or spying or prying from Zim. He flicked through it idly without taking any of it in. He had been over it some ninety nine times when he had been writing it, coming back and forth to edit it, and key in features he had later discovered about his tormenter. The documents had started as simply that: until, over time, his research had evolved into a heavier tome. His annotations were strictly academic, and were not as specialised as the scientists had probably hoped for. Heck, he was a kid when he'd written most of this stuff, most of which just popped out of his head and straight onto the page.
As he flicked through the files it randomly settled on a page:
Zim seems highly intolerant to water, and his skin seems to suppurate and dissolve when in any kind of contact with rainwater. It could be due to it the water's purities, impurities or chemical compositions, like water is acidic to him, or possibly 'too' alkaline for his biochemistry.
I discovered this in class when it started to rain outside. The alien showed immediate discomfort as if his aversion to water and water-based products is possibly inherent to his species. Further research and study is still needed. I've seen that lizard ingest tea, or coffee without any adverse effects. And then he goes and drinks something like Suck Munkey and his mouth projectiles smoke while he writhes in agony.
I've tried to take a sample from him to test this theory. First and second attempts didn't go so well.
I pushed him into the swimming pool during swimming class on Thursday the 8th of October. He sizzled, just as I expected him to, but the damn creature obviously doesn't know how to swim. The other kids pulled him out, many of them not seeming to care for all the smoke and blisters Zim was exhibiting. I got suspended from school for two weeks. My father couldn't even bring himself to look at me. One day I'll show them. I'll show them all.
The word 'all' was underscored three times in heavy ink that had blotched. The photocopier had even photocopied the soda stains on the page. He flipped that page over.
He never seems to eat any of the cafeteria food. He just sits there at the table, pretending to eat the foodstuffs we're served. When the other children started growing suspicious, he started coming in with a lunch box: one of those typical blue lunch pails. When he opens it, he always –
He turned another, flicking through them faster and faster as if he was searching for something in-between that couldn't quite be seen.
He doesn't even have real parents. How come no one notices this? Not even Ms. Bitters! And nothing gets past her! I've tried everything! They're clearly robotic! You can even see the seams! And my god he has this thing about germs. And then he goes and basically nearly takes control of the whole class with a zit!
The pages were a blur.
I suppose it's really that easy to hijack a Skool bus, and send that thing into space.
That equinox!
Him and his evil plots!
I'll get him!
I'll show them!
The phone took him by surprise, its happy chimes pulverising the calm to splinters.
He let go, and the dog-eared pages settled back into place.
He imagined it to be his sister again, or someone at the lab who had another stupid question to ask when he had specifically told them to read his ZIM files. Then there were the inevitable prank callers he was sure to get. Ridicule came hand-in-hand with fame when one had the spotlight. He was warned in case religious zealots might try to contact him, or people claiming him to be a fraud, and that alien was a hoax.
He rose, shuffled over to the phone and picked it up; eyes narrowing as he lifted the receiver to his ear. There was some vague mutterings on the other end before a long and happy: "Hellllllo?"
Dib waited, but the caller on the other end didn't elaborate. "Who is this?"
"Yeah!" Cried a little voice. "It's ME!"
He gave a longwinded sigh. He had almost turned in the robot as a package deal, as if Gir was some discount extra to go with the alien. Here's your new toy, and here's the accessory to go with it.
The robot must have realized enough to hide. While Zim's preliminary home was turned inside out, no robot was turned out with it. Dib remained behind the investigation team, failing to declare that Zim had a robot assistant. He wasn't sure why he had held his tongue. Maybe because Gir was too childlike, too naive and confused to be held culpable for the evils Zim had done.
As he had tiptoed in with the researchers, watching them turn over objects as if they were looking for the bones of a serial killer's victims, he kept watch, and persuaded them to look elsewhere whenever they were close to discovering or activating the secret hatch to beneath. Was it selfish, to keep Zim's lair as a personal reward? He had nearly died countless times trying to not only expose him, but to keep him at bay just long enough until the bomb could be defused, until the fires had gone out. He deserved a little on the side, something he could keep for himself. They could keep the spooky, crooked house, the top layer so to speak, the pretension that coated the real lair, and he would keep all below.
Once the media had died down, he would go there, and explore at leisure. He could finally spend time reverse engineering, and slowly mastering, the technology that had always remained out of reach. But Gir... how he had managed to disappear, and for this long without being discovered was a strange turn of events he could not figure out.
Had Zim managed to hide him in time, before...?
"Is Master there? Is he coming home? The waffles are getting real cold."
"No, Gir. Zim isn't coming home." He employed the same empty, cool, business voice he saved for the journalists and scientists.
"Is he eating waffles with you?" There was the briefest little chuckle. "He has my last marble!"
He should have known by now that trying to explain anything to Gir was like asking a child to recite the Latin alphabet. "No, no, you... you don't understand. He's not here, Gir. He's finally going to answer for everything he's done."
"What?"
Dib put the receiver down. "I'm sorry, Gir."
He tried to imagine how the robot might react, if he would even react at all, as a child suffered grief they could not fully understand. Or the robot might simply go back to whatever he was doing, brush off his immediate concerns, and focus on whatever happened to be in front of him. It was possible he may yet be captured. It wouldn't take much for the robot to bundler into a researcher or scientist still pecking over the Irken's furniture.
Dib opened a bottle of brandy, poured the dark, smooth liquid into the tumbler and swallowed it down until he was sufficiently light-headed. Then he turned on the TV to watch himself on the news. It was strange to watch oneself standing there, smiling and waving while cameras flashed and journalists crowed or barked with questions. He noticed how exceptionally pale he was, how plastic that smile, how phoney that voice. Under his image the headlines read: 'Possible Alien captured by Dib Membrane. No conclusive photographs or footage as of this time. Stay tuned for the latest news.'
He switched it off, the questions buzzing in his head, with the ache of his sister's response, and the pleas of a robot. The brandy suddenly made him feel sick to his stomach.
He expected something more from this glory, but he wasn't sure what. Everything that he had hoped for had come to pass. His father had offered him a seat beside him. The world knew him for what he was, and not what he was before. He was on the front page of magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, and it wasn't long before there were mentions of his exploits on the radio.
So why did it feel like he was starring in a premiere to some cheap movie?
Is this it? Is this as good as it gets? Will they still remember me tomorrow? As the one who saved the world?
Reasonably drunk and tired, he approached the balcony outside his bedroom and clutched the iron railing as his mind comfortably swam. The world tilted a few times, and the sky was darkening to a very fine, smooth wine red that made him think of melted rubies. He stood, staring at the descending sun for some time.
There wasn't much evidence to suggest a great battle had even happened except for the burn marks on the tiling of his roof, and the blood on the bedroom floor and kitchen. The leavings of their final battle carried the stale scent of plasma fumes and the stink of burnt skin amidst scorched clothing.
It hadn't been the glorious finale he had often dreamt of.
Splashes of red and green had dried upon the tiling, or had soaked through the floor and carpets.
He tried to shake the wooziness from his head. They had carried their hate around, like some everlasting memento.
He looked at his hands, hands that had closed around Zim's throat. The moment had come, that second of opportunity to finally hold that power over him, and he'd done what any desperate man would do.
Something had to come from it; something to finally end the eternal carousel.
But there had been a change between them at the very last. When it had just been the two of them, caught in each other's grip: without the pretension of their tech and competitions, when there was no more pomposity, no more walls.
He ducked under the bedcovers still wearing his jacket and outdoor clothing, having just enough sense to kick off his boots. From this height he could still smell the fusion vapour, so he turned over, and could still smell it.
When he shut his eyes, he thought sleep would be instant; a well-earned rest after a long day of celebration should come easy. But upon shutting his eyes, he saw his tiny Irken being dragged by a wall of men in white coats, and saw him again, alone and frail on a little metal stool that held him in place, gaunt frame deprived of its bold, coloured uniform.
Dib turned over and turned over under the sheets, throwing out his jacket to get comfortable. The alcohol made scenes run together, the memories melding until he could not tell which was when. Sometimes he was within the confines of a warm, humming alien base. Other times he would be dunking Zim underwater to hear the hissing of his skin as one green arm frantically made to grab something to keep from going under. Finally, as exhaustion pulled him down, as his eyelids closed and the dreams began to take him, he saw the little figure posed on that little metal stool, looking out from wide and frightened eyes.
This is what I wanted. He thought. This is what I've always wanted.
