I recalled some Irkens have tattoos, but I couldn't recall why and so looked it up. Never found out why; but I did find some interesting theories as to why. And since this is part just self-indulgent Headcanon fodder, why not?

Part 30: Inked

Zim sat in the leather seat, shifting again when he heard the small engine whirring to life again. Dib was practically bouncing in his seat. Zim gave a 'tck', one antennae twitching under his wig.

"Dib-stink."

"Hm?"

Dib was still bouncing. He was beginning to rock his own seat. Zim blinked slowly. "Explain to Zim why we are here. Zim is getting a headache from the chemicals."

"It's ink; and we're here because I'm finally eighteen. I should have tried it on the actual day; but doing that asteroid was mountains better." Dib explained. One of the men from earlier, with ink covering both of his arms as if they were sleeves, and another set of ink peeking out from his shirt, came around the counter.

"Almost done with her, then it's your turn." He said. Dib nodded and beamed. Zim watched the man disappear behind the curtains again.

"Dib, what are you getting done? Zim hears tiny engines, smells that horrid 'ink', and pained groans. This does not seem like a fun activity." Zim says, motioning around the room as he did so; though refused to break his crossed arms entirely do to so. He was protecting himself from whatever was happening in the back. He didn't want to be involved. And Dib was chuckling at him. "What?"

"I'm getting a tattoo. It's like dying my skin quasi-permanently. I've wanted one since I was twelve. Dad never gave me his blessing, so I had to wait." Dib explained.

"…What is a tattoo?" Zim asked. Dib blinked at him.

"I told you what we were doing today. You're here in case I need to squeeze something so I don't bolt when he's doing it." Dib said, poking Zim in the chest. He smacked his hand away.

"Zim recalls your words being "I'm getting inked and you're my support". You mentioned not word of this 'tattoo' process." Zim retorted. Dib gave a half-hearted 'ah'.

"I guess… I made the assumption you knew the slang. Sorry. A tattoo is when the artist, like the guys here, use a needle that is hooked up to some sort of battery or whatever to stab the ink into my skin. Deep. So it stays. They hurt, but I think it's worth it. You just don't have to get a stupid one. I'm getting one I like. So, I should be good."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"That sounds similar to a tradition on Irk for Elite soldiers," Zim nonchalantly said, waving his hand dismissively. Dib sat up straighter.

"Wait, Irkens have tattooing?"

"We don't refer to it as such. We call it 'marking'. It's for Elites only. As a mark of their achievements. Zim suspects Zim would have gotten one had Zim not been banished."

"What would it have been."

"The Armada symbol, most likely," Zim said, his voice a little hopeful. He scowled. "Not anymore."

"You can get one done today. You have money, right?"

"…Zim has printed his currency, yes."

"So get one."

"Zim will not allow a human to inject ink into this skin." Zim said flatly. A woman passed them, a bandage on her arm with a smile on her face. It was bizarre, seeing a human smile after willfully injuring themselves. This was a strange practice. "This is not a class signifier?"

"No."

"Or a show of your achievements?"

"Well, some people use it like that with custom designs. But mine is personal." Dib said, taking a piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket. Zim's eyes widened at it. It was a deer, set against the stars and a forest with glowing orbs.

"Explain."

"My mother loved deer, she loved space, and she liked to hear me talk about my paranormal interests," Dib said, his voice low, yet calm.

Zim's attention was taken entirely once the word "mother" left Dib's mouth. Rare was it that Dib or Gaz mentioned their late mother. Zim had gleaned that it was, at the very least, still a sore subject for them. At worst still rather depressing for them. Zim wasn't ignorant of the importance the tattoo would hold for Dib. It was only the size of his palm, would take less than a few hours due to that and the limited palette Dib had already chosen. Zim was not dense to the fact that Dib's lack of a mother and a lack of a father through a different kind of absence was still something to emphasize with given he'd never had parents. Different circumstances; but Zim could still relate on some level. He hummed.

"Zim approves. It is very honorable." Zim complimented. Dib smiled.

"I thought so," he said. The man returned again, wiping ink from his hands.

"Alright, ready!" he announced, waving Zim and Dib back.

Dib was practically racing towards the back. Zim was more hesitant, resigning his hand to being squeezed with all of Dib's strength once the needle started to get acquainted with Dib's skin. The man pulled a chair up for Zim and Dib was throwing him his jacket and shirt. Zim stuck his tongue out at him. He took instead to looking the man over while Dib got down on the chair that he'd be occupying. Zim was going to be sure he could trust this stranger before he allowed Dib to have a needle repeatedly plunged into his flesh. He didn't understand how Dib was so coy with the prospect. He noted the name sewn into the shirt: Ron. Ah, so that was his name.

"So, where did you want it?" Ron asked, taking the drawing in his hand.

"On my right pectoral," Dib said, patting his palm over the area. Ron was nodding, setting the design over the area, picking out the easiest area to lay it down.

"Sounds good. Let me transfer this and we'll get right on it." Ron said, moving further back into the shop. Dib was practically vibrating. Zim was getting creeped out.

"Dib-stink, you are exceedingly excited. And Zim is unsettled." Zim confessed. Dib laughed, laying down.

"I've been waiting years for this, Zim. It's exciting."

Zim puckered his lips, looking over the shop and taking in a little more of the shop. He wasn't sure he liked it in here. No, he was sure he didn't like it in the shop. He was toughing it out for Dib. Speaking of the human, he was removing his glasses. He handed them over, rubbing at his eyes.

"Hold these for me."

Zim took them, stowing them in his PAK. "Why?"

"If I have to press my face into the chair, I don't want to bend them," Dib explained. Zim nodded, taking a seat beside Dib's chair. Zim's antennae twitched under his wig. They were taking in the mix of sterilizing alcohols, leather, cigarette smoke, and ink—so many inks. He would have to learn to ignore the scent if Dib was really going to insist on multiple tattoos.

Ron returned, settling down in his seat quickly. He laid the sheet over Dib's skin, pressing it down and letting it settle. "Ready?"

"As I ever will be."

"Good to hear. I'm going to be listening to my music while I work. If you need me to stop just wave your hand or smack the chair, which ever is easier. I don't want you passing out on me." Ron explained, untangling his earbuds.

"Got it," Dib agreed, giving him the thumbs up. Zim felt his antennae flatten in concern. Ron removed the sheet, revealing the guides pressed into Dib's skin and started to get to work. Zim jumped when the machine first started up, garnering a smirk from Dib.

Zim thought he was being quite the asshole not to warn him of how loud it would be up close. But, he also knew he'd do the same. He couldn't really hold it against him.

The buzz of the machine, jarring at first, Zim will admit, was beginning to become expected as Ron worked out the tattoo. As nerve-grating as it was, it was also simultaneously consistent and oddly pleasing to listen to. Zim wasn't sure how Dib was managing to sit through the pain without so much as a groan, but the human was doing it. Each time Ron took a break to switch or refill inks, Dib would relax and gear himself up for the next round of needles.

"How are you holding out?" Zim asked. A honey eye peeked open at him, looking more dimensional and bright without the glass shielding it. Dib gave a very quick and forced huff of a laugh. Ron lifted the needle to refill his ink and Dib took his shot.

"Just look at my hand."

Zim glanced down and saw that Dib's knuckles were white, he was holding a bar under the chair so harshly. Zim cocked the area of an eyebrow at him, his antennae under his wig mimicking the action. He made a hasty glance to the tattoo. He was relieved to see it was nearly done.

"You're almost there."

"Oh, thank GOD."

"So, it does hurt!" Zim accused. Dib gave him the best 'seriously?' look he could manage as Ron finished his work.

"No, shit, Sherlock. … MM. It's literal needles jabbing me at miles per hour!"

Zim sat back in his seat with a pout. "Dib-stink was holding up fairly well for how much pain it appears to be causing."

"Thanks."

"Alright, you're all done, kid." Ron announced. Dib sighed in relief and pushed himself up. The sound of his skin peeling off the leather caught Zim's antennae and he jerked involuntarily. That did not sound pleasant, possibly worse than anything else he'd heard in the shop. He stretched alongside Dib, still looking more like a cat even sitting. Ron spun Dib around and started to pat the tattoo down with a cleaned paper towel.

"Take this off after an hour or so," he said, taping it down. "Wash the tattoo with cool water, apply non-scented lotion to keep it moisturized…"

Zim tuned him out. He was busy still coming to terms that Dib essentially had an open wound on his body willfully. Zim's mind wandered back to his own previous open wound, having been given by an overzealous security guard that Zim still avoided in the halls lest he inadvertently trigger his memory. Dib was patting the back of his palm on Zim's knee. He snapped back to reality and followed Dib wordlessly to the counter, scanning the designs on the walls while he paid. Once outside Zim hummed.

"Zim has been considering."

"…Yeah?"

"Zim may get a mark. But, Zim would have to manufacture the ink, rather than risk an adverse reaction to the ink used in the shop." Zim admitted. Dib whipped his head around and beamed at the Irken.

"That's great! You could have your PAK do it? Maybe?"

"Zim will certainly not allow Gir to hold the device. Zim will do it. With a mirror, it will be simple." Zim decided. Dib furrowed his brow at him.

"What if you want one on your back?" he asked. Zim looked at him almost incredulously.

"Dib-stink, Zim has a connection with his PAK. Zim simply guides it where needed. Carefully." Zim explained. Dib nodded his understanding, quickly moving along.

"What are you going to do?" he asked eagerly.

"Not sure… perhaps something from Earth… Zim rather likes the forests." Zim mused.

"You can get trees done. One or more, like a tiny piece of a scene. There are a ton of designs out there. I could even draw one up for you." Dib offered. Zim smiled at his enthusiasm. He put as much energy into something this small as he did anything.

"Zim would appreciate that."