"...and now that it's public knowledge, you have all the proof you need that aliens exist! You pound down monsters all the time. You're only a couple cities over! We need you here just this once. What do you say?" Dib panted, having jammed in ten minutes worth of argument into three and a half.
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, then a forceful sigh, followed by a sharp female voice. "Is this Dib? Dib Membrane? Again? How many times do we have to tell you?! This is a private emergency line! We've changed the connection, like, ten times. How do you keep hacking it?"
"That's not important!"
"Uuuuugh!"
"Don't hang up! Please! Look, he can't even fight back right now. You'll never get a better shot. It'll be easy! I've followed your work for years. Your team is amazing! Nobody takes down monsters and criminals like you. Can't you transfer, just for one day? He's a threat to the whole planet!"
"Yeah," she said dryly, "he sure looks like a threat. Squat little bug with anger management issues plastered all over the six o'clock news."
"Are you kidding me?" Dib shouted. "This isn't a joke, he's—"
"Look, you were right about aliens—not that that was ever the problem with you calling us. Hooray for you. From what we see on the news, it looks like your city's handling it just fine. But when we hear this phone ring, we expect to hear from the Mayor of our own city, not a loony kid from another town."
"But—"
"And next time you call, it'll probably be your butt getting pounded. You hear me? Bubbles has already let you down easy plenty of times. I'm your reality check. If Buttercup picks up on your next call, she will really drive it home. We have more than enough problems of our own to deal with, so stop hacking this line!"
CRACK
Dib flinched away from his cellphone. He cradled it loosely in his hand, staring at it as resignation set in. A few seconds later, the Call Ended screen faded to black.
He exhaled slowly, the energy draining from him as he slumped into his wheely-chair. He tilted back and stared at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers plastered overhead. "Just once. Just once. Why can't someone with honest-to-Mercury firepower back me up?" He couldn't even have his dad contact their dad. Professor Membrane would want to know why his son wanted an audience with Professor Utonium, and if Dib actually told him, he'd laugh and write off Dib's concerns.
"'After all, Son,'" Dib dropped his voice in mockery to match his father's, "'the government is taking care of everything now. No need for you to worry anymore. Besides, I doubt the little green fellow is really hostile. Just two kids having fun, eh? Inter-planetary roughhousing.'"
He tossed his cell phone onto a nearby desk. "Not even a tiny acknowledgement that he was wrong and I was right. Just moves right into 'Now aliens are scientifically proven facts of life,' without blinking. And Zim as a kid? Kid my foot. I've been fighting a fully grown Irken soldier by myself this whole time and Dad still thinks… whatever."
There weren't too many people Dib knew that could actually mop up Zim in a heartbeat. At least, not many that Dib could figure out how to contact. He'd been a low-key fan of the Powerpuff Girls from afar for most of his life and had, occasionally, tried to get their help. Or their autographs. Of course he was pushing his luck trying them again, but he was desperate. Zim had never been this vulnerable and who knew how long that would last? He was probably figuring out how to escape right this second. Maybe the family that took him in would be found dead in the morning with laser burns to the back of the head.
Dib groaned, shoving his glasses up and rubbing his eyes. He could really do without that particular mental image.
Behind him, a hover-screen started up the repeating three-note alert that meant he was receiving a call from the Swollen Eyeball. Scowling, Dib continued rubbing his eyes. Did he want to take their call? He'd been ignoring them since…
Letting out a sigh, he let his glasses fall back into place and spun around to face the hover-screen. Might as well face the music. He poked the 'accept' button and slouched back, arms crossed over his chest.
A silhouette of his mentor, Agent Darkbooty, loomed on the screen. "Agent Mothman. Why haven't you picked up? It's been over a week."
"Sorry, Agent Darkbooty. Too busy making up stories about an alien threat to make myself look important. I lost track of time."
Darkbooty's eyes narrowed. "Stop acting like a child."
Dib's spine stiffened. "Don't call me that! I'm fifteen years old! I mean, yeah, I'm still a minor, but a minor who's taken on an alien threat by myself." He lifted his chin. "And I've done it without much help from the organization best placed to give me, at the very least, encouragement and coaching, if not outright material support!"
"Is that why you took the alien to the government, instead of bringing him to us? Because you were bitter? Oh, yes, truly the shining star of the organization, here. Brings us nothing but blurry photos, forgets his important evidence at home, and livestreams a perfectly normal breakfast consumption to various members as if it proves anything. And yet he expects us all to take his word!"
Dib clenched his jaw.
Darkbooty's eyes softened. "This was the first time you had verifiable proof in your hands, Mothman. If you'd brought him to us, everything you ever said would have been vindicated. You would have led the research team. Hades on fire, you know I would have backed you. I saw what happened with Mars and Mercury, but all that footage was classified."
Dib's face flushed hot. His eyes dropped to his lap.
"But instead, you took him to the government, and when they wouldn't let you in on the project, you threw a fit. Then they blacklisted you, and now you can't even get within a city block of the alien."
Dib's shoulders hunched, the humiliation burning in his gut. He was the only reason Zim was in custody. He'd been fighting this war for years. It wasn't fair.
"Stop sulking, Mothman. The situation is not a total loss. We have agents in a few branches of the organization overseeing the alien."
Dib's head snapped up.
"We currently have eyes on him at all times. We also have access to any interview conducted with him, as well as raw data from the experiments on his confiscated equipment. You can't be involved in any direct capacity, but if you can pull yourself together, we need your voice on the team, overseeing the collected data. As the member with the most experience watching this alien, you are best equipped to help us interpret the information we receive. You can also help us strategize how our contacts could obtain more information from him, and keep watch for signs that he's become too dangerous—at which time we can have him eliminated."
"Eliminate him now!" Dib leaned forward. "Agent Darkbooty, like you said, you were there when he took Mars for a joyride! Zim hijacked an entire planet, hoping to use it as a steamroller to wipe out everyone on the Earth's surface! And then I had to steal another one just to stop him. We lost two whole planets from our solar system to that fiasco! He's creative and totally insane. He could be breaking free right now! Probably with some new, even more bizarre plan to destroy us. It isn't worth the risk!"
"I share your concern, Mothman, but this is too rare an opportunity to squander. And, given the information we currently have, it seems this is a rogue alien. One who is not backed by his leaders in the slightest."
Dib blinked. That was news to him. "Based on what?"
"Confiscated footage and transcripts from his base, which we would be happy to share with you, if you would stop sulking and take our calls moving forward."
Dib averted his eyes, stung.
"Mothman. Look at me."
He glanced back at the screen.
"I know it isn't exactly the way you wanted, but you have to work with what you have here and now. We could really use your eyes on this. Are you with us?"
It took all of five seconds for the Sole Defender of Earth to relinquish the "Sole" part of his title, and sigh, "Yeah, of course I'm with you."
Zim's new prison cell was still thick with fresh fumes. He had traced the source of the smell to every wall. A brief lick told him the walls had been recently coated with new chemicals—probably to torment his superior senses. Fading ambient daylight had shown the walls were a hideous light blue, just like the flirking Earth sky. The sleeping pallet was too soft and springy, with unnecessary curling decorations at the head and foot of the supporting frame. By the door, there was a large, blocky wooden rectangle. It had four drawers that pulled out—likely some sort of storage container. A dark red, overly cushioned circular chair sat in the corner. A folding door at the end of the room slid back to reveal a small alcove with a wooden bar hanging high over his head, perhaps intended for exercise. At opposing corners of the ceiling, clunky twin cameras stared down at him, blinking their red lights. It was unlikely they existed for any purpose except to distract from other less visible means of observation. A cluster of lighting units had been stamped into the ceiling. Five wooden panels stuck out from the center of the lighting cluster—a thoroughly stupid addition. There was one window. It slid open vertically, but a panel of metal bars fixed to the frame rendered it useless as an exit.
He sat on the floor in the middle of the room with a pillow in his lap. There were two switches on the wall, but Zim hadn't bothered to flip either of them up. It had been dark for hours.
Once again, Zim's claws crept up to the collar, slid in between the band and his neck, and tugged—ZZZZZZT.
His tongue shot out and every muscle seized up. He collapsed to one side, writhing on the ground. He buried his face in the pillow, muffling his groans.
It will pass!
Endure. ENDURE!
This is nothing! A pin-prick! A tiny scratch!
Many shallow breaths later, his muscles loosened enough for him to drag himself back to a seated position, pillow resting in his lap. His hands trembled.
[tempcube]
He sagged a little, tension draining from his body. The memory had been deemed unnecessary and was properly quarantined. Only vague impressions remained; probing the collar was unpleasant. [tempcube] was getting full. He would batch [cube] the month's unpleasant memories later.
He had tried the collar from every angle. There were a couple of spots where it was possible to explore it by touch for a few seconds before it punished him. Clearly it was impossible to remove by hand. It appeared to be too thick for easy cutting and a careless attempt would likely trigger truly terrible punishment. Therefore, his only two options were to obtain a plasma cutter and melt through it instantly, or find the humans' key to it. There seemed to be a key function toward the back, close to the prongs that stuck into his neck. It was some sort of hole, though he could only brush it briefly with his claws before the shocks kicked in. He still couldn't tell if it was a hole for a primitive key or if it was a port for a plug.
There was a third option; he could wait for GIR to find him. His SIR unit might be able to wrench this thing open if he could be properly focused on the task. Zim frowned, tapping a claw on the collar. What could he call this thing to get GIR's attention? A similarly-shaped food-item would be… a donut. Yes, he would ask GIR to break the donut. And eat it.
Could he rely on… no, he couldn't rely on GIR returning. He'd...
Zim frowned. He couldn't recall what had happened to GIR. He'd gotten a message from the Tallests…
His antennae slicked back hard against his skull.
That they could be so utterly deceived about his work was inconceivable! They had said his mission was [quarantined] underperforming. Underperforming! Him! It stunned him that someone could have manipulated the Almighty Tallests so thoroughly. They were alway so [quarantined] supportive! But this…
Setting that conundrum aside, Zim tried to remember the last time he'd heard from GIR. The crazy robot had run off that morning, yelling that he had to herd wild tacodillos or something. Zim hadn't seen him since. There was no telling if the black-suited humans had caught him, or if he was somehow still free. And if Zim risked asked after him during the next interrogation session, the stupid government drones might start watching for GIR.
No. He couldn't rely on GIR coming back, and he couldn't get information about him. So, how to get the key? Or a plasma cutter?
The humans were unlikely to let him know what the key even looked like, much less where it was kept or who was its keeper. On the other hand, all his equipment was likely in their grubby little clutches, and they wouldn't have a clue how to use it. If he could convince them to let him demonstrate his tools, he might have the chance to smuggle one or two pieces away.
If. Unlikely. Chances. His claws tore into the pillow-covering. He was as helpless as a smeet! Totally at their mercy! Reduced to begging for a glimpse of his own possessions from life-forms that had barely scraped together enough technology to reach their own moon a few times! He—[tempcube].
His claws relaxed. He was Zim. He was an Elite Invader. Utterly in control of the situation. Maybe he wasn't going to escape tonight, but there was no doubt that he would escape. When the time was right.
And then, he would have the pleasure of watching this planet burn. Possibly from its very own moon.
BLEET-BLEET-BLEET-BLEET
Tom swatted the alarm clock, then rolled over, curling his arm over an empty space on the bed next to him. Frowning, he raised himself up on one arm, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Della wasn't there. Immediately, he fumbled for his phone, flipping to his texts.
There. One unread text from her. She was fine. He released the breath he'd been holding.
"Della-bella": Left to grab clothes for Zim. Be back before you go to the shop. Get breakfast going plz&thx.
He sent off a thumbs up before sliding out of bed. He slipped into his work pants, a pair of light blue jeans worn smooth at the knees, and tugged on his plaid shirtsleeves. Exiting into the hall, he paused by Zim's room and knocked lightly on the door.
It swung open two seconds later. Zim stared up with the angriest lemon-sucking expression Tom had ever seen on a face.
Well. If the alien had had a rough night, it wasn't for lack of comfort provided him. Tom jerked his head in the direction of the dining room. "Breakfast." Then he headed over there himself.
He grabbed their Irken Nutrition Sheet off the counter and skimmed it. So, the more carbs and sugar a food had, the better it was for their visitor. This could be a problem when the girls came. They wouldn't be allowed to eat this kind of junk and might be upset at the unequal treatment. Well. He and Della would deal with that if it came up.
They didn't keep sugary cereal on hand. They'd have to fix that. For now, there was plenty of bread, and a good supply of raspberry preserves.
Tom set a pot of coffee dripping, then dropped four pieces of wheat bread into the toaster.
A chair scraped behind him. The normally peaceful silence now seethed with palpable resentment.
Tom reached into the fridge for the milk, then paused. "Sugar with cocoa?" He tossed the question over his shoulder.
An affirmative grunt answered him.
Nope. He was not going to have the girls learn bad behavior from their guest. So, once again, he asked, "Sugar with cocoa?"
Sullen silence.
Tom shrugged and left the milk in the fridge. If he didn't get an answer, the alien wasn't getting what he wanted. Simple as that.
When the toast popped up, he spread it with—he re-checked the list. Milk products were okay. He spread the toast with butter and preserves, then set another four slices in the toaster for himself. He brought the plate over to Zim.
Zim blinked, poking the toast with a bony claw. "What is this foul slime?"
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Try it."
Zim glared up at him. "Many things on this planet are poison. What is this foul slime?"
Tom inclined his head. That was fair. He grabbed the jar from the counter and showed it to Zim. Pointing at the label, he read off the ingredients. "Preserves. Fruit, sugar, lemon juice, pectin."
Seizing the jar, Zim inspected the label. "The full composition of the food is encoded here on the side!" he exclaimed. "This is exactly what I… but… but I have never seen this done before! Why don't MacMeaty burgers have all this information? Or tacos? Or nachos? Is this information only for pre-serves?"
Tom shook his head. "Store-bought foods," he answered, then retreated to the kitchen. He grabbed the bag of bread, the jug of milk, and a box of crackers. He returned, setting them out on the table, nutrition labels facing Zim.
Zim inspected each label intently, his frown fading. "So, this is what your food-wrappings say. This is different. I thought… this is usually a place for advertising other tasty things. Or where the Tallests' endorsement goes. This is… so useful."
Was that a hint of gratitude in the alien's voice?
Zim inspected his plate, a thoughtful crease between his eyes. "The slime doesn't seem to contain poison. It appears to be a sweet topping. It reminds me of… sometimes GI—sometimes I've had see-rup on waffles. I don't know what see-rup comes from, but it is good on waffles." He lifted a slice with the tips of his claws, dangling it in front of his face. "With that as comparison, I shall now test the edibility of this product known as pre-serves."
Tom leaned against the doorway of the kitchen. This could be entertaining.
Zim hesitantly stuck his tongue out and touched the very tip to the surface of the bread. His eyes widened a fraction. Then his tongue scraped along the surface of the bread. Then the entire slice disappeared into his mouth.
Tom raised both eyebrows.
Zim cleared his throat. "This is acceptable. And now, I demand chocolate juice."
Well. He did use his words this time. Tom could always work the politeness angle later. He poured a mug of milk and put it in the microwave.
He checked his watch. Not much time. Hopefully Della was already on the way back. The two of them would have to put their heads together on how to explain Zim to the girls when they arrived.
A thought struck him. He glanced at Zim. "They tell you we're getting kids?"
Zim glanced up again, a slice of toast hanging halfway out of his mouth. "Mmmm?"
No way was he opening this can of worms right before work. Sighing, he retrieved the mug from the microwave. "Ask Della." He mixed in two spoonfuls of cocoa powder, then retrieved a bag of sugar from the cupboard. He set both down in front of Zim, who was licking every drop of preserves off his plate.
The front door squeaked. The corners of Tom's mouth lifted as he crossed the dining room to meet Della by the door.
She flashed him a smile. "Hey! How's the morning going?"
"Going." He caught her lips in a brief kiss. "Better."
"Great. Is he out yet? Ah, there he is. Good morning, Zim."
Zim's voice floated in from the dining room. "Oh, yes, a cheerful and fabulous major-star-rising to you on this insignificant fleck of space debris."
Tom's smile flattened out. If this was the alien on his best behavior, that didn't bode well.
"Well," Della swung a gray plastic bag, "I picked up a set of clothes from the store. When you're done with breakfast, you can get dressed and come with me to pick out some more that you like, okay?"
Another grunt from the kitchen, a clear brush-off. A vein in Tom's forehead pulsed. He rubbed his forehead, then left another kiss on Della's lips. "Gotta go."
"You had breakfast?"
Tom shook his head. "Not hungry. Toast's ready." Hesitating, he gripped her shoulders. "Della? If anything… anything. Call."
She quirked her lips wryly. "I think I can handle this. See you tonight. Love you."
He gently touched his forehead to hers. She probably could handle this, but if he stayed much longer, he was pretty sure he'd smack Zim. That would probably violate some clause of their agreement.
He squeezed past her and headed down to the car. He just needed to get his hands on the inner workings of a vehicle. That would give him at least a few hours a day when he wouldn't have to think about their alien problem. That was a soothing thought.
Still.
He cranked his ringtone volume to maximum. Better safe than sorry.
Note: Y'all. Y'aaaaaaaaaalllllll. The amount of people from the ELDER DAYS coming by and flipping out in the comments genuinely warms me through and through. Gonna re-iterate a thing so I don't get too many hopes up: I'm gonna TRY to get through Maneem (which might end up incorporating all important points of Mekrelmar into this single fanfic because skimming over Mekrelmar, wtf was I thinking having a whole extra vengeance trip to Irk? I'm pretty sure everything that happens can take place in a single extended trip if done right). I can't promise I'll get through the entire series, but I'm gonna try real hard to do Maneem(+Mekrelmar?) and even if I don't finish Maneem, I'd leave whatever chapters I finish up because they add serious flavor and fleshing-out to the old story. Also I should note that my pace has slowed waaaaaayyyyy dowwwwwwwwn laaaaately so you get longer, more in-depth chapters, but not nearly as often. I'm a better surfer of my emotional state than I used to be, but that also means knowing when to quit beating myself against the rocks trying to get the words to work and just wait for the next good wave. That, and my fandom loyalty got split several years back (side-eyes Mystery Skulls Animated) so my fanfic writing attention is also split. But if this fic does make it through to completion, expect it to be LONG and SLOW before any actual action kicks in. I've learned how to earn my emotional punches, something I really had no concept of when I started this whole fanfic-writing venture. Shoutout to my beta-reader, Velociraptoraddict! BTW, any idea what tags this story should have beyond what I've already got?
