A/N: I meant to mention this last chapter, but didn't think of it until this week. I don't exactly have a dA gallery to be proud of (mostly because my scanner sucks at scanning and I suck at using a tablet), but I did make a "cover" for In Short Supply. I dunno if fanfics have covers, but, anyway, here's the link:

ckret.deviantart. com/art/IZ-In-Short-Supply-82101667

FFnet is evil about links, but I think this'll work. Just copy/paste and remember to take out the space between the period and the "com".

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please remember to review. Thank you!

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In Short Supply

Liquid Glass

xxx

A column by Correspondent Bibimbob, published in the Irken magazine BrainSugar two eras after genetic engineering discovered a way to remove the genetic codes that formed genitalia from Irken DNA and seven years before the last non-digital publications, including BrainSugar, were shut down for good: "New Irkens Not Making Slark Proud"

And we're proud to not make Him proud, let me tell you that. At nineteen years old and as a sterile layer (or just a sterile, since apparently I'm not considered a "layer" anymore), I'm part of the first wave of genitalia-free Irkens to join our empire. I've gotten enough questions from older Irkens about my dancing habits to try the patience of a Tallest. Here's just a sample:

"So, how do you do it?"

"Can you dance with normal fertilizers and layers, or just other steriles like you?"

"Is it true that all steriles are Virtuous Slarkist?"

And, my personal favorite: "Are steriles really asexuals?"

A-ha. A-ha-ha-ha. A-ha-ha hardy-har-har haa.

No.

I think it's time I set the record straight for some old-timers out there. We could hardly call ourselves Irken if we were asexual, could we? To be Irken is to be evil, and to be evil is to dance, snack, and make merry indiscriminately. With an emphasis on "dance."

We are also not Virtuous Slarkists, because what the Irk kind of an idiot wants to tie himself to the water and become "virtuous"? Just like all Irkens, we are happily Zimish Slarkists, following the example of the Youngest Tallest—and we are Agnostics, Atheists, and Narcissists, as well.

Yes, we can dance with traditional fertilizers and layers just fine. The Geneticists really knew what they were doing, see: they didn't just take away our dancing organs, pffft, let's call it a day, everyone. No no no. See, all they really removed were reproductive capabilities. And, well, yeah, the organs too. But we can still dance.

The important part of dancing is what happens in your head. From what we hear, to you oldies, it feels like the important part is going on down where the action is, but the part that's really worth it is in the brain: the actual mental chemical release that happens with orgasm. And we get that just fine. Trust us, it happens.

Now, the most common question is "How do you do it?" so here's how: it's all in the skin. No lie, while the rest of you have to ram Disk A into Slot B, all we need is tactile contact. Skin-to-skin, antennae-to-antennae, I hear some get stimulation tongue-to-tongue as well. Think, maybe those lucky bugs can snack and dance at the same time. Wouldn't that be something?

The concept isn't new. We've read our biology files; we know you oldies can get plenty of pleasure just touching and rubbing and all that good stuff. With us, it's just enhanced a little bit. Okay, a lot. Ever wonder why we wear gloves and pants and long sleeves even during the summer? We're talking really intense skin contact. It took me four years to realize that when I was watching you oldies shake hands without wearing gloves, you weren't groping each other. (It was SUCH a disappointing realization, too.) In fact, many work places—including the military—have instituted new uniforms, to keep employees covered from the neck down during work. Otherwise, trying to work and bumping into a stranger could be... rather distracting.

So there you have it. Not asexual, not Virtuous Slarkist, fully compatible with all sexes and genders, and able to orgasm with about half the effort you oldies need. Just proudly doing our duty to the Irken Empire by giving Slark one more reason to hate us.

xxx

Purple would never admit it, not on any world in the entire Firmament, but there had once been a time, a few days, when he had admired Zim more than anyone else alive.

Sure, that had been years and years ago. And years. It had been within a few days of Horrible Painful Overload Day, of the temporary evacuation of all smeets currently on Irk to Devastis, of Purple's own birth. He and Red were both mere fractions of a degree older than Zim, and lucky they were; everyone born after Zim on that day had died.

That had been long, long before anyone had known that Zim was the cause of Horrible Painful Overload Day. Long before anyone had any idea what trouble Zim would be. Long before anybody knew anything about Zim except his name and, of course, his height.

Back then his height hadn't been a disadvantage, oh no. Zim was quite big for a smeet. And, only a few days after the evacuated smeets had been given their cells in some unused barracks, Zim had his first growth spurt.

He'd run through the halls of the evacuees' facilities, shouting at the top of his lungs, bursting with prideful noise: "Hey, hey! Look! Look at Zim! I bet none of you puny little puny-things have ever seen anything like ME before! Huh? Huh? That's right! I grew this much last night!" He then threw his hands as wide apart as they would go. That was incredibly inaccurate, of course, but he had indeed grown a noticeable amount. Noticeable enough that he was then, officially, the tallest of all the smeets with birthdays on Horrible Painful Overload Day. While most smeets were around negative forty units tall, Zim was quite a bit taller. He never officially got his height measured, but most smeets estimated that it was somewhere around negative ten units. Absolutely huge.

Zim had strutted up and down the hall for most of the morning, chest puffed out, head thrown back. "I'm just that amazing, you know! I was born for greatness. That's why my name is Zim. It's an amazing name. For an amazing Irken. Like ME!" That was the first time Purple ever heard Zim's laugh. To his four-day-old antennae, it was the most powerful sound he'd ever heard, a sound that was only rivaled for sheer intensity by the sirens on Irk. Apparently, an amazing laugh, to match an amazing name, to match an amazing Irken.

"Hey, YOU!" Zim had stopped and whirled to face one of the smeets standing in the door of his recharge cell to see what the hubbub was. As it turned out, the smeet he had stopped to face was Purple. Zim gazed down upon Purple, head tilted back so that it seemed as if he were looking from an even more extreme height. "You, little thing! Zim asked you a question!"

Actually, he hadn't. "Um... Wh-what question?"

"What's your name?! Answer me! Answer Zim!"

"I... it's... P-Purple."

"Purple, huh? I bet it's 'cause of your eyes. See how brilliant I am?" Zim had grinned down at him, eyes narrowed and glimmering in delight at the processes of his own mind. Purple had never seen blown glass before. But when he did years later, watching an Aesthetic Artisan blow burning, shining, red-hot liquid glass into shape, the first thing it reminded him of was Zim's eyes. "That's because Zim is a genius. I was born that way! You'd be amazed by the things I could tell you! Hey, what's your encoded career?"

"Huh? It's Diplomat."

"Hmph! Diplomacy is for losers!" Zim whirled away and marched down the hall, still talking to Purple as he left. "Be that as it may, I will hire you to do all my diplomatic stuff for me, so that I won't have to." He raised both hands in the air and pointed down at himself. "After all, I will have much better things to do when I—I, Zim!—am your Tallest! That's right! Someday very soon, Zim will be your Almighty Tallest. Prepare yourselves for my mighty rule and the dawn of a new era for the Irken Empire, for I will lead us all to glory!"

And as Zim turned another corner, his boasts echoing back down to Purple's open door, he'd believed. Still too young to have learned cynicism, always just a little bit dense, he'd accepted every word Zim had said: that he was born for greatness, that he was going to be the next Tallest, that he was the greatest thing to happen to Irk since the Pak. Purple had truly been in awe, because he was too naive to know not to be.

Then, three days later, Purple had his first growth spurt, along with most of the other smeets, and Zim was annoyed to find that his shorter peers were quickly catching up to him in height. By the time there were enough back-up generators in place for the smeet training academies on Irk to take back the evacuees, both Purple and another smeet named Red were an antenna's width taller than Zim.

Zim had walked up to both of them and said they were obviously conspiring against his future rule, but not to worry, he'd soon pass them in height for good, just wait and see. Red had shrugged; it didn't matter to him yet. Purple, though, had hesitatingly trusted Zim, and believed him for nearly a fifth of a year, until another growth spurt put him tall enough to just barely see over Zim's head.

After his first spurt, Zim had never grown again. It wasn't long before Purple had completely lost respect for Zim, the one-time future Tallest.

Even so, sometimes Purple had wondered, when he and Red had just received another stupid transmission from Earth, or when he saw some zero unit Drone come into work after a growth spurt and announce, beaming with twenty new units of height, that he'd be quitting and becoming a Soldier. If Zim hadn't stopped growing, if he'd at least reached an average height, or perhaps even just managed to cross the zero unit threshold, would he still command even a faction of the respect he had an era and a half ago?

Now, looking at Zim suspended in mid-air on his Pak-legs, stark naked, with layer slit and numerous stitches and longer limbs and all... Seeing Zim's face on such a stretched-out new body—not a respectable height, no, but at least no longer a shameful one—and knowing what Zim had been put through already, what he'd be willing to go through for the Irken Empire... Purple was afraid he knew the answer to that question.

Absolutely.

xxx

Zim didn't stop bouncing around and cheering until he slid one of his Pak-legs off the operation table, fell to the floor, and almost broke his fragile legs and left arm. At that point, Tak informed Zim that she was not going to get executed because Zim was too stupid to keep himself from getting hurt, and said that he could either lay down and wait for his fissures to heal on his own or she'd get the computer to make him.

"You can't do that!" Zim said. "Computer, don't listen to Tak's orders!"

"Fine."

"Computer," Purple said, "listen to Tak's orders."

"Fine."

Tak smirked. Nice to know she still had some authority here.

Zim glared at Purple, but reluctantly lay down. "How long will it take me to heal?" he asked.

"It should be about a day," Tak said. "If you move too much before then, I'll kill you." She gave Purple an uncomfortable look. "Merely a... figure of speech, my Tallest."

"I hope so," Purple said neutrally. "Or else I'd kill you. And that's not a figure of speech."

Zim snickered. Tak hated that snicker. And she was quickly growing to dislike Tallest Purple, too.

"Excuse me, my Tallest," she said coldly. "But, we have other matters to address now. I assume you didn't think that I work for free. Since such a thought would be utterly idiotic, and I know very well that you are not idiotic, my Tallest."

"Oh." The look on his face told Tak very well that he hadn't realized that she'd want pay, but couldn't admit it without looking dumb. She figured as much; she'd had to be careful to phrase her statement in a way where Purple couldn't simply refuse to pay her just because he was the Tallest. The best way was to arrange things so that he'd look bad if he did refuse. "Yeah. Sure. Uh, how much do these thingies cost?"

Quite a bit. Tak fought down a grin; lucky her Invader training had taught her to hide emotions. "We can discuss my rates upstairs," she said, walking towards the med bay door.

"Um, okay..." Before they were all the way out of the med bay, Purple turned around to shout through the doorway, "Hey, Zim. You'd better be right there when I get back. If you break any bones or anything, I might let Tak kill you."

"Never fear, my Tallest!" Zim said. "I shall allow myself to heal as quickly as possible."

"Good. You just stay—"

"And tomorrow, we can dance!"

Purple quickly pounded the button to slide the med bay door shut, not even attempting to finish whatever instruction he'd been about to give. His antennae were flat against his head, the tips pulled together so they were almost touching, quivering from embarrassment. Tak could feel her own antennae standing straight up in shock at what she'd just heard.

"Uh, Z-Zim can say some pretty crazy things, can't he?" Purple said, his voice even higher than normal.

Tak pursed her lips, trying not to grimace. "Quite." She could only imagine what her face looked like now. A solid year of Soldier training and two of Invader training had taught her how to hide almost every emotion, but she had never quite learned how to conceal disgust.

Purple turned away and headed quickly towards the lift, looking up at the ceiling, his antennae slightly crossed now. Tak followed wordlessly, the warning she'd learned in the black market repeating in her head like a mantra: anything that can be made, is made. Anything that can be sold, is sold. Anything that is made and sold, is somebody's fetish. Surgeries and operations could be bought and sold just like everything else, couldn't they? Tak supposed that for the right price (but what price? Monies? A new mission? Special privileges?), even Zim could be bought.

For a moment, this worried Tak. In a flash of patriotic fear, she wondered if it was worth risking her life to break her promise and say something about what she'd seen. If Tallest Purple was way out on Earth, shirking his duties and giving special treatment to the Exile Zim, surely, Tallest Red needed to know what his co-ruler was doing?

But then Purple cleared his throat and, turning slightly towards Tak without actually looking at her, mumbled, "So, uh. Did you... hear anything?"

Her automatic, black market-trained reply was, "I may have, my Tallest. That depends."

"Name your price."

Tak grinned, all thoughts of patriotism gone from her mind. "That also depends. How many monies can you remotely transfer into an anonymous account at one time?"

When Tak left Earth approximately twenty degrees later, she was officially the forty-eighth richest Irken in the empire.

xxx

While Zim recovered, Purple entertained himself with a bag of Doritos, a bowl of pudding, and imagining every possible way he could murder Zim after this stupid, stupid mission was over. He had to go and say something like that when Tak was listening, didn't he? Now Tak knew that Zim's mission had something to do with dancing. At least she had no idea what, but given that she'd seen Zim naked and thus knew what other surgery he'd gotten, she might be able to guess about the eggs...

Or, she might just imagine something horrible. Purple shuddered. He didn't even want to think about what she was probably thinking about. At least, he comforted himself, it was probably better if she imagined that he was doing some twisted, sick thing. If she did, she was less likely to figure out his real mission, which was probably far more embarrassing than whatever she was imagining.

Purple once again wondered at his sanity in deciding that the best way to deal with a deficit of average-height Irkens was to breed more. With Zim. Red would probably pass out laughing if he ever found out, before declaring Purple a moron and officially ordering the end of the mission. And the empire would continue to evolve apart, to fall apart.

That was why Purple had to do this, no matter how crazy the mission, no matter that he had to do it with Zim, no matter how ineffective it was. It was the only thing any Irken alive was doing to help. If the Control Brains couldn't find the problem and if Red wouldn't acknowledge one existed, Purple had no choice.

The bag of Doritos was empty. Purple could either find another one or do something productive, so he decided on the latter. Good snacks or no, he'd had just about enough of Earth and Zim. "Computer, how soon until Zim's recovered?"

"Uh, not long now. Maybe, six-ish hours?

Purple frowned. "And how long is that again?"

"Umm..." The computer tried to remember the conversion between hours and degrees, apparently failed, and said, "A quarter of a day."

Only fifty-five degrees, then. Purple hadn't realized he'd spent so much time just waiting for Zim to recover. He'd only gone through twelve bags of chips. "What about Fataz? What's he doing?"

"He's with Gir."

"Oh Slark." That was always a bad sign. "Is he all right?"

"All right by Master's standards, or in general?"

"In general!"

"He's just fine."

Purple sighed. "Good. Go tell him to do something away from Gir for a while, okay?"

"Yes, Almighty Tallest."

Purple was relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with this for long. He could admit (reluctantly) that he'd had a lot of fun the past few days, but the stress of being on a foreign world was starting to catch up with him.

Irkens have a tendency to deny or to not recognize when they're anxious, when they're stressed or depressed, but they'll gladly say that they're hungry instead. After being stuck on this world for over a week, and after all the trouble with the exoskeletal extension, Purple was starved, exhausted to an extent that sugars and fats couldn't fill him entirely. He needed a dance.

Purple got up from the kitchen table and headed to the lift under the couch in the living room. He was starting to get tired of the pseudo-Earthen décor in the upper levels of Zim's base. "Computer, take me down to the med bay."

"Okay."

He planned out the next few days in his head as he rode the lift down. He'd have to dance with Zim soon—the idea relieved him more than it disgusted him, now—and then as soon as possible he'd take his Spittle Runner to Irk and drop Fataz off in a Historical training academy, with instructions to switch from Archivist training to Soldier training as soon as possible. Then, back to the Massive. With the wormhole drive, he could do all that in a few degrees.

And then everything would be back to normal. He wouldn't have to see Zim again until the next batch of eggs were ready, as long as nothing else went wrong.

If Purple was lucky, he figured he might get two weeks of peace.

xxx

Zim's thoughts were clear enough during his second dance with Tallest Purple that he could notice a few things that had changed from the previous one.

The first thing he noticed was, well, his thoughts were clear. This was a rare occurrence when he was dancing. There were probably a couple of reasons for this: for one thing, he was still slightly achy all over, and for another, he was still getting used to his new body and couldn't get completely into the dance. Why did he have to dance right after having surgery all the time?

The second thing he noticed was that Purple was treating him differently. Not just through the dance, but in general. Before the latest surgery, he'd looked down on Zim much more, both literally and figuratively. Now, when he looked at Zim, it wasn't always with a grimace or an annoyed scowl. And he wasn't dancing as if he wanted to get this over with as fast as possible, like last time.

Zim wasn't quite clear-minded enough to let his ego take control of the situation and come up with something grand about how Tallest Purple was obviously amazed by Zim's mind-blowing dance skills. He could only manage one, much simpler, thought: Tallest Purple was treating him like an actual Irken again. Like an Irken citizen.

Of course, most of that had to do with the fact that Zim now went up to Purple's mid-thigh in height, rather than being just slightly shorter than his knee. Still, he could imagine it was because Purple simply had greater respect for his skills, dancing or otherwise.

The third thing he noticed was that Purple apparently needed to recharge his Pak quite badly. The fourth was that the "Zim isn't allowed in the Spittle Runner unless it's for dancing" rule had been relaxed. Zim discovered both of these things at the same time, shortly after they finished dancing.

Purple pushed himself up, still half-crouched over Zim, his eyes wide and half-focused and his Pak's air filters whirring as he tried to get more air. "Did we do it right this time?"

"Eh?" Zim tried to remember. Last time, they hadn't quite been sure how to deal with the new fertilizer/layer aspect to dancing, and had needed to try a couple of times (to Purple's chagrin) before they were fairly certain that they'd actually made any eggs. Dancing was one thing; reproduction was quite another. "I... think so."

Zim raised his upper body on his elbows. This was the part where Purple would tell him to leave, and Zim would attempt to figure out where his clothes were. As soon as he'd recovered from the extension, Purple had told him to get up and get into the hangar to dance, so he hadn't seen his clothes since before the surgery. What had Tak done with them, anyway?

But Purple didn't tell him to leave. Instead, he mumbled, "Good," lay down again on the Spittle Runner's seat beside a very surprised Zim, shut his eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

Zim blinked at Purple, stunned. "My Tallest?" No response. Purple was honestly fast asleep. He must not have recharged since before Tak arrived.

Purple made a sleepy noise, and wiggled a little closer to Zim, so their skin was touching; Zim quickly scooted back. This was simply wrong on so many levels. Beyond the obvious breach of decorum going on here, Irkens don't sleep unless their Paks are very low on energy. Sleeping allows the Pak to conserve energy so when the Irken wakes up, they'll have enough energy to find a recharge chamber. The fact that Purple hadn't even remembered to kick Zim out of the Runner was even weirder.

But then again, he thought, who wouldn't want to sleep with Zim?

The thought bolstered his confidence enough that he could think again. Okay, so Tallest Purple had fallen asleep beside him. That made Purple defenseless, which somewhat pleased Zim. He considered his options. He could wake Purple up and make sure he got to a recharge chamber, and maybe receive some minor praise for the action—the virtuous option. He could also try to take advantage of the situation—the eviler option.

Grinning to himself, Zim shook Purple's shoulder. "Hey," he said. "I'm going to be an Invader again, okay?" Worth a try.

Purple's eyes half-opened. "Don' be dumb," he muttered sleepily. "Lemme 'lone, Red." And he was asleep again.

Red. Okay, so in his tiredness, Purple had somehow decided Zim was Tallest Red, which was probably the only reason Zim hadn't been kicked out of the Runner yet. He decided to take this as the highest praise.

He could still take advantage of his position, though. There were undoubtedly billions of Irkens who would murder their best friends in order to be where Zim was now: alone with a completely vulnerable Tallest. With the imagined vision of the jealous crowds firmly fixed in Zim's mind—he added Tak to the front row of envious Irkens—he smirked to himself, wrapped one arm around Purple's neck, and attempted to get comfortable next to him, half dance partner and half self-appointed guardian of the sleeping Tallest. It was awkward, but that wasn't the point. The point was that Zim briefly had a privilege that very few Irkens would ever enjoy.

When Purple finally did wake up and discover he wasn't alone, he proceeded to chase Zim furiously around the hangar several times, accusing him of sneaking back into the Spittle Runner after Purple had kicked him out, until Purple's Pak informed him that he was dangerously low on energy and had to recharge immediately.

Zim spent the whole chase laughing as if he'd just played the best prank in the universe.

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