The Discount Smeet
Summary:
It all started when Dib went to an alien market to buy supplies. He didn't realize he'd be coming home with a smeet. Only, the young smeet becomes Dib's whole world, and the human space explorer soon has to defend Zim against all those who want defectives dead.
Warnings:
Sci-fi adventure. Light swearing. Peril. AU.
guest
I wonder what fanart it was that brought you here? Anyway I am so glad you found this fic and were invested to read it thus far! I hope what I have in store will be sufficient, they have come a long way so quickly, and I am so glad you're here, experiencing it with them!
Larrimeme
Thank you so much! I always hoped that I did a good job on the Control Brains so your review gave me great relief! And I agree, there is no one quite like Rath! He is certainly intimidating and his mystery adds to that menace he carries. Also also, there will be more of the blanket! God knows why Zim got so attached! Inanimate objects is his thing I guess!
Muninnbird
You star! I know exactly what it feels like to remember a story, but never find it, there's so many that have come and gone, many containing titles that I can't remember. So glad you persisted, and found it!
NervousNumbat
I don't blame you about being nervous about the plot direction. Dib07 is writing it! XDXD
Dib's in a tough place, if he survives. It isn't easy with what he knows, and how powerless one can be against an Irken, let alone their military regime.
'Huh, wonder what's up with Fletcher? Is it sort of like where a program built to serve is understanding that something it's supposed to aid isn't getting that aid?'
Yes! They are built to serve, but also to observe, and can form judgements of their own in case an Irken is in jeopardy, or is in danger, like in the 'Gir Goes Crazy' episode where Zim compromises himself and Gir has to act. Glad you noticed this!
''Oof, Rath being so harsh even his robot and another Irken takes notice. Will we ever see this shoveller again? They seem kind of interesting.''
It's nice to know that they all aren't quite as 'angry' as Rath is! XD Rath has his reasons, aside from the mood swings he suffered after attacking his human compatriot, but yesss you will see the shoveller again! So glad you asked! I think you're like, the only one who noticed!
Chapter Fourteen:
Huddling the blanket to his chest and struggling to get warm, he stared at the wall opposite, terrified of every noise and whisper of a place that leered back with creeping menace. Dawn came in ochre pinks and silvery reds that streaked the walls in blood, and was not at all like the warm sepia and orange of Earth's sunrise.
There was no bottle to feed from, no warm arms to cuddle him tight, and though a greater part of him twisted at the shame of it, he brought a clawed thumb to his mouth and started to suck on it.
He battled with the tears as much as he battled with the realities he had been thrown into.
Every scuffle outside the oval slant of door, every bang in the walls had him jolt, his antennae stiffening, heart pounding. He drew his knees closer to his chest.
The blanket had quickly become the most important thing he had.
The Control Brains: overwhelmingly enormous and terrifying as they towered above, had turned a key in a lock somewhere inside him, and he could feel a change, something he couldn't understand. Part of him had blocked it out, but it was a pressure in his head, a pressure that seemed to be emanating from the PAK he bore. He couldn't define it, and he couldn't shake it away. It was an irritation, an ache that had been there before, in part, but was now growing, like the roots of a plant that had just had been given its first taste of water.
He didn't understand it, was frightened of it, even when part of him welcomed it.
When the rap at the door came he bolted upright, squeezing the blanket tighter to his chest, antennae swivelling forwards. The door opened without ceremony, and for a moment he fiercely clung to the possibility that his father had come to take him home. "Dib...?"
Instead of soft amber eyes he saw an Irken stare coldly back. His mouth was cocked downwards into a toothy snarl. Like most he had seen, he was dressed in flamboyant colors with swirls of armour that were segmented at the shoulders, torso and legs to allow modest flexibility. Interestingly enough he carried the black stamp of the 'Elite' on his forehead.
Purple eyes stabbed into his before they slowly roamed over his body in plain derision. Zim shimmied his knees closer to his chest, a burning glow in his cheeks. Those eyes then flashed down to a datapad he took out of his gunbelt before looking down at Zim again. "Well? Stand to attention!" His voice brooked no argument. Even so, Zim instinctively curled tighter, eyes hardening despite the tears flowing down his ashy cheeks. The soldier cocked his head at the neophyte, eyes narrowing. "Are you deaf? Broken? Then stand to attention and salute!"
Zim stiffly lowered one leg from the thin and ugly mattress before lowering the other to steady himself on the icy cold flooring. Slowly he met eyes with the superior, but the hatred couldn't be so easily concealed. In his left hand trailed the blanket.
He suddenly wanted to be the one in charge, the Elite who could order others around.
Instinctively Zim began to raise his right arm, fingers twitching spasmodically. His antennae lowered in kind that was more automatic and reflexive than deliberate. His weak attempt at saluting never got all the way there before he was barked at again.
"You are number 3772066. Now get your uniform!"
Zim stood there, bristling, even when the soldier turned to head out the door. The adult looked back with that twisting, snarling expression, his antennae alternatively lifting and falling. Rath did a similar thing whenever they met eye to eye.
He only wanted Dib, and knew he should stay if he came looking for him, but the soldier's calculating glare told him that if he did not comply, and if he continued to resist, they would conclude that he must be broken, which would warrant further scrutiny, and if they found what he carried, that he didn't belong; a cog that didn't quite fit in the machine, the madness, the hole would swallow him, and there would be no way out.
Zim bunched his fists together and took a step forward, which earned another scowl from the soldier. "There now. See. You aren't so dumb. Now hurry it up! I have other newbloods to shake. Go to the desk and collect your stinkin' uniform! And drop that stupid blanket for the love of Irk!"
-x-
The corridor was blanched and plain, with sterile walls and sterile floors. Where he looked for plush carpets, colour and toys, there was only manufactured aesthetical places that inhibited nothing cosy or warm.
His bare feet padded softly across the shiny metal like velvet, the blanket dragging along behind him. The clerk, same as yesterday as if he was glued to the chair at the desk and could never leave, appraised him with the same bored indifference.
The registrar gestured his claws vaguely at the desk as if he knew what the smeet was after. "Lower drawer."
Zim looked at the exterior drawers opposite, thirty in total. The lowest one he could reach and he tugged it to feel it slide open. Within were multitudes of vacuum packed and vacuum sealed uniforms, all in their individual plastic casing. As soon as he picked one, the drawer snapped shut of its own accord.
He hated the sameness of everything, and the overwhelming restrictions that brought him back to the hole deep within. Where were the colors? The exclusivity?
He looked questionably at the clerk who stared back as if Zim was a mildly curious oddity he didn't come across too often.
"Changing cubicle. Over there." And the clerk listlessly pointed with that same vagueness to a room leading out of reception.
He padded over to it, blanket in tow, and pushed the door open to be confronted by three slimly trimmed doors, each set with glittering ingots of purple and pink. He padded in and closed the door behind him.
The cubicle had a tiny receptacle to wash in, disposable cloths and a tall and narrow vessel that might be used for something else. He stared at the limited and alien furnishings, remembering the first time Dib had shown him the restroom at home. He had knelt by his side, a hand stroking the top of his smooth skull as he explained what each appliance did. He had been afraid of it, of the water dripping from the towering faucets, the glugging sounds coming from the sink, and the smells wafting from it... only to turn away from the sounds, looking back was ruinous, with claws catching on the human's clothing. Dib had held him tight, fingers running rhythmic patterns over his head and neck.
The clothing was stretchy, its tunic an ugly salmon pink with the black Irken insignia printed on the chest. The leggings were plain black, and he pulled them on before easing on the token boots. They weren't the smooth, glossy boots he saw the adults wearing. These were a matte fabric that was already wrinkling at the ankles, but the heel was firm and when he tested it, he liked the clack it made when he thumped his heel on the floor.
As for the tunic, it was three sizes too big. The tunic's skirt fell to his knees, and the sleeves sloped over his claws. He rolled them up, but it didn't do much good.
The gloves, tiny and sleek, were especially beautiful. He couldn't quite work out what they were made from. They felt durable, but were soft, and rubbery at the tips to exemplify grip. But when he slipped them on he hurried to take them off. The absence of texture, of warmth, was sudden. He wouldn't be able to feel the softness of his blanket if he wore them, so he stuffed them into the pocket of his tunic instead.
The cleric was watching with faint bemusement.
His antennae detected movement, and he spun to see the purple eyed soldier staring at him. At his rear were other much taller Irklings wearing pristine uniforms that better fitted their slender, graceful forms.
"Done?" The teacher asked in rusk Irken tones, turning away before Zim hadn't much chance to conform, "Hurry, hurry, this way," like the fabled Mother Goose herding her goslings, the Irken shepherded the Irklings with him.
Zim gripped his spooch, thinking he would be offered food, something of a welcome...
Rath's word echoed: "You're such a baby."
They were looking at him and the blanket he trailed as Zim followed them, their scowls reminding him of Rath's disgust. Each one was him in another guise, another form with that same disapproving grimace.
The cold air hit him when they left the sliding doors to emerge into the world's pale, chilled sunlight. The garish aesthetics of Irken design glared out at him from every angle and direction. He paused to marvel at the passing ships, some so small and nimble that they could fly between towering spires and glass-shiny oval structures with ease. Larger ones: floating castles too fast for their size, overshadowed them from above boasting a regalia of armaments and color.
Flags: a ceaseless perforation of red and black decorated everything, from humble post signs to district corners, lamps and buildings. It was inescapable.
The Academy rose up ahead, taller than the other surrounding structures that clustered around it. Its dark purples shone day or night, through storm and blizzard. Its outer rim walls was clustered with ships that came to deliver their pilots: teleportation was heavily in use: most preferring to 'transfer in' than walk there.
He walked with the others, eyes glittery and wide as he took in everything he could. It was impossible to look at everything at once, though he tried. Every other second there was a blast of a ship going hyper, of horns being sounded for reasons he could not fathom, and the pulse of energy going in and out of glowing constructs that looked a lot like the snow globe Dib had shown him.
"Line up! Single file!"
The shock of being forced into a procession made him hesitate as the young Irklings formed into a line with him standing off to one side, alone. Seeing that he wasn't conforming, only standing there like an idiot, the teacher bodily pushed him to the back of the little assembly.
"March!"
Gracefully, and without comment, as if marching single-file was normal, the Irklings followed the command and lithely began goose-stepping into the throat of the Academy's entrance. Massive translucent doors opened soundlessly to admit them, and as they marched in, saluting, they swiped a cord out of their PAKs to an awaiting terminal that flashed with a green logo before the next one did the same thing.
Eager to try himself, and see how it worked, he pushed the Irkling in front and plucked his cord out of his PAK. Whereas most could reach, his cord had to stretch to reach the terminal.
'Welcome 3772066.' It stated in glowering green.
"But... but I am Zim!" He pointed accusingly at the terminal. "I'm not a number!"
"Move along! There are others besides you!" Growled the teacher as the next Irkling folded his arms impatiently, tapping their boot behind the smeet.
"But... but...!" His squeak was cut off as the teacher pushed him forward, the cord snapping free from the terminal.
The corridor branched into a hundred terminals, arteries of clean, spacious tunnels and warrens leading to every division and sub-division. His head positively swelled with the sights and displays, his PAK whirring away as it struggled to assimilate so much at once. Others heard it and snapped confused or surprised looks his way but he was too absorbed to notice.
In vivid Irken symbols was the sign: 'Battle Training' over one atrium. Another overhead was labelled: 'Mech Relay Station.'
He turned to read one saying: 'Combat Simulation Tier 8.' That one sounded exciting. He turned to head towards the appropriate corridor when claws snatched him back.
"Don't you know where you're supposed to go?" Snarled the teacher. Zim tried to pull away, clutching the blanket tightly. "Simulation Room 001! Aptitude testing comes first! If you are as opaque as I think, you might be destined to be a scrubber! And I told you to get rid of that disgusting bit of cloth!"
He went to take it, with Zim fetching his claws through the fabric. The adult Irken's strength threw him forwards, the blanket tearing down the middle.
With a ragged slip of blanket hanging from the teacher's clawed hands, he looked to the disobedient smeet to the shredded cloth in his clutches. He stepped forwards, lifting a hand when the communicator on his wrist started to bleep. Looking furious at being interrupted, he spun round to start a jabbering conversation with the device.
Zim scrabbled back to his feet, gathered up the bits of blanket and hurried into a conduit filled with other Irklings and adults. The doors closed and the glass conduit then shot up, the levels and stratums a colourful blur.
'You have reached level 29.' Spoke a robotic voice from the conduit's inbuilt intercom system as the conduit hit the selected level.
The Irkens flooded out, each to their own mission, some in single-file, others branching out to destinations more solitary.
He looked to each of the labelled doorways, pitter-pattering along the long and winding corridor with growing excitement. He hadn't expected the Academy to be a technological paradise, and it helped to soothe the ache of temporarily losing his father.
There was one door labelled 'Mech Simulation.' Disregarding orders, he ran over to it, expecting it to slide open like so many others had. But the door remained shut. When an older Irken came over, looking at him first with incredibility, the door swung open, but only when that Irken had swapped his cord into the adjacent terminal. When Zim went to follow, eyes wide at the promising terminals within, robotic arms from the wall miraculously activated and grabbed him by the arms.
He was deposited politely outside before the robot arms retracted and dived back in as the door closed.
Zim stood there, blinking, feeling the tears flood his eyes.
Begrudgingly, he came to Simulation Room 001, and again angrily discovered that he had to still run the cord from his PAK into a slot before it would open.
He hated being funnelled, hated being pushed down one place, and one place only.
The room contained rows and rows of banking computer screens, each one allocated with its own chair and headset that included ocular devices.
Most of the terminals were already occupied by other young Irkens who were gripped in simulation tests. Every one of them wore a headset that covered their entire eyes. Some wore gauntlets that digitally linked up to whatever test they were currently undergoing. Zim watched them, antennae lifting curiously.
There were no instructions, no one to guide him through it, and telling him what to expect.
He only had to plug himself in.
He approached one of the vacant terminals, the desk chair a smoothly carved rim of purple with delicate armrests and a singular tube that elevated it off the tiled flooring. He had to climb into it, being barely able to reach, only for his little legs to dangle off the lip of a chair that was big enough to engulf him.
He looked again to the other Irkens all soundlessly pressing buttons on their screens, with many of them sitting, watching whatever the headset was showing them.
They looked like puppets, all doing the same thing.
Would training always be this boring?
Rath's contempt was never far: 'This is the Academy where grunts walk in, and soldiers walk out. Not all of them make it. If you can't keep up with the lessons, or the practical tests, you'll end up where you were before. Or worse.'
'This is your first stepping stone. If you do well, you can get a career you may even get to choose. Only the Elites get to pick. Only the Elites are considered worthy. Those with the tattoos on their heads you have seen? That's them.'
Leaving the tattered blanket to lay spread out over his lap, he picked up the heavy headset, realizing that security cameras were observing the recruits from above. There were at least twenty of them, these black oval glass baubles hanging above the Irkens like so many eyes.
He placed the headset over his head, and it automatically locked over his eyes. The computer terminal came to life, its visuals reflected in the oculus.
There was no introduction, and no pretext on what to expect. Simple instructions were given on the preliminary of every test, the first sequence focusing on his reflexes and timing.
It was like playing one of Dib's computer games, only a simpler, less exciting version.
He had to hit the points of light when they showed up on screen, testing his hand-eye coordination, reaction time and vision. It was simple enough, but seemed to go on and on.
He was given no score to tell him how well he had done, and was taken to the next test without prelude.
Zim suspected that the computer was ferrying away his final scores, for someone else to 'evaluate.'
The computer tested his solving abilities with math problems and his spatial aptitudes with mental arithmetic questions, diagrams and shapes. He ticked each one off, sweeping them aside to welcome more of the same humdrum sequences until he was sick with formulated numbers and equations.
He reined in his desperation to pull of the headset. This may very well be the foundations for which his 'Elitehood' would be based, in a military prison he didn't want, and if he ruined this basic preliminary now, this chance, they would question him, and find him lacking, like a key that was slightly deformed and wouldn't quite fit into the lock.
He answered the questions as his anger started to rise.
They'd taken him away.
Only to answer their stupid questions.
They would not control him.
He had to find his father.
'Why are you so tough on yourself Zim Zam?'
"Don't look back. An Irken never looks back."
