Okay everyone, a new installment. Enjoy. Sorry for taking so long to update. This is co-authored by "TwoCute". She deserves all credit for this one.
The paper shakes in my hand as the ship rattles with a mighty groan. A deep, thundering boom erupts through the hull, causing the sturdy metal frame to vibrate slightly. The overhead light flickers, its electric buzz silenced for a few brief seconds before reemerging to light the dim room once more. After a moment, the vibrations cease and the ship resumes its normal composure as it silently travels through the perilous depths of space. I attempt to continue my repeatedly interrupted task. I look down to my blank sheet to see a large graphite line streaked down the side. I curse as I twirl the pencil around and begin to erase the accidental marking. It is the third time this had happened now. Can't they keep the damn ship steady? Those asteroids sure do play well with the navigators. I feel sorry for those poor bastards.
I blow the rubber eraser fragments off the page. They gently float away in the dust and I resume looking at my stationary, its neatly written header the only script glaring from the crisp white paper. I grunt in frustration as I prop my lanky legs up on my narrow bunk, sighing, trying to think of something to write. I have to write something, after all. This is the day when we arrive to start our basic training. This is the day, the day where we start our roles as Irken soldiers. A day worthy of being remembered, and yet, I have nothing to say; no deep sort of reflection on the meaning of life, or any allegory about death, or even a simple statement of anticipation. Nothing, absolutely nothing. To be fair, though, it is hard to think about anything inside this hot room where there is no fresh air. I wave my hand, realizing just how hot I am. I take off my service shirt and wrap it around my bunk post, lying down on my coarse bed sheet, letting my sweaty chest breathe its freedom from the oppressive fabric as I repose on my simple bottom cot. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, hoping with slight optimism that maybe if I meditate a bit on the matter, it will help. I let my heart beat slower, making my breathing steady as I try to tune out all the white noise around me. The dull patter of distant foot-steps down the hall, the mindless chatter muffled near the door, the incessant elbowing of a neighboring bunk-mate; it all vanishes, but still, nothing. I still feel empty.
It is a most peculiar feeling. I have always stepped up to the occasion when I want to voice my opinion, and now the words are simply not to be found. Does the great and mighty Zim have nothing to write in his memoirs for future generations on this glorious day? I allow what little humility I have to mindlessly taunt me. I guess he doesn't. It is difficult to pin just what I think of anything after what has happened these past few weeks. All the excitement, the farewell parties, the celebrations, the parades. All of those things have seemed to whirl by in one vast pageant that has left my head spinning. The days just past were filled with formal picnics and toasting, while in the evenings we drank high chardonnay in our dress uniforms with the mayor and his associates at their evening balls. The hosts, rich bankers and businessmen, were all there, each donned in their finest suits, each toasting success and victory more formally than the one before. Each revolting ceremony was more repulsive and sappier than the last. The wine went down smooth, but the aftertaste was bitter and hallow.
What was the purpose of all these celebrations anyhow? Were they to make us 'feel better' about what we were doing, or was it just an obligation they felt they had to perform; as though it would make up for not enlisting? "Sure, we're not willing to fight, but if we give you a nice parade or two, it all balances out." Bah! It's sickening how low they are, those insufferable civilians; cowards, the lot of them. A bunch of parvenus dressed in their dapper dress clothes toasting to success, like it is just another business venture that may sink or float. How could they know what soldiering means? How could they possibly know anything!
I let my anger cool. Maybe some of them meant well. Maybe a lot of them mean well, but even if they do, what about that ragged and decrepit veteran who was lying in the gutter with an arm missing? Not good enough for him, apparently; the outcast. That's why I'm here, I suppose. Just couldn't take to becoming like those wretches. "Find a good job." They said, "Find a pretty girl, get married, make a nice home, raise lots of children. Help your country." What a load of sentimental crap. That kind of life is no life worth living. To hide in your home while your countrymen are risking their lives, their limbs, their very blood; just so you can sit at home in your nice chair and "continue the species"? No thank you, I would rather do something productive with my life. Be somewhere I can be accepted for what I do and earn merit on my skill, not on my connections or how much money I have in the bank. I brood on these things a little more as I find myself nodding off to sleep on my bed, enjoying the sounds of the recently impelled radio. The distinct sound of a Kera horn fills the air, its sweet, low notes floating melodiously as the sad and weary song echoes against the steel and rivets. Then the hypnotic, near-transient voice of a now-famous singer caresses the speakers.
"A busy day, a long endeavour,
Honey, honey, now or never
Take my hand, we'll run our way home
Never thinking of the miles to roam
You by my side
Just let it slide
A busy day, it's now or never
Let's make it last forever..."
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes to see a familiar, tall, and gangly figure. "Hey, Zim, me and the guys were gonna play cards. You want in?"
I squint my eyes, rubbing them, trying to adjust to the light. "Nah, maybe in a little bit, Tret."
"Alright." He walks off down the confined hall between the rows of beds suspended by chains to the wall. I stretch my arms as several others pass by, following after him. At the end of the passageway there is a small area with no bunks and just enough room to fit one table made from scrap metal that the mechanics couldn't use and seat a half a score of players, too. I get up, continuing to stretch my arms. I look down the corridor and see the group of soldiers all sitting around the table laughing to themselves and carrying on. I see Tret, sitting off to the far right with a dead serious expression on his face as he looks over the cards in his hand.
Tret is a nice guy. Modest, and a bit unassuming, but overall a nice guy. He can carry on a conversation if he needs to, make some witty statements, tell a joke or two. Everyone accepts him. That's just who he is; he is one of them. He is popular, too, but he is the only friend I have. Well...maybe not "friend". "Chum" might fit the description better. We know each other a little better than passing acquaintances, yet not quite as intimately as friends. Come to think of it, I don't think I have a single friend. Well, regardless of that fact, I still hold his opinion high and so does he mine, or at least I hope. Whenever we talk, I always start it by ranting angrily about something. He listens to my diatribe, nodding silently as I go on about vengeance and what-have-you. By the end of it, I usually forget what I started off on and he will just laugh and we will usually start talking about something totally unrelated as if nothing had happened. It is a weird way of initiating conversation, but he never complains. I like talking with him, about anything really, and I guess that's why I'll join him in a few minutes. Try to make him and I both happy, and maybe think of something to put in this damn journal. I hate playing cards, after all...
I get nudged by the soldier on the bunk across from mine. I get up to look at him, slightly annoyed at the fat crew member who is stationed here in the troop hold. "What?" I ask disinterestedly. The brute pushes me off my bunk, my body violently thuds on the cold metal. He laughs like a madman with sadistic pleasure, each chortle cackling against my writhing antennas. As the pain causes my ribs to ache, I let out a low grunt; I knew I should have ignored him. He picks up my pencil and paper which are laying close by. He holds them up to show the "regulars" on the other end of the hall. They cheer at him and his "prize trophy". He makes some clearly ignorant comments about what they are for, and some other insults at me for owning them. The sounds muffle through my still throbbing hearing appendages. I pull myself off the floor, some bitter, metallic-tasting blood dripping from my mouth. I watch the bulging mass of muscles continue to laugh. Even as great as I am, I still wish I was taller. I reel back my legs and jump for my things several times, teach time narrowly missing the mark by a few tantalizing centimeters. The degenerate lout just keeps howling, perfectly content to see me suffer. Wouldn't surprise me if he tortured animals when he was younger.
He towers over me after my fourth failed attempt to retrieve my belongings. "Look at him!" he jostles, "You're pathetic! I'm surprised they even let you take the entrance exam. A poor excuse for a soldier!"
My eye twitches with fury. "Zim is NOT pathetic! And I'll make a better soldier than you could ever dream of!" He continues guffawing, his cheeks flustered with the unbelievable contempt and mockery that is apparent upon every facet of his overweight face. He leans back, clutching his sides; I see my chance. I lunge for the pad and pencil, snatching them from his hands. The fool reels back, trying to regain balance so he can grab me; he misses by a long shot. I retreat into the bowels of the narrow docking hall, hiding in a dark corner. There is a great commotion of hollering and stomping, probably protesting against me spoiling their fun, but whatever. I have my stuff back. Now, at least, I have something to write about, biography be damned.
The solders here are infuriating. They fail to see my superiority. Will anyone see Zim for his amazingness? No, I'm far too amazing. I don't understand why no one around here accompanies Zim, I would, but the Irkens here are fools. I DON'T NEED THEM! Zim is too good for them anyways! Apparently, we are heading to a training ground on foreign soil. The Irken army has again conquered another hopeless planet, the name of which escapes me. I have yet to see the new creatures, but I don't care about them. All Zim cares about is ME!...And the Irken armada, and all that junk. I must prove myself worthy to my higher ups! Destruction is nice, too. I suppose this is all I can say, I feel as though I have more input but I'm not sure how to add it, nonetheless I am amazing.
Zim.
Pleased with my very first journal entry, I close the tiny book shut and place the items in my PAK. I sigh while being cramped in a tiny place around the corner from where all the other troops are seated down the hall. I calmly go up to my bedside, the brute conveniently gone now, and put on my service shirt again. I proceed down the hall to where the others are seated, playing their game. There are not chairs left to play their game, so I sit on the side of the bed. Tret notices me right away, "Hey, Zim, why don't you join in next round? Groot here needs a lesson or two on how to play cards." He snickers.
I hear Groot protest from across the table in his thick accent, "I has the skill, you just-a be-a cheating on me." The table goes into an uproar of happy taunting as the reproached Groot manages to let it slide. "Let's go! It's your bet."
I sit on the bed, and lean my head on my hand, meditating some more as I listen to their conversation. "So, I heard that we are going to one of these 'new' planets we've conquered, anyone know what it looks like?" The speaker tries to hide his anticipation, but I can still hear that upbeat tone of enthusiasm. Why should he care?
"No, I don't know what it looks like. But I heard one of the officers talking about how their technology level is well below ours. Explains why they fell so quick." Another scoffs. I just silently laugh to myself. Pathetic, inferior race.
A brassy voice answers matter-of-factly, "They're called humans there. A very strange species, too, they have three things sticking out of their faces. One there...and two there."
There's another voice, with a really airy accent. "Can you imagine the look on their mook faces when they got a good look at our ships? I heard it from the captain, and he gave it to me like this: they ain't got no contact with any other planets, not one. They live on a planet all to their lonesomes and kill each other for sport. Bunch of wild savages. Only language they understand is from a gun."
I hear the brassy voice comment, "They're much taller than us. Prone to going mad under fire. Heard they could tear an Irken's limb off with a single pull. Gonna be hell to work with 'em."
My antennas perk up at that last statement. Work with them? No! I must have heard him wrong. I join in their chatter, letting myself have the next word; a welcome entrance. "Tell me if I heard you right, did you say we were working with those...things?"
They all look around, confused. "Well yeah, Zim, that's why we're here." The soldier rolls his eyes. I stare at him, trying to place a name to his face, but I can't. Why is it so hard to remember who these people are?"
"Yeah, High Command said we're gonna use the planet's troops. So we're going to join them in training." the soldier explains. That's when Groot puts down his cards on the table.
"I'm out." He says. He walks away and I take his chair while they finish up their game. I just growl to myself angrily, and a rather muscular soldier snarls at me. I shrug it off as nothing.
"Well, that's just great." I exacerbate my voice. "I have better things to do than be with those disgusting 'hyuman' things." The word 'human' leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
I hear the air voice again. "I agree with shorty over there. I don't need no bunch of half-witted dopes to work with me. If I wanted that, I would have stayed at home in my job making space-ship parts. Best on the planet, by the way."
"You, Rote, I understand, but you, Zim, you hate everything. They can't be THAT bad if they're going to join us in battle." I give the speaker a deadly state, and he returns it. After a moment, he continues,."If they are into this kind of thing, then they must be at least tolerable. I mean, no matter what, we have to work with them. Make peace with it."
"Make peace!" I nearly scream. "Nonsense!" I probably should have not said that so loudly. The big, muscular Irken next to me puts me in a choke-hold with one arm, still managing to hide his cards.
I hear Rote join in, "Good job, Spark, shut the little guy up."
"I just can't wait to get back to destroying things. You think they'll have something to blow up there?" I hear my attacker ask.
"What place doesn't have something to destroy, big guy?" I hear Trent goad. They laugh, knowing all too well how true this is.
"Yeah, so anyway, how long are we staying on this planet?" comes another question. As I struggle against Spark's enormous arms, I listen in disgust to all this hype about a conquered people. I keep trying to pull myself free, in the meantime, but the effort is futile. Eventually I just become limp in his arms encircled around my head.
I hear Rote chime in, "Meh, probably a long time, though not forever, I hope. They're doing a bunch of new tests this time. Me, I'm more concerned about the female species there. I hope I could find one like Susie. Boy, did she look fine. I wonder what they'll look like!" There's an explosion of laughter.
"They'll be hi-" my mouth is covered again by Spark. Curse him and his strength!
"I miss my girlfriend." I hear a bunch of "me too"s. I grunt in annoyance. Who needs a girlfriend? I don't! I don't need anyone! And why won't this Irken let me go!
"Man, this is going to be tough..." a soldier mourns. Weaklings! I would have said that aloud but certain hands prevent me from doing so. There is a bit of turbulence and everyone's antennas shoot up on alert. I frantically move to escape Spark and run to look out the tiny window. The other soldiers are waiting for my reports on what I see. I turn to look at the others.
It's greyish out..." I turn back around to view more. "There seems to be...uh...white stuff...almost everywhere! It's an infestation of filthy white stuff!" I am shoved aside and the other soldiers fight to see out the window. I move to sit on my own. This is horrible and pointless, I know for a fact that these 'human's are worthless.
A female announcer's voice comes over the intercom, "All troops report to the docking bay for assembly. Repeat, all troops report to the docking bay for assembly!" I hear a bunch of groans as they all head for the exits leading to the docking bay. I run down to my bunk and put on my service cap and coat, buttoning them neatly to my overalls. So this is it...