I am alive, I'm just playing dead.
I'm gonna say what should have never been said.
The giants of the world are crashing down.
The end is near, I hear the trumpets sound.
"So, you humans celebrate the day you were taken out of your breeding tube? Is that ways they call it 'birth day'?" A passing car's headlights illuminated Zim's profile as he asked his questions with a curious grin. Gaz gripped folds of her dress in clenched fists that pressed against her knees. So... distracting... Zim's collared black shirt parted at his collarbone, revealing a smooth-skinned neck that emanated his grape-sand smell stronger than Gaz had ever experienced. His slender arms extended to spidery hands that gripped the steering wheel, cloaked in black, leather driving gloves as a classy upgrade from the alien's standard rubber ones. Gaz was thankful she had put some powdered blush on to hide the natural flush that persisted even when she opened the window and she took deep breaths. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut.
"Zim, humans aren't born from breeding tubes—well, we kind of are—but not the kind you're thinking of."
"What? Of course you are! How else would you reproduce?" Zim huffed. Gaz's cheeks burned for an entirely different reason, now. She hissed.
"Didn't you go to sex ed in eighth grade like everyone else?" She opened her eyes a sliver to watch his reaction. The ex-Invader pushed out his lower lip in thought; his brows knit together. Gaz stared at him, offering only silence. The only sound was the Voot's purr.
Zim's fave turned dark green from forehead to chin. He coughed uncomfortably.
"Well... that just shows how far you are removed from the rest of the universe's advancements." He turned into a parking lot. "We've arrived, Gaz-human."
Thank God, the girl thought. Zim parked with ease and stepped around the front of the Voot to open the door for Gaz. He offered her a hand and she took it politely, making sure to avoid eye-contact. Zim felt equally embarrassed as the warmth of Gaz's small, pale hand spread through his glove. His squeedilyspooch throbbed in the core of his chest. He gulped twice to rid himself of the feeling. It pulsed indignantly.
Curse you, fabulous organ! He berated himself. Pushing aside his boiling emotions, he pulled Gaz up from the car. At the sudden motion, she miss-stepped and fell into his chest. A puff of his aroma clouded around her and she stammered.
"S-sorry."
"No...problem..." Zim mumbled.
Gaz nodded and looked up at the building they were parked in front of. It was entirely unfamiliar. An imposing dark building with twinkling lights peeking out from curtained windows.
"Where are we?"
"Your guess is as good as Zim's. Your human friend said she made a reservation and sent me the address."
"Mm." Gaz shrugged and followed Zim's lanky figure in the front door. A joyous bell tinkled proudly, alerting the staff of patrons. A tall blonde woman wearing a waitress uniform and with her honey-colored hair in a sleek up-do appeared from the dim back room. She saw Zim and paled. Gaz looked up at her companion. The alien was unperturbed, long since used to being stared at for his green skin. Or perhaps rather, oblivious to the dilemma it gave onlookers altogether. The woman shook her head minutely and turned to Gaz. Noticing that she was equally strange with purple hair and Gothic style of dress, the hostess came to the conclusion that this was a special night for two unique people. She smiled pleasantly and gestured to the nigh-camouflaged dining tables.
"You must be the reservation for two. Care to sit down?" She snatched up a pair of menus and began to walk. Zim and Gaz looked at one another, shrugged, then followed. The woman led them to a secluded booth with a dark wood table and burgundy, faux-leather benches. The awkward pair sat and the woman placed the menus in front of them before disappearing. Gaz warily lifted her menu, turning it toward the single candle that lit their table.
"I can't see a darn thing. What's with these fancy people and hatred of decent light?" She squinted at the script-like font on the menu. Zim flashed his gaze around—he could see just fine. However, he didn't know what a single one of these items were. Filet mignon sounded painful and crème brulee like a manner in which to dispatch one's enemy. He pouted, knowing that there was no way he could get out of this situation and keep his dignity. He would have to be wary about trusting Gaz's silver-haired friend in the future.
"I think I'm going to have the chicken with a side of pasta," Gaz said airily. She glanced up at Zim. "What are you getting?" The alien fixated on the candlelight reflected in her golden eyes as he tried to come up with an excuse as to why he couldn't eat. A flu? No, that might make her worry. He already ate? Ridiculous; no one eats before going out. Not on Irk at any rate.
"Zim?"
"Zim does no know what these are!" Good heavens—he blurted it out before he could catch himself. Gaz only stared at him with her eyebrows raised and eyes wide. She puckered her lips in thought and nodded. She turned back to the menu.
"Well... what sorts of things do you like eating? I only ever saw you gag at the skool lunches—which was totally understandable, by the way."
"Zim likes... sweet things." The alien rested his chin in his slender hand, his fingers obscuring his mouth. He glared off into the distance. Gaz thought the gesture was incredibly adolescent, yet the way his lips pulled against the glove as he spoke made her clear her throat and continue questioning him.
"Okay... what else?"
"Zim does not like meat! Yech!" He stuck his tongue out. Gaz flipped the page.
"Okay, no meat and sweet... Why don't you get this apple walnut salad?" The ex-Invader picked up his menu and turned to the page Gaz was on. He screwed up his face. Gaz reached out and touched his hand.
"If you don't like it, I won't make you eat it." She mustered every ounce of girlishness she had and attempted to flutter her eyelashes in a coquettish manner. Zim wanted to say no, but that annoyingly hopeful look on her face melted through his resolve like a hot knife through butter. He could only gulp and nod obediently. Gaz smiled minutely and called the waitress over. She ordered for both of them and then sank back against the cushioned booth wall. She watched as Zim drummed the length of his fingers on the table, casting gossamer shadows that danced on the table cloth. He observed the room, whistling obliviously.
Gaz's eyes slithered around, taking in every inch of the alien that was available to see. God, why did she like him? What was to like? He was a bright green alien from hundreds of galaxies away with a freakish, loud personality and a love of speaking in third person. He had been four feet tall until junior high when he sprouted inches at a time and overtook even the tallest basketball jock by high skool. He was gangly and slender and elegant and his voice was so velvety and my goodness his lenses were clear crystal blue and his blush was such a pretty color and—
Gaz's eyes shot open and she looked at the alien to make sure he hadn't caught her embarrassing train of thought. He was playing Asteroids with the salt and pepper shakers. She sighed with relief.
Get a hold of yourself, Gazelene. The blonde waitress brought out their food, smiled at them in turn and disappeared again. Gaz brushed her heavy thoughts away and inhaled over her plate. The pleasant aroma of chicken and spices with cheesy pasta ebbed away the tight feelings of stress and replaced them with ravenous hunger. She picked up her fork and stabbed a noodle, grinning. Meanwhile, Zim held his fork and eyed his salad with a wary gaze. He finally skewered an apple slice and sniffed it. Then he poked it.
"Are you gonna try it or what?" Gaz mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. Zim shoved the apple slice into his mouth and chewed.
"Wow," Gaz said, "must be good." Zim had started shoveling enormous forkfuls of salad into his mouth, hardly pausing for breath between bites. Gaz smiled to herself and continued eating. Before either of the pair knew it, their plates were empty. The purple-haired girl leaned back in her seat, rubbing her belly contentedly. Zim ran his snakelike tongue over his plate, gleaning for the last flavors of his meal. Gaz chuckled at him quietly. After ten minutes passed, she began to find it odd that the waitress hadn't taken their empty dishes away yet. She stood from the booth.
"I'm going to grab the bill..."
Zim grunted in reply and Gaz headed for the front of the restaurant. Where was the waitress? Quiet talking sounded from behind the curtained door at the entrance.
"Hello?" Gaz decided to chance it and pushed the curtain aside. She found herself in a perfectly normal kitchen except for one thing: the staff were stranding completely still, all staring up at a television in the corner. Gaz noticed their waitress among them. Tears were streaming down her face. What could be wrong? Gaz turned her gawking face towards the television and nearly fainted.
It was her father. He was standing next to President Man and a panel of other influential people. A national news styled ticker tape ran along the bottom of the screen. Several translators sat at a lower table frantically writing signs and speaking with concise, clear voices. A riot of reporters flashed their cameras and asked their questions. President Man raised his hand in a solemn gesture, his face heavy with despair.
"Please remain in your seats; we will get to each of your questions in turn. Now you, young lady in the third row." A skinny brunette with a charcoal suit stood up.
"How long has the government known about this—as you call it—invasion?"
'We learned about rumors that circulated the scientific field last October. We only began to believe it as truth in January, when we began to prepare. What about you, sir. Yes, you in the blue shirt."
"What are we to expect, exactly? Is there any information regarding the type of warfare these 'aliens' specialize in?"
President Man's face was hard as he swallowed, "They specialize in all forms, specifically biological weaponry. Truth be told, some of you may already feel their effects... Yes, gentleman in the brown?"
"What do you mean by that statement, Mister President Man?"
"That information is classified until further notice. Now, people of the world, we are short on time. We will be instating the laws we discussed here in one month, at the start of September."
"Wait, Mister President! Mister President!" A young woman with curly red hair pushed to the front of the crowd; desperation clouded her voice. President Man sighed.
"One last question, perhaps."
The woman continued with vigor, "What are the odds of being able to drive them away?" The conference room went silent. The previously bustling audience ceased their unrest, all looking up to the president for a comforting word. The weary old man only gritted his teeth for a moment before leaning into the microphone.
"We have synthesized many new weapons over the past months, capable of accomplishing many things." The crowd stirred with a pleasant energy. "However," their peaceful feelings stopped at the president's gruffness, "my personal advice would be to spend the next few months with loved ones and prepare for the worst." The crowd erupted as the panel began its retreat.
Gaz jolted as the chef powered down the T.V., the remote sounding with a dull click. The girl was painfully aware of the hot tears that had soaked her face and neck. She inhaled wetly. The blonde waitress walked over somberly.
"Don't worry about the bill," she murmured in a voice that cracked, "it's on the house tonight. We figured," her voice finally broke, "it really doesn't matter anyway." She turned away to sob into a male kitchen employee's chest. Unable to speak, Gaz simply turned and ran.
Tonight of all nights... Why was everything falling apart so fast now? More tears boiled up past her eyelids as she pushed away the curtain, barreling into an oblivious Zim. He sputtered.
"Gaz-human! Zim was worried because you were gone so long—are... are you crying?" Gaz choked out a raspy sob, nodding pitifully. Zim cupped her face delicately an observed her features with a trained eye.
"Did someone say something to upset you?"
"What clued you in," Gaz hiccuped, "idiot?" Zim straightened and raised his would-be eyebrows. Gaz continued sniffling, staring at her feet. Finally, Zim draped an arm around the girl, using his free hand to thumb away her tears.
"Let's get you out of here," he coaxed her gently, guiding her outside. The Irken wasn't entirely sure how he was going to make Gaz's birthday all right again, but the was going to do everything in his power. The purple-haired teen continued to cry softly as Zim drove back to his house. He risked the occasional glance to see her pale face, lit only by the orange streetlights that peppered the labyrinthine roads of the city. They eventually pulled into the familiar dead end and Zim parked in front of his glowing green house. Swinging the door open he rushed around to the passenger's side. Gaz pushed open her door in sync with him; Zim helped her up by the elbows. Gaz looked at the house curiously.
"Why are we here? You could have just taken me home..." Zim waved a hand dismissively.
"It's not important. What matters is that you enjoy the rest of your human celebration."
"The world is ending; something like my birthday matters the least."
Zim growled, "You're being very foolish. There are still two months until the invasion. Now come inside." The ex-Invader wound his spidery fingers around Gaz's small hand and led her up the little stone path and into his base. Computer turned on the lights accommodatingly. Gir squealed from his nest on the couch, hurriedly shutting off the T.V. from the horror movie he had been watching. He stuck his tongue out with glee.
"Mastah and Mistress is home!"
Gaz blushed and raised a quizzical brow at the alien next to her.
"Mistress?"
Zim shrugged, excusing himself to the kitchen. He explained over his shoulder, "He's been calling you that ever since I ceased mentioning my eternal hatred for you. I fixed most of his more dangerous bugs, but... the smaller ones remained." Zim avoided telling her that he had kept some of Gir's more tender quirks out of a strange affection he had garnered for them.
Gaz sat down next to the SIR unit, sinking into the heavily-padded sofa. She watched as Zim took down two glasses and several unlabeled bottles in ranging hues of crimson and purple. She was curious, but not quite curious enough to ask what he was doing. Gir squeaked and murmured beside her, occasionally making grabs for her hair. She shooed him away, biting back the despairing emotions that were welling up again. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. Gir suddenly shrieked and disappeared. Gaz felt a hand nudge her shoulder. She opened her eyes to find Zim offering something in a glass. It smelled vaguely sweet and sparkled a dusky, rich eggplant color. The pale girl raised an eyebrow.
"What is that?"
"Just take it. Zim shook the glass, making his synthetic ice tinkle softly. Gaz took it, sniffing it with caution.
"It's an Irken beverage," Zim explained. "We drink it to lift spirits and heal emotional wounds. Zim figured it might relax you."
"So... alcohol."
"Yeah, pretty much."
Gaz took a sip.