Ch. 4

Trigger warnings: Well-meaning medical incompetence and gore, underage drinking, needles but not in the way you think, poor poor Zim, continued discussion of parental neglect.

A/N: The level of support yall are giving me is insane and far beyond what I ever thought something I made would get, especially on tumblr and my favorite discord server :,) Thank you so, so much! Yall make my day with every sweet comment, and you filthy humans will be spared in the upcoming. Also my editor ( highwaymanstories on tumblr! They write cool shortform gay cosmic horror scifi shit! Go read it!) is so incredible I'm actually going to marry them (marrying someone is like ZADR but in real life.)

Rawr XD, I made u a cookie but I eated it, and so on and so forth,

XxzimisinhellrightnowxX

Seconds after Dib suggests they go out in the fucking storm to get some stupid branded junk food, regretting the words as they fall out of his mouth, he finds himself dragged outside by his newly-assigned nightmare responsibilities. In the precious seconds between their ear-splitting cheers, Dib wishes he had thought to Macgyver a pair of leashes for them. Or chains. Unfortunately, they're so eager to get their Suck-Munkee, and whatever other shit, they don't give him the chance.

Gir and Minimoose don't seem too keen on bothering with the car, either. They each hold one hand, and pull him with a ferocious strength. It feels like he's water skiing as he skids across puddles created by the flash flood his wrist gadget keeps making little warning noises about. He figures he wouldn't have been able to drive anyway, so it's just as well the enthusiastic robots hadn't given him a choice. Being pelted by heavy rain and dodging lightning strikes and dying of hypothermia and drowning in the streets might be good for him.

They arrive at the convenience store in a remarkably short amount of time. Dib, who had forgotten Gir has mini fucking rockets in his feet, nearly slams into the door as Gir and Minimoose reverse directions at the absolute last second. How thoughtful of them. His shoulders only feel dislocated, they aren't really, so he should consider himself some horrible kind of lucky. He doesn't, but he figures he should, in theory. After all of this is over, after Zim is healthy and then maybe dissected or simply kept in a stasis tube or cage by a group of scientists and/or the Swollen Eyeball, Dib knows exactly what he will do. He is going to go into the woods, find a cave, curl up inside, and die. Excellent plan.

After determining his fate, Dib crouches down to make sure Gir hears him. "Gir?"

Gir pauses his remarkably efficient splashing of an entire city block using only a single puddle, and smiles sweetly at Dib. "Yesssss?"

"Hoodie. On. Now."

"Okie-dokie!" Gir tugs his hood over his head. Dib isn't entirely sure why he cares. It's not like robots are completely abnormal. Sure, they mostly are owned by the wealthy, and the children of mad scientists, but having a robot companion or assistant isn't unheard of. Walking into a place of business with a neon green dog and purple moose isn't much more inconspicuous than walking in with a robot and a flying purple moose. Maybe he just doesn't feel like explaining why he has a metal son and an Eldritch abomination for a pet. The dog disguise and just letting minimoose do their thing works fine for Zim; he gets left alone somehow, so hopefully Dib will, too. He still asks Minimoose to walk. Minimoose "nyahs" in disappointment, but still drops to the ground and waddle-trots into the store. Gir giggles and tries to do the same, hopping from foot to foot, tugging on Dib, never letting go of his hand. They are unbelievably, disgustingly cute. It makes Dib want to vomit.

The cashier of this Get Your Stuff And Get On Out location stares at the bizarre little parade of brightly colored 'animals' and the man accompanying them, a good portion of his hair spiked up and back in the world's most stubborn, genetically inherited cowlick. Dib is dehydrated, barely lucid, with dark circles under his eyes and covered in bruises and scrapes. Pink alien blood splatters his light blue shirt, mixed with the red human blood from his somehow unbroken nose and covering most of the ghost decal. He wonders if Zim's beloved tallests are actually gods, who, in their infinite wisdom, sent Zim to earth for the sole purpose of tormenting Dib. What had he done to deserve this abysmal fate? He did hex his sister that one time, but that was after Zim showed up. Hmm. An okay theory, but it doesn't hold up unless the Tallests knew Dib existed 6 years ago and could see into the future and had some unexplained loyalty to Gaz, none of which is out of the realm of possibility. He'll ask Zim about it, in the event the mangled insect ever wakes up again, and if his vocal cords aren't completely destroyed from screaming in pain.

Dib, focus. Gir and Minimoose might try to walk out with an armload of snacks and not bother to pay, and Dib is dangerously close to being banned from this particular Get Your Stuff and Get On Out location. The single cashier, who as far as Dib is aware works 24/7, is eyeing him in a way that implies he hasn't forgotten the Fridge Chupacabra Incident.

Dib looks down at his 'dog', who still insists on walking on his hind legs and holding Dib's hand. Maybe the cashier will think Gir is a kid in a costume. Or a really weird-looking kid. Or maybe a robot owned by an alien with a Napoleon complex. Dib has, as of this very moment, lost all interest in looking normal.

"Okay. Go get whatever you want,"

Gir starts to levitate, vibrating from ominous excitement. Hmm. Worrying.

"BUT. ONLY as much as you can carry. I'm not carrying anything. My bones hurt. All of me hurts. And you both have to stay downstairs when we get back."

Gir stops charging up for havoc, and looks up to guilt trip Dib with his eyes. They're bigger than usual somehow. Or maybe Dib's hallucinating from the exhaustion. He really could have picked any night other than last night to binge Mysterious Mysteries.

Gir's grip on his hand tightens. "But what about –"

Dib groans as he crouches down to eye level with his little, noisy charge. The entirety of his body feels bruised. Fine. Distraction hasn't worked; he will resort to honesty. "Zim needs you to stay downstairs, so Gaz and I can help him get better. He's hurt right now, and if you and Minimoose crawl all over him, you might accidentally hurt him worse. I need you to promise me that you'll stay downstairs when we get home and to LISTEN, and in return, I'll buy you whatever junk food you want. As long as you can carry it. Deal?"

Gir considers the offer, then breaks out in a huge grin (through the suit somehow?), shrieks "Okie-dokie!," grabs Minimoose, and runs off. Huh. Well, damn. Maybe Dib is a genius after all. He needs to remember to rub this in Zim's melted face, if the little monster ever wakes up again. Dib eases himself down to sit on the grimy linoleum and workshops the perfect way to gloat to Zim. "Ha ha! While you were sleeping, alien scum, I was able to take control of your 'loyal' robots. They care about you a weird amount for how mean you are. Stop being so bitchy. Also you owe me $293 for all the snacks they ate. How are you feeling –"

Ugh.

Dib considers lying down and sleeping on the cracked tiles. The floor can only be so gross, and there's a good chance he's dirtier than it is. He closes his eyes and fights the urge to lie down. Next time, he's going to get gravely injured and make Zim take care of HIM. Hah. So there.

The constant little squeaks of Gir's footsteps get worryingly louder, until he, Minimoose, and a truckload of snacks crash land on Dib unceremoniously. Dib shoves his assailants away and tries to crawl out from under the pile as they rattle off their choices to him. "WE GOT A COOKIE SUCK MUNKEE COS tHE BUBBLEGUM ONE WAS ALL BROKEN AND LOOKS LIKE IT'S GONNA EXPLODE –"

"NYAH!"

"– AND A TONNN OF CHEESY POOFS AND POOFY CHEESE AND CHEEZOS AND POOFY SPICY CHEEZO CHEEZY POOFS –"

"NyaaaaaHHH!"

"– AND UNICORN HEADS AND SOUR DOUGS AND –"

Dib grabs the register counter and hauls himself out from under the avalanche of snacks. "Great. You had better be able to carry them home, and I don't want to hear about my blood being on them. Got it?"

The little robots nod cheerfully, never ceasing rattling off their list of overly-processed hell-garbage. Dib stands, slowly and painfully, and avoids eye contact with the cashier. Maybe they'll think this is all a dream. He really, really doesn't want to be banned. "Yeah um. All of this. And a six-pack."

The cashier takes a few seconds to respond. "Are you even –"

Dib forces the eye contact. He doesn't have to try to look pitiful. "Please?"

The cashier studies the greasy roadkill in front of him, then sighs and pulls out a six-pack of Poop HARD. "Here. Can't give this shit away. Don't ever ask me again."

Dib sniffles. "Thank you. So much." He lets his gaze fall back to the counter, studying the grease stains and lottery disclaimers. The robots toss up the snacks, and the cashier scans them dutifully. The rhythm of the beeps and luxury of breaking eye contact is the closest to peace a grateful Dib has felt in what must be days, or maybe all of eternity. It does not last. The sacred repetitive noise and happy chattering cease. Dib has to pay. It comes out to $264, less than he expected — not that it matters. And a $20 discretion fee for the shitty booze.

He finds $104.72 in his wallet. Fuck. "I don't have enough."

"What."

Dib doesn't have to look up to feel the glare from the cashier. "I don't..." He trails off into dejected silence.

Minimoose gives up pretending to be bound by the laws of gravity and flies above the counter, presumably to check on what's taking the humans so long. They glance at the flashing screen on the card reader requesting payment, and Dib, near tears, looking at his wallet. Ah. Silly humans.

"Nyah!"

Minimoose lands on the card reader, and sits? Lies? Planks? on it.

"Minimoose, please –"

A beep sounds, and a mile-long receipt starts printing out. Minimoose hovers away, hooking bags of snacks onto their antlers and levitating the rest down to Gir. "Transaction complete! Thank you for shopping, now Get Out! :)" is emblazoned in rainbow comic sans on the card reader.

Dib pulls out a $20, hands it to the cashier, grabs his booze, and runs out. His strange robot shadows follow him, each hauling at least ten bags of snacks. He resolves to never go outside again as they run back through the rain and down the block to the Membranes' house. Relief floods Dib as he sees the towering purple abnormality, looming high above the other additions to New Jersey Suburbia. Dib would like it more if it didn't feel so empty all the time. And if it wasn't surrounded by a fence crafted from metal poles and live, bright blue electricity. The fence of water-borne death doesn't even fully encompass the front yard, and it's a hazardous nightmare in anything even resembling weather. Dib is lucky he still has any hair left. The Great Professor Membrane, despite being a man of SCIENCE, as he often bellows, is not held down by realism or practical applications of his magnificent ideas.

They are exactly alike.

Dib is never having kids that aren't robots thrust into his arms by a disintegrating alien.

Accompanying the flashes of lightning from the fence and sky is an ominous flicker and mechanical chugging from the now-open garage. Fuck.

Dib breaks into a full-on sprint. If Zim is somehow faking all this shit just to get a chance to dig around in Dib's garage, it'll be the last mistake the wretched little abomination ever makes.

Thank fuck. It's just Gaz, dicking around with the flesh printer. You know, the flesh printer, like every family has. No wonder Dib's classmates never believed a word he said; the assorted inventions of his father littering the house sound fake enough, much less the (very real) encounters Dib has had while using them.

Wait. What the fuck is Gaz doing just leaving Zim? Did Zim just decide to stop bleeding out while Dib was gone? Did Gaz remember she doesn't really care if the annoying little gremlin lives or dies? Will no one think of Dib's specimen?

Dib stumbles into the garage. The relief from the wind and rain feels soothing even though he's shaking and drenched and gasping for breath. You'd think he'd be in better shape after chasing Zim every day for years. Human bodies are a shitshow.

His little sister is surrounded by an ever-increasing pile of translucent cubes being pushed steadily out of the flesh printer that their father probably shouldn't have invented and really shouldn't have left in their hands when they were children. It sure made fucking with Zim a lot easier, though, and definitely never backfired, not even once. Dib watches as a new cube squeezes out, bouncing off the others as it lands. They look like they're made of glass worms, covered in glass felt. Or suede. Except they're all pulsing and squirming a tiny bit. Gross.

Gaz doesn't bother looking up from pouring mysterious liquid onto mysterious cubes, even when the squealing robots run in and slam into the remains of Tak's wrecked ship. They have to park Dib and Gaz's shared car in the driveway because Dib and her Dad's weird shit takes up the entirety of the garage. The garage isn't used for cars, silly Gaz, it's used for horrifying inventions and space trash.

She waits for her brother to catch his breath and begin whining. He does not disappoint. "GAZ, what are you DOING down here?! Zim is upstairs right now, unguarded! He could be preparing to use my inventions against us as we speak!"

Gaz studies a cube as it melts under Disinfectant Number Three. She picks the goop up in her gloved hand and flings it at the garage wall, clearing her workspace for the next experiment. "So go guard him."

Dib chokes, likely on his own spit from breathing too hard. He is an entire dumbass. Once the danger unfortunately passes, he wheezes out more complaints. "I can't, I can't watch THEM..." He points to Gir and Minimoose, who have set up a picnic on top of Tak's ship and are happily chatting in between giant bites of Cheezy Poofs. The broken robots have a healthier sibling relationship than Gaz and Dib do. It would be incredibly sad, if she cared. But she doesn't.

"GAZ. Are you even listening? I SAID –"

The next handful of rejected clear goop is sent flying at Dib's face. He takes a break from whinging to scream in terror, frantically scrubbing the slime away with his drenched shirt. Much better. Gaz continues pouring samples from new bottles of disinfectant onto the cubes. Each one has a disastrous reaction, until one doesn't. Perfect, Gaz is looking forward to going back upstairs, to putting the pile of tormented flesh through even more pain. Zim's screams don't haunt her whatsoever, she doesn't care, she isn't shaking. This is just like that weird ass VR surgery game, except it's nothing like it and a real life is on the line and every second decreases his chances of survival and the hollering of her brother and the thunder and rain rages on and the screams won't leave and Gaz does. Not. Care. At. All.

"How the fuck did you get alcohol?"

Dib pauses mid-tirade. "Oh. Uh, the guy at the Get Your Stuff gave it to me. For $20. It's Poop Cola with, I don't know, something?"

"Give me one. And you." Gaz holds a hand out towards the adorable, scrappy little picnic. "Spicy Cheezos."

Gir climbs down and tosses a bag of Cheezos. It lands perfectly on Gaz's head. "Here ya go Dave!"

"I'm Gaz."

"Ooooh, okay! Here ya go Gazlene!"

How the — she doesn't care. She just wants the fucking booze. "DIB. NOW."

Dib reluctantly hands over a can, mumbling about how she's only 16. Gaz takes it, chokes down half. Gross. Everything is bad right now. Her first alcoholic drink ever is under terrible circumstances, and sorely needed. She holds her dinner-of-choice convenience-store-garbage in one arm, the victorious bottle of disinfectant in the other.

"Okay Dib, I need you to listen carefully, 'cause I'm not gonna repeat myself."

Dib nods as he attempts to wring the rainwater out of his hair. Good. He might even be helpful, if he listens and can avoid being self-centered for 5 minutes. A big ask for the brat, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Gaz takes another gulp of the Hard Cola. It's gross and burns and is made of chemicals. She kind of likes it. "Go change so you don't get water on everything. Then get a laundry basket, a clean bowl, and my security bot repair kit from under my bed. Use the laundry basket to grab all of these –" she points down to the pile of cubes at her feet, "– and bring them up to your room. Got it?"

Dib nods again and takes a deep breath, about to release a barrage of questions. Gaz jumps in before he can start. "No questions until we're upstairs. I'll take care of them." She points to the robots. "Just get all that shit for me and bring it up. And hurry." She marches over to the robots and orders them to bring everything inside. They comply happily.

Dib blinks, staring into nothing, swaying back and forth in exhaustion, until he remembers he actually has to move to do the things requested of him. He feels like he's in the backseat of his body, walking in and out and around the house, gathering all the supplies. The closest thing to a conscious thought he has is being puzzled when he walks by Gir, playing with Gaz's GS5 on the couch. There's no way he got it without her permission, she carries her GS5 everywhere and watches it like a hawk. She never lets anyone touch it. Ever. Dib chalks it up to a hallucination and carries on, robotically piling the freaky-looking cubes into the laundry basket and carrying them all upstairs. Gaz is waiting next to the bed. She points to the ground next to her. Dib sets down the assortment of what he assumes are 'Surgical Supplies.'

Gaz grabs the bowl and pours almost all of the disinfectant into it. She tosses in some flesh cubes, then opens her security bot repair kit. It's full of sewing supplies and mechanical parts for fixing and upgrading her menacing stuffie-robot hybrids. Unlike the rest of her family, she invents things that actually have a practical, everyday use (attacking Dib). She pulls out some pink and orange thread. She doesn't have any green, but this'll work. She's fighting the clock here. The bandages are barely holding Zim together, and his blood is already seeping through. No time to buy replacement ink for the flesh printer, no time to find green thread. She pulls out fabric scissors, and a marker. It's alcohol based, but so is the disinfectant, so it should be fine. She tosses all of the supplies in with the disinfectant and grabs the bottle to pour some over her hands.

Dib stares at Zim's mangled, bandaged body, watching as the wretched creature takes rattling gasps of air. He looks awful. If he wasn't breathing so loudly, Dib would think he's dead. He looks down at his little sister. Gaz is shaking. If Dib was inhabiting his own body and currently capable of feeling emotions, he would feel awful. But he isn't. So he just stands there, wasting oxygen, as she grabs a clear cube and starts cutting off the stuff that looks like 'glass velvet.' She pauses and studies Zim, then grabs the bottle of disinfectant. "Hold your hands out."

Dib does. She pours the disinfectant over them. It doesn't really take off any of the grime from the day's activities. He hopes Irkens have a decent immune system. Gaz goes back to cutting wet fabric off of the flesh cubes. Oh God. It's skin. It came from the flesh printer, of course it's skin. Dib concludes that he can still feel some sort of emotion, as long as nausea counts. "Is that made from Zim's DNA?"

Gaz begins to thread a sewing needle with neon pink thread. "Yeah. Listen, your job is to hold Zim down and keep the area I'm working on still, so I don't fuck him up worse."

Dib looks at Zim, splayed out on the blood-soaked bed. "Should we tie him up? And why are the clone-cube-things clear?"

"Don't be creepy. And the flesh printer is out of ink. It has been for a year. Don't you remember when I had translucent wings?" Dib does. Gaz was in a bad mood for days after finding out she couldn't fly with them.

Gaz points to Zim's leg. "Hold here." She starts to unravel his leaking bandages. Dib climbs across to kneel on the opposite side of the bed, so he can reach without getting in Gaz's way. He grimaces at the squelching, his hands and knees already wet from the alien blood. It soaks through his black jeans more every second. He looks up and sees Zim.

Zim has been mercifully silent as they unwrap his bandages. Dib has no idea how, because his skin is literally falling off. Zim looks like a cracked doll, his green skin slipping away from where it should be in fragments. Some patches of slimy muscle and organs are already completely bare, the skin either came off with the bandage or dissolved completely. Fuck. Shit. He's a horrible brother. Gaz saw this earlier. Gaz had to deal with this alone for an hour. And Zim. Zim is a maniacal little wannabe tyrant and Dib would gladly shoot him at point fucking blank, but he's a living being, and Dib isn't so fond of vivisection anymore.

Gaz pours disinfectant over the leg. Zim howls in pain. Dib holds him as still as possible, praying he won't make the tearing worse, that he won't be the thing that kills Zim when everything else hasn't somehow. He pushes down gently on his chest and holds his ankle. Fortunately, Zim doesn't have the energy to do more than jerk around occasionally and make horrifying cries of pain. Dib wishes they could use ibuprofen or weed or literally anything without risking fatal side effects and losing time they don't have.

Gaz holds up the needle and thread. Oh fuck. She's just going to sew Zim's remaining skin back together with fucking glitter thread. And use the freaky clear shit to patch him together everywhere else. There is a lot of everywhere else, and no painkillers, and Zim is semi-lucid as tears stream down his awful little green face. Dib knows it has to happen. But. Ugh. He misses being a maladjusted gore kid, obsessed with gross shit and numb to any horror or empathy. Oh, to be 14 and mentally ill.

Zim sobs and screams. Dib swallows back bile. Gaz takes a quiet, shaky breath, and starts sewing.