InsaneJournal

Chapter Fifteen – In which some ransacking occurs

As it turned out…there were three droids.

“I’m never listening to you again!” Dib screeched over his shoulder at the Irken, just as he blasted a metal leg off the droid nearest him, sending it wavering off-kilter before it tilted over to land with a resounding crunch on the pavement below.

Zim, arms full of a squirmy baby who’d figured that now would be a perfectly lovely time to wake up and start crying, simply snapped something completely unintelligible back at the boy – probably in his native language, and probably an extremely rude insult of some kind. He then extended his PAK legs, skittering out of the way of the other two droids, the pilots of which had decided that it might be more fun to go after an Irken instead.

Understandable, really, seeing as they’d already spent a majority of the past few hours destroying the human race and were probably a bit tired of killing humans (which weren’t all that difficult to kill in the first place).

The teen would have scowled at him had the Krakemeth in the fallen droid not lifted its covershield in order to blast at him with what looked like a handheld cannon – the shot left a blazing trail in the air and was quite impressive overall, but it unfortunately (or fortunately, if you’re actually cheering for the ‘good guys’) missed its target. …Mostly. Dib grimaced a bit; he smelled singed hair.

Before it could get in another shot, the boy popped off a few shots of plasma, one of which hit its mark with a particularly satisfying splat – the creature reeled back, arm-cannon slipping from its grip and clattering across the pavement, to land slumped across the droid’s command chair, ink-black liquid seeping between blank eyes.

For a moment, Dib only gaped. Then, he gave an ecstatic whoop, thrusting a victorious fist into the air. “Yeah! Take that, alien scum! Man, did you see that, Zim?! I got it straight in the forehead! Didn’t even-” He paused when he realized that the Irken was a tad busy with running from the other two droids (and yes, he was screaming – quite loudly).

He was tempted to sit and watch – sorely, sorely tempted. But, whether he liked it or not, he’d agreed to a truce, and there wasn’t any doubt that Zim would consider ‘not helping’ to be something more along the lines of ‘FILTHY LIES AND DECEPTION’. Thus, Dib readied himself for another shot, lining up the plasma gun with the droid closest to his companion.

Dib realized rather suddenly that the droid was getting closer, and subsequently realized that Zim was running toward him, shrieking complete and utter gibberish as the infant in his arms wailed at the tiptop of her tiny lungs. “What are you doing?! Don’t bring them over here!” A glance at the fallen Krakemeth spurred his memory, and the boy hastily corrected himself. “No wait, forget that, you’ve got the right idea! Keep running!”

As though Zim wouldn’t when he was being chased by a couple of killing machines.

A gleeful squeal suddenly erupted from the Irken as he barreled past Dib, who skirted out of the way of the two droids at the last moment (not that it would have mattered anyway, seeing as they were more intent on flattening the actually interesting target), and moments later the tiny invader had scooped up the dropped arm-cannon with a free hand, a single mechanical leg taking said hand’s place to keep the child from falling.

“A Decimator 3000! I’ve always wanted to try one of these!” Zim exclaimed cheerfully, lifting himself up on the other three spider-legs and turning sharply to face the oncoming droids – he was incredibly prompt to introduce the nearest pilot to several rounds of beachball-sized energy blasts, followed by a flurry of smaller ones in case those hadn’t finished the job. When the Irken was done (several minutes later), what was left of the droid and its pilot crashed to the ground in a twisted, messy heap, which Dib stared at in horror.

After giving his brain a moment to process what had just happened, he managed hesitantly, “That was…”

“Absolutely incredible?”

“Disturbing. …You fragged it. …Massively.”

Zim blinked a few times, head tilted. “That’s good, right?”

“Uh…yeah. That’s…that’s really good. I'm just wondering how you managed it.”

"Laser targeting," the Irken responded simply, not bothering to snap about how he didn't have bad aim – it was painstakingly clear that he did no matter how often and vehemently he might try to deny it.

It was then that Dib remembered the third droid, along with his initial plan – it was a good thing the remaining pilot had taken to staring down at the leftovers of his comrade in a fashion not unlike the human’s. “By the way, we should probably run while the last one’s distracted.”

The Irken’s mouth dropped open for a moment before his antennae went limp and he actually did pout – Dib felt the need to give his brain a good hard scrubbing to cleanse it of the bizarre sight. “But…but…the Decimator 3000…” Zim whined helplessly, lifting the weapon in emphasis.

Shaking his head, Dib tugged at the alien’s arm. “Yes, Zim, I know – but there’s a time-bomb sitting right behind us that could just as easily do the job for us.”

“Ah, right. Seems like a satisfactory plan – the exploding bit is a definite plus.” With a strange giggle, the Irken retracted his spider-legs, strapped the hand-cannon over his shoulder, and, with one last glance back at the droids (and pieces of droids), jogged after his ally, all the while doing a most impressive job of ignoring the shrill cries of the baby he was carrying.

They made it into the gas station in one piece, and were safely inside when the first downed droid self-destructed; afterwards, Dib chanced a look out the clear glass of the station door, confirming that his plan had gone off without a hitch. For once, he was clear to add, looking rather astonished.

Zim, of course, had been very careful to pay attention – at least, in the aspect that he was very careful to pay attention to anything other than what Dib was saying. “Ooh, they have Pixy Styx!” In the bag it goes!

“…You weren’t listening to me, were you?”

“You said something?” the Irken responded, vaguely surprised. And in went another pack of sugary goodness. “Ooh, and I’ll get some o’ this…” Make that five packs of sugary goodness.

Dib frowned down at him, but figured he was better off ignoring the Irken’s ignoring him – it was Zim he was talking to, after all. Setting the baby’s supply bag down, he squatted next to the Irken and sorted through the contents gathered so far, one eyebrow raising. Several packs of Pixy Styx, cotton candy in all varieties of rainbow colors and flavors, boxes upon boxes of Nerdz and Silly Dip, an immense assortment of suckers, a hefty chunk of rock candy, and – out of nowhere – three bottles of high fructose corn syrup. “…What is all this?” he asked mildly, lifting one of the Pixy Styx packs for emphasis.

One antenna quirked as Zim stared back at him, then stared at the pack of candy in his hand, then figured he had the right idea the first time around and just stared at Dib again. “Supplies,” he replied finally, with an air that suggested it was painstakingly obvious.

“Uh…no, Zim. This is candy. We need food,” Dib informed him, feeling strangely like how a mother might if her child insisted on having dessert before dinner. Though, to be more accurate, it would be more like how a mother might feel if her child insisted on just having dessert for every actual meal.

Zim nodded as he shoved an entire package of cane sugar into the bag, his other arm cradling the slowly calming infant. “Yes, I know,” he responded patiently in a manner suggesting that he was a grown-up attempting to explain something to a child. (Which was somewhat true if only in the context of the Irken being quite a few times older than his companion.)

There was a slight pause before the teen sighed and directed a flat look at the alien. “Candy, Zim. As in…pure sugar.” He spared a moment to glance down at the bag’s contents. “In fact, uh…most of the candy you picked out…is pure sugar.”

“With slight flavoring,” Zim corrected, as though it mattered.

“With slight flavoring, okay, sure,” Dib conceded dryly. “But it’s still candy.”

Silence. “So…” Zim started, brow furrowed. “…What’s the problem?”

“It’s not…healthy…?” the teen replied hesitantly, having expected that to be apparent from the start.

Considering the Irken’s expression, however, it wasn’t as apparent as he’d expected. “How can that not be healthy?!” Zim exclaimed in disbelief. “Even pitiful Earth snacks such as these should do wonders for your systems! All that glorious sucrose!” He looked around suddenly, antennae perked. “They’d better have snack cakes here.”

‘Or what?’ Dib was tempted to ask. He didn’t, though, and merely frowned at the Irken. He wasn’t particularly annoyed or anything – after all, it was just Zim being narrow-minded as usual. Nothing to get riled up about. “In case you never noticed before, Zim, candy and snacks are a very small portion of the human diet.”

The shocked look that followed this piece of information only proved that the alien hadn’t even considered the possibility. After a moment of just looking dumbfounded, Zim stated bluntly, “That’s sad.”

The teen rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we humans were so miserable that we couldn’t live off of a diet comprised solely of sugar and snacks,” he replied sarcastically.

“Zim can imagine.” And once again, sarcasm failed to get the point across.

“Make some room in there for stuff me and the baby can actually live off of, will you?” Dib sighed, clearly exasperated.

After a moment of staring at the more-than-half-full sports bag, Zim glanced up at him. “That’s enough room, yes?” The only reply was a spiteful glare before the human took it upon himself to begin removing pack after pack of candy, his companion looking increasingly horrified. “What are you doing?! That’s Zim’s stuff!” the Irken complained, grabbing at the package of Pixy Styx Dib was trying to return to the shelf and tugging back on it.

“I’m making room, you greedy pig!” the teen snapped in response; Zim recoiled sharply, eyes wide at the insult before yanking the candy away and smacking the other across the face with it. “OW! Dammit, Zim, I’m getting really tired of you whacking me in the face! Knock it off!”

“You called Zim a pig! YOU! A pig-smelly!” the Irken exclaimed indignantly, swinging the package at him again – irritated, Dib caught his companion’s wrist, the ‘weapon’ just barely missing its mark. From her spot in Zim’s lap, the baby gave a displeased whine at the shouts. “Zim is no pig!”

Groaning irritably, the teen mentally cursed his luck before insisting, with incredible patience, “Okay, you’re not a pig, but you need to leave some room for stuff that’s not yours. You Irkens don’t even really need to eat, do you?”

A disgruntled look made its way across the alien’s face, Zim tugging his wrist from Dib’s grip before he responded sulkily, “We like eating.”

“Yeah, I can see that. So how about we think of a compromise?”

While the frown stayed in place, the antennae perked in interest just as expected. “…Like what?” Zim asked grudgingly, trying to look as though he didn’t actually care.

Hard to do when snacks were at stake.

Carefully, hoping his suggestion wouldn’t inspire further bratty rage from the Irken, Dib suggested, “A third of the bag will go to stuff for me and the baby, a third will go to you, and the last third can be for healthier snacks we can all share.”

Zim pursed his lips for a moment, thinking it over (and dutifully ignoring the baby currently tugging at his fingers with undying insistence). “Healthy…? Ehh…like snack cakes?”

Though there was a severe temptation to smack his own forehead in frustration, the teen curbed it and instead responded as mildly as he possibly could, “Not quite… Okay, uh…carbohydrates are a major part of the Irken snacking diet, right?” Zim nodded, though his brow was furrowed somewhat at the odd notion of snack cakes not being healthy. “We’ll grab some bagels, then.”

“What are those?”

“They’re kinda like donuts, only without all the sugar,” Dib told him as he stood up, hefting the bag along with him. The idea of sugarless donuts was apparently intriguing, from what he could figure of the Irken’s expression. “I’ll grab a few bags of chips, too. Sound good to you?”

The Irken only shrugged and gave a noncommittal hum, watching blandly as the teen headed through aisle after aisle, mumbling to himself and hurrying to pick out whatever looked good now that he’d managed to talk at least a little bit of sense into his companion. Watching quickly lost its appeal, however; Zim pulled off and set aside his newly acquired weapon to rustle through the remaining duffel bag, searching for something to distract the squirming infant. At least she wasn’t bawling anymore, he thought as he shuffled through the bag’s contents.

“Argh! Eww!” he exclaimed, lip curling in distaste as he pulled out the sack of ambiguous food. “I thought you got rid of this filthy thing!”

Dib poked his head over a shelf, expression quizzical. “Oh, right. Sorry,” he laughed when he caught sight of the lumpy something, which was quite promptly flung at him. Or, at the very least, a foot to the left of him. Shaking his head and chuckling, he returned to stuffing what he could fit into the sports bag, leaving Zim to grumble irritably and poke at the child, who latched onto his finger to give it a hearty shake.

A few minutes later, his human companion shuffled over, setting the now somewhat heavy bag at his feet. “That’s about all that would fit – the water took up most of the room,” Dib sighed, rubbing at his forehead and frowning a bit. “Speaking of water, I need a shower…”

“Really? Zim hadn’t noticed,” the Irken replied flatly, making it more than obvious that he had and that it disgusted him.

“Gee, I’m sorry I’ve been too busy trying to not die,” Dib retorted, equally flat. Zim simply stuck his tongue out at him as he got up, a gesture that the teen mimicked if only to get on the alien’s nerves.

It failed miserably. For a moment the Irken only stared dully at him before nodding down to the two duffel bags. “You may have the honor of carrying those for Zim,” he stated haughtily, getting a raised eyebrow from Dib.

“What do I look like, your servant?”

Immediately, a sharp grin spread on Zim’s face, and he poked a free hand at the atmospheric ring on the boy’s neck. “You could say that.”

Dib flushed angrily, swatting at the Irken’s hand. “It’s not a collar – you said so yourself,” he snapped.

“Never said it wasn’t, just said you had an overactive imagination,” Zim replied mockingly, the infuriating smirk widening when he added, “Dib-slave.”

Stomping a foot indignantly, the teen exclaimed, “We had a deal! You promised not to enslave me or anything if I wouldn’t betray you!”

The alien gave a little shrug, unconcerned. “You’re already getting plenty out of this truce, so…Zim lied. But a Dib-slave and a pet larva…I believe that makes it more fair.” As though Irkens cared about what was and wasn’t fair to begin with.

After a moment of simply glaring at Zim and silently seething, Dib seemed to calm. Then, he responded mildly, “So, I was thinking of not bathing for the next few months…”

The Irken balked, backing away from Dib and gagging at just the notion of it. “Ugh! Fine! No slave of Zim’s is going to stink, and there’s no way I’m going to bathe you myself! So you can just have your stupid not-slavery! Sickening little Earth worm!” Zim spat, utterly frazzled – even more so when the infant burst out crying for no apparent reason, and a curiously horrible stench made itself known. “Argh! What is that?! It smells the terrible smell of dookie!”

Now particularly amused, the teen lifted the baby’s supplies. “That would be the wonderful smell of the soiled diaper I’m going to show you how to change,” Dib chuckled, fishing a fresh one from the duffel bag.

A few minutes later, Dib was pink in the face from laughing too hard, and Zim had become significantly more green than usual.