InsaneJournal

He'd been terribly...terribly wrong; it was something he'd realized the moment the sentinel had reared up to its full height, blocking the smoke-veiled half of the moon and a good portion of the sky along with it.

This was not a Class 17-50.

It wasn't even close to being a Class 17-50.

And that...was very very bad.

It had been quite a while since the Irken had made this realization; he wasn't sure how long it had been, though. All he knew was that it had been quite a while, and he hadn't yet landed a debilitating shot, the Decimator 3000's targeting system having chosen now of all times to malfunction, and that – horror of horrors – the battle was slowly beginning to wear him down. He, ZIM, best of all Irkens save the Tallests...was losing.

Grimacing as he barely side-stepped a sweep from a disintegrator ray, Zim scurried across rubble on his PAK legs, still waiting for the prime opportunity to blast the monstrosity into oblivion and trying not to think about the implications of the advanced weaponry this one had.

The pilot had to be the equivalent of a Brigadier General, at least – and unlike a mere Sergeant, a simple bioscan wasn't going to satisfy it once its quarry was finished. Oh, no – it would keep on smashing until there weren't enough scraps of its enemy left to fill a matchbox.

...Argh! He was trying to ignore that fact!

Shaking his head roughly as though to dislodge said fact from his mind, the Irken skirted to the side to avoid the mechanical arms, having to stop short when the sentinel stomped down, cracking through the top layers of the concrete where Zim would have otherwise been standing. Before he could even so much as process this, another metal arm was sweeping towards him.

He managed to dodge at the last moment out of sheer instinct alone – enough to avoid a full-on blow that would have left him splattered across the pavement, at least. It still clipped him hard enough to send him skidding on his back across the street, and as Zim rolled to his feet through a haze of pain, narrowly avoiding cannon-fire, it became clear that nothing short of a miracle was going to save him now.

Not now that his PAK had been damaged.

Everything seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl the moment a mental signal to his spiderlegs had resulted in nothing; the Decimator 3000 clattered against the blacktop as Zim fell to his knees, barely even registering the throbbing in his newly twisted ankle, or the reawakened burn of a former injury – the plasma bolt to his side, when he'd gotten his hands on the very weapon Dib now held in his possession.

Huh...the Dib. ...Had he even made it home?

He felt suddenly exhausted, in every sense of the word – his PAK shutting down all but the most base of survival necessities. All of the aches and pains the Irken had acquired over all the past hours he'd lost track of came roaring back in that single moment, as the sentinel mech (Class 1-29, he recognized blearily) prepared to crush the life from him for good, metal leg outstretched and hovering over Zim's tiny form.

And all the Irken could do was give a weak chuckle as the appendage began the descent that would end him; this was a far cry from the dishonorable mess that would have resulted from the Tallests discovering his failure. He could handle this.

He could almost accept this, even. The Dib would find a way out, as he always did, and his pet-smeet would be safe with him; amazing as Zim was, and as much as he might like it to, their survival didn't have to depend on him.

You'll be fine, he mentally assured the Dib, an odd grin quirking at his mouth when he thought he caught a glimpse of the human; strange, really, that that would be the last thing he'd see.

And then came a burst of plasma fire, the groans of joints and gears as the mech teetered off-balance for a moment, and the slamming of metal into the concrete – just inches from where Zim had fallen in grudging acceptance of his fate. The shout that came with it was what brought the Irken back to his senses.

It also brought with it a searing anger that had Zim forcing himself to his feet, all to scream at the moronic creature that had so blatantly ignored his orders. “DIB! You horrid little meat-worm! I told you to-” A certain missing something – or more accurately, someone – had his thought process screeching to a halt. Numbly, as the mech turned to consider the new arrival (and possible threat?), he leaned to retrieve the Decimator 3000; there was no option for failure anymore. It couldn't happen; not now that the Dib had expressly disobeyed him.

This inferior creature and its overpowered mech were not going to destroy something he'd worked so hard to protect! And...if they were both killed here...

Fury overtook him then, antennae fully flattened and a blast from his weapon glancing off the mech's metal dome as he shrieked, “You left Zim's smeet behind?! OF ALL THE-!” Zim fired off another shot, hardly even paying attention to where he was aiming, so intent was he on ranting at Dib, who backed up when he realized just how angry he'd gotten the Irken. “How could you be so incredibly stupid?! You're supposed to be there, keeping her safe, like Zim ordered! Why did you not- ARGH! I HATE YOU!”

A flurry of plasma bolts accompanied the stream of anger in verbal form, and as Zim finished up the rant with an enraged scream, he fired off one last shot at the sentinel – an improbably dead-on hit, tribute to the Irken's all-encompassing possessive rage.

Of course, Dib figured as his rival collapsed once more, completely spent, possessive rage wasn't always going to be enough. The fact that the sentinel mech was still standing was undying proof of that.

The metallic arm poised to smash him into a bloody pulp was pretty good proof, too.

While not quite as agile as Zim, Dib was still quite capable of dodging (and did so admirably), and he popped off a couple of shots over his shoulder as he darted around the giant appendage towards the fallen Irken.

Not that he was concerned or anything – he just needed the better weapon.

...Okay, maybe he was a little concerned. He did need Zim's help to get off the planet, after all.

Sparks erupted over his head when one of his shots made its mark, damaging one of the sentinel's side-arms. Grinning victoriously, Dib glanced up at it for a split second – a split second in which his unbelievably terrible luck decided to make a guest-star appearance and he tripped over a very small and incredibly creepy chihuahua.

How that chihuahua even got there is anyone's guess.

He didn't bother to grab his dropped plasma pistol, only grumbled and quickly rubbed at his slightly bloodied chin. Then, the boy picked himself up enough to scramble the remaining distance to Zim, wincing a bit when he got a better look at him; he'd certainly seen better days, that was for sure. Shooing the horridly creepy dog away with one hand, Dib grabbed for the Decimator 3000 with the other – only to have it suddenly and inexplicably gone in a puff of dust.

Their only other weapon; vaporized. Shocked and feeling an unmistakable icy feeling in his gut, Dib turned his gaze up to find the covershield of the mech sliding open as it lowered itself, legs splayed out and undamaged arms further balancing it. The Krakemeth within gave a leering grin, gurgling when the teen looked back to the abandoned pistol and waving one suction-cup-tipped finger in a playfully admonishing manner – the disintegrator ray had already been trained on the two.

So...that was it, then? All the trouble and effort, for nothing? Turning his head so he couldn't see the abhorrent creature, Dib stared down helplessly at the now-unconscious Irken, then clenched his eyes shut when the flat, ear-piercing shriek of a droid sounded and simply waited for the end.

...And waited...

...And waited.

Then he waited a bit more – honestly, drawing it out like this was really inconsiderate of the thing.

He should've just tried to grab the pistol, anyway.

Although, it was probably a bit too late now.

So...he waited some more.

But the end never came. Not for him, or for Zim, either. What did happen, until it was all over and explanations could follow, eluded him for the most part.

The only thing he saw when he lifted his head, apprehensive and curious as to why they were still alive, was a lone Krakemeth droid, its pilot conversing lowly with that of the sentinel before a single plasma shot echoed, and the latter slumped down in its command chair, ink-black seeping from its forehead. Then, the traitor slid to the ground and over to the sentinel to fiddle with controls; once finished with that, it glanced to the two rivals-turned-allies with disinterest. Eyes swiveled as it gave a seemingly unconcerned grumble before it slid back to its droid, offering a helping dual-hand to another seated inside, and out stepped the last thing Dib had expected to see.

“Dad?!”