A Parade of Indignities

Chapter 21: Of Plot Holes and Parting Words

Chapter art created and owned by Bamsara.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Zim awoke the next morning in a sour mood, which was of no surprise at this point. It was simply part of the routine. It hit him involuntarily, much like the perfunctory morning stretches and yawns. He would stir awake, large eyes fluttering open, only to find himself in the very same hellscape of monotony he'd been prisoner to for what felt like an eternity.

Minute by minute, day by day, the sense of tedium only grew. It fermented into a vile, repugnant concoction of emotions, steadily eating away at his sanity. It seemed impossible at first, that time could go by any slower or become any more torturous. Surely there had to be a ceiling. But no. It never failed to take Zim aback with its uncanny ability to burgeon and bloom.

The only change that took hold of him was the memories that continued to flitter back down, sharpening into focus and carrying with them past sentiments.

Smeethood. invader training. Firm salutes and straight postures in the presence of his Tallest. A million and one simulations to prepare him for his future as an integral part of the Irken Empire. Operation Impending Doom II. His mission. Earth.

One would think that his stress would dissipate with the arrival of these memories, of knowing his own identity. However, rather than providing him the answers he implored to receive, each new memory only posed a surfeit of more questions.

How had he fallen ill? How did he end up here, on Elixus? What had become of his mission?

Zim rolled over in bed and moaned into his pillow.

The latter question was particularly unsettling. After all, he had effectively gone AWOL, and the very thought of abandoning his post in such a manner caused a ripple of shame to pass through his veins.

He had to get back to his mission. His Tallest would surely kill him if he continued to delay it, and he couldn't bear to fail them. He was wasting valuable time, lying in bed like a pathetic invalid.

Several times within the past few days, he had weakly thrown off his blankets and dipped his bare clawed feet down towards the ground in an effort to get up on his own and walk. It was a desperate attempt to regain autonomy and escape the constant stress.

No matter how many times he tried, though, his knees would inevitably buckle, and he'd come tumbling down to the hard floor again. Dark, splotchy bruises had begun to appear on his knees and shins from all the failed attempts.

He closed his eyes again and shifted in his bed. He had nothing else to do but sleep, and it was becoming less necessary by the day. As of now, he was effectively oversleeping to wane the boredom. The result of this left him even more exhausted than before. His eyes were almost always bleary, and his antennae were in a constant state of disarray from laying on them.

By the time he stirred again and opened his eyes, Skoodge was in his room, doing his normal routine. The little Irken huffed dramatically to get his attention.

"Oh, hey Zim. How are you feeling?"

"...Fine."

The Irken adjusted his white coat and casually approached him with the stethoscope, as per usual. "That's good."

Once the examination was finished, Zim's eyes flicked expectantly to the tray beside him—the first meal of the day, right on schedule.

If there was one tiny silver lining to his situation, it was that within the blink of an eye, he had been abruptly surrounded by his own cultural assets, there at his beck and call as if he'd never left.