Chapter art created and owned by Rllybritrlly.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Dib's body felt divorced from his mind, acting on its own accord as muscle memory led him down the familiar path to Zim's house. His feet took the same steps they had a thousand times before. Every single one of those prior times, it had been to ensure that Zim wasn't in the midst of plotting anything that could put mankind in legitimate danger. Now, though, it was Zim, himself, who was the one in danger.
The sole thing keeping Dib connected to reality was the muffled crunch of his boots through the snow and the fog of his breath as it trailed out in front of him. The weather here was never consistent. Especially not in April. It was often warm one day and in single digits the next, teasing the citizens for weeks until late spring drifted in at long last, bringing with it mild rains and peppering the city with wildflowers.
The wind nipped at his exposed skin, it's intensity nearly blinding him. Dib kept a straight face, though, as he ambled on through the dim light of the streetlamps.
Never before had be felt so...absent. Absent of rationale and a clear, concrete motive. Absent of that tie that brought him down to earth and provided him with the logic to make informed decisions based on judgement instead of hunches. Something almost otherworldly seemed to compel him to keep moving forward, to trudge down the snow-covered sidewalk and ignore the maelstrom of snow flurries and blistering cold around him.
Perhaps this was what insanity felt like. True insanity. The omission of reason in his actions, replaced instead with blind persistence and recklessness. Even more than that, though, it was utter peace with the open acknowledgement of it.
Dib's eyes were fixed stoically ahead in an expression void of any emotion. If one were to even begin to understand his motive, or lack thereof, it could perhaps be understood through a building of disorder. It began with something small and unexplained and manifested itself until it was unable to be ignored. Chaos theory, he supposed. Or perhaps something a little more subtle. Blowing on a fire to keep it alive.
It began with the decision to give that little recording device to GIR, and then everything had spiraled from there.
And Dib... well, he had helped it along. He had listened in on the progress convention. He had pressed the button on Tak's ship that sent the distress signal several galaxies away.
As he considered this, his pace began to pick up a bit, long legs taking great strides down the sidewalk.
In the days that followed, he had passed by Zim's house, gaze lingering on it from the safety of the sidewalk. He had broken down in the skool bathroom, hot, bitter tears running down his cheeks. He had tried to contact Zim's ship yet again in a final desperate attempt to reach him.
Dib made it to the intersection at Haverford and Maple before pressing forward, arms swinging stiffly by his side as he sped up little by little.
When Zim had returned, it was him who had initiated the conversation, demanding to know what had happened despite having no logical reason to care. He had forced the issue.
Just one more block.
Dib's heartbeat picked up in his chest, his breath quickening. He frowned, then began to unconsciously break into a slight jog. The streetlights lined the way, gossamer yellows peeking through the heavy fog.
He had taken it yet another step further by breaking into Zim's base, discovering things about him that not even Zim, himself, knew... or at least things he would never admit to.
Defective.
Dib couldn't pretend he didn't care...it wasn't possible. Not when he had set so much into motion. Not when he had repeatedly fed the flames.
He stopped for a split second, breath trailing from his mouth and gathering in a thick puff of fog. Then, suddenly, he burst into a full sprint, dashing down the sidewalk and against the pinpricks of snow against his face. Goosebumps appeared on his arms, even beneath his heavy coat. Flakes gathered on his glasses and he swiped them off his face, racing even faster down the street.
Somewhere along the way, whether it was from the very beginning or a slow burn in Dib's chest, he was coming to a stark realization: the alien meant something to him, and it was far more than a ticket to fame. And for now, that was all he needed to know.
His eyes began to water, but he wasn't sure if it was from the overflow of emotions coursing through his body or the icy wind against his face.
He could almost see it in the distance, that glowing green beacon, nestled between two apartment complexes in the cul-de-sac at the end of Greenbush Way.
He skidded on the ice and toppled over, scraping the heels of his hands against the pavement as he tried to break his fall. Without even giving it pause for thought, he scrambled back to his feet and continued forward, quickly shortening the distance between himself and the house
His hands stung and he could hardly see straight, but he made it to the front door and immediately began banging on it. Receiving no response, he jerked his body sharply to the right and pressed his hands against Zim's window, iced over from the frost. He breathed on it a little and rubbed the glass with one fist before peering inside.
Nothing. Not even GIR.
The living room was still and dark, and the television was turned off. The closer he looked, he could see the pile of blankets on the couch and the glass of water on the floor just where he had left it hours earlier.
Then, moving back to the door, Dib forcefully twisted the knob with one numb, scraped-up hand. Finding it to be unlocked, desperation melted abruptly into astonishment and he burst into the dark foyer, almost falling over himself as he did so.
He shouted into the darkness.
"Zim!"
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
"Master?"
GIR poked at Zim's body, lying face down on the floor, then stared at him expectantly. He had found the Irken in the deepest sector of the base, the medical bay. He sat patiently beside him and tried to figure out this new game.
"...Master?"
When he didn't budge, GIR grabbed hold of one limp antenna and yanked it downwards like an old-timey doorbell. "Ding dong! Anybody home?"
Not so much as a flinch, even at the rough tug of his most sensitive organ. He lay in a heap on the large metal platform of his medical scanner, dim lights from his various monitors bathing over him in a delicate, mauve-colored glow.
"Are you sleeping? Huh?"
GIR leaned down on his hands and knees, pressed right against Zim's face. He was about to start poking at him again when he heard a noise from upstairs. It was the sound of heavy footfalls and a male voice, calling out something.
Leaving his spot from beside Zim, GIR dashed back towards the elevator.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Dib was in a dreadful state, nose and ears red from the cold, as he panted and searched the dark room. The second his wild eyes locked on GIR arising from the trashcan elevator, he nearly tackled him to the floor.
"Where is Zim?" he demanded.
"Dib! You came!" GIR seemed deaf to the overwhelming urgency in his voice. He sprang towards him and grabbed the tail ends of his coat in both hands.
Dib couldn't tell if his energy stemmed from ecstasy or panic. He peered into the kitchen, still searching for any sign of Zim. A bad feeling formed in the pit of his stomach; he had the sensation that something was terribly wrong. The Irken was nowhere in sight. Not even the security system seemed to be running; otherwise, he would have been booted back outside in an instant.
Pulling GIR off his jacket, he rigidly bent down so that he was eye-level with him. "Where is Zim?"
"Oh right. He's downstairs sleeping on the floor!"
Dib's heart sank. "Look, I need you to take me to him. Right now."
GIR hurriedly directed him over to an elevator entrance beneath a nightstand in the living room. Once they were both in, he turned to Dib. "Master's still all badly. Are you gonna help me make him breakfast in bed for when he wakes up?"
Dib stared at him blankly, heart thumping loudly in his chest. He couldn't even bear to humor him. He just continued to shuffle his feet and rock anxiously from side to side as the lift unhurriedly made its way down.
Finally, they stopped at one of the bottom floors and Dib peered out at it. It was the medical bay, familiar and just the same as when he had left it, complete with its ominous, unsettling aura and smells of disinfectant. The same computer monitor he had used to look up terms in the Irken database was lowered and glowing slightly, Irken characters bolded on the screen.
Beneath it, however, something odd and nondescript lay on the platform. At first, it looked like a pile of scrap metal. As Dib drew closer, though, he noticed the long rods, joints interlocking at strange angles, half-covered something small and pale green.
Dib's eyes, always large behind his glasses, grew larger still as he rushed towards it. Dropping to the ground, he quickly worked his way through the tangled mess, pushing the PAK legs aside, and immediately began shaking Zim's shoulder roughly.
"Zim! Zim?" His voice quavered slightly.
The Irken didn't so much as stir. Dib began to break into tremors as panic shot through his veins like ice water. Grabbing hold of the same shoulder, he rolled Zim onto his side and took a closer look at him.
Both eyes were shut, and his face was almost peaceful in a desolate sort of way. His antennae had lost their usual bounce, the once expressive stalks wilting like dead flowers on the floor. Just as before, his skin was a pale, deathly hue.
Dib lifted one limp arm and tried to feel a pulse. When he couldn't detect anything, he pressed two fingers into the sides of Zim's throat. His hands were shaking too much to get any sort of reading, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
He wracked the corners of his mind, working to look past the growing fear bubbling inside him and threatening to cloud his judgement.
CPR. CPR was what you did in these kinds of scenarios, right?
He tried to recall the unit at skool when they went over it in health class. At the end of the semester, the students took a test on what they had learned and those who passed were certified by the American Red Cross. Dib had failed the final assessment, having spent the entire night before watching a Mysterious Mysteries marathon. Now, more than anything, he wished he had paid even the slightest bit of attention.
Glancing back down at Zim, he hesitantly centered his hands over his sternum and interlocked his fingers in preparation to begin chest compressions.
Suddenly, a booming voice came on overhead. "Expiration imminent. Two minutes remaining on lifeclock."
Dib startled, shaken from his concentration. "Whuu?"
He glanced around for the source of the voice. It seemed to emanate throughout the entire room, as if the base itself were a sentient being.
"Irken Zim's PAK is no longer functioning. It must be connected to an outside source of life support," the computer directed in a deep monotone.
His heartbeat picked up anew in his chest as he tried to process this. "I-I don't know what that means." A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead and dripped from the tip of his nose.
"In order for a chance at survival, Zim must be connected to the manual charging cell located in the southeastern wing of the medical bay."
His hands began shaking again, and he fleetingly balked at the idea of picking him up despite having done so only hours before. Then, with a surge of determination, plus some well-placed clumsiness, he pulled Zim up by his arms. Wrapping one of his own arms around the Irken's skinny shoulders and the other beneath his knees, he scooped him up bridal-style.
"Biological shell has exactly one minute before expiration."
Dib grunted as he attempted to sling the deadweight of Zim's body over his shoulder. "And...what does that mean?" he demanded, taking a few shy steps towards the room the computer had directed him to.
"Zim has less than a minute of life left," the computer said, undertones of impatience seeping through its voice.
Dib nearly dropped him as this set in, eyes growing as wide as saucers behind his thick glasses. "What...?" the word came out as if he had been kicked in the stomach.
Then, hitching Zim up higher on his shoulder, he booked it across the room and pushed his way into what he presumed to be the "charging cell".
Blocked off from the rest of the medical bay, it was a curiously constructed monochromatic cubicle. The inside consisted of nothing but a thinly upholstered medical examination table and a couple of monitors. Nearby was a substantially thick cable, which trailed from somewhere up above, amid the tangle of cords and wires that made up nearly every ceiling of the base.
The second Dib heaved Zim's body onto the table, the cable attached itself to the top port of his PAK, as if through some sort of magnetic force.
Dib lurched backwards, startled.
At once, the other two blank monitors lit up and a high-pitched alarm began to resound. Cupping his hands over his ears, Dib clenched his jaw and began searching for the source of it. The noise reverberated throughout the base, sounding remarkably like a heart monitor flatlining. Zim's eyes remained tightly closed, deaf to the world around him.
Then, the noise ceased and the trio of pink ports on Zim's PAK lit up. In a steady rhythm, they lit up brightly then faded down to a soft glow, illuminating off the hard metal walls of the room and the surface of the exam table.
The charging cell was a last resort to preserve an Irken's vital functions until another form of medical expertise could be accessed. A secondary jolt of life support.
Dib watched the entire process, entranced, despite not understanding what was going on. Eventually, his eyes fell to Zim, scrutinizing him for any changes. He remained unchanged, his face still an unnatural, chalky white. The silence lasted for only a couple moments before the lights on his PAK flickered out and the ear-splitting alarm returned.
"What is that?" Dib hollered over the noise. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, though, it cut off once more, and the ports lit up in its place.
"The PAK is experiencing inefficiency keeping it's host alive. The charging cell serves to act as an auxiliary source of life support for such events. Because Zim's is in advanced stages of declination, however, the charging cell is experiencing difficulties indicating its presence," the computer said.
Dib could decipher just enough of its needless technological jargon to vaguely understand what it meant. Zim's life support was only working in bits and spurts—leaving him hanging on by a thread as this "auxiliary source of life support" struggled to keep his vitals functioning through the barrier that his PAK posed.
In the meantime, Zim hadn't moved an inch, nor had he shown any signs of life aside from breathing.
Even that was a good sign, though. Right?
A minute had come and gone and Zim was still alive, if just barely. The technicalities of Irken mechanics were still something that eluded Dib, but he would take comfort in whatever he could.
"Well...where do I go from here?" he asked the computer, trying to calm his nerves. "What else does he need?"
"In addition to PAK deficiency and weakened immunity to illness, Zim is suffering from extreme dehydration, critically low glucose levels, hypertension, and concussion."
He winced as the memory of Zim's head smacking against the floor of his lab surfaced in his mind. That could explain the vomiting and disorientation Zim had experienced afterwards. And as for everything else...
"What do I do for all that?"
"Fluids must be administered to him intravenously and vitals should be monitored intensively for any sign of change. The necessary supplies can be found in the main wing of medical bay. Constant rest is required until a PAK specialist can be contacted or medica—"
Dib's brain slowly drowned out the rest. The severity of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. Zim was essentially in intensive care, at the hands of a fifteen-year-old boy who understood absolutely nothing concerning medical know-how. He had no experience inserting IVs, or attaching monitoring pads, or really taking care of anyone but himself. Not to mention, any Irken equipment that was in the base would most likely vary drastically from its human counterparts.
He shuffled his feet nervously, heart stuttering at the idea of the alternative—watching Zim die a slow, needless death without proper care. He glanced back down at him and pursed his lips.
Zim was still drenched in sweat, causing his clothing to stick to him and leave smears on the stainless-steel edges of the table. He was resting awkwardly on his back, the cable from the charging cell jutting out on one side and the tangled array of PAK legs swept off to the other.
What he was lying on was not a bed, and it certainly didn't serve to provide any sort of real comfort. It was merely an examination table, head piece propped up slightly and the surface covered with a very thin layer of cushioned fabric. And Dib hadn't seen anything resembling a bed or a cot in the entire medical bay.
Stupid Irkens with their damn pride. It was as if they earnestly believed that honest-to-God debilitation was so far out of the realm of possibility. Or maybe that was just Zim.
Sighing, Dib reluctantly left the room and began to search the rest of the med bay for linens. He could feel himself beginning to sweat through his down coat. He pulled the zipper down and shrugged out of it. He was getting overwhelmed quickly with all that was going on and how much he had to do.
Shortly after ordering the computer to take him to the main floor, he thought of something else.
"Hey...why are you taking orders from me?" he asked, directing his words towards the wall across from him. "Not that I'm not thankful or anything, it's just..."
The computer took a moment before answering. When it did though, the voice was as dry as ever, echoing around the walls of the tiny space. "I don't have a choice. After you hacked into the base, Zim brought the vocal interface back online, but not the security system. And basic programming protocols dictate that I follow any orders that work to benefit the mission."
Wording it like that made Dib pause for thought, a growing pit in his stomach.
Keeping Zim alive was part of the mission.
He was helping the enemy. If the world fell to the clutches of the Irken Empire after all this, he would have only himself to blame. Him and his damn sentimentality. Regardless of what he knew about Zim at this point, this idea didn't sit well with him. He still felt like he was playing with fire. Dancing with the unknown.
He kept silent after the computer's reply, stepping off the elevator and stoically into the main room. GIR was in the kitchen, pulling something that smelled burnt and acrid from the oven.
"Is Master all better?" he asked. He proudly held out the tray he was holding. "Looky! I made him tater tots for when he wakes up!"
Dib barely glanced at the smoking, charred lumps that were presented before him as he made his way briskly into the living room. He scooped up the blankets and pulled pillows off the couch, mind elsewhere. Carrying the pile back towards the elevator, he groaned slightly at the sound of tiny metallic footfalls behind him. He sighed and rolled his eyes as GIR followed him back to the med bay.
With the computer's help, he gathered up the other things he needed—a shapeless piece of fabric he was told was a medical gown, the equipment to set up an IV drip, and a tangle of wires and pads. Weighed down with the lot, he carried it all to the charging cell and glanced apprehensively at Zim from behind the mountain of linens and supplies. He was just as he had left him, and the dreadfully loud alarm from the charging cell had started up again. Dib dumped the blankets and pillows on the floor and walked over to him.
He felt sheepish and stupid as he tugged at the sleeve of Zim's damp shirt, like a child playing doctor. He had no idea what he was doing and there was so much that needed to be done. As he let go of the shirt, the alarm stopped again, leaving a long stretch of silence in its wake.
It took some time and a bit of cutting at the thin fabric with a pair of scissors that he found in a first aid kit in the main wing before Dib was finally able to remove Zim's shirt. With the cable deep in one port of his PAK and the PAK legs awkwardly crammed around it, the feat of removing the last shreds of his military clothing was absurdly difficult. Not to mention, in the midst of it, Zim went from being deathly still to shivering mercilessly. At last, though, he peeled the top off him, bending his elbows inward to free them from the fabric.
Through the entire ordeal, the charging cell had continually dropped connection and regained it, emitting that awful alarm each time. Every time it stopped, ringing in Dib's ears took its place.
He rubbed his temples, eyes closed. When he opened them again, they fell upon Zim. Dib stared at him for a moment in something most aptly described as scientific fascination. Like his father, he was enamored with the unknown and its implications. His focus, however, went far beyond what Earth's science could feasibly explain. Zim was just that.
Three tiny ribs protruded from either side of the delicate skin on the alien's chest, becoming more defined with each deep breath he drew in. Other than that, he was void of anything on his torso that would bear any semblance to a human's anatomy. He had no navel, nor nipples, and not even the slightest blemish was visible on the pale, jade-green skin.
Dib tilted his head and looked back at Zim's face, which was pinched tight in distress, and suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Guilt for ogling at him like a freakshow attraction, regardless of that being more or less the truth.
Zim was a prideful creature, obsessed with maintaining an impeccable appearance. Not only that, but he was so persistent on staying covered up in the presence of others, he wouldn't even change into his gym clothes at skool. Dib distinctly remembered him receiving a failing grade in 9th grade PE for his "refusal to participate."
It felt invasive and dirty to see him in such an undignified state. Suddenly, all those reveries in days past of seeing Zim strapped to an autopsy table seemed entirely unappealing. In fact, unappealing was an understatement. It made Dib feel nauseated.
He wished it didn't. He wished his convictions were as strong as they had been, if only to give him some sort of stability. A moral compass to cling to. Afterall, why should he care?
The Zim he knew was egotistical. Cruel. Perpetually small and pissed-off, the Irken had been constantly poised for confrontation and bursting with distrustful vigor since the day he had arrived on Earth. Intensive military training on Irk had made him that way. He had worked to take advantage of Dib's weaknesses in every way possible. It went far beyond their own battles for the Earth, too. He had always been there to laugh at Dib's defeats in every facet of his life.
Getting rejected by the girl he had been infatuated with all year long? Zim was there to add insult to injury, pointing and cackling from across the cafeteria while chastising him on his "pathetic human need for affection". Getting a 98% on his chemistry final? Of course, Zim had gotten that token 100%, making him "exactly 2% better".
But it had also pushed Dib to be better in the process. To prove his nemesis wrong. To prove everyone wrong. And he was gradually beginning to realize just how much he had depended on the alien to be that anchor, in an ironic symbiosis that had been left unspoken between the two.
A deep sigh shook Dib back to reality and, with a melancholy air, he picked up the tangle of telemetry leads.
Would now be a bad time to Google what this stuff does?
Then he remembered the computer.
"Uhh...where do I put these?" he asked pathetically to the empty room.
"Each color goes to a different part of the chest," came the voice from up above. "Place the brown pad at the bottom of the sternum."
Dib did as he was told and waited patiently for further instructions.
"The white goes to the right side of the chest." The computer sounded like it was directing a brainless child to do some rudimentary task.
Dib complied like such, making the process painstakingly tedious and slow. The next several minutes were spent with the computer blandly guiding him where to place the pads and how to set up the IV.
Yet another problem arose when Dib had to insert the needle into a nearly invisible vein inside Zim's inner arm. He had absolutely no idea how such a task was performed on a human, never mind an extraterrestrial. It took a painful number of jabs and pricks to Zim's delicate skin before Dib shakily set it down and begged the computer to help him. Even once he'd successfully inserted it, took even longer to stop the consequential bleeding that had occurred from all the failed attempts. As he dabbed at the swollen area with a gauze pad, Dib felt bile rise in the back of his throat, threatening to make an appearance.
By the end of the debacle, though, the painstakingly inserted IV had begun administering much-needed fluids into his system and one of the many monitors was up and running, displaying a staggering variety of information on Zim's cardiac stats.
Dib moved on to slipping pillows beneath Zim's head and around his PAK to try to relieve as much pressure from his back against the table as possible. That done, Dib drew a thick quilt from its spot on the floor and quickly covered up his shivering body. He tucked the woolly fabric around him to trap his body heat and stood back to examine the results of his meticulous handiwork.
Zim looked pathetic.
His antennae were pinned awkwardly behind him, the little flexes on one bent outwards towards Dib and the other pressed between the table and his head. His partly open mouth drew in ragged breaths with unsteady timing and his long, segmented tongue stuck out from between his lips at an odd angle.
"Jeez, Zim. You're a mess," Dib muttered, sighing deeply.
The alien, of course, didn't respond. He had, however, quieted his tremors just slightly under the warmth of the blanket.
Finished with these tedious and emotionally draining tasks, Dib slumped to the floor beside him and pulled his knees to his chest. He tilted his head back against the wall and squeezed both eyes shut. All the worries that had churned around incessantly inside his mind were slowly being drowned with exhaustion. He couldn't for the life of him remember when he had slept last. The entirety of the last couple weeks had been nothing but stress, anger, and frustration.
Gradually, his heavy eyelids began to draw to a close. Before he knew it, he had fallen into a sleep just as light and shallow as the breathing of the sickly alien beside him while the endless beeping of the monitors droned on.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
"Send an outgoing transmission to Invader Tenn."
Larb's low, nasally voice pierced the air from within his Zhook, where he had been trying to simultaneously track Zim and sidestep any inquiries from the Tallest. He sounded tired and infuriated, with just a hint of stifled fear in his tone.
More than anything, he was enraged with himself. He had grown weak over the years following his enslavement of the Vortians, and it was beginning to show in the most humiliating way possible.
No longer did he bother to retain information about physical combat with such vigilance with time gone by. All of that was pushed to the back of his PAK's encoding to make room for fond memories of celebration with the planetary convergence team on the Massive, launching the cannon sweep, and pretending the Tallest cared about his rising success.
Years of training had gone seemingly forgotten, to the point where he couldn't even take down an unsuspecting screw-up of a soldier in the beginning stages of PAK deficiency. It was clear even then that the toxin was beginning to affect him. It had showed in his stride and troubled breathing.
And Larb had let the defective get away just like that, with his pathetic little robot no less. To say that it had wounded his almost impenetrable ego was an understatement.
Following the incident, he had had no choice was to return to his ship and wrap his flesh wound tightly with gauze from the med kit in his ship, cursing under his breath as his PAK whirred and worked to repair the bleeding tissue.
That had been almost a week ago. Now, the injury was no more. The smooth, healed skin in its place only served as a reminder that Larb was running out of time, though.
Larb was nothing if not persistent, though.
The transmission screen on his dash beeped for a few moments and then lit up as the transmission was received. In an instant, a familiar stoic face emerged, accompanied by light pink eyes and flippantly curled antennae, presently pressed back in hostility.
"What do you want, Larb?" The words were spat out without any greeting to predate them. Tenn glared at him from the screen, not bothering to conceal her blatant annoyance.
"I require your assistance with this matter," he said through gritted teeth.
She cackled lightly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Assistance with what? Can't handle your 'special mission'? Maybe you shouldn't have been so overzealous. You always were."
Larb and Tenn had been a part of separate smeet clutches, trained in different squadrons, had specialized in different invading tactics, and yet they had always been rivals. Competitiveness and hostility were a constant with them and had only increased with time. When Operation Impending Doom II had been announced, they had both been assigned the two most controversial planets in the mix marked for Irken conquest, serving only to intensify it further.
"I shouldn't even be wasting my time with someone who hasn't even conquered her first assignment after three years!" Larb spat back at her. "But you have information that could prove useful to me regarding this particular task."
"Invaders work alone," she said icily, "Besides, I know better than to get involved with this mess. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a planet to conquer."
"Wait!" Larb shouted before she could end the transmission.
"What?"
Larb glanced around, scrounging for a way to coerce her. Finally, after a second, his eyes narrowed, and he regained focus. "If you knew what was good for you, you would provide your aid."
She didn't bother to stifle the laughter that burst forth at his statement. "Oh? And why is that?"
Larb didn't flinch. "Because you are the one who brought the toxin back from Meekrob. And you are the one who agreed to use it against the defective."
"I was ordered to by the Tallest," she briskly corrected, eyes hardening. "What's your point?"
He tried to formulate his next words to work in his favor. "You already are involved in this. If I fail in this mission, it compromises all of us. Especially you."
She crossed her arms, continuing to glower at Larb.
"Who do you think the Control Brains will suspect as the instigator?" he went on. "Their beloved leaders... or the only Irken sent to infiltrate Meekrob, masquerading as a chemical engineer? They will suspect you far before they suspect them.
"Help me or risk losing your credibility...your reputation...."
Tenn kept up her rigid glare, but her arms slowly dropped to her sides as she considered this.
"Your mission..."
She suddenly frowned and glanced up quickly. "What do you want, Larb?" she hissed coarsely.
"I need to know about the nature of this toxin. And if you happen to have coordinates to this 'Earth' planet."
She sighed deeply, eyes full of malice and contempt that only an Irken could pull off so concentratedly. Finally, she spoke. "The defective was only exposed to a very small amount of it, which is likely just prolonging the outcome. He shouldn't be contagious and if he's even still alive, his PAK has likely stopped many of its functions. He should be an easy target."
Larb listened intently. "And this planet?"
Tenn pulled up a map of the known Irken galaxy on his computer. "It's located on the very edge of the Stultus quadrant. Good luck finding any exact coordinates, though. The Irken Intergalactic Research team hadn't even confirmed its existence before The Great Assigning, and after the defective was 'assigned' to it, they didn't bother."
He nodded sharply as Tenn's image returned to the screen.
"There. You have your information. Now, will you do me the honors of ending this wretched transmission?"
"With pleasure." His antennae lay flat against his skull. He grandiosely brought his hand down upon the button to end the call without any show of gratitude or even a parting statement. Her steely face vanished from the screen.
Larb sat back in his chair and fully immersed himself in the wave of silence that followed. He reveled in the satisfaction of how easily he had been able to bend her to his will. His lips tugged upwards in an ugly sneer, exposing the upper row of zippered teeth. It was nothing short of a personal triumph, and he relished it with all the pride his spiteful little body could muster.
After a mere moment, he dropped his smirk, and an expression of cold determination took its place as he set his coordinates towards the approximate direction of planet Earth.