Debacle (R) - a oneshot - by Dib07

Summary:

All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, it's not fame he gets, but guilt and regret. Defeating the villain is a little more complicated than that.

Disclaimer Invader Zim belongs to JV

Disclaimer:

I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine.

Warnings:

Zim angst.

Dib07: Sorry for the wait VelociraptorLove, but here is the sample I promised! I hope you like it! It's just a window into the story I have rewritten from the original Debacle way back when, and something I know you've been curious about! I hope it lives up to expectation! Thanks again for everything!

Quick side note! I will get to all your messages soon! Hope you enjoy this oneshot-eh-chapter-thing! And thank you for all the support!

This is from the old story Debacle which I rewrote it awhile ago. You can read it as it is, and needs nothing else to accompany it. ^-^ It's kind of self-explanatory I guess? My brain just churns out nonsense, and this is the result! XD

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Debacle R

- Oneshot -

-x-

After the sharp creak of the accompanying hinge that winded to an unbearable pitch, he shunted the door open, the keys rattling like coins in one hand. He cursed every noise that was louder than a squeak. Even closing the fridge door had become too obscene for his ears and peace of mind. He knew he couldn't exactly tread around the house forever like... well...a mouse, but there didn't seem to be any easier alternatives.

He glanced behind him, almost failing to see the little green dog standing so closely at his heels. It was a wonder he hadn't trodden or fallen over him by now. In the grave silence the costume's little dog paws made obnoxious squeaks with every step. Dib gave the robot a tiresome look, hoping the noises would establish familiarity, and not fear.

He broke his stare to brush a leaf from his shoulder. "Gir, no wandering off. He's just this way." He reached up and flicked the light switch. The foyer seemed to morph into existence. The severe ticking of the grandfather clock sounded sharper somehow too in the quiet. As his eyes swept towards the kitchen and the parlour, he was aware that nothing had changed. The discovery of the house and its furnishings being perfectly untouched disappointed him.

He plonked his keys on the side table in the foyer and removed his heavy coat. Gir was being unusually obedient to say the least. He stood by Dib's side and crossed his front paws together, gently swinging his upper torso this way and that, while softly humming a childish tune.

"You can take off your doggie... costume... now." He said in case Gir hadn't realized it was safe to do so. Those mismatched doggie eyes held his for a moment, that absurd felt tongue pointing out of stitched lips – the goofy expression looked more ridiculous in the quiet.

The robot started to shrug off the costume as if it was an old layer of skin that he was only too happy to discard. After some squirming to shake it off, he skipped out of it smiling, those cyan eyes gleaming vibrantly. It least Gir's presence seemed to push back at least some of the gloom – an oppressive, heavy kind of gloom that was either in his mind or within the house.

Dib looked back towards the kitchen, wondering how the warmth of his own home had become so... cheerless. He figured that more light was needed, and after a quick march to activate every light switch there was, the ground floor was soon bathed in soft sunny yellow, but the cheer it brought still seemed cold.

"I'm a real boy." Gir uttered laconically, staying close and never straying more than five feet away. Dib raised a brow. He'd given the order to stay close before he'd ferried Gir into the car. How was he still obeying an order he should have forgotten after the first forty seconds?

Those squeaking-paws had gone, though he hadn't yet decided if that was a good thing.

"This way, Gir." He didn't pause or look round to see if the tiny robot was following. When Dib placed a cool, clammy hand on the bottom banister rail, he looked up at the darkness beckoning from the top stair.

He did not relax even when Gir came and stood beside him.

Make a noise as you go up. Nothing too scary though. He's gotta know it's me.

"Zim?" He called without moving a step. He wasn't expecting a reply, but finding a less panicked space bug would be a nice bonus. "It's me. Dib. I've got Gir with me. I'm coming up the stairs." He didn't know what else to say or do but stand there, frozen. His lip was bleeding from the many times he'd bitten into it without thinking.

Just gotta go up there.

He dwelled on what he might find for a tiny micro second before shaking his head and clutching at his escaping resolve. Hand grasping the shiny wood of the banister rail, he took the stairs at a leisurely pace, emphasizing his footsteps as he went. Gir could not have understood the importance of the man's actions, but the robot continued humming that mindless tune as he followed, his cyan eyes cutting the darkness ahead in soft pastel greens and blues.

The silence and dark acted like a barrier that needed to be broken. He hit the landing light switch, and comforting honeyed light filled every niche and corner.

Everything was neat, tidy, and untouched.

"Zim?" He approached the door, the door he had left slightly ajar after deliberating whether to leave it shut or to leave it open. The measure of door to doorway was exactly the same, he was sure.

This discovery did not sit well with him.

He grasped the cool metal of the handle and pushed, wincing as the hinge gave a tremendous creak. He'd never noticed hinges squeak and creak so much before, and considered oiling every damn moving part a door had – but then – the silences of his entrances would be way worse.

"Zim?" He reached up, hunting blindly a moment before he found it, and clicked it.

Light suffused this room with gentle gold. His eyes flickered about the room as fast as lightning. He didn't have to look very far. A little figure was hunched against the far corner of the room, head cowed against the scratched wallpaper. He had his PAK to them. From this distance he could see those little shoulders shivering.

Though he had sadly expected as much, the little offerings he had left out were untouched. The carton of milk could not have been easier to find, a straw propped and ready in its cardboard corner mere feet away. Zim only had to reach out a little to feel it. And the food he surely must have smelt. Who wouldn't say no to chocolate with a side dish of oatmeal? But the oatmeal had gone thick and cold. And the lumps of chocolate that had once been in the dish were now randomly scattered across the carpet. Zim must have lashed out, hitting the bowl, or had accidently blundered into it.

The tiny basket bed had been tipped over, the blankets crumpling haphazardly over and under it.

"Zim? Hey, it's just me. I've brought Gir along to see you."

The little figure barely reacted from his hunched station in the corner. His antennae went up, and a wet growl sounded from the invader's damaged throat.

Dib knelt down and pushed the robot forwards. Gir needed no other incentive. He walked with that metal tip-tap across the carpet.

The human stood by the doorway feeling inept and powerless. His fists persistently clenched and unclenched at his sides, his jaw tightening. There was little else he could do, and keeping his distance was painful. Gir, his chassis shining in the golden glow of the room, tip-tapped his way over without the hesitation Dib had shown. "Hey yous!" His voice was overly shrill and piercing in the cold stillness.

Dib hissed, helplessly wincing when Gir got within two feet of him. He hadn't been able to get that close. Not when he was awake anyway.

"Master? What you doin'?"

Zim blindly looked around; arms huddled across his remaining knee. His blank eyes were wide but teary. The purple robe Dib had managed to put on him when he had been unconscious slipped down one shoulder to reveal the ugly laceration beneath.

His mouth moved soundlessly, pale face turning towards the light as he reluctantly went to move, only to tuck his PAK into the corner. The static colour in his eyes remained. Tears glistened wetly from his cheeks.

"Master?" Gir asked, stepping closer.

Zim flinched, not expecting the suddenness of the voice, or its proximity.

"Why are you hiding?" Gir bent down slightly and cocked his head; barely a foot away from his master. His cyan glow bathed Zim's dark eyes in bluish green.

The Irken fetched in heavier breaths, blinking rapidly. Those spindly arms began to loosen around his robed knee and a shaky clawed hand dangling with strips of gauze started to timorously stretch forwards. When he was centimetres away from touching his child, he hesitated, as if he'd become too afraid to discover if Gir might be a hallucination. Dib lowered hands he had unconsciously raised to his chest and was about to step forwards when Gir leaned closer, his metal shoulder pad connecting with Zim's claws. Zim's vacant and empty features slowly but surely creased and additional tears spilled from vacant orbs. His lips moved, and a noise gurgled from his bruised throat. Patiently Gir stood, warmly smiling. Both hands trailing gauze reached out, and he began feeling Gir's face and features. A weak tug of a smile emerged from the edge of Zim's lips.

Dib watched, frozen to the spot, and too afraid to move in case he might break the spell.

Would this reunion be enough to break Zim out of his shell?

He caught the Irken's lips moving as they formed silent words. 'It's really you.'

He kept himself huddled in the corner as if he still believed or was convinced to believe that he was confined to that tiny box they kept him before and after each tormenting session. Dib still wrestled with the pain of the experience. They had driven the Irken's soul into a tiny dark corner, and there, in his mind, he remained.

"Gir," Dib called from the boundary of the doorway, "get him to drink from that milk carton." And please don't take it for yourself. He could already picture the robot loudly gulping down the now-warm milk.

Despite how quiet and affable his voice was from a distance, Zim flinched, eyes piously squinting for the source. Those tiny nasal slits flared a few times to catch Dib's scent, and a couple of times his eyes almost landed in the human's direction.

"Okie dokie." Gir moved out of Zim's touch, which caused the Irken to desperately look for him, claws clenching on thin air.

"Geerr?" He gurgled, throat convulsively swallowing. The barbs of pain down there had him crouching with watery coughs.

Gir meandered to the milk carton and picked it up, that same laconic smile plastered on his face. He saw the littering of chocolate pieces and began scooping them up one by one into the other hand to then lick and smack on them.

"Gir!" Dib pleaded, "The milk carton! Please?"

Zim was turning his sightless eyes this way and that, tracking every sound with rapt intensity, both claws braced defensively across his chest as if he could wall himself off from the world. For all he knew the room was laced with traps, pitfalls and mines that were waiting for him should he move from his corner. When Dib took a step, the waft in the air, or his scent triggered Zim's antennae to twitch, and dark glassy eyes turned his way.

"It's okay." The human whispered, coming again to a standstill. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The Irken's upper lip parted to reveal teeth, but a greater fear remained in his pinched face and shivery exterior. The robe parted at his chest, the fleecy volume of the robe's size heaped and dishevelled on so tiny and lithe a frame. Though Dib had put the heating on full-blast, keeping the windows shut and the curtains drawn to lock in warmth, the Irken would not quit shivering. Better clothing would be ideal; heck a hot drink would be ideal if Zim would let him get close.

Zim would hold his guard until he was so exhausted he'd drop to sleep sitting up, chin resting on his collarbone, arms loose and easy on his lap or at his sides. And each time the Irken woke, whether it would be hours later or even minutes, he'd panic and screech from torn vocals – frightening Dib to his bones. Maybe he thought he was still trapped inside his own nightmares conjured from shock and trauma, or maybe he expected to still feel the box pressing tightly around him.

At least the gauze on the stump that remained of his knee was holding up. It had soiled in the middle, as Dib half expected it might, and he really wanted to change it.

He took another step and watched Zim react by pulling back, blinking in owlish terror, lips stretched taut to reveal a grim line of teeth. Hs posture didn't soften when Gir tinkered on over, swishing the carton in one metallic hand. "I gots you yours drinkie! Want some?"

Attention torn, Zim snapped a vague look his way, then back to Dib's general direction. Gir stepped closer, shaking the carton. Too close. Zim struck out, emitting a croaky cry and the carton went flying.

He bowed towards the wall as if seeking a way through it, claws clasping his shoulders.

Dib had foolishly thought that once he got rid of the stench from the Facility, be it Zim's science-issued gown, even the clothing Dib wore on that day when he got him out, the Irken would naturally settle. He had to remember that Zim had been restrained without relief, never knowing what was going to happen next, or where he'd be taken to. They'd shoved and jammed things into his organs and cervix, brutalising the sanctity of his body: with Zim never knowing what part of him they were going to ravage next, and where the next blow would come from.

The milk from the straw dripped onto the carpet. Zim's antennae had snapped down, his face hidden behind arms that were once again locked over his one knee. Restraining him just long enough to stick a sedative into a vein seemed to be the only solution. Gir was the other option in a bid to soften Zim's lethal – and fatal – distress.

Judging his distance carefully, Dib walked forwards three steps until he was standing by the end of the bedpost. Several times he had got this close, and closer, only for Zim to start slashing frantically and aimlessly at the air in front of him, careless of his wounds and deeper injuries. They hurt. He knew they hurt by the way Zim kept wincing and mewling and crying, a claw sometimes clutching at a particular hurt.

Gir picked up the carton in a remarkable effort to try again. Though there was less milk inside, he carried it over; presenting it happily, his cyan glow warming the Irken's shivering form.

"Yur..." the voice was groggy – unrecognizable – "nut...r-real..."

Gir paused, taking a moment to pat his chassis. "Nope! I'm all Gir!" He said, cuddling himself in delight.

Huddled to the wall, he gurgled: "Geer. Take..." It took more swallowing to get the decipherable words out, "...me h-home..."

Gir looked to Dib.

Dib looked back, mouth opening soundlessly when he could think of nothing to say. He held a perfect picture in his head of Zim sitting, huddled on the floor of his base, waiting for the same finality only death could bring.

"Isn't Mary's house fun?" Gir asked in that heightened, painful pitch of his. Zim winced, eyes falling shut.

"Nut...r-real..." He croakily whispered.

"Gir is real." Dib said, trying not to react or hesitate when Zim instinctively recoiled at the sound of his voice. "I'm real. This room you're in is safe. You're safe. You're in my room, no one's getting in. There are no more men in white coats. No one is going to hurt you. I got you out, Zim! There's no reason to be frightened!"

Keep talking to him. His inner voice urged. He needs to know where I am. He can't handle any surprises or sudden movements.

A few more steps he conquered, making his approach obvious and unstealthy.

Zim looked up with that same vague but wary stare, murky eyes narrowing. "No..." The demand was weak, tiny, and Dib had to ignore the faintest authority it carried. If he allowed Zim to wallow in this corner, then he would do so until he died.

His approach was slow, deliberate, and like a cornered beast sniffing the hunter, Zim tensed, shoulders braced against the wall, his left hand lifting threateningly. Gir was humming. That was good.

Keep singing or doing whatever you're doing Gir.

"No...!" Zim commanded, voice weedy and empty of its former depth.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you." He kept his voice calm and steady.

Getting desperate as if he could see a storm approaching within the darkness of his vision, Zim sidled along the wall even though it caused him pain. Dib came within three feet. He knelt down, watching the Irken scramble and shuffle along the wall. At least he had managed to get him out of that corner: a corner riddled with claw marks.

Please listen to me, Zim. I don't want to sedate you.

"Master?" Gir asked, watching the Irken bump into a wardrobe that stood against the wall. The journey from corner to wardrobe had been a marathon for the Irken. Zim sat, heaving for breath, sweat running down his skinny chest and arms. He could still feel Dib's closeness, and he blindly went to move away again, reaching for anything that might help him forwards. A hand, impossibly light, touched his shoulder and he shrieked, the noise bursting out of his damaged throat.

"Easy, Zim. I'm not your enemy." He inwardly recoiled when he said this. But he found that he had to remove his hand. The touch elicited those claws as they weakly and vengefully slashed for him. Dib always had more than enough time to avoid the blow, and he doubted they'd do any real damage.

What else could he do? He'd left the alien alone; hoping this would remedy his stress, giving him that peace and quiet so that he could find and eat the food in his own time.

The PAK's mantle had been barbarically closed back together with nails and screws, forcing it shut because they had failed to understand how it opened or closed. This was the general behaviour of man: when you didn't understand something, you forced out its secrets under your will, your command, without care or prudence. After all, they believed that their alien subject possessed no soul, so what did it matter?

When he'd watched Zim behind the thick layer of glass, he knew he shouldn't have been such a spineless coward. In the end, he was just another accomplice: part of the malice that had landed the Irken amongst torture and cruelty.

He came to kill us all.

He invaded our world.

He knew the risks. That it could end this way.

I did the right thing. I believed I did the right thing.

It was hard to see him as a soldier: harder even to recognise the creature before him. Now he was just another frightened, hurt animal that cowered and scuttled and crawled away from any presence or potential threat, dragging his one leg like some maimed thing.

Was this justice? Zim was the bad guy. The threat. Of course it was justice. The creature was evil.

So why the relentless damning day-and night-haunting guilt? Did heroes ever stop and regret plunging that spear into the villain's chest? Did they wake up one day, just feeling sad for killing the crook just so that the world could be a happier place to live in?

He sat and thought about how those men had moved around the surgical table, Torrent with his clipboard, Williams asking the questions, and prodding Zim with an electric cattle prod whenever their bound subject so much as looked like he would refuse to co-operate. Watching Zim get zapped over and over did not grant him the satisfaction he had expected. He was an overnight success now, able to stand by the hip of his father and pose proudly on the podium as a hundred photographers snapped shots of his beaming white smile, and printing it in millions or billions of magazines, newspapers, science articles and books. This was his fame, and he'd walked all over Zim to get it.

Justice had never been so simple.

But he had never believed it could be so messy.

It was counter-productive to hurt a delicate and potential one-of-a-kind alien life form the human race so desperately wanted to study and learn from – right? But when Zim came under the spotlight behind the glass, the alien had been almost purple with bruising, one feeler bent, his PAK studded with nails, one leg missing. A quick end for the Irken would have been the justice Dib had been really wanting.

But not like this... Never like this.

How much had they extracted from him? And what had they left behind?

I think they shoved something down his throat. A tube? Some kind of contraption?

Seeing Zim like this unlocked a very dark and horrific thought; opening like some forbidden door in the mixed, tumultuous sea of his reflections.

Would it better to end it? But would it be painless enough? Quick enough? Merciful enough? What kind of life would the soldier expect to have when he would forever grope through the darkness, reaching for comfort and relief? Removing the PAK was the obvious solution and the first that came to mind. But even that might take too long. Five minutes of slow assured agony was still five minutes too long.

His eyes softened, knowing he wouldn't be able to go through with it. He was that same spineless coward standing behind the glass, watching his old enemy go through each and every brutality.

"You like the floor!" Gir approached, and approached again, keeping in step with Zim's sluggish retreats. "You no thirsty?"

Dib watched as Zim crawled along the wardrobe's edge, his right hand preceding him as he felt the floor space for any obstruction before the rest of him followed. His PAK was pressed against the wood, eyes darting everywhere as if he was in the middle of a chaotic battlefield where bombs were dropping from the sky. An almost greyish shine appeared below his eyes where his nasal slits were, his movements increasingly lethargic to the point of droopiness. One eyelid flicked down. He flicked it back up as if he was violently tugging on a roller blind's cord. That leading-right hand slipped forwards too rapidly for him to maintain balance, and when his chin hit the carpet something in his head must have clicked off. Those dull eyes grew darker even though the lids did not close all the way, and softness replaced the tension in his joints.

"Zim?" He came forwards on his hands and knees. He reached out, braced for a reaction and nudged a bony finger into the Elite's shoulder. The side of Zim's face was flat on the floor, lips parting open with no resistance. "Hey?" Another nudge earned the same responsive.

Gir went round to stand by Zim's head, blinking in confusion.

The PAK was brimming with that internal glow. Carefully Dib dipped down, as close as he dared to Zim's countenance and heard the laboured huffs of breath.

He must have passed out. Again.

Now was the time to change those bandages at the stump, and the wad of dressing around his throat, but he was frightened of Zim jumping awake in the middle of the treatment.

Bringing Gir here to see him didn't seem to do much, did it?

What were you expecting, Dib? A fucking miracle? You can just undo everything you've done to him by shoving a token of apology in his face.

He nudged the Irken again, but Zim was out cold. Gir was still standing there, holding the milk carton.

"Wherz his leg gone?" Gir asked innocently enough as any ten year old might ask when their parent had suddenly come home with one limb missing.

"Urm, well..." Shit, yeah, good luck explaining this to him. The scientists took it. For science of course. "It was..."

Gir was looking at him intently, and in a serious way that was uncharacteristic of him.

"Removed..." Was his lame conclusion.

"Whhhy?"

Anger flashed out of him. "Because Gir! Mankind removed it to study it! That's why! It's what he deserved!" His tears of rage were more like fiery embers. He pushed himself to his feet. He needed to think. Needed to get out of this suffocating room, and think!

I was a hero! I turned him in, as all good guys should do to protect the world!

So why do I feel so...

...disgusted with myself?