A/N: Listen, Dib is injured, and Zim needs to try to fix him. If you are particularly squeamish, you may want to skip this chapter. I use medical terminology, for the most part.

Dib's entire body shuddered before his spine gave a harsh flick, the PAK tumbling onto the ground. It left behind three perfect, bloody holes along his thoracic spine. They looked so neat, like someone had plucked Dib up and run him through a hole-puncher. The flesh that surrounded them belied any notion of delicacy. The skin of his back was corroded and burned. As Dib inhaled, the blackened mat of his back splintered, showing hints of red muscle and white fascia beneath.

Zim stared down at Dib and wondered why his hands were hurting. He realized he was gripping the arms of the chair so hard his arms were shaking. A slow inhale. He will fix that later, if there is a later. Zim knew the Tallest weren't finished with him, wouldn't let him just leave.

Good. It wouldn't be any fun if I didn't come after you.

Zim had seen executions on Irk, when soldiers' own PAKs were used to destroy them, overloading their bodies with enhancement drugs before heating up until the Irken's flesh began to boil and eventually catch fire. He had guessed they wouldn't have chosen that route, it wouldn't have hurt him, only Dib. There had to be a self-destruct feature. Of course there is, and of course they can use that to kill him. It's his PAK, it's him, and it's the knife that has been twisting into his brain his entire life. His gaze flicked to the slim remote lying on the ground next to Dib before he looked up at the console.

"Then we are done, my Tallest," he whispered. His whole body was trembling now, whether from fear or withdrawal or the screaming white-hot need to kill them, he didn't know. Your move. Can't let a defective live. Can't let me get away. He saw the glance shared between his Tallest, saw so clearly now what he had been unable to see it before: The contempt, the derision, the smug superiority.

"Oh," Red said, holding up his claws to examine them. "One last thing?"

Dib was moving. He shouldn't be moving yet. A hand clenched into a fist and released. A high-pitched moan left his mouth, increasing in pitch until it became inaudible. Zim needed to start working on the human now. He realized Tallest Red had said something. It was coming. A smile twitched at his lips. For the first time, Zim new he was smarter than them, faster, more dangerous.

"Hmm?"

"Suck it," Red spat.

A smile cut across his face in sharp suddenness. Idiots. The PAK started beeping. He looked down at Dib. Soon this will be over. He looked up at the camera, locking eyes with Red.

"Thank you." He regretted that he was unable to take the time to note their reactions. Were they surprised? Scared? Zim would never know. He threw himself onto the ground, scooping up the PAK and hurling it across the room with one hand as his other reached for the small remote next to Dib's head. The PAK struck the far wall with a clang and erupted just as he activated the shield. Would it have enough juice to protect them? Time to find out.

Light erupted from the PAK as it exploded. The shield distended, flickering a sickly greenish-yellow as it swelled like a balloon, inching closer and closer to where Zim lay on the floor, Dib clutched to him. It bubbled furiously as thousands of metal shards flew into it before bursting out of existence. A wave of scorching heat blasted over Zim, making his skin burn and his antennae draw down against his head. When he raised his head, Zim saw a field of PAK fragments only inches from where he and Dib lay. The rest of the room was burning again, the computer panels melted beyond recognition. Whatever of Membrane's work had been stored there was gone forever.

Dib shuddered against him, causing Zim to sit up. They needed to get out of here, but first he needed to get Dib stable. Once they were on the ship, Zim could begin reconstructive work, but he was afraid to move the human too much in his current condition. He remembered how Dib had relied on the PAK arms to move, his legs hanging limply below him, and shuddered. If Dib's spinal chord had been severed...

The Irken was not squeamish, but it hurt him deep in his chest to see the damage on Dib's back. The anger he had felt when talking to the Tallest, which had lowered to a simmer, began to bubble up again.

Not now.

The corner of the room protected by the shield included Membrane's desk, which Zim cleared off. He hurriedly splashed rubbing alcohol across it before also coating his gloves. As he waved his hands to dry them, he took stock of what he had. He had found the rubbing alcohol in a woefully inadequate medical kit. It also contained scissors, two packets of gauze, and band-aids too small to be of any use. He looked under the desk and found the syringe he had used to sedate Dib. It was placed alongside the scant medical tools. The shelves around Membrane's desk held a variety of useless gadgets alongside bottles of differing shapes and sizes. He searched through them, looking for anything useful. Hexane, acetic acid, butanol, all useless. Finally he found a small bottle of trichloromethane.

Zim knelt down and scooped Dib into his arms, facing his disfigured back away from his own chest. Zim lay Dib down on the desk on his side, as gently as he could. It was harder than he wanted to admit. Although Dib was in worse shape, Zim was not much better off. He cut a swatch of fabric out of a lab coat and doused it in the trichloromethane; the soaked rag was draped over Dib's nose and mouth. Zim turned away to prepare everything else, giving the anesthetic time to take effect.

He was delaying examining him, scared he would find something he couldn't fix. Zim took a deep breath. It was fine. He was Zim, he could fix anything. He turned to Dib and bent to look at his back. The corrosion was spread across most of Dib's upper back, epidermis flaking like burning paper just before it collapsed into ash. Thankfully the damage didn't appear to go much deeper than the thin layer of fat between the human's skin and his muscles. Fixable.

Zim turned his attention to the three holes in the middle of Dib's back, where the PAK's tendrils had forced their way in. Two of them were as neat and tidy as they had seemed from afar. His eyes fell to the third one. It was ragged at the edges, and clear liquid dripped from it. Zim grimaced. Cerebrospinal fluid meant that the PAK tendril had made a tear in the dura mater. That left the possibility of a bleed into Dib's spinal chord. He soaked a piece of gauze in rubbing alcohol and dabbed gently at the hole, cleaning away flakes of skin. He pressed a fresh square of gauze on the hole and held it there. When he drew it back he examined it for any discoloration. He let out a shuddering sigh. The stain was colorless, indicating blood hadn't flooded his spinal chord. The PAK must have torn the dura mater when it detached from Dib, not when it interfaced with him.

He dropped the gauze and turned to his tools. Although there was currently no blood in the fluid, he wanted to cut off the possibility of a future leak. Zim closed his eyes and pictured the human medical text in his head. He flipped through the pages, past the glossy photographs of dissected corpses that had provided him so much entertainment. One finger, just barely trembling, traced the air, as if scanning down to the correct line. He repeated the steps out loud, twice, before opening his eyes and picking up the syringe. Zim turned back to Dib and gently extended one of his arms. He traced the blue veins from Dib's wrist up to his soft inner elbow before inserting the syringe and drawing blood. As he withdrew the needle a tremor shot through him, nearly causing him to drop it. He grit his teeth.

Zim affixed one of the band-aids to the needle site before gently brushing the back of his hand across Dib's cheek. The trichloromethane had done its job, and Dib had settled back into oblivion, his breathing shallow but steady.

"You are mine," Zim whispered. "You are not allowed to die."

He knelt, becoming eye level with Dib's spine. His fingers felt for the vertebrae, finding the gaps above and below the wound. He closed his eyes again and repeated, "As the tip of the epidural needle pierces the ligamentum flavum, there is an abrupt decrease in resistance."

He placed the tip of the needle between T6 and T7 and gently pushed, feeling the needle sliding very slowly through the dense tissue. Suddenly the pressure vanished, the needle threatening to slip forward. He stopped and depressed the syringe, injecting half its contents and withdrawing it. He counted up to the space between T4 and T5 and repeated the procedure.

A gentle clink as he placed the empty syringe on the table. He stood up. Zim didn't remember getting Dib back up to the ship, but somehow he did it. He placed him gently on the thin, hard bunk in the small posterior section of the cabin before returning down to the lab. He grabbed the remaining bottle of rubbing alcohol and sloshed it over Membrane's corpse. Emergency services would arrive soon, attracted by the smoke, but Membrane didn't deserve to have his body pulled free of this lab. He wouldn't get an open casket displaying his adoringly embalmed corpse, gut laceration hidden beneath a gleaming lab coat. Zim crumpled a fistful of papers from the desk and lit them on the flames that curled ever closer. He dropped them on the body and left, face curling in disgust at the smell.

Zim broke atmosphere recklessly, clipping a satellite and sending it spinning off course. Once he was free of the gravitational pull he set the computer's autopilot to head towards Alpha Centauri. That done, he sunk down to the floor, leaning back on the hard edge of Dib's bed. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and dropped his head, harsh sobs ripping through his chest.