#razf

A Morbid Curiosity

Contrary to popular assumption, Zim had been a rather large smeet. The largest in Smeetery 373, Clutch M-7347, in fact. For the first several months of his life, he’d blatantly been offered extra attention by both caretakers and peers alike. He was impulsive, petulant, and had already gained a track record for destruction, but it was still firmly believed that he could be molded into the ideal soldier by the time he matured. In the backs of their minds, they had all assumed Zim would grow to be tall, strong, and destined for great things. All the great ones held unharnessed energy and drive. A diamond in the rough, simply put.

Red, who stood at only 2.03 cm shorter than Zim, was especially awestruck by him. He genuinely looked up to him, both figuratively and literally, during their initial days together in the smeetery. He and Purple, who had been fast friends almost instantly, would flank Zim on either side while jockeying for position in the presence of caretakers and any high-ranking military entities who came to examine the various groups of growing smeets.

Time passed, though. Red and Purple caught up with Zim’s height. Then surpassed it. The others in M-7347 followed suit, first meeting Zim’s height, then easily outgrowing him. Almost overnight, Zim was not only the shortest Irken among his peers, but the shortest by far. Those who had once looked up to him suddenly saw him as little more than the dirt on the bottoms of their boots.

That was when Zim had gone truly mad. Having gone from undivided attention and praise to sudden disinterest broke something in him. To compensate for his stunted growth, his voice rose in octaves until his screechy yell was simply commonplace for him. His actions became more erratic, more desperate. He got in trouble more often. This only resulted in more distain from those around him, though.

Even Red and Purple had distanced themselves from him. Purple had gone from liking, to apathy, to outright loathing. Red, however, had managed to hold onto a mild morbid curiosity towards Zim. He would never admit it to a soul—not even Purple. But the fascination had sustained well past their time spent in the smeetery and into basic training.

Deep underground on Irk, the Irken elites of M-7347, along with many others from the same smeetery, were now finishing a day of training simulations. In a few days’ time, they would be shipped to Devastis as invader trainees. Zim, who had had a brief stint on Vort as research scientist’s protégé, had returned back to Irk just in time to be deployed along with the rest of them.

“You’re on thin ice!” Commander Poki had told him in front of the rest of his squadron upon his arrival back a week before. She hadn’t forgotten the extent of the damage Zim had done as a smeet under her command. “One more screw up, and you can say goodbye to any hopes of invader training!”

He, along with the rest of the smeets, set to finished sparring exercises, simulations, and reiterating the information they had been taught for years. They were all eager to serve the Empire rather than learn about it.

“Ughhh!” Red ripped off his virtual reality headset and threw it on the ground at his feet. He had nearly broken his record for PAK leg combat before being vaporized by the simulated opponents he had been fighting. Looking around now without the helmet on, he could see the other elites were in the midst of removing their own gear. They chattered among themselves and shook out their antennae, visibly relieved to free the long feelers from being pressed down against the backs of their heads.

Then, Red locked eyes with Commander Poki. “Problem, soldier?” “No Ma’am,” he snapped back, standing at attention. She looked sternly at him. “Pick up that helmet.” He did so with a touch of embarrassment, then turned back to her. “Now take it, and all the others, and return them to storage.” Not even a week before, Tallest Miyuki had perished in what was only known to the rest of

them as “a lab accident” while touring a military research lab on Vort. Her death had caused a ripple effect throughout Irken-occupied space, leaving the commanders a little more solemn a lot stricter.

At Red’s obvious sigh and shoulder slump, Commander Poki raised a disapproving eyebrow at him. “And take Zim with you,” she added, gesturing towards the corner of the room.

The Irken in question was in the middle of melting Skoodge’s helmet down with his PAK legs’ welding tips while the latter watched in stoic silence.

“Heh?” Zim asked, looking up from what he was doing.

Red darkened, throwing out a hand and gesturing Zim over. “Come on, runt. We need to put the equipment away.”

Zim strolled away from Skoodge, who was left to stare at his destroyed and smoldering headset.

The trip down to the storage level was uneventful, filled with Zim’s grating little voice and Red’s stony silence. Once they had returned the headsets, gloves, and boots back to their rightful places, Zim wandered out of the room and began to run down the hall.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Red was beginning to cross the line from annoyed to outright angry. “Foodening is starting right now, and if I don’t return with you, we’ll both be in big trouble!”

Zim didn’t break his stride but whipped his head around as he passed locked storage doors. “I heard they keep plasma-loaded battle tanks down here!”

One door was ajar. Zim scrambled inside, with Red in close pursuit. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Red closed the enormous steel hatch behind him before anyone could notice they were in there. “Come on, you stupid little—”

He stopped dead in his tracks. Instead of plasma-loaded battle tanks, the room was filled with snacks. A food service drone must have forgotten to close the storage room door.

Red took in an awed breath in spite of himself. Another more rational part of him was still protesting, begging them to leave the snack unit. Commander Poki was already in a sour mood. Before he could say anything, though, he lit up at the sight of something near the back of the room.

“Splazier-filled donuts!” He immediately crossed the room, tore open the package, and shoved one in his mouth. “These have been sold out for months!” Purple had insisted the snack drones kept them down here, and Red had unceremoniously dismissed him.

Zim was already ripping into a bag of assorted cookies. “I bet Skoodge wishes he was here now!” he shouted between a mouthful of crumbs.

Red laughed one loud, brazen “ha!” then stopped himself. What am I doing? Being friendly with Zim? He swallowed the last of the donut he was eating. They needed to leave. Back to the refectory.

“Hey! Check this out!”

When Red looked up, something was being shoved into his hands. He looked down at a cup full of alarmingly bright red liquid.

Zim was holding another tall plastic cup full of the same red drink. “Slushies! As many as we want!” He gestured grandiosely to a huge machine churning the stuff round and round.

Without another pause, Zim took a long drink from his cup, eyes widening dramatically as he swallowed. Red drank from his cup, and instantly understood Zim’s reaction. It was so impossibly sweet, he couldn’t help but react the same way. It was like nothing else he had ever tasted before. He guaranteed none of the other elites had tried it. Only commanders were ever seen drinking it, and even then, the elites only ever really heard them down in the refectory late at night. Whatever was in them could leave even the sternest Irken soldier a sloppy, inebriated mess.

“Ahahahahaaaa!” Zim cackled, throwing his now empty cup on the ground. It popped back up with a little pinging noise and splashed droplets of red slushy across the floor. He beelined to the machine again and filled up two extra-large cups. “Betcha two donuts you can’t drink the whole thing faster than me!”

“Are you serious?” Red looked up over his first cup, already two-thirds of the way empty, and scowled. “Of course I can drink it faster than you.” Zim was insane if he thought he could possibly win. Red was nearly a foot taller than him. Not to mention, Zim’s proposal of a “bet” made zero sense considering they already had all the donuts they could ever eat in one night.

Nevertheless, Red snatched the other cup from Zim and counted down. Within seconds, he had drained his cup. For what it was worth, Zim was a surprisingly worthy opponent. He nearly choked on the slushie, red rivulets trailing down the corners of his mouth. At last, he finished, a pained look on his face.

Red filled the next round of cups and grabbed an entire box of snack cakes. It wasn’t until midway through this round of slushies that he started to feel its effects. One minute, all was

normal. Then, the ground seemed to tilt a little. His own voice came out in a slight echo, as if he were speaking through a tunnel. Whatever Zim was prattling on about came out with the same sensation—distant and with a slight reverberation within the walls of Red’s increasingly weightless head. Conversation became easier. So easy, in fact, it was hard to imagine it ever having been a challenge. Laughter came more freely and without any shame on Red’s part. Zim wasn’t Zim anymore—he was just an Irken. Everything was warmer, from their smiles to their physical surroundings.

Eventually, there came a point when the feeling began to reel back around, though. Or increase. It was hard to tell. Soon, the room became too warm. Zim was no longer laughing but shouting stories and nonsensical jokes. Red began to argue over everything Zim said. Their voices slurred into incoherency.

The next events came in faded bits and spurts. Red vaguely recalled climbing onto one of the stacks of boxes holding snack foods and screaming something about Tallest Spork declaring him best Irken ever when they arrived on Devastis. Zim hollered from down below that Spork would be giving him that role. Red took a wrong step and tumbled down the little box tower and onto the floor.

The next memory was Zim stopping midway through attempting to fight Red with his “superior fists of superiority!” It took a moment for Red to look up to see why. Zim had his lips pressed together and was staring owlishly forward. Then, in a split-second, he was lunging forward and projectile vomiting. Red turned away with a disgusted groan and retreated to the other side of the room.

The night ended when Red was no longer able to remember his own actions. He must have blacked out eventually, because when opened his eyes again, Zim was standing over him. He had vague recollections of sitting up in a sickening haze as the world spun.

“C’mon,” Zim muttered. He looked barely able to stand on his own feet. Somehow, he managed to coax Red to his own feet, though, and support him somewhat as the two ambled back to the barracks. They buried themselves in their respective resting quarters and tried to sleep off the last several hours.

-x-

“Get up!” The door flew open, and the shadow of Commander Poki spilled out over the floor.

Dozens of sets of antennae stood on end, voices cried out, and Irkens scrambled from the sanctity of sleep to their spots in line side by side. Zim and Red both staggered miserably in line a few seconds behind the rest of them.

“Who raided the snack unit!?”

The Irkens looked at one another in bleary-eyed confusion. Zim and Red, however, went wide eyed. Red flicked his eyes to Zim’s direction, but the latter didn’t return his glance. Zim looked nauseated and dizzy. Red wondered if he looked that way, too, and immediately made an effort to stand up straighter and look more alert.

The commander walked down the line, looking shrewdly at each of them. “There’s no point in hiding it. If you don’t fess up and tell me now, each of you will be subjected to a PAK examination to retrieve memories of the night before. It’s your choice.”

She stopped in front of Zim and leaned down, until she was staring directly into his eyes. “You look awfully guilty, soldier.”

He looks like he’s going to be sick, Red thought.

“And I didn’t see you at the refectory last night...” Commander Poki mused. Zim swallowed but didn’t say anything in response. He remained standing perfectly still, staring almost through her as she spoke.

Red felt something tug at him. He wanted so badly for it to be the feeling of relief. Instead, he felt uneasy. He remembered back to the night before, when he and Zim were both raiding the snack unit. He thought back even further, to when the commander had told Zim “One more screw up, and you can say goodbye to any hopes of invader training!” Zim, for all his bluster and arrogance, had gone almost as pale as he was now.

The commander opened her mouth, about to speak again, when Red heard his own voice break into the still air. “I did it.”

Her antennae flickered. She rose to her full height, then turned towards Red. “Excuse me?”

“I did it,” he repeated. “It was all my idea. I—I broke into the snack unit.” He was beginning to stammer. It took everything he had to choke out his next words. “Zim had nothing to do with it.”

Commander Poki stood perfectly still, squinting at him. Silence passed through the air, mingling with the electric tension felt by everyone in the room. “You’re sure of that?” she said finally, still unconvinced.

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed even more, but she shifted her weight to one leg and dropped her arms to

her sides. “I expected better from an Irken of your caliber, soldier. Especially a week before invader training begins.”

Red nodded meekly. “Yes, Commander.” He waited, then. Waited for whatever punishment she would dole out. She was always at the ready to reprimand the other, shorter elites with grueling chores or exercises that would make even the fittest Irken dizzy with exhaustion.

Instead, she continued staring him down. “Do not let it happen again,” she said finally. Without another word, she walked out of the room. The door slammed down behind her.

Then, the room broke free of their restrained attention stances. Conversation buzzed. “What was that?” Purple was in Red’s face instantly. “What’s going on?”

Red looked towards Zim, again. He was sitting on his bed, a visible sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“You heard me.” Red turned to face Purple as he said it. “Zim went with you,” he shot back, eyes narrowed. “And?”

“Well, why did you bail him out? This could have been what we needed to get him out of ruining our lives for the next several years in invader training! Why would you make yourself look bad for Zim?”

Red looked around, only to meet the eyes of nearly every other Irken in their vicinity. Their eyes were even more venomous, more accusatory.

In spite of himself, Red felt himself squirm. An uncomfortable silence passed through. Everyone was looking at him. “Not your business,” he said at last. “And if any of you say another word about it, I’ll... I’ll...” He didn’t know what he would do. Nothing, probably. But he was the tallest of the group, and that had to count for something. Already, his empty threat had caused half the Irkens glaring at him to drop their eyes to the ground.

Before long, the hatch to their quarters lifted up again, and they dispersed down to the refectory for breakfast. Soon, Red lost any sight of Zim in the mix. Purple, however, remained glued to his side.

“Zim’s done absolutely nothing but rain horror down on everything he touches,” Purple ranted. “Everyone who goes near him either ends up dead, maimed, or in trouble.”

Red was nodding along idly. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“And now he’s going to be going to be shipped off with the rest of us. Going to meet Tallest Spork. What a joke!”

The went through line, watching as their trays were piled with whatever slop the food service drones working behind the counters had prepared. Red thought about what Purple had said, though.

Zim was going to go to invader training along with the rest of them on Devastis. After everything he had done throughout basic, who could possibly predict what would happen? Impulsively blowing up his entire squadron? Causing yet another blackout?

Slowly, Red felt a warm flush of shame creep over his face as he picked at his food. Purple was right. Zim destroyed everything he touched. And he could have stopped it.

He suddenly hated himself for not throwing Zim under the bus when he could. After all, it had been Zim’s idea to sneak into the food storage hatch. Why would he do that in the first place? Some sort of neurotic need to cause as much mayhem as possible? Only an Irken with serious bugs in their ID PAK would do something like that. An Irken who would see consequences in the form of an existence evaluation by the time their PAK had proven itself to be unequivocally defective to the entire universe rather than just the company they kept.

Red stopped hating himself, then, and started hating Zim even more than he had before. Zim wasn’t just a nuisance—he was a danger. The safest place he could possibly be was far away from the Empire.

“Hey...” Purple’s voice broke his concentrated, seeping in from the periphery of his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“You gonna eat your mooshminky?” 

Red blinked. “Oh, uh, yeah. I am.”

Purple grumbled under his breath as Red shoved the whole thing in his mouth at once. They got up and placed their trays on the carousel of dirty dishes before making their way to the combat simulation wing.

Whatever happens, Red thought, at least a day will come when Zim is no longer my problem.