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Zim surveys the theater lobby, lip curled. He eyes the soda-sticky carpet and its trails of trampled popcorn, the overrun snack bar and alcove of obsolete arcade games. He turns to Dib to speak his thoughts. “This is the worst place I have ever seen.”
“You say that about every place we go.” Dib is distracted, looking around at the posters for coming attractions with gleeful excitement. “Relax. Vampire Sprinkles gave Devil Mole From Pluto 4.5 out of five xenomorphs. This is gonna be great.”
Zim doubts it, though he doesn’t say so. All the human internet articles he read in preparation for their date tonight warned not to “harsh” his companion’s “squee.” They gave a lot of other, mostly contradictory advice, but that was a major sticking point. On this outing at the movies with his Dib tonight, he wants to remain on his best behavior. Zim makes such sacrifices in pursuit of victory. He is even planning to hold the human’s sweaty hand at some point during the proceedings…
“Master!” GIR’s tinny voice echoes in Zim’s backpack. “Do I smell puppies?”
“That is merely the Dib-beast’s head,” Zim starts, then changes tack. “My phone-thingy is ringing. I’d better take this call.”
“Okay,” says Dib, smirking as he watches Zim flee for the restroom.
Zim locks the door behind him and retrieves GIR. The robot hums a jaunty tune, unperturbed by Zim’s glare.
“GIR, what have I told you!”
“Keep your head closed?” GIR lifts the top hinge of his head, revealing a cargo of drugstore candy. “Or… Kill the Dib?”
“Don’t kill the Dib yet, GIR, don’t kill the Dib yet.” Zim digs the heels of his claws into his contacts. “Just keep quiet, will you? Until we’re outside the theater. Or until I tell you to make noise.”
“Yes, sir,” GIR agrees, tipping a bag of wrapped peppermints into his waiting maw.
When they locate the right theater and take a seat beside Dib, the movie has already started. Dib’s eyes are glued to the screen, his bearing animated in time with the action. He laughs at the comedic sequences, and the expressions on his face are—Zim’s PAK confirms it—appropriate to each scene. He looks… at home.
Zim had thought this would go differently. He had wanted to eat sugar dots from paper and hide popcorn in Dib’s hair. He had wanted to snicker at the bad parts and huddle together during frightening ones. (Of course Dib would be scared, not him.) Truthfully, he hadn’t even been that repulsed about holding hands. Children do it every day; how hard can it be? But now the Dib won’t look at him, his attention stolen by the stupid movie.
Zim keeps his composure through the Devil Mole’s arrival on Earth, its encounter with a human woman, its confrontation with the woman’s boyfriend and his anachronistic biker gang, and its eventual turnover to the authorities. There are hints of a final bloodbath to come as the Devil Mole undergoes one humiliating trial after another. Riveting. Definitely not material that might cause Zim distress. On an unrelated note, he feels sick.
“My guts ache from this human candy,” he stage-whispers. “Excuse my absence.”
“Hey,” Dib starts, concerned, but Zim is already out the door.
He mills in the hall for a while, avoiding other patrons. He hears GIR laughing inside the theater. Fine. He doesn’t care. Maybe Zim will hot-wire Dib’s car and figure out how to drive it home, and the two of them can walk.
Still moping, he approaches the snack bar. The rush has died down; the sole cashier is busy refilling the grease dispensers. Zim scowls up at the menu. It all costs too much.
He clears his throat. “Food service drone. I wish to make a purchase.”
The cashier groans. “Just let me wipe the grease off my hands.”
She turns around, and Zim realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. He knows this person.
“Oh, f —”
“Oh, fuck,” Tak agrees, eyes narrowing dangerously.
“Hi, Tak!” Dib interrupts. His hand clamps onto Zim’s shoulder, making Zim jump and squirm away. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
Everything Zim thought he knew falls to pieces.