Chapter Text
The night is endless in space, stretching on and on... it devours everything. There exists no corner in the universe that it hasn't yet swallowed. Zim doubts there is ever an end to its eternal suffocation, always present and all-consuming wherever you turn to look. Such night in all its glory follows a spaceship throughout its journey.
Traveling from one planet to the next, especially to a planet that is light years away from his main fleet, forces Zim to understand just how small and insignificant he is in the grand scheme of things. Not short, not meaningless, not in the way that matters. But compared to the scale of everything he sees floating outside the ship's gleaming glass, Zim might as well be as factually insignificant as a planet is to the Irken Armada. Just a resource, a number, something to be blown apart and brushed not that subtly under a rug after everything of use is sucked out of him.
It serves as a constant reminder of what he came here to do, the position he is in- banished for his unintentional crimes against his tallest, and why he absolutely cannot afford to fail them again. They aren't usually very generous when it comes to handing out second chances, so he takes what he was given gratefully.
In his ship's modest cockpit there is a small chair in front of a small window for him to sit on. This is his favorite place from which to study the outside of Earth's galaxy. The milky way is by far one of the smallest galaxies he visited on his month-long journey. According to the Irken databank and his own research, it only has about four hundred billion stars to count and its dark matter halo only spans two million light years. It is about a one fourth of Irk's galaxy, for example. In it, there are only a dozen star systems that house evolved lifeforms of any meaning whatsoever, although all of them are new and still quite primitive in nature. It will take them a lot of time no other species has to spare in order for them to invent space travel, and even more time for them to be of any danger to larger colonies.
Zim's fingers twitch, his teeth grinding together. "...so why would the tallest insist on Earth's capture if..."
Silence. A minute into it, a whirring noise of a machine waking up to inform its master arrives somewhere to his left.
"If you are about to have an another one of your fits, refrain from throwing things at me. You have a cleaning drone for that." The computer says, sounding bored although he is pleading.
Zim's antennae twitch in frustration and his skin pinks in embarrassment as he directs a look at the computer's recently upgraded and polished screen. It glows in retort, telling Zim that it doesn't plan to hide in an another part of the ship while Zim tosses his barrage of insults and arrogant claims straight at it.
Outbursts like these make Zim question why he even bothers to keep that ungrateful hunk of metal in tip-top shape every second of the day. Always clean, allowed to have unguarded access to a wide array of intercultural networks and secret files...
(And then he remembers the pinprick of a needle penetrating his spine. He is on the ground, bleeding, coughing up more blood by the second as he trashes in unbearable pain. He might be screaming, but his throat is squeezed so tight from violent contractions in his muscles that only pathetic squeaks akin to what a baby reptile would make could realistically escape from it. An another PAK malfunction, a bad one this time. There is no muscle response and he cannot see, his vision clouded and distorted from the agony he is living. He knows no one is on the ship save for a single faulty computer marked for recycling, and somehow he doesn't end up dead.)
His antennae drop low, betraying a hint of emotion the computer undoubtedly already burned into its hard drive for when it needs material for an another blackmail to bail itself out of annoying computer-related tasks. "Zim is thankful for the reminder." He says sarcastically, but doesn't move to throw anything, contrary to how his voice makes his intentions clear. The computer goes silent, probably surprised to see Zim keep his cool when he usually isn't this easy to calm or talk to. He is never nervous, either, which is obviously not the case right now. The fluctuation in his nerves might be an error in his PAK's circulatory system going berserk again- something Zim realizes might be a possibility at that moment. He probably should get it checked out these days. It has been a while since his last set of unnecessarily painful tests and malfunctions aren't exactly uncommon for him.
"How long until we are there?" Zim asks, moving to the cramped med-bay of the ship, where he begins typing in commands for the self-check robotic arm to do a couple of basic tests regarding his health, entirely absent-minded while doing it. The computer has to give credit where its due, Zim knows his stuff when it comes to technology and egotistical monologues.
"Minutes." It answers, unspecific to its core. While Zim generally values having strange people- or in this situation a broken machine- at his side, in moments when he is unstable himself, unpredictable behavior annoys him at best. Even more so than Tak makes him rage whenever she pops up in his head.
Even now at the thought of her he shivers, which has nothing to do with a robotic hand simultaneously removing his PAK from the comfort of his spine, wires grinding through the tender inside of his half-hollow bones as it scans whatever the hell it finds worth scanning.
Zim forces himself to remain calm. "Check landing conditions and planet parameters once the ship closes in enough. I want detailed notes." He says, as he fights against the discomfort of the procedure.
"It amazes me how you insist on acting like you care about what you will destroy." The computer says, even though it is already writing out a semi-rushed report on its screen the more the ship nears Earth.
Zim struggles not to smile at that. "Know your enemy. First lesson in invader training." He replies simply. The real reason behind his request would label him a softie, probably, so he refrains from saying it out loud.
Truth is, this part of Sector Z has never been truly explored and properly documented to this day. It might as well be classified as the wilderness of space, so he can't help but let his less prominent scientific side be curious about it, and maybe a little terrified of what he might find.
Maybe the old folklore of the worst kind got to him subliminally, despite how hard he dismisses the absurd notion of the tiniest chance that intelligent super-organisms survived against all odds on an unforgivable planet full of untamable wildlife, and are now evolved to match Irkens directly without the help of technology.
If the kind of species which the tales speak of truly exist on this planet he is about to land on, still breathing and guarding Earth until no breath is left in their lungs to move them, a single Invader would have trouble dealing with them on their own.
"Right." The computer says, entirely unimpressed. "Duly noted for future deductions. By the way, we are making contact with Earth in two point nine minutes. Am I allowed to go now?"
Zim ignores that first bit, his antennae perking up from the news of his long journey coming to an end. "Prepare the ship for landing. Zim is sick and tired of traveling in this cold, lifeless, boring-"
Suddenly, a series of beeps and the cacophony of different systems going offline then online again fills the air as the ship's turbulence breaches Earth's atmosphere. The ship shakes hard enough to make Zim's skin crawl with the instinct to throw everyone near him towards certain death so he may escape with his head still attached to his shoulders. He slams a couple of buttons on the self-check robot which forces the multiple tests in progress to a stop, and the robotic arm returns Zim's PAK into his spine.
"Oops," The machine sounds bored even while apologizing. "My bad. I forgot to tell you that you should probably hold on to something."
Zim struggles to stand when he abandons the chair, but he manages a death stare directed at the assistant anyway. If only he had other Irkens with him to push around and command. Sadistic orders and doing things his own way makes him think clearer. Sadly, while he usually has no shortage of men to antagonize and kill off for his own benefit (and fun) on Irk, he is truly alone in his quest of redemption. That merciless reminder stings a little. As he stands with a lone warrior's grace, Zim has to dig his suit's metal claws into the Zorkean metal of the ship just so he doesn't fall over his own weight, embarrassingly unprepared for the likes of this situation. The gravitational pull of this planet is much stronger than the computer ever anticipated and entirely unlike it was explained how it would be to Zim earlier. The strong pull towards Earth's primitive, working core is downright nauseating and not "ordinary" like the computer had failed to inform him mere hours ago. Each bump and shift in the air makes every surviving nerve inside of his squeedly spooch tingle with electricity and the tiniest muscle in his legs clench, trying to cement themselves to the floor so he doesn't die stupidly while landing a ship.
This goes on for a good two minutes, during which Zim holds on for dear life and does not dare move from the spot he secured himself in with his claws. As he feels the ship finally land without issue, the Irken groans with a butt load of spit foaming at his mouth together with rising bile. Though he has no natural need to eat anything as a biological weapon, he still chooses to indulge in junk food whenever he feels like it. He deeply regrets eating all those bags of nachos now that he feels like throwing up. The tremble in his legs is dangerous evidence of how he lost the cool and emotionless nature from his past, and that fatal confirmation to what he does not want to admit to- that he is indeed changing- must be disposed of. He internally folders it as just a reaction to the stress of having his organs rearranged while landing on a secluded planet in Tallest-know-where. It is beyond understandable that he would be a bit shaken from that, right?
However, while he retreats and straightens his spine back to something befitting of a soldier, his eyes take note of the deep indents he left in the metal from his claws, and it is inexcusable proof of how far he has already fallen. It is embarrassing to think that he was holding on for his dear life, so his brain refuses to acknowledge his fuckup for the sake of keeping it professional. Fear was not something he experienced mere seconds ago. No sir, that was just a strange reflex to the Earth's gravity with no emotional correspondence whatsoever.
He looks over to the computer, which is still present and most likely recorded the whole thing. Then he hears it whistle in such a fake oblivious nature that it almost makes Zim rethink that whole 'throwing things at his machines' thing. Lidding his eyes in unimpressed defeat, Zim looks further north just in time to watch the computer open the ship's front door and lower it like a ramp, letting light of the planet’s surface bleed in. Untamed and far too bright. Zim is thankful that his eyes are beyond adapted to such stark change, since Irkens are a species that is build to be resilient and travel through many kinds of inhospitable planets on the way. But the planets different colors still take him for a loop. There are so many varieties- green covered with dots of warm colors, alarming reds, stark yellows and gentle blues are just one of them. It's a lot to take in all at once, but he cannot afford a distraction right now. He turns his head towards the computer and asks, "Where is my battle spear?"
"The electric or laser one?"
"The combined one."
"On that wall beside you."
Zim blinks at the spear basically staring right at him to his right, huffs, then picks it up and mumbles a grumpy, "I knew that..." before he makes a leave for the outside world. The second he steps well off the ramp; the entirety of the spaceship goes into lockdown. He watches closely as the metal shapes into a large rock, disguising itself while still remaining functional. Most of its shape is an advanced holographic display, so he hopes nothing around here is smart enough to notice that it is made out of something far different than an earthly mineral.
Satisfied with what he sees, Zim decides he can finally go and do his mission. He cracks his knuckles before he clicks at the button of the suit's collar, which pulls up an impressive battle helmet over his head. He then raises up his right arm that has a small tablet-like device attached to the suit's fabric. Trained fingers type at the device and advanced eyes read through pages amongst pages of the computer's reports about Earth while he walks. He dreads to think about what his eccentric AI will do without an authority figure to scold it into submission. But about as quickly as that thought came, Zim brushes it off his mind.
A single planet is easy enough to conquer. This shouldn't take long enough for that oversized microwave to do anything moronic during his absence.