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In his twenty-four years of life, Dib had seen and been through a lot. He’d been knocked on his ass by more paranormal creatures than he could count, had lost six jobs for one reason or another, and had worn his throat out screaming into three different pillows, two of which he’d then torn to shreds.
This, though?
This was new.
His arms rested against a creaking oak banister as a head made of a viscous substance that wasn’t quite black (but it was so deep of a red it may as well have been) settled on his arm, thick strands woven around his bicep underneath his sleeve. That head had enveloped his entire body, had- had-
God, he could still taste the viscera sliding down his throat, still feel the crunch of skull between his teeth. He reached his free hand up, tugging his top lip up to make sure that he hadn’t grown shark teeth outside of the transformation. The sharpness of his canines wasn’t very encouraging.
There had been rumors of an alien crash. It had been dark, and he’d only had his flashlight and a taser, and yes, it was incredibly stupid, but that was what he did. Went off into dangerous places to prove the unprovable, to capture the uncapturable, to find the truth that no one else could or would. There had been searchlights, and he’d ducked behind a tree and cursed himself for forgetting to charge his phone. A cat had wandered past, and he’d only had seconds to consider how strange its eyes were when the searchlight had flashed on them before something had leapt forward and smothered him, an icy chill sinking through his skin and through muscles and bones to curl around his heart like a fist.
He’d run, ripped up his entire apartment for whatever food he could find, and then had started hearing voices other than his own. That was something he had been certain he’d grown out of, at least outside of hauntings. (Getting kicked out of the kid’s asylum three times meant you were either sane or so round-the-bend nobody could do anything for you anyway.)
An hour later, he’d turned into a monster, ripped a man’s head off, and stuffed it down his throat, so needless to say things had gone rather downhill from there.
The voice had pulled itself out of his skin with ruby pupil-less eyes and the most oil-slick and disgusting head Dib had ever seen, called itself Doom, declared they would be perfect together, and then passed out on his arm, half-sinking back into the skin.
Which was where they were now, on the back porch of a bar that Dib had long since learned didn’t ask many questions as long as he paid his tab on time. He was glad he was wearing the trench coat that had both sleeves fully intact to hide his new “friend”, because even apathetic barmen may have been just a bit curious about the literal fucking alien chilling on and squirming under the skin inside a patron’s arm.
The porch had cleared out with the November chill, and Dib swigged a third shot of whiskey to wash the taste of guts from his throat.
“Stop that.” Oh, goody, the eyes were back.
“Stop what?”
“That horrible tasting sludge. I command you!” Dib’s arm jerked. He would have spilled the drink if he hadn’t already finished it, condensation dripping down and flattening a bit of hair on his wrist.
“I needed to-” There were other people staring at him. He narrowed his eyes, snarling, and they quickly looked away. Still, he dialed down the volume. “I needed to get the taste out of my mouth.”
“Intestines taste delicious, that liquid just burns!”
“Intestines taste like- like guts, guts don’t taste good raw!” Dib hissed back.
“They do, your unrefined human palate just has to adjust, then you’ll see.” Doom flopped Dib’s arm around a little more. “You need more muscle, muscle comes from meat!”
“Look, just because protein’s expensive-”
“Eating people is free,” the alien still hanging out on Dib’s arm said smugly, tendrils creeping down Dib’s other arm and shifting around his neck.
“Eating people’s going to get real expensive if anyone catches us,” Dib said, fighting back his immediate monkey-brain xenophiliac responses to what felt like tentacles caressing his skin, pressing down just hard enough that it was clear Doom was only arguing as a formality and could probably regain control at any time. “Look. It’s not that there aren’t people who don’t deserve-”
“Of course there are! We’re on the same page!” Doom pulled back, reforming next to Dib’s neck, and the man pulled his coat collar up. “There is pain in you, Dib, rejection and fear, but together, we can fix it. Together, we hunt both man and beast-”
“-Sort out the frauds and the stupid cops and people who deserve to be eaten, and manage to catch the real things,” Dib muttered as Doom purred, actually nuzzling against him. Like some kind of gooey alien cat.
“Yes, yes, exactly! You have strength and intelligence, I have power beyond your wildest dreams. Humans have rejected you-”
“Thanks a lot, goo-boy,” Dib interjected before Zim continued, one tendril tightening around his thigh as a warning but only drawing a rush of blood to his cheeks.
“-But I have not. On my planet, they misunderstand my genius, but here- here, I can be more. We can be more. You are the only being worthy of me, Dib-human. Be honored!”
There was something to the bright echoey timbre that Doom had that didn’t quite fit the fact that the only solid thing about him (them, it?) were the rows of razor-sharp teeth, but it was rapidly endearing Dib to the alien. Maybe it was the edge from the booze, or maybe that guy they’d ripped to shreds had been running high enough on adrenaline that the hormone was being digested and processed by now and making him go stupid.
“You know what?” Dib licked his lips, getting the last of the whiskey taste out as Doom gagged next to him. “I call the targets.”
“Is that a yes?”
“On a trial basis, understand? I can still find some way to fry you out of me, but I’m not about to look a superpowered gift alien in the mouth. Yet.”
He really hoped that the nip Doom made on his neck was supposed to be playful, but the fact that the alien was rumbling happily and pulsing joy through his body meant it was probably a good bet.
(Dib ended up puking up the whiskey twenty minutes later while Doom alternated cussing at him and crowing about being right. It was only remembering just how strong he’d felt when they’d been together that kept Dib from trying to make him stop with the blowtorch stuffed in the back of his closet.)