A Parade of Indignities

Chapter 23: Of Wartime Paranoia and Being in the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

Content warning: violence/slight gore.

Chapter art created and owned by Lillylunala.

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Zim's brain had completely stalled out. He sat perfectly still in his seat, unable to make sense of what he'd just heard. When at last the inner mechanisms began to turn again, he was bombarded with the intensity of the question that overruled all else: War? What war?

Suddenly, the restaurant felt like a different dimension. He glanced around frantically, taking in everything as if it were a dream. Every Irken there knew something he didn't. They were living in a world he wasn't. His eyes finally settled on a television monitor mounted on the wall above the bar, muted on a news channel.

Zim was on his feet in an instant, lurching towards it. About halfway there, however, he stumbled forward and felt the ground rush up to meet him in a spectacular faceplant.

Conversations came to abrupt halts as several customers turned in their seats and stared down at him.

He groaned and forced himself back up, using the edge of the counter for leverage. A nasty glare was shot at the food service drone behind the counter, who was also gaping at him in bemusement.

"Where is the remote?!" Zim spat.

"Customers aren't authorized to—"

"—GIVE ZIM THE REMOTE!"

He eyed it behind the counter and lunged for it, his legs kicking out as he wriggled over the bartop separating them. His claws grasped it and aimed it towards the TV, volume button mashed down until the broadcaster's voice drowned out nearly every other conversation in the restaurant.

"—here at the Royal Palace on Altua, Irk. Press have gathered and are awaiting the Almighty Tallest's words on the latest Irken attack in the city of Radna, on planet Meekrob."

The anchor, clad in the standard monocular visor, returned to the screen following a clip of an empty podium set up in front of the Tallest's Palace.

"The Irken military has been building its forces following a galaxywide draft. Members of the elite—"

Zim's antennae dipped downward. He was still lying across the counter on his belly, slack-jawed and completely unaware of the attention he'd garnered from the others in the restaurant.

After a few moments, he slid off of it and nearly fell backwards as his shaky legs gave way. A single PAK limb slid out of its port and steadied him.

"Do you know what this means?" he breathed. He turned to a customer sitting nearby. "DO YOU?"

The customer jumped with a start, then shrugged his shoulders.

Zim stared back ahead, not really looking at anything. His mind was reeling. Eventually, his trance was broken by a loud smacking sound from right beside him. When he looked down, he could see GIR standing there, licking the remnants of his sundae from his fingers.

"Come on, GIR. We need to leave."

Abandoning the rest of his sandwich—along with the appalling mess of melted ice cream GIR had managed to splatter in the booth—Zim made his way to the exit.

A surge of blinding agitation coursed through him, and despite his legs still being far too weak for the determined strides he was taking, he managed to march a considerable distance before he was finally forced to stop. GIR quietly stood next to him as he crumbled to his knees in the dirt and tried to catch his breath.