Hey Spacejerk

Mission Report

"Come on, Zim. Give me some way to transmit to them. I'll say it to their face. 'Hello Zim's ex-leaders. What's tall, stupid, and just lost one of their best soldiers? You two. Eat meat.'"

Dib crouched close to the floor between two great, swinging carcasses. Pig, by the look of the leg and hoof near his face. Then again, the night vision goggles were very old and the resolution wasn't that great. It could be sheep. The scent of animal fat and raw meat filled his nostrils. Tonight's target wouldn't have much information for their own purposes, but low-level field agents didn't get to pick their assignments.

He spoke quietly into the mic on his headset. "Heck, gimme their coordinates and I'll send them a hand-written letter wrapped around a hunk off one of these carcasses. Can you imagine the look on their faces?"

A quiet laugh hissed through the headset. Dib did a small fist-pump. It had been a rocky few weeks for the ex-invader. They'd jumped straight from recovery into employment with the Swollen Eyeball and how-to-live-on-Earth lessons like Dib had promised, but Zim had been... well... he'd been acting weird ever since his PAK reattached. Ferocity and blind determination had been replaced with a somber demeanor like nothing Dib had never seen in the alien. Frankly, it was depressing to see Zim's manic spark dimmed. So Dib had taken on the challenge of lifting the Irken's spirits. He felt like it had been working, for the most part, but it was obvious there was something on Zim's mind.

Maybe now wasn't the best time to be angling for a laugh but it was three in the morning, the Jersey Devil they'd received a tip about hadn't shown up yet, and it was shaping up to be another empty-handed stakeout. Dib had the slaughterhouse's carcass room under observation while Zim perched in the rafters over the live animal pens. He decided to push it a little more. "I'll rub your progress in their faces and talk about the invaluable asset they threw away. 'Watch out, Irk! Humans are headed for the stars thanks to your mistake!'"

Silence. Dib winced. "Uh, did... did I overstep on that one?"

No answer. It was so weird. It actually mattered to Dib whether he crossed a line with Zim, now. Also weird that it was harder to figure out where that line was now that he cared. "I'm sorry, Zim. I just... I got to tell my Dad off, you know? It only seems right that your leaders get egg on their face, too."

"Eggs on the face," Zim murmured. "Does not mean pushing breakfast food into someone's face, it means they are embarrassed or shamed, yes?"

"Yeah. Good job."

Quiet stretched on for a couple more minutes, before Zim's voice crackled over the headset. "Your combative spirit is appreciated. I would very much like to put egg all over their faces and send them meat to burn them and scream at them. However the timing and also your method are not right."

Dib raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with my method?"

"You aren't thinking large enough."

Dib grinned. "Okay spaceboy, what's your idea of getting egg on their face?"

"Infecting the PAK programming until it breaks down and releases every Irken in the Empire."

Dib's breath caught at how matter-of-factly Zim had just proposed treason. "Um... well... wow. That's definitely an escalation. How serious... well, you sound pretty serious, actually. Like you've been thinking about this. How long have you... are you serious?"

"Very serious," Zim replied. "And yes, I've been thinking about it for a while. But it can't happen for a long time. We can't infiltrate every PAK individually. I don't have the lifespan or patience for that. Therefore we must develop a sort of virus. I will require your assistance for the development of this program. It would be best if we could get some large number of Irkens on our side before going after the Control Brains."