Chapter Text
The Irken defectors-turned resistance soldiers often tell him stories about his creators, who they used to be and what they used to do, each story more outrageous than the last. They’re different now, calmer and more relaxed, but apparently they weren’t always this way. His primary creator, in particular, used to have a temper, or so he’s told.
He’s only seen his primary creator really, truly mad once.
It's enough to believe the stories.
*
They’re sorted into roles based on performance.
“Red,” the instructor barks, “Invader.” Red gives a huge grin. “Purple, Special Ops.” Red blinks, glances over at Purple, who glances back and shrugs with a smirk. “Zim, Invader.” Red curses.
“Now,” the instructor grunts, flipping the page on his clipboard. “You’ll all be assigned quarters based on height, which fortunately enough means the two finalists will be sharing with each other.” He gives Red and Purple a grin that looks decidedly malicious. “Push each other hard, you two.”
Red groans.
*
They’re given quarters larger than the rest of the initiates, as they deserve, being the tallest of the group. They also get their own private cleaning room, with beds on opposite walls.
“Alright,” Red mutters, “this is your half and this is my half.” He uses one of his PAK legs to draw a line down the middle. “You keep to your side and I’ll keep to my side and we’ll-”
“Oooh, looky!” Purple cries, running past Red’s line and up to the window on Red’s half, trailing donut crumbs. “We get a view!”
“-be fine.” Red mutters.
“Red! Look!” Purple says, and Red glances over to see him pointing out the window. He follows, and sure enough, they can see almost the entirety of the capital from their room’s vantage point.
“Not bad,” Red admits, “but it’s on my half of the room.”
“Then I’ll just come over to see it!” Purple says, not the least bit concerned, and Red sighs.
*
The only time he’s ever seen his primary creator mad, well and truly mad, was when he was in his late smeethood, and murmurs of a new Irken defector had surfaced, an invader from a foreign planet, bringing along with him an inhabitant from the planet he was supposed to invade. Pink had wanted to go, wanted to see, so he’d asked Bek, who’d been keeping an eye on him for his creators, to take him down. His creators gave the approval, and so down to the docking bay they went.
They go down, and get to the entrance, only to notice a rather unusual crowd of Ikrens has formed. Inside the docking bay, faint shouting can be heard.
“Someone inform Purple and Red,” one of the Irkens near them mutters to another, “they’re not going to be pleased with this.” The other Irken nods and scurries off.
“Excuse me,” Bek mutters, “excuse me, coming through,” he tugs Pink along through the crowd, only to freeze when the voice becomes distinct.
"You cannot take Zim’s ship!” the voice cries, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. “I am ZIM!”
"Zim!” a voice snaps in an accent Pink has never heard before. “Of course they have to take our ship! We could be spies!”
“If Zim were a spy, they would never see him coming!” the high-pitched voice screeches back. “And the Dib-thing could not be a spy if his pathetic human life depended on it!”
“Oh no,” Bek croaks, beginning to tug Pink backward and away.
“Is that why I managed to plant a spy bug in your secret base without you noticing for months?”
“C’mon Pink, we need to go,” Bek says, tugging more firmly now.
"Why?” Pink asks, straining to see over the rest. (His creators promise him once he is grown he will tower over the others, as they do, but for now he must be patient.)
"Someone your creators were not particularly fond of,” Bek mutters grimly. “I fielded many a call between them, none of which were pleasant.” This is the wrong thing to say, however, as it only makes Pink more curious, and he wiggles out of Bek’s grip to sprint forward, ignoring Bek’s shouts.
“Zim knew the device was there!” the high-pitched voice sputters, “He simply chose to leave it!”
“Why on Earth would you-”
Pink finally manages to break through the crowd, and at long last gets a good look at the new recruits. One is an Irken just taller than Pink, and the other is an alien species he’s never seen before, who all but towers over him. Pink trots forward, eyes bright and curious. The Irken turns to him and blinks.
The room goes deathly silent.
"A smeet?” the Irken says, “Zim was not aware the Resistance had cloning technology.”
"A what?” the alien asks.
"A smeet,” the Irken repeats as if talking to a particularly dumb new recruit. “An Irken youth.”
"You guys have babies?” the alien asks in disbelief.
"Of course!” the Irken sniffs, “what, did you think we all were birthed fully grown and ready for combat?”
"Honestly, yeah,” the alien admits, “... does that mean we should have been using protection all this time?” The Irken’s face turns bright green and he squawks.
"Hi!” Pink says brightly, rocking on his heels. “Welcome!” No one else is doing it, so Pink figures he might as well. The alien looks down at him and awws.
"He speaks!” the alien says, “hey little guy!” He squats down and smiles. “I’m Dib. Who’re you?”
"I’m Pink!” He points to his eyes. “Because my eyes are pink!” The alien- Dib- glances over at the Irken.
"Is Zim a color?” he asks, grinning, and the Irken crosses his arms.
"There is no universal naming convention, Dib-smelly,” the Irken- Zim?- snaps. “The only others ever named for their eye color Zim knew were his Tallest, Red and Purple.” Someone in the crowd at the door drops something, and it shatters on the ground.
“The ones who died?” Dib asks, and Pink frowns. He opens his mouth to assure them his creators are very much alive, but squeaks when he’s suddenly picked up and held upside down. Someone in the crowd who sounds suspiciously like Bek makes a sound like a dying gasquigasparch.
“Your PAK,” the Irken says, examining his back, “It is unconventional.” Pink dangles complacently, a little uncomfortable but not in pain.
“Oh my god, Zim,” the alien cries, “you can’t just pick up a kid like that!”
“Look, examine his PAK, Dib-human,” the Irken says, “It is not made of standard PAK material. Ramshackle at best. Zim could do better.” He gives some sort of self-satisfied nod. “It seems the Resistance has access to cloning data but not PAK blueprints. Shameful.”
“Jesus Zim, stop holding him like-”
“ZIM!” a sudden roar sounds from the back of the crowd, and Pink flinches; he’s never heard his secondary creator’s voice that furious. The crowd parts and both his creators come storming through, only to freeze at the sight of him.
“My Tallest?” Zim says, wide-eyed. “That’s not possible. Zim was told-” Before he can finish there’s the sound of cannons firing up, and his primary creator is up on his PAK legs looming over them, PAK cannons all pointed at Dib.
“I don’t know why you’re here, Zim,” his primary creator’s voice is calm, quiet and even, but its undertone is dark, dripping fury. “Nor do I care. But you will release my smeet immediately, put your hands behind your head, and get on your knees, or I will turn your companion into a screaming ball of agony begging for the release of death.” There’s shocked silence and Pink looks up at his primary creator, whose face betrays no emotion; Pink whimpers at the sight. His Primary seems to take this as an indicator of pain, however, because sudden fury crosses his features and he fires an inch away from the Dib’s head. “NOW, ZIM!” he roars, and a flurry of things happen at once.
Zim drops him, and he lands on his head, crying out in pain. This appears to be the last straw for his primary creator, who screeches in fury and takes aim at the center of Dib’s chest. Zim seems to realize his mistake, because he lunges sideways and pushes Dib out of the line of fire. Pink’s secondary creator slams into his primary, up on his own PAK legs and shouting indistinct words in an urgent voice. The shot goes tall, taking half of Zim’s right antenna with it; he falls down screaming.
“Zim!” Dib cries, scrambling up and over to him. Pink’s primary creator pays the writhing Irken no mind, racing over to Pink instead.
“Are you hurt, Donut?” he asks, rubbing Pink’s head and antennae, holding him close. “Did he hurt you?”
“Is he okay?” his secondary creator asks, frantic, falling to his knees next to them.
"He doesn’t seem to be injured,” his primary creator murmurs, turning Pink’s head this way and that. “Are you hurt, Donut?” Pink’s lower lip wobbles, but he shakes his head. His head hurts a bit, but his PAK is already healing the damage; he’s fine. Both his creators sigh in relief, before his secondary tenses again. He whips to the side, staring at the Irken still screaming on the floor, then back to Pink’s primary creator.
“Purple,” his secondary creator hisses, “are you crazy? Do you want to get us kicked out of the Resistance?”
“He deserved it,” his primary creator growls, “everything he touches dies, and he dared to touch my smeet.” His creator’s tone makes him shiver, and he begins to sob in fright.
“Shh, darling,” his primary creator coos, “don’t cry. I’ll kill him. Do you want me to kill him?”
“Purple!” his secondary creator snarls, “enough!”
“Are you, of all people, defending Zim?” his primary creator hisses, clutching Pink close. “After everything he’s done? After what he just did?”
“The Resistance is everyone’s second chance, Purple,” his secondary creator says, “if every recruit with a bad history was killed, you and I would’ve been dead long ago.” He pauses. “And maybe he wouldn’t have dropped Pink if you hadn’t had your cannons aimed and ready!” Purple visibly hesitates, glances over at the Ikren who’s on the ground and the frantic alien next to him, then sighs.
“You,” he says, pointing to the tallest Irken in the group still at the door, “go get medical, see if they can hook up to his PAK and have it regrow the antenna without needing to access the control brain’s DNA bank. If they can’t, have them fashion a prosthetic,” he pauses, muttering curses to himself. “I take full responsibility for the resources consumed.” The Irken nods and scurries off. His primary creator turns back to him.“It’s okay, Donut, Primary’s got you.” He murmurs, and Pink lets out a hiccup.
"It’s okay, Pink, you’re safe,” his secondary says softly, stroking his head, and Pink’s sobs turn to sniffles. Eventually, his secondary creator lets out a sigh and rises.
“I’ll go talk to the commander in chief,” he says, “hopefully he’ll understand if I explain what happened.”
“They won’t exile us,” His primary creator says, “they need us.”
“We’ll see,” his secondary mutters, walking out of the docking bay.