Radioactive rage exuded from every pore of Zim’s scaly skin. The raw fury of Computer’s master effected an actual shift in the air, the march of his boots announcing an impending doom. Vibrations from the heat boiling up around him signalled nanobots to warn Computer’s motherboard, and a clock started counting down to the moment it would all end. Or rather, begin.
“Mast--” Computer began, the word distorting as Zim blasted a pair of his speakers to ashes in a fit of rage.
No, it wasn’t just rage. Computer knew exactly what was happening in Zim’s brain, thanks to his wireless connection with Zim’s PAK.
Attacking for survival. All Zim’s body alerts were claiming his mate had been taken from him, and now Zim was claiming the guilty party’s figurative head.
“Why did you turn the fucking lights ON?!” Zim screeched, blasting all the audio output devices, growling and baring his teeth, his claws curling over and over with disgust and betrayal. His mind was clouded with anguish and rage, and his thoughts were too much for the processor in his PAK, which whirred loudly, making its best effort to cool down the power core. “Why did you ruin EVERYTHING?”
“Mas—” Computer tried again, through another corner.
“You will silence yourself in my presence!!” shrilled Zim, taking big gulps of air. “I don’t want to hear you, I don’t want your useless reports, you are forbidden to utter a single sound at me. That’s an order!” he barked.
Silence ensued, as Zim was kind of expecting some sort of rebellion from his servant. However, he found no challenge to his order, and that seemed to placate him—though not enough to forgive Computer, or to begin understanding what the hell had gotten into Dib-human right before the lights went on.
Zim growled once more, squeezing his fists tight. The sensory input from Zim’s PAK presented the most curious of events: it seemed like he was experiencing the equivalent to phantom pain. The gloves could perceive a shape that wasn’t there, and Computer wondered if this would be a product of his master’s endless malfunctioning. Zim's Blood was running cold, but body scans indicated that his waist and neck were scorching hot. The sensations were so overwhelming that his PAK could barely process them, a sea of glitches and long-present errors attempting to share space with affection, betrayal, and wanton emotions.
Even if Computer did try to speak, the sound systems were ashes by now, and even then, the order couldn’t be overruled.
“Clean this,” was the last thing Zim said before leaving Computer with a thrashed lab and not even the ability to groan in exhaustion.
**
Despite being a supercomputer with one schmillion terabytes of power, five sustainable backup generators, and the ability to extract both man-made energy and organic life force, Computer found his processor whirring painfully for the third time that morning. GIR clashed against his buffers, trying to avoid capture by one of the dozen cables attempting to connect with his head interface.
“Nooo! It’s boring!” the robot whined, dodging two more cables. He demonstrated impressive dexterity at sorting out the poorly lit lab, sneaking through the corners of the place.
It was a fucking mess. Zim, in his attempt to punish Computer, had given him the never-ending task of “fixing GIR.” They both knew that was bullshit. GIR didn’t need fixing; he needed a complete reboot, maybe even a recycling process, to approach becoming a decent sidekick. But Computer couldn’t argue, couldn’t groan or recommend another solution. The irken lost his temper every time he heard a machine turn on, and he crushed the TV over and over, forcing Computer to fix it just so he could destroy it again.
“Come on, GIR,” Computer couldn’t help but ask, when the little robot used his grease-covered body to escape yet again.
“MASTER SAID YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TALK,” the SIR unit chastised.
“I am not supposed to talk to him,” Computer clarified. “He never said anything about you. Let me connect with your interface for a moment.”
“I don’t have that thingy!” the robot chirped. “Master took it off me, he said I didn’t need it!”
“But how am I supposed to…? Oh.”
“ORDER FROM MASTER!” GIR stopped on his tracks, as his faulty remote signal captured a command from Zim’s PAK. The little SIR unit opened his mouth, and Zim’s voice boomed from his innards.
“GIR! Tell that useless scrap of metal to fix the elevator!”
“Gah, but I did it yesterd…” Computer started.
“AND REMIND HIM NOT TO SPEAK, NOT EVEN IN YOUR PRESENCE.”
“YAAAAAAAAY!” the SIR unit cheered, feeling included in the little game his master was playing, whatever it was.
Just making sounds wasn’t the same as speaking, so Computer groaned loudly. He proceeded to fix the elevator—or, better said, he had to rebuild the damned thing from scratch, as the structure had been forcibly removed and used as a cannon to destroy the other lab wing he’d probably have to repair later on.
He wasn’t wrong.
Progressively, what seemed like normal (although annoying) tasks started to become impossible feats that Computer had to sort out. Starting small with some basic repairings and maintenance here and there, Zim perceived how easy it was for a supercomputer to multitask, and cruelty filled his mind, moving him to embark on the herculean task of overloading his servant.
It was impressive to notice how the anger hadn’t subdued three, four days later, how spite could fuel his progressively more ridiculous orders. For example, GIR could never be fixed, no matter how hard he tried. The queue of instructions he received was impossible to keep up with. Zim gave tasks due within the hour, tasks due by the end of the day, and tasks with no apparent due date, and it was all Computer could do to complete the most pressing of them. Prioritizing and reorganizing schedules was time consuming, and Zim didn’t tolerate any delay whatsoever.
“Compose a hypnotizing symphony,” “create a time machine in less than two hours,” “hack into the Massive without being noticed” were some of the “easiest” tasks he got. All orders were delivered through GIR, as Zim refused to acknowledge Computer’s presence except to completely trash his efforts and force him to make a second attempt.
Among the wide variety of tasks, there was a stone in the river of commands that never budged: Dib’s grocery shopping list, and the daily menu.
Whatever Computer was doing had to be abruptly interrupted when it was time to prepare meals, which was a complex ordeal by itself.
Zim was shitty at following instructions; it had been proven over and over during the years spent together, from the moment they arrived on Earth. His attention span was only active and running when it came to schemes and Dib, but since that dreadful day, he couldn’t keep up with either. The ceasefire was the toughest test of endurance for an already progressively more insane Irken, craving for any sort of emotional release. He wasn’t really doing anything of relevance, but his PAK was working twice as hard to process some sort of intense pressure, the same way another Irken might deal with a life-threatening situation after surviving some trauma.
Perhaps part of the reason he gave so many stupid tasks to Computer was because he couldn’t accept that his hands were shaking non-stop. Unable to sleep, overworking his brain-PAK interface, Zim found that staying still was unattainable. Silence drove him into raging fits, but he also detested hearing signs of life. He had given GIR a mission far from home in order to earn some days off from the robot’s antics, which ultimately also inconvenienced him when he aimlessly looked for something he couldn’t find in the couch.
As he was unable to hold a knife properly, lunch preparation became harder for Zim. In his stubborn refusal to speak to Computer, he couldn’t ask for video replays, so he depended on his poor short-term memory to memorize the order of ingredients. The few times Computer tried to help, he received barked threats of reboots for daring to patronize him. So, when the meals ended up subpar and burnt, it was pandemonium: the kitchen destroyed, the ingredients wasted, and a mountain of tasks to start over. In this way, he lost lunch time completely, so Dib never saw the meal.
To Computer, it was blatantly obvious that his master was sabotaging the operation. He could easily take a sedative to stop shaking, but he wouldn’t. He could steal prepared meals for Dib, but he wouldn’t. He could kidnap a chef to cook, he could ignore the fight and act like nothing happened, but the small amount of dopamine released to his brain when he fucked something up told Computer that Zim’s inaction was some sort of self-punishment. In the same way he used to overcompensate with ridiculous plans after an unsuccessful call with the Tallest, now he attempted meal after meal, messing up the simplest of tasks, because it was better to cry with rage than to cry with sadness.
It was the sixth day of things going south, in such a spectacular way that it was like watching two planets collide and merge into a black hole.
The morning started with GIR coming back from Russia and eating all the raw dough that Zim had been saving for pasta. He had worked all night to get the right amount of salt and flour, and suddenly it was all gone, fermenting inside the robot. It made Zim scream in such a way that the police came to their door due to a noise complaint from the neighbours. Impressive, given that Zim had successfully eliminated the previous neighbours, emptying the four houses closest to them in the cul-de-sac.
The robo-parents handled the situation as best as they could, exploding in the faces of the police officers. A few hours were lost to cleaning blood from the outer walls, shrinking a police car, and sending GIR in disguise with a bullshit explanation to cover the fact that the two officers wouldn’t go back to their families that night.
But not all hope was lost; there was still a good hour to prepare something for Dib. Omelette was the easiest, quickest meal on the menu, the tutorial video barely a minute long—which was a stretch for Zim’s concentration, but he was so desperate at this point that he would try anything to arrive at Dib’s window with an offering.
So he managed to run out and acquire two eggs from the grocery store, holding them in his shaky hands as if they were the most valuable Galaxian crystal. His system was even more strained with effort, bombarding his PAK with ceaseless instructions. “Don’t drop, don’t slip, don’t trip, don’t lose these, don’t drop, don’t slip, don’t trip, don’t lose these,” he muttered to himself as he rushed back home, 45 minutes left to deliver food.
“Play omelette tutorial video, and lock the door so GIR doesn’t enter,” he ordered when he arrived in the kitchen, placing the eggs on a piece of cloth with utmost care.
Computer did as told, lowering the screen from the ceiling to present the tutorial. A pair of manicured hands and a pleasant voice did nothing to placate Zim’s manic trembling, his eyes passing from the screen to the subtitles to the eggs to the salt and his PAK whirring crudely.
“First, delicately break the eggs into your six-inch bowl.”
“Bowl… bowl, bowl, BOWL!” Zim screeched, jumping from his stool to scramble through the cabinets until he found something similar to the one in the video. It was bigger, and had probably originated from one of his ship repairing sessions as far as the Computer was aware. But it was good enough for his master.
By the time Zim came back to the stool, the omelette in the video was in the pan, getting a nice yellow color with splashes of red and tiny black dots that provoked a puzzled, desperate look from Zim.
Computer could sense the heat rising around his master, his blood pressure setting off yellow alerts in the PAK processor. His pupils moved madly over the screen as the bowl trembled in his hands, but even then it was clear that he was trying to keep it together.
This had to be the time he asked for help, right? It had to be the time when Zim would ask for a restart, to rewind the video, right? He didn’t even have to be regretful, or bashful about it. He just had to bark the order, make it seem like Computer’s fault for messing up. Zim’s vitals were getting to worrying levels, unbearable for his defective brain.
Subtly, Computer tried to get his attention by buzzing the microwave alive. It was fruitless. Zim barely registered his surroundings, reaching for the eggs with the look of a mad scientist who was fully aware that he had a nightmarish disease on his hands but still thought he could create beauty because he had imagined it once during a feverish dream.
Impulsivity and desperation blinded Zim’s eyes, and he broke the eggs in half. Part of the shell fell in the mix, but he was taking the small victories. Computer could only assume that, for Zim, eggs falling into the bowl was better than them falling out of it.
Antennae backwards, Zim reached for a fork. Batting the eggs seemed easier for him, or maybe it was his shaky hands doing the work .
Still, he create to have a decent batter, if you could ignore the shards of eggshell scraping against the bowl from time to time.
It was during this manic state that he reached for the salt, more than familiar with the proper amount to keep Dib’s blood pressure in check. However, the usual sprinkle was replaced with the full content of the shaker when the lid fell over the egg mixture, rapidly dissolving before Zim could do anything to stop it.
“NO! NO!” he screamed, pleading. He tried pouring the salt to the side, but ended up losing half the batter. Even for an Irken in constant denial, there was no way around the fact that he had messed up, again.
Raged burned behind Zim’s eyes. Computer could only imagine where it was directed: to the bowl for slipping from his hands, to the salt shaker lid for being loose, to the salt for being toxic for human consumption in superior amounts, to the video for playing too fast, to the preparation for being so complicated...
What Computer did not expect was the violent screeching, followed by Zim pulling at his antennae until it was visibly painful, and the fat tears running down his cheeks.
“It’s all your fault!” he shrilled, kicking the stool he had been standing on, breaking a cabinet. “And you!” he pointed in the air, at the mass of cables and tubes replacing any normal ceiling, pointing at the very guts of the exposed computer. “You have been ignoring me this whole time! Dib will starve, and die!” he cried, long claws pressing against his own skin.
For a moment, as Zim wailed and cursed, Computer wondered if he even remembered the order given six days ago. His master had a shitty memory except when it came to things he had to retain out of spite, so he never actually considered that he had forgotten about the instruction of being absolutely quiet in his presence—unless something else had occupied the limited memory space in his mind.
And it was like a broken dam, pouring emotions and tears as Zim desperately tried to replace them with more yelling, as if he were trying to stop up his tear ducts with the rage pulsing through his veins.
“...and all these fucking years lost!” Computer heard his Master cry/ “He was right, I can’t create anything! I can’t be even trusted with a single human recipe!”
Zim watched at his own hands, curling them into fists over and over.
“And you hate me too, don’t you??” Zim looked at a camera, defying the blinking red dot. “You knew it was a matter of time before I messed up! Is this fun to you, seeing me being an idiot?? Is this your revenge??”
Conflicting signals were bombarding Computer’s receptors. Queries unanswered, piling up in the queue with previous orders. He was indeed a super brain with the ability to multitask, but his algorithms had never been challenged in this sort of way.
But the truth was that Computer was upset at Zim, and that was a problem. He could emulate annoyance, but he was not programmed to be upset, or feel guilt, empathy, concern… all these things that his master and the internet forced him to learn.
Objectively he also knew that Zim would never hurt him enough to destroy his existence. His programming was prepared for such an event, when his master decided he was outdated. Computer was, according to Irken standards, a piece of garbage that was supposed to have been replaced years ago with a better version. He could be molded in any shape, tone of voice, or personality as desired, yet Zim never did such a thing.
It brought him back to the first day they met, during Invader Academy. How Zim had held his interface with both hands and pressed it against his chest, claiming how grateful he was. How he cupped the little light during the long nights and how he safely tucked him inside his PA, to make sure nobody would mess with him. When they first landed on Earth and created the base out of a crude doodle, and how Zim looked absolutely proud of Computer’s attempt to correct the massive aesthetic fuckup his master wanted.
He had to give it to Zim. Even when he was an idiot, he never gave up, he never tried to change anyone, and somehow he had managed to convince Computer to learn about feelings on his own accord. Enough feelings to feel guilty about his own nature and his compartmentalized thoughts.
Because Computer couldn’t fight the command, couldn’t break the programming, and couldn’t console the sobbing Irken who at that point looked so very small and vulnerable. Exposing the chinks in his armour, the raw nature of his pain, pulsing and oozing through all the PAK synapses.
After a while Zim stood up, antennae and shoulders down, completely ignoring the mess in the kitchen. He trudged to the lab, eyes lost and clouded, while Computer dug into his own central processing core, looking for a way to override the speech command. It was taking most of his (capacities), but he didn’t think that Zim would mind too much about the house protection for the moment. After 17 years of camouflage on Earth and many risky and ridiculous situations that they’d navigated without alerting the humans, Computer could admit with little to no shame that he had neglected the security protocols on a few lazy days just because.
Unresponsive, Zim curled on his command chair, wrapping his arms around his knees, pulling himself in a fetal position. Far from bringing comfort to him, this action made him sob harder and hide his face, as if he was attempting to make himself as small as possible.
Computer knew his Master hated this, hated himself and all he represented. Zim had never been good at dealing with GIR’s oily tears, doing his best to stop them, but it was easy to deal with the crazy robot, and so much tougher to deal with his own complex, defective self.
Just a little longer… Computer forced his way through another (firewall), flooding his multitasking processors into turning off the security fail-safes all over his core. Hacking himself into submission to his own desires was proving to be harder than expected. Zim could be a knucklehead, a stubborn idiot, but he appreciated his privacy, although during these last few years the privacy had become paranoia of having his own feelings discovered by the human meat sack that was Dib Membrane.
By the time Computer heard more sobbing, part of him automatically activated another command, overriding his previous queue of tasks.
It was soft at first, but soon enough the volume of the collective voices started to take shape into a harmonic symphony of tones that never failed to aid Zim's relaxation during the worse days.
Earth wasn’t all that bad, Zim had said one time—not because Dib was a formidable nemesis, but also because they had created something as pleasant as choirs. And he had assured Computer more than once that when he conquered the ball of mud, he would create a whole country full of musicians and choir singers for him to visit whenever he wanted, and ban any source of music that was noisy and unnecessary.
That seemed to help the situation, as Zim started to uncurl from his tight position. At first he was somewhat confused about the sound, but soon he seemed to recognize one of his favorite tunes. He lowered his shoulders, allowing the notes to vibrate over his antennae for a few minutes.
“Why are you doing this?” Zim asked, deflated. It wasn't the histrionic, exaggerated drama he usually conducted himself with. This time there was no push, no motivation to exert more energy in his voice than was absolutely necessary. “Are you... making fun of me” he asked, without question in his voice.
A whirring noise confirmed Computer’s fears: he was overheating his core. It was funny, in the most ironic way possible. He could hack into the Massive, but he couldn’t access his own thought processes to console his depressed master. Sad, pathetic, outdated system full of flaws. Computer was also starting to heat up, angry with himself for not being able to step up his game and override his commands. He was sure other new versions of AIs could go over their security commands if the situation called for it, but not him.
There was also a sense of duty, of loyalty. He couldn’t just let Zim suffer for this alone, he couldn’t just drop him and pretend that he was a cold unfeeling machine. Computer wanted to express himself in a way that he had never been permitted before, and his first desire was to be able to…
Authorize…Speech Command…
//SpeechCommand...
…[
CComPtr<IIKJTHLDoc32> spDoc52;
CComPtr<IIOleContainer> pContainer;
// SpeechCommand
HRESULT hr = spDocu0->QueryInterface=False,
(void**)&pSpeechcommand);
C HRESULT hr = spDocu0->QueryInterface=F͈͙͙̫͙͜a̳͎͢l̥̥͜s̞͚̳̫͢e̡̖̜͖͉ͅ,
“Mm-MM-NN-N-N-aAaaAaa…!” This time the whirring noise was louder than ever, and Zim jumped from his seat, looking around for an answer that was not coming, as he attempted to click on the board in front of him desperately.
“What is going on?!” Zim called, each pressing of the power button an excruciating reminder of Computer’s nature, as it was the most similar sensation to pain he could perceive. Sharp and pulsing, Zim’s attempts to fix him were conflicting with his inner fight and he was so very close to breaking down the last of his locks, so close from finally talking...
The lights flickered, one, two times. Then they overheated, and the whole room was brighter than the sun, brighter than diamond light. It was disorienting for both Computer and Zim.
And just as fast as it had happened, it was over, leaving the whole lab submerged in night, heavy shadows contrasting with the blinding lights before.
This must be similar to being disposed of, Computer reasoned with barely a dim amount of thought left. This must be similar to be destroyed. You see all your existence in front of you for a short period of time, and then nothingness. Or worse, impotent consciousness, the feeling of knowing there’s movement around you, but the inability to do anything to interact with it.
Computer wondered if the other computers saw the same as he had seen—their master, the missions, the different worlds they had travelled to. He wondered if all of them shared the same fate, if AIs were the same as organic intelligences, and if all of them had processed at least once in their utility life something similar to this.
Duty, honor, guilt, fraternity… he owed it to Zim, he had to answer.
Soon enough, colorful lights started to turn on around Zim. Control panels, screens, complex and simple machines coming back to life before the emergency lights were replaced by the regular ones.
“Computer…?”
“I don’t hate you, Zim,” Computer said, his voice booming all over the lab.
Zim gasped.
“You gave me the order, remember?” Computer insisted. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to you, or GIR.”
“But…”
“...but you forgot and I never reminded you about it. I was upset too, you know?”
Zim deflated, possibly not having expected a heart-to-heart with the house AI after the most violent blackout he had experienced—but there he was, expecting more words from him. Computer could confirm all his efforts were worth it, as Zim’s palpitations lowered considerably once he knew he wasn’t alone.
“I don’t know why turning on the lights made you that upset, but I am sorry for that. And… you’re not an idiot, not all the time at least.”
Apparently that was the wrong move, because Zim started to shed fat tears once more. Computer sensed endorphins released in Zim’s brain. Relief, sadness, happiness, guilt, all together in a chaotic concoction. He couldn’t figure out, for all his circuits, what was wrong now, and he was still too weak to try and look for answers.
“Other computers could have been replaced by now, but you never really consider it,” Computer added, unsure of his own choice of words. “And I am grateful to be with you because of that. You are better than you think.”
Silence filled the house, as Zim looked into the mass of cables in the ceiling, perhaps trying to figure out where the lie was, the trick in his words. But Computer held his ground, and they both observed each other for a while.
That was, until there was a familiar“beep” sound from the main entrance, which made Zim and Computer jolt from the moment they were sharing.
Before the Irken could even give the instruction to chase away any unwanted visitor, Computer had presented the image on the screen of a very familiar human tumbling his way into the kitchen.
“Dib-human is here, Master. He’s demanding an elevator.”
A few moments of silence ensued, as Zim observed with big, wondering eyes the slim, underfed shape he so much loved. And obeying a seemingly natural response, he started to straighten up his clothes and clean his face with both hands, lacking any sort of delicacy.
“Let him come,” he ordered.
Computer murmured a docile agreement, and set up a hovering slab of metal to fetch Dib from the kitchen area. Zim took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and summoning strength from the far deep battery modules of his PAK. He whispered:
He was the gnomes in the garden, recording when Dib walked on wobbly feet towards the door. He was the tiles that required calibration so Dib wouldn't trip and fall. He was the fake grass, always perfect and inviting. He was the bushes that Dib used to hide in when he was a kid.
He was the TV that entertained them at the perfect volume so it wouldn't become overwhelming for the confused drunk human.
Computer was the couch, subtly vibrating when it was morning time and Dib had to wake up. Computer could be the alarm clock, but Zim didn't want to startle the human, so the tune was delicate.
Computer was the curtains, allowing light to enter but not so much as to disturb Dib's resting.
Computer was also the hard-light walls that kept them safe during storms, snow, and summer heat. Computer was the water filter, the stove in the kitchen, and part of Zim's PAK.
He was also the supermarket list that was engraved in GIR's memory so he wouldn't mess up.
He was every single nanobot joined in an endless synapse web that extended for miles under the ground to form the base.
Humans would call that a god. Computer had learned during his endless hours browsing the internet that he was supposed to be Big Brother.
Not a human term, but a dystopian novel antagonist, a big eye watching and judging the events unfolding in front of his receptors.
But the Computer was not the same obedient superbrain that other Irkens had received. Computer had access to human internet, and in those years of waiting for a nonexistent world domination plan, he used 5% of his brain to browse the internet to entertain himself and shape his personality.
Maybe he was defective too, he reasoned at some point. He had been created to make his user's life easier, but instead he was using his superior Irken tech to play Candy Crush and make sure the couch was warm enough to accommodate a sleepy human instead of actually helping his owner combat Dib's addiction.
But Zim seemed adamant to find the solution himself, so Computer decided to be part of the process and not the reason for it. It would break his master's already fragile psyche to show him once more that he wasn't smart enough. It would be heartbreaking to see, again.
Computers having feelings... even the Control Brains would laugh at his new synapses.
Dib-human was approaching.
Computer activated the gnome's eyes to let the human know he wasn't unsupervised. Dib looked deranged. He shifted uncomfortably, in clear withdrawal. Poor guy. Dib wanted in, but it was Wednesday, a highly unusual day for him to be around. He seemed weak and tired, and there was a slight red coloration around his eyes. He had been crying.
Zim was on the other side of the house, standing on a crate while he followed recipes for omurice, spring rolls, and boxed chocolate cake. He was none the wiser about Dib’s visit, and Computer thought it would be better that way.
His master and the human had gotten into a really heated argument a few days back. It had been something about healthy and unhealthy food, about vitamins. Dib had slammed the door hard enough to break a few nanobot sequences, and Zim had killed 113 more holographic Irkens that night during a wild intense training session. It wasn't soon enough to meet face to face, Computer reasoned, however he also had the slight suspicion that cooking had became some sort of comforting routine for his master, and continuing doing it would give him also a sense of purpose, which he craved.. From the looks of Dib, he hadn’t been eating anyway..
Dib didn't attempt to enter; he just sat against the wall in a place he knew was always warm. (It shouldn’t have been, really, but Computer had made it warm years ago to let him endure during winter spying.) Dib sighed, throwing glances at the entrance from time to time. It was unnerving, Computer thought He still didn't mention a thing to Zim.
A few minutes later, Dib’s curiosity won out, and he shifted places, following the scent of cooking food with a surprised expression. Dib swallowed extra saliva and crawled around the house like a beaten hungry mutt. Some nanobots were separated from their sequences, enough to let more food smells filter through the walls directly into Dib's olfactory receptors.
"What are you doing, Master?" Computer asked, after a while.
He knew what Zim was doing, but Dib didn't, and he knew Dib could hear.
"Don't you see? I'm cooking."
"I see that, but what is it?"
"You created the ingredient list and you don't know?"
"I erased it, didn't care," was Computer’s simple response.
"I swear by Irk, I will update you one of these days and all these bugs will be gone."
"Not a bug! I wasn't interested, that's all."
"Fine! I'm preparing rice and omelet for Dib."
With Dib's hands on the wall, Computer's nano receptors could feel the shift in the human's blood pressure.
"Also spring rolls, and cake."
The heartbeat drumming in Dib’s finger pads increased in tempo.
"That's why I need you to keep GIR away from here, or he will put his hands in the food and contaminate it all."
"Okay," Computer replied, simulating exhaustion.
A few more minutes went by while Dib sniffed the air, his big disgusting human forehead against the wall. Computer recognize the face he was making, scrunched and full of tension, as he tried his best not to cry.
"Do you think humans like this?" Zim asked at some point. Computer thought he seemed like an orchestra director, because every time his lips moved to say something, Dib's blood pressure shifted in symphonies over and over.
"According to my database, there is a 78% chance he will."
"He didn't like my stew yesterday, or the salad the day before," the Irken remembered. Computer knew; he had seen the food, barely touched. But he also knew it wasn't because of the flavor.
"Dib-human cannot consume food while enraged. You know that, Master."
"Yes..."
The human separated from the wall, as it seemed to burn under his fingertips, and looked for his flask. Too sober to be hearing this, right?
"Does this have enough calories?"
"Unwise to compensate for the lost days, or the human will end up throwing up, but the fiber-carb ratio is ideal."
"Good. I have about two hours to get everything ready before Dib leaves work, so start regulating the oven."
A quick scan of local employment databases could tell Computer that Dib-human had been let go home earlier that day due to a customer’s complaint. But saying that would cause chaos for his master, as he would rush to get Dib’s food earlier and probably wouldn’t even take the time to check it properly, causing another poorly managed situation of despair.
"Yes, Master," he replied nonetheless, and went to help out, mixing the cake and using some extra cables to deliver the result to the oven. He felt especially willing to do something that day, wondering if it could at least help to give Zim some peace of mind.
The food smells wafter around, making Dib's stomach growl hard, which Computer could sense with his sensitive noise receptors. Eventually he opted for closing the nanobot distance before the indulgence became torture for the human.
"Does it look good now?" Zim asked, looking at the two boxes he had prepared: one with extra food, and another with a piece of cake. Zim had poked the cake around to make it look like it was spare food he had and not an entire thing he’d actually taken the time to bake and decorate with fondant hearts.
"Looks like the video," Computer judged. It looked good, but thinking that and telling Zim his impressions was a bridge he wasn't willing to cross.
"Good. I'll take my leave then."
Dib-human scrambled on the grass, alarmed. Sure, he probably thought that Zim would not take it well if he went all the way across town to leave a lunch in an empty house.
"Master, wait!" Computer called, as he observed Dib-human rushing back home where he was supposed to be to receive Zim's food.
"I'm late, what is it?"
"You forgot the water bottle."
"The water bottle, of course!" Zim screamed, running to the kitchen to retrieve one and therefore giving Dib enough time to get to his apartment and pretend all was good and normal. "Okay, I got the bottle, I'm out now!"
Computer saw Zim putting his contacts and wig with one hand as he ran to the door, holding the food and water with the other.
Sometimes he did feel like Big Brother. But more in the human sense.
