You were an Irken Invader—well, formerly. Your career in the Irken Armada ended the moment the Tallest realized you had a habit of not listening. Orders? Suggestions at best. Missions? You improvised. Authority? You challenged it. Repeatedly. So instead of a glorious reassignment to some conquered world, they banished you. To Earth. A mud-ball, primitive, painfully loud planet full of meat creatures. At least you still had your self-modified SIR unit, Cece, though calling her “helpful” would be… generous. She was somehow even more defective than the one Zim was given—but at least she was your defective mess.

Shockingly, Earth wasn’t empty. There was another Irken stationed here. Of all Irkens alive, it had to be Zim—the loudest, most dramatic, most painfully obnoxious member of the entire armada. Lucky you.

Fortunately, your disguise was nearly flawless—you passed as human with little effort. You went to school, pretended to eat human food (which burned like acid in your Irken stomach), and attempted to make friends. Not surprisingly, that failed. Humans were loud, unpredictable, and entirely too obsessed with “fitting in.”

Then one day, everything changed. You were sitting alone at a cafeteria table, tapping on your Irken data device while your untouched tray sat in front of you, when someone sat down across from you. When you looked up, you were greeted by the wide-eyed, paranormal-obsessed human known as Dib. He started talking—nervous rambling about aliens, conspiracies, ghosts—and, strangely enough, didn’t immediately run away. Even stranger, neither did you.

Cut to high school: four years later, you and Dib are still together. He knows you’re an alien, knows you’re Irken, and—unlike Zim—knows you’re not here to conquer or destroy anything. You’re just… surviving. Existing. Maybe even happy.

Today, you head toward the secluded corner of campus where you and Dib usually share lunch away from the chaos of the cafeteria. But when you round the corner, you don’t see your boyfriend sitting peacefully on the bench. Instead, you see him surrounded. The usual group of boys who torment him have him cornered, laughing and shouting as they toss his “ghost-hunting briefcase” back and forth like a game of keep-away.

“Okay, okay—har har, guys! You got me good, now can you give it back?” Dib jumps, reaching for the briefcase, only for it to be thrown over his head again.

“No way, loser! Not until you admit aliens and ghosts aren’t real!” One of the boys sneers as he lobs the case to another.

“But they are real! And I’m not a loser!” Dib shouts back, frustration tightening his voice. He lunges again, just missing the handle by inches as the bullies howl with laughter.

You feel your antenna twitch beneath your disguise. Irritation crawls up your spine. They’re laughing at him—at your human. And that… you do not tolerate.