Oddly enough, when first I woke up that morning, I didn't realize that I was dead. One would think that this would be the sort of thing I would notice instantly, but I didn't. Turns out being dead isn't all that different from being alive.

I groaned when I heard my alarm beeping, and, eyes still squeezed shut, reached out to slap the snooze button. I could feel the contact with my palm when I did so, but it felt off somehow. Fuzzier, as if it weren't all there. In any case, the beeping didn't stop. Assuming that it was broken— and deciding I wasn't yet awake enough to start groping behind the bed's headboard trying to unplug it—I simply rolled off the bed and stood up on the floor.

The carpet felt lighter too, although I only realized this in retrospect. As I shuffled toward the bathroom, my feet only seemed to brush tentatively against the floor. Still, I was tired, and foot friction wasn't exactly at the top of my mind. I walked over to the bathroom and entered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

That's when I finally noticed something was wrong.

I could not remember either opening or closing the door, but I had ended up in the bathroom, lights off and door firmly shut. Immediately, I was wide awake. I grasped at the knob, but was shocked when I couldn't grip it. Instead my hands clattered around and even through it. I could feel the metal, vaguely, but apparently it couldn't feel me.

In a panic I rushed at the door, ready to ram it down, and somehow, I ended up on the other side, in the hallway, with the door still perfectly intact. I stared at it, jaw agape, then, although the possibility of being dead had not yet consciously taken root in my mind, I looked down.

I let out a yelp, which echoed in my ears but didn't seem to reach the space around me, upon seeing myself for the first time that morning. I was transparent. Well, not quite transparent; I could still see different colors and shades. Translucent, I guess. Either way, it was a pretty stark difference from my normal body, which was delightfully opaque.

Panic set in. I felt my heart race and my breathing quicken. Or, at least, it felt like they did. I don't suppose people have a whole lot of use for heartbeats or breathing after death. In any case, I felt shaky, and my mind was reeling.

First thing first, I needed an explanation. There was always an explanation.

And usually that explanation was Zim.

I closed my eyes, trying to think. My mind went back to yesterday, at skool. Zim and I had fought, as per usual, although it was one of our relatively rare physical skirmishes this time, rather than our typical shared hobby of psychological warfare. I can't remember what precisely Zim said that made me unable to resist that omnipresent urge to launch myself at him and bruise every inch of that smug green face, but I recalled that it was something about the inferiority of the human race. Nothing new there. Still, when he says it so loudly, right to your face, while your fellow classmates watch on with that infuriating indifference—well, I don't think I can be blamed for wanting Zim to hurt.

Yes, I admit, I threw the first punch. And while the kids around me had been completely apathetic to see Zim provoking and insulting me (again, not exactly breaking news) a full-on beatdown was a horse of a different hue. A couple of kids sitting at a nearby table scrambled away when I tackled Zim, but nearly everyone else quickly assumed the roles of spectators, crowding into a ring around us, waving their fists in the air and stupidly chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Zim fights dirty, you know. I mean neither of us are exactly martial artists, and neither of us are physically endowed enough to do a great deal of damage, but at least I stick to a closed fist to the torso. Zim, on the other hand, is not above scratching and biting, and more than willing to aim for the face. On more than one occasion his acicular, inchworm-colored fingers only narrowly missed clawing my eyes out.

I guess that's why that curious prick in my neck didn't earn more than a passing thought at the time. Zim and I were a tangled mass of limbs at the time, and the world before my eyes was spinning and swimming as I tried to regain focus after hitting my head against the edge of a cafeteria bench. This prick was sharper, smaller, more focused than anything I had received before from his nails or, on a couple of unspeakable occasions, teeth. But I didn't take note of it. I was much more focused on getting the alien off of me and landing as many more blows as I could before the nearby teachers inevitably grew bored of the spectacle and broke it up.

I was torn from my musings as I heard someone joining me in the hallway. I looked up to see Gaz poking her head out of the door to her bedroom, her hair unkempt from sleep and a glower firmly affixed to her face.

"Gaz!" I cried out. "Gaz, listen, I need your help. Something's wrong. I think Zim may have—" But I stopped when I realized that Gaz wasn't listening to me. Probably couldn't even hear me. Instead she stomped past me toward my room, growling beneath her breath.

Cautiously I followed her, and I felt dizzy when I saw myself, lying in bed. I was paler than normal, which was really saying something, but otherwise one would have to look closely to notice that I wasn't just sleeping. I still gripped my covers tightly in my hands, my eyes delicately shut. In fact, I looked cozy. Serene, even. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to see my body looking so calm while my mind was tripping over itself in a frenzy.

Gaz slammed her hand onto the alarm clock, finally bringing that shrill beeping to a halt, then rounded on me. That is, the me that was in the bed. "What the heck?!" she snarled. "Didn't you hear that freaking clock? Hey, Dib!" She shoved me roughly, and, of course, got no response. "Wake up, would you?" Still nothing. She snorted. "Whatever. Don't get up. When you get hell for not waking up in time for skool, don't blame me." With that, she traipsed loudly out of the room.

I moved closer to the bed, slowly, tentatively. It was bizarre, like looking into a mirror in which your reflection refused to do as you did. I knelt down and stared at my pallid face. It was so still, so silent. So undisturbed.

I couldn't wrap my mind around it. This wasn't Zim's style. Sure, Zim had always wanted to rid himself of me, but as far as I could tell, he wanted it to be done in a blaze of glory. He seemed to always want to whole world to hear his cacophonous laugh, with a gaudy weapon in his hand and malicious joy oozing from his every pore. I always expected that one day one of us would emerge the winner, but I thought that when that day came, the whole world would be either cheering or burning, depending on who the victor was.

Not this. Not so quiet and behind the scenes. Not in a way that no one would probably even notice for hours yet. Not without making sure his signature would be visible on the corpse like an enormous arrow made of a thousand flashing neon bulbs.

Gently, I set my phantom hand onto the solid one holding the bedcovers. Zim was marching on, it seemed. Taking his whole "conquer the world" shtick more seriously. Removing the obstacles quickly and efficiently, rather than as a three-ring circus.

I let out a sigh and looked one more time at my face. It seemed so quiet and content. Certainly nothing like how I usually looked, all stressed and exhausted. Of course, there was no need for that now. Zim had removed me from the picture, and now the burden of responsibility I had felt for so long was gone. It was all someone else's problem now. Finally, I could cool off, let go, rest.

Maybe, just maybe, this was for the best.

A/N: For those of you who follow me for my Gravity Falls writing, don't worry. There's more of that coming. I'm just digging my fingers into a couple of different pies at the moment, that's all.