Disclaimer: Maiden of the Moon—proud invoker of ill bellies.

Author's Note: This one was inspired by a beautiful picture on DeviantArt featuring the artist's interpretation of Dib's mom holding little baby Dib. And she was saying to him: Believe what you wish. Never let anyone tell you different.

I just thought it was so adorable and poignant, I had to write this. Pardon its corniness; I know I could never make this as beautiful as the picture.

Warnings: Slightly cliché, fluff, ZADR, switching first-person PoV-ness.

Dedication: For the artist, thedarklordkeisha. Rock on with your bad self! ;)

XXX

Believe


XXX

Hi mom. It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry about that. . . I've been really busy; Hi Skool and. . . stuff. I've brought you flowers, though—lilies. Your favorite, to make up for my lack of visiting. I also brought someone for you to meet.

You remember Zim, right? I know I've talked about him. He's with me, today.

. . . Aren't you gonna say hi, Zim?

What—? No! You're talking to a rock.

Zim!

Well, it IS. A rectangular rock in the ground.

Zim. . .

Don't look at me like that. I said, don't l—! Oh, all right. Hello, mother of the Dib. There. Are you happy now? I'm going to check the Voot. Hurry with your talking; we're leaving in five minutes!

All right.

Sorry, mom, he's like that sometimes. But he's gotten better over the past few years. Better than what he used to be like, anyway. He's nicer to me; more open. Taller, too, which he's happy about. And also more focused. . . dangerous.

The world is burning, mom. I can see it from where I stand—on top of this hill, looking down over the city. It's blazing like the hell it is, flames swallowing the demons and devils in its roaring green flames. Smoke is rising rapidly; the thick, curling tendrils angrily lashing at the scarlet sky. People are screaming in that direction, too; men and women and children and teens. Wailing, lamenting, wondering what's going on—what's happening—and why. Why us; why us?

And I'm sorry to tell you this, mom, but I'm laughing. I'm laughing at them and at their cries. I know I shouldn't, and I feel bad— but I can't help it. Zim is cackling madly, and his amusement is like a drug. I'm addicted to it; entranced by the glee in his eyes as he celebrates our victory.

I helped him do this, you know. I helped him bring about this apocalypse, this holocaust, this fiery end. And I'm proud of myself for the part I played, even if the rest of humanity hates me for it.

They hated me before, anyway.

. . . do you hate me, mom?

I wouldn't blame you if you did. Dad hates me; Gaz hates me. Heck, I even think that bird in the tree over there hates me. After all, I'm partially to blame for the death they're all about to suffer. I don't really care if they hate me.

But I care if you do.

Maybe I'm being overdramatic, like most kids my age, but apart from Zim. . . I feel like you were the only one to ever really care about me. Dad was never around, after all; Gaz only has eyes for her games; I'm not even going to get into my peers. It was only you when I was small. . . helping me watch for yetis, buying me UFO picture books, sewing me stupid costumes to 'hunt' in.

You told me to believe in myself; believe in whatever I thought was true—aliens, Bigfoot, Nessie. . . to believe no matter what anyone else said.

I chose to believe in Zim.

I was called crazy, stupid, dumb—teased and taunted from grade skool up—but I kept believing. I've believed in him since the moment I heard his Tallests' plans; when he walked into my classroom.

I still believe in him now—both as an alien. . . and as a lover.

I had to follow him, mom. I had to help him. What else did I have to do with my life? I can believe in anything until I'm blue in the face, but to have someone believe in me—my skills and thoughts and feelings— I just couldn't pass that up.

I'm going to see the stars.

. . . but I'll have to leave you behind.

I know that you're already dead, so it doesn't really matter if the flames reach your grave way up here— they can't hurt a corpse. But either way, I'm sorry I can't take you with me: I remember how much you loved outer space. Still, know you'll be in my thoughts, okay?

I love you, mom. And I believe that you'll be with me, no matter where I go.

Speaking of which, I need to go, now—Gir's waving me over. He must need help with something.

. . . . . . . . . . . Mother of the Dib . . . ?

. . . thank you.

Eh—? No, stay over there, Dib-human! I wasn't doing anything! No I wasn't! ZIM DOES NOT BLUSH! Rgh—SHUT UP. I'm coming over; let's get off of this flaming ball of filth!

XXX