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+--- Thread: A Lot to Process (cont'd) (/showthread.php?tid=7317)
A Lot to Process (cont'd) - Gambit - 05-04-2018
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Dexter blinked his way back to consciousness. His bleary vision slipped in and out of focus, following a cord winding its way along the rough stone ceiling, ending at a dingy, flickering lightbulb directly above him.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
He tried to lift his arms but found them bound tightly to the cold metal surface beneath him. Both legs suffered from the same impediment. Twisting his neck sent his shoulder into agonizing spasms, but Dexter could see the wound had been cleaned and bandaged. A thin tube protruding from the back of his hand administered a clear liquid from a bag hanging from a metal stand beside the table. Dexter recognized it as an IV. The familiar technology brought him a measure of comfort.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Dexter surveyed the room, ignoring his aching shoulder. Dozens of tables laden with scrap metal, gears, and the tools of invention were organized in neat rows, illuminated by the pale glow of an enormous bank of computer screens making up the far wall. Most seemed to be linked to security cameras watching dirty, neon-painted alleyways and empty corridors, and a few displayed scrolling lines of code.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound of the IV was maddening. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Dexter’s mind wandered back to how he had ended up in this predicament, a question only his past could answer. The first concrete memory he settled on was Omni, the grinning silhouette in the darkness. Before that… only disparate images remained. A flashlight. A mirror. The scent of apples. An urgency tugged at him, a sense of something important lurking just beyond his awareness.
It startled Dexter how readily he had come to accept the wonders and horrors of this place. Perhaps it had to do with his new status as a Prime, some intrinsic understanding and acceptance of the realities of the Omniverse. Dexter still had only a loose understanding of what that word meant: Prime. He knew it had to do with the Omnilium—with the raw power that emanated from the swirling globe and rippled through the air, intoxicating Dexter. In truth, he did feel more powerful, healthier, more confident. Had he stood in the path of a laser blast before he found himself in this confounding realm, would he have survived?
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Discovering the secrets of the Omniverse would have to wait, Dexter found, as movement flashed across one of the computer screens, followed closely by the presence of two voices in his head, much like the conversation he suspected he had eavesdropped on at the gate.
The first voice he recognized as Baxla’s. I thought—
It’s not your job to think, the second voice—the petulant, screeching voice of a child—scolded. My whole operation could be compromised, snot-brain. And for what?
Having a Prime on our side can be valuable, Baxla protested. That’s why I went and got him. We can’t send the HARPYs to retrieve the schematics and they can’t enter the Dataverse.
Couldn’t you have found me a real Prime? This newbie was laid low by a single stinking blaster pulse. Everyone knows Stormtroopers can’t even aim. This crud-muncher would be dead if it wasn’t for me.
Dexter watched as the two figures made their way across the computer screen, approaching from the end of one of the long, dimly-lit corridors. The owner of the high-pitched voice, somehow the leader of the two, came into focus as a bald-headed child, his short legs pumping to keep up with the older Baxla’s measured strides. He wore a black suit and a pair of green goggles, thrusting a finger at Baxla as he continued his rant.
It’s on you if we’re forced into hiding again, snot-brain! We just made it back to the fourth tier. I won’t go back down again. I’ll feed you to your HARPY myself before I let that happen.
Baxla appeared accustomed to the midget’s vitriol, his body language resigned but unafraid. Fair enough. And when he brings you the schematics, you’ll finally promote me to captain?
If that crud-muncher brings me the schematics, you can take over the whole operation. I won’t need it anymore.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
The pair reached the end of the corridor and moved beneath the camera, out of its field of view. A moment later, the grinding and clanking of a heavy door being thrust open filled the room. Dexter tried to crane his neck to see the visitors, but the pain made black dots dance in his vision and he leaned back with a groan.
“Would you look at that,” the petulant voice said from somewhere behind him. “The crud-muncher is already awake.”
“I told you,” Baxla said, his tone smug. “He’s strong.”
“Where am I?” Dexter croaked, ignoring the exchange. “What is this place?”
His answer came in the form of an enormous, segmented metal leg, clambering into view above him. Three more of the spider-like appendages, each taller than Dexter by at least a head, followed, the bald child suspended between them. The legs seemed to originate from a pack on the child’s back, but whether they moved independently, or the child controlled them somehow, Dexter couldn’t say.
The sharp tips of the spider legs dug firmly into the ceiling, finding a hold, and the legs began to straighten, lowering the bald child until he was facing Dexter, except that he was upside down. He squinted at Dexter through the green-tinted goggles, a wide, maniacal grin plastered across his face.
“Welcome to the land of the living, pit-sniffer,” he giggled. “How’d you sleep?”
“Where am I?” Dexter repeated, curling his toes to suppress any outward sign of fear.
“This is Gizmo Labs,” the kid replied. “I’m Gizmo.”
“You’re in Coruscant,” Baxla interjected. “I’m sorry you were hurt. I couldn’t let the Stormtroopers get their hands on you.” The pilot walked into view. He stood about Dexter’s height, with straight hair the color of straw and placid eyes like still water.
Dexter couldn’t dispute the sincerity in Baxla’s tone, but still he felt anger flare up in him. “You killed them,” he snarled, squirming in his bonds. “It seems to me they might have been preferable captors.”
Baxla heaved a sigh. “You have a lot to learn about the Omniverse, kid. Lesson one: The Empire is your enemy, always.”
“Why should I trust you?” To emphasize his point, Dexter rolled his eyes toward the thick straps binding his wrists and ankles to the table.
“They were just to make sure you didn’t reopen the wound,” Baxla said, and he began to undo the straps. “Stay still till I get the IV out.”
Dexter obeyed, no more convinced of his captors’ trustworthiness. He grimaced as Baxla pulled the needle from the back of his hand, a drop of blood falling free and splashing on his skin. He brought his hands together and rubbed his chafed wrists. His ankles were free next, and he scooched back into a sitting position.
Gizmo still hung comically from the ceiling, regarding Dexter with the same wide grin still splayed across his youthful features. “This booger-picker is right, Prime, and I don’t say that often. The Empire needs as many of you stinking Primes as possible, so they can stay in power. As much as I hate saying it, we’re actually the good guys in this fight.”
Baxla nodded his agreement. “Look, I don’t expect you to trust us right away. Understanding the ins and outs of this place takes time. We’re not your captors. You’re free to leave any time you want. That’s already more than the Empire will give you when they get their hands on you.”
Dexter did not betray his knowledge of Baxla and Gizmo’s conversation, which he had now all but confirmed was secret information. His thoughts returned to the swirling ball of Omnilium. Somehow, it seemed he could listen in to conversations that were out of earshot. He knew as well that Baxla shared his gift, able to speak directly into Dexter’s mind when HARPY found him by the fountain, even though Baxla himself was in another universe entirely. Either that, or it was some function of HARPY itself. The implications of the technology made Dexter’s head hurt.
Whatever his newfound ability was, Dexter knew his run-in with the HARPY was not a chance encounter. And he knew as well that Baxla and Gizmo had not brought him here out of any sense of altruism. They needed a Prime to retrieve some schematics. Dexter filed the damning information away, recognizing its value as leverage.
Despite knowing Baxla and Gizmo’s secret, Dexter suspected the safest option was to stay at Gizmo Labs, at least for as long as it took to make sense of his burgeoning ability.
“If I stay,” he began tentatively, making a mental note when the pair’s expressions brightened, “what’s in it for me?”
Gizmo giggled and rubbed his hands together, seeming excited by the prospect, but it was Baxla who answered. “Security. Comradery. Maybe even some excitement. As a fresh Prime I bet you have a million questions. We can help each other.”
Oh, he’ll help all right. Gizmo’s voice invaded Dexter’s mind. Whether that pit-sniffer wants to or not.
Dexter fought to remain impassive, keeping his eyes locked on Baxla and a faint smile plastered across his face. “Okay then. I’ll stay, for now.”
“Awesome!” Baxla exclaimed. “Come with me. Let’s get you fed and I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”
They left bald, unusual Gizmo hanging from the ceiling, his hands still absentmindedly rubbing together. Dexter followed behind Baxla silently, and the pilot seemed content to leave the young Prime to process the day’s events.
Of one thing, and only one thing, Dexter was certain: it was a hell of a lot to process.
Quote:End of arc