06-18-2018, 12:03 PM
A sharp tugging sensation in his navel pulled Remy through a whirlwind of light and color, the howling rush of air filling his ears. When his feet met solid ground again on the other side of the portal he dropped to one knee, his mind reeling. Hot bile rose in his throat. He fought the urge to spill his guts onto the smooth stone platform to which they’d been transported.
“You all right there, monsignor?” Peter asked with a trace of smug satisfaction. He seemed unaffected by the trip through the portal.
“Plus ou moins,” Remy replied, standing. “And monsignor is Ital—” His response cut short, Remy’s eyes popped wide when he saw the vast cityscape sprawling out before them. Skyscrapers of gleaming metal rose impossibly high, the upper floors lost in a swirl of clouds. Drenched in neon, the immaculate streets and intricate web of glass-bottomed skywalks connecting each building hummed with activity, a thousand thousand people scurrying to and fro with the ingrained urgency of life in a thriving metropolis. Not all of them human, Remy noted. And amidst it all, vehicles not unlike the cars of Earth cruised through the air overhead.
“Wait, so you’re not Italian?” Peter quipped.
If Remy registered the comment, he gave no outward indication. “What is this place?”
“Nothing special.” Peter clearly seemed to be reveling in his moment of superiority. “Doesn’t even look like they have space travel.”
Already, Remy grew tired of his companion’s constant irreverence. What world did he come from where whisking through interdimensional portals and witnessing a vast megalopolis left him completely unphased? Certainly not the same Earth that Remy knew. Still, he recognized the value of an ally in the face of such immense uncertainty, so he held his tongue.
“What do ya say to a drink, mon homme?” Remy asked, reclaiming a shred of his composure.
Peter smirked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Remy ignored the barb. Still marveling at the elaborate architecture of the city, he fell into step beside Peter, moving away from the gate. It didn’t take long for sweat to appear on his palms. A seasoned thief, accustomed to looking over his shoulder and identifying trouble before it appeared, Remy sensed the nature of Coruscant before noticing it consciously. Across the road, a group of six soldiers wearing the same armor as those they had encountered at the gate. Ahead of them, sticking out of the crowd, two more white helmets. And on every street corner, peering down at them from surreptitious perches, cameras emblazoned with a geometric crest—the Empire, presumably—panned back and forth, lens shutters irising as they sought to identify anyone out of place.
A shudder made its way down Remy’s spine. The soldiers reminded him of the mutant hunters of Earth, soldiers and mercenaries tasked with rounding up Remy’s kind and locking them away. He wondered if the Empire shared the same proclivity when it came to Primes.
“Eyes everywhere,” Remy murmured, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t look. Cameras on dat signpost, in front of dat restaurant, and between the bushes on dat terrace. Soldiers… well, soldiers everywhere, comme il s'avère.”
“Probably heard Star-Lord was in town.” Peter ignored Remy’s warning, locking his gaze onto each camera in turn. When he noticed the third, he flashed it a lewd gesture. “I’m kind of a big deal.”
Remy groaned. “Are you always dis oblivious?”
“Only when I’m thirsty,” Peter replied. “How ‘bout that place?” He pointed to the same terrace from where the hidden camera surveyed the street below. Looking more closely, Remy noticed a waiter in a tuxedo carrying a tray of drinks.
“We might be a little… under-dressed, mon homme,” Remy chuckled.
Peter seemed to agree. “Okay, not that place.” He looked around again. “Looks like we’ll be under-dressed no matter where we go.”
“Some outside help, then?” Remy suggested. At street level, yellow cars zipped past a few feet off the ground. On some, a beacon affixed to the roof flashed ‘VACANT’ in glowing letters. Future city or not, Remy knew a cab when he saw one. He jutted a hand out into the street, and a moment later one of the sleek vehicles whirred to a halt in front of them. The passenger side window shot down and a bizarre creature poked his head forward to greet them. Blue-skinned, with two foot-long horns jutting from atop its skull and two tentacle-like appendages, beginning where his ears should have been and drooping down over his shoulders, the alien cab driver affixed them in turn with a piercing ice-blue gaze.
“Where can I take ya, friends?” he rasped, in a voice not unlike boots stomping on gravel.
Unphased as usual, Peter stepped forward. “Star-Lord,” he said, by way of introduction. “My friend and I are new here. We’re looking for a place to grab a few drinks, and he seems to think a damp trench coat won’t pass for ‘suitable attire’ in this part of town.” Peter leaned in close, as if he thought Remy wouldn’t hear him. “He’s French, you see. It’s all tuxedos and baguettes where he’s from.”
The cab driver chuckled. “I know just the place. Hop in!”
Without waiting to see if he would follow, Peter threw open the passenger side door and climbed into the cab. “Let’s go monsignor,” he said, flashing his companion a wide grin.
Remy scowled, but slipped into the back seat of the cab.
Up front, their blue-skinned guide sat before a vast array of buttons, levers, and flashing diodes. His hands were a practiced blur as he engaged the aircraft. “Autopilot engaged,” a cool, robotic voice intoned from the console. They rose into the air and zipped off, merging seamlessly into the buzzing traffic.
The driver twisted in his seat, offering Remy a clawed hand. Tentatively, Remy accepted the handshake. “My name is… difficult to pronounce,” he rasped with a wry smile. “But you can call me Irkar.”
“Just like the cabbies on Earth,” Peter joked.
Remy shot him another warning glare. As Peter and Irkar settled into easy conversation, Remy sat back and tried to process the series of events that had landed him in the back of a flying cab in a sprawling, futuristic city in another universe. Even from above, zooming across the cityscape at high speed, he could see the cloying military presence of the Empire. Not only did the familiar white helmets of Empire soldiers appear amidst the throngs of foot traffic, always at precise intervals, but bulky vehicles equipped with long-barreled weapons zipped past them as well, emblazoned with the same geometric image as the cameras.
Tuning back into the conversation in the front of the cab, Remy heard Peter trying to explain who he was to the befuddled cab driver. “Star-Lord,” he reiterated. “Like, the Lord of Stars. Legendary outlaw… guardian of the galaxy? I can’t believe you’ve never heard of me.”
“You picked the wrong place to be an outlaw,” Irkar said. “Not much gets past Palpatine here on Tier One. My advice is, to keep your head down and stay out of trouble.”
“Palpatine?” Remy interjected.
The cab driver frowned. “This guy is surprised I’ve never heard of ‘Star-Lord’ and you’ve never heard of Palpatine?”
Remy shrugged.
“Emperor of Coruscant, leader of the Empire, most powerful Prime in the Omniverse Palpatine?” the driver continued, incredulous.
“I have cool titles too,” Peter grumbled.
The cab slowed and dipped into a dive, coming to rest at the foot of yet another looming skyscraper. Irkar extended a slender finger toward a set of stairs descending down beneath the building. “Down there. Nice little watering hole. No dress code.” He tossed Remy a sympathetic wink. “Try to keep ‘Star-Lord’ out of trouble, will ya?”
With a wry chuckle, Remy nodded. “Will do, mon homme.”
“And since you’re new in town,” the cab driver went on, “another word of advice. Palpatine keeps tabs on every Prime in the city. You won’t so much as take a shower on Tier One without the footage ending up in the Empire’s archives. If you need a little… privacy, the lower tiers might be more your speed.”
Remy thanked Irkar, and he and Peter climbed out of the cab. Suddenly remembering cab rides weren’t free, he patted down his pockets with an anxious look on his face.
“Don’t worry about it,” Irkar said, accurately reading Remy’s movements. “This ride’s on me.” He proffered a thin strip of metal. “Here’s my card. If you need a hand with anything, don’t hesitate.”
Remy accepted the card with a grateful smile. “Well met, Irkar. We are in your debt.”
The cab driver returned the grin. “Something tells me you’ll find a way to pay me back… one day.” Then he was gone, the cab rising back into the air and jetting off.
“Try to keep Star-Lord out of trouble,” Peter balked, trying unsuccessfully to imitate the cab driver’s grating voice. “What a jerk.”
Remy only sighed and shook his head. “Come on,” he bade Peter. “It’s past time we get dat drink, eh?”
They descended the stairs into shadow. A flickering, neon light named the bar as Bucketheads, the dingy words superimposed over a cracked and dirty image of an Empire soldier’s helmet. The image gave Remy pause, but before he could voice his concern Peter, ever oblivious, barged right through the open doorway, shouting, “Star-Lord has arrived!”
With a heavy sigh, Remy followed. As soon as he stepped through the door, he bumped into Peter’s back. The man stood frozen, his expression caught between his characteristic aloof grin and wide-eyed shock. Inside the dingy bar, no fewer than fifty white-armored soldiers sat around circular tables and crowded the small bar, helmets set aside and drinks in hand.
As Peter’s bold proclamation faded into the gathering silence, fifty pairs of curious eyes turned their way.
“You all right there, monsignor?” Peter asked with a trace of smug satisfaction. He seemed unaffected by the trip through the portal.
“Plus ou moins,” Remy replied, standing. “And monsignor is Ital—” His response cut short, Remy’s eyes popped wide when he saw the vast cityscape sprawling out before them. Skyscrapers of gleaming metal rose impossibly high, the upper floors lost in a swirl of clouds. Drenched in neon, the immaculate streets and intricate web of glass-bottomed skywalks connecting each building hummed with activity, a thousand thousand people scurrying to and fro with the ingrained urgency of life in a thriving metropolis. Not all of them human, Remy noted. And amidst it all, vehicles not unlike the cars of Earth cruised through the air overhead.
“Wait, so you’re not Italian?” Peter quipped.
If Remy registered the comment, he gave no outward indication. “What is this place?”
“Nothing special.” Peter clearly seemed to be reveling in his moment of superiority. “Doesn’t even look like they have space travel.”
Already, Remy grew tired of his companion’s constant irreverence. What world did he come from where whisking through interdimensional portals and witnessing a vast megalopolis left him completely unphased? Certainly not the same Earth that Remy knew. Still, he recognized the value of an ally in the face of such immense uncertainty, so he held his tongue.
“What do ya say to a drink, mon homme?” Remy asked, reclaiming a shred of his composure.
Peter smirked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
Remy ignored the barb. Still marveling at the elaborate architecture of the city, he fell into step beside Peter, moving away from the gate. It didn’t take long for sweat to appear on his palms. A seasoned thief, accustomed to looking over his shoulder and identifying trouble before it appeared, Remy sensed the nature of Coruscant before noticing it consciously. Across the road, a group of six soldiers wearing the same armor as those they had encountered at the gate. Ahead of them, sticking out of the crowd, two more white helmets. And on every street corner, peering down at them from surreptitious perches, cameras emblazoned with a geometric crest—the Empire, presumably—panned back and forth, lens shutters irising as they sought to identify anyone out of place.
A shudder made its way down Remy’s spine. The soldiers reminded him of the mutant hunters of Earth, soldiers and mercenaries tasked with rounding up Remy’s kind and locking them away. He wondered if the Empire shared the same proclivity when it came to Primes.
“Eyes everywhere,” Remy murmured, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t look. Cameras on dat signpost, in front of dat restaurant, and between the bushes on dat terrace. Soldiers… well, soldiers everywhere, comme il s'avère.”
“Probably heard Star-Lord was in town.” Peter ignored Remy’s warning, locking his gaze onto each camera in turn. When he noticed the third, he flashed it a lewd gesture. “I’m kind of a big deal.”
Remy groaned. “Are you always dis oblivious?”
“Only when I’m thirsty,” Peter replied. “How ‘bout that place?” He pointed to the same terrace from where the hidden camera surveyed the street below. Looking more closely, Remy noticed a waiter in a tuxedo carrying a tray of drinks.
“We might be a little… under-dressed, mon homme,” Remy chuckled.
Peter seemed to agree. “Okay, not that place.” He looked around again. “Looks like we’ll be under-dressed no matter where we go.”
“Some outside help, then?” Remy suggested. At street level, yellow cars zipped past a few feet off the ground. On some, a beacon affixed to the roof flashed ‘VACANT’ in glowing letters. Future city or not, Remy knew a cab when he saw one. He jutted a hand out into the street, and a moment later one of the sleek vehicles whirred to a halt in front of them. The passenger side window shot down and a bizarre creature poked his head forward to greet them. Blue-skinned, with two foot-long horns jutting from atop its skull and two tentacle-like appendages, beginning where his ears should have been and drooping down over his shoulders, the alien cab driver affixed them in turn with a piercing ice-blue gaze.
“Where can I take ya, friends?” he rasped, in a voice not unlike boots stomping on gravel.
Unphased as usual, Peter stepped forward. “Star-Lord,” he said, by way of introduction. “My friend and I are new here. We’re looking for a place to grab a few drinks, and he seems to think a damp trench coat won’t pass for ‘suitable attire’ in this part of town.” Peter leaned in close, as if he thought Remy wouldn’t hear him. “He’s French, you see. It’s all tuxedos and baguettes where he’s from.”
The cab driver chuckled. “I know just the place. Hop in!”
Without waiting to see if he would follow, Peter threw open the passenger side door and climbed into the cab. “Let’s go monsignor,” he said, flashing his companion a wide grin.
Remy scowled, but slipped into the back seat of the cab.
Up front, their blue-skinned guide sat before a vast array of buttons, levers, and flashing diodes. His hands were a practiced blur as he engaged the aircraft. “Autopilot engaged,” a cool, robotic voice intoned from the console. They rose into the air and zipped off, merging seamlessly into the buzzing traffic.
The driver twisted in his seat, offering Remy a clawed hand. Tentatively, Remy accepted the handshake. “My name is… difficult to pronounce,” he rasped with a wry smile. “But you can call me Irkar.”
“Just like the cabbies on Earth,” Peter joked.
Remy shot him another warning glare. As Peter and Irkar settled into easy conversation, Remy sat back and tried to process the series of events that had landed him in the back of a flying cab in a sprawling, futuristic city in another universe. Even from above, zooming across the cityscape at high speed, he could see the cloying military presence of the Empire. Not only did the familiar white helmets of Empire soldiers appear amidst the throngs of foot traffic, always at precise intervals, but bulky vehicles equipped with long-barreled weapons zipped past them as well, emblazoned with the same geometric image as the cameras.
Tuning back into the conversation in the front of the cab, Remy heard Peter trying to explain who he was to the befuddled cab driver. “Star-Lord,” he reiterated. “Like, the Lord of Stars. Legendary outlaw… guardian of the galaxy? I can’t believe you’ve never heard of me.”
“You picked the wrong place to be an outlaw,” Irkar said. “Not much gets past Palpatine here on Tier One. My advice is, to keep your head down and stay out of trouble.”
“Palpatine?” Remy interjected.
The cab driver frowned. “This guy is surprised I’ve never heard of ‘Star-Lord’ and you’ve never heard of Palpatine?”
Remy shrugged.
“Emperor of Coruscant, leader of the Empire, most powerful Prime in the Omniverse Palpatine?” the driver continued, incredulous.
“I have cool titles too,” Peter grumbled.
The cab slowed and dipped into a dive, coming to rest at the foot of yet another looming skyscraper. Irkar extended a slender finger toward a set of stairs descending down beneath the building. “Down there. Nice little watering hole. No dress code.” He tossed Remy a sympathetic wink. “Try to keep ‘Star-Lord’ out of trouble, will ya?”
With a wry chuckle, Remy nodded. “Will do, mon homme.”
“And since you’re new in town,” the cab driver went on, “another word of advice. Palpatine keeps tabs on every Prime in the city. You won’t so much as take a shower on Tier One without the footage ending up in the Empire’s archives. If you need a little… privacy, the lower tiers might be more your speed.”
Remy thanked Irkar, and he and Peter climbed out of the cab. Suddenly remembering cab rides weren’t free, he patted down his pockets with an anxious look on his face.
“Don’t worry about it,” Irkar said, accurately reading Remy’s movements. “This ride’s on me.” He proffered a thin strip of metal. “Here’s my card. If you need a hand with anything, don’t hesitate.”
Remy accepted the card with a grateful smile. “Well met, Irkar. We are in your debt.”
The cab driver returned the grin. “Something tells me you’ll find a way to pay me back… one day.” Then he was gone, the cab rising back into the air and jetting off.
“Try to keep Star-Lord out of trouble,” Peter balked, trying unsuccessfully to imitate the cab driver’s grating voice. “What a jerk.”
Remy only sighed and shook his head. “Come on,” he bade Peter. “It’s past time we get dat drink, eh?”
They descended the stairs into shadow. A flickering, neon light named the bar as Bucketheads, the dingy words superimposed over a cracked and dirty image of an Empire soldier’s helmet. The image gave Remy pause, but before he could voice his concern Peter, ever oblivious, barged right through the open doorway, shouting, “Star-Lord has arrived!”
With a heavy sigh, Remy followed. As soon as he stepped through the door, he bumped into Peter’s back. The man stood frozen, his expression caught between his characteristic aloof grin and wide-eyed shock. Inside the dingy bar, no fewer than fifty white-armored soldiers sat around circular tables and crowded the small bar, helmets set aside and drinks in hand.
As Peter’s bold proclamation faded into the gathering silence, fifty pairs of curious eyes turned their way.