Chapter 1
The Holovite that Changed the Omniverse
The rear of the smuggler's cargo hold was dark. Perfect for an interrogation. And that was just what Ratchet and the smuggler needed. Ratchet was sitting on a cargo crate with an N60 Storm in his hand, looking at his victim: a Thugs-4-Less employee. The thug's hands were tied behind his back, and he was sitting on a crate identical to Ratchet's. This may have been perfectly normal for an interrogation if Ratchet hadn't taped the thug's own blaster to his head and positioned him above the trapdoor Ratchet had once been jettisoned out of. The thug looked like he was about to cry for mommy. It was pathetic, in Ratchet's eyes. The employees at T4L had a reputation to upkeep, and this guy wasn't helping the image at all. The smuggler held a bottle in one hand and a carbine rifle in the other. He looked at Ratchet and offered him the bottle in his hand.
"Have a drink, lombax," he said. "It'll help your aim." At his, the thug started to struggle a bit, but he didn't try anything clever; either he knew that he was never going to make it, or he had a devious plan to escape hidden up his sleeve…unlikely for a guy with a sweat-stained tank top on.
"Don't mind if I do," said Ratchet casually as he tilted his head back. The alcohol seemed a bit stale, but really, who cared? It was alcohol, and Ratchet had developed a bit of a taste for it. He took a few guzzles and brought it away from his lips. He wiped his mouth, then looked back down at the thug and gave an intentional belch, hoping to increase the fear factor on his prey; he was opting for the "calm interrogator" method. Ratchet held the N60 Storm with a loose hand, which he rested on his right leg. He looked the thug straight in the eyes. The thug started to twitch in fear.
"Look," the lombax sighed, "the quicker you cooperate, the more likely I am to fry that gun on your head and avoid melting a hole right through your snout. Makes both our lives easier, right?" he asked.
"Please! I only do what the boss says! I don't question him! I just do it!" the thug pleadingly explained himself.
"Ahh, he's just a waste of time, lombax," said the smuggler. "Completely useless information! Leave him to the mercy of outer space!"
"No, please! Just put the gun away! I'll do what you want! What…whatever you want to know. Whatever you want to know!" he said rapidly.
"Alright," said Ratchet, cracking his neck as well as his knuckles. "You seem like you mean it. What's the bounty?"
"You're worth a millions bolts each. That price got quintupled by the boss man after you recaptured the Prog twins!" the thug said hopefully, looking for a positive sign from either Ratchet or the smuggler, the latter of which was nodding his head, smiling approvingly and rubbing his chin.
"Five million bolts, huh?" he said slowly, savoring the sentence. "I'm moving up in the galaxy."
"Yeah, five mil might be good for you, but me? I'm worth at least twice that," said Ratchet. He turned back to the thug and loaded his Storm.
"Well, now, we appreciate you being honest with us," he said. The thug started struggling.
"Hey! Hey, what the fuck, man! I told you everything!" he yelled.
"Yeah, but you did try to kill us," said Ratchet, pretending as if he was thinking it through. "And, after all, one good deed deserves another, right?" He aimed at the gun. "Now be still so I don't make a mess." The thug stopped struggling, eyes wide with fear. Ratchet aimed, taking his time to increase the suspense. He pulled the trigger…
And the gun splintered into pieces.
"Son of a bitch!" cried the thug, who had resumed struggling. "I told you all I know!"
"Oh, shut up," said Ratchet. With that, he grabbed the trapdoor lever and prepared to activate it. He looked back at the squirming thug. "Don't forget to write," he said maliciously, pulling the lever. Immediately, the thug and his cargo container fell out of the bottom of the ship. Ratchet could hear him screaming like a little girl. He close the trapdoor and looked at the smuggler.
"That's the fifty-seventh thug this month, right?" he asked.
"I stopped counting after nineteen," replied the smuggler. "I don't even care anymore. We've killed all the others. Why'd we let this one live a bit longer?"
"I wanted to know why they were so intent on killing us. Five million big ones will make somebody do anything."
"It'd be better just to kill them all."
Ratchet shrugged. "If it works for you." He crouched next to the container he had been sitting on and rapped it with his knuckles a few times.
"Clank? You can come out now," he said.
The container popped open, and out came the little robotic partner Ratchet had traveled the galaxy with.
"Thank you for letting me stay in there, Ratchet," he said, rubbing his blinking red antenna. "You know how much I…dislike your interrogations."
"Well, if they want to attack us, I say let them try, then let 'em have it with both barrels. It's their problem if they want bolts and end up getting shot out of a cargo hold instead."
"There must be another way to solve our problems than simply killing everybody who stands in our way."
"Well, if there is, why don't you find it?"
"Because the odds of finding another solution are approximately three hundred and twenty thousand to-"
"Exactly. Because of the odds. When have we ever turned a deaf ear to the odds, Clank?" asked Ratchet with dripping sarcasm. "How can you even suggest that we're such daredevils?"
"I merely mean to say that we have a very slim chance of finding said method," Clank stated.
"I know that we 'have a very slim chance of finding said method,' Clank," Ratchet said. "That's why I'm leaving you to find it and taking…other responsibilities upon myself."
"Ugggh, girls, girls, you're both pretty," said the smuggler, tired of their arguing. "Can we stop talking about this useless 'method' and keep going the old school route?" Clearly, he didn't like being bothered while he was flying.
"Awwk! You're both pretty girls! Both pretty girls! Awwk!" said his parrot, who had perched himself on a cargo crate.
"Oh great. I forgot about him," said Ratchet. "Can somebody do something to drown him out of my ears?"
"No problem, friend," said the smuggler with a mischievous smile. He leaned over in the pilot's seat, reached for a button, and pressed it gently with one finger. Immediately the ship started to vibrate with buzz'es, whir's, and wub-wub's. The poor lombax drooped his ears and folded them on top of his head with his hands, trying anything and everything he could to escape the noises that auditory-sensitive organisms despised.
"DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING OTHER THAN SKRILLEX?!" he yelled over the music.
"YES, I DO!" the smuggler hollered in reply. He twisted the same button he used to start the music. Immediately, Ratchet heard growling lyrics and a speeding electric guitar, accompanied by a drummer who seemed to be having a spasm, and that spasm was actually considered music…to an extent.
"SWEET JESUS! DO WE HAVE TO KEEP ON GOING LIKE THIS FOREVER? I'M NOT A HEADBANGER, SO YOU CAN FORGET ABOUT IRON MAIDEN!" Ratchet yelled, pissed off. The smuggler, calm as ever, changed the channel one more time. Now, someone who sounded drunk was singing to an unplugged acoustic guitar, harmonica, and a bona fide banjo. It was very mellow, and Ratchet didn't need to raise his voice to be heard.
"Keep this going, you smart ass, and nobody will ever hear from Toby Keith ever again," he snarled.
"Well, if you don't like it, then why'd you ask?'
"Cause I assumed you had a plan B," said Ratchet, his tone changing to a deadly calm.
"I do have a plan, B friend. I always have a plan B," said the smuggler, absentmindedly snapping his fingers to the music.
"Then use it," said the impatient lombax.
"If you insist." The smuggler humored Ratchet and pushed the same button again. Everything went quiet. Ratchet relaxed. A few seconds passed awkwardly, until Ratchet asked the smuggler-
"What're you waiting for? Play your plan B."
"This is my plan B," said the smuggler. "Silence." As soon as he finished saying it, Ratchet's Grummelnet device chirped.
"Congratulations! You've just received a holovite from…
"Finnegan O' Qwarksalot!"
The lombax sighed. He pulled out his device.
"Again? The last time he did this, I almost died at the hands of the bane of my species' existence." He gave his Grummelnet device to the smuggler. "Can you play this? It'd better not be another invitation to the Imperial Beatshit Tournament or something like that."
The smuggler obliged and played the holovite. Qwark's face was visible on a restaurant background, but he was disguised with a large, fake moustache, a bowler hat, and a monocle. When he talked, he assumed a British accent.
"Are you there, lad? I'm contacting you from the Polaris Defense Center to tell you about a new scourge of the galaxy. You see, there's been word about a new villain called Bla-"
"Your steak and chips, sir," said a waiter with a British accent, who had brought a plate of steak and French fries into Ratchet's view. Telling from the hand, the waiter was Blargian in race.
"Oh, give me a minute, pal," said Qwark, with his normal voice fully restored. "I mean…Of course, my good man. Right here, quick as you like," said Qwark, quickly recovering his false voice. The waiter set Qwark's meal down in front of him and walked away. Qwark quickly shoved the plate out of Ratchet's line of sight. He resumed talking to Ratchet.
"Okay, I'm not at the Defense Center. I'm at Galaxy Burger. Absolutely ridiculous, if you ask me," he said, his accent making him all the more an oddity as if the costume was completely normal attire for casual events. "I was saying, there's a new scourge rising from beneath the dark bowels of the Magus Sector. He calls himself Blackheart. I'm afraid the poor chap isn't quite up to date on the villainy aspect of his occupation. I'd take care of him myself, but I figured I'd step aside and let some less deserving take the credit." Qwark picked up a fry and inspected it, then stroked it with a huge finger, evidently trying to rid it of dust. He squinted, rotating it three hundred and sixty degrees. It seemed to be fine, because he popped it in his mouth, chomping audibly. Ratchet turned his head away with his palms toward the screen, muttering, "Oh, God" in disgust. When the chewing noises ceased, Ratchet dared to put his hands down and refocus. This was a rather difficult task when the person talking had bits of French fry in their teeth and you had no way to tell them that.
"Anyway, this fellow is not tiptoeing down the primrose path," said Qwark, belching immediately after he finished his sentence. "He's got mates, and they're not exactly friendly either. I wish you the best, Agent Dead Meat. MI6-" He stopped. Ratchet could hear some upbeat music in the background. He recognized the song: "Turn Down for What."
"OOOHHHHH! Dat's my jaaam!" Qwark had immediately abandoned all thoughts of covert ops. He jumped up, threw off his costume to reveal his trademark green suit and started dancing. His moves were quite disturbing, including grabbing his crotch with one hand and twirling the other over his head, bending over backwards on one hand while holding the other flat and moving his hips, and (this was the nail in the coffin in terms of Ratchet being scarred for life) twerking. The lombax once again turned his head away, eyes screwed shut with determination to get that image out of his head. He heard Qwark whooping and yelling. "Wat choo lookin' at?" he exclaimed. Immediately, Ratchet imagined a customer staring at the superhero throbbing his butt at them. Then to Ratchet's relief, he heard Qwark say this-
"Oh, shit. The red light's still on." There was a fumbling sound, then silence; Qwark had ended his transmission. Ratchet turned back towards the cockpit window. He walked up to the Grummelnet device and safely unplugged it.
"Well, if I saw disturbing videos before this, forget them. I think we could put this on Intergalactic Celebrities Gone Wild. Don't you think?" he asked the smuggler as he was looking at the passing planets. There was no response from the smuggler. Ratchet looked down at him. His face was frozen, staring at the screen with open jaw. Ratchet waved his hand in front of the smuggler. There was no response. Ratchet then noticed that the smuggler's piece of straw was missing from his mouth. Ratchet scanned the floor around the smuggler's feet until he saw it. He picked it up by the untouched end, put it back in the smuggler's jaw, and closed his mouth. The smuggler came to, shaking his head.
"Thank you, friend," he said. "I feel naked without this thing." He pulled out the straw, twirling it through his fingers as he spoke. He put it back in his mouth. "Sounds like his intel is total BS. I wouldn't take orders from a dancing retard in spandex."
"Well, no matter how stupid Qwark may be, it's worth a shot. We don't have anything else to do. Patch us through to Talwyn. We might as well tell her where we're going and what we're doing." The smuggler pushed a different button again, and dived for cover; he was still considered rogue and had warrants on every planet except Quantos. Talwyn's face showed on the screen. She jumped in surprise at first.
"Ratchet! You scared me! I was just talking to another patrol! What's going on?" she said.
"Nothing much. How's the baby?"
"The baby's fine," she said. "He'll be strong and hard-headed, just like his father."
Ratchet smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. Listen, we were just heading out to the Magus Sector on a tipoff from Captain Qwark. He just gave us a holovite explaining something about a new threat."
Talwyn looked down, smile swept from her face. "The…Magus Sector? But, Ratchet, they classified that sector as 'Intangible' eons ago!"
"I know, Tal, but…" Ratchet sighed. "Remember all of the villains I've faced? Which one was the worst? Which one rose from the ashes and became the greatest villain of their time? Every last one of them. Do we really want to risk the universe again? I've grown stronger over the years, sure, but I've grown smarter. If we stop the threat now, we won't have to worry about getting our butts kicked later. Make sense?"
"Yeah, but…" Talwyn hesitated. "I would say 'Take Cronk and Zephyr,' but you can't, can you?" she finished sadly.
"Tal, it's alright. They're…in a better place now," Ratchet told her gently.
Talwyn looked at him, digging deep into his eyes, trying to find some hint of a poorly executed practical joke. When she saw nothing of the sort, she said, "Okay, I guess it'd be all right. But I'll have to ask the Polaris troops to take over your watch. Have fun earning your paycheck," she joked.
"Alright. Keep a close eye on things," Ratchet replied, smiling. He turned off the screen. "You can come out now." The smuggler heard Ratchet, and he stood up and slid himself into the chair.
"Okay. Next stop: the Magus Sector," Ratchet said to the smuggler. In turn, the smuggler pushed a button, and they were thrown into a tunnel at the speed of light. Vibrant colors flew past, indicating planets and stars and supernovas all happening in the blink of an eye. Ratchet took a few seconds to marvel in this wonder of nature, then turned back to the cargo hold.
"I think I can safely assume that a smuggler's always ready for trouble. Let's see what you got back here." Ratchet looked at all of the crates that the smuggler had in his ship.
"Friend, I have weapons hidden in the walls of the ship, but those crates reside all of my favorite toys. Those junk-lookin' things might just be my pride and glory."
"Well, they sound prestigious enough. Let's have a look-see," said Ratchet, opening the first one. He took inventory as he went.
"Let me see here…fragmentation grenades, standard issue…black market EMP grenades…9-bangers, Polaris Defense Corps issue…OW! JESUS!" Ratchet quickly pulled his hand out, shaking it in considerable pain.
"Ah, I see you've found my Zyphoid trap," said the smuggler mischievously.
"What the hell's that doing in here?"
"Just cause."
"Cause why?"
"Cause reasons," said the smuggler. Ratchet rolled his eyes and returned to taking inventory.
"Old high school photo…nice face you had as a teenager, by the way…Duran Duran CD…another photo…of Courtney Gears…provocatively dressed…Actually, she doesn't have any clothes at all." Ratchet looked at the back of the smuggler with wide eyes and a disgusted look.
"Never seen that before in my life," said the smuggler, shaking his head with his back turned towards Ratchet.
Ratchet continued rummaging. "A RYNO V?"
"I have a permit for that," the smuggler hastily replied.
Ratchet scoffed. "Since when the hell do you have a permit for anything?"
"Alright, you got me," the smuggler said with an aggressive tone. "It was me, you hear, and I'm glad, glad, I tell ya?" He put on a begging voice. "What're they gonna do to me, Sarge? What're they gonna do?"
"They'll confiscate it and use it for their own," Ratchet said, taking out the weapon and setting it down with the rest of the things they could use to eliminate this new villain. Everything else he put back (excepting the Courtney Gears photo, which he silently kissed before returning it to its home), and began to look through another crate. This is gonna take forever, he thought to himself.
