L.E.G.O. Dimensions: Multiversal Domination
Part V
Reality Designation: ?
Existence spasms.
Every organism in every universe along the infinite loop of creation sucks back in simultaneous hurt. They don't know they share the same experience, but everything feels encumbered by a new weight of dread.
The malaise derives from an invasion of the Core of all realities by a living blight, the pan-galactic overlord Vortech. He defiled the plane by emerging from a dimensional portal – a corpse-colored lesion of gaseous turbulence – like a sentient cancer spewing from a nightmarish birth canal.
He steps out of the portal and into gray void. A platform coalesces as the unformed matter that encompasses the Core cedes to his Will. Upon this manifestation Vortech stands.
His name catalyzes fear throughout the multiverse. He embodies domination and oppression. He possesses numerous titles, collected over the course of eons: Genius, Master, Warlock, Conqueror, Despot, Emperor, Pharaoh, Devastator, Divirus, Malignarch, Omnipotetenate, Tyrannapocalypse, and Traveler.
His original identity drowned in the tides of history; lost through ages and ages beyond recollection, beyond even the formation of some galaxies. Who he was no longer holds relevance to him. Who Vortech is now, his desire to ascend to Godhood, threatens the sanctity of every life across the spectrum of the multiverse. He inhales nothingness around him, the first act in his final plan.
"I've found it," he declares. "After all these years of searching, I have opened the way to the Core."
The journey that brought Vortech to the Core robbed him of his corporeal form, the last physical link to his humanity. All that's left is anger, hatred, envy and nihilism contained in the shape of a humanoid essence illuminated by cosmic light and darkness, branded with the scars of universes conquered and lost.
Vortech bears the Helm of the Daemon, which was grafted to his head as punishment following the revolution that deposed him from power. He still wears tattered remnants of his Imperial garb as a reminder of what he lost. His only trophy: The Staff of Perpetuity, the key to unlocking the Forever Realms and the path to the Core.
"Congratulations on the successful completion of your quest," exclaims a voice, tinged with digital distortion and sarcasm, from the portal's entrance. "You discovered the literal definition of nothing, Your Excellency."
"Do not test my patience with your idiocy, X-Po," Vortech warns.
"I apologize, my Lord. I intended no offense. I sought only to learn how this world will serve your purposes."
"Enough of your excuses. Stay silent and observe."
X-Po mutes his audio software. In his present form, he exists as consciousness stored in a box-shaped processor. A lens mounted on the front provides visual capabilities; two pincers on each side allow physical manipulation; and micro-rotors serve as a means of propulsion.
Vortech raises his arms and whispers an incantation. The three rings at the top of his staff glow with the same cerulean hue as the portal imploding behind him. More nothing from the Core becomes something. Matter rises from space and solidifies against Vortech's platform, extending it into a passageway. He strides forth. With each step, his structure expands. Path becomes boulevard; boulevard becomes highway. Columns and statues celebrating the glory of Vortech grow at intervals along the edges.
At the terminus, a massive block of matter settles into place and begins taking shape. Walls of intricate triangular latticework extend, adding dimension and geometry to formlessness. Towers topped with spires mold themselves at each corner. They pay homage to a larger tower that builds in the center – a fist raised in defiance of the metaphorical heavens.
Vortech climbs the edifice to its pinnacle. He lifts the staff again. The peak develops into a wide hall. Brilliant torches of orange light reflect off the polished deep-violet walls of cosmic stone. A vista with a balcony opens from one of the walls. At the hall's heart, a throne upon a dais manifests. The seat derives from the same reflective material as the walls, and is etched with hieroglyphics depicting Vortech's rise and fall. He takes his place as Monarch.
"My reign begins, again," he wheezes.
"I bow to your majesty," X-Po says. "Well, I bow as well as I'm able."
Hovering before the throne, he dips in an awkward gesture.
"I accept your allegiance, hollow though it may be."
"Thank you, Master. But, permit me one question?"
"You may ask," Vortech allows with impatience in his tone.
"What now," X-Po asks. "I mean, after years and years of searching, as well as committing numerous unspeakable acts, you finally made it to the Core. And you've crowned yourself ruler of nothing – this realm is empty. What's your next plan? I can't imagine you intend to retire here in Casa de Nada, and I don't see myself playing butler."
"Insolent machine," Vortech glowers, eyes flashing behind his mask. "You are correct, this is no exile. We have located the foundation prime of the multiverse; the alpha and omega of all that ever was, is, and shall be. The fundamental basis of life and creation spawns from the Core. From this place, I will tap the roots of existence and prune them into My perfect order. I will become God."
X-Po clicks as he processes the information. Certain data fails to connect his lord's intentions with a method for carrying them to fruition.
"I profess ignorance, and beg mercy, for failing to see how you will achieve such glory," he says. X-Po learned early in service to Vortech to choose his phrasing with care. He doesn't always succeed, which over the multitude of years has resulted in harsh punishments, including the loss of his humanity.
"Your perception of this plane is inaccurate. The 'nothing' you describe is primordial matter, which can shape the destinies of every reality. To do so, I need circuits that connect the Core to each world. They come in the form of special devices – elements serving as foundations of their worlds."
"But, according to ancient texts you stored in my databanks, tampering with foundational elements, especially on the scale you seek, could result in catastrophic destabilization of infinite proportions."
"I accept the risks," Vortech asserts. "My course is set."
"Sire, I must protest this action you're taking," X-Po cringes. "Conquering realities, ruling everything, I will fulfill my programming to serve your ambitions. But, endangering all existence falls beyond my parameters. I cannot take part in such madness."
"Faithless, disloyal fool! Your concerns, your defiance, hold no weight. Plans are already underway to acquire the first elements. Since you refuse to accept the enforcement of my Will, I have no further use for you."
Vortech stands with outstretched arms. He whispers an incantation and the Staff of Perpetuity glows. Behind him, a new portal opens. X-Po rattles as his master's power twists electronics in his housing. He deactivates. The vacuum of the wormhole sucks the metallic shell into banishment.
"I discard you," Vortech sneers.
The portal closes. The staff flares. Sparks of interdimensionality sprinkle from the three rings. Vortech coughs and chokes. His cosmic form loses cohesion, causing a rapid expansion that warps his appearance to the verge of dissipation. A moment later, he regains control over his physical self. He slumps onto his throne.
"I'm losing time," Vortech gasps. "The sacrifices I've made to wield this power and make this journey are coming due. I cannot perish now, so close to attaining Perfection. I must conserve energy and use this palace as my sanctum."
Vortech pauses in thought. If preserving his life means restricting travel across dimensions, then how will he dominate them? A memory flickers. His absolute authority spanned for ages and ages that he forgot one of the most basic tenets of power.
"I shall have to recruit lieutenants and captains to assert my control throughout the cosmos."
Vortech stands again, leaning on the staff as a crutch. He raises an arm, and from the dais a pedestal forms, topped with a black orb. With a wave of his hand, the sphere glows; the opaque darkness within shifts and roils. He barks a one-word command and slams his palm onto the orb.
Existence tremors.
- In Gotham City: A laughing clown cries, and a dark knight fears doubt.
- On Middle-Earth: A fiery eye blinks, and a wizard considers surrender.
- Near Bricksburg: A retired business leader renews a craving, and a young rebel dreams of glory.
A hunter cowers, a samurai loses focus, a prisoner quits running, and a scientist stops dreaming.
In London, on a quiet suburban sidewalk, a peculiar blue police box shimmers and emanates a grinding, whooshing sound. Passers-by take no notice until a deep bell tolls from within. Echoes of it carry for miles. The box loses its grip on reality and slips from view. Static charges crackle in its wake, and a burning square is seared into the pavement.
"No, no, no, no, no! This can't be right," an older gentleman cries in a Scottish accent. "The TARDIS just pulled itself back into the time stream."
The man, known only as the Doctor, races around a console surrounding a large piston at the heart of a circular room. He pulls levers, activates dials and checks monitors in a frantic hope to calm the rapid punch of the alien engine and understand the source of its distress.
"Why would you do that," the Doctor calls. "I was bringing Clara a pie. I wanted to show her the triple solar eclipse by the moons of Safbrac 4. That only happens once every 2,700 years, you know."
The sentient time machine gives no verbal response. The cloister bell chimes another warning. The chamber, impossibly larger than the exterior of the TARDIS' disguise as a police box, quakes with the dissonance. The TARDIS rocks in alarm. The Doctor pulls more levers and scans another monitor.
"Ohhh! That's not good. The pie and the eclipse will have to wait. It was going to be fun. I wanted to try a tangerine pie."
His fingers dance over buttons, assigning coordinates to assuage the vehicle's agitation. Vibrations stabilize as the TARDIS is appeased by the Doctor's direction. Shaggy eyebrows scrunch over new data readings.
"We have a full-scale crisis on our hands, and it may be more than I can handle alone," he admits. "We'll have to make a couple stops, do a little re-jiggering, and maybe pick up some extra firepower along the way."
The Doctor slams a forked switch into place. The TARDIS accelerates and hurtles down a corridor of bent time and space.