L.E.G.O. Dimensions: Multiversal Domination
Prologue: Part I
Reality Designation: "TARDIS"
Adventure beckons to a certain school teacher in Great Britain. Well, adventure will eventually beckon, thinks Clara Oswald. The young woman walks to her motorcycle at the end of a school day at Coal Hill Academy. A spring breeze washes through her brown hair. She closes her eyes and grins, hoping the Doctor will return for her today. She craves another journey into the unknown. She yearns for more time with that time-travelling alien madman and his spinning blue box.
Clouds gather like spectators above her as she rides for London. The air tingles, and her nose catches the sour smell of change. Where most people would think rain, Clara brightens in recognition of these signs. She hopes to hear the familiar raspy wheezes of the Doctor's time machine/spaceship, the TARDIS. She looks for it, hoping to see it materialize near her. But her expectations are wrong this time.
Wind strengthens along the road. The rush grows into a roar. Debris spatters on her helmet. Clara begins to lose control of her bike, unable to withstand the wind speed. Reality tears. A hole opens from nothing. Blue matter swirls inside; a vortex concentrating the wind into a vacuum.
Clara's motorcycle topples, sending her flying face-first. She tenses in anticipation of colliding with solid pavement. Her body stops hard with her outstretched hands a few centimeters from the road. She reached a point of equilibrium with the force of the vortex. The moment ends, and Clara and her bike are sucked into the hole.
"Doctoooooooooooooor," she screams. Clara Oswald, the Impossible Girl, echoes into time and space.
Prologue: Part II
Reality Designation: "Gotham"
Alarms blare at a military warehouse along the Gotham docks. Some idiot triggered the security grid. The revolutionary/mercenary/criminal mastermind Bane whistles and circles a finger in the air, signaling his crew to cut the raid short. They have enough of what they need.
"Fool," he barks at the idiot. He can tell who tripped the alarm. He's trying to look fake-busy. "I'll deal with you later."
Bane clicks a device on his belt. He came prepared. Explosions shake the building from small charges set at key locations to block military responders and guarantee an escape route.
"Move out! And stay alert," he commands. "Batman will be here soon."
Crew members nod and give thumbs-up. He chose them carefully: ex-military, ex-cons and aimless pros – disciplined, with little fear. Maybe not enough fear. They seem to underestimate the Bat as they rally.
Armed thugs take point, the rest carry metal crates while wearing lead-lined gloves. The grunts lead the way through Bane's plan-B escape route. Bane picks up the rear; an obelisk of muscle, rising half-a-foot or more above his compatriots, he stomps in silhouette wearing black combat boots, combat gear and his signature black-and-red luchador mask. He watches for Batman's inevitable sneak-attack. He can't let the vigilante get in the way of this job. His employer was… strict, for lack of a better word, in his insistence to receive the cargo intact.
The crew reaches panel trucks parked near the warehouse. They begin loading the crates. The area is still quiet. Bane doesn't like it. Too much is at stake.
A rustle. There! The faint sound comes from behind and above him. Batman arrives, and he knows Bane knows he's here. The scrape of boot on debris was his calling card. Neck muscles bulging, Bane cocks his head toward the sound. He listens with his opposite ear, expecting a misdirect.
He feels the impact before hearing the smack. A blunt object bashes him, colliding with his chin. His head snaps over his shoulder. A piece of his mask tears. Through the bright pain fog, Bane sees a charging figure – Batman's punk, Robin. He hurled his wuss-staff into Bane's face. The kid, in his prancy red, yellow and green tights, aims a punch at his chin, hoping to keep him off balance. Bane's faster. He catches Robin's fist with a massive hand, like a ping-pong ball in a catcher's mitt. Bane clamps down and twists, flipping the Bratboy Wonder to the ground.
Another blow to the lower back bends Bane the wrong way. He loses his grip on Robin as he crashes to his knees. Batman reveals himself by bailing out his teen pinch-hitter.
"This heist is over, Bane," Batman declares. "Stay down and order your men to stand down, or I start shattering bones."
The vigilante/detective/superhero glooms over Bane, an angry shadow in a black bat-eared cowl and cape and gray body armor. The gold and black bat insignia on his chest almost glows like a full moon. Robin takes position next to him, staff back in hand.
"The Dark Knight cometh," Bane laughs. "Like a coward, he uses children as pawns and strikes from behind. Such bravery."
"You would see teamwork that way," Robin boasts.
"Enough," Batman holds up a gloved fist. "Surrender, now! You're finished."
Bane chuckles again and clicks another hidden button in his hand. Explosions erupt from the vacant shed behind Batman and Robin. The two duck and, acting on instinct, swivel toward the blasts. Bane presses a finger in his ear.
"Attack," he bellows.
Bullets rip from guns held by Bane's crew. The mercenaries had stopped loading their trucks to watch the showdown unfold. They await the boss' orders. Robin hits the ground. Batman blurs into action. He swings his cape in front of him, bullet-resistant to deflect the incoming fire. At the same time, he throws several silver balls at the thugs. Smoke pours from the spheres. Vision obscured, the gunmen fire wildly into the gloom.
Batman and Robin move like specters in the smoke. One-by-one, Bane's men fall, victims of the duo's silent assault. They're a well-oiled machine; two cogs working in tandem. Batman has to visualize their partnership in that way. Anything else and he risks feeling emotions. Emotions cloud judgment and concentration.
The smoke clears. Batman and Robin are the last standing. Fallen thugs litter the lot around their vans. Some are unconscious, others writhe in pain. Batman scans the area. Bane is no longer at the scene. He fled in the gloom. The tearing sound of a motorcycle echoes off buildings lining the route into metropolitan Gotham.
"Check those crates," Batman commands Robin.
The teen complies, examining a coded tag on the side of one box. He pulls a handheld digital device from his utility belt and scans the markings. Results flash on the mini-monitor.
"You're not gonna like this," Robin says. "It's Kryptonite."
"Let's go," Batman responds without hesitation. "We can't let Bane leave Gotham with that material."
The two dash to vehicles parked nearby. Robin kick-starts a motorcycle, while Batman roars the Batmobile to life. They thunder after Bane into the heart of Gotham.
Prologue: Part III
Reality Designation: "Middle-Earth"
Shadow and flame.
Shadow and flame conspire to trap the Fellowship of the Ring and make the mines of Moria their tomb, Gandalf thinks. The ancient wizard stands at a large door that separates him and his eight companions from the evil massing on the other side. Orcs speak, orcs laugh, and orcs screech in the chamber beyond. Their drumbeats spell the Fellowship's doom. Doom doom! they echo from everywhere and nowhere.
Gandalf recites sacred words at the door in hopes of preserving their survival. The other members of the Fellowship rest at a passage beneath him after fleeing a skirmish with an advance-troop of orcs. Gandalf spares a thought for Frodo. He's hurt after a spear plowed into him. He should be dead. Gandalf suspects the young hobbit's heritage saved him.
The wizard led the group – two humans, a dwarf, an elf and four hobbits, including Frodo the ring-bearer – through Moria on a quest to destroy the dark lord Sauron's One Ring. Their destination: Mordor, a land of desolation, Sauron's stronghold from where he will unleash his plans for domination. Sauron, the embodiment of hate, malice and destruction, crafted the Ring in the flames of the volcano Orodruin centuries ago. He poured most of his power into it so to serve as his key weapon for ultimate tyranny. Only the fires of Orodruin, also called Mount Doom, can destroy the Ring and Sauron with it.
"There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world," Gandalf had said in caution when they entered Moria. The statement also proved to be a forewarning. He senses an unknown power before him, one greater than the sum of the orcs in the chamber.
The door bends inward a bit. Gandalf tightens his grip on an iron ring bolted onto the wooden door and murmurs a new spell to keep the entryway closed. The tip of his staff gleams brighter. He intensifies his concentration on the door.
Despite its legend of terror and death, the former Dwarven kingdom of Moria is still the best available route to reach Mordor as quickly and secretly as possible. Nature, guided by a sinister force, beat back the Fellowship's attempt to cross mountains on their way south. They had little choice but to delve underground, through the cavernous and crumbling necropolis.
Orcs babble in their harsh language on the other side of Gandalf's door. The wood muffles their words, but he catches one: "Fire." He hopes the spell he's crafting can repel such an assault. He braces for the stench of smoke to seep through the cracks. Instead, the orc drums pound louder – doom doom boom. They beat for the Fellowship. They beat for him. A shadow drills into his mind.
When the Fellowship entered Moria, he held a little hope to find dwarves controlling at least part of the mines. A dwarven expedition sought to reclaim their homeland a few years ago. Hope faded with each hour the Fellowship spent stumbling through the pitch dark passageways. The sheer magnitude of the great Moria was a threat to their survival. Gandalf's leadership and memories of the place, along with shreds of insight from their resident dwarf, Gimli, kept them alive. The discovery of a shredded and burnt journal in the chamber Gandalf now blocks confirmed his fears: The expedition failed. They're all dead.
Now death stalks the Fellowship. Shadow eclipses Gandalf's mind. A terrifying beast enters the room, he senses. He stretches his might toward its limits.
"You shall not pass," he whispers, and his knuckles grip the ring tighter.
Gandalf begins reciting a stronger barring spell; an ancient Elvish one, more potent but also more complex. In the glow of his staff, a dim hue spreads over the door, matching the color of the robes and wide-brimmed hat that earned him the name Greyhame. The wood seems to fossilize to the stone around it. The shadow in his mind recedes. He presses his will harder and speaks with greater passion. The magic is working. The magic…
Fades.
The spell dissipates like wisps of steam after snow is dumped on a fire. The beast counters him. Gandalf feels its demonic touch on the other side of the door. It pulls the door open a crack. Fear scalds him. He plays an Ace and skips to the end of the Elvish spell. He speaks it with force.
The broken magic has explosive consequences. The door shatters. Gandalf flies backward into the narrow façade of the stairwell behind him. Breathless from the impact, he scrambles down the steps. Stone crashes from above. The chamber collapses, unable to support the extraordinary forces clashing around it. Gandalf's gambit destroyed its resilience.
The beast retreats. He senses it's regrouping, preparing a new tactic to ensnare the Fellowship. Gandalf loses his footing. He tumbles several feet down the stairs and into the midst of his companions. They gasp in alarm, eyes wide. Scared children, they seem, even the elf Legolas. He's almost as old as nature. Against the beast above, they are infants. The doom-doom-dooms of the orc drums beat faster.
"Gandalf fell," the hobbit Sam whispers to his friend Frodo. "He falls before us."
Gandalf glances at Sam as he picks himself up. Sam's observation feels prophetic. Before the rest of the group can react, before he gives into fear, he prods them to run into the black passage in front of them. He's weak, drained from expending so much energy. His long, ancient hair plasters to sweat on his face, and his legs feel like sapling branches in a storm. He leans on Gimli for support as they flee through the corridors of Moria.
Heat signals the group's arrival to the path to the exit. Sounds of pursuit grow more distant. The nine rest to catch their breath and gather their strength. Gandalf describes the disaster at the door to prepare the Fellowship for the evil they now face. As he speaks, a vision coalesces in his mind.
He sees shadow and flame, the towers of Isengard and Barad-dur, the orc armies of Sauron and Saruman, the son of Man as a beacon in the Dark, and Frodo wrestling with his fate. The vision splits. Gandalf's head wants to burst. New images flicker forth. He sees a dark knight and a warrior-maiden, a forest, a desert, a chamber of metal, Gondor fallen, people and beings he can't recognize and weapons beyond his imagination. The vision ends with the image of a face. The visage swirls behind a fearsome mask, eyes glowing with cosmic might. The Eye of Sauron pales in comparison. This new face slithers with illness. He feels sick at the sight of it. Gandalf shuts his mind to the sights of the future and sets his focus on surviving the present.