Update: An inaccuracy concerning Experiment numbering was brought to my attention. It has been resolved. I have also updated the same section with a suggestion. My thanks to DevinathePikachu for noting the inaccuracy and for offering a good suggestion.

Five

48 Hours In

"Long day, Ambassador?"

Jumba's subsequent cackle drew a weary smile from Corregan, who had spent twelve hours bargaining for Stitch's life. Both sides proved intractable in their positions. Corregan's requests for reducing the charge, relocating Stitch to Earth prior to his tribunal, changing the venue, and copping an outright plea deal with no death sentence had all been summarily rejected. Thyse'ant had been ready to slaughter Stitch on the spot, his bloodlust tempered only by Rhys'la's sagacious application of reason and admirably inhuman patience. The only success Corregan had walked away with was the postponement of the tribunal for several days so that he could learn the nuances of galactic law. Thyse'ant had beamed, as Corregan knew it would be impossible for him to even get his toes wet in the ocean of galactic law by the tribunal's commencement.

The duo exited from the main transit conduit and came upon the spacious residential section of the gargantuan Turan capitol building. The section consisted of one long hallway, and every ten feet stood a door that would not look terribly incongruous in a fine Earth hotel. Corregan thought it elicited a strange yet alluring retro-futurism vibe, one incorporating the more natural elements of this faraway world. He admired the many types of foreign flora springing from the floor, and he sniffed at the rather intoxicating and alien aromas that clouded the lobby. His mood stayed sour though, and as a nearby attendant made a move to take his folder, Corregan replied with a rough shooing motion. The attendant seemed perturbed as she wandered away. "I wish we could've gotten somewhere meaningful with them," Corregan sulked.

"Eh, relax. Is first day of negotiation. They try to soften you up."

"Jumba, I think this may be the only day of negotiation. They don't seem to have much of an interest in anything other than his execution."

"Hmm, perhaps. They have been quite skittish about treasonous acts since failed Hamsterviel Usurpation not too long ago."

"The what?"

"That is not in your precious folder?" After Corregan shook his head, "Ach, never mind. I will tell later." Jumba wrinkled his nose, and concern seeped into his gruff voice. "Have you tried seeing Six-Two-Six again?"

"Not since my attempt at the end of the meeting." Corregan had emerged from the Undersecretary's office—which after twelve hours had grown into an effective though extremely unpleasant sauna—and strode down the chilly gray hallway to the cell door bordered by two behemoths. Corregan opened his mouth to command them to move, and they put guns to his lips. Thyse'ant had been festooned with some insignia, a pentagonal patch with several indecipherable characters scrawled on it. The guards blockading the Experiment's door brandished the same insignia on their massive forearms as they forced the ambassador toward the exit. Burned by the rebuff, Corregan had stormed back toward Rhys'la's sweltering office, but stopped short of the metal plate as he realized the likely futility of unleashing the rant his mind was preparing. He spent four hours pacing the capitol's hallways, constructing and destroying plans on how to reach his client. Jumba had found him sprawled out on the floor, his limbs limp from exhaustion, and had scooped up the ambassador and escorted him to the residential section.

Corregan rubbed his eyes as bright white light flooded through his pupils. In phosphenes, wide dark eyes stared back. "Can they kill him, Jumba?" Corregan asked, tone softened by tiredness and timidity. As he blinked away the phantoms, he spotted four yellowed eyes putting on a caricature of composure, trying to bury the glimmer that had caught Corregan's attention on the ship.

"Oh yes, though it would be very difficult. Lot of time, energy—his crime has always been mere existence, and for Federation, ideal punishment would be total elimination. But, it was just much simpler and less costly to exile him first time. However, if Federation were properly motivated…he is not immortal, despite my best attempts at building him so."

"Ah."

"Are you surprised by this, Ambassador?"

"Eh, no, I guess not…but it's just that, you seem so, calm about it."

Four furiously blinking yellowed eyes tattled. "Be believing me when I say I am not calm, Ambassador. Six-Two-Six, he is special to me. I do not want to see him hurt, especially at hands of these…" Jumba's breath spiraled out. As he caught his second wind, mauve arms went to work hoisting the cargo pants that had surreptitiously slid down. "But, I am having confidence in your abilities to help him. Trust does not come easily to evil scientists, mind you. Yet, I have feeling, Ambassador, that it would be well-invested in you."

Corregan smirked at the compliment, and nodded his appreciation even as the infant tendrils of a migraine were tickling the base of his skull. Jumba accidentally slamming the silver case's rear into an unsuspecting corner exacerbated that tickling. Corregan winced, then asked, "Jumba, been meaning to say something about it…what's in that?"

"Ah yes, it is…ehm, insurance policy."

Corregan raised an eyebrow. "Insurance policy?"

"Um, yes. Remember when I said Federation would not mess with me? Well, this is to help ensure that stays reality," he said while patting one of the case's beveled edges.

"I see…" Corregan mumbled, unsure how much further to press the issue. Luckily, he found a reprieve with the ornate hemispherical desk up ahead, made of a rich and deep brown wood that devoured the lamplight. When they neared it, Jumba salivated.

"Ah, that, Ambassador, is finest Turan chalkwood." Yellowed eyes regained their Southern Florida shine. "I once looked to build chalkwood desk for my lab. Although, if I had done it, then I probably would have gone bankrupt by time I reached, oh, Experiment Zero-Seven-Eight."

Another fulmination of white from the lamps had Corregan rubbing his blue eyes, which were fighting to maintain their luster. Painful tendrils crawled up the back of his head. "Hmm…then maybe you should've saved yourself the trouble and bought the desk, Jumba."

Jumba laughed. "No, Ambassador. I am enjoying Experiments far too much to give them up for stupid desk. Desk is thing, and Experiments, well…they are much more…special." He pointed at the ambassador, whose fingers were busy massaging out the imminent migraine. "Besides, I like it when they give me headache. Means I care, yes?"

Jumba continued laughing as they conversed with a receptionist, an ursine creature who had popped up from somewhere behind the desk. She located their complimentary reservations and directed them to the middle of the hall. Corregan poked his head around the corner and failed to find the end of the residential section. He nursed his temples as the rest of his body protested the long slog remaining.

The duo trundled down the patina-coated copper hallway, counting the doors they passed. After several hundred steps, Corregan's flesh was giving in to his spirit's will, and after several dozen more, even the tendrils of his headache had shriveled. They were in the upper fifties of doors when they spoke again. "Jumba," said a rejuvenated Corregan, "would you consider your Experiments a failure?"

"Failure? How so?"

"They were supposed to be weapons. You were to use them to conquer the galaxy. Instill fear in the masses, and whatnot. And, frankly, they did the exact opposite. Does a bit of that bother you?"

Jumba stroked his chin. "Hmm…perhaps a bit, yes." He snapped meaty fingers and giggled, four eyes misted in memory. "Ambassador, ever since I was young evil acolyte, I have always held grand plans for taking over galaxy. Was my clearest, most energizing dream. My Experiments were to be ones to do it, to make dream reality." He cleared his throat. "But, though dream now evades Jumba, I really cannot complain. I have found happy home, and all of them seem to be happy together. I still dream of toppling Federation, of course, but it will now have to be much slower process."

Corregan chuckled. "You talk of them like they're your children."

"Closest I have ever come. Wife never wanted to raise children. She never wanted much of anything from me, truth be told. So I found, eh, solace in my tinkering. In drawing up plots for galactic domination. My Experiments, they arose from particularly good plot. Their purposes resonated more with Jumba's goals than anyone else in galaxy could ever do. Is especially true with Six-Two-Six. When he took form…gah, greatest creation does not even begin! He was perfect. He became…extension of myself."

"Sounds like a kid to me."

Jumba guffawed. It rocketed through the abyss of the hallway. The echo reverberated several times as he continued, "Maybe you are right, Ambassador. You have children, yes?"

Corregan nodded. "Just one boy."

"So I can be asking, then, if you feel same way. Is he extension of yourself?"

Corregan smiled. "I guess I wouldn't put it exactly that way, but, yes, he is."

"What is his name?"

"Jack. He's getting ready to head to college."

"Ah college, glorious twelve years, to be sure…at least it was on my planet."

Corregan snorted. "Twelve years? Damn, Jumba, if he takes that long, we'll need to steal that receptionist's desk."

"Hah! Splendid plan, Ambassador. But while I am fan of furniture thievery, you do not need to worry. I am evil doctor, not simply evil graduate. Such evil science takes time."

"Twelve years' worth, apparently."

"Pah, Jumba could've been done in eight, but, eh, why rush?" he posited while brandishing a carefree shrug. "So what will, eh, Jack, do with fancy college education?"

Corregan hummed for a door length. "I'm not sure he knows, Jumba. He's smart—much smarter than I am. Well-rounded, good-mannered…a couple very strong institutions are taking a good look at him. He won't apply for a couple of months, but…I dunno, we'll see."

"What do you want him to be?"

They passed the seventieth door while Corregan mulled Jumba's question. He saw his son— "you at seventeen" Corregan's high-school sweetheart wife told him. Messy auburn hair that Corregan would tousle every evening, to Jack's great displeasure. Intelligent and piercing blue eyes that were always moving across a page, reading voraciously—though he also was unafraid of speaking, which he did eloquently. With all that and his slim yet fit build, he attracted several admirers, all of whom had already selected different sets of universities at which to launch a flurry of applications as they entered senior year. But how things will change in a year, Corregan thought. He looked to Jumba. "Happy. I want him to be happy."

"Then I think he will be fine, Ambassador." Jumba wore a wide grin for another few doors. "You know, my Experiments use certain word to describe their group. They call themselves ʻohana. Is from local language. Means family. Powerful bonding tool...for most of them, at least. There are few holdouts, to be sure, but for just about six hundred and twenty six of them, ʻohana is everything. They would do whatever is necessary to make sure that others—that family—are cared for, are happy."

"And they worry about each other?"

Jumba's four yellowed eyes glimmered again. "Indeed, they most certainly worry. They do not know what is happening to Six-Two-Six—little girl was forced to be keeping his call home secret, which greatly upset her—but I am sure his absence has become noticeable by now. And with Federation monitoring communication, I cannot be telling them what he faces. So they will be worrying. Is heartbreaking...and yet, is inspiring, Jumba must admit, for they will be supporting each other through their worrying. Such love in this, this ʻohana...has become acceptable substitute for conquering galaxy."

"ʻOhana," Corregan rolled it around. He savored the sound of it in the open hallway, free from muddling bouts of gray anxiety. His mind tumbled with it, too, out of the endless hallway. Back to the couch at home, where his son would most likely be seated, wondering where his dad had disappeared to. ʻOhana means family. Corregan smirked and contemplated how he would tell Jack all about ʻohana before a sudden realization surfaced. He tried to count the door they had just passed, and drew a blank. I've lost track!

"Ah, here we are, finally!" Jumba shouted. Corregan breathed relief that one of them had paid attention. A wave of his hand, and the door gave way to a posh suite. Soft amber light radiated from strips that ran along the ivory cornices of the walls. Decadent furniture and amenities were delicately arranged around the perimeter. Jumba plopped down on a massive bed set flush against the wall, and the tan expanse rippled delightedly. "Diplomacy is grand!"

"Careful, Jumba," Corregan warned as he laid his jacket atop one of the luxurious chairs hiding in a corner, and then nestled into the seat. "We can't get too…comfortable…mmm." The leather-like material molded around his tired frame, leeching the acid from his muscles. "We have a…lot of work…to do."

"Pah, is…tomorrow's problem. We worry…about that…." And Jumba started snoring. A steady bass, one that hammered away mercilessly at any nearby aural canals. Corregan would have clamped his ears to stave off the noisy assault, but the plush chair had absorbed his arms. The headrest, composed of some indescribably soft substance, cradled his mind as it wandered dreamily.

The hard chair in the dark cell screeched as Corregan shuffled it around in a sad attempt to regain the plushness. The cold from the floor below permeated his oxfords. Motes of dust clung to the lapel of his jacket. A grumble wafted up, and Corregan saw the creature laying at his feet. Six limbs flopped under the dim bulb, motes of mischief glinting in its wide dark eyes.

"Treason is serious, Stitch, no matter what planet we're on. We'll need to address this as soon as possible."

"Smish."

The folder lay open in his lap. Stitch's photograph had him brandishing a goofy smile. The creature sat tight-lipped as Corregan closed the folder and sighed. "Y'know, Stitch…how are you really doing?"

Dark eyes shimmered. His head dropped to the floor. Sharp claws picked at one another. The fabric of the orange jumpsuit undulated as his muscles contracted. Antennae waggled as he shook his head, which dislodged a previously matted-down tuft of fur between pinned ears.

"Yeah, I can imagine—no, I really can't. I have absolutely no idea whatsoever, what it's like to be accused a galactic crime, locked up on another planet, with a bunch of aliens from God-knows-where…." Corregan ran his fingers through his coiffed hair. His eyes wandered around the cell. "Barely a day ago was I sitting at home, getting ready to catch up on a baseball game. It was muggy outside—Northern Virginia in late summer, y'know—and I was damned ecstatic to be out of the sun. And I was happy to be there with my kid. On my leather couch, with my son. He's telling me how to mess around with the settings on our brand new TV during the commercials between innings, and I'm just…praying that I wouldn't have to go into D.C. to fix some banal problem. Hmph, banality, what I wouldn't give for some now."

Pressure on his knee. A blue paw rested. Corregan's eyes ran along the arm and up to the creature, who was baring rows of enamel daggers in a goofy smile. Corregan let the laugh flow freely. The creature's bulbous nose twitched and his ears flopped. "Oketaka," Stitch soothed. "Stitch be okay. Yuuga be okay, too."

Corregan inhaled a few deep calming breaths, tasting a sweetness swirling within the fetid air. "I wonder, Stitch, why they're so afraid of you. Jumba wouldn't tell, and I can't puzzle it out. You seem…" he gestured at the paw, "okay to me."

The smile wavered. "Old Stitch bad. Stitch now isa good. They not see it." One of the other five hands tapped his temple. "Need to teach them." He pointed to his dark eyes. "Show them."

"I thought you did that already. Don't they believe that you've changed?"

"Ih, some. Not everyone. Others need to see what ʻohana did for meega." Dark eyes shimmered. "ʻOhana…miss them…choota!" An angry squeak. The paw on Corregan's knee flew up in a rage. "Need to show them! Stitch good!" A latent fury tossed the creature around the cell. He flitted in and out of the light circle, with Corregan barely able to track the blue popping in pallid white and melting in soupy black. "Need…need Lilo! Angel! Boojiboo!" Six hands hammered the metal ground of the prison, which pinged unsatisfactorily. "Need them! Need ʻohana!"

Corregan plowed through the shock and pleaded with the irate creature. "I know, I know, Stitch. We'll—I'll get you out of here. I promise, I'll get you home."

Ragged breaths and growls emanated from the floor. The creature's energy explosively expelled, his limbs went slack and he collapsed. Dark eyes drained onto his cheeks. They sat in the tiny cell, the fetid air—thick and quiet—clinging to them. Corregan waited.

Finally, with pained effort, Stitch raised his head. Lachrymose vestiges stained the sapphire fur. "Oketaka." After a few sniffles, Stitch resurrected his goofy smile, though meeker than before. He pushed off the ground and, standing on two legs, extended a paw. "Oketaka."

Corregan took the little hand. A warmth surged through the paw and into his palm, trickling through his fingers. He returned the goofy smile. Their grins shone in the pale circle of light.

Pressure on his shoulder. Corregan whipped around to find the President's assured grip. "Remember, Martin. You can handle this. I picked you for a reason. You're humanity's best hope. It's our time, Martin. It's humanity's time." Corregan strained through his own confused mutterings to try to sift out a response.

Before he could unearth one, he heard the clatter of oxfords on the cold ground. Corregan shut his mouth and watched as Senior emerged from the darkness. Mahogany oxfords stopped, the barely visible tips butting up against the edge of the light circle. Bathed in shadow, he never blinked, never looked down, never acknowledged Corregan—the gaze went on through the cell door into infinity.

"Senior?" Corregan asked. Senior continued not looking. Stitch continued smiling. The President continued blatting on.

"Senior!" Corregan shouted. Stolid eyes stared ahead. The paw firmed. The hand eased. Corregan began to shake.

"Dad!"

The eyes flew to him. In them, he saw himself.

Corregan awoke, still shaking, and dripping with cold sweat. He gasped a few times while gaining his bearings. The soft amber light had dimmed automatically, leaving the posh room in a deep dusk. Jumba's snore still pounded on the walls and Corregan's ears. He peeled his body from the chair and paced along the room's edges, purging his remaining shivers. A machine perched in a recess deployed a glass of cool water on command. The water having agreed with him earlier, Corregan greedily gulped it down.

Fresh air will help. He lifted his navy blue jacket from the back of the chair and stepped out into the hallway. The white lights there had been dimmed as well, but not enough to be comfortable as he emerged from the dusk. Once his eyes grudgingly adjusted, he did his best to memorize his location among identical doors, and then he retraced his steps out to the lobby.

The receptionist was lounging in a chair similar to the one in his room. She made a move to get up, but Corregan waved her off. He tried to enjoy some of the agreeable fragrances that floated by as he exited the residential area. The main transit conduit was nearly empty, with a few stragglers wandering toward either home or the entertainment level of the capitol, to which Corregan had been briefly introduced by a disturbingly eager Jumba en route to their suite. Ahead, a square window, twice Corregan's height and four times as long, opened a portal to the world of Turo. More alert, Corregan strolled over, artfully dodging a few random Turan citizens who had passed out in creative positions.

From orbit is one thing, but this. He ogled the expanse of city beneath, next to, and above him. The sprawling metropolis—what D.C. wished it could be—thrummed with life. The dead of night did not dissuade the gaggles of aliens, all of differing shapes, sizes, and colors, filing through alleyways and sidewalks, flowing through the arteries of the city. He pressed his palm against the cold and clear material, yearning for the dingy air and clogged streets outside. "Better out there than in here," he whispered to the window.

At least I have a view, his mind rebutted. The creature appeared, huddled under a pale circle of light, shivering, alone. Corregan contemplated the various plans he had conjured in order to sneak into the prison wing. Maybe those are the guards, Corregan hoped as a squad of uniformed officers swayed and stumbled out of one of the capitol's doors far below. He ignored the murmur disturbing the air further down the conduit, and instead dove into Turo's violescent sky.

He paddled through the deepness, past alien constellations. The city bustled below. I'm inadequate, came a voice from the recesses of his mind. Violescent sky inundated him. His gut turned over. He deserves better. He smacked the window. He deserves better than all of them. Dark eyes cut through the floors, the glass, the metal, the sky, the anger, to find the swimmer drowning. I don't know how to help you, Stitch.

Corregan planted his feet on brushed metal ground and shuddered, shaking off droplets of the cold sky, before he left the window behind. When he passed the entryway into the residential section, the receptionist was already on her feet. She lithely intercepted the weary Corregan and handed him a chunky envelope. "Message for you!" she jauntily reported before slipping back behind the rich Turan chalkwood desk.

Perplexed, Corregan tore into the sealed note, which let loose a tickertape parade of shreds along with two comparatively gigantic scraps of paper. When the first tumbled out, Corregan scrambled, liberating it from the mess and then unfurling a surprisingly well-scribbled map. The second bit, cupped in his palm, had a message, written in block letters and, thankfully, in a language he could comprehend. "Follow the map. Meet me there at dawn. Come alone," he murmured, not thinking of potential eavesdroppers. Realizing his mistake, he admonished his weary self before he scanned the room and, seeing no one, destroyed the note. On the map, Corregan discovered a scarlet dot which denoted a small room somewhere in the bowels of the capitol. With the size of the building and his inexperience, he figured it would take him a good long while to find it.

He went to the receptionist and asked, "How soon will the sun rise?"

She hummed while she thought, and crinkled her wet nose during what turned out to be quite the laborious process. "Should be pretty soon, I think." A cute and equally unhelpful shrug later, she was back in her chair.

Corregan peered down the incredibly long hallway and considered returning to his room first. The manila folder, filled with critical information, reposed on the chair cushion. Behind him, thousands of city lights beckoned him to dive through the faraway portal and back into violescent sky. With a somnolent sigh, he turned from the desk and exited the residential area, trying not to get lost on his way toward the scarlet dot.

#

Coming 10 June - Six

A/N: This was the longest chapter so far, but it was fun to write it. I hope you found it worthwhile and enjoyable! As always, feedback is appreciated.