It was the first time Ben had personally found himself on the wrong side of a Plumber truism regarding alien encounters, and it was annoying.
He had acquired the Omnitrix in a time when just about everyone on the planet seemed to be carrying something with a camera function at virtually all times: a factor which had made it increasingly difficult for the Plumbers to keep alien existence secret. And to be fully honest about it, having a ten-year-old joyously changing into anything the watch could dial up hadn't exactly helped -- but his grandfather had told him that the near-universal presence of recording technology had been pushing the organization ever-closer to going public anyway. Some secrets could only be kept for so long.
And still... during that first summer...
His alien forms had begun to appear in public during an age when recording technology was nearly universal. This had full overlap with the period in which images had become extremely easy to fake. So you had a 'live' video of an alien saving people from a house fire? Give someone twenty minutes with the right app and they could move that fire to the Great Wall. And eyewitness accounts meant very little, because an eyewitness was probably just someone who wanted to trend on social media for fifteen minutes and had invented a story accordingly.
The (surprisingly scant) actual recordings hadn't helped. Early pictures of Ben's aliens didn't come across well. (In particular, XLR8 had an extremely hard time with staying completely still: the Kineceleran tended to vibrate somewhat even when at 'rest', and did so at a pace well above the average smartphone's frames-per-second capacity.) And no image could truly convey the otherworldly qualities of their presence, because so much of that rose from the senses which had been left out. Fourarms' skin had that rasp to it, like contacting low-grade sandpaper. Ripjaws... there was salt in the air around the Piscciss Volann, to the point where anyone close enough would begun to taste it.
And then there was Stinkfly's raw stench. Nothing on Earth could duplicate the Lepidopterran's body odor. Multiple scientists among the Plumbers had vowed to give themselves permanent anosmia rather than try.
Bring it down to two senses from five (or six, as being near Heatblast for too long could dehydrate observers), and early pictures of the alien forms tended to look like bad CGI from ancient movies: to Ben, this was anything over a decade. And still... even with cameras everywhere, a certain Plumber truism had mostly held. The one which said that those who went through alien encounters tended to fumble their phone settings, failed to center the picture, and generally wound up with nothing which could be fully trusted. Assuming they managed to get a picture at all.
You could embed high-speed capture lenses within human eyes and aliens would show up in front of chronic squinters who'd been fighting off narcolepsy. And there was no means of bringing a camera into dream. Ben had been through an alien encounter, and... it had taken place in effective solitude. No recordings, no outside witnesses.
Which was why the Plumbers had a sketch artist on call.
It had taken an hour of careful, annoyingly-repeated descriptions before the tall blonde woman had been happy enough with the results to leave Ben and his grandfather in the Rushmore cafeteria. They were now the only people in the too-small room: something which was mostly served by vending machines which held the sort of stuff which kept forever at room temperature and held on for nearly as long in the small intestine.
It also had a functional kitchen and unfortunately, Max Tennyson had taken the chance to use it.
They were sitting on opposite sides of a small table, with the completed color sketch lying flat between them. Ben had been spending a lot of time looking at that image, because it was a lot easier than paying any attention to what was on his grandfather's plate. Because Max had been a Plumber for a long time. Most of the organization's members eventually wound up with a hobby-level interest in some aspect of alien culture and for Ben's grandfather, it had regretfully been cuisine.
It was possible to say, with full accuracy, that Max's cooking was unfit for human consumption. The challenge then turned into identifying the species which any given dish was actually suitable for.
Ben loved his grandfather, tried to honor him in many ways, and steadfastly refused to eat anything which had to be detoxified first. He also wasn't entirely sure that all of the radiation had been removed, and still felt that common courtesy meant that no one should start eating anything until the tips of the not-spaghetti's thin yellow tentacles had stopped wriggling.
The old man slurped down a forkful of twisted writhing severed manipulators, and did so a sugo.
The senior Plumber looked down at the sketch.
"So you feel that's right?" he asked his grandson. "If not, I can call her back in."
"I can't be sure on the colors," Ben reminded him. Pesky couldn't see or imagine red -- but the little alien did have visual access to a portion of the ultraviolet, along with a neural structure which had evolved to process and recall those hues. All things which were lost when the Omnitrix timed out, leaving a human brain to guess at what might have been. "There could be some scarlet, in any of the places where I've got black. Maybe all of them. But otherwise... that's what I saw."
"How large was it?"
"A lot bigger than Pesky." Then again, what wasn't? "At least twice that height. It's hard for Pesky to judge --" Ben blinked. "-- wait a second. I got a good look at the other one before I got pulled back. And we know how big that alien is. So I think if you put them right next to each other..."
He looked closely at the sketch, measured the equine at the shoulder and then moved his left hand to the blank space on the side. A fingernail scored the paper.
His grandfather nodded. "It's a rough guess, but let's call that -- about fourteen hands. Maybe a little more."
Ben blinked. "Fourteen what?"
"It's the way horses get measured." It wasn't a lecturing tone. The old man had a natural cadence to his speech when teaching: something which merely asked for attention because the words were going to be important. Ten-year-olds tended to react to the non-music by mentally going over gaps in their trading card collection. "Bottom of the hooves to the top of the shoulder. And a 'hand' is four inches. So that would put this one at just about the absolute limit for the pony range."
The 'I knew that' nod didn't work this time either.
The old man looked at the sketch again.
"Deadly," the senior Plumber judged.
Almost instantly, with a laughing casualness in his voice that completely ignored the way his heartbeat had just surged, "Oh, come on, Grandpa -- !"
"-- the wings are like a swan's. I'm not sure they're big enough to really get it in the air, but there's at least enough span to give it some gliding potential and longer jumps. And a swan... it can't break your arm with a wing strike, Ben: that's a myth. But swans top out at thirty pounds. This thing is going to be a lot heavier. Stronger."
There was a tap dance sounding against the inside of his rib cage, and Ben was briefly surprised that his grandfather couldn't hear it. "But it's just some kind of alien horse --"
"-- with a horn," the old man carefully interrupted. "A horn with a point. Which it can lower during a charge and if it can get up to speeds like the horses we know, that's a spear. And you saw the hooves. Hooves which were covered in metal. Horses can kill a human, Ben. Even at pony size. All ours need is a solid kick in the right place, and this one has more options available."
He stopped. Lowered his fork, stuck it into the wriggling mass and spun up another helping of nausea.
"But," the grandfather smiled, "you met it in a dream. So it's not as if you have to worry --"
"-- I felt her hoof."
The fork froze. Brown eyes were now fixed on Ben's face.
"I felt it, Grandpa," the teenager stated. "That it was solid, and the metal was cool. And Pesky's garment nearly got snagged on a thorn, and there was humidity. I've never had a dream with that level of detail and I don't think Pesky's been in one that complete. It's always been just sight and sound until now. Phantoms..."
A dream where Pesky could be touched.
His grandfather was still looking at him. It was easy to make out the love and concern on the weathered features. Ben was doing his best to ignore any traces of fear, just in case they turned out to be reflections.
"That may be because of the other alien's presence," Max finally said. "Assuming that was another alien, because there's a chance that we were looking at a secondary personality within the mind. However, since it's apparently operating as something separate, we'll treat it that way for now. But it could also be a product of our visitor's brain structure. We can't know yet."
Ben managed a more neutral sort of nod.
"It spoke to you," his grandfather added. "And you understood it. " With a faint smile, "Which might just answer the translation question for Pesky -- but it could also be something this other alien is doing. What was the voice like?"
Like Gwen if she'd been in an old play and was about to plow into me because I laughed during the kiss in Act Two. "Female. Angry."
"Be careful on gender," the old man reminded him. "Especially if you speak to it again. Let the equine lead the way."
Because what sounded female didn't have to be. That was Pesky -- maybe. And what sounded male...
...fourteen eggs...
"It gave you a name for our visitor," his grandfather reminded him. "Spell that? Your best guess."
Ben tried. Six times.
The senior Plumber frowned.
"It almost sounds familiar," the old man mused. "It's nothing I've seen: I know that. But the name..." The frown lines deepened. "We'll pass that one off to Research. See if they can do better than my memory."
His grandfather was sixty-six. To Ben, that was ancient. And at the same time, it wasn't all that old. Max Tennyson came across as being a lot younger than a movie from ten years back. He was active. He got involved. He certainly wasn't old enough to be forgetting things...
"Are you willing to go back in?" asked the person whom Ben loved so very much. "See what else you can learn? Try to reach our visitor this time, or get the other one to tell you more about why it doesn't want that?"
A dream where Pesky had been touched.
A dream in which it might be possible to get hurt.
The fragile Nemuina within the place of what had once been ultimate safety and control...
Ben looked down at his grandfather's plate. It gave him an excuse for swallowing, along with gratitude that it had just been saliva.
"Yes."
Those beloved brown eyes were carefully going over his face.
"This could take a few trips to sort out. Repeated transformations."
"I know."
"You have to tell me how you're doing," the old man quietly reminded him. "We have to watch out for a feedback loop."
Ben's mind automatically added a single crucial capital letter.
If I start looping on Pesky...
"I'll be fine."
The senior Plumber kept looking at him. Ben held his place on the uncomfortable plastic bowl seat (because it was a cafeteria and those were more or less mandatory), didn't move.
His grandfather had known Ben since shortly after the moment of birth. So something over sixteen years.
A time delay required for both the acquisition of language and to reach the point where someone else must have broken that vase... it meant Ben had only been lying to him for about fourteen.
Skill versus experience.
"All right," Max Tennyson finally said. "I'm just going to finish my lunch and send these spellings off to Research. And then we'll head back to the cell."
The Omnitrix cooperated again. That's part of why Ben thinks this is going to go wrong.
The device doesn't hate him. (Azmuth said that this one isn't fully sapient, and there's multiple portions of that sentence waiting to bring horror.) But it seems to have a tendency towards -- creating a challenge. If Ben really wants to solve a problem with brute strength, then that's the time when the activation panel is somehow going to come up with Grey Matter and the resulting tiny Galvan will need to think his way out. Ben wanted raw speed? Here's magnetism: now figure out how that's going to substitute. Quickly, because the thing you needed to chase is getting away.
And then there's the alien which Ben has rather accurately named as The Worst. It turns out that an Atrocian can take a beating. Endlessly -- or rather, until the watch times out. There's very little which can truly hurt it. It also has no offensive abilities whatsoever, can't take on a support role, and -- this is the fun part -- still feels pain. The Omnitrix has effectively challenged Ben to solve problems with The Worst several times and so far, the only answer has been to hope that whatever's beating on him expends so much energy as to pass out.
If he's dialing up Pesky and keeps getting the Nemuina, then it suggests the watch feels there's only one way to make this work. A path which leads through the heart of dream.
A dream which Pesky couldn't control.
Can't.
The alien is back in the jungle. The heat is oppressive. Humidity starts at 'sweltering' and gets worse from there. (It turns out that a Nemuina can sweat, although the moisture stops beading up well short of the hands.) And the alien tries to fix that, make the place cooler, dry out the air of a dream -- and once again, nothing happens.
It tries to think about what it's doing wrong. This leads to considering how the dust works (or how it might not) and what might be necessary to get control. It only takes a few seconds of that before the wings feel strange on his back, the dreamworld tilts as the vulnerable limbs buzz out of control, and there's nearly an impact against trees and thorns before the alien manages to smooth the passage through the simple act of panic. Something which has a way of clearing the mind, because then it's not thinking about much of anything at all.
The alien manages to stabilize the hover, allows the sonic antenna to search. Nothing.
It takes flight. Looking, listening to the dreamworld and the ticking of that inner clock. Something which may be inaccurate, because time can become so strange in a dream. It's searching, it needs to find at least one of the two presences, and it's going around vines and...
...the alien just realized something. There's plant life here (and arguably too much of it). But there's no animals. No birds are singing. This can't be South America, not in an alien mind, but it's close enough to expect some macaws. Wind rustles the grasses, makes the leaves shake -- and that's it.
The Nemuina flies. Goes around a too-big tree, ducks beneath a branch which might have broken its skull, wonders whether it should call out again --
-- the dark blue light comes in from the left, surrounds and coats its body, starts to pull.
This time, the alien puts up more of a fight. Struggling against the hold, doing its best to kick through the glow. Fingers which barely exist in three dimensions are simulating claws, and that's comedy --
-- the sparkling glow brings the alien to a stop in a small clearing. Directly in front of the angry intruder, and that point on the lowered horn.
"And she returns," starts with a snarl.
"I'm not --"
"Is there any more damage you would care to do?" the equine demands. "For Ahuizotl remains on alert. Guarding himself, protecting his secrets -- something he would not be doing at his current level of dedication if not for your blundering --"
It's a strange choice of word. It feels older than the alien's grandfather, and it also fully ticks the Nemuina off.
"And how was I supposed to know therrrre was anyone in here?" the alien challenges.
The equine takes a sharp breath. The temperature in the clearing plummets by ten degrees, and several of the stars in the strange mane visibly flare.
Stars within mane and tail. Something which makes the alien think of a Celestialsapien. The equine clearly isn't anywhere near that powerful: it would have simply gotten rid of the Nemuina already, or gained its desire with a thought. But when compared to Bellicus and Serena, it's just as argumentative.
"Young lady --"
"-- I am not a -- !" emerges on a furious trill.
More loudly, "-- and I use any dignity inherent to 'lady' at a considerable distance -- exactly how would you propose that I go about marking my territory --"
The alien's reaction is instinctive.
The equine blinks.
"-- despite your appearance and tonal qualities," it slowly decides, "you are most likely to be an adolescent male."
And now the Nemuina is staring with wonder into dark blue eyes. "Yes! How did you --"
"-- for the most part," the equine tightly says, "there is usually but a single category of supposed sapient which would respond to 'marking my territory' with a snicker and a smirk." With a light touch of mutter, "And it goes a considerable way towards explaining the earlier idiocy. Why are you here?"
To which a rather insulted Pesky responds with "You first."
Four hooves vibrate lightly against the jungle's soil.
"Your pardon?" the equine lies.
"You were herrrrre first!" The Nemuina pulls itself up to its full height and when that accomplishes twenty-two inches worth of nothing, goes for a low-altitude hover: all the better to make eye contact. "You've got to have a rrrreason for being in his dreams! And you'rrrrre from the same place he is, right? I don't know why he's here, and I don't know you! Maybe --" and a lifetime of cartoons offers immediate advice "-- he's a good guy, and he's just trying to get away from you, trying to hunt for something which can stop you! How do I know you'rrrre not evil?"
Dark blue eyes go wide. The silver-clad hooves take half a step back, and the twisting flows of mane and tail briefly freeze. Four knees momentarily tremble, then lock into furious place.
"Yes," the equine half-spits. "A common question and issue for me. Although I did not expect to be dealing with it here. So how would you propose that I prove myself not to be evil? As there is a current lack of small petlike infant creatures to not consume and in any case, as a herbivore --"
"You can starrrrt," the Nemuina cuts her off (and the light flowing from the hover is becoming brighter), "by telling me who you arrrrre. Your name, for starters. Your full name." Because it might be in a Plumber database under alien legends, even if the equine's appearance is not. "Your position." Which is quickly corrected to "Job." And, because the equine sounds like she's used to being in charge, "Any rank, if you have one. Every last title you've got."
The equine's lips twist into something very much like a smile. Only darker.
"Truly?"
"Yes."
"The entirety?"
"YES!" comes across as less of a demand in the Nemuina's voice and more of a hissy fit.
"Very well," the equine decides. "Then --"
It takes a very, very deep breath.
"-- 'Princess Luna' would normally suffice. The use of 'Luna Invictus' is generally limited to those who are attempting to impress with the depths of their dive into history. However, in the full title -- which YOU requested -- that would be Princess Of The Night, Our Lady Of The Evening, Custodian Of The Stars' Memory, The Mare Of Dream, High General Of The Second Army --"
Which is the point when the little alien frantically begins waving thin hands, trying to get the equine's attention because it's just figured out the trap and it wants to get out before the jaws completely close.
The intruder notices. And in doing so, confirms her gender.
There's a certain You Asked For This expression. It crosses species, is instantly recognizable on any configuration of features, and the only requirement for being able to pull it off is that the possessor has to be a bossy girl.
Ben knows someone whom he believed to have perfected that expression and somehow, Gwen turns out to be a rank amateur.
"-- She Who Watches Over The Nightscape --"
This is mastery.
"-- Guardian Of The Moon-Lit Roads --"
The calmly vicious recital might have had a natural end point. The little alien doesn't get to hear it before the Omnitrix times out.
"Ben --" was just about all his grandfather had time to say.
"I'M GOING BACK IN!"
His right hand slammed the interface.
Five seconds passed, with each carefully collecting its fair share of humiliating silence.
"...I'm going to wait until the watch recharges," Ben stated as he looked down at the red glow leaking out from between his half-splayed fingers, "and then I'm going back in."
"All right," Grandpa Max carefully said. "Ben, did something happen --"
"-- and she is TOTALLY a girl!"
The little alien isn't sure whether it managed to put itself into the mare's vicinity, if the equine caught it on the way in, or if it's just the result of something which can't pass for coincidence. What matters is that it arrives in the dreamworld directly in front of her.
She doesn't pull back as the Nemuina appears. Instead, she tilts her head slightly to the left, and smiles again.
"I am choosing to assume that, rather than rudely leaving during the initial percentage of fulfillment for your request, you were simply called away," she tells him. "One of two major possibilities suggested by the beeping coming from your garment for a second time, immediately prior to your vanishing." The smile becomes a little wider. "The other, of course, is that there is a temporal factor limiting your ability to stay within the nightscape, and the sound merely signals that your time is about to run out. Rest assured that I will be measuring the full duration of your appearances from this point on. If only to prevent the presumption of rudeness."
The alien wants to move. To get in the mare's face, to say or yell anything. But it can't. Because she's just worked out that the Omnitrix has a timer -- something which happened based on two meetings -- and that means she's smart. Very likely smarter than he is. Intelligence added to power is one of the most dangerous combinations possible.
But she isn't smarter than Grey Matter --
-- which isn't a factor. Pesky's here now, and the Nemuina can't change.
"So," the mare calmly continues, "I believe the last thing you would have heard was 'Diplomacy's Other Option.'" Thoughtfully, "Which, despite its relatively early place within the full title, is actually the newest addition. Such things are not strictly linear." Rather pleasantly, "Now. Did you wish for me to continue from that point, or is your clockwork counting down?"
The little alien takes a very slow breath.
"That was enough for the title."
She simply nods.
With a purr, trill, and mutter, "And that recital doesn't prrrrove you aren't evil..."
Dark blue lips briefly twitch.
"Why are you here?" the Nemuina asks. And makes itself wait.
She's looking down. The little alien wants to take off again. Hover at eye level. Or get extra altitude and regain the height advantage. It's small and fragile and it can feel soil and grass against bare feet and legs, it can feel and in the wake of that sensation, the fear is close behind.
"Strictly speaking," she begins, "I am not. My physical self remains on my side of the portal. We are making something of an effort to keep it partially open. Sufficiently so to allow the projection of consciousness. But when it comes to my presence within Ahuizotl's dreams -- it is as I told you. To learn why he risked the portal at all."
"Why didn't you just come thrrrrough after him?" feels like the next question to ask. "To try and bring him back?"
She's staring at the little alien. It's a gaze which has weight. Dark blue steals heat from the air.
"When you encounter a portal," she asks the Nemuina, "do you simply blunder through it?"
"I've gone through lots of portals!" Ben's memories protest. "That's how you chase whoever's using them! Portals which cut across space, there were a few which went through ti- --"
"-- I called you an idiot at first sight," the mare harshly reminds the alien. "I would like to apologize for that now."
Luminescent eyes blink. "-- oh. Thank y --"
"-- the proper term would be moron."
There's a comeback for that.
There has to be a comeback --
"One who is clearly too lucky for his own good," the mare snaps, and flaring stars lash against the tall grass. "We have a number of portals, small one. Experimenters tend to create them, generally by accident. Some predate us, and a few are simply there. Getting rid of them is somewhat more complicated. But we do our best to keep them closed. Because if we do not, there is some chance that a moron might come through --"
"I'm not a --"
"-- without first testing to see if he can breathe."
The little alien's mouth slams shut.
"Portals can open onto all kinds of places," the mare viciously continues. "With no guarantees of finding certain necessary aspects at the arrival point. Such as a usable atmosphere. One does not simply blunder through a portal without determining what exists on the other side, not if there is any other choice. Because luck runs out."
"But he made it!" emerges as a protest. "If he could --"
"-- no," she immediately says. "Because we know something about this particular portal. We can detect movement on the other side. Enough to be aware that something is alive here, and to recognize that before I met you. But in this case, small one..."
The little alien wants to argue that, and self-awareness won't let it happen.
"...what we truly know about this portal is the passage." Far too calmly, "And if I come through... I will die."
Green eyes stare at her. At the way her body remains completely still.
"How do you know?"
Without a single rise or fall in her voice, "Deduce. How would one normally make such a discovery?"
The little alien is frozen again. The dark blue head slowly shifts, left to right and back again as old-seeming eyes briefly close.
"It was not," the mare wearily says, "a personal test. The sapient who first found this particular portal, for it is not one of our own making... he, shall we say, experimented. Rather often, with many things. But he would not risk passage himself, not until he knew. And his -- 'tests' -- discovered that there was strain upon the body. The inanimate could be pushed through: the living would match their state on arrival. And with that learned, he apparently used the portal for little more than disposal of some failed experiments. We are attempting to find some means of protection. Enough to come through and chase. But we are also aware that without it, those we send -- will die. There is only one way to truly test protection, small one. And..."
The eyes are still closed, and the lids seem too tight.
"...that is an order I am reluctant to give. So we are merely forcing the portal to stay slightly open. Enough that my mind can use the route, try to find him. Determine his motives in making the passage." Slowly, the mare opens her eyes. "And even should we find protection, I would be unlikely to be permitted a chance at the journey. Not as the first. I have certain duties, and so my life is considered to be..."
Her voice is calm. The gaze is pained.
"...important." And for the first time, the mare sighs. "Of course, there is one additional benefit to keeping it open. It creates the possibility of return. We were hoping that the other side might not wish to keep him." With a faint note of hope, "And now that we are speaking, perhaps the topic might turn towards --"
"But he's alive!" the little alien protests. "He's asleep --"
Dryly, "Yes. I would be aware."
"-- he surrrrvived --"
The breeze picks up. Cool air whips off the mare's body, and the sonic antenna picks up a faint growl. It's a good distance out.
"Immortals tend to do that."
Fragile wings buzz, and the Nemuina gains just enough elevation to stare at her properly.
"Immorrrrtal..."
An alien who can't die, I could have someone in the watch who doesn't die...
"There are a few who simply... live without aging," the mare quietly tells him, and there's so much weight in her voice. "Regardless of the price. And then there is Ahuizotl. He... comes somewhat closer to what others see as the definition. He can be killed, small one. But it would take a significant effort. He will regrow limbs, given enough time -- but he is incapable of regenerating from a claw fragment. Total destruction of the body suffices. Damage on a cellular level -- sufficient heat or cold, so that he becomes ash or shatters... that would certainly manage the feat. But for the passage? The strain goes into his body. And where it would kill all others -- he collapses. Falls into a healing sleep."
Immortal.
"How arrrre you keeping the portal open?"
"The same way it would function normally." Her ears flick backwards with irritation. "With magic."
The little alien blinks. "Oh. Magic. Like Charmcaster..."
Immediately, "My sister's newest thaumatologist?"
"Newest whatsist?"
Eventually, the mutual stare breaks.
"A coincidence of names, I am sure," the mare decides. "Small one, I am monitoring Ahuizotl's dreams as much as I can. I thought that I had set up the conditions for a guarded mind to willingly reveal its secrets --" both ears and tail flick "-- and then I had you. Someone with..."
She pauses. The ears come forward, dip.
"...whom I can speak. I -- should have hoped for that from the start. For a chance at communication." More hastily, "He sleeps still, on your side. You can send him back to us, while he remains vulnerable. The passage would strain him a second time. He would arrive unconscious. There is a prison --"
"-- prisons are for criminals," the little alien snaps.
"This one," the mare quickly says, "is for monsters --"
"-- what has he done?"
And all she tells him is "Greed."
It's not an answer. The Nemuina's wings buzz with anger, the light trail is getting brighter, he wants to do something because that's what a hero does, something, no one else will do anything and someone has to step forward when there's no one else, but he doesn't know what he can do and the little alien's body can't do anything except lose in the place which was supposed to be about safety and control --
"He... exists to claim," she says. "Whatever another might value. Anything of value. And if he cannot truly claim it for himself, so that it is his alone, forever... then he might destroy it. To deny all others the right of possession. He can pretend towards cooperation, even civility if it brings what he desires -- but no monster can resist their true nature forever. His is greed. He has done much in the name of claiming, and there is always something else to want. Someone who stands in the way. And if they insist on blocking him... then there is a broken body. Something which, for him, has less value than that which departed at death." With a surge of insistence, "He knew the passage would weaken him. Make him vulnerable. He would not have risked it unless there was something of great value on your side. Something of power, something dangerous. But I do not know what he seeks. Simply that if he was willing to take this level of chance, he must not be allowed to claim it --"
There's a distant sound of wood cracking.
It's almost drowned out by the beeping.
"-- NO!" the mare cries out. "If it is a summons, postpone it! I must finish --"
And the world goes white.
Grandfather and grandson were sitting on the cold floor together, in the corridor outside the cell. Behind them, the visitor slept.
"It's an old trick," the younger Tennyson said, and let frustration clench his hands into ineffective fists. "The villain says she's the hero. And tricks everyone into seeing it her way, into giving her what she wants. Which is him."
"Or the criminal runs," the old man said. "Any way he can."
"We don't know."
"No," the senior Plumber agreed. "We don't. And she's clearly not coming through to our side to explain herself in person."
"We could ask her to give us copies of any warrant for his arrest," Ben considered. "Since they can send objects through. But... if she's going all the way with this, then she'd fake those."
"And how would we read it?" The old man chuckled. "I don't think she writes in English, Ben."
The teenager dourly nodded -- then sighed.
"Could a portal do that? Kill someone?"
"Depending on what made it, and if something leaks through subspace?" Max Tennyson considered, "Yes. There's a few teleportation methods which got rejected by various species because the transport was making them sick. This could take it further. But that's with a portal made by science. We'd need help on magic. And no one's saying that theirs is the same as ours. If we asked a caster to use our spells on the portal, without knowing how it works... that's a huge chance. Especially when the area is a weak spot to start with."
I felt that shudder through the wall.
He doesn't want to risk Gwen.
Neither do I.
"So what do you want to try next?" the old man asked.
And that means he hasn't picked a plan yet.
It was up to Ben.
"She said she's monitoring his dreams, as much as she can," the teenager carefully considered. "And that she has duties. It means she can't be there all the time..."
The little alien understands dreams. A dream is the mind telling itself a story.
You are the star.
The lead.
The victim.
The hero.
Everyone tells themselves stories. The one which happens while you're awake, with other people speaking over your dialogue while insisting that they can override your part and the main character is clearly someone else... that's called life. But in dream...
...this is where the vulnerable little alien is supposed to have control.
Safety.
Ben spoke with his grandfather, before they started this stage. About the previous uses of Pesky's abilities. Khyber was the first, and... the senior Plumber checked the records. Zaroffians have no defenses against the Nemuina. It's almost the opposite, because a species so driven is essentially living out a personal dream. With Charles Zenith -- the Pugnavore sold dreams. Both vulnerable.
Perhaps other species are harder.
Or maybe it's the mare.
The little alien has been moving in and out of the visitor's dreamworld. Over and over. The procedure is simple enough: Ben takes Pesky's form -- the Omnitrix is still cooperating, and that's becoming a matter of some concern -- the dust is inhaled, and then the search begins. If the sonic antenna picks up hoofsteps, or alien eyes register dark blue sparkling light --
-- well, the Nemuina doesn't have to stay in the dream. It can get out before the timer goes off. Leave whenever it likes. It has that much freedom, still. That much protection.
So it searches. Because the mare can't always be there. And it means Ben is taking Pesky's form, over and over. About three times per hour. This is more than he's supposed to use any given alien. Any identity.
Ben is effectively begging for a feedback loop. And his grandfather is monitoring him, but... this is the only way.
The visitor may be innocent. Fleeing from the true villain of the story. And a dream is a story you tell yourself. But this one has at least two sides. He needs to hear from the other teller.
They have to know.
And, after several hours...
...the mare isn't there.
Ben is exhausted. (He doesn't change this much. Not to the same form, over and over.) Going into dream takes a certain amount of strength, and Pesky's weariness eventually reaches the human body. He can't keep going much longer. His grandfather is on the verge of not ordering (only asking) him to take a break, and the adolescent knows it.
It's the last try of the day. And the little alien flies through a jungle which never existed, there's no sound of hoofsteps and the 'hair' can't pick up anything from birds or larger wings, the clock just keeps running and when there's probably only about two minutes left... he sees the visitor. Stalking through a section of tall grass, closing in on the trees.
The Nemuina tries for a burst of speed. Comes in high again. Still out of clawing range.
"Hello?"
The visitor looks up. Something which seems to take far too long, and the neck tilts at such an awkward angle to support the stretched-out head. The eye placement creates multiple problems, and getting an elevated line of sight is one of them.
The huge mouth opens. White incisors glisten.
"I remember you." The voice is... controlled. Polite. It's also lightly accented. Ben's memories insist on placing it south of the border. The owner of a villa sitting by his pool, full glass in hand as he contemplates the day. "The dreamwalker. The other one." He pauses. "A native?"
The little alien, who really can't explain the transformation thing right now, just nods.
"Dreamwalkers on this side," the visitor muses. "Fascinating..." The tail's digits briefly clench. "My body. Where is it?"
"We'rrrre protecting it," the little alien reassures him. "We found it after you came through. Brought you to where you could heal. It's safe."
Slowly, the visitor exhales. Mostly through the mouth.
"That is as it should be."
The clock is ticking.
"Why did you come here?" the little alien asks.
"The hunt," comes promptly. "The quest to correct injustice. The discovery of something which should belong to another."
"I don't underrrrstand --"
"You met her," the visitor says. "She has a great power. She and her sister. Something which allows them to control others, because the world fears what would happen if that power was lost. If they were to be lost, for they do not share it. When it lies with them alone... then they have control. They dominate. If my hunt succeeds... then they can no longer clamp their teeth on the reins." Softly, with devotion, from the heart of dream, "I will separate a world from the alicorns' yoke. And all will be free."
The little alien doesn't know what to say.
"You offered to help me look," the visitor reminds him. "Will you still, when I find the path to waking?"
"I..." is all the Nemuina can initially muster.
Perhaps the half-displayed fangs represented a smile.
"Of course," says the arrival. "Take your time. It's wise, not to trust so quickly."
"What arrrrre you looking for?"
"And I could say the same about fully trusting you," the visitor casually goes on. "That is why I haven't given you all of the mysteries. Not yet. But you seem like a sapient who might be trustworthy. The small often are, for they need large friends. Perhaps..."
It rears up a little, starts to sit on its haunches. The Nemuina goes higher. The arrival doesn't look offended by that.
"A dreamwalker," it muses. "I didn't think that I might find the same magic on this side."
"It's not," more or less just slips out. "Not the same."
"Oh?" Curiosity.
The Nemuina simply taps the hourglass symbol.
"Ah," the visitor breathes. "Yes. I understand."
Time is running out...
"She calls herself a Princess," the near-exhausted alien says. "A leader. Do you lead your people?"
The small eyes are in a strange position. They're also ancient.
"By one definition," the visitor quietly replies. "In that there are no longer any others who might contest for the position."
...no...
"I'm sorrrrry --"
Just about a whisper, "Do not be. It was long ago -- what is that sound?"
The hourglass is flashing black.
"I have to go," the little alien abruptly says.
"You'll come back?" the visitor hopefully inquires. "We'll talk again?"
"Yes."
The world begins to go white --
"A device to let one walk in dreams," the visitor breathes. "Such a treasure..."