He mostly wound up briefing his grandfather during the gaps between the yawns.
They had a little more to work with now: not only a name for the equine (which wasn't bringing anything up from the records), but one for what might have been her species: alicorn. And Ahuizotl had said something regarding his motives, or at least what he wanted Ben to believe they were -- but he still hadn't said enough. And it was going to take more voyages of sailing into dream before they could hope to approach anything even faintly resembling a shore of truth...
It was, perhaps, the fact that Ben's mind could spit out 'shore of truth' without so much as a brief holdup at border inspections to ask what it was planning to do in open air... that was probably the surest sign of just how very tired he truly was. And he was willing to go back in, to try again and keep trying over and over until there was nothing left to give. He'd told himself that was what heroes did, and it wasn't as if a ten-year-old's favorite cartoons had ever steered the teenager wrong before.
He'd been willing to keep trying. His grandfather had taken one look at the restored human body...
An association with the Plumbers could turn words into formal orders. The family connection made it feel more like being treated as if he was still ten. Forever. And either way, the results were the same.
The old man had looked him over, overridden everything, and sent him to bed.
Rushmore had everything. It just didn't possess those qualities in the elaborate versions which had been designed into the larger bases. And it was understood that Plumbers who'd been going for a little too long were going to need a place where they could crash: the human body had a certain need for renewal, and those who'd been working for extended periods without sleep might start to forget exactly which button saved the world.
But for Rushmore, it was the basics. So when it came to providing a place for rest, some of the other bases had full onsite apartments: kitchenettes, personal closets, and a private Internet connection to the outside.
South Dakota offered the equivalent of a hospital's on-call room.
You got a bed. If there was more than one person who needed to rest, then there was probably going to be an argument over who got to claim the top bunk.
There was a bathroom. The shower never ran out of hot water, because it was the group shower. The Plumbers were a little kinder than the average high school about putting up full partitions to create private space, but you still had to take fifteen towel-wrapped dripping steps down the main hallway before reaching the door which led to the actual mattress.
Ben was taking his time about washing up, because Rushmore was close to empty and there was no one else in the shower area. The heat soothed sore muscles, trickled down the pink skin of his back until it reached the place where axilla had recently become strained --
Axilla?
-- he was just tired. Thoughts went strange when he was this tired. It happened.
Ben washed his left arm. He always took a little extra care around the Omnitrix. Azmuth had once mentioned the features which prevented that portion of permanently-covered skin from becoming diseased: Ben had listened, nodded a lot, and then promptly forgotten the details.
The Omnitrix...
It wasn't supposed to be his. (He'd thought about that over the years. More than a few times.)
It had been meant for his grandfather.
...sort of. That certainly hadn't been Azmuth's open intention -- and if the Galvan had somehow set up the dominoes so that they would tumble towards Earth, the self-titled most intelligent being had never admitted it. But there had been a pursuit of the device, those who'd been trying to stay ahead had known it couldn't be claimed by grasping facial tentacles, and... Max Tennyson had a reputation. If anyone had a chance to keep the Omnitrix safe, it was him.
So it had been shot towards Earth, protected in a reentry-proof sphere. Homing in on his grandfather's DNA. But the aim had been slightly off. It had crashed a few hundred yards away from where the Rustbucket had been camping for the night, and... Ben had just sort of gotten in the way.
You couldn't casually remove the Omnitrix. It had bonded to a ten-year-old's arm, when it had been meant for a man of sixty. And... that had started everything.
It had been meant for Max.
And the thing about the Omnitrix was that eventually, there was going to be more of them.
Azmuth had originally intended the device as a means of letting species truly understand one another, through living as each other. So... given enough time, once all of the bugs had been worked out (and every last sapient insect was added to the database, but that was a separate issue)... he would start the production line. Max Tennyson, as Earth's senior Plumber, would have to be among the first to receive the next generation.
His grandfather was sixty-six now. Not old enough to be forgetting things: Ben knew that. But... older. And he'd looked so weary when he'd taken Ben out of the airlock, but it was the teenager who'd been ordered to bed...
Older. Six years since that road trip. They were all older.
Ben wasn't very good at dating: something he would only admit to himself, and solely when in total privacy. He attracted his share of girls (and Kevin insisted it was more than a fair share), but... he usually didn't have much of a clue as to how things were supposed to go from there. And having his infrequent attempts regularly interrupted by alien intrusion had a detrimental effect on his social life.
He was bad at dating. Worse with romantic relationships. The concepts of 'marriage' and 'kids of my own' were harder to reach than the next galaxy. And still... there was something he very much wanted to see some day. The vision of Max Tennyson holding a great-grandchild.
Years away. Years as a minimum.
And humans only lived so long.
(He was running his fingers through his hair. Fingers which had been pressed closely together, so that they operated in pairs. Moving them vertically through the brown stands.)
So... what if his grandfather had a Omnitrix of his own?
An Omnitrix which contained a DNA sample from a species which had been declared as immortal.
There were circumstances under which the watch's normal time limit could be disabled...
What if my Grandpa Max would never die?
There was a price for that, of course, and it started with the sacrifice of the human form. Hugging would become somewhat difficult. There would be no gentle cushioning against the belly. (Ben was becoming increasingly worried about that belly as Max aged. His grandfather had to get into better shape. Also, the old man had been eating alien cuisine for decades. It almost had to be wreaking havoc on his insides, and Ben had come to that conclusion on absolutely no smoothie ingredient awareness whatsoever.) Ahuizotl's sensory range, the way that body interacted with the world... that would be all there was. Possibly forever.
Because the transformations did age. Ben's had been growing up with him. (It had taken some time to reconcile that he'd initially been changing into the Tetramand equivalent of a tween.) And to shift away from the quadruped... it would start the clock running again. Max could return to his own species -- but if he stayed that way for too long, he would die. It was what humans did.
Become whatever Ahuizotl was. Lock the Omnitrix.
The form had grasping digits. Perhaps the tail could cradle a giggling infant against fur.
And the tiny misplaced eyes would still be brown...
Ben turned off the water. Reached into the part of the shower cubicle which was shielded by a waterproof curtain, fetched the towel, wrapped himself, opened the partition's door, walked out of the washing area and into the section with the sinks and mirrors, caught a glimpse of his own reflection and saw that the brown strands of his sonic antenna had been properly groomed to stand straight up.
That was good. It was proper. Any Nemuina had to be capable of hearing danger coming, especially in bulk. You could normally only invade one dream at a time and in any case, there was only so much dust which could produced per --
-- he didn't scream. (Heroes didn't scream.) But he was now leaning his full weight into the sink, both hands clutching at cool porcelain because the sensation of the smooth surface was a lifeline. A path back to reason and sanity and Earth.
Ben.
I'm Ben.
My name is Benjamin Kirby Tennyson.
My grandfather picked out my middle name. It's for a comic book artist. One of the greats. I was tied to heroes on the day I was born.
Heroes and aliens.
My name is Ben.
I'm human...
Every so often, the Omnitrix would unlock a new species. This could happen as a direct response to outside events, trying to find what its bearer might need in order to survive. Azmuth could do it manually, accessing whatever the little Galvan liked -- if the genius decided the occasion was suitable. A few seemed to have been offered up more or less by accident.
And when Ben had been eleven years old, the watch had offered him Feedback.
As a transformation... the Conductoid was a living wavelength shifter: the energy equivalent of a sapient doppler effect. He could pull in just about anything: power blasts, hard radiation, radio frequencies in bulk -- and convert them internally into the electricity needed to survive. The excess was then discharged. (In fact, Feedback had to discharge the excess, and couldn't stop doing so until everything over the 'current meal' level was fully depleted.) Feedback didn't have any internal power resources of his own, but he was happy to take whatever you had and return it to sender.
He was just about perfect for dealing with anything which relied on energy attacks.
He was...
...perfect.
Ben sometimes felt as if each alien came with its own set of personality traits: Upgrade was a little more practical, Fourarms tended to charge in, Grey Matter initially hung back and observed whenever possible. With Ghostfreak, the tendency had been a little too real: the Ectonurite's consciousness was stored within DNA chains, and had eventually rebuilt itself within the watch. Ghostfreak was the source of numerous memories, with most of them bad.
But with Feedback...
The Conductoid loved to live. Life was an ocean, and you had an obligation to find the biggest wave there was and start surfing. Everything was done for the sheer joy of it, because you couldn't be part of existence and not be happy. Just existing was a miracle. And if someone had given you a miracle, then why weren't you enjoying it?
Feedback had resonated with Ben. It hadn't felt like transforming at all. More that there was a best friend living in the watch, and they were so close that every so often, his buddy allowed Ben to borrow his body.
Then they'd become closer than that.
The form was so natural...
Feedback was perfect for dealing with those who wielded energy. Considerably less so for anything else. Well... the watch wanted him to solve problems, right? Why not see what a Conductoid could do against strength and speed and things of the material world? Why not just call upon him over and over, because Feedback was joy and laughter and life and...
...after a while, it had started to feel like the Omnitrix had an extra transformation. One labeled as 'human', and Ben was just waiting out the recharge time until he could get back to his true self...
...his grandfather and cousin had spotted it. Azmuth had been called in, and...
...call it an intervention. The eleven-year-old hadn't known what the word meant, not in that sense. He'd just come into the Rustbucket one day and found them waiting for him. In ambush. Trying to tell him that he had to stop, he had to give up his real body because he was becoming too reliant on himself, he had to use other transformations more and spend extra time as a human and he couldn't be a Conductoid as much any more, he had to be this stupid weak alien thing called a human...
He'd run.
He'd run directly into a fight.
He'd become himself. Why wouldn't he?
And the enemy known as Malware had extracted the Conductoid's DNA from the watch. From Ben.
Feedback had been destroyed.
Leaving an alien in an eleven-year-old's body. One who no longer possessed any means of changing back.
He'd recovered, in time. Azmuth had stayed on Earth for a while, helping him talk it out, and... that was when Ben had started to realize there was something in the old Galvan which cared about the boy. Deep down, buried under layers of anger and sarcasm and frustration at how stupid everyone else was, but... it was there.
He'd also mourned.
And he'd never forgotten about that feedback loop. (His mind still added the capital, here and there.) That you couldn't use any given transformation too frequently, or invest any real part of your identity into the change. Call on any alien over and over, without a break or variety, or just get locked in because the time limit had been temporarily overridden for a crisis, and the traits would begin to overlap.
Replace.
Dominate...
...too many changes into Pesky in a short time, he was starting to loop but he'd spotted it, he just had to keep an eye on it, stay on top of it and 'axilla' was the wing attachment point...
...he'd been Bullfrag for days...
...and his grandfather would have to be something like Ahuizotl forever.
Maybe he wouldn't change that much.
Maybe.
Ben forced his hands to let go of the sink. Raised them to his hair. Rumpled it back into semi-shapelessness, and went to bed.
Ben took the top bunk. Part of that is a preference for the elevated view, and... he's on the short side. Kevin is six-foot-three. Kevin looks down on him in a lot of ways and most of the ones which come from his best friend are just teasing, but the physical aspect is a constant. Ben is so secure with his looks that he regularly changes into things which are much larger and stronger than himself. And Kevin. Because he can. So there.
He also tends to stand on ledges, steps, and anything else which elevates his gaze. And he takes the top bunk.
And he dreams.
All he's doing is moving through the streets of Bellwood, because he often finds himself in his hometown while asleep. (He doesn't get to spend much time there otherwise.) But he transforms in his dreams, does so with more frequency than the Omnitrix will normally allow. The form is fluid, and retains some of that quality even when he inevitably shifts away from Goop. And he usually starts with Heatblast because that was the first and something in him will love the Pyronite forever because of that -- but then it's Ditto, Cannonbolt, he goes to Blitzwolfer because he can and Rath can take that corner...
"I see," the cool voice calmly announces from a place which is a little too close behind him. "A sapient of, shall we say, variable temperament. A changeling of sorts?"
Bellwood vanishes. Rath's claws don't so much shrink as invert into thinning arms as height is lost, and that's a shame because Rath was absolutely about to tell the equine something -- but the body is getting smaller, wings are sprouting from the back, all hair goes straight up and then Pesky is in a forest.
Not the jungle of the visitor's dreams. An ordinary American forest, which has an ancient camper parked at the edge of the clearing.
Ben's memories have recreated this perfectly normal section of forest within dream for years. He knows it by heart, and dearly wishes to never come here again. But he can't control his own dreams, and...
...the little alien turns. Looks at the intruder. And the equine is standing in the place where Feedback died.
The reaction is instinctive.
Get OUT --
Something invisible seems to come off the small body, pushes --
-- her fur ripples. And that's all.
"Hmm," the equine considers. "Some degree of base talent for potential lucidity." Her head slowly shakes, left to right and back again. "But... no experience. You cannot displace me, small one. And I understand the desire, but... I am only present so that we may communicate."
"How did you --" Pesky tries to demand, and it still comes across as a hissy fit.
"We shared a dream," she tells him. "I cannot 'read' your mind, not as you might understand the term -- but I was able to find it. And when I come to you... the time limit becomes that of the dream itself. Which gives us a chance to speak with somewhat less interruption. Again: are you a changeling of sorts? A shapeshifter? With only so much duration in each form, who perhaps requires rest before assuming a new state?"
The little alien doesn't answer. The equine is smart, and -- perhaps she's figured out too much already.
"I saw you as something tiny when I first arrived," the equine quietly says, and trots a little closer. (Pesky is keeping a very close eye on the position of the horn.) "Then there was a form which was somewhat more... 'creepy' might be an appropriate term, although I apologize if it is also an insulting one. And then you were fast, followed by strong. Every shape and size... and now you are this." Nodding down at the Nemuina's diminutive body. "And so you remain. Is it because this is the form you associate with dream? With me?"
The silence maintains, albeit with some effort.
The equine sighs.
"Very well," she decides. "In that case -- it is your turn."
Pesky blinks. "My what?"
"Your turn." Which has more than a hint of order holding the cool words together. "By your own terms. I was to go first. Introducing myself, and explaining why I was within Ahuizotl's nightscape. I believe that I had managed to adequately establish both. And that would mean it is your turn, small one."
She takes another step closer to the fragile body, and Pesky feels its wings starting to buzz. Getting ready to flee, in an environment where the dust means nothing.
But there's nowhere to go. Pesky is..
...helpless.
"Who are you?" the equine demands -- then adds "The full name, of course." And waits.
The little alien takes a slow breath and, for the first time in its own dream, feels the air enter small lungs.
"Benjamin Kirby Tennyson."
"Benjamin Tennyson," she partially repeats. Dryly, "Even for myself, the constant use of a third name pushes the limits. And for the sake of formality: do you hold any titles?"
Ben's memories review some of the more frequent curses which have been attached to his name, then considers the difficulty of trying to speak Highbreed.
"...no."
Steadily, "And why did you enter Ahuizotl's dream?"
Can she sense lies in a dream? What's safe to say?
Just tell her the truth.
"We didn't know why he came thrrrrough the wormh -- portal. He was unconscious, and... this was the only chance to speak with him. To learn why he was herrrre, and... make sure he would be all right."
She's staring at the little alien.
"You were attempting to ascertain his welfare?"
"He'd collapsed. He only made it a few steps past the portal before he fell. He might have needed help..."
The dark blue head tilts slightly to the left. A cool gaze evaluates the small form.
"You have made no further effort to expel me. Nor are you trying to alter your nightscape, and I sense this is a place which discomforts you. Why not change it?"
Tiny hands ball into fully ineffective fists.
"I can't." Because Pesky is helpless, helpless in the realm of what should have been absolute control.
With far too much calm, "If you simply turn your thoughts towards your surroundings --"
"I CAN'T!" Which now sounds like a tantrum. "I can't think about it! It's all just instinct! Thinking doesn't work --"
"-- and my thanks to you, Rainbow Dash," cuts the words off.
It's the little alien's turn to stare.
"...who?" It sounded like a name --
"You have just told me what you feel yourself to truly be, Benjamin Tennyson," the equine states. "A hero." And before Pesky can say anything, "Also rather frequently known as 'an idiot with power'. Who generally lets that power do the thinking for him --"
"IT DOESN'T WORK IF I THINK!"
And it doesn't matter at all, does it? Because the sleeping body is human and doesn't have any of Pesky's abilities, can't even wake up, Ben is stuck --
Her head tilts again. To the right this time.
"You are new to dreamwalking," the equine quietly says. "Are you not? A few moons at most. No true practice --"
"-- how am I supposed to practice?" And it feels as if there's something liquid on his face, Pesky is small and vulnerable and girly and can't do anything and now Pesky is... "I get ten minutes at a time! Tops --"
-- the little alien has said too much. She knows too much --
-- the equine's ribs shift. In, out.
"-- tell me about yourself."
Pesky blinks. Something wet and cool slides over permanently blushing cheeks.
"...what?"
"I am going to make a decision," she informs the Nemuina. "Something which requires additional information regarding the entity whom the decision concerns. Because you are an adolescent male with power. One who considers himself to be a hero. That is dangerous, Benjamin Tennyson. Because a hero is often one who believes that merely possessing power puts them in the right. In spite of all contrary arguments, evidence, and corpses. Which makes this decision something other than casual. So tell me of yourself, Benjamin Tennyson." Another step closer, as the wings rustle at her sides and a cold breeze whips through the forest pines. "Of your life, your deeds. Of who you truly are. Because I have your home's entire night to listen, if need be. And I will be listening. Closely."
She glances slightly past the little alien, to the left. Luminescent green eyes follow that gaze, and...
...there's a flat-topped rock there now. (There was no such stone in the place where Feedback died.) Just the right height for a Nemuina to sit.
The equine's legs fold, lowering her body until she rests upon the forest floor.
"Heroes," she says, "tend to make the mistake of defining themselves by their power. How did you come by yours? Was it inborn?"
She nods towards the rock. Waits.
Pesky, with no other choice, sits.
"...no. I wasn't born with it." A little bitterly, "Kevin and Gwen were."
"Rivals? Family?"
"Gwen's my cousin. Kevin is..." Pauses. "It's a long storrrry."
"There is no clockwork," she tells the little alien. "Speak."
She's on the other side of a portal. She can't reach Ben.
She's just... in Ben's mind...
...listening.
Waiting in the forest, with that dark body at perfect peace. Waiting for another to speak.
"...I was ten," Pesky finally says. "I don't know how long you live, but... for us, ten is just a kid. I was ten, and this alien device... it did what... it did..."
It feels like Pesky has been speaking for hours.
The equine's asked for a few points of clarification. Once she understood a little of what each transformation did, criticism of Ben's tactics began to turn up. Quite a bit. But for the most part, she's just -- listened.
"Kevin," she finally says. "He essentially went insane, did he not? Because he felt he had no choice but to take in that energy. Even when he knew that doing so would wound his mind."
Pesky has to force the nod. Looks at her, and... there's an odd expression on that strange face.
"Gaining power led to madness," the equine goes on.
It's almost like recognition.
Understanding.
Self-loathing...
"And you did everything possible to bring him back," she says. "As his friend. Everything, when it would have been so much simpler to seek a -- final solution. The risks found in your answer..."
Her feathers briefly shiver.
"You may cease the recounting of your history, Benjamin Tennyson," the equine tells him. "For now. We might resume this at another time, but -- I have heard enough to reach a decision. Please extend your right arm."
Pesky does so. Thin fingers protectively curl in, force themselves out again.
Dark blue light ignites around the horn, projects forward and coats the weak limb. Careful application of force makes the elbow bend.
"Why did that work?" she asks.
"Because you're telekinetic," Pesky quietly says. "You have magic..."
Ben would love to get a DNA sample of the equine. But she's on the other side of a portal. You can't get the Omnitrix a usable reading from a dream. And... she's a girl. With no males to scan, he would be turning into a girl --
-- maybe he's been turning into girls all along. He keeps coming across species which Azmuth didn't find. Taking single samples. There's enough aliens where it's just about impossible to tell. Snare-Oh could be female and Ben would never know. It feels entirely possible that Thep Khufans might have sex through literally tying the knot and the female is the one whose clothlike tentacle comes in from the left.
He'd need a name for the new transformation, of course. 'Princess Luna' doesn't work.
Telekinetic horse.
Tekequine.
Ben's the best at names --
"-- I have no magic," she quietly tells him. "Not here."
Pesky's staring at her again.
"Or rather," she continues, "I have only the magic which allows me to be present in your dream. I am a projection, Benjamin Tennyson. A rational, self-aware figment. But in the waking world, my corona can move objects. It is knowledge I bring with me into the nightscape. And after so much time... it is also part of my identity. It works because I believe that it should. And my belief in that part of the shared illusion is stronger than yours. You simply lack the ability to say 'no'."
The little alien is breathing too fast. Doing so in a place which should exist without air.
"But that can be learned," she tells the Nemuina, as the coating of light on the thin arm winks out. "It is simply a matter of taking the proper lessons --"
"-- you'd teach me," ripples into the dreamworld on a current of disbelief.
Simply, "Yes. While I can."
"...why?"
"Because I listened," the equine states. "And..." The dark eyes briefly close. "...because there were none to instruct me." Bitterly, "Entirely self-taught, Benjamin Tennyson. Out of necessity. Because there had never been anything like me in the world, and none knew what might help. My dearest friends, my sibling... at first, they could not even find a way for me to stop. Pulled into dreams, over and over. Some of those were the dreams of animals, and that can have a rather unwelcome effect upon rationality. It took years to find full control. Replication of waking abilities in the nightscape was difficult. Self-identity can be one of the hardest things to change --"
"-- you have magic when you're awake," declares a weary helplessness. "All I can do as Pesky is fly a little, make dust, and put people to sleep. What good does that do in a drrrream? Pesky is supposed to have control here, and... I'm just..." The word nearly chokes him. "...vulnerrrrable..."
"Good."
She's smiling.
Pesky blinks a few times. The smile is still there.
"I prefer to teach those who know they are vulnerable," the equine informs him. "It is not a negative trait. Those who truly see themselves as invulnerable tend to let their power think for them. They can be closed off. Inaccessible. And they frequently see no need to learn. For learning is very much about the process of avoiding hurt, and what could ever harm them? But the vulnerable... they can be rather creative. They find ways to compensate. To turn weaknesses into strength, now and again..."
It's still a smile. The next sound, cut off and half-swallowed back, might have almost been the start of a laugh.
"An adolescent male," she says. "I should have given that more consideration. And perhaps those are the same everywhere, across every species. With the majority believing that strength must be the only important thing, and to display any other trait would lessen them. Benjamin Tennyson, as long as it hurts no others, or wounds one's self, then even for one who could become just about anything... there is no wrong way to be a boy."
Pesky can't speak.
Ben can't speak.
The thoughts won't stop.
"Now," the equine gently tells me. "Lucidity and the alteration of the nightscape. Let us begin with something small. The height of your perch."
"I can't do this," gets through the swirling miasma of inner confusion. "I'm not even Pesky rrrright now, in the real world. That's just the Omnitrix --"
"-- and does everything special about you come from something else?" she asks. "You envy your cousin and friend, do you not? For having their power be inborn. Yes, you are using a tool. But you should never fully define yourself by it."
"But --" is all she gives him time for.
"-- are you your brain? Or are you all of your experiences? What are memories, if not tools to avoid future mistakes? Are you everything in your life, and the lessons taken in from all those who love you? Choose your self-definition carefully, in the waking world and the nightscape alike. And when it comes to tools... anyone can pick up a weapon, Benjamin Tennyson. Anyone can inflict harm. But how many would do what you already have, and use it to heal?"
He has no answer.
"Some degree of base talent for potential lucidity," she tells him. "And no experience. That is the judgment of an expert. We begin with altering the height of your perch..."
She brings Pesky to the point of changing both color and material before she lets the little alien rest. It's mostly been to different kinds and slightly shifted shades of rock, but she seems to feel that counts for progress.
Eventually, the little alien speaks.
"When I was talking to him," Pesky reminds her, "you could have just left me therrrre. Using your corrrrona means he knows you're here too."
Her dark head dips. "Your point is taken," the equine dryly says. "Is there anything else?"
The little alien thinks things over, and then makes a decision.
"I managed to speak with him. While you werrrre gone."
"Oh?" Every muscle on the powerful form just went tense. "And what did he say?"
It's... comparing stories. Telling her what Ahuizotl claimed, in order to set tales against each other. Get a comparison going and find out where the holes are. More excellent tactical advice gleaned from afterschool cartoons.
Pesky repeats the visitor's words, as best it can. And when the little alien finishes, the tense equine form is still lying on the forest floor. But she's shivering now. Every feather is twitching, and the tail is lashing.
"That..." she just barely forces out. "That... may be..."
Ben's seen this before, because Ben has been in situations where others were controlled or rebelling and... fighting themselves.
"Prrrrincess?" Pesky hasn't quite worked its way down to 'Luna' yet.
Multiple mane-held stars go supernova, and the dark head snaps up.
"There -- is a device," and every last one of the syllables has nearly been bitten through. "Something believed lost, a long time ago. Or perhaps simply disposed of, especially if he is choosing to seek it here. Given his words to you regarding our supposed yoke, then -- that would seem to be the most likely target of his hunt."
"What does it do?" is a natural question.
This time, a significant fraction of the constellations within the tail explode.
"We believe it was an attempt at constructing an artificial interface," the equine says. "To control Sun."
Pesky heard that capital letter.
"That's impossible," slips out of the alien's delicate mouth.
"I would prefer for it to be impossible," the equine tightly forces out. "Unfortunately, it is merely immensely complicated."
"You can't contrrrrol a star --"
Almost a whisper, "-- every star is, or was, a sun. But not every Sun is a star."
The dark light flows up her horn, projects, twists -- and there's an object floating between them.
It's almost like a cross between a tiara and a coronet. Very basic. For the material... Ben's memories are claiming something along the lines of electrum, and the only decorations are six small opals: three white, three black. There's also a small hole in the metal, which might have been sized for a horn.
That's the bulk of the thick center curve. The sides might display how it's meant to stay on the head, because each flares out, bends back in, and ends in a sharp platinum spike.
"This is the design as I originally beheld it within the notes of the creator," the equine tells him. "And as one of the entities tasked with regulating the movements of Sun and Moon --" there's a brief pause "-- or rather, Moon, but my sister does occasionally require some relief from her duties -- I have an interest in making sure we continue to retain control. Because an improper connection, such as that which was once created by Discord --"
The little alien knows it's a name, and also recognizes that this isn't the time to ask.
"-- can damage them. Wounds which are exceptionally slow to heal. And if the damage is sufficiently severe..."
She shudders.
Pesky, who shares Ben's vivid imagination, is having a hard time narrowing down the disasters enough to have one for shuddering at.
But she isn't necessarily telling the truth. The teaching might have just been done to get Pesky on her side...
"Why would he want to contrrrrol it?"
"So that we did not," she sharply states. "As a matter of ownership. Or perhaps he simply wishes to create extreme global heat. Something he has tried at least once before, as he does seem to prefer warmth. The kind of climate which, spread outside of his usual domain, would extinct multiple species. Or, if he could not manage either... he might simply attempt to extinguish. To keep that power away from all others, as it could not truly be his."
"But that would kill --"
"-- and a true immortal," the equine softly says, "would go on. Especially one who has a portal which can be crossed. Or -- who might be able to make the attempt at control from this side, where we cannot reach him." More quickly, "Benjamin Tennyson, if that device exists on your side, it must be found. He cannot be allowed to claim it. The potential damage, and the risk --"
The grass ripples.
Then everything ripples.
Trees distort. Rocks waver. The world acts as a pond which just took a splash hit from someone skipping a meteor.
"You are waking!" she calls out, and does as the forest stretches, pulling her section of ground off to the right. "Find me in Ahuizotl's dreams, when you can! Search for the device! Finding it could mean the world --"
The small room's light had been turned on. Something which let Ben readily spot his grandfather standing next to the bunk bed.
"Hey, champ," the old man calmly greeted him. "I was trying to let you get some extra rest. But..." Regretfully, "There's only so much I could stall on that. It's time to get some breakfast in you."
Ben immediately resolved to use the vending machines. (His grandpa could make a mean egg: the problem was in knowing what had laid it.) Sat up, rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes (and the edge of the Omnitrix was hitting his brow line), belatedly pulled his undershirt down -- it had somehow gotten bunched up under his shoulders during the night -- and tried to think of what to say first. He had to tell the old man about what the equine had said and done, but...
"Did anything change overnight?" he asked. "Anything new?"
"One thing," Max Tennyson said -- then, a little more quickly, "No, take your time, Ben: it's nothing urgent. Just an update from Research. They didn't find anything on 'alicorn'. But there was a spelling for 'Ahuizotl' which worked."
"What did they find?" Which emerged while he was still trying to figure out the current position of his boxers on tactile sensations alone.
"Myths," the senior Plumber informed him. "Mesoamerican: in this case, Aztec. Having the grasping digits at the end of the tail was what put it past coincidence."
"So they've been here before." How had he managed to kick a sock off in his sleep?
"A long time ago," his grandfather said. "The legends never came this far north -- but there's a lot more than one weak spot in the world." Stopped, took a breath. "They've been blamed for a few --"
Something on the old man's Plumber belt made a high-pitched whistling noise. Aged fingers automatically moved to touch the small box.
"Tennyson," the senior plumber said. "Who is this?"
"Medical," the box half-crackled. "We need you and your grandson at the cells. As fast as you can get there."
"What's going on?"
Ben tried to jump out of the bunk bed. Most of him stuck the landing.
"The alien is showing the first signs of potentially emerging from the regenerative state," the box declared as Ben's lone sock-clad foot came to a sliding stop against the back wall. "We don't know how long we have before it wakes up."