L.E.G.O.

Dimensions: Multiversal Domination

Part V

Reality Designation: ???

Existence spasms.
Every organism in every universe along the infinite loop of creation sucks back in
simultaneous hurt. They dont know they share the same experience, but everything feels
encumbered by a new weight of dread.
The malaise derives from an invasion of the Core of all realities by a living blight,
the pan-galactic overlord Vortech. He defiled the plane by emerging from a dimensional
portal a corpse-colored lesion of gaseous turbulence like a sentient cancer spewing
from a nightmarish birth canal.
He steps out of the portal and into gray void. A platform coalesces as the
unformed matter that encompasses the Core cedes to his Will. Upon this manifestation
Vortech stands.
His name catalyzes fear throughout the multiverse. He embodies domination and
oppression. He possesses numerous titles, collected over the course of eons: Genius,
Master, Warlock, Conqueror, Despot, Emperor, Pharaoh, Devastator, Divirus,
Malignarch, Omnipotetenate, Tyrannapocalypse, and Traveler.
His original identity drowned in the tides of history; lost through ages and ages
beyond recollection, beyond even the formation of some galaxies. Who he was no longer
holds relevance to him. Who Vortech is now, his desire to ascend to Godhood, threatens
the sanctity of every life across the spectrum of the multiverse. He inhales nothingness
around him, the first act in his final plan.
Ive found it, he declares. After all these years of searching, I have opened the
way to the Core.
The journey that brought Vortech to the Core robbed him of his corporeal form,
the last physical link to his humanity. All thats left is anger, hatred, envy and nihilism
contained in the shape of a humanoid essence illuminated by cosmic light and darkness,
branded with the scars of universes conquered and lost.
Vortech bears the Helm of the Daemon, which was grafted to his head as
punishment following the revolution that deposed him from power. He still wears
tattered remnants of his Imperial garb as a reminder of what he lost. His only trophy: The
Staff of Perpetuity, the key to unlocking the Forever Realms and the path to the Core.
Congratulations on the successful completion of your quest, exclaims a voice,
tinged with digital distortion and sarcasm, from the portals entrance. You discovered
the literal definition of nothing, Your Excellency.
Do not test my patience with your idiocy, X-Po, Vortech warns.
I apologize, my Lord. I intended no offense. I sought only to learn how this
world will serve your purposes.
Enough of your excuses. Stay silent and observe.
X-Po mutes his audio software. In his present form, he exists as consciousness
stored in a box-shaped processor. A lens mounted on the front provides visual
capabilities; two pincers on each side allow physical manipulation; and micro-rotors
serve as a means of propulsion.
Vortech raises his arms and whispers an incantation. The three rings at the top of
his staff glow with the same cerulean hue as the portal imploding behind him. More
nothing from the Core becomes something. Matter rises from space and solidifies against
Vortechs platform, extending it into a passageway. He strides forth. With each step, his
structure expands. Path becomes boulevard; boulevard becomes highway. Columns and
statues celebrating the glory of Vortech grow at intervals along the edges.
At the terminus, a massive block of matter settles into place and begins taking
shape. Walls of intricate triangular latticework extend, adding dimension and geometry
to formlessness. Towers topped with spires mold themselves at each corner. They pay
homage to a larger tower that builds in the center a fist raised in defiance of the
metaphorical heavens.
Vortech climbs the edifice to its pinnacle. He lifts the staff again. The peak
develops into a wide hall. Brilliant torches of orange light reflect off the polished deep-
violet walls of cosmic stone. A vista with a balcony opens from one of the walls. At the
halls heart, a throne upon a dais manifests. The seat derives from the same reflective
material as the walls, and is etched with hieroglyphics depicting Vortechs rise and fall.
He takes his place as Monarch.
My reign begins, again, he wheezes.
I bow to your majesty, X-Po says. Well, I bow as well as Im able.
Hovering before the throne, he dips in an awkward gesture.
I accept your allegiance, hollow though it may be.
Thank you, Master. But, permit me one question?
You may ask, Vortech allows with impatience in his tone.
What now, X-Po asks. I mean, after years and years of searching, as well as
committing numerous unspeakable acts, you finally made it to the Core. And youve
crowned yourself ruler of nothing this realm is empty. Whats your next plan? I cant
imagine you intend to retire here in Casa de Nada, and I dont see myself playing butler.
Insolent machine, Vortech glowers, eyes flashing behind his mask. You are
correct, this is no exile. We have located the foundation prime of the multiverse; the
alpha and omega of all that ever was, is, and shall be. The fundamental basis of life and
creation spawns from the Core. From this place, I will tap the roots of existence and
prune them into My perfect order. I will become God.
X-Po clicks as he processes the information. Certain data fails to connect his
lords intentions with a method for carrying them to fruition.
I profess ignorance, and beg mercy, for failing to see how you will achieve such
glory, he says. X-Po learned early in service to Vortech to choose his phrasing with
care. He doesnt always succeed, which over the multitude of years has resulted in harsh
punishments, including the loss of his humanity.
Your perception of this plane is inaccurate. The nothing you describe is
primordial matter, which can shape the destinies of every reality. To do so, I need circuits
that connect the Core to each world. They come in the form of special devices
elements serving as foundations of their worlds.
 But, according to ancient texts you stored in my databanks, tampering with
foundational elements, especially on the scale you seek, could result in catastrophic
destabilization of infinite proportions.
I accept the risks, Vortech asserts. My course is set.
Sire, I must protest this action youre taking, X-Po cringes. Conquering
realities, ruling everything, I will fulfill my programming to serve your ambitions. But,
endangering all existence falls beyond my parameters. I cannot take part in such
madness.
Faithless, disloyal fool! Your concerns, your defiance, hold no weight. Plans are
already underway to acquire the first elements. Since you refuse to accept the
enforcement of my Will, I have no further use for you.
Vortech stands with outstretched arms. He whispers an incantation and the Staff
of Perpetuity glows. Behind him, a new portal opens. X-Po rattles as his masters power
twists electronics in his housing. He deactivates. The vacuum of the wormhole sucks the
metallic shell into banishment.
I discard you, Vortech sneers.
The portal closes. The staff flares. Sparks of interdimensionality sprinkle from
the three rings. Vortech coughs and chokes. His cosmic form loses cohesion, causing a
rapid expansion that warps his appearance to the verge of dissipation. A moment later, he
regains control over his physical self. He slumps onto his throne.
Im losing time, Vortech gasps. The sacrifices Ive made to wield this power
and make this journey are coming due. I cannot perish now, so close to attaining
Perfection. I must conserve energy and use this palace as my sanctum.
Vortech pauses in thought. If preserving his life means restricting travel across
dimensions, then how will he dominate them? A memory flickers. His absolute authority
spanned for ages and ages that he forgot one of the most basic tenets of power.
I shall have to recruit lieutenants and captains to assert my control throughout
the cosmos.
Vortech stands again, leaning on the staff as a crutch. He raises an arm, and from
the dais a pedestal forms, topped with a black orb. With a wave of his hand, the sphere
glows; the opaque darkness within shifts and roils. He barks a one-word command and
slams his palm onto the orb.

Existence tremors.

-- In Gotham City: A laughing clown cries, and a dark knight doubts.

-- On Middle-Earth: A fiery eye blinks, and a wizard considers surrender.

-- Near Bricksburg: A retired business leader renews a craving, and a young rebel dreams
of glory.
A hunter cowers, a samurai loses focus, a prisoner quits running, and a scientist
stops dreaming.

In London, on a quiet suburban sidewalk, a peculiar blue police box shimmers

and emanates a grinding, whooshing sound. Passers-by take no notice until a deep bell
tolls from within. Echoes of it carry for miles. The box loses its grip on reality and slips
from view. Static charges crackle in its wake, and a burning square is seared into the
pavement.
No, no, no, no, no! This cant be right, an older gentleman cries in a Scottish
accent. The TARDIS just pulled itself back into the time stream.
The man, known only as the Doctor, races around a console surrounding a large
piston at the heart of a circular room. He pulls levers, activates dials and checks monitors
in a frantic hope to calm the rapid punch of the alien engine and understand the source of
its distress.
Why would you do that, the Doctor calls. I was bringing Clara a pie. I wanted
to show her the triple solar eclipse by the moons of Safbrac 4. That only happens once
every 2,700 years, you know.
The sentient time machine gives no verbal response. The cloister bell chimes
another warning. The chamber, impossibly larger than the exterior of the TARDIS
disguise as a police box, quakes with the dissonance. The TARDIS rocks in alarm. The
Doctor pulls more levers and scans another monitor.
Ohhh! Thats not good. The pie and the eclipse will have to wait. It was going
to be fun. I wanted to try a tangerine pie.
His fingers dance over buttons, assigning coordinates to assuage the vehicles
agitation. Vibrations stabilize as the TARDIS is appeased by the Doctors direction.
Shaggy eyebrows scrunch over new data readings.
We have a full-scale crisis on our hands, and it may be more than I can handle
alone, he admits. Well have to make a couple stops, do a little re-jiggering, and maybe
pick up some extra firepower along the way.
The Doctor slams a forked switch into place. The TARDIS accelerates and
hurtles down a corridor of bent time and space.