PROLOGUE

Reality Designation: TARDIS

Adventure beckons to a certain school teacher in Great Britain. Well, adventure

will eventually beckon, thinks Clara Oswald. The young woman walks to her motorcycle
at the end of a school day at Coal Hill Academy. A spring breeze washes through her
brown hair. She closes her eyes and grins, hoping the Doctor will return for her today.
She craves another journey into the unknown. She yearns for more time with that time-
travelling alien madman and his spinning blue box.
Clouds gather like spectators above her as she rides for London. The air tingles,
and her nose catches the sour smell of change. Where most people would think rain,
Clara brightens in recognition of these signs. She hopes to hear the familiar raspy
wheezes of the Doctors time machine/spaceship, the TARDIS. She looks for it, hoping
to see it materialize near her. But her expectations are wrong this time.
Wind strengthens along the road. The rush grows into a roar. Debris spatters on
her helmet. Clara begins to lose control of her bike, unable to withstand the wind speed.
Reality tears. A hole opens from nothing. Blue matter swirls inside; a vortex
concentrating the wind into a vacuum.
Claras motorcycle topples, sending her flying face-first. She tenses in
anticipation of colliding with solid pavement. Her body stops hard with her outstretched
hands a few centimeters from the road. She reached a point of equilibrium with the force
of the vortex. The moment ends, and Clara and her bike are sucked into the hole.
Doctoooooooooooooor, she screams. Clara Oswald, the Impossible Girl,
echoes into time and space.

Reality Designation: Gotham

Alarms blare at a military warehouse along the Gotham docks. Some idiot
triggered the security grid. The revolutionary/mercenary/criminal mastermind Bane
whistles and circles a finger in the air, signaling his crew to cut the raid short. They have
enough of what they need.
Fool, he barks at the idiot. He can tell who tripped the alarm. Hes trying to
look fake-busy. Ill deal with you later.
Bane clicks a device on his belt. He came prepared. Explosions shake the
building from small charges set at key locations to block military responders and
guarantee an escape route.
Move out! And stay alert, he commands. Batman will be here soon.
Crew members nod and give thumbs-up. He chose them carefully: ex-military,
ex-cons and aimless pros disciplined, with little fear. Maybe not enough fear. They
seem to underestimate the Bat as they rally.
Armed thugs take point, the rest carry metal crates while wearing lead-lined
gloves. The grunts lead the way through Banes plan-B escape route. Bane picks up the
rear; an obelisk of muscle, rising half-a-foot or more above his compatriots, he stomps in
silhouette wearing black combat boots, combat gear and his signature black-and-red
luchador mask. He watches for Batmans inevitable sneak-attack. He cant let the
vigilante get in the way of this job. His employer was strict, for lack of a better word,
in his insistence to receive the cargo intact.
The crew reaches panel trucks parked near the warehouse. They begin loading
the crates. The area is still quiet. Bane doesnt like it. Too much is at stake.
A rustle. There! The faint sound comes from behind and above him. Batman
arrives, and he knows Bane knows hes here. The scrape of boot on debris was his
calling card. Neck muscles bulging, Bane cocks his head toward the sound. He listens
with his opposite ear, expecting a misdirect.
He feels the impact before hearing the smack. A blunt object bashes him,
colliding with his chin. His head snaps over his shoulder. A piece of his mask tears.
Through the bright pain fog, Bane sees a charging figure Batmans punk, Robin. He
hurled his wuss-staff into Banes face. The kid, in his prancy red, yellow and green
tights, aims a punch at his chin, hoping to keep him off balance. Banes faster. He
catches Robins fist with a massive hand, like a ping-pong ball in a catchers mitt. Bane
clamps down and twists, flipping the Bratboy Wonder to the ground.
Another blow to the lower back bends Bane the wrong way. He loses his grip on
Robin as he crashes to his knees. Batman reveals himself by bailing out his teen pinch-
hitter.
This heist is over, Bane, Batman declares. Stay down and order your men to
stand down, or I start shattering bones.
The vigilante/detective/superhero glooms over Bane, an angry shadow in a black
bat-eared cowl and cape and gray body armor. The gold and black bat insignia on his
chest almost glows like a full moon. Robin takes position next to him, staff back in hand.
The Dark Knight cometh, Bane laughs. Like a coward, he uses children as
pawns and strikes from behind. Such bravery.
You would see teamwork that way, Robin boasts.
Enough, Batman holds up a gloved fist. Surrender, now! Youre finished.
Bane chuckles again and clicks another hidden button in his hand. Explosions
erupt from the vacant shed behind Batman and Robin. The two duck and, acting on
instinct, swivel toward the blasts. Bane presses a finger in his ear.
Attack, he bellows.
Bullets rip from guns held by Banes crew. The mercenaries had stopped loading
their trucks to watch the showdown unfold. They await the boss orders. Robin hits the
ground. Batman blurs into action. He swings his cape in front of him, bullet-resistant to
deflect the incoming fire. At the same time, he throws several silver balls at the thugs.
Smoke pours from the spheres. Vision obscured, the gunmen fire wildly into the gloom.
Batman and Robin move like specters in the smoke. One-by-one, Banes men
fall, victims of the duos silent assault. Theyre a well-oiled machine; two cogs working
in tandem. Batman has to visualize their partnership in that way. Anything else and he
risks feeling emotions. Emotions cloud judgment and concentration.
The smoke clears. Batman and Robin are the last standing. Fallen thugs litter the
lot around their vans. Some are unconscious, others writhe in pain. Batman scans the
area. Bane is no longer at the scene. He fled in the gloom. The tearing sound of a
motorcycle echoes off buildings lining the route into metropolitan Gotham.
Check those crates, Batman commands Robin.
 The teen complies, examining a coded tag on the side of one box. He pulls a
handheld digital device from his utility belt and scans the markings. Results flash on the
mini-monitor.
Youre not gonna like this, Robin says. Its Kryptonite.
Lets go, Batman responds without hesitation. We cant let Bane leave
Gotham with that material.
The two dash to vehicles parked nearby. Robin kick-starts a motorcycle, while
Batman roars the Batmobile to life. They thunder after Bane into the heart of Gotham.

Reality Designation: Middle-Earth

Shadow and flame.

Shadow and flame conspire to trap the Fellowship of the Ring and make the
mines of Moria their tomb, Gandalf thinks. The ancient wizard stands at a large door that
separates him and his eight companions from the evil massing on the other side. Orcs
speak, orcs laugh, and orcs screech in the chamber beyond. Their drumbeats spell the
Fellowships doom. Doom doom! they echo from everywhere and nowhere.
Gandalf recites sacred words at the door in hopes of preserving their survival. The
other members of the Fellowship rest at a passage beneath him after fleeing a skirmish
with an advance-troop of orcs. Gandalf spares a thought for Frodo. Hes hurt after a
spear plowed into him. He should be dead. Gandalf suspects the young hobbits heritage
saved him.
The wizard led the group two humans, a dwarf, an elf and four hobbits,
including Frodo the ring-bearer through Moria on a quest to destroy the dark lord
Saurons One Ring. Their destination: Mordor, a land of desolation, Saurons stronghold
from where he will unleash his plans for domination. Sauron, the embodiment of hate,
malice and destruction, crafted the Ring in the flames of the volcano Orodruin centuries
ago. He poured most of his power into it so to serve as his key weapon for ultimate
tyranny. Only the fires of Orodruin, also called Mount Doom, can destroy the Ring and
Sauron with it.
There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world,
Gandalf had said in caution when they entered Moria. The statement also proved to be a
forewarning. He senses an unknown power before him, one greater than the sum of the
orcs in the chamber.
The door bends inward a bit. Gandalf tightens his grip on an iron ring bolted onto
the wooden door and murmurs a new spell to keep the entryway closed. The tip of his
staff gleams brighter. He intensifies his concentration on the door.
Despite its legend of terror and death, the former Dwarven kingdom of Moria is
still the best available route to reach Mordor as quickly and secretly as possible. Nature,
guided by a sinister force, beat back the Fellowships attempt to cross mountains on their
way south. They had little choice but to delve underground, through the cavernous and
crumbling necropolis.
Orcs babble in their harsh language on the other side of Gandalfs door. The
wood muffles their words, but he catches one: Fire. He hopes the spell hes crafting
can repel such an assault. He braces for the stench of smoke to seep through the cracks.
Instead, the orc drums pound louder doom doom boom. They beat for the Fellowship.
They beat for him. A shadow drills into his mind.
When the Fellowship entered Moria, he held a little hope to find dwarves
controlling at least part of the mines. A dwarven expedition sought to reclaim their
homeland a few years ago. Hope faded with each hour the Fellowship spent stumbling
through the pitch dark passageways. The sheer magnitude of the great Moria was a threat
to their survival. Gandalfs leadership and memories of the place, along with shreds of
insight from their resident dwarf, Gimli, kept them alive. The discovery of a shredded
and burnt journal in the chamber Gandalf now blocks confirmed his fears: The expedition
failed. Theyre all dead.
Now death stalks the Fellowship. Shadow eclipses Gandalfs mind. A terrifying
beast enters the room, he senses. He stretches his might toward its limits.
You shall not pass, he whispers, and his knuckles grip the ring tighter.
Gandalf begins reciting a stronger barring spell; an ancient Elvish one, more
potent but also more complex. In the glow of his staff, a dim hue spreads over the door,
matching the color of the robes and wide-brimmed hat that earned him the name
Greyhame. The wood seems to fossilize to the stone around it. The shadow in his mind
recedes. He presses his will harder and speaks with greater passion. The magic is
working. The magic
Fades.
The spell dissipates like wisps of steam after snow is dumped on a fire. The beast
counters him. Gandalf feels its demonic touch on the other side of the door. It pulls the
door open a crack. Fear scalds him. He plays an Ace and skips to the end of the Elvish
spell. He speaks it with force.
The broken magic has explosive consequences. The door shatters. Gandalf flies
backward into the narrow faade of the stairwell behind him. Breathless from the impact,
he scrambles down the steps. Stone crashes from above. The chamber collapses, unable
to support the extraordinary forces clashing around it. Gandalfs gambit destroyed its
resilience.
The beast retreats. He senses its regrouping, preparing a new tactic to ensnare
the Fellowship. Gandalf loses his footing. He tumbles several feet down the stairs and
into the midst of his companions. They gasp in alarm, eyes wide. Scared children, they
seem, even the elf Legolas. Hes almost as old as nature. Against the beast above, they
are infants. The doom-doom-dooms of the orc drums beat faster.
Gandalf fell, the hobbit Sam whispers to his friend Frodo. He falls before us.
Gandalf glances at Sam as he picks himself up. Sams observation feels
prophetic. Before the rest of the group can react, before he gives into fear, he prods them
to run into the black passage in front of them. Hes weak, drained from expending so
much energy. His long, ancient hair plasters to sweat on his face, and his legs feel like
sapling branches in a storm. He leans on Gimli for support as they flee through the
corridors of Moria.
Heat signals the groups arrival to the path to the exit. Sounds of pursuit grow
more distant. The nine rest to catch their breath and gather their strength. Gandalf
describes the disaster at the door to prepare the Fellowship for the evil they now face. As
he speaks, a vision coalesces in his mind.
 He sees shadow and flame, the towers of Isengard and Barad-dur, the orc armies
of Sauron and Saruman, the son of Man as a beacon in the Dark, and Frodo wrestling
with his fate. The vision splits. Gandalfs head wants to burst. New images flicker forth.
He sees a dark knight and a warrior-maiden, a forest, a desert, a chamber of metal,
Gondor fallen, people and beings he cant recognize and weapons beyond his
imagination. The vision ends with the image of a face. The visage swirls behind a
fearsome mask, eyes glowing with cosmic might. The Eye of Sauron pales in
comparison. This new face slithers with illness. He feels sick at the sight of it. Gandalf
shuts his mind to the sights of the future and sets his focus on surviving the present.

Reality Designation: Bricksburg

You say you want a revolution, but you know, its gonna be pretty okay.

The worlds are still in party mode since we stopped Lord Business plan to
hermetically seal all existence. Im not quite sure what that means either. I guess the
best way to put it is thought killing everyone by freezing them in place was the best way
to eliminate chaos or something. Since my boyfriend, errr, well, I guess hes more like an
ex now, or were on a break. Anyway, since Emmet talked LB out of being evil, he
helped fix everything, then went on sabaatical or something Business, that is, not
Emmet. Hes back to being construction guy. He got promoted to supervisor!
Im still trying to figure out what I should do with my life now. Back during the
Resistance, I changed my name to Wyldstyle and dyed my hair with three colors to stand
out while I was on a quest to become the Special of prophesy. Emmet became the
Special instead, and then we sorta realized everyones special. So now Im just that chick
Wyldstyle who helped take down Lord Business. I have a blog, but everyone keeps
thinking Im a DJ for hire. Whatevs.
Maybe I should change my name and look again, find a new identity for this
brave new place were building. Or maybe I could go back to being Lucy, the dreamer;
get back to my roots and rediscover myself. Either way, I want to be awesome. I want
people to see me and say, Thats Wyldstyle. She saved the worlds. Lets invite her to
big, lavish parties. Or, I want to know her opinion of things. Or, She should be on
TV, lets give her a talk show. That would be cool, wouldnt it? A show like, The
Wyldstyle Profile or something? Id have all sorts of interesting people on and ask them
tough questions about what they do.
Thats just a thought. The truth is, Im bored. I cant hang out here on some
celebration vacation anymore. I gotta keep moving, like a shark (Ooh! Theres a
thought. Maybe I could change my name to Sharknight or Sharkmazing). I think thats
kinda why Emmet and I split. I need to do something new. I need more adventure.
But Emmets content to go back to work and do practically the same thing every day.
Routine hurts my stomach and brain. Were still friends and stuff, and we hang out
together or with our friends; Im even getting used to the double-decker couch he
installed in his apartment. Its actually not a super-terrible idea, as long as Im on one of
the ends with a cupholder.
I want something new and crazy to happen. Thats not to say I want bad things to
happen to people, but I feel like I need to chase after something new. I need a purpose
like that, be like a hero. Nobody pays much attention to me anymore since Taco Tuesday,
the day Lord Business turned his weapon, the Kragle, on the worlds and we stopped him.
People cheered me then. I want them to cheer me again. Ill show them what Wyldstyle
can do. Ill find a way to make them love me.
Ill figure it out. Right now, I gotta get ready to go to a party with Emmet and my
friends. Were celebrating the grand opening of the rebuilt Cloud Cukooland. Its hard to
explain if you dont know what it is. Ill have to tell you about it some other time. Lets
just say it was the center of the Resistance against Lord Business, but it got destroyed
right before Taco Tuesday (Emmets fault, b-t-w, but he saved my life in the process, so
its cool).
Ill talk to you again later. Hopefully by then, Ill have a better idea of what Im
going to do with the rest of my life. For now, Im gonna enjoy this party and show off
some of the new dance moves Ive been working on. I think Ill wear my favorite black
hoodie and workout pants with the color skrches on the side.

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.
He shakes his head. Fingers dance over buttons, assigning coordinates to assuage
the vehicles agitation. Vibrations stabilize as the TARDIS is appeased by the Doctors
direction. Shaggy, graying eyebrows scrunch over wrinkled eyes to analyze 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.