Log; Ongoing

[singingguardian.livejournal.com]

When; Friday, September 29th; Backdated
Rating; PG
Characters; 12th_level Brainiac 5, singingguardian Guardian, some old people NPCs (Hope that's alright.)
Summary; Two aliens meet. Really.
Log;

Guardian finally had collapsed, and her world breathed in color while every ragged gulp of air had flooded her vision with a sickly, metallic yellow. She had lost count of the primitive bullets lodged in her thick muscles, but she had regained her pride for allowing herself to succumb to a pack of pathetic primates; her fur was dried and sticky, coagulated circulatory flui- no, blood, she liked that word better, as proof. Death had best judged her a cyborg, much to her relief, and her enhanced body would. Scars would still form, but she would wear them with pride. They were her memories, proof of her service, experience. The Guardian Herd valued seasoned warriors, perhaps even in death, she decided.

There was plenty of blood to be spilled in death. She had a purpose here and it swelled pleasurably in her weary chest.

Saccharine smells had attracted her here, and the alien foliage would conceal her battered form. Her muscles a pebble-peppered sag on her bones, she had hidden herself in a large patch of brush, her head, heavy on the sinuous neck, able to poke out when needed. She was still quite weary and ill but she was alert.

Guardian still felt fear: It would take more than a few bullets to stop her, but blood loss, especially poisoned, copper-stained blood, would be her downfall. She had not died in the night. She would live. Her bloodline was strong. She would not fail her ancestors.

An orange eye relaxed and closed, and she napped.

This, thought Brainiac 5, was beneath him; squatting in an unused apartment surrounded by the outdated technological harvest that the chaos of the past few days had reaped, he surveyed the fruits of his labours as he paced. Among the aquired were some 21st century computers of varying design - but as far as their use was concerned, they were little more than glorified adding machines. Disassembled parts were littered all over the floor - wires, cables, motherboards, motors, chips, batteries, so on ad infinitum - they streamed across the hardwood in messy clumps, vaguely categorized in a way that only the Coluan seemed to understand.

What information he was able to glean from the information network from the omnicom described of a 'carousel' - apparently a spinning platform, decorated with Earth horses - ticking down to the end of the known multi-verse. It bore investigation, but if the rumors were true, then he would need to re-evaluate his priorities accordingly - something he did not relish.

Saving the universe was an obligation, but not one that Querl Dox particularly cared for.

The last time he was similarly displaced in archaic times, he had to invent C.O.M.P.U.T.O. to aid him in devising a solution - an act with almost destroyed the world twice over. Yet if the situation were was dire as he perceived, the risk might be worth it. (Besides, Brainiac was reasonably sure that the circumstances leading up to C.O.M.P.U.T.O.'s rebellion could be avoided, if the necessary measures were implemented, as calculated. After all, he had experience in fathering an artificial lifeform now.)

But creating it had required technology on the level of the New Genesis motherbox - a single piece of machinery so advanced it bordered on sentient life. Reproducing the same results would be impossible with the level of his current tools.

Sighing, he abandoned his temporary workshop. Perhaps further scavenging would yield more satisfactory results - though he doubted it. Brainiac 5 took to the skies, following the electromagnetic signals detected by his omnicom.

That's odd... the most resonant signals in the area seem to be emanating from... a garden?

Guardian dreamed, a trait she had never thought attributed to a ghost, but then again, she had no idea what she was now. She dreamed of the Homeworld, of square buildings stretching miles into the air, of the pillowing scent of the Herd, of red swards fit to be galloped upon, of the breeding season, the Dance and Rut. She dreamed of a mate and she dreamed of pride and the immortality she would have rightfully earned for herself by ultimately continuing her legacy, her proud bloodline, through her progeny. She dreamed of her foals and she dreamed of the satisfaction of purpose and then she dreamed beyond that. Her race was powerful, expansive. Her kind was fit to dominate the galaxy with a firm, iron hoof.

Filthy, clumsy primates. All of them... How they crumble and break so easily under my great hooves... Such lovely thoughts. It kept her strong. It silenced her instinctual yearning for company with members of her own specie. Kept her from the creeping depression.

The puppeteer dreamed.

Brainiac 5 landed carefully at the edge of the garden, so enraptured by the intricacies of the electromagnetic pulses received by his handheld computer that the undreamt of beauties around him evoked almost nothing.

He walked as if in a trance, his mind racing at the possibilities - if what he was seeing was right, then the technological possibilities of this machine were vast. The anticipation of being able to take it apart, study it was almost too much to bear. Once he was able to get his hands on this device - it wouldn't exactly be stealing; taking advantage of resources was no more immoral than mining from a mountain - he could...

Then, a pungent smell, pushing through the flowery perfumes like a fat, wet Raltusan brobdipod assaulted his olfactory senses. The source of the odour came into view - as well as the source of the mechanical signal.

Querl scrunched his nose, partially for the small, partially out of disappointment. "This can't be right, unless... Omnicom, analyze unidentified alien body."

Electronic implants, artificial musculature, chemical regulators, a plethora of physical enhancements built for maximum strength without sacrificing grace of movement - Brainiac inched closer, desperate to satiate his curiosity and awe.

A strange smell amidst the color and sweet swirled into the puppeteer's twin sets of nostrils. From the dreams of grandeur an orange eye snapped open, the hyphen of a pupil flicking about in the deep socket. Guardian's ears, small and resembled a seal's, almost a hole, could pick up the sounds of something approaching her location.

Her sore body tucked into itself as a precaution.

Still, the precarious trample that could only be produced by cumbersome bipedal movement was zeroing on her location. Then it saw her, speaking into something with that hideous excuse of a language, devoid of tone, pitch and joy. Her translator did not catch it.

Helpless, she realized. Her neck pelts prickled and both eyes were open, watching him intently. She could not afford to needlessly expend anymore energy than she already had by roaming.

The electronically enhanced creature's vital signals sped up - Brainiac blinked; he must've awakened it with sounds of his approach ([excellent senses,] he quickly recorded into his observations). It seemed to take a defensive position ([body language: anticipating attack - approach with caution, use of force field belt may be necessary]), curling into a tight ball.

([Able to detect my presence - surprise advantage - strategic upper hand - obviously warrior-standard enhancements - logical reactions: attack or flee - conclusion: physical circumstances prevent excessive movement - possibilities: starvation, injury - further observations required.])

While he was never very good as an ambassador of any kind, it was obvious that he was the one to take initiative. Stepping out from the exotic foliage, Querl put his hands up in an awkward and half-hearted gesture, weaponless. "Salutations; I am Brainiac 5 of the Legion. Are you in need of assistance?"

Guardian's experiences as an ambassador were limited. Outside of enforcing policies and the peace between the two main political parties, the Experimentalists and Conservatives, on the Homeworld, she had been only sent out into space once: the fated mission that had been her end. She was an elite, proud beast, a member of a secret caste that no other non-puppeteer would ever see. Should the case have been otherwise, all Guardian's communication skills required was that she would be the last thing the offender ever sees, or perceives.

"She That is Fleet-Footed and Fierce, One That Slays With Her Heart." That was her literal name among her fellow warriors. The others had called her simply Guardian; the name was disgusting, offensive, forbidden. Even "warrior" was an explicit term among her kind.

Right now, Guardian was quite alone and in no position to follow through with old protocol. One head gave a few cautionary sniffs, the other studied the funny green biped. The translator however caught the creature's words this time and after the flow of comforting puppeteer language, an awkward silence followed. The green biped's manipulation limbs appeared to be in an open gesture, one of non-threat. The pelt lowered.

The puppeteer spoke slowly, her song soft and ragged with her pain but that was the only display of discomfort she allowed. The tone was otherwise pure. "I am Guardian of the Herd. I am injured and I would appreciate such assistance. For instance," a head gestured, black serpent tongue flicking in a bloody side's direction, "I wish to have these primitive... bullets removed."

Brainiac's admiration for such a delicate language - meaning fluctuating with tone and pitch, he noted, harmonic sounds, like song - and an obvious functioning translator in the creature was overridden by his immediate self-berating. "Oh grife." The cautionary distance between them was covered in an instant as he flew (literally) to her side. The matted blood on the alien's pelt became apparent now, and Querl's command of 21st century English dissolved into Interlac as he muttered to himself: "Should've noticed this earlier - bullets haven't pierced any vital organs - archaic, lead projectiles - fatal, where it not for cyborg enhancements--"

Apart from his omnicom and belt, he didn't have any suitable tools to remove the bullets without the risk of infection, "--unless if I configured my force field to extract the bullets - a delicate procedure, but not one beyond my twelfth-level intellect..."

The force field controls were directly linked to his mental commands, too complex for anyone else to command them. From the tips of his fingers the translucent energy field formed, spun outwards into a needle-like point, malleated by the vectoral calculations pouring from mind.

"This might hurt."

Guardian was startled, but instinct aside, her hide painfully twitching, she allowed him to examine her; it would be necessary should she want to be freed of those nuisance pellets, yes? Her translator crackled as the biped Brainiac trailed off in another language, trying to pick up words, learn them. He had to only keep speaking.

She studied him as the translator deciphered away, still too patchy to be understandable, concluding that he was a strange creature indeed, even for a primate if just for his unnatural flesh tone. His technology, from what she could tell, seemed advanced. Possibly comfortably advanced. She was sick of staring at these wasteful, cumbersome devices; safer, more efficient solutions her race had been devised when the human primates were still bashing antelopes' skulls in with a thigh bone of a club! She would rather live wild than as a domestic, ancient human. She was sure of it.

Although, she had eyed the forming field projections dubiously with both heads. Her trust was wary, but she had died once, hadn't she?

"Very well. I am no stranger to pain." Her tone was that of dry humor. "I consider it a familiar friend."

"Then be forewarned that I have little patience for masochists," Brainiac replied, equally dry. He hovered his finger above an entry wound, the force field wound around the digit extending in a delicate, impenetrable needle, piercing through the healing flesh around the bullet. Rapid calculations sped through his head, inputting data based on the omnicom observations, size of the entry holes, angle, calibre, friction - all adding up to one precise moment: at the bullet's exact location, the force field expanded to grab the lodged projectile.

Once the extra mass was detected, Brainiac extracted the field in one deft mental command - it snapped back to his fingers and blinked off, leaving a bloody bullet in the palm of his hand.

Was Guardian a masochist? She was not sure. Puppeteers hated pain and avoided it at whatever cost, this desperation reflected in their half-melted furniture and room designs, but the Guardian caste welcomed it. She did not flinch or make a sound through the procedure, it producing a full metal jacket rifle shell*.

"An appreciated effort but you have many more to go," she weakly sang. Fresh blood trickled from the reopened wound.

((* Doesn't explode. Makes puncture easier and extraction cleaner, I would think.))

"So it would appear." Already examining a second wound, he quoted, "Legion constitution, subsection 1.1: 'The Legion shall be devoted to preserving the life of sentient beings throughout the universe.' And as much as I would prefer to conserve the already limited quantities of energy left in my force field belt, I am sworn to the charter, and the Legion."

Having his initial calculations approved accurate, the second bullet came faster, then one after another in a procedure practiced to be almost mechanical. Nearing the end, there were at least a dozen or more metal shells on the grass around them, and several new bloodstains on Brainiac's uniform.

"I believe adhering to your charter would be to my benefit," the puppeteer commented casually as the bullets were being extracted from her side. An old friend indeed, she was well conditioned to pain and her strict discipline held. Show no weakness; she did not forgive herself of the shaky warble in her first song. The bullets were littered about, their locations marked with a stained shine.

Finally, Guardian breathed, and it was the first breath since her capture that did not rattle. She felt less sickly as the sources of the metal poisonings were gone, the chemical filtration system in her blood quick, her body being restored to comfortable, optimal homeostasis. A little color trickled back into her world, her breath moist and natural.

Relief. The healing process would be hastened by many times. She would be galloping sooner than she had previously thought. A brief alien smile was marked by a satisfied flick of the tongue and a slow blink.

One of the puppeteer's heads sat up with less struggle, although still far from fully erect. "If you are bound by protocol then, explain to me, what is this Legion?"

"The Legion is an interplanetary organization of adolescents, all of which who possess different abilities that would be considered preternatural and representing members of the United Planets coalition, was originally founded as a symbol of the galaxy-wide alliance, as ambassadors and peace-keepers (as trite as that may sound). I was initiated as per the treaty between my homeworld and the U.P.," explained Brainiac 5 objectively as he assessed the healing process of the alien's injuries.

Of course, the Legion had become a home for Querl, and more, ever since his exile from Colu. Because of his preference for the experimental instead of the theoretical, and the Brainiac twelfth level of intelligence - considered an dysfunctional aberration - he had always been somewhat of a pariah there. While initially lured into membership by its state of the art facilities, he owed the Legion complete allegiance now; it was his duty.

Guardian allowed herself to digest this information, chewed on it a bit as if it were ordinary cud. Memories surfaced:

Never would she forget the weathered twin heads of her mentor, a creature of bone and skin that had seemingly forever been in service. All Guardian puppeteer foals, upon reaching a certain age, were assigned a personal teacher, typically the honorable retired that were the closest to the Hindmost and most loyal, to condition and train them. Guardian Fleet-Foot's teacher, who insisted on being called Mentor lest she be punished for any other name, had been stern and unyielding, viciously harsh. He was a living fossil that had been alive since the days of pioneer longevity drugs, the ones that had significantly slowed down the aging process to almost a halt. Several of his fingerlets were missing, still at his insistence.

Fleet-Foot had been rambunctious as a filly. All too clearly she could remember the precise clawed hoof squeezing one of her throats as it pressed into the grass for daring to speak against him, and mockingly so. Although having barely shed her brown spotted baby pelt, she could remember Mentor's cool breath, his red dull eye, the cracked gray tongue: The galaxy was not ruled by foals, especially foolish foals. It never was and never will.

She was no longer a foal that day.

The past was blinked away. How bizarre that it was that not just one planet, but many of them, had put their complete trust and safety into the juveniles of their respective species. "Interesting method of ensuring peace, to trust the young." The translator, somehow, had managed to convey the distant tone in her song.

"It's not so unusual," Brainiac said off-handedly as he continued to study the technological blueprints of Guardian off the readings detected on his omnicom, "for elders to go to war, but send the young to fight. Regardless, it is the young who should, and do have the most incentive in guarding the worlds they will one day inherit. While organizations like the Legion have not always been approved of by the official sanctions, it has always been in the best interest of the galaxy that we act. Idealism and youth are often quite inseparable attributes.

"I have to add, Guardian, the schematics of your cybernetic enhancements are quite remarkable." There was obvious admiration in his voice, rarely given.

"We are an old species," she sang. Seniority in the Herd was valued. Once a prey beast, to be old is to display fitness, wisdom, the natural proof of genes fit to be passed down to the next generation. The stupid and weak had died young.

But then again, perhaps this Brainiac was correct: She had "died" young in hyperspace while the Elder Council and Mentors grazed in the comfort of the Homeworld and in close proximity of the great Hindmost. Her nostrils briefly flared with this peculiar revelation; was she unfit?

In defiance of the thought, she wearily tried to get back to her three feet, the limbs shuddering and straining. Too weak. It frustrated her. "All in my caste are altered in this way when their age is sufficient. Normally my people are quite fragile, physically."

"A warrior caste?" Vaguely similar to Shikari's people, it seemed, though he had a feeling that Guardian was from a distinctly different culture from the peaceful, nomadic Kwai.

He frowned. "Your resolution is all very exemplary, but in your current condition I'd advise you against attempting to stand."

A pair of heads swung in his direction as if indignant. Puppeteers communicated by song, posture and scent; there was no need for facial expressions and the snouts and loose lips suggested nothing.

"Yes. Admire me as you will; you will never see another member of my caste other than myself. Ever." Her hind leg collapsed, and the rest of her fell to her disappearing belly, similar to a foal's failed attempt at its first steps. Her torso was marked by emerging ribs.

Brainiac 5 raised a brow, mildly concerned by the sentient's efforts but not enough to interfere. If it was a matter of pride or integrity her culture instilled in her, or simply her own stubbornheadedness (he had long ago learned the futility of trying to help those who simply wished against aid. It was a futile endeavor). "Oh? Then enlighten me on the reasons for your certainty."

"Secret."

This biped was smart, Guardian decided. He surely could decipher that she meant more than what was implied with just that one word. With that, she remained in the grass.

"How very laconic of you." Despite himself, he gave a wry smirk. Guardian may be proud and arguably masochistic, but at least she wasn't a complete imbecile like most of the humanoids of this era.

"Nonetheless, it all makes very little difference; we're both conveniently trapped in this dimension. You're actually the first extraterrestrial sentient I've encountered since I was separated from the Legion."

The puppeteer studied Brainiac for a moment. No surprise they all were surrounded by stupid primates.

"Are you dead?"

The question caught Brainiac off guard momentarily with its bluntness. "Uh... no." He explained: "I was displaced here when a backlash of vibrational frequencies disrupted the time-space continuum of my world, sending the Legion into the dimensional stream. While it is theoretically plausible that we may have been erased from reality as we know it through some sort of discontinuity in the multi-verse, it would be an inaccurate conclusion to say I was dead."

The puppeteer weakly perked a head up. Any emotions the other alien placed into her words were there on purpose, which in this case, was a very clear and obvious puzzlement. "Then, I am dead. I died recently, odd as it is to say, as my race has concluded that we have no undying part and that our demise is eternal. I never believed that however, and perhaps rightly so; still, I live," then, gesturing to her ribs, "as I hurt and I starve.

"I seldom make requests, but I wish to ask if you have food dispenser of some sort that caters to different species? I wish for something more filling than these empty excuses for vegetation."

"You've been eating the flowers? If you're a herbivore, as your anatomy suggests, you'd be better off obtaining nutrition from the food vendors." Of course, Guardian walking to one of these stores right now was out of the question, and he had no knowledge of her food preferences.

Brainiac crossed his arms and considered. After a moment's consideration, he suggested, "Though it would mean further expenditure on my part, I could carry you in a force field to a more abundant source of edible vegetation, if you wish.

Correction: Guardian should have been eating the flowers, even if a normal puppeteer unfortunate enough to have been plucked from his comfortable pasture into this twisted world would have avoided any sort of unclean alien food. If she had been aware of human food, she would have labeled the items she had been eating from the inefficient waste receptacles (and perhaps avoided them, rather than humans themselves): a can caked with filthy vegetable broth remains, a plastic bag with some slimy lettuce, french fries soaked in drain-o, a hunk of yellow cheese peppered with a green mold, half of a nibbled roast beef sandwich...

A head sniffed at a nearby flower, the black tongue reaching out and twisting around it. It was prehensile, uprooting the little plant and pulling it towards her mouth. Should have found this place earlier.

"Will the vegetation here satisfy my nutritional requirements?" Anything would be more satisfying than the filthy discarded remains of wasteful primates, processed with none of the necessary minerals and nutrients with hollow, artificial flavors to seal it all.

"Hypothetically, if it's not processed. 21st century food manufacture was hideously inefficient in its production, and often destroyed nutrients in favour of gustatory appeasement." Of course, he was unaware that she'd been eating the exact thing, coupled with days' worth of rot and contamination.

A force field disk was formed beneath her and, with considerable concentration on Brainiac's part, was slowly lifted into the air. Once hovering, it expanded into a sphere to contain Guardian and prevent the wind friction of flight to buffer her.

"I hope you don't have any fear of heights." That said, both he and his passenger were launched into the sky in flight.

Guardian yawned both heads in distaste, fingerlets briefly curling back to reveal yellow incisors; humans truly were disgusting creatures. Disgusting both in appearance and habits!

The force field disk had taken her by surprise, however; did not anticipate it. He was saying things, but while puppeteers happened to be honest creatures of contract, a trading race, Guardian had learned to trust no one but her superiors. Suppose she would be guided to fresher pastures then. It would hurt less than starvation.

The sphere reminded her of her own species' sonic foils, a safety mechanism designed for their terrestrial transportation devices, such as a flycycle. A discordant blat of brass: She had no fear of heights. What kind of space-faring warrior would she be otherwise?

The trip was not long, though the mental strain required to move such a mass in a would have buckled any lesser mind. Ideally, this sort of transportation entailed a metahuman with superstrength and flight capabilities to carry the force field, with Brainiac inside.

He landed outside a homely grocery store, and disengaged the orb in the middle of the sidewalk. An array of fruits and vegetables were laid out, piled on top one another in organized stacks; each of them, flawless - a suspicious characteristic of the dimension. Everything in the City had an alluring quality, tempting each of the senses and the weaknesses of the mind with sweet, perfect promises - but Brainiac couldn't help but relate them to the tactics of carnivorous plants.

"They accept any form of currency in this city, apparently," he informed Guardian. "Or you could barter. I only have a few more credits on me." Fortunately for him, Coluans required little more nutrition than that provided by sunlight, water, and the chlorophyll in their blood.

"Chrrr, that would be to my benefit, if I had my currency with me." Surely there was another name for what the puppeteers had considered their money but the translator had settled for "currency."

The two aliens talking had attracted the attentions of the store owners, an old couple making a decent living through the seemingly perfect soil, fertile and rich, ideal for any crop they wished. Guardian had perked a head, anticipating their arrival and expecting an adverse reaction to her appearance, they gave none, instead showing more concern over the horrendous state of her body, her pelt still caked.

Blood was a universal sign.

The elder primates shrieked: "What in the Good Lord's name is that?"

"I don't know. It looks hurt."

An old but strong woman adjusted her small glasses carefully balanced on the end of her nose, allowing her eyes to focus on the pair of strange visitors. Naturally she turned to face Brainiac: "Hello... May we... help you?"

The green-skinned humanoid crossed his arms. "Not particularly. However, Guardian is in need of some medical attention and, above all, substantial nutrition." The tone of his voice had reverted back to the uptight impatience reserved for those of significantly lower intellects. "Its techno-organic implants will assist in her convalescence, but as far as I can ascertain, it's not properly eaten for at least a week."

Brainiac threw Guardian a reluctant glance. "I have... 38 credits left. And," he added, pointing an accusatory finger at the two-headed sentient, "I fully trust that you will be cooperative?"

Guardian did the puppeteer equivalent of a sneer, a crooked sneeze of a tuba, which startled the couple somehow; they already had no idea what to make of her, more or less expect her to make strange noises like that. She would cooperate, but it would be at the expense of her pride. She could take care of herself. She had taken care of herself. She was young and she was strong, even in death.

And she only took orders from the Hindmost. This Brainiac biped was anything but; he was wise and he was glorious, for one.

"That is a she?" blinked the old man. Guardian indignantly whipped a head in his direction; some puppeteers preferred to be referred to as a he regardless of their gender since what they called their "female," a different specie, was a non-sentient pet of sorts. Guardian did not care but she did not like the tone of his voice.

The woman was more empathetic, turning around for a moment to take a carrot from the display (it looked kind of like a horse, or a camel...) and offer it to a head. It sniffed, then the fingerlets harshly took it from her and the root quickly disappeared with several crunches. The woman was taken aback.

"It bites?" she nervously asked.