Chapter 9: Origins - Part 9
Huff... huff...
Max Tennyson lay sprawled on the cold metamaterial floor, chest heaving, lungs burning with each ragged breath that tasted of smoke and copper and the acrid bite of discharged energy weapons. His vision swam slightly, edges blurring, and every muscle in his body screamed protest—a symphony of pain conducted by adrenaline crash and middle-aged mortality.
The ceiling above him was a blur of emergency lighting—red and amber strobes that pulsed in rhythm with the distant alarms still wailing somewhere in the Archives' depths. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, structural damage from the battle, and through one particularly wide fissure Max could see sparks raining down like dying fireflies.
Just... need a minute, he thought, each breath a conscious effort. Just one minute to...
A small head appeared in his field of vision, blocking out the emergency lights.
Azmuth stared down at him, bulbous green eyes narrowed, rectangular pupils contracted to slits, the four thin tendrils beneath his jaw twitching with what might've been concern or irritation—Max had never been good at reading Galvan microexpressions.
"Are you still alive?" Azmuth's voice was flat, clinical, the tone of someone conducting a status check rather than expressing genuine worry.
Max managed a weak grin, blood still warm on his lips. "Define... 'alive.'"
"Responsive to external stimuli. Cardiovascular system functional. No critical organ failure." Azmuth tilted his head, tendrils flexing. "So yes. Alive."
"Then yeah," Max wheezed. "Still kicking."
Azmuth's eyes narrowed further—definitely irritation this time. "Then get up." The words came sharp, clipped, carrying an edge of urgency that cut through Max's exhaustion like a blade. "Now is not the time to be lying around feeling sorry for yourself."
Max blinked, processing, then—despite the pain, despite the bone-deep exhaustion—let out a breathless laugh. "You know, Azmuth, your bedside manner could use some work."
"I'm not a physician. I'm an engineer." Azmuth hopped backward, giving Max space. "And if you don't move in the next thirty seconds, we're both going to need one. Assuming we survive long enough to find one."
Fair point.
Max groaned—low, guttural, the sound of a body that had been pushed past its limits and was being asked to go further—and rolled onto his side. His ribs protested immediately, sharp stabbing pains that suggested at least one cracked bone, maybe two. His left shoulder ached where Vilgax's fist had connected, the joint feeling loose, unstable, probably dislocated and improperly reset by the armor's automatic compression systems.
But he'd been hurt worse.
Probably.
Max planted one hand on the floor, pushed, and levered himself upright with a series of pops and cracks that would've made a chiropractor weep. He swayed slightly, vertigo washing over him in a brief wave, then steadied.
"There," he said, spitting blood to the side—bright red against gray floor. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic," Azmuth replied, utterly deadpan. "Now listen."
Max opened his mouth—probably to offer some reassurance, some platitude about backup arriving, about the Green Lanterns regrouping, about holding the line until reinforcements could turn the tide—but the words died in his throat.
Because he looked at Azmuth's face.
Really looked.
And saw the truth written in those large, ancient eyes: exhaustion, yes, but also resignation. The expression of someone who'd already done the math, who'd run every scenario through that brilliant mind, who'd reached the same conclusion every time and finally accepted it.
Galvan Prime was lost.
"We just need to hold on," Max said anyway, voice steady despite the hollow feeling spreading through his chest. "Until backup arrives. The Lanterns will regroup, the Plumbers will send reinforcements, we can still—"
"Max." Azmuth's voice cut through the false hope like a scalpel through tissue. "Stop."
Max's jaw clenched, teeth grinding.
"Galvan Prime was lost the moment Vilgax set his sights on it." Azmuth spoke with the calm certainty of someone reciting mathematical proofs—cold, precise, undeniable. "He brought fifteen Knights. Clones, yes, but first-generation. Stable. Powerful. Each one capable of matching a Green Lantern in single combat."
The small Galvan gestured toward the ruined entrance, where smoke still poured from the hole Vilgax had carved. "One hundred and fifty Lanterns responded to our distress call. Do you know how many are still fighting?"
Max didn't answer. Couldn't.
"Twelve," Azmuth continued, relentless. "I've been monitoring the tactical network. Twelve Lanterns. Against fifteen Knights and whatever drone reserves Vilgax still has in orbit." His tendrils flexed, a gesture of bitter acceptance. "The Plumbers here are scattered, leaderless. Our planetary defense grid was disabled in the first wave. And you—you, Max Tennyson, one of the greatest field operatives the Plumbers ever produced—barely survived a single flawed clone."
The words should've stung. Should've felt like condemnation.
But they were just truth.
Max looked down at his hands—scarred, callused, trembling slightly from exhaustion—and said nothing.
"You know this," Azmuth said quietly. "Deep down, you've known since the moment you saw that warship in orbit. You just didn't want to admit it."
Max exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. "We can still... there has to be..."
"No." The single syllable fell like a judge's gavel. "There isn't."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by distant explosions and the crackle of fires that would burn until there was nothing left to consume.
Then Azmuth turned away, moving with purpose despite his six-inch frame, and hopped toward the center of the ruined laboratory where the larger containment sphere still floated, suspended by anti-gravity emitters that hummed softly in the chaos.
"But," Azmuth said, his back to Max, "though Galvan Prime may fall, though this world may be reduced to ash and memory..."
He reached up with both small hands, touching the sphere, and his voice dropped—softer, weighted with something Max had rarely heard from the cynical old scientist.
"...we must protect the Omnitrix."
The larger sphere's surface shimmered, panels sliding apart with mechanical precision, and the smaller orb inside—the one Azmuth had pulled from the computer core, the one containing everything—floated free.
It hovered in the air for a moment, glowing faintly green, pulsing with contained potential that made the air around it feel alive, charged with possibility.
Then a new container materialized—summoned from somewhere in the lab's automated systems—descending on repulsor fields. It was larger than the sphere, roughly the size of a medium dog, sleek and cylindrical, made of the same blue-green metamaterial as the Archives' walls but reinforced, shielded, designed to withstand atmospheric re-entry and orbital bombardment.
A proper transport pod.
The smaller orb drifted into the pod's open maw, settling into custom-fitted cushioning, and with a pneumatic hiss the container sealed itself—panels sliding shut, locking mechanisms engaging with soft clicks, indicator lights shifting from red to amber to steady green.
SECURE.
The pod rotated slowly, then drifted toward Max on silent repulsors, coming to rest at chest height.
Azmuth turned, and for a moment—just a moment—the mask of clinical detachment slipped. His eyes were tired. Ancient. Carrying the weight of knowledge and the cost it demanded.
"Max Tennyson," he said, voice formal despite their decades of friendship, "you are my oldest friend. My most trusted ally." A pause. "There is no one—no one—I would trust more with this burden."
Max stared at the pod, at the faint green glow visible through the seams, at the symbol etched into its surface: the Plumber insignia, the hourglass on a circular disk, marking it as property of an organization dedicated to protecting the innocent.
His hands moved of their own accord, reaching out, taking the pod. It was heavier than it looked—not physically, but conceptually, the weight of responsibility settling onto his shoulders like a cloak made of lead.
"Azmuth..." Max's voice was rough, thick with emotion he didn't have time to process. "Is there no other way?"
The Galvan's expression didn't change. "I'm afraid not."
Azmuth hopped down from his elevated position, landing with barely a sound, and began walking—if such small steps could be called walking—toward the center of the laboratory, toward the master control console that still flickered with dying power.
"Azmuth, wait—" Max took a step forward, pod clutched against his chest. "Come with me. We'll get to my ship, both of us, we can—"
"No."
The word was gentle. Final.
Azmuth didn't turn around. "The Omnitrix is more important than I am. More important than both of us." His small hands moved across a holographic interface, fingers dancing through commands Max couldn't follow. "If Vilgax obtains it, if any of the warlords or tyrants clawing for power in this galaxy get their hands on it..."
He trailed off, but the implication hung heavy.
"Someone needs to stay," Azmuth continued. "To purge the databases. To destroy any research that could lead them to it. To buy you time to escape." Finally, he glanced back over his shoulder, green eyes meeting Max's blue ones. "That someone is me."
Max's throat tightened. "Azmuth—"
"Go."
The command cracked like a whip.
"Get the Omnitrix out of here. Off-world. Hide it. Protect it. Find someone worthy—someone good—and when the time is right..." Azmuth's expression softened, just slightly. "...give them the chance to be better than we were."
Max stood frozen, every instinct screaming at him to argue, to grab the stubborn little frog and drag him to safety, to refuse to leave anyone behind because that wasn't what you did, you didn't abandon your friends, you—
But deep down, in the part of him that had survived forty years of field operations by making the hard calls, by doing what was necessary rather than what was right—
—he knew Azmuth was correct.
Max's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His hands tightened on the pod until his knuckles went white.
Then, with gritted teeth and a heart that felt like it was tearing in half, he turned.
And ran.
Boots pounding against debris-strewn floor, armor joints protesting, ribs screaming with each jarring step—but he ran. Down corridors that groaned with structural damage, past labs that burned with chemical fires, through doorways that sparked and flickered.
He didn't look back.
Couldn't.
If he looked back, he'd stop. And if he stopped, they'd both die, and the Omnitrix would fall into Vilgax's hands, and everything—everything—would be for nothing.
So Max ran.
The pod felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
---
The Central Archives main entrance had been a grand affair once—massive doors carved with Galvan script, ceremonial more than functional, a symbol of knowledge preserved and shared.
Now it was a smoking crater, doors blown inward, walls scorched black, and through the opening Max could see the battlefield beyond.
Galvan Prime burned.
Fires painted the orange sky in shades of red and black. Towers that had stood for millennia lay toppled like fallen giants. The metallic streets were cratered, littered with the wreckage of drones and the bodies of those who'd tried to defend them.
And in the distance—everywhere in the distance—explosions bloomed. Green flashes where Lanterns still fought. Red beams where Knights unleashed their terrible heat vision. The sound was constant: thunder without lightning, a symphony of destruction conducted by an orchestra that never tired.
Max stopped at the threshold, chest heaving, and stared.
He'd fought in wars. He'd seen worlds burn.
But this...
God, this...
A Green Lantern construct—a massive emerald sword—flashed across his field of vision, only to shatter against a Knight's hammer. The Lantern fell, ring flickering, and didn't rise.
Max felt something cold settle in his stomach. Not fear. Not grief.
Guilt.
Because he was leaving them. All of them. Running while they died.
But the pod in his arms pulsed faintly, warm against his chest, and Azmuth's words echoed:
The Omnitrix is more important than I am. More important than both of us.
Max closed his eyes. Breathed.
Then opened them and moved.
He sprinted across the battlefield's edge, hugging cover where he could find it—ruined buildings, overturned vehicles, anything that might hide him from the Knights still hunting. His Plumber training took over: move low, move fast, eyes scanning for threats, path plotted three steps ahead.
A drone hover overhead. Max froze, pressing himself against a wall, and the robot passed without noticing—too focused on searching.
Another explosion, closer this time, showering him with debris. Max covered the pod instinctively, body curled around it like a shield.
Keep moving. Don't stop. Don't think. Just move.
The rocky outcroppings that marked Galvan Prime's wilderness began to rise around him—natural formations untouched by the city's geometric perfection, all jagged stone and wind-carved pillars. His ship was out here, hidden in a canyon he'd scouted weeks ago, camouflaged and ready.
Max scrambled over boulders, boots slipping on loose gravel, lungs burning, every breath a knife in his side.
And then—
There.
His ship.
A Plumber scout vessel, sleek and compact, matte-black hull designed for stealth rather than combat. The boarding ramp was already lowered, interior lights glowing soft amber, and it looked like salvation made metal.
Max stumbled up the ramp, pod still clutched tight, and collapsed into the pilot's seat with a groan that was half relief, half agony.
His hands moved automatically—flipping switches, pressing buttons, entering launch sequences drilled into muscle memory. The console lit up, systems coming online with soft chimes and electronic hums.
Before hitting the final ignition, Max allowed himself one last look.
Through the viewport, he could see Galvan Prime spread below: the burning city, the toppled towers, the sky choked with smoke and drones.
He could see the Central Archives in the distance, still standing, still defiant.
And somewhere inside, a six-inch-tall genius was making his final stand.
"Forgive me," Max whispered.
Then he slammed the ignition.
The ship's engines roared to life, repulsors firing, and the vessel lifted—slowly at first, then faster, climbing toward the bruised orange sky and the stars beyond.
Max didn't look back.
Couldn't afford to.
The Omnitrix pulsed faintly in its pod, and Max Tennyson—veteran, grandfather, protector—pointed his ship toward Earth and prayed he'd made the right choice.
Behind him, Galvan Prime continued to burn.