Chapter Text
The Ark Project, they called it.
Questionable creativity aside, that was the name of the equally questionable experiment being carried out in the now flourishing area known as Bellwood. The project itself was no secret, as it was the talk of the town, but only a select few truly knew what was occurring behind closed doors. It was decided that, in order to create diplomacy with the planets still unsure of creating contact with Earth – a planet already bustling from interplanetary mixing – to consider engaging with Earth’s environment, representatives could be made to demonstrate Earth’s availability.
To do so required the assistance of one Benjamin Tennyson (alternatively “Ben 10,000”)… not for his heroics, but for the infamous device attached to him that, as its creator deemed it, an ark for millions of species across the galaxy. Multiple patterns of DNA donors were extracted from the Omnitrix, duplicated repeatedly and used to create “test tube baby” copies of the wielder’s alien forms, raised to become adapted to Earth’s environment and, hopefully, be convincing enough to their alma mater planets… homes they never knew they belonged to.
The thought constantly played over and over in one subject’s mind, and frankly it made him feel… existential. Or maybe he was just that bored. Subject OM 2.0-4752-32, affectionately dubbed “Big Chill” by Tennyson, breathed out a faint cloud of icy mist as he willed himself off the bed provided to him.
The accommodations for the Ark creations were not uninteresting. These “apartments” provided to individual subjects were small but livable, with all their environmental needs met. It reminded him of the hives created back on his home planet Kylmyys… but only through informational reading, not by personal experience. Communal living, if one could call it that. Sure, they were pampered per se, but they were still test subjects under observation, something the more indifferent species like Big Chill came to realize early on, and couldn’t quite shake off. And with all of the Ark’s restrictions piled on, it made boredom all the more dreadful. Free time spent with books or endless access to the Extranet only did so much to entertain a person.
His stomach gurgled. Despite his species’ tendency to go long periods without needing to eat, food was still a must. At least eating would give him something to do.
Big Chill stretched his blue leathery wings out – a good twelve feet from tip to tip, at least, dotted with pale blue eyespots – before furling them back into a cloak-like form. The living space was nice, but some more time flying outside would be even better. As he left the room, he reminded himself that he would have to take the elevator this time. He wasn’t exactly in trouble for ghosting through several floors to get places, but he and others with similar abilities were warned that it often messed with security systems, scrambling communications when they passed through electrical wires (particularly when his own powers could cause things to freeze over.)
He sighed again, a sizable cloud of icy mist escaping him as he closed his dorm door behind him. His long, forked toes grazed the floor as he made the short journey to the elevator, dodging other creatures that also occupied the hallway, chittering and communicating with one another a la universal communicators. Every new alien received a small diamond-shaped chip of sorts that, while keeping tabs on the activity and health status of every occupant, in turn could translate their vocalizations to anyone within close enough range.
Big Chill pressed the number of the desired floor onto the keypad, and rested against the nearest wall. The doors hummed quietly closed… until an intrusive force halted their efforts and forced a retreat to let in the second occupant.
Ducking into the little metal box was another alien. Big Chill had to tilt his head upwards to meet the eyes of the towering plant-being attached to the hand that halted the closing doors. Towering enough to the point they had to duck to get inside. OM-2.0-9373-04, or as Big Chill and other occupants had come to recognize him, “Swampfire.” Swampfire shuffled in awkwardly, not quite meeting Big Chill’s gaze, standing against the other wall.
“Er… ‘morning.”
“Good morning.”
The doors closed unceremoniously in front of them, and the elevator descended with a hum.
Swampfire cleared his throat, his leaves bristling as he shuffled again in place. Big Chill took notice of this, side-eyeing the Methanosian. “Something on your mind?”
The breathy remark caught Swampfire off-guard. “Huh? Uh, no. I mean, kind of, but…” He scratched at one of his fiery colored plumes. “If you need someone to eat with, I’m heading to the cafeteria?”
Big Chill’s brow arched, more confused than suspicious. “Are you asking me to sit with you?”
“I might be. Unless you’ve got others to be around?”
Another cloud of mist escaped Big Chill’s mouth. “I don’t.”
“Great! Neither do I.”
The reaction surprised Big Chill. Swampfire quickly rebounded. “I mean, not that I can’t, but it’s hard to make friends around here, you know?”
Big Chill understood this quite well. Despite the best wishes of the Ark Project, only one of each species could be made at a time to make any progress towards kinship with one’s own species. That way a group of the same species wouldn't have to be forces into awkward communal living with each other. On the other hand, no two species in Ark were quite alike. Most alien groups bonded over their shared abilities or neighboring homeworlds, but didn't have much else to go on.
The elevator dinged, alerting the two beings to their destination. The doors parted, revealing a sprawling central area for dining. Hot, cooked foods were served in stations, while produce and other such food items were up for grabs along opposite walls.
Swampfire elbowed Big Chill. “Tell you what, go grab whatever hot food you want, I’ll meet up with you. I know where they keep a lot of the good stuff here!” He said before leaving the Necrofriggian.
What’s with this guy? Big Chill wasn’t sure what to make of this sudden companionship. But… it made his morning a little more interesting, so perhaps this was a turn for the better. Dodging bigger alien life forms from shoving past him, Big Chill hovered towards the food line. Earth food sounded fine for now: eggs, bacon, a pancake or two. Hopefully it’d be enough to share with Swampfire. Unless he didn’t eat meat… or did he? He winced. That probably would’ve been a good thing to ask first.
Swampfire waved him over to a table the two could share. Big Chill sat across from him, keeping his wings tucked in close (letting them fall loose led to getting trampled on on too many occasions). “I didn’t know what you wanted.”
“Doesn’t matter to me.” Swampfire said, helping himself to a bacon strip.
“You eat meat?”
“Not always. Why?”
“I mean… you’re basically a plant.”
“Yeah, and?”
“It’s not an issue to you?”
“My species used to be carnivorous, if you can believe that.” Swampfire said, torching the slice of meat to a crisp by means of the flammable opening in his palm before taking a sizable bite. Seemed to make enough sense. What would an overgrown plant need with legs anyway if it didn’t need to move (or teeth, he noticed)? Big Chill left it at that with a thoughtful bite of scrambled egg.
Swampfire pushed a rather unsavory looking item towards Big Chill. “Try that.” He said, with a little smile. The Necrofriggian wasn’t sure what to make of this offer. The fruit(?) in question was oblong, with a fuzzy, textured outside, with a distasteful purple-grey color. “Tastes better than it looks, trust me.” The plantoid offered, taking the offering and splitting it, revealing its purple, fleshy innards.
Big Chill tried his hardest to mask his hesitance. He carefully took a piece of the fleshy fruit, parted his vented “lips,” and tasted the foreign food. Much to his surprise, it was incredibly sweet and succulent. Despite it’s less than attractive appearance, it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted.
“Giru fruit. Ugly on the outside, tasty on the inside.” Swampfire boasted while simultaneously studying Big Chill's method of eating. He didn't think Necrofriggians had actual "mouths" before now!
“Hmmh… it’s very good. Something from your planet?”
“Nope. Just one of many I come across from time to time. Because, y’know,” Swampfire teased “I’m a plant.” He said, badly imitating Big Chill’s voice in his nasally tone.
Big Chill raised a fist to his mouth, shaking. One might assume from his raspy voice he was coughing, when in fact he was holding back a laugh at the impression of him. It wasn’t even that funny! Why was he laughing??
Breakfast carried on with light conversation. Puns and light-hearted jabs were exchanged. How long had these two been this close in vicinity, but had never met?
Midway through his last chunk of Giru, Swampfire’s demeanor shifted. “So, uh… since we’re here, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Mm?” Big Chill savored the tasty morsel.
“Um…. I notice you go above ground a lot. Would you… would you mind if I joined you?”
The Necrofriggian paused, swallowing. Big Chill often made clear his intentions on being alone. Not to spite anyone, but it was pretty common for his kind to wander on their own for a time. But that wasn’t a habit he could keep up forever. Even in his relatively short existence so far, the gnawing ache of loneliness would catch up to him.
Big Chill stood, calmly, tidying up their shared meal. “Meet me near the exit when you can. You’d better bring an I.D. mask and whatever credits you’ve got. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Swampfire stared, then grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”