Chapter 1
Every Sovereign citizen is born equally perfect. At least, that's what the Sovereign tell the rest of the galaxy. Every now and then, an older birthing pod will malfunction or someone will stub their toe on the door and a new Sovereign man or woman will come out slightly less perfect than all the others.
These newborn adults are promptly executed as well as the birthing pod's manufacturer, whoever was monitoring the birthing pod, and anyone else who was getting on the supervisor's nerves.
Such was the case for Aria, who wasn't really Aria because that name was meant for someone who came out just as perfect and stupid as the rest of the sovereign, but the individual formerly known as Aria had not.
Not-Aria’s birthing pod had been newly produced by a young man called Gibsli. Gibsli wasn't bright, as most Sovereign aren't, but he had an incredible passion for his work. His design was ornate, a spectacle of shimmering dials and a sleek chamber where the new Sovereign would be born. But, while the casing was a work of art, the infrastructure was not. If he had time before he was efficiently disintegrated, he'd have admitted that he'd stolen the internal design from a late colleague's birthing pod. Gibsli hadn't quite figured out why said colleague was no longer living.
When Not-Aria emerged, her right arm came out stumpy and small, and it was a muted yellow instead of brilliant gold like the rest of her skin; a result of the bone not growing enough to fit the sculpted chamber. Her eyes were a problem too. One was slightly smaller than the other, and the smaller eye's sclera was a muddy red instead of a soft goldenrod. To make matters worse, the bone structure in her hips and pelvis looked like an orloni had been tangled in it, giving her hips a lumpy, slanting look.
She was almost, but not quite, beautiful. But what she lacked in perfection, she made up for in luck.
Just after Gibsli and the poor woman overseeing her birth were taken care of, but not before Not-Aria herself, someone in the dungeons below the Sovereign's fourth planet chose that exact moment to commit treason. Not-Aria didn't know who or why, and frankly, she didn't care. Her first two minutes in the universe contained two deaths and she wasn't too keen on it so far.
Thus, Not-Aria was rushed through a training course that lasted 14 Sovereign hours and was dropped into the dungeons with the basics of gun-holding as a replacement for the previous guard. She was away from all other citizens except insubordinates and other "lucky" imperfect folk such as herself who were appointed as guards. Oh, and the prisoners of course.
A few minutes later, the name Aria was given to a perfect woman born out of a perfectly functional birthing pod. Not-Aria hadn't even known of the name she almost had and wasn't sure what to call herself. She had a number on her guard uniform, but that wasn't very fair, was it? If the prisoners and other guards got names, she should get one, too.
She weighed her options and decided on something long and nice-sounding: Magazine. It was her favorite part of her new gun. When she opened it, it made a lovely clicking sound, and she could pour in more small golden pellets to fire at the walls.
If she knew more words, she might have chosen something more socially acceptable, but she liked it all the same and the other guards were too wishy-washy to think that it was strange. They didn’t think of anyone other than themselves, really. That was another flaw of Magazine. She cared to know far too much about her fellow guards and even the prisoners. Useless things like how they were or which color they liked best. It was completely out of character for one of the Sovereign who are known throughout the galaxy as “self-centered asshats”. In any case, it wasn’t long before her full name was lost on lazy tongues and she became Maggie.
You wouldn’t think the Sovereign would employ someone like Maggie in the dungeon. Folks like her were better off not existing at all. However, most of the “criminals” in the dungeons were large, intimidating individuals who would send a “we captured this guy, we could easily capture you” sort of message to anyone who took a tour.
In reality, these prisoners were mostly for show. A good three-fourths of them had only committed crimes like treading on the wrong pathway or stuttering in the presence of the High Priestess when she was in a bad mood. Being a guard was a perfectly simple job for the scum of Sovereign society.
Maggie quite enjoyed her job. She got to use locks and keys which made nice clunking sounds and there was always a pleasant buzzing from overhead lighting. Maggie was fond of sounds and would take any opportunity to hear one of her favorites.
There was also the shooting range where she could shoot tiny targets shaped like orloni and f’saki. She liked shooting immensely and would practice every chance she got. At first, it was hard to cock and shoot a gun with only one good arm and a blurry red eye, but she managed. With all of the practice, she quickly built up an impressive skill as a gunwoman.
After a few years of living what seemed like a fulfilling life of loading guns and pacing hallways, something interesting happened. That was Maggie’s least favorite type of thing. She hated it when someone messed up her routine, even if it was for something exciting.
On this interesting morning, the supervisor, a snobby man who spat every time he talked, had an announcement. The Sovereign had caught a criminal. A real one.
Unlike the phony felons who committed misdemeanors, this was a Child of Thanos. Maggie didn’t exactly know who Thanos was, but people seemed to say his name the way they spoke of abelisks or poorly dressed foreigners. So, she concluded he must be horrible.
“Our sentries have apprehended Nebula, Daughter of Thanos, attempting to steal our Anulax Batteries,” said the supervisor, spraying the front row with gold-colored saliva. “One of you will be assigned as a guard for this outlaw and only this outlaw.”
The secretary lazily scanned the crowd of lesser beings and glanced at his roster.
“Mag…azine?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust at such an improper name. “Whomever among you calls yourself ‘Magazine’ shall be said guard for first half-revolution.”
Maggie’s face soured. First, she had to have an unusually interesting day, and now she would have to find an entirely new routine? Just perfect.
The supervisor led her to the new cell. This one had even thicker clear walls and a door that was reinforced with shiny metal. Vibranium, she recalled. Inside, there was a person. She was slumped over and completely concealed by a large, dirty cloak. She didn’t seem all that dangerous to Maggie.
In truth, the Sovereign would’ve rather captured the fellow with the ugly nose or the woman with freakish horns, but this one would do. Having someone with the title of “Biggest Sadist in the Galaxy” incarcerated meant lots of brownie points for their military.
The supervisor handed her a larger gun and a shiny new name badge with her new sector on it. He gave her a half-hearted salute and told her he’d bring the second guard when her shift was up. He then stalked away haughtily with a sway in his hips.
Maggie peered into the cell once more, listening. There were no clunks of turning keys or shouts from disgruntled prisoners. Even the lights’ buzzing seemed fainter. There was no sound or movement from this Nebula person. It was incredibly underwhelming.
Just wonderful. She’d had it so good before, and now there wasn’t even enough room to pace properly. She settled for tapping her foot impatiently and glaring at her prisoner with as much Sovereign pride and disdain as she could muster. That bit was tricky because she had about half as much pride as a functional Sovereign did.
The uneventfulness continued for the rest of her shift until Maggie fell asleep from sheer boredom. She slept slumped against the cold metal wall until the other guard came in to work their shift, kicked her awake, and sent her out for the night. She desperately hoped the next day wouldn't be as interesting as this one had been.