It was never supposed to be like this.

Somehow- and he didn't know how, which was an increasingly infuriating realization- but somehow, one of the Galvan's calculations went awry. Whatever that may have been, whatever may have gone wrong, was utterly lost to him, and utterly unimportant to any upcoming events now.

It didn't mean that he didn't want to know what went wrong in the first place, however.

So there Azmuth was, the greatest mind in three galaxies, working at the sheltered peak of a astounding tower. It was tall by all means, polished and shining, standing proud in the alien's planet. Windows displayed the clean and organized environment outside, taunting the Galvan within mounted walls and bringing trails of light unto his labors.

He had been atop the building for a considerable amount of time, the measurement lost to the genius. Endless reconstructions of his most prized creation laid scattered around Azmuth, reminding him of his failures. Even now, his fragile fingers worked to string together another failing prototype, success washing away into the passing hours.

Before long, it too was tossed to aside, too intricately built to survive the heavy crash to the floor. Azmuth took some relish of the telltale shattering of glass and weak metal. They always ended somewhat like that, it seemed.

The grey alien sighed, taking his head into calloused palms. It was frustrating- he had constructed the item of his endeavors once before! Why not again?

Azmuth had notes, of course. Any self-respecting scientist did. But those detailed a construct that was flawless in making. The object he aspired to remake was very much flawed, because truly, if he did not know what he had done wrong, he could not fix it. Whilst he could probably make do with traveling to Earth and prizing the original from where he knew it sat in a certain teenage boy's closet, he knew that it was unfortunately nonoperational. Nonworking, dormant, collecting dust. His greatest creation.

Another sigh. If such substances such as liquor existed on his beautiful planet, Azmuth would be drowning in it. Ah, well. It appeared that the universe would have to deal with it's easily plausible doom until the correct solution presented itself. He was the only one to blame, really, and Azmuth knew that. The Omnitrix was so damaged, so corruptible, and it's host so... corrupted. Sentimental. Trapped.

It was never supposed to be this way. Yet, it was.

"Delightful," he muttered, and his voice was scratchy and devoid of that thing people liked to call hope.