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Robotnik:
It was going to happen. It had, probably, only been a matter of time, come to think of it. Dr. Ivo Robotnik would die of a stroke and/or heart-attack induced by severe and unadulterated rage. Not by outer-space incineration but by rage.
Rage over, first: the ungrateful plebeian population of this planet he had heroically saved.
Rage over, second: infinitely imbecile extraterrestrial super-accelerated rodents who are criminally dumb.
And rage over, third and possibly most critically: being ghosted by his traitorous, double-faced henchman!
And after his great romantic gesture! After he had saved planet earth and mankind and critter-kind solely for him!
Well, yeah, possibly also for burritos. And La Última Pasión. But! How dare that snivelling, opportunistic nitwit now ghost him!
He needed to breathe. He needed to centre himself. He needed network.
They were denying him network!
Those clever, clever troglodytes.
Where to begin?
Robotnik had valiantly destroyed his grandfather’s space station thereby preventing planet earth from explosion. That, unfortunately, for a moment only, left him in the sobering knowledge that he would die with the disintegrating murder-contraption.
Then, unexpectedly, the emo lab-rat had proved fleetingly useful. A second time.
Shadow had grabbed him by the coat and shown him a fuckin’ golden ring. Those stupid inter-spatial travel-gates from his flea-infested nemesis. Sonic had obviously given Shadow one sometime during the general chaos of Gerald’s crusade against mankind.
In hindsight, that brainless, spiked alien could have mentioned this exquisitely easy way to survive earlier! Because it would have spared him from his less embarrassing moment of internationally broadcast sentimentality. He would have prepared more conventional means to inform agent Stone of his emotional epiphany. Means that would have supplied him with plausible deniability. A world-wide conveyed confession via larger than life billboards… That had been kind of irrevocable.
So, while imminent physical if not emotional exitus was avoided, Robotnik was afforded roughly 42 seconds of relief over that one golden ring before he fell victim to the seemingly never-ending well of utter stupidity that populated this grand universe.
Because that fuckin’ hedgehog threw the bloody ring and told him, Robotnik, to think of a safe place on earth to transport them to. Now, those with even limited cerebral capabilities will have noticed that the thrower of the ring controls the destination. Why, by Newton! Why would the stupid, stupid critter not know that! Had the blue menace not relayed proper instructions?
Spilled wine.
Because, naturally, all that red-black nuisance could think about was the prison that had held him for decades. That was why the ring had left them tumbling right into the arms of utterly prepared and disbelieving-their-luck military.
So.
That was how Dr. Ivo Robotnik had ended up alive, yes, but super-securely locked away in a hidden hyper-prison designed by his very own hands!
Because, apparently, it accounted for nothing at all, quasi nil, that he had saved the planet and all living things on it (and telenovelas) – and in the face of his own death, mind you! - when he had prior to that aided and enabled in its destruction.
Which!
He hadn’t even meant! He had never meant to destroy the planet! He had only wanted to subjugate all mankind to have them bow to his superior intellect!
Why would he destroy such wonderful things as burritos? Or La Última Pasión?
Or, until recently, his beloved syco-friend.
Back to the present.
He was in the clutches of inferior people equipped with weapons and technology beyond their understanding, capable of trapping him. His cell in the submarine prison stationed somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic ocean was barely big enough to allow minor pacing. No windows, of course. A narrow cot. A handful of books to keep him busy. Pah!
The only thing that had mellowed him so far: he was allowed to watch La Última Pasión on pre-recorded file.
On a fuckin’ laptop computer with a screen 15 inches in diameter and Windows 98 operating system.
Oh the indignity!
And of course, no internet connection. These morons were not stupid enough. But! The opportunity to defeat your enemy will be provided by your enemy. And Robotnik had already set everything in motion.
Or he thought he had because his insolent henchman was ghosting him!
He screamed.
“You need to calm down”, came the nerve-grating drawl of the latest addition to his list of disrupting elements. “Your pacing won’t help us.”
“How about shutting up!”
Why did they have to store that spiked space-invader in the cell right next to his? Surely that could be considered cruel and unusual? Robotnik kicked the wall separating their cells.
“Have you considered that your henchman has been imprisoned as well? After all, he is affiliated with your crime.”
Robotnik rolled his eyes. Utter nonsense! Stone had no sabotaging vermin at his heel so there was no way any basic government fools would have been able to arrest him. The notion was absurd. No, the traitor was ghosting him! That was the only viable explanation. He had learned about that new-age practice a while ago. Oh the humiliation of experiencing it first hand!
“You cannot even be sure he received your messages.”
The frivolities never ceased!
To explain: the government, despite their apprehension of his latest exploits, had not been able to refrain from making continuous use of him. Meaning, they still had him working on projects. Of course, since they would not let him anywhere near anything, he had worked via intermediaries. Usually he would be given blueprints – on paper! - or simple text-files even this medieval hole-puncher with Windows freakin’ 98 could process.
He had to resort to calculating most stuff in his head and then typing every single thing down by hand. Bit by bit, so to speak. Like a caveman.
Irgh.
Of course, back to Sun Tzu: none of the federal idiots had noticed his code-hidden messages and subroutines. Robotnik simply included little functions and background applications in his projects that would, as soon as deployed, do what they were expected to do while also, unnoticed, send out communication snippets via the then available internet.
To Stone.
At first, trusting in his smart henchman, Robotnik had sent Morse-code via voicemail because he thought it the least likely to be spotted by his gaolers.
Then, when weeks passed, he had another programme convert these Morse-code-messages to a computer-read audio-file.
Still nothing.
Eventually, throwing all caution to the wind (however unnecessary in the first place), he had sent proper text messages. With increasingly rude content.
And still nothing.
Weeks had turned into months. Almost a year had passed.
Where was that useless agent? There was no way that none of the attempts to establish contact had gone unnoticed. Unthinkable. The only remaining explanation was Stone ghosting him! That insolent, doe-eyed charlatan!
“Whatever the reason for his silence, you should attempt contact with other possible option. Try Sonic and his humans for a change.”
He would rather not, thank you. The government could make him plan city-wide solar-powered public transport or self-driving waste-fuelled logistics, armaments for the military, spaceships, children’s toys, whatever inanities caught their fancy – he would lobotomize himself with the derelict motherboard of his Windows 98 laptop computer before contacting that blue infestation!
*
Stone:
When the space station had exploded, agent Stone had been left utterly bereft.
Which was a rather flat and cliché turn of phrase to explain the complex, grievous devastation that had taken hold of him. How simultaneous to the disintegration of that colossus in orbit, his heart had shrivelled and fallen in on itself, seemingly pulling the rest of his body along, leaving Stone hunched over constantly. How a deep, unquenchable pit had formed in his belly, much like a black hole in space.
He felt hollowed out and cold. Without his heart, there was no blood, no life, no warmth – the direct consequence of life without the doctor. How was he supposed to exist?
Along with the fading colours from the explosion in orbit, his perception had faded as well, leaving the world around him dull and grey. All light had been removed forever. People moved like ghosts around him. First following the macabre spectacle, then, one by one moving on, vacating the square. Stone remained. Remained until even the last piece of debris had incinerated in earth’s atmosphere.
How was he supposed to move on?
Every breath left him suffocating.
There was a horrible, inescapably heavy weight on the middle of his breastbone – asphyxiating him.
The devil of loss was carving out his chest.
When finally he could move his feet, they led him back to the wreck of the Crab. The sight of its shattered hull, the visible proof of its demolition, provoked another surge of insurmountable grief. It had been his home, the place where the doctor had resided. No more. Neither. One loss putting an unexpected emphasis on the other.
He could no more.
He had nearly lost the doctor twice before. Both recoveries had been a divine miracle. This third time left no room for hope. Cruel, cruel witness his eyes had played.
He wanted no more.
Then he heard sirens approaching, saw flashing lights drawing nearer. GUN crests descended upon him from every side. They wanted him. And more than him, they wanted everything that was left of the doctor. His legacy.
Cold fury rose from the pit in his belly.
*
Rage proved a steady and endless propellant. Stone would never allow any of the doctor’s brilliant inventions to fall into the hands of the unworthy. Which, of course, was all of them. He hardly considered himself eligible to protect his legacy. But he did.
He spent endless weeks and then months collecting whatever he could find – be it emergency stashes of badniks, littered around the entire Northern continent of America, the submarine before the French coast off Brest, the heavy-duty RV in Newfoundland, Canada, or the many other things the doctor had once hidden. With every recovery he managed to make ahead of the government, he felt a little closer to his boss. And Dr. Ivo Robotnik would be his boss forever. No matter his state of non-existence.
GUN might have hired agent Stone a long, long time – a lifetime, really – ago, but he only belonged and answered to the doctor. His employment signature might as well have been his blood oath pledging his entire soul to the man. No, Stone wasn’t being overly dramatical.
And even if he were, he thought it could be forgiven all things considered.
*
Robotnik:
Robotnik hit his head against the cell-door. Another three weeks of nothing. Had he truly been betrayed and abandoned by the sole person who had ever given a crap about him? Unfathomable yet why was Stone absent? Could he really have been incarcerated?
Was he the one in need of rescue?
“Can we please contact Sonic now?”
The stupid vermin would not shut up about it. Grunting in frustration he spun around and resumed his pacing.
A year had passed.
He really should consider other options now. If Stone wasn’t coming to get him, Robotnik would have to make other arrangements. It would be less easy but he had never been known to eschew effort. If the outcome was worth it, he would put in the work. Easy as that.
A year.
An entire year.
What the hell was his silly agent doing out there? What could be keeping him?
Meanwhile, Robotnik had been subjected to utter indignity. Had been forced to work with ridiculous means and for the very government that had imprisoned him! He had given up on reminding them that they owed him their lives because, really, he had saved the planet earth!
Irgh.
However.
The year in prison with its strict diet of balanced, nutritious and healthy if disgusting food had reduced his post-trauma figure back to its athletic origins. They had shaved off his moustache! Oh they would pay! As soon as he had the means, they would pay for this gross violation! ‘Radioactive poisoning from space’ – pah!
But it had grown back, tamed and well-kept because, really, he had hardly anything else to do. Without the stupid mushroom-planet sun bleaching his hair, it had grown back dark too.
So, maybe, this little ‘vacation’ in prison had helped him back into shape. A little.
Maybe even a little more because out of sheer fuckin’ boredom and following his volatile agent’s good example, he had taken up a modest daily regime of physical exercise. A more productive means than yelling his throat hoarse day after day. And he had to admit that physical fitness would surely prove beneficial to realizing his plans of horrific revenge!
Yes.
Also, originally, he had thought that Stone would appreciate him taking care of himself. And looking presentable.
All for naught.
His deceitful henchman had deserted him!
*
Stone:
A year had past and Stone had no idea how, could understand even less how he had kept moving. That step into the sea had seemed so obvious, so salvific. Yet, defending the doctor and his interests even beyond death had proved a compelling enough reason to do so.
He felt passably okay with how many inventions he had been able to salvage.
Although, schlepping through ice-cold Canada during winter had not been one of his favourite activities. Especially the trek deep into Ykon…
But, he had managed to collect everything from all the safe-houses and stashes and general hideaways the government hadn’t yet triggered intruder-alarms on. Relocation and concealment had not been easy, though it had given Stone something to do.
It was better than sitting idle. Those moments when he found himself with nothing to do or when he had been forced to rest, he dreaded. Sleep especially. In sleep he dreamt. Cruel, cruel dreams.
So he tended to keep himself occupied.
With the doctor’s legacy as well secured as he could possibly achieve, Stone had settled down in Mexico, Baja California. There, he had purchased several wide stretches of land by the sea including an old abandoned aircraft hangar for the jet and RV, and part of a bay by the Pacific ocean. Easily paid for because he had always had unrestrained access to all of the doctor’s accounts, be them government-issued or off-the-side. Bay-access had been necessary because he had needed a place to sort of park the submarine.
Stone had badniks constantly patrolling all salvaged pieces.
Thus accomplished, in some form anyway, Stone found himself with more idle time after all. He had chosen to live in the state-of-the-art RV he had brought from Canada and stored in the aircraft hangar. It wasn’t as large as the doctor’s preferred mobile lab truck but sufficiently comfortable and luxurious for a modest agent trying to lay low.
Freshly showered, Stone studied himself in the partly fogged up bathroom mirror. His former self would have been appalled at the negligence he had permitted to befall him. His hair had grown out a bit, enough for tiny tufts of hair to stand out from his skull – made worse by the towel he had just pulled from his head. A benevolent onlooker, he hoped, would possibly categorize this state of dereliction as cute.
His beard needed a trim, though. Thankfully still far from anything close to shaggy, it was starting to become a little… scratchy? Scruffy?
He leaned back a little and wondered whether he looked like a pirate from the Red Sea. Shrugging the thought off, he dressed – choosing to put on one of the doctor’s hoodies he had liberated from a safe-house in Alberta. It bore the doctor’s colours and logo and, Stone guiltily admitted to himself, still faintly smelled of his perfume.
Barefoot, he crossed over to the kitchenette and slid onto the bench of the eating-nook where he had put his laptop computer. In the middle of his regular badnik-check, his smartphone suddenly vibrated.
At the start of his self-imposed mission, he had considered getting rid of it for a moment, to keep the government from tracking him that easily.
But it contained all his former text conversations with the doctor. And all of his photos. Many of his more haptic memories were stored in that device. And, it had been given to him by the man himself. Designed and built by him personally. So he had spent half an afternoon fortifying his gateway to the past, foregoing its destruction and replacement. He had even kept his number. A ridiculously risqué decision but somehow he hadn’t been able to let it go either. Making the number less traceable had been a lot more difficult but not impossible.
Lazily, his gaze slid to the lit up screen.
Only a few weeks after the end of his life, this had started to happen. Every few days, sometimes weeks, his phone would light up with… messages. At first, exceedingly odd, Morse-code messages relayed via voice-mail in the form of repetitive clicking noises.
Then proper voicemail of this Morse-code messages. Read by a computer-voice.
Then text messages.
All of those contained more or less the exact same information, though with increasingly colourful language:
Where the hell are you? I am waiting!
I am currently being held at a submarine maximum security prison located xx.xxxxxx/ -xx.xxxxxx. Come and get me as soon as possible. I am forced to wear the colour orange! Orange! Can you imagine!
It was certainly very bizarre click-bait. Obviously the government was still trying to get a hold on him. And by the most convoluted and vicious means necessary: by luring him with fake contact-attempts from the dead doctor.
But while Stone’s mind and soul could neither accept nor deny this third loss, he had seen it. Logically, he knew the doctor was dead. But in the past…. he had come back too.
Love made him hope. And wasn’t that cruel? He had seen the explosion with his own eyes. It was stupid to resist logic. So stupid. He felt like a variant of Schrödinger’s cat-experiment.
*
And just when Stone thought he had found some brittle sort of balance, a precarious not will but impetus to live for as long as it took the universe to naturally (more or less) reunite him with the doctor – (It would happen. He believed in it with all his withered heart. Hoped for it. Yearned for it.
In the meantime he was decided to protect the man’s legacy as best as he could.
And he would watch as much of La Última Pasión as he could, so that once returned to the doctor’s side, he could regale him with all he had missed from his most favourite TV series.
A whimsical thought, surely. Possibly, Stone would simply watch it to cling to some last vestiges of Robotnik’s presence.
He was going mad…) - the devil of harassment and atrocity came to him.
He had taken his motorcycle and driven to the nearest town for grocery shopping. With saddlebags full of healthy produce and products for his daily use, he had paused and approached a mobile snack-vendor to buy himself a warm waffle.
Looking up into the clear blue sky and sighing contently under the sun’s hot caress, he sat on a low stone-wall separating the constantly advancing beach sand from the tourists’ promenade. Stone stretched his legs, closed his eyes and listened to the waves of the ocean.
Their rhythmic rush lulled him into further relaxation.
Then there was a very emphatic shuffle of sandals followed by the prominent clearing of throats.
Stone opened his eyes to the sight of doom’s catalyst. The source to all the ruin that has become Stone’s life. He had been happy with his life, truly happy, before this abnormality had happened upon the doctor.
Sonic the fuckin’ blue hedgehog stood before him. Dressed in a ridiculous straw-hat and sandals, beyond him that exhaustingly lame sheriff, the red barbarian and, a small mercy at least, Tails.
Stone’s face fell, freezing into a mask of shock and budding rage.
He rose to his feet, crossed over to his motorcycle and bent to open the glove compartment on his saddlebags and pulled from it his Glock. He checked the magazine and released the safety-guard. When the assembly of defcon one troublemakers finally realized that he would shoot Sonic, the blue hedgehog cursed and moved himself out of the line of fire. Wachowski raised his palms in the universal gesture of ‘hold it’. Tails screeched.
Tourists screamed and fled while locals frowned and followed after them.
The red vermin tackled Stone to the ground, shook the gun from his hand and kept him pinned.
Stone had no words.
He wanted nothing more than to kill the blue hedgehog. That rodent had started the downfall of his doctor! If only they had never come across it, never been sent to find it!
Stone struggled but Knuckles was stronger, easily keeping him down. Wachowski pushed his head into his line of sight, keeping his voice light and friendly: “We come in peace! Please hear us out!”
Stone had no intention on doing that. He grit his teeth, trying to break free of the echidna’s iron hold.
Tails braved a step closer: “Agent Stone, we really come as friends. We think we received a message from Dr. Robotnik!”
Oh these pathetic fools! How much a word word uttered in ignorance could hurt! Stone fought against tears, tears brought on by their cruel stupidity. And to think he had once tried to mend fences!
Tails crouched next to him: “Please hear us out. I can show you the message!”
Stone hissed through his teeth: “I received those messages too!”
“What?”, Sonic gasped, pushing closer, “Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you do anything?” He was hovering over Knuckles’ shoulder while the latter let the agent sit up and stoically suffered a kick to the shin as the man scrambled backward.
Wachowski had secured the Glock.
Stone sniffed, hurting and yet still furious: “Because it is just GUN trying to catch me. The doctor is dead. He exploded with the space station. In case you missed that.” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling suddenly sick. Maybe, if he could get his hands back on his Glock, he would point it at himself instead. Didn’t he deserve at least some mercy? Hadn’t he tried? This was simply too much...
Wachowski responded: “We should at least investigate. If there is a chance, remote as it may be, that Shadow and Eggman are alive, we owe it to them to-”
Stone threw him a look, filled with all the resignation and hatred he could muster: “I am not capable of leaning into any more false hope. Please leave.”
Tails wouldn’t let up: “Okay, okay: but hypothetically, if it were true, would you have the means to do something?”
He fished his smartphone from his jeans. It only took a few taps and scrolls and the decision which automated protocol he wished to activate. The coordinates were still in the text thread on his phone. He chose the most basic search and rescue automation.
Nothing seemed to happen but Stone knew that two dozen badniks of various design were released from the aircraft hangar. The robots would file into a clear formation and take off toward the Northeast. Stone slid his phone back into his pocket. “That is all I can offer you. And I hope for your sakes that all my badniks come back to me unscratched. If this is a government trap, you’ll pay for their loss.”
Sonic and Tails screeched and yelled simultaneously, begging for one of the robots to take two of the golden rings, fumbled from a pouch at Wachowski’s belt, with them. They were certain that those would facilitate any attempt at escape.
Stone glared at the ever increasing affront but senseless hope was a festering thorn in the hollow cave that had once housed his heart. He reached for his phone.
*
Robotnik:
According to the digital clock on the wall outside his cell the red-alarm and panicked screaming started in the middle of the night. Robotnik had no means to verify that considering he was miles beneath the surface of the ocean, but the clock did say a quarter past three. Couldn’t these fools break his wonderful design at a more considerate time?
He had been enjoying a rather pleasant shut-eye and dream.
“Shadow!”, he called over the ruckus, “What is going on here?”
The space-rodent was observing the events with calculation: “I am not sure. The red-alarm suddenly started and then everyone started yelling and running about.”
Great. Wonderful observation.
Robotnik rose and stepped to the tiny viewport of his cell. There were two sets of people: one trying to flee head over heels into one direction, mostly people in lab-coats or suits, and the other running exactly the other way, armed from head to toe.
That could only mean infiltration.
Robotnik listened a little harder. He thought he could make out gunfire and explosions.
The noises grew louder, indicating approach. Now he was curious.
To an onlooker it would have either looked funny or bizarre the way both he and Shadow lounged before their cell-doors, awaiting the approaching ruckus with morbid and entirely unafraid curiosity.
Soldiers were withdrawing back into the cell-room – stumbling, injured and without coordination. Robotnik rolled his eyes at the inefficiency.
More gunfire, more explosions. Smoke began to billow into the cell-room. Bodies littered the floor. The annoying wailing of the injured nearly drowned out the exact frequency of the attacking artillery. Robotnik would have loved to identify the manufacturer. He always enjoyed seeing a competitor’s devices in action. Usually, he could either applaud himself over his own superior design or take minute notes on how to copy and implement nifty little details he had not yet thought about.
The attacker’s surely took their time. He was impatiently waiting for them to break into the cell-room so that he could observe them better when Shadow suddenly gasped. Robotnik tried to look at him but could only guess that his little hedgehog-ears were fully taut and twitching. “That…”, he began and faltered.
Robotnik detested to be baited: “What, hedgehog, what?”
But any reply became obsolete when half a dozen badniks floated into the cell-room. Robotnik’s chin dropped a few centimetres. Open-mouthed he stared at the approaching cavalry. His babies! His beloved babies! They had come to liberate him!
He crowed. Loudly and gleefully: “See that, Shadow? I told you he would come!”
Shadow’s voice was a dry murmur: “Yeah, but it only happened after you contacted Sonic…”
The doctor did not hear him or more probable, simply ignored him. He kept on dancing inside his cell while they both waited for the badniks to do their work. Another eight minutes passed before the soldiers on site had been neutralized. The badniks changed strategy as programmed: separating into a group for defending the parameter and a second slightly smaller group for acquiring and securing the target.
Robotnik watched with happily gleaming eyes as two of his babies made short work of his cell door.
After a good four minutes the heavy steel plank clanked noisily to the floor. The doctor took a large step over it.
He grinned near manically at the still trapped hedgehog, letting the moment stretch long enough to make Shadow squirm. Then he snapped his fingers at the closest badniks making them hover into action. Moments later the second door crashed to the floor, freeing Robotnik’s fellow inmate.
“What now?”, Shadow asked and looked around the general carnage.
“Now”, the doctor grinned, “we leave.” And he flourished the golden rings his faithful little machines had brought him.
“That”, Shadow not-grinned with a pointed look, “would not have been possible without Sonic’s help.”
Robotnik rolled his eyes, forewent further quarrelling and simply threw the first golden ring. It sizzled, expanded and showed a small hacienda in Mexico. He turned back toward Shadow, wiggling the remaining ring: “Do you want to come along or choose your own destination?”
The hedgehog grunted: “I’ll come along. Better to save that ring for emergencies. Once I’m back on the surface I can go anywhere I please. No portal needed.”
Agreed, they stepped through the spinning doorway, the badniks hurrying after them in spiralling lines.
Harsh sunlight nearly blinded them. After having been locked away beneath the ocean for slightly over a year, the Mexican sun was too much to bear. Robotnik shielded his eyes with a palm, scanning the area around the hacienda. It was his. One of his many safe-houses scattered around the continent.
He had figured that Stone would not voluntarily choose the cold climate of Canada. It was a lot more likely for him to be found in Mexico. He would definitely not have remained in the United States. Unfortunately, that still left too many possible locations to easily pick the right one.
This hacienda, a random decision, had clearly not been visited for a while. No one was here.
So he turned toward his closest badnik: “Ok my lovely, lead us back to where you came from.”
*
Stone:
The sudden ‘visit’ by the harbinger of death had left Stone upset and troubled. The pain in his chest felt fresh and raw. And after all the effort he had gone through to find a sort of precarious balance. Everything had been turned upside down once more.
And beyond that, in his moment of madness he had pulled out a gun in public.
As a direct consequence to his inability to control himself, a shameful weakness he abhorred, he had been forced to relocate.
He abandoned the aircraft hangar and had the jet transfer to a remote corner in Peru. The RV he brought with him to one of the doctor’s haciendas in eastern Mexico. The latter was small enough to be inconspicuous yet offered a stone-built barn to put the mobile home into.
Every step of the relocation, all the effort, had him silently cursing the blue menace over and over again. The physical work kept him busy enough not to simply lie in bed and cry all day, though.
When all was done, Stone had a moment to notice the date.
He had installed himself as well as his laptop in the cosy kitchen of Robotnik’s little hacienda. To his surprise there had been a state-of-the-art coffee machine on the kitchen counter. The first sight of it had roused a storm of conflicting emotions inside of him. The doctor had, at one point, prepared this safe-house and thought of latte. And by extension of Stone.
The thought, while possibly a little stretched, still made Stone’s eyes water. A surprise, really. He had been convinced that he simply had no more tears to spill.
He frowned at his laptop and checked his wristwatch. Then he tapped his fingers against the cup of latte he had made himself (in the doctor’s way, because he was a pathetic mess). The badnik’s should have been back. They should have been back for a while now. If he were a little less cowardly he would check their GPS and their logs, possible even via remote access. But. He was scared of finding out what had happened.
Because whatever had happened, he wasn’t sure he could handle it.
They probably had found nothing but kept searching, obligated by their code. Which the logical part of Stone had expected though it squeezed his chest together painfully.
Or they had found something namely the government’s trap and had been caught or destroyed – forever lost to Stone. So little had remained from the doctor and so even less. This scenario at least would allow him to blame the hedgehog and hate was easier to handle than despair.
*
Robotnik:
His lovely babies were never wrong but the aircraft hangar was empty and doubly abandoned. Which meant that his stupid henchman had relocated. WHY? Where had that masterful little barista disappeared to? Wasn’t it his life’s sole purpose to serve Robotnik? Why couldn’t he sit still and wait?
Robotnik spent a good ten minutes ranting into empty air, kicking sand and generally screaming.
When would he finally be able to take off these ghastly orange clothes?
Eventually Shadow got bored of watching him and cleared his throat: “I trust you’ll find your henchman on your own. I’ll be on my way.”
“What? Where?”, Robotnik glared and watched Shadow do the Shadow-variant of squirming – remaining utterly unfazed and immobile. “You’re going to Green Hills, aren’t you. To find Sonic and his collection of deviants.”
The hedgehog only returned his glare, as if in challenge.
“Fine!”, the doctor spat and gestured widely, “Go! Go and find your friend! But keep in mind, should you choose to side with him and cross me, I won’t hesitate to eliminate the both of you.” He received a pronounced eye-roll. “I mean it!”
“Understood, doctor”, Shadow nodded and turned north, “But you keep in mind that I witnessed the moment of truth. You are not a villain.”
Robotnik had no opportunity to vehemently argue the premise because Shadow had already taken off, leaving the doctor in a turbulent cloud of sand. When the air was finally cleared, the man just sighed deeply and turned to his badniks: “Come, babies. You know where Stone is, bring me to him.”
*
Conclusion:
Later that same afternoon, Stone was still in the kitchen but he had grown tired of sitting for hours on end and had moved to the kitchen island where he could more or less stand or rather ‘stand’ with his elbows resting on the counter-top, searching the file system on his laptop. He was trawling through the doctor’s files, looking for nothing in particular.
An hour ago, he had found a previously unknown play-list (called “S-27”). It currently played via the hacienda’s home-system, having Stone wriggling a bit to the beat and tune. He felt the doctor’s presence through his music and for once and probably because the music was rather upbeat and happy, he did not feel terrible over it.
No, he enjoyed a fleeting moment of closeness, the tune itself making him forget his grief.
And since there were no witnesses for miles and miles around, he had put on one of the doctor’s salvaged t-shirts. Some well-worn band-shirt, with the name so over-stylized that Stone could not read it.
Unfortunately, that was exactly how the doctor found him: lounging bend-over at the kitchen island, snooping through personal data, wearing his shirt and swaying to the music. Very off-the-clock, casual, and… cute.
Robotnik had spent hours following his badniks (not on foot! are you crazy?) and he felt thoroughly scorched by the merciless Mexican sun. He was tired, hungry and very thirsty. He had barely put a foot on the porch when he heard his music and then he saw his agent from where he had frozen mid-step across the threshold.
He blinked.
Cute.
His hair was tiny bit longer. His beard a tiny bit scratchy. He was barefoot.
Robotnik wasn’t sure he had ever seen his agent this casual.
Of course, he had to overplay any momentary emotional response because something much more urgent was gnawing at the back of his mind, driving him insane. So he inhaled deeply and hollered:
“STONE!”
The effect was immediate.
Stone flinched violently, stumbled and had to catch himself on the edge of the counter – narrowly avoiding hitting his head. He spun around.
All cognitive function crashed for a second. He blinked. Blinked again. Then fumbled fully upright, creeping backward along the counter while never taking his eyes off this apparition at the door. He had hidden his Glock in the bread-basket. The latter was over there by the coffee-machine.
Shocked and terrified and sick, he hurried to get it.
“What are you doing?”
It even spoke with the voice of the doctor! Damn! He remembered that Tails had those little gadgets that could change a person’s appearance. So, technically this was possible. Had the messages not been enough of a taunt? Whoever had written those must have found him! Just, how? He had been diligent. However they had found him, they were here and obviously convinced he would buy into that cruel, cruel spiel.
He reached his Glock, checked the magazine and loosened the safety-guard.
“What are you doing!”
A good agent did not hesitate. And he was a good agent.
The shot would have hit the impersonator exactly in-between the eyes, because the fool hadn’t moved a single inch. But to Stone’s utter surprise a badnik just inserted itself in the line of fire and the bullet ricocheted off its sturdy hull. Stone instinctively ducked while it crashed one of the hanging lamps over the kitchen island.
Stone’s dead heart was beating a mile per minute. He hid behind the island, trying to understand why a badnik would try to save this imposter. Did someone hack them? Impossible! Were they copies? Simple knock-offs? He felt his chest constricting and tried to even out his breathing yet panic was making his limbs numb. Why would they come in the gestalt of the doctor? Why would they torment him so?
“Stone, you get out of there immediately! What the hell is wrong with you! You just tried to shoot me!”
No, no, he couldn’t cry! Not right now! Not when he had to neutralize this unidentified threat!
“Aban!”
Huh?
Stone made a very humiliating sobbing noise and slowly leaned to the side to peer around the kitchen island.
The intruder in the form of Robotnik was glaring at him with a mixture of annoyance, incredulity and possible concern. Stone took a moment to study the apparition closer: the height fit, but he had lost a lot of weight. In fact, the man looked a lot like Robotnik had before that terrible hedgehog had come into their lives. He wore orange, prison-orange. And he looked tired, sweaty and somewhat sun-burned.
More badniks were floating into the house, surrounding him.
“How much longer are you planning on sitting there?”
It wasn’t possible.
“Mind telling me why you didn’t come and pick me up? I know you know how to read coordinates.”
It wasn’t possible.
“An entire year, Stone! You left me rotting in that prison for an entire year! How do you plan to justify yourself?”
He had seen the space station explode.
“Are you going to cry? You look like you’re going to cry.”
How was it possible?
“And now you’re crying.”
Stone hiccuped. Tears were spilling down his cheeks. “Doctor?”
Robotnik made a very exaggerated gesture over all of himself: “Who the fuck else? Are you going blind? Have you been hit over the head?” He had a very incredulous expression on his face.
How was it possible? “Is it really you, doctor?”
Robotnik gave up. He made the universal gesture of ‘so god help me’ and sighed. “You know, Stone, this isn’t getting us anywhere. I’mma take a shower upstairs and when I come back, I want a latte and you back to at least 43 % functionality. Think you can do that?”
He was already striding towards the stairs when Stone clumsily staggered to his feet and toward him. The last few steps he practically ran, after which he fell into Robotnik’s tolerant arms. He clung to him. Pressing his face against he man’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Oh Stone”, the doctor sighed in faux-annoyance and rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, he offered hold and even, maybe, put his arms around the agent. “Is this going to take long?”
Stone processed none of his words. His arms coiled tightly around the doctor’s middle, intent on never ever letting go. His tears were leaving wet patches on the orange prison garb.
“This is really unattractive”, Robotnik lied and rolled his eyes at the ceiling, “You thought I was dead, didn’t you.”
The agent managed a jerky nod before dissolving once more into distraught sobs and hiccups.
“But I sent you messages. Where did you think they were coming from?”
Whatever Stone managed to mumble was utterly incoherent. But he pulled himself even deeper into the doctor’s embrace, curling his spread fingers into the man’s shirt, strengthening his hold.
“Are you ever going to let go again?”
Stone vigorously shook his head without separating his face from where it was buried. No. He would not. Never. Never again. He would never again get this lucky. The doctor had returned a third time! He could not ever let him go again. He would stay at his side forever and protect him and serve him. He wished for nothing else.
“I’m just sayin’. It’s been fifteen minutes.” It had not been but Robotnik wanted that shower. Without him noticing, his palms had begun to soothingly, slowly rub the agent’s back. “I’m also getting’ a little hungry.”
That seemed to trigger Stone back into old routines because he finally, finally pulled back a little. He kept his face angled down but the doctor could still see the emotional turmoil. Embarrassed, Stone rubbed his tears away and sniffed: “I’ll prepare something to eat while you take your shower. Your clothes are in the closet in the master-bedroom.”
Neither moved.
Stone’s one hand was still hanging onto the bottom of Robotnik’s prison-shirt.
And still neither moved.
“You really spent this entire year thinking I was irrevocably gone?”, the doctor asked, unusually gentle.
There was a thick knot in his throat so Stone only nodded, fresh tears threatening to fall from his eyes. They did spill over when Robotnik pulled him into another embrace, fully wrapping his arms around the agent and cradling him to his chest.
“Hush now, dear”, the doctor murmured and pressed his cheek to the top of Stone’s head, “Papa’s back.”
That made the agent huff a breathy, wet laugh and bury deeper into the cherished embrace: “For future reference, we should agree upon code words. So that I will know whether it is truly you behind random text messages.”
Robotnik could concede that point: “Agreed.”
*
When Robotnik later returned from his shower – dressed in casual clothes and a hoodie he suspected had seen a lot of wear by his beloved henchman – Stone had prepared a full dinner and coffee. The doctor sat at the kitchen island and received a plate filled with healthy sustenance. He shrugged and dug in.
Stone was standing on the other side of the island, watching him with near manic intensity.
Robotnik rolled his eyes: “Sit down and eat, Stone. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You look well, doctor”, the agent confessed as if the observation had been fighting to get out. “For a man who’d been in prison for the past year”, Stone added hastily but failed not to blush.
“Thank you, Stone, I kept myself busy. As you seemed to have. I noticed a great many of my things stashed around the house.” It was true. He had had a quick walk around, noticing the many boxes of his materials and the racks of badniks.
“I spent most of my year preventing the government from laying their greasy hands on your brilliant work. I saved as much as I could.”
“Well done, well done. It will serve me well in my plan for utter revenge.”
“Revenge, doctor?”, Stone queried without much trepidation.
“I save this fuckin’ planet and they put me in jail, can you believe that? No, no. They have to be punished.”
“Impertinent fools.”
Robotnik grinned and winked: “Exactly.” He took a sip from his coffee and purred: “Ah, I missed your coffee.”
Stone lowered his gaze but could hide neither his smile nor his blush: “Thank you, doctor.” He was obviously remembering Robotnik’s last message before the space station’s disintegration. So the doctor sighed softly and waved him over: “Come, sit here, Stone.”
Ever the obedient agent, Stone made his way around the island and sat on the bar-stool next to the doctor. Facing him.
Robotnik studied his face for a moment, his meal forgotten. He raised a hand and gently caressed the agent’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “I meant everything I said. Just so you know it.”
Stone’s throat worked as he swallowed thickly. He was blushing prettily, too, and steadfastly trying to keep up their eye-contact. “Thank you, doctor.”
“You are my only true friend, my best friend. I care deeply about you, even if I sometimes tend to be too much of myself.”
“I never want you to be anyone else, doctor. I love you just as you are. Deeply.” Stone’s reply had come urgently fast, though faltering a little toward the end.
Robotnik did not smile: “I apologize for having been gruff with you since the blue hedgehog had popped up.” He watched the watery shine of the agent’s doe-eyes. It was true. A lot had changed since the space-rodent had plunged into their lives. And not necessarily for the better. Before, he had been playfully rough. Not so much after. “And I apologize that I lost sight of you with the dangling promise of blood relation while you are already all the family I need.”
Stone was wringing his fingers so hard, the knuckles were turning white. He swallowed again, sniffed, and somehow managed to keep his tears at bay. He lowered his gaze though, trying to hide his feelings: “Thank you, doctor.”
“Are you going to cry again?”
“Possibly.” Stone did not squeak. No, agents did not squeak.
“When did you become such a cry-baby, Stone?”, Robotnik asked affectionately and gently took the agent’s face in his hands to thumb away the leaking tears. “Aren’t you a tough GUN agent?”
Stone huffed a laugh and tried his best not to enjoy the attention too much: “All these near-death experiences really took it out of me. And I am your agent, doctor.”
“When did you nearly die?”
“I meant your deaths.”
Robotnik shook his head and put an affectionate kiss to his agent’s cheek: “Such a cry-baby. Now, stop it and focus. After all, I have to plan my revenge and you’ll obviously have to assist me.”
“Naturally, doctor. Whatever you need.”
“Good boy”, Robotnik drawled, fully aware of the effect the purred praise had on his henchman, “Terrific. Anything else I should know about now that I am back? How deep did you snoop into my private files? Did you find playlist S-38?”
Stone shook his head, putting his hands up quickly to keep the doctor’s where they were: “I recorded all of the episodes of La Última Pasión for you. Every single one leading back to your death. Alleged death.”
“Ah, I was allowed to watch it! If only pre-recorded and probably always several days after publication.”
The smile on Stone’s face was warm and insufferably tender: “How many did you watch?”
“The last episode was 283, I think.”
“Then I am happy to tell you, you still have 43 episodes to watch. I have them all here, if you’d like?”
Robotnik’s face lit up, beaming with happiness. He planted an exaggerated kiss to Stone’s lips and crowed: “You perfect syco-friend, you! You adorable little habibi!” His joy intensified at Stone’s own brilliant smile.
*
Two and a half episodes later, they were lounging comfortably on the couch in the hacienda’s living room – Stone leaning into the doctor’s side with the man’s arm draped over his shoulder and he holding onto it, afraid that Robotnik might dissolve into thin air at any moment. Afraid that everything had been nothing more than a fever dream.
A bowl of popcorn rested between them.
Every now and then, Robotnik would turn his head a little and put a reassuring kiss to Stone’s head.
On one such turn, he whispered: “Why did you watch my show? I know you never particularly liked it.”
Stone kept his gaze studiously on the TV screen, angling away to hide his blushing face: “You love that show. Watching it made me feel... as if you were with me. I missed you. Terribly. More than that even.”
Robotnik nudged the agent’s chin up and put a chaste almost admonishing kiss to his lips: “Tsk, you could have had me back sooner. If only you’ve reacted to my messages.”
Stone smiled a self-deprecating half-smile: “I am not as smart as you are, doctor.”
“True”, Robotnik grinned, “And my code-word, for future references, is ‘Aban habibi’.”
END