Chapter Text
There had been numerous times in Dr. Robotnik’s life--mostly whilst working for the government--where he’d been kidnapped and interrogated for his knowledge by a hostile enemy. In fairness, most of these kidnappers had the good sense not to do any real damage to him (barring one incident, and even then the guy hadn’t gotten beyond mouthing off and one good cut under his jawbone before Agent Stone had swooped in and--well, best not to get distracted) but still, his current… situation… got him thinking, if tangentially, about the most efficient ways to extract information from an unwilling subject. A topic he’d researched extensively early in his days working for G.U.N.
Torture, to the doctor’s mild dismay, was rather ineffectual once you got down to it. Brain probing technology was still too primitive, and Robotnik himself wasn’t nearly invested enough in the concept to speed things along, being generally uninterested in the contents of most other people’s brains. The only person whose thoughts he found himself genuinely craving was Stone, and whatever Robotnik wanted from Stone needed only be asked for—
(Distractions. Dangerous distractions. Back to the topic at hand.)
Truth serum held the most promise, and was what he ended up settling on for the rare occasions he needed it, though the existing formulae had to be tweaked quite a bit to enhance reliability and reduce physical damage. Robotnik didn’t need the truth serum to cause physical damage; he had his badniks and Stone for that.
(He’d just decided on no distractions. Stone was very distracting. Why were distractions undesirable at the moment again?)
At any rate, during his studies on the matter, Robotnik found himself wondering why boredom—or more specifically, sensory deprivation—was seldom used as an implement of torture. Sure, it wasn’t very efficient time-wise, but to the doctor’s ever-buzzing mind, a lack of sufficient stimulation was akin to physical agony. Eventually, he’d decided that in the long run it fell prey to the same flaws as physical torture, while taking longer and arguably compromising the victim’s sanity even further. But the concept still flitted at the back of his mind on occasion; specifically, the discomforting knowledge that it would work on him. It filled him with a low-grade dread that, unusually, Robotnik elected to ignore rather than engineer some solution for. After all, sensory deprivation was rarely implemented as a form of torture, and it wasn’t as if Robotnik had been stupid enough to so much as verbally suggest this as a potential weakness of his anywhere, much less leave any digital or physical evidence. Surely it wasn’t anything to be concerned about; an irrational fear, to be discarded rather than indulged.
Left myself open, Robotnik hissed; or at least, he tried to. But he couldn’t actually hear his own voice to confirm he’d managed it, because there was nothing to conduct the sound waves. No sensory indicators of any kind. No feedback from his body. No one to hear him complain. Because nothing else was here.
Because apparently that’s what happens when whatever the old man had powered the station with blows up.
It sends anything in the epicenter to nowhere.
But it doesn’t kill them.
Exquisite torture. Robotnik had to hand it to the nature of the universe on that one. And it wasn’t even trying.
And that’s why he’d been concentrating on his train of thought, because it was literally the only thing there was to concentrate on aside from the pervasive nothingness. The acknowledgement of which always sent him panicking, which was a very not fun sensation to have no distraction from.
And he’d been avoiding thinking about Stone, because that’s basically all he’d done for the first month or two. He’d exhausted that particular subject and already come to and agonized over the only logical conclusion there was; that Robotnik had treated Stone like garbage, abandoned him, and then sent him off with a final grand gesture, as if that made everything better.
Aban Stone was better off without Ivo Robotnik. No matter what angle he came at the problem from, the inevitable conclusion was the same.
And, as previously noted, he’d already agonized over it. That took up month two. And came up sporadically in three and four, between bouts of alternatingly optimistic and defeatist musings.
Month five was pure, raving insanity, but by month six Robotnik thought he’d pretty much gotten it out of his system (as much as he ever did, anyway). Then month seven hit and Robotnik realized (or stopped being in total denial of) that he had no actual way of telling how much time had passed, and he was completely guessing. That sent him into another spiral, which petered out by the end of month eight, when he decided to ignore the futility of his timekeeping.
Month nine had been mostly self-reflection thus far, and while it was probably much needed, it wasn’t exactly heartening. Especially when Robotnik couldn’t keep his mind from wandering back to Stone--there he went again.
Infuriating. It wasn’t like he’d ever have the opportunity to make it up to his assistant--his friend--his… Ugh. And even if the opportunity did arise, the most effective way Robotnik could think of to improve his… The agent’s life was to simply cut him loose. Let him live his life, maybe even direct that insistent devotion of his onto a more deserving target. There was nothing else for it. So why did Robotnik keep tormenting himself with the thought of--of him.
He’d already ruined that. Nothing to be done about it now.
Too late, Robotnik was sulking again. Ugh. Maybe he’d be able to fight off this funk by the end of the not-week.
Okay, perhaps he was overshooting his time estimates a little.
…Perhaps he should attempt to recalculate them. A “project” would do him good.
Mildly encouraged by the idea, Robotnik was almost annoyed when a round portal opened up right in front of him. Almost, before he recognized it for what it was—sweet stimulation—and then he was grabbed and yanked through the ring, into a world that was too bright, too loud, too much, but oh so blissfully not nothing.
And promptly passed out, just as his frazzled, underworked brain registered irksomely familiar primary colors looming over him.
===
Waking was mercifully slow, for once. Robotnik usually shot awake with a jolt regardless of circumstance, but instead of this change leaving him frustrated, he found himself appreciating the slow boil. Like being eased to a stop instead of slamming on the brakes.
Robotnik had spent some time in the slightly more optimistic fourth month(?) of what he’d come to refer to as “the Void (trademark pending)” planning what he would do if he somehow found himself back in reality. He knew, logically, that he couldn’t expect to escape this experience unscathed, and would likely suffer from the effects of chronic understimulation and temporary overstimulation upon arrival. His return to consciousness would have to be managed carefully if it were to be at all graceful (and not a pathetic display of sobbing and kissing the sweet earth beneath him).
As a self-proclaimed font of knowledge, Robotnik had studied a myriad of topics to their fullest extent over the course of his life. Among them was meditation, though he’d never had the patience to quiet his particularly noisy mind sufficiently for the task. What he had extracted use from in that particular field of study came in the form of grounding exercises; as such, the doctor had wiled away a solid week(?) of time in the Void working up a sort of protocol for if he made it back. Now, finally, he had the chance to implement it.
First, he focussed on each incoming sensation one at a time; his back pressed into a firm, thin mattress the comfort of which he was in no fit state to objectively quantify (after nine months(?) of total sensory deprivation he’d greet an iron maiden with delight). He was horizontal. Whatever apparatus was elevating him felt sturdy, but not particularly solid or weighty like a full bed might be. A cot, perhaps? Or even a stretcher?
The air smelled a bit dusty, but overall inoffensive. It was cool but relatively still, in a way that pointed to a poorly-insulated room in a smaller building.
Robotnik briefly listened for any signs of another living presence, but heard nothing, so he presumed he was alone. He’d have to open his eyes to find out for sure, but the idea of suddenly seeing again after so long caused an unexpected spike of anxiety to pierce his chest.
Panic had become an old enemy after all that time in the Void. Almost on reflex, the doctor combatted it with a distraction; the next step in the “you made it back to Earth somehow” protocol was to assess the functionality of his body.
The results were… Moderately concerning. As far as gross motor was concerned--his limbs, his neck, his joints--all felt stiff, but relatively cooperative. Overall, not ideal, but far from unexpected, and besides, he’d dealt with worse.
Fine motor, on the other hand…
Robotnik had never been a clumsy individual. Awkward at times, perhaps, especially in his youth, and not particularly inclined towards athletics, but never clumsy. One wouldn’t get very far in Robotnik’s particular field of explosive robotics with clumsy fingers. Which was why the spasming, imprecise movements his hands and fingers gave him when he asked them to merely wiggle a bit were so concerning. Robotnik couldn’t afford to be clumsy. He’d never been clumsy!
Well, to say he’d “never” been clumsy wasn’t entirely accurate; he’d been moderately “clumsy” in his gross motor skills after the fall from the mech. Stone had guided him painstakingly through physical therapy, which worked. But even then, Robotnik’s hands had been among the least damaged parts of his body. The first parts to fully recover, to Stone’s initial delight and eventual exasperated dismay as the doctor immediately began using his regained ability to attempt escape from his highly necessary medical constraints (the look Stone gave him after the fifth escape attempt in a day elicited Robotnik’s first moment of genuine amusement since before the fall--)
(Where was Stone?)
(He was going to absolutely lose it if he thought about Stone right now.)
Unable to delay it any longer and in need of a more effective distraction, Robotnik squinted open his eyes. He was greeted by the slightly-cobwebbed ceiling of a garage, fluorescent light thankfully unlit, with a tennis ball hanging by a string, presumably to act as a parking indicator for anyone attempting to deposit their vehicle. How disgustingly suburban.
Wincing at his stiff neck (he could still wince, that was probably a good sign) Robotnik turned his gaze to the right. There was a moderately impressive computer system set up against the opposite wall; several monitors displayed diagrams and energy readings, and even from a brief scan (his brain was still too frazzled for anything more) Robotnik could associate the data with the Eclipse Cannon explosion. Clearly, whoever had gone to the trouble of yanking Robotnik out of the Void had done their research.
Several thick cables ran from one of the computers over to the other end of the garage. Following its trail, Robotnik found a large, circular apparatus that, if his memory of the golden ring he’d been pulled through could be trusted, was probably meant to hold a ring portal. If he had to hazard a guess from his limited data, it likely supplied power to the device, possibly even helped direct it. It made enough sense; it had taken the meltdown of a WMD to put Robotnik in the Void in the first place, even those remarkable rings (which he still needed to get a sample of) probably needed a bit of a power boost to bridge the gap, much less aim correctly.
Scan of the room completed, Robotnik decided to make an attempt--ambitious though it was--at sitting up. The stiffness of his limbs and total lack of cooperation from his hands didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but the doctor was out of things to look at and if he didn’t do something he was going to have a full-blown panic attack. Not how he wanted to spend his first few conscious moments back on Earth.
Especially when he still didn’t know who had retrieved him in the first place.
(Though he did have a sneaking, dismaying suspicion…)
It took a few attempts, but eventually Robotnik managed to heft his body upright, with legs hanging over the edge of the cot and arms holding himself up. Interestingly, there didn’t seem to be any real muscular atrophy to be concerned with; it was more like his nervous system was out of practice. Furthermore, he didn’t seem to be hungry or thirsty or tired at all, or even particularly in need of a shower. Perhaps his uncoordinated body was simply warming up, like an old computer that had been left off for too long.
That comparison wasn’t very comforting, but Robotnik was spared the effort of coming up with a better one by the interior door to the garage swinging open. One look confirmed Robotnik’s (unwelcome) suspicions.
“Eggman.” Sonic stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in suspicion. The damned nickname should’ve been infuriating, but the elation of speaking to another living thing soothed Robotnik’s ego. It didn’t, however, earn the blue alien any slack.
“Erinaceinae.” Robotnik matched his tone--or tried to, at least. His voice came out an octave lower than normal, rasping and weak with disuse, startling himself and drawing a sympathetic wince from Sonic. Not what Robotnik was going for at all. They remained quiet for a moment before Robotnik cleared his throat and tried again, with only marginally better results. “Out of practice.”
“You, having no one to yap to?” Sonic scoffed, mercifully electing to ignore that brief moment of pity. “Must’ve been torture.”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
Robotnik had meant to continue their standard repartee, but he really must’ve been out of practice, because it came out far too raw and honest to be at all irritating, or even amusing. All it did was put that reluctant pity back on the hedgehog’s face.
“Right…” Sonic looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry it took us so long.”
Before Robotnik could ask any clarifying questions, the hedgehog had already sped back into the house, yelling “he’s up!”
Infuriating as ever. Some things never changed, at least.
In the meantime, Robotnik tried to flex his distinctly unatrophied yet nonetheless uncooperative hands. But he didn’t have long to dwell on the vexing inconsistencies with how his body did and did not react to time spent in the Void, because all three aliens came rushing into the garage. Knuckles stood sort of guarding the door, eyeing Robotnik with grim suspicion. Sonic practically teleported into an old reclining chair in the corner opposite the portal device. And Tails, to Robotnik’s immense relief, immediately launched into explaining what, exactly, happened.
“So, um… Welcome back to Earth!” Tails seemed to be one part excited, one part guilty, which was odd, since he’d apparently just rescued Robotnik from a potential eternity of torment. “You’ve probably already figured this out, but the explosion from the Eclipse cannon--thanks for saving the world, by the way!--opened up a temporary wormhole, displacing all matter at its epicenter in multiversal space. Basically, you ended up in the Void between realities, which we didn’t realize until a few months ago, when the radiation from the blast finally dissipated enough to send up a probe. I started working on a solution as soon as I realized what the telemetry I was getting meant--”
“A few months?” Robotnik finally cut in. His voice was still rusty, but strong enough to cut through Tails’ rambling. “How long was I gone, exactly?”
“The Eclipse Cannon exploded nine months ago--”
“YES!” Momentarily forgetting himself in his vindication, Robotnik shot to his feet--and immediately collapsed again, thankfully back onto the cot and not all the way to the ground. Grumbling slightly, Robotnik gestured for Tails to continue.
“Um, right…” Tails looked between Knuckles and Sonic, but both were as confused as he was. Eventually, he seemed to settle on ignoring the outburst. “So, it’s been nine months… Again, I’m so, so sorry it took us so long to find you. We didn’t even realize there was anything to be found until the probe’s data came back, and then I had to figure out how to trace the energy signature of the blast through multiversal space, and figure out how to get the rings to portal to the space between realities, since they’re not designed to do that--”
“Oh stop apologizing.” The distressed look on the fox’s face was making Robotnik nauseous. “I wasn’t expecting to be rescued at all. You saved me from a uniquely terrible fate.”
Robotnik wouldn’t--couldn’t--say thank you directly. But Tails seemed to accept the implication readily, taking the not-thanks with a relieved smile that reminded him all too much of--
“I don’t suppose you know what’s become of Agent Stone?” Robotnik couldn’t help but ask, even as the more cowardly part of him dreaded the answer. “Not that any of this is his problem, of course. I didn’t so much as leave him a manifesto; I’m sure he’s moved on to greener pastures by now.”
At that, the three aliens glanced at each other; Tails nervous, Sonic skeptical, Knuckles stern. They seemed to have a silent discussion amongst themselves, before finally Knuckles stepped forward with a huff.
“We must discuss the Goat Milker.”
===
Robotnik regarded the bunker door in front of him with trepidation.
Unwarranted trepidation, by all rights; it was Robotnik’s bunker, and he couldn’t imagine Stone had bothered to erase a dead man’s security access. Especially if even half of what the aliens had told him was true.
He didn’t have any real reason to assume they were lying to him, of course; it was just so far outside of anything Robotnik had predicted, even in his wildest musings mid-Void. He’d refused to believe a word of it until Tails had finally just shown him the footage.
Agent Stone, piloting the battle rig Robotnik had designed for him back in the crab. The doctor had never gotten it beyond the prototype stage, but there it was in all its glory; four spider-like, bladed legs, reinforced exoskeleton with embedded laser turrets, badnik control system integration, full vitals and tactical readouts AND state-of-the-art hacking systems on the control panel…
A beautiful piece of weapons engineering, but Robotnik had known that already, since he’d designed it himself. No, what stunned him was its pilot; the way Agent Stone danced across the battlefield, gracefully dodging attacks, mercilessly responding in kind, commanding a swarm of the doctor’s own badniks with a level of competence and style that Robotnik could hardly have outdone himself.
Seeing Stone like that, in total command of Robotnik’s machines, taking control of each skirmish with such competence and skill… He was nothing short of radiant.
Humiliatingly, the word had actually left his mouth as he watched the footage. Fortunately, Sonic had merely told Robotnik to stop drooling over his own machines and do something, because apparently Stone had become an intolerable thorn in G.U.N.’s side; attacking outposts and stealing any of Robotnik’s tech he could get to, disrupting operations, even robbing a bank (oh Robotnik would’ve killed to watch that show) to fund his apparent private war against the clandestine group. It had gotten so bad that they’d called on the colorful aliens for help, but where G.U.N. had been being steamrolled, the trio had only managed to eke out a stalemate.
All of this effort, allegedly, in Robotnik’s name. Which he had a hard time imagining; with how they’d left things, Stone shouldn’t so much as be making lattes in Robotnik’s name. Much less executing an elaborate, drawn-out campaign of vengeance against those who would abuse the doctor’s inventions posthumously. Not that he wasn’t honored by the idea, of course. On the contrary, he found it at once thrilling and oddly touching. But it felt so… unearned. Surely Stone had more sense than to remain devoted to a dead man who’d never deserved his devotion in the first place?
But then Robotnik thought back to that time after the fall; how Stone had painstakingly dragged Robotnik, often quite literally kicking and screaming, back from the brink. Taken every scrap of misdirected rage and misery thrown at him, and given nothing but unconditional support in return. How Stone had been abandoned once again, this time willfully, and still tried to warn Robotnik of what he refused to see until it was too late.
Maybe Robotnik was overestimating Stone’s sense, after all.
Robotnik startled himself out of his musings. How long had he been zoned out, staring at the bunker door?
Too long, he decided, and stepped forward, opting to ignore the uncharacteristic spaciness that had plagued him since his return. As soon as he crossed the invisible threshold, a panel on the door slid open, revealing a red scanner that immediately ran a laser grid up and down Robotnik’s body.
“Welcome back, Doctor.” A synthesized voice rang out as the sensor turned green and the door swung open. Allowing himself one more steadying breath, Robotnik stepped inside, and tried not to take the slamming of the bunker door behind him as a bad omen.
This particular safehouse was one Robotnik was particularly proud of; an abandoned hangar, securely hidden underground, likely some paranoid military general’s abandoned pet project. The structure was spacious enough to house a few larger craft, plenty of space for tinkering, with a living quarters set up in one corner; kitchenette, couch bed and armchair set with a media system, with a bedroom, storage, and other necessities sectioned off behind a door. It was an insanely lucky find, one of his better-equipped safehouses, and not at all a surprising choice for Stone’s base of operations.
As Robotnik slowly made his way down the stairs into the bunker proper, he grimaced at the continued difficulty with his limbs. Everything felt stiff, clumsy, almost unfamiliar. He kept miscalculating his movements, and it was a wonder he made it down the stairs on his feet instead of on his ass. He’d been working his hands as much as he could, flexing and stretching his fingers until feeling seeped back in, and while they’d shown marked improvement from the spasms they’d given upon first waking up a an hour ago, they were far from the finely-tuned instruments Robotnik was accustomed to working with. The doctor had his theories as to the root cause of this side effect, but he was having trouble focussing his thoughts at the moment; another particularly vexing (not concerning, vexing) side effect of nine months in the Void. Robotnik’s mind had always run at mach speeds, but even at his worst he’d generally been able to at least direct his attention onto a handful of subjects at a time. But ever since he’d woken up, his brain felt like a pinball machine, attention pinging off of one thought, into an observation, into a memory, into an old theory, into another thought, into, into, into…
Robotnik snapped back to awareness; he’d drifted to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, staring blankly at his boots for who knew how long. He scowled, cursing his Void-addled brain. He was going to have to pull himself together better than this before Stone returned.
Because the hangar was unoccupied; he’d managed to register that much information through his haze. A repair bay for the battle rig took up much of the modest hangar, but Stone’s primary mode of transport--a modified Egg Flyer--was absent, along with his contingent of badniks. Stashes of Robotnik’s own tech were stowed about the place in various states of ransacking, some still sealed in military crates, others partially inventoried, and still others half-cannibalized for parts. Robotnik’s eyebrow raised; clearly his Agent had been busy.
The Agent.
Robotnik had no right to claim Stone as his anymore.
Now if he could just convince Stone of that…
Turning his attention to the living area, Robotnik’s other brow crept up to join its twin. For all the years he’d known the man, Stone had always been fastidious, organized, and unburdened by clutter. If it weren’t for the piles of paperwork the government somehow managed to generate this late in the digital age, you’d barely know Stone’s workspace from an unoccupied desk. While his possessions were generally high-quality and stylish, he didn’t bother with superfluous decoration on his person nor in his spaces (even his old apartment, from the few glimpses Robotnik had snatched of the place, was nicely furnished but unadorned). It was one of the qualities that had earned him Robotnik’s consideration; while the doctor himself preferred to indulge in his own aesthetics, he could respect Stone’s pragmatic philosophy on the matter.
If Robotnik didn’t know damn well that no one but he and Stone had access to this place, he never would’ve guessed it was Stone’s.
It wasn’t filthy, per se, but like the hangar it was definitely cluttered. Intel printouts and supplies for weapon maintenance took over half of the main island counter, spare stool overturned and kicked aside into the corner. The other half was occupied by what looked to be a listening station of sorts, cobbled together from some of Robotnik’s surveillance equipment hooked up to one of his nicer computers and several monitors. The kitchen counters didn’t fare much better, with empty takeout containers, frozen dinner trays, and a small pile of dishes, cups, and utensils, clean but not put away, taking up most of the counterspace. A quick glance at one cupboard--door ajar--revealed it was mostly empty. The coffee bar, at least, had been maintained immaculately, but didn’t look to have received much use. The couch was mostly bare, with an old quilt draped along the back. The coffee table was similarly cluttered with documents, a data tablet, a few empty mugs, and a half-dismantled handgun.
All in all, very unlike what Robotnik had come to expect from Agent Stone’s living and work spaces. He wondered if this was how Stone felt coming into the lab after being away for a week (G.U.N. would sometimes commandeer him for some field operation or another, which Robotnik hated) and finding that Robotnik hadn’t rested, much less slept, in favor of working for that entire duration.
Robotnik wrenched himself out of his musings; Stone would be back any minute, and Robotnik was still dressed in the clothes he’d died in.
Fortunately, a brief rummage found that Stone hadn’t bothered to throw out the clothes Robotnik had stashed here; he exchanged the suit for sweats and a t-shirt, reveled in the bliss of loungewear for probably too long, then unceremoniously dumped his Void clothes in the incinerator. Good riddance.
Having changed, Robotnik took a moment to splash some water on his face (the sensation of water running through his fingers almost brought him to tears) and looked in the mirror. He looked much the same as he had the day he should’ve died; a bit more tired, perhaps.
No, not tired; drained.
Nine months. Nine months of absolutely nothing.
And now…
He watched in the mirror as his eyes welled up, and tears spilled over, but his body seemed unwilling to react in any other way, stuck staring at his own reflection. Eventually, the tears stopped, and a few minutes after that he managed to wrest control of his body back, splash his face with (blissful, beautiful) water again, and just about jump out of his skin at the sound of the hangar doors opening.
Robotnik took a steadying breath as he listened to the craft land, and heard the familiar, quiet whirring of badniks hovering through the space. Equilibrium somewhat restored, he returned to the hangar.
Several badniks paused their routines as Robotnik exited the bathroom, immediately scanning the intruder and freezing upon identification. It only took them a brief moment to resolve the discrepancy between old and new data, however, and soon enough his babies were swarming around him with a chorus of beeps, whirrs, and trills. Tears threatened Robotnik’s eyes again, and a wheezing laugh fought its way out of his chest wholly against his will.
“Come on, who taught you all to be so disgustingly sentimental?” His voice was still rough with disuse, but the badniks didn’t seem to mind, continuing their overjoyed dance even in the face of their creator’s half-hearted grumbling. “Quit embarrassing yourselves! You’re killing machines, not a poor substitute for fireworks in July.”
The swarm gleefully ignored his feedback. Robotnik sighed, fond despite himself. Damn, he’d missed his babies.
“By all rights, you ought to be groveling after your negligence.” He continued, reveling in the familiarity of bantering with his badniks. “I’ve been here for…”
The sentence trailed off. Hmm. How long had he been there? It felt like it couldn’t have been more than twenty, thirty minutes at most… But then there had been those moments his Void-addled brain stopped registering petty details like the passage of time, sensory input, his current circumstances… All things that had become more or less irrelevant in the Void. Come to think of it, maybe the problem with his brain was simply that it was out of practice piloting a body. It would certainly explain the difficulties with his motor skills, the odd dissociative sensation that plagued him irregularly, the pain of the air being forced from his lungs--
Wait a minute…
Robotnik was jarred back to reality by the impact of his back on the concrete floor. Pure reflex was the only thing that kept his head from slamming into the ground. The cacophony of several dozen alarmed badniks echoed around him, but none of them were firing, which was odd because someone had pinned their illustrious creator to the ground--
Oh.
Oh.
All other sensation--moderate ache in his shoulders and chest from being tackled, badnik alarms shrill in his ears, sudden scent of sweat and leather and motor oil in his nose--faded to the background in favor of sight. Every spare scrap of electricity running through Robotnik’s brain immediately flooded towards visual processing, attention rapt in a way that he was certain could be neurologically mapped, had he the proper scanner handy. For nine hellish months he’d been starved for sensory input, totally isolated in a way even he found intolerable, tormented by his own overactive brain and thoughts of could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. An awareness of fault and utter inability to take action, its course endlessly recursive and infinitely agonizing in his mind. Desperate for any scrap of anything, so long as it was external. Desperate for one thing in particular, and painfully aware of how he didn’t deserve to have it.
“Stone.” Robotnik murmured reverently. His attention preened at the sheer bliss of processing Stone’s presence for awhile; too long, apparently, as it caused him to be shook roughly. The jostling was mildly unpleasant, but served its purpose of sharpening Robotnik’s attention past the “acknowledgement” phase and into the “analysis” phase.
Initial analysis turned up three major points; Stone was beautiful, Stone looked rough, and Stone was majorly pissed.
Stone, known by Robotnik to maintain an immaculate appearance, had clearly been neglecting himself of late. His hair, uncombed and falling in his eyes a bit, had grown longer than the doctor had ever seen it, the length drawing a slight curl from the texture. His facial hair was stubbly and untrimmed, at least several days overdue for a shave. His normally warm-toned skin was washed out, broken here and there by dark bruises; one up by his temple, another on the opposite cheekbone, still another peeking out from under his chin. His eyes, mostly known to Robotnik to be wide and adoring, were, though still wide, lit by manic rage more than adoration, and bruised with exhaustion to boot. They glared at Robotnik from behind a set of crimson lenses he recognized as a pair of his own control glasses. Stone’s mouth was pulled into a cold snarl, and a drop of blood fell from the split lip that had been recently reopened. Probably from all the yelling he’d been doing.
Oh, Stone was yelling at him. He should probably listen. Instead of just lying there, uselessly drinking in every detail of the man who was actively threatening his life.
“--answer me, damn it, who are you?!” Stone had Robotnik pinned under one of the spiderlike, bladed legs of his battle rig, the end of which dug a little deeper into Robotnik’s sternum to emphasize its pilot’s point. Stone himself was suspended just above Robotnik, held up by the other three legs. Behind him, a veritable tornado of distressed badniks swarmed, uncertain as to how to resolve this situation. An understandable error; Robotnik had endowed them all with strict programming that barred them from firing on himself or Stone. But they were just as strictly programmed to protect both himself and Stone. Quite the dilemma for their logic systems.
Robotnik’s breath hissed as the leg dug deeper still, his attention wrenched from the rambling path it had been about to foolishly pursue. Urgently, Robotnik realized he needed to respond with something, anything--
“Stone.”
Okay, preferably a bit more elaborate than that.
Before Stone could respond with more frustration (or just snap and kill him already), Robotnik finally managed to kick his mouth into gear. Unfortunately, he could’ve probably stood to aim it better, because the first thing he managed to say was, “You really dug up this old prototype?”
Stone froze above him, bewildered. To his own distant horror, Robotnik continued; “Not that I’m criticizing. I designed it with you in mind, of course, and you’ve obviously managed to get it off the ground. I didn’t get the chance to review much footage of it in action, I only got back an hour ago, but what I saw was highly impressive.”
Part of Robotnik’s brain was banging its proverbial head against the proverbial wall and begging to know why the hell he was still talking about the damned battle rig. Another part was still uselessly engaged in cataloging every square inch of Stone’s face. And still another was preparing the next segment of his poorly-timed rambling.
“I thought the design needed more work, personally, but clearly it’s been serving its purpose regardless. I did notice you making good use of its leap capacity; I put more power into it than was strictly advisable, but I knew you could handle it.” Stone blinked down at him, expression halfway between utter confusion and sheer outrage. Against all sense of self preservation, Robotnik persisted. “I was going to add a set of more versatile robotic arms, eventually--”
“Stop. Stop talking!” Stone snarled, emphasizing his demand by digging the blade just a hair deeper, eliciting a wince from his captive. “You’re not--how dare you impersonate--”
“Oh ye of little faith, Stone!” Robotnik rasped, grin pulling at cheeks despite the dire circumstances. A verbal jab at Stone was a joy he’d thought he’d never appreciate again. “You really think any pedestrian impersonation could fool my babies? Why do you think they haven’t shot me to pulp yet?”
He watched as Stone’s pupils flicked to a display on his control lenses; likely a scan of Robotnik himself. His eyes widened further (which Robotnik hadn’t thought possible) at the data he received, before locking back onto his captive. His gaze swam with a myriad of emotions; grief, horror, rage, skepticism, ever-insidious hope…
All at once, Robotnik’s fractured mind jolted back into one. He had Stone here, right in front of him, a scenario he hadn’t dared hope to find himself in. He had to take advantage of it, now, before Stone (however deservedly) ripped him to shreds.
“I didn’t listen to you when I should have.” Stone froze again, but Robotnik plowed on, determined. “I allowed myself to be manipulated, I abandoned you, and I was needlessly cruel to you. More than usual.” He amended. “I’ve never deserved the loyalty you’ve shown me, yet I continued to take advantage of it; of you, knowing this. So if you’re going to kill me, do it because of that. I’d much rather die to an act of vengeance than to a misunderstanding. Damned trope already oversaturates the genre.”
Stone’s gaze flitted between the data readout, the badniks around them, and Robotnik’s face. After agonizing moments, something in him seemed to break, and hesitantly, some of that familiar adoration began to seep back into Stone’s eyes. “Doctor…?”
“Yes.” Robotnik responded, for once in his life, simply. “I’m back.”
Stone didn’t reply immediately; stared down from above him, as that open gaze reserved only for the doctor slowly relit his eyes. His mouth twitched to smile, he huffed a weak laugh, but then suddenly shifted to uncertainty. Stone reached out, hesitant, as if Robotnik would dissolve beneath his touch.
Robotnik would’ve risen to meet him, had he not been pinned down by the bladed leg of Stone’s battle rig, a steadily painful but ultimately ignorable pressure on his sternum. As it was, he simply had to wait, impatient and eager and probably not as concerned about the lethality of his current circumstances as he should be. In Robotnik’s defence, he’d been exiled in the Void for nine (fucking!!!!) months. Shoot him for craving human contact. Arrest him for being excited to see Stone again!
Stone (who seemed less likely to kill him by the second) finally reached out and cupped Robotnik’s cheek. Robotnik’s brain almost short-circuited in response; human contact after so long felt like electricity under his skin, in a way that was at once pleasant and overwhelming. It was over before he had the chance to process it properly, however, as Stone seemed to abruptly realize what he was doing. Specifically, that he was about ten pascals away from stabbing Robotnik through the chest.
Stone snatched his hand back as horror overtook his features. With a swiftly-entered command, he wrenched the leg pinning Robotnik to the ground away. As Robotnik took a much needed breather (that was definitely going to bruise) Stone skittered backwards, halting at a safe distance before freeing himself from the rig. He fell from the chassis and hit the ground running, skidding to a stop on his knees where Robotnik lay, still catching his breath.
Robotnik grinned as Stone reentered his field of view. “So that’s a ‘no’ on killing me?”
He half expected Stone to respond in kind; jump right back into their regular banter as if no time had passed at all. But then Robotnik took in Stone’s expression; the haunted determination he’d only seen a handful of times on the agent’s face in the years they’d worked together. The first time had been the first time Robotnik was injured since Stone was assigned to him. The next few were similar incidents.
Robotnik remembered what generally followed the appearance of this face, and sure enough, Stone gently but firmly pulled down the collar of Robotnik’s t-shirt, ripping the stitching a little to get a good look at his collarbone. Curious, Robotnik peered down at the spot as well; sure enough, a triangular groove was dug into his skin, less than a square inch, the skin inflamed but unbroken. Robotnik grinned; he was officially two for two, three for three if you counted his relatively accurate Void timeline.
“I am so, so sorry, Doctor.” Stone’s grim tone drew Robotnik’s attention back to him. “I should’ve known it was you from the start--”
“You should’ve known I was back from the dead?” Robotnik interrupted, incredulous. “Or rather, you should’ve known I never actually died, and was just stuck in the timeless Void between realities for nine-ish months? I’m fine, Stone, quit pouting! If it makes you feel any better, it demonstrated remarkable control over the rig to pin me without impaling me.”
“That does not make me feel better, sir.” Stone answered. “Not even a little.”
As Stone continued his somewhat frantic examination--which Robotnik knew from experience it was wiser to wait out than to fight--Robotnik examined Stone in turn, and with growing suspicion. It wasn’t just that Stone’s face was pallid and he was visibly exhausted; Stone looked worse than he had that time he’d worked through a cold until it became pneumonia. His brow was beaded with sweat despite the lack of rigorous physical exertion, his usually deft hands shook as they checked Robotnik’s neck for spinal damage, and when Robotnik glanced downwards, he saw a suspiciously dark stain just under his right ribcage…
Struck with urgency, Robotnik sat up. “What’s that?”
“Doctor, you shouldn’t be moving until I make sure--”
Now that Robotnik was listening for it, Stone’s voice sounded strained--no, pained. “Nope, what’s that?” He didn’t wait for Stone’s answer, instead reversing the dynamic and pulling off Stone’s long coat. Stone allowed it, as he usually did when Robotnik did things to him.
The shirt beneath the coat was black, but even more soaked. Spotting where Robotnik’s attention was, Stone cursed under his breath. “Reopened again.”
“Again?!” Robotnik scrambled to his feet, dragging Stone with him and barely avoiding sending them both tumbling to the ground. “You!” Robotnik pointed at one of the badniks. “Grab the med kit, bring it to the bathroom.”
As that one zoomed off to follow Robotnik’s command, another scanned him, then turned to Stone and let out a series of trills and beeps. Translating them to a general ‘systems functioning nominally’ chime, Robotnik pointed at Stone with a triumphant bark of laughter. “Told you I was fine! And quit siccing the swarm on me.”
“Sorry, sir. I just had to be sure.” Stone stared at him, expression stuck halfway between awestruck and miserable. “I-I… Nine months, I’m so sorry, Doctor, if I’d known--”
At that, Robotnik felt an unexpected flash of rage. “You!” He snapped, pointing harder. “Do not get to apologize! If I’d listened to you from the start, none of this would’ve even happened! If I’d just listened to you at the last second even, I might’ve gotten out! But I didn’t, did I?! This is my own damned fault, Stone, you don’t get to be sorry, I’m the one who’s sorry!”
Breath heaving, Robotnik turned to stalk towards the bathroom, only to wheel back around when he heard Stone say, “You’re sorry?”
Stone was staring after him; his expression had slid further towards awed. Robotnik tried to glare back, but couldn’t muster up much menace.
“Would you wipe that look off your face and follow me to the bathroom before you bleed out?” Robotnik sarcastically gestured towards the bathroom.
“I’d follow you anywhere, Doctor.” Stone replied, a smile ghosting his face. Robotnik turned back to lead the way before Stone could see him grimace.
“I know you would, Agent.” He muttered. And look where I’ve led you so far.
===
Robotnik had spent a lot of time in the Void longing for experiences. Things he’d never done, things he’d done but never appreciated, even things he never once took for granted; all of them had been mourned, deeply and completely, with nothing to distract from them. Eventually, even suffering became welcome, as he systematically wrung the neurotransmitters from each and every passing thought and memory like the precious resources they were. Longing was better than outright insanity. Grief was better than nothing at all. In fact, the only sensation Robotnik had encountered thus far that wouldn’t outrank nothingness was panic. Possibly total despair, as well. And besides, it wasn’t as if his stores were overflowing with positive emotions to draw on; the best he could usually manage were nostalgia and melancholy.
All that to say, no matter what emotion ruled Robotnik now that he was out, there was a constant undercurrent of giddiness that refused to fade, fueled by the sheer relief of processing incoming stimuli again. Be it mundane or preferred or even distressing, all of it was something, and after nine months of absolutely nothing external, there was very little that would be outright unwelcome to Robotnik just then. His mind was starved for stimulus and he intended to make the most of every last drop of it.
Take repairing Agent Stone, for example.
That was an experience that, while not necessarily common, was familiar and impactful enough that it had occupied a fair bit of Robotnik’s attention mid-Void. The memories pored over, analysed and reanalysed to death, reimagined with what Robotnik would have done differently, what he would’ve felt, what he would’ve said--
Well… Should’ve said, anyway. Even now that he was actually here, retrodding that old ground, Robotnik found himself not saying those things he swore he would have if given the chance. And even he couldn’t completely blame it on the spaciness he could only assume was a side effect of the Void. In his own defense, he had just given a genuine (if impassioned) apology, and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d done that.
But even regardless of those conflicting emotions, that undercurrent of giddiness remained strong. An embarrassingly earnest and primitive corner of his brain insisting on being heard, even only as background noise. He was doing something! Agent Stone was here! His babies were here! He was doing something!!!
Yes, that something was cleaning out the infected, half-healed gash just under Agent Stone’s right ribcage, but it was better than nothing. Worlds upon worlds better than nothing.
Stone, as ever, barely reacted to the pain of his wound being cleaned. He sat on the bench in the bathroom, shirt off and soiled bandages removed, wearing only black sweatpants and purple socks. Robotnik knelt next to him, rummaging through the first aid kit on the bench for some gauze now that the wound was clean. He muttered obscenities under his breath as his uncooperative fingers fumbled with the bandages.
“How are you--” Stone started to ask.
“Alive? Concentrated Chaos energy, when detonated, will displace matter at its epicenter in multiversal space.” Robotnik answered, scowling down at his rebellious hands. His scowl briefly flashed back to a smirk as he finally managed to secure the gauze. “I know this because it’s what happened to me. Fortuitously, the timeless Void between realities isn’t fatal to occupy.”
Stone nodded as Robotnik finished padding the freshly-cleaned wound with gauze; he was staring into middle-distance, which Robotnik had long since learned to take as a sign the Agent was in considerable pain. Robotnik had watched the man cheerfully chatter away while being stitched shut, and shrug off bullet grazes with little more than an eyeroll. The thought of things Robotnik had sworn he’d say if given the chance flashed through his head again.
“Sorry.” He muttered. It was a far cry from the ambitious scripts Robotnik had developed in the Void, but it was also more than he’d ever offered in the past. Stone blinked, then looked down at Robotnik as he began wrapping the wound. Stone’s expression was largely inscrutable, though even Robotnik could discern distinct exhaustion, and general confusion. In Stone’s defense, the situation was exceedingly strange, and his skin burned feverishly under Robotnik’s hands. Stone clearly wasn’t functioning anywhere near his peak performance.
“But how--”
“Am I here? Damned hedgehog and his cronies.” Robotnik scoffed, tying off the bandage with a satisfied nod. It wasn’t his best work by far, but it was perfectly sufficient. He briefly considered standing, then shrugged and plopped down on the ground instead. Then he frowned, and amended, “Actually, I think it was mostly the fox.”
Stone gripped the edge of the bench with both hands, a slightly desperate anchor. “They weren’t lying.”
“Shockingly enough, no.” Robotnik rolled his eyes. “Clever little vermin, I hate to admit. Still, you made the right call not trusting them.”
“Clearly I didn’t.” To Robotnik’s horror, Stone looked to be on the verge of tears. “They saved you. They saved you, and I--” He drew a shuddering breath. “I didn’t even look for you.”
Robotnik felt the irrational urge to snap when he heard the warning beep from Stone’s watch; he was well aware that Stone’s vitals were indicating severe distress, he had eyes. Nevermind that he’d made the damn thing and programmed it to do that.
Frantically, Robotnik scrambled to his feet, just about managing it by the time Stone slipped past verging on tears and into full on crying. Robotnik hesitated for a moment before gripping Stone’s shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, Doctor, you needed me, and I-I didn’t even--” His sentence broke off into a sob.
“I told you, you’re not allowed to apologize!” Robotnik almost shook him, but abandoned that as a bad idea immediately, instead lowering his hands to grip Stone’s arms. “I-I… Stone, look, I’m fine--”
Stone just shook his head, reaching up to grab Robotnik’s wrists. His breathing was shaky and shallow, his eyes bright with feverish panic. “I failed you.”
“I’m the only one handing out performance reviews here!” Robotnik was shooting for authoritative, but it came out more desperate than anything. “Do you have any idea how unbelievably pissed I would’ve been if I’d emerged to find you conspiring with the alien rats?!”
“It wouldn’t matter. You’d be safe.” Stone insisted. “With access to your tech they could’ve found you sooner--”
“If you’d let them access my tech I would have disemboweled you!”
“It wouldn’t matter.” Stone repeated. “You’d be safe.”
Robotnik found himself in the rare circumstance of being speechless. Stone arms hitched with suppressed sobs under Robotnik’s hands.
“It wasn’t your fault, and that’s my final word on the matter.” Robotnik eventually stated firmly. Stone didn’t react, so he continued, “You need to rest--”
“Could you sleep there?”
Robotnik froze. “What?”
“You said it was a timeless void.” Stone murmured. He was staring down at their feet, tears still stubbornly welling up. “Could you sleep?”
A moment’s silence, then Robotnik answered, “No.”
“Could you do anything? Feel anything, see anything? Was there anything?”
…
“No.”
Stone took a deep, stuttering breath. His grip on Robotnik’s arms tightened.
“It wasn’t so bad!” It didn’t sound convincing even to Robotnik’s ear. “Better than the body cast!” That was even less convincing.
“Okay, so it was nine months of total sensory deprivation, obviously it wasn’t pleasant.” Robotnik broke out of Stone’s grip and started pacing as he rambled. “Was the total lack of external stimulation utterly maddening? Of course! Did I lose myself to the Void a few times? Probably! Has it left me with unpredictable neurological side effects due to unprecedented time spent without sensory input? Almost certainly! Do I have anything even remotely resembling an actionable plan? Nope!”
“Doctor…!”
“I mean, honestly, Stone,” Robotnik laughed, the sound a touch hysterical, a touch desperate. “You weren’t even supposed to still be here! No one in their right mind would be, not after what I’ve put you through! I thought I’d managed to, at the very least, send you off on a high note, finally cut you loose, but nope! I couldn’t even do that right. Here you are, tethered as ever, while I manage to drag you through the dirt from beyond the literal fucking veil--”
“Sir--”
“That’s the most baffling thing, really, why are you still here, Stone?! The old man was right about me, I’m no…” Robotnik came to a halt, staring through the bathroom wall. “You’re not an idiot, Stone, no matter how many times I said it, so why would you still be here? He was right about me, and you’re observant, you must’ve seen it too by now, so why--”
“Ivo, please!”
It was his first name more than Stone’s hands on his shoulders or his face suddenly obscuring his vision that snapped Robotnik out of his spiral. His voice broke off, and he took a stuttering breath, deeper than he expected. When had he gotten so winded?
Stone was still crying a bit, but his expression was more horrified than distraught. He reached out and thumbed at Robotnik’s cheek, which was how Robotnik realized he was crying, too.
“I don’t know what he said to you,” Stone’s gaze was piercing, even through the fog of feverish tears and exhaustion. “But he was wrong. I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done in your name. I don’t regret a single second I’ve spent in your company.”
“You should.” Robotnik muttered. Stone just shook his head.
“I don’t. I never will.”
“I missed you.”
Stone froze for a moment. Robotnik was vaguely aware that he should be embarrassed by the confession, but now that the adrenaline from his aborted spiral had faded, the mental exhaustion was beginning to seep into his body, and he was too tired to care.
“I missed you, too.”
“I’m sorry I died again.”
“It’s not my favorite thing you do.”
Robotnik snorted. A smile ghosted Stone’s face. They stood there for another few minutes; processing, unraveling.
“I can’t be alone right now.” Robotnik eventually admitted.
“Me neither.” Stone’s grip tightened a little at the mere implication.
“Do you remember that nightmare of a weapons expo in the Netherlands?”
“Why--oh.” That was one thing Robotnik had always loved about Stone--he was very quick on the uptake. Good thing, too, because Robotnik had no other way to express his desire bordering on need for physical contact. “Good idea, sir.”
“I’m full of ‘em.” Before he could think too hard about it, Robotnik grabbed Stone’s hand and dragged him to the bedroom. But as Stone pulled back the covers, Robotnik hesitated.
“I… Are you sure you want me--”
His voice sputtered out as he abruptly realized that was his real question. Are you sure you want me?
Stone didn’t dignify that with a verbal response. Instead, he reversed the dynamic from the ill-fated Netherlands trip, dropping into bed and dragging Robotnik down with him. With a bit of scrambling, Robotnik ended up pressed against Stone’s uninjured left side, while both clung to the other.
If Robotnik teared up again at the sheer bliss of being held after nine months of complete isolation, then Stone had the grace not to mention it; he was tearing up himself, anyway.