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Dr. Ivo Robotnik hates a lot of things. His peers, his coworkers, his bosses, his underlings, his deadlines, his own biological needs, children, bullies, cowards, realtors, deadbeat dads, religion, politics, grocery stores, social media, sitcoms, any country music made after 2001, OSHA, crowd work standup comics, pollen, untrained little yappy dogs, fuzzy caterpillars, The Big Bang Theory (TV show), The Big Bang Theory (the theory), and coconut. For a start.
It’s a pretty long list, but “being called to meetings in the middle of his work” is high on it, above “Save the Bees” campaigns but below “people who only like honeybees and devalue the ecological value of other less adorable species including wasps and hornets.” Today, a good chunk of the list gets bumped down one slot, because he’s found something new to wedge in near the top: “being called to a meeting in the middle of his work and specifically being instructed not to bring Agent Stone.”
Since receiving the special agent, Ivo’s found him rather useful. Sure, there’s the odd attempted assassination or kidnapping to foil, and some of the havoc Ivo’s sent off to wreak has gone a lot more smoothly with a mildly insane human murderbot along for the ride, but he does other things too. He’s very good at following directions, which makes him infinitely more useful than most of the numbskulls G.U.N. sends to assist him. He’s also actually pretty smart, relatively speaking, with a wide and varied skill set. Stone can mend ripped clothing, play the drums, repair vacuum cleaners, and shuck oysters. All that on top of speaking several languages and killing a man with his bare hands. The man’s got some damn impressive party tricks.
Ivo has very little occasion for shucked oysters, but between bouts of ultraviolence he puts Stone to use in other ways. Meetings are just one of them. Stone takes notes, backs up Ivo’s extremely salient and well said points, and nudges him if he doses off. The occasional little smirk Stone tries to hold back when Ivo whispers something particularly cutting about the other losers in the room isn’t a primary consideration, but it’s nice.
But not this time. No, apparently for this meeting he’s expected to keep himself amused. Possibly even pay attention. Rarely has that ended well for anyone.
It’s not until he’s on his way to the meeting room that he notices it’s in a weird place. (What, like he’s going to read the whole invitation?) He traverses a maze of hallways through accounting and legal, beige clusters of cubicles and people whose lives would be better without his involvement, until he reaches a nondescript solid wood door with a little doorplate that reads “Special Resources.” So, that’s weird. Weirder still is the not-little guard standing outside the door. Not visibly armed, in a nice suit, but he’s gotta have a sidearm at minimum. Something about the stance is familiar; this is probably one of Stone’s cohorts from the Brainwashed Super Soldier program. He nods at Ivo’s approach and opens the door for him, then follows him inside.
The room is nearly empty, windowless and dim. There’s a bare table with basic wooden chairs on opposite sides. One chair contains a man Ivo thiiiinks he miiiight have seen before? The other is empty. That’s it. The door latches behind him and a deadbolt clunks into place.
The man in the chair is an white guy with gray hair, dressed in a simple and unremarkable suit. He’s got a leather portfolio on the table in front of him, the perfect way to make pointless paperwork and documentation seem scary. “Dr. Robotnik, pleasure to see you again,” he says, smiling and rising to offer a handshake.
Ivo doesn’t shake hands.
The man accepts the refusal with a nod. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Norman Detterbaum, and I’m the head interdepartmental liaison for the Special Resources department.”
Right, that’s where he knows him from. This guy was the one who walked Stone into the lab that first day and handed Ivo a locked briefcase full of desperately important information about his care and keeping that Ivo did read, eventually. “Of course I remember you,” Ivo snaps, sinking into the empty chair. “The question is why am I seeing you again?”
Norman (pfft, stupid name) sits again, still smiling diplomatically. He produces a folder that he lays out on the table before him. “I wanted to discuss Agent Stone’s performance.”
“What about it? He’s been fine.”
“Yes, well… Agent Stone is one of our best assets, but he can be difficult to keep in check. I thought it would be best to check in and see if I could perhaps offer some advice on how to handle him.”
Ivo doesn’t like being confused. Most of the time it just means someone is being extra stupid. “What makes you think I can’t handle him?”
Norman (more like Snoreman) clears his throat. “I’ve been reviewing some of the reports, and it seems that there have been unusually high casualties on your more recent missions. It’s something Stone’s previous handlers have struggled with as well.”
“Casualties? What casualties? Other than that guy in Nevada, and that was his own fault.”
Norman (more like Boreman) frowns and picks up a piece of paper. “Dr. Robotnik, are you not aware of this? Nearly every mission he’s been involved in has had at least two deaths.”
“What?” Ivo snatches the paper from him and starts to read. “That can’t be right, it was just the one - oh.” He tosses the paper back down. “Enemy deaths.”
“Correct.” Norman (more like Poorman, probably, with that haircut) runs his finger down the page. “In total there have been twenty-seven deaths in the three months he’s been under you - “
“And that’s a record and you want to give me a plaque? I’m honored, really, but I’m good.”
“Please don’t get defensive, Doctor. No one’s blaming you. Stone is an extremely capable asset, but he can be a little trickier to keep in check. We have some techniques and safeties built into his training that I’d like to share with you to help.”
Ivo’s starting to understand what Norman (more like Doorman because a door would be more interesting to talk to) is getting at, and he doesn’t like it. “That’s so weird. I could’ve sworn that the special agents were allowed to kill hostiles.”
“They’re allowed,” says Norman (more like Whoreman no, that doesn’t make any sense) kindly, “but obviously being authorized doesn’t mean they should. First-time handlers often have difficulty with discipline.”
His tone is either patronizing or condescending. Ivo briefly distracts himself by deciding which word is more suitable. He holds back on violent retribution for now, though, because there’s something fishy about this whole thing and you can only go nuclear once.
“It’s important to remember,” Normal Man continues, “that the special agents don’t respond to kindness or cruelty the way normal people do. They’re not motivated by a ‘good job’ or warnings and superficial punishments. As I said, Stone is one of our best, but he has a history of preferring lethal methods if left to his own devices. I wouldn’t normally recommend him for someone new to the program, but here we are. Stone has a tendency to, say, creatively interpret instructions, but one major correction usually puts an end to it. He tests boundaries but respects them once he knows you mean business. Show him who’s boss, if you will.”
Norman chuckles, and Ivo’s done. He weaves his hands together and leans forward. “Listen, Mr. Dribblebutt, you seem to be under the impression that Stone’s going on some kind of killing spree against my wishes. So let me set you straight. Stone is perfectly obedient. He does whatever I say. He’s very well trained, and compliments to the chef. I tell Stone to solve a problem and he solves it. That’s what he’s supposed to do.”
“Generally,” Norman says slowly, looking at Ivo like he’s confused, “handlers discourage the special agents from using lethal force unless absolutely necessary.”
“Yeah, uh-huh. I don’t think you’ll find a single casualty in that folder that wasn’t justified, Mr. Dingleberry. In fact, I think you’ll find that results from every mission have been positive, completed in optimal time without unnecessary use of resources.” These are not the kinds of metrics he personally gives a shit about, but he knows the bureaucrats love ‘em. Plus, he’s noticed the significant improvement with Stone’s involvement. He’s even been impressed by it. (Don’t tell anybody.) “It’s almost like you’re telling me to deliberately do worse. Which is one of the very, very few things I’m not capable of, along with giving live birth and macrame.”
What’s-his-face folds his hands on the table. “Just so we’re clear,” he says calmly, “your assessment of the situation is that Stone’s high casualty rate is not due to his tendency towards fatal options, but rather a direct result of your commands?”
Ivo waggles a hand. “I’m not ordering him to kill people, if that’s what’s up your butt. I tell him to get the job done. It’s hardly my fault if the best way to do that involves a little gore. Or Stone’s, for that matter.”
“I see.” Buttman Stupidface makes a little note. “To be honest I’m a little surprised, Dr. Robotnik. Your reputation precedes you, and I was sure it was exaggerated.”
“I ‘yam what I ‘yam.”
“Indeed. In light of this, I’m going to recommend your status as a handler be reconsidered.”
Ivo freezes in the middle of wiggling an invisible cigar. “Oh, no. That won’t be happening.”
“I understand you’re used to getting your way - “
“I could kill you.” Ivo examines his fingernails idly. (He’s wearing gloves but it’s the vibe that counts.) “I don’t just mean I’m capable of it - I am, and the goon won’t help - but rather, do you know what would happen to me afterwards?” He locks eyes with the loser. “Not a single thing. I wouldn’t be arrested. I wouldn’t be fired. I might get a stern word from Walters next time he sees me, and that’s only if I made a big mess in the process. I’m important, and you’re not.”
“Doctor Robotnik, I am the head of - “
“Doesn’t matter,” Ivo sings. “Your precious special agent program is garbage. The expenses involved in producing a single viable candidate are ludicrous. Then you get a couple good years of service, but never more than a decade, before you’ve gotta put them down. It’s inefficient. And that’s not even considering the cost in human lives! My god, it’s such a horrifying unethical program!” He feigns horror for a moment before dropping it. “Somebody probably cares about that part.”
“The special agent program is - “
“And here’s the thing, right, the thing they didn’t tell either of us, but one of us has more than sawdust for a brain. The real reason they sent me a special agent was to see if my babies are ready to replace them.”
Finally, Norman looks genuinely shocked. “Your what?”
“You don’t even know, do you?” Ivo clicks his tongue. He flicks his fingers against the buttons on his gloves and a small white-and-red orb zooms out from his pocket to hover over his shoulder. “This is a mininik. It’s a mini one. Mini-nik. Get it? And,” he twirls a finger and the mininik spins in response, “ it can do everything one of your special agents can do at a fraction of the cost and with a fraction of the ethical baggage. The full size botniks - “ he gestures to indicate the size “ - should be in mass production by the end of the quarter. I can’t imagine your special agent program is going to last long after that.”
Norman smirks. “I’m sure you’d like that, Doctor, but there’s no machine that will be as capable as one of our agents.”
Ivo glances at the man by the door. “I assume he’s a special agent?”
“Of course.” The man tenses up, presumably because he’s being focused on, and all that training makes a guy kinda jumpy. “He’s one of - “
Ivo points at the suited agent, makes a finger gun, and goes, “Pew!”
The mininik fires a red laser that slices through the man’s torso. He’s on the ground before he can even reach for his gun.
Norman Detterbaum is suddenly very pale.
“I’ll keep Stone,” Ivo says casually, patting the mininik and guiding it back into his pocket. “He amuses me. I’d start focusing on rehoming the rest of your little pack. Unless you’re, like, a big fan of Old Yeller.”
Norman Detterbaum’s constipated. No, wait, he’s trying to look brave. “You can’t scare me, Doctor Robotnik.”
Ivo sucks in a breath between his teeth. “I dunno, you look pretty scared to me. What do you think?” He looks over at the corpse. “Oh, right.”
“This isn’t over.” Norman Detterbaum, whose life was much better before Ivo Robotnik knew his name, shakes. “You’ll be hearing about this!”
Ivo puts both hands on the desk and leans in. He pauses for a moment, selecting the perfect bon mot with his brilliant mind, rhetorical skills honed by decades of experience and powered by pure, unadulterated genius.
“Nah.”
Then he leaves, stepping lightly over the charred corpse on the floor, because who’s going to stop him?
“Welcome back, Doctor!” Stone’s chipper attitude has really gotten brighter and more obnoxious the longer he’s been here. It’s either an attempt to differentiate himself from the badniks or just an expression of how great it is to have a boss who doesn’t suck.
It’s also often extremely irritating, but right now Ivo’s feeling quite fondly towards his little minion. “Didya miss me?” he asks, pinching Stone’s cheek.
“How was the meeting?”
“Don’t worry, Stone. That nasty old Mr. Detterbaum won’t be taking you away from me any time soon.”
“I wasn’t worried, Doctor,” Stone insists. Technically, he might not have been. Ivo’s never cared about psychology, but whatever the hell is happening inside Stone’s head is fascinating. The man has preferences, which means he must have feelings. He just can’t or won’t admit it.
“Sure,” Ivo says, allowing Stone his dignity this time. “If you say so,” he adds, because not too much dignity or Stone might start insisting on things like “leisure time” or “the tiniest crumb of agency over his own destiny.”
Speaking of.
“Got some hot goss for ya, Stone.” He hooks an arm over Stone’s shoulders. “Some tea to spill, as the kids say.”
Stone tilts his head and blinks cluelessly.
“The special agent program’s being retired by the end of the year. And so,” he adds, poking the tip of Stone’s nose, “are the special agents.”
Stone looks a little concerned. (See? Feelings.) “Retired?”
“Retired. I don’t know what that little euphemism means for the rest of those losers, but you’re staying here.” He shakes Stone affably. “You’re mine, Stone, and I don’t like it when people try to take things that belong to me. Understood?”
Stone’s eyes go a little distant. He’s processing. Odds are the special agent program didn’t bother training said agents to offramp. Why would they? You wouldn’t want them to be able to even conceive of a world where they’re working for any other master. If you can’t keep your brainwashed supersoldier loyal, you probably shouldn’t have one in the first place.
But Robotnik’s been working on Stone.
(He’s not trying to break him. He’s just curious.)
Who takes a moment, then nods somberly. “Understood, Doctor.”
“Good. Now go make yourself useful and make me a latte. The last one was almost drinkable.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Stone extricates himself from Ivo’s grasp and heads for the door. He pauses at the threshold. “Doctor?”
“What is it, lackey?”
“Thank you.”
Then he goes, leaving Ivo staring at the spot where he’d been seconds before. Ivo sinks into his chair slowly.
Thank you? He said thank you? For what? For not “retiring” him? For the head’s up that all his fellow weirdos were going to a farm upstate? For being a better boss than, apparently, every idiot handler Stone’s suffered through? Probably that last one, if Norman Detterbaum’s any indication.
And, on that note, Ivo turns to his computer and starts pulling up screens. Because he wasn’t lying to Norman, exactly - the badniks would easily outclass the special agent program - but he may have fudged the details on the timeline. The badniks are still very much in the prototyping stage.(They tend to explode. (When they’re not supposed to.)) He’d said “end of the quarter” but the reality was closer to “end of the year,” and that’s not even including the tiresome safety reviews and inevitable stupid changes. But if he moves some things around, pushes a couple projects to the side, and works double overtime…
When Stone returns, cradling a mug on a saucer, he’s dismayed to find Dr. Robotnik elbow-deep in the project management software. His “schedule” is difficult enough to manage as it is, and the doctor taking an interest never improves it. “What are you doing?” he asks. He sounds calm. He has a lot of experience hiding his irritation.
That irritation doesn’t last long. It rarely does, with the doctor. Even while Stone takes in the mangled corpse of a meticulously plotted and maintained timeline, the doctor grins at him over his shoulder. (Stone does not have as much experience hiding this… whatever this is. A new feeling. It makes his mouth and his cheeks twitch involuntarily.)
“Plans have changed, Stone,” Dr. Robotnik says, spinning in his chair. “Oooh, coffee. Gimme.”
Stone glances at the latte. It’s not perfect. But Stone has been researching, and practicing, and he thinks this one might be okay. He hands the saucer to Dr. Robotnik, who slurps from the mug. (There’s latte foam on his moustache and it’s that new feeling again.) The doctor smacks his lips performatively, making a show of evaluating the taste, humming vaguely. Finally, he nods at Stone.
He says, “That’s actually not bad,” and that new feeling breaks containment and Stone smiles.
(See? Feelings.)
(But the lattes still have a long way to go.)