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That Was When I Ruled The World

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All he can do while he waits to be repaired is think.


To be the copy of a copy is a terrible fate. To not be your own person... To not even be a copy of someone who was his own person.

No. The "Mk II" on his name was a terrible blemish. A reminder that he was the result of failure. He had died, and he had been built again, and they wouldn't let him forget that he wasn't even worthy of his title, his name.

Not that such a name had ever been his. Even in his first life, he had been a copy, a crude emulation of the one that they called "Master X." A name that he borrowed, that he stole, but never a name that was really his.
Even since his creation, he's never really been anything more than 'Copy X', has he.


It's a troubling thought. One that he keeps in the back of his mind, buries deep under protocols and warning messages, files within files of information that are stored away. A troubling thought that he's had since his creation, that's started to come back to the surface now that all he can do is stay still and wait.


What does it truly mean, to be nothing more than a "Copy X Mk II". Will he ever be more, will he ever know more?

Even as he closes his eyes and settles into an uneasy rest, the thought still dances in his head.

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When he first sees the god of destruction, it takes his breath away. It towers over him, over the man (if one can still call Weil that) that revived him, over any reploid or mechaniloid that he's ever seen before. He's sure that, even with the wings his ultimate armor brings, he wouldn't be able to reach those heights, wouldn't be able to see this robot face to face.

The longer he stares, the colder he seems to become. It starts in his chest, making it hard to draw artificial breath, and it spreads throughout his body. This chill... This darkness, like nothing he's ever felt before, leaves him trembling, gasping for breath that he doesn't actually need.

Even when he had died; well, when the old him had died, he had not felt this cold. His death had been warm, the heat of rage and frustration taking over a fractured body, trying to take down others in his desparation.
While he was not dying, right here, right now, it brought to mind the chill of death that others often described.

He tries to speak, tries to ask what, exactly, this god of destruction is, but all that comes out is a stuttery, garbled mess. A mess that makes him shut his mouth, makes him lower his head.
He hasn't... Figured out how to speak again. Just another sign of his failure. A leader that can not form words is no leader at all, nothing more than a broken toy that was discarded once, and should have been discarded again.

He bites his tongue, supressing another shudder as the god above him growls, making the very ground below tremble in apprehension.


The doctor demands he work with the messiah of destruction. And so work with the messiah he shall.

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The one luxury he has been afforded during his recovery is a mirror. For one who spent as much time preening as he did, it should have come as a comfort.

Instead, all it does it make him painfully aware of all his flaws. The longer he looks, the more he sees the differences from his old body, all the little things that show that he's nothing more than a replacement.
A replacement for a replacement, even.


He finds himself staring at his eyes, mostly. Such a startling shade of blue, dark at the edges, almost becoming indigo as the colour nears the iris. He finds himself staring into them, becoming aware of every line and every slight variation in the shade.
If they belonged to anyone else, he may have even been captivated by them. But they are not his eyes.

He isn't sure why the Doctor replaced his eyes, such a vibrant red, with these. Perhaps it was some kind of joke, a way to let the world know that he is a fraud. These aren't the green of the real X, and they're not the red that he was made with.

Of all the flaws on his new features, all the tiny details that are wrong, he hates his eyes the most.
These ocean eyes are not his eyes.

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He, Copy X, was the good guy.

He knew this because this is what he had always been told. He was the good guy, and those that opposed him were the bad guys. From the day he was created, this was how things had been, and this is how things would always be.

So when he had been told to contact the resistance and threaten them? No problem. They had opposed him. They were the bad guys.
To call the Messiah of Destruction on them? On those they cared about? They had opposed him. They were the bad guys.

Even now, as he waits with bated breath, waiting for the 'Ancient Hero' to arrive once more, for them to have their final showdown, he keeps repeating it in his head.
He's the good guy
He's the good guy
He's the good guy.

The words flow from his lips, whispered and staggered, his voice box skipping and slurring as it does
For once, he's thankful for this. It hides the fact that he'd be stammering, even without it.

"I'm the good guy."
"I'm the g-g-good guy."
"I-I'm the good gu-guy."

If he says it enough, maybe he can convince the nagging in the back of his head that tells him a 'good guy' wouldn't of endangered human lives like he had done.

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Yet another on his long list of failures. How could be a leader, when he can't even beat one single reploid.


He had thrown his all into that battle. Pulled no punches, put his very heart and soul into it, and still he had lost. Still, he had ended up on his knees, gasping for air, sounding like a car engine that was having trouble starting.


Once again, he's nothing more than a fool, humiliated by the blond haired 'hero'. The one that wishes to bring chaos and disorder to his beloved Neo Arcadia. The blond haired hero that's now... Ignoring him, as if he were some common Pantheon. Nothing more than a nuisance, something to be destroyed and brushed aside. Something that has no thoughts nor feelings.

One hand on the floor, and then the other. He hears something crack as he struggles to his feet, feels something inside him shift to a place it shouldn't, but pays it no mind. He can worry about that when he's victorious, when he's standing on the mangled wreck of the blond hero in front of him.


"I... I re-re-refuse..."

He stops, staring into nothing for a moment as a wave of dizziness crashes onto him, nearly wiping him off his feet once more. He shakes his head, trying to fight off the feeling of the world spinning beneath him.

"I re-refuse to be treated like a fool!"


He holds up his weapon, only to freeze in place. Something was coming... Something soft, and small, and glowing. A ball of light that causes his shoulders to relax, causes him to lower his arm.
But yet, the ball of light also makes his stomach twist and turn. Something about it is... Wrong. Upsetting. He's not sure what, but...

His awful ocean eyes narrow as the ball of light... speaks? It speaks to him, in a voice so much like his own.

A voice that he hears, but doesn't understand.

The voice says that he's being tricked. That he's being used. And he stares, trying to comprehend what it means. The old man isn't smart enough to trick him, isn't stupid enough to even think of-


The doctors voice, loud and booming, throws him off guard.


"My, my! Hesitating, are we? Having second thoughts?"


"N-No! I'm... I'm-"
He'd simply been re-calibrating, attempting to decipher what the ball of light had meant


"Dearest Citizens of Neo Arcadia, it seems we have a traitor in our midst! Our own Master X is showing sympathy towards a member of the resistance!"



And in that moment. That single moment, with that single sentence, his entire world came crashing down around him.

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Whenever he stops, they are there. Whenever he runs, they are there. Following, always following, always just out of sight.


Demons, that look just like him... But faceless. A single ball of red light in the middle of their head. Voices that sound like a cruel mockery of his, garbled and glitched, first too high, then too low. He always hears them, muttering and mumbling to each other as they search for him.


A moment of peace, to catch his breath. Back against a decaying wall, chest heaving as he struggles to get air through his systems. The former leader doesn't know how long he's been running for, just that he's been running, the sun had set, and risen, and set again. Artificial joints whined in complaint, told him to sit, to rest, to sleep... But he can't. Not when he knows that they're just around the corner, waiting for him to slip up. Waiting for him to stumble...


A deep sigh that shakes his body to it's core. He can't see or hear them for now... So he can rest. A small rest, standing up, plastered to the wall, alert and anxious, but a rest nonetheless. A chance to calm his shattered nerves. A chance to think about where to go next.


Where can he go, when he has been exiled from his only home? His Neo Arcadia must be suffering without him.


A thought that's interrupted by the familiar squeaks and squeals and whispers. Time to pack up and go, before they get close enough to aim. On his feet once more, and further away from the city that he knew and loved.