Chapter Text
Before he was Stone, he thought that being a soldier meant protecting lives. When he was seven with soft bruised skins and unknowing eyes, he would think that that was a noble act—an act that would get him to be seen as worthy of love and adoration. Once he became a soldier, he realized that being one meant killing lives more than protecting them.
But it was no surprise to him—it shouldn't be. The real surprise was the realization that many lives weren't worth protecting after all. People aren't people. They are more like sheep. Humanity as a whole is a herd that prattle and bleat pitifully against each other, and he is satisfied to be the cattle gun.
He is a wild and calculated weapon. His main use is to kill life rather than protect it.
After he became Stone, he found himself changing his own use so he could be utilized to perform both purposes:
To kill lives, and to protect only one.
Stone follows after Ivo Robotnik, his permanent possessor, the finger that pulls his trigger.
He suppresses the limp—the error in his left leg. Keeping a steady pace to match the badniks on either side of him—deadly machines that only follow the orders of their creator.
Said creator is now entering the lab, quick feet leading the way to the bathroom. Robotnik opens the door and commands Stone to come inside with a gesture of his hand. Stone shuts down the familiar shame crawling inside him when he sees the way Robotnik's eyes glance in distaste at the trail of blood he leaves behind on the floor. He wishes he could go with the badniks to the charging station instead.
“Sit,” Robotnik orders. Stone does as commanded and sits himself on top of the toilet.
Robotnik extends his hand, fingers curling with a ‘gimme’ gesture.
Stone reaches inside his suit pocket to retrieve the flashdrive, presenting it on his open palm to the waiting hand. Robotnik picks it up using two fingers, scrutinizing every inch of it. Then he wipes it on Stone’s suit, leaving a smudge of blood on the fabric. Satisfied, he pockets it in his coat, then turns to search the cabinet.
Stone turns down a sigh. He stares at his left thigh, imagining if he could focus hard enough, his gaze might cauterize the wound—like a laser.
He frowns. Maybe he has lost more blood than he first thought.
Robotnik returns with a medical kit. The man prefers to do the maintenance on his own, not trusting his machines in the hands of others. Except maybe Stone—but he doesn't count.
“Strip,” the doctor says as he kneels down in front of him, putting the medical kit on the floor.
Stone makes sure he records every detail of the scene and saves it in his memory before executing the command.
He begins toeing off his shoes. Then he unbuckles his belt, careful as he pulls down his pants—the dried blood making it painful to peel off from his skin. With an effort, he bends down and pulls the pants from his ankle, folding it neatly and placing it on the floor near his shoes.
The doctor is still busy arranging his tools, poking holes on the cap of a saline bottle, making it into a DIY spray bottle.
Stone takes the opportunity to shrug off his suit jacket. Now he's only left in his shirt, tie, socks and underwear. And his gun holster. He considers taking it off, but he prefers not to be separated from it, regarding it as a part of himself. He moves to fold the jacket, but Robotnik snatches it from his hands, throws it on the floor along with Stone’s shoes and pants, and kicks it away.
Without a warning, Robotnik sprays the saline water on Stone’s wounds, cleaning it from dirt and debris. Stone grits his teeth, accustomed to the pain. After the wound is washed out, Robotnik kneels back down and searches through his tools.
“Speak. Any other injuries?”
Stone takes a moment to scan his own body, but he already knows the result—no additional damage detected.
“I’m fine, Doctor. Aside from—”
“Aside from?” the doctor cuts him off, raising one eyebrow at him. His eye twitches in annoyance.
Stone lowers his gaze. “Aside from the bullet wound on my left thigh.”
Suddenly a needle stabs into his thigh. Stone yelps in surprise.
“And whose fault is that?!” Robotnik yells, injecting the lidocaine into his body.
“Mine, sir,” Stone squeaks.
They had been surrounded by enemies. Robotnik was crouching to access a panel, hacking into the system. He was vulnerable, and the few badniks they brought were too busy dealing with the attackers to protect him. A gun had been pointed at him, but Stone didn't dare to shove the man away from his work. So instead, he placed himself in front, shooting the assailant. Two bullets rang out—one lodged into the enemy’s head, and one to Stone's thigh, a shot meant for the doctor’s head.
A weapon and a shield. Stone prides himself on being a versatile tool.
“You're reckless,” says Robotnik as he pulls out the syringe and uses his other hand to quickly type into his glove. A moment later a badnik shows up as Robotnik removes his glove and puts on a new surgical one.
Stone slightly pouts at the badnik which brings out a magnifying lense, holding it with its mechanical hands so the doctor can inspect the damage. Robotnik pokes and prods around his injury. No exit wound—the bullet is still inside. A pity Stone is numb to the touch of the doctor’s fingers, he wishes the lidocaine would wear off sooner so he could feel as the doctor digs deep inside of him.
Done with the inspection, Robotnik picks up his tools, ready to remove the bullet.
“Don't move.”
With nothing else to do, Stone watches Robotnik work, hunting the bullet and its tiny shrapnels one by one. He's captivated by the way he moves his hands. The doctor is an energetic person by nature—always moving and flying his hands around; fast gestures when he talks, rough and destructive when he causes pain. But never make the mistake of assuming that he’s clumsy. Every single inch of movement in those fingers are steady and precise, never a mistake in his calculation, never an unintentional motion. Stone could watch for hours when Robotnik tinkers with his machines.
He can easily imagine himself being one of Robotnik's machines now, with the way he's splayed open. He imagine circuits and cables in the place of muscles and bones. Fuel in the place of blood.
His imagination cuts short as the numbness in his leg slowly fades. Stone frowns. He knows he needs higher dosage of anesthetic than the average person, but the doctor already knows that too.
“Hang on, Stone,” Robotnik says, gaze still focused on the wound. “Any moment now.”
Stone’s brain short circuits, his eyes widens. The doctor never makes mistakes. He’s doing this on purpose. As a punishment? Or is it a reward? It's both for Stone. As much as it pains him to be reminded of his flaw of humanity, there's nothing more rewarding than being treated like one of Robotnik’s creations, with no regard for his comfort.
As more minutes pass, Stone’s grip on the toilet seat tightens. His breath grows short and ragged as he aborts his body’s protocol to flinch away.
“There it is,” Robotnik murmurs. “Come to moi.”
Stone shuts his eyes, eyeballs rolling upwards. A low, pathetic groan escapes him as he feels the deformed bullet fished out of him. Sweats roll down his forehead, heavy, uneven breaths fill the once-silent room.
He opens his eyes deliriously, staring at the badnik that still hovers near him. It flies away, retracting its mechanical hands that were holding the magnifying glass, its task complete. Stone wonders how many bullets are stored inside of its body, while he himself struggles this much from just one. He looks forlornly at the newly pulled-out bullet, still pinched between a tweezer on Robotnik’s hand. It glistens—blood and metal.
Maybe he should've kept it inside his body.
The bullet drops on the floor with a clink.
“What.”
Stone blinks, rebooting his brain. “I… said that out loud, didn't I?”
“And did I hear it right?” Robotnik grips Stone’s knee tightly. “Would you redo your previous statement? I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
Stone gulps, eyeing the hand on his left knee. “I'm sorry, doctor, I wasn't—”
“Wrong.”
“Sir—”
“Nope. I remember your first word was ‘maybe’, wasn't it?” Robotnik smiles too sweetly, his hand moves closer to the wound and presses hard. Stone squirms. He’s glad a considerable amount of his blood is on the floor right now, or else it would have gone somewhere else.
“I-I said, maybe…”
“Go on.”
Stone keeps his gaze on the floor. “Maybe I should’ve kept it inside my body.”
“And by ‘it’, you mean—” Robotnik picks up the offending item and waves it in front of him “—this bullet? The one that I painstakingly removed from you over the past hour?!”
“I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't thinking—”
“No. You clearly were and whatever it is your daft mind came up with was pulled from your ass instead of your brain! Why?! Do you want lead poisoning or what?!”
“Please don't bother yourself with such trivialities, sir. I wasn't in my right mind.”
Robotnik squints. “Answer me.”
Stone sighs.
“Because I thought that by having a bullet inside me, I would be like one of your machines.”
Robotnik blinks at him, eyebrows twitching. He looks at Stone up and down and blinks again.
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”
“As I said, doctor, I wasn't in my right mind.”
Robotnik falls silent. He slowly sits on his heels, rolling around the bullet on his fingers, seemingly deep in thought.
“You want to be my machine.”
“Yes.”
The doctor clicks his tongue. “I didn't ask you.”
Stone dutifully shuts his mouth.
The hand on Stone’s knees moves to massage Robotnik’s temple. “Is this some kind of human custom I haven't heard of? Why-what does that even mean—How does that even work? What will you even do, walking around with this bullet inside you?”
Stone wonders why Robotnik is trying to make sense of this. It simply isn’t. He decides to indulge a little.
“With this bullet lodged in me, I will turn myself into a gun.”
Robotnik looks at him incredulously. He laughs, hunches forward, back to gripping Stone’s knee. He keeps on laughing, but his expression is more strained than amused—like Stone’s madness has infected him.
The doctor pushes himself to his feet, using Stone’s knee for support, still chuckling under his breath.
“Cute,” he says, patting Stone’s cheek. He drops the deformed bullet to the floor with a soft clink. Then he takes the gun from Stone’s holster and twirls it in his hand. “But in order for you to be my gun, shouldn’t it be my bullet inside you?”
Stone stares up at him with wide eyes.
“Let's see.” Robotnik checks the ammunition. “Three bullets left. That means you get three questions.”
Robotnik points the muzzle at Stone’s leg, right at the bullet wound. Stone looks at his gun—no, Robotnik’s gun. Robotnik’s bullet. He tries to control his breathing.
“Answer them correctly, and I may grant your wish.”
Stone nods eagerly.
Robotnik clicks the safety off. “What do you want from being my machine?”
He doesn't even need to think twice before he answers, “It doesn't matter. If I am to be your machine, there would be no room to consider what I want. Because my only purpose is to fulfill yours.”
“Wrong.”
Robotnik fires at the floor. Stone mourns the lost bullet.
“Trying to be clever with your answers, I see. Unfortunately it's not a hypothetical question. You're still not my machine and you still want to be.” Robotnik bends down, aiming the gun at Stone’s head. “But you're right about one thing: what you want doesn't matter anyway. So tell me—do you think oh so highly of yourself that you believe you can be one of my superior creations?”
“Yes.”
The gun fires beside Stone’s head. Not close enough to damage his hearing but near enough that his ears ring.
“Wrong!” Robotnik yanks Stone’s short hair, forcing him to look up. Stone let out a tiny, aborted sound.
“Look at you. Whining pitifully. Getting my questions wrong. Doing things I didn’t order you to do. You think I’d ever program my machines like that? To disobey me?”
Stone bites his lip, shaking his head slightly. His eyes flutter with the effort not to crumble right there on top of the toilet seat.
“Oh, but you’re so eager to please. So eager to save my life. Wagging your tail at me. Licking for my attention.”
Robotnik releases his hair and grips Stone’s jaw, pulling their faces close. “You’re more like a dog.”
Stone shuts his eyes and whimpers.
The tip of the gun presses beside his wound, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his thigh, dragging out more of his whimpers.
“Last question.” Robotnik smirks, leaning closer to whisper, “What are you?”
Stone sighs, leaning into the hand. “A dog.”
“Good, good.” Robotnik caresses his cheek with his fingers. “And you know what good dogs do, Stone?”
Stone looks up at him questioningly.
Gloved fingers shoved its way inside his mouth. Stone gags against the rubbery texture. He tastes the metallic tang of his own blood.
“They don't bite.”
A shot rings out.
Hot, searing pain erupts in his leg. Stone shuts his eyes, forcing every part of his body to lock up, to not bite down on the fingers in his mouth in reflex. He breathes heavily.
In. Out. In. Out.
When he finally has his breathing under control, he slumps forward, the only thing stopping him from falling on the floor is Robotnik’s hand.
“Good boy,” the man says softly. “Look at you, drooling like a true dog.”
Robotnik pushes Stone by the mouth so he can lean against the back of the toilet. He retreats his fingers and wipes them on Stone’s shirt. “Such a mess.”
Stone glances down at himself. His chin is wet with drool, flecks of it dotting his shirt. Blood trickles anew from his leg. His hands finally find the will to move, half thinking about touching the wound, wanting to make sure that it scars. He looks at the floor and frowns.
There are two fresh bullets lodged in it.
“Oops. What a pity,” Robotnik tuts. “It seems like I did a clean shot. Zzzt! In and out.”
He returns the gun to the holster and fixes Stone’s tie. “Don't worry, we’ll take you to the vet.”