Where Evil Grows

by ariex

Summary:

A timeline of Stone and Robotnik trying to figure each other out - from their first meeting to the eclipse cannon.

Chapter 1: The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

Summary:

Stone and Robotnik meet each other for the first time.

G.U.N. Headquarters, London, Spring, 2013

 

Trained eyes scanned the expanse of the conference hall. They glazed over pristine tiles and ornate walls, flitting to each access point along its perimeter. The opulence of the space was of little concern to the agent. He was not here to admire, he was here to assess. 

Two entrances, fixed on the north and south ends of the room. A total of four armed guards, two at each door. No windows. Seventeen tables, not ideal for coverage but could work in a pinch. Approximately 150, no, 175 guests in total.

His survey concludes quickly. In a career that rewarded efficiency and precision, cataloguing each possible escape route, blind spot, and strategic vantage point within seconds — twenty-seven, to be exact — had become second nature. It was rare that the agent would find himself caught off guard. Perhaps that was the problem. 

Stone was stuck in a rut. 

If he was being honest with himself, he has been for a while. Years of his life were spent cycling through the same motions: receive an assignment, eliminate his targets, catch a flight, debrief, standby for reassignment, move. Move again. From country, to country, to country. 

He‘d never been afforded the luxury to put down roots, to actually see wherever they had assigned him beyond the cheap, run-down motels where G.U.N shacked him up. Stone was, after all, merely a pawn in their clean-up business. Not that he minded that part very much, unsure of what civilian life would even look like for a man like him. 

The agent glanced at tonight’s designation. From behind, Stone watched as the aristocrat erupted into a fit of boisterous laughter, sloshing champagne in his glass with each sharp huff. Stephen Barlowe, as irritating as he was, had become something of an asset to G.U.N. The man was obnoxiously rich, which he flaunted in extravagant suits, a collection of luxury cars, and a hairline that had mysteriously regrown after “vacationing” in Turkey.

When the deeply insecure man was not busy throwing money at his rapidly depleting youth, he helped finance a decent chunk of G.U.N’s technology sector. In exchange, Barlowe managed to gain significant administrative power, influencing policy decisions to secure success in other investments and business ventures— a pile of bureaucratic bullshit beyond the scope of Stone’s paygrade. 

It is this same power that has Barlowe’s lackeys laughing along to nothing that was particularly funny in the first place, like a pack of hyenas desperately vying for even an ounce of his trickle-down success. Ordinarily, if this had been a hit operation, Stone would have had the bastard laid out before the first pop of champagne. However, this was not that kind of assignment. No, tonight required Stone to slip into the role of bodyguard: diligent, watchful, silent. 

This meant that instead of the infinitely long list of more productive ways he could be spending his time, Stone was forced to shadow the man as he ambled about the conference room, repressing the urge to outwardly cringe at his shameless peacocking and complete lack of self-awareness. 

He didn’t much like assignments like this, always too stagnant for his taste. 

Just like old days, he thought wryly. 

Before he was “Agent,” he had been “Private” Stone; it was a stretch of his career largely devoted to standing at attention among a sea of fellow foot soldiers for hours on end. While Stone had eventually learned to appreciate his ability to fade into the background, a decidedly useful skill in gleaning workplace gossip, he still often found himself itching for something.

But this was not the first time Stone had been swept up by a wave of restlessness. In fact, he had grown well-acquainted with the feeling. 

A significant part of his life had been spent with a certain distance between himself and the rest of the world. As a child, he had a tendency to withdraw, preferring to retreat into his own mind rather than engage with his peers. Of course, this behavior worried the adults around him. Now, this was not to be mistaken as a genuine concern for his well being. Rather, it came from that discomfort people felt when they came across something they could not figure out– the urge to fix.

“Why don’t you just give the other kids a chance?” a teacher had once asked him.  

Stone did not have the right words at the time, could barely find them now, to explain how he just didn’t care. How nobody had ever said anything that interested him, anything that challenged him in any real way, anything that made him feel understood. How he just wanted to go, and to keep going. It pushed him through a platinum CAF FORCE score, deployment, and a transfer to the states. 

For a time, the constant chaos of working under G.U.N had kept that nagging sensation at bay. If anything, it molded him into quite the adrenaline junkie; he would be kidding himself to deny the absolute exhilaration he felt in outsmarting those unfortunate enough to cross his path. And like every other aspect of his life, he too was a perfectionist in his work (yes, he had a flawless operations record to prove it– granted, it was also heavily redacted and buried under several layers of red tape). 

However, Stone was beginning to realize that it had only been a temporary fix. 

Sure, most people he came across would describe him as pleasant. He’d become excellent at figuring out what to say, how to say it, and when to say it; it was easy enough once you pinned down what the other person wanted to hear. Alone, he would stare at his reflection, contorting his face into something more passable as genuine, human emotion– kind, even. Each of his actions were carefully curated, measured, and controlled.

But anyone who spent longer than a passing interaction with man could feel it. The way his smiles wouldn’t quite reach his eyes, or how he moved nearly machinelike. It was like that animal part of their brains, the part that screamed fight, run, freeze, knew there was something lurking beneath the surface. Something that, for lack of a better word, was off-putting. 

This, combined with his habit of commandeering most operations (as if he could trust any of the dull, slow-moving agents they saddled him with) as well as his general disregard for his colleagues (again, he had told Agent whats-his-face to arrive at the extraction point at 0600, not 0623. It was his own fault he was left behind– Stone does not care the man was late due to sustaining several gunshot wounds), landed him a “shifting” of roles. 

“We feel your skillset would be beneficial in a more… auxiliary context.” his commanding officer had told him, a placating smile plastered on her face. At the time, Stone thought she looked a bit like that teacher had— all syrupy and diplomatic. 

However, the agent was able to see past the feigned civility and office jargon for what it was: time-out. He wasn’t playing nice enough with the others, old habits and such.

Stone had spent his life outrunning perpetual boredom, but it was finally catching up to him.

He refocused on his assignment. At the moment, the man in question was helping himself to the open bar for the fourth time that evening. Stone made a mental note to keep a tab on his alcohol intake, as he might have to cut him off soon. At that thought, Stone paused to really take stock of the situation. 

Christ.

Stone had killed: with guns, knives, his bare hands, and once (very creatively, he might add) with a corkscrew. He had seen the rise and fall of several governments— prevented coups before they were even thought of! And yet, here he was, playing fucking babysitter to a man that had never seen a day of work in his life. 

Ever the professional, Stone fought against his rising animosity towards the room of profiteers. 

Shaking his head, the agent turned his attention to the actual symposium. Barlowe, and Stone by extension, were here to see a presentation on the most recent breakthrough in G.U.N’s arsenal: a new series of drones created by Doctor Robotnik. Not that the scientist often came to these events, usually opting to send a mouthpiece in his stead. 

The use of having Stephen Barlowe in the room was a mystery Stone could not quite piece together. Sure, his money had funded the project, but as the agent watched the man try to balance an empty champagne flute on his head (a very sad attempt to look eccentric and quirky ), he doubted that he would be the source of any meaningful contribution or feedback regarding the actual presentation. Maybe the invitation was merely to make the man feel important. Stone supposed everyone liked to feel a bit important, even (especially) morons. 

As they drifted towards the front of the room, a line of drones could be seen flanking the sides of the stage. At first the machines seemed suspended, but upon closer inspection, they appeared to be set into some sort of hover mode– their typically red ‘eyes’ now transformed into neutral lines, as if asleep. They must only be for modeling purposes, Stone guessed. 

He had seen the drones before in the field. They were infinitely more efficient than any recon team G.U.N could scrap together, managing to swiftly infiltrate and obtain information that even Stone lacked the capacity to do. If undercover work was not such a critical component of their career, he might have worried about being out of a job. 

With this in mind, Stone took note of the superficial differences in the models. Where the older versions were heftier and more industrial in appearance, these were much sleeker– almost egg-shaped. For his lack of wisdom concerning computer science, he knew enough about mechanics to understand that this was a much more aerodynamic design, with the decreased weight and teardrop configuration minimizing drag. In awe, he remembered that these changes were merely surface-level; he could hardly imagine what new capabilities they possessed. 

The doctor had really outdone himself this time.

He had never seen Robotnik in person, but he had heard the stories. There was almost a mystic air in the way his coworkers spun tales about the mad scientist, as if he were more concept than a man. The only tangible proof of his existence consisted of his groundbreaking technology and the agents he chewed up and spat back out of his lab.

There had once been an agent in his department, Willoughby if he remembered correctly, who’d been transferred to the scientist’s unit very abruptly one morning. No sooner than three hours later had she stormed back into their building– her formerly long hair now scorched– and pleading for reassignment. 

Later that week, the doctor announced a new prototype for the ‘Burn Bot', which was promptly denied by the budgetary committee within the hour. 

Agent Willoughby sported a bob these days. 

Stone was pulled from his musings by a sharp cry, accompanied by an onslaught of concerned gasps. Snapping his head up, he was met with the sight of Barlowe, who had gotten overly confident with his little party trick, tripping over his own feet and now rapidly tumbling towards the display drones. 

Reacting quickly, he managed to grab a fistful of Barlowe’s jacket before he came crashing down, pulling him up in a way that mimicked a cat being held by the scruff of its neck. Barlowe tried to stabilize himself as well, less gracefully so, as he shot out a steadying arm on one of the drones. Luckily, the machine was strong enough not to succumb to Barlowe’s weight as he righted himself into a standing position. Unluckily, the shell of the drone was not immune to the smudged fingerprints left in his wake. That was a big mistake.

Suddenly, a figure emerged in front of them– or, more appropriately, dramatically barrelled through the small crowd of onlookers– and made a beeline for Barlowe. On instinct, the agent began to catalogue and file away any notable characteristics. 

Tall, a little over six feet. Unarmed. In possession of a high security clearance badge. Slightly hunched forward– definitely not military. Nice mustache (what?). Presumably an authority figure, but for which department? Administration? Intelligence?

It was hard to pinpoint profile indicators when every detail about the subject made him stand out. 

He was shouting at Barlowe now, something about troglodytes and neanderthals and the merits of punitive amputation. But Stone couldn’t really hear it. Not when his eyes landed on that expression of sheer, unadulterated anger– especially not when that righteous fury was turned onto himself. 

“You. Agent. Were you not supposed to be watching this complete waste of spatial volume?” 

It was the first thing anyone had said to him all night. Stone might have been a little insulted at the words themselves if he weren’t so stupefied by the fact they had been spoken to him at all.

With his attention diverted, Barlowe took the chance to escape. Launching himself from Stone’s grip, he scurried back towards the other socialites, who were now looking at him with a collective wince. At last, it seemed the commotion had convinced them to finally find their assigned seats and wait for the scheduled presentation, lest the man humiliate himself even further. 

Stone, on the other hand, was pinned in place. It wasn’t that he felt trapped under the man’s gaze, per se. But he did feel exposed– as if he’d been peeled back and placed under a microscope for examination. Stone was being perceived, in every sense of the word. It was equal parts unnerving as it was thrilling.

“What, cat got your tongue? Or are you just stupid?” With an agitated huff, he turned to the drone Barlowe had seized moments before and began attempts to wipe off the smudge marks. However, too irritated to coordinate his movements properly, he only achieved a few lame swipes at the outer casing with the sleeve of his coat.

The break in eye contact left Stone floundering, unwilling to part from that undivided attention just yet. 

Reaching into his coat pocket, the agent pulled out a small handkerchief. He always liked to keep one on hand, a deep mauve color with monogrammed initials, the meticulous man he was. Stone was also quite pleased with how his embroidery skills had been coming along these days.

No sooner does he offer the cloth than it is snatched from his hand, accompanied by a somewhat mollified grunt. After a couple passes, the remaining prints are wiped off, restoring the shell of the drone to its former glory. 

The man spared another glance at the agent, and Stone felt like he could breathe again.

“I noticed you ogling the Badniks earlier,” he nodded towards the drones. 

Ah. So that’s what they were called. Stone cleared his throat. “Yes! They’re, well…” he paused, searching for the right word. 

“Terrifying, dangerous, menacing?” the other supplied, his tone patronizing. 

 “I was going to say brilliant,” the agent corrected. “The doctor’s done a wonderful job at streamlining the design for wind resistance. I’m looking forward to finding out what else they can do this time around.” 

Stone almost surprises himself with his own sincerity. He could not remember the last time he’d meant something he’d said aloud. 

Now it was the man’s turn to look dumbfounded, staring at Stone like he’d just broken some kind of unspoken social script– or if he’d only prepared for criticism. For some reason, that thought bothered the agent.

He watched as his cocky smirk gave way into something a little more genuine– maybe even delighted, Stone hoped. 

“The doctor,” he sing-songed. “I heard he’s crazy.”

Stone didn’t miss a beat. “I like crazy.” 

Several emotions flickered across his face, none of which Stone could decipher. The man’s expression had only just settled, eyebrows furrowed like he was about to press for more, when they were suddenly interrupted by the intercom crackling to life:

“Good evening, esteemed guests! The presentation is scheduled to begin in five minutes, please find your seat if you have not already.”

There was a sharp inhale. “Well, as always, it has been an absolute pleasure to entertain the driveling masses.” And with that, the man unceremoniously spun on his heel and sauntered off. 

For a moment, Stone simply stood there, watching his back retreat into the distance. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what to make of the interaction. His mind shuffled through a few descriptors: chaotic, ill-mannered, abrasive. Then, he thought about that smile– the real one. Ultimately, he settled on interesting. Yes, the man was very interesting. 

Before he could dwell on it further, the lights in the room began to dim, signaling to any remaining stragglers that the lecture portion of the evening was about to commence. 

With a start, the agent found his way back to his assignment, who now looked noticeably more sober (to his internal relief). Pushing the lingering thoughts from his head, Stone reassumed his position behind Barlowe’s seat and trained his eyes on the stage, adopting the ‘bodyguard’ mindset once more.

Not long after he’d situated himself, the intercom kicked back up:

“Please welcome our guest: Doctor Robotnik, Technology Operations Specialist.”

Stone was a bit surprised to learn that the doctor had bothered to show up, mainly given his reputation for seclusion and general misanthropy. He was even more surprised when he recognized the man strolling out from the left wing. 

Robotnik– oh my god, it was him – took to the stage like he owned it. There had been a podium set for him in the center, but it was promptly ignored in favor of his own lavalier microphone. This gave the doctor room to pace and gesticulate wildly as he talked— hell, did the man talk . And he did so without a single care that nobody in the room had any idea what he was going on about. 

Well, maybe except Stone, who hadn’t blinked once since the presentation began. 

If he had, then he might have missed it: somewhere in between a lengthy explanation about altitude holds and geofencing, there had been a slight pause— and their eyes met. 

Robotnik shot Stone a grin, winked, and continued as if nothing had happened. As if Stone’s entire world hadn’t shifted on its axis. The bastard. 

_____

A few weeks later, when an anonymous tip has Stephen Barlowe taken into custody and subsequently convicted for industrial espionage, the agent finds himself in need of a reassignment. It is not soon after Barlowe’s sentencing that the transfer application to work under one Doctor Robotnik crosses his desk.

Stone does not hesitate to sign. 

Notes:

Hyperfixation so bad I had to write my first ever fic!! I hope I don't get cursed and die!!
A few things:
- each title is a song!
- tags will be added as I upload to keep an element of surprise
- uploads might be a little irregular, but I have an outline so it shouldn't be super long wait
- sorry if Stone came off as an edgelord im still trying to figure out how to write him, he's my little princess with a disorder <3
- Willoughby mention is a reference to the Knuckles TV show. I'm 2 eps in and can't stop thinking abt her fuck ass bob. So I included an origin story for that.
- the fact that this takes place in 2013 doesn't really impact the story BUT season 5 of glee did air that year. do you guys think robotnik is a gleek? i do.
- If you are still reading and want to yell at me, my tumblr user is rodeo-clown55

Chapter 2: Step On Me

Summary:

The beginning of their working relationship. Stone has the patience of a saint.

The Lab, Southern Nevada, Summer, 2013

 

It was dark in the lab. The only source of light was the soft, blue glow of the main computer as it illuminated the doctor’s troubled expression. He let out an exasperated sigh, palms pressing against his eyes to relieve some of their sting. Agent Stone was arranged to start tomorrow, and his research was not going as well as he’d anticipated. 

Doctor Robotnik was not a people-person. He‘d hardly even call himself a person person either. 

Despite possessing a prodigious aptitude towards learning, he found that he didn’t really know how, in the simplest terms, to “get to know” someone. At least, not in the traditional sense.

Robotnik, much to his own repugnance, was a human: soft, fleshy, weak. Temporary. The thought alone was enough to make his stomach churn with existential dread. Until he found a sure-fire way to upload his consciousness into a machine, the clock was ticking. 

So, yeah, forgive him if he didn’t want to waste his time on trivial social conventions like small talk. 

Not to mention, with a mind as genius as his, he had to be very selective as to what information warranted precious mental storage. In other words, Robotnik didn’t care about how a coworker’s day was going, or how their kid’s dance recital went— and he particularly loathed being trapped as someone scrolled through their camera roll of vacation pictures, or worse, family photos. 

The horrors, he thought, repressing a shudder.

If the doctor was really feeling curious, he could pull up someone’s search history with a flick of his wrist (seriously– don’t get on his bad side, perverts). This way, he could learn from a measured distance, formulate a plan, prepare several contingencies if needed, and then strike. 

His system had been working quite perfectly, that is, until Agent Stone came along. 

For starters, the man had no paper trail to speak of. While bypassing G.U.N’s digital security network was a joke within itself, Robotnik had hit a wall pretty quickly after that. Unlike his predecessors, with records that rivaled novels in length, Stone’s documentation could barely fill a few pages— and that wasn’t even counting the sheer number of blacked-out lines. 

Over the course of three hours, the doctor dug through files upon files and was met with one dead end after another. From the information he did manage to obtain, Robotnik was left with a very incomplete picture. This was reflected in the sparse notes he’d jotted down in the margins of one of the documents: 

• Promising performance history, if a bit vague.
• Outstanding physical screenings.
• Fluent in English, ASL, Japanese, Korean, German, Italian, and French.
• 301 IQ (the doctor dismisses this as a typo and pointedly does not think about it again)
• Humongous eyes. Like, they were practically dinner plates. That wasn’t really in the report, though, it was just a little distracting. 

In the end, he doesn’t even learn the man’s first name. He’d be going in effectively blind. 

Eugh, his stomach was doing that thing again.

If there was one thing he hated— besides the government, left lane campers, nearly all textures, and oh yeah the entirety of humanity— it was not knowing something. And what was he supposed to do about it, ask him questions? Robotnik never asked for anything. 

No, the doctor decided, he’ll do what he does best: study.

_____

Observation One:

The first thing Robotnik noticed about the agent was that he didn’t notice him. Stone was silent, alarmingly so. When he entered the lab for the first time, the doctor hadn’t even seen the man approaching until he leaned into his field of view, offering a chirpy, “Good morning, sir!”

Robotnik immediately did not like that. 

It was very unsettling how effortlessly the agent had managed to sneak up on him, and how easily he could have kept his presence unknown if he hadn't decided to announce himself. Luckily, the doctor managed to keep his cool, and he totally didn’t let out an undignified shout. 

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you." At least the man had enough decency to look sheepish.

“Don’t sweat it, mistakes happen!” he responded with a forced chuckle. The agent seemed to relax at that, his shoulders slumping downward as he flashed a smile of his own. To think that someone could be comfortable in the doctor’s presence. Hm, that wouldn’t do. 

“Besides,” he continued, “I didn’t mean to trip you, either!” 

The agent furrowed his brows. “What do you mean — ?” 

Before he could finish his sentence, Robotnik was already swiveling in his chair, swinging out a foot until it hooked behind Stone’s knee. With a swift tug, the agent’s joint bent against his will, sending him toppling to the ground. 

Robotnik loomed over the spot where Stone had landed. 

“Even-steven! Also, cut it out with that military idiolect. I didn’t earn five PHDs to be called sir.” 

Despite the air being knocked out of him, Stone managed to wheeze out a response. “Yes, Doctor. Is there anything I can do to assist you?” 

Well, at least he wasn’t completely brain-dead. 

Robotnik tapped a finger on his chin, looking into the distance as if in deep thought. “ Uhhh-– Oh, I know!” He pointed across the room, “How about you go stand in that corner. Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch anything. Don’t even breathe too loudly.”

After a couple beats of silence, Stone managed to push himself up off the ground. Crossing the room, he came to a stand-still at his designated post. 

And he did just that for the rest of his ten hour shift.

It turned out that the agent was good at following orders. Robotnik did like that. 

_____

Observation Two:

Not long into Stone’s first week, it became apparent that he was very fond of the badniks.

Robotnik wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that one.

After their little orientation, he had resolved to assign a mininik to follow the agent around the lab. He was very proud of this idea— honestly, it was a stroke of brilliance. Not only would Stone no longer be able to slink around him, but he also wouldn’t be able to ambush him, stage a mutiny, stab him in the back, poison his coffee, etcetera, etcetera. 

It was introduced to the agent the very next day, with none of his usual flair. Instead, Robotnik simply typed a couple commands into his keyboard, summoning the device from its charging pod. 

“This,” he gestured to the hovering drone, “is a mininik.” 

“It’s very small,” Stone, the idiot, pointed out.

“Oh my, so observant. Absolutely inspired,” the doctor deadpanned, “I see you’re putting all two of those brain cells to work, then?”

The agent let out an amused huff. “ And I suppose that would make it ideal for spying, no?” he added. 

Right. Robotnik had forgotten about the not-being-completely-brain-dead part. 

“Way to go, you got that one,” there was a heavy sarcasm in his voice. “Consider it to be your training wheels, Agent. Capiche?” 

Nodding, Agent Stone watched as it flew around him, its red optical scanner raking up and down his body. After making a couple rounds, its lens blinked blue with a satisfied chirp.

Usually, this was when most agents would have left already— citing HR policies about invasions of privacy and hostile work environments . The doctor steeled himself, readying for the inevitable onslaught of complaints. 

What he did not expect was to watch as Stone awed and cooed at the thing annoyingly, like it was a delicate bird and not a metal drone. A drone, by the way, that was capable of shooting lasers up to ten petawatts. Mininik 4X3L was an absolute beast. 

Stone took to calling it Axel. 

The doctor decided he did not like this outcome either. 

One of his vicious death machines being treated so domestically? That would make it soft. The blasted thing was no better, whirring and beeping at Stone for pets— pets! It didn’t even have sensory receptors! It was a little attention fiend, that’s what. 

Robotnik wondered where it might have gotten that trait from.

_____

Observation Three:

Eventually, the doctor was loath to admit that Agent Stone was insanely efficient.

At this point, nearly a month of delicate peace had passed between the two men before he decided it was time to up the ante. No agent had ever lasted longer than three weeks working under Robotnik, and Stone would not be an exception to this paradigm— the doctor did, after all, have a reputation to uphold. 

The perfect opportunity presented itself on an especially busy morning. In between field testing for a thermobaric grenade prototype and dodging phone calls from the brass, he found himself growing increasingly frustrated. And what better way was there to relieve said frustrations than on his government-assigned punching bag?

“Stone, get in here!” 

The agent immediately appeared at his desk, head tilting to the side. If he had ears like a dog, they would have been pricked forward with alertness, Robotnik imagined with some amusement. “What do you need, Doctor?” 

“ What do I need? ” he mimicked, “I need you to do your job , Stone— that’s what!” 

Stone perked up at that, the man ever so eager to please. Suck-up. Well, that wouldn’t last for long. 

Without warning, Robotnik began to rattle off a list of tasks, ranging from grueling to just plain nightmarish. If he was being honest, which he rarely was, none of these demands were actually necessary. Still, out of sheer spite, the doctor made it a personal challenge to tack on as many things as he could.

“Polish the badniks, sterilize the lab, take inventory…”

This went on for nearly a minute. 

“... aaand don’t forget to draw up a progress report on the grenade prototype!” The doctor was leaning back in his chair now, legs leisurely propped up on the desk. 

He was met with silence. Then, a thick swallow from the agent. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll get started on that right away—” 

Robotnik raised his hand.

“Baah-buh-bup! I wasn’t finished,” he continued, now projecting a digital timer onto one of the lab’s holoscreens. “Starting now, you have ninety minutes to complete this assignment. Or else you’re fired. Effective immediately.” 

Hook, line, and sinker.

Without looking to see the man’s response, he spun his chair back towards the computer and did his best to look disinterested. 

As a distraction, the doctor spent his afternoon tweaking with a couple side projects. It ended up working better than expected, and he quickly entered a sort of flow state. Completely absorbed by a hard-to-reach driver board, he was unaware of how much time had passed until the agent arrived at his side once more. 

Throwing a glance at the timer revealed there were still seventeen minutes left on the clock. 

“What’s wrong, Agent? Throwing in the towel already?” He made an attempt to sound concerned, but it was a hard emotion to feign with the shit-eating grin stamped on his face.

Stone shook his head, beaming a bit too radiantly for a man about to be collecting unemployment. 

”Not at all! I just came to let you know that I was finished.”

And there it was! Yet another agent to be sent out of his lab with a tail tucked between their— What?

Robotnik blinked. Then, he blinked again for good measure. 

Craning his neck to look behind the agent, it dawned on him that the lab was now spotless. The piles of junk haphazardly strewn about (devised by a system titled I’ll Remember Where This Is Later) , were now replaced by labeled shelves for each tool and material. A couple badniks whizzed by, similarly immaculate. 

“ Oh!” Stone cut through his silent wonder, “here’s that report you asked for!”

He placed a packet on the desk and slid it towards a slack-jawed Robotnik. 

Cracking it open presented the doctor with a table of contents, several elaborate graphs, and a detailed technical document. It was also color-coded. 

Color. Coded. 

His eye twitched.

“Do I look like a commanding officer to you? What am I supposed to do with this? Hang it on the fridge? Give you a gold star?” 

Stone, miraculously, managed to smile even wider. “Of course not, Doctor. This is only a copy for your records. The original has already been scanned and sent to Commander Walters, so you shouldn’t have to worry about those pesky phone calls for a while.” 

If Robotnik didn’t know better, he would have thought that Stone was being endlessly patient, friendly even. But he did know better. And there was simply no denying the glint he saw in the agent’s eyes— the unabashed smugness that laced each sentence the man spoke. 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” 

Agent Stone knew he had the doctor beat. 

So yes, he conceded, the man was indeed very efficient (good). But, he also had a bit of an attitude (bad– when it was directed at him). No matter, it was nothing that being forced to polish the badniks again couldn’t remedy. 

Plus, it’s not like Stone would complain.

_____

Observation Four:

In a similar vein, Agent Stone was exceedingly resilient. Like a cockroach. 

Over the course of another month, there were many more attempts to rid his lab of the pest: he drenched him in hot coffee, routinely hurled a variety of insults his way, stomped on his shoe every time they were within a foot of each other, and had even used him for the badniks’ target practice once or twice. 

So far, the man had proven himself to be capable of every single task set before him, annoyingly so. Each degrading comment or leer was met with that same, stupid, unflappable smile. His never-ending tolerance only maddened Robotnik more, and it sucked all the fun out of antagonizing him.

He wanted to know what made Agent Stone tick. If only he could shrink him down and put him in a jar. Shake it around a little bit.

Robotnik’s thoughts were interrupted as the distant whirring of Ax–ahem–4X3L drew closer, announcing Stone’s arrival.

Speak of the devil.

“Your latte, Doctor.” 

Not in the mood to respond with words, he merely ripped the tumbler from the agent’s hands. Taking one, two, three, sips, Robotnik couldn’t resist the small sigh that left his mouth. 

Another thing— Stone could make a damn good cup of coffee. 

With the caffeine in his system, he cracked his knuckles and moved to hunker down at a workbench. In front of him lay neat arrangements of metal casings, chemical powders, and other small parts. The grenade prototypes had performed spectacularly during testing (because everything he made performed spectacularly), which meant it was time to move into production. 

It also meant earlier mornings and even later nights at the lab. To assemble each device was a tedious, slow process. However, that little tidbit seemed to elude the morons in charge as they, yet again, refused to budge on their ridiculous deadline. 

The lattes helped. 

It was quiet as he worked, save for the faint sound of metal scraping against metal as the components were pieced together. During times like this, he felt compelled to fill the silence. Most days it was music, but this particular project was too delicate to risk getting distracted. Instead, he opted to keep focused by narrating each step of the process out loud— the tools he would use, his rationale behind each design choice, the chemical reactions one could expect upon detonation, and so on. 

He had just finished the first batch when a second voice chimed in.

“That was magnificent, Doctor! 

Robotnik jumped in his seat, having forgotten the agent’s presence entirely. 

The doctor had long grown accustomed to the badniks being his only audience, a largely mute one aside from the occasional beep of agreement. Even in meetings, his esoteric explanations were only ever met by the glazed-over expressions of investors and superiors alike.

Turning to face Stone, he was momentarily stunned by the look of rapt attention on the man’s face. Those dumb, starry eyes held an expression that was completely alien to the doctor, and he briefly found himself unable to move. 

Stone had listened, really listened. And he enjoyed it.

That was, well. Okay. Noted. 

Another moment passed before Robotnik realized it was his turn to speak. He should probably thank him.

“Sliced bread would seem magnificent to you, sycophant.” 

Close enough, he figured.

And it must have been, because Stone was still looking at him with that wide, dopey smile. Weirdo. 

Turning away, Robotnik fought to keep a similar expression from creeping onto his own face. 

Pfft. Magnificent. 

_____

Something shifted after that. 

Although the doctor still couldn’t figure him out, there had been a quiet acceptance of Stone’s presence in his lab. Days passed by much more harmoniously, and the two men collectively slipped into a routine. It went a little something like this: 

Stone would arrive at eight o’clock each morning, making a beeline for the breakroom kitchenette. Robotnik learned to appreciate his consistency; it was a helpful reference point for daybreak during his windowless, forty-eight hour work benders. 

He also appreciated the man’s timeliness— always emerging after fifteen minutes to deliver Robotnik’s latte, and never a second later. This was a typically wordless exchange, with Stone having learned very early on how unreceptive the doctor could be when experiencing caffeine withdrawal. 

At that point, Stone would disappear to do… whatever it was that he did. What did he do all day? Send emails? Manage his calendar? Maybe he should start keeping tabs on that.

Regardless, the agent would be back by lunch with another latte and, more recently, a protein bar in tow. He’d then insist on hanging back to ‘clean’ the lab. Robotnik wasn’t a fool, however. He would often spy the man repeatedly wiping down the same inch of counter, stealing conspicuous glances at the doctor until he was sure he’d taken at least a few bites. It turned out Agent Stone could be quite the mother hen. 

When things were exceptionally slow, he would remain standing at attention, ready for direct orders should the doctor need anything. Sometimes, if Robotnik was in a very good mood, he would explain what he was working on to Stone. Only to make sure the man was up to date, of course.

Whenever this happened, Stone would get that stupidly reverent look on his face again— practically all eyes. Robotnik couldn’t fault him for that, though. He supposed it was only natural in the presence of such mental prowess. 

In the afternoons, Stone prepared for his leave at six, but not before gently coaxing the doctor to ‘please take breaks’ and to ‘try to eat a full meal’ . (He had given up on more ludicrous requests, like ‘stop working’ and ‘get some sleep,’ weeks ago).

Each time, Robotnik would only scoff and demand a parting coffee. 

Today had been no different, the doctor now sipping on his cooling beverage whilst combing through lines of code. Just as he was about to amend a pair of misplaced brackets, the lab suddenly plunged into darkness. 

“You cannot be serious!” Robotnik groaned in frustration. He gave the keys a few aimless taps— not that it would do anything, but sometimes it was just nice to hit things. 

After a couple more clacks, he was satiated enough to find a more productive solution. Considering that the lab’s emergency lights had yet to turn on, the most obvious explanation was a tripped circuit breaker. 

Standing in the pitch-black, he began to feel for the nearest wall. He knew the lab’s layout well enough to approximate the general location of the breaker, and he could navigate the space with relative ease. Theoretically. In reality, there were a few more obstacles involved, including a damn near debilitating jab to his shin, courtesy of a stray bench. He vowed to toss the thing out as soon as he was finished. 

Finally, the smooth feel of paint gave way to cool metal. From there, it was quick work to pop open the panel and fumble for the controls. He firmly grasped the main switch.

“Let there be light!” Robotnik shouted, dramatically toggling its lever. 

Nothing.

“Let.” Flip. “There.” Flip. “Be.” Flip. “Light!” 

Still, nothing.

Flip. Flip. Flip. Flip. 

Okay, maybe the circuit breaker wasn’t the issue. 

A little bit miffed that his initial assessment hadn’t been correct, he began to brainstorm the other possibilities. An overloaded transformer? A damaged line, maybe?

Robotnik didn’t get very far before a sharp blow struck the back of his head. 

—

Consciousness came in degrees:

Upon waking, there was only the searing pain radiating from where he’d sustained the hit. It felt as though someone took a chisel to his skull and had been enthusiastically chipping away. In short, his head throbbed. If his eyes could open, he was sure the room would be spinning too. 

Robotnik’s perception of touch and temperature came next, and he quickly realized he was sitting on the cold tile floor of the lab. His arms tingled unpleasantly, but something prevented the doctor from pulling them to his frontside. 

Fortunately, his eyes started working again. Unfortunately, the sudden influx of light in the lab had a blinding effect, and he promptly shut them. Taking a few steadying breaths to quell the rising bile in his throat, he tried again— much slower this time. 

Eventually, his tunnel vision expanded and allowed the world to shift into focus. Craning back to see what had been restricting his arms, the doctor caught sight of a threaded rope joining them behind one of the room’s structural beams. 

That was when he began to panic. 

“Have a good nap?” 

Whipping his head forward, the doctor watched as his captor crept into view, boots thudding across the floor. Blinking up at him, Robotnik was met with what looked to be a G.I. Joe reject— tactical gear, roid muscles, cropped buzzcut, the works. He told him as much. 

A gag, unsurprisingly, was shoved into the doctor’s mouth shortly thereafter. 

“Do you even remember who I am?” 

So, this was personal. That did little by way of clarification; if he had to make a list of every person he’d ever wronged, he would probably run out of ink. The doctor shrugged. 

G.I. Joe did not like that response. 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he hissed, words dripping with venom. “You don’t care about anything other than yourself!” With an accusing finger, he jabbed Robotnik’s chest.

“You. You ruined my life. After that assignment last year, —"

God, was he monologuing? That is so… uninspired. 

The doctor immediately zoned out.

Status:

His badniks, his precious babies, had been rendered useless. They were controlled by a satellite uplink that ran on ground-based power. It was an excellent way for increasing data bandwidth, but crippling when faced with a blackout. Even though the lights in the lab were back on, it was unlikely that the relay stations powering the uplink had been reactivated. 

In layman’s terms, you’re screwed , his mind supplied. 

If only he had a remote operating system— it would bypass the need for satellites entirely. A high-frequency transmitter, obviously portable, could speak directly to his drones. He didn’t much like the idea of carrying around a clunky handheld controller, though. Maybe if they were gloves… 

Robotnik was broken from his thoughts by a procession of loud snaps, supplied by the hand now waving in front of his face.

“Wha– Are you even listening to me?”  

Oh yeah, hostage situation. 

“Mmmph.” 

The doctor shot him a pointed look. 

“Oh, uh. Yeah, let me just–” he started lamely, reaching to remove the gag. “There.”

Robotnik drew in a long breath. Then, he made a show of wiggling and stretching his jaw around as he readied to speak.

“Sorry. TMD. Anyway, who got drunk and cut your hair?”

Pain immediately exploded across his face as the man delivered a swift punch to his cheekbone. A sharp crack echoed the contact, and Robotnik closed his eyes, reeling. 

There would surely be a huge welt when he looked in the mirror later. Assuming there was a ‘later’ after this. 

“You are going to regret that, you little —” 

“What are you going to do about it, huh?” The prick threw his arms out, gesturing to the empty lab. “It’s only you here. No toys to control. No commander to stand behind,” his hands fell back down, 

“Nobody to miss you.” 

The doctor froze. 

The man was laughing now, relishing in the effect of his words. Drawing a gun from his holster, shit this was escalating, he paused to speak. 

“I see I struck a nerve there. Good to know we’re on the same page now.” There was a click, followed by the sensation of biting metal pressed against his forehead. 

“Any last words?” 

Robotnik drew his head back, leveling his eyes with the son of a bitch, and spat. The man was too high up for it to hit his face as squarely as he would’ve liked, but it landed with enough force to be satisfying. 

“Go to hell.”

If this was it, at least he’d kept some level of dignity. It wasn’t the best way to go, not by a long shot, but it wasn’t the absolute worst either. Top fifty, he decided.

The doctor screwed his eyes shut and braced for impact. 

But it never came. 

Instead, a piercing gunshot rang out, and Robotnik felt the warm spray of blood splatter across his face. 

His eyes flew open, searching. It wasn’t long before he spotted Stone positioned at the lab’s entrance, hands locked around his pistol with a practiced steadiness. The man was already dead, but that didn't stop the agent from sending another two bullets ripping through him anyway. 

Stone's gaze was hardened into something dark and fierce; it was a wild, consuming thing. But the expression slipped away as quickly as it came, replaced by an urgent, frantic concern the moment his eyes found the doctor’s.

He was at Robotnik’s side within seconds, deftly unfastening his bindings. The agent was speaking-- something about a forgotten laptop. He couldn’t pick out much of his rambling, mostly focused on willing his head to stop pounding. 

With a few more careful tugs, the ropes fell away, and Stone stepped back to consider the smarting bruises painted across the doctor’s face.

“Are you alright?” 

He reached up a hand to inspect the injuries, but was cut off as Robotnik returned to his senses. 

“Nothing to write home about.” 

Instantly, Stone’s hand snapped back to his side. He looked very sadly lost, waiting to be told what to do next. 

Robotnik nearly rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “Get this cleaned up, pronto.”

“Right away, Doctor!” He came to life at the order, moving with renewed purpose toward the chemical supply room.

But after only a few steps, his pace faltered.

“Should I dissolve the body with hydrofluoric acid or through alkaline hydrolysis?”

It clicked, then, to Robotnik— the thing about Agent Stone: 

He was just as insane as he was.

Robotnik decided he would keep him around.

“Alkaline, obviously. Chop, chop, Stone! We have work to do.” 

Notes:

Sorry this took a while to get posted- my original idea was not nearly as ambitious but I got carried away...
These two are NOT casual.
Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3: Let's Dance

Summary:

Stone and the doctor must stop the rise of almost-Azerbaijanistan! Stone makes an important decision.

The Lab, Southern Nevada, Autumn, 2015

 

Bzzzt. Bzzzzt.

The badniks were being very persistent this morning. 

Despite Stone’s half-hearted reprimands to give him space, they were content to bump and nudge at his hands anyway. Moving in tandem, the machines managed to block each of the man’s attempts to escape, gleefully chirping all the while. This bid for attention was something of a game to them. And they knew, in the end, that Stone would always lose. 

“Alright, alright, I give up,” he laughed, turning to face the small flock. They took turns being pampered by the agent, a series of loud clanks and happy trills filling the air as they fought to be first in line.

His inevitable surrender was marked by a look of exasperation— betrayed, of course, by a rather fond smile. 

Smiling came easy for Agent Stone these days. 

He and the doctor had just finished up a munitions commission that took nearly a month to complete. With the deadline met, and the follow-up board meeting not scheduled for another few weeks, the two men were finally left to their own devices.

For Stone, this meant straying from his utilitarian coffees— hastily prepared to keep Robotnik from keeling over wirework— to indulge in his penchant for latte art. 

Meanwhile, the doctor spent the better part of his morning completely engrossed in one of his personal projects. Stone wasn’t entirely sure which one, as the man was prone to spreading himself thin, working on whatever was most inspiring at any given moment. Poring over the chassis of a drone, he hadn’t so much as looked the agent’s way until he’d arrived to hand him a warm thermos. 

The simple badnik design etched into the foam did, however, earn him a quiet chuckle. 

Small victories, he mused. It was all about small victories with the doctor. 

Sitting at his desk (he had one of his own now, ‘so you can’t dawdle in some office,’ Robotnik had explained), Stone steeled himself to parse through the handful of emails littering their shared inbox. 

Tunes of Anarchy served as a backdrop to the menial task, his head nodding along to the beat as he typed out generic responses. 

From the corner of his eye, Stone spotted the doctor tapping his foot in rhythm to the music as well. 

It was almost like they were dancing.

Yeah. Things were shaping up to be an excellent day in the lab. 

So, he was surprised when the man in question appeared at his side, haphazardly tipping over a stack of paper to perch on the edge of his desk. Stone made a mental note to reorganize them later. 

“Stone.” 

He blinked up at him. “Yes, Doctor?”

“How is the South Caucasus this time of year?” 

The agent sensed this was going to be a thing , and shut his laptop accordingly. “I believe they are currently experiencing their wet season.” 

Robotnik nodded, looking off. His mind was clearly somewhere else. “Right, right. Wet season.” 

“May I ask why, Doctor?” 

The doctor seemed to return, glancing at Stone. He shrugged. “The head honcho called me this morning.” 

Stone grimaced. He knew how much he hated taking phone calls. It was a mystery how they’d even gotten his extension. 

“I’m being forced to travel aaaall the way to Azerbaijanistan for an intel run. I told them I could just send the drones, but no,” he dramatically flung his hands up in frustration, “those dinosaurs insist on their little scouting trip.” 

“Is–” Stone paused, worried he was about to profoundly embarrass himself, “Is that even… a real country?” 

The response came with a drawn out sigh. “According to Walters, it will be if I don’t intervene.” 

At that, Robotnik trailed off once again. He was pointedly not looking at Stone. Instead, he grasped the end of his tie. Not pulling or yanking— just holding it there, absentmindedly gliding his thumb over the soft fabric. 

The agent felt a bit warm under his collar. 

One of the many, many things he liked about the doctor was that he never disguised his feelings. If he was angry or tired or annoyed, you would absolutely know— whether it was from being yelled at an inch away, or arriving at the parking lot to find your car battery missing. There were no pretenses or confusing social filters. Robotnik lived completely and unapologetically as himself. 

In short, after having worked under the genius for two years, Stone discovered that he was very easy to read. 

That was why, when he spotted the slight furrow of his brow ( not to be mistaken for concentration, he usually chewed his bottom lip when that happened), Stone knew there was a catch. A silent question.

Come with me?

The agent hoped he did not look too excited. Carefully schooling his expression into something other than unabashed delight, he hummed. 

“I’ll pack us an umbrella.” 

_____

Unlike the second-rate charter planes G.U.N would throw him on during his days as a field agent, the VC-25A was a very lavish aircraft; it featured a presidential suite, private quarters, and several other lounge areas that he’d yet to discover. 

The doctor sat next to Stone in the conference room, bouncing his leg impatiently through their briefing with Commander Rambeau. They had already reviewed the intelligence files in advance, so the meeting was largely redundant. But the flight was long, and Stone suspected it was a way for admin to pass time while simultaneously validating their pitiful jobs.  

The doctor seemed to share this sentiment, disinterestedly flicking through the manila envelope they’d been presented. Stone skimmed it over his shoulder. 

An unrecognized breakaway state had formed in Azerbaijan. G.U.N needed access to their command chain verification key, which would allow them to spoof their communications. 

Surveillance indicated that one of the rebel leaders, Rasim Khalilvov, would be hosting a party in a private estate to court foreign backers and legitimize their cause. This would leave their security systems vulnerable. 

That was where Stone and Robotnik came in. The dream team. 

“Blah blah blah, we go in, load the flashdrive, and get out, right?” The doctor snapped the file shut and tossed it across the table. 

Commander Rambeau opened her mouth to confirm, but was cut off as Robotnik continued. “That was rhetorical. Unlike you evolutionary hiccups, I actually have enough neural real estate to remember a simple set of instructions.” 

The two eyed each other in silence. Stone could tell by the blank stare on the commander’s end that she was not going to get it. 

“My creativity is wasted on you people,” he muttered. “Agent Stone, translate!”

This had been happening more often lately— times when the doctor decided to let him in on the verbal assault. It wasn’t like Stone never internally ridiculed his colleagues, it was hard not to when they were all so underwhelming. But that’s all it ever was: internal. 

Yet Robotnik had a way of reaching into those suppressed parts of himself, plucking away until he’d unraveled the edges of that ill-fitting mask. Stone might have been sent to the doctor to straighten out, but he’d only become worse.

“The doctor thinks you’re an idiot.”

The commander’s expression twitched from confused to understanding to furious. Robotnik was fully leaned back in his chair now, arms crossed triumphantly. He had an eyebrow quirked, daring her to go on . 

“Well?” 

Commander Rambeau drew in a slow, deliberate breath, taking a moment to swallow her pride. Her eyes flitted over to Stone. She knew that the doctor was untouchable. 

“We will touch base by 2100. Prepare for extraction at 0300.” 

She’d hardly even finished before Robotnik launched himself from his seat, disappearing into the neighboring cabin. Stone rushed to gather the strewn documents, making sure to push in their chairs with a polite ‘excuse us. ’

By the time he’d tracked him down, the doctor was already reclined in one of the plush seats, slipping in a pair of earbuds. Taking the open spot to his left, he watched as the scientist swiped through movie options on the entertainment console before landing on Licence to Kill. Catching Stone’s gaze, he rolled his eyes and threw on the subtitles. 

The agent didn’t spend much time actually watching the film. Certainly not when Robotnik paused every few minutes to go on long tirades about the accuracy of the story’s logistics, or to share fun facts about how they did the special effects. But he didn’t mind. The doctor’s commentary was much more interesting anyway. 

_____

A few hours in, when Robotnik scrunched up his face during an explanation about the advent of pyrotechnics, Stone was quick to hand him a piece of gum. 

The doctor stared. 

“For your ears,” he clarified. 

Wordlessly, he popped the stick into his mouth. “Anyway, so,” shmack , “during the Italian Renaissance—” 

_____

After they landed, Robotnik commanded Stone to wait by the car, rushing off into the lavatory with his garment bag. The agent already knew what the doctor was planning on wearing, hell he’d packed the bag himself. Still, as he stood under the harsh lights of the tarmac, he couldn’t help fidgeting with the cuffs of his tuxedo in anticipation. 

Knowing the doctor, he was probably drawing it out on purpose for the suspense. During the tail end of the flight, they’d watched She’s All That . 

When he finally emerged, strutting down the steps of the boarding stairs, Stone resisted the urge to pat himself on the back for a job well done. 

The Sicilia-fit blazer hugged his waist just right, paired with relaxed slacks that only added to the allure. Sharp lapels and a tailored cut pulled the eye upward, framing the doctor’s broad shoulders exactly as he imagined they would. The suit’s pinstripes added height to his already statuesque frame— which was fitting for the doctor’s striking presence. 

His shoes had a bit more lift than usual too. Stone already had to look up at him when they spoke, but now he really had to tilt his head back. That did funny things to his insides. 

“What do you think, Agent?” Robotnik shot him a wolfish grin. He was more than aware that he looked good, and now he was just torturing the poor man.

Stone knew he couldn’t start barking, or fall to his knees— that would wrinkle his own suit— so he settled for: “You’re radiant, Doctor! nəfəskəsici!” 

The doctor responded in kind by giving him a once over. Subconsciously, Stone's back straightened. 

“And you look like a James Bond wannabe.”  

Then, he glided right past him. After a few seconds of buffering, Stone managed to move his feet, rushing back in front of Robotnik to open the passenger door. 

_____

The GPS estimated their drive would take forty-five minutes. Stone pulled up to the estate after twenty-eight. 

Parking a reasonable distance from the property, the agent spotted a man smoking off to the side— mid-thirties, slim build, unathletic . Stone subdued him in seconds, fishing out a wallet from his coat pocket. Inside, folded neatly, was an embossed invitation. 

Robotnik was already waiting for him at the end of the private driveway, tapping his foot against the pavement.

“ Finally ,” he groused, “let’s get this over with.” 

Side by side, they approached the front entrance. Together like that, it was easy to imagine— no. Irrelevant. Focus on the mission.

Khalilvov owned a beautiful villa in the heart of the capital, fitted out with marble columns, intricate moldings, and a parade of other flourishes that screamed new money . The majority of its grandeur was lost on Stone, who instead focused on mapping out alternative entry and exit routes should things go south.

Luckily, the bouncer gave them no such trouble, stepping aside easily after the men presented their stolen invite. It took a tremendous amount of willpower for Stone not to scoff. Amateurs. 

The inside was even more extravagant, bathed in the warm glow of chandelier lights as they bounced off of gilded surfaces. Conversation and faint music echoed against high ceilings, allowing Axel to slip from the doctor’s sleeve undetected with the subtle press of his control gloves.

They just needed to bide their time until the drone returned with a floorplan. 

Stone trailed the doctor through the venue, offering clipped apologies as they brushed past the guests with real invitations. After years of being dragged to seminars and conferences, this little routine was second nature. Afterall, the doctor had never been one for manners.

Drifting towards the periphery of the room, Stone watched as clusters of people mingled— laughing amongst themselves like it all came so naturally. There was a time when he might have envied that. 

Beside him, the doctor surveyed the crowd with open contempt. “Can you believe how the government wastes my time and talents? I should be in front of a computer right now,” he jerked his chin towards a particularly lively group, “not whatever circus this is.”

Stone leaned back against the wall, eyebrows drawing up in amusement. “Maybe you could think of it as a social experiment.” 

Robotnik narrowed his eyes. “This entire affair is a failed social experiment, Stone.” 

That made the agent laugh. He’d always lamented how his boss’s sense of humor seemed to go over the heads of their coworkers. The doctor could be pretty funny, when he was so inclined. 

Stone wanted to offer a quip of his own, maybe joke about picking out a target to test the bystander effect, but halted at the approach of a third party. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

Instantly, Stone recognized the man— his mind flashing their mission file. Rasim Khalilvov. 

He was much shorter in person. 

Robotnik stiffened, reminding the agent that he wasn’t accustomed to undercover work. That was fine, it only meant Stone would have to take the lead. 

He scanned the man, certain they hadn't been caught. Stone wasn’t blind to the way people looked at him, and this one was no exception. His eyes slid over the agent, slow and deliberate. Nothing too overt, but enough. 

Good. That might make it easier to extract some information.

“Looks like we have some catching up to do,” Stone responded, flashing a coy smile. 

In an effort to blend in, Stone grabbed two champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray. He handed one to Robotnik, briefly noting the doctor’s tight grip on its stem. 

“I’ll make it worth your while.” The line was delivered with a wink, and Stone tried not to recoil. 

Before Khalilvov could narrow the distance, Robotnik stepped in, positioning himself between them. “Nice blazer.” 

The doctor’s tone came out stilted and awkward. But Khalilvov didn’t seem to notice, distracted by the praise. 

“Thank you! It’s vicuña wool.” 

He turned back to Stone, clearly ready to continue his advances, when Robotnik cut in again. 

“Really? Vicuña?”

Khalilvov let out a bemused chuckle. “Yes, one-hundred percent, mister…?” 

“Doctor,” he corrected sharply. But he didn’t offer a name, just continued to stare daggers at the jacket like it had personally offended him. 

Fortunately, the tense atmosphere was broken by a smartly dressed woman—an assistant, Stone deduced—who approached to whisper something in his ear.

Khalilvov appeared to deflate at her words. “Sorry to leave so soon, but duty calls. Save me a dance, okay?” 

He gave Stone another once over, deliberately ignoring the doctor, and followed after the woman. 

The agent watched him leave, then glanced at Robotnik, whose jaw was set tight.

What the hell was that?

His thoughts were interrupted by Axel zipping into view, projecting a holographic floorplan of the villa. There was a red, blinking dot over one of the rooms in the east wing. “That must be where they’re storing the verification key,” he murmured. 

“Thank you for stating the obvious, Stone. Where would I be without you?” 

Depositing their glasses on a random counter, they followed the map in silence, eyes fixed on the guiding light of the mininik. They avoided foot traffic the best they could, sticking to the edges of the room until they could turn into a hallway. 

It was much more subdued than the rest of the venue, almost eerie in its solitude. Not even the incessant prattle of the crowd could reach them there. 

After a minute, they came to a stop in front of a door. It was different from the rest, solidly constructed and reinforced by a keypad. Axel chirped once in confirmation that this was, in fact, the correct location before disappearing back into the doctor’s coat. 

Robotnik knelt to examine the panel. Then, a grin pulled at his lips. “Oh, please. This is elementary.”

Stone observed as he whipped out a precision screwdriver, using it to prod at the device. From this angle, he could spot the smattering of grey hairs on the top of his head, trickling down to his temples. It was honestly endearing— a reminder that the doctor was indeed human, try as he did to deny it. The agent wondered if he’d ever grow it out.

A silver fox . Now wasn’t that a thought?

Stone was ripped from his silent appreciation by the distinct clicking of heels drawing close, accompanied by a pair of breathy giggles. Without hesitation, he seized the doctor by the lapels, pulling him close and steering him sharply into a shadowed corridor.

“Agent, what are you—”

“Quiet!” 

Robotnik was taken aback by the sudden defiance, but clamped his mouth shut regardless.

There, they waited with bated breath. Peeking into the hall, Stone watched the figures of two happily tipsy women retreat into a bedroom, hardly separating to even open the door. Once it clicked shut, he let out a sigh. 

That was close. 

Turning back to Robotnik, the agent was suddenly struck by the expression on his face: eyebrows furrowed, with his head tilted to one side. It was the same look he wore whenever he came across a glitch in his software. Thoughtful. Dissecting . Like he was piecing together some equation— some anomaly that only he could see. 

Stone’s gaze wandered down, where his hands were gripped tight around the man’s lapels. Panicked, he hurried to smooth them out. 

“My apologies, Doctor. I had to move quickly, and, well—”  

Words usually came easily to the agent, smooth and practiced. Always ready to deflect, charm, or distract. But like this, with the doctor so close, Stone felt words elude him. 

“The, uh, the coast is clear.” 

Robotnik sniffed. “I knew that.”

And just like that, whatever bubble they’d found themselves in had burst. 

Entering the hall once more, Robotnik reassumed his earlier position to carefully crack open the keypad’s casing and fiddle with its wires. Stone was grateful for the chance to catch his breath ( when had he stopped breathing? ).

After some careful ministrations, the door chimed with a successful beep , sliding open to reveal what appeared to be an ordinary home office. The doctor let out a triumphant cackle, sweeping his arms out in an ‘after you’ gesture. It was kind of touching. 

“Dirt before the broom!” Nevermind.  

Stone bit back a few… choice… words and stepped through the doorway. Robotnik followed close behind, immediately drawn to a large monitor. Plopping down on its adjacent rolling chair, he kicked his legs onto the desk. 

“Agent, if you were an encrypted data file, where would you be?” 

Stone strolled up alongside him. “The computer.” 

His hands clasped together. “The computer! Now who could’ve seen that coming?” 

Lazily, Robotnik drew a flash drive from his back pocket— engraved, of course, with his logo— and shoved it into the USB port. The effect was instantaneous, the doctor’s programming overriding its mediocre security system to gather the necessary data in seconds. 

Yawning, the doctor reached to yank the drive back out. 

“Wait!” 

The doctor flinched. “What?”

Stone pointed at the screen. “Did you remember to hit eject?”

His mouth fell open, staring at the agent like he’d grown a second head. “Did I,” he scoffed, “ forget to hit eject? Agent, I am deeply offended.”

Stone leveled the doctor with a deadpan stare.

A beat.

Another beat.

Robotnik slumped back into the chair, defeated. Reluctantly, he moved the cursor over the forgotten eject button. 

“I knew it.” “Shut up . ” 

“What are you two doing?” 

In unison, they jerked their heads towards the door they’d forgotten to close. There, paused at the threshold, stood Rasim Khalilvov. 

“Stone.”

“Yes, Doctor?” 

“Get him.” 

It was like flipping a switch, years of training kicking in. Stone’s movements were decisive and automatic. Before Khalilvov could react, he was face-first against the wall, one arm wrenched behind his back.

“Hey—wait—what the hell—”

Stone didn’t answer. Instead, he drove him back into the nearest chair, ripping off his own belt in one smooth motion. The agent looped it tight around his wrists, securing them to the stiff seat with brutal precision.

Giving the makeshift restraint a tug, Stone grinned in satisfaction. Still got it. 

“The target has been neutralized.”

Robotnik only sighed, his eyes shooting up at the ceiling. “What, you want a cookie? Quit your preening, Stone. It’s making me nauseous.”

Their captive fought back against the bindings, face suspended somewhere between disbelief and rage. “Are you out of your goddamn minds?” He struggled to gain any momentum, the chair below creaking uselessly with every movement. “I can have you killed for this.” 

Stone had the sense to actually close the door this time, muffling his outburst to any stragglers from the reception. Diligently, he slipped off his tie, wrapping the strand of fabric around his fist to make a poor man’s hand guard. Crude, but it would do. 

He drew back to swing, aiming to incapacitate the man long enough to make their escape. But he was stopped, unexpectedly, by the doctor’s steady hand on his shoulder. With a surprisingly gentle pressure, Stone allowed Robotnik to pull him away. 

“Stand down, Agent.” 

Clasping his hands behind his back, the doctor walked in a slow circle around the office. His dress shoes snapped with each step, before coming to an abrupt stop behind the chair. 

With no warning, he shoved Khalilvov’s head forward, causing him to produce a pained gasp. Robotnik was nonplussed, eyes scanning for something on the man’s crumpled form. 

He must have found it, as he let out a scandalized gasp. It was shortly followed by a punched-out laugh. “The tag, Stone. Twenty-five percent nylon. Seventy-five percent cashmere.” 

It took a moment for the agent to catch up. Contrary to what the doctor may believe, he was not a mind reader, and he could not always follow the loose trains of thought that ran rampant in the genius’s mind. 

The tag. Twenty-five percent nylon. Seventy-five percent cashmere.

Oh. Oh my god. “He lied about the wool.” 

Robotnik nodded gravely. “I hate liars.” 

Khalilvov sputtered, “Gicdıllax, you’re both fucking crazy .” 

The doctor fixed him with a cold glare. Then, he whistled. 

That was the only command Stone needed to lunge at the man, fist connecting to his nose with a satisfying crunch . He opened his mouth to scream, but the agent moved quickly, sending another jab to his abdomen that left him breathless. The only noise that escaped was a pained wheeze. 

Don’t get him wrong, Stone loved his job. He loved pouring coffee. He loved late nights at the lab. He even loved answering those stupid emails. He’d discovered long ago that he loved doing just about anything as long as it was at the doctor’s side. 

But this? God, he’d missed this. The raw brutality, the blood thrumming just under his skin, the dull ache in his knuckles. There were very few moments in his life where he’d ever felt so harmonious. So complete . It was a rare, fleeting thing. 

Stone liked to think of himself as a tool— nothing but an instrument to exact the iron will of the doctor. His doctor. Between each blow, he caught glimpses of the man’s wide grin: open, feral, divine.

Here, pinned under that heated gaze, the agent was in his element. 

Khalivov’s breathing was shallow now, his chest shuddering in exertion with each inhale. It would be a miracle if he lasted more than what— two? three? hours without medical help. He’d probably start choking on his own blood soon. 

They resolved to leave him in the office’s storage closet. 

Robotnik dusted off his hands, despite having only supervised as Stone lugged the body. “Well, that was one hell of a good cop, bad cop routine.”

Did you like it as much as I did? “Who’s the good cop?” 

”Trick question, sycophant. There are none.” He spun around to leave, following the action with a low whistle. Immediately, Stone returned to his side.

As they made their way back into the hallway, the agent ran through the subsequent steps of their plan: contact command, get back to the car, take the M4 toward the Gobustan desert, and catch the flight home.  

He was pleased with their performance, in and out with plenty of time to spare. The casualty wouldn’t go over well with their supervisors, but Stone has had much practice over the years in making his incident reports more palatable to the paper-pushers. 

Speaking of, as Stone rounded the corner, a chime came from his pocket. He recognized the government issued number and answered.

“We’ll be en route shortly—” he began, but Robotnik grabbed his wrist, yanking it close.

“You’re breaking up!” the doctor said, adding a crrrschhh for effect, then hung up.

Stone blinked, bewildered.

Robotnik plucked the burner phone from his hand, sliding it back into the agent’s pocket, and gave it a small pat for good measure. 

“Agent, there’s been a slight change of plans.” 

Stone opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again, “A change of plans?” 

The doctor nodded, “Yes, do keep up! Look, we’ve already established that this entire field trip has been a waste of my time. So, I took it upon myself to,” he tsked, “arrange a little arms deal.” 

Robotnik didn’t give Stone a chance to press further. “It’ll be quick. Those idiots won’t even know I’m gone.” 

He started back toward the crowded venue, but faltered after a few steps. Slowly, he turned around, eyebrows knit together— not quite looking at Stone, but not not looking at him either.

“I would understand if… if you can’t,” a pause, “uh, keep up, that is.” 

There it was again, that silent question. 

Come with me?

Stone fell into step beside the doctor, right where he belonged. “We’ll draw less attention if we slip out back.”

_____

The cool night air was a soothing contrast to the thick, humid closeness of the crowd inside. 

The back door led them to a simple patio, the street beyond swallowed by cars. He scanned the gridlock for an opening to no avail. It was just too tight to make a clean exit with the car they’d arrived in. 

Right as he was about to inform the doctor of this issue, he caught a flash of something sleek in the corner of his eye: a parked Suzuki G SX-R600. It was a solid model— lightweight with a compact frame. 

Yes, that would do nicely. 

“Hey, Doc?”

Robotnik followed his line of vision, dismissing the idea as soon as he laid eyes on the motorcycle. “No. Not happening. Absolutely not.” 

But after a gentle reminder that there were no other options, and honestly what did you expect when you scheduled an arms deal in the middle of a major city, it didn’t take long before the two men found themselves ducking and weaving through lines of traffic— every close call sending a sharp jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

And if the agent rode a tad faster than strictly necessary, just to feel the doctor’s crushing grip tighten, strong hands pressing, pressing, pressing into his waist? Well then, that was his own business. 

(A very, very depraved part of Stone hoped it would bruise. Give him something to poke and prod at later.) 

_____

When they arrived at the meeting site, a nondescript warehouse located in Baku’s ‘Shanghai’ district, Stone was hit by a wave of unease. 

Only one main entrance. Boarded windows. Barred vents. 

Distantly, a dog howled. 

The doctor leaned in slightly. “Stay sharp, Agent.” He gave him a quick elbow to the side. 

Holding back a wince, he followed Robotnik up crumbling steps, loose gravel crunching under their feet. At the top, Stone watched as he rapped a precise, rhythmic pattern on the rusted door.

There was some shuffling on the other side, interspersed by hushed voices. Then, the door creaked open. A burly man filled the frame, arms crossed, his posture rigid. Tattoos curled up one forearm, half-hidden beneath a worn, grease-stained sleeve. His eyes swept over them with flat, measured scrutiny. Stone's gut twisted tighter.

“You’re the seller?” he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Robotnik cocked his head, offering a sardonic smile. “No, I’m a singing telegram.” 

Silence.

“Yeesh, tough crowd. I have an appointment with your boss.” 

The sentinel made no attempt to move. Instead, his eyes flickered to Stone. “Who’s this?”

“My associate. He goes where I go.” My associate. My, my, my, my— The agent stood taller. 

He frowned. “You agreed to come alone.”

Another voice spoke up from deeper inside, dry and scratchy, likely from years of smoking. “It’s quite alright, Yusif. Let them in.”

Begrudgingly, Yusif stepped back, giving them just enough room to enter. Unperturbed, Robotnik waltzed right in. Stone filed behind, sending the man a cold, lingering look as he passed. 

The interior was dilapidated, streaked with faded graffiti, and had certainly been out of commission for several years. The air was thick with dust and the faint, acrid scent of sulfur. Cracked, wooden crates lined the walls, barring access to any back exits. Overhead, a single striplight buzzed. 

In front of them stood the smoker. He was older, lean and wiry, but he carried himself with a quiet authority. It was evident from his colleague’s earlier submission that he was the group’s ringleader. 

Towards the back of the space were two more men, silent and still. They had pistols confidently resting at their hips. An intimidation tactic, Stone assumed. 

He didn't like being outnumbered, but he’d faced worse odds. 

The leader opened his mouth to speak, but Robotnik raised a hand.

“I’m going to stop you right there,” he groused. “I don’t care. Not about you, your organization, or whatever manifesto you’ve come up with.”

He reached into his blazer, pulling out a black box roughly the size of a glasses case. Stone recalled watching the doctor assemble it a few months back. Leftover materials from his thermobaric grenades had been repurposed into nano-engineered explosives. They were miniscule charges, small enough that twenty or so could fit neatly inside the container.

Robotnik, to the agent’s abject horror, gave it a shake. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

The older man chuckled. “Straight to business. I respect that.”

One of the men from the back approached with a briefcase, setting it on the ground with a small thud. Then, he slid it to the doctor, who looked at Stone expectantly. 

The agent crouched and flipped the case open, revealing stacks of cash inside. He thumbed through one of the bundles, confirming it was real. Robotnik watched closely, no doubt running quick mental calculations to ensure it matched the agreed upon sum.

Everything appeared to be in order. So why was there that lingering sense of wrongness?

Stone chanced a glance around the room. That was when he noticed it. The other lackey, still positioned in the back, kept checking his watch—nervously, rhythmically. Not impatient. Expectant.

He’d smelled sulfur when they walked in. 

His eyes shifted to the bag again. Leaning in, he spotted faint seams along the inner lining. They were just visible enough to betray where a thin sheet of C-4 had been laminated between fabric layers.

A plastic explosive. The group had likely taken another deal— a higher offer from someone who wanted to see the doctor dead. The money in the case would’ve been destroyed too, but it was probably nothing compared to the real price on his head. The doctor had made many enemies.

Despite the rising panic clawing at his chest, Stone kept his movements unhurried, rising up from the ground like nothing was wrong. Then, he swiped the side of his nose.

Momentarily, he was brought back to his first year under the man’s employ.

Robotnik was appalled to learn Stone had never seen ‘The Sting.’ When a revival screening hit theatres, he insisted they go. On the government’s dime, of course, for team bonding. 

He didn’t remember much of the movie. Only one of the scenes, where the characters had lightly grazed their noses to signal they were in on the con.

What he did remember was how his boss leaned over to not-so-subtly whisper in his ear.

“We should steal that.” 

A sharp shhh came from behind them.

The doctor turned and shhhhed back louder. 

Stone lost his AMC Stubs membership account. 

Presently, the agent discreetly tilted his head towards the open case. 

Robotnik knelt, eyes narrowing as he gave the contents another sweep, chewing at his bottom lip in quiet deliberation. Then, he flipped it close, offering a covert nod of understanding. 

But there was no yelling. No accusations. Just the light click of the briefcase being latched. He snatched it up smoothly, tossing the box of explosives to the ringleader, which was intercepted and caught by one of his subordinates. 

His lips drew into a tight line. “Pleasure doing business.” Robotnik tugged on Stone’s elbow, and they headed for the exit.

The doctor’s grip remained, practically dragging Stone nearly a block away before the agent could no longer hold back his silent panic.

“Doctor, you do realize you’re holding a bomb.”

“Not an active one, Stone.”

Stone frowned, confused.

Robotnik raised a gloved hand, wiggling his fingers for emphasis. “Built-in electromagnetic pulse emitter. Fried the detonator the moment I picked it up.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “They, however, are still holding an active one. Speaking of which, we should probably duck—”

The explosion hit before he finished.

Stone yanked them into a nearby alleyway just in time, shielding them from the worst of the blast. Heat rushed past, searing and torrid.

When it was over, the agent’s ears rang. They were covered in soot, coughing harshly.

Stepping back onto the street, the warehouse was gone—replaced by nothing but charred rubble and smoke. Surrounding structures also stood scorched, windows shattered and walls blackened. Thankfully, the blast was mostly confined to the deserted industrial area.

Stone watched as a wheel from their stolen motorcycle bounced and rolled away down the street. It was almost cartoonish. If he wasn’t so shell-shocked, he might have laughed.

The doctor clapped his shoulder, the sudden impact making him stumble. “I think that went well. Where to, Agent?” 

He followed the tire’s path as it wobbled along under the flicker of far-off store lights. Then, he turned to Robotnik. “How do kebabs sound?”

_____

Stone must have died. 

They’d caught a small bus outside the convenience store and were now traveling along the M4. Through the haze clouding his mind, Stone remembered the wallet he’d grabbed earlier and handed over enough manats to earn a very pleased nod from the driver.

Robotnik rightfully claimed the window seat. But for a man of his height, the legroom left much to be desired. After shifting uncomfortably for several minutes, he finally gave up and swung his legs over Stone’s lap. Instinctively, Stone curled a steadying hand around the doctor’s calves.

He was sure of it. He had died in that warehouse and gone to heaven.

For a split-second, he worried the sudden touch might earn him a swift bullet to the head, but it never came. Instead, he was welcomed by the absolute vision that was the doctor: head leaned back against the glass and eating (actually eating!) his kebab. 

Stone’s own skewer sat untouched in his hand. He was hungry, but for something altogether different.

The doctor’s tie had been forgotten—tossed aside in favor of unbuttoning his collar to escape the stifling heat of the bus. The choice left his neck exposed, openly displaying how it dipped with each swallow. 

His neatly gelled hair was tousled from the day’s chaos, strands falling carelessly across his forehead. Stone waged a quiet war in his mind not to reach out and brush them away.

His coat was torn in places, a byproduct of the manhandling he’d been subjected to. 

The well-trained part of Stone— government employee, assistant, operative — mentally logged that he’d have to take out the sewing kit when they got home.

The degenerate part of Stone— sycophant, barnacle, Agent — delighted in seeing the normally composed man disheveled in such a way. It took pleasure in knowing that he, in some parts, had caused this. It wondered what the doctor might look like completely undone. 

Outside the window, streetlights blurred past, casting a soft halo around Robotnik’s head. 

Right there, bruised, worn down, and slumped on a shitty bus, Stone realized he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. Something sharp and reckless twisted in his chest.

The doctor saved him from spiraling further, speaking between bites. 

“Not bad, Agent. Five dead in total. No witnesses. How’s that for a body count?” 

Stone shrugged. “I can live with that number.”

Robotnik cackled. “I’ll make sure that goes in your performance review.”

“Personal assistant of the year?” he joked. 

The doctor bit back a smile, feigning nonchalance. “Runner-up, maybe.” 

They lapsed into silence.

Then, quietly: “Stone?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Sometimes” He paused—not out of hesitation, but calculation. Like he was choosing his next words with an unprecedented level of care. That got Stone’s attention. “Sometimes plans change.” 

Oh.

“My plans,” he clarified, “can change.” 

Oh.

Something filled the space between them. It pressed in— pushing, pulling.

It demanded. It asked. It begged. It wept. 

Come with me? 

Come with me? 

Come with me? 

He didn’t mean to, not really, but his grip on the doctor’s calves tightened. He caught Robotnik’s eyes, found them watching Stone like he was something that could break him. 

“Mine too.”

The doctor didn’t respond. But something inside had loosened— like a knot unwound, or a breath finally released. 

Finally, he sunk into his seat, a little lighter than before. 

Notes:

* Azerbaijani translations:
Nəfəskəsici = breathtaking (google translate)
Gicdıllax = crazy cunt (reddit)

 

Robotnik’s suit

 

- Sweater scene was lowkey inspired by curb your enthusiasm
- fun fact: I had a vision of the bus scene, and the entire chapter was written as justification to get them onto said bus.