This was an experiment mostly- it's better seen as a rough draft. But I guess I like it enough to post it, despite its unoriginality. Will later be posting a separate, more detailed story, though they both have the same tone. Feedback is always greatly appreciated~
You are my most greatest creation, made for one single purpose. But remember, to fail in that purpose is not an option.
Not an option.
These were the words he constantly heard throughout the years. Information. Since the day of his birth, he had stored them for future reference, and simply continued his existence. The words would repeat, and he would access them once more, divulge their meaning, and simply wait.
Much of his life is spent in sleeping. It is necessary for the upgrades, to achieve the perfection the words talk about. My most greatest creation… Perfection: a state of completeness and flawlessness. Elite, without faults, without rival.
Without…
Searching memory…
A blue being, a flash of a smile, overtaken.
No, this doesn't correspond.
The pod is cramped. He floats inside, feeling the light of data flow through the wires. He is awake, slightly. The darkness of his eyes don't light up yet. Still downloading, installing, then he will reboot. All at the will of his creator.
A flash of pink stands before him, something fluttering right next to her head. Somehow, he can see. It would interfere slightly with the data transfer, but he wakes. Perhaps instinct? A tiny flicker of red lights up. But the person before him doesn't notice. Her dress is now different, but her eyes are the same innocent green. Curiosity fills them up as she stares at the contraption floating before her.
"Look, Birdy, it's him! Oh, sorry, you wouldn't know about him. Hmm, I wonder if he's still alive?"
Alive.
To be alive; this requires cells, flesh, hair, veins, lungs, a brain a heart, and blood. He searches. And perhaps even a soul, a common belief among civilization. This is what is needed to be truly alive, a living being, organic, natural.
These are things he does not have.
He was unnatural, artificial.
He was supposed to be perfection.
Later on, much later on, as he locked his creator, a being of flesh and blood, behind strong metal doors, he can't help but think back to the source. His one purpose: to destroy this living being he was modeled after. A being made of all these things- and a soul, a concept he was beginning to understand.
He doesn't sleep as much anymore.
Plan, upgrade, research. He does these things efficiently, no room left for distractions, no weaknesses left inside of him.
The body is a weak and fragile thing. Easy to break and scratch, to tear apart. He remembers during the pivotal race on the highway, how his claws had lashed out, marring the arm of his opponent, drawing fresh blood.
Yes, he bleeds. Flesh is weak, but the copy defeated him anyway.
So the machine researches. There is something missing. More data is needed, more power, more chaos.
Time did not exist for him. He could stand for hours, contemplating, planning. Chaos exists in this world, in the jewels of power scattered far, in the little creatures who only know of innocence. Yet the copy had defeated Chaos. This was simply not enough.
Learn from the source, take from it.
There are tests needed to be done. The copy of the doctor crumbles before the blue imposter. He analyzes movements, adrenaline levels, the injuries that have been inflicted.
Blood exists in him.
In his own body, there are wires and oil. There are plugs and sparks, there is mercury flowing down. There are motors running, there are lights that serve as his eyes. He would scratch the arm of his rival, and a thin trail of blood escapes.
Scratch his own, and there is just a scratch. Maybe even a dent, but nothing more.
Nothing vital lost.
Flesh is weak.
Yet he loses.
They find out the doctor is a fake, and so they run off swiftly, searching for the next clue. Copied, these living beings with fur and flesh instead of sleek metal skin. It is a softness that he has never known, that he is glad to have never known.
Perhaps it is beings like the red robot that he feels a certain kinship with. Also thinking in logical means, never knowing the weakness of living beings. But too simple, too straightforward, a mistake in the program. And then there is the black hedgehog, also created by artificial means. It has a purpose, or used to, and it still lives on. It is unnatural, yet there is blood still. There is no protective metal, there are no wires, no efficiency. A being created with the likeness of living things, weakened before his birth.
An ultimate life-form. The final thing. Superior, perhaps. But this does not mean perfection. Even the supreme has flaws when it is dragged down by the need for sleep, for sustenance, by the blood it relies on.
He stands on the deck of one of the many airships, all under his control. Everything of metal follows his orders, as flesh will follow soon after. The rain comes down hard, pattering against him, making him shine.
Then he sees him.
Sonic.
This is what he strives for, what his creator has failed to overcome.
That was a task left to himself.
Sonic stands alone. His friends are surveying the ship. There were others as well, all scattered. They all feel something, that this would not end easy for them. Sonic knows, and his body is tense, prepared. His blue quills stand drenched against the rain, but he doesn't bend before these elements.
He is the closest thing.
The machine does not bother hiding his footsteps. It echoes through the air, clanking hard against the surface. He sees the other's ears flick, the foot slide behind him, the body turn.
"Another of Eggman's flunkies?"
And he is an impatient being. Sonic sees the figure, but does not recognize it. He doesn't need to. He immediately jumps forward, attacking from what he knows by instinct is an enemy.
The machine watches. It is the same moves that he used from before, from all those battles against the disguised doctor. He knows how the copy would react, and his data aids him in his prediction.
He swerves, away from the sharp quills. Sonic lands on his feet, and immediately turns back. Quick, strong. There is an eagerness in those eyes, a thrill of the fight that the blue hedgehog was confident he would win.
Loathsome copy.
His claws lash out, unyielding. They cut through a pitiful barrier. Flesh is no match for steel.
Sonic makes a sound. Just a small one. But it expresses his discomfort, the brief feeling of pain. He jumps back, his sneakers skidding against the metal surface. There were three claw marks etched across his chest. Thin lines of red. He presses his gloved hand against it, staining the whiteness.
A flaw.
His eyes, red shining from within darkness, turn to his hand. The blood washes away with the rain. God's don't bleed.
If he had a mouth, he knew that he would have smiled.
I don't need to be alive.
He moves away, into the deep shadows of the airship. Fast enough to catch Sonic off-guard. Lightning flashes, showing off his wicked claws, his metal spines that could impale so easily, his cape billowing against him. But the machine moves away, moving towards the clouds.
Sonic's eyes widen. Apprehension, perhaps even a bit of fear. Just another defect.
They all run to Sonic, finally figuring it out. Their heads turn up to the sky. The storm intensified. It did not affect him.
They seem so small, these little beings. These fragile life forms. How could he have ever felt inferior to them?
Only a God can achieve perfection.
He analyzes them. His red eyes flicker. Sonic stands up straight, but he winces, slightly. He hides the wounds with his hand.
"Overlord Project" commencing…
Metal Sonic stands before them. The sky crashes around him, all to his will.
"All living things. Kneel before your master."