Disclaimer : Sonic the Hedgehog is owned by Sega Corporation. I do not claim ownership of Sonic the Hedgehog, Sonic Adventure, or any characters, locations, or concepts contained therein. I do assert ownership of any characters, locations, or concepts originating within this work.

I would like to thank my beta-reader The Great Gonzales, without whom this probably would never have been published. Thank you for your patience.

Chapter 1: To Crack the Egg

"I am a man more sinned against than sinning."

King Lear

Dr. Ivo Robotnik gazed into the shadows that lay in the corners of his office as he leaned back in his chair, eyes unfocused from a combination of fatigue, apathy, and alcohol. His tumbler lay upended over the bottle on the desk before him. Well crafted and carved from solid oak, he had ordered it custom made over two decades before.. Its surface was swept bare, for he didn't conduct business here. Rich, soothing music played from hidden speakers, and soft, comfortable furnishings covered the floor. On the walls, rare and expensive pieces of art from every movement hung from the walls, providing a luxurious background to the room. It was here that he came when he needed to relax, to leave behind his troubles and concerns and be at peace.

Unfortunately, it wasn't working.

"What have I (hic) ever done to deserve this?" he mumbled drowsily. "I mean (hic) there are plenty of thieves and murderers and (hic) politicians that could have worse luck."

Letting his mind wander, he thought back to four months ago; his last excursion into the outside world. A brief jaunt over to one of his production facilities to see how everything was working out. He could have done it remotely, but he hadn't had anything better to do. And so he'd made the journey to the site just in time to watch the never-sufficiently-damned demon of a hedgehog Sonic "disassemble" it. A few small charges on the supports, no doubt made by the thumb-sucking fox that always followed him around, and the structure had collapsed, crushing the factory floor and all four basements below.

Without his war-machines, and with the majority of the guards destroyed in the aftermath, he'd returned to his base, furious at what he'd just witnessed. Almost mad with rage, he'd immediately begun making plan for retaliation, eager to convert the blue-furred menace into a new throw-rug. But it hadn't taken long for him to realize that, whatever he did, it wouldn't be enough. Sonic's three-year long war of attrition against his empire had finally taken its toll. He'd committed what remained of his resources to building the factory, which would have easily replenished his dwindling forces, but after his most recent loss, he barely had enough units left to safeguard his base, let alone stage an attack. After a few weeks, despair had filled him as he realized that even his finances were running low, depleted by numerous failed operations

After that, he'd started drinking.

He shook his head, dispelling the dark thoughts. Sitting up, he reached once more for the bottle. Twisting the cap off and letting it fall to the floor, he poured himself a glass, heedless of the melted ice in the bottom that quickly diluted the expensive liquor. Small amounts of it spilled onto the desk as the bottle wavered back and forth, but finally he managed to top it off. He gulped down the glass, and then downed the bottle as well. The brown liquid burned as it ran down his throat, and in seconds an unpleasant sensation began to rise in his stomach, but he had other concerns than his digestion.

"Simon!" he bawled.

There was a hiss, and then an opening appeared in the walls, through which stepped 'Simon,' aka. unit d-113."Yes, Master?" it inquired.

Robotnik held up the bottle. "Bring me another one of these, (hic) would you?" he said blearily.

"Master," the machine objected, "I must inform you that by my calculations, your blood-alcohol level is-"

"Shut up!" he snarled. "I said (hic) bring me a bottle!"

"Yes sir," the robot responded instantly. "What would you like?"

Robotnik frowned. "Get me the '35. No, make it the '34. That was a good year. (hic)"

"I'm sorry, but that is not possible."

Robotnik sat up suddenly, eyes ablaze as he glared at his creation. "Whaddaya mean, 'not poshibible'?" he managed to snarl.

"The supply of brandy bottled in the year 2034 is depleted. As is the supply of brandy from the year 2035." It paused. "In fact, the entire supply of brandy is depleted."

Robotnik blinked, and then his eyes narrowed. "Hold on Simon. You told me (hic) that we had plenty on Wendsh…on Wedneshda… Three days ago!"

The robot cocked its head. "Master, I made a statement similar to the one you described on the third of this month, at 17:48:09. That was approximately 15 days ago."

The Doctor stared. "You're making that up," he accused.

"I am not, Master," d-113 insisted, "unless my databanks are malfunctioning. Would you like me to recalibrate them?"

The bottle slipped from nerveless fingers and Robotnik moaned before dropping his face into his hands. "Gods," he whispered. "It can't be." He didn't remember the last two weeks at all. And the entire stock of Brandy? He began to tremble, his forehead bouncing against his palms. Is this all I amount to? he asked himself. A drunk?

He let his hands fall, and then he pushed himself up abruptly. His head suddenly felt like it was splitting in half, but he managed to stumble onward, making his way precariously towards where his servant stood. As he drew closer, the robot took a step back, thinking he was going out the door, but instead Robotnik grabbed his assistant roughly and turned it until the top of its head was directly in front of him. Looking into the reflective metal plating, he gasped as he caught sight of his own face.

The man he saw before him looked nothing like Professor Ivo Robotnik. His hair (or what was left of it) was long and unkempt, and his mustache looked almost like a rat had crawled above his lip. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him as he took in the dirty face covered with over a full month of beard-growth.

Is this all I amount to?

"Master," d-113 asked without urgency, "Are you unwell?"

Robotnik didn't answer. Releasing his creation, he slowly made his way back towards the desk, stumbling occasionally as his vision wavered. Gripping his leather-lined seat in both hands, he carefully lowered himself into it with a sigh of relief as the world stopped spinning. Once he felt more confident, he reached a hand out with deliberate slowness, forcing himself to be careful as he took hold of the only thing left on the desk.

It a photograph, covered with glass and surrounded by a silver frame, tarnished by age and the human hand. The photo itself was nearly sixty years old, but though it was faded and blurred, the picture upon it was still visible. In it, a man stood against the backdrop of a laboratory, with various vials and crude implements surrounding him. He wore a loose-fitting white lab coat that covered him from head to toe, and a pair of thick safety-glasses covered his eyes. Although little could be seen of him, there were two features that stuck out: a large, bulbous nose that drooped down over his face, and a thick, bushy mustache that stuck out like two brushes on either side of his face.

What would you do, Grandfather?

He'd never known the man, but he'd heard enough stories to know what kind of man Gerald Robotnik was. Brilliant, determined, and with a thirst for knowledge, he studied in a variety of fields, from academics to aero physics, archaeology to astronomy. It was he that proposed trapping a comet in earth's gravity well and converting it into a geo-sync colony. The Ark Project inspired a new era of international cooperation, and eventually led to the creation of the Global Federation.

And then it happened.

The Ark Project was abandoned, the result of an internal explosion that left more than 200 scientists and technicians dead and rendered the colony uninhabitable. After that, he disappeared, and no one heard from him again. Then, 26 years ago, a package arrived for him. He'd just graduated college and, at the age of 17, he was considered to be as brilliant, if not more so, than his esteemed grandfather. It was a plain package, and there was no return address. Inside, he found a simple note that told him his grandfather had died. To say he'd been surprised would be an understatement, but he was even more surprised to find the silver-framed photograph winking back at him from the bottom of the box. After that, he learned everything about his grandfather: who he was, what he had done. But all too soon, he ran into a brick wall; most of his grandfather's research had mysteriously been 'disappeared' over the years.

It didn't take long to find out who was behind it: the new Global Federation. It took another year and a $200,000 bribe to get his hands on one of the research files, and what he found stunned him. The file contained the results of numerous experiments dealing with the possibility of artificial intelligence. The results had been promising, and he'd seemed on the cusp of a breakthrough when suddenly the experiments stopped, three months before the Ark Project was announced. He didn't know why his Grandfather stopped his research, but he wasn't about to complain. With the notes in hand, he went to work on duplicating the results, hoping to follow in Gerald's footsteps. When his grants dried up, he turned to the black market, designing new technologies for drug dealers, smugglers, and terrorists. Four years later, he succeeded. It wasn't sophisticated, and it was atrociously slow for an 'advanced computing system', but it was real!

But on the eve of his triumph, he'd had an epiphany. Why make it public? He'd already seen the kind of wealth his intellect could spawn, moving him from a run-down apartment complex to a mansion in a couple of years. The seclusion he'd sought during his research and the kind of people he'd done business with had scraped away any altruism he'd had for "normal" people. And so he continued his research. After many long years, he created an intelligence sophisticated enough to project stock fluctuations with incredible accuracy. Investing his already significant resources, he tripled his money overnight, and within a year, he had accumulated more wealth than he thought he could possibly spend. And it quickly became tiresome. He would never be able to deplete it all, even if he tried, so why bother?

From then on, he spent his time in constant observation of the outside world. He watched politicians squabble with each other while the problems they argued went unsolved. He watched man devour man to the tune of greed, while the faceless sheep that was the average person remained oblivious to the rot growing beneath their feet. He watched-

-and he knew he could do it better.

He tried. His wealth allowed him access to nearly infinite supplies, and he used it to great effect. Soon, he had an army that rivaled the Global Federation, one capable of remaking the world the way it should be. He began slowly, crushing the Mobians first in an attempt to eliminate them from the equation. Their druidic beliefs and disdain for technology were not suited for the new world order he would create. Soon the time came for him to assault the Global Federation. He began by attacking the military base at Green Hill, before spreading out to subjugate the surrounding area.

But the attack had only scarcely begun when a blue mobian appeared. Without warning, it struck into the heart of his offense, displaying speed that should have been impossible for a creature of its size. Momentarily taken aback by the ferocity of the creature's assault, he'd pulled his army back, trying to reconsolidate his ranks, but it pursued him relentlessly. The damage it inflicted was significant, but it wasn't until GUN's regional forces mobilized that he'd begun to panic. In desperation, he ordered a full retreat even as defense forces arrived. He'd been forced to leave a significant portion of his army behind in order to make his escape, and despite their numbers, they were systematically wiped out by the superior GUN forces. It wasn't until later, as he watched the newscasters cover the incident, that he learned the meddler's name: Sonic the Hedgehog.

After that, it all went horribly wrong. He never recovered from his losses, and despite his carefully made plans, his new nemesis Sonic always managed to find some way to bring them crashing down. Now, not even three years later, his forces were decimated; his empire in shambles. He stood on the brink of collapse, and it was all the work of that damned Hedgehog.

He felt the anger growing within him, and he took hold of it desperately, like a lifeline. Despair melted into bottomless fury as memories of his humiliating defeats flashed through his mind, awakening the true Dr. Robotnik once more. There was a crack as his suddenly clenched fists broke the glass the protected the picture he still held in his hands, but he barely even noticed. His drunken stupor melted away before the rage and he let out a roar, sending the oaken desk flying as he leapt to his feet. His vision grew dark even as the ground lurched beneath his feet, but he didn't care. He was himself again!

He stood, glaring furiously at an unassuming spot in the wall, the fiery gaze threatening to reduce it to ashes. His mind blazed with fury, and he wanted more than anything to smash something, anything! No, not just anything! He wanted to crush the worthless blue rat that dared to defy him. He wanted to see the terror in the hedgehog's eyes as he ended its pathetic life, laughing at its futile struggles. He would-

"Master?"

Robotnik turned to his metal servant, and if eyes were cannons he would have blown the unfortunate automaton to pieces. "WHAT!" he screeched.

"You are injured. Do you require assistance?"

Glanced down at his hands, he saw where the glass shards from the picture had driven into his palms, causing drops of blood to run along their length. His adrenaline-driven euphoria ended, and he grimaced in pain as he slowly unclenched his fist and let the broken frame drop to the floor. He took a deep breath, and then let it out explosively before turning back to the robot. "Ye-" he began hoarsely before clearing his throat loudly. "Yes, I am Simon. Bring me the medical drone, and then get me a warm, wet towel.

"Please define 'warm'," The robot requested.

Robotnik rolled his eyes. "120 degrees. And make sure it's that hot when it gets here."

d-113 bowed deeply and quietly left the room, moving to carry out its orders. Robotnik waited until the door hissed closed behind him before turning and relinquishing the alcohol from his tortured stomach.

Four hours and a cold shower later, Robotnik walked through the door of his intelligence room. His old clothes had been thrown away and a replacement pair supplied for him. Combined with his freshly trimmed and groomed face, he looked almost like himself. Dark circles still hung beneath his eyes, his skin was pale from the long seclusion, but he felt better than he had in ages. The last month of intense drinking had left him lethargic to the point of collapse, and it felt invigorating to once more walk with a clear head. Of course there was still the matter of the jackhammer that was going off in his skull, as well as a fuzzy feeling in his mouth that made it feel like he'd swallowed his own mustache, but he'd been hung over before, so he knew it would pass.

The room into which he stepped was cluttered, a sharp contrast to his meditation chamber. Various computing devices lay scattered about, most of them messily disassembled long ago and left where they lay. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, and as he watched, a rat scampered across the floor and burrowed into the clutter.

Note to self: melt down the maintenance units.

He made his way gingerly through the clutter, careful not to put his clean boots in any of the various spots of filth on the floor that had appeared in his absence. It was a treacherous journey, but he eventually reached his destination: A large, bulky console with two thin black gloves atop it, sitting against the far wall. The wall in question stood curiously devoid of the clutter that filled the rest of the room. He sat down in the room's only chair and sighed before pulling on the gloves and flicking his fingers idly. There was a brief pause, and then the wall in front of him lit up to reveal a complex interface spread across its surface. Energy levels, liquid assets, resource stockpiles, and food supplies all had their own window, all of which showed critical levels. He closed them all with a wave of his hand, then cracked his knuckles and set to work.

It came to him as he was taking the shower, the cold water washing over his vast bulk. He'd long ago regarded his grandfather Gerald's work in electronics to be the most valuable resource the old man had left behind. But the earliest work he'd done in that field had been just two years before the start of the Ark Project, well into his career. And while he didn't doubt his initial conclusion about the research, he also suspected there might still be something of value he could use in his predecessor's old notes, still locked away in storage.

He'd learned to crack computer systems decades ago, but with his creation of machines that could do it for him, his skills had stagnated. Even so, he was still more than capable of breaking through the GUN firewall. A backdoor he'd exploited many times to gather information on troop movements was still intact, and with a few quick commands the GUN network was laid open before him. General information and low-level encrypted files were clearly visible, but he was certain there wasn't anything of value within. When he'd 'acquired' the first research file, it had been stored in an underground facility. Only the fact one of the guards had been in deep with gambling debts had made it possible for him to get his hands on it. But that file had been the only one at that particular facility. If he wanted to find his grandfather's other files, he'd have to do a little digging first.

Fortunately, the digital age simplified everything. Including breaking and entering.

The security he encountered as he bore through the system was a joke. The software he used, created by the above-mentioned machines, drove deeply into the system, ignoring the pitiful anti-intrusion and ant-virus software it encountered. In less than a minute, the GUN's secure data network was spread across the screen. He quickly passed up the black-ops files, which were surprisingly light considering the size of the organization, and moved onto the Research and Development. If there was anything to find, it would be in there. He ran a global search on his grandfather's name, expecting to find several of the aforementioned files, but came up empty. The only information he found was an ancient requisition for the files, asking they be sent to the Ark.

Damn! he snarled silently. The old man must have moved the originals up to the station before it was destroyed and never made copies! Dismayed, he was about to turn away when something caught his eye: a footnote, referencing an even more ancient document than the first. This one dated back to several years before the Ark was constructed. There was no heading, only a subheading that listed it as the property of Gerald Robotnik. He hesitated, and then copied down the relevant information before exiting the system.

He brought up the file and read through it quickly. Whatever the original contained, it had never been digitized. The only hard-copies on record were stored in the basement of a small military installation outside of a small town, just fifty miles out from Westopolis.

What could it be? He wondered. Something he overlooked? Perhaps it isn't worth bothering over? He considered it, but he didn't believe it. He'd already reluctantly come to the conclusion that Gerald had been a far better scientist than himself, which meant, among other things, that he was far more open to alternative conclusions. There could be any host of potentially valuable tidbits in the file which could lead to the same sort of advancements he'd already made in the field of robotics. If there was anything at all in that file, it would be worth having, regardless of the contents.

In the end, it wasn't a hard decision. With the losses he'd suffered, he had virtually nothing left. If there was nothing to this theory of his, he would be no worse off than he was now.

And that, for the first time in recent memory, was not acceptable.

(This is a revised chapter. Several corrections have been made.)

Thank you to Kiseki Lin for pointing out some of my mistakes. They have now been corrected.