A/N: This is half a songfic -- some lyrics from 'Hope Rides Alone,' 'The Stand (Man or Machine),' and 'Sons of Fate' have been interwoven to fit with the story.
Also, the hyphens that isolate some of the lines are there because doesn't like using spaces for visual emphasis. :C Protoman's last words were supposed to flow across the page...ah well... Enjoy nonetheless. 3

He stepped outside into the cold, dark night.

Shadows enveloped him. The blank stares of feeble-minded passerby reminded him with every step that his purpose here was hopeless, that his mission was doomed to fail. There was little point in trying to save a race that refused to be saved.

Yet he still found himself marching proudly toward his death.

Why had he condemned himself to this? Why had he set his mind to making a gallant but inevitably worthless attempt at rescuing a race that was already beyond all hope? Why bother trying to save humankind when it had lost all desire to be saved?

Why try to support what had long ago decided it was destined to fall?

Protoman did not know.

Of only one thing he was certain: he would die here.

The chorus of a thousand hoarse voices, all screaming in unison to cheer him on but unwilling to step foot into the melee themselves, would sing him off to the netherworld. The rough gravel beneath his feet -- against his face -- would be the last harsh touch before feeling faded from his consciousness altogether. Amidst this army of robots, this unyielding, vast collection of machine after machine, Protoman would fall.

A perfect man. An unbeatable machine. They had called Dr. Light's creation this and more in a time when hope was more than a far-away dream, when a beacon of light had begun to shine and lift away the fog of helplessness that had clung to the feet of the city since the day Wily's robots took over.

Would they still call him that now? When the robots were overtaking him, when his scarred and cracked battle helmet was torn off and hurled into the masses, would they still believe him an indestructible savior?

When the weapons of his enemies slashed and tore and ripped into him, the horrible screeching of metal against metal, the sickening slice of metal against flesh giving way to the splattering of blood against pavement -- would they still call him their hero?

Would Mankind ever come to realize that the Hero of Man could not stand and fight an army of viscous machines with only chanting in the distant background to aid him?

Would they ever remember that once upon a time, they had not needed a metal hero to win their wars?

Protoman approached the army. Crowds of a blindly hopeful, a falsely confident people followed behind him, channeling their adrenaline not by aiding in his effort but by screaming, wildly and determinedly over the drone of the loudspeakers, "We have control! We keep you safe! We are your hope! We are in control!"

Wily himself, watching the scenario unfold twenty stories below, could not help but chuckle to himself. The foolish humans... They were not in control. They were merely a mob of shouting idiots, easily restrained and effortlessly silenced; they had handed their control over to Protoman the moment they made the brainless and cowardly decision to assume the role of the bystander over the fighter.

And Protoman would not get to assert that control.

For after hours upon hours of fighting, of struggling, of grueling mind-scarring gut-wrenching horrific terrors and shocks of adrenaline and near-misses -- no matter how many Protoman had slain, destroyed machines piling high, mountains of crushed metal climbing toward the dark sky -- they just kept on coming. The flow of Wily's army would not cease; their numbers were too great. As the Hero of Man's energy dwindled, as his wounds grew deeper and more numerous, robots continued to come at him, unrelenting and fearless. Blood gushed from the human parts of his body, staining his armor crimson even moreso than it was already. Scraps of metal tore from his suit, leaving gaping holes that exposed his inner workings to the enemy -- they took advantage, and soon his ability to function was slipping, face-first, toward the ground. Cracks and dents and scars marred his appearance, and when he backed from the masses of metal in a desperate grab for a breather, the crowds fell silent as they beheld their wonderfully ruined wreck of a hero.

Once he had stood tall, proud, his weapon raised high, his armor shining with a light that drove humanity onward to freedom, the only spark of hope in a society that had been encompassed in darkness longer than anyone could remember. He had once stared forward, determined and able; ready, willing, and prepared to fight.

Now he stumbled backwards, one arm hanging at his side -- useless -- and his weapon cracked down the middle, nearly split in half. His armor now clung to his body, caked in dried blood and melted metal, paint chipped and cracks winding across his body like spiderwebs. His battle helmet had been dented in, and half his visor had been shattered to reveal a single eye.

Once, he had glared down his opponents with a burning fury, with a white-hot rage; once he had faced his enemies with a stubborn, unyielding determination and a steely will, always ready, willing, and prepared to fight;

Now something else gleamed in his eye. Something scarring and deep-seated. Something like fear.

Terrified, hopeless, blinding fear.

Yet seeing the glance of terror as plain and clear as day in their hero's ivory eye still was not enough to motivate Mankind to jump into action. Not once did the sight of their savior, falling from grace, encourage a single soul to stand up and help; not a sole human, not a single man who valued courage over life, broke away from the no longer chanting masses to face his destiny head-on.

Humankind remained still and silent. Cowards, afraid to help their hero, afraid to acknowledge that maybe he wasn't so perfect after all. If he could not do it, how could they? Would thousands upon thousands of infuriated souls, tired of and breaking free from the shackles of oppression, be able to match the strength of a single artificial man fighting with all his strength against a neverending tide of countless robots?

WOULD THEY NEVER LEARN?

No, thought Dr. Light from among the throngs of humans watching the bloodshed.

No, Protoman, Mankind will never learn.

----

"I will not fight you!"

You have no choice.

"I'll stand beside you!"

I stand alone.

"You're still their hero!"

Then they are fools.

"This cannot be the only way..."

The foolish boy.

Searching for answers, searching for the truth, searching for a happy ending. Just as he could not save mankind and avenge Protoman's "death," he could not find both the truth and an ending he desired to this story.

Megaman stood, his weapon raised hesitantly and aimed, with an unsteady courage, at Protoman's chest. Since the fateful day years ago, when the ex-Hero of Man had been struck down, beaten, and destroyed, he had been reprogrammed and rebuilt. Now his armor once again shone, but not with the hope of mankind, not with the glint of light that had, once upon a time, leant faith to the hearts of Man. False hope, perhaps, and weak faith; but both present nonetheless.

A harmony -- no, a cacophony -- of voices now rang out behind Megaman; the same voices that had once goaded Protoman forward into battle, the same chorus that drove him to hell, now sang out with disconcerting unison and determination: "Destroy him! You can save us! Destroy him! You're our only hope! KILL PROTOMAN!"

Funny, when you think about it. How the combined voices that had once carried Protoman off into a mindset of hopelessness and bitterness, into the clutches of Wily, into a place far worse than hell -- the same collective chorus now sang for their new hero, sang out the desire of his death in the distant, ever-fading background as he -- blinded by pain, body seizing up in a last-ditch effort to save itself -- fell to his knees and began to die.

Protoman felt himself falling and braced for impact with the cold, rough earth, but before he could move an inch Megaman was by his side. Before either of them knew it, the two brothers were embracing.

In his final moments, in his last breath, Protoman knew what he had to do. Through the course of his life, he had looked down upon and pitied the human race, fools who had no bravery, idiots not worth saving. Wily had instilled in him a hopelessness for the race; he had been convinced mankind was doomed. But deep in his artificial, weakly fluttering heart, he had known...he had always known.

There was always hope. Even when darkness descended upon the city; even when Man appeared to have given up; even when heroes broke; there was hope.

Perhaps latent,

hidden away,

distant...

But still,

----------------there would always be hope.

Lying in his brother's arms, struggling for breath and grasping for words, Protoman clutched onto the blue armored arms around him. Each breath came rasping, unsure. Every unsteady heartbeat sent shockwaves of pain and terror down his spine.

Yet still, he had strength enough to save mankind.

"If these people...

-------tell this story...

------------to their children...

-----------------as they sleep...

----------------------then maybe someday,

---------------------------they'll see a hero...

-------------------------------is just a man...

-----------who knows he is free."

Protoman was dead.

The crowd seemed pleased.

Megaman finally understood.

There are no heroes left in Man.

Over the din of humans chanting out empty words of solace, Megaman spoke. Through gritted teeth, clutching the body of his fallen brother, and with strained words, he spoke.

"As I live, there is no evil that will stand. And I will finish what was started: the Fight of PROTOMAN!"

All the white-hot, burning rage that swirled throughout Megaman, clouds of hatred and fury, at the selfish and cowardly race that had been the cause of Protoman's death; all the gut-wrenching sorrow and empty, black depression that hurled him into a deep pit of regret and despair at the death of the only one who would ever have been able to understand him, a noble, courageous, and strong brother; all the raw emotion that scorched his very being, the regret at having been so naïve and so stupid to have been so utterly determined to save this pathetic, ugly race...

All of it was in his cry. Every emotion that coursed through his body, pumping through his veins like venom, ripping him up from the inside out;

He screamed it all in his brother's name.

And slowly, standing and letting his battle-scarred helmet fall from his hand to the ground, Megaman turned his back on mankind. To the blind fools chanting at him, "You are the hero!" he simply uttered, contempt and disgust dripping from every word,

"You are the dead."