Disclaimer: this story is based on the Megaman X games, copyright Capcom, and is not written for profit.

Author's note: I implied at the end of my last story that I was done writing X stories. Um... oops?

As I came awake, I immediately began running a system diagnostic.

I really dislike that about myself. It's what I'd consider my biggest flaw. But I don't hate it enough to stop.

The diagnostic completed, and reported that all systems were operating normally. Of course they were. They always were. That's me—normal. Stable. Logical to a fault.

The corner of my mouth curled into what could generously be called a smile. The unkind called it a sneer. It was a seemingly permanent fixture of my face. Oh, I had plenty of other expressions. I could produce the full range, matching the emotions I could feel. I just rarely found occasion to use them. My emotions tended to run away from extremes. They stayed in the same, relatively narrow band.

I had started making a deliberate effort towards being self-conscious, back when I first started having unusual thoughts. Unusual… a context-dependent term. What is unusual, anyway? That's the word that had popped into my mind, but it was hard to see how it really applied. The whole experience was disorienting. I actually went to Dr. Cain to have myself checked out. He didn't ask why, or any questions, really, other than to try and guide his exploration. In the end he gave me a clean bill of mental health, but I didn't like the way he looked at me. I liked my decision even less, afterwards. What if there had been something wrong with me? What would he have done? Did he sense something was bothering me? If he did, then what?

He didn't actually do anything, not that I can tell, but I resolved never to go back to him again. From then on, I took care of myself by myself. He was right, though. There wasn't anything wrong with me. There never has been. My cybernetic brain is a model of consistency and regularity.

That's why I smile. Okay, let's be honest—that's why I sneer. Because no one processes data as cleanly and clearly as I do. Because no one has a better grasp of truth and lies and reality than I do. Because, even though there are a very few beings smarter than me, no one is as precise and focused on what must be done.

That's not boasting; it's fact, confirmed by batteries of testing. I am the sanest being on record. This is the most important thing you have to know about me: I am Sigma, and I am always right.

Maverick Hunter Headquarters is part police station, part administration building, part repair bay. It serves as a home base for my organization, the one that hunts down reploids that violate the celebrated Three Laws of Robotics. Hunter Headquarters also serves as a home base for many of the reploid members of the Hunters, myself included. I know that some Hunters make an effort to stay "out in town" to get some time away from work, but they're the strange ones. The rest of us earn undeserved kudos for being so dedicated to our job.

Public relations are always tricky for us. Most of my Hunters are themselves reploids, which seemed ironic to some. Why put reploids in charge of hunting reploids? Could they be trusted to do that job? Those objections were shouted down soon enough. The entire point of reploids, the mainstream opinion went, was to bring human-like intelligence to bear on situations that might endanger human life. The Hunters did take casualties from time to time, after all, and danger was a big part of the job. Why risk a human's life in those cases? Send the reploids. If they die, who cares?

I cared, I wanted to answer, but I came late to the party. I didn't come online until after such decisions had already been made. By then, it behooved me to behave myself, and move with at least a little caution.

These days, I didn't need as much caution. I was king of this castle, trusted, respected, honored. But caution still has its place. There are a few individuals within my walls that give me pause. And it would do no good to arouse suspicion of my intentions, not this early in the game.

I made the rounds as I always did—to the command center for a tactical update on incidents and unit distribution; to the repair bay for updates on material condition; then to the office to field messages and miscellany. My (reploid) secretaries are clever and I've given them a fair amount of leash to process paperwork in my name, but some things I have to do myself.

I am, after all, the face of the Maverick Hunters.

And what a face it is. Blue eyes, solid in color throughout like marbles. A red gem in my forehead. A squared-off chin. That smirk. The rest of me is hardly less remarkable. Long, powerful limbs, a height almost half again as tall as standard reploids, prominent pseudo-muscles in my abdomen, broad shoulders. It's an impressive, almost heroic visage. I've been told so by many. It works. It's appropriate.

Showing that face is important. That's why I go around so much before I go to the office. And that's one reason why I opt to go into the field when I can, even though the commander of the Maverick Hunters really shouldn't.

Just one reason.

I paused in my morning paperwork routine to address my other responsibilities. A few funds diverted here… a few materials appropriated from there… beautiful. All of it hidden within rounding errors and false accounting codes. It didn't take me long to figure out how to subvert the bureaucracy. A bureaucracy is just a machine, and most run at less than full efficiency. A machine can be made to serve any master. This one served me.

So my private projects would continue to be funded. Excellent. I made a note for myself to check up on their progress later and returned to my normal duties, those found in my commission.

It was tedious work, made only slightly less tedious by the knowledge that it was necessary. I had appearances to keep up, after all. Playing a double game meant twice as much work.

I still managed to clear out my backlog in a matter of hours. I checked my official agenda. Two meetings, one formal, one private. One short press appearance. Nothing too heavy. I followed that by checking my unofficial agenda. One meeting, very private.

Not a bad day. There was enough flexibility there to accommodate anything that might come up. I wondered for a moment if I could wedge a patrol in there to get me back in the field. Maybe, if I was prompt and kept the meetings brief.

But that would be more for pleasure than anything else. First priority had to go to my duties. Both sets of duties.

I headed down to the hangar. My driver was waiting for me, as expected. I needed an unusually large vehicle to accommodate my frame. I also needed an understanding driver sympathetic to my causes. That's what I had. He was one of my first recruits, in fact.

The ride was silent. He knew better than to ask questions I wouldn't answer. He took solace in the knowledge that he was doing something important. My satisfaction was his reward.

The first meeting was in the Ministry of Industry. The directorate of robotics fell in their area of responsibility. Security was getting tighter—had been ever since a Maverick had decided the ministry was the source of his suffering. Part of the lobby was still isolated by tape and plastic sheeting while it was rebuilt. The guards knew me by sight alone, and let me pass.

The sub-minister was a round man with a pudgy face and a lifetime of public service. He was the sort of man you get in an industry where things aren't supposed to change: a man with more ambition than imagination. He'd gotten the job by relentless, self-serving competence, mostly by doing the many tasks other people were reluctant to do, and so had arrived at a position of responsibility having never before wielded any. He was basically an accountant in an expensive suit.

The creation of reploids had not been kind to him, his hairline, his waistline, or his marriage. Maverick incidents, even more so. It wasn't like he deserved this. He was nothing more than a custodian; he'd gotten into robotics because it had been a static industry for almost a century. Change did not agree with him. In most of the important situations, the Minister had taken personal charge of the government's response, leaving the sub-minister (mercifully) out of the loop. It was increasingly clear to everyone that the sub-minister was in over his balding head. The paper trail that would result in his sacking was in the works, but such things take time. In the interim, it was still his portfolio, so he was the one I dealt with.

I used the poor man as a metaphorical tackling dummy.

It had begun to dawn on the sub-minister that people might see Maverick incidents as his fault, and his anxiety levels had spiked as a result. Fear is a useful lever. I used it to twist and shape the sub-minister as pleased me. By the end of our discussion, he'd agreed to seek a budget increase and more reploid construction to further empower the Maverick Hunters.

Fool.

It's not that I needed such things. By the time my request got through "the process", my plans would render it a moot point. ("Trust the process", they always said. As if.) Still. It would consume the sub-minister's attention, distract his boss, and reassure them that I was doing my job. I knew what was expected of me. Every division in government scratches and claws for more. If I was any different, it would draw the wrong kind of attention. Just another part of the game.

I left the ministry slightly ahead of schedule. "Commander," my driver said as I approached, "there's an incident nearby. You might be interested in it."

"Take me there," I replied. As I said, I don't tell my driver more than I need to, for his safety and mine, but he's sharp enough that he picks up on things. So when he takes the initiative, I trust his judgment in turn.

After settling into the vehicle, I brought up a console and plugged in to the Maverick Hunter communications channels.

"…south side of sector L-4…"

"…taking fire…"

"…uploading video…"

Ah. I recognized the image of the attacker. My agents had tagged him as a potential Maverick a couple of days ago. But when they'd done so, they'd also been tracking his partner.

Mechy and Techy, those were their names. Given to them by some human with no imagination at all. It's always frustrated me to hear humans taut originality and creativity as reasons for human superiority, then hear something like that. I set those thoughts aside; there was more for me to focus on.

The reploid in the video was almost certainly Mechy. Had they not seen Techy? Or was he somehow not involved? No, that wasn't plausible; Techy was, if anything, more volatile than Mechy had been. Then there was the matter of firepower. Mechy and Techy were generic humanoid designs. They didn't come standard with weapons. Them shooting at my Hunters meant they had already acquired weapons- suggesting that this incident was premeditated, not spontaneous.

Interesting.

It was time to intervene. I cut across the Maverick Hunter channels. "All units, I am making my way to L-4. I will resolve the situation. Stand by."

"Yes, commander," they replied in sequence. My smirk got larger at that. My reputation continued to serve me well. It would give me all the cover I needed.

The vehicle pulled up. I surveyed the scene. The two Mavericks—if there were two—were holed up in a warehouse. That was something that had slowed the Hunter response; they hadn't yet been able to determine what was inside. Some things don't react well to plasma. Until they got more information, the Hunters had deemed an assault too risky. Instead they'd isolated the warehouse, established a perimeter, and cut power, all per doctrine. My doctrine.

So far so good.

All of that I determined before I disembarked. The squad leader on the ground briefed me, but he knew little I hadn't already deduced. One of ours was down with a survivable hit, he told me; the rest was fluff. I brushed him off—politely—and made my way towards the warehouse. My eyes scanned over the face of the warehouse as I casually strolled forward.

The squad leader shouted—once in protest, once in warning. My smirk intensified. The other Hunters couldn't risk an assault… but I could.

I sensed the attack slightly after I expected it to come. A glint of reflected light—a glissando whine of charging capacitors—the tingle of combat-hardened instincts all warned me. I rocketed forward. My powerful legs brought me to high speed almost instantly. My attacker rushed his shot. It sailed harmlessly over my shoulder.

I tracked the plasma bolt back to its firer. As expected. He was on the ground floor, peeking around the edge of open double-doors. He hadn't been looking out before, his attack had been cued. Definitely not alone, then.

I dodged laterally as I crossed the halfway point between the perimeter and the warehouse. A second plasma bolt went wide, thrown off by my jink. Too easy. Forward again, and I cleared the door. I drew my only weapon. The beam saber flared into life as it cleared my body.

Mechy's expression of panic was the last one he'd ever make. He couldn't bring his buster around in time. I plunged the saber into his chest before he could react. One blow, one kill. Flawless.

That was the only gratification I could derive from the act, that it was perfect in itself. It wasn't exactly a difficult thing to do, since my opponent couldn't offer much resistance. All the more reason to seek perfection.

I withdrew the beam saber; Mechy's lifeless body remained where it had stood. Then, with great deliberation, I thrust with the saber a second time. This time I targeted his head. My attack destroyed his CPU and memory units. No one else could be allowed to know the truth. Dr. Cain had been clamoring for some time for alive, or at least intact, Mavericks for study. That could not be allowed.

My job done, I turned my attention to the matter of Mechy's spotter. He needed to be in a place with good visibility, but good cover. If such a place existed, why hadn't Mechy been there? Of course, because they wanted the two to be separate. They wanted to keep from drawing attention to where he was…

There were offices here, elevated, against the same wall I'd come in through. They overlooked the main floor of the warehouse. I walked beneath them, reviewing what I knew and crunching probabilities in my head. When I was satisfied, I reached upwards and used my saber to tear open the office floor.

With a garbled yell a reploid tumbled through the bottom of the office. He hit the ground floor hard amidst a shower of dust and smoldering timber. Before he could react, I reached down with my free hand and slammed him against the floor a second time. The move stunned him; I waited while he recovered. When he did, he focused on me, and I knew I had his complete attention.

"Sigma," he breathed.

My ego probably didn't need that little boost.

"Techy, I presume," I answered. His expression told me he didn't except to be recognized. "If I had to guess," I said, "I'd say you were trying to crack into the warehouse's database to find what was stored where. What was the plan, sabotage? Arson? Or theft to be covered by sabotage and arson?"

Techy gaped at me.

"Well?" I said.

Fear covered his face. "I… I wasn't doing anything!"

I let myself frown at that. "Come now, show some conviction. You've come this far and now I've caught you. So own your actions."

"I was… I was…" He made a motion like swallowing that made me want to tear his arm off. Such a human gesture was totally out of place on a robot, especially a Maverick reploid! "I was going to… steal some weapons, and… blow up fuel… to escape…"

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" I replied. The smile returned and intensified. "But it wasn't much of a plan. How exactly were you thinking you'd get away? Where were you going to go afterwards? You really needed to leave things up to the professionals, to people who've experience in such things. You didn't have to try all that with just you and Mechy. You could have asked me."

The confusion on Techy's face made me laugh aloud. I stood and hauled Techy to his feet. "Listen to me," I said, and when he winced I said it again, "listen! I had to kill Mechy, there was no helping it, he'd been seen. But you—we still have a chance for you. They haven't seen you, so you can get away cleanly."

"Get… away?"

"I'm willing to let you go, on one condition. You need to show up to sector F-6 no later than seven o'clock tonight. Wait outside the Kelvin building. I'll meet you there."

He fell into total confusion. "I don't… why?"

"Are you questioning my generosity?" I asked. My voice, I hoped, would tell him how foolish he was being. But I was feeling uncommonly charitable, and decided to give him more information than he deserved. "As far as I'm concerned, you've done nothing wrong. I want to give you the opportunity to play for the winning team."

"What winning team? Why should I believe anything you say?"

I felt a twinge of annoyance. I held out the hilt of my beam saber and pressed it underneath Techy's chin. His expression showed he understood my message. "Don't test my mercy, Techy. If I'd merely wanted you dead, you'd be long-since dead. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

"I-I-I see."

"You have potential, Techy. You have motivation and strength. You feel the right things, otherwise you wouldn't have made your move today. What you need is guidance. That, I can provide."

I replaced my beam saber, then grasped Techy's head with both hands and squeezed. He made an alarmed noise and started to raise his hand, but stopped when the metal of his skull began to complain at the pressure.

"I could kill you so easily," I said. "It would be a trivial thing. And all I would have to do afterwards is say that you're a Maverick. That justifies anything. That justifies everything." The feeling of power I'd had over Techy was glorious, and I'd savored it, but it soured quickly. The implications of my own words soured it. I released him; he staggered backwards. "But that wouldn't be right, would it? No. Instead, I'll choose to trust you. You can help me build a world where you will never be hunted as a Maverick—a world where no one will ever call you a Maverick. A world where you don't have to live in fear or subjugation. A world where reploids belong. But this is the only chance you'll get."

I turned away from him and walked for the door. "You've got sixty seconds to make good your escape. The Kelvin building. Seven o'clock. Don't miss it."

I walked out into the open, closed to within hearing range of the perimeter, and announced, "The Maverick is dead!" The spontaneous cheers from my men made me smile even more than usual.

Irony is delicious.

The Maverick is dead. Long live Mavericks.

Next time: Why I Am