The professor caught up with Metallix in a corridor some distance from where he had begun, apparently absorbed in the task of inspecting his left forearm, one hand carefully tracing the lines where plating would slide aside to reveal the internal weapon systems, apparently with little concern to the damage he was doing, in regard to the scraping of metal on metal as his talons gouged along the thin crack.

At first it seemed he was too absorbed in what he was doing to notice Robotnik's approach. He wasn't.

"You have made unauthorised modifications to my chassis." The robot intoned, his voice neither scornful or pleased. "These were not in my original design specifications." He didn't look up at the professor, but it was not difficult to see what he was implying. "The instructions were to assemble me to the exact specifications given, without modification. Your unwarranted changes will be of detriment to my combat ability. I will request that you remove them and restore my system to its primary state."

"I can't do that, Metallix. I didn't build you to be taken apart."

"Another clear reason why you should not have taken it into your own hands to make changes." The robot finally looked up, meeting his gaze levelly. "I am not to be tampered with." The plates on his forearm slid aside, the weapon installed – a thin, energy-powered weapon sliding out from inside. As it rose, the barrel extended telescopically, jutting out to the end of his hand, sitting close to the forearm itself. A single ready light on the back lit up promptly, informing the two that the weapon was ready to fire.

"Your design is inefficient. This power supply requires a recharge time of two point eight-nine seconds before another shot can be fired. The power source required to charge this takes up ninety percent of my forward capsule. The recharge time would have to be reduced to at least one point zero four seconds before the rate of fire would be sufficient for the damage output. Your weapon is not within acceptable parameters."

His free hand clamped over the weapon, claws leaving deep gouge marks in the metal barrel. With sharp twist, it snapped free from the internal mechanism. With his eyes fixed firmly on Robotnik, Metallix smashed the useless weapon into the wall, crushing it into it until it lay almost flush with the neatly-layered metal plating.

The second weapon in the other forearm followed suite moments later, joining its twin in the wall.

Robotnik was not privy to the information, but a notice appeared in Metallix's eye line.

[Generator power will be re-routed to emergency power source. Function level during utilisation: Minimal.]

Well, it was better than nothing. If the chaos drive went offline it would at least provide him with enough time to find a new source of energy. Failing that, the primary objective was still achievable in a low-power state.

"You are rapidly proving yourself useless to my endeavour." Metallix informed Robotnik calmly. "You have failed to provide me with suitable accommodation. You have made unauthorised modifications to my unit. You have defied my commands to this point. Prove yourself useful or you will be terminated."

The dictator paused. He stepped back. He opened his mouth and closed it again without words, his jaw working as it struggled to find some way to address the other from a position of authority without joining the guns rammed into the wall.

Metallix noticed that fact, and spoke again before the dictator could get his bearings. "You are a failure, Ivo Robotnik. My master imbued me with knowledge of your past exploits and there is nothing that warrants any of your supposed authority over me. I do not ask you to grovel at my feet. I do not ask you to worship me as a god. You will meet my requirements and orders. Otherwise, you will leave me unwatched. It is a simple task that you should be able to perform. Do so."

The overlander was quivering with rage – barely contained anger clashing with his desire to remain alive, as his mind pieced together what had just been said to him.

Seconds of this and a calm nerve abruptly stole over him, and his expression returned to one of grim satisfaction. The expression left him unreadable, his mind opening up a whole new plethora of possibilities.

"Will it interfere with any of my other projects?" he asked finally, the demanding, ordered tone gone from his voice and replaced by a more placating, conversational manner.

This sudden change in mood flagged up for Metallix. He knew that a change as sudden as this meant that whatever had just happened, Robotnik had a plan forming in his mind. He could not read the organic's mood or thoughts, true enough, but he could see well enough that the other was thinking hard. Finally, he answered, his tone showing none of his doubts or reservations. "Not currently. If my task does happen to intersect with one of yours at some time within the future, I will warn you. I will give you time to adjust. If you do not rearrange it in time, I will continue regardless, however."

"In that case, I can arrange your quarters…and then we will not have to interact again."

"Affirmative." Without pausing, the robot turned and stalked away, ears filtering out the grumbling confirmation from behind him. Robotnik was up to something. He didn't want Metallix to hear about it. That was not exactly suspicious given how they were getting on, but this curious mood had appeared after quite a severe scolding. Something was up. It involved him. He would find out what it was, somehow.

Robotnik barely noticed him leave. He was too busy scheming, working out how he could turn this situation to his advantage. It was abundantly clear that Metallix would not obey any orders given to him, and likely any attempts to open up his system would be met with the receiving end of his weapon system. But it was a challenge, nothing more. There was a way to manipulate the standings…it just took a little work.

His hand went to his ear, activating the communication bead. "Cronus, commence Phoenix Strike."

["Phase One beginning. Personal preferences?"]

"Unmanned." He stated simply.

["Phoenix Strike is at 90% completion. Phoenix Strike is not prepared for activation."]

"Activate it now." His tone became more demanding. "Complete the final phases while the mission is in progress."

["Completing while mission is in-progress will approximately double remaining time until completion. Confirm?"]

"Just get on with it." There. His irritable snap was back. Now the new idea had formed, his personality had found the time to reassert itself so he would go about it as he always did. By initiation Phoenix Strike early, he had effectively reorganised his entire list of priorities. His original plan had been to get the Metal Sonic Squadron working for Metallix, but as it had become apparent that the robot would accept no help other than that he requested, that idea had quickly fallen into the backwaters of his imagination.

He didn't plan to work around his lodger however, he planned to work through him. Whatever he was doing would stir up trouble for the Freedom Fighters, and give him his own window of opportunity. Phoenix Strike was simply the first step. Now, for the moment, all he could do was hope it didn't clash with whatever mysterious agenda Metallix was working under.


No-one had predicted how MI135 would behave. Though Nicole herself had made the precaution of drawing up several digital models of how she predicted his personality to behave, they were all substantially flawed compared to the functional unit itself, apart from one thing:

He had indeed taken to calling himself Miles. Ease of pronunciation, he had said.

He was an enigma. His key personality model did not function the way anyone had predicted, and instead of getting straight to work as Tails would have done, he spent a lot of time talking to Nicole. It wasn't business.

While he spent his time assisting her with physical work, lifting and repairing and general maintenance in the lab, his conversation was less directed, more personal.

"Why did you base my design on Tails?" He asked, out of the blue, while he still had his hand halfway through a pile of wiring behind a service panel. Despite his change in topic, he didn't appear to lose any concentration on the job. "You don't seem the type to take ideas from others."

For a moment, Nicole didn't answer. There wasn't really a right way to reply to it. She had already discovered his…alarming talent for emotion, and telling him now that he had based him off of Tails would simply be cruel.

"I…it seemed like a good idea at the time." She replied awkwardly in a quiet voice, her avatar glancing away. "I don't know."

"Going with what you know already because it's a working design already." The mech resisted the urge to shrug. "The blueprint is still alive, yes?"
"He's injured."

"Then he'll be returning to active duty once he has recovered?"

"Yes." Nicole could see where this was going. She knew the question he would next ask. She didn't like it.

"Then what will become of me? You've said it, I'm a duplicate using the blueprints of another – I'm a temporary replacement. Once he returns and takes his position once more, what will happen to me?"

Nicole froze. Not some fancy computer glitch stopping her avatar – she just froze. She didn't have a response. He had said everything she had wanted him not to say, and she realised one of the fatal flaws of her knowing what it was like to be organic…hesitation. Procrastination. She had been too busy noticing what he was saying that she hadn't planned for what to give in reply. Now she was in that awkward moment where something had to be said, but nothing could be spoken without appearing shoddy or forced.

"As I suspected. You don't know." Miles muttered and turned away again. You haven't thought any of this through beyond my construction and activation. You chose my blueprint not out of a practical plan, but with some other plan in mind, if you indeed had one at all. Really. I expected better." He paused a moment, an idea forming in his head. "You want to know what I think?"

Nicole nodded gingerly, still a little embarrassed by her slip-up. She had backed herself into a corner and now he was helping her out of it.

"While it would be a waste of time for any work to be done on me now – in any case I would have to be taken off service while it was done, and that would null the reason for my creation – once Tails returns to active service, we will redesign my outer chassis. Alter my form so that I no longer appear as his duplicate. When that is done, I will choose my new name. He will return to active duty, and I will remain so. Would that be possible?"

It was a possibility Nicole believed she had considered – only in passing, for it hadn't seemed right that he would want to continue once Tails had returned. But then, she had failed to predict him so far; why would that change now?

"Your armour is made of a substance almost as tough as Megatal. We'd need to make new armour plates and re-use old ones very, very carefully, but it could be done."

"I imagine any changes larger than a simple modification of this shell would be a waste of time. The tails must remain – they are built into my combat system and removing them would also remove one of my key combat components. Aesthetic modifications would be the best, so my design could be made different without expending excess effort."

"Why the sudden interest? You've not been around long – I didn't think you'd be too worried about this until Tails was set to return."

Miles sighed. "I'm planning for the future, while it still is the future." Within the panelling the wires sparked and fizzed as a tiny micro charge burning on the tip of his index finger soldered new wiring in place of damaged components. "I would rather discuss this now, with time to account for changes of heart, though the term is inaccurate. I don't want to realise that I have not prepared, when time is up." Slowly he manoeuvred his hand from the panel, replacing the plate and soldering it back on with his finger, turning fully to face Nicole's avatar. "I plan on staying, after all."

"I wasn't implying you would leave."

"I know." He stated, one hand landing softly on the lynx's shoulder. "but I thought you might like so reassurance." He leant forward and brushed the avatar's cheek with his faceplate, dropping his hand and moving past her.

"I will do my appointed task, until we come to the point I must change myself." He muttered, without explaining his actions, and began to move away.
Nicole remained motionless. Once again, she was confused.

Had she just been kissed?


He missed a day talking to her – there wasn't anything to be said. His mouth had moved and for the first time he could remember nothing smart coming out. To his knowledge, nothing came out. A passing nurse had peered into the room ten minutes later, seen the state of the vixen and escorted Tails back his room in silence.

"You know how badly she's injured. Distressing her will only make her recovery time lengthen." The nurse had told him. He had indeed been considering retaliating, with the knowledge that he did understand what she meant. Something had made him reconsider – the words Fiona had used.

" You're in a team, Tails. It's not just you."

He had known that of course – the Freedom Fighters were a constant reminder of the war he fought – but to hear it so bluntly, spoken from the lips of a girl who was in a worse shape than he was but worried more about him than he did…

It spoke volumes about him.

But now, he didn't know what to care about. Fiona had finally revealed her feelings to him, now secure in the fact that she could not look him in the eye…without being reminded of what he had done wrong. No longer could he hide himself behind a wall of dignity – he could fail now. No, he had, but he hadn't been able to admit it. Days upon days upon months upon years of pain and hurt had brushed away all of the will to accept defeat, to only allow for victory, and to only strive for survival.

Now, here, broken and almost dead himself, having caused the abduction of one team member, the disappearance of another and mortal wounding of himself and Fiona, he was realising just how far he could fall. His mind slowed to a crawl, going over and over the things that he had said and heard, felt and made others feel. His vision, already clouded by his wounds and blood loss, fogged by anarchy energy, hazed further as he drifted from reality to delve into his thoughts, and rip them apart.

So far, the only thing he was absolutely certain of was that whatever he thought already, he could no longer abide by. It was a set of rules that were outdated and were not compatible – no, morally wrong – in this world, in this time. However he chose to see the world anew, it would not be through this tattered old lens. Or…maybe it was old, maybe he needed to see things from a perspective he had known before…just brush the dust off.

No…that didn't feel right. The last time he had felt that way was six years ago, going back to that…would he even remember how? Could he return to that frame of mind?

Regardless, he had to change. He…he…he needed to fix this. He knew what he had caused, the damage he had done to everyone, and before he attempted to fix himself he had to fix what he had done to the others. To Nicole, he owed an apology, to his lack of trust. To Fiona he owed an apology, and now a thanks, for waking him up. And god forbid…he had to apologise for Amy. He couldn't bring himself to say sorry for breaking up with her, but at least for the way he had…and even then they would likely not see eye to eye for some time. They were all owed more than simple apologies of course, as soon as he could think of how to deal with that end of the situation.

Those realisations out of the way, he had to take a look at other, practical matters…but he didn't feel up to it; he couldn't think. This emotional rush had drained him. It felt like he was lying in a pool of gel, suckered to one position, the effort to move more than he could handle. Even physical tasks seemed daunting, his body not responding to his motions and his mind sluggish, barely capable of th- thought…

Panic hit like a battle tank. Adrenalin in him rushed into action, clearing the worst of the blurring and forcing muscle groups into action. Agony.

Absolute agony. But enough autonomy to hit the panic button on the side of the bed before once again he could no longer act under his own steam.

Voices.

Doctors, nurses, surgeons, consultants…all hurrying, all speaking in soft tones…nothing…

White, but moving, another area of the hospital? Nothing…

Movement, panic. Silence.


Silence, for time he could not estimate, until a dull throbbing proved to him he was still alive. He could not see. He could not hear. He could not smell. He could not taste. Only his touch was really picking anything up. If he concentrated he could feel dozens of little patches all over him, intravenous drips in his arms…and something…someone…holding his hand, thumb over the wrist.

Something had gone wrong, he could surmise. Without an explanation, he could tell that something had made his body shut down, and possibly he had managed to save himself with that little ditch attempt with the panic button. Probably the advanced decomposition of his biological structure, another guess, from all the anarchy energy he had absorbed. He could at least be certain that he was in good hands.

He was alive at least, and considering that sudden and rapid deterioration this outcome was pretty good, from what he could tell. There wasn't a way for him to see the full extent of the damage of course, but the outset looked good.

Wait – that hand couldn't be Echidna. There was fur.

Now that was wishful thinking. It wouldn't be her.

Probably just some off-island specialist who was examining him, making sure he would pull through…or estimating the time he had left. He was powerless for the second time in a very short while – a feeling he was rapidly becoming used to. Without his senses there was no way to understand what was happening, or communicate with the others. His chaos pool was still far from accessible, and would likely be so until recovery was complete.
Wait…he could touch. If the person holding his wrist was talking, he would be able to detect what they were saying if he concentrated…and nothing. Wishful thinking, really. Clutching at straws.

The hand shifted, then let go of him, moving away across the room almost silently. Pressing his hand to the soap dispenser at the end of the bed and rubbing it into his hands, he turned to the only other occupant of the room, his voice hushed, inaudible if not for the otherwise complete, dead silence of the room.

"A good diagnosis. We're lucky he's alive at all." He looked down at the bed again. "It's nothing short of a miracle that he is doing as well as he is. We should count ourselves lucky that I was on the island."

"Right. Lucky." Somehow, impossibly, the other voice was even quieter, and still audible.

"You may not like me, young lady, but at the minute I'm the best chance this boy has of surviving."

"I know just as much as you do – I made the diagnosis, I told you everything that needed to be done. I could do all of this without your help."

"No, you couldn't." The male replied, stroking his muzzle with one hand. "I know that you took a medical degree, I know you completed your biological studies course, but I also know that they never awarded you your joint doctorate because you ran off to join the Freedom Fighters. You're a smart girl, smarter than that academy had seen in a long while, but you aren't officially qualified. You might be able to perform the same work I can, but I'm the only one who can get through the paperwork and red tape to actually perform the procedure."

He paused, then moved over to the wheelchair holding the only other person in the room. "I know how good you are. That's why I trusted your diagnosis. I know you're good enough to do this without me, and I'm not the one concerned about the paper that says it. If they let you do this without the papers, I wouldn't have had to interfere."

"Can't you just tell them that?"

"It wouldn't make a difference. I could tell all the doctors that you were better suited that I, but their hands would be tied without the paperwork."

He lowered himself to one knee so that he could look level into her eyes. "My niece, once this operation has succeeded, I'll make sure they know it was done on your recommendation. You still have your college qualification, so they will understand that nothing held you back except the government. That'll score you some points."

"I don't want any 'points'. I want Tails to recover, because god knows someone has to." The younger vixen met her uncle's gaze with iron determination. "I ran out on my final exam because there was a war going on and people needed my help. When your blood is dripping into the ground from a lacerated leg wound you don't worry if someone has the paper or not, you only care if they can patch you back together. When your lung has been punctured by a bullet and is filling with blood, you don't want officials bickering about who is qualified to do it, you want someone to get their hands in there and start draining it before you drown in your own vital fluids."

The elder flinched. She had changed since they had last spoken.

"Fiona, why are you-" She cut him off, again.

"Because," she replied, looking first at her uncle and then at Tails, "I took the doctorate's tests three years earlier than everyone else. I excelled in the field of medicine and biology not because I wanted to look good, but because I wanted to keep people alive. Fix him, I don't fucking care who knows who made the diagnosis. Just fix him."