When an irresistible force such as you
Meets an old immovable object like me
You can bet just as sure as you live
Something's got to give
- Johnny Mercer, "Something's Gotta Give"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Doctor Robotnik,
As per our latest exchange…
"Junkmail. Next!" A snap of high-tech gloves, and the mail flits from the middle of the screen into trash can at the corner of the screen. A little animation of gnashing, gnawing jaws pops up, crushing the icon gleefully.
Concerning the…
In light of recent…
"Junk and junkier!" Snap and snap, and the offending missives meet the same fate as their successor. Only that after a few dozen mails, the crushing and grinding does not achieve the same grim satisfaction anymore.
With a derisive little sound, Robotnik waves his hand, scrolling further down his overflowing inbox. There is just no end to it. The count in the bottom corner flits through three-digit numbers at top speed. "New project: program a virus to destroy all mailing systems in the world. This is ridiculous."
The Badnik next to him beeps agreeably. Or, at least that is what the Doctor is inclined to believe. His babies would never disagree with him, after all.
Running a hand through his hair, spiking it up involuntarily, Robotnik reaches over to grab the waiting coffee cup at his side. Sipping it with the most disdainful slurping noises possible, he continues to glower at his current adversary in the shape of written conversation. Of all the things the government has subjected him to, probably the worst is the fact that he has to be easily reachable by any old Tom, Dick or Harry with a title attached to their names. He has better things to do than to deal with all the inane requests, questions and demands that keep pouring in by the dozen. Take right now, for example! At this very moment, he could be working on the upgrade for the mobile lab he had been meaning to get around to for weeks now, but noooo. He had been pulled away by the continued the repeated blaring of his phone. Once he had no longer been able to ignore it (he could have sworn he heard it even through the loudest tunes of his favorite playlists) he had picked up and found himself accosted by one fuming Commander Walters, demanding to know why he had ignored dozens upon dozens of written conversations which had been sent his way.
Ignoring it had no longer been an option at this point. And, well, now he is not ignoring it, correct? He is dealing with it. With a malicious little grin, he snaps away another half-dozen of "junk" mails. Good riddance, and don't come back.
He is readying the next crushing blow against the digital words when a subject line catches his eye. It is a familiar one. A peculiar mix of anger and dread curls in his chest, and he clacks his tongue, opening the mail.
Doctor Robotnik, we would like to inform you that we have found a suitable candidate for the position as your assistant...
Humming to himself, Robotnik tilts head, considering the message with narrowed eyes. "Well, that could be... the JUNKIEST!"
With a vicious flick of his wrist, the message finds its way into the trash can. The jaws are not enough for this; one push of a button, and the entire trash can simulates being blown to pieces in one great explosion.
In the meantime, Robotnik deletes the entirety of his inbox with one swipe – drivel, trash, useless, all of it – and turns away from the screen, loudly bellowing at nothing "Give me a BREAK ALREADY!" while he flings the half-empty cup across the room.
So. He is getting a new assistant. Again.
S
So perhaps he hasn't been entirely honest with himself in his estimation. Having to deal with the communication attempts of paper pushers with the IQ of sea snails is not the worst part of his job.
That award clearly goes to the babysitters the government continues to saddle him with.
To "ease your work load" they said. "For your own protection", they said. He would laugh in their faces for it if he weren't so busy ranting and raving over it. He knows what those "assistants" really are - collars around his neck. A way for the agency to try and keep him in check, and perhaps glean an insight or two into his work at the same time. For a bunch of monkeys, Robotnik supposes, they had actually put some thought into the whole thing. There is even a clause in his work contract for it; if he wanted to keep his position – and his fundings - he is forced to accept any assistant they choose for him.
For the time being, his hands are bound. He has to open his lab to whatever halfwit the agency deems fit to stick to him like a barnacle, let them wander into his innermost sanctum and deal with their continued, grating, insulting presence, and there is nothing he can do about it.
But - and that thought manages to put a gleeful smirk on his face every single time - that does not mean he has to make it easy for them.
Of course, he is not in a position to simply make them disappear, as much as he wants to. HR, several high-ranking flee-brains, and the agency itself have made sure to tack on that he is "not allowed to harm a single hair on any assistant" they set in front of his nose. Granted, he has come close a few times - talk of abuse and hostile work environment have been thrown around - but in general, he does not even have to so much as touch them with a single fingertip to make them leave again, and that fast.
Being himself is more than enough to break all of them.
Some cannot keep up with his insane working hours. Others are simply disillusioned when they realize he is not a genius out to save the world out of the goodness of his heart, but rather a scathing, cynical misanthrope of a man who likes machines better than living beings. Others expect him to show basic decency towards people, and learn the hard way that he sees them as less than a fellow human being. There are a multitude of reasons why he gains and loses assistants faster than other people change their underwear. Not a single one has lasted a month; most can count themselves (un)lucky if they make it for more than a week. In one actually memorable case, it had been half a day.
To that half-day-stint, Robotnik thinks back fondly from time to time; said incident had on one hand, involved a prototype of a mini-Badnik programmed to chase and cling to a target upon which it would self-destruct, and on the other hand, brainless assistant number who-kept-count who had dared to pick the mini-bomb up. Against Robotnik's explicit orders should be said – he does not like when people touch his things. The Badnik had not been armed yet at that time, set to harmlessly pop like a balloon and fall apart into its individual parts, but it had certainly been able to do its job of clinging and starting to beep menacingly once it found its target... or, like in that case, once someone tried to pick it up for a closer look.
The face of the imbecile with its bulging eyes, skin rapidly changing color in horror while it dawned on him that there was a bomb glued to his hand, had been a picture for the ages. Possibly for the first and only time, Robotnik had almost enjoyed having an assistant. He still has the video recording of that one, in case he ever needs a good, long laugh.
After that incident, Robotnik had actually let himself believe that this was it. Finally over! Surely, any sane person would now realize that it is best to leave the Doctor be, better to keep their little lambs well away from his lab and out of his reach, else they might get crushed.
But alas– no such thing! And they called him insane! The new assistants kept coming, being replaced even faster than before, in the span of 24 hours if need be. A parade of strangers wandering through his lab, a slew of different faces Robotnik never made the effort to look at twice and new names he immediately deleted from his mind again. Because why bother? They left, all of them, sooner rather than later, and not one soon enough. For his own continued sanity, he has settled on ignoring them, going about his work day as if he is alone, and only acknowledging the cretins let loose in his lab when they make the mistake of disturbing his concentration.
They all do, at some point. They make a mistake, and then they leave, a new actor enters the stage, and the dance begins anew. Same ol', same ol', blah-blah-BLAH.
And now, he is supposed to get a new dance partner. Oh joy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following morning, Robotnik is notified by one of his Badniks when a stranger enters the lab.
The door has not stopped them. Apparently the agency had actually thought of giving the new imbecile the access rights to the lab. Without looking up from his current project, the Doctor types in a note with his free hand to later install a more thorough security system at the entrance. Electro shocks, maybe? Would that already count as violence if it was non-lethal? He leaves a footnote to review that later.
The door to the lab slides open with a quiet hiss, followed by footsteps. Robotnik does not bother to turn around or look up. If it is a threat, the three Badniks currently circling the lab lazily would take care of it. If it is the new assistant, well, then this would be the first test for them.
Mentally, Robotnik starts a countdown. Three... two...
"Doctor Robotnik, sir? Good morning. I'm Agent Stone, and I've been sent by the agency as your..."
Aaand test one – failed before the count of three.
With a sigh through his nose, Robotnik yanks one hand up, signaling for silence. Once he has it, he points over toward the furthest corner of the room, right next to the door, and drawls, "I know, I don't care, go stand over there in that corner and don't. Touch. Anything."
The silence that follows basically rings with surprise. Then, the imbecile proves his stupidity by actually speaking up again. "Is there anything I can help you with, sir?"
If there had been tests two, three and four, the agent would have failed all of them at once and quite spectacularly right now. The thin veneer of Robotnik's patience cracks and he whips around, snapping his fingers as he does.
Immediately, all three Badniks change course and take position around the new little barnacle, beeping menacingly. It's just for show, of course. He won't let them shoot. But sometimes, a little show goes a long way make clear that this is his kingdom, and everybody else is simply trespassing into it.
To his credit - the new guy does not try anything dumb like drawing his weapon in answer, or anything embarrassing like immediately lose his cool and start begging. All things Robotnik had seen before. Instead, the agent looks the hovering Badniks over with an expression entirely calmer than the doctor would have liked. Almost... curious. Fascinated?
But no, that can't be right. Nobody is fascinated by killer drones peering down at them. Or… maybe he is not quite right in the head? Is the agency already so desperate that they would send in the crazy ones? Robotnik uses the brief moment of distraction to scrutinize the other man. He certainly looks the opposite of crazy. At first glance, there is nothing special about him at all. Dressed neatly in a suit, cravat, and shoes polished to shining, just like all the other agents sent in before him. Neat hairstyle, neat beard, nothing that really stands out. All of him is simply… average. Average size, average build, average looks. Boringly common. Nothing to distinguish him from the so-called assistants which came before him, or the one before that, or the one before that.
Except that he had actually opened his mouth.
Hm. The last few had been smart enough to keep their trap shit and make themselves as small as possible.
He also, a tiny part of Robotnik's mind points out, looks entirely too comfortable here, even with the drones around him. Well. Can't have that.
Sneering, Robotnik snaps his fingers - no pressing of buttons, simply coming close enough to it that it could make someone nervous. "Agent Unwelcome-..."
"Stone, sir."
"...Agent Whatever. Remind me again - how many doctorates do you have?"
The agent blinks slowly. "...None, sir?"
"Was that a question? Are you not sure about it? No, don't answer that. Unimportant. Riddle me this instead: What could you help me with?""
"Well..." oh by all the great minds of history, the guy was actually going to answer that. And he was... smiling a little?! "I'm sure you could think of something, sir?"
Splendid. Great. He already wants to shoot him for real.
Pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, Robotnik reminds himself that violence is prohibited, no matter how tempting it might be. Plastering on a smile, the doctor claps his hands together. "Oh look! I thought of something! You juuust have to - stand in that corner and SHUT UP."
He doesn't wait around to see if the moron can actually follow orders when they are given a second time. He has much better things to do with his limited time. No longer deigning the unwelcome presence worth any of his attention, he spins back around towards his holoscreens and goes to work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Soon enough, Robotnik is so immersed in his current project once more that he forgets all about the intruder. The world around him ceases to exist; there is only him and his babies. They, at least, are perfect the way they are. Useful, reliable, do exactly what they were told to do and never oppose him.
Well. Most of the time. The new child he is currently working on seems to have a mind of its own. It just never comes out quite right, he muses while he discards yet another idea. No matter how he changes the variables and the calibrations, it refuses to yield the results he wants it to, and it is beginning to wear him down.
There is a persistent ache starting to form behind his eyes. Robotnik presses his thumb against his forehead, circling it lightly in the hopes of alleviating the pain. It doesn't help, and his frustration skyrockets. First his own creations betray him like that, and now his body is turning on him as well. Fantastic.
"Would you like a coffee, sir?"
Robotnik stops. Blinks. Oh, right. He has nearly forgotten that he is not alone right now. At the rude reminder, his headache multiplies by a million.
He shakes his head, hoping to shake off both the headache and the interruption, and throws himself into the battle once more. He is going to get on top of this problem; any other outcome is neither acceptable nor possible.
There is not even enough time for him to figure out what he does not like about this current design before the voice comes again. "Sir?"
Anger makes his head throb to a nauseating level, nearly blinding the doctor for a brief moment. It is the last straw. He snaps around the way a striking snake would, hissing much the same. "A coffee, agent?"
It is gratifying to see how the imbecile reels back a little, clearly taken by surprise. It doesn't last long, though, since the agent finds his footing again rather quick, voice calm – no, soothing, Robotnik realizes with another surge of rage. As if he is a beast to be soothed. "I only thought you might like one. You have been working non-stop for the past six hours, and a coffee break could be-"
"Could be nice?" Robotnik interrupts, mocking and high. "Relaxing? Agent Whats-your-name-again -..."
"It's Stone, si-..."
"...Agent who-cares," he cuts in again, getting progressively louder. "If your so called thinking does not get any further than such simpleminded, useless, braindead idea, then cease all thinking immediately, before it makes your entire existence even more grating on my nerves. Understood? No thinking in my lab." Robotnik waits long enough to let that - hopefully - sink in, then he makes a shooing gesture and turns away once more. "If you really have to stay, do something more suited to your level of skill. Something like - don't think, don't talk, don't BREATHE, and let me to do some ACTUAL work."
This time, there is no answer. Good. The imbecile seems to be capable of learning to some degree. Satisfied that he is at least going to be left in peace for the time being, Robotnik turns back towards his work.
Only to remember that he has been stuck with said work. Immediately, any satisfaction he has gained by winning that argument goes up in flames and smoke.
Usually, this would be the point where he would put the work aside and take a dance break. That always brings his genius' mind back on track. But now... he would have to throw the assistant out first, meaning he would have to turn back around and deal with the limpet a second time in as many minutes. The thought alone takes his headache up another notch.
Alright, no dance break today. He can do without one. He's a genius, for god's sake. This is nothing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What follows are the slowest, most excruciating hours of work he can recall ever experiencing. He just can't seem to make any progress. Any step he takes proves to be the wrong one in the longer run, and he has to redo and overwork and rethink more than he wants to admit. By the time he has to return to the base design for what feels like the thousandth time, he is ready to rip apart the entire thing and start over from the beginning. But no, impossible, he reminds himself with mounting dread, he has a deadline to meet with this thing, and there is not enough time.
Breathing out on a growl, Robotnik props himself on his workbench with both hands, head hanging low between his shoulders. His headache is killing him. He needs a whole package of painkillers, or a...
Something brushes against the outer-edge of his little finger, and his inner rant comes to a screeching halt. Slowly, he glances over.
There is a cup of coffee on the workbench next to him.
Automatically, Robotnik makes a grab for it, mind cataloging the details on high speed: the coffee is cold, so it had been standing there for quite a while. It has been strategically placed in a spot close enough to be easily reachable, but out of the way of the holoscreens, so it would not fall victim to his swiping and gesturing and endanger the tech around it. And - a thought which makes his skin crawl - he has not heard the Agent approach to set the cup down at all.
For who else could have placed the coffee there, if not the new little lab rat?
Cup in hand but not yet drinking, Robotnik draws up the feed of the security camera sitting right above his head and trained on the door to the lab. Sure enough, the feed proves that the agent is standing by the wall next to the door, hands behind his back, gaze fixed forward and somehow, inexplicably, looking at ease
To the doctor, the relaxed expression looks downright smug.
Moustache twitching in annoyance, Robotnik lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip without thinking. Immediately after he pulls a face, smacking his lips loudly. It's an expresso, strong, no sweetener. The last thing he would have chosen himself. For one tempting moment, Robotnik considers spitting the brew directly in the agent's smug face; really teach him to never slip past his orders like that ever again. Maybe cure him of his abysmal taste in coffee while he is at it.
Then again, hot coffee would make such a gesture that much more impactful, he concedes with some disappointment, taking another sip on autopilot while he laments that fact. And vile taste or not, it is still caffeine. With each sip, he can feel its comforting buzz spread through his tired body, alleviating the headache that has been plaguing him and sharpening his mind once more.
And anyway, it would probably make him look like a fool when he only now got upset about the coffee. He would basically have to admit that he had not noticed it appearing.
Bleugh. Fine! He will let it slide, this once. Because he is busy, and the caffeine helps.
He knocks back the rest of the coffee all at once, cracks his knuckles, and goes back to work, typing, drawing, pushing and pulling at screens, shooing some away, pulling others up.
The feed of the security camera stays open throughout all of it, trained on the shadow next to the door. Robotnik is not going to let that man sneak up unseen and unheard again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The second time it happens, he sees him coming.
The moment Agent Stone steps up to his side, Robotnik presses one finger against the heel of his hand. Instantly, a Badnik beeps to life on the shelf closest to him.
Stone freezes midmotion when a red dot appears on his chest. There is another cup of coffee in his hand, Robotnik notes when he finally bothers to turn away from the screen slightly. There is also an annoying lack of fear in his face; the agent looks more perplexed than anything else while he glances down at the laser pointed at his heart. "Sir?"
"Agent" Robotnik starts, sickeningly sweet. "Was the order stay in that corner already too difficult for you?"
A slow blink. Why is he so damned calm?! "You looked like you could use another coffee, sir."
It is such an incredibly stupid explanation, it brings even the genius up short for a brief moment. Very brief. Basically non-existent. "So you decided to sneak up on a man who is surrounded by weapons to bring him a coffee. Incredible. You tempt me to let that drone fire at your head, Agent, just to see if there is any brain matter to be found in there."
"Right." Agent Stone has the good grace to pull a lopsided smile, tinged with embarrassment. "I was trying not to disturb you. Hence the sneaking."
"Well consider me disturbed. You cost me exactly two minutes of my time because you believed yourself capable of thinking. Something I prohibited, by the way."
Something strange happens to Stone's face then; for a moment, it looks like he is actually going to laugh. "Right. My bad."
The continued pleasantness of the man is gratingon his nerves. With a hiss, Robotnik rips the cup out of the outstretched hand, takes a sip without really tasting it, and spits it all out immediately, straight onto the neatly-pressed suit of the imbecile. "Bitter! What did you put in there, dish soap? Take that away," the cup follows the liquid, bumping harmlessly off the other's chest.
The agent's face falls a little when he glances down at the dripping new stain on his formerly tidy suit. The sight of it instantly improves Robotnik's mood a lot. Hah. The agent seems to take such good care of his appearance. Maybe this would already be the last straw to make him pack his bags and leave for good? There have been similar cases before.
Well, one could always hope for the best, Robotnik decides with a cheerful little hum, turning back to his babies with new elan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stone doesn't leave. He stays.
He stays when Robotnik works well past the usual late-night shift and into early morning, and he is back by precisely eight o'clock, a coffee in hand, and a smile on his face while he offers it out to the doctor - having the good sense of calling out softly before he approaches this time. "Good morning, sir. Your coffee."
Robotnik does not even waste his time glaring at him. He rips the coffee out of his hand on his stride past, takes a sip, and instantly spits it out onto the agent's shoes. "Too sweet!"
Stone jumps a little when the hot liquid soaks through his clothes, but that is all the reaction he gives. He silently takes the cup back, and leaves.
And for one glorious second, Robotnik believes himself to be the winner of this little game. Game, set and match, the assistant is gone. On an almost personal record as well! Good going!
The moment of triumph passes quickly when only minutes later, Stone returns... in a different suit?! Robotnik actually does a double take to make sure his eyes are not deceiving him. How?! Does the guy stash clothes for changing around here?!
Damn. That means he had actually learned from the incident the day before, and that means he is smarter than Robotnik would have given him credit for. It also puts a gigantic dampener on the whole coffee-spitting thing. Robotnik immediately feels his mood sour.
And as if to add insult to injury, Stone is carrying yet another coffee over to him. "Perhaps this one is better, sir."
Almost on autopilot, Robotnik takes the cup and sips from it before he can reconsider. The taste makes him pause and blink, moustache twitching. The agent had actually listened, it seemed. This one only holds a hint of sweetness and is much creamier. He likes creamy, but the agent cannot possibly know that. A lucky guess, no more.
But a close to perfect one.
Reality catches up to him when is just about to take another sip, and Robotnik stops, pulls a face of disgust, and splashes the entire thing against the agent's new suit jacket by hand. No point in wasting his own spit for it. "Tastes like nothing!" he snarls for good measure, before he throws the cup over his shoulder and turns back to his work.
And what do the dramatics get him, he thinks while he tries to immerse himself in his work again. Nothing. Zero and zilch! He can see it in his camera feed, out of the corner of his eyes; Stone walks back to his corner, wiping at the coffee stain with a handkerchief as he goes. He does not even look angry, nor stressed, nor anything else that would suggest he is close to breaking and forfeiting this job. He falls back into position, and stays.
The entire rest of the day, Robotnik feels jumpy and on edge, feels like he is missing something vital here. He would have bet – and he never bets – that this particular assistant would be the second fastest leaver this lab has ever seen. Halfway into the second day, that is proven wrong.
And Robotnik seethes over it. He is never wrong.
There must be a trick to this, he decides while he is bent over a flayed-open Badnik he is giving an upgrade to. There is something about this Agent that he does not know yet, something that gives him just enough of an edge to not immediately shatter upon the rocks that are Doctor Ivo Robotnik.
And he will be damned if he does not figure out what that something is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night, Robotnik is forced to quit for the day long before midnight, something which irks him terribly. But in order to get Stone out of his lab, away from his side where the agent seems to insist to stick like a thorn, he has to pretend that the work is done for the day.
Of course it is far from done. But his newest limpet does not need to know that.
As soon as Stone has left - wishing him a good night on the way out, like a good little schoolboy, bleugh - Robotnik throws himself into his newest project. He pulls up all the files that exist on Agent Stone, both the ones which had been sent along with the information that a new assistant had been found for him (to think that he actually has to stoop so low as to read these memos makes him scoff) and the files the agency had kept for themselves and had not wanted him to see (another scoff; they couldn't possibly think they could keep secrets from him?)
He reads all of it; every sentence, every side note, every scribbled note at the side of the page.
His search yields disappointing results. There is no great epiphany to be found in the resume of Agent Stone, nor in the notes and references and statements along with it. A formidable agent, it says, not because of outstanding services but rather because he follows every order to a tee. There is not the slightest drive from the agent to reach higher or farther than his present position, no drive to be more than he is.
All in all, the search was a waste of precious time, Robotnik decides when he sinks back in his seat and steeples his fingertips. His mind is racing, but it finds nothing to sink its teeth into. There is no secret to be found here, no surprise waiting to jump out at you. Agent Stone is much like his namesake, the doctor decided, kicking his feet to turn his chair slowly around himself, absolutely ordinary. Unremarkable and unmemorable.
So how, the genius mind questions, how was this ordinary rock proving harder to break in his grip than any diamond?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ S ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The following days pass much in the same fashion as the first. Robotnik works the way he has always worked - with single-minded focus, at any hour of the day until sleep claims him forcefully, and most of all, alone. Stone stays - which is troublesome in its own right - but at least he stays quietly in his corner like he has been told.
Except for the frequent coffee deliveries. The agent either gets a kick out of playing the barista for him, or he has made it his personal goal to figure out Robotnik's taste in drinks.
The worst thing? He is actually getting close sometimes. The guy makes a mean coffee, Robotnik can begrudgingly admit that... in the privacy of his own mind. And they keep getting better, until it is too much of a waste to spit or spill them. Bereft of any other real option, he drinks them - and hates that it actually helps him work more productively.
It is on day five - or six? Seven? It is hard to tell when one is prone to working through the night - that something shifts between them.
It starts with a quiet signal tone from one of his many screens. Robotnik pays it no mind; he is buried elbows-deep in the finalization of the design for the remote-controlled tank-Badnik he has been working on for the last days. The disturbance is registered as briefly as a fly buzzing past his head.
Except it repeats. And again. And again. Until his shoulders twitch up higher with every ding, and his teeth begin to grind together.
"Sir?"
And Stone has nothing better to do than break the shaky truce they have found by speaking.
"WHAT?!" It feels louder than he really means to be, but maybe it is not? He is running on approximately one hour's worth of sleep, veins filled with more coffee than blood, and he is surrounded by imbeciles who keep demanding his attention for inane things. Forget about too loud. He can be as loud as he wants.
Especially if the imbeciles just won't shut up. "Do you perhaps want me to take a look at those messages...?"
"What I want, Agent," he barks. "Is for you to make yourself as non-existent as possible, and let me do my work!"
Silence. For one moment, there is blissful, productive silence. For one moment, he can actually believe it is enough.
Then the phone starts ringing.
Robotnik feels the scream start to build in his chest, clawing at his throat and demanding to be let out. With a growl like a beast, he whips around and stalks over to the blaring device, ready to pick up and tear into the person at the other end, no matter who it is or how important they think they are.
His vicious plans go up in smoke when Stone reaches the phone first and picks up with a clipped "Yes?"
Freezing in his steps, Robotnik stares at the agent, unmoving. All the anger which had driven him forward is now trapped in his chest, rattling behind his ribcage when it does not find its outlet like expected. The sheer surprise that the little pest had just dared to do that is the only thing which is momentarily stopping him from exploding.
"Doctor Robotnik is currently occupied," Stone says while his superior is still petrified with rage. His tone is calm and professional, face carefully impassive while he listens to whoever is at the other end of the line. "I see. No, sir, I cannot call him away from his work right now. No, that won't be possible. I am sure. Yes. Yes that would be best. I will tell him."
With a mumbled farewell, Stone hangs up. Briefly, he shakes his head at the phone, before turning back around towards Robotnik. When he spots the silently seething man, the agent's eyebrows tick up. "...Sir?"
He looks surprised. Confused. Innocent. Ad if he does not realize that he just made the mistake of a lifetime.
Robotnik wants to strangle him.
But, he reminds himself, trembling with rage, violence is prohibited. And experience shows that touching can so easily be misinterpreted as violence.
Only one way around it. Either the agent is smart enough to do this one simple thing, or all bets are off. "Pin yourself to the wall."
Stone blinks rapidly, clearly not comprehending. "Sir?"
"You. Against that wall there. Right now." Shorter orders have to do for now; most of Robotnik's attention is focused on holding himself back from calling upon his babies and let them have their way with that cheeky little-…
No violence, no violence, no violence, he repeats like a mantra, teeth grinding to the rhythm of it, while he impatiently waits for Stone to do as he is told.
Stone looks at him, then over his own shoulder...and shrugs, a little helplessly, before he takes two steps back and leans against the wall behind him. It is nowhere near the force that Robotnik had wanted, but it would have to do for now.
With two quick strides, Robotnik forces himself into the imbecile's personal space, leaning in uncomfortably close. From this distance, he can detect the lack of fear in the other's eyes, and it infuriates him even further. "I believe we already covered the ground rules on the day you started here, Agent. The most important one being no thinking. Do you still remember that one rule, Agent?"
A flicker of eyelashes. A certain understanding seems to dawn on the agent. "… I do, sir."
"And when you, just now, did something I had not told you to do, was there any thinking involved in that process, Agent?"
"Yes, sir."
"See, I almost thought so." Apparently pleased with that answer, Robotnik nods sagely - before he slams his hand against the wall next to the agent's head. Any pleasantness has vanished from his face, making way for an inhumane snarl. "Who told you that you can go ahead and attempt to think independently in my lab, Agent? Make decisions?"
There is the lightest of twitches from Stone as the palm slaps down so close to his ear, but otherwise, he does not move, not even unconsciously to try and get some distance between them. His voice is soft but steady when he answers. "No one, sir."
"Then what, pray tell, was this little show just now? Abababab!" The moment Stone opens his mouth again to answer, Robotnik makes a move with his hand as if to zip something shut, waits until the agent goes still again before he snaps a warning. "One sentence, no more. Starting... now."
He has to hand it to the little nuisance; Stone delivers. Only one sentence, clearly fumbled together in a rush yet coherent. "Your work is important and time sensitive and if I can keep the less important things away from you then I am happy to do it, sir."
Something about the way the agent says it actually gives Robotnik pause. He sounds sincere. Almost eager. The Doctor tilts his head, leaning in so close his moustache is probably tickling Stone's cheek while he studies him. "Happy to play secretary? Tired of doing agency work, is that it?"
"It's my job to help you, sir," Stone says, still so very sincere. Either that, or he deserves an Oscar for the performance. "If that means picking up the phone for you, then that's what I'm doing."
"Help me," Robotnik repeats, with none of the bite he wanted it to have. Help him. As if he needs help. As if Stone would like to help. Once more he is torn between indignation and something dangerously close to surprise. This is unheard of. Doctor Robotnik is rarely ever surprised, and especially not because of one of his babysitters. But here is Agent Stone, who keeps on surprising him left and right, as if it's easy. As if he… sees right through him, senses what he needs and wants before he does.
The feeling is uncomfortable, and Robotnik hates it with a passion.
But hate it or not, he is also not a fool who misses opportunities presented to him on a silver platter, so when he finally manages to fight down anger which made his jaws tighten enough to speak again, he grinds out, "Did they give you one of these toy laptops when sending you here, Agent?"
The way Stone's eyes brighten immediately is sickening to say the least. "I have a tablet."
A sneer of disdain pulls his face into a grimace. "Cute. Absolutely inferior tech of course, but it will do. Sync your mail program up to mine, redirect incoming phone calls to your own phone, and Get. To. Work. I don't want to have to deal with any other disturbance today, including you."
For some reason the doctor can absolutely not fathom, Stone essentially lights up at that. "Getting right to it, sir! ... uh. You would have to..."
"Mh?" He glances down to where Stone is slowly pointing back and forth between them. Ah, right. He is still crowding the agent against the wall. Scoffing, he pushes away, whips around on his heels and stomps back to his holoscreens. In his back, he hears Stone follow at a more measured pace, but he pointedly does not look back to check.
Either the barnacle is capable of this much intelligence, or Robotnik will find a way to get rid of him by the end of this day. Violence or no violence.