"Do you have a lock?"

"No, Sir. We lost connection. He must've went into something."

"God damn it! What do you mean, he must've went into something? He was next on the register. Who did the lock move to?"

"We don't know. We'll find out in a few moments, Sir; someone's coming over."

"But it isn't him."

Where was he?

It felt nauseating. The blue lights, the strobing colors, the distorted world barriers— surrounded by a light-speed tunnel of neon particles, standing up felt, very frankly, impossible. Opening his eyes felt, very frankly, impossible. But Rock could feel the weight of gravity at his feet. He could feel the radiance reflecting off the walls. He didn't have any complex sensors for that, and he certainly couldn't see if he couldn't see— but, somehow, he could.

The code ran in his mind. Streams of binary mapping out cognitive processes and a train of thought, quickly, he began to wonder, when did he start thinking? What were the last thoughts he'd had? He knew his memories were there- he could feel them- but how? As sensations returned to his phantom limbs, touch, pressure, weight, he felt an instinct climb in his veins, in his muscles— in wires and servomotors driving pistons and gears.

Was he fighting? Had he been knocked down? Was this the aftermath of some battle, lying on the ground, unable to move? Panic wanted to take over at the thought— but before it had the chance to set its ground, something more pressing stole its place: Forte.

Rock remembered. He was in a silo. It was some sort of rock mill, for the ore on . . . for what ore? There was a town, around him. An industrial city of old robots and inactive machinery. But it wasn't complete; he knew it wasn't complete. There was more to the memory; more ahead, more back. A jet of adrenaline shot into his throbbing core, and with a great heave, he lurched.

Like diving headfirst into an ocean of consciousness, he would have been certain that he'd just awoken from a vivid dream if not for the dreamlike scape surrounding him. Sitting upright, hands reaching outward to grasp at nothing, his form felt heavy, but it felt weightless, all the same. The same sense of unease trickled up his throat as vertigo sat in, the up the same as the down, the left the same as the right.

Turning in place, unsure if his feet were on solid ground or if he was falling, the armor-clad Robot Master did his best to observe his surroundings, but his surroundings were difficult to decipher, at best. With one glance, everything looked to be moving forward— and with another, it was moving back, like the speed and direction of every photon was controlled solely by the twist of his neck.

To say it was distorienting would be an understatement. Simple equipment in his head tried to tell him the latitude, the azimuth, the depth, the pressure— but it all came back in X's and zeroes. Glancing down at his feet, certain he was seeing the seeing, he tried to roll over, but simply fell, letting out a shrill yelp as he anticipated tumbling down into the void.

But with a hard crash, his metal skull clanked soundly with the ground, hands and knees splaying out to catch him. Groaning, Rock felt like it should've hurt— but he hadn't sustained any injury, unless the damage readouts were broken, too. Confusion more than fear dominated his thoughts, but as he attempted to dig his fingers into the nonexistent floor, somehow solid enough for his gauntlets to soundlessly scrape against, he once again found his priorities.

Where was Forte? He remembered, again, that Bass was the only one to worry about; that he and the black-clad robot were the last ones in danger. The others had been evacuated— but what about Bass?

Trying to look up at the sky, once more attempting to find his bearings, another sharp thought bored its way into his temple as his optics reflected the light back, lifelike and real. The clouds, he saw, were gone; where ozone stood as a barrier to harmful sun, it had been swept away, black, a void of starshine and cosmic rays letting only remnant warmth of Earth's mother Sol cascade over the craggy, rocky surface.

Again, panic threatened to overwhelm him at the awe-inspiring sight— but as quickly as it had come, he realized it was a memory— a memory of some place far, far away from his home. The pit in his stomach only seemed to deepen as he found further strength to stand, weightlessness and infinite mass making every step an arduous one while Rock searched forward.

Was he trapped in a transporter stream? He wasn't sure how; he wasn't sure what he would have been teleporting to do; but it felt familiar, in a way. Like he'd been here before, in this cosmic plain of nothingness and everythingness; like he was looking forward and backward at the same time, toward future and past all at once, a screaming, colliding canvas of broken space-time that left his head spinning.

Forte. He didn't remember caring about Bass this much. Sure, he counted the short Wily Number as a friend, but he was always the same havoc-wreaking goon that wanted to fight him. It was silly, thinking back on it, how trivial life-or-death brawls with sworn nemesis had become; but that only made a well in his chest, like he was missing something important.

Maybe they were working together, again? Like when King had taken over Wily's fortress, and they partnered up to stop him. The thought made Rock smile, becoming aware of the synthetic musculature in his face quite suddenly, another degree of perspective dawning on him with cool hands coming to grasp his cheeks.

On a silly train of thought, he wondered if he would have found a skull, and then a mirror to prove himself a skeleton— but, of course, he was still Rock, fine as ever. As a matter of fact, he was still Mega Man, clad totally in his heavy ceratanium armor, but when he reached to touch his helmet, he found only hair, shaggy clumps of an expertly-made black prosthesis that resembled his father in youth.

He wanted to chuckle, comforted by the familiarity, but as before, something felt indescribably off. Everything was lower; or, more specifically, he was higher. His body wasn't right; stubby, wide legs were long and thin, with new, shimmering plating over their sleek covering, he felt stretched, pulled from one end to another, straightening his arms out in front of him and recoiling at their length.

Maybe it was another byproduct of the void. Maybe, in the same way reality seemed to stretch when one reached the speed of light, he stretched, too. It was deeply uncomfortable, like everything else— but he figured it would be over soon enough. Perhaps in another few minutes, he would wake up in his bed; but even that felt like an impure, lying thought, as if he were still so far from the truth.

Snapping back to what mattered, Rock recalled the fight. He knew he was in the middle of one— and he knew he had to get back to it. If Bass was in danger, then, then— why did he care about Bass? No— of course he cared about him. He cared about everyone. Everyone he fought, everyone he loved, everyone who was a minor nuisance to his peaceful days— but it felt deeper than that. It felt deeper than any friend Rock had ever had. It felt deeper than any family he had ever met.

What was he forgetting? As his steady trot turned into a gentle jog, what was he forgetting? Legs hitting the groundless floor, moving fast, he started to sprint, but he wasn't sure where he was going. He wasn't sure if he was moving at all, back or forward, the numbers clocked in on his speedometer at somewhere between nothing and infinity, but he had to get back to the fight.

With every step ahead, he felt like he was closer to the truth— like he could wrench the memory out of the air as if it were a housefly. But as close as it seemed to get, it only seemed to get closer— no matter how near, still, not within reach. Maybe he should have stayed where he started— maybe he should have waited for help— or maybe he was just going the wrong way, dashing head-on into the void.

He'd seen space before. Back when Dad and Wily were working on Gamma, he'd gone with them to that asteroid. He had every chance to see the stars, the cosmos, the galaxy around them and the countless others beyond him— but this wasn't that. Whatever void this was, it held no sense of wonder, no sense of journey. The overbearing pressure of isolation was all that clung to Rock, and in a worrisome part of his mind, he wondered if he would ever get out.

Roll was at home waiting for him. Doctor Light was there, too, he knew it. Maybe along the way, he'd see Elec Man, or Cut Man— but it all still felt wrong. No matter how right the memories were, he only felt worse the more he thought about them, and with his repertoire of guesses rapidly running dry, he remembered why he was more of a fighting robot than a laboratory assistant.

But that didn't make sense. He loved the lab. He loved working with his father. Rock wasn't a warrior— he was a scientist! But why, why, did it feel like such a lie? Why, why did he feel that every fabric of reality was a messy stitch or a patched-over hole?

Maybe that's what this was: another plan from Wily. Another scheme to make him put the gun down; another scheme to drive him crazy with lies and deceit. Racing through the field of abyssal colors, uncertain if he was headed the same direction he was or if he'd gotten twisted up somewhere along the way, he checked where he thought was left, and then where he thought was right— but found only his buster pointed forward.

Instinctively, Rock grabbed its shroud in his spare hand, bracing for a shot— but nothing was there. Of course nothing was there— there wasn't anything here! Separating his fingers from the arm-mounted weapon, its low-silhouette muzzle raising toward where he assumed the sky was as he drew his other limb back, he let out a growl, planting his palm in his face.

"Hello? Is anybody out there? I, um, don't really know where I am, but . . . "

Cautiously, he checked over his shoulder. Nothing. Still nothing. Rock was beginning to feel like he wasn't in charge of his own actions; like his thoughts, like his movement, like his weaponry were in someone else's hands. Like someone was fighting him for control over his own life in this confusing dream— like someone was trying to make it a nightmare.

"If someone's trying to mess with my body, please stop!"

He winced at his own words. The first proper sounds he'd heard in forever, they felt to bounce off the impossibly-distant walls like he was in a box, drowning his thoughts in echoes. This was all so confusing; trains of thought melting into one another, priorities shifting with every blink, Rock couldn't escape the discomfort of feeling like he was outside of time, panic beginning to settle in as the nothingness only stretched out.

" . . . Hello?"

No one answered. No one answered, of course, because there was nothing here. Nervously, he smiled, lips trying to climb upward as his eyes swam in their sockets— but whatever attempt he made at a grin, it fell down quickly, worry clouding his features as his teeth rolled over his lower lip.

"I just want to know where I am . . . "

Where he was— time or place. Rock tried to think back to the memories that comforted him- his sister, his brothers, his father- but even they felt tainted. He'd spent so much time with Roll, of course, playing games, talking, wasting the night away— but why did it feel like he hadn't? Why did it feel like he hadn't seen Fire Man or Ice Man in years? Why did it feel like Dad was all he had?

"I don't know who's doing this, or what's doing this, or . . . whatever. My name is Rock. Um, a lot of people know me as Mega Man. I don't know if you can hear me, or if you care, or . . . whatever, but . . . I just want to go home."

Hopefully, he waited. Waited for a voice, waited for a change in scenery, waited for his eyes to open, anything— but nothing came, because nothing was here. Chest rising and falling, quick breaths pumping in and out of artificial lungs and high-speed fans, by now, he should have heard his inner workings spooling up to compensate for the stress, but there was still only silence beside his voice, footfalls long since having come to a halt.

Metal clicking as he turned his arm, idly, Rock started to charge his buster, wincing again. Why he was so embarrassed at the thought of making any loud noises, he didn't know— but he chided himself for not trying the simplest options first, plasma accumulating in the firing chamber.

It was such a normal action. Such an easy, effortless thing; the weapon attached to his body ushered forth raw destruction behind its barrel, and to him, it was practically a tool, like any saw or screwdriver. There was a comfort in the normalcy, slowly aiming it ahead at nothing in particular— but deeper, a looming sense of dread, piling over itself with each successive gauge of power.

He crossed charge-one in a second.

A disorientating slew of memories started to flood him. Cut Man— the first Robot Master he'd ever fought. It was mercy, taking his brother out of commission so he could be repaired— but even though Mega Man took every shot with aimed precision, careful not to damage a single vital component, he still felt the nausea from before creeping in.

He crossed charge-two in another.

When the superheated gas struck Skull Man, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Cossack's last Robot Master had made it clear that he was the victim; thrown aside, abandoned, his father unable to look him in the eyes; but Mega Man was tired. He'd already fought through so much— what was another robot but an obstacle to his peace? Fire, dodge, dig the Integrated Circuit up; it was like clockwork. How could it be like clockwork? Since when was Doctor Cossack their enemy, he wondered, starting to feel sick.

He crossed fully-charged in four.

By the time Mega Man had met Bass, he was tired of it. Gunning down Robot Masters was little more than time wasted until Wily. All it took were a few heavy balls of energy, and Forte fell to the ground, inactive. For the first time, then, the thought had crossed his mind- going beyond Doctor Light's requests and putting an end to another robot that would only show up to cause more death and destruction later on- but why, why would he ever think to hurt Bass? Why would he ever hurt anyone? He was supposed to be their hero— and what kind of hero executed his enemies?

Rock wanted to gag. If he had anything in his blast furnace-stomach, he would have wanted to throw up. Someone had to be doing this— controlling him, controlling his thoughts— and one power shot had to be the way out. It was always the way out. Without thinking, without aiming, Mega Man unleashed the enormous bolt of plasma forward, recoil jumping back into his body and skidding him along the ground— but it encountered no hidden machinery or tricky ploys.

The shot had blown straight through Wily's head. He was in a laboratory, he remembered, the steel-white paneling at every side now drenched in blood and viscera. Center of mass, the Doctor's terrified, regretful face flew through the air, still connected to a head still connected to what was vaguely identifiable as the remnant of a neck, the rest of him wiped away down to the floor he had been kneeling on.

Silence. Finally, he had encountered silence. Expression frozen with shock, gun still outstretched with smoke pouring off its lethal end, Rock could not bring himself to so much as shake, the only noise in the room being that of Wily's remains cluttering and spattering against the tile. His head was silent; his thoughts were clear; but what had he done?

He knew what happened next. Forte- Bass- was supposed to teleport in, supposed to take Wily, supposed to leave him with his thoughts. But he was empty. The room was empty. The awful sight of plasma-mangled humanity was all he had to look at, unable to avert his gaze to the broken Wily Machine or series of computers, waiting for something to come, but it never did. No snappy lines; no 'I'll get you next time'; no begging for a short prison sentence. Only smoldering embers of an old man who wanted the world.

A scream tore from his throat as he fell back, overcoming the shock of his actions, unable to bear the sight any longer— but when he hit the laboratory floor, panting so fast that any human would have fainted, he saw only blues and purples and whites, the ground driving along under him as he tried to process what had happened. It wasn't like that. He knew it wasn't like that. He never would have hurt Wily— not even if he could have! He threatened him, sure, but he never pulled the trigger! Bass came in! Bass snatched him away and told Rock that he who hesitates is lost!

But that was what he wanted to do. He wanted to shoot him. He wanted to stop him. He overheard his father talking about it, once— what it would be like if Wily were gone. He would have his childhood back. He would have his sister back. He would have his family back. All for one gunshot, one life— a million billion others he could have saved.

It wasn't a new image. It wasn't some generated nightmare made to shock him. It was his own mind. They were his own thoughts. He remembered, once more, that he had fantasized about it; that he wondered what Wily would have looked like if he put a round in him. Grabbing the side of his head, curling up on the ground, he groaned again from the throb in his mind, trying to keep the tears in his eyes.

What was supposed to be real? In this confusing mess of a labyrinth with no walls, how was he supposed to find himself? He knew that Wily hadn't died there; he knew that he never would have taken a life; but why did it feel like reality itself wanted to make him think differently?

He was so confused. It was so sudden— and there was still a fight going on! Forte was still in danger— Wily was still in danger— Earth was still in danger! But the grizzly sight wouldn't leave his mind, a self-constructed nightmare that clung to his every thought, in nonexistent faces on the walls, in truthless blood on the floor. What was he fighting? What came after that? When had Cossack become his foe— and when had Bass become his ally? King was one of the last robots he'd fought— but how did Skull Man come before? He was living with his brothers, in Arcadia!

He just wanted to see his family. He just wanted to see his sister. He just wanted to make up for everything— but what did that mean?

Sitting up on his knees, saline solution streaming down his face, he looked forward, hoping this would be the time he saw something, and to his prayers answered a ball of light.

"I am sorry for my absence. I understand that this may be . . . somewhat confusing. But I am here to guide you. Please, Rock; come through this doorway."

Knuckles rubbing beneath his optics, face red with distress and grief, Rock steadied himself enough to speak, not yet certain if he could stand.

"Dad?"