"We can't bring him back if we can't get a lock."

"He cheated it, he cheated the lock—"

"Is— is it over?"

"You'll bring him back if it's the last thing you're good for!"

"Please, God, please."

"You listening, meat bag?"

Where was he going?

It didn't look like any doorway he'd ever seen. It had more in common with a tear in reality; a shift from the vivid blues to deeper violets. Like a superimposed image over a wallpaper or screensaver, the borders were well-defined, clean rips along the boundaries of reality, painting a rectangular picture just as tall as he was.

Still recovering from himself on the 'ground', Rock tried to steady his breathing, sharp and erratic from the lines of code crafted to make him almost human. None of it was necessary, of course— but the little details were always the most important to Doctor Light, a man of subtlety and nuance, opposite to Wily's bombastic architecture of skulls and spikes— very literally, most of the time.

Seeing something familiar was almost an immediate snap-back from the harshness of uncertainty, able to force the grotesque imagery of a befallen human elsewhere at the sight of his father. Practically habitual to give a smile on seeing him, in spite of his poor condition, Mega Man did what he could to beam at the man who'd liberated him from chaos and confusion, even as his lips twitched like waves.

"Yes, Son. Do not be alarmed by my appearance; this plane is unlike the one which we normally reside in. There are many names for it, but I find the one my colleague, Albert, decided upon to be the most apt: Cyberspace."

That wasn't quite any word he'd ever heard before. Sure, 'cyber' and 'space' were common enough things to hear as a robot in . . . the year. Rock didn't know the year. It was another thing that made enough sense to have forgotten if he was already struggling to remember so much, but something so simple? He found himself more frustrated than distraught at being unable to recall, blowing more hot air past his deflating cheeks.

"Um, Cyberspace? Wait, no, hold on, I don't wanna— is this time sensitive?" Rock asked.

"No, Son. Take all of the time you need." Doctor Light replied.

"Why can't I remember anything? Why am I here? What's going on? Is Forte hurt? Am I hurt?"

The ball of light began to expand into a more comprehensive shape. Stretching toward the ground and then the ceiling, like a graphical error rapidly consuming an old monitor, undeniably, even that was still uneasing to Rock, but fortunately, it quickly stabilized, taking the mostly similar form of his father. Brown shoes clacking on the floor with a muted, magnetic hum, he straightened his plain laboratory coat, greyed pompadour settling thusly on his head.

"Your memories are unstable, for the time being, Son. Do not rush the process of their recovery; it will only lead to distress."

"But—!"

Rock cut himself short, stifling his exclamation and averting his gaze to the side. Doctor Light was right. Doctor Light was always right. Having any information at all made the entire situation so, so much more manageable— but the inability to find much clarity between the years still, distantly, bothered him. Perhaps if he suppressed it for long enough, it would all go away, nodding to Doctor Light's raised eyebrow in signal for the older man to continue.

"I understand that this may be . . . difficult. The road ahead is not one without tribulation; coming to terms with what has transpired is something that might take you time."

What had transpired? Again, a question swelled in his throat, wanting to burst from his chest, but he swallowed it, not wanting to interrupt. At the very least, he could save his questions— but preferably, he could forget about them when he remembered the past.

"Cyberspace is a dimension which acts as a backdrop to our own. In a sense, it is constantly behind us, acting largely independent of the normal universe— but more fittingly, it is around us, everywhere, all at once. The electrons that course through my brain and your Integrated Circuit are one and the same, here, allowing us both to exist, in a sense, within another reality."

Okay. Rock was thoroughly distracted from his panic, by now, focused intently on what his father had to relay. A lot of it made sense— but just as much didn't, leaving his artificial mind doing its very best not to strain at the stream of new information.

"You are here because you have a very important decision to make. A very important decision that only you are aware of. I am sorry if that is confusing, but . . . there are limits even to what your creator knows. Whether or not you are hurt will depend on that decision. Whether or not Forte is hurt depends on that decision."

And, although distraction was nice, the matter wasn't exactly as comforting as he'd hoped. It felt more like a riddle than anything else— here for a decision that would decide whether or not he and Bass would be alright. It felt like one of Wily's schemes— but for the time being, thinking too much about him made Rock feel unwell. Finding the strength to stand, he approached his father, looking into the doorway.

"Then, what's through here? Um, Cyberspace— I know you just explained this, but, uh . . . what is it? Like, why does it exist? Why does it need me to make a really important decision? Why are you . . . you know."

Gesturing at Doctor Light's general shape, the bearded scientist laughed, giving a warm smile.

"Cyberspace was created by an accident with one of the Hyper Energy Crystals. Doctor Wily was testing a machine, and on activation, it attempted to draw from the crystal's unlimited energy— disastrously resulting in its own destruction, however, bringing forth an event not unlike the formation of our own universe. There is still much to be understood about it, and I am sorry to say I do not have an answer for your questions, but if you seek to find them—"

"Right," Rock said, catching on to his father's point. Through the door; the way forward was through the door.

"Beyond this gateway, I will not be able to travel; but I promise, you will see me again. Be brave, my son; brave as you always have been."

He should have smiled. It was high praise, even if it was praise he'd heard before— but like everything else, it left him feeling uneasy. Uneasy, uneasy, uneasy— maybe there was just something wrong with him. Maybe all of this was normal, and he was the one being weird— but somehow, Rock knew that wasn't the case. Somehow, Rock was more certain about the wrongness of this than he was the rightness of most things he'd ever done.

Until, suddenly, it clicked. At least, one thing clicked, stopping him right in his tracks. Everything else sounded normal— but the mention of those energy crystals had his eyes wide in their sockets, mouth half-open and a puzzled, overwhelmed look on his face. Rock was doing something with those HEC's; something that brought back everything he'd been feeling before all at once.

The urgency, the panic, the twisted, uncertain, warped train of thought— glimpses of spiral stairs, of four familiar robots gathered at the floor below, of weaving between bombs and bullets— Rock reached up to grab his helmet, again, finding only his head, digging his fingers into the soft, synthetic flesh and groaning low in his throat.

"Wait! No, this isn't right— I was fighting someone! Dad, you have to know— who am I fighting? Where am I? It's not like Earth at all— it's cold, and it's barren, a-and there's no sun, and—"

Closing his eyes tightly, sinking down to his knees, he folded his arms further behind his hair, fighting off the desire to curl into a ball. Gripping at his elbows, he swore he could feel pain in the sensors Doctor Light had given to him, but it wasn't right— like the lingering afterimage of a wound, he winced heavily at the pain in his face, the pain in his chest, the pain in his stomach and left arm— but where was the hurt?

"Dad, please . . . who did we save? Who are the others? Why do I . . . no, this isn't right! I care so much about Bass, Dad— so, so much, and I don't know why, and it hurts. Did I do something? Did I leave them? Did I leave everyone? Is that why it feels like it's been so long since I've seen them? Is that . . . "

There was nothing. When he let the light hit his optics once more, there was nothing, just as there always had been. Doctor Light was gone. His father was gone, and he was so, so alone once more. Checking around him, behind him, above, below, he hoped and hoped and hoped and hoped that it wouldn't last, that the ball of light would return, that it would take the shape of someone he loved once more, but it wouldn't, sobs starting to choke him out.

"Dad . . . "

Tears fell through the nothingness below him. Coming in streams, now, rather than droplets, the rain poured through the clouds, and Rock could not see through it. Body shaking with each heave, stomach curling with the force that drove weeps from his mouth, he wanted so badly to give up, like he had wanted a million times before. Like when his own brothers had been turned on him; like when Wily had betrayed his father again; like when another man rose to attempt the world's throne; every time, something in him begged for an end, but every time, he battled it back under the name of a brighter tomorrow.

This, though, wasn't saving any lives. It wasn't saving Arcadia, or his family, or his planet; it was only saving him from a celless prison, and with so many years gone by, with so little effort left to give, how could he begin to find his way out? Rock remembered, now, at least some semblance of himself— and what he remembered was that he'd been tired for a long, long time.

King wasn't the last robot he'd fought. No— there was more, after; more, before. Impossibly powerful automatons from beyond the stars, giants of good and evil; years earlier, he'd saved the world from the Stardroids, and years later, he helped Duo save it once more from a strange, otherworldly thing. It felt wrong to remember; like it still wasn't too late to go back; but he couldn't stop the thoughts from coming as he cried, knowing that wasn't the end.

Roll wasn't his only sister. Splash Woman, too— and all of his other younger brothers that came with the second line of Light Numbers. How did he ever forget them? Their construction, their names, their faces; how the United Nations nearly sent them all to die and he was the one who had to drag them back in good faith? This time, the aching, throbbing, dull pain was exclusive to his head— beating out of his brain like a broken heart.

But there was more. There was so, so much more— and he needed to find it. There was Bass— Forte, he remembered, who was so, so much more than himself. Forte, who'd never killed a human; Forte, who'd visited him more than fought him; Forte, who helped him again and again when no one else was looking, not for any fame, but for him. For him, for him— Rock didn't just need to get out of here for himself; he had to get out of here for Forte!

And if the only way out was through that door- if the only way he could see his father and everyone else again was through that door- then he couldn't afford to sob on the floor, mustering enough determination to plant his palms on the ground.

It called to him. The swirling void of unfamiliar colors; they didn't look real, but did any of this? Climbing to his feet, facing the frame of the portal down, he was hesitant to touch it, but there was no other way forward.

He just had to be brave. Brave, like he always had been. Brave, as his foot passed into the glow, and brave, as his body was soon swallowed by it. Brave, brave, brave— even as his eyes passed into the brilliantly dull shine and all sight went away with it. Rock had heard a lot of things about not going into a white light— and absentmindedly, part of him wondered if this was what they meant; but Mega Man couldn't just accept death. Even if he were marching straight toward it, was it all that different to every time before?

A feeling washed over him not dissimilar to clarity. Certainly, it felt like the static had been knocked out of his optics— but he would hesitate to call whatever it was 'clarity'. It didn't assemble all of his disorganized thoughts into a cohesive mass, rather, freezing them where they were, a moment, allowing him to take a respite from the swirling mass of fears and unease as he basked in the radiance.

Different than roaming a celestial void, once more, it felt like he was floating, but it induced little panic. Somehow, it was infinitely more comforting than before, even if it was effectively the same thing; lost, somewhere without any sense of boundaries or direction, waiting for the world to come online. Maybe the shock of earlier had simply worn off— but something about going through that door made him think it was something more.

Rock could feel himself, though he could not see. Turning and twisting, arms and legs stretching out, the universe felt to carry him forward, gliding him along an invisible path, unable to tell if his eyes were open or closed as he drew nearer and nearer to something. Maybe this was it; the way out. Maybe all he had to do was wait a little longer, and he would come to consciousness on the battlefield, reinvigorated and ready to fight.

The thought made him sad, in a way. Not like he'd lost something, or he'd failed, but bittersweet, like the memory of something that used to be. Part of him wanted to climb to worry, again, fearing he'd be set adrift in a sea of displaced recollections— but he grabbed himself, hands on his shoulders, stabilizing himself like a narrow boat in a harsh ford. He had to be brave. He had to be strong. And if bravery or strength was facing uncertainty head on, then he would face it, without anticipation.

Another thought started to swim in his mind. Not his— but one of him. It was another memory, coming together as he waited and waited— and no matter how much he wanted to quiver at the prospect, he tried to trust in his father. It wasn't bad— he assured himself, it wasn't bad. And as he waited and waited and waited, an image made from a thousand words assembled itself, leaving him with another running train of thought.

He remembered exactly what he was doing, last. He was smiling. He was crying, and he was hurt, but he was smiling. Rock wanted to let it instill him with hope, that there had been a positive outcome, that he could still make it back and save the day— but the same overhanging dread from before stood sentinel in the way, making him wonder just what was going on. He'd never fallen to his knees to cry in the wake of beating some Wily Number or overcoming a challenge. He'd never smiled up at the sky in truthful hope after winning any fight.

Except when he'd fought his brother. Rock had every feeling from that battle drilled into his mind, even in another dimension, cast away in an ocean of electrons. The confusion, the guilt, the shame, the yearning— when he and Proto Man traded blows on the cold surface of Alpha, he knew it distinctly as the first fight he ever lost, collapsing to the ground after taking the last shield bash his body could handle.

All throughout the brawl, he'd never seen his face. He'd only heard cryptic words through a mask's distorted modulator until the moment everything became clear; until the moment Break Man told him who he was— what he was— what his name was. As Rock took the blow and doubled over, he didn't even notice that he'd shot the other robot right in the head. It should have been over; Break Man had survived, and Rock was at the wrong end of his buster, only able to pray for mercy on the ground.

But no other blast rang out. Caught in the alien rain on an atmospheric asteroid, just outside of the pristine-white scientific compound Wily had taken over as his fortress, a silence lingered, and Blues filled it with the remnant of what his father once called him. He remembered waiting for his brother to finish him off; he remembered waiting for the gunshot that would have given Blues all the revenge he ever could have wanted and more; he remembered slowly opening his eyes to see a face that looked almost like his, and then, a red bolt of light as his sibling disappeared.

Rock had never gotten the chance to properly talk about it with Doctor Light. He'd explained it, sure, and Dad told him the truth— but he'd never brought up how he felt. The shock, the anger, the sadness; eventually, he simply stopped mulling over it, waiting for his future to move into the past.

Why? Why had he waited? Why did he never ask, why did he never say more, why, why, why? About Blues, about himself, about his sister, about the conflict; for years and years and years and years, he'd been silent, and now, it felt too late to speak up. Had he just been repressing it, all this time? Was there some reason he'd forgotten? Was there more he needed to know, like there always was in this awful place?

He wasn't sure when he could see again. He wasn't sure when his eyes allowed the light back in, or when he found himself on solid ground, but with a flash, Rock was in the city, pavement beneath him and an enormous warehouse ahead. Breath hitching in his chest, for a moment, he thought he might have been home— but with a blink, he was on barren ground, the brown, rocky terrain utterly devoid of any architecture aside from the worn, rectangular building in front of him.

"No!" Rock cried, slamming his fist into the ground. "I was so close!"

Face tightening up with grief, gritting his teeth together, now more than ever, he wanted to give up again, ripped from his salvation and left stranded somewhere that felt even more lonely than Cyberspace. It pressed on his neck like a knife, trying to force him down or chop it off in the process— but with a growl, he pushed it back, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

No. He was so close. And if he was so close, he still had to be closer. Even if his consciousness screamed for him to collapse and sob, memories bubbling over and falling away, he scrabbled to collect them, rubbing his tired face.

From the recesses of his mind, he felt a thought try to force itself up, like a lump in his throat— but somehow, Rock knew he didn't want to think it. If it was a memory, he didn't want to remember it. Shaking his head, focusing intently on the ground forward, he focused on the building, on the craters, on not focusing— until the thought seemed to pass, allowing him a sad, shambling sense of clarity.

"Dad . . . are you here? I-Is that why you brought me here?"

Breathing in deeply, he rubbed his nose.

"I'm going to find you. I promise I'm going to find you. I know I am."

The small door at the front of the structure called to him, lights on behind large windows.

"And if you're in there . . . then I'm going in there."

But was it still too late to turn back?