Surprise, surprise-I don't own Capcom or the Rockman (Mega Man!) franchise in any shape or form.
A note on dates: The term '20XX' is used to describe the time period, not the year, in which this tale takes place. Likewise, the Rockman series takes place across at least fifteen years if the game release dates are anything to go by, but (with the exception of 200X, which was the name of the year for a couple of titles) the year is continually called '20XX'. Thus, I would label the day before and the day after the new year 31 December 20XX and 1 January 20XX. Confusing, I know, but I hope you'll understand.
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Benedict Greway
New York Times
Tuesday, January 4, 20XX
If you ever want to lock something away for the rest of the world with absolutely no fear of anybody getting at it, forget Fort Knox. Instead, try the Tennesse National Radioactive Holding Ground, about thirty miles north and west of Knoxville, USA. It's easily one of the most secure places on the planet and it's where the Government of the United States of America stores tens of tons of nuclear waste at a time. The worn-out uranium rods are waiting in vertical slots about six feet deep, their fate resting with a rocket that will launch them into space and out of mind once every two months from the on-site pad.
However, the next load going up will be a bit lighter than usual. Just last night every line of defense the plant could summon up was broken through, two guards were stabbed to death and sixty pounds worth of highly radioactive waste was stolen.
A puzzling case to say the very least. The single guard spared by the burglar claims it happened early yesterday morning, somewhere between one and three AM Eastern Standard Time. He tells of one of his fellows pointing out a "dark shape" hovering over the electrified chain link fence that forms the compound's ceiling. "It looked almost like a man, but it had huge wings," the guard, named Edward Cox, told the Times yesterday.
"I couldn't see it then, but his wings were covered with blades instead of feathers. He pulled some of these off each wing and threw them at the fencing, cutting open a large hole which he slipped through into the compound."
Confusion reigned supreme for a moment or two as the large door sealing the complex was opened. "We tried to tell ourselves it wasn't happening...but he was real and he was loading rods (of uranium) into a big sack."
The three guards rushed into the heart of the Holding Ground, pointing their AK-47s at the man and threatening to shoot if he didn't put his hands in the air. He stopped what he was doing and turned slowly to look at them, with a "cheeky, almost evil look" on his face. He was described as "only as tall as a fifteen-year-old and looking a lot like one too, with scruffy black hair and freaky yellow eyes" and was "dressed like any kid to walk off the street."
"He stared at us and we stared at him. We didn't know whether to fire or not-he was just a kid, y'know? Anyway, after a minute or so he grinned and pointed at the symbol on his vest over his heart. It was a red triangle-an upside-down one, mind you-with a blue dot in the middle. Then he said 'Congratulatons, gentlemen, you're all on the list,' and threw a load of his feather-blades at us."
Cox tells of how he threw himself out of the way just in time, the knives gruesomely cutting down the other two guards. He didn't give the mysterious winged thief a second chance-scrambling to his feet, he took off towards the doors of the inner compound with the words "Just tell them what happened and no harm will come to your family!" ringing in his ears.
In response to the scores of calls from newspapers around the world concerning Cox's story, the director of the North American Hazardous Waste Board held a conference later in the day. "This is a very strange and very frightening predicament," Camille Roy told the legion of reporters who attended. "The Holding Ground is one of the safest places in the world and yet this person sliced through our armor like paper. He must be found and captured as soon as possible, before he can do serious damage with his abilities.
"Furthermore, the symbol Mr. Cox described is an exact replica of the one used by the street gang known at the Lazuli Island Strike Team, who are currently causing havoc in the island country of Cardulia. It is unknown what an organization such as the LIST, as they are called by the locals, would want with radioactive waste...but no matter how odd the situation may appear, we must retrieve the waste before any harm can be caused by it."
Spectre threw page A2 of the newspaper at the boy who sat across the coffee table. Bladewing caught it as it sailed towards his head, grinning down at the glaring headline. "'Winged Boy Palms Nuclear Waste'. Very nice. These people are getting good."
Spectre just glared. "The boss told you to make sure not to be seen. He's gonna throw a fit when he sees this."
"Oh? And what if I do this?" Bladewing asked, neatly tearing the page in two vertical pieces and rolling them into a pair of wrinkled balls. He tossed one into the wastepaper basket next to the coffee table and bounced the other off Spectre's head. "Look, I did what he wanted. Terry's not gonna flame me-I succeeded where you couldn't. Heh, flame...God, I'm punny."
Spectre caught the ball as it made contact with the bridge of his nose and began its descent towards the carpet. "I resent that. I could've just gone Indetectible and slipped through every wall they had." He juggled the wad with one hand, glancing over at the small colour television set on the end of the table separating his hands from Bladewing's neck. "Fear Factor? Why the hell do you watch this crap, anyway?"
This time it was Bladewing's turn to be insulted. "Well, excuse you. This is a ton more interesting than you'll ever hope to be."
Spectre grunted a curse and clambered to his feet. "We have a name for people like you. We call them dumbasses." He hurled the ball over his shoulder at Bladewing and stalked off towards the kitchen. The winged boy smiled as the projectile cleared his head by a good two feet and returned his attention to the TV just as Michelle Dubois thrust her hands into an aquarium full of hissing cockroaches.
"I see you've already read today's paper."
Bladewing stifled a dismayed squeak. "I-uh-yeah, I did. Pretty informative stuff, hey?"
"Indeed. Although in times like these there can rather questionable stories towards the beginning of the A section."
"Some days," Bladewing groaned, sliding deeper into his seat. "See that feature on F7? I didn't know you could cook a turkey like that."
"That's not what I was talking about." The television suddenly vanished as half of page A2 was dangled in his face. "'s Nuclear Waste'. I wonder what that story could be about?"
Bladewing forced a grin. "No clue, Terry."
"I told you not to call me that." Terry stomped around one side of the couch, getting between Bladewing and Michelle Dubois' triumphant face. The far shorter boy leaned to one side in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the next challenge, but his boss was just too big at all angles.
"Aw, whazzamatter with Terry? You know I can't even pronounce you real name...Teri-Teru-"
"Terukaima," the huge robot growled icily. "Look, the Boomstick isn't going to build itself. Why don't you go give Rast a hand?"
Bladewing gazed pleadingly up at him. "But I already went and got the uranium-can't I just enjoy a couple of minutes to myself? Plea-whoa, okay. No reason to pull the claws out. Fine, I'll go..."
Terukaima watched him dart down the corridor towards the Big Stick Room where Rast was already hard at work. Bladewing was the one thing he didn't like about leading the Team-cocky young pain in the ass. If Terukaima was ever forced to let anyone go, the human kid with the bionic wings would be the first packing. Sighing, the robot dragon eased himself onto the couch.
"Fear Factor? Christ, Bladewing." Digging the remote out from between the cushions, he looked for a few channels before settling on the Oilers-Kings hockey game with the intent of forgetting about the insanity that was Bladewing.