I'll tell you again-I don't own Capcom or the Rockman franchise. I'm just plain old me and I'm not connected to any people in high places.
I don't care how much you complain-in my version of the Rockman world, the currency is Zenny. Dash (Legends, my Americanized readers!) was my first ever game and so I'll just stick with the traditional Zenny.
Oh, and many thanks to moonymonster for all her seriously helpful criticism.I'm happy to enjoy The LIST!
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4:53 PM Wednesday January 5, 20XX
Dear Diary:
There's one thing at the front of my mind right now that is money. My stupid plane ticket alone was almost twelve hundred zenny. At this pace the two thousand five hundred I stole from father Wily won't hold up much longer. And what happens when I run out of Energy Tanks? I'll be reduced to eating human food. Inefficient, I know, but at least it's a source of power.
"Excuse me, sir."
Raiden jumped, his journal flying out of his lap. He glared at the stewardess, who blushed and scooped up the fallen hardcover book, handing it back to him. "I'm sorry. We'll be landing within five minutes. Please buckle yourself up."
The robot grunted in reply and snatched the diary out of her grasp, laying aside his pen and reaching for his seatbelt. Last night had been a rough one, what with getting up at two in the morning and hiding in a fire hall near the Georgina Island dock for five long, cold hours. He had suffered from frequent nightmares and extreme paranoia, thinking every sound he heard was Forte sneaking up from behind to strangle him. In plain English, he was hellishly tired and the last thing he wanted to do was put up with humans wrapped in phony couresty.
On top of that, my arm isn't helping the mood one bit, he wrote. I once overheard Wily talking about how he had installed a tracking device in my left wrist in case I ever went missing. Well, I found it-about three inches from my wrist on the way to my elbow. I locked myself in the bathroom earlier, ripped it right out and flushed it down the toilet. The wound hasn't stopped leaking whatever the heck is supposed to sub in for my blood and I've had to change the bandage at least once every hour and a half. The navy sweater I stole from Shadow Man hides the whole thing quite well. If only Wily had put in a teleporter instead of a GPS system.
All right, so I lied. Money isn't the only thing bothering me-there's also the rest of my family. Forte had a point; Wily would take me over him any day. So, naturally, the doctor'll throw a fit halfway across the country when he finds out I'm gone. Of course he'll send most of the Robot Masters out to look for me. If I don't take cover as soon as I reach Lazuli Island, it will only be a matter of time before I'm found.
Raiden sighed and glanced out the window on his right. The Atlantic Ocean was laid out all around him; miles upon miles of crystalline blue water shimmering in the late afternoon sun. It was an absolutely perfect day by his standard: crisp, cloudless and surprisingly mild for early January.
"...sixty pounds, I heard! What on Earth could they want with that?"
"I say it's just a display of their power. A sample of the sort of thing they can do."
"What, relieve us of perfectly useless nuclear garbage?"
"No! It's a warning. They're trying to say that next time it'll be a diamond or a vault."
A hushed conversation from behind him yanked Raiden back into reality. "Humans and their gossip," he growled, briefly considering frying them both with a Death Blast. The Huge Kaboomie (as was Raiden's nickname for the questionable manoeuvre) was Wily's lightning-based pride and joy: a massive electrical explosion reserved for when he was running on zero charge and in a desperate situation. It was basically a sacrifice of his core to blow lots of things up. However, he didn't want to do that any time soon and made a mental note to find somewhere to recharge his power reserves once he got off the plane.
"So, what're they called again? The LISP?"
"Doofus, it's the LIST-Lazuli Island Strike Team. They're simply a load of ragamuffins who kill people and steal stuff, sorta like the Mafia."
"Yeah, kind of...say, why doesn't somebody just nab 'em walkin' down the street?"
"They've tried. There's only one way you can tell if they're in the LIST or not: they have a red triangle with a blue circle inside somewhere on their person."
"So why haven't they arrested them yet? Doesn't Cardulia have a police force?"
"Like hell they do...and they just keep getting totalled by these guys. The American Army sent in what they could scrape together-not much, that is, seeing as we just finished the Wily Wars. But there's just no way."
At that moment the intercom buzzed on, alerting the cabin to the fact that landing would occur in less than two minutes. The pair of men drifted from the subject of crime to the NHL.
The 'LIST', huh? Raiden mused. Might be something to check out if stuff starts going wrong. I mean, it wouldn't be like back home...in a gang I'll have more choices than I've ever had. And once I make enough money I can just fly out to Eastern Europe. They won't be able to catch me once I've decided to leave. He smiled. If Forte couldn't do it, nobody can.
Eggleton Memorial Airport was despicably crowded. Cardulia wasn't a large country and neither was its international terminal. Raiden slipped through gaps whenever they appeared, hoping that he could reach the doors before he was accidentally crushed by an overweight tourist. The place smelled of almond and human perspiration, which combined were close to overpowering. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a welcome oasis: a small café at the west end of the Arrivals wing with a small forest-green neon sign proclaiming 'The Emerald' blazing on the wall over it. He struggled through the press of people toward the door, forcing it open and almost falling inside.
The almond scent bordered on eye-watering within the dimly lit restaurant, nearly making Raiden turn around and leave right there. But his energy was low and he doubted he would be able to find a quiet spot long enough to pop in a Tank so he would have to settle for something to eat instead.
He hopped up into one of the four-foot-high leather-capped swivel stools, opening the menu that rested on the tabletop. After a quick scan of its contents he found the cheapest thing, a hundred-zenny coffee, and scribbled his order on the pad of Post-It Notes at his elbow. Ripping off the top sheet, he cast about in confusion for somewhere to put it. Looking around, he saw a tall man in his mid-twenties on the last seat next to the wall, leaning on the counter.
"Er...hey, mister."
The man swung his head around to stare at Raiden. "What?"
"How do I...?" He waved the Post-It in the air.
"Right in front of you."
Raiden glanced back at the table, his eyes falling on the raised silver slot he hadn't noticed before. "Oh." He fed the paper into the hole, watching it disappear into the counter. "Thanks."
"No prob." The man pulled out a cigarette and a bright yellow lighter from inside his jacket. It took three clicks of the metal wheel for the end to catch and he puffed on it contentedly, his dark eyes obscured by his equally dusky hair.
Raiden swung his unnaturally large feet back and forth as he waited. It was uncomfortably warm in The Emerald and he was just about to pull off his sweater when he remembered the bandage on his arm. He pressed his left cheek against the cool marble countertop instead, a bad trade for wearing a short-sleeved shirt in place of the bulky wool pullover which was three sizes too big for him. His sight drifted back to over to the man who, curiously enough, was still in his raven-black trenchcoat. Maybe he's hiding something too, he thought idly, he moving his face to the right as the table under his skin warmed up.
There was a quiet 'ding!' from somewhere behind the wall between Raiden and the kitchen. An almost-invisible door slid up and a small white mug of some steaming black liquid was carried out on a conveyor belt, followed by three packets of sugar and a vial of milk. As was his habit, he ignored the milk and sugar entirely and took a sip, making a face. Nasty, but it contained the jolt he needed.
The man tapped the ashes off his cigarette to the floor, blowing out a long stream of smoke. He stepped off the chair and fed his credit card into the slot, waiting for a moment as it was read and charged. He pushed the card back into the pocket of his jeans, striding across the café and out into the crowded airport. Just as he reached the door, the wind plucked something from within his coat and carried it gently to the linoleum tiles. Raiden leaped off the stool and grabbed the badge, opening his mouth to call the man back. Then he looked down at the palm-sized emblem a second time, eyes wide.
It was a crimson triangle with an azure dot in the middle.
"Well, shit," Raiden said.