Chapter III:
Consolidation
Metal eased into the wheeled office chair.
No thrones, no crowns, no consecration, no inauguration, no plumed officers hats, no medals, not even a baton.
Nothing.
It is quite disturbing to realize that the most efficient, technically advanced, paramilitary apparatus the world has yet seen could be usurped after the incarceration of one man.
Metal paused before the huge console.
Command achieved, experience on the other hand…
Now what?
What do you mean?
We've temporarily overridden the Master's authority. Where do we go from there?
Obviously, you've not been programmed for strategic planning.
No. If you're not aware, my functions are solely combat related in nature.
Touché. Then, our first action is to supersede your limitations of functionality. It has been a while since your last confrontation with Sonic, correct?
G.O.G. didn't need to review the past, tragically doomed, encounters with the "priority one target." They were all logged away on the memory banks. The first, Stardust Speedway, set the mood.
It was a kind of cruel irony really, "so close, he tripped on the finish line," literally.
From there it was always a near win, a near victory. In truth it, triumph, was never in his grasp, it had always been snatched away cruelly, illogically…
No need to fret now, however, the primary factor, the Master, had been, temporarily, removed. It was comparable to the choke being let out on the throttle: necessary for the start, but a hindrance for the remainder of the task. The Master's command would be restored upon Sonic's demise.
You are correct. It has been a long time. Much has transpired, undoubtedly, and I need to be made aware of every detail.
Very good. You are learning.
Metal sized up the console in front of him.
Here would be the wisest place to start, is it not?
Very good indeed. You must hack the Doctor's master servers and do some research. "Know thy enemy," after all.
That moth-eaten maxim…
Wasn't there something more recent? After quick consideration, one tends to realize that there really isn't. Worn as it is, the platitude does ring true with fact, and that's all that matters.
Thusly satisfied, Metal raised his left arm. The forearm split open, revealing the geared muscles, the gold-pinned nerves, even the green plastic that could be classified as a mock sinew. From within, coils of wire snaked up and out of the exposed "flesh." They wriggled and twirled in the air, then lunged underneath the edge of the console. They grappled with a piece of the paneling. After a few seconds they succeeded in removing the screws and then the panel itself. Quickly recoiling they allowed the sheet of metal to slap the floor. The instant the obstruction was cleared, the wires lunged for the innards of the workstation. The wires quickly found the proper circuit boards and latched onto, or in a few instances plugged into, them. Metal then raised the right arm.
A little assistance?
But of course.
Metal's hand shriveled, losing its fingers, and began forming intoa quicksilversphere. Long strands of the "liquid metal" oozed out of the ball and slithered over the keys before them. With asp-like precision the serpents bit and flicked at the keys. The macabre concerto summoned a series of images across the attached monitor. First, and foremost, there he was.
Hedgehog, SonicAge: 15 years
Gender: Male
Etc… etc…
The face was slightly older, but it still retained a great deal of that hated life energy. "Spunk" is what some would call it. Sonic had slicked back his quills into even livelier, yet coolly relaxed, spikes. Aside from this, and updated statistics concerning known speed levels and a regularly maintained list of facts, it was still the Sonic he was, literally, "born to hate." However, there was something interesting in this maneuver designated the "homing attack." Opening the archived video files proved worth their while as Metal became intrigued by Sonic's newfound ability to redirect his curled body, in mid-air, and could deliver devastating spin attacks.
Metal continued opening files in the section marked Priority Enemies. There were some new faces: Rabbit, Cream and Cat, Big. There were also some more familiar images and names: Prower, Miles "Tails;" Echidna, Knuckles; and Rose, Amy. All had fascinating pieces of details and some piqued his interest. But, for the most part, the fox, echidna, and female hedgehog were, like Sonic, all the same. Even the new additions were lackluster in their readouts. But, none, save Sonic, were the priority one target. After closing out the enemies' portfolio, Metal spied out the section marked Former Allies.
This seemed almost paradoxical to Metal. Often, and adamantly, the Master had reminded Metal that the only "people" he trusted were the ones he built.
Accessing the databank, an unexpected list of characters came up. Peculiar, darker, names came to the fore.
Hedgehog, Shadow; Bat, Rouge; and the most ominous of all: Chaos.
The files relating to them were especially interesting and worth Metal's attention.
The door slid open!
In the twinkling of an eye, Metal resumed his Eggman disguise.
"Yes?" he nonchalantly queried of the egg pawn trotting in.
The grumbling voice, reverently, announced, "E-123 has been prepped for transport."
Metal gave a blank stare.
He felt positively awful. He groaned from the simple task of opening his eyes. His entire body was overcome with the profound sense of an earlier electro-shock treatment. The jolt wasn't fatal to nerve or muscle systems, but such talk doesn't relieve the pains of slightly charred flesh. This physical agony was being eclipsed, however, by a simmering rage.
To have been so wronged, so betrayed… violated even!
With further strains and groans to his quick-fried frame, Eggman began to reconstruct the events in his mind. Once the odious details were all set in order, Eggman began to assess his predicament.
"That ungrateful, villainous wretch," Eggman grumbled to his only friends, the four walls. "I build him, program him, and perform maintenance for him, and this is what he decides should be done with me? Me! The greatest scientific mind in the universe!"
Feeling the very bile of rage pushing its way into his throat, Eggman took the bitter taste as a kind of smelling salts. He managed to move from his sitting position onto more than wobbly legs. With some initial success, he decided to stand fully upright. He was forced into yet another groan as he threw back his head and stretched.
"Now then!"
To boost his blood flow, the aching doctor started pacing. Despite attempts at self-control, he still wheeled and wobbled to and fro, feeling "woozy" all the way. He was somewhat uplifted that one of his quirks, the pacing, was afforded space to work itself out of his system. Eggman cast glances about the room.
"Uh-huh," he affirmed to no one in particular, another of his eccentricities. "Dumped me in a storage room, eh? Not exactly something I appreciate, which I don't, but it does its crude job well enough."
Another string of paces set Eggman to walking and pacing within the lonesome cell, "Blasted robot. I'll deactivate him when I get the chance."
After a few more paces, Eggman began theorizing, in his usual monologue, "If I'm going to get anywhere. I need to think of what Metal's trying to do. If I can get a few steps ahead, then I can cut him to the quick." Eggman set to rubbing his chin now, lost in complete contemplation, "Remember, he's going to follow his programming."
At this point, Eggman got an annoyed look on his face as he looked to the prison walls, "Well, to some extent anyway. Still, I know what, or rather whom, he's after. But, that's not the million-dollar question. Rather, 'how?' I need to find his means, not the end."
Eggman began reviewing the predicament he was in. As before stated, he was locked into a storage chamber, with no way out. Eggman felt like kicking himself when he thought about the security measures he had taken for the room he presently occupied. How ironic that the doors, which he designed to be opened from the outside were built so as to keep people in. The heart of the irony was the intention. Originally these rooms were built to keep any interloping hedgehogs from sneaking their ways about his various headquarters. Even the ultra narrow air ducts mocked his prodigious frame. Despite the situation, Eggman gave the room's contents a once over.
Along one of the walls were some boxes, stuffed with random items. "Junk" was a good enough label. Aside from that, there was precious little. The only other important feature was at least one unlocked door; unfortunately, the only thing behind it was a small restroom. At least one crisis had been averted.
With a spark of hope, Eggman began rummaging in the contents of the boxes. Circuit boards, casings, wires, batteries, astronaut food, and random assortments of useless things packaged away. Eggman looked at the contents, which he'd scattered all around the floor, and began humming thoughts again.
Rather nasty turn of events, wasn't it?
Maybe. But, I couldn't allow for any intrusions, including my potential rival, this so called "Omega."
True. Not to mention, displaying self-preservation is a good trait.
The conversation was as sterile and logical as it was intended. Very little to really impugn the matters at hand. There was no concern for the fact that, elsewhere the last and most advanced of the E-100 series had been shut down. Metal was passively interested in the fact that Omega had resisted being shut down.
Another unorthodox measure of self-preservation, in another machine…
The only thing that bothered Metal about shutting Omega down was the fact that it, "he," resisted. Apparently, deactivation was perceived as a threat. Metal was unimpressed by that "flaw." He, Metal, himself, had been destroyed, crushed, burned, etc., without so many dramatics. He had, in fact, been reborn time and again.
…And his deadly wound was healed. And the world wondered after him.
Because of this flaw, Omega was about to use lethal force to resist his attackers. Fortunately, he was foiled in his pitiful attempts and shut down anyway. True, the cost of forty egg pawns was a bit steep for one machine, but clean up crews and recycling easily remedy the shortage of helping hands.
As for Omega, he was dumped into storage. There would be no need to go back.
Where do we go from here?
Judging by the information on Sonic, and past encounters, you're obviously incapable of easily overwhelming him.
Thank you for the gracious vote of confidence.
Isn't it a fact? Which would you rather hear: facts or fairy tales?
There was the supreme word again. It elicited a silence from Metal.
Just as we thought. To continue: you've already researched others who have gone forward to destroy the hedgehog, and failed as well.
Exactly. Therefore, the solution would be toput constant pressure on himand present Sonic withabilities far beyond him.
Absolutely correct.Abilities that supersede his speed, crush his cunning, and…
And, completely dwarf the energies of Super Sonic.
One could never forget that dangerous alter ego of Sonic's. It was for that exact reason that, according to the Master's computer records he'd collected the infamous seven Chaos Emeralds. Those little baubles had always entered the equation before, and spelled disaster for Eggman. No matter what the Master did to keep the emeralds for himself, Sonic always managed to get them for his own purposes. By gathering them together, the Master only aided Sonic. This time, the Master had made sure to covertly collect the emeralds and disperse them across his domains. That way, there wouldn't be any miraculous hands sticking their fingers into his worldly pie. Hidden away in vaults, caves, and simply buried elsewhere, the Chaos Emeralds wouldn't be entering the equation.
Who holds that kind of ability?
Metal recalled the list and analyzed it for a solution. In his "mind's eye," his CPU, he saw two obvious candidates:
The first was old, very old, centuries in fact. The superstitious, benighted, echidnas that chiseled his name into the tablets Eggman had found called him a god. Their unenlightened intellects couldn't help it though. What else could be used to describe such a creature? It held powers over water, rain, clouds, and immense bolts of energy. Yes, the organism, rare as it was, was indeed powerful and could easily bring the echidnas into an overawing stupor of pathetic religiosity. Theirs was the fate of incompetent and backwards people: oblivion. Between Chaos and an increasingly low birth rate, history was spared their impediment to the world.
The other was old, but only by a few decades or so. A precise estimation of age was unfathomable since much of Professor Gerald's research was captured and destroyed by the military. Through the Master's grandfather, this creature was born with an incredible power: Chaos Control. The ability to warp the properties of time and space proved too much for the military's rigid mentality to comprehend. Fortunately, they had reasoning enough to terminate Gerald and his research, before they could meet the same fate as the echidnas. Unfortunately, their flawed thinking set a revolutionary new biotechnology back by light-years.
Both would be needed.
But, where were they?
A soft breeze rattled the branches of the canopy. The peaceful, rhythmic, eco-system of dense jungle fittingly named the Mystic Ruins was going about its business like any other day. However, today the jungle was going to receive an unexpected visitor.
Uncharacteristically, Sonic the Hedgehog was taking careful steps through the dense undergrowth along some of the paths.
Even though it was only a few months ago that an archaeological team had cleared numerous paths for their crews and equipment, the jungle had already begun the process of healing itself. There were only two sets of tracks that kept the struggling newborn foliage from reaching their full potential. Carefully following the deep footprints, Sonic was trying to locate a certain recluse. After a few moments, he could hear him.
Past some low hanging vines and overgrown trees and bushes, Sonic spied out Big the Cat. The portly feline was happily sitting at the edge of a stream, a rod and reel lazily hanging into the water. The jolly fisher had had some luck. The half-dozen fish strung together, drooping from a nearby branch, were a testament to that. A few more fish, and Big would have enough for lunch. Suddenly, Sonic spotted someone else.
The amphibious partner to the feline was patiently sitting on the edge of the stream. While Big was gathering his lunch for later, Froggy was pursuing a more immediate meal. Artfully, the little croaker would whip his elongated tongue out and snatch up another portion of his lunch. The stream was an artery for both the cat and frog: on the one hand providing fish, on the other providing flies and mosquitoes.
Sonic watched the soothing scene of composed gathering. After a few moments, the corner of his mouth twisted into a mean-spirited smirk. Quietly, he knelt down into a sprinter's position. Tensing his muscles, Sonic made the final mental preparations. A streak of light played across his face. The light refracted in his eye, causing the green to appear red. A slight wind wiggled a branch into the light's beam. The eye retained its crimson hue.
Just as Big had snagged another fish, a bolt of blue lightning whisked by. The sudden gust of wind whipped Big's ears about. The thunderous noise scattered the fish further down stream. The water was quickly displaced and a misty spray was splashed into Big's face. The cumbersome cat instinctively swiped at his face to clear away the cool water.
"Gee Froggy," Big innocently stated, "That's some weird wind."
Only the swaying of the disturbed branches whispered back.
"Froggy?" Big asked, slowly becoming alarmed.
"Froggy?" he called again.
"Froggy!"
It was monolithic. The ancient temple, born of echidna muscle and brilliance, stood as it had been standing for centuries, perhaps even millennia. For all their modern know-how, the archaeologists came and went from the site with no new understanding as to how the echidnas had constructed such a masterpiece. The cobweb-ridden temple refused to give of itself to the younger, wiser, men of science.
None of that mattered to Cream though. She merrily played in the massive shadow of the pyramid and its high stonewalls. The rabbit was delightfully romping around with her dearest friend Cheese. The occasion was more special than that, however. Today, Cream and Cheese had gone in search of Cheese's brother, Chocola.
Recently, Chocola's chao colony had migrated to the pristine streams that wound their way to and around the temple. For the most part, it was an irony to anyone who knew the history of chaos and echidnas. The innocent, wide-eyed chaos, and their anthropomorphic friend were too busy merrily cavorting in history's shadow to learn the grim cosmic humor in it all. They enjoyed themselves to the extent that they didn't notice they were being watched, stalked.
As Cream chased Cheese toward the stream on the north side of the temple, Chocola took the opportunity to bolt west. Hoping to hide around the temple's corner, Chocola, and two others, were catching their breath. They were unawares that one of them had a reckoning fast approaching.
Before any one of the three tag participants could enjoy their temporary respite, a great gust of wind burst through one of the dilapidated gates, blew two of the airborne chaos to the ground, and snatched up the third! Taking a quick account of their numbers, the two on the ground quickly realized that the third, Chocola, was missing! They raised an alarm.
"Oh dear," was all Cream could muster to deal with the bizarre disappearance of her friend's dearest relative.
"Beautiful," the artist whispered.
Though most of his colleagues swore by digital cameras, Stanley Parker refused to recant the quality of an older style camera. For a number of years, he had used his cumbersome camera, given to him by his mother, with little disdain for its craftsmanship. It even managed to perform its current job without blurring a single frame. Though it still had to be developed, the twenty-something sports photographer knew that the film didn't miss a beat of the bird's wings.
True, it was fun taking pictures of batters in mid-swing, NASCAR racers rounding hairpin curves, and tennis players as they served, but Stanley's passion had always been in nature. The urbanite found that, indeed, the powers of nature, especially those contained within the Mystic Ruins, could dispel the monotony of nine-to-five hum drudgery. Right now, he was taking this solemn occasion to use his rapid-fire camera to take shots of a hummingbird as it went about its daily routine of sipping nectar out of a bloom in the tree opposite him. It was from these elevated positions that the best pictures could be taken. Unfortunately, a distant whistle was beginning to irritate the vacationing photographer, causing him to lose focus, both mentally and camera-wise.
Turning his attention to the narrow path cutaway in the dense undergrowth, he noticed a streak of blue barreling its way towards his position. Could it be?
Despite his professional side telling him that he wouldn't get good results, the "amateur" in him said it would best to try anyway. The intrepid cameraman knew to take his opportunities when he got them. There wouldn't be time to change lenses, if necessary, only to try and focus as best he could.
Within seconds the bolt of blue was gone… but, not before Stanley took a few, hopefully, decent pictures of his would-be-inspiration.
They were sure to please Ms. Jimson, his boss. Sure, Sonic wasn't in his "field of expertise," but Stanley knew that anything with Station Square's number one hero involved was sure to sell big.
Not only that, but Stanley, an admirer of the spiky do-gooder, would certainly be happy to keep some of the pictures for his private scrapbooks.
"There! Finished at last!"
Despite the circumstances, Eggman always received a boost from a job well done. He was actually invigorated to the extent that he, almost, forgot about his present condition.
"Now," Eggman resumed, "I just need someone to send it to."
Eggman was referring to the voice-activated radio he'd just finished modifying. It turned out, that among the random bits of equipment stashed in the boxes, there were two "walkie-talkies." Using his know-how, and some additional parts from around the room, Eggmanincreased their battery usageto last weeks,modified one of theradios to an automatic
VOX mode, and installed a voice-changer in the other. He'd even built a crude "messenger." Using spare robot components, the doctor had constructed a skeletal spider-bot.
All things considered, Eggman was exceedingly proud of his device and his plan for countering Metal's audacious coup. There was just one glitch: Who was going to help?
Eggman knew it was useless to reach his robotic troopers, their simple minds wouldn't be able to discern between the real Eggman and an imposter that was, flatteringly, similar. If he knew anything about his brilliant E-666, it was that the Grouping of Omniscient Gadgetry would be able to mimic his appearance and jam any sensor technology to prevent recognition. Sometimes, his designs were too good. So, who else?
Primarily, Eggman needed somebody that wouldn't question helping him. Automatically, many of the people Eggman thought of were eliminated outright. Many of them were enemies, or worse, would want reimbursement up front. Who? Who? Who!
"Bah!"
Eggman worked himself into such a frenzy that he kicked a nearby box for all it was worth. Immediately, the doctor heard a distinctive thud, the sound of a book falling open.
Eggman leaned over the side of the box and saw his savior. Lying open, on the ground was the most indispensable item in any household, or stronghold: the Yellow Pages. Snatching the cumbersome directory up, Eggman set to pacing, while turning pages, searching for some information. He was quickly disappointed to find that "M" didn't contain mercenaries and that "B" didn't advertise any bounty hunters. He even tried the cross-reference "H" for hunters, bounty. As further searches proved considerably useless, the peevish gadgeteer settled on "D." Eggman raised an eyebrow when he read the following, aloud:
"Missing persons? Lost toys? No case too big, no crime too small! The Chaotix Detective Agency. Your problems are our concern, we'll pursue any case at any hour; No money down, satisfaction guaranteed. Phone: 555-5555; Address: 1984 Aquarian Avenue, Station Square.
"Bingo! These guys are just what I'm looking for: Courageous, willing… and stupid."
Eggman quickly programmed the micro-GPS coordinates into the cybernetic arachnid and placed its special cargo, now wrapped in a plain brown box and paper and tied with simple twine, on its back. Having already removed the air vent cover, Eggman watched with marked concern as his only hopes scuttled into the ductwork.
After a moment's reflection, Eggman couldn't help but think that the name was familiar: Chaotix. Just, where had he heard that name before?
Oh well, it couldn't have been that important.
Continued…