ROBERT
A lot of time had passed.
Robert thought he was in the forest at first, because of how comfortable the ground felt. But the arid heat reminded him of the Forbidden Zone. The vibration reminded him of Robotropolis.
He froze in place when he opened his eyes, blinded by how close he was to Robotnik's city, so close he could smell the burning oxygen and rubber, the machine-sweat, the industry. As still as ice, Robert fought to remember what brought him there, what went wrong, why he felt so out of place. Why underneath the oil, wafting on the hot breeze, he could smell blood.
His nose itched and he sneezed. He expected an alerted SWATbot any minute, but nothing came for him. He waited…
Still nothing.
Then, he chanced movement. If it was still daytime, he couldn't tell. The sky was charcoal black, swirling like a whirlpool. Clouds of dust moved sluggishly in an outward spiral, clear over the treetops. The heat came from friction underground, the light from fiery furnaces. Robert's ears crawled with an external buzz.
Robotropolis was alive, and expanding like the clouds above him.
He stood to his feet, pushing against the incredible weight of himself. His bare feet slid across the dirt, pebbles sticking to the red fur on his legs and stomach. He was about to brush himself off when he saw that he was holding something in his left hand.
… A gun.
This… what was this doing here? He turned the hunk of steel flesh over in his hand; the vibration under his feet, the imminence of capture right in front of him but he couldn't, couldn't let go of the gun. The barrel was still warm from the shot fired how long ago? Ten minutes? The sky, the sky, the sun is blocked but he's warm, so is the gun, what did he use it for and why couldn't he remember? Knothole. Knothole. Was he going to Knothole or coming from it? Going to the robot city, going to the grave of Mobotropolis? Ouch ouch ouch OW OW! Too much, too much…
There was nothing to it. He just started walking into the city, heading northeast. He remembered the stories told by Sally, the leaders, Rotor, Sonic, how scary this place was, what Eggman had done, but really… he didn't feel all that scared. He had to dodge and backtrack and watch his back constantly, but strangely, he was handling it just fine. Easy. Easy breezy.
A half hour or an hour later, he ducked behind a scrap pile in the south sector, listening to metal feet clank and disappear into the distance. Robert felt exhausted but oddly attuned to his surroundings, adrenaline racing through him, pounding in his ears to the exact tune of his heart. He clutched the gun tighter, and continued on, plunging deeper and deeper into the heart of the enemy.
The air was filled with sounds of metal being pounded in the distance, the hiss of the underground furnaces, the rhythm of footsteps, all coming from behind a white building in the central district, so completely out of place, sticking out like the sore gun in his hand, and…
And somehow… more and more, it looked like it was made to stand out, that perfect pearl white against all that jutting rust and decomposition. However it was possible, he knew that it was important.
But… not what he came for. He continued on, circling around to the northern side of the building. No windows there, only on the south side. He moved on and on, and to his surprise, he didn't have far to go. The hard part appeared to be over, and now all he had to do was put all of the pieces together, find out why his memory was on the fritz. Where the gun came from. Why he wanted to go here, of all places, where he was going-
Here.
Oh no.
Right here.
Chuck, Uncle Chuck's hut, tucked away into the back alleys of Robotropolis. A sizeable walk east of the white building.
The door was still cracked open, darkness oozing inside. Robert shivered violently and felt a scream starting in his stomach, crawling upwards into his heart, his lungs his throat his mouth-
He pushed into sanctuary and slammed the door, sniffing in the cold air and swallowing it. He no longer felt warm.
He sat down at the examination table, leaning on the aging maps and plans. Chuck's surveillance equipment was scattered across the table and the room, long deactivated, shorted out. Fluorescent lights flickering on and off.
A pool of blood was inching closer to where Robert was sitting. He sat in the chair long enough for it to touch his toes, but he decided against moving. He welcomed the heat. He sighed and looked over to where the cold shell of Uncle Chuck was sitting, sharing the same fate as his equipment. Chuck's eyes blankly surveyed the room. The blood sank into Robert's toes and he shut his eyes, finally remembering…
Chuck's chest cavity was wide open, ready for tinkering. Tools sitting at his feet, neatly organized. Convenient. Too prepared, too predetermined. A second pair of dead eyes glowed from behind the red curtain.
The gun clattered to the floor.