The plane landed in front of the familiar Thorndyke Garage. Stylus guessed that they had three hours before The Man's cronies came along to try to figure out what exactly happened. Stylus said he could carry everything in by himself, so everyone else left to do their own thing.
It was early in the morning at this point, but the sun was already out. Amy and Chris entered the mansion, Sonic ran off elsewhere, and Tails entered the garage.
Soon, Stylus finished carrying the boxes and bodies in. He then started taking apart the long-dead robots until their memory cores remained. He planned to safe-guard them in two of the boxes in the event that an opportunity to salvage their memories came.
First off, sorting out the stuff in the crates. There were lots of ammunition for Stylus' side arm and rifle. Both of which are standard-issue for troopers of his brand. There were also bars of the material he required more than ever these days, as well as tattered blueprints for bullets. After all, they're considered discontinued, but not obsolete.
He sorted out the rounds to two of the boxes, and the bars to as few as possible. While emptying a crate of bars, Stylus came across a small hand-held console.
It was old, but well-preserved. Stylus attempted to turn it on. Apparently, the power supply had been taken out. "Alright then," Stylus muttered before placing the small console onto the workbench. He put each of the cores into a box and locked them up tight. Of course, there were still spare parts in a neat pile next to the console. The robot would take care of it later.
After that, Stylus started carrying the boxes upstairs, sliding them under the table he had been chained to the first time he was here. That still left the spare parts and the console.
Stylus was about to ask Tails for a favour when he spotted the fox shifting in a sofa bed while wearing a comical night cap.
Nevermind then, Stylus thought as he returned downstairs. There were a few taller organics in suits standing outside the garage-side gate a few meters away.
They appeared to be patiently waiting to be noticed. Before Stylus could be the one to potentially offer hospitality... or a knife to the legs... another man in a nice suit approached the gate.
Oh wait, that was the butler. Stylus recalled seeing him. Despite high-quality audio sensors, it was difficult to determine what was being said. Stylus just shrugged and searched the place for a good bag to hold the spare parts in. He used his backpack, of course, but he only had enough space for a quarter of a body's worth. Perhaps he could go out sometime later and get materials to make one. Sewing can't be that hard... Or did he try it before...?
He couldn't remember, which is a familiar thought by now. Corrupted memory bits and all. Stylus decided against carrying the spare parts manually upstairs. The clanking and junk heap sounds would peeve off Tails.
Stylus stared at the console once more before turning to walk outside. There were quite a few suited men, and the butler probably wouldn't be able to take care of them.
They were big dudes, obviously kept themselves fit to maintain optimal performance on-assignment. They reminded Stylus of himself.
"Ah, just the man we wanted," the closest man-in-black said.
The butler looked at Stylus, then asked in a remarkably cool and collected tone "How do you know about him?"
"I'm guessing it's because I tore apart an Eggman robot."
"As effectively as Sonic, even. But your method's different. It can be harnessed by good men and women who fight Dr. Eggman."
"As much as I'd like to help soldiers like myself, I want to make my side clear," Stylus paused, making sure all of the men-in-black were listening. "I am not going to supply this manner of weapons or ammunition to anyone other than myself."
"That's a pretty selfish claim," one man commented.
"And yet, if I let you boys have it, your government will probably have the most effective small arms for quite possibly generations."
Stylus paused. He started remembering some things. He remembered the first big regret of his life. "That's right, I did give away my tech before..."
The details were fuzzy in his memory banks, but it involved an armadillo blacksmith figuring out how to synthesize the metal, and developing weapons with said metal.
Stylus was unofficially married then, to Stella of course. Lorem and the other townsfolk accepted it- hell, even had expected it for a long time.
He remembered selling a bar to the armadillo, thinking that said armadillo was going to use it to juice up his own tools. Stylus also needed the money in order to pitch in for a new tractor. The old one finally croaked for good.
It wasn't a good idea in hindsight, and it resulted in a town getting burned to the ground. Stylus had to go in and murder the armadillo himself. So much of the synthesized stuff lay around the armadillo's slowly burning workshop. The robot's hands tightly fastened around the smith's throat. Stylus could have crushed the neck immediately, making the death quick. Instead, he took his time.
It was relatively thrilling. Stylus almost forgot that same thrill. He hadn't been back at Robotropolis for sixteen years. Stella was thirty-five now, and one hell of a worker at this point.
He swore never to let anyone he didn't fully trust to handle the metal ever again.
Stylus told the basic story, mentioning only the smith, the ill intent, and Stylus having to fix the problem himself. Of course, the men in suits seemed to react as if Stylus just invented the story so he could have a reason to tell them off. With a confident smirk, one held a hand through the gate, holding a simple business cart containing nothing but a phone number. "In case you change your mind," the man said before they all left.
Stylus glanced at the butler, who had one hell of a poker face. It was next to impossible to read. "Got a light?" the robot asked. The butler shook his head.
"If there a fireplace in the mansion then?"
"No," the butler replied.
Stylus shrugged, and started walking back to the garage.
"I was joking, Master Stylus."
Stylus paused, then huffed amusedly. He never was used to being a superior metaphorically. He could kill Robotnik if he really wanted to, but he didn't want to. He still considered Robotnik his superior.
An odd thing to happen over forty... forty... Plus another sixteen, recalling that Stella was thirty-five at that time. Fifty-six confirmed years so far.
The robot resumed his trek. Instead of entering the garage, he made his way to the swimming pool diving board. Once there, Stylus repeated the same process and unfolded his solar collector wings.
Sleep mode activated. Stylus continued thinking, trying to determine how long he had been gone.
How old was Stella when Patrick entered their lives? Damn corruption.
He returned from sleep mode a couple of hours later. Afterward, Stylus returned to the garage... They really needed to fix that hole.
As he started sorting out the spare parts, Stylus started remembering missing data. After the armadillo incident, Stylus returned home to find that Lorem was dying.