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(A)bort, (R)etry, (F)ail? Pt. 1: Reconfiguration	By : Gimp666 Category: +M through R > Mega Man Views: 3876 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own MegaMan, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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(A)BORT, (R)ETRY, (F)AIL?

PART ONE: RECONFIGURATION

A/N: Sorry for the lateness, but my schedule changed for the month. o.o; So for this month, updates will be on a Saturday or a Sunday. *nod*

I finally got glasses. *cheers* I can actually see what I’m typing now. This does not necessarily mean the end of typos, I’ve never really been one to go back and proofread my own stuff.

Much thanks to Popcorn Oracle, Ulforce Diizoid, Poppy Seed, and Moonlight Silver for all the reviews, they are muchly appreciated. To answer a few Q’s, since there’s no real review reply here:

Popcorn Oracle - Maybe something good will actually happy to Forte eventually. Stranger things have happened lol. And it’s good to hear from you again.

Ulforce Diizoid – The weapons used on Forte and/or Gospel were basically test weapons for the Zero project, for lack of a better title lol. Basically, they were beta/test weapons. New alloy I believe.

Please keep reviewing, guys. ;.;

You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today.

~Abraham Lincoln

Chapter Four - Flight

With a deep, wet, ragged cough, the world slowly came back into view. Forte lay still for awhile, vision heavily skewed. One side of his line of sight simply did not register, and he spent a fleeting moment wondering why, before things slowly fell back into place. He reached up slowly, touching his right temple testingly, and immediately rolled to his side and vomited as he was slammed hard with sharp, nauseating pain.

His fingers had sunken into a wet, spongy mess, touching hard straight edges – circuitry, he told himself, and he cut his finger on something sharp. He stared at his hand dully, wondering how badly he had cut it, before it really dawned on him just how much he had bled, the majority of blood was obviously not from his finger, unless it had contained a mass artery of some sort.

Fighting the surging nausea, he gripped a small piece that had cut him and pulled. At first nothing happened, other than a sharp, throbbing pain, and he paused to vomit again, convulsively. Finally, it slid out with a small squeal of protest, and holding it up to his face, he realized it was a flat, torn piece of metal. His lips twitched as he realized what it was in his hands. His skull... He was holding his skull.

His fucking skull.

He tossed it to the side weakly, throwing up again – all blood, it must have leaked into his energy conversion systems down his open mouth while he was unconscious. His body had, of course, rejected what wasn’t energy. He wiped the thin stream trailing out of his mouth away, wiping his tongue on the back of his arm to get the strange, metallic taste out of it.

His world threatened to fade out from beneath him again, and he curled up in the pool of warm and gelled congealing blood, forcing himself to fight the overwhelming urge to slip into that dark state again. It wouldn’t be hard, his body felt heavy, if he just closed his eyes a little longer…

No... He needed to be awake, he knew that. He didn't know why, thoughts were coming slow now, but he knew he had to. So he lay like that for an indefinite amount of time, watching the light from the sun – someone had shattered the lamp and sent his books askew – creep slowly from the far wall. It was setting, night must be drawing near. He was forgetting something. Something wasn’t reaching the surface of his mind.. Something that should be. He was exhausted, dazed, and ill, but he had to remember.

Then the thought finally reached him and his stupefied mind, and he remembered the last thing he'd seen before he sank from the conscious world. Gospel... The last thing he had seen was Wily approaching Gospel with that strange weapon drawn, struggling with the weight of it. His stomach pulled tight and he gasped, refusing to give in to the surge of panic starting to invade his system. Gospel. He had to make sure nothing had happened to him.

It’s too late.

He didn't have a good feeling about it. Already, he'd noticed something badly wrong. Being his support unit, they were networked in a way, their minds interconnected. They had a certain sense of each other, nothing like mind reading, he couldn't tell when Gospel was torturing the local rabbits, but he... he just knew what his companion was up to. He could feel Gospel’s excitement, his heart would sometimes race as though it was he himself on the prowl. Sometimes he swore he could even taste the rabbit’s flesh as Gospel’s jaws closed smoothly around his prey. But the wolf wasn't there. He sensed nothing, no connection, no pull, no.... there, whatever there was.

Gripping onto the desk tightly, he managed to get up slowly, world pitching and lurching dangerously. With a soft grunt, he staggered dangerously, before catching himself again, making himself stand up straighter and taking slow, deep breaths. He stood that way a moment, determined not to pass out again, then opened his eyes, staring at his bed.

Gospel.

He stared numbly at the mess on the bed that had once been his only friend. Circuitry and wires, frayed and littered across the floor, blood splayed on the walls unceremoniously. A piece of purple panelling lay mere feet from his body, thrown across the room and singed black in places. And Wily had taken one of the other weapons laid on the desk and.... and.... skewered his dog on it.

He fought the tide of grief threatening to bowl him over, fighting it with determination. No.. He wasn't going to let it end this way. He wasn't going to lose Gospel like this. There was still a chance, still a place he could go where they would do something for his support unit. Yes... it was the last place he'd ever thought he would return, and he certainly wouldn't have gone for himself, never in a million years, but this was Gospel. If it was for Gospel, his friend, often the only thing keeping him going these days, then he could sacrifice his pride, and return to the one place he'd never wanted to return.

He was going to Light's laboratory.

He walked unsteadily along the wall, reaching Gospel, and lay down with him quietly, petting him soothingly although his companion's eyes looked long since dead, closing the wolf’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what to say, so instead he quoted some Aesop. “The shaft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagle's own plumes. We often give our enemies the means of our own destruction.” That only served to depress him further, and he bit his lip.

He pet Gospel one final time, then sat up. He wouldn't let himself sleep, not after the sight, but he needed a few moment's rest to pool his thoughts together and think of a way out. He could hardly move, he wasn't sure how he was going to manage to carry Gospel there, but he would find a way, for both their sakes. He would make do, and he would do it alone.

There was no way he was going to ask for help from one of the Robot Masters. He didn’t doubt they would help, but he didn’t want them to. For one thing, it wasn't his style. At all. The other reason... It was Gospel. He didn’t want anyone to touch his Gospel. It was just something he had to do alone.

His eyes hardened and he got up – Time to get down to business. He grabbed the ends of the sheet and tied them together. He didn't want any stray parts falling out and getting lost. He gripped the sheet tighter, a vision of Gospel running around headless passing through his mind. God help him, why did he have to think of that now? He tied an extra knot in the sheet, forcing the sight from his mind firmly. He wasn’t going to panic now.

When he was sure it was tight and ready to go, he turned his attention to himself. He dressed painstakingly slow, and in the end he gave up on his actual clothing altogether – too tight. He eventually compromised by draping a sheet around him, and tying it like a horrendously ugly toga. He took the t-shirt he had originally intended to wear, considering it for a moment, then instead wrapped it around his head, swaddling the right side, to keep him from losing some vital circuitry himself. If he ceased functioning and broke down, he would be of no use whatsoever, and Gospel would be gone. It hurt like hell on whatever there was of him exposed, but it was a necessity.

He stood up slowly, hoisting the bundle onto his back, ignoring the way his body screamed in protest. He fought a particularly nasty bout of vertigo, and started for the door carefully, gritting his teeth a little. He told himself it would pass. The disorientation would pass like the nausea, he just had to wait it out. He moved agonizingly slow, which in itself was a blessing in disguise. There was so much blood, and if he slipped and fell, he wouldn't be getting back up. Not in this lifetime, not ever.

As he made his way down the hall and then toward the way he usually snuck out of the fortress, he ran into few robot masters. He avoided their gaze, and they thankfully returned the gesture and did the same. They had probably heard Wily's shouting from here, and he knew he looked like absolute hell. It was rather obvious that he had been punished badly by the old man. No one else could have done this extensive of damage to him without him fighting back. He looked ridiculous, of that he was certain, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. At this point he was worried about one thing, and one thing alone.

He left slowly, using his own steam, and nobody bothered him, and more importantly, nobody tried to stop him, and it was just as well. In fact, he was thankful, he could hardly walk himself, let alone try to fight his way out. He couldn't swing a punch – hell, he couldn't really speak at this point. But obviously Wily hadn’t thought he would actually leave, or he would never have made it past the door to his room.

Finally he was outside, and he spared a moment to enjoy the feel of the cool, evening breeze brush up gently against his sweaty, discoloured skin, soothing the exertion of getting out of his personal hell. He pressed on finally, denying himself further pleasure, he wasn’t about to sit around and enjoy the day, he had less pleasant things to deal with.

He made his way toward the Light residence at a ridiculously slow pace, resting only when he absolutely had to in order to remain functioning, dismayed to find that this happened more frequently as the hours wore on. The day seemed to drag on forever, and the rough terrain was almost killing him, but he didn’t dare step out of the underbrush and walk on the side of the road.

If he didn’t give some random driver a heart attack with his current condition – he mused momentarily on being mistaken for a zombie in some crappy horror film – he might be recognized. And while the thought of running into Rock prematurely and saving himself the torturous journey to the Light residence was tempting, he was more likely to run afoul of some asshole who would just run him down with their car, something he most certainly did not need in his current state. The risk severely outweighed the benefit, unfortunately.

So, he kept walking, keeping his agonizingly slow pace. He found if he denied his thoughts the simple pleasure of drifting away, and focused instead on the intense pain, he travelled faster. He would make it, he didn’t doubt that, but he wanted to be conscious enough to reiterate the necessary information to Dr. Light when he got there. It was both his and Gospel’s best chance for survival. He wouldn’t throw the towel in until he reached his destination. He had to hang on. Just a little longer... For Gospel's sake.
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(A)bort, (R)etry, (F)ail? Pt. 1: Reconfiguration