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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
- 5
- 6
- 7
(A)BORT, (R)ETRY, (F)AIL?

PART ONE: RECONFIGURATION

A/N: HA! Early! Sort of. Longish chapter again. o.o; *sigh* Enjoy or whatever, this chapter’s a little more involving than the last few. And no censored/uncensored version for this one. Forte’s slowly getting pretty again XD;;

Halfway through random fic that I’ve been doing for my girlfriend, looks like it’s going to be on AFF.net only XD;;; *trudges along with it*

Review? ._.

“Anyone can become angry-that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way- that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.” – Aristotle

Chapter 6 - Anger

Forte shivered a little, feeling the first light of day invading his senses, and was confused by it. The light never reached his bed, and this was a lot more comfortable than the lump of clothing he was used to, so he hadn't slept out in the woods. His hands reached out, running over the downy material of the blanket he had draped over him - much nicer than his usual scratchy blanket – and he pulled it up over his head, wincing at a sharp, throbbing pain in his back. Why did his back hurt?

His mind felt dogged, taking a long time to catch up with the rest of him. And his head hurt like all hell, the ache was terrible. He must have gotten his ass kicked again, and blacked out at some point. It explained the throbbing in his head, but what the hell was up with the bed he was in? He rested in the warm cave he’d made for himself, not sure he wanted to know where he was.

“...here, boy.” he murmured, surprised with how slurred and unformed his words sounded – it was like listening to someone else speak. There was a steady sting on the left of his mouth that spread over his cheek and irritated him more when he talked. He sighed and felt around for his companion, pushing the blankets back when he didn’t hear or feel him. Gospel didn't come, and he felt himself getting annoyed. Leave it to the wolf to.... to...

He tried to sit up sharply, his body stubbornly taking its time, and he opened his eyes, scanning the room he was in. His voice was tighter, filled with panic now. “Gospel? H..here boy.” No, this wasn’t happening, it had all been a dream, he was just being ridiculous, getting caught up in a nightmare. He ground the heels of his hands over his eyes, stressed, and yelped a little despite himself. His eyes stung badly, and there was a throbbing ache when he did that.

Frowning, he glanced to his right, eyes falling on his reflection in a mirror resting above a dresser, and gasped sharply in surprise. The right side of his face felt like one big bruise, and his eye was nearly swollen shut, he was sure that was why nothing looked right. He ignored it, touching his head slowly, to gauge the damage inflicted there. He was surprised to feel hair and solid scalp instead of sponge, and lowered his hands, noting that they were clean and lacking blood, too.

He turned his head to the left slowly, wincing a little as he did that, and stared in shock at the long, ugly stitching running just below the cheekbone, stopping just short of his ear. He reached up slowly to touch it, then thought better of that, letting his hand drop back down. Why was his face laced up like a god damned football? He was pretty sure there had been more damage than this. He had spotty memories of being attacked by the old man – had Wily decided to fix him up after all that? It didn’t seem likely. Then he remembered the lab. He had run away, first walking and then crawling toward the lab.

He couldn't remember much, everything seemed hazy and disjointed, but that much he could remember. He had been going to the lab. He wasn’t sure why, but something had made him go. What would have made him defy Wily like this and go to the one place he possibly hated more than the fortress? Not only was it stupid, but it was almost a guaranteed ticket for his death, the ultimate “Bad Idea”.

He was sure that the fact that he was even waking up meant that he had made it to Thomas Light's lab and was probably resting somewhere in the house. So, he’d been taken in after all, despite what had happened the last time they’d opened their door to him. And if he was lying here in one piece... Where was Gospel? He would have come with him. He frowned. That was right… he had come here for Gospel, to get him help.

He drew the blankets back fully and slipped out of bed slowly, wincing when his feet slid to the floor and rested on it. Forget his face, his entire body felt like one big bruise. He frowned, angry with himself. Why had his brain turned to mush when he needed it the most? How could he have forgotten about Gospel? He sank back down on the bed, feeling weak in the knees and taking a breather before getting up for good. God, his body was spent.

He reached down to touch his knees, they both ached something fierce, and he strongly suspected they were stripped of flesh from bearing his weight on them as he’d travelled up the road to the old man’s laboratory, unable to walk any longer. He was momentarily surprised to find he was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms, whoever had cleaned him up had also taken the time to dress him, it seemed.

He was also wearing an undershirt, though that had hardly been necessary. There was enough gauze and bandages on his chest to make a shirt in of itself, likely also the product of dragging himself along like that. The faded blue and purple of the shirt looked awkward in contrast to the stark white of the bandages, wrapped around him.

He moved toward the door slowly, ignoring the throbbing protests of pain his body was making. He had to go find his support unit, before he drove himself crazy thinking about it. If he was fixed, then it was likely that Gospel was also either repaired or close to it, and right now he just wanted his wordless companion. He would feel better when he saw Gospel, the wolf would bring him comfort.

He shuffled his feet slowly, making an agonizingly long journey out of a rather short walk out of the room. He was having trouble lifting his feet off of the ground, his legs fought the movement with tooth and nail, but that was just the beginning of his trouble. His pelvis felt tender and hot, and the faintest touch of his flannel pyjama bottoms felt cruel and uncomfortable. His backside had settled into a steady low throb – damn Wily for – the thought sent a slight shiver up his spine, and more pain with it, but he hardly noticed, suddenly feeling rather ill.

Before he could stop himself, he was thinking of the sharp, stabbing pains as Wily had him, accompanied by the disorienting thrumming in his head as it had banged against the floor with every thrust. Wily had seemed so strong then, he couldn’t do anything about it, prohibited by his own protocols. He couldn’t hurt the old son of a bitch, as much as he’d wanted to. And those hands.... Somehow the hands had been the worst part, always grabbing, squeezing, invading –

No. He wasn't going to think about it, about any of this. He knew if he didn't stop now it would cloud his mind, overpowering him with panic until he went mad, driven to the brink of insanity as his mind ran through endless cycles like a dog chasing its own tail. He simply cease to exist. If that didn’t happen, he would be sick again, retching on the floor in a strange place, and that was somehow worse, a degradation he couldn’t handle right now.

He couldn't afford to lose it now, because he had Gospel to worry about. Poor Gospel, with his proverbial guts hanging out, circuits smashed and wires slashed and frayed, needing his main unit now like never before – needing Forte. He would focus on Gospel, because it kept him sane, and he had to be sane to get through this in one piece. His life was a mess, he couldn’t crumble now.

Thoughts threatened to rise up again and sweep him into a state of panic, telling him that Gospel was dead and it was over, all over – he reached up, delivering a sharp slap to his bruised cheek, collected enough to know not to hit his stitches. He forced himself onward, scowling. God, what was wrong with him? This wasn't him – Forte didn't panic, didn't worry like this, and he certainly didn't go smacking himself around. Enough running around in his head like a crazy asshole, he had to deal with this head on.

He focused his attention ahead, hearing voices at the end of the hall – the dining room if he remembered correctly. He limped down it painfully, at a torturously slow pace, expecting Gospel to sense him and come padding over to him with every step. He stopped just short of passing through the doorway, resting his body against the doorframe lightly and letting the cool, smooth wood soothe his aching, burning flesh. He listened quietly to a voice he could now hear clearly.

The voice he had been listening to had belonged to Rock, who sounded above all else, distressed. He leaned in a little further and watched quietly, gripping onto the trim for support. Rock was standing, his chair pushed back and pressed against the back of his legs. He looked less than happy with whatever they had been discussing, hands on his hips as he argued vehemently with his creator, something Forte would never dream of doing in his right mind.

His voice rose sharply in anger the more he spoke. “... believe you won't even try! It could work! He came to us for help, and -”

“Rock, enough.” Dr. Light slammed his mug down, sighing and looking weathered, and groaned inwardly as it spilled everywhere. He grabbed his napkin and pressed it over the spill in a feeble attempt to save his tablecloth. He felt tired and irritable, arguing with Rock was not doing much to improve his mood. “It's not even plausible right now. We don't even know if he would-”

“He would.” Rock insisted firmly, grabbing the dishtowel from Roll as she got up from her seat to clean up the spilled coffee. “I'll get it, it's my fault.” he told her, sighing unhappily, and doing a more thorough job of cleaning up than the napkin had done. “Please dad...” The scientist shook his head slightly, lifting the mug for him and rubbing his face tiredly. “It's not because you don't trust him, is it?” Rock bit his lip, glancing around the table at his family worriedly. “He was hurt for real this time, he wouldn’t fake being hurt like that.” He gripped onto the cloth tighter, frowning.

Light sighed, patting the boy's arm lightly. “I know he was, Rock.” He knew better than all of them, after all, he'd done a lot of the repairs himself, and knew well that Wily wouldn't have done half of what he'd done expecting Forte to still help him; the damage wouldn't make him a very useful fighter, and the rest... Forte would likely never go near Wily again of his own free will. No, he was relatively sure that Wily had just wanted Forte to die, but the Wily bot had been incredibly stubborn and survived. But then, he’d always been like that, hadn’t he?

Rock was staring at Dr. Light hopefully, letting himself be pet and comforted, but clearly not about to give up. “Then why won't you do it?” he sniffed, sounding hurt and stressed, but not pulling away from the older man. “What are we going to say?” He sank back into his chair.

The old man leaned to the side, giving him a brief but meaningful hug, sighing. “Rock... I've done a lot for him.” He thought of adding 'more than he really deserves', but didn't. That wasn't a good attitude to have, and not entirely true, either. Forte had been programmed and raised into what he was, he couldn’t help it any more than the rest of them. “It's the best I can do for now. I have bills to pay, and work to be done. I’m not just giving up.”

Roll sighed, speaking up and interrupting a fast approaching full fledged argument. “Poor Forte. He's-”

“Finally out of my bed. It's about damned time, too. That couch is about the most uncomfortable thing I've ever slept on, mountainsides included.” Blues had been chewing on a piece of toast quietly with a tired, irritable expression on his face that only could have been gained through a bad night's sleep, combined with an early morning. He was now staring past them at the doorway, tired eyes reading Forte as he raised a brow in mild interest. “You hungry, or just in love with the trim?” He held up a box of cereal, offering it to the younger robot, but Forte shook his head idly.

He was glancing around the room quietly, looking distracted and not moving from his spot. His hand reached down and pat the side of his leg lightly, though he didn’t try to whistle with his stitches – he wasn’t that stupid.

Rock sighed, staring at Forte. There was a purpose to the way he was glancing around the room, scanning it. He was searching for something, and Rock had a fairly good idea of just what he was looking for. “Hi, Forte.” He gave him a rather weak smile, feeling like he'd just swallowed a stone that was now sinking to the pit of his stomach. “I was starting to think you were never going to wake up. You've been asleep for three days now. Do you feel any-”

“Where's Gospel.” It wasn't so much a question so much as it was an order. His hand had left his side now, but he was still scanning the room for some sign of his support unit. Rock gave him a sad look Forte could have torn the Light bot's throat out for. He didn't like that look. “He'll be hungry, he hasn’t caught any rabbits in awhile. Where is he?”

Rock glanced at his family, asking wordlessly for help. Roll pulled the chair next to her out quickly. “Forte... Why don't you sit down? We have breakfast, and... and...” She trailed off, Forte wasn't listening.

He was shaking his head firmly, frowning at Rock again. Why weren’t they listening? “I want to see Gospel.”

Rock shifted feet, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Forte, you should really sit down and have something to eat.” He offered again, though his voice had gained an edgy tone to it. He knew he was dealing with a loose cannon, Forte could go off at any time now, and probably would if he didn’t have some questions answered soon.

“Where’s my fucking dog?”

Rock bit his lip, getting to his feet slowly, getting ready to handle Forte if the situation went sour. “We really need to discuss some things with you.” He took a step toward the taller boy, who side stepped him with surprising agility, giving his current state, but didn’t attack. In fact, it seemed as if attacking hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Fuck you, Rock.” he spat, and headed for the lab quickly.

Rock was right on his heels, hurrying after him. “Forte, wait!” He reached out, grabbing the back of Forte's shirt, and the younger robot turned on him, shoving him back hard. He wasn't expecting it, surprised the Wily bot even had enough strength in him to do it. It was enough force to send him reeling, caught off guard.

Forte reached the lab door before he could fully regain his footing, and he cried out after him. “Gospel's dead, Forte!” He’d had no choice. He hadn’t wanted to break the new like this, but he had to warn him before he found out the hard way. It was better this way.

Forte glared at him, holding the door half open. “You're a lying sack of shit. Gospel's not-” he glanced into the room and the words died in his throat as he caught sight of the wolf. He slipped inside quietly and let the door slide shut behind him, staring at the very dead Gospel in front of him.

He was laid out on the table like a jigsaw puzzle someone had failed horribly making, and Forte tried to make a noise that just caught in his throat, fighting both a wave of nausea, and a pitching feeling threatening to force him into another blackout. But he didn’t faint or vomit, he just stared.

The door slid open again behind him and Rock entered the room, but he didn't hear, didn't see. He just stared. Rock walked up to him hesitantly, looking reproachful. “.... Forte... I... I'm sorry...” he set a hand on the taller, slightly more angular back in front of him and suddenly Forte became a life wire, snapping around and grabbing him by the throat.

He squeezed hard, throttling the shorter boy who had just helped him mere days ago. He opened his mouth wide and practically howled in rage and depression, consumed by the loss of the only thing keeping him going; his life. “I'll fucking kill you!! You caused this! It's your fault! Your fault!” He bent Rock back further, squeezing harder, beginning to crush Rock's throat. “If you hadn't interrupted!” He stopped making sense at that point and reverted to screaming and roaring incoherently, fingers digging into the older boy’s neck as he throttled him hard.

Rock groped around blindly for something to fend Forte off with, starting to see spots. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t call for help, but he was sure someone had heard Forte’s screaming, and was presently more concerned with Forte tearing his throat out with his bare hands, then going for the next person who came through the door. He didn't want to hurt him, he just-

Blues grabbed Forte from behind, twisting his arms behind his back roughly and trying to pry him off his brother, who was really having a number done on him. It wasn't a success, Forte wasn't going to let go that easily, but it let up enough that Rock was able to gasp a little for air and clear his mind enough to fight back.

Rock placed a foot on Forte's stomach, pushing hard and Forte tore away, taking a considerable amount of the skin on Rock's neck with him but leaving his throat otherwise intact. Rock panted hard, relieved, and the spots faded away. He found he could think better, though his throat still felt the strain of Forte’s fingers against it.

He got up weakly, covering his bleeding neck with his hands, and backed away from the Wily bot. Forte didn't go after him again, the last act of rage had weakened him again, and he seemed to lose all interest in strangling Rock. He simply let his legs give out under him, and Blues let go as the Wily bot slid to the floor, grabbing Rock and pulling him out of the room quickly.

Forte hardly noticed, breathing heavily, and ceased his yelling. His mouth stung sharply, and he tasted blood, but he hardly cared or noticed. He gripped onto his pyjama bottoms, panting hard, and suddenly the tears came. They were alien, Forte had never cried before, but he had withdrawn so deep into himself that he hardly noticed.

His body shook hard, racked with sobs, and he started to scream again, but he was keening this time. The deep, intense rage was gone, and now he didn’t even have that to fall back on.

Rock took a step toward the lab, the door was still open, and he could see Forte suffering, determined to help him. A hand drew him back again, and he almost resisted it, expecting Blues, but it was Dr. Light this time. “Leave him, Rock.” he murmured lowly, hitting a button on the panel to close the door. “He needs to be alone now.”

Rock stared at Forte's huddled, crouching form as the door slid shut. It broke his heart, but he realized that nothing he said would help Forte in the slightest right now. “O-okay...” He sunk onto the couch, still holding his throat, and listened to Forte’s muffled shrieking, waiting for the calm after the storm.
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(A)bort, (R)etry, (F)ail? Pt. 1: Reconfiguration