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(A)bort, (R)etry, (F)ail? Pt. 1: Reconfiguration	By : Gimp666 Category: +M through R > Mega Man Views: 3875 -:- 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: Wow, I haven’t written in a long time. .-.Here’s something I’ve been working at off and on since March break. o.o;; I’m still not really sure how I feel about it, to be honest. The fic isn’t really action packed, though there is a bit of gore over the first few chapters. It centers mostly on Forte. If you like/dislike/whatever, please drop a review. ^^

The road of life can only reveal itself as it is traveled; each turn in the road reveals a surprise. Man's future is hidden.

Anonymous

Chapter One – An unexpected visitor

The dim room was filled with shadows, their source a small garage sale quality lamp balanced painstakingly on a stack of books of roughly the same grade. It had been left on when its owner had left in a rush after being paged on an intricate intercom system. It rested silently in the corner now, under which someone had painstakingly made a kind of nest, blankets and clothes piled up and a thick indent still in them from his body. Near the pinnacle of light sat a desk, heavily laden with strange objects, stretching across the room, its glowing veil barely touching a solid steel door.

The door slid open to the right slowly, and a thin dagger of light cut through the shadows, thrown up against the far side of the room. A black outline cast a thick shadow through it, motionless. For a moment it stayed that way as the figure on the other side of the door sagged, leaning against the door frame heavily. His breath came in small sharp gasps, and he had a shirt balled and pressed against his side in a failing attempt to keep blood off the floor. He hung in the doorway a moment longer before finally pushing the door the rest of the way open, limping in slowly and standing to the side as a purple robot closely resembling a wolf padded in after him, also sporting a mild limp.

Forte turned his head to the side a little, sweat tracing down the one visible purple splash on his cheek, looking like a stream of tears. He regarded his companion quietly as he let the door shut, pressing against it heavily with a slight grunt. “Well, Gos... Looks like we made it.” He brushed a stray strand of purple hair out of his face – he'd called his armor off shortly after his fight with Rock and his stupid dog, Rush, using the t-shirt he'd been wearing underneath to slow the bleeding on the gash he'd received.

Gospel cocked his head to the side, giving Forte an appraising stare that seemed to say “barely”. He licked Forte's hand as it abandoned the sweaty, tussled purple mop of hair and fell to his side again, then nudged him lightly in the direction of Forte's makeshift bed. He never left his master's side, however, standing next to him patiently.

Forte gave a raspy chuckle, despite himself. “Yeah, yeah.. bed. I know.” He pat his friend on the head gently, heading over to the mass of stolen blankets and shirts in the corner and dropping on them unceremoniously. He found he didn't really care for human fashion, he really only wore enough to keep him from being naked, but the clothes made a rather comfortable resting spot for Gospel and himself. And right now he fully intended to take advantage of it.

He settled himself more comfortably, keeping the injury from brushing against the blankets, and from open vulnerability to falling objects, or Gospel, who shared the bed with him. Then, he began to let his mind wander. Closing his eyes, he thought back to the fight quietly, nursing his side slowly.

He'd been out on a mission and had hardly even got there when lady luck decided to throw one hell of a bitch fit on him, the little blue bastard showed up. Rockman had tried, par the usual, to befriend Forte in the moment of his attempted apprehension, show him the err of his ways and all that crap. Rock had been met with Forte's own special way of turning the offer down – a shot at the face, and a rather vicious fight, which had been cut short when Rockman had blasted a hole in his side, tearing through his bodysuit beneath his chest plate. A lucky shot, really, that was all it had been.

He wondered idly if Rock realized how utterly stupid his methods were. If the brat really wanted to make friends with him, he would stop getting him in shit with the ornery old man. That would be a good start down the path to an ever blossoming friendship, or at least make Forte's life a little easier. He rolled his eyes at the thought. Today was just not one of his better days, that was for sure. He decided to just wait awhile before making it worse and bearing his creator the bad news.

He'd tell Wily he failed in the morning, not that it would come as any major surprise to the aging scientist. They always lost. He was tired of failing, but at least it did something to ease his blood lust a little. Forte wouldn't have much to do if Rockman wasn't around, always trying to thwart him. He loved fighting, and fight he did, constantly. If Rock were dead he'd be out of a job and bored as hell. Not to mention the whole becoming expendable thing. Wily needed him, and Forte liked things that way. It was a good security net, he supposed.

Lately, however, he had been doing what he liked referring to as 'independent' work. The old man, more wrinkly than ever it seemed, had been distracted and strange lately, spending more time alone, and less time stirring up trouble. He was almost always in his lab these days, and even stranger, he'd started locking the door. Even the override pass code Forte had been given didn't work. It was downright bizarre, Wily loved having someone to listen to him gloat.

The changes had happened so fast, it was like he woke up a different person. At first Forte had associated it with that pesky “aging” that humans tended to go through before death, almost sure his creator was going senile, but after close examination – and a little spying, he'd discovered that the good old doctor was working on a new robot. He didn't seem to be preparing for another war, however, and things became dull again, as Forte got bored with spying on the old bastard. And so things had gone on that way for months, Forte forced to find ways to entertain himself.

At least, until earlier that day, when Wily had paged him, shouting as always and demanding he come to his laboratory. It had been the first time in almost a month that the old man had requested his services, and he had been warned severely not to let the old man down. So it was really no surprised that he was so reluctant to go telling the old man he'd failed so badly. Wily was likely to start ranting and raving again, and it got on Forte's nerves. Especially considering he hadn't managed to secure a single item on the doctor's list.

But who could blame him for failing, really? It was outrageous, the things he wanted, and the amounts of it, too. Impossible. There was no way he could have gotten it all, he didn't know what the old man had been thinking. The miserable old bastard had probably been setting him up for failure just so he'd have a reason to throw a fit. Still, he didn't think so. Something didn't sit right with him, and Forte had always had a strong intuition.

Forte let loose a deep, resounding sigh and closed his eyes. His vision was getting dimmer, the edges seemed to be closing in on him, and he realized how utterly exhausted he was. There were several minor systems flashing red, and he couldn't ignore them any longer without risking passing out somewhere unfamiliar or unfriendly. Getting back with the injuries he had sustained had been a real bitch, and now he just wanted to sleep.

He reached out lazily, resting a hand no his companion's head, patting him a little then just resting it there. “Night, Gos. I'm done.” he mumbled, yawning openly, then his eyes slid shut and he was asleep in mere moments.

At least, that's how it should have been. Unfortunately, Forte only made it to the realm that exists halfway between conscious thought and dreams when he heard a loud pounding on his door. Life had a rather wicked sense of humour sometimes, and he would have smirked if he'd been in better humour – and health. Groaning, he lifted himself to a hunched position on his hands and knees, hand still clasped against his side, gripping the now drenched shirt pressed there, cursing under his breath. He'd have to replace that with something better later. Talk about shitty luck.

Who could that even be? Most of the robot masters avoided him like he was a black cat under a ladder, the rest were just indifferent, and ignored him as he ignored them in turn. He got to his feet slowly, rolling his eyes at another knock, and started for the door, stopping and hissing at Gospel as he wriggled over and captured Forte's prime location on the bed. “That's my spot! Damned dog.”

He groaned as Gospel as he rolled onto his side, stretching lazily and grinning at him with his eyes. Oh, this had better be good. “I'll deal with you after.” The knocking had turned to banging, and he took the last four steps to cross the room, punching the door release code into the panel, glancing out into the hall as the door slid open, and –

His blood ran cold.

An elderly man stood on the other side of the door. His hair was almost completely white, with flecks of steely grey throughout it. It was shooting out of control, growing out the sides of his head like crab grass between the cracks of an ill tended sidewalk. His eyes were an icy blue, and humourless. The only thing they seemed to hold was cruelty. Draped over his shoulders was a dirty, ill-fitting as of late white lab coat, underneath he wore a blue shirt and black, old man dress pants. Most importantly though, he wore a rather menacing, contemptuous glare that left Forte frozen in place.

Wily. Fucking Wily was on the other side of his door, and he didn't look very pleased to see him. Forte continued to stare at him, gripping the door frame tightly, until the old man finally broke the silence.

“Are you going to let me in or are you going to continue staring at me like a fool?”

Forte backed away from the door slowly, holding the door open for him, still in shock. Wily was in his room. He tried to think back to a time when Wily had ever come to his area of the fortress and couldn't recall a single time in all the years he had served under the old man that he had made such a trip. Not for Forte, not for any of the robot masters either. He'd heard a few rather disturbing stories, but he'd deemed them false a long time ago. He'd always thought Wily found the place too lowly for his ancient bones.

This end of the fortress was constantly damp, and lacking in both warmth and sunlight, something humans seemed to thrive on. Yet, here he was, and oh boy did he look royally pissed. And even worse, a small part of Forte was sure the old man knew he was finally cracking his shell, finally getting to him, and he sensed the old man was smug about it.

Forte winced inwardly. If Dr. Albert Wily was standing in his room, then it could only possibly mean one thing. Forte felt his stomach churn and a brief wave of nausea washed over him as a deep shiver ran up his spine. He found himself helpless against the dread crushing him under its weight. Wily was in his room, and he was going to die.

A hand reached past him, skin drier than parchment and more withered than time itself, and pulled his hand in from the doorway, allowing it to slide shut. Forte felt his heart race and struggled hard to bring his emotions under control and force a poker face, not wanting the older man to know how utterly terrified he was. The door sealed with a slight hiss, and Wily spoke with a steady calmness. “You failed me, Forte.”

In his mind flashed a quick image he had seen a few Halloweens prior, while running a few “errands” for the good doctor. He had been walking past a store window, when he had seen a Halloween display, featuring a bubbly, cartoon skeleton. Its eyes were round, wide black sockets, and its long, badly proportioned skeletal arm had been extended in nearly the same position as now. It had appeared almost comical then, yet now the returning memory was filling him with dread.

He forced the thought from his mind, focusing on the situation at hand. Forte stared at the door as it slid shut, numb and finding himself for once completely and utterly speechless. He turned slowly to face his creator – soon to be his executioner, and gave the very faintest of nods. No sense in lying, it was rather obvious he had lost, and he couldn't even find his voice, forget make bad excuses. He doubted Wily would have listened to any from him anyway. Not at this point, at least.

Wily stared at him, his beady eyes boring holes into the young robot while holding him captive. He crossed his arms, impatient. Forte was playing the mute, it seemed. He found it irritating, among several other things. He waited a few seconds more for a response, while his creation just stood there, staring at him stupidly, then spoke up. “You have a voice box.”

Forte came to life quickly, nodding. He wasn't going to show Wily how freaked out he was. “Y-yes...” Wily was already in a bad mood, and he really didn't want it to make the situation any worse for him.

He turned from Forte, eyes sweeping the room Forte called home. It was small, and dingy. There was dirt and mould building up in the corners, and one of the walls had a thick crack on it from absorbing a rather livid Forte's rage one day, when he was first built. It had been what people commonly refer to as a temper tantrum. Knowing his creation, the first of many he'd had in this room. He was past that stage now, though. He hadn't had a fit in a long time, unfortunately Wily couldn't say the same.

The room wasn't much, but it was everything Forte had, and it was enough to provide him with some privacy, and a place to rest when he was weary. The purple robot stared on quietly as the old man analyzed his room, growing more uncomfortable by the second. He didn’t like this… he didn’t like this at all.

Wily saw this and rolled his eyes, glancing over at the intercom and the mass of clothing and blankets underneath it. The bed looked ragged, and reminded him of something a dog might sleep in – he might almost mistake it as Gospel's were it not for the fresh blood on the top sheet from Forte's wounds. The old man frowned at the thought, disgusted. How fitting, that Forte should live like a lowly dog. The little bastard probably preferred it, too. After all, Forte acted like a wild animal most of the time.

Finally, his gaze fell on the lamp near the bed, and the books holding it up. A glance to the left showed more books, to the right... books. He couldn't help but feel a little surprised at that. He'd never in a million years would have pegged Forte out as a reader, he'd certainly never programmed it into him. but then, his creations had all picked up a wife variety of habits and hobbies he'd never thought them capable of. He had always assumed that if they developed any they would be directly related to the part of their personalities that was ingrained into their programming.

This was just another example of just how dangerously wrong that kind of thought could be. Forte had books on several different subjects, many beyond what he thought Forte's comprehension to be – philosophy? Poetry? He hadn't created Forte to be cultured, he'd created him to destroy – to kill. Yet, he had almost no literature on that subject, with the exception of a few faded books on war strategy. He never thought Forte would read Homer, but apparently he had been wrong.

But then, he'd never really bothered with this aspect of his creation's lives, either. He didn't know what they did in their spare time – didn't care, as long as they did what he wanted, when he wanted it. Outside of that, they could be avid underwater basket weavers for all he cared. But Forte wasn't doing what he wanted, why else would he be in this rank prison? He let his eyes linger over the room a few moments longer. He wasn't doing what Wily wanted, and now he would have to be punished more severely for his repeated failure. Fun time was over.
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(A)bort, (R)etry, (F)ail? Pt. 1: Reconfiguration