Chapter Text
The Ship of Theseus
A paradox and thought experiment composed of a question of identity; a ship is constantly replaced by new and new wood, until none of the ship is composed of the wood of old. The experiment asks if the ship is still fundamentally the same ship, despite being comprised of new components. It begs the question; who are you when you aren’t?
“Stone, quit standing there like a cobbled statue of your namesake. What do you want?” The doctor’s voice was exasperated; once the agent's presence was a welcomed distraction, now it just was a pained annoyance.
Before he could open his mouth to promptly answer the doctor (dark bruises that covered his arms reminded him of the consequences of if he didn’t), Stone’s train of thought and speech was interrupted by the sounds of high-tech welding.
“Sir, I’ve been -” ZZRRRP
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my genius. Speak louder, suckling sycophant.”
Before, the alliterative name-calling would’ve made Stone swoon, blood pumping in his heart (and other places). Yet now, that love was gone, all that was left was raw, fearful, devotion.
“Sir,” he started again, “I’ve been thinking-”
“HAH! That’s a first.” zzzzrp
“I’ve been thinking that it would be nice if,” Stone tripped slightly on a discarded coffee cup, emptied and crumpled. At least he was useful for something. “If we went out. Like old times. It doesn’t have to be big, but it seems like you’ve,” another coffee cup crunched under Stone's boot as he approached closer and closer to the doctor’s workbench. “You’ve been neglecting some of your duties. Have you been wearing your braces?”
With the mention of his so despised class 1 medical device, Robotnik spun around, giving Stone a good look at what he was working on.
“Oh gosh, sir, what are you-”
In one swift motion, uncommon recently due to the doctor’s state, Robotnik grasped his agent’s arm, grabbed his tie, pulling him closer than he had been in months. The doctor’s nails dug into Stone’s bruised arm, sure to have drawn blood; another scrape and scab to tend to later, courtesy of the doctor.
“What does it look like, you trembling louse? I'm growing, evolving.”
The word apotheosis ran across Stone’s mind as he looked up at the doctor, his hand work now eye level.
The doctor was a man of inventions, yet never had he tampered with humans. Flesh was too unpredictable to be of aid, he had said, yet now, that ideal had been broken. The smell of burning meat and smoldering metal filled Stone’s nostrils, the melding of bone and tissue and steel and shine now overpowering his senses.
Dr. Robotnik’s kneecap had been removed, now replaced with a joint of iron framed by burnt and bloodied skin that once was fully Robotnik.
Stone nearly puked. Yes, he had seen the results of death and decay, but never on something living. Never on the deity that was his Dr. Robotnik.
“Well, quit your staring and come help me. This badkneec, get it, won’t heal itself. Grab me some gauze.”
“Yes, doctor,” Stone’s voice trembled, “of course doctor.”
“Oh, and Stone? Burn my braces.”