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He shouldn’t have survived. A pesky thing such as an astral explosion would render any human less than living, but it hadn’t with the doctor. Despite the tedious recovery and ongoing physical therapy, it was more than obvious that one Dr. Ivo Robotnik would be disabled for the rest of his life.
Strapping on his braces every day, the doctor noted how much his unstable patella would move. A few centimeters to the right, a few up. He would jot them down on his increasingly disheveled “findings notebook”, of which there were more than 50, fully written in, although barely legible, stacked near to the ceiling. Prior to the crash, the doctor would’ve asked Stone to move them, but something about the clutter now made him safe.
Protected.
His other joints were no better; hips dislocating, elbows subluxing, even his hands could no longer grip a pencil the right way. Any attempts at letting his lowly agent help him were shut off with a firm sneer and, when he could gain enough strength to do so, a hard shove. That would show him what happens when you ask Dr. Robotnik, the mastermind genius, to be helped on and off of the bed.
Humiliating, it was, to be rendered a sack of pain and suffering.
He used to be better.
He used to be great.
He used to be Ivo Robotnik.