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Rain lashed the windows of the federal intelligence building like it was trying to get in. The wind howled outside, making the trees bend like they were apologizing. Inside, Agent Stone sat impeccably straight at his desk, tie crisp, shoes shined to mirror-like perfection. He had just re-alphabetized the entire surveillance disc archive (again) and was considering doing it a third time, purely recreationally.
That’s when the door opened.
Well—exploded might have been a better word. The knob clanged against the drywall with a bang that made the ceiling tiles tremble. A figure strode in, long coat flaring behind him, goggles askew on a wild nest of hair. The man was chewing gum like it owed him money.
“Which one of you government meat suits is the handler assigned to me?” he demanded.
Stone blinked.
The room went dead quiet. A nearby agent dropped her pen. Someone coughed. A coffee cup was abandoned mid-sip, trembling in its styrofoam home.
Robotnik pointed a gloved finger directly at Stone. “You. The one with the sad eyes and excellent posture. Are you the babysitter I’m cursed with?”
Stone opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Yes, sir. Agent Stone. I’ve been assigned as your operational liaison.”
“Liaison,” Robotnik repeated, chewing the word like he was tasting it. “That sounds unnecessarily sensual for what this is. I’ll allow it.”
He dropped a briefcase onto the nearest desk (not his own) and flopped into the chair behind it. The chair wheezed in protest.
Stone approached, calm but alert, like someone about to pet a particularly angry cat.
“I’ve read your file,” he began. “Your innovations in drone warfare have been revolutionary. The military is very interested—”
“Obviously they are,” Robotnik interrupted, snapping his goggles down and typing something furiously into a wrist-mounted keypad. “Because I’m brilliant. You ever see a genius in real time, Agent Stone?”
“I might be looking at one,” Stone replied politely.
Robotnik paused.
Then he smirked. “Flatterer.”
He leaned back, examining Stone through the green tint of his goggles. “You don’t blink much, do you?”
“I try not to,” Stone answered.
“Good. I can’t work with people who blink too much. Shows weakness. Or dry eyes.”
Stone felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. The man was… intense. But oddly magnetic.
“Do you drink coffee?” he asked, more as a lifeline than a genuine question.
Robotnik looked insulted. “What kind of question is that? Of course I drink coffee. It’s the only socially acceptable upper. I drink it intravenously. Make it black, bitter, and stronger than your sense of duty.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone said. “I’ll fetch a cup.”
He moved with precision, as he always did, making his way to the break room like a soldier on a mission. Behind him, Robotnik was already spinning in the chair, muttering to himself about atmospheric distortion and simian brain function.
The office coffee, as usual, tasted like sadness and printer ink. Stone added a shot of espresso from his personal stash and, as a mercy, tucked two sugar cubes into his pocket — just in case the man needed sweetening.
He returned to find Robotnik standing on the desk, waving a tablet over the ceiling.
“Electromagnetic interference,” he announced. “This entire floor is a death trap. I knew it. Did you feel that? That flicker in the lights? A travesty. A betrayal by modern engineering.”
Stone offered him the cup silently.
Robotnik paused. Took it. Sniffed it.
“Hmm.”
He sipped.
Then he sipped again.
Then he looked Stone directly in the eyes and said, “Marry me.”
Stone blinked — for the first time all day.
“Sir?”
“I’m joking,” Robotnik clarified. “Obviously. Marriage is a social construct designed to exploit tax brackets. But I would like you to be the exclusive brewer of my caffeine from now on.”
“Of course, sir,” Stone said, utterly deadpan. “It would be my honor.”
Robotnik jumped down from the desk, coat flaring again. “I’ve gone through seven government-assigned babysitters. One of them cried. Another one quit to raise llamas in Colorado. The last one tried to get me fired.”
Stone arched an eyebrow.
“Because I told him his eyebrows were too symmetrical,” Robotnik clarified. “It made him nervous.”
“I can handle asymmetry, sir,” Stone said smoothly.
Robotnik narrowed his eyes. “Can you handle me?”
Stone considered this. Really considered it.
“Time will tell,” he replied.
Robotnik grinned — not kindly, not cruelly. Just with the chaotic energy of a man who hadn’t slept since the Clinton administration. “I like you already. Come on, I want to show you my drone swarm.”
Stone followed.
The drone lab was somehow both sterile and chaotic — like a spaceship that doubled as a hoarder’s nest. Circuits littered the tables like confetti, and the walls were lined with prototype tech that pulsed softly like sleeping animals.
Stone was fascinated.
Robotnik was in his element. He gestured broadly, with the flair of a magician revealing the final trick.
“This,” he said, pressing a button, “is what your tax dollars pay for.”
A swarm of tiny drones lifted into the air, moving in perfect formation, forming the letters “HI STONE” before zooming into a heart shape.
Stone blinked again.
“You programmed them to say hi to me?”
“No,” Robotnik lied immediately. “They do that to everyone. Totally generic. Very standard.”
Stone smiled. “Understood.”
Robotnik cleared his throat. “Anyway. You’ll be organizing my data reports. Communicating with the higher-ups. Deflecting blame when things explode. And, most importantly—”
“Making your coffee?”
“Exactly.”
Robotnik turned, suddenly serious. “But if you try to micromanage me, or insult my mustache, or touch any of my buttons without asking, I will vaporize you with a sonic laser beam calibrated to destabilize the nervous system.”
“Duly noted,” Stone said calmly.
“And if you betray me—”
“I won’t.”
That stopped Robotnik short.
“You seem… certain.”
“I am.”
Robotnik tilted his head, examining him anew.
“Why?”
Stone smiled. Just a small curve of his lips. “Because you’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a very long time.”
Robotnik blinked.
Then he turned away abruptly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “interesting person my ass” under his breath.
That night, long after the building had emptied and the rain had slowed to a drizzle, Stone sat at his desk reviewing Robotnik’s schedule. It was a mess — full of vague notes like “Decimate bureaucracy” and “test human organ response to 4D sound.”
He cleaned it up. Organized everything. Made it manageable.
He also placed a new mug on Robotnik’s desk. It read:
“WORLD’S OKAYEST GENIUS”
He didn’t expect the doctor to thank him.
But the next morning, when he walked in with coffee in hand, he found a single note written in spidery, precise handwriting:
“Don’t touch my drones. But you may name one.”
It was signed with a crude drawing of a mustache.
Agent Stone allowed himself a smile.
This was the beginning of something… strange.
Something electric.
Something them.