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When Stone pokes his head back into the primary lab, he has already prepared for it to be an abnormal day with the doctor. Not that any day followed a particular pattern, but there were some days where the chaos exceeded levels that could be dealt with without much thought. He wasn't so sure when he stopped having to prepare for every day, but it had been welcome. G.U.N agents always had that certain look, whenever he would predict the volatile genius' next move, and a weaker man would have broke into a grin every time. It was the highest form of praise, those raised eyebrows; the whispers of “how did he do it?” that almost bordered on perturbed.
Call it intuition, or the fact that one of the Badniks he had definitely turned off the night prior was at a different angle than he had oriented it, or even that it was definitely recording his every move while trying to disguise itself amongst its' sleeping neighbours, but he had known today would be something strange. Still, without hesitation, he strides to the doctor's side and places a latte just out of a sweeping arm's range, just in case. When he doesn't get a good morning, or even an acknowledgement of his existence, he is barely surprised. Still, he had been screamed at once for not letting the genius know his latte was going cold, so better to bring him out of whatever spell he was in now than face the consequences later. He didn't seem particularly enraptured in whatever he was typing away at, anyway, so Stone declares it a risk that is worth taking, and allows his voice to carry out firmly across the space.
“Sir, your Austrian—“
“I've got you all figured out, foolish sycophant!”
The chair spins, and Stone's eyes flicker over to the doctor. He hasn't slept, clearly, and this is a last stretch of overwhelming energy before his inevitable crash. Stone gives it two hours before the doctor needs someone to take that out on, and begins counting the agents in his mind that he could coincidentally send in for that. They probably won't mind, because they don't take this job as seriously as him. They don't deserve it.
Hand raising, Robotnik taps aimlessly at a few buttons on his gloves. He stares accusingly, and Stone realises he has a very short period of time to decide exactly what has been figured out about him. It could be any number of things, really, though he has a few guesses already.
“... I beg your pardon, doctor?” He tilts his head, eyes stuck on the way the doctor sips his drink thoughtfully, before nodding. As if it had unlocked the secrets of the universe. He laughs, though really it's more like a guffaw, sliding down the chair before climbing back up again, eyes never straying for even a moment.
“Oh, and beg you will, agent Stone,” Robotnik does not seem to take notice of the way Stone's face warps for just a second, and thank god for that, “because I've done it. I know exactly what your deal is: I know what you've done. Basic, simple, elementary science! It's so beneath me I didn't even see it.” He shakes his head, and Stone follows along simply because he still has absolutely no idea what is going on. The doctor had accused him of being a spy more times than he could count, and the bitterness of not being trusted had long since faded. Well, mostly. But whatever Stone had done, it was news to him.
A moment of silence falls between them, and perhaps Robotnik had expected him to suddenly come out with it all. Perhaps he would have, just to see the reaction, but he didn't know what it even was, much less how to play along with it, if it was worth it to do that at all. “Nothing ever gets past you, doctor.” is the safest reply he can give as he peeks at the screen the genius had been looking at just moments prior. It's mostly just shows, playlists, but one tab does catch his attention: Weber's law? What on Earth would the doctor be researching psychophysics for?
His question is half-answered instantly. “You intended to try and blind-side me, manipulating my one and only weakness: my human DNA.” It is said with such conviction, and without a moment for pause the doctor continues into a prideful rant, “Conditioning me, ringing your little bell, you Pavlovian fool; like Skinner's old rat-in-a-box trick, hmm? I am no rodent, pesky barnacle, so I noticed your trap far too quick. Who in the world would make absolutely perfect lattes every day at six ante meridiem— six in the morning, for you imbeciles — without fail?” Stone would, clearly. Unless he hadn't been doing that, but he doubted the doctor would hide his disdain for subpar coffee for his pride's sake. “And that's when I began my investigation. You would smile as you made them, I employed the security footage in the kitchen to check, which clearly means you were plotting something.”
It did not in fact mean that at all, but Stone would be ordered shoot himself in the foot and then throw himself out of the nearest window if he were to give the doctor the knowledge that he simply enjoyed it. Making the coffee was relaxing, and he had practised latte art when he found he needed a skill to improve in. Thinking of what he could draw took up most of his mind on his commute, and having it all come together knowing that not even a machine could replicate his work was wonderful. Instead of saying this, he blinks owlishly, and nods again. It clearly isn't very convincing, as Robotnik shoots forward in his seat, eyes scrunching together as he brings one leg up to perch on the chair.
“It's a schedule of reinforcement. I'd know if you put something in my coffee, so you employed mental games. Have you heard of Thorndike, Stone? Don't answer that. The law of effect and exercise, you must be best friends with them: repeating behaviours, positive consequences, etcetera etcetera. I realised, then, that whenever you would bring me a latte, I was always in high spirits. More productive, less... hard to work with. And that's just it, isn't it? Repeating the same thing, never late, so when you make another stupid mistake I'll go 'oh, but doesn't he make a great latte, and speak just right, and do everything perfectly!'... Of course, this is all in the hopes of stealing my infamy. Or a pay raise. Probably both, because human greed knows no bounds.” Robotnik raises his head and sniffs indignantly, but it is just dramatic enough to tell that he is rather enjoying all of this. Calling out Stone, as though he had unearthed a grand plot against him. The simmering anger at this so-called betrayal is still there, as it always is when this conversation comes up, but clearly the doctor has done his research this time.
It's all wrong, though, and he doesn't seem to notice he's giving far too much away. Stone stays as still as his namesake, not daring to move. Of course he won't interrupt this: it's the closest he's ever gotten to Robotnik outright saying he's needed here. It is, quite frankly, entirely insane, especially since its coming in the form of a plot to his downfall. The agent isn't quite sure how to react, if he even could in the first place. His hands are sweating, but it most certainly isn't from any kind of guilt. The doctor stands, placing the latte on his desk just so he can swing his hands out, as if demanding applause. He strides once, then twice, almost leaping to the centre of the room, before outstretching an arm that would seem like an invitation to dance if it weren't for the singular pointed finger at the end of it. The doctor's gloves absorb most of the light, only reflecting the buttons and gadgets at the tips of his fingers and closer to the pads of his palm. Stone tries to keep his eyes there, but the grin on the doctor's face is as strong as a black hole, eating the light around it in a display of brilliant colours that he cannot part from, as much as he tries. For his own sake, mostly, because this conversation has been completely one-sided so far.
Robotnik, to his own deficit, just will not stop talking. “It's just like the two-point threshold. You were seeing how far you could go before I realised your sickly attention was a two-pronged spear, but I had known it all along.” He takes a deep breath in, at last held back by his mortal form, and Stone takes this opportunity to spout what is quite possibly the most useless question he has ever wasted his breath on in this lab.
“The two-point threshold is a bit far from your psychological arguments before, doctor, isn't it?”
“Pavlov wasn't even a psychologist, agent, he was very clearly a neurologist, so my arguments have been coming from a wide range of subpar scientists who couldn't hold a candle to me...This is basic knowledge, keep up.” To his credit, Robotnik only rolls his eyes and huffs; he must be in a rather good mood to let this slip. “Why go through all this effort for a mediocre raise, or whatever information you've been sent to siphon off of me, rather than to just try and shoot me and run is beyond me. Your puny mind seems adamant to play the long game. Are you scared of having a through state-of-the-art lasers give you a nice new hairdo? Do you, in fact, not dream of being sold as a doughnut in a village fete when one of my babies skewers you faster than you can say 'electroencephalograph'? Maybe you've got half of a brain, then.” He shrugs, the energy rolling off from out of his shoulders and twitching in his fingers before agent Stone feels the electricity in the air. The doctor averts his gaze, and at last he feels he can breathe again. Just for a moment, while he puzzles this all together.
There was no way of convincing Robotnik here and now that he truly had no bad intentions. It was simply, truly and cataclysmically impossible. Something in his head ran far deeper than Stone can reach, so taking that angle would be as good as talking to a wall. He isn't in nearly as deep water as he could be, yet, considering he is still standing and not bunched up against a wall or thrown to the ground. He has a chance, he just has to explain things slightly. And carefully, because the doctor would not take well to being told he was wrong. Clearly, he had done the only thing he knew how to do and intellectualised the problem until he didn't even see the possibility of it being his own heart malfunctioning. Guiding him to that solution was near impossible, but flying robots with projectiles so precise they could probably replace all the surgeons in the world had been unthinkable as well, until he had met the genius. That felt like an age ago, though really it couldn't have been so long, in the scheme of things.
Stone takes another breath, and readjusts his tie to buy a bit more time. “If I may,” he begins, and when he isn't interrupted by a voice or anything physically thrown at him, he takes it as a sign to continue, “I think that you should look over the results of some of your experiments, the ones that have lead you to this conclusion. I have always said, and I will continue to say, that I am here to be your agent, and little else matters to me. Not pay, or fame.” He holds Robotnik's gaze, and keeps himself as steady as he can. He is serious about this, and if it takes a thousand years for his doctor to realise that he has no ulterior motives that is a time he can wait, so long as he isn't thrown out. He's scrutinised for another few moments, and if he wasn't at least partially used to this he might have believed the doctor to be trying to smell his fear or some other such way of telling if he was lying, or more likely hoping he would break.
“Experiments...” he says, and it sounds strange on his tongue. It's not said in the way where he's thinking of how to dumb down something he's clearly already considered ten times over. “Hmm. Perhaps. Yes, I think I do have to... re-do some of them. Replicate them a few times, just to check for anomalies. Not that I'd ever be wrong, but if I am going off the work of some dimwits... best to double check with the best mind in the world.” He nods, and Stone knows at once he has defused the situation, as the doctor stretches like a cat, twisting his back until it cracks and while his eyes do not soften they do become less fierce. “But if you try anything, I will know, and you will be vaporised instantly.”
Quickly, the agent nods, murmuring an “of course, doctor” as feeling returns to the tips of his fingers. Robotnik grins meanly, and turns away at once. He spouts a plethora of orders that Stone catalogues without even really trying, and when he turns to get to work on the nearest project, he is shouted at and something hits beside his arm, whirring into the desk and scattering blueprints on the floor. “I don't want that done first, clearly if I say something at the beginning that is what I want done and then everything else, you mould-addled limpet!” The shout is mostly echo, and Stone can't help but think he was set up to fail, because the doctor always wanted him to begin with the room he was in and then move out.
Still, he does not complain. Simply nods, registering the hidden request under it all, and begins to take his leave. It is not until his footsteps have disappeared down the hall that Robotnik peers up and around his shoulder, gazing across the room to ensure the agent is truly gone.
The genius pauses, and then slides back into his chair. He had finished his projects early, even, because this was seriously becoming a problem. He had ruled out sudden heart failure, unless somehow his heart would fail and restart every time that doltish agent entered a room. He surely wouldn't be stupid enough to poison the good doctor, but multiple samples had proven the coffee, the coffee machine and the cups untampered with. No medical journal seemed to have a name for his woe, though keeping the lab a few degrees cooler helped the strange flushing. If he wasn't growing ill, which was still entirely on the table, then it had to be some sort of sabotage from G.U.N. Agent Stone seemed entirely unknowing, almost offended at the prospect of wanting to hurt the doctor, the same result he always showed. His psychological profile was the exact same as it had been for every year Robotnik had managed to pull it up: strangely obedient, despite clear talent and capabilities, has no motivation to push any higher than his position. The only thing that had changed was that supposedly he was asocial, even Walters seemed amazed in the first few months how often the agent went out of his way to talk to Robotnik, of all people. He had chalked it off as clear suck-up behaviour, and then a possible bout of insanity from the sudden change in workplace quality, and then it was back to being a mask for some nefarious purpose again.
“My theories weren't empirically tested. That has to be it.” He grumbles, pulling up a note page of every possible theory on what could be wrong with him. “In the face of real science, and the strongest mind the planet has ever seen, there is no way this code can't be cracked.” His eyebrows furrow, typing furiously as he logs another day of symptoms, marking the exact time, possible stimuli and responses. Increased heart rate, raised temperature (sweating in the hands, and around the face and neck) and a jittery sort of energy that mimicked caffeine and yet was nowhere near as sporadic, as well as consistent pangs in the chest area. If he was dying of some unknown disease, this was frankly the most annoying way for it to happen. But he could test for that, couldn't he? He could test for anything. Nothing escapes the eye of a Robotnik, not now and not ever.
He will not lose, and he certainly will not lose to his doormat of an assistant. Something akin to recognition had crossed his eyes for a moment, and Ivo would die before he let anyone in the world know something that he did not.