I continued to race with my newly signature speed around Med-Bay Three, fetching sterile pads and coolant packs while Kintobor's cyber-eye tracked my every move as best as he could with my speed. His fingers kept twitching toward that hidden holster, knuckles pale beneath grime-smeared fur. "Why'd Lord Acorn warn us?" he rasped suddenly, voice tight with suspicion. "What's that squirrel playing at?"
"He probably wants you to think he's wiser to gode you into overthrowing my father," I blurted, tossing Kintobor a fresh coolant pack. The likely truth tasted sour, but Maxx's scheming felt safer to expose than my own sabotage. Kintobor caught the pack with a grunt, his cyber-eye narrowing. "Lord Acorn bleats about peace while sharpening knives. Typical nobility." He jammed the coolant against his cauterized thigh, hissing through clenched teeth. "Your father, though—he understands. Give a starving wolf its prey, and it licks your hand." Below his gurney, a discarded Overlander helmet lay cracked open like a rotten tsamma melon, its visor reflecting the med-bay's harsh fluorescents.
The door hissed open. Jules stood silhouetted against the corridor's gloom, Bernadette hovering behind him like a shadow. "Emissary Kintobor," Jules announced, his voice smooth as polished obsidian. "My son reports your fortitude is commendable." Kintobor's cyber-eye flickered toward me—a silent oath of future reckoning. "Fortitude's easy when you're owed blood," he spat. Jules stepped fully inside, ignoring the stench of burnt synth-flesh. "Blood will flow. The Northern Baronies attacked under a flag of truce. Their treachery demands annihilation." He paused, claws resting lightly on Kintobor's gurney rail. "Fort Knothole's armories are open to you. Take what you need to scour their mountains clean."
These poor people, either, puppets for Acorn, or disposable trash for my father? It was sickening. Kintobor's cyber-eye glinted with predatory hunger. "Annihilation," he repeated, savoring the word like gristle. "We'll melt their glaciers into slag." Jules shook his head, a grim transaction sealed without paperwork, "Now, now Kintobor, I still need some people to mine the Northern Baronies' resources. Just kill their leaders, and cripple their defenses." Bernadette's claws dug into her folded arms, her silence thicker than the med-bay's antiseptic haze. This wasn't leverage; it was feeding frenzy. My fault. All my fault.
Outside, Fort Knothole's courtyard churned with opportunists—Overlander medics bartering synth-flesh grafts for extra rations, Mobian troopers "salvaging" intact cybernetics from corpses. Kintobor's gaze followed Jules' retreating back, his cyber-eye emitting a faint taurine hum. "Your father," he rasped, fingers tracing the coolant pack's seams, "knows how to make a good massacre palatable." The cracked helmet beneath his gurney reflected my face—distorted, wide-eyed—as Bernadette lingered in the doorway, her claws digging into her folded arms. Her silence screamed louder than the courtyard's chaos.
I fled to the manor's derelict conservatory, its cracked glass ceilings dripping condensation onto ferns grown wild as conspiracy theories. Kneeling beside a patch of ivy like creepers strangling a marble nymph, I clawed at the soil until my knuckles scraped raw. Beneath the roots, wrapped in graphene film scavenged from Sky Patrol debris, lay Sally's gift: three matchboxes filled with tiny quartz tiles. *Count truth*, she'd whispered. *Not lies.* The tiles clicked cold against my palm—one hundred precisely cut facets. Outside, Overlander transports roared skyward, laden with Fort Knothole's ordnance. Kintobor's massacre had wheels now.
Bernadette found me there, her silhouette slicing through the humid gloom. "Jules is mobilizing the Sky Armada," she stated, crushing a brittle frond underfoot. "Full assault on the Baronies' glacial fortresses at dawn." Her gaze dropped to the tiles spilling from my grip. "Sentimental rubbish won't stop artillery barrages." She snatched a matchbox, shaking it like a gambler's dice. "But panic might. Plant these in Acorn's quarters before sundown." Her claws pressed the crude container into my hand—inside, not tiles, but microfilament coils stolen from Hedgehog Manor's security grid.
May whatever God I should pray to in the Sonic Universe (Chaos maybe?) forgive me . . .
The microfilament coils felt heavier than artillery shells in my palm. Bernadette's claws dug into my shoulder, her whisper slicing through the conservatory's dripping silence. "Acorn's private terminal—behind the portrait of Queen Alicia. Plant them deep enough to trigger a phantom breach alarm during Jules' assault." Her eyes held no plea, only cold pragmatism. "Make Maxx sweat. Make Jules doubt." She vanished into the overgrowth, leaving the scent of wet earth and betrayal clinging to my fur.
Fort Knothole's guest wing buzzed with Acorn's sycophants and nervous aides. I slipped past them like a shadow, Sally's counting tiles a dead weight in my pocket—useless truth against Bernadette's live wire sabotage. Acorn's quarters smelled of polished cedar and paranoia. Queen Alicia's stern portrait watched as I pried the frame loose, fingers trembling. Behind it, the terminal blinked with dormant security runes. I jammed Bernadette's coils into its access port, filaments burrowing like mechanical parasites. *For emergencies*, she'd said. This was scorched earth.
Outside, thunder rumbled—not weather, but the Sky Armada's engines igniting. Dawn was a blade at Mobius' throat. I sealed the portrait just as the door hissed open. A fox woman, most likely Rosemarie, stood silhouetted against the corridor light, her amber eyes narrowing at my dust-streaked sleeves. "Lord Acorn asks for your company my prince, will you accept?" she said smoothly, though her tail flicked like a metronome counting lies.
In the warped reflection of Queen Alicia's polished frame, Rosemarie's amber gaze pinned me like dissection needles. "Lord Acorn requests your presence," she repeated, her tone velvet-wrapped steel. Dust from the dislodged portrait powdered my sleeves—a confession written in grime. Outside, the Sky Armada's engines crescendoed into a tectonic growl, vibrating the floor beneath my boots. "Tell Lord Acorn I'll be able to attend very shortly," I managed, stepping sideways to obscure the terminal access point. "I need to wash up first."
Rosemarie's somehow beak like nose twitched almost imperceptibly, nostrils flaring as if scenting deception. "He insists," she countered smoothly, blocking the doorway with her slender frame. Her tail lashed once—a sharp, predatory flick. "He has questions about the Overlander convoy's destruction." The microfilament coils Bernadette planted felt like live wires against my thigh. If Rosemarie found them before they triggered the phantom alarm during Jules' assault, Acorn would know exactly who framed him. And Jules would flay me for treason.
The door hissed shut behind her as she advanced, her claws clicking softly on the parquet. "Curious," she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the slightly askew portrait. "Queen Alicia always seems . . . unsettled." Panic clawed up my throat. I blurted the first diversion I could grasp—Sally's obsession. "Lord Acorn's wife might be the source of Sally's . . . oddness," I stammered, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor. "An intriguing and likely theory," she conceded, her voice dangerously smooth. "But irrelevant." Her gaze locked onto the dust smudges beneath the portrait frame. Outside, the Sky Armada's engines reached a deafening pitch—a war cry shaking the fortress walls.
Rosemarie's paw shot out, not toward the portrait, but toward my wrist. Her grip was iron, claws pricking fur. "Now then, my prince, shall we be going?" The Sky Armada's engines screamed overhead, rattling Alicia's frame. Dust motes danced in the sudden shaft of corridor light as the door hissed wider—Jeffrey St. Croix stood there, flanked by two Acorn guards. "Lord Acorn requires answers," Jeffrey stated, his voice flat. "Immediately."
The guards moved forward. Rosemarie released me, stepping back with a vulpine smile. Trapped. I let them flank me, my mind racing. *Phantom alarm*. *Dawn assault*. If Acorn detained me now, Bernadette's sabotage wouldn't trigger. Jules' massacre would proceed unchallenged. Jeffrey led the way down the corridor, his gait stiff. Outside the arched windows, Overlander gunships streaked north, laden with Fort Knothole's ordnance. Kintobor's vengeance was airborne.
Lord Acorn awaited in his strategy room, bathed in holographic projections of the Northern Barony glaciers. He turned, his eyes weary but sharp. "Explain the convoy's destruction," he demanded, gesturing at the flickering carnage on display. "Jules claims Northern Barony treachery." Before I could invent excuses, Fort Knothole's klaxons screamed—Bernadette's phantom breach alarm. Red lights pulsed across Acorn's face as security feeds showed Fort Knothole's own turrets swiveling inward, targeting Acorn's quarters. Jeffrey cursed at least 5 of this world obscenities, scrambling for comms.
Lord Acorn froze, disbelief slackening his muzzle. "Impossible! My defenses—" He cut himself off, staring at the hologram now flashing "SECURITY BREACH: ORIGIN: YOUR QUARTERS." Rosemarie's amber eyes darted to me, suspicion flaring. But Lord Acorn waved her off, barking orders to Jeffrey. "Lock down the wing! Trace the source!" He almost certainly suspected Jules—a clumsy frame-up attempt. *Not me*. 'Lord' Maxx Acorn, consumed by the immediate threat to his command center, dismissed the trembling hedgehog prince as irrelevant collateral. His focus narrowed to the tactical display, fingers stabbing at controls. "Jules wouldn't dare this openly . . . unless he's already moving against *me*." His paranoia, expertly redirected, saw shadows only where Bernadette wanted them cast.
The klaxons wailed, drowning Jeffrey's frantic commands. Guards scrambled past us, boots pounding on polished wood. Acorn didn't spare me another glance, consumed by the holographic maelstrom depicting his own turrets targeting his sanctum. Rosemarie lingered, her gaze sharp as shrapnel. "Curious timing," she murmured, stepping closer. Her claws brushed my dust-stained sleeve.
"You were *just* in his quarters." Panic tightened my throat. Before I could stammer, Jeffrey grabbed her arm. "Rosemarie! Priority comms override—now!" He hauled her toward the comms console, her vulpine glare snapping away. Acorn's suspicion was a heat-seeking missile, and Mother had painted Jules' coordinates on its nose. For now, I was invisible.
Outside the arched windows, the Sky Armada's gunships dwindled to specks against the glacier-scarred horizon—Kintobor's vengeance unleashed. Acorn's klaxons still wailed, painting the strategy room in frantic crimson pulses. Jeffrey wrestled with the comms console, shouting over the din while Rosemarie jabbed at security overrides, her tail lashing like a cracked whip. Acorn himself paced before the holographic carnage, claws digging into his temples. "Jules orchestrated this! That phantom breach—it's a diversion to cover his mobilization!" He whirled toward Jeffrey, voice raw. "Scramble our interceptors! Jam Fort Knothole's command frequencies!" Not one glance spared for the dust-streaked hedgehog prince shrinking against the wall. Perfect invisibility.
I slipped into the chaos-choked corridor, squeezing past panicked aides clutching datapads like holy texts. Guards sprinted toward Acorn's locked-down wing, barking into wrist-comms. No one noticed the trembling blue blur darting down a service stairwell. Bernadette's gambit held—Lord Acorn saw only Jules' treachery, not the sabotage seedling planted in his own terminal. Below, in the fortress's belly, laundry chutes hummed with damp terry cloth rotations, swallowing digital footprints whole. Safe. For now Sally probably needs me . . .
----------
The Sky Armada's thunder faded to a distant growl as I slid into Sally's hidden counting chamber—a disused janitorial closet near Fort Knothole's geothermal vents. The air hung thick with steam and the sharp tang of industrial cleaner. Sally knelt amidst a sea of quartz tiles arranged in concentric circles on the concrete floor, her fur matted with condensation. Without looking up, she slid a tile marked "37" into a gap. "They're mobilizing the Sky Patrol," she murmured. "Lord Acorn thinks your father sabotaged his defenses." Her voice held no accusation, only weary certainty.
I crouched beside her, rainwater dripping from my quills onto tile "42." "The slaughter still proceeds unchallenged." She finally met my eyes, her empty, empty eyes so I just had to ask, "You said you want control over anything else, why exactly is that?" Sally's paw hovered over tile "63," fingers twitching like broken clockwork. "Because truth hides in patterns," she stated flatly, sliding the tile home. "Like how Lord Acorn's 'emergency' interceptors just diverted toward Newark Ridge." Her gaze flicked to the steam-shrouded vent grating. "Not toward the Sky Armada."
Brainstems. Newark Ridge housed Acorn's backup comms array—and Jules' primary artillery depot. If Acorn was scrambling forces there instead of north . . . "He thinks Father's attacking *him*," I breathed. Sally nodded once, her paw already retrieving tile "89." "While the Northern Baronies burn." Outside the vent, muffled shouts echoed—Acorn's guards mobilizing, boots pounding toward internal defenses. No one glanced at the janitorial closet. No one ever did.
The steam thickened as Fort Knothole's geothermal pumps surged. Sally didn't flinch when the overhead pipes groaned like dying beasts. "Mr. Jeffrey St. Croix personally ordered the Newark deployment," she murmured, placing tile "100" with finality. "Mrs. Rosemarie coordinated it." Her gaze drifted to the vent where distant klaxons warbled. "They're not protecting Lord Acorn. They're looting your father's artillery depot before he notices." The simplicity of her words hit harder than any accusation. Acorn wasn't defending—he was exploiting the chaos to gut Jules' armory while Jules slaughtered Baronies, and Sally just confirmed it.
I didn't really care to be honest so I stayed, "You still haven't answered why you want control over anything else, so again, why exactly is that?" "It's Suppress or be suppress Sonic, I don't want to be suppressed anymore." Sally's paw hovered over tile "101," fingers twitching like broken clockwork. "Because patterns lie dormant until counted," she stated flatly, sliding the tile into place. "Like Jeffrey's fruitarian diet logs—he smuggles Fort Knothole's sensor schematics in produce shipments." Her gaze didn't waver from the steam. "Rosemarie intercepts them at Newark Ridge's drainage basins." The revelation landed like a mortar shell. Acorn's guards weren't just looting artillery—they were gutting Jules' intelligence network under cover of war.
Outside, klaxons shifted pitch—Fort Knothole's perimeter alarms now wailing as Acorn's forces clashed with Jules' loyalists near Newark Ridge. Sally retrieved tile "102," her voice detached as a drone feed. "They'll blame the Northern Baronies for the depot explosion most likely." Distant thunder rolled—not Sky Armada gunships, but artillery detonations echoing from the ridge. Jeffrey and Rosemarie weren't just stealing weapons; they were erasing evidence.
I grabbed Sally's wrist, tile clattering to the floor. "Well I think things can be different Sally, you don't have to be suppressed like this, I'm not saying I can change it, but someone, somewhere probably can change it." Steam hissed through the vents, muffling distant explosions. Her eyes flickered—a brief fracture in the void—before settling back into flat detachment. "Patterns don't break," she stated, pulling free. "They multiply." Outside, the corridor erupted in screams and the wet thud of bodies hitting linoleum. Acorn's guards were clearing the hallway. Sally didn't react, already retrieving tile "103."
"Well you said you want to suppress others to not be suppressed yourself," I countered, shifting Sally's quartz tiles to form a Mobius strip—endless but reversible. "But what if you suppress suppression?" Sally paused, her paw hovering over tile "104." Steam condensed on her muzzle like fractured tears. Outside, the corridor screams intensified—Rosemarie's shrill commands slicing through wet thuds. "Patterns persist," she whispered, but her fingers trembled.
"But some tiles have cracks, right? It breaks the pattern." Sally's paw froze mid-air, quartz tile trembling between her fingers, she looked up at me, "What?" Distant artillery shook the floor—Newark Ridge's depot detonating under Acorn's sabotage. Steam coiled around us like ghosts. "Your counting," I pressed, leaning closer. "It finds truth in patterns. But what if the truth *is* broken?" Sally's gaze drifted to the vent where screams echoed Rosemarie's purge. "Broken patterns are still patterns," she murmured, yet her paw lowered tile "104" without placing it.
A sudden crash echoed down the corridor—metal buckling under kinetic force. Sally flinched, tiles scattering as the closet door dented inward. "Well you just broke a pattern right there Sally," I hissed, grabbing her paw. Steam billowed thicker as a secondary pipe ruptured overhead. "You just said 104 twice, repeating a cycle." Her eyes widened fractionally, a flicker of confusion piercing the detachment.