"Catch, little princess—you'll need it for Sector 5's *real* vaults." The security card landed edge-first in Sally's palm, drawing a thin line of blood she licked away with deliberate slowness, her gaze locked on mine like a challenge.
Behind her, Patch and Boomer moved in tandem now—no longer flinching at every trap but anticipating them, their motions syncing like gears in Doc's old war machines. Buns let out a low whistle as she sidestepped a holographic neurotoxin spray, her plasma knife carving through the mist with practiced ease. The scent of ozone and singed fur hung thick in the air, but beneath it? Something sharper: *confidence*. My grin widened even further than before.
Good.
Fear kept them alive, but *trust* made them all the more lethal.
And I could make them like a plague of locusts, descending upon King Maxxie Acorn's regime—not with anarchy, but with precision sharpened by desperation. Sally knew it first, her eyes widening when I materialized among them mid-training without a telltale gust of wind, my sneakers pressing silent craters into the simulation's fake rubble. The air didn't stir; my quills didn't so much as twitch.
I just *was* there, grinning down at Boomer as he fumbled his plasma grenade, his throat bobbing when my shadow swallowed his without the warning of a sonic boom. My fingers plucked the armed explosive from his shaking grip—slow, deliberate, savoring the way his pupils dilated—before crushing it into harmless dust between my palms. The scent of burnt gunpowder curled under my quills as I leaned in, close enough to taste his fear-sweat.
"Fumble like that near Maxxie's vault," I murmured, watching Patch freeze mid-lunge behind me, "and I can't promise that even I will be able to save you."
I probably could, but better safe than sorry, plus it would encourage him to train harder.
And I continued in joining them with training without using a single ounce of my speed—just my presence, a shadow unspooling between the ruins of Sector 7's holographic wreckage, my grin a slow blade sliding free of its sheath. Patch's ears twitched before he even saw me, his fur standing on end like a prey animal sensing the weight of a predator's true power.
Boomer's breath hitched when my glove clamped down on his shoulder—not with force, but with the inevitability of a tectonic plate shifting—and my chuckle vibrated against his spine like a serrated purr. "Missed a tripwire," I murmured, nodding to the flickering red line his boot had grazed, my other hand already plucking the disarmed neural mine from the air before it could detonate.
The scent of singed circuits clung to my fingers as I crushed the device into glittering dust, letting it trickle through my claws onto the cracked pavement where Sally's shadow swallowed it whole.
She understood first—always did—her pupils dilating as she watched me *not* move faster than thought, but *deeper* than instinct, my every footfall a lesson in patience. The training grounds fell silent save for the rasp of Buns sharpening her knife against a rusted girder, the sound syncopating with the pulse in Patch's throat as I leaned in, close enough for him to count the flecks of Diamond Heights.
Again, I let myself get hit a few times so I could feel the pain, but rarely enough to get actually injured—just enough to remind them that I bleed. Their confidence inflated as they landed blows, mistaking my theatrical staggers for weakness. Sally's fist grazed my jaw, as I grinned wider, tasting copper, and let my knees buckle—just for a second—before I caught myself with one hand against the cracked pavement.
The holographic rubble around us pulsed with the scent of ozone and sweat, thick as the realization dawning in their eyes: *I was letting them win*.
But now I wasn't going to anymore.
Boomer lunged with a crazed war cry, his large frame (now slightly bulkier instead of only fat) casting a shadow over me—but I wasn't there when his fist landed. Not because I moved fast, but because I simply ceased occupying the space he expected, reappearing beside Sally with my gloved finger tapping her temple.
"See how he telegraphs himself?" My whisper slithered into her ear, cold and amused. "Muscle memory's a very unique prison." Boomer's next swing tore through holographic debris, his face contorting in rage—until my boot met his ribs, not with a kick, but a slow, deliberate press that folded him onto his knees.
His wheeze was music.
Sally's gasp was better.
"Now you're starting to get predictable," I murmured, crouching to tap his nose like a misbehaving pup.
"And in Maxxopolis, they call *me* the monster," I mused, flipping Boomer's discarded plasma grenade between my fingers like a coin—slow, deliberate, letting them see the way my claws dent the casing without effort. Behind me, Patch's pulse jackhammered loud enough to taste; metallic, frantic, delicious. I rolled the grenade along my knuckles before pressing it into Sally's palm, her fingers twitching around it like a dead thing.
"But you all?" My grin split wider as I leaned in, close enough to count her eyelashes. "*You'll* overthrow your king before he can blink." The grenade's casing groaned under her grip, the scent of overheated metal threading through the sweat-slick air.
Behind us, Patch's breath stuttered as I let my quills flare—just slightly—casting jagged shadows that didn't match the flickering holographic light. The scent of singed fur and ozone thickened when I exhaled, slow and deliberate, watching Sally's pupils dilate again as she realized something else now: *I wasn't just teaching them to survive King Maxxie Acorn's traps*.
I was also teaching them to *become* one.
Boomer's choked gasp was my reward when my glove closed around his throat—not squeezing, just *holding*, my thumb tracing the walrus's pulse point where it fluttered like a caged bird. The training grounds fell silent except for the distant hum of failing holograms and Buns' knife scraping against rusted metal in rhythmic, hungry strokes.
I let my smirk widen once more, for what felt like the ninth time, slow and deliberate, as Sally's breath hitched beside me—not from fear, but from the dawning realization of the trap she'd willingly stepped into. My gloved finger tapped Boomer's forehead lightly, sending him sprawling backward into the holographic rubble with a theatrical yelp. The scent of ozone and scorched metal hung thick in the air, mingling with the musk of sweat and adrenaline.
"Training's over," I announced, stretching my arms overhead with an exaggerated yawn. The holograms flickered out, plunging us into the dim, rust-colored glow of Sector 7's emergency lighting. Boomer wheezed into his knees, sweat pooling beneath him in greasy crescents. I tossed him a canteen—let it *thunk* against his chest—and relished the way his fingers scrambled to catch it, joints stiff with exhaustion.
Sally's gaze tracked me like a scope reticle, her lips pressed into a thin line where earlier there'd been a smug sense of a false triumph. The taste of her unease was almost better than the copper tang of my own blood still lingering on my tongue.
I let my grin soften as I crouched beside Boomer, my claws clicking against the canteen before pressing it into his shaking grip,"Hey, it's alright big guy—you lasted longer than King Maxxie Acorn's best enforcers would've." The walrus's wheeze hitched when I ruffled his ears—gentler than I'd ever touched anyone in Diamond Heights—and for a heartbeat, my shadow wasn't pitch black.
-----------
Of course time passes as it always does despite our best efforts and worst mistakes—one month to be exact—and I find myself lounging in my room after yet another training session, spinning a knife between my fingers (who knows whose it is anymore).
The blade catches the dim overhead light, casting jagged reflections across the reinforced steel walls of my quarters—Buns, Boomer, Patch, and Sally had improved a great bit at the training sessions—each flicker a silent testament to how far they'd come.
While they weren't quite ready enough, they would be in due time...
Rosemarie was now about seven months pregnant at this point from what I remembered from what she should be from the last time I saw her at Castle Acorn and how she showed back then.
Then the original Sonic's greatest ally; Miles 'Tails' Prower would be born, and I would see how his parents would react to his twin tails. If his parents reacted how I expected them to: rejecting him; then I would have to get involved—whether I wanted to or not.
And if against all likely odds they accepted him with open arms, then I would step back—and simply try to be his best friend if I could help it. The knife halted mid-spin between my fingers, its edge kissing my glove with silent promise. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the floor as I exhaled, watching my breath curl like smoke in the chill air.
Sally and Patch lived here now, King Maxxie Acorn already likely knew that they were working against him, and I didn't dare risk it even if he somehow didn't.
They were now living in the rooms next to Buns and Boomer respectively.
Of course, I also had starting writing my manifesto to inspire the populace of Mobius, which I was doing right now, my quill scratched against parchment in jagged strokes, each word etched not with ink but with the weight of revolution. The manifesto wasn't just a declaration—it was a mirror held up to Mobius, reflecting its cracks, its lies, and the bloodstained hands of kings who called themselves saviors.
My grin curled wider as I penned the next line: *'I am Sonic the Hedgehog—not your hero, not your martyr, just the hedgehog who'll burn your gilded cages into kinder chains.'* The ink pooled thick and black, mimicking the shadows stretching unnaturally across my quarters—shadows that flickered with trapped echoes of Sector 7's collapse.
My quill didn't scratch; it *carved*, each stroke etching promises into parchment that smelled faintly of burnt sugar and gunpowder. A manifesto wasn't a plea for change—it was a detonation timer disguised as poetry as I continued writing: *'They call me anarchist, terrorist, devil with blue quills—but when have I ever lied to you like your oh so might, so called king does? When have I ever hidden the blood on my gloves?'*
The ink bled black as the space between stars, pooling in the creases where Sally's tear-streaked face had once pressed against this very desk. Shadows coiled around my wrist like loyal serpents—some mine, some borrowed from the ghosts of Diamond Heights—their whispers threading through the manifesto's margins: *Promise them ruin first. Then hope.* My quill hovered over the parchment, its tip splitting into fractal patterns as I let the poison drip down—
*'I am Sonic the Hedgehog, and I have murdered men and women with a grin wider than their crowns. Would you like to know the secret? They all begged the same way—knees cracking before their spines did. But you, little rabbit trembling in Sector 13's desolation? I'll kneel beside you instead. Not to pray for you. Anarchy Below no, But I'll kneel beside you to hand you the knife to finally stab those that have stabbed you.'*
The manifesto inhaled sharply when I paused, its pages rustling without wind. Behind me, Sally had opened the door to my room—had been standing there for exactly eleven seconds—her pulse loud enough to drown out the scrape of my quill. I didn't turn, letting her watch the ink bleed into the parchment where I'd just written:
*'The current kings build thrones from children's bones and call it peace.'* The scent of scorched metal clung to my gloves as I added, almost lazily: *'I prefer my carnivals.'*
"How many pages have you written at this point Sonic?" She asked curiously as she leaned over to get a good look at the manifesto, her eyes scanning the words as quickly as she could—likely wanting to see if she was mentioned somewhere in it—and while she *was* mentioned, it wasn't in the way she probably expected.
"Seventy-two," I replied without looking up, my quill dipping into the inkwell—not black, but the deep crimson of dried blood mixed with iron filings—before continuing where I left off: *'The first revolutionaries were not born in battlefields, but in nurseries. Every ignored whimper of a kit kicked aside for being 'defective' fertilizes the soil I now salt with fire.'*
The ink sizzled faintly as it hit the parchment, etching the words deeper than the surface. Sally's breath hitched when my shadow stretched toward her without my body moving, the darkness licking at her boots like a curious hound.
I glanced up finally, letting her see the way my pupils swallowed the dim light whole—black holes rimmed with cobalt amusement. The manifesto exhaled between us, its pages shifting like restless ghosts as I tapped the quill against my chin, leaving a smudge of ink-blood that mirrored the scar running through Sally's eyebrow. "Seventy-two pages so far," I repeated, softer now, "and not one lie. Isn't that just fucking terrifying?" Her fingers twitched toward the parchment before recoiling, as if the words might bite.
The knife I'd been spinning earlier now stood embedded in the desk between us, vibrating with residual motion—its handle bore teeth marks from someone's panic. I didn't remember putting it there. Sally's reflection warped in the blade as I leaned forward, my shadow consuming hers inch by inch.
"You're in here as well Sally," I murmured, flipping to page thirty-nine where her name curled like a noose around King Maxxie's throat. The ink still glistened wet: *'Sally Alicia Acorn kneels not to crowns, but to the kit crying in the ruins her father made.'* Her breath caught—part shock, part something darker—as my claws traced the next line:
*'And that's the difference between you and King Maxxie, Sally—'* My quill split the parchment with a final flourish, the ink bubbling like tar where it spelled her name—*"you flinch when children cry."* The knife embedded in the desk trembled as Sector 9 had yet another explosion in it.
"And what about the others Sonic?" Sally asked a She begin reading my manifesto from the beginning with an intensity that would make King Maxxie Acorn's interrogators seem like novice librarians. The knife embedded in the desk pulsed like a second heartbeat as her eyes devoured page after page—each word a scalpel peeling back Mobius' rotting flesh.
I watched her lips move silently over the passage, "No, I feel it would be far to risky to let you read the parts that involve the others."
The manifesto exhaled again, pages rustling toward a dog-eared section, *'The little rabbit learns faster when he thinks he's protecting someone.'
The parchment hissed against Sally's fingertips, the edges unnaturally warm—like skin freshly peeled from bone. My manifesto wasn't ink on paper; it was a vivisection of Mobius, each word a scalpel stroke exposing the gangrenous rot beneath Maxx's gilded lies. She hit page twelve—*'Ask the orphans of Diamond Heights how tenderly kings tuck them into mass graves'*—and her throat bobbed, the sound louder than Sector 9's distant explosions. I watched her pupils dilate, black swallowing blue, as my shadow licked up the wall behind her in jagged spikes.
"Interesting reading?" I purred, rolling a grenade pin between my knuckles—the one I'd palmed from Boomer's belt during training. The metal *click-click-clicked* like a countdown. Sally's jaw tightened when my grin widened, all needle-sharp canines. "Don't skip the footnotes, princess. That's where I hide all of the really fun parts."
Page forty-three seared her palms as she turned it: a ledger of every child King Maxxie Acorn's sterilizers hadn't missed sadly, their names written in my blood mixed with rusted iron. The ink shimmered, alive, whispering their ages when Sally's fingers brushed the parchment—*'Mara, 6. Jiles, 3. Unnamed kit, stillborn.*' My shadow coiled around her wrist, not restraining, just *present*, as the list continued into margins that shouldn't exist.
"They told the parents it was mercy," I mused, watching her pulse hammer against my darkness. "Funny how mercy always looks like a gas chamber." Sally's fingers convulsed around page forty-four—where a child's scribbled drawing of Castle Acorn bled into schematics for its demolition. The scent of scorched parchment mixed with the ozone-tang of her unnerving calmness, delicious as a knife sliding between ribs.
"Anyways Antoine cooked breakfast for us all, I think he's finally got the hang of it after watching Buns do it so much." Sally's words were too bright, brittle as sugar glass, as she deliberately turned to page seventy-two—where Patch's real name as the ink shifted under her gaze: *'The coyote who flinches at his own shadow still sets the table for king slayers.'*
My chuckle curled through the room like smoke, fingers drumming the manifesto's cover—bound in the tanned hide of a Maxxopolis enforcer's glove, "Well then, how about we get going there Sally dear?"
She nodded curtly at that, deliberately avoiding looking at the manifesto—at the way its pages curled toward her like starving things—but I caught the hitch in her breath when she glimpsed Rosemarie's name scrawled beside a crude sketch of a bassinet wrapped in barbed wire. My smile tasted metallic, sharp with the phantom tang of Sector 5's sterilization fields, as I turned her head right back as we began walking to the dining room.
Patch had made some waffles—burnt at the edges, just how I liked them—and the scent of scorched batter and syrup-thick deception curled through the dining hall as I slid into my seat. Patch's ears twitched when I snagged a waffle off his plate without looking, my claws spearing through crispy latticework with surgical precision.
"Thanks for breakfast, *lieutenant*," I murmured around a mouthful, grinning at the way his knuckles whitened around his fork. Sally's stare weighed heavier than King Maxxie Acorn's crown jewels, but I just flicked a crumb at Boomer's snout in jest—the walrus flinched, then blinked when it didn't explode. His choked laugh tasted sweeter than syrup.
Shadows pooled unnaturally under my chair as I leaned forward, claws tapping a staccato rhythm against the table's steel surface. "Though next time? Please burn them less. We're revolutionaries, not barbarians." Patch's ears flattened—right before I continued, "But this was still a very good try Patch."
His eyes and his ears lifted up at that, his expression shifting—just barely—into something softer before twisting back into that sharp, knowing smirk. The knife embedded in the table groaned as the tension in the room thickened, shadows stretching toward Patch like probing fingers. "But don't mistake kindness for weakness, *lieutenant*," I murmured, twirling my fork idly before spearing another bite of waffle. The crunch echoed like breaking bones. "Burn the next batch properly, and I'll let you keep the hand that cooked them." I nearly chuckled as I said that.
Buns' laughter cut through the fake tension like a serrated blade, her fingers drumming the table in a rhythm that mimicked Sector 7's last collapsing infrastructure. I watched Patch's ears twitch toward the sound—half-terror, half-fascination—as she flicked a syrup-coated knife at Boomer's plate.
The walrus caught it mid-spin, his own grin widening when I didn't reprimand her. *Good.* Let them learn: anarchy wasn't the enemy. *Controlled* anarchy was a language, and I was their Rosetta Stone.
The waffle dissolved on my tongue, carbon-bitter and perfect, as I studied Sally over the rim of my stolen coffee cup. Her fingers trembled—just once—when Patch slid a fresh plate toward her, the waffles precisely golden this time.
*That's progress.*
I let my smirk bloom slow and steady, relishing this relative quite before the storm that was to come all too soon, more likely than not if I had to guess.