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 quietness before the storm that was to come all too soon, more likely than not if I had to give a guess. The coffee's acidic bite mirrored the tension coiling beneath Sally's fur—each sip a calculated provocation.
I wasn't a fool, at least not an obvious one, I knew that these relatively simple days couldn't last forever, not with King Maxx Acorn doing whatever the fuck he was doing with Sector 5's ruins, not with Sally's certain leanings twitching like a dying rabbit's foot in my periphery, and certainly not with Rosemarie Prower's kit kicking harder against her ribs with each passing hour.
But I had to stall until Miles 'Tails' Prower was born, who knows how I'll manage down the road if I accidentally prevent him being born safely, and that was an unacceptable risk. The syrup dripped from my knife like diluted blood as I scrawled another line in the manifesto—this page devoted to Sector 7's sewer based irrigation systems, because revolutions ran on logistics as much as ideology. Across the table, Boomer's tusks clacked against his third plate of waffles, the sound rhythmic as I looked at his slowly emerging muscles.
I took another sip of coffee as I continued to write in my manifesto; "They say the future is written, well then, I think I prefer to scribble in the margins of the book." I smirked, glancing sideways at Sally, who was pretending not to watch me. The waffle syrup pooled like molten gold on my plate, catching the dim kitchen light—pretty, but sticky.
Just like power.
Exactly like trust .
"Chaos and Anarchy aren't just pits—they're also ladders. And I'm climbing. Do you dare join me?" The pen scratched across parchment, its nib splitting under the pressure as I outlined Sector 7's new irrigation routes to the side, "Mobius will forever turn, but I will *break* the loop."
Soon Doc and Collin Jr. finally woke up, the scent of waffles and fresh plasma rousing them from unconsciousness. Collin Jr. simply lifted his hand as to say good morning to them all, clearly still tired and sore from who knows what else.
Doc looked at me and the pages in my hand, and I knew what he saw, not just ink and parchment, but fresh blood drying on old wounds. His still thinning fingers twitched toward my shoulder in concern, his hand laying on me as he sighed before speaking softly and lowly as always, "Sonic... what are you doing?"
I grinned—all teeth and no mercy—as I let the manifesto flutter onto the table between us, pages spreading like wings. "What needs to be done," I said, my voice no longer a blade sliding between ribs.
"You're not even going to turn six for another four months," he said softly, fingertips pressing against my suit, much more messy without me freshing up before I ate, smearing syrup across my collar like rust. His fingers twitched—Doc always smelled like antiseptic and ozone—but I let him linger because he was one of the few who I knew that I could trust.
And trust was a currency I spent sparingly these days.
His claws brushed my shoulder—too light to be anything but deliberate—and I resisted the urge to bare my teeth at him, because I wasn't angry at him, but at the way Sally's ears flicked toward us like she was listening in, at the way Patch's tail curled around his chair leg like he was preparing to bolt, at the way Collin Jr. thusded when he flexed his fingers under the table.
But I didn't bare my teeth because Doc was one of mine, and I was nicer to my own. So instead, I leaned into his touch—just a fraction—letting him feel the tension coiled beneath my fur, the way my muscles twitched like live wires.
Doc exhaled—slow, measured—and his claws dug in just enough to ground me. "You're going to get yourself killed," he murmured, so quiet only I could hear it, his breath warm against my ear as a tear began to form in his left eye
I grinned, not all teeth for once this time, softer, more genuine—the kind of smile that made Collin Jr. stop fidgeting under the table. "Doc," I said, pressing my syrup-sticky palm over his trembling claw, "dying implies I'd stop." The kitchen air tasted like iron and burnt sugar now, thick with the scent of Collin's fresh sutures and Buns' rising panic.
My free hand tapped the manifesto—once, twice—before sliding it toward Sally, letting her look over my scribbled notes about sewage lines and rebellion. The paper crinkled under her claws, her pupils dilating as she absorbed phrases like *structural destabilization* and *hydraulic fracturing of royalist infrastructure*. I watched her throat bob when she hit the underlined section: *Collapse the ceiling before they notice the foundation's gone.*
Doc's grip tightened on my shoulder, his claws pricking through fabric. "You can't weaponize plumbing," he hissed, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him—he'd seen my work with less.
I turned my head up and to the right to fully face him, "You're still slowly getting thinner," I murmured, watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed—too quick, too shallow. My claws tapped against his wrist—once, twice—a silent countdown before I twisted my grip and yanked him down to eye level. His breath hitched, warm against my muzzle, smelling of stale coffee and fear sweat.
"Please tell me Doc," I whispered, pressing my forehead to his so he couldn't look away, "When was the last time you had a full meal?" My thumb stroked the prominent ridge of his clavicle, counting each protruding bone like failures in my care. His rapid fire pulse jumped beneath my claws—rabbit quick despite his Overlander genes—as I inhaled the sour tang of starvation clinging to his moustache hair.
Behind us, Sally's knife screeched across her plate, the sound like nails on slate. I didn't need to turn to know her pupils had blown wide—the scent of her adrenaline sharp as broken glass. My claws tightened fractionally around Doc's wrist, feeling the way his pulse stuttered when his eyes darted all around, likely trying to think of a good answer that sounded reasonable to me.
"Four days...," he finally admitted, the words like rotten fruit squeezed too tight—soft and leaking shame. The confession hung between us, sour as the coffee grounds crusted to my mug. My nostrils flared, catching the iron undertone of his empty stomach acids eating at him from the inside out.
"And why not?" My voice cracked through the kitchen like a whip—too sharp, too fast—making Collin Jr. flinch so hard his elbow knocked over the salt shaker. The white grains spilled across the table like tiny bones, and I didn't miss the way Doc's pupils contracted at the mess. My claws flexed against his wrist, not quite drawing blood but close enough that his breath hitched. "Did you really think I won't notice?" I leaned in until our noses almost touched, my next words a lethal whisper.
"You starve yourself fixing things—broken bones, broken systems—while ignoring the fractures in your own ribs." My voice dropped lower, a predator's growl threading through each syllable as I pressed Doc's wrist against the manifesto's drying ink. His pulse fluttered like a dying bird beneath my claws. "I won't let you wither, not for a couple of decades hopefully."
"I'm not trying to wither Sonic," Doc rasped, his pupils dilating as my claws traced the hollow of his throat—a silent threat, a promise. The kitchen smelled of burnt sugar and Collin Jr.'s sutures weeping plasma, but beneath it all, Doc's starvation scent clung like rot. My free hand snatched his untouched waffle—syrup dripping onto my gloves—and pressed it against his lips, almost hard enough to bruise.
"Eat this." The command left no room for debate, my voice colder than Sector 7's ruins. His trembling jaw opened on reflex, teeth sinking into golden dough as I watched his throat convulse with each forced swallow—counting every bite like bullets in a clip.
"I can still feed myself Sonic," Doc muttered around a mouthful of waffle, syrup glistening on his moustache—but his fingers stayed limp against mine, betraying his exhaustion. I let my thumb swipe the sticky residue from his chin, pressing just enough to feel his pulse rabbiting beneath paper thin skin.
"Then prove it," I challenged, sitting down right next to him while twisting the fork in my grip—slow, deliberate—before stabbing it into the waffle stack between us. The tines screeched against porcelain like knives on bone. "Unless you'd rather I hand feed you like a newborn kit." The threat hung between us, sweet as syrup and twice as sticky.
Doc just sighed as he grabbed the fork, his claws scraping against the porcelain plate—the sound sending a shiver down Collin Jr.'s spine. He took a slow, deliberate bite, his eyes never leaving mine, the syrup dripping from the corner of his mouth like diluted blood.
"Are you happy now Sonic?" he muttered, the words thick with resignation, yet not unkimd. I tilted my head, watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed—too slow, too forced. "Not just yet Doc," I murmured, leaning in close enough to catch the sour tang of his breath, the way his ribs pressed sharp against my side as he inhaled. My claws drummed against the tabletop—once, twice—before I snatched his coffee cup and dumped it into the sink with a clatter that made Buns jump. "You're dehydrated too."
Patch's tail lashed behind him like a whip as I stood, my shadow stretching long across the kitchen floor—a dark smear against the morning light. Sally's claws dug into the tablecloth when I passed her, the fabric tearing with a sound like splitting skin. I paused just long enough to press a syrup-stained fingertip to her forehead, leaving a sticky imprint between her brows—a brand, a reminder. "Eat faster Princess," I purred, my breath warm against her ear as her pulse fluttered rabbit quick beneath my touch despite being a squirrel. "Riots don't wait for royal digestion."
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Almost 91 pages so far.
Then I'd be done.
Yeah I very much was always aiming for that number of pages, I need to have some sense of humor after all—but Mobius wasn't laughing when the mortar fire painted the skyline in shades of scorched copper and ruptured veins. The rifle's weight balanced perfectly in my grip, its muzzle still humming with residual heat as I strode past crumpled royalist banners, their embroidered acorns now trampled into mud and shell casings.
Still, it was quiet.
Almost too quiet.
Way too quiet.
Yeah I was so going to miss times like this—just having a casual breakfast—but Mobius waited for no one, and neither will I.
But for now I will just finish my breakfast—because revolutions run on syrup and spite as much as bullets. The waffle tore between my teeth with a satisfying crunch, golden brown edges scraping against my canines like tiny serrated knives. Syrup dripped down my chin—not blood for once—and I let it pool in the hollow of my throat before swiping it away with a single claw, savoring the tacky sweetness clinging to my glove.
I watched the way the syrup settled into the grid of my waffle, a dozen tiny, sticky reservoirs. To anyone else, it was a meal. To me, it was a map of Sector 7's low-income housing districts, the gridlock of the streets, and the way I intended to flood them.
"You're staring again," Sally said. Her voice was brittle, like dry parchment. She hadn't touched the fresh plate Patch had given her. The "Princess" was still there, buried under the grime of our shared reality, but her royal dignity was fraying at the edges.
"I'm calculating, Sally," I corrected, my voice deceptively high and youthful. "There's a difference. Staring is what you do when you're overwhelmed. Calculating is what you do when you're about to become the overwhelm."
I turned my attention back to my manifesto. Page ninety one. The number felt significant, a milestone in a book that shouldn't have been written by a child who hadn't even seen six summers. But I wasn't just a child. I was an architect of a catastrophe that I hoped would look like salvation by the time the smoke cleared.
Boomer shifted his weight, the floorboards groaning under his bulk. He was growing—not just in height, but in a density that suggested he was being forged rather than raised. He reached for the coffee pot, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble as he avoided the ink stained maps I had spread across the communal table.
Doc's throat bobbed as he swallowed another bite, his pupils contracting when Collin Jr. finally spoke up, "Do you even have a plan?" The question hung between us like a guillotine blade. I wiped syrup from my lips with the back of my glove, examining the sticky smear with detached amusement before flicking it onto the manifesto pages.
"Collin," I said, voice lilting like a nursery rhyme, "when have I ever *not* had a plan?" The kitchen fell silent except for the wet sound of Buns chewing her lower lip as she ate. My claws tapped against the rifle stock—once, twice—before I twisted it toward the ceiling, letting dawn light glint off the plasma-charged barrel.
"But plans," I continued, tearing off another strip of waffle with my teeth, "are like arteries. Cut one, and you bleed out unless you have a good amount of backups to them."
The syrup on my knife caught the morning light as I traced Sector 7's underground routes on the map—each line a potential noose for King Maxx Acorn's regime.
But soon we all finished our breakfast and I stood up—slow, deliberate—letting my shadow stretch across the kitchen like spilled ink. Doc's fingers twitched toward my wrist, but I stepped out of reach before he could make contact, savoring the way his pupils dilated—half concern, half resignation. The syrup on my gloves had dried tacky, cracking when I flexed my fingers.
Simply perfect.
A tactile reminder of what happens to sweet things left too long in the open air.
Collin Jr. still looked deep in thought about something when I stood up—my chair scraping loud against the wooden floor—and snatched his half eaten waffle off his plate before he could protest. His pupils dilated as I crammed the entire thing into my mouth in one bite, syrup dripping down my chin like diluted blood. "Waste not," I mumbled around the mouthful, licking sticky gold off my claws while staring at his trembling hands.
The kitchen smelled of burnt sugar and fresh sutures, but underneath it all—beneath the metallic tang of plasma and Doc's mild starvation.
The sink's faucet groaned when I cranked it open—rust and old pipes despite Doc's best efforts still protesting—as steaming water sluiced over the syrup crusted plates. My claws scraped burnt waffle residue off porcelain with surgical precision, each scrape echoing louder than necessary in the sudden hush that fell when Patch sidled up beside me, his tail flicking like a metronome set to *unease*.
"Did you sleep alright Patch?" I asked without turning, my claws scraping syrup-hardened waffle remnants off Doc's plate—the sound like bones being cleaned of marrow. Patch's tail twitched against my calf, the fur bristling where it brushed bare skin beneath my rolled up sleeves. The sink water ran pink with diluted raspberry syrup, swirling down the drain in lazy spirals that reminded me of Sector 5's storm drains after last week's ambush.
Patch's silence stretched taut as he picked up a dish towel, his claws snagging on the threadbare fabric. I watched his reflection in the kitchen window—the way his ears flattened when I flicked water at him, droplets catching dawn light like scattered shards of stained glass. "You're jumpier than a lynx in a room full of rocking chairs," I murmured, handing him Doc's coffee stained mug. His fingers brushed mine—too quick.
He was distracted by something.
"What's wrong Patchy?" I asked, my attention now fully on him, turning my head just enough to catch the way his pupils contracted—like a cat caught mid-pounce.
He sighed and let his shoulders slump, "It's just... my parents Sonic," he began, nearly mumbling the words before catching himself. I watched his claws tighten around the mug—knuckles bleaching beneath fur—as he forced the next words out through gritted teeth.
"They're still in the capital sector." The porcelain cracked under his grip, spider webbing fractures spreading like the propaganda bulletins King Maxx Acorn's regime plastered across every Sector. I plucked the shattered pieces from his grasp before he could cut himself, my own claws sheathed and on his shoulder.
It was then I realized I never even thought to ask about Patch, my first ever friend's, parents. I had always just assumed his parents were a pair of dipshits like the rest of us had—but now, seeing his claws dig into his own palm hard enough to draw blood—I realized I had been wrong.
Dead fucking wrong.
My fingers twitched against his shoulder—not quite patting, not quite gripping—just there.
Just being present.
Just being right there for him.
"I'm going to go out on a limb there and say you miss them?" I began, softer than expected—my claws stilling against Patch's shoulder, pressing just enough to feel his pulse rabbiting beneath fur. The kitchen air tasted stale suddenly—burnt sugar and old plasma fire—but beneath it, Patch's scent spiked sharp with something raw. My thumb traced the ridge of his collarbone, counting each shallow breath like a miser tallying coins.
"Tell me," I murmured, tilting my head until my muzzle nearly brushed his ear, "what are they like to you?"
Patch exhaled—a shuddering thing—before slumping against the counter, his claws scraping grooves into the wood. "My dad... Sir Armand D'Coolette," he muttered, the name without any sourness on his tongue. "He's been through and seen a lot of things—been to war—and has done things that haunt him—but he always kept me safe, always had my back—even when I didn't know I needed him to." His fingers twitched toward his ribs—an old gesture—and I didn't miss the way his claws lingered over scar tissue I'd never asked about. The kitchen smelled suddenly of gunpowder and old parchment, like someone had cracked open a history book full of battles best left buried.
I leaned in—slow, deliberate—letting my shadow swallow Patch's trembling frame whole. My claws found his chin, until I asked another question, "And your mother? What about her?" My thumb pressed against his pulse point—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who was listening—who *cared*. The kitchen's ambient noise faded—Buns' nervous chewing, Doc's fork scraping porcelain—until only Patch's uneven breaths remained. His pupils dilated, black swallowing green as his throat worked around syllables too thick to voice.
"She's… softer," he rasped, claws flexing like he could pluck the memory from the air. "Always humming when she cooks—never raised her voice, not once—even when I—" His words fractured like the mug in his grip. I tilted my head, studying the way dawn light caught the moisture gathering in his lashes. Interesting. My claws traced the curve of his cheekbone—slow, proprietary—before curling possessively around the back of his neck.
"You want them back," I murmured, not a question. The manifesto crinkled in my pocket, its ink still wet enough to stain when I slapped it onto the counter between us. "Then let's *take* them."
Patch's breath hitched—sharp as a blade between ribs as he protested, "they are both assassins for King Maxx Acorn—" before my claws dug into his shoulder—not enough to draw blood—just enough to silence him. I grinned—slow, deliberate—letting my fangs catch the dawn light filtering through bullet holes in the kitchen walls.
"Ohhh Patchy," I crooned, voice syrup sweet and twice as sticky, "do you *really* think I care about such details, even if they were as bad as King Maxx Acorn, if they are your parents and if you truly care about them?" My claws dragged down his shoulder blades—slow, possessive—counting each vertebrae like a butcher tallying cuts of meat.
"R-really Sonic, you would do that for me?" Patch stammered, his voice cracking like thin ice underboot. Then he moved—too fast for even my reflexes—crushing himself against my chest with enough force to make my ribs creak. His claws dug into my spine through my jacket, trembling like a live wire. I let him cling for exactly three heartbeats before yanking him back by the scruff—not roughly, but firmly—my muzzle wrinkling at the wet heat of his tears soaking my fur.
"Of course my friend," I began, "but not yet, we have to be careful after all—but right now I do believe that we have some dishes to do." My claws scraped burnt waffle residue off porcelain with slow precision, each scrape echoing louder than necessary in the sudden quiet that fell when Patch grabbed a dish towel—his claws snagging on frayed threads—as we settled back into that rhythm.