The room had once been clean.
That was the first thing Buns remembered about it.
Not perfect—never perfect, not with how often it had been used—but orderly. Purposeful. A place where things were fixed, where pain was understood and answered with quiet hands and careful tools.
Now—
Now it felt like something trying to remember what it used to be.
Cracked walls. Reinforced seams that didn't quite meet. A ceiling that hummed faintly with unstable light. The smell of antiseptic still lingered, but it no longer dominated. It mixed with dust, with old smoke, with the faint, metallic trace of too many injuries treated too quickly.
And beneath it all—
Stillness.
Not peace.
Never that.
Just… stillness.
Buns stood near the center of the room, arms folded loosely, ears angled toward the door without her consciously thinking about it. She had been standing like that for a while now. Minutes. Hours.
She wasn't sure.
Time didn't move normally in rooms like this.
Not when you were waiting.
Not when you were watching.
Her gaze shifted, as it always did, back to the cot.
Arthur lay exactly where he had been placed.
He hadn't moved in four days.
Not a twitch. Not a shift. Not even the small unconscious adjustments most people made without thinking.
Doctor Julian Ivo Kintobor had said it would be like this.
A controlled coma. A necessary one.
A week.
That was the number he had given.
Seven days to force a body that refused to stop into doing what it needed to survive.
Buns didn't like it.
She understood it.
But she didn't like it.
Her eyes lingered on Arthur's face.
He didn't look like a king.
Not like this.
Too still. Too quiet. Too small.
That thought always came, no matter how many times she pushed it away.
Small.
It didn't matter how strong he was. Didn't matter what he had done. Didn't matter what he had survived.
He was still—
Her ears twitched sharply.
The thought stopped.
Because thinking like that didn't help.
Didn't protect.
Didn't do anything but make her hesitate.
And hesitation was the one thing she wouldn't allow.
A soft sound pulled her attention downward.
Miles.
The fox kit was awake.
He had been for a little while now, though he hadn't made much noise. He stayed close—always close—curled near Arthur's side, small body pressed just enough to maintain contact.
His twin tails shifted slowly behind him, brushing lightly against the edge of the cot in uneven, restless movements.
His eyes were open.
Watching.
Not everything.
Just Arthur.
Buns' posture softened slightly as she stepped closer.
"You're up," she said quietly.
Her voice didn't carry far.
It didn't need to.
Miles' ears flicked in her direction, but his gaze didn't leave Arthur. One small hand lifted, pressing gently against the bandaged fabric wrapped around Arthur's arm.
Testing.
Checking.
Feeling.
Buns crouched down beside the cot, her movements careful despite the stiffness that had settled into her legs from standing too long.
"He's not waking yet," she said.
Not because Miles needed the explanation.
But because silence felt… wrong.
Miles made a small sound in response. Not quite a word. Not quite anything with shape.
Just a soft, uncertain noise.
His hand pressed a little more firmly against Arthur's arm, then relaxed again.
Buns watched him for a moment.
"He's still here," she added.
That, at least, was something she could say with certainty.
She reached out, adjusting one of the wraps slightly—not because it needed it, but because it gave her hands something to do.
Something controlled.
Something steady.
Miles shifted closer, his small frame pressing more firmly against Arthur's side now, as if trying to anchor him in place.
Buns' ears flicked again.
The sound this time wasn't from inside the room.
Distant.
Muted.
A tremor passed faintly through the floor—not enough to shake anything loose, but enough to be felt.
Buns stilled.
Listening.
Another followed.
Farther away.
Different direction.
Not random.
She exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting toward the door.
"Still going," she murmured.
The war didn't stop.
It didn't pause.
Not for kings.
Not for anyone.
Miles didn't react to the tremor.
Or maybe he did, just differently.
His tails stilled briefly, then resumed their slow movement.
Buns' eyes narrowed slightly.
She stayed crouched for another moment.
Then stood.
Crossed the room.
Checked the door.
It was still sealed.
Still intact.
No change.
Good.
She returned to the cot, slower this time, her movements more deliberate.
Because something felt—
Not wrong.
Not yet.
But not entirely right either.
It was subtle.
The kind of thing you couldn't point to.
Couldn't explain.
Just—
Felt.
She stopped beside the cot again, looking down at Arthur.
Still unmoving.
Still silent.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
"You better wake up when you're supposed to," she said quietly.
It wasn't a joke.
Wasn't light.
It was… expectation.
Because too many things were moving outside this room.
Too many things were changing.
And they were all moving around him.
Miles shifted again, this time turning his head slightly toward Buns.
His eyes blinked slowly.
Then he made another small sound.
Softer.
Questioning.
Buns looked down at him.
"…Yeah," she said after a moment.
"He's important."
It felt like too small a word.
But it was the one she had.
Miles watched her.
Then looked back at Arthur.
His hand curled slightly into the fabric of the bandages, holding on.
Buns let out a slow breath.
Her ears angled again—toward the door, toward the corridor beyond it.
Footsteps.
Faint.
Passing.
Then gone.
No one came in.
No one checked.
That was… expected.
And not.
She shifted her weight slightly.
Julian had told her to stay.
To watch.
To make sure nothing—
Her eyes flicked back to Arthur.
Nothing happened.
Right.
That was the instruction.
Simple.
Clear.
But the longer she stood there, the more it felt like something incomplete.
Like watching wasn't enough.
Like waiting wasn't enough.
Another tremor passed through the floor.
Stronger this time.
Miles' ears twitched sharply.
Buns' hand moved without thinking, resting lightly against the side of the cot.
Steady.
Grounded.
The lights above flickered once.
Twice.
Then stabilized again.
Buns' gaze lifted to them.
"…Don't start," she muttered.
The room fell quiet again.
Too quiet.
Her eyes moved slowly across it.
Every corner.
Every shadow.
Every place something could—
Nothing.
Still nothing.
She exhaled.
Slow.
Controlled.
Then looked back down at Arthur.
Still unmoving.
Still silent.
Miles shifted closer again, curling tighter against him.
Buns watched that.
And for just a moment—
Just a moment—
Her expression softened.
Because for all the noise outside.
For all the movement.
For all the things that were breaking and shifting and burning—
This.
This small, quiet space.
This was what mattered.
She stepped closer.
Positioned herself just slightly between the door and the cot.
Not fully.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
Her arms crossed again.
Her stance settled.
Watchful.
Ready.
Because whatever was happening out there—
Whatever was coming—
It wasn't getting through her first.
And behind her—
Arthur did not move.
He did not wake.
And Miles stayed close.
Holding on.
-------
Buns did not move from her place.
Not when the lights flickered again.
Not when another distant tremor rolled through the bones of the old base like a memory that refused to stay buried.
She stood between the door and the cot, arms folded, ears angled, eyes steady.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
But waiting had a way of pulling things up from places you didn't always want to look.
It started small.
It always did.
A smell.
That sharp, clean bite of antiseptic in the air.
It wasn't as strong as it used to be. Time and damage had dulled it, mixed it with dust and smoke and old metal.
But it was still there.
And that—
That pulled at something.
Her nose twitched slightly.
Her jaw tightened.
"…Yeah," she murmured under her breath, barely audible.
She knew that smell.
Knew it too well.
Her gaze drifted—not away from Arthur, never fully away—but unfocused just enough that the room blurred at the edges.
And something else took its place.
Not this room.
Not these walls.
Older ones.
Colder ones.
Back when she hadn't known this place.
Back when she hadn't known any of them.
Before Arthur.
Before Sonic.
Before Boomer.
Before any of it.
Back when it had just been her—
And him.
Her ears dipped slightly.
"…Uncle Beau," she muttered.
The name came out softer than she expected.
Rougher, too.
Like it had been sitting somewhere quiet for a long time.
He had been tall.
That was the first thing anyone noticed.
Tall and broad and steady in a way that made everything around him feel like it might just… hold together if he was nearby.
Same ears as her.
Same fur.
Same stubborn set to his shoulders.
And the same accent.
Stronger than hers had ever been.
Warm.
Rolling.
Comforting.
"Now listen here, sugar," he used to say, voice low and easy, like nothing in the world could rush him. "Ain't no use runnin' headfirst into somethin' you ain't looked at proper first."
Buns' lips pressed together slightly.
She could hear it.
Clear as if he were standing right behind her now.
Back then, the world hadn't felt this big.
Or maybe it had—
But she hadn't known it yet.
The Northern Baronies had been cold.
Not just in weather.
In feeling.
In the way things moved.
In the way people didn't move unless they had to.
And then—
Maxx Acorn's reach had come there.
Not as a king.
Not as a leader.
As something else.
Something that saw people not as people—
But as pieces.
Parts.
Possibilities.
Buns' fingers tightened slightly against her arms.
She remembered the day it changed.
Not all of it.
Some parts were blurry.
Too bright.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
But she remembered enough.
The soldiers.
The orders.
The way Beau had stepped in front of her without hesitation.
The way his voice had changed.
Not soft anymore.
Not warm.
Firm.
Protective.
"Y'all ain't takin' her nowhere," he'd said.
She could still hear that, too.
Clear.
Solid.
And then—
The sound.
Not shouting.
Not arguing.
Something else.
Short.
Final.
Her ears flattened slightly.
She didn't move.
Didn't shift.
But the memory pressed harder now.
Because that was the moment everything split.
Before—
And after.
After—
There had been metal.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
Wrong.
Her gaze dropped, just for a second, to her own hands.
They were steady.
Flesh.
Whole.
But they hadn't always been.
She remembered the weight of it.
The way it pulled at her.
The way it didn't feel like anything at all.
Half of her body—no, more than that—changed.
Replaced.
Altered.
Improved.
That's what they had called it.
Improvement.
Efficiency.
Strength.
Buns swallowed once, slow.
She remembered trying to move.
And the delay.
That fraction of a second where her body didn't respond the way it used to.
The way it was supposed to.
Like something else was thinking for her.
Something colder.
Something that didn't care if she wanted to move or not.
Her ears twitched sharply.
She forced the memory back.
Not gone.
Never gone.
Just… contained.
Because that wasn't her anymore.
Not now.
Not here.
Because after that—
After the cold and the metal and the wrongness—
There had been something else.
Someone else.
Her gaze shifted, settling again fully on Arthur.
Still unmoving.
Still silent.
"…You were smaller," she said quietly.
Not expecting a response.
Not needing one.
Back then, he hadn't been Arthur.
Hadn't been king.
Hadn't been… any of this.
Just—
Sonic.
Too fast.
Too loud.
Too stubborn.
Too alive.
The first time she'd seen him, she hadn't trusted it.
Couldn't.
Nothing that bright stayed that way in places like the Baronies.
But he had.
In his own way.
Even when things got bad.
Even when they got worse.
He hadn't stopped.
Hadn't slowed.
Hadn't—
Her lips pressed together.
Because she remembered that, too.
The moment things had shifted again.
Not cold this time.
Not like before.
Different.
Cleaner.
Doctor Julian Ivo Kintobor.
She hadn't trusted him either.
Not at first.
Another Overlander.
Another one with tools.
With knowledge.
With the kind of calm that usually meant something was about to go wrong.
But he hadn't been like that.
Not then.
Not with her.
He had looked at her—
Really looked.
Not at the metal.
Not at what had been done.
At her.
And Sonic—
Arthur—
He had been there.
Not still.
Never still.
Pacing.
Talking.
Arguing.
Insisting.
"Fix her," he'd said.
Like it was simple.
Like it was obvious.
Like there was no other option.
Buns' ears lifted slightly.
"…You didn't even think twice," she muttered.
A faint, almost imperceptible shift in her posture followed.
Because that had mattered.
More than she had known at the time.
More than she had let herself show.
The Organicizer.
She didn't understand all of it.
Still didn't.
But she remembered the moment it worked.
The feeling.
Warm.
Not cold.
Not forced.
Like something being given back instead of taken.
Her hands flexed slightly again.
Alive.
Fully.
Hers.
She let out a slow breath.
"…That's why," she said quietly.
Not finishing the thought out loud.
Didn't need to.
That's why she was here.
Why she stayed.
Why she didn't leave when things got worse.
Why she stood between the door and that cot without hesitation.
Because she remembered what it felt like to lose control.
To lose pieces of yourself.
And she remembered who had given it back.
Her gaze sharpened again.
The present settled back into place.
The room.
The light.
The faint hum.
The distant war.
Miles shifted softly, pressing closer to Arthur again.
Buns glanced down at him.
Then back at Arthur.
"…Ain't lettin' that happen again," she said under her breath.
Firm.
Certain.
Not loud.
But solid.
Because whatever was happening out there—
Whatever this war turned into—
She wasn't that scared, broken thing from the Baronies anymore.
And she wasn't alone.
Her stance adjusted just slightly.
More grounded.
More ready.
The past sat where it belonged.
Behind her.
But not forgotten.
Never forgotten.
Because it was the reason she didn't move.
Didn't waver.
Didn't look away.
And in the quiet of that broken medical room—
With a king who would not wake—
And a child who refused to leave his side—
Buns kept watch.
Just like she always had.
Only now—
She knew exactly what she was protecting.
-------
Buns shifted her weight, the faint ache in her legs reminding her she'd been standing longer than she meant to. She ignored it. There were more important things to keep track of than tired muscles.
Her gaze dropped again to Miles.
The little fox had settled for a moment, his breathing slow and even, but he wasn't asleep. Not really. His ears flicked too often for that. His tails moved in small, restless loops, brushing against Arthur's side like he needed to keep reminding himself that the contact was still there.
Buns crouched again, slower this time.
"Hey now," she murmured, her voice softening without her thinking about it. "You ain't gotta keep checkin' every second. He ain't goin' nowhere."
Miles' ears twitched toward her.
He looked up—really looked this time—his eyes wide, searching in that quiet, wordless way that kits had. He didn't understand everything. Probably didn't understand most of it.
But he understood enough.
Enough to know something wasn't right.
Enough to know Arthur wasn't waking.
His small hand tightened again in the bandages.
Buns reached out, careful, and gently eased his fingers loose.
"Easy," she said. "You're gonna pull somethin' if you keep that up."
Miles resisted for a second—just a little—then let go. His hand hovered uncertainly before settling back down, this time just resting instead of gripping.
Buns nodded once.
"That's better."
She glanced over Arthur again, doing what she'd seen Julian do a hundred times, even if she didn't have all the knowledge behind it. She checked the wraps. Adjusted where they'd shifted. Made sure nothing looked worse than it had before.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
And right now, something mattered.
Miles shifted again, closer than before, until he was nearly pressed against Arthur's side. One of his tails curled up over Arthur's arm like a blanket.
Buns watched that.
Then reached behind her, grabbing a folded bit of cloth from a nearby surface—one of the few things in the room that hadn't been knocked over or broken.
She shook it out once, then draped it lightly over Miles.
"There," she said quietly. "Don't need you catchin' a chill on top of everything else."
Miles blinked up at her, then down at the cloth, then back to Arthur.
He made a small sound—softer this time.
Not worried.
Just… there.
Buns huffed faintly through her nose.
"Yeah, I know," she said. "Don't like it either."
Another tremor rolled faintly through the floor.
Miles stilled.
This time, he reacted.
His ears pinned back slightly, and his head lifted, eyes darting toward the door.
Buns' posture tightened instantly.
Her ears snapped forward.
Listening.
Nothing immediate followed.
No footsteps.
No shouting.
Just that distant, ever-present noise of something bigger than this room continuing without pause.
She exhaled slowly.
"It's alright," she said, more for Miles than for herself. "Just the outside bein' loud again."
Miles didn't fully relax.
But he settled enough to press back against Arthur.
Buns stayed crouched for a moment longer, watching him, making sure he calmed.
Then she shifted again, standing and moving toward a small table tucked against the wall. There wasn't much left on it—just a few scattered supplies Julian had deemed worth keeping.
Water.
Cloth.
Basic things.
She picked up a small container, checked it, then brought it back over.
"Kinda doubt you're thinkin' about it," she muttered, glancing at Miles, "but you still gotta drink."
She knelt again, opening the container and dipping a bit of cloth into it before wringing it out just enough.
"Here," she said, holding it near his mouth. "Just a little."
Miles hesitated.
Then leaned forward slightly, lips brushing the damp cloth. He drank slowly, uncertain at first, then a little more steadily.
Buns nodded.
"Good," she said. "That's it."
She pulled it back after a moment, not letting him take too much too fast.
"Don't need you gettin' sick on me too."
Miles blinked, then made another small sound—almost a complaint.
Buns' mouth twitched faintly.
"Yeah, yeah. I hear ya."
She set the container aside, then adjusted the cloth over him again, making sure it didn't slip.
For a while after that, the room settled again.
Quiet.
Not peaceful.
But steady.
Buns returned to her place near the foot of the cot, standing watch like she had before.
Only now—
Now there was more movement behind her.
Small shifts.
Soft breaths.
Life.
She glanced back once.
Miles had settled again, one hand resting lightly on Arthur's side, his tails curled close, the cloth draped over him.
He wasn't asleep.
But he wasn't panicking either.
That was enough.
Buns let out a slow breath.
Her ears angled toward the door again.
Always listening.
Always waiting.
Time stretched again.
Minutes.
Maybe longer.
Another set of footsteps passed outside.
Faster this time.
Heavier.
More than one.
Buns' posture straightened slightly.
Her hand moved just a fraction, ready—
The door opened.
Not forced.
Not slammed.
Just—
Opened.
Buns turned immediately, stepping just enough to fully place herself between the entrance and the cot.
Her stance lowered.
Guarded.
Ready.
Sally stepped through.
Buns relaxed—
Not completely.
But enough.
Sally's expression was tight.
Not panicked.
But controlled in that way that meant something had already gone wrong somewhere else.
Her eyes flicked once across the room—Arthur, Miles, Buns—taking everything in in a single glance.
"You're still here," Sally said quietly.
Buns gave a small nod.
"Was told to be," she replied.
Sally stepped further in, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
For a moment, she didn't say anything.
Her gaze lingered on Arthur.
Unmoving.
Unchanged.
Then on Miles.
Curled close.
Alive.
Holding on.
Sally exhaled through her nose.
"…Good," she said.
Not relief.
Not quite.
Just acknowledgment.
Buns shifted slightly.
"What's goin' on?" she asked.
Sally didn't answer immediately.
She moved closer to the cot instead, her hand brushing lightly against the edge as she looked down at Arthur.
Then—
"Fort Knothole's been hit," she said.
The words landed heavy.
Clean.
Final.
Buns' ears twitched sharply.
"…Hit how?" she asked.
Sally's gaze didn't lift.
"From behind," she said. "Not us."
A pause.
Then—
"Queen Ciara."
The name settled into the room.
Buns' grip tightened slightly against her own arm.
"…That ain't good, is it?" she muttered.
"From what Doctor Kintobor told me, no," Sally agreed.
Now she looked up.
At Buns.
"We're shifting," she continued. "Everything's moving. Lines are changing faster than we expected."
Buns nodded slowly.
She didn't need all the details.
The tone said enough.
Sally took a small step back from the cot.
"I'll take over here," she said. "You've been on this too long."
Buns hesitated.
Just for a second.
Her eyes flicked to Miles.
To Arthur.
Then back to Sally.
"…You sure?" she asked.
Sally's expression didn't waver.
"Yes."
A beat.
Then softer—
"I've got them."
Buns held her gaze a moment longer.
Then nodded.
"Alright."
She stepped aside—but not far.
Not immediately.
Her eyes lingered one last time on Miles, who had shifted slightly at the new voice, ears flicking as he looked toward Sally.
Then on Arthur.
Still unmoving.
Still silent.
"…You wake up when you're supposed to," she muttered under her breath.
More to herself than anyone else.
Then she turned.
Not rushing.
Not dragging.
Just moving.
Toward the door.
Sally took her place beside the cot as Buns passed her, the shift seamless, practiced in a way that spoke of too many moments like this.
The door opened again.
Then closed.
And the room returned to quiet.
Only now—
Sally stood watch.
Miles stayed close.
And Arthur still did not wake up...