Five years later, the now polished marble floors of the building we fled to long ago echoed with the sharp *click-clack* of Doctor Kintobor's metal boots. He paused before a towering stained-glass window depicting King Maxx Acorn's armored likeness crushing Overlander war machines. Below, in the ground floor, a small blue hedgehog was putting on his full suit.
I blinked, over the years I made sure to follow Doctor Kintobor's teaching and training, and found out some things: Mobius was actually the exact same as Earth, just renamed after some great reinvention thousands of years ago by some aliens. Echidnas still wereplentifulin number yet they almost exclusively lived on a sunken island named Demon Island? And I? I was the seemingly perfect prodigy, I was able to seem like a genius with my foreknowledge of history, physics, and very basic tactics—which I learned from playing strategy games back on Earth.
Yet, Doctor Kintobor's smile today felt strained. "Your suit fits impeccably, Sonic," he murmured, adjusting my emerald-green collar—a color chosen for camouflage among Sector 7's reclaimed foliage, not vanity. His gloved hand trembled slightly against my shoulder. Outside, Maxx Acorn's armored convoy rumbled past, scanners sweeping rubble-strewn streets. Kintobor's non-lethal SWEEPbots whirred uselessly behind blast shields; he'd ordered them grounded rather than risk pulverization by royalist tanks. "Remember," he whispered, bending close. "The surgical scanner we deliver—it repairs nerve damage. Imagine mothers walking again." His voice thickened. "No child should drag paralyzed parents through garbage."
That was the difference between us, while Doctor Kintobor (Who I just called Doc) was defiantly a genius, and a good one at that, he wasn't ruthless. He saw potential in everyone, even King Maxx's thugs—believing compassion could disarm hatred itself. He'd lecture me softly while repairing rusted SWEEPbots, "Violence begets shattered spines, Sonic, not solutions." His true war wasn't against flesh, but apathy; each non-lethal drone deployed wished to scrub toxins from Mobius' soil, mending the planet stitch by stitch.
Doc's fingers fumbled with the scanner crate's latches, his prosthetic clicking softly. "This device," he murmured, more to himself than to me, "could mend Farmer Barkley's crushed legs from that Combine accident." His voice thickened. "Imagine him walking his daughter down the aisle." Below, Maxx's armored convoy idled, engines snarling like beasts—a deliberate intimidation tactic. Doc didn't flinch. He just tightened the straps on my delivery pack, ensuring the scanner wouldn't jostle. "Stealth, not speed today, Sonic," he reminded gently. "Life is in that crate, not a trophy."
We both wanted to better Mobius, but we always disagreed on to how exactly to do that. Doc saw wounds needing stitches; I saw infected limbs requiring amputation before they killed the whole body. Still, I respected him—his relentless optimism was its own kind of weapon against the rot of Diamond Heights. He secured the final latch on the scanner crate, his prosthetic whirring softly. "Remember," he murmured, eyes scanning the convoy's armored underbelly below, "this isn't a race against their guns. It's a relay toward Farmer Barkley's front porch." Dust motes danced in weak sunlight filtering through bullet-pocked skylights. Doc didn't flinch as Maxx's lead tank revved its engine, shaking the foundations. His focus remained absolute: *deliver the mending.*
Below, Maxx's soldiers kicked over a vendor's fruit cart, laughing as bruised apples rolled through gutter sludge. Doc's jaw tightened, but his hand stayed gentle as he adjusted the pack harness across my shoulders. "Violence only fertilizes more violence, Sonic," he whispered, watching a SWEEPBot futilely scrub graffiti off a nearby wall—royalist insignia sprayed fresh that morning. "Every spine we repair, every toxin we filter... that's the real rebellion." His gaze drifted to the scanner crate. "This device holds symphonies. Walking. Dancing. Hold that thought tighter than any weapon."
Castle Acorn loomed like a clenched fist from our car—all sharp spires and gunmetal-gray stone. King Maximillian 'Maxx' (Yes, with two x's for some god forsaken reason) Acorn's reportedly third best bodyguard: a skunk named Jeffrey St. Croix. The second best was apparently some fox named Rosemarie, who had married the first best Mr. Prower and was expecting (Likely Tails). Anyway, Jeffrey stood at the gate checkpoint, his tail raised with practiced menace. Doc rolled down the window, and the scent of ozone and damp stone washed over us. "Purpose?" Jeffrey demanded, eyes scanning Doc's rusted electric car—a salvaged antique compared to royalist hover-limos. Doc smiled warmly, unflinching. "Advanced nerve regeneration scanner for Castle Medbay," he said, patting the crate beside him. "Courtesy of Sector Seven Free Clinic."
His eyes nearly whirred as they suddenly landed on me. "Ah, Lord Sonic, fancily dressed as ever!" His voice light, with an unnatural smile to it that didn't reach his eyes at all. "King Acorn awaits in the solar." He gestured toward the castle's looming doors, his tail twitching like a metronome. Doc patted my shoulder—a silent reminder. *Calmness, Sonic, be calm* Inside smelled of polished marble and disinfectant. Royal portraits glared down, ancestors frozen in judgment. Footsteps echoed like gunshots in the cavernous hall. Doc kept pace beside me, his expression serene, but his knuckles whitened around the scanner crate's handle.
Inside the throne room, Lord Acorn perched stiffly on a velvet chaise, his hair the color of dried blood. He didn't rise. "Doctor Kintobor," he acknowledged, then flicked his gaze to me. "And the prodigy. They say he solves tactical problems before breakfast." His tone was polished obsidian—smooth, cold, and sharp. Doc bowed slightly, setting the scanner crate down with deliberate quiet. "Peace offers its own solutions, Your Majesty. This device can restore mobility to Sergeant Barkley's daughter." He gestured to the crate, his prosthetic hand whirring softly. "No more wheelchairs."
Lord Acorn drummed gloved fingers on the chaise armrest. "Commendable. Yet peace requires... insurance." His eyes, like chips of flint, locked onto Doc. "Your SWEEPbots clean streets. Design me ones that *clean* insurrections. Non-lethally, of course." He smiled thinly. "Sedative gas. Sonic disruptors. Pacification nets." Doc went rigid. The air crackled with unspoken refusal. I shifted subtly, my polished shoe scraping marble—a minuscule sound that drew Acorn's predatory stare. "The boy agrees, Doctor. Potential shouldn't languish in garbage heaps."
Doc stepped forward, shielding me partially. His voice stayed calm, but his knuckles pressed white against his thigh. "Healing spines *is* pacification, Majesty. Every step regained steals despair's ammunition." Acorn rose slowly, his shadow stretching across Doc like a shroud. "Spines break when rebels push too hard," he countered softly. He gestured toward the scanner. "Deliver your miracle. But consider your next creation carefully." He turned his back, dismissal absolute.
"Doctor Kintobor, Jules' child shows, . . . much dedication, especially for his age, sadly unlike my daughter." He gestured toward a side door where a small squirrel girl peeked out, her eyes wide. "Sally! Quit hiding and greet our guests properly!"
The girl shuffled forward, clutching a frayed plush rabbit. She curtsied perfectly and looked up, and . . . those eyes. They weren't timid like mine pretended to be in front of others; they were empty. Hollow. Like polished stones reflecting nothing. "Sonic, Doctor Kintobor" she recited tonelessly, her voice was flat, utterly devoid of inflection. It wasn't shyness; it was vacancy. Lord Acorn patted her head dismissively. "Princess Sally Alicia Acorn. She studies statecraft while the prodigy presumably studies . . . velocity?" His chuckle held no warmth. Sally stared past Doc's shoulder, unblinking. Doc's gentle smile faltered for a microsecond, replaced by profound sadness. He knelt slowly, bringing himself eye-level with the princess. "It's an honour to meet you, Princess Sally," he murmured softly, ignoring Acorn's impatient sigh. His prosthetic hand hovered, not touching, but offering silent acknowledgment. "Statecraft requires a sharp mind. Like untangling complex wiring." Sally didn't react. Her gaze drifted past him to the intricate mosaic floor.
Doc straightened, the weight of Acorn's demand and Sally's emptiness pressing hard against his pacifism. He kept his eyes locked on the King. "Your Majesty," he began, voice low but unwavering, "the scanner—Sergeant Barkley's daughter awaits it." He gestured subtly towards the crate. "Her recovery begins today. Each step she reclaims is a victory against despair." The unspoken plea hung thick: *Let me deliver this healing, not weapons.* Acorn's expression remained granite. Doc understood. The scanner was a concession, a temporary pass. He lifted the crate, its weight a familiar anchor. "With your leave, Majesty." The dismissal was curt. Doc bowed deeply, his movements radiating weary dignity. As he turned, his prosthetic hand brushed Sally's shoulder gently. She flinched—a tiny, mechanical spasm—then resumed her stillness. Doc's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. This emptiness wasn't childhood shyness. It felt like a wound.
The polished corridors felt colder now. Doc's steps echoed decisively, carrying him away from poisoned thrones towards genuine healing. He navigated the labyrinthine castle halls towards the Medbay wings without hesitation, his mind already shifting gears. Sergeant Barkley's daughter wasn't an abstraction; she was ten years old with freckles across her nose, paralyzed when a royalist supply truck crushed her legs near the docks. I stayed in the room staring at Sally.
"Sonic my boy, perhaps you could make her see the truth of her position? Show her the value of politics and her role?" Acorn's voice slithered across the marble floor towards me. Sally remained immobile, her rabbit dangling limply from one hand. I approached slowly, kneeling as Doc had, but my movements lacked his warmth. Her eyes tracked me – empty lenses focusing with mechanical precision. "Princess Sally," I began, pitching my voice into Jules' old aristocratic cadence. "Shall we go to the courtyard? The topiary gardens require strategic assessment." Her head tilted slightly, a gear engaging. Strategy and numbers. It was the only word that ever sparked a flicker.
"Do you . . . like counting?" I ventured awkwardly. Her head tilted, a fractional movement. "Its the closest thing to a fun thing I get to do." Her monotone scraped the air. "Numbers don't lie. They don't want things." The quiet certainty chilled me. She wasn't sabotaging; she was just surviving, detached. My own radical dreams felt suddenly cheap, theatrical. God what the hell had this girl been put through? Was my upbringing the norm? Was Doc the anomaly? Sally traced a vein in the marble floor with her slippered toe—a slow, deliberate path. "Seventy-three tiles here," she stated. "The throne room has three hundred and twenty-one. Father likes prime numbers." Her emptiness wasn't defiance; it was resignation etched in bone.
"What do you *want*, Sally?" I asked abruptly, my voice low. "Not what they tell you. What *you* want." Her tracing stopped. For the first time, her empty eyes focused—not on me, but on a cluster of green beans twisting up a trellis nearby. "Control," she stated flatly. "I want to grow vegetables. Large ones. Like marrow." The sheer banality of it, uttered with absolute seriousness, was jarring. Not freedom, not escape—just gardening. Sally didn't react; her gaze drifted back to the gravel. "Four hundred twenty-one," she corrected tonelessly.
"I want control too Princess Sally, so you can grow vegetables," I whispered, leaning closer. Her gaze flickered towards me, faintly curious. I remembered Doc's teachings—compassion as strategy. "My friend Kintobor... he grows enormous pumpkins. Uses purified soil." Sally's fingers twitched against her rabbit's ear. "My father King Acorn hates gardens. Calls them inefficient." Her voice remained flat, but her eyes tracked mine now—searching.
I painted my vision deliberately: "Even if that is inefficient, which it isn't, I want a world that doesn't have radiation leaking everywhere that Doc Kintobor has to clean up. Where SWEEPbots aren't scrubbing toxins from poisoned dirt, but just... watering flowers." Sally's fingers tightened slightly on her rabbit's ear. "Watering flowers," she echoed, her monotone softening almost imperceptibly. "They... wouldn't die then." A flicker—something beyond resignation—briefly warmed the polished stone emptiness of her gaze.
Leaning closer, I kept my voice low beneath the cavernous hall's echoes. "I want a world that doesn't have a choice but to be better than it is now, Princess Sally. Where Doc Kintobor's SWEEPbots aren't scrubbing radiation leaks, but watering those gardens you dream about." Her gaze sharpened slightly, lingering on me. "He uses purified soil," I added, recalling Doc's greenhouse near the clinic, vibrant with defiant life. "He taught me that cleaning the dirt is the first step to growing anything worthwhile. Even marrows."
Sally's fingers tightened minutely around her rabbit's ear. "Father says ecology is inefficient," she murmured, her monotone fraying at the edges. "He says... poisoned dirt is cheaper." A flicker of something raw—disgust?—briefly warmed the polished stone of her eyes. "Doc doesn't care about cost," I countered gently. "He sees broken spines needing healing, not budgets. He'd mend your father's knees too if they ached." She blinked, genuinely startled. For a second, the emptiness fractured, revealing bewildered vulnerability. "Mend... King Acorn?"
"Yes," I pressed, seizing the crack in her armor. "He believes everyone deserves a second chance. Even kings." Outside, the distant whine of Maxx's patrol drones underscored the absurdity. Sally stared past me toward the Medbay corridor Doc had vanished down. Her lips parted, forming silent words: *Second chance?* Her blank expression softened into something haunted, almost yearning. The sheer impossibility of Doc's kindness seemed to thaw her frozen detachment, leaving bewildered confusion in its wake. She clutched her rabbit tighter, knuckles white.
"That of course is absolutely wrong," I pressed, lowering my voice beneath the throne room's oppressive echoes. "Doc sees broken spines needing healing, I say bad ones need braking. Not budgets, and not kings." Sally's fingers tightened minutely on her rabbit's ear. I leaned closer, my shadow swallowing hers. "He believes everyone deserves a second chance? Even kings?" Sally breathed, her gaze fixed on the Medbay corridor. "Exactly," I countered. "But I say second chances are wasted on tyrants. Doc's pacifism is a luxury Mobius can't afford." Her knuckles whitened. "He deploys SWEEPbots to scrub toxins from poisoned dirt," I continued, my tone sharpening. "To make room for gardens. Pure soil for pure purpose. But how many toxins still seep in because he refuses to crush the sources?" Outside, the distant whine of Maxx's patrol drones underscored the point. "He'd mend your father's knees if they ached," I added coldly. "I'd let him limp. Decay has its uses."
Sally's eyes snapped to mine—empty stones cracking into sudden, feverish intensity. "Pure soil?" she echoed, her monotone fraying into something raw. "Yes, we must uproot them."
Doc suddenly walked around the bend to see us talking and rolled his eyes. "Sonic, stop filling Sally's head with your radical idealism. Violence only breeds more fractures." He knelt beside Sally, his prosthetic hand hovering near hers—not touching, but offering silent solidarity. "Gardening requires patience, Princess. Toxins don't vanish overnight." Sally stared at his gentle eyes, then at the scanner crate humming softly beside him. Her fingers uncurled slightly from her rabbit. "Patience," she repeated, her voice less hollow now, threaded with fragile curiosity. "Like… waiting for seeds?"
"Yes dear, now sadly we must be going," Doc murmured gently, his prosthetic hand hovering near Sally's shoulder—not touching, but radiating warmth. "Sergeant Barkley's daughter needs her scanner." Sally's gaze drifted from his tired eyes to the humming crate beside him. Her thumb traced a loose thread on her rabbit's ear. "Seeds need sunlight," she recited softly, almost questioning. Doc smiled. "And patience. Toxins don't vanish overnight." He stood slowly, the scanner crate lifting with a quiet whir. "Next time, perhaps we'll discuss composting?" Sally nodded once, her eyes lingering on the scanner's soft blue glow. Not emptiness now—just a fragile, buried hope.
Outside Castle Acorn's looming gates, Doc finally exhaled—a shuddering breath that misted the twilight air. He slid the scanner crate into the trunk of his rusted electric car beside neatly stacked seed packets and nutrient paste tubes. "Violence solves nothing, Sonic," he whispered, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel as we passed royalist tanks crushing barricades into splinters. "Every spine broken is a tragedy. Every toxin spilled, a failure." His prosthetic hand trembled slightly as he activated the SWEEPBot docked on his roof—its soft brushes immediately scrubbing ash from the windshield. "Healing… that's the real revolution. One clean street, one mended nerve at a time."
I just groaned.