King Maxx Acorn watched the Overlander's leave towards Mobius' yellow sunned sky, machines screaming like gutted beasts. Only the best chandelier above resting above, it's trapped lightning flickering erratically, casting jagged shadows that danced over Sally's motionless form.
She knelt by the terrace doors, fingers tracing the grout lines between marble tiles, utterly oblivious to the crumbling alliance. "Four hundred twenty-seven," she murmured. The vacancy in her voice scraped raw against Maxx's frayed nerves. *This* was his legacy? A weird daughter who counted cracks in stone while having to be forced to act like a true lady?
Sally saw only patterns. And he? He saw ruin that he had to crawl to the top of. "Jeffrey!"
The skunk materialized from the shadows near the tapestry depicting the Battle of Knothole Pass, his fur impeccably groomed despite the hour. "Sir Jeffrey reporting, King Acorn." His voice was smooth as poured oil, but Maxx saw the tension in his shoulders—the slight tremor in his paw hovering near his holstered stun-pistol. "Status?"
Maxx rasped, not turning from the window where Jules' gunship was now a shrinking speck against the high sun. "Perimeter secure, my King. The . . . incident in the solar has been contained. Miss Rosemarie is escorting Princess Sally to her chambers." Jeffrey paused, his whiskers twitching.
But there was some hope for his grand plans throughout all of the dumpster fire: Jules' brat. That blue hedgehog child was unnervingly sharp—too sharp. Maxx had watched him dissect situations with chilling precision. The boy's flat recitation echoed in Maxx's skull. Efficient. Soulless. Like Jules.
Yet . . . when Sally spoke her vegetable madness, Maxx had seen something, pitty? flicker in Sonic's eyes. A crack in the armor? Or just pity for Sally's obvious insanity? Either way, the boy was weaker than he wanted to seem, if he could mold Sally into something resembling a princess, then he could use her body to have the chance to mold Sonic into a tool against Doctor Kintobor. A scalpel to his hammer.
"Jeffrey," Maxx rasped, claws tapping the chilled marble sill. "That hedgehog pup. Jules' 'prodigy'. He's the fracture point." Below, Sally drifted across the quartz paths, still counting. Useless. But Sonic? That calculated coldness hid something . . . soft. Pitiful, even. When Sally babbled about vegetables, Maxx had seen it—a flash of disgust? Recognition? Didn't matter. It was leverage. "We exploit it. Sally becomes bait. Arrange 'playdates'. Force physical proximity. Make him *see* her as someone vulnerable, and when the years would tock by, Sonic would see his daughter as so much more . . . "Sir?"
"See if you can contact Mr. Prower via Rosemarie please." Maxx murmured, claws drumming the marble sill. He needed ears, and Agent A had the best on the planet. Still, he could see the future now, molding his brat into a proper lady that knew here place in the world compared to men just like her mother and use it to bring Sonic under his sway. He could almost taste the leverage—Sally's soon to be feminine charms wrapped around Jules' heir like silk ropes. "Make it frequent, Jeffrey. Weekly. Force them together. Gardens, etiquette lessons—whatever keeps Sonic returning."
He pictured the hedgehog boy's too-straight posture cracking under Sally's vacant stare, week after week. *Let him drown in her peculiarities,* Maxx thought, a grim optimism tightening his muzzle. Sonic's flaw wasn't incompetence; it was that flicker of *something* when Sally spoke of vegetables. Jules saw a weapon; Maxx saw a pressure point. If Sally could be shaped into even a semblance of desirability, Sonic's hidden softness might bloom into attachment—a weakness Jules wouldn't anticipate. "Weekly visits, Jeffrey," Maxx commanded, turning from the window. "Start tomorrow. Gardens, perhaps. Somewhere . . . open." Open meant observable, controllable. "Ensure Rosemarie supervises. Closely. Very closely."
Jeffrey's nod was crisp, devoid of judgment. "Understood, King Acorn. I'll coordinate with the Grand Chamberlin's office on scheduling." He vanished as silently as he'd appeared, leaving Maxx alone with the chandelier's dying light. The shadows deepened, swallowing Sally's small form as she drifted toward the terrace doors. *Playdates*. The word tasted absurd, bitter. But necessity bred grotesque strategies. Jules' arrogance blinded him to his son's flaw—that fractional hesitation when Sally whispered her mad dreams. Maxx's claws scraped the sill. Exploit the crack. Hammer it wide.
Sally paused beneath the doorway's arch, her silhouette stark against the dusk. Her head tilted, listening to some internal rhythm only she perceived. "Four hundred twenty-nine," she breathed, the number dissolving into the gathering dark. Maxx watched her, a cold calculation settling over his fatigue. Useless. Until she wasn't. Rosemarie would sculpt her into a lure—silent, compliant, draped in velvets that hinted at curves yet to form. Enough to snag a young hedgehog's restless eye. He pictured Sonic's impatient scowl softening, week by week, under Sally's vacant, trained gaze. The trap was elegant in its simplicity: proximity breeding obligation, obligation breeding control.
Outside, the city's first lights flickered like distant campfires. Maxx turned from the window, the marble cold beneath his paws. His muzzle tightened into a grim line. Jules sought headlines; Maxx sought anchors. Sonic would be bound, not by force, but by the slow, insistent weight of Sally's manufactured dependence. And Sally? She would count tiles, tend imaginary gardens, and serve. Always serve. The chandelier sparked once, then went dark. Maxx didn't flinch. Darkness, after all, was where true work began. He strode toward his study, already drafting the first directive in his mind: *Princess Sally Alicia Acorn's schedule effective immediately—revised.*
He smiled, not the fake smile he gave during speeches, his real one: thin and sharp as a knife. Sally stood frozen by the terrace, oblivious to the winds whistling through the broken eaves. Her eyes remained fixed on the distant vegetable plots tended by imprisoned gardeners below. "Jeffrey," Maxx murmured, already turning away. "Send Rosemarie to me. Immediately. And ensure the Princess is fitted for... softer fabrics. Pink, perhaps. Gentle hues."
Rosemarie arrived within minutes, her paws neatly folded, her apron stained with grease from Sally's last tantrum. Maxx didn't offer her a seat. "Your task is singular: help my wife mold my daughter into something *useful*. Soft silks, gentle manners, and teach her to smile when Sonic looks her way." Rosemarie's whiskers twitched—barely a flinch—as she absorbed the command. "Smiling requires muscles she rarely uses, King Acorn," she stated flatly. Maxx waved a dismissive claw. "Then train those muscles. Start today."
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Princess Sally Alicia Acorn had seen many things since she first gained consciousness: the intricate hexagonal patterns of beehives beneath the castle kitchens, the precise number of cracks in the East Tower's foundation, and the exact shade of grey that dust settled on unused banquet chairs. Her mother and father fighting without clothes. Her father making plans to exterminate the Overlanders and Northern Baronies, etc.
But she had never seen silk this exact shade of pink. Its softness felt alien against her skin—too yielding, too warm. Rosemarie adjusted the sash with rough, efficient paws, murmuring about posture and grace. Sally stared at her reflection in the tall, gilded mirror. The girl staring back wore silk like armor she hadn't chosen. *Why this shade?* The question surfaced unbidden. It wasn't the practical brown of gardening aprons, nor the utilitarian grey of the castle's stone.
This pink was... insistent. Like diluted candyfloss, demanding attention. Her father's voice echoed: *Gentle hues attract gentle eyes*. She blinked, her fingers brushing the fabric. It whispered lies. Softness for a trap. But what was the trap?
Her father never did anything without reason. This pink wasn't chosen; it was calculated. *Why this dress?* The question tightened like a knot behind her ribs. It wasn't efficient. Not like nutrient paste tubes stacked by Doc's scanner crate, each hue coded for function. This pink screamed uselessness—a color for blind adoration, not the sharp-edged clarity Sally craved. Her fingers brushed the silk again. It felt like surrender.
She hated to be associated with anything that felt like surrender, but that was the story of her life. Sally traced the scalloped edge of the sash, counting the tiny stitches—thirty-seven on this side alone. Rosemarie cinched it tighter, the fabric pressing like a bandage over fresh wounds. "Stand straighter, Princess Sally. The blue hedgehog boy is expected to arrive soon."
Sonic's words coiled in Sally's mind like cold wire: *"Second chances are wasted on tyrants."* He'd spat it with such conviction, those unnerving green eyes fixed on hers as if carving the truth into her soul.
Then the world he imagined seemed less distant: Sonic's cold assessment, her father's brittle commands, and now this suffocating pink silk. *Second chances wasted on tyrants.* The words weren't gentle—they were jagged shards flung against King Acorn's polished throne. Sally stared at her reflection. The pink dress drowned her small frame, its sickly sweetness clashing violently with the sterile grey of the castle walls.
A world where kindness was weakness—that made sense. Cruelty had consistency. But Sonic's contempt for tyrants? It felt… solid. Unyielding. Like castle stone. Sally's fingers tightened on the pink sash. Her father wanted Sonic to see *her* draped in this ridiculous softness. But Sonic saw beyond fabric. He saw the rot beneath the throne.
His voice echoed in her skull, sharp as broken glass: *"Decay has its uses."* Not wasteful sentiment. A tool. Like poisoned dirt feeding resilient weeds. Sally stared at her reflection. The pink wasn't armor; it was a target. An invitation for Sonic's disdain. And that… that might be useful. She tilted her head, watching the silk ripple. If her father saw silk as bait, Sally saw it as camouflage. A bright flag waved before the hunter. Let Sonic judge her wrapped in weakness. His contempt would shield her real thoughts—the calculations ticking behind her vacant eyes.
A world where she didn't have to do any of this, where her father would stop breathing down her neck (or at all), sounded like a fairy tale Sally couldn't afford to believe in. Sonic was different, her father saw him as week despite his ability from being raised by a pacifist, but Sally saw Sonic's cold practicality as something solid—a foundation in the shifting sands of her life.
He didn't waste breath on false comforts or pointless smiles. *Second chances wasted on tyrants* wasn't just rebellion; it was efficiency. A clean cut. She imagined him navigating her father's palace with that same detached precision, unmoved by velvet drapes or polished lies. Would he sneer at her pink prison? Probably. But unlike everyone else, his disgust wouldn't be pity. It would be… honest. A brutal kind of honesty that felt safer than this fake silk.
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I woke up and started writing in my journal that Doc gave me—"For your thoughts, Sonic," he'd said, as per usual. You might ask why I decided to start doing this and the answer is simple. Information.
I can't rely on the frankly real possibility I have photographic memory or something like that. So I started writing down things I remembered from playing the Sonic games and comics while I was human. Because Mobius isn't Earth—different rules, different physics, different weaknesses. Sonic's enemies? The patterns Eggman used? The Chaos Emeralds' inconsistencies? All potential leverage. My pencil scratched feverishly against the cheap notebook paper, diagramming Badnik patrol routes from faint memory as best as I could.
I obviously started with the game that started it all: Sonic the Hedgehog 1. Green Hill Zone's loops burned bright in my memory—clean, kinetic geometry defying physics. But Mobius felt heavier. Denser. Gravity pulled harder here. Would momentum even carry me up those curves? I sketched friction coefficients in the margins. Doctor Eggman—*Or Ivo Robotnik*—built Badniks from scrap metal and malice. Crabmeats marched in predictable patterns. Motobugs sputtered along set paths. Exploitable.
Thinking about it, maybe that's why Doctor Eggman is evil, his grandfather tried to only help the world with his intelligence—much like Doc—save Maria Robotnik, just for her to be shot by G.U.N, and Gerald to be imprisoned and go insane, then the world to decay like this in the last about fifty years? That sounds like a good motive to want to burn everything to the ground and start fresh. Maybe Robotnik is out there and not evil yet? Possibly.
Outside, sirens wailed—another riot kicking off in Sector 9. I didn't look up. My pencil tore through the cheap paper sketching Labyrinth Zone's drowning mechanics. Water pressure equations filled the margins. *If Mobius physics align, hydraulic traps could pulp bones here.*
Next was Sonic the Hedgehog 2. Chemical Plant Zone's purple sludge — corrosive? Possibly acidic based on how it dissolved platforms. I scribbled pH calculations, my pencil digging deep into the cheap paper. Mobius air tasted metallic, thick with industrial pollutants. Would toxicity amplify its effects? Outside, a distant explosion rattled the windowpane. Dust sifted onto my diagram of Metropolis Zone's spike traps.
This was where the original Sonic met and saved Miles 'Tails' Prower from some bullies. Couldn't recall where exactly. My pencil froze mid-calculation of Emerald Hill Zone's loop-de-loop trajectory—gravity differentials rendered it useless. Mobius' physics defied nostalgia. A world rotting while the high few polished diamonds. No heroes here. Just decaying systems begging to be exploited.
Then there was Sonic CD—Little Planet, time travel mechanics. If I could get access those Time Stones... My pencil paused over a sketch of Stardust Speedway's neon loops. Not for fixing anything. Fixing implied sentiment. No. Temporal leverage. Imagine locking King Maxx Acorn mid-boast in a perfect publicity loop—eternally frozen polishing his cufflinks while Sector 7's gamma glow ate his spire. Or threaten to erase anyone's past entirely? My thoughts lingered. Northern Barony diamond mines collapsing sixty kits deep? Rewind it just enough to trap the corrupt inside during the inspection tour. Let their screams echo in the rockfall they ordered. Efficient. Surgical. Less messy than knives.
But Mobius wasn't a game. Physics here felt sticky, resistant. In CD, Sonic warped reality by smashing metal capsules. Here? Doc's lab scanners showed something called an Anarchy Beryl emitted anarchiton radiation that destabilized molecular bonds—messy, unpredictable. My pencil snapped sketching Quartz Quadrant's time pillars. Reality warping required precision I lacked. Still... a controlled temporal blast might shred Maxx's neural pathways mid-snarl. Permanent stutter. Efficient.
Then there was Amy Rose. Pink, persistent, wielding that absurd Piko Piko hammer with terrifying devotion. Her appearances in Sonic CD and beyond showed obsessive pursuit—clinging, declarations of "destiny." A flaw. Predictability. Useful.
While I wouldn't pretend to be in love in her or anything like that, Amy Rose was a blindspot. Her devotion made her predictable—a vulnerability Sonic exploited for distractions in later games. I sketched her hammer trajectory vectors, noting how her charge attacks left her flank exposed for exactly 0.8 seconds. Outside my window, a synth-food dispensary exploded, bathing the alley in orange flame. The scent of burning ration paste blended with my graphite calculations. Useful data.
The door slid open without warning—Doc leaned against the frame, wiping grease off his claws with a stained rag. His eyes flicked to my notebook, lingering on the Badnik schematics.
"What's up Doc?"
"Radiation levels spiked again near Sector 7," he said flatly, tossing a wrinkled nutrient-bar onto my desk. It landed beside my pH calculations for Chemical Plant sludge. "I'll be gone for an hour or two Sonic," Doc rasped, nodding towards the nutrient-bar. "Don't burn the lab down. Barricade the door if looters breach Sector 9."
I simply nodded as he walked back out of my room, I'll probably get up and actually start my day and training in a bit...