My pencil scratched over Sonic the Hedgehog 3 & Knuckles, mapping Sky Sanctuary Zone's floating ruins. Gravity here pulled like wet cement—those elegant floating platforms? More likely deathtraps waiting to crumble. Knuckles' betrayal looped in my mind: predictable tribalist pride exploited by Robotnik's lies. A blueprint. Find the leverage point—tradition, ego, fear—and push. Easier than fighting. Outside, Sector 9's sirens hit a new pitch; something heavy crashed nearby. I sketched Hydrocity's whirlpools, calculating drag coefficients in Mobius' thicker atmosphere. Drowning wouldn't be quick here.
Sonic Adventure burned one of the brightest—Chaos could be awakened, angry at the whole world and simply wanting to destroy it before being reminded of who he once was from seeing the Chao. The idea of a water god shattering cities felt mundane now; Jules did it daily with policy decisions. My pencil sketched Station Square's flooding mechanics, ink bleeding into calculations of hydrostatic pressure against Mobius' denser architecture. Entire districts could implode if Sector 7's quarantine dams failed. Efficient collateral. Outside, the rhythmic thud of Barony enforcer boots echoed down the alley—a familiar, oppressive cadence.
Sonic Adventure 2 sharpened the focus: Shadow's creation, Project Shadow's grim purpose. A weapon forged from grief and rage. My pencil stilled. Gerald Robotnik's descent wasn't madness; it was surgical fury. *They killed Maria.* The graphite snapped as I scrawled the equation for orbital cannon trajectories above Prison Island's schematics.
You might ask why if I remember Shadow I don't release him from Prison Island nowif I know he's innocent? Simple: Power. What would happen if I couldn't convince Shadow the Hedgehog to see the little bit of good in humanity (Overlanderity? Mobility?)?
Best case: I can convince him that life is worth saving. Worst case: I unleash a possibly immortal bioweapon with planet-shattering rage *before* I have leverage against King Acorn or the Northern Baronies. My pencil sketched Gerald's equations—cold, precise vengeance carved into orbital mechanics. Chaos Control required focus I hadn't yet fully had, or at least I don't think I had.
Sonic Heroes next—Team Chaotix scraping by on desperation. Vector's gold-fever greed, Charmy's hyperactive distraction, Espio's blade-sharp patience. Useful tools. My diagrammed their formation shifts: Vector as a blunt shield, Espio flanking unseen, Charmy buzzing chaos into enemy ranks. Outside, ash drifted past Doc's barricaded windows. The scent of burning synth-rubber mixed with graphite. A blunt shield could draw Barony fire while Espio slipped through shadows. Efficiency over ethics.
Sonic '06—a dumpster fire even in memory. Solaris' time-eating paradox, Silver's desperation, Shadow's weary resolve. Useless. Except Silver's telekinesis. Mobius' gravity resisted brute force but psychic pressure? Doc's scanners registered psionic spike readings near the Anarchy Beryl. My pencil sketched Silver's levitation vectors—potential to crumple Maxx Acorn's throne like foil if amplified correctly. Less messy than knives.
Sonic Unleashed: Dark Gaia's corruption peeling the very planet itself apart. Jules' diamond-studded decay felt like a slower, crueler version. Chip's forgotten light godhood? Sentimental weakness. But the Werehog's brutal strength? My pencil tore the paper sketching its elongated claws shredding steel. Useful. Especially against Barony hover-tanks. I flexed my fingers—still small, soft hedgehog paws. No transformation yet. But if the planet cracked open... leverage. Always leverage. Outside, Sector 9's sirens dissolved into screams. Time to train.
Doc's training room smelled like a hospital, as did every room in the building besides mine. The air stung with disinfectant and stale sweat—sterile and utterly lifeless. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the padded mats and dented punching bags. I ignored the standard equipment: weights stacked neatly in a corner, a treadmill gathering dust. My gaze fixed on the far wall—a reinforced steel plate, scarred with deep gouges from previous sessions. Efficiency demanded adaptation. Mobius wasn't Green Hill's forgiving curves; it was jagged metal and crushing gravity. My claws flexed. Not soft paws anymore. Sharp. Ready.
I didn't start slow. Momentum was everything. My first sprint toward the steel wall was pure acceleration—legs pumping, air tearing past my ears. Impact shuddered through my spine as I ricocheted off, claws screeching against the metal. Weapons emerged shooting rubber bullets. No patterns. Chaos was the teacher. I pivoted, ducked, rolled—each evasion a fraction slower than I wanted. Mobius' gravity weighed me down like wet cement. A rubber slug grazed my shoulder. Stung. Real. Good.
The third barrage came faster. I lunged low, kicking off a dented punching bag to gain height. Airborne—vulnerable. Twisted mid-fall, claws outstretched. Scored three deep grooves across the plate. Landed hard on my knees. Breath rasped. Doc's scent lingered—oil and ozone. The rubber slugs smelled like burning tires. My shoulder throbbed. Not enough speed. Not yet. I spat grit from my teeth.
A sharp beep signaled the turret resetting. My chance. I blurred forward—not toward the wall, but parallel to it. Claws scraped sparks along the steel, building friction, heat. The turret tracked me, sluggish. At the corner, I pushed off hard. Flew backward, spine arched. Kicked the wall with both feet. Launched myself like a bullet *through* the turret's blind spot. Slugs whined past empty air where I'd been. Landed silently behind the machine. One precise kick severed its power cable. Sparks fizzed. Silence fell.
I stood panting, sweat stinging my eyes. The steel plate bore fresh marks—jagged, deeper than last time. Progress. Outside, Sector 9's screams crescendoed. Closer now. Burning plastic choked the air. I always ignored it unless they came to Doc's front door.
Next was weights, I didn't want to really only on speed alone. The iron bar felt cold and unforgiving against my palms, heavier than Mobius' thick air should allow. I lifted with legs trembling at first, breath puffing sharp clouds into the sterile chill. Rep after rep, muscles burned acidic—a clean, clarifying pain cutting through the chemical rot drifting from Sector 9's smog-belching stacks. Each clank of plates stacking echoed like distant Acron enforcer boots. Good. Let pain echo threats. Outside, screams melded with synth-sirens—another riot crushed under Maxx Acorn's diamond-tipped heel. I tuned it out. Focused on exertion's simplicity: lift, strain, control. Metal. Predictable. Unlike people. Unlike Maxx Acorn's decaying empire.
My claws scraped concrete as I dropped the weights, sweat stinging my eyes. Not enough. Never enough. I snatched a frayed rope—coarse fibers bristling against my grip—and scaled the rock wall Doc welded from scrap plating. Mobius' gravity tugged like chains, each handhold a battle against inertia. Below, automatic turrets whirred to life—no rubber bullets now, but sting-rounds Doc calibrated to bruise bone. I pivoted sideways, gravity dragging at my spine as a projectile hissed past my ear. Close. *Too* close. The scent of scorched metal bloomed where it struck the wall. Efficiency demanded adaptation; weakness invited termination. I kicked off, swinging into shadowed rafters as another volley shredded air where I'd been.
Above the chaos, Sector 9's glow pulsed through grimy windows—flares of orange fire against chemical smog. Barony hover-tanks' engines droned like angry hornets, punctuated by the wet *thud* of stun-batons meeting flesh. A child's scream sliced through the noise, sharp and brief, then silenced. I didn't flinch. Sentiment was ballast. Instead, I cataloged the rhythm: enforcer squads advancing in overlapping waves, leaving blind spots between suppression fields. Exploitable gaps. My quills prickled—not fear, but anticipation. Every cry, every crash, mapped Mobius' decay in real time. Data. Leverage.
I went to the shower to wash off the sweat and grime—cold water stinging my scraped palms. Doc's antiseptic soap smelled like betrayal, scrubbing away evidence of my training while Sector 9's smoke seeped through the vents. Outside, another explosion rattled pipes; the tiles trembled underfoot. *Thump.* Closer this time. Acorn Kingdom enforcers clearing blocks for Maxx Acorn's diamond parade route tomorrow. I shut off the water, drips echoing like countdown ticks. Sentiment got you killed here. Data kept you alive.
My damp quills prickled as I padded back to the journal. Flipped past Badnik schematics to a fresh page. Scribbled headings: "Acorn Dynasty Weaknesses." Jules' long gone vanity first—his obsession with Overlander approval when he was still around. The five-fingered ambassador's visit was leverage. Maxx's greed second—collapsing mines still yielding diamonds for his cufflinks. Third: Bernadette synth-gin haze that even if long gone I still saw in so many others around me.
Still, it was redictable numbness when confronted. Outside, a hover-tank's spotlight swept the alley, bleaching my notes white for a heartbeat. I kept writing. Fourth: Charles' sterile arrogance from his intelligence that just about every scientist had. His Organicizer's flaw pulsed in my memory—that fleck of rust in the caviar sphere. Imperfection meant opportunity.
Boots stomped in the corridoro zone and violence thick in the air. My claws flexed against the floor tiles. Not yet. Wait for the lunge. His shadow swallowed me whole, the baton's hum syncing with Sector 9's distant sirens. Doc stepped into , grease-stained and breathing hard. "Took longer than expected." He nudged the body with his boot. "Were late for another meeting with Maxx Acorn, you have a playdate with his daughter Sally Acorn in about ."
"Ah, Sally Acorn, so soon Doc?" I kept my tone flat, stepping over towards him as I was finishing adjusting my suit jacket. "I'll be ready in five." Doc grunted, wiping grease off his claws onto his already stained trousers. His gaze lingered on my notes—the Anarchy Beryl radiation calculations, orbital trajectories scrawled beside Maxx's parade route map. He didn't ask. We both knew what leverage looked like. Outside, the rhythmic stomp of Newly minted Acorn enforcers echoed closer, punctuated by a wet crack—batons finding ribs.
The limo smelled like synthetic leather and impending dread. Doc drove in silence, knuckles white on the wheel as we passed Sector 9's smoldering remains. Acorn hover-tanks idled over rubble, spotlights carving paths through toxic fog. I traced condensation on the window—each droplet warping King Maxx Acorn's propaganda posters plastered on bombed-out tenements. *Unity Through Order*, they proclaimed below his diamond-studded smirk. Outside, an Acorn enforcer kicked a crumpled Mobian off the parade route.
Castle Acorn's decayed form pulled into view—a jagged silhouette against Sector 7's gamma-lit smog. Doc parked the limo beneath an archway dripping with irradiated moss. Above, Maxx Acorn's flag hung limp: crimson fabric embroidered with diamonds, fraying at the edges. Two Acorn knights flanked the entrance, armor polished to a sterile sheen, stun-lances humming with restrained violence. Their eyes slid over Doc's grease-stained coat before locking onto my pressed suit. One knight's muzzle twitched—disgust or envy? Hard to tell in this light. The scent of ozone and wet stone clung to the air, thick as the silence.
We passed through vaulted hallways lined with flickering holograms of Maxx's "glorious reign." Grainy footage showed mines collapsing, reframed as "resource realignment triumphs." Doc's claws clenched at the sight of Sector 9's burning blocks labeled "urban renewal zones." My own gaze lingered on a cracked display case—inside, Jules' diamond cufflinks gleamed beside a plaque: *Hedgehog Tenacity, Refined.* The irony tasted like battery acid. Ahead, Sally's playroom doors hissed open, revealing plush carpets and wall screen projections of Emerald Hill's long-dead greenery. Artificial. Safe. Poisonous.
Sally Acorn stood by a Rosemarie—the fox's belly showing a bit of the signs of pregnancy despite her best efforts to hide it—in the center of the sterile playroom, arranging plastic blocks into a crumbling approximation of Castle Acorn. Her fur bristled as we entered, pupils narrowing to slits beneath her amber headband. Rosemarie flinched, dropping a block that clattered like gunfire on the padded floor. The scent of synthetic lavender and antiseptic couldn't mask the ozone clinging to Doc's coat or the blood-rust under my claws. Sally's gaze sliced past Doc, locking onto me.
"Sonic, it's... a pleasure to see you again." Sally's greeting was clipped, her blue eyes flickering over my suit—too sharp for polite small talk. Rosemarie shifted uneasily, one paw resting low on her abdomen. The air thickened with unspoken tension, ozone and antiseptic giving way to the sterile sweat of political performance. I noted the new surveillance drones humming near the ceiling, their lenses trained on us. For Maxx's "protection," of course. Or his paranoia. Sally gestured stiffly to the blocks. "Father believes reconstruction begins with foundations. Stable ones." Her emphasis lingered like a blade edge.
"I suppose I have no choice but to agree to that statement then Princess Sally."