"I see that look in your eye Patch, don't worry, I don't kill children, got to draw the line somewhere, you know?"
Patch's faux French bravado dissolved like sugar in steaming café au lait as Sonic's words sliced through his panicked thoughts—each syllable sharper than his dull ceremonial blade. The coyote's mismatched pupils dilated beneath his askew eye patch, his borrowed Merkian accent fracturing under the weight of unspoken terror. "M-merci beaucoup, monsieur hedgehog," he stammered, fingers twitching toward his fallen sword's gilded pommel before reconsidering, his entire frame vibrating with barely contained flight reflexes.
"W-wait you've killed grown men?" Patch's voice cracked mid-syllable, his vocal cords betraying childhood memories of stolen beetroot stews beneath the Northern Baronies' shattered barn roofs. His remaining bravado evaporated like Diamond Heights' morning fog burned away beneath Sector 7's unforgiving sun—revealing the raw terror beneath his mismatched eyes and rapidly disintegrating continental affectation. The scent of polished metal and his own rising panic soured the air between them as his trembling claws hovered near the fallen sword's ornamental hilt, its dull edge mocking his earlier fantasies of knightly valor.
Sonic's smirk widened fractionally—not unkindly—as he kicked the decorative blade toward Patch with a casual flick of his sneaker. "Relax, *Antoine*," he drawled, stretching the coyote's name into three lazy syllables that somehow stripped away the last vestiges of Patch's carefully constructed persona. "Dead guys don't bleed this much." His cobalt quills shifted—vibrating subtly with restrained energy—as Sally's scalpel continued carving precise annotations into the chamber's oak floorboards, her occasional humming the only sound beyond Patch's ragged breathing.
Patch inhaled sharply—catching traces of ozone and rusting metal beneath Sally's sterile lavender perfume—and found his faux Merkian eloquence fracturing like Diamond Heights' irradiated topsoil. "S'il vous plaît, I—ze sword is merely ornamental, a foolish adolescent affectation, you comprehend?" His vocal cords rebelled against the practiced suavity, syllables tangling with the guttural Northern Baronies inflections his mother once scolded him for.
Sonic's quills hummed at a frequency that vibrated Patch's molar fillings, the hedgehog's grin a sickle moon splitting the tension like overripe fruit. "I don't suppose you could teach me French?"
Patch's vocal cords constricted around the phantom taste of his mother's beetroot stew—thick with Northern Baronies earthiness—as Sonic's request slithered through his panic like a viper through wet grass. "Monsieur misunderstands," he rasped, his Merkian affectation crumbling into the raw, guttural inflections of Diamond Heights' servant quarters. "This accent is... *performative*." His claws twitched toward the fallen sword's gilded hilt, its cheap paint flaking under Sally's dispassionate scrutiny.
The princess's scalpel paused mid-carve, her doll like mask fracturing momentarily as Sonic's laughter—sharp as shattered stained glass—ricocheted off the vaulted ceilings. Patch's borrowed bravado unraveled stitch by stitch beneath that sound, his faux-Merkian affectation dissolving like sugar in scalding espresso. Sonic's grin widened, a predator's crescent moon slicing through the coyote's crumbling defenses.
"Performative, huh?" he mused, rolling the word across his tongue like a connoisseur savoring vintage wine laced with arsenic. The hedgehog's emerald eyes gleamed with calculated amusement, watching Patch's ears flatten against his skull—a rabbit caught in floodlights before the slaughterhouse chute. Sonic's sneaker tapped an idle rhythm against the fallen sword's dull edge, the metallic clinks syncopating with Sally's scalpel etching palace schematics into hardwood. "See, Antoine," he continued, syllables dripping faux camaraderie thicker than royalist propaganda syrup, "what fascinates me is how *selectively* that accent surfaces. Like a bad toupee in a hurricane."
Patch's borrowed Merkian bravado evaporated under the scrutiny, leaving behind the raw staccato of Diamond Heights' slums—vowels clipped by hunger, consonants sharpened on whetstones of survival. His mismatched eyes darted toward the ventilation shaft where shadows whispered of vanished dissidents, then back to Sonic's Cheshire grin. The hedgehog's quill vibrations escalated—subsonic frequencies resonating with the castle's hidden surveillance drones, a symphony only strays and revolutionaries could hear.
Sally's humming stuttered mid-note—an infinitesimal fracture in her porcelain performance—as Sonic's quill vibrations synchronized with Castle Acorn's hidden surveillance grid. The coyote's mismatched pupils contracted like camera shutters, his faux-Merkian affectation dissolving under the hedgehog's predatory scrutiny. A bead of sweat traced Antoine's temple, its saline path intersecting with childhood scars from Diamond Heights' servant corridors where polished boots kicked first and asked questions never.
"You misunderstand, *monsieur*," Antoine rasped, consonants crumbling into guttural slurs of Northern Baronies frostbite and Sector 7 starvation. His trembling paws hovered above the ceremonial blade, its gold leaf veneer flaking like Diamond Heights' façade under sustained artillery fire. Sonic's grin sharpened—calculating, dissecting—as Sally's scalpel resumed etching structural vulnerabilities into hardwood, her clinical precision mirroring the hedgehog's verbal vivisection.
Patch's vocal cords seized mid-syllable, strangled by phantom recollections of Merkian lullabies warped through cracked apartment intercoms. Sonic leaned closer—ozone and anarchiton radiation clinging to his quills—letting silence stretch until the coyote's remaining bravado unraveled stitch by stitched seam. "Your 'accent'," Sonic murmured, syllables dripping synthetic honey, "sounds more like a shield than a heritage."
The princess's humming stuttered—briefly, dangerously—as Sonic's shadow engulfed Patch, his grin widening with predatory amusement. Then, without warning, his posture shifted, shoulders rolling into an exaggerated slouch, one paw resting dramatically against his forehead while the other dangled limp wristed near his hip. His voice slicked over with thick, syrupy affectation—a pitch perfect mockery of Patch's own faltering Merkian bravado: *"Ohhh, pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle Sally, but zis brutish hedgehog has stolen ze very soufflé from mon cœur!"*
Patch's ears burned crimson beneath his fur, claws digging crescents into his palms as Sonic's falsetto crescendoed, dripping theatrical agony like Merkian butter over burnt toast. The hedgehog's posture liquefied into a grotesque pantomime of aristocratic distress—quills wilting like overcooked escargot, sneakers pigeon toed in exaggerated fragility. His vowels stretched thinner than Sector 7 ration paste, consonants evaporating like Diamond Heights' promises: *"Zut alors, mon pauvre petit Antoine, how ever shall we mend your fractured honneurrrr?"*
"Détends-toi Patch, je te taquine simplement," Sonic purred, watching the coyote's fur bristle at his flawless Parisian inflection—each syllable dripping with aristocratic languor stolen from stolen holotapes of pre-war Merkian operas. His grin sharpened as Patch's remaining bravado crumbled like stale baguette, mismatched eyes darting toward the ventilation shafts where royalist enforcers once dragged his mother for "accent corrections."
Sonic's paw landed heavy on the trembling coyote's shoulder—half reassurance, half shackle—as he leaned in close enough to count the flecks of panic in Patch's mismatched irises. "Thing about shields, Antoine," he murmured, letting the scent of scorched rubber and Sector 7 coolant cling to each syllable, "is they work better when you're not swinging 'em at potential allies."
Patch's ceremonial sword skittered away as Sonic guided him toward Sally's carved schematics, the hedgehog's grip just shy of bruising—a predator's approximation of gentleness reserved for those who'd survived initial scrutiny. "See these ventilation shafts?" Sonic tapped a claw against Sally's blood marked annotations, his voice shedding menace like a molted exoskeleton. "That's where King Maxx Acorn's narcotic pheromones circulate after curfew."
The coyote's shoulder tensed beneath Sonic's grip—muscles coiled like overwound clock springs—but the hedgehog didn't loosen his hold. Patch's rapid fire pulse vibrated through his palm, rabbit quick and twice as skittish, yet something in those mismatched eyes held steady. Not bravery. Not even defiance. Just the dull, stubborn survival instinct of something too lean to die easily.
Sonic's smirk softened—barely—into something resembling approval. "You'll do just right," he decided, releasing Patch with a shove that sent the coyote stumbling toward Sally's schematics. The princess didn't glance up from her work, but the scalpel's rhythmic scraping slowed—her version of welcome. Patch's mismatched eyes darted between them, shoulders hunched like a stray anticipating a kick. Sonic rolled his eyes and tossed him a bruised apple from his pocket—something small and stolen and impossibly precious in Sector 7's famine.
Patch fumbled the catch, the fruit bouncing off his chest before he trapped it against his ribs—too hard, too desperate. The scent of overripe sweetness bloomed between them, thick as the silence. Sonic watched him swallow convulsively—throat working around unspoken questions—and kicked the ceremonial sword back toward him with practiced indifference.
"Keep the stupid thing," he said, already turning away. "Just don't wave it near my quills." Sally's scalpel resumed carving—deeper now, into the castle's structural weak points—as Sonic stretched languidly, vertebrae popping like gunshots in the heavy silence. Patch's apple breath came quick and sweet behind him, hesitant.
"Do you want to be friends Patch?" Sonic didn't bother phrasing it like a question—his smirk stretched wide enough to show the faintest glint of canine, not threatening but threatening to threaten, if that made any sense (dear readers, does this?).
The coyote's mismatched irises darted between hedgehog and floor tiles—one eye tracking Sonic's drumming claws, the other studying his own broken sword reflection—before his vocal cords produced something between a whimper and a Merkian curse (something involving "sacrebleu" and "merde," if you catch my drift). Sonic didn't laugh, but his left ear twitched in time with the drip-drip of Sally's scalpel scraping castle blueprints into the floorboards (she had moved on to structural weak points now—very thorough, our Sally).
Patch inhaled sharply—caught between bolting for the vents and groveling—when Sonic abruptly tossed him a second bruised apple (this one bore teeth marks). "You're my friend now," declared the hedgehog, as casually as announcing bad weather, punctuated by Sally nodding without looking up (her scalpel never paused—impressive multitasking).
Patch swallowed hard, apple juice dribbling down his chin as Sonic patted his back with enough force to dislodge vertebrae—a camaraderie that straddled the line between affection and assault. The coyote's faux-Merkian affectation had dissolved entirely now, replaced by guttural Baronies slang and the occasional panicked "*putain*" whenever Sonic's quills brushed too close.
Sally's scalpel paused again mid-line as Patch attempted a wobbly bow, nearly concussing himself on the table edge—his malfunctioning propriety circuits clashing spectacularly with Sonic's sprawled irreverence. The hedgehog snorted, kicking a stray gear toward the coyote's poorly tied bootlace. "Save the curtsies for Maxx's propaganda reels, *Antoine*," he drawled, stretching the name into three syllables that somehow stripped away the last veneer of Patch's powdered wig pretenses.
The coyote's ears burned crimson beneath his fur, his Merkian affectation dissolving into fractured Northern Baronies patois—vowels clipped by frostbite, consonants sharpened on Diamond Heights' concrete teeth. Sonic's grin widened, predatory and pleased, as Patch's borrowed eloquence crumbled like stale brioche beneath a cleaver. "Alors," the hedgehog purred, Parisian inflection dripping like honey laced with cyanide, "seems we've found your *vraie voix*, hm?" His claw traced the coyote's jugular—not quite a threat, not quite comfort—as Sally's scalpel etched another weakness into Castle Acorn's ribs.
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You might as what my plan through all of this is at this point in time—well—*plans* would be more apt of a description, wouldn't it? My smirk flickered like a faulty neon sign as Patch's throat worked around another panicked "*merde alors*," his faux-Merkian affectation crumbling faster than Diamond Heights' irradiated topsoil. Beneath the scent of his fear sweat and cheap cologne lingered something far richer—that unmistakable Northern Baronies musk of overcooked beetroot stew and desperation, his vowels curling like burnt bread crusts around consonants sharpened in Diamond Heights' servant corridors.
I wasn't lying with what I said about not killing children. I wasn't as kind as Doc was when he found me—but I wasn't Jules either. Patch's mismatched irises flickered between my extended paw and Sally's scalpel, his muzzle twitching with aborted apologies in three different dialects. The stench of overcooked beetroot and Merkian cologne clung to his fur like Diamond Heights' propaganda posters—desperate and peeling at the edges. My claws tapped a staccato rhythm against his stolen ceremonial sword, each metallic *clink* syncopating with his panicked "*putain de merde*" as Sally carved another ventilation shaft into the floorboards.
Patch's accent fractured further when my quills vibrated at a frequency that rattled his molar fillings—Northern Baronies gutturals bleeding through his performative Parisian purring like rust through gilded armor. His paws trembled around the bruised apple I'd tossed him, juice dripping onto floorboards already stained with Sally's blood inked schematics.
My plan wasn't complex, but it wasn't simple either—more like Parisian pastry layers with razors baked between the puff pastry. Patch's accent kept slipping between fake Merkian aristocrat and gutter born Northern Baronies refugee, his vowels cracking under pressure like stale baguettes. Useful.
Vulnerability makes the best leverage—especially when wrapped in velvet arrogance and overcooked beetroot. Patch's accent fractures further as my quills hum at a frequency that vibrates his dental work, each oscillation peeling back another layer of that ridiculous Merkian affectation until only raw Northern Baronies survivalism remains. His claws scrabble against the ceremonial sword's hilt—not to strike, but to steady himself—as I lean into his space just enough to make his pupils dilate.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! As we come together and unite on this magnificent day filled with gratitude, joy, and celebration, let's take a moment to pause, reflect, and truly appreciate all the wonderful things we hold dear in our lives. It's a special time to indulge in mouthwatering homemade dishes that fill our homes with tantalizing aromas, share hearty laughter and fond memories with our beloved family and friends, and truly reflect on the countless blessings we have received throughout the year. Let's not just savor the delicious food and delightful company, but also embrace the spirit of thankfulness that surrounds us, reminding ourselves of the love, support, and experiences that shape who we are. So, let's make the most of this incredible day together, creating moments that we will cherish for years to come!