Sonic's grin was a blade slicing through the neon haze—equal parts exhilaration and disbelief as our synchronized panting echoed across Casino Night's ruined jackpot floor. His cobalt quills trembled with residual kinetic energy, each spine vibrating like a plucked guitar string still humming from the riff of our race. The Archie caption box *SPLATTERED* overhead in jagged, migraine-inducing font:
*"TWO HEDGEHOGS—ONE IMPOSSIBLE TIE! BUT IN THIS GAME OF SPEED AND CHAOS, WHO REALLY WON THE ULTIMATE PRIZE?!"*
The jagged cyan narration box exploded between us like a firework stuffed with 90s attitude, its Comic Sans edges vibrating with residual static. Sonic's emerald eyes gleamed like slot machine jackpots—wide, wild, and wired on adrenaline—as his cobalt quills settled into a contented ripple. The scent of scorched ozone and melted casino tokens clung to the air between us, thick enough to taste.
Like the desert zephyrs that once carried ancient Mobius' secrets, Sonic exhaled a laugh—sharp, sudden, untamed. His red sneakers tapped an arrhythmic beat against the roulette wheel's ruined frame, each restless movement betraying the storm still churning beneath his surface. He spun a golden ring between his fingers with the precision of a card shark, his gaze flickering between my violet eyes and the molten kanji footprints still smoldering on the casino floor. "Kid," he breathed, the word tinged with equal parts amusement and something dangerously close to awe, "You're a credit to the family name!"
The cobalt blur moved like the typhoon-force gusts that once sculpted Angel Island's peaks—unpredictable, unrestrained, a force of nature wearing a grin and ratty gloves. Emerald irises drank in every micro-expression crossing my face, not out of suspicion but sheer exhilaration—as if I were some impossible seventh Chaos Emerald he'd dug up mid-spin dash. His fingers drummed against the roulette wheel's fractured edge, restless energy manifesting in every twitch. "Never had anyone that actually kept pace," he admitted, rubbing his muzzle with a red-striped glove. "Guess future-me's got decent taste!"
"Thanks, so... what now?" I asked a bit sheepishly, rubbing my neck—an oddly vulnerable gesture for someone who'd just defied physics alongside the fastest being alive. Sonic was already bouncing on the balls of his feet with restless energy, his grin sharpening into something conspiratorial as Chemical Plant's neon glow painted jagged stripes across his cobalt fur.
Like the untamed sirocco winds scouring Westside Island's cliffs, Sonic surged forward—not away, but closer, his emerald gaze alight with schemes yet unspoken. His cobalt quills caught the neon glow of Casino Night's dying slot machines, casting jagged shadows across the cracked roulette wheel between us.
"Well I might as well introduce you to the gang," Sonic said, his cobalt quills twitching with barely-restrained energy as Casino Night's neon glow painted jagged streaks across his sneakers. The scent of burnt ozone still clung to his fur as he jerked his chin toward the horizon where Westopolis' skyline pulsed with beautiful light.
Like the zephyrs that once carried ancient echidna prophecies across Angel Island's peaks, Sonic moved—not with urgency, but with the effortless certainty of a stormfront changing course. His cobalt quills caught the fading neon glow of Casino Night's wreckage, each spine humming with residual energy as he thumbed toward Westopolis' skyline. The Archie narration box *SPLINTERED* into existence overhead:
*"WHEN THE BLUE BLUR EXTENDS AN INVITATION—DO YOU FOLLOW THE CURRENT OR FIGHT THE TIDE?!"*
Casino tokens crunched under golden soles as I followed closely behind Sonic's cobalt streak—his movements as unrestrained as the Murasaki River during monsoon season. Emerald eyes flashed with wildfire energy, drinking in every collision of neon against twilight as Westopolis' skyline pulsed like a dying arcade screen. The scent of ozone and overcooked chili dogs clung to his quills as he vaulted over a crumpled Egg Pawn, its shattered visor reflecting our twin blurs for a fractured second before oblivion.
Like the zephyrs that once scattered Angel Island's secrets, we surged toward Freedom HQ—Sonic's sneakers barely grazing the rusted monorail tracks as he carved shortcuts through back alleys and not even half-constructed Eggman bases. His cobalt quills flared with each gravity-defying leap, scattering pigeons and loose bolts in our wake, the wind itself whining through his spines like a turbocharged Genesis sound chip.
The scent of stale chili dogs and ozone grew thicker as we neared the hideout's graffiti-tagged entrance, its steel doors dented from a hundred failed badnik raids.
"Homebase ain't much," Sonic quipped, already three steps ahead and kicking up gravel like confetti, his cobalt quills slicing through Westopolis' smog-choked air with the ease of a hurricane through tissue paper. "But it's home, let me show you around!"
Like the desert winds reshaping dunes in their wake, Sonic surged ahead—no hesitation, no second-guessing, just motion as natural as breathing. His sneakers barely kissed the pavement between strides, each step a fleeting imprint on the world before the next gust swept him further down the alley. The Archie narration box *SLASHED* across the scene in jagged cyan:
*"WHEN THE TEMPEST TOUCHES DOWN—DO YOU SEEK SHELTER OR RIDE THE STORM?!"*
Freedom HQ's steel doors shrieked open under Sonic's spindash like a badnik begging for mercy, revealing the chaotic warmth within—half-melted chili dog wrappers strewn across mismatched furniture, CRT monitors buzzing with static-laced surveillance feeds, and the distinct aroma of motor oil mixed with burnt popcorn. Sonic's cobalt quills bounced as he vaulted over a big filing cabinet, his sneakers kicking up a loose blueprint that fluttered between us like a wounded bird.
Like the gale-force winds that once sculpted Green Hill's loops, Sonic breezed through the hideout—untethered, unrestrained, a force of nature making itself at home as we made our way to a room filled with mismatched beanbags and CRT monitors buzzing with static. His cobalt quills barely rustled as he slid between half-assembled gadgets and discarded chili dog wrappers, the scent of motor oil and burnt popcorn clinging to his sneakers. The Archie caption box *SLAMMED* into the nearest wall in jagged cyan:
*"WHEN THE HURRICANE COMES HOME—DO YOU BOARD THE WINDOWS OR RIDE THE DRAFT?!"*
He then quickly typed in a code to unlock the door, his fingers moving faster than the eye could track—a blur of blue and red against the keypad's glowing buttons. The steel doors hissed open like a decompressing airlock, revealing the dimly lit interior of Freedom HQ, where the scent of ozone and chili dogs hit me like a slap from a well-meaning but overenthusiastic uncle. Sonic's grin was a blade of sunlight cutting through the shadows as he gestured me inside with a flourish, his cobalt quills practically vibrating with restless energy.
I saw them inside before they saw me—Tails mid-wrench-twist over some smoking gadget, Amy's hammer resting against a dented locker, Shadow cracking his fists absentmindedly while glaring at a flickering security feed. The air smelled like solder and chili dog grease, thick enough to taste. Sonic's grin widened as he kicked a stray bolt across the floor—*CLANG*—and twelve heads snapped toward us like startled meerkats.
"Hey everyone, this is my grandson or something like that from 100 years in the future named Savant—don't ask, time traveling is kinda stupid!" Sonic announced as his hand rested on my shoulder as his other hand gestured to me.
Everyone's eyes darted between me and Sonic—Tails' wrench hovering mid-twist, Amy's hammer slipping from her grip, Shadow's glare sharpening like a honed blade. The silence stretched tighter than a drumhead until Sonic's signature cackle shattered it like glass. His cobalt quills flared with mischief as he leaned in, voice dropping to a stage whisper that somehow carried across the room: "Relax, guys—he's not an evil clone. Probably."
They all jumped up and came close to me, inspecting me like I was some sort of lab experiment—which, given Shadow's glare, wasn't far from the truth. Sonic just leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smirk wide, enjoying the chaos he'd unleashed like the anarchic breeze he was.
"Hi, I'm Savant. Savant The Hedgehog ," I blurted out, immediately regretting how much that sounded like a rejected Saturday morning cartoon intro. Shadow's crimson eyes narrowed to slits, his arms folding tighter than origami made by someone who hated fun. Tails' namesakes flicked like suspicious metronomes as he adjusted his goggles—not for clarity, but for dramatic effect. Amy's grip on her hammer tightened just enough to make the metal whimper.
"The resemblance is uncanny." Shadow started, crimson eyes dissecting me like a malfunctioning Badnik—cold, clinical, utterly devoid of Sonic's trademark mirth. His voice carried the weight of a judge delivering a death sentence, each syllable sharper than the jagged edges of his Chaos Spear. Unlike Sonic's restless energy, Shadow stood utterly still—a monolith of black and red against Freedom HQ's flickering fluorescents as his suspicion of me rose.
"Well it wouldn't be the first time." Tails offered, likely alluding to Eggman and Gerald Robotnik—his twin tails twitching like agitated snakes as his goggles reflected my every micro-expression. The kitsune's normally warm azure eyes had hardened into analytical slits, his wrench tapping against a half-dismantled Egg Pawn with metronomic precision. Sonic just leaned against a filing cabinet, arms crossed and smirk wide, enjoying the tension thick enough to taste.
"I don't suppose there's anyway for you all to trust me, is there?" I asked meekly, my golden soles shuffling against the grease-stained floor. Shadow's crimson irises flashed like emergency sirens, his jet-black quills bristling with restrained violence. The Ultimate Lifeform didn't move—he simply *appeared* inches from my face in a burst of Chaos energy, his leather gloves creaking as they clenched into fists. The Archie caption box *IMPALED* the scene in jagged magenta:
*"WHEN THE ULTIMATE LIFEFORM DEMANDS ANSWERS—DO YOU SPILL YOUR GUTS OR BLEED THEM OUT?!"*
I then started to mimic him moves perfectly , almost like I was copying them—because I was. Shadow's crimson eyes narrowed to slits, his muzzle curling into something between a sneer and grudging respect. The Ultimate Lifeform didn't move—he *uncoiled*, a black-and-red blur that left ozone crackling in his wake as his Chaos-infused fist grazed my cheekbone. The Archie caption box *SHATTERED* into existence overhead:
*"WHEN SHADOWS STRIKES—DO YOU DODGE OR DISH IT BACK?!"*
Unlike Sonic's unrestrained laughter, Shadow's silence was a blade pressed against my throat—unyielding, precise, promising violence if I flinched wrong. The crimson streaks in his quills glowed like fresh blood under Freedom HQ's flickering fluorescents.
I possibly had one advantage, I already copied Sonic's moves and was copying Shadow's, so what if I mixed them together?
Like the phantom limb of Sonic's discarded momentum, my own reflexes pulsed with stolen velocity—Shadow's Chaos-infused jab already unraveling into raw kinetic data behind my eyelids. My black quills crackled with unstable energy as I twisted mid-air, not just mimicking but *remixing*—Sonic's whirlwind footwork braiding with Shadow's brutal efficiency into something entirely new. The Archie caption box *SCREECHED* into existence in jagged magenta:
*"WHEN TWO LEGENDS COLLIDE—DO YOU FOLLOW THEIR STEPS OR BURN YOUR OWN PATH?!"*
Shadow's crimson eyes widened by millimeters—the closest he'd ever come to actual surprise—as my counterstrike grazed his muzzle, sparks of violet Chaos energy spitting between us like faulty wiring. Unlike Sonic's unrestrained laughter, Shadow's silence was a blade pressed against my throat—unyielding, precise, promising violence if I flinched wrong. The crimson streaks in his quills glowed like fresh blood under Freedom HQ's flickering fluorescents.
Sonic's cobalt quills practically vibrated with excitement, his emerald eyes tracking our duel like a drunken gambler.
It was amazing what the potential of Sonic could do with the refinement of Shadow.
Shadow's crimson eyes narrowed—not in anger, but something far worse: *calculation*. His jet-black quills bristled with restrained Chaos energy, each spine humming like a live wire as he analyzed my stolen movements with clinical precision. Unlike Sonic's restless bouncing, Shadow stood perfectly still—a monolith of violence coiled tighter than a spring trap. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of a guillotine blade: "Interesting. You fight like him... but think like *me*."
The Archie caption box *SLICED* through the air in jagged scarlet:
*"WHEN DARKNESS MEETS LIGHT—DO YOU BLEND THE SHADES OR BURN THEM CLEAN?!"*
The Archie caption box *SCREECHED* across the scene in jagged violet, its jagged edges dripping with comic-book intensity as Shadow's crimson irises dissected my every twitch:
*"WHEN THE ULTIMATE LIFEFORM MEETS HIS MATCH—DOES HE BREAK IT OR STUDY THE CRACKS?!"*
"I'll let you know that I'm very adaptable Shadow." I smirked, my golden soles skidding against the grease-stained concrete as Shadow's crimson glare dissected my every twitch.
Then, as the natural conclusion of refinement and speed, came contact.
Right in Shadow's face.
My shoe—an unstable amalgamation of Sonic's hurricane momentum and Shadow's precision brutality—connected with a crackling *WHUMP* that sent shockwaves rippling through Freedom HQ's concrete floor. Dust rained from the ceiling as Shadow's muzzle snapped sideways, his crimson eyes widening a fraction before narrowing into lethal slits. The Ultimate Lifeform didn't stagger; he *absorbed* the impact like a black hole swallowing starlight, his leather gloves creaking as they flexed around gathering Chaos energy.
The Archie caption box *ERUPTED* in jagged violet lightning as Shadow wiped a trickle of blood from his muzzle—slow, deliberate, like an executioner cleaning his blade between sentences. His crimson eyes locked onto mine with the intensity of a scope's crosshair, and for the first time, I saw something beyond anger: *respect*, even if cautious and begrudging.
The tension in Freedom HQ crackled like overcharged Chaos energy—thick enough to choke on, sharp enough to slice arteries.
"If you wanted to hurt us you would have tried so already." Shadow concluded, crimson eyes dissecting my stolen moves with surgical precision. His jet-black quills bristled like honed blades under the flickering fluorescents, every sinew coiled tighter than a detonator spring.
I offered my hand to him as a show of good sportsmanship.
Shadow stared at my outstretched hand like it was a live grenade—his crimson eyes flickering between the offered truce and my face with the intensity of a targeting system recalculating mid-combat. Unlike Sonic, who would've grasped it without hesitation, the Ultimate Lifeform let the moment stretch into agonizing silence, his leather gloves flexing like a predator debating whether to bite or retreat. The Archie caption box *SLASHED* diagonally across the scene in jagged black-and-red:
*"WHEN THE BROODING LONER FACES AN OUTSTRETCHED HAND—DOES HE GRASP IT OR GRIND IT TO DUST?!"*
Sonic finally decided to get involved again—he moved in a cobalt blur, his grin slicing through the tension like a buzzsaw through wet cardboard. "C'mon, Shads, play nice," he chided, leaning against my shoulder with the casual familiarity of someone who'd never met a personal boundary he couldn't violate. His emerald eyes flicked between Shadow's clenched fists and my outstretched hand, mischief dancing in his pupils like flecks of sunlight on shattered glass. "Kid's got spunk, and he didn't even steal my chili dog stash. That's gotta count for somethin'."
"I'm sorry Sonic, but can you stop calling me kid?!"
"Nope." He said as he exaggerated every symbol . "See, you got that youthful energy—like a puppy who just discovered espresso. Plus your my kid's kid or something like that." Sonic grinned, ruffling my quills with the subtlety of a tornado in a china shop. His emerald eyes sparkled with mischief, the way they always did when he'd found a new toy to play with—or in this case, a new disaster to enable.
Shadow exhaled through his nose, the sound sharper than a Chaos Spear slicing through badnik armor. His crimson eyes flickered from Sonic's infuriating grin to my still-outstretched hand, weighing the offer with all the warmth of a guillotine's shadow. "Tsch. Adaptable doesn't mean trustworthy," he finally growled, each syllable dripping with enough venom to threaten.
But not immediately kill.
Progress, I'll take it.