"You want them back," I murmured, not a question, but an obvious statement. The just finished and uploaded manifesto crinkled in my pocket, it's ink still wet enough to stain when I slapped it onto the counter between us. "Well then let's *take* them."
Patch's breath hitched—sharp as a blade between ribs as he protested, "they are both assassins for King Maxx Acorn—" before my claws dug into his shoulder—not enough to draw blood—just enough to silence him, not in a violent manner, mind you. I grinned—slow, deliberate—letting my fangs catch the dawn light filtering through very old and long since sealed by Doc bullet holes in the kitchen walls.
"Ohhh Patchy," I slowly crooned, voice syrup sweet and twice as sticky, "do you *really* think I care about such details, even if they were as bad as King Maxx Acorn, if they are your parents and if you truly care about them and they care about you?" My claws dragged down his shoulder blades—slow, possessive, (not in that way)—counting each vertebrae like a butcher tallying cuts of meat.
"R-really Sonic, you would do that for me?" Patch stammered, his voice cracking like thin ice under boot. Then he moved—too fast for even my reflexes without using my speed—crushing himself against my chest with enough force to make my ribs creak. His claws dug into my spine through my jacket, trembling like a live wire. I let him cling for exactly three heartbeats before yanking him back by the scruff—not exactly roughly, not exactly gently, but firmly—my muzzle wrinkling at the wet heat of his tears soaking my fur and suit.
"Of course my dear friend," I began, "but just not yet, we do have to be careful after all—but right now I do believe that we have some dishes to do." My claws scraped burnt waffle residue off porcelain with slow precision, each scrape echoing louder than necessary in the sudden quiet that fell when Patch grabbed a dish towel—his claws snagging on frayed threads—as we settled back into that pleasant rhythm.
The porcelain clinked with a finality that felt like a gavel striking a block of frozen nitrogen. I dried my hands on a silk handkerchief. It was blue, the color of a fading twilight, of my own quills—and watched Patch. He was almost a half broken instrument, a fiddle with about to snap strings, yet I was the only maestro who knew how to make him sing. The kitchen, once a place of mundane sustenance, had transformed into a sanctum of nascent revolution.
Every bullet hole Doc had plugged with lead and resin told a story of likely a failed assassination; every scuff on the linoleum was a ghost of a struggle to survive that others before us had (sadly(?)) failed to overcome.
The porcelain plate I set down cracked—just slightly—under my claws. Patch flinched at the sound, his ears flattening against his skull as I exhaled through my nose—slow, deliberate—letting the scent of scorched syrup and gunpowder linger between us.
Soon we were done with the dishes—Patch scrubbing with frantic energy while I polished knives with languid precision, each blade catching the light like a promise. The silence between us was thick with unspoken plans, his occasional glances darting toward my manifesto's drying ink like a prisoner eyeing the gallows being built.
When the last fork clattered into the drawer, I stretched—deliberately slow—letting my spines brush against the bullet riddled ceiling before flashing him a grin sharp enough to filet a man. "Time to play in the training room for me I suppose," I joked to the coyote, my voice dripping with mock cheer as I casually palmed the knife still gleaming on the counter. Patch's pupils dilated—just a fraction—but he said nothing, just adjusted his gloves with that nervous tic he'd developed back when Sector 1's smoke still clung to his fur.
The blade spun between my fingers once, twice, before I went full blitz to the training room—not running, but *moving*, the way oil slicks across water or how fire licks at dry timber. Patch's gasp choked behind me as air compressed in my wake, the knife's edge singing against the doorframe before embedding itself in the far wall with a dull *thunk*.
Before the next thing anyone knew, I was in the good ole training room, my claws clicking against the reinforced steel floor like a metronome counting down to detonation. The air smelled of ozone and old sweat—proof of past sessions—as I cracked my neck and rolled my shoulders, spines bristling with restless energy. Knives embedded themselves in the walls from previous throws, their handles vibrating faintly—little tombstones marking where opponents had fallen.
I grinned, slow and jagged, at the dummy dressed in King Maxx Acorn's colors, it's straw guts spilling from a dozen precise slashes. "Well then, let's dance," I murmured, and then I *moved*—not at full speed, but fast enough that the air screamed in protest as my claws carved through the dummy's throat with surgical precision. Straw rained down like confetti at a funeral, the scent of burlap and dust thick in my nose as I pivoted midair, driving my heel into the next dummy's spine hard enough to splinter its wooden frame.
Of course that was only Level Zero—child's play—so I reset the dummies with a flick of my wrist, watching their mechanisms whirr back into position like obedient soldiers. My claws flexed, tracing idle patterns in the air as I contemplated increasing the difficulty straight to Level Ten—where the dummies became machines and the machines now moved with pre-programmed malice, their strikes calibrated to fracture bone.
But no.
Not yet.
Not now.
Not today at least.
Today was about *precision*, not speed—though speed was always my birthright. The dummy's straw stuffed throat split beneath my claws like overripe fruit, it's burlap head lolling backward as I pivoted on my heel, the scent of shredded fabric and sawdust thick in my nostrils. My spines bristled with restrained energy, each quill vibrating like a plucked wire as I dragged a single claw down the dummy's chest—slow, deliberate—letting the stuffing spill in a grotesque parody of viscera.
The training room's fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced across the walls like specters as I adjusted the control panel—Level One. The dummies whirred to life, their jerky movements sharpening into lethal precision, hydraulic limbs hissing with pressurized malice. I rolled my shoulders again, cracking my neck with a sound like snapping bone, and grinned at the first dummy charging me with a serrated blade.
"Oh, how cute," I purred again, side stepping just enough to let the dummy's blade whistle past my throat—close enough to feel the wind part—before driving my elbow into its hydraulic spine. The machine shuddered, gears grinding like broken teeth, and I leaned in—close enough to lick its nonexistent ear—before whispering, "But *daddy* didn't teach you how to *really* stab, did he?"
My claws sank into its chest cavity, fingers spidering through wires like a surgeon navigating veins, and ripped—the dummy's hydraulics bursting in a shower of oil that painted the walls black. The scent of burnt metal and synthetic lubricant filled the air as I flicked the gore off my gloves, stepping over the twitching wreckage toward the next machine.
It's red photoreceptors dilated—some primitive fear subroutine—before I shattered its faceplate with a spinning kick, glass shards tinkling like morbid wind chimes. "Level Two," I announced to the empty room, my voice bouncing off steel walls as the next wave of drones unfolded from ceiling hatches—these ones armed with twin plasma blades, their movements smoother now, almost alive. They circled me like wolves, their servos humming in eerie synchronicity, until I *moved*—not running, but *existing* in the spaces between their strikes—my claws shearing through alloy joints with a sound like tearing foil.
One drone lunged, its blade grazing my cheek before I tore out its core and crushed it, watching blue sparks gutter between my fingers like dying fireflies. I spat out a tooth—lost in the impact—and grinned at the remaining machines, their photoreceptors flickering with what almost looked like hesitation. "Level Three," I announced, twisting the dial until the walls hissed open, revealing skeletal drones with monofilament whips that sang through the air like cleaved wind. My laughter echoed off the steel as I ducked beneath the first strike, letting it slice clean through two other drones—their bisected halves sliding apart with hydraulic sighs.
The scent of ozone thickened as I back handed a drone into the wall hard enough to dent the reinforced plating, it's whip wrapping around my forearm like a lover's embrace—just tight enough to draw thin lines of crimson. I grinned as the pain registered—sharp, bright—before yanking the drone forward into a knee strike that crumpled its chassis like foil.
"Level Four," I declared, twisting the dial with my teeth while simultaneously dislocating another drone's arm with a wet pop, its hydraulic fluids splattering across my muzzle like warm rain. The drones adapted faster now—their movements even fluid, almost improvisational—but I adapted faster, my claws finding the weak points in their alloy skeletons with the precision of a coroner's scalpel.
One managed to land a glancing blow to my ribs, the impact vibrating through bone, and I rewarded it by shoving my entire forearm down its throat, fingers curling around its core before crushing it with a sound like stepping on a tin can. The scent of scorched wiring filled my lungs as I pirouetted away from the next drone's whip strike, the monofilament slicing clean through my jacket sleeve—threads fluttering like dying moths.
I exhaled through my nose—slow, amused—before grabbing the whip midair and yanking hard enough to pull the drone into my waiting knee, its faceplate crumpling with a satisfying *crunch*. "Level Five," I announced, twisting the dial until the drones shed their humanoid shells entirely, unfolding into monstrous things with too many limbs, their hydraulics hissing like serpents.
The scent of scorched alloy and synthetic lubricant thickened as I lunged—not using my speed, not yet—letting claws sink into the first drone's thorax with a wet crunch. Hydraulic fluid sprayed across my muzzle, metallic and sharp, as I twisted my wrist, feeling gears grind to a halt beneath my fingers. The drone shuddered, it's limbs spasming like a dying insect, before I ripped its core free and tossed it over my shoulder—a gory offering to the training room's flickering lights.
Halfway there.
And in five minutes too, that might be a new record.
I might actually need to start skipping levels after all at this point.
"Level Seven," I mused, dialing it up with a claw tip while sidestepping a drone's serrated pincer—close enough to feel the vibration of its hydraulics humming against my quills. The machines had evolved beyond mere combat protocols now; their movements were almost *alive*, twitching with predatory instinct as they flanked me in a half circle.
One foolish machine lunged, its mono whip slicing a burning line across my thigh—pain flaring bright and hot—and I grinned, licking the blood from my claws before retaliating with a brutal uppercut that sent its head spinning into the ceiling. The scent of scorched circuits mingled with iron as I adjusted the dial to Level Eight, watching the remaining drones convulse and reform into sleek, quadrupedal hunters, their optic sensors pulsing crimson.
"It's still so cute," I purred, cracking my knuckles, "but let's see if you can handle Level Eight." The quadrupedal drones circled, their gait smooth as liquid mercury—until I *moved*. The first crumpled under my heel like wet paper, its spine snapping with a sound like breaking celery.
I tasted blood where my fang had split my own lip—pain sharp and bright—and grinned wider. The second drone lunged, its fanged maw gaping—until my claws hooked under its jaw and tore upward, peeling its faceplate away in a screech of rending metal. Hydraulic fluid sprayed in an arc, painting the wall in glistening black.
The third drone hesitated—its primitive AI registering death—before I sank my claws into its thorax and *twisted*, feeling its core implode like a rotten fruit. The scent of burnt circuits clung to my fur as I flicked hydraulic fluid off my gloves, watching it splatter across the control panel in oily constellations. "Level Nine," I murmured, tasting copper on my tongue, and the room *shrieked* to life—ceiling panels retracting to unleash winged drones with plasma casters humming like wasp nests.
Their shadows licked my muzzle as I rolled beneath the first volley, glass shards from shattered coolant tubes biting into my palms—minor pain, delicious pain—before I vaulted off a drone's crumpled chassis. Plasma scorched the air where my quills had been, the heat searing my jacket coat's edges to embers as I landed atop the next winged monstrosity. Its carapace cracked under my knee with the sound of a walnut splitting, spurting viscous coolant that reeked of mint and rot.
The third drone's talons grazed my ribs—fire blooming beneath fur—and I laughed outright, catching its wing joint between my teeth. The metallic tang of its alloy bones burst across my tongue as I wrenched sideways, tearing the appendage clean off in a shower of sparks. Its dying shriek harmonized with the others' whirring panic, a symphony for the grinning god of velocity they'd foolishly challenged.
I spat out the shrapnel, watching it clatter against the reinforced floor like a dropped coin, and flexed my claws—still slick with hydraulic fluid—toward the surviving drones. Their photoreceptors flickered with something almost like recognition before I *moved*, not at sonic speed but at the velocity of a collapsing star, reducing the first to a crumpled origami of metal.
The second tried to flee—adorable—until my claws speared through its thruster array, dragging it shrieking back into the embrace of annihilation. Its ruptured fuel lines bathed us both in liquid fire, the heat licking up my forearms like a lover's tongue, charring fur down to pink-raw flesh. I inhaled the stench of my own cooking meat with a shuddering gasp—pain crystallizing into euphoria—as the drone's dying convulsions pumped molten alloy onto my chest, branding me with its final, spasming hatred.
"Level Ten," I murmured, watching the last drone spasm at my feet, its photoreceptors dimming like dying stars. The training room's emergency sirens wailed—too late—as I wiped hydraulic fluid from my muzzle, savoring the sting where molten alloy had fused with fur. Pain was a language I spoke fluently, each burn and fracture a dialect of control—proof that flesh could outlast steel when properly motivated.
And more drones now appeared—fresh ones, descending from the ceiling like mechanical vultures, their wings humming with lethal intent. Their plasma casters glowed molten, and I grinned, rolling my shoulders—somewhere between casual and carnivorous—as the scent of scorched alloy filled my lungs like incense. The first drone dove, its talons outstretched, and I let it graze my arm—just enough to draw a thin, searing line of red—before seizing its wing joint and twisting until the hydraulics screamed like a wounded animal.
The pain was a dull throb beneath my adrenaline, barely registering, until I *made* it register—letting the drone's plasma caster graze my ribs in a searing kiss that bubbled fur and flesh alike. The scent of my own burning meat curled into my nostrils, rich and metallic, and I exhaled through gritted teeth—not a scream, but a laugh, low and jagged. "For the last time, cute," I purred to the drone, my claws sinking into it's thorax with the wet crunch of collapsing circuitry, "but I'm not *your* target."
Hydraulic fluid gushed over my wrist like a grotesque baptism as I ripped its core free and crushed it in my palm, sparks dancing between my fingers like dying fireflies. The drone twitched, spasming—pathetic—before collapsing, its carcass joining the others strewn across the training floor in a graveyard of shattered alloy and split wires. Pain pulsed from my burns in rhythmic waves, each throb a sweet counterpoint to the adrenaline singing in my veins. Minor discomfort had bloomed into something sharper, richer—a symphony of controlled agony that made my claws flex with predatory satisfaction.
Across the room, the last drone hovered, its wings vibrating with erratic tension—its AI calculating survival odds. I tilted my head, licking a stripe of blood from my forearm where molten alloy had fused fur to flesh. "Just try to run," I suggested, voice dripping with mock gentleness, and watched its thrusters flare—adorable—before I *moved*.
Still not at full speed, no, but fast enough to blur, my claws shearing through its thruster array mid-launch. It shrieked, a sound like grinding gears and shattering glass, before impact crumpled its chassis against the far wall—oil leaking black as crude tears. I landed lightly, toe first, amidst the wreckage, breathing in the stench of molten alloy and my own charred fur.
Training complete.
Level Ten mastered.
Again.
I flexed my claws—still humming with residual energy—and exhaled, slow, deliberate. The adrenaline bled from my veins like ink in water, leaving behind something sharper: awareness.
The scent of burnt fur and quill edges clung to me, mingling with the oil slicked wreckage strewn across the training room.
I flexed my claws—still tingling with the aftershocks of simulated executions—and exhaled through my nose, slow and deliberate. Funny how flesh remembered pain better than steel ever could. The sting in my ribs where plasma had kissed too close pulsed in time with my heartbeat, a dull metronome keeping pace with the realization that I'd stopped flinching at the smell of my own cooking meat years ago.
Somewhere between Jules' sterilization waves and King Maxx Acorn's throne room, I'd learned to wear agony like a second skin—stitched it into my marrow until the scent of my own charred flesh smelled like home. Flexing my claws, I watched hydraulic fluid drip from my fur in oily rivulets, the stinging burns across my ribs a dull symphony beneath adrenaline's retreat.
Pain had become my compass needle, pointing true north toward the raw, unfiltered *now*—no past to mourn, no future to dread. I flexed my claws, watching charred fur flake away like dead leaves, revealing pink scar tissue beneath.
The burns would quickly heal.
They always did.
But the thrill of the fight wasn't just about pain—it was about evolution. There was something grotesquely poetic in how my body remembered every scar, every burn, every fracture, while my enemies' machines could be reset with the flick of a switch. I ran a claw along the bubbling flesh of my ribs, watching the blistered skin split under pressure, dark blood welling up like ink from a pen. The sting was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.
Pain was the only teacher that could never lie to you, after all.
Still, I'm going to have to write about this in my journel after I clean all of this shit up.