The sun began to set—streaking the sky in shades of orange and pink that looked like someone had taken a blender to a bag of tropical Skittles—and I realized three things in rapid succession.
One: I had now been here almost a full day without food or water, which explained why my stomach was currently trying to eat *me* as revenge for my poor life choices.
Two: I absolutely could not keep this misunderstanding going forever.
Three: when the sun fully set, I was going to become a werehog for the first time—and everyone already thought I was Sonic's **time-traveling grandson**, which meant I was about to permanently traumatize a multigenerational bloodline that didn't even technically exist yet.
I stared at the horizon as the sun sank lower, my brain scrambling for an exit strategy that didn't involve lying, mauling someone, or rewriting causality.
None presented themselves.
Sure, I'd *technically* chosen this form—if you could call twelve-year-old me's character design spiral a choice and not a cry for help echoing through the cosmos—but that didn't mean I was ready to wake up tonight with arms the size of tree trunks and fur dense enough to qualify as a small biome.
Especially not in front of Sonic.
Especially not while he was cheerfully humming to himself like tonight wasn't about to become a family therapy session for the ages.
"Well," Sonic said, stretching lazily as the sky deepened into molten pink and orange, "let's deal with stuff tomorrow." He yawned, rubbed his nose with the back of his glove—something I was *rapidly* learning was a nervous habit—and grinned. "No point losing sleep over Eggman's latest doom-bot. Again."
He glanced at me.
I was staring at him like I was trying to calculate how much emotional damage one werehog transformation could inflict on a man who had just accepted the concept of time-traveling grandchildren with zero follow-up questions.
"What?" Sonic said. "Got a quill outta place, Noxxie?"
Noxxie.
I flinched internally.
Yeah. That had happened earlier.
It had started with one offhand comment about timelines. Then a joke. Then Sonic doing that thing where he *decides* something makes sense and refuses to un-decide it.
"You kinda remind me of me," he'd said, squinting at my face like it was a puzzle box. "But, y'know. Taller. Grumpier. Way more dramatic."
Then Tails had overheard half a sentence.
Then Knuckles had crossed his arms and said, "Time warriors make sense."
And now here I was.
Standing at sunset.
About to turn into a moon-activated engine of violence.
As Sonic's **grandson**.
I swallowed.
"Hey, uh," I said carefully, voice already rougher than it should've been. "About tonight—"
That was when the reality of my situation finally hit me in full.
I didn't have anywhere to stay.
No house. No bed. No secret underground bunker labeled *FOR TIME-DISPLACED RELATIVES ONLY*.
I'd just… assumed I'd sleep somewhere. On a bench. Under a tree.
Except there were no benches.
This world didn't do benches.
It did loops. And springs. And inexplicably placed palm trees.
And Sonic, because Sonic is physically incapable of not being generous to a fault, noticed my hesitation immediately.
"Oh—hey," he said, snapping his fingers. "You can crash at my place."
My heart stopped.
"What."
"Yeah," he said casually. "I mean, you're family. Kinda. Sorta. Chronologically confusing family, but still."
I panicked.
Hard.
"Uh—yeah—sure—thanks," I muttered, jamming my hands into my jacket pockets like that might hold my bones together when they decided to *become something else*. "That's… great."
Sonic grinned. "Sweet. Beats sleeping in a crabmeat nest."
"…That's a thing?"
"Long story."
I hesitated again. The words piled up behind my teeth, sharp and dangerous.
If I didn't say *something* now, I was going to unleash a werehog on a man who thought this was a wholesome, if weird, family reunion.
"But, uh," I added quickly, "just so you know… I might… change a little at night."
Sonic blinked.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like someone had just told him gravity was optional.
His grin stayed put. One ear twitched.
"Change how?" he asked, nudging a pebble toward the water. It skipped three times perfectly before vanishing. "Like, 'future genetics are wild' change, or 'I own 300 ficus plants' change?"
I exhaled through my nose. It came out deeper than intended. More… resonant.
"More like…" I gestured vaguely at my claws, my quills, my entire *existence*. "'Werehog but somehow worse' change."
Sonic's smile froze.
Not gone.
Just… very carefully paused.
His eyes flicked to my hands. Then my shoulders. Then my face.
"…Huh," he said simply, "So, uh... how did that happen because *I* was cured of that a *long* time ago?"
I froze—brain scrambling for a lie that wouldn't immediately collapse under scrutiny—then blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Eggman Nega messed with Dark Gaia energy in the future." The words tasted like ash, but Sonic just nodded sagely, as if this made perfect sense in the grand tapestry of his life.
"Ah. Yeah, that tracks," he said, rubbing his nose again with that nervous tic I was starting to recognize. "Guy's *obsessed* with recycling Egghead's ideas like they're coupon codes." He shot me a glance—half-amused, half-something else—and I realized with dawning horror that he still *believed* me somehow.
The sun dipped lower—casting long shadows that stretched like ink spilled across pavement—and I felt the first twinge of pain between my shoulder blades. Subtle. Insistent. Like a warning shot from my own biology. My claws dug into my palms involuntarily, leaving crescent-shaped indents in the leather of my gloves.
Sonic must've noticed the way I stiffened, because his grin softened into something more cautious—the kind of expression you'd wear when approaching a stray Chao with a limp. "Hey," he started, uncharacteristically gentle, "whatever happens tonight, we'll figure it out. Promise."
The words hit harder than they should've. Maybe because they were *his* words—earnest and unfiltered—or maybe because I knew, deep down, that I didn't deserve them. The pain flared again—sharper this time—as my spine *cracked* audibly. Sonic's ears twitched at the sound, his expression flickering between concern and morbid curiosity.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a choked gasp as my ribs *shifted* under my skin. The world tilted sideways—or maybe that was just me—as my knees hit the sand with a dull *thud*. Distantly, I heard Sonic swear under his breath before his hands were on my shoulders, steadying me as my vision blurred at the edges.
"Okay," he muttered—more to himself than me—as my shoulders *bulged* against the seams of my jacket. "Your future is *definitely* wild."
And then the universe, sensing an opportunity for maximum chaos, took the sun and shoved it fully below the horizon.
The light changed instantly.
Not darker.
*Charged.*
The moon rose, bright and unapologetic, and something deep in my spine *answered* it.
"Oh no," I muttered.
My spine snapped and realigned, pain flashing white as my muscles ballooned under my skin. Fur exploded along my arms and shoulders like fast-forwarded evolution. My jacket seams strained, then tore apart with a series of sharp rips.
And I began to grow.
Seven feet tall, massive shoulders, arms corded with muscle—all while Sonic stood there, hands still hovering where my shoulders had been moments ago, watching me expand like a biological inflation fetishist's dream. My claws scraped against sand as my fingers elongated, knuckles popping audibly, my leather jacket now reduced to tattered strips hanging off my biceps like sad battle flags. My muzzle stretched forward with a wet crack—teeth sharpening into points that caught the moonlight—and I let out a groan that sounded less like pain and more like a bass guitar being slowly tuned to hell.
Sonic took a cautious step back—not out of fear, but the same way you'd retreat from a microwave about to explode. "So," he said, voice impressively level considering the horror show unfolding in front of him, "grandkids in the future are *built different* huh?"
I tried to answer—really, I did—but my throat had other plans, vibrating with a low growl that rattled my chest like an idling muscle car. The transformation stabilized—mostly—leaving me hunched under the moonlight with arms thick enough to bench-press a small car and claws that could probably shred titanium. Sonic tilted his head, surveying me with the clinical detachment of someone inspecting a particularly concerning vending machine snack.
"Okay," he said slowly, "so, besides the whole transformation... are you okay?" I blinked—slowly, deliberately—like someone trying to process their own existential horror through a fog of adrenaline. "Uh," I managed, voice now deep enough to register on Richter scales, "define 'okay.'" Sonic grinned—a little too wide, a little too forced—and rubbed his nose again. "Like, do you need water? A blanket? A really big stress ball?"