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He's won.
He's finally won.
Weeks, months, years of what seemed like endless, endless squabbling, over. The battlefield lays upon him, the shreds of his creations scattered across the damp terrain—their fragments, bright and colourful, decorating the dismal earth. Equipped with grief, it takes him less than a minute to be solemnly grateful for their willing sacrifice. After all, it was him who had caused them to taste their expiration. Nonetheless, to rebuild his creations is nigh unachievable, not when he is terribly sore, his body betraying his stubbornness. Although he’s done it. He has won the battle that had been going on for far too long. So he can’t concede with his final breath that his injuries were what made him succumb.
That thought is pitiful alone.
And he despises pity.
He feels his body rattle, his legs—which he obviously has been paying no mind to—at the borderline of meeting the ground. He’s growing weak. He feels it—his trembling limbs are weakening.
He’s tired, unequivocally tired.
From a distance, he sights something familiar: an unforeign shade of lightning blue on the brown ground. So, he squints, unwilling to get rid of the two glasses which create a setback in making him see clearly, and slightly, just slightly, winces as he attempts to perceive it. It’s far too distant for him, but he oddly familiarises with it that, whatever it is, it urges him to shuffle forward. One leg first—cautious, steady and laboured, then the other. And the previous leg once more.
He trudges across the field. Slowly. Steadily.
Something catches his foot.
Swiftly—much to his astonishment—he declines his fall, a foot setting in front of him and his spine arching. Then he feels the pain; a meek groan escaping his lips as he senses his inner bones and whatever organs sting from the sudden action. Good God, it hurts. And the fact that his vision is scant and blurry do not assist how he can barely see in the fog exhibiting from the demolished machines. He supposes that it was one of his broken pieces that’s caused him to almost stumble his footing. Such ironic idiocy.
He looks far.
At least the blue is getting closer.
Momentarily, a smile breaks upon his glum expression. Not too far now, he murmurs to himself, because everything around him cannot possibly respond. Then after a second of recollection, and a scowl returning on his face, he proceeds to persist across the dirt further. Several times, he almost does collapse, his knees nearly deceiving him. But he's stubborn, as he always is, and denies their weakness, and continues to walk. And walk. And walk. And—
Finally, he reaches the objective.
The godforsaken blue.
It’s here where Eggman finally collapses.
A cerulean hedgehog lies amongst the discarded remains of his inventions, the earth burying his crimsoned limbs all as red specks revel on his quills.
He looks… dead.
Eggman doesn’t react, at first. Instead, just stares. Face blank, body sore, Eggman just… stares. Stares at the rival he has been against for years. His rival—Sonic, his name was Sonic, his memory faintly reminds him—who he fought against in the battle which is now settled. His rival, who is snarky and reigns in quipping sharp remarks which would only begin conflict. His rival, who looks undoubtedly unalive.
“Sonic?” escapes him. A beat of silence occurs, as if it is a given chance for the hedgehog’s body to respond to his name. But nothing comes out of it. The wind gushes. The air burns his skin.
“Sonic?” He repeats.
Eggman doesn’t receive a response, the silence becoming deafening to his poor ears. It is not long for him to deem his efforts pointless so he stops saying his name. Instead, he reaches out, gloved hands trembling from fatigue and the vague outline of trepidation. Then they land on the hedgehog's wrists, before they tug, pulling his body to the surface, and removing him slowly from the cracked slumps of the earth.
He places him in his arms.
He feels terribly light. But he’s still warm.
He gives the limp mammal a light shake. But it doesn’t wake him.
Again.
It fails.
Eggman’s fingers skitter to the young hedgehog’s wrist once more. Decidedly, he feels for a pulse.
Nothing.
He tries again, because maybe his mind was toying with him.
Nothing.
And again, because the old man is hurt, and tired, and can’t even properly perceive what’s in front of him without wincing.
Nothing.
One more time. Maybe last time it was because he wasn’t feeling too hard enough, that his thumb was just a feather on his fur. He presses deep. Then pulls away abruptly before he can feel the first beat.
Idiot. That’s not the only location to feel for a pulse.
Two fingers press on to the base of his chest and carefully, he presses them.
Everything goes silent.
Then, he hears a breath, quivering, broken.
Crackling. From broken equipment.
Rustling. Of quills being moved by a soft, piercing wind.
He’s gone.
Eggman brings the hedgehog close to him.
"You almost won, boy."