Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

WOOO, MORE CHAPTERS!!!!

Chapter Text

-Insert Sonic underground intro here-

"Ugh, where are they? This is taking forever."

Sonic tapped his foot impatiently, he was supposed to meet up with another freedom fighter: Dallian Wrightly. Dallian was supposed to give Sonic the supplies he needed to deliver. Sonic watched as civilians passed by on the streets, fiddling with his jacket sleeve, his jacket had gotten so roughed up over the years, it looked worn, to be fair it was his favorite.

On the wall opposite of him he saw a wanted poster, it was newer paper, but he scoffed in disgust, the photo was one of his younger self, bright blue quills, bright green eyes, and a confident smile, he was glad nobody could really recognize him, his quills, opposed to the bright blue of his super speed and that damn poster, were a dulled, dingy cobalt blue.

The smell of fried food lazily floated through the air, he could hear fresh, crispy fries hitting the paper inside of the holder the vendors handed out, he could smell the strong, savory taste of turkey legs being cooked nearby too, he shoved the though to the back of his mind as his stomach growled and he grumbled at the feeling.

He sighed a breath of relief as he saw hooded figure approaching, its silhouette a bit dismorphed, it was definitely hiding something. Once the figure approached him, they made a quick hand signal which Sonic followed with another, Sonic smiled.

"Mornin Dal, how're you doing? Heard things weren't so hot on the other side of town."

Dal nodded, handing Sonic the package, their face was more visible now, the german shepherd gave a warm smile back

"Mornin' kiddo, and yeah, it's a total shitshow on the other side, but things are gettin' better, Lumia gave birth, now Collin has a baby sister."

Dallian's expression dimmed, moving closer so their cloak could hide the scene

"Keep this discreet ya hear me? Nobody 'round these parts much likes it when we resistance fend for and tend to each other 'm I right?"

Sonic nodded, his quills getting in his face a bit, he brushed them away and secured the package under his arm.

"Ya got that right, nowadays I cant even walk outside and get a breath of fresh air, or whats left of it anyway, without getting hunted down, now where'd you want me to deliver this to?"

Dallian sighed and put a hand on Sonic's shoulder, Sonic could see that they were trying not to show a pitying expression

"Kiddo, this is for you and ya Uncle Chuck, y'all two been savin us for a while now, s'about time we returned the favour".

Sonic tapped his foot impatiently again, he didn't want Dallian wasting resources on him, especially since they had a new kid, then the sound of tapping grew into thuds, louder and louder, immediately turning the pair's heads. A metalhead was surveying the street, metalheads were the stupid soldiers Robotnic 'employed' to capture the Freedom Fighters, Dallian made a motion for Sonic to get out of sight, Sonic nodded and moved behind a wall corner.

"G'mornin officer, what can I do for ya?"

The metalhead grabbed Dallian's wrist, they winced out in pain as they were dragged out of the alleyway and into the street

"Dallian Wrightly, you are under arrest for aiding and assisting the Freedom Fighters."

shit

Dallian immediately turned, yelling towards the alleyway

"FUCKIN RUN KIDDO!"

Sonic didn't need to be told twice. Everything looked blurry while he ran but he knew this city by the back of his hand, his lungs started to burn and he felt dizzy, he tapped his watch, it beeped twice, the package still under his arm

"Hey unc, I'm on my way home"

The direct second he got to his and Uncle Chuck's base he stopped outside the door, well, not really stopped, more like crashed into it. The door opened as Sonic was gasping and wheezing, his lungs begging for air, they burned and ached for freedom from this feeling and he heard a familiar voice.

"Goddamn it Sonny, how many times we gotta do this?"

He only offered a simple wave as his Uncle dragged him inside the base and onto the couch, this happened so often he'd practically timed it, but then again that was what he had expected by now, he could feel his lungs taking in more and more air as his Uncle set the box down on the table and started making him a glass of water.

"Sonny, you need to stop doing that, you're gonna get your self hurt,"

His Uncle sounded disappointed, Sonic couldn't really blame him, as soon as the water was close enough to grab he snatched it from his Uncle's hands and chugged it, once the glass was empty he set it down on the coffee table, feeling more like himself again

"I know, I know Unc' but the rest of the freedom fighters-"

"Now you plenty know we can take care of ourselves, 'sides, don't want my nephew tirin' out like that, it ain't healthy,"

Sonic wanted to start again, but he couldn't argue, he opened up the box, it was full of food and some new clothes in the duo's sizes, looking at the framed picture nearby on the table, it was of a much younger Sonic and his Uncle, the image brought a smile to his face, even if everything was going to shit around them as Robotnic single-handedly destroyed the world, at least they still had each other, and nothing was gonna change that, not if Sonic had anything to say about it.

-Insert Sonic underground outro here-

Chapter Text

--insert intrto song here--

Sonic crouched low on a hilltop, his eyes set on the monstrous facility looming ahead. Robotnik’s factory, one of the largest and most heavily guarded on the planet, was churning out pollution as thick clouds of smoke billowed into the sky. The sight made his blood boil, and his fingers tightened around the handful of small explosive charges he’d packed for the mission.

“Alright, Sonic,” he muttered to himself, adrenaline already surging through his veins. “Hit hard, hit fast, and get out before the bots know what’s hit them.”

Steeling himself, Sonic took a deep breath. There was no sneaking around—he didn’t have the time or the patience for that. He bolted down the hill, his legs a blur as he crossed the open ground in a flash of blue.

The ground trembled underfoot as he approached the fence line and dove straight past the force field, feeling a sharp jolt as he cut through its energy barrier. He gritted his teeth, knowing he’d feel that shock later—but for now, he pushed forward.

Without breaking stride, he tossed the first explosive into a cluster of power cables, then lobbed the second into a fuel storage unit. The explosives detonated in bright bursts of fire and smoke, sending debris flying as he raced through the heart of the factory grounds.

Alarms blared around him, and from all directions, he could see squads of robotic guards converging, red lights gleaming in their metallic eyes.

Sonic grinned. “Let’s make this place go out with a bang.”

One by one, he threw the remaining explosives, watching as they stuck to crucial points around the facility. Smoke filled the air, and the screech of alarms rang louder, but he didn’t slow down.

Dodging lasers and weaving between machinery, he sprinted through the chaos, feeling his legs strain with every step. He wasn’t in top shape, he knew that, but the surge of adrenaline kept him going.

As he neared the outer wall, Sonic glanced over his shoulder just in time to see one of the main generators go up in a fireball, its shockwave tearing through the surrounding equipment. He laughed, exhilarated, though he knew he’d pushed himself close to his limit. He needed to get out—and fast.

But as he crossed the last checkpoint, the strain hit him like a freight train. His legs burned, his lungs felt like they were on fire, and his vision started to blur. Still, he kept running, fighting to put distance between himself and the collapsing factory, even as his steps grew slower, his balance faltering.

Finally, miles from the factory, his body gave out. Sonic collapsed in a field, gasping for breath as his strength drained away and sobs dragged themselves up and out of his throat. The world seemed to spin around him, and he clenched his fists, frustrated that he’d pushed himself too far again. He lay there, eyes shut, trying to will himself back to his feet, but his body refused to respond.

A calm voice drifted through the haze of exhaustion. “Sonic.”

Sonic’s eyes flickered open, and he saw a figure standing over him. They were cloaked, their face obscured, but there was a gentle, knowing presence about them that immediately put him on edge. He tried to lift his head, but his body still felt heavy, uncooperative.

“Who… who are you?” he rasped, his voice barely audible.

The figure knelt down beside him, their features becoming clearer as they pulled back their hood to reveal a face marked with wisdom and compassion. “I am the Oracle. I have watched over you for a long time, waiting for the right moment to guide you toward your path.”

Sonic frowned, the words floating around in his foggy mind. “Guide me? I’ve been fine on my own, thanks.”

The Oracle’s eyes softened, a small, sad smile crossing their face. “You may believe that, but you are meant for something much greater than simply surviving. There is more to your story, Sonic—a legacy you are only just beginning to understand.”

Sonic wanted to respond, but his mind was still reeling. He lay back, his body too drained to even form a comeback.

“Listen carefully, young hero,” the Oracle said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are not alone. You are one of the queen’s children, a descendant of royalty, and you have siblings—a brother and sister who share your blood and your purpose. Together, you will be the key to restoring peace to this world.”

Sonic blinked, his exhaustion temporarily forgotten as he processed the Oracle’s words. “I… I have a brother and sister?”

The Oracle nodded. “Yes, and you must find them before seeking out your mother. She entrusted you with a destiny—a path that can only be fulfilled when you are united. Robotnik’s reign depends on keeping you apart, for together, you have the strength to bring him down.”

The weight of the Oracle’s words settled on Sonic like a blanket, both comforting and daunting. He had always felt different, like a piece of him was missing. Now, he understood why.

“But… where do I even start?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The Oracle’s expression softened. “Trust in your instincts, and in those around you who believe in your cause. Your family is closer than you realize, and your bond with them will guide you. The journey will not be easy, but you have the strength to face it, Sonic.”

With that, The Oracle rose, their cloak billowing in the gentle breeze. “Take care of yourself, and remember that you are not alone,” they said, stepping back and vanishing into the early morning mist, leaving Sonic alone in the field.

It was some time later that a voice cut through the silence. “Sonic! What in the world were you thinking?”

Sonic managed a weak grin as he saw a group of Freedom Fighters approaching, led by a tall figure he recognized. “Hey… just… thought I’d give Robotnik a little wake-up call,” he said, trying to sit up but only managing to flop back onto the grass, his lungs refusing to work properly.

The Freedom Fighter shook his head, though there was a fond smile on his face. “Only you would have the nerve to blow up one of Robotnik’s main factories all by yourself.” He extended a hand, pulling Sonic to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you back to Chuck’s before you pass out again.”

Sonic leaned on one of the Freedom Fighters for support, still reeling from the Oracle’s words. A brother, a sister… family he’d never known. The idea filled him with a strange, hopeful energy, even as exhaustion weighed on his shoulders.

As they made their way back to Uncle Chuck’s hideout, Sonic’s heart pounded, not just from his recent mission but from the possibilities ahead.

--end title screen--

Chapter Text

-intro stuff, you know how this goes

The sewers beneath Sector Nine were unusually quiet tonight.
Manic padded barefoot across the damp concrete floor, his footfalls as silent as the drip-drip of leaking water behind him. Green-tinted lights from the pipes above cast eerie shadows over the corridor, dancing with every flicker and hum of the old systems. He kept low, hood pulled over his wild green quills, and clutched a cloth sack under his arm, bulging with the haul from a rich upper district merchant's pocket.
He didn’t know the man’s name. Didn’t care. That was someone else’s problem now. His job was simple—get in, grab the valuables, get out.
And no one ever saw him coming.
Manic turned a corner and slipped through a false wall behind a rusted maintenance panel. The moment he passed through the metal, the scent of dampness and old oil gave way to the comforting buzz of life. He dropped into a concealed underground room—their guild's temporary base—where lanterns swung gently above ratty couches and crates full of salvaged tech. A couple of other guild members nodded his way. He tossed the sack onto a table with a casual flair.
"Merchant from 42B,” he said with a grin. “Sucker didn’t even know his pockets were lighter.”
Rye, a lanky badger with sharp teeth and an even sharper laugh, snorted. “That’s the third one this week, man. You trying to retire early?”
Manic shrugged. “Gotta stay sharp.”
"More like bored," grumbled Patch, their leader. A grizzled wolf with cybernetic fingers and eyes that missed nothing, Patch sat in the corner tinkering with a cracked drone. "You’re restless. Always have been."
"Maybe." Manic sat backward in a chair, arms crossed over the backrest. “But we’ve got to keep moving. The second we get lazy, Metalheads find us.”
Patch just grunted, but there was a hint of agreement in the sound.
Later that night, while the others were sleeping or counting coins, Manic slipped away. He didn’t bother announcing it. He never did. There was something in the air—something that made his quills prickle. A feeling he’d learned to trust.
The upper edge of Sector Nine bordered an abandoned freight line, all steel beams and shattered glass, a favorite hiding place for looters and exiles. Manic often scouted there, not for loot but for movement. Intel. He moved like a shadow, breathing with the wind, his hands brushing the walls as he climbed up to an old vent overlooking the railyard.
That’s when he saw them.
A sentinel.
Huge. Clanking. Chrome-plated with joints that hissed steam and red eyes that pulsed with soulless precision. It was dragging something—or someone—by the collar. A person in a long grey coat, hood down, face bruised and bloodied. Even from this distance, Manic could see the fire still burning in their expression.
Whoever they were, they didn’t scream. They didn’t beg. They just stared forward with defiance.
Manic leaned closer.
Wait… he’d seen that coat before. Resistance issue.
He crouched lower and watched as the sentinel stomped past a collapsed fence, heading toward the sub-zone security line. The Freedom Fighters wouldn’t get a chance to rescue this one. Not with the patrol that close to base. This guy was toast.
Unless…
Manic clicked his tongue and muttered under his breath, “I’m gonna hate myself for this.”
He moved fast.
He hit the ground behind the sentinel with barely a whisper. One smooth motion—unclipping a scrap of rebar from his belt and slipping it into his grip like a baton. He studied the metalhead’s joints, watching for the rhythm of its steps, the timing of its weight shifts.
A crack. The briefest window.
He darted forward, slamming the rebar into the back knee actuator. A sharp hiss of steam exploded as the machine staggered, its grip loosening on the prisoner.
“Go,” Manic hissed to the stranger, before diving into a roll to dodge the sentinel’s swipe.
The resistance member didn’t hesitate. They scrambled out of reach, clutching their side. Manic kept the sentinel busy, dodging and weaving around it like a leaf in a storm. He wasn’t strong—he didn’t need to be. He was fast, he was clever, and he knew how to hit where it hurt.
A flash of metal and the rebar jammed into the sentinel’s chest port. Sparks flew. The machine let out a broken screech before collapsing in a heap.
Manic stood over the wreck, panting. His pulse thudded in his ears.
“…Well that sucked.”
“You alright?” came a voice behind him.
Manic turned to see the stranger, now leaning against a beam for support. Their coat was scorched, and a long gash trailed down one leg, but they were standing—and looking at him like he was something unexpected.
“You… helped me.”
Manic raised a brow. “You say that like it doesn’t happen often.”
“It doesn’t.”
There was a long pause. The stranger pushed off the beam. “Name’s Dallian, Dallian Wrightly call me Dally. Resistance recon unit. And you are…?”
“Manic,” he replied, hesitant.
Something about this felt different than the usual jobs. He’d saved people before—sure. But this was the first time he saw someone look at him like… like he mattered.
“Thanks,” Dallian said. “I’ve seen your face before. You’re the fast one, right? The Guild’s ghost. They say you’ve been a thorn in Robotnik’s side for years.”
Manic scoffed. “I steal from the rich and don’t get caught. That’s not exactly rebellion.”
“It’s a start.”
They both stood in silence for a moment. Dallian eventually spoke again, their voice softer this time. “You ever thought about doing more?”
Manic flinched slightly. He hated that question.
“My family’s the guild,” he said shortly. “They raised me. They trained me. That’s all I know.”
“But you’re capable of more.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
Dallian smiled just a little, then winced from the pain in their ribs. “Well, if you ever get tired of just surviving, look us up. We could use someone like you.”
Manic didn’t reply. He just watched as Dallian limped off into the shadows toward safety.
When Manic returned to the guild’s hideout that night, he didn’t tell anyone where he’d been. He lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, Dallian’s words replaying in his mind.
“You’re capable of more.”
The words felt heavy in his chest. Like they belonged to someone he used to be, or someone he hadn’t met yet.
And somewhere, deep inside, a drumbeat began to echo.
One he couldn’t quite ignore.

--outro music la dee fuckin da--

Chapter Text

-TRIPLETS BORN THE THRONE AWAIT--

There were two kinds of silence in the underground. The good kind—the kind that wrapped around you like a cloak, hiding your steps and softening your breath—and the bad kind. The kind that made your heart beat too loud. The kind that felt like someone else was listening.
Manic had learned the difference early on.
Tonight, the silence was good.
He slipped through the broken metro station on the east end of Sector Ten, boots barely brushing the floor. His satchel was already halfway full from the last run—scrap metal, old tech, and a few rations he’d lifted off a careless merchant’s cart. But it wasn’t enough. Patch had told him not to go out again tonight, that things were heating up, that more Metalheads were patrolling near the eastern wall.
But Patch didn’t understand what Manic understood: they were running out. Running out of food, of medicine, of time.
So when he’d heard about an old tech cart moving supplies into the old warehouse district, he’d gone without asking.
Manic moved fast across a broken overpass, then dropped into the shadows behind a crumbling wall. The cart was right where the scavengers said it’d be—pushed halfway into an alley, partly covered by a tattered cloth, dim lantern light barely revealing the stack of crates inside.
He crept closer.
Someone was moving around on the far end, humming faintly, arranging the crates by hand. Whoever it was, they weren’t a soldier. No armor. No weapons. Just an old man in a thick brown coat, his fur silvered with age, his movements deliberate and slow.
Easy mark.
Manic inched forward, crouching low, watching the man bend over one of the crates and fumble with the lid. The old guy grumbled something under his breath and pulled out a small toolkit, walking a few feet away to inspect a leaking pipe overhead.
That was all Manic needed.
He darted forward, silent as breath, and grabbed one of the crates at the top—light enough to carry, heavy enough to be worth something. He turned to vanish into the dark.
"Hey—wait! Please!"
The voice stopped him in his tracks. Not because it was threatening. Because it wasn’t.
Desperate. Honest.
“Kid—please, put that down,” the old man called. “It’s not for me. It’s for my nephew.”
Manic didn’t turn around at first. His grip tightened on the crate, mind racing through his options. He didn’t get caught. That was the rule. You never got caught.
But something about the man’s voice—it wasn’t angry. It was tired. Full of worry. Real worry.
He turned, slowly.
The old man had stepped closer. He wasn’t reaching for a weapon. Wasn’t yelling. He just stood there, hand extended like he was trying to offer a choice rather than demand surrender.
Manic narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “Your nephew, huh?”
“Yes,” the man said quietly. “He just came back. Hurt. Bad. Barely made it out of a mission alive, and I… I need these supplies to treat him. Food. Medical equipment. Whatever I can keep hidden. Please.”
The green hedgehog’s stance didn’t change, but something in his chest twinged. He didn’t like the feeling. He didn’t like any of this.
“How do I know you’re not just lying to keep your stash?”
“I’m not,” the old man said, shaking his head. “I wouldn't lie about him. Not after what he’s done.”
Manic stared, reading the man’s face, his body language, his heartbeat in the tremble of his hands.
He wasn’t lying.
“…What’s his name?” Manic asked suddenly.
The old man blinked. “What?”
“Your nephew. If he’s so important, what’s his name?”
There was a flicker of something in the old guy’s eyes. Pain. Relief.
“Sonic.”
The name hit Manic like a shockwave—he didn’t know why. It meant nothing. Should’ve meant nothing.
But somehow, it echoed.
Sonic.
A name like motion. Like sound. Like something missing from his blood.
Manic exhaled slowly, still frowning.
“…He your only family?”
The man’s expression twisted. Not into anger—but into something haunted.
“No,” he said quietly. “But he’s the only one who came back.”
Manic stood there for a long moment. Then, slowly, he knelt and set the crate back onto the cart.
“...Didn’t take anything out of it,” he muttered.
“I know,” the old man said softly. “Thank you.”
Manic turned to leave, but paused again, halfway into the shadows.
“I’ve heard of him,” he said. “That Sonic guy. He’s reckless.”
The old man let out a short, dry laugh. “He always has been.”
Manic shook his head, unsure why he felt the need to say more.
“Tell him to stop pulling stunts that get him nearly killed.”
The old man smiled faintly. “I’ll try. But I don’t think he listens to anyone.”
Manic hesitated one last time. Then he vanished into the alley, melting into the night.
But the name echoed with every step he took.
Sonic.
Like a thread tugging at something frayed inside his chest.

-outro stuff-

Chapter Text

-A SEER WARNS OF A DEADLY FATE--

Sonia adjusted the pearl clasp on her gloves with the precision of a clockmaker. The fabric stretched flawlessly over her fingers, pristine and smooth, the kind of gloves you wore to hide how much your hands shook from training all night.
The grand sitting room around her was bathed in morning light, filtered through gold-trimmed curtains that fluttered in the breeze. A soft sonata played on the radio in the corner—something older, something refined. Her tea, imported and rare, sat untouched on the table beside her.
“Lady Sonia, your posture,” came the gentle but persistent voice of Miss Celiette, her etiquette instructor.
Sonia resisted the urge to roll her eyes and instead straightened her back a few degrees more, just enough to please. “Like this?” she asked, voice dipped in elegance.
“Perfect, dear. Hold that while you recite your public defense statements, just in case you’re ever asked to speak on behalf of the council.”
Sonia began, voice clear and practiced, mind a thousand miles away.
She hated this room. Not because it was lavish—though it was—or because of the people who filled it most days. No, she hated it because it made her feel like a painting: posed, polished, admired… and completely still.
These days, the Capital left the upper class alone. Mostly. They paid their taxes, hosted their events, nodded politely when robot escorts attended their dinners. They pretended the world wasn’t crumbling just outside the domed walls of their district.
But Sonia knew better.
The system wasn’t safe. It was asleep.
It wasn’t until well after dinner—once the last wine glass had been polished and the staff dismissed—that Sonia finally slipped away. Her room had three exits: one for show, one for staff, and one hidden behind a heavy tapestry, masked by the scent of lavender perfume and dust.
She moved with purpose now, dressed not in silk but in fitted fabric and thick boots, her gloves swapped for worn bandages. Her skirt was gone, replaced by stretchable dark pants beneath a dulled red turtleneck. Her corset remained—tight enough to brace her ribs while she moved, flexible enough to climb.
She dropped silently into the side alley behind her estate and took off running.
She arrived twenty minutes later, breath even, heart steady. Her training spot: a hollowed-out greenhouse long abandoned in the upper outskirts of her sector. It was covered in ivy, its glass long since shattered, but inside was where she had laid out her targets, her balance beams, her resistance bands and improvised weapons.
There was even an old-fashioned punching dummy that had seen better days—patched over at the shoulders and missing a leg, but still standing.
Sonia tied her hair up, slipped off her boots, and got to work.
First, the balance drills. Then the agility sprints. Then the telekinesis exercises—lifting pieces of shattered brick and glass into the air, holding them, rotating them, crushing them to powder and rebuilding them again.
Her breath grew shallow, but her mind stayed sharp.
She knew how this would look to her mother’s friends. A high-class girl sneaking out to sweat. Like an animal. Like a fighter.
She didn’t care.
One day, she thought, they’ll come for us too.
She could feel it in her bones, in the way the guards looked a little too long at their ID cards, in the way the robotic voices echoed at the galas. They pretended to protect the elites, but everyone knew what happened if you said the wrong thing. If you supported the wrong people. If you helped the wrong cause.
There were disappearances in the higher districts too. They just didn’t talk about them.
So Sonia trained.
If the Capital ever turned on them—and they would—she would be ready.
Two hours later, covered in sweat and glowing softly with residual energy from her telekinetic drills, Sonia sat cross-legged in the middle of the broken greenhouse, sipping water from a dented canteen. Her arms trembled slightly. She’d pushed a little too far tonight, trying to hold ten bricks aloft instead of her usual six.
Still not enough.
Her thoughts drifted toward the rumors she’d heard. About the lower districts. The Freedom Fighters. The violence, the rebellion… the survivors.
She didn’t know any of them, of course. She was far from that world. But she heard whispers. Names. A courier who moved faster than lightning. A thief who could blend in well enough to disappear into walls. Resistance leaders who still believed the queen’s children were alive.
The queen, Sonia thought, gazing at her reflection in a shard of glass. Her eyes, still sharp. Her posture, still proper. Her aura, still humming with unused power.
Her own past was a mystery—her guardians had raised her in wealth but always said it was by royal design. She’d always felt… out of place. Too sharp for the velvet cage she was raised in.
And lately, she had started to wonder why.
Why was she stronger than her tutors?
Why did she feel a pull toward the conflict, the chaos?
Why did she ache to be part of something real?
Her fingers brushed the crystal medallion at her chest, shaped like piano keys. It pulsed faintly with energy.
She didn’t know the answer. Not yet.
But she had a feeling she’d find it soon.

-epic ass guitar solo outro-

Chapter Text

-GIVE UP YOUR CHILDREN--

The garden was in bloom.
Magnolias twisted skyward like dancers frozen mid-twirl, and roses blossomed thick and decadent along the marble walls of the noble estate. Sonia sat at the edge of a fountain, her fingers trailing absentmindedly through the water’s surface. The sun was warm on her skin, filtered through the leaves above. The soft buzz of polite laughter echoed through the air as the other young noblewomen gossiped nearby under embroidered parasols.
She should’ve felt at ease. But her medallion pulsed again against her chest, a slow, gentle rhythm—like a heartbeat trying to warn her.
Then the sky changed.
Not the color. Not the light.
The sound.
The hum. Mechanical. Cold. Growing.
Everyone froze. Conversations dropped like shattered glass. The buzz grew louder, heavier, until it drowned out the birds, the breeze, the fountain’s song. One of the younger girls dropped her teacup. It broke against the stone with a brittle, final crack.
Then they arrived.
Five metalheads, sentinels of The Capital, descended into the garden with all the grace of a guillotine. Their glowing red eyes scanned the crowd, weapons already armed.
“ALL INDIVIDUALS ARE TO REMAIN WHERE THEY ARE,” one of them barked in the mechanical voice Sonia knew too well. “NOBILITY REGISTRATION IS UNDER REVIEW. THOSE FOUND NON-COMPLIANT WILL BE DETAINED.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Verona, always the bold one, stepped forward. “We are citizens of the Capital’s highest ring. This is an outrage!”
Her words earned her a blast of electricity to the knees. She crumpled like a paper doll.
Screams erupted, but only briefly. The metalheads raised their weapons again, and silence fell like a noose. Sonia didn’t scream. She didn’t flinch.
She ran.
She moved like breath—quiet, fast, in control. Years of secret training came back in a heartbeat. She vaulted over a hedge, ducked behind a crumbling sculpture, and slipped into the servant halls. She knew every passage of the estate, every tunnel and back stair.
She didn’t stop running until the marble became dirt.
She didn’t know how long she ran. Hours maybe. She passed checkpoints, hidden bridges, alleyways long forgotten. Her boots wore down against stone and mud. She passed familiar walls and unmarked signs. Freedom Fighter signals, she realized. Her training had paid off.
And finally, as the sun dipped beneath the ruined skyline, she found a safe house. Or rather, it found her.
She rounded a corner and stumbled—literally—into a wide, rusted door half-hidden under a broken bus sign. Her medallion pulsed stronger.
Then it opened.
A figure stood in the doorway, surprised—but not alarmed. Older, with kind eyes and a mechanical hand.
“…You’re a long way from the high districts,” the man said, looking her over. “Name’s Chuck. What’re you running from, girl?”
“Everything,” Sonia whispered.
He hesitated only a moment before stepping aside. “Then you’re in the right place.”
Inside, the hideout buzzed with quiet movement—Freedom Fighters moving boxes, preparing supplies, patching wounds and walls. Sonia stood still, taking it all in. It was messy. It was alive.
Then she saw him.
A blue blur dashed past the hallway—tired, sweaty, wild-eyed. His jacket was frayed beyond repair, his boots worn, and his quills—dull, cobalt, unkempt—blew past like a ghost in motion. But he had fire in his eyes.
He didn’t notice her at first. He was arguing with Uncle Chuck.
“I’m fine, Unc, stop hovering—I just need to get the comms set and get the maps ready and—”
“You’re still recovering from blowing up a Capital fortress, boy! You shouldn’t even be on your feet!”
“Yeah, well, tell that to the dozens of people depending on us tonight. I’ve got fifteen minutes left in me, easy.”
Sonia blinked. Something about him…
And then he turned, eyes locking with hers for just a second. Bright green eyes. Eyes that felt…
Familiar.
But just like that, he was gone again—rushing into the next room, already working.
“…Who was that?” Sonia asked.
Chuck sighed, rubbing his temple. “That was Sonic. My nephew. Our courier. Our headache. And possibly the fastest kid this side of the mountains.”
“…He’s younger than I expected.”
“He’s sixteen. Acts like he’s forty and ten years old at the same time.”
Sonia touched her medallion again.
It pulsed harder.
Something was changing. Fast.
“…Can I help?” she asked.
Chuck raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Once you’re in, you’re in. No more safe district. No more garden teas.”
“I didn’t come all this way for tea.”
He grinned.
“Then let’s find you something to fight for.”

-more sick ass guitar-