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Red hates Studiopolis. It is bright and loud and scary; it is where the Handler is, where the Battle Highway is. He hates it. He hates being anywhere near it.
Not that the people here cared much about his opinions.
He knows that he doesn't exactly help his image of "monster" when he bares his teeth and glowers. But what else is he supposed to do? Lie down and take it? No. An echidna warrior did not do such a thing. Red had lost many things to Studiopolis, from his true name to his freedom. He would not lose his resistance.
It was just that Red also would not die here. He would not be put down or "decommissioned" like some of the Handler's rowdier fighters. When the Handler gives him a disapproving look, he shuts his mouth. He is a warrior— he is not a fool. He is wounded enough on the Highway. He does not need to make things worse for himself.
The Handler's right hand— a wolf with hollow eyes— drags him to a separate room for the night. He is still caged; his solitary is obviously not new freedom. But it is a deviation from a careful routine. Deviation meant danger. He tries to brace himself, but he doesn't know what for.
Red's sharp eyes watch the door. The click-click of the Handler's boots echo down the hall.
"Red," she sing-songs, slipping into the room without a moment's hesitation. She could put on a light voice and a smile all she wanted— Red saw right through to the cold, calculating interior. The Handler could work a crowd, but she could not work him. "I have a special assignment for you. Much better than the Highway. You won't even have to do much, really," she hums. Her face looks wrong in a way Red can't put a finger on. The room is wrong. He can't focus on anything else.
"Knuckles," she says, her voice an unamused warning. Red feels— nauseous, maybe? It sounds familiar. It sounds better than Red. Red doesn't know what it means.
"You could be so much more than just a champion." The Handler's eyes are cold. The world around her warps. It is the cages and the Highway and the training room all at once. "You could be a weapon."
Something shoves him and he's falling, falling—
He has not moved. He is in bed. Red— Knuckles. Not Red anymore. Knuckles rolls over. The hedgehog is pushing at his arm.
"Dude, are you okay?" Sonic asks, hushed. "I— I don't think you're supposed to wake people up when they have nightmares, but you were, like, whimpering, I wanted to make sure you weren't—"
"I'm fine," Knuckles growls, burying his face in his pillow. One of many reasons he hated sleeping— it laid his vulnerabilities bare. He could not fight or flee from his own mind. "Go back to sleep, hedgehog."
Sonic doesn't move. "What if I had a nightmare too, huh?"
Violet eyes peek up from his bed. Knuckles notes that the hedgehog does look miserable, ears droopy. The echidna sighs through his nose and wordlessly scoots over, patting the spot next to him.
Sonic slots into the bed easily, dwarfed by the comforter. He folds himself around Knuckles sort of like a spiny coat. Knuckles resigns himself to the fate.
And if he does not dream of the wretched Studiopolis again, well... that was simply a coincidence.