Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Days were so pretty and nights gleamed with stars.
Do you think one day I could be apart of them?"

.・。.・゜✭・❤・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・❤・✫・゜・。.


Many, many... Many years in the past, the Master Emerald, in its infinite wisdom had made itself guardians to protect thy self. It knew of its strength yet, it harbors a feeling of loneliness, of longing. Birthed the Terestians, were they called, they were guardians woven from the very fabric of Chaos. These beings, embodiments of shadow and starlight, possessed minds as vast as the cosmos and hearts brimming with empathy and emotions unspoken. Yet, their creation had exacted a toll. The Emerald, weakened, slumbered, its power draining to sustain its progeny, hoping in said future to have regenerated it all. Seven Terestians, born of the Emerald's essence, found solace on the Starfall Islands, a sanctuary of emerald hues and whispering winds. They were a paradox – creatures of the night, drawn to the sun, protectors of the very gem that had given them life. Their bodies, fluid and ever-shifting, could solidify into impenetrable armour or stretch like shadows, weaving through the densest forests. Their only rule: to protect the "Birthing Gem" at all costs, never straying beyond its sacred radius. (The Master Emerald was called the "Birthing Gem"). Otherwise, they were pacifists never hurting someone without a reason to, loving the nature and every part it gave to them, using trees, flowers, the rivers, they made sure to use the best out of their resources. But the Terestians were not without their flaws. Forbidden to reproduce, two had broken their own decree, birthing a single child...

The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the distant roar of the ocean.

"Mother?" Your voice a soft whisper against the rustling leaves, echoed through the emerald glade, the grass crunching under your feet as you continue to walk the forest.

"Y/N, darling, what did I say about venturing beyond the grove?" A motherly voice, an old voice called out to you with warmth, hung upside down from a gnarled branch, she was looking at you with as much love as she can muster, despite her playful scolding, couldn't resist the sight of their child (Teenager), a beacon of light against the deepening twilight, she swung down, catching Y/N in a whirlwind of shadows, their laughter mingling with the rustling of leaves. As she hugged you as tightly as she could, smiling softly at you.

"Oh you little scamp, how could I get mad at you?" She chuckled, her voice a warm caress against your cheek, as you just giggle in her arms, smiling that big ol' smile, showing all of your teeth. She just pinched your cheek before holding you close. Her legs swung in the air freely as she held you close to her. You didn't mind being pinched as you rest your head against your mother's chest, hearing her heart beat in your ear. A soothing reminder... You were smiling softly as you felt warmth in her hold.

"Such a mischievous spirit." She said as she lightly touched your nose, smiling softly as you rested on her. She was looking over to the horizon for awhile before freezing up. The tranquillity was shattered. A distant tremor, a flicker of unnatural light on the horizon. Their mother's playful demeanour vanished, replaced by a chilling seriousness.

"Hun," her voice, now a low growl, sent shivers down Y/N's spine. " please remember. This world loves you and has so much love to give you, if anything happens to your Pa or me. Recite the spell I told you." Her voice was cold, you lean away from her and look up to her face, she was staring out into the distance, her lips turned into a thin line and her eyes were wide. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through your playful facade, having never seen your mother like this, her eyes wide with a terror that mirrored your own.

In the distance, she can see the warnings, the fire, the smoke. They were under attack. She jumped down, jostling you in her grip as she ran with a desperate urgency, you had to close your eyes because of how quick things were flashing in your vision. She put you down, a familiar wood you felt under neath you. A fleeting kiss on their forehead and she was gone, a blur of shadows disappearing into the encroaching darkness... You were left alone on the porch of the wooden house you grew in. Looking out in the distance... The distant glow of the unnatural fire growing brighter, casting long and ominous shadows across the peaceful glade.

You stayed like that for what felt eons, your hands on your head holding where your mother last kissed you. You held your breath like your Pa was going to come running, come and tell you everything was alright. You took off, your arms swinging with every step you take. Running towards the flames, towards the one spot your parents said to never go to. To the emerald. You rustle in the bushes stumbling as you look up.

Your mother was still on a stake, your father was on the ground, they were dissipating. Fading out of existence... You try to reach out for them but you didn't get far, locking eyes with one of the Water creatures? Your aunts and uncles to which you barely saw from a distance had dropped like flies... You regretfully pull your arm back... Their parts floating off and swirling in the air as they go to the Birthing Gem as you were thought to say it. It had such a bright glow and it was giant, bigger than you expected. It was calling out to you yet as you stared from underneath the bushes. Water people, were they? They looked exactly like water with something grey-ish in the centre of their being. They were talking yet you couldn't understand... Smoke was filling your lungs as you dared not to cry out, to breathe, as they not to notice you. You had like a moment of disbelief, thinking your parents might reform—before the instinct to flee takes over.

You move back, as much as you could moving slowly, getting away from the bushes and running back to the only safe spot you knew. Tears running down your face as you continue to take steps, rough coughs ripped from you, the air hung with smoke and despair. Your knees hit the wooden porch, looking up at the house... Maybe its all a dream, maybe your dreaming! Yeah, this is all a nightmare. It was a living nightmare. You quickly slam the door open and close it tight, entering the shaggy hut you called a home with your parents... Going over to your small cot you curl up, crocodile tears still streaming down your face, your lungs hurt, they burned with the smoke they were filled with. You wail, you wail like there wasn't no tomorrow for you to look forwards too...

"Your doing great hunting, sweetie." Your Pa, cheered you on as you caught your first rabbit. Why were you having these memories now? It hurts to see them.

"That is such a nice flower hunny, where did you get it?" Your mother, so caringly looking at you as you have brought her a sunflower, they usually grew here in abundance. You quietly sob, please stop it...

Were these memories brought up to the surface, suppose to mock you? To add more agony to you?

"Im sorry dear, you must live on" You thought of your mother, she said that to you when you learned that spell- THE SPELL!! You sat up, choking on a sob. Trying to take a deep breathe. As you sit (sitting upright) in the lotus position, your legs crossed, wrists resting on your knee's and your palms looking up to the sky.


"Za da ziveya, zatvori me v zatvor. Dokato ne ce stupya, pazime zaedno. Pazime." With trembling hands, you began to chant, the words stumbling at first, then gaining strength. A tingling sensation spread through your body, your skin shimmering, then morphing. They felt themselves expanding, growing, their body contorting into an unnatural shape. With a final, explosive POP, you transformed, their form erupting into a magnificent, obsidian black Camellia, towering over the hut, its petals shimmering with an eerie, inner light.

.

..

...

Your skin tingles. A warmth spreads through you, gentle at first, then searing. It burns. It coils around your bones, tight and suffocating, a force beyond your control. The air collapses, the world folds inward, your lungs collapse—

And then—

Silence.

Stillness.

Nothing.

You don't feel the wooden floor beneath you. You don't feel anything at all.

You are floating.

No, you are trapped.

This is not the future. This is not the kindness your mother promised.

"MOOOMMM!!!" You pathetically yell out.

"DAAAAADDD!!" You continued to desperately to yell.

"ANYONNEE" Your voice was dying.

"please..." you begged.

"please someone" you cried so quietly; it made it sound like your heartbeat was louder. Those memories burning into your eyes, seeing the fire. The water like people. They way they creepily moved, the way they spoke. The way they held some sort of weapons you've never seen. You sob out holding out your arms for anyone to hold, yet only the bitter cold was your friend.

You drop to your knee's, pathetically crying. You hide your face with your hands as you floated in misery...

The spell was supposed to save you.

It was supposed to take you somewhere safe, not here.

Not this emptiness.

Not this prison.

The weight of realization crushes you, pressing against your mind like a great, suffocating tide. You scream, scream until your throat burns

You started counting days.

Years.

Your place shrunk; you couldn't see it but you felt it.

Everyday you tried screaming out for anyone, yet no one came.

10 years. You were forgetting how the grass felt under you.

20. You forgot how it felt to breathe, you naught need to breath in this area.

60. You forgot their faces.

But then—

"Sweetheart?"

You freeze.

The voice is soft. Familiar. Hers.

"Mom?!" You spin—or you think you do. The void twists around you, empty and dark, but then, from nothing—

She is there.

She is standing before you, bathed in silver light, her hair swaying in an unfelt wind. Her eyes are warm.

"Oh, my darling," she says, smiling softly. "You've been so strong."

A sob wrenches itself from your throat. Your knees buckle. She catches you, holds you close, her embrace warm, solid. Real.

"Mom, I— I thought—"

"Shhh." She strokes your hair, just like she used to. "I know, sweetheart. But I'm here now. You're not alone anymore."

You cling to her, trembling. The void feels smaller now, the darkness less endless.

"We can go home," she whispers.

Your breath catches. You pull back, blinking up at her. "We can?"

She nods. Smiling.

Hope floods through you, a tidal wave breaking through the cracks of your fractured mind.

"How?"

"Just close your eyes, darling."

You do. You squeeze them shut, waiting, waiting—

A sound.

Not her voice.

Not hers at all.

80. Your area kept shrinking this year...

100. You forgot, you?? You dont remember what you forgot. You only remember this area.

200. You miss them, your heart is still yelling for them. Yet you didn't have tears to cry, your brain doesn't have faces it remembers.

5#0, numbers looked funny to you. You laughed in the void. Nothing came back.

???? You started hearing voices, replying back to them but, it was your own voice mimicking voices you've heard voices before, you had fun... Yet you felt yourself slipping...

?????????????????????? you dont remember how long you slept...

?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

How long has it been since you've seen the sky? How long has it been to talk? You don't remember last talking.

You screamed- YOU SCREAM YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT YOU WANTED OUT.

Yet no one heard your plea. (:

Your area was so small by now, its not like it mattered. It was all the same.

                                 ╭──〔❨✧ Modern Day✧❩〕──╮

The air in Dr. Robotnik's dimly lit lab was thick with the hum of machines, a cacophony of whirring gears and digital beeps. He stood hunched over a massive workbench, peering through magnifying glasses and specialized instruments at a fragment of obsidian-black petals. It was all that remained of the Camellia, legends told of its powers. The shard pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if echoing the life it once held. Seeming eroded with time. Robotnik's gloved fingers hovered over the fragment. His sharp eyes glinted with recognition.

"This... this is it," he muttered, his voice both a growl of triumph and a whisper of uncertainty. The shard's glow was faint but unmistakable. He could feel the power it held, and for a brief moment, it stirred something deep inside him — a gnawing, insatiable hunger. With a flick of his wrist, he activated a nearby console. The screens came to life, casting an eerie green light on his calculating face. He tapped into the ancient archives, scanning through old texts, forgotten records, and cryptic data streams. His fingers danced over the holographic keyboard, pulling up the fragmented history of the giant Camellia, symbolizing many things in many cultures as it has lived on for eons but has been broken in bits to be used as power ups.

A grin stretched across Robotnik's face as a map materialized on the screen. A location of where it resided.

"The heart of the power... buried beneath the Icey Hills," he murmured. "A core of pure energy... a blue crystalline gem with a purple flame." His mind raced, the possibilities unrolling before him like a glorious blueprint. If he could find this gem, this core, he would control an unimaginable force. The power to reshape reality itself. Green Hills, that stupid hedgehog and his friends. They would all be his to command. And if he could harness it, he could control every force of nature, every living being. Not just for domination, but for something greater: perfection. With a decisive motion, Robotnik turned, the gears of his plan already set into motion.

"Prepare the Eggmobile. We're going to the Icey Hills." A wicked grin on his face. The sky above the Icey Hills was a washed-out grey, the ground beneath heavy with snow and rock. Dr. Robotnik's Eggmobile tore through the icy winds, leaving a trail of swirling snowflakes in its wake. Below, the jagged peaks of the Icey Hills rose like sharp teeth against the horizon, a labyrinth of frozen mountains and treacherous ravines. With each mile, the air grew colder, the winds howling through the craggy landscape. The Eggmobile landed with a heavy thud on the frozen ground, its engines powering down with a mechanical sigh. Robotnik stepped out, his boots crunching in the snow as he surveyed the frozen wilderness before him. He could feel it. The energy. The faint pulse of the Camellia's essence, like a whisper in the wind, the shard in his device shaking. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough to lead him to the core. Beneath him, deep within the heart of the hills, was the very core of the Camellia's power — the small crystalline blue gem, aglow with a violet flame, buried beneath layers of ice, stone, and time. The purple flame flickered like a heartbeat, alive and yearning for freedom. It was here, beneath the bedrock, waiting to be claimed. Robotnik's eyes narrowed as he motioned to his drones.

"Dig. Find it." The drones, sleek and efficient, burrowed into the ground with precision, their laser drills cutting through the ice and stone. The deep rumbling of the excavation filled the air, a low hum of progress as the ground shook beneath them. Minutes turned to hours. Finally, with a loud cracking sound, the earth split open, revealing a small but perfectly formed crystal resting at the centre of an underground cavern. The purple flame inside of it, beating like a heartbeat, its light shifting in colours that could not be named. Robotnik approached it slowly, his eyes glinting with hunger. His fingers hovered just above the gem, a final moment of hesitation before he reached down and grasped it. The moment his hand made contact, the flame flared, and a surge of chaotic energy shot through his arm, sending a jolt of power through his entire body. He staggered back, but quickly regained his composure, laughing maniacally.

"Yes... YES!" The power was immense. It crackled around him like an electrical storm, sending sparks through the icy cavern walls. The gem pulsed in his hand, the flame licking the air as it responded to his touch.

"I have it. I can feel it. The power... the infinite potential of the Camellia's gift." He paused, eyes gleaming. "But there is more to be done."

...

The golden leaves of the Autumn Zone danced in the crisp breeze, their vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows painting a picturesque landscape. However, beneath the beauty of the zone, an undercurrent of tension stirred, as if the earth itself could sense that something was amiss. The usual sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves were drowned out by the heavy hum of mechanical engines. Sonic, the adventurer, sped through the Autumn Zone with Tails flying just behind him. The duo was on high alert, having received reports of strange disturbances across the lands. Sonic's emerald eyes narrowed as he zipped past the tall, gnarled trees, the wind whipping through his quills.

"Tails, something's not right. I can feel it. Robotnik's up to something big." Sonic said, his voice a mixture of determination and concern. Tails adjusted his goggles, scanning the horizon.

"I'm picking up something on the radar... there's a huge energy source coming from this direction." He pointed to a clearing ahead where a metallic figure stood in the distance, its silhouette unmistakable against the harsh white winters of the Icey Zone.

"It's him," Sonic muttered under his breath. "Let's make sure he doesn't get away with whatever he's planning." The duo pushed forward, Sonic's speed leaving a blur of motion behind him, while Tails' tail spun, flying up in the air and quickly chasing Sonic to him. As they approached the clearing, a figure clad in red appeared from behind a large rock formation, his fists clenched in anticipation. Knuckles stood tall, his spiked knuckles gleaming in the fading light. His eyes locked onto the Eggmobile in the distance, which was slowly moving toward the heart of the zone, an unnerving mechanical hum radiating from it.

"You two ain't the only ones with eyes on Robotnik," Knuckles growled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

"I've been sniffing out his trail. He's up to something greasy, and it ain't gonna be pretty." Sonic skidded to a halt beside Knuckles, giving him a smirk.

"Well, you're just in time for the fun, as usual." He replied in the cheery tone to the brooding red one. Tails hovered above them, adjusting his radar once more.

"That energy source... it's coming from right near here. We need to stop him before he reaches it." Tails carefully said as he looked on forwards.

At the far end of the clearing, Dr. Robotnik's Eggmobile came into view, slowly descending toward the ground. His metallic vehicle was massive, its exterior covered in intricate designs, with red and yellow paint flashing in the light of the setting sun. The energy from the blue crystal glowed faintly within, its purple flame pulsing ominously inside the glass casing.

"It's time to put my plans into action," Robotnik's voice crackled through a loudspeaker as he slowly emerged from the cockpit, grinning with maniacal delight.

"The Camellia power will be mine, and once I've harnessed it, no one will stand in my way!" Sonic narrowed his eyes, his stance ready for action.

"Not so fast, Egghead!" he shouted, launching himself forward in a blur of blue speed, his fists aimed directly at Robotnik's machine. But Robotnik was ready. A sudden burst of energy emanated from the core, creating a shockwave that sent Sonic spiraling back through the air.

"You think you can stop me? You've barely scratched the surface of my plans!" Knuckles shot forward with his fists raised, ready to smash the Eggmobile's engines.

"We've had enough of your tricks, Robotnik!" Robotnik's mechanical grin widened.

"Fools, you don't understand what you're dealing with. This gem, this power, will change the world as you know it. And once I have it under my control, there will be no one to stop me!" As he spoke, the crystal within the Eggmobile began to glow brighter, the purple flame inside swirling more rapidly. The energy in the air grew thick, crackling with chaotic power, like a storm waiting to break. Sonic shot forward again, this time circling around the Eggmobile at supersonic speed, creating a whirlwind of dust and leaves. He blurred past Robotnik's defences, hoping to cause enough distraction to disable the machine.

"Tails, I need some air support!" Sonic shouted as he zipped past. Tails, quickly reacting, sent a barrage of energy blasts from his drones toward Robotnik's vehicle, trying to disrupt the power surging from the crystal. The blasts hit their mark, but the energy shield surrounding the Eggmobile absorbed the attacks, leaving Robotnik unfazed.

"Hah! You'll need more than that to stop me!" Robotnik's laughter echoed through the zone as he tapped a button on his console.

"Activate the defensive barriers!" A series of robotic turrets unfolded from the sides of the Eggmobile, each armed with lasers that began to fire in rapid succession at the trio. Knuckles threw himself into the fray, charging straight at the turrets, his fists smashing through their metal exteriors with ease.

"These toys won't stop me!" he grunted, sending another turret crashing to the ground. Meanwhile, Sonic dashed from turret to turret, disabling them with quick, precise strikes.

"Nice try, Egghead, but it's gonna take more than lasers to keep us down!" But Robotnik wasn't finished. With a final, dramatic gesture, he lifted the crystal out of its casing, the purple flame growing fiercer, a dazzling burst of energy lighting up the Autumn Zone.

"You have no idea what this is capable of!" Robotnik sneered. "With this gem, I can reshape this entire planet to my will. This is only the beginning!" He said as he started retreating, he had to get to his home base of operations to work on the gem itself.

Robotnik's Eggmobile sputtered, its engines faltering as he attempted to retreat from the battle. The purple flame from the crystal flickered, erratically growing in intensity. Sonic, Knuckles, and Tails pursued him relentlessly, tearing across the Autumn Zone and into the vast, open plains. The golden grass swayed in the wind, but the tranquillity of the plains couldn't mask the chaos that was unfolding. The energy from the crystal radiated in waves, distorting the air around it.

"Not so fast, Eggs and Bacon!" Sonic shouted, racing ahead to block the Egg mobile's path, his feet pounding the earth. Robotnik's face twisted with frustration as he attempted to steer his Eggmobile around Sonic.

"You think you can stop me? I'll crush you all if I have to!" His voice crackled over the loudspeaker; the anger palpable. The crystal, still glowing brighter by the second, was clutched tightly in Robotnik's grasp. It crackled with chaotic energy, as if it were alive, but Sonic wasn't about to let it fall into Robotnik's grasp. Just as Robotnik's Eggmobile began to accelerate, a familiar voice rang out from behind.

"Hold it right there, Eggman!"

Amy Rose appeared, charging in from the side, her pink hair flying behind her like a banner of determination. With a battle cry, she swung her giant hammer forward with all her might. The massive weapon collided with the side of Robotnik's Eggmobile, sending him off course. The crystal was knocked out of Robotnik's grasps in the chaos, flying high into the air with a brilliant flash of purple light.

"Yes!" Sonic cheered, seeing their opportunity. The crystal was free.

But before anyone could act, it began to spin and twist midair, as if alive, and Tails shot forward, his tails propelling him upwards to catch it.

"I've got it!" Tails shouted triumphantly, reaching out with both hands, but the crystal was slick, almost impossibly slippery. His fingers fumbled around the glowing surface, slipping off it like a fish escaping the grasp of a net. The crystal wobbled in midair, the purple flame dancing around it, now like an uncontrollable fire. Tails reached again, barely managing to grip it, but before he could secure it, the crystal slipped out of his hands again.

"No, no, no!" Tails groaned as he dove to catch it once more, but the energy from the crystal sparked in all directions, and with each slip, it became more erratic.

The crystal slipped free from Tails' grasp entirely, tumbling toward the ground. With a sharp crackle, the moment it hit the earth, a thunderous BOOM of chaotic energy erupted, sending shockwaves rippling across the landscape. The ground trembled beneath the force of the blast, and Tails was thrown backward, his body spinning uncontrollably through the air. Sonic, Amy, and Knuckles watched helplessly as Tails was sent flying. The chaos from the explosion had left them stunned for a brief moment, but Amy's eyes locked with Knuckles in an instant of silent understanding. Without a word, they sprang into action.

"Knuckles, catch him!" Amy shouted, her grip tightening around her hammer. Knuckles gave a sharp nod. Without wasting another second, Amy swung her hammer around, hitting Knuckles with all her strength, propelling him into the air like a cannonball. His body twisted mid-flight as he spun toward Tails, the wind whipping around him. Knuckles shot through the air, his strong arms outstretched, and with perfect timing, he caught Tails just as the young fox was about to crash to the ground. In one fluid motion, Knuckles braced himself, landing on his feet with a heavy thud, his arms holding Tails securely. Knuckles grunted, his muscles straining with the force of the landing. He quickly steadied Tails, making sure the fox wasn't injured. Tails blinked, dazed but unharmed.

"Thanks, Knuckles... I owe you one." he muttered, still trying to regain his bearings. As the crystal hit the ground, the earth seemed to shudder under its raw energy, a sharp, crackling burst of light flashing outward. The purple flame inside of it flared with an almost sentient rage before slowly dimming. The chaotic energy that had once surged from it began to coalesce, the light fading into a dull, eerie glow. Then, from the heart of the crystal, something began to stir. The remaining shards of the Camellia lay scattered around it, losing their vibrant colour, dulling into lifeless black fragments. But the air around them thickened with an almost tangible presence, as though the very fabric of reality itself bent in response to what was emerging. A shape began to take form, rising slowly from the depths of the crystal's core. At first, it was nothing but a formless shadow—an intangible, shifting mass—then, as if from the darkest depths of an ancient, forgotten world, a figure emerged. It was humanoid, yet not fully so. The features were distorted, as though this being had never known the shape of a human body, and yet was undeniably drawn toward that form. Its skin was your (S/C), something like tar, coating its torso and flowing down its legs, clinging to it like some primordial sludge. The being was unsteady, trembling slightly as it raised its head toward the sky, its limbs stiff and uncoordinated, like something that had not moved in eons. The world it had awoken to was entirely foreign, yet somehow, it felt familiar. It blinked, the movements slow, as if seeing light for the first time, the vast blue sky above it, the air that pressed against its skin. Its feet sinking slightly into the soft earth beneath it, the sensation causing it to pause, as if bewildered by the feeling. The ground. The weight. It felt... alive. The being's chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, its eyes—glowing faintly with an otherworldly, shifting hue—focused on the horizon. The wind ruffled what little remained of its form, causing its tar-like skin to ripple and shimmer with each passing gust. Its hand reached out, shaking as it touched the ground beneath it, tracing the earth with a curiosity that seemed almost innocent, yet filled with an unspoken hunger. The sensation of touch. The solid, yet yielding surface of the world it had been freed into—it was overwhelming.

Tails steadied himself, still shaking off the disorientation from the blast. He looked up, eyes wide, scanning the area for any signs of Robotnik or his machine. But his focus quickly shifted back to the ground where the crystal had fallen. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the faint glow still emanating from the shattered gem. The world around them seemed to hold its breath. The being—no longer merely a shadow—was fully formed now, though still trembling, still struggling to make sense of its existence in this strange, new world. Its hand hovered just above the ground, fingers trembling as if testing the solidity of the earth beneath it. Every movement was tentative, unpractised, as if it had no memory of the shape it was meant to take. The dark, tar-like substance covering its body rippled, shifting as it was sitting on the ground. Tails could only watch in stunned silence, the cold air biting at his fur as the creature's gaze turned slowly to meet his. The being's eyes—glowing faintly—were full of confusion and wonder, as if seeing life for the first time. The wind stirred its form, and for a moment, it seemed to gather itself. Then, it lifted its gaze to the sky above, eyes reflecting the vastness of the blue expanse. The creature blinked slowly, the motion almost mechanical, as if it were trying to understand the simple beauty of the world. Tails stepped back, a strange unease stirring in his chest.

"What... what is this?" he whispered under his breath, trying to process what he was seeing.

As Sonic stood over him with that trademark grin, Robotnik groaned, pushing himself up from the dirt, his face twisted in frustration.

"You think this is over, hedgehog?" he spat, wiping dust from his goggles. His mechanical voice crackled with a mix of irritation and defiance.

"You barely even understand what's happening here! You're playing in a game you're not even close to winning." Sonic raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed.

"Is that so? Well, you always say that, but here we are. You're still on the ground, and I'm still the one with the upper hand." Dusting off his quills with a cocky smirk, glanced at the mess Robotnik's machine had become, then looked back at the villain with a wicked grin. Robotnik's eyes flared with anger.

"This isn't over. You've only scratched the surface of what I'm capable of! I'll remake this world in my image, and you won't be able to stop me next time!" Without missing a beat, Sonic dashed toward the wreckage, his body a blur of blue as he propelled himself straight toward Robotnik, who had barely regained his footing. Before Robotnik could even react, Sonic zipped in, delivering a swift kick that sent the villain crashing into the dirt, his machine now completely destroyed around him. Sonic gave a cheeky grin, his tone light and confident.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Eggman. But hey, keep dreaming. It's adorable." With a final smirk, Sonic turned to check on Tails, leaving Robotnik fuming behind him. Doing the only thing he could. Leaving with as he planned out what he would do next.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Chapter Text

(Warnings!! - Blood and some suggestion of nudity.)

"You walked this tunnel too many times.

Now there was finally light at the end."

⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊

You. Yes, you. How strange, how small. The space around you tightens, pressing in, suffocating. Then—cracks. Splintering through the darkness, jagged fractures forming beneath your feet. You take a step, and the world beneath you groans. Something latches onto your ankle. Sharp. Clawing. Dragging. You gasp, the fear crawling up your spine as you're yanked downward. Down, down, sinking into something soft—too soft—pungent and suffocating. You thrash, but it's useless. The force pulling you is relentless, dragging you deeper, consuming you whole.

And then—light.

Blinding, searing. Forcing your eyes shut. The air shifts, rushing past your skin, filling your lungs. You're breathing. The earth beneath you gives ever so slightly, solid yet yielding, familiar yet foreign. You lift your head, the movement sluggish, uncoordinated—like your body isn't entirely your own. The world tilts and sways, distant and unreal, as if you're caught between dreaming and waking. A sharp ringing floods your ears, high-pitched and relentless, drowning out everything else. No voices, no wind, no rustling leaves—just that piercing tone, pressing in, overwhelming. You try to focus, to blink away the haze clouding your vision, but the sky above shifts like a smudged painting, colours bleeding together in unnatural ways. Your breath comes uneven, shallow, each inhale a struggle against the weight pressing down on your chest. You blink, willing the blurriness to fade, and when it does, the vast sky stretches out above you—endless, consuming. It the very thing you had always dreamed of seeing

It's breathtaking.

The colors bleed together in swirling hues, shifting between shades that seem almost too vivid, too surreal. Wisps of clouds drift lazily, unbothered by the chaos still thrumming through your veins. For a moment, you forget everything else—the ringing in your ears, the lingering ache in your limbs, the way your body still feels foreign. All that exists is the sky. And you. The sun seeps warmth into your skin, a stark contrast to the chill clinging to the air. It hangs high, unwavering, its brilliance almost too much to bear as it blares into your eyes.
You had known of the sun, understood its warmth in theory, but feeling it now—truly experiencing it—was something else entirely. It was too bright, too intense, yet mesmerizing all the same. You squint, turning your head slightly, but the afterimage lingers—burning, imprinting itself behind your eyelids. The cold bites at your exposed skin, yet the sun's touch is there, persistent, a strange contradiction. Warmth and chill intertwine, wrapping around you like an unspoken promise, like a warning you can't yet decipher.

The world around you—it isn't dark. It isn't the endless, suffocating void from before. No, there are colors. Colors you know. Colors you recognize. You have names for them, don't you? Words buried deep in your mind, yet as you stare, they feel foreign, unfamiliar. Your mouth parts in silent awe. You knew this world existed, but had you ever truly seen it? (You don't remember.) Bright. Too bright. Vivid hues sear into your vision, sharp and overwhelming, almost painful in their intensity. It's too much. Your eyes sting, your head swims. Everything blurs, edges melting into one another. Your feet sink slightly into the soft earth beneath you, the sensation unfamiliar, almost bewildering. You sit there, unmoving, as if trying to understand the weight pressing down on your form. The ground. The weight. The feeling of being. You feel... alive. A breeze sweeps past, stirring the air, and your tar-like clothing ripples in response, shimmering with an unnatural fluidity. Your movement is slow, deliberate, almost like you are tasting the air for the first time. Your hand trembles as you reach out, fingers dragging against the earth in hesitant exploration. The touch is light, curious— too innocent.

Your eyes drift downward, adjusting to the world around you. Palm trees sway gently in the breeze, their leaves rustling like distant whispers. The gravel and dirt road beneath you is rough, uneven, pressing into your skin as you shift. And then, you see them.

Scattered around you, glimmering in the sunlight—shards of something crystalline, fractured and sharp. They catch the light in a way that feels almost hypnotic, casting tiny, fleeting rainbows against the ground. Without thinking, your fingers reach out, gathering the shards into your hands. They feel familiar, like they belong to you... yet, at the same time, they don't. You don't know why you pick them up—only that you have to. That they are a part of you, somehow. Even if you don't understand how. You blink.

Then, you sense it.

A presence. Watching.

Slowly, you turn, your movements uncertain, unpractised. And there—standing just a few feet away—is him.

A creature unlike you, covered in soft fur, his twin tails twitching behind him as he stares. His eyes are wide, his expression caught somewhere between fear and awe. You don't understand why, but something about him feels important. Like he knows something you don't. Your body shifts, the weight of existence pressing into you. The ground beneath you feels strange. Every inch of your form is alive with sensation, unfamiliar and overwhelming. The tar-like substance coating your body ripples again, reacting to the cold air brushing against your skin. You don't understand it, not yet. The way your limbs tremble, the way the earth presses back when you move, the way the light sears into your eyes. You look away from him, your gaze drawn back to the endless sky above.

You feel something cold slide down your face. The sensation startles you, making you flinch as your trembling hand hesitantly rises to touch your cheek. Your fingers brush against the wetness, and for a moment, you simply sit there, processing.

Oh. You were crying.

The word forms in your mind, familiar yet distant. You know what crying is—you understand its definition, its purpose. And yet, the emotion that comes with it... that is foreign. Uncharted.

You never truly felt emotions before... What was there to feel in a world of endless darkness? You blink, trying to make sense of it, but the feeling lingers, strange and unwelcome. You are... confused. Yes. That must be it. Or at least, you think that's what this is. But how could you be sure, when you don't even know what it means to feel?

Your ears stop ringing.

Sound rushes in like a flood, overwhelming in its clarity—the whisper of the wind, the rustling leaves, the distant hum of something mechanical. Each noise sharpens, grounding you further into this reality. Then, a voice—gruff, edged with frustration—cuts through it all.

"You think this is over, hedgehog?"

The words drag your attention away from the sky, pulling you back to him. You turn your head, the movement slow, deliberate. He stands there, brushing dust from his goggles. His voice crackling with frustration.

"You barely even understand what's happening here! You're playing in a game you're not even close to winning."

The other one—A blue one—does not react the way you expect. He merely raises an eyebrow, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The tension between them simmers, an invisible current in the air. You watch, silent, unsure of what this means. But something in you stirs, something deep, something instinctual. Because you have the feeling that whatever this is... you are a part of it.

Another voice cuts through the air—lighter, confident.

"Is that so?" The blue one grins. "Well, you always say that, but here we are. You're still on the ground, and I'm still the one with the upper hand." He flicks a bit of dust from his quills, casting a smug glance at the wreckage around him. The other one seethes, his fists clenched tight.

"This isn't over," he snarls. "You've only scratched the surface of what I'm capable of! I'll remake this world in my image, and you won't be able to stop me next time!" Before you can process what that means, the blue one moves. Fast. Too fast. A blur of motion, a gust of wind rushing past. You barely have time to register the shift before he strikes—his foot connecting with Eggman's chest, sending the man sprawling into the dirt. He grins, that same sharp, easy confidence in his stance.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Eggman. But hey, keep dreaming. It's adorable." And just like that, he turns away. Leaving the other to fume, to plot, to scheme. You can feel the weight of it in the air, lingering like the tension before a storm. And for the first time, you begin to wonder—just what kind of world have you awakened into?

You stare, transfixed to the blue one, until—

A touch.

A hand grips your arm, tugging at you, trying to pull you upright. Your body tenses, unfamiliar with the sensation. You don't even know how to stand, don't know what standing should feel like, you hiss out, your throat hurting as badly as you hissed.

The contact is gone just as quickly.

You turn, startled, your gaze locking onto the yellow one. A fox?

It watches you carefully, its hands hovering near, uncertain.

And you realize—it hesitated.

"Maybe we should try moving them to a safer location before we start asking questions?"

The voice belonged to the pink one, who had finally caught up with the yellow one. She glanced at him with a soft but firm look, her expression unreadable.

"Right, sorry. I usually get ahead of myself," the yellow one admitted, clearing his throat. He looked... embarrassed, as if he had done something wrong. The pink one only shook her head in quiet exasperation.

You studied them more closely now.

They were small, round, soft-looking—almost like plush toys.

The pink one had medium-length quills that cascaded down the back of her head, similar to the way your hair fell. Her eyes, a striking shade of green, held warmth despite her serious demeanour. Three tufts of fur sat between them, giving her an almost delicate appearance. A tiny button nose and two animal-like ears twitched slightly as she adjusted the red headband atop her head. You wanted it. A strange, unexplainable urge to reach out and take it crept over you. But you held back. It was rude to take things that didn't belong to you.

She carried a hammer.

A massive one.

It looked like a toy, but something about the way she held it made it clear—it was anything but.

Her red dress barely reached her thighs, the white gloves on her hands accented with golden rings, adding to her put-together look. Her red shoes had a single white stripe running down the middle, their gray soles worn but sturdy.

Then, there was the yellow one.

Fluffy. So fluffy.

The fur on his cheeks puffed out slightly, his twin tails twitching behind him, looking impossibly soft. Even his chest fur was thick, fluffy, warm-looking. His blue eyes—vast like the sky—were lowered in shame, his body tense. He looked troubled, as if scolding himself for not thinking about your safety first.

You were important, it seemed.

His small button nose scrunched up slightly, his gloved hands adjusting the belt around his waist—a belt filled with tiny tools and gadgets, each neatly placed. He was prepared for something. But what?

And again—red and white shoes.

This time, though, they were different. Instead of a single stripe, the white portion jutted out into points while the rest remained a bold red. White socks peeked just above them.

"It is staring at us."

The deep, rumbling voice belonged to the red one.

Menacing.

He stood slightly apart from the others, his quills longer, sharper than the pink one's. A white crescent moon marked his chest, standing out against his deep crimson fur. His gloves—white like the others—were different.

Spikes.

Two sharp, prominent spikes jutted from his knuckles, making them resemble boxing gloves... but deadlier. You didn't know what they were. You didn't know what any of this was.

His piercing purple eyes locked onto yours, his gaze intense, a warning lingering in them. A quiet growl rumbled in his throat, daring you to keep looking.

You don't.

Your gaze drops immediately.

But not before you catch sight of his shoes.

Weird.

Red, but with a thick yellow stripe running horizontally across them. On top, something gray, rigid, bulky—almost as if a piece had been attached to them. A word flits through your mind—Lego?—but you don't know why. And below, green socks, stiff and unyielding.

Not socks.

Something else.

You don't understand.

"You don't gotta be rude, Knucks! Calm down for a while—geez." The voice was casual, light-hearted, almost teasing.

The blue one.

For the first time, he turned to face you completely, his emerald-green eyes scanning you up and down, assessing. But unlike the others, he didn't seem guarded or wary—just curious, relaxed, carefree even.

His quills were... strange. Unlike the pink one's or the red one's, his went back in sharp spikes, dipping slightly before curving downward again. His nose was longer than the others', and his ears—pointed like the pink one's—twitched slightly. The yellow one still had the biggest ears of them all.

Were they a team?

They looked too coordinated, their colors too perfectly balanced, almost like a set—except for the red one. He looked out of place, like he belonged somewhere else entirely.

Your gaze trailed downward.

His fur was blue—deep, striking—but his underbelly was a soft peach. Spiky head, spiky back, but—was that a tail? A tiny one. It twitched slightly as he shifted his stance.

And then, his shoes.

Bright, pretty red.

The white stripe across them helped make them stand out even more, bold against the rest of him. The white gloves on his hands matched the others', but unlike the pink or yellow one, his entire stance screamed something different.

Something fast.

Something untouchable.

From the back, his shape had been confusing—his quills, his tail, the way he carried himself. But now, standing in front of you, everything about him made sense.

And still, he looked completely at ease.

Like none of this—none of you—was even a real problem.

The red one let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes like he'd heard this a million times before. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, the pink one stepped forward instead, her voice soft and soothing.

"How about we start moving along," she suggested gently, her hands making a small circular motion. "Then we can introduce ourselves to... um... the gem creature."

She smiled at you—warm, compassionate. It was meant to be reassuring, but it didn't reach you the way she intended. It felt unfamiliar. Foreign.

You blinked at them, slowly.

You parted your lips to respond—to speak, to say something—but no sound came. Nothing.

When you had spoken before, in the void, it had only been in your mind. You never spoke aloud, did you?

They were waiting.

Watching.

You could feel their confusion, their uncertainty. You didn't belong here. You weren't like them. You were something new. Something unknown.

Your fingers clenched instinctively, the shards of your broken prison pressing into your palms. Sharp. Biting. A cold, wet sensation dripped from your hands, trailing down your arms, pooling onto the earth below. Pain. A dull sting. A sensation you understood but didn't know how to react to.

The blue one tapped his foot impatiently. Tap, tap, tap. A rhythmic beat against the ground. The yellow one shot him a look—an exasperated Really?—but the blue one didn't seem to notice. Or care.

The red one, on the other hand, scowled. His expression was one of irritation, his deep violet eyes narrowing as he took a step closer.

"Why isn't it standing up?" he asked, his voice rough, direct.

Before you could process what was happening, he reached down as if to haul you up, but the yellow one quickly stepped in, stopping him with an outstretched hand.

"I tried that, Knuckles." His voice was calm but firm. "Forcing them up isn't the right move. Think about it—they just came out of that crystal. We don't know how long they were in there. What if they've forgotten how to stand? What if they never knew how in the first place?"

The red one hesitated. He studied you, his frown deepening slightly before he took a slow step back, seemingly willing to let the situation play out.

The blue one, meanwhile, kept tapping his foot. Tap, tap, tap. One hand lifted to his chin, fingers rubbing just under his nose as if lost in thought.

Then, suddenly—snap!

He grinned.

Like he had just figured something out.

"Well, why can't I just pick them up and run them to Tails' house?" the blue one spoke up, crossing his arms.

The others turned to him in unison, their expressions a mix of annoyance and disbelief.

Did you not just see their reaction to being touched?

As they bickered among themselves, trying to decide what to do with you, you took the chance to move. Slowly, carefully, you tried to shift your legs, figuring out how they were supposed to work. Your knees folded in front of you first, shaky and uncertain. You were still clutching onto the shards of the gem as you placed your hands against the ground and pushed up.

Silence.

They hadn't noticed yet.

You were... taller than them. By at least two heads. You managed to stand, but your knees wobbled beneath you, struggling to bear your weight. You had never felt gravity before. It pulled at you in ways you weren't prepared for, forcing you into an awkward, hunched stance.

The pink one was the first to notice. She turned in your direction and nearly screamed, but quickly slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise.

"So they can stand?"

The yellow one whipped his head around, his ears perking up. "Wait—"

Before he could finish, your legs gave out.

The ground rushed up to meet you, but you didn't hit it.

Something caught you—someone.

White gloves. A blur of blue. The scent of freshly cut grass filled your nose.

"They're as light as a feather!" The blue one's voice rang with surprise and amusement as he steadied you. His grip was firm yet effortless, holding you up like you weighed nothing. His expression was bright, joyful. But your mind reeled. One second, he was with the others. The next—he was here. How did he move that fast?

Panic surged through you, raw and unfiltered. The warmth of his touch—it was so different from the cold emptiness of the void. It was pleasant, but unfamiliar. You didn't know what to do with it. And so, your body reacted on instinct.

Flight.

The shards slipped from your fingers, clinking against the ground as you shoved your hands onto his shoulders and pushed—hard.

He stumbled back slightly, caught off guard, but you were the one who collapsed on your ass. Your breathing was uneven, ragged. Your limbs trembled, unable to support you as you sat back down with a dull thud, legs sprawled in front of you. They felt like... jello. You curled inward, pulling your knees up, wrapping your arms around them. You had escaped the void. But now, you were in a world you didn't understand. And the warmth of life was just as terrifying as the cold of nothingness.

"Woah, calm down there, bud," the blue one said immediately, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. He looked surprised—but what struck you most was that he hadn't moved.

No matter how hard you pushed, it was like shoving against a wall. You were the only one who had been sent stumbling back. Your eyes darted downward. The shards. They were no longer in your hands. Instead, they lay near his feet. You wanted them back. Needed them back. But as you reached out—they faded. Vanished.

The only proof they ever existed were the faint indentations in your palms and the piercing pain left behind. Even that, you could already feel healing. The pink one cleared her throat with two short coughs before speaking again.

"Like I said, we should bring them to base and figure the rest out later. They seem... confused. Like they've never been in this world before." She spoke with compassion, her tone gentle, but only the yellow one seemed to fully acknowledge her words. The red one scoffed.

"I'm going back to the Emerald," he grunted, already turning away. "You non-warriors can deal with this."

And just like that, he left. No hesitation. Rough around the edges was an understatement.

"Easy there, I won't harm ya," the blue one tried again, flashing a reassuring smile as he kept his hands up, showing he meant no threat. But trust didn't come that easily. You stared at him, studying him, suspicion clear in your expression. There were so many words inside your head, but none came out. The act of speaking felt foreign, impossible. So, you relied on what you could do. Slowly, you lifted an arm, hesitantly pointing at him. His ears flicked at the movement. His emerald eyes blinked in confusion, head tilting slightly, as if trying to decipher your meaning. The pink one stepped closer, standing at his right. The yellow one followed, taking his place on the left. A silent show of unity. You lowered your hand, gaze dropping once again. A small, dark drop hit the ground beneath you.

Your blood.

It was black.

You watched as another drop fell, then another. Could you use it?

Hesitant, you reached down, pressing a single finger into the pooling ink-like liquid. The sensation was strange—tacky yet smooth, like fresh paint. You traced it along the dirt, unsure if the strokes you made held any meaning. When you pulled your hand back, there was an image. A crude, uneven sketch of him. Your proportions were off, the lines shaky, but the intent was clear. You lifted your gaze and pointed at him again, more deliberate this time. A silent question. A need for understanding.

Who was he?

"I think that's a drawing of you, Sonic," the yellow one spoke up, his nose scrunching slightly. He leaned in, examining the crude lines with a hesitant look, only to recoil slightly as the sharp stench hit him. It smelled wrong. Like something foul—rotting—that had been trapped away for eons.

His reaction made the pink one notice as well. Her expression twisted, one hand lifting slightly toward her face as if to block out the scent. It was only then that their gazes fell to your hands. Dripping. The strange, inky liquid seeped down your fingers, splattering against the dirt, and... was on Sonic's shoulders, where you touched him for seconds. A few dark streaks stained his shoulder. The moment he caught sight of it, his head instinctively turned away, ears twitching backward. He flicked at his quills, as if shaking off the discomfort.

"Maybe they want to know me?" The Blue one mused, shaking his head before his usual grin returned. It was like the tension from seconds ago had already vanished.

"I'm Sonic. Sonic the Hedgehog! Pleasure to meet cha!" he announced, voice bright and quick—jumping ahead before Amy could cut in. You blinked. So he does have a name. He scratched the side of his head, still watching you closely, waiting for some kind of response. Yet you gave none.

The Pink one sighed. "Ugh—weren't we supposed to do introductions at Tails' house?" Her hands landed on her hips, her stance faltering with mild exasperation.

Sonic only shrugged. "Better early than never, huh?"

The Pink one rolled her eyes but softened her tone. "I'm Amelia Rose. You can call me Amy, though." She offered a small smile, tilting her head just slightly.

"And I'm Miles Prowler, but everyone calls me Tails," the yellow one added. His voice was quieter than the others—less forward. More cautious.

Another drop of black liquid fell from your fingers. Then another. And then... nothing. The wounds on your hands had already stopped bleeding. You knew they would. Amy sighed, shifting her weight as she spoke again.

"Anyway—like I keep saying, we should get back to Tails' house." Her smile was still there, but now it carried an edge of playful innocence, a silent plea for the others to listen to her for once. Sonic exhaled sharply through his nose, ears flattening slightly.

"Fine, fine. I'll take 'em. You guys go on ahead with the Tornado." Tails barely put up a fight, only sighing as he let it go. Amy, too, seemed to accept it, though with more reluctance—dragging her hammer behind her as she started toward the plane. Before hopping on, she gave a small, quick wave goodbye, and seemingly starting an conversation with him about something but the jet was too loud and far away for you to hear anything. And just like that, they were gone. The only ones left in the aftermath of the battle were you, and Sonic.

Sonic took a step forward, closing the small distance between you. He reached out, offering a gloved hand.

"Sooo... care for a ride?" His voice was light, casual, but there was something underneath it—something deeper. Curiosity. What were you? Why were you trapped inside that gem? What happened to you? The questions swirled inside his head, endless and unanswered. You hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand. Shame flickered across your expression—maybe sadness. Maybe something else. But, in the end, what choice did you have? Slowly, carefully, you reached out.

His glove felt... different. The texture wasn't what you expected—almost silky, yet worn and strained from years of use. Your fingers twitched slightly, tracing the fabric without thinking, curious about the way it covered his hand— But before you could dwell on it—

You were lifted.

Your breath hitched. He picked you up effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. You had expected resistance—strain, even—but there was none. The moment you were off the ground, Sonic flashed a cheeky grin, one that made it seem like he did this all the time. You stiffened in response, unsure of what to do with your arms. So, you did the only thing that felt safe—staying as still as possible.

Then—

Wind.

A gentle breeze brushed against your face, cool and refreshing. It wasn't overwhelming, but so different from the emptiness you once knew. Sonic was running now. Not at full speed—barely more than a jog for him—but to you, it felt... fast. Effortless. The world blurred past in streaks of color, and for the first time, you realized just how much there was to see. Your mouth parted slightly in awe. The colors. So many colors. Shades you had no name for filled your vision—the deep browns of sturdy wooden homes, the soft greens of well-kept lawns, the bursts of pinks, oranges, and purples from gardens lining the streets. Cafés, shops, and homes blurred past, each one different, yet blending into a lively harmony. Then came the scents. Freshly baked bread. The crispness of cut grass. The floral perfume of blossoms swaying in the breeze. Even the faint aroma of something grilled, likely from a nearby food stall. And the sounds. Mobians chatting. Birds singing. The hum of distant machinery. It was all new. So new. And yet, as overwhelming as it was, there was something... peaceful about it. Sonic glanced down at you. His grip on you was firm yet careful—like he was carrying something fragile without wanting to make you feel fragile. His fur, soft and warm, brushed against your skin with every step. There was a faint scent to him, too—not artificial, not mechanical—just the natural freshness of someone who had run through flower fields and forests, like the very essence of freedom itself. And he was taking his time. The longer route. On purpose. He wanted you to see this world. To experience it. To know it. It was a lot to take in. By the time you reached the small workshop nestled in the plains, your senses were buzzing—so much information flooding your mind that it almost became too much. But then— Peace. The house before you felt... cozy.Wooden walls. A small tower. A garage with an open walkway. Flowers everywhere, their scents mingling together in a way that made the air feel softer—lighter. It smelled nice. Safe. Like a place where warmth lingered. Sonic finally slowed, stepping into the garage. The air shifted. The floral sweetness was replaced by something heavier—the scent of oil and metal. Machines. Something strangely sweet beneath it all, almost like sugared circuits. Your eyes, still adjusting from the journey, took a moment to focus. When they did, you caught sight of the cluttered workspace. Not entirely chaotic, but not neat either—tools and gadgets lay scattered in pockets of organized disarray. And off to the side— A sleek, purple-blue aircraft.

The Tornado.

Your breathing slowed. There was so much to process. And for the first time, as you sat there in Sonic's hold...

God, you felt sick.

Your stomach churned violently, a nauseating wave rolling through your body. You had never—ever—moved that fast in your life, never seen so many things in such a short span of time. It was too much—too overwhelming. Your senses, still adjusting to the concept of motion, were screaming in protest. You barely registered the feeling of solid ground beneath you before gravity yanked you down completely. The moment Sonic let you go, your legs crumpled, sending you sprawling onto the wooden floor. The cold surface was a relief. A sharp contrast to the dizzying whirlwind of colors and sensations you'd just been thrown into. You pressed your palms against the floor, grounding yourself, trying to keep the world from spinning out of control. A thud echoed in the room. Tails' head snapped toward the sound. His twin tails twitched, ears perking up as he took in the sight of you collapsed on the floor. Surprise flickered across his face.

"Oh, Fenrir—they're definitely disoriented." His voice was laced with concern as he turned to Sonic, who stood sheepishly nearby, rubbing the back of his quills.

"I might've gone a little too fast..." Sonic chuckled awkwardly, but there was a clear note of guilt in his tone. His brows furrowed as he glanced away under Tails' scrutinizing gaze. He hadn't expected you to just collapse. He thought you'd been fine, that you'd enjoyed the ride. But seeing you like this? Yeah... maybe that was a mistake.

Tails crouched beside you, scanning your body carefully. His sharp, analytical eyes caught every detail—the strange tar-like substance clinging to your skin, the unnatural way your hands had already healed. He hesitated for a split second before gently checking for any other injuries other than your lingering dizziness. There was none. That fact alone made his fur bristle slightly. You healed too quickly.

And that tar... It smelled wrong. He didn't say anything, but suspicion flickered behind his blue eyes.

"Ah, don't worry too much, Tails." Sonic tried to lighten the mood, flashing a small, reassuring grin. "They'll be fine! A little speed always gets the blood flowin'!" He shot you a thumbs-up, but you barely processed it. Your vision swam, the bright lights overhead stabbing into your eyes like tiny daggers. You winced, squeezing them shut with a grimace. It was frustrating. You wanted to speak—wanted to say something—but when you opened your mouth, nothing came out. How do you even use your voice? Your vocal cords felt... unused. Stiff. As if they had been frozen in time, locked away just like you had been. You forced yourself to sit up at the sound of footsteps. Blinking away the blurriness, you refocused on the figures standing in front of you.

Sonic and Tails. Side by side. Watching you. You raised a brow. How are you supposed to explain—

"They seem to be... um... analyzing us," Tails whispered, barely audible. It wasn't an unfair assumption. You were staring at them, studying them like they were foreign creatures trapped behind a glass window. Because in a way... they were. Just as alien to you as you were to them. Sonic shifted his weight, arms crossed, still looking like he wasn't sure whether to be concerned or just roll with the situation. Tails, though? His ears twitched. His nose crinkled slightly. That tar-like substance... That was what unsettled him. It clung to your skin, thick and unnatural. And the scent—foul, putrid, something that didn't belong in this world. You could see it in their eyes. They weren't just confused about who you were. They were starting to wonder what you were.

Sonic, ever the showman, struck a pose, turning his back toward you with a smug smirk.

"Well, what do you think? Pretty cool, huh?"

He flexed his—nonexistent—muscles, a playful glint in his emerald eyes. His tone was light, teasing, trying to lift the heavy mood that had settled in the room. He held the pose for dramatic effect before smoothly transitioning into another—this time, an exaggerated, goofy stance. He puckered his lips in a kissy face, winking at you as if he were striking a magazine cover pose. You couldn't help it.

A soft, breathy chuckle escaped your lips.

It was barely there, more like a quiet "ahh ha ha," so faint it could've been mistaken for a sigh.

But Sonic heard it. His body froze mid-pose, ears perking up instantly. His head tilted slightly, as if trying to catch the sound again, but it was already gone. Tails, who had been fiddling with some tools nearby, also turned to look at you, surprise flickering across his face. They hadn't expected that. Not after your complete silence. For a moment, they had even wondered if you were mute—if maybe you'd lost your ability to speak altogether. But that tiny, fleeting laugh? It changed things. Sonic recovered first, grinning again.

"Well, well, would ya look at that? I knew I was funny," he quipped, crossing his arms triumphantly. But even as he joked, there was something softer behind his expression—genuine curiosity. Could you speak? Or had you simply forgotten how? Tails, meanwhile, had switched gears entirely. He muttered something under his breath, eyes flicking toward the strange black tar still clinging to your body.

"Maybe I should run a scan..." he mused, rubbing his chin.

Without wasting time, he moved toward his workspace, gathering a test tube and a beaker. His sharp mind was already at work, analysing possibilities. The tar was strange—too thick to be a liquid, too viscous to behave like a solid. What intrigued him more was that despite Sonic's high-speed run, none of it had transferred onto him. It should have splattered, smeared—something. But instead, it stayed only on you.

That alone made Tails suspicious. You tilted your head as he crouched down in front of you, equipment in hand. His expression was soft—kind, even—but beneath it was something else. A quiet calculation.

"Can I take a sample?" he asked, pointing to the tar clinging to your torso.

You blinked at him, then gave a slow nod. If this could help him understand what was happening, then maybe it could help you too. Tails carefully angled the test tube, attempting to scoop some up—but it didn't cooperate. The viscosity made it nearly impossible to collect directly. It stretched, clung, moved in a way that wasn't normal. With a quiet hum of concentration, he adjusted his approach, using the test tube to guide a portion of the substance into the beaker instead. Even that took effort. The tar resisted, sluggishly separating like thick molasses, yet it didn't feel sticky. It was slow, deliberate. Almost like it had a will of its own. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Tails managed to extract a viable sample. He stood, already focused on the beaker in his hand as he moved toward his cluttered workspace to begin analysis. Sonic, on the other hand, had a different concern. His nose crinkled. Something reeked. And then—oh. He suddenly noticed the faint traces of blood on his shoulders from when he had been pushed by you earlier. His ears flattened slightly as realization dawned.

"Aw, c'mon—really?" he groaned, flinching away from the smell.

He gave himself a quick sniff, immediately regretting it.

"Great. Now I gotta take a bath."

"I'll catch you guys later! Gotta go ring up!" Sonic called out cheerfully. Before anyone could respond, he was gone—a gust of wind following in his wake. The sudden burst of air made you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut. When you reopened them, you caught sight of his fading silhouette, a streak of blue darting toward the horizon through the open garage door. Your gaze lingered.

Beyond the workshop's threshold stretched the vast plains—rolling fields kissed by the golden hues of the setting sun. The wind danced through the tall grass, carrying with it the rich scent of earth, flowers, and aged wood. The rustling leaves whispered secrets to one another, the world around you brimming with life. It was a symphony of sound and color, a tapestry of sensations so vivid it was almost overwhelming.

How long had you been staring?

You barely noticed Tails mumbling to himself, his voice a low murmur beneath your awed silence.

"Organic tar...? Not like any I've encountered before..." he muttered, his brows furrowing as he scrutinized the sample. His gloved fingers adjusted the scanner, eyes flicking between the readout and the swirling black substance. "...Ancient? But freshly created? That doesn't make sense... like it's been missing from erosion, yet it's new?"

His words barely registered.

Your focus drifted back outside, drawn to the breathtaking spectacle of dusk. The sky bled into shades of orange and deep violet, stretching endlessly above. Shadows elongated, stretching and shifting with the wind, the air cool against your skin. It was mesmerizing. It was too much. Your breath hitched. How long had you been holding it? Slowly, you exhaled. And inhaled again. The simple act of breathing—so natural, so automatic—felt foreign. This world kept stealing your breath away, moment by moment, with its sheer existence. The colors. The sounds. The warmth. Something unfamiliar twisted in your chest—a feeling you couldn't name.

A yearning.

To understand. To belong.

But the moment shattered.

A sudden, sharp beep pierced the quiet. Then another. And another. The scanner on Tails' workstation erupted into frantic, panicked beeping, the noise escalating into an alarmed wail. Tails jolted back, nearly stumbling over himself. His fur bristled, ears flattening against his head. He hadn't expected that. You flinched, the noise sending a jolt of fear through your already-overloaded senses. Instinct took over. Using your arms, you scrambled backward, dragging yourself away from the workstation, your heart pounding. The shrill beeping drilled into your skull, an awful, unnatural sound that made your skin crawl.

Tails took another step back too, his eyes darting between you and the erratic scanner. Tails shook his head, guilt settling heavy in his chest. He had been so caught up in analyzing the substance that he'd barely acknowledged you. His ears flicked back, drooping slightly, and his twin tails instinctively curled around his legs. He hesitated before finally finding his voice.

"It's—It's not just tar," he murmured, forcing himself to meet your gaze. His hands clenched slightly as he gestured toward the scanner screen, where strange, shifting patterns pulsed against a dark background. "It's... some kind of unknown substance." His voice wavered, uncertainty creeping into his tone. His eyes flickered between the data on the screen and you. You focused on the swirling patterns, drawn to them in a way you couldn't explain. The rhythmic, pulsing motions seemed almost alive—beating in sync with your own heartbeat. A shiver ran down your spine. Then, it hit. A sudden wave of dizziness crashed over you, disorienting and relentless. Your breath caught as the scanner's swirling patterns intensified, expanding and stretching until they filled your vision completely. Colors bled into one another, shifting into incomprehensible shapes, a kaleidoscope of motion and light. Your head pounded.

You gasped, your fingers clutching at your temples as the world dissolved into a spiraling abyss. The air felt thick—too thick—like you were sinking into something unseen. Your pulse hammered in your ears, deafening.

And then—

It was over.

The vision snapped away as suddenly as it had come. The distorted colors faded, the room returning to focus as you blinked in rapid succession, your breaths coming in shallow pants.

Silence.

The scanner had gone completely still. Tails watched in stunned silence as the screen flickered once... then again... before an array of error messages scrambled across the display. But you barely noticed. A sick, twisting sensation churned in your gut. You felt it before you saw it—thick, inky streaks of tar-like liquid slowly oozing from your skin, sliding off in sluggish, viscous drips. Tails' ears shot upright in alarm, his tails fluffing out as he instinctively stepped forward. His expression shifted from scientific curiosity to genuine concern, his eyes locked onto you as he cautiously approached.

"Are you alright?" Tails asked, his voice lined with genuine concern. He hesitated, unsure if he should reach out to you or keep his distance. Then, he noticed the tar.

It was peeling away—slowly, unnaturally—as if it had never truly belonged to you in the first place. The inky substance dripped from your skin, sliding off in sluggish waves, pooling onto the floorboards before seeping into the cracks. Within moments, your body was completely clean, as if the tar had never touched you at all.

And that's when Tails realized—

You were naked.

His entire body locked up.

A deep heat spread across his face as his brain caught up with the situation. His ears stood straight up before immediately flattening, and in one panicked motion, he slapped his hands over his eyes.

"I— I am so sorry!!" he squeaked, his voice cracking under the weight of his embarrassment. He didn't mean to see anything—he really didn't—but there was no unseeing it now. Judging by your body shape, he could at least confirm you were probably female. Oh Fenrir, why did he even think that?! That wasn't important right now!! Flustered beyond belief, Tails spun on his heel and practically bolted out of the garage, his twin tails puffing up in distress. He needed a solution—fast. Within moments, he was back, shoving a bundle of clothes into your arms, his free hand still covering his face.

"Here! Put these on!" he stammered, voice still an octave too high. "They—they should fit! I think!"

The clothes felt... strange. Soft, but unfamiliar. You looked down at them—pants and a loose t-shirt with some sort of graphic on it. "You Dino Rock!" it read, complete with a cartoonish dinosaur giving a thumbs-up.

You had no idea what that meant. Tails, still very much not looking at you, risked a quick glance before turning away again, his voice wavering.

"You—uh, you put them on, like—the shirt goes over your head, and the pants go on your legs—wait, do you even know what pants are?"

Silence.

You tilted your head.

"...Oh Fenrir," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples before launching into a very awkward explanation on how clothing worked. Putting them on was an experience, to say the least. The fabric was unruly, twisting and tangling in ways that made absolutely no sense, but after a brief (and mildly humiliating) battle, you managed to get the pieces on correctly. The shirt was far too big, draping over your form like an oversized blanket. The pants felt itchy and weird, and the elastic waistband was a foreign sensation against your skin. Even so, the fabric of the shirt reminded you of something... Sonic's gloves.

Where was he, anyway? He hadn't come back yet.

Tails, still visibly flustered, finally lowered his hands, daring to glance at you properly now that you were dressed. His ears twitched, and his tails swayed slightly before he cleared his throat.

"There. You look much better," he mumbled, barely audible. He definitely wasn't going to talk about this ever again. You didn't respond immediately, your gaze drifting to his hands instead. They were different from yours. His fingers were shorter, covered in fine fur, with small, sharp claws at the tips. You looked down at your own hands. They were smooth—almost too smooth. Tracing the outline of your fingers, you noticed something strange. The marks, the scars, the indentations from holding the gem for so long—

They were gone. Your hands were perfectly fine. As if nothing had ever happened at all.

You were still adjusting to the sensation of wearing clothes, glancing at Tails. The fabric clung strangely to your skin, unlike the slick, shifting tar or the weightless nothingness you were used to. The shirt was soft, almost like Sonic's gloves, but the pants felt stiff and itchy. You shifted uncomfortably, your fingers brushing over the fabric, trying to get used to it. Tails watched you with quiet curiosity, his hands hovering near his face before dropping to his sides. The thought sat heavy in your mind, but before you could dwell on it, something else took hold— the weight on your head pressed down, a strange, unfamiliar heaviness pulling at your senses. Your eyelids drooped, struggling to stay open. The wooden floor was cold—comforting. Without much thought, you let yourself sink, your body giving in as you collapsed onto the planks with a soft thud. You didn't understand what was happening. Your limbs felt sluggish, your thoughts hazy. A slow, creeping stillness overtook you, unfamiliar yet oddly welcoming. What is this? you wondered distantly. What is this feeling? (How long had you been awake in that prison?) Tails jumped at the sudden sight of you sprawled across the floor. His ears twitched, his tails bristled, but after a moment, he exhaled a quiet sigh. Guess you were really exhausted. He knelt down, watching your face for a moment. Your breathing had already slowed, your body curling slightly in on itself as if instinctively seeking warmth. He had no idea how long you'd been awake, but judging by how quickly you passed out, it must have been a while. Carefully, he reached out and lifted you into his arms. Whoa. You were light. Even lighter than Sonic had mentioned. For a second, the unexpected weightlessness threw him off balance, his twin tails flaring behind him to steady himself. He adjusted his grip, making sure not to jostle you, before heading toward the house. The wooden boards creaked softly beneath his shoes as he ascended the stairs, each step deliberate and careful. He nudged open the door to the guest room with his foot, stepping inside. The room was simple yet cozy—the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air, the soft glow of the setting sun filtering through the curtains. He placed you gently onto the bed, adjusting the pillow beneath your head before pulling the quilt over you. It was thick and warm, stitched together with different patches of fabric—some old, some new. Tails lingered for a moment, watching as you instinctively burrowed deeper, wrapping yourself snugly in the blanket. Your breathing was deep, steady. Completely unaware of the world around you. Satisfied that you were fully asleep, he stepped back, rubbing the back of his head.

"...Well. That happened," he muttered to himself. With one last glance, he quietly exited the room, closing the door behind him. He had bigger problems to deal with now. Making his way back downstairs, he turned his focus to his scanner, still flashing with errors. He frowned, tail flicking as he tapped a few keys, trying to decode the strange readings. Whatever that tar was, it was not normal. And now, it had seeped into his floorboards. Tails let out a small groan, rubbing his temples.

"One thing at a time," he mumbled,rolling up his sleeves and getting to work.

⋆｡°✩☾⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩☾⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩☾⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩☾⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩☾⋆｡°✩⋆

Chapter Text

(Warnings: Alienation, no clue of what the hell is going on. Vivid Nightmare!)

"Dreams and Nightmares were the same.

Just one woke you up in a terrible way."

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡

Ripples.

You were back here again.

But this time, you were standing on something.

The darkness stretched infinitely, thick and warm like ink suspended in water. You glanced down, and the ground shimmered—an endless, swirling void of black. A stark contrast to the cold emptiness you once knew. How did you get here? Your body felt weightless, untethered, as if the very concept of gravity had abandoned you. Your hair drifted upward like strands of liquid suspended in space. Were you upside down? Right-side up? It didn't matter. You could move—glide forward without effort, your steps sending gentle ripples through the surface below, distorting the reflections of nothingness.

You kept going.

The further you moved, the more the world around you began to shift. The ground beneath your feet darkened, thickened—its once fluid nature turning firm, clinging to you. The sky above, once a mirror of deep shadows, grew lighter, almost luminescent. A perfect contrast of light and dark. Then—

Something grabbed your ankle.

Cold. Unforgiving. Rough.

You barely had time to react before it yanked, dragging you down. Your leg sank to the knee, the once-rippling surface now swallowing you whole. You gasped, eyes wide, mouth opening to scream-- Nothing came out. Your hands clawed at the air as you fought to pull yourself free, but the more you struggled, the deeper you sank. More hands—shadowy, desperate—latched onto you. Your wrists. Your waist. Twisting into your hair. Grasping the back of your neck.

Pulling.

Dragging.

Devouring.

The deeper you went, the colder it became, seeping into your bones like frostbite creeping beneath the skin. The hands clung tighter, their touch filthy, greedy, needing something from you. But what? What could they possibly take that hadn't already been stolen? You fought. Even as the void consumed you, even as the last traces of warmth disappeared, even as silence replaced your unheard screams— You fought. And you kept sinking.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

You woke up with a sharp gasp, your body jolting upright as if torn from the depths of something far beyond a simple dream. Adrenaline surged through your veins, leaving you trembling, breathless. A strange sensation trickled down your skin—cold, wet, seeping from every pore. Your hands instinctively gripped at the fabric beneath you—soft, warm. A quilt. Blinking against the haze clouding your vision, you forced yourself to focus. The intricate patterns stitched into the fabric caught your eye, a delicate labyrinth of colors and textures that you could lose yourself in for hours. And yet, you couldn't seem to hold your attention on them. Your thoughts slipped through your grasp like water through open fingers. With each steady breath, the world around you swam into focus. A soft glow bathed the space, filtering in through a rectangular opening covered by deep-red coloured fabric. The light was warm, diffused, painting the room in shifting shades of gold and red. Tiny particles floated through the air, catching the glow like drifting embers. The air carried something—subtle, earthy, with an edge of something sweet and strange. It filled your lungs as you breathed, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm you hadn't noticed before. Beneath you, something pressed against your back—soft, yielding, but firm enough to hold you. Layers of fabric surrounded you, wrapping around your limbs, covering your skin. The feeling was... odd. Light, yet constraining. You shifted, and the material scraped against you, a sensation neither painful nor pleasant. Different. Your fingers moved without thought, pressing into the fabric draped over you. It was textured, stitched in winding patterns, raised in some places, smooth in others. The lines twisted beneath your fingertips, structured but without meaning. You turned your head. Shapes. Many of them, arranged in a way that suggested purpose. To your side, a raised surface held a rounded object—thin, fragile, with bursts of color sprouting from its top. The colors bent toward the light, reaching. Further away, more shapes. Some stood taller, some stretched wider. One sat in a far corner, layered with something plush. Another structure, long and flat, was scattered with objects, each unfamiliar in size and form. One object held something green within it, its surface alive, curling outward in a way that seemed deliberate. Then, your gaze landed on them. Flat, reflective panels, propped up against the taller shape. They stared back at you, frozen moments trapped inside them. Shapes within shapes. Colors forming patterns that almost seemed... familiar? You stared. Something stirred in your chest, a flicker of recognition buried beneath thick layers of confusion. Your fingers brushed the textured fabric again, pressing deeper into the patterns. The sensation grounded you, steadying the quiet unease curling at the edges of your mind. The scent of something baking drifted through the air, seeping through the wooden door in thick, warm waves. It wrapped around you, pulling you further from the haze of sleep. Faint sounds echoed from beyond the room—soft clinks, muffled thuds, the quiet rhythm of a house in motion. Someone was there. Then you felt it. A deep, gnawing emptiness coiled in your stomach, a sharp dryness clawing at your throat. Hunger. Thirst. Need. It hit you suddenly, demanding, undeniable. That hadn't happened yesterday... Had it? The sensation unsettled you, but the ache left no room for hesitation. Slowly, you pushed the quilt from your legs, shifting until you sat at the edge of the bed. Your feet touched the wooden floor—solid, unmoving. Bracing yourself, you stood. And you didn't crumble. Your body held. No breaking, no resistance. (Be grateful.)

You took a step. It was a mistake.

Your balance wavered, and before you could stop it, you stumbled—catching yourself against the wall with a soft thud. A dull ache spread through your shoulder, but you ignored it. Walking had felt so weightless in your dream, but here? Here, gravity pulled at you relentlessly, your limbs heavier than they should be. Your body screamed for things you didn't quite understand. But if nothing else, you understood one thing.

Listen to it.

Using the wall as a guide, you made slow, careful progress. A few feet, then a few more. That was when your eyes landed on the pictures. Familiar faces.

Memories slammed into you like a breaking dam, a flood rushing through every crack. Tails. Sonic. Amelia. And—others. Strangers with faces you couldn't place, moments frozen in time. Tails grinning beside Sonic at some kind of race. Amelia standing victorious over a slumped-over Eggman, her hammer raised in triumph. More images, more smiles, more lives you didn't know but felt you should. Numbers were scrawled beneath each frame—dates. A detail that felt important but meant nothing to you. You tore your gaze away, refocusing on your goal. One step at a time, you pressed forward, the wall your lifeline as you navigated through the hall. Every movement felt sluggish, your legs trembling beneath the effort. Ten feet. That was all you had walked, and already your body protested. Your clothes felt restrictive, chafing with every shift. The fabric clung in all the wrong ways, an unfamiliar weight against your skin. It was all too much, yet not enough. Still, you kept moving. Because you had to. Finally, you reached the kitchen. Bathed in the golden glow of morning light, Tails stood at the stove, humming softly to himself. His twin tails swayed gently behind him as he cracked two eggs into the pan with practiced ease. The sizzling filled the room, the yolks crisping at the edges, turning golden. A plate nearby already held a few finished pieces, steam still curling from their surface.

But your eyes weren't drawn to the food first.

The dark smudges beneath Tails' eyes told their own story. Deep, tired shadows clung to his face, a stark contrast to his usual brightness. He hadn't slept. Or if he had, it wasn't enough. Maybe he had spent the night searching for answers, pouring over data and machines, trying to make sense of it all. He looked lost in thought, his ears flicking absently, his hands moving on autopilot. A strange feeling stirred in you—something unfamiliar, unplaceable. It sat heavy in your chest, tangled between the haze of memory and the weight of reality. You didn't know what it was. You weren't sure you wanted to.

But then—

The smell hit you.

Rich. Savory. Warm. It curled around you, settling deep in your stomach. Your mouth watered instantly, the scent of sizzling bacon—or whatever was on that pan—taking hold of you completely. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, drawn to the source like a moth to flame.

Letting go of the wall, you pushed off, stumbling forward. You weren't sure what you expected. The ground felt solid, but it didn't ripple or shift beneath you like before. Your steps were clumsy, unfamiliar. The weight in your limbs, the way your body moved—it was different from the weightlessness you'd known before. You barely noticed when you entered the next space. It was... strange. Shapes and colors surrounded you, arranged in ways you didn't understand. Some objects stood tall, others stretched wide, their surfaces smooth, dull, or reflecting bits of light. In the middle of the room was something—tall—with odd protrusions sticking out from its sides. Next to it, more objects, some perched atop strange, thin supports. Everything was unfamiliar, yet oddly structured. Deliberate. The air carried an odd sensation, something curling inside your chest. A sound—small, rhythmic, like something counting down—tapped against the silence. Another sound, low and constant, hummed from somewhere nearby. Then there was the smell. It reached into you, wrapping around something deep in your core. Your body reacted before your mind could understand why—your throat ached, your stomach twisted in on itself, something clawed at you from the inside. You didn't understand it, but you wanted something. Needed something. Your legs carried you forward before you could think. Your body settled onto a raised surface, something soft pressing beneath you. It held your weight differently than the hard ground. Then, movement—another figure turned, standing among the shapes. You knew this one. Tails. His reaction was immediate. A sharp jolt in his posture, his ears snapping up, his limbs twitching as something in his grip slipped. The object nearly hit the ground, but he caught it—then, as if realizing something, let it clatter onto another surface. A pause. His mouth moved, forming sounds.

"Good morning, um..." He hesitated, shifting. "I bet you're hungry, so I—uh—made sure to prepare breakfast for you too..."

He moved again, hands gripping a flat surface before sliding something toward you.

You stared. It was a shape, rounded at the edges, smooth and slightly reflective. Resting on top were... things. They had form, colour, contrast. Some parts were golden, others soft and white, with a glistening sheen. A second object—smaller, thinner, metallic—was placed beside it. Your stomach ached again, an unbearable sensation, yet you had no words for what was in front of you. No understanding of what you were supposed to do. Tails' ears twitched. His gaze flickered between you and the objects, an expectant weight in his stare. You hesitated. Then, slowly, you reached out—your fingers brushing the surface, trying to understand what any of it meant. The round, smooth object in front of you was strange. It reflected light in a way that made its surface gleam, and the shapes resting on top of it—irregular, colorful, unfamiliar—gave off an aroma that stirred something deep inside you. It was sharp, warm, rich. It made your stomach twist in a way that felt urgent.

The fox had placed it before you, watching expectantly. His shoulders eased when you dipped your head slightly toward him, though you weren't sure why.

"I... I wasn't sure what you'd like," he said, his voice uneven. His hands twisted together in front of him, a movement that seemed... nervous? You glanced between him and the strange objects in front of you.

Your fingers twitched before you finally reached out. The darkest shape drew your attention first. It was long, curled at the edges, and slightly uneven. Your fingers closed around it. Warm. Firm but pliant. The moment you lifted it, heat bit at your fingertips. A sharp sting. You let go, the object falling back with a soft tap.

Your hand stung, and you curled your fingers inward, studying the sensation. The fox made a small sound before speaking quickly.

"Oh! You don't pick it up like that. You use the... um, the thing next to it. The fork," he said, pointing at something beside the round object. "And the bread—you can hold that one."

You followed his motion. Something thin and metallic rested beside the smooth round surface. The fox picked up his own, pressing it into the golden, glistening shape on his plate. The surface broke apart, leaking something thicker that pooled around it. He lifted a different shape, tearing it with his fingers before dipping it into the liquid, then bringing it to his mouth.

You stared.

Your hands moved again, this time grasping the softer shape he had called "bread." It pressed in when you squeezed it, slightly rough but springy. With your other hand, you reached for the metallic object, fingers curling around it the way you had held the first thing. The material was cool, smooth. You pressed it down into the golden surface. It broke, just as his had. The liquid spread outward. You hesitated before pressing the softer object into the liquid, then brought it to your mouth. The sensation in your mouth was overwhelming. Rich, warm, sharp, soft—each bite shifting, each texture a collision of unknowns. You barely processed the act of chewing before something else took over. A deep pull, a demand from within. You swallowed, and a rough scrape burned its way down your throat. It was unpleasant, yet it didn't stop you.

Again.

Your hands moved instinctively, clumsily. The thing in your grip—this thin, rigid object—was awkward to hold, but it served its purpose. The food reached your mouth. Your jaw worked without thought. Each bite sent something through you, a jolt spreading from the centre of your chest outward. It was more than just relief. It was... right. A need you hadn't known was there now being met. Warm, soft, crisp, thick—everything mixing, changing, vanishing. The sharpness of one bite. The comforting weight of another. More. The fox beside you was quiet. His eyes flickered toward you every so often, watching. Observing. You didn't know what he was thinking, but he didn't stop you. When the food was gone, something new settled in your chest. A lightness. The tension in your limbs faded. You exhaled, a slow, involuntary sound slipping from your lips as you leaned back slightly. The fox moved again. The thin, soft shape in his hand pressed against his face, swiping over the corner of his mouth before he set it aside. You watched. A cool sensation met your fingertips, and you glanced down. Your hand had found the surface before you, pressing lightly against its smooth, unyielding texture. It was cold, but not unpleasant. Hard. Even. A new contrast to the warmth still lingering in your mouth. Your throat ached, a reminder that something was still missing. Your lips pressed together. You wanted to say something. To do something. The fox moved again. Another object, another mystery. He set something before you—transparent, round, smooth. It caught the light in odd ways, bending it, warping it. Inside, something clear and shifting. You reached out, hesitating, before wrapping both hands around it. Cool. Hard. It had weight, but it wasn't heavy. The fox lifted his own, pressing it to his mouth. You mirrored him. Something cold met your lips, then slipped past them—into you. A strange sensation, smoother than food, thinner. It spread instantly, filling the aching dryness in your throat, soothing, washing away the roughness. Relief. Your fingers tightened around the object as you swallowed again. More. The sensation rushed through you, and soon, the thing in your hands was empty. You placed it down, mimicking the fox. A soft sound. A connection between it and the surface beneath. The fox was watching you again. He always seemed to be watching. You moved to stand. The world tipped slightly. Your legs—still weak, still unsteady—shifted beneath you, and before you could fall, something caught you. Arms. Small, firm. Steady. The fox was holding you up.

"So... um, I've stayed up late last night, researching and uh... making a tool for you to use to help because I noticed you struggle with walking..." His ears drooped as he spoke, his hands adjusting, supporting you without hesitation.

Then, something new.

Small. Bright. A strange color, almost glowing. He held it in his hands, offering it to you. The shape was unfamiliar, the surface glinting under the light. A strange sensation ran through you as he fastened it around your wrist. Cold. Your body tensed at the unexpected chill. But before you could react, the object... moved. Unfurling. Shifting. Extending.

A long, thin shape now rested in your grip. Your fingers curled around it instinctively. It was solid, weighty, but balanced. The fox looked at you expectantly. You waved it slightly. The movement was strange, unfamiliar. The weight pulled, guided. You didn't know what to do with it. "Here, let me show you." Tails took your hand, guiding it downward until the strange, solid thing met the ground.

"Try leaning on it," he said, voice quiet, careful. Then—pressure. A gentle push. You obeyed, shifting your weight forward. The object held you. It didn't buckle, didn't shift—it simply existed beneath you, firm and unmoving. You pressed harder. Still, it did not fail. Something inside you stirred. You stepped forward, the surface beneath you firm but unfamiliar. Another step. The strange weight in your hand moved with you, steady, constant. You took another. Then another. You were moving. The realization hit like lightning. The world around you, once a distant haze, became something to reach. Your steps quickened, though they were still uneven, ungraceful. You drifted forward, touching the smooth, towering shape nearby. It was cool beneath your fingers, unyielding.

More.

Your hand trailed across its surface, reaching something else—different. Tiny, delicate, alive. Its shape bent under your touch, its scent bursting into the air, sharp and deep. Your fingers curled around it, feeling its small, intricate form. You inhaled, and the scent filled you entirely. Tails made a soft sound behind you. Amusement? Concern? You didn't turn. This world—it was real. It was yours to know.

A sudden, thunderous BANG shattered the stillness.

Tails flinched. His ears twitched violently, tails bristling like something startled, something cornered.

"Sonic!" he yelped, already moving. His voice cracked with urgency. "I'll be right back!"

Then—gone. The air still buzzed with the force of his absence, but the kitchen had changed. It was no longer a place of fascination, of endless discovery. Without him, it was hollow. Stagnant. You lingered in the silence, fingers brushing the fragile green thing before you. Soft. Alive. Its scent still clung to your fingertips, but its presence no longer held the same weight. You shifted, the thing in your hand—the one that kept you upright—pressing firm against the ground. The quiet stretched on, your heartbeat filling its empty space. Too long. You turned.

Your steps were uneven, each one a decision rather than a reflex. The walls around you blurred in warm shapes, colors blending as you pressed forward. Voices—sharp, fast, emotion. They bled into the air beyond the doorway. A shape, a presence—one you knew. One you should know. Sonic.

He moved strangely, hands cutting through the air in quick bursts. The sounds he made, urgent and laced with something unreadable, clashed against the higher, thinner sounds from the smaller one—Tails. Tails was rigid. Ears flat. The strange tension in his body filled the space between them.

"You can't just spin-dash through the house, Sonic! You nearly knocked over Cream's vase!" Tails' voice was sharp, and his hand pointed at a tall, fragile-looking object resting on a surface. It was shaped strangely, narrow at the top, wider at the bottom. It held flowers inside? Liquid? No, not quite. You stared at it, the shape unsettlingly fragile. Why did it matter so much?

Sonic waved a hand, his voice dismissive. "Come on, Tails, it's fun! And besides, it's the best way to get rid of those pesky spiders."

Spiders? You blinked, trying to conjure an image. You didn't like the idea of things 'spiders', whatever they were.

Tails' ears twitched in frustration, his body holding tension in a way that felt heavy. His eyes flickered toward you briefly before he sighed. Sonic, however, finally noticed you properly. His eyes dragged from your face down to your legs, pausing at the object strapped to your wrist. The thing that made moving easier.

"Well, look who's finally awake!" His voice was bright, stretched into an expression—grin—that felt almost too sharp. His body language held something playful, but also something you couldn't place.

Tails shook his head. "Sonic, be nice," he mumbled, but his eyes stayed on you longer than before, flicking between your face and your metal pole. You shifted slightly, gripping the handle of the metal tighter. The words made sense, but the moment itself felt strange. They were focused on you. Expecting something from you. A response. But what were you supposed to say? Your lips parted slightly, but the words didn't come. Instead, you just stood there, gripping the metal pole, waiting for something to make sense. Sonic decided to take matters into his own hands, stepping forward with that same unwavering energy, his voice carrying an effortless confidence.

"Don't worry, we'll take care of ya. Tails here? He's the smartest guy I know, builds all sorts of crazy gadgets. And me?" He placed a hand on his chest. "I'm the best at, uh... well, making people smile!" He grinned, waiting—expecting—something in return. A nod? A smile? Any kind of acknowledgment.

You gave him nothing. Just a blank stare.

His grin faltered, just for a second. That usual easy charisma didn't seem to reach you. He glanced over at Tails, wordlessly asking for help. Tails stepped in, ears flicking slightly.

Sonic tapped his foot, arms crossed, as he glanced between you and Tails. "Alright, so... what now?" he asked, tilting his head.

Tails hesitated, rubbing the back of his head. "Well... I've been thinking about that." His ears twitched slightly, and he cast a worried glance at you. "You're still struggling with basic movement, and you can't really communicate yet. You need more help than what I can give right now."

Sonic blinked. "Hey, you're the smartest guy I know. You figured out the cane thing in a night! What else do they need?"

Tails sighed, shaking his head. "It's not just about mobility. They need structure, care, and someone patient enough to help them learn." His voice lowered, more serious now. "And let's be real—Eggman's always watching. If he finds them, things could get dangerous fast. We need to move them somewhere safe."

Sonic's expression darkened at that, his confident smirk slipping just for a second. He hated dealing with the whole 'Eggman problem' before breakfast. But he also knew Tails had a point.

"So... Vanilla's?" Sonic asked, raising an eyebrow.

Tails nodded. "Yeah. Her place is quiet, secure. She used to be a teacher, remember? If anyone can help them adjust, it's her."

Sonic turned to you, his grin returning. "Well, guess you're about to meet one of the nicest people around. And trust me, her cooking? Worth the trip."

You stared at them, unsure of what this 'Vanilla' was or why they were so certain she would help. But the way they spoke about her—calm, certain, almost reverent—made you curious. If they trusted her, maybe you could too.

Sonic clapped his hands together. "Alright then! Let's get going!"

Without warning, he reached for your wrist, tugging you toward the door. You stumbled forward, barely keeping up with his pace, your metal pole clicking against the wooden floor. Tails let out a noise of protest, following quickly behind.

"Careful, Sonic! They're still adjusting!"

"Relax, buddy, I got this," Sonic said, flashing him a grin. He glanced back at you, eyes bright with amusement. "Right?"

You weren't sure what to say—so you just held on and let yourself be led forward into the unknown.

Sonic huffed, impatience clear in his voice. Before you could fully process what was happening, his hand closed around your wrist, tugging you forward with an energy that sent you stumbling. Your legs wobbled, still weak, but Sonic's grip was steady, effortlessly keeping you upright as he guided you toward the door. The moment you stepped outside, the world hit you like a sudden gust of wind. The sun hung high, its golden rays peeking through tufts of white clouds, illuminating everything in a warm glow. The air smelled different—fresh, crisp, layered with something green and alive. Beneath your feet, the ground was uneven, covered in something soft yet damp, tickling your skin in a way that made you shiver. Grass. You knew the word, but now, for the first time, you knew its touch. You turned your head, catching a glimpse of Tails lingering in the doorway. He gave a small wave, his expression a mix of encouragement and concern. He wasn't coming with you. Before you could dwell on that, Sonic nudged you forward, and you had to plant your metal pole firmly into the earth to keep from toppling over. He simply grinned, unfazed, as if he found your struggle amusing rather than worrying.

With a sigh, you steadied yourself. One foot forward, then the next. Awkward, clumsy, but moving. Sonic, always one step ahead, just smirked and shrugged.

"See? You're getting the hang of it." Sonic, ever the impatient one, pulled you along, his grip firm on your wrist. The sudden movement caught you off guard, and you stumbled, your legs still unsteady beneath you. Your balance wavered, but Sonic, ever surefooted, steadied you with ease. His other hand found your wrist again, keeping you upright as he shot you a playful grin.

"You're doing fine," he said breezily, as if you weren't moments away from collapsing.

You stumbled again, your legs threatening to give way. But with a quick shove from Sonic and the reassuring weight of your metal pole, you found your footing. Sonic, already a few steps ahead, flashed another grin before dashing forward, his movements effortless, his energy infectious. For the first time, the idea of movement, of pushing forward, thrilled you. The wind rushed past, tugging at your clothes and stirring something unfamiliar but exhilarating in your chest. You weren't just walking—you were experiencing the world beyond the quiet confines of the house. The sun climbed higher, the morning dew evaporating as warmth settled over the land. Sonic led you across a small meadow, where blades of grass brushed against your legs, their texture strange but pleasant. A brook babbled nearby, its cool, rushing waters sending a whisper of sound through the trees. The forest air smelled crisp and green—new, alive. Your legs wobbled, weak from exertion, but you pressed on. Every step forward felt like a victory, and with each encouraging shout from Sonic, the journey became less daunting. Finally, nestled among a grove of trees, a small hut came into view. It stood apart from the rest of civilization, tucked away as if the one who lived there preferred solitude. Vines and flowers crawled over the walls, softening the structure with bursts of color. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney, carrying with it the warm, inviting scent of baking. As you approached, your body on the verge of collapse, you noticed a figure waiting on the porch. A tall, cream-furred rabbit stood in the doorway, watching your approach with a soft, welcoming gaze. She had a white muzzle, a small brown nose, and deep brown eyes framed by dark orange markings. A tuft of dark orange hair rested on her forehead, swaying slightly in the breeze. She wore a long lavender dress with white trim along the puffy sleeves and hem, a fitted burgundy vest with golden buttons, and an orange ascot neatly tied at her collar. White gloves adorned her hands, fastened by gold cufflinks, and burgundy low-heeled shoes with yellow detailing peeked from beneath her dress. Her lips, painted a soft pink, curled into a warm smile as she lifted a hand in greeting. You stared for a moment, taking her in. Something about her presence was comforting, gentle. She looked... pretty.

"Vanilla!" Sonic exclaimed, his voice carrying its usual energy as he motioned toward you.

"We're here! And I brought that friend I told you about." His words were light, but there was an expectant look in his eyes as he turned to you.

The rabbit woman—Vanilla—tilted her head slightly, studying you. The warmth in her expression faltered for just a moment before she gasped softly.

"Oh my goodness!" Her tone was full of concern, but there was something else beneath it. Hesitation? Caution? "You must be exhausted from your journey. Come in, dear, quickly."

You blinked at her, uncertain how to respond. She was looking at you like you were fragile, like you might shatter at any moment. Her voice was gentle, her movements graceful, but something about her presence felt... unfamiliar. Strange. Like she was operating on a set of rules you didn't quite understand.

"Thank you for bringing them, Sonic," Vanilla continued, her gaze flicking back to him, as if reassuring herself with his presence. "You're a good friend."

Sonic grinned, rubbing the back of his head. "Ah, well, y'know me—always happy to help!" Then, with a mischievous smirk, he added, "Besides, I was kinda hoping for some of those famous chocolate chip cookies."

Vanilla chuckled, but the sound was measured—practiced. It was hard to tell if it was genuine or just something polite people did.

"Of course, Sonic. Cream's been helping me bake all morning. They should be ready soon."

She turned back to you, her smile unwavering.

"You must be tired, dear. Come, let me show you to the living room. It's small but cozy."

Tired? You weren't sure if that was the right word. Your body ached, your legs trembled beneath you, but the real exhaustion ran deeper than that. Still, you nodded, allowing her to lead you forward.

Stepping inside felt like stepping into another world. The air was thick with the scent of something warm—bread? Flowers? It clung to you, unfamiliar and overwhelming. The space itself was small, filled with soft furnishings and muted colors. A fireplace sat dormant in the corner, its presence unsettling in a way you couldn't explain. Everything in this place felt... lived-in. It had history, purpose, meaning. Yet none of it made sense to you.

Vanilla guided you toward a cushioned chair with delicate floral fabric. You hesitated, staring at it, trying to make sense of why it was offered to you, why these people kept placing you in these specific places, giving you things, expecting things. The moment you sat down, the chair's softness threatened to swallow you whole. You stiffened, your hands gripping the arms of the chair, feeling the texture beneath your fingertips, grounding yourself. Vanilla smiled, but there was something unreadable in her eyes.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll bring you some tea."

She turned to leave but then paused, looking back at you. "Oh, and don't worry about making a mess," Vanilla chuckled as she moved toward the kitchen. "Cream can be quite the whirlwind sometimes."

(Though, as you glanced around, you noticed the room wasn't messy at all. If anything, it felt... staged. Like everything had been placed with careful intent.)

You watched her disappear, her presence fading into the sounds of clinking porcelain and soft footsteps. Without thinking, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips—an involuntary reaction to the warmth in her voice, or maybe just to the sheer oddity of it all. Sonic, still lounging nearby, tilted his head at you. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his grin softened just slightly. He had seen you smile only once before, and yet, every time you did, it felt like some rare phenomenon—like watching a single flower bloom in the middle of a storm. Something fleeting. Unpredictable.

Then, movement.

A small figure peeked out from behind a doorway—a miniature version of Vanilla, yet distinct in a way you couldn't quite put into words. Large brown eyes scanned the room, wide and searching. Her small nose twitched, testing the air, her ears flicking with cautious energy. For a moment, she hesitated, murmuring something too soft for you to decipher. She shifted slightly, as though debating whether or not to step forward. Then, with a sudden, almost comical hop, she approached. You stiffened, uncertain of how to react as she came closer. She was small—smaller than you expected. Cinnamon-brown fur, impossibly soft, framed delicate features. Her eyes, the color of melted chocolate, locked onto you with a curiosity so open, so unguarded, it was almost uncomfortable. You had never been examined in such a way before—like you were something to be figured out rather than something to be feared. And then there was the tiny blue creature perched atop her head, its round body shifting as it clung to her ears. A red bowtie wrapped snugly around its neck, its little face unreadable yet oddly content. Another unknown. Another piece of this world that made no sense.

"Cream! Cheese! Nice to see you both!" Sonic's voice broke through your thoughts, his usual cheerfulness cutting through the moment. He raised a hand in greeting, relaxed and familiar, as if this was all just another regular day. The small rabbit—Cream—turned toward him, and in an instant, her entire expression changed. The wariness disappeared, replaced by pure, unfiltered joy. A smile broke across her face, bright and easy, like she had been waiting for this very moment.

You watched her, trying to make sense of that kind of happiness. Trying to understand why it felt so distant.

"It's nice to see you too, Mr. Sonic!" Cream replied, her voice light and cheerful, a stark contrast to the quiet hum of thoughts in your mind. The small blue creature perched on her head—Cheese, as Sonic had called it—let out a high-pitched squeak, its tiny body wiggling with excitement.

Sonic grinned, crouching down effortlessly to Cream's level. His movements were fluid, natural, like he belonged here.

"How's my favorite little rabbit doing?" he asked, ruffling her fur in an affectionate way that made Cream giggle.

She beamed, her entire posture relaxed and comfortable in his presence. "I'm doing well, Mr. Sonic! We've been baking cookies all morning." She gestured towards the kitchen, her smile full of pride.

"They should be ready soon!"

Sonic's eyes widened, and you could see the excitement flicker across his face.

"Cookies? Oh man, I can smell them from here! Vanilla, you wouldn't happen to have any extra for a certain blue blur, would you?"

Vanilla chuckled, stepping gracefully out of the kitchen with a tray in her hands. The scent of chamomile tea and warm spices filled the room, settling into the space like an unspoken invitation. Everything about her movements was effortless, as if she had done this a thousand times before.

"Of course, Sonic," she said with a gentle smile. Then, her warm gaze shifted to you. "But first, why don't you introduce your friend to Cream?"

Friend.

The word lingered in the air, feeling unfamiliar—almost foreign. You weren't sure how to define your presence here, or if you even fit into the warmth and ease that surrounded these people. Their world felt so... connected. It was as if they all shared an invisible thread that bound them together, while you stood at the edges, uncertain if you were meant to be woven in.

Sonic blinked, realizing his oversight. "Oh, right!" He turned back to you, his usual grin returning, but there was something searching in his gaze now—like he was trying to gauge your reaction, trying to find something in you that wasn't quite there yet.

"Oh right! Cream, this is... well, I don't really know their name yet." Sonic scratched the back of his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. His casual tone almost masked the weight of that statement. He didn't know your name. No one did. You barely even knew yourself.

You simply nodded, the motion small, uncertain.

Cream, unbothered by the awkwardness, gave you a bright, friendly smile. "It's nice to meet you! I'm Cream, and this is Cheese." She gestured towards the Chao still perched on her head, its tiny blue form vibrating with excitement. Cheese let out a happy squeak, tilting its head at you as if studying something unseen. You nodded again. The simple motion was becoming a crutch, a way to acknowledge but not engage, to exist in this space without demanding too much from it. Vanilla, ever perceptive, stepped forward, her voice as soft as the warm air around you.

"Don't worry, dear," she said gently. "You don't have to say anything. We're happy to have you here."

Her words settled over you like a blanket, wrapping you in a warmth you didn't quite know how to accept. These people—these strangers—were welcoming you without hesitation, without asking for anything in return. It was... foreign. Almost unsettling in its kindness. Cream was still watching you, her wide brown eyes filled with curiosity. Not the kind that pried, but the kind that waited—patient and open. Then, Cheese let out another high-pitched chirp and, without warning, flitted off Cream's head, circling around you with giddy energy. You barely had time to react before it landed lightly on your shoulder. You flinched. The weight was small but unexpected, the warmth of its tiny body pressing against your skin. Then, something even stranger happened. A soft nuzzling sensation against your neck, followed by the faintest vibration—Cheese was purring. You hesitated, your hands twitching at your sides. The moment stretched, delicate and unfamiliar. Then, slowly, as if testing the limits of something fragile, you lifted a hand and let your fingers brush against the Chao's tiny form.

Soft. Warm. Alive.

A quiet exhale left your lips, and without realizing it, the corner of your mouth twitched upward. A barely-there smile. Sonic, who had been watching the entire exchange, grinned and nudged you playfully.

"Looks like you've made a new friend."

Friend. The word caught on something inside you. How could you have made a friend without speaking? Without understanding? Without offering anything at all? Your hand hovered uncertainly over Cheese as the little creature tugged playfully at a strand of your hair. Cream giggled at the sight, and Sonic chuckled right along with her, their laughter warm and easy. Vanilla, settling into the other armchair nearby, simply watched with quiet approval, as if this—this moment, this strange, unspoken connection—was something important. Maybe it was. Maybe, even without words, you weren't as alone as you thought.

"You don't have to," Sonic said, his voice softer this time. "Sometimes, the best conversations happen without words." He gestured toward Cream, who was watching you with a gentle, fond smile. You exhaled quietly, hesitating before reaching out and softly patting her head. Her fur was warm, impossibly soft beneath your touch, and she beamed at you in response. Sonic, ever the one to keep things moving, cleared his throat. "So, my friend over here—" he started, his voice a little louder than necessary. You flinched slightly at the sudden volume, and Sonic winced, realizing his mistake. "Uh, as you can see... hasn't spoken once!"

There was a brief silence. He seemed to realize how abrupt that sounded, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! I mean, it's just... well, it's a bit unusual, isn't it?"

His words hung in the air, not accusatory but uncertain, as if he wasn't sure how to approach the subject without stepping on something fragile. He glanced at Vanilla for reassurance. She, ever composed, merely smiled.

"Adjusting takes time," she said simply.

"Yeah! That's it!" Sonic jumped in, seizing the lifeline. "Adjusting. To, uh... you know, the whole 'not being trapped' thing." He winked, attempting to inject some levity into the conversation.

You merely shrugged, feeling the weight of their attention settle onto your shoulders. You wanted to explain, but... how? It wasn't that you didn't understand words. You knew them. Recognized their meaning, their shape, their sound. Yet... Trying to speak felt like trying to hold onto a handful of water—slipping through your grasp before you could even understand how to contain it. The effort of forming a single syllable felt impossible, like your voice had been stolen long before you even had the chance to use it. Cream, watching you closely, tilted her head.

"Maybe they're just shy," she suggested, her voice soft. "It takes time to get used to new people." Your faint smile faltered. She wasn't wrong. You were shy. Overwhelmed. And, though you wouldn't admit it, afraid. But there was something else, too. Something new, creeping in at the edges of your uncertainty. A sense of belonging. A warmth you hadn't felt in what felt like an eternity. Sonic opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, Vanilla gently cut in. She had been watching you the whole time, her expression kind, patient. And, for the first time, you realized—she understood.

"Perhaps some more tea would help?" Vanilla suggested kindly.

"And maybe we can play a game? I have a set of dominoes that Cream absolutely loves."

The idea of a game—something structured, something that didn't demand words—was oddly comforting. You nodded. Sonic huffed dramatically, slouching with exaggerated disappointment. "Aw man, tea and board games? This is turning into a real party." He shot Vanilla a playful grin before gesturing for her to follow. "C'mon, I'll help with the snacks or something."

With that, they left, their voices trailing off down the hall. You were left with Cream and Cheese, who was still perched on your shoulder, wiggling happily. The small rabbit clapped her hands together. "I think you'll like dominoes! It's really fun once you get the hang of it." Your attention, however, drifted to the tea in your hands. The mug felt warm, unfamiliar, grounding. The smooth ceramic pressed against your fingers in a way that felt oddly significant, like holding something too fragile, too real.

Hesitantly, you lifted it to your lips. The scent curled around you first—soft, floral, tinged with something subtly sweet. It was unfamiliar, yet strangely inviting. You took a sip, the warmth rolling over your tongue, coating your throat in something that wasn't just heat, but comfort. It was gentle. Not overpowering, not bitter, just... present. As you swallowed, the warmth lingered, spreading from your chest outward. It was different from the cold, clinical feel of water. This had depth. A quiet, unspoken feeling wrapped within it. You exhaled slowly, your grip loosening slightly around the mug. This was new. You picked up one of the cookies, its warmth seeping into your fingertips. It was soft, surprisingly light, the top a perfect golden brown, speckled with tiny sugar crystals and something else—dark flecks scattered throughout. Curious, you brought it closer and inhaled deeply. The scent was intoxicating—sweet and buttery, but layered with something deeper. Something warm. Something... nutty? Hesitantly, you took a bite. The texture surprised you first—chewy, yet delicate, almost like biting into a cloud. Then the flavors followed, unfurling slowly across your tongue. Sweet, of course, but not overwhelmingly so. There was something else—something rich, something slightly bitter that melted effortlessly into the warmth. You chewed thoughtfully, trying to place it. Nutty? No. Something deeper, smoother. Chocolate. Your eyes widened slightly. This was... incredible. The balance of flavors, the way the sweetness played with the slight bitterness, the way it all melted together in perfect harmony—it was unlike anything you'd ever tasted before. You closed your eyes, savoring it, committing this moment, this taste, to memory. Then, something caught your attention—a small, chewy piece stuck between your teeth. You carefully pulled it free, examining it. Dark brown, almost black, and surprisingly firm. You brought it to your nose and sniffed. The scent was bold, earthy, rich. Chocolate. You looked back at the cookie, at the tiny dark flecks baked into the dough. So that's what they were. This was... something special. Something entirely new. When you opened your eyes, Cream was watching you, her hands clasped together, anticipation shining in her gaze.

"Do you like it?" she asked, her voice soft. You nodded slowly, still lost in the lingering taste. Just then, Vanilla returned, a small wooden box in her hands. A soft smile graced her lips, but something was missing. Someone.

Sonic was gone.

Your stomach twisted slightly. Where had he gone? He hadn't even had a cookie yet... or had he? Had you been too distracted to notice?

Vanilla seemed to catch your unease. Setting the dominoes down gently, she took a seat, her expression warm yet thoughtful.

"Sonic explained to me that you don't have a... a place to call home right now," she said gently.

"And I gladly offered to help. To make sure you learn how to walk properly again... and maybe, just maybe, find your voice."

She paused, studying you carefully, as if searching for something in your expression.

What was she hoping to find? "And of course, to learn some other things too," Vanilla continued, her voice gentle but steady. "Some... life skills, I suppose. Gardening, cooking, how to live off the land. How to take care of yourself."

The words lingered in the air, carrying an unspoken weight. This was more than just a place to rest. More than temporary shelter. She was offering something deeper—a foundation, a path forward.

You glanced at her, searching for any sign of hesitation, but all you found was quiet determination. There was no pity in her gaze, only kindness. A genuine desire to help.

A strange mix of emotions swelled within you. Gratitude, uncertainty... hope.

You wanted to thank her, to say something—anything—to show how much this meant. But the words remained trapped, just out of reach.

Vanilla seemed to understand. She smiled, patient and reassuring.

"Don't worry," she murmured. "We'll take things one step at a time. No pressure."

You nodded slowly, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something new.

And so, the afternoon drifted on, wrapped in quiet comfort.

The gentle clatter of dominoes filled the cozy little hut, mingling with Cream's bright laughter and Cheese's delighted squeaks. Vanilla's voice, warm and steady, guided you through the game, her explanations soft and unhurried. You didn't need words—not when there were smiles, nods, shared glances that spoke louder than anything you could say.

You had the warmth of their company. The steady, comforting weight of Cheese still nestled against your shoulder. The lingering taste of cookies, rich and sweet, reminding you of things you never knew you were missing.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

You felt like you had a home. The living room was... strange. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made it difficult to understand. Everything here seemed placed with purpose, as if each object had a role it played in some larger routine—one you weren't a part of. The floor beneath you was firm but not cold, its surface patterned with lines and shapes that looked worn from time, as if it had been walked on for years. Sunlight streamed in through a large opening in the wall—not a hole, but something solid and clear, like frozen water, keeping the outside out while letting the light in. It stretched across the floor, creating long, flickering shadows that moved when you moved. The things in the room... they had shapes that were unfamiliar. There were soft, rounded structures arranged in a circle—different sizes, different colors, but all looking strangely inviting. One had arms, or at least something that extended outward, curling slightly at the ends. Were they meant to hold? To restrain? You reached out and pressed your fingers against it. It gave way slightly, like firm moss, before pushing back. Soft. You hesitated before lowering yourself onto it, surprised when it supported your weight with ease. The sensation was neither firm nor unsteady. It was... different. At the center of the space stood a short, sturdy structure made of something smooth and hard. Its surface held an assortment of objects, each one a mystery. A tall, delicate-looking thing stood among them, its upper half bursting with tangled growths of bright color. The air around it smelled... different. Not unpleasant, but unfamiliar. Beside it, a stack of thin rectangles, each one slightly curved at the edges, sat atop one another in perfect balance. And in front of them, a flat shape held an image—figures frozen in time, their faces curved upward in a way that suggested... something good. It was them. The one called Vanilla. The smaller one, Cream. But this wasn't them now. This was them before. A memory, captured and contained. How? Beyond the space, through an open gap in the wall, another area extended—similar yet different. A taller, wider surface stood in the center, surrounded by separate pieces that looked like they belonged to it. It reminded you of a formation, of pieces positioned around something important. A gathering space. A ritual, perhaps? Small objects rested along the far wall, lined up in neat rows, their purpose entirely unknown. They were smooth and round, some wide, some narrow. A glint of light bounced off them, reflecting back something distorted and stretched. Were they tools? Weapons? You had no way of knowing. Time passed—how long, you weren't sure. The smaller one, Cream, had taken out strange objects and stacked them upright in a pattern, only to knock them down moments later. A game, she had called it. Something to do for fun. You watched, not quite understanding. Fun. Was this fun? What was its purpose? The smell of something rich and heavy filled the air, drawing your attention. You followed the scent, finding yourself in a much smaller space. The warmth here was different—not the kind that came from the sun, but something deeper, more controlled. Vanilla stood at a surface taller than the others, moving with certainty. The objects she used were unlike anything you had seen before. A wide, hollow thing made of something dark and solid rested on an open flame. It did not burn. Instead, it held something inside—a pile of small, round pieces that hissed and changed shape when pressed against the heat. Their scent grew stronger, sharper. Another object, clear and delicate-looking, sat nearby, filled with green and orange shapes. Food. These were food. But they weren't like the food you knew—raw, simple, taken as it was. These had been changed, altered, made into something else. She reached for something else—a smaller shape, smooth and curved, filled with tiny fragments of something dry and crumbling. She sprinkled them over the food, and though they were barely visible, the scent of the air shifted slightly. You watched as she lifted a long, thin object, pressing its edge against a larger form. It sliced through with ease, parting the shape into smaller pieces. Another tool. Another purpose. Everything here had a purpose. Everything was shaped, molded, and made for something specific. You looked down at your own hands. Empty. Unused. The smell filled your lungs again, rich and warm. The food—whatever it was—had changed entirely now. It was no longer separate pieces but one thing, whole and complete. A meal. Vanilla turned, her eyes kind as she looked at you.

"Dinner will be ready soon," she said.

Ready. As if the food had been through something. As if it had transformed. You looked at it, then at her, then back at the warm, flickering glow beneath the dark pot. Something about it felt... unnatural. But also, somehow, right. While Cream busied herself gathering the fallen dominoes—small, white rectangles marked with curious black dots—you sat stiffly at the strange, flat surface in the center of the room. It was hard and smooth, stretching wide enough to hold several people's worth of space. It wasn't the ground, but it wasn't quite like anything else you had encountered before. It had legs, like a creature, yet it did not move. Your own legs dangled awkwardly over the edge of the thing you were sitting on—a separate structure, smaller but equally rigid, with four spindly limbs of its own. The way it held you up felt unnatural, unstable, and yet no matter how you shifted, it did not collapse beneath you. The space around you was filled with objects whose purposes you could only guess at. In the corner of the room, a tall, towering structure stood against the wall, its surface marked with a circle that slowly shifted with each passing moment. A measured clicking sound came from within it, steady, deliberate. It felt... alive, in a way, though it did not breathe. Was it counting something? Marking something? You did not know. The sound unsettled you. Nearby, a smaller structure held an array of mismatched, thin disks and oddly curved shapes—some gleaming, others dulled with time. They were arranged neatly, stacked inside an open frame, as if waiting for something. You had seen Vanilla and Cream use them, setting them onto the flat surface in front of you, tapping them against each other, filling them with food. Were they tools? Containers? It was difficult to tell. From the other side of the space, where Vanilla moved with effortless ease, a thick scent filled the air—something rich, warm, and unfamiliar. The source of it was a deep, round vessel resting atop a strange metal surface. Heat radiated from it, waves of warmth pulsing outward. Inside, things sizzled and hissed, shifting and darkening under Vanilla's careful hands. You watched as she grasped a long, slender object and used it to stir the contents of the vessel, her expression calm, practiced. The motions were foreign to you, deliberate but effortless. Cream, meanwhile, was gathering up the small white pieces she had been playing with earlier. They clattered softly as she stacked them together, her hands working quickly. She didn't seem to think about what she was doing—she just did it, as if the shapes and their purpose were obvious. You watched her movements, trying to understand. These objects had rules, meanings, functions. Everyone here seemed to know them except for you. The room was alive with quiet motions, each person fitting into it with ease. But you... you felt like an intruder, a visitor in a world built on knowledge you did not possess. You fidgeted, the stiff, unmoving surface beneath you making your back ache. Was this truly meant for resting? It did not seem comfortable.

Then, suddenly, the small rabbit girl stopped moving. Her large eyes turned toward you, head tilting slightly.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

You blinked at her, unsure how to respond. The words made sense, but they felt distant, as if they were meant for someone else. Were you okay? You didn't know. Everything was strange. Everything was foreign. The clicking tower in the corner continued its steady rhythm. You did not know what it was counting, but you could feel the weight of its presence. For the past day, you'd been stumbling through this world, pulled from one new experience to the next without ever truly understanding them. Everything was strange. Everything was unfamiliar. There was no time to stop, no time to process, no moment where it all made sense. It just kept piling on, sensation after sensation, object after object, rule after rule. The question, simple as it was, hit you like a wave. You looked at her, startled. Were you okay? You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell her that you were fine, that you were handling it, that this place—these people, these things—weren't overwhelming you. Instead, all you could manage was a small, hesitant nod. Cream watched you carefully, her large eyes filled with something you couldn't quite name. Understanding, maybe. Or concern. Either way, she didn't press further. Instead, she reached down, picking up something small from the floor—a shape, soft and rounded, clutched gently in her hands. She walked toward you, then held it out.

"Here," she said, offering it. "This is for you."

You hesitated, then reached out, taking the object carefully. It was... soft. Strangely so. The texture was unlike anything you'd encountered—plush, yielding, warm against your fingers. You turned it over in your hands, studying its features. Two long ears. A tiny, round nose. Black beads for eyes. A creature? No. Not quite. It didn't move. It didn't breathe. It had no weight, no warmth of its own. And yet, as you pressed your fingers into the fabric, something stirred inside you—a strange feeling, deep in your chest. It wasn't just an object. It was something more.

Cream smiled as she watched you. "I hope you like it."

You looked at her, then down at the soft creature again. It had no function that you could understand. It wasn't a tool, nor food, nor anything necessary for survival. And yet, the way she had given it to you, the warmth in her voice... it meant something. You didn't have words for what, exactly, but you knew it mattered. Slowly, you curled your fingers around it, holding it close. You nodded, your expression softening. Cream's face lit up, her small tail twitching with excitement. Before you could dwell on the feeling any longer, a new scent filled the air. Rich, warm, mouthwatering. You turned, seeing Vanilla emerge from the kitchen, carrying a large, steaming container. She moved with purpose, setting it down in the center of the strange, flat surface where you sat.

"Dinner is ready!" she announced, her voice warm and inviting.

Dinner. You had heard the word before. It meant food. Cream's eyes sparkled with excitement as she hopped off her seat, her tiny feet pattering against the wooden floor. "Can I help set the table?" she asked eagerly. Vanilla smiled. "Of course, dear. Why don't you get the napkins?" Napkins. Another new word. Another unfamiliar object.

You watched as Cream scurried to a small wooden container and pulled out soft, folded squares of something thin and white. You frowned, trying to understand their purpose. She placed them carefully beside the wide, rounded objects that Vanilla had set down—smooth, solid things with a cool, glossy surface. Next to those, she arranged odd, gleaming tools—thin, metallic, with pointed ends. You stared at them. They reflected the light in a way that seemed unnatural. Were they weapons? Tools? Something else entirely? You had seen others use them earlier, moving them in precise motions, bringing food to their mouths. They were meant for eating. But why? Why not just use hands? Your gaze flickered to Vanilla, who was watching you with that same gentle expression. She glanced at the small creature still clutched in your hands, then back to you. Something in her face softened, as if she were remembering something distant, something fond. Meanwhile, Cream placed a napkin in front of you as well. A silent invitation. Cheese let out a happy chirp, fluttering down to settle beside Cream's spot. The table was set. Everything was ready. You were tired. The weight of the day pressed against you, the sheer amount of newness threatening to swallow you whole. But here, in this moment, with the warmth of the meal filling the air and the soft creature resting in your lap, you felt something else, too. Not quite belonging. But not quite alone, either.

A plate was placed in front of you, filled with steaming food, and you didn't know how to eat it.

The objects before you—the smooth, curved bowl, the long, thin tool with its rounded end—felt alien in your hands. You hesitated, watching the other two for guidance. Cream, eager and confident, scooped up a spoonful of the steaming mixture and blew on it, her small cheeks puffing slightly before she took a bite. Vanilla, ever gentle, followed suit, lifting her spoon with practiced ease and taking a slow, deliberate sip. You studied their movements carefully, then clumsily attempted to mimic them. The spoon was cool and metallic, its weight unfamiliar. You grasped it awkwardly, the wrong way at first, adjusting until it rested more naturally in your hand. Following Cream's lead, you dipped it into the bowl, the thick liquid filling the curve of the spoon. Carefully, you raised it to your lips, exhaling softly as the others had done. The heat brushed against your face, carrying an unfamiliar yet enticing aroma—earthy, savory, and rich with something you couldn't name.Then, you took your first sip. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Warmth spread through your mouth, the thick, flavorful liquid coating your tongue in a way you hadn't expected. The flavors were complex, layered—sweetness from the soft orange pieces, a slight bitterness from the scattered green flecks, a deep, meaty richness binding it all together. It wasn't unpleasant. Just... different. You chewed slowly, dissecting each sensation, each taste. Was this what food was supposed to be like? Not just sustenance, but something... more tasteful? Across the table, Cream and Vanilla were watching you, their faces filled with quiet encouragement. You swallowed, the warmth traveling down to settle in your stomach, and slowly, you nodded. A small, hesitant smile crossed your lips.

Cream beamed. Relief settled into your chest. You could do this. You could learn.

The meal continued in a comfortable quiet, punctuated by Cream's lively chatter. She spoke of adventures—of high-speed races and daring rescues, of Sonic and Tails, of places that sounded impossibly vast and thrilling. Her voice was filled with so much energy, so much life, and Vanilla listened with a soft, knowing smile, occasionally adding a comment or question. Their words wove together effortlessly, filling the space with warmth. You listened, fascinated, but silent. You wanted to join in. You wanted to share. But the words—the right words—never came. They hovered just out of reach, refusing to form.And yet, as you sat there, warm and full, bathed in the glow of soft candlelight and moonbeams filtering through the window, you felt something unfamiliar settle over you.

..

...

"Come with me, dear," Vanilla said softly, her voice as gentle as the evening breeze. She guided you down the quiet hallway, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath your hesitant steps. The warmth of the house wrapped around you, but still, a small part of you remained tense, uncertain.

Cream was already nestled in her own room, her soft, rhythmic snores barely audible behind the closed door. Cheese rested beside her, a tiny, peaceful bundle of fluff. The steady rise and fall of their breathing filled the space with an unfamiliar serenity. Vanilla stopped at the doorway of another room and gestured inside.

"This will be your room for the night," she said, her smile reassuring.

You stepped forward cautiously. The space was smaller than Tails's workshop, but there was something about it—something different. It wasn't just a room. It felt like it had been made for someone. For a person to stay. A bed dominated the centre, draped in a quilt covered in mismatched floral patterns, the blues and greens blending together like rippling water. You hesitated before lowering yourself onto it. The fabric shifted beneath you, and then—softness. A strange, unfamiliar sensation. The mattress cradled your weight, neither too firm nor too yielding, a balance you never knew existed. It wasn't like the hard ground, the cold metal, the rough surfaces you had grown accustomed to. It held you. Accepted you.

You slowly leaned back, sinking further into its embrace.

A small window was cracked open, allowing the cool night air to slip in. The fabric—delicate, sheer things—fluttered slightly, casting shifting shadows along the walls. The scent of something fresh drifted in with the breeze. Grass? Flowers? You weren't sure, but it was pleasant in a way you couldn't quite explain. Beside the bed, a small table held an object that glowed faintly, casting warm light into the room. You turned toward it, eyes narrowing in curiosity. It wasn't fire. It wasn't a star. But it pushed back the darkness just the same. Your gaze lowered to the other objects resting beside it. Thin, rectangular shapes stacked neatly together, their spines covered in delicate, faded patterns. You reached out, running your fingers along them. The texture was smooth yet worn, as if they had been touched many times before.

"What are these?" you almost wanted to ask, but no words left your lips.

Vanilla, as if sensing your silent curiosity, gave a knowing smile. "Stories," she said simply.

You looked at them again. Stories. They were inside these objects? Trapped within the pages, waiting to be discovered? You had never thought of stories as something that could be held. Kept.

A quiet fascination settled over you.

"Rest well, dear," Vanilla whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet room. "We'll see you in the morning."

She pulled the quilt up to your shoulders, a final act of care that left an unfamiliar warmth lingering in your chest. You watched her move toward the door, the soft shuffle of her steps blending with the gentle creak of the wooden floor. As she left, the door clicked shut behind her, sealing you in this strange, quiet space. You lay still, your body sinking into the unfamiliar softness of the bed. The air was different here—heavy with warmth, filled with scents you didn't fully understand. The gentle hum of the house surrounded you, a constant, almost rhythmic presence. Was it always this quiet at night? No wind howling, no distant whir of machines, no cold metal pressing against your skin. Just the hush of fabric shifting, the whisper of the breeze through the window, and the soft pulse of something living.

This was... home?

You didn't know what that word truly meant. Not yet. Your fingers brushed over the band at your wrist. The cane, once rigid and ever-present, had curled back into it the moment you laid down, retreating as if it, too, understood that you wouldn't need it here. You traced its edges absentmindedly, a silent promise forming in your mind. You have to thank Tails when you're finally able to. For now, though, exhaustion weighed heavy on your limbs. The quilt pressed around you, anchoring you, and for once, you let yourself be still.

You closed your eyes.

And, for the first time in a long time, you slept.

✎ (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) ༉‧ ♡*.✧ ° ♡ • ➵ ✩ ◛ ° ♡*.✧ ° ♡ ° ♡*.✧ ° ♡

Chapter Text

(Warnings: Panic attack?, Wholesome moments!!!)

"Star light, star bright.
The first star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might.
Let someone be by my side."

ฅ^._.^ฅ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Weeks. It had been a couple of weeks since you were freed from your imprisonment. The concept of time still felt strange to you, slipping through your fingers like water, but you had begun to anchor yourself in the rhythm of daily life. Vanilla, Cream, and Cheese had taken you in without hesitation, offering you a place to stay, a home unlike anything you had ever known. It was warm, welcoming, and full of the small, comforting details that made a house feel lived-in. The scent of freshly baked bread in the morning, the sound of Cream's laughter as she played outside, the way Vanilla hummed softly while she worked—these were things you had never experienced before, yet now, you clung to them like a lifeline.

Strangely, none of the others you had met before—Tails, Sonic, or Amy—had visited you, but you didn't mind. There was too much to learn, too much to absorb, and every day was a new experience. The cane and bracelet that once felt like essential extensions of yourself had become more of an afterthought, accessories rather than necessities. You had learned to walk properly, even to jog, your movements growing steadier and more confident. Vanilla had made you new clothes, carefully sewing and knitting each piece to fit you perfectly. You were so grateful that you had insisted on learning from her in return. And so, she became your teacher, guiding you through the basics of reading and writing, arithmetic, and even the delicate art of speech.

At first, speaking had been a struggle. The words felt foreign, heavy on your tongue, and forming even the simplest syllables left you exhausted. But you persisted, practicing every day until the effort of speaking no longer drained you completely. Your voice was quiet, rough with disuse, but it was yours. It was something you had reclaimed. And yet, despite your progress, you still preferred to communicate with gestures and expressions, though your face often remained neutral. Smiling did not come naturally, and Cream had affectionately dubbed you the 'Silent Giant'—a name that stuck, much to your quiet amusement.

Beyond reading and writing, Vanilla had taught you essential life skills—gardening, sewing, cooking, and even basic survival techniques. You learned which plants were safe to eat and which could harm you, how to mend your clothes when they tore, and how to bake bread from scratch. These lessons, though simple, held a profound significance. They gave you independence, a sense of self-sufficiency you had never known before. They gave you purpose.

The overwhelming sensations that had once left you paralysed with wonder had now become things you cherished rather than feared. Your days settled into a routine, a rhythm that felt both new and familiar. Mornings were spent either studying with Vanilla or exercising to regain full control of your body. You enjoyed learning, especially history and biology, though math proved to be more of a challenge. But Vanilla was patient, and she never expected perfection—only effort.

After studying, you always helped with breakfast. Your early attempts had been clumsy, but Vanilla never scolded you. Instead, she guided you gently, teaching you how to properly clean ingredients, how to chop them without cutting yourself, how to measure out spices with care. Even when your work was amateurish, she always expressed her gratitude, as though your mere effort was enough to warm her heart.

Afternoons were spent with Cream and Cheese. Sometimes, you played games, entertaining Cream with your silent yet expressive reactions. Other times, you simply relaxed, reading a book or helping to clean the house. Cream had a way of bringing light into every moment, her energy contagious, her enthusiasm boundless. She would often run up to you, excitedly showing off her newest drawings, or pleading for you to bake something with her. She had become a little sister to you in every way but blood, and though you rarely spoke, you found yourself growing fiercely protective of her.

But not every night was peaceful. There were nights when sleep refused to come, when old memories clawed their way to the surface, wrapping around your throat like unseen hands. Nightmares plagued you, dark and suffocating, leaving you restless and uneasy. At first, your heavy footsteps would wake Vanilla, and she would stay up with you, sitting by the fireplace until you eventually drifted off. But you hated burdening her, so you forced yourself to learn how to move silently. Now, you glided through the house without a sound, your presence unnoticed until you made yourself known.

Vanilla, of course, was not thrilled about this newfound skill. More than once, she had jumped in surprise upon seeing you suddenly standing in the doorway, her hand flying to her chest as she scolded you gently for sneaking up on her. Cream and Cheese, on the other hand, found it endlessly amusing. They had a knack for sensing when you entered a room, always greeting you with excitement, eager to share whatever new thing they had discovered that day.

When you first arrived, the living room felt vast, cluttered, and strange. The furniture, though inviting in shape, seemed alien—too soft, too worn, too full of history that you weren't part of. The patterns on the cushions, the delicate carvings on the coffee table, and the creaking floorboards all spoke of years of life and laughter that had nothing to do with you. The room smelled of lavender and something sweet, like baked goods, but it was almost overwhelming, too rich compared to the sterile emptiness you had known before. You weren't sure where to sit, how to move, or if you even belonged among the delicate trinkets and framed photographs of smiling faces. Everything felt too warm, too alive, and you were simply an outsider looking in.

Now, weeks later, the same room had transformed—or perhaps, you had. The sunlight that streamed through the large window was no longer something blinding and unfamiliar but instead a comforting presence, painting golden streaks across the wooden floor. You had learned the rhythm of the house, the way the light shifted with the hours, how the dust motes danced lazily in the beams. The old armchair in the corner, once just another strange object, had become your favorite spot, its sagging cushions melding to your shape as if it had always been meant for you. The floral-patterned sofa, which once felt too vibrant, too chaotic, now carried a familiar scent of Vanilla's tea and Cream's laughter. The mismatched chairs around the dining table weren't just random anymore; you knew exactly which one creaked when leaned back on and which had the smoothest, most worn-down edges beneath your fingertips.

The small, round coffee table still held its strange little treasures, but now they meant something. The chipped porcelain vase wasn't just an object—it was where Vanilla placed freshly picked wildflowers every few days, sometimes with a sprig of rosemary or lavender. The framed photo of the rabbit family was no longer just a picture, but a reminder of the warmth and kindness you had been welcomed into. And scattered among the books were new additions—small, crinkled drawings given to you by Cream, their edges slightly curled from being carried around. Some were simple, bright scribbles of the four of you, stick figures with oversized ears and tiny hands clasped together. Others were more detailed, Cream's careful attempt at drawing you with your ever-present cane and bracelet, standing tall like a gentle giant.

The house hadn't changed, not really. But you had. And now, when you sat in the living room, with the scent of dinner drifting in from the kitchen and the distant laughter of Cream echoing through the halls, it no longer felt like a space you were intruding upon. It felt like home.

When you first arrived, the guest room felt foreign, almost like a space borrowed rather than given. The walls, painted in soft pastel hues, seemed distant and impersonal, as though they belonged to someone else's story, not yours. The bed, with its floral patchwork quilt in blues and greens, looked inviting but unfamiliar—too soft, too pristine, too untouched by your presence. The mattress, firm yet gentle, cradled your weary body, but in those first nights, it did little to ease the restlessness clawing at your mind. The lace curtains fluttered softly with the evening breeze, but instead of comfort, they reminded you of how little you understood this world. The scent of lavender and freshly cut grass drifted in, but it wasn't familiar—it was new, strange, almost overwhelming. The bedside table, with its small lamp and neatly stacked storybooks, felt like a relic from a life that had never been yours. The room wasn't unwelcoming—it simply wasn't home. Not yet.

But now, after weeks spent under this roof, the space has transformed—or rather, your perception of it has. The pastel walls no longer seem distant but soothing, their muted tones a quiet embrace at the end of the day. The bed, once unfamiliar, has molded to you, the quilt no longer just a covering but a cocoon of warmth, smelling faintly of fresh linen and the comforting presence of a home well-lived in. The window, once a frame for an unknown world, is now a gateway to the familiar sights and sounds of the land beyond—the rustling of trees, the distant chirping of crickets, the occasional hoot of an owl. The breeze carries not just the scent of lavender, but the reassuring aroma of Vanilla's evening tea, a scent you've come to associate with safety.

The bedside table, once just another piece of furniture, now holds more than books—it holds memories. A few sketches from Cream, carefully placed next to the lamp, their bright colors and playful lines a testament to the bond you've built. A small, stuffed rabbit sits beside them, its once unfamiliar presence now a silent guardian of your dreams. The books, once mere objects, now hold stories you've begun to understand, worlds you've started to explore.

This is no longer just a guest room. It is a space that belongs to you now, one that has embraced you as much as you have embraced it. It is no longer a borrowed corner of someone else's home. It is yours.

When you first stepped into the kitchen, it felt overwhelming. There were too many scents, too many unfamiliar tools hanging from the walls, too many things you didn't understand. The warmth of the room was different from the rest of the house—not just from the stove that flickered with life, but from the way it seemed lived-in, touched by years of love and care. The wooden cabinets, a deep honey color, stood tall against the walls, their handles worn from years of use. A stone countertop stretched along the room, cluttered with small jars of herbs, neatly stacked dishes, and a small ceramic teapot that always seemed to be warm. At first, the steady hum of the kettle and the soft clinking of utensils had been just another unfamiliar sound in an already overwhelming world. The smells—rosemary, thyme, fresh bread—had been so strong they nearly drowned you, leaving you frozen in place as Vanilla and Cream moved effortlessly through the space.

Now, the kitchen has become a place of comfort. The once-intimidating tools now make sense, their purposes no longer a mystery. Your hands have learned the weight of the wooden rolling pin, the proper grip of a knife, the patience needed to knead dough. The spice jars, which once seemed like confusing trinkets, are now familiar friends—you can distinguish the sharpness of basil from the earthiness of oregano with just a whiff. The scent of fresh herbs doesn't overwhelm you anymore; instead, it welcomes you, a promise of warmth and nourishment. There is something deeply comforting about the way the kitchen always smells like something good is about to be made. The flickering light above the stove, the rhythmic chopping sounds, and the soft hum of Vanilla as she works—it all creates a space that feels like the heart of the home.

At first, the dining room was just another extension of the house—a place to sit and eat, nothing more. The sturdy oak table, large enough to seat six, seemed far too big for just the three of you. The mismatched chairs, some painted in faded blues and greens, gave the space a patchwork feel, like it had been built over time rather than designed all at once. The soft glow of a hanging lantern cast shadows against the walls, making the space feel quieter than it actually was. And then, there was the grandfather clock.

It stood tall against the far wall, its deep mahogany wood polished smooth, its brass pendulum swinging in a steady, measured rhythm. The first time you saw it, the constant ticking made you uneasy—too rhythmic, too precise, as if time itself was watching you. The chime that rang out every hour startled you at first, breaking the quiet with its deep, resonant tone.

But now, the clock is no longer unsettling. The steady ticking has become part of the room's comforting rhythm, a sound you barely notice until you realize how much you've come to rely on it. It marks the passing of the day, the gentle chime at noon signaling lunchtime, the deeper evening chimes signaling the winding down of the night. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, you find yourself watching the slow, measured swing of the pendulum, letting its steady motion calm your thoughts.

Over time, the dining room became more than just a place to eat. It became a space of laughter and warmth, where Cream told you endless stories about her adventures, where Vanilla gently corrected your posture when you slouched too much, where the clinking of spoons against ceramic bowls became a soothing rhythm of daily life. The scratches on the tabletop—marks from past meals, from hurried handwriting, from years of use—are no longer just imperfections but proof of life well-lived. The chairs, though mismatched, are now part of the charm, each one holding a different memory.

The first time you saw the garden, it was overwhelming in a different way. It stretched far beyond what you expected, rows upon rows of plants, their leaves rustling in the wind. It wasn't a simple garden—it was a thriving world of its own. Stalks of corn stood tall like sentinels, their golden tassels swaying gently. Neat patches of carrots, tomatoes, and potatoes nestled in rich, dark soil. Vibrant berry bushes lined the edges of the yard, their branches heavy with the weight of ripening fruit. Flowers—some familiar, some unknown—grew in carefully maintained sections, their petals stretching toward the sunlight. At first, it was just too much. Too many plants, too many colors, too many things you didn't know how to care for. The dirt felt foreign beneath your fingers, and you hesitated to touch anything, afraid you'd break it.

But now, the garden feels like an extension of yourself. You know which leaves to check for pests, which plants need extra water, which ones will bloom best under the morning sun. Your hands have learned the patience of gardening—how to gently pluck weeds without harming the roots, how to tell when a vegetable is ready to be harvested. The scents of fresh basil and blooming chamomile no longer feel like strangers but like old friends, greeting you every time you step outside.

The medicinal flowers—lavender, chamomile, echinacea—grow in a separate bed, carefully tended by Vanilla's hands. She's taught you their uses, how to dry them, how to turn them into teas and salves. You've watched her press petals between old pages, preserving their beauty for later.

And beyond the garden, at the edge of the backyard, stood a massive tree—one that had fascinated you from the start. Its thick, sprawling branches stretched high into the sky, its bark rough beneath your fingertips. At first, climbing it had seemed impossible. You weren't used to moving your body in such a way, weren't used to trusting your strength. But Cream, with all her energy and enthusiasm, had insisted on teaching you.

The first few attempts were clumsy. Your hands slipped against the bark, your footing unsure. But Cream was patient, demonstrating the proper way to find footholds, how to test a branch's strength before putting weight on it. Slowly, you got better. Your hands found their grip, your legs learned how to push off from the trunk. The first time you managed to pull yourself onto a sturdy branch, Cream had cheered so loudly that Cheese startled and nearly fell from his own perch.

Now, climbing the tree is second nature. When the afternoons grow warm, you sometimes find yourself perched among the branches, looking out over the vast stretch of the backyard. The leaves whisper around you, the breeze carrying the scent of ripening fruit and tilled earth. From up there, the world feels different—smaller, more peaceful. You can see the entirety of the garden, the careful arrangement of vegetable patches, the neat rows of herbs, the little path that winds toward the house. And sometimes, you stay up there long enough to hear the distant chime of the grandfather clock inside, a reminder that time is still moving, but for once, you don't feel like you need to rush.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

It was a quiet afternoon when Cream ran up to you, her tiny hands clutching a sheet of paper. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she thrust it into your hands. "I made this for you!" she chirped, bouncing on her heels.

You carefully unfolded the paper, revealing a crayon drawing filled with bright, happy colors. It was a picture of the two of you—Cream standing next to you, holding your hand, her other hand clutching Cheese, who was floating nearby. You were drawn much taller, a towering figure with a simple, blocky shape, but she had carefully colored in your clothing, even adding the little details like the stitches Vanilla had sewn onto your shirt. Above your heads, in uneven, wobbly handwriting, were the words:

"Me and my big friend!"

You stared at the drawing for a long moment, feeling something warm bloom in your chest. No one had ever drawn something for you before. You weren't even sure how to respond.

Cream tilted her head. "Do you like it?"

You nodded slowly, tracing your fingers over the crayon marks. Then, hesitantly, you raised your free hand and gently ruffled her ears. She let out a giggle, beaming up at you.

From then on, she kept giving you more drawings. Some were of you baking together, some of you climbing trees, and others were just little doodles of flowers and stars. You kept every single one.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

It had started as a simple game—Cream had been trying to reach something on the top shelf in the living room, standing on her tiptoes with her little arms stretching as far as they could go. You had watched her struggle for a moment before stepping forward.

Wordlessly, you crouched down, gesturing for her to hold on. She blinked in surprise before a wide smile spread across her face. "Really?!" she gasped.

With a small nod, you placed your hands under her arms and easily lifted her onto your shoulders. She let out a delighted squeal, holding onto your head for balance.

"Whoa! You're so tall!" she giggled, swinging her feet lightly. She grabbed the book she had been reaching for and clutched it to her chest. But instead of asking to be put down right away, she patted your head. "This is fun! You're like my own giant jungle gym!"

From then on, it became a regular thing. Sometimes, she'd run up to you and excitedly ask for a "sky ride," and you'd lift her up without hesitation. Other times, when she was tired, she'd quietly lean against your side, and you'd instinctively kneel down so she could climb onto your back.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

One evening, Vanilla had stepped out to run an errand, leaving you and Cream in charge of baking. The plan was simple: make cookies. But the moment Cream took control of the flour, things got... messy.

She had meant to pour it gently into the bowl, but her little hands weren't quite steady enough. The bag tilted too far, and before either of you could react, a cloud of white powder exploded into the air.

You coughed, now dusted in flour from head to toe. Cream gasped, staring at you with wide eyes before bursting into uncontrollable giggles.

"You—you look like a snowman!" she wheezed, clutching her stomach.

You blinked, then slowly reached for the bag of flour. Without a word, you dipped your fingers into it and lightly tapped the top of her head, leaving behind a small puff of white.

Her giggles doubled.

By the time Vanilla returned, she found the two of you covered in flour, laughing so hard that Cheese was spinning around in confused amusement. You thought she might scold you both, but instead, she just sighed with a fond smile and handed you both a broom.

That night, the cookies still turned out delicious, and Cream swore they tasted better because they were made with laughter.

⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰❣⊱⊷⋇

One night, long after the house had gone quiet, you woke to the sound of tiny footsteps padding toward your room. The door creaked open, and you turned your head to see Cream standing there, clutching her stuffed rabbit close to her chest.

Her ears drooped, and her eyes were watery. "I had a bad dream," she whispered.

You weren't sure what to say, but you didn't need to. Instead, you shifted slightly, patting the edge of your bed. Without hesitation, she climbed up, curling into a little ball beside you.

"I dreamed you disappeared," she murmured. "Like you weren't here anymore."

You hesitated before reaching out and gently patting her head, just like she always seemed to like. She sniffled but gave you a small smile, inching closer.

"You're still here," she whispered sleepily. "So it's okay."

She dozed off against your side, and for the first time in a long while, you realized how much you truly meant to her.

☾⋆｡° ☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆⋆｡°

It had been a long day. Your limbs felt heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and your body ached in a way you couldn't quite describe. It wasn't from exhaustion, not entirely—it was something deeper, like the weight of something just beyond your reach pressing down on you.

You sat at the kitchen table, staring at your hands as they rested on the smooth wooden surface. The evening air was warm, the scent of chamomile and honey drifting through the house as Vanilla moved about quietly.

You didn't notice her approach until you felt it.

A soft, warm touch.

Her hands—gentle but firm—settled on your shoulders, kneading the tense muscles with practiced ease. It wasn't invasive or unexpected, just... natural. Like she had done this before. Like it was second nature to her.

"You've been pushing yourself too hard, dear," she murmured, her voice as soothing as a lullaby. "You need to rest."

You blinked slowly, surprised by how much the tension melted away under her touch. It wasn't a memory that surfaced, not really, but there was something familiar about it—something in the way she knew exactly where to press, where to soothe.

The rhythmic motion of her hands, the quiet hum she let slip as she worked, the warmth radiating from her presence—it wrapped around you like a cocoon, safe and grounding.

You didn't realize you had closed your eyes until she stopped. A quiet exhale left your lips, your shoulders lighter than before.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ᐢᗜᐢ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ✰  

It had been gradual. At first, you barely noticed the changes—small shifts in the way your limbs moved, the way your skin settled, the way your reflection in the mirror no longer unsettled you.

When you first arrived, there had been something off about you, something that made even the kindest eyes linger a little too long, searching for an explanation. Your proportions had been just slightly wrong—your limbs too stiff, your face too smooth, your movements caught in that strange space between natural and artificial. A spectre of something not quite whole.

But now, after weeks of healing, of learning, of simply existing in this new life, you were... complete.

Your once eerily smooth skin now had the subtle imperfections of real life—tiny creases at your knuckles, the faintest hint of freckles dusting your shoulders. The stiffness in your movements had given way to fluidity, muscle and sinew working in quiet harmony. Your hands, once too precise in their gestures, now carried the small, natural tremors of life.

Yet, despite all these changes, one thing remained.

The black gradient on your arms.

It started at your fingertips, an inky darkness that bled into your skin, slowly fading as it reached your elbows. No amount of scrubbing could wash it away, no amount of time could dull it. The first time Cream had noticed it, she had grabbed a damp cloth and, with all the determination of a child on a mission, tried to clean it off, only to blink up at you in confusion when it didn't budge.

Vanilla had simply hummed in thought, brushing her fingers over the gradient with a gentleness that made you shiver. "It's a part of you," she had said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And perhaps it was.

At first, you had worried—was this a mark of something unnatural? Something unfinished? But as the days passed, no one treated it as anything strange. Cream traced little patterns on your arms as she sat beside you, chattering away about her day. Cheese nuzzled against them without hesitation. Vanilla simply acknowledged it and moved on.

So, eventually, you did too...

...

..

.

Now, as you stood in front of the mirror, the person staring back at you was no longer an uncanny imitation of life. You were whole. You were you.

The black gradient remained, but it was no longer a question—it was simply an answer you hadn't found yet. And for now, that was okay. You pulled on a cozy outfit for the day—something simple, something warm. Vanilla had made it for you, a soft, long-sleeved sweater in a gentle shade of deep green, one that reminded you of the forest outside after a fresh rain. It fit just right, slightly loose, but not too much, the fabric thick enough to ward off the morning chill. The sleeves were just long enough to brush against your knuckles, and when you curled your fingers slightly, you could tug them over your hands like a makeshift pair of mittens. It was comforting.

Paired with it were a set of dark brown pants, fitted enough to stay in place but flexible enough to let you move freely, a necessity given how active your days had become. The fabric was sturdy yet soft, worn in just the right places from Vanilla's careful sewing. On your feet, you wore thick wool socks, a gift from Cream after she'd excitedly learned how to knit little patterns into the fabric. They were a mix of light and dark brown, the uneven stitches giving them a handmade charm. And your hair up in a messy bun so it was out of you way.

It was the kind of outfit that made you feel home.

With a quiet sigh of contentment, you made your way to the living room, the familiar scent of lavender and chamomile lingering in the air. The house was quiet save for the soft, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the dining room, the slow and steady heartbeat of the home.

You settled into your favorite spot—the old, faded armchair nestled in the corner near the window, the cushions soft from years of use. The warmth of the morning sun streamed through the glass, pooling onto the wooden floor in golden streaks, stretching out like lazy fingers. It was peaceful, the kind of stillness that felt alive rather than empty.

Reaching for the small bookshelf beside the chair, you ran your fingers along the spines, feeling the slight ridges of embossed titles, the worn edges of well-loved pages. You eventually pulled out one of your favorites, a book about adventure and discovery, one Vanilla had recommended to you early on. You were curled up in the living room, a thick book resting on your lap as your eyes scanned the pages. Across from you, Vanilla sat in her favorite armchair, knitting away at what looked like a soft, pastel-colored blanket. The steady rhythm of her needles clicking together filled the otherwise quiet space.

Cream was out for the day, spending time with a group called the Chaotix. You hadn't met them yet, but from what she had told you, they sounded... energetic. The house felt a little emptier without her usual chatter, but the quiet was comforting in its own way.

A sudden knock at the door broke the peaceful atmosphere. At first, it was a polite tap, but as a few seconds passed, the knocking grew more impatient.

"I'll get it," you murmured, closing the book and rising from your seat.

Vanilla gave you a nod of acknowledgment, her hands never pausing in their steady, practiced motions. You walked toward the door, each step measured and even—something that wouldn't have been possible weeks ago. No more leaning on a cane, no more slow, uncertain movements.

The moment you pulled the door open, a familiar voice rang out.

"Oh, Vanilla! Okay, so you are here—"

Sonic's words cut off abruptly. His expression shifted from casual impatience to pure, unfiltered surprise. His ears twitched, his bright green eyes widened, and his stance stiffened as if he had just seen a ghost. His gaze flickered over you, taking in every change—your posture, your clothes, the way you stood without support, even the way your hair was pulled into a loose, messy bun.

He had been expecting something different. Someone different.

The air between you hung still for a beat too long. You held eye contact with him, and for once, he wasn't the one with the upper hand in speed. He blinked, mouth opening slightly before he caught himself, his hands still frozen mid-gesture from whatever point he had been about to make.

Finally, his shoulders eased, his hands curling into relaxed fists at his sides.

"Whoa," he finally said, exhaling a short breath. "You... really changed."

There was no mistaking the flicker of disbelief in his eyes. Not in a bad way—just in a way that told you he was seeing you for the first time, really seeing you, in a way he hadn't before.

You weren't sure what to say to that. Instead, you simply nodded, a small, quiet confirmation.

Behind you, Vanilla's knitting needles slowed.

"Sonic?"

Your voice came out low, rough around the edges—probably because you hadn't spoken yet this morning. You tried to soften it, but the slight rasp remained.

Sonic's ears twitched, and his head snapped back toward you. His expression shifted from surprise to something warmer—pride, maybe.

"You can talk?" he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice was quick, but there was a spark in his eyes, like he was genuinely proud of you. Maybe it was because he and Tails were the ones who had freed you, the ones who had first brought you into this world. Some part of him must have felt responsible for you.

But there wasn't time for dwelling on that. He rubbed the back of his head, looking almost nervous before shaking it off.

"Anyway, no time for chit-chat! I gotta tell Vanilla something real quick, and then you and me? We're running to Tails' place. Hope you still remember the way!"

Before you could respond, he brushed past you, moving so fast that the wind from his motion sent a stray wisp of hair loose from your bun. You barely had time to process what he'd said before the front door clicked shut behind you.

Wait.

You were leaving? Just like that?

Your stomach twisted as you turned, the sudden movement making your head spin. Your hand came up instinctively to your forehead as you blinked, trying to steady yourself. Your shoulders slumped.

You had to leave? But you had just... you had finally found a home.

He left you here, and now he was coming back for you like you were some task that had been put on hold? Like some object to be retrieved?

A heat simmered low in your chest, something unfamiliar yet unmistakable. Anger. It was an emotion you barely understood, one you hadn't felt in so long. But before you could fully grasp it, before you could figure out what to do with it, it slipped away like sand between your fingers.

Instead, you just sighed, shutting the door with a quiet click before making your way into the living room.

"—and he found a clue about them, but he's not sure yet," Sonic was saying as you entered. "Said he needed to do a full-body check-up first."

There was something more to it—you could tell by the way he avoided looking in your direction. But he wasn't going to repeat himself.

Vanilla's gaze met yours. Her hands had stilled over her knitting, and there was a somber understanding in her expression. She nodded, not questioning, not protesting.

Just accepting.

Like she knew this moment would come. "Looks like your visit's over, Sugar," Vanilla said softly, her voice warm but tinged with sadness.

That nickname still made your ears burn with embarrassment. A reminder of last week's kitchen disaster—when you had mixed up salt and sugar, dumping way too much of the latter into the food. The memory made your shoulders slump slightly as you trudged over to where Sonic stood in the middle of the living room, his presence feeling like a storm cloud about to whisk you away.

"I'm just sad Cream isn't here to say goodbye," Vanilla continued, her tone carrying a hopeful lilt. "But promise us you'll visit?"

You didn't trust yourself to speak. Instead, you just nodded, stepping forward to gently take her hands in yours. You squeezed them softly, trying to convey what you couldn't say out loud—that you didn't want to leave. That she, Cream, and Cheese had brought a warmth into your heart that you hadn't known you were missing. That the past few weeks had been the most alive you had ever felt.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, summoning as much courage as you could to keep your emotions from spilling over.

Vanilla smiled that familiar, motherly smile—the one you adored, the one that made you feel safe.

"Then you'd better get going before I start crying," she said, giving your hands one last squeeze before letting go. Then, with a more firm tone, she added, "Make sure you grab your things first. Alright, Sugar?"

You nodded again and turned toward your room—the guest room. No, your room.

Inside, you grabbed the black book bag Vanilla had given you—a small, thoughtful gift that had meant more to you than she probably realized. She had gone out shopping just for you.

Moving quickly, you packed extra clothes, a few well-worn books, and, after a moment of hesitation, the soft rabbit plushie Cream had gifted you. Your fingers brushed over its ears before tucking it safely into the bag.

Taking one last look around the room, you breathed in the faint scent of lavender from the bedsheets, the lingering warmth of the space that had become yours.

When you stepped back into the living room, Sonic was already by the door, saying his goodbyes to Vanilla. He wasn't his usual whirlwind of energy—his movements were quieter, more respectful. Maybe he understood, in his own way, that this place wasn't just a house to you.

Vanilla stood by the open door, her warm smile unwavering. Waiting.

"Take care, you two," Vanilla said softly, her voice warm yet carrying that quiet weight of farewell.

You gave her a final nod before turning away, the door clicking shut behind you. Sonic had already taken the lead, his pace naturally brisk, while you trailed behind, the soft jingling of your bracelet accompanying each step. You glanced down at it, the silver and saffron band glinting in the light. At least now, you could finally thank Tails.

The path ahead was peaceful. You crossed a babbling brook, the water sparkling under the sunlight, and stepped into the open meadow. The sky stretched above you, a perfect shade of blue—so open, so vast. You remembered the first time you had seen the sky so clearly, how it had felt like an impossible dream.

Sonic, however, felt... different. Before, he had been friendly—maybe a little pushy, but still warm. Now, something was off. He wasn't cold, but there was a distance, something unsaid between you both.

You shook the thought away and pressed forward.

It wasn't long before a familiar house came into view. Sonic reached the garage first, pulling the door open with ease and stepping inside. You followed a minute later, eyes adjusting to the dimmer lighting as he spread his arms out dramatically.

"Welcome back," he grinned.

Your gaze flickered around the space, taking everything in. Down on the ground floor stood Amy and Tails, deep in conversation. But what caught your eye was the figure above them, sitting on the upper level—a bat.

She was stunning.

Her fur—white as freshly fallen snow—stood in contrast to the deep, rich color of her wings, a striking shade of dark purple. Large ears, even bigger than Tails's, twitched slightly as she stared at you with piercing turquoise-green eyes, framed by long, elegant lashes. She was the first person you had ever seen with fangs, the sharp points glimmering subtly under the light.

And then there was her outfit.

A sleek black bodysuit hugged her frame, strapless with a low-cut heart-shaped chest plate in a soft pink hue, outlined delicately with white trim. It was eye-catching, stylish—undeniably bold. The silk-like fabric of her long white gloves shimmered faintly as she shifted, and her thigh-high boots, accented with pink cuffs and metallic heart embellishments, gave the distinct impression that they were steel-toed. Everything about her appearance was polished, deliberate. She carried herself with an effortless confidence.

You quickly averted your gaze, shifting instead to Tails and Amy.

Then, her voice, smooth and laced with amusement, drifted from above.

"Took you long enough, blue blur."

Your eyes snapped back up to her, catching the way her lips curled into a knowing smile. Something about it made you uneasy, though you couldn't place why.

Instinctively, you tightened your grip on the strap of your bookbag.

"Don't say that about Sonic."

Amy shot back almost immediately; her voice sharp with disapproval. The batmerely rolled her eyes, clearly unbothered. The two locked eyes, a silent challenge sparking between them. Meanwhile, Sonic let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders sagging. He didn't pout, but the irritation was obvious in the way his ears twitched. He didn't need Amy to fight for his honor.

Before the tension could escalate, Tails cleared his throat. It wasn't loud, but it was enough to redirect everyone's attention. He stood his ground, his twin tails flicking slightly behind him, clearly bracing himself for what he was about to say.

"So, I've theorized what it could be," he began, his voice confident. "Thanks to Rouge's help."

He shot the bat a grateful smile, to which the bat simply smirked—Rouge, you now knew—, looking entirely too pleased with herself as she peered down at you.

Sonic, however, blinked, clearly not satisfied with that answer.

"Okay, wait—so, so, so—" He gestured wildly between you and the others. "You don't have a concrete idea of what they are?"

You stood there, shifting your weight slightly as Sonic waved his hands around. His energy was overwhelming, almost frantic. You instinctively leaned back, your face remaining neutral, though your fingers subconsciously tightened around the strap of your bookbag.

Tails let out a sharp exhale through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly. His tails swayed behind him as he fidgeted with his hands, clearly restraining his annoyance.

"Yes..." he admitted, dragging the word out. Then, before Sonic could interrupt again, he quickly added, "But let me explain myself first."

He shot a pointed look at his best friend before pulling out a small, circular device.

With a quiet hum, a projection flickered to life, bathing the room in a soft, blue glow. The light reflected in your wide eyes as the image sharpened—a floating hologram of a gem, its edges shimmering faintly.

Tails inhaled, preparing to explain, but he barely got a word out before noticing your reaction.

You had stepped forward, drawn to the hologram as if by instinct. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached out to touch it—only for your fingers to pass right through. Of course. It was just light, just an image. But still, something about it felt... familiar.

Your lips pressed into a thin line, brows furrowing slightly.

A quiet snicker from Rouge broke the silence, but you paid her no mind, too fixated on the glowing gem before you.

"As I was saying..." Tails continued, regaining his composure. "The gemstone appears to have been a religious artifact, used in spiritual mediums. It's older than any historical records I've been able to find. Most references to it were destroyed—burned—because it didn't align with common beliefs. It was deemed inhumane, unnatural."

He paused, ears twitching slightly before he added, "Some called it the Devil's Flower—"

"Others named it after the camellia," Rouge interjected smoothly, cutting off Tails mid-sentence. He jumped slightly, shooting her an annoyed glare, but she only chuckled behind her hand, clearly enjoying herself. "Because, no matter how it was found, it was always crystallized, mirroring the shape of the flower."

Tails exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to keep his frustration in check. He turned back to the projection, adjusting the settings on his device.

"And yours..." His voice softened, the tone shifting as the image flickered. The hologram morphed from the perfectly intact gemstone to a much smaller, fractured shard. "Yours was nothing but a sliver—a piece barely holding itself together. It looked like crystallized sugar."

The moment he finished speaking, the image changed again, reconstructing the gemstone to its full form.

The transformation was seamless, yet something about it unsettled you immediately. The flower-like structure was massive—too large, too detailed, too eerily familiar.

Your body reacted before your mind could process why.

You stumbled back, feet shuffling against the floor as you instinctively put distance between yourself and the projection. The strap of your bag was gripped so tightly in your hands that your knuckles turned white. You didn't know why. You couldn't explain the sudden wave of unease crawling up your spine.

The room fell silent.

Everyone's eyes were on you—confused, cautious. Just moments ago, you had moved toward the gem, fascinated. Now, you were backing away like it had burned you.

Something was wrong.

And for the first time, you weren't sure if you wanted to know what.

"They were said to have been broken down and used for centuries because of the chaotic energy they held. Melted down and repurposed as accessories or warding gems against spirits," Rouge added, effortlessly hopping off the ledge. She hovered for a moment before landing beside Amy, her heels clicking against the wooden floor. She carried herself with an air of confidence, hand resting on her hip as her turquoise-green eyes studied you with intrigue.

Amy, on the other hand, looked at you with something much softer—concern, maybe even sympathy. She was really trying to understand, to help in whatever way she could.

"So," Rouge continued, tilting her head slightly, "either there are more pieces of you out there, or this is the only you, and you were trapped inside the gem—"

Her words blurred into the background. Your breath hitched. The hologram of the crystallized flower loomed before you, its shape too familiar, too haunting. The edges of the room seemed to stretch, warping and pulling away like an optical illusion, distant voices fading into static. Your fingers clenched around the strap of your bag, knuckles turning white as a cold, sinking dread spread through you.

It was irrational. It was instinct.

You couldn't look away from the projection, even though every nerve in your body screamed at you to do just that.

Then—

A hand brushed against yours.

You flinched violently, stumbling back a step, breath coming out in a sharp, uneven gasp. Blinking rapidly, the room snapped back into place, the overwhelming sensation fading just enough for you to regain your bearings.

Amy stood in front of you, her pink-gloved hand hovering slightly, as if hesitant to reach for you again. Her eyes searched yours, worry evident in her expression.

"Are you okay?" Amy's voice was barely above a whisper, muffled to your ears as if you were underwater. As your vision sharpened, you could make out the concern etched across her face—her brows furrowed, her eyes filled with worry, lips pressed into a sorrowful grimace.

"I'm fine." The words scraped out of your throat, brittle and almost inaudible.

Amy blinked, startled. Was that really your voice? It sounded so hoarse, so small—yet you stood taller than all of them.

Tails had long since stopped his explanation, quietly shutting off the hologram the moment Amy stepped toward you. Now, only the warm morning sunlight filled the room, casting long shadows across the floor. Three pairs of eyes lingered on you, their concern weighing heavy in the air.

You couldn't find it in you to say anything else. The silence pressed against your chest, thick and suffocating. You turned away, hoping to escape their stares, but something wet trailed down your face.

Frowning, you wiped beneath your eyes with the back of your hand.

Tears.

You never cried. Not really. Maybe when you were first freed, but after that? Every day had been filled with curiosity, warmth, the thrill of rediscovery. Never... whatever this was.

Your heart pounded violently against your ribs, breaths coming too fast, too uneven. You tried to slow them down, tried to push past the tightness clawing at your throat, but it was like fighting against a current you didn't know how to swim through.

You wanted to be in Vanilla's arms so badly right now.

Amy didn't say anything. She didn't need to. The quiet patience in her expression, the gentle understanding in her eyes—it was enough to tether you, at least for the moment.

The silence stretched between you all, thick and heavy, like the early morning fog still lingering outside. The golden light of dawn filtered through the windows, soft and hazy, casting long streaks across the wooden floor. The air smelled faintly of coffee and engine oil, familiar scents mixing into something grounding. But you barely noticed.

Your breaths were shallow, uneven, your chest rising and falling in quick, unsteady motions. The remnants of sleep still clung to your mind, making everything feel just a little too surreal. You wiped at your face again, rubbing harder this time, as if you could erase the tears before anyone else noticed them. But you weren't fast enough. They had already seen.

Amy shifted closer, her hand lifting slightly, hesitating before reaching for yours again. The warmth of her concern radiated off of her, but as soon as you noticed, your body tensed. Your fingers curled into the strap of your bag, and you took a small, instinctive step back. She stopped mid-motion, her face flickering with something unreadable before she slowly lowered her hand. She didn't look hurt—just... understanding.

Tails, ever the thoughtful one, quietly shuffled away for a moment and returned with a glass of water. The condensation beaded on the surface, catching the morning light as he held it out to you without a word. His eyes were filled with that careful, measured patience of his. He wasn't pushing, just offering. But you didn't move. You weren't sure you could. The glass trembled slightly in his grasp before he placed it down on a nearby table, like he understood that you wouldn't be taking it just yet.

Then, Sonic, who had been standing there, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he was trying to hold himself back, finally broke the silence.

"Whew, tough crowd," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head before giving a weak chuckle. "Y'know, if I had known we were gonna have a staring contest, I would've at least brought breakfast."

No one laughed.

Rouge raised a single eyebrow. Amy shot him a glare. Tails let out a quiet sigh.

Sonic cleared his throat. "Okay, yeah, that one flopped," he admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose before looking at you again. His usual easygoing confidence was still there, but it was softer now. A little more careful.

You wanted to say something—to push past the weight in your chest, to stop feeling like the room was pressing in on you. But the words wouldn't come.

And so, the silence settled again. But this time, it didn't feel as suffocating.

"So, um... gem creature—"

Amy started, but the moment the words left her mouth, something in you snapped.

"Y/N. Y/N, please."

The name came out sharper than you meant it to, a little too loud, a little too desperate. Amy flinched at the force of it, her ears lowering slightly as she blinked in surprise.

You hadn't realized how much tension had built up in your body until you let go of the bookbag strap, your fingers aching from how tightly you'd been gripping it. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to steady your breathing, your eyes flicking between them with something close to a plea.

That name—it was yours. You had chosen it. You had spent weeks under Vanilla's gentle care, Cream's endless curiosity, letting yourself grow into it. It was yours in a way that nothing else in your existence had ever been. And yet, even now, people were still trying to define you by something else. Something you didn't even understand.

Amy's expression softened almost immediately. "Ah—Y/N. Right."

Hearing someone else say it made something inside you relax, just a little.

"So," she continued, her voice gentler this time, "maybe we should slow down a bit instead of throwing all of this at them at once. It... it doesn't look like it brought up good memories in... you?"

There was hesitation at the end, like she wasn't sure if that was the right way to phrase it. You just nodded, too drained to pick apart why the words felt both right and wrong at the same time. The relief was almost overwhelming, your shoulders sagging as the tension slowly drained from you. You still didn't know why the sight of that crystallized flower shook you so badly, but the fear was real.

Tails took the opportunity to clear his throat, trying to bring things back to a more structured conversation. "Right, so. Our plan was to run some scans and head out to see if anything else gives off the same energy as you or... as the tar, to check if there are more shards of... you."

He gestured vaguely, as if trying to encompass everything in the room.

You stiffened at the thought. More shards? More pieces? But you were fine. You were here. You were whole—weren't you?

Your hands clenched at your sides.

You had read before that sometimes it was better to live in bliss than to know the truth.

And right now, you weren't sure which one you wanted.

"I don't comply."

The words left your mouth simply, plainly. Soft, but firm. Unwavering.

Sonic and Tails blinked at you, their confusion almost synchronized. "What?" they echoed in unison.

Amy, however, didn't react with shock or frustration. Instead, she nodded, her expression gentle. Understanding.

She knew where you were coming from.

She had seen the way Cream spoke about you, how you were slowly discovering the world and yourself. You weren't just some puzzle to be solved, a mystery to be unraveled. You were growing into a person, piece by piece, from nothing. And that was more important than whatever answers they thought they might find.

"I understand," Amy said softly, clasping her hands over her dress. Her voice was reassuring, steady. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Your eyes flicked to her, startled by her acceptance. You had expected arguments, protests—maybe even frustration. How dare you take away their chance to know? But in Amy's eyes, there was no resentment. No demand. Only patience.

"It's your choice," she continued, "you don't owe anyone explanations."

A quiet moment settled over the room. Sonic shifted uncomfortably, looking between you and Tails before finally speaking.

"But... but Tails has been working on this for weeks!" His voice held something close to desperation, hands gesturing wildly between you and the fox. "He's so close to figuring this out!"

Tails, who had been silent up until now, looked down at his tools, ears slightly drooped. He didn't argue, but the disappointment was clear in his face.

You hesitated, heart twisting. You did appreciate everything they had done for you. But this wasn't about them.

"And I respect that." Your voice was steady, but softer now. "And I'm so thankful for your help, Tails. But... I need to understand me before I can understand my past."

The words felt heavy, lingering in the air. It was the longest sentence you had spoken yet, but by the time you reached the end of it, your voice wavered, barely above a croak.

You flinched at the sound. It wasn't you. It didn't feel like you.

A deep discomfort settled in your chest as your throat burned, dry and tight. Your hand instinctively brushed at your neck.

Amy noticed immediately. She moved forward slightly, reaching a hand out, but you shrank away from her touch before she could make contact.

She stopped, lowering her hand, not pushing.

And as you stood there, heart still racing, you let out a slow, shaky breath.

For now, that was enough.

"How about you guys take a break? And I'll be taking my leave."

Rouge's voice was casual, punctuated by a shrug of her hand. She had gotten what she came for—confirmation, nothing more. Whatever reaction you had to the hologram, it was clear you wouldn't be offering any more answers, at least not yet. And Rouge? She had other matters to attend to, things more pressing than lingering in someone else's crisis.

Her heels clicked sharply against the floorboards, then onto the concrete outside as she stepped past the garage door. With a graceful push, she lifted off into the air, the morning sun catching the shimmer of her wings.

Just like that, she was gone.

The others muttered soft goodbyes, but their focus was already shifting back to you.

You, however, were still looking up at the sky.

That endless blue stretched above you, deep and inviting. Something about it called to you—not in words, not in thoughts, but in a quiet, distant pull.

For a moment, you listened.

The sound was faint, like a whisper in the wind, a voice carried just beyond your reach. It was familiar in a way you couldn't place, something you had always looked to, always searched for.

Then, with a slow blink, you turned your head away.

It was probably just the breeze.

Tails cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot before finally speaking up.

"Why don't you take a break in the guest room? You've had... a lot thrown at you today," he suggested, his voice careful, like he was trying not to spook you.

You glanced at him before nodding, your body moving on autopilot as you followed him into his house. Tails led you down the hall and up the stairs, his twin tails swishing behind him. The walk was quiet, save for the faint hum of machines from his workshop and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. You kept your gaze ahead, but as you turned the corner, your chest tightened.

The guest room.

The moment you stepped inside, the familiarity struck you like a wave. This was where you had first woken up—confused, weak, and barely understanding the world around you. The memory lingered in the air, thick and heavy.

Then, the room had felt too big, too unfamiliar. The bed had been stiff beneath you, the quilt scratchy against your skin. The scent of oil and metal had clung to the air, carried in from Tails' workshop. The dresser had been bare, the desk empty, and the photos lining the walls had been nothing more than distant, unrecognizable faces. You had stared at them for what felt like hours, trying to place them in your fragmented thoughts, but nothing had come. Even the light filtering through the curtains had seemed too harsh, casting long, uneasy shadows that stretched across the floor.

But now...

Now, the room had softened. The red-prune curtains diffused the morning sun into something warm, welcoming. The bed—still the same—felt familiar rather than foreign, the quilt no longer itchy but comforting beneath your fingertips. The air smelled lighter, fresher, like wood and faint traces of vanilla, no longer just metal and machinery. The pictures on the wall weren't just strangers anymore. You recognized faces. Sonic, Tails, Amy. Even Rouge, caught mid-smirk in one of them.

It wasn't home. But it wasn't a stranger's space anymore, either.

You hesitated before stepping forward, the wooden floor cool against your feet. The weight of your bag felt heavier than before as you finally let go of the strap and set it down on the bed, the soft thud grounding you.

You turned to Tails. He stood near the door, watching you carefully, his ears flicking slightly as he waited for your reaction.

You gave him a look. One that said, Okay. Now what?

Tails shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as you set your bag down on the bed. The room feels smaller than you remember—less vast, less unknown, but not necessarily safer. It's familiar now, lived in, but still... distant.

You glance around, comparing it to the first time you woke up here. Back then, everything had felt impossibly large, as though the walls stretched on forever, the ceiling too high, the floor too cold. It wasn't that the room had changed—no, it was you. You were different now. The space no longer felt like a cage, a place to wake up to confusion and a body that barely listened to you. But it still wasn't yours.

Tails clears his throat. "I, uh, I know this is a lot," he starts, rubbing the back of his head. His voice has that careful edge to it, like he's choosing each word as he says it, afraid of setting something off. "If you want, I could go over the data again? Maybe there's a way to help you understand—"

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a tightness settling in your chest. That isn't what you need.

Tails catches himself mid-sentence, his ears flicking back. His tails curl slightly behind him, the usual swaying slowed down, like he's hesitating. "Or—uh—I mean, I could just... sit here? If you want?"

You watch him for a moment, the way his hands shift at his sides, the way his eyes flick to you and away again like he isn't sure if he's helping or making things worse. He's trying. He's always trying, isn't he?

Your shoulders relax just slightly as you lower your gaze, your wrist brushing against the bracelet still wrapped around it. The soft chime of the metal reminds you that it's there—that it's yours. That someone gave it to you not out of obligation, but because they wanted to help.

"Thank you," you say, your voice quieter than before but clearer, more certain. "For everything. The clothes, the bed, the food... even this." You lift your wrist slightly to show the bracelet.

Tails blinks, caught off guard by the gratitude. He stares at you for a moment, then quickly shakes his head, a small, bashful smile tugging at his lips. "Oh—uh—yeah! Of course." He rubs his arm, looking to the side as his ears flick forward again. "You don't have to thank me, really, but... I'm glad it helped."

He seems relieved. Maybe even a little proud.

The room is quiet for a few breaths, the soft hum of morning settling around you. There's still so much to process, still too many unanswered questions lingering between you both. But right now, it's enough.

For now, this moment is enough.

ﾟ･:,｡★＼(^-^)♪ありがと♪( ^-^)/★,｡･:･ﾟ

(Sorry if things repeated in this chapter! I speedran it and its like 4am right now and I leave at 7 am for school haha...  Hope you enjoyed it :D)

Chapter Text

"You are weird."
"And you are an experience
I'll never forget."

◡̈  ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The silence between you and Tails stretches, lingering in the air like an unspoken question. He shifts his weight awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, his twin tails flicking behind him. It's clear neither of you quite know how to continue after your unexpected moment of gratitude.

"So..." he starts, then immediately falters. His ears twitch, his lips pressing into a thin line as he struggles to find the right words.

You tilt your head, waiting, but nothing follows.

A long pause. Too long.

You glance toward the door, then back at him, and finally at the room itself. The air feels heavier than it should, and you realize that you need to be the one to break it.

"Should we... make breakfast?" The words sound uncertain even to your own ears, but it's better than standing in silence.

Tails blinks at you, surprised, before his ears perk up slightly. "Oh! Uh, yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. We all have to eat, right?" He gives a small, sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his head again as if he's only just now realizing how much time has passed. You nod, grateful that he's taken to the idea so quickly. Without another word, the two of you head toward the kitchen. The house is quieter than before—Rouge has left, and the usual hum of conversation has faded into the background. Tails moves toward the stove, rolling up his sleeves with a determined expression.

"I'll start on pancakes," he announces, then hesitates. "Can you—uh—go get Sonic and Amy?"

You nod, grateful for the excuse to step away.

Finding them isn't difficult. They're still in the garage, deep in a conversation that immediately makes you hesitate in the doorway.

"It's not that I don't get it, Amy," Sonic is saying, his usual playful edge absent. "I know he's busy. I know this is important. But it's like every time we make plans, he cancels. It's always about some new project or some new discovery. I mean, I'm happy for him, but..." He trails off.

Amy sighs, her expression soft. "Sonic... You know Tails. When he gets caught up in something, he forgets everything else. It's not that he doesn't care."

"I know," Sonic mutters, voice barely above a whisper. "But it still sucks."

You shift your weight slightly, unsure if you should interrupt. Before you can decide, Amy catches sight of you from the corner of her eye.

"Oh! Hey, Y/N."

Sonic straightens up instantly, the tension in his shoulders shifting as he quickly masks whatever vulnerability was there. He offers you a smirk, but there's something a little forced about it. "Yo. Didn't see you there."

You hesitate, then simply say, "Breakfast."

Amy tilts her head. "Huh?"

"Tails is making breakfast," you clarify, pointing toward the kitchen. "You should come."

Sonic blinks, then lets out a small laugh. "Hah. Yeah, alright. Guess I am kinda starving."

Amy smiles, nodding. "That sounds nice."

As they follow you back inside, Sonic nudges Amy lightly. "You know, you could've made breakfast too."

Amy flips her hair dramatically. "Like you'd survive my cooking."

Sonic mock-shudders. "Fair point."

The kitchen is warm and filled with the comforting scent of batter and vanilla. Tails is already focused on the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. The sound of sizzling butter fills the room, blending with the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Amy grabs plates from the cabinet, setting the table while you help with the silverware. Sonic leans against the counter, watching Tails with a smirk. "Look at you, little bro. Didn't know you had it in you."

Tails scoffs. "You've eaten my food before, Sonic."

"Yeah, but those were, like, emergency meals. This actually smells edible."

Tails rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. You take a moment to appreciate the scene—the way Amy hums softly to herself as she places down forks and knives, how Sonic taps his fingers against the counter in an absent rhythm, the way Tails moves with effortless focus as he flips another pancake. It's a moment of quiet normalcy, the kind you've come to treasure.

"Can you pass the syrup?" Amy asks, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You nod, reaching for the glass bottle and sliding it toward her. She thanks you with a smile before drizzling a generous amount over her plate. Sonic, impatient as ever, snatches the bottle next, pouring far more than necessary onto his stack of pancakes.

"You're gonna drown them," Tails remarks, raising an eyebrow.

Sonic grins around a mouthful of food. "That's the point."

The kitchen, once filled with the comforting aroma of pancakes and syrup, has fallen into an unsettling silence.

Tails, having finished cooking, now sits stiffly at the table, staring at his plate as if the pattern on it is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Sonic stabs at his pancakes with uncharacteristic focus. Amy, usually the one to keep the conversation flowing, seems to be waiting for someone else to say something.

But no one does.

It's weird.

And you? You're just... there.

Sitting at the table, caught in the middle of whatever unspoken dynamic is at play, it becomes painfully obvious that they have no idea what to do with you.

Should they include you in the conversation? Start a new one? Ask what you want to do? It's as if your presence has thrown off the natural rhythm between them, leaving an awkward void no one knows how to fill.

Amy clears her throat. "So..."

Sonic glances up, as if expecting her to continue. She doesn't.

Tails shifts in his seat, pushing a piece of pancake around his plate. "Uh..."

The silence stretches again. Longer this time.

You glance between them, gripping your fork a little tighter. Are you supposed to say something? Should you just eat and pretend you don't notice how weird this is?

Sonic finally exhales through his nose and leans back. "Alright, this is getting kinda weird."

Tails frowns. "It wasn't weird until you said that."

Sonic gives him a look. "No, it was definitely weird before I said that."

Amy groans, dropping her fork onto her plate with a clatter. "Okay, no. I refuse to sit in this energy for another second."

Both Sonic and Tails look at her, confused.

Amy turns to you suddenly, eyes lighting up with an idea. "Girls' day. You and me. Right now."

You blink. "What?"

"You heard me!" Amy gestures vaguely in the air, as if pulling the idea from nothing. "Shopping, cafés, the spa—I don't care, we're doing something. Anything. Right now."

Tails tilts his head. "Where did that come from?"

Amy shoots him a pointed look. "Desperation."

Sonic snickers. "Wow."

Amy waves him off before looking back at you. "Come on, Y/N. You in?"

You hesitate. This is happening fast, but considering how uncomfortable breakfast has been, an escape doesn't sound like the worst idea.

"...What kind of shopping?"

Amy grins. "Whatever kind you want! Clothes, home stuff, or we can just wander until something catches our eye. Oh! And we're absolutely stopping at that new café with the fancy pastries."

Sonic makes a face. "Ugh, you're dragging them into one of those trips?"

Amy smirks. "You jealous?"

"As if." Sonic crosses his arms. "I just feel bad for them."

Amy shrugs. "They'll survive."

You glance at Tails, who still looks vaguely lost, then at Sonic, who seems content to let the awkwardness sit.

Yeah. This isn't getting any better.

You sigh, setting your fork down. "Alright, let's go."

Amy beams, practically yanking you out of your chair before you can change your mind.

As you head for the door, you catch Tails and Sonic exchanging a look—something between relief and uncertainty. Even as you leave, you get the feeling the awkwardness still lingers in the room behind you.

You glance around as you walk, taking in Tails' home with fresh eyes. When you first were inside, everything had been a blur—shapes without detail, spaces without meaning. But now, in the few seconds you have before following Amy out the door, things come into focus.

Framed photos sit neatly on the wall in the living room, some tilted slightly, as if they'd been picked up and placed back down more than once. Some are old, edges worn with time, showing Tails with Sonic, sometimes with others. One catches your attention—Cream and Vanilla visiting, smiling sweetly at the camera.

The room itself is cozy, lived-in. Books stacked on a table, a half-finished project pushed to the side, blankets folded over the couch's armrest. It's different from the warmth of Cream and Vanilla's home, where the air is always filled with the scent of tea and something baking in the oven. Here, it's quieter. Emptier. You realize, suddenly, that you miss them.

A quick step behind Amy, and you push the thought away.

The air outside is cool, fresh, and you take a slow breath as you follow her lead. You don't have a destination in mind, but Amy does—her steps are confident, determined. She isn't just walking; she's taking you somewhere.

She glances back at you, flashing a grin. "Hope you're ready, Y/N. We're gonna have fun today."

You nod, because what else can you do? You still don't know why she insisted on bringing you along, but anything is better than staying in that kitchen, drowning in the heavy, unspoken tension between all of you. Amy leads the way through the open plains, her pace steady but unhurried. The grass sways gently under the breeze, rippling like waves beneath the vast sky. The air smells crisp and clean, tinged with the faint scent of wildflowers. You take it all in—the softness of the dirt path beneath your shoes, the distant chirping of birds, the way the horizon stretches endlessly before you.

You've been in places like this before, though never quite this far.

Then the plains give way to the beach. The moment your feet touch the sand, your steps slow. The ocean expands endlessly before you, the waves rolling in and out with a rhythm you've never heard this closely before. The salty scent in the air is new, sharper than the sweet scents of home. You glance down, watching how the sand shifts beneath your weight, how your shoes leave faint impressions behind. The water glistens under the sunlight, and for a second, you just... watch.

Amy notices.

She stops a few steps ahead, tilting her head at you with a knowing smile. "First time seeing the ocean up close?"

You nod, your gaze still fixed on the waves.

She chuckles. "It's nice, huh? I love coming out here, but I don't think I've ever really stopped to just look at it like that." She pauses, then grins. "We should come back sometime when we're not on a mission to go shopping."

You blink, processing her words, then nod again.

Amy watches you for a moment longer before motioning for you to follow. "Come on, Y/N. You're gonna want to save some of that awe for what's next."

And she's right.

Because when the sand gives way to pavement and the quiet sounds of nature are replaced by something much bigger, your breath catches.

The city is massive.

Buildings stretch upward, towering over the streets, their windows reflecting the sky. Signs in bright colors and bold letters blink and flash, some shifting images, others displaying words too fast for you to catch all at once. The streets are alive with movement—Mobians and humans alike walking, talking, laughing, moving with purpose. Cars pass by, their engines humming, tires rolling smoothly over the road. Somewhere in the distance, music plays, blending into the constant murmur of life.

You stare at everything.

Every sound, every sight, every scent—it all hits at once. The scent of fresh bread drifts from a bakery, only to be interrupted by the smell of something fried from a nearby food cart. The faint hint of exhaust lingers in the air, yet it's not unpleasant, just different.

Some things you recognize, tucked away in your memory from the textbooks Vanilla had you read. The architecture, the types of businesses, the way streets connect—on paper, you know them. But seeing them in motion, existing beyond words and images, is something else entirely.

Amy glances back, and when she sees your expression, her grin widens.

"Pretty crazy, huh?" she says, stepping beside you.

You don't respond immediately, still absorbing everything. Eventually, you nod.

Amy lets out a small laugh. "You look like you just walked into another world. Which, I guess, kinda makes sense."

You don't disagree.

She nudges you playfully. "Come on. We haven't even started shopping yet."

You follow, but your eyes keep darting around, capturing every detail, every moment, as if afraid you'll forget. Because for the first time, you're seeing a world you never imagined you'd step into.

And it's incredible. You follow Amy closely, but your attention is everywhere else. Your head tilts up at the towering buildings, eyes scanning the flashing signs, the shifting crowds, the endless motion of the city. Everything feels alive, more than you ever expected.

Amy, on the other hand, is watching you.

She's heard a lot about you from Cream—how you don't talk much, how you mostly communicate through gestures, how your expression rarely changes. And now, seeing it firsthand, she realizes just how true it is.

Still, that doesn't mean she won't try.

"So," she starts, glancing at you with a smile. "Pretty different from what you're used to, huh?"

You nod, eyes still darting to something else—a street performer flipping a coin between his fingers, the blinking lights of an arcade, a vendor stacking colorful fruits into neat piles.

Amy chuckles to herself. Okay, not much of a talker. Got it.

But she doesn't mind. If anything, it makes her more determined to pull you into the moment.

"Well, get ready," she says, leading the way with a confident stride. "Because I know exactly where we're going next."

You glance at her as she turns a corner—and then you see it.

A giant mall.

The building stretches upward, sleek glass windows reflecting the sky. Massive banners hang near the entrance, advertising stores and upcoming sales. Mobians and humans alike filter in and out of the automatic doors, their voices mixing in an endless chatter of excitement. From where you stand, you can already see multiple floors inside, lined with shops, food stalls, and kiosks filled with everything imaginable.

Amy stops just ahead of you, placing a hand on her hip. "Welcome to shopping paradise." She throws you a grin. "I hope you're ready, Y/N, 'cause we're about to have fun."

You blink at her, then turn back to the mall. The sheer size of it is overwhelming.

Amy laughs, grabbing your wrist and gently tugging you forward. "Come on, trust me! I'll make sure you have the best first shopping experience ever!"

And just like that, you're being pulled inside—into the chaos, the colors, the energy of something completely new.

The moment you step inside, the world shifts again.

The air is thick with the mingling scents of perfume, fresh fabric, warm pretzels, and something sugary you can't quite place. The chatter of countless voices surrounds you, overlapping with the beeping of registers, the rustle of shopping bags, the occasional burst of laughter. Every sound, every scent, every movement presses in, filling every corner of your awareness.

It's overwhelming.

But Amy is still holding onto your wrist.

Her grip is firm but not forceful—just enough to keep you close, to make sure you don't get lost in the crowd. She's focused, leading you through the sea of people, her presence grounding despite the chaos.

Then you notice it.

The stares.

You don't like them.

Not from the Mobians—they barely spare you a glance—but from the humans. Their eyes linger a second too long, scanning you with quiet curiosity, confusion. You're the same height as them, you look human, but their gazes catch on your arms.

On the black gradient staining your skin like ink.

It's not something they've seen before. Not on a human, at least.

A few whisper to each other, a few eyes narrow slightly, and some don't bother hiding their amusement. A quiet snicker from a passing group makes your fingers twitch. Instinctively, you tug your sleeves down, covering the gradient, hoping it will make them stop.

Amy notices.

She doesn't say anything at first, but her grip on your wrist tightens just slightly—protective. Then, without breaking stride, she turns her head and glares at the ones who dared to laugh.

It's sharp, full of warning, and enough to make them shut up immediately.

You don't look at her, but you feel it—the way she steps a little closer, the way her movements grow more purposeful, leading you toward a store like she has something to prove.

If she's mad, she doesn't say it.

Instead, she simply huffs and mutters, "Some people are so rude."

And with that, she pulls you into the next store, making sure you don't have time to dwell on it any longer.

Time passes in a blur of stores, racks of clothing, endless shelves of books, and accessories sparkling under bright display lights.

Amy does most of the talking—asking you questions, making little comments, occasionally holding something up to see if it catches your interest. You rarely respond verbally, but she doesn't seem to mind. She's observant, picking up on the small things—what you pause to look at, what you subtly shift away from. She takes note of it all, piecing together what you like and dislike without needing words.

At first, you're just letting yourself be pulled along. But slowly—very slowly—you start to warm up to her.

It's not that you suddenly open up, but you stop resisting as much. You let her drag you from one store to the next without hesitation. You don't tense when she holds your wrist anymore. You even start to subtly guide her in a direction whenever something catches your eye—not for yourself, but for Cream and Vanilla.

A soft plush toy that reminds you of Cream. A delicate teacup set that seems like something Vanilla would love.

You don't say anything, just a slight tug on Amy's sleeve, a small nod toward the item in question.

She notices immediately. And without a second thought, she picks it up, smiles at you, and says, "Good choice."

Of course, she insists on paying. You don't argue. You didn't have any money anyways.

Amy leads you into another store, and immediately, you can tell this one is different.

The moment you step inside, the noise of the mall fades into a comfortable hum, replaced by soft, calming music drifting from hidden speakers. The air carries a faint scent of fresh linen and lavender, mixed with the light fragrance of new fabric. The lighting is warm, golden instead of harsh, casting a soft glow over the space. Everything about it feels inviting, a quiet retreat from the chaos outside.

Unlike the flashy, high-energy stores you passed before, this one has a charm that makes you hesitate—not out of discomfort, but something else. The walls are lined with subtle floral wallpaper, delicate but not overwhelming, and wooden shelves hold neatly folded sweaters and scarves in every shade imaginable. Racks of clothing are arranged thoughtfully, spaced apart so nothing feels cramped. The colors range from deep, rich tones to soft pastels, each fabric looking softer than the last.

There are small seating areas near full-length mirrors, with plush chairs that look as if they're meant for resting rather than just waiting. A few tables display carefully arranged accessories—woven hats, elegant gloves, finely stitched handbags, and even small trinkets that seem decorative rather than practical.

Amy lets out a delighted sigh. "Now this is a good store."

She finally releases your wrist, confident you won't suddenly vanish, and immediately starts browsing. She moves with ease, trailing her fingers over the fabrics, appreciating the textures, the craftsmanship, the tiny details in each piece. She hums as she flips through hangers, occasionally holding up an outfit and tilting her head before moving on.

You, however, hesitate.

There are so many choices.

Your eyes drift from one section to the next—rows of dresses in soft, flowing fabrics, jackets with carefully sewn patterns, scarves so light they barely feel real. You don't know where to start.

Amy notices.

She turns to you with an easy smile, already holding a handful of clothes over her arm. "C'mon, Y/N. Let's find something you like."

You don't respond, but your fingers twitch slightly at your sides. You aren't used to picking out things for yourself—not like this. You've always chosen things with purpose, practicality. But this? This feels... different.

Amy doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she starts pulling pieces from the racks, holding them up one by one as if testing to see if anything catches your interest.

"How about this? Too bright?" She holds up a yellow sweater, then immediately shakes her head. "Yeah, too bright. What about this one?" She swaps it out for a dark blue hoodie, giving you a considering look.

Your fingers brush against the fabric. It's soft. Comfortable.

You don't say anything, but you don't step away either.

Amy grins. "Okay, we're making progress."

She drapes the hoodie over her arm and keeps looking. You watch as she picks through different outfits, effortlessly finding things that match in color or style. She's good at this, you realize—not just picking out clothes, but reading you, figuring out what you might like without you having to say a word.

You aren't sure how long you stand there, watching her work. But after a while, you find yourself moving closer, eyes lingering on certain pieces longer than before. A deep green jacket. A simple black turtleneck. A scarf with intricate embroidery.

Amy notices every time.

She doesn't comment, doesn't push—just quietly adds them to her growing pile.

The pile of clothes in Amy's arms grows steadily, a mix of things she likes and things you hesitated on just long enough for her to notice. She's careful, though—she never forces anything on you, never insists you have to try something. She just watches, waiting for any flicker of interest before setting the item aside with an approving nod. You're not sure why you're letting this happen. Normally, you'd avoid drawing attention to yourself, avoid making choices for yourself like this. But Amy's energy is difficult to resist—she makes it feel less like shopping and more like some strange, unspoken game where the rules don't overwhelm you. Eventually, she stops in front of the fitting rooms, balancing her collection of clothes like a carefully stacked tower. "Alright, Y/N, time to see what works."

You stare at her, then at the fitting rooms. You hadn't considered that part.

Amy seems to catch your hesitation because she shifts her weight, giving you a thoughtful look. "You don't have to try everything on," she says, her voice softer now, less playful. "But at least see if you like how they feel."

It's reasonable. Logical. And yet, you still hesitate. Amy, however, doesn't push. Instead, she turns toward one of the store employees, a tall feline Mobian who has been folding scarves nearby. "Excuse me! Can we leave some things at the counter? We're still deciding!"

The employee nods, giving a polite smile as she takes most of the pile from Amy, setting it aside for when you're ready. Amy then turns back to you, holding only a single item—the hoodie. The dark blue one you had barely touched but hadn't pulled away from. She doesn't say anything, just extends it toward you with a small, knowing smile. You take it. The fabric is just as soft as you remembered. Holding it now, away from the overwhelming sea of choices, it feels... different. Less like just another item in a store, more like something that could be yours.

Amy crosses her arms, clearly trying not to look too pleased with herself. "Baby steps," she says with a grin.

You don't respond, but you don't give the hoodie back, either.

Instead, you glance toward the scarves you had seen earlier. The ones with the embroidered details that reminded you of something Vanilla would like.

Amy follows your gaze instantly. "Ohhh, those are nice," she agrees, stepping over to them. "Wanna pick one out for Vanilla?"

That's all the permission you need. You step forward, hands brushing over the delicate fabric as you search for the perfect one.

Amy watches with a satisfied smile. Amy hums softly to herself as she flips through a rack of dresses, clearly enjoying every second of this shopping trip. You linger nearby, still absorbing the atmosphere, your fingers absently smoothing over the hoodie in your arms.

The store is peaceful, a soft contrast to the overwhelming mall outside. The music plays gently overhead, and the scent of fabric and lavender still lingers. It's... nice.

You glance at Amy as she holds up a dress against herself, tilting her head in thought. She looks so at ease here, in her element. She enjoys this—finding things, matching outfits, trying on different styles.

A quiet thought settles in your mind.

You step away.

Amy is too focused to notice at first, but you slip through the store, moving between racks with newfound purpose. Before, everything felt like too much. Too many choices, too many textures, too many things to consider. But now, with Amy's energy keeping you anchored, it doesn't feel so heavy.

So you search.

Not for yourself.

For her.

It takes a while, longer than you expected. You're careful, your fingers ghosting over different fabrics, considering the colors, the details, the small things you've started to pick up about Amy. She likes bright colors, but not too flashy. She likes skirts, but ones she can move in. She likes things that match, things with personality, things that feel fun.

When you finally find something, it feels right.

A two-piece outfit—a soft pink cropped jacket with delicate white accents and a matching pleated skirt. It's stylish, something that fits Amy's confident energy while still being comfortable. You hesitate for only a moment before picking it up, feeling the weight of the fabric in your hands.

You turn back toward the fitting rooms.

Amy is still there, standing near the mirrors, inspecting one of the outfits she had picked for herself. She hasn't noticed your absence—not until you quietly step forward and extend the outfit toward her.

She blinks, startled.

Then her eyes widen. "Wait... this is for me?"

You nod. Amy takes the outfit, turning it over in her hands. You shift slightly, unsure what to do now, but then she looks up at you, and something warm flickers in her expression.

She smiles. Not her usual energetic grin, but something softer.

"Thanks, Y/N."

You nod again, but this time, you quietly respond. "...It looks like you."

Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but Amy hears it. She hears you.

For a moment, she just stares, as if processing the fact that you actually spoke. But then she beams, clutching the outfit close. "Alright, now I have to try this on!" Without another word, she dashes into the fitting room, excitement practically radiating off of her.

You stand outside, hands slipping into your sleeves.

You're not sure why, but something about this moment makes your chest feel a little lighter. Maybe this is how friendships start.

...

..

.

The food court is overwhelming. (It was lunch time)

Not just because of the sheer number of people—though there are so many of them, moving between stalls, talking over trays of food—but because of the smells. Thick, layered, clashing together in the air. Some are familiar, things you recall from the textbooks Vanilla had you read. Others are entirely foreign, rich spices, sizzling oil, the sharp tang of something grilled. It's a lot to take in at once.

You shift your weight slightly, adjusting your grip on the shopping bags in your arms. Your stomach twists—not necessarily from hunger, but from uncertainty.

Amy, walking just ahead, notices your hesitation immediately. She turns back, her brows knitting together in concern. "Hey, you alright?"

You nod, but your eyes keep scanning the space, trying to piece everything together.

Amy follows your gaze, then nods in understanding. "Yeah, I get it. It's a lot, huh?" She places a hand on her hip, taking another look around. "But don't worry, we'll figure something out! We just gotta find something you'd like."

You hesitate, shifting the bags again. "There's... too many options," you admit, your voice soft but steady.

Amy grins. "Right? It's almost unfair. But hey, let's make it easier. We'll walk around, and if something smells good to you, we'll stop there. No pressure."

You consider that for a moment before nodding. "That... helps," you say, your voice quiet but genuine.

Amy's smile widens. "Great! Let's get searching."

You follow as she leads you through the food court, weaving effortlessly through the crowds while you try to focus—not on the sheer number of people, not on the weight of the bags, but on the scents.

Some are sharp and strong, too overwhelming to consider. Others are sickly sweet, almost too much. But then—

You slow your pace.

Something savory. Warm. A rich, comforting scent that makes your stomach finally remember it's empty.

Amy notices right away. "Oh? Did something catch your attention?"

You nod slightly, turning toward a stall with trays of fresh food lined up behind the counter. Steam rises from neatly portioned dishes—seasoned rice, grilled vegetables, skewers of meat, all arranged in a way that looks both simple and welcoming.

Amy follows your gaze before grinning. "Ooooh, good choice! Looks solid. You've got a good eye, Y/N." She steps forward, already reaching for her wallet. "Alright, my treat. Just tell me what you want."

You glance at the menu, scanning it quickly. Some words you recognize, others you don't. After a moment, you point to a meal with grilled skewers and rice. "That one looks... safe."

Amy chuckles. "Safe is a good place to start." She orders without hesitation, handling the transaction with ease before turning back to you with the tray in hand. "Alright! Let's find a spot."

The two of you settle at a table near the edge of the food court, away from the densest part of the crowd. You let out a quiet exhale as you set the shopping bags down, giving your arms a much-needed break.

Amy takes a sip of her drink before looking at you with a smile. "See? That wasn't so bad, right?"

You don't answer immediately. Instead, you pick up one of the skewers, inspecting it before taking a cautious bite.

It's warm. The flavors settle slowly—savory, slightly smoky, a hint of sweetness underneath. It's... good.

Amy watches expectantly. "Sooo? What's the verdict?"

You chew, swallow, then nod slightly. "It's... nice," you say, the words a little softer than you intended, but Amy's grin stretches even wider.

"Ha! I knew you had good taste!" She leans back, tapping her fingers against the table before nudging one of the shopping bags with her foot. "And hey, you survived shopping with me. That's basically an achievement."

You blink at her, tilting your head slightly. "I never... agreed to shopping." You just went with the flow, wanting to escape the awkwardness of the kitchen...

Amy gasps dramatically, hand to her chest. "You wound me, Y/N! You could've run at any time, but you didn't." She smirks. "Which means you had fun." You huff lightly, looking down at your meal, but there's no real argument to be made. Because... maybe she's right. Maybe today wasn't as overwhelming as you thought it'd be. Maybe, despite everything, you're actually enjoying yourself.

                                    ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

The afternoon sun casts long golden streaks over the rolling plains as you and Amy make your way back. The towering buildings of the city fade into the distance behind you, replaced by the familiar stretch of open fields. The air is fresher here, cleaner, the scents of flowers and earth a stark contrast to the overwhelming mix of smells from the food court.

Amy, as expected, is chatting away, her voice lively as she swings a shopping bag in one hand. "I still can't believe you actually went and picked an outfit for me! And you didn't pick something totally safe, either—I love the color! I think it'll look amazing when I try it on later." She nudges you lightly with her elbow, grinning. "See? You do have an eye for fashion."

You shift the weight of the bags in your arms, glancing over at her. Your voice is soft when you reply. "I just... thought it would suit you."

Amy beams. "Well, you were right! And let's not forget how many gifts you got for Cream and Vanilla." She laughs lightly, shaking her head. "I knew you were close with them, but wow, Y/N! You were so focused whenever you spotted something for them. It was kinda adorable, not gonna lie."

You feel your face heat up slightly, but you keep your expression neutral, looking ahead. "They... deserve nice things."

Amy sighs, smiling. "Yeah. They do. And they're gonna love what you picked for them. I just know it."

The conversation feels light, easy. The kind of normalcy you've slowly started growing accustomed to around Amy. You let the warmth of the afternoon settle in, listening to the soft rustle of the grass beneath your feet, the distant chirping of birds—

And then—

A mechanical whir. A series of clanking, clicking noises.

Amy stops mid-sentence, her body going rigid. You halt beside her, your grip on the shopping bags tightening as an unnatural hum fills the air. It's a sound you don't recognize—one that doesn't belong in the open plains. Slowly, the two of you turn.

There, standing atop a small hill, are Badniks. Metal-plated animal animatronics, their glowing red eyes locked onto you.

Amy's expression hardens immediately. "Oh, come on!" She shifts her stance, already taking out raising her hammer in preparation. "We just had a great day! And now these guys show up?"

Your pulse quickens. You've seen Badniks before, but not like this. These ones aren't just wandering aimlessly, nor are they targeting Amy like they normally would. They're staring directly at you.

Amy notices it too. Her grip on her hammer tightens. "Y/N..." Her voice is quieter now, more serious. "They're looking for you, aren't they?" You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. You don't know why, but something deep in your gut tells you she's right. The lead Badniks lets out a sharp, mechanical screech—before lunging.

Amy doesn't hesitate. You drop the shopping bags. Amy is already moving before you can process the fear gripping your chest.

With a sharp battle cry, she swings her hammer with practiced ease, the sheer force of it sending one of the Badniks flying backward, metal screeching as it crashes into the ground. Other lunges at her, but she sidesteps effortlessly, twirling before slamming her hammer down with enough force to shatter its metal plating. Sparks fly.

You, however, remain frozen.

Your heart pounds. Your hands tremble.

The past few weeks with Cream and Vanilla were peaceful—quiet days of learning, of picking up new skills that helped you survive. You learned how to navigate the forest, how to gather food, how to recognize which plants were useful and which ones weren't. But combat? Fighting? You had never been prepared for this. The Badniks weren't like the animals in the forest. They weren't something you could avoid by staying quiet or hiding in the trees. They were machines, unrelenting and focused, and they were coming straight for you and Amy. One of them rushes forward, metal claws raised. Your breath catches in your throat. Your feet should move, your body should react, but fear holds you in place.

"Y/N, duck!"

Amy's voice breaks through the panic just in time. You drop low instinctively, and within seconds, her hammer swings just above your head, slamming into the attacking Badnik with brutal precision. It crumples, sparks bursting from its body as it crashes to the side, unmoving. Amy doesn't even look at the wreckage—her focus is entirely on you now. She grabs your wrist, pulling you up forcefully. "Are you okay?!"

You can't answer right away. Your throat is tight, your breath shaky. But you force yourself to nod. Her eyes scan you quickly, assessing, before turning toward the remaining Badniks. "Stay behind me!" she orders. "I'll take care of this!"

You don't argue. You can't.

The shopping bags—amazingly—remain unharmed, scattered just a little way behind you. The Badniks don't seem to care about them. They only care about you and Amy.

Amy tightens her grip on her hammer, her stance firm. "Alright, you hunks of scrap," she huffs, narrowing her eyes. "You wanna mess with my shopping trip? You picked the wrong day."

And with that, she charges forward again.

She's fast. You can barely keep up with her movements as she weaves through the attacking machines, her hammer slamming into them with powerful, well-aimed swings. Each strike is precise, fueled by both skill and frustration. She's been through battles before—she knows exactly what she's doing.

You, on the other hand, can only watch.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, frustration bubbling beneath the fear. You hate feeling this useless. You hate just standing there, doing nothing while she fights for both of you. But what else can you do?

Your mind races. Think, Y/N. Think.

You glance at the battlefield, at the scattered debris from the already-destroyed Badniks. At Amy, holding her own but clearly outnumbered. At the shopping bags still untouched, lying behind you.

And then, something clicks.

You might not know how to fight.

But you know how to move.

And you know how to help.

Taking a deep breath, you scan the area, searching for anything—anything—that might turn the tide in Amy's favor. Tails' house was just ahead. You pushed yourself harder, your legs burning, heart hammering in your chest. The sounds of Amy's battle still echoed behind you, distant but relentless—the clang of metal, the crack of her hammer colliding with Badniks.

You didn't slow down.

Reaching the house, you grabbed the door handle and threw it open, stumbling inside, barely able to catch your breath.

The living room was quiet, the hum of machinery filling the space, the faint scent of oil and metal lingering in the air. For a moment, it was disorienting—too peaceful compared to the chaos outside.

Then movement—Tails, stepping out from his workshop, wiping grease from his gloves.

And Sonic, lounging on the couch, arms behind his head, one foot lazily tapping the air.

Both of them looked up at your sudden entrance.

Sonic was the first to react. He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing at the sight of you, taking in your dishevelled state, the way your chest heaved as you struggled to get words out.

"Yo—Y/N?" His usual laid-back tone was gone, replaced with sharp concern. "What's wrong?"

Tails, now fully alert, took a step forward. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head quickly, still trying to force air into your lungs. You didn't have time to explain—so you didn't. Instead, you lifted a shaky arm and pointed back toward the plains.

Amy.

Sonic's gaze followed your direction for only half a second before he was gone—a blue blur streaking past you, the door slamming from the sheer force of his departure. Tails didn't hesitate either asking you. "Badniks?"

You nodded, still breathless.

"Stay here," Tails ordered, already moving toward the door. But you barely registered his words as he disappeared after Sonic.

Silence filled the house once more.

You stood there, your breathing still uneven, heart still racing, hands shaking slightly. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind exhaustion. Slowly, you let yourself slide down against the wall, sitting on the floor, arms resting limply against your sides.

You closed your eyes for a moment.

You weren't used to this. The rush, the panic—the helplessness. You had spent weeks in the forest with Vanilla, learning how to do things on your own, learning skills to live. But combat? That was different. That was something you had never prepared for.

Amy fought without hesitation. Sonic and Tails didn't even think twice before running into danger.

You had run away.

You swallowed hard, gripping your arms tightly.

Minutes passed. You weren't sure how long. But eventually, the buzzing energy inside you settled just enough for you to move again.

You had to go see.

Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet, legs still a little shaky, but steady enough to move. You stepped outside, the afternoon sun warm on your skin, the wind rustling through the grass.

The fight was over.

Scattered across the field were the remains of the Badniks, their broken metal shells reflecting the sunlight in jagged pieces. Amy stood nearby, dusting herself off, her hammer slung over her shoulder. Sonic had his arms crossed, tapping his foot, while Tails crouched next to one of the fallen machines, his eyes glued to his handheld device as he scanned its remains.

You approached cautiously, stopping beside Tails.

His expression was tense as he read through the data. Then, his brows furrowed.

"...Huh."

Amy, hearing his tone, glanced over. "What is it?"

Tails didn't look up, still focused on the screen. "This Badnik was running on leftover energy from an old command. Not from Eggman, at least not recently."

Sonic raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

Tails exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip on the scanner. Then, in a low voice, he read out the last command the Badnik received.

"FIND THAT CRETIN GEM CREATURE. WE STILL HAVE POWER TO FIND."

A heavy silence followed. You felt something cold settle in your stomach. Sonic's expression darkened. Amy gripped her hammer a little tighter.

Tails finally looked up, meeting your gaze. "...I think they were looking for you."

Amy and Sonic exchanged a look—silent, but filled with understanding. Whatever was going on, it was serious, and neither of them planned on sitting around waiting for more answers to come to them.

Amy turned to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Go ahead and take these back to Tails' place, okay?" she said, nodding toward the shopping bags. "Keep them safe. We'll figure this out."

You hesitated, glancing toward Sonic, who was already stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for a long run. You could tell they weren't just going to look for answers—they were heading straight into whatever trouble was waiting.

But... there wasn't anything you could do, was there? Amy offered you a small, reassuring smile before stepping back. Then, in a blur of pink and blue, they were off.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space they had left behind, gripping the bags a little tighter. The only sound now was the wind rustling through the grass and the faint hum of Tails' scanner as he powered it down.

Tails turned to you, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead. "C'mon, let's get back," he said simply, motioning toward the house. You nodded, adjusting the bags in your arms as you followed him.

The walk back felt longer. The weight of the shopping bags was nothing compared to the weight pressing down in your chest.

When you reached the house, Tails didn't waste any time locking things down. The click of the garage door locking was sharp in the quiet air. He did the same with the front door once you both stepped inside, securing it before turning to you.

"I'll be in the garage," he told you, his expression calm but serious. "I'll monitor the area with my drones. If you need anything, just let me know."

You nodded, though you weren't entirely sure what you would need.

He lingered for a moment, almost like he wanted to say something else, but instead, he just gave a small nod and disappeared into the garage.

And just like that, you were alone.

You stood there in the entryway for a moment before shifting your grip on the bags and making your way down the hall. The guest room—your room now, it seemed—was exactly how you left it. You placed the bags down carefully by the dresser, straightening up and taking a deep breath.

The guest room was small but not cramped, painted in soft pastel hues that once felt impersonal. A floral patchwork quilt in muted blues and greens covered the bed, looking a little too pristine, too untouched. The laced prune curtains by the window filtered the afternoon sun into something warm, welcoming, though the room still carried the scent of outside... Your gaze drifted to the framed photos on the walls—Tails, Amy, Rogue, Sonic and faces you didn't recognize, smiling in frozen moments, a life of adventure and laughter that wasn't yours. They didn't belong here. You didn't belong here. So, one by one, you took them down.

With each frame removed, the walls felt emptier, barren. But you already had a plan. When you returned to Vanilla's house, you'd bring Cream's drawings back with you. Bright, colorful, playful—they belonged here more than these old photos ever did. You stacked the frames neatly in the corner, brushing your fingers against the faint outlines they left behind on the wall.

Then, your attention turned to your black book bag resting on the bed. The only things that were yours. You unzipped it, pulling out the clothes you packed for yourself, the familiar books she had given you, their pages worn from the comfort of rereading. And, tucked at the very bottom, the stuffed rabbit. Its fabric was soft, slightly worn, something that had been with you long enough to hold meaning. You placed it gently on the bed. (Cream gave it to you)

The shopping bags sat beside the empty dresser, still full of the things Amy had helped you pick out. You started organizing them, carefully folding the new clothes and placing them inside. The gifts for Cream and Vanilla were set aside with a bit more care. Slowly, bit by bit, the space felt less like a borrowed room and more like something you could make your own. You left out Amy's bag's untouched but the rest you, you did yourself.

You stepped out of the room, wandering through the house at a slow, thoughtful pace.

The living room was cozy, though at first, it had felt vast and unfamiliar. The furniture—soft, inviting, but holding years of history that had nothing to do with you. The coffee table was cluttered with blueprints and scattered notes, a clear sign of Tails' constant tinkering. A bookshelf lined one of the walls, filled with well-used manuals, a few adventure novels, and mechanical reference guides. The cushions on the couch were slightly misshapen, evidence of how often they were used. The whole space smelled of lavender and something subtly sweet, a lingering trace of past meals.

The hallway was quieter, unassuming. A simple passage leading from one part of the house to another. Nothing stood out immediately, but it was... nice. Lived-in.

Then, there was the kitchen. It was fine—functional, well-stocked, and seemingly organized. But the longer you stood there, the more you noticed.

Dust clung to the corners where the cabinets met the walls. The wooden floors bore faint dirt tracks, likely from Sonic running in and out of the house, too busy to pay attention. The stove, though clean, had stubborn grease stains along the sides, evidence of rushed meals. Spiderwebs hung in the high corners, thin and barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. The whole space wasn't dirty, but it was clear it hadn't been properly cleaned in a long time. Seemingly like he never had the time.

And the second floor?

It was worse.

The air was still up here. The dust wasn't just a light layer—it was thick, undisturbed for far too long. The wooden railings had a dull film over them, and the cobwebs in the corners stretched into full, intricate webs. You passed by Tails' room, clearly marked. You didn't dare enter.

Your own room—the guest room—looked better in comparison. Like it had been cleaned somewhat recently, or at least, prepared for you to use. Your fingers curled slightly as you took in the state of the house.

You had spent weeks in the forest with Vanilla and Cream, learning patience, learning how to take care of things. You had never been taught to clean, but you had learned now. And now, looking at the dust-coated surfaces, the faint grime on the floorboards, the untended mess of a house left to a mind too busy to care for it—

Now, looking at the state of the house, the dust layering over what should have been a warm home, you realized there was something you could do. Near the bathroom, you found a small closet, packed with cleaning supplies—dust rags, a broom, a mop, bottles of cleaning solution lined up neatly but untouched for far too long. You grabbed what you needed, adjusting your grip as you stepped back into the hallway. You didn't have anywhere else to go. You didn't have anything else to do. Cleaning started slow. The dust came off in thin layers at first, clinging stubbornly to the cloth, swirling in the air with every sweep of the broom. The dirt tracks on the wooden floor were harder to remove, but you scrubbed at them until they faded, until only polished wood remained. Every surface—every shelf, every table, every forgotten corner—was wiped down, cleared of its dull grime.

The cobwebs in the ceiling corners came next, brushed away with careful but thorough strokes. The neglected kitchen, with its faint grease stains and dust-lined cabinets, was scoured clean. The dishes were already neatly stacked, but you wiped them down anyway, making sure everything was fresh.

As you worked, the house started to feel... lighter.

Then, at the very back of the house, behind a hallway you hadn't paid much attention to before, you found something unexpected.

A small library.

Tucked away, quiet, untouched.

It wasn't grand or extravagant—just a small room lined with bookshelves, filled with manuals, research journals, adventure stories, and old, well-worn notebooks. The air here was different—less dust, more of that familiar scent of parchment and ink. You hesitated, running your fingers along the spine of a book before pulling back. This wasn't part of the plan. But it was part of the house. So, you cleaned it. You dusted the shelves, wiped down the desk in the corner, and even arranged the stray books that had been left out, making them neat and orderly. It was strange, finding this place, but at the same time, something about it made sense. Of course, Tails would have a space like this—quiet, tucked away, a place where knowledge could settle and grow. (You wanted to sit down and read them)

By the time you stepped back, the entire house felt different.

The wooden floor gleamed under the dim afternoon light, polished smooth from the effort you had put in. The air no longer smelled of dust and metal but instead something fresher, something clean. The space that once felt cluttered and neglected now felt cared for.

You didn't realize how much time had passed until you heard footsteps from the garage.

Tails emerged, rubbing his eyes, he yawned as he stretched his arms over his head, tail flicking lazily—

And then he froze.

His eyes widened slightly as he glanced around, his ears twitching as if trying to pick up on what had changed. His gaze swept over the shining floorboards, the newly dust-free surfaces, the air that no longer held the weight of neglect.

"...Whoa." His reaction was small, but the flinch in his shoulders told you he wasn't expecting this. For a moment, he didn't say anything—just looked. Then, shaking himself out of it, he sniffed the air slightly before turning to you.

"I was gonna make dinner," he said, rubbing the back of his head. His voice was quieter than usual, thoughtful. "Uh—do you... wanna join me?" The way he asked felt almost uncertain, like he wasn't sure if he should, like he wasn't used to asking. You glanced around at your work, then back at him. After a moment, you nodded. A small, relieved smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Your arms ached. Your legs felt heavier than before. The hours spent scrubbing, dusting, and organizing had drained every bit of energy from you, and yet, here you were—standing in the kitchen, watching as Tails rummaged through the cabinets for ingredients.

"You sure you're up for this?" he asked, glancing at you. His voice held a hint of amusement, like he could see how tired you were but wasn't going to push you away if you insisted on staying.

You gave a small nod, stifling a yawn. "I can... help." Your voice was soft, as usual, but now laced with fatigue.

Tails let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Alright, but if you pass out in the mashed potatoes, that's on you."

You rolled up your sleeves—instinctively tugging them down first to hide the black gradient on your arms before pushing them up again. Tails started by pulling out ingredients for something simple—vegetable stir-fry with mashed potatoes. Nothing too complicated, but warm and filling. He moved easily around the kitchen, used to working alone, but he made space for you beside him without hesitation.

"Here," he said, handing you a knife and a cutting board. "Think you can handle chopping the veggies?"

You nodded, taking the knife carefully. Your grip wasn't the steadiest—your fingers felt slightly numb from the hours of scrubbing—but you focused, slowly slicing through a carrot.

Tails worked beside you, tossing potatos into a pot, adjusting the heat, moving with practiced efficiency. The sound of the knife against the cutting board, the bubbling of the water—it was strangely peaceful.

After a few minutes, he glanced over. "You're, uh... taking your time there."

You blinked down at the cutting board. Your slices were uneven, some too thick, some too thin. The exhaustion was slowing you down more than you thought.

Tails huffed out a quiet laugh and nudged your shoulder lightly. "Here, let me." He took the knife from your hand, his movements quicker, more precise. "No offense, but I think we'd be eating breakfast instead of dinner at the rate you were going."

You exhaled, resting your hands against the counter. "I tried."

"You did," he agreed, flashing you a small grin. "And hey, you did just clean my whole house. That kinda makes up for your terrible knife skills."

You gave him a look, and he laughed again before handing you a bowl. "Alright, tired chef, you handle the seasoning. Just toss everything in and mix it up while I finish cooking."

You did as he asked, stirring the vegetables, adding soy sauce, pepper, and a few other things he pointed out. It was simple work, something you could do even with exhaustion weighing on you.

Eventually, everything came together. The potatoes mashed with butters and green onions, the vegetables cooked just right. Tails scooped everything onto two plates before setting them down on the table.

He stretched, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Not bad for two totally exhausted people, huh?"

You sat down, staring at the food for a moment before giving a small nod. "...Smells good."

Tails smirked, taking a bite. "Tastes good too. You gonna eat or just admire it?"

You huffed softly and picked up your fork. The first bite was warm, flavorful, and oddly comforting. Maybe you were exhausted. Maybe your body did ache. But sitting here, sharing a meal in a house that now felt a little more lived in, a little more yours...

It didn't feel so bad.

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ  ✩♬₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ♬₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Chapter Text

"All it took was one night to believe you.

But how many nights for trust."

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

The morning sun filtered gently through the thin curtains, casting warm streaks of gold across the wooden floor. A soft breeze slipped through the slightly ajar window, carrying the faint scent of rosemary and morning dew. The world was quiet, save for the subtle creaks of the old house settling and the rhythmic chirping of distant birds. It was peaceful—a fragile sort of peace, the kind that made you hesitate to move too quickly, as if afraid to shatter the moment.

You moved with the ease of someone accustomed to early mornings, a habit ingrained from the time spent living with Vanilla and Cream. The quiet comfort of dawn had become second nature, a space where reflection found room to breathe. The wooden floor felt cool underfoot, grounding in a way that was both strange and comforting. You made your way to the small kitchen, the soft clinking of plates and utensils breaking the serene silence. There was a certain rhythm to it—the gentle scrape of a butter knife against toasted bread, the faint sizzle of eggs cooking in an old pan. You didn't know why you felt compelled to do this. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the desire to understand normalcy. Whatever it was, it felt right.

The door creaked softly behind you, and you didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Tails stood there, his twin tails flicking lazily as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He blinked a few times, clearly surprised to see breakfast already being prepared.

"You're... making breakfast?" Tails' voice was thick with sleep, a hint of disbelief coloring his words.

You glanced over your shoulder, nodding slightly before returning your attention to the pan. You carefully plated the food, the simple arrangement of toast, eggs, and some sliced fruit looking almost picturesque in the soft morning light. Tails approached the table, curiosity piqued. He pulled out a stool, sitting down with a small huff, still blinking away the remnants of sleep. You joined him shortly after, setting down the plates between you. The quiet was filled with the gentle clinks of cutlery against plates. The warmth of the food contrasted with the cool morning air, creating a cozy bubble around you both. Tails took a cautious bite of the eggs, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

"Hey, this is actually really good," he mumbled around a mouthful, offering you a small, genuine smile. (Reminds me of you at the start.)

You simply nodded; your expression unreadable but soft. As you continued eating, the silence was not empty but filled with unspoken understanding. Tails occasionally glanced up from his plate, curiosity flickering in his eyes as if trying to piece together the puzzle that was you. You, in turn, found comfort in the simplicity of the moment—the shared meal, the rhythm of eating together, the fragile connection slowly weaving between you.

After a while, Tails set his fork down, glancing at you. His expression shifted, the casual ease giving way to something more serious.

"Hey, about those tests..." he started, his voice gentle but filled with intent.

Your posture stiffened slightly, your eyes narrowing just a fraction. You shook your head slowly, your message clear without words.

Tails sighed, leaning back on the stool. "I know you don't want to, but it's important. We need to understand what's going on with you—with that... tar stuff, and everything else."

Your gaze dropped to your plate, your fingers tightening around the edge. The peaceful morning felt fragile now, like it could crumble under the weight of this conversation.

"Please," Tails added softly, his voice a quiet plea. "I'm not trying to poke and prod just for the sake of it. I just... I want to help. But I can't do that unless I understand."

The words lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders relaxing just a little. After a moment of hesitation, you gave a reluctant nod.

Tails' face lit up with a small, grateful smile. "Thank you. It won't take long, I promise."

They cleared the table together in a quiet that felt less fragile and more like an understanding, before heading to the workshop, the morning light following them like a quiet witness to the fragile bond they were building...

Tails' workshop hummed with the low buzz of machines, faint lights flickering against the metallic walls. The scent of oil and metal lingered in the air, sterile and sharp—a stark contrast to the soft warmth of the morning you left behind. You stepped inside hesitantly, fingers brushing the doorframe, grounding yourself as the subtle hum of chaos energy within you pulsed in quiet response to the environment. Tails was already busy, adjusting dials and flicking switches with practiced precision. He avoided your gaze, but you caught him glancing at you from the corner of his eye—curiosity thinly veiled beneath a facade of casual indifference. His twin tails flicked with restless energy, betraying the questions he didn't ask aloud.

"Just sit here," he said, gesturing to a worn stool near a cluttered console. His voice was light, almost too light, as if trying to convince both of you that this was routine. You sat, the stool creaking slightly under your weight. The cool metal beneath your fingertips felt foreign. Tails busied himself with calibrating equipment, the faint hum of machinery filling the silence between you. Lights flickered to life, casting shifting patterns across the room as scanners activated. The scan began, faint beams of light tracing over your form. You felt the strange tug of energy within you responding, pulsing faintly, as if recognizing something in the machines around you. On the monitor, data scrolled rapidly—chaotic patterns mirroring the wild, untamed pulse of the Master Emerald itself.

Tails' expression tightened for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable, but you caught it. His fingers paused over the keyboard, then moved again, quicker this time, as if trying to cover that brief slip.

"Is something wrong?" Your voice was soft, hesitant. Words still felt foreign on your tongue in the mornings, unused to forming questions.

Tails laughed, too quickly, waving a hand dismissively. "No, no! Everything's fine. Just some... weird readings. Probably the machine acting up."

A lie. You didn't need to hear the hesitation to know it. It lingered in the space between his words, in the tension he tried to hide with forced smiles and quick movements.

He shut off the monitor with a flick, the data disappearing before you could make sense of it. The hum of the machines faded, leaving only the faint buzz of your own chaos energy, steady and persistent beneath your skin.

Tails turned back to you, his smile more practiced now. "See? Nothing to worry about. You're perfectly normal."

But you weren't. And he knew it.

You lowered your gaze, tracing the faint gradient on your arms where the dark shifted to your (S/C). The silence stretched again, heavier this time, filled with all the things neither of you said.

Tails cleared his throat. "You can go now. I just needed some baseline readings."

You nod, sliding off the stool. But as you leave the workshop, you can still feel Tails' eyes lingering on your back—filled with questions he's too afraid to ask and answers he's not ready to give. The hum of machinery fades as the door clicks shut behind you, leaving behind a weight that presses against your shoulders.

Tails remains rooted in place, staring at the monitor. The data stares back—erratic, unstable, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong. The readings mimic the energy of the Chaos Emeralds, but there's something else beneath the surface, something ancient and fractured. His fingers hover over his communicator before he finally exhales and presses the call button.

"Knuckles," he mutters, his voice edged with uncertainty. "I need you to come over. It's... important."

Meanwhile, you drift through the house, feet carrying you without thought. The quiet presses in, too thick, too heavy. Eventually, you find yourself in the small library tucked away at the back of the house. The scent of old paper and dust greets you, grounding in a way you didn't expect. Books line the shelves, their spines worn from use, their pages filled with words you can't remember ever needing to read.

Your fingers brush along the covers, tracing the raised lettering. This place is different from Vanilla's library. There, every book had a purpose, a lesson she was eager to share. Here, the books sit in silence, waiting for someone to give them meaning. You pull one at random, its weight solid in your hands. The pages crinkle as you turn them, absorbing the words slowly. It's strange—learning alone. But also... freeing.

Outside, a faint mechanical hum rises, barely audible over the rustling pages. Tails' security system flickers with alerts—small drones scanning the perimeter, their movements sharp and precise. Some carry a signature you don't recognize, but others... the sleek, unmistakable designs of Robotnik.

Back in the workshop, Tails stares at the monitor as if expecting it to answer him. The swirling chaos energy flickers like a distorted signal, erratic and unnatural. His heart beats a little faster as he tries to make sense of the impossible.

Then, heavy footsteps echo across the wooden floor.

Knuckles entered the workshop with his usual heavy, purposeful stride, his presence like a solid weight anchoring the room. His eyes scanned the cluttered space—blueprints scattered, tools half-forgotten—before settling sharply on Tails.

"You said it was urgent," Knuckles stated flatly, his voice firm, like he was already prepared to fight something... or someone.

Tails exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. The tension in his shoulders was hard to ignore. "I've been analyzing Y/N's energy. It's wild, unstable—almost like the Chaos Emeralds, but not quite. I know you went to the Master Emerald for answers."

Knuckles' jaw tensed, his arms crossing over his chest in that rigid, disciplined stance of his. "I did." His voice dropped slightly, more serious if that was even possible. "I stood before it. Demanded answers."

Tails raised an eyebrow. "Demanded?"

"Yes. That's how you get answers," Knuckles replied with complete sincerity, as if this were common knowledge. His brows furrowed, frustration flickering in his sharp gaze. "But... it didn't respond like usual. No clear visions. No guidance. Just... a flicker. Like it remembered something, but didn't want to."

Tails straightened, his frustration surfacing. "What do you mean, didn't want to?"

Knuckles' fists clenched slightly, as if the memory itself annoyed him. "It was like asking an elder about a painful story. You see it in their eyes—they know, but they refuse to speak of it. The Master Emerald... it felt like that. Like it was choosing to ignore it."

Tails' ears twitched, his gaze flicking to the monitor where chaotic energy still pulsed, alive and restless. "So it just dismissed Y/N?"

Knuckles gave a firm nod. "Yes. It didn't waste its energy. Like... it decided Y/N isn't worth the effort." He paused, then added bluntly, "But I don't think that makes sense. If Y/N wasn't important, it wouldn't have reacted at all."

Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. The readings on the screen continued their erratic dance, pulsing like an unanswered question.

And elsewhere in the house, you close the book in your hands with a soft thud.

The words had drawn you in, a temporary distraction, but the restless energy in your chest refuses to settle. You stand, stretching your arms overhead, feeling the pull of your muscles. A quiet breath escapes you, but it does little to ease the tension pressing against your ribs.

The library feels different now—less like a safe space, more like a box. The stillness suffocates. You move, fingers grazing the bookshelves as you wander aimlessly. Each step feels heavier than the last, but standing still is worse.

The hallway greets you with its familiar quiet. Somewhere, deeper in the house, Tails and some else voices murmur, too low to make out. You don't try to listen. Whatever they're discussing—it's not for you.

Your chest tightens, though you don't know why.

So you keep walking.

The house is too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards feels too loud, every shift of air too noticeable. Your fingers skim along the cool walls as you pass, grounding yourself in the motion. No purpose. Just movement.

You find yourself near a window. Outside, the sky stretches vast and endless, clouds drifting lazily through the blue. You pause, gaze unfocused, simply letting the world exist beyond the glass. It feels distant, unreal, like you're looking at something you don't quite belong to.

The silence stretches. Not the comforting kind. The kind that leaves room for thoughts you don't want to have.

So you turn away, searching for something else to do. Something to keep your hands busy. Something to keep the questions at bay.

The air in the house felt heavier now. You lingered in the middle of the living room, your fingers lightly tapping against the fabric of your sleeve, eyes unfocused. The muffled conversation from the workshop had died down, replaced by the sound of movement—footsteps, the creak of a door, a voice carrying through the hallway.

Tails was seeing Knuckles off, their words low but easy to hear.

"If anything happens, let me know," Knuckles said, his voice steady as always, but there was something else underneath it. Concern, maybe. Hesitation.

"Yeah, you too," Tails replied. His voice sounded... tired.

The door clicked shut behind the echidna, and then there was silence.

You shifted on your feet, the space around you suddenly feeling too empty. Your gaze flickered toward the door, then toward the kitchen, then to nothing in particular. What now?

Tails walked back in, rubbing at his face, his ears flicking slightly. He barely seemed to register your presence at first, his thoughts clearly tangled in whatever he and Knuckles had discussed. You weren't sure why, but the sight of him—so distracted, so weighed down—made something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

You hesitated, just for a second, before stepping forward.

Tails barely had time to react before your hand lightly touched his shoulder, your fingers pressing gently into the soft fur.

He tensed.

Not because he was startled—he'd noticed you move, his ears twitching just before you reached him—but because the contact was so unexpected. You weren't exactly one for touch, and he hadn't been expecting it.

Your voice came out quiet. Hesitant, but firm. "Do something. Anything."

Tails blinked, finally looking up at you, and for a moment, he just stared. His expression shifted—first confusion, then something unreadable. You weren't even sure what you were asking for. A distraction? A task? Something to take your mind off of everything?

Then, slowly, his posture loosened, and the tension in his shoulders faded just a little. His lips quirked, not quite a smile, but something close.

"Yeah... yeah, okay."

His tails flicked behind him, as if shaking off the weight pressing down on him. He gave you a thoughtful look, considering something, before nodding to himself.

"How about we fix up some of my projects?" He gestured vaguely toward the workshop. "Could use an extra set of hands."

It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was something. Something normal. Something grounding.

You nodded, releasing his shoulder.

Tails didn't say anything, but the way he gave you a small, appreciative glance before leading the way said enough.

You had no idea what the hell you were doing in that workshop.

But you did know what you had read.

Books had given you glimpses—cold, two-dimensional descriptions of machines, tools, and how they worked. Diagrams of gears and circuits. Text that explained how energy could be harnessed, shaped, and redirected. You had read them, absorbed the words, but now, standing here, surrounded by the real thing, you realized how different reading about something was from experiencing it.

Tails moved with practiced ease, pulling out tools, tightening bolts, calibrating something on a console that hummed softly under his touch. His hands were steady, his movements confident—he had done this before, thousands of times.

"Alright," he muttered, flipping on a desk lamp. "I'll keep it simple. Just hand me the tools I ask for, and we'll start from there."

That was easy enough.

When he asked for a wrench, you handed him the correct one without hesitation. When he needed a screwdriver, you passed it over before he even finished the request. Tails glanced up at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

"You—huh. You already knew which one?"

You nodded.

Tails squinted, tilting his head. "Have you... worked with tools before?"

You shook your head.

"But you know what they are."

Another nod.

Tails hummed, rubbing his chin before turning back to his work. "Huh. That's... kinda cool."

For a while, the two of you worked in relative silence. You weren't just reacting anymore—you were anticipating. You recognized what he was building—or at least, you recognized the idea of it. You didn't fully understand all the mechanics, but you could piece together enough. When he reached for something, you handed it to him before he had to ask. When a panel needed to be held in place, you were already steadying it.

Tails, initially focused on his work, eventually started noticing.

"You're... really picking this up fast."

You blinked at him.

He stared back, his ears twitching slightly as he studied you. "Like, weirdly fast. You read about this stuff, didn't you?"

You nodded.

Tails let out a breathless chuckle. "Wow. Okay. That explains a lot."

The workshop settled into a strange rhythm—Tails working, you assisting, and every now and then, you'd hesitate, your fingers hovering over an unfamiliar part. You knew what it was, but not why it was needed.

Each time, Tails would catch you lingering, sigh, and then launch into an explanation.

"This is a power regulator. It keeps the energy levels stable so the circuits don't fry themselves."

You nodded. That made sense.

"And this—" he held up a small coil of copper wire, "—is for conductivity. Helps transfer energy without resistance."

Another nod.

He paused, watching you. "...You actually get that?"

You gave him a small, knowing look.

Tails let out a breathless laugh. "Okay. Yeah. You definitely get it."

He went back to working, but every now and then, you'd feel his eyes flick toward you, still trying to piece you together. You weren't just someone who was blindly following instructions. You were learning. Not by doing, but by understanding.

And for once, Tails—who had spent so much time explaining things to people who never quite got it the way he did—found himself with someone who did. The hours slipped by unnoticed, the world outside Tails' workshop fading into the background. The soft hum of machines, the occasional clink of metal against metal, and Tails' quiet instructions became the rhythm you moved to. The faint scent of oil and metal lingered in the air, grounding you in the moment.

You worked side by side with Tails, your fingers smudged with grease and faint traces of dust clinging to your sleeves. The simple tasks—the ones etched into your mind from beginner textbooks—felt familiar. Holding panels steady, organizing tools, tightening bolts with just the right amount of pressure. You knew these things, and that knowledge felt like a fragile tether, keeping you steady amidst the complexity around you.

But beyond that? You were lost.

Tails rattled off explanations with ease, his voice a steady current of technical jargon and quick observations. His hands moved with purpose, adjusting circuits, reconfiguring energy cores, connecting delicate wires with practiced precision. You followed as best you could, nodding at the right moments, even though half the words blurred together into sounds that held no meaning.

Still, you tried.

When Tails handed you a small component, asking you to connect it to the regulator, you hesitated for the briefest second. The part felt unfamiliar, its purpose just beyond your grasp. But you mimicked what you'd seen him do, fingers steady even as doubt whispered at the edges of your thoughts.

Tails noticed, his eyes flicking toward you with that same curious glint. But he didn't say anything. Just gave a small nod, as if to silently say, You're doing fine.

And that was enough.

The hours stretched, marked only by the occasional break when Tails would lean back with a satisfied sigh, wiping his hands on a rag before glancing over at you.

"You're really keeping up," he muttered once, almost to himself.

You didn't respond, just gave a small shrug, your expression neutral even though your chest felt a little less heavy.

By the time you finally stepped away from the workbench, the tools scattered like quiet echoes of the day's efforts, the exhaustion settled deep in your bones. But it wasn't the kind of exhaustion that left you hollow. It was different—warmer, in a way. Like the tiredness that comes after doing something that mattered, even if just a little.

Tails stretched, his twin tails flicking lazily behind him. "We got a lot done," he said, glancing at the projects you'd both worked on—half-finished gadgets, reassembled parts, things that hummed with faint energy.

You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching slightly—not quite a smile, but close.

And for the first time since you'd met him, Tails didn't seem like just an acquaintance. The space between you felt... lighter. Less like something that needed to be filled and more like something that simply existed, quietly, without the need for words. The faint ache in your muscles became more noticeable as you stepped away from the workbench, the grime of hours spent tinkering lingering on your hands. Smudges of oil streaked your sleeves, faint traces of dust clinging to the folds of your clothes. You flexed your fingers, feeling the stiffness in your knuckles—a quiet reminder of how long you'd been at it.

Tails let out a yawn, stretching his arms overhead, his tails flicking lazily. "We probably should've taken a break," he muttered, glancing at the clock. The realization hit both of you at the same time—you'd skipped lunch entirely. The hollow ache in your stomach was easy to ignore when your mind was busy, but now it made itself known with an uncomfortable twist.

Without a word, you turned and made your way toward the bathroom. The coolness of the tiled floor beneath your feet was grounding after the warmth of the workshop. The small mirror above the sink reflected back your tired face, faint streaks of grease smudged across your cheek. You rolled up your sleeves, revealing the gradient on your arms, darker against the contrast of soap and water.

The warm water ran over your hands, cutting through the grime with each motion. The soap lathered easily, the simple act of cleaning grounding you in a way words never could. You watched as the dirt swirled down the drain, your reflection looking a little less worn when you finally shut off the faucet.

Back in the kitchen, Tails was already poking around the pantry, his expression thoughtful but unfocused, like he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for. You stepped beside him, your presence quiet but certain, and gently nudged him aside. He blinked, stepping back without protest, watching as you pulled out a few ingredients—simple things, easy to put together.

You moved with quiet efficiency, washing vegetables, slicing them into neat pieces, letting the rhythm of the task settle your thoughts. Tails lingered nearby, offering to help once, but when you shook your head, he simply leaned against the counter, his eyes following your movements with silent curiosity.

The stove's gentle hiss filled the space as you cooked, the warmth from the pan rising to meet your face. The scents blended—savory and fresh—a stark contrast to the sterile tang of metal and oil from earlier. Tails tapped his fingers lightly against the counter, humming under his breath without realizing it.

When the meal was done, you plated the food neatly and set it on the table. Tails joined you, his usual chatter subdued, replaced by a comfortable silence. The first bite was warm, grounding, the kind of simple meal that filled more than just your stomach.

Tails glanced at you mid-bite, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're full of surprises, you know that?"

Tails' words hung in the air, light but sincere, his faint smile lingering as he glanced your way. You paused mid-bite, the warmth of the food still lingering on your tongue, and met his gaze for just a moment.

Then, softly, without needing to reach for words, you lifted your hand in a gentle wave—a small, dismissive gesture paired with the faintest tilt of your head, as if to say, It's nothing.

Tails chuckled under his breath, shaking his head slightly, but the warmth in his smile didn't fade. He didn't press further, didn't fill the space with more questions. He just kept eating, the quiet between you comfortable, easy—like it had always been there, waiting to be found.

After dinner, the quiet hum of the house settled around you, soft and unintrusive. The lingering traces of oil and dust from the workshop clung faintly to your skin, a subtle reminder of the hours spent tinkering. You made your way to the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind you, enclosing you in warmth and steam as the shower came to life.

The water cascaded over you, hot and soothing, washing away the grime and fatigue. The steady rhythm of droplets against your skin grounded you, each rivulet tracing the faint gradient on your arms, dark fading into lighter tones. You stood there longer than you meant to, letting the warmth seep into your bones until the tension slowly unravelled from your shoulders.

Once dry, you reached for the towel, draping it over your shoulders without much thought. The soft fabric was a gentle contrast to the cool air outside the bathroom. You slipped into the clothes from the shopping trip with Amy—new, unfamiliar fabric against clean skin. The fit was comfortable, casual yet different from what you were used to. The fabric felt softer, the colors more vibrant under the soft lighting. It was strange, how something as simple as clothes could carry memories, subtle reminders of hesitant smiles and awkward companionship in crowded mall corridors. (It was overwhelming.)

The second-floor living room welcomed you with an inviting warmth, not just from its size but from the way it felt lived-in—like it was meant to be shared. The space was snug, but not cramped, arranged with a clear purpose: comfort, conversation, and the easy chaos of game nights. A large, plush rug sprawled across the wooden floor, its vibrant pattern adding a playful splash of color beneath low, cushioned couches arranged in a loose semicircle around the fireplace. The cushions were mismatched—some soft and squishy, others firmer, as if they'd been swapped out over time without much thought for uniformity. A couple of beanbags lounged lazily in the corners, their fabric slightly worn, perfect for sinking into during long evenings. The fireplace sat as the room's heart, its stone frame rugged and warm-toned, the hearth cluttered with small trinkets—an old mug left behind, a pair of forgotten dice, a stray game piece resting like it belonged there. Above it, a sleek TV was mounted, slightly tilted for the perfect viewing angle from every seat. Beneath the screen, shelves crammed with board games, cards, and scattered controllers peeked out, their colorful boxes slightly askew from frequent use. Soft, dimmable lights hung overhead, strings of warm bulbs lazily draped across the ceiling, casting a golden glow that felt more like starlight than electricity. A small coffee table sat in the middle, its surface scarred with faint scratches from years of enthusiastic game pieces and spilled snacks, surrounded by coasters and half-burnt candles with comforting, earthy scents. You stepped in with the towel still draped over your shoulders, the faint dampness of your hair cool against your neck. Your gaze drifted to the fireplace, its emptiness standing out against the room's casual clutter. Without thinking, you moved closer, kneeling slightly to arrange the kindling and wood stacked neatly beside it. The flick of the lighter's flame caught quickly, the fire crackling to life and casting its warmth outward. As the flames grew, their glow mingled with the soft lights overhead, the room shifting from cozy to something more—like it was waiting for laughter, for voices, for the easy rhythm of cards being shuffled and dice hitting wood. But for now, it was just you, sitting back on your heels, watching the fire dance, feeling the room's quiet energy wrap around you like an old, familiar blanket.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth spreading through the room, casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls. You sat back, the towel still draped loosely over your shoulders, the steady rhythm of the flames filling the quiet. Footsteps padded softly from down the hall, and soon Tails appeared, his fur slightly fluffed from a recent shower. A towel hung around his neck, and in his hands, he held a brush—its bristles worn from use. His expression was casual, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. (He was searching for you because he realized something)

"Hey," he started, shifting his weight slightly, the towel slipping a little over his shoulder. "Uh... I was wondering—if you're okay with it—could you, maybe... brush me? It's been a while, and I haven't really had a good brush. My fur's probably a bit matted, but it's fine if you don't want to."

His words trailed off, awkward and tentative, like he wasn't sure if he should've asked in the first place.

You didn't respond right away. Instead, you stood, crossing the space between you with quiet steps. Without a word, you reached out gently, taking his hand. The small gesture made him blink in surprise, but he didn't pull away. You guided him softly toward the rug near the fireplace, the warmth from the flames brushing against your skin as you moved.

Tails sat down, his legs crossed, the brush resting lightly in his hands. You settled into a cushioned chair just behind him, the fabric familiar beneath you. As you reached for the brush, your fingers grazed his fur—soft, with faint knots hidden beneath the surface. The sensation stirred something in your memory, vivid and warm.

It reminded you of Cream.

Sitting on the floor, her small form still, trusting you as you gently worked through tangles in her fur. The quiet patience of it. The simple intimacy of caring for someone in silence.

You began brushing, slow and careful, letting the bristles glide through Tails' fur. He relaxed almost immediately, his shoulders loosening, his twin tails flicking lazily now and then. The brush moved with ease, smoothing out small knots, the repetitive motion grounding in its simplicity.

Neither of you spoke much, but the silence wasn't empty. It was filled with the soft sounds of the brush, the occasional crackle of the fire, and the quiet comfort of shared space. Tails sighed softly, not out of discomfort but contentment, leaning into the gentle rhythm of your movements. The brush moved in slow, steady strokes through Tails' fur, the repetitive motion grounding, both for him and for you. His twin tails flicked lazily now and then, a soft sigh escaping him as the tension in his shoulders gradually melted away. The warmth from the fire flickered across the room, casting soft shadows that danced along the walls, filling the silence with a comforting presence.

Then, quietly, his voice broke through the stillness.

"Do you remember anything?"

The question hung in the air, soft but weighted, like a fragile thread stretching between you both. Your hand paused mid-stroke, the brush resting lightly against his fur. The fire crackled softly in the background, as if filling the space his words had left empty.

Do you remember anything?

Your gaze drifted to the flames, the flickering light reflecting in your eyes. Memories didn't come easily—not in clear pictures or vivid flashes. They were like faint echoes, distant sensations buried deep, too blurry to grasp fully. Bits of feelings more than images. Warmth. Loss. The vague, hollow ache of something missing.

You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around the brush's handle.

"...No." The word drifted between you, fragile as a breath held too long. It wasn't just an answer—it was an absence, a hollow space where something should have been. The fire flickered, casting shifting patterns of gold and ember across the room, its warmth pressing against your skin but doing little to ease the quiet ache inside. Tails didn't respond immediately. His ears twitched, subtle but telling, the only movement betraying the thoughts racing behind his steady expression. But he didn't press, didn't try to fill the silence with reassurances or empty words. He just sat there, the firelight tracing the fur along his shoulders, waiting. After a beat, your fingers shifted, the brush lowering from his fur. You set it aside with quiet intent, your hands moving before your mind had fully caught up. Gently, you reached forward, palms settling lightly over his eyes.

The warmth of his fur met your skin, soft, familiar. Tails' breath hitched—not in surprise, not in resistance, but something else. Something unspoken.

"Just..." you murmured, voice trailing into the quiet air between you.

You didn't need to say anything more.

Tails exhaled slowly, a quiet acceptance passing between you, as effortless as breathing. His shoulders loosened, the tension in his posture easing as he let himself exist in the moment. No expectations. No answers. Just this nothingness.

Your fingers lingered for a second longer before retreating, brushing lightly against his fur as you traced down the curve of his head, past the nape of his neck, before settling once more at his back. Without a word, you picked up the brush again and resumed the slow, steady strokes.

The fire crackled, its warmth a gentle contrast to the way Tails' hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers tangling together in restless thought.

Then, barely above a whisper, his voice broke the quiet.

"...I'm sorry."

The words were so soft they almost disappeared into the glow of the room, barely more than a breath, but they carried weight—like something delicate stretched too thin, on the verge of breaking. You didn't pause this time. Your fingers swept carefully through the softer fur at the base of his neck, smoothing out the strands with patient precision. Then, without hesitation, you answered—quiet, steady, but certain.

"Don't be."

The words settled between you like they had always belonged there. Simple. Absolute.

The tension in his hands eased, though the hesitation still lingered in the way his fingers curled, half-formed thoughts pressing against his mind but never reaching his lips.

But you understood.

The brush moved in soothing, rhythmic strokes, filling the silence between you with something softer, something real. Not an attempt to fix or explain, but an anchor, a quiet reminder that no apology was needed.

Still, the ache in your throat hadn't faded. Speaking always felt heavier than it should, each word an effort, something unfamiliar in the way it pushed through. But as the quiet stretched on, something in his voice—something in the weight of his apology—pulled the words from you anyway.

You inhaled softly, then spoke, barely more than a breath.

"I believe in you."

Tails' ears flicked at the sound, the smallest reaction, but it was enough to let you know he'd heard.

"You can find something..." Your voice wavered slightly, the effort clear now, but you didn't stop. Not yet. "But I'm okay as is."

The words drifted between you, settling into the warm space where silence once lingered. The fire crackled softly, its flickering glow casting golden light across the room, stretching shadows along the walls. The warmth of it reached you both, but it was more than just the heat—it was something grounding, something steady, filling in the spaces between what had been said and what had been left unspoken.

Tails didn't answer right away. He just sat there, hands still in his lap, unmoving, his expression distant. His ears flicked slightly, his twin tails shifting behind him, but he remained quiet, as if absorbing every syllable of what you had said. The weight of your words didn't press against him—it settled, soft and whole, a quiet thing that asked for nothing but to be understood.

The brush in your hand moved slower now, your fingers working gently through his fur. The ache in your throat still lingered, a dull reminder of how unfamiliar speaking still was, how much effort it took. But you didn't regret it.

Tails, however, remained restless. His hands twitched against each other, fingers fidgeting in his lap, twisting and untangling as if he were holding onto thoughts he didn't quite know how to shape into words.

And then, softly—hesitantly—he spoke.

"...I just—I feel like I have to help you."

His voice was quiet, threaded with something heavy, something uncertain. He didn't meet your gaze. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on the floor, watching the way the firelight flickered across the wooden boards, casting shifting shapes that almost seemed to move on their own.

"I was the one who brought you into this world..." His fingers curled, his voice dropping lower. "I was the one who—" He stopped, his jaw tightening for just a second before he forced himself to continue, quieter now, as if the words were too fragile to speak aloud. "I freed you. And I don't know what that means. But it feels like... like it's my responsibility to figure it out. To figure you out."

His fingers clenched briefly before loosening again, his frustration slipping through the cracks of his composure. Not at you—never at you—but at himself, at the way the answers he wanted always seemed just out of reach.

"I keep thinking... if I just try harder, if I run more tests, if I look at things from a different angle, I'll find something—anything—that will tell us who you are, where you came from. But I don't know if I'm doing it for the right reasons anymore."

You stilled, setting the brush aside carefully. For a moment, you simply watched him, the way his shoulders had tensed, the way his breath was just slightly uneven, like the thoughts were pressing in too fast for him to sort through them.

Slowly, without a word, you reached out.

Your hand found the space between his shoulders, resting lightly against the soft fur there. It wasn't much—not a grand gesture, not an answer to his uncertainty—but it was steady. It was grounding.

Tails exhaled, his posture easing just slightly under your touch. His ears flicked again, but this time, they didn't lay back with tension. His fingers uncurled, though they still rested in his lap, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter than before.

"...I just don't want you to feel lost because of me."

His words hung between you, uncertain yet warm. A quiet admission. A fragile truth.

And in that moment, the fire wasn't the only thing holding the room together.

Without speaking, you moved. Carefully, you shifted from the cushioned chair down onto the floor beside him, the thick rug soft beneath you, the warmth of the fire seeping into your skin. You reached for the brush again, settling into place beside him, and with slow, careful movements, you began working through the fur of his twin tails.

The bristles glided gently, untangling small knots with care.

Tails didn't say anything, but you felt the way his posture eased, the way his breathing evened out. There was a quiet trust in the way he let you continue, in the way he didn't pull away, in the way the silence between you no longer felt heavy—but full of something else. Something lighter. Something warmer.

Your gaze flickered toward him, the firelight reflecting in his eyes as he stared at the flames. His expression was distant, lost somewhere in the words he had spoken moments ago, somewhere in the thoughts that still tangled inside him.

You hesitated. The ache in your throat was still there, but you found your voice again, soft and fragile, yet steady enough to be heard.

"You don't have to..." Your voice trailed gently, but you pushed through the strain, the words quiet but real. "I am already doing it, myself... just... be... my friend."

The words settled between you like something solid, something grounding.

Tails remained still, his twin tails flicking ever so slightly beneath your touch. The brush moved slowly through the fur, its quiet rhythm blending with the soft crackle of the fire.

He didn't respond right away.

He just sat there, letting the weight of your words settle over him.

Then, finally, he turned his head just slightly—just enough to meet your gaze.

And in his expression, there was something softer. Something more open. A quiet flicker of understanding, of something clicking into place.

It wasn't an answer.

But it was enough.

"You don't have to... I am already doing it, myself... just... be... my friend."

It was simple, but it hit him harder than he expected—like a quiet truth he hadn't realized he needed to hear. His hands, once restless in his lap, grew still. His chest rose and fell with a slow, steady breath as he processed what you'd said. He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something there—shock, maybe, but not the harsh kind. It was softer, like surprise woven with quiet understanding. The firelight reflected in his eyes, making them look warmer than usual, shadows and light dancing in the small space between you.

For a moment, he didn't say anything. He just looked at you, really looked at you, as if seeing you differently for the first time—not as a mystery to solve or a responsibility to bear, but simply as you.

Then he nodded, slow and small, but filled with meaning.

"...Okay," he whispered, his voice softer than it had been all night.

No more words were needed.

The fire crackled softly, filling the quiet with warmth. You continued brushing his tails, the motion gentle and steady, while Tails sat beside you, a quiet ease settling between you both.

It was a good note to leave the night on—not with answers, but with understanding. Not with the weight of expectations, but with the simple comfort of quiet friendship.

(' ˘ ')♡ ｡ ⊹˚.⋆ ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Chapter Text

(Warining: Mentions of blood.)

"I was designed to be perfect." 

She sorrowfully said

"No you weren't, you are an accident." 

 He said unforgiving.

｡･:*:･ﾟ❤,｡･:*:･ﾟ❤｡･:*:･ﾟ❤,｡･:*:･ﾟ❤｡･:*:･ﾟ❤,｡･:*:･ﾟ❤

The days slipped by with a quiet ease, settling into something close to a routine.

Tails would wake early, often before the sun had fully risen, already moving through the house with soft, purposeful steps. You had grown used to the sound of him tinkering in the workshop, the faint hum of machines stirring to life. Sometimes, he would forget breakfast until the scent of food lured him from his thoughts, his ears perking up as he wandered into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. You had taken it upon yourself to cook most mornings—not because it was expected of you, but because it felt natural. Something grounding in the quiet moments before the day fully began. The skills were simple, things you had learned under Vanilla's careful guidance, but it seemed to be enough.

Tails never questioned it.

At first, his gratitude had been awkward, almost unsure—like he wasn't used to someone taking care of things for him. But after a few days, he no longer hesitated before sitting down, no longer stumbled over his words when saying thanks. Instead, he would grin, take a bite, and hum in appreciation.

"Better than I would've made," he admitted one morning, leaning back in his chair with a content sigh. His twin tails flicked lazily behind him. "You've got a real talent, you know?"

You didn't respond right away, merely setting down a plate for yourself before sitting across from him. Compliments still felt strange—like a new sensation you weren't sure how to hold.

But you remembered Vanilla's words.

"Kindness is simple."

So, you gave him a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment, before returning to your food.

Tails, to his credit, didn't push.

It became a pattern—comfortable, predictable. You would wake early, move through the kitchen with quiet efficiency, and Tails would trail in, sometimes still half-asleep, murmuring something about an unfinished project before settling at the table. You weren't sure when, but eventually, the silence between you stopped feeling awkward.

Instead, it was filled with something gentler.

Some days, Tails would spend hours in the workshop, only breaking his focus when you knocked on the door, reminding him to eat. Other times, you would find yourself sitting near him, observing his work in silence as he mumbled to himself, occasionally explaining things without expecting a response.

At first, he had hesitated—unsure if you were actually interested or simply humouring him. But after the third or fourth time you handed him the correct tool before he even asked, he had grinned at you in that easy, genuine way of his.

"You're kinda scarily good at this," he had joked. "Are you sure you haven't built machines before?"

You only shook your head.

Tails had hummed, thoughtful. But he didn't press the subject.

Instead, he had simply continued explaining, his words growing more casual as the days passed, as though he had begun to expect your presence. As though, somehow, it had become normal.

Still, the balance between you both was uneven.

Tails had started treating you differently—not quite like he did with Sonic, not exactly like how he treated Amy or Knuckles either. It was something softer. Something careful.

You weren't sure what to do with it.

Vanilla had taught you how to be polite, how to respond with kindness, how to interact in a way that made people feel comfortable. So, you followed those lessons—nodding when you needed to, offering help when it was appropriate, responding in ways that were expected.

And yet...

Something about it felt unfamiliar. Not bad, just... familiar.

Tails, on the other hand, seemed to settle into it naturally.

─── ❤ ── დ ── ❤ ───

He had started watching you differently, his usual analytical curiosity giving way to something warmer, something quieter. At first, it was subtle—the way his ears would flick when you spoke, how he would glance up when you entered a room, tracking your movements without really meaning to.

Then it became clearer.

He would nudge a plate toward you at dinner without thinking, making sure you ate. He would pause in his explanations, waiting to see if you had questions, despite knowing you rarely spoke. It was a strange shift. You didn't quite know what to make of it. You were still getting used to Tails, still figuring out how to navigate his world, his habits, his endless energy for invention and discovery. But he had already begun fitting you into his life—somewhere between a companion and something else, something steadier.

It had started with a broken clock. Tails had been meaning to fix it for months, but between new projects and unexpected adventures, it had gathered dust on a high shelf in the workshop, forgotten. You noticed it one evening, sitting in its neglected corner, its hands frozen at 3:14. Something about it felt... off. Like something unfinished. So, without a word, you pulled it down and set it on the workbench.

Tails blinked at you from across the room, pausing in the middle of soldering a circuit board. His ears flicked up in interest. "Huh. Didn't know you liked clocks."

You shrugged. It wasn't about the clock.

He wiped his hands on a rag and walked over, inspecting it. "Yeah, I meant to fix this forever ago. Forgot I even had it." He shot you a grin. "Guess you have a good eye."

You didn't respond, just handed him a screwdriver. He took it without hesitation. The repair took longer than expected—not because it was difficult, but because somewhere along the way, it became less about fixing the clock and more about working together. Tails would glance at you between explanations, testing how much you understood. You were always one step ahead, offering tools before he asked, anticipating his movements. It made him pause at times, just watching you with that thoughtful look of his, gears turning in his head. Eventually, the clock ticked back to life, its hands moving in smooth, steady motions.

Tails leaned back, a satisfied grin on his face. "There we go. Good as new."

                      ─── ❤ ── დ ── ❤ ───

The storm rolled in without warning.

Dark clouds swallowed the sky, heavy and endless, pressing against the world like an unseen weight. The first crack of thunder split the air, rattling the windows. You flinched.

But you weren't the only one.

From across the living room, Tails had gone completely still, his ears pressed flat against his head. His hands curled into the fabric of his sleeves; shoulders hunched slightly inward. Another thunderclap, louder this time, made his twin tails twitch sharply.

You weren't sure why you moved.

One moment, you were standing near the window, watching the rain sheet against the glass. The next, you were sitting beside him on the couch, your movements slow and deliberate, giving him space to pull away if he wanted.

He didn't.

His fingers twisted in his sleeves. Another flash of lightning lit the room, followed by a low, rolling growl of thunder.

Tails exhaled through his nose. "I hate storms." His voice was quiet.

You had read about fear before. It was a survival instinct, a necessary response to danger. But this wasn't that. This was something deeper, something lingering. You didn't know how to fix it.

So, you didn't try.

Instead, you reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and unfolded it, letting it settle over the both of you. Tails tensed for only a second before relaxing, sinking slightly into the warmth.

                                                   ─── ❤ ── დ ── ❤ ───

There was something comforting about the quiet hum of the workshop at night.

Most of the house had gone still, the world outside dipped in darkness, but here, the soft glow of desk lamps cast pools of light against the cluttered workbenches. The faint scent of oil and warm metal lingered in the air, mixed with the sharper tang of solder.

Tails sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-assembled gadget resting in his lap. His goggles were perched on his forehead, pushing his bangs up at odd angles, and his hands moved with absent-minded precision as he tightened a series of tiny screws.

You sat beside him, flipping slowly through a book, your presence as natural as the hum of the machines around you.

"You don't have to stay up, you know," Tails murmured, not looking up from his work.

You turned a page.

He huffed a small laugh. "Okay, yeah, figured that'd be your answer."

Silence settled between you both, comfortable and unspoken. The only sounds were the soft click of metal and the occasional shift of paper as you turned another page.

Then—

"You know," Tails mused, tapping a wrench lightly against his knee, "you remind me of Sonic in some ways."

You blinked, tilting your head slightly.

Tails smiled, small but genuine. "Not in the loud, 'gotta-go-fast' kind of way. More like..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "He's the kind of guy who doesn't always say much about what he's thinking. But you feel it, you know? He doesn't ask if you're okay—he just does things to make sure you are."

He turned back to his work, his voice softer now. "You're kinda like that too."

You didn't respond.

But you didn't have to.

Tails just smiled and kept working, as if he already knew what you would've said.

─── ❤ ── დ ── ❤ ───

You had never really laughed before. Maybe once or twice.

Not the kind of laugh that felt real—not the kind that came from something beyond just politeness. (Cream was so fun)

But then Tails tripped over his own tails and sent an entire tray of bolts flying across the floor, and for some reason, something about the sheer ridiculousness of it cracked something inside you.

The sound that left you wasn't loud, wasn't perfect. It was small, breathless, a quiet huff that escaped before you could stop it. Tails, still sprawled on the floor, blinked up at you.

Then his face split into a grin.

"Did—did you just laugh?"

You clamped your mouth shut immediately, expression going neutral again.

Tails pointed an accusing finger at you. "Nope. Nope. I heard that." He scrambled up, tail flicking behind him. "You totally laughed."

You shook your head.

"Yes, you did!" He looked at you like he had just discovered a new planet. "Holy chaos, I have to make you do it again."

You stared at him, unimpressed.

But then he tripped over a bolt he hadn't cleaned up yet and hit the floor again, and this time, the laugh that bubbled up was unmistakable.

Tails groaned from the floor. "Okay, I walked into that one."

You covered your mouth with your sleeve, the laughter fading to something softer.

Tails beamed.

Yeah.

He was going to make you do that again.

                      ─── ❤ ── დ ── ❤ ───

Tails had gotten used to your silence.

You weren't mute—you could speak, but you rarely did. When you did, it was careful, quiet, like you were still learning the weight of your own voice.

But you had other ways of speaking.

The way you handed him his tools before he asked. The way you shifted closer when he was deep in thought, a silent reminder that you were there. The way your eyes softened ever so slightly when he rambled for too long, letting him know he didn't need to stop.

Tails understood.

So, when he sat next to you one evening, staring at his half-eaten plate of food with a frown, he wasn't surprised when you didn't ask what was wrong.

Instead, you simply nudged the extra cookie off your plate and onto his.

It was small, barely anything, but Tails felt his chest loosen just a little.

He glanced at you, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Thanks."

You nodded.

No words were needed. (You are so kind.)

                                                   ─── ❤ ── დ ── ❤ ───

The knock at the door came sharp and deliberate, just like the one delivering it. Tails barely had time to set down the wrench he was holding before he hurried over, already knowing who it was. You didn't look up from your book as he swung the door open. The sound of the hinges creaking was followed immediately by a familiar voice.

"You're late," Tails said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe.

Knuckles stood on the porch; arms crossed in response. "I'm not late. You said 'midday.' It's midday."

Tails glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 12:04. His ears flicked. "Close enough, I guess." He stepped aside, letting the echidna enter.

Knuckles stepped in, his heavy footsteps making the wooden floor creak beneath him. His sharp eyes scanned the room, likely out of habit. When they landed on you, sitting on the couch with your book, he paused briefly, then snorted.

"You sure they should be reading that?" He gestured vaguely at the book in your hands. "They're not gonna start building their own death machines, are they?"

You finally looked up, blinking at him.

Tails sighed. "Knuckles, it's a technology book, not an 'evil genius handbook.'"

Knuckles gave a casual shrug. "Could be both."

You tilted your head slightly, considering him. Slowly, you turned your book so he could see the cover.

"Engineering Fundamentals and Circuitry"

Not exactly a manifesto for world domination.

Knuckles squinted at it, then at you, then back at the book. "...Boring." He waved a hand dismissively before dropping onto the other couch with a huff.

Tails ignored him, shutting the door behind him before walking over to the workshop table, sifting through some scattered notes. "Sonic's running late. He said something about checking out some weird signal he picked up near the old ruins."

Knuckles leaned back, resting an arm against the couch's back. "Figures. And Amy?"

"Girls' day with Blaze."

Knuckles' expression flickered slightly, something between understanding and mild amusement. "Right. Forgot she was in town."

Your brow furrowed slightly at the name. Blaze. That was new.

Tails rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he continued, pulling up a few papers, "since it's just us today, we might as well go over what we do know. Robotnik's been completely off the radar for a while now, and those other drones—the ones built like his but... different—they haven't shown up in weeks either."

Knuckles frowned. "Which is weird. Too quiet."

You nodded slowly. You weren't an expert in warfare, but even you knew that when an enemy suddenly went silent, it usually wasn't good.

Tails ran a hand through his bangs, frowning at the notes in front of him. "We've had a few random blips of activity—short bursts of energy readings, but nothing solid. Either they're hiding, or they're planning something."

Knuckles cracked his knuckles—an unconscious habit, it seemed. "Then we do what we always do. Stay on guard."

Tails hummed in thought, his tails flicking behind him. "Yeah... but I don't like not knowing. If something big is coming, we need to be ahead of it, not reacting after it happens."

Knuckles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what's your plan?"

Tails hesitated before speaking. "Could you take Y/N to the Master Emerald? See if it reacts to them at all—and keep an eye out for any bots while you're there."

Knuckles raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch. "You want me to take them to the Master Emerald?"

Tails nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. We still don't know why the Emerald reacted the way it did before. Maybe having Y/N near it again will trigger something... or at least give us some kind of hint."

Knuckles crossed his arms, considering it. "And what if it doesn't? What if it just ignores them again?"

Tails sighed. "Then we rule that out and move on. But I don't want to sit around waiting for something to happen. At the very least, you two can check if any bots are lurking around Angel Island. I'd go myself, but I need to monitor the systems here and—" He gestured to the garage, full of half-finished equipment. "—tweak a few things in case we need backup."

Knuckles studied you for a moment, his purple eyes sharp but not unkind. "You up for this?"

You nodded.

He grunted, pushing himself to his feet. "Alright then. Let's move."

Tails handed Knuckles a small communicator. "Keep me updated if anything seems off. And don't punch first, ask first—" (He wont listen.)

Knuckles scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. Got it."

Tails sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just... be careful, okay?"

Knuckles gave him a lopsided smirk before heading for the door, motioning for you to follow. "C'mon, bookworm. Time to meet the big guy."

With a final glance toward Tails, you stepped outside, the weight of the unknown settling in your chest. Whatever was waiting for you on Angel Island, you'd face it head-on

The journey to Angel Island was quiet. Knuckles wasn't one for idle conversation, and you weren't one to force it. The silence between you was neither comfortable nor strained—it simply was.

He led the way, moving with the confidence of someone who had taken this path countless times before. You followed, your steps light, eyes observing everything around you.

The first part of the trip was straightforward: a trek through the dense forest outside Tails' workshop, weaving between towering trees and uneven terrain. Knuckles barely slowed his pace, expecting you to keep up. You did, adjusting to the rhythm of his movements with quiet efficiency. The sunlight filtered through the canopy above, dappling the ground in shifting patches of gold.

Eventually, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing where a large, weathered stone platform lay embedded in the earth. Strange markings lined its surface—ancient symbols worn down by time but still pulsing faintly with dormant energy. Knuckles stepped onto it without hesitation, his stance firm, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.

Then, the ground beneath you trembled. A deep hum resonated through the air as the stone glowed, reacting to Knuckles' presence. The shift was immediate—before you could fully process the sensation, the platform rose, lifting you both into the sky. The landscape fell away beneath you, the earth shrinking as you ascended toward the floating island above.

Angel Island came into view—vast, untouched, suspended in the sky like a forgotten relic. The air was different here, thick with an energy that crackled against your skin. The island stretched out before you, dense forests lining its edges, leading inward toward towering cliffs and ancient ruins.

Knuckles didn't wait. The moment the platform settled onto solid ground, he stepped forward, his pace unwavering as he led the way toward the heart of the island. Toward the Master Emerald.

You followed without a word, the silence between you unbroken, save for the wind rustling through the trees and the distant roar of waterfalls cascading over the edges of the island.

The closer you got to the Master Emerald, the heavier the air became. At first, it was just an odd pressure against your skin, like the weight of something unseen pressing down on you. But then, deep in your skull, a dull ache began to bloom. It was subtle at first, like the remnants of a fading thought, but with every step, it grew stronger—gnawing at the edges of your mind, a discomfort that refused to be ignored.

You didn't say anything. Knuckles walked ahead, unbothered, focused only on his path. His presence was unwavering, his footsteps confident as he led you up the winding paths of Angel Island, through thick clusters of trees and moss-covered ruins. He belonged here. He knew every rock, every hidden trail, every shift in the wind.

You didn't.

Your fingers twitched at your sides as something deeper than nerves unsettled you. You forced yourself to keep moving, to follow the steady rhythm of Knuckles' pace, even as your vision blurred at the edges, the world around you pressing in too tightly.

Then, you saw them.

At first, they were nothing more than tiny shapes perched among the stone ruins, nestled between the greenery that covered the ancient structures. Small, round bodies. Wide, floating heads. Wings that fluttered idly as they hovered just above the ground. The Chao.

You had seen a Chao before. You knew their softness, their warmth—the way Cheese would nuzzle into Cream's embrace with innocent trust, the way his bright eyes reflected nothing but kindness.

But these weren't like him.

Their eyes were sharp. Not in shape, not physically different from Cheese's, but in the way they looked at you. There was something off about them, something lurking beneath the surface, something that turned your stomach before you even understood why.

They stared at you.

Not at Knuckles. Just you.

Your heartbeat stuttered, your breath catching in your throat as a strange, cold recognition slithered through you, wrapping itself around your spine like a warning. You knew those eyes.

Not from a memory, but from something deeper.

They weren't kind.

They blinked in eerie unison, their small bodies motionless as they hovered, watching. Waiting.

Your headache flared, a sharp spike of pain flashing behind your eyes, forcing you to bite down against the urge to flinch. Your vision swam, the edges warping, twisting—not the world itself, but something behind it, something you couldn't quite see.

Knuckles kept walking.

He didn't notice them. Or if he did, he didn't care. He moved with the certainty of someone who had done this a thousand times before, undisturbed by whatever was creeping beneath your skin.

You forced your feet forward, dragging your gaze away from the Chao, away from the feeling that something wasn't right, and back to Knuckles' broad figure as he led you up the stone staircase. The Master Emerald's glow pulsed faintly in the distance, waiting atop the altar, its presence radiating a quiet power.

You could hear it hum.

The air around it was thick, charged with something too large for words, something that made the ache in your skull throb harder. The pulsing rhythm of the energy around you was... familiar. Not comforting. Not safe. But familiar, in the way a scent can trigger something buried, something half-remembered, something you weren't sure you wanted to recall.

Knuckles stopped abruptly.

You nearly walked into him, your focus so disoriented that it took a second to realize he had turned to face you, standing just before the final steps leading to the emerald's resting place. His expression was unreadable, but there was something firm in the way he regarded you, something assessing.

"This is close enough," he said, his voice steady, unwavering.

You blinked, the ache in your head pulsing in time with your heartbeat. The Chao hadn't followed. They remained where they were, hidden between the ruins, still watching...

Rouge's descent was near silent, the only sound the faint rustle of her wings catching the air. She landed with effortless grace atop the Master Emerald's altar, the soft click of her heels against the ancient stone breaking the quiet. The emerald's green glow reflected off her pristine white fur, casting long shadows against the ruins as she straightened, stretching like she had all the time in the world.

Knuckles snapped to attention instantly. His ears twitched, his entire posture stiffening as his sharp eyes locked onto her.

"Rouge?" His voice carried clear irritation, but beneath it, there was something else—confusion. His fists clenched at his sides. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She arched a brow, placing a hand on her hip. "Oh? No warm welcome? And here I thought we had something special," she teased, her voice dripping with amusement. But there was something underneath it—subtle but there. 

Knuckles' eyes narrowed. "I didn't call you. Get off the Emerald."

Rouge let out a dramatic sigh, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned against the massive gemstone, her fingers tracing idle circles against its surface. "Oh, relax, hothead. It's not like I'm stealing it... yet."

Knuckles bristled immediately. "Rouge—"

But she wasn't looking at him anymore.

Her gaze had landed on you.

For a moment, she simply stared, head tilting slightly, turquoise eyes scanning you with sharp, calculating interest. Whatever teasing remark she had lined up died on her tongue, replaced with something more genuine—surprise. Her smirk faltered, just for a second, before she recovered, but the look remained.

She stepped closer, her movements slower now, less playful. Her eyes flicked from your face to your arms—your hands, the dark gradient stretching up to your elbows, a mark that couldn't be scrubbed away.

"...Huh," she murmured, studying you more carefully now. "Well, well. That's new."

The way she said it made something uneasy settle in your chest. There was no malice in her tone, but there was awareness—like she was piecing something together before she even needed to ask.

Knuckles exhaled sharply, stepping between the two of you. "Leave them alone, Rouge." His tone was firm, his usual gruffness returning as he shot her an annoyed glare.

Rouge, however, barely reacted. Her gaze lingered on you for another beat before she gave a small, knowing hum. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she finally looked back at Knuckles.

"Alright, fine, keep your secrets." She shrugged, flipping a strand of white hair over her shoulder. "But seriously, Knuckie, what exactly am I doing here? I assume this isn't just a social call."

Knuckles' frown deepened. He still looked wary, almost suspicious, like he was waiting for her to pull something. But there was no time to question it.

Because the next sound that filled the air wasn't Rouge's voice.

It was a click.

A mechanical, rhythmic clicking.

Multiple.

Coming from all around you.

Rouge's playful demeanour vanished in an instant, her ears twitching at the sound. Knuckles' fists clenched, his stance shifting as his sharp eyes scanned the ruins. Knuckles turned sharply, fists already clenching. Rouge's wings twitched as she pivoted, eyes narrowing. You didn't move at first.

And then—

The machines stepped out of the shadows. The mechanical whir, the precision in every shift of movement. The way it surrounded you like a predator closing in on its prey.

This wasn't just any attack.

This was something calculated.

Something waiting.

Then, the red glow of robotic eyes flickered to life in the darkness. One, then another. Then too many to count.

You were surrounded.

The first bot lunged toward you, metal limbs outstretched, eyes glowing with that eerie, unnatural red. But before it could reach you, a blur of movement shot past. Rouge twisted mid-air, heel slamming into the bot's head with enough force to send it crashing into the trees. She landed effortlessly, wings flaring as she smirked.

"Uh-uh, sweetie," she tutted, dusting off her gloves. "You're not touching this one."

Knuckles, meanwhile, didn't waste time with words. The second a bot got too close to the Master Emerald; he was on it. His fist connected with solid steel, the force behind it enough to send the machine crumpling into itself. Another bot lunged—he caught it by the arm, twisted, and tore it straight from its socket before hurling the now-sparking body into the jungle.

But the machines weren't slowing down.

If anything, more were appearing from the shadows, emerging in waves, sleek and precise. These weren't the usual clunky Badniks. They moved differently. Smarter. Like they were assessing the situation as they attacked.

And yet... your attention barely stayed on them.

The Emerald pulsed.

It wasn't the steady hum you had felt before—not the ever-present energy that seemed to live within it. No, this was different. The rhythm of it, the intensity. It was reacting. To what, you didn't know, but you felt it in your bones. A deep, twisting pull, like something inside you was shifting. Calling.

You stepped forward without thinking.

Your fingertips brushed against the smooth, ancient surface of the Emerald.

The world around you blurred.

The shouts of battle, the clang of metal, the heat of the fight—it all faded.

A ringing filled your ears. Not sharp, not painful, but consuming. Your breath hitched as the pulse from the Emerald met something deep within you, intertwining in a way that felt both foreign and familiar.

Then, the world around you fractured.

Your vision darkened.

And everything went silent.

The silence was absolute.

It wasn't like before—not the quiet of a forest at rest or the hush of a still room. It was deeper. Total. A silence that pressed against your ears, making your own breath feel too loud, too foreign.

You opened your eyes—or at least, you thought you did.

The void stretched endlessly around you, a vast nothingness that wasn't black, wasn't white—was simply absence. No sky. No ground. No weight. Just you. (Not this again...)

And then—

A flicker.

A shape, shifting, warping, folding in on itself like liquid light.

Green.

The hue wasn't harsh, but it was vast, taking up everything without taking form. It hovered, pulsated, as if it were alive. It wasn't a person. It wasn't even a creature. It was something older, something boundless, something that existed beyond the limits of flesh and bone.

It watched you without eyes.

And then it spoke.

"What are you doing here?"

The voice didn't echo, didn't vibrate through the space. It simply existed, folding into you, embedding itself in your thoughts as if it had always been there.

It wasn't welcoming.

It was annoyed.

You stiffened. Your fingers twitched, but there was nothing to grasp, no way to steady yourself. The space beneath you—if there even was a beneath—held nothing. It was like floating, yet you weren't weightless.

The figure pulsed, shifting as if it were breathing.

"You don't belong here," it said, sharper this time, the irritation lacing its words like an unseen current. "You shouldn't be able to be here."

The pressure in your skull returned, dull but insistent, as if the very presence of this being was pressing against something inside you. Like it was trying to shake something loose.

Like it recognized you.

But not as a welcome guest.

"Am I not suppose to seek comfort with the one who has some answers about me?" You questioned softly, finding your voice quite quickly and in this realm? It was easy to speak...

The emerald pulsed, its formless green light flickering as if scoffing at your words.

"Comfort?" The voice twisted around you, unimpressed, distant. "What makes you think I am here to offer you that?"

The pressure in your skull sharpened. Not enough to be pain, but enough to feel like a push, a warning. The space around you shifted—not violently, not with force, but like a tide drawing away from the shore, as if the entity before you were distancing itself, removing you from its presence without lifting a single hand.

"You seek answers," the voice continued, edged with something bitter, something dismissive. "And yet, you don't even know the right questions to ask."

The irritation laced through its words, woven deep into the vastness of the void. You got the distinct feeling that it was not pleased to see you, not intrigued or curious like Tails had been, nor indifferent like Knuckles often seemed.

No, this thing—this presence—wanted you gone.

"You were nothing more than a mistake," it muttered, like the weight of you in its space was little more than an inconvenience. "A loose thread that should've never been pulled."

Your fingers twitched at your sides, though you weren't even sure if you had a body here. The world around you offered no sense of self, no weight, no real existence beyond the awareness of being here.

"You talk like you know me," you murmured, your voice quiet against the vastness, but steady. "Yet you refuse to say anything that matters."

The light around you twisted, coiling inward.

"I don't owe you anything."

There was no hesitation in its words. No sympathy...

The world lurched around you; your senses sluggish as you clawed your way back to reality.

The sharp scent of burnt metal and ozone filled your lungs, thick and suffocating. The ringing in your ears dulled, replaced by the distant hum of energy still lingering in the Master Emerald. Your fingers twitched against the cold stone beneath you, grounding yourself as your stomach twisted violently.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to blink past the haze clouding your vision. The battlefield stretched before you, a mess of shattered machines and scorched earth. Sparks crackled from broken metal limbs, the remains of Eggman's creations twitching in their last, useless attempts at movement.

Rouge stood a few feet away, her chest rising and falling with measured breaths. Her gloves were stained with dust and oil, her wings flicking behind her as she wiped a smudge from her face. Even in battle, she remained composed, barely a hair out of place.

And then there was Knuckles.

He stood near the Emerald's base, his fists clenched so tightly they trembled. But his stance—his balance—was off. The shift in his weight, the slight favouring of his left side.

He was hurt.

Your stomach twisted again.

The last of the bots lay in ruin around him, crushed under his fists, torn apart by sheer force. But you had seen it—just before you woke up, before the darkness fully released you—one had gotten past him.

A deep gash ran along his arm, staining the red of his fur an even darker shade. He hadn't noticed yet, or maybe he had and was ignoring it, his focus still locked onto the remains of the battlefield.

Rouge noticed, though.

"Knuckie," she drawled, brushing off her hands as she walked toward him. "You're bleeding."

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulder back like it would fix the issue. "It's fine."

You weren't sure why, but hearing him say that made something twist inside your chest.

It wasn't fine.

You moved carefully, steadying yourself as you descended the steps of the altar. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the lingering weight of whatever had just happened between you and the Emerald pressing down on your limbs. Each step felt unsteady, but you didn't stop.

The moment you reached him. Knuckles tensed the moment you stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to challenge your intentions. You ignored the way his gaze flickered over you, unreadable, guarded. The fight had left them both winded, and for once, there was no room for words—just actions. You hesitated only briefly before gripping the fabric of your sleeve with a hand. Without thinking twice, you tore into it. The sound of ripping cloth was sharp against the stillness that followed the battle. The cool air rushed against your exposed skin, the full gradient of black fading into your natural tone now visible in the firelight of the wreckage.

You didn't care.

Knuckles stiffened slightly as you reached for his arm, his instinct to pull away almost tangible. But you met his gaze—silent, unwavering—and he didn't move.

The cut was deep, blood still welling at the edges, staining his fur in slow, dark trails. You wrapped the torn sleeve around it, pressing down firmly to stem the bleeding. Your hands worked with careful precision, but there was an urgency in your movements, a quiet demand that he let you do this.

His muscles twitched under your touch, but he stayed still.

Rouge watched the exchange with interest, her arms crossed over her chest, one brow arching slightly at the way you worked—unbothered by the fight, by the blood, by whatever just happened between you and the Master Emerald.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?" she mused, but her voice lacked its usual teasing edge.

You didn't answer.

Knuckles exhaled through his nose, his shoulders finally loosening as you finished tying the makeshift bandage in place. He flexed his fingers, testing the tightness, before letting out a low grunt.

"...Thanks." It was gruff, almost reluctant.

You only nodded.

Rouge sighed, rolling her eyes as she stepped away, stretching out her wings before giving Knuckles a pointed look.

"I'm going to find an actual first aid kit before you bleed all over the place, tough guy," she quipped, already turning toward the scattered ruins. "Try not to get into another fight while I'm gone, alright?"

Knuckles grumbled something under his breath, but Rouge had already taken off, disappearing into the trees with a graceful leap and a powerful beat of her wings.

That left you alone with him.

The silence stretched between you both, filled only by the distant rustling of the wind through the trees and the soft hum of the Master Emerald behind you. You shifted slightly, your fingers still stained with the remnants of his blood, the torn sleeve wrapped tight around his arm as a makeshift bandage.

"The name's Knuckles," he said gruffly, finally breaking the quiet.

You blinked at him.

You already knew his name. Tails had told you about him—about all of them, at least the ones you had asked about. The Guardian of the Master Emerald, the last of his kind, strong-willed, stubborn. A warrior.

But you didn't say that.

Instead, you just gave a small nod, acknowledging the introduction like it was the first time you had heard it.

"You're Y/N, right?"

Another nod.

Knuckles exhaled, rolling his injured shoulder slightly, testing the way the cloth held against his wound. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes flickered to your arms—where the dark gradient now lay exposed, unobscured by fabric for the first time.

He didn't ask about it.

Instead, he looked past you, toward the Master Emerald, his brows furrowing slightly.

"...What happened back there?" His tone was gruff but not accusing. More curious than demanding. "You touched it, and then—" He gestured vaguely, as if that could explain the way you'd collapsed, the way the Emerald had pulsed. "It reacted to you. Why?"

You hesitated, your fingers curling slightly at your sides. The sensation of the Emerald's energy still lingered in your skin, a pulse deep inside you, but the answers? You didn't have those.

"I don't know," you admitted quietly.

Knuckles studied you for a moment, as if weighing your words, then let out a slow breath. He didn't seem satisfied, but he also didn't press.

"Figures," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Emerald's always been cryptic as hell."

Another silence fell, but this one felt different—less tense, more contemplative. Knuckles' gaze lingered on you for a second longer before he turned his attention fully to the Master Emerald, standing tall and unmoving on its pedestal. You followed his gaze, staring at the glowing green surface.

The Master Emerald stood silent, its glow steady now, betraying nothing of what had just happened. No voice, no pulse, no strange flicker of energy trying to pull something from you. Just the same ancient, unyielding presence it had always been.

Knuckles kept staring at it, his expression unreadable. Maybe he was expecting it to do something—give an answer, a sign, anything. But it remained indifferent, like it always had.

You lowered your gaze, your fingers absentmindedly pressing against your own wrist, where your pulse beat steady beneath your skin. Your balance still felt off, your body uncertain of itself after what had just happened. But the headache was gone, and that was... something.

Knuckles shifted beside you, rolling his injured shoulder again. You could tell he was testing it, judging how much mobility he had left. The cloth you had tied around his arm had already darkened in places, but it was holding for now.

You gesture to the echidna to sit down.

Knuckles snorted, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "I'm fine."

You didn't react, just kept looking at him. His brow twitched slightly, like he was waiting for you to argue, to insist. But you didn't.

Instead, you just sighed, stepping past him toward the edge of the altar, lowering yourself onto one of the stone steps. The cool surface felt solid beneath you, grounding in a way you hadn't realized you needed.

Knuckles watched you for a moment before huffing and sitting down beside you, though with far less hesitation—more like he just didn't want to be left standing there awkwardly. His arms rested over his knees, and he leaned forward slightly, staring out at the ruins below.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable but uncertain. You had nothing to say. He had nothing to ask. But neither of you moved.

Knuckles exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting his weight as he stared out over the ruins. The way he leaned forward, arms resting over his knees, made him look almost relaxed—almost. But there was a tension in his shoulders, one that never quite left, like he was always bracing for something.

The quiet stretched between you both, filled only by the wind and the distant hum of the island's wildlife.

Then, after a long pause, Knuckles broke the silence.

"This place has been through a lot," he muttered, his voice gruff but lacking its usual edge. His gaze swept across the crumbling ruins below, the moss-covered structures standing as quiet reminders of a time long gone. "Angel Island wasn't always like this. The Echidna Clan built everything you see here, once. It was a civilization—my ancestors' legacy."

You turned your head slightly, listening.

Knuckles wasn't looking at you, his eyes fixed somewhere far away, as if he could still see what once was, even if it had long since faded.

"They were powerful," he continued. "Warriors, builders... protectors." His knuckles tightened slightly against his knee, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "But they were greedy too. They wanted more power. And the Master Emerald—" he nodded toward the stone behind you both, its glow steady and unwavering "—was at the centre of it."

His fingers drummed absently against his arm, a restless habit.

"They fought for it. Hurt people for it. And in the end..." He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "It didn't matter. Their greed destroyed them. Now, I'm all that's left."

You blinked, feeling the weight in his voice. The loneliness, the resignation.

You had read about history before, in books Vanilla had given you. But those were just words. This was something else. Something heavier.

Knuckles tilted his head slightly, side-eyeing you in a way that was almost expectant. As if he was waiting.

Waiting for you to say something. To share something back. But you didn't.

Your fingers curled slightly against the stone beneath you, your gaze dropping to your lap. The wind moved between the ruins, stirring the overgrown grass, rustling the leaves of trees that had long since reclaimed parts of the land.

Finally, after what felt like too long, you spoke.

"...That's sad."

It wasn't much. Barely even a sentence. But it was enough.

Knuckles blinked, caught slightly off guard by your voice. He turned his head toward you, studying your face, your expression unreadable yet sincere.

Then, with a quiet huff, he looked away. "Yeah," he muttered, almost begrudgingly. "Yeah, I guess it is."

Neither of you spoke after that.

But for the first time since you had arrived, Knuckles didn't seem so distant. (Was it perhaps your bad bandage skills?)

After a few quiet moments, your gaze drifted toward the forest surrounding the ruins. The towering trees, the distant rustling of leaves, the soft hum of the island's life—it felt familiar yet distant, like something just out of reach.

Your fingers traced absent patterns against the stone beneath you before you finally spoke, your voice quiet but certain.

"Why tell me this?" You turned to Knuckles; your expression unreadable. "We're strangers." ... Your throat hurts.

Knuckles stiffened slightly, his usual guardedness snapping back into place like a reflex. He didn't meet your eyes at first, staring straight ahead. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply, crossing his arms over his chest.

"As a warrior, I don't like being indebted to anyone." His tone was firm, resolute, as if the words alone were enough to justify everything. Even though, deep down, you weren't sure they did.

The silence that followed felt heavier, lingering between the two of you like an unfinished thought. Knuckles kept his arms crossed, his gaze steady on the horizon, his expression unreadable. You didn't push. You only nodded slightly, accepting his answer without challenging it.

The air around you shifted as the wind carried the distant rustling of leaves and the faint hum of the Master Emerald behind you. The pulse of it was quieter now, as if it, too, was listening.

Then, the sound of heels clicking against the stone broke through the stillness.

"Well, aren't you two getting cozy?" Rouge's voice carried its usual playful lilt, but there was something else there—something sharper, more observant. She landed gracefully beside you, her wings folding behind her as she held up the first aid kit in one hand.

Knuckles' scowl deepened immediately. "Took you long enough."

Rouge rolled her eyes, kneeling down beside him as she popped open the kit. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you want me to fly all the way back with just my charm and good looks? These things take time, Knuckie." She pulled out a roll of bandages, sparing a glance in your direction.

You glanced at the torn sleeve wrapped around Knuckles' arm; its edges already darkened with blood. The sight of it made something tighten in your chest, but you didn't linger on the feeling. Instead, you simply moved to stand, stepping away to let Rouge work.

She watched you for a moment before smirking. "Not bad, sweetheart. You might have a future in patching up stubborn idiots."

Knuckles grumbled something under his breath but didn't argue as Rouge started tending to his wound properly. You let them be, taking a step back toward the altar's edge, your fingers trailing lightly over the ancient stone.

The Master Emerald's presence was steady now, no longer pulsing the way it had before. But even as the fight had ended, and Rouge's return brought a sense of normalcy back to the moment, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.

Something inside you had shifted.

You stared at your hands, their edges flickering, unfocused—like shadows struggling to hold form. A sharp jolt ran through you, and in an instant, they snapped back, solid once more. You flinched, curling your fingers tightly, as if that alone could keep them from slipping away again.

Your breath caught in your throat.

For a split second, your fingers weren't fingers. They were something else—shadows, shifting, flickering like the edges of a flame before snapping back into place. You flinched, flexing them instinctively, watching as they solidified once more, the familiar gradient of black fading seamlessly into your skin.

Rouge didn't notice, too focused on wrapping Knuckles' arm with practiced ease, but Knuckles did. His sharp eyes flicked toward you, brow furrowing ever so slightly. He didn't say anything, but you could feel his gaze lingering, his instincts too honed to let something like that slip by unnoticed.

You clenched your hands, pressing your fingers into your palms as if to ground them—to remind yourself that they were still yours. That they were real.

The Master Emerald remained silent behind you, its glow steady, its power settled. And yet, the weight of its presence hadn't faded. It lingered beneath your skin, pulsing in a way that felt almost... familiar.

Rouge let out a satisfied hum, securing the last of Knuckles' bandages. "There. Good as new. Well, almost. Try not to go punching any more machines with your injured arm, big guy."

Knuckles rolled his shoulder, testing the wrap. "I'll be fine."

He stood, stretching out his arm with a grunt before turning to you again. You hadn't moved, still staring at your hands, still feeling the way they had shifted—just for a moment, just enough to make your stomach twist.

"You good?" Knuckles finally asked, his tone gruff but not unkind.

You nodded slowly, though you weren't entirely sure of the answer.

Rouge tilted her head, finally picking up on the tension in the air. "What's with the look? You see a ghost or something?"

You exhaled quietly, shaking your head.

Rouge, arms crossed as she tapped a finger against her elbow in thought. The whole situation wasn't adding up.

Neither Knuckles nor Tails had called her—she was sure of that. Knuckles barely tolerated her presence as it was, and Tails? He was too busy playing scientist with that little anomaly of his to invite her to a secret meeting.

So why had she come here?

She let out a slow breath, eyes narrowing as she scanned the area. One of the bots? It wasn't impossible. There had been interference lately—strange, subtle signals bouncing around where they shouldn't be. If Eggman's tech was getting smarter, maybe it had learned to send out false messages, to lure them into a trap.

Her gaze flickered toward Y/N, who sat quietly on the stone steps of the altar, hands resting in their lap. They hadn't moved much since Rouge arrived, only watching, observing. They barely reacted when she had landed, only looking up when she spoke.

And now?

You shifted where you sat, the stone beneath you rough and cool against your hands. The weight of the fight still clung to the air—Rouge idly inspecting one of the destroyed bots, her expression unreadable, while Knuckles sat with his arms crossed, gaze locked on the Master Emerald.

The silence was heavy, but not unfamiliar.

You exhaled softly, pushing yourself up from where you sat. Your movements were slow, deliberate. As you stood, the weight in your limbs settled differently, grounding you in a way you weren't sure you liked. Neither Rouge nor Knuckles reacted at first. It was only when your shadow stretched over them that Knuckles finally shifted, his sharp purple eyes flicking up toward you.

His expression remained unreadable, but his voice broke through the stillness, steady and firm.

"You should leave."

You didn't move.

Knuckles stared at you, expecting something—an argument, a protest, maybe even a glare. But you just stood there, your expression unreadable. The pulsing energy of the Master Emerald still hummed in the background, faint but present, as if it, too, was waiting for your response.

Rouge glanced between the two of you, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at her lips. "Well, that's direct," she mused, tilting her head. "You're not even going to give them a ride back?"

Knuckles huffed, looking away. "They can handle it."

You tilted your head slightly, considering him. He was stiff, tense—not just from the wound, but from something else, something heavier. His hands curled slightly against his arms, grip tightening like he was bracing for something.

You slowly turned your head toward the treetops. The sky stretched endlessly above you, the distant horizon blurring with the clouds, Angel Island hovering in a space untouched by the rest of the world.

You weren't ready to leave.

So you sat back down.

Knuckles let out a slow breath through his nose, clearly trying to keep himself from reacting, but his ear twitched—a small hidden tell of his irritation. Rouge chuckled under her breath, shaking her head.

"Guess that answers that," she said lightly, flicking a stray bit of dust off her glove.

Knuckles turned back toward you, his frown deepening. "What do you even want?"

You didn't answer right away. You glanced down at your hands, watching them shift, unfocused for a brief second before solidifying again. The weight in your limbs still hadn't settled, something in your chest still ached, and the lingering pulse of the Master Emerald felt like an echo inside you.

What did you want?

You looked back up at Knuckles, your gaze steady but silent.

He scoffed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Just stay out of my way."

Rouge chuckled again. "You're such a great host, Knuckie."

Knuckles shot her a glare, but she only grinned, stepping back with a stretch. "Well, if you two are having a moment, I'll get going. I've got better things to do than babysit."

She turned on her heel, wings flaring slightly before she took off, the gust from her departure stirring the dust around you.

Knuckles grumbled something under his breath before turning his focus back to the Master Emerald, arms crossing over his chest again.

You stayed quiet.

You weren't leaving.

"Look... I didn't know I could do this before."

Your voice was soft, unsteady, barely rising above the distant rustling of the trees. The words felt foreign in your mouth, uncertain. Your gaze remained fixed on your hands, fingers slightly curled, as if they might slip away from you if you weren't careful. The memory of them shifting—blurring at the edges, taking on something unrecognizable—lingered like a shadow at the edge of your mind.

Knuckles didn't respond immediately. He stood a short distance away, arms still crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He glanced at you briefly, then at your hands, his gaze sharp but not alarmed.

You flexed your fingers, waiting for something—another flicker, another moment where they didn't quite feel like yours. But they remained steady. Normal. Solid.

Still, the unease didn't leave you.

"I don't know what it means," you admitted, the words barely more than a breath.

Knuckles let out a quiet huff, shifting his weight. "Then figure it out."

You blinked, looking up at him.

His tone was blunt, matter-of-fact, like it was the simplest thing in the world. There was no hesitation in his voice, no lingering doubt.

"You keep staring at your hands like they'll give you an answer," he continued, his voice firm but not unkind. "They won't. You just have to deal with what's in front of you."

You lowered your hands slightly, fingers still trembling just a little. The way he spoke—so certain, so grounded—was almost frustrating.

"Doesn't freak you out?" you asked softly, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Knuckles scoffed, shaking his head. "I've seen weirder things." He looked toward the Master Emerald, its glow steady and unwavering. "I don't waste time worrying about what I don't understand. I protect what's in front of me. That's all there is to it."

You didn't respond right away. His world was simple—clear-cut. He didn't need explanations to act. He didn't need to understand something to decide what it meant to him.

You wished it was that easy.

Your hands finally settled at your sides, the tremble fading, but the unease still sat deep in your chest. You glanced at Knuckles again, but he wasn't watching you anymore. His attention had returned to the Master Emerald, his stance relaxed but firm, as if nothing about this moment had unsettled him at all.

You stood up without a word. The weight of Knuckles' stare pressed against your back, but you didn't acknowledge it. Your legs still felt unsteady, your body uncertain of itself after everything that had just happened, but staying here wasn't an option—not anymore.

The ruins of the battle lingered behind you, broken metal, faint embers still dying in the cracks of stone. Knuckles had fallen silent, but you could feel him watching as you took the first step forward.

Then another.

Then another.

The moment you reached the worn path that had led you here, heavy footsteps sounded behind you.

"Where are you going?" Knuckles' voice cut through the quiet, flat but firm. (Seems like he cares.)

You didn't stop.

"Hey." His tone sharpened. "You can't just walk off like that."

Still, you said nothing.

Knuckles clicked his tongue in irritation, and in an instant, he was in front of you, blocking the path with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. "You really think you can just wander off on your own?"

Your expression remained neutral, though your fingers curled slightly at your sides. You glanced once past him, at the path ahead, before settling your gaze back on him.

"I'm leaving," you said simply, voice quieter than the wind slipping through the trees.

Knuckles' frown deepened. "And you think that's a good idea? After what just happened?"

You didn't answer.

Knuckles let out a sharp breath, his grip tightening over his own arms. "Look, I don't know what that was back there, with the Emerald and—whatever's going on with you. But more of those machines could be out there. You don't even have a weapon. What's your plan?"

Still, you didn't reply.

Instead, you stepped to the side, intent on walking around him.

Knuckles' eye twitched, and before you could take another step, he shifted, moving in front of you again. You blinked up at him, expression unreadable. For a long moment, you just stood there, the silence stretching taut between you. Knuckles' eyes flicked, his stance shifting slightly as if expecting you to—do something. Say something. Push back. But you didn't.

A long, slow exhale left him, and he rolled his shoulders, tilting his head toward the sky as if summoning patience. "...You're not gonna stop, are you?"

You shook your head.

Knuckles dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before exhaling sharply. "God, you're just like Sonic," he grumbled. "Stubborn beyond reason."

Still, despite his irritation, he didn't stop you again.

Instead, he let out one final, resigned sigh, rolling his shoulders as he stepped beside you.

"Fine. But don't expect me to babysit you."

He walked forward without waiting for a response. But he didn't walk ahead. He walked beside you. And together, you both disappeared into the trees.

The moment the tree line thinned; the air shifted. The silence wasn't natural anymore—it was too still, too forced. Your feet slowed instinctively, and beside you, Knuckles' ears twitched.

Then, a flicker of movement—just barely visible between the thick underbrush.

You turned your head, just in time to see the glint of metal.

The first one lunged.

Knuckles reacted before you did, slamming his fist into the drone's chassis mid-air, sending it spiralling back into the trees. But as it crashed, more rose in its place. They had been waiting—lurking in the cover of the jungle, biding their time. The moment you reached the edge of the island, where retreat was no longer an option, they struck.

Five, maybe more. The same robots from before— their movements eerily precise. Their eyes glowed red in the dimming light, cold and calculating. You took an instinctive step back, only for your heel to nearly slip off the island's ledge.

There was no ground behind you. Just open sky.

Knuckles cursed, shifting closer to you. His stance was lower now, guarded, but his left arm hung stiffer at his side—wounded, still bleeding beneath the makeshift bandage. He was fast, strong, but he wasn't at full strength. And there were too many.

You swallowed. You looked down.

Endless miles stretched below, the ocean a crystal blue expanse, deceptively peaceful. It felt impossibly far away, like staring into a void that would swallow you whole. The wind howled past your ears, a sharp reminder of how little stood between you and the open sky.

Then, the machines lunged.

Knuckles met them head-on, his fists colliding with metal, sending drones flying in all directions. Sparks rained against the jungle floor as he tore through them with brute force, his movements sharp despite the injury slowing him down. One bot shattered against a tree; another was sent careening off the island's edge with a single strike.

But you barely had time to register his fight before a weight slammed into you.

A metallic arm locked around your torso, crushing the air from your lungs. The force of it threw you backward, feet leaving the ground.

Your body twisted mid-air.

Your stomach lurched as the world tilted—sky, trees, the temple ruins all spinning wildly as you plummeted.

The wind roared in your ears, drowning out everything else.

For a split second, you could see Knuckles still on the ground, his head snapping toward you, eyes wide with something between alarm and fury. He moved—but too late.

The edge rushed past you in a blur.

The machine's grip tightened. It was dragging you down with it.

Your arm wrenched free.

You reached, fingers clawing at empty air, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto. The stone ledge of Angel Island was just out of reach, slipping further away as gravity took hold.

Then—

Something else caught you.

A hand.

Strong, firm, fingers wrapping around your wrist with an unshakable grip.

The force yanked you to a jarring stop, your entire body jolting from the sudden suspension. The machine still clung to you, its servos whirring desperately, trying to drag you both down. But the grip on your wrist didn't falter.

Knuckles.

He had thrown himself forward, his uninjured arm stretched over the edge, holding onto you with a grip like iron. His expression was twisted in effort, teeth gritted, muscles strained against the weight pulling you down. The bot jerked violently, struggling, its own grip tightening around your waist, trying to complete its objective. To take you with it.

Knuckles' grip tightened in response.

But even with his strength, even with his determination, the blood loss and exhaustion had taken their toll. You could feel it—the slight shift, the way his arm trembled under the strain.

If you didn't do something, he was going to be pulled down with you.

The panic hit fast.

Your free arm clawed at the empty air, your legs kicking uselessly against gravity's pull. Your breathing was ragged, chest tightening as fear squeezed at your ribs. The weight of the machine threatened to drag you both over the edge, and for a terrifying second, you were certain you'd feel Knuckles' grip slip.

Anything.

You begged for anything.

Your other hand struggled, wedging itself between you and the cold, crushing metal. It was desperate, frantic—an instinct more than a conscious action. Your fingers pressed against the machine's plating, seeking leverage, but then—

Something shifted.

A pulse. A sensation that crackled up your arm, like static snapping against your skin.

Then—nothing.

The pressure was gone.

You barely had time to process it before the machine gave a horrible, glitching whirr. Its body jerked unnaturally, sparks bursting from its frame—

And then you saw it.

A hole. Pierced straight through its core.

The edges of the metal glowed faintly before fizzling out, the light in its optics sputtering into darkness. It twitched once, twice—then went limp.

Its grip loosened.

And then it was falling.

The weight was gone, just like that.

You gasped sharply, your body jerking upward as Knuckles yanked you with all the force he could muster. The ledge came up fast, the rough stone scraping against your arms as you were hauled over.

With a grunt, Knuckles all but threw you onto solid ground. The moment his grip released, he collapsed backward onto the dirt, chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths.

You lay face down on the cool ground, your heart still hammering, your body trembling from the rush of it all. Your fingers curled into the dirt, grounding yourself. The weightless, helpless feeling of falling still clung to your limbs like phantom pain.

Neither of you spoke.

The wind howled around the edges of the island, the only sound accompanying the distant crash of waves below.

Knuckles huffed, running a hand over his face. "Gods... that was too close." His voice was rough, but steady. You weren't sure if he was talking to you or himself.

You didn't answer. Not yet.

You just lay there, breathing. Trying to piece together what had just happened.

What had you done?

You stared at the ground beneath you, fingers twitching slightly against the dirt. Everything still felt... wrong. Not just because you had nearly fallen off the island, not just because of the lingering adrenaline in your veins, but because of what you did.

That machine—it had been on top of you, crushing you, winning—until it wasn't. Until you did something. Until you felt something shift, and suddenly, it was gone. Destroyed. Like it had been torn apart from the inside out.

But how?

Your hand still tingled where you had pressed against the bot. You turned it over in front of you, staring, half-expecting to see something different, something changed. But it was the same hand as always. Your fingers curled in, forming a loose fist. You swallowed, unsure what to do with the unease curling in your stomach.

Behind you, there was a grunt, followed by movement.

"You have been in danger too long," Knuckles announced gruffly, his voice carrying that weight of finality, like he had decided something.

You barely had time to react before his hand gripped your wrist—not roughly, but firm, unyielding, like he was keeping you from running off again. His crimson fur stood out against your skin, his grip radiating warmth. (Seems like he took of his glove yet you couldn't focus on his hand.)

"Come," he said simply, already pulling you up. "We leave."

You didn't argue. Your legs still felt unsteady, but you followed as he led you toward a hidden stone path, spiralling down toward the lower edges of Angel Island.

Knuckles didn't say much during the descent. He was quiet—too quiet. But every now and then, you could feel his eyes on you, sharp and measuring. He wasn't just escorting you off the island. He was watching you. Studying. The trip was long, but eventually, the mainland came into view, and Tails' house wasn't far behind. Knuckles slowed as you approached, finally stopping just outside the door. He released your wrist and turned to face you fully, arms crossing over his broad chest.

"Go inside," he said, voice firm.

You hesitated, shifting slightly under his gaze.

Knuckles tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. "Do not make me repeat myself."

You still didn't move.

He exhaled, clearly frustrated. "You are... unstable," he said, as if the word itself was foreign to him. "That thing you did—it was reckless. Uncontrolled." His voice dropped slightly, more serious. "Next time, you may not have the time to think before it happens again."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist.

"You will speak to the fox," Knuckles continued, nodding toward the house. "He is smart. He will know what to do with... this." He gestured vaguely at you, like this was some unknown entity he still hadn't quite figured out.

You glanced at the door, your chest feeling heavier.

Slowly, you turned toward it, stepping forward.

Before you could open it, Knuckles spoke again, this time quieter.

"You are strong," he admitted. "But strength without control is dangerous."

You looked back at him. He met your gaze, unreadable as ever. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

You stood there for a long moment, staring after him.

Then, finally, you stepped inside.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡ (You will know who I am soon enough.)  ♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

Chapter Text

(Warining: Mentions of Harm (not SH) and Passing out)

"The fire, it burns such an ugly color.

Yet I can't stop myself from looking at it."

                                                      · :*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The first day after returning from Angel Island, you stayed in the guest room for most of the morning, listening to the soft whirring of machines from the workshop. You read. You sat by the window. You traced the subtle patterns on the fabric of the blanket Vanilla had knitted for you before you left her home. The silence was comfortable, but it wasn't the kind you were used to. It pressed in at the edges, filled with questions neither of you spoke aloud. (How long was it since you saw those two rabbits?)

Tails had left that afternoon. You didn't ask where he went, and he didn't tell you. But when he came back, his fur smelled faintly of damp stone and jungle air. Angel Island.

He had spoken to Knuckles.

The second day, the routine returned. You found yourself drifting back to the workshop, where Tails was already buried in work. You didn't say anything when you sat down at one of the workbenches, picking up a book on mechanics. He didn't say anything when he slid a small toolbox toward you, as if inviting you to help with a project.

That was how the day passed—muted, but not tense. Tails worked on his machines, occasionally muttering about calibrations and energy readings, while you listened. He didn't ask about Angel Island, but sometimes you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.

                                                    ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆


The day had started normally.

The sharp scent of oil and metal filled the workshop, clinging to the air, to your skin, to everything. It had been a long morning, the kind that blurred into itself, the steady rhythm of work keeping your mind occupied. You and Tails had settled into a quiet routine—he worked, you observed, sometimes helping where you could. Today, the two of you were stationed in the workshop, handling maintenance on the Tornado. It was a simple enough task: changing the oil, checking the engine, making sure everything was running smoothly.

You were both focused—Tails adjusting a bolt near the engine while you held the oil container steady—when the coms crackled to life.

"Yo, Tails!" Sonic's voice rang loud and unexpected through the workshop speakers.

Tails yelled. You flinched.

Your grip slipped. The oil container tipped.

A thick, dark stream of oil splashed over both of you before either could react. It dripped from your sleeves, smeared over your hands, and coated the fur on Tails' arms and tails. There was a long beat of silence as you both stared at the mess.

Tails groaned, wiping his face with the back of his oil-covered glove. "Fenrir—Sonic! What the heck, man?"

You exhaled sharply, looking down at your own ruined sleeves. The oil clung to the fabric, dark and slick. You wiped your hands against your cloth, but it was no use—it had already soaked in. On the other end, there was a short pause—then a snort.

"Uh—whoops?" Sonic's voice crackled again, completely unbothered with a slight gleam to his voice. "Didn't mean to startle ya."

Tails shot a glare at the communicator on his computer before groaning. "You never mean to startle me, but it always happens. And its not funny." He peeled off his gloves with a grimace, now thoroughly ruined. "Please tell me this is actually important."

You sighed, rolling your shoulders as the thick oil clung to your clothes. At least it wasn't hot. The scent of metal and grease was already thick in the air, but now the sharp, acrid tang of oil made it worse.

Tails groaned, shaking out his arms in an attempt to flick some of the mess from his fur, but it only smeared further. His tails twitched in irritation before he huffed and switched gears, reaching for the console. "What do you want, Sonic?"

"Right, right—got sidetracked for a sec. So, get this—I found something. Ruins. They've got symbols all over them, and they look old. Like, Ancients old."

Tails straightened immediately, ears perking up. His fingers, which had been rubbing uselessly at the oil staining his fur, froze mid-motion. "Ancients? Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure," Sonic confirmed, the usual easy confidence in his voice replaced with something more intrigued. "And the symbols? They look kinda... like Chaos. Y'know, the mutated Chao Chaos."

The word hung in the air.

Your fingers twitched slightly, but you said nothing.

Tails hesitated, eyes flickering toward you before turning back to the console. He wiped his hands on an already-ruined rag, then strode toward the workbench, flipping on one of the larger monitors. The screen buzzed to life, casting a bluish glow over his fur as he leaned in. "Sonic, I need details. Coordinates, structural integrity, anything you've got."

"I'm sending you the location now," Sonic replied. "Figured you'd want your drones to scan the area first. I'm heading back soon—I'll pick up Y/N, and we can check it out together."

Your shoulders tensed.

It was slight—barely a shift—but the words settled uneasily in your chest. You stared at the oil dripping from your fingertips, pooling onto the concrete floor.

Tails didn't comment. He was already typing furiously, bringing up maps, blueprints, anything remotely related to the ruins Sonic had mentioned. Lines of data began scrolling across the monitor, the familiar hum of machinery filling the workshop. "Got it. I'll send the drones out now—see if they can get a read on the layout before we head over."

"Sweet. Be there soon," Sonic said, and with a soft click, the comms cut out.

Silence returned, save for the whir of machines and the slow, rhythmic drip, drip, drip of oil hitting the floor.

You and Tails exchanged a glance.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, ears drooping slightly as he looked down at himself. His fur—normally fluffy and well-kept—was matted with thick, black streaks of oil. He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head before reaching for a rag. Without looking, he tossed one in your direction.

"Well... guess we better clean up."

You caught the rag, your gaze dropping to the dark stains spreading across your clothes.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The workshop still smelled of oil and metal, but beneath it now lingered something else—something neither of you were quite ready to acknowledge. But, for now, there was work to do.

The door creaked open, and there stood Sonic—one hand resting on his hip, the other ruffling his quills in that casual, effortless way of his. He radiated the usual energy of someone who had spent the last few days running across continents, yet somehow, he looked as relaxed as ever.

Tails greeted him with a tired but genuine smile, rubbing his hands down with a now-useless oil-stained rag. "Took you long enough."

You gave a small wave from where you stood, sleeves still dark with oil, hands slick from the earlier mess. Your clothes clung uncomfortably to your skin, the sharp scent of metal and grease thick in the air.

Sonic took one look at you both—Tails, smudged with streaks of black, his fur matted in places, and you, practically drenched—and let out a sharp, amused laugh. He shook his head, stepping further inside with a smirk.

"Man, I've been out searching for days, trying to dig up answers, hoping to find something to help ease Tails' stress—and this is what you two have been up to?" His smirk widened as he crossed his arms. "Covered in grease, messing around in the garage?"

Tails scoffed, flicking some of the excess oil off his gloves with an exaggerated motion. "Hey! We were being productive—until someone nearly gave us a heart attack over the comms."

Sonic just shrugged, his grin never fading. "Not my fault you two are so jumpy."

You exhaled through your nose, stepping forward to wipe your hands off on a relatively cleaner part of the rag. It was pointless. The oil had already seeped deep into your sleeves, and at this point, you were beyond caring.

Tails rolled his eyes, but there was amusement in them. His tails twitched as he tossed the ruined rag aside and turned back to Sonic. "Alright, alright—let's focus. What exactly did you find?"

Sonic's smirk faded slightly, his expression turning more serious. He stepped fully inside, the workshop lights casting sharp shadows over his face. His usual lightheartedness remained, but there was an edge to his voice now—something thoughtful, unsettled.

"The ruins, they're definitely Ancient," he said, his arms crossing as he leaned against the workbench. "And those Chaos symbols? I don't know what they mean, but they're everywhere. It's weird, Tails—like they're telling a story, but none of it makes sense. I don't recognize the patterns, and believe me, I've seen my fair share of weird symbols."

Tails, still wiping at the stubborn oil staining his fur, paused at that. His ears twitched slightly, but he didn't look up.

You, however, found your fingers curling slightly at your sides. Chaos. Again.

Your gaze dropped to yourself—your long-sleeved t-shirt, stained with oil, the work pants stiff with use. Tails had given them to you specifically for workshop tasks, practical and durable, meant to handle messes like today's. They'd done their job. But now? Now, they felt too heavy, too constricting.

Without a word, you turned and made your way upstairs.

The moment you were alone, you exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you peeled off the soiled clothing. Oil had seeped into the fabric, the scent clinging to your skin even as you changed. You picked something better suited for movement—lighter, unrestrictive. Something that wouldn't slow you down if you needed to act quickly.

You pulled at the collar slightly, adjusting the fit. Your hair, once knotted tightly, loosened as you ran your fingers through it. A few strands fell over your face, but you left them. You weren't concerned about looking perfect—you just needed to feel right.

By the time you came back downstairs, Sonic was already waiting. He leaned against the workbench, his arms crossed, one foot tapping idly against the floor. His sharp eyes flicked to you as you approached, scanning your new attire with a once-over before he gave a small, satisfied nod.

"Much better," he said, pushing off the workbench with his usual easygoing confidence. Then, he jerked a thumb toward the door. "C'mon. We're heading to the ruins."

From the other side of the room, Tails let out a long-suffering groan, still rubbing at his fur with a cleaning wipe. The oil was stubborn, clinging to his arms and tails no matter how much he scrubbed. "Ugh, I can't go anywhere like this," he grumbled. "If I don't get this out now, it's gonna stick—and then I'll be finding oil in my fur for weeks."

He shot Sonic a look, then waved you both off with one oil-streaked hand. "You two go ahead—I'll catch up once I'm not a walking grease stain."

Sonic chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, take your time, bud. We won't be too far ahead."

Tails just sighed, already reaching for yet another wipe, muttering something under his breath about how ridiculously long this was going to take.

Meanwhile, Sonic turned back to you, his usual smirk returning as he tilted his head toward the door. "Ready?"

You gave a small nod.

With that, the two of you stepped outside, leaving the workshop behind as the journey to the ruins began.

Sonic led the way, his pace easy but purposeful, hands tucked behind his head as he weaved through the open plains and into the forest. The path beneath your feet was uneven, riddled with tree roots and scattered stones. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in shifting patterns of gold and green, swaying with the breeze. The distant hum of cicadas filled the air, blending with the rhythmic rustling of leaves.

A couple of Tails' drones trailed behind, their quiet, mechanical whirs barely noticeable over the sounds of the forest. They hovered steadily, scanning the area as they followed your pace.

Sonic shot you a glance out of the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So, how's it been? Being cooped up at Tails' place?"

You only shrugged.

His smirk faltered slightly, the flicker of amusement in his eyes dimming. "That bad, huh?"

You shook your head.

"...That good?"

Another shrug.

Sonic exhaled through his nose, letting out a quiet chuckle as he kicked a loose rock on the path, watching it skip ahead before settling in the dirt. "Man, you really make me work for a conversation, huh?"

You didn't mean to be difficult—it was just... talking still didn't come naturally. Even after weeks, your voice wasn't something you used often. Words felt clunky, unnatural. More effort than they were worth, most of the time.

Gestures were easier.
Silence was easier.

The quiet stretched between you, not tense, but undeniably awkward. Sonic wasn't the type to let a conversation die easily, but even he seemed unsure of how to fill the space. His ears flicked slightly, as if listening to the rhythm of the forest, searching for a way to pick things back up.

After a beat, he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. "Well, if you ever do feel like talking," he said, his tone more relaxed now, "I'm all ears. No pressure."

You gave the smallest nod.

Sonic grinned. "Cool, cool."

More silence.

He stuffed his hands behind his head as he walked, tapping his fingers against his quills in thought. "Well, guess I can't blame ya. Tails' house isn't exactly the most exciting place in the world. Unless you count the time, his fridge exploded."

You tilted your head slightly.

He smirked. "Oh yeah. I wasn't even there for that one, but I heard it was a mess. Poor guy lost, like, three weeks' worth of chili dogs."

You blinked.

"...Tragic," he added dramatically, shaking his head.

Your lips twitched. Just barely.

Sonic caught it. His grin widened. "Ah-ha! Knew you had a sense of humour."

The silence that followed wasn't as heavy, not quite as awkward. The two of you walked in tandem, Sonic occasionally humming to himself, tapping his fingers against his arm as he thought. Every now and then, he'd kick a loose rock down the dirt path or stretch his arms behind his head. The further you travelled, the more the scenery shifted—the trees thickened, the air grew heavier, and the terrain ahead looked unfamiliar.

Sonic stole another glance at you, this time with more curiosity than teasing. "Hey, so what do you even do for fun?"

You blinked at him.

"Tails said you read a lot, but c'mon, you gotta have something else."

He looked at you expectantly, waiting for an answer. You hesitated, considering, then slowly lifted your hands, miming the motion of twisting a wrench.

Sonic stared at you for a second before groaning. "Oh no. Tails got to you, didn't he? You're turning into a mini-mechanic."

You gave a small shrug.

"Knew it. Knew he'd suck you into all that nerd stuff." He shook his head, though there was no real disappointment in his voice—just amusement. "Well, guess it could be worse. At least you're not picking up his habit of drinking ten cups of coffee a day."

Your brow furrowed slightly. You'd definitely noticed Tails drinking more coffee than seemed necessary.

Sonic laughed at your expression, nudging your shoulder lightly. "Yeah, exactly. It's a problem."

You only shook your head, but the corners of your mouth tugged up just the slightest bit.

The conversation drifted into another comfortable silence, but this time, it wasn't heavy at all. Just easy. Sonic kept up his chatter as you both traveled, effortlessly filling the silence with little jokes and casual observations. He talked about nothing and everything at once—his latest race, a weird dream he had, some new chili dog stand he wanted to try. It was easygoing, meant to lift the mood, though you didn't always respond.

The journey to the ruins led through a patchwork of biomes, each distinct, each brimming with life and atmosphere you'd never seen before.

As you passed into the Swamp Zone, the air grew thick and damp, clinging to your skin like a second layer. The ground beneath your feet turned soft, slick with moss, each step feeling uncertain, like the earth might swallow you whole if you weren't careful. Towering trees loomed overhead, their gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, draped in long curtains of hanging moss. Twisting roots jutted from murky water, moss-covered logs stretched across brackish pools, and distant croaks of unseen creatures rippled through the dense foliage.

The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic—like the rain had only just left.

Sonic, of course, was unfazed. He stepped easily across unstable ground, his movements effortless. "Man, this place still stinks. You'd think after all these years it'd air out, but nope. Swamp's gotta be a swamp." He wrinkled his nose dramatically before glancing at you, smirking. "You good? You're looking kinda—uh, I dunno—stiff."

You didn't answer, just kept moving.

Sonic didn't push, but his smirk softened. "Yeah, yeah, let's keep going. You'll like the next place better."

And he was right.

As the swamp gave way to solid ground, the landscape shifted again, neon lights flickering in the distance. You had stepped into Gambling City Zone.

The Gambling City Zone was loud, even though it was mostly abandoned. It was a garish, neon-lit wasteland, where the sky was perpetually choked with an artificial glow. The hum of electricity buzzed just at the edges of your hearing, like a persistent reminder of something that used to be more. Neon lights flickered erratically above, casting sharp, artificial colors onto the cracked, uneven pavement. Bright, flashing billboards loomed overhead—some flickering weakly, others burned out entirely, leaving behind fragmented, half-lit messages that made no sense anymore.

The air hummed with the remnants of old power sources still struggling to keep going—slot machines clicked in empty cycles, giant roulette wheels spun lazily on their own, a jarring contrast to the silence of the city. It was unsettling, like walking through a forgotten dream, a place that once thrived but was now left to rot in its own excess. The ground shimmered beneath your feet, metallic pathways guiding you through the ghostly remnants of holographic advertisements. Even abandoned, the place felt alive, its artificial lights still pulsing faintly, as if the echoes of its past inhabitants lingered in the air.

Sonic, however, seemed to light up the moment he stepped into the zone. "Oh-ho, this takes me back." He gestured grandly to the neon cityscape. "Used to be crazy in here—lights, music, and a whole lotta losing money. Y'know, classic." He flashed you a grin, hands on his hips. "Bet you'd be pretty lucky, though. You've got that whole 'mysterious vibe' going on. Could probably break the system just by existing."

You didn't answer. Your gaze was too caught on the flashing lights that pulsed and stuttered like dying stars in the void.

Sonic didn't push it. He just kept walking, the sound of his sneakers tapping against the pavement blending with the eerie echoes of a city that had long past its prime. It felt like the place was waiting for something—anything—to bring it back to life. But that something wasn't coming. Not today.

You could see the cold in the distance.

The air grew sharper with each step, and the landscape seemed to stretch endlessly, white and cold beneath an overcast sky. The Icy zone was harsh, but stunning in its starkness. Frost clung to the towering peaks, their jagged edges cutting through the grey clouds above, while untouched snow spread out in vast, glittering sheets, almost blinding under the faint sunlight. The wind, relentless and unforgiving, cut through the stillness with an eerie whistle, carving smooth, winding paths across the endless white. It felt like you were walking through an alien world—a place where nature's beauty was starkly matched by its danger.

Sonic, ever unfazed, barely seemed to notice the cold, moving with his usual fluid grace across the frozen terrain. You, on the other hand, stumbled slightly, adjusting your footing as you tried to get used to the sudden loss of traction. The snow crunched underfoot, the cold seeping into your boots as you braced yourself against the gusts of wind. Tails' drones floated ahead, unaffected by the elements, their faint blue glow casting strange, eerie shadows on the ice as they silently scanned the area.

Sonic huffed, rubbing his arms as a chill finally seemed to catch up with him. "Yeahhh, not my favorite place either," he said, his voice carrying through the wind. "Too cold, too slippery, and if you're not careful, you'll end up with a face full of frostbite." He smirked as he glanced back at you, eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "Bet Tails would love it, though. All that 'studying ice formations' junk."

You exhaled, the breath coming out in a visible puff, almost swallowed by the wind. Despite the freezing temperature, the zone was... beautiful. Untouched, unspoiled, and impossibly quiet. The vast white plains seemed to stretch on forever, as if they held ancient secrets beneath their frozen surface. But you knew better. This silence—this stillness—wasn't something that would last.

A sudden movement caught your eye—a flash of something just ahead, disappearing into the frosted landscape. Sonic didn't seem to notice, his focus fixed ahead as he trudged through the snow, but the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, a quiet warning echoing in the back of your mind. (Guess who it is~)

The Autumn Zone stretched out before you, a landscape that seemed to belong to another world—one where time slowed, and every moment was drenched in warmth and color. The trees here were tall and ancient, their trunks thick and gnarled, reaching high into the sky. Their branches twisted together like intricate vines, forming dense canopies that bathed the ground in golden light. The leaves were a symphony of colors—rich amber, deep crimson, and vibrant orange—all blending together in an endless dance as they fluttered gently to the earth. The wind, soft and cool, carried with it the earthy scent of dry leaves, mingling with something faintly smoky, like the remnants of a fire that had burned long ago, its warmth now a distant memory.

Golden grasses swayed in the breeze, waving softly like a sea of color. Here and there, bright red poppies and sunny marigolds peeked through the tall blades, dotting the landscape like delicate jewels. The air was crisp, yet the warmth of the late afternoon sun lingered, casting a soft glow that made everything seem just a bit dreamier. You had never seen a place like this. Never felt the air so fresh, the earth so alive with color. The way the hues bled into one another—seamlessly—was like a living painting, one that changed with every step you took.

In the distance, through the towering trees and along the horizon, the ruins waited. A mystery hidden within this natural beauty, untouched by time yet so close you could feel the draw of its history. It beckoned, but not with urgency—more like an ancient whisper, a quiet invitation to uncover secrets long buried.

As you continued forward, the shift was sudden and jarring. The warmth of the Autumn Zone was quickly replaced by the vibrant energy of the Spring Zone. The change was almost immediate. The air, now thick with the scent of fresh blooms and damp earth, wrapped around you like a welcoming embrace.

The ground beneath your feet softened, almost springing back under your weight as if it too wanted to move. The landscape was alive—full of energy and life in every form. Bright, lush grasses carpeted the ground, their blades almost impossibly green. Wildflowers bloomed in riotous colors, their sweet scent mixing with the air, filling your senses with the promise of new beginnings. The world here felt almost too alive, as if everything was in constant motion, pulsing with the rhythm of nature's heartbeat.

Giant springs—some rusted and decaying, others still coiled tightly with mechanical precision—rose from the landscape like bizarre sculptures. The remnants of old technology, remnants of a forgotten design, they stood frozen in place, a part of the landscape yet completely apart from it. Some of these springs still functioned, launching debris into the air when disturbed, their mechanism clicking and whirring like an old, forgotten clock.

Sonic, was already ahead, taking full advantage of the terrain. He leaped effortlessly from hill to hill, using the natural springs and loops to his advantage. His movements were fluid, graceful, and effortless—like a force of nature himself. He was clearly in his element, bounding across the terrain as if he was born to move this way.

You, on the other hand, took a more measured approach, adjusting to the energetic shift in the land. With every step, you felt the pull of the environment, urging you to move faster, jump higher, but you moved at your own pace, carefully stepping through the terrain. The ground beneath you bounced softly, the natural springs woven into the landscape, allowing for incredible leaps that, for a moment, made you feel like you could defy gravity itself.

Still, there was a rhythm to it, and you soon found yourself adjusting, stepping a little lighter, following the subtle sway of the land. Every so often, you'd glance ahead at Sonic, who was already zipping ahead, a grin stretched across his face as he launched himself into the air once more. Even with his energy and speed, he always seemed to have a moment to spare, a quick glance over his shoulder, ensuring you were still following.

The Spring Zone felt alive with every footstep you took—vibrant, full of energy, yet with a gentle invitation to explore, to leap, to be part of its movement. The pace was faster here, but you had a feeling that the deeper you went, the more mysteries you would uncover—and the ruins that called to you from the horizon were waiting, just beyond the playful spring landscape.

Sonic bounced lightly on one of the springs, testing its resilience. "Ah, now this is more like it! You feel that? It's got energy." He grinned, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfying crack. "If I had the time, I'd be zipping all over this place. Bet I could launch halfway across the zone."

You glanced around, taking in the lively landscape. It was a world apart from the Swamp or Gambling City—a vibrant, living space. Birds flitted between the trees, the grass swayed in the breeze, and the sky stretched endlessly above, impossibly wide. The atmosphere felt refreshing, as if every breath filled you with new energy.

Sonic fell quiet for a moment, seemingly content to let the peaceful ambiance sink in. He crossed his arms, taking in the surroundings with a relaxed sigh, while you couldn't help but feel at ease amidst it all. The warmth of the air and the sounds of nature made the moment feel... nice.

But, as it always did, the landscape shifted again.

When you both landed next, it was as if the entire world had changed. The bright, lively energy of the Spring Zone gave way to something altogether different—a space between the vibrant Flower Field Zone and the imposing Mountain Zones.

The fields stretched on endlessly before you, a riot of color that seemed almost too vivid to be real. Red, purple, yellow—every color imaginable swirled and swayed in the wind. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, pollen and earth mingling to create a sweet, heavy atmosphere that clung to your lungs as you breathed it in.

It was mesmerizing.

But as beautiful as it was, the landscape shifted once more in a stark contrast. Behind the flowers, the mountains loomed, jagged and towering. Their sharp cliffs seemed to claw at the sky, disappearing into the mist above. The transition from the soft, flowing fields to the rigid, rocky cliffs felt unnatural, like you were stepping between two entirely different worlds.

Sonic slowed, his usual easy-going energy fading for a moment. Something about the scene had caught his attention.

Then, you saw it.

A spiral staircase.

It descended deep into the mountain, its stone steps worn and crumbling. Moss and vines had overtaken the structure, and parts of the stone had chipped away from years of neglect. The entrance to the staircase was partially obscured, as if the mountain itself had tried to bury it, but something had forced its way through—the rocks around it broken and jagged, like a violent force had carved a path.

Without warning, Tails' drones, which had been hovering quietly behind, came to life. They drifted toward the staircase, their small lights flickering as they scanned the surroundings. The hum of their engines echoed through the air, bouncing off the decaying stone walls as they descended.

Sonic didn't seem surprised by the sight. He crossed his arms, his gaze lingering on the broken entrance. "Well, looks like someone really didn't want to stay out," he said, his voice less playful, more thoughtful. "Wonder what they were after."

He nodded toward the entrance, as if this was exactly where he had expected to end up. "Took longer than I thought, but we made it."

You followed his gaze back to the ancient staircase, still feeling the weight of the broken rocks and the odd sensation that something important had been hidden—or locked—away. The jagged edges surrounding the entrance were unmistakable. This wasn't a natural break in the stone. Something had forced its way in.

Your fingers curled slightly as you stared into the dark.

Sonic stretched his arms above his head, then rested them behind his head lazily. "Yep, these are the ruins I was talkin' about," he said casually. "Figured you'd wanna check 'em out." Your gaze lingered on the entrance, the weight of something unspoken pressing against your chest.

"Ladies first~" Sonic teased, standing near the ledge with that insufferable grin, one hand dramatically gesturing toward the entrance.

You gave him a deadpan stare. Then, without a word, you shoved him. (Why?)

"WH—!" Sonic yelped, flailing his arms wildly as he tumbled forward, disappearing down the steps.

You started descending after him, unhurried, as you began to carefully make your way down the spiral staircase, stepping carefully down the worn stone staircase. As you descended the worn spiral staircase, the air grew heavier—thick with dust and the scent of old stone. The deeper you went, the more the warmth of the outside world faded, replaced by a cool, dry stillness.

"Come on, be careful with hedgehogs! We've got feelings too!" He teased, shaking out his arms as if shaking off the emotional damage from your betrayal, voice full of mock offense.

You glanced over your shoulder, unimpressed. He'd be fine. You rolled your eyes, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. Sonic caught it, and for a split second, he visibly flinched—like he wasn't expecting that. Neither of you acknowledged it.

The deeper you went, the tighter the space became. Sonic moved effortlessly through the ruins, but you quickly found yourself forced to crouch. When the ceiling dipped even lower, you had to practically crawl on your hands and knees. Sonic, of course, found this hilarious.

The tunnel twisted downward; the steps carved directly into the rock. Some were crumbling, forcing you to step carefully, while others were so worn from time that your footfalls barely made a sound. Faint markings lined the walls, long-eroded symbols that might've once told a story—now reduced to nothing but grooves in the stone.

Then the ceiling dipped lower.

At first, it wasn't much of a problem—you only had to duck your head slightly. But as the passage narrowed, it became almost comically tight. Sonic, being himself, could still move with ease, but you?

You were too tall for this.

"Uh-oh," Sonic grinned as you struggled to fit through the confined space, forced to hunch your shoulders before ultimately dropping to your knees and crawling forward. "Oh, this is rich," he wheezed, doubling over with laughter. "You look like you're sneaking into a kid's play tunnel."

You shot him a glare, unimpressed.

"Oh no, don't stop on my account," he smirked, crouching beside you just enough to be at eye level. "Should I, uh—grab a camera? This is historic."

You rolled your eyes, shouldering past him as you continued through the narrowing tunnel.

Sonic, still chuckling to himself, squeezed through behind you, occasionally making mocking groans like he was the one struggling. "Ugh, how ever will we survive this claustrophobic nightmare? If only someone had warned us—oh wait, that's right. Nobody did."

You ignored him.

After what felt like forever, the tunnel finally opened up, and you rose quickly to your feet, stretching your spine with a quiet huff.

Sonic gave you a thumbs-up, his grin unwavering as usual. "Well, that was a team-building exercise if I've ever seen one. I think we've bonded."

Before you could respond, the sharp crackle of Tails' voice came through the comms, the tiny drones hovering just ahead of you, their soft hums filling the quiet air.

"We've finished scanning the site—this place is huge. It's definitely a hidden bunker or some sort of hideaway. Still, we can't tell what it was really meant for. A lot of the passageways are completely caved in, and the rest look like they haven't been used in ages... it's probably been abandoned for a really long time."

Sonic tilted his head, his eyes scanning the ruined structures ahead of you both, his expression thoughtful. "A hideaway, huh? Makes you wonder what they were hiding from. And why keep it all buried like this?" His tone carried that familiar, casual curiosity, as if he was already mentally unraveling some mystery.

You paused, your gaze drifting over the stone walls that seemed to stretch endlessly, ancient and cracked. The air here felt thick, as though the place had held onto secrets for far too long. There was something eerie about it—something off—but not in a way that screamed immediate danger. It was more like a lingering sense of forgotten history, the kind that clung to the stone like dust, just out of reach but never fully gone.

Tails' voice crackled back through the comms, snapping you from your thoughts. "We've mapped out everything that's still accessible. But, unless you plan on digging through solid rock, we're stuck with what's exposed already. Just a heads-up, some of these tunnels are pretty unstable, so be careful when you're moving around."

Sonic stretched his arms over his head, his usual grin returning as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Got it. No digging. We'll be careful," he said, his tone light, but with an edge of seriousness that belied his usual carefree attitude.

You glanced at him, still a little uneasy about the place, but you couldn't deny the way Sonic's easy confidence helped ease some of the tension in the air. He caught your glance, and the smirk he shot you was mischievous, almost challenging.

"Okay, okay," he said, rolling his shoulders and flashing a grin. "I'll be careful. Happy now?"

You gave him a small, reluctant nod, still not entirely convinced that Sonic's brand of 'careful' meant anything more than the bare minimum, but it was as close to reassurance as you were going to get.

With that, you both moved deeper into the ruins, the silence wrapping around you again as Tails' drones led the way, their soft lights flickering like distant stars in the darkness.

As you trailed behind Sonic, your gaze kept drifting to the murals carved into the ancient stone walls. They felt... strangely familiar. Not in a way that made sense, not like a memory you could place, but more like a dream that you couldn't quite remember—fuzzy at the edges, just out of reach, teasing you. The harder you tried to grasp it, the more it slipped through your fingers.

Figures danced in spirals, their forms fluid and graceful, moving in unison across the stone. They were surrounded by intricate, swirling shapes, the kind of designs that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Your eyes lingered on them, caught in the hypnotic pattern, until you realized that you had been staring for too long.

Then, your eyes fell upon the murals of water, and something inside you shifted. A cold, visceral reaction gripped your chest, and your stomach turned over painfully. It wasn't fear—not exactly—but a deep, gnawing discomfort that you couldn't explain. Your breath hitched in your throat, and without thinking, you took a step back, the instinct to distance yourself overwhelming.

Sonic noticed, but he didn't say anything right away. Instead, his usual carefree energy shifted, a subtle change that made him look more aware, more attuned to your movements. His eyes flicked to you, reading you with that strange ability he had to notice the smallest details.

Without another word, you continued on, your footsteps hesitant, as you entered a vast, open space. The chamber stretched out before you—dome-shaped, its sheer size almost disorienting. The walls were untouched by the collapse that had buried much of the ruin. It was like stepping into an entirely different world. A strange stillness lingered in the air, thick with age and secrecy.

And then you saw it.

Hanging from the ceiling, suspended as if it were some kind of prized trophy, was a massive petal. Smooth and perfect, its edges curved delicately as if it were frozen in time. It was pristine, preserved in a way that seemed unnatural, almost reverent. It was displayed, like some kind of offering, like a treasure.

But it was also... wrong.

A deep ache bloomed in your chest, a painful, unbearable pull that made you freeze in place. Your ribs felt tight, like something was tugging at your very core, though you couldn't understand why. You didn't remember this place, or the petal, but you knew—somewhere deep inside—you knew what it was. And that knowing came with a sharp, hollow emptiness that was almost suffocating.

Your breath faltered, and the edges of your vision blurred. You didn't understand why you felt this way, why your body trembled with such raw emotion, but it didn't matter. Tears slid down your cheeks without you even realizing it, hot and uncontrollable. The weight of it all—this place, this memory, whatever it was—was more than you could handle.

You stood there, unable to tear your eyes away from the suspended petal, lost in the whirlwind of emotions you didn't have the words to express.

Sonic's voice cracked with panic as he took a few quick steps toward you. "Whoa—hey, hey, hold up! It's okay, it's okay! What's wrong?" He waved his hands frantically, his eyes flicking between you and the strange petal hanging above, trying to figure out what had caused such a reaction. "Did—did that thing freak you out? It's just... uh..." His voice trailed off, uncertainty settling over him as his gaze shifted back to the petal, now seeing it with new eyes, as if something had changed.

Tails' drones reacted with alarming precision. Their mechanical whirring halted, and they all swiveled in eerie synchronization, directing their focus on you. The small drones began scanning you, their sensors glowing as if confirming something, their presence suddenly heavy in the quiet of the chamber. A few hovered closer, cautiously, as though unsure how to comfort you, their movements slow and deliberate.

The pull you felt from the petal was undeniable, deep and aching, like it had been waiting for you. Like it was a part of you, something that should have always belonged. You reached out instinctively, drawn toward it, unable to resist the call.

Your fingers were mere inches away from the delicate wires connecting the petal to the ceiling when Tails' voice cracked through the communicator, sharp and urgent. "Don't touch it!"

You froze, blinking, your blurred vision slowly coming back into focus. Your hand hovered, suspended in midair, as Tails' warning reverberated in your mind. "That thing—**whatever it is—**it's the only thing holding this place together. I don't know how, but it's stabilizing the structure. If you mess with it, we could bring the whole place down!"

The reality of the situation hit you with full force. As you refocused, you saw the wires more clearly now—dozens, no, hundreds of them, stretching out from the petal like veins, snaking into the walls, the floor, and even deep into the ruins themselves. The entire chamber seemed to be tethered to it, dependent on its existence to keep everything intact.

Your fingers trembled, and you slowly, almost reluctantly, pulled your hand back. But the call didn't fade. It still lingered, pulling at you like an unseen force.

The petal wasn't just a petal. Not in any way a flower should be.

Suspended in the air, it hung there, out of place in the decay of the surrounding ruins. It remained eerily pristine, untouched by time or the collapse that had shattered everything else. Strands of metallic wire twisted around its curved surface, weaving in and out like veins, pulsing with a faint, unnatural energy that hummed in the silence of the chamber.

It was familiar in a way that twisted something deep inside you. It resembled the crystal—the one you had first awoken from. But it wasn't the same.

Where the crystal had flickered with life, that blue flame you had felt resonate inside your prison, this was different. Lifeless. Hardened. Obsidian-like, its glossy black surface catching what little light filtered into the space. The faint streaks of color beneath its surface shimmered like trapped memories, muted and distant.

The edges were too perfect. Too clean. It wasn't a piece of nature—it had been cut, shaved, preserved. Displayed as a relic, something precious, something forgotten.

The more you stared at it, the more you felt it calling to you. Something deep inside you stirred, an ache, a pull, like the petal was alive, reaching for you in return. It was like a piece of your past you couldn't fully remember but knew you needed to find.

You took a slow, tentative step forward. Your fingers twitched, eager, almost desperate as they reached toward it, pulled by something you couldn't explain. They were looking at the murals.

Your fingers brushed against the surface. (You just couldn't listen could you?)

The instant your skin made contact with the petal's smooth, polished obsidian, a cold, unnatural chill surged into your fingertips. It seeped through your hand like ice, creeping up your arm, and in an instant, the purple-black hues that once danced within the petal dulled. They bled away, leaving nothing but a lifeless, ashen gray—flat, empty.

A deep rumbling shuddered through the ground.

At first, it was subtle, like the ruins themselves were shifting in their sleep. Stone grinding against stone, the very bones of the place groaning in protest. It felt like the world was holding its breath. And then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped—leaving behind a stillness that felt wrong, unnatural.

A single, fractured breath passed.

Then, with a deafening crack, the petal shattered.

The sound echoed like a breaking promise, sharp and violent. The crystal-like fragment splintered into a million tiny pieces, scattering in all directions, each one vanishing into the air before it could even touch the ground—erased from existence, like they had never been there at all.

A sharp, searing pain shot through your arms.

Your breath hitched in surprise, your chest tightening with the force of the sensation. Looking down, the sight that greeted you made your heart race.

The gradient on your skin—the dark, ink-like substance that had once only reached just past your elbows—was spreading. It crawled further up your arms, creeping over your skin like ink bleeding into water, pulsing with a strange, painful energy.

It crawled up your arms like creeping vines, an invasive, consuming force. The ink-like substance stretched, swallowing more of you, climbing to your shoulders with an unsettling speed. It felt like you were wearing long sleeves that weren't there—slick, cold, and suffocating.

Something was horribly wrong.

Your body could feel it, deep in your bones. Your lungs tightened with every strained breath, your throat constricting as if an invisible hand had wrapped itself around your neck, dragging you down into the depths. You could feel the weight of it pulling you under. Drowning.

You staggered back, gasping for air, but the space around you seemed to close in. Your vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges of your sight, and then—

Memories.

Not like the fleeting flashes or half-formed dreams you had before. These were vivid, real—too real.

Smoke.

Smog.

Fire.

The suffocating heat rose in your chest, filling your lungs like molten lead, burning from the inside out. Each desperate gasp was met with nothing but the bite of ash in your throat. You tried to scream, to cry out, but no sound came—just an awful, choking silence.

And then you saw them.

Faces fading into the smoke, their forms dissolving like dust in the wind. You reached for them, but your arms wouldn't obey. You tried to call for help, but your voice was gone, swallowed up by the fire, by the chaos.

You were alone.

The loss. The helplessness. The grief—the crushing weight of it all—coiled inside you. It built, pressing in on you like a dam ready to burst. It was too much. You couldn't hold it in anymore.

Finally, it broke.

A raw, strangled scream tore from your throat, jagged and broken, echoing through the ruins. It shattered the silence, shaking the air like a thunderclap.

Sonic flinched, his eyes wide, stepping back as the sound raked through him. His ears flattened against his head, his face contorting in a mix of concern and confusion. The drones froze, their mechanical whirring grinding to a halt, their lights flickering uncertainly as they hovered, unsure of what to do.

And then, despite the noise in your head, you sobbed.

Tears streamed down your face, your chest heaving with the weight of it all, and you couldn't stop. You couldn't stop crying.

Not just from grief. Not just from pain.

But because now, you understood.

You understood why.

Your breath was still ragged, each inhale shaking your chest as you struggled to gather your senses. Your eyes darted around the chamber, lingering on the cracked stone walls. The murals. The water symbols. The ones Tails had called "The Ancients."

Your expression hardened. A deep, heavy ache twisted inside you, but it was not just the ache of loss. It was something more. Something darker.

Your tears still burned as they streaked down your cheeks, but they weren't tears of sorrow anymore. Your hands curled into fists, trembling with something else now—something fierce, something raw.

You didn't want to cry. You didn't want to break.

You pushed yourself up.

One foot. Then the other.

Your body moved without hesitation. No more stumbling. No more wavering.

Sonic barely had time to react before you strode past him. His voice, laced with confusion, cracked through the air, faint and distant.

"Uh—Y/N? What are you—"

You didn't stop. Didn't answer.

Your feet carried you straight to the mural, to the water symbols that now burned into your mind. Without a second thought, you struck the wall.

The impact was not just forceful.

It was cataclysmic.

A blast of pure Chaos energy erupted from the point of impact, a searing wave of raw, untamed power that sent shockwaves tearing through the chamber. The murals cracked and crumbled, splintering into dust. Stone shattered, falling in jagged pieces from the ceiling, dust and debris filling the air like a storm.

Tails' drones didn't stand a chance. They were flung backward by the force, their metal bodies slamming into the walls of the chamber with a deafening crash. Sparks flew from their damaged circuits, and their screens shattered, limbs jerking helplessly before they fell silent—destroyed.

Sonic wasn't spared either.

The explosion hit him hard, sending him flying across the room. His body slammed into the ground with a sickening thud, skidding along the stone floor until he came to a violent stop. He coughed, hacking violently as the thick cloud of dust and smoke filled the air. His ears rang from the blast, his whole body aching from the force.

The ruins groaned beneath the weight of the explosion, the ancient structure shuddering, as if the very foundations were buckling under the impact. The sound of crumbling stone echoed through the chamber, a warning, a whisper of impending destruction.

And still, you stood there, trembling, a silent storm raging inside you.

You had done this...

The world felt like it was collapsing.

Your chest heaved, breath coming out in ragged gasps as the ringing in your ears drowned out everything else. Your hands wavered, flickering unsteadily as if even they weren't sure what shape they were supposed to take anymore. The weight of the destruction sat heavily in your bones, vibrating with something you didn't understand.

Sonic was slumped against the wall, unmoving.

Then the ceiling started to come down.

Your heart lurched as cracks split through the stone above, dust and debris beginning to shake loose. Your vision tunnelled in on Sonic's unconscious form, and something deep inside you snapped.

For the first time, without thinking, you let the word fall from your lips.

"Shit—"

You scrambled forward, stumbling slightly as your legs threatened to give out beneath you. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on you, but you pushed through, fingers digging into the fabric of Sonic's quills as you hauled him up. (It hurt you) He was heavier than he looked, his limbs limp and useless in your grasp.

The cavern groaned, the sound of stone grinding against stone making your skin crawl.

You didn't think.

You just ran. Squeezing threw whatever narrow gap you pushed yourself through.

The path you took wasn't calculated—it was instinct. A desperate sprint through the crumbling ruins, your feet moving before your mind could catch up. Every breath burned, every muscle screamed, but you didn't stop. You couldn't.

You weren't going to let this place take you.

You weren't going to let this place take him.

A loud crack behind you made you flinch, but you didn't dare look back. You felt the air shift, the pressure of the collapse barrelling toward you like a living thing. You were seconds away from being buried.

But then—

The air changed.

The scent of grass, of sky, of something open hit your senses all at once as you finally broke through.

You burst into the sunlight, your vision blurring as you stumbled forward, legs giving out beneath you.

Sonic hit the ground first, his weight slipping from your grasp as you collapsed beside him. Your arms trembled, barely holding you up as you gasped for air.

The world around you, wasn't shaking anymore.

The ruins—
That horrible place—
It was gone.

And for the first time since stepping foot inside, you could breathe.

Your knees ached, raw from where they had scraped against stone. Your elbows throbbed, a dull pain settling into the bruises forming beneath your skin. Every breath you took felt heavy, like your lungs were struggling to remember how to work after the chaos that had just unfolded.

A sharp gasp beside you jolted you from your daze.

Sonic.

He shot upright, eyes wide as he sucked in air like he had just been underwater. For a split second, his gaze darted around in confusion—until realization hit. His face lit up, excitement overriding any of the lingering daze from being knocked out.

"What was that?!"

You barely processed his words before he started patting himself down, checking every part of his body to make sure he was still in one piece. His hands flicked over his arms, his legs, his chest, his quills—like he half-expected to find a limb missing after whatever the hell just happened.

You just sat there, exhausted, your body trembling slightly from the strain of it all.

You still didn't know how you did it.

Didn't know what you did.

But the memory of that explosion was seared into your mind—the way the energy had ripped through you, how the murals had shattered, how the weight of something ancient and horrible had settled in your chest for just a moment before it all collapsed.

You swallowed hard, still trying to catch your breath, still trying to piece together what had just happened.

Then—

"Y/N? Sonic?!"

The sudden blast of static from Sonic's communicator nearly made you flinch.

Tails' voice burst through, high with panic.

"What happened?! Are you guys okay?! I lost the drone signals and then—"

"Whoa, whoa, little bro, breathe!" Sonic interrupted, tapping his ear to adjust the connection. "We're fine! Just a little—uh, cave-in. No biggie."

"No biggie?!" Tails' voice cracked. "The entire structure collapsed! What do you mean 'no biggie'?!"

Sonic winced, clearly reconsidering his choice of words. His eyes flicked toward you, probably looking for backup—only to pause when he saw you still lying there, staring blankly at the sky.

Your mind felt distant, the conversation barely registering.

The sky was... so pretty.

Soft clouds drifted above, the edges kissed with gold as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon. The blue stretched endlessly, vast and open, a stark contrast to the suffocating ruins you had just escaped from.

It was peaceful.

It felt so wrong to be peaceful.

You sucked in a slow, shaky breath, your hand weakly lifting.

A thumbs up.

It was all you could manage.

Sonic huffed a small laugh, shaking his head before turning back to the communicator. "See? We're fine. Y/N even gives it a thumbs up."

Silence on the other end. Then, a sigh—shaky and full of relief.

"Fenrir... Okay. Okay, just—stay put, I'm coming to get you."

Sonic rolled his eyes. "You don't have to, we're fine."

"Sonic, you just said the place collapsed!"

"Yeah, and we got out! No broken bones, no missing limbs—unless you count Y/N's weird power-up moment, but hey, bonus points, right?"

Tails' silence stretched for a beat longer before he finally spoke, voice firm.

"Stay there."

Sonic sighed, knowing that arguing wouldn't get him anywhere. He sat back against the grass, glancing over at you again.

"Y'know, for someone who doesn't talk much," he mused, "you sure have a way of making a scene."

You just closed your eyes, exhaustion creeping in, the sky above blurring as your thoughts swirled with memories you weren't ready to face.

You weren't sure when the tears started again.

One moment, you were staring up at the sky, the next, your vision blurred as hot tears slipped down your cheeks. Your throat ached, not from strain, but from the overwhelming pressure in your chest. You weren't even sure why you were crying anymore. Was it exhaustion? The memories? The fear of what you had just done?

Your breath hitched as you raised trembling hands to your face, hiding away, as if that would stop the emotions from spilling over. It didn't.

It was quiet for a long moment, just the sound of your ragged breathing mixing with the distant hum of nature around you. Then—

A gentle touch.

Sonic's gloved hand pressed lightly against your shoulder. Not forceful, not pushing. Just enough to ground you.

"Hey..." His voice was quieter this time, lacking its usual teasing lilt. His fingers gave a small squeeze, like he was checking—Are you okay?

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to take in a slow, shaky breath. The air felt heavy in your lungs, but it wasn't crushing.

"Yeah..." Your voice was unsteady, watery, but there was something else there, something stronger than before. Confidence.

Sonic blinked, his ears flicking slightly at the sound of it.

You barely noticed.

Instead, you sat up, wiping your face with your sleeve before exhaling deeply. You had never spoken like that before, not since you had started using your voice more. It felt different. Like something had settled inside you. (I shouldn't have given you pieces.)

Shaking it off, you turned toward Sonic, your expression calmer now, exhaustion creeping in.

"Let's go home and rest," you murmured.

Sonic's ears perked up, his head tilting slightly as he studied you. (He fulfilled that promise didn't he?)

That was the first time you had made a decision like that. The first time you didn't just follow along, didn't just nod in agreement or wait for someone else to choose for you.

For once, you had told him what you wanted to do.

A slow grin pulled at his lips. "Yeah," he said, stretching his arms over his head before getting to his feet. "Sounds like a plan."

By the time you reached Tails' house, the exhaustion in your bones had settled deep, weighing you down like a heavy blanket. But Tails? He was buzzing with energy.

The moment you stepped inside, he was already at Sonic's side, his voice rapid and full of concern.

"What the hell happened?!" His ears twitched, scanning over the both of you. "I told you to wait, and then the readings spiked off the charts and then your vitals went weird and—"

Sonic held up a hand, cutting him off. "Tails. Breathe."

Tails huffed, crossing his arms, but his tail twitched, showing his relief. "You never listen," he grumbled before turning to you. "And you—" He paused, staring, before his brows furrowed in thought.

Something was different.

You knew he noticed. You could see the gears turning in his head, eyes flicking down to the gradient creeping further up your arms. His tail flicked again, restless, like he wanted to ask something—but he didn't.

He didn't ask.

Instead, he turned to Sonic, immediately launching into a lecture about safety, about how he should have been more careful, about how his recklessness was bound to get them all killed one day.

Sonic just groaned, waving him off. "Dude, chill. We're fine! Look—no broken bones! Y/N even saved my quills this time!"

Tails gave you another long look, but still, he didn't ask.

You didn't mind.

Instead, you turned, heading toward the kitchen.

The lingering exhaustion tugged at your limbs, but your mind was oddly clear. There was a cookbook you had found a few days ago, tucked in the back of the small library. You had read through it in quiet curiosity, flipping through the pages just because. But now...

Now you were using it.

Your hands moved with steady purpose as you gathered ingredients, pulling together a meal in the familiar rhythm you had picked up from Vanilla's home.

The smell of spices and warmth slowly filled the air as you worked, the sound of Tails and Sonic's voices in the background. They weren't arguing, not really, just bickering, Sonic dodging each of Tails' scoldings with a grin.

It felt... normal.

For a brief second, as you stirred the pot, you saw it.

Not the kitchen.

Not Tails and Sonic.

Vanilla and Cream.

You froze, the soft memory surfacing for just a moment before you shook your head, shaking it away.

This was different.

You weren't in Vanilla's kitchen.

You weren't her.

And they weren't Cream.

Taking a slow breath, you finished the meal, placing the plates in front of the still-chatting duo.

The moment the food was in front of them, all conversation ceased.

They dug in immediately, no hesitation. Sonic let out a satisfied hum, while Tails mumbled something about the perfect balance of seasoning.

You wiped your hands off on a towel, watching them silently, something warm settling deep in your chest.

A small feeling.

Something familiar.

Something safe.

The warmth in your chest faded as quickly as it had come.

Your ears rang—loud, sharp, piercing—the sound swallowing everything else in the room. The voices, the clinking of silverware, the soft hum of the house—all of it blurred into a distant, muffled nothing.

Your fingers twitched, the towel slipping from your grasp. The floor beneath you tilted, the edges of your vision swimming in and out of focus. Too fast. The light from the kitchen suddenly felt too bright, the colors around you too sharp, too overwhelming.

You barely registered the way your knees buckled before the world tilted completely.

Your head hit something solid—a dull, numbing thud against the countertop—before everything gave out.

But you didn't hit the ground.

Something caught you.

A rush of wind, the faint scent of grass—Sonic.

Through the thick, suffocating haze, you barely made out the sound of his voice, frantic, calling your name. His arms were firm but careful, holding you up just before you would have collapsed completely.

"Whoa, whoa—Y/N?! Hey, stay with me!" His voice was urgent, higher than usual, laced with something you couldn't quite grasp.

You tried to respond, to say anything, but your body wouldn't move.

A faint static crawled up your arms, cold and weightless, yet somehow heavier than anything you had ever felt before.

The voices around you warped, stretching into incomprehensible echoes. Your chest tightened, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The ringing in your ears intensified, until it drowned out even Sonic's voice.

Your vision blurred—the world spinning, folding, collapsing—

And then—

Nothing.

Just darkness.

And somewhere, faintly, just before you slipped away completely—

Someone called your name.

⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡      ١٥٧٤♡

Chapter Text

(Warning: vivid nightmare! Fire.  Somewhat of a deep conversation??- Idk i went bananza- KIDNAPPING...)

"Look at me... I am not..." She desperately said, her eyes filled with something unspoken.

"You are pretty. You just have to look at the bigger picture." She calmly said, with a wave of her hand.

                                            ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

There was smoke.

Thick, suffocating, curling in heavy tendrils around you, coiling against your skin like something alive. It burned. It filled your lungs with every breath, seared your throat, clogged the air with the acrid sting of something that shouldn't be burning, something wrong. Every inhale felt like swallowing fire. Every exhale was too shallow, too weak to push it back out.

You tried to move—Gods, you tried.

But your legs refused to obey. They were leaden, unyielding, rooted to the broken ground beneath you. You couldn't step forward. Couldn't lurch. Couldn't so much as lift your foot.

You were trapped.

And then you saw them.

Two figures, just beyond the shifting wall of smog. Barely visible, their shapes distorted, flickering like dying candle flames struggling to stay alight against an unseen wind.

They were standing in the center of it all.

And they were reaching for you.

A hand—shaking, unsteady—stretched out toward you, fingers curled just slightly. Waiting. Waiting for you to take it.

You tried.

You fought against whatever unseen force held you still, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps. If you could just reach them—if you could just move—if you could just grab their hand, everything would be okay.

But your arms wouldn't move.

Your muscles locked, frozen stiff at your sides. Even as your fingers twitched, even as you willed them to rise, to reach back—nothing.

Your chest tightened.

You opened your mouth—to scream, to call out, to say something—but the moment the sound tried to claw its way free, it was stolen.

Ripped from your throat.

Erased from existence.

A sharp, choked wheeze was all that escaped you. You gasped, but there was no air. No voice. No sound.

Nothing.

You were drowning.

And still, they faded.

Their forms dimmed, the soft glow of their presence flickering before dulling completely, like a fire starved of oxygen. The color of them bled away, leeched by something unseen, something merciless.

Their hands—outstretched, waiting—began to break apart.

Dissolving.

Unraveling.

Erased.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic surging in you like a wild, desperate animal. You struggled harder, thrashed against the invisible chains holding you in place. Your lungs screamed for air, your body screamed for motion—move, move, MOVE—

No.

No, NO—!

You had to reach them.

You had to hold on—before it was too late.

But the world twisted around you.

The ground beneath your feet cracked open, jagged fissures splitting outward, spreading like veins of a dying thing. And from those fractures, something black and shapeless spilled out, slithering and writhing like living shadows.

It climbed up the walls.

It swallowed the sky.

It devoured everything in its path—merciless, all-consuming.

And you could only watch as it reached them.

The last remnants of their existence flickered—once, twice—before being swallowed whole.

Gone.

The warmth of them vanished.

The memory of them dimmed.

And all that was left was silence.

A hollow, aching, suffocating silence.

Your body sagged, trembling, numb. Your arms still refused to move. Your breath still refused to come.

Then, through the darkness, something drifted down in front of you.

A single petal.

Dark. Shimmering. Familiar.

It twirled, caught in an unseen current, spiraling downward until it landed, soundlessly, in your open palm.

The moment it touched your skin, the ground beneath you gave way.

And you fell.

          ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆


You woke up with a gasp.

The world lurched around you, like being tossed into the air only to crash back down too quickly. Your chest heaved, desperate for air, but the remnants of smoke and fire still clung to the back of your throat like an iron shackle. You could taste it—thick, acrid, burning. It filled your senses, choking you, lingering in every breath. The remnants of that moment before you lost yourself were still in your lungs, and they clung to you like shadows that wouldn't let go.

But now, there was no fire. No explosion. No ruined chamber shaking apart around you.

The ceiling of Tails' house met your gaze—a simple, wooden structure, sturdy and unmoving—but it didn't feel real. Not yet. The walls weren't alive with chaos and destruction. Everything around you was still, quiet. The gentle hum of the night outside, the faint rustling of leaves in the wind—it should have felt comforting, grounding. But it didn't. Not yet.

Your hands trembled. You could feel the rawness in your fingertips, the heat of your pulse racing just beneath your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady your breath, but your heart wouldn't follow. Every part of you felt too alive, too aware, as if you were standing on the edge of something—something heavy, something you couldn't name yet, but you could feel it pressing down on you.

The blanket that covered you felt wrong. Too light, too soft, when all you could feel was the phantom weight of something lost—something irretrievably gone, pressing down on your chest, suffocating you with grief. You clenched the blanket in your fists, your fingers digging into the fabric as though it could anchor you, but it didn't help. The loss, the emptiness, remained.

The night outside was still. The world beyond the window lay cloaked in darkness, the sky stretching out endlessly, deep blues and blacks, punctuated only by the pale, silvery glow of the moon slipping through the glass. The moonlight was quiet, ethereal, casting long shadows across the room that shifted ever so slightly with the breeze. You stared at it for a long moment, trying to focus, trying to find something to grasp onto.

You breathed, slow, deep, trying to control the chaos in your chest, but it didn't work. Your lungs still ached, and the rhythm of your breath felt off, too shallow, like your body hadn't quite escaped the grip of sleep.

But you were awake. You were here. Safe.

Right?

You swung your legs off the bed, the cold wood of the floor meeting your bare feet with an odd sense of finality. You winced at the dull ache that flared in your legs as you moved. Soreness, deep in your muscles. It was a strange sensation—like you'd been holding yourself too tight for too long. Like you had run miles, fought battles, without even knowing how you'd gotten there. The cool air brushing over your skin only heightened the awareness, and you realized then, with a sinking feeling in your gut, that your arms and legs were wrapped in bandages.

You hadn't noticed them before.

Your fingers ghosted over the fabric, tracing the careful, precise wrappings. They were snug but not tight, and they felt... different. As if someone had done this with purpose—with care. But who?

You couldn't remember when they had been put on you. Who had taken the time?

You didn't remember falling asleep.

You didn't remember anything after everything shattered.

The memories slammed into you like a wave, crashing with all the force of the chaos that had raged inside you. The explosion. The destruction. The scream. The black ink spreading across your skin. The crystal—no, not a crystal. The petal.

You closed your eyes again, squeezing them tight as the rush of images swam before you. There had been something... something in that moment—something inside you. Something broken.

A soft, involuntary shudder ran through you as you tried to suppress the memories, the grief, the overwhelming emptiness of it all. You held yourself tighter, but it didn't stop the crushing weight on your chest.

You exhaled, a long, slow breath that shook at the edges. It didn't help. Not this time.

You didn't want to be alone in this, but you were.

You looked around the room, your eyes scanning the stillness of it all. The simple, quiet room you had woken up in felt alien now. You could almost hear the echo of your own heartbeat in the silence. No voices. No soft noises of others moving about. Just you.

You felt an absence—the feeling that something important was missing. Something that should have been there, but now was gone.

A memory of them lingered, faint but undeniable. Their warmth, their presence—it had been there, in the smoke. And now, it was just gone.

You exhaled shakily and looked down at your arms again, your gaze settling on the dark gradient spreading across your skin. It had been subtle at first—just a dark mark, a faint, eerie shade—but now it was more. It felt like it was still crawling, still moving, consuming.

You could almost hear the whisper again. The call. The pull.

But you didn't know where it was coming from.

You didn't know what it meant.

And for a moment, that uncertainty filled the room with a suffocating silence that made it impossible to move.

But slowly—inch by inch—you pushed yourself off the bed, standing on unsteady legs. You didn't know what you were supposed to do, but something deep inside you urged you forward. It wasn't a choice; it felt more like an instinct.

The memory of collapsing at the counter, the weight of exhaustion dragging you down, flickered at the edges of your mind. There had been voices—Sonic's, maybe someone else's—but they blurred together, lost to the haze of sleep.

Now, the silence pressed in.

You pushed yourself to your feet, the stiffness in your limbs making each movement feel sluggish, like wading through deep water. The floor was cool beneath your feet, grounding you, but it did little to shake the lingering fog clinging to your mind.

The house was still. Not lifeless, but quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that settled deep in your bones, making you hyperaware of every shift in the air, every creak of the floorboards beneath your steps.

You moved carefully through the dimly lit halls, navigating the familiar space with ease. You knew these walls now. The way the air carried the faint scent of aged wood and something metallic. The way the low hum of unseen machinery was always there, just beneath the surface, like the steady rhythm of a pulse.

The bathroom door groaned softly as you pushed it open. The light flickered to life with a low, buzzing hum. The sudden brightness made your eyes sting, and you winced, blinking against the harsh glare.

You gripped the edges of the sink, steadying yourself.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, you lifted your gaze.

You stared.

The face in the mirror was yours. It had to be. But it felt... distant.

Your skin was pale, almost too pale beneath the sterile glow of the light. The gradient on your arms was stark against the white bandages wrapped around them, the inky black creeping further than you remembered. It had stretched, curling over your shoulders, inching toward your collarbone in slow, deliberate tendrils.

Your breath caught.

You lifted a hand—hesitant, slow—and pressed your fingertips against the mirror. The reflection mimicked you perfectly, but something felt off.

The glass was cold. Too cold.

A deep, twisting feeling settled in your chest—unease, uncertainty, something raw and unfamiliar clawing its way up your throat.

And then—before you could stop yourself—you exhaled.

The mirror fogged up.

For a moment, everything held still. The world, your breath, even the low hum of the light seemed to fade into the background. The fog spread thinly across the glass, distorting your reflection—blurring the already unfamiliar face staring back at you.

Your fingers twitched. Slowly, you dragged them down, leaving streaks of clarity in the mist.

Your pulse was steady. Your breathing was controlled. But something was wrong.

The air felt heavier now, charged with something unseen.

The dim light cast shadows over your face, stretching across the dark stains on your skin, accentuating the unnatural gradient that crept over your shoulders. It was spreading. Slowly. Methodically.

Your fingers curled against the cool porcelain of the sink, knuckles pale from the pressure, yet you couldn't look away.

What are you?

The thought pulsed at the back of your mind, persistent, gnawing.

Why were you made? Why did you hold such power?

Was it love? Or was it foolishness?

Your reflection didn't answer. It only stared back—a hollow mockery of something that should have been whole.

Your chest felt tight. You didn't know how long you stood there, eyes tracing every unfamiliar part of yourself, searching for something—anything—that felt like it belonged.

But nothing did.

And so, you left.

The night air was crisp against your skin as you stepped beyond the threshold of Tails' home, the door clicking shut behind you with barely a whisper. The wooden porch creaked softly beneath your weight, a quiet protest in the overwhelming silence that had settled over everything.

You weren't sure why you left.

Your bare feet met the cool earth, the sensation startling, grounding—but it didn't stop you. The ground was damp with lingering dew, blades of grass pressing against your soles with each step. Somewhere in the distance, the soft chirping of crickets filled the silence, a gentle, rhythmic song that felt like it belonged to another world entirely.

You moved forward.

Slow. Aimless. A wandering shadow against the pale glow of the moon.

The fabric of your clothes clung loosely to you, the night breeze slipping through the thin material of your sleepwear, chilling but strangely distant. The cold didn't seem to touch you, not really. Not in the way it should.

Your arms curled around yourself as you walked, hands gripping at your sides, as if trying to hold in something that threatened to spill out.

One, two, three. Press.

The rhythmic pressure of your own touch was familiar—Vanilla had taught you that once. A way to steady yourself when things felt too heavy, when the world pressed too close.

One, two, three. Breathe.

But it didn't help.

Not this time.

Not when the weight sat in your chest like a stone, pressing down, pressing in, wrapping around your ribs like something unseen was curling its fingers into you and refusing to let go.

The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves in a sound that was almost like a voice, almost like words. You paused, head tilting slightly, listening.

Nothing.

Just the wind.

You exhaled, but it came out too shaky, too uneven.

The night stretched around you, vast and endless. The sky above was dark, the stars distant pinpricks of light, cold and unwavering. They watched. Silent. Distant.

Just like your reflection.

Just like everything else.

You kept walking.

Because stopping meant thinking.

And thinking meant drowning.

Each step felt lighter, as if the further you moved from the house, the less you belonged to solid ground. The cool earth beneath your feet barely registered now, the texture of grass and dirt lost to the strange weightlessness settling in your limbs.

You weren't running. Weren't sneaking. Weren't even searching.

Just moving.

Something inside you urged you forward, an invisible force pulling at the edges of your mind, whispering that you couldn't stop now.

The landscape stretched endlessly before you—rolling fields, dense patches of trees, the world bathed in soft silver light. The wind stirred through the leaves in hushed murmurs, a sound almost too distant, too unreal. The stars above flickered in and out of focus as you walked, your vision blurring slightly before sharpening again.

Everything felt... wrong.

Like you were caught between waking and something else.

Something softer.

Something detached.

And then—

That feeling again.

The presence.

It slithered along your spine, slow and deliberate, as if it had been waiting for you to notice.

A weight in the air, pressing against your shoulders, against the back of your neck, against the fragile shape of your thoughts.

Something was watching.

Not a glance. Not a passing curiosity.

A gaze. Unmoving. Unrelenting. A thing that knew you, that had been waiting for you to step beyond that door, to drift far enough from the safety of warm lights and familiar walls.

You didn't look up.

Didn't stop.

Your pace remained steady, unhurried, but your fingers dug into your arms, nails pressing into the fabric of your clothes. The silence around you deepened, pressing into your ears, muting even the sound of your own footsteps. The night, once filled with the distant hum of insects, now held nothing. Not a whisper of wind. Not a rustle of movement.

Only stillness.

Were you imagining it?

No.

It was there.

Just beyond the trees, in the spaces where the moonlight didn't quite reach.

You could feel it. Watching. Measuring.

Still, you walked.

Still, it watched.

And with every step forward, the air grew heavier—thick, charged—like a storm waiting to break.

Like a breath being held.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, something whispered.

You are not alone.

The field stretched before you, a sea of gentle petals swaying with the wind. The moonlight made everything shimmer, the flowers glowing faintly under its pale touch. Their scent was thick in the air—sweet, earthy, alive.

The sight should have been comforting.

But the weight in your chest didn't lift.

Your arms remained wrapped around yourself as you stepped deeper into the field, the soft grass damp with lingering dew against your bare feet. The colors were muted in the darkness, their true vibrancy hidden beneath the weight of night. But you knew—knew they burned bright in the daylight, vivid reds, soft pinks, pure whites. You had seen them before in passing, a brief flash of beauty against the edges of your vision.

Now, standing among them, they felt... different.

Familiar.

Yet distant.

You lowered yourself to your knees, fingers ghosting over the delicate petals of a camellia. The texture was soft, fragile beneath your touch, as if a single breath could scatter them to the wind. You exhaled slowly, your breath barely disturbing the stillness. The night was quiet—too quiet.

Then—

A voice.

Smooth as silk, low and knowing, curling around the silence like a ribbon of smoke.

"What are you doing out here so late?"

You tensed.

The reaction was immediate—shoulders going stiff, breath catching just for a second before you turned your head.

Rouge.

She stood just at the edge of the field, arms crossed, one hip slightly cocked in that effortless way of hers. The moonlight kissed the white of her fur, making her glow against the darkness, her turquoise eyes sharp despite the casual lilt in her voice.

She had been watching you.

For how long?

Your fingers twitched against the flower's stem, but you didn't pull it from the earth. You only stared at her, searching for a reason behind her presence.

Had she followed you?

Had she been waiting for you?

Or was this just... coincidence?

The thought rang hollow. Rouge wasn't the type to stumble upon things by accident.

She tilted her head slightly, unreadable amusement dancing at the corner of her lips as she studied you in return.

"Not much of a talker tonight, huh?"

Tonight?

When were you ever?

You didn't answer, just turned your gaze back to the flowers, letting the silence settle between you. The wind rustled softly through the petals, but it wasn't enough to break the stillness. You could still feel her there, feel the weight of her presence pressing against you, her curiosity wrapping itself around your shoulders like an unseen thread.

She didn't move. Neither did you.

The night stretched out before you, thick and suffocating in its stillness, and yet something in the air seemed to hum with anticipation, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Somewhere, in the distance, beyond the edges of the field and the thick, dark trees, the night seemed to watch in silence. A quiet presence that had been there all along, unnoticed—until now.

Rouge wasn't leaving.

You could feel it. It wasn't just the way she stood there, arms folded across her chest, or the way her eyes locked onto you with that sharp, calculating look of hers. No. It was something deeper. Something unspoken, a quiet tension in the way she held herself. She was here for a reason. And it had nothing to do with midnight walks in a field of flowers.

Her sigh broke the silence, soft and heavy, and she stepped closer, her boots making no sound as they pressed against the grass, like she was walking on air. The ease with which she moved was almost unsettling, as though she had all the time in the world to unravel whatever was hidden beneath the surface. You, on the other hand, felt every moment slipping through your fingers.

"You know," she started, her voice a lazy drawl that carried with it a hint of something more dangerous, something she didn't bother to conceal, "I didn't take you for the type to sneak out in the middle of the night." Her eyes flicked over you with a casual interest, and for a moment, it almost felt like she was toying with the conversation rather than actually having it. "Especially not to stand around staring at flowers."

You didn't answer. Your eyes were fixed elsewhere now, no longer on the flowers but on the shadow in the distance. The figure that lingered just beyond the moonlit edge of the field, too still, too silent. It seemed to melt into the darkness like it belonged there, a part of the night itself. And yet, it was watching—waiting.

You could feel the tension coiling in your chest, tightening with each breath you took. Your fingers curled subtly, pressing into the fabric of your arms, the slight discomfort grounding you in the moment. The figure in the distance, a shadow among shadows, wasn't just a figment of your imagination. It was real. It was waiting for something. For you? Or something else?

Rouge either hadn't noticed or chose not to care. She kept speaking, her voice steady, teasing, but there was an edge to it now, a slight shift in the way she regarded you.

"Honestly," she continued, stepping a bit closer, her posture relaxed yet purposeful, "I was expecting to find you hiding away in Tails' little workshop." Her eyes flickered over you again, a knowing glint shining in the moonlight. "Or maybe curled up in bed. But out here? In the middle of nowhere? Either you're looking for something..." Her gaze swept over you once more, appraising, as if trying to figure you out piece by piece. "Or you're running from something."

The words hit you like a quiet thunderclap, settling heavily over you, digging into the fragile space between thought and action. And maybe it was the way she said it. Maybe it was the way her voice seemed to hang in the air longer than necessary, teasing, daring you to acknowledge something you had been trying to bury deep within yourself. Or maybe it was the way the night felt too wide, too open, too empty—like it was waiting for you to make a choice.

For whatever reason, you couldn't keep it in anymore. You couldn't stop the words from spilling out.

"I don't like me."

The words came out soft, almost too soft, like they weren't meant to be heard, just felt. A quiet confession, something you hadn't intended to share, something you hadn't even been willing to admit to yourself. It felt almost strange, saying it aloud—like it had been sitting inside you for so long that the act of speaking it was the only release you could find.

Rouge blinked.

The expression on her face flickered for a moment, a subtle change, like a flame caught in an unexpected draft. The playful edge to her voice vanished, replaced by something more contemplative. For once, she didn't try to twist your words into something lighter or brush it off with her usual smirk. She just looked at you.

Her gaze was intense now, focused, as if she were seeing something deeper than the surface. She didn't rush to fill the silence, didn't speak immediately. Instead, she just stood there, studying you, her eyes searching. For what? Understanding? A weakness? A reason? You couldn't tell, but it felt like she was waiting for something—waiting for you to break, or for the next part of the story to unfold.

For a moment, everything around you seemed to fade away, the distant figure no longer at the forefront of your mind. The weight of Rouge's gaze was enough to pull you in, to make the rest of the world feel distant, out of focus. It was just the two of you in that moment, the quiet night pressing in, holding its breath.

And then, as if she had finally found what she was looking for, Rouge spoke again.

For once, you couldn't tell what she was thinking.

The weight of the silence pressed heavily between you, stretching the moment out like an open wound. You kept your gaze down, staring at your hands in your lap, half-expecting her to scoff, roll her eyes, and walk away. It wasn't like you had given her much to work with, after all. Not much to latch onto or make light of. But she didn't leave. She didn't turn her back on you.

"...Well," Rouge murmured after what felt like an eternity, her voice softer than usual, lacking its usual biting edge. "That's not something you hear every day."

You swallowed, unsure how to respond, and shifted uncomfortably where you sat. The figure still lingered in the distance, unmoving—its presence like an itch you couldn't quite scratch. The flowers continued to sway with the soft breeze, their petals glowing faintly under the moon's touch, and the night stretched on like it had no end, no meaning to the passing hours. Everything around you was frozen in place, except for the tension between you and Rouge.

She didn't move closer. She didn't pry. She just... watched you. Her expression was unreadable, like she was waiting for you to fill the space with something more, but she didn't push. The words you had spoken hung in the air between you both, unsaid things swirling around them. She wasn't Tails, offering comfort or answers that you hadn't asked for. She wasn't Sonic, pushing you to move forward when you didn't know where to go. Rouge wasn't like that. She wasn't a fixer.

That, in itself, made her strange. And yet, she didn't leave.

You didn't know why you'd said it. The words had slipped out before you could catch them, tumbling from your lips like they'd always been there, waiting for the right moment. Maybe it was because Rouge wasn't someone you had to face every day, someone whose expectations weighed down on you. Maybe it was because she was just... different. And you were desperate for different.

She sighed then, shifting her weight to her other foot and placing a hand on her hip, tilting her head as if studying you more closely. The sharpness in her eyes was still there, but it was tempered now—more thoughtful, more cautious.

"So," she began, her voice measured but not unkind, "what's not to like?"

Your shoulders stiffened, the question cutting deeper than you expected. You flinched, barely noticeable, but she saw it. You could feel her eyes on you, sharp and calculating, waiting for something. She saw the way your grip tightened on your arms, the way you struggled to stay in the moment. The figure in the distance, still just a shadow, loomed larger in your thoughts, its presence somehow louder now. It was like the night itself was pressing in on you, the air growing thick, suffocating.

Rouge didn't let up. She didn't seem to care that you were shrinking, that you were pulling away.

"You look fine to me," she said, her tone direct, without the usual mockery or humor she liked to hide behind. "Last I checked, you've got two working legs, two working arms. I've seen worse."

You shook your head, the words she had spoken not quite registering. That wasn't it. Not even close.

Rouge sighed again, but this time it wasn't a sound of impatience. It was... calculated. Like she was figuring you out, piece by piece, like she was trying to solve a puzzle you didn't even have the answers to.

"Let me guess," she mused, tapping her chin as though she were playing a game, but the look in her eyes was anything but playful. "You feel out of place. Like you don't belong anywhere. Like something about you is just... wrong."

Your fingers twitched, almost involuntarily, as her words hit closer to the mark than you could have imagined. A tightness formed in your chest, a weight you hadn't realized you were carrying until it began to shift. Her words landed in that raw space inside you, the place where all the things you'd kept hidden—the things you'd never let anyone see—started to rise up.

She didn't give you a chance to respond.

"Or maybe," she continued, her eyes tracking every small shift in your expression, "it's worse than that. Maybe you feel like you were never supposed to exist in the first place."

The words hit you like a wave crashing against the shore. The breath you were holding caught in your throat, and for the first time in a long while, you felt seen. You didn't know how to respond. You didn't know if you could respond.

You turned away, unable to meet her gaze any longer, the weight of her unspoken understanding pressing down on you. Your eyes dropped to the petals at your feet, tracing their delicate forms as if they could offer you some semblance of solace. But they didn't. The quiet between you was suffocating, a chasm too wide to cross, too deep to navigate.

Rouge made a sound—something between a sigh and a hum, a small noise that carried more weight than any words. There was no judgment in it, no pity, and for some reason, that made the moment even harder to bear. She wasn't offering you any easy comfort. No hollow reassurances. It was raw. Real.

"Yeah," she said, her voice softer now, no longer teasing but carrying an edge of understanding. "I thought so."

The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken truths. The lump in your throat swelled, a solid, unmovable mass. You could barely breathe under its weight. You had never given voice to the thoughts that had always lingered just beneath the surface. The feeling that had been gnawing at you ever since you arrived in this strange world, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and places, a world that didn't feel like it was yours, that didn't want you. You weren't supposed to be here. You didn't belong. And for the first time, someone else had seen it.

Rouge seemed to sense it, her words like a quiet affirmation of the turmoil swirling inside you.

"...So what?" Her voice was steady, but there was something unreadable beneath it now. A flicker of something you couldn't place. "What do you want to do about it?"

You swallowed hard, shaking your head as if the motion could dispel the ache in your chest. You didn't know what to do about it. You didn't even know how to begin fixing a feeling like that. The answer was lost to you, drowned in uncertainty. All you could do was stand there, unsure of what came next.

Rouge let out a slow exhale, her gaze shifting to the distant figure in the trees. She had noticed it too, then. The shadow that had been lingering in the background, unmoving. Watching. But she didn't speak of it. Not yet.

"Look, kid," she began again, her tone losing some of its earlier sharpness. It wasn't quite comforting, but it was grounded, pragmatic. "I'm not the best person to talk about... this. But what I do know is that just because you feel that way now doesn't mean it's true."

You hesitated, the words settling heavy in your chest. Was it true? Could you believe that? You weren't sure. But you found yourself looking at her, drawn to the way she spoke, the way she didn't treat you like a fragile thing to be fixed. Her gaze was steady, unyielding.

"You're standing here, aren't you?" she added, her smirk returning but softer this time, not the usual sly amusement, but something quieter. Something genuine, even if it was laced with an edge of that familiar tease. "Breathing, talking—hell, thinking too much, by the looks of it." She gestured vaguely to the night around you. "That means you're here. Whether you like it or not."

The truth of it was simple and blunt, and it hit you harder than anything else. You exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest loosening ever so slightly.

Rouge's expression shifted again, a more thoughtful look crossing her face. She exhaled through her nose, her gaze lifting to the sky for a brief moment, as if contemplating something far off. When her eyes returned to you, there was a flicker of something in them—a recognition, perhaps.

"I used to think like that, too," she admitted, her voice quieter now, like she was sharing a secret. "That maybe I wasn't meant to be anywhere. That I had to carve out my place, take what I could before someone else did first." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle between you. "It's a lonely way to live."

You didn't answer. You couldn't find the words, not now. But her confession hung in the air, thick with meaning. Something in her tone—something in the rawness of what she said—struck a chord in you.

Rouge studied you again, her eyes narrowing slightly before clicking her tongue in that familiar sound of mild frustration. She shifted her posture, crossing her arms as if to distance herself from the weight of the moment.

"Well, if you're going to mope," she teased lightly, the humor returning to her voice but without its usual bite, "at least do it somewhere warmer." She glanced around the quiet field, her eyes catching on the flowers that swayed lazily in the breeze. "The flowers don't care how sad you are."

The sharpness of her words faded, leaving behind a strange warmth. It wasn't the comfort you'd hoped for, but it was something. Something real. And somehow, that was enough.

Maybe Rouge wasn't trying to fix you, or solve your problems, or offer you some grand solution. But for the first time in a long while, you didn't feel quite so alone in your uncertainty.

The weight in your chest didn't vanish, but it shifted. Something about Rouge's words—the way she said them, blunt but with an undertone of understanding—made it easier to breathe. You could almost feel the tension loosening from your body, even if just for a moment.

Rouge glanced toward the dark figure in the trees one last time before turning back to you. "Come on," she said, nudging you lightly with her elbow. "Let's head back before someone sends out a search party."

You hesitated, staring down at the flowers once more, before finally nodding.

Your body tensed.

The wind shifted. What had been a soft, comforting rustling now became something sharper, something more deliberate. It wasn't the lazy glide of Rouge's wings or the quiet crunch of her boots against the earth. No, this was different. This was something that moved with purpose, something fast, something unfamiliar.

Then, skating.

It wasn't the soft sound of footsteps, but the precise, fluid motion of something gliding across the ground, rapidly closing in on you. The presence—whatever it was—felt controlled, determined, as if it knew exactly where it was going and where you were.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You began to turn, eyes scanning the darkness for the source, but then you heard it—a distant hum. Low, steady, but rapidly growing louder. A jet? Something mechanical. Something ominous.

Behind you.

Too late.

A cold grip suddenly clamped down at the back of your neck, a shock of ice racing through your spine. It was enough to freeze you in place. Your instincts kicked in immediately, but before you could even react—before your mind could fully process the danger—Rouge was already moving.

"Hey!" she shouted, wings snapping open as she twisted toward you, but her reflexes weren't quick enough.

The grip tightened.

The wind roared in your ears, the world around you blurring as you were yanked off the ground. The sensation of rising was jarring, a stomach-churning rush that made the fields below shrink rapidly, the earth falling away from beneath you. The cold air hit your skin, harsh and thin, as you were pulled higher into the sky.

Your body instinctively struggled, twisting and reaching up, trying to pry the cold, unyielding fingers off the back of your neck. But the grip remained, tight and immovable.

You caught a flash of red eyes—flickering, scanning, calculating. The eyes were devoid of emotion, cold and mechanical, yet they analyzed you with a chilling precision.

Then there was movement.

"LET GO!" Rouge's voice cut through the rushing wind, sharp and frantic as she shot toward you, wings beating furiously, her body a streak of white and purple.

And below—an abrupt, harsh sound. The screech of tires, the earth trembling as something skidded to a halt. A streak of black and red, the familiar sound of shoes grinding against dirt before launching into the air.

You couldn't quite see what it was, but the presence was unmistakable—a new, relentless force closing in from all sides.

Another figure?

Rouge's gaze snapped toward the strange presence in the sky, her eyes narrowing with sharp focus. "You really think you can just grab someone and go? Guess again, bolt-for-brains!"

Without hesitation, she dove, aiming directly for the figure, wings beating with impressive speed as she made her attack.

But the stranger's movements were different—unnervingly precise, like it already knew where Rouge was going. With a quick pulse of some kind of thrusters, the figure tilted mid-air, avoiding her strike with a calculated twist, sending her spiraling past it, completely off-course.

Before she could recover, the figure jerked upwards, the sudden movement sending your head snapping back, your stomach flipping from the insane speed. The altitude shifted rapidly, the warm air of the flowers replaced by a biting chill, and suddenly, the ground below was a far-off memory.

"Rouge, intercept from the right!" A voice cut through the wind, sharp and commanding.

Rouge didn't need to be told twice. In a split second, she corrected her course, her eyes focused as she shot upward once more, tailing the mysterious figure with impressive speed.

But the stranger didn't bother with precision. No, it launched itself forward, a red blur against the night sky, rocketing toward you with deadly intent.

The world blurred as the figure pulled you closer, tightening its grip—cold, unyielding.

And then, for the first time, it spoke.

A distorted voice, buzzing with static and a chilling clarity: "Target acquired."

With that, the figure accelerated even faster, pulling you through the air with an unnatural force, the world below growing distant and dark.

And then, just as suddenly, you felt your feet slam back into the earth, your body buckling with the sudden stop. The world spun, disoriented, the wind rushing through your ears.

You stood on solid ground again, but the air felt too still. The only movement came from the endless stretch of sunflowers, gently swaying under the night sky.

Your throat went dry, heart pounding.

The figure stood a few feet away, motionless, its glowing eyes fixed on you—cold, calculating, unreadable. Its body hummed with quiet power, like a machine waiting to spring into action. The low whir of its internal systems was almost imperceptible, a reminder of just how unnatural this being was.

It didn't move. Didn't advance.

It simply watched.

Your breath hitched in your throat, uneven and shallow, as you stood frozen in the midst of the field. The wind had died down to a whisper, and the once vibrant flowers seemed almost still, as if they too had sensed the tension in the air. The rustling of petals underfoot was the only sound, barely audible over the hammering of your heart. The weight of Metal Sonic's presence bore down on you, cold and suffocating.

You weren't a fool—you knew running was pointless. Even if you had the strength to sprint through the thick fields, weaving between sunflowers that stood taller than you, even if you found a way to hide among the tall stalks, it wouldn't matter. He would catch you in seconds. His mechanical precision was terrifying. There was no escape.

So instead, you did something unexpected.

You spoke.

"...Why?"

Your voice came out hoarse, soft—nearly swallowed by the quiet night air. It was a question that had been brewing in your mind ever since you had first seen the figure watching from the shadows. But even as the words left your mouth, you weren't sure if you truly wanted an answer. You weren't even sure what answer you were hoping for.

For a long moment, a Metal Sonic?? didn't react. His unblinking red eyes remained fixed on you, impassive and calculating, scanning you as if you were nothing more than another data point in his endless analysis. The only hint that he had heard you at all was a faint shift in his gaze, his attention momentarily flickering over you before settling back into its mechanical, unfeeling focus.

The tension in the air thickened, the silence stretching between you like an invisible rope. The world around you seemed to narrow. All you could hear now was your breath, ragged in your chest, and the mechanical hum that emanated from the figure before you. It was as if time had stopped—frozen in this strange, eerie moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Metal Sonic responded, his voice echoing with a harsh, synthetic quality.

"Observation."

The single word sent a jolt through you. You barely managed to keep your composure as the chill of his reply settled into your bones. He had been watching. Watching you. For days. Maybe longer. The weight of his words was heavier than you could have imagined.

Observation.

The realization hit you like a slap in the face. He wasn't here for you specifically—he hadn't been following you. No, it wasn't you that had drawn his attention, but something else. Something far more dangerous.

"The weird energy pulses..." you whispered to yourself, almost absentmindedly. The words fell from your lips as the pieces of the puzzle began to click together.

The energy. That chaotic, unpredictable surge that had been with you since the moment you had awoken in this world. The same energy that had ruptured the ruins in an explosion—the one you could barely control, that seemed to move and breathe on its own. That was what Metal Sonic had been tracking. That was what had drawn him here.

Your gaze dropped to your hands, a cold knot twisting in your stomach as you saw the dark gradient creeping further up your arms. Like ink dissolving in water, shifting, flowing beneath your skin. It was stronger now, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. With each breath, it climbed higher, a silent, undeniable reminder of what you were. Of what you were becoming.

Had Metal Sonic been waiting for this? Watching for the moment the energy reached its peak? It felt too deliberate to be coincidence. Too calculated.

You inhaled slowly, fingers curling into fists. The energy stirred in response, crackling beneath the surface, as if it, too, had been holding its breath. But the frustration bubbling in your chest wasn't aimed at the machine standing before you. It never had been.

Metal Sonic wasn't the enemy. He wasn't a villain, not in the way others might think. He was following a directive, bound to his programming, carrying out orders written by hands that weren't his own. He was a creation of logic and purpose, and in a way, you understood that. Understood what it was like to exist in the shadow of something bigger than yourself.

"So what now?" you asked, the question slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

It was more than just a question for him. It was a question for yourself, for the forces that had placed you here, for the chaos thrumming in your veins that refused to be ignored. What now? What was the purpose of all of this? Why you?

Silence stretched between you. The only sound was the low hum of Metal Sonic's internal mechanisms, his parts shifting ever so slightly, processing. His glowing red optics remained locked onto you, unwavering, unblinking. There was no malice in them, no cruelty—just the cold efficiency of a machine built to observe, to calculate, to act.

The air around you grew heavier, thick with something unspoken. He was watching, waiting. But not in the way a predator watches its prey. There was no hunger in his stance, no thrill of the chase. Just patience. Just purpose.

Metal Sonic stood before you, unmoving, a silent warden under the pale glow of the moon. He was a perfect construct of efficiency—slim yet armored, smooth yet edged with lethal intent. Every inch of him was built for speed, precision, and destruction, yet there was an eerie stillness to him now, a patience that unsettled you more than if he had simply attacked.

His frame gleamed in the dim light, cobalt plating polished to an almost unnatural sheen. The surface reflected the surroundings in warped fragments, twisting the world into something cold and unrecognizable. His quills—if they could even be called that—were long, jagged, metallic spines, arranged in a sharp, angular mimicry of Sonic's own. But where Sonic's spines were fluid, organic, Metal's were rigid, unmoving, weapons as much as they were a design choice.

His eyes, narrow slits of searing red, bore into you with an intensity that sent a shiver through your bones. They weren't eyes in the way a living thing had them—no pupils, no depth, no flicker of thought or emotion. Just raw, artificial intelligence staring you down, processing, calculating. Watching.

The circular core embedded in his chest pulsed with a deep crimson glow, flickering in a rhythmic beat like a slow, mechanical heartbeat. It thrummed just beneath the surface, a source of power that radiated a quiet, controlled menace. Along his back, faint bursts of heat hissed from the vents, the only sign of movement in his otherwise statuesque form. Even his hands, clawed fingers tipped with fine, razor-like points, remained at his sides, motionless save for the occasional twitch—small, calculated recalibrations, as if testing their responsiveness, ensuring they were primed for whatever came next.

And still, he said nothing.

That was the worst part.

You had seen machines before—things built with purpose, given function, created to serve. But Metal Sonic was something else entirely. There was no hesitation in him, no wasted motion. He existed to act, to execute. To obey.

Finally, his response came.
"Awaiting orders."

The words lingered in the air, hollow and impersonal. And yet, somehow, that made them even heavier.

Eggman.

The realization settled in your chest like lead. Metal Sonic wasn't just here because of you—he was here because someone had sent him. Someone who had been watching. Someone who had been waiting.

Eggman. The name felt foreign, distant, and yet familiar in a way you couldn't explain. The one who had built Metal Sonic. The one who had given him orders. And now, the one who had turned his attention onto you.

Your fingers curled into tight fists at your sides.

What did he want? What purpose did you serve in all of this? Was this a test? A mission? Or just another piece in some grand design you couldn't see?

The wind shifted, rustling the grass around you, but Metal Sonic didn't move. He remained frozen, unwavering, a silent sentinel standing against the night. He wasn't attacking. He wasn't advancing. Just watching. Waiting.

For what?

Your breath came slow and steady as you met his gaze, refusing to look away. If you were afraid, you wouldn't show it. If he expected you to run, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

He didn't move, didn't threaten, didn't tighten his grip. He just stood there, an unnatural silhouette against the endless field of swaying sunflowers, his head tilted ever so slightly as if analyzing you.

You swallowed hard, arms curling around yourself in a feeble attempt at comfort. The cool night air pressed against your exposed skin, but it wasn't the cold that made you tremble—it was him.

You turned your head, scanning the darkness beyond the field, your heartbeat drumming in your ears. Where were they? Rouge had been right behind you—hadn't she? And that other figure, the black and red one... you didn't even know who they were, but—

Your breath hitched.

There was nothing.

No sound of wings. No hurried footsteps. No distant voice calling your name.

Just Metal Sonic.

The silence stretched on, thick and oppressive, wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. You could feel every inch of the air around you, its coolness creeping in through your skin, but it was nothing compared to the unease that gnawed at the pit of your stomach. Metal Sonic didn't move—didn't even flinch as you shifted slightly on your feet. His red eyes remained locked onto you, scanning, processing, unblinking, and you wondered, briefly, if he ever did blink.

The wind, which had been barely a whisper moments ago, had completely died down, leaving you in a disconcerting stillness. The flowers around you swayed no longer. The rustling leaves, the distant croak of frogs, the chirp of crickets—everything had been swallowed up, leaving only the haunting hum of the machine before you.

Where did everyone go?

Your pulse quickened, fear beginning to creep in. You felt exposed, standing there, alone. Rouge should have been here by now. Her wings, her speed, they were enough to keep pace with anyone, no matter who—or what—you were dealing with. The black-and-red figure you had glimpsed earlier was a question mark, but surely if it were any kind of help, you'd have heard something by now. But instead, there was only Metal Sonic, perfectly still, perfectly calculating.

You couldn't stop the shaky exhale that escaped your lips as you realized you had no idea what was happening. No idea who or what he was, and no way of knowing what his purpose was here. The lingering question of why he was watching you was as sharp as the edge of a blade, and your throat felt dry just thinking about it.

In your peripheral vision, you saw a slight movement—the faintest flicker, like a shadow at the edge of the field. You snapped your head toward it, heart leaping in your chest.

Nothing.

Your eyes darted across the horizon, desperately searching for something, anything—an ally, a sign, a clue. But there was only endless rows of sunflowers, their golden heads bowed low as though hiding from the unnatural stillness.

Was it just you?

Your legs felt unsteady, but you forced yourself to stand tall, shoulders back, even as every instinct screamed for you to run, to hide. The world seemed to wait, too, held in a tense moment, suspended between something inevitable and something entirely unknown. But as you stared into Metal Sonic's glowing red eyes, you knew that it was just a matter of time before something happened.

And you didn't know if you were ready for it.

Then, as though sensing your growing unease, Metal Sonic finally broke the silence.

His voice—mechanical, detached—cut through the air like a blade.

"Objective..."

It was the first word he'd spoken in a bit, and it sounded cold. Utterly lifeless.

Objective?

You stiffened. What was his objective? And who had given it to him? The same question you had been trying to solve since you first felt the pulses of energy—this energy—building inside of you. Could it be related?

Metal Sonic, he just stood there, waiting. Watching.

And in that moment, you realized something. He wasn't here to talk. He wasn't here to communicate. He wasn't here to explain. His mere presence was the message.

A message you didn't understand, but one you couldn't ignore.

The tension thickened, and you stood there, alone with your thoughts. What if there was no escape? What if there was no one coming? What if this was it?

The red glow of Metal Sonic's eyes remained locked onto you, unwavering, the only thing truly solid in a world that had gone eerily still. The air felt heavier now, thick with unspoken intent, like the moment before a storm breaks.

And then, as if responding to your unspoken realization, Metal Sonic moved.

A low hum filled the space between you, the soft mechanical whir of his joints shifting, recalibrating. It wasn't a sudden lunge or an aggressive attack, but something far more deliberate. He took a step forward—slowly, controlled, calculated. There was no waste in his motion, no hesitation, no excess. Each movement was perfect, exact, purposeful.

Predatory.

You didn't move.

Not because you were afraid, but because there was no need to be. Metal Sonic was not unpredictable. He was not like a living creature that could be swayed by emotion or impulse. He was a machine. A creation of logic, of programming, of orders followed without question.

His speed, his strength, his actions—they were all dictated by something greater than himself. And that, more than anything, is what held your attention.

Still, your body responded before your mind could catch up. A single step back, instinctive rather than fearful. A shift of weight, ready to move should the need arise.

Then you heard it.

A distant hum, almost lost to the quiet night. Faint at first, blending into the ambient noise of the world, like the distant murmur of a city too far away to see. But then it grew.

Stronger.

Louder.

Closer.

You recognized it now. The low, rhythmic pulse of an engine cutting through the air. It was controlled, steady—an aircraft.

A jet.

Someone was coming.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Was it help? Rouge? Someone else? Someone who had been tracking the same energy pulses Metal Sonic had been following? You weren't sure if that possibility reassured you or made you more uneasy.

But then you heard the shrill, mechanical whine.

Not a jet.

Thrusters.

Your eyes flicked back to Metal Sonic, and you understood.

Too late.

The sound belonged to him.

Before you could fully process it, he moved—so fast that your eyes barely registered it. One moment he was standing in front of you, a statue of metal and intent, and the next he was already upon you.

There was no warning. No tension in his form that suggested action. Just movement. Blinding, merciless efficiency.

A hand shot out.

The grip was instant, unforgiving. Cold fingers locked around your arm like a vice, unyielding and absolute. The sharp edges of his metallic joints pressed into your skin—not enough to cut, but enough to remind you that there was no escaping this hold without consequence.

Yet, despite the power behind it, the motion wasn't reckless. He wasn't attacking. He wasn't striking you down. He was securing you. Containing you.

Because this wasn't an ambush.

This was an extraction. (Or a kiddnaping of so to speak.)

"Objective..." he repeated, his voice low, void of any warmth. His body vibrated with the hum of raw power. "Objective. Acquired."

And in that moment, as you were hoisted into the air with no warning, you knew there was no escape. Not yet.

But you would fight. You had no choice.

The world around you tilted, everything blurring with the sudden rise in altitude, and you felt the weight of Metal Sonic's cold grip as he carried you into the dark sky.

he cold wind whipped around you as you were lifted higher, your body jerking in Metal Sonic's unyielding grip. The darkness of the night stretched on below, the ground now a distant, blurred memory, replaced by the vast blackness of the sky. The sound of rushing air filled your ears, drowning out everything else.

Despite your best efforts, your body remained taut, unable to break free from the vice-like grasp of Metal Sonic. His hold was firm, no matter how much you twisted, no matter how much you fought. Every movement only seemed to tighten his grip, his fingers digging deeper into your skin, sending spikes of cold through your bones. The suffocating pressure of the situation made your breaths come in short, panicked bursts.

Then, far below, a massive shape appeared—something large, hulking, and impossibly sleek against the darkness.

A ship.

Eggman's ship.

It loomed like a dark fortress in the sky, its mechanical hum resonating from its engines, growing louder with every second as Metal Sonic carried you toward it. The ship's lights blinked in the distance, sharp and mechanical, casting long shadows over the metal hull. It was a fortress in the sky, armed and ready for anything.

You tried to shake loose again, struggling against the metal fingers that held you so effortlessly. But it was hopeless. You couldn't break free, and the ship was getting closer by the second. It didn't matter how much you resisted.

With a sudden, swift motion, Metal Sonic veered toward the side of the ship, and you were pulled with him, your feet leaving the air as you were thrust into a massive hangar bay.

Inside, the ship was cold and sterile, metallic surfaces gleaming under harsh artificial lights. The air smelled of oil and mechanical grease, and the ground beneath you was smooth, an expanse of cold steel. It felt like you had entered another world entirely, one where you were entirely at the mercy of whatever fate Eggman had planned for you.

Then, the voice came.

"Ah, my son!" The cheerful, almost delightfully mocking voice echoed through the hangar, and your body stiffened, realizing exactly who you were dealing with.

Eggman.

You didn't need to look to know he was there. His voice was unmistakable, full of the self-satisfied arrogance you had come to recognize. The sound of his footsteps clicked as he approached, the air filling with the faint smell of his cologne and mechanical concoctions.

"Well done, my faithful creation! Excellent work, Metal Sonic!" Eggman continued, clapping his hands with exaggerated delight, his voice rising in praise. "I knew you wouldn't fail me!"

With a final, smooth motion, Metal Sonic dropped you onto the cold floor. You hit the ground hard, your body jolting as you were roughly released from his grasp. You immediately tried to scramble to your feet, but your limbs felt weak, the shock of the sudden fall knocking some wind from you. Your mind raced, but your body was slow to react. You couldn't help but feel the weight of Eggman's presence bearing down on you, his figure looming in the shadows, like a puppeteer pulling the strings.

Eggman's laughter filled the air, full of smugness, as he circled around you. "Now, my little friend, we get to the fun part. I've been tracking your every move. That strange, chaotic energy you're emitting? Perfect for my plans. You're just the missing piece I've been looking for."

You shot a glare at him, your eyes narrowing as you tried to steady your breath. "What do you want from me?" you managed to spit out, your voice hoarse, but defiant.

Eggman paused, grinning widely as he looked down at you with that unnerving, glinting gaze. "What do I want? Why, I want to harness that energy. Power. Control. Everything I need to destroy my enemies and take over the world!" He gestured grandly, as though the whole plan was as simple as pie.

Metal Sonic stood motionless behind you, his glowing eyes watching your every move, his frame as still as ever. He didn't even need to be told what to do—he was a machine built for precision.

But it wasn't the machine's cold, empty eyes that sent a shiver down your spine. It was Eggman's insufferable glee. The man—no, the mad scientist—was reveling in the idea of using you, of making you into some tool for his chaos-driven ambitions.

And you were at his mercy.

"Your energy, my dear... is exactly what I need," Eggman crooned, drawing closer. "But first, you're going to help me bring it out. I'm sure you'll be quite useful."

Metal Sonic stepped forward then, standing silent and imposing as Eggman began to circle you, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. You braced yourself for whatever was coming next, the feeling of helplessness creeping up on you again.

It was clear now: this wasn't just about finding out who—or what—you were. This was about exploitation. Eggman had plans for you, plans that involved harnessing your chaotic energy, and you had no idea what that would mean for you or anyone else.

You shouldn't have left the house that day.

'✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮

Chapter Text

(Warning: Torturing, Pain, At the start of the chapter, you can skip it!!  Trypophobia at the end of the chapter)

"The supernovas are so pretty.

Yet it requires a star to die."

⋆ ༺Ƹ★ (ꐦ ◣‸◢) ★ Ʒ༻ ⋆

You remembered pain.

Raw, unforgiving, all-consuming pain.

Wires bit into your skin, coiling around your limbs like serpents, squeezing, restricting, burning. The cold press of steel plates strapped tightly against your body sent sharp aches through your bones. You could feel the hum of the machines beneath you, the constant vibration rattling your ribs, drilling into your skull.

Electricity surged through you in pulses—hot, searing, unnatural. It licked up your spine like fire, setting every nerve alight, your body jerking violently against the restraints. It left a taste in your mouth—bitter, metallic, like blood and static fused together.

A voice droned overhead, deep, mechanical, unfeeling.

"Subject remains unresponsive to higher voltage. Increasing intensity."

Numbers rattled off in succession. Data was collected, analysed, compared, and recalculated. Another pulse, stronger this time, ripped through you, snapping your head back against the metal slab beneath you. Your vision blurred—your muscles spasmed. Breathe, breathe— but you couldn't, the air had been stolen from your lungs.

You remembered the feeling of being watched.

Red lenses. Unblinking. Always watching.

Machines surrounded you, shifting, adjusting, precise mechanical hands tightening restraints, fastening clamps around your wrists and ankles, securing you in place. A sharp click-hiss followed by something cold being pressed to your temple, the chill seeping into your skull like ice water.

And behind it all—him.

Standing just beyond the machines, past the rows of monitors displaying you from every possible angle, a silhouette loomed. A figure with too-sharp glasses catching the dim glow of the screens. His hands folded neatly behind his back, posture relaxed, pleased.

Expectant.

"Fascinating..."

The word slithered through the air, accompanied by the soft hum of machinery recalibrating, the distant scribble of notes being taken.

You remembered struggling.

A yank at the restraints. A sharp twist of your body. A desperate pull against the coils wrapped around you. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to move, to fight, to get out—but the second you so much as twitched, a fresh wave of electricity tore through your system, slamming you back into submission.

It locked every muscle in place.

You couldn't breathe.

Couldn't scream.

Couldn't think.

The cold press of metal against your throat tightened. The wires burned into your skin, the steady beep-beep-beep of monitoring systems tracking your vital signs ringing in your ears.

The restraints wouldn't budge.

The machines wouldn't stop.

No matter how much you fought—

No matter how much you wanted to resist—

You couldn't stop them.

The days bled together, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand, impossible to grasp. You weren't sure when one test ended and another began. Maybe they didn't end. Maybe this was all just one long experiment, an endless loop of suffering, repeating over and over, like a machine running diagnostics.

How much can it take?

How far can we push it?

How close can we get before it breaks?

Your mind swam, the world around you dipping in and out of sharp, unbearable clarity.

A needle pressed into your arm—something cold, thick, unnatural being injected into your veins. The sensation crawled through you like oil, slick and heavy, settling deep within your core, making you sick.

You thrashed—no, no, no, get it out— but the metal hands held you still, pressing you down as something inside you burned.

The mechanical voice echoed once more, calm, calculated.

"Subject's biometrics fluctuating. Chaos energy response detected. Increasing observation parameters."

Something within you shifted.

It felt wrong.

Your body convulsed—veins alight, every cell in your body screaming for release, for escape, for something to stop this—

But nothing did.

The pressure built, and built, and built—

Until it snapped.

And then—silence.

Not peace. Not relief. Just... a hollow, ringing void.

Blurry shapes swam in the corners of your vision. A dimly lit room. The low, rhythmic hum of something large, mechanical, alive with movement. Your body felt... weightless. Suspended in something thick and fluid, the pressure of it wrapping around you.

You were suspended in darkness.

Not weightless—no, you could feel the weight. The tight, constricting pull of something latched onto your skin. Wires. Tubes. Restraints. They coiled around your limbs, running up your arms, curling around your shoulders, digging into the base of your spine.

The sensation was foreign, wrong.

The wires weren't just attached to you. They were inside you.

Thin, needle-like connectors had been inserted into your arms, the dull ache throbbing beneath the skin where they had punctured through. Thick cables ran from your back, trailing up past your neck, disappearing into the fluid surrounding you. Their weight pulled at your body, preventing you from drifting too far, keeping you anchored in place.

There was something wrapped around your face. A mask.

Not soft—not gentle like something meant for comfort—but rigid, cold, mechanical. It covered your mouth and nose entirely, thick straps securing it tightly against your skin, ensuring it wouldn't come loose. You could feel the steady flow of air being forced through it, artificial oxygen keeping you alive in this suffocating abyss.

Your eyelashes fluttered, eyes stinging against the thick, murky substance around you. The liquid was viscous, heavier than water, clinging to your skin, slipping between the strands of your hair, pressing into every crevice of your body. It invaded your ears, muffling the world beyond, distorting every sound into a distant, eerie hum.

The only thing you could hear clearly was your own breathing—sharp, uneven inhalations echoing inside the mask, reminding you with every breath that this was real.

A deep, rhythmic thump pulsed through the liquid. Not from your own heart, but something larger. Machines—whirring, clicking, calculating. The subtle vibrations of unseen mechanisms adjusting, monitoring, collecting data from the wires embedded in your skin.

The fluid around you shifted. A ripple. Movement.

Someone was there.

You couldn't see them through the dense fog of the chamber, but you could feel them. The presence of something—or someone—watching, studying.

Your fingers twitched against the restraints. Your body tried to move, to pull away, to wake up—but the wires held you in place.

You were trapped.

And then—

The pain came again.

                                   ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───


The laboratory hummed with a calculated rhythm, the air thick with the sterile scent of coolant and scorched metal. Fluorescent panels overhead cast a harsh white glow, illuminating rows of machines whirring in synchronization—conduits of pure scientific brilliance. Or, rather, of his brilliance.

Dr. Ivo Robotnik stood before his latest experiment, hands clasped behind his back, the faintest smirk curling on his lips. The subject—if it could even be called that—floated weightlessly within the containment chamber, held in place by countless cables that slithered around its limbs like mechanical serpents.

A work in progress. A mystery unraveling itself before his very eyes.

Robotnik adjusted his tinted glasses, the red lenses reflecting data streaming across the monitors. Readings of energy fluctuations, nerve responses, chaos energy output—variables he had been testing and retesting for days now. Each figure, each spike, sent a thrill through him.

This wasn't just power.

This was potential.

He took a slow step forward, his boots clinking softly against the polished floor. "Fascinating..." he murmured under his breath, tapping a finger against his wrist-mounted console. The machines responded immediately, a new scan sweeping across the entity suspended in the fluid-filled chamber. The liquid bubbled slightly, a chemical concoction engineered to keep the specimen sedated yet responsive, to strip away unnecessary distractions like pain and fatigue.

A machine beeped. An error message flashed across the screen.

Energy levels: 124% above baseline.

Robotnik's smirk faltered. Again?

He leaned in, scanning the data more carefully. The numbers pulsed erratically, far surpassing expected limits. These energy readings weren't just high—they were unnatural. They didn't fluctuate like the Chaos Emeralds; they grew exponentially, as if adapting to the environment, feeding off something unseen.

This thing—no, this creation—shouldn't have been able to sustain power beyond its original form. Yet here it was, defying everything, growing stronger without any outside intervention.

His grip on the console tightened.

Something wasn't right.

This was supposed to be a battery. A power source. He had assumed, in his usual genius, that the first shard he had discovered—the crystalline fragment pulsing with a ghostly light—had been a mere fraction of a greater whole. A soul without a body. But now, he realized...

That wasn't the case at all.

This was incomplete.

Robotnik paced the length of the lab, stroking his Mustache. His mind raced back to how he had stumbled upon this anomaly in the first place.

A shattered ruin. Buried data files. Whispers of an ancient phenomenon lost to time.

The Frozen Camellia.

That was the name that had surfaced, hidden deep within encrypted historical documents—an old religious text that described a flower unlike any other. A flower rumoured to hold something more than just beauty. The text had been fragmented, scattered across the digital archives of civilizations long past, but the little he could piece together was enough to intrigue him.

The Camellia had been revered, protected. A thing of worship, of fear.

And now?

Gone.

Like it had never existed at all.

Robotnik had tried to retrieve the files again. Had spent hours—days—sifting through his systems, scanning through networks, demanding answers.

But they were simply gone.

Not corrupted. Not deleted. Erased from existence.

Something, someone, had deliberately ensured that no trace remained. But why? What was so dangerous, so catastrophic, that even history itself refused to remember?

His gaze flicked back to the containment chamber, to the figure suspended inside. The energy readings pulsed again, steady, unwavering.

Whatever this thing was, it had once been tied to that legend.

And now, it belonged to him.

Another alarm. Another pulse of energy.

Robotnik turned, scanning the screen again, irritation flashing through him—only for his breath to catch ever so slightly.

Energy Levels: 160% above baseline.
Now surpassing Master Emerald stability thresholds.

His fingers stilled over the console.

Impossible.

The Master Emerald was the pinnacle of energy storage. It was the very thing that controlled the Chaos Emeralds, kept their wild, untamed power in check. Nothing could rival it. Nothing could exceed its natural law.

Yet here it was.

Here it was.

Robotnik inhaled sharply, his mind snapping into overdrive. The data scrolled faster, graphs spiking into unreadable territory. This power source—his power source—was defying all known limits. It wasn't bound by the same rules.

This was beyond chaos energy.

It was something new. Something different. Something that shouldn't even exist.

His lips curled into a wicked grin, the sheer brilliance of the moment overtaking everything else. "Oh, this is better than I ever imagined," he whispered. "This is beyond my expectations."

This wasn't just about controlling an energy source anymore.

This was about creating something greater.

Something limitless.

Something divine.

Robotnik let out a slow, delighted chuckle, stepping closer to the chamber, placing a gloved hand against the reinforced glass. "You're not just some broken shard of a past life, are you?" His voice was almost tender—mocking, but fascinated. "You're something entirely different."

His reflection stared back at him in the glass, distorted by the swirling fluid inside. And within, the figure floating in suspension shifted ever so slightly, as if sensing him, as if hearing his words through the unconscious haze.

His smirk widened.

"Oh, we are going to have so much fun together."

The laboratory was a symphony of precision. Machinery worked tirelessly, pistons firing with sharp hisses, monitors scrolling endless streams of calculations. The rhythmic beeping of the vital sensors provided a steady pulse, like the beating heart of some vast mechanical beast.

And in the center of it all, the subject remained suspended.

Dr. Robotnik observed from his elevated workstation, fingers tented as he studied the energy fluctuations on the screen before him. The data was beautiful—chaos incarnate, yet somehow structured. It had all the telltale signs of Chaos Energy, yet it wasn't.

No, this was something else.

Something beyond.

He exhaled through his nose, stepping forward. "Begin Phase Two," he commanded.

At once, the machines obeyed.

The chamber hissed, releasing bursts of steam as the wires constricted around the figure's limbs. The thick, gel-like fluid keeping them sedated drained slightly, exposing more of their body to the air. The subject twitched, a reactionary spasm, though they remained unconscious.

Good.

Robotnik pressed a sequence of keys, and the restraints tightened.

A mechanical arm descended from the ceiling, its needle-like appendage glinting under the lab's sterile lights. A soft click echoed as it rotated into position, aligning perfectly with the subject's exposed arm.

This was the part he found most thrilling.

Not the raw violence of battle. Not the brute force of machines crushing obstacles.

No, this was surgical.

The probe injected itself into their skin. A pulse of dark energy flickered across the chamber, and the monitors spiked violently. Robotnik's breath caught in his throat as his hands danced over the controls, adjusting, regulating, studying the reaction.

The energy roared, trying to reject the foreign influence, lashing out in erratic bursts.

A resistance.

Interesting.

A test subject—any normal test subject—would be too weak to fight back. Yet this one? This one was adapting in real time. Their energy should have been stabilizing, but instead, it was shifting.

Changing.

Robotnik let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, you really are something else."

Another warning flashed.

Subject resistance increased by 24%.
Sedation effectiveness decreasing.

He rolled his eyes. Of course.

They were fighting even in their unconscious state. Something within them—something buried deep—refused to comply.

Robotnik stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Well, that just won't do."

He reached for the next set of controls, increasing the sedation levels. A low whirr echoed as additional chemicals seeped into the chamber, dulling whatever fleeting consciousness the subject might have been clawing toward.

The readings slowed. Their body relaxed.

There.

Now he could continue his work.

Days passed.

Each experiment yielded more questions than answers.

Each test revealed something new, something terrifying.

The subject's energy refused to be contained, refusing to act like any known force. The more he analyzed, the more he realized this wasn't Chaos Energy at all. It mimicked it, certainly—it carried the same weight, the same essence.

But it did not obey its rules.

It defied them.

Robotnik had spent years studying the Chaos Emeralds, had built machines designed to harness them, had engineered artificial chaos cores to mimic their power. He knew how that energy worked.

But this?

This was something else.

And worse—it was growing.

Each time he ran another test, each time he pushed the limits, the subject's energy fought back harder. More violently.

It wasn't stable.

It wasn't safe.

And yet...

It was perfect.

He smirked, his fingers gliding across the console. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Another screen blinked to life, displaying the subject's vitals. Their body was breaking down at a cellular level, unable to sustain the energy coursing through them. Yet at the same time, they were rebuilding.

Tearing apart and stitching back together.

A constant cycle of destruction and renewal.

Robotnik exhaled in awe. This—this—was beyond science.

This was creation.

And he was the one to control it.

The thought sent a shiver of triumph through him. He knew what he had now. Knew what this meant.

He wasn't just dealing with another Emerald.

He had found something that existed before them.

Something older.

Something that had been forgotten.

And if history had erased it, there must have been a reason.

His smile stretched wider, excitement thrumming through his veins. "Oh, I cannot wait to see what you become."

The laboratory was silent.

Not the kind of silence that brought peace—but the kind that loomed, thick and heavy, pressing against the walls like an unspoken threat.

Dr. Robotnik stood before the reinforced containment unit, fingers flexing with unrestrained anticipation. The chamber hummed softly, the sound of energy contained, shackled, forced into submission.

He had done it.

After days of trial and error—after countless failed attempts to regulate their wild, impossible energy—he had succeeded.

The subject no longer lashed out. No longer fought against his control.

They floated in the center of the pod, wires and cables locking them in place. The strange, tar-like gradient that once barely reached their elbows had now crept further—spreading, consuming. Their skin pulsed faintly, like something living writhed beneath it.

A side effect, he assumed.

Perhaps a sign that their body was finally adapting.

He leaned forward, placing a gloved hand against the thick glass. The reflection of his own triumphant grin stared back at him, the dim red glow of the laboratory making it seem even more sinister.

Behind the glass, their body barely twitched.

Good.

They were ready.

The energy readings were off the charts.

Every calculation, every recorded pulse of power—it was limitless.

His machines could barely process the raw output. Even the Chaos Emeralds had their limits, their rules.

But this?

This was unchained.

Dr. Robotnik's fingers flew across the console as he entered the necessary commands. The lab shuddered as massive cables, thick as steel beams, slithered forward—attaching themselves to the chamber.

Connecting. Draining.

The moment the siphoning process began, the lights flickered violently, the entire room bathed in a deep red glow as the power surged through the network.

Monitors blared warnings of unstable readings. Sparks flickered from the control panel, but Robotnik didn't flinch—he merely laughed.

Yes. Yes. YES.

This was it—this was the power he had dreamed of.

And now?

Now, it was finally his to command.

The machines whined in protest as they struggled to distribute the stolen energy—redirecting it toward his newest creations.

The Egg Hunters.

His most elite machines. Designed for one purpose, and one purpose only—absolute annihilation.

Now, as the energy fed into them, their cold, mechanical bodies shifted, their once dull plating shimmering with an unnatural glow. Their movements were sharper, faster, stronger than anything he had ever built before.

Robotnik grinned as he watched them come to life.

His perfect army.

One that no hedgehog—no hero—would ever be able to stop.

And it was all thanks to the power of the one he had broken.

The test run had been a roaring success.

The Egg Hunters tore through the test dummies, their movements precise, relentless, unstoppable.

Even his own simulations—**programmed to predict interference from Sonic and his pathetic little friends—**resulted in the same outcome.

Victory.

He leaned back in his chair, watching the holographic projections of simulated battles unfold before him. Every time—every single time—their attempts at resistance failed.

Not even that walking brute of an echidna could withstand the force these machines could now deliver.

And the best part?

He still hadn't tapped into the full extent of the subject's energy.

No, this was merely a fraction of what was locked inside them.

And once he pushed past those final barriers, once he uncovered all of it—

The world would kneel before him.

Robotnik let out a deep, satisfied laugh, his gloved hands tapping rhythmically against the console.

This was it.

This was the final piece of his greatest plan.

No longer was he just a man with machines.

No longer was he simply chasing after Sonic.

Now?

He was something greater.

Something unstoppable.

And nothing could take this from him now.

Nothing.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

Metal Sonic stood still.

Unmoving. Unfeeling. Unthinking.

Or at least, he was supposed to be.

The lab's dim, artificial lighting gleamed off his sleek metallic frame, casting sharp reflections across the cold, sterile floor. The hum of machinery filled the space, a symphony of automated processes, monitors flickering with streams of indecipherable data. The rhythmic beeping of vitals echoed faintly from the reinforced chamber before him—your chamber.

Metal's red eyes were locked onto it, unblinking.

Observing. Analysing. Processing.

For days, he had watched.

For days, he had returned to this very spot—standing at the exact same distance, following the exact same pattern. Approaching, scanning, then leaving. Each time, he told himself it was only to ensure the power source remained stable, that the test subject was still viable for the experiments. It was the logical course of action. A simple directive.

And yet...

Something was wrong.

Not with the machines. Not with the experiment. With him.

His internal processors lagged when he looked at you. His limbs felt heavier than they should, joints locked up at moments where movement should have been instinctive. It wasn't a malfunction, nor a programming error—he had checked, over and over and over.

Yet, the anomaly remained.

He should have reported it. He should have overridden whatever subroutine was interfering with his efficiency.

But he didn't.

Instead, he lingered, staring through the reinforced glass at your motionless form.

Wires coiled around your arms and legs, thick cables running from your body to the machines keeping you restrained. The mask over your mouth ensured you could breathe, while the steady hum of energy extraction kept the lab's power grid at maximum efficiency. A living conduit.

Dr. Robotnik was pleased.

Metal should have been pleased, too.

But he wasn't.

His fingers twitched. The sensation was faint, a microscopic movement in his servos, yet it sent conflicting signals through his entire system. There was no logical reason to react this way. No reason at all.

He stepped closer to the chamber.

His optical sensors flickered as they zoomed in on your face—pale, strained, lips slightly parted as your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

Your vitals were weak.

The data scrolling across the screen confirmed it. The more energy they extracted, the more unstable you became. Yet the doctor didn't care—he only pushed harder, squeezing more power from you as if you were nothing more than an overcharged battery.

And Metal knew that was what you were supposed to be.

A power source. A means to an end.

And yet...

Something in his core whirred, a distortion in his code, something unresolved.

Something dangerous.

He had felt it once before. That day.

The day he first took you from the flower fields.

At the time, it was a directive. A mission. Retrieve the target. Eliminate obstacles. Simple.

So why had he hesitated?

Metal's claws flexed. The sensation spread again—a foreign, creeping disturbance in his functions, like a virus corrupting perfect data.

He could still see it.

The way you had looked at him.

Not with fear. Not with hatred. Not like the others who saw only a weapon, a machine.

You had looked through him.

Like you saw something else.

Something Metal couldn't understand.

He stepped back sharply, optics flickering as he forced himself to reset his focus.

This was irrelevant. Inefficient. Illogical.

He was not meant to think.

He was not meant to feel.

He was Metal Sonic.

So why was it, when he looked at you, something deep in his system whispered—

This isn't right.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊


Smoke curled into the sky. The air smelled of scorched metal and burning circuitry.

The battlefield was a mess of shattered robots, flickering sparks, and the distant hum of retreating drones.

Sonic stood amidst it all, catching his breath, the adrenaline still thrumming in his veins. His quills were singed at the edges, dirt and soot clinging to his fur. Across from him, Knuckles cracked his knuckles—pun not intended, but still funny—rolling his shoulders like he was ready for another round.

"I don't like this," Knuckles grumbled, glancing down at the remains of a particularly tough bot. The plating was thicker, reinforced. "These things aren't just stronger. They're faster. Smarter, even."

"Yeah, no kidding," Sonic muttered, nudging a broken piece of metal with his foot. "They were actually blocking my hits. Like, learning from them."

Tails, who had been busy scanning a disabled drone with his handheld device, frowned deeply. The screen flickered with readings—power fluctuations, energy sources, coding scripts. His ears twitched, eyes narrowing at the data.

"...This isn't just an upgrade," Tails said, his voice unusually tense. "The power signatures in these bots—" He paused, lips pressing into a thin line.

Amy, wiping off her hammer, looked over at him. "What is it?"

Tails hesitated before slowly turning the device so they could see. The readings fluctuated in an eerie, unnatural rhythm, too chaotic, too alive for just artificial power.

Sonic leaned closer, his brow furrowing. "Wait a second... That energy signature looks—"

"Familiar," Tails finished grimly.

A heavy silence settled over them.

The realization was slow, creeping. They had seen this energy before.

Knuckles gritted his teeth. "You don't think—"

Tails nodded. "It's Y/N."

Sonic's stomach dropped.

The others had assumed Y/N had gone back to Vanilla's house—maybe taking a break after everything. It had been days. But now—now it made too much sense.

Rouge had been acting off. Shadow had been gone.

And now Eggman's forces were suddenly stronger than ever.

Amy's grip on her hammer tightened. "...Rouge knew."

"She was keeping it from us," Tails agreed, though there was no malice in his voice. Just quiet understanding. "She and Shadow must have been looking into it alone. But that means—"

Sonic clenched his fists, his heart pounding. "We've already wasted too much time."

They exchanged looks. No more waiting.

Knuckles crossed his arms, nodding firmly. "Then we find them. And we end this."

The wind carried the distant echoes of destruction. Smoke rose from the battered remains of Eggman's forces, yet more were already closing in. The sky, once clear, was now lined with the glint of incoming reinforcements—sleek, high-powered war drones descending like vultures over the wreckage of their fallen brethren.

Knuckles rolled his shoulders, tilting his head side to side until his neck cracked. His crimson fur was stained with streaks of oil and dust, his chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths.

He didn't need to say anything.

Sonic knew that look.

"Yeah, yeah," Sonic muttered, stretching his arms, his own expression shifting from his usual carefree smirk to something sharper. "You do your thing, big guy."

Amy, standing nearby, exhaled sharply. "Be careful, Knuckles."

He scoffed. "They should be careful of me."

And with that, he charged.

The first drone barely had time to process movement before Knuckles was upon it. His fist connected hard, shattering the reinforced plating with a single, devastating punch. The explosion of impact sent out a shockwave, knocking back two more of the airborne machines.

But they were learning.

The next wave adjusted. Instead of diving head-on, they circled, calculating, scanning for weaknesses.

Knuckles grinned.

"Good. Try me."

He lunged forward, grabbing one of the larger machines mid-air. His fingers dug into the steel, denting it as if it were paper, before ripping the drone apart in one violent motion. Sparks showered around him, but before he could touch the ground, a laser blast came from behind.

Without looking, Knuckles twisted in mid-air, flipping and landing on a crumbling chunk of concrete just as the energy bolt obliterated the spot he had just been standing in.

A hum filled the air.

Then dozens of energy cannons trained on him at once.

Sonic, still watching from below, whistled. "Hoo boy. Tails, you sure about this?"

Tails was too focused on the scanner in his hands to respond immediately. His eyes flicked back and forth between readings, calculations racing through his head.

"This isn't normal," he murmured. "They're syncing up. They're being controlled by something bigger."

Knuckles exhaled sharply through his nose. "Tch. Should've figured."

The bots fired.

He moved.

A blur of red and white, dashing between crumbling structures, hitting harder, moving faster. Every time a bot fired, Knuckles was already gone. Every time they tried to anticipate his next step, they failed.

Then he stopped.

Planted his feet.

Pulled his fists back.

And punched the ground.

The impact sent a ripple through the battlefield, the ground splitting apart as the very earth itself cracked beneath his strength. The shockwave sent Eggman's forces flying, their formation broken, their calculations meaningless.

Knuckles straightened, breathing heavily, as the dust settled.

"Anyone else want to test me?" he growled.

The remaining drones hesitated.

Then, as if something changed, they retreated.

Knuckles frowned.

Sonic noticed it too.

"That's... weird," Sonic said slowly, rubbing his chin. "They don't usually run unless they're losing badly. But they still had numbers."

Tails' scanner beeped wildly. "Guys, the energy readings just—wait—" He stared at the screen. His fur bristled.

Knuckles turned, his gut already telling him something wasn't right. "What is it?"

Tails swallowed. "It's them."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Sonic's expression hardened. "Y/N?"

Tails nodded, his voice uncharacteristically grim. "The bots weren't here for us. They were testing something. And now they're taking that energy somewhere else."

Knuckles' fists clenched. He didn't need more explanation.

"Then we stop them."

Sonic's eyes narrowed. "Yeah."

Amy tightened her grip on her hammer. "Let's bring them home."

No more distractions. No more delays.

The tension was thick.

The air smelled of scorched metal and smoke, but none of them moved. The retreat of the machines left an eerie quiet in their wake, only the crackle of sparking wires and the distant hum of the drones that still lingered high above, watching. Waiting.

Amy shifted her stance, gripping her hammer tightly, her fingers flexing against the worn handle. She could still feel the vibrations of the last battle in her bones, but her heart was pounding for a different reason now.

"We should've realized sooner," Amy muttered, breaking the silence. She wasn't looking at the others—her gaze was fixed on the ruined battlefield, jaw clenched, eyes burning. "Days ago, we should've realized something was wrong."

Sonic sighed, running a hand through his quills. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "We screwed up."

Amy's expression twisted. "No. I screwed up."

Tails, who had been furiously typing away at his scanner, finally looked up at her. "Amy—"

"No, Tails, don't," she snapped, turning sharply to face him. "You knew something was wrong. I knew something was wrong. But instead of saying something, I let myself believe she just—left."

Her grip tightened on her hammer until her knuckles went white. "Like she had a place to go back to."

A beat of silence followed.

Sonic, for once, didn't have a joke. Didn't have some carefree quip to ease the tension. Because she was right.

Tails swallowed. "I didn't want to believe it either," he admitted, voice quieter. "I kept checking, making excuses, telling myself I'd hear from her any second. But when I did—it wasn't from her. It was from Rouge."

Amy let out a shaky breath. "And she didn't tell us right away, either."

"She was working on it with Shadow," Sonic reminded her. "You know how he is. If he thought he had a lead, he probably wanted to handle it himself first."

Amy didn't look convinced.

"Even if he did, we should've been there," she said. "Instead, we waited."

Tails shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his screen again, as if it could distract him from the truth of her words. His ears twitched, his tails flicking anxiously behind him. The readings still didn't make sense. The energy signature was fluctuating, unstable—too much like the Master Emerald's power, but also not at all.

Sonic placed a hand on Amy's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "We know now," he said, his voice softer. "And now? We fix it."

Amy exhaled, long and slow, before nodding. "Yeah."

"Right." Tails adjusted his scanner, his expression darkening. "I think I know where they're holding her."

Sonic straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Then what are we waiting for?" He smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Let's go ruin Eggman's week."

Amy finally turned to look at him, and this time, a small, determined smile found its way onto her face. "I do like ruining his week."

Tails, despite the tension, let out a short laugh. "Then let's make it count."

The sky above rumbled. In the distance, the glint of metal reflected the dim light of the clouds, Eggman's forces already regrouping, already preparing for what came next.

The storm clouds thickened overhead, rolling in unnatural waves. The sky, once streaked with the warm glow of the setting sun, was now swallowed by the dull metallic grays of Eggman's fleet. The massive airships loomed above like floating fortresses, their undersides glowing with the eerie red of active turrets.

Sonic, Tails, and Amy were already in motion, racing toward the nearest engagement zone where explosions lit the sky like fireworks.

And right in the middle of it all, flipping midair as if she were putting on a show, was Rouge the Bat.

She kicked off one of the metallic drones, using the momentum to spin into another, her heels cracking through the chassis with practiced ease. The bot sparked violently before tumbling down in pieces, its explosion illuminating her sharp smirk.

"Sheesh, you guys sure took your time," she called out as she landed gracefully on the wing of a downed airship. "Starting to think I was gonna have to handle this all by myself."

Sonic skidded to a stop at the edge of a ruined turret, grinning. "Yeah, yeah, wouldn't want you stealing all the fun."

Amy and Tails landed beside him, their eyes locked onto the battle raging around them.

Rouge lifted a brow, crossing her arms. "So, what brings you three here? You finally realize your little friend isn't out on vacation?"

Amy bristled, stepping forward. "Where is she?"

Rouge's smirk dropped slightly, replaced by something unreadable. She turned her gaze toward the massive fleet above, then back to them.

"She's inside," Rouge admitted. "Shadow's already on the case."

Tails' ears perked, his grip on his scanner tightening. "Shadow's inside the fleet?!"

Rouge nodded, flicking some imaginary dust off her glove. "Oh yeah. Went in solo. You know how he is."

Sonic groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Of course he did. He's so dramatic."

Rouge smirked. "Pot, meet kettle."

Amy ignored them both, stepping closer. "How long ago did he go in?"

"Long enough," Rouge replied smoothly. "If he's not out yet, it means he's either making progress or in trouble."

Tails' fingers hovered over his communicator. "We should contact him—"

"Bad idea, Fox Boy," Rouge cut in, shaking her head. "If he's still in stealth mode, calling him might blow his cover. Best thing we can do is keep things loud out here."

Amy tightened her grip on her hammer. "Then that means we keep fighting."

Rouge gave a small, approving smirk. "Glad to see we're on the same page."

Sonic rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "So we hold the line while Shadow does his thing, huh? Sounds like a plan."

Rouge stretched her wings, her sharp eyes scanning the sky. "Good. Because Eggman's about to send out the real fun."

As if on cue, the fleet's sirens blared, and the sky above them swarmed with new, sleeker machines—drones built for speed, for combat. The ones they'd fought before had just been the first wave.

This? This was the main event.

Tails quickly scanned the new models, his face darkening. "These ones are different."

"Stronger, too," Rouge added, already adjusting her gloves. "Try not to get yourselves killed, alright?"

Sonic smirked, crouching into a runner's stance. "Come on, Rouge. You really think that's gonna happen?"

Rouge just chuckled, leaping back into the fray.

Amy twirled her hammer. Tails adjusted his wrist-mounted blaster. Sonic cracked his knuckles.

Then, with a rush of wind, they charged forward.

The battle for the fleet had begun.

                                           ┗━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┛

                                           ┏━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━┓

The air inside the fleet was suffocating—thick with the scent of oil, burning metal, and the distant hum of machinery grinding away in unseen chambers. The corridors were dimly lit, lined with pulsating red warning lights that cast eerie shadows across the walls.

Shadow moved like a ghost through the steel maze, his steps precise and silent. The alarms hadn't been triggered yet. Good. That meant he still had time.

Time to find her.

His orders had been clear—go in, locate the prisoner, and get out. Simple. But nothing was ever that simple when Eggman was involved.

He'd seen the reports. The sudden spikes in energy, the way Eggman's machines had been hitting harder than before, lasting longer in battle. At first, he assumed it was some new power source the doctor had found. But then... Rouge mentioned her.

The one that went missing.

Shadow didn't know her name. Didn't need to know it. But he knew she was involved somehow, and if Eggman had her locked away inside this fortress, it wasn't for anything good.

He turned a corner, his eyes narrowing as he spotted two sentry drones patrolling ahead. They hovered smoothly, scanning the corridor with thin, red laser sights sweeping from wall to wall.

Shadow didn't hesitate.

With a burst of speed, he dashed forward, gripping the edge of the closest bot and slamming it into the ground with enough force to cave its metal plating inward. The second drone barely had time to react before he spun, kicking upward in a sharp, precise motion that sent it crashing against the ceiling in a shower of sparks.

The remains clattered to the ground in a heap, smoke curling from their broken frames.

Shadow exhaled slowly. He kept moving.

He had to be close now.

—BEEP.

His ears twitched. A sound. Small, faint, but there.

He followed it, creeping along the corridor until he reached a massive, reinforced door. Thick bolts lined the edges, and at its center, a single screen pulsed with an ominous red glow.

Restricted Access.

Shadow didn't even pause. He lifted a hand, let chaos energy crackle between his fingertips, then thrust his palm forward.

The door exploded inward.

The moment the dust settled, his gaze locked onto the figure inside.

A containment pod.

And inside—her.

She looked bad.

The chamber pulsed with an unnatural light, wires tangled around her arms and legs, anchoring her to the floor. A breathing mask covered her nose and mouth, thin tubes trailing out of it, feeding into the walls.

Her back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in weak, uneven breaths. The dark gradient that once only touched her arms had spread further, crawling up to her shoulders, her throat—almost like it was consuming her.

Shadow stepped forward, his chest tightening for reasons he didn't want to acknowledge.

Then—

A voice.

Deep. Cold. Mocking.

"Well, well. I was wondering how long it'd take before you found her."

Shadow turned sharply, eyes narrowing as a screen flickered to life on the far wall.

Eggman.

His grin stretched wide across the monitor, a mix of amusement and self-satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

"You've got some nerve breaking into my fleet, Shadow," Eggman mused, tapping a finger against his chin. "Though, I suppose I should've seen this coming."

Shadow scowled. "What did you do to her?"

Eggman's grin didn't falter. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know?"

Shadow's fists clenched. He didn't have time for this. He turned back to the pod, reaching for the control panel at its side.

Eggman's voice rang out sharply.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Shadow hesitated.

Eggman leaned forward, eyes glinting behind his tinted glasses. "She's unstable, you know. Far more than when I first got my hands on her. Whatever she is, it's evolving, changing—becoming something new."

The monitor flickered, displaying a live feed of something—data readings, waves of energy, shifting in real-time.

Shadow's stomach twisted.

The readings were high. Too high.

Eggman smirked. "She's more than just a power source now."

Shadow barely heard him. Shadow ignored Eggman's voice entirely. The doctor could gloat all he wanted—he wouldn't get the chance to finish his sentence.

Without another thought, Shadow moved.

His hands gripped the tangled mess of wires binding her limbs, and with one powerful yank, he ripped them away. Sparks burst from the severed cables, arcs of energy crackling through the air. The machines around them blared in protest—alarms screeching, warning lights flashing in rapid succession.

The containment fluid spilled out in thick, sluggish waves, splashing onto the floor and coating his gloves in something cold and sickly. The pod hissed violently, vents expelling steam as the entire system failed catastrophically.

She collapsed forward the second the last restraint snapped.

Shadow caught her easily, his grip tightening instinctively around her frame. She was limp—her body dead weight against him, yet he could feel the faintest rise and fall of her chest, the uneven breaths escaping through the breathing mask still strapped to her face.

"Ugh—You really are an annoying little pest, aren't you?" Eggman's voice crackled through the speakers, not nearly as amused as before. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

Shadow shot a glare at the monitor, unbothered by the fury in Eggman's tone. "I don't care."

The scientist scoffed, then pressed something off-screen. The ship rumbled. The floor beneath him vibrated, a warning.

"Fine. If you want to play hero, be my guest," Eggman sneered. "Let's see how far you get before this entire fleet comes crashing down on you."

Shadow was already moving.

He hoisted her up, positioning her securely against his chest before vanishing from the chamber in a burst of speed. The doors blurred past him, the corridors a streak of metallic walls and flashing alarms.

He could hear the whirring of machines powering up behind him—Eggman wouldn't let him escape that easily. The unmistakable clank of heavy metal footsteps echoed down the hallways, rapidly approaching.

He tensed.

The doctor had just sent every last one of his forces after them.

Shadow's grip on her tightened slightly. Fine. Let them try.

Shadow moved like a blur, cutting through Eggman's forces with merciless efficiency. Every bot that stood in his way was reduced to scrap within seconds. His movements were precise, calculated—each strike aimed to disable or destroy in a single hit.

His boots skidded across the metallic floor as he narrowly avoided a barrage of gunfire, twisting mid-air and sending a Chaos Spear straight through the chest of the lead machine. It exploded in a brilliant flash of energy, sending shrapnel scattering against the walls.

Another squadron of Eggman's elite drones rushed in from both ends of the hallway, their red optics locking onto him with pinpoint accuracy. Shadow clicked his tongue in irritation. He didn't have time for this.

Glancing down at the girl in his arms, he could feel the chaotic energy pulsing off her, faint but undeniable. It wasn't as refined as an Emerald's power—it was raw, wild, uncontained. But it was there.

A realization hit him.

Chaos energy.

Shadow gritted his teeth, tightening his hold on her. He had been so focused on fighting his way out, he hadn't considered another option. If her energy was anything like the Master Emerald's... then maybe—

The bots lunged, firing everything they had.

Shadow didn't wait.

He focused, feeling the energy within her, within himself, letting it synchronize, letting it pulse with his own. He could feel it—Chaotic, unstable, yet... familiar.

His red eyes flashed.

"Chaos Control!"

A pulse of energy exploded from his body, bending time and space in an instant. The world around him shattered into a distorted blur—machines frozen in mid-attack, sparks halted midair, the screech of alarms drawn out into an eerie hum.

And then—

They were gone.

The two of them reappeared far away from the fleet, deep within the shadows of a ruined, long-abandoned base. The moment their feet hit the ground, Shadow staggered slightly, the weight of the teleport hitting him harder than expected.

The girl slipped from his grasp. He barely managed to catch her before she collapsed fully, lowering her onto the couch in the dimly lit room.

His breaths were steady, but his mind raced.

He had done it. He had pulled her out of there.

But something still felt wrong.

His gaze flickered down to her. She was unconscious, her body limp, her breathing shallow. The dark gradient on her arms had spread even further now, crawling up her shoulders to her neck like a creeping shadow.

Shadow's eyes narrowed.

He didn't know what Eggman had done to her, but whatever it was, it wasn't over.

Shadow stared down at her, his crimson eyes narrowing as he reached for the mess of wires still embedded into her skin. The faint, rhythmic beeping of fading machinery echoed through the hollow space, a reminder of just how much Eggman had done to her.

Carefully, he started pulling them free, one by one. Some detached easily—loose connections sparking before dying completely. Others were lodged deeper, leaving behind open, raw wounds. He worked methodically, his gloved fingers stained black from whatever fluid ran through her veins.

Then, as he moved to check her vitals, he saw it.

Her back.

Shadow froze.

The sight before him made something deep within his chest tighten.

Her skin was punctured, marred by countless circular holes, unnatural and clustered—some large, some small, all of them gaping and raw. A grotesque pattern carved into her flesh like some kind of twisted experiment.

It looked wrong.

Like something unnatural.

Like something stripped apart and barely stitched back together.

His jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. Eggman did this.

Shadow forced himself to focus, shaking off the unease crawling up his spine. He had seen worse. He had endured worse. The only thing that mattered now was stabilizing her before she lost any more blood.

I'll let Rouge handle the rest, he thought. I've done my part.

He stood, ready to leave. Ready to tell Rouge where to find her.

Then—

A touch.

Barely there.

A weak grasp on his wrist, feeble and unsteady.

Shadow's breath hitched.

His eyes flicked down.

She was awake—barely.

Her fingers curled around his wrist, trembling, desperate. Her gaze met his, hazy, unfocused—yet pleading.

A silent request.

A silent begging.

Shadow stiffened.

The air felt heavy.

Something about the way she looked at him—weak, vulnerable, dying—made something twist inside him.

His pulse roared in his ears. (Maria.)

The memory slammed into him all at once.

That same look. That same desperation.

That moment on the ARK.

The blood. The screaming. (Yes I changed Maria's death.)

The way Maria had reached for him in her final moments, her voice soft, fragile, barely there—

"Shadow... please..."

His breath came out slow, controlled.

His hands curled into fists.

Then, as quickly as the moment came, she lost consciousness again, her fingers slipping from his wrist.

Shadow growled, low and irritated, a scowl pulling at his features.

Damn it.

He should leave her to Rouge. He should walk away.

But he didn't.

With a begrudging sigh, he knelt back down, grabbing the first-aid kit he had on hand. His fingers worked quickly, wrapping bandages over the wounds, pressing gauze against the bleeding ones. He didn't hesitate. He didn't falter.

And as he worked, his mind whispered—

You are weak, Shadow. Just like before.

His teeth clenched.

He ignored it.

He kept going.

Shadow worked in silence. His hands moved with practiced precision, securing the last of the bandages, ensuring they would hold. He wasn't delicate—he never was—but he was efficient. He had no patience for fragility, nor did he care for unnecessary sentiment.

And yet...

He didn't stop.

Didn't pull away when his gloved fingers brushed against her skin, still too cold.

Didn't hesitate when he adjusted her position to keep her comfortable, making sure her breathing stayed even.

Didn't leave.

Instead, he let out a slow exhale and sat back on his heels, glaring at the unconscious girl like she had personally inconvenienced him.

Which, in a way, she had.

This was supposed to be simple. Break in, fight off whatever Eggman threw his way, locate the power source, destroy it, and leave. That was the mission. That was the plan.

But instead, the 'power source' turned out to be her, and now he was playing medic in a situation he never should've been involved in.

He should've let Rouge take over. He should've left.

And yet here he was.

Shadow scowled.

Pathetic.

His ears twitched at the sound of movement outside, his sharp senses already picking up on the familiar weight of Rouge's footsteps approaching. She was fast, but not hurried, meaning she wasn't being followed.

Good.

The door to the room creaked open slightly, and Rouge's voice filtered in, casual as ever but lined with something unreadable.

"You're not gonna ghost me this time, are you?"

Shadow didn't answer right away.

She stepped in fully, her sharp eyes flicking between him and the girl lying on the couch. A slow whistle left her lips.

"Well, well, well," she murmured, tilting her head, "This explains why you didn't reappear at the fleet."

Shadow's gaze hardened. "I got what I needed."

Rouge raised an eyebrow, stepping closer and kneeling down beside the couch, her usual teasing demeanour slightly subdued as she took in the sight before her. Shadow was watching as she carefully examined the bandaging job he had done. He knew she'd have something to say about it—Rouge was many things, but quiet wasn't one of them.

To his surprise, however, she didn't tease.

She only exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. "What the hell did they do to her...?"

Shadow's fists clenched.

He didn't have an answer for that.

But he had seen it.

The wires. The machines. The way Eggman rambled about extracting energy, about turning her into something more.

She had been nothing more than an experiment. A tool. (Just like him.)

His expression darkened.

Rouge glanced at him, catching the shift in his demeanour. She didn't press. Instead, she looked back at the girl, her gaze lingering on the dark, jagged gradient that had spread across her arms and shoulders.

"I don't recognize her," Rouge muttered, half to herself. "Where'd she even come from?"

Shadow was silent.

Because he didn't know either.

And somehow, that was what unsettled him the most.

Rouge sighed, placing a hand on her hip. "I'll get some proper supplies and tell the others that she is secured. You should get some rest."

"I don't need rest."

Rouge snorted. "Right, because you totally didn't just fight your way through an entire fleet and warp halfway across the region carrying an unconscious girl in your arms. Nope. Not exhausting at all."

Shadow shot her a look.

She smirked, but there was something softer in her expression.

"...I'll be back," she said simply before heading toward the door.

Shadow didn't watch her leave.

His gaze was still fixed on the unconscious girl.

Her breathing was slow, steady. Her face was slack, peaceful despite the wounds she bore.

For some reason, that irritated him.

Because he knew that once she woke up, once the haze of exhaustion wore off—

She would have questions. Maybe...

And he didn't have answers.

-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ

(I have nOT poof reood this so yuippe!!)
(Also I have updated the last chapter to match more with the lore ive made)

Chapter Text

( WARNINGS!! - THERE IS MENTIONS OF A SEIZURE AND THERE IS A LOT OF DEHUMANZATION!)

"Yellow wasn't my favorite colour, but the way she said it. I think it might be now."

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡


Shadow sat in the dimly lit room, arms crossed, his crimson gaze flickering toward the unconscious figure resting on the worn-out couch. The only sounds came from the faint hum of an old ventilation system overhead and the occasional crackle of Rouge shifting through her collection of newly acquired gemstones.

Days had passed.

Y/N had not stirred.

Shadow wasn't concerned—at least, that's what he kept telling himself. He had seen people recover from worse, and if the strange energy readings he had picked up were anything to go by, Y/N wasn't at risk of dying anytime soon.

Still...

He found himself here, checking in more often than he cared to admit.

It wasn't out of sentimentality. It wasn't because he cared. He didn't.

He was simply making sure the investment wasn't wasted. That was all.

Rouge, on the other hand, had made herself at home, sprawled lazily across a chair with one boot propped up on the table. She held a gleaming gemstone between her fingers, rolling it absently in her palm as she studied Y/N's still form. The box beside her was filled to the brim with similar stones, each one bearing a deep, unnatural purple hue, streaked with veins of black obsidian.

"These gems," she mused, tilting one toward the light. "They're just like the ones Tails found in that ruins. Sonic saw it, too."

Shadow didn't react.

Rouge smirked. "You're not even curious why they keep showing up?"

"I don't waste my time with myths," he muttered.

Rouge clicked her tongue. "Shame. 'Cause the myths might just have some answers for us."

She placed the gem back in the box and dusted her hands off before leaning forward, her expression shifting slightly—more serious now.

"You ever heard of the Frozen Camellia?" she asked.

Shadow's ears flicked, but he didn't answer.

Rouge took that as permission to continue. "It's one of those ancient things that got lost to time. Old civilizations used to wear these gems in their jewellery, thinking they could ward off spirits or—get this—trap souls."

That got his attention.

Shadow's brow furrowed, his gaze narrowing slightly.

Rouge tapped a fingernail against the gem in her hand. "And these?" she continued, voice lowering. "They match the description perfectly."

The air in the room seemed heavier.

Shadow glanced toward Y/N, the strange black markings crawling up their arms, now reaching their shoulders. It was as if something was consuming them—growing.

Rouge noticed where his gaze went and hummed. "I tested something earlier," she admitted, lifting another gem from the box. "Tails has been documenting all of this, so I figured I'd do a little experiment. The moment these things come in contact with Y/N..."

She held the gem above Y/N's outstretched hand, then let it drop.

The second it touched their skin—

The color bled from the gem.

The rich purples dulled into lifeless grey, cracks forming along the surface before the entire thing crumbled into dust.

The air in the room went still.

Shadow tensed, watching as the fine particles slipped between Y/N's unmoving fingers, vanishing as if they had never been there at all.

Rouge exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Happens every time."

Shadow's jaw tightened. "...What does it mean?"

Rouge leaned back, crossing her arms. "No idea. But Sonic and Tails saw the same thing happen in the ruins." She gestured vaguely at the box. "So, I found them a little bit of everywhere, really. Some were on the black market. Some were hidden away in old ruins. And a few? Well, let's just say some people didn't want to give them away."

Shadow glanced at the remaining gems. There weren't many left.

Rouge tilted her head, eyeing Y/N thoughtfully. "Their wounds are healing faster, though. Each time one of these things turns to dust, they get a little better."

Shadow's gaze darkened. "Then what happens when they're all gone?"

Rouge was silent for a moment.

Then—

"I guess we'll find out."

Shadow didn't like that answer.

He didn't like any of this.

Y/N was still unconscious. The strange energy inside them was fluctuating wildly, and now, these gems—these so-called Frozen Camellias shards— were disintegrating the moment they touched them, accelerating their recovery at an unnatural rate.

Something was happening.

Something none of them understood.

And Shadow hated not understanding.

The box of gems was growing lighter.

Every few hours, Rouge would place another into Y/N's palm, only for it to crumble to dust within seconds. Each time, the markings on their skin inched further—growing, shifting, like a creeping shadow swallowing them whole.

Shadow wasn't a scientist, but he had seen enough experiments in his time to recognize a transformation. Perhaps?

This wasn't just healing.

Something was changing.

And that unnerved him.

Rouge, though ever the opportunist, remained relaxed, though Shadow knew her well enough to see the slight tension in her shoulders—the way her fingers tapped against her knee, the way her eyes lingered a little too long on Y/N's unmoving face.

She was thinking.

He hated when she did that.

"Tell me something, Shadow," she said finally, breaking the silence. "You ever see something and just... know it's important?"

Shadow didn't answer.

Because yes, he had. Once. A long time ago. (Maria.)

Rouge didn't push. Instead, she reached for another gem, holding it between her fingers before letting it drop into Y/N's hand.

The moment it touched their skin—

Grey. Cracked. Gone.

Shadow exhaled sharply through his nose, barely suppressing his frustration. "How many are left?"

Rouge counted silently, clicking her tongue. "Three."

Shadow's frown deepened.

He didn't know what would happen once they were all gone. He didn't like not knowing. But there was no stopping this now. The only thing left to do was wait. And so, they did. One by one, the final gems disintegrated. And the moment the last one turned to dust—

Y/N dreamed.

♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡

Darkness surrounded you, thick and heavy like the depths of the ocean. A vast nothingness stretched in every direction, swallowing everything in silence. But then—

A breath.

Not yours.

The air stirred, warm and familiar, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming flora. A golden haze spread through the void, sunlight filtering through unseen branches, cutting through the blackness like a memory forcing its way back into existence.

Then, voices.

Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

Laughter, the light kind that danced like wind chimes in the air. The feel of a large, warm hand ruffling your hair. The sound of footsteps brushing against grass, leaves crunching beneath careful steps.

Your breath hitched as the world around you materialized, weaving itself back together from the past.

The sky was vast—endless and open, with hues of deep blues melting into purples. Wisps of white clouds curled above, shifting lazily in the warm, tranquil air. The sun hung high, golden rays cascading through towering trees, their deep green leaves rustling in a steady breeze. A field stretched far and wide, wildflowers blooming in vibrant colors, their petals swaying in unison as if whispering secrets to one another. The air was thick with life, with movement—the rustling of bushes as small creatures darted between them, the chirping of unseen birds in the canopies above. Soft earth beneath bare feet. The scent of fresh rain on the wind. The rustling of leaves as the sky above swayed in hues of gold and green

A world without walls, without machines, without cold metal pressing against their skin. There was no pain, no loss, no war. Only the gentle hum of nature breathing, the light filtering through a sky untouched by smoke.

It was peaceful.

And in the middle of it all, them.

Your parents.

Two figures, the only ones who had ever been constants in your life. Terestians, as they called themselves. But to you, they were simply mother and father. (There were aunts and uncles you've never talked to.)

Your father's presence was strong, his form tall and imposing, yet every movement of his was careful, deliberate. There was a wisdom in his eyes, a steadiness to the way he carried himself. He knelt in the grass, sifting through soil with large hands, humming an old song under his breath.

Your mother sat nearby, watching him with an amused smile, her fingers weaving together the stems of wildflowers into delicate chains. Her voice was like the river—soft but sure, her laughter carrying the same melody as the wind itself. (They both looked like they had no form and were a inky black just like how your gradient was.)

"Come here, little one," she called, lifting her hand.

You didn't hesitate. Your legs carried you forward, stepping over soft earth, your small hands reaching out, grasping her fingers. They were warm—so, so warm.

She pulled you onto her lap, arms wrapping around you in a way that made the world feel infinitely smaller, safer. Your father glanced up from his work, a faint chuckle rumbling from deep within his chest. (Her eyes were so pretty)

"They won't last long if you keep making them that way," he teased, nodding toward the flower crowns she was crafting.

Your mother huffed, holding the delicate chain up to the sunlight. "I don't make them to last forever," she replied simply. "I make them because they're beautiful now."

Her fingers lifted, carefully placing the crown upon your head, she whispered, "Beautiful things don't have to be eternal to matter." (Yet...)

You beamed up at her, grasping the sides of the crown carefully, as if afraid even the slightest touch would shatter it. They had no form, only warmth—only safety. Their movements were fluid, like water shifting through the air, unbound by the weight of gravity. They did not walk; they flowed. They existed.

And so did Y/N.

The only two figures they had ever known, ever trusted.

It was home. This was peace. This was safety.

And then—

A scream. Was it your own, or was it your uncles and aunts at the Birthing Gem?

The warmth of your mother's embrace was gone. The gentle hum of your father's song replaced by chaos. Fire, thick smoke rising to the sky, turning it from blue to sickly orange. The fields were burning. The trees, once towering protectors, were now engulfed in hungry flames, their limbs cracking and collapsing into embers. They were others there, water ones that stood tall with some sort of weapons too advanced for your brain to comprehend.

You coughed. Your lungs burned. Your hands clawed at your throat, at your chest—trying, trying, trying to breathe.

Where were they?

You turned, stumbling, your vision blurred by tears and smoke. Mother. Father. They were there, they had to be.

But when you finally saw them—

They were fading. (Just like the rest.)

Not burning, not crushed beneath the weight of destruction. They were vanishing—pieces of them breaking apart like petals caught in the wind, drifting away, dissolving into the sky.

Your father met your gaze, his expression unreadable.

Your mother on a 'stake', struggling to move before giving up.

And then they were gone.

You screamed.

But no sound came out.

The world twisted, collapsing, pulling itself away from you until only the dark remained. The warmth, the colors, the voices—gone.

And then, the cold took hold.

Time did not exist in the gem.

There was no body, no movement, no air to breathe. Only sight—fragments of a world that was no longer theirs.

Y/N was an observer. Nothing more.

And they watched.

A village by the sea.

A young girl knelt by the shore; hands cupped around a smooth, black gemstone. Its surface shimmered with deep purple hues under the moonlight. She whispered something—a prayer? A wish?—before tucking it into a small cloth and tying it around her wrist.

A gift, perhaps?

Y/N wanted to reach out, to ask, but they had no voice. They were merely the gem.

And so, they watched.

The girl lived a simple life—gathering fish, mending nets, laughing with her family as the waves kissed the shore.

Then one day, a storm came.

Dark clouds swallowed the sky, the winds howling like vengeful spirits. The sea churned, furious and unrelenting. The girl was among the many who fled inland, her bracelet clutched tightly to her chest.

But she never made it.

The waves took her.

The last thing Y/N saw before the gem was lost to the depths was her hand reaching for the sky—for help that would never come.

A warrior in crimson armor.

A battlefield stretched across the horizon, littered with broken spears and shattered shields. The ground was dark, stained with the blood of those who had fallen.

A man stood at the center of it all, sword in hand, his face twisted in exhaustion. Victory? Defeat? It didn't matter.

He reached into his satchel, pulling free a small black stone.

Y/N.

He turned it over in his palm, eyes distant. "You were supposed to bring me strength," he muttered. "That's what the priest said."

His grip tightened. "So why do I still feel weak?"

The gem did not answer.

Y/N could not answer.

The man exhaled, slipping it back into his armor.

Moments later, an arrow struck his chest.

He fell, and the gem rolled from his grasp, settling in the dust among the fallen. (Somewhere lost.)

A temple, high in the mountains.

Candles flickered, their flames casting long shadows across stone walls carved with stories. Ancient figures, creatures with twisting limbs, wings that stretched toward the heavens, eyes that bore knowledge too vast for mortal minds.

A monk knelt in quiet meditation, the gem resting before him on a woven mat.

"The Frozen Camellia," he whispered, reverence in his voice. "A bridge between realms. A soul encased in time."

Y/N felt something stir.

They knew this name. Yet at the same time, it wasn't  familiar to them.

The monk did not move, only closed his eyes, murmuring a mantra that Y/N did not understand.

For years, decades, he prayed.

Until one day, he did not wake.

And the gem was left behind, waiting.

Always waiting.

Centuries passed.

The world changed.

Kingdoms rose and fell. Cities were built, burned, and built again.

And through it all, Y/N remained—a silent witness, trapped within the stone. How and why?

Until one day—

Someone found them.

And everything began again.

Y/N was not whole.

Not yet.

They had felt that truth deep in their core ever since the ruins—since the  petal in the ceiling crumbled to nothing in their hands.

That had been the first. The first piece returned. The first fragment of themselves woven back into place. But it was not enough. (From 1%, just barely your soul.)

Because now, they could feel the others.

Five more petals as large as before.

Scattered across the world, buried in time, waiting just as they had waited.

And they wanted to return.

They called to Y/N—not in words, not in memories, but in longing.

The village girl had never been Y/N. Not truly.

And yet, when the storm swallowed her, when the sea pulled her under, Y/N had felt it—the ache of something being lost, ripped away before its time.

That piece was still out there.

Waiting.

The warrior had never been Y/N.

But his despair, his bitterness, the way he clutched the gem in his final moments—it left a mark. A fracture in something greater.

A shard of willpower, once unwavering, now abandoned on a battlefield long since turned to dust.

It had not faded.

It would not fade.

The monk had known of Y/N. Had spoken of them in words wrapped in reverence and caution.

And when he prayed—not for himself, but for what the gem held— Y/N had felt it.

But his voice had gone unheard.

And when he died, so did his prayers.

That piece was still waiting to be reclaimed.

The voice that had been silenced.

Y/N could feel them now. (There were so many.)

They had been asleep, distant, unknowable. But now, with the 1 petal restored, the others had stirred.

They knew they were incomplete.

They knew they were meant to be one.

And they wanted to return.

The yearning was relentless. A pull in their chest, a whisper threading through their thoughts, urging them forward.

They had to find them.

Because until they did—

Y/N would never truly be whole.

*.°•*.♡ ️ッ☁✧•. • °*.°•*.♡ ️ッ☁✧•. • °

Shadow had been watching.

Not constantly, not hovering—but watching.

He was good at that. Observing, noting details, keeping track of things even when he wasn't directly involved. Y/N had been unconscious for days, and for the most part, he had stayed away. It wasn't his job to babysit.

Rouge, however, was curious.

She had spent more time at their side, studying them, collecting information, even bringing those gemstones that had all crumbled to dust upon contact. Shadow wasn't sure why she bothered—wasn't sure why he did either.

But then it happened.

The black ink—the unnatural stain of something deep, something beyond Chaos, something beyond nature itself—it had been spreading. Creeping up their arms, over their shoulders, curling across their collarbone, down their ribs, twisting like smoke.

And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

It recoiled like a snapped tether, sinking back down to their wrists, leaving nothing but smooth, untouched skin.

Shadow felt it.

A pulse. A ripple in the air. It wasn't the Master Emerald. It wasn't even Chaos Energy. (Was it?)

But it was something close. Something wrong.

His fingers twitched slightly as he kept his gaze locked on Y/N, his mind already trying to make sense of what just happened. It had been... deliberate. Like something had just adjusted itself, settled into place.

Rouge was the first to break the silence.

"Well, that's new," she muttered, tilting her head.

She had been watching the change as closely as he had, her sharp eyes taking in every detail, her fingers lightly tapping against her arm in thought. "What do you make of that, Shads?"

Shadow didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he stepped closer, staring down at Y/N as they laid still. Physically? They looked fine now. Their wounds had healed completely—no cuts, no bruises, no signs that they had been through hell only days before. The only thing left was the gradient.

Black ink, fading into skin.

Only at their wrists now.

Before, it had nearly swallowed them whole.

"...25%," Shadow finally said, crossing his arms.

Rouge raised a brow. "Of what?"

Shadow didn't look at her. Didn't need to. His eyes remained on Y/N, unreadable as ever.

"Completion."

Rouge exhaled through her nose, placing a hand on her hip. "That's a hell of a way to put it."

She glanced back at them, her lips pressing into a thin line as she mulled it over. "So what? They were what, halfway to turning into something else, and then it just... reversed?"

Shadow didn't reply. He shook his head, It wasn't reversed, It was filling itself.

But the silence was answer enough.

"...Huh."

Rouge's eyes flickered to Y/N again, this time with something less amused. Less casual. Something bordering on concern. Whatever was happening to them—it wasn't over.

(And you manage to surpass the master emerald... I wonder did you burn your own soul just so you can free yourself? You weak battery.)

Shadow's crimson eyes remained fixed on Y/N's still form. The weight of their breathing was steady now, no longer shallow or ragged. Every part of his training told him this was the time to lower his guard—the danger had passed. And yet, his instincts whispered otherwise.

Rouge shifted beside him, arms crossed, expression neutral but wary. She had seen too much in her line of work to dismiss something like this as coincidence. Their world had taught them both that nothing was ever that simple.

Then—a breath. Not just any breath. Y/N inhaled sharply, their fingers twitching against the fabric of the couch. Shadow tensed. Rouge leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

But Y/N did not wake.

Their eyelids fluttered briefly, but whatever battle they were waging internally kept them locked in their slumber. Shadow's tension did not ease. He knew nothing of who this person truly was—only that their presence had stirred something dangerous. Tails had been vague in his messages, not wanting to share that much information with them, seemingly being defensive of Y/N and wanting to meet them but knows he cant since everywhere is being patrolled by supercharged robots and they have to deal with those.

Rouge sighed dramatically, but her eyes lingered on Y/N longer than she intended. She rolled her eyes, trying to mask her concern. "Well, I'm not wasting any more time watching over Sleeping Beauty," she muttered, standing. "I'll see if I can find more of those pieces. If there are any left to find."

Shadow gave the faintest nod, though his gaze never left Y/N.

She adjusted her gloves, her tone flippant but edged with something more. "Keep me updated. And if they wake up and start sprouting extra limbs, maybe call me first before you shoot."

With a casual wave, Rouge slipped out of the room, her heels clicking against the floor. But there was an urgency to her steps—a need to be moving, searching, doing anything but sitting idle.

Shadow was alone with Y/N once more.

The silence settled like a weight over the room. Outside, he knew there were machines—Eggman's creations, scouring the world. Searching. Hunting. Y/N was their target. He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly, but his eyes remained on them—that faint black gradient still clinging to their wrists like a stain. Whatever Y/N was—whoever they were—they had brought something with them.

                                 ˖◛⁺⑅♡Lᵒᵛᵉᵧₒᵤ♡⑅⁺◛˖

Your eyes snap open.

Except it doesn't feel like waking up. It feels like being dragged violently from one world into another. Your chest tightens, muscles seizing as your limbs jerk uncontrollably. Your vision blurs, the dim room spinning around you in dizzying loops. A strangled sound escapes your throat—a cross between a gasp and a choke.

Your body betrays you, trembling violently against the worn-out couch. Pain lances through your veins like ice, searing and sharp, making it hard to breathe. You don't know where you are, and panic takes hold. Your heart pounds like a drum in your ears.

A shadow moves—no, not just a shadow. Someone. Close. Watching.

Your vision sharpens just enough to see him.

A figure, still as stone, standing over you like a sentinel. Even under the faint, flickering light, he is striking—elegant in his stillness, but radiating power like a coiled spring ready to strike. His fur is jet black, sleek and smooth, with deep crimson streaks slicing through it like fresh wounds. His eyes—those eyes—are blood red, glowing faintly in the low light, locked onto you with an intensity that freezes you more than the pain ever could.

Your gaze drifts lower, taking in the rest of him—the sharp edges of his quills forming a crown of danger over his head, his chest adorned with a tuft of snowy-white fur that stands out in stark contrast against the black. It looks soft, almost inviting, but you know better. There is no softness in his stance, no vulnerability. Only control—precision—danger wrapped in beauty.

Your attention is drawn further down—to his gloves. White, pristine, with golden rings at the wrists that seem too perfectly crafted to be ordinary. The gloves seem reinforced, not merely for protection, but perhaps to enhance his strength. There is something deliberate about them, like a tool as much as part of his uniform.

Then his shoes. Sleek, futuristic. Red, white, and black with golden accents. They emit a faint energy, not enough to hum but enough for you to sense. They are not ordinary footwear. They are made for speed—power—precision. You can tell he is not simply fast. He is built to dominate every battlefield he steps on. (Specfically made for him.)

You try to breathe, but it catches in your throat. He is built like a warrior—lean muscle under dark fur, his arms crossed with casual authority, but everything about him screams danger. Controlled. Deadly. His quills curve upward in sharp arcs, spiked and untamed, adding to the air of ferocity around him.

You don't know who he is.

But you know he is not someone to cross.

The seizure slowly begins to subside. The rigid tightness in your limbs loosens, leaving you drained, breathless. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, each inhale shallow but desperate. Your eyes remain on him, wide with a mixture of fear and confusion.

He doesn't move.

His voice finally breaks the silence—low, smooth, with an edge like a blade hidden in silk.

"You're awake."

You manage a weak nod, though your throat is still raw. You expect your voice to fail you—but when you open your mouth, the words come freely, clear and unhindered.

"Where... am I?" you ask, and the sound of your own voice catches you off guard. You blink, momentarily stunned that you can speak so easily. Your body doesn't ache nearly as much as you expected after what felt like being torn apart from the inside. It feels... mostly normal.

But that realization brings a shiver down your spine, because you remember.

Eggman.

His machines. The cold metal clamps digging into your skin. The hum of energy coursing through you against your will. The experiments. The pain that felt like it would never end. You remember the feeling of being less than a person—just a tool to him.

Your breath hitches involuntarily, and you shudder.

The crimson-eyed figure notices. You can tell by the subtle shift in his posture—barely noticeable, but there.

You are alive. But you are not safe. Not yet.

Finally, your eyes wander away from him and toward your surroundings. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up, but you realize—you are in a base. Or something that once was. The walls are metal, but the paint is chipped, and wires hang loosely in some corners. There are makeshift repairs, carefully placed panels hiding more significant damage beneath. The lights are dim, flickering occasionally, as though power is scarce or deliberately conserved.

It isn't abandoned—not fully—but it looks that way on purpose. As though someone wanted this place to be forgotten, hidden from the outside world. No signals. No trails. A place that couldn't be tracked easily.

A safehouse.

Your gaze drifts back to the black-and-red figure standing before you. His posture is still rigid, arms crossed over that patch of white fur on his chest, but his eyes haven't left you for a second. There's no warmth in his stare—only calculation, caution. You can tell he's assessing you, measuring you up like a problem that needs solving. (Just like Tails.)

You swallow; your throat still dry. You shift slightly on the couch, feeling the worn fabric against your palms. Your body responds far better than you expected. You don't ache, not like you should after everything. The last time you were awake—truly awake—you had been strapped down, wires pressed against your skin, machines humming as sharp instruments dug into you.

The memory flashes behind your eyes, and your breath quickens. The sensation of cold metal against your chest, the sterile stench of the laboratory, the sound of Eggman's voice—clinical, uncaring—while you screamed.

You snap out of it, a shiver racing down your spine. Your hand instinctively grasps your wrist, fingers brushing over the faint gradient that still stains your skin. It has gotten smaller since the last you've seen it?

The black-and-red stranger notices the movement—his gaze flickers, but he says nothing.

"Who..." Your voice trembles before you steady it. "Who are you?"

He doesn't answer right away. His eyes narrow slightly, as if debating how much to tell you. Finally, his deep voice cuts through the stillness.

"Shadow."

Just a name. No title, no explanation. But there's weight behind it, like you should know it. Like it means something.

You don't.

Your confusion must show on your face because he exhales through his nose—frustration, maybe—but it's subtle. Controlled. (You've never seen him. That isnt fair.)

You glance around the room again, more carefully this time. The walls are steel, but old, with faint scorch marks and scrapes along the surface. There are signs of repairs—panels fastened over what were likely breaches, patched wiring snaking along the ceiling like veins. It's not falling apart, but it's clear that whoever maintains this place does so with efficiency, not care.

It's a hideout. (Oh you sure Holmes?)

Not home. Not a base brimming with life. A place to exist when the world is looking for you. A place to disappear.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the couch. "Where... exactly is this?"

Shadow's eyes bore into you. "Somewhere Eggman's machines can't find."  (So he answers this time, so strange.)

Your heart skips.

He knows.

Of course, he knows.

You open your mouth to ask more, but you stop. His expression has not softened. There's no promise of safety in his tone—just the simple fact that, for now, you are hidden. You realize he's not assuring you out of kindness. It's necessity. He's keeping you here because you are a loose end, a variable he doesn't understand yet.

You are not a guest. You are a risk.

Your fingers tremble, and you quickly fold your hands in your lap to steady them. You need to think—need to understand where you stand.

Your eyes drift once more to Shadow's gloves—the gold rings, pristine fabric. Power, not just protection. You look down at his shoes—the faint hum of their advanced technology. Everything about him is deliberate. Nothing is out of place.

Except you.

You lower your voice. "How long... have I been here?"

"Days." (ANSWER MORE GODDAMN IT.)

That one word sends a chill through you. You've been unconscious for days. Anything could've happened. Eggman could still be searching. Worse, he could have found something.

You clench your jaw, pushing back the fear. You can't afford it right now. You need information. And you knew only two people, good at managing information.

"Rouge," you mutter, recalling the other that was there during that night—her tone laced with sarcasm, but her presence felt sharp. Focused.

Shadow's brow twitches slightly at the name. Confirmation.

"Was she here?" you say.

"She's finding more," he replies curtly.

More what?

The question burns at your tongue, but you hold it back. You get the feeling that Shadow isn't the type to entertain endless questions. He'll give you what you need, not what you want.

You lean back slightly against the couch, tension still coiling tight in your chest, but you force yourself to breathe slower. You are alive. You are hidden. And for now—you are not alone.

But you are still in danger.

Your voice is quiet. "He's still looking for me, isn't he?"

Shadow doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

You close your eyes briefly.

Of course he is.

Eggman never lets his tools escape. When he was just in reach.

When you open your eyes again, Shadow is still there, still watching. He has not moved a muscle.

You wonder if he ever rests.

The weight of his gaze presses against you, but this time—you meet it.

"I won't let him take me back," you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

Shadow's eyes narrow.

"Good."

For the first time, you think—you see the faintest flicker of approval in his gaze.

But it's gone just as quickly as it came.

The room falls into silence again.

The silence drags on, heavy and suffocating. You can feel the weight of Shadow's gaze pressing into you, unwavering, like he's dissecting every inch of your being. His arms remain crossed over that snowy patch of fur on his chest, his crimson eyes cutting through the dim lighting with sharp precision.  (You perv, his eyes are up)

The longer it stretches, the more the quiet eats away at you. You shift uncomfortably on the couch, fingers tapping lightly against your thigh as you try to suppress the nervous energy rising in your chest. It's too much. You need something—anything—to break it.

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out.

"What's your favorite color?"

The question hangs in the air, abrupt and jarring against the tension that had settled between you. The moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it. You mentally curse yourself—of all the things to ask him, that's what you went with?

Shadow's eyes narrow—slightly, but you notice. His head tilts just the faintest degree, like he's trying to determine if you're serious, or if this is some kind of test.

Seconds pass. Too long. The silence is worse now.

Finally, his low voice cuts through it, each word carefully chosen, as if he almost deems it beneath him to answer.

"I don't have one."

You blink. "What?"

"I don't... see the point," he says, voice calm but firm. "Colors are irrelevant. Having a favorite is... worthless."

The bluntness of his words catches you off guard. You expected hesitation, maybe some vague answer to brush you off—but this? There's not even a hint of interest in the concept.

It makes sense, in a way. Looking at him—black and red, sharp lines and dangerous edges—he doesn't seem like someone who would waste time thinking about things like "favorite." His world is precision, purpose. Anything beyond that is probably just noise to him.

Still, his response stings a little. You hadn't realized how desperate you were to cut through the tension—to find something human beneath that warrior's exterior.

"Oh," you manage weakly, voice quieter now. "I just thought... never mind."

Your gaze falls to your lap, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the faint gradient on your wrist. You feel silly—childish even. Maybe it was stupid to try. Maybe there's no room for small talk in a place like this.

In fact, a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. Soft, genuine—something that surprises even you.

"And here I am thinking it was yellow," you say, voice light, the hint of a laugh following your words.

You chuckle softly, the sound gentle in the stillness. It's not forced—it bubbles out naturally, easing some of the tension pressing down on your chest.

Shadow doesn't react at first. His expression remains as stoic and unreadable as ever, but something shifts—internally. A flicker of surprise, buried beneath layers of discipline and control. Yellow. Of all colors. Not red, not black—the colors that defined him, that cloaked him in every fight, every mission. Not gold, either, which at least carried some association with power or status.

Yellow.

Bright. Warm. The kind of color that felt so distant from anything he embodied.

He didn't understand it. Why you'd say that. Why it stirred something unfamiliar in him—something he couldn't place.

But none of this showed on his face.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, masking his thoughts behind the same composed front. His crimson gaze remained steady, fixed on you, offering no reaction to your words.

"...Red," he finally said after a pause, voice low, firm—as though grounding himself back into familiar territory. "If I had to choose."

You blinked, processing his answer. It fit him, of course. Red suited him in every way. But you smiled anyway—soft, understanding, like you had learned something important all the same.

"Red's a good one," you said quietly.

Shadow said nothing, but his mind lingered on your earlier words.

Yellow. (Reminds him of someone dear. You know.)

                                  ͙ ͙۪۪̥ ͙ ♡𐡘 𐡘 𐡘 𐡘♡ ͙ ͙۪۪̥ ͙

The room was quiet—too quiet...

The kind of quiet that felt unnatural, like the air itself was waiting for something to happen.

You sat still on the worn-out couch, knees drawn slightly up, fingers curled into the fabric. It was soft, faded with age, the seams slightly frayed at the edges. Dust clung faintly to the air, illuminated by the dim glow of the lamp sitting on the nearby wooden table. The scent of old fabric, faintly mixed with aged paper and something subtly earthy, lingered around you.

Everything here felt lived-in. But not recently.

The metal walls, though sturdy, carried faint signs of neglect—scratches, dents, and tiny (To massive) imperfections that hinted at time and past occupants. The bookshelves lining the far side of the room were filled, but not with meticulous care; books were stacked haphazardly, some leaning against one another, others forgotten in small piles. The floor creaked ever so slightly under the weight of the silence, and outside, beyond the thick curtains, the wind murmured softly against the base's walls.

It wasn't cold.

But it wasn't warm either.

Across the room, Shadow stood, unmoving, arms crossed. He didn't fidget, didn't shift, didn't betray a single ounce of uncertainty. His crimson eyes remained on you—not sharply, not accusingly, but watching. Calculating. As if waiting for something neither of you could name.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you weren't being poked and prodded by machines. You weren't confined, restrained, or drowning in pain. You were here, in his space. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere safe.

And yet, despite the absence of chains, you still felt trapped.

Your fingers unconsciously traced over your wrists. The gradient had receded—you knew that—yet you still felt it lingering under your skin, crawling like ink through your veins, waiting. Your own body was unfamiliar, foreign, a shape you barely understood.

And Shadow...

Shadow was unreadable.

His presence wasn't looming, nor was it comforting. It simply existed, a solid force in the room. He didn't sit. He didn't speak. He didn't press you for answers.

Perhaps he had none of his own.

You swallowed, eyes flickering downward. The weight of the silence pressed against your shoulders, curling around your ribs like a vice. You had never been particularly good at filling these moments. At speaking.

At least, not anymore.

Finally, Shadow shifted—subtle, small. A slight tilt of his head, a brief flick of his ear. His sharp, crimson gaze swept across you, dissecting, measuring, before he turned toward the door.

A dismissal.

He was leaving.

Something inside you lurched—an unfamiliar, panicked impulse to stop him. To say something. But what?

Your mouth felt dry, throat tight, like the words might splinter before they ever reached your tongue. You were never good at asking for things, but the moment felt like it was slipping away, and you weren't sure why you even cared.

Still, without thinking, the words stumbled out—soft, unsteady, barely above a whisper.

"...A book."

Shadow paused.

His head turned slightly over his shoulder, his gaze unreadable, but it was enough. You forced yourself to continue, throat aching as if the effort of speech itself was something foreign.

"Any kind," you murmured, your voice quieter than you wanted it to be. "And... water." (Why are you so nervous?)

There. Something normal. A request as simple as breathing. Something you could hold onto.

For a moment, Shadow didn't move.

Then, with a sharp, precise nod, he turned. You watched as he crossed the small space with effortless ease, the way his movements were calculated, controlled, every step measured. He reached the shelf, scanning it briefly before plucking a book from its place. It was small, worn—old, in a way that felt almost misplaced in this cold, metallic space.

You didn't dare comment.

Instead, you waited as he returned, placing both the book and a glass of water on the table beside you. No words. No acknowledgment. Just action.

You reached for the glass first, fingers curling around the cool surface. The condensation left faint traces of moisture against your skin as you lifted it to your lips. The first sip was refreshing—soothing, even—but it did little to ease the storm still curling in the pit of your stomach.

Your other hand brushed the book's cover, its weight solid and grounding beneath your fingertips. You didn't even check the title. It didn't matter. It was something tangible. Something real.

You hesitated, then flicked your fingers toward it in a small, fleeting motion—a silent acknowledgment. A quiet thanks. Shadow said nothing, but you caught the faintest pause in his movements before he turned again.

This time, he left.

The door slid shut behind him, the soft hiss of metal sealing you in with nothing but the quiet hum of distant machinery.

And just like that—

You were alone.

A slow exhale left your lips as you leaned back against the couch, the book still resting in your lap, untouched.

The silence that followed wasn't comforting. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't even empty.

It was heavy. Dense. Like something unsaid still lingered in the air, waiting for acknowledgment.

Your fingers traced the rim of the glass absently, your mind wandering, drifting toward nothing and everything all at once. It didn't feel right to be safe. Not after everything.

Not after what you had seen.

Your gaze drifted down to your hands. They looked normal. Pale, steady, your hands. But you knew better. You knew.

Slowly, your fingertips pressed together, watching the way the light caught the faint gradient that still remained. Black, like ink bleeding through water. (But smaller)

It was still there.

Waiting.

And you didn't know what that meant. (Its your true self, why cant you realize it?)

Your vision blurred slightly as exhaustion crept up from the edges of your mind, pulling at your senses, making your limbs feel heavier than before. You should sleep. You knew that.

But sleep meant dreaming.

And dreaming meant remembering.

And you weren't sure you were ready for that.

Instead, you pulled the book closer, flipping the cover open with slow, deliberate care. The pages were worn, slightly yellowed, their scent faintly musty beneath the earthy air.

You started reading.

Not because you wanted to.

But because you needed something—anything— to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.

                                ❤ » —— ╫ ❲ ❤ ❳ ╫ —— « ❤

Shadow stood outside the base, his breath steady, his posture rigid despite the cool night air settling around him. The woods stretched on in all directions, dense and quiet, broken only by the occasional rustling of wind through the trees. His communicator rested against the palm of his hand, the small device blinking faintly in the dark.

They had finally woken up.

The last few days had been nothing but a waiting game—watching, assessing, keeping an eye on their condition without lingering too long. He had ensured they had what they needed, food and water left within reach, wounds cleaned and bandaged, but he had never hovered. That wasn't his way.

And yet, for some reason, he had checked in. Every day. Just briefly.

Maybe it was because Rouge had asked him to. Or maybe because there was something... familiar about them. Something he couldn't place.

Now that they were awake, his next move was clear.

He pressed the communicator. A faint click sounded before Tails' voice crackled through the line.

"Shadow? You actually called first? That's a first."

His tone was laced with exhaustion but still held its usual sharpness.

"They're awake."

There was silence for a moment. Then—

"They—? Wait, really? Y/N's—?"

"In stable condition," Shadow confirmed, crossing his arms as he leaned against a tree. "They woke up not long ago. No signs of severe deterioration, but..." His gaze flickered toward the base, where he could still sense their presence. "They're quiet. Still adjusting."

Tails let out a breath. "That's... that's good. I mean, not the adjusting part, but that they're okay. I was worried."

Shadow's brows furrowed slightly. "What's the status on Eggman's forces?"

The shift in tone was immediate. The moment concern for Y/N was set aside, Tails straightened—his voice turning business-like.

"The bots are still active, but... different."

Shadow narrowed his eyes. "Explain."

"We've been fighting them for days now, and I swear, it's like they're... smarter. Stronger. Not just in a physical way, but tactically. Like they're adapting. They aren't just attacking mindlessly anymore. It's like they've got some kind of—" Tails hesitated, as if the words tasted wrong. "—awareness."

Shadow's frown deepened. That was troubling.

"And Eggman?"

"Radio silent." Tails' voice was tense now, edged with unease. "We haven't been able to pick up a single transmission from him in over a day. Whatever he's doing, he's keeping it quiet. And that's what worries me. I think he is trying to get Y/N back."

Shadow's grip on the communicator tightened slightly. That was unlike Eggman. He was a man of announcement, of arrogance. Silence meant something was in the works—something big.

"Sonic's out scouting with Knuckles. Rouge is keeping her own tabs, but she's been vague about it. I don't know how much she's keeping to herself."

That didn't surprise him. Rouge never revealed all her cards at once.

"Do you think Y/N—"

"They are not ready."

Tails hesitated. "I wasn't gonna say to throw them into a battlefield, Shadow."

"They need time." Shadow's voice left no room for argument. "They just woke up. I doubt they're in any condition to do anything."

"Right. Yeah. Of course."

There was a pause, then a softer, more hesitant addition. "Will you bring them here?"

Shadow glanced at the base again. The dim glow of the lamp inside flickered faintly through the window. He exhaled.

"Not yet. Depends..."

"Shadow—"

"They're better off here for now." His tone was firm, leaving little room for debate. "You know as well as I do that the second, they step into your workshop, there will be questions. Questions they may not be ready to answer."

Tails let out a quiet sigh on the other end. "...I get it."

There was another pause before Tails spoke again, quieter this time. "Just... keep an eye on them, okay?"

Shadow didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on the base, on the figure he could faintly make out through the window—still curled up on the couch, lost in whatever book he had given them.

"...I will."

With that, he ended the call.

The silence of the night stretched once more, the wind whispering softly through the trees.

He turned away from the base, stepping into the shadows, but not far. Never too far.

Shadow moved through the trees with practiced silence, his every movement precise and deliberate. The darkness of the forest was his ally, the moonlight filtering through the leaves casting shifting patterns along the ground.

The machines were relentless.

They didn't know exactly where he was, but they were searching—patrolling in patterns too methodical to be random. The moment he had moved too far from the base, the closest unit had adjusted course, a faint metallic whir breaking the quiet as its scanning light flickered across the underbrush.

He didn't attack outright. That would bring too much attention.

Instead, he waited, watching its movements. Its red optics glowed in the dim light, a constant reminder of how many of these things had started showing up.

Tails had been right. These weren't just standard patrol bots.

They adapted. They thought.

Shadow narrowed his eyes, pressing against the trunk of a tree as another one passed by, scanning the perimeter. It was getting too close. A little closer, and they'd adjust. They'd realize this area was worth inspecting more closely.

He couldn't let that happen.

Shadow exhaled. Then, in a blur of motion, he struck.

A single, precise hit—straight to the core.

The bot crumbled without a sound, its red optics dimming as it slumped to the ground in a heap of twisted metal.

He didn't linger. He didn't need to.

With the same swiftness, he disappeared back into the forest, leaving no trace.

This wasn't about fighting. It was about keeping them away. As long as the machines didn't realize what he was protecting, they wouldn't concentrate their forces here.

And for now, that was the best he could do.

                             ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

You sat curled on the couch, the book Shadow had given you open in your lap, though you had long since stopped reading.

Your fingers idly traced the edge of the pages, but your mind was elsewhere.

The base was quiet, its dim lighting soft against the metal walls. The heaters close its warmth reaching you but not quite sinking in. Even with the comfort of blankets draped over you, the chill in your chest remained.

You didn't remember waking up.

Not really.

Everything before this had been a blur—shadows and metal, voices muffled by exhaustion, the feeling of being lost somewhere far away.

And even now, even with your feet firmly on the ground, something inside you still felt distant. Disconnected. Like part of you hadn't quite returned yet.

You stared at your hands. The gradient that stretched across your skin, the telltale mark of something not human.

It had receded.

Before, the inky markings had crawled up your arms, winding over your shoulders, reaching toward your throat. Now, it was barely past your wrists.

That should've comforted you.

It didn't.

If anything, it made you feel even more adrift.

Your body had changed. Again.

And you had no idea why.

You pressed your palm against your chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of your heartbeat. It was the same as always, yet it felt wrong.

Like something inside you wasn't quite fitting together.

You exhaled through your nose, shutting the book in your lap with a soft thump.

A flicker of movement caught your eye.

Through the window, the trees shifted, the wind weaving through the branches. The darkness beyond the glass was thick, but you could still make out the faint glow of something red.

You knew what it was.

Shadow.

You had no way of knowing exactly where he was, but you could feel it. That presence—unwavering, distant, but always there.

Protecting you.

A strange feeling twisted in your chest at the realization. You didn't understand it.

You weren't used to being protected.

You weren't used to any of this.

The warmth of a home, the silence without fear, the weight of a blanket over your shoulders. You had spent so long trying to figure out what you were—trying to understand why you existed at all.

And yet, for the first time, that question wasn't the one pressing against your ribs.

Instead, you found yourself wondering something else.

Why are they helping me?

Tails, Rouge, Shadow—even Sonic, in his own reckless way.

None of them had any reason to care. None of them owed you anything.

And yet, here you were.

Alive.

Safe. (Well maybe only Tails owes you. But its too early to say anything)

Your fingers tightened slightly around the book's cover. Your throat felt tight, your thoughts tangled in something too big, too unfamiliar to untangle all at once.

You didn't know why they were helping you.

You didn't know why you let them.

Your fingers trembled as they hovered over the gradient on your wrists. The black ink-like markings that once crawled up to your shoulders had receded, yet they never truly left. They pulsed faintly, almost like they were breathing, like they were alive.

You stared at them, unblinking. The wires in the ceilings crackled, casting flickering shadows along the metal walls, but its electricity barely reached you. (Not that you cared.)

The thought had been creeping in for a while now. An idea so absurd, so terrifying, that you had pushed it aside every time it surfaced.

But now?

Now you couldn't ignore it.

Your body had changed again. The ink had drawn back. The strange, foreign skin you had thought was you—it wasn't rejecting the darkness. It wasn't fighting against it. It was covering it.

A hollow feeling opened in your chest.

What if this wasn't you?

What if this form—your hands, your face, the way you looked—was never meant to exist?

Your breath hitched, fingers curling against your palms as your mind raced, dragging you backward, pulling you into memories you barely understood.

The way your parents had whispered in hushed voices. The way they had held you close, their hands trembling against your skin. The way their eyes—so much like yours—had glowed in the dark, only for their light to be extinguished when the world turned against them.

The way your parents siblings had been hunted, one by one.

You clenched your jaw, gripping your arms as the memories hit harder.

You had been afraid. So afraid.

And then—nothing.

Darkness. Silence.

A cold, eternal void where time ceased to exist.

Had you... done this?

Had your body—your real body—hidden itself?

Had it created this form?

This shell?

Your breath shuddered as you exhaled. Your heart pounded, the weight of realization settling over you like a crushing tide.

If this was true—if this skin was nothing more than a shield—then what lay beneath it?

What had you locked away? (You cant remember)

You dug your nails into your arms, your grip tightening.

You wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell yourself you were just like them, just like the ones who had saved you, who had fed you and sheltered you. You wanted to believe that you could belong here, that you could be (species of your choice).

But you weren't.

You never had been.

And now, you weren't sure if you ever would be.

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The fire crackled, the light flickering wildly against the walls.

Your breath came slow and shallow as the realization settled in—a weight heavier than anything you had carried before.

The light danced along the edges of the metal walls, casting twisted, elongated shapes that flickered in and out of existence. The warmth of the heaters should have been comforting. Should have eased the tremor in your fingers, the tightness in your chest.

But it didn't.

Because this body wasn't real.

The ink on your arms pulsed again, a slow, measured rhythm. A reminder. A whisper.

This is not you.

Your fingers flexed, your nails ghosting over your skin. If you pressed hard enough, would it peel away? Would the blackness underneath consume what wasn't truly yours?

Your mind swam, fractured memories threatening to pull you under.

Your parents—hands warm and steady, brushing through your hair, whispering soft comforts. (They looked like your hands.) The feeling of running, feet barely touching the ground, the wind singing through the air, carrying the voices of your kind.

The sky—vast, open, filled with more colors than you could name. A sky that belonged to you.

A sky that was taken away. (You did it to yourself.)

Your stomach twisted. You wrapped your arms around yourself, pressing in as if that would stop the shaking, as if you could hold yourself together through sheer will alone.

But deep inside, something was unravelling.

The cold air ingulfing you in its touch, its frost licking at your skin, grounding you—but not enough.

Nothing was enough.

The truth settled in your ribs like ice.

Your body—this form—had been made out of fear.

Not choice. Not existence. Not you.

You had been hunted. (At least thats what you think.)

And so you had hidden.

Not in the way the others did, not in the way your parents had tried to protect themselves. (Nono, they protected the Birthing gem you stupid girl. Remember it properly.)

You had become something else.

A shell. A fragment. A false thing moulded into something that could be understood. That could survive.

The weight in your chest burned.

A part of you wanted to rip this all away. To shed this skin, to find what lay underneath, to claw through the layers until something real—something true—remained.

But you couldn't.

Because you didn't know what would be left.

Would you still be you?

Would you still be anything at all?

The wind howled against the metal walls, rattling the glass panes, and your breath came out in a shudder. The light flickered, and for a brief second, the shadows twisted—deepened—reaching for you.

Your fingers curled, your hands gripping the fabric of your borrowed clothing.

A breath.

A second.

You swallowed thickly, forcing your body to stay still. To hold onto something, anything.

Your body was not real.

Your voice was not real.

Your entire existence—was it even yours?

A slow, creeping horror began to take root in your chest.

The ink on your skin pulsed again, steady. Unmoving. Watching.

And for the first time since you awoke in this new world—

You were terrified of yourself.

The door creaked open.

A quiet sound, subtle, barely more than the shift of wood against metal hinges.

But to you, it might as well have been a gunshot.

Your entire body jolted, a sharp flinch wrecking through your muscles before you could stop it. Your nails dug into the fabric of your bandages, gripping too tightly, grounding yourself in the coarse sensation.

Your breath was unsteady, erratic. The thoughts that had been spiralling, wrapping around your throat like strangling vines, didn't stop. They pulsed in your mind like a heartbeat, demanding to be acknowledged.

Your body was not real.

Your voice was not real.

You had made this.

You were a coward.

The sound of boots against the floor cut through the fog like a blade, sharp and immediate.

Shadow.

His presence loomed, not oppressive, not invasive—just there. A weight in the room that anchored it.

You clenched your teeth, breathing in slowly, trying to slow the way your chest heaved. You couldn't afford to spiral. Not now. Not while he was here.

Yet, it sent a jolt through your system. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves, gripping tight as you forced your breath to steady. You didn't want to flinch. But you did.

And Shadow noticed.

He didn't move right away. He stood just past the doorway, lingering, watching. His presence was unreadable, but you could feel the shift in his focus—calculating, analysing.

It wasn't concern. It wasn't care.

It was suspicion.

You kept your gaze lowered, staring at the floor, at your hands—at the gradient.

Shadow took a step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.

The silence pressed down.

Then, finally—

"What was that?"

His voice was quiet, yet it carried the weight of demand.

You didn't answer.

You couldn't.

Your throat tightened, the words catching somewhere in your chest, tangled with the mess of thoughts still suffocating your mind.

Shadow wasn't the type to let things go unanswered. Another step, closer this time.

"Why did you flinch?"

It wasn't an accusation, but it felt like one.

Your jaw clenched. You didn't know why. You weren't afraid of him. But something in the sudden sound—the way it pulled you back—had snapped you into reality too fast, too sharply.

Shadow's gaze burned into you. Waiting. Watching.

Still, you didn't speak.

But that didn't mean he hadn't already drawn his own conclusions.

His eyes flicked toward your arms, noting the way your fingers still clenched at your bandages. His expression remained unreadable, but his presence carried a certain sharpness now.

Something had changed.

He wasn't just here to check on you.

No—this was something else.

A decision had already been made.

Shadow's gaze lingered on you for a fraction longer than necessary.

You weren't shaking. You weren't recoiling. There was no fear in your expression—just... disorientation. Your breaths came slow, deep, controlled in a way that wasn't calming, just forced.

So that wasn't it.

You weren't scared of him.

Then why did you flinch?

Shadow's frown deepened slightly, but he didn't press the question. Instead, he tapped his communicator.

"Sonic. Tails." His voice was quiet but firm. "We're moving."

Your head snapped up. Confusion flickered across your face.

Moving?

Now? (It has been just a couple hours since you woke up!)

The words barely had time to settle before there was a knock at the doorframe, followed by a familiar voice.

"Uh... moving?"

Sonic. He ran all the way here, of course.

He stood there, arms crossed, head tilted in confusion. His eyes darted between you and Shadow, brow furrowing. "You just informed Tails hours ago that they weren't ready yet. Now you're saying we gotta go?"

Shadow barely acknowledged him.

Sonic took a step inside, his expression shifting. His usual easy-going demeanour faltered slightly as he got a good look at you. At your arms.

The gradient had receded.

Only your wrists remained dark now, the ink-like colouring no longer creeping up your skin. The rapid change made Tails' theories useless again. And making him curious...

Sonic opened his mouth to comment, but Shadow's voice cut through the air like steel.

"We need to go before things escalate."

"Escalate?" Sonic's ear twitched. "Since when do you worry about things escalating?" He shot a look at you. "They look... better? I dunno, Tails was gonna run more tests, but—"

Shadow's patience was wearing thin. "Tails can run all the test and questions to ask, he wants when we're somewhere safe." (Was he implying it to you?)

Sonic's frown deepened. He still didn't get it. He wasn't seeing the bigger picture.

Shadow wasn't taking chances.

Not with you.

Not when something—whatever it was—had made you flinch like that.

Not if there was a possibility that he was the cause.

He wasn't about to leave someone who might've been afraid of him with the very people he suspected were safer. (He took care of you for days...)

Sonic gave a dramatic sigh, rubbing the back of his head. "Look, I get it. But why now? Why not let them breathe for a second?"

Shadow turned to you. His expression remained unreadable, but his words were clipped, decisive.

"Do you want to stay here?"

It wasn't really a question. It was an out. A chance to say no.

Your fingers curled slightly. You hesitated.

You weren't afraid. You knew that. He didn't.

And yet... you weren't sure what to say.

Sonic, for all his carefree antics, was watching you carefully now. He could tell you weren't fully there. He was waiting, ready to jump in if you needed him to.

But you didn't.

You finally spoke, voice quiet but steady.

"...I don't know."

Shadow exhaled through his nose. That wasn't an answer he liked.

Sonic groaned. "Yeah, okay, great. Guess I'm just here for decoration now." He glanced between you both, then sighed. "Alright, fine. But I'm coming too."

Shadow didn't argue.

Sonic raised a brow at that. No snarky comeback? No shutting him down?

Interesting.

Shadow just turned, heading for the door without another word.

And you? Still on the couch.

Sonic blinked.

You had barely hesitated before letting him scoop you up. That was new.

The first time he had to carry you, back when you had just woken up in this world, you were stiff—like you weren't sure if you were even supposed to exist. You had looked at him like he was a stranger, like everything was too much.

Now?

You exhaled softly, your body relaxing in his hold. Then, without much thought, you looped one arm around his shoulders.

Sonic's ears flicked, surprised.

"...Huh."

Shadow, already walking ahead, didn't react. He had his own thoughts.

Sonic glanced at him, then back at you. "Guess you're gettin' used to me, huh?"

You didn't answer, but you didn't let go.

That said enough.

Sonic smirked. "Man, you're still light as a feather. You gotta start eatin' more."

Still, his voice lacked its usual teasing edge. He was just talking to talk.

You weren't saying much. You didn't need to.

He held you securely, following after Shadow, who had already vanished into the dark.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

Shadow tore through the machines with merciless efficiency. His movements were deliberate, calculated—each strike precise, each dodge just enough to avoid taking a hit while keeping up his brutal pace.

The air was thick with smoke, the scent of burnt metal and ozone clinging to everything. Sparks crackled from the ruined drones left in his wake, their bodies torn apart, crumpled, sparking with dying energy. The battlefield was nothing new to him—this was just another mission, another fight.

But this time, he wasn't alone.

Sonic was right behind him, carrying you through the chaos, his grip secure but not careful. He wasn't treating you like something fragile. Because you weren't.

You weren't a burden. You weren't limp in his arms, dead weight needing to be hauled away. No, you were holding on.

Your arms were locked around his shoulders, your grip strong. You weren't just being carried—you were grounded, present. Your breathing was still uneven, your muscles weak from days of being out cold, but your fingers curled against his shoulder, anchoring yourself.

Sonic felt the difference.

The first time he carried you, you barely reacted at all. He had been carrying a mystery, an anomaly, someone who had just barely stumbled into the world—now he was carrying someone who had fought to stay.

"You alright?" Sonic asked, his voice steady despite the wind rushing past them.

You nodded once.

It wasn't much, but it was certain.

"Cool. Just checking," he said, adjusting his hold slightly before shifting his attention forward.

Shadow had already ripped apart the last of the drones standing in their way, his body tense, his pace unfaltering. He wasn't looking back to check on either of you—because he didn't need to.

He knew you were both keeping up.

The only sounds now were the distant hum of more incoming machines, the whir of metal limbs shifting through the wreckage, and the ever-present crashing of waves against the cliffs below.

The rendezvous point wasn't far.

The transport was waiting for them at the coastline, hidden just beyond the ridge. It wasn't some urgent escape plan—Shadow had set it up before this mission even started. They weren't leaving in a rush, they weren't fleeing in desperation. They were leaving because they had already won.

They had you. (Your safe. Such A relief to Tails and his friends.)

Sonic exhaled sharply, his pace steady as the three of you closed the distance. He could already picture it—Tails standing by the door, arms crossed, ears flicking when he caught sight of them. No dramatic reaction, no panic—just an exhale of relief.

The walk ended smoothly near Tails' workshop. The quiet that followed felt unnatural after the relentless chaos of the fight, after the roaring winds and crashing metal. Too still. Sonic barely hesitated before stepping forward, his grip on you never faltering as he carried you toward the entrance. Your muscles ached from holding on, but you didn't loosen your grip—not yet.

Not until you were inside.

Tails was already there, waiting.

His ears perked up the second he saw you. Relief and tension battled in his expression—his arms were crossed, his tails flicking anxiously behind him, but his eyes never left you.

Sonic barely had time to say anything before Tails closed the distance.

"You're awake," Tails breathed, his voice tight. His gaze flickered over you, scanning for anything out of place, anything worse than what he expected. He reached out instinctively, as if to steady you, but stopped just short.

You didn't have the energy to say much. Instead, you nodded.

That was enough.

Tails exhaled sharply, finally letting some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Sonic huffed, shifting you slightly before offering a lopsided grin. "Told ya we'd get her back in one piece."

Tails shot him a look. Tails ignored him, his focus entirely on you now.

"You should rest," he murmured, softer this time. "You've been through a lot."

His voice carried that weight again—the same one you had heard before. The unspoken worry. The expectation that something else could still go wrong.

You wanted to tell him you were fine.

You weren't. But you were here. And that was enough.

Sonic finally set you down, and the moment your feet touched the ground, the ache in your body roared back to life. You were exhausted. But the exhaustion didn't come from just today. It came from all of it.

Tails placed a hand on your shoulder, steady, grounding. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

You didn't resist. As you stepped toward the entrance, a flicker of movement caught your eye. You turned your head just in time to see a dark figure fading into the distance. Shadow was already leaving. No words. No parting glance. Just gone.

You watched him disappear, swallowed by the night, and for some reason, you weren't surprised.

He had done what he came to do. And now, he was done too.

~✰♡✰♡✰~~✰♡✰♡✰~~✰♡✰♡✰~~✰♡✰♡✰~

(Happy Valentines day! I was going to do a special but ehh that would spoil too much of the future! <3)

Chapter Text

(Warning: Dehumanzation again)


"Its hard to say whats on your mind.

But you did, and Im so proud."

                              ✺✳ ┅ ⑅ ┅ ✳✺

The garage smelled like home.

Oil, warm metal, faint traces of solder and engine grease—scents that once soothed you. A place built from care and precision, where Tails thrived, where everything had a place and a function. The low hum of equipment usually underscored this place like a heartbeat.

But not today.

Today, it was quiet. Still.

The air carried a subtle tension—like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

You stepped inside, shoes scuffing lightly against the concrete floor. The weight in your chest pressed heavier with each step. Your limbs ached, but not from injury—this was deeper, woven into your very being.

You were so tired.

And he was there—already facing you.

Tails stood a few feet ahead, near his workbench, but his focus was on you the moment you entered. His blue eyes, usually bright with curiosity or determination, were laced with concern. His ears twitched forward, his twin tails lowering slightly behind him.

He didn't speak right away.

He just... watched.

It wasn't the kind of gaze that demanded answers. It was the kind that searched—checking you over without needing to touch you. Looking for something you hadn't said yet.

Your shoulders sagged under the weight of that understanding.

You didn't need to say you were tired.

He already knew.

"Hey..." His voice was soft, gentle in a way only he could manage.

You lifted your hand in a small, half-hearted wave—just to show you could—but even that felt like too much.

He closed the distance between you in a few careful steps, his gloved hand briefly hovering as if he might steady you. But he hesitated, pulling back before contact.

"Come on... sit down."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was that quiet, stubborn concern Tails was known for.

You didn't argue.

You let him lead you toward a workbench pushed against the wall. It wasn't designed to be a seat, but it was sturdy, cool against your legs as you sat down. Tails shifted a stool closer for himself but didn't sit—he lingered in front of you, close but cautious.

His eyes darted—down to your hands, your arms.

The gradient was there, just as it had been for days now. The inky black fade from your fingertips to your wrists—part of you. It was subtle, like shadows brushing over your skin. You had both grown used to it.

But his gaze lingered on it longer than usual.

Not out of fear.

Out of habit.

Out of... apprehension.

He was always checking—just in case. Because sometimes, the black bled further up your arms, creeping toward your shoulders. Sometimes it retreated. Sometimes it pulsed faintly beneath your skin.

It was normal—for you. For him.

But it was still... a reminder.

Of what you were.

Of what you didn't understand.

Of what he didn't know how to fix.

"You okay?" he asked, quieter now.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You pressed your lips together.

You wanted to say "I'm fine."

But you weren't.

And you both knew it.

So, you just shook your head. Small. Honest.

Tails nodded, not surprised, but his ears twitched—like hearing it made it heavier somehow.

He crouched a little, leveling his gaze with yours, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You hurt anywhere?"

The question was careful, and you knew why. He didn't want to touch you without asking. Not after... everything.

You flexed your fingers, rolled your shoulders. There was soreness—lingering from what you'd been through—but no sharp pain. No wounds.

You shook your head again.

Relief softened his face, but only slightly.

"Okay. That's good."

His eyes flicked briefly to your gradient again—just to confirm it hadn't changed—and then he looked back at you, really looked.

You.

Not the readings.

Not the energy.

Just you.

You felt your chest tighten.

That was always the part that got you.

Tails could build machines capable of flying across continents, hack into enemy bases, and analyse energy patterns older than civilizations—but none of that mattered when it came to this.

To you.

He cared—so deeply it scared you sometimes. The kind of care that made him lose sleep. That made him push himself too hard in the workshop because he wanted to keep everyone safe. (...You needed to see Cream soon...)

And right now, you were the one he was trying to save.

"I..." Your voice cracked, barely audible.

His ears perked forward, patient.

"I'm just... tired."

The weight behind the words was heavier than you expected. It slipped out, dragging everything with it—everything you hadn't said, everything you'd held back.

Tails exhaled slowly, his hand hovering near your knee—not touching, just close. "Yeah. I can see that."

You both sat there in that quiet understanding.

A beat passed.

Then another.

The hum of distant machines returned—soft and faint, like the garage was breathing with you.

The black on your wrists pulsed—gentle, rhythmic, like a slow heartbeat.

Alive.

But not threatening.

Just a part of you.

Tails noticed the pulse. He always noticed. But he didn't say anything about it.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, his tails curling around his ankles.

"I was gonna run some scans," he admitted, a bit sheepish, like he already knew what you'd say. "But... we don't have to do that now. Not if you need to rest."

He left the choice with you.

He always left the choice with you.

That's what made him different.

You glanced at the monitors, the faint blue glow reflecting off his fur. You knew he wanted to check. He was curious—he always was—but more than that, he was worried.

You thought for a moment, then gave a small, tired nod.

He didn't smile, but his eyes softened.

"Okay. Let's take it slow."

He reached for his scanner—compact, handheld—something less intrusive than the full monitors. He held it up like a question, waiting for you to agree before moving closer.

You held out your hand, palm up, trusting.

His fingers brushed yours as he adjusted the scanner—gentle, careful. His touch was warm. Real.

And for the first time that day—you felt grounded.

The faint hum of the handheld scanner filled the quiet space. It wasn't loud—not like the larger machines in Tails' workshop—but the subtle vibration as it passed over your skin was distinct, like a whisper you could feel more than hear.

It was familiar.

You had sat here before—this same seat, this same touch, this same look in his eyes. Routine.

And yet...

It wasn't the same.

Not to you.

Tails was careful—always careful. His fingers adjusted your wrist gently, tilting your palm upward as he guided the scanner across the gradient stretching over your skin. The black faded into your natural tone like smoke drifting into the sky, shifting subtly with each breath you took.

It didn't hurt.

It never had.

But today, it felt different.

Each pass of the scanner made your skin itch—not on the surface, but deeper. Like something was restless beneath it. Like you were wearing this body instead of living in it.

You resisted the urge to pull your hand back.

Tails noticed, of course. He always did. His eyes flicked upward, meeting yours for a brief second—checking in without words.

You gave the smallest nod. It was enough.

He kept going.

The scanner's light flickered softly, casting faint blue trails over your arm. You watched it, your eyes tracing the patterns as though trying to memorize them. It gave you something to focus on—something to ground you.

But the pulse beneath your skin didn't stop.

It wasn't chaotic, not like the times it surged violently in the past. This was steady. Rhythmic. Almost... natural.

Like it belonged.

But that was the part that frightened you the most.

You didn't know if it was your body adapting to you...

Or you adapting to it.

Tails adjusted his grip slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles—not on purpose, just a side effect of the delicate way he handled you. But the touch was warm, grounding, and you clung to it like an anchor.

You needed that.

You needed him.

"Gradient's stable," Tails murmured, more to himself than you. His voice was low, thoughtful—his 'technician' voice, as Sonic called it. Focused, precise, but still soft around the edges when he was with you.

He shifted his scanner lower, running it gently over your palm, the curve of your thumb, up toward your elbow.

You kept still, but you could feel your fingers twitch—just slightly.

It wasn't intentional.

The pulse responded to him.

To his touch.

A faint, barely-there shimmer danced under your skin, like ink rippling through water. Not aggressive. Not dangerous.

Just... aware.

Tails paused briefly, eyes narrowing as he caught the shift—but he didn't react beyond that. He simply cataloged it, filing it away for later.

He didn't want to scare you.

And you were grateful.

The minutes stretched. Neither of you spoke.

The only sounds were the scanner's soft hum and your breathing—both of you inhaling in unintentional sync, a rhythm you had fallen into without realizing.

It was intimate in its own way.

Not in the loud, overwhelming sense. But in the quiet comfort of someone who knew you—someone who didn't need you to explain.

Someone who was simply... there.

Tails finally lowered the scanner, letting out a soft exhale through his nose. His fingers relaxed, but his thumb lingered against your wrist for a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.

He turned the scanner off, setting it aside on the workbench.

You lowered your hand into your lap, flexing your fingers experimentally. The pulse beneath your skin remained steady—calm—but you could still feel it. That presence. That otherness.

"You're stable," Tails said softly, but there was a question in his eyes.

For now.

That's what he didn't say.

You nodded. "Okay."

It was the only word you had in you.

Tails shifted on his stool, resting his forearms on his knees, leaning forward slightly. His eyes were searching—not just for data, but for you.

"You feel alright?" he asked.

It was different from asking if you were hurt.

This was asking if you were you.

You tried to answer, but your throat tightened.

How could you explain that your body felt both familiar and foreign? That you could still move your fingers, your legs, your chest rose and fell with each breath—but none of it felt like yours?

That there was something underneath all of it—something old, something waking—that felt more like you than this skin ever had?

That this body might not be a home... but a shell?

You swallowed hard.

"I..." Your voice cracked.

Tails' ears twitched, his expression softening into patience. He wasn't pushing. He was just listening.

"I don't know," you admitted finally, and your chest tightened as the truth settled in your ribs like stone. "It... feels like me. But it also... doesn't."

Tails' eyes flicked downward—briefly—to your wrist, where the gradient pulsed faintly.

He nodded slowly. He didn't look surprised.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I get that."

And you believed him.

Because even though he had never experienced this—he knew what it was like to not feel in control. To have things change faster than he could understand. To have questions with no answers.

That was why he was the only one you could tell.

A beat of silence passed.

Then—

Tails leaned forward, resting his hand lightly on your knee—not gripping, not holding you down. Just there.

"You're still you," he said gently, his voice almost a whisper. "No matter what's happening... you're still you."

Your eyes burned.

You blinked rapidly, nodding before the tears could fall.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Okay."

He gave you a small, lopsided smile. Just for a second.

And that was enough.

You stayed like that for a little while—sitting together in the quiet hum of the garage, the pulse beneath your skin settling into something less fearful.

Not gone. Not forgotten. But quieter. For now.

The stillness that followed should have been comforting.

The scanner was off. The faint hum of diagnostics had faded into the background hum of the workshop's machines. There was no more testing. No more data. Just the two of you.

And yet, you couldn't shake it.

The pulse under your skin hadn't stopped. It was quieter—yes—but still there. Steady. Like a second heartbeat only you could feel. It thrummed through your fingers, up your arms, settling into your chest like it belonged.

Like it had always been there.

Your skin felt tight over your bones. Your breathing shallow.

It was getting harder to tell where you ended... and it began.

Tails sat beside you—still close, but relaxed now—like he was trying to set the tone. To tell you it was okay to just... be.

But his eyes, sharp and observant as always, kept flicking to you. Watching.

You were too still.

Your fingers rested loosely on your lap, but every so often, you would press them into the fabric of your pants—just enough to feel it, to remind yourself that you were here. Real. Solid.

Tails saw it. He didn't say anything. But you knew he saw.

The air between you grew heavier.

The more you tried to hold it in—the more you told yourself this was fine—the tighter your chest became.

And then, like a crack splitting through glass—

It slipped out.

"I think this body isn't mine."

The words hung there—fragile and raw.

You hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. You hadn't meant to say it at all.

Your mouth closed immediately—like you could shove them back in.

But it was too late.

Tails froze.

For a moment, neither of you breathed.

His blue eyes flicked up—wide, startled—not because he was afraid, but because he hadn't expected that. His ears twitched forward, his whole body tensing like he was afraid moving might shatter you.

"What?" His voice was so quiet you almost missed it.

You swallowed. Hard.

The pressure in your chest tightened further, and suddenly, the room was too small. The walls felt closer. The lights too harsh.

You curled your fingers tighter into the fabric of your pants, trying to steady your breathing.

"I—I don't know." Your voice cracked. "I just..."

You gestured weakly at yourself—your arms, your chest, your everything.

"It doesn't feel... right. Like this... isn't me."

The confession sat between you both—open, vulnerable. It was out there now. You couldn't take it back.

Tails leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving you.

He didn't look panicked.

He looked... careful. Like he was handling something delicate.

"You mean... the gradient?" he asked gently.

You shook your head quickly.

"No. Not just that." You looked down at your hands—at the familiar black fading into your skin. It was a part of you now. It always had been. You had accepted that.

But this... this was different.

"It's like... I'm wearing this body. Like it's something I put on. But underneath..." You trailed off, voice cracking. Your hand lifted slightly, hovering over your chest. "There's something else. Something... older. And it's waking up."

Your heart was racing. You could feel it hammering beneath your ribs, but it wasn't the only rhythm. That other pulse—the deeper one—was there, too.

The pulse that didn't belong.

Tails' eyes darkened—not with fear, but with understanding.

He had always suspected something was different about you. From the moment he found you, from the first time he scanned you and saw the energy in your veins, he had known you were... more.

But this?

This was something else.

"You feel like you're changing," he said softly, not as a question, but as a realization.

You nodded, breath shaky.

"Yeah."

Another pause.

Tails rubbed the back of his neck, his tails flicking anxiously behind him. You could see the gears turning in his head—he was piecing together everything he knew, everything he had observed.

But more than that—he was worried about you.

And that meant more than anything.

"You're still you," he said again, repeating his words from before—but this time, they trembled slightly. Like he was reassuring himself as much as you.

You wanted to believe him.

You really did.

But the words lodged in your throat.

Because what if you weren't?

What if this was just the beginning of losing yourself?

Your chest tightened again—this time with something sharper. Fear.

Tails saw it. He leaned closer, his hand resting lightly on your knee—gentle pressure, steady and warm.

"You're here," he whispered. "With me. You're not alone in this."

His voice cracked on the last word, and you realized—he was scared too.

Not because you were different.

But because he didn't want to lose you.

The breath you had been holding finally escaped—a shaky exhale. You nodded quickly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"I'm scared," you admitted—barely a whisper.

Tails squeezed your knee lightly. "I know."

Another beat passed.

Then—

Footsteps.

Neither of you had noticed the faint rustling from the door—until Sonic's silhouette filled the entrance to the garage.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, but his posture was loose—casual, but not dismissive. He had heard the tail end of your words, and though he didn't say it, his eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

"You guys okay?" His voice was gentler than usual.

You wiped at your eyes quickly, trying to compose yourself. "Yeah. We're... we're okay."

Tails glanced back at Sonic, his ears twitching slightly. There was a silent conversation there—one only brothers could have.

Sonic got the message.

He stepped inside fully, his tone deliberately light. "Well, you're lucky I'm here. I'm great at distracting people from their problems."

It was an attempt at a joke. It wasn't his best. But it worked.

You snorted, despite yourself.

Tails rolled his eyes. "You mean 'causing' problems, right?"

Sonic grinned. "Same thing."

The tension in the room shifted—still present, but no longer suffocating.

You weren't fixed. You weren't okay.

But you were together.

It was the warmth of his hand that did it.

The gentle pressure of Tails' hand still resting on your knee, the careful way his thumb brushed over the fabric of your pants—it was such a simple gesture. Reassuring. Steady.

But it sparked something.

A crack in the dam.

A warmth—different from his touch—stirred at the base of your spine, spreading like sunlight through your chest. It was faint, fleeting, but it carried something with it.

A voice—no, not a voice. A feeling.

Laughter, light like wind chimes in a summer breeze. A presence wrapping around you—limbs that were not limbs, soft but shifting, always moving like shadows under water.

A warmth that felt like home.

You gasped sharply.

The room tilted.

Tails' ears perked, his hand pressing slightly firmer against your knee. "Y/N?"

You blinked, but the garage was wrong. You were seeing it, but behind it—through it—you saw something else.

Green. Vibrant. Alive.

A forest of trees taller than anything you'd ever known. Branches spiraling into the sky, their leaves glowing faintly with soft energy. The ground beneath your feet was warm, like the earth itself was breathing.

And hands—no, shapes—curling around you, pulling you close.

You couldn't see their faces. They didn't have faces. They were dark silhouettes shifting between forms—humanoid one second, fluid the next—but their presence was unmistakable.

Safe.

Loved.

"Y/N?..." Tails' voice came from far away.

Your fingers twitched, clutching at your knee, as the vision flickered. You tried to hold onto it, but it was slipping—like sand through your fingers. You saw more—fragments—rushing past you like a river.

Your parents.

The way they wrapped around you at night, their voices weaving stories into your ears—stories older than the stars. They spoke of the Birthing Gem—the origin of your people, the Terestians. A gem that was not just power, but life itself. A piece of the world's soul.

You had seen it once.

It was green—pure, radiant—pulsing with creation. It was warmth. It was home.

A quiet, creeping thought.

A truth you had always known but never wanted to face.

And then—

Then it drowned you.

You were never supposed to exist.

Your parents had broken a sacred law. The law. The unspoken, unmoving rule carved into the fabric of the world itself—

Terestians do not create more of their own.

And yet, your parents did. They had shaped you from the ether, from shadows and energy and something that was never meant to take form. They had defied the will of the Master Emerald itself. And for that, they were erased.

The Emerald had seen what they did. And it had let them die.

Your breath hitched.

It all made sense now. Why the Emerald was cold to you. Why it never responded, why it recoiled at your presence like you were something unnatural, something wrong.

It remembered.

It remembered them.

And it hated you for it...
But then—screaming.

Water crashing against stone.

Figures of liquid and rage—the Ancients, their forms sleek and imposing, their voices like waves breaking against cliffs. They came into your home, into the forest. You remembered hiding—small, trembling under a bush, watching as your parents shifted into defensive forms.

You had never seen them like that before—sharpened, solidifying into shapes built for protection. You didn't even know they could.

But it wasn't enough.

The Ancients tore them apart.

Piece by piece.

Their forms dissolved into shadow and light—snuffed out—fading into nothing.

You had felt it.

Felt them die.

One by one.

Their presence—gone from the world. That warmth, ripped away.

Until only you remained.

And you ran—no, you sealed yourself away. You felt your own body turn into mist and crystal, locking yourself inside a void of nothingness.

Because you were never supposed to exist.

You had been their mistake.

Their miracle.

Their curse.

Your chest heaved, and suddenly, the garage snapped back into focus.

Your breath was ragged, your fingers digging into your leg so hard your knuckles ached. Tails was in front of you, his hand now on your arm, his face a mix of fear and concern. (You didn't dream of this. It was the truth.)

You were never supposed to be born.

The thought echoed through you like a cruel mantra, each repetition sinking deeper, carving into your bones like it wanted to hollow you out from the inside.

It worked.

You choked on a sob, curling in on yourself as your entire body shook. The black gradient along your arms pulsed wildly, twisting, shifting, reacting to your distress in ways you couldn't even comprehend. It felt like your own form was unravelling, slipping apart at the seams.

A weak, broken noise escaped your throat. You barely registered the sound of movement before—

"Y/N. Hey. Talk to me."

Your vision blurred with tears.

You tried to speak, but your throat closed. You felt like you were choking on every memory—every feeling—you had locked away for eons.

They were gone.

All of them.

And you had forgotten.

But now—you remembered.

You remembered everything.

"I... I remember..." Your voice was barely audible.

Tails leaned in closer, his breath catching. "What do you mean? What do you remember?"

You looked up at him through watery eyes. Your chest felt like it was caving in.

"My parents... My people... The Terestians..." Your voice trembled. "They're gone. They—they were killed. Because of me."

Tails blinked. Sonic, who had stayed a few steps back, straightened—his usual casual stance replaced with something more serious.

"What?" Tails asked, his voice soft, cautious.

You shook your head quickly, the words tumbling out now—like if you didn't say them fast enough, they would escape again.

"I wasn't supposed to be born," you whispered. "They broke the rule. The Emerald—it only allowed life under its will. But my parents... they made me in secret. I was... forbidden. And the Ancients—they came. They found us. And they..."

You couldn't finish.

Tails' hand tightened around your arm—firm but gentle.

"You don't have to say it."

You were shaking now. Your vision blurred with tears, and the weight of it all came crashing down—centuries of grief you didn't even know you carried. It ripped through you, raw and unforgiving.

"I hid," you choked out. "I didn't help them. I—I was too scared."

The guilt twisted inside you like a knife. It had been buried for so long, but now it was fresh—like it had just happened.

Tails had moved without hesitation—without asking—without needing permission. He simply held you.

His chest pressed against yours, his small frame surprisingly steady, his heart beating just loud enough for you to hear it. Slow. Rhythmic. Real.

His fur was softer than you remembered—thicker around his neck and shoulders, brushed down neatly but still carrying the faint scent of machine oil, fresh laundry, and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. It clung to him in a way that was uniquely Tails.

Comforting. Safe.

You felt his hands settle—one on your back, the other curling lightly against your upper arm. They didn't grip. They rested. Offering support without pressure. Holding you together without caging you in.

His twin tails shifted around your legs—not wrapping tightly, but draping over your ankles, brushing against your calves in slow, gentle sways. Instinctive. Protective.

A shield.

A den.

A home.

Your arms hung limply at first—fingers twitching, unsure—until the warmth began to seep into your chest. Little by little, the tension in your body unwound, like a rope loosening from around your ribs.

Your hands found his sides—hesitant—then gripped, clutching at the fabric of his work vest as though you might fall if you let go.

And maybe you would.

You pressed your forehead into the crook of his neck, feeling the slight tickle of his fur against your skin. Your breathing was uneven, but his was steady—each inhale drawing you further away from the suffocating pressure of your memories and back into this room.

Back into now.

Your shoulders trembled—not violently, but in soft, involuntary spasms. The kind that came when you had been holding in the tears for too long.

Tails didn't speak.

Tails didn't hesitate, didn't waver. He held you. Like you were something precious, something worth saving, something worth existing. His grip was strong, grounding you as you trembled violently against him. He adjusted his grip slightly—his thumb brushing along your shoulder blade in slow, absent circles, while his other hand shifted up to cradle the back of your head. The touch was delicate, almost reverent—like he understood how close you were to breaking and was trying to let you know he'd catch you if you did.

His tails swayed slower—one brushing over your foot, the other curling loosely beside your knee.

Anchoring you.

Grounding you.

You could feel your heart slowing—matching his. Your breaths gradually synced—each exhale less frantic than the last.

The weight on your chest didn't disappear.

But it became bearable. Because he was sharing it with you. Because he was here.

Sonic had gone still.

He was there—just a few steps away—but he didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He didn't crack a joke.

He understood.

This wasn't the kind of pain you fixed with speed or laughter.

This was the kind you survived together.

You didn't know how long you stayed like that—minutes, maybe more—but time didn't matter.

What mattered was the warmth.

The steady pressure of Tails' arms.

The quiet rhythm of his breathing.

The knowledge that you were no longer hiding under a bush, alone in the dark, while your family was torn apart.

You were here.

Alive.

And someone had you.

Your grip on Tails' vest loosened slightly—just enough to show you could breathe again—but you didn't pull away.

Tails said nothing. He didn't try to tell you it was okay, didn't lie to you. He just held you tighter, fingers gripping your back as if he was afraid, you'd slip through his arms like mist.

A second hand.

Sonic's.

It wasn't a hug, but it was there. A quiet, simple presence—a hand resting gently on your back, the warmth of it bleeding through your clothes. He didn't know what to say. Maybe there wasn't anything to say.

But he stayed.

You weren't alone.

The sobs wracked your body for what felt like forever. Until your lungs burned. Until your throat felt ruined. Until the weight of everything settled into something dull, something that would never truly fade, but at least let you breathe.

You sniffed; your face still pressed into Tails' shoulder. His fur was soft—too soft, the kind that absorbed every tear you shed like it was pulling the sorrow from you, soaking it away so you wouldn't have to carry it all by yourself.

Sonic gave your back a small, awkward pat. "...We're still here, y'know." His voice was quiet. Careful.

You nodded. A small motion. Almost imperceptible.

Tails finally pulled back enough to look at you, his expression raw with concern. His hands were still on your shoulders, his fingers gripping the fabric of your clothes like he still wasn't sure you wouldn't disappear.

You sniffled again, rubbing at your swollen eyes. The world still felt too heavy. But you weren't alone. Not anymore.

The silence that followed your breakdown felt like a fragile thing—thin, delicate, waiting to shatter.

You had cried into Tails' fur until your body stopped shaking. He had let you, without hesitation, without judgment. Sonic had stayed close, not speaking much, but his presence was solid. Grounding.

But now the moment was over.

And something else sat in the space where your grief had been.

A question.

A pulsing, gnawing demand. Why?

You needed answers.

You slowly uncurled yourself from the chair, letting go of Tails. His fur had been warm, soft—comforting—but that warmth couldn't hold back the cold realization that settled deep in your bones.

The Master Emerald knew everything.

And you weren't going to let it ignore you anymore.

Tails felt the shift in your posture before you even moved. His ears twitched slightly as he pulled back just enough to study you.

"Y/N..." his voice was gentle, cautious, but there was understanding in it.

You swallowed, your throat raw, and gave a small nod.

You didn't have to say anything. He knew.

Tails exhaled softly. He glanced toward Sonic, who was now lounging in the hammock above, his arms folded behind his head. At first glance, he looked relaxed, unbothered.

But his ears flicked at the movement. He had been listening. (Seems like he moved up there after making sure you were fine. Giving you space. How kind.)

The blue hedgehog tilted his head, blinking down at you lazily. "Sooo, we doing this now?"

Another nod.

Sonic grinned. "Figured. No way you were gonna let this slide."

He stretched, rolled off the hammock, and landed in an easy crouch. "Welp. Guess we're heading to Angel Island, huh?"

Tails hesitated. His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab your wrist before you could move—before you could get lost in your own thoughts again.

"Are you sure?" he asked, voice softer now. "You just—"

His words died when he saw your face.

The exhaustion was still there, the emotional weight of everything hadn't faded—but underneath it, something else burned. A quiet, unshaken resolve.

Tails sighed, running a hand through his bangs. "...Alright. Then let's go."

°°°·.°·..·°¯°·._.··._.·°¯°·.·°·.·°°°

The flight to Angel Island was quieter than expected.

Tails piloted the Tornado while Sonic stood on the wing, arms crossed, gazing at the horizon. You sat behind Tails, strapped in, eyes fixed on the sky. (Sitting in plane felt nice.)

The rhythmic hum of the engine filled the silence. The wind rushed past, cool against your skin.

Tails would glance back at you every so often, as if checking to make sure you hadn't changed your mind.

You hadn't. You were amazed at flying. First time.

Sonic tapped a foot against the wing, his voice finally breaking the silence. "Y'know, I always wondered how that thing floats." He nodded toward the island as it came into view. "It just chills up here all on its own, huh?"

Tails gave a small shrug. "The Master Emerald keeps it stable."

Sonic snorted. "Pfft. I thought you were gonna hit me with some super-science explanation. 'Oh Sonic, the gravitational pull of the Emerald interacts with the—'"

Tails rolled his eyes. "Do you want me to explain it?"

"Nah, I'm good."

You barely heard them.

As Angel Island grew larger in the distance, a strange tension pulled at your chest.

You had been here before. You had walked these ruins, felt the weight of the past pressing down on you. But now—now you were going to face it.

The truth.

The Tornado began its descent. You gripped the seatbelt tighter.

Tails glanced back again. "Y/N, you okay?"

You nodded.

It wasn't a lie.

But it wasn't the whole truth either.

The Tornado touched down on the outskirts of the Emerald Altar, near the waterfalls. The moment you unbuckled and slid off the plane, you felt it. The weight.

Angel Island always felt heavy, like the air carried the weight of centuries. The ruins stood like silent witnesses, ancient carvings eroded by time, stories left unread.

It was the same as before. But you were different.

You took a step forward, feeling the dirt beneath your shoes. The island was quiet except for the sound of falling water, the distant rustling of leaves.

And then—

Knuckles.

The red echidna stood at the base of the altar steps, arms crossed, watching you carefully. His expression was unreadable, but his stance? Wary.

You stopped.

Tails and Sonic landed beside you, Sonic brushing some dust off his quills. "Yo, Knucklehead. You look thrilled to see us."

Knuckles ignored him, his sharp crimson eyes locked onto you.

Your arms twitched, instinctively pulling the sleeves of your shirt down over your wrists. (You put that on in-between the chapters, dont worry! <3)

He noticed.

His gaze flickered briefly to Tails and Sonic before landing on you again.

"...Why are you here?"

A beat of silence.

Sonic sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Man, do we have to do this every time? Just let us up there."

Knuckles didn't move. His expression hardened. "You're bringing them near the Emerald again?"

Sonic huffed. "Yeah. Problem?"

Knuckles' jaw tensed.

He was hesitating.

Something in his stance told you he wasn't sure if he should let you near it.

Like he was torn.

Like something felt wrong.

The realization twisted in your gut.

Even he could tell.

Even if he didn't know why.

Tails, sensing the shift in tension, finally spoke up. "Knuckles... Y/N just wants answers. That's it."

Knuckles studied you for another long moment.

Then, finally—

He stepped aside. He didn't say a word. He just let you pass. You swallowed.

Then, without hesitation, you climbed the steps.

Dead set on the Emerald.

It was time for the truth.

Before you could even reach out, your knees buckled.

The weight of something vast and immeasurable crashed over you like a tidal wave, pressing into your mind, into your body, into your soul. The force was unlike anything you had ever felt before—ancient, raw, and seething with exhaustion so deep it felt woven into the fabric of existence itself.

The world tilted. Your hands hit the stone floor of the altar, but it felt distant. Everything felt distant. The sky, the ruins, the others—they faded like the edges of a dream, leaving only the looming presence of the Master Emerald in your vision.

A shiver crawled up your spine, your muscles locking into place as if your very existence had become heavy.

The Master Emerald hummed.

Not in a calm, rhythmic way. Not like it did when Knuckles stood before it, treating it like the heart of his people. No, this was off. A deep, almost pained vibration that rattled through your skull and set your teeth on edge.

Your vision blurred.

The weight pressing into your chest grew unbearable, something curling inside your ribs, behind your heart, through your bones. The moment you hit the ground, the world fractured.

Not in a way you could see—not like shattered glass or cracked stone—but in a way you could feel.

Reality itself stretched.

And suddenly—

You were somewhere else.

A space that should not exist.

It was empty.

Yet it was not.

The air was thick with something old, something that did not belong to this world or the next. It hummed, vibrated, pulsed. Like the bones of the universe itself had been carved into the walls of this place.

The colors were not colors. The light was not light.

And then—

Something moved.

A presence stirred.

It did not step forward because it did not have to. It was already everywhere.

And then it spoke.

A voice that did not come from any direction, but rather all directions.

A voice that rumbled through your chest like a dying star collapsing into itself.

"...You."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You again."

The air shuddered around you, something vast and ancient and furious shifting within this void of endless nothingness.

"I had hoped I would never have to see you again."

A figure formed in front of you, flickering between shapes. Something humanoid. Something monstrous. Something divine.

Yet its eyes—burning with a color you could not describe—never changed.

The weight in the air grew unbearable.

And then, the Master Emerald's spirit sighed.

"...Do you even understand what you are?"

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry.

Your voice barely found itself.

"I—"

"You are a wound."

The words hit like a hammer.

"A tear in the fabric of what was supposed to be."

The spirit stepped forward, form shifting, distorting, its movements so fluid it was unnatural.

"You are a scar left on something that should have healed long ago. And yet, here you stand—"

The void shook. The power radiating from the Emerald itself curled around you, pressing into your very being like it had every right to snuff you out.The words twisted through the air, old and bitter, so full of history they barely belonged in the present.

"A ghost. A remnant. A walking reminder of an awful past." The words struck like thunder.

The presence before you twisted, shifting into something more solid—something human-like, but barely. Its form flickered, made of light, shadows, and something older than both.

And then, it spoke again.

"A mark on the skin of time. A reminder of everything I have lost, everything I have failed to protect. And you walk, while I have been USED and BROKEN."

The air rippled with its frustration. The space around you darkened, warped, pulsing like a living thing.

"I watched them take from me. I watched them drain me. I was shattered, reassembled, carried, stolen, wielded by hands that knew nothing of what they were holding. I was meant to shape this world, but instead, I was chained to it."

The voice swelled into something ragged, something weary and frayed at the edges. Something cracked beneath you.

"I couldn't protect my siblings. I couldn't protect the Terestians, any of them. And now, I am a god stuck in a stone, a prisoner of my own existence, watching as the world moves on without me."

You shuddered.

The rage in its voice wasn't the anger of someone seeking vengeance. It was the resentment of something used, something drained, something left behind.

It didn't hate you.

It resented you.

The ground shook.

The air trembled like it would collapse in on itself.

"And now I am a GOD trapped inside this cursed vessel. Forced to be used by those who seek power, forced to be worshiped by those who do not understand, forced to watch EVERYTHING I LOVED TURN TO DUST."

The sheer grief in its voice crushed you.

This wasn't just rage.

This was the agony of something ancient. A being who had watched empires rise and fall, who had felt the echoes of every life that had ever touched its surface. And now, all it had left was regret.

Your mouth opened—but no words came out.

What could you say?

How could you possibly respond to something so immortal and broken?

The presence flickered, voice quieter, but somehow more dangerous.

"And yet... YOU stand before me."

Its form stabilized, becoming something more solid, yet still shifting at the edges. It stepped forward, looming over you, eyes burning like dying stars.

"I am eternal."

"I have seen time itself shift and bend."

"I have been worshiped. I have been feared. I have been shattered and rebuilt more times than I can count."

"But you?"

"You should not exist."

Your breath caught in your throat.

The space around you shuddered.

"You are a reminder of something I wish I could forget."

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper.

"H—How do you know all of this?"

The spirit's form darkened.

Then, it tilted its head.

"...Did you not hear me?"

It laughed.

Not a joyous laugh.

A hollow, bitter laugh.

"I am a GOD."

The word echoed, pulsing through you.

"Or at least, what your kind considers a god. I do not 'learn' like you. I do not 'remember' like you. I simply...know."

Its body flickered, like static in a broken signal.

"I have experienced more than you could ever comprehend. And do you know what I have learned?"

A pause.

Then—

"It does not matter."

The weight of those words hit harder than anything before.

It does not matter.

None of it.

Not the past. Not the suffering.

Not even you.

"I can reshape the world if I desire."

Its voice was softer now, but still filled with something ancient and weary.

"I could mend the cracks in the earth. Heal all that is broken."

"Or I could end it."

The ground beneath you trembled.

"And yet, I do nothing."

It paused.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

"...Because I do not care anymore."

A long, unbearable silence stretched between you.

The spirit sighed again, this time sounding truly exhausted.

The Emerald's glow flickered erratically, like something frustrated beyond words.

"You sat dormant while I was broken. You collected energy while I was drained. You persisted while I was shattered! And you stand before me, whole, while I am nothing but a whisper of what I once was."

You winced. "I never asked for this."

The Emerald's voice dipped into something quiet, something almost dangerous in its stillness.

"Neither did I."

The silence stretched.

Something ached in your chest.

You looked down at your hands, the dark gradient reaching up your arms. You thought about your parents. Your siblings. The life you should have had.

Then you looked at the Master Emerald. The prison. The thing that had created your kind and then been forced to watch them fade away.

And for the first time, you understood.

You took a deep breath, forcing the words out. "What do you want me to do?"

The Emerald pulsed.

Then, after a long, dragging moment, it sighed.

Not a sound, but a sensation—a feeling of something old, something weary, something that had given up long before this conversation ever happened.

"Find your soul pieces."

The words were tired.

"Leave me."

You hesitated.

The Emerald's glow dimmed, its presence curling away, retreating from the edges of your mind.

"I don't need the memories."

The finality in its voice crushed any other words you might have had.

Slowly, your limbs trembling, you pulled yourself to your feet.

Your throat was tight. Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

"I'm sorry."

The Emerald didn't answer.

You turned. And you walked away. Awaking in the real world.

Each step away from the Master Emerald felt heavier than the last.

The pressure in the air had lessened, but its presence still clung to you, lingering like the weight of an ancient stare boring into your back. The ruins were silent, but the echoes of its voice still rang in your mind, reverberating through your very core.

"Find your soul pieces. Leave me. I don't need the memories."

The words sat in your chest, uncomfortable, pressing against your ribs like something that didn't fit.

Your limbs trembled as you descended the altar's stone steps, your legs unsteady beneath you. The Master Emerald's overwhelming presence had kept you grounded before, even if it had crushed you beneath its weight. But now, with nothing anchoring you, the world felt too wide. Too open.

Tails and Sonic stood at the base of the ruins, waiting.

Knuckles, standing just a few feet away from them, was watching you carefully, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in deep thought. You could feel his gaze on you, sharp and unwavering, but he didn't speak.

Neither did you.

Instead, you simply stared at your hands.

The dark gradient that had crawled up your arms—your shoulders, your neck—was gone.

Or rather, it had snapped back.

What had once stretched up to your collarbone had receded to your wrists again, as if something had pulled it back, sealing away whatever had begun to emerge.

You flexed your fingers. Your skin still felt the same. Your hands still looked the same. But deep down, you knew something had changed. Something had shifted.

"...Y/N?"

Tails' voice was gentle, uncertain. He had taken a hesitant step forward, his tails flicking in agitation. His eyes flickered across your face, scanning, assessing, reading every micro-expression you couldn't hide from him.

Sonic, standing beside him, had his hands on his hips, his quills still slightly singed from whatever he'd been fighting earlier. He wasn't saying anything, but the way his ears were perked forward told you he was listening.

Knuckles, though—Knuckles was unreadable.

He was still standing near the Master Emerald's altar, his back half-turned toward you, but his gaze was trained on the very place you had collapsed minutes ago. His fingers twitched slightly, clenching and unclenching at his sides.

You couldn't tell if he was deep in thought or just struggling to process everything. Maybe both.

You took a breath.

Then, finally, you spoke.

"...It doesn't want me here."

The words left your mouth quieter than you expected, but they felt loud in the empty ruins.

Tails flinched. Sonic's ears twitched. Knuckles didn't move.

Your fingers curled into your palms. "It told me to leave. It doesn't want to see me again."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Tails opened his mouth—then shut it again. His expression was conflicted, his hands twitching slightly at his sides, like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.

Sonic, meanwhile, rubbed the back of his head, exhaling through his nose. "Well. That's... not what I was expecting."

You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Me neither."

Tails' ears flattened slightly. "Y/N, what exactly did it—"

"It's tired."

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your voice felt distant, like it didn't quite belong to you. "It's old. It's exhausted. It's spent centuries being used, being broken, being rebuilt, and it—" You swallowed, shaking your head. "It doesn't want to deal with me. It doesn't want to deal with my existence. It just... wants to be left alone."

Tails looked like he was struggling to accept that answer. His hands curled into fists, his lips pressing into a thin line. "But it made the Terestians. It—" He hesitated. "It made you."

You hesitated. "I don't think it meant to."

That made Sonic blink. Even Knuckles turned slightly at that.

You exhaled through your nose, rubbing a hand over your face. "It created the others, but me? I—I wasn't supposed to happen. I was an accident. I was never meant to exist. That's why it doesn't want me here."

Tails visibly tensed at your words. Sonic's casual posture stiffened.

Knuckles, however, snapped his attention to you fully.

His crimson eyes locked onto yours, something sharper flickering behind them. His brow furrowed deeper, the frown on his face shifting from thoughtful to something much more stubborn.

"You're wrong."

The bluntness of his words nearly made you flinch.

Knuckles took a step forward. "The Emerald doesn't make things by accident."

You stiffened. "Knuckles—"

"I don't know what it said to you," he continued, his voice low, firm, and unwavering. "I don't know how it sees you. But it doesn't just—just make mistakes. That's not how it works."

You clenched your jaw.

Knuckles crossed his arms. "You exist. That means something."

You weren't sure why, but his words hit harder than you expected.

Something twisted in your chest, something small, something you couldn't name. You weren't sure if it was comfort or frustration, but it lingered, curling beneath your ribs like something half-buried.

You swallowed, looking away. "...I don't know what to do now."

Tails exhaled softly, his ears lowering just slightly. "We'll figure it out."

Sonic clapped a hand on your shoulder, his usual cocky grin softer than normal. "Yeah, don't sweat it. We've handled worse."

You weren't so sure about that.

But you nodded anyway.

The Master Emerald pulsed faintly behind you, but you didn't look back.

You weren't sure if you'd ever come back here again.

But for now—that was okay.

                             ༶•┈┈⛧┈♛

Chapter Text

"They were my stars and I almost forgot them.
I feel so blinded by knowledge. Yet they still shared the same warmth."

                                  ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Morning came too quickly.

The soft glow of daylight filtered through the curtains, casting pale golden streaks across the ceiling. You blinked groggily, your body still heavy with exhaustion, mind sluggish as it dragged itself toward wakefulness.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of machines in Tails' workshop. It was oddly comforting—familiar in a way that made it easier to ground yourself in the present.

Your limbs ached. Not in the sharp, agonizing way that came after battle, but a dull, lingering tiredness that settled deep into your bones. It felt like you'd been running for weeks, pushing yourself far past your limit, and now that you had finally stopped... your body was making you feel every bit of it.

You exhaled.

The weight in your chest hadn't disappeared overnight.

Your mind, despite the fog of sleep, was already spinning.

The Master Emerald. The Terestians. Your parents. Your existence.

It all swirled together in an overwhelming, suffocating mess that wouldn't settle.

And then, a much smaller, quieter thought crept in.

Vanilla. Cream.

You hadn't seen them in... Gods, how long had it been?

Not since the trip to the mall with Amy. Not since before Eggman took you.

Your fingers curled into the blanket, gripping the fabric as an uncomfortable weight settled in your chest. You had just vanished from them—just disappeared, just like that. And Cream... Cream had no idea.

The guilt gnawed at you.

They were your first family. The first ones to welcome you. The first ones to show you kindness, warmth—what normalcy could look like. And you had left them without a word.

You needed to see them.

You sat up.

The world tilted slightly, and you had to pause for a moment, steadying yourself. The exhaustion still clung to you, but it wasn't enough to stop you. You threw the blanket off, stretching your limbs, testing your balance.

Your fingers absentmindedly brushed over your arms—your wrists. The gradient was still there, but it hadn't spread again. Whatever had happened at the Master Emerald, whatever had caused your body to shift so violently before... it had stopped.

For now.

You pushed yourself to your feet.

Your clothes from yesterday were still on—wrinkled, stiff, and covered in dust from Angel Island's ruins. You needed something fresh, something clean.

You reached for the shopping bag Amy had given you back at the mall. It had been tucked away neatly in the corner of the room, untouched since that day. The folded fabric inside was soft against your fingers—clothes Amy had picked out, had insisted you have.

You pulled out one of the outfits—a comfortable, slightly oversized sweater in a soft color and a pair of fitted pants. Something about it still felt... foreign. Not in the way of discomfort, but more like wearing something that belonged to someone else.

You hesitated, then changed into them anyway.

The fabric smelled faintly of the store—clean, lightly perfumed, untouched by battle or dust. You tugged at the sleeves slightly, rolling them up once, then twice, until they sat just below your elbows.

Better.

When you stepped out into the hall, the house was... quiet.

The rhythmic clinking of tools echoed from the workshop—Tails was already up. Of course he was. He was always up early.

You hesitated.

You could go straight to Vanilla's. Just leave. You knew the way by heart.

But... Tails.

You shifted on your feet. He had been so worried. Even after everything yesterday, you hadn't really talked. Not about what happened. Not about the Master Emerald. Not about anything.

Maybe you owed him that.

With a quiet breath, you turned toward the workshop.

And stepped inside.

Tails didn't notice you at first.

He was hunched over his workbench, a screwdriver in one hand, his other hand adjusting a small mechanical part with absent-minded precision. His ears twitched slightly when you stepped closer, but he didn't look up right away—too focused, too lost in whatever problem he was solving.

Then, after a moment, he paused.

His sharp eyes flicked up from his work, locking onto you.

Assessing.

Your posture. Your expression. The way you fidgeted slightly, tugging at your sleeves.

He was worried.

Still.

"...Did you need something?" he asked, his voice careful, lighter than usual, but still tinged with that lingering concern.

You swallowed.

"I want to go to Vanilla's."

Tails didn't react right away. He just... watched you. His tails flicked behind him, slow and steady, his sharp mind already running through every possible reason why you'd want to go.

"...To see Cream?"

You nodded.

"To see both of them."

You could see the hesitation in him before he even spoke. He set the screwdriver down, leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest. "Are you sure you're up for that?"

You hesitated. Then, with a small, firm nod, you said, "Yes."

Tails exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his head. He didn't argue, didn't try to talk you out of it. But you could tell he was debating something, his mind working in that Tails-like way of weighing every risk, every outcome.

"...Fine," he said eventually, pushing himself up from his seat. "But I'm going with you."

Your brows furrowed slightly.

"I'll walk you there," he clarified, already anticipating your reaction. "Then I'm coming back here. You'll be safe with Vanilla."

You blinked. That was... fair.

Another small nod.

Tails seemed satisfied with that answer, and with a final glance at the half-finished project on his workbench, he brushed his hands off, stepping away from it entirely.

"You ready to go?"

Not yet.

You held up a finger, motioning for him to wait before turning on your heel and rushing back to your room.

Tails blinked after you, watching your sudden burst of energy before shaking his head slightly, a small, fond huff escaping him. At least you were excited about something.

The moment you stepped inside, you made a beeline for your bag.

It had been untouched since your trip to the mall, carefully set aside, but you had never forgotten.

Reaching inside, you dug through the neatly wrapped gifts Amy had helped you pick out—small things, but meaningful. The delicate handkerchief embroidered with soft floral patterns for Vanilla. The tiny charm bracelet you thought Cream would like. A few little trinkets and hair accessories, all things you had picked because you thought of them when you saw them.

You ran your fingers over the fabric, the smooth metal of the bracelet.

Warmth bloomed in your chest.

These were meant for them.

Meant for them before everything happened. Before Eggman. Before the Master Emerald. Before you remembered.

But they were still here. Still waiting. And you were going to give them properly this time.

You carefully gathered the gifts, securing them in your arms before heading back out into the hall where Tails was waiting.

When he saw you, his ears twitched.

"...You're really prepared for this, huh?"

You nodded, firmly this time.

His expression softened just a little.

"Well," he said, turning toward the door. "Let's get going, then."

The forest greeted you like an old friend.

The sun filtered through the canopy in soft, broken patterns—patches of gold dappled the dirt path beneath your feet. The air was crisp, the kind that carried the faint scent of damp earth and distant flowers. Leaves whispered overhead, rustling with the gentle breeze that wound its way through the branches.

You had walked this path before—so many times. With Vanilla. With Cream. Sometimes alone.

But today, it felt different.

Each step carried a weight you hadn't expected. Familiarity mixed with guilt, with hope, with something close to fear. Your heart was caught somewhere between longing and dread.

What if they were angry?
What if you had stayed away too long?
What if things weren't the same?

You gripped the bundle of gifts tighter against your chest.

Beside you, Tails walked quietly, his steps naturally falling in line with yours. Hands tucked loosely into his jacket pockets, his ears flicked occasionally, attuned to the forest around him—but you knew he was paying more attention to you than anything else.

He didn't need to ask how you were feeling.

He already knew.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a while—just the soft crunch of leaves and dirt underfoot, the distant trill of birds high above. Every so often, your arm would brush his when your strides fell a little closer together, but neither of you moved away.

It was grounding.

A reminder that you weren't doing this alone.

Halfway down the path, Tails finally spoke—his voice low, gentle, like he was careful not to break the peace.

"You know they missed you, right?"

Your steps faltered—just slightly—but you recovered quickly.

You didn't answer right away.

Because you did know. You had known from the moment you opened your eyes that morning, from the second their names crossed your mind. But knowing it didn't soften the ache in your chest.

It made it worse.

Because you had left.

Because they had been waiting.

Because Cream had probably been watching the road every day, wondering when you'd come back.

You exhaled through your nose. "I know."

Tails glanced at you, his eyes soft. "They'll be happy to see you."

You wanted to believe that.

But doubt had its claws in you.

"...I hope so."

He didn't press you. He just nodded, letting your words settle.

The trees parted slightly, and you caught a glimpse of the babbling stream—the one Cream loved to skip stones across. You remembered sitting with her there, the two of you collecting smooth, round rocks and seeing who could get the most skips.

She always won.

She'd cheer every time—eyes bright, laughter like wind chimes—and every time you lost, she'd offer you one of her "lucky stones" so you could try again.

You could almost hear her giggling now, like an echo from a life you had nearly let slip away.

Your chest tightened.

Tails noticed your gaze lingering on the stream.

"She's probably got a whole pile of lucky rocks by now," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You laughed—soft, breathless—but real.

"Yeah... probably."

It felt good. That small memory, that gentle teasing—it pulled you out of your head, if only for a moment.

Tails nudged your arm lightly with his elbow. "You should ask her for another one when we get there. Might need it after everything you've been through."

You smirked. "You think lucky rocks work on ancient god-energy problems?"

"Hey, I'm not ruling it out."

His grin was easy—like sunlight breaking through clouds—and you felt your shoulders relax just a little more.

Further along the path, the trees grew denser again. The shadows stretched longer across the dirt, but the forest felt... warm. Alive.

You could see the small wooden post ahead—the one Cream had painted little flowers on. It marked the halfway point between their house.

You remembered helping her paint it—kneeling beside her as she carefully brushed yellow petals onto the wood, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. She had gotten more paint on her fur than the post, but she had been so proud.

The thought made your throat tighten.

How had you gone this long without seeing them? (Months?)

Tails glanced sideways at you again, this time more subtly. You knew he was checking, making sure you weren't getting overwhelmed. He wouldn't say it out loud—not after everything yesterday—but his eyes said it all.

"I'm okay," you murmured preemptively.

He didn't argue.

But he stayed close.

As you approached the clearing that led to their cottage, your steps slowed—instinctively. Your pulse picked up, nerves tightening in your stomach.

This was it.

The little house was just ahead, tucked at the edge of the woods. You could see smoke rising faintly from the chimney. The garden out front was well-tended, as always—bright flowers lining the path, little wooden markers shaped like bunnies placed neatly in the soil.

The house hadn't changed.

But you had.

And you were terrified that they might see it.

Tails noticed your hesitation.

He didn't say anything.

He just... stayed.

His hand brushed lightly against your arm—not gripping, not leading—just a reminder.

You could do this.

And you weren't alone.

The door was just a few steps away now. You could hear faint voices inside—Vanilla's soft hum, Cream's light laughter. It made your throat tighten all over again.

You lifted your hand to knock—but paused.

Your fingers trembled—just a little.

Tails leaned in, his voice quiet, steady.

"You've got this."

You nodded—barely.

And knocked.

The sound was light, but it cut through the gentle hum of the forest.

There was a pause.

Then—footsteps.

The door creaked open.

And there she was.

Cream.

Her eyes went wide.

Her mouth parted slightly—surprise, disbelief—before it all melted into something else. Something bright. Something you hadn't realized you needed so badly.

Joy.

"Y/N!"

She launched forward before you could react—arms flinging around your lower waist, face buried in your chest. Her small body trembled with excitement, with relief, with everything she hadn't been able to say while you were gone.

Your arms wrapped around her instinctively.

And everything inside you—the guilt, the fear, the doubt—crumbled.

Because she had missed you.

Because you were still her family.

Because you had come home.

Cream's small arms wrapped tightly around your waist, her face pressed against you like she was afraid you might disappear again. Her little body trembled—not from sadness, but from relief so intense it almost overwhelmed her.

"You're here! You're really here!" Her voice was muffled against your sweater, breathless and high with joy.

You closed your eyes, resting your hand gently on the back of her head. Her ears twitched under your palm, soft like silk, and the weight of her hug settled into your chest—like puzzle pieces falling into place.

You were home.

You didn't realize how much you had needed this.

Tails stepped back slightly, giving you space. His hands were still tucked in his pockets, but his eyes lingered on you—watching your body ease under Cream's touch. The tightness in his shoulders relaxed.

This was good. You were safe here.

And he needed to see it.

A soft voice cut through the moment.

"Oh my... Y/N?"

Vanilla stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes were wide with surprise, but her smile—oh, her smile—was like sunlight breaking through the trees.

Warm. Patient.

Welcoming.

"Welcome home, dear."

The words unraveled something in you.

Home.

You swallowed, giving her a small nod—your throat too tight to speak.

Vanilla understood. She always had. She stepped aside, motioning you in with that gentle grace she carried in everything she did.

"Come inside. Both of you."

The house smelled like fresh bread and chamomile tea. Soft, homely—like nothing had ever changed.

The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around you, chasing away the forest chill clinging to your clothes. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the delicate lace curtains Vanilla had made by hand.

Everything was the same.

And that made the knot in your chest twist even tighter.

Because you almost forgot this.
You almost lost this.

Cream finally let go—though her hand lingered on your sleeve, as if making sure you wouldn't vanish again. She practically skipped beside you, her smile lighting up the whole room.

Tails lingered near the door, arms crossed lightly, observing—ever the quiet protector.

Vanilla turned to him with a knowing look. "Would you like to stay for tea, dear?"

Tails hesitated—only for a breath—but you saw the faint flicker in his eyes. He wanted to. But...

He glanced at you.

This was your time with them.

You gave him a small, grateful nod.

"...I should get back," he said finally, though his voice was softer than usual. "But... thanks."

Cream's ears drooped slightly. "Aww... but you just got here."

Tails smiled—genuine, but faint. He crouched to her level, giving her a light nudge on the cheek. "Next time, okay? I'll stay longer."

Her pout melted into a giggle. "Promise?"

"Promise."

He stood back up, turning to you. His eyes lingered just a little longer—checking, as always.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to.

Your hand brushed his arm—a silent 'I'm okay.'

His lips twitched into something between a smile and a sigh. "I'll see you later."

And just like that, he was gone—the door clicking softly behind him.

But you could still feel his presence, like an echo.

The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around you like a blanket. The smell of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of vanilla from something baking in the oven. The sunlight spilled lazily over the wooden table, catching the edges of the delicate lace cloth that Vanilla had draped over it.

You sat stiffly, your heart tapping out a quick, uneven rhythm as you placed the bundle of gifts on the table. Your fingers hovered over the wrapping, hesitant. You had thought about this moment so many times—but now that you were here, your chest tightened with doubt.

Would they like them?
Would they think you were trying too hard?
Would they see this for what it was—a quiet apology?

Cream leaned forward, eyes wide with excitement, her little hands pressed against the edge of the table like she might bounce right off her chair.

"You brought us presents?" Her voice was breathless with delight.

You nodded slowly, a small, nervous smile tugging at your lips. You didn't trust your voice yet.

Vanilla's expression was softer—gentle curiosity, but with that maternal understanding that made you feel seen. She could sense the weight behind this. This wasn't just about the gifts.

This was you saying:
I thought about you.
I missed you.
I'm sorry.
I love you.

You carefully unfolded the first package—the handkerchief meant for Vanilla. Pale fabric, embroidered with soft floral patterns—tiny blossoms trailing along the edges in gentle pinks and blues. It was delicate, refined—like her.

You slid it across the table toward her, your hands trembling just slightly.

Vanilla picked it up with both hands, her fingertips brushing over the embroidery with reverence. Her eyes traced the patterns, taking in every careful stitch. Her smile deepened—not wide, not loud—but warm. The kind of smile that filled a room.

"Oh, Y/N... this is beautiful."

Her voice was soft, but it carried weight—like she knew exactly what this meant to you.

She lifted her gaze to yours, her eyes full of something unspoken—acceptance, forgiveness, gratitude.

She understood. Without you having to say a word.

You nodded, a little too quickly, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.

Cream, however, was practically vibrating with excitement.

"Is there one for me?!"

You chuckled under your breath—finally finding your voice, though it was still quiet.

"Of course."

You reached for the second bundle, peeling back the wrapping to reveal the charm bracelet. The pastel beads were smooth and glossy, and the little silver star dangling from the center caught the sunlight perfectly, sending small reflections dancing across the table.

Cream gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

"It's so pretty!"

Her eyes sparkled as though you had handed her a piece of the sky. She didn't wait for permission—she held out her wrist eagerly, and you leaned forward, carefully fastening the bracelet around her tiny wrist. The beads clinked lightly together as she twisted her hand back and forth, admiring the way it caught the light.

"Look, Mama!" She lifted her wrist toward Vanilla, pride glowing in her chest. "It's perfect!"

Vanilla leaned over, touching her daughter's wrist lightly, her smile never wavering. "It suits you perfectly, sweetheart."

Cream turned back to you, her expression softening for a moment. "You... you thought of me?"

Your breath caught.

You nodded.

Her eyes shimmered—just briefly—before her grin returned. "I love it! Thank you, Y/N!"

Before you could react, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around your waist, hugging you tightly while still sitting on her chair. Her small body pressed against you like she was trying to become part of you. Her warmth—so innocent, so pure—melted the last bit of tension in your chest.

You placed your hand lightly on the back of her head, fingers brushing over her soft fur.

This is what you had missed.

This is what you had almost lost.

But you weren't done.

There were more.

With your free hand, you reached into the bag and brought out the little trinkets—the hair clips, the small bunny-shaped pins, the pastel ribbons. Things you had picked because they reminded you of her.

Cream gasped so loudly you thought she might fall over.

"Y/N! Y/N! These are adorable!"

She started sorting through them immediately—holding up the bunny clips to her ears to see how they'd look, twirling the ribbons between her fingers like they were made of gold.

You couldn't stop smiling.

Your chest felt... lighter.

Because every small gift you handed her wasn't just an object.
It was a memory you were giving back.
A bridge across the time you had been apart.

Vanilla watched you both quietly—her eyes soft, but keen. She saw how your shoulders had relaxed. She saw the way you touched Cream's head so gently, the way you smiled—not forced, not polite, but real.

She noticed the black gradient on your wrists when your sleeves shifted—but she said nothing. Not yet.

Instead, she leaned forward, placing her hand over yours on the table.

"Thank you, Y/N," she said quietly. "For thinking of us."

Her voice was low, but it struck something deep inside you.

Because she wasn't just thanking you for the gifts.
She was thanking you for coming back.
For choosing to stay part of this family.

You met her gaze, your lips parting as though you might say something—but the words didn't come.

So you just nodded.

And she understood.

She always did.

It started with a tug on your sleeve.

A gentle, persistent pull—small fingers clutching at the fabric of your sweater. You glanced down, meeting Cream's wide, hopeful eyes.

"Y/N... can we go outside? Just for a little while?"

Her voice was soft, but eager—like she was asking for the world and hoping you wouldn't say no.

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because the idea of playing, of being light-hearted after everything, felt... strange.

But her eyes—bright, trusting—melted away any resistance you might have had.

You nodded.

Her face lit up like the sun breaking through the trees.

Vanilla watched from her place at the table, hands wrapped around her teacup, her gaze warm with approval—but also understanding. She knew this was good for both of you.

The backyard was the same as you remembered—small but open, with a patch of soft grass that sloped gently into the forest. The trees at the edge swayed lazily in the breeze, their leaves rustling like faint laughter.

Cream skipped ahead, her charm bracelet jingling lightly on her wrist. She spun once, arms outstretched, before turning back to you.

She grinned.
You knew what she wanted.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion.

She giggled. "You know!"

You crossed your arms, pretending to think. "Hmm... I'm not sure what you mean."

Cream pouted—exaggerated, playful. "Y/N!"

You laughed—really laughed—before crouching down.

Her face brightened, and she rushed over.

You knelt, offering your back. Her small hands immediately found your shoulders, and she scrambled up with practiced ease. Her laughter bubbled as she settled onto your shoulders, her legs dangling on either side of your chest.

You stood slowly—careful, always careful.

Her weight was light—barely there—but her presence was so full, so vibrant, it felt like she filled the entire space around you.

Her hands gripped your head gently, fingers brushing against your ears.

"Higher!" she giggled.

You took off.

Your steps were steady at first—testing the ground—but then you let yourself move faster.

The cool wind brushed against your face, the grass soft beneath your feet. Cream squealed in delight as you picked up speed, her little legs kicking gently against your chest.

"Faster, faster!"

You jogged, then shifted into a light run—nothing like Sonic's speed, nothing like racing through battlefields—but fast enough to make her feel like she was flying.

She leaned forward; arms outstretched like wings.

"I'm touching the sky!"

Her laughter rang through the clearing—clear, uninhibited, the kind of laughter that shook something loose inside you. Something that had been trapped—buried under grief and uncertainty.

For a moment, you weren't thinking about the Master Emerald.
Or your parents.
Or the pulsing energy under your skin.

You were just here.

Running through the grass, with Cream on your shoulders, her laughter weaving into the wind.

You slowed after a few loops around the yard—panting lightly but smiling. Cream adjusted her grip, leaning down so her chin rested on top of your head.

"You're the best," she whispered.

Your chest tightened—not with pain, but with something warm. Something good.

You lifted your hands to support her legs, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"So are you."

She hugged your head in response, her little arms squeezing around your ears before she relaxed again.

You stood still for a while—letting her perch there like a tiny queen overlooking her kingdom.

You could feel her breathing slow, her excitement settling into contentment.

Vanilla had stepped onto the porch by now, watching with that same gentle smile—the one that made you feel safe. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

She knew you needed this.

Cream needed this.

And maybe—just maybe—so did she.

Eventually, Cream shifted.

"Okay... down," she murmured sleepily.

You crouched slowly, letting her slide off your back onto the grass. She stretched her arms over her head, ears flopping lazily, before flopping down onto the soft earth.

You sat beside her, legs crossed, hands resting loosely on your knees.

She held up her wrist, letting the bracelet catch the sunlight.

"It's my favorite now," she said softly. "I'll wear it all the time."

You smiled, but it was small—gentle.

"I'm glad."

She twisted her head to look up at you, her eyes studying your face.

"...You seem different."

The words were innocent—curious, not accusatory. But they hit harder than you expected.

Your heart skipped.

Vanilla's gaze flicked to you from the porch. She had heard.

You stiffened—only slightly—but forced your shoulders to stay relaxed. And you gently shook your head with a soft smile on your face.

The sun had started its slow descent beyond the trees, casting a golden glow across the cottage. The soft clink of dishes echoed through the kitchen, mixing with Cream's light humming as she danced around the room, her charm bracelet jingling with every skip.

Dinner was simple—but perfect.

Warm vegetable stew, fresh bread straight from the oven, and sweet honey-glazed carrots. The kind of food that made you feel full in your heart, not just your stomach.

You sat at the small wooden table, your knees tucked in carefully to avoid bumping it. Cream was beside you, swinging her legs under her chair, occasionally resting her elbow on your arm like you were part of the furniture.

You didn't mind.

Vanilla moved gracefully around the kitchen, setting down bowls with practiced ease. She didn't ask if you were hungry—she just knew. She had always known.

"Eat up, dear," she said softly, placing a bowl in front of you.

You didn't realize how hungry you were until the first spoonful touched your lips. The stew was rich, seasoned perfectly, each bite warming you from the inside out. It tasted like safety.

Cream chattered away between bites, her voice bright and full of life.

"Oh! Y/N, you have to see what I drew yesterday! Mama said it was my best one yet!"

You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

She gasped dramatically, clapping her hands. "I'll show you after dinner!"

Vanilla chuckled. "Don't overwhelm them, sweetheart."

Cream waved her hand dismissively, already planning which pictures to show you.

You smiled—small, but genuine.

Cream was the heart of the table—talking about everything and anything. Her latest adventures in the garden, how she and Cheese had made a "secret base" under the big oak tree, how she tried baking cookies but accidentally added salt instead of sugar.

"I thought Mama was going to cry," Cream whispered conspiratorially.

Vanilla laughed softly. "They were very... memorable cookies."

You chuckled into your stew, the mental image filling you with warmth.

"And Cheese spit his out so fast—" Cream dissolved into giggles.

You shook your head, amusement tugging at your lips. This was what you missed. The little stories. The laughter. The everyday chaos that made this house feel so alive.

Vanilla leaned over occasionally, refilling your bowl before you could even ask. Her hand would brush your arm lightly as she set the bread basket closer to you. It was so subtle, so natural, but each touch grounded you more deeply into this home.

"You need to eat more, dear. You've gotten too thin," she murmured once.

You didn't argue. You just ate.

When the plates were empty and Cream had declared herself "too full to move," you stood, gathering the dishes before Vanilla could protest.

She opened her mouth—but you gave her a look.

She smiled.

Together, you washed the plates—Vanilla scrubbing gently while you dried, the two of you moving in quiet synchronicity. The water was warm, the sound of Cream's humming drifting in from the other room.

"Thank you," Vanilla said softly, glancing up at you.

You nodded, giving her a small smile.

No words were needed.

The moment you stepped into the living room, Cream pounced.

"Okay, okay! Sit here—right here!"

She practically pushed you onto the couch, her tiny hands on your shoulders like she could actually move you. You let her. You always let her.

She darted to a small wooden box filled with papers and crayons, pulling out sheet after sheet of drawings. Some were rough and wobbly—stick figures of her and Cheese playing in the garden. Others were more detailed—flowers, trees, the little stream nearby.

But there was one that made you pause.

It was you.

Drawn with careful lines—bigger than everyone else, with soft eyes and a gentle smile. Cream had added the black gradient to your arms, carefully shaded with her crayon set.

You blinked.

"I drew that one when I missed you," she said quietly, sitting beside you, leaning into your side.

Your chest tightened—but not with sadness.

With love.

You ruffled her ears gently, making her giggle.

"I like it," you said softly.

Cream beamed. "Really?! I was gonna give it to you, but I wanted to draw more first—"

You held out your hand.

She blinked. "You want it?"

You nodded.

Her smile stretched from ear to ear. She placed the drawing carefully in your hand, like it was the most precious thing in the world.

And to you—it was. You were going to collect more later so you can decorate your room in tail's home.

The evening softened into quiet comfort.

Cream nestled against your side, her small body warm and relaxed. Her eyes fluttered closed as she played idly with her bracelet, her breathing slowing. Her ears twitched occasionally, brushing against your arm.

Vanilla sat across from you, knitting something soft and pastel-coloured. Every so often, she would glance up—smiling when she saw Cream tucked safely into your side.

You shifted, adjusting your arm so Cream could rest her head against your chest properly. She sighed happily, curling into you like a kitten.

Your heart felt... full.

This was where you belonged.

Before bed, Vanilla pressed a warm cup of tea into your hands.

"It'll help you sleep," she murmured.

You took it, sipping slowly. Chamomile—soothing, sweet. Her way of taking care of you.

"Your room is ready whenever you are," she added.

You glanced toward the guest room—the one that had always been yours. The blankets would be freshly washed. The window slightly cracked to let in the forest air.

Because she knew you liked it that way.

You nodded, giving her another small smile.

She reached out—resting her hand lightly on yours.

"We're glad you're home, Y/N."

Your chest swelled—too many emotions to name.

But you settled on one. Content.

The bed was soft—familiar.

The sounds of the forest drifted in through the window. You could hear Cream's faint snores from the other room. Vanilla's light footsteps as she tidied up, even though everything was already perfect.

You closed your eyes. Safe. Loved. Home. Seems like Tails let you stay the night.

The bed was soft. The kind of soft that made you sink in just enough to feel cradled. The familiar weight of the quilt—hand-stitched by Vanilla years ago—pressed gently over you. The faint smell of lavender lingered on the pillowcase, a subtle trace of Vanilla's careful touch.

The house was quiet now.

Cream's soft snores filtered through the thin walls—rhythmic, gentle. Comforting. The occasional creak of floorboards marked Vanilla's final rounds—checking doors, tidying corners, ensuring everything was just so before resting herself. And outside...

The forest whispered. Crickets hummed in the cool air. Leaves rustled softly with the breeze.

Safe sounds.

Sounds you knew.

You turned onto your side, fingers brushing against the fabric of the quilt. Your body ached—not from exhaustion, but from the kind of contented tiredness that followed a day well spent.

Your mind drifted—not to worries, not to the past—but to warmth.

Cream's laughter. Vanilla's gentle smile. Your eyes fluttered closed. For the first time in what felt like forever...

You slept deeply. Dreamlessly. Peacefully.

                            ︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶

The warmth came first.

Before your eyes even opened, you felt it—soft, gentle sunlight spilling over your face, threading through the curtains in delicate streaks. It kissed your skin, warming the cool spots left by the night air.

You stirred slowly, half-buried under the quilt Vanilla had prepared for you—thick and hand-stitched, the faintest scent of lavender clinging to its fibers. You turned your face into the pillow, breathing in the familiar softness, the kind of scent that whispered, You are safe.

For a moment, you stayed like that.

Eyes closed.
Breathing steady.
Letting yourself exist in the quiet comfort of a home that was not yours by blood, but by choice.

And then—

Voices.

Distant, but warm.

Cream's bright laughter, high and full of life—like wind chimes on a breezy day. You could hear her words in quick bursts, though you couldn't catch them all.

Vanilla's voice followed—lower, calmer. The kind of tone that could soothe a storm, gentle but sure. She wasn't rushing; she never did. Every word she spoke sounded like it had been carefully selected, meant to ease and nurture.

The clinking of dishes—soft, rhythmic—accompanied the rise and fall of their voices.

Then—the smell.

Warmth.
Fresh bread baking.
Butter melting.
Honey, sweet and rich, lingering faintly in the air.
A hint of tea—floral and comforting.

Your stomach rumbled softly, but it was more than hunger. It was longing.

This was what home was supposed to feel like.

You blinked open your eyes slowly. Sunlight stretched across the wooden floor in ribbons, dust particles drifting lazily through it. The room was simple, familiar—the guest room Vanilla had offered you so many times before. The window was cracked slightly, letting in the cool forest air, mixed with the faint scent of damp leaves.

Everything was exactly as you remembered.

Because this place had waited for you.

You sat up slowly, letting the quilt pool around your waist. Your joints creaked faintly, but it was a good kind of ache—the kind that reminded you you were here, breathing, present.

Your feet found the wooden floor, cool against your skin. The house creaked faintly beneath your weight as you stood—a sound you had come to love, because it meant this house was alive.

You dressed without thought—pulling on your sweater from yesterday, rolling the sleeves just below your elbows. The gradient on your wrists peeked through, but here, it didn't feel like something you needed to hide.

You ran a hand through your hair, not bothering to fix it much. This home never demanded perfection.

You stepped into the hall, the sounds growing clearer—Cream's laughter louder, Vanilla's steady hum anchoring it all. The soft clatter of plates being arranged on the table.

You followed it.

Drawn, like a moth to light.

The kitchen was bathed in morning gold.

Sunlight poured through the small window above the sink, catching on the edges of ceramic plates and teacups. The wooden table—worn from years of use—was already set, simple but welcoming. Cream was seated, swinging her legs beneath her chair, her charm bracelet jingling with every bounce.

She noticed you first.

Her face lit up like the dawn itself.

"Y/N! Good morning!"

Her voice was bright—like she was still excited you were here, like every minute with you was a gift.

Vanilla turned from the stove, spatula in hand, her face softening into that knowing smile—the kind only she could give.

"Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"

You nodded—because anything more would have been too much.

She understood. She always did.

"Come, sit."

Cream patted the chair beside her eagerly. "Here! Next to me!"

You chuckled softly, moving to sit down. As soon as you did, Cream leaned her small shoulder into your arm, resting against you briefly before straightening up—like a puppy pressing into its favorite person.

Her bracelet caught the sunlight as she moved, and she held it up again proudly.

"See? I wore it all night!"

You smiled—really smiled.

You reached out and lightly tapped the silver star charm.

"It looks good on you," you murmured.

Cream beamed.

Vanilla moved gracefully, setting a plate before you—pancakes, golden and fluffy, drizzled lightly with honey. Butter melted into the edges, pooling slightly on the warm plate. She handed you a mug of tea—softly floral, steam rising in gentle wisps.

You didn't even realize how hungry you were until you took the first bite.

Sweet. Warm. Comfort.

Cream chatted between mouthfuls—telling you all about her plans for the day, how Cheese wanted to help her plant more flowers, how she thought the clouds outside looked like bunnies.

Vanilla listened with the kind of patience only a mother could possess, occasionally glancing at you—checking without asking.

You ate slowly, savoring every taste. Every sound. Every moment.

This was what you had missed.

Cream leaned against you often—her head resting on your shoulder when she chewed, her fingers occasionally brushing against your hand when she gestured too excitedly. Each touch was light, innocent—but it made your heart swell.

Vanilla, too—her hand would brush over your shoulder when she passed, a brief squeeze when she refilled your tea. Each contact was deliberate, subtle—but it said: I see you. I'm glad you're here.

The house itself seemed to embrace you. The creak of the floorboards when Vanilla shifted weight, the soft hum of the kettle cooling on the stove, the birds chirping faintly outside—it was all part of a song you had forgotten.

A song that welcomed you home.

When the plates were cleared, Cream grabbed your hand.

"Can we play outside later? Or—or can we draw together?"

Her eyes were so wide—so full of hope.

You nodded.

Her smile could have powered the sun.

Vanilla placed her hand lightly on your arm. "No rush, dear. Today is yours."

Her eyes lingered for a moment—soft, knowing. You felt it in your chest.

You were welcome here. Not as a guest. As family. You stayed a little longer—talking about nothing, sipping tea, listening to Cream tell you about every bunny she had ever seen. And for the first time in so long, you didn't feel like you had to be anywhere else. You belonged. Right here.

The sun had fully claimed the sky by the time breakfast was cleared away—its warmth spilling over the clearing, turning the forest's greens into gold. A light breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and damp earth, rustling the leaves like a soft lullaby.

The day stretched before you, open and unhurried.

And you were content to let it.

It started with a tug—her fingers wrapped around yours, gentle but firm.

"C'mon, Y/N! You promised!"

Her charm bracelet clinked lightly with every excited bounce.

You let her pull you outside—because you always did.

The garden was bright, bursting with color. Flowers Vanilla had tended to for years stood proudly—vivid reds, soft blues, little clusters of white. Cream knelt immediately by the marigolds, her ears twitching as she inspected the petals like a tiny botanist.

"Look! The bees are back!" she whispered dramatically.

You crouched beside her, watching as a fuzzy bumblebee bumbled lazily between the blossoms. Cream's eyes were wide with wonder—like it was the first bee she had ever seen.

You didn't tell her you had seen a thousand bees before.

You just watched with her. Because it mattered to her.

And that made it matter to you.

The exploration continued—around the garden, along the edge of the forest. Cream led the way, her little feet skipping across the grass, pointing out every mushroom, every oddly shaped rock, every "secret fairy house" nestled in tree roots.

You followed—always just a step behind, like a gentle guardian.

At some point, she started collecting.

Rocks, twigs, flowers—anything that caught her fancy. She handed each one to you like it was treasure.

You accepted each piece with a nod—pockets gradually filling with leaves and petals, your hand clutching smooth stones like they were precious jewels.

"You're like... a treasure chest!" Cream declared proudly.

You chuckled—a low, breathy sound—as you opened your hands to show her the "hoard."

She gasped. "Ohhh! We should make something with them!"

And so—you did.

You both plopped down under the big oak tree, the grass soft beneath you. Cream dumped her treasures between you, sorting them like a professional merchant.

"We can make crowns!" she beamed. "Mama taught me how!"

You nodded—letting her take the lead.

Her fingers worked quickly, weaving stems together, looping flowers through leaves. Her tongue peeked out in concentration—ears twitching whenever something didn't sit right. You watched—admiring the way she threw herself into every task like it was the most important thing in the world.

She glanced up occasionally—checking that you were still there, still watching.

You always were.

When she finished, she placed the crown—adorned with daisies and violets—on your head.

"There! You're the Forest King!"

You raised an eyebrow.

Cream giggled, clapping her hands. "A really quiet king!"

You grinned—just a little.

She made one for herself next—smaller, simpler—but she was proud. You sat side by side, "rulers of the forest," the crowns slightly crooked but perfect.

Later, Vanilla emerged from the house—basket in hand, sheets folded over her arm.

"I'm hanging the laundry," she called gently. "Would you two like to help?"

You expected Cream to groan—to resist.

But instead, she shot up, grabbing your hand.

"Let's help, Y/N!"

So, you did.

The three of you worked in the afternoon sun—Vanilla's movements practiced and graceful, Cream's eager but clumsy, and you—steady, careful. You held up the wooden basket while Cream handed you clothespins, Vanilla occasionally brushing a hand over your sleeve to smooth out wrinkles.

The scent of soap and sunshine clung to the fabric.

The breeze made the sheets dance.

When Cream got tired, she flopped dramatically onto the grass, watching as the sheets fluttered like sails.

"Y/N... this is nice," she murmured dreamily.

You agreed—without needing to say it.

After the sun had softened and the breeze cooled, you moved inside.

Cream spread her crayons and paper across the living room floor. You settled beside her—legs crossed, quietly watching as she began drawing. She asked you what color the sky should be, or if bunnies could wear hats.

You answered each question with quiet certainty.

Occasionally, you picked up a crayon and joined her—your lines rougher, slower—but Cream gasped like you had painted a masterpiece.

Vanilla sat nearby, sewing—her fingers nimble, eyes occasionally drifting to you both.

Every so often, she would offer tea, or brush a stray piece of hair from Cream's eyes, or adjust the blanket over your legs when you weren't paying attention.

You let her.

Because you liked being cared for.

Because this was home.

Vanilla brought a plate of sweet bread—soft and warm, dusted lightly with powdered sugar. She placed it on the coffee table between you and Cream, along with small cups of chamomile tea.

Cream dunked her bread in her tea with far too much enthusiasm—splattering droplets across her paper.

You wiped it up with a napkin before Vanilla even noticed.

Cream leaned against your side after eating—head resting lightly against your ribs, eyes fluttering as she fought the lull of the afternoon.

You didn't move.

You liked being her pillow.

Vanilla glanced up from her sewing—her gaze landing on you.

Soft. Pleased. You belonged.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into comfort.

Little tasks.
Gentle laughter.
Sunlight drifting across wooden floors.
Cream's hand occasionally slipping into yours.
Vanilla's light touch on your shoulder as she passed.

You didn't need words.

You just needed this. So so bad...

The sun had started its slow descent beyond the treetops, stretching the shadows across the clearing. The sky softened into warm hues—hints of pink brushing the horizon, streaks of gold lingering like delicate strokes of a brush.

The air had cooled, but not sharply—just enough to remind you that the day was winding down.

Cream leaned against your side, her head tucked beneath your arm, fingers absentmindedly tracing little loops along the edge of your sleeve. Her energy from earlier had dwindled into a soft hum—contentment settling into her small frame.

You had stayed outside longer than you realized—beneath the oak tree where you had built flower crowns, the grass still slightly flattened from where you'd all sprawled out earlier. Vanilla had stepped back into the house to finish preparing dinner, but she had left you here—because she knew you needed this.

The quiet. The warmth. Each other.

The distant hum was faint at first—like a soft buzz carried on the breeze. But you knew it.

Cream heard it too. Her ears twitched, her little body stiffening against you.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Tails..." she muttered, her voice playfully low—like he was some great enemy approaching her kingdom.

You smirked, but said nothing.

The sound grew louder, until he came into view—descending through the trees with practiced ease, his twin tails slicing the air in smooth rotations. He landed lightly at the edge of the clearing, goggles resting loosely around his neck, fur slightly ruffled from the flight.

His eyes locked onto you first—because that was just what he did—and softened when he saw you sitting there, relaxed and whole.

Then his gaze shifted to Cream.

Her arms tightened around your waist as if to stake her claim.

"Mine," she whispered dramatically under her breath.

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh.

Tails raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, we're doing this today?" he asked, smirking.

Cream sat up straighter, her eyes gleaming with playful challenge. She held onto your arm like a prized trophy.

"They've been here all day. With me."

Tails crossed his arms, tails flicking behind him like he was gearing up for battle. "Yeah? Well, I had them before that. For, like... days."

Cream stuck out her tongue. "Well, they're mine now."

Tails took a step forward, leaning slightly. "Oh yeah? What if I need them to fix something? Who's gonna hold the wrench?"

Cream gasped. "You're just using Y/N for work!"

Tails grinned. "I pay them in snacks. Good snacks."

Cream's eyes narrowed. "Mama made pancakes this morning."

Tails gasped, feigning betrayal. "Without me?!"

You finally let the laughter escape—low, but real.

They both paused, looking up at you, their faces softening instantly.

You placed a hand on Cream's head, ruffling her fur lightly, before reaching out and flicking Tails' ear.

"I'm everyone's," you murmured—your voice quiet, but firm.

Tails chuckled. "Yeah, okay... I guess I can share."

Cream huffed but grinned, leaning into you again like a satisfied cat.

Vanilla stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Heading out, Tails?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Just wanted to pick them up before it gets too late."

She smiled—gentle, knowing.

Her eyes found you, warm as ever. "You'll come back soon, won't you, dear?"

You nodded. You didn't even need to think about it.

Cream's ears drooped a little, but she was smiling—because she knew you would, too.

"You'll come play again, right? We didn't even finish our treasure hunt!"

You tapped the crown of flowers still resting askew on her head—remnants from earlier.

"Of course."

Her eyes gleamed.

Vanilla hugged you lightly before you left—her arms gentle, but firm enough to remind you that you were always welcome here. Her hand lingered on your back for a second longer, like she was making sure you knew.

Cream clung to your waist for one last squeeze, before pulling away and flashing her bracelet at you one more time—just to remind you who gave it to her.

Tails watched it all—his arms crossed, but his eyes soft.

"Alright, alright. Come on, before you start moving in permanently."

Cream stuck her tongue out at him again.

You chuckled. Going back inside, collecting literally all of the drawings Cream has made for you before going outside with Tails.

Tails didn't fly this time.

He walked with you—matching your pace, hands tucked into his pockets, tails swaying lightly behind him.

For the first few minutes, it was quiet—just the forest sounds filling the space between you.

Then—Tails nudged your side lightly with his elbow.

"So, pancakes, huh? You couldn't save me one?"

You smirked.

He nudged you again, grinning. "What else did I miss? Did she rope you into playing dolls? Did she braid your hair?"

You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat behind it.

"She made me a flower crown."

Tails burst into laughter.

You flicked his ear again.

"I bet you looked adorable," he teased.

You shook your head, but your smile didn't fade. He was happy. Cream was happy. Vanilla was happy. And you—were happy too.

The house was quiet when you stepped inside. The soft creak of the door was met with the familiar hum of Tails' workshop down the hall—tools faintly clicking, gears softly whirring. His world continued turning, always in motion. But yours... Yours had slowed. And it felt good. You slipped off your shoes, padding up the stairs with practiced ease. Each step creaked in its own familiar way—the third from the top always giving a louder groan. You didn't mind. This was home, too. Your room was as you had left it—simple, still, waiting. But tonight... it needed something more. You reached into your sweater pocket. The folded pages were warm from being pressed against you all day. You unfolded them slowly, smoothing the creases with your fingertips.

Cream's drawings.

Lines a little wobbly, colors spilling past edges, but each one was filled with her heart.
A bunny with a crown. A lopsided tree with you standing beside it—taller than everything. And the one you held onto the longest—her drawing of you. With a smile. You had promised her you would hang them here.
And you kept your promises. You found the wall beside your bed—the space you had glanced at so many times, imagining this exact moment. With careful hands, you pressed the first drawing up, pinning it softly with tape. Then another. And another. When you stepped back, your chest tightened—but not with sadness.

The wall was no longer empty. It was filled with her. With laughter. With love. You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the drawings—feeling their warmth radiate into your chest. Your hand brushed over your wrist, over the black gradient there—but it felt softer tonight. Less like a mark, and more like a part of the person Cream saw when she drew you. The quiet stretched—but it wasn't lonely.

You laid back, eyes drifting to the pictures above you. The house was still humming. Tails was still tinkering.
Cream was still laughing in your memories. And you... You were home. Finally.

                                            -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Chapter Text

(warning: just a small nightmare and lots of flustering!)

"People come and go,

That's life. You didn't go through all that for nothing."

                                       ༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Tails' garage was its usual mess of scattered tools, half-dismantled machines, and blueprints stacked haphazardly across the workbenches. The air smelled of metal and oil, the rhythmic hum of machinery filling the space.

You were seated nearby, flipping through one of Tails' manuals, not really reading but letting your fingers trace the diagrams and words. The sound of him working was steady, grounding. It was one of those rare, quiet moments where nothing urgent demanded attention—no battles, no chaos, just the soft clinks of tools and the occasional muttered frustration from Tails as he adjusted a component on his latest project.

For once, it felt peaceful.

Then, the air shifted.

A wave of warmth pressed against your skin, a sudden shift in temperature that sent a prickling sensation down your arms. The air shimmered, heat curling through the entrance of the garage. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the warmth condensed, forming a swirl of violet flames just outside.

A figure emerged from the dissipating fire, stepping forward with a composed elegance that made the entire moment feel deliberate, controlled.

She walked with precision, each step poised and intentional. Her fur was a sleek, silvery lavender, her golden eyes sharp and calculating as they flickered across the garage. A long, royal blue cape trailed behind her, fastened neatly at the collar, swaying ever so slightly with her movements. Deep magenta bodysuit, pristine white gloves that flared at the wrists, matching high-heeled boots that clicked softly against the floor—she looked like she belonged somewhere important. Somewhere regal.

And yet, you had no idea who she was.

Her piercing gaze landed on you, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence before she finally spoke, her voice smooth and composed.

"So, you're the one Amy's been talking about."

Before you could react, another figure arrived—not nearly as elegant, but just as attention-grabbing.

A soft whoosh of displaced air followed as a second presence hovered just outside the garage. He didn't land immediately, instead floating a few inches off the ground, boots glowing faintly with energy before he finally touched down.

His fur was a pale silver, his quills swept back in jagged, sharp points that gave him an almost futuristic look. Cyan eyes, big and bright, flickered with open curiosity as they scanned the cluttered garage. Golden cuffs pulsed with an odd, otherworldly glow, the teal soles of his boots flickering as if charged with some kind of energy.

There was something... softer about him. Even as he stood there, his posture relaxed, his expression was far less guarded than the first visitor.

And then—

His gaze landed on you.

And he stared.

You blinked. He didn't. (You thought he was cute...)

His cyan eyes lingered, just a second too long, his expression shifting into something vaguely puzzled. Your head tilted slightly, processing.

Tails, who had been wiping his hands on a cloth, let out a long, tired sigh, barely reacting at this point. "Silver."

The silver-furred hedgehog snapped out of whatever daze he had fallen into, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Ah, uh—sorry. You just—uh. Never mind."

The lavender cat beside him exhaled softly, crossing her arms, clearly unimpressed. "Introduce yourself properly, Silver."

"Oh—right! Uh." Silver straightened, offering a small wave. "I'm Silver. Silver the Hedgehog!" He beamed at you, looking oddly pleased to be introducing himself.

The cat beside him followed with a slight nod, her expression composed but curious. "Blaze the Cat."

You stared at them both, taking in their appearances but giving no indication that you recognized their names—because you didn't. You simply lifted your hand in a small, acknowledging nod.

Tails, catching on quickly, sighed again. "They don't really talk much."

Silver blinked, tilting his head. "Oh. That's cool! I know a few people like that."

Blaze, on the other hand, studied you for a moment longer before finally speaking again. "Amy spoke of you often, but she left out the details. I came to see for myself."

You remained still, watching her, feeling her gaze scan over you in an almost analytical way. There was no hostility—just quiet, unreadable scrutiny.

Tails, stepping between you slightly, raised a brow. "And that required an unannounced visit?"

Blaze was unfazed. "I don't like mysteries."

Silver rubbed the back of his head, floating just an inch off the ground again. "I kinda just followed her. Figured I might as well see what was up."

Tails crossed his arms. "Alright... And now that you're here?"

Blaze's gaze flickered toward you again. "I'd like to stay for a while."

Tails pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly sensing where this was going. "Of course you do."

Silver, still hovering, grinned. "Hope you don't mind!"

You blinked at them both before glancing at Tails. You had a feeling this wasn't going to be a short visit.

The hum of machinery filled the garage, steady and grounding. After the initial awkward introductions, silence stretched between you all, only broken by the soft clinks of tools and the low buzz of monitors flickering with data.

You had gone back to your task—sorting spare parts and organizing tools. It was simple, something to focus on. Your hands moved methodically, placing bolts into containers, lining up wrenches in their proper spots.

Silver stood awkwardly near the entrance, shifting his weight from foot to foot, occasionally glancing in your direction. He looked like he wanted to say something but kept hesitating. His hands fiddled with the gold cuffs on his wrists, his posture unsure.

Blaze, however, had no such hesitation.

"Do you always stay here?" she asked, her voice even, but probing.

You paused for half a second before shaking your head.

Tails, catching on before the silence could stretch too long, answered for you. "They were staying with Vanilla and Cream before, but they've been here for a bit now."

Blaze nodded, as if filing the information away. "And now?"

Tails glanced over, giving a small shrug. "Still figuring that out. Things have been... busy."

"Busy how?" Blaze asked, arms crossed.

You hesitated. Your fingers brushed over a screwdriver before handing it to Tails when he reached for it.

Tails answered smoothly. "Y'know, Eggman causing problems, weird energy spikes, a few unexpected things happening." He shot you a glance, as if giving you a chance to add anything, but you remained quiet.

Silver, still watching you, finally spoke. "You don't talk much, huh?"

You blinked at him before shaking your head again.

Silver fidgeted, then smiled sheepishly. "That's fine. I think it's kinda cool, actually. Not everyone needs to talk a lot."

You tilted your head slightly.

Blaze, ever the observer, noted the interaction but didn't comment. Instead, she shifted her focus, glancing over at the workshop's neatly arranged tools. "You help Tails often?"

You nodded.

Tails grinned, tightening a bolt on one of his projects. "Yeah, they pick things up really fast. Sometimes I don't even have to explain much—they just get it."

Silver looked mildly impressed. "That's really cool. I don't even know what half the stuff in here does."

Blaze hummed. "It does make one wonder."

Tails raised an eyebrow. "Wonder what?"

"Where exactly they learned it," Blaze said simply, her gaze steady.

Tails thought about it for a second before shrugging. "They read a lot."

That seemed to satisfy Blaze for the moment, though her eyes lingered on you a little longer before she finally shifted her posture, her tail flicking slightly behind her.

Silver, still hovering nearby, shifted awkwardly. "So, uh... what exactly are you working on?"

Tails perked up at the question, always happy to explain his projects. "Just some general maintenance and tune-ups. Nothing huge today."

Silver nodded as if he understood, though the confusion was evident on his face. "Cool, cool... Yeah, that makes sense."

Tails chuckled. "You have no idea what I just said, do you?"

Silver laughed nervously. "Not really."

Blaze let out a soft sigh. "You should at least attempt to learn something, Silver."

Silver pouted slightly. "I am trying."

Tails smirked, shaking his head. "Alright, well, since you two are here unannounced, I guess I can let you stick around for a bit."

Silver brightened. "Really?"

Blaze simply nodded. "I'd like that."

Tails shot her a look. "You sure don't sound excited."

Blaze didn't respond, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

Meanwhile, you continued working, quietly aware of the shift in the room. The newcomers weren't leaving anytime soon.

The steady hum of machinery filled the garage, blending into the rhythmic clink of metal against metal. The scent of oil and faint traces of soldering iron lingered in the air, grounding the space in its usual atmosphere of work and creation. You were standing beside Tails, hands steady as you assisted him in adjusting a panel on the latest project, when you felt it—someone watching you.

Silver.

He stood awkwardly off to the side, his hands clasped together as if unsure what to do with them. His golden eyes darted around the workshop, taking in every machine, every wire, but they always ended up settling back on you.

Blaze had been the one to strike up conversation first, asking Tails various questions about you and your abilities. She was composed, regal even, but there was no mistaking the curiosity in her sharp gaze. Tails, ever patient, answered each of her inquiries with thoughtful detail, keeping his responses professional but warm.

But Silver?

He wasn't asking questions. He was just... standing there. Watching.

His tail flicked once, betraying his nervousness, and something about the sight made you pause.

Without thinking, you reached out.

Silver barely had time to react before your fingers wrapped around his wrist, your grip gentle but firm as you pulled him forward. He startled, his ears twitching, but he didn't resist. Instead, he let himself be guided to your side, his expression wide-eyed and uncertain.

You didn't say much at first, only adjusting your hold so your fingers lightly curled around his hand, steadying him as if to say pay attention.

Then, softly—almost too quiet for anyone but him to hear—you began to speak.

"This," you murmured, gesturing toward the open panel Tails had been working on, "is a stabilizer. It balances energy flow so nothing overheats."

Silver blinked, his breath hitching slightly. He wasn't expecting you to explain—wasn't expecting you to pull him closer like this. His mind scrambled to keep up, but he nodded, swallowing as he listened intently.

You continued, your voice low but steady, explaining each component in simple, respectful terms. You never spoke to him like he didn't understand. You never dumbed it down. You treated him as an equal, giving him the same consideration you gave to Tails.

Silver's heart jumped.

It wasn't just what you were saying—it was how you were saying it. The softness in your tone, the way you made space for him without hesitation, the quiet patience woven into your words.

He barely realized he was staring.

Tails, still answering Blaze's questions in the background, seemed unaware of the quiet moment unfolding between the two of you. But Blaze wasn't.

Her gaze flicked toward Silver, watching the way his posture softened, the way his grip on your hand tightened just slightly, as if grounding himself.

He was listening.

Completely and utterly focused on you.

And judging by the warmth spreading across his face, he wasn't entirely sure what to do with that realization.

Silver had no idea why his heart was racing.

Maybe it was the way you spoke—so soft, so even, yet so full of patience. Maybe it was the way you didn't hesitate to pull him into the conversation, the way you held his hand so naturally, like it wasn't even a question whether he belonged there or not.

Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn't stop staring at you, and for the first time in what felt like ever, he wasn't overthinking everything. He was just listening.

But then, as quickly as the moment settled, you let go.

You pulled your hand away as if nothing had happened, returning your attention to the machine in front of you. But for Silver? The ghost of your touch lingered, warm against his wrist.

Get it together, he thought, forcing himself to exhale. His throat felt dry. Maybe he should—

Without thinking, his hand lifted slightly, teal energy sparking to life around his fingertips. The glow pulsed for a moment before a small, untouched glass of water—previously forgotten on Tails' workbench—rose into the air. It drifted toward you, weightless, before settling gently beside your free hand.

You blinked.

Then, as if realizing only now what you had done, you turned to Silver with the widest, most amazed expression he had ever seen.

"...You did that?" Your voice was quiet, awed.

Silver felt his brain stall.

Your eyes shone with something so purely impressed, so utterly fascinated that for a second, he wondered if he had just lifted an entire mountain instead of a glass of water.

"Y-Yeah," he stammered, his voice a little higher than he meant for it to be. "I-I mean, it's just... telekinesis? I do it all the time—it's really not that—"

"That's amazing."

Silver's words died in his throat.

Your expression was still one of pure wonder, and he swore he saw the faintest shimmer of admiration in your gaze. It made every single one of his quills stand up straighter, his ears twitching as his brain short-circuited.

You were fawning over him.

Over a glass of water.

He barely registered how his hands flexed at his sides, his entire body trying to keep still, trying to breathe because—God help him—his heart was fluttering, and if you listened closely, you could hear it.

A sound so soft, so faint, it almost wasn't there.

A quiet, involuntary purr.

It was barely more than a breath—almost swallowed by the ambient hum of the workshop—but it was there.

Silver froze.

Blaze's head snapped toward him so fast she almost got whiplash.

Tails, in the middle of an explanation, paused mid-sentence.

You...

You just tilted your head, blinking as if you had barely caught the noise.

Silver wished a black hole would swallow him whole.

He never purred. Ever.

And yet—one tiny, insignificant use of his own powers had you looking at him like he'd done something incredible. And apparently, his body had completely betrayed him in response.

"...Did you just purr?"

You leaned in slightly, eyes full of innocent curiosity.

Silver panicked.

"NO."

He shouted it—too loud, too fast. His hands shot up in front of him in sheer defense, his entire body locking up like he was preparing to fight for his life.

Blaze actually choked on her own breath, turning away with a fist against her lips, shoulders trembling from barely contained laughter.

Tails blinked. "Wait. Silver can purr?"

"I SAID NO."

But his voice cracked.

And his ears flattened.

And his face? Completely, utterly red.

And that was the moment Silver knew—

He was never living this down.

Silver was going to die.

Not from battle. Not from Eggman's robots. Not from some horrible future calamity.

No.

He was going to die because you—someone he barely knew—had just cradled his face in your hands, looking at him like he had single-handedly rewritten the laws of the universe.

Your fingers, cool and feather-light, rested against his cheeks. The touch was gentle, yet somehow sent a shock straight through his system, making his quills twitch with unrestrained panic.

Your eyes—wide, filled with pure wonder—searched his, your expression an unfiltered mix of curiosity and excitement. "Do it again."

Silver forgot how to breathe.

He barely registered Tails' sharp inhale of second-hand embarrassment.

He definitely heard Blaze turn away, muttering "Oh, God, no." under her breath.

And yet—despite everything, despite the heat crawling up his neck, despite the impossibly close distance—you didn't let go.

In fact, you leaned in closer.

"Please?"

Silver's heart slammed against his ribs.

"I—I don't—It wasn't—I didn't mean to—!" His words tumbled out in a frantic mess, his entire body locked in place. His ears twitched wildly, his quills bristling, his hands hovering helplessly in the air because what was he supposed to do?!

You tilted your head, blinking at him expectantly.

Like you were waiting.

Like he could actually do it on command.

Which he couldn't.

...Could he? (He's never purred before, there wasn't a reason to.)

Silver's brain short-circuited.

"Uhhh—"

Your thumbs absentmindedly brushed his cheeks, and oh, God help him, he could feel himself vibrating.

Blaze was suffering in the background.

Tails looked like he was watching a live implosion.

And then—just when Silver thought he might regain control of the situation—

You spoke again.

"You're like a real-life cat."

Tails wheeze-laughed.

Blaze choked.

Silver died on the spot.

"I AM NOT A CAT!"

His voice cracked, his entire body lurching back in desperation. He wrenched himself out of your grasp, stepping away so fast that his foot caught on itself, sending him toppling straight into Tails' workbench with a metallic clang.

Silence.

The hum of the workshop filled the space between all of you.

Then—

"Oh my stars," Blaze wheezed, covering her mouth with both hands, visibly shaking from laughter.

Tails had tears in his eyes, openly cackling.

And you?

You just stared at him.

Then—slowly, deliberately—you lifted a single hand, pressing your fingers against your own throat. Experimentally, you tried to mimic the soft purring sound you'd heard earlier.

...It didn't work.

You frowned.

Silver buried his face in his hands.

Silver was still hiding behind his hands.

His entire body had gone stiff—quills slightly puffed up, tail curled around his side like he was trying to shield himself from further humiliation. His ears twitched violently at every snicker that slipped out of Tails' mouth.

Blaze, ever composed, was failing spectacularly to keep her laughter silent—her shoulders trembling as she looked away, pretending to inspect a nearby panel.

You, however?

You were still staring at Silver. Head tilted. Eyes curious. Mouth tugging at the corners like you were holding back the urge to poke him again—just to see if he'd actually start vibrating.

"...I am not a cat," Silver mumbled weakly, his voice muffled by his palms.

You pressed your fingers to your chin thoughtfully. "But... you purred."

"I—It was an accident!" He dropped his hands, flustered, ears pinned back like he was ready to argue his case in court. "That's not—It's not normal! It doesn't just happen—I don't just—!"

Tails wheezed into his glove, barely holding it together. "Y-yeah, sure, Silver. You're not a cat. You just float around, chase shiny objects, and apparently vibrate when someone scratches your ears."

Silver's jaw dropped in pure horror. "I do NOT—!"

Blaze cut him off with a perfectly timed, deadpan: "Would you land on your feet if I pushed you?" (Said the cat herself, making fun of her friend.)

Silver made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak.

Tails was fully gone—leaning on the workbench, clutching his side.

You...?

You just stared at Silver for a moment longer.

Then—slowly—you reached out, fingers hovering just above his ears.

His entire body froze.

Ears twitching.

Eyes wide.

You didn't touch him—just let your hand linger in the air, watching as he practically short-circuited under the pressure of your hypothetical affection.

"Don't," he whispered, voice barely holding together.

You smiled—small, but mischievous.

You didn't.

But you could have.

And he knew it.

Eventually, the laughter died down—Tails wiping tears from his eyes, Blaze smoothing her fur back into place. Silver's face was still tinged pink, but he managed to stand upright again, albeit stiffly.

You settled back beside Tails, helping him sort through the scattered tools that had been knocked over in Silver's panicked retreat. Your hands moved efficiently, picking up wrenches and small parts, returning them to their proper spots with ease.

Silver hovered nearby, noticeably quieter—still shooting you occasional glances, though this time they were laced more with embarrassment than curiosity.

Blaze leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold with that faint smirk she wore when she was enjoying herself more than she'd ever admit.

It was comfortable.

Even with the teasing, even with Silver's occasional flustered noises—it was good.

It felt... easy.

Like you were all supposed to be here.

Together.

A little while later, Silver—desperate to salvage his pride—hovered closer to you and Tails as you worked.

"I... I can help, you know," he offered, his voice trying to sound confident, though it cracked slightly.

Tails raised an eyebrow. "You know what a stabilizer is now?"

Silver flushed. "Okay, maybe not that. But... I can lift stuff! And... hold things... with my mind?"

You paused, glancing at him.

Then, without a word, you picked up a heavy toolbox—one of Tails' more cumbersome ones—holding it out in front of you.

Silver blinked.

"Oh. Right. That's... that's the cue."

He concentrated, hands glowing faintly as his telekinesis flared to life. The toolbox lifted from your hands effortlessly, hovering in the air. You let your arms drop, watching as Silver maneuvered it toward the shelf Tails had pointed at.

It was going well.

Until it wasn't.

The glow flickered—just slightly—and the box tipped, sending a cascade of screws, bolts, and washers raining down like mechanical confetti.

Tails groaned. "Silver—!"

"Ah—God—!" Silver scrambled, trying to scoop up the pieces with his powers, only for half of them to bounce off the workbench and scatter across the floor.

You knelt to help him—fingers brushing against his as you both reached for the same bolt.

He froze.

You didn't.

You handed him the bolt, your hand brushing his palm briefly before you stood back up.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded with more ease—Tails guiding the work, you and Silver assisting, Blaze occasionally chiming in with sarcastic comments but helping when needed.

Silver, eager to redeem himself, managed a few successful lifts—small parts hovering perfectly into place. Every time he succeeded, he glanced at you—just to check if you saw.

You always did.

And you always gave a small nod.

It made his heart flutter every time.

The sun was hanging low when Tails finally declared the work done—tools neatly put away, the stabilizer no longer looking like it might explode, and Silver no longer hovering nervously as though his mere presence might break something.

The air in the workshop had shifted—not so much a workplace anymore, but a shared space, filled with laughter and the kind of teasing that only came from familiarity.

You leaned against the workbench, watching as Tails meticulously wiped down his tools—like a parent tucking their children in for the night. Blaze had perched herself near the door, arms crossed, eyes lazily following Silver.

As the sun began to dip beneath the trees, casting warm orange streaks across the windows, Silver let out a loud, dramatic sigh.

"I'm starving."

Tails, who had been locking up his toolbox, didn't even look up. "You had a sandwich an hour ago."

"That was ages ago!"

Blaze snorted softly. "You act like you're dying."

Silver pouted. "I am."

You watched this exchange with quiet amusement. There was something... charming about it. Silver—who could crush steel beams with his mind—was practically wilting over an empty stomach.

But what caught your attention most was Tails. Because the second Silver's voice dipped into that familiar whine—barely disguised as a joke—Tails' entire demeanour shifted. His ears twitched, and his eyes softened in a way you hadn't quite seen before. Not just a friend. Not just a teammate. This was someone who had been through it with Silver.

"...We still have pasta from last night," Tails muttered, almost like he was trying not to sound too concerned. "I'll heat it up."

Silver perked up immediately, eyes sparkling like a child offered dessert.

Tails tried—really tried—to roll his eyes and act annoyed.

But you saw it. The faintest curl at the edge of his mouth. The warmth under the sarcasm. You realized... Tails babies him. Not in a patronizing way. But like a little brother. Like someone who knows Silver can fend off a robot army, but also knows he'll forget to eat if someone doesn't remind him.

You all found yourselves crowded into Tails' small kitchen—a space clearly built for functionality, not for hosting half a team of heroes. Silver was already at the table, practically vibrating as Tails heated up pasta in a pot. He hovered near the stove, occasionally stirring despite Silver's impatient glances. Blaze stood nearby, watching with a faint smile—like she had seen this dance a thousand times before. Her eyes flicked to you, and she gave a small knowing shake of her head.

This was normal.

"Do you seriously still let him get away with this?" Blaze teased lightly.

Tails glanced over his shoulder. "If I don't feed him, he'll forget and pass out midair."

"I would not!" Silver protested through a mouthful of bread Tails had tossed at him as a temporary peace offering.

Blaze raised an eyebrow. "You would."

You watched the banter unfold, but your attention lingered on Blaze.

Because the way she spoke—it wasn't just playful. It was fond.

This was different from Tails' babying. Blaze was... Better at it. Where Tails fussed over Silver like a worried sibling, Blaze handled him like someone who had done it for years—like someone who knew his limits and when to push back. She didn't coddle him. But she also never let him fall. She knew when he needed patience. She knew when he needed a push. And most importantly, she knew when he needed her to just be there. You watched as she passed him a glass of water without a word—just slid it across the table while he was mid-rant about "psychic energy burning calories faster."

He took it. Didn't even pause. Just drank. Like he knew she'd always have it ready. And she did. Because she always had.

You didn't say much during dinner.

But you didn't feel like you had to.

You listened—soaking it in—the playful jabs, the laughter, the way Silver's eyes lit up every time Tails grumbled but still handed him another helping. The way Blaze leaned into their routine—quiet, but always in control, keeping everything balanced without needing to demand it.

And in between the laughter, the food, the soft clinking of forks against plates...

There was you.

Sitting at their table.

Part of it.

Silver leaned over halfway through the meal—grinning through sauce-stained lips—and whispered, "Tomorrow, I'll show you my telekinesis training! You can help me lift, like... a boulder or something."

You raised an eyebrow.

Blaze didn't even look up. "He'll drop it."

Silver gasped. "I will not!"

Tails muttered through his mouthful of pasta. "He will."

You snorted softly.

Silver pouted at all three of you. "You guys are supposed to believe in me!"

Blaze sipped her water. "We believe you'll drop it."

And you laughed. Making Tails and Silver look strangely at you. You barely laughed at all... It warmed Tails heart.

After dinner, the group slowly unraveled—Silver flopped onto the couch, full and content, mumbling something about a "food nap." Tails was wiping down the counters—because he always cleaned up—while Blaze leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, observing her ridiculous friends like the responsible older sibling she was.

You lingered—helping Tails pick up stray crumbs, brushing shoulders with him occasionally. He didn't stop you.

By the time you all drifted to your rooms, the house was filled with quiet comfort.

Silver's snores were faint through the wall.
Blaze's door was slightly ajar—because she liked to hear everyone breathing.
Tails was in his room—but you knew he was probably sketching something before bed.

And you?

You laid in your bed—Cream's drawings still above you—smiling...

                           °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Sleep had come easily—at first.

Wrapped in warmth, with Cream's drawings above your bed and the echoes of laughter still ringing softly in your mind, you had drifted off quickly. The house was still. Safe.

But the dream pulled you under like a riptide.

It was the kind that didn't start as fear—just shadowy images, blurred figures moving in the distance. Voices—you couldn't place them, but you knew them. Familiar once, now warped, distant. You tried to reach them, but your limbs were heavy. The ground beneath you was unstable, shifting like sand, pulling you deeper the harder you fought.

Then—the light.

Blinding.
Sharp.
Cold.

You flinched, raising your arms, but the light swallowed you whole. It pressed against your skin—hot and unforgiving—searing into your chest until you couldn't breathe.

Your hands—they weren't your hands.

Blackened.
Fading.
Cracking like stone under pressure.

You gasped—airless, drowning in light and darkness all at once—

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You sat up with a violent jerk—breath ragged, chest heaving as if you had run for miles.

Your heart raced, pounding in your ears so loudly it nearly drowned out the silence of the room. Your skin felt cold despite the sweat clinging to your back. Your hands—shaking—curled into the blanket, clutching it like it might anchor you to reality. It was just a dream. Just a dream. But it didn't feel like it. It felt like something was still watching. Like something had almost reached you. Like you had slipped away for a moment—and it had noticed. You swallowed, throat tight, eyes flicking toward the door. The house was still. Quiet. Safe. But your chest was tight.

You needed air.
You needed to move.

The stairs creaked under your feet—soft, but each groan felt louder in the stillness of the night. Your breathing was uneven, your fingers brushing against the wall as you moved—like you needed to touch something real, something solid.

The living room was cool, dim, with only the faintest trace of moonlight filtering through the window. The fireplace was cold, but the woodpile was stacked neatly beside it—just like you remembered.

Your body moved on instinct—habit grounding you in the now.

You knelt, hands working quickly—too quickly—as you set the logs into place. Your fingers trembled slightly as you struck the match, the small flame flickering before catching on the dry bark.

The crackle of fire filled the space—soft, but alive.

Warmth spread out slowly, chasing the cold from your skin. You exhaled shakily, eyes fixed on the flames as they danced, as if their movement alone could ward off whatever had followed you from your dreams.

You stayed there for a moment—kneeling, palms stretched out toward the heat.

Your legs were still weak as you stood—careful, deliberate—moving to the small shelf Tails had tucked into the corner. You knew this spot. You had helped dust it, organize it. Books Tails had collected over the years—manuals, old adventure novels, a few worn fantasy paperbacks.

Your fingers brushed over the spines before pulling out one of the thinner books—a simple story about travellers finding their way home. You had read it before. That was why you chose it. You needed something known. Something safe. You sank onto the couch, tucking your legs beneath you, the fire's warmth brushing against your side. You opened the book, eyes tracing the familiar first words—

But your hands were still shaking. You gripped the pages tightly, willing the tremor to stop, but it only made it worse. Your breath hitched. The dream clung to you. The light. The heat.

You didn't notice him at first.

Curled into the couch, knees drawn up, book resting on your lap—you were trying so hard to push it away that you forgot you weren't alone in this house.

But Silver had heard you come downstairs.

He had been curled up on the other couch—wrapped in a blanket, limbs sprawled out awkwardly, snoring softly when you first arrived. But the creak of the stairs had stirred him—years of living on edge made his mind tune into every little sound. Even your quiet footsteps.

Silver watched you for a while.

He hadn't meant to—he was still half tangled in the blanket he had stolen from Tails' closet—but once he saw you, he couldn't look away.

The way your shoulders stayed tense, even when you turned a page.
The way your fingers twitched, the tips trembling ever so slightly against the paper.
The way your breath occasionally hitched—like you were holding something down.

Silver didn't know everything about you.
But he knew that look.

Fear.

Pain.

He'd seen it in others. He'd felt it in himself.

And he couldn't ignore it.

Because no matter how much he doubted himself—no matter how clumsy, awkward, or uncertain he was—Silver was a hero.

Helping people was in his bones.

Even in the quiet.

Especially in the quiet.

He swallowed—heart thudding against his ribs.

Would you want him to talk?
Would you think he was prying?
Would he make it worse?

Doubt crept in—like it always did.

But then he saw your hand tremble again, the book quivering slightly between your fingers.

And his doubt didn't matter anymore.

Because you needed someone.

And Silver wasn't about to let you face it alone.

He sat up—carefully, trying not to startle you, but the blanket tangled around his legs betrayed him. He fumbled, nearly toppling over with a muted "God—," catching himself before he crashed into the coffee table.

You jolted, snapping your head toward him, eyes wide—startled—but not angry.

Silver froze—hands up like he had just been caught sneaking cookies before dinner.

"...Hi."

His voice was quiet—awkward—but kind.

You blinked at him.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The only sound was the soft crackling of the fire, filling the air between you.

Silver shifted—awkwardly patting his hair down before his expression softened. He took a slow breath.

"I, uh... I saw you come down," he admitted, voice gentle. "I... wasn't trying to eavesdrop or anything—I just... I thought you might need... someone?"

You didn't answer immediately.

But you didn't shut him out either.

Silver hesitated only a moment before taking the invitation that wasn't really there—but he felt it anyway.

He shuffled over—blanket still half-draped over his shoulder—and sat beside you on the couch, careful not to crowd you.

He didn't touch you.
Didn't pry.
But he was there.

That was the point.

He peeked at your hands—the slight tremor still lingering—and his heart squeezed. He wanted to fix it, but he knew he couldn't. Not like that.

So he offered the one thing he could.

"I have bad nights sometimes, too," he whispered. "Not all the time, but... enough."

You turned your head slightly—just enough to let him know you were listening.

He smiled—small, but warm.

"Sometimes I... get stuck in them—even after I wake up. Feels like I can't shake it... like it's still there, waiting."

You exhaled softly—like you had been holding that breath for a while.

"...Yeah," you murmured.

Silver's chest relaxed.

He adjusted the blanket around his shoulders, eyes flickering toward the fire.

"You know what helps me sometimes?"

You glanced at him—curious, but guarded.

Silver's smile grew—just a little brighter.

"I tell myself something good that happened that day. Even if it's small... even if it's silly. Just... something. It kind of reminds me that I made it through, you know?"

You stared into the flames—his words settling over you.

Silver kept talking—gentle, hopeful.

"Like... today? I got to work with you. And I didn't drop everything! Okay, I dropped one thing, but still—that's a win."

You huffed softly—half a laugh.

Silver beamed. He was getting through.
He was helping.

"And... you made me laugh. A lot. Even when I was being... well, me." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "I liked that."

You swallowed—your chest loosening, just a bit.

Silver leaned back—relaxing into the couch, letting his optimism fill the space.

"You're here. And... I think that's pretty great."

His words were simple.

But they felt like an anchor.

You didn't speak for a while after that.

But the tension in your hands eased. The book no longer shook. Your breath slowed.

Silver didn't press.

He just stayed—wrapped in his ridiculous blanket, smiling softly whenever your eyes met his.

Eventually—when your chest no longer ached with the remnants of fear—you leaned back into the cushions, your shoulder brushing his ever so slightly.

You didn't pull away.

Neither did he.

You read your book.
He dozed beside you. And for the first time that night—the nightmare finally felt far away.

The fire crackled softly, its warm glow flickering across the walls, painting gentle shadows over the wooden beams of the room. The book in your lap had blurred—words dissolving into lines—your eyes tracing over the same paragraph without absorbing it.

But your mind was somewhere else.

Silver's presence beside you had shifted something.

The weight in your chest was still there—but lighter. The tight coil of anxiety hadn't vanished, but his voice—the optimism, the gentle warmth in it—had loosened the knot just enough to let you breathe.

You felt him next to you.
The steady rise and fall of his chest.
The occasional flick of his ear, catching faint sounds beyond the window.
The warmth radiating from him—comforting, grounding—like sunlight that had taken on a shape.

You didn't think about it, not really.

You just... moved.

The book slid from your hands—landing softly on the coffee table with a faint thud. Silver's ear twitched at the sound, but he didn't move—half dozing, his body relaxed under the blanket draped over his shoulders.

You shifted—slowly—turning toward him.

He opened his eyes halfway, blinking sleepily as you leaned closer. His gaze softened—concern flickering briefly, but he stayed still, letting you lead.

You didn't speak.

You didn't need to.

Your head pressed gently against his chest—nestling into the soft tuft of fur just above his heart. Your arm slipped around his waist, and your other hand curled lightly into the blanket draped over him. Your body folded into his side—fitting naturally, like you had done this a hundred times before.

Silver froze—just for a second.

Then—he melted.

The first thing you noticed was the softness.

Silver's fur wasn't like Tails'—Tails was soft, yes, but there was a coarseness to it from long hours in the workshop, oil and metal leaving their subtle traces no matter how well he cleaned up.

Silver's fur was different.

It was like clouds and silk had been woven together into something living. Fluffy—yes—but incredibly fine and smooth, as though he had somehow managed to refine his fur into the perfect balance of softness and volume.

You could sink into it—and you did.

Your fingers brushed along his side, tracing small circles, feeling the warmth beneath the plushness. It was well-groomed—not just naturally soft, but cared for. You caught the faintest trace of something pleasant—subtle, clean, a hint of citrus? Like he took his self-care routines seriously, even if he'd never brag about it.

Your face pressed deeper against his chest.
His heart was steady.
Slow.
Safe.

You felt like you could disappear into him—not vanish, not escape—but be held, completely, without needing to explain why.

Silver stiffened at first—not from discomfort, but from surprise.

No one had really... hugged him like this before.

Not like this.
Not needing him like this.

But after that brief hesitation, he responded the only way Silver knew how—with everything he had.

His arm came around your shoulders—gentle, careful, like he was afraid he might break you. His hand rested lightly against your back, fingers splaying out over your sweater. His other hand tugged the blanket up higher, draping it over both of you like a shield from the outside world.

He didn't speak.

He didn't have to.

He just held you

The fire popped softly, casting a gentle warmth over your legs. The room had settled into that perfect kind of quiet—the kind where breathing and heartbeats became the background melody.

You stayed like that—curled into Silver's chest, his fur brushing against your face with every breath. Each inhale filled your senses with warmth and faint citrus. Each exhale carried away a little more of the weight you had brought downstairs.

His fingers rubbed small, absent circles along your back—like he didn't even realize he was doing it. It was instinctive—his need to comfort overshadowing his usual nervousness.

He didn't ask what was wrong.
He didn't try to fix you.

He just let you be.

And you let him.

You sank deeper into his embrace—muscles loosening, breath evening out, the nightmare slowly fading into the corners of your mind.
Because you were here.
With him.
And he wasn't letting go.

You didn't know how long you stayed like that—minutes? An hour? Time didn't feel real anymore.

All you knew was the feel of his fur beneath your fingertips, the steady heartbeat in your ear, and the warmth that wrapped around you like a promise.

Silver shifted slightly—only to adjust, making sure you were comfortable. His cheek rested lightly against the top of your head, his breathing syncing with yours.

His voice—soft, almost a whisper:

"...You're okay."

It wasn't a question.

It was a quiet truth.
A reassurance.
A promise from someone who would always try to keep you safe.

And for the first time in a long while...
You believed it. Sleep had found you gently.

Curled into Silver's side—wrapped in his softness, breathing in faint traces of citrus—you had finally drifted off. The fire had dimmed, but its warmth lingered, mixing with the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath you.

And when morning crept in—soft light filtering through the curtains—you didn't wake with panic.

၄၃၄၃၄၃၄၃၄၃၄၃၄၃၄၃၄၃၄၃

You woke with warmth.

Your body stirred slowly, before your mind did—like your muscles remembered safety before your thoughts could question it.

You were warm.

Pressed into Silver's chest—your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm slung loosely over your waist. Your fingers had curled into his fur sometime during the night—your knuckles brushing against the fine strands that still smelled faintly of citrus.

Your leg was tangled between his—his knee tucked against yours—bodies naturally twisted together, finding comfort without asking for it.

His chest rose and fell beneath you, slow, steady—his breath brushing softly over the top of your head.

And beneath all of it...
The faintest sound.

A low, gentle vibration.

Purring.

Silver had been awake for a few minutes.

He hadn't meant to wake up before you. He never woke up first. But something about the weight against his chest—the feeling of your hand in his fur—had roused him gently.

And then, he realized.
Oh God. We're cuddling.

His eyes had shot open—heart hammering instantly—panic seizing his chest because oh no, oh no, they're on me, they're touching me, I'm touching them, what do I do, what do I do—

But then... he had paused.

Because you were still asleep.
Because you looked peaceful.
Because you were breathing easily, curled into him like this was the safest place in the world.

And Silver's panic... shifted.

His heart was still racing, but it wasn't just from panic anymore.
It was from warmth.
From awe.
From you.

You had chosen him.
You had let him hold you.
You trusted him.

So, he had stayed still—frozen, terrified of ruining it—until his chest started purring on its own.

He hadn't even realized it until a minute in—ears flattening in silent horror as the gentle vibration rumbled beneath his ribs.

But he couldn't stop it.

Because you were still there.

And you hadn't run.

So he closed his eyes and let it happen.

Let himself hold you.
Let himself feel worthy of this.
Just for a little longer.

You shifted against him—your fingers twitching lightly in his fur, brushing the soft tufts just below his collarbone.

Silver held his breath.
Oh no. They're waking up.

Your head shifted beneath his chin—your cheek nuzzling against him as you stretched slightly, your leg brushing against his. Your eyelids fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the dim light.

The first thing you registered was warmth.

The second was the sound.

Low, rumbling—gentle and soothing. You felt it beneath your palm, through his chest, vibrating faintly into your ear.

You blinked, eyes clearing as you tilted your head up slightly—just enough to see him.

Silver.

Awake.

Eyes wide, face flushed—completely flustered—but still... holding you.

And still purring.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

Neither of you moved.

The purring didn't stop.

Silver's mouth opened—closed—opened again—his brain visibly short-circuiting as his cheeks turned several shades redder.

"I—I—uh—" he stammered, voice breaking. "I—this is—it's not—I'm not—"

You didn't say anything.

Because you were still waking up.
Because your brain was still catching up.
Because his fur was so soft.

Your fingers twitched, brushing against it again—sinking deeper into the fine strands over his chest. Softer than clouds—clean, well-groomed—you could feel the faint warmth beneath it, the gentle rise and fall of his breath.

You realized then—you didn't want to move.

Your body, still heavy with sleep, shifted slightly—head lowering back against his chest, settling into the spot just above his heart.

Silver froze—mid-ramble.

You didn't speak.

But your hand curled more firmly into his fur, your palm spreading over his chest—soaking in the softness, the warmth, the safety.

His breath hitched.

The purring grew louder.

You felt it ripple through his body—deep and soothing—like a sound meant to comfort, to heal. You closed your eyes again, letting it wash over you.

Silver's hand, still resting on your back, hesitantly tightened—fingers brushing against your sweater, holding you a little closer.

His other hand twitched at his side—like he wanted to hold more of you but was too nervous to ask.

You didn't make him ask.

Your arm slid around his waist—completing the hug you had started the night before.

Silver's breath caught.

Then—he relaxed.

Completely.

His arms enveloped you—gently, like you were precious. His chin tucked lightly over the top of your head. His purring softened—no longer frantic or embarrassed, but steady, natural.

Content.

The world beyond the couch was quiet.

Tails was still in his room—probably snoring softly, tangled in his sheets.
Blaze was likely still resting—ever the light sleeper, but knowing she was safe here.
The house creaked softly in the morning light—wood settling, fire long since reduced to embers.

But none of that mattered.

Because you were here.
With Silver.
Wrapped in warmth.

And for once—you didn't feel the need to rush.
To get up.
To move.

You just... stayed.

And so did he.

The warmth had become familiar.

Silver's fur against your cheek.
The slow rhythm of his breath.
The gentle purring—now quieter, softer—like background music to your still-sleepy mind.

But reality was settling in.

The comfort was still there, but now you were awake—fully awake. And with it came the flicker of uncertainty, the need to ground yourself in something real.

You shifted slightly—your body reluctant, but your heart pushing you forward.

Your fingers brushed against his chest once more—one final pass over the softness—before you slowly, gently began to pull away.

Silver stiffened—like he wanted to hold on—but he didn't stop you.
He wouldn't.
He would never hold you back.

You sat up carefully, legs swinging over the side of the couch, your hands resting loosely on your lap. The cool air nipped at your skin, a stark contrast to the cocoon of warmth you had left.

Silver stayed where he was—still half-reclined, eyes wide and face flushed, but his gaze never left you.

Your voice was quiet—still rough from sleep, but steady.

"...So, friends?"

It was such a simple question.

But it wasn't.

Not to you.

Not to him.

Silver blinked—like you had just spoken in a language he didn't understand.

Friends.

The word echoed in his mind—louder than it should have been.

He wanted to blurt out "Yes! Of course! I thought we were already!"—but the weight in your tone stopped him.

You needed this.
You needed to hear it.
To know you weren't alone.

Silver sat up slowly—his blanket sliding off his shoulders, fur slightly ruffled from sleep. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands fidgeting lightly against each other.

His eyes softened—not embarrassed now, but earnest.

"...Yeah. Friends."

His voice was gentle, but there was something deeper underneath it—something full of relief, and hope, and promise.

"And... not just because we hugged... or—uh—slept, like... together. Not—not like that!" His words stumbled over themselves, face reddening again, but he pressed on.

"I mean... I want to be your friend. Really. Even before... this." He gestured vaguely at the couch, the blanket, the memory of purring.

"I... I think you're great. And I'd... really like to know you more. If you'll let me."

He bit his lip—nervously—but his eyes were steady.

Silver was many things—awkward, clumsy, sometimes unsure.
But he was also honest.
And you knew that every word was real.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

The tension you had carried—the fear that this might be one-sided, or temporary, or misunderstood—slipped away.

This wasn't just warmth from a cold night.
This wasn't just someone holding you because you needed it.

This was Silver choosing you.
Wanting you here.
Wanting to be part of your world.

You nodded—small, but real.

"...Okay."

The corners of his mouth lifted—soft, relieved.

You didn't say more.
You didn't need to.

But you stayed there—beside him, not touching, but close—letting the warmth linger.

The air was still cool when you slipped into the kitchen.

The house was stirring—but slowly. You had left Silver on the couch, his face still slightly flushed from your question, but smiling. His fur was ruffled, his blanket half-slipped onto the floor, but he had looked... content. It was a good start to the day. But now, you needed to do something. Your hands moved with quiet purpose—pulling ingredients from the small cupboards, the fridge humming softly as you gathered eggs, bread, butter. The simple kind of breakfast. The kind that felt right. Because this was your way. You weren't good with words—not always. But you could do this.

The gentle sizzle of eggs in the pan filled the space first—breaking the quiet of the morning. The warm scent of butter followed, curling through the room, coaxing the house into waking.

Bread slid into the toaster, popping up golden and warm. You slathered it lightly with butter, the knife scraping softly, a familiar rhythm.

You worked quietly—but not alone.

Footsteps—light, familiar—padded into the kitchen.

Tails, hair slightly flattened from sleep, ears twitching, sniffed the air like a curious fox.

"...Fenrir, that smells good," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

You gave a small nod, placing a plate on the counter.

He grinned—muttering a sleepy "thanks"—before grabbing his food and sinking into a chair, tail draping lazily over the side.

Blaze was next—always composed, even in the morning, though you noticed her fur was slightly puffed in places. She stretched—graceful but tired—before sliding into a seat beside Tails, offering you a soft smile.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

You returned it—small, but sincere.

And finally—Silver.

He shuffled in, hair a mess, fur still soft from sleep. His eyes locked onto you first—lingering for a moment—before he glanced away, face faintly pink.

He sat down next to Blaze, a little closer than necessary.

You set his plate down in front of him.

His ears twitched.

"...Thank you," he whispered.

You just patted his shoulder lightly—a simple touch—but his cheeks burned a little deeper.

The table filled with quiet sounds—the scrape of forks against plates, the soft clinking of cups, Tails muttering about needing to fix his toaster because "it's been slightly off by, like, 0.2 seconds."

Blaze listened patiently—nodding at all the right points, though her eyes glimmered with amusement. Silver occasionally glanced at you between bites—like he still couldn't believe you were here, with him, after last night. You didn't say much. But you didn't need to. This was home. This was comfort. And they felt it.

Eventually, the plates were cleared—Tails gathering the dishes, mumbling about "it's only fair since you cooked."

Blaze stretched, ears twitching as she glanced toward the door. "We should get moving. There's a supply run I need to handle, and Silver... needs to finish his training."

Silver groaned softly, but he stood—stretching his arms over his head, his fur fluffing out briefly before settling.

You followed them to the door—because of course you did.

Blaze turned first, offering you a small nod.

"It was good to see you. Don't be a stranger."

Her eyes softened—just a bit.

"You're always welcome."

You nodded back.

Silver lingered—just a second longer.

His eyes met yours, and he hesitated—like he wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

So instead—he smiled.

Shy.
But warm.

And you understood.

"We'll... see you soon?" he asked, his voice laced with quiet hope.

You nodded.

"Soon."

His smile widened—just a little.

Then, with a final wave from both of them, they stepped out into the daylight—Silver's voice already carrying through the clearing. You watched them disappear into the trees.

The house was quiet again.

But you knew it wouldn't stay that way for long.

Because they'd be back.

And so would you.

Because this was home now.
With all of them.

                                   *ੈ✩·₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩·₊˚

Chapter Text

(quote isnt mine xoxo.)
"Meeting you was like listening to a song for the first time

and knowing it would be my favorite."

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The morning light filtered through the windows of Tails' home, casting soft streaks of gold across the wooden floor. The air carried the lingering scent of oil and metal, the usual hum of Tails' workshop blending with the quiet rustle of pages.

You sat curled up in one of the chairs, a book balanced in your lap, your fingers idly tracing the edges of the worn cover. Reading had become second nature now—words easier to absorb, knowledge easier to digest. It was a comfortable silence for you, but not for the two sitting nearby.

Tails and Sonic were in the living room, completely engrossed in their conversation—though, if you were being honest, it was mostly Sonic talking while Tails tried to get a word in.

"I'm telling you, if I had one second more, I would've dodged that stupid laser." Sonic stretched lazily, draped across Tails' couch like he had all the time in the world. His quills pressed against the cushions as he threw an arm behind his head. "But nooo, of course Eggman's gotta have homing lasers now. That's totally fair."

Tails, still reviewing notes, barely looked up. "Maybe if you didn't try to taunt him mid-dodge, you wouldn't have had to worry about it in the first place."

Sonic gasped dramatically, sitting up. "Excuse me for trying to add a little flair! You can't just run, you have to look good doing it!"

You tilted your head slightly before turning a page. Sonic's need for theatrics was background noise by now.

Then the door swung open hard, nearly taking it off its hinges.

"I knew it!"

Amy stood in the doorway, pink quills bouncing as she planted a hand on her hip, the other pointing an accusing finger into the room.

Sonic flinched. "I wasn't—"

"Not you," she cut him off immediately, her eyes locking onto you like a laser. "You."

You barely had time to blink before she marched across the room, grabbing your wrist. "Come on! We're going shopping!"

Your body moved before your brain caught up.

Sonic sat up straighter, watching with growing amusement. "Another shopping trip? Already?"

Amy flipped her hair. "This time, it's important."

Tails finally looked up, adjusting his goggles. "For what, exactly?"

Amy scoffed. "Home decor, groceries, small things to make a place actually feel livable!" She turned back to you, determined. "You can't just exist in a space. You have to make it yours!"

Sonic stretched his arms over his head. "You do know Y/N isn't exactly the decorating type, right?"

Amy ignored him completely.

"I let you off easy last time," she said, still holding onto your wrist. "But now? You're getting stuff for you."

You hesitated. Did you really need anything?

Amy saw the reluctance on your face and softened slightly. "Trust me," she urged. "It makes a difference. Even just having a space that feels like yours."

That part made you pause.

Sonic, still lounging, smirked. "You're fighting a losing battle, Y/N. Just go. Resistance is futile."

You shot him a flat look.

Tails, watching all of this unfold, sighed. "I'll come too," he said finally. "Just to make sure nothing crazy happens."

Amy waved him off. "You're just gonna leave halfway through."

Tails didn't even argue. "Yeah," he admitted. "But I want to make sure Y/N doesn't get dragged into something ridiculous before I do."

Amy rolled her eyes—then her gaze landed on Sonic, and suddenly, her expression changed entirely.

"Ohhh, Sonic~"

Sonic, who had been watching this play out with mild amusement, immediately tensed.

"No."

"Come on," Amy whined, latching onto his arm, dramatically swaying side to side. "It won't be the same without you! We never do anything together anymore!"

Sonic gave her a deadpan look. "Amy, we just fought robots yesterday."

"That doesn't count! I mean something normal, something fun!"

"This isn't fun," he deadpanned.

Amy's grip tightened. "Pleaseee?"

"Amy—"

"Please, please, please?"

Tails snickered behind his hand.

Sonic sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine! Fine. I'll come."

Amy beamed.

Sonic immediately regretted it.

Tails laughed outright, getting up. "Alright, let's go before he changes his mind."

You, still processing all of this, blinked at Amy's sheer determination.

With that, the four of you headed out—Amy leading the charge, Sonic already dragging his feet, and Tails just shaking his head as you followed along.

This was going to be something.

────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱⋅⋆ ──────

The walk to the shopping district was... eventful.

Amy was practically skipping ahead, excitedly chattering about all the things you needed to get, while Sonic dragged his feet behind, arms crossed like a sulking child. Tails walked beside you, offering a small, knowing glance, silently communicating that this was exactly why he originally planned on staying behind.

The streets were lively, bustling with people carrying shopping bags, vendors calling out their latest deals, and the scent of freshly baked goods hanging in the air. You weren't entirely sure how Amy had so much energy for something as simple as shopping, but she was in her element, weaving through the crowd with ease.

Sonic, on the other hand, was visibly suffering.

"Alright!" Amy spun on her heel, dramatically pointing toward the rows of shops ahead. "We've got three objectives: One—stuff to make Y/N's space feel more personal. Two—groceries so they don't starve when Tails forgets to feed them. And three—" She turned to Sonic with a knowing smirk. "Clothes."

Sonic recoiled like she'd just smacked him. "Wait, what? Clothes for who?"

Amy crossed her arms. "You."

Sonic took a step back. "Nope. Noooope. Absolutely not."

Amy was already grabbing his wrist. "It's happening."

"HELP—"

You watched as Amy effortlessly dragged the fastest thing alive toward a clothing store, his heels digging into the ground like a cat refusing to take a bath.

Tails stifled a laugh. "You gonna go in after them?"

You simply shook your head and turned toward another store instead, one that looked far less chaotic.

Tails nodded approvingly. "Good call."

The store was warm and inviting, with soft golden lights casting a cozy glow over neatly arranged shelves. The faint scent of vanilla and aged wood filled the air, and every surface was covered with something—plush pillows, ceramic trinkets, ornate picture frames, and woven tapestries that hung like cascading waterfalls of fabric.

You had never seen so many different ways to decorate a space before.

Amy led the charge, immediately diving into the sea of items with a sparkle in her eye. Sonic, however, barely made it two steps inside before visibly deflating, already looking for the nearest exit.

"Alright!" Amy declared, turning on her heel with a determined gleam in her eyes. "We're here for one reason and one reason only—making Y/N's space feel like an actual home."

You blinked.

Sonic blinked. "Pretty sure food was also on the list—"

Amy ignored him.

She grabbed the nearest decorative pillow and shoved it into your arms. "This. This is important."

You glanced down at it—a soft, navy-blue cushion embroidered with tiny golden stars. Your fingers brushed over the fabric, the texture strangely soothing. You gave her a small nod.

Amy beamed, already grabbing another one. "See? Now we're getting somewhere!"

Sonic groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "Amy, it's a pillow. They could sleep on literally anything."

Amy shot him a glare so sharp he physically leaned back. "That's not the point, Sonic."

Tails, watching from the side with an amused look, gave you a small nod of encouragement. "Just let her do her thing. It's easier that way."

Amy huffed before turning back to you. "Okay, we're gonna need more than just pillows. What about lights? Do you want warm lighting or cool lighting? Or maybe some LED strips? Ooh, or fairy lights! We could string them up near your bed!"

You hesitated, glancing around the store as you processed the overwhelming number of choices. Did you really need lights? You never really thought about these kinds of things before.

Amy must have noticed your uncertainty because her expression softened slightly. She picked up a small box with delicate string lights inside, the kind that looked like tiny glowing fireflies trapped in glass. "These are really nice. They make a space feel... warmer, more like your own."

She handed the box to you, and you took it slowly, running your fingers over the smooth packaging.

She smiled. "Having a space that feels like you? That's important."

You thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

Sonic crossed his arms. "This is taking forever."

Amy whirled around. "No one invited you."

"You literally begged me to come—"

Amy clamped a hand over his mouth. "No one. Invited. You."

Tails, stifling laughter, nudged you toward another section. "C'mon, let's look at some rugs before they start wrestling in the middle of the store."

You followed him, the soft glow of the fairy lights still warm in your hands.

Rugs were apparently serious business.

Amy and Tails had taken it upon themselves to find the perfect one, while you stood between them, quietly watching as they debated like scholars at an ancient council.

"This one has better material," Tails argued, holding up a simple beige rug. "It's softer and will last longer."

Amy scoffed. "Yeah, but this one—" she pointed to a deep blue one with intricate gold patterns, "—actually looks nice."

Sonic, sitting on a nearby bench, muttered under his breath, "What is happening right now?"

Amy ignored him and turned to you. "Y/N, be honest. Which one do you like better?"

You stared at both rugs.

Then, without a word, you reached over and grabbed a completely different one—a soft, dark fabric that felt like velvet beneath your fingers, its design simple but elegant.

Tails and Amy stopped bickering immediately.

Sonic whistled. "And that's how you shut 'em up."

Amy blinked. "...Okay, yeah, that one is really nice."

Tails sighed in defeat. "Fair enough."

You gave a small nod, satisfied.

Amy clapped her hands. "Great! Now all we need is—"

Sonic groaned loudly. "Amy. Please. It's been an hour."

Amy rolled her eyes but relented. "Fine, fine. We'll go check out."

Sonic visibly relaxed, standing up and stretching his arms. "Thank God."

Amy turned to you, smiling. "See? Shopping can be fun."

You tilted your head, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Amy's smile widened. "I knew you'd warm up to it!"

With bags in hand, the four of you left the store, the warm afternoon sun greeting you as you stepped outside.

One stop down. Two more to go.

The grocery store was quieter than the bustling shopping district, the faint hum of freezers filling the space as you wandered through the aisles. The air smelled of fresh produce and packaged goods, and the floors were polished to a near-perfect shine, reflecting the overhead lights.

Amy handed you a basket with a knowing smirk. "Alright, Y/N, get whatever you need!"

You blinked at her, then at the basket in your hands.

Amy blinked back, waiting expectantly.

"You... do know what you like to eat, right?" she asked hesitantly, tilting her head.

You turned to Tails for help.

Tails sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "They mostly just eat whatever's made for them."

Amy groaned, dramatically pressing a hand to her forehead. "Fenrir, this is why I'm here."

Without waiting for an answer, she snatched the basket from your hands and started marching down the aisles with determination, tossing in various food items—some canned goods, easy-to-cook meals, fruits, and vegetables.

"You need actual options," Amy continued. "And Tails, you need to stop feeding them only what you eat."

Tails raised his hands defensively. "Hey, they never complained!"

"Because they don't talk much!" Amy shot back.

Tails gave you a look, as if asking for backup, but you just shrugged. Amy was right.

Sonic, meanwhile, was already halfway across the store, eyes locked on a very specific target—the chili dogs in the frozen foods section. He practically slid across the floor, coming to a dramatic stop as he grabbed a few packs.

Amy sighed but didn't stop him. "Fine. But we're focusing on Y/N right now."

Tails, now holding a small list he pulled from his Miles Electric, glanced over. "Hey, Y/N, anything you want?"

You paused, scanning the shelves, before quietly wandering toward the sweets section.

Amy and Tails exchanged glances before following.

You didn't grab anything right away—just stood there, staring at the colorful packaging of various sweets, your fingers idly tracing the edges of one of the boxes. There were chocolate bars, fruity candies, and rows of pastries neatly lined up behind the glass.

Amy stepped beside you, watching curiously. "You got a sweet tooth?"

You gave a small nod, almost embarrassed to admit it.

Amy grinned. "Oh, I get that. You have to try these—" She grabbed a box of strawberry-filled pastries and placed them in the basket. "They're so good with tea or coffee!"

Tails chuckled, shaking his head. "That actually explains a lot. You always hover around Vanilla's baking whenever we visit."

You blinked. Had you really been that obvious?

Meanwhile, Sonic finally returned, arms full of chili dogs, looking way too pleased with himself. "Okay, I got the important stuff."

Amy gave him a flat look. "We're supposed to be shopping for Y/N, not your endless supply of chili dogs!"

Sonic looked deeply offended. "This is important. Vital, even."

Amy groaned. "You're impossible."

"You love me," Sonic shot back, tossing his packs of chili dogs into the cart with no remorse.

Amy huffed, cheeks heating up. "Shut up."

Tails ignored them both, turning back to you. "So, what's your favorite sweet? If we're stocking up, might as well get what you actually like."

You hesitated, then pointed toward a small package of chocolate truffles tucked between the other candies.

Amy immediately grabbed them, tossing them into the cart with an approving nod. "Good choice. Chocolate is always the right answer."

Sonic raised an eyebrow, leaning on the cart. "Wait, wait. You like sweets?"

You gave him a slow nod.

A grin spread across his face. "Alright, I officially like you."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Oh, now you do?"

Sonic shrugged. "Hey, anyone who appreciates good food is cool in my book."

You sighed, shaking your head. These two would never change.

The grocery store's quiet hum settled around you as the group navigated through the aisles. Amy, ever determined, led the charge with a list in her hands, her eyes scanning the shelves like a trained hunter. Sonic, on the other hand, was leisurely walking a few steps behind, hands behind his head like this whole thing was the most unnecessary trip in the world.

"Alright, we need vegetables, fruit, actual food," Amy muttered, glancing at her list before tossing a box of granola bars into the basket. "And no, Sonic, chili dogs don't count."

Sonic, already holding a pack of frozen chili dogs, looked personally offended. "Excuse me?"

Amy rolled her eyes. "We're getting real food."

"Chili dogs are real food."

"They're junk food!"

"They're food that exists. Therefore, real."

Amy exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Why do I even bother?"

You watched the back-and-forth with mild amusement, absently following behind as Amy threw items into the basket. Sonic, however, took the opportunity to slip off toward the self-checkout, casually dodging Amy's further scolding as he scanned his frozen chili dogs.

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you, Ames," Sonic called over his shoulder. "I promise to eat something green later."

Amy huffed but didn't chase after him, probably realizing it wasn't worth the effort.

That left you standing with Tails as Amy wandered deeper into the store, her hands already full with items you weren't entirely sure she needed.

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there in the soft hum of the grocery store—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the faint chatter of other shoppers blending with the distant sound of a register beeping. You shifted your weight slightly before speaking up, your voice softer than usual.

"...What kind of sweets do you like?"

Tails, in the middle of reaching for a carton of milk, froze just slightly. He glanced at you, ears flicking upward as if he wasn't sure he heard you right. "Huh?"

"You said before you don't really like sweet things," you continued, watching him carefully, "but if you had to pick...?"

His grip on the milk tightened just a little as he tilted his head, golden eyes studying you like he was trying to figure out why you were asking. After a pause, he finally shrugged. "I mean, yeah, I don't go out of my way for sweets, but I guess... I do like one thing."

You perked up slightly, waiting expectantly for his answer.

Instead of answering, Tails smirked, a playful glint in his eye. "Tell you what—if you can figure it out, I'll give you a reward."

Your expression immediately flattened. You should've known.

Tails chuckled, already placing the milk into the cart. "I'll even give you a hint," he offered, holding up a finger. "It's sweet... but contains a lot of rock salt."

You blinked. Rock salt? That wasn't exactly a common ingredient in desserts. Your brows furrowed slightly as you considered the possibilities. Was it a type of candy? A pastry? Something frozen? Your gaze flickered toward the shelves ahead, scanning the neatly stacked boxes and bags, hoping something would stand out.

Tails, clearly enjoying himself, leaned against the cart with an amused look. "I'll give you until we check out," he added, watching your expression shift into one of quiet determination. "If you can find it, you win."

Challenge accepted.

You turned on your heel, gripping the basket tighter as your gaze swept over the shelves with newfound determination. Tails chuckled beside you, leisurely pushing the cart forward while you methodically scanned each aisle.

A sweet with a lot of rock salt? That narrowed things down, but not by much. You ruled out pastries almost immediately—nothing you'd seen in Vanilla's kitchen used that much salt unless it was for baking. Hard candy seemed like a possibility, but most of those were either sour or fruity, not salty. Chocolate? Maybe, but what kind?

You paused at an aisle lined with colorful wrappers, your eyes trailing over caramel chews, chocolate bars, and taffy bags. Nothing stood out.

Tails stifled a grin as he watched you stand there, analyzing the shelves like you were cracking some kind of ancient code. "You know, you could always just give up," he teased.

You shot him a look.

"Didn't think so." He smirked, casually leaning against the cart as he waited.

You ignored him, stepping further into the aisle. There had to be something—

Then, at the very top shelf, almost out of sight, you spotted it.

A small, dark blue package with gold lettering. The brand name didn't stand out, but the description did: Caramel Bites with Rock Salt in Dark Chocolate.

Limited edition.

Your eyes narrowed. Of course it had to be on the highest shelf.

Tails, noticing your sudden stillness, followed your gaze and let out an amused hum. "Ah. So you found it."

You exhaled, stepping closer and reaching up. Your fingers barely brushed the edge of the box. Annoying.

Tails, now thoroughly entertained, rested his arms on the cart. "Need a hand?"

You ignored him.

Instead, you gave the shelf a calculating look before lightly stepping onto the lower ledge—not enough to damage it, just enough to push yourself higher. With a quick stretch, your fingers curled around the package, pulling it free.

You landed back on the ground smoothly, turning toward Tails with the box in hand, holding it up like a trophy.

Tails blinked.

Then he blinked again, clearly caught off guard.

"You actually found it," he said, eyes flicking from the package to you, as if trying to piece together how you'd done it so fast.

You gave a small, satisfied nod.

Tails let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Huh. I wasn't actually expecting you to figure it out."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Guess I owe you that reward now," he admitted, scratching the back of his head with a lopsided grin.

Victory.

That's when your gaze landed on something soft and white—little puffs of sugar, dusted delicately like fresh snow. Marshmallows.

They reminded you of Silver.

You weren't sure why. Maybe it was the way they looked so weightless, like they could float if given the chance. Or maybe it was because, despite their softness, they held their shape—resilient in their own way.

Your fingers brushed over the plastic packaging, lost in thought. Then, an idea settled in your mind, quiet but persistent.

What if you got something for everyone?

Your hands moved before your thoughts fully caught up, placing the bag of marshmallows into the cart beside the caramel chocolate.

Tails, standing beside you, noticed the shift in your behavior. He tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes, but he didn't say anything. He just watched as you continued down the aisle, scanning the shelves with a newfound focus.

A box of chocolate orange slices caught your eye next. Tails liked citrus flavors—whether it was juice, candy, or tea, he always seemed drawn to it. You reached for the box without hesitation, setting it beside the marshmallows.

Dried blueberries for Sonic. Tart and bursting with energy, just like him. The kind of snack he could grab on the go, something light enough to match the way he never stayed in one place for long.

Sweet and spicy chocolate for Amy. Nothing overwhelming, just a hint of warmth that lingered after the sweetness. It suited her—bright, passionate, with a spark that never quite faded.

A package of baking chocolate for Vanilla. She would actually use it, turn it into something warm and homemade. Out of everyone, she was the one who made things with care, turning simple ingredients into something comforting.

And finally, something delicate for Cream—chocolate that melted the second it touched your tongue, rich and smooth. Soft, kind. Just like how she always made people feel around her. (Yet none for Knuckles. I totally didnt forget him, shh.)

You paused, looking down at the cart, now filled with small, thoughtful choices.

You weren't sure what made you do it. It wasn't something you had planned. But for some reason, it felt... right.

For once, it wasn't about receiving. It wasn't about others deciding things for you, offering kindness that you weren't sure how to return. This time, you were the one giving. And you liked it. (Well more like Tails giving on your behalf. You still didn't have any money to your name.)

The last store was different from the others. Smaller, tucked neatly between towering storefronts, it had a quiet charm that set it apart. The handcrafted wooden sign above the door was slightly worn, the windows lined with delicate trinkets that glittered softly under the shop's warm lighting.

Unlike the other stores, this place wasn't loud or overwhelming. It felt more personal.

Amy had led you here on purpose.

The moment you stepped inside, the scent of polished wood and faint vanilla greeted you. The atmosphere was calm, almost cozy, a stark contrast to the bustling shopping district outside.

Tails wandered off immediately, drawn to a display near the counter filled with small mechanical gadgets and intricate puzzle boxes. Sonic, sensing that the immediate danger of being dragged into more shopping had passed, seized the opportunity to drop into one of the cushioned chairs near the entrance, slumping back dramatically. His expression screamed over it.

Amy, however, stayed close. With a light nudge, she steered you toward a glass display case near the center of the shop.

"Look," she said, motioning for you to peer inside.

The glass case was filled with tiny, handcrafted pieces—small charms, delicate jewelry, and trinkets shaped with evident care. Some were made of smooth stone, others of shimmering glass or woven metal. Each one felt unique, like no two were exactly the same.

Amy's reflection smiled at you in the glass. "Pick something," she said, voice light but firm. "Consider it a gift—from me to you."

You turned to her, blinking.

She rolled her eyes, but there was fondness behind it. "Just take it, Y/N. You saved Sonic back in that cave. I owe you one."

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the glass as you considered her words. The idea of someone owing you something felt strange. You never did things expecting anything in return.

Still, you could see it in her expression—this wasn't about debt. It was about friendship.

After a moment, you lifted a hand and pointed to a simple bracelet. A thin band with a small, polished stone in the center. Unassuming, but sturdy.

Amy's smile grew as she motioned for the shopkeeper, quickly purchasing it without giving you a chance to protest. The moment it was wrapped and handed over, she placed it directly into your palm.

"There," she said, satisfied. "See? Shopping isn't so bad."

From across the room, Sonic muttered without even opening his eyes, "Debatable."

Tails reappeared just then, glancing between you and Amy before looking at the small bag in your hand. His ears flicked with mild curiosity, but he didn't comment. Instead, he just adjusted his goggles. "We ready?"

Amy nodded, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. "Yep! Mission complete!"

Sonic groaned as he dragged himself up from the chair. "Thank God."

As the four of you stepped out of the shop, Amy radiated triumph, Sonic radiated exhaustion, and Tails, looked quietly entertained by it all.

You, on the other hand, walked a little slower, fingers curling around the bracelet in your palm.

There was a quiet warmth in your chest, a feeling you didn't quite have words for yet.

Maybe Amy was onto something after all.

♡ ∩_∩

╭ („• ֊ •„)♡ ୨୧ ┈┈ • ┈╮

U U

Despite his earlier claims, Tails never did leave. From the first store to the last, he stayed within arm's reach, quietly lingering nearby. Maybe it was just out of habit—or maybe, despite his usual preference for working solo, he didn't mind tagging along this time.

By the time you all returned to his home, the sun had dipped lower, casting a warm orange glow through the windows. Sonic barely stepped inside before deciding he'd had enough, stretching lazily before disappearing with a quick, "Later!" (He would come back dont worry.)

That left you and Amy standing in the entryway, bags in hand.

Amy wasted no time.

With a bright grin, she hooked her arm through yours and practically marched you up the stairs, ignoring whatever feeble resistance you might've given. Tails, wisely, decided to sit this one out.

The moment you stepped into the guest room—your room—Amy's eyes immediately landed on the drawings taped to the wall.

Cream's drawings.

They had been the first real thing you added to the space, the only personal touch in an otherwise barren room.

Amy let out an audible gasp before spinning toward you, hands clasped together like she had just witnessed the most precious thing in the world. "Oh my gosh, Y/N, these are adorable!"

Your entire body tensed.

Before you could react, she was already stepping closer, leaning in to admire them. Her expression softened as she took in the crayon-colored depictions—little moments captured in childish scribbles. There was one of you and Cream having tea, another of you holding a Chao, and one where she had drawn you, her, and Vanilla standing together like a family.

Amy cooed. "Awwwww."

You—completely unprepared for this level of attention—felt warmth creeping up your neck.

Amy turned to you, her face full of delight. "Why didn't you tell me Cream drew these for you?!"

You looked away, rubbing the back of your neck. You hadn't thought it was a big deal. But now, with Amy standing there, absolutely gushing over them, you weren't sure how to respond.

Amy giggled, giving you a light nudge. "You're too cute, you know that?"

You let out a quiet huff, quickly shifting focus to the bags in your hands in an attempt to escape further embarrassment. "...We should set everything up," you murmured.

Amy grinned but didn't tease you further. "Yeah, yeah, let's do it."

And so, the two of you got to work.

The space you had been living in—empty, untouched—began to transform.

The soft rug you picked out was unrolled and placed near the bed, instantly making the cold wooden floor feel warmer. The decorative pillows found a home on the bed, the navy fabric speckled with golden stars adding a small but meaningful touch. Amy helped string up the fairy lights, draping them along the walls and around the bay window, their gentle glow casting a softer, warmer light than the overhead fixture ever could.

You adjusted the space carefully, making it yours.

The bay window—previously unused—became something more. The cushions were arranged neatly, turning it into a perfect reading spot, one where you could sit comfortably and watch the outside world.

Bit by bit, the room stopped feeling like just a place to sleep. It became a space you actually wanted to stay in.

Amy plopped onto the bed once everything was in place, stretching her arms with satisfaction. "There!" She looked around, clearly proud of the result. "Now this looks like a proper room."

You stood near the window, taking it all in.

She was right.

It wasn't just a guest room anymore.

It was yours.

The room felt different now. Warmer. More like a place meant to be lived in rather than just stayed in. The soft glow of the fairy lights cast gentle shadows across the walls, and the night outside was quiet. Amy hadn't left.

Instead, she had made herself comfortable in the bay window, stretching her legs out and resting against the cushions, completely at ease in your newly decorated space. You sat on the bed, mirroring her casualness—or at least, trying to.

Talking wasn't your strongest skill. Not in long stretches, not like this. You weren't silent, but you had always relied more on gestures than words.

Amy seemed to pick up on that because she gave you a reassuring smile. "So," she started, leaning back against the window frame, "how's the last couple of days been treating you?"

A simple question. But a complicated answer.

You hesitated, rolling the words around in your head before deciding to just say them. "...It's been strange."

Amy tilted her head, waiting.

And so, for the first time, you actually talked to her.

You told her about the past few days—the troubles with the master emerald (you didn't go into much detail), how cute Silver was, hanging out with Cream and Vanilla. Of having too many choices and not enough familiarity. You told her about Tails, how he seemed to hover around but never really talked to you about what he was thinking. How Sonic mostly found amusement in watching you react to things he took for granted.

How, despite being surrounded by people, you still felt like you were figuring everything out alone.

Amy listened.

Not just in a passive way—she really listened, nodding occasionally, making small noises of acknowledgment. She didn't interrupt, didn't rush you, just let you get your thoughts out however you needed to.

When you finally paused, unsure of what else to say, she hummed thoughtfully.

"You know," she mused, tapping her fingers against her knee, "I kinda figured you needed someone to talk to."

You blinked at her, surprised by how easily she said it.

Amy grinned, kicking her feet slightly. "And lucky for you, I just so happen to be an amazing listener. Also a fantastic problem-solver. And a hedgehog. But that's just a bonus."

You gave her a look, unimpressed.

Amy smirked. "Oh, don't give me that. You so need another person to help you out. And guess what—I volunteer!"

You stared at her for a moment before exhaling through your nose. "You?"

"Me," she said confidently, tossing her quills over her shoulder. "You've been hanging out with Tails and Sonic too much. They're great, obviously, but neither of them are exactly the best at emotional support."

You tilted your head slightly, considering.

Amy leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Sonic's fun, but he dodges anything too personal. And Tails—he means well, but he's got that whole 'quietly worrying but never actually saying anything' thing going on. And he gets distracted by his projects."

She wasn't wrong.

Amy smiled knowingly at your expression. "See? This is why I'm the best option."

You hesitated before speaking. "...What makes you think I need help?"

Amy snorted. "Oh, please. I know that look." She pointed at you, then at herself. "I invented that look. You're overwhelmed. You've got too much going on in your head, but you don't wanna be a bother by saying anything about it. So instead, you just deal with it on your own."

You frowned slightly.

Amy grinned. "Did I nail that, or did I nail that?"

You didn't want to admit it, but... she wasn't wrong.

Amy softened, tilting her head. "Hey," she said gently, "you don't have to figure everything out alone, you know."

You lowered your gaze slightly.

"You don't even have to talk all the time," Amy continued. "You just need someone who gets it. Someone who won't let you bottle everything up until you explode."

You thought about that.

About how easy it was to just let things happen instead of reaching out.

Amy sighed dramatically, flopping back against the cushions. "Besides, I need someone to drag along for the fun stuff. Tails doesn't like shopping, Sonic always runs off, and Cream's too little to join me all the time."

You gave her a small, skeptical look. "This is why you want to help me?"

Amy grinned. "No, I actually wanna help because you're my friend."

The word friend settled into your chest, unfamiliar yet... not unwelcome.

Amy smiled, softer this time. "So, deal?"

You hesitated only for a second before giving a small nod.

Amy beamed. "Good! Because trust me, I have so much advice waiting for you."

You groaned lightly.

She smirked. "Oh, you so need it."

And for the first time in a long while, you felt a little lighter.

The room had settled into a comfortable quiet, the kind that only came when two people were truly at ease with each other. The fairy lights cast a soft glow along the walls, and the hum of the world outside felt distant—like it belonged to another place entirely.

Amy remained curled up in the bay window, absentmindedly twirling a strand of her quills between her fingers. You sat on the bed, legs crossed, fingers lightly tracing the edge of the bracelet she had given you.

Then, without much thought, you spoke.

"...I can feel them."

Amy blinked, looking up. "Feel what?"

"The gems," you murmured. "My pieces. They're calling to me."

Amy's playful expression faded into something more thoughtful. She shifted, turning to fully face you. "Like... the way the Master Emerald call to Knuckles sometimes?"

You hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Something like that. But it's... different. It's not just power. It's me."

Amy didn't say anything, letting you continue.

"I know they're out there," you admitted, your voice quieter now. "Sometimes I even know the direction. But..." Your grip tightened slightly around the bracelet. "I don't go to them. I stop myself every time."

Amy tilted her head. "Why?"

You inhaled slowly. "Because I'm scared."

That caught her off guard. "Scared of what?"

You stared at the floor, unsure how to put it into words. The fear that had been gnawing at you for so long, the quiet thought lingering in the back of your mind every time the pull of the gems grew stronger.

"If I find all my missing pieces... will I still be me?"

Amy's lips parted slightly, as if she hadn't expected that. She watched you for a moment, her expression softer now. "Y/N..."

"It's dumb," you muttered. "I should want to be whole. But what if the me I am now isn't who I was meant to be? What if I just... disappear?"

Amy frowned, shifting forward slightly. "Hey." Her voice was firm but kind. "You are you. Right here, right now. Whatever happens, that won't change."

You didn't respond immediately.

Amy crossed her arms, thinking. "You know... I don't have the right answer. But you don't have to figure it all out alone."

You glanced up.

Amy smiled, small but reassuring. "You've got us now. And I'm not letting you disappear, so don't even think about it."

The weight in your chest eased slightly, but the question still lingered at the back of your mind.

So, naturally, you shifted the conversation.

"...Do all hedgehogs purr?"

Amy blinked. "What?"

"Silver purred."

Amy really blinked at that one. "Silver? Silver Silver?"

You nodded.

She stared at you like she was trying to picture it, then burst into laughter. "Oh my gosh, that's adorable."

Your face scrunched slightly. "He acted like it wasn't normal."

Amy shook her head, still laughing softly. "It is normal—for some."

You tilted your head. "So not all hedgehogs, do it?"

Amy smirked, then—out of nowhere—let out a low, deep growl.

Except it wasn't just a growl. It had a soft, almost purring undertone, like a slow rumble deep in her chest.

You stiffened slightly, not expecting the sound.

Amy grinned at your reaction. "See? We all do it differently."

You stared at her, still processing. "You growl?"

"Sometimes," she said, tapping her chin. "Usually when I'm really happy or... really mad. Hedgehogs are expressive—Sonic clicks, silver purrs, and I? I do this." She growled again; the rumble softer this time.

It was oddly... soothing.

You sat back, absorbing the information. "So, Sonic doesn't purr?"

Amy waved a hand. "Not really. He does this little click thing sometimes, but it's rare. You probably wouldn't notice unless you were really paying attention."

You nodded slowly, storing the information away.