Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the vibrant but fractured world of Mobius, Sandi had always been the epitome of curiosity—though curiosity here was less a luxury and more a survival trait. For her, necessities were struggles, conveniences were rare strokes of luck. Meals had to be scavenged from whatever scraps the land or abandoned towns offered. Rain was her only bath, rinsing away the grime of travel, though never quite the weight of exhaustion. Comforts—soft beds, warm meals, clean clothes—had become foreign concepts, half-remembered dreams.

She was a rabbit, but not the soft, storybook kind. Her unruly black hair was tied into two uneven pigtails, strands sticking out like defiance itself. She wore a pair of battered black high-tops, canvas ripped open to reveal holes where her toes sometimes peeked through, rubber soles scuffed from countless paths explored. Each step made them squelch with dampness, a reminder of the marshy ground she had crossed. Her clothes told the rest of her story: a frayed, baggy black shirt that hung off her frame, and ripped fishnet tights that clung stubbornly to her legs. She looked like someone who had been worn down by the world but refused to disappear into it.

Sandi followed a narrow rock pathway that wound through lush vegetation, her eyes darting between the green canopy above and the mechanical skyline beyond. The path ended at an abandoned warehouse, its rusted frame rising like a scar in the heart of Mobius’s industrial sprawl. It looked vacant, forgotten—yet she could have sworn she heard gears clanking, steam hissing, as though the building itself still breathed.

She leaned against the wall, catching her breath, and scrubbed her shoes against the mud-stained ground, trying to rid them of the muck. As she rubbed them in a patch of grass, her eyes caught on a vent low to the wall. It was just wide enough. With a push and a squeeze, she slid her way inside, her small frame twisting through the narrow opening.

The further she crawled, the more space opened up, until she could stand, though her head nearly brushed the ceiling. She sniffed the air and immediately regretted it. A foul stench clung to the corridor, thick and sour, making her wrinkle her nose. She pressed her hand against her face, trying to block it out.

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t been so curious,” she thought, her voice trembling inside her head. “The smell in here is dreadful…”

She struggled to hold her breath, but the air was heavy, clinging to her lungs. The corridor was dark, her vision reduced to vague shapes, but her ears caught what her eyes could not: the crunch beneath her soles. She winced. Eggshells. Bones. Each step was a reminder that something had been here before her, something that ate and discarded without care.

In the distance, a faint glimmer of light beckoned her forward. She squinted, hope and dread tangling in her chest.

“Who—or what—was gnawing on bones in here? Maybe if I walk all the way to the end, there will be a—”

Her thought cut short as the ground gave way. A hidden chute yawned beneath her, and she tumbled down, landing with a heavy thud.

“Ouch,” she whimpered, rubbing her head. Dust clung to her hair and shirt. She sat up slowly, brushing herself off, heart pounding.

For the first time, she wondered if her curiosity had finally led her somewhere she couldn’t crawl back from.

Sandi coughed as dust particles swirled around her like a storm of tiny insects, catching in her throat and stinging her eyes. She had landed on what seemed to be an old mattress, its surface buried beneath a jumble of blankets, pillows, and discarded clothes. The impact forced the mattress to exhale a plume of dust so thick it could have hosted its own ecosystem. She lay there for a moment, dazed, the scent of mould and metal filling her nose, her chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.

A single ray of light cut through a crack high in the wall above, illuminating the room in a pale, sickly glow. Her heart raced as her eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings. Pipes crawled up the walls like steel vines, their joints hissing faintly with trapped air. Flickering bulbs cast an uneven glow, shadows jerking across the walls like restless ghosts. The unmistakable tang of oil and rust clung to the air, heavy and metallic, mixing with the damp rot of mildew. Cobwebs draped the corners, and patches of damp spread like bruises along the skirting boards. Somewhere deeper in the factory, machinery hummed faintly, as though the building itself was alive, breathing in the dark.

Then the lights shifted. Dim red bulbs flickered on one by one, like the room itself was blinking awake. Sandi shifted uneasily in the nest of blankets, her ears twitching as her eyes adjusted. And then she saw him.

The largest man she had ever seen stood before her, his silhouette filling the space. His posture radiated superiority, but beneath it was something else—an undertone that set her instincts screaming. He was shaped like an egg, his body grotesquely round, his belly swollen beyond reason, hanging over him like an apron of flesh. A lengthy ginger moustache sprouted from his pink nose, twitching as he breathed. He wore what might once have been a white lab coat, now stained, frayed, and littered with crumbs. Beneath it, a crimson shirt strained against his bulk, buttons threatening to burst. His trousers fared no better, shabby and torn at the ankles, held up only by suspenders that seemed to be losing their battle against gravity.

He raised a brow, unimpressed, his small eyes narrowing as they fixed on her.

Beside him stood another man—lean, precise, and poised. He was not physically imposing, but his presence was sharp, deliberate. His high-collared charcoal uniform was immaculate, every line pressed, every seam exact. He stood in the corner, meticulously arranging a tray of beverages, each glass aligned with mathematical precision. Yet the liquids inside shimmered with unnatural colours, none of them resembling anything fit for human consumption. His face was symmetrical, almost unnervingly so, but it was a symmetry that demanded no praise—it was simply there, cold and exacting.

“Intruder!” the large man spluttered, his voice booming with indignation and outrage. “What is the meaning of this?”

Sandi scrambled to her feet, ears twitching, cheeks flushed. “I—I-I’m ever so sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to!” she stammered, laughing nervously, startled by the sheer force of his glare. She brushed dust and gravel from her shirt, her hands trembling.

Then it came—a deep, resonant rumble. For a moment, she thought it was her own stomach, her rosy-pink cheeks puffing as she clutched her middle. But no—the sound came from him.

The man smirked, lowering his gaze to his bloated belly, which rested heavily on his knees. With a sigh of contentment, he placed a hand on its curve and rubbed it in slow, deliberate circles. His stomach answered with a chorus of gurgles, almost conversational, and he chortled as though amused by its reply.

“Didn’t mean to what exactly?” he sneered. “Break into my home? Crash through and damage my rafters? Hunger? Exhaustion? You must have meant something. No one ends up here by accident.”

As he spoke, he tugged at his belt, loosening it with a grunt. His enormous girth spilt forward, freed from its restraint. He admired the curve of his belly with both palms, sliding them around its circumference as though it were something to be worshipped. His nostrils flared, doubling in size, and a low moan escaped him, half-pleasure, half-relief.

The lean man in the corner—Stone—hesitated. For the first time, his professional mask faltered. His eyes flicked toward Sandi, just for a moment, as though to measure her reaction. Then, with a small adjustment of his jaw, he returned to his task, aligning the last glass on the tray with perfect precision.

Sandi’s heart pounded. The air felt heavier now, charged with something she couldn’t name. She had stumbled into a place she was never meant to see, and the man before her—this grotesque figure of power and hunger—was not just curious about her intrusion. He was amused.

And that, she realised, was far worse.

“Doctor,” the bearded man hesitated, his voice careful, “while I admire your… enthusiasm, perhaps there is a more, uh, humane way to handle this…”

The large man cut him off with a dramatic sweep of his arm, his moustache twitching like a banner in the air. “Stone! Fetch me a glass of white wine—something crisp, something refined, something worthy of my genius.”

Stone’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded quickly, his composure never faltering. He stepped back into the corner of the room, where a metallic shelf displayed a mismatched collection of bottles. His sharp eyes scanned the labels with the precision of a jeweller, finally selecting one. He poured the pale liquid into a pristine glass, careful not to spill a drop, then carried it back with both hands as though presenting an offering.

Robotnik accepted it with a flourish, swirling the wine with exaggerated precision before taking a long, deliberate sip. He let out a satisfied hum, leaning back into his chair as though he were a king upon a throne. Then, with a sudden snap of his fingers—sharp, commanding, final—the air itself seemed to stiffen.

“Scratch! Grounder!” he barked, his arm swinging in a mechanical arc. With his other hand, he pulled a cigar and a box of matches from the pocket of his stained lab coat.

Almost immediately, two heads popped around a corner Sandi hadn’t noticed before.

“Yes, your maliciousness!” they chimed in unison.

The first was tall and gangly, a robot resembling a chicken with jerky, exaggerated movements. The second was squat and tank-like, drills for hands whirring faintly as he shuffled forward. Their arrival was noisy, clattering, their voices pitched too high, too eager. The chaos of their presence only made Robotnik’s calm more unnerving.

He struck a match, lit the cigar, and exhaled a thick plume of smoke that curled through the air like a living thing. The acrid scent filled the room, making Sandi cough frantically, her small body shaking as she pressed herself deeper into the bundle of blankets.

“My loyal minions,” Robotnik declared, his voice booming, “and my ever-efficient Agent Stone—just look at what fate has delivered unto us tonight. It seems we have a guest.”

Scratch tilted his head, his beak clattering. “Remind me again, your most supreme of super scientists,” he croaked in a voice that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel, “who is our guest this evening?”

“Oh, that is nice of you to ask!” Grounder chimed in, his tone chipper, almost sing-song, as though this were a party rather than an interrogation.

Stone, standing just behind Robotnik, cast a glance at Sandi. His expression softened for the briefest moment, a flicker of empathy breaking through his otherwise professional mask. His sharp eyes lingered on her trembling form, and though he said nothing, the sympathy was there—subtle, fleeting, but undeniable.

Sandi pressed herself against the wall, her heart hammering in her chest. She tried to summon her voice, but when it came, it was shaky, thin, desperate. “I didn’t mean to fall into your home, sir,” she stammered, her words tumbling out as her body trembled.

Robotnik leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, his tone dropping into a terrifying softness. “Excuses… excuses… Oh, what has you so worried?” His voice dripped with false warmth, like honey laced with venom.

“Didn’t mean to?” Scratch squawked, his voice warbling like a broken instrument. “You mean to tell us you just tripped and fell into the lair of the greatest genius in the world?”

“Oh wow, how convenient!” Grounder added brightly, bouncing on his treads.

Robotnik chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. He leaned back again, puffing on his cigar, the smoke curling around his face like a crown. “Well,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp, “I highly doubt you came here to critique my décor. If you have come seeking pity, you have chosen the wrong place. One should never mistake kindness for safety.”

The words hung in the air like a verdict.

Sandi’s breath caught in her throat. She realised then that she had not stumbled into a home, but into a lair—a place where hunger, cruelty, and spectacle lived side by side.

“Doctor, perhaps we should let her finish. She might have more to say about how she ended up here.”

Stone’s voice was calm, but there was a subtle edge beneath it, a quiet defiance that made Robotnik’s smirk tighten. The demented dictator turned his head slowly, glaring at his subordinate. His lips curled upward, but his eyes narrowed into slits, the kind of look that could sour milk.

He loomed over Sandi, his bulk casting a shadow that seemed to swallow her whole. He coughed once, theatrically, clearing his throat as though preparing to deliver a speech. Sandi forced a smile, desperate to mask her fear, but the tone in his voice sent a chill down her spine.

Robotnik swirled the glass of wine in his hand, the pale liquid catching the dim light as he paced the room with slow, deliberate steps. Each footfall echoed against the metal floor, a steady rhythm that made the hum of machinery grow louder, more oppressive. The smirk on his lips hinted at a cruel idea taking shape, his thoughts twisting into something grotesque.

The room itself seemed to respond—colder, darker, the flickering bulbs above buzzing like insects. Sandi huddled against the wall, her breath shallow, her heart hammering.

He stopped mid-step, turning toward her with sudden sharpness. The movement was so abrupt that she flinched, her ears twitching as though bracing for a blow. His smirk widened, his head tilting at an unnatural angle. He tapped a finger against the rim of his wine glass, the sound sharp and deliberate, like a gavel striking down judgment.

Stone shifted uncomfortably at the side, his brow furrowing. He glanced at Sandi—pressed against the wall, trembling, her desperation radiating like heat. With a cautious step forward, he cleared his throat.

“Doctor, if I may… Perhaps there’s another way to handle this situation. I mean, as a vegetarian myself, I’d suggest—”

“Vegetarian?!” Robotnik barked, cutting him off. His moustache bristled as his voice rose. “Stone, must you persist with that tiresome moral superiority? This is my lair, and these are my rules! And I will not have you derailing my carefully crafted drama with your leafy green ideals!”

Before Sandi could react, the air shifted again.

With a snap of Robotnik’s fingers, Scratch and Grounder lunged forward, coils of rope clutched in their clunky hands. The ropes writhed like snakes, fibres rough and frayed.

Sandi yelped, ducking under Scratch’s jerky swing. His claws scraped the wall, sparks flying. Grounder barreled forward, but his drills clattered into Scratch, sending them both tumbling into a heap of metallic limbs and tangled rope.

Robotnik erupted into laughter, his booming voice filling the chamber. He clapped his hands together, delighted, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

“Ah, yes—tie her up, my loyal minions! Let her struggle, let her squirm! Theatrics, after all, are the spice of life. And this little rabbit has quite the flair for drama.”

The robots scrambled back to their feet, each still clutching coils of rope. Their movements were noisy, exaggerated, almost slapstick—but the menace in their intent was undeniable.

Sandi pressed herself against the cold wall, her chest heaving. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst. Scratch lunged again, his claws fumbling with the rope. She sidestepped frantically, but Grounder’s stubby arm caught her wrist. His grip was cold, mechanical, and unyielding.

Tears pricked her eyes as they forced her wrists together, the rope biting into her skin. The coarse fibres scraped her flesh raw, igniting her fear into something sharper, more painful.

Robotnik leaned back into his oversized chair, puffing on his cigar, the smoke curling around him like a crown. His smirk twisted cruelly as he watched, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a director watching his play unfold.

“It’s time to preheat the oven,” he chuckled, his voice dripping with glee. “Tonight, my appetite calls for something special… a delicious and succulent prey. My dear intruder, you’ll be the centrepiece.”

“I can’t believe this is happening to me!” Sandi gasped, her voice breaking with disgust and terror.

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Robotnik sneered. “It is a simple procedure.”

“But she’s nothing but skin and bones…” Grounder muttered, his voice uncertain, not realising the doctor could hear him.

Robotnik’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “You two will be nothing but nuts and bolts if you don’t help me prepare my supper!”

Stone, ever tactful, stepped forward, smoothing his tie as though to steady himself. His voice was calm, but his words carried a subtle challenge.

“Doctor, if I may again—perhaps it’s time to innovate. Your brilliance knows no bounds, after all. And a genius is as much about adaptation as it is about creation. Why not embrace a new frontier? Why not go vegetarian too? It’s all the rage these days…”

For a moment, silence descended.

Robotnik froze mid-sip of his wine. Slowly, deliberately, he set the glass down. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. A vein pulsed visibly at his temple.

“Preposterous!” he spat. “Do not patronise me, Stone.”

Stone’s voice sharpened, just slightly. “Maybe that’s exactly what you need. Maybe switching to a vegetarian diet might fix all that bloated weight you carry.”

Robotnik’s face flushed crimson, his moustache quivering with rage. The room seemed to shrink as his fury boiled over. He stomped his foot like a petulant child, the sound echoing through the metallic chamber. His voice rose to a shrill pitch, each word cracking with indignation.

Sandi winced, her bound wrists trembling. The oppressive atmosphere pressed down on her, suffocating any hope of escape.

“You can’t do this!” she cried, her voice breaking.

“Of course I can, you meddlesome little trespasser,” Robotnik hissed, his tone a concoction of glee and malice. He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Let me regale you with a tale of culinary mastery that your naïve little mind could hardly fathom.”

The words slithered through the air like poison, and Sandi realised with a sinking dread that this was not just hunger—it was theatre. And she had been cast as the unwilling star.

He ran his fingers over her soft curves and fluffy fur, delighting in the sequels of pain that she couldn’t help emit. Her expression was one of revulsion. Her face twisted in disgust, her stomach churning at the thought. The evil doctor saunters toward Sandi, his smirk widening as he rubs his stomach in an exaggerated gesture, his eyes gleaming with twisted delight.

“Ah, my dear, you’ve truly inspired me. So many possibilities, so many delicious ideas. A stew, perhaps? Or maybe a soufflé? No, no—a pie! Yes, a pie, golden and flaky, with just the right amount of spice. You’d be the pièce de résistance of my culinary genius!”

Sandi glares at him, her fear momentarily giving way to defiance as she shifts uncomfortably in her binding her lips curling into a slight pout.

"There we go, yes—just a little butter to enhance the golden crunch. Can’t have a rabbit pie without that satisfying texture, now can we? Perfection must never be compromised!”

He laid her face down and and began to slather her in butter, disregarding and unfazed by her struggles and mumbled protests. He then flipped her over on her back and repeated the process on the front of her body. Sandi whimpers softly, her trembling audible even over Robotnik’s humming. Each stroke of the brush feels like an invasive reminder of her helplessness, and her chest tightens with every passing second. Tears threaten to spill over again, but she clenches her jaw, determined not to give him the satisfaction. Stone stands a few feet away, leaning stiffly against the far counter, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. His gaze flickers between Robotnik and Sandi, his discomfort growing with each deliberate brushstroke. He shifts as if to move forward, to intervene in some small way, but Robotnik catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and scoffs loudly.

“How about something with a bit of crunch? Something with spices and herbs, and sauces to give it some zest? What do you think?”

"I-I didn’t mean to stumble into your home. It—it was an accident. I didn’t know... I’m sorry, okay? Just...please, let me go."

Robotnik pauses mid-stroke, his brush hovering above her as her words momentarily register. He tilts his head slightly, as though considering her plea, but the small smirk creeping across his face suggests otherwise. Setting the brush down, he picks up the bowl of coarse salt, sprinkling it over her with exaggerated flair. Sandi’s breathing quickens, realising her words have fallen on deaf ears. Robotnik continues his rambling, gesturing wildly as he paces back and forth with the salt shaker in hand. He gestured to a large, old-fashioned cookbook on the counter, its pages yellowed and worn. She noticed the title: “Mother’s Favourite Recipes.”

“This book holds many cherished memories from my childhood. My mother used to make the most exquisite dishes… today I shall recreate one of her classics. Rabbits. Such tender, delicate creatures.”

The metallic clang of the lair’s doors echoed through the room as Scratch and Grounder returned. Stone watches from his corner, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the counter. His sympathy for Sandi is painfully clear, but he remains frozen, unable to act. Each word from Robotnik seems to chip away at him, and his mouth opens slightly, as though he’s about to speak, but no words come.

Meanwhile, Robotnik returns to his workbench, whistling cheerfully as he grabs the butter brush again. Sandi’s quiet sobs fill the air as he resumes brushing, completely ignoring her as though she were nothing more than an object—an ingredient in his grand scheme.

“Isn’t this a little unhygienic, Doctor? I mean, who knows where she has been…” clucked Scratch, who had peeked around the rafter with a handful of more kitchen utensils and condiments. As Dr. Robotnik and his mechanical minions bustled about, gathering pots and pans with a clatter, Sandi’s heart sank. The reality of her situation was setting in, and for the first time since her unexpected arrival, a genuine sense of fear began to gnaw at her.

She watched helplessly as Scratch pulled out a large, ominous-looking tray, while Grounder excitedly laid out an array of sinister-looking utensils. The lair was filled with the sounds of their preparations.

“Nonsense, you metal heads!” he snapped as he turned on his heel, "Scratch! Grounder! To the kitchen. Prepare the dough—and don’t forget the vegetables. A pie should be balanced, after all, even if our guest lacks any culinary finesse..”

“I’ll start with the finest dough, kneaded by the hands of a genius - mine of course. I am going to sauté her with butter and garlic, then add from fresh rosemary and thyme…” he began to grip the flabby corners of his tummy again, “although, I  do think it is a good idea if you get some breadcrumbs, I do believe that the rope will be… very indigestible.” He continued to describe each step of his process in clinical and almost scientific detail. Every sentence he uttered made the rabbit feel further and further from safety.

“Your succulent, juicy flesh between my teeth within a golden brown crust, your skin clinging delicately to my palate, your flavour exploding in my mouth…” Sandi stiffens slightly, her ears flattening as his words sink in. She glances at Stone, who offers her a faint, apologetic smile, though his discomfort is palpable.

“Stone! Stop lurking around like a sad puppy and fetch me the pepper mill. This pie needs just a hint of spice before the next phase begins!”

Stone stiffens, glancing nervously between Robotnik and Sandi. He hesitates for a brief moment, his internal conflict visible, but ultimately notes, stepping away to fill his boss’ demand. He clears his throat awkwardly, clutching his hands nervously in front of him.

The doctor and robots immediately spring into action, clattering noisily toward the door. Grounder grumbles under his breath about never getting to have fun, while Scratch crows about how he’ll make the dough perfect just to impress the doctor. The mechanical bickering fades as they disappear into the hall, leaving Sandi alone with Agent Stone.

“Hey, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about all this. The doctor... he can be a bit theatrical, but he doesn’t always follow through with his—uh—wilder ideas."

Sandi glares at him, her defiance flaring back to life as she leans forward slightly.

"Save it. You might act like you’re different, but you’re still his lapdog. You’re not sorry for him—you’re sorry for yourself."

Stone winces, her words striking deeper than he cares to admit. He straightens his tie, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting hers again.

"Maybe you’re right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—"

"Don’t what, care? If you really cared, you wouldn’t still be here. Face it—you’re just as much a part of this as he is.” Stone takes a deep breath, his gaze softening as he studies Sandi. The tension in the room is palpable, but there’s a genuine flicker of something in his expression—perhaps understanding, perhaps an attempt to connect, however futile.

"You know, I understand more than you think. When I met the doctor, I was... lost. No home, no purpose. People overlooked me, ignored me like I didn’t even exist. But Robotnik? He saw me. He gave me a place to belong, a home, a purpose. I know how it feels to be desperate, to feel like you have nothing."

Sandi scoffs, her eyes narrowing as she leans slightly forward, her bound wrists trembling with barely contained defiance.

“Yeah? He gave you a home. He gave you a purpose. But he didn’t tie you up and start planning dinner, did he? Last I checked, you weren’t the one on the menu. I wasn’t looking for trouble.”

Stone flinches again, her words hitting him harder than he expects. Before he can reply, the heavy doors swing open with a loud, metallic creak. Robotnik storms back in, his expression darker and angrier than before, his wine glass abandoned somewhere in the kitchen. Scratch and Grounder follow behind him, carrying trays of neatly chopped vegetables and freshly prepared dough.

"Stone! I leave you alone for mere minutes, and already you’re coddling the enemy? Must I remind you of your place—your loyalty? This girl is not your responsibility, she is mine. And I do not tolerate betrayal!”

“Apologies, Doctor,” he said calmly.

Sandi’s heart sinks as she hears his words, the flicker of warmth and humanity she’d seen in Stone extinguished under Robotnik’s dominance. Tears begin welling in her eyes, her defiance faltering as the crushing reality of the lair settles over her once more. Her voice trembles as she cries out, her words laced with frustration and sorrow.

"So that’s it? You’re just gonna go back to playing loyal lackey? All that compassion was just for show, wasn’t it? I knew it—you’re just like him.”

"Ah, yeah, yeah—emotion, drama, the tears of the defeated! Truly, my dear, you are a natural performer. But don’t think your theatrics will sway me. Stone has no allegiance to you, just as he has no mind of his own. He follows me, and so shall you.” Robotnik spat.

He then turns to Scratch and Grounder, who step forward with their trays, clunky yet purposeful in their movements. "Prepare the dough! Slice the vegetables! And let her tears add the perfect seasoning."

Sandi’s cries grow louder, her bound wrists trembling as she watches the surreal scene unfold. Stone remains silent, his face expressionless but his posture stiff, as though grappling with the weight of her accusations. The oppressive atmosphere of the lair presses down on her, every sound and movement amplifying the nightmare she’s trapped in. Her hope fades, leaving only the chilling realisation that no one—not even Stone—will stand between her and Robotnik’s twisted plans.

The two robots then lifted the little rabbit inside and wrapped her up like a burrito with the dough, with only her head sticking out. They chatter noisily, bickering over technique, as the dough begins to thin out and tear. Bound hand and foot, she was unable to untie herself, and grew exhausted after a couple of attempts to wriggle free. The robots work clumsily, their mechanical hands awkwardly manoeuvring the dough around Sandi’s body. The cold, sticky mass clings to her clothes as they roll it tightly, though their lack of precision quickly becomes evident. She tried to think of something she could do, but the ropes were so tight.

“You’re not rolling it evenly, Grounder. Look at this, it’s patchy!”

“Patchy? You’re the one who didn’t even check if there was enough dough!”

“This isn’t going to work, there isn’t enough dough, her head is sticking out!”

“Maybe we could just cover her head with a lid or something?”

The Doctor’s enormous, egg‑shaped belly loomed over her like a grotesque eclipse, shadowing her trembling frame. Sandi’s eyes darted upward, catching sight of a spider in the rafters. It prowled across its web, legs twitching as it inspected a helpless bluebottle fly. The insect’s wings shimmered faintly in the dim light, thrashing uselessly against the delicate threads. The sight made her throat tighten. She knew she was no different—trapped, waiting for the predator’s leisure.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, Scratch and Grounder stepped back from their work. She was trussed up in a lumpy cocoon of dough, the sticky mass clinging to her clothes and hair. Robotnik waddled forward, hands on his hips, moustache bristling with smug delight.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he sighed, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. “I do wish you would stop crying—you’re disarranging the dough and making everything soggy! And the squirming! Scratch, Grounder, this is unacceptable. I told you to prepare the dough properly and what do I get? This… this mess! I ensure the carrots are chopped, the potatoes peeled, the seasoning precise. We must accentuate the flavour!”

“Yes, boss, but, uh… how do you peel a potato again?” Scratch squawked, scratching at his beak.

“Like this, you nincompoop!” Grounder snapped, promptly scraping his drill down Scratch’s arm and sending sparks flying.

Sandi’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! You’re talking about eating me and you can’t even peel a potato!”

Robotnik stomped his foot like a petulant child, his cheeks flushing red. He turned away, muttering furiously as he crouched before an ancient iron stove. With exaggerated ceremony, he shoved sticks of wood into the belly of the contraption, striking a match with a flourish. Flames licked upward, and soon a pot began to gurgle and steam. The smell of vegetables and thick gravy filled the air, rich and suffocating.

He dipped a soup spoon into the bubbling pot and slurped, gravy dribbling down his chin. He burped, then ran his tongue over his lips with grotesque satisfaction. “The key to perfection is in the preparation,” he declared, turning back toward her. “And you, my little friend, will be marinated in a sauce of fear and seasoned with dread!”

Sandi whimpered, her bound body twitching against the sticky dough.

Moments later, Scratch and Grounder scuttled back into the room, their voices overlapping in panicked whispers. “Doctor,” Scratch stammered, “it’s not our fault but… there’s an issue in the kitchen!” “The dough—it’s not enough,” Grounder added, his voice quivering. “And it’s all soggy because… because the… uh…” He trailed off, drills spinning nervously.

Robotnik froze, then his face contorted with rage. “What do you mean, ‘not enough dough’? I demand perfection! I need the proper ingredients—now!” His voice cracked with fury, echoing off the cold metal walls.

Stone, who had been silent until now, rose slowly. His voice was careful, conciliatory. “Doctor… perhaps if we fetched additional dough from storage, it might salvage the recipe. And… it might reduce her distress.” His eyes flicked toward Sandi’s tear‑streaked face, his words faltering as he took in her humiliation.

Robotnik’s eyes blazed. “I will not tolerate such incompetence!” he roared, rounding on the robots. “Return immediately with the proper ingredients, or this entire venture is scrapped!”

The lair fell into a tense silence, broken only by Sandi’s pitiful whimpers as she wriggled helplessly. Robotnik leaned in close, his breath hot and sour, rubbing his hands together with theatrical glee. She turned her head away, biting her lip to stifle a sob, but a muffled whimper escaped anyway.

Stone shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed, his hands tightening at his sides. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as though speaking only to her. “Hold on,” he murmured, almost inaudible.

Scratch and Grounder exchanged a glance. They looked down at the rabbit bundled in the dish, her small frame trembling. They didn’t really understand the fuss—after all, they subsisted on motor oil and spare parts. A rabbit pie meant nothing to them.

“Y’know,” Scratch muttered, scratching at his beak, “this doesn’t even make sense. We don’t eat food.”

Grounder nodded vigorously, drills spinning in anxious agreement. “Yeah, and besides, the dough’s ruined anyway.”

Without much more thought, the two robots began tugging at the sticky mass, ripping it away in uneven chunks. The ropes came loose under their fumbling claws, and Sandi gasped as her arms were freed. She staggered to her feet, stepping shakily out of the tray, her legs trembling beneath her.

Grounder bobbed his head, drills whirring nervously. “See? Problem solved!”

Robotnik’s moustache twitched violently as he spun toward them, his face a mask of outrage.

“Allow me to clean her up, sir. She won’t be of any use—or of any value—in this condition.”

Robotnik stroked his moustache, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant agreement. His eyes narrowed, then he let out a long, theatrical sigh, waving his hand as though dismissing a tiresome servant.

Stone bowed his head slightly, seizing the opportunity to retreat from the doctor’s withering gaze. He moved quickly, almost too quickly, to Sandi’s side. His hands were steady as he lifted her, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders, a tension that betrayed the unease he tried to mask.

The chaotic clatter of the kitchen faded behind them as he carried her into a quieter corridor of the lair. The air here was cooler, less choked with smoke and steam, though the faint hum of machinery still pressed against the silence. He set her down gently on a narrow bench, the metal frame creaking under her slight weight.

Stone fetched a basin of water and a clean towel from a nearby shelf. His movements were deliberate, precise—ritualistic, almost—as though the act of cleaning her was a task he could control, unlike the chaos that had just unfolded.

Sandi didn’t resist. She sat slumped, her eyes fixed on the floor, her breathing shallow. When the damp towel brushed against her fur, she flinched faintly but said nothing.

“I know this isn’t much,” Stone murmured, his voice low, almost apologetic. “I… I wish I could do more. But my position here—my loyalty to the Doctor—it’s… complicated.”

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the soft rasp of cloth against fur. Sandi’s shoulders sagged, disappointment settling over her like a second skin. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but edged with bitterness.

“So that’s it? You’re just going to clean me up and send me straight back to him?”

Stone froze, the towel hovering mid‑air. Guilt flickered across his face before he forced himself to resume, his voice strained. “I can’t let you go, Sandi. You have to understand—my job, my loyalty to the Doctor… It’s all I’ve ever known. But I promise, I’ll do what I can to make this easier for you. I’m… sorry.”

Sandi let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. At last, she met his gaze, her eyes glassy, her expression a mixture of hurt and resignation. “Sorry doesn’t mean much when you’re still leaving me to him.”

Stone hesitated, his throat tightening. For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, but the weight of Robotnik’s authority pressed down on him like a chain. He nodded stiffly, retreating into silence.

He fetched another cloth, wrung it out, and continued wiping away the remnants of dough and grease from her arms and shoulders. Her body felt heavy beneath his touch, her strength drained. She glared at him weakly, her voice barely above a whisper but still laced with defiance.

When he finally untied the ropes, her limbs slumped forward, the sudden release of tension leaving her trembling. She was too exhausted to resist as he lifted her over his shoulder. His movements were steady, but hesitant, as though he feared both dropping her and holding her too tightly.

The surreal nightmare of Robotnik’s lair seemed to recede for a moment, replaced by the quiet rhythm of Stone’s footsteps echoing down the corridor. He carried her back to the lumpy mattress she had first fallen onto, lowering her gently onto its uneven surface. She sank into it with a weary sigh.

Stone draped a blanket over her. The warmth of the fabric felt alien after the cold ropes and sticky dough, but she was too drained to react. Her breathing was shallow, her mind fogged with confusion.

“You should rest,” Stone said softly, kneeling beside her. “I’ll make some tea—would you like some?”

Sandi blinked, her tired eyes narrowing. The man who had just been complicit in her humiliation now seemed almost… kind. The inconsistency only sharpened her frustration. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “Tea? Really? After everything that just happened, you think tea is gonna fix this? You’re all over the place—one minute you’re apologising, the next you’re helping him butter me up like some sick experiment. What’s your deal?”

Stone looked away, his jaw tightening. He rose and moved toward the small kitchenette in the corner, his silence deepening her confusion. She watched him through half‑lidded eyes, exhaustion warring with the anger bubbling beneath her skin.

When he returned, he knelt beside her again. His gaze softened, and with a hesitant hand, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. The motion was awkward, uncertain, but there was a flicker of genuine sympathy in his expression.

Sandi didn’t react. Her body was too weak, her mind too clouded. Her eyelids drooped, and despite the nightmare she had endured, sleep began to pull her under. Her breathing slowed, shallow but steady.

Stone lingered, his hand hovering above her for a moment longer. Guilt gnawed at him, the conflict within bubbling to the surface. He pitied her—this broken girl who had stumbled into their world by accident, only to be met with cruelty. Yet even as the guilt pressed against him, his loyalty to Robotnik held firm, an anchor he could not cut loose.

With a quiet sigh, he rose to his feet. He cast one last glance at her fragile form beneath the blanket before stepping into the adjoining room.

There, Robotnik paced like a restless beast, muttering to himself about new culinary concepts. His hands carved shapes in the air, his moustache twitching with every exaggerated gesture. The words tumbled from his mouth in a feverish stream—recipes, spices, grandiose visions of feasts. It might have been comical, if not for the unsettling gleam in his eyes.

Stone stood in the doorway, the weight of his silence pressing down on him. Between the girl’s shallow breaths in the other room and the Doctor’s manic mutterings here, he felt caught in a theatre where every role was already written—and his part, however much he despised it, was to remain loyal.

“Doctor, she’s asleep now. Perhaps it’s time to… let her go. She’s no threat to you, and honestly, this has gone far enough. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Robotnik froze mid‑step. His head turned slowly, his glasses catching the dim light as his gaze locked onto Stone. The smirk that had been playing on his lips sharpened into something colder, more dangerous. He crossed his arms, leaning forward just enough to make his bulk feel suffocating.

“Let her go? Let her go?” His voice rose with incredulous disdain, each word dripping venom. “Oh, Stone, your bleeding heart truly knows no bounds. Do you think I went through all this trouble just to let her waltz out of my lair? Absolutely not.”

Stone’s jaw tightened. He didn’t argue further—he knew better than to press when Robotnik’s voice took on that theatrical edge. Instead, he stepped back, his discomfort plain as Robotnik resumed pacing, muttering to himself, his mind spinning with twisted possibilities.

On the mattress, Sandi stirred faintly. The cold seeped through the thin blanket, her body heavy and drained. Her half‑closed eyes flickered toward the dim glow of the room, the muffled hum of machinery filling the silence. Robotnik’s voice cut through her haze, sharp and theatrical, every syllable like a knife.

“She’s not ready… not quite yet. We should fatten her up. And when the time is right…”

Sandi blocked out the rest, her stomach churning. For the first time in days, she had a bed, even if it was lumpy, cold, and far from comfortable. The mattress creaked beneath her as she shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Exhaustion outweighed fear, and she surrendered to the fleeting comfort of rest.

Stone slipped quietly into the room. His gaze softened as he spotted the small bundle curled beneath the blanket. She looked fragile, almost swallowed by the fabric, as though trying to shield herself from the world. He hesitated, conflicted emotions flickering across his face, before lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress.

Sandi stirred again, her tired eyes peeking out from under the blanket. Wariness and exhaustion mingled in her gaze. Without a word, she shifted closer, curling her body against his legs like a cat seeking warmth. Her voice was quiet, almost a mumble, but still carried a spark of defiance.

“Don’t get any ideas. This isn’t about safety… It’s just cold in here.”

Stone shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just for warmth. Sure.”

The heavy doors swung open with a metallic creak. Robotnik stormed into the room, his sharp‑tinted glasses flashing as his gaze fell on the scene. His smirk twisted instantly into a scowl, his moustache bristling with fury.

Stone stiffened under the glare, his expression faltering as Robotnik’s anger filled the room like a storm cloud.

“Stone! What is this disgraceful display? My assistant, reduced to a glorified pillow for a trespasser? Have you no pride, no loyalty? You dare let her curl up like some pampered pet?”

Sandi stirred, her eyes peeking out again. Though her body was weak, her defiance flickered faintly. She muttered under her breath, her voice hoarse but cutting.

“Pampered? On this mattress? You’ve got a funny definition of luxury, Doc.”

Robotnik’s scowl deepened. His fists clenched, his bulk looming as he stepped closer, towering over them both. His presence was suffocating, his fury palpable as he gestured wildly, his voice booming.

“Enough of your insolence! Stone, remove her at once! This is my lair, not some cosy retreat for strays!”

Stone hesitated. His gaze flickered between Robotnik and Sandi. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he might argue—but the weight of Robotnik’s authority pressed down like a chain. Slowly, carefully, he shifted Sandi off his legs. Her weakened body slumped back onto the mattress, her hands clutching the blanket tighter around herself.

Robotnik’s scowl softened into a sharp, triumphant smirk. His anger cooled into condescending amusement as he turned away, his coat flaring with the motion.

“Pathetic. Both of you. But no matter—this little game is far from over. Rest while you can, girl. Tomorrow, the real entertainment begins…”

The words lingered in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. The hum of the lair seemed louder in the silence that followed, pressing down on them all.

Stone sat frozen on the edge of the mattress, his hands clenched in his lap. Sandi curled tighter beneath the blanket, her eyes burning with exhaustion and dread. And Robotnik, already pacing again, was smiling to himself—plotting, always plotting, as though tomorrow were a stage and they were merely his unwilling actors.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered dimly through the cracks of the lair, a pale imitation of dawn that barely touched the metallic corridors. Stone walked beside Sandi, his posture stiff, his expression caught between discomfort and quiet resignation. Her wrists were re-bound, the ropes snug but not cruel, a humiliating reminder of her captivity. She moved slowly, her head held high despite the circumstances, sharp eyes darting across the steel walls as though memorising every rivet, every shadow.

The corridor opened into the dining hall, and the sight that greeted them was almost absurd. Scratch and Grounder had been up all night, their clattering and bickering finally culminating in an elaborate breakfast spread. The long table groaned under the weight of their efforts: pancakes stacked precariously high, bowls of fruit glistening under the harsh lights, platters of eggs, and even a tower of pastries arranged with clumsy precision.

The two robots stood proudly at the head of the table, their mechanical faces beaming with satisfaction.

"Boss! Look what we made!" Scratch squawked, wings flapping with excitement. "A feast fit for a king—and his guest of honour, of course!"

Grounder bobbed his head, drills whirring. "Yeah, yeah! We worked all night! Didn't even recharge! Hope you like it!"

Robotnik strode into the room, his presence filling the space before his bulk even reached the table. He stopped to admire the spread, moustache twitching with approval, and clapped his hands together with a booming laugh.

"Ah, magnificent! A breakfast worthy of my brilliance! Scratch, Grounder—you've truly outdone yourselves!"

Stone's gaze flickered down toward Sandi, softening briefly before Robotnik's attention snapped to them. His eyes lingered on her tied wrists, and his smirk widened.

"Stone, bring her forward. Let her see the fruits of my domain—though she should remember her place, of course."

Stone hesitated, then guided Sandi to the table, pulling out a chair with a quiet sigh. She sat stiffly, her bound wrists resting awkwardly on the edge of the table as she surveyed the spread.

Robotnik lowered himself into the head chair with exaggerated grandeur, posture regal, as he began piling food onto his plate with theatrical flair. Scratch and Grounder hovered nearby, their excitement palpable as they watched him dig in.

Stone sat beside Sandi, his movements careful, his eyes flicking toward her every so often. The tension in the room was palpable, but the sheer absurdity of the situation—the prisoner seated at a feast, the bumbling robots playing the role of chefs—kept it from collapsing entirely into dread.

Robotnik, however, wasted no time in turning the meal into theatre. Between mouthfuls, he launched into another monologue, his voice booming across the hall as he gestured grandly with his fork.

"You know," he mused, almost conversational, "I've worked with machinery for years—cold metal. Precision engineering. But there's something about organic material that presents a unique challenge."

Sandi swallowed, shifting slightly, the cool surface of the table pressing against her arms.

Robotnik leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to stretch the moment into discomfort. "There's a tenderness to it. A delicacy. Some materials require care—you don't just throw them into the flames."

His gloved hand slid toward a nearby knife, fingers grazing the handle. His eyes gleamed as he whispered, "You prepare them. You marinate. You break them down until they're soft—until they're ready."

Sandi listened in silence, her expression unreadable, while Stone remained equally quiet, his focus divided between the plate in front of him and the rabbit at his side. The tension around the breakfast table thickened with every passing second, absurdity and menace twined together in the air.

Stone moved with deliberate care. He reached for the platter of pancakes, stacking a few onto a smaller plate. His knife cut them into neat, bite‑sized pieces, each motion precise, almost ritualistic. When he set the plate before her, the ropes binding her wrists together made the gesture feel cruelly ironic. She could not lift a fork, could not feed herself.

Stone hesitated, his gaze flickered toward her, then toward Robotnik at the head of the table, then back again. Finally, with a quiet breath, he picked up the fork himself.

"You're hungry," he murmured, his tone low, almost apologetic. "You need to eat… let me help."

Sandi's face flushed, a storm of embarrassment and hunger clouding her features. She didn't answer, but her stomach betrayed her with a loud, involuntary growl.

Robotnik's grin widened instantly, his moustache twitching with delight. He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Oooh," he cooed, voice dripping with mockery. "Would you listen to that?"

Sandi exhaled sharply through her nose, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Reluctantly, she leaned forward as Stone speared a piece of pancake and held it out to her. She opened her mouth just enough to accept the bite, her jaw tight as she chewed.

Across the table, Robotnik erupted into booming laughter, the sound bouncing off the metallic walls. Scratch and Grounder quickly followed suit, their mechanical chuckles clunky and exaggerated, like broken instruments trying to mimic mirth.

Sandi's ears flattened against her head, her face burning with humiliation. She glared at Robotnik and his robots, but the gnawing hunger in her stomach outweighed her pride. When Stone offered another bite, she accepted it, her movements stiff with reluctant compliance.

Stone's knife worked steadily, cutting the pancakes into smaller and smaller pieces, his hands careful, his eyes fixed on the plate rather than her face. He winced faintly, as though each bite he offered her was a wound to his own conscience.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice barely audible over the laughter. "I know this isn't fair. Eat. You need your strength."

For a moment, Sandi's glare softened. She looked at him, her expression still taut with frustration but touched by the faintest flicker of gratitude. She didn't speak, choosing instead to focus on finishing the plate, each bite a reluctant surrender to necessity.

Robotnik leaned back in his chair, cigar smoke swirling around his head like a crown. His laughter subsided into a smug chuckle as he gestured toward her with his fork. "Look at her, Stone—even defiance bows to appetite. Hunger is the great equaliser, the truest leash. And she wears it well."

Scratch clattered his claws together in applause, while Grounder bobbed his head enthusiastically, drills whirring. "Yeah, boss! She eats just like you said she would!"

Sandi's ears twitched at the words, her humiliation deepening, but she forced herself to chew, to swallow, to endure. The absurdity of the feast pressed down on her: a prisoner at a banquet, fed like a child under the mocking gaze of her captors.

Stone's hand trembled slightly as he set the fork down at last, the plate empty. He folded his hands in his lap, his jaw tight, his silence heavy.

Sandi leaned back against the chair, her wrists still bound, her body heavy with exhaustion and food. She refused to look at Robotnik, though she could feel his gaze on her like a weight.

The laughter of the robots echoed in her ears, but beneath it, she caught the faintest murmur from Stone, spoken so softly it might have been meant only for himself. "You deserved better than this."

Robotnik picked up his coffee cup, striding toward a small side table where the morning's paper lay neatly folded. With exaggerated flair, he flipped it open, scanning the headlines with a gleeful smirk.

"Ah, Knothole—always brimming with disasters," he declared dramatically. "A village in disarray, chaos around every corner—oh, how delightful! One of my finest achievements. Floods in the east, food shortages in the south, and power outages across the village—all thanks to my brilliant sabotage! This, my dear Stone, is what true control looks like."

Scratch and Grounder rattled loudly around the room, their movements graceless as they began clearing the table. Plates and silverware were stacked haphazardly, pancakes teetered precariously on the edge of the counter, and the two robots bickered over who was responsible for wiping up a smear of butter. Their antics were almost comedic, but Sandi watched them with wary eyes, her bound wrists resting uncomfortably in her lap as she stood close to Stone.

Robotnik, now lounging in one of the oversized chairs near the fire, gestured grandly toward them. "Stone, come—sit! Bring the rabbit. I have no intention of letting her out of my sight."

Stone nodded stiffly, guiding Sandi toward the chairs. He pulled one out for her before lowering himself beside Robotnik, his posture carefully neutral. Sandi slouched slightly, her expression caught between irritation and exhaustion. She fidgeted with the ropes around her wrists, her sharp gaze darting toward Robotnik as he began again.

"Ah, rabbit. How delightful. Perhaps you'd like a history lesson, my dear? You've heard of Sonic and the Freedom Fighters, I presume—those insufferable pests who dared to oppose me."

Sandi raised an eyebrow, her tone dry. "Well, sure, I've heard of them. But I've never met them. They were teenagers before I was even born."

Robotnik's moustache twitched as he leaned forward, his grin widening. "Reckless, defiant, foolish teenagers. And yet, they were a thorn in my side—always meddling, always sabotaging my plans. But as you can see, time has been kind to me. Slowly, steadily, I regained control, and now? Now, Mobius trembles at the mere mention of my name!"

Sandi sneered as she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head arrogantly.

Robotnik's voice swelled, his hands carving shapes in the air as though conducting an orchestra. "They thought I died. They scattered. Retreated, like the cowards they are. Their resistance, once so strong, withered away in the face of my brilliance. And now? They are nothing. Irrelevant."

He paused for effect, his eyes gleaming as he lowered his voice, thick with self‑importance. "And the Chaos Emeralds…" He savoured the words, rolling them on his tongue like fine wine. "They are not merely jewels. They are powerful. They are influenced. And for far too long, they have been scattered—hidden—kept from their rightful place in my hands."

He slammed the paper down onto the side table, the sound echoing through the chamber. Scratch and Grounder jumped, nearly dropping a stack of plates.

Robotnik leaned back, steepling his fingers, his grin sharp and hungry. "With the Emeralds, I will not simply rule Mobius. I will reshape it. Every village, every forest, every creature will bend to my design. And those who once mocked me—those who dared to resist—will be nothing but footnotes in the history I write."

Sandi's ears twitched, her eyes narrowing. "Sounds like you're still obsessed with ghosts. If they're so irrelevant, why are you still talking about them? Why is it such a big deal?"

He leaned closer, his shadow falling across her. Robotnik exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as though the sheer weight of her ignorance physically pained him. His moustache bristled with irritation. "Unbelievable. You walk through Mobius, breathe its air, exist within its history, and yet you have no concept of the forces that shape it."

Sandi tilted her head, her tone flat. "I was mostly focused on staying alive."

Robotnik scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive. "What a tragically small perspective. My dear, you look barely held together."

Her lips twitched into the faintest smirk, though her voice remained measured. "I'm still here."

The words hung in the air like a challenge.

Stone shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze flickering between Sandi and Robotnik. He said nothing, but the tension in his posture betrayed him. The atmosphere thickened, the weight of Robotnik's ego pressing down like a suffocating fog.

In the background, Scratch and Grounder moved around noisily, unaware of the underlying tensions. They bickered over plates and cutlery, their bumbling movements a bizarre counterpoint to the taut, surreal conversation at the table.

Sandi's eyes narrowed. "You know, I heard Sonic defeated you more times than you'd care to admit. That's why you went into hiding. Guess even geniuses have their limits."

Robotnik's head snapped toward her, his eyes narrowing. Then he barked a laugh, though it rang hollow. "Hiding? Me? Nonsense! Those tales are nothing more than propaganda, spread by that blue pest and his ragtag crew. Every so‑called defeat was merely a strategic retreat! I've never been bested—only delayed in my grand plans."

Sandi raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but chose not to press further. Instead, she leaned back slightly, the ropes on her wrists biting into her skin as she shifted. Her wary gaze lingered on Robotnik, who had fallen silent again.

He sipped his coffee with exaggerated deliberation, as though the act itself were a performance. He flipped the paper open once more, pretending to be engrossed in the headlines. Scratch and Grounder's clattering had subsided, leaving only the faint hum of the lair's machinery to fill the silence.

Sandi's eyes flicked toward Stone. He avoided her gaze, his fingers drumming faintly against his knee, the sound betraying his unease.

The minutes dragged. The silence grew unbearable.

Finally, Sandi shifted again, her voice quieter this time, tinged with both annoyance and uncertainty. "So… what's the plan, then? You've gone through all this trouble to keep me here for a little sleepover, but you've barely said anything about what you're actually going to do to me now."

Robotnik lowered his coffee cup with deliberate slowness. A smug smirk spread across his face as he met her gaze. "Oh, Sandi, why spoil the surprise?" he mocked, his tone dripping with false warmth. "The element of suspense is half the fun."

Stone's jaw tightened, though he said nothing, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

Sandi huffed quietly, her frustration mounting. Robotnik's words offered no clarity, only vague threats and an air of self‑satisfaction.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his swollen belly, his grin widening. "Meat is rare in Mobius. Precious. Resources of such value are to be savoured, appreciated, reserved only for those worthy of indulgence."

He chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming. "And I, my dear, am certainly worthy."

He returned to reading his paper as though the conversation had never happened, the rustle of newsprint filling the silence. Sandi shifted her attention back to Stone. At last, he glanced up, his expression softening just slightly as their eyes met. The unspoken tension between them lingered, taut and fragile, but neither spoke a word.

The morning stretched on. Robotnik settled deeper into his routines, his presence larger than life and yet oddly detached. Reclining in his chair, he puffed leisurely on another cigar, faint tendrils of smoke curling upward in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. His expression was one of indulgent satisfaction, his lips twitching into a smug smile as he exhaled a contented sigh. A cup of coffee sat cooling on the side table beside him, and the faint rustling of his newspaper punctuated the mechanical hum of the lair. Every so often, a low chuckle escaped him as he read another grim headline from Knothole Village—bad news for them, good news for him.

The lack of conversation aimed at her gnawed at her nerves. Robotnik hadn't said much about his plans for her. Now, as he lounged comfortably, seemingly preoccupied with himself, Sandi's thoughts began to spiral.

Has he forgotten about me? Or is he just dragging this out on purpose?

The idea that Robotnik was intentionally trying to make her anxious felt entirely plausible. He seemed to revel in control, in toying with the emotions of others. But another possibility crept in, more unsettling: What if he hasn't decided yet? The thought sent a shiver through her, her stomach tightening as her mind looped through the possibilities.

Sandi shifted again, her bound wrists brushing against her lap as she leaned back slightly. She debated whether to speak, to press Robotnik for answers—but the idea of drawing his attention felt dangerous.

The doors clanged open. Scratch and Grounder bustled in with serving trays balanced precariously in their hands. "Appetisers ready!" they chirped in unison.

Robotnik barely acknowledged them. He reached out, plucked a delicately arranged cracker topped with cheese, and chewed thoughtfully as he skipped another article.

Without hesitation, Stone took a cracker from the tray. He glanced at Sandi.

"What?" she blinked, suspicion flashing in her eyes.

Before she could protest, Stone casually held the cracker up to her lips, as though she were a helpless infant. Sandi stared at him, mortified.

"Eat," Stone said, adjusting his grip with the calm precision of a man coaxing a stubborn child to finish their vegetables.

Her teeth clenched. She exhaled sharply through her nose, fighting the instinct to refuse out of sheer spite. But her body betrayed her. Hunger gnawed at her resolve.

She ate.

Stone, ever methodical, barely reacted. He continued offering food with mechanical precision, passing each piece as though it were just another neutral task in his daily routine.

Robotnik, on the other hand, was gleeful. "Oh, how pitiful!" he cackled, his voice booming with indulgent satisfaction. "The proud little survivor reduced to hand‑fed scraps!" He leaned back, stretching his legs lazily, his belly rising and falling with each smug breath. "Oh, how I adore watching nature correct itself!"

Sandi's fingers twitched against the binds, frustration tangling with need, tangled with the sharp edge of reality sinking in. She could hate it, loathe it, but the worst part was that she had to endure it.

Robotnik chuckled again, "Eat up, dear! We wouldn't want you to wither away before the main course!"

Sandi swallowed hard. It was simply a matter of survival—pure necessity.

Stone plucked a napkin from the serving tray, unfolding it with practised ease. He leaned in, dabbing gently at the corner of her mouth.

Sandi inhaled sharply, shifting in her seat. "Hold still," Stone murmured, his tone flat, as if this were just another part of his routine, another box to tick on a list.

Her jaw clenched. She refused to look at him.

Robotnik reclined deeper into the couch, exhaling a satisfied chuckle. "Oh, this is precious."

Sandi shifted again, pressing herself away from Stone's hand—only for her back to bump against Robotnik's broad, bloated frame. She stiffened instantly.

Exhaling sharply, she forced herself upright, desperate to find some neutral position between the two figures hemming her in. The silence that followed was suffocating.

"Doctor, would you like another coffee? I can prepare it just the way you like."

Robotnik didn't look up, but he waved a dismissive hand, his voice carrying the faintest hint of approval. "Hmph. Very well. Make it strong—and don't keep me waiting."

Stone nodded quickly, rising from his seat with practised precision. He was careful not to jostle Sandi as he passed, his footsteps echoing faintly down the corridor until the door closed behind him.

"So… is this your thing? Keeping people guessing? Or have you actually forgotten about me?"

Robotnik chuckled softly, the sound low and smug. He didn't turn to look at her. Instead, he tapped his cigar against the ashtray, each movement deliberate, calculated.

"You know," Sandi pressed, her tone dry, "for all your talk about genius and dominance, I wonder… what were you like as a kid? Always this egotistical? Or did that come later? No friends? Just you and your 'brilliance'?"

Robotnik froze for a fraction of a second, the question catching him off guard. Slowly, he turned his head, eyes narrowing as he studied her with a mix of amusement and suspicion. His reply snapped out like a whip. "Friends are distractions—irrelevant to the pursuit of power. Those who truly excel do so alone, without the hindrance of emotional attachments."

The words hung in the air, sharp and final.

When Stone returned with Robotnik's coffee, Sandi let out a quiet sigh of relief, her tension easing just slightly as the focus shifted. Robotnik accepted the cup with exaggerated ceremony, taking a long, slow sip. He savoured it, smacking his lips before setting the cup down with a loud clink.

His smug expression grew as his gaze slid toward Sandi, who sat stiffly on the sofa, her bound wrists still resting in her lap. With a sly grin, he leaned forward, his voice dripping with mockery. "You know, for someone so quick with her clever little comebacks, you don't seem to have many friends rushing to your rescue. Where is the cavalry? The daring, heroic attempt to save you? Oh, that's right—there isn't one."

Sandi stiffened, her chest tightening as the words struck deeper than she wanted to admit. Her sharp tongue faltered. She looked down at her bound hands, her expression shadowed by an unwelcome wave of deflation.

Robotnik chuckled darkly, relishing her silence. He leaned back, his gaze shifting to Stone, who had resumed his seat on the opposite side of the sofa. The Doctor's smirk widened as he gestured toward his assistant. "And as for my dear Stone—his kindness may give you a glimmer of hope, but don't be fooled. His loyalty is, and always will be, to me. Isn't that right, Stone?"

Stone flinched at being addressed. His gaze flickered to Sandi, then dropped quickly to the floor. He nodded faintly, his voice quiet, hesitant. "Of course, Doctor."

Robotnik stared at the glowing ember of his cigar for a moment before pressing it firmly into the ashtray. The sharp hiss of extinguished tobacco punctuated the silence. Straightening, he turned his full attention back to Sandi. His smirk widened, his tone calculated and cruel.

"Let me give you some advice, girl. Stop relying on Stone. His kindness? His little attempts to make you comfortable? All meaningless. He'll always choose loyalty to me over you, as he should. You're wasting your time thinking he might help you."

Sandi adjusted her posture, glaring up at him. Despite the knot of anxiety tightening in her chest, she refused to let his words settle. Her voice cut through the air, sharp and defiant. "Stone might not help me, but you'd be a fool to think I'll just sit here quietly. I'll find a way out of this. One way or another, I'll be free—and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

For the briefest moment, Robotnik's grin faltered. Then he threw his head back and let out a booming laugh, arrogance flooding the room once more. He leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes locking with hers.

"Ah, delightful! Defiance! How I adore it. But mark my words, little rabbit—every cage has its limits, and every spirit can be broken. We'll see how long your bravado lasts. Free? Oh, my dear girl," Robotnik sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, "how naïve you are. You're now within my domain, under my control. Every step, every breath, every thought you have belongs to me. Freedom is a dream, and dreams… are meant to be crushed."

Sandi's jaw tightened, her teeth grinding together as his words cut deeper than she expected. Still, she refused to back down. She leaned forward slightly, her voice gaining a sharper edge as determination pushed through the fear.

But the weight of it all pressed harder. Her chest constricted, her breath coming unevenly. The surreal nightmare of the lair seemed to close in around her. Instinctively, she shifted closer to Stone — not out of trust, but out of sheer desperation for some semblance of comfort.

Her composure cracked. A choked sob escaped her throat, and before she could stop herself, she collapsed against Stone's lap. Her bound hands trembled as she buried her face against him, her cries raw and unrestrained. The weight of her captivity crashed down in full, breaking through the fragile wall of defiance she had clung to.

Stone froze. His face flushed crimson, his body stiff with uncertainty. For a long moment, he did nothing, caught between instinct and fear. Then, slowly, awkwardly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was hesitant, but gentle.

He sat rigid, his tie askew, his face still hot from Robotnik's earlier declarations. Guilt gnawed at him for Sandi's breakdown, yet beneath it flickered something darker — a small, undeniable spark of triumph. Robotnik's satisfaction, his glowing praise, felt like validation. Like a reward for loyalty. She knew Robotnik's compliments were calculated, designed to manipulate Stone and wind her up further. The oppressive atmosphere pressed down, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Stone leaned down. In one swift motion, he lifted her over his shoulder.

Sandi gasped, startled, her legs kicking weakly as she dangled like an oversized sack of flour. "Put me down! Seriously, Stone, what is this—your favourite party trick?" she snapped, struggling against his hold.

Stone's lips pressed into a tight line. He didn't answer her jabs. His movements were deliberate, careful, as he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her as though she weighed nothing.

"Ohhh, look at her!" Robotnik cooed, resting his chin against his palm. His eyes gleamed with cruel delight. "So delicate! So dependent!" His smirk widened. "Tell me, dear—how does it feel? To be nurtured like the feeble little stray you are?"

He leaned forward, voice thick with mockery. "And oh, how precious you look, tucked so delicately in Stone's arms!"

Stone's voice was calm, almost flat. "I'll take her back to her cage, Doctor. She'll be out of the way."

Robotnik waved a dismissive hand, barely sparing them a glance as he picked up his coffee again. "Very well. Do try to keep her contained this time, Stone. I have no patience for further disruptions."

Stone didn't wait for further instructions. He carried Sandi out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the dim corridor. Her protests grew louder, her voice sharp with indignation as she kicked and squirmed against his hold. However, exhaustion quickly caught up with her. Her struggles weakened, her body sagging against him.

At last, they reached the cage. Stone set her down gently, unlocking the door with a quiet sigh. He gestured for her to step inside, his expression softening slightly.

Sandi hesitated, her sharp eyes narrowing as she looked up at him. But fatigue won out. With a bitter exhale, she stepped inside, too tired to put up much of a fight.

Stone crouched, reaching for the ropes around her wrists. With careful precision, he untied them, letting the rough material fall away. "I can't do more than this right now," he murmured. "I'm sorry. But you'll at least have your hands free. That's the best I can do."

Sandi glared at him, her chest tightening with a surge of anger and frustration. As Stone closed the cage door, locking it with a quiet click, the reality of her situation crashed down again.

Tears blurred her vision. She grabbed the bars, her voice rising with the force of her emotions. "Pathetic! That's what you are, Stone—absolutely pathetic!" she screamed. "You act like you're helping me, but all you're doing is keeping me trapped! You're a coward!"

Stone winced, her words striking like blows. His shoulders sagged as he stood. He didn't respond. His expression was heavy with guilt, but he didn't look back either.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Sandi collapsed onto the floor of the cage, her hands trembling as she wiped at her face. Her cries filled the quiet of the lair, raw and heart‑wrenching, a reminder of her captivity and the twisted dynamic binding her to her captors.

For Stone, the sound of her sobs lingered long after he left, echoing in his mind as he made his way back to Robotnik. The weight of his choices pressed down on him like never before.

—

A couple of hours pass, and Sandi wakes with a start, limbs stiff and bound, ankles now tied alongside her wrists. The blanket clings to her like a cocoon, and she's curled against something warm — Stone, apparently, who blinks groggily as she jolts upright.

She expects Robotnik's booming voice, perhaps a dramatic monologue about the Chaos Emeralds, but the room is quiet. The Doctor snores in his chair, a wine glass tipped, a newspaper sliding off his chest like a defeated flag.

Sandi wriggles, ropes biting. Her movement stirs Stone, who adjusts his tie like it's a reflex for guilt. "I brought you here," he says, voice low. "The Doctor had too much to drink. I didn't think it was safe to leave you alone with him… in that state."

She glares. "So you tied me up tighter and tucked me in like a burrito?"

Stone winces. "It was a precaution."

Her breath hitches, frustration bubbling. "You don't get it. None of this is safe. I'm just a toy to him."

Stone places a hand on her shoulder, tentative. "Sandi… please. Just stop fighting for a moment."

Robotnik stirs awake, his groggy eyes landing on Stone, who is still cradling Sandi like a baby. His moustache twitches as he rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the scene before him. Rising from his chair, he stretches dramatically, his imposing figure casting long shadows across the room. Sandi, sensing his movement, grips Stone tighter with what little strength she has, her bound hands trembling as she clings to him. Her breathing grows uneven, panic bubbling beneath the surface as Robotnik strides toward them with a smug grin. The tension in the room thickens, her soft whimper breaking through the quiet. Without hesitation, Robotnik reaches down and takes her from Stone's arms, his grip firm but not rough. Sandi lets out a piercing scream, her voice raw with fear as she struggles weakly against him. Robotnik's smirk widens, his amusement palpable as he revels in her terror.

"Doctor, please—be gentle with her. She's weak, scared. There's no need to—"

Ignoring Stone, he continues to mock Sandi: "Ah, little Sandi, such fear in those eyes. Truly, you're a fascinating specimen. So many possibilities, so little time."

Robotnik's smirk spreads like grease over a machine. He methodically lays a row of tools on the workbench beside Sandi, each instrument catching the bright overhead light and throwing it back in cold, clinical flashes. The metal sings against the wood with every placement, minor metallic punctuation marks that make Sandi flinch, though she cannot look away. Her wrists and ankles bite into the ropes; her breath comes in short, angry pulls.

He lifts the first tool as if unveiling a prize, turning it under the light so that its edges sparkle. His voice slides smoothly and pleasurably.

"This, Sandi, is a precision micro‑welder—perfect for delicate repairs on circuits that demand finesse." He runs a fingertip over the tip as if admiring a new model. "And this," he continues, holding up a slim, sinister device, "…is my advanced servomechanism extractor. A beauty, wouldn't you agree? Designed to remove damaged components without compromising surrounding systems."

Each explanation is offered with unnerving enthusiasm. Robotnik delights in naming functions and possibilities, cataloguing instruments as if reading from a menu and savouring the options. He toys with a chrome tool that gleams like a claw.

"And this one, my personal favourite—a torque amplifier. Ideal for reinforcing structural integrity—or dismantling it with ease."

Sandi's chest tightens. The sound of metal against the bench becomes a slow, relentless metronome. Her fingers twitch against the ropes, trying to find purchase on a world that has narrowed to the angle of each blade and the tilt of each ratchet—her pulse drums in her throat.

The door creaks, and Stone steps inside, pausing on the threshold. He takes in the tableau: Robotnik arranging tools, Sandi sprawled and restrained, the room's light hard and uncompromising. He hesitates a breath too long, then seats himself in the corner on a crate as if to make an observation official. He keeps his silence like a signed confession.

Robotnik glances at him without missing a beat, the smirk growing into full showman mode.

"Ah, Stone! Perfect timing. Our dear Sandi is receiving a practical lesson in ingenuity—one she won't soon forget." He looks back at Sandi, the word "forget" tucked into that grin like a knife.

Stone clears his throat and nods once, the motion small and automatic. He watches; he does not intercede. His face is a careful mask, the sort of neutrality that tries and fails to cover the tremor beneath.

She forces out a voice, raw and small but determined to be heard. "Why are you showing me these? What's the point?"

Robotnik's amusement deepens. He picks another tool up, letting it glitter in the overhead glare, as if the very light were a spotlight for his cruelty.

"The point, my dear, is choice," he says, slow and theatrical. "Choice is a rare commodity. I can make you obedient—strip away your defiance, reframe your instincts, fit you with whatever servos and circuits I please. Or"—he lets the pause lengthen and the corners of his mouth curl—"I can fatten you up and roast you in a mere couple of days. A feast fit for a king."

There is no humour in his options. The room leans closer, listening for which of the two the air will accept as a threat and which as a promise. Stone's jaw tightens. He does not look at Sandi when Robotnik speaks; he looks at the floor, at the workbench, at some private measure that keeps him from moving.

Sandi's laugh is short, brittle. It sounds ridiculous to her own ears, and she hates that it does. "You really have a flair for theatrics, don't you?" she says. Her voice is sharper now, threaded with contempt and something like calculation. "You can call it choice, but we both know what you enjoy."

Robotnik's smile sharpens. He steps closer, the shadow of his frame swallowing the light from the bench. He turns a tool between his fingers like a jeweller handling a stone.

"And what I enjoy is making possibilities explicit," he says, voice smooth as varnish. "You will help me learn where lines bend. You will teach me what breaks. Consider it... collaboration."

Sandi clamps her jaw to keep from answering. Instead, she watches him, storing detail after detail: the way he favours the torque amplifier, how his fingers pause at the extractor's catch, the tiny chip of enamel missing from the bench's edge. These objects are threats, but they are also maps. She catalogues the room like an archivist of danger.

Robotnik sets the claw‑like apparatus down deliberately beside Sandi's bound hands. He leans over her, close enough that she can taste the stale wine on his breath, and his voice drops to a conspiratorial purr. He waves a hand toward Scratch and Grounder as if conducting a small, grotesque orchestra.

"Scratch, Grounder — a box of the finest sugary doughnuts," Robotnik intones, voice booming and theatrical. "Fattening, indulgent, absolutely irresistible. We have a schedule to keep."

The words land like a physical thing inside Sandi's stomach. Her face goes clammy. The idea of being fed rich, greasy food on purpose makes bile climb her throat. Stone's expression folds into concern; he shifts his weight, uneasy.

"She won't do well on that," he mutters, low and practical. "If she's to last, she needs something balanced, sustainable."

Robotnik laughs, pleased as if hearing the punchline to a private joke. He rubs slow, indulgent circles across his round belly, the motion almost ritualistic.

They set her on the sofa by the fire. The room is warm, the flames throwing soft light that makes the scene look smoother than it is—an aesthetic veneer over cruelty. Scratch and Grounder hustle in with a box of doughnuts so large it seems designed for spectacle. Sandi forces down a doughnut. It sits in her like an insult. The sugar is cloying, the grease a film over everything, and each bite fights with the knot of fear in her throat. She chews with mechanical precision and swallows with effort, the taste making her skin crawl. The room erupts in malicious applause when she finishes the last, pathetic mouthful. Scratch and Grounder clap with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"You're all disgusting," she manages, voice small and raw.

Her words are a pebble thrown into a pool of arrogance. She presses her hands against her middle; silent tears track down her cheeks. The doughnut's sweetness lingers like a smear on her tongue. Robotnik leans forward, eyes bright with amusement and something colder.

Sandi can't help herself. In a quick, helpless act of spite, she spits at him. The gesture is tiny, ridiculous, and glorious in its impotence.

For a beat, the room freezes. Scratch and Grounder stop mid‑applause, faces open and blank as if someone hit a pause button. Robotnik's smirk falters, an almost theatrical twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wipes the spit from his face with slow deliberation, the motion measured like a villain cleaning a prop. Robotnik's expression recalibrated from amusement to something darker and sharper.

Sandi breathes shallowly. The taste of the doughnut is a reminder of what has been decided for her body. Her defiance has cost her nothing that matters, but it has purchased, for a sliver, a sense of agency. She catalogues details automatically: the exact place Robotnik keeps the box of tools, the way his left index finger taps a rhythm when he's pleased, the pattern of knots in her ropes.

The lair hums on—machines sighing, a distant clank, the crackle of the fire—while Robotnik reclines and hums a tuneless little song. For him, it is entertainment; for Sandi, it is data. She will not let the fattening plan be the only thing he teaches her. She will learn his routines, his infatuations, his small, telltale gestures. In that learning, there is a beginning of a plan.

Scratch and Grounder shuffle in again, metal limbs clinking as they carry a tray of drinks. They set two glasses of red wine before Robotnik and Stone with the exaggerated care of stagehands presenting props. In front of Sandi, they plonk a cola; the can hisses, the fizz threatening to escape in loud, humiliating bubbles.

She hesitates, fingers trembling, and lifts the can of soda with the awkward slowness of someone whose limbs are no longer entirely theirs. The first sip is a small assault—cold, sharp, and unbearably fizzy. A soft burp slips from her against her will, and her cheeks flame with a mortified heat she cannot hide. The sugar feels like an insult; the carbonation slaps at the knot of fear in her throat.

Robotnik leans in, patting his stomach with theatrical fondness as if he's the proud parent of an invention. "I am a good guardian," he coos. "You need me. And soon enough,"—he tips his wine toward the fire in a mock toast—"you will understand that completely." His hand moves in exaggerated circles over her belly, a mocking mimicry of care.

"If I hadn't found you, my dear," he continues, voice dripping pity that smells suspiciously like entitlement, "where would you be? Rotting in the cold? Collapsing from starvation? Tell me—who else would have saved you?" His grin deepens into something predatory, and Stone's expression tightens.

Stone shifts and, with a small, guilty motion, adjusts the blanket over Sandi before lifting his own glass. He drinks slowly, avoiding Robotnik's eye, then offers the reluctant affirmation: "You're right."

"I hate you!" she screams, voice shredded and raw, every syllable hammered from a place that has been filled with too many small cruelties. "I hate both of you!"

Robotnik sighs, utterly unimpressed, and takes another casual sip of wine. "Ohhh, how theatrical," he muses, amusement like a perfume. "So dramatic. So tragic." He smirks down at her with the condescension of a man watching an inconvenient insect.

Scratch and Grounder scurry around, topping off the wine with clumsy precision while casting nervous sidelong looks at Sandi. One of them sets down another cola in front of her, the fizz already beginning its loud little show. She winces at the sight; her belly tightens at the thought of swallowing more—the absurdity of it—a full banquet for the tyrant's amusement—bites sharper than hunger.

Robotnik, gently mocking, arches his moustache and suggests, "Goodness, Sandi—shall I wind you like a baby next? Perhaps a lullaby to go with it?" His tone is false gentleness folded into taunt.

Sandi's bound hands twitch; she mutters, half to herself and half as a defiance flung thin as paper. "I'm not a baby. You two are so spoiled," Sandi spits, voice brittle. "Sitting here with your wine and plans as if the world revolves around you. It doesn't."

Robotnik's smugness only deepens. "Spoiled? I earned this. Every invention, every conquest—got here by merit and genius. I deserve every advantage, including you, trespasser." He leans back, pleased with the moral calculus he's drawn for himself.

"It wasn't my fault," Sandi retorts. "I thought this place was abandoned—a warehouse. I didn't know."

"Ah—excuses," Robotnik waves the notion away. "Abandoned or not, you trespassed. Consider yourself fortunate; you've been granted the privilege of joining my world."

"Enough! Just enough!" Her voice cuts through the drowsy hush like a blade. "Take me back to my cage. At least I can be away from you two."

Robotnik's eyes flutter; his smirk reconvenes as if on cue. He lifts his head, blinks at her with theatrical laziness, and then gestures with the careless flourish of a man giving an order he knows will be obeyed. "Very well," he says, voice syrupy with amusement.

Scratch and Grounder scuttle forward at the sound of the command, metal limbs clinking in an eager staccato. They lift Sandi with the mechanical courtesy of servants handling an inconvenient object. The ropes constrict where her fur presses against the sofa; the motion forces bile and tears and the faint, humiliating memory of the doughnut to the surface. Stone's eyes meet hers for a breath. There is an apology there if she looks for it, but it is thin and inadequate. He does not move to cut the knots; he does not ask Robotnik to stop. Instead, he looks away, and the look reads as capitulation.

The path back to the cage is measured in small metallic sounds: the tap of Scratch's feet, Grounder's soft grinding whirr. They carry her like a parcel, and the room seems to normalise the act with every step—an ordinary procession for an extraordinary indignity.

She exhales one slow, ragged breath and tastes the metallic tang of anger on her tongue. She is not free. The rope is real. The humiliation is fresh. But the command to be returned, the ease with which she was carried off a sofa, registers as a fact she files away. Small things, she reminds herself—where they hesitate, how they gesture, the order in which they move—these are the pieces she will use later.

The door of the cage closes with a final, casual click. Outside, the lair resumes its ordinary noise: a distant motor, the creak of settling metal, Robotnik's faint murmur of satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Heavy boots announced Robotnik before his bulk filled the doorway. Scratch and Grounder skittered behind him, their voices clattering in a nervous duet.

“She’s gone, Doctor!” Scratch blurted. “We checked the cage, the storerooms—everywhere!”
“We don’t know where she is—she could be anywhere!” Grounder added.

Robotnik’s grin snapped off like a light. “Missing?” he said, voice flat and dangerous. “You let her slip away; did you not lock the cage correctly?” His eyes bored into them.

Stone stood back, clipboard white-knuckled. “We’re searching every corner, sir. She couldn’t have gotten far—”

“You will find her,” Robotnik interrupted. “Now.”

A shuffle of orders split the search. Beneath the Doctor’s quarters, in the thin ventilation shaft, Sandi pressed herself into the closest shadow. Dust tasted old and metallic in her mouth; the grate above offered a sliver of view. Her ribs tightened each time a boot passed. The vent was a small mercy—tight, scratchy, and mercilessly quiet.

Footsteps converged. Scratch peered up at the duct and squawked, “Did you hear that? From the vents?” Grounder’s voice dropped, quick and hopeful: “She’s small and sneaky. Maybe she’s hiding in the ducts.”

Robotnik’s chuckle rolled low and hungry. “Then search the ducts.” He moved with slow, measuring steps toward Stone’s room.

Through the slats, she watched him approach, felt the heavy thud of his presence translate through metal. He stopped at the bedside, sniffed theatrically, and said, “Lavender and cheap soap—Stone’s scent. She’s close; I can smell her.”

Stone muttered something ineffectual. “Doctor—”
“Find her,” Robotnik said, and the word had teeth.

Robotnik crouched and leaned his head toward the vent. His voice slid down the duct like oil. “Come out, little thing. Make this easy. Don’t be foolish.” He tapped the grille in slow, deliberate beats.

A tickle flared at Sandi’s nose. She pinched it until the effort burned, but a tiny, involuntary sneeze escaped—sharp, tinny, echoing in the hollow shaft.

Silence landed. Robotnik’s head tilted; his grin returned, thicker now. He tapped the vent again, then reached into the narrow gap with a slow, testing motion. The shaft swallowed most of his hand; his reach stopped where the vent narrowed, and the fingers he could get in scrabbled the metal, hunting.

Something thin and familiar brushed his fingertips: the loop of a sock. He pinched and gave it a pull.

“No—” Sandi mouthed, but the word was a whisper lost in metal. The duct gave her no room to twist. The loop cinched around one toe; then his fingers closed past her heel and found nothing but small, bare flesh. She had been barefoot—no shoes to slow him, only the thin cotton of a sock he now tugged at.

“Ah,” Robotnik purred, amusement in the scrape of his laugh. “Not very well equipped, are we?” He tugged again; the fabric slid, stubborn and damp, and the sock came half off with a wet little sound.

Sandi felt the sock peel from her fur. Reflex bucked her leg; she dug toes into the vent floor and hauled herself further back, forcing the small of her spine against the rough metal. Her hands clawed for purchase, nails scraping until they stung. Robotnik’s fingers closed on the exposed heel for a second, just enough for her to feel the heat of his grip, then he missed purchase—his bulk kept him from reaching farther in.

“Catch her feet,” he ordered, voice low. “Keep at the exits; don’t let her slip.” His tone had narrowed to a command that brooked no failure.

Scratch and Grounder responded with a flurry of clanking movement. “On it, Doctor!” they parroted, but the edge of their haste was clumsy. Sandi’s eyes flicked to the memory of last night: she had noticed, in passing, a stubborn twist to the cage latch. Now it mattered. She heard the muttered apology between their mechanical clicks: during the earlier fuss, they had not properly secured the cage. A small mistake—a forgotten twist—was the hinge on which this morning swung.

Robotnik leaned his weight against the bedframe and tried to peer further into the duct. His bulk blocked him; he could only reach the tips of his fingers into the grille.

Sandi’s breath came shallow. Every motion above her translated into sound in the vent: the scrape of a glove, the hollow chuckle through metal, the anxious whisper of Scratch pacing. She hauled herself further into the dark, bare toe skidding along cold metal as he tried once more to pull. He got a firmer hold on her ankle—but the duct’s narrowness protected most of her; his reach only grazed, enough to make her gasp but not enough to pull.

“Stop playing.” His voice thinned. “I do not like playing games.”

Robotnik’s fingers closed and tugged the sock free; it came off with a tiny, humiliating whisper. He held the scrap of cotton between forefinger and thumb like a token of victory. The smell of dust and skin lingered in the metal air.

Sandi pulled herself deeper, lungs burning, counting the seconds between his tugs and the retreat of his hand. She mapped the vent’s internal contours: the point where the duct kinked, the flanged join that caught her sleeve when she had first slipped in, the exact spot where Robotnik’s fingers could and could not reach. Each limitation he displayed was a fact she stored away.

Above, Scratch fumbled with the cage lock. Grounder’s whirr stuttered. “We—uh—didn’t quite…secure it last night, Doctor,” Scratch confessed, voice thin. Grounder added, defensively: “It slipped while we were adjusting the bolts. We thought—” His phrase trailed into anxious static.

Robotnik’s laugh snapped like a wire. “Incompetence upon incompetence,” he said. “Make sure it never happens again.”

Sandi let out the breath she’d been holding in small, measured exhales. Her sock lay snagged in Robotnik’s gloved fingers, a tiny talisman of how close he had come. The duct’s darkness reclaimed her. She flexed toes that had just been tugged and felt the sting like a promise: the brief, humiliating contact had told her how far he could reach and where he could not. Robotnik’s voice flowed down the shaft, silk coating the blade of each sentence.

“My dear Sandi, you must realise you can’t stay tucked away in there forever. Come now, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. You’re only delaying the inevitable. The walls of this lair are thick, the pathways labyrinthine. Where could you possibly go? The longer you stay hidden, the hungrier you’ll get, the more uncomfortable you’ll become. Come out—stop making such a fuss; it’s far better to face me now than to drag this out.”

He straightened, the smirk on his face honing itself into command, and nodded toward Stone, who lingered at the doorway like a man clinging to an uncertain shore.

“Stone, my dear assistant, your arm is far more suited for this delicate task. Fetch her for me, won’t you?”

Stone stepped forward with a body that moved before his will could catch up to it. He crouched beside the vent, fingers hovering over the grille, and reached in with a slow, reluctant motion. Sandi’s heart pounded, the duct a throat around her chest.

“You don’t have to listen to him,” she hissed, voice shaking but edged with the rawness of someone refusing to be erased.

Stone’s hand paused, the hesitation a small, luminous thing. For a breath, she thought he might choose the one hard word she needed. Instead, the weight of Robotnik’s gaze folded over him; his jaw worked, and he swallowed.

“I’m really sorry, Sandi,” he breathed, voice small and brittle. “I don’t have a choice. Just—come along.”

She kicked and shoved. Stone’s fingers found her calf; his grip was steady but not cruel. She pulled herself backwards, every instinct flaring, until he hauled at her with a resigned, efficient motion. Her breath hitched as he lifted her, awkward and unnatural—an animal half carried, half surrendered—over his shoulder.

“Oh dear, dear, dear, why must you insist on making things so difficult?” Robotnik sighed theatrically, mock disappointment dripping from every syllable. “You are cared for, provided for… and yet—always fighting and clawing.”

Robotnik clapped, pleasure loud and greedy. “My plan is back on track. You’ve done well, Stone.”

Stone handed her over because he had always done so. Robotnik seized Sandi with a deliberate, possessive motion—his grip an instruction. He pulled her into his arms like a prize and adjusted his hold as if testing a new toy.

“My dear assistant, you’re far too gentle with her,” Robotnik chided, voice honeyed with cruelty. “She’s not a fragile ornament—she’s a runaway who needs to learn her place.”

Stone’s fingers twitched; his shoulders tightened. He said nothing. The silence said the rest.

Robotnik dropped her back into the cage with the theatrical finality of a director lowering a curtain. The metal latch clicked; the sound punched the air and landed in Sandi’s sternum like a cold fist. She curled inward as the bars closed, wrists chafing anew, the thin mattress a poor mercy under her.

“Now,” he purred, voice low and dangerous, “you understand the cost of wandering. You understand the generosity of my house. Behave, little trespasser, and perhaps I will continue to be merciful.”

Stone remained in the doorway, posture shuttered and small. His face was pale; his mouth worked around words he would not give. Sandi behind bars, Stone silenced, the lair momentarily ordered to his liking.

Sandi pressed her forehead to the cold metal and breathed until the world narrowed to the rhythm of the click and the throb of her own pulse.

The cage is silent, save for the low hum of machinery pulsing through the lair’s walls like a heartbeat. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow across the concrete floor. When Stone returns that evening, the air shifts. He carries a fizzing cola and a pizza box that radiates the unmistakable scent of grease, melted cheese, and something almost—almost—comforting.

He sets the box on the table just outside the cage, his movements calm, deliberate, almost ritualistic. The cardboard creaks as he opens it, revealing a deep-dish pizza, its golden crust glistening under the harsh light. Steam curls upward, mingling with the metallic chill of the room.

Sandi sits curled on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, her expression twisted with discomfort and regret. Her eyes flicker toward the pizza, then away again, as though looking too long might make it disappear. She mumbles, barely audible.

“Is this really what freedom tastes like? Maybe I should’ve just run further…”

Stone pulls a chair closer to the bars and sits, his posture careful, his presence quiet but intentional. He slides a plate with a slice toward her through the slot, then places the cola beside it. His voice is low, almost apologetic.

“It’s not much, but I thought you’d want something warm after everything. Don’t rush. Take your time. There’s... no judgment here.”

Sandi hesitates. Her fingers tremble as she reaches for the slice, the grease slick against her skin. She bites slowly, chewing with effort, each mouthful heavier than the last. Her stomach protests, still raw from the previous day’s excess, but she eats anyway—because it’s there, because it’s offered, because it’s the only thing in the room that doesn’t feel like a threat.

Stone watches her quietly, his presence steady but unobtrusive. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t push. He remains—a silent witness to her unravelling.

The surreal nightmare of the lair doesn’t vanish, but it thins slightly in his company. For Sandi, the moment is bittersweet: a flicker of humanity in a place built to erase it.

After a long silence, Stone speaks again. His voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“If you were to get out of here... to escape... where would you go?”

Sandi freezes mid-bite. The question lands like a stone in her chest. Her hands lower the slice, her shoulders begin to shake. Tears well up, then spill freely, unchecked. She lets out a shuddering sob, her voice cracking as she tries to speak.

“I don’t know. I don’t have anyone out there. I’ve never had anyone, really.” She gestures weakly to the pizza and the cola. “This... this is the only warmth I’ve ever been shown. And even this... I don’t know if it’s real.”

Her words tumble out in fragments, raw and unfiltered. She buries her face in her hands, the sound of her crying filling the cage like a confession.

Stone swallows hard. He looks away, jaw tight, guilt pressing against his ribs like a vice. For all the times he’s stood beside Robotnik, for all the silent complicity, this moment feels different—more intimate, more wrong.

He leans forward, voice barely above a whisper. “It... it is real, Sandi. At least, it’s real from me.”

She lifts her tear-streaked face, eyes searching his with a mixture of doubt and pain. Stone meets her gaze, and something in him falters. The mask slips. His voice shakes.

“I’m... I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you. Around him, I mean. I—I don’t know if it means anything, but I feel awful about it. Really, I do.”

The words are clumsy, but they land with weight. For the first time, Sandi sees a crack in the stoic façade of Robotnik’s ever-loyal right hand. A fracture. A possibility.

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she finishes the last bite of the greasy pizza, wiping her fingers on the napkin Stone had thoughtfully placed beside her. She takes a final sip of the cola, the bubbles sharp on her tongue, then sets the empty can down with a soft clink.

Her stomach aches—not just from the food, but from everything. From the weight of memory, from the pressure of survival, from the ache of being seen.

Stone doesn’t move. He stays seated, hands folded, gaze steady. There’s an awkwardness between them, a tension neither names. When she glances up, she catches a flicker in his expression—uncertainty, maybe guilt, maybe something else.

Finally, he speaks, voice low and measured.

“You did well. You’re a good girl, Sandi.”

The words hang in the air, strange and tender. Sandi doesn’t reply, but her eyes don’t look away. For a moment, the cage feels less like a prison and more like a pause—fragile, temporary, but real.

The words hang in the air like smoke, and Sandi’s chest tightens. Her cheeks flush—not from warmth, but from the sting of being reduced. “Good girl.” The phrase lingers like a sour taste, curling around her ribs. Despite Stone’s intentions, it lands wrong. It feeds the surreal dynamic she’s trapped in: not a person with autonomy, but a doll—something to be dressed, fed, observed, pitied—a prop in someone else’s ritual.

Her gaze drops. She rubs her bloated stomach, groaning softly at the ache that’s settled there. A bitter laugh escapes her lips, dry and sharp.

“A good girl, huh?” she mutters. “Feels more like I’ve been dressed up for a game I really don’t want to play.”

Stone’s face flickers with unease. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. For a moment, it looks like he might apologise—again. But the words stall behind his teeth. Instead, he remains seated beside her, silent, steady, offering quiet company in a place that rarely allows it. In Robotnik’s lair, even that small gesture feels like a fleeting reprieve.

Sensing her discomfort, Stone hesitates, then unlocks the cage with a soft click. He moves slowly, carefully, and lifts her into his arms. His touch is gentle, as if handling something fragile—not because she’s weak, but because he’s afraid of breaking what little trust remains. Sandi doesn’t resist. Her limbs feel heavy, her body sluggish. And despite everything, a small part of her leans into the warmth, however fleeting.

Robotnik enters without fanfare, his presence shifting the air like a change in pressure. He watches the scene unfold with a mixture of amusement and irritation, his sharp gaze narrowing as he leans back in his chair.

“Stone,” he drawls, “you’re coddling her again. You’re far too soft.”

Stone doesn’t flinch. He adjusts his grip on Sandi, then sets her down gently on the blanket. His voice is calm, but there’s steel beneath it.

“Doctor, I must object. These experiments are mentally and physically draining Sandi. If this continues, she won’t last. You’re pushing her too hard. We need to slow down. With all due respect—if she collapses completely, you won’t get the results you’re looking for. Pushing her to this point isn’t just cruel—it’s counterproductive. Let’s adjust the pace.”

Robotnik’s smile tightens. “You’re growing quite bold today. Standing up for our little guest, are we? How quaint. Do remind me—when did you start questioning my methods?”

Stone’s jaw clenches. “Doctor, this isn’t just about her. It’s about the way you treat everyone. Including me.”

Robotnik’s eyes gleam. “Don’t forget your place, Stone. You’re here to serve my vision. And my vision requires discipline. If she can’t keep up, that’s her fault, not mine. She’s a freedom fighter in the making. They’re all the same—idealistic, defiant, and far too eager to rebel against order. Mark my words: if we don’t discipline her now, she’ll inevitably turn against us when Sonic and his meddlesome friends come sniffing around. Better to break her spirit while there’s still a chance.”

Stone exhales sharply. His grip tightens on the back of a chair, knuckles whitening as he steadies himself. He looks at Sandi—curled in the blanket, exhaustion etched into every line of her face—then turns back to Robotnik. His voice is firm, underpinned with a rare defiance that makes the room still.

“She’s not a freedom fighter. She’s just trying to survive. That’s all she’s ever done. And honestly, that’s all I was doing before you took me in as your assistant. Desperation doesn’t make her dangerous.”

Robotnik scoffs. “Oh, how sentimental. You make it sound like I rescued you from some grand tragedy. But let’s not forget—I gave you purpose. I gave you power. And now you’re letting compassion cloud your judgment? Ah, the grand dance of survival. Nature’s oldest game. Life is nothing more than survival of the fittest. The strong thrive, and the weak? They stumble into places they don’t belong. Like a fly ensnared in a spider’s web.”

Stone doesn’t back down. His shoulders square as he steps closer, voice steady but laced with something more profound—something personal.

“She trespassed into my domain. My carefully woven web. And like any good spider, I must decide what to do with my catch.”

Robotnik’s smile sharpens. “How poetic…”

“But you forget,” he continues, “that survival alone isn’t enough. It’s the art of thriving that separates the strong from the weak. And I? I am the apex. The spider at the centre of the web. You and she are merely pieces in my grand design.”

Robotnik strides forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. His gaze locks onto Sandi’s trembling form. Without hesitation, he reaches out to pull her from Stone’s grasp.

Sandi cries out, her voice cracking as she clutches at Stone, desperation spilling over in a flood of hysteria. Her fingers dig into his sleeve, her body curling toward him like a child seeking shelter from a storm.

“Please—don’t let him—please, Stone—”

Her voice is raw, pleading, the sound of someone who’s been pushed past the edge. Stone doesn’t move at first, caught between two forces: the man who gave him power, and the girl who’s shown him what it means to be powerless.

Robotnik’s grip tightens. “Enough of this,” he snaps. “She belongs to me.”

And in that moment, the fragile bubble of comfort shatters.

Robotnik’s gaze lingers on Sandi longer than necessary. His eyes narrow, and a slow, satisfied grin curls across his face.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, circling her like a collector inspecting a specimen. “She’s filling out nicely. Plumper. Heavier. The effects are setting in. Fascinating.”

Sandi stiffens. The word plumper hits her like a slap. Her breath catches, and she instinctively wraps her arms around her middle, fingers pressing into the soft swell of her stomach. Her face flushes—not from shame, but from a rising panic she can’t quite name. She’s never thought much about her body before, but now it feels like a target. A project. A thing.

Stone shifts uncomfortably, sensing the tension. He tries to defuse it with a weak smile.

“Well, I mean... she’s definitely looking healthier than when she arrived,” he offers, voice too bright, too forced. “Less... skeletal. More... alive?”

Sandi shoots him a look, somewhere between betrayal and disbelief.

Robotnik chuckles, ignoring Stone entirely. His voice drops into something colder, more clinical.

“She’s becoming exactly what I need her to be. The softness, the compliance—it’s all part of the process. You see, Stone, transformation is not just mental. It’s physical. The body must reflect the role. And hers is beginning to.”

Sandi’s breathing grows shallow. Her hands tremble as she grips the blanket tighter, trying to disappear into it. Her voice cracks as she speaks, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to be changed. I didn’t ask for this.”

Robotnik leans in, eyes gleaming.

“No one asks for evolution, my dear. It simply happens. You’re becoming useful. That’s more than most can say.”

Stone’s jaw tightens. He steps between them, subtly shielding her with his body.

“That’s enough, Doctor.”

Robotnik raises an eyebrow, amused. “Protective again, are we? How charming.”

Sandi curls inward, her thoughts spiralling. Her body no longer feels like hers. It’s a canvas for someone else’s vision, a vessel being reshaped without consent. She shifts, trying to find a comfortable position, but her body doesn’t move the way it used to. Her stomach presses outward, taut and unfamiliar. Her thighs squish against each other in a way that makes her flinch. Even her arms feel swollen, like they belong to someone else.

She stares down at herself, blinking hard. Her fingers press into her belly, and the softness yields like dough. Panic flickers behind her eyes.

“I’m... bigger,” she whispers, voice thin. “I didn’t feel it before, but now... I feel it everywhere.”

Stone crouches beside her, awkwardly trying to soften the moment. “Well, I mean... you’re looking much healthier than when you arrived,” he says, forcing a smile. “Less... ghostly. More colour in your cheeks. That’s good, right?”

Sandi doesn’t laugh. Her breath catches in her throat. “I don’t want to be healthy like this,” she says. “I didn’t choose this.”

Robotnik, looming nearby, lets out a low chuckle. “Ah, but choice is such a fragile thing. You were brittle when you arrived—starved, sharp-edged, forgettable. Now look at you. Rounded. Present. Becoming.”

Sandi recoils, her hands curling into fists. “Becoming what?”

Robotnik steps closer, his gaze clinical, almost admiring. “Something useful. Something visible. You were a shadow before. Now you’re substance.”

The word lands like a curse.

Sandi’s breath grows shallow. Her skin feels too tight, her body too loud. She remembers the meals—the syrup, the butter, the soda fizzing against her teeth. She remembers the way Stone cut her food for her, the way Robotnik watched her as she chewed. It wasn’t nourishment. It was a ritual. A transformation she hadn’t agreed to.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” she says, voice cracking. “Not into nothing. Into something I don’t recognise.”

Stone’s face falls. He doesn’t know how to answer that. He reaches out, then hesitates, his hand hovering in the air.

Robotnik smiles, satisfied. “Disappearance is the first step. You shed the old self. The weak self. And what remains is mine to shape.”

Sandi curls inward, the blanket pulled tight around her. Her body is no longer hers—it’s a canvas, a project, a performance. And the worst part is, she can feel it working. The softness. The compliance. The way her hunger has changed. It’s not just physical. It’s psychological. She’s being rewritten.