The fireplace embers popped, casting Torii's shadow across the dossier's pages—long fingered and grotesque, almost stretching like a Mobian's despite her human form. She lingered over a sketch of Sonic's claws shredding King Maximilian Acorn's latest royal decree, her own manicured nails scraping the paper in mimicry.
Collin watched her pupils dilate, her sky blue eyes drinking in every detail of the Mobian Hedgehog—the way her fingers trembled just slightly before stilling, betraying a fascination that went beyond mere study. Torii's obsession wasn't clinical—it was *hungry*, the kind of ravenous admiration that turned scholars into zealots and collectors into thieves.
She flipped the page again, admiring the strength in Sonic's spin dash arcs—the way his quills carved grooves into King Maximilian Acorn's propaganda posters like calligraphy written in kinetic fury.
Just then there was a call out to them from another hall, "Mr. Kintobor, Lady Pavlov, have you heard? Somehow has—" The messenger froze mid sentence upon seeing Torii's fingers buried wrist deep in the dossier's spine, her knuckles white as she tore the page clean out—Sonic's sketched smirk ripping unevenly down the middle.
She didn't blink, just slowly lifted the shredded halves to her lips and inhaled—deep, shuddering—like the ink might carry his scent, "What. Is. It?"
The messenger's throat bobbed, his Adam's apple bouncing like a dying rabbit in a snare, "Th-there has been a release of some time of manifesto online—posted across all sectors—it's—" Torii's hand lashed out faster than a whip, clamping around his windpipe with enough force to dent steel plating.
Her fingers flexed—once, twice—before dragging him nose to nose with her, his boots kicking air as she inhaled his terror like perfume. "Say it slower," she whispered, her breath frosting his muzzle. The manifesto crumpled in his trembling grip, its edges fluttering like moth wings against her wrist.
She didn't blink when he choked out the words—Sonic's manifesto, revolution, of course he already released one—her fingers tightening until his claws scrabbled uselessly against her wrist, the manifesto's edges fluttering like the last breaths of a dying man.
Torii exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, before releasing the messenger—letting him crumple to the marble floor in a gasping heap. The manifesto's pages fluttered from his slack grip, scattering like leaves in a storm. She stepped over him, her polished heels clicking against the stone as she bent to retrieve a single sheet, her eyes scanning the jagged handwriting that slashed across the parchment like claw marks.
Sonic's words weren't typed—they were *carved*, each letter dripping with intent as she began to read it: "When I write this manifesto, I'm not asking for your loyalty—I'm asking for your teeth to finally bite back, as above, so below." The phrasing was jagged, stripped of diplomacy, a blade held edge first against Mobius' throat.
Torii's pulse hammered against her ribs as she traced the letters after that line—letters that weren't inked so much as *branded* into the parchment, the paper puckering where Sonic's claws had scored too deep. The manifesto wasn't a plea—it was a *reckoning*, each word sharpened to a lethal edge: "But do not misunderstand, I am not a hero, I am not a genius, I am not a god, I am not a king—but I will tear them all down *for* you."
The phrasing coiled like a serpent, venomous in its simplicity, promising ruin with the same ease as a child snapping twigs. She inhaled sharply—the scent of scorched paper and something metallic clinging to the page as she kept reading—until her fingers curled involuntarily around the edges, claws sinking deep enough to puncture parchment. Sonic's handwriting wasn't elegant, wasn't refined—it was raw velocity given form, each letter slashed onto the page like a knife dragged across flesh.
"You think you know what true chaos, anarchy, and order is?" the next line demanded, the ink still glistening as if wet with intent. "No. You have only experienced *their* versions." Torii's fingers trembled against the manifesto's edge, the paper slicing her fingertips open as she traced the jagged gouges where Sonic had pressed down too hard—like he'd carved the words directly into Mobius' spine.
Blood smeared the next passage, mingling with ink that smelled faintly of plasma fire and trampled grass. "I don't need your love," the manifesto declared in handwriting that slanted like a smirk, "but you *will* remember what happens when you forget who feeds you."
Torii's fingers split the parchment as she skipped to the end just to see what it was signed—no flourish, no title—just a single claw-marked line: *Right now, I am Sonic.* The simplicity of it hit like a spin-dash to the ribs. Not *"Sonic the Hedgehog"*, not *"The Blue Blur"*, just *Sonic*—raw, unadorned, as if names were cages and he'd chewed through the bars. The ink bled where her thumb smeared it, the letters dissolving like sugar in hot tea, and for a heartbeat, she imagined it staining her tongue metallic.
------------
Across the capital, King Maxx Acorn's fist shattered a holoscreen mid-propaganda loop—Sonic's manifesto pixels scattering like shrapnel as his royal guard flinched. The scent of ozone and spiced whiskey clung to the war room's velvet drapes, thick enough to choke on. King Maxx Acorns's claws flexed around the remnants of his goblet, the gold crumpling like Sector 7's barricades under his grip. "Find him," he growled, the order curling around the jagged edges of teeth filed sharp for intimidation—but the royal messenger only trembled harder, his ears flat against his skull as he rasped, "Your Majesty… it's already *everywhere*."
King Maxx Acorn's eyes glared silver again at that final line—*I am Sonic*—scrawled in jagged handwriting that resembled claw marks more than ink. His throne room's chandeliers rattled as he flung the manifesto into the fireplace, the parchment curling into blackened lace while the scent of charred vellum mixed with Sir Armand D'Coolette's whiskey.
Across the capital, mobian children scraped the same words into alleyway bricks with stolen knives, their laughter echoing through Sector 5's corpse filled trenches—*Right now, I am Sonic.* The phrase spread faster than wildfire, whispered in ration lines by mothers with hollow cheeks and fathers nursing broken ribs from royal enforcers. Even the mercenary bars fell silent when someone dared recite it aloud, the manifesto's jagged promises clinging to the air like the scent of fresh blood on steel—less a political treatise than a predator's growl given syllables.
Underground presses regurgitated it in smudged ink, each copy slightly altered—some with crude doodles of Sonic mid spindash shredding royal banners, others annotated by trembling hands with personal grievances against the crown. The words *Right now, I am Sonic* bled through cheap paper onto marketplace tables, staining fruit stalls and weapon caches alike, as though the declaration itself was contagious.
Children in Sector 3 chanted it skipping over cracks in the pavement, their voices syncopated with the distant thud of artillery—while in the hushed corridors of Knothole's makeshift infirmary, Sonic's manifesto bled through bandages wrapped around a rebel's eyes. The ink had transferred from the underground presses' cheap paper, staining the linen with jagged letters that whispered *I am Sonic* against his eyelids like a curse or a prayer.
And King Maxx Acorn eyes became more and more silver from rage, "CALL. AMANDEUS. PROWER. SIR ARMAND D'COOLETTE. AND. MARY. D'COOLETTE. RIGHT. FUCKING. NOW." He growled, but really it was a mix of a growl and a scream as his claws dug deep into the armrests of his throne, the wood splintering beneath his grip like dry kindling.
The scent of ozone thickened as his fur stood on end, static crackling between his quills—each spark illuminating the manic dilation of his pupils. Across the throne room, Sir Armand D'Coolette exhaled whiskey and sex laced resignation through his nose, fingers tightening around his glass as Mary tensed beside him, her claws pricking crescent moons into her own palms.
They had seen this before—this particular shade of royal fury—just never over *words*.
More and more of King Maxx Acorn face was turning silver as he began his rant—his fur bristling with such force that static snapped between them like live wires, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE'S DONE? THAT PATHETIC BLUE *VERMIN* OF A CHILD HAS TAKEN MY WORDS—MY *BREATH*—AND TWISTED THEM INTO SOME KIND OF *REVOLUTIONARY BULLSHIT*!"
His claws splintered the armrests further, silver creeping up his wrists like molten mercury—the glow dull but deepening, pulsing with each ragged breath. King Maxx Acorn's laughter cracked the air like a whip, too sharp, too loud—the sound of a man teetering on the edge of a blade. "He thinks he can *rewrite* me?"
Spittle flecked the manifesto at his feet, the parchment sizzling where his silvered drool struck ink. "I *invented* rebellion—I carved it from my father's ribs when I was eighteen years old!" Maxx's claws raked down his own chestplate, the screech of metal on metal drowning out Sir Armand D'Coolette's murmured toast to a certain long dead monarch that I'm sure you can guess the name of.
Eh, fuck it, I'll say it to anyone who can't guess: The Late King Friedrich Maximilian Acorn.
The throne room's chandeliers trembled as King Maxx Acorn's silvered claws raked down his own reflection in the polished obsidian floor—streaking molten metal across his warped image with each slash. His breathing came in ragged, metallic hisses, the scent of ionized fur and scorched whiskey thickening as his muzzle twitched into something between a grin and a snarl.
"He *dares* rewrite my legacy in pathetic fucking *crayon*?" King Maxx Acorn's voice dripped liquid mercury, each syllable splattering against the marble floors like quicksilver bullets. Behind him, the throne's obsidian spikes warped—twisting into jagged reflections of Sonic's spin dash arcs—as his silvered claws scraped hieroglyphs of vengeance into the armrests. The royal physician edged backward, his diagnostic scanner overloading from the radioactive sheen now creeping up King Maxx Acorn's jugular—pulsing dull and deadly as a depth charge.
"Amadeus Prower," the king spat, his voice dripping molten silver as the glow crept up his neck like a noose tightening, "you will *incinerate* every last copy of that filth—starting with the gutter press in Sector 3." His claws flexed, each joint popping with metallic resonance as the throne room's shadows elongated unnaturally—stretching toward the fox general like liquid pitch.
Amadeus Prower's muzzle twitched—not at the order, but at the molten silver dripping from King Maxx Acorn's claws onto the throne room's obsidian floor, sizzling like acid. The scent of scorched metal and singed whiskey clung thick as war paint. "Of course, Your Majesty," he echoed smoothly, tail flicking once—a controlled gesture—while mentally recalculating on how to save his King from madness as he swiftly left.
Sir Armand D'Coolette exhaled through his nose—whiskey, iron, and the ghost of Mary's perfume clinging to his uniform—as he watched the silver recede from King Maxx Acorn's wrists like a tide pulling back from shore. The king's breathing steadied, his claws retracting from the armrests with deliberate slowness, leaving behind splintered wood and the faintest fingerprints of molten metal. "And Mary,"
King Maxx Acorn added, voice softer now—almost not insane—as he turned to her with a grin that showed too many teeth, "you'll handle Sector 5's… *enthusiasts*, if you don't mind. Gently." The word *gently* lingered like a knife balanced on its tip—something lethal masquerading as restraint. Mary's ears flicked once, her muzzle twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile—just the baring of fangs before they settled back into place, her claws flexing around the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh.
The king exhaled—long, slow—letting the silver recede from his fur like poison drawn from a wound, his voice dropping into something almost paternal as he added, "And do check on Rosemarie, would you? That bitch should still be able to walk..."
Mary's claws flexed around her dagger's hilt—not in threat, but in something far worse: understanding. She knew that tone. It was the same one King Maxx Acorn had used when patting Antoine's head after executing a dissident in front of him—the same honeyed menace that dripped from his fangs whenever he tucked Sally in after burning a sector to ash. It was the voice of a predator grooming its cubs to hunt.
Across the throne room, Sir Armand D'Coolette swirled his whiskey—golden liquid catching the firelight like molten amber—as he watched King Maxx Acorn's claws retract fully, the silver fading until only faint streaks remained, like veins of ore beneath his fur. "And Sir Armand D'Coolette?" the king mused, his grin widening just enough to show the last bit of the glowing silver on him, "You'll handle the... *mess* in Sector 7. Don't disappoint me like Amadeus Prower did all those years ago." The threat was velvet-wrapped—a blade sheathed in silk—but Sir Armand D'Coolette merely toasted him with a smirk, the glass clinking against his fangs before he drained it in one go.
King Maxx Acorn leaned back in his splintered throne, his posture loosening from its earlier rigidity, the molten tension bleeding out of him like poison drawn from a wound. He drummed his claws—now free of silver—against the armrest, the rhythm syncopated with the distant thud of artillery now in Sector 5 as he finally heard that code from his tablet.
THAT code.
The code he had been waiting for for almost a month
The code that meant that Prince Elijah Alexis Acorn was finally home at Castle Acorn.
And he finally smiled.
Something was finally going exactly as he planned it to.
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Wally Naugus, Ooma Arachnis, and her children had just found two more Anarchy Beryl over the past month—each one humming with the same dissonant energy as the Core beneath Sector 5. Wally Naugus traced the jagged edges of the latest fragment, his claws catching on its serrated surface like teeth on bone. "He's already won," the wizard muttered, his voice rasping like wind through dead leaves. "And he doesn't even know it yet."
The latest Anarchy Beryl found by them pulsed in his grip, its glow refracting through Ooma Arachnis' compound eyes as she hissed, "You speak in riddles, wizard. Who's won?" Wally Naugus chuckled—a sound like crumbling mortar—and turned the crystal toward the cavern wall where Sector 5's silhouette smoldered. "Not *who* won," he corrected, claws scraping the Beryl's surface until it screeched. "*What* won."
The crystal's light splintered across the cavern walls, painting jagged shadows that twitched like dying things. Wally Naugus' grin stretched too wide, his fangs glinting with the Beryl's sickly luminescence as he whispered, "I feel that King Maxx Acorn is digging his own grave—and Sonic's just handed him the shovel as The Devourer Of All finishes the coffin." The Anarchy Beryl throbbed in his grip, its pulse syncing with the distant detonations rocking Sector 5 all the way back in the capital Kingdom of Acorn, each tremor vibrating through the stone like a laugh rattling in a carcass.
"So are we good with these three Anarchy Beryl or what?" Ooma Arachnis sighed, her forelegs tapping impatiently against the cavern floor—each click echoing like a gun's safety switching off.
Wally Naugus ignored her sarcasm, fingers spidering across the Beryl's fractured surface—counting fault lines like a fortune teller tracing scars, "Oh, not at all dear my Ooma Arachnis, we must hasten our search for four other Anarchy Beryl—for the core beneath Sector 5 must be fed more, much more." His claws clicked against the crystal's edge, each tap sending jagged echoes through the cavern, bouncing off stalactites like ricocheting bullets. The wizard's grin widened, his fangs glinting with predatory amusement as he whispered, "After all, King Maxx Acorn is not even close to being the only, or even the worst for that matter, monster starving for power."
The Anarchy Beryl pulsed violently in his grip, its glow refracting through Ooma Arachnis as he moved his arm to see where it glowed more so they could find another one—a slow drag of claws across its surface producing a sound like a dying scream.
His claw flexed around the crystal—too tight, too possessive—as its jagged edges bit into his palm, glowing slightly more now in the direction even further away from the Kingdom of Acorn into the territory of Lady Ciara's former holdings. Wally Naugus exhaled—slow, measured—as Ooma Arachnis' brood scuttled ahead, their chitinous legs clicking against stone in arrhythmic staccato. "You misunderstand," he murmured, not to her, but to the pulse thrumming beneath their feet—the Beryl Core's slow, hungry heartbeat syncing with the distant detonations in Sector 5. "It's not about feeding power to monsters. It's about remembering which ones *chew*."
The cavern trembled—not from artillery this time, but from something deeper—as the latest Anarchy Beryl fragment vibrated against Wally Naugus' palm, its serrated edges drawing thin lines of ichor. He licked the wounds absently, tasting ozone and iron, before signaling that they had to start moving.
After a few minutes they were out of the cavern—Wally Naugus leading them toward the next Anarchy Beryl fragment as Ooma Arachnis walked at the same pace in tow with her brood following very closely behind as they always did.
As they hopefully always would untill she died or Wally Naugus tried to betray her for some reason.
Safe to say that the latter of the two was very much the apocalyptic doomsday worst case senario in a way that Ooma Arachnis hadn't dared to actually consider too deeply.
She had seen firsthand what happened when King Maxx Acorn lost control—had watched from the shadows as he tore apart entire battalions with nothing but his claws and that molten silver rage. But Wally Naugus' words coiled around her like spider silk: sticky, inescapable, surprisingly comfortable. Ooma Arachnis exhaled—slow, measured—through her mandibles, her brood shifting uneasily at her flank.
"Then we dig when we get there to Lady Ciara's territory," she hissed, tapping one foreleg against the forrest greenery ground in a staccato rhythm that echoed Wally Naugus' earlier claw taps—deliberate, mocking. Her brood mirrored the gesture, dozens of chitinous limbs drumming against moss and stone until the sound blurred into something resembling laughter.
Wally Naugus didn't turn, but his tiny tail under his pants did indeed twitch—once, sharply—like a cat flicking away an insect. The wizard's silhouette against the moonlight was jagged, his cloak flaring behind him like wings as he strode forward, the Anarchy Beryl humming louder with every step deeper into Lady Ciara's territory. "Dig? Oh no, dear Ooma Arachnis," he chuckled before continuing, "We won't be digging. We'll be *excavating*."
His voice dropped into something low and liquid, the syllables slithering between his fangs. "After all, corpses don't bury themselves—and neither do gods."
The Beryl pulsed violently in his grip, whether in agreement or disagreement, who could say?