More specifically I had two different perspectives now—one staring at a normal looking human teenager in a hospital gown, the other at a sleek black hedgehog with glowing violet eyes and gold sneakers that probably cost more than my college fund. The second vision came with *smell*—hot metal, burnt rubber, and something sickly sweet like overripe chili dogs.
His (My? Ours?) golden sneakers squeaked against the void tiles as fragmented instincts screamed conflicting impulses—human knees buckling while hedgehog reflexes coiled, ready to dash. Sterile antiseptic stung one nose; scorched ozone clawed the other. The hospital gown clung damply to clammy skin even as leather jacket straps dug into unfamiliar quills.
"So."
We (I?) both said simultaneously, voices overlapping in a stereo nightmare—my human rasp clashing against the hedgehog's sharper, more elagent tone. Our shared nervous system lit up like a badnik factory on overtime, synapses firing in conflicting patterns that left us swaying like a glitched sprite. The Archie-style caption box *BAMFED* into existence above our twitching heads: *"TWO MINDS—ONE BODY! BUT WHICH WILL CRACK FIRST UNDER THE STRAIN OF THIS CHAOTIC MERGER?!"*
My golden sneakers squeaked against the void-tiles as a portal opened. Probably for my Savant self if I had to guess. The Archie-style narration box *CRACKLED* into existence above my twitching head: *"SAVANT THE HEDGEHOG STEPS FORTH—BUT CAN THIS DARK MIRROR OF SONIC SURVIVE WHAT LURKS BEYOND?!"*
The second paragraph exploded onto the scene with all the subtlety of a badnik detonation: *"Through the rift he strode—golden soles scorching reality itself as violet eyes pierced the gloom! Behind him, fractured reflections of a life unlived shimmered like dying embers! Before him? Only the unknown... and the unmistakable stench of Robotnik-brand doom!"*
My hedgehog self stumbled forward, leaving my human self behind in the sterile hospital bed—his (my?) slack-jawed expression frozen mid-gasp as the rift sealed shut with a sound like tearing velcro. The transition hit like a Super Peel-Out to the cerebellum, vertigo twisting my new stomach into knots as unfamiliar muscles flexed beneath black fur.
Somewhere between one step and the next, the leather jacket's weight vanished, replaced by the ozone-tang of Mobian air rushing past quills. My golden shoes—no, *his* golden shoes—kicked up sparks against metallic flooring that hadn't existed moments prior. The Archie caption box *SHATTERED* into view: *"WELCOME TO MOBIUS, SAVANT—WHERE CHAOS ISN'T JUST ENERGY, IT'S THE LUNCH MENU!"*
I looked around.
It was Green Hill.
How fucking original.
The system popped up:
*"OBJECTIVE: START THE GAME COMPLETED —MAKE THE PLAYER FEEL LIKE THEY JUST GOT SUCKED INTO A FANFIC WRITTEN BY A 13-YEAR-OLD'S HYPERACTIVE IMAGINATION!"*
The system's neon-green text scrolled vertically like a corrupted credits reel, flipping between Comic Sans and Impact font at random intervals. My golden sneakers sank into the familiar turf—too soft, too *pixelated*—as the sky swirled with colors not found in nature, nor any Sega hardware manual.
Emerald slopes stretched endlessly beneath my feet, their rolling perfection in the style of Sonic X.
A flicker of motion—too fast for any normal creature—streaked across the landscape, kicking up pixelated dust in its wake. My hedgehog instincts screamed before my human brain could process: *Sonic.* The real deal, quills blurring cobalt against the horizon, sneakers chewing through terrain like reality itself owed him speed.
The Archie caption box *SLAMMED* into my vision with the force of a badnik pileup: *"THERE HE IS—THE BLUE BLUR HIMSELF! BUT DOES THIS ICON OF HOPE HAVE ROOM FOR ONE MORE HEDGEHOG IN HIS HIGH-OCTANE WORLD?!"* Jagged yellow borders framed the scene like a comic panel ripped straight from 1993, complete with gratuitous speed lines and a floating "WHAM!" sound effect that somehow smelled like chili dogs.
My borrowed muscles tensed—photographic reflexes already cataloging Sonic's biomechanics—as the distance between us warped like bad collision detection. The grass hissed under my golden soles, each step imprinting the word "EXTREME" into the turf in glowing kanji I definitely couldn't read. Somewhere behind me, a monitor exploded purely for dramatic effect, spraying rings that clattered to the ground in suspiciously musical tones.
The system chose that moment to *SCREECH* into existence again, its text vibrating with CRT static: *"OBJECTIVE UPDATED: INTRODUCE YOURSELF TO SONIC THE HEDGEHOG!"* The warning came three seconds too late as the ground vanished beneath me, revealing the classic Green Hill bottomless pit—because *of course* Archie physics demanded an impromptu loop-de-loop introduction sequence. My golden soles *SCREEEEKED* against the suddenly vertical turf, photographic reflexes kicking in as I mirrored Sonic's signature lean mid-loop, jacket tails flapping with gratuitous flair.
Emerald wind tore past quills as cobalt met onyx—two hedgehogs locking eyes mid-stride across time and bad fanfiction. His grin flashed brighter than a Super form, but I caught the micro-twitch in his muzzle—the moment his brain registered the impossibility hurtling toward him. *"Yo, new guy!"* Sonic's voice crackled through the air like a Genesis sound test, *"Would you happen to be a fan of mine?"*
I began spouting my bullshit backstory, "No dear ancestor, I'm your descendant from the future!" The words tasted like expired chili dogs as they left my muzzle, my violet eyes twitching with each fabricated syllable. My golden sneakers skidded against the emerald turf as Sonic's grin faltered—his cobalt quills stiffening like he'd just smelled Doctor Eggman's armpits.
It was strange, I was never that good of a liar, yet I pulled this off flawlessly, strangely enough.
The hedgehog's emerald eyes narrowed—quills bristling like live wires—as my golden sneakers kicked up pixelated dust between us. His grin warped into something sharper, edged with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for Robotnik's "totally not a trap" gift baskets.
Behind him, the rolling hills seemed to hold their breath, their vibrant colors dimming as though reality itself doubted my fabricated tale. My golden sneakers dug into the turf, leaving glowing kanji footprints that read "FAKE" in a language only the system understood. Sonic's nostrils flared—whether catching the stench of my lies or Eggman's latest pollution, I couldn't tell.
"Look at me, look at yourself, we're practically identical, except for colors!" I added on instinct, doing a theatrical spin that sent my jacket tails whipping through the air like an edgy anime character's cape. Sonic's eyes tracked my golden sneakers mid-air, his emerald irises reflecting the suspiciously fresh kanji scratches I'd left in the dirt—"TRUST" written backwards in glowing strokes.
"Are you from Silver's time then?"
"Nope, I'm only from 100 years in the future—I'd either be on my last legs or long gone by then,"
Again, I somehow pulled this off flawlessly, despite Silver the Hedgehog's era being 200 years in the future. My violet eyes glowed unnaturally as I leaned closer, photographic reflexes analyzing every micro-twitch in Sonic's posture—the way his left knee bent slightly more than usual, the faint ripple in his quills. "Think of me as... a lost little time-traveling grandkid."
"Well uh... what brings you here...?"
"Savant."
"Savant."
"To answer honestly Sonic, I don't know yet—something about resisting the Will of something?" My golden sneakers sank deeper into pixelated grass as violet eyes tracked Sonic's restless shifting—the way his cobalt quills twitched like antennae catching interference. His emerald gaze flickered between my black fur and gold soles, calculating impossibility versus instinct with that trademark reckless precision. "Savant," he echoed, testing the name like a new spin-dash technique—rolling syllables between fangs before flashing that impossible grin.
"Well kid, whether you're from tomorrow or Timbuktu, one thing's certain—I got a see how fast you are!" Sonic's grin flashed across the battlefield like streak of lightning, his cobalt spines bristling with barely-contained energy. The moment those words left his muzzle, the air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation—pebbles lifting off the ground as if gravity had forgotten its job.
*"Like the gale-force winds of Westside Island, the Blue Blur surged forward—golden eyes gleaming with the thrill of competition!"* The Archie-style narration box *CRACKLED* to life mid-spindash, words bleeding neon blue as Sonic's sneakers left molten afterimages in the grass. His lean frame blurred between frames, becoming less hedgehog and more living cyclone—a force of nature wearing a cocky smirk and red sneakers. Every footfall kicked up pixelated petals that froze mid-air, forming the word "RADICAL" in Comic Sans.
My photographic reflexes kicked in—muscles mirroring Sonic's telltale windup stance—but I barely had time to register the ozone-burn before he was *there*, right in my face, close enough to smell the chili-dog breath. His emerald eyes held galaxies of unspoken challenges, daring me to keep up with a being who treated physics like polite suggestions. The Archie caption box *SCREECHED* overhead:
*"WILL THIS DARK MIRROR CRACK UNDER PRESSURE—OR PROVE HE'S GOT THE RIGHT STUFF TO RUN WITH THE BIGGEST LEGEND OF THEM ALL?!"*
Then time seemed to slow down as we started running.
I watched Sonic and made sure to mimic every single move down to the exact angle his quills flexed mid-stride—his lean into curves, the precise millisecond his sneakers left the ground. My photographic reflexes burned each motion into my synapses until muscle memory overwrote hesitation. Green Hill became a streaking watercolor beneath gold soles as cobalt and onyx blurs wove between loop-de-loops, our combined speed warping the landscape into a tunnel of emerald and cyan. The Archie caption box *DETONATED* overhead:
*"TWO HEDGEHOGS—ONE LEGENDARY PACE! BUT WHICH WILL BLINK FIRST IN THIS HIGH-VELOCITY SHOWDOWN?!"* The Archie caption box *SHRIEKED* in jagged magenta font as golden sneakers and red soles left molten streaks across reality itself. My photographic reflexes burned—every twitch of Sonic's ear, every micro-adjustment of his weight distribution—until our strides synchronized like glitched sprites in a corrupted ROM. The wind howled through my quills with the pitch of a Genesis sound chip pushed past its limits, carrying the scent of scorched ozone and something deeper—the pheromonal tang of a predator who'd never been chased before.
Sonic's emerald eyes flashed sideways mid-stride, pupils dilating with something between delight and disbelief as our mirrored footfalls kicked up rings that hovered in perfect defiance of physics. His muzzle split into a grin sharper than any badnik's blade, breathless laughter tearing through the sound barrier like tissue paper.
"Not bad, kid!" he shouted over the roar of distorted air, "But let's see if you can handle *this*!" Sonic's cobalt quills flared like solar flares as he *blurred*—no, *teleported*—three meters ahead in a streak of blue-white afterimages. My photographic reflexes barely registered the sudden displacement before his sneakers *screeched* against a boulder, redirecting his momentum straight upward into a corkscrew spin that defied angular physics. The Archie caption box *ERUPTED* mid-air yet again:
*"SONIC THE HEDGEHOG GOES SUPERSONIC—BUT CAN THIS DARK REFLECTION KEEP PACE WHEN THE BLUE BLUR DECIDES TO GET SERIOUS?!"* The comic panel practically vaporized from the sheer heat of Sonic's acceleration, speed lines warping into a tunnel of cobalt fire as his quills became pure energy. My violet eyes burned tracking his movements—every impossible pivot, every gravity-defying curl—as my golden soles left smoking craters in the turf trying to match his tempo.
Somewhere between strides, Green Hill's loop-de-loops melted into liquid emerald streaks, the classic zone transforming into abstract expressionism beneath our supersonic footfalls. My golden soles left molten afterimages while Sonic's signature red sneakers painted the air cobalt—two contrasting blurs rewriting reality's rulebook with every step. The Archie caption box *BAMFED* into existence mid-air, jagged yellow borders framing our synchronized spin-dash:
*"WHEN GALE MEETS STORM—WHO CONTROLS THE TEMPO OF CHAOS?!"*
I replicated his 'teleportation' trick flawlessly—golden soles scorching reality's fabric as violet eyes tracked displaced atoms. My borrowed reflexes anticipated Sonic's next move before his sneakers left the crumbling cliffside, muscles mirroring the impossible trajectory that arced toward Chemical Plant's neon tubes.
"You know, those who are all talk are the worst, glad to see you're not that way!" Sonic laughed, his cobalt quills carving liquid arcs through Chemical Plant's neon-lit haze as effortlessly as breath through air. The toxic runoff beneath our feet rippled with unnatural cyan hues—not from pollution, but from the sheer velocity of our passing distorting light itself. His emerald eyes gleamed with wild delight, pupils blown wide with adrenaline, drinking in every twitch of my black-quilled form matching his impossible maneuvers.
"So where are we racing to?!" I called out beside him, golden soles kicking up pixelated sparks as Chemical Plant's pipes groaned under our combined velocity. Sonic's grin widened—a flash of cobalt teeth sharp enough to puncture fourth walls—as he jerked his thumb toward the distant silhouette of Casino Night Zone's neon skyline. The Archie caption box *KER-SPLATTERED* across the horizon in jagged cyan letters:
*"WHEN HIGH ROLLERS MEET HIGH-VELOCITY—WHO'S GAMBLING WITH WHOSE SANITY?!"*
The second paragraph exploded with all the grace of a badnik factory detonation:
*"Like the tempest tearing through Tornado Valley, Sonic surged onward—red sneakers chewing through asphalt as if friction were a myth. Emerald eyes drank in every twisted mile ahead, not for conquest but for the sheer thrill of motion itself!"* The Archie-styled narration box *SCREECHED* into existence mid-loop, its jagged cyan letters vibrating with CRT static. Sonic's cobalt quills blurred between frames—less hedgehog and more elemental force—as we carved through Casino Night's neon skyline with the precision of a ricocheting pinball.
Slot machine towers warped into liquid streaks beneath his impossible trajectory, their flashing lights smearing into chromatic rivers that pooled around our after images.
Coin trails twisted into golden spirals as our synchronized spin-dashes sent Casino Night's jackpot tokens erupting skyward—a glittering meteor shower of ill-gotten gains. Sonic's cobalt frame blurred through the neon downpour, his red sneakers kicking off slot machine reels mid-spin, each impact sending another *CLANG-CRASH* of broken mechanisms echoing through the district. My photographic reflexes burned his movements into muscle memory—every pivot off falling debris, every micro-adjustment to avoid crashing through the district's garish stained-glass windows—until our paths wove together like twin hurricanes dancing through a trailer park.
Like the gale-force winds that once carved Westside Island's canyons, we tore through Casino Night's underbelly—untamed, unpredictable, a force of nature wearing a smirk and ratty sneakers. Sonic's laughter rang louder than the slot machines' death rattles, his cobalt quills slicing through neon smoke with the precision of a storm carving its path. My golden soles left molten streaks across blackjack tables, each step kicking up a spray of poker chips that froze mid-air, spelling "CHAOS" in Comic Sans before shattering against our wake.
The race climaxed beneath the district's colossal roulette wheel, its spinning numerals blurring into a hypnotic vortex as Sonic pivoted mid-air—red sneakers screeching against the wheel's edge like a record scratch. My photographic reflexes barely registered his sudden deceleration before I mirrored the move, gold soles grinding against the wheel's opposite side, sending sparks cascading into the champagne fountain below. The Archie caption box *KER-SPLIT* the scene vertically:
*"WHEN THE FINAL LAP HITS—DO YOU DOUBLE DOWN OR CASH OUT?!"*
Chemical stink clogged my nostrils as the wheel's centrifugal force threatened to fling us into next Tuesday—until Sonic's sneakers *SCREEEECHED* against the roulette's rim in a shower of molten sparks. His cobalt quills flared like solar flares mid-spin, emerald eyes locked onto mine with the intensity of a supernova as Casino Night's neon haze warped into liquid streaks around us. The Archie caption box *DETONATED* in jagged cyan:
*"WHEN THE FINAL NUMBER LANDS—WILL IT BE JACKPOT OR JUNK?!"*
Like the desert siroccos that once sculpted Sandopolis' dunes, Sonic and I tore through the roulette wheel's final revolution—golden and crimson afterimages melting into the neon atmosphere. His cobalt quills became less hedgehog and more atmospheric disturbance, warping gravity's grip with every supersonic pivot. My photographic reflexes burned as Casino Night's oxygen-starved air ignited around our friction-seared soles, transforming the final stretch into a tunnel of plasma and pixelated debris.
Soon, the race concluded—blue wind and black shadow crossing the finish line.
We just looked at each other.
It was a perfect tie.