"I thought not."
And I ran towards the door, ready for anything at this point. Endless waves of King Maxx Acorn's Enforcers? A different type of trap? A cheese store? Who cared? I had my gloves, my shoes, my attitude and my growing amount of allies and friends. Who needed anything else? Wouldn't be long before I'd hopefully hit my next milestone—if anything was left after the beating this place took, anyway. Sonic the Hedgehog was a known commodity by now, and I knew it.
I was him after all.
But I skidded to a halt just before the exit, ears twitching at the faintest hum of machinery beneath the ruined palace's groaning infrastructure. Too rhythmic for collapse—too precise. My smirk faltered for half a second before locking back into place. "Who is it?" I called out, spinning on my heel to face the shadowed alcove where the sound originated. The reply came not in words, but in the cold press of a plasma muzzle against my spine—just above the spot where Doc's last medical patch still itched.
"That depends," The person on the other side, now almost certainly a man, rasped, his voice cautious yet somewhat gentle yet *dangerous*—like a blade sheathed in velvet. "On who you are? I don't suppose you know a Doctor Julian Kintobor, would you? Perhaps you know him *better* than I do—it wouldn't surprise me—considering everything." His voice carried a slight sorrow to it—as if he already knew the answer—as if the answer was something he dreaded.
I didn't turn, my quills prickling at the way his breath hitched—like a man forcing composure over something raw. The plasma muzzle's heat seared through my jacket, but I kept my stance loose, my smirk lazy. "Julian?" I chuckled, rolling the name like a gambler flipping a loaded coin. "Depends. You asking as family or as the guy holding the gun?"
The muzzle twitched—not aggressively, but thoughtfully. A beat passed before it withdrew with a hiss of retracting coolant vents. "I'm asking as family," he admitted quietly.
"And what reason do I have to believe you?" I kept my tone light, but my fingers flexed—ready to twist into a spin dash the second the muzzle twitched again. The figure on the other side of the door exhaled sharply, a sound like a man pulling barbed wire from his ribs.
"I know this is a lot to ask, but can you please just take a leap of faith on me, please? I beg of you."
I thought about it for a minute, whoever he was I could probably deck him, but you could never be too careful on Mobius these days...
Eh, fuck it.
"Alright then, I'm going to open the door to let you go in, but you'll do it with my terms," I said, still not turning around. My fingers drummed against my thigh—casual, like this was just another Tuesday. Probably because at this point it was. But the air between us crackled with tension thicker than Maxx's ego. "First rule: no sudden moves. I don't care if you're Doc's long-lost uncle twice removed—you twitch wrong, and we're gonna find out how fast plasma burns versus how fast I can spin."
The silence stretched, thick with the hum of dying machinery and the metallic tang of ozone, before he answered, "I can agree to that."
"Good, but remember, I warned you." I called out sing songly as I punched in the combination to open the door to let him in—the gears groaned like a dying animal, grinding against each other—until the door finally swung open with a screech—and standing there was a short Overlander, the size of most mobians. He had a full head of dirty blond hair. His most distinguishing feature, however was his long beak-like nose.
"Hello there little one, I am Collin Kintobor Jr." He introduced himself, his voice a bit raspy yet firm—like rusted gears still grinding out their purpose. The plasma pistol hung loosely at his side, its muzzle still faintly glowing from proximity discharge. He didn't holster it.
Smart.
I sized him up—Overlanders were rare these days, especially in Maxxopolis' ruins. Collin Jr.'s posture screamed exhaustion, but his grip on the plasma pistol betrayed discipline. "Julian's mentioned you I think," I remembered in passing, tilting my head.
"And you are?" He gestured to me with his free hand, the motion stiff—like he'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head and still botched the delivery. His eyes were an acidic blue as Doc's when he was young from the one picture he kept, but where Doc's held exhaustion, Collin Jr.'s simmered with something sharper:
Betrayal.
I didn't answer him at first, just leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms, letting my smirk widen. His grip tightened on the pistol—knuckles whitening beneath grime-streaked skin. "Name's Sonic," I finally said, watching his pupils constrict at the syllable. "Sonic the Hedgehog, now then," I sped behind him and disarmed him, "Let's take you to Doc, shall we?"
Collin Jr. exhaled sharply—a sound like steam escaping a rusted pipe. "Julian always did have a habit of helping others," he muttered, flexing his now empty hand. The resignment in his voice suggested he knew better than to fight the disarmament. His gaze flicked to the cracked hallway tiles. "Even if they didn't deserve it." The acidic blue of his eyes dimmed under the flickering emergency lights, fatigue carving shadows beneath them deeper than any blade could.
My smirk softened—just slightly—as I spun Collin Jr.'s plasma pistol around my finger before tucking it into the waistband of my gloves. "Bold words from a guy who just got disarmed by a little hedgehog," I quipped, watching his jaw somewhat clench. The bitterness in his posture wasn't just exhaustion; it was the kind that came from years of being sidelined, underestimated. "Lucky for you, I'm feeling generous today—supposed family discount and all."
Collin Jr.'s laugh was a dry, hollow thing—the sound of an old engine refusing to turn over. "Generosity?" He flexed his empty hand again, the calluses catching the flickering light like scars. "Julian taught you that word, didn't he?" The question was rhetorical, laced with the kind of bitterness that comes from watching someone you love waste their kindness on the unworthy.
I knew that all to well sometimes.
I decided to cut the shit and guide him to where Doc and Boomer were helping Buns stabilize—the smell of antiseptic and ozone clung to the makeshift medbay like a bad memory. Collin Jr. hesitated at the threshold, his fingers twitching toward his missing pistol before curling into fists. His breath hitched when Doc glanced up from Buns' diagnostics—recognition flickering in those exhausted crimson eyes like a dying bulb.
"Collin?" Doc nearly stammered—that rare stutter he only got when something truly blindsided him. His fingers twitched around the diagnostic pad, the screen casting a sickly green glow over the surgical scars on his wrists.
"Hey Uncle Julian, it's been a while hasn't it?" Collin Jr.'s greeting carried the weight of a hundred unspoken words, his voice now much softer—almost fragile—despite his attempt at casualness. He didn't move from the doorway, his frame rigid as if bracing for rejection. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the practiced neutrality of his expression. The acidic blue of his eyes flickered between Doc and the surgical tools scattered across the medbay table—lingering a second too long on the bloodied gauze near Buns' almost unconscious form.
Doc's breath stuttered audibly—just once—before he ran up to hug Collin Jr., the diagnostic pad clattering to the floor between them. Collin Jr. stiffened at the contact, his hands hovering awkwardly before settling into a reluctant half-embrace. His fingers dug into Doc's lab coat just enough to wrinkle the fabric, knuckles whitening—not from affection, but from the effort of restraint. "You look terrible," Collin Jr. muttered against Doc's shoulder, the words muffled yet barbed. "When was the last time you slept, or ate? Your a bit thinner than I remember."
"I'd like to ask the same question," I called out from behind them—lounging against the doorframe with Collin Jr.'s plasma pistol now spinning lazily around my finger. Doc exhaled sharply through his nose, that telltale sign he didn't want to answer a question.
Me and Collin Jr. just sighed in unison—Doc hadn't answered either of us, which meant it'd been way too long. Collin Jr. peeled himself out of the hug with the care of someone handling live wires, his nostrils flaring at the scent of burnt antiseptic and stale coffee clinging to Doc's coat. "Still avoiding basic self-preservation," he muttered, not quite to Julian, not quite to the cracked tile floor. His fingers twitched toward his missing pistol again before he caught himself, shoving both hands into his pockets instead. The way his shoulders hunched screamed *I didn't come here for this*, but the way his eyes kept darting to Doc's trembling hands screamed *then why did you?*
I decided to get Buns and Boomer out of here so they could have their moment, they definitely needed to choose some rooms after all—somewhere to crash—and I grabbed them both by the scruffs of their necks before they could protest. Boomer's ears twitched in irritation while Buns gave me a look that promised payback later, but neither fought me. "Family reunion," I stage-whispered, kicking the door shut behind us with my heel—leaving Doc and Collin Jr. in that tense silence that only decades of *something* could create. The hallway lights flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting long shadows that made Boomer's fur bristle.
------------
Collin Jr. looked back at his uncle—the tension between them thick enough to choke on. His fingers twitched at his sides, nails digging half-moons into his palms, the pain grounding him better than any apology ever could. "You always do this," he finally said, voice razor-edged despite its quietness. "Throw yourself at lost causes like they're worth bleeding for." His gaze flicked to Julian's trembling hands—the surgical scars there, the ones he'd seen in childhood but never understood until now. The ones that matched his own in ways he'd never admit.
Julian exhaled sharply through his nose, adjusting his cracked goggles with the familiar, exhausted precision of a man who'd had this argument in his head a thousand times. "Someone has to," he countered, the words worn smooth from repetition. His fingers lingered near his wrist—near the faint scar tissue there—before dropping away like he'd been burned. The silence between them wasn't comfortable; it was an old wound reopened, raw and festering with everything left unsaid.
"You know why I do this Collin, why I am like this." Julian finally said, his voice carrying an eerie calmness—the kind that only came when you'd stared into the abyss long enough for it to stare back. His fingers traced the edge of a surgical tray absentmindedly, the metal cold beneath his touch. Collin Jr. watched him with narrowed eyes, the flickering overhead light casting jagged shadows across his face.
The younger Kintobor exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders stiffening. "I know *why*," he bit out, each word dripping with venomous patience. "That doesn't mean I have to like it." His fingers twitched toward his hip again—still missing the plasma pistol—before curling into fists. The silence stretched thin between them, taut as a tripwire.
Julian's lips quirked into something resembling a smile, though it never reached his eyes. "You never did," he murmured, pushing his cracked goggles up the bridge of his nose. "But you're here now." His tone wasn't accusatory; it was observational—clinical, even. As if he'd already run the calculations and knew exactly how this would play out.
Collin Jr.'s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to the bloodstained gauze on the tray. "Don't read too much into it," he muttered, though the way his posture relaxed infinitesimally betrayed him. He crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his jacket creaking softly. "Someone has to keep you from working yourself into an early grave." The words were gruff, but the undercurrent of concern was unmistakable. Julian huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turned back to his diagnostics—but not before Collin Jr. caught the faintest glimmer of relief in his uncle's exhausted eyes.
"Sonic does do that, if that helps matters." Julian turned away from his nephew, adjusting an IV drip with hands that didn't shake—not anymore. Collin Jr. watched the deliberate movements, the way his uncle avoided eye contact like it burned. Passive-aggression coiled between them like a third person in the room, thick and suffocating. "He collects people who need help," Julian continued, voice detached, "even when they try to bite." The words hung—an accusation wrapped in clinical observation.
"I suppose the fact that you're not alone helps, but I have to ask, what have you been teaching him for him to be like that?" Collin Jr. somewhat scoffed, nodding towards the door where Sonic had dragged Buns and Boomer out. His arms remained crossed, but his fingers dug into his own sleeves—white-knuckled beneath the fabric. The question wasn't rhetorical; it was loaded, barbed with years of watching Julian's kindness get twisted into weapons by others.
"Quite honestly, nothing of that sort, he's just been like that since I found him." Julian mused dryly, tapping the IV stand with a gloved finger—once, twice—before turning fully to Collin Jr. The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises in the flickering medbay lights.
"I do suppose I owe you an apology Collin," he sighed, "I ran away from the House of Ivo because I disagreed too much with your father, but I also abandoned you." Julian's fingers clenched around the IV stand reflexively—metal groaning under the pressure—before he forced himself to relax. His goggles caught the flickering light just right, obscuring his eyes in a glare that made his expression unreadable, save for the tight line of his mouth.
Collin Jr. just also sighed, "That's fair, I probably would have done the exact same thing if I was in your shoes." His fingers twitched toward his missing pistol again—a habit he couldn't shake, even when the threat was gone. The overhead lights buzzed like angry wasps, casting jagged shadows across Julian's gaunt face. Collin Jr. hated how familiar that exhaustion looked; it reminded him too much of the nights he'd spent patching himself up in abandoned labs, wondering if Julian was still alive out there somewhere. "Doesn't mean I didn't hate you just a tiny bit for it," he added quietly, the admission tasting like battery acid on his tongue.
"Then perhaps I can work for your forgiveness?" He asked—not pleaded—his voice carrying that same detached precision Julian used when splicing genes. Collin Jr. exhaled sharply through his nose, his boot scuffing against the tile in an aborted motion halfway between stepping closer and fleeing. The medbay's single overhead light flickered, casting their elongated shadows against the wall—two warped silhouettes connected by blood and regret.
Julian adjusted his cracked goggles with meticulous slowness, giving Collin Jr. time to process—always calculating, always two steps ahead. "Working for forgiveness implies you think you're not owed the chance," Collin Jr. said, his voice sandpaper-rough. He leaned against the rusted medbay table, fingers tracing old scorch marks. The smell of ozone and sterilizer clung to his clothes, mingling with gunpowder residue. His uncle exhaled sharply through his nose—a tell Collin Jr. recognized from childhood—before turning back to the IV stand, his hands steady despite the tremors that plagued him after too many sleepless nights.
The younger Kintobor watched Julian's reflection warp in the IV bag's plastic surface, distorted like their relationship. "You always were terrible at asking for things," Collin Jr. muttered, flexing his fingers—calluses catching the dim light. His uncle didn't respond, just tightened the valve on the drip with a precision that bordered on obsessive. The silence stretched thin between them, taut as a tripwire. Collin Jr. smirked—not kindly—and nudged a stray scalpel toward Julian with his boot. "Still using outdated anesthetic protocols, I see."
Julian's shoulders stiffened, but his voice remained clinical—dispassionate, even. "They're effective." Collin Jr. snorted, crossing his arms. "Effective like your self-care routines?" he shot back, gaze flicking to the discarded ration wrappers near the trash. The corner of Julian's mouth twitched—almost a smile—before he methodically realigned the surgical instruments. Collin Jr. rolled his eyes, but his chest tightened at the familiarity of the gesture.
------------
Outside the medbay, the hallway lights sputtered—casting jagged shadows as I gave a tour to Buns and Boomer, their footsteps echoing against cracked tile.
"And over here is where Doc keeps his stash of anesthesia," I stage-whispered, gesturing over to the room to the right of me—Boomer looked in fascination, "You don't suppose Kintobor has any weapons that need fixing, they are my speciality." He muttered—eyes gleaming with excitement—before I smirked and just ruffled his ears, "Oh we have plenty of weapons in need of fixing—and breaking—but I'm more interested in seeing what you can do with them first." My voice was playful—but edged with challenge—and Boomer's grin turned sharp, understanding the unspoken ultimatum beneath my words.
Buns snorted beside us, her organic fingers flexing—still adjusting to the unfamiliar sensation—before she nudged Boomer with her elbow, "Don't get cocky, you still owe me a spar from what you told me about the traing room." Her smirk was all teeth, the dim light catching the faint scar tissue where cybernetics once fused to her flesh. The overhead fluorescents buzzed like angry hornets, painting our shadows long and jagged against the bullet-riddled walls. I rolled my shoulders—letting tension bleed out—and tossed Collin Jr.'s pistol to Boomer without looking, watching his reflexes kick in before his brain caught up.
"Friendly discount," I quipped, flashing fangs as Boomer fumbled the catch, the plasma pistol's grip still warm from my palm. Buns' laugh was a sharp, startled thing—like glass breaking in an empty hallway—before she snatched it from his paws and tossed it back to me without breaking stride. The weight settled between my fingers like an old promise, the hum of its charge syncing with my pulse. "That's the thing about family," I mused, twirling the gun before holstering it behind my quills, "you don't get to pick 'em, but you *do* get to annoy 'em."
Doc's muffled voice carried through the medbay door—something about outdated anesthetic protocols and collateral damage—and I rolled my shoulders, letting the tension bleed into a grin. The hallway lights flickered in time with Sector 17's failing grid, painting our shadows long and jagged against the bullet-riddled walls. Boomer's ears twitched toward the argument, his claws flexing like he wanted to intervene, but a glance from me froze him mid-step. "Give 'em space," I said, softer now, nudging a loose tile with my sneaker. "Some conversations gotta happen without an audience."
Buns snorted, flexing her new—*organic*—fingers before cracking her knuckles. "Says the guy who eavesdropped on my cybernetics removal like it was pay per view." Her smirk was all teeth, but there was no heat in it. Just the easy rhythm of someone who'd stopped counting debts. I matched her grin, flicking a loose screw at her forehead—she caught it without looking, her reflexes still razor-sharp even without enhancements. "Difference is," I said, stretching my arms behind my head, "you *wanted* an audience. Those two?" I jerked my thumb toward the medbay. "They've got about seven years years of baggage to unpack, and half of it's probably explosive."
The emergency lights pulsed once—a dying gasp—before plunging us into darkness. Boomer's breath hitched; Buns' elbow connected with my ribs before I could dodge. In the blackness, Doc's voice cut through, sharp and clear: "—because *someone* rerouted power to the Organicizer."
My snicker was drowned out by Collin Jr.'s exasperated groan. "Relax, geniuses," I called, rolling my eyes even though no one could see, "backup generators kick in three… two…" The lights flared to life, revealing Boomer mid-pounce—his claws out, fur bristling—and Buns with her stolen pistol aimed at the ceiling. I grinned. "See? Like I said." I plucked the gun from her grip.
"Family."