Patch swallowed hard, feeling the bourbon burn down his throat like slow artillery fire. He watched his father's claws—still flecked with dried coolant from the morning's patrol—adjust the napkin under his chin with the same precision he'd use to prime a grenade. The scent of gunpowder and rosemary clung to Sir Armand's uniform, a dissonant blend of warzone and hearth that somehow fit him perfectly.
Let it never be said his father wasn't a complicated man. Patch scratched at the fresh scar along his forearm—still pink and tender—as Sir Armand pushed his untouched plate toward him with a grunt. The act bore little affection; more so obligation. Patch had learned early that survival meant reading between silences thicker than the fortress walls. The clink of silverware against ceramic was punctuated by distant artillery—the war hadn't stopped eating just because they had.
"I let myself relax," Patch lied through a mouthful of overcooked venison, watching his father's ears twitch at the echo of Sector 7's collapse three miles east. Sir Armand's knife sawed through the meat with mechanical precision, his eyes never leaving the tactical holoscreen flickering on the far wall. The bourbon in Patch's glass trembled with each distant detonation—tiny ripples mocking his attempt at normalcy.
Outside, the smoke from burning sectors coiled against reinforced windows like starving ghosts. Patch exhaled slowly, pressing his palm flat against the table to stop its faint vibrations. Somewhere beyond these walls, Sonic was probably grinning that feral grin of his—all teeth and half calculated anarchy—while Alicia's informants carved another chunk from Maxx Acorn's crumbling empire. The thought made Patch's muzzle twitch.
He'd seen Sonic flip from menace to mediator in the span between gunshots—watched those spindly hands fist in fur one moment, then gently adjust Patch's own wrinkled suit the next. Throughout it all, Patch liked to think they were actually friends, at least somewhat.
Because despite their... strange first meeting, Patch had grown fond of Sonic in his own way—even if that fondness was buried under layers of wariness and military conditioning. He exhaled sharply through his nose, swirling the bourbon in his glass absently—the amber liquid catching the flickering holo-light like wildfire.
His mother seems to be telling his father something or the other—Patch wasn't listening—but he was studying his father's posture, the way his shoulders subtly stiffened when she mentioned something else. The roast venison turned to ash in Patch's mouth as Sir Armand's claws tapped once, then twice, then thrice.
He loved his father, he truly did, but his father was... broken, to put it simply. Patch had spent his very few years alive studying Sir Armand's battle strategies—each movement calculated, each word deliberate—yet the man remained an enigma wrapped in artillery smoke and old war crime wounds.
The venison tasted like dust now, but he let myself relax into the chair anyway—letting the bourbon's warmth seep into his bones like slow-acting venom. Patch watched his father's reflection warp in the polished hilt of his ceremonial dagger, the blade discarded beside his plate like an afterthought. Sir Armand's ears twitched at another distant explosion—calculating its origin with the same detached precision he used to carve his meat—and Patch wondered, not for the first time, if the man even remembered how to exist outside of work.
The holo-screen flickered again, casting jagged shadows across Sir Armand's muzzle, and Patch caught the exact moment his father's pupils dilated—calculating trajectories from the artillery's echo like it was second nature. A muscle in Patch's jaw twitched when the older coyote suddenly stood, chair scraping against reinforced concrete, and tossed his untouched wine glass toward the trash. It shattered against the rim, scattering crystal shards like shrapnel.
And he just walked away.
His mother stared at him concernedly—her ears twitching at the distant artillery fire—before reaching across the table to squeeze Patch's trembling wrist. The warmth of her grip anchored him, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. Patch exhaled sharply and returned the gesture—just a light tap against her knuckles—before pulling away, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Outside, the city burned like a dying ember, casting jagged shadows across the dining hall's bloodstained tapestries. Patch traced the familiar scars on the table—each groove mapped from childhood—while his mother whispered something about Sector 5's evacuation and Alicia's informants carving another chunk from Maxx's crumbling empire. The bourbon in his glass trembled with each distant detonation, mocking his feeble attempt at normalcy.
He glanced at the tactical holoscreen—still flickering—where Sir Armand had been standing moments ago. The older coyote's abandoned wine glass lay shattered near the trash, its jagged fragments catching the dim light like accusations. Patch flexed his claws against the table's grooved surface, tracing the scars left by generations of wartime cutlery and hushed arguments. The taste of bourbon lingered—sharp and medicinal—as his mother murmured something about Sector 5's casualties, her voice fraying at the edges like burnt fabric.
Patch exhaled through his nose, counting the seconds between artillery bursts. *Three. Five. Two.* Irregular. Guerrilla tactics. Probably Sonic's work somehow. The realization settled like a stone in his gut—half-pride, half-dread—as his claws tightened around the glass. He caught his mother's reflection warped in the bourbon's amber surface, her ears twitching toward Sector 7's collapsing grid. "You're smiling," she murmured, pressing a fresh glass into his paw. "That's new."
The glass cracked in his grip before he could stop it. Shards bit into his palm, mixing blood with bourbon in a slow drip onto the tablecloth. He didn't flinch.
He couldn't.
Not when he knew, despite his parents at least somewhat meaning well, that they were still products of their conditioning—just like he would have been without Sonic. Patch flexed his bleeding paw, watching crimson drip onto the shattered glass with morbid fascination. The pain grounded him—a familiar sensation amidst the all the anarchy—just as Sonic had told him during their first meeting.
It was strange really, the more Patch thought about it, with him technically being a spy now, he was becoming less and less of a true coward who refused to be upfront with his feelings. He'd rather be upfront, bluntly honest, and outspoken—like Sonic—but that wasn't his role to play in this war, no matter how much he wished otherwise.
The bourbon's burn was gone now, replaced by the sharp tang of copper as Patch licked blood from his claws—his father's dagger pressed cold against his thigh, a silent reminder of duty over desire.
If he wanted to help Sonic win this war, he had to continue to play the part of a coward—even if the lies tasted like bile in his throat. Patch glanced at his mother, her worn expression softening as she reached for his injured paw. He pulled away before she could make contact, his claws still dripping onto the expensive rug—another silent rebellion against the pristine facade his father demanded. The dagger's hilt dug into his thigh, a cold reminder of his true purpose here.
He yawned, it seemed like internal monologuing was more tiring than it looked. Patch stood, ignoring his mother's worried glance as he adjusted his jacket—the fabric still smelled like gunpowder and burnt circuitry from yesterday's skirmish. Outside, the sky bled crimson through fractured skyscrapers, casting jagged shadows that made the palace gardens look like the insides of a broken ribcage. He flexed his bandaged paw, feeling the stitches pull, and wondered if Sonic had planned the Sector 7 collapse precisely to fracture King Maxx Acorn's forces—or if anarchy just bent around him like gravity.
The thought made his claws itch. Patch had seen Sonic flip from calculated menace to reckless savior in the span between artillery strikes—watched him dismantle entire plans, peoples, and manners with nothing but a smirk and possibly a well-placed Anarchy Beryl, then turn around to gently adjust Patch's bandages with those same bloodstained hands.
The dichotomy should've been terrifying, but it wasn't. Not anymore at least. Not when he was the first person outside of his family to truly see him and not just ignore him like a footnote in a war report. Patch exhaled sharply, flexing his bandaged paw as the palace corridors blurred around him—each step carrying him closer to the throne room, where Sonic undoubtedly held court amidst the wreckage of King Maxx Acorn's regime.
The scent of ozone and burnt metal clung to the air, a testament to the hedgehog's latest display of controlled anarchy. He could hear the whispers trailing behind him like shadows—*menace, strategist, usurper*—but Sonic almost certainly merely adjusted his gloves, letting the weight of their fear settle into the cracks of the throne room's shattered marble.
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"Well then, let us begin, shall we?" Wally Naugus murmured, flexing his lobster claw with deliberate calm. The spike between its pincers gleamed under the flickering emergency lights—a surgeon's scalpel rather than a weapon. He hadn't survived centuries by being reckless; power was a scalding sip of tea best taken slowly. Maxx Acorn tossed the Anarchy Beryl again, higher this time, its sickly green glow catching the cracks in his throne like veins. Wally Naugus noted how the king's fingers trembled—ever so slightly—on the catch.
Good, his plan was already working then—the Anarchy Beryl flashing in Maxx's grip wasn't just a power play, but a tell. Wally Naugus smirked behind his collar, counting the microseconds between each toss. Too slow on the ascent. Too quick on the catch.
The king was nervous, and worse: predictable. The lobster flexed his claw again—deliberate, patient—letting the silence stretch like a noose. "Your Majesty," he began, voice smooth as poisoned syrup, "perhaps we should discuss the *cost* of your... certain indulgence in this possible Anarchic Titan."
Maxx's ear twitched. Naugus didn't miss the way his pupils dilated—just for a split second—before the chipmunk schooled his face back into that practiced, smug neutrality. The Beryl's glow pulsed in time with the overhead lights' death throes, painting the throne room in jagged shadows. Naugus took a step forward, his claw's tip scraping against marble with a sound like a whetstone on bone.
"Yes Wally, I want to know if you have anyway of seeing if someone is an Anarchic Titan or not." Maxx Acorn's grip tightened around the Beryl—his claws leaving hairline fractures in its surface—before tossing it again. Naugus caught it mid-air with his lobster claw, the spike piercing through the gem's core with surgical precision. Beryl fissures spiderwebbed outward as he held it up to the light, studying the way the cracks refracted like a shattered crown.
Anarchic Titans.
Quite a dangerous group, they were.
Anarchic Titans were beings with so much Anarchy Beryl energy saturated into their bodies that they shouldn't be alive.
And yet they somehow were.
Anarchy was the lifeblood of this world.
Literally.
So when a being is born with too much Anarchy, their bodies shouldn't be able to contain it—they should be dead—yet here they are, alive and thriving amidst the chaos they generate. That was the crux of what made an Anarchic Titan so feared—and why Naugus kept his distance as Maxx's throne room pulsed with unstable energy.
With having the lifeblood of the very universe in their veins, they change the world forever when they came.
One of the most famous examples was Tical the Echidna from 3000 years ago.
You see, in her youth, Tical lived in a period of peace where she opposed her father Pacha Kamaq's pacifist ways, though she was ignored by Pacha Kamaq himself and his supporters. During this time, she befriended the local Narchy and their king, Anarchy. When Anarchy went on a destructive rampage and she goaded her father to attempt to steal some of the Anarchy Beryl and the Overlord Beryl itself.
When her deception was discovered Pacha Kamaq stopped Anarchy by sealing him inside the Overlord Beryl with his daughter's own cursed spirit.
This is why there is always an overseer of the Overlord Beryl, someone who keeps it safe in its resting place—and if they fail, well, the consequences are dire. It's why Wally Naugus has spent centuries studying its properties, its history, and its potential. The weight of the Beryl in his claw was heavier than its physical mass—a burden of knowledge and responsibility that few could bear.
He tilted it slightly, watching the way the fractured light danced across Maxx's muzzle—illuminating the subtle tremors in the king's jaw. Naugus' voice was a velvet-wrapped blade. "Anarchic Titans don't *hide*, Your Majesty. They *radiate*. Like rot in fruit." The throne room's emergency lights stuttered again, plunging them into momentary darkness.
"If an Anarchic Titan opposes you, there is simply no way to truly stop them—only delay the inevitable," Naugus continued, pulling the fractured Beryl closer to examine its core. The way the cracks pulsed reminded him of cardiac monitors in a medbay—erratic, unsustainable.
There was also that time almost fifty years ago when an Overlander made scientist Gerrald Robotnik reportedly tried to make an Anarchic Titan under the guise of making a cure to N.I.D.S named Project Sparkle, the Supreme Lifeform.
He almost missed those times, G.U.N wasn't as corrupt back then.
But even an artificially made Anarchic Titan couldn't be stopped, instead he was sealed away and imprisoned, much like Tical was.
Thinking about it now, Wally Naugus was noticing a pattern here—how every Anarchic Titan seemed to be sealed away rather than destroyed outright. Like the universe itself didn't dare erase them completely. His claw twitched around the fractured Beryl, its pulse syncing with the distant tremors of Sector 7's collapse. Maxx hadn't blinked in fourteen seconds. *Predictable.*
Maxx's throne creaked as he leaned forward, fingers drumming on the armrest with rhythmic precision—not nervousness, Naugus realized, but calculation. The king's smirk was a blade sheathed in velvet. "That much is apparent Wally, Sonic certainly is not hiding, but if he gets too big of a head, how could I stop him?" The overhead lights flickered again, casting their shadows like marionettes on the cracked marble. Naugus exhaled through his nostrils, counting the seconds between each flicker—*three, seven, two*—irregular.
The chimera's claw twitched, retracting the spike from the Beryl's fractured core, "There are a few possible ways, your majesty. One is getting at least seven Anarchy Beryl to achieve a state where you hold so much power it bends that rule of the universe for a moment, yet I warn you, death is practically guaranteed. Another is finding another Anarchic Titan so as to even things out, so to speak."
King Maxx Acron pondered for a moment, before nodding, "Seven Anarchy Beryl you say?"
"At least your majesty."
"Well I already have one, so when I find six more, I'll introduce Sonic to a whole new meaning to the word *overkill*," Maxx mused, tapping the fractured Beryl against his throne's armrest—each click punctuated by Sector 7's distant detonations. Naugus' eyes twitched at the king's hubris, but he schooled his expression into something resembling deference.
King Maxx Acorn, not looking back continued, "Thank you my friend, sincerely." Wally Naugus cringed—the words dripped with false warmth, sticky as spilled honey—but the chimera merely bowed, claws folded in mock deference. Maxx's grin widened, revealing too many teeth, as he tossed the fractured Beryl again—higher this time—letting it hover at the apex before gravity reclaimed it. "Now, about those other Beryls..." His voice trailed off with deliberate ambiguity, gaze flicking toward the throne room's shattered skylight where smoke plumed from Sector 7's ruins.
------------
Sally Acorn watched her sperm donor and Wally Naugus from the shadows of the throne room's fractured pillars, her claws scoring deep grooves into the marble as Maxx tossed the fractured Beryl with that same careless arrogance that had defined his reign. Her ear twitched at Naugus' whispered calculations—*seven Beryls*—while Sector 7's artillery echoed through her ribs like a second heartbeat. She exhaled through her nose, counting the seconds between detonations. *Three. Seven. Two.* Sonic's work. Always irregular, always precise, always *his*.
Her ears perked up at the mention of 'Anarchic Titans'—a term she'd heard only in the hushed whispers of her father's most paranoid advisors. The fractured Beryl pulsed in her father's palm like a dying star, casting jagged emerald reflections across Sally's concealed position. She flexed her claws against the marble column, feeling the grooves left by centuries of royal tantrums and failed coups. Their jagged patterns mirrored the old scars on her back—gifts from her father's 'educational discipline'.
She knew Sonic was special, that much was obvious, but this—this changed everything. An Anarchic Titan? The thought sent a shiver down Sally's spine, not from fear, but from exhilaration. If Sonic truly was one, then he was the key—not just to overthrowing her father, but to reshaping Mobius itself. The throne room's flickering lights painted fractured shadows across her fur, mirroring the jagged cracks in her resolve.
If Sonic was the newest Anarchic Titan, then there was no possible way they could loose—especially if she and the others played her cards right. Sally exhaled through her nose, claws tightening around the concealed stolen plasma dagger strapped to her thigh—its familiar weight grounding her amidst the throne room's slow-motion collapse.
She walked away from her hiding back to her room—her steps measured, her posture deliberately relaxed—but her claws dug crescent moons into her palms. The palace corridors stretched endlessly, their opulent tapestries now just gilded cages in her peripheral vision. She paused at a fractured mirror, studying her reflection with detached amusement. The Sally Acorn staring back wasn't the dutiful puppet anymore; she was something sharper, something hungrier—a predator wrapped in silk and royal insignia.
Then she nearly walked right into Rosemarie Prower herself, the fox's swollen and pregnant abdomen grazing Sally's hip as they nearly collided in the corridor. Rosemarie's claws instinctively curled protectively over her stomach—her muzzle twisting into something between a snarl and a grimace—before recognition smoothed her features into practiced neutrality.
Sally didn't miss the way Rosemarie's tail bristled under her maternity gown, nor the faint scent of adrenalized sweat cutting through the fox's usual jasmine perfume. She let her lips curl just enough to expose a single canine tooth—not a threat, but a reminder.
The kind of smile she'd learned from Sonic, all calculated edges beneath velvet charm. "Miss Rosemarie," she purred, stepping sideways to block the fox's retreat, "funny how we keep colliding. Almost like fate's *insisting* we chat." Her claws tapped against the plasma dagger's hilt—once, twice—a metronome syncopated with Sector 7's distant explosions.
Rosemarie's ears flattened, her free hand drifting toward the concealed shockrod strapped to her thigh. Sonic would've laughed at the predictability—*everyone* in this palace armed themselves like they were auditioning for a warzone. Sally's nose wrinkled at the acrid tang of fear-sweat beneath Rosemarie's perfume. Pregnant or not, the fox was still Maxx's creature—still dangerous. "Your Highness," Rosemarie managed, syllables too clipped, "if you'll excuse me—"
Sally's laughter was a scalpel dipped in honey. "Oh, but I *won't*." She leaned in, close enough to count the freckles dusting Rosemarie's muzzle, close enough to whisper directly into that twitching ear. "I just wanted to check in with you. How's the pregnancy going?"
Sonic was always strangely invested in Rosemarie's pregnancy. Sally didn't understand why, they was no way in Anarchy Below they were his.
And if they somehow were she'd kill this fox.
Because that's what... friends do for their friends.