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 chinera merely bowed, claws folded in mock deference. King Maxx Acorn'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. The fractured Beryl pulsed in Naugus' chimeric claw—not with anarchy energy, but with something darker, viscous—as King Maxx Acorn's shadow stretched unnaturally long across the bloodstained marble.
It wasn't just the angle of the setting sun; the silhouette's edges sharpened into silver lined blades, its posture straightening with military precision that King Maxx Acorn himself had never possessed despite claiming to have it in spades.
Wally Naugus' chimeric claw tightened around the fractured Beryl, its jagged edges biting into his flesh like a spiteful lover's teeth despite him wearing a glove. The air between them crackled with seemingly unspent anarchy energy—thick enough to taste, metallic and wrong as it always was in this world—but Wally Naugus had learned long ago that King Maxx Acorn's kindness was just another trap wrapped in velvet.
His gaze flicked to the throne room's shadowed corners, where the princess was retreating from her hiding spot, likely to her room for the evening.
Whether that was a good sign or not, Wally Naugus couldn't say so.
"Actually... If you could be a dear and retrieve six other Anarchy Beryl for me Wally I'd be so thankful for your help in squashing this rebellious blue blur problem of mine." King Max Acorn 'asked' (read—actually you are reading all of this unless somehow this fanfiction gets good enough it gets fan animated somehow, so uh, read more I guess: demanded).
"I suppose I could get my trusted Ooma Arachnis and her Arachnae Clan children to assist me in my search for six more Anarchy Beryls, Your Majesty," Wally Naugus murmured, claws flexing around the fractured gem as its sickly glow painted his chimeric, troll like, face in shifting hues of viridian and violet—half-obscured by the throne room's creeping shadows.
King Maxx Acorn's laughter echoed like a gunshot in a cathedral, sharp and sudden, bouncing off the bloodstained marble as he leaned forward—his crown tilting dangerously—to loom over Wally Naugus despite his much shorter stature.
It was at this moment that Wally Naugus realized, or rather remembered, that King Maxx Acorn's eyes weren't supposed to be silver.
Right?
Wally Naugus continued to look into King Maxx Acorn's now glowing silver eyes—unnaturally bright—before glancing back at the fractured Beryl in his own grasp. It pulsed once, twice, like a dying heartbeat, and for the first time in centuries, he hesitated. This wasn't just anarchy energy—it was something else. Something older. The realization slithered into his mind like cold oil: King Maxx Acorn literally wasn't fully there at the moment.
Then, in an instant, the silver eyes and their eerie twin glows were gone—just a trick of the neon sign outside, bouncing off the spilled bourbon at just the right angle.
But who was he kidding with, there wasn't any neon signs near them for a mile.
Something was very, very, very, very, very wrong here, but Wally Naugus had long since learned better than to ask the wrong type of questions at the wrong times, especially not from a tyrannical King who hadn't blinked since the conversation started.
The fractured Anarchy Beryl pulsed again—hotter this time—searing through Wally Naugus' glove as King Maxx Acorn's shadow twitched unnaturally against the throne room's bloodstained tapestries. Static crackled along Naugus' chimeric exoskeleton, his fused bat veins burning with long since gone phantom echoes of a war fought before Mobius had a solidified name that wasn't Earth.
He knew that glow.
Knew that hunger.
It was before the three voices in his head fell silent—he hated thinking about that day—then he faintly heard King Maxx Acorn dissmis him with his usual smug grin. Wally Naugus didn't wait to be told even once—he bowed low enough to hide his expression and retreated backward until he hit the throne room doors.
The throne room doors slammed shut behind Wally Naugus with finality, leaving him alone in the corridor's oppressive silence—his chimeric claw trembling around the fractured Beryl as it's sickly light pulsed in time with his racing hearts. Somewhere deep in Castle Acorn's bowels, a child screamed—whether from torture or play, he couldn't tell anymore. The distinction had blurred years ago, around the same time King Maxx Acorn's shadow started moving independently of the light.
He shook his head slowly—bourbon-drenched fur now sticking to his brow—as he made his way back to where he and Amadeus Prower had arrived back on Mobius to go back to the Zone of Noise.
It was a very long day in Wally Naugus's book—if books could bleed, this one would've already stained his chimeric claws black. The Zone of Noise's portal loomed ahead, its jagged obsidian spires jutting from the wasteland like the ribs of a long-dead titan, whispering static that curled his ears back instinctively. He flexed his lobster claw around the fractured Beryl, its pulse now syncing with the Zone's discordant hum—*wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong*—but he'd learned long ago that "wrong" just meant "different" with enough spin to it.
Ooma Arachnis would've called him paranoid if he'd voiced his suspicions. Then again, Ooma Arachnis hadn't seen King Maxx's shadow peel itself off the throne room floor last Tuesday or just now either. The thought nearly curled his horn backward—almost—but Wally Naugus kept his posture rigid as the Zone's distortion field prickled against his exoskeleton like skin, like a million tiny needles dipped in liquid static.
Somewhere beyond the jagged portal spires, Ooma Arachnis was dutifully waiting to aid him—her eight segmented claws clicking against obsidian shards in perfect syncopation with the Zone's arrhythmic hum. Wally flexed his lobster claw experimentally, watching the fractured Beryl's sickly light refract across his chitinous plates he had in that area of his body in jagged arcs.
Loyalty had its uses, and Ooma Arachnis was that and more.
It was still sad how much rarer that was these days—that and kindness it seemed—Wally Naugus mused as he stepped through the Zone of Noise's jagged threshold, its obsidian spires humming with dissonant energy that prickled against his chimeric hide. The fractured Beryl pulsed hotter in his grasp, its sickly glow reflecting off Ooma Arachnis' eight segmented claws as she emerged from the smoke warped shadows, her arachnid children skittering behind her in a synchronized, unsettling rhythm.
"Took you long enough," she chittered, mandibles clicking in mock reproach, but the curve of her foremost limbs betrayed relief—her segmented claws reaching to brush fractured obsidian from his shoulder with a precision that bordered on affection.
The Beryl's pulse quickened between them, its virulent glow casting spiderweb fractures of light across Ooma's chitinous face as Wally Naugus exhaled through his bat fangs, silver static clinging to his fur like secondhand smoke.
Her children skittered closer, their many eyes reflecting the fractured Beryl's glow as Wally Naugus flexed his lobster claw—bourbon-stained bear creaking—and let the gem's pulse sync with the Zone's arrhythmic hum. "King Maxx Acorn has assigned us to find six more of these Anarchy Beryl," he intoned, voice laced with static from his chimeric throat—half-growl, half-distorted whisper—as he rotated the crackling gem between his claw and hand.
Ooma Arachnis tilted her head, mandibles clicking in consideration as Wally Naugus held the fractured Beryl aloft—its sickly light casting jagged shadows across her masked chitinous face. "Six more?" she echoed, segmented claws twitching toward the gem with unnatural hunger. Behind her, her arachnid brood skittered closer, their many eyes reflecting the Beryl's glow like pinprick stars in a void.
Wally Naugus flexed his lobster claw, watching the way Ooma Arachnis's posture shifted—subtly predatory, subtly protective—and wondered not for the first time if her loyalty was born of genuine care or simply the absence of better options.
But did it really matter anymore at this point?
------------
"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 for defiling Sonic somehow.
Because that's what friends do for their friends, Sonic had taught and shown her that a lot without words—and Sally prided herself as a quick learner.
Rosemarie's pulse fluttered beneath Sally's claws like a caged bird, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks as the chipmunk princess leaned in closer—close enough to taste the fox's fear. "The baby's fine," Rosemarie rasped, her throat working around the lie like a bone stuck sideways. Sally's smile didn't reach her eyes as she traced the curve of the other woman's swollen abdomen with a single claw, noting the way Rosemarie's breath hitched. Static crackled between them—residual energy from Sonic's last visit—and Sally inhaled sharply, committing the scent of ozone and fox-sweat to memory.
"That's wonderful," Sally purred, her claws lingering just above Rosemarie's navel—close enough to feel the kit's frantic kicks beneath thin skin. The fox flinched as Sally's thumb brushed the faded scar where a battle unknown and untold had commenced, her breath hitching when static sparked between them. "Sonic asks about your pregnancy a lot, doesn't he?"
The question dripped with faux sweetness, surgical in its precision. Sally watched Rosemarie's throat work—a trapped animal calculating escape routes—before the fox's paw drifted instinctively over her stomach. Static hummed between them, leftover charge from Sonic's last visit clinging to the air like the scent of a storm. "He... checks in," Rosemarie whispered, ears flattening as Sally's claws dimpled the fabric of her dress without breaking skin. The kit kicked violently beneath her palm—a tiny rebel already.
How surprising.
And quite possibly more damning.
Sonic would've laughed if he saw this. Doctor Kintobor would've sighed and rubbed his temples.
"Well then Miss Rosemarie Prower, don't let me hold you up for too long," Sally drawled, stepping back with deliberate slowness—her claws retracting one by one like sheaths being cleaned. Rosemarie's exhale was barely audible over the hum of failing infrastructure, her paws trembling as they curled protectively around her stomach.
She continued her way to her room, eyes darting everywhere as always—paranoia etched into every twitch of her whiskers. The compound's flickering lights cast jagged shadows across the walls, turning familiar corridors into mazes of half-remembered threats.
Castle Acorn was always colder at night. The wind howling through shattered stained glass carried whispers of Anarchy, and Sally's claws clicked against her bedroom door frame—calculating. Rosemarie's scent lingered here, faint beneath gunpowder and disinfectant, a fox-shaped ghost haunting the halls. Sonic would've mocked her obsession by now, spinning some joke about territorial chipmunks before vanishing in a blur of silent blue static. But Sonic wasn't here right now. Just the echo of his laughter clinging to the walls like ozone after a storm.
She climbed up into her royal bed, always far too big for her. She suspected her sperm donor did that on purpose—everything in Castle Acorn was oversized, a kingdom built for giants who crushed smaller things beneath their boots—but tonight, the cold expanse of silk sheets suited her just fine. Sally curled her fingers around the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her pillow, its edge still sticky with Jeffrey's blood from last week. The metallic tang mixed with the scent of lavender sachets some dead servant had placed there centuries ago. Death and decorum, always entwined these days, it seemed.
She tried her best to get comfortable—she wasn't sure if she succeeded—before she slowly started to yawn. Closing her eyes, she tried to sleep—knowing full well tomorrow would be worse—as she drifted off to sleep and slowly started dreaming.
She began to dream of the possible future—not in flashes, but as a long, uninterrupted reel flickering through her subconscious like an old projector. Sonic stood atop a throne of shattered artillery shells, his grin sharper than the blades embedded in the steps below. The air smelled of charred metal and wet ink—the latter from freshly printed propaganda posters curling at the edges as Doctor Kintobor adjusted his newly minted glasses with one hand, the other passing reports about the grateful people's praise.
"You're late," Sonic remarked without turning, tapping a rhythm against his knee that matched the distant gunfire. Doctor Kintobor exhaled through his nose—a habit Sally now recognized meant he was counting to ten in his head—before adjusting the medical kit strapped to his hip. "Apologies, Your Highness."
"Please Doc, it's fine," Sonic muttered, slouching deeper in his throne of gunpowder casings—the metal groaning beneath him—as Doctor Kintobor dabbed antiseptic along the jagged gash across his ribs. Static hissed between them, bitter and ozone-sharp. The throne room around them flickered unnaturally, shadows stretching like taffy between propaganda posters featuring Sonic's own grinning face.
Sally watched the scene unfold as if suspended in amber—the way Sonic's fingers twitched toward Doc's wrist before aborting the motion, the minute tremor in the physician's hands as he stitched warped flesh back together with wire instead of sutures. This dream-realm reeked of iron and damp concrete, thick as the blood crusting beneath Sonic's claws.
Soon she was able to move. As if her part to play had finally come—she stepped forward amidst the distorted throne room, her own boots sinking slightly into the carpet of spent shell casings that shouldn't have yielded like sand. Sonic still hadn't turned, but his ear twitched—just once—as Doctor Kintobor's fingers paused mid-stitch, wire glinting cold under the flickering lights.
She walked up to Sonic—each step crunching spent casings into dust—until she stood eye-to-eye with his throne of warped metal. Static crackled between them, bitter as the antiseptic Doctor Kintobor was still wiping across his ribs. Sonic didn't look up, just kept rhythmically tapping a hollow-point round against the armrest.
The sound echoed like a execution countdown. "You're staring," he remarked casually, finally glancing up with eyes that weren't quite red—more like the heart of a welding torch. Doctor Kintobor's hands stilled mid-stitch, wire trembling between his fingers.
"Perhaps I like to stare Sonic," Sally retorted, pressing a claw to his chin—forcing his gaze downwards until his irises flickered molten.
"Well, I suppose I can't blame you for that," Sonic murmured, his grin widening warmly at her touch—so unlike his usual jagged-edged smirk.
It looked nice to her, if she was being honest.
------------
She let him fumble for it, savoring the way his gloves squeaked against the lens. The dossier's weight in her lap was a promise—one she'd cash in the moment Lord Abraham Tower salivated on command.
Perhaps her father had a point on his ideas on controlling animals after all—Torii mused, watching the Lord Abraham Tower fumble—as she adjusted her grip on the dossier and inhaled the scent of burning parchment and Tower's nervous sweat. The dossier's edges bit into her thighs through her dress fabric, its weight a silent threat disguised as paperwork.
"Torii, look at how much you've grown." Tower all but purred, his fingers clicking against the dossier's cover—too slow to stop the claws already sinking into his wrist. The scent of singed velvet mixed with ozone as Torii's spines bristled, static dancing along her gloves.
"Grown all the more beautiful for you Abraham~." She purred, halfway moaned—her pupils slitting like a snake's as the dossier creaked ominously beneath her claws. Static arced between them, searing tiny blackened pockmarks into Tower's cravat as he swallowed audibly. *Click.* The sound of a safety disengaging—though neither of them had moved—echoed through the chamber, louder than any gunshot.
"Indeed you have Torii, indeed you have," Tower murmured, his fingers twitching toward the dossier like a man reaching for a lit fuse. His pulse jumped beneath her fingers—almost rabbit quick in speed and slick with sweat—but she held firm.
She had to.
She *had* to—Static arced from glove to dossier as Torii forced Tower's wrist down onto the table hard enough to crack the mahogany. His choked gasp tasted medicinal in the sterile air between them, like crushed antiseptic tablets and oversteeped tea leaves. The dossier's pages fluttered open to reveal Maaria's erased schematics—Project Sparkle's bleeding-edge pathogen vectors repurposed in Tower's clumsy handwriting.
"Abraham," Torii murmured, dragging a claw along his jugular without breaking skin—a mockery of tenderness—"You should've burned these."
"Perhaps I should have, but I could destroy something from my old deer Maaria," Tower rasped, sweat beading along his temple as Torii's fingers pressed deeper into the dossier—her smirk widening at the faint scent of urine beneath his cologne. The static between them hissed like a live wire, twisting Maaria's repurposed schematics into charcoal shadows against the wall.
"But then again, you never could resist hoarding secrets, could you?" Torii's fingers traced Tower's carotid artery with clinical precision, her voice a velvet-wrapped scalpel. The dossier crackled between them—Maaria's and Gerrald 's notes blackening at the edges—as static danced along Tower's cravat pins, melting them into slag against his throat. His choked whimper was sweeter than the scent of singed silk.
She hated Tower when he went on rants about Maaria Robotnik. How he bitched about his long dead preteen flame—their days on the Arc Colony orbiting Mobius itself—and how he could never quite forget her. But Tower's nostalgia was useful when Torii needed leverage and knowledge.
If a pain in the ass.
Tower's dossier split apart beneath Torii's claws with a sound like cracking ice, pages fluttering to the floor in a blizzard of incriminating ink. The scent of ozone deepened as she leaned in—close enough to count each bead of sweat along Tower's receding hairline—her breath hot against his ear. "Tell me, Abraham," she murmured, static weaving through her spines like a living thing, "does Maaria still visit your dreams?" His shudder traveled through her fingers like a bad transmission.
"Sometimes, but not as often as you do," Tower whispered, his breath hitching as Torii's fingers neared his pants—his arousal thick as the dossier's ashes clinging to their boots. She let him squirm a moment longer before withdrawing, her fingers trailing down his tie like a butcher inspecting meat. The scent of his fear was sharper than Maaria's and Gerrald's old schematics ever were.
"Do you your father will notice if we leave the ballroom early?" Tower murmured against the shell of Torii's ear, his breath warm beneath the flickering chandelier light. She caught his wrist before it could settle on her hip—digging finger nails into flesh just shy of drawing blood—as the orchestra hit a dissonant crescendo. Static curled between them like smoke from a blown fuse, warping Tower's reflection in the polished marble floor beneath the two of them.
"In about 30 minutes of drinking, he wouldn't notice if we burned this whole damn palace down," Torii muttered, her claws dragging down Tower's sleeve with deliberate slowness—the fabric parting like skin beneath a scalpel. Static hissed between them, searing tiny blackened trails into the silk as the orchestra's dissonance thickened the air with the scent of overheated strings and Tower's nervous musk.
Her hairs bristled when he dared to press closer, their reflections in the palace windows fracturing into jagged shards as Torii exhaled through her teeth—a sound like steam escaping a pressure valve. Tower's pulse hammered against her finger nails, almost rabbit-quick and slick with sweat, but she let him stay pinned there beneath the chandelier's dying light.
"Careful, Abe," she murmured, pressing her finger nails just shy of puncturing his left testicle, the scent of his cologne souring with panic beneath her grip. "You're forgetting who rebuilt this kingdom from irradiated rubble—and who still decides who gets fed next winter."
The silence between them didn't last long when Lord Abraham Tower forcefully grabbed her right arm, "I thought I said to never, and I mean never, call me by 'Abe'." Tower growled—his grip tightening just shy of bone fracture—while Torii's breath hitched uncharacteristically, pupils dilating. Static arced violently between them, searing tiny blackened veins across Tower's cufflinks before his grip slackened—her smirk returning sharper as his sleeve smoldered.
"You'd break before I would, Abraham," Torii murmured, pressing her finger nails deeper into his testicle—slowly, deliberately—her tone clinical as she watched his face contort. The scent of burning silk mixed with Tower's panicked sweat, thick as the dossier ashes grinding beneath her heels. She could feel his pulse rabbit-quick against her knee—fascinating, how fear and arousal smelled identical when distilled.
------------
Outside, the palace trembled as Sector 97's containment fields gave way—another casualty in her relentless reshaping of the world. Ciara didn't flinch, even as her throne room's obsidian walls groaned under the weight of radiation alarms. The lynx guard scrambled for his helmet; she let him choke on panic for three wheezing breaths before flicking a switch on her armrest. Emergency seals hissed shut, sparing him—barely. "You'll need functioning lungs," she remarked, watching him vomit into his visor, "to drag my daughter back from whatever hole she's hiding in." The jackal guard didn't move to help his comrade.
Seemed like he was a smart boy.
That was so rare these days, or rather nights—a breath that didn't taste like gunpowder or propaganda leaflets.
Ciara stood up from her throne, her claws clicking against the irradiated marble as she crossed the chamber in silence as she made her way to the nearest window—her reflection fractured by the warped glass. Static danced along her spines, reacting to the distant hum of Sector 97's failing reactors. The jackal guard finally moved—not to assist his choking comrade, but to slide a dossier across the floor with his boot, its edges blackened where a certain Pavlov's bioelectrical nails had seared through Tower's lies.
"Burn it," Ciara ordered, nudging the papers with her silver encrusted heel—the lynx guard's vomit still dripping onto the tile like a broken faucet. The jackal didn't hesitate; his lighter clicked open with a sound like a gun's hammer cocking, the flame casting jagged shadows across Ciara's face as the dossier curled into ash. The scent of burning ink mixed with something chemical—Tower's sweat, perhaps, or the residue of Torii's nail's bioelectric fury.
Ciara inhaled deeply, her claws flexing against the window's warped glass. "Tell me Augur," she murmured, watching the reflection of flames dance in the lynx guard's visor as he finally stopped retching, "does Naugus of the Zone of Noise still whisper prophecies between your dreams?" The nearby crocodile himself stiffened—odor of scorched fur clinging to his robes—as Sector 97's tremors intensified. The jackal guard remained still, lighter flickering in sync with distant explosions.
"Ixis Naugus of the Zone of Noise does, my lady," Augur whispered, tracing a crooked finger along the throne's armrest—the same spot Ciara's claws had gouged deep years prior. His breath smelled of fermented prophecy and overripe ambition, clinging to her fur like cheap perfume. Somewhere beyond the reinforced glass, Sector 97's reactor groaned like a dying beast, casting emerald shadows across Ciara's smirk.
"Good, your powers have not left you yet Augur. You see Ixis Naugus, who apparently goes by Wally now by the way, visited Maximilian Acorn himself today—to advise him," Ciara remarked, tracing Augur's scarred cheek with a claw that left no mark but made his breath hitch. The jackal guard's lighter clicked shut—a punctuation to her words—as the lynx finally staggered upright, his visor still dripping.
"Maximilian, being the fool he is, dismissed Wally Naugus—much like he dismissed my warnings about Sector 7's instability before it collapsed. And now?" She smiled, slow and sinisterly, "I have an informant inside of Castle Acorn."
"Would that informant be Wally Naugus my lady?" Augur rasped, his breath ragged as Ciara's claws skated along his carotid—her smile widening at the way his pulse stuttered beneath her touch. The jackal guard's fingers twitched toward his sidearm reflexively before stilling; smart boy indeed. Ciara exhaled through her teeth, the sound like steam venting from an overloaded reactor, before dragging Augur forward by his ruined robes until his forehead pressed against the throne's armrest—the same spot her daughter had once bitten down on during a tantrum.
Static crackled along Ciara's spines as she leaned in, her voice a velvet-wrapped scalpel. "Wally Naugus? That would be far too obvious to Maximilian Acorn. He may be an over confident fool, but he is hardly an idiot—no, our informant is someone far closer to the throne, someone even Maximilian Acorn would hardly ever suspect of breathing treason."
The jackal guard's ears twitched as Sector 97's reactor finally ruptured—its death rattle shaking the palace like a dying god's last breath. Ciara didn't turn from the window, even as the glass cracked beneath her claws, her reflection splintering into a hundred razor-edged smiles. "Tell me, Augur," she murmured, watching emerald firelight dance across the lynx's vomit-streaked visor, "do you still dream of the day my failures of a daughter and son kneels before you?" His choked gasp was sweeter than the scent of burning metal.
"I don't exactly blame you Augur, they are true failures—but I still breath," Ciara mused, flexing her claws against the cracked window—her reflection warping into something jagged and grinning—as Sector 97's firestorm painted the throne room in radioactive gold.
The poor young lynx guard finally collapsed, his vomit pooling around Augur's knees like a grotesque halo, but her focus never wavered from the crocodile's twitching snout. "You'll find," Ciara said, slicing the air with one claw just shy of Augur's jugular, "that treason has a shorter shelf life than reactor coolant." The jackal guard's breath hitched—still smart boy—as Sector 97's firestorm backlit Ciara's silhouette, casting her shadow across Augur's face like a guillotine blade.
Kintobor would've sighed at the theatrics, muttering about wasted voltage regulators and unstable energy signatures. The thought almost softened Ciara.
She still remembered his gullible laughter when they were younger—before the radiation scars puckered his back skin and before she'd learned to weaponize nostalgia.
Julian Ivo Kintobor.
That man was so intelligent, yet so foolish. He had the potential to rule over all of Mobius with an ironclad infrastructure—had he not wasted it on moral fiber and second chances. Ciara exhaled through her nose, watching the jackal guard kneel over Augur's convulsing form, administering antidote syrettes with clinical precision.
The lynx's vomit had crystallized into greenish-black shards against the marble—a byproduct of Naugus' Zone of Noise-tainted prophecies leaking through his pores. She nudged one with her heel, listening to it skitter like a dying insect before crushing it methodically. The jackal flinched; Ciara let him stew in that fear for precisely four seconds before tossing him Tower's melted cufflinks.
"Burn these too," she said, watching him catch them mid-air despite third-degree burns blistering his palms. Smart boys got rewards. Stupid ones got fed to Sector 97's beryl reactor core.
------------
O'Nux's expression darkened as he turned toward the sound. "Ah shite," he muttered. "The prophecy shows herself again."
"What prophecy?" Elijah demanded, the young squirrel's fingers tightening around his plasma spear until the metal groaned. O'Nux didn't answer—just exhaled through his nose, watching the landscape's glow warp across Elijah's scarred knuckles.
Lien-Da however, did explain to Elijah with a slow blink—the kind that preceded arterial spray—her claws tapping against her plasma whip's holster. "The prophecy," she murmured, nodding toward O'nux 's relatively small silhouette flickering in the ocean's dying light (it must be nearing night time), "is of the next coming of an Anarchic Titan—those who wield chaos not as a tool, but as an extension of their own fucking willpower. Of an Anarchic Titan able to master seven Anarchy Beryl to achieve a state of absolute fucking freedom."
Elijah's grip on his spear faltered just long enough for Lien-Da to smirk—her fangs glinting like surgical steel. "And your father, little Elijah Acorn, is trying to oppose him—poorly," she purred, watching the squirrel's pupils dilate—his scent flourishing with betrayal towards his father and ozone.
O'Nux exhaled sharply through his nose, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping ribs—his silhouette haloed by the nuclear dusk's emerald haze. "Shite prophecy or not, it be commin' nearer an nearer no matter what," he growled, watching Elijah's fingers twitch toward his spear again. Static danced along O'Nux's fur like live wires, reacting to the squirrel's poorly concealed tremor; loyalty tasted better when laced with fear.
Lien-Da's claws slid between Elijah's shoulder blades—not quite piercing the fabric—her voice a velvet-coated scalpel. "O'Nux is distracted Elijah, now is your time to strike him down to victory." The squirrel hesitated, spear flickering with unstable plasma arcs, until Lien-Da's nails tapped his spine in Mobian Morse Code: *Cowards always die kneeling.*
Elijah lunged—just as O'Nux pivoted on his left leg with trained from birth precision, seizing the spear mid-thrust. The plasma discharge reflected in O'Nux's right eye as he wrenched Elijah forward by the weapon's haft, their noses almost touching. "Ye think prophecies care about yer daddy issues?" he hissed, the scent of singed fur and ozone clinging to his breath. Elijah's snarl died when O'Nux flicked the spear's power core with one claw—triggering a feedback loop that made the weapon tremble like a living thing.
"And do you think I care about yours O'Nux, your father Lord Loch wishes you to realize when you must fight, and I'm hardly one to complain about being able to be at you as senseless as possible," Elijah half growled, half grinned—his grip tightening on the spear's haft—before abruptly twisting his wrist to trigger the secondary plasma charge.
O'Nux barely leapt, yet being an echidna, that was already enough, being the next overseer of the Overlord Beryl however, made sure it was overkill—the secondary charge exploded against empty air, scorching the ground where he'd stood milliseconds prior. Elijah's grin faltered as O'Nux landed behind him, the spear's haft suddenly pressing against his windpipe with just enough force to make swallowing painful.
"Yer father," O'Nux murmured, the words a gravelly rasp against Elijah's ear, "would've screamed for mercy by now." The spear haft flexed—just shy of crushing the squirrel's windpipe—as Sector 97's reactor detonated in the distance, painting their silhouettes in radioactive green. Elijah's claws scrabbled at the weapon, drawing blood from O'Nux's namesakes, but the echidna only lightly chuckled—a sound like rusted chains dragging over broken glass. Lien-Da's shadow stretched between them, her plasma whip uncoiling with a hiss that made both combatants freeze mid-breath.
She didn't strike. Instead, she flicked her wrist—once—sending the plasma whip's tip spiraling between their locked weapons with millimeter precision, severing Elijah's grip without breaking sweat-beaded skin. The spear clattered against irradiated concrete as Lien-Da stepped forward, her shadow swallowing both combatants whole. "You fight like children," she mused, the whip coiling back around her forearm like a living thing, "while the real weapon learns patience from his cage."
"We ARE children."
Her gaze flicked toward the sacred Anarchy barrier above all of them, as the water grew darker, darker, yet darker. The shadow of the untouched ruins stretched long across the irradiated waves—just like her patience. Lien-Da's claws twitched, not toward her whip, but to the scar along her ribs where Doctor Fintiveus's prototype stabilizer had once fused flesh and wiring during the Dingo Revolts before peace was somehow made.
The memory tasted like copper and ozone, sharp enough to make Lien-Da's tongue curl. Elijah's next strike was predictable—a downward slash aimed at O'Nux's kneecaps, the plasma spear hissing like a cornered serpent. The echidna sidestepped with the lazy grace of a predator who'd mapped every tremor in the battlefield's pulse, his claws catching Elijah's wrist mid-swing.
Lien-Da's claws tapped against her plasma whip's holster in a slow, rhythmic countdown as Elijah's spear grazed O'Nux's ribs—drawing first blood in a fight that had long since stopped being about prophecies and started being about pride. The scent of scorched fur and ozone clung to the air, thick as the tension between them, but she didn't intervene.
Not yet.
Let the young royal squirrel learn the hard way that echidnas didn't bleed like other Mobians did.
Not anymore.
Not since the cursed sorcereress Tical herself.
Or was it Enerjack?
She needed to brush up on her history later tonight after this fight was finally over.
The fact that she was asking that to herself was honestly just fucking embarrassing...
Demon-La herself would be rolling in her grave—if anyone had ever found her corpse—as O'Nux twisted Elijah's spear against his own throat, her echidna reflexes honed by generations of Anarchy blooded warriors.
Lien-Da didn't intervene—yet—letting her plasma whip hum idly at her hip while the young squirrel royal wheezed, his claws scrabbling against the spear's shaft.
Anarchic static arced between them, crackling across the ruins like a living thing, because according to all Echidna's, it was—Elijah's spear dug deeper into O'Nux's ribs as he leveraged his weight against him.
Lien-Da was beginning to become impressed—Elijah's spear finally found purchase in O'Nux's side, the echidna's snarl twisting into something resembling respect as crimson streaked down his ribs. The squirrel prince fought dirty, leveraging rubble and shattered architecture like a seasoned guerilla fighter, his movements sharp with the desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose.
More anarchic static fizzled between them as Elijah twisted the spear deeper—not enough to kill, he'd surely be executed for that, but enough to make O'Nux's breath hitch.
"Yield," Elijah hissed, his fur matted with sweat and grime, yet his grip remained steady even as his muscles screamed.
O'Nux's silver-streaked crescent fur mark crackled with residual energy, his lips curling into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
"I only yield because I never wished to fight in the first place ya tiny bastard."
O'Nux's admission came through gritted teeth, his echidna pride buckling under Elijah's stubborn leverage—the spear tip now slick with crimson as anarchic static dissipated between them like dying embers. Elijah didn't relax his grip, sweat stinging his eyes as he cataloged the tremor in O'Nux's forearms—the telltale sign of exhaustion masked behind bravado.
"You'll yield properly," Elijah corrected, voice low as he leaned in—close enough to smell the ozone clinging to O'Nux's crimson fur—and twisted the spear just enough to make the young echidna hiss in pain.
Elijah exhaled sharply through his nose, the adrenaline in his veins making his grip on the spear tremble—not from fear, but from the sheer effort of holding O'Nux's relative bulk at bay. The young echidna's smirk faltered when Elijah pressed even further forward, leveraging his weight with every ounce of training Lien-Fa had drilled into him.
"Yield properly," he repeated, quieter now, his voice carrying the same steel-edged patience Lien-Da had taught him—the kind that didn't need volume to cut deeper than any blade. O'Nux's nostrils flared, his exhale ragged as he finally relented—not just in body, but in that defiant glint in his eyes.
Elijah eased the spear back just enough to draw yet another thin line of blood, his muzzle inches from O'Nux's—close enough to count the silver streaks in the echidna's crescent fur mark. "Say it," he breathed, tasting iron and ozone on his tongue. The ruins around them hummed with residual energy, the shattered remnants of the ancient structures around them casting jagged shadows that made O'Nux's crimson fur look black in places.
Lien-Da's plasma whip crackled to life at her hip, its blue-white energy casting stark highlights across Elijah's muzzle—illuminating the deliberate patience in his eyes. O'Nux's throat worked as he swallowed, his pride warring with the undeniable truth of his position—until his shoulders slumped marginally, exhaling through gritted teeth. "*Fine.* Ye feckin' win, princeling."
Elijah's grip didn't waver, but his eyes softened—just a fraction—before he yanked the spear free with a wet *schlick*. O'Nux hissed, pressing a claw to his bleeding side, but Elijah was already turning away, tossing the weapon aside with deliberate nonchalance. "Clean that before it festers," he muttered, flicking a med-pack from his belt toward the young echidna without looking—the motion almost careless if not for the way his ears twitched backward, listening for O'Nux's reaction.
Lien-Da's whip retracted with a satisfied hum, her smirk audible as she stepped into the ruined space between them. "See? Was that so hard?" she purred, dreads swaying in amusement as O'Nux snatched the med-pack midair—his scowl deepening at her condescension. Elijah exhaled through his nose, flexing his claws to dispel the residual adrenaline tremors.
He'd won, but barely—the ache in his shoulders and the copper tang in his mouth proof of that. Elijah rolled his neck with a crack, watching O'Nux snatch the medkit midair with echidna reflexes that'd make any royal guard envious. The ruins around them hummed with leftover energy, the shattered obsidian underfoot reflecting Lien-Da's plasma whip in jagged arcs across their faces. He exhaled through his nose—*control, always control*—before turning toward the echidna with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Next time, yield faster. Saves us both the trouble."
O'Nux's scoff was half snarled as he tore the medkit open with his teeth, spitting the packaging aside. "Next time, I'll rip yer foxy tail clean off an' use it as a belt if you try to barbarically fight me again," he shot back, but the venom lacked the conviction of someone actually willing to fight.
"Oh I'm sure you will," Elijah said, flicking a speck of O'Nux's blood from his claws with deliberate nonchalance. The young echidna's smirk twitched—a micro-expression Elijah cataloged instantly—as Lien-Da's whip coiled leisurely around her forearm, its idle crackle underscoring the tension.
He'd seen that look before, on his father's face the day the Sector 5 riots turned fully lethal.
And oh how he loved the memory of that day so very much.
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Collin's nostrils flared at the stench of Mobian sweat still clinging to the leather, his gloved fingers retreating into his sterilized coat pocket for a fresh handkerchief.
The Overlander's polished glove twitched—a barely suppressed recoil—as Jeffrey deliberately dragged his claws through the bourbon spill, smearing amber droplets across the propaganda broadcast's frozen image of King Maxx Acorn once more.
This was their second meeting here. Apparently Collin's son Collin Jr. had left during their first session. Collin still didn't know where his son had gone—he'd find him later though. Right now, Jeffrey's claws scraped against the table's edge, the sound deliberately slow as he leaned forward—still drunk again—his breath reeking of bourbon and something darker, metallic.
"Y'know," Jeffrey slurred, tracing the propaganda poster's jagged tear with one claw, bourbon dripping onto Collin's immaculate sleeve, "yer boy's got the same look in his eyes you had—right before you ordered my execution." Collin didn't flinch; just watched the liquor seep into his cuff's stitching like blood into bandages. The Overlander's pulse stayed steady even as Jeffrey's fangs grazed his ear—close enough to smell the rot between his teeth—and whispered, "Difference is...he's smarter."
Collin then leaped over the table and grabbed Jeffrey by his collar—bourbon bottle shattering against the floor. "Don't. You. Ever. Tell. Me. That. Genetic. Defect. I. Had. The. Displeasure. Of. Calling. My. Son. Is. Smarter. Than. Me. You. Filthy. Animal!" He growled every single syllable, bit by bit.
Jeffrey St. Croix nearly became fully sober just from that impact—Collin's grip crushing his windpipe with the same clinical precision the Overlander's brother used to dissect Mobian gene samples. Bourbon-soaked laughter bubbled up Jeffrey's throat anyway, his claws carving crimson trenches through Collin's sleeves as the propaganda broadcast flickered static behind them—King Maxx Acorn's frozen smirk pixelating into something grotesque.
"That's the same reason why you always hated your brother too isn't it? Because your family's supposed to be full of geniuses and yet your just a corrupt two bit lawyer that helps common born perverts get away with their crimes isn't it?" Jeffrey wheezed through a half-crushed windpipe, his claws digging deeper into Collin's forearms—drawing blood that dripped onto the bourbon-slicked floorboards.
The propaganda screen glitched again, warping King Maxx Acorn's face into a grotesque parody of Collin's own snarling features. Jeffrey's laughter turned wet as Collin's grip tightened.
Until,...
*Snap*
Collin's fist cracked against Jeffrey's jaw with surgical precision—bone met bone in a wet crunch that sent the lynx sprawling across the bourbon-slicked floor. The propaganda screen fizzled overhead, King Maxx Acorn's pixelated leer distorting as static swallowed his face whole. Jeffrey spat a molar onto the floorboards, grinning through blood-smeared fangs as he dragged himself upright using the shattered bottle's neck.
"Shoulda...kept...those gloves on... Kintobor," Jeffrey choked out, shoving the bourbon shard toward Collin's jugular as they grappled—their combined weight cracking the propaganda screen's flickering surface.
Jeffrey then twisted mid-fall—his tail lashing around Collin's ankle—yanking the Overlander down into the bourbon-slicked wreckage with him. Glass shards embedded themselves in Collin's palms as he caught himself, the sting irrelevant compared to the hot rush of humiliation when Jeffrey's knee connected with his ribs.
The lynx's heavily pained laughter echoed off the brothel's smoke-stained walls, mingling with the distant moans and screams from upstairs rooms—Collin's next punch missed as Jeffrey rolled sideways, glass crunching under his boots like brittle bones. A plasma lamp shattered overhead, raining neon shards that cast their brawl in fleeting pulses of violet and arterial red—illuminating propaganda posters peeling like flayed skin from the walls.
Collin's nostrils flared at the scent of ozone and pheromones—his polished glove snagging on Jeffrey's torn collar just as the lynx kicked over a table, sending bourbon bottles cascading toward a group of young and drunken jackal soldiers, maybe mercenaries, one of with curiously enough had blue and yellow eyes. "You fight like an abandoned puppy," Collin hissed, ducking under Jeffrey's swipe before slamming him ribs-first into the bar counter, "all noise and no strategy."
The lady lynx finally fled as Jeffrey's back shattered through the bar's antique mirror—glass raining down in jagged silver tears that caught the neon glow like frozen screams. Collin didn't pause to admire the effect; he lunged over the splintered mahogany, gloves slick with bourbon and blood, driving his knee into Jeffrey's sternum hard enough to crack ribs.
The lynx's wheezing laugh bubbled up through the blood in his throat as Collin's glove pressed harder against his windpipe—neon light glinting off the gold embroidery of the House of Ivo's insignia stitched into the cuff. Jeffrey's claws scrabbled at Collin's wrist, carving thin red lines through the leather, but the Overlander didn't flinch. Upstairs, a glass shattered—or maybe a jaw—followed by muffled giggling that dissolved into a scream.
Collin leaned in, close enough to count the cracked veins in Jeffrey's bloodshot eyes—then froze. Beneath the splintered bar counter, half-buried in shattered glass and spilled bourbon, lay a sleek, matte-black plasma pistol, its power core faintly pulsing like a sleeping predator's heartbeat.
Jeffrey saw it too; his pupils dilated, a feral grin splitting his battered muzzle as his tail twitched toward the weapon. Collin lunged—but the lynx was faster, twisting mid-strike to kick a shattered bottle into the Overlander's face. Glass met flesh in a spray of bourbon and blood as Collin recoiled, Jeffrey's claws already closing around the plasma pistol's grip.
Neon light bled across its barrel like liquid fire, illuminating the serial number etched there: K-99. Kintobor's personal sidearm, lost during the Sector 7 riots.
Collin's glove scraped against the bar's underside, fingers closing around cold metal just as Jeffrey cocked K-99's hammer—the plasma pistol's whine harmonizing with the neon sign's dying buzz. The Overlander's own weapon, a sleek silver disruptor stamped with the Ivo crest, glinted in the fractured mirror like a promise of mutual destruction.
Their barrels locked eye-to-eye, bourbon-drenched breath mingling between them, while the jackal mercenaries or soldiers scrambled backward—one tripping over his own crimson plasma sword in his haste.
Collin's disruptor hummed against Jeffrey's temple, the Ivo insignia glowing cherry-red as its plasma core cycled to maximum discharge. Jeffrey's stolen pistol—Kintobor's K-99—pressed harder into Collin's lower gut.
They both pushed and pulled their respective triggers with a mixture of anticipation and dread. In a split second, one weapon jammed, a mere mechanical failure that would seal the fate of its holder, while the other shot smoothly, a piercing reminder of the brutal world they were trapped in.
One monster pretending to be a man succumbed to his wounds, his life extinguished, while the other stood in a haze of shock, somehow still alive, if barely, grappling with the weight of what had just happened.
In that fleeting moment, the fate of Mobius shifted permanently, setting off a chain reaction that would alter the course of their world forever, however minorly it seemed.
------------
Well then, you made it to the surprise, not only of the extended chapter length, but you get to make a choice, who survived, Jeffrey or Collin Sr.?
Also first chapter posted in the year 2026, and the last chapter written in 2025 as I hit one hundred thousand words total!
And here's to me hitting even higher goals this year!
And you guys too! I wouldn't be writing this as often or dutifully without all of you readers!
Just, thank you from the bottom of my nearly stone cold heart to all of you readers, especially if you are reading this right at midnight of 1/1/2026!