Soon I finally closed my eyes to begin to rest.
Doc's footsteps had echoed down the hall—his gait uneven from old injuries he's never went into detail about, his lab coat was brushing against the doorframe with a sound like dry leaves. He very briefly paused outside my room, likely listening to the silence, before he began muttering something about "reckless pups" and he slowly began shuffling away.
I then slowly began to smirk into the darkness as I began to count his slowly retreating steps—about eleven before the hydraulic door hissed shut behind me. Doc's sentimental streak was way worse than mine.
But hey, that's why I liked him so much. And with that I finally began to fall asleep—until Sector 7's reactor groaned in protest again, shaking dust loose from the ceiling onto my muzzle. I snorted, rolling onto my side to avoid the debris, my claws curling into the mattress as the distant thrum of emergency sirens kicked in—another Tuesday night in Maxxopolis.
I began to lucid dream, as I did every night—only this time, the dreamscape was sharper, more vivid, like the difference between static and high-definition slaughter. Strawberries grew from cracks in the pavement, sweet and rotting in the same breath, their juice mixing with the blood pooling around Dream Doc's boots as he knelt beside me, adjusting the dials on my inhibitor chip with the tenderness of a father checking a fever.
"You're pushing yourself too hard, kid," he muttered—but I just grinned, flexing my claws until the dream's physics warped to my will, the sky bleeding from bruised purple to nuclear sunrise in seconds. "What can I say, Dream Doc?" I let my voice ripple with just enough menace to make the dreamscape shudder, "Heroes don't nap."
The joke landed with a thud between us—like a corpse hitting pavement—but Dream Doc's exhale carried the ghost of a chuckle anyway. He adjusted my neural stabilizers with the same precision he'd once used to suture my wounds after the Sector 7 riots, his claws lingering a heartbeat too long on the settings. "Heroes," he muttered, "also don't hemorrhage from overclocked adrenal mods."
The rebuke was velvet over steel, the kind of scolding that came with a med-kit already prepped on the table—Dream Doc progressing from "reckless idiot" to "sit still so I can fix you" without pausing for breath. I leaned into his grip as he realigned my neural stabilizers, my smirk sharper than the scalpel he'd just set down. "Admit it Dream Doc," I goaded, flexing my claws just to watch the bio-readings spike, "you missed this."
Dream Doc's snort was almost fond, his claws tightening briefly on my stabilizers—equal parts reprimand and reassurance. "Missed watching you short-circuit like a glitching toaster? Hardly." The med-bay lights flickered, casting his scars in stark relief—old war wounds from battles he never talked about, not even when I dug.
Behind us, the dream-version of Sector 7's reactor pulsed crimson, its rhythm syncing with the throbbing in my skull. I grinned wider, "Sorry Dream Doc,... but I got other things to do."
And so I snapped, shattering the whole dreamscape in an instant the second I did so.
The shards of which scattered everywhere—only to reform into a simple room full of boards, all of which had a little bit of my plans on them all.
I flexed my claws—just because I *could*—and watched the dreamscape ripple in response, warping the boards into sharper focus.
What I had constructed so far in my plans was on board by board:
First—Sally's coup.
Calculated, necessary, brutal.
The princess had claws sharper than she admitted around me, and I'd made sure they'd sink right into King Maxx Acorn's throat when the time came.
No hesitation.
Only a few survivors.
Second—What survivors that weren't corrupt or dangerous enough to be a threat, I'd keep alive—just enough to play their roles in the new order. Amadeus and Rosemarie Prower in case they somehow didn't abandon Tails.
Third—Mentor Tails with the same precision Kintobor used when recalibrating my neural stabilizers—firm but never cruel. The kid had potential sharper than his namesakes if guided right.
Fourth—Let Sally continue to purge Maxx's loyalists, but intervene before she crosses the line I'd drawn in blood.
Fifth—Find the other characters that would be allies to the original Sonic the Hedgehog (Amy, Knuckles, Shadow, etc.) and, if not mentor them as well, at least have them not want to go against me.
I would fight them if I must, but that didn't mean I wanted to fight children.
Sixth—secure the Chaos Emeralds before anyone else realizes they're more than shiny paperweights. The first one pulsed in my grip as I rolled it between my claws in my dream, its cyan glow casting jagged shadows across the war room maps. Doc would call this nothing short of reckless.
I just called it Tuesday.
Seventh—find one Doctor Ivo 'Eggman' Robotnik and see if he's still sane enough to be reasoned with. If not, dismantle his empire before he even realizes I exist. The doc's blueprints—scattered across my dreamscape—showed potential, if one ignored the possible genocide.
Huh, Doc's middle name is same as the first name of Doctor Eggman and their last names are inversions of each other...
Eh, I was reborn as a hedgehog that could go at least the speed of sound.
Weirder shit happens on Mobius every single day.
Again, me being reborn as Sonic the Hedgehog who can go AT LEAST the speed of sound proved that however many fold.
Eighth—see what other power I can harness beyond the Chaos Emeralds that wouldn't corrupt me somehow, preferably something that wouldn't require me to start worshipping eldritch horrors.
Ninth—locate and neutralize any surviving Echo Squad operatives before they regroup. Their files—spread across my dreamscape like shattered glass—Justice would be served cold, with surgical precision, and preferably while they begged.
You might think it's because I'm clinging to Bernadette lately.
And sure, maybe that was a minor part.
But they also did something else that day:
They destroyed Doc's dream, hope, live hood.
And they all smiled and laughed though it all.
Sure where we were now in the real world was nice.
After over four, long, God damn years of long nights, sweats, tears, and planning.
Tenth—ensure that Doc or anybody else for that matter never finds my journal. He had a bad habit of snooping through my things when he thought I wouldn't notice it, and while I very much trusted him more than anyone else on this rotting planet, some thoughts were better left buried beneath.
The ink stained pages pulsed faintly under my claws, whispering memories of Stephanie's screams and Bernadette's last breath—things even Doc didn't need to carry.
Eleventh—reinforce Sally's royal conditioning just enough to keep her from backsliding into King Maxx Acorn's sadism and just repeating the cycle of suppression, but not so much she'd hesitate when I needed her claws.
Her torn sash fluttered in the dream-wind, threads fraying like her grip on morality. A few strategic compliments, a well-timed smirk, and she'd"—I mimed tightening a noose—"stay useful without realizing she's being steered.
Twelfth—Ensure that after I die everything I worked so hard for doesn't collapse into dust—or 3398 words (I'm not counting) of beauracracy.
Build redundancies, contingency plans, and fail-safes into the system so deeply that even if Sally loses her mind or Doc keels over mid-surgery, the framework holds. The blueprints glowed under my claws—interlocking gears of propaganda, militarized zones, and surgically installed loyalty.
But I still didn't know what to do with the common people in this world...
How could I make them want to support this order without a tight iron grip?
What piece of the puzzle was I still missing?
Just then my dreamscape was beginning to rapidly shatter and fold into itself.
I was now beginning to be woken up by someone.
I suddenly opened my eyes in the real world to Buns shaking me awake.
"Good mornin' Sugah Hog..." She said a bit freightened, but a soft smirk on her muzzle as she held out some blueberry pancakes—one flipped over the plate's side, revealing an inverted Mobius Strip symbol seared into its surface.
I sat up, rolling the stiffness from my shoulders, my claws sinking into the mattress as I eyed the pancakes. The Mobius Strip wasn't just burned in—it was precision work, likely Buns' way of saying she knew exactly what I'd been dreaming about. I took the plate, letting my smirk soften just enough to watch her shoulders relax. "You're getting better at this quickly ," I said, flicking the pancake with a claw—it spun lazily, syrup bleeding into the grooves of the symbol. "Next time, try adding explosives. Breakfast should keep me on my toes."
Buns snorted, flicking her ponytail over one shoulder as she leaned against the doorframe. "Sugah Hog, if I wanted yah dead, I'd a just let Kintobor handle the cooking."
I shoved a pancake into my mouth whole, barely chewing before swallowing, I wasn't in a savoring mood today anyways. My claws flexed around the plate—too tight—and the ceramic cracked a little. Buns raised an eyebrow but said nothing, just swiped the remaining pancake off the shards and took a bite herself. "You're gonna choke one day," she mused, mouth full. "And I'mma laugh."
I quickly stood, stretching until my spine popped as I heard a knock on the front door.
"Well then, second verse same as the first: I don't suppose you or anyone else was expecting company?"
She just shook her head, "Not that I know of Sugah Hog..."
"Again, I thought not. Get Boomer ready just in case..."
And I ran towards the door again, ready for anything at this point once more. I had my hand on the door before Buns could even think to respond back in my room.
I opened the door to reveal Patch and Sally of all people standing on the other side, about to knock again on the door.
Patch was tapping his foot impatiently, his leg patting faintly under his fur, while Sally stood stiff-backed—her cloak hood ends fluttering in the wind like a surrender flag she'd never wave. Her claws were dug into her sash, knuckles white beneath the fur. "We need to talk," she said, voice too even, the way it got right before she ordered an execution. "May we come in Sonic?"
Behind her, Patch's ears twitched slightly toward the mellowed out hum of Doc's facilities inside—assessing threats, exits, my reaction—before settling into the disciplined stillness of someone who'd long since learned not to flinch. I leaned against the doorframe, letting the silence stretch just enough to watch Sally's tail flick once in suppressed agitation before I stepped aside with a lazy sweep of my arm. "Wouldn't wanna keep the future queen waiting," I said, grinning just wide enough to show the tips of my canines as she brushed past me, her shoulder deliberately bumping mine in a silent challenge.
Patch followed suite, his steps measured, eyes darting to the slightly cracked walls around us.
Suddenly I heard footsteps ahead of us deeper in the building: Buns and Boomer no doubt.
Boomer—already gripping his modified plasma rifle—flinched when Sally's cloak rustled, his muzzle tightening around the trigger guard in a way that made Patch's claws twitch toward his holster. Buns eyes shot up in rage at the sight of Sally herself and Patch's uniform...
Uh oh.
Boomer's grip on the plasma rifle tightened—knuckles white beneath fur—as Sally's royalist uniform registered in his vision. "The hell of Anarchy Below himself are *they* doing here?" he growled, muzzle twitching toward Patch's holster. I flicked an ear, watching Buns' tail lash once—violent and precise—before she stepped forward, blocking Boomer's line of fire with her body.
"Stand down, Boomer," I said, voice idle as a Sunday stroll but edged with enough steel to make his trigger finger freeze. "Our guests are also friends and allies of mine. That means yes; these two are also part of the plan, same as you."
Buns' ears flicked back—just once—before she forced a smirk, her claws tapping the inverted Mobius Strip pendant hanging from her neck. "Well ain't this cozy," she drawled, stepping aside just enough to let Sally pass while keeping herself angled between Patch and Boomer. "Royalty slummin' it with us rebels. Should we bow?"
Sally's smile was knife-sharp as she brushed past, her tail deliberately flicking Buns' muzzle. "Only if you want me to return the favor, *private*." The rank landed like a grenade—Buns' stripes darkened with fury—but Patch's subtle shake of his head had her swallowing the retort. I chuckled, leaning against the warped doorframe, watching the tension coil tighter than Sector 7's reactor core. "Play somewhat nice, gang. We've got some work to do it seems."
"What kind Sugah Hog?"
"Well now that we're all together now, which, frankly I probably should have made happen sooner than this," I mused, flexing my claws just enough to hear the joints pop—a habit I'd picked up from Doc after too many late-night surgeries. Sally's ear twitched at the sound, her royal training warring with the instinct to step back. "We're gonna have ourselves a little bit of a council session on the topic of how exactly we're gonna finish dismantling whatever scraps of King Maxx Acorns's regime are still clinging to their delusions of relevance."
My smirk widened as Boomer finally started to ease of his new weapon he apparently just made this morning, before continuing with my attempt at a monologue, "And, of course, what we do after we kill Ole King Maxxie Acorn himself." The words hung in the air—thick enough to taste—before Sally's claws dug into her sash again, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel. "You assume he'll die easily."
I chuckled, rolling absolutely fucking nothing between my claws just to pretend to watch the non-existent item's non-existent cyan light dance across Patch's wary face. "Oh Sally, nothing about this'll be easy at all."
Then I did snap—right in front of her—just to watch her royalist instincts make her flinch. "Which is precisely why we will make sure that absolutely everything about his last moments will *hurt the most*."
"Well then,.. where to now Boss?" Patch's one visible eyebrow raised at his question.
"Simple: To the training room!" I called out dramatically as I could just because I could—and I wanted to see if Sally would roll her eyes.
She did.
Halfway.
Still, good enough.
I led the way of course, my claws clicking against the tiles with deliberate emphasis, each step echoing louder than necessary just to watch Boomer's hackles rise further. Buns trailed behind, arms crossed, her smirk never fading even as Sally shot her a glare that could melt steel.
Patch, ever the professional, fell into step beside me, or well only slightly behind me—close enough to seem allied, far enough to pretend he wasn't studying my every twitch for weaknesses he could tell me. The training room wasn't just a room; it was Doc's warped masterpiece, lined with reinforced steel panels dented from plasma fire and my own speed trials, the floors scarred from failed experiments and successful executions alike.
Sally's breath hitched—just once, and barely at that—when she spotted the bloodstains Boomer hadn't quite scrubbed clean from his own training this morning.
He wasn't flaking out on it.
Good.
"So,... what now Sugah Hog?"
Buns' voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter—smooth, effortless, and just a little bit dangerous. She leaned against the dented steel wall, one foot propped against the panel behind her, arms crossed in a way that made her plasma scars gleam under the flickering lights. Her smirk was sharp enough to draw blood, but her eyes—those damn eyes—were softer than she'd ever admit now, despite it being barely a week since she came here.
My own smile softened at that image.
The fact that she now had some hope now...
Wait a fucking minute...
That was it.
That was what the people of this world need now more than ever.
That was the oh so obvious missing price of the puzzle that was the outline of my plan for this world:
Hope.
Simple as that.
Hope for the future.
Hope for the future?
I almost laughed at the sheer simplicity of it—like boiling down war to "just don't get shot." But the way Buns' scars caught the light, the way Boomer hadn't flinched at Sally's royalist sash in the last thirty seconds... maybe hope wasn't just some damn naive dream.
Maybe it was actually useful...
"Uh,... Sonic? Are you... alright there?" Sally asked concerned as she tapped my shoulder as I was lost in thought.
I blinked—twice—before realizing I'd been staring at Buns like she'd just cracked the damn universe open. The training room's flickering lights painted shadows across the group's confused expressions, Patch's hand hovering near his holster again. I exhaled through my nose, rolling my shoulders until the tension popped. "Better than alright, Sally," I said, flicking a claw toward the holographic war table in the center of the room. "Just had an epiphany sharper than your filthy sperm donor's execution protocols."
Buns snorted, tossing her new ponytail over one shoulder as she sauntered toward the war table—her hips swaying just enough to make Patch's ears flick backward in discomfort. "Epiphanies before finishing breakfast, Sugah Hog? That's new."
My claws then tapped the holographic display, igniting a map of Mobius—sector lines pulsing like infected veins. I grinned, watching Sally's muzzle twitch at the sight of her father's strongholds marked for demolition; almost all of which in the former Kingdom of Acorn, now dubbed The Acorn Dominion; the central of many dominions that held many sectors in each.
"Hope's our new weapon now," I mused, flicking a holographic city block until it erupted into pixelated flames. "But don't worry—we'll still burn King Maxxie Acorn's legacy to the ground first." Sally's claws flexed at that, her royalist conditioning failing at warring with the visceral thrill of patricide she'd never admit out loud to in front of anyone besides me.
"How so Sonic?" Boomer quizzed as he leaned over a tad bit too much for Sally's liking.
I grinned—slow, deliberate, but gentler now—letting the holographic embers from the projected ruins dance in my pupils before answering. "Simple Boomer," I said, flicking a claw toward his plasma burns on the floor—his failures, his lessons, his *progress*.
"You four have decided to follow me this far because I tore down the walls *and* gave you the tools to rebuild them better. That's what we're selling now—not just wrecking balls, but blueprints." I tapped Boomer's rifle muzzle, tilting it down gently for the first time since he'd picked it up. "Hope's just leverage with a prettier name. And leverage?"
My grin turned razor-edged. "That's how you flip a fucking world wide kingdom without getting your claws dirty." The holographic embers pulsed brighter—Sally's reflection fractured in the war table's glow, her royalist poise cracking as she leaned in, tail twitching like she wanted to throttle me *and* cheer. Patch exhaled sharply through his nose—half-amused, half-terrified—while Buns' smirk widened.
And Boomer?
His grip on the rifle loosened just enough for his claws to tremble.
Not from fear.
No.
Not from any.
Not at all.
Never from fear.
Instead it was from new found anticipation.
Oh, it was oh so satisfying when things payed off for me like this.
Even if I didn't plan it like this at all...