"**SONIC THE HEDGEHOG!**" he roared, as if his mobian species was that of a lion instead of a chipmunk.
The name wasn't spoken.
It was *declared*—hammered into the bones of Castle Acorn, into the bedrock beneath it, into the sky itself like a challenge flung at the universe.
"**YOU'RE DEAD!**"
The throne room's air compressed as if the world had instinctively flinched.
Then Master Maximillian launched upward.
There was no graceful ascent. No controlled levitation. No spell circle or incantation to soften the violence of it. He *went*, and the ceiling simply failed to remain a ceiling. Stone didn't crack—it ceased to exist. Centuries-old masonry was reduced to vapor in a fraction of a second, blasted outward in a blinding eruption of incandescent dust and screaming pressure.
Light howled.
Not shone. Not flared.
*Howled*—a tortured, overexposed shriek of violet-white energy that tore a perfect, jagged wound through Castle Acorn's crown. The shockwave rolled downward a heartbeat later, flattening banners, hurling shattered glass like shrapnel, knocking guards and courtiers alike off their feet.
And then he was gone.
Master Maximillian punched through the castle like a meteor breaking atmosphere, leaving behind a vertical scar of molten ruin and a throne room full of people who finally, *truly* understood—far too late—that the axis of the world had just tilted.
Silence followed.
Not peace. Not relief.
Just stunned, ringing absence.
Dust rained down in slow, drifting sheets. Bits of glowing stone clattered across fractured marble. Somewhere in the distance, alarms began to scream—but even they sounded uncertain, warbled by warped acoustics and shattered corridors.
Wally Naugus stood perfectly still at the epicenter of it all, head tilted back, eyes tracking the fading contrail of violet corruption disappearing into the sky.
His grin was wide.
Unabashed.
Satisfied.
"Well," he murmured, amber eyes glinting as reflected lightning crawled across the clouds far above, "that escalated *beautifully*."
Around him, the remnants of the throne room looked like a battlefield frozen mid-exhale. Guards struggled to their knees. Servants clutched one another in stunned silence. The ancient throne itself was cracked clean through, one armrest melted into slag, the other spiderwebbed with fractures that still glowed faintly.
Ooma Arachnis did not move.
She remained where she had been since Maximillian's ascension—upright, composed, her many eyes tracking not the destruction, but the *absence* left behind. Her spiderlings, once restless and whispering, had gone utterly still. Not a skitter. Not a click of mandible. They clung to her like living shadows, their collective silence louder than any scream.
She felt it—the pressure was gone.
That crushing, invasive presence that had weighed on her instincts like a boot on a throat had lifted. The air no longer tasted wrong. The hum beneath reality had quieted.
Far above, the sky itself seemed to respond.
Clouds twisted unnaturally, spiraling around the point where Master Maximillian had breached the heavens. Thunder rolled without rhythm. A low, distorted resonance rippled across the firmament, as if the atmosphere were protesting an intrusion it could not prevent.
Some swore later that the sky screamed.
No one could quite agree on how.
No one moved for a full minute.
Not because they were ordered to. Not because they were stunned into paralysis.
Because every instinct screamed that motion might attract attention—and *nothing* wanted that attention.
Then Wally Naugus exhaled softly and spoke, his voice crackling like embers ground beneath a careless heel.
"Oh, this is going to be *something*," he said, tone almost reverent. "Historic. Catastrophic. Utterly unmanageable."
He flexed his fingers, glyphs flashing briefly around his claws—ancient, precise, *prepared*. "But I have no intention of staying here for that *something*, thank you."
Reality obeyed him.
It didn't tear so much as *give up*, splitting open like wet parchment along lines only Wally could see. Corrupted teal light bled through the seam, accompanied by a sound like distant bells being submerged in tar.
Ooma did not argue.
She stepped forward in perfect sync with the spell, spiderlings flowing with her as one organism. The Zone of Silence swallowed them whole—Wally's grin, Ooma's calm, the last glimmer of teal smoke curling lazily against the shattered marble before snapping shut.
They were gone.
The throne room was left with its survivors.
Back in the sudden, brutal quiet, Sir Armand D'Coolette cleared his throat.
The sound was absurdly small.
"Well then," he said, straightening his battered uniform with a dignity that bordered on defiance, "I have been assigned a special assignment, and I should best go and do that."
Mary turned on him instantly.
Her hands caught his before he could take a second step, fingers lacing with his in a grip that trembled despite her best efforts. "You can't even tell me what this assignment is, Armand?" she demanded. "Your *wife*?"
Her voice was tight, stretched thin over something dangerously close to breaking. Across the ruined chamber, Alicia Acorn remained eerily still, gaze locked on the jagged hole Maximillian had torn through the castle's heart. Her fingers brushed the fractured edge of her ceremonial dagger—not checking its sharpness, but grounding herself.
She looked… unsurprised.
Prepared.
Prince Elijah Alexis Acorn stood beside her, posture mirroring hers with unsettling precision. His eyes tracked the destruction not with fear, but calculation. Not grief, but anticipation.
None of that mattered to the two people at the center of the room.
"I'm sorry, my love," Sir Armand whispered, gently disentangling his hands from Mary's. "But I cannot. Some paths are meant to be walked alone."
The gentleness of the motion made it hurt worse.
His cape flared as he turned, stepping toward the smoke-choked halls without another word. The edges of the ruined archway still glowed faintly where Maximillian had passed through, heat shimmering in the air like a warning.
Mary's hands curled into fists at her sides.
Her wedding band caught the light—warped, dull, misshapen from where she'd clenched too tightly during Maxx's transformation. Her claws bit into her palms, drawing thin crescent cuts that bled quietly onto the marble.
"Just… please be careful, Armand!" she called after him.
The words hung there, fragile and desperate, swallowed by the distant rumble of collapsing infrastructure as Castle Acorn groaned under its own wounds.
He didn't turn back.
"Of course I will, Mary!" Sir Armand called, voice already fading as distance claimed him.
Then, with impeccable timing and a complete lack of tact, Dr. Quack spoke.
"Yes, well—Rosemarie Prower is about to give birth, so I had best be going as well," he said, adjusting his cracked spectacles with a trembling hand. The lenses were smeared with residual violet energy, the frames bent from being knocked aside earlier. His medical satchel swung heavily at his side, clinking with hastily salvaged instruments.
A scream echoed from the western wing.
Muffled. Raw. Mobian.
Dr. Quack flinched, then broke into a hurried waddle, webbed feet slipping twice on blood-slick marble as he darted toward the sound. He didn't wait for permission. Didn't seek acknowledgment.
Besides, her husband—Amadeus Prower—had threatened to cut his eye out if he didn't hurry.
And Dr. Quack quite liked having both eyes, thank you very much.
Dr. Quack had long ago learned that urgency had a sound.
It wasn't shouting. It wasn't alarms. It was the way footsteps changed pitch when someone ran down a corridor trying *not* to panic. Shorter strides. Faster breathing. The faint clatter of equipment that hadn't been secured properly because someone's hands were shaking.
He heard it in his own steps now as he hurried through Castle Acorn's medical wing.
The castle trembled beneath his webbed feet—not violently, not dangerously, but persistently. A low, steady vibration that carried through the soles of his shoes and up into his knees. It wasn't structural failure. He'd felt that before.
This was biological.
Labor had a rhythm.
The smell hit him before he reached the door: antiseptic layered over sweat, iron, and something faintly acrid from damaged power conduits nearby. The medical wing was running on emergency systems, lights dimmer than regulation, casting long shadows across the polished steel walls.
Outside the delivery room stood Amadeus Prower.
Dr. Quack slowed despite himself.
Amadeus wasn't pacing. That was the unsettling part. He stood with his back straight and his arms folded, weight evenly distributed, posture disciplined to the point of rigidity. His plasma cutter hung at his side, powered down but very much present. Not brandished. Not hidden. Simply there, as if he expected to need it.
His fur was damp with sweat and grime, darkened at the collar and shoulders. His eyes were fixed on nothing at all.
"You're late," Amadeus said without looking at him.
"By four minutes," Dr. Quack replied, adjusting his satchel strap. "Which is well within acceptable—"
"Rosemarie's been in active labor for thirteen hours."
Dr. Quack stopped talking.
That explained the tension in the air. Long labor did that—wore down patience, optimism, faith in simple outcomes.
"I'm here now," he said carefully.
Amadeus's jaw tightened. He nodded once and stepped aside.
Inside, the room was too warm.
Heat clung to the air, trapped by sealed doors and malfunctioning climate controls. The overhead lights flickered faintly, their glow reflecting off steel surfaces and medical instruments laid out with meticulous precision.
Rosemarie Prower lay on the reinforced cot at the center of the room.
She was exhausted.
Not the cinematic kind—no dramatic arching back or constant screaming—but the hollowed, shaking kind. Her breathing was shallow between contractions, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Sweat matted the fur along her temples and neck. Her claws dug into the metal railings, leaving thin, curling gouges where her grip tightened with each wave of pain.
She had a leather strap clenched between her teeth, jaw locked around it like an anchor.
Two midwives worked at her sides, movements practiced and quiet. One murmured timing under her breath. The other adjusted monitors and wiped Rosemarie's brow with a cool cloth.
Dr. Quack scrubbed his hands at the sink, methodically, focusing on routine because routine was the only thing keeping his thoughts from spiraling.
"Doctor," one of the midwives said softly. "We're approaching final stage."
Rosemarie let out a low, guttural sound that had nothing to do with language.
Amadeus moved to her side immediately. He didn't touch her at first—just stood close enough that she could feel him there.
"I'm here," he said quietly. "You're not doing this alone."
Her eyes flickered open briefly, unfocused, then squeezed shut again as another contraction tore through her.
The room narrowed to breath and pain.
Minutes blurred together. Instructions were given and followed. Rosemarie's body shook under the strain, muscles working against exhaustion, against time, against fear she hadn't dared articulate yet.
Then—
"There," a midwife said. "I can see the kit."
Rosemarie inhaled sharply, then screamed around the leather strap, the sound raw and furious. Her claws found Amadeus's sleeve and latched on, wrinkling fabric under the force of her grip.
"Now," the midwife said. "Rosemarie, push."
She did.
The moment stretched, heavy and breathless.
Then the kit emerged into the world.
Small. Warm. Alive.
A thin cry cut through the room—reedy, uncertain, unmistakably newborn.
For a heartbeat, everything aligned into something almost peaceful.
Dr. Quack exhaled.
Then one of the midwives froze.
Her hands stopped moving.
"…Doctor?" she said quietly.
Dr. Quack leaned closer, peering over his spectacles.
"Oh," he said.
It wasn't fear that settled in his chest.
It was confusion.
The kit squirmed weakly, limbs jerking in uncoordinated bursts. A tail flicked—
Then another tail moved.
There was no dramatic reveal. No sudden silence.
Just the undeniable presence of a second tail, twitching independently, brushing against the first.
The room changed.
One midwife took a step back without realizing she'd done it. Another swallowed hard.
Rosemarie felt it before she saw it.
"What?" she demanded hoarsely, tugging the strap from her mouth. "What's wrong?"
No one answered immediately.
"Give him to me," she said, sharper now. "Let me see."
There was hesitation.
Then the kit was placed in her arms.
She looked down.
Her breath caught—not in wonder, but shock.
Her eyes traced the small body automatically: the damp fur, the tiny paws, the fragile rise and fall of his chest.
Then she saw the tails.
Two of them.
Her ears flattened.
Her muzzle twisted—not in fear, not in pain, but something harsher. Disbelief curdled into revulsion before she could stop it.
"…No," she whispered.
Amadeus leaned in, gaze dropping to the kit.
He stared.
His face didn't contort. He didn't shout. His reaction was quieter—and somehow colder.
"That's not right," he said slowly.
Dr. Quack cleared his throat, heart pounding. "It's rare," he offered, too quickly. "But not unheard of. Genetic mutations can occur, especially under environmental stressors. Exposure to radiation, magical—"
"Two tails," Rosemarie said flatly. "That's not a quirk. That's wrong."
The kit whimpered, one tail brushing her wrist. She flinched as if burned.
"Take it," she snapped, thrusting the child away from her body.
A midwife caught him awkwardly and laid him on a nearby gurney, wrapping him in a thin blanket. The kit's cry grew louder, confused by the sudden absence of warmth.
Amadeus stared down at him.
Not as a father.
As a man evaluating a problem.
"What is it?" he asked.
Dr. Quack hesitated.
"Well," he said carefully, "biologically speaking, he's a fox. Male. Healthy lungs. Strong heartbeat. Reflexes appear normal. Extra appendages notwithstanding—"
"I didn't ask for a chart," Amadeus interrupted. "I asked what *he* is."
Silence pressed in.
Rosemarie laughed once—a short, bitter sound.
"Tails," she said.
Everyone turned toward her.
She didn't look at them.
"Call it Tails," she continued, voice tired and sharp. "That's what people are going to see anyway."
The name landed heavily in the room.
Ugly. Final.
The kit whimpered on the gurney, two tails twitching beneath the blanket.
Dr. Quack opened his beak to object, then closed it again.
Amadeus exhaled slowly.
"Tails," he repeated, tasting the word. "Fine."
He turned away from the gurney.
Rosemarie lay back against the cot, eyes closed. Her hands trembled—not from pain now, but from something colder.
Neither of them reached for the child.
The midwives exchanged glances but said nothing. They cleaned, documented, adjusted equipment. Professionalism carried them through where compassion stalled.
Dr. Quack lingered, watching the small kit breathe. His two tails moved clumsily, bumping against each other, utterly uncoordinated.
Alive.
Healthy.
Unwanted.
Finally, he adjusted his spectacles and turned away.
Somewhere else in the castle, alarms continued to blare. The world outside this room was unstable, loud, and dangerous.
But here, the most painful thing was quiet.
A child had been born.
And no one wanted to hold him.
Eh, he didn't really give a shit honestly.
"It's my fault, isn't it? The fact that I'm a cripple, right?" Amadeus asked to no one in particular, staring at the prosthetic limb that had replaced his right leg almost six years ago at Diamond Heights.
Rosemarie didn't answer immediately—her silence spoke volumes. The way she curled her lip at the whimpering kit spoke even louder.
Dr. Quack adjusted his spectacles awkwardly, the lenses catching the dim emergency lighting as he cleared his throat. "Genetic anomalies can occur regardless of parental or maternal handic—"
"Save it," Amadeus interrupted, his voice sharp enough to make the newborn kit flinch. His prosthetic leg whirred faintly as he shifted his weight, the polished metal catching the dim light—a permanent reminder of Diamond Heights' sterilization wave. Rosemarie's claws dug into the gurney sheets, her muzzle twisting as she stared at the squirming two-tailed creature. "You think I don't know what they'll say?" she hissed. "That this—this *aberration* is punishment. For surviving when we shouldn't have."
The kit hiccuped weakly, his twin namesakes curing around himself life a pillow. Amadeus exhaled through his nose, the sound ragged at the edges. Six years of phantom pain flared beneath his kneecap—not from nerves, but memory.
The memory of his failure to kill Doctor Julian Ivo Kintobor at Diamond Heights nearly six years ago.
His first true failure.
And what cost him his leg.
What made him a cripple.
He still remembers the pain of his leg being clamped down on and being torn from him.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Amadeus didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until the sharp ache in his lungs forced him to exhale—the sound more a wheeze than anything dignified. His prosthetic leg creaked under his shifting weight, servos humming with the quiet misery of machinery pushed past its limits. Rosemarie's claws had torn clean through the gurney's reinforced fabric now, strands of shredded material hanging limp between her fingers like gutted sinew. Neither looked at the kit. Neither had to. The *wrongness* of its existence pulsed between them like a second heartbeat, sick and inevitable.
The kit—no, *Tails*, that ugly little name already clinging to him like rot—whimpered again. A thin, reedy sound that shouldn't have carried weight and yet settled like a stone in Amadeus' gut. His remaining toes curled against cold tile. Phantom agony lanced up the stump of his missing leg, pain so precise he could almost *feel* the teeth that took it—not Julian's, never Julian's, but the crushing steel jaws of the sterilization wave's failsafe mechanism. The memory tasted like copper and ozone.
Nearly six years. Nearly six years of limping through a world that had no use for cripples, and now this. This *thing* with its twin tails squirming on the medical slab, mewling like a gutted animal. Rosemarie's claws flexed, tendons standing stark beneath her fur—not in disgust, no, that was too soft a word. It was revulsion, primal and cold, the kind that slithered up from the marrow. She didn't look at Amadeus. Didn't need to. The weight of his failure hung between them thicker than the stench of antiseptic and blood. Diamond Heights had taken his leg. Diamond Heights had taken their dignity.
And now?
Now the universe had spat this mockery into their arms.
Oh well, at least his master; King Maxx Acorn had managed to aquire seven Anarchy Beryl to finally stamp out this failure of resistance and uprising.
Anything for the crown after all.