"Did they ever tell you that 'Miles' means 'soldier'?"
The raid is not going well.
Miles isn't even surprised anymore.
Nothing has ever gone right, anyway. Apparently, not even straightforward time-travelling to avert catastrophic futures.
A churning sea of murderous drones stand between him and the root of all disaster. Trivial, but significant. He is almost impatient, which is nearly surprising.
(Eh, but it beats feeling nothing at all?)
It would be ridiculous to throw himself back in time, to try and save the original Resistance leaders– only to be thwarted by ten thousand drones: ten years too slow, too old and too dumb.
Enough. He tilts his head to avoid a sizzling headshot, and took to the nightsky.
Twenty-six foolhardy 'bots follow eagerly. Miles shoots them down contemptuously, all the while looking for the true target. It irks Miles professionally that Robotnik would cover up poor engineering with sheer numbers.
Miles has boxed in the Fortress with his own tech the night before, covertly gathering fresh intel; the bastard must be here somewhere. He ascends higher, frantically searching the battlefield. Damn it –
It takes yelling to get himself detected over screaming metal and raging fire, but N.I.C.O.L.E. V responds. Thank Chaos that he is a paranoid bastard who has stayed up all night coding.
Sleep is for the weak…and for people not living their last day.
'Accessing Miles…' The new search algorithm runs blisteringly fast; it is Miles' final work, and does not disappoint. "…return. Target lock-on."
Then, Miles sees it. He sees him in his obnoxious customized battle-pod, hiding like a coward among thick needles of blazing plasma.
A second wave of drones approaches under the cover of criss-crossing laser beams. Miles doesn't have time for this. They don't have time for this. He lets himself fall back down into the messy, raging fray.
He angles his fall, and hits the unsuspecting pod with terminal velocity. Robotnik's contraption slams into the ground; Miles rebounds gracefully into the air.
The drones that has tried to follow Miles crash hopelessly.
Sparking debris rains down on the fallen pod. Miles watches as Robotnik rights his smoking machine, cursing and looking around wildly.
Miles doesn't have long to wait. Wide metallic eyes eventually find him. A frown twisted on the grotesque, clown-ish face. Miles graces him with a mocking smile, beckons invitingly in a gesture he faintly remembers from Sonic, and then soars off into the night.
He wants to draw the villain off where there would be no interference or friendly fire. No one and nothing to stop him. Robotnik is sure to follow, if only for fragile wounded pride and compulsive curiosity.
While Robotnik catches up, Miles ascends high, opening himself to the Emeralds. Higher – because somebody will be waiting for him, on the other side of this long dark night.
Up here in the cold silence, he can almost see the stars.
The familiar warm tingling of the Emeralds is calming, especially at the last. He glows once more with the borrowed power, and for once, allows himself to see the beauty in that otherworldly light.
The Emeralds may have come too late in the future, but Miles has brought them back into the past where they belong.
Robotnik starts mumbling to himself, staring at Miles' unmistakable twin tails.
He would have shot Robotnik immediately without question, were his replacement arm not still overheated. All the while, the Emeralds' power gathers in his veins. The violent sadist rants on, asserting that the freaky fox kit should have still been a child, injured and sleeping at home –
Miles blinks placidly as Robotnik slams on buttons, and allows the tyrant's red scanning laser to engulf his form.
'Scanning…visual scan complete. Life-form detected. Accessing…confirmed undesirable: Miles 'Tails' Prower.'
He would have laughed at the expression on the villain's face, had the last ten years not burned it out of him entirely.
Robotnik bangs a fist on the smoking console in angry incomprehension. Before Miles can react, another green laser fans out over his face. It pauses at his eyes – iris scan. Tacky. Completely obsolete, ten years on.
Almost nostalgic.
Robotnik looks up to follow the scanner's progress, and visibly pales when he notices the white glow that has now wholly enfolded Miles.
"It really is me."
Robotnik shakes his head almost violently against his voice, lower and raspier than anyone has heard in this time. He then froze as a metallic voice spoke dispassionately into the night.
"100% match. Identified: Miles 'Tails' Prower."
The tyrant abruptly bursts into unexpectedly-shrill laughter. Miles frowns warily. Robotnik has feigned insanity before, and with great cost to his resistance movement.
"And somehow with the rumored Chaos Control?"
Robotnik's laughter spasms slow only when he seems to run out of breath.
"You – you travelled faster than light?"
"It's all geometry in the end, Doc."
Miles thinks he sees wild comprehension in that blank, blood-red stare.
"You broke time - before I did?!"
That is not even worth a reply. Miles raises his arm, locking onto Robotnik. He never would have guessed that the bloodthirsty tyrant, whose unlimited creative sadism has already taken Miles apart countless times, would be so easy to break.
"M – Miles 'Tails' Prower!"
The sadistic dictator was pointing a hysterical finger at him now, terrified by the sudden understanding that justice, impossibly, has come for him.
"I'm not," he says softly, almost sad. Without a heart – how can he be anyone? He draws Chaos Control entirely into his right arm, and for an instant, the dead metal glows orange and white. That arm is long gone.
But soon – no longer.
Believing in that fox-kit sleeping alone in bed, trying so hard to be strong – they both deserve a brand-new start.
Of course he would never regret earning strength, or growing up. But there is only ever the taste of powdery iron in Miles' future; he is looking forward to what a Miles undamaged by war can do.
Things Miles can do; and then there are things only Miles can do.
He pulls the trigger on Robotnik with no hesitation, vaporising both of their accursed existences.
'Eat this, Dr. Eggman.'
Tell me: how does the future taste?
I will believe in myself
This is
the only start for me