Disclaimer: Sonic the Hedgehog and all related characters, trademarks, locations, etc. are the property of SEGA, Sonic Team, Yuji Naka and Naoto Oshima. "Everything In Its Right Place" is the property of Radiohead. I claim no ownership to any element except original story content.


Two Colours In My Head

South Island didn't have many settlements, its population being relatively sparse. Each remained decidedly independent of one another, with the only interactions between villages consisting of minor intrusions: distant relatives visiting, traders dropping by with various goods or services, and so on. As secluded and isolated as each town was, though, none were as secluded or isolated as Knothole village.

Being constantly surrounded by trees and heavy underbrush had a habit of conveying a sense of being "boxed in" to Knothole's inhabitants, but for the most part that was the entire point of the matter. Knothole had become a safe haven for Mobians everywhere to start a new life, bask in eternal peace and quiet, or simply hide from the world and never be found.

All that was exactly what Sonic needed, and he dug it all.

At least he did once. Hiding from the rest of the world had worked out fine for him so far, but lately Knothole and South Island had begun growing far too small.

Normally Sonic would top his morning off with a rambunctious dash through the town square on the way to the gang's secret hideout, complete with the inevitable mix of angry protests and cries of admiration from the villagers. Today though, he was in a generous mood. Maybe he would let the late-risers sleep in a little longer, at least for a short while. After all, it would simply be far too criminal for Sonic to withhold from his neighbors the privilege of witnessing his greatness.

Grinning from ear to ear, Sonic raced along the outskirts of Knothole, gracefully dodging tree roots and loose branches as he searched for the specific oak trunk that marked the entrance to his hideout. Spotting it to his left, he skidded to a halt and looked skyward, inspecting the tree: a large southern red oak, with strong, healthy branches and enough leaves to shade the immediate area from harsh sunlight or heavy rain. The tree was completely inconspicuous save for two features: it's location next to a large hollow tree stump, and two tiny letters carved into the side of the trunk, "KD," courtesy of Sonic's posse. Any Mobian that didn't know what he or she was looking for would have passed it off as completely ordinary forest flora, but years of habit kept Sonic and the gang coming to this exact spot. This was the place.

Sonic rushed to the base of the tree trunk, bending one of the lower-hanging branches upward in order to reveal a previously hidden, unnatural knot embedded into the bark. Glancing over his shoulder and checking if the coast was clear, the hedgehog grabbed the knot, twisted it a quarter turn clockwise, and pressed it into the trunk. At that instant, the top layer of the nearby tree stump sprang open on its hinge like a tin can, revealing the secret slide entrance to the gang's hideout.

Sonic's grin widened. Say what you would about Sharps, you had to love his talent for tinkering.

Without another thought, he leaped feet first into the hole and down the great oak slide. A few dips, corkscrews and turns later, he launched himself out the other end of the slide, dusted himself off, and looked around the room he landed in.

The hideout was roughly twenty feet underground, dug deep enough to thoroughly keep away any prying eyes. With the exception of a handful of smaller bedrooms dug out to the sides, it consisted only of one chamber large enough to serve as their base of "operations:" lounging, playing video games, and plotting pranks on the other neighborhood kids (and occasionally adults). The room looked just as one might expect with five pre-teen Mobians living there, organized in a sort of controlled chaos, complete with a large television set, creaky tables, floor mats scattered around in the dirt, and a few beat-up sofas that had either been thrown away by the other Knothole residents or "borrowed" by the gang.

At the moment, the room was set up for their other hobby: rocking out. Present for the earlier mentioned jam session was Max, restringing the D string on his sky blue bass, Mach the Rabbit, a young bubblegum-pink bunny sitting behind the gang's trashed, half-functional drum set, and Sharps the Chicken, a red-crested fowl with a craze for punk rock and the talent to back it up. Deciding it was time to get his subjects' attention, Sonic obnoxiously cleared his throat.

"Ladies and Germs," he announced, bending forward in a mock bow, "Sonic has entered the building! Hold your applause, please."

There was a short silence.

"I'm swooning," a shrill, irritated voice suddenly replied, "but he should've gotten his blue behind in here two hours ago!"

Sonic looked up from his doubled over position and frowned at the chicken lounging on one of the couches. "Well, excuuuuuuse me, princess! I don't see anyone else here complaining about my daily routine. That's my-"

"Your 'me' time, right, got it," Sharps finally relented, replacing his orange aviator sunglasses on the tip of his beak. Why the guy bothered wearing shades indoors, Sonic would never figure out.

"Yeah, you lay off, Sharps!" piped in Mach, jumping up from his seat at the drums. "Sonic's the coolest EVER! He can do what he wants!" Sharps scowled, looking up from re-tuning his guitar, but didn't say a word of protest.

"Thank you!" Sonic exclaimed, clapping his hands together with a sense of finality. "See, guys? Mach here's got it figured out!" He pointed to the rabbit, who was positively beaming with admiration. "You should both take a few more cues from him, wouldn'cha say?" Not waiting for an answer from his bandmates, Sonic turned to the wall behind him, where his cherry red electric guitar was mounted.

When the suggestion had been made long ago for the gang to start up a rock band, everybody had excitedly thrown himself into the project. Sharps, in particular, knew a thing or two about music from wherever he had come from (though Sonic wasn't completely sure where that was) and spent months putting together the makeshift instruments everyone used. With Sharps on guitar, Max's slightly larger fingers prevented him from playing anything other than bass, while Mach was too young to do anything other than bang on anything within reach. Granted, this got the band off to a rough start, but the guys needed a drummer, and even Sharps had to admit that Mach had come a long, long way from beating the cymbals into shrapnel months ago.

That left Sonic, who promptly picked his favorite spot: lead vocals and lead guitar. Nobody dared object.

The issue of a band name, however, proved much more divisive. While Sharps had personally preferred the name "Forget Me Knots," in honor of the town's name and flower, Sonic predictably thought the name was "stupid" and wanted to stick with the gang's name, "The Knotty Dogs," which really wasn't much better.

"Y'know," Max retorted jokingly to the hedgehog's question, "if you hadn't just told us to take cues from a four year old… we might actually take you seriously."

"I'm not four!" Mach shouted, "I'm six! How many time do I have to-"

"Oh, please," Max laughed, "you know none of us can even remember your name, Mike." He paused. "See, that's funny because your name's Mach…"

"Dudes," Sonic cut in, slightly annoyed that the conversation had taken him out of the spotlight, "save the banter for later. Time to jam, Sam!"


They were halfway through their third tune when another figure burst through the slide.

"G-guys," he stuttered, eyes wide open with shock, "N-Nate, he…"

"Woah, Ray," Sharps interrupted, putting a wing on the young squirrel's shoulder, "slow down! What's up with Nate?"

Ray, like Mach, stood at about a head shorter than the older members of the gang. He was covered in mustard yellow fur, though like most Mobians, he showed light colored skin on his chest, face and arms. Nothing about his features truly stood out besides the thin layers of skin stretching in the space under his armpits. Though Ray wasn't particularly sure where the skin had come from, as he had never met his parents, he still managed to put them to use and glide from trees and rooftops with the help of his long, curly tail. This behavior earned him the nickname, "Ray the Flying Squirrel." He was at least glad the guys were too distracted by his gliding trick to call him out on his obvious speech impediment.

"It's Nate!" Ray finally squeaked, jumping up and down in excitement. "He's just showed off his newest p-project… it's this awesome p-p-plane!"

"Seriously?!" Sonic bolted upright, suddenly not in the mood for music anymore. "Oh, I am so there." He dashed over to hang his guitar back on its mount when a loud cough interrupted him.

"Sooooniiic…"

The hedgehog turned back to his gang, noting Sharps' unmistakable glare from beneath his sunglasses.

"Oh, right," Sonic said, clearing his throat loudly. He stood up straighter and spoke in a commanding tone: "Gentlemen-and whatever Sharps is-I, as your very own Sonic the Hedgehog, speedster and axe-grinder extraordinaire, declare this jam session dually closed. On account of something more interesting happening. Ciao!"

"Hey!" Sharps barked in protest, watching Sonic crack a grin as he bolted back up the great oak slide.