So, I came to check my email after posting the last chapter of this fic...

...And damn near jumped out of my seat when I discovered a grand total of sixty seven. I now have more reviews for "Blue Hedgehog Psychology" than I do for any other existing fanfiction that I have posted on this site (bar one discontinued fic for another fandom), and even though I know that a story is not necessarily "good" or "bad" based solely on how many reviews it has, this still makes me very happy. Thank you very much for every one of them.

Unfortunately, I don't have a very character-centric chapter to give you to say thank you, but this is neccessary I swear. Standard disclaimers apply. Reviews and concrit are, as ever, appreciated.

President.

Urgh.

Damn it.

I didn't get enough sleep last night. Where I'm concerned, that's always dangerous. There's probably nothing worse than a psychiatrist who falls asleep in the middle of a session. What with all the strange dreams I kept having, it was difficult to keep my eyes shut. I don't remember much about them, of course; I never have, but I do remember running away. I'm one of those unoriginal people who always seems to dream about running when they feel stressed out. While I was treating Kuzaki (the chess grandmaster, I mentioned?) I even had dreams of being hunted down by angry black knights and raging white queens. I had to swear myself off coffee and artificial sweeteners for a week.

Dreams are the psychology of the subconscious mind, or so many of the old books say, and thousands of people who dream of running are in fact, responding to trying to escape from the pressures and anxieties that they feel are attacking them in the real world. Any psychiatrist who's worth their salt knows that, though no one understands for certain why it happens.

And yet...

Well. Most people don't dream about Space Stations on a regular basis, do they?

'Doctor Crowley?'

I look up. Christina Cooper stands before me. I've never worked with her myself, and she was employed here long before I was, but I think I understand her well enough from the few brief meetings we've had. She's prim and sensible and direct to the point of asperity. There's nothing wrong with that, of course. It's probably how she got this job in the first place.

'Oh... yes?'

'The president will see you now,' she says, still ruffling through the stack of notes in one hand –no doubt checking for the small print the president failed to notice before he signed them. 'But you only get five minutes. We have some dignitaries due in ten.'

'That's alright, thank you.' It's longer than I got with him the first time around. Honestly, I never expected to be back in the President's Office any time soon.

On the surface the room hasn't changed very much. The potted plants are a little more wilted, and I think someone might've moved that painting on the left hand wall, but asides from that everything about this place is exactly the same as it was during my first introduction, right down to the fact that the president doesn't even look up from his memo pad when I enter.

'Doctor Crowley, is it?' He says. 'Come in, make yourself comfortable.'

Make yourself comfortable, he says. Of course, I'm pretty sure he's forgetting who he is and where I am. Not everyone gets welcomed into the Big White Room –not even for only five minutes. Nonetheless, I say 'Yes sir,' and sit down on the nearest chair, unfolding the papers I have under one arm as I do so.

'Sorry to bother you but... I'm here about my latest group of case studies... The Galaxy X minority?'

'Ahh. Those reports again, eh?' The president looks at me wryly and I suddenly have the feeling he's been as overrun with talk of extra terrestrials and speeding blue hedgehogs for the last few days as I have. 'The officials at GUN have been up in arms about it –no pun intended.'

'Yes sir. Well, that's why I thought I'd bring them to you directly, seeing as your agents in GUN were interested in getting them as soon as possible.'

'So I'd noticed, Doctor,' the president sits upright, placing down whatever bill he's currently reading. 'Sorry about that. You understand what it's like in these places. Everyone wants everything done at the same time. Of course, you have my permission to take an extra week to compile your information, if you require.'

I get the distinct impression that he wants me to take the extra week. I wouldn't be surprised. His In-Tray is no doubt full to overflowing, and the last thing he needs is a psychologist's report on visiting aliens being dumped on top of his already substantial workload.

'Thank you, but I don't think I'll need it,' I say (and I can see him deflating slightly in response.) 'I have all the necessary data right here.'

The president looks surprised. 'Really?'

'Ah... yes sir.' I hand most of the papers over. 'These are just the basic overviews. The more detailed files have already been uploaded to the GUN databases, so you should be able to read them at any time that's convenient for you.'

'You mean to tell me that you've managed to construct a detailed and accurate analysis on every one of them after only a single hour's session each?' The president continues to gaze at me in surprise. 'Good grief, Doctor Crowley, you even had my new Driver in there for two hours.'

Somehow, I'm not surprised he said that. 'True, but they're really not so different. While they possess many physical capabilities beyond our own, mentally they are quite similar to human beings. I... was planning to suggest that one or two of them be returned for further psychological treatment in a few 

minor areas,' I say (a certain echidna springs immediately to mind) but for the most part I think I've learned as much as I'm going to.' I pause for a second and take a deep breath. 'Frankly, sir, I'm... not entirely sure what it was I was supposed to be compiling in the first place.'

'Is that so?' He regards me with interest over the reports I handed him, and I have to run through my mental script a few times.

'Well... yes. I assumed that you wanted a typical personality review similar to the one given to every new employee at the facility. But... some of that isn't making sense to me now, it...' I pause, fumbling with my words. I had everything I was going to say prepared and worked out in my head not five minutes ago, but now I can't seem to remember any of it. Trying to explain yourself to one of the most powerful men in the world can do that to you. 'There's... something unusual about their requests, sir. I'm not entirely sure what GUN wanted me to discover, but I can assure you, all I'm seeing here are some surprisingly ordinary individuals.' Who just happen to be short and furry and come from another universe.

The president regards me with the kind of expression he probably reserves for TV reporters. I remember the first time I met this man. It wasn't long after he took up the position. He'd had fewer grey hairs then, and was probably thinner than he is now. The room may not have changed much, but the man who works here certainly has. He looks so much younger in my memories.

'I see. Well, I can imagine you didn't go into this as well informed as I would've liked,' he sighs and runs a hand across his head. 'No doubt GUN told you something of what they wanted to find out, however.'

I somehow manage to keep scathing from showing on my face. Not that there's anything in particular wrong with the Guardian Unit of the Nations, but... well... They've never been prone to handing out information easily. 'They told me that they needed to investigate the personal and social connections between each of the subjects at hand,' I say, 'and that I was to pay particular attention to each subject's behaviour concerning Sonic the Hedgehog.' ...And saying that out loud will never cease sounding completely bizarre.

'And you did as they requested?'

I nod. 'It wasn't difficult. Everyone I've spoken to over the last two days seemed to have something to say about him. Sonic, he's...' I search for just the right description.

'Popular?' The President suggests.

I smile. Yes, popular is just the right choice of word, now that I think about it. 'I suppose that's it sir, but more than that, they... appear to rally around him. He's a pointer with which they can all identify in some way and I imagine that most of them see him as a kind of connection to their own world. Even though it was Sonic's actions which caused them to become trapped here in the first place. You know about that already, don't you?'

'Yes, yes I do,' the president says. 'Seems their loss was our gain, eh? We've certainly benefitted from their presence in our city... we should consider ourselves fortunate.'

I remain quiet for a moment in light of this commentary. It seems to me as if the president is no more aware of what's going on here than I am. Or perhaps he's aware of everything he wishes to be aware of. Plausible deniability is a big part of democracy. 'This may be so, sir, but... this isn't their home.'

Sympathy, I realise. I'm feeling sympathy for them. Which isn't anything odd. When you get down to it, Sonic and his friends are just children trapped in a place farther from home than most humans travel in their lifetimes. I'm just not sure how to convey this sympathy to the man who signs my pay checks (or who pays for someone else to sign them, anyway).

'No, they aren't,' the president says at last, 'I suppose all they really want right now is to get back to the place they came from. Unfortunately we have little say in that... You know they were accepted as citizens of our country, Doctor Crowley, and that's frankly all we can do for them until we understand more about them and their world... and about these Chaos Emeralds that Sonic is somehow capable of using.' He regards me for a long moment. 'My memory's shaky... tell me, how long have you worked for us, Doctor?'

'Seven years this September sir,' I answer promptly. I can remember the exact date, right down to the second that I received the phone call (7:13:25 am, Sunday Morning, 25th of September 2001).

'And you've done some impressive work in that time. From what I've read at least. It's a little difficult to keep track of everyone and everything in this place, but I do know that there are few psychiatrists in my employ that I would trust to make judgements about such unique individuals with such little idea of what they were trying to find out in the first place. Frankly, I suppose GUN wanted your analysis to be unbiased and so didn't provide you with very much information.'

'I... expect that's so, sir,' I answer, though I'm not entirely convinced that I believe it, plausible as the theory may be.

'I trust your judgement, Doctor,' the president says seriously. 'And I trust the faith that my secretary placed in you. Miss Cooper assured me that you would be ideal for this particular assignment. I trust the lack of information hasn't hindered your progress.'

'Of course not sir,' I let my pride slip just a little there. 'But still, it would've been more convenient if I had some idea of just what they wanted to know. So far as I can tell all they really want is information on Sonic the Hedgehog with no exact reason as to why, or any explanations as to how it might help them or Sonic in the future.'

'Yeah, that's just like those GUN Agents, huh?' a familiar, assured voice says out of nowhere. I can't help but jump, and when I turn around I see a bat-shaped silhouette standing below the window drapes nearby. 'Always so sneaky about everything. They can never just ask you for what they want outright, can they Mister President?'

'Rouge, not now,' another irked voice comes from my other side. I look up to see same Agent from the cafeteria yesterday. The president rises from his seat, and I expect him to make some angry proclamation about how rude it is to barge into someone's office uninvited. However, he merely straightens his collar and, to my surprise, a smile spreads across his face.

'Ah. Agent Topaz; you and Rouge are back, I see. Anything in particular to report?'

'Nothing out of the ordinary sir,' Topaz says. She stands erect and firm, the very model of the ideal military agent. I can barely imagine her as the joking, casual young woman from the cafeteria. Rouge has no such qualms about military professionalism and a few seconds later she has perched herself on the edge of the president's desk. Topaz glimpses sideward at me and I try not to look as uneasy as I felt in her presence yesterday. 'We're just here to provide you with the direct reports you asked for.' She glimpses at me expectantly. 'Miss Cooper wasn't outside as usual and we weren't expecting you to be—'

'Having a heart to heart with the resident shrink.' Rouge interrupts.

'—Otherwise engaged,' Topaz corrects, sharply. If Rouge were closer, she probably would've elbowed her, or something.

'Of course. Ah, Doctor, this is Agent Topaz, GUN Field Agent, and I suppose, you already know Rouge.'

'We've met,' Topaz says quickly, before I can open my mouth to comment. 'Sir, we can come back a better time if you require. It's not urgent at this point.'

'Yes that... might be a wise course of action' the president glimpses at me. 'You're free to return to the field, Topaz.'

'What, no time for coffee breaks?' Rouge sounds disappointed.

'You're getting paid for this pretty handsomely, you know,' Topaz says, as dryly as I think she dares to in the presence of her superior. 'I think the coffee can wait.'

'Hmph. Well that's just typical,' Rouge looks as irked as I've ever seen anyone dare look in front of the president. 'And here I was thinking I could talk the good Doctor here into—'

'Rouge!'

'What? I was only going to offer her a latte. Honestly, Topaz, I'm not interested in any of these silly reports. You have to do what has to be done, isn't that right Ella?'

She looks at me with the kind of knowing smile I never know how to respond to. I can see Topaz rolling her eyes on the other side of my chair. 'Then you'll have to catch up with the doctor for a girl talk some other time, won't you?' she says, and I swear I hear her muttering 'be darned if I'm letting you mess about with those files, Rouge...' under her breath.

'Guess so,' Rouge offers me another not-entirely-friendly smile. It's the kind of smile you know means something important; I know about you, her eyes seem to say. You've got no real secrets from me.

Then she leaves the room the same way she entered – silently and swiftly; in the time it takes me to blink an eyelid, in fact.

Topaz walks out more slowly, wary of her rank, and I hear Rouge calling to her from the corridor; something about old ladies and pacemakers. To Topaz's credit, she resists making a loud retort in the middle of the Presidential Chambers.

Looks like whatever it was they came to report, it wasn't something for the good Doctor's ears.

There is silence for a few moments, while I wait, shuffling uneasily and wondering whether I should wait to be dismissed, or dismiss myself. Then the president sighs and settles himself back in his chair. 'Sorry about that, Miss Elloise, but you know the government. Sometimes it feels as if there's a top secret file in every locked cabinet and a spy gadget hidden in every bowl of cereal.' He says evenly, and I'm so taken aback by the informal approach that it's all I can do to reply, even though I don't exactly understand.

'Um... yes sir.'

The president stays silent for a long moment, gazing straight past me towards the door. 'You know, before I came into office, someone told me that the task of the president's secretary and aides and the like were basically that of his conscience –they have to do all of the dirty work, allowing him to be as honest and as decent as a president should be. Doesn't make a difference in the end, of course.'

He seems to be trying to judge my response to this. Luckily for me I'm quite good at disguising my own sentiments. 'You think the government is... underhanded, sir?'

The president shakes his head. 'Oh don't get me wrong, Eloise. If I didn't believe in the government I wouldn't be sitting here right now. I know things are done because they need to be done, but sometimes... Well... sometimes I have a little trouble working out what my own people are doing right under my nose. "The most powerful paper pusher in the world",' he smiles at me humourlessly, waving a pen in one hand. 'That's always been a decent descriptor of me. The bills are passed and I decide whether or not I want to sign them. I always do, of course, because it's easier that way. I keep thinking if I sign enough bills I might eventually get to do something that makes a genuine difference.'

'I...' I hesitate, wondering exactly what to say and how to say it. If I was hearing this from the couch in my office rather than from inside the President's White Room, I probably would've been making notes. But I'm not in my office now, and I don't feel very much like the psychiatrist I'm qualified to be. 'I... suppose that someone has to sign them sir.'

'Yes, I suppose that's true. But you are not that person, of course. What you do in your spare time... outside of your paid jurisitiction is of course entirely up to you, Doctor Crowley.'

'...Sir?'

The President coughs, wearing the expression of a man who is trying very hard not to lie and spinning a ballpoint pen between his fingers. 'I'm saying that if you wish to investigate further into anything you've uncovered –or haven't uncovered, as the case may be– then of course, that's your affair. Understanding that in normal circumstances, a lot of what goes on between you and your... patients should have nothing to do with the government. You – and they – have a right to privacy after all, don't you?'

I nod slowly, taking in what he said. It seems to me that the President has just warned me against poking my nose into areas where it honestly doesn't belong. Or maybe he's warning me that not poking my nose in could have even more undesirable consequences. 'I understand sir.'

'Good, good,' the president takes the files I gave him and places them into the top drawer of his desk. 'Then why don't we pretend this conversation never happened? You're free to return to your duties, Doctor Crowley. I suppose I'll see you at the next psychological review this summer? Provided I haven't been kicked out of office by then, that is.'

He sounds as if he considers that a likelihood, rather than a possibility. I gather my remaining files and leave the room, a number of dignitaries striding through the door in my place no more than a moment later. I walk silently up the corridors and across the car park to the vehicle that will take me back to my own office. I'm thinking about humans and hedgehogs and presidents and other worlds and exactly what measure is a non-human, anyway?

He's not the president I expected. And he's probably not the one I think I would've voted for, but still... he's doing what he can with what (surprisingly little) power the position affords him. And what's more, he's giving me the chance to do what I can, too.

I've known worse people to sit in that chair. I was caught up in the Sunballs incident a few months ago just like everyone else, after all.

I'm running.

Someone is chasing me down a dark metal corridor, like those found in underground bases. This is where I think I am: in some kind of military station like Area 99 or Section 13, until the darkness is slit open by glass and I suddenly see windows and a striking view of planet earth far below me. I'm on a Spaceship. No, not a Spaceship –a Space Station, just like the one Chris thought of during Word Association and...

...Oh. Yes, that's right. That's why I'm here.

I don't stop running when I see the earth hanging so very far below me. I'm too afraid to stop. If I stop they'll catch me, and then I won't be able to do what I'm here to do. I don't even know who "they" are exactly, and I have no desire to find out. So I keep running, never looking b even ack. My heels are clattering on the metal flooring, and every step is laboured even though I know I'm not at all tired.

When I find the room I'm looking for (and I don't even realise I'm looking until its right before me) the door opens to allow me entrance. I reached it. That's the most surprising thing: I actually reached it. They didn't catch me. They're still coming, certainly, but they haven't gotten me yet, and so long as that's true, they can never catch her either. I bolt the metal doorway shut behind me before turning to look at the girl.

She's sitting on the bed and watching me. In her hands is a large globe, almost like the kind you might find in as geography classroom, except different. I know that globe. It belonged to my mother. A catalogue order she made when I was eight. Each country and continent is picked out with a different kind of smooth gemstone. I can name the ones Rouge mentioned to me and more besides: Topaz for Ireland, Japan picked out with cloudy quartz, a black Onyx Africa and a labradoriteocean. I used to imagine I was flying around the planet at the speed of my fingers across the gemstone surface.

The little girl regards me curiously, and then she smiles. 'Which one is the rarest?' she asks.

'...I'm sorry?'

'Which of the countries, silly,' she laughs so faintly I can barely hear it. 'They're made with stones, aren't they? All different types of stone and rock, but their worth is different, isn't it?' she spins the globe gently once more in her hands. 'Which of the stones would be the most expensive if you cut it out and took it down to earth?'

I look down at the spinning orb before me, thinking. I know I asked that question myself many times when I was a child.

'That... depends.'

'What does it depend on?'

'On a lot of things.' I want to tell her more, but there's no time for that. They're still coming for us. For her. 'But... there's no time to talk about stones now. Come with me.'

The girl continues to gaze at the globe in her hands. Then she places it gently down on the bed besides her, still spinning it carefully with one hand. 'I always wanted to go to earth,' she says quietly. 'Did you know that?'

'Maybe... maybe you can. If you come with me, I can take you there myself.' Maybe she won't have any other choice. I can hear the footsteps of the soldiers (when did I realise that they were soldiers?) close behind me. I know it won't be long before they find the room and take her away. I can't let that happen. I can't.

'Thank you. It's good of you to say so.'

'What?' That doesn't make sense. 'Don't thank me, just follow me!' And I reach out to grab her hand, only to discover that pulling her to her feet is a lot harder than it should be. It's like she's glued to the spot, and no matter how much I pull I can't get her to follow.

'I don't need to.'

'Why not?'

The little girl stares at me curiously, as if wondering why the answer isn't so obvious that I shouldn't have to ask. 'This is my home. The only other place I could go would be the planet. And I want to go there, believe me, I really do. It would be wonderful, to see it for real...'

'So then? Let's go! You'll die anyway, so what difference does it make where?' I yell. And now I know that it's not me talking: I wouldn't use my words like that, and I wouldn't yell at anyone, much less a child. Not even in a place and time like this. Not even when I can hear bullets smashing against steel walls somewhere in the distance.

My anger doesn't frighten her. I wonder whether anything in this world scares her anymore. 'That's true, Ella. But there's nothing you can do about it either way.'

I stop trying to move, still holding onto her hand, though I can't feel it in my grip –it's ethereal, I guess. It only exists while I'm looking. She lives only when my eyes are turned to her. She's only in my mind.

'I'm dreaming,' I think, and I know in my heart that this is so. The girl's nod confirms it. I'm dreaming, and what's more, it's the very same dream I had last night.

A part of me doesn't want to be dreaming. It's beautiful here and she is so young and gentle and...

She doesn't deserve what's coming. No. Not what's coming. What's already been. I can hear gunshot ricocheting against steel plated corridors. Old memories of events I never actually witnessed, conjured up by my imagination.

Above us there are only stars viewed through a clear glass ceiling, but the stars are spinning and twisting too, along with the movement of the globe beneath her fingers. She smiles and knows that she is dying. She's happy here, but she could be happier. I know that, because I see it in her eyes: this longing buried so deep down that sometimes she's barely aware of it.

Somewhere in this great metal building there is the sound of something breaking, gunfire and exploding glass. I imagine one of those great windows bursting open and spilling air out into cold space.

I lift my head to look at the girl again, but she isn't there anymore. At first I don't realise this. I'm only looking at the eyes, and the eyes are just the same as the girl's had been. Except that aren't her eyes at all; they're his.

'Christopher?'

...Have you ever had one of those moments in a dream where you might swear to god you're not alone? You see someone you know in real life, and they seem so truly real and there that you could talk to them about it when you wake: continue and complete a conversation that you started while you were dreaming. That was what I felt right now. As if he was real. Actually tangibly there, inside the very same dream I was having.

'Doctor Crowley?'

The boy blinks as if he didn't expect to see me here; something... changes. I'm afraid again, just as I was running down the metal corridor far above the earth. Because the little girl is just a face in a photograph; a pretty, harmless memory in the death sentence of a bitter old man who wanted to destroy us. I understand now why people killed and died for her, but I didn't know her.

I know Chris.

'Oh god, not you too...' I mutter, and... I'm not sure why I say it or what it is that I understand in the dream which I don't in reality, but it seems as if he does, because he squeezes my hand.

'Hey, don't think I'm the only one involved. You shouldn't be here, Ella, neither of us should.' he says to me urgently. And he sounds so... knowledgeable. Knowledgeable and unmoved in a way that no twelve year old should ever be. In a way that I know he isn't; not in real life. I understand that much. 'Come on!'

And now I'm not running anymore –merely following. He's leading me along and clutching my hand as tightly as he can. The room I was in before has gone and I'm back in the corridors that lead there in the first place but now they are silent. There is no sign of whatever was chasing me before.

'Where are we going?'

'To find him, of course. That's what all the others are doing. That's why they're all here.'

To find who, exactly? I wonder. Sonic? The little girl? These are the questions I am considering, but the one I actually speak aloud is: 'How do you know that?'

'Because everyone's looking for him,' Chris says, obviously. 'The government, Eggman, us... They think if they find him they can get the things they're looking for.'

I stop walking. He lets go of my hand and looks at me. I see him very clearly, despite the darkness of the corridor around us. 'What...what are you talking about?'

Chris thinks about it for a moment, the shrugs. 'Sorry, but... Don't ask me, doctor. You'd know better than I would.'

I don't understand.

I don't understand any of this. Or at least, I don't think I do. Chris takes my hand and starts walking again, and I follow him because there's really nothing else I can do. We're walking towards a doorway. I think I must have run through it on my way to the young girl's room, but there's no saying that it's the same door now. I know how dreams work: even lucid ones. Things are never in the same place twice.

Except that, in this instance, they are. We stop in front of it and only now do I see how truly huge it is: no handles or keys are visible; our presence should be enough to open it.

Chris gives me a gentle push.

I shouldn't be afraid of it. I shouldn't. '...Come with me?'

'Sorry, I can't.'

'Like she couldn't, you mean?'

Chris shuffles, seeming suddenly very much like the nervous boy he was inside my office. 'Something like that. It's complicated.'

I remain looking at him for as long as I can because I know the moment I take my eyes of him, he'll disappear. Dream people are like that. They're never around when you need them to be and always there when you want them to go away.

I take another step in the direction of the metal wall. The door opens with a violent gust of wind that nearly knocks me off my feet.

And there before me is the globe of stone. Only bigger. Huge and hanging before me like the real earth seen from high above or far below. My earth. It is my earth, isn't it? Or maybe it's supposed by some other world, carved out of stones and made to look exactly like my own. Whatever it is, there has to be some reason why it's there. Why it appeared to me like this in a dream about a place I've never been before. I can't think what those reasons are, though; I'm too wrapped up in its sight and presence. I remember the games I played as a child –running my fingers across the stone earth's surface and imagining that I was running. Like a high speed bullet. Like a god. Or a hero.

Except that I'm nobody's hero.

No. I'm not a hero at all. I know who is. I know who Chris and the government and everyone is looking for. I know why Chris is here, just like I know why he's in all the videos. I know why they killed that little girl. I know what they want from Sonic. I think I might even know why. For just one brief instant, everything seems to make sense to me in a way it never has before.

And then I wake up.

There's a big problem involved with dreams: after a little while we stop being able to remember them. Just like yesterday night, my one moment of clear understanding has passed and vanished by the time I reach the kitchen and begin pouring a glass of water.