…I was going to write this sometime last month, but the crisis I based the plot on had, for the most part, settled down, and it was one worry less on my mind. However, in the recent times since that moment of freedom, the problem has come to surface once more. This is not the only chapter. If I can't talk the party in question out of his idiotic manner by speaking directly, I began to think that perhaps a more subtle approach will be more effective.

You know who you are.

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My Crimson Crayon
Chapter One

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"They call me Sonic."

He heard the words over and over in his head. Were they his words, or was it something the fans had concocted within the bowels of their idiotic heads?

"They call me Sonic."

Doesn't matter where they came from, he thought in disgust. The message was out, and it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"They call me Sonic."

He couldn't be an active citizen, oh no. He had to be a hero. Always by your side, ready to give a helping hand, and all that other bullshit the media liked to feed to the people. They didn't know what he was really thinking. They didn't know the stress it had on him. They didn't know what it was like to be such a respected figure… he had no political power, he wasn't paid, and he if ever failed, if he ever THOUGHT about failure, it would be so.

"They call me Sonic."

And he could not afford to fail.

No one could understand the stress it took on him. If he ever failed, everything would be lost, and because he was such a well-known figure in this society, it's unlikely anyone would forgive and forget. No one could understand what it did to him… no one would understand what he decided to do about it.

He sighed and shifted his weight as he watched out the window of his apartment, watching the city below. This was his city. Without his guidance, Station Square would fall.

"They call me Sonic… well call me something else, damnit."

He took a small step to the right and heard a clink underfoot. Glancing downward, he saw a glimmer of metal sticking out from beneath the fire-engine red sneakers. A small smile began to spread across his face, becoming more maniacal with every teensy second it grew. Any one of his friends would be frightened by the laugh he made to match.

Friends? What friends? The blade was his only friend…

He had found it… well, he didn't remember how it came into his possession. It was one of those block razor blades; the type one would use to cut lines of coke with.

But he didn't need to cut coke.

He had his arm.