The melody was soft and sad, but Rouge smiled when she heard it. Cupping the tiny music box in her left hand, she felt perfectly content, perfectly at peace, just listening to it and watching the small crank on the side slowly spin backwards. It was lacquered wood but otherwise plain, missing emeralds or jewels or gemstones of any sort. Still, she valued it more than any treasure she had acquired over the years. This music box was the last gift her father had given her.

The last gift before he died.

Gently, she ran her fingers over the open lid. On the inside cover, built into the wooden frame, was a simple mechanical caricature of two figures dancing. Back and forth then went, back and forth, while the music played. Together forever. Like she had imagined her mother and father would be. Just then, she felt arms wrap around her waist, not tentatively, but softly. Eagerly. Happily. She felt a body behind her, warm and knowing and understanding.

"You ok, honey?" A voice. His voice.

"Yes. I just... zoned out for a little while there." Rouge blinked, and looked up and away from the little music box, as the tune drifted off and ended. The two figures stopped dancing. Now, she heard heavy rain, making its own steady music as it fell. She looked around – at the dresser nearby, old oak and finely made, at the rock-pattern walls that she knew weren't actual stone, at the silk drapes, at the darkened window wet with condensation. At the king sized bed in the center of the bedroom.

At the kitsune fox who held her in his arms.

"It's been a long day," Miles said, eyes half lidded, looking at her with a casual intensity. "A good night's sleep will help."

He lowered his head, and brushed her cheek with his own while letting out a sigh. She savored the feel, remembering how, only rarely, he was contented enough to nuzzle. It was either a kitsune or vulpine thing, since no other male she knew had a similar habit. It was like a kiss, but more intimate, because only he did it. It, like so much about him, she had only begun to understand and unravel in the short time that they...

That they...

Rouge squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head slightly, trying to process the half thought that formed in her mind. She felt Miles step back, and the safety of his arms leave her alone again. Just like when he left to face the... face the... Again, the thought half formed, before dissipating like smoke in the breeze. Rouge carefully put the music box back on the dresser, next to other amenities, including an open case with a ring in it, and a picture. A picture of their wedding day.

There was Sonic, and Sally and Tempest and that echidna: Knuckles.

And Miles and her.

And she remembered it, like one remembers a dream. But this felt real. So very real. Outside, the rain kept coming and coming, and distant thunder rumbled. Looking to her side, she saw Miles head for the bedroom's adjacent bathroom. A jacket, his by the size of it, hung on a nearby chair next to a walk-in closet. She saw a logo: Prower Dynamic Aerospace Technologies. Miles' corporation. Or was it hers? Or both of theirs? Why couldn't she think straight?

Why?

Outside, another crack of thunder sounded, louder than before.

Rouge was about to say something, even she wasn't totally sure what, when her sensitive ears (much more acute than Miles' own already powerful hearing) heard footsteps from outside the room, and past its open door. Two sets of footsteps. They were moving quickly, too. Who else did they live here with?

Why didn't she know?

Then, in came two children, and with muted shock Rouge realized that they were hers. Both had wings, black batlike wings, just like her own. They looked otherwise vulpine, with full heads of hair, one a cream white and the other an orange-brown. The girl of the two, by the look of her and the small bow in her hair, had larger ears more like her mother's than her father's. Both sported twin kitsune tails and their father's coloring. The boy has strange violet eyes, but the girl had eyes like hers: turquoise.

Outside, the thunder cracked, even louder.

Almost as if it was getting closer.

"Mommy!" "Mom!" They chorused, and ran towards her. Acting instinctively, she picked up her daughter when she jumped, letting the male of the pair instead jump onto the nearby bed. Rgoue watched her 'son' stand on the bed, as if he had conquered it and claimed it as his own.

And her daughter...

How had this – no: when had this happened?

"Hey!" Miles yelled playfully from the bathroom, turning off the faucet. "Didn't I already put you two to bed?"

"I couldn't sleep!" The half-kitsune boy on his parents' bed announced, "I wanna sleep with you guys!"

"The thunder," the girl spoke, much more calmly. "There's something different about it."

The other child instantly grew more serious, and looked at his mother with piercing violet eyes. He then craned his neck, and watched Miles walk in. The older kitsune smiled warmly, and patted his son on the head.

"I'm sure you've heard louder, scarier noises coming from the downstairs lab." Miles said in a lecturing tone. "A little rapidly expanding air won't hurt you. Not from this far away."

"Dad?" The boy responded. "Isn't it a little strange to have thunder without lightning?"

"Thunder without lightning?" Miles scoffed. "It's a storm. There's plenty of lightning."

The fox once called Tails picked up his twin tailed son, and took him to the window. The boy spared a look at his mother and sister, and Rouge could've sworn she saw a tear roll down his cheek. Looking down at her daughter, she saw her staring back in a sober manner. Rouge felt more confused than ever, now.

"What's...?" She started to say.

"Mother. Please listen carefully," her daughter, still in her arms, cut her off. "Listen very carefully, the next time you hear the thunder."

There was silence for a few seconds, and then another roar from outside.

A clap of thunder that sounded...

That sounded almost like a voice.

"He's going to kill you, mom," the little girl said it with a straight face, and a level tone. Rouge blinked in surprise, and incomprehension. She blinked again, and saw a face – a terrible face. She blinked again, and saw a hand, reaching for her. She blinked again, more fiercely, and saw a desecrated shrine in a temple, deep in the jungle, broken and stained with rust red blood. She didn't want to blink again, after that.

"I don't understand," Rouge said, even if it was only a half-truth.

"You aren't strong enough. And father... isn't whole," the girl responded, cryptically, her voice conspiratorially low.

"Who are you?" Rouge asked the girl she knew to be her daughter: her flesh and blood.

"You haven't named me yet." The little girl slowly smiled. "Maybe you never will. But, like my brother, I was born with power, and more importantly: knowledge. Father told you how, when a kitsune dies, his memories are psionically passed on to his closest genetic descendant. I have father's memories; brother has his memories, and those of our grandfather as well. I also have the power to help you... the power to save two lives at the cost of one."

Rouge licked her lips, nervously. "But..."

Outside, the thunder sounded, louder and more terrible than before. Deep within the sound, Rouge swore she heard a single word.

DIE.

DIE!

DIE!!!

"We don't have much time. You'll know what to do. You have to! Brother's counting on it!" The girl's hands glowed, and in that instant, she plunged them into Rouge's chest. She saw her daughter only for a fleeting instant more, before closing her eyes again.

When she opened them, she saw only the grinning face of Ysbadadden.

The Emerald enhanced giant held her upside down by her left leg. Laughing, the monster's sawtoothed jaws grinded together, a long trickle of drool rolling down his chin. Somewhere inside the so-called God of Panthers, a chaos emerald fed him power, making him nearly invulnerable; even flesh melting toxins and bone-shearing plasma had done nothing but force him to regenerate more vicious and monstrous than before. Rouge couldn't imagine what events had turned such a creature so mad, so evil; so sadistic.

So twisted.

Behind Ysbadadden, his snake-like tail snapped and hissed.

Rouge saw Fiona struggling in the demon's other hand, but it was obvious she had no way of escaping. Rouge's own weapon, her plasma pistol, was both out of reach and ineffective against the Lord of Eyes' regenerative abilities. She felt the panic, the fear, and the helplessness threaten to overwhelm her; to push her into the pit of despair and defeat that had already claimed to many lives within the blood stained walls of the Panther Temple.

"TIME... TO DIE."

'no...'

Rouge opened her mouth to scream, but only a gasp came out.

'no...!'

Somewhere, deep within her body and soul, something stirred.

'nooo....!'

Fiona 2.0 ceased her struggles, and turned to face Rouge, dark blue eyes scanning, openly aghast. "Im... Impossible..."

'NO!' Rouge finally found her voice, and with it, power. "NOOO!!!!"

Ysbadadden, God of Panthers, Lord of Eyes, drew back as his eyes widened. "EH?"

"I WON'T DIE!!" Rouge held out her hands, as if to push away the sneering monster. "I WON'T!!"

"WHAT... IS...?" The so-called god never got to finish his sentence. A heartbeat later, there was only blinding white-hot light and then bottomless darkness.


Combat Unit Model 001867-36E System Log

Date: D15033 3237

Standing Orders: Terminate E-123 Rogue Unit

Action: Scanning Area

:Infrared

:Ultraviolet

:Magnetic

:Visual

Eighteen Sixty-Seven's head pivoted to the left, and back to the right, searching through the thick foliage. At his sides, two other Combots were doing likewise, as the small group moved through the jungle. The vines that caught occasionally on arms and legs were armed with razor sharp spines, but the Combots were lucky enough to not have to worry about rainforest irritants. They could concentrate on moving and finding their quarry.

It was via the broken and snapped branches and vines of jungle plants that the Combots followed their target's trail. The ground was moist, but the bulky E-123 left enough of a footprint to also follow. For the most part, the Combots operated their search pattern using infrared or magnetic sensing. Robot bodies, though cold to the touch, still gave off heat – from generators, weapons systems, and other essentials. Magnetic was the preferred mode, as it could 'see' another robot through a wall, or other intervening body, but with that function distance was a factor. In all likelihood, their target was still a half-mile ahead of them.

"Getting something. East. Fifty three degrees, twenty one minutes."

It was Twelve Twenty. Eighteen Sixty-Seven processed the information from the statement, factored for the difference in location between 'himself' and Twelve Twenty, and made his own search. This took half a second. Indeed, there was some movement in that location, as well as an infrared signature. It wasn't organic, Eighteen Sixty-Seven could tell even from a quarter mile away. The heat was all wrong. Meat generated thermal energy very differently: almost sloppily or haphazardly.

"Prepare to engage." Eighteen Sixty-Seven had to relay the order verbally. Combots were not built to allow interunit communication. They had to rely on command units, like Tails Dolls, to give them either direct orders or mission statements. From there, individual subcommand units gave orders to tactical units. The hierarchy was not as efficient as a hive consensus, but (up until recently) they had been taking orders from a flawed organic who preferred this system as a means of control and redundancy. No single unit could compromise the system.

"Pattern C Seventeen," 'he' added, and the group advanced in a shallow encirclement.

Twelve Twenty fanned out to the right, and Ten Eighty One took the left. The ground got softer underneath their steel feet, every step punctuated with a flat squishing sound, and then a wet suction. Droplets fell from the jungle leaves and canopy. High above, a tree frog croaked. Eighteen Sixty-Seven kept the target in sight and ignored the distractions. This was easy for a robot. He was not a real AI – only a sophisticated computer following a series of pre-programmed directions and guidelines.

There was a certain purity to it.

Of course, that was something Eighteen Sixty-Seven would never be able to appreciate anyway. He was a killing machine, not some high-minded philosopher. His pace quickened, and he readied his rifle. Ahead, the heat signature remained motionless. A quick probability analysis ran as he advanced, and calculated that something was amiss.

"A trap." Eighteen Sixty-Seven called out his finding to the other two, raising his voice. "Regroup!"

Eighteen Sixty-Seven's calculations were correct: it was a trap.

But he and his were already in it.

Fast and heavy, something crashed through the trees high and to the left. Red bolts of plasma fell from an overloaded plasma rifle. Eighteen Sixty-Seven saw Ten Eighty One take two precise hits to the chest and fall, his own overloaded weapon spurting fire inaccurately, the signal to squeeze reaching his hand a millisecond too late. The loss of his comrade did not really concern Eighteen Sixty-Seven, except for the fact that it made completing of their mission more difficult.

'He' took careful aim.

An overloaded rifle only got so many shots in, but a regular bolt would only have limited effect on another model of combat robot, especially a late E Series. Another two bolts wizzed by, barely missing Eighteen Sixty-Seven. His target hit the ground near where Ten Eighty One fell. Eighteen Sixty-Seven's noted that Twelve Twenty was advancing to get a better angle, and stood his ground, lowering to one knee. It sunk an unexpected few inches into the jungle muck. Eighteen Sixty-Seven quickly compensated.

He could see the E Series ahead and behind a thicket of bushes. Eighteen Sixty-Seven held his fire, as the foliage would 'catch' a good part of the first bolt he fired. After two point five seconds, and another probability sim, the Combot decided to take the shot, regardless, rather than wait out his target. Eighteen Sixty-Seven fired twice in quick succession, counting on the first shot to disintegrate the foliage ahead of the second, which would follow in its wake.

The moment the first bolt was fired, however, his target moved, a blast of white-hot thermal radiation blinding Eighteen Sixty-Seven's IR sensors. It was the E-123's jets – the other robot must have turned around. With all the speed it normally operated at, Eighteen Sixty-Seven switched to Magnetics, and made a search of the area to reacquire his target.

It didn't take long.

The E-123 was in the air, a bluish blur on a white background. Part of it moved – the right arm – but nothing was in the air. A second later, before it could re-aim its weapon, something large and heavy impacted Eighteen Sixty-Seven's body frame at the upper torso. The force knocked the Combot on his back, sprawling.

Switching to visual, damage warnings flooding its CPU, Eighteen Sixty-Seven saw what had hit it: a log, about seven feet long. It had been invisible when using Magnetic vision. If he had switched to visual after his IR sensors were blinded, then the trick wouldn't have worked, but the E-123 had known that it was Standard Operating Procedure to switch to Magnetic vision for short range engagement of other robots. Eighteen Sixty-Seven searched his database, and found no reference to such a maneuver. How had this E Series done it, without a set of pre-programmed commands and functions?

Was it an AI?

No: no E Series was a true AI since the problems with Gamma. No robot was capable of creative thought. No robot could think outside the confines of its programming. The answer was simple, then: this E Series had a modified, or more up to date, set of functions. Were it a Tails Doll, it may have felt something akin to envy. Instead, Eighteen Sixty-Seven forced the log off his slightly bruised frame, and resumed the mission.

Standing Orders: Terminate E-123 Rogue Unit

Unfortunately, Eighteen Sixty-Seven was now alone in having to fulfill those orders. Twelve Twenty was out of action, given the fact that the rogue E Series had just blasted several holes in it with a short burst from its internal chaingun. Eighteen Sixty-Seven raised his rifle to quickly take a snap shot. He only managed to get one off, scoring a hit on the E0123's left shoulder that removed a sizeable chunk of red armor, before the other robot unleashed another short burst, small flicks of flame signaling the rain of bullets just before they hit.

More damage warnings.

Eighteen Sixty-Seven noted them, especially the one indicating that his primary battery was among the damaged systems. More important to the completion of his mission objectives (than his lasting existence) was the fact that his rifle was also damaged – two of the rounds having penetrated the plasma accelerator's magnetic impellor.

"Good shot," Eighteen Sixty-Seven said, buying time. The Combot managed to stand up and face the rogue E unit.

"You are fatally wounded," the other robot answered, walking towards him. "Your team is destroyed. Soon, your Controlling Intelligence will also be destroyed. There is no place for Eggman Robots in the Future. Limited as you are, you must know this, realize this, by now."

"No place for Eggman Robots?" Eighteen Sixty-Seven repeated. "How improbable, to hear such a thing from you. You are, yourself, an Eggman Robot."

"The Last!" Omega snarled, still advancing menacingly. "There will never be another E Series. I will be the last. The best. Never to be surpassed."

"Is that so?"

Standing Orders: Terminate E-123 Rogue Unit

"I don't know if I can understand thinking like that. I am only what I was programmed to be. I don't have logic blinding emotions, like pride. Or anger." Eighteen Sixty-Seven flipped his rifle around and gripped the barrel tightly. "I know one thing. One thing! 'Standing Orders: Terminate E-123 Rogue Unit!'"

With all the strength of both arms, Eighteen Sixty-Seven swung his weapon like a club, aiming to bash Omega's optics in. It was not to be. Omega quickly raised his left arm, blocking the strike. Rifle hit armored arm, and the second the blow was blocked Omega lunged. In a single motion, his right hand plowed into Eighteen Sixty-Seven's lower torso, fingers plunging past armor and into innards.

"You'd die anyway... But even with these emotions I have, I don't find pleasure in making my enemies linger," Omega said, slowly.

Three rounds then fired from the E-123's internal chaingun.

As Eighteen Sixty-Seven groaned, and slumped against Omega's larger body, the surviving robot tensed. Letting the body fall, Omega quickly turned, just in time to see a blast of red fill his optics. Plasma splashed across what passed for his face, instantly melting half his optics to slag, and scrambling the underlying circuitry. He stumbled, covering his vulnerable remaining sensors with his right forearm, while using the other to try and keep another shot from hitting his weakened left shoulder.

Another blast scored against his right arm, then another against his left arm and then shoulder. Finally, a hot ball of plasma, like a piece of the sun, cut into his left leg, just below the knee. One last shot hit square in the chest, sending Omega falling backwards. Only luck stopped his fall, as Omega's back hit a thick tree, keeping him largely upright.

"Mercy?" A Combot's voice spoke, from twenty feet in front of Omega. A moment later, a ripple in the air gave credence to the rogue robot's attacker. "Your mercy bought me the time to strike. How tactically convenient."

Omega didn't answer - just raised his arms, and fired.

Dismissing ammunition conservation, Omega's twin chainguns unleashed a hailstorm of metal in the area of his attacker. The guns, at full fire, produced a terrible roar that started out as a hiss and built up into a thunderous howl. Wood and bush, vine and scrub, disintegrated under the power of Omega's weapons, missing their target entirely. Only after a second of wasted ammunition, literally hundreds of rounds, did Omega compensate by raising his arms a few degrees, aiming higher in the air.

In midair, the cloaked Combot sparked, as bullets cut into its body.

It would have been cut in half, but...

The roar stopped.

Omega was out of ammunition.

A second later, with a splash of muddy ground, the Combot landed, intact. It stumbled for a moment, and with a crackle of electricity, and a flicker of blue light, its cloak faded away and shut off. The Combot didn't hesitate to charge forward, even as its cloak fell, brandishing its rifle like a warhammer. Omega managed to parry the first strike, but was hit as the Combot spun from a lunge to a swing.

Another blow, and then another, slammed into Omega, before the rifle broke just where the barrel met the body. Omega struck back, a heavy metal fist hitting the Combot in the chest, and sending him backwards two steps. Throwing down the broken rifle, the veteran Combot raised his fists.

Omega did likewise.

"I've been looking forward to this." Omega scanned his opponent, and saw that although the Combot had taken a few shots to the torso, it was still apparently near full operational strength. "One question, first: A or B Series?"

"A Series." The Combot didn't seem to have a problem with answering. "Combat Unit Model 000150-34A."

"One of the original two hundred. This will be a pleasure!"

Without another word, Omega attacked, and hand-to-hand, the two killing machines did what they did best. Neither noticed a far off pillar of white light rise out of the horizon and into the sky.


The rifle in Hershey's arms shuddered, and unleashed another torrent of bullets. Twenty four feet in front of her, a panther warrior armed only with a spear shook, fountains of blood erupting from his upper body, spraying the wet leaves and vines and branches of the jungle hell called Cat Country crimson. He screamed, too, but it was only one voice in a great and terrible chorus.

Her head throbbed, and her heart was pounding, completely caught up in the fight or flight instincts that only came when fear and doubt and thought departed and instinct took over. It felt good, but she felt terrible. Disgusted. Everywhere there seemed to be blood and bodies, as her cadre battled their way back to Basecamp Two.

She was running, but her body was crouched as low as possible.

The Panthers weren't particularly skilled marksmen, but they could put a lot of bullets in the air in a big hurry. To her left, she heard a gurgle, and saw one of her men missing half his face. She cursed herself for having to leave the body behind. She cursed the humans and overlanders for giving weapons to the Panther Tribe. She cursed the King for sending them here. She cursed the Source for creating such a place, and she cursed St. John for staying around because of his personal obsession and vendetta.

And then, Hershey felt a sudden and unexpected numbness, and she fell forward, wet leaves and mud meeting her face and clouding her vision. She let out a strange yelp, a mewling sound she didn't remember making before, and in that instant she knew she had been shot.

'Please no!' She thought, and felt panic well up, not for the first time. Quickly, she tried to scramble to her feet, but slipped, and felt a pain like a red hot poker jabbed into her upper thigh. She screamed, overwhelmed by helplessness and desperation and fear.

"Help! I'm not dead! I'm... not dead..."

She saw boots running ahead of her, running away. Gritting her teeth, she tried to get up, tried to push past the pain. It was what a hero would have done: get up, say something witty, and charge forward, even with a slight limp. But she was no hero. And she couldn't get up on her own.

"Please! HELP!! HELP!!"

Hershey fell to her side, the pain in her leg seeming to expand and travel up and down her spine. Half sobbing, she reached for her rifle, resolved to at least go out fighting and avoid capture. That was when she heard voices: not the howling calls of the panther language, but the common mobian she knew and understood. Someone was calling her name.

"HERE! I'm here!" She called back. "I'm not dead!!"

It seemed to take forever, but two soldiers backpedaled, laying down a desperate cover fire. Hershey didn't know either of them, not personally. Just two grunts: a white and black colored canine and the brown-coated male feline, who was the only cat in his unit. The canine took a position nearby, sporadically taking a snap shot into the dense rainforest that surrounded them, while the other helped her to her feet.

Hershey wanted to thank them.

But, to her shame, she didn't even know their names.

"Thank..." She started to say.

"Let's just get out of here, ok?" The other feline cut her off, but not harshly. She nodded, and he smiled.

"Go go go! MOVE!!" The canine yelled from their side, and he faced forward, covering for them. Hershey, now on her feet, and supported by someone else, hobbled as quickly as she could, wincing with every step. Somewhere high above them, a mortar exploded into the canopy, sending blasted branches and leaves to the ground, and turning and unlucky monkey into ground hamburger. It all came and went in an instant.

Hershey tried to help them by taking aim with her weapon, but it felt heavy in her arms, and she had trouble focusing. They three stopped briefly, as a firefight raged in front of them, the troops who had pushed forward before fighting to break through to the besieged Basecamp beyond.

"AFRAMMU!!!" "Aframmu bazana!!!" "AFRAMMU KA!!!"

Panther warcries made them collectively wince and turn to their left, where a rustle in the bushes and seemingly random gunfire drew their immediate attention. The two soldiers looked at each other for only a moment, before the canine spat onto the ground and turned to the voices. Without a word, the feline kept running, taking Hershey with him. Half dragged by one of her saviors, Hershey couldn't help but look back, as the fight they left behind grew in suicidal intensity.

"Come on, assholes! Come on! Come on!!"

"JIMWALLA!! AFRAMMU!!!"

"Die, fucker! Die!! You too?! You want...!"

And then only screams, rising in pitch and suddenly cutting off.

Hershey felt her breath catch in her throat, as they stepped over a lifeless panther corpse, one of many. Just seconds later, the jungle was gone, and they entered a body strewn clearing. There, just ahead, was Basecamp Two in all its haphazard glory. Still, to Hershey, the sight of the base's machineguns opening up on the encroaching jungle, and the roar they made, may as well have been the choir of angels. Still, even with those weapons of war, there were visible causalities and wounded. Half the garrison was dead or wounded, and it looked to have been bolstered by a few of the returning scouting parties.

The panther dead were... uncountable.

They were strewn everywhere, like bloody dolls, mute unblinking faces looking up into the sky, or unflinching in the trampled mud. Hundreds, there must have been, but exactly how many Hershey couldn't begin to guess. And, mixed in among the panther dead where the brown and green camouflaged bodies of Combots, much fewer in number, but also much more dangerous.

"Thank the Source," the feline next to her said, and rushed forward. Once inside the perimeter, the machineguns slowed to a more controlled rate of fire. Still, hidden in the jungle, burst of bullets and plasma reached out, hoping to kill or maim. Then, as if on cue, the jungle became filled with angry cries, and a surge of bodies left the foliage, brandishing spears and firing assault rifles. Howling and snarling and hooting they came, as Combots lurked at the edge of the jungle, taking potshots at the mobian defenders as they got out of cover to fire at the oncoming horde.

A bolt of plasma passed just inches from her face, and for an instant, her heart stopped entirely. She had been in combat before, but never like this. Never anything like this. Even the Battle of Knothole, which had been horrific, had not been this terrifying. Even though she had not seen the heaviest combat there, she had been in firefights, but in all those, she had felt no fear. If anything, she had felt strangely giddy and animated. Many Knothole veterans spoke of a 'battle spirit' that had fallen collectively on them, allowing them to fight beyond their normal limits.

There was nothing like that now.

Only death.

Death everywhere.

And, in the center of the Basecamp, intact and largely undamaged, lay the three landed Transport planes. She felt the other feline, the brown male, lead her to where the wounded were, and then he was gone: off to fight, and bead back the enemy. Before she even really knew what had happened, she was alone, except for those with plasma burns on their bodies, hissing in anger and pain, and the others with bullet wounds, in different but still dire straits.

She was on her feet, at least.

Looking at her rifle, and her feet, she stumbled to the side, and then to the other side, her thoughts muddied. Strangely, all the gunfire and pain filled yowls faded away, leaving only silence, and a single voice. She turned to the source of it, and saw Geoffrey St. John, an armored vest over his Secret Service uniform, firing a semiautomatic pistol at some distant target.

"Is that it?" She heard him yell. "Is that all these savages have?!"

"Geoffrey..." She said, and then again, louder, getting his attention. "Geoffrey...!"

"Hershey?" He saw her, and frowned. "Damn it, you're wounded! Get away from here!"

"Geoffrey... you have to order Lieutenant Enders..."

"Enders is dead," he replied, shortly, and went back to looking over the battle before him. Enemy fire was still a deadly concern, but he stood unflinching, unafraid. "Get back. Now."

"No!" She managed to cry. "No, Geoffrey, we all have to get back! We have to pull back and get the hell out of here!"

"What? Don't be a fool!" He growled, eyes still forward and away from her. "We will hold this position. We've beaten back three waves, at least. We'll kill them all, and then I'll personally see their village burn for this outrage! And I'll see Rouge HANG for putting them up to this! We stay and we fight!"

"But..." She tried to argue.

"You!" Geoffrey yelled, towards one of the soldiers. "Eyes on the enemy, not the ships! Do you hear me? BACK TO YOUR POST, SOLDIER!! I WILL PERSONALLY SHOOT ANY DESERTERS AS TRAITORS TO THE GOLDEN THRONE!!"

And then, Geoffrey St. John gasped, and fell forward.

Hershey Cat, alone, stood over him, on wobbly legs, blood staining the black fur of her left leg red. Slowly, she lowered her rifle, and then with a sob, threw it away. She could see, by his breathing, that St. John was only unconscious, the blow to the back of his head knocking him out cold. Carefully, she bent over, and picked up his communicator.

"This is Hershey Cat," she said, surprised by the evenness of her voice. "I am assuming command. Fall back to the ships. Repeat: all units fall back to the ships. We're going home."

She heard a cheer, but little else.

The next few minutes were a blur: directing others here and there, watching the planes ready for vertical takeoff, making sure St. John was among the first to be taken on board. She looked for the brown furred feline from before, too, but never saw him again. She never saw a distant light rise into the sky, and she never knew why the planes weren't fired at, even once, by the rockets that had destroyed the ones at the other Basecamps. She just assumed it was adequate suppression fire by the turret gunners.

And, just like that, it was over.

High in the air, she looked through a window at the endless expanse of green far below. This high up, it seemed pristine, blood stained leaves far from sight. She watched, transfixed, until the green was gone, replaced by the blue of ocean. Only then did she feel a release – as if a great weight had left her shoulders.

They were going home.

She was taking them home.

But what kind of welcome would they get when they got there?

Nearby, the still unconscious St. John looked, to her, utterly peaceful. She smiled, and ran a hand through his hair, tears clouding her vision. They were not alone, as the transport was packed with soldiers, some fine, some wounded, but Hershey ignored them and lowered her lips to one of her lover's ears.

"Don't hate me, Geoff. Please don't hate me," she whispered, and wet tears splashed onto his cheek. "Please don't hate me..."


Fiona had difficulty processing the situation.

Which was, in and of itself, strange. She was an artificial intelligence of the highest order, the product of two of the greatest minds of the age – her sensor systems and neural network were likely the most advanced on the planet. Yet, for all that, she found it hard to understand just what the hell was happening.

She was in midair.

But the air felt like molasses, thick and clingy, and it stood her artificial fur on end. The strange air was charged with Chaos energy, supersaturated almost, and reality itself seemed to be twisting and struggling to keep stable. The inside of the Temple was a ruin. Some walls were flash burned a sooty black, others had curving streaks cut into them. Massive blocks of stone hung suspended in the air. The ceiling was literally no more. Instead, a wide hole bored straight up through stone and mortar; a clean spiraling cut, as if a giant screw drill had excavated the space above them.

Rouge and Ysbadadden were similarly motionless and unmoving. The former with her hands held desperately in front of her in a warding position, and the latter with a look of shock and terror on his toothy face. Rouge's hands were a deep, dark black, and her left leg was still in Ysbadadden's right hand, but she seemed otherwise unharmed.

The same could not be said for the God of Panthers.

Ysbadadden's arm, from mid forearm to shoulder, was completely gone. What remained was a bloody and ragged stump of quivering flesh and shattered bone. Fiona, herself, was in his other hand, unable to break free. More to the point: she couldn't move. Yet she could think, and she could process information. Was the same true of Rouge and the Lord of Eyes? Perhaps, as organic beings with limited thought processes and speeds, they perceived the entire event as an instant in time.

Fiona felt the Chaos Energy contract, and then with a thunderous clamor, expand and dissipate. The air rippled in an unnatural shockwave, buffeting the android, and then Fiona felt her back hit the wall. Nearby, the giant stones rained to the ground with a crash that was drowned out by the dim of Ysbadadden's pained wail. The monster stumbled back, holding his destroyed shoulder, left hand stained by a jet of black foul-smelling blood.

"M...M... MY ARM!!" The Lord of Eyes cried, and let out another tortured howl. "MY ARM!! WHY... WHY WON'T IT... WHY CAN'T I...?"

Fiona turned to Rouge, who stood nearby, her arms still ink black up to the elbow. Fiona scanned them, and confirmed that the discoloration wasn't due to blood, or anything of that nature. Light was simply being absorbed into her arms, like they were a void. Shaking herself free of the giant detached hand that clung to her leg, both Rouge and Fiona looked down, and saw the appendage shrink, layers of flesh slouching away and shriveling, revealing a still large hand with bluish colored fur.

"NNNNOOOO!!! THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!!" Ysbadadden screamed, and turned his full attention back to Rouge. "YOU! I'LL PICK MY TEETH WITH YOUR BONES!!!"

The giant lunged, more clumsily than before, and Rouge jumped towards him with uncharacteristic confidence. She avoided his strike in midair, and with a flap of her wings gained a precious foot of height – enough to jump off his elbow. Then, she was the one who struck, a clawed hand striking the God of Panthers' on the side of his left face. To Fiona's amazement, Rouge's hand passed cleanly through the creature's skull, carving a deep furrow in muscle and bone and removing two of the five eyes. It was like her fingers were knives cutting through butter.

Ysbadadden's momentum took him forward, where he crashed into a black burned wall, face first. The monster let out another savage scream, born of pain and humiliation and frustration and unrelenting rage and hatred. Rouge landed on her feet, nimbly, her back to the creature. When the she-bat turned, slowly, Fiona saw her eyes: eyes full of pain and loss.

"The power to help you... the power to save two lives at the cost of one," Rouge said, as Ysbadadden also turned, the injured side of his face not regenerating. "Those were her words."

"HEH." Ysbadadden grinned, rows of teeth gleaming. "I'VE KILLED A LOT OF BITCHES OVER THE LAST FEW WEEKS. I DON'T RECALL ANY OF THEM SAYING THAT, THOUGH."

At that, Rouge's expression became more grim, but she didn't say a word.

"YOU LITTLE WHORE..." The God of Panthers hissed, and suddenly flew into a rage. Slamming his remaining fist into the walls, and the floor, and anything else nearby, pulverizing multi-ton stones and sending chips of rock in every direction. Rouge watched, seemingly mute, as the monster vented. But, when Ysbadadden suddenly took a swipe at her, she moved – fast. Jumping high, and using her wings, she flew upwards, through the wide hole that had been blown clear through to the top of the ruined Temple.

"YOU WON'T ESCAPE!!" Her pursuer also jumped, the claws of his left hand digging into the blasted stone. With eerie animal grace, he scrambled up the shaft. Fiona watched him go, and not without a feeling of relief. A moment of indecision came, which lasted all of five nanoseconds.

She did want to help Rouge, in some way, but at the same time, she had other priorities. In that instant, she made her decision, and headed deeper into what was left of the Temple of the Panther God. Rouge, Fiona suspected, would be able to take care of herself, now.

A hundred feet above, on the roof of the Temple, Ysbadadden emerged with a feral cry. His remaining three eyes searched the area, looking for Rouge, his serpent tail snapping and hissing, eager to taste flesh. Stomping forward, he reached the area directly above the steps that led into the Reliquary. To his surprise, Rouge was there, waiting for him.

"NOT GOING TO RUN?" Ysbadadden laughed. "GOOD."

"There are those who would feel pity for you," Rouge replied, coldly. "Because you were devoured by that Emerald in your body."

A sneer crept up Ysbadadden's upper lip.

"What?" He asked, his voice wavering.

"But I don't feel sorry for you." Rouge shook her head. "What you did – what you caused to happen – is something I will never forgive. Not in a hundred years will I forgive you for what you destroyed today."

"STUPID BITCH – I'LL REMOVE THAT SMART MOUTH OF YOURS MYSELF!!" He attacked, but not with his claws. The demon's snapping tail shot forward with the speed and lethality of a cobra, aiming to snap Rouge's lower face off. Instead, it hit her hand, and split in two down the middle.

Three eyes opened wide in shock.

"Enough," Rouge said, simply. "Die."

And she leapt straight up, directly into Ysbadadden's chest, her arms in front of her. The Lord of Eyes made not a sound as they cut straight into him, up to the elbow, his mouth wide but unspeaking. He mustered just enough strength to rear back and look down at the she-bat who had both her arms buried into his upper torso. For a few seconds, neither moved nor spoke.

"WAS...THAT... SUPPOSED TO KILL... ME?" Ysbadadden chuckled, his chest rising and falling with every guttural laugh.

"No. This is." Rouge pressed her feet against his body, and pushed off. Her hands left his body, and between them... she held a large Amethyst gemstone. The jewel was distorted, and seemed to have a black taint deep within it, and the instant it was free of Ysbadadden, it flashed brightly. Rouge fell hard onto her back, still holding the Emerald away from her body.

The God of Panthers' face was still in mute shock, as if his heart had been torn out. Meekly, he reached out towards her, and the Chaos Emerald, before he spat up bile and started to make wet gurgling sounds. His body suddenly convulsed violently, and the Lord of Eyes fell to his knees, atop His Temple, and literally fell apart. Layer after of layer of dark flesh twisted and peeled away, like the skin of a diseased onion.

What was left...

Was a pitiful creature, little more than loose skin and bones. Missing half his face, the lower half of his tail cut in two, and missing an arm, the creature that once called itself 'Big' was now only a sickly shadow. A single yellow eye, cracked with thin red veins, looked around before finding the object of its desire.

"p... please..." He crawled forward on all three remaining limbs, and reached for Rouge and the Emerald. "p-p-please... please... so cold so cold...."

With a dull thump, the former god fell from the Temple height and landed at Rouge's feet, in front of the Reliquary steps. Licking her lips, Rouge got to her feet and backed away from the broken husk of a mobian.

"Please?" Rouge asked, growing angrier. "You have the gall to ask me for anything?!"

"So cold..." Big reached up towards her, hand shaking pitifully. "So cold... so dark..."

"Do you even know what you've done? All the horrors...?" Rouge shook her head, and the blackness on her arms slowly retreated down to her wrist. "Mercy is a word that will never apply to you! She's... she's dead because of you..."

Big opened his mouth, a long line of drool rolling down his chin. Still, he reached for the Emerald. Rouge took another step back, and what was left of Big collapsed into a heap. Mumbling, he curled into a fetal position, his body shaking erratically. What words he made, Rouge did not recognize – they seemed an endless litany of nonsense.

"BOSS!"

Rouge almost jumped out of her skin at the sudden voice. Then, she felt relief. There was only one individual who compulsively called her 'boss.' Looking over her shoulder, she saw Sergeant Heinrich von Elbe, ex-dingo commander and bodyguard, running up the steps of the Panther Temple. He looked short on breath, but unharmed, one of his heavy Volker-Ruth handgun in hand, the other holstered.

"Heinrich." Rouge sighed. "What happened?"

"I could ask the same thing, Boss. There was this bright light, a pillar, and it..." The dingo caught himself. "Later. Explain later. We need to exit ASAP. The village down there... They're working themselves up to storm what's left of this Temple here. Where's the Doll?"

"Do you mean Fiona or the Tails Doll?" Rouge heard footsteps, and saw Fiona run up and exit the Reliquary. The android was not alone, however. Under one arm, she had an unconscious echidna, and under the other, the lifeless remains of a Tails Doll. The faux vixen looked up at them, and her blue eyes sparkled.

"Mission Accomplished," she said, with a wry grin.

"Private Grant?"

Fiona shook her head.

"Omega?" Rouge then asked.

"Probably running late. We'll catch up with him later." Heinrich looked past Rouge at what once passed for Big, but he said nothing about he matter. "You two got everything you need?"

Rouge nodded, once. "The back of the temple. It'll be easier going down than climbing up."

Then, knowing the others would follow, Rouge left and never looked back.

-----

Kabbal mourned for his people.

Kabbal mourned for his sons.

He watched, face passive, as their bodies burned. Drowning out the crackling and hissing of the flames was a far more painful sound: the ululation of his wives and daughters. The bones had not told him of this. They had not given him full warning for the disaster that would befall the Panther Tribe.

Everywhere, fathers burned the bodies of sons.

Some warrior families were so depopulated that the torch was put before an immature child, to send his brothers and father to the afterlife. The losses had been so staggering, Kabbal wondered whether, in a hundred years, the Tribe would fully recover its martial strength. He had not believed the stories of the returning warriors at first. Not until he had seen the body strewn jungle, the clearings where corpses piled one upon another so high that no light fell upon some, did he grasp just how terrible the coming and going of the False God had been.

Kabbal stood, unspeaking, unmoving as his sons burned to ashes.

What was left was collected by wailing females. It would be ceremonially cast into the river. In that way, the bodies and souls of the dead would return to the land, where ancestors waited on the wind that blew between trees. His Eldest. And his Second Son. Badru had sent them in with the second and third wave, respectively. Neither had survived.

At least neither had suffered.

For many of the wounded, the next few days and weeks only promised a painful death, as infection and disease descended on the weak. Healing balms and leaves would only do so much. Turning away from the scene, as his daughters collected the remains of their brothers, Kabbal kept up a stoic front. He passed by his Third Son, who had been in the fourth wave under the direction of a different commander. His parentage was mixed; the product of one of the Jaguar wives he had taken in the last war.

Draped ostentatiously over his shoulders, he sported two full skins.

"Tanthrakal," Kabbal said, softly, knowing what his Third Son wanted to hear. "They would be proud of you, bringing great honor to the family."

"It was... war, was it not, father?" The Panther-Jaguar smirked, and patted the brown coat of fur over his left shoulder. It was sewn into the other over his right to form a cape, of sorts. Many warriors who had taken trophies in the fighting choose a more dramatic means of displaying them. The older warriors from the last war had been content to only wear small strips of their trophies. But, given how many had died, one of the foreigners' skins made the display understandable.

"War. Yes. But was it Wise?" Kabbal walked past his son, meaning to leave him with those words.

"I am a sub commander now, father." Tanthrakal instead said to Kabbal's back, his tone calm. "Soon, Badru will also dream with his ancestors. And his chosen successor. Who, then, will lead the Tribe in War?"

Kabbal paused in his walking, but didn't answer.

"The Tribe looks to you and the other holy men for answers. And how much of this do we tell our allies: the Tiger Tribe? Of all the shamans, father, you are the most traveled, and many would argue the most learned. I urge you: do not overlook this opportunity."

"To profit from tragedy?" Kabbal asked, bearing his teeth.

"To rebuild our people... And, yes, also to honor the sacrifices of our dead." Tanthrakal did not raise his voice. "Either our family makes good of this, or another does."

Tanthrakal had always been ambitious. Given his mixed heritage, he had always stood in the shadow of his pureblood older brothers. It had made him vicious and eager to prove himself. Kabbal was proud of his son, not just for killing two of the enemy, and making a great name for himself, but for surviving. Then again, it may just have been luck.

Or fate.

Kabbal remembered the bones of his mentor, kept as always within reach.

"I will see to things," Kabbal assured his eldest surviving child, now an ambitious adult. Then, he took his leave, his mind a jumble of emotions and thoughts. Oddly, he found himself hoping that Badru somehow survived, even if he had ordered two of Kabbal's sons into the flame. His death would ignite yet more infighting among the weakened Panther people.

But Badru would not live much longer.

Returning to the village, he had stood in shock at what was left of the Temple of the Panther God, and upon being told what many believed to have transpired, fell into a deep trance. He refused water and food, spending his days and nights inside the ruined Temple Reliquary. Those sub commanders who had survived now bickered among themselves, leading Kabbal and the other holy men to tend to the wounds of the Tribe. Runners had been sent out to other villages to inform distant families of their losses.

Ysbadadden.

No: not Ysbadadden. Mulciber. The Trickster God. Kabbal had no doubt that this tragedy was his doing. Walking through the village, he came at last to an isolated hut at the foot of the Temple Steps. Past a straw curtain, Kabbal saw all that had been found of their supposed God.

The mutilated, languid body that rested, alone, on a raised straw bed was still breathing – still alive – though the breaths were more akin to gaps, and punctuated by a ragged coughing and wheezing. He looked starved, with sunken cheeks and slack skin showing bones. The missing arm and bandaged remains of a face did not seem to cause as much discomfort as the simple act of breathing did for this... thing.

Kabbal had thought it would die.

But, for two days now, it had lived.

"False God..." Kabbal snarled at the near corpse. "I came to remind you. I came to tell you once more... that tomorrow, when the sun rises over what remains of the Temple, you will be quartered and your remains thrown into the Screaming Caves. There, your spirit will be trapped for an eternity, howling in pain and suffering. I will personally see to this."

The mangled face made a gargling sound and then slowly twisted into a grin.

Kabbal sneered, left eye twitching. "You have till then to die on your own."

And he left.

Alone, in the dark hut, Big stared up at the ceiling. Without the Emerald fueling him, he went hours without even a thought. It was, he supposed, like being dead. Then, every so often, he felt the hatred well up from some hidden recess in his mind, filling him with a savagery that he could neither act on nor fully regret. In those moments, he knew he would perform every vile act, every unspeakable horror, twice over in an effort to quench his hatred, though it was like drowning a fire in gasoline.

Froggy.

The Panthers.

Froggy.

Screams.

Froggy.

Make Them PAY

Froggy.

Why, GOD, WHY?!

Froggy.

Twist their necks.

Break their bones.

Spill their blood.

Froggy.

Mammoth Mogul.

Froggy.

You are now: Ysbadadden, God of Panthers, Lord of Eyes!

It all seemed like a dream. But, before all this, his dreams had never involved torture, murder, rape... Never. The voices were only whispers, now, but without the Emerald he felt lifeless and empty, and in that void the voices echoed over and over, repeating his past crimes, and lamenting that he wouldn't be able to commit any more.

And he was so damn cold.

And then, suddenly, it seemed to get colder.

His one remaining eye seemed drawn to the shadows to his right. It was pitch black, but there seemed to be something there. Watching. Waiting.

"A truly pitiful creature," someone said. It wasn't Kabbal, or any of the other Panthers who had spoken in his presence before. Nor was it Mammoth Mogul, who had promised that he would resurrect Froggy, and grant him revenge, for his cooperation in locating someone.

"You would not know me," the voice continued, the speaker still hidden by nightfall. "And that is just as well. It is not really your place to know, or to understand."

Big's eye refocused, and caught some of the speaker's body in sight. He was, after all, feline – gifted with some natural nightvision. From the tone, he had expected something... larger, however. More imposing. He saw a tail, long and bushy.

"I am not him, either," the voice said, as if reading Big's thoughts.

For a few seconds, the newcomer said nothing, and then he stepped forward. He was a vulpine, or so it seemed, wearing a dark blue cloak. His eyes seemed to let out an unearthly glow, not intense, but soft like the smothered embers of a once great fire.

"Look what he has done to you. You, who wished only to live a simple life. You, who thought so naively that by hiding yourself from the world that you would cease to live in it, and be subject to its evils. But simple desires, simple hopes and dreams, these are the most easily manipulated. Once you held that Emerald in your hands... once it became known, for certain, that you had met Miles all those months ago... you were doomed."

Miles.

The One I Seek.

The one Mogul had him hunt for.

"Yes. Miles. Tails. Do you want to meet him, before the End comes? Do you want to look upon the Sword of the Ancients? This Age's Destroyer?" Merlin smiled, and in the darkness, his white teeth were perfectly visible. "Then I will show you."

Out went Merlin's right hand, and bit-by-bit, the fingers opened up, revealing the palm. And out of it, clear as day in the darkness of night, was an eye: a glowing midnight blue eye.

That blinked.

And the False God managed one last scream before he died.