BRANDON

Here is how it happened.

I knew something was wrong right away, and my heart was suddenly throbbing against my chest like it was trying to escape. I'd match that desire in mere moments, clawing at the walls of my new prison for just one more clear breath of the outside world. I kept my eyes closed as long as I could, absorbing the lack of smell and the smooth surface I was face down on. Control the panic. If not, make a promise that I will return.

When I opened my eyes, I was somewhere else. It could have been a different planet if it wasn't so typical.

Him.

Then I thought, "No, he couldn't be back." I wasn't attached. I could push away from it. I laid down and I took it. I let go. he fact that we were all stupid enough to get caught is the most shameful thing that could have happened, and it did. By being there, we suffered the greatest blow. No sense in being high and mighty anymore.

Bad enough with the mirrors surrounding me, but it got worse when one of the walls disappeared, and I saw the rest of them.

We all lost it, running at full speed to the glass and attempting to claw our way of the hole we had dug ourselves into. Hard feelings.

I had previously held a grudge against them for not sticking with the training and forgetting the feeling that our days are numbered. Our enemy had been vanquished, but that didn't mean we were safe. The machine breaks down, we break down.

I kept myself sharp and look where it got me. Look at what my training did for me.

But… I regained control. It was hours later but the pieces were picked up and reassembled. I soaked in the details of my surroundings. Back on the bike. You never forget how.

Surveillance cameras in all four corners, up by the ceiling, far out of reach. Three mirrored walls, with one glass wall that looks into four other cells. A5 posted at the top. Small bathroom with toilet and shower spout, drain the center of the floor. Two knobs, hot and cold. Barred window, out of reach. Warm breeze blowing in with the faint smell of dead grass overpowered by the oil and rust. Conclusion: Robotropolis, north, far but not too far. The pipes work no problem, hot and cold corresponding correctly to their temperatures. No movement from the cameras. No exits. End of the line.

The worst feelings came from my midsection. I felt like I had lost some weight, and my stomach was empty. It wanted to growl. I needed a drink.

I was energetic. I wanted do something.

I don't have long.

Exploring the cell took a lot less time than I thought it would. There wasn't much to accomplish after that, and I was already used to the heat of being watched. Truthfully, I was getting used to everything very fast, so much so that it was disturbing.

I found a comfortable place to sit, in the corner under one of the cameras, my back against the clear wall. I imagined I was back in the forest, on guard duty. Graveyard watch. The trick to not falling asleep was to keep your eyes open and your mind busy. My method? Memories. Old memories from Mobotropolis were the most interesting. I'd replay them as if I were watching them for the first time, rewinding and backtracking if my mind got eager and skipped ahead. One memory ate up fifteen minutes and I'd break out of it, the darkness of the forest registering once again. I'd perform a quick perimeter scan, and repeat the process again with a new memory.

This worked well enough in the cell, too, as long as I could make it last, but thoughts kept butting in and ruining the playback. Regret for not being more alert the night I was taken here. Regret for not saying something to Sally when she decided it would be best to concentrate on studying Robotnik's old technology, rather than cleaning up our city. Frustration at not knowing who it was that caught us. A rogue faction of old Mobians? That Lazar fucker? Snively? Naugus? … Robotnik?

And none of it mattered. There was nothing I could do to change this. Nothing to do but wait for the top brass to salvage us. To wait for Princess Sally… and Sonic.

I turned around and watched my fellow prisoners. They were still exploring their cell.

I was surprised to see that cells A2 and A3 weren't separated. They could physically interact with each other. And I hadn't noticed before, but A4 was completely empty. Not entirely cut off, but just enough so…

Why was this done?

Once it starts, there's no stopping it.

I recognized them, or rather I had seen them all in Knothole at some point. Durango, Kevin, Sabrina, Ralph, Simon, and Tristan I had actually fought beside. Good soldiers. Good kids. I had to squint to see them in A1, and they appeared to be doing the same as A2 and A3. It was a long time before they began to communicate, and interaction was minimal. They were afraid.

I found myself watching Tristan. He wasn't doing much. Walking around dazed, like the rest. Trying in vain to make sense of it all.

Tristan. Typical of him. Eventually, he stopped moving and chose a bed, one closest to the A1 crowd. His cellmates followed his lead, choosing their place to sleep. They were too preoccupied to notice me.

Time crawled by. I leaned back against the wall and tried to relax…

She wasn't always crying, I remember.

My family traveled a lot, and as a result I got sick a lot. It never hit me along the way, always at the end, where the weight of the trip would catch up and collect into this giant eruption of vomit. Terrible sickness. Not unusual for kids my age, I was told, and I hated it but I always had to come with them, my mom and my dad; they assured me I would get used to it. I had to come with them over and over again, the same route out of the city and across the desert to the green palm colonies in the west. They loved it, my parents. They wanted to continuously move west, like there was always a haven out there, where we could lead better lives if we just had a little more, just a little more money to buy that little piece of heaven, where everyone would be happy except for me because we'd have to keep moving fucking west.

This all happened, I'm sure, in the spring before the coup; the beginning of spring, where it was still freezing cold but flowers were blooming and grass was the sort of green that blinded you. There was the rain. Continuous downpour. Sometimes it would hail. And that was the closest I would get to ever seeing snow.

The trips to the edge of Mobotropolis were tiring enough to get me a good nap and kill half the journey, but no matter how much I slept I always got sick. I'd get tired by watching the road, following the cars, reading the signs. We took so many trips that I knew where most of the signs were, enough to notice that they had built a new one, on the very edge of the city.

You are now leaving I think. Return to us. It was a picture of fox girl, very young, smiling widely. Larger than life. She could swallow us whole. We'd pass by it and shortly afterwards, I could sleep, her face burned into the back of my mind. Every trip, the sign would deteriorate, get worse, with the sun beating down on it in the morning and the rain clouds suddenly moving in to finish her off. The picture updated before my eyelids fell, fell, fell. The girl grew older and older, her smile more and more crooked as the paint cracked and chipped and washed away down those big blue eyes, curving around her cheeks and disappearing out of sight. Our final trip out before the coup, she wasn't cute and she wasn't happy. She was old and sad and she was crying, and every time I remember this I think about how it was a perfect cover poster for the coup and ensuing war with Robotnik but oddly I also think about rape and torture-

… Sleep came as a total surprise. It snuck up on me like it used to on those trips west, complete with the waking up and the feeling like shit. Wading through it I tried to remember falling asleep but I couldn't and I ended up throwing every other thought out the window when I noticed the bowl full of fruit in the middle of the floor.

Oranges.

Blood oranges. I can't describe the feeling of seeing an actual color for the first time in… how long had it been? Not too long, I was sure, but as hungry as I was I didn't want to destroy the image. The oranges had been arranged so nicely, so…

It was my memory, or my concept of the world outside, materialized. Physical, concrete proof. It brought the weight of the situation down hard on me. Sleep wouldn't fix this.

I did manage to work up the nerve to move the beautiful display of food, and once I touched it, I could barely resist wolfing down the entire bowl, skin and all. If I had, I would have devoured the ball that had been buried underneath.

I'm embarrassed to admit it. All that complaining the previous day about giving in to comfort, and here I was, content to stay in this prison as long as I was fed.

The others had gotten food too. I saw one of the kids discreetly hide one of his pieces under his bed sheets. I bet he thought he was so clever. Well, if I saw it, whoever was behind those cameras sure as hell saw it, too. The food in my mouth went rotten. I saw Tristan sitting at his bed, finishing half of his ration and hiding the other half in his covers, like the other kid except much more confident about it. Like it was his idea and it would be the type of idea that he'd have.

I can't pinpoint why this made me angry, but it was just so like him, trying to outsmart a system that was made to be unoutsmartable. He wanted to step outside and find an easy way to break the supports, a weak spot that the inventor surely missed when he made it. He has learned nothing. How disappointing.

Whoever did this to us wasn't stupid. He went through all of this trouble to put us in a maze and make us suffer, and he set it up so that he could watch it all unfold. To watch us play the game.

The fruit tasted good again and I finished it all. Afterwards, I set the ball aside and examined the light plastic bowl, turning it over and over in my hands. I tried bending it. Tough stuff. Couldn't break it. I placed all of the leftover skin into the bowl. Then I grabbed the ball and started throwing it against the mirrored wall, over and over again, aiming for myself and putting all I had into every toss. I kept it up as long as I could before I was too tired to catch it and I let it bounce away, into the bathroom, while I fell to my ass and rested. Get to the end.

Waiting. That was the worst thing about it, because the days were so goddamn long. I was too wired to sleep and too captured to do something useful. Entirely cut off, and there was nothing to keep me company, nothing except for my own reflection…

White smoke spills into the street from the house along the dark side of the road. It looks like something is on fire. I get scared. There's a scar that will always remind me of him, and of what he could have been. Evolution ends at conception. My parents waited a long time before they had me. I know more about the mistakes they've made than I do about them. My parents.

Mom. Dad.

I had my doubts until I learned what the scar was. I thought I was adopted. I thought I was a mistake. I thought up all kinds of scenarios that involved them both, back to when they were dating to when they are married. If they ever fought, if Dad ever had an affair, if mom ever had an abortion or a miscarriage. So much they would never tell me and I would never know. I thought that when I came along, their fucked up lives were fixed. Turned out that mine was the fucked up one, and they were the ones who fixed it.

It was an undisturbed childhood. Home schooling. Sheltered existence. The soul was there but the love was mysteriously absent. I was along for the ride. Their careers were the vacation and I was the job. They let me do my own thing, and my own thing was learning not to rely so much on them. There is a little boy outside my window. He watches me sleep.

Appendicitis. Appendectomy. Hysterectomy? Don't know.

I asked them about the scar and I expected a lie. They gave me the truth, right up front. A happy, open and honest childhood. No illusions, no disadvantages. Who knows where it could have gone if Robotnik didn't give me the proper outlet for all that anger, doing me the favor of killing mom and dad before I had the chance.

He's watching right now.

The scar is still there. Sometimes, it itches. And before I wake up, I can feel another heartbeat and I can hear another breath coming in and out in out in out-

… I woke up scared. Still in the cell. Worry on the brain.

I made sure I was alone.

There was the food bowl, in the same spot, filled back up, once again with oranges. Nothing but blood oranges. I noticed that the other cells received all kinds of variety. Pears. Apples. Bananas sometimes. None for me.

I wondered how the food got here, right in front of me, without me waking up to hear it. A secret door in the floor, or along the walls. Or the ceiling. Somewhere. They could make sure I was asleep first before… hmm…

I had entertained a brief thought that perhaps the cameras were facades, ways to pacify us. I didn't know how they could be so entertained, on twenty-four hour watch. It's a lot to absorb. But they have to watch us, to make sure that what they're doing is working.

They would watch for moments like these.

I ate it all, regardless. They tasted exactly like the ones I used to grow. Perfect.

Worries. Concerns.

I had never slept that well, and yet I could fall asleep without realizing it and I could go under so deep that I could, hey, get kidnapped in my sleep. And I was still able to have dreams.

How do we all wake up at the same time?

Tristan. Tristan, Tristan, Tristan.

I watched him, studying his face as he tried to exert control over his cellmates, tell them how calm they should be. Blank stare. He's either lying or he isn't. He's either so surprised that he's in here with us after he gave up Knothole's position that he's drunk with it all, or I'm completely wrong. I got more tosses of the ball in that evening before once again collapsing from exhaustion. All this bloodflow kept me from thinking, but as soon as I finished the thoughts were back with a vengeance. Tristan. Tristan Tristan Tristan. What was thy motive? Why haven't you learned…

"Got it, everyone? All right. Dismissed."

This one took place on the very last leg of Knothole's desire to leave their comfortable homes. Already, villagers were digging warm little holes and burying themselves in farming or research. Even Sonic was busy babysitting supply trains to the other factions. There was but one group of serious soldiers left and trust me, they weren't that serious.

My final mission ordered by Princess Sally could be described as completely and totally fucking unnecessary. Routine reconnaissance of the underground forges, gather information on status of the Robians, determine viable and practical method of deactivation. We had no access to Robotnik's headquarters. We didn't know where it was, and we couldn't find the origin of the signal that was controlling them. If the brass had a contingency plan for this, they weren't informing the grunts.

I was aware of the contingency plan. Hell, it was mine. An EMP air burst, wiping out all above-ground electronics. It would render the Robians confused but at least they wouldn't come at us on sight, like the SWATbots. I was all for it, the Princess wasn't. It was a last resort for her.

The job now was to set up a net to record the exact wavelengths of the orders being received by the receptors, perhaps track down the source or at least block it. Whatever. It was something.

"What, you want to put a bell on them so we'll all know when they're coming?"

"Trust me. We'll know."

So I was left to lead a tiny group of soldiers barely willing to leave the village outskirts, let alone the forest. Our military at work, ladies and gentlemen. All but for the glory of the crown.

At least they followed orders. I ordered silence when we reached the kilometer limit. We arrived at the edge of the city. A sewer hole in the street opened to a series of tunnels, abandoned by Griff and his crew after Doomsday. We had to bring our own lighting, and use the power sources sparingly. I sent two of the soldiers, Greg and Vincent, off to the northeast. That left Tristan and I to take on the northwest. The tunnels were dead, all the lights long winked out. Old steel walls around us dry but the curved bottom still wet and emitting a foul odor. Tristan and I walked on opposite sides of the tunnel, treading on the foot-wide walkways. He had control of the light, holding it steady on our path. We had a long way to walk.

A zip caught his attention, and he lost his footing, one leg submerging into the murky water. I stopped walking and continued opening my bag.

"Ugh. Gross." Tristan shook his legs and regained his footing, turning the light back on the path and his attention back to me.

"Watch your step. Slippery." I closed my bag and carefully, I used my knife to peel the orange.

"Blood oranges?"

"Mmm. Would you like one?"

"No. They make me tired." He was still preoccupied with his soaking leg. "How many of those did you bring?"

"Lots." I let the peels drop into the water.

"Grow your own, huh?"

"It's all that I do." I couldn't stop eating them. I had the orange naked and I holstered the knife. I detached one section and chewed it down. "… Your final mission?"

"Yep… You?"

Never. "… Yeah… me too." I swallowed the rest of it whole. It didn't help.

We were silent until we reached the first junction of tunnels, which was fine by me. I was anxious. Random bouts of claustrophobia. I finished eating. The time came to choose another direction, choose another direction another-

… My mouth had gone dry by simply dreaming about it, about the hell of my last official mission. Our utter failure had given all of them an excuse to quit trying. Worries. Constant, constant worries. Water...

I used to boil mine. Old, paranoid habits die hard. But I couldn't do it here. Oh, I was perfectly fine with eating the food and maybe I would have been okay with the water if I didn't have to drink it out of the shower faucet, or the toilet. If it would come to that.

It didn't taste different. I didn't think that it did, but I could have been fooling myself. The mind plays tricks. When I was finally comfortable enough to take a shower, I'd stand under the stream for a long time, letting the water run into my mouth and put all my mental power into the taste. Varied results. Inconclusive.

Remember the desert.

I wanted to try something. A little experiment of my own. I stayed in the shower for a long time, to see if the temperature changed, if the color changed, if the pressure changed. I tried to make the time stretch to hours before I finally turned it off. Those watching us were obviously having better luck with their experiments. It was no longer fear of the cameras, but frustration. I was annoyed. Swatting at an elusive fly constantly buzzing around my ears. I found myself second guessing every decision to sit or stand or walk or try to sleep. How could I fool them and spite them? Of course, that was all bullshit. Needless thought noise. Instincts are a double edged sword. They can cloud your judgment the same way that they can save your life.

Keep the game in sight. Learn to want to play, to win. Get to the end.

The other prisoners appeared to be coming along a lot better than I was. They were still trying to remain secretive and cover their movements, but anyone who watches them for a straight hour sees the pattern.

They had heard the noise, too. Of course, they could also see where the pounding was coming from, or not, depending on which was more cruel. The point is that I couldn't see jack shit. I tried jumping up to the window numerous times but I could never get a firm grip on the ledge. It had been rounded off.

"I hope you're enjoying this vicious cycle of failure." Which they most certainly were. Their jobs were easy compared to ours. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't laugh at my situation and I could no longer pretend to admire the experiment. Self-defense had kicked in and it wouldn't turn off.

I was going to win this. If it killed me.

I took another shower. I tried to relax; I needed a drink…

We made it on schedule to the northwest sector of Robocountry, the underground forges, the crystal mines, heat attacking us from all sides. Shadows moved along the dirt and metal walls, shape-shifting nightmares inches away, diligently digging and digging. Sounds of heavy work, but no groaning. No breathing.

I checked my watch and hoped that Greg and Vincent made it on their end of the cavern undetected. Fuck. I was never this worried on a mission before. Stupid bureaucratic nonsense. Politics. I took my pad and pencil out of my flak jacket and scribbled a question to Tristan: Have you been here before? I handed him the entire pad without looking at him.

Seconds later he handed the response back to me, and as long as it had taken him, I expected at least two full sentences.

No.

Peachy. Just peachy. First timers were ticking time bombs, volatile concoctions that careened off course whenever they encountered obstacles. They explode at the slightest tremor, and everyone gets hurt because of them. I had tried to avoid it altogether by suffering through the nightmare once and keeping the same soldiers around me, treating them like family. Course, they either died or retired happily with their real family, who were nicer to them than I ever was. Well, so much for loyalty.

When it came to the Robians, you never sent in first timers. Ever. I cannot be clearer about this. It's a golden rule. Rookies think they have it all figured out, that they can handle seeing their friends and their parents all dolled up like giant metal marionettes, baring fangs and claws and on the attack at first contact. They know nothing of their own nature. Rage is flammable. They think they can handle anything, until they've zipped completely out of control and gone kill-crazy. An explosive with a lit fuse, right next to me. "No." Wonderful. I love it.

He handled it well, I have to admit. I allowed him to lead us, following the path on the map down to the line, down to the exact coordinates. Paint me surprised. And he knew a thing or two about stealth, which was refreshing. I didn't have to yank him out of harm's way once. But… his heart just wasn't in it. That crazy, deadpan expression of his I would get to know all too well. It didn't take a genius to see that he was going through the motions, performing an appointed task like a cog in a machine, as dead as the Robians he was trying so hard not to think about. There was no heart. He wasn't there. But he didn't break down. Not early on. And that I have to give him credit for.

We made it to the second level, where the dirt was being hauled to the surface, and we were all ready to set up our gear. Tristan set his bag down in front of him and pulled out the unit.

"… Shit." He held out his hands, so I could see in the dim light. They were covered in moisture. The smell of melted plastic hit me. "Something's leaking."

"Is the unit okay?"

He wiped his hands dry and set it all up. It seemed to work fine. We were about to proceed when the alarms went off. My sidearm was out before I realized that it wasn't for us. I could feel the walls quivering. Work had ceased.

Greg and Vincent.

We set up our equipment in a hurry and left it on standby. We had more room to hurry because of the steady increase of Robians in the vicinity. Whatever they did, they must have done as much damage as they could.

We hurried all the way to the other side of the forges, out of breath even though we weren't running. This is what happens when a mission goes bad. All kinds of stress comes down on you and your body runs itself through a meat grinder, and if you aren't calm and collected, you can't function. You have to let the panic in, but you have to control it. You let yourself worry for others' lives and that gets you mad. You breathe. You deal. But what was weird for me that moment was that I swear I could feel the heat of the desert on my back even then, scorching me as the minutes passed, the desert the desert the desert-

… Get up. Eat. Drink; shower. Exercise. Down to a goddamn science, eventually. Try to sleep. Try not to think. It comes down to trying to speed up the long hours in any way you can. Break it down in segments, vary activity. Keep sharp. Keep the body active. Some days I worked up enough sweat to do it, but then the ball started to fall apart. I had been throwing it too hard. It would bounce no more. After that, I didn't sleep until I was forced to. I think there's a gas. I can't stay awake forever. I never remember falling asleep. Gas. Sleeping gas. That explains how they can get the food here. Clean up the cell. The ball fell apart -- it fucked my entire schedule up. Believe me, it was tough to get back on the horse. There was also a question of concentration. My brain was getting muddled from the prolonged departure from my normal diet. I didn't mind the boredom anymore. Watching the patterns of the other cell mates was like watching the same wave crash on the same shore over and over again, but I could do it. Entertainment didn't factor. I could watch paint dry. Grass grow. Flesh rot. There was also this feeling of anxiety that would hit in the mornings. Sick of being so helpless. Alone, alone for a long time, with nothing to do, nothing at all. What does that do to a person? The body is durable, the mind isn't. Was that what they were waiting for? What they wanted to see? The slightest pressure and it shatters into pieces. How much does it hurt? How fun is it to watch? Do you enjoy it? Sure, the glass cracking is a great thing, but what if it took months, even years, for it to show the first signs of damage? You wouldn't sit through all of it, you bastards. You aren't watching me now. You're hiding an ace until later and then what? Where will you go from there? It doesn't make any sense for this to be what it seems like. It's a game. Nothing but a game. And why invent a game that only you can win at? What would be the point of watching it if you already knew the outcome. There is a way to beat this and it isn't in quitting. All well and good to have confidence but all I could do was think about it. I couldn't see a way to act.

And then the tortures started…

Finish the mission or die trying. The sidearm felt good in my hand, sweat collecting around the handle as we hurried to where the Robians were running, staying in the shadow of the machines. Tristan kept up close behind, watching my back. Not such a bad kid after all.

We ran further and further until we started to hear weapons discharging. Vincent had been equipped with an automatic SWAT assault rifle, his favorite. His baby. It could have been him making the noise. More than likely.

Different scenarios of easy, simple tasks going horribly awry because of stupid mistakes ran through my head. They had probably been spotted. I slowed to a stop behind a large steel receiving silo and forced Tristan to his knees next to me. I zipped open his backpack. "Here, hold this." I handed him one end of the remote cord, reeling the remote into my hand.

"Can we set it off this early?"

I didn't respond, concentrating on keying in the codes to set off our setup unit in twelve hours time. We would have to retrieve the data later, if it wasn't discovered and taken apart. I finished and put away the remote, picking my gun back up. "You might want to get a weapon out."

He struggled with his bag for a bit and forcibly yanked the rifle out after it got caught on the zipper. He flicked it on and it warmed up as we resumed running to the noise. We followed the yells.

We reached the end of the cavern, where the clay walls curved and rounded off into a large hallway. The Robians were gathered in a semicircle around the entrance, emitting garbled growls and snarls on the other end of the bandwidth. We had to get closer to see the SWATbots ducking on either side of the hallway, occasionally firing shots into it.

"They're pinned down, from both sides."

"Shit."

There was one option that we had. It came immediately to me. It wouldn't be pretty but it would give Greg and Vincent a fighting chance. Us, however…

"Follow my lead."

I aimed the sidearm at the connecting wires at the top of the power generator and fired. And kept firing. There was a moment where all of the Robians turned to look at us before the lights went out. We could still see their eyes.

"GO! MOVE!" I pulled Tristan after me in the opposite direction. "FIRE! KEEP FIRING!"

We lit our way back to the dirt haulers, missing bits of light and jumping forward. Strobe. Strobe. Strobe. Our path bathed in red. It was entirely inefficient way to see but I spotted our way out. A yellow construction hoverpad on a pair of tracks.

Too many sharks around.

Tristan vaulted over the steel hood and flipped the dashboard switches on. Headlights lit our way out, along the steel track. The Robians were closing in, lights ablaze and claws gleaming in the dark. I fired at their chest plates, impact knocking them back but not doing any permanent damage. The carriage engine rumbled and powered up, vibrating the barrel and screwing up my aim…

And we were off with a WHOOSH, so fast I almost fell out of the back. Tristan started to slow it down.

"Keep up the speed! They'll give chase!"

The pad sped up again. I had my footing. Air and hot, wet dirt rushed past me. I kept my gun trained on the path behind us, even though I couldn't see through the dark of the tunnel. Tristan went faster and faster but it was so gradual that I didn't notice. It should have occurred to me that he might have been having some trouble operating the rig. Seems there was no real way to steer and he wasn't concentrating enough on his speed. We came out of the other end like a comet; the light was murder and I was thrown from the back and into the sky blinded by the orange fire and suffocated by the darkness-

… It was a bad day already. I woke up and immediately vomited all over myself, heaving and gasping on my bed, light red gunk spewing between my teeth. The smell of melted plastic. I stumbled to my feet but didn't make it to the bathroom in time to clear any of it. What a mess. I'd have to live with it all day. After it subsided, it was time to eat. I stumbled to the bowl and opened up the oranges with my teeth. I noticed mid-chew that the very bottom of the bowl was covered with used, dried peels. I don't know why this freaked me out.

I couldn't calm down.

Something was definitely, definitely rotten.

It happened to be the day the torture lists were announced. One prisoner from every cell. I was in there somewhere. No doubt who was doing this to us after that. The first curveball. Robotnik's voice and the promise of pain to come. Letting us know that they were still there. Something more solid. A direction to send our frustration. How would they proceed with this? What were they trying to tell us?

I needed a drink.

I didn't want to be awake. I didn't want to sit around waiting for them to take me away and stick metal pins under my eyelids. Inject me with vein constrictors. Squeeze more sensitive regions until they burst like grapes. Pour hydrochloric acid down my throat. Drip water on my forehead. Smash my extremities with a hammer. Shine red light into my eyes. Diminish me. Kill me.

It wasn't a long wait.

I wondered if I could stay immobile the entire day without making it seem like I was giving up. I could justify it. I stayed in bed. I kept my eyes closed. I realized how tired I was. Tired of seeing myself everywhere I looked. Even the bed became uncomfortable. I had to move. To the corner. Then to the bathroom. I turned the water on and balanced out the temperature. I laid on my back and leaned my head against the wall. I opened my mouth and gulped down mouthfuls. It kept me awake and the water gave me something to concentrate on. I tried to count the points of impact. I watched the opposite wall, adjusting my perception until the exit made it look like a door. I waited for it to open.

It worked.

It happened like I had fallen asleep, like every other night. Only I woke up in a different room and the shock was torture enough. I couldn't move. Minutes passed before I found out that it was because of the restraints. Leather, I thought. They felt like leather. I couldn't even close my eyes because of the strap across my forehead, even though I could have sworn that they were just closed moments earlier.

And just before that, I was in my cell.

And before that, in Knothole.

I kept my mouth shut, letting loose some whimpers every few minutes to relieve the pressure. I flexed my muscles to keep them alive. I counted sheep. I held my breath. The sounds of machinery hummed close to me. It would occasionally sound different, molded into another, more familiar and relatable sound. There was nothing to do but lay there and wait. Sit back and take it. Endure. Wait, while all of the images of what they could do to me ran across my eyes like newsreel footage and I conveniently forgot all of my training. Pain to come. Memories, things I didn't want to think about, they all came back. They said hello. I heard their voices, disguised as the humming of the machines. Whispers. I could hear whispers. I barely had enough energy to shiver.

No one came…

Remember the desert.

It was soft but it hurt. I hurt.

I tried to remain still, half buried into the hill of dirt. I heard footsteps approaching.

"You okay?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah… I'm good. Leg's broken, but I'm just swell."

"Shit. Sorry. I tried slowing down. The exit came up too fast." He bent down and eased me up to a sitting position.

"Take a look. It's down near the ankle."

Tristan withdrew a utility knife out of his jacket pocket and carefully cut the laces of my boots. He pulled it off and whistled in awe. "That's a good one. It almost broke the skin."

"Nice."

"A bunch of dirt all over it. Some blood, can't see a wound, though. It could have been worse."

"Can you help me walk?"

"Yeah. Just a sec." He ripped a piece of his jacket off and tied it around my shin, then pulled me to my feet, getting an arm under my shoulder and around my back. "My gun is gone. Couldn't find it."

"Huh. I can't believe you didn't get hurt."

"Us wolves have remarkable luck."

We carefully made our way down the dirt hill to ground level, where our view of the sky all but disappeared. Dirt hills as tall as houses surrounded us on all sides. It was a maze.

"We'll reach the end of these soon. Then, it's a long walk through the desert back to the forest."

I laughed again. "What a last mission, huh?"

"Better be a parade for us when we get back." His joy abruptly faded out. "I hope Vince and Greg are okay."

I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. I didn't want to upset the guy carrying me. "Rally point."

The easy part was getting out of the cluster of hills. It got harder when the sun had a clear path to bear down on us. The heat burned a hole through the sky and all of the clouds disintegrated. It got difficult immediately. I didn't last as long as I thought I could.

The first thing the resistance did with Robotnik gone was to set up a large radio net that clouded the atmosphere between all airborne 'bots units and the old Buttnik satellite in orbit. They went haywire, lost their sense of direction. They flew until they ran out of fuel and crashed. Skeletons were all around us, half buried underneath the relentless blowing sand. And to think… -Without contact from headquarters, the 'bots wandered aimlessly until they shut down. I couldn't help but think that some of them were waiting for us.

Walking on my one good leg and using Tristan as a crutch wasn't doing any good for my broken ankle, and he must have noticed this, because he threw me over his shoulders and did all of the walking for both of us. He had been in great shape. All well and good, but now it felt like the sun had an even easier time with me. My arms went numb.

Seek shelter. Survive.

I had to have gotten nervous. Yeah, that was it. I let myself get worried. My heart rate must have gone through the roof when I saw the trail of blood behind us. There was a wound after all. Broken skin. A bone sticking out and draining me completely and marking our trail. I could smell my flesh cooking under my fur. Tristan trudged on, feet sinking deep into the burning sand, slowing down only to clear the wet hair out of his eyes. I stopped sweating. My brain fried. I scanned the horizon frantically for the nearest source of water. I was blinded by a harsh white glare.

Tristan shifted me around on his shoulders, trying to keep up the pace. I think he saw the green of the trees up ahead, but couldn't tell if it was a mirage. "Stop fidgeting."

I tried to focus. "If… you can go faster… that would be great."

"Doing my best," he managed to breathe out loud enough for me to hear.

"It would be… well-advised. We're being followed."

"You're delirious."

"Sure, nobody trusts the injured guy."

He was actually already turning around as I said it. His body went rigid and he almost let go of me. "Oh no." He must have seen what I had seen, approaching slowly but surely, two vaguely red eyes glowing near the head of the oddly shaped white light.

"Start running."

He stared off in the distance, trying to escape from the fix we were suddenly in. Sensible lies. "I can't. We won't make it. He'll catch us by nightfall."

"Put me down. Loan me your knife. Start running." I suddenly fell to the ground, kicking up all kinds of sand but I barely felt the impact I was so far gone. "Give it to me."

Tristan noticed the bloody trail of sand. "Did you plan on saying something about this?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Hadn't occurred to me." My eyes involuntarily closed. I felt him untie his wrapping from my ankle. "No, no no no no, just hand me your fucking knife! Come on, you can do it. Passion comes from lack of ownership. Get mad."

"Shut up."

"You're wasting valuable running time."

"You are one stubborn son of a bitch. Aha!" He found the wound. He squeezed it. Hard.

"Fucking bastard! Get your hands off me! Listen, listen, let me do it, let me do this. It went south but I can die doing it with a clear conscious, and you can live and go back to Knothole and live the rest of your life safe and happy like all of them. I don't want our future. It was my fault he found us. Let me make it right. TRISTAN! You're just too goddamn good to leave me behind, aren't you! You're fucked if you stay here!" My eyes opened again. I saw it, the demon, getting closer and closer, already larger than life, murder in its eyes.

"Commander… I'll be right back." He finished tying my leg off and unsheathed his knife.

"NO! STOP! YOU CAN'T KILL IT! IT WAS ONE OF US! IT USED TO BE ONE OF US!" I plunged into the dark fringe just as the two of them met, face to face, metal and flesh, and I heard an inch of growing before I started screaming-

… Figure it out. That's what the voices said. "Figure it out."

Torture. Right.

I woke up where the food normally was, next to my bed. We are, all of us, dolphins in a sea full of sharks. I am food.

Nothing was done to me but I felt injured nonetheless. Even more drained. More uneasy. On edge. Suspicious. They isolated me, publicly stated their knowledge of my military importance, but had no contact, had been asked no questions, tried no extractions. Was this more acknowledgement? Did they not have enough time to give me the proper attention? Or was this supposed to be the torture?

Food that morning was mushy and inadequate. Quality had certainly dropped since my return. Would lodge a complaint with the management. Running out of gas. Getting harder and harder to move. Had to focus on something. Occupy self. The machine was wheezing and shaking. Surveillance cameras in all four corners, up by the ceiling, far out of reach. It was a strong possibility that they weren't fake. Three mirrored walls, with one glass wall that looks into four other cells. One of these walls had to be the secret door. A5 posted at the top. End of the line, bottom of the heap. Small bathroom with toilet and shower spout, drain the center of the floor. Only there so it could be taken away. Two knobs, hot and cold. An opportunity. Barred window, out of reach. The friendly reminder. Warm breeze blowing in with the faint smell of dead grass overpowered by the oil and rust. Conclusion: No conclusion. The pipes work no problem, hot and cold corresponding correctly to their temperatures,for now. The cell is cleaned every morning, food placed neatly in plain sight. Robotnik knew things he shouldn't know. He isn't clever enough to figure it all out. He's only capable of cruelty, no rational thought. The blood oranges, the isolation…

He killed the cute fox girl. He killed my parents. New information: Bed wasn't made. I woke up long after those others did. Noises from outside were louder. Cameras were hotter, more leering. Bathroom was seedier. Rust collecting around the shower and knobs. H on right knob halfway rubbed off. And me. Just look at me. Look at how pathetic I was. Messed up hair, eyes unfocused, head rolling around. Note: possible use of drugs on my system. In food or in water. In air.

The day had barely started and I wanted it over. I dived in deep this time, swimming to the very center. Ran far away. I stay alive if I keep moving. Keep heading west…

We were driving east, for once. Returning from an extended vacation, coming home to pick up some things. Driving fast on the highway, gliding over the surface. So smooth. I wasn't getting sick. Something was wrong.

I could smell smoke.

That was a bad sign. My sense of smell was always terrible. If I smelled it, sure as hell everyone else did too.

We were coming over the last hill into Mobotropolis and it was like a nightmare. There had been tall buildings that could be seen before the summit, and they were no longer there. Black smoke was spilling into the sky, staining it. Fires replaced the paved roads. Automated units swarmed the skies, spotlights on even though it was in the afternoon. The sun was winking out.

Our car screeched to a halt. I can't remember anything my parents said. They might not have said anything. I might have laid down across the backseat without being told to. My father jerked the car around and we sped briefly into oncoming traffic before slamming over the divide onto the westbound lane. We didn't get far before the HoverUnits descended on us, engines roaring loud enough to frappe my bones into paste.

They fired, tearing up the road and causing our car to tip over. Gravity reversed. I stayed conscious long enough to hear them land around the wreckage of our car, murderous white light shining into my eyes. And to think, there was a parade when the city defenses were automated.

It's a blur after that. I was awake but I was blocking all of the visual information. Robotnik did us hard. He made the kids watch the Robotosizations. I saw my parents die. That's how it is. They're dead. Simple. And I'm dead too. No coming back from it. It all gets so vivid after seeing those glowing red eyes of theirs. Robotnik was smug when he left command to the 'bot-heads and exited the room, but I can just imagine the look on his face during the counter-attack. The few adults that remained were barely equipped with anything more than slingshots and spit-wads, and still they came for us, charging in and giving us enough cover to escape to Knothole.

I didn't feel so empty anymore. These people gave their lives so we could carry on.

Take back the city.

Kill him.

On the way to Knothole, most of the kids around me were crying. I wanted to. I tried very hard to be a part of them, grieve for the Mobius we all knew, the one we had left burning to a pile of ash behind us. I couldn't. It wasn't long before I stopped trying. This is why. We couldn't back down, not even when it appeared to be over. It's never over. We can't relax, and only when we destroy him with our bare hands and we see his red eyes clearly die out and we burn his body like he burned our planet to ground will we finally take one second to breathe… and then we have to keep moving keep moving or we die we make the planet ours again-

… Not now…

-There is a little boy that watches me sleep-

All right, all right!

I wasn't taken in again, for torture. Seems they wanted me to be left alone. As little contact as possible. Less room for mistakes, less room for me to escape. That's just fine. Super duper.

Update: my hands smell like melted plastic. cameras remain motionless, walls remain motionless, no more hot water, dust, mildew on the ceiling, my own fingerprints along the walls, no more breeze from the forest, no longer moved every night back to the beds, blankets untouched, uncleaned, lack of winter coat and it's so very obviously winter (good one), food less and less fresh, less and less edible, have to wonder about water, too.

But last night, I was moved.

It worked. He changed the shower's temperature because he saw that I was spending too much time in there. He's watching. He cares. New information: Knothole had to have been given up. After Robotnik's return from Doomsday, he could have gotten hold of any of them and force fed them lies. Broke them down, made them weak, then promised them sanctuary for information, about the leaders. He could have easily gone back on his word after they had us all, placing the dirty traitorous fuck in the cells with us, waiting for a time to eventually reveal to all of us that he was the one who-

Tristan. TRISTAN.

And here I was under the impression I wouldn't have to deal with these feelings again. But here they were, returned in my sanity's absence.

I couldn't take it anymore. I had to leave. Or find another way.

Sleep. I had to sleep.

Noises I recognized... I could hear them… Through the walls. I pressed up against them and they felt paper thin. Clean air on the other side. Waiting for me. Faint, coming through that window but I got it. Come on, I could do it. All I had to do is think. The danger… that's what makes a game fun. The danger. And how would this game be dangerous? … It had to be something simple…

I could stay in the bathroom. I wouldn't have to see them anymore. If he turned off the shower for that, what would he do if I lived there? Seek shelter. Stay alive. It's so hot. Why's it so hot in here? I try to turn on the shower but nothing but sand pours out. I back away and something nudges the back of my legs. The nearest source of water is…

But I was put back. I was in bed.

They wanted me to see…

So I stayed out, one more day. I watch the others, for one. more. day.

I blinked and I missed it. Their cell was suddenly covered in blood. One named Durango and a raccoon left the bathroom, bathed head to toe, shaking their heads. Three others were crying. Tristan… where was Tristan…?

One of theirs had died. Obviously. He had been gotten to, tortured, toyed with, fucked with, and his strings were cut, not for their benefit, but for mine. There was a meaning that I was missing, or a lack of meaning that I was missing, or… it… is…

He wants us to go through hell.

That's it. He's bringing down the hammer. He's cracking in the surface.

I frantically searched the confines of my cell, found the wrinkled, fucked up remains of the ball and threw it tiredly against the walls but it was working, threw it tiredly against the walls but it wasn't working.

Thirsty. I needed a drink. I turned the shower on. Freezing, freezing water under an open, freezing window in a freezing environment, hell, and the pipes groaned and water was trickling out with a weak effort but I drank and drank until it stopped. It stopped coming. No more showers.

I was still thirsty. I needed to sleep. The nearest source of water is…

Death. They have the right idea.

I kneeled in front of the toilet like it was an altar. Ignoring the smell, I faceplanted into the bowl and swallowed and swallowed until my throat was sore and I was forced under again…

"What, you want to put a bell on them so we'll all know when they're coming?"

"Trust me. We'll know."

Back. Ohhhhhh was I back.

It was like a dream.

One night. One more night, just to make sure I'm right. Letting them have me one more night. A door opens so fast that it looks like a white rectangle of light suddenly appearing on the wall. I stay motionless as I feel them enter, breathless bodies, two of them, picking up the bowl and putting more food in with such motherly care, and leaving again with the faint metal clanking of their footsteps. Quiet as a metallic mouse. It can't be a mirage. The enemy, taking care of me. At their mercy. They walk out, and at any moment I expect the secret door to disappear again but it stays. It stays. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I'm counting the seconds it's remaining in sight. I get well past five-hundred seconds before-Blood dripped from his claws. He breathed hard, standing over the mangled mess of flesh and metal at his feet. He brought his arm back and lazily threw his knife into the distance. The sky momentarily stained red. He fell to his knees.

"I can't carry you any more," Tristan said through clenched teeth.

"You… fucking prick… fucking stupid prick…" Unraveling…

"I'm sorry-"

"Why… why wouldn't you let me do it?"

"Too weak-"

"I knew this was going to happen…"

"Can't-"

"YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME KILL HIM! YOU COULD HAVE MADE IT HOME!"

At his feet, the metal head roared, still active. It tried moving. It was calling for its comrades.

I was yelling. I don't know how I managed. "WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME DO IT!"

He turned to face me, and he was different. "Because you're trapped." The fire in his eyes. "You're trapped in a cell, all by yourself. You can't get out. You won't escape. You'll never escape." This… it didn't happen.

There was something in the water.

Tristan's flesh melts. He spills onto the sand, his metal bones gleaming, geysering in all directions. The sky spider-webs and breaks open. It oozes. I'm sinking into the sand and it gets dark and cloudy. I'm falling through the Robotropolis sky and when I land, it's in a holding cell-

Get me out.

I think the drain is clogged. Water is rising but it isn't filling out into the rest of the cell. It's stopping at the door. I try to leave. I can't. There's a force field keeping me in with the water. It reaches my neck and I can't swim up. I don't float. I try to seal my mouth shut but it still gets in, seeping through the cracks and trails down my throat. It slithers into my nostrils and connects to the first stream in my throat and blocks my airway off entirely. I can't see. Only then do I realize what it is. Oil-We made it back to Knothole, of course. Tristan carried me the rest of the way. We didn't speak. That must have helped.

He was barely alive when we made it, just at the village's edge. We were swarmed upon and carried to the hospital. Vincent and Greg were already there. I faintly heard compliments of how brave we were, and how successful the hunt was.

That's what we called recon missions: hunts. Sickening. I was sickened by our juvenile behavior. We would never grow up. We couldn't save this place to save ourselves.

They strapped me down to the gurney in the hospital and they left the room. All of them. They never came back. They're dead. I couldn't close my eyes. The machines spoke to me, faint whispers that grew louder and louder until they were yelling. Lyrics to a song. He was near, oh so near. Count your heartbeat. I was afraid to look. But I did. It was him, HIM, a few weeks old, all shriveled up, eyes still sealed shut but seeing me for the fraud I am. Evil not to care. I tried to make it so that he killed himself. Get the information down. That simple. He killed himself. Memories of my death. To the point. Dead. Think as little as possible. He was dead, all right. Watch your breath exit your mouth. Better for leaving first, he did what I could never do, those times I went to the hills and stood at the very edge, lacking the nerve to take one more step. Force yourself to cry.

You saw it every day, rebels going out on missions they knew they wouldn't return from, flocks of birds in a frenzy flapping towards the black clouds of Robotropolis even though they know better, but maybe they knew more, that this planet is too small for us and Robotnik, and if Robotnik is destined to win, well… better now than later. Give us this day our daily dread. Maybe it's time to get smart. You won't make it to the end before the light turns red. My dead brother leans in close, twisting the skin attaching us at the stomach and…

We're fighting for an image, a home that no longer exists. We were supposed to learn from the past, but we had a new home all this time and we took it for granted.

… I'm lost-

He wants us to go through hell.

My poor brother. Bringing more into this clear roof blue sky fungus pit is what's cruel. We are all disgusting. What the fuck were my parents thinking? I can't say it has been any better in here, but it wasn't long before I didn't miss the others. I forgot about them entirely. They'd have to get on without my assistance. I made my cell smaller, I made my world smaller. I could think about the game.

The game…

The door is still open.

My fingers feel small. The dreams are on purpose. Won't be able to deal much longer. The cracks appear. It takes a second for the flesh to realize that it's hurt, oh so badly hurt, and then the blood escapes, pouring out, and it doesn't stop. My twin brother leans close to me and whispers…

… everything…

… he tells me-

… My eyes snap open wide. I don't know how much time has passed.

I figured it out.

The door is still open.

I'm hanging over the edge of the toilet seat, and I can see the food out of the corner of my eye, exactly the way they placed it in the dream. But staring back at me is my savior, all rotting teeth and drained color, and he smiles at me. And I smile at him.

My savior.

He leans up out of the water and plants a kiss on me, and he swallows me and keeps swallowing until I'm gone again-

This is where I stand to my feet and walk out.

It was clever of them. Bold, too, to have an answer to begin with. They better be willing to accept this.

That brilliant murderous white light overwhelms me, blinds me, but I get out. Outside of the cell. I keep walking. Further and further. Lights shine down on the city, and I'm free. I win the battle even if I lost the war months ago. Years ago. Since the beginning. Right now, this feels good.

I can't. I can't ruin this. Words will ruin this.

I keep walking. I don't stop. I leave the prison, Robotropolis, and all of it far behind.

And that is how it happened.