BETWEEN DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES
Doomsday was a ruse. From concept to execution, I meticulously designed the project to fail. Nobody suspected a thing—not even Snively. By removing myself from the picture entirely, I could survey the playing field and calculate a far more elaborate game plan. It afforded me not only the luxury of time, but the opportunity to offer a false sense of security to my enemies. As soon as they let their guard down, I could crush them from all sides.
After the spectacular demolition of the Doomsday Tower, it was largely assumed that I was dead—although I did hear scattered rumors that the blast from the Deep Power Stones had sent me into the Void, or some such nonsense. Those demented animals are hopelessly credulous. The simple truth is that I never entered the Void, involuntarily or otherwise, and I have little interest in doing so. Rather, I spent a great deal of time observing my enemies on Mobius. It wasn't long before I discovered the location of Knothole: a crucial element of my plan that, ironically, came about quite by accident. One of my new, stealthier SpyEyes happened to wander into an unexplored area of the forest, and voila. Did you seriously believe I wouldn't have found it eventually? The Great Forest is only so Great, after all—and if I truly grew tired of searching, I could have always started a forest fire.
Anyway, this information would ordinarily have been transmitted to the command center, and thereby to Snively—who, I might add, was greatly enjoying his newfound autonomy—but I elected to overwrite that little directive. My base of operations was located inside the caldera of the centuries-extinct Dark Volcano (Mobians are delightfully clever with their geographic names, aren't they?), where I could gather information and refine my plans in secret. Upon learning the location of Knothole, I dispatched a dozen more probes and spent weeks studying their behavior—their daily routines, their private lives, their secrets. Of course, I would later use this information to group them strategically in my prison cells.
The Freedom Fighters themselves recognized that it must have taken years to design the prison complex. In actuality, it took decades. I had been imagining the cells, diagramming and refining them, since before the Coup. The idea was born primarily from my love of experiments—which is natural, I suppose, given my scientific background—and I daydreamed about it with some frequency. After the fallout of the Coup and the subsequent Freedom Movement, my timing had to be absolutely precise. I began constructing the cells without Snively's knowledge, using the Doomsday Project as a diversion. In a whimsical bit of foreshadowing, I hid the construction site with a sophisticated series of mirrors.
It is with great satisfaction that I finally confronted Snively in the command center, months after my alleged demise. The use of force was unnecessary; my presence alone was enough to put the fear of god in him. The coward babbled on and on, stuttering through apologies and meaningless pledges of servitude. It would have been so easy for me to simply do away with him—he more than deserved it. Alas, for all his faults, the boy does have a unique gift for the art of torture. It ultimately proved advantageous to allow Snively the privilege of doing my dirty work.
There were, however a few unexpected events along the course of my plan—not the least of which was the Hedgehog's escape from the roboticizer, following our ambush on Knothole. This occurred as a result of his two remaining compatriots, Princess Acorn and Sir Charles Hedgehog, bursting into the roboticizer chamber in the midst of his transformation. Oh, how he screamed in horror as the light seared into his bones, blood coagulating into silicon, skin solidifying into cold steel. Just as his legs and torso were nearing completion, the Princess machine-gunned the roboticizer into oblivion—a breathtaking ejection of diamond dust that gave Snively a miniature nervous breakdown. Sir Charles fled the chamber with his unconscious nephew, followed closely by the Princess until a SWATbot immobilized her with a stun weapon. I later put her into a chemically induced coma and imprisoned her with two other choice subjects—but I'll come back to that part momentarily.
It was sometime earlier that I completed my greatest creation yet: a synthetic red fox named Robert, capable of learning and behaving almost indistinguishably from a living counterpart. So realistic were his attributes that he, in fact, believed himself to be an actual Mobian. His first objective was to assassinate Sir Charles Hedgehog in his Robotropolis hideaway; thereafter he would use the information I programmed into Princess Acorn's handheld device, NICOLE, to organize and execute a mass breakout in the prison complex. My methods were wickedly deceptive—forcing Robert to dig for information and assemble it piece by piece. This would ensure ample time for the prisoners to figure out how to escape on their own, without Robert's help. They failed miserably, needless to say. The key to their escape was right in front of them all along: the toilet water. If they drank it, a chemical would have counteracted the sleeping gas, enabling them to simply exit their cells; I left the doors open for ten minutes every night. The only prisoner who figured it out—Commander Brandon—was so crazy by that time, he thought he was hallucinating. When Robert finally got around to releasing the rest of the Freedom Fighters, they were so desperate to escape that they'd trust anybody, even a stranger of questionable origin. This perfectly supported my original hypothesis.
But here's where the story gets really interesting.
When Robert located Sir Charles' hideaway, he found the old hedgehog inside treating Sonic for his wounds. I did not anticipate this. Fortunately for all of us, Sonic was unconscious at the time. Following his instructions, Robert assassinated Charles with a shot to the head, then proceeded to deactivate all of his equipment. Sonic awoke during the commotion and noticed Robert and the gun. He did not notice his uncle's robotic corpse. Keep in mind that the Hedgehog's condition was quite severe: his incubation in the machine hadn't been long enough for the ligaments and brain tissue to properly fuse with his new cybernetic limbs. As a consequence, he was unable to coordinate himself, and he effectively became a paraplegic. In addition, his speech and thought processes were hindered by excruciating glitches. It's no wonder, then, that the Hedgehog thought he recognized Robert. He asked the fox to shoot him.
I had never planned for Robert to ever encounter Sonic, much less murder him, so imagine my surprise when he actually honored that request. It still baffles me. I did not instruct Robert to kill the Hedgehog—he clearly made that decision on his own, which should have been impossible. I'm not complaining, mind you, but I have yet to encounter a reasonable scientific explanation for his behavior. On the other hand, since I never instructed him not to kill Sonic the Hedgehog, perhaps he simply made a logical assumption.
What most confounds me, though, is what took place immediately afterward. Robert stepped outside, put the gun to his head, and fired directly into his own temple. It would have obviously defied his programming to make that decision on purpose, so it's possible that the act of killing Sonic might have scrambled something. Remarkably, his neurological architecture suffered only minimal damage. The essence of his assignment remained more or less intact, although he could no longer recall who he was or what had just taken place. His ensuing relationship with NICOLE is equally peculiar, but fascinating nonetheless.
As it would turn out, the Hedgehog did not actually die when Robert shot him. The plasma bolt penetrated his brain, which most certainly killed his organic half, but his robotic parts remained fully functional and began to take on a life of their own. I shall attempt to explain this for the layman. There are two primary data cores, you see, in any roboticized Mobian. Commands are shared between a secondary core in the head cavity (which performs simple tasks, like prioritizing instructions) and the primary core in the chest cavity (which processes more specific directives like "work," "attack," etc.). Since the Hedgehog's roboticization was incomplete, he never had a secondary core to begin with. His consciousness, then—or whatever primitive facsimile was left of it—was transmitted to the primary core when he died. In essence, he became the living dead.
To make things even more interesting, the undead Hedgehog somehow grew to realize that Robert was working for me, even though Robert himself had forgotten. Call it robotic intuition. Over time, he also "learned" that the fox had been responsible for his uncle's murder. Apparently, that seedling of revenge was all it took for the Hedgehog to rise and kill Robert at all costs. Seriously. You just can't make this stuff up.
And yet, in spite of everything, the cards still fell into place, and I got to witness a jolly good show—complete with stunts, explosions, and all manner of violent spectacle. I think Robert's prerecorded Message From Our Sponsor might have scared the hell out of some of them (namely Tristan), but they still boarded the rocket ship out of their own volition. Then again, they didn't really have much of a choice, since there's nothing left for them here. Robert was the one who built the rocket ship, by the way; it was among the numerous projects he toiled on day and night. I think he did a splendid job.
Just a few hours ago, I had a nice little dinner with Princess Acorn to celebrate my victory. Her coma was yet another charade; all it took to wake her was a simple injection. She and I would frequently meet for tea in the evenings after the prisoners were asleep, chatting about so many interesting topics: village gossip, military secrets, coordinates to the remaining Freedom Fighter groups, and so on. I never expected to retrieve that information from the other prisoners, because the Princess was the only individual who could possibly have known it. We tortured the others for the satisfaction alone.
As you might expect, the Princess did not give us the information voluntarily. Instead, we administered a regular dose of my special truth serum, making her pleasantly cooperative. Side effects included drowsiness, upset stomach, mild headaches, and a distorted sense of time and place. If Sonic was the living dead, Sally Acorn was surely his zombie bride.
At dinner this evening, the Princess didn't touch her plate. She sat across from me, staring vacantly at the candelabra centerpiece between us. She rarely speaks anymore, so I did most of the talking. I said that her father would love what I've done with the place, if it were even possible for him to visit. She didn't think that was funny. After a moment of awkward silence, I decided that medicating her for weeks on end might have caused a bit of brain damage. I then dismissed her from the table and allowed her to leave Robotropolis if she wished. The Princess just stared at me. Finally, I asked the SWATbots to escort her from the building.
Out of pure, morbid curiosity, I decided to follow her with one of my SpyEyes. She was wandering aimlessly through the junkyards like a dumb animal. It was sad, in a way, to see her reduced to so little. Though I'll never admit it aloud, the Princess was undoubtedly my worthiest adversary. At least for a time.
I was about to divert my attention to something else when I noticed another Freedom Fighter on the monitor. He appeared to be a dingo—Colin, one of my favorite subjects. He, too, looked somehow lost. By now, Robert's rocket ship had already exited the Mobian atmosphere, so perhaps the dingo elected to stay behind. He was making a statement—very touching. Except now he realized how pointless it was.
When he noticed the Princess, he wandered over to her. Now there must have been an interesting conversation: "Hello, I'm Colin. I'm lonely and feeling sorry for myself." "Hello, I'm Sally. I no longer have a brain." "Would you like to stand here and talk about our meaningless existence?" "Sure, I don't have any plans tonight." "So what's your opinion on the current state of Mobius?" "Actually, I forgot. I no longer have a brain." "Oh, alright. Nice chatting with you." "Same here."
There was no audio feed on the camera, so I turned it off after awhile.
As my story draws to a close, dear reader, I'd like for you to imagine the beautiful, galactic expanse that now stretches before our friends in the rocket ship. There is a planet near Mobius that is mostly uninhabited, save for indigenous wildlife and miles of luscious rainforest. Its atmosphere is identical to ours. Let us call it New Mobius. Our friends will cross that distance in a few short years; there is plenty of food and oxygen aboard the ship to sustain them for the journey. When they arrive on the surface and explore the terrain, they will have already sown the seeds for a new civilization. Decades from now, even centuries, they will be tucking their children into bed and telling them stories of Old Mobius. They will remember my reign and their pitiful attempts to overthrow me. They will remember the end, my grand finale, when they were desperate enough to accept my help and abandon their homeworld in my hour of triumph. Their entire civilization will owe itself to Dr. Ivo Robotnik: the very tyrant who brought Old Mobius to its knees. They will live every day in fear, knowing that I might return someday to reclaim what is mine. This story, these very pages you are reading, will be my enduring legacy. I have achieved immortality. As long as there is someone to tell the story, I will never be forgotten.
If I wanted, I could easily transmit my conscious being into a pristine, mechanical vessel. I could live for all eternity and command my empire into the far reaches of the universe. But I am so tired—so thoroughly sick of this existence. For years, I've thought of little else than crushing this planet and murdering my enemies in the most humiliating fashion. Now that I've finally reached the end, there's nothing left for me. I have spent my satisfaction. I'm ready to leave this world and never return.
I cannot remember the last time I slept in peace, but I shall soon welcome it. In a matter of days, a derivative of my sleeping chemical will have fully permeated the Mobian atmosphere. Every living organism on the face of the planet will fall into a deep, eternal slumber—exhaling simultaneously and vanishing into the night.
In that vacant space between dreams and nightmares, I will always be watching.