Shifts of Fortune, a sonic the hedgehog fanfic

Disclaimer: Well, ah do disclaim.

A/N: Written in between teaching placements and tizzies about how much work I have to do for my PGCE. So obviously I was a good student and went off to write fanfiction instead. SatAM fic - a sort of celebration for the whole series coming to DVD next year.

Shifts of Fortune

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. - Carl Jung (1875 - 1961)

The crowd sounds like a swarm of insects, buzzing ceaselessly at the bottom of the grand stairway. Bunnie sticks close to Daddy, holding tight to his hand like he told her to. He was very clear about what she should do if they get separated, but the size of the building they're going into makes her cling to him, all thoughts of wandering off exorcised from her mind.

They're very late. Daddy's not quite running, but Bunnie is being dragged along in his wake and has to hop-skip every third step to keep up. She doesn't complain, because Daddy's wearing his uniform and he never does that. It makes him look kind of scary, and reminds her of stories Momma sometimes tells her and her sisters – stories about a huge war, when Daddy had to go off to fight and got lots of medals that he keeps in a little box on his dresser. Bunnie doesn't know what war is, and she only knows Daddy in his farmer duds, so seeing him all dressed up is almost more nerve-racking than accompanying him Up North (it's always Up North when he talks of it, never up north, because up north is like going to market, but Up North is an event).

They stop in a foyer mapped in blue-grey marble and peopled with drapes – plush red velvet with gold tassels, not bald and patchy and tied with string like the drawing room at home.

All at once, Bunnie feels very homesick. She wants to nestle in Momma's lap and listen to the click-click-click of her knitting needles, or the steady swush-swush of her sewing, not be in this cold room that belongs to someone even scarier than uniformed-Daddy. She no longer even feels proud that he picked her to go with him, out of all her sisters. Bettina would be better at this sort of thing. She wouldn't feel scared. Neither would Bryony, nor Beryl, nor anyone else. Anyone would be better suited to a royal presentation than little baby Bunnie. Daddy calls her the 'littlest carrot in the bunch'. The thought doesn't cheer her up.

They go through more marbled corridors, and up more luxurious staircases. Red velvet gives way to dark green, and then reverts back to red. Bunnie can see it changing when she looks down at her railroad-fast feet.

Trumpets blare. She peeks out from behind Daddy's legs to see a grand set of double doors rasping open. They stretch from floor to ceiling and, as they pass through, she can see that they're easily wide enough to admit two patrol pods travelling side by side. A badger and a coyote in blue dress-coats stand to attention as she and Daddy pass by, presenting wooden-barrelled bayonets with shiny spikes. The badger gives her a friendly wink as she peers nervously up at him.

Bunnie's feet touch softness, and she looks down to see yet more red velvet, this time a carpet that extends from the ornate doors to the other end of a long, decorative room. Everywhere she looks, Bunnie espies impressive gold swirls, carved busts of grave looking squirrel bucks and does with miserable mouths – all evidence of the most sophisticated workmanship Mobotropolis has to offer.

It strikes her that the room would be a lot prettier without the busts, which have blank eyes – except for one on the end, on which someone has pencilled a set of glasses and a set of vampire teeth. Bunnie can't drag her gaze from it as they pass by, so odd does it seem compared to the grandeur of everything else.

"Colonel." The buck squirrel in the giant gold chair looks down his nose at Bunnie and her father.

"My liege." Daddy goes down on one knee, releasing Bunnie's hand as he does so. She remembers what he told her in the pod that brought them here, and quickly copies the movement, though she keeps silent. She's not sure she can speak even if she wants to. Her throat is all clogged, like that time she had tocsca fever and Branna and Billie bounced gymnastically on their beds to divert her attention while Momma injected the antibiotics.

"Glad you could make it. Oh, do get up off the floor; you're making me feel quite old. We're all friends here. I sent the heralds away for just that purpose, and now you go dirtying your knees for me. Get up, you old rascal, and let me look at you."

The atmosphere changes so abruptly that Bunnie looks up even though she knows she isn't supposed to. The squirrel is smiling warmly and getting out of his chair to pat Daddy on the back and laugh about how long it's been.

"Too long, I think," says the squirrel, who is, Bunnie now realises, wearing a crown around his ears. He must be the king! Her Daddy knows the King! Momma never mentioned that in her stories. Or maybe she did, and Bettina was yanking Bunnie's hair to make her squeal when she said it.

"You got a few more grey whiskers than when I done seen you last," says Daddy.

"Tush and fie. I don't feel a day over … number unspecified." The king coughs into his moustache. "Uh, how's the wife?"

"Copin' fine. She's back home mindin' the carrots."

"Excuse me?"

"Carrots. Ah, sorry. That's what we call our brood. Bunch of carrots, right?"

"Very droll. Such wit is the mark of a true poet."

"Go bury yer head, y'ol' windbag."

Bunnie's sure this isn't how royal audiences are meant to go.

"Sorry this was such short notice, Bertram. Julian was most insistent on the time window, but I do realise it wasn't nearly long enough to get your whole clan mobilised."

"I doubt Becca would wanna come this far north anymore. She's a bit of a homebody these days."

"Becca Rabbot, a homebody? Truly? The doe who fought off a fully weaponed male Outlander with nothing more than a toasting fork and a frying pan? Who crawled into a mineshaft to set a charge that shaved off her own tail down to the bone? Who swept my trusted friend off his feet and literally carried him over the threshold of their honeymoon suite, just because Sir Charles said she'd never make it? That Becca Rabbot?"

Bunnie gawped. Momma definitely never mentioned any of that in her stories.

Daddy nodded, grinning like he just won Best Marrow at the Summer Fete. "The very same. More interested in patchwork quilts than rapiers since the carrots was born."

"Speaking of which, is your little one going to stay there all day, d'you think?"

Bunnie instantly drops her gaze like it'll turn her invisible.

"Honey-Bunnie, you can stand up now," says Daddy.

She rises only to cling to his hand once more. This squirrel is the king, and she knows all about kings from fairytales and Momma's stories – though she's beginning to second-guess those now. Momma left so much out, it makes Bunnie wonder how much worse kings could actually be if she only left in the gentler stuff. Kings have dungeons and live in castles and go on crusades and wave pointy swords about willy-nilly. Kings can throw you in jail just for looking at them funny. Kings are scary.

But this king laughs when he sees Bunnie's expression. "What sort of tales have you been telling her about me, Bertram? She's frightened out of her wits by the mere sight of me!" He knuckles down and holds a beringed hand out towards her. "Don't worry, little one. I won't hurt you. In fact, I have a daughter about your age, which is why I asked your brave and loyal father to bring you along for this trip, even though the rest of your sisters couldn't come. My little Sally doesn't have many friends, you see, and I'd be much obliged if you'd be a good influence to counteract her current companion's … charms."

"That Sir Charles's lad?"

"Not quite. The old duffer never married – too wedded to his work. The boy's his nephew."

"He the one your message mentioned."

"Indeed he is."

"Ah."

The king looks at Bunnie again. "There are other children around, too, so the two of you shall have lots of playmates. I know it's never nice when your parents arrange your friends for you, but it's just for a short while, I assure you. Though I hope my little Sally won't be too insufferable for your tastes. But as I said, it's just while your father and I go through some official business, you understand. All stuff and nonsense, but rules are rules and Julian is so very keen on his rules being followed to the dashed letter. And I'm waffling, aren't I? I apologise. Bertram, slap me, quick, before I befuddle the poor girl anymore."

Bunnie doesn't understand quite what he means by all of this, but she thinks she picked up the salient points. Daddy picked her to come with him Up North because the king's daughter needs a playmate to keep her occupied. That's what Momma said about Bryony when Belle was born. And then again for Bettina. And again for Belinda, Branna and Babs. And yet again for Billie, Beryl, Beatrice and finally Bunnie herself. However, somehow they ended up being carrots instead of playmates, which Bunnie might snigger about more if she was a little older. But she's not, and so she goes back to decoding the king's words.

Any daughter of a king is a princess, and princesses are okay. They don't make you sit in chains eating bread and water. Princesses just swan around wearing pink and brushing their hair all day. Bunnie can do that in her sleep. She's even wearing her best pink ribbons already!

"So what's the verdict, little missy?"

"I …" Bunnie looks up at Daddy. "I think I'd like that a powerful bunch, sir."

"Splendid!"

Presently, after more odd talk between Daddy and the king squirrel, another, smaller set of double doors open in the wall behind the big gold chair. An old hedgehog comes through, followed by a greying woodchuck and a girl in a gauzy outfit. The girl is also wearing a gold circlet that sits smartly around her ears, and is set with three small precious stones that twinkle as she moves. The circlet identifies her as the princess the king talked about.

Bunnie frowns. This girl looks only a little like the princesses in stories. Where's her long pink gown? Where are her pretty jewellery and diamond slippers? And she doesn't have a long bushy tail like her father. In fact, her tail is even shorter than Bunnie's own, and she has the smallest tail of all the Rabbot sisters. As well as all this, the princess is in possession of an expression like a thundercloud just waiting to rumble.

"Bertram!" cries the old hedgehog. "I didn't know you'd arrived."

"Just got here," says Daddy. "Danged traffic's as bad as ever."

"No need to tell me about it. I live here, remember?"

"Now, now, Charles, you've had plenty of opportunities to get away." The king wags a finger at him like a vexed schoolmarm. "It's not our fault if we can't crowbar you away from your lab." He's as jovial with him as he was with Daddy, the same kind of un-kingly jollity that makes Bunnie want to watch him, just to see what he does next.

The princess ignores them all, instead looking straight at Bunnie as one might a dragonfly, or a particularly interesting pebble. She narrows her eyes, which are blue like the water in the copper pool in the hills that Bunnie sometimes climbs up to when her sisters make her.

Though she wants to listen to the adults, Bunnie stares right back at the other girl. Eventually politeness makes her drop her gaze first. The adults talk a while longer, but then Daddy pulls her forwards and she's introduced to the princess by her full name.

"Sally, this is Bunnie Rene Rabbot, Colonel Rabbot's daughter. She's come to be your playmate for a while."

"I've already got a playmate," Princess Sally replies mulishly. "Even if he is just a dumb boy. And you wheeled out those others, too. I don't need another one."

The king squirrel sighs, like he's had this conversation many times before. "You can never have too many friends, Sally. Now do be a dear and run along with Bunnie and Rosie while I chat to Sir Charles and the Colonel. I'm sure you'll have lots of fun together if you just keep an open mind." This last part is said so seriously that Bunnie has to check to make sure the king isn't scowling like he's about to throw them all the dungeon.

He isn't, which is a relief, but his daughter looks like she might like to throw him into a cell.

"Come along, you two," says the woodchuck, whom Bunnie understands to be Rosie.

Rosie is very kind, and while she does pry Bunnie's hand from Daddy's, she does so gently, and lets Bunnie hold her own hand as they leave the room through the smaller doors. She doesn't even say anything when Bunnie keeps looking over her shoulder at the three bucks, all laughing and clapping each other on the back like they've done something momentous that deserves complimenting. Instead, Rosie talks about the picnic she and the cook packed that very morning, and wouldn't it be a nice idea to go out into the grounds and enjoy the glorious sunshine?

"I guess," Bunnie admits. Daddy told her exactly what to do if they got separated. He'll always come back for her, he said, and she trusts him completely. He's never let her down before. Not even when Bettina dared her to climb the enormous bekabru tree near the eastern access burrow, and Bunnie got so stuck that none of her sisters could get her down. Daddy climbed right up to get her then, even though he hates heights, so Bunnie trusts him to come back for her if he says he will.

"Can Sonic come?" Princess Sally asks.

"No, dear, not today. He's writing lines for Julayla, remember?"

Princess Sally pulls a face, and looks at Bunnie as if she's a poor substitute.

"Young Antoine may be available to join us," Rosie suggests, but this idea tastes even worse to Sally than Bunnie's company.

She screws up her pretty little face, muzzle like a twist of paper filled with sherbet; and her eyes dart like two aniseed drops, their gaze just as sharp. "He's such a scaredy-baby, he's no fun at all!" Sally, apparently, has no time for scaredy-babies.

She's horribly thin beneath her elegant outfit, as though suffering from malnourishment – a ridiculous idea considering what luxuries are available to her. While stories often talk of princesses undergoing hardship, Bunnie can't imagine someone like Princess Sally ever doing so. She doesn't seem like the kind of girl to passively accept her lot if she feels it's unfair.

They're interrupted by the emergence of a tall walrus from a side corridor. His cheeks are flushed beneath his full black whiskers and his claws click nervously as he shuffles along. When he catches sight of them he smiles vaguely. Behind spectacles like the bottoms of ginger beer bottles his eyes are warm, yet retain something of a scatterbrained look not totally dissimilar to Belle's. Bunnie recognises the same zigzag gestures and half-lidded gaze her elder sister wears when she's thinking about make-up and boys and styling her hair – that sense of existing in one place while the mind is somewhere totally different.

"Hello Boomer," Rosie greets the walrus tenderly, as if he is one of her young charges. "Late again?"

"Oh yes, oh dear, and Sir Charles said not to be, oh dear – oh dear. I promised when he agreed to take me on that I wouldn't be late for important meetings, and here I am for the … what is this, the thirteenth time this month? Oh dear, thirteen, that's incredibly unlucky. Where did I put those eggshells?" He rummages in a pouch at his waist. Small bits of dirt and dried leaves cascade onto the plush floor. "Crushing eggshells drives away bad luck, you know."

"Da-ad," says an embarrassed voice, "you're gonna be la-ate."

"Hm? Oh, yes, the meeting. Gosh, I am, aren't I? And when I promised so faithfully I'd try harder, too. Oh dear, oh my, oh fiddlesticks. Junior, you can find your way back to our chambers from here, right?"

"We're going on a picnic if you'd like to join us, Boomer Junior," Rosie offered.

The young walrus who'd surprised Bunnie when he also trundled out of the side corridor scuffed his feet and lowered his face. His whiskers aren't as nearly thick as his father's, and his eyes have more behind them. "I'd like that very much, Miss Rosie ma'am," he says in a robotic voice. Then he squints up at her. "But it's, uh, Rotor. Boomer my dad's name. Nobody calls me that anymore. Uh, 'cept my dad, but … you know … he already has a lot to remember …"

"And Rotor's a much better choice," Princess Sally murmurs. "Sounds like a piece of broken machinery."

"You'd look after him?" Boomer Sr. flashes Rosie a grateful look. "I'd be so indebted to you. Only I'm late, you see. Very important meeting. Mister Julian says he wants to see all of us bright and early tomorrow, and Sir Charles wants to talk about the schematics of the new project with the king, only I have the paperwork here, and - "

"Boomer," Rosie lays a hand on his arm, "run along before you really are late. We'll be fine."

"Oh yes, oh dear, oh thank you Rosie. Behave yourself Junior. I don't want to hear about anymore patrol cars disintegrating because you had a poke inside. Ah! Here's my eggshell." A shower of broken shell hits his son on the nose. Bits catch on his red cap. With that, his Boomer Sr. leaves at a curious half-run.

The young Walrus blushes furiously. "I'm sorry, he's just had a lot on his mind recently, he doesn't mean to be so …"

"Embarrassing?"

"Sally!" Rosie cries. "Honestly, I don't know what's got into you lately. A touch of the devil, I think, and I'll tell you right the minutes that I don't like it. It's not proper, it's not clever, and it's not polite."

"Sorry Rosie."

Bunnie holds tighter to Rosie's hand and wonders whether the bristly princess will be like this for the whole of their time Up North. She dearly hopes not. It'd be nice to have a friend her own age; she's been stranded amongst her older sisters for so long, and none of their neighbours have kits younger than twelve.

The young walrus – Boomer or Junior or Rotor or whatever his name is – looks bashfully at Bunnie as he falls into step beside them. "Hey. My name's Rotor."

"Bunnie. Bunnie Rene Rabbot."

"Hey, cool, you're from the Southlands? I always wanted to visit there, but Dad never got a post further south than Mobotropolis before. He's Sir Charles's assistant," he adds proudly, though it means very little to Bunnie. Still, she smiles and nods courteously.

"You, uh, got a little…" She gestures at his cap.

He whips the cap off to flick away the eggshell. "That always happens. I should start wearing it backwards." He rams it back on his head on the wrong way round. "How does that look?"

"Uh, good?"

"Cool. I think I'll wear it like this from now on."

Rotor seems like a nice boy, but Princess Sally strikes her as a rather obnoxious young lady, as she stomps her feet and sticks out her tongue when Rosie isn't looking. She isn't much like a princess at all, though her bearing does have something of the aristocrat about it.

Maybe I shouldn't be her friend after all, Bunnie muses. Maybe I should just make friends with this here Rotor character an' have done with it. Leastways he ain't bein' so rude, nor makin' me feel unwelcome just 'cause I ain't some boy off writin' lines. Me a lil' country bumpkin an' her a fine lady – what the heck we ever gonna have in common, anyhow?

It's not even asked aloud, but years later, as she stares out across the ruins of Robotropolis and lays her only flesh limb across Sally's shoulder, Bunnie will think back on this day, on this moment, when the mosaic of what's to come is still before them and all they have to worry about it sharing a picnic lunch. She'll think about all this, about how it all started – about first laying eyes on Mobotropolis, ignominious beginnings of her brief stay at court, and how different things could have been had she not stuck it out and made friends with Sally Acorn like their fathers wanted.

And she'll wish with every poisoned beat of her heart that they could be back in that time of nascent friendships and unbroken promises.

fin.

The shifts of Fortune test the reliability of friends. - Cicero (106 BC - 43 BC), De Amicitia