"Observation seventeen: Black shards. Powerful energy emission. Strong self-perpetuating reaction with glowy… Things."

Miles sighed, folding the sheet of "paper" as he stared at the result of his tinkering. Glowy things. Very scientific.

Well, if Sonic had been around he'd have called them something like concatenated phosphorescence spheres or something, which wasn't much better, but at least it would have sounded more impressive for his less technically minded friend. Mysterious glowy balls, green flame viscous enough to hold in the palm of his hand - not that he did that after the first time. Fortunately negative entropy meant even scar tissue would homogenise back into its original state over time.

Miles was the second smartest person he knew, and at least third sanest. Adapting to new technology was one of his strong points, but he just didn't have anything to work from. It was like trying to learn a new language by reading graffiti in an alleyway, when the language didn't even share the same alphabet, and the graffiti was actually a picture of a duck. Even fire, the most primitive, fundamental invention worked completely differently. It didn't consume fuel, it didn't really spread - and if it did, there needed to be a significant effort to make it stay spread rather than extinguishing back to the status quo. He didn't know how his spark shooter worked, what it consumed to work, or how any of the stuff he found underground worked, the metal box with "Don't Sleep" inscribed on it included. He knew it picked up things nearby, and had quickly learned which tones corresponded to various seams of metal ores, but there'd been many other signals he hadn't been able to locate or identify, trapped as he was into navigating around the impenetrable black rocks.

Or sometimes impenetrable. He'd managed to handle the parts that had been blasted apart by bombs easily enough once he had them, to the extent of converting them into bricks that, if his other experiments were any indication, had none of the hardness of the original nor their infectious nature.

Miles pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing through crudely smelted glass - crafted from the rotten sands he'd stockpiled - to gaze up at the various splodges of dirt jutting from the side of the wall at various intervals. Green vines and fronds of grass sprouted from most of them, purple from a few others.

Dirt - from deep underground - spontaneously grew fresh, untainted grass within hours of him placing it down. The taint that could jump as much as two meters of empty space to infect that pure grass, couldn't pass that infection through one of the long vines that trailed down to touch it from above.

He could understand almost nothing. He could only keep his eyes open and try to apply whatever he saw.

A gobbet of vile spit splattered across the transparent roof of his makeshift headquarters, briefly turning the crimson sky of sunset a foul green before it fizzled into nothing.

Miles ignored it, didn't leave the circle of his flower, didn't stop thinking as a spitter loomed above, crashing into the glass with its massive frame. Cracks appeared across the crystalline surface and disappeared just as quickly. No matter how many times the spitter attacked the glass it didn't break. He'd punched it himself and barely managed to make a tiny hole; there was nothing the monstrous thing could do to him in here, except possibly provoke him into leaving his sanctuary to deal with it. Not that he wanted to do that. Miles frowned, despite the constant onslaught of cheeriness, tapping his chin as he stared at the mess of materials before him, tails coiling around various items as he worked. He held the folded page to his lips with his bandaged hand, speaking softly despite the noise pollution from outside.

"Experiment forty-eight, attempt four… Sparky stick has been, uh, stuck to some shards. Not sure what was different this time, might have been the glowy things. Stick is now… Slightly less... stick-shaped and holding stable."

Second success, well, third, technically. Miles nodded, cautiously laying it alongside the clunky wooden contraption that represented his first triumph over "drunkworld physics", a green burning torch still blazing from its end. Normally he'd have defaulted to a high yield plasma cannon, some exploding rings, maybe some shield generators, but nothing worked. He was swamped with resources compared to his usual adventures, but he couldn't figure out what to do with them.

It would almost be worth having Robotnik here. The fat man had a preternatural aptitude for creation that bordered on the ridiculous. He'd probably have perfected one of those ridiculous sphere ships of his, a doomsday weapon, and probably some kind of bird powered infinite matter engine or something.

Miles could have done with a doomsday weapon or ten right about now. He stretched out a hand, pulling both his weird, puny inventions into hammerspace. This was why he was second best. He iterated, Eggman innovated. Even if his nemesis did build positronic neural networks like a three year old, even if he was able to replicate any of Eggman's designs once he saw them, or even improve on them, he wasn't the one coming up with miracles on a monthly basis. He'd only ever pioneered three miracles on his own. Fake emeralds, artificial rings, and dimensional travel. He'd been so proud.

And every single one of those three was responsible for his current situation.

Miles sighed as he straightened from his makeshift workbench, pulling away from the flower felt like tearing away his own limb, except in this case it was his heart, screaming at him as he left the soothing embrace of enforced happiness.

He'd had worse, but he hadn't done worse. Thirty seven planets was worse than anything, worse than Eggman had ever managed, with no real guarantee that it wasn't thirty seven universes. And it was all because he refused to accept fate. But sacrificing his friends on Happy Days... losing Reason had hurt more, and it had been for the exact same reason.

Because he wouldn't stop, he wouldn't give in, he wouldn't surrender. Every one of those Miles had been him, every one of those Miles had damned the world with that hubris. Surrendering now would be the worst kind of hypocrisy... Even he wasn't that much of a coward.

And so he tore away, the crushing weight of guilt and depression settling on him like a shroud as he opened the glass door and emerged into the already gloomy twilight of the corruption. The spitter chittered at him from above, spraying a fresh loogie of doom at him to no avail. Miles coiled around, black shardy spark stick v4, cool name pending, flicking into his hand to swipe towards it. An eruption of blazing black exploded into the monster at high speed, igniting it with flames that crackled a deep midnight blue as they boiled the flesh from whatever its equivalent was for bones.

Miles felt that almost forgotten feeling of crushing, hollow emptiness grip him instantly, a nuanced addition to his current foul mood, but nevertheless he stepped back, watching, counting, calculating as the spitter charged at him, spat at him. How long for the flame to die out, how long for his, what, soul? Chaos reserves? Took that long to replenish? Did it burn every time?

Science was generally easiest when something was on fire.

Finally, four blasts and many minutes later the spitter's body gave out, crumbling in midair, its individual pieces burning away as the night drew in. Miles nodded, feeling nothing as he muttered notes into his palm.

Fewer blasts than the original, but less efficient, more time spent charging and a longer fight as a result. Far less powerful than just dealing with it with direct physical force as well, but he was used to that. Firearms had never achieved as much widespread appeal in the mobian territories where the population was more or less guaranteed to shrug off at least one bullet and abnormals could move fast enough to both dodge bullets and punch harder than them. Someone like Sonic could literally outspeed a bullet, Knuckles could hit hard enough that even the ground itself could be his projectiles.

But someone weak like him, facing off against stronger, more dangerous opponents for most of his life, Miles could never afford to specialise. A cannon might not hit as hard as his tails, a hammer might not have their flexibility, a bomb might not always be useable, but one way or another, options were what kept him alive.

If only he'd had better ones.

Miles sighed, staring out across the ruined landscape as the long shadow of the wall finally became absolute. The sun had fallen below the horizon on the other side, night had fallen.

It was time to get some answers.

Miles darted upwards, bouncing from one grassy foothold to the next in an unbroken chain to crest the wall. Gliding easily across the top he drifted to the entryway, tails barely beginning to give out before he landed, panting as he unwound four dimensions' worth of torque. His eyes flicked from one deep shadow to the other in the dull gloom.

"You're early, Prower."

The haggard voice whispered from behind his ear. Miles wheeled around to see the old man standing as though he'd never left, red eyes glittering softly in the dark.

"You said to wait for dark." Miles frowned. There was something different about the man, and different probably meant dangerous from everything else he'd encountered in this place.

"He's not here yet."

"Who isn't here, Mister Skin?" Miles narrowed his eyes.

"My name is Nigel Carter, Mister Prower, and I am your latest fool."

"...You found my work. You produced the emeralds."

The old man nodded, dark-ringed eyes heavy with fatigue. "For my sins I am claimed. The Black Pharaoh, spawn of dread Azathoth. I spread his message, and I am claimed."

"Can this be stopped? Can I save my world?"

"The one who could help you is dead. They burned him and they died. The seal is already broken. He comes." Nigel grabbed Miles with a gloved hand, pulling him close to his face with surprising strength as he whispered, breath strong and foul and thick with terror. "You are the harbinger. You led them here. They know your scent. You- you- you-"

The man's yellow teeth clicked together. Again, rhythmic, unnerving as his eyes widened, the shadows on his face deepening despite the glow of Miles' torch until his eyes were completely swallowed by the darkness, teeth still clicking, the sound echoing off pillars into the dark. Miles dangled from his grip, helpless if only by his own hesitance. Nigel snapped his teeth together, pushing words out through his gritted jaw.

"You must save her."

The human screamed, dropping Miles to the floor as he tore jagged nails into his cheeks. Blood trickled from his forehead as bone white needles pierced through his forehead from within, parting from the middle to peel flesh from bone.

Miles hopped upright, scurrying backwards a safe distance before almost tripping over a skull jar nestled at the base of a pillar. Nigel's red cowl unfurled into long billowing strings as the needles and head alike grew without growing, like something enormous rapidly drawing closer until they dwarfed the man from when they came. Miles looked away as the screams ceased with a crunch, the smell of blood filling the night.

And the voice came. Not Nigel's, Mister Skin's, cold, dark, smugly triumphant.

"It is now time to reveal the final mystery to you, Harbinger. The one mercy I can grant you in gratitude for your long service."

Miles looked back just in time to see bony limbs uncurl from around a giant grinning skull, bony fingers three times his height leaving deep gouges in the stone as they spread to fill the colonnade.

"What lies beyond the mortal veil?"

A skeletal hand slammed into him.