His name was Crutiki. Or, as his allies would call him, Knuckles. Crutiki was only the name his parents gave him. When he began to participate in boxing, people recognized his skill and decided to nickname him Knuckles. But he quit boxing a long time ago. But his name stuck. He guessed it was easier than saying his real name.

He had a good childhood. He couldn't complain. His parents may have been a little hardnosed, but he later learned they were only teaching him about the harsh realities of life. The punished him, maybe a little severely, but even though he would cry his little purple eyes out, he knew it was for his own good. They were only preparing him for the tough, sad reality that is The World. In The World, only the best succeeded and the weak died off. Dog eat dog. He learned this the hard way when at the age of 16 he moved out of his parent's condo and into his own apartment. Then he realized everything his parents said about this World was true. Bills kept piling up. He thought he wasn't good enough in his boxing career to pay them.

But he began to blame the hierarchy of The World. The rich only get richer, he thought. They began to want more of his hard-earned money just so they can live in a fancy condo like his parent's and drink martinis and go on their million dollar cruises. They didn't give a fuck about him and how much he slaved over training to beat Big Ronnie Duncan. They only cared about the little green slips of paper he carried around, no matter how much he was suffering to pay for his groceries so he can eat and pay for Tikal's medical costs.

He met Tikal a few years ago. She was a beautiful echidna, and he thought she was absolutely perfect. She worked, volunteering for all kinds of charities and taking care of children in nurseries and daycares. She didn't care she didn't had enough money to buy enough groceries for the week. She loved what she did and she was happy.

However, the mentality of his parents still latched onto Knuckles' brain like a railroad spike. He often argued with Tikal, saying that she needed to find a well-paying job to help support their costs and with her medical bills. He noticed that Tikal was becoming ill, little by little each day. She always shrugged it off and told him to not worry, but this was usually before she would hold her steaming hot head, muttering a little about how bad her headache was and that Knuckles needed to lower the lights, as she popped an Excedrin in her mouth. She said that one reason people wanted to stay in their jobs was because they got some sense of enjoyment out of them.

"You do enjoy boxing, right Knuckles?"

He grunted. "I only do it cause it's the only thing I can do right in my life. Beating someone senseless. If I actually wasn't so afraid of guns I'd be a cop."

His brother was a few years older than him. When he was 16, nearly at the same time he moved out, his brother committed suicide by putting a bullet in his brain. His parents were sad, and so was he, but he was confused when people began to blame them, that they were responsible for his suicide. He mostly stayed out of it, but yet he found himself being struck with a sudden deep sense of horror whenever he was in the presence of a gun. Even if he saw a child play with a toy one, he shuddered.

He then got a phone call from Tikal's doctor (though at first he thought it was about making his payments to him on time, the selfish rich pig), saying that Tikal had to stay in the hospital and that it was serious. Spinal meningitis. Tests confirmed it and she would need to rest easy and take her antibiotics. Although the doctor told him she would be fine once the antibiotics kicked in, there was still some stress in his voice. Knuckles wondered if he thought Tikal would die.

Many people flocked to see her. Children and their parents she would take care of in the daycares would talk to her and hand her the cards they made for her in arts and crafts. Her coworkers in her charities also would give her their "Get Well Soon" gifts, while saying, "God bless!" Knuckles felt like God wasn't blessing him at all with this. He knew he worked in mysterious ways, but he always thought of God as an asshole who would dance with glee every time the poor suffered and the rich prospered.

That day when it all happened, he could remember every single detail as if it happened to him a few seconds ago. He got seriously injured in one of the boxing tournaments and lost. His mentor told him that he had to stay at home for a while to recuperate. But he knew he couldn't. He knew he absolutely couldn't do it. Boxing was his only source of income, to pay for the groceries, the heating and A/C, and most of all, the hospital bills, where they kept Tikal. But his mentor thought his mouth and face couldn't stand any more beatings. He even knew his fists were becoming raw, even with the aid of gloves. He had to take a break, otherwise he would be in the hospital, much like Tikal, even dead.

But he refused to quit. He had to get paid doing the only thing he knew he could do. Jobs were hard to get in his area, and he didn't have enough time to submit a job resume for some bigwig to accept them into their horde. Fuck that. He had to keep beating people senseless. Even if it meant he was going to be beaten senseless himself.

But the bills kept coming. Tikal was becoming worse. The antibiotics had no effect on her. She was very slowly becoming deaf, soon the supporting voices of her friends and Knuckles becoming mere whispers, then deafening silence. When he came to visit Tikal, she could not hear him. The doctor also said that her consciousness was beginning to waft away. But yet when she realized him and she wrote on a slip of paper, "Don't worry about me, Knuckles baby. GOD will provide, and if I must go to heaven, so be it," he could feel himself burst into a wild fit of sobbing and rage. Tikal couldn't hear or notice him weeping and punching the walls, screaming, "Why God? Why?" He was led out of the hospital, crying as much as when his parents punished him whenever he was "acting up".

It was the day of the big fight that thousands paid to see. Brass Knuckles versus Ricardo the Terror. He trained for hours, barely sleeping a wink. His mentor told him he was making a big mistake, but he knew he had to do this. He had to keep going. This was the only thing he could do in his life, the only thing he felt a singe of passion for.

It was then that someone came rushing to him, someone he didn't recognize, who he could see had tears streaming down her face. She said it was important that she had to see Brass Knuckles. They told her to wait until the end of the match, but she protested. "It's about his wife and my sister, Tikal! She's…she's…dead."

The words she's dead were the strongest punch to the face he ever received in his life. It was nothing compared to the blow Ricardo gave him. But he fell to the arena floor, and he didn't get up. There was no use in fighting anymore. It was over. Done. He was through.

He was ridiculed, and he quit boxing. He felt that nothing in his life mattered anymore. He couldn't pay for the apartment anymore, and the bills kept piling up. He soon became homeless. A lightweight champion, with the perfect wife and he thought life was going to pick up for him, becoming homeless in the course of a year.

He thought the whole situation was ironic, and when he chugged his Coors and began to laugh like a madman, laughing that everyone stared at him and until he thought his chest would splinter and crack like weak wood that couldn't keep the insanity barricaded any longer. He let it out. He let all the emotions he kept inside of that weak old barricade rushing through like a broken dam. His strict, snobby parents who constantly pushed him to be successful but scorned and abandoned him when they learned he was no different than a dog's shit in a lawn. His brother's suicide, his brother that he barely knew. Quitting the only thing he enjoyed and thought he was good in, losing his wife who was his last grip on sanity…he laughed and cackled and smirked and danced. He could only express a shit-eating grin when passerbies would gaze at him eating decomposed food with maggots squirming around in it.

In that brief lapse of insanity however, he met a man who changed his life. Who helped him to get back on his feet. He said to him, "You would make a great addition to my little group of freedom fighters. I've heard you were a good boxer back in the days. In fact, you were a lightweight champion, is that correct?"

"I guess," he replied, feeling like he was going to hurl. The trash he was eating was beginning to take a toll on his weak stomach.

His glasses were glaring a bit of the sun's reflection, nearly blinding him. "Knuckles…or Crutiki." He wondered how he knew his real name. "I know your pain. I know your suffering. You, and the other people in my army, were merely whipping boys, people who kept paying all these expensive taxes and bills while you worked hard for your money, and for what? So the rich white man can laugh at your misery while he steals your money so he can continue to sip his margaritas and go play that sport only the rich selfish white men played while you sweat and bled for your money? You are simply just a hamster in a wheel, working for that white man, and I believe with this little organization, we can bring him down. There are many creatures and people, just like you, who had enough of the white man's whippings, who don't want him to sip his margaritas and play golf, but instead drink liquid shit and play soccer with a deflated ball like the rest of us. You will be a very nice addition to the army Knuckles, and you will be greatly rewarded for your deeds. This is your time to shine, knucklehead. You can make the white man, Big Brother, suffer, or you can eat out of trashcans for the rest of your life and continue to be whipped. It's your choice."

And he felt like he had no choice. He shook that mysterious man's hand, and he joined his army.

That was years ago. He was a different echidna now.

He had a strict code of ethics now. He considered himself hardnosed and strict, but that's what The World shaped him up to be, right? He stood at the entrance of the base, noting the little shining fragments of stars that hung in the air as the sun began to rise. He was drinking his morning coffee. A little too strong, but he drank it anyway. His parents would say suck it up, Tiki!

Even in the faint daylight he could see it as clear as it was morning, a hot pink Escalade that gleamed and reflected the star light, nearly blinding him. He hated the car's color and she was told that pink was too noticeable. But she was a sassy one. Told him that it was her car and if she wanted it as pink as his little brain she could. She never took orders from him, only when "the fat man sang" as one of his other members would say. And he said nothing.

The Escalade zoomed up to him, engines roaring and sand flying as she drove it. She rode fast with it, and was proud of it, even if he thought no one would take her seriously with a color that was synonymous with 8-year old girls and Hello Kitty. He thought she was going to make his eyes singe and have his coffee ruined by splashing sand in his face just to show off, but she didn't. Her engine was still running as the window to her car slowly unveiled and lowered, revealing black leather seats, blue glowing numbers and buttons, and a white bat with aquamarine eyes, wearing rosy red lipstick and purple eye shadow, her sunglasses hanging low on her face.

"I got it. While they weren't looking, I got the Dreamcast. And, surprisingly enough, it was easy-peazy."

"You got it, huh?" was all he could say. He actually had no doubt in her mind she could yank it from them. She told him that she was stealing things since she was 8 years old, and she was good at it. She would brag to them many times that she once went into a Rolling Stones concert and stole one of their guitars at the end of the show. She managed to sell it for nearly three thousand dollars on an auction site. And that was how she could afford to buy that atrocious Escalade.

But he didn't realize he was just standing there, saying nothing and staring at her. She picked up the device, its red gem glittering as the sun began to rise over them.

"Why are you staring at me like that, knucklehead? Go tell the big boss that I got the Dreamcast, like he wanted. He said if I managed to get it he would get me something real nice, so hopefully he gives his end of the bargain."

"I'm sure he will," he said. "He's the big boss, he has everything that we don't. He's like one of those Colombian drug lords you see in movies, with the smoking big cigars and owning those huge mansions. Why wouldn't he get you the prettiest gem that the city has to offer?"

He swiped his ID card in the slot, the large, metallic doors sliding open. Knuckles thought the doors sounded a little creaky as they moved. He hoped the big boss would get someone on that.

The building was dark and cold, their feet echoing in the hallways due to the metallic floors. There were a few incandescent ceiling lights that glowed, but they only brightened the way to the next room. If it wasn't for his lustrous golden eyes and the red light of a cigarette being burned, he wouldn't be able to tell that someone else was here.

"Nack, the boss told you to take your smoking outside. Hell, the rule notice is right next to you! How can you not notice that and decide you're going to smoke in the chambers?"

In clear black print, the notice said in large font DO NOT SMOKE IN THE CHAMBERS, TAKE YOUR CANCER STICK OUTSIDE. Nack kept puffing, the red light burning brightly as he streamed smoke.

"It ain't like we have any guddam furniture to ruin, do we, knuckleboy?" The voice carried a deep Southern drawl, something Knuckles swore he thought he heard in a movie starring Clint Eastwood. But he hated that voice. It seemed to seep of pure ignorant evil.

"If you don't like it big tooth, take it with the boss. I didn't make the rules, he did. Whether you like it or not, you have to take it outside. Besides, you're going to make everyone here get cancer with that thing." He hated the smell of cigarettes and wondered why anyone would even choose to reek of that stench of cyanide and beer.

"You actually believe that second-hand smoking bullshit they gave you at school? It's fucking cold out there, knuckie. And it'll be hot as a dog's shit later. Why would I be crazy enough to go outside just to smoke a guddam cigarette?"

Knuckles thought he shouldn't continue arguing with him. He had to tell their boss of their prize.

He pressed a button, speaking in a small microphone.

"Boss, Rouge managed to steal the Dreamcast from the Psychiatric Institute. She would like to see you."

He thought his voice sounded deeper and more sinister when it came out of the speaker. "Excellent, Rouge. Come into my headquarters to get what I promised you. Also, Fang, take your cancer stick outside! I don't want this building to reek of your stench!"

"But boss, it's…"

"I don't care whether it's colder than a witch's teat or, as you say, hotter than a dog's shit, you go outside and take your smoking there! That's an order!" He thought he was yelling that's an order so loud the speaker was going to explode.

"Fine," he spat, holding onto his burning cig and sliding his ID card to go out. He didn't want to bother defying his boss's orders. He didn't want to see his bad side again. He's seen it a few times and he didn't want to see it again.

Their steps resonated throughout the halls, the chill getting to both of their skins, shivering a little. He wasn't sure why the boss always turned on the air conditioning a little too high in the building, but he actually heard a theory a long time ago that people were more alert when they were cold, and if the building was warm, his workers would be tired, and nothing around here would get done. Except with Nack, nothing really got done with him. Every time he saw that one-toothed bastard he would be sitting around smoking a cigarette or conversing with another worker. Did he actually work as hard as anyone else around here? He pretty much did nothing since he joined the organization, still sitting on that one crate near the corridors, smoking his cigs. Unless the boss told him to go smoke them outside, he pretty much remained there. He wondered how Nack even thought joining this group was a good idea for him, and he also wondered if he was discretely planning anything in that thick skull of his.

He entered his boss's office along with Rouge. His room was dark, and very freezing, as if he was in a meat locker. He assumed he kept it that cold so anyone who ever went in his office would pay close attention to him. Knuckles couldn't stop shivering when he went inside.

There was only one faint light glowing near his desk. He saw a piece of parchment that seemed to have many elaborate words and drawings on it. He could catch his obscure face in the light, his glasses glinting as he drew his mark with a pencil, a dark leaded path that seemed to lead into destruction, a drawing of yet another burning building and more wreckage, to some kind of apocalyptic no-man's land.

"Hello Rouge. Knuckles." His voice was deep and brooding, and for some reason it always chilled the very both of them. He certainly had the voice of a leader: a voice that beckoned you to obey him or else…something bad was going to happen to you.

"We have the Dreamcast, sir. Like you wanted. Rouge said stealing it was no problem for her." The boss seemed to pick up Knuckles' voice shaking almost as he was shaking from the cold. His voice then lightened up.

"Very good, Rouge. I knew trusting you with the Dreamcast was a good idea. But now, a pop quiz for ol' knucklehead here: what is the reason why we need the Dreamcast? Why did I stress on Rouge to steal it from the Institute? Do any of you know why we need it?"

Knuckles was stumped. He never heard of the Dreamcast until now, and wasn't sure why his boss wanted it so bad. He wasn't even sure of why he also targeted the Psychiatric Institute so much.

"I may know, sir. I worked at the Institute for a year or two and heard about the Dreamcast from a colleague. Dr. Gerald didn't want anyone to know about it because he feared it may go into the wrong hands. And you want to use it as a weapon, is that correct?"

He seemed to cringe at the very mention of the name "Dr. Gerald". But he tried to ignore it. For now.

"Very good, Rouge. Yes, the point on why we need the Dreamcast is to create a type of warfare that the government will never be able to do at this level…a very psychotic psychological warfare, if you will. The Dreamcast is a device that can be used for someone to enter people's dreams. While its original use is to examine the patient's dreams and work through them, you can actually tweak to where dreams…become as real as me and you. And anything I can dream up, will become real, as long as I have control over the headset that allows you to enter people's dreams. And if I can control over everything that happens in this world, I will shortly become the ruler of this planet, and then I can create my new empire! One that isn't ruled by wealth and greed! One where everyone is equal and there's no poverty or the rich. Everyone will be equal, and there will be no longer any wars or…"

"Basically, you're creating a communist society," Knuckles piped up. Rouge turned to him, surprised.

"A Socialist community, Knuckles. I want the world to no longer have the wealthy and the poor and I no longer want there to be a upper-class, middle-class, poor as dirt-class or any class of any kind! And the whole planet will carry these same community ideals…"

"But you know that those don't work, right? I mean, I hate the class thing and the wealthy and all, but don't you think we need to find some other way to solve that problem? There's a reason some people are paid more for their jobs, and you know those places…"

"So you want to stay at the same kind of community we have right now, where you were starving, insane, and homeless, being a victim in the white man's game. Isn't that right, Knuckles?"

The memories of him eating nothing but shit with cigarette butts and maggots and possibly feces went back into his mind. He was right. He would rather have his idea of a society than the one he suffered in a long time ago. He didn't respond to his reply. He was quiet.

"I have an idea, sir. I actually went inside a research room in the Institute where they kept a comatose patient inside. Turns out he was in a coma for over 50 years, and his mind is still intact. He was actually dreaming for all of those years, since the year he planned on committing suicide when his friend died. Maybe we can amplify this patient's dreams to become reality here. This guy's brain has to be messed up in order to contemplate suicide, right? Maybe we can use him as a weapon to aid us. A weapon to tell anyone that if you want to mess with The EGGMEN, you can either have your society or this nightmarish world he will create. Do you think that sounds like a good plan?"

The boss took the Dreamcast from Rouge, gently lifting it in the light. It was then that Rouge saw his boss clearly for the first time: a thick mustached, round man wearing a red smooth jacket, with white stripes on the shoulders and what seemed to be buttons at the ends of them. His black pants were nearly the same, with big black boots that seemed to command attention from everyone when he walked. She couldn't stop staring at them until he boomed, "That's a great idea, Rouge! When I get this Dreamcast to work how I want it, we will command everyone to follow us or fall into a hellish nightmare! They will become my Eggmen, and my society will fall into place…Excellent, you two. When I'm done tweaking this machine to become my weapon, I will let you all know. And then we'll find this comatose patient and he will aid us as well…what's his name, Rouge?"

"Shadow," she answered.

"Yes, and I'll call this very project…Project Shadow. The world will fall to my knees, and then I can create my very own empire! And you two will see the vision we always wanted to create! Now, get back to work, and tell that big fanged fool to get back to work as well. There will be no lazing around when I'm very close to making my plan come to action!"

Rouge cleared her throat, a notion that he was "forgetting something".

"Ah yes, I almost forgot. I apologize to you, dear Rouge. I actually have something that I think you'll really like. It's one of the prettiest jewels you may have laid your eyes on."

He thought he could hear her gasp like an excited child when he pulled out a pendant that glittered in the faint light quite brightly. It was a mystic fire topaz, a mixture of deep royal purple and black and blue as a sapphire that shone like it was blazing around Rouge's neck. The gem was also large and diamond shaped. Rouge adjusted the necklace for the gem to fit snugly near her breasts.

"I love it, boss! I've never seen this gem before! Not in reality, anyways! A mystic fire…"

"Now I gave you your end of the bargain, Rouge," he ardently interrupted. "Now get back to work!"

"Yes sir!" They saluted, Rouge's gem shining brightly as she lifted her hand, then left the freezing office. The cold hallways felt a lot better to him now that he was out of that meat locker.

Rouge and Knuckles went back to the job they always did when Eggman didn't want them in his office, creating bombs and weapons. And it was a job that required a lot of concentration and focus, which was probably why Nack never did it. They hated it, but they both thought it paid more than they ever received in their lives.

As Knuckles walked back to the factory, he saw Nack again at the corridor on his crate, looking as if he was waxing his boots. He thought he saw a silver spark of light come from the heels, as if there was a knife hidden in them. But he simply ignored it. "Get back to work, Nack. Boss says we need to work harder now that his plan is coming further. No slacking off."

"Good," he said. "Maybe then I can blast his skull in."

"What?" Knuckles turned around, surprised. But he couldn't hear over the sound of the machines growling and the conveyor belts moving.

He shrugged. "Nothin', Knux. I'll work along with ya, don't worry ya little buns about that."

And Nack worked a lot harder than he ever saw when he entered the organization, looking as if he was as happy as a kid that just got his way from his mom and pop.