[https://yt3.ggpht.com/9CjVrJZaMuSucNRQDWdaZal2vHDaprJ5Ai12GK14SQXRqbHctWx9L32jv3kqdIuuovOV40nbfXs7=s640-c-fcrop64=1,00000000ffffffff-nd-v1]
Jamison Broadway
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Under the relentless assault of a pitiless rain, which seemed to emanate from the very hand of a cruel and careless God, torrents of water cascaded from each tree, leaf, and rock, splattering mercilessly into his face as he strained to see through the darkness.
He was back in the foxhole, watch duty weighing on him like a lead cloak. With every passing minute, the weight only grew as he gripped his weapon with hands so numb, they felt fused with the stock, unable to tell where the gun ended, and he began. The weight of sleep. The weight of hunger. The weight of smell.
God, how this place stank.
The stench of jungle rot, an earthy mix of soil, and the odor of an entire platoon washed away by the rain, combined to make a sickly cocktail in his nostrils but he couldn't stop himself from taking deep breaths. His muscles were screaming in anticipation, sore from being still, twitching from fear and adrenaline.
The hedgehog didn't wipe his brow, refused to. He had been in this godforsaken place long enough to know it would drain away from his eyes. The world around him had shrunk, condensed to this single point of existence.
The canopy above swayed menacingly, looking like a riot of wet leaves that could topple at any moment onto him, crushing his chest with their sodden weight. Every rustle and snap sent a spike of panic down his spine - was that the wind or the enemy?
Movement attracted attention and if he was going to move, he was going to save it for when he felt the telltale dancing of millipedes' legs along his fur or skin.
He never felt them when they were on his uniform. Never his uniform. The little hateful things had evolved through hundreds and thousands of years to
brutally efficient at worming their way into every and any nook and cranny they could.
There wasn't a damn man or woman, private or officer, who hadn't found stood up, sat up, or woke up and hadn't experienced the revolting sensation of one of these abominations nestling itself near their most vulnerable parts. Of course, they'd bite shortly after.
He paused, tightening his grip on his rifle as he focused downrange from his foxhole. Mentally scanning himself for any sign of the creatures' presence, he was prepared to strike down any unwelcome sensation that wasn't mere goosebumps from the chilling deluge.
He had to. That's what got Paul killed last week.
Or was it yesterday? Last week? Before that? Time was...had been or... become a cruel and twisted thing in this place.
He'd seen it firsthand from this same foxhole regardless.
The parakeet had been on watch with Lockwood that night and just snapped. Hopping up with yelping shriek and scrambling out into the wide open, Paul's eyes were wide with terror, darting back and forth as he flailed and tore at his uniform. His wings shed feathers all around him as he yanked them and clawed out handfuls after handful to get rid of the insectile torment, keening cries and pleas for help pierced the air, his words a jumbled mix of nonsense and desperate repeating of 'I want to go home'.
In that moment, he looked more like a wild animal than any civilized Mobian. Beak covered with clotted mud, uniform ripped open, and bleeding feathers in disarray...
Before anyone had any time to do anything, not that they could've if they tried, Pfc. Paul Forrester was killed.
The hum of metallic wings rising above the incessant drumroll of rain was all the warning they got. The blast screamed out of the dark and took him off his feet. A red flash dazzled the dark and struck the private square in the chest. The bird was launched off his feet, hurled back into the foxhole as if the thing that killed him was saying 'Hey, have your garbage back.'
Lockwood called for a medic.
The medic never came. Couldn't come. Jamison relegated them to the rear; the enemy having gone out their way to target them to deny medical aid for their Marines.
Lockwood clearly had forgotten that.
Jamison knew it was over when Lockwood went quiet, Paul's words searing into his memory as he grit his teeth and held himself in place.
I want to go home. Five words expressing a single wish of over 700 people.
'So do I, Paul.' He thought. 'So do I.'
No bites, itching or stinging met his senses and so he focused every iota of his mind back on the forest beyond the clearing, keeping a sneer off his face.
Part of him wanted to call the bird an idiot. Not for losing his mind, because sometimes he wondered if he went crazy himself. At some point of this mess, most everyone literally ceased to think, just following orders and doing their job so they could live just one more day.
No, home was why they were here. Home left them behind. Home –
Suddenly, a noise broke the storm's symphony. A rustling in the underbrush that wasn't the wind. His heartbeat so hard he thought it might burst from his chest as he aimed toward the sound. All he could make out was a dark silhouette darting through the jungle canopy, vanishing before he could even blink.
A glint of something caught his eye and he leveled the rifle and fired before it could disappear.
The cloaked figure burst forth from the undergrowth, a haunting wraith-like apparition screaming, literally screaming with fury, from the thicket at a full sprint. The combat knife which gave him away, shining in the bare moonlight, raised menacingly for him.
He cycled the bolt and aimed for center mass. A spark followed by the whine of a ricochet. The figure didn't so much as stumble, every step carrying the promise of a brutal death if the charge wasn't stopped.
The foxholes to his left and right opened up on the singular figure as well but he didn't stop firing. Another cycle of the bolt, another shot.
Still, he was coming right at him like a madman and the hedgehog realized only then the attacker was alone. Maybe they weren't the only ones losing their minds in this hellhole.
His heart raced but the fear never followed it, his hands were steady as he cycled the bold again and squeeze the trigger.
This time the knife wielding maniac did stumble, tucking into a roll which carried him under the gun fire from his squad.
It happened with an unnatural smoothness, a limber flexibility Eggman's creations just did not have.
He wasn't given time to dwell on such an impossible thing either.
The figure was coming right down on top of him, knife already flashing out to stab.
He could only react instinctively, abandoning his gun and throwing himself to one side as searing pain tore through his shoulder. He didn't scream, not when the blade jerked to a stop in bone, not when his fingers went numb.
His vision blurred as he fumbled for his own blade while the world around him seemed to spin wildly out of control. Fingers moving like limp dead weight and slick with blood slipped once, twice...
Then he jolted awake.
SMACK!
"Damn it!" Jamison shouted, falling out of his bed in a tangled mess of sheets and limbs. He crashed onto the floor of his RV bedroom, hitting his head with a muffled thud. The pain from the impact combined with the lingering shock of the nightmare, sent stars flashing across his eyes. Groaning into the RV's carpet where his head had bounced off, trying and failing to blink the stars away, he rolled on his side to a chorus of clinking glass and sweet hoppy aroma, reminiscent of apples and wheat.
He pushed away a beer bottle, the Apple Red Brewing mascot's face, a cheerful and cartoonish apple, with rosy cheeks and bright green eyes felt more accusatory for this time of day, as if mocking him that he should be thankful he'd miraculously managed to fall on the one spot free of last night's bender.
His vision cleared only for the morning light peeking through the blinds to stab at his retinas and send the pounding ricocheting throughout his skull. He jerked away from the light, the pounding in his skull rising to a jackhammer forced another groan past dry lips and even drier throat. He could still taste it in his breath.
'I swear to never drink again, on God if you manage to take away this hangover.' He prayed as he shivered and waited for the swaying to stop. Even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
So far, this entire morning was a repeat of yesterday's, the day before that, the week before that, and so on.
He could almost hear his mother clicking her tongue in disapproval from here, the devout woman she was.
But seeing of the good Lord above broke so many promises to him, Jameson only thought it was fair he kept his prayers just as empty.
He rolled to his side just in time to taste O Zone, the tang greeting him moments before Sparks hovered into his line of sight.
Concern was painted clearly in the yellowish-ivory wisp's blue eyes, delicate tentacle arms reaching out to help him up, worry etched across his face.
"Ugh, yeah," Jamison grunted, rubbing his throbbing forehead. "Just another nightmare. And this damn hangover isn't helping."
The hedgehog waved the wisp away and forced himself to sit up, shoulder aching in the aftershocks as the adrenaline faded. With his ethereal form glowing bright enough to illuminate the cluttered space, Sparks's eyes surveyed the nearly two dozen empty bottles scattered around the room then laid a level look on the green hedgehog. The wisp let out a soft, melodic chime, but the notes were laced with a hint of disapproval, like a mother disappointed in her child's actions.
Jamison didn't know the whisp's language, but the intent was clear enough.
"Thanks for the advice, Doc," Jamison snarked, struggling to get his feet under him. His head pounded mercilessly, but he refused to let it keep him down. He had responsibilities, even if they weighed heavily on him. "Sorry," he apologized reflexively. He knew he should be grateful—Sparks had stuck by him through thick and thin since their tour of duty ended—but sometimes guilt was harder to shake off than regret or fear.
Another sound.
"Tell me something I don't know," Jamison muttered, attempting to stand. His knees wobbled, but he managed to stay upright.
One more sound, gentle and insistent.
"I'm fine." He lied poorly. "You?"
Sparks bobbed up and down, his triangle body leaning forward and back with the motion as close to a nod is a wisp got, his own response sounding just as evasive. "Good, I'll make breakfast."
Breakfast was meager on was meager on his end. Some eggs out of the mini fridge and a couple of strips of bacon for sparks, dry toast for himself. The sizzling of eggs on the hot skillet filled the small kitchenette. Jamison carefully flipped them over, careful not to break the yolks. Sparks hovered nearby, his electric glow casting a soft light in the cozy space. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the RV, offering a small comfort.
"Sparks, grab some plates, will you?" Jamison asked, his voice still rough from sleep and last night's festivities.
Sparks replied and with a flicker of electricity, he lifted two plates from the cupboard and floated them over to the counter.
He knew he should be eating more but as he sat down at the kitchenette table, sitting at his coffee with all the relish he could with his head in a vice, he knew the hangover hadn't killed his appetite and the task ahead of them would have done the job.
The hedgehog stared out the window, actively ignoring the book burning for his attention in the corner of his eye. He was going to have to check it again eventually and make sure he had the town right but that meant looking at the names next to the location. A mix of anger and grief boiled inside him every time he saw those names, and the work he was doing wasn't enough to salve his wounds.
An itemized list of 90 names distributed among various different towns and cities all over. Most had been in G.U.N. and the rest were outside the country. 90 shrunk to nine over the last few months...
'And I showed more care for them than G.U.N ever had.' He put aside the bitter thought before the snowball had time to build into anger. He didn't need to be angry.
He couldn't afford it. Not today.
Letting out of breath, he opened up the blinds a little bit to take in the wilderness. He took a deep breath and opened a window, allowing the crisp morning air to clear his thoughts. Turning on the radio for some music, the smooth jazz lasted for only a minute before it was cut for a news report about some general getting a medal for his contributions to rebuilding efforts between the Acorn Kingdom and the United Federation filled the airwaves.
He scoffed, thinking of the men and women who had truly earned recognition but were never given their due. Then the report went on to talk about the remnants of the robot army which dotted the world.
As the report continued, detailing the ongoing presence of the robot army throughout the world, a bitter taste filled his mouth. It was a taste he had grown familiar with—an amalgamation of disappointment and frustration.
Parking along the road had rankled as much as he thought it would have. He still didn't like the forest but the free state between the Acorn Kingdom and U.F had a lot of low hills and open meadows. Very few forests this whole time and yet somehow he ended up needing to stop next to the first patch really large of trees he saw in days.
When he caught himself scanning the sightlines in the thicket, he knew he needed to relax. Sparks would've warned him if any of the bastard's badniks were tromping around.
He could handle them. He just cleaned his M1 yesterday, already overdue for another in his opinion, and he long since learned how to put down egg shaped nuts and bolts. Hell, he probably could take apart the gun and a robot in the dark with mittens on at this point.
There was something bitterly ironic about that. It made his coffee almost sweet in comparison.
There was a time gunpowder and slugs would've made him apprehensive to say the least.
His parents, his loving mother and police officer father, taught him for most of his life wispons were better weapons. More moral weapons. Able to detain and subdue where guns only had one purpose: killing.
'What a load.' The cruel voice in his mind wanted to accuse them of being naïve. Back in that hellhole there were many things he wanted to say to many people, to rage at the unfairness of it all, collect every bit of poisonous bile he could and throw it at everyone he thought deserved it.
He sighed, head drooping. His parents did not deserve it.
Somehow even the military missed the biggest elephant in the room about Wispons: the wisps.
It wasn't their fault. They like Sparks, like Jamison himself, volunteered for the fight. No one had known what fight it would be then.
How morality fled in the face of terror and horror...
Jamison polished off his toast, wanting to get moving regardless.
The robotic Army was still dangerous, wandering the countryside and skulking around pretty much every corner of the world since their leader vanished months ago.
The hedgehog would have rather heard he was dead, and if God was feeling generous, allowed him to be the one to put the bullet through his skull but he knew no one gave a damn what he thought.
Least of all, G.U.N. or the U.F.
After they cleaned up, Jamison grabbed his pack of cigarettes and stepped outside onto the RV's rickety porch. The morning air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the scent of pine needles and forest dew. He leaned against the railing, the crisp but chilly morning breeze reminding him he was still moping around in his boxers. He'd dealt with worse for a smoke. Scratching his quills and stretching, He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled deeply as he stared into the distance, lost in thought as he checked the road atlas...
He traced the road he was on with a finger to the next town. knowing he was going to have to stop for fuel there before he moved on.
"Huh?" He hummed, frowning slightly.
Sparks glanced up from where he rested on the hedgehog's shoulder with a curious sound.
Jamison leaned the map around for the wisp to see better and tapped the name of their next destination, eyebrow raised.
Sparks squinted at it and looked back at him confused.
Yeah, Barricade Town was an odd name.
The steam billowed from the hot shower, enveloping the cramped RV bathroom in a hazy mist as Jamison stepped out onto the worn linoleum floor. He paused, his reflection staring back at him through the fogged-up mirror. The lines etched on his weathered face told stories of battles fought and scars earned, a testament to the passage of time and the weight it carried. He ran a hand through his quills, his touch absentmindedly brushing over the streaks of grayish-white that now adorned his once vibrant green head.
His tired green eyes met his reflection's gaze, a weariness settling deep within them. It was as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders, each passing day leaving its mark upon his soul. But there was no time for self-pity or contemplation. Jamison had a routine to follow, a task to complete.
Without paying any mind to the streaks on his head, he reached for the towel around his waist, suddenly parched and in need of solace. His hand hesitated for a moment, gripping the dark brown bottle hidden in a cabinet behind a stack of clean towels. It felt like an anchor, a lifeline to keep him grounded amidst the storm raging within him. Why had he bothered hiding this one? This was his RV, and though Sparks might have disapproved of his drinking, the wisp never tried to stop him.
The bottle, almost black in color, curved slightly at the bottom as if mirroring Jamison's own inner turmoil. Its label was worn and faded, but the gold lettering still shimmered faintly in the dim light of the bathroom. He turned it around in his fingers, the contents sloshing inside, its unopened seal mocking him with its presence. It dared him to break it, to succumb to the demons that haunted him. It pointed accusing finger pointing at him dead in the face all but screaming 'You know why...'
"Damn it," A flinch passed through the hedgehog as he muttered a curse under his breath, placing the bottle back on the shelf and slamming the cabinet door shut. There was no room for weakness, no time for indulgence. Duty called, and Jamison always answered.
After brushing his teeth, he pulled out the same outfit he wore every day: a white T-shirt, black pants, and a leather jacket and boots. The habit was one of the remnants from his time in the Marines, where choosing an outfit was never a concern.
Amongst the familiar garments, one item stood out from the rest - a well pressed uniform with a clear zip up dust cover and peaked cap kept in a white box on the shelf above. He gently touched the box, flooded with memories and emotions. Trying to hold back tears, he rubbed his tired eyes and pushed down any signs of weakness. Even now, as a civilian, Jamison couldn't let himself break down. The weight of 90 names hung heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn't bear to think of letting them down again. Duty always came first for him, whether it was in the military or in civilian life.
Something had to show on his face because as he left the room, beer bottles stuffed in a trash bag, Sparks made a questioning chime.
"Fine," Jamison replied gruffly, trying to hide the tremble in his voice while taking a seat in front of the steering wheel and starting the engine. "Let's hit the road."
Checking his mirrors for any signs of danger, he maneuvered the RV out of the thrown together campsite, careful to avoid any ruts in the dirt road as they ventured into the quiet morning. The road stretched out before him, a dusty ribbon winding through vibrant meadows and rolling hills. The suspension of the RV glided smoothly, as if they were driving on fresh asphalt rather than the rough terrain.
Jamison stared straight ahead, relaxing into the easy rhythm of the road. There weren't many places like this in the Federation, just a lot of traffic and cities and freeways with even more traffic. But out here, amidst nature's embrace, he could find a semblance of peace.
He needed a distraction of the familiar to keep himself sane. The smell of the engine and leather, the soft hum of the tires on the dirt, it helped him focus. He ran a hand through his quills, checking his watch. They'd make good time.
It's been quite a while since he did this. Not since before the war. In the safety of his mind, he had to remind himself what camping, what driving like this meant. The stars above reminded him of nights in the jungle, trying to find sleep between the cries of animals and the sounds of guns and the never-ending goddamn rain.
A flicker of movement caught Jamison's attention, drawing his gaze towards Sparks floating on his right shoulder, the wisp having stayed him by some reason beyond his understanding. Even now as they passed through forests and plains and occasional villages, the wisp never left his side. It told him something. What, he didn't know, and he wasn't going to risk it by asking.
Maybe one day he'd wake up and Sparks would just be...gone. No note. No goodbye. Something he was used to and could live with. A final goodbye though...?
Jamison gripped the steering wheel, shaking his head. He'd do his best to avoid that and be grateful for whatever time he could get with Sparks. It was a cruel world, and even he couldn't escape it.
Eventually, the sign for Barricade Town came into view as the town itself rose from the horizon. When he first read Barricade Town on the map the name itself evoked images of impenetrable walls and fortified defenses. But as the town came into view, it was clear that the name was not just for show. It was as if someone had built a fortress modeled after a menacing birthday cake, with rounded walls encircling the perimeter and a looming metal gate adorned with the words 'Barricade Town.'
The name was surprisingly fitting all things considered, those walls had to be 30 feet thick at the base for them to be that tall.
It almost looked like someone made a fortress based off a birthday cake, it's walls rounding the perimeter and a huge metal gate labeled 'Barricade Town' loomed ahead.
A sound of distress from Sparks jolted Jamison's senses as he caught sight of the monstrous Death Egg Robot swinging its deadly appendages at the gate. A shudder ran down Jamison's spine and A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins and his mind flashed with memories of Eggman's twisted machines. Fueled by an overwhelming rage, he floored the gas pedal and sped towards the town.
Sparks emitted a sound of distress, an urgent chime that pierced through Jamison's focus. But he paid it no mind, his attention solely fixed on the unfolding scene. Just in time, he brought the RV to a screeching halt, witnessing a blur of red collide with the monstrous Death Egg Robot, causing it to topple over like an uprooted tree.
Sparks may have said something, but Jamison was too focused on driving to hear. He brought the RV to a stop just in time to see a blur of red slam into the robot, causing it to topple over like a tree. Jamison grabbed his M1 Sorand from its spot in the closet and stepped out of the RV, ready for whatever danger lay ahead.
To his surprise, he found himself face to face with Sonic the Hedgehog, the hero and Knuckles the Echidna, Commander of the Resistance.
As Jamison stood there, he went still. He had heard of Sonic and Knuckles before, how could he not, they were the ones who ended the war. He never thought he would encounter them in real life, let alone as they finished up with a rampaging robot.
Sonic smirked, the popped collar of his red and white vest flapping in the breeze as he flicked sweat off his brow. "Sup, dude?" His cocky grin matching the mischievous twinkle in his emerald, green eyes. "Where's the fire?"