[https://yt3.ggpht.com/bjhuQ2v4oDiRAXiVqKkgg2iTZpFHyylhlhFYFjLudm3jsHu1vwAx_F2t_ajC8CYx-lcekAAnwQdk4g=s640-c-fcrop64=1,00000000ffffffff-nd-v1]
Valerie Meadows
----------------------------------------
Yowling and cursing, Valerie flew out of the Department of Records and into the bustling streets of Station Square, her orange hair whipping around her face as she clutched her sunhat and tried to smooth down her white jacket that flapped behind her like a comet's tail. Her landing was less than graceful, her slim figure narrowly avoiding colliding with a passerby as she got her feet under her just in time.
Her sleek black heels clicking against the pavement, she rounded on the guard with half a mind to go back up there just to slap him. The guard at the front desk, a burly German Shepherd, smirked and shook out his fur as if proud of himself for throwing her out. She clutched her sunhat to her chest and straightened her white blazer, determined not to let him see how rattled she was.
It didn't work, she could feel he tail frizzing up and her fur bristling along her spine. This was the day! Today was the day she'd finally get some answers, that the people got some answers, and her ears flattening against her head. But she gathered up her anger and put on a face of defiance. "I'll show you," she growled under her breath, knowing the guard couldn't hear her but needing to say it anyway.
But then, just as she thought she had regained her composure, another guard appeared by the door. He looked nearly identical to the first one, like they could have been brothers. He sneered and threw Valerie's briefcase down the stairs. Her old partner lasted a single bounce then popped open, causing papers to scatter everywhere. As she scrambled to gather them up, still seething with anger, she couldn't help but think about how unfairly she had been treated.
All she had done was request to see the declassified files that THEY had announced were now available for the public.
How dare they treat her like this? She fumed, her hackles raised as she was ready to march back in there and give them a piece of her mind.
"Is this how you treat a lady?" she seethed, settling on words and shooting daggers at both guards. "I could sue you!"
"I told you; we can't let you or any see those files." The first guard repeated with the detached, almost sing-song tone of a bureaucrat wanting to irritate. "Please, leave the premises before we're forced to call the police."
Valerie stood her ground, eyes blazing. She refused to be intimidated or back down.
"What are you so afraid I'll find?" she challenged. "What truth are you trying to bury?"
The guard's smug expression flickered almost imperceptibly. Valerie pressed her advantage.
"You can't keep it hidden forever. The people deserve to know."
For a moment, she thought she saw a hint of doubt in the guard's eyes. But then his professional mask slid back into place.
"This is your last warning," he said flatly. "The files stay classified. Forget this nonsense and go home, or you'll be removed by force."
"I'll see you in court!" She spat back, snatching up the last of her papers. He turned and strode back toward the building's entrance, signaling the conversation was over.
The crowd seemed more interested in their own business than the scene before them. Valerie gathered up the last of her spilled papers, her mind racing.
As she stuffed the papers haphazardly into her briefcase, a green hand gently grasped her arm. She looked up to see a turtle offering her a sympathetic smile.
"Here, let me help you with that," he said kindly, taking the briefcase from her hands.
With deft fingers, he neatly arranged the documents inside before snapping it shut. Valerie blinked in surprise at the gesture. Around them, the crowds continued to stream past, oblivious to the scene that had just played out.
"Thank you," she said sincerely, accepting the briefcase back from him.
The turtle tipped his hat to her. "Don't let them get you down, miss. Stay strong."
With that, he turned and disappeared into the rush of pedestrians. Valerie watched him go, feeling just that bit better after she'd made a fool of herself.
It was the only bright spot in months of governmental guard railing, political potholes, and military millstones which blocked her from doing her job. Though the guard tried to hide it, she had clearly struck a nerve by demanding to see the apparently not declassified files. There was something in there they wanted to keep hidden. There was no point in trying to get clarification or that there had been some sort of misunderstanding, not anymore.
'If it hadn't be obvious enough already.' She groused, patting down her clothes as she stalked away from another dead end. Her gold eyes skimmed the surface of her briefcase, satisfied there was no new scratches.
Streets were crowded as usual, and people walked past without a second glance at the angry feline woman as she marched aimlessly to cool her head. Part of her wished she'd driven here if only so she could floor it and leave these jerks behind, but alas, parking was too damn high in this city and she wasn't shelling out 20 Mobiums an hour for anyplace.
But that was Station Square for you. Everything back to business as usual in the United Federation as if everyone wanted to forget how the G.U.N. military got rolled up and beaten by Eggman like a cheap rug. All the promises, the taxes, and propaganda in the world and they didn't even last a single month when the war kicked off, and for Valerie Meadows that was the most aggravating part.
Like everyone, she'd panicked as one day the war was going fine and the next, she could look out her apartment window with a guaranteed buzz bomber squadron patrol passing by every five minutes. 5 months of occupation followed by the Resistance finally beating back Eggman and his bots, and suddenly no one was being held responsible for it happening in the first place.
As she stomped along, the cityscape around her seemed to blur into a monotonous grey. The familiar hum of city life was drowned out by the pounding of her own frustration in her ears. Her mind kept circling back to the files, the war, and the public's ignorance.
The sharp tang of roasted hazelnuts teased her nose, pulling her from the funk of another failure.
A coffee shop caught her eye with and at once her stomach decided to remind her she'd skipped breakfast this morning, she decided to duck in for some peace and quiet. The rich smell filled her nostrils as she entered, cool air conditioning hitting her skin, and she felt herself calm down slightly.
Then Tupelo Island rose to the front of her thoughts and her spin stiffened. She ordered a triple shot latte with extra foam and an egg tart from the bunny barista behind the counter, her claws tapping impatiently against the marble countertop until it arrived and wishes for a distraction.
Then her attention fell on the TV screen playing on the back wall behind the coffee equipment and she narrowed her eyes at the face of Mary Lunden, anchor for SSN, quickly regretting that wish.
The so-called siren of Station Square Network set behind her studio desk, all the inoffensive debonair debutante.
Valerie hated that echidna and the network she worked for. Bad enough she was popular because of her generous... assets and a personality so bland it was hard to believe she didn't leech the color from the TV screen.
But the price of her outfit contrasted perfectly with the limited depth of her vapid reporting. If there ever was someone Valerie could call the face of a propaganda ministry, it was her. And if she was the face then SSN was the ministry itself.
Before the war they had always been just factual enough to pass the sniff test. Presenting facts about events with just enough of a slant to stir up emotions one way or another without crossing the line into libel or slander.
Now though...
The cat didn't know how, but they alone seemed to have been able to do the one thing G.U.N. and the United Federation couldn't: make people forget about Tupelo.
She took her meal and found a quiet spot in the corner, knowing that wasn't right.
She was giving them too much credit.
Everyone wanted to forget about Tupelo Island, just like those fighting there were forgotten about in the chaos of the invasion. Add in a light peppering of shame, a dash of general outrage, and a garnish of pointed questions on how people with no support, re-supply, or reinforcement managed to last the entirety of the war against Eggman yet the rest of the military couldn't...
Yeah, talk about a great big ol' shit stew for the decision-makers. A stew someone was going to have to eat.
'Yeah, I need to eat.' She thought, taking a bite out of the tart.
Food allegories now in hand, the scandal was mud in the face of every everyone in the military and political sphere and it was generally agreed President Samuel was not getting a second term.
Yet she couldn't miss how they wanted everyone else to forget or at least ignore what went down.
Taking a sip, she let out a satisfied sigh at the rich flavor and felt it soothe her nerves.
Her phone rang, the vibration in her pocket making her jump, the opening chords to Mina Mongoose's 'Penguin Class' jauntily bouncing under the buzz of café conversation.
Her stomach dropped.
She didn't know why she'd set her favorite song to her boss's number, but she was regretting it even more than usual lately.
'Well, time to face the music' She thought, as she pulled out her phone. 'Both ways'
She hesitated before swiping to answer, bracing herself for the inevitable berating she was about to receive. No doubt he had already heard about the scene at the records department.
"Hello?" Valerie answered tentatively.
"Valerie! What's this I hear about you causing a disruption downtown?" her boss's voice boomed through the phone. "I told you to drop this crusade of yours, it's only going to lead to trouble."
Valerie's hackles raised at his condescending tone. "With all due respect sir, I'm just trying to do my job. The public has a right to know-"
"You know as well as I do that some things are better left buried," he interrupted. Sketch wasn't going easy this time, the editor of the Saint Street Times was one hell of a hardheaded hound dog and he was bringing it all to bare.
"Sketch, Tupelo Island isn't just some 'thing'," she shot back, her voice sharp. "It's a story that needs to be told. If we don't do it, who will?"
The line was silent for a moment before Sketch sighed heavily. The harsh tone in his voice had faded, replaced with an almost mournful quality. "Valerie... I know you're passionate about this and I respect that but, there are higher forces at play here. Forces that even the Saint Street Times can't take on."
The cat stared at her coffee and the half-eaten tart, stomach coiling into nauseating knots. "Sketch... Are you saying... Are we being silenced?" Valerie asked, the words tasting bitter as they left her mouth.
"I'm saying... it may be best to let sleeping dogs lie," Sketch responded, managing to sound both apologetic and firm. There was a long pause, the weight of their unspoken thoughts hanging heavily in the air.
"Valerie," he finally said, his tone softer now, "I'm not asking you to quit being a journalist... I'm asking you to choose your battles wisely. All this evasiveness, the yes and no's, and the backtracking, something big is going on. You know it. I know it. If anyone has the full story, they're not coming forward and we have to cut our losses."
Valerie bit her tongue, holding back a fiery retort. As frustrating as this dead-end investigation had become, she knew it wasn't Sketch's fault. The man was always in the corner of truth and backed everyone who worked at the paper. For him to be giving up, it must've killed him to say what he was saying.
She couldn't let it go though. The truth was out there somewhere, and she would find it no matter the cost. For now, she needed to play nice.
"I understand your concerns," she said slowly. The lie tasted no less bitter than the truth. There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line and Valerie imagined Sketch, his graying fur and stern gaze softening with relief. "Perhaps I was too...zealous in my pursuit of answers. I'll be more careful going forward."
"See that you do," her boss huffed. "Take some time, Valerie. Take a few weeks to cool your heels." The order to take some time off didn't sound like a suggestion. It was an ultimatum, an implicit warning, ringing clear and strong over the line.
"Well, you know I'm not good at sitting idle," Valerie retorted, a hint of her customary fire returning. She could almost see Sketch's worn smile through the phone. "But I'll do my best."
"That's all I'm asking for. We've got a good team here, Valerie, and you're a part of it. Just be careful. Go home, sit down for a while, enjoy life outside of work." He paused for a moment. "And for god's sake, stop causing trouble in government buildings."
A reluctant chuckle escaped from her lips. "Alright, Sketch. You win."
"I don't want to win. I just want my employees safe," he replied, his voice soft but firm. "Take care of yourself, Valerie."
The call ended leaving her staring at the black screen of her phone, heart pounding loudly in the quiet corner of the café. Valerie set her phone down harder than intended, nearly sloshing her drink. She took a long sip and began idly flipping through and reorganizing the papers in her briefcase as she plotted her next move. It was what her father would do, what he once did.
She gently brushed the age beaten surface of the briefcase. 'I could really use the help, dad.'
"The truth is always hard, Val. Lies are easy but poisonous." He told her once, when she was still a kitten. His wisdom echoed in her mind and had carried her through many when she started her career, and this one would be no different. Because there was indeed a poison bubbling under all of this, and if Eggman ever showed his face again, that poison would kill the Federation for good.
All her notes relating to what public information was available and the few interviews she managed to get sat in front of her, each one a fragmented piece of a much larger, nefarious puzzle. Tapping her pen against her warm cup of coffee, Valerie couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration. No matter how many times she poured over them, the picture remained elusive. She took another bite of the tart, trying to swallow down both her feelings and the flaky pastry.
A small rectangle of paper slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. Valerie bent to pick it up, thinking it was one of the dozens of business cards she'd gathered over the years. But as she flipped the card between her fingers with a crisp thwip and read the front, a sudden shock ran through her body as if she had been plunged into icy water.
The business card was crisp and white, with bold, black lettering and a sleek, modern design. The edges were sharp and precise, a reflection of the owner's attention to detail.
And it took everything in her to keep her face calm as she re-read what was written on the front.
Today. 5:35. F4S Club.
You Are Expected.
IXM
The last three letters were a gold print which reflected the light of the cafe. Where had this come from? She didn't have a card like this, much less one inviting her to one of the most exclusive Clubs in Station Square. When had-
Her mind flicked back to the one person who'd helped her gather her papers. But if that where it had come from, then the turtle who put it there knew who she was... The turtle tipping his hat to her and what he said, "Don't let them get you down, miss. Stay strong."
What she'd thought were just simple words of encouragement suddenly took on a whole new, sinister light. 'How long have they been watching me?'
She had no idea who 'they' even were.
Her investigative instincts kicked in as she studied the cafe patrons around her. That squirrel typing away on his laptop could be an encrypted communications specialist, hiding secrets in plain sight. The barista laughing with customers might actually be an undercover agent meeting a contact. If even the turtle who helped pick up her papers earlier was more than just a friendly passerby...
Valerie's imagination started running wild with possibilities, each theory more far-fetched than the last. She had to rein herself in - this wasn't some spy thriller novel, it was real life. More than anything, she needed solid evidence and credible sources, not just speculation.
Draining the last of her latte, Valerie gathered her things to leave and checked her watch. She had less than four hours to make up her mind.
X-X
[https://yt3.ggpht.com/9CjVrJZaMuSucNRQDWdaZal2vHDaprJ5Ai12GK14SQXRqbHctWx9L32jv3kqdIuuovOV40nbfXs7=s640-c-fcrop64=1,00000000ffffffff-nd-v1]
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Jamison Broadway
----------------------------------------
Jamison flinched, heart racing as he stepped out of the warehouse with the wisps in tow and into a thunderous sea of faces. The townspeople had gathered to witness the defeat of Rough and Tumble, and the cheers shook him to his core. The glory of victory wasn't what they fought for, but in this moment, it was hard not to bask in it.
'Better than what you got.' A voice in his head quietly commented, dousing the worm feeling in his chest.
'Better than what you deserve.' Another more vicious one snapped, which iced over what embers were left.
Words, the hedgehog thought, were more than fair. Forcing a smile which felt stiff and uncomfortable, but it would do better than the grimace trying to pull at the corners of his mouth. He forced himself to walk a little straighter, to lift his chin a little higher even as the cheering started to clash against his ears like a rogue wave.
As he walked towards the cheering crowd, he couldn't help but notice that some of them were armed with Wispons. Apparently, not everyone trusted the brothers enough to rely solely on their protection. Jamison felt relieved knowing that these civilians were prepared to defend themselves if needed. It was a smart move, especially after seeing crates full of confiscated wispons in the brother's little dining hall.
With even less desire to deal with people, the green hedgehog hunched in on himself, popped his collar, and smoothly aimed his path away from the packed center of the gathering, actively refusing to look at Sonic or Knuckles. His anger at the pair had collapsed into a bitter resentful shame, he was honest enough with himself to know they were right. Being talked down to by a pair of young bucks was bad enough, but what truly ate at him was the fact that they were not wrong. The brothers deserved a fair trial. What had he been thinking? They had surrendered, and as long as Tupelo was many miles and months away, he...
His attention fell on the skunk brothers, the hedgehog having timed to stride so that he was lagging behind enough to keep them within his sight.
Amongst the celebrating people, Al Wexel was the most surprising to see. It was surprising to see him with a drill wispon in hand, bustling through the crowd, and upon making eye contact with him, headed straight his way. "Thank you, sir," he said, shaking Jamison's hand with nervous energy reminiscent of their encounter at the inn. It gave Jamison the feeling the guy was just like this. "We couldn't have gotten this done without you. At least, not without injury. That doesn't mean some of us weren't ready for a fight, but they would've had the advantage –"
Jamison raised a hand to halt Al's words. "I understand, Al," he replied, his gaze drawn to the silver star pinned to the deputy's scarf. "Or should I say Deputy Wexel?"
"Only on my days off, heh." His smile flattened significantly when his attention fell on the skunks. "It was good to get the sheriff and the mayor out of the jail. We got a doctor looking them over."
It was clear he wanted to do more than just let the skunks be arrested. In a town like this, neighbors knew each other, and the mutt certainly worked with the people he mentioned personally.
"You should talk to them," Jamison gestured towards Sonic and Knuckles, urging Al to join the other two. "You have a hero and the commander of the resistance over there. I barely did anything."
"Oh? Oh yeah," Al mumbled, spinning around to walk away before pausing and turning back. "Before I go though, is there anything you want?"
The word "nothing" was poised to roll off Jamison's tongue when Sparks, finally peeled away from the other wisps and landed on his shoulder, chimed in with a chiding tone.
That's right, he realized. He almost completely forgotten.
"About 30 gallons of gas," he replied,
Sparks chimed again. "And ten more for a Jerry can."
"Alright. Meet me at the gas station on 5th."
"You think this is over?" Rough sneered, his eyes narrowing into slits as he glared at Jamison. "We'll be back, and when we are, you'll wish you never crossed us!"
He turned to the skunks as they struggled against the firm grip of the police. It wasn't any real attempt to get free as much as make themselves as much of a nuisance as possible before they were marched away.
"Yeah! You haven't seen the last of Rough and Tumble!" Tumble added, his voice a growling echo of his brother's threat. "Sonic, Knuckles, even you, green boy – you're all on our list now!"
Their arrogant proclamations hung in the air, barely cutting through the jubilant air of the crowd. Sonic rolled his eyes, letting out a low chuckle under his breath. "Well, we'll be waiting," he replied coolly, seemingly undeterred by their threats.
As Rough and Tumble's threats dissipated into the crisp village air, Knuckles' eyes narrowed into two fierce slits, unamused by their bravado. Stood in a boxing stance and his fists lashed out in an impressive blurring combination which would lay a mountain out if it took it head on.
The tension in his brow was enough to send a silent, message that made the skunks flinch like they's stepped into an arctic gust naked and shaved. It was a look that spoke volumes; it said that any attempt at revenge would be met with the full force of the Echidna's might.
Again, it would've funny. It almost was. Like with everything about them, their promise of retribution was loud, boisterous, and empty. Even the people they were terrorizing only minutes ago, erupted into hearty laughter. The children pointed and giggled, while most of the adults shook their heads, chuckling at the captured villains' expense.
But Jamison couldn't find it in himself to laugh.
A burning chill sizzled through his mind, propelling him forward even as Sparks jingled in his ear, attempting to calm him down. The hedgehog didn't so much as break his stride.
The wisp was kinder than him, Sonic was better than him, even Knuckles was gentler than him.
He was a failure. 90 names served as evidence to it, and he'd been damned if he was going to play any games with these two.
With deliberate steps, Jamison closed the gap until he stood mere inches from Rough and Tumble's snouts. His quills, streaked with white, bristled with an intensity that matched the stern set of his jaw. Emerald eyes locked onto their gaze with a piercing sharpness, conveying a message that he was no laughing matter.
"If you come after me," Jamison hissed, his voice low and menacing, every ounce of threat infused within his words, "you won't live to regret it."
Rough and Tumble swallowed hard, their earlier defiance replaced by a sudden realization of just how close they had come to their demise. Led away by the authorities, their once boisterous boasts were silenced. A curious chime from his shoulder caught Jamison's attention. "Yeah, you're right," he murmured.
As if to dispel the tension, Sonic's voice rose above the crowd. "But before all that," he declared loudly enough for everyone to hear, "let's PARTY!"
The villagers erupted into cheers once again and...
Where did all the confetti come from?
X-X
In less than two hours, the late afternoon sun was dappling the town in a warm glow as the festivities commenced. Wisps of every hue flitted through the air, their cheerful luminescence adding to the rustic charm of the decorations that adorned the square. Children laughed and chased the playful creatures, while villagers clapped and sang, their spirits lifted by the prospect of peace. Knuckles stood amidst the revelry, a rare smile gracing his features as he watched the Wisps dance around him.
"Hey, big guy!" Sonic called out, zipping over to his friend with a plate of chili dogs in hand. "Grab a bite before they're all gone!"
They were sitting outside the front of Al's Inn, a thick table with an umbrella in the center to ward off what was left of the sun. Strings of lanterns hung overhead, bathing the building and everything before it in a delightful golden hue.
Al himself was at a grill he'd moved from the kitchen to the sidewalk, flipping burgers and roasting hotdogs with an ease that only a seasoned veteran of the grill could possess. The tantalizing aroma wafted through the air, mixing with the sharp smell of the clean air and the comforting scent of freshly grass; Now the town was free, it was a perfect summer evening.
"Thanks, Sonic," Knuckles said, accepting one of the chili dogs. He bit into it, savoring the rich flavors. Even amid all this merriment, he never let his guard down fully – his eyes constantly scanning the crowd, ever watchful.
He was halfway through it when he noticed Sonic, the guy who once was teleported into a storybook and his first thought was to dive to save his chilidog, wasn't eating. That was more worrisome than anything. Sonic's appetite never waned, especially where his favorite food was involved.
"Everything good?" The hedgehog had a thoughtful look on his face, his chili dog momentarily forgotten.
Sonic glanced at him, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes before he let out a chuckle. "Just thinking about how quick things can change, y'know?" He took a bite from his chili dog, shrugging nonchalantly, but Knuckles wasn't fooled. He knew Sonic well enough to recognize the brief flicker of unease that had crossed his friend's eyes. He decided to cut to the chase.
"What's the matter?" Knuckles asked bluntly, deciding cutting to the chase was the best option. "You worried about what round, bald, and nasty is cooking up?"
"Nah," Sonic said, brushing off the question. "I've got something else on my mind. You see Jamison?"
Knuckles blinked and looked around. The whole town seemed to be in the square. Mobians of all colors, dress and stripes, were having fun but the distinct green and white spines of Jamison were missing. He shook his head in response, offering Sonic a shrug. "Maybe he's just not a party person." He suggested, glancing over at the crowd as some children started a conga line, wisps flitting through the air around them like tiny fireworks.
Knuckle wouldn't call himself a people person either. Between the duties as commander and his responsibilities as guardian looming over his shoulder all the time, his desire for social interaction shrank so fast he was probably in debt by now.
"Something's not sitting right with me about that guy," Sonic murmured, his voice low enough so only Knuckles could hear. "He's been acting kind of... intense since we wrapped things up here. I'm thinking I should keep an eye on him when he rolls out."
"Intense how?" Knuckles asked, concern knitting his brow. But in reality, he was asking a question he already knew. The green hedgehog was an unknown quantity when they met, and the echidna knew even less about him now. While he was a warrior of the highest caliber, much like Sonic and himself, the cold-bloodedness they'd glimpsed in the warehouse showed Jamison was more than the convenient what appeared to be. It was more than just his militaristic demeanor or his proficiency in battle. There was something about his eyes, how when he leveled his gun at the kneeling Rough and Tumble there had been no doubt he was going to pull the trigger. "Sorry. I know what you mean." He said, answering Sonic's flat look, "but are you sure about this, Sonic? He hasn't done anything yet."
Sonic finally turned to fully look at Knuckles, thoughtful. His sharp green eyes were serious, the usual playfulness replaced by a determination that had seen them through many battles. "No, he hasn't. But I've been doing this long enough to trust my instincts."
Knuckles couldn't argue with that. Sonic's instincts were usually spot on. They'd saved the world more times than he could count due to those instincts.
"Alright," Knuckles said reluctantly. "What's the game plan?"
Sonic replied. "I'm gonna follow his RV discreetly once the party dies down. Just to be sure he's not up to something then double back to my next stop."
"Or maybe you should, you know, talk to him?" Knuckles offered, looking away momentarily to wave at a group of girls who passed by with a 'Hey, boys~.'
"He doesn't seem to be the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Jeez, the only reason I'm even saying that is because he told them to surrender before shooting."
Sonic gave them a picture-perfect grin and the group giggled as they continued on. "Yeah," he said after a moment, his voice less certain. "Maybe you're right. But..." He struggled to find the words. "It's not about what he did. Not just that, I mean. It's about what he could do later... If he can be so cold-blooded with two common thugs, who's to say he won't turn that gun on us if we get in his way?" Sonic reasoned, brushing a hand through his quills.
"Hey, you wanna know what I think?"
"I'm askin' you, aren't I?"
"Good, wanted to make sure." Knuckles nodded. He stuffed what was left of his chili dog in his mouth and chewed. "Yer bein' dumb." He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
Sonic blinked, wondering if he misheard through the mouthful of chili, bread, and meat. "I'm... what?"
Knuckles, having swallowed, pointed at Sonic with the hand that was now freed from holding the half-eaten chili dog. "Dumb. You're assuming the worst and not giving this guy a chance, and considering this is you I'm talking to, that guy must've really caught you flatfooted. Maybe he had a good reason for acting the way he did."
Sonic's smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression. "Maybe. But there are usually less violent ways of handling things. Better ways."
"Like running headfirst into danger without thinking? Like you always do?" Knuckles raised an eyebrow at him. Nobody's that simple, Sonic."
"Says the guy who's always ready for a good old brawl," Sonic shot back, smirking.
"That's... different," Knuckles' face flushed slightly under his fur. He looked away.
"How?"
"Because... I don't know, it just is."
Sonic chuckled and mussed his friend's hair playfully. "Sure, it is, Knux. Sure, it is."
Knuckles swatted at Sonic’s hand exasperatedly. "All I'm sayin' is you talk to him face to face instead of making him out to be more than he is."
"Fine, I'll do it. I'll talk to him." Sonic conceded, rolling his eyes in a teasing manner.
Knuckles nudged Sonic's shoulder lightly with a grin before sliding the plate over to himself. The chili dog vanished in a flash of blue. "Well, seems you got your appetite back."
X-X
With deliberate care, Jamison disassembled his M1, each movement fluid and precise. The metallic clinks and soft thuds as he laid the parts on the cloth before him echoed gently in the stillness of the room, a comforting cadence that signaled the beginning of his meditative task.
At least, that had been the plan.
"Sonic the hedgehog," Jonah Lockwood let out a low impressed whistle as he dropped into the kitchenette bench seat across from him. "Well, Sarnt. I guess you could say you made it now. Meeting bona fide heroes. What's next? Hobnobbing with celebrities?"
He didn't answer right away, dragging on the cigarette as he worked under the bright lamp. He picked up each component individually, studying its form under the soft yellow glow. His well-calloused fingers traced the cold steel lines, appreciating every curve and edge with an intimacy only time could bestow.
He gave Jonah a flat look, annoyed by his interruption. The red furred Afghan hound returned with a grin so innocent it turned around to being guilty as hell. A grin which no one but the Fukawi squad saw through. Many a hand of poker had fallen victim to that smile, not one being Jamison's.
Without a word, the hedgehog leaned over and plucked a fresh can of Apple Red from the pack he splurged for after getting his gas. After all, free gallons of gas had a tendency to make room in even the tightest budgets. He slid it over to him across the worn surface of the kitchenette table, and Jonah caught it in a deft hand, the grin never leaving his face.
He popped the top, the sound sharp and abrupt in the quiet room. A burst of apple scent wafted through the air, mingling with the oil and metal odour that clung to his hands. He didn’t drink it immediately, instead kept it close to him as he continued examining his M1, his fingers dancing over the parts almost like a musician over an instrument.
"Oh, come on Sarnt, don't give me that look," Jonah jabbed again, leaning back in his bench seat. Of course, the guy would somehow manage to visit the only time Jamison hadn't been looking for company. "I'm just curious."
"Politics," he drawled in response, his eyes never leaving his task as he expertly sprayed the canister contents into the barrel of the M1. "Government's next, if I'm not careful."
Jonah chuckled, his laughter airy and light in the solemn silence of the room. "Sarnt Jamison, the political hedgehog. Now there’s a sight I'd pay to see."
"And there's not enough money in the world to make me," Jamison grumbled as he went back to his maintenance. " And I guess you haven't heard, ain't a Sargent no more." He informed him, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and gesturing up and down to encompass the hound's rumpled uniform. Even though he tried to sound serious, he knew the smile tickling at the corners of his mouth was getting them away. "Otherwise, I'd smoke you like a fish for coming in my RV looking like that."
"Good to see I'm still lucky." His chuckle was light, but his smile wavered, and he shrugged a bit uneasily. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that by the way. They did you wrong for that. After the snafu they put us through, they should've been kissing the greener part of your rear for getting us out."
Jamison waived dismissively, his cigarette drawing little gray trails in the light. As he carefully slid the en bloc clip from the receiver, the distinct ping echoed softly in the room, a sound that had resonated through countless skirmishes and training exercises. "Maybe. Let me know when you start giving a flying fuck about their opinions, then I might start."
G.U.N. could have done worse. Hell, they tried to do worse. Everyone on Tupelo Island had had the gall to make them look bad by surviving, after all.
He caught Jonah's gaze as he set down the last piece, a gleam of defiance sparking in the hound's eyes. There were no words needed between them. They both knew how wrong they had been done by, how they had fought tooth and claw for survival and for each other.
"The funny thing about survival," Jamison started, prodding the air with his cigarette for emphasis, "is that you stop giving a damn about what anyone thinks of you." His hand drifted down to his shoulder before he caught himself.
"Wise words, Sarnt. Wise words." Jonah replied, his grin returning as he raised his drink in a mock toast.
Jamison snorted at the title, tapping ash into a nearby tray. Even out of uniform, it seemed some things never changed. He picked up the barrel of his M1 and slid his cleaning rod through it with steady movements. "Not wise enough to not join."
The private burst into a booming laugh, one that belied a guy of his size. Then he looked down at the can and Jonah's eyes lit up, and his grin grew even wider, bearing fangs that looked more like they belonged to a wolf than a hound. "You still drinking this? I thought it was my favorite, not yours."
"Oh yeah, your taste is atrocious, but it grew on me."
The silence stretched between them for a few moments, filled only by the scrape of metal against metal as Jamison cleaned. Once he was done, he began reassembling the gun with the same care and efficiency he had shown while dismantling it. Jonah watched, fiddling with the beer's tab and indulging in the comfortable silence that had settled between them.
"Remember when we were stuck in that damn foxhole?" Jonah broke the silence, his grin widening at the shared memory, "Nothing but damn rain and our boots were filled with water and mud."
"How could I forget?" Jamison grinned back, his eyes reflecting the gleam of the overhead lights. He remembered how Jonah had saved his life that day, pulling him from that waterlogged ditch while bullets zipped past their heads. "You kicked up such a fuss about your fancy boots. And your fancy guitar."
The hedgehog paused, the last words reminding him. "Actually, I still got it. You want it back?"
The hound shook his head, grin fading but not entirely disappearing. He traced the rim of his can with a finger. "Ain't gonna do me any good, probably way out of tune anyway."
"Like your singing was ever in tune," Jamison smirked, clicking the trigger guard back in place.
"Cold, Sarnt, real cold." But Jonah was laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But thank you, Sarnt." He added, his tone lighter, the playful glint returning to his eyes.
The hedgehog scoffed, rolling his eyes but Jonah reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "No, seriously. Thank you."
As Jamison felt the weight of Jonah's gratitude settle between them, a somber reflection crossed his face before he masked it with his usual stoicism. He lifted his gaze to meet Jonah's, the unspoken bond of camaraderie between them speaking volumes more than words ever could.
"No need for thanks, kid," Jamison said gruffly, but there was a softness in his tone that belied his tough exterior. "Just doin' what needed to be done."
Jonah nodded, understanding passing between them. "Still, Sarnt. You look tired. You sleeping well?"
"Sleeping's overrated, when I'm not cleaning this hardware or dealing with late night visitors." Jamison growled, looking down at the M1 gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He slid the bolt home with a final click, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
His eyes flicked to the small, digital clock on the kitchenette counter, the red numbers blinking '09:33 PM' mocking him with their reminder of how much time had passed since he last slept.
Jonah's voice broke through his thoughts, offering a simple solution. "Well, you should get some."
Jamison wanted to argue, to prove that he didn't need to rest, but his body betrayed him as a yawn escaped his lips. His exhaustion caught up with him, making it impossible to deny the truth any longer.
"Maybe," Jamison finally admitted, running a hand over his face before throwing Jonah a sideways glance. "Are you gonna tuck me in?"
Jonah laughed and stood, stretching his arms above his head, and showing he still hadn't cleaned the bloodstain from under the armpit of his uniform. He glanced around the RV, his eyes lingering on the polished M1 on the table. "You wish, Sarnt. But I'll get out of...your...hair-"
The hedgehog hadn't even realized his had begun to close eyes were closing until Jonah's voice grew muffled, fading out like a distant radio signal. He blinked up at the hound in surprise, struggling to keep focused. "What were you saying?" he slurred, his words tripping over each other.
"Nothing important, Sarnt," he reassured him, moving towards the door of the RV. When he looked back over his shoulder, Jamison could see the genuine concern in his eyes. "You get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
Yeah, Jonah was right.