A/N: It's not really that important, but incase anyone cares this
story picks up around issue 116 of the comics and breaks off from
there.

Disclaimer: Sonic the Hedgehog and company, as well as their nemisises
are owned by Sega as well as DiC and Archie comics. Were I to ever
claim them as my own not only would I have a big, fat, lawsuit to deal
with but also a large number of video game nuts with pitchforks and
torches and a small group of screaming, rabid fan girls with blunted
sporks.


Chapter IV.

"If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it
caught and shot now."
-Zaphod Beeblbrox, Hitchhiker's Guide tto the Galaxy

Snively woke with a start, sitting suddenly up in bed. He took a
deep breath, looked around the room. Shelf, closet, bookcase, chair
computer. His room in the Death Egg and nothing more.

So it had been a dream, had it? Probably stress, yes definitely.
Everything was normal and he'd have to report for duty in a few minutes.
Yes, normal, joy. He cupped his chin in his hand and leaned back
against the bed frame, rubbed his face. Of course he wasn't dead, or
roboticizied! How could he have ever had a dream as crazy as-

And the thought froze in his mind, discontinued synapses rerouting
themselves as his delicate fingers encountered his... hairline. His
hand stopped too, mid-motion, and he brought his hand down to look at it,
as though thinking he must have mistaken the sensation for something
else. Cautiously he lifted it up again and ran his fingers through the
fluffy strands he found there. Gingerly, as though it might disappear at
any moment, he brought a lock down into his field of vision. Dark,
shiny tendrils of decorative protein complexes came into his sight.

"My god," he gasped. He lifted his other arm and looked at it,
panning up from the tips of his fingers, the back of his hand, his
wrist, lower arm. Curiously he turned his arm over. There should have
been scars, two of them, one running down from his wrist, across his
palm, and another up his forearm. But they weren't there. The pale
peach flesh was pristine, practically flawless. Which meant...

He leapt out of the bed and dashed to his closet, yanking it open to
see the full length mirror on the other side. He stared into the
reflective surface, astounded, speechless. Wispy black hair hung
around his shoulders, which were bare and bony, like his chest. But
there was not a single scar anywhere that he could see. He turned
around in his excitement trying to do the impossible and see his back.
He stared down at his hands intently. So it had all happened, and
though the memories of being dead were fading rapidly, the memories of
dieing and beforehand were coming back full force.

He knew he was alive again, but then, how was he in his room in
the city? It had been nuked just as well as he had. Well, he'd go out
and look, but first thing was first. He needed to get some clothes on
over his boxer shorts, in case he DID find anyone else out there.

Now he looked into the closet itself. There seemed to be one set of
clothing in it. Not his own, although similar. He pulled on a pair of
black, canvasy pants, a pale blue tank top which was the only shirt in
the closet and a pair of knee high boots. He looked at him self in the
mirror. Not bad, better than usual, certainly, but he couldn't help
wishing the shirt, covered more. He felt exposed without his accustomed
heavy turtleneck. But there was nothing he could do about it at the
moment.

He shook his head, causing some of his newly returned hair to fall in
his face. He frowned, bushing the locks away, but they fell right back,
obscuring his vision most annoyingly. He pushed it away once more. It
did no good whatsoever. He scowled at the closet, just because there was
nothing else around to direct his irritation at. It was all very well
and good to have hair, but he'd forgotten how much of a pain-

His eyes fell on a hair tie, conspicuously hung on a peg in the closet
which he was nearly positive had not been there a moment before. He
pursed his lips suspiciously but grabbed the band and tied his hair
back. For a moment it stayed, nicely flat and neat but then, the moment
he peered in the glass quite a bit of it came free of the band and stuck
comedically up, rather like a Mohawk, or the way it had when he'd been
nearly bald.

"No," he said stubbornly, taking the rubber band out and trying again.

The moment he put the tie in ,it happened again. Sniveler's eyebrow
twitched as he tried again, and again, and again, each time with as
little luck as the first until he was so mad he was nearly ready to,
well no he wasn't mad enough to tear his hair out.

He looked at his reflection and gave a pained, indignant sigh. Fine,
let the stuff stay how it wanted, at least it was out of his face. He
turned on his heel, stalked to the door and yanked it open, intending
to slam it shut behind him. But what he saw outside of it gave him
pause, instead of a bright, sterile, if forbidding hallway there was a
staircase, old and unused, and very dark.

"What on Mobius?" he looked mistrustfully around the room. No other
way out, he'd have to take the stairs. Cautiously, with a last backward
glance he mounted the stair, leavening the door open behind him to
provide some light. 1...2...3 he counted the steps as he climbed them.
Either the 'good doctor' had done some serious remodeling while he'd
been away, or else, this wasn't the fortress at the center of the City.

The longer he climbed the more he came to this conclusion. 51...52...
But then why had the room been so much like his own, an exact replica
in fact? He felt the hand of a god in this, if that was really what
Geheivia was. 72..73..74, he was getting tired now, breathing heavily,
and there wasn't much light penetrating this far up. Luckily, sort of,
it was only a moment later when he ran abruptly into a door at the top
of the stairs.

"Oof!" He reeled back, almost falling down the stairs, flailing
wildly to regain his lost balance on the edge of the top step, and
finally managing to grab the doorknob.

He breathed deeply glaring through the murky darkness at the moldering
door. He turned the knob and swung it slowly open. It wasn't what he'd
expected. He was looking out at the heart of the forest, late at night,
probably close to midnight. His normally very accurate time sense was
completely screwed up. It felt tot him as though it ought to be midday,
that probably had something to do with just having risen from the dead.

He looked around at the darkness and stepped nervously out into it.
He heard the door swing shut behind him and the sudden noise in the
stillness made him jump. He swung around, intending to see if the door
had locked itself. But it wasn't there. There was nothing, just more
forest and more of the path he realized he was standing on.

That was impossible! Doors and rooms and staircases couldn't just
DISSAPERE. It didn't happen! "Rooms don't disappear," he muttered to
himself, giving voice to his doubts.

"And you think people being raised from the dead is any more logical?"

"Eep!" he squeaked, startled, and turned to face the speaker.

His eyes met yellow ones that almost glowed in the eerie darkness.

"You!" he hissed, scowling at Geheivia. "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "Giving you your first orders of course. You didn't
think I was just going to turn you loose to run amuck in the woods did
you?"

He frowned. "Just where was I? How did that door disappear?"

"I wanted to give you a familiar place to wake up, somewhere that
wouldn't throw you into a panic. I judged by your personality that
letting you come back to life in the middle of a dark forest would
just be asking for a bad reaction."

He bit his lip. "But how did you make it disappear?"

"You called me a god, didn't you?" she grinned. "Lovin' the hair by
the way, very stylish."

He scowled. "I just know somehow that is all your fault."

"Me? Now why would I do something like that to you?" she smiled
innocently.

He crossed his arms. "How long have I been dead for?" he demanded.

"Oh, about two months."

"Aha, and just what time is it anyway?"

"What does it matter?" she asked.

"Just call me obsessive compulsive," he answered smartly.

"Fine, fine. It's just after midnight, twelve-thirteen to be precise,
now do you want to know your first task?"

"Not particularly."

"I'm going to ignore your smart-assed remarks from now on, and just
go ahead and tell you. First you should know that we are less than a
mile from Knothole."

He raised an eyebrow intrigued. "Really? Am I to believe I have some
business there then?"

She nodded. "Your first task is to enter Knothole and to do whatever
it takes to become an accepted member of their community."

To be continued...

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