More Than There Seems

NOTE:

This was an on-going add-on story. It was going on for probably 2+ years over on the FUS SatAM message board but was never finished (and never will be.) However, it's so very good a story I felt that it should be read by more people than just those involved in its making.

 

The storyline is set five years before the first season of SatAM and attempts to set in motion some of the plotlines that come to be in the 1st and 2nd seasons of the cartoon.

  

Without further ado:

MORE THAN THERE SEEMS

 

A Sonic SatAM story by:

Tristan Palmgren

MistressAli

Ealain Vangogh

J.R. Grant

Dominic Smith

Roland 'Jim Doe' Lowery

 

POST 1:

Tristan Palmgren

 

April 18th, 3230. Five years before the first season of the satAM cartoon.

 

Derek surveyed the map with a critical eye.

 

"It looks good," he said at last. "I can only see two problems. It's a pretty long hike from here all the way out to Robotropolis. Unless we find a way to get a hold of some cargo sleds, we're not going to be able to carry enough supplies to last us the entire trip. We need to find some place to resupply before we reach the city. And since Robotnik's wiped out nearly all of the small towns friendly to our cause, that's not going to be easy to find."

 

The breeze shifted again, and nearly blew the paper map away. The winds in the cliffs were strong even at the best of times, and dangerously violent at the worst. Ari placed another rock on the corner of the map, to help weigh it down.

 

Ari, Derek, and the other five members of their ragtag band were assembled on the broad side of one the cliffs, near the cave that had served as shelter for the past night. From where he stood, Derek could still see the ashen remains of the fire pit that they'd huddled around for warmth. Now they were gathered inside around the map of Robotropolis. Several red X's were slashed across key buildings.

 

"You know, you're not here to offer criticism." Wervin Magela said playfully. "Democracy died after Robotnik's coup. We already decided on this long before you showed up." Wervin was one of Derek's close friends, so although the censure may have been biting had it come from someone else, coming from him it was obvious he wasn't serious.

 

Ari ignored Wervin, instead addressing Derek's complaint. "True enough," he said. "That's exactly what I called you here to talk about, actually. But we can discuss that later. What's the second problem you see?"

 

"You have a lot of buildings marked for demolition," Derek noted. "Too many, in fact. Ari, there's no way we have enough explosives for all of this. We only have enough for four, maybe five buildings, tops. We can't destroy this many factories."

 

The thought of this kind of guerrilla warfare was still quite alien to Derek. He'd been on the run for over six years, struggling to avoid the fate of most of Mobotropolis's citizens. But he'd never fought back before. Not like this. And the truth was, neither had any of these other people. They were all new at this, too.

 

The group hadn't started out like this. In the beginning, they had just been hardened survivors banding together to help each other stay alive. Together, they'd ran away from the city, as far and as fast as they could. They'd fled to these remote caves, high along the peaks of the Great Mountains, hundreds of kilometers west of Robotropolis.

 

Once they were far enough away from Robotnik's influence, they'd had some time to get back on their proverbial feet. Only once they didn't need to put most of their energy into simple survival had the idea fighting back occurred to them.

 

For the first time in six years, they'd had time to realize that they were tired of living like this. They wanted things to change for the better - and many of them were clearly willing to die for that.

 

The concept of them being "Freedom Fighters" was only a very recent development. Ari and most of the others wanted to head back to the city, and stir up trouble for Robotnik. Derek, personally, thought that they were insane. Because they were good friends, though, he'd decided to go along with the crazy idea. For now.

 

"Your friend Wervin will be taking care of that," Ari said. "He'll be in charge of a small team that will raid one of Robotnik's armories once we get to the city. He'll steal as many explosives as we need."

 

Derek glanced at Wervin in bewilderment. The buck winked at him, then turned his attention back to Ari.

 

This is madness, Derek thought to himself. We're not 'Freedom Fighters', we're just people. Raiding armories? Explosives? Guerilla combat? We're not ready for this.

 

Ari continued, "And, you, Derek, will have your own special task."

 

Derek listened warily. A chilly spring breeze brushed across his fur, and he shivered. "Go on."

 

"Like you said, when we hike back to Robotropolis, we can't take all the supplies we need. It'll be at least two months walking through some pretty inhospitable territory before we'll reach the city limits. We need someplace to stop to resupply. Not only that, but we're also going to need more help." Ari gestured at the map. "I don't deny that this is an overly ambitious plan. We aim to destroy at least half of the factories in the entire city. Yet we're only seven people. We're going to need more people to join us."

 

"You don't mean..."

 

"That's right. We want you to find them. You'll leave camp about two weeks before the rest of us - you'll act as our group's scout. There's a good five hundred kilometers between us and Robotropolis. You'll make sure that ground's prepared for us."

 

Derek felt his fur prickle, as goosebumps formed on the skin underneath. He didn't like the sound of this at all.

 

"Alone?"

 

Ari nodded.

 

"I can't!" Derek protested. "I'm not ready for any of this."

 

"Well, nobody else is ready, either," Ari said. The ram's manner changed suddenly: he became quieter, more supportive. "We all feel just like you do, Derek. Nobody wants to be the first to go, or to go alone. But if we're going to go back to Robotropolis, it's something that somebody needs to do. Selection for this was completely random: I did it alone, drew straws for everybody. I'm afraid yours was the one that came up shortest."

 

The full implications of what Ari was saying finally began to sink in. Derek's mind was racing, searching for the easiest way out of this without letting too many of his friends down. He knew, deep in the core of his being, that he couldn't do this.

 

"Besides," Ari continued, before Derek had a chance to say anything, "if you do this right, you won't be alone for long. We're hoping you can find some allies along the way, maybe assemble a small group of like-minded refugees willing to help."

 

There was no easy way out of this, he realized. He was going to have to let some of them down. "Ari," he started, "I can't- I mean, I won't-"

 

"Derek," Ari said, "I'm sorry that it was your straw that came up. I really am. You're my friend, and I don't want to send you out there alone. But in a way, I'm glad it was you. I've know you for years - you've been with us ever since we left Robotropolis after the coup. You're one of the few people I really trust." Derek felt the ram's hand grip his shoulder. "I know you can do this."

 

Derek looked into Ari's eyes, and at that moment knew that he just couldn't say 'no' to that. Not right away, at least. "Details," he said. "I need more details. Tell me more about what you want me to do."

 

"Your primary goal is to just find some friendly towns, hidden or otherwise, that would be willing to house and resupply us. Robotnik couldn't have destroyed them all, not in only six years. I have some leads to help you here. Secondary to this is to find more people willing to help us. Even mercenaries might make good Freedom Fighters at this point - I'll give you most of our stores of the old currency before you set out."

 

Derek nodded. Ari continued, "As our scout, you'll find the territories and paths that will be the safest for the rest of us to follow. Since you can't stay there to tell us about them, of course, leave markers along your path, and we'll follow them."

 

"...Okay," Derek said hesitantly. "What are the leads you mentioned? The ones about friendly towns?"

 

"It's mostly just rumors at this point," Ari confessed. "Some of them might be worth following up on, though, and a lot of them lay across the path you're going to take. For starters, I've heard about a group of wolves that are hiding from Robotnik in the canyons of the Great Unknown. They might be willing to help you, maybe even give us the supplies we need for our journey."

 

"Maybe," Derek said uncertainly. "Who else?"

 

"There's also talk about a number of civilians that have taken shelter in a large, underground cavern nearby the city. They call it Lower Mobius. You could recruit some fellow Freedom Fighters from there. Talk among travelers also has it that there's still a friendly civilization left on the island of Nimbus, though that's a bit further out of your way. I've heard a few more unsubstantiated rumors about fellow refugee groups to the east and south of Robotropolis, as well as on the city's northern frontier." Suddenly Ari lowered his voice, as if sharing a great secret. "There's some talk of a Royal Retreat left over in the Great Forest; somewhere that Robotnik missed. Supposedly, the heir to the Acorn throne is hidden there, as well as several other children her age."

 

"You mean Princess Acorn?" It was a name Derek hadn't thought about in a long time. She'd been about five before the coup. Afterwards, they'd been little to no word about her - he'd always assumed that she'd shared the fate of her father. While he was glad to hear that some remnant of the Acorn lineage remained untainted by the horrors of Robotnik, he was doubtful that the information would be of much use. He sniffed disdainfully. "That's hardly helpful. She's only gotta be ten, maybe eleven years old right now. A village full of children won't be a very reliable place for us to stop."

 

"Maybe you're right," Ari shrugged. "Still, there's got to be some adults with them, or they wouldn't have survived this long. If you ever find it, they might be willing to serve as our resupply point."

 

"Fair enough," Derek said. "I'll give it a try, Ari. But, no promises. Please understand that I don't want to do this."

 

"You will do it," Ari said, confidently. It didn't sound like an order. It sounded like he was stating a fact. "You'll spend the next few days stocking up for your journey. You should leave soon after. Don't forget to leave markers. We'll be two weeks behind you."

 

***

 

Dawn, April 20th, 3230.

Day One

 

Derek stood at the beginning the winding trail that led down and away from the peaks of the Great Mountains. The sun stood half-exposed over the rim of the eastern horizon, blocking out all sight of the things that lay there. Even if the glare of the sun hadn't blocked his vision, though, he was still too far away from Robotropolis to even catch a glimpse of it. At this distance, even the taint of the smog was too far away to see.

 

He knew, though, that before long the sight of the city would be impossible to escape. He vowed to enjoy this clarity while he could.

 

Derek had yet to find any way to escape this task, and now that the morning had finally come, it looked as though he was going to have to do it after all. He was going to lead his friends, the first Freedom Fighters, to Robotropolis.

 

Strapped to his back was enough food and water to last him for a large portion of the journey, but eventually he'd either have to find some place to restock, or live off natural resources.

 

Though he never usually wore clothes, today he'd donned a belt, just because he needed the side-holsters strapped to it. Ari's group didn't have many weapons, but they'd given him their best one. The laser pistol was fully charged. It was in his right holster. It would give him at least two hundred shots before exhausting its power supply. A small knife was in his left holster, to use as a weapon when he didn't want to waste laser energy. In his right hand was a wooden staff, to use as a walking stick while leaving the treacherous ground around the mountains. He'd probably drop it after leaving the mountains, but for now it was a welcome aid.

 

He stopped before taking his first step away from Ari's camp. He didn't know what to think about his upcoming journey. The only thing he could do was wonder. He wondered whether he was capable of this. He wondered how many of Ari's leads would prove substantiated, and how many of them would be of help. He wondered who he'd met along the way, what kind of ragtag scouting group he could possibly assemble.

 

The only thing he felt sure of was that this would turn out like nobody would expect.

 

Letting the walking stick lead the way, he set out.

 

---------------------------------------------------------

 

POST 2:
MistressAli

 

"Sir....is this really necessary....?"

 

Robotnik stood looking out the window of the command center, way up high at the tipity-top of the Death Egg. Afternoon sunlight flooded into the room, making Snively squint as he stared at his Uncle.

 

"More oil means more energy for more factories. More factories means more robots, Snively..." His uncle whirled around, square teeth gleaming.

 

"But why do we need more robots?" Snively scowled, taking a step sideways so Uncle's shadow fell on him. He sighed, finally that blasted light was out of his eyes.

 

"Power, Snively!" His uncle smiled menacingly. The smaller man just shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

 

This was ridiculous. Already 3 times in the past two months Robotnik had sent him out with convoys to find places to drill for oil. He built factory upon factory, expanded the city beyond the boundaries of the original Mobotropolis. How big did he want it? They had met no opposition, except a few small annoyances at the very beginning, mainly a blue hedgehog and a squirrel who'd disappeared without a trace.

No one was trying to attack them, no armies of Mobians marched their way. They had no need for more power. They *were* the power.

 

The planet was theirs. No one had, or would, try to stop them....

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

 

POST 3:

Ealain VanGogh

 

Empty.

 

And cold. Yes, arctic, to the bone marrow.

 

And lonely. Ostracized, denied, neglected.

 

That was his soul, this instant, suddenly having shed its blessed numbness, its haze.

 

He was on the ground somewhere, but his eyes were closed and somehow he was too frightened to open them. So he surrendered to thought, making it the surrogate for movement and action.

 

He could remember nothing. No, that was not true. He could remember nothing after. . . after the betrayal. After the end of security and faith and trust in the good buried inside even the roughest-hewn exterior. After his best friend sent him reeling into this inner place of coldness and emptiness. This prison of wire mesh and metal. Perhaps there had been a wire attached to his heart too, and it had snapped in pieces, crackling with the pain he felt now.

 

But why dwell on the past now? Why try and recall Snively's pokerface, his hideous nonchalance, the dull luster of a cadaver in those bottomless specter-blue eyes, when Julian had ordered his human comrade to push that button on that wicked machine, that big thing with the glass tube to which Sir Charles had been subjected--that thing, he didn't know its name, only that it was Julian's--no, no, Robotnik's--baby, the technologically-conceived bastard of power lust and inhumanity. But it wasn't the great awful Thing that hurt and terrified his soul so badly--no, it was the fact that Snively had complied. He had pushed the button.

 

And then the pain. Oh God, indescribable. Like an electric shock and yet a thousand squirming maggots digesting his innards, gnawing them to pieces and vomiting, in their place, something that felt hard and smooth and alien. Like being violated, raped somehow, by some smothering force, something that was not centralized or localized, but rather all-encompassing, ravaging, in a mere 30 seconds. And when the feeling began to reach his head, to slowly tingle and then to excruciate, when all he could hear was the sadistic, softly rumbling laughter of the glutton despot, blackness had engulfed him.

 

And then the numbness, until now. He hadn't even bothered to look at Snively's face, before the blackness swallowed his senses. He knew his friend was glaring at the ground. Already a slave himself, already numb.

 

Where am I? Hell? Hell on Mobius, perhaps, because what else is darkness combined with only memories of betrayal and desolation.

 

Desolation. His parents' death. He had not thought on it for years, or for however long he had been in this blackness. No, he had only thought on his human friend's kindness in his youth, when he had hidden in the Overlander stronghold during the Great War, ironically near the house of the Overlander general who had killed his parents, innocent Mobian civilians--a man named Colin Kintobar. That man had been Snively's father. And Snively had been sorry then, had been able to feel remorse for his father's deeds, and had cared for him, fed and sheltered him secretly for years to come. But now? Perhaps time could be as erosive as it could be an agent of healing.

 

No, he would not surrender now. He would not be a victim as his parents had been. Get up, Sprocket Apollo--Apollo, god of Healing. Get up and live. Sort things out later. Philosophize and ruminate later. Sprocket--that wasn't even his real name. Snively had given it to him because he couldn't remember his real name.

 

He opened his eyes, stunning pools of pale gold, and looked around. He was reclined on a rack in a huge, factory-looking chamber, among thousands of other robotic individuals, as if in some sort of robotic army barracks. One of the robots, eyes glowing an unsettling red, was the Minister of Science from King Max's pre-coup Utopia, the reclusive genius Charles Hedgehog. For some reason, the mere fact that a recognized creature, any other creature in existence, was his company in this moment of lonely personal awakening, moved him to blurt, "Hello, Sir Charles. Lovely, ah . . . set-up you've got . . . here. I . . .ah, I was just wondering . . . where am I? And for that matter, when am I?" He winced at his high quivering voice, at once sweet and absurd.

 

"Does not compute." Uttered tersely, without feeling of any kind.

"Subject has no name. Subject is Workerbot 8999. Question does not compute."

 

Sprocket was violently confused. "What do you mean, you have no name? I . . . " And then it dawned on him. He was still alone. He was the only one there without dazy glowing red eyes, the only one who was conscious of anything at all. He was the only one who knew he was a slave. So this was why it felt so cold and empty. "I suppose I'm Workerbot 9000, then?" he resumed listlessly.

 

"What is 'I'?" The Sir Charles bot queried, still in the eerie monotone. ''I' does not compute. No file for 'I' in memory bank."

 

Sprocket sighed. He gestured at himself. "Subject is Workerbot 9000?"

 

"Affirmative."

 

Aha. "What is the location of Worker 9000?"

 

"Location: Robotropolis, ground floor of Central Command."

 

So he was still here, still where he'd been put in that machine by his friend. Hell, indeed. "And what is the year?"

 

"The year is three thousand two hundred thirty."

 

 

3230. It had been two whole years since he had been able to think and feel autonomously. Good God, what might he have done, unwittingly, under the control of that madman upstairs? He felt something cold and sharp on his chest--bonded to it, a repulsive gold badge on his newly metallic silver body that read--"Commander of Lord Robotnik's Planetary Aerial Forces." An enormous blood red "R" was bonded at the center of his left arm.

 

Oh God. Oh God. The moment of self-assurance passed and was replaced with a torrent of nausea. But he was a robot; how could he feel nausea? What did it matter? He had good reason. He had sinned without even his own consent. Vaguely he realized, in the back of his mind, that he would have to do a lot of apologizing to a lot of Mobians in the near future, for crimes of which he was yet unaware. Did he even want to know?

 

Yes. He needed the truth. He needed answers. No matter how painful.

 

Slowly he slid off the platform and across the immaculate, shining metallic floor to the iron door at the far end of the chamber. The Charles unit only stared complacently after him, unblinking. Soulless.

He remembered that furry well. He had had a plucky nephew, one with a perpetual fire in his little onyx eyes, who could run. Fast. An odd thing to remember about a person's relative, but it was such a prominent attribute. The kid was quite a nuisance, really, but there had been something endearing about his purity, his optimistic boldness. And now he didn't have his uncle.

 

Oh God. Did I push the button on Sir Charles? Did I orphan his nephew? Was that before or after the coup? I can't remember. I can't remember! Who did I hurt? Who did I kill? Who . . did I . . no. Stop.

 

It was time to seek answers, to ascend. It was time to find Snively.

 

-----------------------------------------------------

 

POST 4:

Tristan Palmgren

 

April 23rd, 3230

Day 4

 

The nights were lonelier than Derek had anticipated.

 

He missed the voices of the others most of all. He wished he could hear even idle chatter again. For six years, one of the only constants in his life had been Ari's group, and their late night gatherings around the campfire. There had always been conversation, though the subjects weren't usually pleasant ones. Out here, there was just silence. The only noises were usually those he made himself, and they sounded terribly forlorn in the silence.

 

This close to the inhospitable rocky terrain of the Great Mountains, there wasn't even the sound of wildlife to keep him company. This was fairly desolate terrain. It would only start to get better once he reached the borders of the more heavily forested lands, and they were still some distance off. He'd made good progress in the past few days, but he was still only at the foothills of the mountains.

 

Tonight, Derek made his camp in amongst the knees of the Great Mountains. He stoked the campfire until it was a fairly decent size. He was still far enough away from Robotropolis to be able to risk making fires. He knew that eventually he'd have to limit his traveling to nighttime alone, and not make any open campfires, but for now it was safe enough. He laid the blankets he brought with him across the ground a few meters away from the fire, and tried to get some sleep.

 

The air was fairly chilly, even for an early spring night, but the blankets and fire were warm enough. The day's toil had been difficult. He fell asleep easily. The last thing he saw before falling unconscious was the eastern horizon.

 

He was haunted by nightmares this evening.

 

He was far enough away from Robotropolis right now to be able to put much of it out of his mind, but he knew eventually that he'd have to return to that horrible place. The city held a special place of dread in his memories. As long as it was this distant, though, he'd been able to escape the anxiety the mechanism of denial - the only thing he'd needed to think about so far was putting one foot in front of the other. It was only during the night that he wasn't able to hide from it.

 

Dark, machine-like noises began to pry at his consciousness. He saw metal, and endless sea of metal. It flowed like a liquid, like mercury or quicksilver, but darker shapes hid within. None of the images he saw meant much individually. Valves hissing. Hydraulic blood vessels pumping. Smokestacks belching out smog. Together, though, they meant something more. Some terrible scene he couldn't quite put words to, couldn't describe in any word other than 'terror'.

 

The noise of machinery grew louder in his ears. The image faded, and then there was only the sound. A terrible humming, the steady thrum of electricity flowing through copper veins. It seemed as though his eardrums themselves were pulsating with the noise. He was impotent to scream.

 

Derek awoke with a start. It was still pitch black out. He didn't know how late it was. The only measure of time he had was the campfire, which had dwindled to nothing more than embers. He was at once relieved to find that he had been dreaming, but the relief didn't last for long: though the sound of flowing electricity should have faded with the dream, it still lingered in his ears.

 

The eastern horizon was aglow. For a moment, Derek was certain that Robotropolis had picked itself up and moved closer to him.

 

It wasn't the city, though. It was an object, in the air and moving fast. The noise was real - it had been an intrusion of reality onto his dream, not vice versa. Before he could force himself to throw the blankets aside and hide himself, the light to the east began moving towards him. The bright glare of a spotlight splashed across him momentarily, and then moved on.

 

He gasped sharply, involuntarily. He forced himself to gather his senses. The light and noise was coming from an airship, a large and powerful one by the sound of it. He squinted at the dark silhouette, and recognized the craft as one of Robotnik's freighters. More specifically, it had the distinctively bulky shape of an oil freighter. He'd never seen a ship this far away from Robotropolis before. It was moving off to the southwest at a fast clip. It was running with full spotlights shining at the ground - it had been one of those that had played across Derek's campsite just a few seconds ago.

 

Derek watched the movements of the airship, and held his breath without realizing it. It seemed as though the freighter hadn't noticed him. It continued moving away in a straight line.

 

He was just about to relax when, as though he was still in the nightmare, the freighter curved around in a gentle arc. It began to lower towards the ground, preparing for a landing.

 

He ran towards the nearest outcropping of rock and hid himself behind it. Either the freighter had noticed him, and was landing so that its complement of SWATbots could apprehend him; or this was its preprogrammed landing site. He wasn't sure which. Nor did it really matter. Both possibilities meant that he had to get as far away from it as possible. It was going to be a long run before he could feel safe again.

 

As he quickly gathered the blankets, a thought struck him. Robotnik had never been seen this far away from his city before. He was clearly trying to spread his influence, and he was succeeding. Unless something stopped him... soon there would be no place for people like Ari and Wervin to run to. A sudden conviction burned in Derek's bone marrow: never before had he so believed in the cause of Freedom Fighting.

 

The oil freighter hadn't landed very far away. He could still see its glowing spotlights over the mounds of the foothills. He finishing getting what he could into his backpack, and got ready to run.

 

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POST 5:
Ealain VanGogh

 

He much preferred the smooth, even terrains of his homeland in the Great Plains to this volatile geography.

 

"Great Mountains." By the Mages' Hindside, what a misnomer! Couldn't they think of any better names for Mobian landmasses/ Great this, great that, for crying out loud! Great Headache, that's what! Great Crap!

 

Nack the Weasel, a gangly, ruggedly handsome teen vermin with a long slender muzzle and shrewd eyes, sporting a knavish gold derby that hid a cascade of unkempt hair, spat contemptuously on the limestone ground, kicking idly at the pinecones in his path as he plodded along through the foothills, and cackled softly at his own provincial wit. Normally he would have crept with far more stealth through the malice-concealing shadows, but ever since the "Incident," as more austere elders of the various refugee groups put it, the Coup of six years past, he'd been raking in the dough from those same refugees in desperate need of subsistence goods (but far lacking the guts or skill of a bounty-hunter-in-training) which he, at deliciously high rates, provided.

 

Hell, ever since that repulsive excuse for a human (and humans themselves, in his narrow but sufficient experience, were vile) had thrown one of his tantrums and had sent a dispatch of SWATS to his parents' southwestern ranch and butchered the whole family and burned the state to a crisp for the "crime" of growing a mere unsolicited vegetable garden, it seemed like Nack, an orphan, free for the sole reason that he was alone, was entitled to some self-centered comfort. It seemed like everybody should watch is own back, and more cautiously, this time around.

 

Every man is an island, Nack thought with a sneer of satisfaction, removing the derby and fanning himself. Yeah, isolation is just another word for wisdom. Many refugees had spoken to him or the rumored survival of the monarch's heir, and had expressed newfound hope in what Nack knew to be foolish dreams. And where did his loyalties lie? the vexed furries would query angrily. "Nowhere," always came his simple, somewhat bored response.

 

He lit a match and peered into the map he'd marked for stops on his little "trade" excursion. Well, the big city itself was just over the hills and through the woods, as the saying went. Time to make camp and do some brainstorming for tomorrow's supply raid. it was amazing how stupid that human and his little pansy nephew were, for all their high-tech bravado. He was, at times, facing Robotnik's painfully predictable security systems, trashing SWATS and Spyeyes with some advanced tricks of his own, convinced that even a horde of little furrie children could single-handedly bring that "empire" to its knees.

 

Well, maybe that was an exaggeration; nevertheless, he had little to fear. The technology was only as smart as its operators.

 

Speak of the devil! A glaring beam of light pierced the blessed darkness in which the weasel's thoughts wandered. He was on his feet in seconds, hand on the holster of a smuggled laser pistol. Idiot, he chastised himself. What could a gun do against an oil freighter?

 

Yes, that was unmistakably what the thing was. He'd seen them all over the continent since the Coup--annoyingly obtrusive for business, actually. Nack made for higher ground to get a better look. And ah, yes, there we are--the victim. A koala bear, looking very readily able to pass out or vomit as he fled the monstrosity. It was, of course, giving chase--and coming Nack's way.

 

Nack groaned. Lovely. Now what? Why, whenever he was certain of his principles, did some situation have to arise to test them?

 

Aw, hell. Maybe the kid had some loot on him.

 

So he folded the map in his belt, darted behind the foliage, waited patiently for the petrified furrie to come within proximity, then extended his foot at a calculated angle from the bushes.

 

The koala tripped right over him, falling flat on his face. Despite the sparse time involved in successfully reaching the goal of saving their hides, Nack couldn't resist bending over and looking the kid in the eye, and smirking, "Hey, Rookie. Name's Nack. Need a hand?"

 

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POST 6
MistressAli

 

"Fly my little angels, fly..." Robotnik was cackling out on his balcony. Into the air, like fledging birds going out into the world, he threw the small robotic cameras known as SpyEyes. He'd personally built these, and was releasing them with apparent glee.

 

Snively stood in the command room, watching him. He shook his head, muttering. "Crazy old fool..." He glanced at the monitors, which showed surveillance from cameras already in action. Nothing. Nothing but the dead streets with the moonlight shining full upon dirty puddles of stagnant water. "What do you think they'll see, sir?"

 

Robotnik peered over his shoulder. "Any Mobian who is fool enough to come here."

 

"Who would be?" The city was certainly not the shining beacon that Mobotropolis had been. They had converted it to cold cold metal, a harsh contrast to the natural stone and gardens of the city. All the flowers were dead now. And overhead the smog was gathering. It seemed to grow thicker everyday. Snively wondered if someday the sky would be completely black, shrouding the city in eternal night.

The thought made him shiver.

 

A beeping noise from the console caught his attention and he tended to it. A SWATs monotone voice spoke. "Sir, our sensors have detected a large amount of oil underground."

 

"What is your location?"

 

"The foothills of the Great Mountains." The SWAT then gave a few coordinates. Snively had trouble being enthusiastic. Robotnik would send him out now to supervise, and that would be so boring. Nothing but miles upon miles of trees. He was not a nature boy by any accounts, though he could remember playing in the woods and overgrown gardens as a child. He could even remember having fun back then, laughing and running with his friend.... He frowned and shook his head.

 

Childhood was over. This was his life now, and what was there to complain about? He had power now. If any tried to harm him, he could, and would, destroy them. A quick glance showed his Uncle staring out over his city. He knew Robotnik's eyes would hold the strange glint of a man possessed, obsessed with the world he'd built.

 

There was nothing to complain about...and he looked away, because he didn't want to add a 'but' to that thought... 'but you don't have power. You're still a slave...'

 

"Sir," he called. "The freighter has found an oil site."

 

"Ah good!" With a swirl of yellow cape, the tyrant reentered the command room. The balcony doors slid shut behind him. "Pack your supplies Snively, and go assist them. I'm sure you'll be glad to get away for a while."

 

"Of course, sir..." he mumbled and without bothering to say goodbye, he turned and left.

 

After packing his own personal things; clothes, toiletries, reading material, a laser pistol and a small computer, he handed the suitcase to a SWATbot. With the 'bot placidly leading, he made his way outside, heading through the dark streets. A few blocks down was a hovercraft garage.

 

It was nice to be out at night. The air stung his lungs a little; the pollution levels had definitely risen over the past few months. But he was getting used to it. His eyes no longer watered from the foul air.

 

He didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. The thought that everyday a darkness was spreading further through him, and he was accepting it...

 

But this was his life now.

And he really couldn't complain.

 

--------------------------------------------------------

POST 7:
Tristan Palmgren

 

The root, or brush - whatever it was - had come out of nowhere.

 

It was nighttime, but the stars and moon shone brightly enough to let him see where he was going while he ran. Derek was sure that, just a moment ago, there had been nothing across his path. Then suddenly some dark shape had shifted in front of him, and the next thing he knew he was sprawled across the ground. He'd landed chin-first. There was a terrible ache in his ankles where he'd tripped, and a throbbing pain in his jaw.

 

Derek rolled over onto his back, and got ready to push back up onto his feet. His mind was still racing; he couldn't let a little stumble slow him down too much. The oil freighter still wasn't far behind him. He was so wrapped up in his fear of the Robotropolis forces that it took him a moment to notice the dark figure looming over him.

 

SWATbot!

 

In normal circumstances, the shock might have forced him to gasp. He was already breathing heavily from the run, though, and his respiratory system was getting quite fed up with all the stress. It insisted that the last thing it needed was a gasp. So instead, Derek just stopped breathing entirely for several seconds.

 

As soon as he gathered enough of his senses, though, he noticed that shadow moved far too fluidly for a robot. It wasn't a robot, but a person. He blinked up at it, and tried to make out who it was.

 

It extended a hand towards him, but Derek couldn't control his reflex to instantly shy away from it.

 

"Hey, Rookie," it said. "Name's Nack. Need a hand?"

 

Derek was certain that it was a person now. He was sure that no SWATbot would ever be caught wearing a hat like that. He was looking up at a weasel, maybe old enough to be in his late teens or early twenties. There was an odd purplish tint to his fur. An extremely oversized tooth jutted out of his mouth at a strange angle, and stretched down his cheek. The brim of his forehead was covered by a large derby. Derek wondered why this Nack would wear a hat during nighttime, but, since he himself had been foolish enough to agree to this ludicrous scouting mission, he was hardly about to question the wisdom of someone's mode of dress.

 

Suspicion darkened his thoughts. The odds were very much against him running into someone else at the same he had tripped. He glanced quickly back at the spot where he had fallen, and sure enough, there were no roots or branches blocking the path. This Nack must have purposely tripped him.

 

He squinted back up at Nack, not sure what to make of all this. The offer to help at least seemed genuine, but, then again, he wouldn't have need for the help if he hadn't been tripped. The weasel was essentially offering a solution to a problem he'd created.

 

At last, though, he reached up and grabbed the hand, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

 

"Yeah," Derek said slowly. "Thanks." He caught a glimpse of the laser pistol in Nack's belt holster, and stuttered over the next word. "W-We've got to get out of here. One of Robotnik's oil freighters just landed in a hill nearby." Derek took a deep breath, and reminded himself that he shouldn't be so afraid of weapons. Out here, they were necessities for survival. He was carrying one himself. But Derek still didn't trust this weasel, and the fact that this unknown variable was carrying a deadly weapon wasn't very comforting

 

"They're gonna send SWATbots this way," he said quickly. "We can talk later. C'mon, we've gotta run!"

 

-----------------------------------------------------------

POST 8:
Ealain VanGogh

 

The koala's voice had strength in it--coated, though, with naive bravado. Nack repressed the urge to snort or roll his eyes. At least the kid had the pragmatism not to give into a fit of heroism--at least he wanted to run.

 

Ah, but naive. Indeed a flaw for which there was no large enough quantity of disgust. And an advantage for the "learned." He sensed hesitation in the koala's eyes, followed by some repressed amusement at his bounty hunting derby, a sort of calling card for other hunters which the kid undoubtedly mistook for some foolish fashion statement. But for the most part, he'd shrouded his ulterior motives well, and presented himself as passably trustworthy. There's a price for everything, Nack, ol boy--just find what our little Boy Scout wants more than his own soul and sell it to him. Just pick his brain for a while, once you get out of this. Make a profit out of a person.

 

Yeah, that has a nice ring to it.

 

And well, hell, who couldn't help but feel sorry for one puny David against the great shining Goliath that was hovering ever-closer? huh, if the kid was this perturbed over a freighter, imagine him beholding the titanic facade of Central Command!

 

Nack kept and easy sprint, his lanky legs coming in handy, to the rhythm of the koala's scrambling. He had to admire the guy, despite his evident terror, for enduring. "Capital idea," he threw at his newfound companion over the machine's growing whirr. "Still haven't told me your name, Sport."

 

Something in the environment of "Derek" was divulged to him. His mind accessed a flow of memories of past trading excursions--yeah, that made sense--the name was indigenous to a Mobian geography flourishing with marsupials. Well ,then. It was a start. "Okay, Derek," he pursued as they rounded a sharp bend; the koala teetered, and Nack seized his elbow, guiding him around and into a deeper ravine-like area, in the practiced manner of one with little scruples and many enemies, and consequently very seasoned run-like-hell skills. "I'll tell you what. This thing was designed primarily to drill holes in the ground and make it puke up what I call the blood of Robotropolis--oil, and--"

 

Somewhat testily, he was urged by his comrade to get to the point. "However, it does have features that allow it to detect life forms in a certain local radius. Don't worry--we can divert it by throwing its heat sensors a curve ball." A puzzled facial expression was Derek's only response. "Okay, yeah, sure, sure, you probably wouldn't know" he gasped in breaths, feeling sweat gather on his forehead and on the skin beneath his sleek fur, finding it daunting to explain intricate technological nuances while in active flight, but nevertheless--"heat sensors are what all of Robotnik's devices are equipped with to detect intruders. We get rid of our body heat, the thing will get off our tails. No security monitors, nothing. Just heat sensors--and crude ones at that, since this thing isn't built for security inside the city. "

 

And with that he stopped dead in his tracks, fanning himself with his derby. The koala skidded to a halt and threw him a look simultaneously menacing and incredulous. "SO here's what we do, Derek," he continued, unfazed, "see this pool here?"

 

The koala's eyes followed Nack's gloved finger to a hot spring bubbling contentedly in front of them, in a crater of sorts.

 

Nack continued, disregarding his companion's muteness, his obvious balking. He patted the kid on the back, jovially, as if the freighter were not still thunderously approaching. "Right. Keep your brains about ya, now, sport. I've been in worse and lived to tell the tale. Now, in order to make our body temperatures less contrasting to our environment, we're gonna climb in Mother Nature's here hot tub--completely, okay?-- and hold our breath as if our souls really depend on it." he fixed a perceptive sneer on the koala's face. "And somehow I think they do. At least, yours does."

 

He searched the kid's features for affirmation; it remained deadpan. Damn. Ah well, better luck on the flip side. "Get in, kid." He took Derek by the arm and dragged him to the spring, slinging him halfway in. It looked as though the koala might open his mouth to question or protest, after the wince of discomfort at the nearly scalding heat of the water. but he thrust a finger to his mouth, vaulting into the mouth of the crater aside him. "I dunno why you're here in this hellhole, Derek, why you're risking life and limb, but you have my word that I won't drown you. Okay? So if you're fond having a pulse, then duck down NOW."

 

Compliance was still wary, especially after he added gingerly, "Oh, yeah, by the way, I sure hope you can hold your breath for over five minutes, because that's what it'll take for the freighter to stop sensing significant body heat separate from the environment and sending out a default distress signal to the city and its SWATs. And then we'll have one of the big man himself's head commanders down here alerted and pissed, and well, then I won't be able to help you." He chuckled nastily, as if the following remark were actually amusing. "But who cares? In that case, we'll be dead." He tipped the derby at the horrified koala before discarding it and submerging, only further charmed by the kid's distress. Yeah, welcome to adulthood, rookie. Welcome to every furrie's premature coming-of-age. "Happy swimming, Derek."

 

 

Robotropolis:

 

Sprocket had made discretion his closest friend these past few hours. While he was well aware that, in a city where metal was like skin and where he apparently held firm control of much authority, he did not by any means stick out like a sore thumb. He had, however, yet to gather knowledge regarding his pre-autonomous behavior, knowledge that would keep him from being sought out by...by that man, or rather, that monster, in the Main Control Room, in the throne that had once belonged to a benevolent monarch.

 

Again, a thing of the past, not upon which to dwell if he wanted to seek answers that would guide his future.

 

Sprocket had ascended to the first floor and, repulsed by the oppressive darkness of the building, lost resolve , fleeing out a back door behind a dispatch of tall, humanoid-looking military bots with saucer-like heads. They strode with purpose towards a kind of air hangar at the far end of an open, barren stretch of land resembling a trash heap. Inwardly his heart wept. This place had been like Utopia once, with a great flowing fountain made of marble at which many children had shrieked and giggled away hours of otherwise afternoon tedium.

 

Once.

 

Sprocket fingered the badge on his chest, the one reading "Aerial Forces." Hmm. if any place in the city held answers for him, that building did. And somehow, he wasn't quite ready to face his old friend, to dispel the knot of rage that had built in his chest. To forgive.

 

But, ready or not....

 

"Commander Apollo, sir." Sprocket gasped. One of the bizarre robots in the marching company had pivoted on its heel; it went rock-rigid in a salute at the sight of him. Then it stood inanimate, apparently awaiting orders. At least it didn't have any creepy red eyes.

 

Clumsily, he thought of the most appropriate and natural sounding declaration. "Report," he blurted, cringing at the squeal of nervousness in his voice.

 

"Chief Commander Kintobar awaits his hovercraft, sir. He wishes a maintenance check before flying to the Great Mountains." The bot turned and faced the machine of transport in question, a large egg-shaped cart of sorts with jets installed underneath it. It was an aerial transport device, hence its name. And he was expected to know what to do with it to prepare it for launching. For Snively. In a period of minutes.

 

A great lump of fear coagulated in Sprocket's throat. Oh God, If Snively found out now, who knew whether he'd run to his uncle? Who knew what perversions his past loyalties had succumbed to?

 

After all, he'd been able to push the button hadn't he?

 

Sprocket's mind searched desperately for information, for escape. "Um. . . what does the Chief Commander seek in the Great Mountains?"

 

"He monitors an oil freighter prospectively in pursuit of two life forces."

 

A pang of sympathy for the poor souls, faceless and nameless to him but as valid, as alive, as if close friends, his fellow downtrodden, apprehended Sprocket. At once he knew he had to intercede, to utilize his authority to the advantage of the victims. Years of mindlessness, of spiritual slumber, had not made him forget his morals. It was imperative. It was humane.

 

But how?

 

The question would have to wait. For, as if on queue, the small Overlander who had once been his dearest companion came striding crisply towards them, face taut with arrogance and impatience, snarling orders to and fro at robots similar to the one that had addressed Sprocket.

 

The canine was confounded. He hardly recognized the friend of his youth, aside the aquamarine jewels of his eyes or the marked protrusion of his nose. His face was paler, thinner; his frame sparser than a twig; his hair--oh God, what had happened? It was gone. All of it, thick and lush and glossy ,a deep dark brown, was gone, save a few wisping strands, they an ode to his frailty. He looked....he looked.....sick. Just sick. And hopeless.

 

Sprocket feared that perhaps robotic eyes had the capacity to weep, and that his consciousness would be revealed by his heart in that instant. But he managed to swallow it back, and forced his best vague stare and rigid salute, as Snively approached him looking very peevish indeed.

 

It was about to hit the fan.

 

------------------------------------------

 

POST 9

MistressAli

 

One thing Snively hated about these robots was their lack of initiative. They obeyed strict orders, never deviating from them until another command was given. But they knew complicated machinery mechanics and precise flight skills. Surely it wouldn't have been too hard to give them a more complex AI. Maybe he'd run that by Robotnik one of these days.

 

With his grandiose moods lately, he doubted Uncle would object to the idea. The fat man was bent on expanding and improving. He rolled his eyes.

 

The robots scurried about, making last minute checks on his hovercraft. He knew nothing was wrong, but he would really hate to have a problem while coasting thousands of feet above ground level. He didn't fancy an early death crashed in the middle of nowhere; a blaze couldn't be glorious when there was no one around to see or care.

 

He stood with brows frowning, a scowl set upon his lips. This maintenance check was simple, quick. It should've been done by now, even more so with the amount of bots milling about here.

 

Stupid bots! The previous peace he'd had, in that brief walk here, basking in the stinging night air, was gone, replaced by his animosity towards this task Julian had set for him. This slow incompetence made it worse.

 

His eye caught the glint of bright silver. One of the dark gray minions stood by a shining robot, tall, somehow possessing a fluid grace the other robots lacked. This one wasn't factory-made Oh no, he was organically-born, a Mobian converted to the city's slave. The commander. The one in charge here.

 

He moved towards the robot; his face locked in that moody scowl, and it wouldn't change, even with some deep dark part of him whispering the robot's true name...like it always did when he had to speak to Commander Apollo. Deep inside he could hear laughter coming from those cold lips, see some sort of spark in the golden eyes. But that was long ago, he chided himself. So long ago that this hadn't been a robot, but a Mobian, a frien--- and he cut the thought off with a razor of indifference.

 

He'd learned how to shield his inner thoughts, his dark feelings. And the shields were up now, full force as always when he spoke to this particular commander, and so there was no empathy in his tone.

 

Coldly, contemptfully, he halted in front of the robot, giving it an icy glare. "Having problems, Commander? I expected my hovercraft to be ready by now. We wouldn't want to send you to the scrap heap, now would we?" He shook his head and tsked.

 

A SWATbot came forth and saluted. Without taking his eyes from the Commander's, Snively ordered it to report.

 

"The oil freighter has spotted two Mobians, sir. It is in pursuit. What are your orders regarding their imminent capture, sir?"

 

He finally turned his head to eye the SWATbot, crossing his arms over his chest, and with a smirk, he gave the reply with languid unconcern. "Have them brought here...to be roboticized...."

 

------------------------------------------------------------

 

POST 10:
Tristan Palmgren

 

Derek knew that he was making some kind of mistake. He just wasn't sure where or how.

 

Bewildered, he let himself be led along by the arm, all the way up to the bubbling hot spring, but there he balked. He was befuddled and terrified, and six long years of experience on the road had taught him that these were the worst kinds of emotional states to try and make decisions in. But he couldn't fight them. They were always omnipresent in his thoughts, and they guided his every action right now. He knew they shouldn't, but he was helpless to stop them.

 

Somewhere deep inside him he knew that following Nack was not the easiest or safest way out of this dilemma, but he stumbled along anyway. He felt torn between following the oddly-attired weasel, and just running in the opposite direction. Something kept his feet plodding after him. It was fear, it was dumb trust... he was so confused and scared that he wasn't sure what it was.

 

Derek knew how he must look to Nack. He may have been just a na�ve kid before the coup, but he'd had six long, hard years of hiding to temper his innocence. He knew how to judge the glints in the eyes of others. The only problem was he couldn't control how he looked to them. He was frightened, confused, nervous, and all of those three emotions were readily apparent on his expression. He was just a frightened kid, and he couldn't hide that.

 

It must have seemed quite pathetic. If Nack had any ulterior motives, than he must also know just how easily he could take advantage of him.

 

The weasel exuded an aura of slimy confidence as he led onwards. He stopped at the edge of a steaming pool of cloudy water, and looked expectedly back at Derek.

 

Derek listened to Nack's explanation of heat sensors and significant temperature contrasts. He wasn't really sure what to make of that, either. He was still too distressed by recent events to bother putting two and two together. Adrenaline still surged through his veins. The smell of sulfur, reminding him of some of Wervin's cooking, was thick in the air. A lot of what Nack was saying was new to him, so if there were any glaring errors, Derek missed them. There was a good possibility that he was telling the truth.

 

It was only when Nack gestured at the pool, and said, "Get in, kid," that Derek realized what he wanted. For all the running and panicking of the past few minutes, his thoughts were slow and sluggish when it came to dealing with unexpected requests like this. He looked back up at Nack with a deadpan expression, and with more than a little suspicion behind his gaze.

 

Nack rolled his eyes, and thrust a demanding finger towards the bubbling water. "I dunno why you're here in this hellhole, Derek, why you're risking life and limb, but you have my word that I won't drown you. Okay? So if you're fond having a pulse, then duck down NOW."

 

The words were sharp enough to spur him into action. The threat of death still terrified him, and that fright must have been plainly visible on his face. He thought he heard the crackle of an airship's thrusters growing louder in the distance; he couldn't be sure, it might have just been his imagination. There didn't seem to be any choice, now. He would have to trust the weasel. He scampered towards the water.

 

Hastily, Derek thrust off his backpack, and left it beside the pool. No sense in getting the food or blankets wet. Surreptitiously, he withdrew his laser pistol and placed it in the folds of the blankets. The weapon wasn't made for submergence. He just hoped Nack hadn't seen it, but fortunately the weasel's eyes were elsewhere at the moment.

 

He thrust his foot into the water, and winced at the searing heat. As quickly as he could manage, he lowered the rest of himself into the pool. His pearl-white fur grew soggy and heavy immediately. The skin underneath burned at the touch of the scalding temperatures. He gasped. He slipped backwards into the water, until everything except his head was submerged.

 

"Oh, yeah, by the way, I sure hope you can hold your breath for over five minutes, because that's what it'll take for the freighter to stop sensing significant body heat separate from the environment and sending out a default distress signal to the city and its SWATs. And then we'll have one of the big man himself's head commanders down here alerted and pissed, and well, then I won't be able to help you."

 

Derek looked back at Nack with wide eyes. None of this was at all comforting, and the expression on his face must have showed it. Surely the weasel knew that it was physically impossible for him to hold his breath for five minutes without passing out... Surely...

 

Nack laughed quietly, and Derek couldn't escape the impression that the weasel was enjoying his fear.

 

"But who cares? In that case, we'll be dead." Then Nack set his derby beside the pool, and submerged.

 

Derek shook his head. He silently cursed Nack and Robotnik and heat sensors, but saved the strongest insults of all for himself and his crippling insecurity. Then he followed Nack under the water.

 

Just as Derek thought, he couldn't hold his breath for more than twenty seconds before the urge to breathe in anything - even water - became overpowering. He was disappointed in himself for his short endurance, but not surprised. He had been doing a lot of running recently, and had still been panting when he'd gone underwater. The strain on his lungs and throat became a burning pain.

 

Slowly, he raised his lips to the surface of the water, and took a deep gulp of the air above. Compared to the heat of the hot spring, it was refreshingly cool. He made sure that his lips were the only thing that protruded above the pool. Surely that couldn't make that much of a difference when it came to fooling the heat sensors, could it?

 

There was little choice about the matter, though. He had to find a way to breathe or drown. He dove back down, and repeated the same movements the next time the urge to breathe became unbearable.

 

Derek didn't trust the weasel not to use this as a diversion to steal his supplies or laser pistol. Once every few seconds, he opened his eyes underneath the water. The hot, sulfuric water stung his eyes, but he convinced himself that it was a better alternative than letting Nack make off with his only weapon. It was painful, but he preserved. He could just barely make out Nack's purplish form in the pool beside him. Nack stirred occasionally, but didn't move much. For the time being, he didn't make any move towards Derek's supplies, either.

 

He was so intent on watching Nack, at first, he didn't notice the glowing light building above the water.

 

It was the oil freighter.

 

Derek's vision wasn't very clear under the water. He couldn't see much besides the glaring spotlights. The airship seemed to hover directly above the pool for several dangerous seconds. He didn't dare move at all this time. Then the light faded, and the freighter moved off to the northeast. Nack's ploy had apparently worked. The freighter had missed them.

 

He waited another two minutes before daring to raise his head above the water. He shook the worst of the water build-up out of his sagging wet headfur, and rubbed the burning sulfur-rich water out of his eyes. A distant speck of white light was visible scanning across the ground to the northeast, but, even as Derek watched, that too disappeared. He took a deep breath, and pulled himself out of the water.

 

Only when he had slid his laser pistol back into its holster did he reach back down into the water and poke Nack. The weasel stirred again, and rose above the water, shaking off his own drenched fur. In all this time, Derek had never seen the weasel go up for air once. Whatever mechanism he'd used to stave off oxygen deprivation had worked well. Oddly enough, the first thing Nack reached for was his derby, and only when that was firmly back in place did he meet Derek's gaze.

 

"The freighter's gone," Derek said, still panting. He waved to the northeast. "It went off that-a-way. I think it missed us."

 

Derek stood up, and shook himself dry. A Mobian's natural instinct to repel water with a strong series of involuntary shivering motions served him well here. Though his fur was still damp after he finished, he was at least no longer drenched.

 

With the threat of the oil freighter gone, at least temporarily, his thoughts turned back to Nack's odd behavior. Things that had bothered or frightened him before - like the way the weasel seemed to enjoy his fear, or the fact that he'd purposely tripped him before they'd met - he could now devote his full attention to. Suspicion once again came to the forefront of his thoughts.

 

He noticed Nack's eyes were on the pouch of his backpack that he'd used to hold the coins Ari had given him before he'd left. Somehow, he knew that there was money there. Derek didn't know how the weasel had figured it out. It was true that the coins made a jangling whenever he moved, but he'd always thought the sound too subdued to notice. Maybe Nack's senses were honed enough.

 

There was a momentarily glint of greed and derisive amusement in Nack's eyes. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

 

Derek's hand immediately moved closer to the holster that held his pistol. Now that he had more time to think about this, something about the weasel just didn't feel right at all. There was a sudden sense of threat about the situation. For a moment, he considered drawing the pistol and using it to cover Nack for long enough for him to grab his backpack and make a fast escape.

 

*WHAM!* His conscience slammed down heavily on him. The self-censure was almost strong enough to be a physical blow. This person had just saved his life, and he'd been about to repay him by threatening him with a deadly weapon? How dare you, Derek thought at himself. Has six years of running destroyed this much of your scruples?

 

Shame sent a rush of blood to his cheeks. He knew that he was blushing, and that it would be plainly visible even through his fur. Guiltily, he pulled his arm away from the holster, and let it rest limply at his side.

 

Wet though it was, his fur suddenly stood on end. He was unconsciously aware that something was wrong before he saw it.

 

Derek looked back down at Nack, and saw that the weasel had drawn his own laser pistol, and was aiming directly at his forehead. The pistol's open barrel was like a gaping maw. Derek inhaled sharply, and took a step back.

 

His self-censure grew louder: his first instincts had been right. He'd had a chance to disarm Nack, but instead he'd been na�ve enough to not draw his pistol first. The weasel had leapt at the opportunity to beat him to it.

 

Nack smiled, almost apologetically, but his pistol didn't waver.

 

--------------------------------------------------------

 

POST 11:
Ealain VanGogh

 

 

The nasal rasp pierced the acrid air, seeming to cause the whole landscape to shudder at its hissing contempt. "Having problems, Commander? I expected my hovercraft to be ready by now. We wouldn't want to send you to the scrap heap, now would we?"

 

Sprocket was too shocked to even attempt a good cover with a reply or an excuse. Finally he forced himself to speak. "Many apologies . . . sir," he managed to mumble, in his best monotone, with a shaky salute. "Neural circuit malfunction . . . required repair. Delayed Hovercraft check . . . sir." He hoped, almost, for a glimmer of concern on the Overlander's face at this lie, but Snively retained his stoic composure.

 

Can he really have forgotten me? Is he really that dead?

 

No, look at how his lip twitches, look at the haughty carriage of his chin, at the excessive iciness that glimmers in his eyes, that stiffens his body. It's a ruse. He knows who you are. He remembers every second you spent reveling in childhood joys, every game of mischief played on his overbearing father, the man you were capable of forgiving, every shameless laugh. Oh yes, he remembers.

 

And that's the worst part about it.

 

I hate you.

 

The words came to Sprocket's head as impulsively as a hiccup or sneeze to lips, the self-indulgent feelings of loathing, as the ghost of his friend verbally sliced him in half. His neckhairs, the rebellious tufts of fur that somehow had been spared roboticization, bristled with venom.

 

I hate you for putting me in this inescapable prison, for refusing to trust me when I told you to keep a safe distance from that monster who calls himself your uncle and mentor, for thanking my loyalty with spite, for ignoring me, for forgetting me, for so badly wounding my best friend--yourself. Snively, when you sold your soul, you sold mine too. Because I can't just render my heart numb like you can; I can't just abandon you.

 

Snively had made loyalty, a virtue for which many claimed rewards in the afterlife, a curse for Sprocket, for the duration of life.

 

Now Snively was demanding that the robot next to him regurgitate knowledge about this supposed "oil freighter," but while his eyes still attempted to rape Sprockets mind and thoughts, peeling the dog's nerves individually.

 

It took every fiber of his being, every inch of his self-control, not to open his mouth and allow the stream of thoughts to come pouring out audibly, to hell with survival and the truth and doing what was ethical--just unleashing the fury. Lashing out, even, with his formidable cyborg strength. He could do it. He could easily trash those tiresome humanoid bots, his own "subordinates," with his pinky, then go at the throat of the one whom he'd once trusted with fangs bared. And it would feel so good, that primal satisfaction.

 

But he wouldn't; the thought of the Mobians in peril tugged his placid intellect back into domination, and he forced a vacant, compliant stare that belied the rage. Oh, Snively, look at that cocky face of yours, those confidently glistening eyes of frost. If only you knew how close you were to a good bruising. But no, that's your uncle's specification. It always has been. Why compete with the despot, the master? Why satisfy evil itself by becoming the master? No, I'll do the things your conscience is well aware you should do, but too frail to insist upon.

 

I'll save them. I'll live a double existence, one for my own people . . . and one for you. Apollo was the god of healing, after all.

 

And then a thought, an observation of the blatant which somehow had not yet registered, smacked him. He's their leader? That's right--he's the second-in-command. He doesn't just follow Julian's repulsive orders--he issues some of his own! And Snively, as if reading his thoughts, demonstrated his lack of scruples, uttering one of those orders with the airy calm of a remark about the weather. Referring to those Mobian refugees Sprocket was so desperate to save. "Bring them here . . to be roboticized."

 

How dare you mention that word in my presence? Again the wave of wrath, which again passed. No--focus--think about saving the victims. Victims like yourself, and Snively, and everyone else that Julian tries to manipulate in his greedy hands. He fumbled with his badge while Snively's attention was detracted throwing the "SWATbot" a melodramatic, theatrical look of deviousness, and swaggering around the hovercraft with a pointed sigh of impatience and annoyance. That's it, Snively, be obnoxious and saucy, you were always good at that in your worst moods. Just keep it up for a few more seconds . . .

 

There were odd protuberances in the badge, almost like buttons or . . . suddenly one sank inward at the touch. A holographic image popped up before his eyes, one of the entire mainland continent. Apparently there were perks to being an Aerial Commander!

 

Sprocket pushed the button again, several times--each time a new geographic location was highlighted in red. He selected the Great Mountains. A status report of all tools of Robotropolis deployed to the region ran across the holographic screen. A few more buttons and the freighter was selected. An Options menu was accessed.

 

And then the Holy Grail. "Option: Recall Freighter." Yes, perfect. Snively would still probably send bots out looking for those furries, but the diversion of a malfunctioning freighter might buy the victims some time. So, with little hesitation, he selected "Yes."

 

The screen flashed: "Command confirmed. Recall in progress."

 

And he turned the screen off. Now to plant the seed.

 

"Commander Kintobar, Sir," he said, a little too eagerly, for the little velociraptor of a man eyed him again, this time with marked surprise. He proceeded in his best drone, trying to remember Sir Charles's voice. "Reporting freighter malfunction in the Great Mountains, sir. Actions to take?"

 

There we go Snively. Forget the brazen assurance of power, old friend. Your posh little Hovercraft will have to wait, now.

 

 

**

 

Nack had to gloat about his sharp witted opportunism. Only a genius could see potential financial gain in a stupid crusading young marsupial. And the kid had actually thought they'd been under water for five minutes; he was ready to wait the time out easily, but the kid had given him the all-clear in barely three minutes, fifteen seconds (he was counting in his head, a manner of passing the time without panicking). Whatever miracle or fluke had prematurely saved them, it had only made him seem more chivalrous in the kid's eyes. It had only made his job easier when the kid couldn't quite muster the guts to draw on him.

 

He twisted the pistol, the stolen treasure, ever so slightly, with delicious menace, in his hand. "Okay, 'Derek.'' He expelled the name like a spitwad. "Don't get your dander up. We can do this the hard way or the easy way. I'll give you anything you want--you just name it, anything--for those shiny little coins you've been so rude as to conceal from me in that there pouch of yours." He smirked at the koala, who only returned a look of so many hybrid, confused emotions, that one definitive description of his face would be impossible. he began to rattle of a list of desirable items like a street merchant. "Hmm, let's think, now. I'll wager you're looking for something. Riches? An Ancestral name? Unlimited foods and drinks? Precious jewels? A technical menagerie of weapons to blast that big ugly creature running Robotropolis right out of this week? I can give you any of em for that money." The face went deadpan again.

 

"Alright, I missed. Let's see, then. Maybe someone? Your mama or daddy? I've got lots of maps and underground communications devices. All for those coins. Your uncle? Aunt? Brother? Sister? Other koalas?"

 

And then it hit him, the koala's desperate urge to be idealistic, despite his evident terror. Ah, ah ha, yes, yes indeed. He drew closer, face full of cunning glee. "Other 'Freedom Fighters?' "

 

And boom bada bing, the kid flinched. One little muscle spasm was all it took to confirm it.

 

"I just hit a nerve, didn't I? Yeah, I know about them too, kid, your resistance. I shoulda realized it the moment I first saw at you, with all that enthusiasm. There are handfuls of them. All over this planet. Like a network of spies. I have maps, lists of names, all kinds of things form my trades and bounty hunting jobs. I even met the refugees who tried to run squealing to Robotnik, too afraid of what would happen if he found them first. You don't wanna be one of those, do you? Alone, a deserter, a traitor? How about I tell you about the wolfpack? The underground resistance? The Secret Service survivors--ever hear about the St. John family? They're a regular bunch of corkers! I could even get you into Haven--but of course the Guardians call themselves neutrals . . . Or how about the aquatic rebels? Walruses, dolphins, and the like?

 

" Perhaps you're acquainted with Pollo, the Southern rebel leader, or Dirk, from the east? Very amiable fellows. Dragonsnest--yeah, you've got to go there. That's the place near the Great Plains--my homeland, kid. Yeah, they�re even out there where I came from. So how bout it, Rookie? I've got information you're dying to clutch in your hot little hands. Your choice--at my price."

-----------------------------------------------------

POST 12:

Tristan Palmgren

�

On the fringes of his vision, Derek could see the eastern horizon just beyond the rim of the weasel's hat. It remained calm and dark. There was no sight or sound of the oil freighter: that confused him.

 

He had become intimately familiar with the habits of Robotnik's servants during his six years on the run. Something was off here. If the freighter had been following normal search-and-apprehend orders, after losing target acquisition, it should have at least spiraled around the area a few times. Instead it had just left. He supposed it didn't matter that much - just the fact that it was gone was the only important thing right now. He had more immediate things to worry about.

 

Nack still held a firm grip on the pistol. Though he had lowered it somewhat, Derek didn't doubt that he could bring it back to bear in an instant's notice.

 

Only when Nack started mentioning the other Freedom Fighter groups did Derek take his eyes off the weapon. At first, he was stunned by the confirmation that Ari's leads had been right. Then, next, by the idea that there were indeed other Freedom Fighter groups out there. The revelations just kept coming. He was at once glad to hear this, but the laser pistol was still a dark stain on his thoughts.

 

He kept his eyes firmly on the pistol. He knew he had agreed to deal with situations like this when he set out on this mission. But saying it in the safety of the Great Mountains, and dealing first-hand with the hungry maw of the weapon barrel were two different things. He tried to deal with the situation as best he could. The first thing to do was find out exactly what his position was here. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

 

"With that weapon... I suppose we're either going to have to do business... or the pistol's going to do the business for you."

 

Derek smiled briefly at his own bad jest. It was a terrible joke, but the need to have something to laugh at was overpowering. Nack just nodded.

 

"Well, if you're going to take it anyway," Derek began slowly, "I'd like to hear everything you know. I don't suppose you'd let me get away with that, though... so, I guess, tell me about which ever one of them is closest. Is it Dragonsnest? The Wolf Pack? Just tell me how to find either one of them... and the money's yours."

 

------------------------------------------------

 

POST 13:

Ealain VanGogh

 

We're going to have to do business . . . or it'll do it . . . for you. Oh, Guardian's Dreadlocks! That was some kind of joke! Nack repressed the biting urge to guffaw. Aw, poor kid, he's deteriorating to chicken excrement. A fleeting impulse of pity for the fledgling hero and admiration for his terrible desire to survive--to carry out his sacred mission despite personal costs--(for Nack DID admire virtue, he just didn't practice it because he found it impragmatic, the antithesis of self-preservation, nor did he often surround himself with it, for it made his dormant conscience ache)--seized the weasel. He decided to comply with the koala's wishes.

 

He chewed on his lip. "Proximity, eh? That's your game? Well, kid, I sure like your style." He reached for the bag of dough with his whip of a tail, lashing it behind him while never once wavering the pistol from the victim of his sting. As he glared into Derek's face, his firm target in the event of rebelliousness, he began to deftly sift coins out of the tail-balanced bag with free hands. Avarice glittered in his eyes as he bit down on each shining specimen with his gold buck tooth, of course, lacking the tact to refrain from speaking as he did so. "M-hmm, yes indeed, excellent style. Genuine mint. You got some affluent pals, eh? Well, I hope you fall flat on your face over my leg again in the near future, Sugarplum dumplin' !" came the virulent, mocking jest, followed by a scornful, hearty cackle. "Yeah, you thought right, I tripped ya. All in good fun, right?" And finally, rapidly sobering as if remembering the hackneyed clich� that time was money, he addressed the question. "Dragonsnest. Go there. It's barely ten miles south, in an elevated place over the Great Plains. Tell them you knew Sabina--I know, it ain't true, but what is? They'll treat you like a king, but if you just waltz in without an explanation, you'd better pray you're fireproof, because they're protecting a whole army of eggs. Anyway, I took a gander at her once, that Sabina lady, with my parents on a trade route to Mobotropolis years ago--very agreeable, led us to a waterhole. She was their 'Guardian'--apparently a really pertinent matriarch in the community--before the fat man roboticized her. Had plans for some eggs of her own, so you might scope out her offspring if you want to get all cozy like with your fellow rebels. And here," he finished indulgently, as if doing the koala a monumental favor without gain and feeling the weariness of his generosity, " take this , I'll get myself another one. Hey, after all, I know it by heart."

 

He tossed the bedraggled, yellowed map of the continent, with every red marked stop on his route, at Derek's feet. The kid bent reflexively to retrieve it; Nack gave a warning shout and Derek immediately straightened. "Not so fast, sucker. You're gonna keep yourself statue still till I'm not with in shouting---or shooting--distance."

 

He backed up slowly, nimbly, somehow managing to avoid every hole, crevice, and boulder that would have obstructed any novice's gait easily. His voice, ever amiably rambling, ever oily and congenial, faded slowly in the distance as he vanished. "Hey, listen, you take care of yourself, I mean it. You got a real purpose, I can tell. I think you'll do okay, kid. I do. You got that fire in ya, y'know? Maybe in a few years I'll still be hearing about you guys. Maybe cheering you on, who knows, hell could freeze over, right? Anyway, keep an eye on those red spots--they're locations of all the groups I've contacted. Some underground, some in the air, some . . . well, don't try Haven unless you're really feeling ambitious. Hey, kid, you might even meet the king's heir if she's really alive. How about that, eh? And all because good old Nack helped ya! God bless me, I tell ya! God bless me! Ha, well, as for my blessed self, I think I'll spend this loot on one of those dirtbikes in Overlander territory . . . "

 

And the scenery grew again forlorn with the presence of but one living soul, white-furred and perhaps, despite his solitude, filled with new hope.

 

-------------------------------------------------------

POST 14
MistressAli

 

He paced...without Uncle around to frown at his movements, tell him to shut it and stand still, he paced and grumbled, trying to pound his impatience into the hard streets underfoot. It didn't really work.

 

He was upset at the delay, for surely Uncle would notice if he stayed about the city for too long. He would enquire, and enquiring would turn to yelling, and yelling to... he closed his eyes. Despite the tyrant's current good mood, it wasn't always so. Oh yes, Julian was oh so jovial when things were going his way, but like a child who tripped and began to bawl, he would throw a fit at the slightest mishap. And Julian's fits were far more dangerous than the usual childish tantrum.

 

His adoration for his rounded kin was beginning to wear thin. He had been in awe... a little puzzled as to why, exactly, when his Uncle had taken over the miserable Acorn kingdom. He remained in awe as his Uncle seemed to spew out plans of a beautiful city and sleek robots, and they came to be. But now that it was brought into existence, the city didn't look nearly as glorious, the robots nearly as wondrous....Like a plate of delicious food to tantalize the eyes, only to foul the mouth with a rotten taste.

 

But who cared?! That was all in the past, this was present; this was all that mattered, all that mattered was he take to the air and head for the mountains and their wealth of oil, and soon.

 

Then a monotone voice, somehow still more lilting than the SWATbot's, broke him out of his thoughts. He turned, a bit startled, to see Apollo's eyes upon him, unblinking and expressionless.

 

"Reporting freighter malfunction in the Great Mountains, sir. Actions to take?"

 

He didn't want to hear this. No no no no.

 

"WHAT?" He growled out, his feet taking a few furious steps towards the Commander bot. His boot splashed into a puddle, sending water onto his pants, but he paid no heed, instead his cold gaze was locked on those pools of gold; that robot's eyes so lacking in expression, but still so warm in hue...he could swear there was feeling there.

 

"Actions to take, sir?" The Commander repeated in that dry monotone.

 

'WHY NOW?!' Snively wanted to scream and pound his feet and well...just generally cause destruction...like Julian always did. The old coot was rubbing off, it seemed. He resisted the urge, quite difficultly, standing still, just a slight quivering of anger in that reed-slender frame, his normally cold eyes heated, bubbling...boiling hot... unconsciously fists curled into tight little balls. "What sort of malfunction, Commander?" He growled out through gritted teeth.

 

When a response wasn't immediate, he turned away, fuming, resuming his pacing with fingernails cutting moon-shaped impressions into his palm. The sharp pain calmed him; focused him. He turned back again, tiny feet moving him close to the Commander, very close...he could smell the sweet scent of oil and wires, see his face distorted in the sleek silver metal.

 

A glare was sent to those golden orbs, with anger cooled, at least a little bit, his gaze had gone icy again. "Tell them to fix it, Commander." Of course, the obvious solution.... If the incompetent robots on board could handle that task. "And I want a status report on those two Mobians..."

 

They weren't really a primary concern. Just two idiotic furries. He'd rather have them shot, or similarly disposed of, or...even ignored... but Julian was so insistent on turning them all to metal, adding more slaves to his arsenal... as if he didn't have enough. As if they needed them. Maybe it was some sort of game for Uncle, some sort of weird collection. Some people collected bottle caps...well Julian...he collected souls...

 

And if he could help add to Julian's collection, well, maybe that would spare *his* soul...or what was left of it, a little less agony...

 

So he raised his finger, in that annoying tsk tsk motion, right up to Apollo's chest, but not quite touching, almost as if he were afraid to make contact. "Well...what are you waiting for, Commander?"

-------------------------------------------------------

 

POST 15:
J.R. Grant

 

Nayr T'nargh, the last of a race known as Sados, walked slowly down an unknown path. He was headed to a breeding location of dragons known as Dragonsnest and planned to cause a few problems. Life was quite boring, as the normal 20 year life span of his people had been extended thousands of years longer for his own. After awhile, the only allegiance he had was to money and to slay dragons (especially after they had killed so many sadosi in the war so many millennia back). Mobians in general seemed to be growing scarce lately and the city known as Mobotropolis had become quite polluted and seemed to slowly expand beyond its original boundaries. In fact the Great Forest was now a small gathering of trees. He now referred to it as the Small Tree Gathering, but people got angry with him when he used it. Why? Nayr didn't know why and didn't give a damn, he just knew that the money that was necessary for paying for basic necessities was no longer readily available.

 

Nayr looked forward into the vast barren land before him slowly disappearing into the sunset. It was known on Mobius as the Great Plains, the only land that separated him from the location of Dragonsnest. Rumors had spread that only one dragon was left and it was a female. If so, this was the perfect opportunity to catch it in surprise. The only thing that worried him was the source of these rumors wasn't very trustworthy. Possibly the entire place was inhabited like it used to be... then he'd have some big problems. He may have been immortal, but he was definitely not invincible. Those dragons could turn him into toast. Nayr had gone far enough for one day. Light was disappearing, so he just laid back on the ground and his black skin slowly merged with the night making his location unnoticeable.

---------------------------------

 

POST 16:

Tristan Palmgren

 

 

Day 5. Shortly after midnight.

 

Following Nack's directions, Derek stood and watched the weasel walk away. He felt terribly meek. His cheeks had been burning ever since he'd watched Nack rip open his backpack's coin pouch, and gleefully take all the money. Nack had tipped his hat at him, and simply left. He faded into the distance, and was already lost in the foothills of the Great Mountains.

 

All of his money was gone. Ari had trusted him to spend that wisely, damn it!

 

He wondered if real heroes had ever made mistakes like that before. Had icons like King Maximillian Acorn, and Sir Charles Hedgehog, ever made errors like this before? Was this how they became so experienced? Was this a part of some grandiose coming-of-age? If this was a necessity for becoming a hero, or a Freedom Fighter, Derek wasn't sure that he wanted any part of it.

 

Now that he was safely out of range of retaliation, Derek felt a snarl growing on his lips. The brunt of his anger wasn't directed at Nack, but rather himself. He hated himself for letting the weasel take advantage of him like that. Some deeply-repressed core of anger in his soul insisted that he grab his laser pistol, and chase after Nack, but his better self kept his hand stayed. He would have to bear his punishment. He may not have earned it, but nevertheless there was nothing he could do about it. It would be better to make the best of this situation.

 

The weasel's advice had been expensive, but it was certainly valuable enough. Dragonsnest was a mere ten kilometers from his this hot spring. From the rumors he'd heard, it was a tall tower, and he shouldn't have any problem spotting it as he grew closer.

 

He made up his mind that it would be best to approach Dragonsnest in the light of day. He hadn't had a chance to get much sleep before the oil freighter had arrived, and the effects of that were just now becoming very apparent. Exhaustion was becoming an overpowering force. Derek gathered up his backpack, and walked for at least a few hundred meters before groggily choosing a flat spot to set up camp. He made sure that the area was secluded; he still wasn't very confident that the freighter was gone for good. Sleep came quickly.

 

This time there were no dreams.

 

The next morning passed without much incident. He gathered his blankets back into his backpack, and, for a forlorn moment, regarded the empty coin sack. Then he set out towards Dragonsnest.

 

--------------------------------------------

POST 17:

Ealain VanGogh

 

It was really an absurd time to be thrown back into recollection, when Snively's sharp little finger was aimed at Sprocket's throat, his every hidden motive scoured for by the overlander's scrutinizing, freshly paranoid, demanding gaze, calling upon the canine to conjure some command for his subordinates the faintest inkling of which he could not grasp, but his friend's sullen attitude struck him with a memory.

 

Yes, a memory. A memory of years and times and customs past, of simple joys long made archaic, alien, by the spoils of warfare and conquest.

 

They were walking home together from school; well, Snively attended the cold little private institution for sons and daughters of the Overlander elite, but Sprocket, the face of the enemy, couldn't be caught dead in a mile radius of the place, so he met Snively every afternoon at the pine tree where they'd first met. Sniv would teach Sprocket all he had absorbed from the day, from calculus, technology and physics, in which the canine soon learned his friend had remarkable natural talent, to literature and art, for which the excessively pragmatic, rationally-minded human boy had less patience. In a way, he was the dog's sole source of education throughout their childhood, since Sprocket lived in a Mobian foster family that was far too poor, and located too dangerously close to the Great War front, to put him through school.

 

In any case, this was a day like any other, besides the fact that it was unseasonably and devastatingly cold outside--somewhere below zero--and a shimmering frost had coated the sheet of newly fallen red and orange leaves. Snively spent the whole route to his home complaining with a bitterness that bested the weather itself about the inclement climate. But Sprocket was lost entirely in thought, in a happy reverie about the beautiful colors that littered the earth. Smiling vaguely, he stooped and picked a sunburst of red and orange and yellow right up from the icy grass--it seemed only essential to him that he appreciate nature's artistic hand by collecting a bit of the evidence of its genius.

 

Snively, however, afflicted by a lack of thick gray fur, and perhaps also by a soul already too drained for his young age, was severely annoyed. "What the bloody hell are you doing, you hairy ass?" he hissed, through chattering teeth.

 

Sprocket blinked. 'Well, I uh, just appreciating beauty, I guess," he stammered.

 

Snively glared murder at his companion through his thick, wind-tousled hair, his nose reddened by its arctic force. Not understanding. Not realizing . . . at all . . . the pure divinity of such earthly beauty, which itself was the reason why anyone, human or furrie, bothered to get out of bed every day. �What sane person would really bother to pick up a leaf in this weather?" the boy spat. " It's bizarre, Sprocket. It's asinine. For God' Sake, don't you give a shit about MY well-being? Come on!"

 

And he had shoved past the canine, trampling the leaf he'd dropped, in his shock, underfoot. His feelings? They were the most important thing to the canine, whose gratitude for his very life would never wane. Did Snively really even have to ask?

 

It was the first time they had ever argued. But now, he realized, it wouldn't be the last. Because Snively's soul was not less drained, or filled. It was empty.

 

He lurched back into the hazy bleak present. How to keep stalling? It had only been about ten minutes. He pretended to busy himself looking at his badge hologram program--now only one life force showed in the location of the Great Mountains. It was not fleeing, but sedentary. Wounded? Dead? Or just asleep--just exhausted? He had a sudden flash, a sudden fantasy, in his mind, of a youth like himself in the terrifying dark of the forest, abandoned and alone and in need of some sleep, some blissful comfort in unconsciousness. Yes, he'd have to buy the night for this other lost soul, to stall for at least that long.

 

Poor Snively, he would have to bear the brunt of his wicked uncle's rage. But he'd allowed himself to be placed in that continuously dangerous position, hadn't he? The guilt of Sprocket's disloyalty to his boon companion was only partially dulled by this angry thought.

 

Still, these refugees didn't deserve to be stolen away to this hell on earth . . . Like he had been . . .

 

So he acted on the most immediate, crazy impulse. He lilted back and forth, fell into Snively and teetered back on his feet, rolling his eyes and letting his tongue dance in the side of his mouth, feigning his own internal malfunctions. Hell, robots had to occasionally get glitches, right? Oh God, PLEASE let this work. Snively's so smart--it'd be so easy for him to figure me out.

 

"Commander Kintobar," he stuttered, "reporting....internal system....malfunction...." And then he managed a few spirited epileptic seizures, nearly bursting out into peals of laughter at the horror and panic on Snively's face, before flopping to the ground face first. As he fell, he heard Sniv's voice elevating several octaves in its distress as the young Kintobar screeched at the SWATS to catch him and to check his circuits.

 

And then, as his head hit the hard concrete, the real epiphany struck. A button right in front of his left ear, one he hadn't seen or felt, was indented. Suddenly a tingling in his brain, or what was left in its place--and he saw, behind his eyes somehow, a plethora of data about the city, about his job, his technical attributes, and the various commands he could issue to other robots as the Aerial Commander. Another file marked "archives," which he discovered he could enter merely through mental will and concentration (apparently his brain was now some sort of computer) had all kinds of weird facts about ancient places such as Drood Henge, archaic items like "the Secret Scrolls," a "Crystalline Computer," and the like. Sprocket realized he had to use one of his commands on the SWATs or Snively would put 2 and 2 together and expose him, thus thwarting any hope of his helping the Mobian refugees. Grudgingly, he took note of the repair freighter command and stood up. Perhaps this newfound knowledge would still prove to be power.

 

An awkward silence, as Snively stared slack-jawed at him. Sprocket felt his lip quirk in amusement, but quickly composed himself and stood rigid in a salute. "Unit 9000 apologizes, Sir. Unit malfunction has passed. Issuing orders immediately." He faced the SWAT nearest him. "Priority One Order Over-ride: Prepare Hovercraft for destination: Great Mountains. Accompany Commander Kintobar and Commander Apollo to destination to repair malfunctioning freighter." The bot saluted him and droned, "Understood," dismissing itself with its three fellow mercenaries to Snively's awaiting Hovercraft. It was so relieving, this sense of knowledge, this near omnipotence about the workings of the evil city, in his personal database. There would be no more surprises, no more mysteries, about his "job" and duties here. He was a walking electronic encyclopedia. Maybe there were some perks to drinking oil instead of water for sustenance, to having a computer rather than a brain. No... he stopped himself there, because after all, if it weren't for whatever living essence had survived his roboticization, he would still be a mindless slave for a mad dictator. No, this was his shell, his prison, still. Not him. But for the moment, that was okay.

 

He turned to Snively, who seemed mildly appeased. "Unit Apollo 9000 insists upon accompanying you to your desired destination, sir, for matters of security. Refugees are potential threat to your person." After all, it would be much easier to thwart Snively, to trip him up, in any attempt to capture the refugees in the area, if he were there to personally do the tripping.

 

And, however pathetic the sentiment, he almost vaguely enjoyed the thought of being in his friend's presence again, even in estrangement.

 

Besides, he was really excited about exploring the feature marked in his technical attributes marked "Flying."

 

He awaited his Commander's response.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

POST 18:

Tristan Palmgren

 

Day 5, Early Afternoon. Beyond the foothills of the Great Mountains, on the borders of the Great Plains.

 

Derek was surprised by how far away he could see the tower from. All around him, the land was beginning to flatten out at an alarming pace. Things were beginning to become much drier, as well. He had been expecting, that much, though; even without having been here before, he would have seen it coming. Geography classes back in school - while there still had been a school in Mobotropolis - had taught him that much.

 

Now that he was several dozen kilometers east of the Great Mountains, and the mountains themselves were between him and the prevailing winds, he was well inside the local rainshadow. Things would be *very* dry for him from here on out. He pulled out the Nack's map again, and examined it closely. The closest major body water was the continental coastline, on which was the island of Nimbus, but his present path wouldn't take him in that direction. On his present course, the next chance he would have to refill his water bottles was the lakes and streams of the Great Forest itself. From there, it was only a hop, skip, and jump to Robotropolis.

 

The inhospitable terrain was one of the major reasons that Ari's group so desperately needed a place to resupply before they reached Robotropolis. There was only nine days left before they set out behind him. Derek was determined not to let them down.

 

He trudged on through the growing afternoon heat, trying to ignore the dry scratchiness of his throat. From here on out he would have to force himself to stick to strict water rationing rules. He wasn't looking forward to the suffering that would come from that, but after the incident with Nack, he was determined not to be so weak in the future. He would endure.

 

Occasionally, a few hills still poked above the flatness of the desert plains, and Derek used those to get a better vantage point. Dragonsnest had at first been visible only as a dark blotch on the horizon, but now it was steadily growing. He could see now that it was actually a grand tower, of a construction and design he wasn't at all familiar with. It seemed to not so much rise above the landscape as it was a natural outcrop of the rock surrounding it. Derek could also see a small canyon system surrounding Dragonsnest like a moat. No doubt the canyons were actually the remains of some ancient riverbed.

 

Dragon culture had always mildly fascinated Derek, but the only chance he'd ever had to do any studying was when he was a child. In the past few years, he'd been too concerned with his own survival to do more research into the dragons. Much remained a mystery to him. He wished now that he'd found the time to sit down and study a textbook or two. The knowledge would have been a great aid here. Right now, he was walking blindly into this.

 

For such a physically powerful species, the dragons were a paradoxically peaceful race. As far as he was aware, they were only ever involved in one war, and that was with a species he didn't know much about.

 

There was much about the dragons that were seemingly contradictory. For instance, they were a reptilian species that displayed a high degree of mammalian characteristics, such as marsupial-like pouches for their young, and sometimes even a high degree of playfulness. They even produced milk! They were sedentary and reclusive when dealing with other species, yet incredibly open with their own family members or to close friends. Their habits tended greatly towards the individual, yet they still had communal living areas like Dragonsnest. The dragons had a zen-like acceptance of their own internal paradoxes, and seemed to enjoy the attention this brought them, despite outwardly refusing to be the subject of study.

 

Derek knew that Dragonsnest was somehow involved in the reproductive cycle of the species, but his modicum of knowledge faded after that. He wasn't quite sure what to expect when he reached the tower. He scrambled across the lips of the canyon system surrounding it, surprising himself by finding a clear path to the other side that didn't involve much climbing.

 

As he got closer, he searched for any signs of movement around the tower, but could find none.

 

Outwardly, at least, Dragonsnest appeared to be abandoned. There was no sight of the majestic flying creatures, nor sound of their great flapping wings. The tower stood inert, looming threateningly over the empty land. Much of it was cloaked in shadow. The overall effect was very intimidating, and Derek found himself involuntarily shrinking back as he arrived at the vast entrance. Sweat beaded on the strands of fur of his forehead, and his breathing became uneasy. There was still no sign of any life. Derek gathered what courage he could find, and pushed open the vast doors.

 

Dashing his hopes, the feeling of abandonment only grew stronger once he was actually inside. There was no one here. A thick coat of yellow, dry desert dust covered every surface of the entrance foyer. The air here was thick and stale - Derek almost choked on it as he walked inside. He sneezed once or twice, and found himself constantly rubbing dust out of his eyes.

 

There was an odd odor in the air. It wasn't something Derek could immediately place, was it was somehow familiar, and stirred up ancient sentiments of dread in his psyche. It was vaguely biological.

 

The grand halls must have been a beautiful sight once.

 

It was still large and majestic, but whatever other splendor had once been here had faded a long time ago. Sunlight drifted in through cracks in the wall, but otherwise the area was depressingly dark. Things were broken all around him. Remnants of furniture and paintings littered the ground. The floor and ceilings were crumbling. All of this was clearly very old, and hadn't been touched in some time. Some of the damage didn't even look like age was capable of inflicting it. It looked like a cyclone - or violent scuffle - had passed through the halls.

 

There were several dark blotches on the floor. Burn marks. Derek frowned, and bent down closer to examine them. Laser burns?

 

His eyes drifted over to a shadowy form lying inert on the ground...

 

***

 

The outer doors of Dragonsnest slammed open, and Derek burst out of them and into the open sunlight. He doubled over, clutching his gut, and fell to his knees. His heart was hammering, and the only thing he could hear was the rush of horror pounding his eardrums. He felt sick to his stomach. He bent over the ground, feeling his body heave in a dry retch. He was unable to control his vomit reflex.

 

He had finally found the source of that strange stench. Could finally put a name to it.

 

Illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the open doors, the body of the fallen dragon was an unmoving mass on the floor of the grand halls. A rotting tongue was lolling out of its half-open mouth. The cavities where its eyes had once been were now dark, emotionless pits. Laser burns had viciously seared through the poor creature's flesh at too many points to count.

 

The odd smell had been the stink of death.

 

There had been no immediate sign of who had done this to it, and Derek hadn't stayed long enough to find out. It could have been Robotnik, or it could have been some other third party. It didn't seem to matter much at this point.

 

The heaves faded after a few minutes. Derek curled up into a little ball, and wept for what he had seen.

-------------------------------------------------------------

POST 19:

MistressAli

 

'internal system...malfunction...'

 

Awr, hell! Could anything else go wrong? Now this bloody robot had to go and break on him! He took a rapid steps backward as the dog-bot keeled over, shouting to the SWATs to attend to him.

 

A few nerve-wracking moments later, the shiny silver Commander stood. His face dropped from...something...into neutral and he stood in salute-poise.

 

Snively eyed him suspiciously, surprised, having to remind himself to close his mouth. If he didn't know better he'd say this robot was screwing with him, but robots didn't play... unless they were programmed to, like Robotnik's pet Cluck, whose favorite game seemed to be 'pin the beak on Snively's forehead.'

 

The thought was fleeting; like a quick flash of memory never brought to the surface; it was there and then gone, for Apollo turned and addressed the SWATbot by his side. All was well. No more time to dwell on silly ideas about feelings in those golden eyes, of a dead man playing tricks. Because the boy Apollo used to be was *dead*. People turned robotic had never been brought back; so in a sense roboticization was execution... but these thoughts too were only a quick flash in his mind, and then he buried them with quick shaking hands, throwing dark rocks and shadows there, blocking them from view.

 

He watched the four SWATs walk away with their clanking strides. He'd be out of here soon; he checked his watch quickly...only forty-five minutes after Julian had ordered him to leave. He wondered if Uncle was counting each second; this was a game certainly not won by the highest numbers.

 

The Commander pivoted smoothly back to face him.

"Unit Apollo 9000 insists upon accompanying you to your desired destination, sir, for matters of security. Refugees are potential threat to your person."

 

He raised an eyebrow; once again studying the dog-bot's face. Nothing. There was nothing there. It's a fucking robot, Snively, get a grip. It was only the thought of Uncle and his square teeth glinting in a sadist's smile...yeah, it was that making his bones quiver and his mind paranoid.

 

"I highly doubt those mangy furballs will be any threat, but..." He'd have less work to do with the Commander around. Maybe he could even relax. It was a pleasing thought, even with the overshadowing annoyance of being out in a crummy forest with the horrendous noise of the oil drills. "I suppose you could be of some use, Commander, so I'll allow it. Now finish up with the check, and come along...enough time's been wasted already."

 

With an overly dramatic sigh, he turned and entered the hovercraft, waiting impatiently in the passenger seat for the maintenance check to be completed, staring moodily through the windshield at the darkened city. A strange glow of red was trapped around the outlines of the buildings. An effect of the smog, maybe? He peered upwards through the windshield, trying to spot any stars through the hazy cover; but it was hard to see at this angle.. and he doubted there would be any, anyway. He hadn't seen the stars for months now.

As usual, his thoughts scolded him... 'who cares...they're just stars. Burning balls of gas. Nothing special, nor magical, nor anything that foolish silly people should hang their wishes on....'

 

He heard the Commander's voice; apparently the check was finished. Finally. Reluctantly, he tapped on the communications panel, contacting the large, the hideous, the genesis, the one and only Julian Ivo Robotnik.

 

"You're just leaving now, Snively?" This was said with a detached sort of manner; Robotnik seemed not to care. Good, good.

 

"There were a few problems, sir. Most are taken care of...the others will be shortly..." Now, that sounded good! So smooth and calm. He managed a little smirk, which faded as Uncle's eerily calm voice cut through the white noise.

 

"Oh, I have complete faith that you'll take care of them. I trust you won't *disappoint* me, Snively... I would *hate* to be disappointed..."

 

He heard the clanking of metal on metal; the Commander was entering the cockpit.

 

"Uh, no sir..." Voice not so smooth now. A slight trembling, because Uncle's veiled threats were rather easily understood. "You most certainly won't be disappointed, sir. Er...Snively out."

 

He clicked off the link and sighed; then turned an icy gaze onto the Commander. "Everything's ready, I presume?" He didn't wait for a reply; it was silly to be polite to a robot. "Let's go then."

 

**

 

Dulcy swore she'd traveled every inch of the Great Unknown; that horrible dusty plain of Mobius. It seemed to cover the entire planet; everywhere she turned she saw only miles of dull grayish-brown earth shimmering from heatwaves.

 

"Oh Ma...I wish you were here. You could tell me how to get there."

 

She could see the majestic spire, the divine home of her species, so clearly in her mind. Her mother had described the spire many times and the stone room, glowing golden from the sunrise, in which Dulcy's egg had been laid. There she had hatched, with the help of her mother's warm body, in the pink and purple lights of sunset. Sometimes her mother had told her myths of how an egg laid on sunrise and born on sunset would grow into a dragon of splendid power and respect.

 

That can't be true...

She had no powers, or at least, had not discovered any (although she could let out an earth shattering belch at whim).

And no one to respect her. She hadn't seen another dragon in...well, since her mother had been captured by those metal men.

Sabina had ordered Dulcy to run and hide, which the young dragon did, watching from behind a boulder as her mother struggled. And won! She destroyed the metal men, but as she spread her wings to glide to her offspring, a ship had swooped from the clouds, casting a net onto Sabina, dragging her away.

And Dulcy, not able to fly, not strong enough to fight, had been helpless to save her.

 

Her mother's last words of wisdom: "You have the powers, Dulcy, use them. Don't give up."

 

"I won't give up, Ma..." She sighed and spread her wings...Gods, they ached so badly lately, like the skin was pulling across the bones, getting tighter.

 

But it sure would help if she could find Dragonsnest. In her mother's words, it was such a glorious place, surely dragons must live there; who would leave such a beautiful haven?

 

'I know I wouldn't.'

 

She growled. 'Stop aching, wings! You're driving me crazy!" Maybe if the dumb things worked! 'I must've been born with a bad pair.'

No matter how much she flapped, she couldn't seem to stay up.

 

She scowled, eyeing the horizon. Something was there, swirling and beautiful; but she knew from experience it was not anything lovely. A sandstorm; the gray sand whipped about by sudden winds, tossed in the air where they caught the sunlight and glittered like crystals. It was moving this way quite fast and just her luck!...no boulders to hide behind!

 

When it hit, she huddled down onto the ground, cringing as the sand struck her. Argh...it felt like needles driving into her skin. Normally she would close her wings, but today she kept them up and spread, hoping it would shield the rest of her body from the sting...and then...her eyes widened and she let out a shriek.

 

The wind had swept up under her wings and lifted her! She was flung into the air, and desperately, she flapped, and then realization struck. She didn't have to flap; no...and she smiled in delight as she titled her body this way and that, riding the wind currents. Ah! This was fun!

 

Uh, oh, Dulcy. Problem! She had drifted away from the sandstorm and the supporting winds where no longer underneath her.

 

She cringed, waiting to fall, but no...wait...she didn't need those winds...there were plenty up here. The sky...it was like an ocean, constantly moving! All she had to do was move with it, pick a current and ride it, and the flapping...well that gave her speed or helped lift her higher. And her tail, that cumbersome thing, it was a perfect rudder to steer her. She closed her eyes, relishing the kiss of wind on her face, then opened them, delighted at how quickly the earth sped beneath her. Yeah, this sure beat walking!

 

Wonderful!! For the first time in days Dulcy laughed.

 

Three hours of soaring later, she cried.

 

In the distance, rising upwards so darkly majestic, was the spire of Dragonsnest.

----------------------------------------------------------

POST 20:

Ealain VanGogh

 

Sprocket had to commend himself on his own resourcefulness. It was commendable that he had managed, thus far, to maintain his scruples and morals even in the face of desperate circumstances. Right now he was attempting his stiffest, most mechanical gait possible (it was beginning to make his joints creak with the robotic equivalent of arthritis), ascending into the Hovercraft that housed his impatient "master." He stifled a guffaw. If "Snively the Great" (ha, that had a ridiculously funny ring to it--he wouldn't be surprised if Julian's nephew took up the title given the chance) had ever even politely asked him to call him "master" when they were kids, he'd have wasted no time in giving him a good old fashioned sock to the jaw. Of course, those were the days when he wasn't afraid to touch his friend for fear of making him crumble like a dried-up leaf. Sniv had never been of the meaty, stalwart breed, but he'd once had a little more color to his cheeks, more fat to spare on his bones, and a little more life in his eyes besides this derisive glint of spite.

 

Reminiscing again got the better of him as he took his position behind the young Kintobar's seat. The pilot seat awaited for him, void and expectant and submissive to his authority. He evaded the dangerously alluring thoughts of power associated with this new privilege, this new assurance of pardon from the horrors of the planet at Robotnik's hand, by staring dully into the dictator's eyes as his face filled the screen. Remembering the day he'd met Julian Kintobar . . . and immediately disliked him.

 

Hm. His moustache hadn't been quite so . . . large . . . back then.

 

But those eyes of red coals . . . ah yes, they had endured time, their evil fire had thrived.

 

Snively had brought him to Julian's laboratory in MegaCentral, the Overlander capital, the evening he'd discovered him orphaned. The human boy always, apparently, went to Julian when Colin was in an ill temper, when his son merely needed to spill out his feelings and Colin was, as usual, too emotionally distant, too disdainful. Fortunately for Sprocket, this time was no exception, for it was Julian who replied in his eerily smooth, thunderous voice that Colin had been dispatched on a border patrol mission.

 

It was Julian, eyes blazing with false empathy, who told Sprocket who had killed his parents. And, in doing so, made Snively's irritation towards his father sour into something like pure hatred.

 

Julian, ever the manipulator. He proceeded to weave false words of comfort around the two boys who sat in stunned silence. He had retrieved Snively when the boy had fled the room in shame and had ushered them to sit in his back office, so deceptively tranquil, but so characteristically dim, reeking of oil and recent electrical fires, filled with otherworldly conjurations of metal and mesh all hanging from his ceilings or littering his desk on top of endless blueprints, and quiet aside the hum of the computer monitors. Julian too suggested their friendship, offering to house the canine until the next morning, when Snively would show him a shortcut to some lowland homes where he could stay with other furries.

 

It had seemed so kind and philanthropic to Snively, but Sprocket was put on guard. How could the strange, soft-spoken scientist with inferno eyes be thinking so rationally if truly so deeply ashamed by his brother's act of murder?

 

And when Snively had given Sprocket his affectionate surrogate name, the name he now carried in secret, on their way out of Julian's lab the next morning, he had felt his neckhairs prick over crawling skin at the laugh that rumbled out the throat of the boy's uncle--deep, guttural, like a smug threat, a growl, dripping with mockery. Then the human scientist had said something sardonic; Sprocket couldn't remember what now, only the tone of his voice, and the way Snively's young face, so blatantly adoring his uncle's great intellect, had fallen in humiliation. Sprocket had looked Julian in the eye and said in a clear calm voice, "I like that name. I'm keeping it." And Julian had scowled ever so slightly. That had been the first act of rebellion in the wicked tyrant's life that he would be forced to stomach. Unsurprisingly, he rarely invited the canine back into his lab, even when Snively pleaded him to do so. Sprocket was sure he'd relished watching Snively roboticize him. He'd probably cackled maniacally throughout the whole process.

 

If I get half the chance, Julian, I'll see you get your just desserts one of these days. I kept my name. You? You didn't have enough self-satisfaction. You changed your identity to suit your insecure, frustrated dreams of conquest.

 

Yes, as it turned out, Julian had only encouraged Snively's comradery with Sprocket to create a more aggressive estrangement between the militant Colin and his passively rebellious son, once the elder Kintobar found out that Snively had befriended one of the "enemy," the "flea-bitten filth" of the planet. And here he was like some pagan god of a dark disillusioned cult on the computer monitor, using that same undermining voice to threaten Snively's well-being, to command an excellent performance on the "job." The job? Some vocation . . .

 

He heard Snively�s voice, initially painfully emulating that of his uncle with its arrogant aplomb, crack with mounting insecurity, mounting fear, and almost winced at it. The fool. He could have just stayed in MegaCentral all those years back, when Julian had asked him to come be an expatriate. No need , then, for fear. But then that would have been asking for too much resolve, too much autonomous thought, on Snively's part. He had been Robotnik's mannequin for years now.

 

Speak of the Devil. The conversation between the dictator and his kin had ceased, and Snively crisply ordered for flight. Sprocket saluted and took a seat. While outside he had reviewed quickly a manual of flight instruction in his database. Fortunately for him, he seemed to retain this kind of knowledge permanently upon accessing it from his long-term memory databanks.

 

Take-off and cruising were a cinch. Finally Snively's suspicion seemed to have dissipated, for he no longer had his falcon-like glare fixed on the canine. It almost felt calm, comfortable and intimate, at least he could fool himself into thinking so while concentrating on the environment scrolling under them, could forget who had built his hover unit and why he was flying it, until he could see his chrome reflection off the glass dashboard, and remembered his prison, and who had put him there. The man right next to him.

 

Emotionally, Sprocket forced himself to withdraw into a safely distant place, because the anger was starting to choke him again, and he had to think clearly enough to fly.

 

Landing was also easy considering the rough terrain of the environment. Snively wasted no time in daring out of the hovercraft, or in hissing at the SWATS in his way. He was, to be sure, as vexed as ever.

 

That ill temper would only worsen when they discovered, after a heat and motion sensor scan, that there were no organisms still in the proximity (Sprocket let out a silent cry of joy), and the freighter, having roamed idly towards the Great Unknown, could either be retrieved in an hour as the SWATbots had arranged, or in a more prompt half hour--providing they chase after it and manually recall it.

 

Shakily Sprocket ignited his laser rockets attached to his boots-- creating a minor spectacle he lurched in the air, did a few aerial figure eights, and finally stabilized himself enough to survey the near landscape. It was truly exhilarating, something like pure freedom, like the way a dragon must feel upon its first flight. He almost smiled.

 

Aw, crap. Snively was looking at him in that weird paranoid way again. Crap, crap, crap. He cleared his throat to buy time . . . and then realized that only flesh organisms cleared their throats. Only flesh organisms had throats to clear.

 

CRAP!

 

"Area is void of Mobian refugees, master." He dropped to the ground. "Area is again secure. Request permission to pursue freighter?" he knew Snively would want to anyway, to please dear old uncle, so he might as well continue to tag along. After all ,what was that nastily stereotypical thing Colin always used to say? Ah yes. " A dog is a man's best friend." He'd never said anything more valid, really. And he added, impulsively, out of a returned need for such loyalty, "Action would ensure gratitude of Julian." Wait a minute.

 

Oh. Oh God. Did he really say . . . .

 

"Julian?" The young Kintobar looked him square in the face, his lips parroting the long-obsolete name of the past.

 

Oh . . . God. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe, in his distraction with other matters, he would think it another neural circuit malfunction.

 

Maybe the stars were still visible in Robotropolis.

 

Sure. Right.