"There you go Bernadette, that wasn't so hard now was it?," Jules purred, his voice unexpectedly smooth, "I was the one who just gave birth asshole," Bernadette spat, "You don't get to fucking say that." Jules chuckled, "You're right, I don't," he said, "But your meaningless ramblings aside, what shall we name my son?," he asked, his fingers tightening around the newborn's tiny foot. Bernadette stared at the ceiling, ignoring the infant's weak cries. "Call him whatever," she mumbled, "I'm going to sleep." Jules scoffed, "Fine then. I'll name him Jules Junior."
Bernadette rolled her eyes, "We are not fucking naming him Jules Junior," she said flatly. Jules clenched his jaw, rocking the infant with stiff arms. "Why not? It's a fine name." Bernadette didn't look at him, tracing a crack in the plaster ceiling. "Because I just pushed him out of *my* body. That earns me veto rights." She shifted painfully on the hospital bed. The baby whimpered again, his cries thin and reedy against the damp air. Jules ignored it, too busy puffing his chest out. "I'm his father. My legacy matters."
Jules paced the cramped recovery room, boots clicking sharply on linoleum. "Sonic," he announced suddenly. "Sonic the Hedgehog, yes?" Bernadette snorted without looking away from her cracked phone screen. "That's fucking stupid." Jules froze mid-stride. "Stupid? It's iconic! Strong! Fast!" The infant's thin wail pierced the stale hospital air again, ignored as Jules gestured wildly. "You were only in labor for 30 minutes – practically a speed record! It's perfect symbolism!"
Bernadette finally lowered her phone, eyes dull with exhaustion. "It's a cartoon name. For a cartoon." She watched dispassionately as Jules scooped up the screeching bundle, holding it awkwardly away from his silk shirt. "I did great," he said, staring at his own reflection in the window rather than his son. "Thirty minutes! That's my perfect genetics, oh, wait until my brother Charlie hears about this" The baby's tiny fists flailed against sterile white blankets. Bernadette just sighed, the sound swallowed by the beeping monitors.
Jules paced again, infant dangling like an afterthought. "You're such a self centered asshole," she said flatly, watching him preen at his reflection. The baby's cries hitched into desperate gasps, tiny chest heaving against the swaddle. Jules merely adjusted his cufflinks. "Self-centered? This is legacy-building. My son will eclipse Maxx's brat before he can crawl. Besides, you're the only one who says that about me." Bernadette turned her face to the wall, the peeling paint more interesting than his monologue about hedgehog dynasty dominance. Her fingers dug into the thin mattress, knuckles white against the bleached sheets.
"I hope he doesn't inherit your massive fucking ego," Bernadette muttered into the pillow, her words muffled by exhaustion. Jules barely glanced away from admiring his jawline in the window's reflection, bouncing the screaming infant mechanically. "Ego? It's confidence, darling. Confidence that produces champions."
The baby's cries escalated into frantic screeches, tiny muzzle scrunched in agony. Jules finally frowned, looking down at his son as if noticing an inconvenient stain on his tailored trousers. "What's wrong with it?" he snapped, thrusting the writhing bundle toward Bernadette. She didn't move, staring at the ceiling's water damage pattern. "Feed him," Jules commanded. "He's your job now." Bernadette exhaled slowly through her nose. "You're holding him. Do it yourself."
Jules recoiled, holding Sonic at arm's length like contaminated waste. The infant's desperate gasps filled the sterile room, punctuated by the rhythmic beep of monitors. "Fine," Jules hissed, dropping the newborn onto Bernadette's chest with jarring force. She flinched but didn't protest, mechanically guiding the baby toward her with trembling hands, her expression vacant as a closed storefront.
"I'll make sure that he's perfect," he said, adjusting his tie with one hand while the other hovered near the baby like it might bite him. Bernadette didn't react to the sudden weight on her chest, her fingers barely curling around Sonic's tiny, shuddering form. Jules leaned closer, his breath smelling of expensive whiskey. "Thirty-minute labor? That's unprecedented! My genes are clearly superior." The infant's muzzle wrinkled as he rooted blindly against Bernadette's hospital gown, his cries softening to hiccupping whimpers. Jules beamed at his reflection. "Imagine the publicity when I announce this!"
Bernadette stared past Jules's shoulder at a faded poster about hand washing, her thumb rubbing circles on Sonic's back with mechanical detachment. "Superior genes?" she echoed flatly. "The nurse said hemorrhoids were genetic too. Congrats." Jules's triumphant smirk faltered for half a second before snapping back wider, brighter. "Negativity doesn't suit you, darling," he declared, smoothing his lapel. "This child is destined for greatness, and greatness starts with headlines. I'll draft a press release before sunset – 'Speed Demon: Hedgehog Heir Born in Record Time!'"
The baby hiccuped, tiny claws kneading weakly at Bernadette's gown. Jules leaned in, his eyes scanning Sonic's face not with warmth, but with the calculating appraisal of a jeweler assessing a rough diamond. "Look at that jawline... already distinct," he murmured, tilting his son's chin with a manicured finger. "With my coaching, he'll outpace Maxx's daughter before his first birthday.
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I can't open my eyes, I can barely hear anything, just barely names: Jules, Bernadette, and something about Sonic, like from the games and movie series? it feels like i'm underwater, drowning in syrup. my thoughts are sluggish, fragmented—like trying to catch smoke. I'm also too small, way, way, way too small. What happened? Where's my shitty apartment? Bernadette's voice cuts through the haze: "He's stirring." Jules leans closer, his shadow blotting out the light.
"Look at him, Bernadette—already impatient. he knows greatness awaits," Jules announced, leaning so close his breath warmed my tiny muzzle. His gold cufflink scraped my cheek as he turned my head toward the flickering fluorescent light. "See? Pure ambition in those eyes." My vision swam; everything was smeared blurs and harsh brightness. I tried to scream *get your hands off me*, but only a thin, gurgling whimper escaped. My limbs felt trapped in wet cement.
Bernadette's sigh came from somewhere above me, heavy with disinterest. "He's hungry, Jules. Not fucking plotting world domination." Her thumb brushed my spine—a detached, rhythmic pressure. Jules scoffed, withdrawing abruptly. "Details," he waved a dismissive hand. "Hunger can be weaponized. Motivation."
I thrashed weakly, tiny limbs flailing against the suffocating swaddle. My thoughts clawed through molasses—*apartment gone, body wrong, trapped*. Jules' face loomed again, sharp teeth bared in a grin. "Thirty minutes!" he crowed to no one. "They'll write ballads about my virility!" His finger jabbed my ribs. "You hear that? You're a benchmark!" The sterile air thickened with his cologne—cloying, chemical.
Bernadette shifted, pulling me closer. Her hospital gown smelled like bleach and stale sweat. "Benchmark's leaking," she muttered. Jules recoiled as warm wetness soaked the blanket beneath me. "Disgusting," he hissed, scrubbing his hands on silk trousers. "Clean it. Now." Bernadette didn't move. Her thumb traced the curve of my ear—cold, clinical. "Change him yourself. Your perfect genes made the mess." Jules' nostrils flared. He snapped his fingers at a passing nurse like summoning a servant. "You! Deal with this... biological incident."
The nurse hesitated, glancing at Bernadette's exhausted slump. Jules tapped his diamond-studded watch. "*Now*. My son isn't a landfill." He turned back to the window, admiring his reflection as the nurse peeled the soiled blanket away. My skin prickled in the cold air. Jules didn't look. "Thirty minutes," he murmured to the glass. "Imagine the endorsements. Diaper brands will wage wars for him." Bernadette stared at the ceiling's water stain, shaped like a crumbling continent. "Just shut up, Jules."
He whirled around, cufflinks flashing. "Shut up? When destiny is *screaming* in this room?" His shadow fell over me again, blocking the light. "Look at him—already defying weakness! Crying takes energy, and he's conserving it. Brilliant." I tried to twist away from his looming face, but my limbs were lead weights. Jules poked my cheek. "See? Focused. Ruthless. And those perfect reflexes," he declares. "observe the precision. not some common hedgehog pup flailing. this is aristocratic motor control." Bernadette's thumb stopped moving on my back. "He's shivering, Jules. Because you let the nurse take the blanket." Jules waved a hand, dismissing physics itself. "Discomfort builds character. Survival instinct. He'll thank me."
The nurse returned, wrapping me in a fresh, stiff blanket. Jules didn't acknowledge her, still lecturing the window pane about "genetic superiority" and "media optics." Bernadette accepted the bundle without shifting her gaze from the water stain overhead. Her arms felt like cold marble beneath the blanket. I tried to focus, to process the fragmented thoughts—*Sonic? Reborn?*—but my newborn brain kept dissolving into static. Jules' voice sliced through the fog: "His first photo shoot will be tomorrow. White satin backdrop. Minimalist. Purity of form." He pivoted sharply, cufflinks catching the light. "You'll wear the pearl necklace, Bernadette. Symbolize continuity." She didn't blink. "The pearls sank with your yacht, Jules. Remember? When you 'tested its durability' against a reef."
Jules stiffened, his polished facade cracking for a heartbeat. "Irrelevant," he snapped, recovering with a flick of his wrist. "I'll source new ones. Perfection requires investment." He leaned down, invading my blurred vision again. "You understand, don't you Sonic? Legacy isn't cheap." His fingertip pressed hard against my forehead as if branding me. I recoiled internally, the sensation sharp and violating—like being prodded by a cold scalpel. Bernadette's arms remained rigid beneath me, her silence louder than Jules' bluster.
"Your potential must be recognized early Sonic," he rolls the name like a vintage wine, "You will command armies before you shed your baby teeth. those fools in the Northern Baronies won't have a choice but to accept peace once they see *your* specimen." Jules lifts me slightly, his grip firm, displaying me like a trophy. His cufflink digs into my side, cold metal against fragile skin. Bernadette watches a cockroach skitter along the baseboard, her thumb frozen mid-circle on my back. The nurse glances nervously at Jules before slipping out silently.
Jules paces again, my tiny body bouncing with each step. "Discipline begins now. No coddling. Weakness breeds failure," he declares to the empty IV stand. I feel each jarring step travel up my spine – my newborn bones protesting. Bernadette closes her eyes, turning her face toward the wall where plaster flakes drift like grey snow. "Discipline," she echoes hollowly, "means changing his diaper yourself next time." Jules stops abruptly, nostrils flaring. "Trivialities! My mind architects empires!"
He sets me down roughly on Bernadette's lap, ignoring my startled whimper. "Hold him while I dictate the press release. His debut must eclipse Maxx's entire pathetic lineage." Jules pulls out a slim gold communicator, voice booming commands about "record-breaking gestation" and "unprecedented vigor" into the device. His words vibrate through my fragile skull. Bernadette's arms remain slack beneath me; I slide slightly toward the mattress edge before her fingers twitch, catching me with indifferent reflex. She watches dust motes dance in a shaft of weak sunlight, her breathing shallow and even. Jules paces near the foot of the bed, gesturing emphatically at his own reflection in a chrome IV pole. "Emphasize my contribution! The media thrives on paternal excellence!"
The communicator chirps with acknowledgment. Jules spins, silk trousers whispering. "Perfect! Now, Bernadette—smile for the nurse. We need candid shots radiating... at least some maternal adequacy." He snaps his fingers toward the doorway where the nurse hovers. Bernadette doesn't shift her gaze from the dust motes. Her lips remain a flat, bloodless line. Jules scowls, stepping closer until his polished loafers scrape the bed frame. "Your apathy tarnishes the narrative," he hisses. "This is *my* moment, amplified through him." He gestures sharply at me, his cufflink flashing like a warning beacon. I squirm, the rough blanket scratching my skin, my tiny claws catching on the fabric. Bernadette's thumb resumes its cold, circular motion on my back—a metronome of disinterest.
Jules leans down, invading my blurred sightline again. His breath smells of mint and something metallic. "Understand this, Sonic," he murmurs, tapping my forehead with a manicured nail. "Sentiment is ballast. Discard it." His finger traces the curve of my muzzle, assessing me, "Your eyes, you seem to recognize superiority. why, I bet you understand every word I'm saying, don't you?" His smile doesn't reach his eyes. For the first time, Jules hesitates—a flicker of unease tightening his jaw. My newborn gaze locks onto his, unwavering and unnervingly aware. It's not the vacant stare he expects. He pulls back slightly, cufflinks jangling. "Bernadette," he snaps, "Does it always... stare like that?"
Bernadette doesn't glance away from the cockroach now scaling the IV stand. "It's a baby, Jules. They stare at ceiling fans too." But her voice lacks conviction. My stillness is absolute, unsettling—no infantile wriggling, just that unnerving focus. Jules clears his throat, straightening his tie. "Still," he mutters to the window, "It's... assessing. Like a jeweler." He shifts his weight, boots scuffing the linoleum. This isn't blind adoration. This feels like being watched by something older and calculating stuffed inside wrinkled newborn skin. Cold dread prickles his spine despite the room's stifling heat.
Bernadette finally looks down, her thumb pausing on my spine. Her apathy fractures for a heartbeat—confusion tightening her eyes. I blink slowly, deliberately. Not the jerky reflex of a newborn, but something measured. Deliberate. Her breath catches. Jules catches her reaction, his bravado cracking further. "See?" he hisses, pointing an accusatory finger, "He's absorbing it, the legacy, the *inevitability*." But his voice wavers. He steps back, cufflinks clinking nervously against his watch.
His polished confidence shrivels under my unwavering stare. He adjusts his tie again, too tight now. "Stop that," Jules commands, snapping his fingers near my face. I don't flinch. My tiny muzzle remains impassive, those unnaturally sharp eyes fixed on his. He expects gurgles, blind adoration, not this... evaluation. The silence stretches, thick as the hospital disinfectant. Bernadette says nothing. Her thumb resumes its slow circle, colder than before. Jules clears his throat, a dry rasp. "It's... unnerving."
He spins toward Bernadette, seeking validation, his shadow falling over her face. "But... I suppose I can work with this, perhaps there is some useful natural intellect," Jules declares, puffing his chest out. "Strategy begins earlier than expected, Bernadette! This pup won't merely inherit my greatness—he'll actively help me cultivate it even further." He leans closer to me, his cufflink scraping my temple. "You see the advantage, don't you? Together, we'll eclipse Maxx entirely." Bernadette stares blankly past his shoulder, her thumb tracing my ear like she's polishing a dull stone. "He's hungry, Jules. Not drafting your manifesto."
Jules ignores her, pacing again, boots echoing sharply. "Nonsense! Hunger is primitive. This," he gestures wildly at my stillness, "is evolutionary refinement!" He stops abruptly, manicured finger jabbing toward my face. "Observe the focus! The predatory stillness!" My eyes track his movement—slow, deliberate—and he flinches, stepping back. His polished veneer cracks; a bead of sweat glistens at his temple. "Stop looking at me like that," he snaps, voice strained. "It's... unnatural." Bernadette exhales, a long, weary sound. "He's a baby. You're unnerving *yourself*."
Jules whirls to face the window, gripping the sill until his knuckles bleach white. "Sentiment," he mutters to his reflection, forcing steel into his voice. "Just... misplaced sentiment, like I had for my father Resse." He turns back, jaw set, but avoids my gaze, staring instead at the ceiling. "Tomorrow's photoshoot stands. White satin. Purity. We project strength." Bernadette's hand goes still on my back. "Project your own diaper change next time," she murmurs. Jules stiffens, cufflinks trembling.
He stalks to the bed, looming over Bernadette. "Your bitterness dilutes his potential," he hisses, finger jabbing the air inches from my face. "This child—*my* child—will embody excellence, not your petty grievances." Bernadette doesn't blink. "Excellence smells like piss right now. Your turn." Jules recoils as if struck, silk trousers whispering against polished boots. The nurse hovers in the doorway, clutching a fresh blanket, eyes darting between them.
Bernadette lifts me slightly, the movement detached. "Here," she says flatly, extending me toward Jules like handing off spoiled groceries. "Practice your legacy-building." Jules stares at my tiny form, then at his own immaculate sleeves. His nostrils flare. "Fine," he spits, snatching me with stiff, reluctant arms. He holds me away from his body, face twisted in disgust. My newborn eyes lock onto his—cold, assessing. His hands jerk, almost dropping me. Bernadette watches impassively, a ghost of satisfaction in her exhausted eyes.
The nurse steps forward, reaching out. "Sir, perhaps I—" Jules cuts her off with a sharp gesture. "Please, such things are far beneath me and my time," he snaps, pushing me awkwardly toward her limp arms. She accepts me without expression, her movements efficient as she lays me on the changing table. Jules watches from a distance, obsessively brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. "Ensure the powder is hypoallergenic. My son's skin is a canvas, not a commoner's hide." The nurse's hands move swiftly, her silence louder than Jules' demands. Bernadette closes her eyes, turning her face to the wall where plaster dust drifts onto the pillowcase.
Jules paces near the window, his reflection warped in the rain-streaked glass. "This distraction delays critical planning," he mutters, tapping his communicator. "Maxx's daughter debuted with a platinum rattle sponsorship. Sonic's first accessory must be diamond-encrusted." He spins abruptly, pointing at Bernadette. "You'll wear emerald earrings tomorrow. Contrast against the satin." Bernadette doesn't open her eyes. "Sold them for rent last winter," she says flatly. Jules' polished veneer cracks—a muscle twitches near his jaw. "Irrelevant," he snaps. "Perception outweighs past poverty."
The nurse finishes changing me, her movements brisk. Jules inspects her work with a dismissive glare, ignoring my renewed squirming. "Diamonds," he declares into his communicator, pacing toward the window again. "For the pacifier clip. Subtle, but undeniable superiority." Rain streaks the glass, blurring his reflection into a distorted smear of silk and ambition. Bernadette shifts slightly on the bed, her gaze fixed on a water stain spreading across the ceiling tiles like a bruise. "Subtle as a sledgehammer," she murmurs, the words dissolving into the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.
Jules whirls around, cufflinks flashing. "Sledgehammers build empires, darling!" His voice sharpens, slicing through the sterile air. "While you brood over plaster cracks, I forge dynasties. This child—" he gestures sharply toward me where the nurse holds me— "will wield influence before he walks. Every whimper will be analyzed, every coo monetized." He snaps his fingers at the nurse. "Position him near the light. I want angles for the photographer. Capture the jawline." The nurse obeys, angling me awkwardly toward the fluorescents. My newborn eyes sting, but Jules beams, mistaking my discomfort for fierce concentration. "See? Already commanding the frame!"
What is my life going to be at this point . . .