The nurse placed me back into Bernadette's limp arms as Jules tapped impatiently at his communicator, barking orders about diamond pacifier clips and satin backdrops. Outside the grimy hospital window, neon signs flickered like dying stars over a cityscape choked with smog and towering hologram ads for luxury hover-cycles no commoner could afford. Below, sirens wailed—another riot brewing in the slums where hedgehogs scraped for crumbs beneath the Northern Barons' chrome spires. Jules didn't glance outside. His reflection mattered more: the sharp cut of his jaw, the gleam of ambition in his eyes.
Bernadette's thumb resumed its cold circles on my spine. She stared past Jules at the water-stained ceiling, her apathy a thick fog swallowing the room. "The Northern Baronies cut rations again," she said tonelessly. "Half the district's starving." Jules waved a dismissive hand, cufflinks flashing. "Irrelevant. Sonic's debut will dominate the feeds—charity optics can wait." He leaned close, breath minty and sharp. "Smile, darling. The nurse's taking candids. Your gloom ruins the composition."
I locked eyes with Jules again—deliberate, unnerving. He flinched, stepping back to fiddle with his tie. "Stop that," he hissed, sweat beading at his temples. My stillness unnerved him more than any cry. Outside, a distant explosion rattled the window, shaking dust from the ceiling. Jules didn't blink. "Probably just Maxx's security detail failing another coup," he sniffed. "Amateurs. Our family's press conference will eclipse their anarchy."
Bernadette shifted, her hospital gown rustling like dry leaves. "The nurse says they're discharging us tonight," she murmured, watching a cockroach crawl over Jules' discarded silk handkerchief. "No private suite. Budget cuts." Jules whirled, face purpling. "Unacceptable! My heir deserves velvet, not plebeian linoleum!" He stabbed a finger toward the doorway. "I'm the founder of The Great Peace! Tell them I'll buy this entire ward if they—" The communicator buzzed—a sleek chime cutting through his rage. Jules scanned the message, smirk returning like a slamming vault door. "Charlie's made a new invention again. A machine able to turn machines into organic matter, capable of transforming scrap into caviar," he announced, puffing his chest. "We'll debut it at Sonic's gala. Efficiency meets elegance. Maxx's daughter ate processed nutrient paste." He didn't notice Bernadette's knuckles whitening on the blanket, nor my gaze tracking his diamond cufflink—cold, calculating.
Outside, the sirens swelled into a dissonant choir. A hologram flickered—a Northern Baron's bloated face hawking synthetic "freedom" pills. Jules admired his reflection in the screen. "Look, Sonic," he cooed, tapping my forehead. "That's your competition. Soft. Predictable." Bernadette flinched as another explosion rattled the IV stand. Dust sifted onto my blanket. "The riots are spreading," she whispered. Jules waved a dismissive hand. "Anarchy clears the weak. Focus! Tomorrow's shoot requires precision." He turned me toward the flickering neon. "Smile for destiny." I forced my newborn muzzle to curl into a fake smile, as I did so many times as a human. Jules beamed, mistaking cold calculation for infantile charm. Bernadette's thumb stopped circling. Her gaze sharpened—a flicker of something like dread—before dissolving back into weary detachment.
The nurse returned, clutching discharge papers. "Administration insists, sir. Budget constraints apply to all citizens." Jules snatched the papers, silk sleeve rasping like sandpaper. "Citizens?" he spat, tearing them mid-sentence. "I *built* this world of Mobius' peace! My bloodline sleeps on silk or nowhere at all!" He crumpled the remnants, hurling them at a rusted waste bin. Bernadette watched the balled paper bounce off, rolling near the cockroach. "Silk or the gutter," she echoed tonelessly, pulling the thin blanket tighter around me. Jules paced, polished boots clicking like gun hammers on linoleum. "Charlie will fix this. His caviar machine proves genius runs in our veins—not this bureaucratic filth!"
Outside, the city choked on its own excess. Neon advertisements pulsed—promising eternal youth serum while flickering over collapsed tenements where emaciated hedgehog kits scavenged through irradiated trash. The smell seeped past the hospital's failing filters: ozone, decay, and the cloying sweetness of synth-narcotics wafting from pleasure-domes uptown. Bernadette inhaled it all without flinching, her gaze fixed on a holographic billboard outside the window. It showed Jules—younger, smugger—posing beside a chrome statue of himself captioned *Founder of the Great Peace*. Below it, flames licked at a barricaded pharmacy. Jules didn't notice. He was too busy polishing his communicator screen with a silk handkerchief.
"A caviar machine," Bernadette echoed tonelessly, shifting me higher on her chest. My tiny claws snagged on the cheap hospital gown as another distant explosion rattled the IV drip. "Will it synthesize diapers too? Since your legacy-building apparently excludes them." Jules stiffened, nostrils flaring. "Innovation prioritizes, darling. Charlie's genius transcends… *domesticities*." He gestured vaguely at my soiled blanket, discarded near the overflowing bin. A cockroach skittered over it, antennae twitching. Bernadette tracked its path. "Prioritizes," she murmured. "Like how the Northern Baronies prioritize champagne fountains over breadlines."
Jules whirled, silk trousers hissing. "Context, Bernadette! Sonic's gala will showcase opulence *as* charity. The optics—" A shattering crash cut him off—glass from a looted boutique raining onto the street below. Alarms wailed, their pitch harmonizing with the riot's rising roar. Jules merely adjusted his tie, eyes locked on his communicator. "Maxx's security is clearly incompetent," he sniffed. "Our event's drone perimeter will be impenetrable. Sonic's first photo must radiate…" He trailed off, finally noticing Bernadette's hollow stare. Not at him. At the hologram billboard flickering erratically—Jules' polished face dissolving into static, replaced by emergency text: *QUARANTINE LEVEL 3. SECTOR 7-9*.
He snapped his fingers at the nurse. "Fix that feed! It's ruining the backdrop." The nurse hesitated, clutching my discharge papers tighter. "Sir, Sector 7-9's the textile district. Where the satin for tomorrow's shoot is being—" Jules cut her off with a slashing gesture. "Irrelevant! Tell Charlie to reroute production. Perfection tolerates no delays." Bernadette's thumb pressed harder into my spine—cold, deliberate. "Textile district's where they dump the radiation leaks," she said flatly. "Hope satin's worth the tumors." Jules recoiled as if scalded. "Slander! My policies ensure—"
Another blast shook the building. Plaster dust snowed from the ceiling. The hologram died completely, plunging the room into emergency lighting's sickly green glow. In the half-dark, Jules' diamond cufflinks gleamed like feral eyes. Bernadette didn't blink. She just pulled the thin blanket over my head, shielding me from the falling grit. "Ensured nothing," she whispered, not to Jules, but to the cockroach now scaling his abandoned silk handkerchief. "Like you always do." Outside, the sirens swallowed her words whole.
Jules stabbed his communicator. "Charlie! Where's my perimeter?" Static crackled back—a distorted voice shouting about barricades and chemical fog. Jules hissed, "Chemical fog? Cancel it! It clashes with Sonic's debut palette!" Bernadette's thumb resumed its icy circles on my back. Through the blanket's weave, the city's death-rattle vibrated—metal groaning, synth-screams, the wet thud of something heavy hitting asphalt. Jules paced, boots crunching plaster fragments. "Setbacks," he declared to the trembling IV stand. "Merely underscores my resolve." He spun toward Bernadette, gesturing at me. "Tomorrow's shoot proceeds. Green light reflects ambition—we'll use the quarantine glow!"
Bernadette peeled back the blanket. Her eyes, flat and exhausted, met mine. For a heartbeat, I saw it—the flicker of horrified recognition in her gaze. Something ancient trapped in this wrinkled newborn skin. She flinched. Jules mistook it for maternal concern. "Sentiment?" he sneered. "Save it for the cameras. Sonic understands necessity." He leaned in, his manicured finger tracing the curve of my ear. "Don't you, boy? Anarchy is just… untidy opportunity." Outside, a fuel tank exploded. The window pulsed orange. Jules didn't turn. His reflection in the blackened glass smiled back at him, pristine and untouchable.
The nurse shoved a flimsy carrier into Bernadette's arms. "Discharge," she mumbled, avoiding Jules' glare. Bernadette stood, swaying slightly. Her grip was loose, indifferent. I hung suspended over the abyss of the linoleum floor. Jules strode ahead, silk trousers slicing through the corridor's green emergency lights. "Hurry!" he barked over his shoulder. "Charlie's caviar machine awaits its muse!" The hallway stank of antiseptic and distant smoke. Screams filtered through ventilation shafts—raw, animal sounds. Bernadette shuffled forward, her slippers scuffing blood smears left by a gurney. She didn't look down.
We emerged into the city's throat. Putrid air slapped us—ozone, burning plastic, the cloying rot of overflowing dumpsters. Holographic billboards flickered above: Jules' younger face hawking "Eternal Serenity" pills beside collapsing tenements. A mangled hover-car smoldered in the street, its luxury alloy twisted around a protest barricade. Jules tutted, stepping daintily over a shattered champagne flute. "Maxx's incompetence," he announced, adjusting his cufflinks. "Anarchy is so… pedestrian." Bernadette stared past him. A child with sunken cheeks rummaged through a gutted synth-food vendor. Her thumb dug into my spine—a cold, absent pressure.
Jules hailed a passing chrome limo-sled, its engine whining like a dying insect. The driver's eyes were bloodshot, darting toward alley shadows where gunfire crackled. "To the Diamond Heights spire," Jules commanded, sliding onto spotless leather. Bernadette slumped beside him, gaze drifting to my claws gripping her gown. Jules snapped his fingers. "Close the partition! Sonic requires serenity for strategic visualization." The plexiglass hissed shut, muffling a vendor's scream as rioters overturned his synth-noodle cart. Jules didn't glance back. He inspected his cufflinks in the dimmed interior light. "Observe, Sonic—chaos is leverage. Tomorrow's feeds will contrast our composure against… *that*." He gestured vaguely at the burning barricades receding behind us. Bernadette's thumb traced my ear—cold, detached. Her breath fogged the window as we passed a hologram of Jules shaking hands with a Northern Barony Council Member above a queue of hollow-eyed kits clutching ration tickets.
The sled lurched, tires crushing discarded synth-ration wrappers. Jules scowled at a smear of grey sludge on the windshield. "Charlie's caviar machine *must* debut tomorrow. Maxx's daughter gurgled on stream yesterday clutching a platinum teether—pathetic." He pulled out his communicator, barking orders. "Source beryl! Bernadette's ears look barren." Static fizzed back—reports of looted jewelers in Sector 7. Bernadette watched a shadowy alley swallow a limping fox kit clutching a dented can. "Beryl mines collapsed last week," she murmured. "Sixty kits buried. Optics."
Jules jabbed the comm. "Irrelevant! Repurpose museum pieces! Sonic's legacy glitters, not grubs!" The sled swerved, avoiding a flaming dumpster. Bernadette's elbow jammed into the doorframe; she didn't flinch. My newborn skull rattled against her collarbone. Jules mistook my pained blink for strategic assessment. "See? Already calculating resource allocation!" Bernadette's thumb, icy and still, rested on my spine like a paperweight.
Outside, chrome towers pierced a smog-choked sky. Between them, makeshift shelters leaned against crumbling billboards of Jules' face selling "Tranquility Tonics." A mob surged past—hedgehogs in patched jackets hurling bricks at a Barony enforcer's hover-tank. The enforcer's stun-baton crackled, blue light reflecting in Bernadette's dull eyes. Jules adjusted his tie in the tank's mirrored hull. "Disorder requires… curation," he mused. "Sonic's first public appearance—perhaps amidst *controlled* unrest. Visual juxtaposition: innocence against… entropy." Bernadette exhaled, fogging the glass. "Entropy smells like burning fur." She pointed at a scorch mark on the sidewalk where a synth-hound smoldered.
The sled ascended into Diamond Heights' sterile air. Below, Sector 7's quarantine glow pulsed sickly green through chemical fog. Jules beamed. "Perfect! We'll position Sonic's bassinet by the viewport tomorrow. That emerald haze complements satin beautifully." Bernadette's fingers tightened minutely on my blanket—a spider's twitch on its web. "Radiation readings spiked this morning," she said flatly. "The glow's gamma, Jules. Not aesthetic." He waved a dismissive hand, cufflink scraping the plexiglass. "Perception filters reality, darling. Our feeds will call it… *Neo-Luminescence*." He leaned close, minty breath sharp. "Smile for destiny's lens, Sonic. Your anarchy-curated debut awaits." Bernadette turned her face away, staring at the elevator's polished brass paneling. In its distorted reflection, my eyes—cold, ancient—met hers. Her apathy flickered once more.
We emerged onto the penthouse terrace. Jules spread his arms wide, silk sleeves catching the wind whipping ash from burning sectors below. "Behold!" he shouted over sirens and distant detonations. "Your world, Sonic! A canvas of glorious chaos!" Hologram towers flickered—advertisements for Eternal Serenity pills dissolving into emergency quarantine warnings. To the east, Maxx's obsidian castle stabbed the smog; below, rioters swarmed like ants around a Barony enforcer's overturned hover-tank. Jules snatched me from Bernadette's limp arms, holding me aloft toward the panoramic decay. "I present my heir! The architect of *continued* peace and order in my Great Peace!" His diamond cufflink dug into my ribs. Bernadette leaned against a chrome railing, watching a luxury air-yacht explode midair over the slums. Flaming debris rained onto synth-food stalls. She didn't blink.
Cam-drones hummed into position—sleek, obsidian spheres orbiting Jules' grand gesture. "Capture the jawline!" he commanded, angling my face toward Sector 7's gamma-green quarantine glow. "The juxtaposition! Innocence silhouetted against... *ambition's necessary crucible*!" The drones' lenses whirred, zooming in on my wrinkled newborn scowl. Jules beamed, seeing my debut as nothing more than his victory lap. His gaze never touched the crumbling tenements below where Barony enforcers clashed with starving hedgehog kits clutching makeshift spears. Smoke curled upwards, acrid and thick, stinging my infant nostrils—ozone, burning synth-fabrics, the cloying sweetness of decay. Jules inhaled deeply, mistaking chaos for perfume. "Perfection," he declared. "Feed this live! Tag Maxx directly!"
I decided I might as well start zoning out immediately and pretend Jules wasn't yelling about "juxtaposition" while holding me over a city actively imploding. My infant brain, stuffed with memories of playing games featuring a blue blur racing through loop-de-loops, felt like a cruel joke. How did *this*—Jules' diamond-encrusted insanity, Bernadette's hollow-eyed detachment, streets choked with riots and gamma-green fog—lead to *that* freedom? The math didn't compute. Unless... decay *was* the fertilizer. Jules saw anarchy as a backdrop for his propaganda; Bernadette saw it as wallpaper. Neither fought it. They just existed within its rot, polishing their own despair. Maybe that stagnation *was* the cradle. A blue hedgehog wouldn't emerge from peace. He'd burst from the suffocating inertia of a world too busy admiring its own collapse to notice someone running fast enough to leave it all behind.
The cam-drones whirred closer, lenses cold against my cheek. Jules adjusted his grip, his thumb pressing hard into my tiny ribcage where his cufflink had already left a mark. "Smile for destiny, Sonic!" he hissed, breath smelling of expensive mint and underlying panic. Below, a Barony enforcer's hover-tank exploded near a synth-noodle cart, showering the street in blue sparks and steaming noodles. The smell—burnt wiring, soy-synth broth, and ozone—wafted up, thick and nauseating. Jules inhaled theatrically. "Ambition has a scent, darling!" Bernadette remained slumped against the railing, her gaze tracking a piece of flaming air-yacht debris as it spiraled toward a crowded tenement rooftop. Her silence was a void deeper than the city's decay.
My infant muscles coiled instinctively. Not for speed—not yet—but for *escape*. This wasn't a world collapsing; it was a world *wallowing*. Jules polished his delusions like diamonds, Bernadette wrapped herself in apathy like a worn shawl, and this world, now known as Mobius choked on its own poisoned excess. The stagnation was a physical weight, pressing down, thick as the smog. I wasn't Sonic, not mentally anyways. I couldnt be that impossibly free spirit… not while drowning in this decaying aquarium where even the riots felt rehearsed, desperate flares against a suffocating indifference. The decay wasn't just outside; it was *in* Jules' hollow ambition, in Bernadette's vacant stare, in the very air tasting of synth-narcotics and despair. Fighting it wasn't about outrunning riots; it was about shattering this suffocating *stillness*.
The cam-drone's lens zoomed, a cold black eye reflecting Jules' manic grin and my furrowed infant brow. Below, the synth-noodle cart fire spread, igniting a hologram billboard of Jules hawking "Tranquility Tonics." The image flickered, warped, then dissolved into static as flames licked its edges. Jules didn't notice. "Focus on the jawline!" he barked at the drone operator's holographic feed. "The defiance in the eyes! Pure, unadulterated potential!" His diamond cufflink dug deeper, a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache spreading through my tiny ribs.
Potential? Potential for *what*? To become another polished cog in his rotting machine? To inherit a throne built on irradiated soil and hollow promises? The smell of burning plastic and spoiled soy broth intensified, carried on a wind thick with ash from the air-yacht debris still smoldering on a distant roof. This world didn't need freedom, it needed order... but not Jules' order, of just ignoring the stagnation and decay. It needed purpose, direction, *to wake up*.
Anything to shatter this suffocating stillness, no matter what...