"Thank you all, and remember: true greatness takes precise acute timeliness!" Jules yelled into the cam-drones as they whirred away. He thrust me back into Bernadette's arms like discarding a prop. Her fingers closed around me, cold and automatic. Below, Sector 7's gamma glow pulsed through the smog, illuminating the cracks in Jules' manicured facade. He smoothed his silk lapels, already barking into his comm. "Charlie! Prep the caviar machine! My heir requires celebratory sustenance!"
Bernadette didn't follow immediately. She lingered at the terrace edge, her gaze fixed on a Barony enforcer dragging a limp hedgehog kit from the rubble. The kit's torn jacket flapped like a broken wing in the toxic wind. Her thumb, resting on my spine, trembled—once—before settling back into icy stillness. Jules snapped his fingers, the sound sharp as gunfire. "Move! Sonic's metabolism demands peak efficiency!"
We made our way back to the car, Jules chattering about angles and virility metrics while Bernadette shuffled silently, her grip on me slack enough that I slid sideways in the carrier. The sled driver flinched as a chunk of masonry slammed onto the hood. "Diamond Heights spire, sir? Route's choked with chemical fog and Freedom Fighters—" Jules cut him off, sliding into the plush interior. "Detour? Unacceptable. Sonic's palate requires sustenince calibration." Bernadette slumped beside him, her gaze drifting to my claws digging into the satin lining. Outside, a Barony enforcer's stun-baton crackled against a mob of starving kits. Jules adjusted his tie in the reflection of the tank's armored hull. "Observe the efficiency, Sonic. Order through… assertive negotiation."
Charlie's estate loomed like a diseased tooth—obsidian spires piercing the green-tinged smog, surrounded by automated laser turrets humming ominously. Inside smelled of ozone and cold ambition. We made our way to the grand hall.
Jules strode ahead, ignoring oneof the mansion's hired enforcer dragging a bleeding past marble columns. "Charlie! Where are you, man? My heir requires sustenance calibrated for peak cognitive acceleration!" His voice echoed through vaulted ceilings plastered with holographic screens displaying stock fluctuations and riot suppression metrics. Bernadette trailed behind, her steps heavy on cold obsidian floors, my carrier bouncing against her hip. The air stank of ionized metal and something sweetly rotten—overripe fruit left near server banks.
Charlie emerged from a cloud of vapor near a towering chrome apparatus, wiping his gloved hands on a stained lab coat. His lighter blue fur bristled under fluorescent lights, and his thick brown mustache twitched above a mouth perpetually set in a condescending sneer. Unlike Jules' performative flamboyance, Charlie's disdain felt colder, sharper—the clinical assessment of a biologist examining a failed specimen. "For the last time Jules, my name is Charles," he stated flatly, his blue eyes flicking over me with detached curiosity. "And precision timeliness dictates you're disrupting my calibration cycle." He ignored Bernadette entirely, as if she were furniture draped with an inconveniently sentient blanket.
Jules thrust me forward like exhibit A. "Observe the jawline, Charlie! The sheer kinetic potential! Your caviar machine's inaugural batch belongs to *him*." Charlie's mustache bristled. He leaned in, his gloved finger prodding my cheek with none of Jules' theatrics—just cold, scientific pressure. "Cavier Machine? My Organicizer is somuch. more than that," he corrected, his voice dripping with disdain. "It synthesizes metalic materials into nutrient solutions optimized for cellular fortification. Caviar is merely one such simplified example. His eyes—an unnervingly pale blue—scanned my face. "Facial structure indicates above-average neural density at least... for a hedgehog baby." He sniffed. "Though cranial sutures suggest suboptimal prenatal nutrition." His gaze flicked dismissively toward Bernadette's hollow-eyed stare. "Entirely preventable with proper micronutrient regiments."
Bernadette remained silent, her thumb tracing a seam on my carrier. The scent of ozone intensified as Charlie tapped a sequence into a nearby console. The towering Organizier—Charlie's prized monstrosity—hummed to life. Its core was a circular platform, bathed in harsh, sterile light from ceiling-mounted lamps that cast no shadows, only glare. Above it, a projector device emitted a low, resonant thrum, like a mechanical heartbeat. Transparent capsules, each the size of a newborn's fist, lined the platform's edge, filled with jagged scrap metal: rusted bolts, twisted wiring, the shattered screen of an old communicator. Jules clapped his hands, cufflinks flashing. "Observe, Sonic! Scrap transformed into sustenance! Elegance wrought from entropy!" He gestured grandly, as if unveiling a monument to himself. Charlie merely adjusted his gloves, lips thinning. "Entropy is inefficiency. This device rectifies it."
Jules leaned closer, his reflection warped in the capsule's curved surface. "Maxx's daughter chokes on paste. Sonic will dine on *synth-caviar*." His breath fogged the glass, "That Overlander ambassador will only be able to look in pure amazement." Charles' gloved hand flicked a switch. The projector thrummed louder, vibrating the polished floor beneath Bernadette's worn slippers. She didn't shift her weight. Her gaze drifted past the machine to a cracked observation window where ash drifted like toxic snow. "Organicizer," Charles corrected, his voice clipped. "Its purpose transcends decadence. It eliminates waste. Unlike some." His pale eyes slid toward Bernadette's frayed hospital gown sleeve. Jules bristled, puffing his chest. "Decadence? This is *legacy*, Charlie! Sonic's palate will set the standard!" He jabbed a manicured finger toward the scrap-filled capsules. "Broadcast the nutrient conversion! Live! Tag Maxx, tag the Council—"
Charles sighed, the sound like steam escaping a valve. "Impossible. The Organicizer requires sterile focus. Your… theatrics introduce variables." He tapped a console, ignoring Jules' sputtering. The projector emitted a piercing whine. Light pulsed—harsh, blinding—washing over the scrap metal. Rusted bolts shimmered, dissolving into swirling metallic mist. Jagged wires softened, melting like ice under a blowtorch. The air filled with the acrid tang of ionized particles and something unnervingly sweet—burnt sugar mixed with ozone. Jules inhaled dramatically, mistaking chemical transformation for triumph. "Smell that, Sonic? Ambition made tangible!" My infant nostrils burned. The scent clawed at my throat—industrial decay masked by synthetic saccharine.
Still, I thought back to what Jules said, 'That Overlander ambassador', as the Organicizer's piercing whine faded. Overlander. The word echoed in my infant mind, sticky and unfamiliar. Jules's manicured finger tapped impatiently against the chrome console. "The Overlander delegation arrives tomorrow," he announced, puffing his chest. "Primitive beings really Sonic, only the absolute smartest of them have five fingers, luckily the ambasoder has five fingers. He'll witness true advancement—your debut *and* Charlie's marvel!" His reflection in the capsule warped—a grinning skull superimposed over dissolving scrap metal. Charles adjusted his gloves, pale eyes narrowing. "Overlanders possess rudimentary cognition at best," he stated coldly. "Their presence introduces… biological contaminants. Their Ambassador is a statistical anomaly—four fingers, blue, red, pink, or green hair, and less than tolerable intellect. Still, he has five fingers, meaning at least he's tolerable." His gaze flicked dismissively toward Bernadette's frayed sleeve. "Observe their limitations: four fingers, crude motor coordination, predictable neural pathways. Their hair pigmentation—blue, red, yellow—serves no evolutionary purpose beyond crude social signaling. Utterly inefficient." The synthesized metallic mist swirled, smelling like burned pennies and ozone.
Bernadette shifted my carrier, her thumb tracing the seam absently. Her gaze drifted past Charlie's gleaming machine to a hallway, "Welp I'm getting wasted." She shuffled away toward a side door, her slippers whispering against obsidian floors. Jules didn't notice—too busy positioning me before the Organicizer's swirling metallic mist. "Capture the juxtaposition, Charlie! Primitive scrap reborn as elite sustenance!" He angled my face toward the pulsing light. I caught Charlie's reflection in the chrome console: thin lips pressed tight, pale eyes burning into Jules' features like malfunctioning circuitry. "IT. IS. CHARLES." Charles hissed, his gloved hand tightening on the console. "And your fixation on spectacle compromises scientific integrity." He gestured at the dissolving bolts. "This isn't *caviar*, Jules. It's molecular reconfiguration. Efficiency." Jules waved a dismissive hand, cufflink flashing. "Semantics! The Overlander will see advancement—"
A sharp *crack* echoed—Bernadette dropping a stolen synth-gin bottle onto marble. She didn't flinch as shards skittered toward Charlie's polished boots. Charles froze, nostrils flaring at the cloying alcohol fumes. "Organic contamination," he spat, whirling toward Bernadette. She leaned against the doorframe, gaze vacant, fingers stained purple from spilled gin. "Radiation's gamma," she slurred, tapping her temple. "Not aesthetic." Jules seized the moment, shoving me closer to the Organicizer's swirling metallic mist. "Ignore the hysterics, Charles! Focus! The Overlander ambassador arrives at dawn! He must witness scrap transformed—"
Charles' gloved hand slammed the emergency stop. The piercing whine died. The mist collapsed, raining half-formed grey sludge into the capsules. "Hysterics?" Charles' voice was glacial. His pale eyes raked over Bernadette's gin-splattered gown, then Jules' diamond cufflinks digging into my ribs. "Your specimen reeks of ethanol and neglect. My work requires sterility, not… *domestic incompetence*." He jabbed a console button; disinfectant spray hissed from ceiling nozzles, dousing Bernadette's shoulders. She blinked, slow as a reptile, wiping gin from her chin with my blanket. Jules sputtered, cufflinks flashing. "Incompetence? *My* heir embodies—"
"Embodies what?" Charles cut him off, stepping so close his lab coat brushed Jules' silk lapels. "A mother steeped in toxins? A father blind to basic biological degradation?" He gestured at the sludge-filled capsules, his contempt sharper than the disinfectant's bite. "This machine elevates base matter. You surround it with entropy incarnate." Jules' face purpled. "Entropy? I *curate* entropy! Sonic thrives on chaos!"
Bernadette chuckled—a wet, hollow sound. She lifted the gin bottle's broken neck, studying the jagged edge. "Thrives?" she murmured to the glass. "Or drowns?" Outside, another explosion shook the estate walls. Dust sifted from gilded ceiling moldings. Charles didn't glance up. He wiped his gloves with fastidious precision, gaze fixed on Jules. "Sustenance calibration aborted. Remove the variables." His meaning hung in the chemical-scented air: *Get her out. Get him out. Your chaos is beneath my machinery.*
Jules recoiled as if slapped. His hand tightened around me, diamond edges biting deeper. "You dare—?"
Bernadette pushed off the doorframe, swaying. She shuffled toward an ornate chaise, trailing gin and plaster dust. "Five fingers," she mumbled, collapsing onto velvet. "Ambassador's got five…" Her eyes drifted shut, the broken bottle slipping from her grasp. Jules stared at her, then at Charles' impassive face, then down at my furrowed brow. The silence thickened, broken only by Bernadette's ragged breathing and Jules growing snarls. He walked over to Bernadette, passing me over to Charles. "Bernadette!" Jules yelled into her ear, shaking her violently. "Get up! You're embarrassing me you whore!" Bernadette groaned, eyes fluttering open but unfocused. Jules slapped her hard across the face. The sharp *crack* echoed. Charles didn't react, merely adjusted his grip on me, his gloved fingers cold and impersonal against my spine. Jules seized Bernadette's arm, hauling her upright. "Charlie, can you watch Sonic for a second?!" Jules yelled, already dragging Bernadette down the hallway.
"I need to teach her some more... discipline." Jules snarled, dragging Bernadette's limp form around the corner. Her slippered feet scraped lines in the dust-covered marble floor. Charles stood frozen, his gloved fingers digging into my ribs where Jules' cufflinks had left bruises. The disinfectant spray still hissed overhead, misting his lab coat with sterile-smelling droplets. He looked down at me, his pale blue eyes narrowing like microscopes calibrating on a flawed specimen.
The silence thickened, broken only by Bernadette's distant, muffled protests and the Organicizer's cooling hum. Charles' nostrils flared. He looked down at me as if I were an interesting specimen, "Well you already look much more intelligent than my little brother, not like that's hard." His gloved thumb scraped along my quills, assessing density with clinical detachment. "Neural development appears adequate... for now at least." He carried me toward the machine, stepping over the gin-splattered shards Bernadette had dropped. "Observe," he commanded, though my infant eyes could barely focus. "Molecular efficiency. Unlike your progenitors." He tapped the console; the Organicizer whined back to life, bathing us in its sterile glare. The half-formed sludge in the capsules shimmered, reconstituting into pearlescent spheres that smelled of ozone and brine. "Scrap to sustenance," Charles murmured, not to me, but to the machine itself. "Order from the anarchy of the universe. Unlike *them*."
Jules' furious shouts echoed down the hall—"Disrespect! In MY presence!"—followed by the sickening thud of flesh against plaster. Charles didn't flinch, his attention fixed on the reconstituted synth-caviar spheres glistening under the Organicizer's harsh light. He lifted me closer to the machine's humming core, the ozone stinging my nostrils. "Observe the precision," he instructed, though his tone suggested he spoke to himself. "Unlike your sire's gaudy theatrics. Or your dam's chemical surrender." His gloved finger tapped a capsule; a sphere trembled, revealing a fleck of undigested rust at its core—imperfection marring his sterile ideal. A muscle twitched beneath his eye. "Entropy persists," he muttered. "Requiring stricter parameters."
He looks down at me, noticing I was paying full attention to him. Charles's thin lips curled in a rare approximation of approval. "At least *you* seem to possess baseline observational capacity," he murmured, adjusting my carrier to face the Organicizer's core. The synthesized food spheres pulsed with eerie light, casting jagged shadows across his clinical expression. Jules' distant roars—"Ungrateful wretch!"—punctuated by Bernadette's faint whimper, were mere background static to Charles's monologue. "Your genetic donors epitomize inefficiency. Jules mistakes volume and grandeur for vision. Bernadette drowns cognition in ethanol." His gloved finger traced the capsule's seam. "Disorder. Waste." The machine hummed louder, vibrating through my bones. Charles leaned closer, his breath smelling of antiseptic and cold coffee. "But you? Potential exists. Provided you discard their… weaknesses."
Let's hope I can...