Antoine 'Patch' D'Coolete was a simple coyote. At least he like to think that. The truth was, Patch had been raised in a world where survival meant adapting, and adapting meant wearing masks.
And Sonic the Hedgehog saw through that mask immediately and damn near broke it in half—not with claws, but with silence. Patch had barely stepped into the Princesses' room when those emerald eyes pinned him like a butterfly to corkboard, dissecting every twitch of his bandaged ears.
Right now he was having dinner with his family as per usual, with his father—recently knighted Sir Armand Phillippe D'Coolette and his mother—Mary Lulumae D'Coolette, who had been spooning him soup ever since he had been discharged from the royal infirmary.
His father chewed each bite with the same meticulous precision he applied to battlefield strategy, the silverware barely clinking against fine china. Patch watched the slow curl of steam rise from his father's untouched coffee—black, no sugar, just like his sense of humor—and wondered how many times his father had stared down death with those same sharp yellow eyes.
Sir Armand's fork paused mid-air as he caught Patch's stare, the tines reflecting candlelight like tiny blades. "Eat," he commanded, not unkindly, but with the same tone he used to order troops into formation. Patch's spoon clattered against the bowl—too loud—and his mother's ears twitched at the sound.
"Your son just survived an assassination attempt by the royal physician," Mary murmured, her whiskers trembling as she dabbed broth from Patch's bandaged muzzle. Sir Armand's knuckles whitened around his knife, but all he said was, "Which is why he needs his strength," before slicing into his venison with surgical precision.
The grandfather clock ticked three times before Patch realized his father was waiting for him to speak—another battlefield tactic, letting the enemy reveal their position first. Patch's claws scraped against linen as he gripped the tablecloth, inhaling the scent of rosemary and gunpowder residue clinging to his father's uniform.
"They're saying...in the barracks...that you charged through three Overlander artillery units to reach the infirmary once." His voice cracked like green wood in a fire, and Sir Armand's ears swiveled forward—the only sign he'd heard. His mother's spoon froze mid-air, dripping consommé onto the embroidered tablecloth in fat crimson droplets.
Patch watched his father's nostrils flare once, twice, before the old coyote set down his knife with deliberate care, the blade aligning perfectly with the plate's embossed Acorn crest. Sir Armand's fur caught the candlelight differently now—not in the polished gleam of parade-ground armor, but in the ragged patches where shrapnel had ripped through during the Battle of Twisted Gulch. "Artillery units?" His chuckle sounded like gravel shifting in a spent bullet casing. "Try five. With a broken ribcage and half your mother's field dressing stapling my intestines in place."
Mary's ears flattened as she pressed a linen-wrapped ice pack against Patch's swollen knuckles—his claws having split during the infirmary escape. The scent of antiseptic mixed oddly with the roast pheasant's sage glaze, making Patch's nose wrinkle. Across the table, Sir Armand's tail twitched once—sharp as a sniper's warning shot—before he reached over and flipped Patch's palm upward, exposing the half-moon gouges where Patch's own claws had bitten into flesh during the assassination attempt. "Pain is information," his father grunted, pouring whiskey over the wounds without flinching. "Remember the layout next time."
Patch's breath hitched as the whiskey burned through his torn flesh—his father's grip unyielding despite the tremor in his own battle-scarred wrist. Sir Armand's nostrils flared at the scent of cauterized wounds, his other paw already reloading Patch's plate with venison cut precisely to hide the muscle damage beneath the bandages. "Eat the damn protein," he growled, but the way his claws lingered to adjust the napkin over Patch's lap betrayed the order's true weight.
Across the table, Mary's ears twitched toward the hallway—where royal guards stood sentinel with rifles still warm from quelling the infirmary uprising—but her husband's focus never wavered. He watched Patch chew each bite with the intensity of a sniper gauging wind resistance, his tail flicking once when the young coyote swallowed without choking. Sir Armand's knife scored the tablecloth as he sliced his own venison into geometric portions, the blade pausing mid-cut whenever Patch's bandages snagged on the cutlery.
"You'll be with me when I lead the 12th Brigade's dawn patrol tomorrow," he announced suddenly, pushing a dossier across the table with his pistol grip still smeared with Overlander lubricant. "Their last commanding officer mistook hesitation for mercy—" Sir Armand tapped the folder's bloodstained corner, where teeth marks punctured the leather "—so now his widow polishes my boots with his old neckerchief." Patch's soup spoon froze midair as his father leaned forward, the candlelight catching the old scars webbing his muzzle—each one a ledger entry from battles where kindness meant leaving just enough of the enemy alive to spread terror.
"You'll learn to delegate brutality one day son," he murmured, pouring bourbon into Patch's untouched water glass with the same deliberate care he used when loading dice at poker nights with the royal guard. The ice cubes cracked like femur fractures beneath the amber flood—his father's version of a bedtime story—but the claw that ruffled Patch's headfur carried the gentleness reserved for disarming pressure mines. Patch watched bourbon swirl with melted ice in his cup—the same way blood had swirled in the infirmary's drainage grates—and wondered if this was what mercy looked like when filtered through shrapnel-scarred paws.
Across the table, Mary's ears flattened as she pressed a linen-wrapped pheasant leg into Patch's bandaged grip—the meat precisely carved to avoid aggravating his wounds. Sir Armand's tail twitched when Patch hesitated, the motion sharp enough to slice candle smoke. "Eat," he commanded, but his claws were already adjusting the napkin beneath Patch's chin with the clinical precision of a field medic securing gauze.
The bourbon's oak-and-gunpowder scent mingled oddly with his father's bayonet-polish cologne—an olfactory ceasefire between battlefield pragmatism and aristocratic ritual. Patch studied the way Sir Armand's claws—still flecked with dried Overlander coolant—handled the silver sugar tongs with incongruous delicacy, precisely depositing two cubes into Mary's tea.
No more, no less.
The old coyote's ears twitched toward the hallway where sentries stood vigil—their rifles still reeking of spent gunpowder—but his claws never faltered in their methodical dissection of the pheasant. Sir Armand's knife scraped against bone with the same grating precision he'd used to carve through Overlander tank battalions at Twisted Gulch, the blade pausing only when Patch's bandages snagged on his water glass. "Mercy," he said suddenly, flipping his steak knife to catch the candlelight along its serrated edge, "is remembering which arteries to sever cleanly."
The blade's shadow danced across Mary's trembling whiskers (she's been trembling more and more lately) as he speared a chunk of meat with surgical precision, depositing it onto Patch's plate with a curt nod. "Please eat Antoine. Tomorrow's patrol will require delicacy—especially since Kintobor's ward has taken interest in Sector 7's wreckage." Sir Armand's claws flexed around his fork—not threatening, just present—but the way candlelight caught his scarred knuckles made the unspoken warning clear.
Patch swallowed hard, feeling the bourbon burn down his throat like slow artillery fire. He watched his father's claws—still flecked with dried coolant from the morning's patrol—adjust the napkin under his chin with the same precision he'd use to prime a grenade. The scent of gunpowder and rosemary clung to Sir Armand's uniform, a dissonant blend of warzone and hearth that somehow fit him perfectly.
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King Maxx Acorn was in bed with his wife Alica, his claws tracing idle circles on her shoulder as they listened to the distant hum of Sector 7's emergency sirens. The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the royal bedchamber—too clean, too clinical—a stark contrast to the gunpowder and sweat still embedded in his fur from today's riots.
Alica's ears twitched with each distant explosion—artillery fire mingling with the rhythmic click of Maxx's claws against his bourbon glass. The king's smile never reached his eyes as he traced the rim with a fingertip, watching the liquor swirl like Overlander blood in gutter runoff. "The little hedgehog's been busy," he murmured, adjusting his silk robe with the same lazy precision he used to order executions.
The scent of aged whiskey and gun oil clung to him, a heady mix of decadence and violence.
He loved the smell of it after he had sex.
That was King Maxx Acorn's dirty little secret—that scent of gunpowder and scorched fur clinging to his royal robes after suppressing another uprising. Alica's fingers traced the fresh scratches across his chest as she pretended not to notice the way his claws twitched toward the encrypted communicator on the nightstand. The mattress springs creaked when Maxx shifted, his tail flicking against silk sheets like a metronome counting down to some unseen atrocity.
"Tell me, my dear," he murmured into her ear, the words dripping with false warmth as his claws tightened just enough to dimple her skin. He watched her reflection in the dresser mirror—the way her pupils dilated at the subtle threat—before continuing in that velvet-growl reserved for throne room pardons and execution orders alike.
"Do you think our dear physician realizes his pet hedgehog is scavenging through our trash?" Maxx's chuckle vibrated against her shoulder, the sound rich and cloying like over-steeped tea leaves left to rot at the bottom of a cup.
The bedside console lit up with incoming reports—another Overlander transport sabotaged, another reactor core looted—but his claws never stopped their leisurely path down Alica's spine. Every third vertebrae received deliberate pressure, a cruel mockery of affection keyed to the exact spots interrogation specialists targeted during prolonged sessions. Her involuntary shiver drew another smile from the king, this one briefly genuine in its sadism.
"We mustn't fault the creature's initiative," he purred, reaching for his jewel-encrusted comm unit with the languid grace of a jungle cat selecting which bird to disembowel first. The screen flickered to life with footage of Sonic dismantling a security drone—each movement economical, lethal—and Maxx's claws flexed against the mattress in something resembling pride. "After all, feral things adapt so beautifully when cornered."
His chuckle carried the warmth of a revolver barrel pressed against bare skin, "Not everything can be as civilized as us, honey," Alicia offered a smile brittle as antique porcelain, her claws tightening around the sheets—not in protest, but calculation. The king's tail twitched in approval; he'd always appreciated her predatory instincts beneath royal decorum.
Their claws interlaced—not affectionately, but like opposing generals exchanging maps across a war table—as Sector 7's reactor sirens wailed through the bulletproof glass. Maxx's thumb stroked the delicate veins beneath Alica's wrist, counting each pulse spike with clinical detachment.
"Remember when we first met?" Maxx murmured against Alica's ear, claws tracing the curve of her jaw with deceptive gentleness. The bedside monitors cast jagged shadows across his face—half the indulgent husband, half the conqueror surveying freshly taken territory. His chuckle vibrated through her shoulder as Sector 7's containment alarms wailed in the distance.
"You kneeled so prettily when I offered that ceasefire. Even then, you understood the difference between surrender and... alignment."
Alica's whiskers twitched as she felt Maxx's claws tighten imperceptibly around her wrist—not enough to bruise, just enough to remind her whose fingerprints still lingered on the royal dagger tucked beneath her pillow. The scent of jasmine tea and gun oil clung to the silk sheets as she leaned into him, her laughter as sharp as the hidden blade strapped to her thigh. "Alignment," she repeated, tasting the word like a poisoned lozenge dissolving on her tongue. "Such a delicate way to describe carving your initials into someone's ribs."
Maxx's grin flashed in the dim light—all fang and no warmth—as Sector 7's distant explosions painted the ceiling in fleeting oranges and reds. His free paw traced idle circles on her thigh, each rotation mirroring the tightening noose of surveillance drones circling Kintobor's lab. "Delicacy has its uses," he murmured, claws snagging on the embroidered edge of her nightgown. "But I've always preferred watching pawns realize they've been on the board longer than they thought."
"Are you not obsessing a bit too much over this hedgehog pup?" Alica whispered, her claws trailing down Maxx's chest with practiced delicacy—each motion designed to appear affectionate while probing for weaknesses. The king's chuckle rumbled like distant artillery fire as he caught her wrist, his thumb pressing just hard enough against her pulse point to convey ownership without leaving marks. "Obsession implies emotional investment," he corrected, rolling onto his back close to her.
"Our daughter and Sonic believe I don't know what's happening in my own castle," Maxx mused, swirling his bourbon with the same absent precision he'd once used to sign execution orders. The ice cubes clinked like spent shell casings as he extended the glass toward Alica—a mockery of chivalry that made her whiskers twitch.
"Let them believe their little fantasy," Maxx murmured, pressing the cold glass to Alica's lips until whiskey beaded on her whiskers. His claws traced the condensation dripping down the crystal—each droplet charting its path like battlefront movements across a war map. "Every revolution needs its martyrs, after all." The bourbon's heat couldn't mask the metallic tang of blood still clinging to his claws from tonight's interrogations.
A distant explosion rattled the bulletproof windows as Maxx's comm unit lit up with Sector 7's collapse—footage of Sonic darting through falling debris with Buns and Boomer in tow. The king's laughter was a velvet-wrapped blade as beneath silk sheets, Alica felt Maxx's tail twitch in predatory anticipation—each movement synchronized with the blips of overwriting security codes on his display.
His claws danced across the keyboard with the same lethal precision he'd once reserved for piano sonatas—each keystroke rewriting security protocols like musical notes rearranged into a funeral march. The holographic display painted Maxx's muzzle in shifting blues and reds as he hummed along with Sector 7's collapse, his tail flicking in time with the reactor's death throes. "There now," he cooed to the trembling technician at his feet, stroking the mobian's ears with bloodstained claws, "was that so hard?"
He laughed at himself, "Everything that has transpired has done so according to my design." In reality only about three fourths did, but he'd never admit that. He was the King after all; he was supposed to be right.
He didn't bother getting out of bed—not yet—instead watching the holographic reports with predatory amusement as technicians scrambled to contain Sector 7's meltdown. The flickering blue light painted his fangs in fleeting glimpses, each smirk calculated to unnerve the subordinates monitoring the disaster from his chambers.
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Jeffrey St. Croix lounged on a sofa at his favorite brothel in Sector 99—feet propped on the lap of a trembling lynx mobian whose claws were still caked with dried blood from last night's job. The scent of cigar smoke and spilled whiskey clung to his fur as he lazily flipped through stolen intelligence reports, his smirk widening with each incriminating detail about Maxx's crumbling regime.
"Darling," he drawled to the lynx without looking up, "be a peach and fetch me another bourbon—and if it's that swill from last Tuesday again, do remind me which eye you prefer keeping."
The lynx bolted upright so fast her tail nearly knocked over the plasma lanterns, bourbon sloshing over the rim of Jeffrey's glass as she scrambled toward the bar with the desperation of someone who'd seen what happened to the last servant who brought him cheap liquor. St. Croix didn't bother watching her flee—his attention already fixed on the holographic security feed hovering above his wrist unit, where Sonic was dismantling Sector 7's containment grid with the same casual brutality Jeffrey used to crush acolytes at poker nights.
"You know what I admire most about hedgehogs?" Jeffrey mused to the empty air, swirling his drink until the ice cubes cracked like vertebrae. He didn't wait for an answer—the room's other patrons knew better than to interrupt—just smirked at the screen where Maxx's royal guard were currently being hurled through reinforced concrete like discarded playthings. "They've got spines." His claws tightened around the glass with deliberate menace, watching Sonic's quills shred through riot armor in the feed. "Shame most don't know how to use them properly."
The lynx returned with his drink—top-shelf this time, if the trembling of her whiskers was any indication—and Jeffrey rewarded her with a pat on the head that lingered just a second too long near her jugular. "There's a good kitten," he purred, sipping the bourbon with theatrical satisfaction before flicking a gold coin at her collarbone.
It landed with deliberate precision in the hollow of her throat.
She reminded her of Hershei.
Why did that dumb bitch of a cat leave him?
Jeffrey St. Croix rolled the bourbon glass between his claws, watching the amber liquid catch the neon glow from Sector 99's brothel signs—each reflection flickering like dying Overlander tech. The lynx's trembling silhouette retreated toward the bar, her tail twitching in that irritatingly familiar way that made his molars ache. He could still smell Hershei's perfume clinging to the upholstery—wild jasmine and gun oil—three goddamn years after she'd vanished into the unknown embrace.
His claws tightened around the glass hard enough to fracture the crystal, bourbon dripping between his fingers like arterial spray. The lynx flinched at the sound—not the shattering glass, but the way Jeffrey's laugh cut through the brothel's ambient noise like a scalpel through connective tissue. He licked liquor from his knuckles with deliberate slowness, watching holographic footage of Sonic dropkicking a royal enforcer through three reinforced bulkheads. "Now that's entertainment," he drawled, tossing the glass shards over his shoulder without looking—they embedded in the wall precisely between two cowering mobian's ears.
A plasma screen flickered to life above the bar, displaying Maxx's latest propaganda broadcast. Jeffrey's smirk twisted into something decidedly carnivorous as the king pontificated about stability—those hypocritical syllables crumbling like wet paper when Sector 7's containment alarms wailed in the background. "Darling," he called to the lynx without turning, tracing the scar along his muzzle where Hershei's claws had last touched him, "be a gem and fetch me that Overlander contact if you don't mind."
"You mean Mr. Kintobor Sir?"
"Yes, he is just the one I need..."