Boomer and Buns knew that they had to just accept that, so they slowly got up after regaining their breaths and got started with repairs on the containment breach, both working as best as they could with it mostly being Buns and me handing Boomer stuff.
Yeah I decided to help, mostly just to keep myself busy—better than sitting around listening to Doc's anxious muttering about containment failures. My claws clicked against the reactor casing as I tossed Boomer another stabilizer coil, watching his meticulous fingers almost flawlessly the wiring. "Impressive," I remarked with deliberate neutrality, knowing full well praise from me would unsettle him more than threats at this point. His ears twitched—good. He was learning.
Buns' plasma cutter hissed through a warped bulkhead panel, her movements sharp with contained frustration. I leaned against the fractured coolant pipes, observing how her shoulders tensed when my shadow crossed her workspace. "Y'know," I said conversationally, flicking a stray bolt between my claws, "you two could've asked for help before rigging Doctor Kintobor's door to explode."
The bolt embedded itself in the wall precisely between their heads. Boomer's nervous chuckle was met with Buns' glare—which I ignored, stepping forward to realign the magnetic seals with deliberate, practiced motions. My claws left faint scorch marks on the housing unit; residual bioelectricity still crackling at my fingertips from yesterday's containment breach. "You're installing the dampeners backward," I observed from seeing Doc doing it over the years, flipping the component with a flick of my wrist. Boomer's ears flattened—good, he was recognizing competence when he saw it.
Buns exhaled sharply through her nose, wiping grease from her brow with the back of her forearm. The plasma cutter's glow reflected in her eyes—calculating, assessing whether defiance was worth the trouble. I let the silence stretch just long enough for doubt to settle in before tossing her the hydrospanner from Doc's toolkit. Her reflexive catch was flawless. "You're not stupid," I noted, watching her fingers tighten around the tool.
"You're just children."
The implied *unlike your previous handlers* hung unspoken but deafening in the reactor chamber's flickering emergency lights. My claws tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the coolant pipes—each metallic *clink* synchronizing with Boomer's increasingly nervous adjustments to the stabilizer array. Buns' grip tightened around the hydrospanner, her pupils contracting to knife-slits as she processed the offer/threat buried in my tone.
The air smelled of ozone and overcooked circuitry, with Buns' plasma cutter still hissing intermittently as she worked—her movements sharp but precise, like a surgeon who'd swapped a scalpel for a blowtorch. I leaned against the cracked reactor housing, watching Boomer's claws tremble slightly as he rerouted the stabilizer array. My tail flicked once, a silent command that made him freeze mid-motion.
"Breathe," I instructed, not unkindly, as Boomer's fingers faltered on the stabilizer relays. His chest hitched—too quick, too shallow—the panicked rhythm of a cornered animal. I didn't touch him. Just tilted my head, letting the overhead lights cast my shadow across his trembling claws. "You're thinking like prey. That's how accidents happen." The coolant pipes groaned beneath us, punctuating the warning like a hammer striking an anvil.
Buns snorted, slamming her plasma cutter onto the workbench hard enough to make Boomer jump. "An' yah're thinkin' like an adult," she shot back, grease-streaked fur bristling. I admired that about her—the way she'd bite back even when her pulse was rabbiting in her throat. My quills crackled faintly with restrained energy, casting jagged shadows across the half-repaired reactor core between us.
"Exactly," I agreed, rolling a spare bolt between my claws with deliberate nonchalance. The metal pinged against the reactor casing—once, twice—before I caught it mid-air, holding Boomer's gaze with a look that made his ears pin back. "Prey freezes. Predators assess." I tossed the bolt to Buns without looking; her reflexive snatch echoed through the chamber like a gunshot.
Doc's muffled worrying drifted from the corridor behind us—I yelled loud enough to reassure him, "It's okay Doc, it's fine!"—while keeping my gaze locked on Boomer's trembling fingers. The kid needed to understand that hesitation could get people killed in Doc's lab; one misaligned conduit could cook us all alive in a bioelectric storm. I couldn't let Doc have that guilt of his systems being too complicated for trespassors or something.
Soon the door was fixed (well, it was good enough for now at least, I could just savage for more parts on my 'evening runs' later.) The reactor hummed back to life—imperfectly, but stable enough that Doc wouldn't have a coronary. Boomer wiped grease from his muzzle with the back of his paw, shoulders loosening just a fraction. I flicked his ear—not hard, just enough to make him blink. "You didn't die, good." I observed, leaning against the still-warm reactor casing.
My gaze went back to the corridor behind the three of us. "Alright, Doc's probably back to his check up room thinking I've beat the living fuck out of you two," I told the two of them with out looking back, "let's go then."
Each step toward Doc's makeshift infirmary carried the weight of unspoken threats—my claws clicking against the metal flooring in a measured rhythm that made Boomer match my pace like a nervous shadow. The flickering emergency lights painted stripes across my spines as I paused at the threshold, catching Buns' reflection in the glass—her grip tightening around the hydro spanner like a lifeline. "Breathe damn it," I instructed again, softer this time, watching her shoulders rise with deliberate slowness.
Doc's hunched silhouette came into view through the haze of sterilization fields, his trembling fingers pausing over a bio scan display as we entered. I noted how his shoulders tightened—not in fear, but that particular brand of exhausted relief that always made my quills prickle with guilt.
"Sonic, and... others, well then, my name is Doctor Julian Kintobor and I've seen you met my ward," Doc says while wringing his hands together nervously, eyes darting between the scorch marks on my gloves and the grease stains on Boomer's leather coat.
"Buns Rabbot."
"Boomer the Walrus."
Doc's fingers twitched at their gruff introductions, but I saw how his shoulders relaxed—just a fraction—at the lack of hostility. My claws tapped a slow rhythm against the operating table, watching Boomer shift his weight from foot to foot like a cadet awaiting inspection.
"Well then, let's get you two checked up on," Doc said, gesturing toward the med bay's flickering scanners with unforced cheer as always—that same damn kindness that made my quills prickle whenever intruders saw it. His fingers danced over the console with practiced ease, pulling up diagnostics while Boomer flinched at the machine's whirring. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Buns' ears twitch at each beep. She was calculating escape routes; I could see it in the way her claws flexed near her plasma cutter.
Good.
At least both of them had good survival instincts.
Soon the good Doc's diagnosis was completed with Boomer's results:
"Sprained rib, mild radiation burns, and—oh dear—these muscle tears suggest repeated combat at far too young an age." Doc's gloved fingers hovered over the holographic scans with clinical precision, but the slight tremor in his voice betrayed something softer beneath. Boomer shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, tail flicking against the examination table like a metronome counting down to disaster.
"So then Doc, is he gonna live?" I asked for Boomer, since it was obvious he didn't trust Doc enough to do himself. My claws tapped the examination table—once, twice—each metallic *click* precisely spaced to make Boomer's ears twitch. Doc's fingers paused over the scanner, glancing at me with that particular mix of exasperation and fondness he reserved for when I pretended not to care.
"Oh yes, not even the radiation will cause long term effects thanks to it's low levels!" Doc assured, adjusting his glasses with fingers that still trembled slightly—less from fear now, more that particular exhaustion that came from too many late nights stabilizing reactor cores. Boomer's rigid posture loosened just a fraction, his claws flexing against the examination table as if testing the truth of Doc's words.
I smirked, rolling a tiny, crumbled piece of paper between my fingers before flicking it at the trash can.
Buns' was next now.
"There is... a lot of poorly implanted cybernetics here," Doc murmured, his scanner whirring over Buns' forearm plating—the metal slightly misaligned, the welding seams rough. His voice carried no judgment, just clinical observation, but I saw the way Buns' ears pinned back as if struck. She hated pity almost as much as she hated being disarmed. My claws drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm against the medbay's steel countertop—*click-click-click*—like a metronome counting down to her inevitable outburst.
Buns yanked her arm away with a snarl, the motion so abrupt it sent Doc stumbling back. "Don't need your damn pity, old man," she spat, fur bristling along her spine like a cornered animal. I stepped forward—not between them, just close enough for my shadow to eclipse hers. The overhead lights caught the jagged edges of her plating, casting fractured reflections across the floor.
"Doc doesn't *do* pity," I said, tilting my head just enough to make eye contact. My voice was calm—softer than usual, but layered with the unspoken weight of *try that again and we'll have problems.* "He fixes things. Even things people didn't know were broken." Buns' glare flickered between us, her claws flexing like she was deciding whether to fight or bolt. The scent of ozone and overheated circuitry clung to her fur, sharp beneath the sterile medbay air.
Doc adjusted his glasses with a quiet sigh, undeterred. "The neural interface is corrupted," he noted, tapping the scanner display where warnings flashed red. "It's causing involuntary twitches in your left paw." Buns' claws dug into the examination table—her tell when caught in a lie. I leaned against the bioscanner, letting my spines cast jagged shadows across her face. "Fix it," she growled, but the tremor in her voice betrayed relief.
My smirk softened—just a fraction—as I jumped on the medical board to comfort her, "And he will soon Buns'," I began, rubbing circles on her back, "but if you rush him it could be dangerous, and I don't want him hurting himself from hurting others." The words tasted bitter—too close to vulnerability—but Doc's slight exhale told me it was the right move.
Buns' clenched fists loosened marginally, her breathing syncing with my rhythmic circles—good. She was learning. Across the med bay, Boomer fidgeted with the hem of his leather coat, watching our interaction with the wary curiosity of a stray offered scraps. My quills crackled faintly as I locked eyes with him, the silent command clear: *Your turn.* He swallowed hard but stepped forward, his sprained ribs protesting with every movement. Doc's gloved hands hovered over the scanner, awaiting permission.
"Yes, Sonic, could you be a dear and get your..."
I thought about it for a second, the Organicizer made by my uncle Charles when I was first born.
Huh, this was the first time I thought of this life time's version of my relatives outside of my journal. It was strange trying to reconcile the image of Uncle Charles holding me on my second day on my new life on Mobius.
"I'm on it Doc." I called out as I ran to go find it in one of the rooms not currently wrecked by explosions—honestly kind of pathetic how much of a mess the old place was getting. My claws clicked against the tile floor in a quick, precise rhythm—the sound echoing through the corridors like a countdown timer. Wouldn't take long to find Charles' old machine—Doc never threw anything *truly* useful away, just stashed it in some corner until the right disaster came along.
The scent of ozone and sterilizer clung to my fur as I quickly as always skidded into the secondary storage room, kicking aside a pile of fused circuit boards with a flick of my foot. My uncle's Organicizer sat half-buried under a tarp—dusty, but intact, the bronze plating still gleaming faintly beneath years of neglect. I traced a claw along its control panel, feeling the ghost of Charles' laughter in the machine's dormant hum. The irony wasn't lost on me—this thing had been built to be a monument to oppressors like Jules was.
Like King Maxx Acorn is.
It was so weird touching that machine—I could almost hear Charles' voice telling me to "be good for Uncle Jules" as I dragged the Organicizer toward the med bay. My spines prickled at the memory, static crackling between them like a warning. Boomer flinched when the machine's shadow crossed his face, his claws digging into the examination table. "Relax," I said, not unkindly, adjusting the dials with practiced precision. "This thing can make anything metal it's organic equivalent, once Doc removes the extra junk, we can get the robotic parts turned afterwards."
Buns' ears twitched at the machine's low hum, her cybernetic fingers flexing instinctively. I caught the flicker of something raw in her eyes—fear, hope, both—before she masked it with a sneer. "Better work," she muttered, though the way her tail curled tight around the table's edge betrayed her. My smirk softened just a fraction as I left it there and dragged Boomer out of the room with me so Doc could start on Buns' surgery.
"Come on big guy, I got something for you to do in the meantime," I said, dragging Boomer toward the training room with claws digging just shy of painful into his shoulder fur. The walrus stumbled after me, his breath hitching with each step—whether from his bandaged and sprained ribs or sheer terror, I didn't care to ask. The training mats smelled of ozone and old sweat, with fresh scorch marks still smoking along the walls from Doc's last containment breach.
Boomer's eyes widened at the room.
"I'm going to be training here?"
"No, of course not! Are you crazy—"
He quickly let out a sigh of relief before I continued.
"—You have to heal up first!"
Boomer's sigh of relief died in his throat as I kicked open the weapons locker with a metallic clang. His pupils dilated at the rows of plasma cutters and shock batons—tools I'd salvaged from Sector 8's wreckage. "You'll help me finish inventorying these things first,"
"But... but why do I have train later? I'm much more of a brains type than brawns type." He grumbled while rubbing his still sore ribs—the motion making his jacket creak audibly. I flicked his forehead hard enough to make his head knock against the wall behind him with a dull *thud*. His yelp was satisfyingly pitiful.
"Because," I leaned in close enough for my bioelectric aura to make his fur stand on end, "you have a brain, that's very good, but what if you don't have any weapons on you?"
Boomer's breathing hitched as my claws tapped a deliberate rhythm against the locker's metal frame—*click-click-CLANG*—the final strike denting the alloy just beside his head. His pulse rabbited beneath his fur, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. I smiled—not the sharp, feral grin I used on the worst of King Maxx Acorn's enforcers, but something slower. More calculated. The kind of smile that made Doc sigh and mutter about "emotional manipulation tactics" under his breath.
My tail swung a bit as I saw him dmit defeat, "if it makes you feel any better I train in here all the time—Doc hates it—but I'm still alive." Boomer's shoulders slumped in silent surrender, his claws twitching toward the nearest shock baton like it might bite him.
I snorted, tossing him a training manual instead—the pages were singed at the edges from when I'd tested plasma grenades in here last week. "Start with this. Memorize the safety protocols before you even *think* about touching anything shiny." The walrus flinched as the book landed in his lap with a soft *thump*, his gaze flickering between my smirk and the locker's arsenal.
"But why train, you could easily just speed your way to victory, literally!" Boomer protested, clutching the manual like a shield. I leaned against the dented locker, letting my spines cast jagged shadows across his face—deliberate, calculated intimidation. "Because someday," I said, tapping the manual's singed cover with a claw, "you'll be too slow to run, and too tired to think. On that day, you'll thank me." The silence stretched, punctuated only by the faint hum of Doc's sterilization fields down the hall.
Boomer's paws trembled as he flipped the first page...
------------
Boomer was, to put it simply, confused as fuck.
The hedgehog he thought would be a push over was instead a predator wrapped in a child's guise—his every movement a calculated dance between mentorship and menace. Boomer's claws traced the singed edges of the training manual, each charred page whispering of controlled detonations and survival rates.
Despite being so strong, despite being so meaning, despite being rightfully pissed at them, despite it all,... he wasn't a total dick.
He was actually... kinda nice, he thinks? Boomer blinked dumbly at the manual, grease-streaked fingers tracing the singed edges where Sonic had clearly tested every weapon listed. His ribs ached under fresh bandages, but the pain was distant compared to the static-charge awareness prickling his fur—that hypervigilant need to track every shift of Sonic's weight, every flicker of those crackling quills.
The hedgehog lounged against the weapons locker now, idly tossing a dummy plasma grenade between his claws—catch, release, catch—with the casual rhythm of someone who'd disarmed real ones mid-detonation. His gaze lingered on Boomer's paling muzzle before flicking toward the med bay door where Doc was working on Buns. "You ever hold a stun baton before?" Sonic asked, voice light—too light—the way a sniper's breath goes still before pulling the trigger.
Boomer's palms went clammy around the manual. "Not... not outside my father's harsh training," he admitted, shoulders hunching instinctively. Sonic's smirk didn't waver, but something in his emerald eyes softened—like a blade sheathed halfway. He tossed the dummy grenade onto the mat with a dull *thud* and reached into the locker, pulling out a modified stun baton. "This one's dialed down to 20%," he said, thumbing the activation switch with practiced ease. The weapon hummed to life, casting jagged blue light across Boomer's wide-eyed face.
"Grip it like you mean it," Sonic instructed, flipping the baton handle-first toward him. Boomer fumbled the catch, the weapon clattering to the mat—but Sonic was already there, snatching it mid-bounce with a speed that made the walrus's stomach lurch. "Try again," he said, quieter now, pressing the baton into Boomer's trembling paws. His claws lingered just a second too long, ensuring the grip was correct. "You'll never scare off your predators by dropping your fangs."
Boomer's breath hitched as the baton's vibrations crawled up his arms. He glanced at Sonic—really looked—and was starting to admire what he saw.
This was who his father thought of himself as.