In an undisclosed shadow drenched room smelling of stale coffee and ozone, three silhouettes hunched over flickering holographic displays. Their voices crackled through distorted speakers.
"Subject's mute? Utterly preposterous!" snapped Dr. Aria Thorne, her lab coat strained over narrow shoulders. "How is he a good specimen made with Sonic's DNA? A hero needs vocalizations! Motivational speeches! Catchphrases! What's next? A silent protagonist in a musical?"
"But Project C.I.N.O.S–"
She then started frantically tapped on a certain screen displaying a Mobian hedgehog with neon green colored fur, a black forehead and neon cyan blue eyes, and tanned skin on his stomach and muzzle. Images of Sonic the Hedgehog flashed beside him as Dr. Thorne's manicured fingers danced across the interface. "We're not making some bargain bin knockoff here!" Her heel clicked against the concrete floor like a ticking bomb. "Look at this—perfect pitch, flawless reflexes, but zero ability to *speak*? What kind of—"
One of the other scientists—a wiry man with dark circles under his eyes—cleared his throat. "Subject Z.E.R.O's vocal cords were malformed during the growth phase, yes. But he's also the only ine who survived."
Aria's fingers froze mid-air. The hologram flickered, casting jagged shadows across her face. Slowly, she turned. "Survived?" Her voice dripped venom. "What happened to the others?"
The wiry scientist swallowed. Behind him, the third figure—a hulking man in a stained turtleneck—adjusted his goggles. "Spontaneous combustion," he rumbled. "Two melted into sludge. One... well, we're still scraping pieces off the ceiling."
A silence thicker than containment foam settled over the room. The neon hedgehog on-screen blinked, oblivious. His vitals pulsed steady green.
"Fine then, let's see what happens..."
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In the quiet stillness before dawn, a peculiar sensation washed over me—a feeling of something both familiar and utterly alien. My eyes snapped open, and for a moment, the world around me was a blur of colors and shapes that didn't quite make sense. I slowly blinked, and the blur coalesced into the unmistakable form of a Mobian hedgehog, lying in the cool grass of a serene meadow next to a pond.
Why am I alive?
I was a pilot in the G.U.N Air Force and managed to break the sound barrier when the plane I was in exploded and I was killed.
So why am I now lying in the grass of some meadow with neon green Mobian hedgehog fur covering my arms?
I tried to speak—to demand answers from whatever unseen force had decided to play this cruel joke—but my throat seized. Nothing emerged except a strained, voiceless hiss. Panic clawed at my chest. I reached up, fingers brushing against unfamiliar quills, the texture stiff yet oddly pliant beneath my touch. My reflection shimmered in the pond's surface: neon green fur, black forehead stripe like a war-paint smear, cyan eyes burning with a light that wasn't mine.
I fully looked down at myself— neongreen fur covered my body, soft and thick, while patches of tan skin peeked through on a muzzle packed with sharp teeth, the insides of my new small triangular ears, and across my front torso. I flexed my new hands, clad in pristine white gloves, and wiggled my toes inside sturdy red shoes. Six long quills trailed down the back of his head, and two sharp spines jutted from his back. A short tail twitched nervously behind me now. I touched my unfamiliar muzzle, feeling the soft tan skin, then ran a gloved hand over the quills.
I was . . .
I was . . .
My name was . . .
He couldn't remember for a while before it came to him in a sharp blast: Zero.
A shudder ran down his spine—or was it his quills?—as the fragmented memories reassembled themselves. The explosion hadn't been the end. Something had snatched him from the fireball mid-disintegration, stitching his consciousness into this neon-green mockery of life. His hands—no, his *gloves*—twitched. They felt too light, too *wrong*, like wearing another man's skin.
The meadow's morning mist curled around his ankles as he staggered upright. Every movement crackled with unfamiliar precision—his joints didn't creak, his muscles didn't protest. Just smooth, terrifying efficiency. He raised a hand, watching dawn's light refract through cyan-tinted claws. G.U.N hadn't built this body. Something far worse had to have.
Right?
The meadow around me hummed with unfamiliar life—oversized flowers bobbed in hues never seen at the base, and the distant trees had bark that shimmered like polished copper. A rustle in the tall grass made me spin, heart pounding. A small, rabbit that somehow looked even cuter than normal, blinked large violet eyes at me, then darted away.
Questions crashed through my mind—how? why?—but they were drowned out by the visceral *need* to move.
That coiled energy in my legs demanded release. Before rational thought could intervene, I pushed off. The world blurred into streaks of green and blue sparks, wind roaring past my spines like a physical force. It wasn't just speed; it was flight inches above the ground, pure exhilaration burning away panic. I laughed, a sharp, unfamiliar sound ripped from my throat.
Freedom!
This body *knew* motion!
The meadow vanished behind me in a heartbeat. Trees loomed ahead, a dense forest of shimmering copper trunks and impossibly vibrant purple leaves. Instinct screamed to curl, to roll, but my frantic human mind fumbled the command. My legs pistoned faster, uncontrollable. I aimed for a gap between two massive trees, misjudged the dizzying velocity, and slammed shoulder-first into solid bark with a sickening *thud*.
Stars exploded behind my eyes. Air fled my lungs in a choked wheeze as I crumpled to the mossy forest floor, stunned, the taste of copper bark dust sharp in my mouth.
Pain radiated from my shoulder, sharp and hot, grounding me brutally back in reality. My emerald fur was scuffed, white chest fur smeared with dirt and flecks of iridescent tree sap. The forest canopy spun overhead. A low groan escaped me.
*Stupid*.
Sonic wouldn't . . . Sonic *couldn't* . . . crash like that.
The thought stung worse than the impact. This body felt alien, clumsy, a new car I never could dream of getting and I didn't know how to drive. Gingerly, I tried to push myself up onto my elbows, wincing at the fresh flare of agony in my shoulder. That's when the cool, damp moss beneath me registered fully against my fur – not just on my paws, but *everywhere*.
The tan skin on my chest was exposed, yes, but below that . . . nothing. Just green fur, my compact legs, and the red sneakers. A jolt of pure, icy panic shot through me, momentarily eclipsing the shoulder pain.
*Where were my pants?*
The absurdity slammed into me harder than the tree. I wasn't just transformed; I was stark naked except for the gloves and shoes. Mortification burned hotter than the scrapes on my shoulder. Had that rabbit seen? Sure, some Mobians didn't wear clothes, but I was kinda used to them in public at least!
I wasn't Sonic or a normal Mobian. I was *me*, trapped in this form, and suddenly horrifyingly exposed. The forest felt intensely watchful of me now.
The instinct to curl into a ball, spines out, warred violently with the urge to scramble for cover. Every rustle of leaves, every distant chirp, felt like mocking laughter. My tan muzzle flushed red hot. This wasn't freedom anymore; it was vulnerability laid bare. The exhilarating speed felt like a cruel joke now. How could I run *anywhere* like this?
Every blade of grass, every pebble, felt like an accusation. The cool air seemed to prickle against fur that suddenly felt far too thin. My gaze darted frantically around the shimmering copper trunks and purple undergrowth, searching for anything – a large leaf, a vine, *anything* – that could offer even a shred of modesty.
The absurdity deepened: stranded in an alien world, possibly injured, and my primary concern was covering my furry green butt. Yet, the feeling of exposure was primal, overwhelming the lingering dizziness from the crash. Survival instinct screamed:
*Hide*. *Now*.
I listened to it proudly.