Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

CLANG

Tails fur stood on end. His slender muscles, hidden by his sleek, tawny coat flexed with reflexive tension. 

CLANG

He forced himself to breathe slow and deep, but it was shaky. He fiddled with the pen in his hand, jamming the tip into his thumb. The ink stained his glove.

CLANG

"Hey, Mr. Prower?" A small voice called to him. The way Tails looked at his student seems to have frightened the young man. Tails noticed the ink on his hand had gone from black to crimson. 

Tails put on a gentle smile, "Whoops, pricked myself." He grabbed an oily rag off the workbench and wiped his glove off. His student looked incredulous, but he must have respected him enough not to press him further. 

While Tails didn't really seek recognition, he didn't admonish the privileges of being a former freedom fighter.

As his adrenaline receded, he could appreciate the sight before him. A bunch of ankle-biting, grease monkeys tearing apart an old bad-nik. The old lady bug's paint had all but faded, replacing a sleek red with a rust orange. To anyone who hadn't lived through the war, it would have looked like a child's toy.

And a child's toy is exactly what it was now. 

Tails peered over his students shoulders, watching them stick pry bars into the steel thorax, and reveal all the goodies inside. To kids like these, it was a pinata. To the kids Tails knew growing up, it was a machine that made orphans and cripples.

"Did we do something wrong?" His student asked, peering up at him with those innocent eyes.

He clicked his pen, "Nope, just hold it there for a sec.." He flicked his flashlight on and peaked inside the metal beast. "This is a Mk.14. Which is good 'cuz it's powered by electricity instead of flickies, but Robotnik also started adding anti-tamper tech around the time these things started rolling out." He gave his students a sly smile, "Not that it ever stopped me from tampering."

He took a step back and went to his tool chest. "Keep holding it. But, don't stick your hand in it!" Tails retrieved an odd looking mannequin arm hooked up to a battery. It was covered in deep gouges. "Caleb, grab the angle-grinder and take off its pincers."

The pincers hit the floor loudly, and his student politely ignored their teacher flinching. Tails stuck the arm into the opening the kids were impatiently staring into. It was their turn to flinch as he pressed the trigger mechanism. Two big metal jaws clamped onto the plastic arm, and dug deep gouges into it. 

"There's a lot you can learn about from old robotnik tech. But never forget…" Tails reached down and casually removed the spring holding the jaws together, and watched them go limp. "These things are not your friend." He said grimly. 

His students eyed him, silently asking for permission. Tails sighed, "Alright, go nuts." 

They all giggled and enthusiastically started tearing into it, pulling out motors, servos, and batteries. Nostalgia formed a pit in the fox's stomach, and he wondered if this is what Rotor felt like when he was the ankle biting grease monkey, digging into whatever scrap the freedom fighters had pulled back from their latest raid. It was hard to remember now, but there was a time when it felt like innocent fun, not a grim duty. 

Tails pulled back the fur on his arm, running his finger along the scar that had taught him the lesson he had just passed on. Maybe that was the day his innocence died?

---

The twelve year old kit had been in the workshop, spinning idly in a chair, waiting for whatever present the cool, older freedom fighters were gonna bring him this time. A decapitated lady bug robot, as it turned out. 

Normally his friends were smiling ear to ear when they brought him something, or else just looked exhausted. But this time they were frantic. That was when Tails noticed the blood mixing with oil coming from its gaping neck hole. 

"Tails! We gotta get this thing open fast!" Rotor told him as he dropped his military gear on the dusty floor, frantically digging through his tools. Tails felt anxiety grip his throat. He counted his friends. 

"Where's Antoine?" He asked through the lump in his throat. 

"He's with Dr. Quack. The little bugger got his arm! We gotta get it out so they can reattach it." He retrieved the pry bar and stuck it into caraprice, planting his boot on the other side and prying it open with his impressive strength. 

Tails grimaced, as he realised what Rotor wanted him to do. As much as he wanted to help, touching his close friend's severed arm was revolting.

"Just reach in and grab it Tails…" Rotor's face was stone, but his eyes conveyed sympathy. He couldn't bear to let the old walrus down.

Tails swallowed his discomfort, letting pass from his throat to his guts. He put his shaking hand into the opening. He started feeling around blindly, scraping aside wires, feeling warm oil sink into this fur. He felt something squishy. 

"I think I've got it—"

CLANG

---

There simply wasn't enough time to reattach two arms. So Antoine learned to sword fight with his left, and Tails learned what happened when you stick your arm where it doesn't belong.

Antoine always had the reputation as a coward, but he didn't even hesitate to give up his arm for Tails. Like it wasn't even a thought. The guy whose teeth chattered so loudly it gave away their position more than once. As a kid he always laughed at how the coyote jumped at every little noise. He didn't laugh anymore.

Tails had never imagined himself as the type to teach a bunch of guppies, but he took to it well enough. Labor demands were very high following the war, so experienced mechanics like him were worth their weight in gold. However he decided it was probably a better use of his time passing on his skills than putting them to work. Besides, goofing off with a bunch of kids beat arguing with contractors and clients any day of the week. 

"Hey check it out!" One of the boys said, taking the now hollow head of the motorbug and putting it on like a Halloween mask. "I'm the cyberman!" He said in a tremolo voice, "I come from the planet Uranus, and now I'm here for your–!" He was silenced by one of the girls wracking her wrench on his helmet. It rang like a church bell. "Y'Ouch! That's so loud!"

Tails lifted the scrap off the kids head coolly. "Sarah, don't hit your friends." He deadpanned. She bit her lip to avoid smiling. "With a head as thick as Caleb's, you'll damage my tools."

The alarm on his watch started ringing. "Alright boys and girls, that's a wrap. Clean up this mess." He dropped the 'helmet' back into his student's hand. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

He could never tell if his students giggled to be polite every time he said that. But he'd never stop. 

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His next appointment was not so much fun as the previous. The sterile Doctor's office smelled like alcohol. And not the kind that made his aches go away. Tails didn't understand, if they had test results, why not just call him? Why did he have to give up his afternoon to sit in a stark white cubby for an hour and a half?

He opened the cabinet under the sink, eyeing the bottle of disinfectant, before his sanity tapped him on the shoulder. Tails wasn't an alcoholic, he just didn't like being alone with his thoughts. But he wasn't that desperate. At least, not yet.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he hurriedly shut the cabinet. The doctor stepped in, she looked short of breath. Always a busy day.

"Sorry about the wait," She eyed her chart. "Mr. Prower."

"What's the good news, doc?" Tails asked, a stop short of sardonic.

She smiled, "Well the good news is that there's nothing wrong with your tails. No swelling or inflammation. No nerve damage or tumors."

Tails cocked his head and frowned. "I don't understand. I can't move them at all! And they hurt like hell." He held one aloft in his hand, and it sagged limply like a dead snake.

The doctor pulled a stool forward, scratching loudly against the cellophane floor, and sat in front of him. Tails didn't like where this was going, it felt.. confrontational. 

"We've run every test. There's nothing wrong with them."

Tails huffed, "You think I'm making this up or something?" He was starting to feel defensive, and she seemed to notice.

"Absolutely not," She went to touch his shoulder briefly, and it made him jump. She seemed to notice that too. "I'm sure that it does. It's just not.. a physical problem…"

Tails sank back, putting his hands over his face. "Oh chaos.. not this…"

"Mr. Prower.. I know this might not be what you wanted to hear. But this is good news." The young woman smiled at him. She had a light in her eyes, it was something only people born after the war had. "We have a lot of options from here. And instead of medications and side effects and invasive surgeries.. This really puts the treatment in your hands." She pulled out her little notepad and scribbled on it. "This is a support group, it's mostly veterans..--"

Her voice turned to a ringing in his ears. In his mind he wanted to argue. To tell her off. There was nothing wrong with his mind. In fact, she should be grateful! This disturbed brain was the reason she was able to practice medicine, and sleep in a bed with silk sheets. 

How could the brain that built the gear and gadgets of the resistance..? The brain thwarted Robotnik's machines and computers.. Tails was his brain. And he was not defective.

But his body moved on autopilot, saying all the right things to get him through the rest of his appointment. Probably better than blowing up at the poor girl just trying to do her job.

On his walk out, all he could think about was the ache in his tails…

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Fiona Fox had spent more of her life in a cage than outside of it. Her earliest memories were of that cage Robotnik kept her in, running his 'experiments'. They were hardly scientific, 'how long can a mobian hold its breath', 'how long can it go without sleep' 'how much pain can a mobian endure before cardiac arrest?'. The truth of it was that whenever the resistance got one over on him, he'd go down to the dungeon to torture and kill his captives, so he could feel like a man again. 

Six inches of concrete and 27 feet of earth. That was what had stood between her and the outside of her cage. And she had clawed every inch, until her fingers bled, until her nail peeled off, until the bones of her fingertips saw daylight. Fiona had promised herself she would never be in a cage again.

Now she watched the sun rise on the 13th year, 180th day and seventh hour of her prison sentence. Watching it rise behind rusty iron bars. This was her second time here. She had been in the zone prison for almost half her life. 

She took a curious glance at her reflection in the grimy mirror above her sink, looking at her worn features. Sunken eyes and sagging cheeks, with a subtle streak of silver running through her faded, auburn hair. And she had been so pretty too. This was not the vixen that had snatched the heart of Sonic the hedgehog, and broken it. She was 35, and looked 45. Not that the lighting was particularly flattering, but it was enough to tell her she wouldn't be breaking any more hearts any time soon.

Her eyes fell to the tallies carved onto the wall behind her bed. She had gotten to 3,065 before she ran out of room and gave up. Fiona couldn't decide if keeping track made the days feel faster or slower? She traced her fingers along the shallow grooves. 

896…

The day of the breakout.

It was years ago that she and Scourge had staged their escape, along with a dozen other conspirators of various different dimensions. It didn't go well. At least not for Fiona. 

If she were free, she could drink her memories away, move on, distract herself somehow. But here on the inside all she could do was think. There was simply nothing else to do. 

Heavy stomping boots and jangling keys. She'd not heard those sounds in years… and it never meant anything good for the fox. But anything new, any stimulation at all was a gift in this concrete shithole.

Two guards flanked a young woman in a black pencil skirt. She had a clipboard tucked under her arm and a red pen in her hand, smiling innocently behind a pair of slim reading glasses. 

"Ms. Fox? Are you ready?" She asked in a voice far too sunny for the dreary old vixen.

Fiona narrowed her eyes, "For what?" She coughed to clear her throat. She hadn't needed to speak in months.

The woman let out a nervous giggle, "Todays the day, Ms. Fox!"

Fiona's heart skipped. She couldn't let herself hope. It hurt too much to hope. "What day?"

The guard insert his key into her door and it slid open with a loud metal clang. They stood aside and the woman stepped inside, her little heels clacking on the grimy concrete. 

"Ms. Fox, congratulations!" She stuck out her hand for a shake, "As of today, you are a free woman!"

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Fiona held a box in her hands. In that box was her life. Everything she possessed. Everything she was. Black boots, a pair of worn socks, a crop top, fingerless gloves, two studded leather belts, and a pair of shorts that didn't fit anymore. It couldn't have weighed more than five pounds. If Fiona had lost five pounds she wouldn't even fit into the shorts. 

"Now, there are certain regulations regarding which dimension you can be returned to. It says here on your file you are from Mobius, but you were arrested in Moebius. How long did you spend on Moebius?" The young woman was all smiles as she scribbled some notes on her clipboard.

"Three years."

"Mh hm. And do you have any family there? Husband, children, anything like that?"

"No."

"How about property? Any significant assets?"

"I.. No I don't think so.." Fiona placed her old boot up against her foot. Looks like it might still fit.

"Hmm.. It doesn't seem like you'd qualify to be returned there. You'll be returned to your home Dimension on Mobius." 

"What?" The boot slipped from her hand and tumbled to the floor.

"I'm sorry Ms. Fox, but it's the law."

"I can't go back to Mobius!" Fiona pleaded, dropping pathetically to her knees. "I'm wanted for treason! I could be executed!"

The parole officer looked quite perturbed for a moment, flipping over a file in her hands. "Oh! Ms. Fox there is nothing to worry about.. You served a combined sentence. It was all worked out with the Acornian Republic at the time of your arrest." She let out a sigh, "You had me quite worried there for a moment! Sometimes there's an oversite and the Zone police fail to make contact with local authorities, but that's not the case here."

Fiona fell quiet. She honestly hadn't even thought about what she might do when she got out. During the first couple years it was all she could think about. She thought about her and Scourge would retake the throne, subjugate the suppression squad, and enjoy those long lost trappings of power. 

After "The Great Escape." She'd thought about how she'd repay Scourge for leaving her behind. Poison was the most realistic approach, but a dagger in the back held the most appeal. She wanted him to know it was her who did him in. But as the days turned to months, and then again to years, the loneliness crept in. Suddenly his betrayal didn't ache the way it used to. Now, the absence of his warmth tore away at the tatters of her pride. 

But whatever she thought about him now didn't really matter anymore. There was no link between Mobius and Moebius remaining. The zone police saw to that. Fiona had never in her wildest dreams ever thought she'd return to her home world. 

"When do I leave?" Fiona finally asked. 

The receptionist smiled, "Immediately."

After a kiss on the cheek, and a smack on the ass, they dumped Fiona in the middle of nowhere. Some country road in Bumfuck, Mobius. She might've been born a forest critter, but she did not care for the country. Too quiet. She'd had enough of quiet in that damn cell. At least the air was clean and fresh. 

A lot cleaner than she remembered now that she thought about it. Robotnik's industrial reign of terror kicked up heaps of smog that covered the whole planet. Had the freedom fighter's finally got their act together to get rid of him for good?

For the first time since she was a young woman, Fiona had options. Left or right? A rather linear decision. For the past decade, she was told when to sleep, when to eat, when to bathe… She started down the left path. But her stomach began to churn. What if this was the wrong way? What if it led nowhere?

Fiona shook her head, hoping the doubt would run out her ears. She spun around and started again. Her feet felt heavy. She hadn't worn these boots in a very long time. They didn't seem to fit anymore, she could already feel the spots that would be blisters tomorrow morning. 

Her feet began to drag and scrape against the ground, and her breathing became shallow. Her face was cold and wet, no matter how often she wiped at it. Fiona was a tough old bitch. She didn't cry. Nothing was even wrong! She was free! Hardened criminals don't cry over nothing. She wasn't that stupid little girl anymore, sobbing in Robotnik's cage, wondering when mama was gonna come and save her. 

The flat pavement tripped her, and she fell down to her knees, scraping open the knees of her only pants. She curled herself into a ball right there, tail tucked between her legs, and deadened the sound of her sobs with her arms. Not that there was anyone there to hear them.

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He felt so childish.

Why couldn't he stop replaying that doctor's visit over and over again in his head. Something must have been wrong with the tests, the brain of Miles Prower was as sharp as ever. He'd never needed to "Talk it out" during the war. Never needed "validation" or "closure". Sally told him what the war effort needed, and his brain made it happen. End of story.

So why was he seething? His tails ached, that kept him in a bad mood. His feet hurt from walking. Didn't like taking the trolley. Didn't like being that close to other people. Especially when they stood behind him. 

Somebody bumped into him.

Tails spun around, teeth bared, his claws dug into his fists. The guy didn't even notice him. Just kept walking like nothing happened.

Sucking air through his teeth, Tails noticed how fast his heart was beating. Suddenly the wind on his fur started to feel annoying, like a cat being pet the wrong direction. 

"Tails?" A bright voice called to him. Tails let out the breath he didn't know he was holding, and spun around.

Pink. Friendly. Smiling.

"Oh my gosh! Tails! Long time no see!" Amy's warm smile fell over him, and he couldn't remember why he was upset. She ran up to him, a flower pot tucked under her arm, spilling dirt onto her well loved apron. "What are you doing here?"

Tails blinked. Looking around, he didn't exactly know where he was. "Uhm.. I don't really know, I was lost in thought."

"Thinkin' about visiting lil' ole me?" She batted her eyes playfully.

Those eyes… she still had that bright light in them. That light everybody had at one point or another. It shone through fear and prejudice.

"Uh.. I uh.. Didn't even know you were in town?" Tails stammered, shifting his weight to his other foot. "I'd heard through the grapevine you moved back to station square."

"Pfft! I moved back like.. two years ago? I think?" She tapped her finger on her chin, narrowing her eyes, "Speaking of grapevines, maybe you oughta keep your ear to them a little more often."

Tails swallowed his guilt. It's not like it was personal, he didn't really talk to anyone from the old days anymore.

But then Amy looked away and smiled sadly. "I'm sorry.. I should have reached out to you when I came back to town." She said softly. "I just got so busy with my work.. life can really get in the way of itself, can't it?"

A wave of relief washed over Tails. Amy was a living saint. She had just taken the apology right out of his mouth and turned it back on him, and then she left him a clean way out. He had often heard of people talk about "emotional intelligence", something that even the triple digit IQ boy genius couldn't seem to get the hang of.

"Y-Yeah, it.. really does." Tails smoothed out the fur on the back of his neck. "So uh, what are you busy with these days?"

Her smile widened. "Wanna come and see?" She spun around, not waiting for a reply. Leading Tails just down the street to a quaint little shop with a hand painted, wooden sign hanging from the facade. "The Pink Rose", underlined by the stem of a flower. Through the window, Tails could make out the hanging potted plants, and rows of flowers. A few empty pots littered the outside, spilling dirt onto the sidewalk.

The bells hanging from the door sang as they walked inside. The aroma of fertile soil, fragrant flowers, and the little kiosk of candles, spun around in the mind of the fox. It should have been a cacophony to the senses, just the kind of thing that would overwhelm him, but instead it was a delightful blend that fit together perfectly. He felt that ever present tightness in his shoulders finally relax.

Amy's flowers were beautiful. Splendorous in their many colors, from the vibrant, carmine tulips to the humble flax flowers she used to ornament her arrangements. Healthy too, as though even the pests wouldn't dare to touch her work. 

"I grow them all myself!" Amy proclaimed, pride in her chest. "I've got my own plot at the co-op. And you would not believe the jealous looks I get from those old ladies." She set down the pot she was carrying on the counter.

"Actually.. I think I might. These are gorgeous…" Tails gently reached out to touch a rose, and flinched as the petals immediately fell away. "Oh…" He looked apologetically at his friend, "Guess I've got whatever the opposite of a 'green thumb' is." He stuck his hands back in his pockets to protect the rest of her greenery. 

Amy gave him a patronizing pat on the back, "Don't feel so bad. You should've seen me when I first got started. My poor lilies seemed to wilt at the very sight of me!" She giggled, setting the pot down on the counter

"Never woulda thought you'd have the patience for gardening.." Tails mused, a playful smile touching his lips.

Amy rolled her eyes, "I chased the same guy around for eight years, without even a hint that he liked me back. I think I'm pretty darn patient." Her clippers snapped loudly as they cleaned up some withering stems.

There was no one reason people joined the resistance. Some people had friends in the fight, or had no place else to go. Amy Rose had neither. She had joined a rebellion so she could impress a guy she saw on TV, after she had convinced herself that they were soulmates. A guy who was five years older and already had a girlfriend.

One might think taking an unstable, twelve year old girl into your guerrilla organization wasn't tactically sound. Especially when all she was after the CIC's boyfriend. But they were all a bunch of misfits anyway, and Amy proved herself the bravest, and most motivated, soldier Tails had ever seen.

Artillery shells cratered the earth around them, sending dirt and shrapnel into the sky. She wouldn't even flinch. Like Thor, she would take up Mjolnir, and charge the enemy like a bat out of hell, as scalding hot plasma whizzed by her head. Tails lost count of the times her "distraction" operation ended with the enemy routing. 

Now, Tails watched her take up a tin watering can, decorated with an adorable painting of a sunflower, and gently water her peonies, careful not to dampen the petals. The soft, satisfied smile on her face was immovable. 

Suddenly she froze, staring out into space for a moment. "Yknow," She finally spoke, "I was so lost after the war. Once Sonic finally married Sally." Amy sniffed. "I mean, I had given half my life to the freedom fighters. I gave up school, my friends.. my family…"

When did Tails get taller than her? She looked so small now. 

"And the life I built here, wasn't exactly turning out the way I thought it would. So, I thought if I moved home, I could just.. Pick up my life, right where I left off." She chuckled, and it almost sounded sincere. "It's so embarrassing. I went from overthrowing Robotnik and freeing the whole mobian race, to living unemployed with my parents!"

She traced her finger along the stem of a flower. "I started helping my mom in the garden just to feel useful. Weeding and listening to her gossip about this or that. And I just fell in love with it." She looked up at him. "Watching things grow."

Standing on her tippy toes, she rustled the fur on Tails' head. He didn't flinch, just frowned in annoyance. "Cut it out, we're the same age y'know!" He gently swatted her hand away.

She stifled a giggle, "Anyways, I could never stay in one place for that long." She picked up her watering can and headed towards the back room, bumping his hip with hers. "And I missed you!" She said in a mocking voice, but Tails knew she meant it.

"So tell me what you've been up to!" She called out, in between rustling through her inventory. "I showed you mine, now show me yours!" Tails cringed at the repressed memory, refusing to give it anymore thought.

"My apprentices keep me busy, and my pension keeps the lights on." Tails really didn't want to bother Amy with his problems. She didn't need to know that he hadn't slept on his bed in months. It was too.. Soft. Soft things made him feel vulnerable. His floor wasn't soft. His scotch wasn't soft, and if he drank enough of it, he wouldn't wake up screaming.

Tails held fast under her glare. "Is that all I'm getting from you?" She asked.

Tails shrugged. "What can I say? You're not the only one living the quiet life these days." He busied his eyes with the tasteful painting that hung behind the cashier's counter.

Amy grabbed her jacket and purse hanging from the door. "C'mon, I know a place that'll loosen your tongue."

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The gleam and glamour of the distant city lights Fiona had seen on her hike into Mobotropolis were undeniably dazzling. Its tall buildings scraped the very heavens, with these glossy, pleated windows reflecting the glowing city below. You would never have known this was the industrial heart of Robotnik's empire. 

The last time she had seen the city, it was dark as night, pillowing acrid black smoke that blotted out the sun and stars. Only the glow of Swatbot's cold visors, or the occasional helicopter searchlight offered any illumination. It wasn't a place for the living to inhabit.

It was the cold, iron womb that fed Robotnik's ceaseless ambition. Birthing from its blackened loins steel monsters that could inflict the necessary cruelty to achieve that ambition. "Robotropolis" the tyrant had named it. What a childish imagination he had. It's the reason he made robots that looked like ladybugs. Sick fuck.

Fiona had rightly guessed that the war was over. It didn't take a genius to see who one in the end. Had she not betrayed the freedom fighters, she'd probably be living in the penthouses of those impossibly tall buildings. Eating caviar, drinking wine, and telling tales of the good old days.

But she did betray them. And now she slept at a poor house, in a barracks with a couple dozen other women and girls. There was no TV static to drown out her thoughts, the only sounds she heard at night were the groans of the sick, and the sobs of the insane.

Sometimes the little girls would stare at her while she rested on her cot. Fiona hated that. She would have thrown something at them if it wouldn't have gotten her kicked out. Annoying little brats. 

Fiona made a point only to sleep there, and try to spend every other waking moment outside. Doing what? Picking pockets and snatching purses, then blowing away all those people's money on bars, nightclubs and pills. 

It was a good night for her, too. Lifted a hundred and fifty bucks off some guy in a fancy suit. A shame that when male mobians finally started wearing clothes, they had such awful taste. She always found a little voyeuristic joy in going through their pilfered belongings, and the 'petite' sized, expired prophylactic she found in that guy's wallet was the pièce de résistance.

The pulsing nights of the club she was at helped her to feel more drunk than she actually was. The watered down swill they were serving was pretty easily bested by a veteran liver, forged by prison moonshine. At least the stuff here wasn't brewed in a toilet.

Heavy bass and drums worked wonders for drowning out the thoughts in her head too. Can't hear the doubts and self pity if you can't hear your own thoughts. 

Fiona jumped when she felt a tap on her back. A guy wanted to dance with her, she surmised, unable to hear a damn thing. Behind that all too friendly smile, she saw the implication of an expectation. He wiggled his eyebrows in a way he thought was charming. Fiona guessed he was handsome enough. Hard to tell with the flashing lights.

She pulled out a little plastic baggy with two smiling pills, and swallowed them down with what remained of her drink. Fiona led him to the dance floor by the hand. 

The man was handsy, but it felt nice to be desirable. And as the drugs kicked in, his touch felt less like an amateur and more like a masseuse. She moved her body against his, enjoying the sensations of intimacy without the vulnerability of it. When she closed her eyes, and felt his warmth, she could almost pretend that he cared about her.

She led him back to the bar to buy her more booze, and back to the dance floor. Again and again they repeated this cycle of vice. Maybe if she was drunker, she'd be having fun, she thought. It was just going through the motions for her.

Eventually the room was spinning so badly she couldn't really dance anymore, and she was being dragged by the hand out into the alley behind the club for some "fresh air".

The way he was kissing her was awfully possessive for two people who didn't know eachothers names, and he wasn't all that good at it either. Slobbering like a dog. Maybe he was a dog for all she knew. His tongue pressed against her lips, demanding entry, and like a limp doll she let him.

His hands were under her clothes now. Or maybe they had been for a while. The night air was sobering her up. That wasn't good. Suddenly his touch wasn't warm anymore. The taste of his spit clung to the back of her throat, and the skin on his coarse hands scratched at her body. Instead of pleasure, there was static. She felt sick. 

She pulled back, against his grip, and he yanked her forward. Sudden panic overtook her. She jammed the heel of her boot into his toes, and drove her knee into his groin. He keeled over in shock and agony, releasing her to clutch at his pride.

"The fuck are you doing, you crazy bitch?!" He called out to Fiona as she stumbled out of the alleyway, knocking over a trash can and spilling its vile onto the pavement. A cold sweat perspirated over her entire body, and her lungs gasped for air. The animal inside her mind told her to run, and she was in no mood to deny it.

Glowing, neon lights left tracers in her vision as she ran down the city streets. She knew she looked like a psycho, but Fiona couldn't really bring herself to care about that right now. All she wanted to do was retreat into safety and wait to sweat out the drugs and booze and hormones. 

Finally she stumbled upon another vacant alley. She leaned against the wet stone walls, and puked on the ground. Stomach acid lingered in her mouth, and up her nose, causing a delightful burning sensation. Throwing up did make her feel a lot better. She got down on all fours to hover over a sewer drain,making herself dry heave in an attempt to chase the relief of vomiting.

Her face was pretty once. So pretty. Not leaking puke, and snot and tears. It had charmed Sonic the hedgehog into stepping out on his beloved princess Sally. It had beguiled his "little brother" into almost ending their "Unbreakable bond" over her. It had even gotten Scourge to settle for monogamy. Everywhere her face went, broken hearts followed. Now all she could leave a guy with is broken toes.

It used to be so easy. To use her body to get the things she wanted. What happened? She should've been able to get a warm bed to sleep in and breakfast in the morning out of that putz she was working over back at the club. And she should have even had a good time doing it! 

She scraped the trash and litter away to clear a spot to lay down. The light rain washed the scum into her fur as it made its way down the drain. She could inhale some of it whenever she took in a shaky breath. 

The thought that finally sobered her mind was this: "This is not even the lowest point of my life."

All her dreams of picking up her life where she left off, of picking it up as the person she used to be, were shattered. She wasn't a pretty, conniving, young vixen anymore. She was a grown woman, laying in a pool of trash and her own stomach contents, crying over how sorry for herself she was. Like there was someone else who did this to her.

The cold set in and her body began to shiver. She wondered if maybe she should just lie here and die. Certainly felt like the appropriate thing to do. Her body ached with fatigue, from dancing she didn't enjoy, and drugs that couldn't find a single dopamine receptor that wasn't burnt out already. 

The bars on the windows of the building beside her cast long dark shadows. She wasn't really free, was she?

Her claws dug into the pavement beneath her, keratin scraping away against the unyielding stone. This wasn't her lowest point. Fiona had known all kinds of suffering, all that could be squeezed into such a short life. She wasn't going to give up and die here. She would find a way out of this cage, just like every other one she had been in.

She slowly, achingly, pried herself off the ground, walked over to a busted gutter pipe spraying water like a shower faucet. Clawing the mud and scum out of her fur under the ice cold torrent. Then she limped back to the shelter, the fire of her will battling the onset of hypothermia.

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This was why Tails had missed Amy. Even if she had matured greatly in adult life, she was still an impulsive whirlwind. Maybe Tails missed the days when a hedgehog would scoop him out of his boring life to whisk him away on some spontaneous adventure. They'd hopped across pubs and taverns and bars, and even a speakeasy. What the difference between those was anyone's guess, and none of the patrons were sober enough to tell him.

Now they were crammed into this tiny karaoke booth while Amy belted out human songs, pausing during the solos to sip at her fruity cocktail and catch her breath. There was a passion to everything that Amy did, and nowhere was that more evident than in her singing. Was she in tune? No. Was she on time? Hell no. But she acted like she was the headline act, making sure all the other patrons outside would get to hear her favorite songs. It was her way of being generous.

Amy shoved the microphone, sticky with spit, under his nose, "Now you. Hic." 

Tails immediately put his triple digit IQ to work, looking for a way to get out of this. "I don't know any human songs." Does he sink the landing?

"Hey! I'm buying the drinks! And I expect some repayment. Now, SING you little.. uh. YOU!" Dead on the runway. 

New tactic. "Your glass is empty, I'll buy the next round."

Amy narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "This doesn't mean you're off the hook, mister." She affirmed, wagging an accusatory finger. "Now help me stand up."

The two old war buddies stumbled their way back to the bar, arms slung over one another for support, brushing elbows with the jolly customers. When they got to the bar Amy disentangled herself, looking up at Tails expectantly, her arms spread wide in the universal sign for "uppies".

"Don't laugh!" She barked, but did not put her hands down. "You've always been the elevation specialist! Elevate me." She commanded.

Tails hoisted her up and deposited her onto the bar stool before climbing up himself. After her giggling fit subsided Amy brought up what Tails had been dreading all night.

"You should take me flying after this!" She beamed at him, oblivious to his changing disposition.

Tails swirled the ice in his empty glass. "I can't fly you anymore Amy.."

She tilted her head, "Huh? Why not? Hey, I'm not that heavy!" She grabbed at her belly, "Am I?"

Tails forced a gentle smile, "I can't fly at all anymore." He held aloft one of his tails. "Tails don't work anymore."

Tails yipped as Amy grabbed hold of it, inspecting it like a piece of broken hardware. "What happened?" She asked, her eyes mirroring the sadness in his own.

"Well, I had thought it was a delayed onset nerve damage.." Amy nodded like she actually understood what that meant. "But the Doctors.. Well, they didn't find anything wrong with them."

Amy pet the fur on them gently, "That's so sad." She croaked. "They used to wag when I did this."

Tails shook the ice around his empty glass, sharply exhaling out his nose. "Yep. Life's a bitch." He tugged on the shirt of the busy bartender, his patience ebbing away. "Hey buddy. Another pink thing for my friend here.. And, uh.. Aw hell, one for me too."

Everything in the room became interesting. The tasteful art hanging from the walls, they even had little cards beneath them stating the name of the piece and the artist. Lanterns hung on long chains with stained glass to filter the light into a warm orange hue. Yes, everything was interesting excepting that intolerable smug expression on Amy's face, which Tails did not notice at all. "Don't you worry." She whispered, putting a finger to her lips, "I won't tell anyone. But I told you they were good, didn't I?"

He flashed a smile in silent gratitude. Tails wanted to forget his problems, not linger on them. And despite the blow to his masculinity, this sugary, girly cocktail was doing an excellent job at dulling his thoughts.

Amy sucked on her cheek, trying to think of something else to talk about. It never took her long to find something else to yap about.  "Oh! Uhm, are you gonna go to the V-Day reunion?" She finally asked. "I didn't see you at the last two. When was the last time you went?"

Heat struck his ears, as that ever gnawing shame filled him. "I uh.. well.." His friends had always accepted his reticent nature, but he hadn't spoken to any of the old gang in years at this point. The prospect of facing his comrades, and their glittering successes and accomplishments, felt daunting. 

Amy batted her puppy-dog eyes at him.

"Well. I guess if you're going…"  He dunked back the last of his drink before he could retract the words. 

Amy beamed. "Oh, and you're welcome to bring a plus one if you want. Got any girls, Tails?"

The fox smiled slyly, " 'Girls'?" He tapped his chin, "No.. no girls, just you."

Her green eyes ran a circuit, and she bumped him with her elbow. "I'm not a 'plus one', I have an invite. And I'm sure you do too." The mail pile on his kitchen counter had long since spilled over the edge, but it wouldn't be hard to dig out the letter bearing a wax royal seal.

Fluster tied his tongue into knots, as he was pretty sure Amy had not so subtly asked if he was single, after inviting him to something that could be construed as a date, if you squinted. The Amy he knew was never such a smooth operator though, so he wasn't sure if he was allowed to feel flattered.

"What about you Amy, got any– Amy?" Tails found his companion's attention fixated over his shoulder.

"You're mom's on TV."

"Sally's the queen, she's on there quite a lot."

"No, your mom mom."

Tails spun around, his chair creaking awfully. Sure enough, there was former republican party leader, Rosemary Prower. Tails had never really warmed up to calling her mom, much to her dismay. The rational part of his brain told him it wasn't her fault they were estranged, the war had broken a lot of families. Calling the strangers who came into his life at nineteen "Mom" and "Pop" made his teeth ache, as though they rebelled against the words.

The TV was blasting a flashing news bulletin, with several "experts" talking over each other, as though they were gonna reach out of their little white boxes to strangle each other. Radicals had broken into an armory and stolen a fair amount of hardware, Radicals Rosemary had a hand in creating, and now the old fox was stuck playing "Spin the narrative." against several Monarchist pundits.

Amedeus and Rosemary had been influential nobles in pre-war times, but Robotnik's rise had radicalized them. The dictator had done away with the old king and was sitting on his throne before the seat had gotten cold. And with the state apparatus completely centralized, it made his takeover a walk in the park. Had the government's powers and responsibilities been spread across more than just one mobian, they might have been able to coordinate a resistance in time to stop him.  

Once the war had ended and they had re-established themselves, they formed an opposition movement to the crown, based on democratic values. The "Mobian Republican Army", the ones supposedly taking credit for the recent weapons heist, were a deliberate side effect of their rhetoric. Though it was never confirmed if there was a direct link between the two.

"Looks like they hit another supply depot. Must be gunning up for something big." Tails wondered idly, his tactically minded brain going to work. It was unusual for there to be casualties, the MRA had a habit of calling ahead of time for the evacuation of civilians. Whatever that cost them in foiled plans was more than paid for in public sympathy, and that was worth its weight in gold for an "Army of the People."

Amy scoffed, "You see that, your mom's up there denouncing it. I thought she was on their side."

Tails shook his head, "It only looks that way. See how she can't stop bringing up those political prisoners? She says she doesn't support them, but she's listing off all these justifications for it."

Withering under the surprised, and somewhat suspicious look he was getting, Tails offered a shrug. "You learn these things when you spend a lot of time at court." 

Amy frowned, "Y'know, I'd like these 'republicans' a lot better if they could go five minutes without blowing somebody up!" When Amy said that, volume amplified by all that drink in her stomach, Tails noticed the volume in the pub drop in a way that made his stomach turn. His delicate ears twitched at the smallest noise. Using the mirror behind the bar, Tails scanned the room. There was no attempt for people to hide their contempt, and everyone was looking.

This wasn't good, he had to get them out of there. He tried his best not to let fear show on his face, as he frantically dug into his pockets, trying to find some money to pay off their tab. "Amy," Tails whispered. "We spent our whole youths blowing things up for political reasons." He should know, he built most of those bombs. But more than that it was important to argue against her, if he could show he was "one of them", and that they were friends, they might be more inclined to let them leave. They'd be easy targets for any would-be revolutionaries, liquid courage in their veins, looking to prove themselves to their peers.

"But that was different! Those were robots! People are getting hurt out there.." Amy's ever present passion was blinding her to the changing atmosphere. Daring a glance around the room, Tails felt ice in his veins when he found his gaze returned, people not even looking away to be polite. He'd noticed the tri-colored flag hanging proudly above the pool tables a little too late, the symbol of the republican movement. They must practice a little political militancy when the karaoke gets stale.

Leading his drunk companion through the now hostile crowd, who instead of politely moving out of the way for them, obstinately stood their ground. The door barred by two tall, fit mobians, leaning on pool cues. 

"We know who you are." a doberman spoke, his canines digging into a menacing smile. "You freedom fighters are either really stupid, or really brave to walk into a place like this."

Amy and Tails exchanged a confused glance. Normally the title of former freedom fighter held a prestige, and was never spoken of with disdain by mobians, even the most radical of radicals.

"So?" Amy asked incredulously, "We risked our asses to save our people! Now you wanna give us a hard time?" Not as keen on diffusing the situation as Tails was, she stood up to the tall imposing men. Literally, she was on her toes to match their eye level.

The doberman dug his claws into his pool cane, and Tails grimaced when the wood crunched beneath his digits. Every slight gesture and movement they made sent waves of adreneline into Tails nervous system. "Don't try to pretend you're some old war heroes! You and the rest of Cassia's dogs have murdered dozens, and now you're here to goad us into–" His tirade was interrupted by his friend tapping his shoulder.

"Look. Two tails." 

Their snarling faces softened. "You're.. Captain Prower?"

Swallowing his dry throat, Tails replied, "Once upon a time." Hushed murmurs flitted through the small crowd that had been eavesdropping. His ears fell flat against his head. As much as he tried to forget the war, he was a major part of its mythology, and that carried a substantial weight. Both for Tails, and the public at large.

Hearing the name "Captain Prower" brought back painful memories, images of his comrades torn apart by heavy cannon fire, their limbs dangling by the skin. Even right now, he could smell it, the burned flesh and fur. There was nothing like that stench. He could try to breath through his mouth instead of his nose, and it wouldn't make a damn difference.

The men barring the door looked ashamed, clawing for excuses at the back of their necks. "We didn't– We thought you were agitators. We'd never treat the old guard like–" His friend tapped his shoulder and made a show of standing aside from the door. They stood at faux attention on both sides of the door, like an honor guard. Even the most radical of the radicals wouldn't get on the bad side of a freedom fighter, be it from fear or reverence. 

Sensing Amy start to fume at the situation, Tails grabbed hold of her wrist tightly and whisked them out the door. He'd hoped the chrisp, night air would settle his inflamed nerves. When they were out of earshot, Amy let loose. 

"Can you believe those guys?! Ugh!" The clack of her heels on the brick sidewalk struck fiercely. "Of course they remember all the boy captains, but us girls? Guess they just can't be bothered!" She seethed. "I wish I still had my hammer, I'da knocked some sense into them! Maybe then they'd realize why Captain Rose is a name to remember!"

Tails could hardly hear her anymore, a ringing in his ears droned everything out. His breathing was controlled, slow and steady, yet blackness ate at the corners of his vision. Trained from the time he was eight years old to stay calm in combat, Tails put to work that standard technique. He breathed in, and held it for four seconds, then exhaled for eight. Yet his limbs began to numb. 

"God I can't believe I missed Miklagard! You're so lucky— Tails?" Amy's rant was interrupted when she noticed Tails start to lag behind in their pace. His vision was now completely dark, and his heart raced. In an animal panic he began to suck down as much air as he could. The rational part of his brain knew that was exactly what he needed to avoid. But the rational part of Tails' brain wasn't responding to his queries.

He swerved, then stumbled into some trash bins awaiting pickup on the road, his ears rang so loud he didn't even hear the metal crash, nor Amy's yelp.

"This is what dying feels like." A voice not his own said from within his head. Limbs numb and irresponsive. Coursing shrieks of pain traveling the length of his inflamed nervous system. Vision completely black. 

And for a moment. A long pregnant moment. There was peace. 

No fear. No sense of self. No Id. No ego. For one, blissful moment, there was nothing at all.

One piece at a time, his existence was restored to him. The gravity of his prone body against the sidewalk, the coldness of the night air and the warmth of his breath against his own face. The feeling of his shoes tied slightly too tight. The emotion of seeing his own friend's face, looking concerned down at him. The humiliation of it, and the exhaustion that ignored that feeling.

Tails mouth hung agape as he tried to find the words to smooth this over. "I slipped." Why could he never be smart when it counted?

Amy offered out her hands to help him up, which he graciously accepted. "Uh huh."

He leaned on her, holding onto her arm for support, as they continued on their way. Their breath looked like smoke against the night air. 

"Hey Tails? If you ever think you're about to slip. Let me know."

"Sure."

"I'll be here to catch you."

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"Re-invention" was no stranger to Fiona Fox. They were, in fact, old friends. From the blubbering whelp in Robotnik's cage, to a combat medic in the freedom fighters, to the goomah of King Scourge… To inmate #187. Each time she burned a bridge, there was a new one to cross. Or at the very least, some planks to build it. 

No one was wondering why she had ended up friendless and penniless. Least of all Fiona. Hardships of circumstance might not have set her up for success, that didn't change the fact that every choice she had ever made had been her own. But she wasn't going to sit around feeling sorry for herself anymore. That wasn't the new Fiona.

The new Fiona had sobered up from her bender, and woke up at the crack of dawn to track down the head-mistress of the women's shelter. And when she offered her assistance to the mistress, it was welcomed warmly. Apparently some big-time politician had recently offered a sizable donation to the shelter, and with the extra cash they could put to work some desperately needed repairs. More importantly to Fiona, they could hire extra staff.

The once infamous criminal, now spent her days scrubbing the black mold out of the communal showers, skinning potatoes in the kitchen, puttying over the cracks in the walls, and –Most satisfactory to Fiona– fixing the leaky pipes over the dormitories. She had stepped out of her old skin, and into this new one. And it still had that new skin smell. 

Every little thing she fixed, now matter how small, added to her pride. She could really feel the difference she made here, and she got to see it every day. And she was learning new things! How to fix drywall, how to seal leaky pipes, what kinds of cleaners and detergents to use, and on what materials. She'd even improved the quality of the daily soup ration, despite the only ingredients being those surplus military rations. Maybe I should've been a housewife after all. She thought sardonically.

The wretched vestiges of old Fiona hung on like a malignant tumor. She could be nasty with the other denizens, snapping when the youngin's ran across the floor she just mopped, and chewing them out when their few belongings spilled out into the walkways of the dormitory. It was never hard to feel that she was above the other women here, she doubted they had gone through the kinds of hardships she had. 

Yet despite her unfriendliness, the other women did not return her scorn. A few times she found a plate of baked goods waiting on her cot without explanation. Her gut told her they must be poisoned or otherwise tampered with, so when a couple of the little girls stared at her plate with hungry eyes, she let them have a few. 

Turns out they were just a little dry.

What her instincts could figure out was why one of the girls gave her their doll. Its beady, button eyes seemed to stare directly into her soul. Like it knew what she was. She spent most of the night staring back. Should she return it? She knew it was the girl's only doll, her mother didn't spend money on anything that wasn't booze and lingerie for her day job. It was probably someway for the kid to ingratiate herself to Fiona, who she must've known was making a decent wage, hoping to get some kickbacks. The thought brought a small smile to her face. She'd make sure that girl got an extra juice box with her lunch. 

It made her think of that little whelp who had a crush on her back in the freedom fighter's day. The two tailed mutant who'd follow her around, give her flowers and stick up for her when she inevitably got on the nerves of the other fighters. Poor little fool. Hopefully he took her words of wisdom to heart when she carefully spelled them out across his cheek. The world's a cruel place when you don't understand how it really works. 

Well, he was a freedom fighter, so he's probably living it up in the penthouse suite in one of those towers. Sure pays to be on the winning side. Not that she'd know. The losing side was currently placing rat traps around the crawl space above the kitchen. Whatever could be said about Robotnik, he was exceptional when it came to pest control. Any pest brave enough to set foot in Robotropolis was summarily vaporized by the patrolling swatbots. The streets were clean for those left alive, however few.

Even crawling on all fours, she still had to keep her head down. Holding her flashlight between her teeth as she searched for wherever those disgusting creatures kept their nest. The scratching in the walls at night was starting to bother her worse than the giggling children. 

Strange. There weren't any droppings or small tracks in the dust, But she couldn't figure any other way for them to get in than through here. That scratching sound was still there though.

With a zap, her flashlight went out. Her drool must have short the battery. Now she was alone in the dark, in a minefield of her own rat traps. She pressed her tail to the ceiling, fearing the rats and the traps getting in a bite. 

A crack between the floorboards let in a small amount of light. Maybe if she crawled over she could call down to someone for some help. Scraping along the ground, she tucked her snout back into her shirt for some reprieve from the suffocating dust.

The scratching got louder as she got closer, and the ache in her knees told her it wasn't worth the trouble, but she pressed on. Peering through the small crack, she saw a room she had never been to. 

A small workbench, lit by lamplight. The scratching sound revealed itself not to be the work of rats. A mobian man had a long piece of metal pipe held in a vice, and was slowly, furtively sawing through it. Fuses, adhesive putty, disassembled fireworks and small arms munitions were splayed out across his clandestine work bench. 

He was manufacturing pipe bombs.

Fiona froze. Her shirt felt twice as suffocating to breathe in, and the humidity made her nose runny. As she was conditioned to do in stressful circumstances, she carefully took in every little detail. The mobian was a racoon, skinny and young, maybe seventeen? On the table there was a revolver, within hands reach. A radio on the table hummed with static, and occasionally, a voice would call out through it, speaking in code. 

"Baker, baker." he stopped sawing, pulling two small notebooks and pencil out of the drawer. One was a code reference sheet, and the other was where he put the translated work. The dust made her eyes water, but she could almost make out what was written.

Wiping her eyes with her dirty shirt, she leaned in a little closer to get a better look, only to land face first into a rat trap. It viciously snapped onto her delicate ear "Gah! FUCK!". Her hand slapped over her mouth, as her stomach tied itself into knots. All pain forgotten, she dared another look through the crack, and saw exactly what she was dreading.

He was staring right back at her.