♡ TW: dubcon, sexual favors, abuse of power, zombie apocalypse au, foix-innocent reader, age-gap, hints of misogyny
♡ FEM reader
Mouth watering, you’re still picking at your food.
Too out of place to eat, you just sit there, wearing a pretty little dress, the type you’ve only ever seen hanging on mannequins, as the only leftovers in an otherwise pilfered store. It’s not the sort of thing that’s practical out in the badlands. And you didn’t live long enough in the world before this one to have ever had an occasion where you’d wear one.
It makes you feel naked. Not in any sexual way—that’s not what bothers you. No, it’s more about how there’s too much exposed flesh for the dead to scratch and bite—legs, thighs, shoulders, arms, chest, neck.
And these shoes. You don’t know. They have these strange pins on the heels, the length and size of a full cigarette. You’re not sure what good they’re for with the trouble you had simply walking down the hall in them, on flat ground and everything. Though you can imagine they’d make a pretty decent impromptu weapon if you needed. After all, they’d confiscated your gun and all your knives when you’d been unwillingly rescued and made to accept shelter in the facility.
The man sitting opposite you carries a Glock on his belt paired with a hunting knife. He’s also dressed better—shirt, pants, and a nice set of hunting boots. But still, there’s something off about that, too. Unrecognizable even. Eying the fabric, you conclude that there isn’t a drop of either blood, mud, or sweat—perfectly clean and pristine, just like your little complimentary dress.
Not only that, but his hair and beard, as well, must both have been trimmed newly. And unlike you, he’s got a entitled type of appetite like he’s never been short on food a day in his life—cutting into the meat on his plate with the reckless proficiency ofsomeone who’d done so a million times before, shoveling gravy, peas, potato-mash, and cranberry sauce over each piece before stuffing his mouth and readying another bite while he chews.
You don’t know if it’s the unknowns of the situation that make you not touch even one measly little pea on your plate, or if it’s just him and that unprecedented air of privilege alone.
Actually, you don’t care so much as you find it more shocking than you do sick, though you’re sure many would hold it against him given the scraps people get on by out in the badlands. There’s some of that difference even here in how his portion is also significantly bigger than yours, by maybe double.
But looking at him, you can clearly see he’s a big man, so you don’t take much offense at it.
You would have liked to have a big pint of beer, though, same as him, but you’ve only been offered water, and for that, you shouldn’t complain—clean water is also hard to come by, after all.
“Gonna eat?” he asks while chewing his eighth mouthful, not looking at you. “That’s a good piece of venison, you shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
You look back down at your plate. So it is venison, and not something else. You’ve been in desperate places among desperate people before; you hadn’t wanted to give it much thought, but the possibility had definitely crossed your mind. Now, he could be lying, of course. You’re no fool to take anyone’s word in good faith. But, given the rest of the food on the plate, it doesn’t really seem like the people living here are experiencing the same shortage as the rest of the world.
Still, in you’re experience, when someone offers you something valuable, they tend to want something in return.
“What am I doing here?” you end up asking—not putting much real sentiment in it, as you’ve been witness to your own undoing more times than one by being thorns and no flower. You’ve learnt that, with any type of man, it’s best to be the flower.
Which is why you ask stupid questions like that as if you don’t already know. You’re a pretty girl, and pretty women, just like that cut of venison on your plate, is something people want. And this man in front of you, whoever he is, seems to be a man with certain influence if the size of this living complex is any tell. Working kitchen and living room with a fucking TV, and other doors leading to more luxury amenities, you’re sure.
Without doubt, this is the type of man who gets what he wants. “Are you gonna–”
He sets his utensils down firmly, effectively cutting you off as he reaches for the napkin draped over his lap, using it to wipe his mouth and stache before grabbing the pint of beer standing next to his plate. Dripping with dew, it leaves a ring on the tablecloth while he swallows a third of its contents in a few large gulps, exhaling with mighty satisfaction once he resurfaces.
And only after setting the mug down in its designated spot again does he bother to finally answer you with a curt and ambiguous, “That’s up to you.”
He picks up the steak knife and fork again, then continues with his meal.
Explaining as he goes, “You can be a smart girl and show appreciation for all I’ve done for you today, and I’ll provide you with all your basic needs and more, such as good food, clean clothes, warm showers, and a safe place to sleep at night,” listing the circumstances as matter-of-factly as you would in any other life or death situation, and giving you the ultimatum just as straighforwardly, “Or you can decline, and be sent to the barracks instead, where you’ll have to do manual labor like the rest.”
So that’s the gist of this place, you suppose. A typical cast system, with the top brass living comfortably in their own chambers like the kings and queens in those fairytales from the before-times you’ve read about, leaders of the lower classes who do all the heavy lifting for only a fraction of the spoils.
Seems like your good looks have landed you the golden ticket.
Making a forestalling decision, you pick up the cutlery, eyeing the meat on your plate and sucking back the well of spit beneath your tongue before cutting yourself a chunk. Slowly, you put the small piece to your lips with a pause before opening your mouth and pulling it off the fork using your teeth. Once it’s on your tongue, your mouth seems to go into a rampage. You’d survived off of dog food and Twinkies for so long now, you’d all but forgotten the taste of real food, giving it only a couple of impatient chews before swallowing roughly and quickly succeeding the motion in a rushed set of repeats—all but throwing yourself over your plate like a wild animal.
“Slow down,” comes a stoic order from across the table.
You look up with your cheeks stuffed, breath flared, gazing up at the dour set of eyes staring back at you. You swallow thickly, then promptly straighten your back again before grabbing the napkin—still folded into a neat flower on your right—you dab your lips, and iron it out against your lap just the same as him. Offering a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t reply to that, only keeps looking at you—assessing you, you would guess. Hopefully, concluding that you are the so-called smart girl he’d requested and not something they ought to throw back out.
“I won’t be forcing myself on you,” he states then, a little out of the blue. Or, at least you thought so until you spotted his plate, cleared already, with his beer halfway gone. “You understand?”
Nodding in return, you don’t think much of it other than a half-way sarcastic how nice of him, biting back a scoff while reverting your attention back to your meal.
But then he clears his throat, “I won’t be forcing myself on you, so you need to show me how badly you want it.”
Your features draw back just a bit as his meaning dawns on you. “Oh…”
You look back at your meal again, now halfway finished and way past going back—it’s like you’ve already signed some type of contract, with his side of the deal already squared and settled in your belly.
You’re not overly happy about it, feeling at a disadvantage, and yet, you had an idea of what you’d signed up for when you took that first bite.
“How?” you ask him then.
He reaches for his beer again, making you bitterly yearn for one of your own once more, thinking it’s kind of cruel of him to be the one drinking, when you’re the one who’s more in need of it, what with what he means for you to give him tonight—that is, if you’re not misunderstanding him.
“Smile, for starters. Make small talk,” he says. “Tell me about yourself.”
You rethink your situation—what cards you could play and which ones you’d better hold on to. Making a quick judgment as you consider the pink little dress you’ve been made to wear, and other details about his demeanor, especially that hungry way he eyes you, talking to you like you’re something in need of direction. You conclude that he, like most other men, wants them sweet—possibly a little clueless as well, a little ditzy even.
Yeah… you think you can manage that.
“Oh, well… I don’t really know if there’s so much to say about me, honestly…” you start, biting your lip anxiously, just for his amusement. “I don’t think I did much before it all started—I was really young, so… I don’t know what my parents did either, can’t really remember. Actually, I don’t even remember their names. I don’t think I’d stopped calling them mom and dad yet.”
You decide to sprinkle a little sense of lost lamb in there, as well as playing your best sympathy card. Every man his age loves a girl with daddy issues, after all. You’ll make sure he thinks he’s found the perfect one, you decide while looking into your lap, all sadly, fiddling with your fingers as you lower your voice into a mumble, “They died early on…”
And then you expertly fake changing the subject at just the right moment, smiling that eager-to-please good-girl smile you know they get weak for, as you continue, “But uhm… What did you do before?” Appealing to his ego to further secure your place. There ain’t a man left in the world who can resist the urge to talk about themselves when given the opportunity, especially when there’s a pretty young thing taking an interest. “You know, before it started.”
It seems to please him, answering with pride, “I was a cop,” before giving you a patronizing look. “You know what that is?”
You play along, humming in thought, “Uhm, I think so.” Giving your best airheaded answer, “It’s a person who makes sure everyone follows the rules.”
That earns you a chuckle, soaked in ridicule and condescending amusement. “That’s right, for the most part.”
You take it in stride, acting like it goes over your head as you continue making that small talk he’d wanted, “That must be, uhm… pretty practical, right? Even now.”
He scoffs at it like the silly question you’d meant for it to be, “I wouldn't be sitting here otherwise.”
You’re successfully endearing yourself to him more and more by the second, you think, continuing the act with a chagrinned look. Smiling submissively with your voice coming out soft, “Right…”
He doesn’t stand a chance. Fully convinced it’s your true nature, he’s completely clueless as to how you could have your steak knife plunged all the way down to the hilt in his neck in the matter of a second if only given one short opportune moment, with the false sense of security you’ve lured him into.
“It’s a miracle you survived,” he states.
Deadly wrong, and yet you agree with a sheepish little mumble, “Yeah…”
He sighs in something closely related to sympathy, “I bet it’s been hard out there.” And it’s with that that you know you’ve really hooked him, appealed to his protective nature so bad he’s started wanting to care for you like his own babe.
You admire your own work for a moment, silently, picking up your napkin again and smiling cockily to yourself, hidden from his sight. “At times. Not always,” you reveal pensively, like you’re about to bear your life’s trauma for him. “We’ve had peace in places like this. Made it work as long as we could, but nothing ever lasts… People die, taking more with them once they come back as the dead, and you don’t even have time to mourn before there’s another one gone.”
Yeah, it’s a real tear-jerker, ain’t it?
“You know? Before I got here, I was convinced I was just another corpse—just walking around aimlessly, eating scraps to stay alive, covered in death so thoroughly you wouldn’t even be able to tell us apart.”
You leave out the part of sacrificing men like him to the eaters so that you yourself could get away, as you doubt he’d find that part equally heart-rending.
“But now I’m here…” You give him a tiny smile as you finish your story, paired with adoring eyes as you behold him like he’s the savior you’ve been praying for each night. Voice fragile as though you’ve reached the final breaking point and are in desperate need of him to catch you before you fall. “I just hope it lasts.”
Of course, he bites the bait.
Vowing, “You’re safe here.”
However… It’s not with the level of earnest you’d been aiming for.
It’s got you miffed for a moment. But you suppose some guys are harder to wrap around your finger.
No matter. You still have time. They all crack in the end, after all.
He sighs, shaking his head. You’re not sure if it’s at you or something else.
“People always blame the monsters… But here we acknowledge the truth.”
Oh, here comes the lecture.
Lucky you.
“It’s people who are the real trouble. It was like that before the world turned to shit, and it’s like that still. That’s why it’s so important to have structure,” he chastises, giving you the same speech all men like him preach. You have to refrain from shaking your head and rolling your eyes while remaining perfectly doe-faced.
Only for the next words to slap it into reality.
“And why, when you’re finished with your plate, you’re gonna clear the table, do the dishes in that sink over there, until everything is nice and tidy. Then you’re gonna come to the bedroom, undress, and put away your clothes in the closet, before coming to bed and proving to me that you deserve to have dishes to clean and clothes to pick and choose from. Do we agree?”
You blink. Feeling, somehow, a little powerless suddenly, and not just as an act this time, but for real. You don’t know… It’s as though, somewhere along the meal, you’d accidentally swallowed your pride as well without even noticing.
It was clear now. This man, whoever he is, wouldn’t be as easily manipulated as the ones you’d dealt with in the past. Not that you think he’s on to you, but rather, that whatever act you put on, it’s not going to cut it either way—at least not without your face and body being the main part of the deal.
“Yes,” you end up agreeing, to which he promptly shakes his head.
“Sir,” he corrects you. “If you understand, you say yes, sir.”
And you do just that, repeating it back to him pliantly before even granting yourself the time to give it a thought, “Yes, sir.”
He smiles at that. “Good.” And then he gets up, leaving everything on the table for you to clear, as he walks over to a door at the other end of the room. “Don’t take too long now. I’ll be waiting.”
He closes it behind him, and you sit there. Feeling a little sick and confused as to why, only for you to place the feeling a little moment later. You’re scared. For the first time in a while, you’re not the one in control. You’d thrown your very best at him, and though he seemed to have enjoyed it, it wasn’t like the others before him. Throughout the dinner, there hadn’t been a single moment, not even one fleeting second of opportunity for you to strike. You’d been eyeing the teeth on your knife, envisioning how you’d plant it right through his Adam’s apple when he let his guard down, but it never did. Not once.
You look at the door you’d initially gone through when you’d been brought here. You even have all the twists and turns of the hallways behind it mapped out perfectly in your head, despite the sack that had been covering your head the entire way—you’d know exactly where to go to get out if you broke through.
But somehow, you’re not as confident anymore. He’s left you in the room all by yourself with every means of taking the chance, but instead of making you feel like reaching out and grabbing it, you hesitate, consumed by the feeling that it’s all a trap.
Breath abnormally tense, you start doing what he’d said, rinsing the dishes by hand before putting them away neatly in the cupboards above. It’s not something you’ve done often, and yet it still comes pretty naturally.
You’re done too soon.
And so you use another moment to steel yourself—new plan. Continuing the charade, you’re going to get yourself well and good under his skin before making any moves. This one was going to take time, you could tell. Trying anything right now would be too risky.
You just need to get through this next part, that's all. It shouldn’t be any harder than what you’ve had to do out in the badlands. And you’ve already gotten a meal out of it. No, most definitely, you’ve done way worse for way less before.
You enter the bedroom silently, locking the door with a soft click behind you.
It’s dark, and warm, and smells of cologne mixed with personal musk—intimate—like you’d just stepped inside a den. And suppose that’s exactly what you’d done.
Already undressed, he doesn’t say anything, only nods towards the open wardrobe where his things have already been neatly hung and folded.
You take the hint without looking below his waist. Spinning around with haste as you scurry over to the closet, trying to keep it together as you feel your cheeks heat. Taking a moment as you stand there with your back to him and your heart in your throat, before shucking the spaghetti straps down your shoulders.
It makes goosebumps sprout across your skin, giving you a chill. You ignore it as you push the bunched fabric down your hips until it falls and pools at your feet before bending over to pick it up as you step out of both it and your heels.
You spot your hands shaking as you reach for the hanger, standing there, in the pretty little lingerie set you’d been told to change into after your shower this morning, when you’d been informed of how one of the officers had taken an interest in you.
Before that, you’d spent the better half of a month inside a container with other stragglers they’d found, all waiting to know what they planned on doing with you. A week in and you’d been convinced you were a living meat locker, the way one after the other would disappear.
In all honesty, this is probably the best you could have hoped for.
Still, you flinch when his voice calls out. “Come here.”
Shaken from your thoughts, you breathe steadily through your nose, swallowing thickly before turning around again. You’re tense, looking at your toes as you slowly make your way over, crossing the carpeted floors in silence until you stand before him.
Still keeping your eyes fixed off to the side, you jolt when a thick finger slides up under your chin, lifting your head and gaze to look at him. Your eyes flicker as you do, breath a little hitched—and you’d love to tell yourself you’re still just playing the part of the weakly animal praying by the feet of the hunter, but you’re not so convinced anymore.
“On your knees,” he says, softly yet firmly, dragging his digit up and flicking it off your bottom lip before placing his hand atop your head and giving it a gentle but sturdy push, making you bend your knees until they were softly settled against the fuzzy floors below.
He smiles from above you, and you’re mind goes blank, feeling all but overrun by this sense of inaction, as if the very choice of doing anything but what was asked of you was out of your hands.
“Have you ever sucked cock before?” he asks after a moment of stroking your hair, enjoying the sight of you, it would seem, now that your wide eyes had finally taken in the thing looming right above your head, stroked lazily in his other hand.
You gulp softly, voice shaking just a bit as you answer. “No, sir.”
He makes a sound, kind of like a chuckle, but deeper and laxer than that, saying, “That's alright. It’s easy.”
Despite his words, his fingers rake into your roots, getting a good grip as though silently telling you to pay close attention while he explains, “Keep your mouth open as wide as possible, tongue out, no teeth, and your throat as loose as you can. Understand?”
You promptly nod your head, slow and soft for him. Feeling bound by an invisible force, making you heed every word slavishly, even though you felt a tight knot in your stomach strangle itself as though punishing you for suddenly having become so docile.
“I don’t mind if you gag or throw up—just do what I tell you and it’ll be alright.”
Another chill runs rampant down your spine. “Yes, sir.”
Another smile stretches out across his face. “Good girl.”
Hands in your lap while you receive the words, you give yourself a squeeze just as your thighs do the same. Feeling something treacherous start to swish about down below—heart getting caught in the storm and tugging your breath along with it, rendering you but a feverish ball of anticipation. Mouth in the same state it was before tasting the venison.
"Now then..."
He hums, and you think it’s very likely that he has been able to see right through you all along.
“Let's put that silver tongue of yours to better use.”
- When Xiulan has to cry, she often hides it from others and cries when she’s alone.
- Her weapon of choice is dual swords.
- It’s usually very easy for her to say “I love you” lightheartedly to her classmates, but she finds it embarrassing to say to Dan Heng.
- She would be a very good leader in a group, but she prefers to stand back and let someone else lead.
welcome to xiulan's trivia! i'll be posting a few facts and lore about xiulan every day when i wake up, and today is day twenty! feel free to ask anything about xiulan in my main inbox (@ochamametchi) and maybe i'll add it to her trivia :P
Apologies for the lack of a post yesterday, I had a meeting, which after I passed out though when I got up Ura-Omote Lovers was playing which was quite nice,
Today we had a day off of school though I was helping my mother with some work. My back kinda hurts though. Since my route to walk to my school is blocked off by a chunk of ice I will most likely grab a ride from my mother or a classmate.
Our district has a yearly showcase and its required for advanced art studence to send in two art peices from the year to the showcase in chances of being apart of it. Though there isnt money envolved getting in to the showcase is a high honnor.. though the likely-hood ill be chosen is not high as in my class alone im pretty subpar in the aspect of skill and creativity.
Though ill still try to make my next assignment one that improves on my known flaws.
Following OC-tober #bweirdOCtober2025 by @bweirdart
Let's start the community week with something classic with my one of my friend's oc. She did the OC-tober for a few days but sadly stopped half way due to uni stuff.
I don't know much about this oc or even her name cuz she isn't the type to make lore. But she did gave me a bunch of jpop songs and it only helped a bit on drawing her today
-> Rouge gives advice Shadow doesn’t wanna hear (what else is new?) and Sonic is being grilled at G.U.N. by Rockwell about those pesky files he swears he ended up with accidentally (technically true) but then again, maybe they really need to do a better job with security if they were that important. And boy, they seem important…
Week 3: Future
1. Together
2. Return
3. Reminisce
4. Regret
5. Horizon
6. Quiet Moments
7. Now & Then
i keep thinking, this is it! this is the chapter i’m gonna reveal the villain! and then it doesn’t happen…. on top of that it’s still so incredibly long… sorry everypony, but don’t blame me - blame the prophecy
Tags: Movie Au, Daily updates, Sonadow, Romance, fluff, silly, Angst, Hurt/ Comfort, Enemies to lovers, situationship, undefined lines, lowkey toxic, primary color siblings, Wachowski family, found family, Amy is a flirt, Rouge and Shadow are Besties, mild profanity, 13+, improv, adding tags as i go, 5k+, 10k+, 15k+, Tbc
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***
3.5. Horizon
~ Present Day ~
“You’ve gotten yourself into quite the pickle, haven’t you?”
Rouge is perched on the kitchen island, legs crossed and arms folded as she sips on a mug of steaming liquid. Shadow is leaning against the couch, with a face like thunder as frustration storms across his darkened expression.
“Please don’t rub it in.”
“Oh, I think I’ve earned the right to, don’t you think?” She gibed with an irate tilt of her head, placing her mug on the counter and recrossing her arms. Though, as much as he hates to admit it, her anger is justified, and it was not easy to piss her off this badly. He really fucked up.
Shadow knows that. But right now, there are more pressing matters. “You can gloat all you want after we get Sonic away from G.U.N. Do you have any ideas?”
Rouge takes a sip, shaking her head as she swallows before answering, “Yes, but you’re not going to like it.”
Of course not. “Elaborate.”
“Well,” Rouge starts, pursing her lips as though hesitant to go on, but after a few beats she sighs, “for starters, you need to tell Sonic’s family.”
“Out of the question.” Shadow’s response is quick as a snap.
A sassy eye roll as she takes another sip. “Shadow, they’re the only ones who can help. Plus, you got him into this, it kinda falls on you to at least tell them where he is.”
Shadow hated when she made good points. Especially at his expense, forcing him to admit he was wrong and demanding that he perform the humiliating ritual of asking for help.
But ultimately— and for which he is grateful, despite his resistance— it’s part of what makes her such a good friend.
“Why can’t it just be you and me? We make a fine team,” Shadow urges, not yet willing to accept this as their only option.
“No disputing that, but if you’ll recall, I mentioned a handful of days ago that I’m already on their radar and I need to fly low, so I can’t do much to help you without risking all of us,” Rouge returns with a shaking of her head and a small frown. “Plus, they can help with that other pending issue.”
Shadow shifts, his grimace deepening. “That’s also another reason we need to get Sonic out as soon as possible. He saw the files, Rouge. He just found out what G.U.N.’s been hiding.”
“Oh… oh,” Rouge gasps, covering her mouth as she places the mug back down again. “You never told him back then, did you?”
Guilt rips through him like a leather whip. “No… I was trying not to get him involved.”
“So sending him into G.U.N. HQ to nab your files is your definition of ‘not getting involved’? Not your best idea, Shadow,” Rouge chastises with a disapproving click of her tongue. “How much does he know?”
Shadow winces, but the sting of her disappointment feels fairly earned. “I’m not sure. But it won’t matter to Rockwell— however much it is, she’ll assume it’s too much. And who knows what they’ll do to him to find out.”
~
Sonic can swear the tiny bland room is getting smaller every second he has to sit in there alone, handcuffed to a single table in the middle of the room with two chairs on either side, and he has just enough slack in the chain to lean it all the way back boredly, dipping up and down as he balances on the back legs.
He recognized this sort of set-up from all the crime shows he’s seen; the mirror on the wall across from him is no mirror, it’s the one-way glass through which the detectives observe the suspect, waiting them out to dry up wells of their patience while sipping on cheap lukewarm coffee in a styrofoam cup.
Which Sonic does as he tips forward, even though the mud-brown liquid tastes like coffee grounds, still bitter despite the two sweet & low packets surely saturating at the bottom, and no cream at all. And they certainly gave him decaf, for obvious reasons.
After thirty-four minutes and forty-two seconds (but who’s counting?) of painful patience, the door to his right finally creaks open and Sonic slams the chair back down.
“Director Rockwell! So nice to see you again! Actually, I’m glad it’s you and not some underling, ‘cus I have some notes on the coffee here— way too burnt and I can taste the grinds. Eugh,” Sonic blathers, lifting his cup and sticking his tongue out for emphasis. “You should just fire whatever intern made this pot.”
Calmly, Rockwell stops in front of the table, arms folded behind her back as she glances down at Sonic. “You know why you’re here, don’t you?”
The steeliness of her voice sends a shiver up Sonic’s spine that he tries to pass off as nonchalance. “Uh… for a tour with my lovely aunt?”
Rockwell scoffs. “Don’t play games with me, Sonic. I’m not in the mood. In fact, you should know I’m in a terrible, no good, absolutely awful mood. Can you guess why that is?”
Choosing to continue feigning ignorance, Sonic looks up in thought. “Because you missed the awesome tour?”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” With an annoyed shake of her head, Director Rockwell starts to pace, never letting her hands leave their place behind her back as she strides to the other corner and stops, facing the “mirror” and away from Sonic, her face etched with ire in the reflection.
“Not if I can help it,” Sonic replies honestly.
“You better start now,” Rockwell fires back, her tone an iron hammer, “because you’re in some deep shit.”
“Ooh, cursing in a teen fic, very scary,” Sonic jeers, in spite of himself. “Look, I know it looks bad, but can’t you give a pass to an old friend? I’ve even saved your butts a few times now.”
“Which we’re very grateful for, but that doesn’t make you immune to the consequences of crime. Besides, powers like yours cannot go unchecked,” Rockwell retorts, turning back around to look Sonic in the eyes. “That’s why you’re here today.”
He holds her gaze for a few beats before letting his head fall back in exasperation. “Like I told you before, this is all just a terrible misunderstanding,” he drawls with a shrug. “I ended up with those files by accident.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that?” sighs Rockwell as she breaks the hold behind her back to grab and rub her temples, as one usually does around Sonic.
“Yes, because it’s true!” Sonic insists, and the funny thing is he isn't even fully lying — as in he ended up caught with them by accident.
Rockwell takes her hand away from her head with another winded breath, as if cooling down some inner boiling fury. “I hope you know you can’t leave this building until you come completely clean. And we will make that happen, mark my words.”
Scoffing, Sonic leans back even further in his chair, wrist straining on the cuff’s chain and testing its reach. “You can’t keep me here that long without a fair trial. I have rights, you know.”
A sinister grin breaks the stern hold of Rockwell’s cold expression, the shadows on her face darkening in the peaks and valleys, emanating the same effect as holding a flashlight under one’s chin.
“I think you fail to grasp how positively fucked you are,” she sneers, daring to curse twice in the same chapter, “unless you tell me everything you know about Project Shadow.”
~ 18 months ago ~
The Guardian Units of Nations was a complete mess in the short trickle of days following the Eclipse Cannon event; even more so considering Director Rockwell was still just barely breaking in the large shoes she had to fill in Commander Walters’ place after his untimely passing.
It was hell juggling the numerous incoming phone calls, the endless jargon and questioning about what to do about the shattered moon, and most of all the incessant reminder that she was completely out of the power league of some snot-nosed obnoxious blue hedgehog and his rag-tag team of colorful friends. They could just swoop in and “save the day,” while she was stuck filing all the paperwork. The real hero’s work.
Commander Abraham Tower, head of weapons operations, had scheduled a meeting for a grueling nine AM sharp, which she was reluctantly walking to (a little late) with a pile of papers tucked in one arm and a lukewarm cup of coffee that had lost its heat in the ten minute commute to her office.
As she entered, Tower stood up from his chair, features grave, an immediate indicator that he had bad news. Sighing, she waited until she slid into her cushioned office chair and swiveled up to the desk to ignite the desktop and greet him.
“Good morning, Commander Tower,” she began, holding up a finger to hush him as she took a sip. “I assume you have a status report for me.”
“…Director Rockwell,” Tower confirmed with a nod, adjusting his collar. “Satellite imagery confirmed that the Eclipse Cannon has been completely destroyed,” he paused to let the words sink in before continuing, “The ARK, however, remains in its orbit, and could potentially still be functional.”
Rockwell placed her coffee cup on a nearby coaster, deciding it was too suboptimal for her liking. “Can it be boarded?”
Shifting in the uncomfortable wooden chair he’d been sitting on for way too long by now, Tower furrowed his brow. “Theoretically, yes. However…”
“What is it?” Rockwell raised a piqued eyebrow.
“The satellites also detected some …movement on board,” Tower explained slowly, with emphasis.
She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands and lowering her gaze. “Movement, huh? Are you suggesting those psychotic robot-obsessed freaks actually survived somehow…?”
Tower shook his head. “Thanks to our AI image scanning software, we were able to determine that there are no signs of human life.”
Despondency flashed over Tower’s complexion as he shook his head once more. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” The itch of curiosity deepened in Rockwell’s psyche.
Tower opened the binder that had been sitting in his lap and pulled out a manilla envelope with tiny black letters from a stamp that spelled, ‘TOP SECRET’ in all caps.
“I think you should take a look at this.”
Taking the files somewhat apprehensively, because this smelled like a whole lot more fucking paperwork, Rockwell leaned back in her chair as her eyes skimmed its contents.
And widened as they did so, horror slowly crawling its way across her features as she sat up in her chair. “Dear God… so you think…?”
Tower solemnly nodded, his face twisted in shared anguish. “Yes, we suspect that is what’s behind the movements. For now, it seems to be trapped up there, but who knows how long that will last,” he sighed, a type of tired no amount of coffee could hope to fix. “And without even a body recovered, we have no hope of understanding how to subdue it.”
“As long as it remains trapped on the ARK, we won’t have to,” Rockwell assured, conviction hardening in her mind like a forged sword, despite the imminent danger lurking at the future’s horizon. “For now, keep this at the highest clearance. No one who isn’t you or I should ever get their hands on these files.”
