took one look at the first three pages of @sonicboomrevisited's issue 4 and went "fanfic." i hope i got the details (at least mostly) right lol
enjoy!
Word count: ~630
It’s…so cold.
It’s so cold.
There’s snow everywhere. It covers the ground, the trees, his head, his arms. He can’t escape the snow. It piles around him, and it chills his body beyond the point of shivering. There’s snow building up on his quills. He can’t shake it off. He can’t even feel where snow changes to fur; everything’s too cold. He could be buried in it and he wouldn’t know.
He wants to move, but he can’t. Icy metal cuffs wrap around both feet and a wrist, pulling his limbs away from his body, exposing him in a vulnerable, helpless position. It makes him even colder; he can’t curl up and preserve body heat. Red circuit-like lines snake up his arms and legs (and a little on his face), tingling softly. They used to burn. They don’t anymore.
His last hand though, the right one, doesn’t have chains—he broke those—but thorns replace metal.
Oh Gaia, the thorns.
The vine almost seems alive. It wraps around his wrist and hand, squeezing just as tight as the cuffs. Anywhere that isn’t covered in the old metal cuff, the blood-red thorns bite into his skin, stinging, burning, immobilizing him from pain. Any slight motion means the thorns bury deeper. So he keeps his hand as still as he possibly can.
It’s not like he can move much even if he wasn’t chained off the ground and unable to escape. He feels so incredibly weak. Even his thoughts are hard to form into cohesive sentences. Everything’s just a jumble of words and commands.
It’s so cold. And he’s so tired.
He…can’t do this alone.
He can hear something—maybe himself speaking, though was it really himself anymore? He didn’t know—or maybe they’re just his thoughts. After all, in this cold, quiet, snowy prison, his thoughts are the loudest thing he can hear. He doesn’t know if he’s speaking. He can’t feel his mouth move to form words, but then again, everything’s cold and numb. Except his hand. That burns with pain. But his hand doesn’t speak. It didn’t make any noise.
He needs…help…
He can’t escape this alone. He can’t move. He can barely think. He needs help. He needs his friends. He misses them.
There’s movement in front of him.
That’s new.
His exhausted gaze lifts from the snow-covered ground. His red eyes—he knows they’re red, there’s a slight buzzing in his irises, just like with his arms and legs, and he knows those are red—take a moment to focus on the scene in front of him. He’d quickly grown accustomed to the colorless snow and gray trees and burning red thorns, so that was nothing new. No—what surprised him was the person standing in front of him, bushy mustache already frosted with snow, a permanent scowl on his face.
The shock is enough to give him enough energy to speak.
“Egg—Eggman?” he hears himself utter in disbelief. This time, he knows it’s him speaking. The surprise of seeing his nemesis here lets him briefly feel himself move.
How is Eggman even here? He thought this was the space his mind escaped to when it couldn’t handle reality, when he was damaged, until he was dragged down into the abyss. He thought he was alone here. So how is Eggman…?
It doesn’t matter.
He knows he should be furious. This is the man that put him here. The one who trapped him in that glass tube and turned him into…a shell. The one who made him fight his friends. He should be enraged.
Instead, all he can think of is a desperate plea. Help me!!
But he lacks the energy to articulate his panic and desperation. The only words that can slip from his frozen body are weak and quiet.
“He…help.”