appl3b0ttumjeanz

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Scourge the Hedgehog stood alone in the narrow, shadowy corridor, the dim lighting casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the cold, damp stone walls. The air felt thick, heavy with the musty scent of aged rock and mildew, and the silence seemed almost suffocating, broken only by the soft shuffle of his boots against the floor. With a practiced, almost mechanical precision, his fingers moved towards the accessory placed atop his cranium , adjusting the crimson-tinted glasses he had scavenged from the cell below. The fit was perfect, snug against his face, and as he carefully positioned them over his scorched eye, an unexpected sense of cold satisfaction washed over him. “Ain’t nothin' gonna stop me now.” Scourge stalked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway with an unmistakable air of confidence. As he neared the door at the end of the passage, his senses sharpened, and the pulse of anticipation quickened in his chest. He knew she was there, hiding just beyond the threshold, her presence almost palpable in the silence. Without hesitation, he reached the door, his hand pressing firmly against the cool metal. The instant he flung it open, the force of the motion reverberated through the room, the door slamming violently against the wall with a thunderous crash. He stood there for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing as he surveyed the dimly lit room, expecting her to be crouched in some hidden corner, waiting for him.  “Well, well, well, what do we got here?" Scourge’s voice slithered through the room, laced with malicious mirth and venom as he swaggered in, his smirk widening. “You must be dumber than you look if you think you can outwit me. I’m gonna rip this place to shreds, starting with you. Piece by piece, pink, I’m gonna break you down so bad you'll be wishin' for an end. Ain’t no one comin' to save you, sweetheart." But as his rehearsed response faded into oblivion, Scourge’s amusement began to fade, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. Amy stood tall, unflinching, her formidable figure coiled like a spring ready to burst. But what truly caught Scourge off guard was the hammer she gripped tightly in her hands. His eyes flicked from the weapon to her face, noting the way her muscles tensed. It was clear—she wasn’t just standing there. She was scheming, her focus intent on the wall beside her, likely weighing the decision to smash it apart and use the opening to depart in a grand escapade. Scourge's expression darkened, a mix of surprise and intrigue flickering in his eyes as he tilted his head, watching her more closely.  "You could do it, y’know. Bash that wall in, make a run for it." Scourge’s grin stretched wider, his eyes glinting with scrutiny as he took a slow, ever malevolent step towards the door. "But you might wanna reconsider, princess. That’s a pretty damn long drop. One slip, and you’ll be paintin' the floor with your insides." With a flick of his wrist, he spun around, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. The lock clicked into place, final and unforgiving, the sound reverberating in the air as he turned back to her, his smirk never fading. "Unless that little Gypsy magic of yours is gonna pull a miracle, you don't got's an angel on your side. Aw, c'mon now. Didn’t you wanna do my readin' earlier? How 'bout we ask your little friends what they think your chances are of makin' it outta here?"

((Oiii what the frick))

Fiona’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and relief as a lone figure emerged from the shadowy stairwell—a pink hedgehog, disheveled and battle-worn. Her gaze lingered, taking in the details: the tattered remnants of what might have once been an out-of-style dress clinging to her frame, the uneven sway of her steps from wearing only a single boot. The sight brought a bitter smile to Fiona's lips, unbidden memories surfacing. It was almost a mirror image of her own first chaotic night with Scourge—scarred and bruised.

A rather pitchy voice broke through her thoughts, dripping with urgency.

``Let’s not go letting the riff-raff in, yeah?``

The comment barely registered, muffled beneath the click and scrape of the pink hedgehog hastily sliding deadbolts into place. There was a quiet ferocity in her movements, her hands steady despite the ragged appearance. Fiona studied her for a moment longer, now unsure of where Scourge was—and how the hell this one got out.

Her unspoken question was answered by the deafening crash of the heavy metal door slamming open, the sound reverberating through the space moments after the pink hedgehog had scurried off in the wrong direction from the exit. Fiona couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a scoff slipping past her lips. Her attention snapped back to the doorway—and then froze.

Oh.

She winced instinctively.

``Scourge? You’re not lookin’ too sweet, babe.``

The words dripped from her tongue, slick with amusement. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, threatening to split into something far wider. She couldn’t help it—when he left, he’d been so cocky, brimming with smug self-assurance. And now? Now he looked like he’d crawled his way out of hell, beaten and bruised, his once-pristine arrogance reduced to something far less polished.

Fiona’s steps were slow, deliberate, as if any sudden movement could piss him off as much as he already looked.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Anti Miles slumped against the cold, unyielding wall, his ocean eyes narrowing with the sharpness of a fox spotting a rabbit. The darkness of the situation seemed to crawl around him, feeding his cynical smirk as he finally spoke.

“You think there’s any way outta this? That you’ve got some secret trick up your sleeve to dodge the inevitable?” His voice was low, laced with a gravelly edge that held no sympathy, no warmth, no feeling. “You’re tangled in Scourge’s web. And let me tell ya somethin’—he’s always had a twisted way of makin' sure his enemies meet their end. His malice isn’t just a thought, it’s a plan. And believe me, his plans always come to fruition, one way or another.”

He stood upright with a sudden, fluid motion, his hands reaching up to adjust his toupee, fingers running through the strands as though searching for any imperfection. "Trust me Rose i've done the calculations." His movements were deliberate, precise—as if ensuring that nothing about his image was ever anything less than ordinary. "You ain't goin' nowhere." As he dusted off his red and black attire, the fabric glided over him with an effortless grace, the red of his clothes somehow deeper, darker in the light of the room, as if it absorbed the very darkness of the words he’d just spoken.

He gave her one last, pitiful glance, his gaze filled with cold, dismissive judgment, before turning to walk toward the door. His boots hitting the floor with an unsettling rhythm.

“Scourge doesn’t leave survivors. And you . . . you’re already on his list.”

((Oiii what the frick))

Fiona’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and relief as a lone figure emerged from the shadowy stairwell—a pink hedgehog, disheveled and battle-worn. Her gaze lingered, taking in the details: the tattered remnants of what might have once been an out-of-style dress clinging to her frame, the uneven sway of her steps from wearing only a single boot. The sight brought a bitter smile to Fiona's lips, unbidden memories surfacing. It was almost a mirror image of her own first chaotic night with Scourge—scarred and bruised.

A rather pitchy voice broke through her thoughts, dripping with urgency.

``Let’s not go letting the riff-raff in, yeah?``

The comment barely registered, muffled beneath the click and scrape of the pink hedgehog hastily sliding deadbolts into place. There was a quiet ferocity in her movements, her hands steady despite the ragged appearance. Fiona studied her for a moment longer, now unsure of where Scourge was—and how the hell this one got out.

Her unspoken question was answered by the deafening crash of the heavy metal door slamming open, the sound reverberating through the space moments after the pink hedgehog had scurried off in the wrong direction from the exit. Fiona couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a scoff slipping past her lips. Her attention snapped back to the doorway—and then froze.

Oh.

She winced instinctively.

``Scourge? You’re not lookin’ too sweet, babe.``

The words dripped from her tongue, slick with amusement. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, threatening to split into something far wider. She couldn’t help it—when he left, he’d been so cocky, brimming with smug self-assurance. And now? Now he looked like he’d crawled his way out of hell, beaten and bruised, his once-pristine arrogance reduced to something far less polished.

Fiona’s steps were slow, deliberate, as if any sudden movement could piss him off as much as he already looked.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

"Ayy i'm walkin' 'ere!"

The meticulously arranged stack of documents dispersed chaotically across the floor, reminiscent of autumn leaves scattered in a storm, as Miles struck the unyielding surface beneath him. His back collided with the cold ground, forcing a sharp grunt from his chest. Momentarily disoriented, his blue eyes blinked before snapping sharply toward the perpetrator responsible for his predicament. His features contorted into an amalgamation of disbelief and simmering ire, his hand instinctively brushing against the edge of his toupee, now slightly askew from the impact. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!” he exclaimed, his words tinged with a sharp Jersey cadence that gave his exasperation an incisive edge. “Ya couldn’t just knock, huh? You had to come crashin’ in like a wreckin’ ball and trash my work?” His voice fracturing with uneven cracks as he addressed his pursuer

His gloved fingers twitched, the suppressed fury manifesting as a taut undercurrent beneath his otherwise composed demeanor. He craned his neck, narrowing his eyes into venomous slits as they fixated on the rose-hued hedgehog pinning him to the floor.

“Exit? Oh, sure," he sneered, his voice dripping with scathing sarcasm. "lemme just roll out the red carpet for ya after you turned my office into a landfill. Real considerate." His irritation surged as he added, "Mind gettin’ off me? You’re wrinklin’ what’s left of my day!"

Miles squirmed beneath the weight pressing down on him, attempting to liberate one arm as his mind worked swiftly to recalibrate. As the moments stretched, the raw heat of his anger began to temper, supplanted by a sharper, more calculating awareness. His glare softened marginally, suspicion replacing outrage. "Wait a sec," he muttered, his voice dropping into a measured, almost contemplative tone. "How the blazes are ya even outta your cell?" His brows knit together, the weight of the realization sinking in like a lead anchor. "Don’t tell me those knuckleheads actually let ya slip through." His two tails would flick with interested irritation.

((Oiii what the frick))

Fiona’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and relief as a lone figure emerged from the shadowy stairwell—a pink hedgehog, disheveled and battle-worn. Her gaze lingered, taking in the details: the tattered remnants of what might have once been an out-of-style dress clinging to her frame, the uneven sway of her steps from wearing only a single boot. The sight brought a bitter smile to Fiona's lips, unbidden memories surfacing. It was almost a mirror image of her own first chaotic night with Scourge—scarred and bruised.

A rather pitchy voice broke through her thoughts, dripping with urgency.

``Let’s not go letting the riff-raff in, yeah?``

The comment barely registered, muffled beneath the click and scrape of the pink hedgehog hastily sliding deadbolts into place. There was a quiet ferocity in her movements, her hands steady despite the ragged appearance. Fiona studied her for a moment longer, now unsure of where Scourge was—and how the hell this one got out.

Her unspoken question was answered by the deafening crash of the heavy metal door slamming open, the sound reverberating through the space moments after the pink hedgehog had scurried off in the wrong direction from the exit. Fiona couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a scoff slipping past her lips. Her attention snapped back to the doorway—and then froze.

Oh.

She winced instinctively.

``Scourge? You’re not lookin’ too sweet, babe.``

The words dripped from her tongue, slick with amusement. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, threatening to split into something far wider. She couldn’t help it—when he left, he’d been so cocky, brimming with smug self-assurance. And now? Now he looked like he’d crawled his way out of hell, beaten and bruised, his once-pristine arrogance reduced to something far less polished.

Fiona’s steps were slow, deliberate, as if any sudden movement could piss him off as much as he already looked.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

"You talkin' to me?"

Scourge’s eye twitched, a flash of pain momentarily dulling the fury in his gaze. His lips curled into a tight, controlled sneer as Fiona circled him, her words laced with mockery.

A low, noxious snigger escaped him, the sound dripping with sarcasm. "Ain't that cute, Fi," he drawled, voice dark with menace. "You think you can walk all over me with that sweet talk? I'm the one who does the damn retribution around here, sweetheart."

His hand moved to his jacket pocket with a deliberate calmness, the motion almost too smooth as he retrieved a fresh toothpick. He popped it between his teeth with a sharp flick, the small sound punctuating his words. “But let me tell you somethin’, babe.” He stepped closer, tilting his cranium whilst his presence became an ever looming shadow, each word deliberately measured. “Ain’t nobody makin’ me look like a fool, especially not her. Yeah, maybe things didn’t go perfectly, but you know what? I’m Scourge. I’ll handle it. And when I find her, you’ll get a front row seat to the show, Fi.”

His smirk grew even sharper as his fingers toyed with the toothpick, rolling it between them like a weapon in the making. “As for your little jab about the cell…” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Simian’s gotta get his head outta his ass, yeah, but that’s a fault of his own.” Scourge retorted, placing accountability entirely upon the gorilla; concealing only the overt behind wavering bravado. "That big bumblin' waste of space is gonna wish he were locked in there with her when I have a word with 'em"

“But youse just sit tight and enjoy the show, princess.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “Just don’t go gettin' any ideas about doubting me again, Fiona. I’ll knock those shiny pearly whites clean outta that smug mug of yours in no time." With a wicked grin curving his lips, Scourge flicked his nose dismissively, as if brushing away an insignificant nuisance. His hands moved to his leather jacket, gripping it with deliberate precision before giving it a sharp tug, the motion smooth yet convulsive. His eyes flicked toward Fiona, his gaze lingering just long enough to send a silent warning before snapping back to the path ahead. With a swagger, he headed toward the west wing, the scent of saccharine sludge paving the way right to her.

((Oiii what the frick))

Fiona’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and relief as a lone figure emerged from the shadowy stairwell—a pink hedgehog, disheveled and battle-worn. Her gaze lingered, taking in the details: the tattered remnants of what might have once been an out-of-style dress clinging to her frame, the uneven sway of her steps from wearing only a single boot. The sight brought a bitter smile to Fiona's lips, unbidden memories surfacing. It was almost a mirror image of her own first chaotic night with Scourge—scarred and bruised.

A rather pitchy voice broke through her thoughts, dripping with urgency.

``Let’s not go letting the riff-raff in, yeah?``

The comment barely registered, muffled beneath the click and scrape of the pink hedgehog hastily sliding deadbolts into place. There was a quiet ferocity in her movements, her hands steady despite the ragged appearance. Fiona studied her for a moment longer, now unsure of where Scourge was—and how the hell this one got out.

Her unspoken question was answered by the deafening crash of the heavy metal door slamming open, the sound reverberating through the space moments after the pink hedgehog had scurried off in the wrong direction from the exit. Fiona couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a scoff slipping past her lips. Her attention snapped back to the doorway—and then froze.

Oh.

She winced instinctively.

``Scourge? You’re not lookin’ too sweet, babe.``

The words dripped from her tongue, slick with amusement. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, threatening to split into something far wider. She couldn’t help it—when he left, he’d been so cocky, brimming with smug self-assurance. And now? Now he looked like he’d crawled his way out of hell, beaten and bruised, his once-pristine arrogance reduced to something far less polished.

Fiona’s steps were slow, deliberate, as if any sudden movement could piss him off as much as he already looked.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Heartstrings.

The resounding slam of the door reverberated through the walls, a violent herald of his seething rage. Scourge stormed in, his leather jacket hanging haphazardly from one shoulder, torn and streaked with grime. His crimson shades were conspicuously absent, leaving one electric blue eye exposed and burning with unrestrained fury, and the other quite literally burned. With a swift, deliberate motion, he plucked the toothpick from between his razor-sharp teeth and flicked it to the floor. The snap echoed like a warning shot, sharp and final, mirroring the tempest roiling within him.

“Where is she?” His voice was a low growl, thick with venom and cutting through the air with razor precision.

His head snapped toward Fiona, channeling her response. “Don’t even start. I ain’t in the mood for any lip.” His tone was cold, each word heavy with the weight of his unchecked wrath. "WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?"

Gaze sweeping the room, his chest would rise and fall with barely contained fury. His hand moved to his cheek, fingers brushing the raw burn marring his face. A low, guttural curse escaped him as he barked sharply, “Look at me, Fi.” His tone was cracking with venomous flair, yet almost incredulous, like he himself couldn’t believe the circumstances which occurred. “She gave me a kick where it counts and scorched my damn eye with my own cig.”

A humorless laugh tore from his throat, bitter and razor-sharp. He leaned against the wall, wagging a finger in the air as though delivering a lesson, the motion mocking and theatrical. “When I find her, sweets...” His voice dropped to a low, ominous murmur, each word deliberate. “She’s gonna wish she ran a little faster. I’ll make sure of that. Burn for burn, pain for pain.”

His smirk twisted into something far darker, his eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam. “But first... you’re gonna tell me exactly where she’s skittered off to. Ain’t that right, Fi?” His words, coated in menace, carried a dangerous promise as he straightened, his full focus now fixed on Fiona, the weight of his rage pressing heavy in the air.

((Oiii what the frick))

Fiona’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and relief as a lone figure emerged from the shadowy stairwell—a pink hedgehog, disheveled and battle-worn. Her gaze lingered, taking in the details: the tattered remnants of what might have once been an out-of-style dress clinging to her frame, the uneven sway of her steps from wearing only a single boot. The sight brought a bitter smile to Fiona's lips, unbidden memories surfacing. It was almost a mirror image of her own first chaotic night with Scourge—scarred and bruised.

A rather pitchy voice broke through her thoughts, dripping with urgency.

``Let’s not go letting the riff-raff in, yeah?``

The comment barely registered, muffled beneath the click and scrape of the pink hedgehog hastily sliding deadbolts into place. There was a quiet ferocity in her movements, her hands steady despite the ragged appearance. Fiona studied her for a moment longer, now unsure of where Scourge was—and how the hell this one got out.

Her unspoken question was answered by the deafening crash of the heavy metal door slamming open, the sound reverberating through the space moments after the pink hedgehog had scurried off in the wrong direction from the exit. Fiona couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a scoff slipping past her lips. Her attention snapped back to the doorway—and then froze.

Oh.

She winced instinctively.

``Scourge? You’re not lookin’ too sweet, babe.``

The words dripped from her tongue, slick with amusement. A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, threatening to split into something far wider. She couldn’t help it—when he left, he’d been so cocky, brimming with smug self-assurance. And now? Now he looked like he’d crawled his way out of hell, beaten and bruised, his once-pristine arrogance reduced to something far less polished.

Fiona’s steps were slow, deliberate, as if any sudden movement could piss him off as much as he already looked.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

You've made your bed, now lie in it.

Scourge paused mid-drag, the smoke billowing from his nostrils in dense, serpentine tendrils, an almost regal display of disdain. He leisurely pressed a hand to his lips, rubbing them as though erasing some invisible stain, his sardonic smirk fixed in place like an unyielding mask. “What did you just call me?” His voice, though soft, carried an unmistakable weight, each syllable cutting through the space between them with a subtle, menacing precision. His gaze, once distant, now turned icy, a penetrating cold that seemed to freeze the very air as it locked with the effervescent pink hedgehog’s.

Before she could even blink, he was before her, his movements a blur, and in an instant, his hand was buried in her tangled pink hair, yanking her upright. Their faces were mere inches apart, his gaze sharp as broken glass, seething with unspoken malice.

“I am nothing like that good-for-nothin' speedster,” he hissed, his voice venomous, unnervingly contempt. "I’m Scourge. The Scourge. And I’m not some dim-witted knockoff. You’ve got some nerve, thinking I’d stand here and let myself be compared to that numbskull.” His eyes narrowed, a dangerous gleam dancing in their depths as they traced her face, savoring the moment with a dark amusement.

With deliberate slowness, Scourge removed the cigarette from his lips with his other hand, holding it up between them as though toying with the notion, letting it dangle between his fingers like a piece of fine art. He rolled it casually, inspecting it, all the while his smirk deepening, twisted with unholy satisfaction.

“You know,” he mused, his tone now laced with a grim, tantalizing mockery, “I should really show you just how different we are. After all, I’m not the one runnin' from you, sweetheart.” He offered her the cigarette, his voice silk-smooth but sharp as a blade. “So, what’s it ganna' be? You do it, or should I?”

PT.4 (it's a bit late)

Amy tried to dismiss Scourge’s unnervingly perfect entrance as mere coincidence, but the thought lingered, gnawing at the edges of her mind like an annoying pebble caught in her boot.

She gave her head a quick shake, as though clearing it.

“Scourge! Just the man I wanted to see!” Her smile sprang back into place like clockwork, bright and unyielding. It would take far more than this to snuff out her sunshine, and she wasn’t planning on giving him the chance to try.

“How about we talk—just you and me?” she offered, her tone sweet but firm, her hands moving in animated gestures as if she were on stage.

“Surely we can come to terms, put it behind us, and be on our way,” Amy said, her words ringing with confidence and optimism, though the cold iron bars between them felt less like a boundary and more like a spotlight in a cruel circus act. She was in a zoo.

“Why don’t you come in?” she offered, her voice light and inviting despite the absurdity of the suggestion. Her conscience wasn’t silent about it either, hissing, Yeah, because that’s such a brilliant idea. She pushed the thought aside with a forced smile, turning her attention to the state of her cell.

Making an exaggerated show of sweeping the loose hay into a tidy pile near her "bed," she added with mock cheer, “I never got to thank you properly for this lovely suite. Talk about hospitality.” Her hand gestured broadly at the dim, grimy surroundings as though she were presenting a luxury hotel room.

Scooping up her tarot cards with a practiced flick of her wrist, she shuffled them with ease, the motion fluid and almost hypnotic. The faint rustle of the cards broke the silence, her fingers moving as if they had a rhythm of their own. Glancing at Scourge, she flashed a toothy grin.

“Maybe I could read your fortune while we’re at it!” she offered, the lilt in her voice as disarming as the promise of a harmless game. She waited, still shuffling, ears pricked for the faint chime of the gate lock.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Sandpaper Rough Exterior. Pray.

Scourge inclined his head slightly as Amy’s grinned, his sharp gaze catching the flicker of motion as she toyed with her deck of tarot cards. His lips curved into a slow, sardonic smile, exuding a confidence born of both arrogance and self-assurance.

“Fortune-telling, huh? Well, that’s a twist,” he sneered, his tone steeped in derision as he leaned against the cold iron bars, arms crossed in a posture of calculated ease. “What’s next? You gonna shuffle those cards and tell me my future’s brighter than the shine off these bars you’re behind? Cripes, Rose, that’s a riot!” Scourge erupted into a beefy, unrestrained laugh, the sound reverberating in the dim space as he tilted his head toward her, his expression expectant; as though awaiting her reluctant agreement to his twisted humor. “C’mon, pretty. That was comedy gold. Don’t leave me hangin’.”

__________________________________________________________ His smirk grew sharper as he gestured idly at the bleak surroundings, his eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and something more ominous. “You seriously think that a cute smile and some flimsy magic cards are gonna punch your ticket outta here? Sweetheart, you’re in the wrong place for fairy tales.”

Closing the distance with him and the iron gate, Scourge reached into his jacket and pulled out a tarnished key, spinning it lazily around his finger like it was a toy. He'd slip the key into the lock, the sound of metal grinding against metal echoing in the corridor as he swung the gate open. Stepping inside the cell, he leaned casually against the wall, just a few feet from Amy. "So, what’s the pitch, sugar? Enlighten me." His grin widened as his gaze flicked to the cards in her hand. "Or are you hopin' those things’ll double as a get-outta-jail-free card?"

PT.4 (it's a bit late)

Amy tried to dismiss Scourge’s unnervingly perfect entrance as mere coincidence, but the thought lingered, gnawing at the edges of her mind like an annoying pebble caught in her boot.

She gave her head a quick shake, as though clearing it.

“Scourge! Just the man I wanted to see!” Her smile sprang back into place like clockwork, bright and unyielding. It would take far more than this to snuff out her sunshine, and she wasn’t planning on giving him the chance to try.

“How about we talk—just you and me?” she offered, her tone sweet but firm, her hands moving in animated gestures as if she were on stage.

“Surely we can come to terms, put it behind us, and be on our way,” Amy said, her words ringing with confidence and optimism, though the cold iron bars between them felt less like a boundary and more like a spotlight in a cruel circus act. She was in a zoo.

“Why don’t you come in?” she offered, her voice light and inviting despite the absurdity of the suggestion. Her conscience wasn’t silent about it either, hissing, Yeah, because that’s such a brilliant idea. She pushed the thought aside with a forced smile, turning her attention to the state of her cell.

Making an exaggerated show of sweeping the loose hay into a tidy pile near her "bed," she added with mock cheer, “I never got to thank you properly for this lovely suite. Talk about hospitality.” Her hand gestured broadly at the dim, grimy surroundings as though she were presenting a luxury hotel room.

Scooping up her tarot cards with a practiced flick of her wrist, she shuffled them with ease, the motion fluid and almost hypnotic. The faint rustle of the cards broke the silence, her fingers moving as if they had a rhythm of their own. Glancing at Scourge, she flashed a toothy grin.

“Maybe I could read your fortune while we’re at it!” she offered, the lilt in her voice as disarming as the promise of a harmless game. She waited, still shuffling, ears pricked for the faint chime of the gate lock.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Garsh

Her gratitude broke the quiet. Miles didn’t respond—he only tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. As she sank to the floor and began to speak, his stance didn’t shift, but something flickered in his eyes: skepticism. Her words spilled out, tentative at first, then fueled by frustration and desperation, yet none of it seemed to move him. Instead, he let her talk, his silence an oppressive force that seemed to weigh down the air around them.

When she finally asked for Scourge, Miles’ lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but a faint, bitter twist. He uncrossed his arms, his hands falling to his sides as he leaned closer to the bars, his gravelly voice cutting through the space between them like a blade.

“You’re lucky I even gave you that water,” he said, his tone cold, laced with something that could almost be mistaken for disdain. “But callin’ Scourge back down here? You don’t wanna see him again—trust me on that.”

He straightened, running a hand through the messy swoop of his hair as if dismissing the thought entirely. “And a misunderstanding? Yeah, sure, let’s call it that. But lemme clue you in on somethin’, Rose. Around here, misunderstandings get people hurt . . . or worse.”

“If you’re smart, you’ll stop wastin’ time beggin’ for mercy from people who don’t have any,” he added, his voice quieter but no less cutting. “Think about that while you’re sittin’ there.” Miles gaze would linger as if his gaze could ingrain that thought into her head.

With a final glance back, he'd walk away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving her alone with the echo of his warning.

But just as the silence threatened to close in, a different set of footsteps echoed from the hall—slower, heavier, and carrying a swagger that was unmistakable. A low, almost amused chuckle resonated, growing louder as the figure approached. The air shifted, thickening with tension once more as Scourge emerged from the shadows, his signature smirk plastered across his face.

Miles caught sight of him first and slowed his own steps, briefly glancing over his shoulder.

“Timing’s all yours, Scourge,” Miles muttered, his tone carrying a mix of resignation and indifference.

Scourge shot him a sidelong grin, his teeth flashing in the dim light.

“Cripes, you’re too soft, Miles. Don’t worry, I’ll make it real clear for her,” he replied, his voice dripping with mockery. Then, without missing a beat, he turned his full attention to Amy, his smirk widening as he took in her state.

“Well, well, what’d I miss?” he drawled, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement as he surveyed the scene. “Hope you weren’t gettin’ too comfortable, Rose. I hear ya' wanna see the king baby? Whats on your pretty little mind, hm?" He'd near the iron chambers that entrapped the poor hedgehog, pressing his cranium against the cool bars.

pt.3

Amy stood frozen, mortified, her eyes fixed on him as he turned and walked away, signaling for Simon to follow. It felt like a nightmare unfolding before her, her body betraying her with an involuntary tremor.

Then, without warning, a soft, pathetic whimper escaped her lips—a sound she hadn't even realized was hers until it was too late. Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, her hands reaching out to grip the cold, unforgiving bars of the gate.

“Wait, wait! Please don’t leave!” The words tumbled out in a desperate plea, but the heavy door slammed shut behind them, the sound of the bolt locking echoing in her chest like a death knell, severing any hope she'd clung to. Her voice died in the silence that followed, the space between her and freedom growing wider with each passing second.

Her ears drooped, flattening against her head as the reality of the situation sank in. “Well, that…” She dragged the rough sandpaper of her tongue across her cracked lips, the dryness biting back at her. “-that could’ve gone better.” A hollow giggle escaped her, the sound barely passing for humor, a bitter self-reminder of how things had slipped from her grasp.

"Okie dokie." She bounced on her feet, trying to force a smile that felt more like an uneasy grimace. The darkness enveloped her, the dim light from the torches casting long, wavering shadows that did little to comfort. It was her first time being truly alone, save for one miserable bathroom break—but even then… she glanced over at the empty bucket with a grimace. She couldn’t even manage that.

But she wasn’t going to let herself sink further. No, she decided to focus on the small wins, the slivers of light in the dark. She was alone, yes—but… there was a bit of water?

Her gaze fell on the bottle, its contents a mere sliver, barely enough to even call it a drink. But still… it was something.

Where had her pride gone?

Without another thought, she scooped up the bottle in a frantic rush, holding it up, watching the tiny droplets fall from the tip, each one a reminder of something small but refreshing. For a brief moment, it was a victory.

Now, back to business.

She brushed off her hands, determination flashing in her eyes. Gripping the bar, she braced herself. It was heavy, thick, and wide—its cold surface biting into her palms as she gave it a firm tug.

With a frustrated grunt, she bonked her head on the bars, the dull thud vibrating through her skull.

"Just get to pulling," she muttered under her breath, shaking off the daze and replanting her feet. She had no time for frustration. Only action.

…

There was a shift.

She cheered softly to herself, a smile creeping back onto her face, and with renewed energy, she prepared for another pull when—

“What were you doin’ in Moebius, anyways?”

Amy’s heart skipped a beat, her face twisting in horror as she whipped around, her blood running cold. The fox was still standing there, his gaze fixed on her—completely unamused, unfazed by her frantic efforts.

“Oh…heh, uh, hi!” She waved awkwardly, her voice a strangled croak. Did he—? Did he see any of that? Her stomach churned, the embarrassment eating at her, but she quickly tried to regain some composure.

“Goodness, You startled me!” Amy made efforts to fix herself, swiping at the beads of sweat hitting her brow. She froze once she noticed the bottle in his hand.

Was he also planning to make a show out of it?

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Miles stood at the edge of the iron bars, leaning slightly forward, his eyes narrowing into slits as he observed the pitiful sight in front of him. His gaze was intense, as though he could see straight through the sorry figure in the cage. The air in the room was thick with tension, yet Miles didn't utter a single word. He took his time, setting the water bottle on the ground, before slowly reaching for a broom. With a deliberate motion, he pushed the bottle toward the prisoner, each inch closer making the sound of the plastic scrape against the floor louder in the otherwise silent room.

Just when it seemed the bottle would reach the pathetic prisoner, Miles halted the broom with a sudden flick of his wrist, the bottle now just out of reach. He let the broom drop carelessly to the ground, the soft clink of the handle hitting the floor echoing in the stillness. For a moment, he stood there, watching, his expression unchanging.

Then, without warning, his hand shot up, fingers raking through the messy swoop of his black hair. He let out a sharp exhale, frustration evident in the motion.

“Answer my question, Rose,” he muttered, his voice gravelly and low, but there was something almost resonant about it. His tone wasn’t one of impatience—it was something deeper, colder, like he wasn’t just looking for an answer; he was demanding it. The silence stretched on as the echo of his words lingered.

pt.3

Amy stood frozen, mortified, her eyes fixed on him as he turned and walked away, signaling for Simon to follow. It felt like a nightmare unfolding before her, her body betraying her with an involuntary tremor.

Then, without warning, a soft, pathetic whimper escaped her lips—a sound she hadn't even realized was hers until it was too late. Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, her hands reaching out to grip the cold, unforgiving bars of the gate.

“Wait, wait! Please don’t leave!” The words tumbled out in a desperate plea, but the heavy door slammed shut behind them, the sound of the bolt locking echoing in her chest like a death knell, severing any hope she'd clung to. Her voice died in the silence that followed, the space between her and freedom growing wider with each passing second.

Her ears drooped, flattening against her head as the reality of the situation sank in. “Well, that…” She dragged the rough sandpaper of her tongue across her cracked lips, the dryness biting back at her. “-that could’ve gone better.” A hollow giggle escaped her, the sound barely passing for humor, a bitter self-reminder of how things had slipped from her grasp.

"Okie dokie." She bounced on her feet, trying to force a smile that felt more like an uneasy grimace. The darkness enveloped her, the dim light from the torches casting long, wavering shadows that did little to comfort. It was her first time being truly alone, save for one miserable bathroom break—but even then… she glanced over at the empty bucket with a grimace. She couldn’t even manage that.

But she wasn’t going to let herself sink further. No, she decided to focus on the small wins, the slivers of light in the dark. She was alone, yes—but… there was a bit of water?

Her gaze fell on the bottle, its contents a mere sliver, barely enough to even call it a drink. But still… it was something.

Where had her pride gone?

Without another thought, she scooped up the bottle in a frantic rush, holding it up, watching the tiny droplets fall from the tip, each one a reminder of something small but refreshing. For a brief moment, it was a victory.

Now, back to business.

She brushed off her hands, determination flashing in her eyes. Gripping the bar, she braced herself. It was heavy, thick, and wide—its cold surface biting into her palms as she gave it a firm tug.

With a frustrated grunt, she bonked her head on the bars, the dull thud vibrating through her skull.

"Just get to pulling," she muttered under her breath, shaking off the daze and replanting her feet. She had no time for frustration. Only action.

…

There was a shift.

She cheered softly to herself, a smile creeping back onto her face, and with renewed energy, she prepared for another pull when—

“What were you doin’ in Moebius, anyways?”

Amy’s heart skipped a beat, her face twisting in horror as she whipped around, her blood running cold. The fox was still standing there, his gaze fixed on her—completely unamused, unfazed by her frantic efforts.

“Oh…heh, uh, hi!” She waved awkwardly, her voice a strangled croak. Did he—? Did he see any of that? Her stomach churned, the embarrassment eating at her, but she quickly tried to regain some composure.

“Goodness, You startled me!” Amy made efforts to fix herself, swiping at the beads of sweat hitting her brow. She froze once she noticed the bottle in his hand.

Was he also planning to make a show out of it?

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

“Water?” Scourge repeated, his tone dripping with mock sympathy, a dark glint in his eyes. He clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly, a smirk stretching across his face. “A bit parched after our splendor, muffin?"

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the sound rang through the silence like a crack of thunder. “Simian!” he barked, the venom creeping back into his voice. “Get her some water. And don’t take your sweet time. I’m not in the mood for any of your slow moves.”

Simian quickly scurried off down the corridor to fetch the water, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Scourge turned back to Amy, his gaze never leaving her, as he casually leaned against the cold stone. His leather jacket creaked softly as he shifted, a faint, cruel smile playing on his lips.

The silence between them stretched on, thick with the tension of what would come next. Scourge stood there, watching her like she was some kind of puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out, the edges of his smirk tugging upward at the thought.

When Simian finally returned, the bottle of water in hand, Scourge’s eyes flicked to it. His fingers twitched with barely contained amusement as he snatched it from Simian’s hands before Amy could make a move. The cap twisted off with a sharp, practiced flick, and Scourge brought the bottle to his lips, his gaze locked on Amy’s the whole time.

He took a long, deliberate drink, his throat working with every slow gulp. The water seemed to mock her, glistening in the bottle as he drank it with far too much satisfaction. His grin widened as he swallowed much of it, leaning back against the wall again, his eyes never breaking from hers.

He gave a slow, deliberate step toward her, his boots scraping across the stone floor as he crouched down to her level. His breath was warm against her skin as he leaned in, his face inches from hers. The water bottle, now almost empty, slipped from his fingers and landed near her feet with a dull thud. He flashed a grin, the cruel glint in his eyes burning brighter than ever.

“Gotcha a sip, sweetheart. Enjoy.” He chuckled darkly. “But don’t think for a second you’re gettin’ any more. You’re still mine. Still my little toy. You wanna earn somethin’ from me, you better start impressin’ me soon.”

His ebony jacket creased as he shifted his weight, the faint smell of worn fabric and leather mixed with the sharp scent of the damp air. It was a familiar, comforting feeling to him—the weight of the jacket, the way it made him feel untouchable, like he was in control of every damn thing around him. He ran his fingers along the collar for a moment, smoothing it down, before flicking a cigarette from the pack tucked inside.

With a quick motion, he lit it, the tip flaring to life in a small burst of orange. He took a long drag, the smoke curling up in lazy tendrils, filling the space between them as he exhaled. His lips curled into that grin again, smoke trailing from the corners of his mouth as he eyed her.

"Y'know, you could've made this easier on yourself, princess," he said, moving away from the ball of pink.

He blew another stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his eyes narrowing as he took another drag, savoring the burn in his lungs. "You think this is all just some game, huh? You think I'm gonna be all nice and dandy 'cause you throw out a little act?" He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You don’t get it yet. You don’t get me.”

The smoke swirled around him, a thick cloud that seemed to follow his every move as he stepped away until he finally reached the iron gate, his boots clicking sharply against the floor. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers once more.

“Catch ya later, angel,” Scourge drawled, a smirk curling his lips. “Maybe next time, you’ll be willing to put on a little show for me.” His words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, before he turned on his heel and stalked out of the cell. The brute iron door slammed shut behind him with a thunderous thud, reverberating through the silence as he made his way up the spiral staircase, his boots echoing with each step.

The air shifted with his departure, and from the shadows, a small figure stepped forward, his outline barely visible at first. “What were you doin’ in Moebius, anyways?” The voice was high-pitched, yet there was a gravelly bite to it. Stepping further, the figure revealed itself fully—a fox, his fur slightly disheveled and a toupee perched comically atop his head.

PT.2

(He's bluffing obvi 🙄)

She barely had a moment to process before he was on her—like a zookeeper foolishly opening the bunny exhibit to a wolf. His nails sinking deep into her muzzle, cold and sharp like daggers. The air was sucked from her lungs in an instant, her body slamming into the wall behind her with bone-crushing force. Every breath felt stolen from her, her heart pounding as her world narrowed to the harsh scrape of his claws and the overwhelming weight of his presence.

“Wha’ wha’ I’m swory, Lwisen I’m swry!” Her words tumbled out in a panicked rush, muffled and strained, as his grip tightened like a vice around each side of her muzzle.

She felt the familiar itch for her hammer, the weight of it lingering in her thoughts like a comforting promise—but she quickly quelled the impulse. What good would it do now? Even if she could reach it, would it be enough against him? If she fought back, would the others join in? She had only seen two so far but Chaos knew how many more were waiting out there if she managed to even get out of this dungeon alive. The thought made her head spin with dread. She was delusional, sure, but not suicidal.

Sweat trickled beneath pink fur, what if what he said was true? He wouldn’t go that far surely, the guard, Simon was it? Wouldn’t allow that, nope.

She inched her head toward him, only for the gorilla’s back to be toward her.

Okay, really?

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

"Im tired of this grandpaa."

Scourge released her with a harsh shove, his grip finally relinquishing its hold, but he made no move to step back. Instead, he crouched in front of her with an unsettling, almost predatory calm, his lean figure hunched over with an air of supremacy. His piercing gaze never left hers as he reached out with a single finger, lifting her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his.

“Look at youse,” he murmured, his tone smooth as silk, but laced with venom. The words hung in the air like a noxious perfume. "A disgrace. Filthy. Your hair’s a complete mess, lookin’ like a rat’s nest, and your clothes? A joke—ain’t even close to what anyone’d call decent. And the dirt on your skin? Don’t even get me goin’, it’s like you been rollin’ in the gutter!" His finger traced the line of her jaw with a slow, deliberate touch, as if he were savoring the sensation of her disarray. “It’s as if you’ve been living in some forgotten corner of this hellhole. Haven’t seen the inside of a bath in how long?”

He tilted her head back a little further, his eyes now traveling slowly down her form, every inch of her now a point of derision in his mind. His lips curled into a leer that was at once amused and disgusted, that wolfish grin stretching wider. “You’ve got no pride, do you? Can’t even manage to clean yourself up before getting in my way.” He let the silence hang for a moment, his voice thick with mockery, savoring every syllable. “It’s almost tragic, really. You should’ve taken a moment to refresh yourself—maybe then you’d at least stand a chance in trying to be anything but a filthy, disgusting joke.”

He leaned in closer, until his breath was warm against her ear, the playful edge to his voice now giving way to something more dangerous. “But, hey, I think I can clean ya' up. I know just the place. You wanna cracks some jokes don't ya'? Have a lil' fun? We'll so do I toots."

PT.2

(He's bluffing obvi 🙄)

She barely had a moment to process before he was on her—like a zookeeper foolishly opening the bunny exhibit to a wolf. His nails sinking deep into her muzzle, cold and sharp like daggers. The air was sucked from her lungs in an instant, her body slamming into the wall behind her with bone-crushing force. Every breath felt stolen from her, her heart pounding as her world narrowed to the harsh scrape of his claws and the overwhelming weight of his presence.

“Wha’ wha’ I’m swory, Lwisen I’m swry!” Her words tumbled out in a panicked rush, muffled and strained, as his grip tightened like a vice around each side of her muzzle.

She felt the familiar itch for her hammer, the weight of it lingering in her thoughts like a comforting promise—but she quickly quelled the impulse. What good would it do now? Even if she could reach it, would it be enough against him? If she fought back, would the others join in? She had only seen two so far but Chaos knew how many more were waiting out there if she managed to even get out of this dungeon alive. The thought made her head spin with dread. She was delusional, sure, but not suicidal.

Sweat trickled beneath pink fur, what if what he said was true? He wouldn’t go that far surely, the guard, Simon was it? Wouldn’t allow that, nope.

She inched her head toward him, only for the gorilla’s back to be toward her.

Okay, really?

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Fuhhgettabouttit~~RIP. AMY ROSE.

The dim light caught on his crimson glasses, sliding down just enough to reveal his electric blue eyes, and the toothpick trapped between his razor-sharp teeth moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm as he surveyed the scene before him. The girl was a chatterbox—all sweet tones and playful gestures, talking to the gorilla like he was her best friend instead of her jailer.He’d been amused at first, watching her antics from the Iron bars, but when she giggled—that tiny sound that broke the air—it caught him off guard. “Ain't that something,” he muttered, straightening slightly as he sauntered closer to the bars, the toothpick shifting to the other side of his mouth. “Did you just giggle at me?” His voice carried that Jersey drawl, dripping with both disbelief and cocky swagger. Scourge let out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back against the bars, his leather jacket creaking in protest. "Gee, you're somethin' else, pinky," he muttered, though now the amusement in his voice was quickly fading. His grin stretched wider, teeth sharp and gleaming, but it wasn’t the same cocky smile anymore—it had a dangerous edge to it. “Most folks, they see me, and they're either prayin’ to Chaos or pissin' themselves. But you? You’re sittin’ there, crackin’ jokes like you’re at some kinda tea party.” The anger began to bubble up, his lips curling into a snarl as he took a step closer. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it, dollface," he snapped, though his grin still lingered, twisted and threatening. He pushed off from the bars, his movements sharp and sudden, the metallic jingling of his belt adding to the tension as he stalked forward. Scourge’s gaze never left her, his teeth bared as he stood just outside the cell, rage seeping into his every word. His hand curled into a fist, slamming against the bars with enough force to rattle the whole cage. “Simian!” he barked, voice thick with contempt. “Open this damn gate.”

The sharpness in his voice made the air grow colder. He stood there, unmoving, eyes never leaving the woman trapped inside, seething with barely contained anger. “I don’t care if you have to tear it down. Just open the fuckin' gate." As the gorilla opened the gate without a word, Scourge would halt in front of her, his eyes wild with fury, the smirk now replaced with something far darker. With one swift motion, he reached down, grabbing her cheeks in a bruising grip, yanking her forward before slamming her back against the cold stone wall. “So here’s the deal,” he growled, voice low and deadly, his nose inches from hers. “You don’t laugh at me. Got it? This ain't some damn after-school special, sweetheart. You’re still locked in here, and there's a lot of things I could do to you down here, and nobody would hear you scream."

"I plan on sharing my love with the world!"

Well, whoooey…

The words hung in the air, almost laughable. She sank against the cold, unforgiving concrete wall, a sigh escaping her lips. The floor beneath her was grimy, its damp chill seeping through the thin fabric of her dress, sending an uncomfortable shiver up her spine. It gnawed at her, pulling her focus away from the tarot cards scattered across the floor, causing her to shift constantly, unable to find a comfortable position.

Sighing, she pushed herself to her feet in one swift motion, only to stumble back as a wave of dizziness spun her surroundings. Catching her breath, she steadied herself and shuffled toward the iron bars. Beyond them loomed an ape, towering and unyielding, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, his back turned to the pinkette.

She cleared her throat, the sound a small attempt to pierce the thick silence.

“Excuse me, sir,” she began again, her voice soft but edged with determination, hoping for even the faintest reaction.

“I don’t know what I did wrong, but I promise I won’t do it again!” Her plea hung in the air. Another dry click in her throat.

Chaos above she was thirsty.

She waited… and waited….once more no results.

A sob rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down, turning back to the scattered cards. The fool seemed to be making a mockery out of her predicament. offering no more hope with each weary shuffle.

How long had she been trapped in this place? It felt as though weeks had slipped through her fingers like sand, though for all she knew, it could have been mere hours since she was yanked out of that village—why? For offering apples? Was that a crime?

The ape had offered no answers.

Nor had the fox.

At first, the sight of the fox had startled her—she couldn’t remember how long ago it was—but when the heavy door creaked open, casting a shadow across the room, her heart had leapt with a flicker of hope, convinced it was Tails. But as the figure stepped into the light, her hope crumbled. It was a doppelganger of some kind—his features eerily familiar yet off, topped with what looked like a hairpiece of some sort.

She remembered him edging closer to the ape, his voice a whisper, barely parting his lips as they exchanged a message in the shadows. Throughout the entire encounter, he hardly spared a glance at the hedgehog, who stood frozen, eyes wide in stunned disbelief. When the exchange was over, he melted back into the dimness, his movements smooth and silent as he disappeared.

where the heck was she? Were there more doppelgangers around?

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

The Kings Back Baby

Scourge leaned back on his jagged throne, one boot kicked up on the armrest, the other tapping a rhythm against the cold steel floor. The room was a twisted mirror of royal opulence—charred banners draped carelessly from the high stone walls, the light from flickering torches casting jagged shadows that danced like ghosts. In his hand, he twirled a crown he’d swiped from some sorry mug who thought they could challenge him. The dent in its rim? Yeah, that was from Scourge’s fist.

“Another day, another kingdom under my heel,” he muttered, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. He let the crown drop with a clatter, watching it roll across the floor like it was worth less than the gum on his shoe. “And yet, the entertainment around here… kinda blows.”

The skeletal minion at his side—a jittery little thing with more nerves than brains—fidgeted as Scourge’s blue eyes slid lazily toward him. “You's gonna stand there shakin’ like a leaf, or are ya gonna spill what’s got ya interruptin’ my throne time?”

The minion squeaked, practically tripping over its own bony feet as it bowed. “M-my King, there’s been… a disturbance in the dungeon.”

Scourge’s brow quirked, his grin widening. “A disturbance, huh? Let me guess. One of those shmucks downstairs finally grew a backbone?”

“N-not exactly, your highness. It’s the pink one. She’s… asking questions. Pleading, even.”

“Pink one?” Scourge’s voice took on a mockingly sweet tone as he stroked his chin. “Oh, you mean her. Little miss ‘spreadin’ love and sunshine.’” He snorted, the sound dripping with derision. “Yeah, lemme guess—she’s whining about how unfair it all is. Boo-hoo, the world’s so mean. “

The minion hesitated. “S-she did mention something about… 'not doing it again'?”

Scourge froze for a beat, then threw his head back and laughed. The sound was loud, brash, and entirely without warmth, echoing off the stone walls like a thunderclap. “'Not doin' it again'?! Oh, that’s rich! She’s locked in my dungeon, and she’s gripin’ about principal? Cripes, I almost feel bad for her. Almost.”

He shoved himself off the throne, his boots hitting the floor with a commanding thud. “Alright, bone bag, lead the way. I’m in the mood for some entertainment, and it sounds like this pinky got more guts than brains.”

The minion stumbled ahead, nervously glancing back to ensure Scourge was following. As they descended the spiraling staircase into the dungeon, Scourge ran a hand through his spiky quills, the fluorescent glow of his green fur shimmering under the dim torchlight. His crimson glasses caught the flickering flames, casting sharp reflections like twin daggers. A toothpick rested snugly between his razor-sharp teeth, clicking against them as he grinned—a grin that never faltered, every step down into the darkness only fueling his twisted amusement.

By the time they reached the cell, Scourge could see her—the pink hedgehog, sitting on the grimy floor, clutching those tarot cards like they were her lifeline. She looked up at the sound of his approach, her emerald eyes wide with a mixture of hope and dread.

Scourge leaned casually against the iron bars, the belts of his leather jacket clinking faintly against the cold metal as he crossed his arms, looking her over. “Well, well, well. If it ain’t Miss Apples-to-Oranges herself. You makin’ yourself cozy down here, or should I call room service?”

"I plan on sharing my love with the world!"

Well, whoooey…

The words hung in the air, almost laughable. She sank against the cold, unforgiving concrete wall, a sigh escaping her lips. The floor beneath her was grimy, its damp chill seeping through the thin fabric of her dress, sending an uncomfortable shiver up her spine. It gnawed at her, pulling her focus away from the tarot cards scattered across the floor, causing her to shift constantly, unable to find a comfortable position.

Sighing, she pushed herself to her feet in one swift motion, only to stumble back as a wave of dizziness spun her surroundings. Catching her breath, she steadied herself and shuffled toward the iron bars. Beyond them loomed an ape, towering and unyielding, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, his back turned to the pinkette.

She cleared her throat, the sound a small attempt to pierce the thick silence.

“Excuse me, sir,” she began again, her voice soft but edged with determination, hoping for even the faintest reaction.

“I don’t know what I did wrong, but I promise I won’t do it again!” Her plea hung in the air. Another dry click in her throat.

Chaos above she was thirsty.

She waited… and waited….once more no results.

A sob rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down, turning back to the scattered cards. The fool seemed to be making a mockery out of her predicament. offering no more hope with each weary shuffle.

How long had she been trapped in this place? It felt as though weeks had slipped through her fingers like sand, though for all she knew, it could have been mere hours since she was yanked out of that village—why? For offering apples? Was that a crime?

The ape had offered no answers.

Nor had the fox.

At first, the sight of the fox had startled her—she couldn’t remember how long ago it was—but when the heavy door creaked open, casting a shadow across the room, her heart had leapt with a flicker of hope, convinced it was Tails. But as the figure stepped into the light, her hope crumbled. It was a doppelganger of some kind—his features eerily familiar yet off, topped with what looked like a hairpiece of some sort.

She remembered him edging closer to the ape, his voice a whisper, barely parting his lips as they exchanged a message in the shadows. Throughout the entire encounter, he hardly spared a glance at the hedgehog, who stood frozen, eyes wide in stunned disbelief. When the exchange was over, he melted back into the dimness, his movements smooth and silent as he disappeared.

where the heck was she? Were there more doppelgangers around?

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Manic stifled a sigh as she shifted the pouch behind her, clearly guarding whatever secrets it held. No payday today, he mused, though his lazy grin stayed intact. Every now and then, her fingers brushed against his medallion, tracing its smooth, worn surface. The faint contact sent a hum of awareness through him, and he tilted his head slightly, pink eyes glinting with something between amusement and calculation.

She had him pegged—he could feel it. The sharpness in her gaze, the deliberate movements—it all screamed that she was onto him. But Manic wasn’t the type to let that ruin his vibe. He let a silence stretch, weighing his next move like a musician timing the perfect note.

“Yeah, you dig it?” he asked at last, his voice carrying that same unhurried cadence, like they were just two pals chilling under the stars. His hand moved almost lazily, sliding up to join hers where it lingered on the medallion.

His fingers brushed hers—light at first, just testing the waters—before curling around them, firm but not forceful. He traced the medallion’s chain with his thumb for a beat, the metal cool beneath his calloused touch. Then, in a deliberate, fluid motion, he shifted her hand away, intertwining their fingers as he did.

“Too bad you can’t have it,” he murmured, his voice a playful mix of cocky and laid-back.

Pt. 3

Now that….That wasn’t something she entirely anticipated.

She too nearly broke character, lids lifted slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes like a spark catching dry kindling. Even her feathers betrayed her, fluffing faintly like goosebumps rippling along her frame. She tightened her jaw, forcing herself to reel it in. Get a grip, she scolded herself, her mind racing to recover. Hadn’t Rouge pulled this exact move before?

“Gee, thanks,” she drawled, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she folded her arms. “I was just handling used diapers and dog shit a second ago, so it’s nice to know they’re in good shape.” Her smirk returned, sharp and deflective, a verbal jab meant to mask her own stumble.

Hand still gripping her valuables with the care of a hawk guarding its nest, she let her other hand drift closer to his tattered cargo pants. The movement was fluid, unassuming, as if guided by the air between them. Her fingers slipped into the frayed pocket with practiced ease, the faintest whisper of fabric brushing against her gloves.

She scooted nearer, her sharp eyes tracing the lazy lines of his open vest, each detail cataloged in her mind.

“Nice necklace,” she murmured, her voice soft and honeyed, a distraction spun from silver. “What’s the story behind that?”

Her hand retreated, the motion as smooth as a thief's retreating shadow, slipping behind her back to conceal what she had taken. She didn’t need to look—her fingers already told her everything.

Oh, gross. Her stomach turned. It was an unused condom. A flash of repulsion crossed her face, barely suppressed, as she swallowed her disgust and quickly worked to erase the mental image. This idiot would.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Manic’s ears caught the faint rustling coming from the swallow’s palms, and he didn’t need to look down to know where her hands were headed. He felt them sliding into the shallow, tattered depths of his jean pockets, and he nearly chuckled at how obvious her moves were.

Still, his attention wasn’t on the pickpocket act itself—it was on her. That fleeting moment when her composure cracked just enough for him to catch a glimpse of what was beneath. That mask she wore had slipped, if only for a heartbeat, and in that flicker of truth, he saw it: she was nervous.

Intriguing.

With his grip still firm on one of her hands, Manic made his next move. Swift and confident, he clasped her other hand, his gloved palm meeting hers with purpose. He pulled her closer, the distance between them shrinking to a mere breath, leaving her no choice but to face him head-on.

His pink gaze flickered downward, landing briefly on the pouch hanging at her waist, just barely brushing against her feathers. “That necklace,” he started, voice low and tinged with a hint of something raw, “was a gift from my ma before she bailed—left us high and dry, y’know?”

He gave a shrug, his smirk creeping back into place. “And it ain’t just a necklace. It’s a medallion.”

Pt. 3

Now that….That wasn’t something she entirely anticipated.

She too nearly broke character, lids lifted slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes like a spark catching dry kindling. Even her feathers betrayed her, fluffing faintly like goosebumps rippling along her frame. She tightened her jaw, forcing herself to reel it in. Get a grip, she scolded herself, her mind racing to recover. Hadn’t Rouge pulled this exact move before?

“Gee, thanks,” she drawled, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she folded her arms. “I was just handling used diapers and dog shit a second ago, so it’s nice to know they’re in good shape.” Her smirk returned, sharp and deflective, a verbal jab meant to mask her own stumble.

Hand still gripping her valuables with the care of a hawk guarding its nest, she let her other hand drift closer to his tattered cargo pants. The movement was fluid, unassuming, as if guided by the air between them. Her fingers slipped into the frayed pocket with practiced ease, the faintest whisper of fabric brushing against her gloves.

She scooted nearer, her sharp eyes tracing the lazy lines of his open vest, each detail cataloged in her mind.

“Nice necklace,” she murmured, her voice soft and honeyed, a distraction spun from silver. “What’s the story behind that?”

Her hand retreated, the motion as smooth as a thief's retreating shadow, slipping behind her back to conceal what she had taken. She didn’t need to look—her fingers already told her everything.

Oh, gross. Her stomach turned. It was an unused condom. A flash of repulsion crossed her face, barely suppressed, as she swallowed her disgust and quickly worked to erase the mental image. This idiot would.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Manic’s eyes stayed locked on hers, not wavering for a second. “Sarah, huh? Tubular name, dude,” he quipped, his tone as breezy as the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

As he spoke, his free hand slid with practiced ease toward her pouch, movements so fluid they bordered on instinct. But before he could snag his prize, he felt the faint warmth of her hand near her pouch—a subtle but deliberate tell that she was onto him.

His grin faltered for only a moment before morphing into something desperate yet undeniably charming. In one swift motion, he grabbed her hand, cradling it in his own tattered glove. He lifted it up between them, his fuchsia eyes flickering over the details of her glove with mock reverence.

“Pretty hands,” he remarked with a disarming smile, his voice dipping into something almost soft. "Names Manic. Though my millions of fans call me Manic the Maniac. Crazy type shii for real."

Pt.2

She was frozen.

Face contoured into utter disgust.

She felt as though he had just assaulted her, the mere appearence was enough, added with the spongey effect of his pointer finger tapping the underside of her beak. She didn’t want to believe this homeless man had just came up to her and did- whatever the hell that was-

She straightened up, towering above the walking bag of shit, Her knuckles turned white as she yanked her gear into place, the wires hanging loose and the fan still spinning, mocking the situation.

Batter, batter Swing!!

the sharp crack of impact echoing through her bones as it landed against that thick, dense skull of his.

“ Who the fuck do you think you are, you piece of shit!” 

 Her gear lifted, and she threatened to swing again less he wised up and answered.

[appl3b0ttumjeanz]

Manic watched the rag flop onto his grimy jeans, the pristine white cloth looking almost comically out of place against the patchwork of stains and wear that made up his sorry excuse for an outfit. “Gee, thanks, Angry Bird,” he drawled, swiping the back of his hand across his still-bleeding lip. “Real classy of you, dude. Gotta hand it to you though—busting my face and then throwing me a pity rag? That’s, like, peak generosity.”

He tossed his board to the side with a casual flick, the clatter echoing in the alley, and pushed himself to his feet. His movement was unhurried, each step deliberate, like the world was moving slower just for him. When he finally approached her, he leaned back against the dumpster, propping his chin lazily on the heel of his palm. The smirk that spread across his face wasn’t just cocky—it was downright audacious, a challenge wrapped in charm.

“So,” he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, gravelly tone of his, “what’s your name, featherhead? After all, I gotta know the name of the girl who so miraculously socked the guy that totally had her swoonin’ a second ago.” His gaze locked onto hers, unwavering, as if daring her to deny it.

Pt.2

She was frozen.

Face contoured into utter disgust.

She felt as though he had just assaulted her, the mere appearence was enough, added with the spongey effect of his pointer finger tapping the underside of her beak. She didn’t want to believe this homeless man had just came up to her and did- whatever the hell that was-

She straightened up, towering above the walking bag of shit, Her knuckles turned white as she yanked her gear into place, the wires hanging loose and the fan still spinning, mocking the situation.

Batter, batter Swing!!

the sharp crack of impact echoing through her bones as it landed against that thick, dense skull of his.

“ Who the fuck do you think you are, you piece of shit!” 

 Her gear lifted, and she threatened to swing again less he wised up and answered.