The command center looked like a warzone. A big section of floor was charred, warped and sagging, as if partially turned to slag. Smoke was billowing up through the glowing, yellow, cylinder-shaped isolation field, which flickered occasionally, but dutifully hummed along, doing its job for at least a little while longer.

Ugly as it was, living bodies rained off the tower-like command center platform, propelled out of the isolation field by the blast. They plummeted to the distant metal floor below. Seven's bomb in that comparatively small area was overkill, no question. The power was so much that even his own cover didn't protect him fully; the black-clad troublemaker lay under a bent, shredded, fully-blown-out computer terminal, which appeared to have been torn out of the floor and knocked over atop him, partially pinning him down.

Seven sat up tenderly, clutching at an arm, grimacing, and looking entirely worse for wear in every possible way. He nonetheless lifted the console enough to pull his leg out from under it, rolled over face-down, and pushed himself up onto his knees with considerable effort. He appeared to be experiencing some mix of pain and satisfaction, and coughed every time he started to laugh, and winced behind his grins.

"... Biometric analysis interface ready," said the computer's voice. The system was somehow still operable. A probe-like structure with a single, glassy-looking lens on the underside extended from the distant ceiling above, and began projecting a circle of blue, grid-lined light that encompassed the command chair and a space of twenty-five feet around it on all sides. "Please approach the center of the platform."

Across the platform, by the simple fortune of already being knocked flat, much of the sheer force of the blast passed over Desmond. While it still surely shook him, rolled him, and propelled him like some sort of vicious sledgehammer of force toward the tower's edge, it did not push him into the isolation field. As such, he remained as the only other candidate besides Seven for this twisted game of King of the Hill.


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Seven's eyes darted to Desmond, and his smile warped quickly into a frown of distaste or disappointment.

"Why are you still even here?" the purple-haired boy asked while he quickly stood and began half-limping, half-jogging toward the glowing circle where the computer awaited the final scan. He definitely wanted to beat the ferret there, no question about it. As he went, he drew his machine pistol came from its holster, the crisp, identifiable sound of metal against leather punctuating the movement.

He leveled the gun on Desmond's lower-body; his synthetic glove creaked as he gripped it tightly in anticipation. In a second, he'd squeeze the trigger and unload the rest of his magazine at his foe's legs.

The boy actually wasn't yet opening fire. Why? Because Desmond wasn't obstructing him from getting to his objective. Seven may have been a punk, but apparently, he didn't go gunning people down if they weren't stopping him.

"Yeah, how about no," Seven replied with dripping sarcasm as he continued to jaunt toward the glowing ring, widening the gap between him and the ferret, and narrowing the gap between himself and victory. He was now walking while turned mostly backward, still aiming at Desmond. He had only twenty or so feet to go. "Instead, I'll just go over here, and, you know... win. And you can stay right there, and not get shot. We both win that way, in our own little way... well, mine being better than yours, but, still, y— wha—"

There was one instant of opportunity, a dumb-luck moment: Seven, not looking where he was going, stumbled, and, owing to his limp, fell down over a piece of debris. He'd be quick to get back up, to aim, and to fire if necessary, but it was a window of opportunity to do something, even if small, but only if Desmond acted fast.

Getting a knife to hit over a long distance in such a pinch could be a finicky thing, but it worked out surprisingly well even if it didn't hit the precise target Desmond had designated. It managed to strike blade-first right into Seven's ribs; while it didn't stab straight into him, even just the partial impact left an impressive gash that he quickly clutched as he was (again) downed with a shout.

This gave the running (or bizarrely rodentlike-scurrying?) opponent time to actually make it into the circle, and...

"Biometric analysis complete," said the computer to Desmond after just seconds.



Gaining control didn't solve the problem that immediately followed, though: Seven was still alive and armed. He rolled over to face the ferret, and, grimacing and vengeful, raised his machinepistol and cut loose at him full-auto with what remained in the magazine.

Seven stood crookedly but stably, huffing and puffing. A grin crept across his face as he depressed the magazine release and reached for a replacement. The empty magazine clattered noisily to the floor, the new one clicked into place with a noisy and unmistakable "clack-clatch," and he trained the gun on the ferret's cover as he began to move around it in a wide berth for a clear, safe shot.

Meanwhile, the computer responded to Desmond.

"All combat and security units are currently idle and set to passive mode," it said dryly, and far too calmly for the situation at hand. "If you are having any difficulty with a 'hostile,' it may be advisable to set all units to aggressive mode."

Alas, computers. It didn't do anything because Desmond didn't tell it to. Faced with the simple complaint of a bad situation, it only offered up a possible solution, but did nothing on its own.

Seven found ample time to sidestep around and start burst-firing shots, rat-a-tat-tatting blazing spews of bullets at any shred of Desmond he could get his sights on as the ferret quipped and chatted. Basically, unless he did something more... proactive than just crawling in a circle around the throne, even a limping Seven would manage to draw a bead on him.

"Maybe you should just do what I tell you and stop everything before you get hurt," retorted Seven as he pursued with vigor increased. Any hope of turning things around was long gone for him, though, as robots did indeed start to come soaring down from above. They closed in on Seven's position quickly, deactivated the isolation field, and charged in, sending him running away as they attempted to capture him non-lethally.

Though it'd be hard to tell it from right there, not all of the reinforcements arrived at the central platform to harass Seven. Instead, many more divebombed in all around it, charging at, blasting at, and attempting to seize all the "intruders" they could manage — everyone except Desmond, obviously.

"Understood," responded the computer. True to its word, the flying robots stopped assailing friendlies and diverted their attention accordingly. Seven was meanwhile taking a leap off the tower, and disappearing into the vast depths of the atrium with heaven-only-knows-how-many robots in pursuit.

"You may now address the entire ship."

Fortunately for Desmond, the computer had already performed a biometric scan and genuinely thought Dr. Eggman was a three-foot-tall ferret. As such, it did not question his request.

"One obese human departed in escape pod #117 from reactor core corridor 4 approximately 30 seconds ago," it stated plainly.