You know how sometimes, when you first wake up, there's those few foggy seconds where you have to try to separate your memory into distinct categories of "dream" and "not-dream"?

I didn't have that luxury of uncertainty.

From the second I opened my eyes, it was just a little too obvious that I was coming from a big day. I say "big day" as in, the kind that makes you tired again, thinking about it; the kind that reminds you your everything hurts, and that you're sore enough to justify calling a cab to take you from wherever you've made your bed to the bathroom.

Speaking of beds, that was my other big tip-off to circumstances being... special: Unfamiliar ceiling number three-hundred seventy-nine (But who's even counting, anymore?). See, I'm used to waking up in weird places -- hotels, planes, garages, warehouses, park benches, prison (lol, is she kidding?) -- whatever. It's not as bad as it sounds, just... comes with the lifestyle, is all.

Today's brand of weird established a record that'll be hard to top -- Today, I woke up in space. Yes, that space. Outer space. Stars-and-planets, final-frontier space, (which in itself isn't nearly as novel as it should be) in the only organically habitable living quarters on my boyfriend's newly commandeered space station. Chew on that for a second. Like, really think about it.

Me, I tried not to, because when I did, it gave me all kinds of heebie-jeebies over the previous tenant, despite changing the satin sheets (seriously, TMI), and insisting on flipping the mattress. On that happy thought, I still fell uncoordinatedly out of bed like it was on fire (which, after inadvertently discharging my shield, kind of was, but the automated ceiling arms were quick to jump on it with a pair of extinguishers). Thankfully, Rock was already up (surprise, surprise). So, after unwisely contemplating the possible alternative uses for the ceiling arms, I shuddered, dragged myself off the floor, and went looking for the new Dr. Eggman.

Somehow, I found it much easier to appreciate the ridiculous size of the Egg-whatever-it-was-called, when vainly trying to find my way back to a specific place on it (which, it should be noted, I had departed in a cranky, exhausted, frustrated haze). I was also, maybe made aware of why the ejected genius dictator made so damn many robots; it's lonely out in space. Even with the constant humming or beeping of some automated something-or-other, the ship, presumably like any other structure of the doctor's, was completely and totally empty. I don't know how it even worked in rubber-soled shoes, but I swear, my echoing footsteps were sometimes the only thing I heard.

After what felt like hours, but was probably closer to half of one, I wandered back into that huge, open atrium, with the elevated throne in the middle of it all. Sure enough, Rock was up there. Working, probably, and probably well past aware that I was up and looking for him. I took my time crossing to the foot of the stairs, unable to help but look for remnants of the previous day: Dried blood over there (wonder whose), scuff marks, burn marks, dents, scratches, cracked shards of green crystal... Something about it all set me on edge, while something intensely bitter churned in the pit of my stomach. I looked away from our guests' forget-me-nots like it'd stop bugging me if I did, and climbed the steps as angrily as steps could be climbed. Not really the most sensible thing, but it made me feel a little better. Kind of.

I set foot on the summit of Mt. Control Center, and approached the massive console chair from behind.

"What're you doing?" I asked, without really needing to.

"Finishing touches on the security before we head back to Earth," replied Rock, exhaling in anticipatory satisfaction, perhaps of just being done with the place, as he leaned back in his seat. "Me an' Tau are playin' a game: I come up with ways people could break into the place, and he comes up with ways to kill'em if they try it."


I'll be honest; I have no illusions about Rock being some kind of philanthropist or martyr, or whatever, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how unfair it was: Hawkins, Ace? All of them? They hated him. Like, even to the point of wondering if he'll really be any improvement over the narcissistic egomaniac that we'd just kicked from the top of the food chain.

I dunno. I'm pretty biased, I guess, but it just seemed especially petty. If Rock had blue quills, and clocked 760mph, no one would have thought anything of it -- it would have seemed the natural choice, the right choice, and everybody would've slept easy that night, even if Sonic never sees fit to brief people on his plans, either.

Instead, he's suddenly the one they've always worried about -- the suspicious one, "We knew there was something unsavory about him." "It was only a matter of time," they all say, nodding gravely to themselves. "We'll need to have a plan for when all that power goes to his head." ... F***in' hypocrites. He's alienated, distrusted even by those who claimed to be allies and friends... Friends who couldn't weather one storm with poor visibility. Now even with the dust settling, they think they have it -- think they have him all figured out, but they don't know s**t. He's given up so much; risked so much... And for what? Power? Glory? Respect? Hah. Those that know him, that know what he did, they hate him. And where would they all be if he hadn't? Under the thumb of some pissant kid who'd have made Rock look like a damned saint.

But nobody will say that. He did what needed to be done. What no one else could and would do. And they hate him for it. Because he didn't wink or nudge, or tug his ear to let everyone know he was still on the level. It was that frail. It was apparently always that frail.

It made me wonder why he even bothered. He could have taken the easy way out. He could have used his new resources to do what they all expected of him -- to do what I'd do in a second if I could. But instead, he was fixing things. He was putting back; rebuilding, preparing things to go back to the way they were... but also being vigilant; safeguarding, planning, and, if necessary, getting ready to fight again, to protect them again, for the next time the world went to hell.

Even though they didn't want it.

Even though they didn't deserve it...

Even though it made me sick.



I laughed without being amused, and told him what I thought of his diligence; "You're exhausting."

He turned to look at me with a smile that was actually amused. "Somebody's gotta secure our investment," he declared as flippantly as if he was considering new locks on a shed, and not, you know, intruder response protocols on a giant space destroyer.

"B'siiides," he digressed, his head and upper body flopping sideways over the armrest toward me, making him look at me out the tops of his eyes. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back home. Take a nice, long vacation from all'a'dat villainy we always up to."

He made a faux-insidious, scowling face, which, really lost some of its bite, turned upside-down like it was, but it still made me smile. For real.



That's when I understood. I didn't agree, but I understood: That's just who Rock is. Not a door mat, or a pushover. He knew the implications of his actions, and was prepared to deal with the consequences. He didn't put up with the ensuing crap because he couldn't do anything about it, but because he wouldn't; because he recognized the importance of doing what needed to be done at any cost. That was Rock. Not a hero, or an anti-hero; not a villain, a dictator, a tyrant, or a loose cannon. Just someone capable and willing, regardless of what people thought of him, and he didn't need me to defend his integrity.

Yeah, I understood. But I still hated it.


searchindextag
chapter4search