File Work | Sonicknuckleswsonic3bin

—End

Knuckles opened his jaw, but the words he usually used—gruff refusals, tests of strength—didn’t come. He had lived by proving himself; accepting help felt like weakness. Yet Sonic’s blue eyes were steady, not pleading. He made it sound like a small thing: a walk, a conversation, a race down the cliffs. Things Sonic did best. sonicknuckleswsonic3bin file work

Knuckles’ hands clenched. “Leaving? The Master Emerald—” —End Knuckles opened his jaw, but the words

The wind smelled of copper and ozone as Sonic skidded to a stop on the ridge overlooking Angel Island. Below, the ruins glowed with the last amber of sunset; above, the sky had deepened to bruised red. He rolled onto his back, letting the chill of the stone seep into him, and watched Knuckles moving like a shadow among the broken pillars. He made it sound like a small thing:

Sonic lit up. “Yeah. Down to that palm tree. Loser buys dinner.”

When Sonic finally stood, the night had grown deep and cool. “I’ll stick around for a bit,” he said.