Sonic the Hedgehog

Forced AU

Rating: R

Pairings: Undecided

A/N: To follow the development of the story, please check out my tumblr blog for this story. The blog is titled sonicforcesau

He was wounded. Hurt. He felt so sick, as he laid sprawled out on the ground.

The smell of blood was strong.

"You're weak." the voice taunted. "If you weren't so weak, your folks wouldn't have died."

He gritted his teeth. Willing himself, he pushed his body to stand up. In the hazy state of his mind, all his brain could register was that the figure stood in front of him was a species of wolf.

It was too dark to see colour.

"If you were strong enough, I would have been the one dying today." the voice stated.

Suddenly, he was pushed off balance. He fell back down again onto the wooden floor. Groaning in pain, he heard chuckles - pure, sadistic chuckles; the kind of chuckle of someone sick enough in the head to thoroughly enjoy taking a life.

The smell of blood was strong, down here, on the floor.

"Well, my job here is done." the voice grumbled again. "I was told I only had to dispose of James and the wife. Consider this your lucky day."

Heavy footsteps slowly faded in the distance. The rattles of a gun being holstered rang into his ears.

"I am… not… weak…!" he gritted out.

He pushed his way off the floor, and stumbled his way out of the house and staggered some distance. He had no idea how long he walked; it felt like an eternity. He felt exhausted.

"I am not weak…!" he groaned out, as loud as he could, before he collapsed back onto the dirt ground. He felt frustrated. He felt defeated.

"I am…" he coughed. "... not… weak…!"

That was the last thing he breathed out before he passed out.

He woke up in an unfamiliar place.

He quickly came to the conclusion that he was brought into shelter by someone who found him as a survivor. Scanning his surroundings, he realised that he was in a slightly uncomfortable bed, inside some cottage; the walls were wood, the floor was wood, and the bed he was in was brown.

This place screamed rustic.

However, he noticed that there were no other sounds than the chirps of birds travelling into the house from the nature outside.

He was alone. The window was big enough for him to get out of.

Contemplating his choices, he can either stay or leave.

Staying would mean that he had to deal with whatever questions the person who took him in wanted to ask. Since he felt physically fit - apart from some aches in some muscles - he decided to leave through the window.

Climbing out of the bed and onto the windowsill, he swiftly made his exit.

There was no other people outside the house, either. Silently thanking whoever that saved him, he made his way back to his home.

Was it even a home anymore? A house without people living in it isn't a home. His family was dead. Killed right in front of him.

And he could not do anything to save them.

Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists tight, a surge of anger went through his body. His fur raised from the sudden tensing of his muscles.

"He was right…" he gritted out. "I… am weak…"

But before he could continue with that train of thought, he noticed that he had already reached where he wanted to go. His home. House. Whatever.

It didn't matter anymore.

As he walked towards the entrance, he could still smell the blood stained into the wooden floorboards. The blood of his parents.

His parents; that were alive just this time yesterday.

And now they were dead. Killed ruthlessly, by some mercenary. He didn't understand why they were killed. They didn't deserve it. His mother didn't deserve it.

His father, though…

He was the leader of some mercenary team. Perhaps he had gotten into some conflict which ensured his death. He wasn't able to protect himself, wasn't able to protect his wife. And now, his son gets the bill.

Strange - he thought, as he stared at the insides of the house that he had stayed in for 14 years - he felt strangely empty. He doesn't feel intense sorrow; or immense rage.

Was something wrong with him? His parents were killed, and all he could feel was… Well, nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was like all of the emotions he was capable of feeling was suddenly taken away from him.

He recalled all of the things he did in this house. The house he grew up in. The house where he learnt to speak, learnt to cook, learnt to love. All the activities he ever did in the house: write, eat, sleep, conversing, drawing.

The bed that he slept in and did… things in.

He made up his mind.

He would become a mercenary. He would seek revenge on this wolf that killed his family. He will play this dangerous game of life and death.

And besides, he knew that being a mercenary paid quite well each task you took.

But before that, he had to dispose of memories. The jackal grabbed the red sword - a scimitar - that was his father's. Grabbing the kerosene, he poured the contents out onto the wooden surfaces of the house, and then set fire to them using simple safety matches.

How ironic.

tumblr blog: sonicforcesau