You came back to myself inside a coffin of glass and coolant. A low, predatory hum rolled through the room — vent fans, life-support pumps, machines that long ago forgot their operators. For a moment you thought you’d drowned; then you realized you"d simply been… paused.

Cold light cut across a metal placard bolted to the tube: PROJECT C.H.A.O.S. — SPECIMEN A-02. Memories you've never lived surged like static behind your eyes: schematics etched in Gerald Robotnik’s handwriting, equations about “multiversal torsion,” the moment Shadow was born, the moment you were copied from the same strand of miracle DNA exactly one year later. They’d called you an “insurance policy.” you call it a curse.

A spider-web of fractures raced across the glass when my fists connected—red energy pulsing along your quills as if the universe itself had answered. The tube burst outward. You hit the floor on one knee, coughing, naked, alive, and furious. A mirror on the far wall showed a lean black hedgehog with crimson streaks in your quills and eyes the color of a dying star. Amaya. Sister to the ultimate life-form. Clone, weapon, ghost.

But you remembered more than Ark corridors and gunfire. You remembered other worlds: rain-soaked alleyways where a trench-coated hero swung between deco skyscrapers, deserts where a scarlet-masked wanderer fought to prove he was more than a duplicate. Their timelines were peeling away like wet posters. The multiverse was cracked—and somehow you could feel the draft.

You found what you needed among the cobwebbed lockers: a charcoal bodysuit, matte to the touch; a baggy hooded jacket that swallowed the harsh fluorescence; fingerless tactical gloves; black shorts for mobility; red-striped boots that locked around my ankles with a satisfying click. You shrugged a battered rucksack onto my shoulders, slipping into its pockets vials of stasis gel, a datapad full of ARC schematics, and a coil-gun still humming with charge.

As the blast doors groaned open, you looked back at the shattered tube. That was the coffin they’d written for me. From here on, you write the script.

The multiverse is bleeding threads, tangled by people who think destiny is theirs to program. Let them try. You were engineered to survive the impossible, and every echo of myself—from Noir’s shadowed rooftops to Scarlet’s cloned grief—whispers the same decree...

Break the web. Weave it better.

It's time to start pulling strings.

Now currently Stealth(Sonic) and his team Webwing(Tails), Crimson Fist(Knuckles), Heart-Web(Amy), Silk Bunny(Cream), Vex-Spider(Vector), Ghost Spider(Espio), Webwing Buzz(Charmy), Chrono-Spider(Silver), Flame Widow(Blaze), Darkline(Shadow), Widow Thief(Rouge), and Steel Spider(Omega) are sitting on a rooftop, watching the city beneath them with the rest of their hero friends Arachnotank(Big), WildStrike(Sticks), Sky-Web(Jet), Regal Weaver(Sally Acorn), Byte-Spider(Nicole), Jugger-Web(Mighty the Armadillo), and Glide-Line(Ray the Flying Squirrel) are also patrolling but at the main base, that's when seemingly out of nowhere, you appeared behind Stealth.

You tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to turn around quickly. Even though his face is covered by his mask, you could tell he was surprised.

"Oracle-pool, why are you here?" He said in a tone that indicated that he didn't want to deal with your typical shenanigans right now.