The grapes sat heavy in their plastic prison, sweating condensation that pooled in the creases of the grocery bag. Knuckles watched them with the wary intensity of a warrior assessing an unknown artifact, his nose twitching at the unfamiliar sweetness cutting through the van's usual scents of motor oil and sun-baked vinyl. These weren't like the fruits of Angel Island - no thorns to navigate, no bitter skins to peel away, no careful poison-checks required before consumption. Just smooth, perfect spheres huddled together like conspirators, their waxy skins catching the afternoon light.

Leather creaked as he flexed his gloves, claws pricking small holes in the bag's thin plastic. The grapes tumbled free with a wet rustle, rolling across the seat in drunken circles before coming to rest against his thigh. He plucked one up between two claws, holding it aloft like a jeweler examining a suspect gem. The green skin was impossibly uniform, without blemish or irregularity, the stem end curling in a delicate spiral that felt almost crafted rather than grown.

His first cautious lick revealed nothing. The second, more decisive bite made his ears flatten against his skull in shock. Juice burst across his tongue with shocking violence, a sweetness so concentrated it made his teeth ache. The flesh yielded instantly beneath his fangs, no tough rind to work through, no hidden bitterness lurking beneath the surface. Just pure, uncomplicated sugar flooding his mouth, running down his chin in sticky rivulets that caught in his chest fur.

The van hit a pothole. Knuckles barely noticed. Three more grapes disappeared in quick succession, each one a revelation. The way their skins popped between his teeth. The exact moment the flesh gave way. The perfect balance of crispness and juice. He found himself cataloging each sensation with anthropological fascination - this was how fruit grew in the world below? Without struggle? Without danger?

For a moment, it looked exactly like the Master Emerald must have looked to his ancestors..