By: Cain Foxxe

Legal Notice: This is a fictional story and is not official in any Sonic the Hedgehog (DUH!) Any other characters not created by Cain or myself are the exclusive property of SEGA and/or Archie Comics. You may not claim Cain’s writing or our characters as your own, unless you get his WRITTEN or EMAILED permission. You may not sell our story and may save OR print only one (1) copy for your own private, personal, non-revenue purpose. If you want to put this fanfic or your page, please email Cain at Cains_Lair@hotmail.com. Don’t use his characters without WRITTEN or EMAILED permission. Then there’s some jargon about the Title 17 Copyright Law, so follow that. Any similarity to real persons herein this story, either living or dead, is purely co-incidental. (I’ve always wanted to say that!)

-Webmaster of The Squeaky Zone Squeaks "SJ" Hedgehog

Webmaster’s Note: Cain didn’t do a note so I get to do one! BOOYAH! Anywho, this is the Bio on Cain and how he grew up and came to be the grouch that he is…I’m kidding, he’s not a grouch, but this story paves the way for Episode III. The story is just as Cain has written it with the exception of some grammatical corrections and the insertions of divisions (Acts) and Timestamps and the title. One thing not pointed out at the beginning of this story, is that it begins on an Earth (one very different from the DBZ Earth from Episode I). If I say anymore I’ll give the story all away…so without further adieu enjoy Chaos: Episode II: History of Cain.

-Webmaster of The Squeaky Zone Squeaks "SJ" Hedgehog

Act I

Timestamp: Unknown Date 1987 (Earth)

I shifted on my knees, trying to get comfortable on the hard concrete of the sidewalk. It had been two weeks since I had left the House and, even now, I was glad I did. My new friends were much better to me than my dad ever was. My friends taught me things, including a game to play with people walking on the streets, a game where the people would pay you whether they knew it or not. My friends called it pick pocketing, but to me it was a game.

I shifted again, trying to look small and pathetic. It wasn’t too hard, being only four. One or two people paused to look at me, their faced disgusted or sympathetic. I crawled forward towards those sympathetic faces, raising my hands a bit, wordlessly asking for a ‘touch’. Each time the person would smile ruefully and shake their heads, saying they had nothing to give, and each time my fingers quickly lifted their money out of their wallets or purses while they walked away, completely unknowing.

After a while I slipped into the alley to count the money I made, and to see how good I did at the game. I stifled a giggle as I saw how well I had done, mostly twenties. "Hey, Street!" someone called from the entrance to the alley. I turned, surprised, to see a large man, obviously a tourist, leaning against the corner of the building and leering at me. "Hey, Street," he said again. "Give me that money ya got." I shook my head, edging backwards. The man stepped forward a pace, his expression darkening. "I said give me that money, ya little thief, " he growled.

I shook my head again, harder. "Nuh-uh." I said, backing up more. This man scared me, like my dad used to when he was drunk. "C’mere, ya little brat!" the man yelled, running at me abruptly. I turned and bolted, yelling, "No!" over my shoulder.

I weaved through the alleyways and abandoned squares, my tiny legs pumping for all I was worth. I could hear the man behind me, his heavy footsteps pounding on the concrete. I kept running, swerving around cardboard boxes and stinky trashcans, not daring to look back. The man made the entire alley echo with clatters and curses as he crashed through the obstacles, beginning to fall behind.

I dashed down a side alley and hid behind a cluster of boxes. I was scared. The big man reminded me vividly of my dad. I shivered silently as the man ran past, thinking that I had kept running, not knowing he was running into a dangerous crew’s territory.

I waited for several minutes after the man had disappeared, feeling my heart race. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I got up and ran in the opposite direction, headed back to where my friends, my crew, lived.

A large square, lined on all sides by old buildings, and filled with tarp-covered cardboard boxes each big enough to fit a big-screen TV inside, a few wooden lean-to structures, and, in the center, a fire ring with a big kettle hanging over it. And everywhere: kids—dozens of kids, their ages ranging anywhere from four and five well up into the late teens. Everyone was doing something, whether it was tending the pot, caring for the younger children, or stringing tattered laundry up on wires to dry. I scampered into the square, out of breath and headed for the center, the wad of money clenched in a tiny fist. The crew leader, Megan –though everyone called her "Mega"- stood there, helping another kid cook something. I got almost to the two when I tripped over a stray lean-to board and went sprawling on the cobblestones behind Megan. She turned and saw me as I sat up, forcing myself not to cry but already feeling the hot tears trickling down my face.

Megan said nothing, only grinning a bit sympathetically and helped me up. I gave her the money I had made and she thanked me silently with hand gestures, since she was mute. I tried to smile or grin, but the face of the man floated to the surface of my mind and killed any grin that I had, turning my face solemn as stone. I turned away as Megan spoke to the boy tending the pot (in hand gestures, of course) and walked back to the large box I shared with another kid about a year older than me, curled up and shook like a leaf. For the first time in the two weeks I had lived on the streets, I knew just how frightening life was.

Act II

Timestamp: Unknown Date 1996 (Earth)

I hoisted the paper grocery bag in one arm again, stuffing the change from the purchases in a pocket. It was my turn for the groceries today and Yin Tsu –known as China Man by the crew- was cooking today. His cooking was always Chinese and today he wanted a particular brand of noodle, which sent me almost into a rival crew’s boundaries. It also meant going into the Red-Light District.

Nine years of surviving on the streets had made me lean, wiry muscle stretched tight over bone and no fat anywhere. Nevermind that I was only thirteen, I had a very formidable, if not "hands-on" knowledge of what prostitutes did for work. I generally ignored them, though, on occasion, they didn’t ignore me.

I stepped into the Square, calling a hello to China Man, who was standing next to the pot impatiently. I tossed him the bag and walked to one of the rickety benches around the pot. "You took long enough, Cain." China Man grumbled in accented English, using the nickname I’d picked up when a wild-eyed religious fanatic had mistaken me for the Biblical Cain.

"Next time you can get those noodles yourself." I told him. China Man grunted and turned to his cooking. I grinned to myself, then turned to watch the littler kids. I let my mind wander, drifting through the clouds and being idle.

I was pulled back to reality by the sound of several pairs of feet running and lots of clattering. I turned to see four of the older kids arriving, each with half a dozen rifles slung over each shoulder and each hand full of gun belts, holsters, and ammo. I simply stared. Megan did much more than that, silently berating the four with furious sign language and whipping out questions at the same time. I was too far away to hear their replies, but I could get the general idea of what was going on.

The police were beginning armed raids on crews near the better districts of the city; capturing or shooting kids who resisted. All the other crews were arming up and heading for the old wharves, and, believe it or not, calling a truce between them. The four under Megan’s cold eye had stripped a local gun store clean and had brought it all back, hoping the we were going to the wharf to team up as well.

Megan didn’t like it. She had always hated guns (though no one ever asked her why) but allowed knives to be carried as a necessity. She also couldn’t see any other choice, but she didn’t tell the four that. She waved them off after telling them to hide the weapons for now. They went, stashing the weapons under a pile of spare tarps. Mega grimaced at the clattering the guns made as they were set down, and then turned in my direction. I looked away quickly, but she had caught me watching her conversation and started my way. I sighed and turned back to face her.

"I know you know what’s going on," she signed. "Tell me what you think of all this." I shrugged. "Gotta admit they’re right. We should go to the wharf and join the other crews. If we stay here, the cops’ll either slaughter us or put us all in Homes, even with those guns." She scowled, but nodded, then got up and left.

I sat there, idly wondering about the guns, what they felt like in your hand, what they looked like up close. Finally, curiosity getting the best of me, I got up and walked to the pile of tarps where the weapons were hidden. Shoving aside a few, I uncovered the dully-gleaming weapons. I picked up a holster, eyes roving over the weapon it held. My free hand brushed against the butt of the gun, and then I replaced the weapon in the pile and covered them up again.

Half an hour later, Megan told the crew to get ready to leave.

Act III

Timestamp: Unknown Date 1997 (Earth)

Bullets whined off the brick walls as I ducked behind a dumpster, replacing my gun’s empty clip. After a year of doing this, I thought darkly, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. While I waited for the fire to lessen, I looked around with the other kids I was teamed up with. None of them were from my own crew, but it didn’t matter…not anymore. Across the alley from me, hunkered down behind a wooden crate were two girls, twin sisters who acted like one person with two handguns like my own. A ways behind me, under the cover of a trashcan, a boy of about eight or nine was frantically working the bolt on a rifle almost bigger than he was. Somewhere on the rooftops, I knew, another five were armed with rifles and shotguns. There used to be eight more, but they had been killed, wounded too badly to shoot, or arrested. Of course, we’d brought down a good dozen police ourselves, but they had been replaced in minutes by more. But we kept fighting.

I peered around the side of the dumpster at the three squad cars blocking the alley and the blue-uniformed officers crouched behind them, guns aimed towards me and the other kids. I snaked my arm with the gun (a .45 Beretta) out along the side of the dumpster and snapped off two shots. A year of constant firefights had trained every kid in the surviving crew ‘army’ to have pinpoint accuracy. I was no exception, my shots finding their targets. I ducked back around the side of the dumpster as the remaining officers opened fire.

I saw one of the twins go down screaming, her sister screaming with her as she grabbed the dead girl’s gun and began firing both. She was cut down as well, blood fountaining from her back as bullets ripped through her. I’d seen things like this so often during the past year that it had ceased to bother me. I heard a screaming yelp behind me and saw the rifle kid fall, clutching his shoulder. I scowled darkly, trying to hear the others on the rooftops and failing.

Great, I thought, I’m the only one left. I couldn’t get caught or killed, and I had to get back to the wharf to tell what happened. I also had to grab every weapon I could. The crews weren’t exactly the most well-armed, and every gun helped. Unfortunately, trying to get the sisters’ guns would be suicide, and every other dead kid’s guns were out in the open. Then I turned towards the kid behind the trashcan. He was still alive, sort of; sobbing in agony from his shoulder wound, weapon all but forgotten. If I could get the rifle and get out of here, I’d be all right. The boy would be taken care of, and then sent to a Home, I knew, but it didn’t matter. What mattered at the moment was getting back to the wharf in one piece. Now all I had to do was get the cops down for a moment…

I ran out from behind the dumpster, already dashing for the rifle while shooting at the cops over my shoulder. A stupid attempt at best, it somehow worked. The police stopped shooting and ducked behind the squad cars. I snatched the rifle up by the shoulder strap and kept running. Sparks lit up behind me as the cops figured out what happened and opened fire again. I was almost around the corner when –WHAM!- something slammed into my shoulder with a blazing pain, throwing me off balance and into the wall.

I struggled up, my shoulder burning with pain. I glanced down and found a growing red stain around a tiny hole in my much-mended shirt. I had been shot. Spitting a curse, I made my way back to the wharf. By the time I returned, I was staggering a little from blood loss. After finding a clean rag I sat down, drawing my knife and removing my shirt. Biting my lip and ignoring the pain as much as I could I dug the bullet out of my shoulder and bound the hole with the rag.

By the time I was finished, Megan had approached with two other crew leaders, a large, scowling boy around eighteen and another girl who looked very similar to Megan.

"What the Hell happened out there?" the boy demanded. I ignored him, fingering the hole in my shirt where I sat. "Well? Answer me you-" the boy bellowed until Megan waved him silent. Then she asked what happened. I told her in as few words as possible, pointedly ignoring the bellower. She nodded shortly and started to move away, but the other girl, who had been silent until now, piped up, asking question after question all at once, sounding very much like a squirrel. I blinked, caught off-guard by the flurry of questions. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the chatterer stopped and the three left.

A sudden weariness slammed into my mind as their figures dwindled. I got up and made my way to where I slept and fell asleep the instant I lay down.

Act IV

Timestamp: Unknown Date 1997 (Earth)

I sighed in exasperation as I came to another locked door. Whoever had put this job up had better be able to pay, I thought as I pulled out my lock picks again. Fitting the pick into the key slot, I thought back to how I had gotten into this.

Two months after the alley firefight, Megan had approached me with an opportunity. The crews were running short on money, since the police were picking up every beggar on the streets. The crew leaders had finally decided that every crew should have one to three members who could be hired to perform less-than-legal jobs for people, companies, etc. who didn’t want to be openly associated with such things but needed them done. The deal was a prearranged payment and the employer’s agreement to withhold the name of who pulled the job in the unlikely event of getting found out. Megan had tried to get several people in her crew to take the Jobie position, as it was called, but I was the only one who accepted.

Now, two months and three jobs later here I was, sneaking around a weapons development lab, looking for some new gun that an old collector absolutely HAD to have. I worked the pick in the lock as I went over the description the old man had given me: large, bulky, with a series of rotating barrels and a thick ammo chain. I wondered what kind of weapon looked like that. At last the tumblers in the lock were set and unlocked. I opened the door and went through.

Right into the midst of a crack police squad who looked just as surprised as I was to have a scruffy teenage street urchin walk into their midst. We all stared at each other in astonishment, then I bolted back out the door and down the hallway, the cop team right on my tail. As I ran, some small rational part of my mind screamed, You Idiot! You were set up! The rest of my mind shouted conflicting orders; Run! Hold still and fight! I told my brain to shut up and skidded around a corner. Looking over my shoulder, I didn’t realize there was someone else in the hallway. I found out rather forcibly as I rammed into a solid barrier, which squealed in surprise as I fell back onto the floor. I sat up, stunned, and looked at what I ran into, which happened to be a lab orderly, a young woman in her late twenties. She looked back at me, surprise etched on her face. I scrambled to my feet and rushed past her even as she began to ask, "Excuse me…?" I ran to the end of the hall and ducked through a pair of large metal doors, ignoring the orderly’s cry of protest. I found myself in a room full of glass beakers and test tubes and other things straight from a mad scientist’s lab. I wandered through the room quickly, looking for a way out.

I was passing the double doors for the second time when they abruptly swung open in my face. I toppled onto my back, holding my bashed nose, as the orderly stormed through. She had apparently forgotten I’d come in a few minutes before. She began fussing with tubes and chemicals, muttering about "insolent, pig-headed police" and how they were barging into every room in the compound. I swore softly, but too loud to go unnoticed. The orderly whirled, voice squeaking with a surprised, "You!" I swore again and got to my feet. I looked around the room again, trying to find a door. My search was cut off when the orderly stepped in front of me, a dozen questions flying from her mouth. I brushed past her, ignoring her questions, headed to the far side of the room. On the wall stood a door, which I pulled open instantly, ignoring the orderly’s, "Hey! You can’t go in there!"

On the other side of the door was a small room, dimly lit, with a table standing in the center. I walked to the table and peered at the object sitting on it, the orderly’s protests filling the background. It was a gun, slightly shorter than a rifle and a bit thicker, with three large barrels set on a rotator disk and a thick stock supported by springs. Two slots ran into the weapon, each large enough to fit a hefty ammo chain. Two handgrips, like handguns, gave the weapon the look of a deformed machine gun. I picked the thing up and found it surprisingly light. Turning to the orderly, I found she had finally wound down, standing there quivering with nervousness and anger. "What’s this?" I asked her.

"That," the orderly said irritably, "is our latest project." This was the huge clunker the old man sent me for? "If this’s the latest weapon, then where’s the ammunition?" the orderly became scared. She was sure I was going to shoot her. She showed me where the ammo was, giant chains of it, then closed her eyes and waited for the end. I frowned, loading a long chain into the weapon. "What’re you doin’?" I asked. The orderly opened one eye and said, rather stupidly, "Huh?"

Then the outer doors exploded off their hinges.

I ran to the outer room, then ducked behind a lab table to avoid assault rifle fire laid down by the police crowding through the doors. Beakers on the table above me shattered as bullets smashed their way through. As the shooting died down, I popped up from my hiding place and squeezed the stolen weapon’s trigger. The triple barrels spun for a moment, then the gun began shooting in rapid, coughing blasts. With each shot, a swarm of holes appeared in the wall and several beakers smashed. Holy crap! I thought, blazing away at the police, this thing shoots shotgun shells!

I stopped firing and slipped along the wall towards the corner of the room. As soon as my gun stopped, the assault rifles started, tracking after me, breaking tubes and blowing holes in the wall. I swore vehemently. They were following my shadow along the wall! I stopped in the corner, my mind racing to find a way out. My eyes followed the trails of spilled chemicals as they dribbled into the center of the room, where the mingled with other streams to form a bubbling slate gray sludge.

A bullet chewed into the wall next to my head. I jumped and found a cop crouching along the wall, taking aim again. My mind blanked with panic and I bolted—straight into the center of the room. Every cop in the room opened up on me, bullets slamming into me or flashing past. I was hit seven times before I reached the sludge pool, numb with pain, and found that it was every bit as slippery as it looked. I fell, another bullet grazing my cheek, into the slop even as a stray bullet struck sparks on the floor.

The chemicals caught.

And exploded.

I screamed as the explosion erupted around me, burning everywhere. Yet even as I did, the flames disappeared, along with the rest of the room, to be replaced by a view of planets and nebulas flashing past me. Some small part of my mind not blazing with pain thought, I’ve died…What a weird heaven…Then I knew no more.

Act V

Timestamp: Unknown Date 3232 (Mobius)

"…e be alright, father?"

…

"Yes, dear. I think he’ll pull through."

…??

"Are you sure, father? You’ve been caring for him for weeks."

Whua?

"Yes, Sunah, I’m sure."

What’s…going on?

"uugh…"

"Father! He’s waking up!"

"So he is."

I forced my eyes to open and was rewarded with a blur of color and searing bright light. I groaned and blinked, hearing someone, a little girl by the sound, gasp. "Look at his eyes, father! They’re gray!" Somehow I wondered why that mattered. Blinking slowly, I got my vision to clear a tiny bit. I was on my back, staring up at a wooden ceiling, lying on something soft. Two blurred forms were leaning over me. "Hello there," the larger blur said. I forced myself to mumble a greeting, though my tongue felt like lead. I kept blinking slowly. "I’m glad to see you’re awake. I was beginning to wonder if you would pull through," the blur added. To the smaller blur, he said, "Sunah, get him some medicine to drink." The little blur flitted out of sight.

My blinking began to pay off. The blur became a little more focused until…Wait, this can’t be right. I was looking up at an otter. Middle-aged, with the fur around his temples beginning to turn silver, the otter was watching me intently. I blinked again. Abruptly a younger otter, Sunah, I presumed, popped back into view, carrying a tray with a steaming mug of something. "Here you are, father." she piped, unbelievably—at least to me—cheerful. The older otter gave here a mock severe look. "Sunah, that’s not for me, it’s for our guest." Sunah giggled and gave him the tray with an impish "Yes, sir". Then she turned and helped me sit up a bit, enough for me to drink without choking. Her father pressed the mug to my lips and I drank dutifully, tasting bitter medicine and warm tea.

As I drank, I looked around the room. Made completely of wood and furnished similarly, it seemed everywhere there was a brightly colored rug or covering. Finishing the tea, I turned my gaze strait ahead of me and found myself looking into a full-length mirror on the far wall. But looking back at me…The two otters were reflected clearly enough, but in the bed where I should have been lay a fox, black fur and white markings obscured by bandages. My eyes widened. So did the fox’s. My jaw dropped. The fox’s mouth hung open. Incoherent thoughts ran screaming through my head until they all ran into each other. My head whirled. The sensory input and the chock of my revelation were too much for my battered body and mind to handle. I made a strangled noise, almost a whimper, and promptly passed out.

A while later I woke again and found myself alone in the room. I forced myself to sit up and look in the mirror. There was the fox—me, I scolded myself—looking back at me from the mirror. "There goes any chance at this bein’ a dream," I grumbled to no one in particular. Slowly, for lack of energy, I slid my legs over the side of the bed and pushed onto my feet, then grabbed at the blanket as I realized I was wearing nothing but bandages, none of which were in any position to offer a bit of modesty.

Wrapped in the blanket, I hobbled over to the mirror. Up close, I saw I had kept many characteristics from before. The latticework of scars—though now a bit obscured by bandages and fur—the long black hair, now unkempt from being in bed. My eyes had remained gray, as Sunah had noticed earlier. Apart from these familiarities, my body was now completely different. My face was now a vulpine mask, by body covered in black fur, and then the addition of the tail.

I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over, ignoring the pain from my half-healed burns and wounds as best I could. I was beginning to get used to my new body when Sunah appeared in the doorway with a steaming mug in hand. She saw me standing there, fumbling to get the blanket around myself properly and frowned. "What are you doing out of bed?" she demanded, setting the mug aside. "Do you want to injure yourself again?" She guided me back to bed and pushed the mug into my hands. "Where’re my things?" I asked, taking a sip of the tea. "Your…clothes my father burned. The rest of your things are in the next room."

I stared at her in disbelief. "Your dad BURNED my clothes?!" I cried. She nodded while fixing the blanket. "If you could call them that. They looked more like used rags to me." I growled darkly at her. She turned and absently swatted me across my muzzle. I yipped, more in surprise than pain. "No more of that," she admonished. I nodded shortly, beginning to get drowsy from whatever it was in the tea. I yawned and lay back, grateful for the first soft place I’d slept in for years.

It took me a month and a half to heal completely, yet I stuck around for another two months before taking my leave, helping out and learning everything I could about the world in which I had been blasted to. I found I was now on a planet called Mobius, and that it was populated by more like my hosts and I, Mobians, and a war-like race of beings called Overlanders. I also learned of a third, two-man party, one mad genius Dr. Ivo Robotnik and diminutive lackey, Snively. I was advised to avoid those two in particular.

Finally, after living with Sunah and her father for some time, I took my leave.

Act VI

Timestamp: 26 AUG 3235 (Mobius)

I crouched behind a wooden hut, my black fur hiding me easily in the dark. I was glad no one had thought to put in street lamps. I had been stealing food and electronics from Knothole Village for three years now, and had learned almost everything about its inhabitants, where they went, and the best time to get into their homes. At the moment, I was trying to get to the resident tinkerer’s (Rotor) house. If I had any time left, I’d get some food as well.

Peering from around the hut, I looked to see if anyone was around, then dashed to Rotor’s hut. I hid in the shadow for a moment, then peered inside. Rotor was sitting at his workbench, as usual, working on something. He was so intent on his work that nothing short of the entire planet blowing up would distract him. I hoisted myself up and into the window, checking for loose bits of machinery below the window before lowering myself in. Producing a back from a pocket, I began picking through the clutter, looking for pieces I needed without making any noise.

Pretty soon the tiny bag was full, and I let myself out the way I came in, only to find Princess Sally and Bunnie Rabbot headed straight towards me. I looked around frantically, then ran around the opposite side of the hut. I heard Sally ask, "What was that?" Oh crap! I thought, she saw me! Then Bunnie’s voice replied, "Aw, c’mon Sally-girl, it wuz just uh shadow."

"Yeah, I guess you’re right." Sally didn’t sound convinced.

I waited until I heard the two go into the hut, then I bolted for the edge of the village, taking care to avoid villagers.

After what seemed like hours of running, I reached the edge of the village and the beginning of the trees. I stopped and leaned against the corner of one of the square supply sheds to catch my breath. After about a minute I pushed off the wall to head into the forest, but stopped when I heard cloth rip. I froze, glancing back. The bag had gotten caught in between two loose boards and my tug had caused it to rip. Even as I watched, a piece of equipment fell through the hole and landed with a soft thump on the ground.

I scowled at it, walked over and bent to pick it up, then stopped as I heard someone take a step to my right. My head snapped around and found a green hedgehog, Sonic’s cousin Squeaks, staring at me.

"Oh no…"

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