Chapter Text
Metal Sonic failed again.
The lair echoed with clanging footsteps and sharp static as the mechanical copy of Sonic stood silent before the doctor, awaiting reprimand. Robotnik’s scowl was deep, furious even, as sparks hissed from a crushed Badnik in the corner of the lab. His plan, once again, foiled by that hedgehog and his meddling friends.
“You’re useless,” the doctor growled, glaring up at Metal’s expressionless face. “All that power, yet you can’t even scratch him.”
Sage watched quietly from her projection screen nearby, her digital form flickering faintly in the room’s low light.
“You’ve always treated Sonic as an equation to solve,” she said calmly, analytically. “But maybe… maybe Metal can’t beat him because he was never meant to win alone.”
Robotnik grunted. “What nonsense are you spewing now?”
“Sonic is more than just speed. He evolves. He grows. He has companions who fight alongside him, who strengthen him. Metal has none of that. He’s... stagnant. A closed system.”
Robotnik paused, her words settling in his mind like poison.
"You're saying evolution beats engineering?"
“No. I’m saying… maybe it’s time to combine them.”
Something gleamed in Robotnik’s eyes. He turned slowly back to his worktable, where scattered blueprints and biomechanical schematics lay half-finished.
A new idea sparked. Not just machines. Not just flesh. Something… in between.
It began with the forgotten.
Robotnik scoured the backstreets, the ruinous towns, the shelters too far from help. But the adults he tested first were too fragile—weak and broken from the start. They couldn’t withstand the merging process. They burned out before progress could even begin.
So he turned to children.
Sage watched it unfold with growing uncertainty. Though she loved her father, and her primary directive was to protect him, something inside her faltered.
Was this really the only way?
She didn’t voice it yet. But her silence began to stretch long and uncertain in the lab’s quiet hours.
One day, she might have to save her father from himself.
The attack came without warning.
Sonic, Amy, and Tails arrived at the small orphanage too late. Smoke curled from the charred earth, and the building itself was barely standing. The children—gone.
They scoured the wreckage for clues, Amy’s knuckles white around her hammer. This orphanage had been particularly tiny, tucked far away in a forgotten corner of the map. No resistance. No warning. A perfect target.
Then Tails’ eyes flicked to his MilesTech scanner, and he stopped cold. “Hold on... I’m reading a heat signature. Chaos energy, too.”
“What?” Amy asked, immediately moving toward the pile of rubble Tails pointed to.
“It’s faint but steady,” Tails said. “There’s someone under there.”
Amy’s heart skipped. She rushed forward, throwing debris aside with her bare hands. “Please… please be okay…”
Suddenly she hissed, pulling back her hand. A thorn had grazed her skin—sharp, black, and glowing faintly pink.
“What…?”
Then they saw it.
A dome of thorned vines, thick and pulsing with unnatural energy, wrapped tightly around a small form. Flowers bloomed on the vines—roses and lilies twisted together. The glow was warm, protective.
Amy’s breath caught. “There’s someone in there...”
She approached gently, crouching and whispering softly. “Hey… it’s okay. You’re safe now. The bad guys are gone.”
The vines twitched. Slowly, they unraveled.
A young hedgehog peeked out. He was trembling, eyes wide and glassy with tears. His fur was pale pink, messy, and dirt-streaked. Like her. A pink hedgehog. A boy.
Amy froze in place, heart in her throat.
The boy stared at her, his lip quivering. Then he ran into her arms.
Amy nearly fell back as he buried his face in her dress and began to cry. Soft, shaking sobs.
“You were so brave,” she whispered, gently petting his head. “We’ll take it from here.”
His name was Aven Rose.
He had no last name before. But now… he did.
Aven didn’t remember what happened that day. Not really. All he knew was that one second he was hiding from metal monsters, and the next… he was safe. Amy, now his mother, told him that vines had sprouted from the earth, shielding him from the blast. But he didn’t remember summoning anything. All he remembered was fear—paralyzing, suffocating fear. And guilt. He didn’t save anyone.
He hid.
But Amy smiled at him anyway, always. She told him he was brave for surviving. That he was home now.
He admired her strength. She carried a giant hammer and hope in her voice. She made everyone feel safe—even him.
He began learning about flowers, about plants and their meanings. He helped tend the garden behind their new home, always feeling that strange tug when he touched the soil. The flowers listened to him in a way he didn’t fully understand. They bloomed when he asked.
But he wasn’t special.
Not like his mom.
She let her flowers grow slowly, naturally, with patience and care. Aven’s grew in seconds.
Maybe… maybe that was cheating.
Still, he found peace in the garden. It was the first place that ever felt like his.
And deep in the soil, something ancient stirred.
Aven Rose wasn’t like the other kids in the neighborhood.
He was expressive—bright, like the sun after rain. He smiled with his whole face, talked with his hands, and wore his heart on his sleeve without shame. If someone was feeling down, he’d fold them a flower out of colored paper. If someone was hurt, he’d make them tea with honey and wrap their arm in a bandage, no matter how messy. He was the kind of kid who’d say “I love you” without hesitation and meant every syllable. Though it would often lead to times where the recipient misunderstands Aven’s intentions.
Other than a home, Aven had also gained a family—not just one of hugs and bedtime stories, but a family of fighters, thinkers, and legends. And Aven, expressive and earnest, admired every single one of them in his own special way.
Tails was... well, a genius. Everyone knew that. But what made Aven love hanging around him wasn’t the big words or the cool gadgets—it was how Tails never looked down on him. Not once.
Even when Aven didn’t fully understand the coding lingo or chaotic math in some blueprint, Tails would lean in with a kind smile and explain it again without a hint of frustration. And the craziest part?
Sometimes, Aven had ideas Tails hadn’t considered yet.
“So if the flight stabilizer is picking up too much chaos interference—what if you buffer it with an organic conduit instead of just metal?”
“...Huh. That might actually work.”
“See? Told you I’m a genius, just not a Fox one.”
Aven loved when that happened. He’d beam, and Tails would ruffle his hair (even if it messed up Aven’s carefully spiked quills).
Aven never flaunted being smart, but he did light up when someone recognized it.
With Knuckles, it was like entering another world.
Amy often took Aven with her when she visited Angel Island. She called Knuckles her “idiot brother,” but the second they met up, it was all laughs and subtle jabs that only siblings could make.
And Knuckles? Knuckles was cool.
He had this deep, grounded way of speaking when he wasn’t being stubborn—and Aven drank in every word like it was prophecy.
“Being strong doesn’t mean charging ahead. Sometimes it means standing your ground even when you’re scared.”
“Like… protecting someone?”
“Exactly.”
Knuckles would tell him stories of ancient warriors, of duty and legacy, and Aven’s eyes would go so wide, imagining himself as a warrior standing at the edge of battle, protecting his home, saving someone he loved.
He’d pretend to fight badniks with Knuckles on the beach later, turning those lessons into playful sparring, even if he always got dunked into the water.
With Sonic, it was all momentum and mischief.
Sonic felt like an older cousin—fast, funny, and always on. Aven had once told him, in complete sincerity:
“You’re the reason I want to save people.”
Sonic blinked at that, then smiled with a wink. “Well hey, I’m flattered, little bud. But don’t forget—you’re gonna be your own kind of hero.”
Sometimes Sonic would take Aven running along coastlines and cliff sides (after multiple adult permissions), teaching him how to move with the wind rather than against it. Aven would wobble, trip, laugh, scream—then finally catch the rhythm.
He’d feel like he was flying. Like he could do anything.
And so he learned how to hang onto his vines like Spiderman and make it feel he is actually flying.
And with Amy…
With Amy, he could just be.
She never asked him to be more than he was. She never asked him to be brave when he wasn’t. She just saw him. Loved him. And protected him with a fierceness that made Aven feel safe in a way he had never known before.
Sometimes, when they were alone, she’d hum lullabies while braiding little flowers into his quills. He’d rest his head against her arm and mumble about his day. Other times, he’d excitedly hold up some new trick or an origami he made and Amy would act like it was the most amazing thing in the world.
She called him her miracle.
“You’re so much like me,” she’d whisper with a proud smile.
“No I’m not,” he’d grin. “I’m gonna be better.”
Aven is a kid who wanted to spread love. Who wanted to fight evil. Who wanted to grow stronger, faster, smarter—not for glory, but for the people he cared about.
Every visit, every training session, every shared joke and passing moment built a bond he cherished deeply.
He finally had people.
He finally had a future.
And he would do anything to protect it.
But behind the warm hugs and hopeful eyes was a fire he rarely showed. A quiet, calculated determination.
Because Aven never forgot.
He never forgot the night the badniks took the other kids. His friends. His siblings. He never forgot the screams. The silence. The fear. He never forgot how powerless he felt, hiding in a corner behind a barricade of instinctive vines that responded to his panic. His powers had saved him—but not them.
So he swore he’d never be powerless again.
That’s when he turned to Shadow.
It started when Shadow visited Amy’s house one day. Aven had peeked out from behind a wall, watching him silently like he was observing a legendary warrior from an old myth.
He didn’t know how to approach him—Shadow was intense. Cold. Quiet. But that only made Aven admire him more. Here was someone strong. Someone who could have saved the others.
The next day, Aven blurted it out with his usual high-energy confidence:
“Will you train me?”
“...Train you?” Shadow raised a brow, caught off-guard.
“I want to fight. I want to protect people like Mom does. I want to stop Eggman so he can’t hurt anyone again.” Aven’s voice trembled slightly. “Please.”
There was no ego in the request. Just resolve.
Shadow didn’t give an answer right away. But the next time they met, he handed Aven a weighted practice staff and simply said:
“Show me what you’ve got.”
They weren’t training sessions so much as sparring wars—with Shadow’s silent lessons and Aven’s wild improvisation. Aven was fast, clever, and shockingly good at analyzing weaknesses. He moved with instinct, bending the wind around his feet and channeling it through sharp movements. Shadow rarely praised—but when he gave a rare “Hmph. Not bad,” Aven lit up for the rest of the week.
“He called me strong, mom! Did you hear him??”
He’d brag like that to Amy (with extra sparkle), but never once about his intelligence. Aven skipped two years due to his advanced academic performance. He picked up equations, strategies, and mechanical theory with ease—often faster than even their older classmates. Still, he never lorded it over anyone.
Aven was too busy helping others understand. Too busy trying to connect. Too busy being the kind of person he wished someone had been for him.
Amy often said he reminded her of herself—but with more chaos in his hugs. Sonic said he was like a pint-sized whirlwind. And Shadow?
Shadow never said much. But he always showed up.
He kept Aven company during rooftop practices. He’d correct his stance without a word. Sometimes, when Aven looked tired or frustrated, Shadow would just stand beside him—silent and steady like a lighthouse in a storm.
“You’re strong,” Aven once said while eating ice cream with him. “I want to be strong like you.”
Shadow gave no response. But the next day, Aven found a customized wind-resistant training dummy at the practice yard.
He knew who it was from.
“Mom, the kids at the orphanage were freaking out!”
Aven pushed open the door, cheeks flushed and voice bouncing off the walls with excitement. “I grew this vine right out of the ground—bam!—and they were all cheering! Marlo even said I should be a wizard or something!”
His muddy shoes left prints on the mat as he shrugged off his coat, barely able to contain himself. He was ready to keep talking, ready to show off, ready to—
Freeze.
Aven stopped mid-step.
There was someone on the couch.
A kid—his age, maybe a little younger. Curled up like a cat trying to disappear, arms wrapped around their knees, face buried. They weren’t making a sound, but their shoulders were shaking. Crying.
Aven stared. "...Who's that?"
Amy stepped out from the kitchen, her hands still dusted with flour. There was something softer about her voice when she spoke—gentle, even for her.
"Her name is Sylvia,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “She’s… going through a lot right now. Try to be kind, okay?”
Aven nodded slowly. But he didn’t move right away.
The kid didn’t look up.
They were curled in too tightly, like they were trying not to exist. Their clothes were a little too big, like hand-me-downs meant for someone else. Their eyes were red, even as they turned away slightly, like they didn’t want to be seen.
Aven stepped closer anyway.
He crouched beside the couch, leaning slightly into the other kid’s space. His expression was openly curious—but not unkind.
“Hey… you good?” he asked, tilting his head. “You look like you lost a fight with a thunderstorm.”
The kid tensed—then muttered, barely above a whisper: “...I’m fine.”
Aven squinted, unimpressed.
He was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. That kid was not fine.
He sat there for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek as he thought. Then something Amy once told him drifted into his head:
“Romance is about gestures, Aven. Sometimes, just a flower can say everything you need to.”
It wasn’t romance, obviously. But maybe… the same thing applied to sadness?
He hesitated, then reached his palm to the floor.
A small vine curled from the wood, slow and deliberate. It rose like a question mark—delicate, soft, and ending in a single red-pink bloom. Aven gently plucked it and offered it forward.
“Uh… here,” he mumbled, holding it out awkwardly. “I thought maybe you’d like it? You seemed kinda sad, and girls in books usually get flowers when they’re sad, and… yeah.”
He cringed internally. That sounded cooler in my head.
The kid didn’t say anything for a second. Then their eyes flicked up—really looked at him for the first time.
Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just… surprised.
They slowly reached out and took the flower with both hands, like it was something fragile. “…Thanks.”
Aven blinked.
That was the first time they spoke to him without frowning.
Was that… was that a smile?
His grin bloomed almost instantly. “My name’s Aven! If you thought that was impressive, wait till tomorrow. I’m gonna play with the other kids outside with my powers. You should come too!”
The kid looked down, unsure. But Aven already stood up and dusted off his hands.
“Don’t worry, I’ll drag you out if I have to!” he said cheerfully, then leaned down with a wink. “You need fresh air. You’re like a wilting plant.”
The kid huffed. Was that… a tiny laugh?
Aven considered it a win.
This is how he found out about his powers so uhh support on my twitter yay (click here or just read this one)
