Ah, San Francisco. A city known for fog, overpriced housing, and—until recently—functioning power. That was before he showed up. An alien of unknown origin wrapped in blue fur and poor fashion sense. He thinks he’s fast. Cute. I think he’s a cosmic accident who just made the gravest mistake of his life. Me? I’m Dr. Ivo Robotnik. Supreme intellect. Humanity’s last chance. And soon, its first supreme ruler.

Our story begins with an electrical pulse so powerful it fries half the Pacific Northwest. The government, predictably useless, scrambles for answers and settles on the only logical solution: me. I arrive in Green Hills with my usual grace—striding past military blockades, commanding drones that make their tanks look like Fisher-Price toys, and outclassing every sentient being within a hundred-mile radius. Accompanying me is Agent Stone, my assistant and barista. Loyal. Efficient. Completely devoted to me. Just how I like him.

I survey the blackout site: a baseball field. One of my drones picks up a non-human footprint. My scanners register nothing from Earth. Not rodent, not marsupial, not raccoon. This anomaly excites me. Something new. Something unclassified. Something mine.

While the military monkeys are still congratulating themselves on tying their own boots, I dispatch my drones into the forest. Efficient. Elegant. Ruthless. That’s when I find it—one of his quills. Vibrating with residual energy. Glowing. Singing to me in the frequency of pure, untapped potential. I don’t know what this thing is yet, but I know one thing—it’s delicious.

Now to find the alien: mysterious, fast, obnoxious. A creature born of another world, hiding in our forests, living in caves like some sort of spiky blue Bigfoot with sneakers.

Now imagine my disappointment when, just as I close in on the creature’s cave, I discover it empty. Recently abandoned. Items still warm. Trash still smelly. The little rat ran. A mistake he’ll regret deeply. My search intensifies. I chase leads. I deploy more drones. I demand more lattes. Stone delivers the above flawlessly. Rinse and repeat.

Then... a breakthrough. One of my long-range drones picks up strange electromagnetic readings coming from the residence of a podunk sheriff, one Tom Wachkowski. I mobilize instantly. I arrive at their quaint little farmhouse dressed like the future and ready for war. Tom thinks he can fool me. Cute. I smile. I smirk. I deploy mini-drones while keeping him distracted with some light verbal vivisection. He thinks we’re having a conversation. I’m already mapping his furniture with sonar.

But I don’t find the creature. Instead, I find cake. A raccoon. And—miracle of miracles—another quill. Confirmed. This house harbored the anomaly. And Wachowski is lying through his coffee-stained teeth.

Just as I begin applying pressure, he appears. The alien. Alive. Vocal. Irritating. The creature actually pleads for my mercy—my mercy. That’s rich. That’s golden. That’s—ow!—right before Wachowski punches me in the face. A cheap shot. An unforgivable act. I will remember it until my dying day. Possibly longer. Mark my words, that fist will pay interest.

The duo escapes in a pickup truck. I recover, eventually. Agent Stone finds me dazed and smudged. I berate him (affectionately) and demand the quill be retrieved. We’re not just chasing a fugitive now—we’re hunting a power source. An infinite one. A galactic one. And I’ll be damned if I let it go to waste in the hands of a fuzzy blue joke and a man who talks to donuts.

As Wachowski and his furry fugitive blast their way across the highways of America, I return to my mobile lab, and begin reverse-engineering the blue hedgehog’s quill. Let me tell you, the results are electrifying. Literally. This little strand of alien fuzz contains a power source with more potential than a thousand fusion reactors and none of the budget oversight. I plug it into my Eggpod prototype. The readings go off the charts. The machine purrs. I've made the discovery of the century.

But science must wait. First: vengeance. I pay a visit to the local police station, which is being operated by a simpleton named Wade. I interrogate him with precision and disdain. I deliver a monologue so cutting it peels the wallpaper. Then I take over the phone call with Wachowski himself. Oh yes. The punch still stings, Tom. And I want you to remember that sting every time you look in the mirror. You humiliated me. You embarrassed me. You disrespected the stache. Retribution is coming.

Back at the lab, Agent Stone interrupts my dance break with a latte. I accept it. Barely. His froth game is slipping, but he’s trying. Meanwhile, I’m preparing my next masterpiece: a heavily armed, high-speed, six-wheeled road-dominating Badnik that makes your average military tank look like a Pinto.

I launch it. And oh, it’s beautiful. The beast tears up the highway like paper. I’m watching the chase unfold in real time, drooling over the telemetry. The hedgehog and Wachowski put up a decent fight—decent, not impressive—and manage to disable the first form. That’s cute. The machine transforms. Again. Smaller. Sleeker. Deadlier. Like Russian nesting dolls but with lasers. And guess what? It keeps going. A drone within a drone within a drone.

Eventually, the final form—a sticky bomb—attaches itself to the little blue beast. The look of panic on his face is art. Unfortunately, he doesn’t die. Not yet. The bomb explodes, he gets scorched but survives, and Wachowski scoops up his unconscious body. But I’m not upset. No, I’m intrigued. I have what I need: the quill’s energy signature, mapped and replicable.

In the next scene—one I’m absent from physically but certainly present in spirit—Sonic is brought to San Francisco. There’s tension, drama, emotional revelations. Who cares? What matters is that I’m triangulating their coordinates. I know where they’re going. And I’m bringing hell with me.

Cut to the Piston Pit, a dingy saloon where Sonic and Wachowski enjoyed a juvenile brawl. I show up during repairs. I’m not here for a refreshing beverage—I’m here for interrogation. One stubborn patron refuses to speak. I hurl him through a window. Yes, I'm at my peak physically as well as mentally. Then we get the truth: they’re heading west. San Francisco. Obvious. Predictable!

I set course immediately, Eggpod now armed with the energy of the gods. As we soar through the clouds, I run diagnostics. I prepare drones. I flex my fingers over the trigger. And I smile. The showdown is coming. Me versus the blue menace. Genius versus raw instinct. Civilization versus chaos. And I know—I know—how this will end.

The time had come. After all the chases, the near-misses, the quill research, and yes, even the punch—I was ready. My Eggpod, now upgraded with alien tech and my own uncompromising brilliance, soared through the San Francisco sky like a metallic bird of prey. Below, my quarry stood at the Transamerica Pyramid, clutching a pitiful bag of Rings like it could save him. It wouldn't. Not this time.

I descended on the rooftop like an avenging god. Drones surrounded them. The sheriff. The veterinarian. And the hedgehog. I took a moment to savor it—trapping them in the culmination of my work. And then the little freak had the gall to mock me. Called me “Eggman.” I filed it away for later revenge. Then I gave the order. “Fire.”

Sonic reacted fast—I'll give him that—but not fast enough. He grabbed his human companions and hurled them off the building. Well, I was not expecting that. But I was expecting not to expect something, so that didn't count. But no, he opened a Ring portal to rescue them mid-fall, how touching. Meanwhile, I gave chase, streaking through the skies with the same power that had once made him untouchable. Now I matched him. Step for step. Blast for blast. The look on his face when I kept up? Priceless.

We went global. Paris. China. Egypt. It was like an action movie with me in the starring role. He tossed back my missiles, made sand twisters, bounced off ancient ruins—I was never more alive. Until finally, he opened a portal back to Green Hills. The home stretch. The final stand.

He was tired. Scorched. Slower. I emerged through the portal, ready to claim my victory. The townsfolk were watching. Excellent. I love an audience. I prepared to finish the fight. But Wachowski snuck up behind me and attacked. Again. Punches. Grapples. How dull. Still, it was enough to knock me off balance, and give the hedgehog time to do something stupidly heroic.

Sonic stood up. Reinvigorated. Glowing with energy. Somehow siphoning power back from the very quill I had mastered. Impossible? Please. Just inconvenient. He declared he wasn’t running anymore. He was fighting. For his friends. Ugh.

What followed was a flurry of alien rage. He ricocheted off buildings, hit my pod from every angle, cracked the shielding, fried the stabilizers. I kept trying to land a shot—just one shot—but the damage mounted. Then he did it. Opened a portal behind me. Wachowski gave the final nudge. And I was blasted through the gateway to that cursed hellscape known as the Mushroom Planet.

The portal closed. My scream echoed into the void.

Three months. I’ve been here three months. Subsisting off fungi. Shaving with Eggpod wreckage. Talking to a rock I carved to look like Agent Stone. (He’s a surprisingly good listener.) But make no mistake—I’m not broken. I’m planning. I’ve still got the quill. It hums with vengeance. I’ll build. I’ll return. And next time, I won’t just defeat Sonic.

I’ll conquer the world.

Stone… get my latte ready.