Chapter Text
The hum had always existed.
At least, that was how it felt.
When consciousness finally surfaced from the darkness of sleep, Captain Striker became aware of the sound before he became aware of anything else. It wasn't loud. It wasn't demanding. It didn't force its way into his attention.
It simply was.
A deep mechanical vibration running through the floor beneath him, through the walls around him, through the air itself.
Steady.
Constant.
Patient.
Like the heartbeat of something far larger than himself.
For several long moments he remained motionless, eyes closed, listening.
The strange thing was that the sound didn't alarm him immediately.
It felt familiar.
Comforting, even.
Like hearing an air conditioner running in the background of a house you'd lived in for years.
His brain accepted the sound before it questioned it.
Then the questioning began.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
Why was there a hum?
Why did it sound familiar?
Why couldn't he remember hearing it before?
The questions drifted through his half-awake mind.
And with them came memory.
A phone screen glowing in darkness.
Messages.
Arguments.
Jokes.
A roleplay server.
Someone insisting that the Endeavor's navigational systems should be upgraded.
Someone else posting a meme.
A moderator threatening to mute everyone if they didn't stop arguing about fictional fuel consumption.
He remembered smiling.
Remembered setting his phone aside.
Remembered rolling over.
Remembered sleep.
Nothing else.
No dream.
No transition.
No explanation.
Just sleep.
Then this.
The hum.
His eyes opened.
Silver metal greeted him.
He stared upward.
His mind blanked.
The ceiling was smooth and metallic, broken only by recessed lighting and narrow status displays that glowed with soft blue light.
For several seconds he simply looked.
The ceiling remained exactly where it was.
His room did not fade back into existence.
The dream did not collapse.
Nothing changed.
His pulse began to quicken.
"No..."
The word escaped automatically.
Quiet.
Small.
Uncertain.
He sat up.
Immediately regretted it.
A wave of dizziness swept through him.
His balance felt wrong.
Not sick.
Not painful.
Just wrong.
Like his body had been rebuilt overnight using measurements that were slightly off.
He grabbed the edge of the bed until the sensation passed.
Then he looked around.
And everything got worse.
Because he knew this room.
Every centimeter of it.
The captain's quarters aboard the S.S. Endeavor.
The desk.
The shelves.
The storage lockers.
The workstation.
The wall displays.
Even the decorative ship model sitting inside a transparent display case.
He remembered voting on that.
One of the younger members of the roleplay community had suggested it years ago.
The idea had been ridiculous.
"If the captain is egotistical enough," the kid had joked, "he'd keep a miniature version of his own ship in his room."
The suggestion had become canon.
And now the model sat exactly where it was supposed to.
Exactly where it shouldn't have been.
His stomach tightened.
This wasn't similar.
It wasn't inspired by.
It wasn't close.
It was identical.
A perfect copy.
Or perhaps the original.
The thought sent a chill through him.
His gaze drifted toward the viewport.
The large reinforced window occupied most of the far wall.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, he looked through it.
And forgot how to breathe.
The planet filled nearly half the sky.
Blue oceans.
Green continents.
Swirling white cloud systems.
A thin atmosphere glowing against the darkness of space.
Mobius.
Earth.
Whatever they had called it throughout countless roleplay campaigns.
The homeworld.
The starting point.
The center of everything.
The Endeavor floated just beyond the edge of planetary orbit, suspended between the world below and the endless sea of stars above.
The planet was so large from this distance that it seemed impossible.
His eyes traced coastlines.
Mountain ranges.
Cloud formations.
Entire weather systems.
Details.
Tiny details.
Far too many details.
Dreams didn't have details like that.
Dreams didn't generate weather patterns visible from orbit.
Dreams didn't create continents stretching beyond the horizon.
Dreams certainly didn't create the overwhelming feeling of scale currently crushing his chest.
The world below existed.
His instincts knew it.
His eyes knew it.
His mind refused to accept it.
"This is a dream."
The statement sounded weak.
He tried again.
"This is a dream."
A little stronger.
Still unconvincing.
His reflection stared back from the viewport glass.
And for the first time he really looked at himself.
Green fur.
Not blue.
Not teal.
Green.
A shade he had spent almost an hour adjusting years ago because he couldn't decide exactly how bright Captain Striker should be.
Sky-blue eyes.
Long swept-back quills.
White chest fluff visible above the collar of his uniform.
Green arms matching the rest of his fur instead of the tan coloration found on most versions of Sonic.
The exact design.
Every detail.
Every choice.
Every tiny cosmetic adjustment.
The body he had spent years writing stories about.
The body he had spent years pretending to possess.
Now reflected in the glass.
Now looking back at him.
Real.
Slowly he stood.
The movement felt natural in all the wrong ways.
His balance corrected itself instinctively.
His posture shifted without conscious effort.
Muscles responded automatically.
Not the body he remembered.
Not the body he had gone to sleep with.
Yet somehow it felt natural.
That frightened him more than anything else.
His eyes drifted lower.
The uniform was exactly right.
Dark crimson command colors across the upper jacket.
Black side panels.
Gold trim.
Department insignia.
Rank markings.
White gloves.
Matching black duty pants.
Reinforced boots designed for starship service.
A complete Endeavor command uniform.
One of hundreds of details the community had spent years refining.
Arguments about colors.
Arguments about insignia.
Arguments about boots.
Arguments about belts.
Arguments about absolutely everything.
Now every one of those arguments existed as physical reality.
A mirror stood near the workstation.
He found himself walking toward it.
Not because he wanted answers.
Because he needed confirmation.
The reflection waiting for him looked exactly as intended.
Captain Striker.
Not truly an original character.
None of the ninety-one players had used original characters.
That had been one of the community's oldest rules.
If you joined the Endeavor project, you had to choose an existing Sonic character as your starting point.
No human avatars.
No entirely original species.
No exceptions.
The idea had originally started as a joke. The setting was already a bizarre crossover between Sonic and classic science-fiction exploration stories, and the moderators thought forcing everyone to use recognizable Sonic characters would keep things from becoming complete chaos.
Instead, it had created a different kind of chaos.
Because no two players could choose the same character.
Once a character was claimed, it was claimed forever.
The first player to join had taken Sonic.
Another had claimed Shadow.
Then came Tails.
Knuckles.
Amy.
Blaze.
Silver.
Rouge.
Espio.
Vector.
Whisper.
Tangle.
And dozens more.
Over the years the roster expanded until all ninety-one players had become unique variations of different Sonic characters.
Everyone personalized their chosen avatar.
Different colors.
Different uniforms.
Different hairstyles.
Different builds.
Different personalities.
But beneath all the modifications, the original character was always recognizable.
Striker had chosen Scourge.
Years ago he had spent hours modifying the design.
Then days.
Then months.
Eventually the original barely remained.
The chest scars disappeared.
White chest fluff replaced the plain torso.
His arms matched the rest of his fur coloration.
His quills became slightly longer.
His frame became stronger and more athletic, though still unmistakably fourteen years old.
Not older.
Not an adult.
Just the version of himself he had imagined when creating a captain.
The coolest version.
The bravest version.
The version who always knew what to say.
Now that version stared back at him.
Breathing.
Blinking.
Existing.
For years Captain Striker had been a role.
A username.
A collection of dialogue boxes and story posts.
Now there was no separation.
The character existed.
And somehow he existed as the character.
A memory surfaced unexpectedly.
A face reflected in a bathroom mirror.
Brown eyes.
Dark skin.
Short curls.
The sound of family talking somewhere else in the house.
The smell of dinner drifting through a hallway.
The memory lasted only a second.
Yet it hit harder than the transformation itself.
Because it reminded him that somebody had lived that life.
Somebody had gone to school.
Done homework.
Played games.
Stayed up too late reading messages from friends online.
Somebody had fallen asleep.
And somehow woken up here.
The disconnect was so immense that his mind simply refused to process it.
So instead he focused on breathing.
Focused on staying upright.
Focused on convincing himself that this was still a dream.
Because the alternative was impossible.
And impossibility was standing in front of him wearing his face.
Or at least the face he had chosen.
The intercom activated.
A burst of static filled the cabin.
Then came a familiar voice.
A voice he knew almost as well as his own.
The Endeavor's computer.
"Attention crew members. Unscheduled awakening event detected. All personnel are requested to report to Main Command."
The announcement ended.
Then repeated.
Exactly the same.
Exactly as written years ago.
And suddenly the possibility that this was real became much harder to ignore...