I wrote this on a spur of imagination, and desire to know I can write a short story rather than a 15-chapter novella' (as my friend has dubbed its genre) that takes me weeks to finish. Some mild to medium mature themes and violence, particularly around the end. So watch yourself.

Lastly, parts of this may make it seem like it is a gaiden' (side-chapter, side-story) to The Final Step, but it's not, it's just my' Sonic characters at work.

Anyway, this is the part where I shut up. Enjoy.



Written by David Macintyre

All Sonic characters © 2002 Sonic Team

Story © 2002 to me.


Today he pushed me over.

Into the mud. I got dirty. Duh. But it also hurt.

I can guess why. He did it, that is. He's just sick of all my damn whining, day after day. That has to be it. All my irritating moves towards him, not always subtle, but nearly ever-present.

Today was one of those days when I wasn't very subtle.

I straight out told him. Again. I love him. I think at some point I even asked him to you know. Fuck me. Don't remember. Don't want to.

So that's when he lost it.

Fair enough, you could call what I did sexual harassment. But damn he pushes hard.

So I landed down in the dirt. Muddy and bruised. That was that.

At least, that SHOULD have been that.

He SHOULD have walked off, and left me there in the mud, to stew in my own misconduct. I know I love him, and so does he, but what I did was over the edge. And that's hard for someone like me to admit.

He helped me up instead.

Wiped off his forehead in the beating down summer heat, closed his eyes slowly, sighed and apologized. Then helped me up. I let him. What other choice did I have?

It really didn't do much for me, though.

He helped me up.

Over time, makes a mental pattern that anytime he puts me down, knocks me down, or leaves me down, he's going to forgive me, apologize, and help me up again. The analogy applies to more than a couple of situations I've had around him.

Vicious cycle.

It just eggs on my irritating behavior.

Eggs on my stalking.

Makes it even harder for me to try and dislike him, and God, how I try.

Makes it harder and harder to let go.

Move on.

What he wants me to do.


I don't know for how many years I've felt this way about him.

Something sparked, I suspect, the first time I saw him. From then it just developed. So it's inevitable. Unavoidable.

I couldn't have made another choice.



Another of the half-assed excuses I use on him in attempts to make him like me more. Trying to make him believe it was meant for us. Like it's fucking destiny.

Fat chance.

I was younger then. When I fell in love with him, that is. Younger.

This kind of shit lasts THAT long. It only changes if you do.

It doesn't just go away, like a dead person. You get it into your system, and no amount of masturbation will get it out of you. No self-indulgence will make you feel any better. Emotions don't come out in your spit, your puke, your tears, or your sexual fluids.

Spitting on a grave doesn't change that you hated someone.

Throwing up on another doesn't change that their memory makes you sick.

Crying your eyes dry doesn't change your longing for the person buried under the next. Releasing your fantasies into the toilet or your bedsheets when you get home from the funeral doesn't change how much you wanted that person for yourself.

You need the real thing. You need the real emotion, not just the reversible, changeable, controllable world of what you WANT to happen, that most people touch themselves over, before you can be satisfied.

And I could fill a library with what I WANT to happen.

So why does it come as such a shock to me?


Having a friend who has mastered the mind is a definite advantage for me, but not everybody has one. I suppose her profession helps.

"Hi, Rouge."

"Well, hello."

She keeps a great house at the other end of town from me. Nice sky blue wallpaper, leather furniture, white tile or marble floors depending on the room, a pool, and a jewel collection hidden in the basement that would put the Tower of London to shame.

But why am I telling you? I didn't even go there.

Having been my highly intelligent yuppie self I gave her a call on her cellphone before I went traipsing over to her house. She told me her house was going through renovations, or some crap like that. So she's staying in the penthouse of the CityLife hotel downtown.

If I've learned anything for sure about her, it's to never accuse her of staying in second-class accommodations.

Not enormously different from her house. Brownish carpet, statuettes on most of the tables, and the TV. The pool is on the third floor.

"So, you wanted to talk about something?"

She invited me inside and I spilled it out to her right away.

Everything I felt about Sonic. Passion, desire, want, need, desperation, love. She couldn't decide whether she would've picked that or not.

Everything he felt in return. Disgust, wonder, anger, annoyance, repulsion. She also seemed unclear about that.

Every reason I had to justify how I felt. The years I've known him. The times I've helped him. That we've saved each other's lives. Our friendship.

Every reason he's come up with to repel them. I'm too young. I'm not his type. He's not my type. He doesn't know me well enough. Our friendship.

"Well wow, that's really a tough problem"

I could understand that fully. She would never have gone through anything like it.

Looking at her in her loose, silk bathrobe, held together by her hands, her cleavage presenting itself for all to see.

"Can you help?"

"I might be able to."

Any advice she was going to give me would have immediately been quashed by the sight that came lumbering slowly and obliviously out of the bathroom. Her guest.

"Oh don't mind him. Anyway, you should"

It was like the world was just shutting up pretty much. While the big, naked, red echidna walked across the room, clueless to my presence, soaking from what I assume was the shower, I couldn't help figuring there wasn't really anything Rouge could say to help.

He went and got himself a bottle of beer from the fridge and turned around. Rouge flapped her lip about how she knew what men liked.

So do I. Men like the body. Men don't give a crap about the mind she told me to use while the stud that belonged to her traipsed across the hotel room with a Coors. I bet she got him in seconds.

While he went and turned on the TV, scratching his groin, Rouge talked about something I couldn't remember.

He walked back to the kitchen area and got himself a Snickers from the minibar, ass waggling at me. So to speak. Rouge kept talking, giving bad advice.

She had no idea.

Look at him. This nude stallion of a lover for Rouge, and she probably didn't have to put any effort into it. I, on the other hand, am going for something somewhat less, and I'm taking years to get it.

She doesn't understand my problem. She never will, unless she has all of her more attractive features removed and then tries to pick up Knuckles again.

She has an easy time.

Unless she's spent almost the duration of her life trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying and trying to get that thing to love her as much as she obviously does him, she can't even begin to understand how to help.

And there Knuckles was, with nothing. Short even his normal boxers and a singlet in public. Just to spite me. Just to remind me that I went to the wrong person altogether.

She doesn't know difficulty, and she doesn't know love.

Why the fuck should I have stayed? So I could stare at that echidna, and just be constantly reminded that I was wasting my time? No thanks.

I could hear each of their comments, or questions, as I left the apartment for no apparent reason, without a word.

"Was it something I said?"
"Maybe I should have worn a towel."

I left them to their lust.

My reply.




I can't think why I didn't think of this before.

Logic and film denotes that in order to get to Sonic, I have to make him jealous. That's it. It may not be easy, but it will work.

In order to do *that*, I have to ignore him.

In order to do *that*, I probably have to put away my photos of him first.

Once I had that done, I got to work on the real issue. How to go about this.

I pulled out some my diary and a pencil from my backpack, then began jotting down my thoughts.


Stop making moves.*

That by itself would probably make him more pleased than jealous. Must accompany with something else or it won't work.

* 2. Don't talk to him at all.*

I should make sure can live with that, first. This has the same problems as the first suggestion.

* 3. Hang out with one of his friends. *

He's got plenty of friends. Not all of them are my friends, anyway, but at least I have my reputation to run on. Snort. Either gender will do, I suppose, as long as I spend time with them enough. Maybe I'll meet some new people in the process, hmm?

* 4. Go out with one of his friends. *

That won't work. Too difficult. And I might get too attached.

That's one of his problems when it comes to me. All of his friends are either gorgeous or great people or both. So he doesn't need me.

I erased it and replaced it with

* 4. Go out with someone else, and try to pass him in the city. *

It could work. I don't suppose it would be terribly difficult to pick up some loser off the side of the road. I'm willing to go to that length, if I have to.


* 5. Try and divert one of his better friends' attention. One he hangs out with and will miss. *

I couldn't really figure out the logic behind it when I began writing it down, but it just came to me. It seems more like a plot to make him jealous of them.

When I finished adding it, however, the solution just exploded into my brain. I can't explain it. It was like one second you're clueless, the next somebody plugs that big metal thing from The Matrix into your head and you've got the answer.

It was inspiration, I guess. I left the café without waiting for my lunch. I had to act on this. Idea sent by some heavenly figure of some kind. I decided to stop thinking so much. The way I fumble in my thoughts can ruin an idea. Any idea. That's probably why I don't have him already.

I can't quite tell why I went to THAT part of town.

It isn't clear why I picked THAT building to enter.

It really made no sense why I picked THAT floor once I reached the elevator.

Even less why I went to THAT door.

The whole trip took me about an hour or so. I can't figure out why I gave up food to walk an hour on the germ of an idea. Maybe I thought one of his friends would be in the apartment, breaking into his soda or something. I don't think he drinks.

But be that as it may, the solution came to me too easily. Far too easily.

I opened the unlocked door to room number 391, and the answer just stared back at me.

A handsome, fun loving, certainly attractive, kind, caring young fox man. Boy, whatever. Smiling at me from the far interior of Sonic's apartment. Nice décor.

But that's it. It's so easy. Sonic's best friend. Take away his best friend for awhile, and it will get to him. He will notice me.

I don't know if I can call myself one of his friends. But if I ignore him and in the same method remove one of his closer acquaintances, he will eventually want them both back. Then I will get him. Then he will love me. Yay. Happily ever after, the end, all that bullshit.

The only thing left to wonder about was where to go first.


It wasn't difficult for me to pick him up. Then we decided what to do.

My date and I over the evening went all around the night spots of the city, enjoying every minute of it. Lots of stuff to see around Station Square, no doubt about it. Enough places to get mugged balances it out.

The whole night was great. Just him and me. No stupid distractions, besides the ones we wanted, and no endless nagging like I'm used to dishing out. I praised the fact that I didn't need to harangue him through the lines in the restaurant. I was there with him, not behind him.

A sobering experience in the long run. Made me think while we walked past the entrance to Twinkle Park. Couples get in free.

He gave me anything. Great conversationalist, I suppose. Good looking, I guess. Nice guy, really. Fun as hell to hang out with, come to think of it. That was vaguely on my mind while we bought our movie tickets.

It was a perfect evening, when it came right down to it.

So what was I really after? This guy was great, but for some reason Sonic still nagged in my brain. Replacing my date the entire night.

Sonic eating a burger with me.

Sonic sharing a roller coaster ride.

Sonic crying in the movie with me.

Sonic putting a hole in one.

Sonic trying to kiss me.

I can't get him out of my fucking mind!

WHY NOT?!?!?!


Then it came. The first kiss. In the middle of a sentence, as usual.

Not just any first kiss, though. Not like the first one of a relationship. My first, period. Ever.

And wouldn't you know it, I was thinking about something else. Not even paying attention. Barely even noticed until several seconds after it was over.

God. I'll bet you're thinking about how pathetic and unappreciative I am, or something like it.

Well, fuck you.

You couldn't even tell I was thinking about something else, let alone something that was shortly going to anger me.

Because HE came walking by in the middle of it. You know damn well who I mean.

You'd think I'd be happy. That was what I set out to do, right? Make him jealous. This was a better setup than I could have hoped for, actually. The man always DID have really great timing.

Yet it doesn't do me any damn good.

I was overjoyed at first. But then HE had to slip his little comment. The wrong one, as it turns out.

I put on my best face. Playtime.

"Oh. Hi, Sonic."

My date was ecstatic. Being seen, at last. I think it was his first, or one of them.

I was what was I feeling?

Happiness? Triumph? Shameful joy?




He looked over me with one eyebrow cocked.

Was this it?

Was this finally it? Would he notice me? Would he want me? Would he love me?


The only thing he noticed was that it wasn't HIM who had his arm around me. Not HIM I had just shared a kiss with.

Sound good?

It's not.

"Well I'm glad to see you've finally moved on. Good luck to both of you." He smiled.

Then that was it. All over. Along with my feelings and charade of pride.

He just walked away. That was all. Nothing. No reward, no gratification. I didn't get anything out of it except some unlucky guy who I now had to ditch somehow.



Before I left him at the door to his place, I had talked to him about what Sonic said.

"Soyou've been after him for awhile, huh?"

Kind of obvious, but I'll let it slide.


"Well, if you want MY suggestion, maybe he's just not right for you."

Are you kidding? He's perfect.


"I mean, maybe it's just pointless, chasing him around all the time. You never get anything out of it, right?"


"So maybe you need to go for something else. You don't want me, I can tell."

I guess not.


"Maybe you just need to make yourself happy. I mean, once you do land him, then what?"

"What do you do? Does it make you feel any better? Do you feel stronger?"

"Sorry, I'm ranting what I want to say is, maybe you shouldn't worry about him for now. Just move on and make yourself happy first. Learn to love yourself before you love him."

For the oddest reason,

"That makes sense."

My date smiled.

"Good night," he said warmly, shutting the door to his abode.

I was left standing outside, then gradually gaining the memory to begin walking to my own apartment.


"Hey what's this?"

Sonic found the list in my bag. The things I was plotting against him to make him green.

I don't know how he got it, or why he went in my bag anyway.

Moreover, the bastard read my diary!

"That" I fumbled for an excuse. "That's" More "That is"

I couldn't get one.

"Jesus, you're really after me that badly?"


He sat down in his chair. Sue me for not remembering why I was in his apartment at the time.

"Look I guess I'll never really understand what you're going through, because I'm not you and I'm not like you. But really, aren't you just taking this a bit far?"

I'm only taking it far when violence gets involved.


He stood up, sighing.

"Look I really wish I could give you what you wanted, but I just don't get you," he said. "I've tried, but I can't. And I won't give you an excuse, because you've heard them all."

Damn right I have.


"Because," he said simply. He put down the diary and looked around the room, as if checking for hidden cameras or some shit.

"Look, if it will make you happy, let me try this."

I wish I could have taken pride or happiness or resolve in his next action; taking me by the head and meeting my lips. But I didn't feel any emotion in it. Nothing.

No happiness, no love, no ecstasy. Just a favor, to make me shut up.

He parted. I could see him wincing, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

"That was empty," I said accusingly.

He stood silent for a moment. Then he lost it.

"Fuck YOU!"

He exploded at me and shoved me to the floor, this time not stopping to apologize.

"You want more?!" At that point he kicked me in the side, causing me to yelp and roll over into a ball.

"Fucking right!"

I couldn't believe it.

I had NEVER seen him this angry. Ever.

"What do you want, a fucking FUCK?!"

He threw me out then, leaving me in tears outside his door. He slammed it on me.

"What about my diary, asshole?!"

Four seconds later he opened the door, threw it at my head, and then slammed it again. I heard the click of the door locking. I heard him scream his latest reason out the door.

And only then did I notice the girl in his apartment.

That was that.

Or at least, that SHOULD have been that.


He thinks it's just about sex.

Well, surprise, asshole, I don't want sex. I just want the love. Frankly the thought of having a long object shoved up my pisshole doesn't seem too attractive.


All this time he's just been nice to me. Just made excuses, feigned flattery, not gotten angry. He accepts the way I feel about him but won't return it.

On the inside he just plain hates me.

Analogy. When he pushed me down in the dirt that was him being nice.

When he helped me up again, that was him hating me.

I know it. I know he hates me. Can't stand me. Wants me to go away and leave him the fuck ALONE.

But what does he do instead of telling me?

Pushes me down further. Makes me even dirtier. More injured.

Whenever he fakes acceptance and flattery at my feelings, he is making it harder for me.

I can't let go of him if he keeps taking my hand.

I know it's difficult to understand. But one day when you're ready to die or kill for your love, you'll get it.

Before he came walking into the alley, I had mulled over the day preceding my plan.

I had crossed out the title on my list. I had replaced it with LETTING GO OF SONIC HOW?'

Then I smiled wickedly and added a sixth method.

Which I'm now putting into practice.

I want to let go of him.

I want to take my date's advice. I want to get on with my life and be happy. I want to please myself instead of him. I want to make friends instead of sucking up to his.

He's holding me back.

Because of him, my first kiss was described to me by someone else.

Because of him, I have no friends.

Because of him, I have been unhappy for almost my entire life.

Because of him, this is happening to him.

His fault. Not mine. His. He should have said yes. He should have loved me.

But he didn't. So now I have to do something.

Logic and film denotes that in order to let go, I have to remove the source of my problems.

Oh sure, I could move. But I'd come crawling back.

So what do I do?

Smile wickedly.

"Hey what are YOU doing here?"

What he knows is he received a call from a friend who wanted to see him. Not me. But a friend.

What he doesn't know is that was me, faking it.

What he knows is that I want him to love me.

What he doesn't know: not anymore.

What he knows is that I probably just want to try and seduce him again.

What he doesn't know is I've given up on him.

What he doesn't know is that in order to please myself, which I intend to do, I plan to remove the source: my dependence on him. My complete and utter need for him and his affection and help. Without him I'd be nothing. I'd be dead.

I don't want that.

What he knows is that I have my hands behind my back and a soft smile on my face.

What he doesn't know is that about an hour ago, I went to Big 5 and picked out a wooden baseball bat.


Years of anguish went into each and every swing.

Wasted childhood muffled his agonizing screams ringing through my ears.

Pain and disappointment fueled my lust to see his blood run warm to the paved, gray ground.

Quashing of his excuses pardoned my violent resolve.

"You're too young."

"You're not my type."

"I'm not your type."

"We're too good friends."

"We're not good enough friends."

His latest, which was probably the most sobering of all.

You'd think it would be followed by a lighthearted chuckle, wouldn't you?

If he had just said that from the start, this all could have been avoided. He would have lived.

He wouldn't have lured me into thinking I could change to have him. But I couldn't.

Different excuses, all his fakery, everything, all just a mask.

I wouldn't be ending up in jail, soon enough, seeing as, in all my nervousness about the fact that


I dropped the bat and left it by his head. Logic and film denotes that they'll get my fingerprints. And then I'm dead.

That will be that.

At least, that SHOULD be that.

It was like ARK all over again, really; a year ago when he went out in that space pod and we all thought he'd blown up, I knew what it meant when I was done getting over the initial shock. I was crying; we all were. Save for Eggman.

He tells me that he always lives like there's no tomorrow, because for him there mightn't be. And then it came to me. He'd lived his whole life without telling me he loved me. Not once. He came back, when my prayers were answered; but I think right there was when a considerable chunk of my faith was in the pod as well.

Then I smashed his head in with a bat. Same thing. He's dead, he still doesn't love me.

I wish I could still cry when I'm alone. A good sob can help you sort out your problems.

Soon enough, though, I'll be able to cry. A lot. Because the whole fucking world will be watching me on TV. Twice.

Once, on that extra special CNN story, interviewing all his friends. Maybe even E! true story, or something. But I'll have to bawl my eyes out. My feelings for him, what he meant to me, how good friends we were.

Then a few days later, I will have to cry again, and admit that I did it to the world. The death of Sonic the hedgehog does not go unnoticed. It is not a tear here and there and then it's all better a week later. No. It's a worldwide tragedy. Lives are in the balance.

And it's my fault for tipping the scales.

Then word will spread.

Knuckles will hate me.

Rouge will hate me.

Big will hate me. Not that I care what that hillbilly thinks.

Shadow would hate me if he were alive.

Amy–my friend, my rival, my competition, and the only person in the world who understood my problem, will hate me the most. The one who was in his apartment that day. When I realized that I had lost. That I couldn't win.

His excuse shattered it

Wait. I never told you what it was, did I?

"I'm not gay."

That was it. Three words changed my life and ended his.

Waiting in his apartment, having used the second key, I sit faux calmly on the couch and look over to the left again. To the mirror.

For the second time in so many days, the fox boy known to everyone as Tails stares back at me from the reflective decoration.

Does my struggle click into place, now?

I thought he could be, given the right words. Or at least bisexual. All I had to do was coax him enough.

But no. Surprise. He wouldn't.

I thought I could just change to have him.

But I couldn't.

Miles Tails' Prower is a liar. They will say.

He tried to win Sonic's heart, and then he beat the hedgehog to death to please his own sick agenda. I'm a liar. I'm a killer. You won't love me. Nobody ever will again.

Because I killed their hero for myself.

I'm so selfish.

I'm wrong. I CAN cry when I'm alone.


A story that repeats itself all over the world, every day. Minus the celebrities.

But no.

I will not be like the others. Others end their life for fear of jail and disrespect. I do not.

I dump the glass of cyanide or whatever it is out the window. Some unlucky person might have their head up to look at the rain.

I sigh.

It always rains when heroes die.


And if I die, it will rain even more.

Even if I'm not a hero anymore. Sounds egotistical, I know. But for some, it will rain. I still gave my time and my life for them.

I am Tails Prower. I was the best friend of Sonic the hedgehog.

I will not take the coward's way out.

I don't know what I'll do to stay alive or to save my reputation or even if I'll try to but for now, I can just wait things out.

Just like always.

Living by a single thread.




Sean (Catlett)'s read it and we both know in parts it sounds like his fic So Far Off– but he doesn't care. Neither should you. So don't kill me if you notice as well.