"Can you hear me?"

A voice. A voice that was so familiar. Yet it reverberated in the fallen hero's head and made his ears ring, so loud did it seem. What calamity had befallen him he could not quite remember, but he was sure it must have been perilous to draw such worried tones.

"Please say something!"

"My head hurts," said Equinus, opening his eyes. His gaze was met by the large, worried eyes of Oracle, his friend and companion.

Equinus hadn't expected to see as powerful a figure as the wise owl look so worried over as simple a thing as closed eyes, and certainly not to be as relieved as she was at the discovery of his headache. His first impulse was to tell her that it wasn't very polite to be happy someone was hosting the Mobian Philharmonic Orchestra playing the Anvil Chorus in their head, but he thought better of it.

"Thank the Powers you're alive," said Oracle, and Equinus was startled to have her wrap her arms around him in a hug. He was still a little weak, though, so he didn't put up any resistance. Oracle seemed to realize the indignity of her act and released her equine friend a bit too hastily, which had the result of Equinus bumping his head on the wall behind him as he fell back.

"Ouch!"

Equinus sat up and looked around, rubbing his injured noggin, puzzled for a moment at his surroundings until the memories came flooding back to him. His eyes went searching over the room until they rested on the bier that occupied its center. The slab of cold marble was empty save for an empty suit of armor, a dusty shield, and a sword in a simple leather scabbard.

"Where's the Paladin?" he asked, turning to look at Oracle, only to catch his breath. The Owl who had once been clothed in simple brown cloth now wore robes of a deep indigo, so dark they were almost black. As she moved this new robe seemed to glitter and sparkle with every change of position. It was as if the fabric had been sewn through with diamond dust or fallen stars. The hood of the robe was thrown back, and Equinus was struck for the first time by how beautiful Oracle really was. Oracle had seemed timeless before, and she still looked that way, but there was a new life that had infused her body, an inner energy that had not been there before. She seemed more real somehow, and this new life made her stand out, revealing the mature beauty of her form and face. Her eyes were deep pools of impenetrable black with irises of the same deep indigo shade as her robes.

Oracle smiled at Equinus as she considered his question, a small, secret, and somehow sad upturning of the sides of her beak. Without a word, the owl walked to the bier and picked up the shield. Coming back to the seated equine, she brushed away the dust and then held the shield up, letting him gaze into the depths of the bright metal.

"By the moon of Mobius," whispered Equinus, his mouth agape in shock and wonder.

"You see," said Oracle, "the Paladin is reborn."

It all came back now, the voices, the light, the explosion, and he remembered being thrown back into the wall as his whole world was engulfed in light. Glancing over his shoulder the young equine could see the cracks in the wall where his back had hit it, the stone giving way before his body did. He was surprised that he had suffered no injury from the impact. And as he looked into the face of the stranger in the mirror-bright metal, his fingertips brushing the surface of the shield, he knew that life would never be the same again.

The lights were dimmed in the Central Control Chamber of the Death Egg, just as Robotnik preferred them to be. It was as though the darkness in his own heart found it more comforting to be cloaked in a similar darkness without. And as the tyrant of Mobius looked at the screens displaying mile after mile of blackened skies and barren wastelands denuded of life by his Permanent Pollution Policy it warmed his heart to see the darkness within becoming a greater darkness without, one with enough reach to engulf the entire planet. His dreams were filled with visions of a time when the entire globe would be shrouded in his endless twilight of the dead and the dying, and he relished the glorious day that he would make that dream a reality. And that reality would come into being with the Doomsday Project. Then he would be able to move on to truly great things!

And yet there was a minor thought that nibbled like a mechanical mouse in the back of Robotnik's mind. And when he turned his attention to this disturbance to his peace he found his dreams fading into the background, to be replaced by images of the nightmares he most dreaded.

"The Hedgehog couldn't know about the Tombs, could he?" Robotnik muttered, talking to himself. He often did this, since he found that he was the only one could fully appreciate what he had to say. "No, but the princess might. And what about that owl?" He pulled on his moustache speculatively. "Yes, what about that owl?"

He couldn't help but replay in his mind the events of the past evening, which had led to the destruction of Refinery Number Seven, not to mention the loss of a perfectly good Supervisor robot. But the Refinery was being fixed even as he sat there, and he could always build more Supervisors. Such things as this were irksome, but they did not intrude into his darkened dreams for very long. But the Hedgehog had been a part of the mess, and Robotnik knew that when the Hedgehog became a part of the picture trouble soon followed. Such were the images that tormented the despot in the moments of his darkest imaginings. And there was the owl. There was something familiar about that owl, and it bothered Robotnik not to be able to remember who and what she was, for he never forgot anything and prided himself on this fact.

"Computer," he boomed, "call up images and files on all personnel of the Royal House."

"Acknowledged," beeped the console in front of him, and soon the screens that ringed the room were flashing images of every known Mobian who had ever entered the service of the deposed King.

Robotnik smirked as he saw his own picture flash by, and at the passage of some courtiers he had particularly despised and had been most gratified to see roboticized, Sir Charles among them, but otherwise saw nothing that jogged his memory. His mind probed deep into the rusted memories of the past.

"It had something to do with the Great War," rumbled the rotund tyrant. "Yes . . . I was doing away with a legend, wasn't I?" His metal right hand thumped heavily on the intercom set into his throne. "Security, send up the old books of Princess Acorn. They should be in the trophy room."

The 'trophy room,' as Robotnik called it, was actually the remnants of the splendor of the Royal Palace, stacked into a large room underneath the Death Egg and mostly forgotten. Such things as the Royal Library and what little jewelry that was used by the Royal House were stored in this massive room. Robotnik kept them because he realized their worth, and yet found no use for them at the present time.

Turning, Robotnik watched as a pair of his SWATbots walked through the doors leading to the rest of the Death Egg, each carrying a small pile of books. They set their loads down and then departed with a gesture from their master. He walked over to the stacks of books and perused the covers. Almost all of them had illustrations, and they were perfect for an intelligent and agile young mind such as that of Princess Sally Acorn at age five, being full of lively and entertaining tales of the past intermixed with volumes of arithmetic, handwriting, manners, and a number of other subjects that would be useful to a princess-in-training. In some twisted way it pleased Robotnik to have deprived one of his hated foes of possessions she must surely have prized. And then Robotnik saw the book he wanted.

"'The Chronicle of the Last Legion,'" he read aloud. Picking up the book he stared at the plain green cover, the gold lettering of the title almost worn away by use. Opening the book, Robotnik flipped through the pages, glancing at the stories of wars and adventures from times of long ago. The Last Legion, the undying guardians of Mobius, who would right all the wrongs, giving hope where none had been before, and making the way for the forces of Good to always come out the victors before fading away into the sunset. Robotnik chuckled a little at the quaintness of the tales and was about to put the volume back when he found the illustration at the center of the book. It was the only picture in the whole tome, but it was masterfully drawn, a simple but detailed ink sketch of the heroes that paraded their way through the book. There was the Unicorn, Paladin, who led and directed the Legion. Next to him stood Drake, the Manticore, and by the hulking beast stood Shrike, the Gryphon. Crouched next to and a little behind Shrike, where he wouldn't be noticed as easily and scare the children who might read the book, was Basilisk, the horrible Cockatrice. But the figure that attracted Robotnik's attention most was the Owl that hovered behind and above them all, her wings outstretched, covering the four heroes protectively, almost as any mother fowl would cover her offspring with her wings. This was Oracle, the Undying. It was she who appeared first in almost every tale. And when she appeared the Last Legion soon followed.

"Stories like this can be very dangerous," growled Robotnik. He tossed the book carelessly back onto the pile and walked back to his throne, thumping the intercom as he sat. "Security, come and collect these books. And while you're at it, arrange for three squads to be freed up and go with a few Robo-Rats down into the sewers. I want the Tombs checked for vermin."

With an evil chuckle, the tyrant of Robotropolis leaned back in his chair and swivelled it back towards the screens that had reverted to showing scenes of desolation, pleased with his swift decision. After all, he couldn't have children believing in such foolish tales, now could he?

Sir Charles Hedgehog's metal face frowned as he listened to the sounds coming from the Central Command of the Death Egg. He didn't quite understand what it was that had so fascinated Robotnik that he would take time away from his planning and gloating to look into children's books, and then to send a dispatch of SWATbots to check the Tombs, a place that was as devoid of life as its name implied, and thus holding no possible interest for the busy despot.

"Very strange," muttered Charles to himself. But as he scratched his metal head his thoughts were cut off by the chirrup of the messenger mimicritter, which bobbed its head at him cheerfully as it presented the piece of paper clutched in its foreclaw.

Charles patted the mimicritter on its metallic-looking and flesh-feeling head, marveling once more at how the little creature could change its appearance from flesh to metal so flawlessly as to defy scanners designed to pick up non-roboticized life forms. It was a chameleon ability that the mimicritter had assured Charles all its kind possessed (for it could talk in its own language of chirps and whistles) but that most of its relatives were hiding in the Great Swamp, as far away from the pollution of the city, to which they were very sensitive, as they could possibly manage without attracting undue attention. Charles was often led to wonder at the bravery of the little creature, for he knew how badly the polluted air must hurt its tiny lungs, and how scary the mechanical world around it must be, masquerading as what it wasn't. Charles knew a similar feeling, the feelings of a double agent walking the razor's edge, and admired anyone or anything that could stand up under the pressure as well and cheerfully as his little friend did. It gave him an example to emulate, and he tried his best to be as cheerful as the courageous little messenger. This mimicritter had been a pet of the Royal House, which once had kept several of the little creatures to act as messengers, and it had been Sally Acorn's responsibility to raise it from a fledgling. That she had done her duty well was apparent in the bright eyes and healthy color of the mimicritter along with its very friendly demeanor, despite its constant travels back and forth in the smog.

Turning from the mimicritter, Sir Charles unrolled the paper he had received and read its contents, written in the neat script of Sally Acorn. Charles was glad when Sally wrote the messages. Sonic's handwriting was awful, to say the least, and he smudged ink over most of the page when he wrote as he tried to get the job done as fast as he could. Though if the truth was told he had beautiful cursive when he wrote a little more slowly, Charles admitted to himself. But since the blue hedgehog almost never slowed down it was decided that Sally would write the messages to Uncle Chuck. And as Sir Charles read the message he suddenly understood what Robotnik had been doing, and the understanding filled his metal heart with dread.

The message read:

Uncle Chuck,

We've been doing well. We all hope you are too. Yesterday we blew up one of the main refineries, though you probably knew about that already. I know how news travels in that awful place. There is something you should know about, though. Perhaps you remember Equinus, the young horse that lives on the outskirts of Knothole with his sister, Fillia? Yesterday he came with us on the raid and wrecked some new robot called a 'Supervisor.' Please find out what you can about these new creations of our mutual 'friend.'

Also, when we got back together at our rendevous, Tails was there and told us that Fillia had been captured by SWATbots. She's alright now, so don't worry. Anyway, we were going to go rescue her when this strange owl in a brown robe showed up and sent us back, taking Equinus with her to save Fillia by themselves. It was a good thing too, but I'll explain the rest of the story the next time we meet in person. Provided Sonic doesn't beat me to it as usual.

After the rest of us got back to Knothole Fillia showed up, safe and sound, and told us that she had been saved by her brother and the owl, who worked together with the Underground Mobians. She said the owl was named Oracle, and that this owl and Equinus were going into the Tombs to bring back the Last Legion, the heroes in the children's stories. I know that sounds a little strange, but that's what Fillia said. Please see if you can find out how they're doing, and if Equinus is all right.

Send word as soon as you can of the current happenings in Robotropolis, and take care of yourself. Sonic wants to add a few words, too.

Charles smiled as he deciphered the scrawl of words his nephew had added, conveying his love as only the hyperactive hedgehog could. It was at times like this that Charles was glad his eyes were cybernetic, since they allowed him a better analysis of handwriting than his fleshy eyes. He couldn't help but love that kid. Sonic was just too much to believe all at once.

Setting the note aside Charles looked seriously at the makeshift computer and radio console that dominated his secret listening post, pondering the implications of what he had just read coupled with what he had only a few minutes before heard Robotnik say and do.

"This is bad," he muttered, shaking his head. "This is very bad."

Opening a drawer in the desk the console rested upon, Charles slid the letter in and took out a sheet of paper while one of his fingers sprouted a ballpoint pen. He then began to write his response, reading it aloud as he wrote.

"Princess Sally and Sonic, thanks for the note and the update on what you've been doing. Robotnik has been bothered recently by a strange obsession with children's stories, and he just sent three squads with Robo-Rats to check out the Tombs. I plan on getting there as soon as possible to stop or delay them if I can.

"Robotnik has been increasing production on something he calls the 'Doomsday Project,' and it's getting me worried. Part of this increased production has included making a few new sorts of robot, and I've had some opportunity to be there when they were being made. The Supervisors are designed to be smarter than the average SWATbot and able to think up simple tactics in the field without supervision, directing the actions of groups of other robots. There have also been a few other designs that I've seen come down the assembly line in small numbers, though I don't know much about them yet. One is called a Destrier, which looks like a robot centaur, and another is called a Spider, and looks like its name. And he is still modifying his Cheetron, the robot Sonic raced against a while back in Robotnik's Robot-Rally, making it into a more effective hunter machine. I think he intends to use it to hunt down my nephew.

"Speaking of new robots, Snively has been put on a special robot-design project all his own, and has been doing something in addition to this that takes up a lot of his time, using the robot work as a cover. I haven't got much of an idea what he's doing, since he's working hard to keep the details a secret even from Robotnik. All I know is that it seems to have something to do with the Satellite that you destroyed a little while back. Robotnik also had something going on that piece of space-junk which I am also not completely sure of yet. I'll keep you posted as I learn more, and I'll do my best to keep Equinus safe. Take care. Uncle Chuck."

Rolling the paper up neatly, Sir Charles handed it to the waiting mimicritter, which had been peeking over his shoulder as he wrote.

"I've got another flight for you, little guy, and you can go back to the fresh air of the Great Woods. Take care of yourself."

The mimicritter took the paper in its other foreclaw and whistled goodbye, then darted out the hidden door to the listening post as it opened to let both the little creature and Sir Charles out. They both had tasks to perform, and there was no time for delay when lives were at stake.