Sonic Knuckles Novels & Stories

And then he’d crossed his skinny-ass arms across his fuckin’ Metallica tee like he was ready to throw down or something. Punk ass poser. His knuckles hurt. He opened his eyes and held his hand in front of his face. Yeah, he’d punched something. Fingers scraped. Knuckles swollen. Black and blue and sorta yellow and, fuck me, red? Broken? He flexed his fingers. Nah, this was a wood punch, not concrete. Not flesh or bone. Wood. “It’s shit,” he’d screamed at Spike, his fists clenched. Fuck counting back from ten. “It’s fucking shit, man. I just want it fixed. It’ll take two fuckin’ seconds!”

And all she could do now was defend. She could see that this new attack carried twice the amount of power compared to the one earlier. And that meant that she couldn’t just handle this with her inner energy coat. So she countered with a skill she didn’t need to prepare herself to execute. A special skill much like Silver’s Distort. It was called Sonic Blast. Opening her mouth widely, she inhaled a sharp breath of air, and then violently coughed out this air. But what came out wasn’t a gust of wind. What was returned was a powerful blast that struck against Mane’s blades and did exactly what the skill was named – cause a blast!

Knox is on the floor. Shirtless, soaked in sweat, and something about his body is WRONG in a way that my brain tries to reject before my eyes finish processing it. The muscles under his skin are moving – MOVING, shifting and rippling like something underneath is trying to rearrange itself, and his hands are pressed flat against the hardwood and his fingers are tipped with something that isn’t fingernails. They’re longer and curved and dark and they’ve gouged lines into the floor like trenches, and the word my brain supplies is CLAWS even though that word doesn’t belong in a sentence about a human being.

I look back at Skinner. He hands me a small knife; I pulls up my shirt sleeve and cut a small line putting the same pressure Knuckles was and all I do is wince slightly. I wave the knife at him when I'm done. I see Knuckles smirking at me. The skin starts to tingle where I put the small cut and I feel a rush run through me.

He was holding an empty aluminum soda can. Without breaking his dead, burning stare from my face, Leo’s large fingers slowly clenched. With a single, terrifying flex of his bare palm, his knuckles went completely white as he crushed the thick aluminum completely flat, the sharp metal screeching loudly as it deformed inside his fist. He didn't blink once, his jaw locking into a tight, rigid line that told me everything I needed to know about the storm waiting for me in the dark.

This was enough only to see the pointed tips of the ears sticking out just above the head and somewhat resembling horns. He involuntarily clenched his fists and immediately noticed that the nails were very sensitively stuck in his palms. His fingers had to be straightened, he froze, looking at his own hands. The fingers remained quite human, but their tips were covered with horny plates, ending instead of nails with sharp spikes, more like needles. From the middle of the hand, like bracers, silvery scales rose up the arm and safely disappeared under the sleeve of the jacket, making one wonder where this innovation ends. - Kim?!

His claws were slowly piercing through Lucas’ skin. Jane flew into a fit of rage and released a sonic scream toward the young man slamming him to the wall. She made her way towards him with her stone eye gaze on him. “You are messing with the wrong people!” she yelled releasing another powerful sonic scream. The scream was so powerful that it came with a wind wave and smashed the young man’s skull to the wall.

The rhythmic, wet sound of stone grinding against stone—*ga-chi, ga-chi*—subsided into a crushing, airless silence. Leo’s fingers, once small and capable of fisting into the silk of my blazer, were now rigid spikes of gold-veined obsidian. They remained frozen mere inches from my own quartz hand, reaching for an anchor that had already become the bedrock.

Knuckles slurred, casting doubt on my claim. Now he’d gone and done it, stirring my anger like a volcano of fury. I threw him across the room, obliterating several tables and knocking down a cluster of guys like they were bowling skittles. My eyes glazed over with hellfire, and the only sound I could hear was the thundering clap of my heartbeat, cheering me on. “Kian!” A shrill voice came as a slap to the face, and I blinked, swallowing hard. Tiny hands pressed against my chest, holding me back. Gentle hands — as frail as flower stems, but as powerful as a blockade.

With a smirk playing on my lips, I decided to take a shot in the dark, figuratively speaking. "Look time no see, Piero," I remembered this fuckface. "You were the one who helped Massimo to unload smuggled the guns." He sneered at me like he was a venomous snake about to spit. "It's Pietro, you dumb fuck." I couldn't help but chuckle darkly at Piero's correction. Even Enzo seemed to be enjoying the show. I retrieved the brass knuckles from my pocket, feeling their solid weight in my hand. The knuckles were crafted from gleaming, hardened brass, reflecting a polished sheen as they glistened under the light. Their intricate design showcased a rugged elegance, boasting four individual finger ho