Moving Day
You are Belle the Tinkerer and you never thought you'd be moving.
It makes sense that you might eventually, even daughters who love their papa's very much do eventually move out and start their own lives, but you weren't an ordinary girl and he wasn't an ordinary dad.
More so than you even thought originally.
When you had decided to fully commit to this it hurt. It hurt a lot. This had been your home since your papa had built you and gave you your name. Where the two of you had worked together to make so many wonders for the people of the town and now…
The workshop's lights flicked on easily as you entered and you saw a layer of dust had accumulated and mixed with the leftover sawdust already. You normally kept on top of that, keeping things neat but you had been gone and there was no one else to take care of the place…
You shake your head and clap your hands to your cheeks a few times. "Focus girl, you're just here to get your stuff. You get your stuff, load it into the nice Blowfish, don't think about leaving home behind forever, and everything will be fine."
The hallway leading to the actual living area was in much the same state as the workshop, dust coating the furniture your dad had made, the little table that held a vase of now well wilted flowers. She had always been sure to get new flowers from Mrs.Petals every week. She always waved you off when you tried to pay, dad had fixed their leaky roof so she said it wouldn't be right.
A lot of stuff hadn't been right apparently.
She didn't need to sleep, but her dad had made sure she had a brilliant bedroom. He had hand carved her bed, her fingers running over the intricate designs of flickies and pockies running through a forest that looks exactly like the one outside her window. The small wooden box was still on the oak nightstand by her bed.
You know you couldn't open it. Not with what was inside. But it was the most important thing in the house, the thing you couldn't leave behind if you were to leave this place forever. The bed that was made with love, the dresser, the desk, all of that you loved, but this box…
You couldn't live without what it held.
A familiar noise made you freeze as she entered the hall. Her papa could fix anything, could make anything, but there was one piece of furniture in the house that he never fixed completely because he knew she loved the sound of his rocking chair squeaking as they both worked in the living room. There should be no noise from this empty house, but that familiar heart warming sound echoed through the house.
Creeping forward, careful to step on the rug Mr.Olive had made so your footsteps wouldn't echo, you peek into the living room.
For a moment, your papa is there in his rocking chair by the fire, a grin on his face as he looks up to greet you. But his words shatter the illusion, the voice is but the tone too different.
"You have a lovely home."
That voice, the voice of Dr.Eggman, shakes you.
"Why… why are you here Doctor?" Your words are shaking. This wasn't supposed to be how this went, he wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to taint the memory of this place. "This is my home, why are you here?"
"Yes and as I said, it is a lovely place Belle." He looks down and you notice the frame in his hand and your heart clenches. Your copy of that photo, the one you couldn't bear to look at, in the wooden box in your arms. "The two of you… quite the pair, weren't you."
There is a long silence between the two of you as the fire crackles.
"Tell me about him."
Your breath catches as he says it. "Why… you didn't want to hear about him before wh-"
"You're right, I didn't." He cuts you off with an agreement. "Because you would have insisted I was him or that I wasn't or something else that would have upset you."
"But I have decided that I may have miscalculated," He looks at the photo and continues. "Emotions are illogical things and I have considered them beneath me for some time and yet as I look at you or this photo, something that is not mine pulls me towards you."
He focuses on you, his eyes drilling into yours with an alien familiarity. "And so I have come to a conclusion. I must understand, I must know. Knowledge in all of its forms is mine and so I ask you to tell me of him Belle."
Your grip on the box tightens, your fingers trembling. "He was kind," you say softly, "He cared about people, not just because he had to, but because it made him happy. He loved fixing things, broken clocks, squeaky doors, even the little toy trains the kids brought him. He loved fixing people, too."
His lips twitch in a way that could have been the start of a smile or a grimace. "How quaint."
"He was more than that." your voice grows stronger, though it was tinged with sorrow. "He was my Papa. He taught me how to make things with my own hands, how to see beauty in gears and springs and the joy you can make people feel when you make them something brilliant. He… he made me feel like I belonged."
"And then he…" You hesitate, looking at him with a mixture of defiance and pleading. "And then he was taken away."
"Don't get sentimental on me," He leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "Mr. Tinker might have been soft, but that's not what the world needs, not now especially. It needs power, ingenuity, and control."
"Maybe," You allow quietly. "But it also needs kindness. You can have both. He did."
His eyes flicker with something. Regret? Recognition? It was gone before you could be sure. He stands abruptly, the photograph still in his hand. "I didn't come here to listen to sentimentality," he snaps, though there is no bite, no edge to the tone. He places the picture frame back on the table carefully, almost reverently.
You watch him, your heart heavy. "Why did you come here, then?"
He pauses, his back to you. "To see what was left behind," he said, his tone low. "And to decide if it was worth keeping."
"And is it?" you ask, stepping closer.
He didn't turn around. "That depends." He gestures toward the workshop. "Are you coming with me or not?"
You look around the room, at the tools, the projects half-finished, and the memories etched into every corner. You knew you couldn't stay. No daughter stayed at home forever.
But leaving didn't mean forgetting.
"I'll come," you say finally. "But only because I believe that if my papa and you can exist in the same world, kindness and control can exist together as well."
Eggman barks a laugh, though it lacks his usual bravado. "I guess we will see how well that works."
He strides through the door, his coat billowing behind him. You follow, but not before taking one last look at the photograph on the table. Your fingers brushing its edge.
"Goodbye, Papa,"
The door creaked shut behind you, leaving the workshop silent once more.
