skdjghjd so! i've been working on this thing since like. february? and i'm very excited to finally post hehe
essentially it's just: sonadow + winter soldier + alien apocalypse :)
so yk. have fun lol. be warned, swearing/gore aplenty.
He's been drowning for a long time. Too long. And, somewhere along the way, he's forgotten how to breathe.
The soldier opens his eyes and stares back at himself through the foggy mirror. Cold, glassy green orbs are locked onto his own, completely detached, hardened. His quills are blue but they're washed out and mussed up and a little greasy. He vaguely wonders about the last time he's showered. It's probably been a while. He can't remember.
He can't remember much of anything. Just his core purpose. He completes a mission and he's promptly wiped. Flickers of some memories linger behind—driving his blade into his target's writhing body; standing under the shower and watching cakey blood swirl around his feet into the drain.
—gentle hands running along his form, soft and caressing, a voice whispering fondly to him, and it's so distant, like he's drowning, like he's stuck in a dream—
The soldier blinks and stands, still watching his reflection. He takes a moment to straighten his posture. Tugs at his gloves and looks over the black suit of thick armor he wears: durable enough to protect him from most attacks, yet light enough to accommodate for his nimble form. He taps his finger over the sensor at the back of his neck and the nanotechnology activates, hard material gliding over his face. Inky black swallowing pale blue.
Staring back at him through the mirror is a perfect soldier, coated in perfect armor. He cannot see his dead expression or detached green eyes anymore. Just a black figure, and two transparent red eye pieces—impeccable almond shapes that permit him to not just see, but trace any movement in a one-hundred foot radius, scan any sort of necessary components, and easily deduce the most efficient pathways whilst navigating.
That is what he is designed for. Efficiency. Perfection.
The soldier is awake now because he has been ordered to accomplish a new mission. He is to locate a Black Arms hive (because they've overrun the planet, and his handler is still trying to deal with taking care of them—he's supposed to conquer the world, not them) and assassinate the commander of that specific outpost. The soldier has been told that this is not the first time the Black Arms invaded the planet. They came here, once, many years ago, and failed. Now, they're back, and hungry for power.
He grabs his dagger tailored perfectly to his fighting style and balanced to fit his hand just as well. And he sets out.
"Peculiar," the alien hisses into his face, pinning him against the slimy black wall of the hive. Scattered around them is a graveyard of other Black Arms the soldier managed to eliminate. This alien, the one pressing him down with a blaster aimed to his head, is the last one, and a rather pathetic, scrawny one too.
The soldier has almost accomplished his mission. But he is failing it, and he has been failing it. He failed the second he caught the attention of one of the aliens while lurking in the shadows, trying to sneak seamlessly into the hive and assassinate his target—their commander. He wasn't supposed to have to kill all of them. But then they found him and they attacked and he had no choice but to fight back and now he has a fucking gun to his head.
He tilts his head away from nozzle of the blaster, watching the alien intently. He feels this twinge of panic stirring in his gut, and he's sure it shows in his green eyes. Thankfully, all the alien can perceive is the two red opticals from his mask. It is better this way. He cannot demonstrate emotion to the enemy, as that subsequently demonstrates weakness.
Claws curl around his throat and the gun is pressed harder to his head. "Such a little thing you are. A mobian. And yet you managed to slaughter my entire hive. It will be fun to take you to Black Doom and dissect you."
The soldier is not bothered by these words. He does not feel fear. The panic in his chest is just a fallacy. His handler will surely wipe it once he reports back to him.
He is already calculating his next move when a gunshot rings through the air, and the alien looming over him explodes into a disgusting splatter of black blood and flesh. Its remains drip down his armor. It does not disturb him. His handler will clean it when he reports back to him.
Wordlessly, the soldier throws the mangled corpse off of him, watching disinterestedly as it bleeds into the pristine, dewy grass. When he looks up there is a new figure, gun aimed in his direction; it is highly probable that this is the person who killed the alien. It is undecided if the person is a threat or not. However, the former is more likely.
As the figure approaches, slow and cautious, the soldier can start to make out his features despite the dark veil of the night. The technology built into his helmet is built just for this.
The mask deciphers for him that the stranger is Shadow the Hedgehog, age: 23, allegiance: the rebellion.
There are three sides to this war: the Black Arms, the rebellion, and his own, the empire. The soldier does not take kindly to the first two.
In one single, smooth motion, he grabs the deceased alien's gun from the ground and aims it right back at Shadow the Hedgehog. His opponent stiffens and raises his own weapon.
"I just saved your fucking life, and that's the thanks I get?" he barks. Hostile. Violent. His handler has various records on Shadow the Hedgehog, the soldier realizes as he searches through the databases in his helmet. Shadow the Hedgehog is unpredictable—at one point in time, he was aligned with his handler, but for the better part of the last decade, he has sided with the rebellion—or rather, the entire rest of society that has always opposed his handler, even before the war.
The 'rebellion' is such a strange term, in the soldier's opinion. They aren't exactly a rebellion. It's just all of the humans and mobians opposed to the Black Arms, but equally opposed to his handler's methods. He cannot comprehend why anybody would be opposed to his handler, because doing as his handler instructs is all he knows. However, he does not have any specified opinion on the rebellion. He's not supposed to have any opinions on anything; he's supposed to complete the tasks assigned to him.
Regardless, his handler has ingrained the concept in his mind that any aligned with the rebellion is an enemy, and should be dealt with accordingly.
The soldier poises his finger over the trigger but he doesn't shoot. He doesn't know why. Perhaps it is his current orders still laced with his mission he just completed (failed): only kill the leader, and avoid any other possible conflicts. Perhaps this conflict is avoidable. He cannot upset his handler any more than he already has.
Shadow the Hedgehog looks terse. He shifts his weight. He's wearing an old bomber jacket, a washed out olive green, decorated with various pins.
"Look," his opponent says, and it is evident that he is attempting to deescalate the situation from the softer look in his eyes and the way his hand twitches, nearly wanting to lower his own gun. The soldier does not waver. "I know you work for Robotnik. I've seen you around. But can we just call a truce? We both have a common enemy."
The soldier considers this. That is true: both the rebellion and his handler's empire share the same enemy of the Black Arms. But that is how this war is. It is a triangle. The same could be said that the rebellion and aliens share a common enemy, that the aliens and empire share a common enemy.
Orders blare across his mind that he cannot trust anybody except his handler. His handler is his priority. His handler knows best. Don't trust anybody but me. The soldier thinks his head hurts a little.
Avoid conflict.
"Leave now," the soldier says. His voice comes out distorted from the modulator on his mask, intended to hide his identity. He's never understood its purpose—he is nothing more than an asset that accomplishes tasks for his handler, what is there to hide? But he does not openly question it. "Do not follow me, or I will be forced to kill you."
Shadow the Hedgehog's eyes narrow to slits. "Fuck you too."
The soldier disregards him and warps back to his handler's headquarters with the aid of the Chaos Emerald in his possession. He cradles it tentatively in his hands as he is then berated and lectured by his handler for ruining his mission. His emerald makes him feel warm and safe. He likes to feel the weight of it in his palms. It is soothing; it glows a constant, unyielding blue. It makes him feel better.
He is not supposed to feel.
As a punishment for compromising his task, the soldier's emerald is confiscated for the next forty-eight hours and he is sent to stand in isolation in his chamber; he is not allowed to sit or move, simply to stand and stare at the wall and prove he is not broken or crumbling. If he fails this task, more torture will be induced, and he will be wiped. The soldier thinks he should be wiped, because he is not supposed to feel scared when an alien points a gun at his head, he is not supposed to hesitate instead of shooting an enemy, he is not supposed to miss his emerald.
But whenever he is wiped, electric jolts rocket across his body and burn him alive and make him scream till his vocal chords are raw. And when he wakes up he's disoriented and nauseas and he feels like he's being pulled deeper and deeper underwater. He doesn't want to be wiped.
So instead, the soldier does not tell his handler about his intruding thoughts of panic and doubt and sorrow. Instead, the soldier abides by his command and stares at the wall for the designated forty-eight hours, even when his legs tremble beneath him and his muscles are alight in a scalding agony. After all, this should not bother him in the slightest. He is not supposed to feel.
(Somewhere, buried in the deepest depths of himself, so deeply submerged that everything is pitch black and the pressure is pulsing against his head, he screams for somebody to pull him out of the water.)
Shadow doesn't know how long it's been. Too long, he thinks.
The Black Arms invaded Mobius a little over a year ago, and the war and calamity has been consistently long and incessant. It doesn't help that Eggman has joined the fight, somewhere between good and evil, for the most part lurking in the shadows and watching everything unfold. The doctor is on his own side, with motives nobody can quite decipher yet because he's a hermit in how he hides away in whatever secret base he has.
A lot of people have died. Too many people. The aliens are slowly but surely winning and things are looking really bleak. In the span of fifteen months they managed to transform the entire planet into a wasteland.
They're losing hope. Shadow is losing hope. He supposes he's never quite had it, not since he lost Sonic. Sonic was his beacon of hope. Now he grapples with trying to indulge whatever remnants of him Shadow can still cling to, in fleeting memories and dusty relics that lay around his room.
Sonic has been gone since before the Black Arms appeared for their second conquest of Mobius. And with him, everybody else seems to be gone too, in a way. They're all just husks of themselves, helplessly trying to outlast the aliens because it's all they can do, it's what Sonic would have wanted them to do.
Shadow doesn't think he can keep this up for much longer.
He's so tired.
The next time Shadow sees him, he's fighting a swarm of Black Arm grunts. He stands back for a little while, taking the time to observe the battle. The stranger—one of Eggman's lackeys, he presumes, is swift and efficient in his fighting style. And he's fast. So fast Shadow can barely keep his eyes on him as he jumps from alien to alien, slicing them down effortlessly with his obsidian blade.
When the stranger is done he just stands there for a few minutes, panting, dangling the blade idly from his fingers. His armor is a strange getup, Shadow muses. It's practically spandex, but of something thicker and probably bulletproof. There's extra padding over his abs and joints and shoulders. The helmet he wears is slick and shiny to match the few, mostly decorative bits of metal along the bodysuit. The faceplate is minimalistic, with two large red snake-eyes carved out for him to see. It looks extremely high-tech and rather advanced for Eggman, but, well. The doctor always liked to show off.
Suddenly the stranger stiffens and turns to face him. Shadow is impressed. He's cloaked in the darkness of a collapsed building while the other stands in the middle of an alien graveyard, in midday lighting in a deserted city street. Those eerie eye-pieces must give him the ability to see things easier. They vaguely remind Shadow of the same optics that spider-super-hero-guy has, from those comic books Sonic used to read and obsess over.
He points his bloodied dagger in his direction, and it's hardly even a threat because Shadow has a gun, what's a stupid knife going to do? He's still a bit rigid, but his body language is rather lax despite that—clearly he is not too wary of Shadow. This irks rebel. He should be more scared.
"Shadow the Hedgehog," says Eggman's lackey, hardly moving. Whatever voice-modulator he's wearing, it makes it deep and static-y. "What do you want." It's barely a question.
Cautiously, he steps into the low lighting of the afternoon, his fingers twitching for the pocket of his jacket that hides his gun. "Just searching for supplies. You?"
His grip tightens on the knife hilt. "My business does not concern you."
Shadow rolls his eyes. "Listen, I don't care about what you're doing, if I'm being honest. You made it clear the other night that you don't want to be affiliated with me, so be my guest, walk away."
A blade glides seamlessly through the air and nicks Shadow's ear. He blinks, mostly in shock, and touches a finger to it. When pulls it back down, there is blood soaking through his white glove.
What the fuck.
The agent snarls. He cannot see his opponent's face, except for those unblinking red ovals for eyes that seem to sear right through him, but Shadow knows he's being cast a disdainful, bored look just from the posture of the stranger.
"You serve the rebellion," comes the artificial voice, and anger flickers across Shadow's features.
"Fuck off, I don't serve anybody."
The stranger cocks his head curiously, like a cat. "Then what is your purpose?"
Shadow knits his brows. "My what?"
But his rival is already lunging for him, a fist already connecting with his cheek and sending him sprawling across the asphalt. Shadow spits out a glob of blood and leaps back to his feet, sending an equally strong punch into his gut. The stranger staggers backwards, and Shadow takes this opportunity to draw his gun. It seems to dawn on the stranger that he is currently unarmed from that little knife-throwing stunt he pulled earlier.
Hmph. Shows him not to mess with me.
"Enough games," Shadow snaps, already quivering in a ravenous, untamed fury that courses through his blood. "What do you want from me?"
A pause. "… You are the enemy."
"I saved your life, asshole."
"That does not excuse your allegiance."
Shadow runs a tired hand across his face. "Look. You work for Eggman, I don't. I get it. But can't we just mind our own business? I have no dirt with you. It looks like we're both just trying to stop those fucking aliens, so why waste energy killing each other?"
The stranger falters, then his shoulders drop minutely. "Fine."
An odd noise fills the air and both males turn towards the source. It's a pod—those stupid aircrafts the Black Arms pilot around, typically carrying at least fifteen of the damn things inside. And it's landing just down the street, surely to attack whoever just murdered their brethren.
Shadow grits his teeth. "Shit. This is your doing, you know. Maybe don't go openly attacking them on your own. It just makes them more angry."
"I do as I am told. I can handle them, and if not, then I am useless."
Shadow wants to strangle this guy. Is this some kind of joke?
No time. A herd of Black Arms are already scrambling out of the pod and racing towards them, out of that pure, animalistic bloodlust they all seem to share. Reluctantly, Shadow shifts to aim his gun at them, instead of the stranger.
"Let's just focus on taking care of this, alright?"
The stranger is already retrieving his dagger before he strides past the ebony hedgehog, prideful and steadfast. "I don't need your help."
They fight in a tense silence, broken only by the screeches and snarls of the aliens that thrash towards them. Black alien blood splatters across the street and onto both of them. They don't necessarily assist each other, just do their part in taking down the swarm. Within five minutes they're alone again, surrounded by goopy, twitching corpses.
Silently, the stranger regards him, before turning on his heel to leave.
"Wait," Shadow says before he can think. The stranger stills. "Who—Who are you, anyway?"
He doesn't even look back to him. "I have no name."
The stranger is enveloped in an orb of blue light, and then Shadow is all alone.
That night the soldier screams. The past week has been fine, he has accomplished every task his handler assigned to him. But it has been a week. Wipes are obligatory every seven days, regardless of how good he has been.
He is bolted to a chair, a chair that's too cold and too hard against his skin. Electricity rips him apart, tearing across his body and stabbing into his pores and setting him on fire. Everything becomes a haze. He can't remember where he is or what he is. He thinks his face feels wet with something, tears maybe, but he can't tell. His body burns so badly that he becomes numb to it and all he can do is stare emptily at the dark ceiling. The screams die in his throat.
When the electricity subsides he is trembling and he feels so utterly empty. Everything is discombobulated. He doesn't know where he is.
A man stands before him in a black and red jumpsuit, teasing the ends of his thick mustache. The man watches him disinterestedly.
His handler. The soldier recollects what he can. He knows he is safe, here, under his handler's eye. He must be about to commence his next mission. Yes. Complete his mission. That is what he must do. He has to, it's all he knows.
He tries to remember his previous mission, but it's all a haze of blood and aliens and pain and a mysterious black hedgehog. His head hurts.
He looks back to his handler, straightening in the chair. Sweat is dripping down his chin and his body still twitches from the electricity but he remains as still as he can. He is to please his handler in any way possible. "I am ready for my mission."
His handler smiles.
The soldier is vaguely aware that he is bleeding out. He can't really tell what's going on. His vision is blurring and the red tint his mask applies to his surroundings only further hinders it. He's slouched against the ground, pinned down by the massive corpse of a newly deceased alien. It's claws still linger on his chest, where it drew the large gash across it.
He tries to shove the thing off, but his muscles refuse to work. The alien is pressing against his lungs. He will die soon if he cannot remove it. This is not helpful towards his mission. He will fail, and that will disappoint his handler. And he cannot disappoint his handler.
When the alien finally rolls off of him the soldier thinks it to be a miracle. But it is not. There is a figure looming over him now, probably mobian, who must have pushed it off. The soldier presses his hand to his chest, where he can feel blood pouring out.
The figure kneels beside him. "Shit. Are—Are you alright?"
The soldier narrows his eyes and sucks in a tight breath. He does not recognize this person, although they look strangely familiar. He runs the facial recognition software in his mask. "Shadow the… H-Hedgehog," he rasps, because it's all he can really do.
The text he reads in his vision proceeds to tell him that Shadow the Hedgehog works for the rebellion. He should deal with this matter. He should not trust him.
He wants to trust him.
"Fuck," Shadow grunts, and he looks mad. "Don't talk. You're losing too much blood, I'll have to take you back to our medics."
The soldier should be retaliating. He will likely be taken prisoner. This is compromising the mission. His handler will not be pleased with him.
But he finds he can't do anything. The darkness swallows him greedily before he gets the chance.
When the soldier opens his eyes he is flooded with immediate panic.
He can't remember where he is, he can't—where are the Black Arms, did he fail? His handler will not be happy, he will have to be wiped, fuck—he—he doesn't want to be wiped, it hurts so bad—
Strong hands grab his own and their touch is grounding. The soldier relaxes and looks to this person.
Shadow the Hedgehog is watching him with wide eyes and a vague frown. "Chaos, calm down."
The soldier complies because it is all he knows. He does his best to control his breathing and tame his nerves. It does not help much.
"Can you breathe okay?" Shadow asks, tentative. "I didn't want to remove your mask because it felt—I don't know, violating or some shit if I took it off. But—" A hand reaches for his face and the soldier instinctively grabs his wrist, yanking it away.
"Don't." His primary objective is to not reveal his identity to anybody except his handler. He has already failed one mission. He cannot fail another.
Shadow blinks, then dawns a more hostile look. "Fine. Excuse me for being considerate."
They lapse into a silence. The soldier takes a moment to gain his bearings. He's strapped to a bed, with wires and electrodes hooked up to him and bandages wrapped around his torso, soaked through with red. His handler is nowhere to be seen. He will be very unhappy when the soldier returns. He is in enemy territory.
He starts to leave, but Shadow restrains him. "Hey, chill the fuck out for a second. You're too injured to walk. You need bed rest."
He does not need anything. He is more of a failure every second he wastes here, not returning to his handler.
The soldier remains in his spot and watches Shadow. A question drifts through his mind.
"Why haven't you killed me yet?"
Shadow bristles. "Chaos. I don't know, I thought we agreed we had a common enemy. I couldn't just—leave you to die."
The soldier falters. He did not agree on anything. He does not recall ever encountering Shadow the Hedgehog before now, despite how familiar he seems.
"You are incorrect. We have never met."
Ruby eyes twitch. "Oh, fuck you. I've saved your ass multiple times now. What do you mean we've never met?"
"I am regularly wiped for optimal efficiency," the soldier says. "My handler does not wish for me to become hindered by my memories. They are a distraction."
Shadow blinks. "What?" The soldier nearly repeats what he just stated, but it seems to be a rhetorical question. The hedgehog swallows thickly and lowers his voice. "Look, you don't have to go back to Eggman. That is—what he's doing to you is fucked up on so many levels."
The soldier grinds his teeth together. "I don't have any choice in the matter. I am supposed to return to my handler immediately. I should not be here right now."
"He can't force you to do anything," Shadow says, his eyes alight with something the soldier can't quite identify. "He can't make you go back."
The soldier has to go back.
(He doesn't want to go back.)
The soldier does not make any move to stand back up. He remains in the bed. Perhaps this is better. He is not in proper condition to return, now. He would not make it very far with the gash in his stomach.
There is a pregnant pause. "You said you didn't have a name."
The soldier does not remember this. This conversation must have occurred before he was last wiped. He says nothing.
"I could help you think of one."
He does not need a name. Names are for people, beings of worth. He is not of worth. He is a soldier who completes his tasks and does as his handler instructs.
Instead of voicing this, the soldier beckons to the armor on his right shoulder. There is a serial number printed on it.
"My technical name is 623-19-91."
Shadow shudders. The soldier does not understand why. He looks extremely uncomfortable. "Fine, then how about… I'll just call you Six, for now."
The soldier considers this. 'Six' must be in reference to the first digit in his serial number. He supposes that if that is a convenient title for Shadow, then that is acceptable. He nods in compliance.
Shadow's lips twitch, almost into a smile. Almost.
When he leaves Six alone in the medical bay and enters Tails' office, Shadow can tell that the fox is decidedly not thrilled about their new guest.
"He works for Eggman," the kit says in place of a greeting. "I don't even understand why we're helping him. For all we know, as soon as he's able he'll kill us all in our sleep."
Shadow crosses his arms. "I think he needs our help. Robotnik is… He said he regularly gets his mind wiped. He talks like a fucking robot, like he doesn't even matter—"
Tails scowls. "For all we know he is a robot."
"He's not."
"Well he's certainly close to it," the fox snaps, raking fingers through his bangs. "Scouts have reported sightings of this guy for months. He's fast, he's strong, he's dangerous. He's a liability. He's a killing machine."
"He's brainwashed," Shadow nearly yells. "Or something of the like. He doesn't remember who he is. He thinks his name is a bunch of fucking numbers."
Tails fidgets uneasily for a moment. "As soon as his vitals are stable, you take him as far as possible from here. The last thing we need is Eggman tracking him down and finding our headquarters."
Shadow wants to argue, wants to let Six stay here because whatever Eggman is doing to him is completely inhumane and should not happen to any living being, but he concedes. This is the best offer he's going to get.
He just—Shadow's been there. Not to the same extent, obviously, but—but there was a time where all he wanted was to complete his goal, and when he had a complete disregard for humanity. And… he doesn't think he ever would have snapped out of that if Sonic hadn't shown him what it meant to be human. Sonic gave him the courage to defeat the Biolizard and sacrifice himself to save the world he once despised. Sonic taught him to feel again. He taught him to love.
Shadow wants to be the one to show Six the same thing.
When he returns to the medical bay, Six is still there, staring at the ceiling as he takes steady breaths. Shadow has decided that he is probably a hedgehog, what with the odd way his helmet is shaped to accommodate what is probably quills beneath it. He looks at Shadow as he approaches the bed and retakes his seat beside it.
"You can stay until you're healed," Shadow says. "Nobody else here trusts you enough to let you stay any longer than that."
Six just stares at him. He doesn't like how he's covered head to toe in that black armor. It makes him even less human and more robotic. He practically looks like a mannequin as he watches Shadow. "You shouldn't trust me. We are enemies."
"Six. Do you want to return to Robotnik?"
A long, uneasy silence. "My orders are to—"
Shadow stops him. "No. Do you want to?"
Six shifts. "I cannot want anything. I do what my handler tells me to do."
"But there's something in you," he insists. "There's something that's stopping you. You've spared me in the past. You haven't made any attempt to escape here."
Another pause. "Escape is futile currently. I am restrained and apprehended."
Okay. He needs a different approach. "What is it like when he… 'wipes' you?"
Six seems startled by the sudden question. He is silent for a moment. "I am sent to an electric chair for an unknown amount of time until all I can remember are my basic orders of doing what my handler tells me to."
Shadow grimaces. "And—that must be painful. Do you want to experience that pain?"
Six flinches, just slightly. Shadow doesn't miss it. "… It is not ideal."
Shadow wants more than anything in this moment to find Eggman and sock him in the face. He's—he's manipulating Six, hurting him, abusing him. It is so wrong. And Six doesn't even realize that.
For now, he waits, and watches over Six as he rests.
The soldier is not sure how he feels about Shadow referring to him as 'Six.' He felt fine when Shadow elected the name, but actually using it—it's strange. He cannot remember ever having a name. All he knows is when he woke up in his cell, a blank slate, prepared to carry out his missions.
He tests it out, in his mind. Six. My name is Six. Part of him tells him that it isn't quite right, but not because he thinks he shouldn't have a name. No. Because there's this tiny piece of him, a little voice in his head so quiet he can barely hear it, that tells him he has a different name.
When he tries to remember his real name, it makes his head hurt. He decides to settle on Six, for now. He likes the name Six.
(He's not supposed to like anything.)
Six would argue that it is more convenient. The word 'six' has less syllables than 'soldier,' thus making it a more efficient term to refer to him as. And that is his purpose. To be as efficient as possible.
For the first time in nearly a week he is outside again. Bandages are still wrapped around his chest but they are hardly necessary. This is his time to leave. His wound has healed and the rebellion has met their end of the deal. He is not welcome here anymore.
That works for him. Six belongs back with his handler. He really should not have been here, in enemy territory, in the first place.
He steps forward, his boot landing in soft grass. A breeze rustles past him. He hasn't been outside without his armor on before, and he briefly wonders what it must feel like to have the wind tickling his face. He thinks he'd quite like to feel that.
(He's not supposed to like anything.)
Shadow is watching him anxiously. He has been watching him anxiously since he first woke up here, but this time it feels more pressing. "Six…"
"Thank you," he finds himself saying, and the words somehow feel both foreign and familiar on his tongue. "I—would have died if you hadn't brought me here." I would have failed my mission, is what he doesn't say. Six has come to realize that Shadow gets uncomfortable when he discusses his mission or his handler, so he has decided to avoid those topics. He doesn't really know why he should care. That little voice in the back of his head tells him to be more considerate to Shadow. He chalks it up to being a returned favor for saving his life.
Besides. He already failed his mission anyways. This just prolonged him having to face that fact. Now there is no going back.
"Look, you—" Shadow trails off and Six turns to face him. "… You can't stay here. But maybe I can help you find somewhere else to go. You can't return to Robotnik."
Six blinks. "I have to."
"You don't," the hedgehog grits out, looking suddenly very frustrated and very emotional. It's jarring. "Six, he is hurting you. Gas-lighting you. Abusing you. I can't let you go back."
In an instant Six has a knife to his throat. He instantly regrets it (because he doesn't mean to scare Shadow, it was just an instinct, a compulsion, he swears) because—he realizes they're still on the doorstep of the rebellion's headquarters and he is vastly outnumbered.
Shadow jostles and holds his hands up. Six feels something hot and writhing stir in his chest. "You don't tell me what to do."
Shadow looks helpless. "I wasn't—"
"I'm sure I'll see you eventually," Six says, tucking his dagger back against his hip. He turns to leave and doesn't look back when he murmurs, "Though I doubt I will remember you when that time comes."
Everything inside him screams for him to turn around. He doesn't—he doesn't want to go back, he's going to be hurt and scolded and he'll have to stand up straight and stare at a wall for seventy-two hours this time, and—and he's going to forget Shadow.
Six doesn't turn around.
In his dreams, he feels soothing hands running along his body, pulling him in close and never letting go. He sees obsidian quills and streaks of gorgeous red. He hears melodious laughter that makes his heart flutter. He hears himself whispering his name—Shadow—and it makes him feel so full, knowing Shadow is here, Shadow will keep him safe, he always will—but it's—it's so far away, just a distant dream, he can't feel him anymore—
Electricity burns into his skin. The soldier opens his eyes and he doesn't know where he is.
Knowing gazes burn into the back of his skull. Shadow frowns and pointedly ignores all of them.
He knows precisely what they're thinking, what they've been thinking for the past few days. Skepticism has been in its prime with this stranger in their territory, this enemy. But they all trusted Shadow enough to heed his words. And Shadow did not fail them, really. Six never hurt them. He thanked them for healing him and returned back to Eggman with the promise to not reveal their location.
(And it hurt, it hurt so bad—he felt like he'd just been getting through to him—)
But they're all still staring at him. There's still this blanket of tension that falls over the room when he enters, thick and woolen and far too uncomfortable for his tastes. This hasn't happened since before the war, before the invasion, before—before he disappeared.
Sonic went missing, all those months ago. He's presumably dead, at this point. Shadow did not take it well for a long time.
And they all knew. Rouge and Tails, especially—he spent many long nights crying into Rouge's arms after stirring awake at three in the morning, restless and distraught. Shared many mutual silences with Tails, because they both loved him so much, they both ached so much. In different ways, of course. But it was love all the same.
Shadow likes to tell himself he's moved on at this point. He still longs for those gentle touches and that jubilant laughter and those soft, blue quills sometimes, but—but he's managed. He's fine, now.
And then this Six guy came along. The blanket of tension that had just started to shrivel up draped over him again, like a ghost, following him everywhere around HQ. Nobody dared to say anything to his face, but he could still read the melancholy, uneasy looks in their eyes.
They thought he was trying to—fuck if he knows, trying to fill the hole Sonic had left behind. Find love again. Find his other half.
(He wasn't. He wasn't.)
(Was he?)
Shadow takes a measured sip from his coffee and tries not to grimace as the bitterness and the heat scalds his tongue.
The soldier is trembling. He doesn't know why. He decides this must be some error, some glitch—he should tell his handler of this as soon as he completes his mission. This is some minor fault, something overlooked. He is to be perfect in every way, blending perfectly in the shadows, hidden from the naked eye.
He continues to shake, and it's so miniscule it's hardly noticeable, but he can't control it.
(Stop. Stop. Stop. S-Stop it, please—)
Something flickers through his mind like lightning, grasping numbly for something, anything, as pain racks his body and steals him away. His head is pounding. Vaguely, he hears his own, distant screams, like a phantom of something that never was. He shudders harder. He wonders what he was like then, before he was conditioned into what he is now.
And, yes, he—he knows there was a before. He doesn't think he is supposed to. According to his handler he is supposed to be a blank slate. And yet there's something, lodged in the back of his head, gently tugging at him. It whispers faintly to him, and sometimes—when he closes his eyes and takes a steady breath and lets the orders and missions and pain leave him for a moment, he suddenly feels fuzzy all over and there are people, surrounding him and laughing and filling him with mirth, with love—fuck, he misses them so much—he doesn't even know who they are—
The soldier shakes himself and straightens slightly in his position, as much as he can as he's kneeling in the shadows. Focus.
He has been charged with the task of assassinating a member of the rebellion. He does not know the reasoning behind this mission. As far as he's concerned, the Black Arms are the top priority. They're rapidly overrunning the planet and all natives of Mobius, empire and rebels alike, are quickly losing their grasp on it. Albeit, the resistance certainly are not considered allies—but the soldier still thought they should be more focused on handling the aliens, first.
His handler seemed tense as he had dished out his orders. Almost angry. The soldier did not know what he might have done to cause such distress to him. He can't remember anything; he's been freshly wiped. But perhaps that was the causation of his recent wipe—perhaps, before, he had disobeyed, deviated. That certainly would not do.
He will not fail his handler. He will make him proud, like the perfect soldier he is.
Voices near, and he blinks; steadies himself. Raises his rifle.
Two bodies round the corner and the soldier freezes up, and—its two females, definitely not his target. But perhaps their conversation will be of use. Perhaps they will lead him straight to his actual target.
As he eavesdrops, he quickly figures their conversation is worthless.
"I'm just—worried about him," one says, low and urgent. "He's been losing sleep the past few weeks. And believe me, I know, because I can always hear him wandering around in the kitchen late at night for hours."
The other frowns. "But he's Shadow. He's immortal, so he doesn't need sleep, right?"
The first rolls her eyes. "Technically, no, but I think he needs it more for his mental health. And you can't deny that he's been obsessed with that Six person. That definitely spells trouble."
The soldier wavers. The girls continue talking but his mind is lagging behind and he can't quite keep up. The—that term, Six, strikes him strangely. He feels ice crawling through his veins, paralyzing him, and suddenly he can't think straight. Why—what is—
He opens his eyes and the girls are already gone. He blinks wearily.
He's shaking again.
(This is more than a simple glitch. There is something wrong—he's remembering things he shouldn't be, faltering over the most trivial things, a useless number. He should be wiped. Surely he will fail this mission, in his current condition. He is too distracted. He feels unnaturally tired. This is not efficiency. He cannot complete his mission like this. He is going to fail. He is already failing, because he might have just lost his only lead to where his target is and he's distracted and discombobulated and so fucking lost—)
"Six?"
The soldier feels something hard and painful twist in his gut, and he jerks his head to the right, pulling his rifle up to aim. His hands are shaking tremendously. He feels so exhausted.
There is a figure staring at him, eyes blown wide and utterly still; shocked. The soldier has failed his mission, officially. He was not supposed to be spotted. This was supposed to be an efficient, quick mission. In and out. He was supposed to stick to the shadows and never be seen, but he's been caught.
He is a blemish in the Eggman Empire. He resolves that he shouldn't just be wiped, he should be executed for his failures. He is a failure. He failed his handler.
Blood is rushing to his head. He feels like he's malfunctioning.
(This person. Does he know him from somewhere?)
The helmet tells him it is Shadow the Hedgehog, age: 23, allegiance: the rebellion. His red eyes are filled with such a strong and complex emotion that the soldier's disheveled mind cannot decipher it.
Shadow the Hedgehog cautiously brings his hands up over his head upon comprehending that he is being held at gunpoint. There is a new, dangerous look to him. The soldier trembles harder. Every breath he takes is painful to his lungs.
"… Six. Look at me. What are you-?"
Shadow the Hedgehog takes a tentative step forwards. Something clicks in the soldier's mind. His target. He is to assassinate Shadow the Hedgehog.
Complete your mission. Complete your mission.
Thoughtlessly, he pulls the trigger. There is a loud crack through the air, a strained yell, and then the soldier's muscles give out and he falls into nothing.
They hold Six in a cell. He's been motionless since his capture—nearly sixteen hours, now. Despite being shackled to the wall and unconscious, he seems peaceful, for once. Tails tells him that they wanted to remove his armor and helmet, but they couldn't figure out how without cutting open the man inside as well. It's like it's a part of his body. So they leave it on, and use extra restraints instead.
Shadow feels conflicted. Part of him is glad Six is here; because they can keep him safe, they can help him—but the other part reminds him that this is a coldblooded killer, that he is chained to a wall in tiny cell.
It's dehumanizing. Six has been dehumanized his entire life, Shadow figures. It's sickening.
"Soon as he's awake, we're gonna try and interrogate him," Knuckles tells him in passing, when Shadow's condition is stable.
Six shot him—and the group is understandably mad—but really, Shadow is fine (he tells them all as much, like a broken record, but he knows they don't believe him). It just nicked his leg. Six was clearly very distressed and on the verge of collapse. He doesn't blame him. Just Eggman.
Amy still shoots him a reprimanding look whenever he tries to get out of bed to see if Six is awake yet. Rouge still shakes her head when he insists it barely hurts. Tails still refuses when he asks to enter the cell and try to talk to him.
And it eats Shadow alive. The last thing he wants right now is to be trapped in bed over some meaningless injury. He's perfectly fine. He knows Six is fine, too—as much as he can be. He just can't seem to get that through his friends' skulls.
(He can't blame them, really. They're just concerned. They've always been concerned for him, ever since Sonic disappeared and suddenly the world seemed a lot more dull.)
When Tails enters his room, Shadow is mildly surprised. The kid has been working nonstop, adamant on studying Six keenly and thoroughly. Tails looks frazzled and fatigued and Shadow almost wishes he were able enough to head out to the kitchen to get him a cup of coffee.
But then they lock eyes and Shadow tenses, accordingly. Tails sucks in a tight breath.
"He's awake."
Water burns down his throat, pooling in his lungs and weighing him down further. Every passing second the sunlight above fades further away, as he sinks lower and lower, and he is lost to a darkness that wants to swallow him whole. He gave up trying a long time ago. Now he just watches, as if through a window, feeling his nerves grow numb to the cold.
It's becoming so dark he isn't sure if he's just too far under or if his consciousness is seeping away. He doesn't know which is worse. He doesn't know anything.
Something catches in him and a small burst of air bubbles up in his chest. It's enough to blink his eyes open, just a little.
He still doesn't think it's enough. It never is.
When he opens his eyes, the soldier—Six—feels a lot of things all at once.
The first is the most apparent. His head is pounding agonizingly, and his entire body trembles in fatigue. This is improper, a voice murmurs in the back of his head. Weak. You are useless to the empire. A disappointment. A failure.
The second is a lot less blatant and a lot more confounding. It is best described as a conglomeration of every sensation he has ever felt and the feeling of absolute emptiness, overflowing within him, drowning out all of his senses and bleeding into every tendon and ligament and bone that he is composed of.
And he hates it.
The entire world feels like it's spinning. There's nausea churning in his stomach and a smoldering rage burns wildly inside him, clashing against this dull sorrow that saps from any remnants of strength he still has. He can't think straight. Nothing makes sense. Words flicker across his vision too fast for him to comprehend, disobedient, wrong, blemish, no, stop, please, wrong, please, soldier, six, soldier soldier soldier six six six-two-three-one-nine-nine-one—
(—there's something else, a different name, just out of his reach and he misses it so badly, wants it more than anything, please, give it back, give it back—)
"Six."
Everything freezes and it's so fucking cold.
Red eyes gaze into his own. They're soothing. Grounding.
"Six, I need you to take deep breaths. Calm down."
He complies.
He does not know what he is or where he is or who this is or why he is here or how he got here but—"Shadow." This name feels somehow both foreign and so familiar on his tongue. But it is a compulsion to say it, he realizes as he rasps it out between heavy, struggling gasps.
Shadow falters. "You… recognize me?"
He doesn't—Chaos, he doesn't know. He doesn't understand. "I-I—I don't…"
A hand rests against his shoulder. Vaguely, he wishes there wasn't the barrier of his armor blocking off the touch. "Okay. Don't talk yet. Just focus on breathing."
Silence seems to stretch out for an eternity. He doesn't know how long it goes on. Every passing second makes his chest constrict even tighter.
"Six?" Shadow's eyes are wide and so confusing to focus on. The mere sight of those bright, ruby orbs makes him want to cry and he just doesn't understand why. He doesn't understand anything that's happening.
What is happening to him? What the fuck is he?
"Six, is it—" a hesitant pause, "is it okay if we take off your helmet? You're having trouble breathing."
His helmet. Right. His helmet is supposed to protect him, keep him safe. It gives him information. He runs a scan and it immediately spots Shadow's face, right in front of him, and tells him Shadow the Hedgehog, age: 23, allegiance: the rebellion.
So he was right. This is Shadow. But how did he—how does he know who Shadow is? Why is he so familiar? He doesn't even know his own goddamn name. He doesn't understand why this is happening or why it's so—so overwhelming, so suffocating.
Shadow repeats his question.
He is so desperate to end the agony and the confusion. He nods helplessly, nearly sobs. He can't get out any words. Make it stop. Make the pain stop. Just—Just wanna be able to think and remember and breathe.
Shadow runs his fingers around his neck for a few minutes, trying to find some sort of button or clasp to remove the helmet. This proves fruitless. "Can you do it? Or tell me how?"
His face is wet with something. He can't tell if it's tears or sweat. He doesn't know. He doesn't know.
"Six?"
His stomach does a somersault and there's a painful, grating voice in the back of his head that's screaming and kicking and unraveling the last bits of coherency he has left at every passing moment. A failure. Return to your handler to be executed for your failure. You are a failure. Return to your handler. Return to your handler. Return—
He grits his teeth and brings his hand to the nape of his neck. His fingers brush against the miniature sensor and he instantly feels the nanobots working against his face to retract into his suit. He blinks rapidly and gasps for clean, fresh air as his helmet slithers into the collar of his armor. A new feeling of cold meets his bare face he realizes how drenched he is in sweat.
He looks at Shadow. He needs him. He doesn't—he doesn't even know what Shadow is, but he needs him, he needs him so badly, to help him. Shadow will know what to do. Shadow can make all the pain and confusion go away.
Shadow stares at him with a blank, pale face. He is gaping like a fish out of water and his eyes are distant and misty.
The—the soldi—Six—he doesn't know, watches Shadow helplessly. Do something. Help me. Make everything safe. Please.
Tears brim in Shadow's eyes and—and what, he doesn't understand, why is—what—
"You're—fuck, I—" Shadow pushes himself to his feet and stumbles backwards, as if he's contagious or toxic. He doesn't want Shadow to go. He wants the pain to go away. Not Shadow.
He looks, miserably, hopelessly, discordantly, into Shadow's eyes. His throat is raw and his entire body is burning alive.
"P-Please," he manages, somehow. "… I don't know what I am."
Beads rolls down Shadow's face like raindrops on a windowpane. There is a flurry of people and shouting all around him and it's too overwhelming to concentrate.
And then he is alone again.
Shadow pulls himself out of the cell and stumbles forward aimlessly, meeting the warm, comforting arms of Rouge. She hugs him and all he can do is let out a long exhale and melt into her embrace. He feels sick.
"It's—"
"I know, hon." She sounds distraught, though not nearly as much as himself. "I know."
Shadow pushes himself away from her and staggers drunkenly towards the one-way window, where everybody else had been observing him in the cell. There are rebels scurrying around the room and arguing over what to do. It is a cacophony of horror and anger and absolute disorder. Shadow becomes deaf to it all, just presses himself to the window and stares at the person on the other side, still chained to the wall and slumped on the ground, barely conscious.
He is still stuck in his armor, but now his helmet has been removed. Now they can all see his face. It makes tears simmer in the corners of Shadow's eyes.
Because he is staring at a ghost.
Because the person sitting in that cell is Sonic the Hedgehog.
but wait! there's more!
this fic is actually my first ever two-shot :) the second part is already done aside from a few more edits, and it will be up next week, so stay tuned for that!
anyways if u enjoyed, lmk!