A/N: Hey everyone, just wanted to say a few things now that this fic is complete. Thank you all so much for getting this story to 100 reviews, because that accomplishes a goal I've had for a long, long time. I never created this story for reviews, I just wanted to write something I could be proud of, and I feel like I mostly did that with this fic. I poured my soul into this fic over the span of a couple years, and it really does hold a special place in my heart.

That being said, any feedback whatsoever on this is greatly appreciated. Constructive criticism is especially important to me. But if you're reading along and feel like dropping a review, please do so. I love this story so much, and it excites me when I see that other people do too. It makes my day every time.

Thank you all again for helping me realize that dream. Enjoy the story!

All My Colors

Chapter I - The Simple Life

Hello, reader! My name is Silver. Silver The Hedgehog. I'm just a simple guy, with a simple life in a not-so-simple city. I live in a medium-sized apartment in the heart of said city, with one bedroom, one bathroom, living area, a kitchen, and a smaller room next to the bedroom. It is in that room, the art room, where all my fantasies become reality.

I've been painting for the better half of my twenty-five year life. It's just what I do, I guess. It can be frustrating at times, but I love it to no end. It's always a challenge, that's for sure! I think my admiration of art can be traced back to my childhood, if you will.

It had been a harsh year in 2009. I was only about seven years old when Pops, my eccentric grandfather, died of lung cancer. Many times he joked that it was never the smoke from the cigarettes that was killing him, it was that smoke that came from people's ears when they got mad. And everyone was angry. You could turn on the news channel and there would be some guy in a suit at a desk ranting on about some controversial murder case or about the war overseas, becoming redder in the face by the second. Grandma had died earlier that year, and some were mad at others within the family because they didn't help take care of her enough. And Pops hated it all. He just wanted everyone to get along. Not just the family... He wanted no fighting on the streets, no heated arguments about who would win the Super Bowl next year, no war. Was that so much to ask? That's why I admired him, even at such a young age. We were very close.

In his will, Pops left to me whatever was in his old Army chest at the foot of his bed. Being who he was, he also added that we'd have to find the key; he'd hidden it and "didn't have a damn clue" where it was. That was, of course, a joke, because when we found it in his armoire in a box of Clue: Classic Detective Game, there was a note attached to it that read: "Clever, huh?".

With that key, we unlocked the chest, and found nothing but an old Polaroid camera. You know, that kind that immediately spat out the photo and you had to shake it so it would become clear? And with it, another note: "You don't have to know what to do with this yet, Silver. You just gotta' take that first picture. -Pops". So, that's what I did. I went outside, and took a picture of snow falling rapidly, sticking to the grass in the yard. I didn't know it at the time, but I had just taken the first few steps of what would be the rest of my life.

That following summer, I took that camera outside almost every day. I used to find animals, everything from insects to stray dogs to, one time, a small bear cub (which didn't particularly please my mother), and take photos of them. Every afternoon, I'd line up the pictures on my small desk in my room and look at them for a while. I always made up little stories to go along with each one, like how that dog got a scar across his face or why that rabbit's tail looked more poofy than the other rabbits'. Or where exactly that ant is headed off to. The stories would always be elaborate and, at least in my young mind, possibilities. Squirrels could totally pilot jets. After I was finished, I'd put them in my drawer, and get a new batch the next day. A lot of that translates to what I am today. Pictures, to me, tell stories in a way words can't. A broader way... A better way.

I did that for some time. When I was fifteen, and taking art classes in high school, I became extremely interested in what I was learning. So interested, that I had Mom buy me several acrylic and watercolor paint sets to use at home. I opened the drawer on my desk, took out the hundreds of photographs from years ago, and painted what I saw. I became good quickly. My teacher noticed, and placed many of my creations in shows around the county. Many people liked my work... I even won a few ribbons. And thus, my love of painting was born.

Many days now, I'll go into the art room sometime in the morning and come out only for food and bathroom breaks until I go to sleep that night. I always sit on my stool, looking at the plain tan square sitting on the wooden easel until inspiration strikes. I treat my blank canvas like a blank sheet of notebook paper, the most primitive form of a published novel. Paintings are a lot like books in some aspects. They can make you feel edgy, or happy, or make you laugh. It all depends on what the story's about, and how well it's written. In that sense, I'm nothing but a writer. I still make up those little tales, though... But now they're about my paintings.

I particularly remember one that I did, of an old, beaten-up, taped-up Gibson acoustic guitar, with untrimmed string ends curling up at the tuning knobs and one too many holes in the body, laying in a field of bold green grass. It belonged to a musician, not necessarily an ultra-famous rock star, but nonetheless a traveling musician, who kept that guitar ever since he had started out, and refused to get a new one. His guitar was simple, not flashy like the modern ones. It was his friend. He paid seven hundred dollars for it back in '66, and that's all he ever needed. His music made people smile and dance and sing... And the guitar loved him back. I titled the piece "The Workhorse" and I believe it was auctioned off at a local art hub for about four hundred dollars. The story, however, stayed with me.

Painting still astounds me. It's crazy how yellow and red can make orange, or red and blue make purple... Like two already powerful armies combining to make one dominant force...

"Hey, wake up, Picasso..." I hear a voice say, not really in a 'good morning' kind of tone.

My eyes barely open to see a lavender cat throw a pile of dirty socks in my face. She speaks again, irritated. "Would you please stop leaving these lying around all over the place?! I'm sick and tired of cleaning up after you!"

That's Blaze. She actually is a writer, my roommate, and above all my friend. Don't let recent events fool you, she's just been really stressed out lately... And by lately, I mean ever since she got a job with the newspaper as a journalist... So a good two to three years now. But her and I go way back; we were those two kids whose parents were friends and had children at the same time, so naturally we were best friends.

I yawn, rub my eyes, and sit up on the couch (yes, that's where I sleep!). I make my way to the kitchen, where the smell of coffee and eggs immediately penetrates my nostrils. Blaze just finished her last piece of toast, it looks like, before heading off to work. I sit down at my already-made plate, and manage a lazy "Thank you, Blaze" before she shuts the door without a word. Obviously, she hasn't been much of a talker lately. She's always rushing around like this.

I finish the last of my breakfast, and sit back in my chair, groaning and stretching. Man, I hate mornings... Could be worse, I guess. I could have an actual job. The last zing of orange juice enters my mouth, because Blaze knows I don't drink coffee, and my eyes wander to that special room across the apartment. I smile, and slowly migrate towards it, like a momentarily lost child would finding his mother in a store while she's looking at shoes, her back to him.