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A/N: If Shadow is alive…if he used Chaos Control to bring himself somewhere else…if that somewhere else just wasn't Earth…just wasn't in that universe at all…

Bete Noire

Part 1 // And If I Touch You

"I won't."

"But you have to. Otherwise, you're going to die."

"I won't."

Frantically, "Why not?"

Pitter-patter goes the rain. "Because I can't."

Today was Wednesday. Or today was Thursday. Or maybe today did not have a name. He was so cold, so broken in a thousand places over, so ragged and torn and ripped and dead that he couldn't remember. The only thing he knew was that today was simply today. It was another day, it was raining, there was someone who was talking to him and he was going to die, if he wasn't dead already.

"Do you want me to help you?"

He couldn't scoff yet. Truth to tell, he could hardly talk. The only reason he was able to emit harsh, cracked words from his throat was because he had refrained from moving at all for the last three days, no matter how much he wanted to scream. But if he could scoff, he would have. Wryly, he said, "You sound sincere."

She ignored it. "I'll help you get up." She approached.

For one thing, Shadow did not like to be ignored. For another, he did not like to be touched. He lay draped across a fallen rotting branch like an autumn leaf – stiff and dry and dead. He discovered in the first minute of sweet consciousness that he could not move. Actually, he could, but it required breaking whatever unbroken bones he had left in his abused skeleton. Therefore, he decided that he would not move.

If he knew where he was, he had forgotten. It seemed very much like Earth to him. There were people. He could smell the suffocating poison smoke of distant cities, could hear the echoes of automobiles rumbling away on some far off road. Yet, in the course of the next three days, he discovered that it was not Earth. The people here talked solely of a foreign tongue that was spoken with more slurs and clicks than any language that existed on Earth.

Of course, it could have been some obscure dialect he had never heard. He would have concluded that too, had it not been for the people. Shadow was not human, he did not know much about human traits, about heroism, about emotions, about love. However, Shadow knew enough to say that no human was purely cruel. Even a man like Eggman would have enough compassion to at least approach him – a fallen creature on the ground, upon a branch stained dull brown in the rain.

Then there was this girl. All he knew of her was that her voice belonged to a songbird. She spoke in his tongue. He couldn't see her face. His head was buried under too much debris to lift, but he could hear her. When she first came, he thought he was dead already, and that Maria had finally come. But he wasn't dead; she was not his Maria. He was still cold and he could still smell the reek of dried blood.

"Don't touch me." he hissed.

There was pitiful desperation in her voice. He recognized desperation because he had so much of it, pricking at his consciousness every now and then. "I have to, don't you understand? I can't leave you out here in the rain. You're still bleeding. Don't you know that you're dying?"

He answered without hesitation. "I know." She knelt on the muddy damp floor, reached for him, pale white moonlight fingers amidst the engulfing darkness. Moistened dirt and impure water clung to the fabric of her dress, rain streaked down her pearled fingers. He couldn't see it, but he could sense it as fewer drops hit his head, obstructed by her hand. Instinctively, he warned, "I said not to touch me. Get away from me."

Immediately she withdrew. In a meek and humble voice, she asked, "Why?"

"You don't want to touch me."

"I don't want you to die here."

"But you don't want to touch me."

Then, there was hardly any rain falling on him at all. They fell on her shoulders instead, as she shielded him with her own umbrella. Softly, she said, "You know, I won't allow you to die. No one else will help you. Let me help you. I want to help you."

If he had strength to laugh, he would have. He settled for a half-croak, half cry. "Don't tell me what to do and don't touch me."

For the second time, she ignored him. She let her fingers rest upon his head. They were warm and painfully soft. He was afraid that for some reason, she would pull away in pain. He was also too afraid to protest, because honestly, he knew he was dying and he didn't want to as much as he thought he did. She did not shy away. Instead, she run her fingers across his forehead lightly, as if she was afraid he would break. He was pretty sure he could. He could hardly feel her brushes, they were so careful.

Then with the aid of her other hand, she lifted his head and turned him over so that he faced the bleak and empty gray sky. It wasn't beautiful, because it was raining. He felt like dying. That really hurt. He winced and shuddered, stiffening as his body screamed in utter protest, and then he let out a sharp and mangled cry.

Immediately, there came her touch. She let the umbrella drop to the ground, discarded like an empty package. Crisp and freezing rain fell on their heads, caressed his wounds, making his breath harsh and struggled. As he gasped for air, she cradled his head with her hands, whispering to the rain, to the world, and to Shadow, "Shh…shh…I will help you. Don't worry. You'll be alright. Everything will be alright."

The umbrella rolled half a circle before it settled and stopped. "You…" Shadow choked. Her image was beginning to cloud. There was rain slipping into his eyes and into his mouth.

"Shh…"

This most certainly was, he was reasonably sure, death. He came to this conclusion because of two reasons. To begin, his pain was beginning to ease, much to his relief. To end, Maria was looking down at him.