Cadence, a sonic the hedgehog fanfic

"And I don't want to ball about like everybody else
And I don't want to live my life like everybody else
And I won't say that I feel fine like everybody else
'Cause I'm not like everybody else"

~The Kinks

The inside of the shack is dark, apart from a portable kerosene lamp that rests on the small wooden table. There is no other furniture apart from that table. The dim light glimmers cruelly from its prison of glass, adorning the derelict walls with dancing, shapeless shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a radio has been tuned in to a station that plays exclusively some soft of corny 80's rock. It can be heard, but not seen from where he is tied.

He absolutely loathes 80's rock. It is loud and lackluster, and it makes his head hurt after a little while. He knows this has been done on purpose, and despite the countless metres of rope shearing through layers of flesh whenever he breathes, this random thought makes him burst in sniggers. His face contorts to a frightful mask, body shakes violently as waves of pain crush him with every new puff of air.

Something stirs within the impermeable blackness, but his eyes keep tearing up so it all gets blurred away. A slender silhouette gradually emerges from nowhere, creeps into the limelight, looms above like an oblong questionmark. The details, the face, everything swims in the double vision. He coughs out something that tastes like blood, raises his head, and beams a deranged, scarlet smile. He beams this smile briefly before something hits him in the face, slashing part of his right cheek in the process. Something rigid. Something metallic.

The motherfucker has hit me with the barrel of my own goddamn gun, he thinks. He vaguely recollects a time when none of this seemed possible. I wouldn't be caught dead holding one of these, he'd told him once. Meaning pistols. And now this. He doubts the conceited idiot can even hold the thing properly.

"What's so funny, friend?"

The voice vibrates inside the skull, words buzzing in his head with the impact of a hammer. Thud, thud, thud. He blinks several times, so as to cleanse his vision. He is lying on the ground, back propped against the wall, and thus what he eventually sees is his own distorted reflection on the metallic side of the Beretta, mere seconds before the captor tucks it back in his trousers.

The crazy asshole.

"Screw you."

"Oh, nonononono. See, I am being kind to you, bro. I want you to feel comfy. You dislike the music?"

He arches his back against the wall, struggling to raise his head as high as possible. Those eyes. Those fraudulent green eyes. He has to look at them. He has to stare into them but the other male is standing so close he'd have to break his neck in order to manage so.

"I'd rather be forced to eat my own kidneys than listen to this shitfest. Friend."

The figure considers the words for a second, trying to decide whether to feel amused or not. He squats slowly, and when the two are finally on the same level, his smile looks like a horrible orifice in the fading candlelight. Nothing on that expression reminds of the easygoing crowd-pleaser its wearer once was. Nothing on that face looks kind, or desirable in any way.

Shadow understands, because it is only natural. Shadow knows he is the one at fault. Shadow takes pride in it.

"Too bad, because you see, this is my favorite music and I fancy killing you to it. Might I ask why you hate it?"

"Because it's so bloody gay."

This seems to entertain the torturer a great deal. He laughs so hard he ends up producing peculiar whistling sounds. Then, as abruptly as a cat snatching a bypassing bird, he lunges forward, pulls his prisoner by the quills and forces his tongue deep inside the bloodied mouth. It is more of a mockery than an actual kiss. And it is vividly reciprocated. Damaged front teeth bite at him so hard that viscous liquid oozes out of the wound, and drips on both their muzzles.

Rage boils within.

Sex and violence, Shadow thinks as his head is smashed against the decaying timber, gloved hands clenched around his neck. They drive us. Keep us going. Remove the framework of our civilization and you get ferocious animals. Sex and violence. Two ends of the same tube, like a mouth and an asshole. Pleasant end. Disgusting end. Same fucking thing.

"Now, Shads", Sonic says as he pulls away, licking his lips theatrically. "This was gay. This was totally fucking gay. When we fucked each other's brains out in your house it was fucking gay. My fucking music is not fucking gay."

Breathe in, breathe out, shun the pain. Focus. Two blue, elongated shapes merge into one, and are separated again. The sound of thunder reaches the hut aloof, and the music gives its place to radio static. They engage in a long, wordless stare that trascends all living tissue and digs deep into layers of soul. Shadow musters a half-smirk.

"Wanna know why I did it?"

"What? Bite my tongue like the bloodlust-driven psycho killer you are? Nah. No surprise there. We all know what the Professor had in mind when he made you, don't we?"

"No, idiot. Why I did all of this. To you."

Sonic doesn't pay attention, because he simply doesn't care at this point. He retrieves the Beretta once more and his index trails flirtatiously along the hammer. As if lost in a mind realm of his own, he kneels down, reaches forward, and -in the most deadpan manner imaginable- slides his free hand inside his rival's jean pockets.

It feels degrading because it is supposed to.

"Hey, don't give me that look, sexy. Just don't. I really am not in the mood for an argument."

"When I find a way out of these ropes. I will chew your throat off."

"Calm down. It's not like I touched anything I haven't touched before."

Sonic laughs, because they both know this is the point of no return. His hand slips out of the pocket, producing a number of cartridges. He stands on one knee and begins handloading with surreal nonchalance. He had expected a GUN agent like Shadow to be a freak with firearms, and thus he has done his homework just for the sake of this one rendez-vous. The experience feels rewarding.

The ebony hedgehog growls.

"I did whad I did because I hate your guts. I did it because that way I proved my superiority to you. Physical. Emotional."

Fingers moving like a well-oiled machine, pushing bullets in their tiny graves.

Plink.

"I don't give a shit, actually. Hey, hear this: five out of six doctors reassure you that playing the russian roulette is perfectly safe! Hahahahaha. Awesome."

Shadow feels the anger filling up every cell in his body. He embraces the sensation, drowns himself within the paralyzing wrath. Sweat tumbles between clenched eyebrows, fingers curl against the dirt. Adrenaline. Daze. There is no way out. We have lost.

The room is temporarily showered in blindening white as lightning strikes somewhere close, then another thunder follows suit and the window glasses teeter loudly in their lousy casings. The two men momentarily examine one another in the bright light, then the night shrouds them anew.

"Either way, hedgehog..."

Plink.

"Hm...?"

"I have won."

The opponent is ready. He weighs the pistol in his palm, fiddles with the trigger. Eyes oscillate from the weapon to the restrained figure before him. He has been told the first time is challenging. It doesn't seem so terrible afterwards. You get used to the feeling. Taking a life is a tragedy only if a given society needs it to be so. When you do it in a war you are a hero. On other occasions you are a monster. A vigilante. Anything, really.

It's all perception.

So he points the gun to the man who taught him all of that. To the man who fucked up his entire life and keeps doing it even now, just by being himself and breathing.

"Why is that?"

Shadow can barely talk because his body has drugged him as a means to evade pain. He is angry because he knows he should be, and hangs onto the notion in order to stay away from oblivion. Hatred feeds him like fuel, a medicine to steer clear of whatever war his own homeostasis has declared to his nervous system.

When he finds a way out of the ropes.
He will chew the motherfucker's throat off.
He will kill him.
Feel the hate.

"Because..."

Hate.
Hate.
Love.
Hate.
Hatelovehate.

"...I managed to turn you into a gun-yielding murderer. I turned you into a monster...I turned you..."

Feel the love.
Feel the hate.
Two ends of the same tube.
Hilarious.

"...I turned you into myself."

Just then, the radio static recedes, and a sappy power ballad begins to play. Thunder and lightning. Guitar licks and sensual basslines. Sonic keeps the Beretta glued before his rival's nose. A raspy singer starts screaming some lame gibberish about lovers and second chances. For a few seconds, the song and the storm merge in one sole opera that drones on unaffected. Then Shadow hears the click. It is a subtle and funny-sounding click, and he knows what it means, because he is a murderer himself.

"I know", breathes a voice from above, but the black hedgehog is intoxicated by his own body and immediately forgets about the person it belongs to. "That's why you love me, you self-centered pig."

~Cadence~

a story by A.M. Palmer

Fadeout in black.

Credits roll in unreadable calligraphic letters. The television jingles- a sugary tune. Idiotic ads, one after another. I am informed I need a new car. I can get laid by preferring certain toothpastes. The ideal gift for my chick is this deodorant with ylang-ylang extracts, covers every odor, doesn't stain the clothes. There is this cocoa that makes your kids grow fast and gives them superpowers.

I appear. Wink at the camera and give a cheerful thumbs up before dashing out of sight, Apparently, I am so fast because I never choose another label. Don't forget kids, moderation and physical excersize are also key to a healthy life. Do tell.

I look sideways, across the living room. She has been lying in her obsolete armchair for hours on end, staring at whatever appears on the screen while gorging on a bowl of corn flakes.

Whole grain, diet corn flakes.

With almond milk.

Mwa ha. Haha.

It's not her fault, really. Amy believes that the romantic aspects of our relationship are fading because she's fat. She is actually pretty thin, but of course this is my girlfriend we are talking about, whose head is continuously attacked by ideas you wouldn't remove with a corkscrew. She feels undesired, and consequently embraces depression by watching soaps and eating low-fat rubbish. And no, we cannot talk about it, is the reply whenever I ask. We cannot because I haven't done anything wrong. It is just the way I look at her these days, she explains. The way we touch.

She is right, like she practically always is. Amy, among other things, possesses remarkable abilities when it comes to insight. She probably noticed the shift in the tide even before I did.

The phone rings. It is right next to her seat, so she picks it up simply by extending an arm above the blankets. Hello. Four affirmative replies. Yes, yes, yes and yes. A fake laugh, a pause. She says "likewise"; then hangs up.

Jade eyes stare at me intensely, as if to make sure I have witnessed the entire scene. Amy disappears in the corridor and ten minutes later marches before the front door in something laughably revealing. I ask where she is going because this will satisfy her. She leaves without offering an answer.

I bet my right leg she hangs out with Cream, goes shopping, or something equally wild.

There was a time when everything was so much better. When she finally outgrew the obsessive stalker status it occured to me she was cute, intelligent, adventurous and funny. I asked her out. On our first date we ate chilidogs and spent the remainder of the night on a bench, looking at the starlit sky like idiots. The next day we kissed. Approximately a month later we lost our virginities together.

It's been five years now. Things have happened. My best friend, Miles, is working on his own as a freelance inventor, and adulthood slapped me hard in the face. I belong to the wind, adventures are my life, blah. All perfect in theory. What I had never imagined is that you can't keep doing this indefinitely. You'll grow tired. You'll have to eat. If you are a full time superhero the state doesn't consider you worthy of a pension, or healthcare, or anything for that matter. So I started looking for occasional jobs, and eventually starred in a couple of ridiculous ads like the cocoa thing, cause money.

I still do what I do best, of course. Running is my drug of choice and evil never rests. But I feel secluded and tired, and although I am barely twenty-four I stay awake at night thinking about life. Picture her as a hot chick, some sort of pinup male fantasy everyone chases like a bufoon, only to find out she has cellulite beneath her fancy petticoats. Just like every other female on this planet.

But that's not all, is it? There is something else entirely, a thought I've been shoving in and out of my mind for years. A thought I am not even allowed to explain to myself. It keeps tugging at my nerves, like a bug bite that's out of reach.

I have an obsession. A chronic obsession that rattles me.

It began as mere rivalry.

"Do you believe I am really that undesirable?"

Oh, puh-lease.

Let us not get started.

Not again.

Lips abandon her exposed collarbone. Prop myself on one elbow.

We exchange an awkward glance, because the situation is so damn preposterous. Her eyes are shimmering with humidity, teardrops digging patterns on flushed cheeks as she blinks.

"Do you believe I really suck that hard at screwing?"

We are on top of each other, on my bed. My bed that is also my couch. My couch that is one of the two only pieces of furniture in the entire apartment. The lamp hanging above usually gives off an awful yellowish glow that makes the walls look like scrambled eggs. Whenever she comes here, however, she brings a scarlet piece of clothing that can be thrown over the thing, showering the room in sensual red light.

Tonight it is her dress.

We are making out, her clothes are literally hanging from the ceiling. The open window lets all sorts of sounds and smells in; dark cabaret tunes can distinctly be heard from the local club, flooding the atmosphere with erotic allure; an unexpected downpour has filled the air with the scent of grass.

And she bloody wants me to answer to that question.

Crying like a child.

"He barely noticed me leave the goddamn house. He barely noticed I was half-naked. I must be undesirable."

Maybe it is time to start charging sessions. At least it'd earn me something, since I am, it seems, not going to fuck anybody.

"Look, Ames. I wouldn't possibly know, right? I mean, you probably haven't noticed of course, but my hand is kind of inside your underwear."

I follow the subtle movements of her bare chest as we breathe seconds goodbye in conjoined silence. Up, down, up, down. Almost hypnotizing.

"I am sorry."
"Awh, don't be. I understand."

You are murdering my dick on the first degree, but I understand.

The girl's face is lit up.

"I knew you would. That's why I like you so much. You are so unlike him in every aspect."

"Well, apart from the physical one."

"And girls."

"Haha. Alright. And girls."

Delicate feminine fingers. They follow the geography of my lips, as hers drift apart invitingly. She aknowledges that her emotional fluctuations can be a major turnoff, and tries to make up for it. Her hips start swaying timidly as she rubs herself against me. We start kissing, and in a matter of minutes I am welcomed between her parted thighs.

Giggles and screams.

This tryst thing- it began approximately two months ago. I had dropped by the Faker's house to remind him of our weekly race, but it turned out Amy was there, all by herself. She invited me in, made some adorably laughable attempts at seducing me. I wasn't ridiculously interested, but ended up humping her on the kitchen table all the same.

Needless to mention, neither of us is terribly lovestruck or lust-ridden. Her attraction to me is blatant and due to obvious reasons, but nothing beyond that. My motives are another story altogether. They are so complicated I'd rather enjoy the moment and forget about the rest.

Sometimes I fear Sonic will find out.

Sometimes I wish for it.

I reckon she is such a demon between the sheets because True Blue has been unavailable for what looks like a very long time now. This intrigues me. I wanna know why. And deep down, there's a sadistic little bit of me that wants my deplorable rival to find out his girlfriend disposes of her garments faster than he runs, whenever she's here.

Last week we fucked so hard we left countless marks on one another. I did it deliberately. Bites. Bruises. Clawmarks.

Visible to any person in possession of functional eyeballs.

He didn't see.

Didn't pay attention.

Sometimes I feel sorry for her. Sometimes I feel sorry for him.
Sometimes my sorrow is hardly enough.

One may argue that these thoughts are abnormal.

This precarious fixation, this limitless competition.

Everyone likes the son of a bitch. They absolutely and incorrigibly worship the ground he walks on. To me, Sonic is just a cocky little bastard that runs fast and brainwashes idiots about his funny, simplistic ideals. He is also, a firm believer in his superiority to the rest of the world.

Me- I am an agent. I work hard to save people's unworthy asses. I don't believe in peace whenever there can be justice.

Those who like him loathe my guts.

They say I am a freak.

A project.

A gun.

They also happen to be right.

This is why I can only afford this hellhole.
This is why you can play golf in his apartment.

Amy chants my name on repeat while I climax inside of her, which satisfies me on various levels. After it is all over we snuggle close and say nothing for the ensuing hour. Relaxing in the afterglow. Sharing the sweat, the warmth, the guilt.

Probably even thinking of the exact same person.

Picture the city lights as though you were floating among the clouds. Look down at the flickering bits of civilization that form clusters, secular galaxies.

Colors and neon signs. Commotion. A living, breathing entity comprised of smaller living entities, like the cells constructing a wholesome tissue.
The city never sleeps. The city knows everything that happens within its boundaries, like the body knows whenever an organ malfunctions.

Picture all of that as a projection on a flat plasma screen, an unblinking, omniscient eye that records the movements and transactions of everyone and everything within its jurisdiction. Picture it as yet another piece of paraphernalia, one of the many adorning a dark cockpit in a hovering troop of blimps nobody can see.

Picture its creator and only human tenant. He is old. He is mad. He is astoundingly brilliant. He hates people because they are stupid sheep. He has spent all of his life trying to rid this puny little world of idiocy and mass hysteria, and there is always heroes -idiots that value the life of the herd above their own- who thwart what is, literally, the dream of a lifetime.

Cockroaches.

The man zooms in. He zooms in a lot. The picture is conclusively blurred, but it definitely shows a small, filthy road next to a god-awful little alley. There is an apartment building whose front door is buried under heaps of decaying trash. The front door opens. A hedgehog exits it like a rude guest, and starts running away like a thief.

A female.

The man knows who the girl is, and he also knows who else lives in that place. He knows all of that because he knows practically everything.

He plays the amusing footage on repeat, slightly puzzled by the state of affairs. His intelligence quotient is three times the one of an average person, so it takes him exactly fourty-two seconds to come up with the explanation.

He laughs so hard he ends up coughing.

So fucking amusing.

So bloody weird.

Wait.

He knows how to use this to his advantage.

He knows it will work because he knows everything.

I am your lover.
I am your pain.
I am your pleasure and disdain.
I am thy friend, thy enemy.
I am you. And you are me.