Disclaimer: I still don't own Sonic and characters
Story of a Street
In the quiet of night, in the true dark between dusk and dawn, the gunshot sounded uncannily loud, like a bolt of thunder from the hand of an angry Zeus. The ever-present crowd of eager tourists in front of the White House jumped and turned their heads in the direction of the sound, moving as though controlled by a common consciousness. They all instinctively grapped their cameras, fingers bent like the claws of a hungry beast, waiting in the night for the inevitable conclusion.
Their expectations were fulfilled, probably because such incidents as the ones they were witnessing have no sense of innovation; as in a real storm, the first roll of thunder is never enough.
The witnesses later argued over how many shots had been fired – everything between three and ten was claimed (and a few months later, the story had been embellished with a few nice Hollywood-style explosions too), but on one point they did concur: something, someone had jumped out through one of the second-floor windows ("broken glass raining down like hail, shattering on the sidewalk in a cascade of light," Daisy Bloom, 75, explained to the Evening Post), landed lightly on the road, and, after having necessarily boarded some or other form of motorized vehicle, left the scene of crime going so fast that none of the tourists' many cameras, their advanced technology in spite, were able to produce anything but pictures of an unrecognisable, grey blur.
This would all have been quite trivial, had it not been for the target of the shooting. The news hit an unprepared and drowsy world next morning between two gulps of coffee, making many a respectable citizen curse aloud, earning him a baleful "really-dear" –look from his spouse.
The president had been murdered.
By now, this was old news, and had been fondly named "the White House slaughter" – someone had taken one of the local urchins hostage, had forced their way to inside the president's office and had gone mad, shooting wildly at anything in sight. "The work of a raving lunatic," the papers had commented, using the power of the free press to demand harsher punishment for petty crimes, to get as many of those deranged bastards as early as possible. If this continued, we'd be electrocuting pick-pockets in a few months.
The police had expected that some kind of clue could be gotten out of the tourists' pictures, but as time passed hope dwindled: the photographs revealed exactly as much as the ones taken at UFO-sightings – and like the extraterrestrials said to choose this forsaken little planet for their camp-outs, so the murderer had vanished without leaving a single trace.
Personally, I didn't buy it. There were just too many blank spaces in the official story; if this was the work of a mad-man then why had he bothered with a hostage? And why an urchin? And why hadn't the police sacrificed the child to save the president? I, for one, wouldn't put it past them. And how had an armed man been able to get within shooting-range of the best protected individual on earth, in the best protected building of all, no less? Why hadn't there been any guards, security-officers, secret service people?
The papers had claimed that the mysterious murderer had shot everybody around him in a mad rage – so how come only two bodies were carried out?
The way I saw it, the murderer, X, "the Phantom Menace" had killed the president (because the man couldn't possibly have shot himself through the back of his own head), but this had been a cool, calculated act, not the work of a psychopath. Because since Mister X had no reason to drag an urchin with him into the White House, I was left with the conclusion that this had been the work of the president, and that the by the people appointed father of the nation had shot the girl himself; that had been the first shot.
It also made sense that the murderer proceeded to flee: no-one would believe his story as he was found standing over two corpses, a smoking gun in his hand.
That was my theory, compiled from the empty spaces in the official story. My editor had not been pleased. Nor had he agreed to print it in his paper. In fact, the only thing he had made clear in between the electric storms of miscellaneous x-rated words, was that if I didn't at least dig up some sort of solid evidence to support my theory, printing my article would mean the end of both our carriers. Lynching was mentioned.
I don't remember quitting, though when I left his office I felt both red and white, hot and cold, exploding and imploding, all at once. That was when I decided, partly to spite the entire dumb world, especially the part made out of editors, that this one story I had to see through to the end.
The voice had made contact later that day. Apparently my little tiff with the editor had not gone unnoticed (had we shouted? Probably – but that loud?). Someone had heard. Someone had been quite intrigued. Someone would like to meet me. Someone had never-before seen evidence regarding "the White House slaughter." Someone hung up before I could think of any questions.
Late nights and early mornings had made me no stranger to weird calls, but this one took both gold, silver and bronze. And platinum American Express.
I looked down at the scribbled note in my hand, as though seeing it for the first time, and read the address the voice had dictated once more. It was near the docks. It would be, wouldn't it? Everything about this day seemed to have been lifted from an old black-white detective movie, from the ridiculous pumping vein on my editor's forehead to, over my shadow, sharp and startlingly black on the pale glass of the paper's telephone booth ("To ensure our employees' privacy, aha-ha"), to the gruff voice on the other end of the line. No real voice could be so laden with darkness; it sounded like its owner drank night and ate old cigarette-buds. It had to be a parody, nothing more. A very good parody, but, at the end of the day, a parody.
I smiled to myself; someone had been watching too many old b-movies.
Nonetheless, I made my way through the city, down lanes made from neon-light and forbidden pleasure. Forbidden, that is, from the poor or the pious. The streets here seemed to shine, like a mirror filled with light, turning the cacophony of coloured lights into a blinding white. The girls hollered after me. I ignored them; the city makes you cold. I knew from experience that in this art of town, the streets were always moist, even if it hadn't rained for a fortnight. The trick was to not think about what you had just trodden in.
I went on, through and out of the exotic neon heaven, and found myself surrounded by the darkness of the first layer of the city-hell.
Things were being sold here too. Only, no merchandise was on display, no-one called out. People talked in hushed voices and went into alleys that looked just as deadly and foreboding as black holes. These streets were moist too – moist and sticky and dark with the dried-up blood of last night's gang-war. No-one cared; in this dark place, bloody war was just another spice on the pizza of life.
Instinctively I lowered my head and hunched my shoulders; this was the jungle, death was swift.
As I turned a corner on my way to the docks, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a ragged group of urchins. Their big, pale eyes had the far-off, dreaming look of narcotic intoxication as they stood and slumped against an old dumpster. By now this was probably their only escape from a dark, brutal reality. I wondered briefly whether the dead girl from the White House, no-name, the second unknown in the equation, had been one of this group, one of those sad kids who leaned on whoever was beside her as the rush hit, seeking even the slightest friendly contact.
Did they know what had happened? Do thy remember her? Could they still, somewhere in that psychedelic world whence they fled, hear her voice, her laughter? Had they ever even heard her laugh?
I shrugged the thought off with a shudder; thinking like that would not get me anywhere except to a depression even darker than the dreary surroundings.
As I made my way to the docks, the scenery underwent a subtle transformation; the pale faces became drawn and strongly painted, forming a violent contrast to the greying world. Here night seemed blue rather than black, the houses old and worn, the asphalt pock-marked with pot-holes, and the air odorous from the former day's sweat, salt and tar. Purely out of irony, the streets this close to the sea were as dry as the proverbial desert sands.
The odd petrol-encrusted stink of the ocean invaded my nostrils as I went by still more and more narrow alleys to the address on the note. Which turned out to belong to an old, windowless tavern that seemed to lean in exhaustion against the old concrete factory next to it. Ships to sail the seas came out of one in the day, drunks to stumble through the city out of the other in the night.
I waited on the corner across the street, listening for any suspicious sounds of excessive murder. No need to worry about being seen; no annoyingly revealing lampposts out here – the people who lived on the docks didn't keep with light. No unmentionable sounds, apart from the usual, were to be heard, so I decided that the insides of the tavern were probably to be preferred to its outsides.
The door was dark from years of heavy smog, and creaked satisfactorily as I pushed it open. Had my life been a fairytale, welcoming golden light would have flowed out onto the street. Since my life had of late taken a turn towards something closer to film noir, a substance in between smoke and liquid welled towards me. Deciding this was definitely not worth the money I was being paid, I dived in, head first, no goggle. I later reflected that I should have been awarded the Purple Heart, simply for that extraordinary feat.
There was no music in the tavern; the clientele didn't want anything to distract them from present business. Which could mean practically anything, since the transparency of the atmosphere did not even allow me to see the far walls of the room. A blurry light off to the right waved me towards the bar – there was no way anyone could want to meet me here… there was no way anyone would be able to find me here. So I might as well get a drink. That way, even though the mysterious voice had been a hoax, the evening wouldn't be a complete waste.
I was walking carefully towards the light, hands stretched out before me, as someone suddenly grapped my wrist, pulling me into a chair which creaked loudly in objection to the violent occurrence. My chin slammed against the table, making my teeth clatter together. Lights blinked on and off before my eyes as my jaws screamed a threat of pain to come. I swallowed and the taste of blood made me cough. From the swirling mists before me, a low, dark voice grumbled:
- Glad you could make it…
The shock of the entire situation drank my breath dry, making me incapable of uttering a single sound. The voice was just as I had heard it on the phone. It was real! Something moved on the other side of the table. Something dark…
- Don't ask any questions, there's no time! Just listen…
His name was Shadow. He had moved to town a few years ago. He had got an apartment in the darkest, dreariest part of town, to match his mood; he had recently lost someone very dear to him and had stayed inside, having less than no desire to meet anyone.
Days dripped down the window-panes, slowly, monotonously, like the thin drizzle outside, as he sat in his apartment, staring at nothing. One evening, during one of his short walks to the grocer's he had felt a small hand fumbling around his pockets. He sighed wearily, almost too tired to deal with a pickpocket at this point. Lazily he grapped hold of the small hand and twisted it for just long enough to make its owner scream with pain:
- What are you doing, you bloody bastard! Let me go!
Shadow frowned; this was not what you usually got out of a petty thief. There should generally be more begging for mercy. He looked down at the small creature he was holding on to. It was a young rabbit, a girl, couldn't even be ten yet. Feeling sorry rather than angry he let go, cursing under his breath at the world as such while he continued down the street. A few minutes later, a voice asked, from somewhere around his elbow:
- My name is Cream. What's yours?
He didn't even look down, didn't slow his pace for a second as he sneered:
- Get lost, kid!
A few minutes drifted by in silence before:
- Then I'll have to make one up for you myself… how about Grumpy?
He turned on her with a speed he couldn't remember when he'd last used. Picking her up by the throat, he drew one hand back, bunching it into a fist. The girl gasped in surprise at the sudden violence. He could feel her begin to tremble. Across the street some thugs were hooting, calling for blood. His heart bet faster. Shadow looked into the child's eyes. They looked so scared, as though she knew, as he did, that it would take only one punch. The power to turn off the light in those big, innocent eyes forever was at his very fingertips.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered his arms and put the girl back down on the sidewalk, ignoring the far from flattering names his spectators were calling him. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she instinctively pulled away from him. He felt an odd sting in his chest at seeing the terror in her eyes. He smiled, trying to calm her down.
- My name is Shadow.
From that point on they had been friends. Not the "as-close-as-you-can-get-to-friends-in-a-neighbourhood-like-this" –type, but true friends. A friendship as deep as it was strange. They were in all manners unlike each-other; she was bright, bubbly and only six years old. He was dark, depressed and old beyond expression. Together they formed the strangest couple the streets had ever seen. And the streets didn't understand. Couldn't see how a little girl was looking for a father. Couldn't see how an adult needed someone to care for.
Stories of child-molesters were whispered when one of them passed by; stories of dark deeds and an apartment filled with screams. But nothing more came of it. In this part of town, people minded their own business.
In shadow's apartment, life unfolded, creating a small oasis for the two of them in the middle of the concrete-jungle.
The greenish-pale walls were given a fresh cot of paint, extra china was purchased, then a chair, a radio, a bed, children's books… In the course of a month the ugly cocoon of a flat was turned into a colourful butterfly, its wings fitted together from Cream's many drawings which hung everywhere on the walls. He cooked the meals and taught her how to read and write, using the children's books.
Outside, the world turned, as was its habit, seasons changed, men killed and raped and schemed. Everything was, in short, normal. But in one little apartment, two small, wretched creatures had found consolation, comfort and happiness.
Then one early morning, before the busy ant-hill city really began moving in the usual bustle of activity, Cream had gone down to buy some bread and juice. Shadow had been asleep. She had left a note ("Shad. Gone to grocer's. Don't worry. Back soon. Love, C"). She had taken only just enough money from his wallet. She had left the key under the mat. She had never returned.
At first he had been only slightly worried, had thought that she had gone to help some of her friends. As time dragged on towards noon, a multitude of ideas had been born, fallen in love and moved away o start new lives of their own in his head. Perhaps she had run off? Never! Perhaps her parents had arrived out of the blue and had taken her with them? Impossible! Perhaps she had simply tired of him, and had returned to the streets? Ridiculous!
Finally he decided he couldn't take any more. Sitting there, in an apartment so utterly filled by her he could almost see her in that beam of sharp, white sunlight which fell through the window unto a stack of children's books and drawings on the floor. He had to get out.
On the way down he decided to ask around, see what he could find out. The streets never slept. The streets would have seen something.
It was high noon, and it showed; the neighbourhood was packed. Everywhere he looked an explosion of colour assaulted his eyes. Everywhere he turned someone was moving in or out of his field of vision, making him twist his own neck in an effort to keep them all in sight.
Everywhere things were being bought and sold. Fruit, vegetables, meat, drinks, clothes, furniture… You could shop for an entire life, right there, without walking more than ten paces. Like at a huge marked, all wares were on display on the street; a clothes seller was shouting in a shrill voice at a drinks vendor, worried that he would ruin her softly apricot-coloured merchandise.
Some urchins had been hired for the day to keep flies away from meat and vegetables, or to shout, as loud as possible, a few inane limericks concerning the price and advantage of something or other again and again. Others were doing a dishonest day's work somewhere between the myriads bags, wallets and pockets. To each his own.
The grocer was camped out a few blocks down, busily pushing rancid butter in the faces of possible customers. When Shadow finally managed to catch the hue man's attention, it took him painstakingly long time (and 10 dollars) to remember anything. Yeah, Cream had been by, but that was quite a while ago now, bless her. He thought she had just gone back home… He'd seen her himself, turning down that corner over there, followed by that good-for-nothing, Espio. He only remembered because he had been watching a big, old car, one of those with a real engine, you know, turn down the same corner just then.
Shadow fisted his hands. How could anyone be this stupid? How could anyone watch a car follow a girl down a street, and think of nothing besides the machine's motor? Why hadn't the dumb human done anything?
Wanting to punch somebody until they could be mistaken for cranberry sauce, he pressed a "thanks" out through clenched teeth, slowly turned around and started walking back down the street, ignoring how his every last particle ached to kill.
Cream had been abducted by whoever had been driving that "big, old car." He dismissed the comment about Espio with a sneer – the guy lived here; of course he walked the streets! The black hedgehog trembled with the cocktail of irritation and rage which was being served up by his own inner bar-keep. The urge to destroy was welling within him, threatening, like a stormy ocean, to drown him in one towering wave, to drag him to the very bottom and let him forget himself.
Though the effort made him feel like he had just run a marathon, he managed to suppress the rage, to push it to the labyrinthic background of his consciousness, to save it for later. He promised himself to use all his anger this way, to unleash it later, ten times, a hundred times as devastatingly powerful, on the head of Cream's kidnapper. It would be a reckoning. He allowed himself a cruel little smile; a wreckoning.
He had no doubt he would find the bunny eventually. No doubt he would some day see his own reflection in her big, brown eyes again. Strangely, he knew, with almost prophetic certainty, that his young friend would be alive when next they met…
Until then he might as well heat things up a bit. And on the streets there was really only one way of doing that: he'd set the dogs on the track.
Amy felt proud. Proud that she had been the one to pick up the phone that day. It had been her very first anonymous tip. Being the sergeant's secretary meant being in charge of the secure line (which was hardly ever used, so in reality it meant putting on nail-polish fifty times every day). This way, she was rarely in touch with the vibrant nerve that is big-city madness; "Someone's gonna steal Station Square – for real man!", "The water in my tap looks just like blood, you have to do something!", "ARGHHHH! My neighbour is an alien!", "The world is coming to an end. Now."
Sadly this meant that she had some rather naïve presuppositions regarding the sanity of her fellow citizens. And fellow law-enforcers; such madness is highly infectious.
While absolute belief in the honesty of others is usually a beautiful thing, it can only be considered a disadvantage for anyone who ever has to deal with human beings.
So when that excessively hoarse voice crept out of the phone to deliver its message that particular day just around noon, she didn't pause for a single breath before running to the office at the end of the hallway. The blue hedgehog behind the desk looked up in mild surprise as she burst through the door, panting. He had known her for years and was no stranger to her easily excited nature.
- What's up Ames?
- A child has been kidnapped! We have to do something!
- Slow down, Amy, slow down… Who told you?
- A voice. On the phone. The secure line. A dark voice…
Until this point he had been every bit as calm as that time she had told him that heartrending story of the little kitten stuck up in a tree.
Now his eyes widened and he leaned forward slightly, looking at her very carefully. She was almost sure she was blushing.
- A dark voice on the secure line…
He said it so quietly, as though she wasn't even there, as though he was playing chess with someone invisible and pondering his next move aloud to himself. Amy didn't know whether to answer or not, and settled for nodding; the thoughts of great minds should not be interrupted.
Sonic suddenly focused upon her and smiled in a way which made her think for a moment that he was about to unveil to her the ultimate truth of the nature of the universe.
- Tell the lieutenant to get the men ready – we hit the streets in ten minutes!
Everything can be made to look good, if you view it in the right angle, Shadow was telling himself. This wasn't a lousy, rent-per-hour motel room unfit for any habitation whatsoever, it was an exotic experience which he and Cream would both laugh over at times to come. And the bed he was lying on wasn't a slightly altered roaches' nest, creaking with exhaustion from having accommodated more adulterers than hell itself, it was a picturesque antiquity brimming with atmosphere. Finally, the price he was paying for a night in such charming surroundings wasn't ridiculously high, bordering on pure theft, it was simply what was to be expected what with the inflation and everything, aha-ha.
It wasn't working.
He hated the filthy room, the filthy bed with its filthy covers and the filthy gleam in the owner's eye at renting out a room to a single, unaccompanied man. That would make a great story for the grandkids: "And one time there was this guy who got a room just for himself! I've seen some pretty weird things in my time, but man! What a perv!" Shadow sneered, got up and walked to the window. The blinds were broken, hanging like something from an early horror-movie in front of the greasy glass, scattering bars of darkness over the floor. Just breathing the air in this place made him feel infected, tainted, filthy.
But it was somehow better than being at his own apartment, so filled with memories of her voice and laughter. Being alone there made him afraid now. It was ridiculous; when he'd been all alone it had been the only place in town he felt safe, the silence and the bare walls had calmed him like nothing else. But now it seemed too empty; being there was agony.
He'd promised himself it would never come to this again, that he wouldn't ever invite anyone else into his life… told himself that no-one could ever ease his pain, make him whole… replace… Maria…
He beat the stained window feebly with one trembling fist. It didn't even creak
And then he had broken all those promises, just because one stupid little girl had stumbled across his path. Poor little Cream.
He felt like kicking himself- you don't think like that about your friends. You can say whatever, but watch your thoughts!
The dogs had been allowed to howl for more than 30 hours now- some progress must have had been made. Shadow picket up the keys from the night-stand and locked himself out. He argued with himself for a while over whether to kill or pay the owner, and settled for the last; he couldn't afford to throw away anger on small-time crooks- he was saving it for when he found the kidnapper.
It was time to break yet another promise he had made to himself. Time to talk to an old acquaintance.
The police station looked like any and all such places on the planet. That is, all those that have been vandalised, tagged, shot at, burnt down, blown up, besieged and spat on. The public around here didn't much appreciate those who chose to serve and protect. Perhaps this was because bitter experience told them that what was served and protected wasn't civil rights but the enforcers' interests. Anything in a uniform was a target; give their own offspring a badge and nice old granny would readily gun them down.
Shadow had long since decided that all creatures were rotten to the core, and that dressing them up didn't change their spots, only their colour.
The station was the usual bustle of activity: a few officers were drinking coffee, eating doughnuts or sleeping at their desks, heads on typewriters. Some were playing cards in a corner. But Shadow had been in places like this before; all the men were armed, and every now and again their hands brushed against their weapons in a distracted way. The cards-players seemed to be playing six or seven different games with only half a deck, and the sleepers were breathing just a little bit too fast. He smiled as he walked through the room; this show of inefficiency was all part of it – rather despised than dead! They had been fairly well trained, and he knew by whom. He had pulled off a few jobs with those two legends of the force a few years back. Of course, that had all been before, back when they were just kids having fun. He had thought about joining them, but couldn't stand them in the long run. Take the one at the desk before him, feinting activity, papers upside-down before him. Oafs of the world unite.
- Blue never was your colour, doll-face…
He knew the echidnas temper, and would have been almost disappointed had he not responded in the usual manner; a fist like a baby's head went flying towards his face with nose-breaking speed. Behind it, an angry face had gone from red to purple in a matter of seconds.
With a small smile and a trained movement, as though this was something he did every day and really no feat at all, Shadow caught the fist as one would a ball, and held it still, inches before his jaw. He squeezed it, just a little bit, just to get the red creatures attention. Knuckles winced, but was clever enough not to let the men hear. A huge black eye disfigured almost half his face. Probably worse than any scar to a proud man like him; visible evidence that someone had bested him.
Shadow smiled a twisted little smile.
- Your mascara's running, Knux…
- What do you want, you waste of oxygen!
- Uhhh –advanced. Have you been playing with the dictionary again?
A low growl, which probably had quiet an effect in the interrogation, on someone who really was guilty, someone who thought all red creatures were descendant from hell, someone who was sure they were going to die in a matter of moments, hit the floor like a base-drum. Shadow didn't so much hear as feel it. He tightened his grip a tiny little bit more and felt something creak underneath the white glove. Knuckles closed his eyes in pain, sweat beading on his forehead, but still didn't utter a sound. You had to admire the kind of brain that can ignore pain. Shadow let him go.
- Enough of this playful banter. I want to talk to Sonic.
The echidna stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief for a moment, then pointed over his shoulder to a corridor. It has its advantages to have contacts on the inside.
Half-way down the hall-way something which had never happened before hit Shadow square in the face: he was ambushed. And worse, it wasn't a situation he could talk or even punch his way out of. The creature that grapped him by the arm was worse than an octopus. There could be no escape. It was his own fault, really. He had concentrated on dumb and dumber, sergeant and lieutenant, Sonic and Knuckles, and had thus completely forgotten the fifth horseman of the apocalypse, the pink pest, Octopussy; Amy.
And now he was doomed, doomed to drown in an ocean of bubbles, to choke on her young mind's overbrimming positivity ("I bet it's even pink on the inside. And the furniture is fluffy"), and worse of all; to hear the chorus of her life again and again and again, how amazing and clever and wonderful and kind and sweet and courageous he was. Love can turn even the worst thug, a scum of the streets, an ex-con drug dealer, into a prince with a shiny helmet. And this girl was in love with Sonic, who was what people would normally call a hero, what with his saving the planet…
Shadow sighed heavily and tried to block the pink creature's inane babble. Apparently he was to be the means for her catching the day's glimpse of the love of her life. As usual, he couldn't help feeling a little bit sorry for her. She had been doting on the speedy fellow for ever- there was no way he could have missed it! Knuckles, perhaps, but Sonic was generally… faster… so why did he allow it to continue? Like a small boy who has pulled the wings off a fly and is enjoying seeing the poor creature writhe in wordless pain. For god's sake, why didn't the bastard finish it? Why didn't he decide once and for all and let life go on? Damn coward! Some hero…
With this dark thundercloud threatening to unleash hellfire between his ears, Shadow stepped through the door Amy held open for him and found himself face to face with his favourite aversion, Sonic the hedgehog.
While he committed seven gruesome murders in his mind, Amy giggled in the background, as the blue hedgehog waved her off.
- You're shameless!
Sonic leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs on his desk and sent Shadow a tired look while heaving a deep sigh. They had had this discussion before.
- What do you want now? I reacted on your ridiculous tip, alright; half the men have been out there looking for one lost kid in a city of millions. Do you have any idea how many calls like that we get every day?
Shadow's eyes narrowed as he bunched up his fists. The fire licked his heart, making it race. Sonic continued (he probably wanted to survive):
- But for old times' sake, I threw away a few more of the tax-payers' hard-earned dollars and managed to find the culprits. One of them is in interrogation as we speak…
Shadow was almost too surprised to remember not to let it show – this was Sonic he was talking to, after all; he couldn't let him know he was impressed with his work. It would upset the all-governing equilibrium of the universe, leading to the immediate destruction of all matter. And the little pest would never again leave him alone. Shadow settled for one word:
- Who?
Sonic smiled his snide little smile, the smile which would make less controlled beings smash his face against the wall. Repeatedly.
- Vector. From the CT's.
Shadow almost laughed out loud. Of course. What had he expected? Only the police would be god-damn stupid enough to arrest Vector for something as refined as a kidnapping. On good days, the crocodile could almost peel a banana. But usually he settled for standing in the back, grunting, and left all of the advanced transactions to the brains of the gang, Espio.
A distant memory nudged his brain… hadn't the fat grocer said something about Espio… Yes! Yes, he had!
- And the rest of the CT's?
Shadow asked, mind back on present business. Sonic stretched lazily before he answered, hands behind his head:
- Charmy is under-age, we can run him through the grinder…
(He almost sounded sorry: cops hate loose ends even more than a strike at the doughnut factory)
- … Espio got away… He's probably bleeding in a dark alley somewhere. I put a bullet in his shoulder, but it didn't even slow him down… bloody ninja… Vector isn't talking…
People with a passion can be very scary and very useful. Sonic's face had grown dark as he probably pondered why the almighty had placed so many annoying obstacles in his way. When you hit a criminal over the hands with a telephone book, he was supposed to break down and reveal everything, even the theft of the neighbour's apples he had committed at age ten. He wasn't supposed to just sit there and take it!
Shadow derailed his train of thought:
- I'll talk to him…
It wasn't an order. It certainly wasn't a request. It was just a statement; this was what the future held. Sonic hated when he did that. It made him feel like his badge was really nothing more than a thin plate of scrap-metal. Like there were forces above and beyond the law.
On the other hand, Vector was proving a problem. Sonic simply couldn't figure him out. He seemed completely fearless, as if the streets had got to him, had become part of him, turning his bones to iron, his skin to asphalt and his blood to millions and millions of tiny cars, driving through the highways that were his veins. Sonic had no way of understanding this, hadn't lived in the right, or rather, wrong, part of town.
But Shadow had.
And here he was, at hand, looking ready to kill. How very convenient…
- Be my guest…
Vector was confused. He had smashed up the chair, hurled the table at the wall and punched a hole in the door. The officers had been satisfactorily pale. He knew pale Pale was good. Pale meant fear.
But now the rush had peaked and he was beginning to feel the red one's revenge. Sissy. If you're stupid enough to walk out into the streets in a uniform, waving a gun at peaceful citizens, challenging the CT's, "the law of the lawless," Espio had once claimed. Sounded cool. Didn't know what the hell it meant. Anyway, if you did all that, you were bloody lucky to get away with nothing more than a shiner to show for it.
He missed Espio. Missed following orders. He hated having to think before he acted. Hated having to think at all. But you just didn't do what the cops wanted you to. Was against the code. Tattoos danced on his arms as he flexed his muscles. Cops enemy! Simple. He liked that.
But now this little black guy was telling him what to do. True, he wasn't' a cop – Vector had seen him in the hood – but he was at the station without being beaten up, which just seemed wrong.
And he was asking where Espio was, saying that he knew the CT's hadnt' done it ("Done what?"), that he was going to get him cleared, but that he needed to find Espio to do so. He generally talked a lot about Espio…
He shut up for a few moments while Vector put on his favourite face. The one like a concrete wall. The one that most people filled with their own fears, which scared the more than any number of threats could. ("My friend Espio said that!")
When the little guy began talking again, his voice was less eager and very, very quiet. He said that a girl had from the hood had been kidnapped. By outsiders. He said her name was Cream, and that, probably, Espio was the last one to have seen her.
Cream… the name rung a bell deep within the caverns of Vector's brain. Something about ice-cream and strawberries. One of those hot summer days before the gang-war bathed the hood in blood. Someone was throwing a street-party. He gasped, stunned by the clarity of the memory. It seemed so long ago. Back when the world wasn't' just black and grey and red. A young rabbit had shown him her first-born child. A beautiful little girl. The sweetest thing he had ever seen. Cream.
Vector broke.
Shadow checked Espio's pulse. Fainted. Loss of blood. He was one lucky bastard not to be dead after what he had been through. Rouge was in the back of the apartment, making coffee. She was a saint to have let them in at this hour, two vagabonds dripping blood and rain-water on her floor. Shadow knew her; she was a survivor, doing whatever it took to pay the rent. In another world she might have been a princess. In the concrete jungle she was just as rotten as everybody else. But she wouldn't sell Espio to the cops. Not if she wanted to see the next dawn, that is. The hood hated traitors. She knew. Everyone did. That was the code.
As Espio moaned softly, bleeding through his shabby bandages, Shadow thought of what he had told him. Only one word, really. And not so much told as mumbled.
He had been hiding in the cellar for hours – his blood was smeared all over the walls and he smelled like rotting vomit. He had been on the point of hallucination, but had managed to give Shadow one final clue. He would be safe here, for now. With a little luck, he would survive the illness. Then would come the difficult part; surviving being in Rouge's debt.
Shadow smiled wearily as he took the cup of coffee she was offering him. It was at least two days since he had had any real sleep.
Rouge was wiping Espio's forehead wit a moist napkin. She almost looked like she cared. She would have made one damn fine actress.
Shadow forced himself to focus; there was no doubt he was going to follow this last clue, no matter how ridiculous it sounded. But he already knew it wasn't going to be easy… after all, this was the president…
Late evening. Shadow was hiding among the dark ranches of a tall tree just outside the white house enclosure. He had thought of any possible scenario, had a dozen plans in store, had expected the unexpected, had considered everything. Except this.
No guards, no lights, no cameras. With the exception of the ones belonging to the tourists out front. Really what were they thinking? He might as well just walk up to the front door and knock politely; "Can the president come out to play?"
Think, damn it, think! Why were there no guards? Someone must have ordered them away. And who was the only one capable of commanding the president's guards? Eureka, give that man a cigar; the president himself.
But he had no reason to do so…
Shadow shifted his weight slightly in the tree, sending one or two tumbling own towards the ground.
No reason… except… except…
Oh, shit!
He didn't waste more time arguing, knowing now that he might already be too late.
No-one empties their entire house of people…
He was through the door so fast, he didn't know how it had happened. He didn't pause to wonder, but tore down a corridor toward the main office. The president's office.
… and turns off all the cameras…
Up a flight of stairs… left… not long now…
… unless if…
He stopped so suddenly it felt like his eyes were on the point of popping out of his scull. He took out his gun. The weight in his hand was strangely comforting.
… they are going to do something…
His hand was on the doorknob. He was surprised to realise that he didn't want to go ahead. Quite the contrary, he wanted to run away. Far away. From everything.
Soft whimpering from the other side of the door.
… horrible…
He opened the door, holding back his breath.
Nothing.
This was indeed a night of surprises.
The office was stainless, perfect, looking like something from a brochure ("Visit the capital! See where the president works!")
Still, something seemed slightly out of order… on the middle of the huge, old desk, among papers busy looking important and official, squatted a jar. An old, big one, from the days when jam was a major food-source. It was filled with transparent fluid. Something round was bobbing up and down in there.
"Pickles and eggs for the president?" wondered Shadow, frowning; "hardly likely."
He knew the only way to make sure was to pick up the damn thing and look for himself… yet something in him would rather gnaw off his own fingers than touch the jar. He pulled himself together, cursing himself for being such a bloody coward at this moment of all! The jar was smooth and cool in his hands… and slightly clammy. The white orbs were spinning gently inside. He so wanted to believe they were just eggs.
Even with the evidence in his own hands, he couldn't accept it. Wouldn't accept it.
He felt tears rising, pulling at his gut, driving red-hot nails through his heart, stealing his voice. He gasped for breath as he beheld his own reflection in Cream's big, brown eyes.
Fearing suddenly that those eyes would jump out of the jar and into his head, that he would disappear into them for ever, he placed the glass very, very carefully back on the president's desk.
He wanted to curse Wanted to use the language in ways so heinous it would call forth the devil himself, blushing with shame. But he couldn't. He had no words.
- Well, well, Shadow… long time…
He could hear the muffled footsteps on the thick, lush carpet, could her how the door was slowly, quietly, closed. He knew what he would see even before he turned, yet it hit him like a punch from an iron glove. Poor little Cream. She didn't even struggle anymore, she just slumped in the president's arms, looking out at nothingness through black holes. It was like seeing a scull. Like she was already dead.
- Now, just get out…
The president sounded like a father trying to be pedagogical when junior has just caught him and mom in a very intimate situation. Shadow didn't react, didn't move a single muscle, didn't even seem to breathe, he just looked at the limp girl.
- Get out, damn it! Unless you want this little girl's life on your consciousness!
The president was screaming now, enraged by the complete lack of any response from the hedgehog before him. Shadow finally seemed to break out of the trance, trailing his eyes from Cream's sad face, over the gun the president was pressing against her head, to the mad eyes of the man himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice was as calm as ever; he was sailing the sea of rage:
- I can't kill her – she's already dead…
The explosion from the gun threw Shadow's hand back, but he saw it anyway. Saw how the fire leaped from the barrel as powder ignited. Saw how the bullet tore right through Cream's chest as though she was nothing more than a spectre. Saw how she jumped at the impact without uttering a single sound. Saw how her blood splattered unto the president's surprised face. Saw how she collapsed unto the floor with almost liquid movements. Like she wasn't falling, but floating. Like she was herself one of the drops of rain on the window – one of the drops they had counted, back in happier days. Back when the rain didn't look so much like tears.
Outside, the tourists jumped s one at the sound of the shot.
Shadow looked from the corpse of his young friend to the baffled president pressing himself against the door in a panic. The man had dropped his gun. Foolish human! There they were. All alone. And he had a barrel full of bullets. The sea of anger welled within him, making his eyes burn with hatred. It was time to break down the dam and unleash the thunder.
The smoke swirled between us, disturbed by his breath. I had no doubt that this was the truth. It fit perfectly. Explained the unexplainable.
We sat in silence for a while, both caught up in the tentacles of the story. The poor guy probably saw the girl, Cream's, eyes before him. I hoped to God he saw them in her face. One little, happy, smiling, complete girl
Why had they chosen her? Probably she had seemed like just another urchin; unwanted, unloved – someone no-one would miss. They had been wrong.
I didn't see him leave, I just gradually noticed a slight change in the air and knew he was gone. It had been a long night. I drained my glass and began to make my way home, like perhaps a hundred other citizens. I walked the streets in which the story had taken place, and I almost thought I could see all the transparent ghosts of memory acting out the plot all around me. There, in a dark window, was Sonic, smiling annoyingly. There was Espio, bleeding on the sidewalk. There was Cream, running happily around in the playful mood of childhood. And there, walking steadily ahead of me, his back turned, was Shadow.
In the early dawn, when all graffiti seems grey, they became part of the streets themselves, of the blood, bone and soul of the capital, of the beating heart of the city. It was just one story out of many – the streets had seen both better and worse… but I would make this one known!