A/N: Yet another of those stories floating around in my head. Like "Player Two", this is "my canon", which is, again, basically game canon combined with other imaginings from my mind. So I don't want flames/needless comments about "Hey, this isn't official!" Thanks.

Written while listening to "By Your Side" by Tenth Avenue North.

edit 7/20/14: Re-wrote one of the paragraphs.

Cool and Blue Like Me: The Story of How I Came to Be

Prologue

Every individual has his or her own concept of what a hero is. Newborn babe to wise old age, we know what we're looking for in one. Some of the most common traits include bravery, loyalty, fearlessness, and kindness. We adore our heroes and heroines, longing to be like them.

However, in our adoration, we often forget one important truth:

Heroes are rarely born as such.

West Side Station Square, Green Hill Zone, South Island

June 23rd, 1986

If one followed the Mobian horizon to the South, eventually they would come across an island, predictably named, "South Island". (The Mobians were not well known for their creativity when it came to naming their islands.) If that one continued up the beach on the west side and proceeded further inland, they'd soon see a city. It wouldn't be hard to spot—the dark skyscrapers contrasted sharply with the rest of rolling green countryside that gave the zone its name. (They weren't very creative with zone names either.)

On this night, heavy black clouds could be seen hanging low in the sky, so low that they appeared to adorn the tallest skyscrapers like fluffy top hats. They weren't just there for decoration, however—they promised rain, like they had been all day. Still waiting. Every cloud seemed to hold its breath, waiting, like children often do, to see which of them would make the first move.

As for the city itself, the clouds weren't the only things silently sitting. Although frequently compared to the Earth city of New York City in appearance, Station Square possessed three things its Earth counterpart did not: substantial foliage within the city, space for said greenery between buildings, and the capability to settle down for the night. While New York had earned the nickname "The City that Never Sleeps", the mixed anthropomorphic and human populace of Station Square settled down for three hours of quiet in the wee hours of the morning. Tranquility settled over the sleeping citizens for these precious hours like a blanket, coupled with darkness. On this night, only one figure stirred in the otherwise silent streets, moving at a painfully slow pace— maybe two yards in five minutes.

As the grand, enormous clock in the center square chimed three, two things occurred simultaneously: the figure stumbled on an unseen crack, and a particularly fat cloud had had enough waiting, releasing a single drop of rain.

The lone drop plummeted swiftly, gracefully, noiselessly through the night. The window boxes did not catch it, the few open awnings did not catch it; it fell unhindered until it landed some stories down—plop! — onto an unsuspecting nose.

Said nose wrinkled at contact, shaking away the wet sensation. The owner—the struggling figure in the street—blinked in surprise, once, twice, before turning its eyes to the dark sky above. A second, third, fourth drop fell. The figure uttered a curse under its breath—of all times, it had to start now? The figure attempted in vain to move faster—shelter was just ahead, and getting there now was of prime importance.

One look at the figure would tell one that it was of the anthropomorphic animal variety. The head, with its six long spines, identified it as a hedgehog. Another look would confirm it as a child—more specifically, male. A male hedgehog child, whose height reached just short of three-quarters of a meter when standing upright. Now, however, he was incapable of standing properly —he leaned heavily on his left leg, dragging the other behind. This explained the pace and grimaces he made with every step.

If one had a flashlight, a closer look would reveal near starvation: compared to other children his age, he was quite small, and his ribs showed clearly in his torso. He bore the stunted look of a child who had gone many days without enough food, with a neglected air about him. To any eye watching, he would look pitiful, with blood and dirt caked all over his body, particularly on the dragging leg. Some wounds looked fresh; others, many days old and seeming to scream of infection due to the exposure to the elements.

Under these wounds somewhere was peach-colored flesh on the arms, hands, muzzle, chest, and within the ears. The rest was patchy, dirty fur—a good washing would make it cobalt blue. This he considered one of his few good qualities, something unique, because that was its natural color. However, he'd had to hide it on many occasions to avoid the accusing stares.

If that didn't make him strange enough to look at, one only had to look at his eyes. Yes, he had the normal eyes of a hedgehog, with blue lids to match his fur. However, when they were open—now they were squeezed tight in evident pain—they didn't match. The dazzling emerald green irises often startled on-lookers with the boldness of their gaze. Looking into them was like looking into an old soul, revealing such pain and hardship endured that one would never expect to find in a ten-year-old's body.

The rain began to fall harder now, streams of water cascading down the child's already shaking shoulders, and he let out a low moan despite himself. The sound said everything: irritation, longing, pain, and sadness. Oh, what he'd give for an umbrella! Or a shirt! Or pants! Gloves? Socks? Shoes?—Heck, anything would be nice right now. He glared up at the darkened windows of the buildings—everyone else would fast asleep in a warm bed, unaware and indifferent to the weather outside.

He turned his fierce gaze back to the path in front of him, squinting into the pouring rain, and dragged himself forward, good foot sloshing in the puddles already forming. Thunder cracked, a whiplash in the sky, but he didn't shy away, not even taking notice of it—hunger and hardship had driven all childish fears like that out of him a long time ago. Instead, he simply clenched his teeth—missing two—and forced himself to keep going. Lift, drag. Stupid rain. Lift, drag. Stupid leg. Lift, drag. Lift, drag. Inch by inch, foot by foot. Lift, drag. Lift, drag. He'd considered crawling earlier on, but all thoughts of that had vanished by now—if he tried to lie down, he'd surely collapse, unable to get up again. No. If anything, he still had a tiny strain of pride, and this carried him forward.

As the clock struck three-thirty, he finally reached his destination—a relatively narrow alley wedged in between 701 and 702 Fifteenth Street. He performed his preliminary glance left and right before checking himself—who would want to be out in this rain at this time of night?

Not me, that's for sure.

Wedged in between the two tall apartment buildings, the alley had been often overlooked, passed by without too much notice. Nobody ever went in and out except for the garbage people once a week (the residents threw their trash down a chute) and as of a year ago, him.

He limped into the dark alley and made a bee-line for the left corner—in it sat only a smallish, battered, cardboard box lying with its open end facing towards him. One man's junk is another's treasure, he always thought. Thrown out only days after he moved in, it was now the roof over his head. It was perfect for him too—if he pulled his legs in or curled up on his side, it kept him completely dry.

He winced now as he eased himself into a half-comfortable position, then scowled. His bad foot was still sticking out. Now he was faced with a choice: let it get wet, or risk turning the dull pain back into searing agony? He racked his brain for a moment. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers as if just getting a new idea, and he began to rub the stiff, unforgiving leg with both hands. After five minutes of this, however, the creases in his forehead deepened. Why wasn't this working? He'd seen an athlete do it on a TV in the store…or something like it. Maybe he was doing it wrong? He proceeded to rub harder—ah! He nearly bit his tongue off in the effort to suppress a cry of pain.

Well, that's not going to work. He tapped a finger on his chin—maybe he could shift his position slightly. Bracing his good foot and hands on the walls of the box, he pushed himself into a more upright position with a grunt. Looking down at his bad leg, he nodded in approval—perhaps this was less comfortable for the rest of his aching body, but at least he was entirely out of the rain now. He began to massage the leg again in the hopes that it would help.

After about ten minutes, he gave it up as a lost cause. The leg would not budge. Somewhere in the distance, the clock chimed quarter until four. He sighed. Hoping that sleep would help it to heal faster—he was an impatient fellow at times—he closed his eyes and willed himself to drift off to dreamland, or whatever one called that place everyone else likely was at the moment.

Between the thunder ripping through the sky every so often, the throbbing aches everywhere, the strange upright position, and his own swirling mess of emotions and thoughts, he never got there.

He groaned and rubbed his left eye with a calloused hand. It was going to be one of those nights again. Resigned to this, he opened his eyes, and, staring out into the dripping dreariness, began to organize his thoughts. Like some people count sheep, he had the habit of trying to sort out his feelings of the chaotic day.

He didn't like to think of himself as homeless. "Homeless" meant you had nowhere to stay, right? Well, he did, and that was here. Compared to other "homeless" people, he was quite lucky: he had food (dumpsters), plenty of space to walk around, a place to sleep (the cardboard box), and nobody bothered him. When the weather was clear, he had a nice view (a patch of sky in between the buildings) and when it wasn't, he sat inside his box. What more could he ask for with free rent?

Actually, nobody bothered him in the alley because he was in the alley.

The rumors had started a year ago: "The Shadow Alley on Fifteenth Street", they said. Something had moved in, stealing from the trash bins and talking to itself. Go in there and you'll never come out. That's why they'd moved the dumpsters closer to the street. Just listen at night —you'll hear it, but never see it…

"What's so funny?" the kid who had been telling the story abruptly stopped, his eyes narrowing with suspicion at the hedgehog's laughter.

"Aw, nothin'," he'd said, continuing on his way, but once he'd rounded the corner, he'd burst into laughter harder than he'd ever remembered doing.

From then on, he'd made a bigger point of erasing signs of his existence (like carefully rearranging the trash after he rifled through it), but every now and again, he'd bang a trash can lid and howl, just for the fun of it. The next day people would be talking about it and he'd be in his box, hands clamped over his mouth in suppressed laughter.

Oh, he had his fun.

Still, it was terribly lonely in the alley. He'd leave it by day, but regardless of where he was, he seemed incapable of making friends. Look at him, they'd snicker. He's homeless. His feet are so big. He has no clothes. They'd even make fun of his eyes—"grampa eyes". Hey—this was accompanied by a poke—what didja do, fall in a bucket of blue paint? Yeah, how else would you be so brown too?

Sure, there were kids that tolerated him enough—the really little ones who were too young to care, the ones that had "problems" so nobody played with them either—but he didn't consider them friends. Because of this, he wanted friends more than anything—heck, even one friend would do. If he had someone he could really talk to, someone who he could pour his thoughts and soul out to, he'd be happy. He wished for someone to laugh with, share secrets with. Someone who cared for him outside of pity, who cared for him for who he was. Someone who'd defend him when the others were being intolerable.

Something hot pricked his eyes—what idiot had come up with that "sticks and stones" phrase? Obviously they had never been through anything he had, never been to the Green Circles playground. The kids abused him there every time he went, without fail. Every single time, somebody would throw something at him, or say something nasty, or even punch him.

Because you're a freak, a nasty little voice in his head said.

He couldn't see why they didn't like him—didn't others dye their bodies and hair strange colors? He'd seen them around—lime green, lemon yellow, even rainbow. Some people thought it was cool to be weird colors.

No…but that's part of it.

Was it because he could run really fast?

He had never been able to resist street races. Without thinking too much, he could take off from a standstill and race down the block in a matter of a second or two. He loved the feeling, like he was flying, leaving them all in the dust. It was the one thing that truly brought him happiness. He didn't get why the others didn't share in his joy—it was just natural to him, like good looks or intelligence were to others. They were congratulated on their success. But as for him…there seemed to be a rule that he couldn't win no matter what. You started early. I'm sick. You bumped me. You're a dirty, no-good cheat.

Then they'd beat him up.

Stinging, stinging somewhere behind his eyes. Why? He was just good at running. Was there something so wrong with him deriving joy from something that didn't cause anybody harm?

Yes, there is…because you're a freak, the nasty voice continued.

He would walk slowly, deliberately, hiding any sign of his running talent.

They still beat him up.

Freak.

He stared out into the cold wetness around him, willing the hot wetness to go away. He tried to swallow, but there was a stupid lump there. Go away, he thought.

They all know you're a freak, the little voice whispered. You're so pathetic. Why do you go back? You're just asking them to beat you up.

No. Go away. Just go away, he thought.

Yes. They all know it and realize it. Why haven't you? If you haven't realized that, even after all these years…you're just fooling yourself.

He clenched a fist and squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would shut out the vile thoughts, but at the same time, he felt they had a point.

What had he been thinking today, anyway?

Every kid looked forward to this day—wow! Double digits! For a lucky few, that meant extra presents. For most, it meant a "congratulations" and a "happy birthday".

But he, the freak of nature, was always the exception.

"Hey, guys, it's time for birthday punches!"

They hadn't stopped at ten.

"No! Stop!"

Or twenty.

"You want a friend, huh? You got one! I'd be happy to introduce you to my fist!"

Or thirty.

"No…please…"

He'd passed out around forty-two—when he woke again, it was ten o'clock that night, and he was alone in the park, left alone to drag himself back to his alley. He bit his lip to suppress the quivering that had started. He'd been hoping for the same thing that the other kids got…and for what? He should have known better. He was tired of the beatings.

So why did he allow himself to hope like a fool?

The years of abuse had forced him to build a shell around himself—he'd taken the blows and hidden his tears, squashing the "weak" feelings inside him until he was sure he was rock-solid. Nothing could hurt him. He had no feelings.

So why did this hurt so much?

A queer little sound tried to escape his throat. He tried to swallow it, but the breath came shuddering in and the sound came out anyway.

Sometimes he liked to "talk" out loud as if to someone in the air. Like littler kids did with their imaginary friends, except it would be an insult to the people he talked to. For they were real, they were his parents, and they loved him. Or did, once upon a time. He told them, like other kids would to their parents, about what he did that day, his little victories and miseries. And he'd tell them how much he missed them and that he loved them and wanted them to come find him. But they couldn't come, not now, not ever.

Then what about everyone else? Surely someone would remember them, right? He remembered both of them had many friends. But he'd told himself this for years, and no one had come.

And unlike imaginary friends, that truth would never go away.

"It's not fair," he murmured to himself, tone almost like that of a small child—one he thought he'd left behind long ago.

The usual mantra of, "Well, life isn't fair—suck it up," died in his throat.

"Why was I born me?"

Six o'clock, the clock in the square chimed. Come on, paperboy, get up and do your duty.

Said paperboy wheeled his bike out from the side of his house, a fresh load of newspapers arranged rather haphazardly in the front basket. The human teen looked up at the early morning sky—the storm of last night had already dissipated, but he'd have to be extra careful not to slip on the roads this morning on his route.

The bicycle raced down the street at astonishing speeds, especially considering its battered condition. Left, right, left, right, papers flew, landing neatly on the doorsteps, hardly missing a beat. Sharp left, now down Emerald Road, and a right, to Fifteenth Street.

Sometimes people are careless, and this young man was no exception—watch out for the car! Slamming on the brakes, he swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a crash. Some of the newspapers had fallen out, some scattered in puddles. He mumbled something under his breath as he picked them up, rearranged them in the front basket, then continued on his way.

If he'd stopped for longer, he would have recognized the place—The Shadow Alley.

If one stopped where he swerved and had continued into the alley, they'd find a battered cardboard box in the left corner. If they took a look inside the box, they wouldn't find it empty, unlike so many of the abandoned boxes on the street. They'd find it occupied with a little boy.

He sat, tiny frame slumped inside the box, right leg straight, left leg pulled into his chest. One arm was propped on the bent knee. His head lay cradled in the crook of the elbow like a makeshift pillow. The other arm hung loosely at his side, hand curled slightly in sleep. Even in sleep, he wore a slightly troubled expression, eyes puffy and slightly bloodshot beneath the exhausted lids. Tracks could be traced on his cheeks—perhaps they had once been tears.

On the inside of the box, on the left wall that he was leaning against, one could see black marks on the cardboard—permanent marker scrawled out a name in childish handwriting.

Property of Sonic the Hedgehog.

A/N: I'm hoping to expand this in the future, but with "Player Two" being in the spotlight for now, this one's going on a back burner. Questions? Comments? Concerns? Please let me know!

Guest: Thank you very much! Like I said, I have a whole lot of ideas for this, but it may take a while to get to it.

Guest: Could you guys put names please so that I don't get confused? XD Anyway, thanks. I am fond of the title as well.

SarahBara: Heh, sorry for taking so long to acknowledge this review... Thank you very much! I'm glad to know that you like both of my stories. I'm hoping to update both soon.