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Once, Gerald had shown Shadow a book on entomology. The study of insects, he'd explained. Shadow had privately delighted over the photos in said book; there were precious few texts in the base that had pictures in them, and those that did tended to be little more than informative diagrams. That this one had photos of other Earth creatures, and in full color, was a rare treat.
And what pictures there were! Shiny beetles and fuzzy-legged arachnids and dozens upon dozens of butterflies in every conceivable color. Shadow pored over the pictures, tracing the shape of their wings with a finger and wondering what they felt like. Perhaps they were fuzzy like the spiders, their pretty patterns like the stripes in Shadow's own fur.
Then he found a picture of a butterfly whose wings were not symmetrical– whose right wing had clearly been damaged.
He brought it to Gerald to show him. "What happened?"
The book didn't say, but the Professor had an answer to everything. Gerald never turned him away, always answered his questions, even encouraged Shadow to ask more. (He only ever asked things of the Professor.)
Adjusting his glasses to peer at the glossy page, Gerald looked over the photo in question. "Well, I imagine they must have accidentally damaged this one when they caught it. Butterflies are very delicate, after all. And this one appears to be rather rare– odds are, they couldn't get ahold of an undamaged specimen to catalog."
"Damaged?" Shadow echoed, lowering the book with a frown. He'd thought the entomologists had probably asked the butterflies to splay their wings out for these pictures.
Gerald raised his eyebrows when Shadow expressed as much– then smiled and put a broad, wrinkled hand on his head, the way he sometimes did with his granddaughter. Shadow tried very hard not to flinch away, to prolong the contact as long as possible. "Oh, my boy, butterflies don't speak, much less understand. These were all collected, studied and preserved. See?"
He taps the cover of the book.
And there, for the first time, Shadow realizes what the little picture on the front is showing: insects pinned to a board.
The next day, he'd quietly put the book back on the Professor's desk and never looked at it again.
"Yeah, that's definitely still broken," Madeline Wachowski clicks her tongue sympathetically despite Shadow's best efforts to disguise his wince. She draws the gauze back over his shin with the gentle, practiced ease of a professional, hand hovering for a moment as if to pat his knee. "But! You are healing a lot faster than I thought," she adds, glossing over the momentary awkwardness.
"I have an accelerated rate of recovery," Shadow repeats quietly, keeping his gaze on the splint and the gauze wrapped around his leg. Perhaps he can find a crutch small enough for him. Or a walking stick. "Thank you for your assistance. And I'm sorry that–"
"Ah-ah, no apologizing," Madeline cuts him off to chide, and then she does initiate contact, urging Shadow back down onto the pillows by his shoulder. "And no putting weight on that leg for at least a week. Last thing you want is for it to set wrong."
"But–"
"So how much do you know about human technology?" she continues, steamrolling right over Shadow's protests. A small, rectangular device covered in buttons is placed on the bed beside him. "Knuckles thought the people on TV were actually trapped inside it at first. Thank goodness Sonic caught him before he started 'liberating' them."
He realizes she's expecting a reaction to the anecdote, but he's too busy trying to figure out What is going on and Why haven't they turned me out?
Madeline Wachowski is a veterinarian– an animal doctor, as Sonic had helpfully informed him once he was conscious. A lucky break for the adoptive parents to three anthropomorphic adolescents. The other hedgehog and Madeline had both been present for Shadow coming to, battered and bruised after his descent from orbit.
A descent that should have been the end of him.
An explosion he'd wanted to be the end.
"Shadow?" Shadow looks up at her, at a point just past her smooth dark hair. "Are you in any pain, sweetie?"
"No, ma'am."
"Maddie," she corrects, smiling kindly. "Alright, well, dinner's in a couple hours. Do you have any allergies?"
"No, m– Maddie," he catches himself on reflex, stumbles over the too-familiar form of address. "None that I know of."
A nod. Another too-kind, too-trusting smile. "Sounds good. Shout if you need anything, okay? Try to get some more rest." And just like that, she's gone. The door clicks softly behind her as she leaves the room Shadow has been put up in– a guest room, judging by the pleasant but plain furnishings and Sonic quite literally telling him it was as much. "Just for right now," he'd added. "Just 'til we can get another bed up in the attic! What's your favorite color?? Wait, lemme guess– black, right? It's black or red, it's gotta be, you totally have that Hot Topic vibe–"
His respect for Madeline had gone up severalfold upon seeing how easily, how effortlessly she put the brakes on the other hedgehog's babbling.
It's quiet now. No, not totally quiet– he can hear the sound of pots and pans clattering somewhere below him. A television program, though the audio is crisper than he recalls even through the floor. Birdsong through the window. The room smells like laundry soap and a hint of dust.
Shadow stares at his broken leg and tries not to think about insects pinned to boards.