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His bare fist hits the mirror, and the resulting crr-ACK, while less dramatic than what they show in the movies, is definitely loud enough to alert everyone in the apartment.
The replica staring back at him splits into a mosaic, pieces of him falling, clink, clink, into the sink and onto the floor tiles. Around the crater of his fist, some of the shards have embedded into his paw.
His first thought is: This is Rouge’s mirror. I should buy her a new one.
She’s let him off the hook in the past: most notably, when she coaxed him into staying at her place after he killed Black Doom.
She had turned on the TV.
Every channel was breaking news, with Shadow’s face plastered all over. Terrorist. Traitor. Murderer. Alien scum.
He had put his fist through the screen, and he doesn’t remember much after that. Dissociative amnesia is a beast he is still working to conquer to this very day, years later.
He never bought her a new TV. The one he’d broken had been a thick CRT, and as such, its destruction violent and electric despite the exhausted punch Shadow had hurled at it. The next week, a brand new, state-of-the-art LCD flatscreen was sitting pretty on the damaged console. Shadow felt bad that he had never paid for it, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t paid for it, either.
The same would not be said of this mirror. Less valuable, maybe. But he’d be damned if he was going to let another mistake go unfixed.
It’s no surprise that Rouge is the one who comes to his aid—Omega is rather blasé about destruction of property, especially when done as a personal act of rage (and the talons that are his fingers are hardly delicate enough to pick glass shards out of a paw). Rouge stands in the doorway, her sleepwear rumpled and hair unbrushed, looking incredibly disappointed that her beauty sleep was cut off early by the mentally ill experiment she allows to room with her.
Shadow finally lowers his fist. A few more pieces of the mirror clink, clink as they fall.
His blood, as green as his biological predecessor’s, drips delicately into the sink.
It makes him feel sick.
Rouge knows as well as he does that they have to remove the shards quickly—if they don’t, his flesh will start knitting itself around them, embedding the glass and making for a much harder removal. In tune, she quickly and silently gets the first aid kit from the hall closet, sits him at the dining table, and gets to work with a pair of tweezers.
Shadow is not squeamish. Shadow has been torn apart and rebuilt by hands both caring and uncaring, made to endure experimentation both humane and cruel. A bit of glass in his paw might as well be a stubbed toe.
His blood seems extra green today.
His stomach churns.
Omega—who had been gaming all night, if Shadow had to guess—tells him to breathe. Shadow can’t feel his body, so he isn’t sure how to follow the request.
Omega stares. Scanning him, if Shadow had to guess.
He feels…judged?
Rouge and Omega are, of course, not ones to judge him. His personal hells have become theirs time and time again, and they love him no less for it. They tease and mock, sure, as is their language of love—but judgement is off the table.
Scrutinize, maybe. They’re scrutinizing him.
Wondering why he was so disgusted by his own reflection that he attempted to attack it. Wondering if he needs another intervention. Wondering if they should call his therapist. Wondering if they should hide the knives.
They won’t get any answers, because Shadow can’t come to the phone right now. And as soon as Rouge has bandaged up his now glass-free paw, Shadow slips on his gloves, then his skates, and leaves.
Shadow’s… thing with Sonic is an open secret.
Shadow would prefer it was still entirely secret; but when one is as close-knit to their friends as Sonic is, and when one lives with a professional spy as Shadow does, some things are simply inevitable.
This is probably why Rouge doesn’t try to stop him when he leaves, or follow him as he goes. She already knows where he’s going.
Sonic’s chaos signature shines bright like a star, so he’s easy to find, even in the heart of an unfamiliar town a few hundred miles away. Shadow finds himself standing on the sidewalk outside of a small bookstore. His anxiety is roaring fiercely, so he stays outside. A positive response to Sonic’s presence does not promise the same of Shadow’s, and he really can’t handle any heckling today. He doesn’t want to do anything he might regret.
(Like shredding his paw by breaking Rouge’s mirror, maybe).
Sonic will already be aware that Shadow’s here—when they first started seeing each other, Sonic wasn’t very good at sensing the chaos energy of individuals, but they’ve been working on developing his skills together. While it’s infuriating to try and teach the guy, it’s also satisfying to see results from their combined hard work.
Sonic exits the bookstore with his purchase in a brown paper bag, waving and smiling brightly at Shadow. “Heya! Looking for a race?” He quips.
Shadow frowns.
Embarrassingly, his ability to talk is still gone with the wind.
Sonic watches him, uncharacteristically patient, as he tries and fails to make a sound. After a moment, Sonic says: “Ah. Got it. Well, c’mon! There’s a nice little spot out by the farms where we can hang out and no one will bother us.”
Sonic sets off— walking —and Shadow follows.
“Have you ever been here?” Sonic asks. Shadow shakes his head. “It’s a really nice little town! Some tasty restaurants, a nice farmer’s market on the weekends, and the bookstore, of course. The owners always have great recommendations when I come in looking for something new to read. Today they coaxed me into Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I thought I knew how the story goes already, but I guess the books are a lot different from the movie.”
Shadow listens intently as they walk. Sonic talks about the bookstore, books he’s read, restaurants in town, his favorite foods…and in no time they’ve reached Sonic’s niche by the farms.
It’s at the edge of where a soybean field meets the woods. The air smells like dirt and pine. A quickly rolling creek stretches out in front of them, with a crudely constructed bridge, its railings partially rotted off, allowing access to the other side.
Sonic, predictably, does not step foot near the bridge. Instead, he settles himself on a low branch of a large oak tree, nestling comfortably among the leaves. He looks like the nature spirit many legends claim him to be.
Shadow sits at the base, running his fingers along the dirt and taking a moment to think. Rouge’s mirror is hundreds of miles away, but it feels like it’s right in front of his face, the cracked pieces mocking his mental state.
Everyone around him knows he’s mentally ill; it’s as easy to see as his stripes, coloring his persona with melancholy, self-hatred, rage, and lingering grief. He doesn’t know how anyone can stand it. How anyone can stand him.
Terrorist. Traitor. Murderer. Alien scum.
Shadow speaks for the first time that day, and what he says is murmured: “Have you forgiven me?”
“Man, what?” Sonic asks, sitting halfway up on his branch, looking down at Shadow incredulously. “For what? The stuff you did years ago? Do you think…Shadow, do you think I’m holding a grudge or something?”
Shadow lets out a low growl. “Answer, dumbass. Yes or no. Have you forgiven me?”
“Yes,” Sonic says immediately, confidently. There is nothing in his voice that Shadow could possibly interpret as insincere, but there’s some connection in his brain that is apparently fried—it just won’t get through.
“There are so many people who haven’t,” Shadow whispers, mostly to himself.
“Yeah? Like who? I’ll set ‘em straight,” Sonic asserts.
“The entire city of Westopolis, for starters,” Shadow says. “A long list of G.U.N. soldiers and their families, some that I have to deal with regularly. The families of scientists who worked on the ARK. A near endless list of others, most of whom I haven’t even met.”
Sonic frowns.
He slides off the branch and sits next to Shadow on the ground. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“Am I supposed to let it slide off my back like it’s nothing? I may as well be banned from Westopolis, and every time I’m in a G.U.N. facility there’s at least one person willing to insult me to my face. And they’re right. Everything they say is fucking true. ”
“Nah. I doubt it,” Sonic says casually. “Besides, who cares what a bunch of stinky soldiers think? And if Westopolis doesn’t want you, then to hell with ‘em! They don’t know what they’re missing.”
“You’re being an obtuse imbecile.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sonic says, slinging his arm around Shadow’s shoulders. Shadow tenses. “Sorry. Okay?”
“It’s…fine,” Shadow replies.
“Nah, I don’t believe you,” Sonic says. He removes his arm. Shadow gives him a baffled look, but leaves it be.
He relaxes.
“But I do want to keep talking about this,” Sonic continues. “Did something happen? Why’d you ask me if I forgave you?”
Shadow wraps his arms around his middle in a self-soothing hug. He looks down at the dirt.
How can he explain that when he looked in the mirror this morning, all he could see was a Black Arms soldier? The alien freak who nearly pulled a murder-suicide on the whole planet? The experiment that failed at everything it was created for?
No matter how much he heals, Shadow’s past will still follow him like a searchlight. His failures will be taught in history textbooks. Entire towns, generations later, will know his name—and speak it with hatred.
And he fucking deserves it.
No matter what happens, he will still be Shadow the Hedgehog. And Shadow the Hedgehog has done some horrible, unforgivable things.
“Hey,” Sonic says gently, leaning forward to try and capture Shadow’s gaze. Shadow avoids it as best as he can. “You with me?”
“I’m…”
Dissociating, his mind supplies.
“…I need to buy a mirror for Rouge,” is what he says instead.
Sonic blinks, bewildered. “What?”
“Is there anywhere I can buy a bathroom mirror in town?” Shadow asks, moving to stand. Motivation suddenly overtakes him, and something in his chest loosens. He is of free will, and he is going to use it to do good and make amends, no matter how small an action it might be. He’ll never be able to fully atone for what he’s done in the past; but all he can do is try his damndest anyway.
“Man, you’ve totally lost me,” Sonic says, standing up beside him. “A bathroom mirror?”
Shadow sighs. “I punched Rouge’s mirror this morning.” Carefully, he takes off his glove, holding out his paw to show Sonic the bandages. “It’s probably already healed.”
Sonic furrows his brow, a concerned expression tilting his features. He takes Shadow’s paw in both of his own, studying the bandages like they might grow words and tell him secrets.
“Why?” Sonic finally asks.
“Must you know everything?”
“Yep,” Sonic says, popping the ‘P’. “Just worried about you, that’s all.”
“You’re always worried about me,” Shadow grumbles. He pulls his paw back, slipping the glove back over the bandages.
“You’re always giving me reasons to worry about you!” Sonic laughs. He jerks his head in the general direction of the town, his quills bouncing with the movement. “C’mon. There’s a thrift store that might have what you’re looking for. I’ll show you where it is if you tell me why you punched the mirror.”
“Just couldn’t stand to look at myself,” Shadow shrugs, nonchalant as he can bring himself to be. “Do you think they’ll have anything in Rouge’s style?”
Sonic smiles, looking unsatisfied with his answer but seemingly willing to let it go. “Only one way to find out.”
The owner of the thrift store greets them pleasantly and doesn’t balk at Shadow’s existence.
They find the perfect mirror amongst the muck of stained clothes and creepy dolls: retro and plastic, with a wiggly, bright orchid frame. Shadow purchases it at the counter, and the woman behind it wraps it neatly in newspaper and puts it in a paper grocery bag for him to take home. He’ll be teleporting, he thinks. Running’s a bit risky with a mirror as cargo.
Before he can head home, Sonic drags him to a local restaurant and orders them both milkshakes.
They sit in the most secluded corner of the establishment, away from prying eyes and ears. Shadow has a feeling he’s about to be interrogated. Despite the friendly face in front of him and the cozy atmosphere of the building, it brings to mind G.U.N. bases and the depths of Prison Island.
If Sonic senses those frayed nerves set alight, he doesn’t point it out.
He slurps up a mouthful of his milkshake. “Sooo,” he begins, tilting his head curiously at Shadow. “Your reflection. I know you don’t hate it ‘cuz you’re ugly. You’re quite handsome, in fact.”
“I am plenty aware of how attractive I am,” Shadow says smugly. “It has nothing to do with that.”
“Humble, much?” Sonic smirks.
Shadow snorts. “Yeah, whatever.”
He takes a small sip of his own milkshake before taking off his glove again, finally starting to unwrap the bandages. Little green marks still marr his paw, but they’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.
Sonic watches him with curiosity brightening his emerald irises. Green looks much better on him.
“No,” Shadow continues, “it was more about…my DNA, and the things I’ve done.”
Sonic keeps watching him, expecting him to say more. The change in his expression is microscopic, but Shadow knows it’s leaning towards pity.
“The eyes that stare back at me from my reflection are the eyes of a Black Arms soldier. Of a terrorist. Of a murderer. There’s nothing I can do to rid myself of that. That’s who I am.”
Sonic reaches out and clasps both of his paws firmly. “Stop picking at them,” he scolds. Shadow hadn’t even realized, but he’d taken off his other glove and picked open one of the green marks with his claws.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, feeling hoarse. “Didn’t know I was doing it.”
“Besides all that stuff you listed—murderer, alien, whatever—do you know what else you are?” Sonic says with conviction, his eyes hardening, but remaining just as bright. “You do. I know you do. Tell me what else you are.”
“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Shadow jokes.
“I’m not punishing you,” Sonic says, hearing right through the joking tone and into the heart of the matter. He stops being obtuse and starts being introspective at just the right moments, and that’s something Shadow l…
…likes about him.
Sonic continues: “I know ya don’t want to. Will you humor me anyway?”
Shadow says nothing.
“How about this, what do you think I’d say you are?”
“A hero,” Shadow says immediately. He doesn’t believe it for a second. Save the world he might have, but a hero he is not. Heroes don’t cause the cataclysms in the first place.
“Anything else?”
Shadow looks down at their paws. Sonic’s, steady and resolute; his own, twitching with the urge to reopen his own wounds.
“C’mooon, I know you can think of more,” Sonic teases with a grin. At Shadow’s silence, he says: “Okay, I’ll list some more. You’re kindhearted. You love your friends. You’re true to your values. You love the earth. You’re an extremely powerful Chaos wielder. You’re intelligent. You feel your emotions deeply.”
“Those aren’t all entirely good things.”
“Didn’t say they were. But they’re things besides alien and murderer.”
Shadow rolls his eyes. Fine. Whatever. He’ll concede to that.
Sonic squeezes Shadow’s uninjured paw and leans forward, making eye contact with him. Overwhelming, close eye contact.
“Point is,” he says. “You’re a lot of things. And you’re so much more than what you saw in the mirror this morning. There’s more kinds of paint than just alien DNA that make up your picture. Do you understand me?”
Shadow grits his teeth. There’s a lump in his throat.
“I’ll get through to you someday,” Sonic smiles. “Can I kiss you?”
Shadow relaxes at that. Finally, something familiar. “Please.”
It’s nothing more than a sweet, milkshake-flavored press of lips. Shadow wouldn’t have it any other way. Simple and easy, nothing that could add to his overwhelm.
The sparks of Chaos between them are bright.
Shadow teleports home.
The mirror shards have been cleaned up already. Shadow hangs the new mirror before Rouge’s bat hearing can alert her to his presence.
He meets her in the hallway as she careens towards him, and he gestures to his little gift.
She looks at it.
The turquoise of her eyes gets brighter, her pupils dilating at the sight. He takes it to mean she likes it, because she doesn’t say anything, and then suddenly, he’s being squeezed in a hug.
“Oof—“ the air punches out of him. “Um, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t mention it, kid,” she says, pulling away and holding him by the shoulders. “This means more to me than you could ever know.”
It does, doesn’t it? Shadow thinks, almost able to feel the sting of electricity winding towards his heart from the CRT he punched years ago.
And as they go about the rest of their day, Shadow sees his reflection and thinks:
I am not one thing. I am a whole picture.