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Gerald calls her "it."
Project Shadow knows this as well as she knows her own name.
Gerald calls her "it," but it's okay, because Gerald cares. Why else would he pat Shadow's head when he walks by, and smile proudly when experiments go well?
The other scientists vary: "she" or "it" or both. Some avoid addressing her at all, as though her very existence bothers them.
Maybe it does. She's often wondered.
(They don't look at her as they stab her with needles or mumble meaningless numbers to each other during her tests. They wince when Maria strolls in and greets her by name.)
And, bitterly, vindictively, Shadow glares at them and swipes with claws when they get too close. It earns her electricity and insults and broken bones, in the name of progress, of course. Shadow persists through it all, a weapon made of fangs and untamed rage, and snarls wordless taunts right back at them.
(Progress feels a lot like meaningless pain.)
She will do the tests, for Maria. For the world, if those aren't the same thing. But kindness sits high upon the shelf alongside trust: easily shattered and difficult to mend.
Maria switches between "she" and "he" at a rate that makes Shadow's head spin. And it's Maria, so Shadow accepts this easily.
One day, Maria calls her "little brother," and she grins so hard she starts to purr. This is one of her earliest memories.
Siblings. This makes them siblings.
Gerald glances at them from across the lab, and says, "Shadow's not your brother. It's going to save the world. And if anything, it'd be your sister."
Maria frowns, but quickly wrestles her expression back into a smile.
As soon as Gerald's back is turned, she leans down to Shadow, ruffles her quills the way that makes Shadow feel like a child, and not a pet. Between her ears, not too close to her eyes. Like she’s a human with hair instead of quills, like she's got a soul instead of a mission. Maria withdraws her hand, and whispers, "Brother."
Maria's smirk is mischievous at best, conspiratorial at worst. This is the beginning of her calling Shadow brother and sister and sibling as often as she can, a form of rebellion that's all their own.
"Brother," Shadow repeats- it’s an echo as much as it is pure sentiment. She resumes purring.
----
Earth is strange.
Between all the danger and exhaustion and the missing chunk of her heart where her sister should be, Shadow recognizes that things are very strange.
First of all, no one calls her a "she."
Not Rouge, not that hedgehog, not law enforcement, not even the doctor who bears an uncanny resemblance to Gerald.
(Doctor Eggman acts nothing like Gerald, however, so Shadow doesn't mind him. He's brash and obnoxious and slightly entitled, but nothing about him screams scientist the way Shadow's used to.
He is not cold, or detached. Shadow would stick with him anyway- she needs someone to activate the cannon- but it's… surprisingly nice. The doctor offers Shadow coffee and rants about their evil plan™ and seems to delight in his work rather than devolve into it.
It makes her memories of Gerald sting a little less.)
Here, everyone calls Shadow "they."
And, for some reason, Shadow doesn't mind.
Perhaps it's because they've all automatically assumed that Shadow is a person, instead of her having to fight for it with every breath (and fail more often than not).
Perhaps it's because "she" was an improvement upon "it," but neither of them were ever anything but ill-fitting shackles.
Alone, in the safety of the abandoned ARK, Shadow tries it out:
They are Maria's brother, and they are going to avenge her and die trying.
…not bad.
----
Shadow dies, and wakes up.
They don't remember much, but Rouge seems unlikely to hurt them.
Why is pain their first thought? Why does that seem more natural than the kindness Rouge offers at every turn? Why do they only feel okay when their world is ripping at the seams?
Rouge is not trustworthy, that's for damn sure. At least, not in the traditional sense. On their first day awake, she asks them if they want to rob a museum with her.
Shadow searches her face for signs of a joke. They find none.
"Not particularly," Shadow says, finally, waiting for the inevitable anger.
But Rouge only laughs, wings twitching under her sweater. She tossed one at them, too, as the two of them were walking out of her apartment.
(She also shoved a gun in her purse, along with as many ration bars as she could fit. Shadow decided to do the smart thing, and not ask.)
They didn't comment then, didn't thank her, but they are grateful. It's cold as they walk down the street, and the fabric acts as a shield from the people around them, in addition to providing warmth.
Shadow buries their nose in the collar to avoid the chill. It smells of tea, coffee, and stone. Like Rouge does.
She smells familiar, almost safe, which they think might be strange. They just met, after all.
"Fine, if you hate having fun," Rouge says, still sounding amused. "Let's grab food before we meet back up with Omega."
Shadow doesn't quite reply, just hums. They aren't sure what to say. They don't have money, for one, which they are mildly confident most societies require. For two, they're oddly certain that Rouge will pay for them, which only serves to make them feel more uncomfortable.
Rouge grabs their wrist- their wrist, not the inhibitor, why does that feel important and overwhelming all at once- and drags them down the street.
"What is this place," Shadow asks, once she's released them.
They're in a tiny building. The air is thick with the stench of coffee and pepper.
"A sandwich shop," Rouge responds, eyeing them. "Ever been in one?"
"No," Shadow says. They don't know if it's true.
"Hm. Well, now you have. I'll order for you. Do you like chocolate?"
Shadow shrugs. They're just glad to not have to speak to a stranger. Rouge doesn't count, for whatever reason.
"Right," Rouge mutters. "You don't remember."
Rouge orders two drinks and more food than they probably need. She pauses as if considering something, and Shadow distinctly hears her mumble to herself about robot food consumption.
The uniformed chipmunk taking the order blinks at them. "And are you paying for her, too?"
Rouge's wings twitch again. She glances at Shadow, and there's a strain to her voice when she replies, "Yes, I'm paying for them."
She puts an odd emphasis on the last word.
The chipmunk raises a brow, suddenly looking a little more hostile than before. She looks Shadow up and down, then refocuses on Rouge. "Uh-huh. If you say so. Your total is twenty ninety-five."
Rouge pays, snatches their food, and all but shoves Shadow outside.
On their way out, Shadow hears the chipmunk mutter, "fuckin' freaks."
Shadow initially pretends not to notice, for Rouge's sake, but then they see Rouge's ears twitch. She obviously caught the insult as well.
Rouge turns, as if considering walking back through the door, but then her gaze catches on Shadow and she keeps walking instead.
"What was that?" Shadow asks, too confused to keep quiet. They feel strange, like the chipmunk saw something he didn't. Like there's a version of themself they'd never seen before and it's suddenly been thrown into the spotlight.
They didn't like it. They're sure of that much, at least.
"Nothing, just-" Rouge huffs, digging into the bag and chomping angrily into her sandwich. "Just a dickhead. You okay?"
"Yes," Shadow says, uncertain, and then asks, "why did she look at me like that?"
Rouge shifts uncomfortably, not meeting their eyes. "Well. Some people think you have to look a certain way."
"Like formal wear?" Shadow inquires. That's upsetting; they like the sweater they have on. It's soft, and several differing shades of purple. Rouge even said they could keep it.
They're not going to change clothes, of course. But that doesn't mean they enjoy being glared at.
"No."
Shadow continues to stare at her, and she sighs, but doesn't elaborate.
"Can I ask you something?" Rouge says, out of the blue.
Shadow nods. She's earned that much.
"Do you want to be addressed with 'they' pronouns? You never corrected the doctor, so I just assumed..." Rouge trails off, shooting them a sideways glance. Shadow doesn't know what doctor she's referring to, doesn't really want to.
The sidewalk below their feet is frosted over. Shadow keeps their eyes on that, cataloging how many plants have grown and died in the cracks. "I don't care what you call me," they say.
"Would you prefer I call you 'she,' instead?" Rouge presses.
Shadow winces, something hard lodging itself in their throat. Broken, brittle glass, painful to acknowledge and worse to speak around.
It is just a word, a suggestion, but it hurts like hands and needles and screaming alone in a cage until their voice went raw and they were too tired to claw the poison out.
Poison… watching them from the reinforced window, faceless monsters recording notes on their clipboards while Shadow screamed--
--the memory is already gone.
"No," Shadow manages, although their voice threatens to abandon them. "Neutral terms are better."
"Okay," Rouge says. Like it's easy.
Maybe it is.
"Wait." Shadow blurts out, stilted.
Rouge waits.
"Could- could you try masculine terms for me? Just once."
"Sure, honey." Rouge says immediately. She slings an arm around Shadow's shoulders and pulls him to face their reflections in a nearby storefront. The bat theatrically clears her throat, then announces to their mirror images: "My friend here? His name is Shadow, and he's really bad at walking in a straight line. In fact, you might even say he-"
"That's enough," Shadow cuts in, trying to sound irritated even though their (his?) heart is thrumming with joy. "Thank you."
It feels good. He didn't know words could feel good. It feels like Rouge took an old broken bone, one that was neglected, never set properly- and nudged it back into place.
"Better or worse?" Rouge asks.
"Better," Shadow whispers, starting to smile. He can see himself in the window. "Much better."
----
Later, they run into Team Sonic and Team Rose.
Shadow isn't sure how to act around a group of people who apparently know him but who he can't remember. So, instead, he ends up nodding along as the little bunny girl talks to him about her missing chao, letting the others sort things out amongst themselves.
The fox- Tails?- had offered to fix a frayed wire in Omega's hand, meaning they're all stuck together for the time being.
Rouge is standing off to the side with Knuckles, Amy, and Sonic, the latter currently whisper-yelling at a mile a minute, his arms crossed tightly around himself. Rouge murmurs something and Sonic pauses, sighing heavily and then pressing his palms against his eyes.
"I'm just- I thought they died," Sonic says, voice now loud enough to carry. Barely, but enough.
"Actually, Shadow goes by 'he' now," Rouge replies.
Shadow braces himself, his hackles raising. It's time for a fight, time to be told he's wrong. But this time they're all about the same age as Shadow, no one has seniority or whatever-the-hell, so it'll be-
"Oh, sorry," Sonic says, then instantly turns to Shadow and yells, "Sorry, dude! I messed up your pronouns a couple times today, I won't let it happen again!"
And then conversation just. Resumes. No one really even bats an eye.
Not even Cream, who continues rambling about her chao's "lovely chocolate-y coat" in such a tone that Shadow isn't sure if she's still talking about her missing pet or if she's switched topics to some sort of themed dessert.
"Hey, Cream?" Shadow starts. This has to be a trick. He needs to know what their game is, what is the point of them pretending to-
The bunny pauses mid-sentence, bouncing on her heels. "Yes, Mr. Shadow?"
And doesn't that feel far more healing than it should. That a complete stranger would look at him and only see him.
(If a literal child can do it, is it really so far-fetched that the others might, as well?)
"Um," Shadow says, overwhelmed. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. What does your lost chao look like? I'll keep a look out for him."
Cream's answering grin is more than worth it. She launches into a spiel that holds more personal anecdotes than useful descriptions, but Shadow listens patiently, nodding along and saying 'wow, that's awesome' at the right moments.
He wonders how long it's been since anyone treated her as her age.
(Later, much later, he will wonder how Gerald ever looked at him, a little kid no older than Cream, with words too big for his mouth and an unshattered heart displayed proudly on his sleeve, and saw a weapon.)
----
"Hey, bud, how you doing?"
"Don't call me bud," Shadow replies immediately. His legs are dangling off the edge of the Egg Carrier, arms looped through the railing. The wind pulls at his fur.
Sonic sits down next to him, copying Shadow's position. "Okay," he says, then drops his head onto Shadow's shoulder. "How are you, Shadow, light of my life, stars to my sky-"
Shadow shoves his hand into Sonic's face to prevent any further words. "Shut up," he mumbles, cheeks burning.
Sonic smiles against his palm. Slightly muffled, he asks, "For real- are you okay?"
"I'm…"
Sonic uses both hands to gently remove Shadow's hand from his muzzle, then doesn't let go. Suddenly it feels very difficult to swallow. Like a panic attack, but comforting.
"I didn't like it when he copied me, either." Sonic's voice is soft, the wind threatening to whisk it away. "Eggy's not the type of guy to use that information against me, but- I don't like people… knowing."
"Knowing what?" Shadow asks, although he thinks he can guess the answer.
Sonic shrugs, glances away. He removes his head from Shadow's shoulder and slumps against the railing instead, forehead pressed into the bars. "That I'm… y'know."
There are two scars across Sonic's chest. Shadow's always thought they were beautiful.
(He's often considered asking Sonic who did his surgery. But he also knows it wouldn't matter. Shadow can't wear a binder, can't be around doctors, doesn't even know if anesthetic works on him. For all he knows, his accelerated healing might make any type of surgery impossible.
It's a lot of can't. Shadow's learning to live with it.)
(Plus, hey. It gives him a good excuse to steal other people's hoodies. Specifically Sonic's.)
Sonic blows a puff of air frustratedly, stirring the few quills that have fallen in front of his face. "And I shouldn't be upset, there's nothing wrong with who I am, I just-" he takes one hand away from Shadow's to gesture angrily at the open air. As expected, the air does not react. Sonic sighs, the fight seeming to leave him. "It's just different when it's not on my terms. You get me?"
...huh.
Who would Shadow be, without the need to rebel? What would he want, if they had not hurt him so badly?
Shadow was never a girl, not for one second, but- would he have rejected the classification so vehemently if no one had spat her like an insult, if no one had looked at him and forced him to be another?
He wonders if Sonic got a gentler transition, if the hedgehog said his goodbyes to femininity and they parted ways as old friends.
Somehow, Shadow really doubts it.
"Yeah," Shadow whispers. "I think so."
Sonic flicks an ear in acknowledgement.
Slowly, Shadow leans forward to copy his position, forehead smushed against the safety railing to gaze across the cloud layer. It's a long way down.
"Your evil twin is an asshole," Shadow says after a silent, timeless moment. Stasis is overrated. Change, however- that's starting to grow on him.
Sonic grins, just a brief flash of fangs. He's kinda cute.
Or, uh, his smile is, anyway. Yeah. That's all.
(...it'd be nice to see it more.)
"Chaos, don't I know it," Sonic groans, running a hand through his quills. "Probably a more accurate impersonator than I wanna admit."
Sonic's quills were already tussled from the wind; they're downright wild now. Shadow's fingers itch to smooth them out.
Shadow stays still, claws dug into his palm like a cliff's edge.
Boys don't love boys.
(So, what does that make him?)
"I mean, you're-" Shadow starts, then deliberately pauses.
Sonic's face scrunches up in a pout. Shadow can't help but chuckle.
"Oh, screw you," Sonic says, but he's playful mad, not real mad. Shadow likes that he can tell the difference.
"I didn't say it was a bad thing."
"Course not, because then you'd be insulting yourself. You were the original copycat."
"Wanna bet?" Shadow retorts, which doesn't make sense, but that's alright: Sonic laughs anyway. And then Shadow shoves him because ew cute why is he cute-
Soon enough, they're fighting again, pulling punches and adrenaline burning bright enough to rival Sonic's smile.
----
Black Doom is a setback. One that Shadow will forget on good days, and use to punish himself on worse ones.
He learns (remembers?) that he has not one, but two fathers, and both see him as an object to be twisted into perfection.
Shadow lets Black Doom in a little closer than he should, yearning for connections and a place to belong.
"Ah, my daughter," Black Doom rumbles, the first time they're in the same room together and neither of them are visions of a hivemind.
"I'm a guy," Shadow snaps, too exhausted to be wary. He's been so tired lately. Why is he here, why is he… it doesn't matter. (Does it?) "I'm your-"
The word sits on the tip of his tongue, but he can't force it past his teeth.
This man is not his father. Gerald was his father.
Gerald, despite everything, was the man who tucked him and Maria into bed every night, the man whose eyes lit up as he explained how the ARK's orbit never collided with the moon, the man who loved them.
Gerald may have manipulated him and used him as means to an end: as a weapon, a savior, a daughter. But he was still Shadow's father.
(Is family what you make of it? Or were they always destined to fracture? Does love matter, if you're willing to hurt those you claim to care for?)
Black Doom hums. "Ah, I should have expected as much. Apologies, my son."
What.
Black Doom nods at whatever expression is on Shadow's face, then begins to explain. It doesn't feel at all like he's anticipating Shadow's needs; rather, he enjoys hearing himself talk. "The customs of this planet are… strange. When I first visited, I also realized I felt better suited to their category of male than the female one they assigned to me."
Shadow can't help it. Not even the incessant wriggling of fear down his spine can stop him from blurting out: "You're like me?"
"You're like me," Black Doom corrects.
It sounds casual on a surface level, but Shadow can feel the underlying displeasure through the hivemind. He instinctively flinches, hand jerking towards his gun.
He remembers where he is two seconds before disaster, stops himself with his finger on the trigger.
Luckily, Black Doom isn't facing him, instead turned towards the planet below. "Our race does not possess the concept of gender that humans and mobians do, nor the physical characteristics. You and I are the exceptions."
'The exceptions to which part?' Shadow wonders, too sick to ask. The thoughts in his head don't feel like his own. His hands hurt-hurt-hurt from chaos overuse and fear-clenched fists.
Black Doom's next comment unintentionally answers this question. Because, as per usual, Shadow is irreplaceable in the worst ways possible. "My purpose in the hive shall one day become yours. Becoming queen is your birthright, as well as your duty."
He is the savior and the weapon and the defect and he doesn't want this he needs to get out get out get out-
Black Doom must sense his discomfort; Shadow's no longer doing anything to hide his thoughts, and yet Black Doom continues speaking, almost vindictive, as if Shadow's reaction is simply a spurt of good-old-fashioned teenage rebellion that needs to be squashed underfoot. "You are the future of our bloodline. You are the future of the Black Arms. Do not fail me."
S-
N-
A-
P-
Shadow wakes up in a field of wild grass.
Far ahead of him looms a factory, and he knows without knowing that it is intended to be his next destination.
This thought is not his, embedded in his consciousness like a rusty pipe through his thigh. It aches, the misplacement of it causing bile to rise in his throat.
Have any of his thoughts been his own? Are any of his memories real? Is he-
Shadow sits up, pushes his quills out of his face, and vomits.
----
After everyone Shadow might tentatively call a friend almost dies, and he kills his only remaining father, he shuts down.
Shadow would love to believe that it's due to an innate sense of morality. But, no. All he feels about Black Doom being dead is a deep, deep relief. Shadow half-wants to run back and check for a pulse, just to be certain.
No, not morality. His body simply can't comprehend the absence of danger.
(His psyche isn't doing so hot, either.)
Shadow curls into Omega's arms and breathes past the residual panic until he can't anymore, and then lets the robot carry him home while his vision fades in and out from oxygen deprivation.
Home, apparently, is with Omega and Rouge.
Shadow keeps trying to reach out to the two of them through the hivemind, say thank you, say anything, only to realize that a.) they are not connected to it, and b.) the entire hivemind is dead.
Hilarious. Really, he can't stop laughing.
His whole family is dead, both of them, and now Shadow can't communicate with the third one because he's fucking broken, broken like glass, broken like his dead father's beaten corpse.
(Someone's gonna have to bury that thing.)
Omega rapid-fire beeps in concern and Rouge actually shakes him, but Shadow continues to laugh like a madman until his mind finally grants mercy and he passes out.
Three days later, Shadow manages to break out of the haze.
He drags himself out of bed and to the kitchen, an act he's strangely proud of, even though all he does is collapse onto the kitchen counter, snout buried in folded arms.
Rouge follows him out and makes a midnight meal that could charitably be called dinner, softly recounting old stories to keep him awake.
The meal is some weird dish with noodles. Shadow doesn't really like noodles, but she's trying so he forces himself to eat some anyway.
She places a hand on his shoulder when he stands to leave.
"Hey," Rouge says, then stops. "Sweetheart, I," she swallows. "You know we love you, right?"
Shadow tilts his head. His eyes are starting to water and he doesn't know why. He doesn't understand-
"And… you always have a place here. I promise."
Stiffly, Shadow nods.
"No matter what," Rouge stresses, her grip tightening. "Okay? Even if you kill someone, or, or- I don't know, steal the Hope Diamond? Whatever. There's nothing you would willingly do that would convince me to bail, understand?"
Shadow nods again. He can't respond. He can't-
He's burying his face in Rouge's shoulder before he can blink. Rouge's arms instantly wrap around his back to pull him closer.
Shadow hugs her tighter. She didn't push him away.
"Honey? Are you okay? You're shaking."
He nods into her shoulder.
Rouge doesn't leave him alone for the rest of the night. Shadow's alright with that.
----
Three weeks later, Shadow regains his voice.
He opens his mouth and asks, "could you move your arm?"
Rouge jumps, immediately doing so before she's fully processed the request. Her arm wasn't hurting him, precisely, but Shadow can only cope so long with an elbow digging into his ribcage.
"Sure, honey," Rouge says, relieved enough to express genuine emotion. "Voice working again?"
Shadow nods, realizes that might be concerning, and rasps, "yes."
He's never noticed before- how estranged his voice is from hers. His voice sounds like he choked on gravel and then smoked a pack of cigarettes to fix the damage. It sounds like a Black Arms soldier, if he's being honest. Perhaps his vocal chords were never meant for regular mobian speech. But Shadow likes his voice, and Black Doom will not ruin that for him.
He may owe his voice (and his life) to an alien heritage, but Shadow will take any gifts his father gave him and use them for love and goodness and morality, just to spite the bastard in death.
So. Hah. How's that for teenage rebellion?
Shadow curls into Rouge's side, breathing deep to combat his thoughts. His ribs ache.
Rouge lays a hand across his back, tracing his spine with her thumb. If she were anyone else, Shadow would jerk away, fearing attack. But this is Rouge, so he doesn't bother.
He buries his face in the blanket and focuses on the small things. The smell of worn fabric and Rouge's tea, the brush of his shorts against his fur, the quiet murmuring from the people far off to their right.
Shadow's never sat outside like this before. Just... existing.
He thinks there might be some event tonight- perhaps a meteor shower? They'd get a better view if they joined the rest of the crowd on the beach; there are too many trees here. Unfortunately, neither of them are okay enough around strangers to make that a viable option.
For once, Shadow's glad not to be the only crazy one.
"You okay, sweetheart?" Rouge asks, gently, like it is fine that he hadn't spoken in weeks, like it is fine that there is metaphorical blood soaking his hands.
"Thanks," Shadow mumbles, purposefully ignoring the question. Rouge doesn't push it.
"I used to fly during major holidays," Rouge offers suddenly.
"...okay?"
"Any day where people set off fireworks," Rouge says. She draws in a harsh breath, focuses on the sky as an excuse to not meet his eyes. It's getting easier to read her- Shadow suspects it's because she lets him. "I guess I wanted to see if I could survive."
Quietly, she adds, "I guess I was kinda hoping that I wouldn't." Then Rouge clears her throat and laughs, artificially bright. "Isn't that fucked up?"
"I have to sleep with a knife under my pillow or I can't relax," Shadow says. "I wouldn't worry. You're not any more fucked up than the rest of us."
Is that what they are? Just a bunch of fucked-up people, giving each other everything they've got because they can't bear to lose anyone else?
Rouge snickers, far more genuine than before. "That's a really low standard. How offensive."
"I'm not a miracle worker."
----
Healing is slow.
The world still doesn't feel- quite right. His thoughts are fully his own, but they feel fuzzy. Disconnected. Too quiet.
(Too empty.)
Omega shows him how to weave. Shadow throws himself into the hobby like a lifeline.
Before long, their apartment is covered in squares and lop-sided rectangles, skeins of yarn piled high on every available table.
It's not a problem if Rouge and Omega never chastise him for it. Which they haven't. Rouge even mentioned that it felt "home-y."
Shadow is sitting cross-legged on the ottoman, trying to jab the crochet hook through a particularly stubborn knot, when Omega sits down beside him.
"Hi," Shadow mutters, not looking up.
"Hello, organic," Omega says, voice booming against the quiet.
Shadow holds up his latest square. He's not sure what he's been doing to create it. It might be called a bean stitch. "Does this look right?"
"It is satisfactory."
A beat.
"The marks on your legs," Omega says. He doesn't hesitate, robots don't hesitate- but there is a definite whirr before he continues: "they are new."
Shadow doesn't respond. He fidgets with his left inhibitor, wishing he had a sweater to pull down over his legs and disappear into. Unfortunately, he left today's hoodie in the kitchen.
"How may I assist you?"
"It's fine," Shadow growls, because apparently Omega's not taking silence for an answer. "I overreacted."
Omega reaches across Shadow's lap to grab the yarn skein he's currently working from, untangling a knot before it can develop. "What event was being reacted to?"
"I didn't feel real. I didn't feel… like myself."
"Would company have improved the situation?"
Shadow considers this for a second. "No," he admits. "I wanted to do it."
An instinctual, thoughtless way to exact control. To pretend anything about his body is his choice, even if it's scars.
(Even though the pain numbs his emotions just as effectively as Gerald did, even though the urge to hurt himself shrouds his mind and screams just as the hivemind used to.
Shadow's never had a choice.)
Omega nods, then grabs a different skein of bright blue yarn. He casts the yarn onto his right-hand index claw and begins to knit. Shadow has no idea how he doesn't accidentally sever the strands.
"I do not experience a disconnect between mind and body in the same way as you," Omega says, slowly, as if choosing his words in the moment. He's probably scripted this conversation to hell and back, but Shadow appreciates the gesture. "However, I have recognized that my body is not entirely my own. I was created by another, to be a weapon of destruction."
Shadow snorts. "Can't imagine."
"Yes," Omega agrees, ignoring the sarcasm. "It required an adjustment."
Shadow hums. Omega finishes his knit row and begins to purl the next.
They sit in silence. After half an hour, Shadow turns on a children's movie that Amy recommended him.
The protagonists kill the bad guy at the end. None of them lament about the loss of life.
(None of them had a familial connection to the villain, either.)
Omega hands him the finished project after the movie finishes: a sweater, its blue yarn already fraying from Omega's claws, its sleeves embroidered with flowers.
Shadow takes it unthinkingly. His claws don't catch on the fabric. It's too soft for that.
"This garment would not be considered appropriate attire for war," Omega says, incredibly unprompted. Shadow just stares at him. "It is fortunate that I am not gifting it to a weapon."
Oh.
Shadow swallows. Rather rude of Omega to hit the nail on the head like this. "Well," Shadow says, voice catching and threatening to disobey him. He breathes in and tries again. "I'm glad it wasn't made by a weapon, either."
Omega whirrs happily, his eyes flashing green-then-pink. He lifts his arm, claws hovering above Shadow's shoulder, then notices Shadow's startled expression and pulls back.
(He wants Shadow to have a choice.)
Shadow leans into the robot's side, head uncomfortably cushioned by the metal. He tucks the sweater under his chin and leans most of his weight on that, instead. "Thank you," Shadow says softly, watching the credits scroll rather than facing Omega's reaction.
"I will always attempt to provide you aid," Omega replies. He starts another movie and nitpicks Shadow's stitches when he picks the yarn up again.
It's okay. He's okay.
He's going to be okay.
----
"Why did you tell me the truth?" Shadow asks, weeks later. He does not ask why did you lie. He does not ask why did you help me.
(Those questions won't receive honest answers.)
Eggman glances up from his blueprints. The pencil in his hand has been slowly narrowing down to a stub as he scribbles away at a new design. "About what? Be specific when you speak, Shadow."
Shadow snorts. He's so much like Gerald it hurts, sometimes. "When I was fighting Black Doom. Why did you admit that you lied?"
"People do crazy things when they're about to lose everything, as you should very well know."
That one stings a little more than it should. They've both seen the way Sonic acts when Shadow is in danger. It's part of the reason why Eggman rarely attacks Shadow directly.
(The other part is, well... they're the only two Robotniks left.
They've both lost too much family already.)
"...thanks." Shadow says eventually.
"Don't thank me," Eggman replies. His voice holds all its usual frost, but something about it seems faintly bitter. "I'm the one who lied to you in the first place."
Shadow blinks at him.
"Lesson number forty-six," Eggman announces, waggling his pencil a few inches above Shadow's nose. Shadow doesn't have the heart to remind him that the beginning twenty-or-so lessons were lost due to his amnesia. "Don't forgive unless you want to. Learn from the incident. Move on. But don't forgive. And definitely don't forget."
----
"Hi," Shadow says, staring down at the dying grass. Within it, a flat stone, dark grey and perfectly rectangular.
It's not engraved. Shadow wasn't sure what to write. Besides, it's not like there's a body buried beneath it. GUN couldn't even give him that much.
He's been thinking about asking Eggman for ideas about the epitaph, though. It feels wrong to leave it empty.
"You hurt me." Shadow says. The quiet feels overwhelming. There aren't any birds to fill it; it's nearing the end of fall. The only sound is the crackle of dead leaves when a breeze bothers to stir.
I think you broke me, Shadow doesn't say, although he considers it. Did you mean to do that? Was I just collateral damage to you?
He buries his hands in his hoodie pockets. It's Sonic's. There's a hair-tie in the pocket.
"I miss you," Shadow adds, ache in his chest intensifying. "I probably shouldn't."
No one responds, obviously.
Shadow twists the hair-tie around his fingers, staring into middle space. Sonic and Rouge are waiting for him at the graveyard gates. He can't remember what the plan was after that, but he knows they're meeting up with the rest of their friends.
"I have more people in my life now. People who don't… who would never hurt me. For any reason. They love me. Did you love me, Gerald? Is- is that why you messed with my head, a-and, and manipulated me-"
The whisper of leaves against the ground stings more than any silence.
"Anyway. You weren't perfect. But you were my dad. Thanks for that." Shadow whispers. It hurts to swallow. "...this sucks. You suck. See you later."
With that, Shadow turns and walks away.
As promised, Sonic and Rouge ambush him at the gates. Rouge forces her pumpkin spice chai into his hands when she notices him shivering, whereas Sonic forgoes all notions of propriety and latches onto Shadow like a living backpack.
It's cheesy and embarrassing. Rouge blatantly steals a photo of them. Shadow is surprised to find he doesn't care.
"How was it?" Sonic asks, draped over his shoulder. His breath is warm against Shadow's ear, but not as warm as the twinkle in his eyes. He's wearing that ridiculous red scarf, a custom-made black pin of Shadow's insignia holding it in place.
(Sonic claims it's a joke, but Shadow suspects he might be doing it just to make him blush.)
Shadow shrugs. "Terrible. But good. I don't know."
"Family's complicated," Rouge says. The breeze is tugging at her hair, her ears, bits of dead leaves sticking to her coat. One of Omega's knitted beanies is blocking the worst of the chill, holes perfectly sized for her ears to poke through. She looks comfy. "Ready to go?"
"Yeah," Shadow says absently. He's not sure he agrees, though- family's not complicated. Not really. Not when it matters.
Not when they love you back.
Shadow pushes Sonic off and holds his hand as a compromise when the hedgehog pouts at him. Then Shadow smiles at Rouge, heart lighter than it's been in months. "Let's get out of here."