#tiosaf

He shuffles to the bathroom with a sweat-soaked towel draped over his shoulders. The overhead light is too bright (and always too blue) during this hour of the evening for his sensitive eyes, so he quickly switches it off and presses the buttons of a small remote. A string of LED bulbs, “fairy lights” as his friend Sonic the Hedgehog calls them, illuminate the ceiling with a dim golden pulse. He strategically rubs ungloved finger pads in wide semi-circles on his forehead and over his eyes to release some tension, gently setting down the coffee mug beside a cup holding red and blue toothbrushes. Carefully trimmed claws wipe sweat away from the corners of a third eye, its eyelids closed and somewhat camouflaged in the middle of his forehead. He blurrily paws at the shower knobs to set the water to a brisk massage. 

After retrieving hygiene products from his half of the medicine cabinet, the tired hedgehog opens his primary eyes in front of its attached mirror. The faintly yellow sclera has a noticeably gentler appearance underneath the less harsh lighting. For a long moment, he studies the swathes of blood orange in his irises and the surrounding gold flecks that lure his gaze into the depths of his pupils, blinking only once. His third eye twitches concurrently while remaining closed, the movement caught by the other two and keeping their attention.

He knows very well what this unfavored body part looks like. It took shape during what could be loosely called the artificial lifeform’s childhood aboard the ARK; the memories of that closely monitored period of development are foggy at times. It’s forever stuck to him and similar to his other two in appearance. Yet he still makes a point to open it, albeit lazily, trying to act like this recurring curiosity and its object are not a big deal. Independently, the eye moves. 

For a rare moment he doesn’t feel the urge to look away. Instead of its usual unpleasant jaundice, the sclera shines like ethereal ivory directly under the fairy lights. Swirling shapes seem to glow like embers in the iris that Shadow never took time to admire before. The pupil itself looks warmer now like flashes of the night sky during firework shows instead of a cold black hole. But the glimmer of this new perspective is quickly forgotten as a familiar wave of sickly static starts to prickle underneath burning skin and sweating black fur.

The likeness of Shadow’s deceased sperm donor, Black Doom, enters his mind in a cloudy image. Flowing robes the color of dried human blood and celestial jewelry sharp like scythes hang from his looming legless frame. Hovering with the warlord is the fleshy six-armed organism of his third eye, wiggling with dutiful anticipation to be his dark and watchful fragment. 

Shadow slips into ruminating about the aliens’ wrinkled skin in shades of deep ash and plum. Black Doom’s red-tipped head horns reminiscent of a desperate bull stained with the gore of a matador. Doom’s Eye with its markings like bright ruby tears spilling outward from the wet and hellish eyeball. Shadow’s attention moves to the purple-ish membrane of his own eyelids. The reptilian texture feels exposed and unwashed in more ways than just the post-workout saltiness. Measured breaths in his chest hitch as if the target of a heart-drawn dagger while he surveys the red arrows encircling his third eye and the painterly edges of his body’s many red stripes. Dissonant buzzing crawls deeper into his skin and causes his breathing to become shallower. The outlines and markings are almost indistinguishable from the memory of those he tries so hard to leave behind, buried in rubble to rot.

He turns the sink faucet, splashing cold water onto his face, and roughly scrubs the remnants of kickboxing sweat and dysmorphia off his skin in the shower. After he’s done, he snatches up a plain white bandana hanging on a wall hook. When folded neatly and tied snugly around his forehead, the bandana conceals his third eye and dissipates some of the remaining discomfort. One last check in the mirror confirms that the layers of metallic silver nail polish coloring the tiny horns on his head aren't chipping yet, prompting a huff of approval. He struggles to attach snug silver hoops to the symmetrical sets of horns on his head, making sure the connecting chains drape between them in just the right way that he likes. He does like the way the jewelry accentuates the crescent shapes and angles of his red stripes when he is able to ignore the implications of these traits. They can look rather pretty. It’s also a plus to prepare a versatile look in case he needs to adjust the style of his bandana due to weather, heat, or comfort. 

Shadow brings his still untouched drink to the kitchen. With a little more gusto than last time, he once again tries to channel some peace into the mug before chugging the lukewarm coffee. A pop of yellow by the sink contrasts the monochrome teal of the countertops and cabinets. Closer inspection reveals that it’s a hastily scribbled sticky note. No sign of its author is seen or heard in the suite at the moment.

“Sorry for not washing  the chili bowl and stuff.  Vanilla had an emergency  and Amy wasn’t available.  Buy you lunch tomorrow + more choc coffee beans?” -  SONIC 😉

The aforementioned bowl and utensils lay in the dirty side of the sink (thankfully), and at least Sonic’s bottomless appetite made him lick ninety-nine percent of all the porcelain surfaces clean before leaving. Shadow shakes his head while doodling “12:30PM🖕” on the sticky note. He then opens the fridge to figure out a light post-workout dinner to make before work. Following the sound of the fridge door opening is the flutter of little wings descending from bedding atop the attached freezer, and following that the pitter-patter of paws walking into the kitchen. The Dark Chao drowsily floats down toward Shadow who instinctively guides its plump body into a cradle position with one arm. It leans into his still damp chest fluff while staring expectantly into the fridge. The spine tail of a tortoise shell kitty with striking orange splotches weaves between the jet black legs towering above her.

“Don’t worry little ones, I’ll feed you first. Chance, stop being a brat.” Shadow feels the Dark Chao’s ears twitch and its bat-like wings tense up as PurrChance impatiently growls, jealous that it has closer proximity to the open fridge filled with food. Though the two animal companions learned to tolerate each other and even play together since the unclaimed cat followed Shadow home, they each absorbed differing degrees of their guardian’s standoffish tendencies. Amiable body language resumes when PurrChance finally has her bowl of salmon-flavored moist food and the Dark Chao has a large fruit resembling an orange to eat on a neighboring food mats. The clock on the wall shows 8:35PM, leaving twenty minutes before his work shift. An encrypted text from a contact named Sugar appears in an app on his phone that reads, “My customer will be here in 3 mins. See you soon.”

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Shadow’s work shirt and belongings are packed in a messenger bag. He dons a black hoodie underneath a distressed bronze leather jacket, the hood pulled over tied-up quills. A pair of dark jeans hug his lean legs and special motorcycle gloves provide extra grip for his hands. His geometric hover shoes already provide substantial protection against the elements but not so much his everyday gloves. Sonic teases him that he doesn’t need to wear all that extra stuff because he’s the “Ultra-Durable Ultimate Lifeform” model. While true, it doesn’t dissuade him from taking the bare minimum of precautions while riding amongst the road-raging drivers in Station Square. Just because his body regenerates small injuries and lacerations doesn’t mean he enjoys dealing with them. Irksome consequences can actually overpower arrogance sometimes. The calculated hedgehog has yet to see this phenomenon happen in Sonic, though.

  Shadow activates Chaos Control to teleport to the fourth floor and ambles to the exit door, the hotel stairwell on the other side. His air shoes power-up on the quietest setting before crossing the threshold. Skillfully, he descends the metal staircase in side-steps while hovering an inch above each step. He approaches the corner at which the first security camera is aimed, stopping just out of its view underneath the preceding light fixture. The flash of his Chaos Control is masked by its glow and appears as a mere fluctuation in the building’s electricity on a camera feed. Shadow teleports just underneath the device. Legs in a side-split position and grippy gloves palming both sides of the wall’s corner keep him still and secure. He carefully points the lens ninety degrees upward once he hears the barely perceptible scuffling of sneakers in the stairwell. 

A taupe Mobian sugar glider walks tightly against the inside railing. She holds a pair of black stiletto heels. Her brown membrane “wings” are delicately tucked into a sumptuous and well-fitting wrap dress made of shimmery magenta mesh. A layer of chunky glitter eyeshadow creates an orange ombre effect on the skin of her already darkened eyelids. The fabric of a fraying black shawl covers her unique head markings and lays long over her shoulders to contrast her special attire. She smiles gratefully at Shadow with cautious eyes and keeps on with light footing. After she passes him and enters the blind spot between the first and second cameras, Shadow discreetly moves it back to its original position. This process repeats on each consecutive floor.

The final security camera monitors the hotel’s back door from the outside. Shadow double checks his hood before teleporting to the drainpipe located directly underneath it. The rusty pipe creaks threateningly under his muscular weight. But the cacophony of raindrops spraying off the eaves provides some echoey distortion for him to proceed with moving the camera. A vehicle with dark tinted windows awaits beside the furthest dumpster with its lights dimmed. Sugar gives Shadow a final appreciative nod before rushing to the car, swapping her sneakers for the heels, then shuts the car door. Once the mysterious chauffeur has disappeared in the rain and the camera is fixed back to normal, Shadow silently climbs down the drainpipe and re-enters the door. A final Chaos Control takes him to hotel’s private parking garage that keeps his Dark Rider motorcycle secured from the public.

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Salty coastal breeze mixed with petrichor wafts through Station Square and tickles Shadow’s nose. The steady rain that had started earlier in the evening has already increased the risk of hydroplaning on every street. Not helping to reduce the hazard are scattered potholes that still need filling and considerable sections of the earth below that were displaced by the massive destruction of the Perfect Chaos flood, still uneven and slouching the asphalt years later. Tone deaf billboards printed in optimistic blues and greens advertise clean air, ocean, forest, and street initiatives on the sides of buildings. Some of the cheesy words are illegible underneath many layers of graffiti tags and throwies and decay omitting some letters and details. The overall sentiments would be nice if they weren’t so lurid in a fucked-up environment changing at a snail’s pace, a complaint Sonic has consistently vocalized.

Sociological upheavals and a doubled police presence have created a tangible tension in the Station Square air after the cumulative horrors of the Perfect Chaos flood and the Black Arms Invasion struck the very heart of the city. Even the most carefree city enjoyers, the delinquents, and the goodie-two-shoes now operate with baseline unease, not knowing when things will get better. Though it’s exasperating dealing with more foolish humans who are preoccupied with puffing out their badged chests at the expense of others, it gives Shadow more of an excuse to lay low. He needed to get away from the particular shitshow Westopolis turned into just after being the epicenter of the Invasion. 

After the bulk of the disaster was resolved, G.U.N. Commander Abraham Tower granted Shadow a leave of absence when it became clear that the alien hybrid annihilating all of his blood relatives and the Black Comet wasn’t a life event he could effectively compartmentalize. The additional precaution was to distance Shadow from a traumatized Westopolis population that grew increasingly suspicious of all alien intruders. The Commander also has his personal grievances that thin the line between trauma and prejudice. Shadow will not quickly forget how Tower angrily pointed a gun and blame to the back of his own agent’s head for ruining his and others’ lives. Surprisingly, he’d beaten Shadow to the punch for once. Even after receiving a somewhat genuine-sounding apology from his superior, forced close proximity would be a begrudging challenge for the both of them.

Luckily for the residents of Station Square and visitors, lots of entertaining attractions are available in Twinkle Park’s amusement park and Casinopolis’s multi-story strip malls. It’s all a (temporary) reprieve from annoyances both small and large for many people. For Shadow, that’s applicable only when very specific stars align due to his picky tastes. The bright neon lights of both districts are on full display now to feed walking crowds’ anticipation for nightlife festivities. Am⭑bean⭑ce, the twenty-four-seven cafe for which Shadow took up a job, is located close by the most popular blocks of Casinopolis for those wanting quick energy to continue indulging their vices, or for those just needing rest from the overwhelming commotions. 

If it weren’t for his G.U.N. co-worker and friend Rouge the Bat pulling her affluent businesswoman strings, Shadow would’ve had a difficult time securing an extended stay at one of the casino’s connected hotels. Club Rouge has higher security and a classier atmosphere than most of the neighboring businesses. The establishment attracts business from a variety of notable figures both accessible to the public eye and those who are not, and all are well-treated regulars. Shadow was grateful that she considered his general disdain for flashy sights and sounds when she booked him a room on one of the highest floors of the hotel furthest away from the frequent chaos below. Her acquaintances are many, her allies are exclusive, and her trusted friends are few. All of whom she manages to keep tabs on. But only some, she’d say, are enjoyable to keep tabs on.

So, when Rouge went out of her way to ask Shadow to help the fellow Mobian named Sugar, who has to evade police surveillance and hostility while she stays in the same hotel for work, it was obvious that this person is of great importance. On the bright side, fulfilling this favor will show gratitude for his friend’s hospitality and would also prolong the safety of a fellow outsider laying low. On the downside, it’s an occasional inconvenience, but not an egregious one. They have not spoken once during their several meetups for routine sneaky sabotage. All he knows is that Sugar is unlikely to be her real name (which he isn't entitled to know), her specific type of sex work is illegal and excluded from the Casinopolis ordinances, and that she has been assaulted in police custody.

Shadow is stopped by a red light before the last turn, his left leg propped on the ground. The city block’s chaotic array of colors and shapes reflect sleekly off the professional black and red paint job on the Dark Rider. There are anxious pods waiting outside one of the clubs on the same side of the street, some members of which stubbornly choose to wear chunky sandals and matching metallic or bandana halter tops despite the inclement weather. Shadow shakes his head, his eyes following the trail that’s made by the people’s open umbrellas with their inconsistent heights, until he sees a quieter group of both human and Mobian women. A few men cling to their sides, all of them huddling under a large flower basket that hangs from a lamppost. 

A cream fur coat and pressed trench coats covering long sparkly dresses are standout silhouettes amidst the typical crowd, captivating Shadow’s attention. He’s reminded of Sugar, with her beautiful magenta dress and shawl wrapped in a skillful way to both conceal and show whatever she wants and needs. The leather jacket hugging Shadow’s torso feels claustrophobic. He becomes more aware of his own body and how it’s disconnected. Parts that are too muscular and veiny for what a Mobian hedgehog should look like. Parts that are too thin and bony according to his other genes. He imagines all the ways delicate fabric could drape from his elbows, or encircle his waist, or cascade over his back spines. 

Shadow accidentally makes eye contact with the human woman in the fur coat. A friendly but tight smile flashes at him, which he returns with a delayed nod. The traffic arrow turns green for his final turn.

✫ ✫ ✫ ✫ ✫

The Am⭑bean⭑ce cafe on the corner of the block has its own signature lighting in full effect as Shadow parks his Dark Rider at 8:58PM. Decorative orange seahorse, red crab, pink starfish and blue dolphin shaped LED lights softly shine from their scattered locations around the registers, countertops, big tables and window ledges. The seahorse ones are the most pleasant to look at and are Shadow’s favorite; he doesn’t quite know why. He definitely knows why he hates the pink starfish ones. 

Growing healthy and tall in the corners are potted palm trees with thin green light strips carefully spiraling up their trunks, the tops of their leaves illuminated by sunny lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Chalked on the black walls are peachy-beige sketches of Emerald Coast. Framed paintings depicting the coastal culture of Station Square and abstract bubble art hang in precise rows. The sketches and paintings are displayed nicely behind the lavender glow of scallop string lights secured by thick rope. All of it is easier on the eyes than the flashy advertisements and gaudy lightbulb patterns further down the street.

Lo-fi music plays with heavy emphasis on bossa nova. It’s quiet enough for overstimulated visitors but loud enough to create an immersive atmosphere that amasses regulars and allures newcomers. Shadow acknowledges his fellow night shift co-workers working up front. Lionel the Ginger Tabby is the manager on duty ineffectively multi-tasking by counting inventory and engaging chatty customers with his brand of niceties. Nyx, a pale human woman styled with heavy dark makeup, shaved hair, and piercing white eyes, prepares drinks for a short line of customers. There are scattered pairs and loners that had already been seated when Shadow walked in, signaling a moderately busy start to the shift. After changing into his ironed black work shirt with the cafe name printed in peach on the chest, Shadow clocks in and joins the crew up front. 

“The new contacts look good.” Shadow remarks, nodding upwards to Nyx standing tall beside him at the workspace wall. Standing on the provided stool makes the difference a little less jarring while he grabs stacks of supplies and refrigerated items.

“Thanks. I can’t wait to make assholes uncomfortable with these babies.” Nyx smirks while pointedly turning her head to stare into Shadow’s soul, the contacts as white as sterile hospital bedding. He returns the gesture with a cold side-eye and a steely poker face, not needing to look while he pours and mixes fruit juice contents inside a pitcher. He purposefully makes his third eye blink underneath his bandana so the slight shift in the fabric is only visible to Nyx’s line of sight. Her eyes catch the movement and widen, her face contorting into a perturbed smile.

“Fuck! Alright, you win!” She giggles, breaking composure to squirm her shoulders. 

“Nyx,” Lionel mutters without looking up from his clipboard. “No swearing in front of customers, please.” The long tufts of yellow-orange fur on his jaw, cheekbones, and head are contained by thin netting that leaves an opening for his eyes, nose and mouth. He’s genteel in personality as much as the required workplace getup makes him look scrunched and uncomfortable. Far from the worst person on Shadow’s list of past and present colleagues. But nonetheless a displeasure to work with. 

Nyx rolls her eyes and finishes making a coconut matcha drink. Shadow gets to work brewing a fresh pot of dark roast coffee, sneaking a tiny scoop of coffee beans into his jeans pocket for munching when Lionel isn’t looking. He peeks through the window to see that the crowd of club-goers down the street has shrunk. The group of women with their accompanying men are no longer under the lamppost. He thought he saw a glimpse of the cream fur coat, which promptly flitted out of sight near the entrance, possibly catching the moment an usher allowed her inside the club. Why did she smile at me…?

Just as Shadow finishes making a small iced latte for himself, the cafe door is roughly pulled open with a high-pitched squeak by a sweaty human man wearing an anchor patterned dress shirt. He hastily sips the last few drops of his wine can before chucking it into the trash bin by the entrance. He completely ignores the adjoined recycling bin. Damn rude. His stature, on the shorter side, teeters. He scowls behind the other customers, tousling his wavy black hair while he waits. Good thing I made my drink when I did. This could get interesting…

As the line of customers shortens, the man’s glistening forehead wrinkles deepen and he starts huffing belligerently. Shadow wordlessly waves a finger to get Nyx’s attention and juts his head. She immediately clocks the fellow human and purses her lips. It’s expected and common for tipsy and drunk customers to wait out their buzz and hydrate at the cafe. Yet there’s an unspoken rule that the severely inebriated should have a peer accompany them while occupying the premises. They won’t kick out lone drunkards right away unless they cause a ruckus. But some of them are on thin ice. Conversely, some are on ice that’s comfortably thick. Lionel, the pushover that he is, can be too placating despite acting no-nonsense. 

“The fuck’s the holdup? I got’a auction to be at in ten!” The man blusters, garnering stares from the Mobians within range of his spittle. 

“I can take someone else’s order over here!” Lionel shouts. He finally puts his clipboard down and takes note of the man. He starts transferring another register drawer seeing more people enter the cafe.

The faster ordering flow still doesn’t quell the fumes exiting the nuisance’s nostrils. The stench of alcohol will be unavoidable once it's his turn to order. The hedgehog's hyper-sensitive nostrils already sting from the sour change in the air even while standing at the back counter. He prepares for a headache, both physical and mental. Then the landline phone rings at the most convenient time when guess-who is next in line.

“Hey Shadow, I gotta take this, probably about shipments coming tomorrow. Can you swap for a minute? Nyx, pause new orders after yours!” Lional says while hurriedly walking to the phone. Shadow exhales a long breath out his nose while finishing the drink he had started making, not caring if Lionel hears his disdain. A grating tone cuts through the friendly hum of Nyx’s customer service voice and a flushed face peers down over the front counter, as much as the owner can.

“Hey, rat! Yeh you, ya gonna take my order or what?”

Shadow shoots the man a poker face with a tinge of glare, maintaining eye contact the whole time he washes his hands until he’s standing behind the register. 

“I’m a hedgehog. What can I get you?”

“Yeah-yeah, I know what you are…” he fails to discreetly give Shadow a once-over, “and I’ll get one’a them energy juice things in a can, the mango one. S’all.”

“Okay. Your total is $3.72.” The man leans his elbows on the countertop, exposing the drenched armpit holes of his dress shirt that’s otherwise pristine. A horrible combination with the alcohol. Coins jingle out of the wallet during a clumsy attempt to find quarters. Shadow waits with cold impatience.

Those slippery and nonchalant words replay in his mind: I know what you are. The goosebumps and bristling fur spreading down his arms betray his composure. The hedgehog coolly smoothes the traitorous fur down and glances backwards. Lionel has returned from the phone and is now using the new batch of dark roast. Slanted ears pick up on the nearby conversation. Nyx leans against a cupboard with her tatted arms crossed, facing toward her co-workers as the microwave warms a sandwich.

“Y’know, I been fussin’ at my apartment since the po-pos found a fuckin’ alien gun with a arm still attached to it, all’at behind the dumpsters. Whatever they’re called, black uhh…Black Armsss, yeah.” Lionel meanders closer to the registers while stirring a pitcher and bounces off the topic.

“Hoo boy, they’re lucky they didn’t get hurt. Unidentified tech was found by Shelly's Dock last month. Weird chemicals were leaking into the ocean, and when some fisherman lifted the thing above water, one caught a whiff of whatever was coming out. The poor guy couldn’t stand right and his arms were numb for weeks. Weeks.”

“Oh f’sure! To think all’at is lying around when shit like that can happen. Cleaning it up, my ass. Could bessspyware or somethin’ that we don’t know about yet. S’all demonic lookin’ with those symbols.”

Lionel’s face cringes at what he thinks is overused swearing but still humors the ranting. Shadow's been biting his tongue the whole time and realizes that Nyx has been listening too, locking eyes with her after she delivers the heated sandwich to a waiting customer. Shadow adjusts his bandana, pulling it down so it covers even more skin around his third eye, which had started twitching since the air turned sour.

“Yes, I suppose. It can definitely be off-putting…” Lionel affirms.

The hybrid’s fur prickles more. The dreaded feeling he tried to scrub away that same evening slowly crawls over him again. He does share the public’s condemnation toward Black Doom’s genocidal plans. He shares the horror for the hive-minded brains and also sympathy for the broken bodies of his siblings reaching their breaking points to carry those plans out. He also had been at the mercy of wills and wants imposed on him in the past, not just their shared parent's. But he feels anger for the parts of the planet they did successfully destroy by their own hands; not excluding his own.

There’s a lot about his life that he didn’t ask for. Bodies that share blood in color, in veins. Frames that share an unsettling outline in the light of flames. Eyes that share such primal blaze to inspire fear. The thought of erasing such parts has lingered before, not quite passively. In dreams, the sun washes over petrified constellations in the cold gray ashes of early mornings. In daydreams such as right now, Shadow wants to sink to the bottom of the ocean with one of the anchors on the tacky shirt in front of him. The drunk man turns his attention to Shadow again, squinting his eyes at the sectioned quills for another once-over.

“Say heh, you got familiar colors, an’ I seen those markings…Don’t happen to know, um…?”

The corner of the energy drink can loudly strikes the counter and dramatically slides to a spot directly in front of the inquisitor.

“Hey dude. You're holding up the line, ” Nyx urges with a tilted head and click of her tongue, chemical-white eyes blinking a little extra wide.

“Oh. Ferrgot I had a five,” he sneers, slapping the bill onto the counter. He struggles to pinch the stray coins into his grasp. Shadow avoids putting the change in the open hand hovering too close for his liking and walks away, downing two-thirds of his own drink in one sitting. The man does the same, leaving a disgusting handprint on the glass of the exit door and the memory of cheap wine in his wake.

When the moment presents itself where Shadow and Nyx are at the same workstation again, the woman invades the hedgehog’s personal bubble just enough for communication. 

“I’m sorry, that dude sucked. To think I thought his shirt was the worst thing about him when he first showed his mug here…sheesh.”

Shadow barely nods in acknowledgement, a gesture that many people wouldn’t notice. He takes advantage of the moment to let his third eye get all its pent up twitching over with. His ears had drooped into a folded position underneath the bandana ever since the drunkard first opened his trap. Lifting and loosening those muscles barely alleviates the tension in his temples. 

“That must have been scary for him to find out there was a corpse piece lying right by his home. Wish he would’ve been quieter when telling the story, though.” Lionel projects toward the other two.

“He was rude and nosy for absolutely no reason.” Nyx counters, “You should have said something.” 

“When was he nosy?”

“Didn’t you hear the last part? The thing he asked Shadow?”

“...I thought he was asking about other police findings?”

“You’re kidding, right? There's a word for it.”

“Nyx, drop it…” Shadow sternly whispers.

Lionel hesitates with an awkward nod and pursed lips. Nyx backs off and there’s a noticeable roughness in the way she’s handling the dishes and cups. Always one to be attentive and passionate, her gumption for picking apart bullshit can sometimes steer obtuse. It stems neither from a lack of intuition nor intellect, just a lack of personal experience. Her external dwelling on situations like these sometimes lasts longer than Shadow’s own. But what each store in the body is another matter.

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