Chapter Text
Two weeks into his new job, Sonic takes his lunch in a break room on floor 15.
He's trying not to think too hard about the room he's going back to after his break is over- the splotches of dried blood and shriveled, shredded meat scattered randomly and embedded in surfaces throughout the lab room he was cleaning unnerved him deeply. He has no idea what could cause such a strange accident and he doesn't want to know.
At first, Sonic blames his dread on the lingering visions of that lab, but his anxiety is unusually intense. He hasn't had a bad episode since he was an unstable teenager. The sensation is out of place, and its out of place-ness only makes it worse. Sonic's appetite flees him, his stomach churns.
Then, the feeling of being watched begins.
He's alone. There's nobody here. No one is getting coffee, or using the vending machine, or sitting at the other tables. The last guy in the room left a few minutes ago, after giving Sonic a "you shouldn't be here" glare (or at least that's how he interpreted it).
Sonic's heart races, his phone feels slippery in his hands. He partially unzips his protective suit to stash it in the breastpocket of his uniform underneath, replaces his helmet, and prepares to go back to work early. Work may not help distract him from this feeling of sickening nervousness, but he needs to get out of this room.
His gut squirms- there's not a soul around, but someone is watching him. Sonic collects his trash and the tupperware of spaghetti he brought with him, and prepares to return to the locker room to put his uneaten portion in the fridge up there.
He dumps his napkin, disposable fork, and empty plastic water bottle in the garbage bin, turns around to leave, and freezes.
In a flash, the steel door to the room slams shut with a reverberating clunk.
All Sonic saw was a retreating hand- a blink of black and red, a momentary glimpse of claws, and whatever it was is gone.
A different kind of fear settles into Sonic's heart. He stands there, sweating, afraid to peek into the hallway.
What the fuck was that?
Sonic goes back to work. He cleans the blood and meaty bits as is required of his job. The entire time, he's wondering if he's losing it.
Probably not. Things have been looking up! His mental health has been all right, given the employment and being able to pay bills and all that. Not seeing his friends due to his shift hours and not doing much outside of work besides sleeping sucks, but the roof over Sonic's head will stay stable if he keeps at it. He's eating regularly and his bank account isn't scaring him as much as it used to.
Gore and horror movie encounters don't matter, he needs this job.
That's what Sonic tells himself as the anxiety and sensation of being stared at rejoins him. He's so close to done with his shift, he’ll get this room over with and be finished thirty minutes early, if all goes well. Then he can put his tablet and his cart and his suit back where they belong and go the fuck home, out of this cursed place where people seem to explode into greasy chunks on a regular basis.
Sweat drips down the back of his neck. His stomach writhes itself into a knot, his heartrate quickens, his hands tremble. Something is wrong, he needs to get out of here, but Sonic can't do anything.
Muscles twitching involuntarily under the pressure of ever growing terror, Sonic cleans for minutes, until he starts to hyperventilate. He drops the bloodied rag he was holding, primal instinct telling him to flee.
Now.
And that's when the intense fear slips away. He takes breath after shaking breath, confused and still nervous, coated in stress sweat and quivering like a newborn deer. It's against protocol to remove pieces of the uniform while on the clock, but Sonic is dying under his helmet. He pops the seals, takes it off and sucks in the chemical scented air of the lab, sweat dripping off the curled ends of his hair. He redyed it two days ago, the drops that land on the counter below him are slightly blue tinged. He'll have to clean that up, too.
He's almost done. He can tough it out.
There's only a little blood left, dry and encrusted in the gaps between a steel workstation and the small refrigerator built into its base. Sonic can do this. He can get it over with and then he's free to go home, he can shower the sweat off, he can make himself a sandwich and watch some football. Soon, he'll be outta here. He just has to-
Five feet away, a large eye watches Sonic from a slightly opened cabinet door.
He shrieks and backpedals, falling against the station behind him at the same time the cabinet shuts. Stuck in place, horrified and confused, Sonic tries not to pant so fast he passes out. Fuck this. Absolutely fuck this. Any smart person would've left by now.
Unfortunately, not being homeless trumps being smart.
Without taking his eyes off the cabinet, Sonic puts his helmet back on (it doesn't offer much in the way of protection, but he feels better having it on. It's stifling in there, though, and being damp makes it extra uncomfortable). He grabs a clean rag from the stack on his cart, sprays cleaning solution on it, and wipes up his dye-stained sweat. Then he gets two new rags and the spray bottle, and cautiously walks to the final messy area of the room.
His gaze stays on that cabinet door the entire time, up until he's forced to face the workstation and minifridge. With a shaky breath, he looks away from the hiding place of whatever it was that was staring at him. Sonic crouches to start sanitizing the refrigerator.
He spritzes and wipes away old blood for a minute before the awful sensation of being watched returns, along with the blood curdling fear. Sonic keeps cleaning. He ignores it. He's almost done.
He's almost done. He can go home soon. He'll be fine. This is nothing. He'll make it through this. Depending on the integrity of his mental state, whatever is going on might not even be real-
There's a scuffle right behind him.
Sonic can't move.
The hair on the back of his neck stands up. His sweat feels cold. Every uncontrollable shiver down his spine and through his limbs makes his teeth clack.
Sonic wonders, Oh man, this is how I die? Being a dumbass? I should've left.
He's not expecting a voice, quiet and deep and a little raspy. It says, "You're pretty."
When Sonic turns around, nothing is there.
Sonic is so terrified he thinks his heart might burst, for many goddamn reasons, and the worst part is the random intensification of the feeling. The shaking in his body is so bad he doesn't know if he can drive, and when he sits in his truck after leaving his awful workplace, he's only marginally less tense. God, he forgot how much untreated anxiety sucks- that sickening dread is so reminiscent of it.
He stays there, hands in his lap, staring at the parking lot and the trees beyond. The rising sun glints off parked cars and into his eyes, but the daylight is comforting. As soon as he's not feeling like a cornered animal, Sonic starts his truck and drives the hour home.
The second he enters his apartment, most of his hideous, stomach squeezing nervousness vanishes.
Sonic goes to work because he has to. Awful, confusing previous day or not, good money is good money. He could be working underpaid in a fast food restaurant again or wasting away doing retail, those would be worse.
Would they, actually?
If he just doesn't think about it, cleaning up human pieces is just another job. It's disgusting and the implications disturb him, but working at an Arby's also frequently disgusted and disturbed him. For different reasons, but still.
It's not like he has to deal with customers here. Sonic hasn't been yelled at or insulted by any angry/rude/bigoted people, he's just been scared to the point of wanting to cry and was told he was pretty.
So, a different kind of harassment. Great.
Sonic goes to work because he has to, and as he gets in his truck that night he thinks, This blows chunks. I hate this. Something fucking crazy is going on and I have no idea what to do about it. Is it real?
The roads pass by and the facility gets closer.
It starts in the locker room. Sonic pulls his shirt over his head and suddenly, he senses eyes upon him.
Looking all around gets him no results. He's alone, like he often is- despite how this place is definitely populated with plenty of other people. Sonic casts a paranoid stare over the nearby lockers, then he slips out of his jeans and prepares to put on his honestly pretty comfortable skintight undergarment.
He washed it after getting all sweaty yesterday, which helps.
Nervousness makes his skin prickle as he steps into the garment, his hairs stand on end when he zips it up. Something is here, something is watching him, Sonic sees nothing when he looks.
It has to be here somewhere. He can't do anything about it.
Sonic dons his protective suit, grabs his tablet from its docking station in his locker, and heads to the opposite end of the room where the carts are stored. If he ignores it, it can't hurt him.
His tablet indicates he needs to head to floor 57, and that this first room is for conferences. Sweet, so hopefully there won't be buckets of blood, bits of people, or revolting, unexplainable substances. All Sonic has to do is clean up some cups, vacuum, and make sure the chairs and tables are orderly, if he had to guess.
He's right. Despite the consistent fear and hair-raising feeling of eyes on him (constantly. It never leaves), his first room is a breeze.
So is the second one. He's just cleaning a bunch of random piles of dirt in a cell on floor 79. Sweeping it up and spraying the residual grime down the drain is easy peasy.
His third room isn't horrifying, either. It's a commercial kitchen, nonsensical colorful graffiti on the walls written in a language he's never seen, looping unfamiliar letters left in spray paint. It's not very artful, and if not for the repeating, distinctive characters, he might think he's just looking at scribbles.
Sonic mumbles, "This isn't so bad today," and it's his first mistake.
The gut wrenching fear intensifies- it was simmering low in his stomach the whole time, but he hadn't been as focused on it while he was working. Now it's all he can think about, trying to regulate his breathing as his blood pumps adrenaline. He's being watched.
Sonic's second mistake is saying to the empty room, "Is someone there?"
No reply. The fear lessens inexplicably. His head turns this way and that, trying to find the source of the feeling, and he witnesses nothing. He's still alone and maybe having some kind of mental break, and he's not opening up the kitchen cabinets to check if something is there. Fuck no.
Instead, Sonic gets a clean sponge and water and begins wiping down the marked walls. Better to take the proper steps and not rush it, although he'd prefer to. He doesn't want to use industrial paint stripper more than once, though, he can smell that crap through his helmet and it's awful. He's going to have to sit in this room for at least a half hour while it does its job anyways. At least this room has a lot of vents to dissipate the harsh chemicals.
Sonic works in fearful silence for minutes. His heart never stops beating overtime, he feels hunted, he's exhausted and sweating and terrified and he can't do jack shit about it. He finishes wiping down the surfaces he needs to and returns to his cart for a fresh sponge and a gallon of paint stripper, hoping he'll have enough to get all of the graffiti.
Sonic applies the solution to the wall for maybe a minute before his negative emotions and the sensation of being watched flees, like they were never there at all.
His third mistake is thinking, Maybe that'll be the end of it.
Nothing happens for the rest of that night. Sonic sees, hears, and feels zilch, and it makes him relax. He clocks out. He goes home. He flops facedown on his couch for a while, then he gets up- he needs to take his binder off and he would love a beer right now, actually.
Sonic gets a drink and enters his room- athletic clothes on the floor by his slightly opened closet, several empty bottles of water and Gatorade on his old desk, messy unmade bed with navy blue sheets and a sexy half naked Leon Kennedy dakimakura sitting atop a fluffy grey comforter that he needs to wash- yep, he needs to clean up around here.
He'll do it later. He closes his blinds to block out the early morning sun rising over city buildings and sighs. Sonic shrugs his shirt and jeans off, carefully pulls his binder over his head and tosses it somewhere on the floor with his other clothes, and lounges in bed in just his boxers and socks. He sips his beer and watches a guy on Twitch play Tekken badly, debating on if he should splurge and get take out when restaurants start opening up or eat whatever he can scrounge into a meal. He needs to go grocery store shopping, his fridge and pantry's contents are pretty meagre at the moment.
He's halfway through his drink when a cold shiver runs down his spine and settles in his gut, coalescing into a familiar, nauseating fear.
Sonic pauses the stream he was watching and sits there in absolute silence, only his own tiny, panicked breaths in his ears.
It's stupid, but he thought he'd be safe here.
There's a tiny creak to his right.
Sonic's head moves slowly, eyes flicking to his closet- why did he leave it slightly opened- where two large eyes watch him from the darkness, pupils reflecting reddish in the dim like an old picture taken with the flash on.
Sonic is powerless. He's petrified. He doesn't know what to do.
He can't break its gaze. Whatever it is, it stares back at him unblinkingly. Sonic feels like if he moves, it will, and he stays there in a silent standoff until sweat starts to drip from his brow and the stress threatens to make him hyperventilate.
The beer is cold in his hand. The air in his room is stifling. Goosebumps break out all over his skin. Sonic doesn't want to die.
At some point, he blinks, and the eyes are gone.
He hides under his blanket like he's 5 and wonders if praying would do him any good.
Sonic's rest is uneasy that night. He forgets to eat or take his meds and wakes the next evening with a low level, constant fear. He can't tell if it's his own or not. He really, really hopes he's just anxious.
He cooks an egg sunny side up and adds it to his instant ramen, it tastes like dust in his mouth. He showers and dresses and gets in his truck and drives.
He's afraid the whole time.
He's been assigned one room- by now, Sonic knows that if he's only getting one for his ten hour shift, that means it's a nightmare. Whatever. It's work. He has much more pressing concerns, like:
What followed him home? Is it an animal? It came from here, does anyone else know about it?
Why did it call him pretty?
Why did it stare at him and then leave? How did it leave and how did it get into his closet in the first place? What does it want? What can he do to get it to leave him alone?
He gets to his first and only room on floor 24, snapping into work-focus when he opens the heavy steel door. He was right, it's a nightmare. The place isn't huge- it's one of those doctor checkup rooms with a table to lay on and informative posters on the walls, a sink and cabinets and biohazard waste receptacles- but everything is coated in oozing, unidentifiable greyish green muck. The splatter's origin was obviously the examination table, where a pile of slimy goop stands tall and disgusting, waiting for Sonic to clean it.
He sighs and gets started.
Somehow, after spending hours upon hours dealing with the sticky, hard to remove mystery substance, Sonic leaves the room spick and span. He had to throw a lot of ruined supplies into an incinerator, though (there's one every five floors, always in the farthest, most obscure corner where they're inconvenient to locate, even with map guidance. Sonic has made a game out of finding them).
Replacing the stuff that got covered in gunk is someone else's job. Sonic's shift ended thirty minutes ago and he's exhausted- he still has to get home, too. The only upside of today is that he didn't see or feel anything unusual. He's relieved, confused, and still scared, but his fear is his own.
Sonic drives the hour and it sucks. He keeps himself awake by remembering horrible accidents happen when people fall asleep at the wheel. He parks his truck, walks up the steps to his apartment, and thinks, Smells like a neighbor made pancakes or something. Man, I'm hungry.
He unlocks his door and opens it, steps inside and takes his shoes off, and looks to his right- where his couch and shitty little coffee table sit. On the table is a plate.
There are two beautifully cooked, mouth watering pieces of French toast coated in syrup and powdered sugar on that plate. Next to it is a knife and fork, a napkin, and a short glass of water.
The food steams.
Sonic stares at it.
He's terrified.
From underneath his couch, a rough, masculine voice says, "It's for you."
Sonic puts his shoes back on, about faces and leaves his apartment. He doesn't lock the door, he just jogs back down the stairs and gets in his truck. He drives a few minutes to a nearby strip mall and parks in a McDonald's lot.
Numbly, Sonic puts his head in his hands and wishes he'd taken a shitty retail job instead.
What does he do?
What can he do?
The absurdity of the situation hits him and he laughs hysterically. In a split second he decides, Fuck this, it's not like it's tried to hurt me and I'm not gonna live out of my car when I'm paying rent. It's my apartment. I'm going home.
He starts his truck. He hypes himself up, but Sonic is still terrified. How could he not be?
He has a few minutes to back out. To call the cops or do anything but confront whatever's in his apartment head on- but what are the cops gonna do? They'll think he's crazy. He doubts he could tell them about his strange stalker coming from his place of work without breaking his contracts anyways. He's on his own for this.
The drive is too short. Sonic is shaking. He gathers his courage, holds it tight, and walks back up the stairs to his apartment.
He opens the door. There is no sound. He steps inside, and the French toast and water are still on the table. Hesitantly, Sonic shuts the door behind him and says, "Hello?"
The following pause is so long, Sonic almost thinks he's alone. Until that voice asks, soft and dejected, "Why did you leave?"
Sonic takes an equally lengthy time to respond with his own question. "What are you?"
"The Ultimate Lifeform. Why did you leave?"
The Ultimate huh? Sonic leaves that be for now. "You scared me."
It doesn't sound remorseful when it says, "I did."
Sonic stares at the darkness under his couch, briefly contemplating where he'd be if he decided to finish college. Probably not here, talking to a creature lurking under his furniture. "Did you wanna scare me?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you surprised that I left?"
"You didn't leave before."
Before, like at the facility? Sonic folds his arms. "I didn't leave because I couldn't. What's up with the toast?"
"I made it for you."
"I meant why. Why did you make me toast," Sonic says flatly. "Are you trying to poison me?"
The voice shouts, "No!" so passionately it startles Sonic. He has no idea how to react when it says, "I wanted to make you something nice, to welcome you home."
Instead of acknowledging that, Sonic asks, "Why are you hiding?"
"I'm not human."
Yeah, Sonic thought so, but the confirmation makes him extra afraid. He takes a deep breath and says, "Come out from under my couch."
Something shuffles. The voice says, "I'm not what you'll expect me to be."
“I have literally no idea what to expect. Just get out here,” Sonic is grateful the creature is talking to him and not, like, eating him or something. Or scaring him more.
He anticipates something to crawl out. Instead, someone blinks into existence a few feet away from him, standing in the middle of his apartment like he belongs there.
Oh, he’s a furry.
He’s tiny.
Didn’t he call himself “the Ultimate Lifeform”? That’s a rather grand and dramatic title for a fuzzball. Why was Sonic afraid again?
The creature’s eyes are reddish orange. His fur is black, his muzzle is tan, his dark nose is pointy. He has a white spot on his chest and red stripes up his arms and legs, as well as crimson markings along the outer edges of his eyes. His face is surrounded by bunches of… spines? These too are striped red. His fingers end in huge, obsidian talons, curved and sharp looking.
His ears seem fluffy. Sonic wants to pet them.
The little furry dude says, “Will you eat?”
Sonic stares at him. He’s real. He spoke. Sonic doesn’t want to call him “the Ultimate Lifeform”, so he says, “Maybe. What’s your name?”
“Shadow,” the creature answers quickly. “Please, tell me yours.”
Sonic says, “Sonic,” and mechanically moves past the furry to sit on his couch. The toast is getting cold by now, but it still looks inviting. He’s surprised when Shadow joins him- right next to him, so his fuzzy thigh is brushing Sonic’s jean clad one. Shadow looks up at him and smiles in a way that is way, way too soft given the ridiculous circumstances.
“I hope you like French toast, Sonic.”
“I, uh, I do,” Sonic picks up the fork and knife. He’s not unconvinced he’s going to be poisoned, but he’s not all here right now. He might be in shock. His body is making motions and his mind is trapped in a swirling state of, what is happening? What is this?
He cuts one of the pieces of bread into thirds, takes a portion, and puts it in his mouth.
Oh damn, that’s really good. He makes a sound of appreciation and instantly gobbles down another piece, sweet and savory flavors spreading over his tongue. It’s been cooked perfectly, and although it would’ve been better piping hot, it’s still a little warm and utterly delicious. If Sonic is gonna die by poison, at least his last meal was tasty.
This is the moment when Shadow’s hand makes contact with his thigh.
If Sonic hadn’t just swallowed, he’d be choking.
“It’s good, isn’t it? I’ll make you whatever you want,” Shadow’s fingers squeeze. Sonic isn’t sure if he’s disturbed, amused, or disbelieving. He sets his knife down and pointedly plucks Shadow’s hand off his leg, pushing it to the side.
All he can think of to ask is, “Dude, what are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” Shadow appears genuinely confused and hurt, and it pisses Sonic off a little.
“Why did you scare the ever loving fuck out of me and then make me French toast?” And then put his hand on Sonic’s thigh.
“Your reactions to stimuli are fascinating, and I told you already- I wanted to make you a treat, to welcome you home,” Shadow says, like this is obvious and logical. Sonic flounders for an explanation that makes sense to him, replaying the sequence of events that led him here.
Being followed. Being stared at. Being scared. He’s suddenly reminded of the first words Shadow spoke to him: “You’re pretty,” and the subsequent realization makes him laugh in disbelief and say, “Oh my god?”
Shadow’s smile falters. “What is it?”
“Do you have a crush on me?” Sonic asks, incredulous.
Shadow’s smile is gone, but he meets Sonic’s gaze straight on and says, “I’m in love with you.”
Stunned silent, Sonic observes as Shadow grows nervous- his ears begin tilting back and his brows furrow, he chews his lower lip. A few seconds pass. He mumbles, “I know this is sudden.”
“Are- are you being for real right now?” Sonic asks, fully aware of the answer. He’s still in denial.
Shadow’s confidence grows when he says, “I am.”
Sonic has not a single clue how to proceed. “Buddy, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not interested.”
Shadow’s displeasure is clear, and when he demands, “Tell me why,” Sonic has no idea where to start.
No, that’s not true. He knows the perfect place to start.
“You freaked me out so bad I thought I was gonna die. You’re itty bitty and covered in fur. I have no idea who you are or where you came from or if we have a single thing in common. Want me to go on?” Sonic stands so he’s not directly touching Shadow, who’s forced to crane his neck up. Now he’s scowling. It’s too bad his grumpy face is cute, otherwise maybe Sonic would’ve been more cautious about his next statement. “Actually I will, here’s another. This is insane and I dunno why I haven’t kicked you out yet.”
Mistakes were made. Sonic realizes them as he’s overtaken by terror, so all encompassing his heart jackrabbits and he makes a panicked sound. Shadow stands and folds his arms as Sonic takes wobbly steps backwards, gasping for air.
“You can’t kick me out,” Shadow growls, getting closer. As he does the fear worsens, and worsens, until Sonic is choking on it, backed up against the wall. “And none of that matters. We can learn about each other, and you’ll love me back.”
“No I fuckin’ won’t,” Sonic wheezes. “What the hell, man, you’re going about this in the worst possible way!”
The fear becomes eye-watering, bone chillingly strong for a few painful seconds, then it lessens and Shadow poses a truly bonkers question. “Then… how can I make you fall for me?”
“Not by freaking me out! Jesus!” Sonic gasps. The horrible desire to flee that was threatening to take over his mind lessens considerably. “Buddy, I’m not interested in you, and I never will be. Sorry.”
The fear returns as Shadow snarls. It infuriates Sonic, the knowledge that Shadow is making him artificially afraid, but whatever the creature is doing to him is stronger than his own emotions are. The second the dread dissipates and Sonic doesn’t feel like he’s about to have a heart attack, he says, “Stop doing that, you little creep.”
“I’m not a creep,” Shadow can’t pin Sonic to the wall, not with the two foot height difference. His presence keeps Sonic rooted in place regardless. “I’m going to be your boyfriend.”
“Did you not hear me when I said I’m not interested?”
“That can change,” Shadow stares up at him. “I’ll make it change.”
“You’re fucking it up really badly, and you’re like, an animal, dude.”
“I told you, I’m the Ultimate Lifeform. I’m no mere animal,” Shadow glances at the food on the table. “Sit back down and eat.”
“No. Get out of my apartment,” Sonic stands up straight, refusing to let this- this fursona push him around. “Now.”
“I won’t,” Shadow curls his lip. “You’re being difficult. Just sit down and make this easier on both of us.”
“Are you gonna make me pick you up and throw you out?” Sonic asks. “I don’t think it’d be hard.”
Shadow laughs, and his grin makes Sonic uncomfortable. “You can try.”
Taking the bait is unwise. Sonic does it anyways. He pushes away from the wall and grasps Shadow’s bicep, attempting to move him.
Shadow does not budge an inch. He just smirks. “There isn’t a human on Earth who’s stronger than me. I told you, I’m the Ultimate Lifeform.”
Sonic lets go of Shadow’s arm and stares numbly. Can he do anything? Is there a single thing he could say to get him out of this situation? What does he have to his advantage, what can he use to make Shadow leave him alone?
The first idea that pops into his head is awful. But if Shadow thinks he’s in love…
“Will you go away if I give you a kiss on the cheek?”
Silence descends upon Sonic’s apartment. Shadow is caught off guard, wide eyed and smug smile wiped away, then his tail starts wagging.
That’s kinda cute. It shouldn’t be kinda cute.
“I- I would love that,” he says, and follows it up with a desperate, “Please.”
“Okay,” this is such a mistake, “but you have to leave afterwards. That’s the deal.”
Shadow nods hastily. Sonic takes a deep breath and kneels. With his face so much closer to Shadow’s, he can see all the tiny, wiggly details in his irises, every speck of fiery color. This weirdo has quite a pretty set of peepers on ‘im, huh?
He leans in and plants a brief smooch on Shadow’s cheek (fuzzy. Soft. He smells like a campfire, or maybe incense). The creature’s breath stutters and he makes a quiet peep, then he says, “Again.”
Sonic stands and says, “No. Get outta here.”
“But-”
“Are you going back on the deal?”
Shadow shakes his head. “I honor my word.”
“Then leave,” Sonic points at the door. “Goodbye.”
“Fine. I’ll see you later, Sonic,” Shadow says, smiling sweetly. “I love you.”
Then he’s gone in a blip, like he was never there in the first place. The only evidence he was real at all is the food still sitting on Sonic’s coffee table.
He stares at the toast for a long time.
Sonic eats it. No sense in wasting a perfectly good breakfast.