PROLOGUE
Flying again... because the Commander showed him trust.
When the GUN mainframe was hacked by the Nemesis, he was piloting FX-474, otherwise known as the Night Hawk, across the desert. In pursuit of a hijacked armoured train. Shooting at it. Trying to eliminate the enemy. So how could he possibly be a traitor, eh? How could he be the mole they were looking for?
It was simple.
Greed.
Everybody had a price. The Commander would do anything for results and victory. Captain Stone sacrificed his morality in his selfish thirst for power and authority. And this particular young pilot... well, he simply wanted cold, hard cash. There were certain covert methods of advertising his services to the criminal underbelly of society. ‘For Hire – One GUN Pilot; No Scruples.’ He had put his allegiance up for sale without hesitation. When the call came from the Nemesis, he had answered eagerly.
And now here he sat, back once again inside the cockpit of the Night Hawk. It was his only passion, besides money. Flying the gigantic metal beast was the biggest power trip obtainable by legal means. The tilt-rotor aircraft became an extension of his body. It answered his every move, like an exoskeleton capable of flight.
So much training.
So much trust.
The fools... it had all been for nothing. Instead of crafting him to serve GUN, his education merely allowed him to use GUN to serve himself. One day he would retire, probably with an honour or two. Maybe even a medal he could auction away for spare change. Small potatoes, compared to what the Nemesis would pay. Compared to what he could earn when the future revealed yet more enemies of the state.
They would all want his services. He could charge millions.
Billions.
His fresh-faced innocence twisted into a ravenous grin. The Nemesis were fast approaching their endgame. As long as he kept a low profile and avoided the crossfire, there would be no more nervous apprehension. No more expecting to be discovered every time somebody spoke to him. No more moments of panic. No more worrying.
No more sweat.
Just money. Just his reward for his duplicity.
Nothing else mattered.
ACT ONE
Buzzing over heads, Charmy Bee spotted them first. “Hey! Shadow! Espio!”
They barely acknowledged as they dismounted the Dark Rider. The kid bee darted over, leading Vector the Crocodile through the crowded street towards them. His mammoth jaws opened to speak, but stalled upon taking full stock of their appearance. Both physically and in attitude, they seemed deflated.
Mud, muck and sewage still covered them from head to toe. Shadow the Hedgehog sported a bruise on the underside of his chin. From his purple scales, Espio the Chameleon brushed a layer of splinters.
“What happened to ya?!” the boss of Team Chaotix exclaimed.
“Never mind that,” Shadow dismissed as he gently rested the Dark Rider against a flashing neon sign. “Did you contact GUN?”
Vector nodded. “Yeah, sure did... they’re sendin’ us help, right away!”
“Where?”
“Right around here!”
They had reunited in an area of the Casino Night Zone generally referred to by locals as the trenches. After several years of outward expansion, the gambling paradise city had started to grow upwards in addition. Soon enough, original street level became a world away from the tallest of high-rise casinos and hotels. Wide walkways had been developed to criss-cross the buildings in compensation, bringing street level up to the heavens. They were multi-layered and multiple in number. To look down any trench was to see a spiderweb of them glistening in the artificial haze of flashing lights.
All were bustling with tourists and citizens. Shadow and Team Chaotix were standing on a particular walkway two-thirds from the actual ground. Above, below and to either side were hundreds more levels and pathways. Shadow felt his stomach churn. With grave concern, he realised only one aircraft could navigate such a maze.
And then he heard the steady beat of coaxial rotor blades reverberating from the sides of the trenches. Distant... but getting louder.
“Did the Commander give you the callsign for the help he’s sending?”
“Sure, why?”
The hedgehog urged more detail. “What is it?”
“FX, I think... yeah, FX-474!”
Sudden alarm gripped the usually cool Espio as he wheeled to Shadow. “That’s the callsign we found on Mighty’s laptop,” he stated for the benefit of his fellow detectives. “That means the mole working for the Nemesis is...?”
Shadow clenched his fists. “The pilot,” he snarled grimly.
At that moment, he was blissfully unaware of his exposure. He was extracting far too much enjoyment from the act of flying the Night Hawk down the trenches of the Casino Night Zone to worry about anything else.
The giant tilt-rotor barely fit between the skyscrapers themselves. Adding the busy network of walkways crossing from wall to wall only served to heighten his reflexes. He was sure that local authorities had rules against such reckless piloting, but that was the luxury of working for GUN... and, of course, being morally vapid.
Laws. Who cared?
Walkway up ahead. Tight squeeze to dive just in time. He pushed on the joystick. Flattened the pedal for the tail flaps.
Engines whined in protest as rotor blades spun madly to keep balance.
By all rights, he should have crashed.
But the young pilot was draining the last of his luck. People crowding the bridge-like paths ducked and screamed in terror. A small handful were knocked over by downdraft. With cries of protest, they watched as the Night Hawk continued her reckless journey deeper towards the heart of the brightly illuminated buildings.
Minutes later, he saw them. Mid-level walkway. Four, plus a motorcycle. Adjusting himself to a professional cover personality, he slowed the aircraft.
Something was wrong.
They were not approaching. Not standing ready.
He lowered the Night Hawk invitingly towards the edge of the walkway. “Well,” he said to himself in his isolated cockpit. “C’mon, then... what are you waiting for? Get your butts over here already!”
From the group, Shadow stepped forward.
And mounted the bike.
“What are you doing that for?” the exasperated, fresh-faced pilot sighed. If he were absent his helmet, he would have scratched his head in overblown confusion. “Push it aboard, don’t ride it,” he continued to spout aloud. “You can’t drive that thing in here, you stupid rodent... get off and pu...”
Then it dawned on him. It felt like high voltage coursing through his body. Shadow was not riding the motorbike anywhere.
Instead, he was arming its rear machine guns.
And pointing them directly at the cockpit of the Night Hawk.
At the traitor.
People in the vicinity fled. Their president had recently been shot in public, so the sight of a weapon being loaded was enough to make them scream and scramble for cover. Gold-bricked walls of nearby buildings drew them in like iron filings to a magnet. Only the faint swing jazz music remained constant.
Banking hard, the Night Hawk fled with them.
“He’s gettin’ away!” Vector yelled at the top of his exceptionally loud voice. It took him an extra second to realise their stolen jeep was long-since abandoned.
Shadow had no such deficiency of transportation. Without hesitation, he kicked down at the starter of the Dark Rider. Engine roared. Such a primal noise was accompanied by a squeal of tyres as it reverberated down the steep sides of the trenches. And then suddenly, Shadow was chasing his own echo. Sixty... seventy... eighty... ninety miles per hour. The speedometer did not stop climbing.
Frightened faces whipped past in a blur as he drove down the walkways.
He could only see one face in his mind.
The pilot... it was the pilot, all along. What a perfect position to plant a traitor. The more he considered it, the more it made sense. Everybody had searched inside the GUN facility for a leak, but what of outside?
What about whenever somebody was dispatched to find the Nemesis? The pilot would warn them in advance. No wonder they were always one step ahead. Circus Park suddenly made a whole lot of sense. As did the wild accusation of treachery levelled at Rouge the Bat. She had used the Night Hawk to get home that time, leaving the Bullpen and unwittingly drawing the attention of conspiracy to rest at her pink-toed high heels.
No more.
No more misdirection.
No more lies.
Shadow gunned the throttle. The vast tilt-rotor was up ahead, slowed by the interconnecting web of walkways that spanned the neon trench. Hedgehog scowled with determination and swerved to end the pursuit as quickly as possible.
Up one level. Up another. Left, right. Accelerate... faster, come on! Faster!
He saw his chance approaching.
From below, the staccato thumping of rotor blades. Shadow matched them for volume with a particularly loud blast from the Dark Rider.
As he drove straight over the edge of a high walkway.
And into the cool night air.
ACT TWO
Wheels hit the armoured dorsal hull of the Night Hawk.
Shadow lost control of the motorcycle. It was to be expected. The jump was unlike any ever attempted.
He threw himself aside. Arms outstretched, looking for purchase.
Under the force of impact, the Night Hawk bucked and dipped. The starboard wing filled his vision and struck his chest. It painfully knocked the wind from him, but at least he had not fallen victim to the gaping multicoloured maw of the trench below. It did, after all, appear to be bottomless. Definitely deadly.
The Dark Rider, now riderless, went left. It spun end-over-end. For a wonderfully timeless moment, it looked as though it would leave the top of the aircraft unscathed. Shadow felt as though it were in slow motion.
But then it struck the portside rotor blade.
And exploded.
Inside the cockpit, the young pilot was living a vivid nightmare.
Various alerts bathed him in a sinister crimson light. They were a crescendo of severity, one quickly superseded by another. First it was a proximity alarm, warning of the trench walls on either side. Then it had been coaxial stress exceeding tolerance levels. Just when things could not possibly get any worse, the whole Night Hawk shuddered as something heavy landed atop it. And with it came...
“Warning,” the computer said aloud. “Portside rotor matrix compromised.”
He wrestled with the joystick. “No kidding!”
A steady klaxon drilled into his temples. There was no way to rescue her. She was damaged beyond repair.
If she crashed here, they would hunt him down amidst the wreckage.
They knew. They knew he was the mole within GUN.
“Damn it!” he screamed, feeling the Night Hawk lurch dramatically to the left. More alerts screamed back at him. A lone rotor was not enough to make an effective escape. Beyond the cockpit window, the Casino Night Zone tumbled past in an incomprehensible mess of bright primary colours.
Suddenly, he was there. Hugging the glass. Pressed up against it.
Right in front of him. Judging him.
Shadow.
Desperately, the pilot scrambled to unleash his sidearm. The hedgehog had not appeared to pick a fight, however. He merely wanted to take one last look at the traitor. To confirm the guilt behind his panicked eyes.
By the time a gun was produced, he was gone.
Rocket-powered sneakers found the top of the Night Hawk once more. Shadow had gotten the answer he wanted.
Time to leave.
Looking around with frantic urgency, Shadow found no obvious route. To his left, burning wreckage blocked the wingtip. He then turned right, only to see the wild starboard rotor blade shredding through an advertisement for free poker chips.
The Night Hawk plummeted. Fire and sparks assaulted his senses.
A walkway loomed into view. Pedestrians were scampering for salvation, knowing exactly what was to happen.
Shadow felt his heart pound against the inside of his chest.
Just as he started to brace himself for the ultimate sacrifice, a hand reached down towards him from within a cloud of thick black smoke. He gladly took hold and was instantly pulled upwards.
“Shadow!” yelled a familiar voice. “Hang on!”
The pilot screwed his eyes shut. Best for a coward not to see death coming.
Seconds later, the Night Hawk ploughed into the walkway cockpit-first. The entire length of the trench shook on impact.
Both vehicle and bridge became a disfigured mesh of materials. One tiny spark broke free and touched the fuel reserves of the once-proud tilt-rotor, and an almighty fireball swallowed everything in a single hungry mouthful.
Debris flew in all directions, including skyward. Hanging in a particularly vulnerable state by one incredibly tired arm, Shadow the Hedgehog did his best to shield himself with his free fingers. Luckily, nothing hit him.
Nor did it his saviour.
Charmy Bee had both hands tightly wrapped around his idol.
And would not be letting go for anything.
The explosion rocked buildings and structures across the Casino Night Zone. Wailing sirens began to converge on ground zero almost immediately. There was no risk of being unable to locate it, so tall the billowing plume of smoke and flame as it blotted out the stars in the crisp night sky.
So loud the screams.
From a nearby rooftop, Mighty the Armadillo had watched the pursuit unfold with a critical eye. Now closed, along with folded arms, he sat against the strobe lights of an artificial palm tree decoration and let his mind work on analysing recent events.
Black fur bristled as he heard footsteps approaching. Without looking up or turning around, he spoke softly. “Are you here to kill me?”
The Nemesis paused mid-stride. “What has prompted this inquiry?”
Only then did Mighty spin to face the blank mask of his comrade. “I never signalled for any assistance at my apartment. My apartment which now, I hasten to add, is riddled with bullets and burnt to ashes.”
“Shadow was equipped with a gun.”
“A semi-automatic gun,” the armadillo said with rising temper, “and only a single clip. You can therefore see my dilemma!”
With gears clicking and whirring through his haphazard leather cladding, the Nemesis sat down alongside his guide. The weight of his massive frame distorted the flimsy palm tree but, thankfully, it kept integrity. Together, man and machine gazed out across the skyline. Their view was dominated by the aftermath of the Night Hawk. Sound was provided by the many emergency services on the scene, no longer speakers spewing jazz. A thick finger pointed at the smoke, drawing Mighty’s attention. Not that such a highlight was required.
“It was our source inside the GUN facility,” the robotic terrorist told him. “Shadow learned of his treachery. You see how GUN treats their enemies. A punishment of death is all that waits for them. Of violence.”
Eyebrows rose. It was a point well made to a pacifist.
“And yet,” the Nemesis continued, “when faced with such evidence, you doubt us?”
“I... I don’t know... I...”
Mighty stopped struggling. Instead, he stared at the neon-daubed mask beside him. Hope. It was all he wanted. A tiny glimmer of hope. Somewhere in those dark lenses, he wanted hope to reassure him. Not just eloquent words.
Something he could see. Something he could feel in his heart.
But all he could see was an emotionless mask.
All he could feel was doubt.
The Nemesis stood to his full, imposing height. “Are you still with us?” he asked, towering over the armadillo.
There was only one answer Mighty could give. “Yeah... I guess I am.”
ACT THREE
They were back at the GUN facility. All four of them.
Knowing the Bullpen would be a busy and confusing riot of information, headphones were lowered. Vector the Crocodile tapped on the shoulder of Shadow the Hedgehog, who turned an aching head in response.
At least he was no longer caked in mud. The debriefing team in the hangar bay had given both he and an equally-dishevelled Espio the Chameleon a much-needed chance to clean up. Charmy Bee, after his exciting rescue, was still busy finding layers of soot about his various limbs. Everybody was updated on what had happened in Apartment 1138. Everybody knew what had been said.
“You should know,” the leader of Team Chaotix told Shadow diplomatically. “Just in case ya bite the head off the Commander in there... he took Stone off the case. Slapped him down for what he did’ta us. I don’t know what this RPM thing is, but it ain’t gonna be all bad. The Commander ain’t all bad.”
Shadow gave as much thanks as he could muster in a slight blink. “Regardless,” he growled with purpose, “we need answers.”
“Oh, for sure,” Vector agreed. “Just take it easy, okay?”
“I doubt there’s time for that. Something tells me that the Nemesis are getting closer to their final move. Blind firing into the apartment like that... they were prepared to kill Mighty. As is everybody at the moment.”
The crocodile frowned in rare confusion. “Which means?”
“Which means the Nemesis no longer need a guide,” Shadow concluded in a weighted and serious tone. “They have everything they need to achieve their objective.”
Vector fell silent.
Not the best time to bring up the question of a paycheque, then.
“I thought you were to kill our guide. Instead, you report to have continued with our efforts to indoctrinate him to our cause?”
“It was the only viable option, given the circumstance.”
“Explain.”
“Mighty the Armadillo escaped from his apartment before we arrived. As the GUN agents also made an escape, we analysed their identity. I calculated against terminating our guide. I moved to reinforce his allegiance.”
“You refer to the use of Team Chaotix in the tactics of the enemy?”
“I do. Our guide is a former associate.”
“Indeed. You believe that a maintained, high-profile presence of our guide amidst the ranks will be an effective psychological and emotional weapon.”
“Affirmative.”
“We are in agreement, comrade, to exploit the weakness of organic emotion.”
“A weakness we do not share.”
“Bring our guide to the staging area. We are making final preparations to depart. There is no margin for error in the established timetable. Should morning break while we are still en route, all will be lost.”
“Underway. End communication.”
It was with harsh military precision that the GUN Commander ordered Shadow apart as the hedgehog entered the Bullpen. They entered a side office together. It was the same side office from which the old soldier had marched, not two days ago, and proclaimed the birth of a new agent. The same side office in which Shadow had convinced the Commander to trust him. To trust his judgement.
A very different, more battle-weary man sealed the door this time. “You’d better have one hell of an explanation for all this, Agent Shadow!”
Once again, the hedgehog said nothing. He let his superior vent first.
“I mean, damn it! First you keep your physical condition from me and, I’ll be honest, I can kinda understand that one, but it still breaks every god-damned rule in the book! I put you in command of a whole battalion in the Lost Jungle, when you could barely stand?! And you get captured... you’re lucky to be alive!”
It was a fair point. Shadow held his tongue and chose not to defend the indefensible.
Too much had happened since, anyway.
“So, we get you back here,” the recap surged forth, barking from the Commander to betray his stress levels. “And it would’ve been a slap on the wrist. You know I trust you. I’d have defended you to the last... like I said, I understand your reasons. But not content with that, you go and break Team Chaotix out of custody, assaulting a soldier and stealing two vehicles in the process?!”
Shadow moved to finally speak up. “Captain Stone was...”
“Captain Stone was, and is, a jerk,” came a forceful interruption. “And anyway, this isn’t about him. I’ve dealt with him, but I haven’t finished with you yet. Because, okay, the soldier was fine after a glass of water, and the only other casualty was a jumped-up little brat and his plans for interrogation... no. My real problem, my real crisis of confidence, is when I send out air support to help a rogue agent and the rogue agent shows gratitude by blowing it out of the sky! How do you even begin to justify that one?!”
Anger was not letting much disappointment show, but Shadow could see enough to realise the agony he had put the Commander through. Regret was a feeling the hedgehog had a deep experience with.
And yet it was still unpleasant to carry.
“You’ll note the lack of ‘All Hail Shadow’ party banners around the Bullpen,” his superior lowered in volume to say. “I’m not exactly celebrating your return here. I need answers from you. I need them now, and they better be damn good... because if not, I will have no choice but to place you under arrest.”
There was a long moment of silence. A horrible, tense moment.
Red eyes stared at heterochromia.
“Everything I did,” Shadow eventually began, “was the right thing to do. I am sorry if my methods are unorthodox, but you can still trust me. I promise.”
An apology was a rarity from him. It did mean, however, that he was genuinely telling the truth... at least from his perspective. The Commander sighed heavily. “Start with the Night Hawk. What happened?”
“We found evidence against the pilot. He was the traitor inside GUN, the one who allowed the Nemesis to hack the mainframe and steal information on the Black Arms. He has been in constant contact with them ever since.”
A dumbfounded noise escaped a gaping mouth. It took a second to form words. “That isn’t possible!”
“Espio has all the details... but trust me. It was him.”
Uniform met table in an awkward collapse of posture. The Commander rubbed his forehead and shook his silver hair. Of course. He had been digging around the GUN facility to unearth a mole when, all along... damn it. Damn that pilot. Damn the Nemesis. Damn everything that conspired against the Guardian Units of Nations. Damn everything that endangered the wider population. Endangered their president.
Endangered his family. Endangered his granddaughter.
Damn them all.
“I also spoke again with Mighty the Armadillo,” it was then revealed. The words managed to break through the subconscious cursing and strike a chord. Suddenly showing every single one of his advanced years across a weathered face, the Commander looked at Shadow. There was no more anger. No more disappointment.
Just an eagerness for victory. A potent craving for peace and security.
“Get anything useful?”
“He said that the ultimate objective of the Nemesis was ‘equality’... and that he wanted me to ask you for details about something.”
“What?”
“Project: RPM.”
In total shock, the Commander realised exactly what the entire situation was about.
And what an idiot he had been.
EPILOGUE
Darkness. No direction. No sound. Nothing.
Just darkness.
Darkness fading against his impulses. Basic human impulses. Familiar from every morning, the impulse to open eyes and awaken to each new day. The impulse to use the bathroom. The impulse to eat. The impulse that something was out of place.
Something wrong.
Pain.
He was in pain... but why? Why did it hurt so much? Why awaken to this?
It was coming from downward. The darkness had faded enough to restore direction. He let his chin touch his chest.
There! Right there! It hurt! It hurt badly!
No time for pain. No time for laying about the place in pain.
Legs... come on, legs! Move! Get moving! They ached. They wanted to stay still. Not even able to support his full weight yet. Nope... no matter. They had to move. He was standing up now. Out of bed. They had no choice: it was either move, or fall. And he did not fall. No way, never. Not a chance.
Breathing. Breathing was difficult. What happened to his chest?
Pain.
Like he had been punched.
Like he had been shot.
Shot... in the chest... by a sniper, during a speech... a charity speech... shot...?
A telephone. Find a telephone. Got to find a telephone.
He remembered now. He remembered all of it. He remembered why his chest hurt and why he awoke in a bed. It was a hospital bed.
A telephone.
There were voices approaching. Not now. They would tell him to go back. He could not go back. He could not fall.
He did not fall. No way, never. Not a chance.
Success! A telephone! The number. Punch in the number. There.
“GUN CommSat, go ahead.”
“I need the Commander! Priority One!”
“Identify yourself.”
“This is your commander-in-chief... I’m the President of the United Federation!”
Written by Glenn Scully
