The wind over Sunset Heights had changed.
For months, the air had tasted of ozone, burning metal, and the terrified sweat of a city under siege. It had been a heavy, choking thing that clung to your fur and refused to let go. But tonight, as Gadget sat perched on a jagged outcropping of rock overlooking the sprawl of the city, the breeze was different. It was cool, carrying the faint, salty tang of the distant ocean and the crisp scent of settling dust. It ruffled the red fur of his ears, tugging gently at his signature glasses, whispering a promise that the world was finally, impossibly, at peace.
He didn't know if he believed it yet.
Gadget exhaled a breath he felt like he had been holding for six months, his gloved hands resting loosely on his knees. Above him, the moon hung in the sky like a watchful eye, a perfect, pale circle that bathed the ruins below in a ghostly silver light. It was beautiful, in a haunting sort of way. The moonlight softened the edges of the destruction, turning piles of rubble into abstract shapes and casting long, stretching shadows across the cobblestones.
It should have felt like a victory lap. The war was won. The Eggman Empire had been dismantled, its armies scattered to the winds. Sonic was running free, Knuckles was leading with his head held high, and the world was beginning to spin on its axis again.
But as Gadget stared down at the silent city, a bitter taste settled at the back of his throat. It felt unfinished. It felt... wrong.
The silence was too loud. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a library or a sleeping house; it was the silence of a held breath. The phantom, also known as the Jackal, was gone. Infinite had simply vanished into the ether after the final battle, leaving no body, no trace, and no answers. Gadget's fingers twitched, a phantom reflex reaching for a Wispon that wasn't strapped to his hip. They had won the war, yes, but the monster who had started the nightmare had slipped through their fingers like smoke. There was no closure. Just this cool breeze and the empty space where an enemy used to be.
Gadget shifted his weight on the rock, his gaze drifting from the horizon to the city streets below.
The damage was catastrophic. Even under the flattering glow of the moonlight, the scars of the war were impossible to hide. Entire blocks of the Mediterranean-style architecture had been reduced to skeletons of brick and mortar. The once-vibrant red roofs were shattered, gaping holes exposing the interiors of homes that had been abandoned in panic. Scorch marks from the Death Egg Robot's lasers still marred the town square, black streaks against the pale stone that looked like infected wounds.
And yet, right in the center of the devastation, life was stubbornly taking root.
The Resistance Headquarters dominated the town center, a stark, imposing structure of reinforced steel and white concrete that clashed violently with the old-world charm of the surrounding ruins. It was the only building that looked "new," a beacon of high-tech efficiency amidst the rubble. It was currently dark, save for the few security lights humming on the perimeter, but Gadget knew that inside, the work never really stopped.
It made sense that they had chosen Sunset Heights for the HQ. This city had been ground zero. This was where the illusion broke. This was where the Jackal fell. It needed the most help, the most repairs, the most protection. But looking at that shiny, pristine building surrounded by acres of broken history, Gadget couldn't help but feel it looked like a bandage on a broken limb. Necessary, but barely covering the damage underneath.
The physical damage could be fixed, though. Brick could be laid. Glass could be replaced. It was the other damage that worried him.
Gadget pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs in a small, defensive ball. He wasn't the "Rookie" anymore. That's what everyone told him. Sonic had slapped him on the back and called him a hero. Knuckles had entrusted him with missions that seasoned soldiers would balk at. To the citizens of Sunset Heights, Gadget was a symbol. He was the ordinary wolf who stood against a god and won. But he hated being called a "Hero".
He felt like a fraud in a hero's costume. Every time someone thanked him, every time a child waved at him in the street, he felt a sharp pang of guilt pierce his chest. They saw the Wolf who saved the world. They didn't see the terrified kid who had trembled so hard his teeth rattled the first time he saw Infinite. They didn't see the nights he woke up gasping for air, his sheets soaked in sweat, the sound of the Phantom Ruby's glitching roar ringing in his ears.
And they didn't see the ghosts.
Gadget closed his eyes, the weight of the world pressing down on his chest. He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if he was strong enough to keep standing. But he knew one thing: he was going to try.
As he slowly opened his eyes, they were gone. Vaporized in an instant of red light. He was the only one left.
The loneliness hit him then, a physical ache in the center of his chest that was so sharp it almost stole his breath. He had new friends now, wonderful friends even. Sonic was an inspiration, Tails was a genius, Amy was a powerhouse. He loved them dearly. But there was a void inside him that their camaraderie couldn't fill. They were heroes by nature; they were born for this life. Gadget was just a survivor who had picked up a weapon because he had no other choice.
He was surrounded by legends, yet he had never felt more isolated. He wanted to be happy. He tried to be happy. He spent his days fixing generators, helping old ladies carry groceries, and patrolling the streets with a smile plastered on his face because he knew the city needed to see him smile. He gave pieces of himself away every day to make sure everyone else felt safe.
But sitting here, in the dark, with no one to perform for, the mask crumbled.
"I'm tired," he whispered to the empty air. The words were snatched away by the wind before they could even settle.
He checked the communicator strapped to his wrist. The holographic display flickered to life, showing the time: 02:14 AM.
Late. Or early, depending on how you looked at it.
With a heavy sigh, Gadget pushed himself off the rock. His joints popped—a sound that made him feel older than he was—and he dusted the grit off his utility belt. He cast one last look toward the dark, unrepaired sector of the city, the "No Man's Land" where the shadows seemed to pool a little thicker.
"Where did you go?" he murmured, the anger simmering beneath the sorrow. "You coward."
There was no answer. Only the wind.
He turned and began the long trek down the hillside, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. He took his time. There was no rush to get back to an empty house, it was the weekend after all. But despite the melancholy thoughts, the night walk was soothing. The rhythm of his own footsteps was grounding, reminding him that he was here, he was solid, he was alive.
Gadget lived on the outskirts of Sunset Heights, near the edge of the large public park that had surprisingly survived the war mostly intact. As the city streets gave way to suburban quiet, the destruction lessened. Here, the war felt like a bad dream rather than a waking nightmare.
His house was small. Simple. It was a single-story structure with white siding that had grayed slightly with dust, tucked behind a low stone wall. It wasn't a hero's fortress or a high-tech bunker; it was just his home.
He unlocked the front door, the mechanism clicking loudly in the stillness, and stepped inside.
The air in the house was still and smelled faintly of old paper and lemon polish. He toed off his red boots at the doorstep, placing them neatly in line, and padded into the main room in his socks.
The interior was humble, an open-plan design where the kitchen flowed seamlessly into the living room. It was a space designed for comfort, not entertaining. A plush, worn beige sofa sat facing a small television, flanked by towering bookshelves that reached almost to the ceiling. The shelves were overflowing with technical manuals, novels, encyclopedias on Wisp biology stuffed in wherever they would fit. Potted plants were scattered everywhere, on the windowsills, on the coffee table, hanging from the ceiling beams. Ferns, succulents, ivy—green life that Gadget watered religiously. It was his way of proving that things could still grow, even after everything burned.
He walked to the kitchen counter, pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher. He drank it standing up, staring at the shadows stretching across the floor.
Down the hallway, the house was just as quiet. To the left was the first door: his sanctuary. The "Working Room."
He didn't go in, but he lingered by the doorframe. Inside, the desk was a chaotic mess of blueprints, disassembled Wispon parts, and soldering irons. It was where he spent most of his nights when the insomnia hit. Tinkering. Fixing. Understanding how things worked, because if you understood how something worked, you could prevent it from breaking. Unlike people. Unlike the world.
Past the study was the small guest bathroom, the door slightly ajar, revealing the edge of a simple bathtub. He rarely used it.
At the end of the hall lay his bedroom.
Gadget pushed the door open and stepped into the cool darkness of his room. It was sparse compared to the living room—just a bed, a nightstand, and a wardrobe. The attached bathroom was to the left, small and functional with a narrow shower stall and a huge mirror.
He moved through the motions like a machine. Clothes off, folded neatly. Into the shower. The hot water hit his back, and for a moment, he slumped against the tiles, letting the heat seep into his sore muscles. He washed the dust of the ruins from his fur, watching the gray water swirl down the drain.
Ten minutes later, he was dried off and sliding under the quilt of his bed.
The room was silent. The only light came from the moon filtering through the blinds, painting stripes of silver across his duvet. Gadget reached up and slowly unhooked his glasses from his ears. He folded them and placed them on the nightstand with a soft click.
Without the glasses, the world blurred slightly. The sharp edges of the furniture softened. The shadows became less distinct. It was a relief. For a few hours, he didn't have to see everything so clearly. He didn't have to spot the threats or the exits.
He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and stared at the empty side of the bed.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to himself, his eyes heavy. "We start repairing the North Bridge tomorrow."
It was a plan. It was a purpose. It was enough to get him out of bed in the morning.
But as sleep finally began to drag him under, his thoughts didn't drift to the bridge, or the Resistance, or the cheers of the crowd. They drifted back to the ruins, to the dark corners of the city where the moonlight didn't reach, and to the unsettling, magnetic feeling that something out there was still waiting to be found.