Shadow Rising

4. Earth

Someone caught his arm.
"Are you all right?" April asked sharply.
He nodded, feeling the world tilt. They hauled him back to the couch, and Leo knelt in front of him. "Put your head down."
"I know." Sucking in a deep breath, he dropped his head between his knees, continuing to breathe deeply.
"You sure you're okay?" Don asked. "Most people don't pass out for no good reason."
"I didn't pass out..." But another wash of dizziness came over him, and he put his hands to his head. When it passed, he stood up slowly. "I'm gonna go splash some water on my face. Be right back."
He pushed away Raph's hand, and made his way toward April's bathroom almost blindly. Once inside he stood at the sink, gripping the cool porcelain and staring at the face in the mirror. "Damn you," he whispered. "Bastard."
The reflection merely threw soundless words back at him. He washed his face, making the water as cold as possible.
He hadn't fainted for no good reason. He knew that. It happened because he'd used too much too fast. Pushed too hard too long. It hadn't caught up with him till now. It always did, though. He hadn't learned how to control that yet. But he would. He groped for a towel and patted his face dry.
Then it hit him again--not the dizziness, but the vision. The foreboding figure standing over him, the looming house, the images of darkness and death. He swayed and gripped the sink like a lifeline until it passed.
Taking a deep breath, Mike closed his eyes and tilted his head back.
Then he turned and faced the full-length mirror on the wall.
In the hard light overhead, the scars stood out like blood. He traced his plastron with his fingers, tracing the scars that ran across his chest and ribs. White. Red. Deep. He looked down at the one on his leg.
"Bastard," he said again, louder.
But he wasn't really blaming anyone, not anymore. The man who had killed him was dead. No amount of cursing could push him any deeper into the void. He was dead.
Get over it, dude. He's dead. Get over it.
Nice of Tetsu, though, to leave so many scars as a reminder. A way of saying Don't you dare forget me, you son of a bitch, because there's no way you'll ever be able to forget who you are.
He put a hand up to his left shoulder and his throat tightened. The bullet wounds had left shallow ridges of missing flesh and shell, no matter how well the skin had been stitched. He had never really looked before. It had never really bothered him once it was over. But it bothered him now.
Carrie's voice. How did you get the scars?
I lost a battle.
Tommy. You mean he killed himself?
Yeah.
Michaelangelo closed his eyes, not wanting to see. But he knew he would. It was right there, looming over him, a nightmarish ghost waiting beyond the dark of his eyelids. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and it was there.
The reflection was mangled, torn. He could see the long gashes in his chest, his leg--even the two chunks of lead imbedded in the shoulder, tearing open skin and shell. Blood dripped like a nightmare, pooling around his feet. Blood on his left hand, from where he'd grabbed the sword. Blood on his head, from where he'd been struck. Bruises. Cuts. He knew if he looked hard enough he could see where the bones were broken in his ribs and collarbone. But he didn't want to see. This was enough.
He closed his eyes.
It's enough. It's enough. Go away.
It went away. He felt it go, felt it suck back into him with a cold shiver. There was so much that nobody knew. It was stronger now. By god, it was so much stronger...
He turned, to the bathtub, felt it stir inside his head, felt it shiver to the surface and cling, waiting. With a creaking metal protest, the cold faucet turned and water began to flow, hitting the tub like rain. He thought about that book again. The young child, the awesome power. Fiction. It was just fiction.
Oh really?
He looked at the rain in the tub and pushed.
Steam had begun to rise. The water itself seemed to sizzle.
Yeah April, you got plenty of hot water now.
The mirrors started to fog.
Good. I don't want to look at myself now anyway.
A small blue flash against the bottom of the tub.
Oh, no you don't--
He pulled it back. The flow of water stopped. The faucet shut itself off. Mike turned and watched the steam vanish from the mirror.
Maybe it's best that they don't know...
After all, what you don't know can't hurt you, right?
Opening the bathroom door, Mike stepped out and locked the burning thing back in its cage.

He stands in the center of the dojo, hands twitching at his sides. Splinter has set up vases of glass, pieces of pottery and porcelain, bits of paper and wood in a tray. It looks like an obstacle course. The rat master stands at the other end of the room, looking at him over the tables.
"When you are ready," he says.
Mike blinks several times. "I don't know what to do," he whispers.
"You will," Splinter says quietly. "Whenever you're ready."
He takes a deep breath, hands clenching and unclenching. The paper was all right, the glass, the wood...he knows what to do with those. But he's just not sure what to do...
Start with the pieces, his mind whispers. That should make it easier.
He looks at a piece of pottery. Looks at it. The thing edges to the surface, the creature that moved like water and struck quickly.
He's lifting the bowl. It moves to the end of the table, totters, and holds in mid-air. He's unaware that he has almost stopped breathing with the effort.
He feels the thing inside pull back and gather, holds it steady. Pulls back. Pulls back.
Releases.
The power's out like a shot, and the clay bowl explodes. He flinches.
Okay, so maybe that was a little too much. Go slower next time.
He looks at another bowl, more like a vase. Why not be creative with this one? He brings his hands up and clenches them together. Shiver. The vase shivers.
Vibration. Like the plucking of a bass guitar string. Shiver. Hold. Hold.
He pulls his hands away, and the vase cracks, half of it splitting and falling away. Brings his hands together with a clap, and the rest of it falls to pieces.
He does that with the rest of the figures, some with his hands, some without. It sounds like a shooting gallery in a pottery class. Splinter comes forward and stands near him, watching.
Mike's breathing hard, almost panting. Sweat is forming in tiny droplets on his skin. He feels his body temperature rise, and wonders why it had dropped in the first place. But his heart is pounding like a drum, and his lungs are racing for air that had seemed to stop passing in and out. He feels like a marathon runner. His stomach growls.
Okay, he thinks. So what just happened?
He looks at Splinter, who suddenly has a glass of water in one hand and a plate of bread in the other. Then Mike notices the far table with the food on it. He almost giggles. Bread and water--it seems strange. But Splinter isn't laughing.
"Here," he says, handing it over. "You're probably wondering why you feel tired."
Mike nods.
"When a runner completes a race, his body goes through several necessary alterations to compensate for the energy burn. Perspiration and respiration increase, as does heart rate. He must then consume a great deal of water, along with enough carbohydrates to replenish his body."
Mike listens carefully, going through the food as though he were starving. He doesn't even notice.
"It is similar to this, I suppose," Splinter goes on. "Your body is burning energy that is coming from nowhere and is apparently going nowhere. But you burn a great deal in a short time, and your body assumes it has been put through great physical labor." He cocks his head. "Does that make sense, my son?"
Mike nods, now rooting through the pasta and the fruit. He's never felt so hungry. And yet he doesn't feel full, not even after he's eaten as much as he could. He doesn't feel the food weighing him down inside. He just feels like running again and again, for miles and miles. But he also doesn't feel hungry anymore. It's a very strange feeling.
When Splinter sees he is through, he leads him back to the middle of the room and shows him the paper and woodchips in the metal tray.
"I have been researching this," he explains. "Donatello has been gathering information for me. From what I have read, it seems that along with telekinesis, another power has been known to occur in many cases--rare, but dangerous."
Mike looks at him now, frowning. "Dangerous?"
Splinter nods solemnly. "It is called 'pyrokinesis'. Firestarting."
And then he doesn't need to explain any more. Mike's eyes widen; he nods slowly, suddenly scared. He knows it's inside him. He knows what he could be capable of. And now he knows why Splinter has the glass, those woodchips and torn-up newspapers in the metal tray.
Splinter has stepped back now, his eyes solemn. Slowly, Mike walks forward and places two of the glass pieces next to each other so that they touch. Steps back a little.
This time, it's more of a push than a flex. He pushes, and feels something rush past him, a wash of heat. He anchors it, leashes it, and it spirals outward, leaping like an animal trying to clear a fence. The glass has now fused together. It's a little frightening. He glances over and sees a few bars of metal he hadn't noticed before.
He knows what I can do...is this why he's making me do this?
Splinter gives no reply. Mike wants to look away, walk away, but he knows he can't. He looks at one of the rods.
Flex.
The metal hovers above the table, and he holds it, shaking a little.
Push.
It begins to bend, continues to bend until it's a ring. He pushes again, harder. The ends melt together, welded. It all happens so quickly. He's trying to not show he's scared. The metal ring clatters to the table. The other one is bending now; not just bending but twisting, writhing, and he twists it so that it it's a U-shape and welds it together. By now there are tears running down his cheeks.
Don't stop now, it's getting good...
Silently, he turns to the tray and pushes out. The flames start immediately.
And then he can't watch anymore; drops to his knees and tries to hold back the tears, but it comes out in a flood. He's always been the emotional one, but this is beyond emotion. This is fear.
The sound of water pouring. He looks up. Splinter is pouring the water pitcher over the tray. Steam hisses and rises. Slowly, he stands up. Splinter sets the pitcher down and walks up to him, putting his hands on Mike's shoulders.
"Now you understand," he says quietly.

Two graves in the cemetery.
"I'm sorry I haven't visited much lately," she said. "I've been busy. You know, school and all. But I wanted you to know you were right."
Kneeling in front of them, she smiled, her throat closing. "Daddy, you were right. Those experiments they did on you guys worked. I mean, they worked. It's for real now, Daddy. I'm a scientific experiment. I just wish I could have seen it sooner. Maybe I could have stopped them from--"
Choking, she reached out and touched the name carved into one of the markers. "I miss you guys, Mom. And now I feel even more guilty. But I'm learning now. I made a new friend. He's like me. He's teaching me how to use it. Then maybe I can do what Dad wanted to do, and take care of it. Shut them down. Tommy says it's nobody's fault, but it has to be someone's--"
A hand touched her shoulder. "Revenge is a dish best eaten cold," Tommy said quietly.
She blinked. "That's a new one."
"Old Spanish proverb."
"Oh. And it's not revenge."
"Then what is it?"
She couldn't answer.
He gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. "They loved you, Carrie. They'll always be in here." He touched her just above the breast. "Dammit, I love you."
A smile lit her eyes. "That's the first time you said that."
"I love you," he repeated. "Say it back."
She lowered her eyes. "I love you too."
"Look at me, Carrie."
She looked into his eyes. "I love you."
"Then leave it alone."
Swallowing, she leaned against his chest. "I can't, Tommy. You know that."
And deep down, he did. Sighing, he crouched at the graves, picked up a handful of earth, and sprinkled it over the grass.

He walked back in and sat down. They looked at him curiously but didn't say anything. April handed him a glass of ginger ale. "Sounded like you were taking a shower."
He shrugged. "Something like that."
"You didn't use up the hot water, did you?"
Mike almost grinned at that. "Nope. Don't worry about it." Leaning back, he took a sip. "So, what's on the tube?"
"Nature program," Don replied.
"'Bout what?"
"Earthquakes, volcanoes, that kinda thing."
"Uh huh." He put the drink down on the coffee table and suddenly thought about earthquakes. Ground cracking open, earth flying up, the world swallowing itself like a Midgard serpent. He thought about the planet going to pieces.
I wonder if--someday--I could blow it up. Just like that. No need for nuclear weapons, I got one in my head. I wonder if I could crack the earth in two.
He shook his head. God, what a horrible thought! That would never happen. Could never happen.
I wonder...if I could do something to the sun.
Mentally, he slapped himself. Just because there was a lot of destruction in his head didn't mean he had to use it.
Of course not.
He took another sip of ginger ale. On the screen, the earth was splitting apart and swallowing entire houses.
I could probably fix that up, he thought. Close up the earth and hold it together. Someday. I bet I could do a lot to help people. One day. I bet I could help clean up nature, make it the way it used to be. In time.
Mike felt a little better.

Jensen had never really considered what kind of man John Hatcher was. At least, not until he appeared in the doorway of Hatcher's office with the latest printout.
He didn't say anything for a minute; his throat almost constricted. He felt as if saying something would somehow provoke some crouched beast hiding somewhere, waiting to rip his throat out.
Hatcher stood at the window, hands behind his back.
Perfectly still.
He was a tall man, tall enough to tower over most. Black hair cropped short like a raven's wing, the blood of his Apache father in his skin. He simply stood there. Eyes in the back of his head.
"Hello, Frank," he said. "Come on in."
The agent came to him. "Here it is."
"Thanks. You can go now."
Jensen almost breathed a sigh of relief.
"Wait," Hatcher said.
The man stopped, bit his lip. The beast in the corner gleamed yellow eyes at him.
Hatcher turned to face him. "The girl. How soon can you get her?"
"Not long," Jensen said. "Couple of days or so."
Nodding slowly, Hatcher looked down at the papers. "That's what I figured."
Jensen was practically hopping on one foot to get out of there, but the beast in the corner was staring at him with sleepy, watchful eyes.
"Did you need anything else, John?"
"No," he said quietly. "Thank you, Frank."
"Thank you." Jensen turned and managed to walk out still holding his composure together. Hatcher watched him go, then smiled. In the corner, the beast rose, stretched, and grinned with him.
Going over to his desk, Hatcher picked up a small pile of photographs. He shuffled through them until he found a close-up, could see the posture and the stance, the way the muscles tensed, ready for anything. It had been a windy day, so the tails of the orange bandanna were caught flying. The head was turned slightly, and Hatcher could see two deep marks on the left shoulder--what looked like the remnant scars of bullet wounds.
How interesting, he thought. He sat down at the desk, picked up the printouts, and began to read.

"We go out into the world and take our chances," he sang softly along with Rush. "Fate is just the weight of circumstances. That's the way that lady luck dances. Roll the bones..."
When they had come back from April's, he had actually been skipping, moving to an unheard beat in his head, smiling. Even Leo and been grinning at what seemed like old antics, the way it used to be.
Why are we here? Because we're here, roll the bones. Why does it happen? Because it happens, roll the bones. Roll the bones...
He jumped onto his bed and laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Who gave a crap if there weren't any "real" psychics in the world? Skeptics weren't going to turn anyway. He might as well just accept it. No one would truly accept mutant turtles, anyway. Not the whole world.
Fuck you, his mind whispered. You are real. So is she. So are a bunch of people.
He sat up. A hardcover book was lying on Donatello's bed across the room. He held out his hands and the book obediently flew toward them. Something about ESP. Donnie reading up on ESP. How interesting. He grinned.
He wasn't grinning three seconds later when the room disappeared and all he could see was blackness and the cold glint of iron bars.

Filling one glass with water, he sets the two of them on the table and takes a seat. Folds his hands in front and looks at them. Just looks.
The power stirs awake, stretching, and obediently makes its way to the surface. It wants to get out, needs to get out; he just hasn't had the time--or the confidence--to let it. Even with a harness.
The filled glass lifts an inch, shivers, and tips so that the rim touches the rim of the empty glass. The water glides. Half and half. He sets them back down.
And then suddenly the other thing is awake, wide awake, trotting to the surface and racing wildly around in its cage. One big prison. One big lighter. His head starts to hurt.
Damn you, he thinks. Get back!
Of course it won't listen. Now that it's awake, it wants to play.
Okay. Fine.
He gets up and makes cocoa in a ceramic mug. It's not hot. But it will be.
Just a little. Just let it out a little...
He sits back down and looks into the mug, concentrating. Opens the door. The power flows easily, steadily, and for an instant--for a terrifying fraction of a second--he starts to lose control and watches as the cocoa boils and scalds, almost growling. The edge of the tablecloth begins to char.
No! Stay back! Get BACK, damn you!
He slumps in the chair, shaking a little. Best that the others don't know about it. It's best they don't know...

Donatello stood on the corner, holding the neck of his trench coat closed, glancing furtively around. No one was looking. He hurried across the street, weaving through the crowds, until finally he came to the massive building just up ahead. The internet didn't have enough information. Maybe the public library would.
He doubted it. But this wasn't just for his brother anymore.
Chemically induced psi experiments. If that's not grounds for a horror movie, I don't know what is. But if it turns out to be real...say goodbye, world...
Opening the doors, he made his way inside and upstairs.

In the distance, something crashed, something began to pound, over and over. Crash. He fled along twisting hallways, into shadows that reached and grasped with cold hands. Alarms blared overhead, voices shouting, and he knew that if he didn't find it in time they were all dead. Doors loomed ahead of him, so many doors in one pulsing hallway; he remembered the forbidden one and threw his weight against it, knowing what was inside and yet desperate to get away...he'd take the risk...if it meant them getting out alive, he'd take the risk...
And far behind, footsteps and alarms and gunshots, and they were coming closer; the door gave away and he tripped across the threshold...blood on the walls and screams in the air, cries of the long dead, and he scrambled for the living room, the oak wood desk, crouching behind it, waiting. He stared at the door, stared, realizing it wasn't locked, he'd forgotten to lock it...turned the lock and secured it just as the pounding began, the gunshots, the danger...and all the while the thing that could destroy them all was pounding in his head, screaming to be released...
The door burst open, and the man with no face was there, with a gun in his hand and a deadly glimmer in the yellow cat eyes...

Mike jerked, heart pounding, as images roared past him into the distance. Now they were coming while he was awake. How convenient. He thought about shadowed figures, eyes gleaming in the dark--and then the shadow exploded.

"An abandoned mansion," he murmured aloud, staring at the page. "Shit."
If he had been told that a day ago he wouldn't have believed it. But in the face of all that had happened, it only seemed logical, in a twisted sort of way. No government office building. A mansion. Project headquarters was an old mansion in the Catskills. So big it was almost a hotel. Holy shit.
And I'll bet it's just full of ghosts, too, Don thought grimly, flipping through the book again. How convenient.
Passing a weary hand over his eyes, he began to read a little more.

Crouched on the roof of April's building, Raphael watched the city below, the darkness, waiting for a wrong movement, a sudden jerk, a scream in the night. So far, it had been quiet. Enough for him to start thinking. He wasn't sure if that was such a good thing. Sometimes, now, thinking made him remember. And there was one memory in particular he didn't want to relive.
Felt like my heart had just been ripped out, that's how bad it was...seeing him lying there, this time really dead, broken and dead...an' I thought I was gonna die too, just fall down and give up. My brother...friend...my best friend...he was dead, goddammit, he was dead, and I couldn't do anything to--
And then the alien minds, surging, thunderstorm, driving him onward and inward, and he had felt it, had felt his little brother's fading soul and stilled heart...
And it had hurt. Even when Mike had started breathing again, it had hurt. It still hurt. Just the knowledge that it had happened, that one of them had really bought the farm-- that the one who really meant anything at all to him had bought it--that had been a knife in his gut. Nobody was immortal. They all bled. They died too. He had never really thought about it before.
We can die if we're not careful. We can get ourselves killed so easily...and here I am, pulling off all these hair-raising stunts; Mr. Look-Before-I-Leap...and Mikey's the one who gets it. It could have been me. Damn it, it SHOULD have been me! Mikey didn't deserve it, he doesn't deserve it now...I should've been there to save him, I--
But beating himself up about it wasn't going to change anything. Every time he looked at the scars lining Michaelangelo's skin, guilt was a bitter blade in his chest, but feeling guilty wasn't going to do anything. A killer was dead, a life avenged and restored. And yet, every time he closed his eyes and saw the blood on the kitchen floor, all the blood and the motionless body...
I should be there for him now. Dammit, Raphael, he's your best friend!
A cry pierced the darkness and he jerked, eyes scouring the shadows. A struggle down below. He began to smile.
He may be a lousy caregiver, but at least he could protect people. That was all that mattered.
Like protecting your best friend from his own demons? From your demons?
He gripped his sai, shoved the tiny voice into the back of his head, and hurried down to do his work.

Leonardo swung his arms slowly, knees barely bent, sweeping the bird's tail. His breath flowed in and out with the rhythm, and he at last began to feel relaxed. Tai chi was probably the best type of stress reliever there was.
He went slowly, finishing the moves with a sweep of the arms, crossing them over his chest, flying outward like a crane. Standing there for a minute, getting back into the world, he rolled his shoulders back and forth, then sat down on the bench, flexing. A glint of metal caught his eye, and he saw one of his katana propped against the far wall. Thought about getting up to take it and practice, but his muscles were all too ready to rest after the workout. He stared longingly at the sword, and heard his brother's voice three months ago.

"Boy, that looks exhausting," Mike comments, leaning against the dojo's doorframe. "Why don't you just stick to tai chi chuan?"
"This is more gratifying," Leo grunts, punching at the air. "Besides, I usually do tai chi before the workouts."
"Uh huh." Mike comes over to the bench and sits down, watching him.
Leonardo stops and turns, looking at him. "Is this your way of asking to spar with me?"
Mike just shrugs. "Are you asking?"
Leo sighs. "Fine, okay. Hand me my katana? It's up against the wall."
Michaelangelo doesn't move. He looks at the sword, head cocked as if in amusement.
"Mikey? Didn't you hear me?"
"I heard, bro." Mike waves him back. "I'm getting it."
Leonardo stops moving. "Getting up would make it easier."
"For you, anyway." Calmly, Mike stretches out his hand to the sword as though it were right there. Leo blinks, takes a step back, as the sword suddenly is right there-- hurling itself across the room to settle in Mike's outstretched hand.
"Here ya go." Standing, Mike gives it to him, then takes his chucks out of his belt.
"Th-thanks."
They begin, and that's when Leo realizes that he can't hit his brother; that the blade never touches him. It's not that Mike steps away fast enough, it's that the sword doesn't even come near him...
He strikes again, harder, and of course Mike meets his blows, but something is different-- faster, more fluid. And then, with a sudden flick, the katana is wrenched out of his hand. Only Mike isn't standing close enough to grab it.
Leo stares at him, and Michaelangelo stares back, calm as ever.
"Wanna go again?" he asks, and then he smiles. For some reason, Leo has trouble smiling back.