Shadow Rising

12. Emotion

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

He waited until she was out the door and down the steps, and then hurried to intercept her at the car.
She had just put the key in the door—
“Dr. Blake?”
“Yes? Oh... it’s you again, I didn’t think I’d—”
He closed a hand around her arm; she noticed suddenly how huge and thick and green it was...
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Jack was right. You’re...”
“My name is Donatello,” he said quickly. “And my brother needs your help.”

“Where are you?”
“Quicksilver Labs, just like Mike said.”
“We’ll be right there,” Leo said, and hung up the phone.
Raph and Mike stopped tussling long enough to come over. “Was that Don?” Mike asked.
Leo nodded. “He found Dr. Blake. They’re at her lab right now.”
Raphael glanced at his younger brother and grinned. “Road trip.”

“I just can’t believe the theory was right,” she said, sipping the coffee carefully. “I mean, you’re here.And your brother—Michaelangelo—how did you say he got it again?”
“Alien radiation,” Don said. “Although knowing Mike, it was probably just there all along. He’s always been sensitive like that, in the empathic sense.”
Sandra nodded, put the mug down. “Can I—just a little... can I touch you, again?” she asked. “I just want to feel...”
He smiled quickly, offered his hand across the table. She took it, studied the palm, the fingers, the lines in the skin, and Don found himself growing rather warm and comfortable, sitting here with her touching his hand, watching him, not afraid. Her hair was like burnt autumn tumbling in waves, and he thought about it getting in her face when she worked, or when she wore glasses... he’d never seen hair like that.
“You’ve got great hair,” he said suddenly, and clamped his beak shut. Sandra glanced up, surprised.
“Well... thanks. I usually don’t get that much often, but thanks...”
She finished looking at his hand and put it back down on the table, gently. Then she picked up a manila folder. “This is the stuff Dr. Akira—Jack—has been coming up with for the past couple weeks. They should probably look familiar to you, at least.”
Don took the folder, opened it, began rifling through the sketches. “He’s good.”
Sandra smiled. “One of the best.”
Something in her tone made him look up. “You like him?”
There was a quick pause, and she looked down. “I guess. I don’t know. He’s my research partner; we tend to get close in this line of work.”
“You’re avoiding the question,” grinned Don.
She grinned back. “I know. It’s deliberate.”
“No kidding.” They laughed, then, and Don put the drawings back in the folder, until one in particular caught his eye...

In the back seat, Mike leaned his forehead against the window and watched the trees. Trees didn’t think. Birds thought, but the minds of birds were small and simple. Thank god the M’Kari radiation came with built-in shields. He would have killed himself long ago. Or stayed dead...
Whoops. Thinking about that again. Thinking about... god... I can’t...
He swallowed hard. That’s not fair.
The ghost with a thousand faces shook its head. Life never is.
No, he thought. Life is life. You gotta deal with the shit it gives you. You gotta make the best of it.
But you aren’t doing that.
I try!
Not anymore.
I still try! I still...
He clenched his fists, and only when Raph touched his shoulder did he feel the tears running down his face.

“...something wrong?”
He blinked. Sandra’s face was only inches away, frowning. “Is something wrong?” she repeated.
Don didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Why did he draw— unless... I mean... Mike never...
He ran a finger over the sketch slowly. In what looked like the belly of a shadow, Michaelangelo’s huddled figure crouched, hands over his head, eyes wide and staring and streaming dark lines of pencil-drawn blood down his face.

I could say I’m sorry.
Why bother? What difference would it make anyway?
More than you know...
He took off his glasses and put the sketch pad away. They were waiting for him.

They pushed open the double doors and met Don and the woman halfway down the hall. Raphael sniffed. “I thought it’d look more like a hospital.”
“Most people get that impression,” said Dr. Blake. “Come on, I’ll show you the rooms.”
The first viewing room was tiny, maybe half the size of a bathroom. Chair like something out of a dentist’s office; table, lights, monitors. There was an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Sandra noticed Raph twitching his hands, and smiled faintly.
“Everyone feels that effect when they’re in here,” she said. “The claustrophobia goes away once you’re relaxed enough. There’s red light and black light; we want to give the impression of being back in the womb.”
“So this is the smallest room?” Leo asked. She nodded.
The next one was much bigger, more yellows and whites. The third was bathed in shades of blue, black, almost eerie. They all had the same equipment, but much different feels.
“What’s with the color schemes?” asked Don.
“Different colored lights produce various psychological and physiological responses,” Sandra explained. “Some are used for relaxation, some are used to excite or motivate the subject. There’s also white noise involved, always. Usually the psychics who work here prefer the blue room, especially during long assignments.”
“Assignments?” Mike repeated, sounding anxious.
She smiled. “All those movies and stories about government psychic spies and astral travel can’t be wrong.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
They turned to leave, and were met by a tall, slim Japanese man holding a manila folder. “Jack,” Sandra said, sounding pleasantly surprised. “These are the turtles.”
“I know.” Jack smiled in a way that showed he knew much more. “Pleased to meet you all. I’m Dr. Akira.”
“Likewise,” Leo said, and offered his hand.
Jack grasped it, and Leo automatically jerked— there was a faint, warm tingle up his arm, a buzzing in his head, and then it was gone.
He caught confused glances from Raph and Don. Mike wasn’t even paying attention. He and Jack were eye to eye, hands half raised as though poised to touch. Mike slowly folded his arms, looking incredibly relaxed. Jack was half-leaning on his right leg, eyebrow raised. Then, abruptly, they both burst out laughing.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mike chuckled.
Jack was shaking his head. “I’m serious. What was I supposed to do? She was, what, five? What are you supposed to say to a kid like that?”
Mike tilted his head, eyes skyward. “Hmm... oh, I dunno... duck?”
That set them both off again, and Raphael cleared his throat loudly. “Um, guys, not to spoil the fun, but the rest of us can’t read minds here.”
“Oh... sorry,” Mike said, still grinning.
“Just something my niece did once,” Jack added.
Raph opened his mouth, then nodded once, very slowly. “I see.”
“Sorry,” Mike mumbled, fist at his mouth. “I don’t usually, y’know, get to do that often.”
Jack smiled. “I know that feeling.”
“It was weird. I haven’t done it since... since Carrie.”
Jack’s grin slipped a notch. “Oh. Right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Mike said quickly, and turned. “Not your fault.”
He cracked his knuckles absently. Jack’s thoughts went gray—he found himself staring at a brick wall covered by mist. He really couldn’t blame the kid. Death was just another part of life.

It did not make him look like a pirate.
It made him look like a hunter.
Which was fine. He smiled. Hunting was what he did best anyway.
The black patch itself was made of cotton, lined with silk for the feel. He ran his fingers down the scars lining his left cheek, circled the tip of his finger around the covered, spoiled eye itself.
I hate you, boy, you know that? I hate you.
Hate was a very strong thing. He normally didn’t need to waste his time feeling it. But he felt it now. There had been death. Everything had been destroyed. So there would be death again.
But not on his side of the fence.
The right side of his face, the good side, twisted as his lips curved in a strangely grotesque smile.
“They’re wrong,” he told his reflection pleasantly. “I don’t look like a pirate. But if that’s what my nature seems to be, then I can live with that.”
Pirates who plunder and rape. Pirates who take no prisoners and steal from those who would never see it coming. Pirates who kill without remorse.
His reflection grinned back.

Metal wall reflecting. For an instant, just a brief, agonizing instant, his face was not his face. Eyepatch. Scars. Not my face, he knew. He knew. Not mine.
Step by step, toward the main viewing room, a heartbeat behind the group. He closed off, even to Jack, to Raph. Walls. He needed to search.
Walls.
He needed to know.
Walls.
A sound of fluttering black wings, beating against a cracked window in his head.
Black.
Walls.
Silence.
Death.
A cold finger down his spine, a sound like ice breaking.
Hatcher, he thought.
John Hatcher is back.
Suddenly, walls were not enough.

Leo whirled as his brother pitched forward; he could see Michaelangelo’s hands, against the metal wall, transparent like a ghost, sliding. His face, strange colors in Leo’s head. Eyes were like walls.
He suddenly remembered a song he’d once heard. Peter Gabriel.

Looking down on empty streets, all she can see, are the dreams all made solid, are the dreams all made real. All of the buildings, all of those cars, were once just a dream in somebody's head. She pictures the broken glass, she pictures the steam, she pictures a soul, with no leak at the seam.

“Mike?” he asked, slow motion, moving. “What’s wrong?”
Hand to his head, Mike looked at him, eyes midnight pools.

Let’s take the boat out, wait until darkness. Let's take the boat out, wait until darkness comes.

“It’s okay,” his brother said hoarsely. “Just got dizzy.”
“Are you sure?” Don chimed in. “You look... ”
Different, they all thought. All in unison. Transparent. Like you’re not supposed to be here. Be anywhere. Be here.

Nowhere in the corridors of pale green and grey. Nowhere in the suburbs, in the cold light of day. There in the midst of it, so alive and alone, words support like bone.

Michaelangelo shut his eyes and recited poetry, silently, his own words, his own chicken-scratch scribblings in a dozen notebooks.

Pulling out the papers from the drawers that slide smooth, tugging at the darkness, word upon word.

Words support like bone, he thought. The song Leo was mentally singing. Mercy Street, where’d they move that sign? Dreaming of mercy, in your daddy’s arms again.
“I’m fine,” he said again, and Jack took his arm gently, helping him into the room with the rest of them.

What do you look for when you dream?
What do you see when you sleep with one eye open?
Where do your nightmares breed?
Strapped to the chair, electrodes cold and tingling, and Sandra and Jack at the controls in the booth. Paper and pencil on the table.
Experiment. Draw what you see. What do you want me to see?
It doesn’t matter. Anything. Whatever comes. We’re testing for reception. What’s behind the black curtain? Your target. But don’t look for it. Let it come to you.
Dream.
What do you see?
Close your eyes.
Take your time.
Let it take over. Don’t be afraid.
Deep breath.
I am not afraid.
Fear kills.
I’ve already been dead.
Fear is the ultimate road. Don’t strive to control it, strive to understand it. Work with it. What are you afraid of?
Dreams.
Why?
Truth.
Dreams don’t always speak the truth.
Speak for yourself.
I am. I am you.
The ghost with a thousand faces.
He lost hold on his mind, and fell.

Falling.

Donatello watched from the control booth as his brother slumped in the chair. On the monitors, respiration and heartbeat began a strange, staccato dance. Falling, rising, plummeting, soaring. Steady.
Steady.
One. Beat.
Two. Breath.
Three. Beat.
Four Breath.
Memory.
Illusion.
Emotion.
Mind dance.
Behind him, Jack let out a gasp.
“What is it?” asked Sandra.
“He’s in deep,” Jack whispered. “I’ve never seen a trance that deep. And he put himself there.”
“Where... is he?” Raphael asked, behind a clenched, semi-frantic jaw.
Jack shook his head. “I’m trying to follow. I’m trying...”
Don tuned them out, watched the monitors. They were dancing. Mike’s brain was dancing. There were sections lit up, molten color, bright and beautiful—sections of the mind he never dreamed could ever awaken, could ever be active. Parts of the brain long hidden and stored away in the primal recesses of forgotten memory.
Where are you, Mikey? he thought in fascination, hand pressed to the glass. I would love to go with you.
And inside, somewhere tucked away in the very bowels of his consciousness, his brother’s whisper trailed, ragged, on an electric wind.
No, Donnie. You wouldn’t. Not in my head.
He shuddered. He didn’t know why.

Falling.

Down.

And opened them.

Falling.

Back.

“Welcome back,” an amplified voice said. Microphone. The control booth. Sandra.
“Was I gone?” he asked sleepily.
“For about fifteen minutes. Where were you?”
Mike smiled. “Nowhere in particular.
“Did you get the target?”
“A bird,” he said. “Two. A crane and a raven. Took me a while, though,”
He felt her smile. “Good job. Jack’ll help you out of that, and you can come over here and tell us where you went.”

In the silent, gray ravine of thought, there was a flutter of black wings.

Onto Chapter Thirteen