“Mike--” Raph gripped his brother’s arms, panic in his throat. Michaelangelo's skin
felt like ice. But his eyes were…No, Raphael realized. Not dead—he wasn’t dead. Raph
pressed a hand to his neck. Pulse was slow. He was barely breathing.
“Mike,” he said again, like a plea. “Come on, come back. You’re scaring me, bro,
please…”
He slipped a hand around the back of Michaelangelo’s neck, lifting head and shoulders,
trying not to look at the eyes, the dead eyes…a line from a T.S. Eliot poem suddenly
popped into his head.
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear.
“Shit,” he gasped. “Damn it…”
He propped Mike’s limp figure against the bedside, taking the stony face in his hands.
“Mike, you better be in there, do you hear me? Wake up, damn it, wake up--
”
A violent shudder gripped Mike suddenly and his eyes sparked, snapping into focus but
still…not all there yet; and Raph could hear it again—the screaming.
“Too dark,” Mike said gutturally. “No good. Too dark…winding…paths…maze,
labyrinth…fucking mansion…hotel…ghosts, sh-shadowwws…”
Raphael slapped him lightly, but he shuddered again and clenched his teeth, moaning.
“House burnin’,” he murmured. “On fire…fire…everything’s burning…and they’re dead,
they’re dead, they’re dead, they’re deeeeeeeaaaaaad--”
His voice rose to a low howl, a sound of pain and terror, and Raphael gripped his jaw so
hard he feared his fingers would bruise the skin. “Mike,” he gasped, eyes wide. “Mike,
snap out of it!”
“Mike?” Leonardo was there suddenly, behind him, his mouth open, staring. “My god
Raph, what’s wrong with him?!”
Raphael looked up, eyes desperate. “I don’t know! Dammit, he’s never--”
“It’s burning,” Michaelangelo gasped suddenly. “Get out—no time…Everything’s on
fire…no time…dead…dead…”
Raphael struck him again, as hard as he could. Mike’s head rocked back, and then
suddenly his eyes were clear and filled with hurt, staring at Raph, staring into
him; and Raphael suddenly felt a wave of heat close in on him, like being trapped in an
oven.
What the fuck…Then suddenly it passed, and Mike went limp. Raph and Leo
looked at each other, still terribly confused, and darkness crossed Raphael's thoughts
again.
It was something none of them really wanted to talk about, let alone remember. Mike still occasionally slept with a tiny light near his bed, not so much as to chase shadows away, but to keep the ones in his head at bay. But darkness never did listen to pleas.
He’s standing there, half-turned to head into the kitchen, holding an empty soda can,
when the violent chill hits him…the sense of something wrong, terribly wrong; the
dreamy, half-remembered terror from the nightmare…he’s scared but can’t explain
why…
"Mike?" Leonardo’s staring at him, getting up. He knows he’s gone white. "What's
wrong?"
He tries to offer a smile. It doesn’t work. The terror’s getting stronger. "N-nothing," he
stammers. "Uh...I just...all of a sudden I got that same feeling from the dream. I-it's
probably nothing." He manages a tiny smile. "I'll be right back."
He puts the can down and goes toward the kitchen, feeling as if some nameless beast is
waiting for him, with blood on it’s jaws…his brain’s screaming at him not to move. The
nightmare seems far away.
He steps into the kitchen. Empty. Like a tomb?
Walking all the way in, he hears a metal click behind him, and, slowly, turns.
There’s
the black barrel of a gun pointing at his face.
“Which one are you?” a low, grating voice murmurs. Later, that voice would haunt his
nightmares.
He can’t answer. He can’t move. His mouth opens, his eyes trained on the gun. They’re
not playing games.
“I think he’s the one we want,” someone else says. “Remember, they said the mask was
orange.”
Mike blinks, finally finding his voice. It comes out in a whisper. “H-how did you get…in
here?”
“Top secret,” the voice says, smiling. He has time to notice the metal arm, the
face, to realize it’s a cyborg; they all are. He has time to consider the dream and the
feeling of horror it had brought. He has time to think of his brothers.
Oh—
The cyborg’s finger tightens on the trigger.
“Trust me,” he grins. “You won’t feel a thing.”
--Shit.
Then there’s a terrible roar, a flash of heat and light, and the feeling of
being punched by a lead fist. It takes him a split second to realize what’s
happening
(oh my god he shot me i've been shot)
before pain rips through him like a firestorm and he’s knocked back, head cracking
against the wall, stars behind his eyes--
No no no no no…
There’s another roar, more precise, and the punch again; and then he feels it…feels
something inside him shatter, something wet spill out and slide down his skin…knocks
him back again and this time he falls, hitting the floor, falling into a shallow pool of
something
(it’s red, crimson, looks like blood…oh my god it’s my blood)
that looks suspiciously like red paint and that’s already growing. Eyesight blurs. He feels
so cold, lying there on his shattered side, listening to his breath dragging in and out.
Breathing hurts. He wishes he could stop. It’s all happening in slow motion. He can hear
yelling now. Raph, Don, the cyborgs…he can hear the clash of sword and metal. Feels
almost peaceful now, so sleepy…dreamy…he watches shadows flicker in the distance,
going farther away…
He can see, distantly, Leonardo and Splinter crouched over a body—his body. Blood is
everywhere. Just…blood. All over the place.
God, what an awful mess! And it’s all mine, too. Hope I don’t die.
His body is a mess, the left shoulder ripped open and slick with crimson. He can even see
the bone. It’s getting blurry now, but…
Is Leo crying? That’s a tear, isn’t it? Oh
god, Leo, I’m sorry…
As if underwater he hears Leo's thoughts,
(Don't die, Mike. Please. Hold
on)
and emotion wells up in a stranglehold. Leo is gripping his--the body's--hand so hard, but
he can't feel it, can't feel anything…
He closes his eyes, and it all disappears. No
sight, no sound, no feeling, no anything. He lies back and drifts, not even caring anymore.
Not until voices start again, murmuring, and pain ripples through him, and he knows he's
not in Kansas anymore.
Tommy opened his eyes and found himself lying on the ground a few feet away from
a tree and a wrecked car.
(hey that's my car--)
Getting to his knees, he felt himself over--head, legs, ribs. Just bruised
But…
Carrie--where's Carrie?
And then he remembered.
Son of a bitch--
The gunshot. The tire. The tree.
They found us. They have Carrie. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
Staggering to his feet, Tommy began to run.
"What?" Looking up at them, he frowned, trying to figure out what he was doing on
the floor, propped against his bed. "What's goin' on?"
Raphael stared at him for a second, then suddenly gripped his shoulders so hard Mike
winced.
"Don't ever do that to me again," Raph hissed, and there was so much depth in his eyes
Mike nearly drowned.
"You bastards," Carrie spat. She meant it, too.
"Careful," Hatcher said. "Don't want to get yourself worked up."
Her eyes followed him like predators. "Why did you do it?"
Feigning innocence, he turned. "Do what?"
Something inside her seemed to burst. "Why did you kill my parents, you cheap
prick?"
That made him laugh. He threw back his head and tears formed in his eyes. "Oh, I'd
hardly call myself cheap, sweetie. Truth of the matter is, I didn't kill them. The system
did. Don't you know the system by now, Caroline?"
She didn't answer, but on a nearby shelf, things were shaking and cracking.
"Careful now," Hatcher said. "Don't want to blow off everything he taught you."
Her eyes grew wide, face paled. And then the intuition was on her.
"You don't really want me," she whispered. "You want Mike."
"Is that what he's called? I'll remember that." Hatcher untied her and helped her up from
the chair. "There's a room set up for you upstairs. I'll have one of the men escort
you."
She shot him a venomous look. "Why bother?"
Hatcher smiled. The beast smiled. "Wouldn't you want to be comfortable when
everything starts happening?"
If she could have hit him, she would have. "Go to hell."
Hatcher said nothing. But as the man beside him took her arm and led her away, he
smiled again. She was still feeling that shark's grin at her back when she was at the door
of her prison.
Splashing his way through the sewers, Don clutched the books to his plastron.
Borrowed with April’s card, of course; he still wasn’t sure if he should really get his own.
Maybe one day. Donatello Hamato. April’s address, of course. But for now…
Besides, she’d kill me if I ever lost the card.
He pushed the door open and walked in. Everybody was sitting at the kitchen table, and
as Don took it in, taking off his coat, Splinter pushed a mug of what looked like very
strong stuff in front of Michaelangelo.
“Um, hi. Did…I miss something?”
Leonardo glanced up. “Hey, Donny.”
Don pulled up a chair and sat. “What time is it?”
“Probably around seven.” Leo looked up at the wall clock.
Donatello looked across the table. Mike was gingerly sipping the drink, making a rather
horrible face as he swallowed. “Gahh…Master, I don’t think now’s the best time to get
me drunk.”
The rat merely cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Whiskey does have a strong flavor when
mixed.”
Raphael’s eyes widened. “You gave him whiskey?”
“We have whiskey?” Leonardo added.
“Could someone please tell me what’s going on?” Donatello asked.
Mike choked a
little as the drink went down the wrong pipe, and coughed, spluttering. “’Kay…kay, I’m
okay now. Aghh. Damn, that’s strong.”
“What’s in there, anyway?” Raphael
asked.
“Herbs, spices, broth, brandy…an assortment.” Splinter took the half-empty mug and set
it aside.
“I knew it,” Mike groaned. “He’s tryin’ to get me drunk. Splinter’s a closet
party animal.”
The corner of Splinter’s mouth twitched. “I am sure. How do you feel?”
“Um, confused?” Michaelangelo said. “Ask Raph, he’s the one who smacked me.”
Raphael rubbed a hand over his eyes. “God, you really don’t remember…Fine. I came in
and you were lying on the floor looking dead. Eyes wide open. Do you know how
freakin’ badly that scared me?”
“Umm…I got an idea…”
“Then you started…talking. Or something. I mean, one minute, you were gone,
next minute you were…it was like a trance.”
“Wait…gone?” Mike’s head snapped
up. “Oh. Okay, I get it.”
“Astral projection?” Don asked, catching on.
Mike shook his head. “Uh, not really. I
just…go somewhere else. Not out there. In my own head. You know, like a
different…uh, perspective.”
“Telepathy? Premonition? Remote viewing?”
“Jeez,
Donnie, since when did you become J.B. Rhine?” Raphael looked up. “Well, Mike? Are
you going to explain or what?”
Michaelangelo reached for the mug and looked down
at it, his jaw clenched. “I. Don’t. Remember.”
“Is it me,” Don asked suddenly, “or is
that stuff boiling?”
Leonardo’s eyes widened. “Um…Mike…”
“Oh.
Sorry.”
(Back off, dammit!)
The bubbling inside the mug simmered.
“Jesus, calm down, kiddo.” Raph shook his
head. “I just asked you a question.”
“And I gave you an answer. I can’t help it if I
don’t remember.”
Splinter touched his hand. “You don’t have to say anything,
Michaelangelo. We are just concerned about--”
“Yeah…I know.” Scraping back the chair, Mike stood up. And promptly slumped to the
floor as his legs gave out.
“Oh man--” Raph leaped up and crouched, putting his arms
around Mike’s shoulders.
“I’m fine,” Michaelangelo murmured. “Let go, I’m all
right.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” Donatello said, coming over.
“What happened?” Leo asked.
Mike squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t…I don’t know,
okay? I just…”
He clenched his fists as the feeling shuddered over him, then pushed Raph away and
stood up.
Something’s wrong, his mind whispered.
“Why don’t you go
rest or something?” Don asked.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I think I’ll take a
walk.”
He looked back at Splinter, who met his eyes with a dark look, and stepped
out.
Raphael watched him go, felt the crossfire of emotions whirl inside. Damn it
Mike, where are you? You’re getting worse than me.
Don touched his shoulder,
as if reassuring him—or both of them.
“I think we know when this started,” Donatello murmured, like a ghost.
Raph closed
his eyes.
He feels a soft, searching pressure and his breath catches; he squeezes again, and
then Mike’s hand turns in his own, pressing, and the soft brown eyes open, focusing on
his face, and Raph struggles to control the tears.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back.”
Michaelangelo just stares at him, blinking slowly, and then a pale smile moves across his
face. “Hey y’self. Wheremi?”
“Sickbay,” Raph says, swallowing. “You were--” He swallows again and mentally slaps
himself. “Out for…a while.”
Mike frowns; it looks as if just moving is an effort. His eyes sweep the room, taking in
the others crowded around. He makes a small sound, as if talking hurts.
“What was
that?” April asks, leaning down to stroke his head.
“How long?”
They look at
each other. April’s hand continues to brush over his temple.
“How long?” the weak
voice repeats, the eyes fixed on her, perfectly clear now…
“Three weeks,” she
whispers, in a rush, and watches his eyes. Watches as they seem to change, to almost
glitter; retreat…she’s suddenly aware of his mind trying to curl up and hide away, to
deny, to…
“Three weeks,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Sonuva--”
“Don’t,” April almost gasps. “Mike, don’t, you have to get better now--”
“S’okay,” he whispers, smiling at her. “Over now.” He closes his eyes, looks at them, at
Splinter. “I’m kinda tired…”
“Of course.” The rat touches his cheek. “Rest now, my
son.”
Raphael watches as Mike’s eyes fall closed, as his head turns on the pillow.
But his hand still grips his own until sleep takes over, and even then Raph clamps down
on the emotion building up, and doesn’t move until Leo takes him by the shoulders from
behind, and pulls him away.
He stumbled toward the road, pain radiating up his legs. Disorientation. Frustration.
He had tried…he loved her, damn it, and…
“Carrie,” he whispered, and fell to his knees.
A figure melted out of the shadows
behind him. The trank gun went off with a soft phht. When the dart hit his neck,
he groaned once, and fell.
He realized he was shaking again and leaned against the wall of a brick building. He
couldn’t place it…but the feeling was there, the sense of wrongness, of terror…like a
wave threatening to crash over…
Letting out a moan, he gripped his head and tried to think about a time when the
darkness had been at bay…
Slowly, feeling comes back again, tingling; his arms, sides, legs, feet. Feels so
heavy…like lead…even his eyes…He opens them slowly, listens to the steady beeping,
becomes aware of the needle in his right wrist. Everything hurts—his face, his leg, his
arm…pressure in his chest. He tries to lift a hand, tries to move, but then the world tilts
again and he grips the mattress, holding his breath, feeling as if even one finger lifted
would tip him off the wildly tilting earth…
The door creaks open softly, and he turns his head, suddenly catching sight of his
reflection in the metal machines. Unrecognizable. Bruises everywhere, purple, yellow,
angry gashes…and that’s just his face. He doesn’t want to know about the rest of him.
But at least he’s away from the darkness…at least it doesn’t hurt that bad
anymore…
Splinter walks in with a bowl and a rag. He stands there for a minute, sees that he’s
awake, comes over with a heavy smile.
“Hi,” Mike whispers.
Splinter smiles back, reassuring. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”
Like shit…
He swallows painfully. “Like I just got pummeled by twelve
punks with baseball bats.”
Talking hurts still; it’s been too long. Three weeks; he still can’t believe it’s been three
weeks…
Splinter presses the wet cloth to his face, and it feels good, feels like childhood. He
closes his eyes, and he can tell Splinter catches the tear that slips out from one trembling
eyelid. The rat says nothing; just cleans the wounds…so many wounds…and it’s all
warmth now…numbness and warmth…He wants to cry but can’t, it would hurt, moving
anything would hurt and he doesn’t want to hurt right now…
Damn him, he screams silently. Damn him!
Three weeks of shadow for a year of pain. He slowly clenches his fist, and the tears are
streaming down his face now; he barely hears Splinter leave…and when the door closes
again he turns his face into the pillow, shuddering…
Carrie lay on her side on the huge couch they had provided--all the comforts of
home. They wanted her to stay. They wanted her to do the tests and cooperate and
everything would be all right. No one would get hurt.
She was finding that hard to believe.
She had come to the ultimate conclusion that Tommy was dead. He wasn't here; they
probably killed him and dumped the body somewhere convenient. She pressed her wrists
to her face to muffle the sobs.
But it's not really me they want, it's Michaelangelo-
-Mike, they're after Mike, they know what he can do…why are they keeping me here if
I'm not what they're after?
She sat up slowly, aware of the camera in the corner
of the ceiling, watching her, and stared blankly at the silent television. She waited for the
nightmare to continue.
He lifts his head to find Raph sitting nearby, nodding off.
"Hey," he says softly.
His voice feels better now. Stronger. It's been--what? A week?--and he's starting to feel
almost like new. Still stuck in bed, bandaged, painful to move too much…but feeling
better.
"Hey," he says again, and Raph's head jerks up. He turns, smiles.
"How
ya feeling?"
Mike shrugs; four days ago he might not have been able to do that.
"Better. When can I get outta here, huh?"
Raphael smirks. "Have you tried walking
lately?"
Mike groans. "At least I know I can
walk…"
"Yeah…"
Pushing himself up halfway, Mike groans again and looks at
the distance between the bed and the door. "Eh. I can do that."
"Whoa, whoa…"
Raph jumps up, hands out. "Hang on, Mike, I don't know if that's such a good--
"
"Hey, I won't know till I try, right?" Ignoring the burst of pain
screaming through his muscles, Michaelangelo sits up all the way and throws back the
covers.
"Mike," Raph says, "wait--"
But the covers are off and Mike sees and his face slowly blanches, eyes taking in the
gauze-wrapped left leg, from ankle to mid-thigh. He feels the skin beneath itching
slightly, throbbing, and knows without looking that it's not pretty.
"What--" He looks
at Raphael in bewilderment. "What…happened? I though it was just a gash…"
Raph bites his lip. "Scratched the bone," he mumbles. "Cut through muscle 'n tendon,
ligament…it was the slowest healing. Donnie didn't want you to know until it was
healed…"
"Son of a--" Sighing, Mike closes his eyes, looks at his leg again. It's going to leave an
ugly scar unless he can get to it later.
"Well…could be worse," he says half to himself, and slowly eases his legs over the side
of the bed.
Raph is at his side, hand out to support, but Mike waves it away and puts both feet on the
floor, slowly rising, and when he's on two feet the shakiness and the weakness kick in,
and he falls a little. Raphael catches him, arms strong against plastron and carapace. "I
told you, maybe you should--"
"Keep going," Mike says, gritting his teeth. He stands up and looks at the door; one foot
in front of the other. He's limping like a cripple on that one leg, but he's doing it--walking
toward the door, little by little; then just as his fingertips brush the knob, it all gives way.
He collapses, his body spent, suddenly shaking and flaring with heat. Raphael springs and
is at his side in a second, arms around him.
"Come on," he says gently. "That's enough. That's enough, Mikey."
Michaelangelo makes a small protest, but the fever's clouding him, and it's all he can do
to not slump into his brother's arms; to try to be strong and make it back himself…no
more invalid, no more needing help…
"Mikey," Raphael says in his ear, and he realizes he's close to crying. Carefully, Raph sets
him back against the pillow, covering him. He tries to turn away so Raph can't see his
face.
"It's okay you know," Raphael says quietly. "I'd feel the same way."
He blinks, looking at him, and sees more to his fiery brother than anger and irrationality.
Compassion. The other half of himself. Raph would know. Just as Mike would if Raph
were in this mess.
"Thanks," he whispers, and smiles.
Raphael smiles back, and for a minute Mike can
feel the sun peeking through again.
"I'm goin' after him."
"Wait." Donatello gripped his arm. "Where do you think
you're going, anyway?"
"I know," Raph said, like a correction. "I can…feel
him."
"Doesn't mean you should just--"
"God, Don, you can be just like Leo sometimes, ya know that? Let go!"
Don let go. "Call Casey, at least."
Raphael gave him a look. "What, you think I can't handle this on my own?"
"No, I think--"
"Yeah I know what you think. You done fathering me?"
Donatello sighed, turning away, not wanting to risk an argument. "Fine.
Whatever. I don't care. Just…"
"What?" Raph challenged.
"Be careful."
He felt a thick hand on his shoulder. "I will, Donnie. I'll come back."
"Yeah. I know."
