Mike pressed his hand against the small round hole of window, watching the clouds
roll by, watching the blueness beyond. The drone of conversation lulled around him as
passengers ate the in-flight meals and relaxed. He glanced at his watch. 12:49 pm. They
had been in the air for about three hours. The flight attendant wheeled a cart by his seat.
He shook his head.
Strange how there was no one else next to him, he thought. He was alone in the
blueness, the grayness, and people continued all around him, not even taking notice of
the large mutant turtle in their midst. It didn't bother him, though. It didn't seem to bother
anybody else. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Someone tapped his shoulder from behind, and he twisted in his seat to find a young girl looking at him; around eight or so. "Hi," she said. "Do you want a cookie? I have a few left." She held out a bag of Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip. With a smile, Mike
accepted. He bit into it, relishing the taste. And yet suddenly found that he couldn't finish
it. It wasn't the taste; it was him. Something didn't feel right. His stomach felt twisted, as
though his body were preparing for panic. He shook his head.
The plane lurched suddenly, bouncing and jolting sharply, and the pilot's voice came
over the intercom, assuring them it was just turbulence, that it would clear up in a few
minutes. And it did. But not before Mike smelled smoke.
The knot in his stomach tightened. Smoke. As if drawn there, he looked out the
window, where he had a view of the right wing with the red tip. And the fire. Fire...? Mike's stomach dropped. Oh my god--the wing's on fire! Why
didn't anyone see it? Wouldn't the pilots know? He gripped the arms of the seat like
death, gritting his teeth. As an attendant passed by, he waved to her.
"Call the captain," he said hoarsely. "The right wing is on fire."
Her brow furrowed. "Sir, are you sure?"
He swallowed against the ice in his throat. "Look--look out the window. Can't you
smell it? The smoke..."
Leaning over him, she looked. And gasped in horror. "Oh my god...I'll let him know
right away. Thank you." Terror had been in her voice, but the flatness he knew--a way of
coping with the unimaginable. If you closed your eyes, it would go away. If you just
didn't think about it, didn't want to see it, it would just...
"Mommy!" the little girl behind him cried. "The wing is on fire!"
And then all hell broke loose.
Flurry of movement, screams of panic and terror, the captain's voice over the
speakers...the plane's sudden deep drop, downward plunge, shaking structure...he could
smell the flames now. They were inside the plane.
And then suddenly he knew. The cargo bay. There's a bomb in the cargo bay! Someone's sabotaging the
plane!
Michaelangelo stood up in a rush, moving, out into the aisle, toward the back,
perfectly calm save for the pit of ice inside him. The bomb, he thought. Too late...too
late...
A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. Somewhere, a child was crying. Time slowed to
a deadly crawl. Like a ghost, he saw the face of the digital watch float before him.
12:52.
The plane exploded.
Michaelangelo jerked up in bed, screaming in terror, clawing at the air. Sweat poured
down his skin; he could feel the heat. Flames rushed toward him, reaching out with
grasping tongues, searing, burning, and he could hear the children...he could hear the
screaming...he could feel them die...and then someone grasped his shoulders...
"Mike! Easy, Mike, it's okay. It's a dream. Just a dream. Relax, Mike. Relax."
No. Not now. Not ever. Can't you hear them, they're dying! Somebody help them!
Somebody stop--
"Mike!" Someone shook him, and he realized that he could barely breathe. He sucked
in deep lungfuls of air, sweat drenching his skin.
"Mike, look at me. Open your eyes. Mike, answer me!"
"No," he gasped. "N-no...oh god, no..." Two hundred and ten. Dead. No. No.
No.
He opened his eyes, stared up into Leonardo's worried face, before dropping his head
into his hands and feeling tears gather thickly in his throat.
"You're gonna have to tell us at some point," Raphael said bluntly, sitting in the chair
with his legs crossed. One foot swung up and down. His arm rested over the back of the
chair, and he fixed his brother with a pointed gaze.
"I can't." Mike stared down at the red and white checkered tablecloth, swallowing
hard.
"Can't, or won't?" Raph asked, leaning forward. "Mikey...come on, we're your family
here. It's no secret anymore. Not after a whole year."
Gritting his teeth, Michaelangelo kept his head lowered. "I can't..."
In the other chairs, Leo and Don exchanged glances. "Was it that bad?" Leo asked
gently. "What happened?"
Mike pressed his hands to his ears. "Shut up," he whispered. "Don't make me
remember. Please."
Raph's fingers scraped against the tablecloth. "Shit," he whispered, shutting his eyes.
When he looked at his brother, there was a glint of pain in them. "Are you okay?"
"No."
Splinter stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at them. "My sons, it is almost noon.
You should practice."
"Right. Right." Scraping back his chair, Leonardo stood up. "Michaelangelo--"
Mike stood up slowly. "I'm coming," he whispered.
The face of the little girl who had offered him the cookie flashed before him.
Instinctively, he threw up an arm as if to ward the image off. Raphael's sai struck the
sticks of his nunchucks, and then moved back with a rush of air, as its owner waited for
him to move.
Slowly, Mike stepped forward, struggling to find balance as shadows swept over him
again. He struck out, blindly, at the flames, at the screams, and when he felt the dagger
move toward his neck with almost blinding speed, he didn't bother to block.
"How long has it been since we started--"
"Almost two hours," Leo said. "Let him rest."
"He's not sick, is he?" Raph persisted.
Don shook his head. "I don't think so. It's something else."
"You've got blood on your hand," Raph pointed out.
Glancing down, Don saw the smear of blood, not his, that still lingered. He closed his
eyes and saw the white towel turn red. Beside him, Raphael made a small moan in his
throat.
"Damn it, I shouldn't have--"
"Raph." Leo put a hand on his shoulder. "It was an accident. He just wasn't paying
attention when you attacked. It happens."
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Raph sighed. "I'm sorry," he
muttered.
Mike opened his eyes. He was lying in the infirmary bed, feeling groggy. What had
happened? If he could just remember...
He touched the side of his neck. Bandage. What--?
He remembered. A cut. Just a cut. Raph nicked me. I lost concentration and didn't move away in
time. Just a cut.
Then why was he in the infirmary?
He closed his eyes, reaching out, grasping at the wandering threads of thought that
weren't his. Don. Raph. He saw blood trickling, saw a white towel pressing against his
own neck, saw it soak red. Who'd've thought a cut could bleed so much? He
remembered passing out. And then here. Raph...don't be sorry. It was an accident.
He waited. The clock read 1:50. And then Raph appeared in the doorway.
"You're awake," he said, and Mike could hear the strain in his voice. "And I am
sorry."
"No," Mike whispered, holding out his hand. Raph came forward and took it. They
stayed like that, brother to brother, until Mike sat up all the way and forced a smile. "I'm
fine, see?" He reached up and took off the gauze taped to his neck. "See--"
He cut off when Raphael gasped. "What? Raph, what?"
Raphael was staring, eyes wide. "It's...closed," he said. "Mike, it--there's barely even a
scar. It's gone!"
Mike's hand flew to his neck, finger tracing the raised scar that should have been
there. His breath hitched in his throat. On a nearby table, a glass vial exploded.
Raphael jumped. "Control, Mike! Relax!"
Michaelangelo squeezed his eyes shut. It was starting again.
They walked into the living room, where Don and Leo sat watching the early news.
Leonardo looked up and grinned in relief. "Hi," he said. "You okay?"
Mike nodded. "Uh huh."
Don handed them both glasses of Coke. Raphael joined the two on the couch. Mike
stood behind it, watching the screen. Watching.
"--reporting live from--"
"Wait," Don said. "Don't change it."
"--approximately 12:52 this afternoon, Flight 642 exploded violently in mid-air,
killing all two hundred and ten on board. Investigations are currently being done and
police are searching for any eyewitnesses, but so far no real clues have been found. We
now go to--"
Michaelangelo couldn't breathe. A vibration caught and rocked through his body,
pounding in his chest, his head. 12:52. Red-tipped wings. Bomb in the cargo bay. He
couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. The glass in his hand shuddered. He barely felt it slide
from the sweat-slicked palm, barely felt it crack with psychic force, barely felt the shards
pierce his skin. All he could hear was the roaring of flames and the screams of over two
hundred people, screams of children...
Everything went black. He didn't even feel it when his head struck the floor.
Someone was calling his name, like a wisp of an echo, and he found himself
suddenly repulsed. Did they expect an answer? Why didn't they leave him alone? The
darkness was comforting, soft around him like a blanket. The light hurt him; why did
they think it was necessary to drag him out? It wasn't as if lives depended on it...
And then he remembered the screams. The smell of fire stung his nose. He
moaned.
"Mikey?" the voice murmured again. "I think he's coming around."
In his mouth he tasted chocolate. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
"Mike?" Leonardo's face floated into view. "Mike, how many fingers am I holding
up?"
He blinked, frowning. "You only have three," he murmured.
"Fair enough." Leo dropped his hand to his side. "Can you sit up?"
"I think so..." He pushed himself up, realizing he was lying on the couch. Something
stung, like pinpricks. He winced.
"You cut your hand," Splinter said quietly, as if reading the question on his face.
Gently, he took Mike's left hand and began to dab at the wound with a cotton ball. Mike
flinched. No shards. And the wound was already starting to...
"No--" He jerked the hand away, pressing it to his plastron. "I mean...I'll take care of
it. It's not that bad."
Splinter gazed at him, black eyes glittering. He knew. Mike's eyes widened. He
knew.
"Michaelangelo," Splinter said softly. "There is no need to hide it. I fully expected you
to regain your psychic strength with time."
Leonardo frowned. "Wait, you mean the healing factor? Mike, I thought you'd said it
would take months--"
"So I lied. Sue me." Michaelangelo sat up and stared at the floor.
"Why?" Donatello asked.
The question stung him. He looked up, met his brother's somber eyes.
"I mean, you've been psychic for a year. Four months've passed since you woke up
from the coma. You don't think we know what's been going on?" There was no malice,
just concern. Mike swallowed hard.
"I just...it's hard, y'know? Telepathy, precognition, healing, telekinesis...I mean, I
know the M'Kari meant well, but--when do I get time to be me? I dream things
that come true, I know what people feel and think, and somehow that makes me
feel...like I have to do something. Like if I don't save the world it's all on my head. It's not
like I want to advertise myself. When do I get time to do what I want to
do?" He dropped his head in his uninjured hand. A tension headache was beginning to
grip his temples like a vise.
"I didn't realize it was that bad," Leonardo said softly, and he looked up.
Carefully, Leo sat down and touched his wrist. "You're still upset about the battle with
the Shadowlord, aren't you?"
Michaelangelo closed his eyes. "I died, Leo. Twice. Twice in one goddamn week.
Doesn't that mean anything?"
"Does it mean anything to you?" Leo asked, his voice so soft and pained that Mike
could suddenly feel what it meant to him, to them all.
Slowly, Mike stood. The pressure had moved to the back of his head now, gripping all
around. He felt dizzy. Two hundred and ten people died because I couldn't do
anything to save them...
"I'm going to go to bed. I got a headache."
Frowning, Raphael stood as well. "Wait, what about--I mean, you still haven't told us
what happened. Was it a premoniton?"
Michaelangelo looked at him soberly. "They all died." And then he spun on his heel,
seeing blackness in his head, and shut the bedroom door behind him.
7:45 pm. His head still hurt. He woke up and slid out of bed, going into the kitchen to
make tea. The light was on in Donatello's workshop. The familiar clack of keys was a
reassuring rhythm.
"Feeling better?" a voice asked behind him, and he jumped.
"Fine, Raph. I think I'm gonna go take a walk. Head still hurts."
"Now? It's almost eight o'clock..."
Mike looked at him. "Your point being?"
Raph just held up his hands and then opened the refrigerator. Mike finished the tea
and drank, not caring as it seared his insides like fire. That had already happened. Then,
before anyone could say another word, he plunked the mug on the counter and hurried
out the door.
Yeah, right. Like I'm really gonna walk all the way there with a headache like
this. Straddling the motorcycle, he moved it ahead and away from the other three,
jammed on the helmet, and rode out, toward the tunnels, toward land. Once into fresh air,
he drew in a deep breath. Not like anyone would notice. Not like anyone would care. He
turned to the back roads anyway. Just in case.
The club was one of those costume gigs, where Halloween was all year and no one
asked questions. He hoped, at least. He'd gone there once before, to get out of another
Leo-Raph dispute. Couldn't even remember what it had been about. Did it matter?
Stopping just in front, he took off the helmet and stared at the doorway, the bouncer;
listened to the pulse of music within. Not that it would calm his head any; just get him
away from the death. He hoped. A place where no one cared what you looked like on the
surface--as long as you were inside you didn't have to show face. He liked it. In a way, it
was like seeing something through ESP. The outside was only a cover, an illusion. If you
looked inside long enough, you'd see the reality. The core. Mike parked the bike, closed
his eyes, and let the throb of mental babble reach for him.
Seems kinda stupid if you think about it, but I never--
Don't know why I let him kiss me, it just seemed--
...happened to walk into the store, and there was the guy with the gun, and then
Greg's brains were all over the fucking floor...
Looks pretty, maybe I should ask her to dance; couldn't hurt, the worst she could do is
throw soda in my face...
The tide of voices rose and fell, like a distant swelling. He'd gotten fairly used to it--
the first time he had walked into a crowd, he had choked and nearly passed out. It was a
little like having a prosthetic leg, or something implanted. Something new. Different.
Extra. You got used to it, sometimes even forgot it was there; took it for granted. You
could spend a year with it and see it as part of yourself, something you couldn't picture
doing without. Sometimes you missed the way it used to be.
Mike had lived with ESP for over a year, and had gotten used to the little things:
catching a thread of thought here, a strand of emotion there. Closing his eyes and seeing
something far away, or even a glimpse of what would happen. The bigger things--like
telekinesis, "going in" to a wounded body--that took a little more. It had been instinct;
already he'd known how, maybe something left by the aliens to help him cope (and he
was certainly glad for that; otherwise he may have been driven to near-insanity). His
brothers were over the initial shock, of course. Now they didn't find it so odd to feel him
in the back of their minds every now and then; they had always had some sort of
telepathic connection. But they couldn't understand. Not completely. Hell, he
barely understood it himself.
He went in, nodding at the bouncer. Here the swell was stronger. Lights flickered and
pulsed, bodies moved in and out. Whispers in the dark. He closed his eyes, breathed in.
Raised the barriers. Muted. He walked over to a barstool and sat, resting the arches of his
feet against the top rung. Costumes everywhere. Nobody caring. Costumes. Masks. Was
that all it was? He pressed a hand to his head, staring into the dark. Lights flashed.
"You seem pensive," a young female voice said beside him, and he turned to see a
slender girl hop onto the stool next to his.
"Just thinking." He smiled wanly.
She nodded. "Thinking's good. Sometimes my boyfriend says I do that too much."
"Fly off to never-never land, huh?"
"Exactly. Of course, I occasionally catch him there, too."
"Whoops." Mike drummed his fingers against the table. Her hair was long and
straight, and apparently had tried to make the transition from blond to brown in
childhood, but was now caught in between. Mousey was the word that came to mind. Her
dark eyes watched him with nothing more than social curiosity.
He ordered a glass of water and she followed. He watched her watching him, and then
suddenly she broke into an embarrassed giggle and covered her mouth. "Oh--sorry, just
looking at the costume. Didn't mean to space out on you."
He grinned back. "Never-never land."
"Yeah. I'm sorry." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Carrie."
He shook it. "Mike."
"Just Mike?" she asked.
"Just Carrie?" he countered.
She smiled. "Fair enough. Carrie White."
He almost choked on the water and grinned. "Don't tell me--your parents are big
Stephen King fans."
She cracked up. "My mom, yeah. I guess it was the last name. But my grandmother's
name was Caroline. That's my full name."
"Yeah, but still--nobody dumped pig's blood on you at the senior prom, did they?"
Carrie giggled. "Not yet. Prom's a month away."
"What's a month away?" The blond-haired boy who had sneaked behind Carrie slipped
his arms around her waist.
"Prom," she replied. She gestured toward Mike. "He likes my name."
"Ah." The boy shook Mike's hand. "Cool costume. I'm Tommy."
Mike's eyeridge shot up. "Lemme guess. Tommy Ross."
"The guy likes his Stephen King," Tommy said, grinning.
"You're kidding."
"Uh uh. Swear. I try to live it down."
Mike leaned back against the bar. "Cool."
Carrie's eyes glittered. "And...what was your name again, Mike?"
He smiled. "Mike Hamato."
"You're Japanese?" asked Tommy.
"My father is, yeah."
Tommy took the seat next to Carrie. "Where'd you get the costume? It's
amazing."
Mike smiled again. "If I told you I'd have to kill you."
"Gotcha."
"How come you two aren't dressed up?" he asked.
Carrie shrugged. "Didn't feel like it. Nobody cares anyway."
"I know." Mike sighed, looked down at his glass.
Carrie frowned at him. "What?"
He shook his head. "Life. Sucks sometimes."
"No kidding," she said. "What happened with you?"
Michaelangelo just shook his head again. "You know that plane that crashed
today?"
She closed her eyes. Nodded. Tommy's face grew somber. "Damn bastards," he
whispered. "Why do people do shit like that?"
Shrugging again, Mike gulped down the last of his water, sloshing the ice around. "I
saw it."
"What?" Carrie looked up.
"Saw it. In a dream. I was there." He didn't know why he was telling them this;
something in him was just saying that they were all right. She must have sensed it
too.
"My god," Carrie whispered, eyes wide.
"Premonition?" Tommy asked. "You have ESP?"
Mike nodded. "Like I said, life sucks sometimes."
"Yeah..." Carrie frowned sympathetically. "I'm so sorry. Must have been awful."
Mike shrugged. "I live with it."
She shuddered. "I couldn't. How much do you have?"
He just looked at her. "You don't wanna know."
Tommy looked down at the table, then back up. "You in school?"
"My brothers and I are home-schooled," he replied. "We're in martial arts
training."
A grin crossed Carrie's face. "I can tell."
Tommy elbowed her lightly. She butted his shoulder, laughing. Mike smiled.
A buzzing had begun in his head, a tiny flurry of whispers. He looked at Carrie. The
whispers grew. Something about her...
He reached out and lightly probed her. She jumped a little. Holy-- He blinked. She had it. Just like the King character. He doubted she
even knew. But he could tell. The whispers. He touched the back of her mind, the neural
tangle, felt a budding spark not present in most minds he'd encountered. Spark...that's
where it is. She's telekinetic and that's where it comes from.
He looped back and away, focused in on himself. Reached back, way back. Felt the
spark, much bigger and brighter and closer to the surface. Spark.
Carrie was looking at him again, at his eyes. "Never-never land?" she asked.
He refocused and smiled back at her. "Lost boys are swingin' through the trees."
The lights dimmed. Tommy placed his hand over Carrie's. "Dance?"
She nodded and they got up. "Wanna join us?" Carrie asked.
He shook his head. "Maybe later."
Michaelangelo watched them weave into the crowd. "In Your Eyes" was playing in
the background. Peter Gabriel. He closed his eyes and reached back to touch the spark
and let the rhythm of music carry him.
