He struggled, screaming like a wild animal; twisted from their grasp and ran, pulse pounding, until solid concrete hit his sneakers and air rushed past; continued to run until a figure loomed in the distance—familiar shadow, and he almost cried out…hands reached forth and grasped his shoulders…
The boy jerked violently under Raphael’s hands and then suddenly quieted,
shuddering. “Hey,” Raph said. “Easy.”
The boy blinked. “You—you’re not Michaelangelo.”
Raph frowned.
“W-which one are you?”
“Raphael.” He let go, studying the face. “Are
you…Tommy?”
The boy nodded vigorously. “They have Carrie…my girlfriend…they shot my car…we
hit a tree and they took her…tried to take me but I ran…”
Raph gripped his arm again, jaw clenching. “My brother—Mike—have you seen
him?”
“N-no...I was going to try and find him…I need his help…”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry kid, we’ll--”
Suddenly the night seemed to explode around them, shadows whirling and descending.
Tommy yelled; someone dragged him back, something else cracked against the side of
Raph’s skull…
Shit…
He reached up and grabbed the gun, wrenching it, whirling, trying to see…but suddenly
there were just too many…and then something pricked his arm and he fell to his knees as
the world became a blur…
“Sonofabitch, let me go!”
“Stay quiet, will you! You want us to trank you again?”
“Why did you--”
“We
didn’t kill him.”
“Damn it, let me go! I’m not going anywh--”
“Not even to see your girlfriend?”
He stopped, gasping. She was alive. She was still alive.
“Don’t hurt us,” he whispered in the dark. “Please.”
No one answered.
The door creaked open slowly. She looked up, and cried out.
“Oh my god, what are you doing here? I thought you were dead, I
thought…”
“Shh,” he whispered, holding her. “I’m okay. But we have to get out of here. Damn it, we
have to get out!”
“How? Security’s everywhere.”
“We have to think.” He didn’t raise his voice above that whisper, led her to the couch and
sat them both down, pulling her onto his lap. “God, Carrie, I got so scared…I
thought…”
“I know,” she murmured. “So did I. But—there are other things now, Tommy.”
He frowned. “Like what?”
She looked at him. “It’s not us they want.”
He blinked, and then, suddenly understood. “Oh my god…”
Hatcher parked on the side of the road, walked up a ways, and stood by a tree,
waiting. The rifle was cold and heavy in his hands. He wasn’t sure just how he knew, but
he had a hunch. Soon enough.
He watched shadows from the trees stretch out across the road, looked up at the moon
shining round and full.
“Come to me now,” he whispered. “I’ll take you to them.”
And minutes later, he heard the soft sound of footsteps running in the dark, a single
breathless heartbeat seeking, anticipating…
A knock at the door. Leonardo opened it, and his brother practically fell onto him.
“Jeez, Raph, have you been putting on weight? What happened?”
“Tranquilizer,” Raphael muttered, standing shakily.
“What?”
“I found one of the kids Mike was talking about. The girl’s been kidnapped. They just
grabbed the boy again.”
“Holy shit--”
“And I didn’t find Mike….”
“He couldn’t be--”
“No. Not yet. I’d know, Leo.”
Donatello came running. “Raph, are you okay?”
“Sorta. Mike’s gone missing, those friends of his are missing…the whole fucking world’s
gone insane…”
“It gets better,” Don said drily. “Guess what I found on the internet.”
Leo looked up. “I don’t like the sound of that…”
A thudding noise jolts him, and he glances up from the computer, frowning. Silence.
The only ones home right now are him, Mike, and Splinter; and Splinter’s sleeping.
Mike probably tripped and knocked something over again… Don sighs, getting
up and opening the workshop door, going out into the hall, looking around.
“Mikey? Everything okay?”
No answer. Automatically, he reaches for his bo. Five months have passed since
Michaelangelo’s “transformation,” and Don isn’t about to take any chances with new
enemies. Anything could happen now…
Slowly, he moves out, breathing softly, extending his senses. Pizza…incense…TV’s
still on…water’s running…
That’s it. It’s coming from the kitchen. The water’s running full blast.
Don grips the bo with both hands, going toward the kitchen entrance, peeking in.
“Mikey? Oh god…”
He rushed in, wide-eyed, dropping the bo unconsciously. Michaelangelo is curled on the
floor against the sink—arms tight against his plastron, crossed as though blocking
something…his eyes are half-closed, and for an instant Don thinks it’s some sort of
epileptic fit.
But Mike doesn’t have epilepsy…unless you count those premonitions as
seizures…
“Mike…” He crouches down next to his brother and touches his shoulder. “Mike, it’s me,
Donny. Can you hear me?”
No answer. Mike’s not moving. Not shaking, not rocking; he looks as if he’s almost
asleep. But his face is blank as a slate, and he’s breathing so slowly…
Sitting back, Don considers waiting for him to come out of it, then wonders if it’s such a
good thing to leave him in a premonition…what if he doesn’t wake up…?
Mike makes a low moaning sound, and Don takes that as a good sign and touches him
again. “Mike? It’s Donatello. I’m here. Are you all right?”
Slowly, Mike’s eyes open and he looks at him, sleepily. “I think so, yeah. What
happened?”
He still doesn’t remember the trances…dammit…
“You don’t know?”
Mike shakes his head. “Too dark,” he mumbles. “I have a headache. I’m gonna go to bed
now…”
He stands up, holding onto the sink, and Don grabs his arm. “Mike, let me at least check
you over…”
But Michaelangelo gently pushes him away. “I’m not sick, Donny,” he says softly. “I just
don’t know how to control it yet. I just get tired. That’s all.”
He turns back to the sink, leans over to switch off the faucets—and suddenly throws up
pure stomach acid, sinking back down to the floor.
“Crap--” Don drops down with him, glancing up as the pounding water washes the mess
away. “Are you--”
“Fine. Fine.” Mike wipes his mouth, taking a shaky breath. “Sorry. I didn’t eat much
today.”
Somehow, Don gets the feeling there’s more to it than that. He grabs a glass, fills it, and
gives it to Mike to wash his mouth out. “You sure you’re okay?”
Mike washes his mouth, drinks, and nods. “I think so. I--”
Suddenly he goes rigid,
and Don pulls back a little. But then Mike lets out another soft moan, and the his eyes
roll up and fall closed.
“Blood,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Somebody just died.”
And with that, Mike promptly passes out.
Catching him, Don stands up and half-drags, half-carries him into the bedroom, placing
Mike on his bed and covering him with the blanket. Going back out to get another glass
of water for when Mike wakes up, he passes the living room, where the television is
blaring out a news bulletin.
“…brutally murdered on the corner of--”
Donatello freezes in his tracks, swiveling toward the television.
He barely hears the report. The body is horribly mangled, torn; he can see it even through
the white blanket, which is soaking with blood.
Butchered is more like it. Oh god—did Mikey see that? No wonder he…oh
shit…
He feels his stomach twist and swallows hard, struggling against the gag reflex.
Michaelangelo must have been hit with the vision while he was at the sink…he must
have seen the whole thing. No wonder he didn’t remember—who would want to?He
said he can’t control it…well, we’d damn well better find a way…
Swallowing again, he presses a hand to his stomach and reaches for the remote. The
screen goes black, the horrible scene gone. But the mangled, dissected form still haunts
him. Turning, he goes to the bedroom and looks in.
Mike is curled up in a fetal position, sleeping deeply. Donantello walks up to the bed and
stands there, looking down at his little brother. Michaelangelo looks peaceful now,
unfettered by dark visions—at least for now. Don bites his lip, letting out a shaky
sigh.
Damn it, Mike, I wish we could do something about this. You must be going through
hell. You’re only sixteen…and you’re Mikey…this shouldn’t be happening to
you…
He closes the door softly behind him, then goes to the kitchen, turns off the water, and
heads back to the living room.
He crouched in semi-darkness, tapping out a half-remembered pattern on the ground
out of nervousness. Something had happened. There’d been a sense of…displacement.
He’d caught a sense of Raph, Tommy…together…and then not. Pain, brief, darkness, and
then silence. Nothing. His muscles tensed. Something was coming.
Slowly, he stepped out into a strangely empty street, pausing as the silence grew thick
and deafening. Like trying to move through molasses.
A sudden movement in the trees; he whirled, straining—nothing.
Something…
There was no wind. No birds. Everything seemed so deadly silent. But there was
something…
Waiting patiently, Hatcher watched as the creature picked up his sense, turning, eyes
wide and searching. Fists were clenched, body held in a fighting stance. Jaw was
clenched ever so slightly.
How fascinating, he mused. His finger tightened around the trigger.
As if suddenly realizing it, the mutant froze. Hatcher could see the beads of sweat against
the thick skin. The way the plastron moved with each breath. He looked at the dip of the
throat, just above the breastbone. Aimed.
The trigger almost seemed to pull itself. As air rushed past, he could hear the sound of
frantic fluttering behind him, as birds rose in anticipated panic.
Michaelangelo heard it a split second before he felt it. A sudden scream of wind, a
narrow bolt—and then it hit him, straight in the throat, piercing skin. He staggered, a
strangling sound flung from his mouth…dropped to his knees, hands groping for the long
dart, grabbing metal and then nothing…
He staggered up again, trying to run, knowing with his system that he still had a little
time left before it really hit…
And then the car came rushing toward him.
It was a large, long black thing, almost like some predator out stalking against the night.
Through blurred vision, there was time to notice that the shadow of the driver in the
windshield seemed to almost lean forward. Anticipation.
The wide bulk of it struck him and he flew, rolling, pain exploding but not quite
touching; and then blackness.
Raph’s hands were shaking as he read the screen. “Shit,” he whispered. “Oh
shit…”
Leo’s face had gone pale. “You mean they’re the ones who--”
“We don’t know if they do have him yet,” Don said softly. “Let’s just hope they
don’t get their hands on him.”
Raphael closed his eyes, feeling a brief, strange pain—like being hit really hard with
something really big—and then emptiness.
Mike, he thought sharply, get the fuck out of there.
There was no answer.
There were voices. Moving in and out, floating, disembodied. He could remember
hovering faces, weaving in and out…a dull sense of pain, aching. Sleepiness.
What—
What--?
His eyes flew open and he bolted upright, jerked against something and felt cold iron
under him.
Iron. Iron. No…
In the darkness, he could just make it out—the black iron bars of a cage. A choked wail
rose up in him—did they think he was an animal? No…he had to get out…had to…
Groaning, he crawled toward the bars…no chains holding him. Drugs were sufficient
enough…how much did they pump into me anyway? He pulled himself up and
touched the bars, cold iron under his hands, and drew in a shuddering breath.
Damn it, I hate hate HATE precognition…
He wondered how long it would take them to start the tests. And sat there, moaning
silently—anticipating.
Hatcher stood watching the screen, lip curled back in a slight smile. The mutant
simply crouched there, lotus style, staring blankly. Yet the eyes were filled with such
intelligence it was staggering. Comprehension...that was the thing. He
remembered the recorded conversation from the pizzeria.
“Is he going to do anything?” Morisson asked behind him.
“Shh.” Hatcher waved him silent.
“What? Not like he could hear us--”
“Shut up.”
The turtle was staring at the lock now, staring in a strange, unfocused way that made the
hair on Hatcher’s neck stand up...
“Well,” he whispered.
Morisson caught it and stared, wide-eyed. “The drugs--”
“The drugs will prevent him from doing anything. For now.” But Hatcher didn’t take his
eyes off the screen. He watched the unfocused cloudiness in the eyes suddenly turn into
unfocused sharpness. He saw the iron lock creak ever so slightly.
And then a look of pain and frustration crossed the turtle’s face, and then it stopped.
“The drugs are working then,” Morisson said softly.
Hatcher merely nodded. “Get
him prepped,” he said.” I’d like to begin the preliminaries.”
“Right away.”
“So they have him now?”
He nodded.
“Experiments—tests?”
He nodded
again.
“Oh god…Tommy…they’ll kill him!”
He glanced at the camera bolted to
the ceiling corner. “No, I don’t think so.”
He sat with eyes closed, in darkness,
skin tingling. Something was coming. He heard the door creak open, the lock slide from
the loop…and then someone grabbed his arm, hauling him up, dragging him
out…
The dream…shit…
A blindfold pressed against his face; he
stumbled into darkness. Everything was so silent; all he could hear was the slow
breathing of his guide and his own heartbeat. He opened his mind and felt only twisting
hallways and sterile labs…
Oh no—
A room. Small. White. Table.
Straps. Lab.
He was hauled up onto the table, strapped down. The blindfold was
pulled from his eyes and he was blinded by the flash of light that attacked
suddenly.
“Damn it…” He squinted. “Where am I?”
“In a laboratory,” a voice
answered smoothly.
I can see that, jack-ass. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you
know?”
The figure stepped back, lowering the flashlight, and he saw a chiseled dark
face—Native American—smiling like a shark.
“Should I?” he asked,
wincing.
“You’re the psychic. You tell me.”
He grimaced, feeling disgust.
“Where’s Carrie?”
“That’s no concern of yours.”
“Where is she,
dammit?”
Hatcher smiled again. “Like I said,” he replied, holding up a syringe.
“That’s no concern of yours.”
He pushed the needle into the thick muscle of
Michaelangelo’s arm. The dream burst like a shadow’s explosion. Something flared
inside his veins.
And Mike began to scream.
They lay together on the bed, shivering despite the body heat. Considering that it had
been the first time, Carrie marveled that she had even been able to have any response in
this place. But maybe it had been the fear, the need…something had broken free. Need?
She wasn’t sure. But it had felt good. Warm. She almost felt safe.
Tommy was still awake, and he was staring at her with a mixture of passion and fear.
Somewhere in her mind she could hear screaming.
And something in her mind began to scream back.
Splinter’s eyes flew open, his hands tightening against each other in his lap. But it
was closed, his mind was shuttered; he couldn’t get
through…
Michaelangelo… he thought. Fight it…
But the
darkness had already given him the answer.
Too late, he thought.
No…
“Never mind,” Raph whispered. They turned, puzzled.
Raph’s face
twisted into a half-grimace.
“They’ve got him.”
