There are several different types of cancer with three different behaviours, as Donatello understands the issue. Aggressive, invasive and metastatic. It's a strange thing. The cells, the very make up of a living creature, turning on it, destroying it slowly. Making you watch.
Good thing that's not going to happen then, isn't it?
Not that it shouldn't be taken seriously, it's deadly serious after all. But they'll laugh about this one day. He knows they will. Absolutely.
Okay, the professionals (and he uses the term loosely as Marylyn Monroe's dress) don't know what kind of cancer it is exactly, what's stage it's in. But really, if you actually do the math the number of treatments outnumber the number of diseases. That is, once you look past it all, it's really just a bunch of names. A bunch of different places. But there's radiation, chemo, immunotherapy, antibody treatment, surgery…all that stuff. And the good old big apple is home to some of the finest hospitals and doctors on the planet.
It'll all work out. He's sure of it.
He tries not to notice the care he puts into hiding his medical books.
---
He's just a pimp. Small time one at that. Greasy. Skinny. Dressed like a peacock dragged through a hedge…no one will miss him. No one will cry when (if) they find the body.
He's perfect.
Raphael pulls his fist back and lets it fly into the man's jaw. There's porcelain sound as his teeth slam together, either gold or rotten, it's hard to tell in this light. The woman screams and runs, but Raphael dosen't care. Not tonight.
"Oh Jesus.."
Raphael rams a foot into the man's purple covered crotch, feeling something cave. The cry fills the alley, drowned in an animal snarl. Raphael realises, almost surprised, that's it's him.
"Oh God, Jesus man, oh God…"
Neither appears to be listening. Raphael couldn't give a damn if they were. He dosen't give a damn about a lot tonight. Just what he can get in reach and pull apart like wet cardboard and salt thick bone, something the world can't give a crap about because maybe then it will. It's hurt him. It's hurt them all, hurt them so bad and all he wants to do is punch and kick and claw and bite and tare and break and rip and squash and obliterate until…he dosen't know.
"Jesus.."
"Stop saying that!"
He grabs a hand full of the tacky fabric, wishing it was this easy to grab skin and since it's not, slams the man against a wall hard enough that constant pressure will leave a brickwork map in raw flesh. There'll be plenty of pressure tonight.
"You don't get to say that name!"
Back and forth, back and forth. It feels like forever before he hits blood, darkening the man's shirt as it swells between his lips and tracing little patterns on Raphael's fist. He dosen't notice. He's too busy slamming his knee into the man's chin, gut, crotch, lather, rinse, repeat. Maybe this will show the world. This is who it should target. This insignificant, insecure excuse for a bastard and the wife beater sprawled in an alley in Harlem, the drug dealers buried in packing crate shards and ruined experiments in their hide away in the East Side, the weapons dealers who thought they were oh so smart smuggling themselves in through the docks. This is who it should happen to, the bad. Not the good. Not…
"That's enough!"
He suddenly can't move, stone solid air reaching out of the night shadows, pinning his arms behind him. He thrashes, teeth bright, sharp and gritted like an animal through cage bars.
"He's down!"
Ice water tones, washing over him and freezing everything. But he can't let it. He's been sweating, must have been sweating all night, and God he's so cold…
Shadows rustling behind him, black cape and a cop's grip. Nobody cares. Unfortunately.
"I'm going to count to three…"
"No!"
"Raphael! I'm going to count to…"
The man's body folds on the sidewalk, a battered regal purple flower amongst the papers and bottles and cardboard and cold. Unconscious or worse. Raphael throws back his head and howls until there's nothing left . He sags when the vigilante lets him go. Part of him wants to fight, throw the first punch, to hell with the rules, just hit something. Let it out. But Nobody's innocent.
He'd laugh at that, but he has more ground to cover tonight.
With or without the vigilante's approval.
---
It's cold in here. Beautiful marble cold, but still cold.
That dosen't make him feel a lot better.
Leonardo knows he should feel guilty ( quick question, does breaking into a church constitute a sin?) but he can't. It's too cold for that. He can feel it through the useless trench coat and fedora.
Outside, frost wraps the building in a blanket tight hold, smothering it like the rest of the Chelsea pre dawn world. Tingeing it with sparkles and giggling winter wonderland promises, just out of reach, but maybe if your good…
Kind of like why he's here. But how good can he be? How good has he been? Yes, Oroku Saki was a monster, more blade than human but he was alive until Leonardo made a choice, took that life into his own and hands and finished what they (he) should have made sure had been finished in Hamato Yoshi's name years ago. Did he deserve that, even with that sin on his soul? Is it a matter of anyone's sins? Is it really a matter of how much of a good little freak Leonardo has been, un kept promises and violent deaths aside?
After all, he's not the one who's dying.
And he can't do anything about that. This is more him than his family, but he can't do anything about it and that's…that's appalling, disgusting, unfair.
Leonardo isn't sure what he believes in, he's just sure God isn't it. He's fought gods, demons, maybe even a few angels. It's hard enough to believe in people, let alone what he shouldn't be able to perceive even after it's almost killed him for daring to breathe. But he'd like to believe in something. Hopefully it's good, but if it can create why destroy?
Maybe it's not up to whatever it is that may or may not be keeping the balance, if there is any. Anything that can think about ending life can do it. Maybe the choice, when it is a choice, is there so nature will realise that and maybe some day stop doing it. Most people seem to cope. Maybe taking care of your soul is just taking care of your body, your heart, your brain, your lungs…
It's so difficult to make that kind of choice. You have to know what it is first. But there must be something out there, and if he can find it, he has leverage. Now to do the one thing he never thought he'd do.
Beg.
He looks up at the white crucifix crowning the altar, grey in the fractured stain glass window light. Maybe if he tries real hard he'll actually convince himself the majestic figure on it is listening…
"Please…"
---
He's hungry. Been hungry for days now. The cupboard is bare, devoid of anything, including his reason to get up. He shifts in to a position no more comfortable than the one he was previously in and goes still again. It's all he can think to do now. Or not think.
The cruel will think that comes easily to Michelangelo, but he thinks about a lot of things. Light on water and textures in patterns and movement in stillness. He never showed her his sketch pad and he regrets that now. It's no more than a couple of inches away, but he can only look at it and he stopped that an hour ago. There just dosen't seem to be any point anymore. Training, eating, drinking, thinking, moving, breathing…
He wonders if they'll ever be able to do anything ever again after this.
---
This is it.
The child no less than six days old turns in sleep in his arms. It's amazing how much they look alike in sleep. Only he knows it's not sleep in one case. He remembers her eyes but it would be nice to have seen them again. One last time since the diagnosis. Not something Arnold Casey Jones should think about, but this isn't the man behind the hockey mask swinging baseball bats at what he dosen't like. This is a man with nothing to hide behind. He should be angry about it, cursing God or something, but what would be the point? She wouldn't want that. Not April O'Neil.
He knows it's finally finished before the duty nurse comes in a declares the time of death with a sombre stopwatch glance. She was okay with it. So is he. She lived a life he was privileged to be a part of, and he has the greatest gift any man could ever receive because of her. She fought for it through all the operations and the risk paid off. It's not the end of the world, but God does it feel like it and that's terrifying.
He should call the guys. They should know. Maybe Splinter will run into her on the Astral Plane or wherever he goes when he zones out like that.
The baby stirs in his arms, opening her eyes slowly. She dosen't cry, just looks at him as if wondering what to do next or what he'll do next or what will happen next, or maybe all of the above.
Her eyes are as green and soft as leaves. Just like her mother's.
He bounces her a little as he leaves the room with a last, long glance.
It's terrifying. But it couldn't be further from the end of the world.