Author's note/whatever
This is a WW1 AU one shot thing I wrote because why not. The story is also an outside eye on the turtles, and none of this os from their POV. I have literally never written a story, except maybe in like first grade or something. It's probably apparent but whatever, I got bored. Enjoy, I guess?
Oh yeah... and character death. Whoo-hoo for needlessly dramatic bullshit
I wiped my brow with the knuckles on my hand, the only part that wasn't completely covered in mud. It was so wet here, in the trenches. Of course, what did I expect when I was plopped in here? Paradise? A war that would actually come to an end? I don't know, maybe feeling like I'm actually alive for once? Nah, not in my cards apparently. Today I continue where I left off yesterday, cleaning my socks. I swear, no matter how many times I dry these things, they end up the same way within five minutes of wearing them.
It had been a couple weeks since the other side had shot at us, which was welcome, but ominous. Had they simply left? Was this some sort of trick to get us to feel comfortable, only to lob more mortars over at us? How many dead bodies can a person pick up before it becomes muscle memory? And what was that thing that just bolted across the fork of the trench?
Seriously, what was it?
Was it even human? That thing was enormous! Is there some new, weird kind of body armor that we're trying out? You'd think someone would let me know what's going on. Why did it have a strange wooden backpack? Where the hell did it get to that fast?
"Hello?" I called out weakly. Damn, that was pathetic.
"HELLO?!" I bellow out. Much better, I'd pat myself on the back if I wasn't scared shitless.
No answer. God damn it, I either have to ignore it, or try to follow this imaginary demon thing some more. I know I shouldn't follow it, and that this is probably some sort of trap or other bullshit concocted by the Germans, but... screw it. Does it really make a difference whether I'm killed now or later? I don't think so.
So I get up and try to follow the... foot? Yeah, footsteps of the whatever the thing was. It's kind of hard when there are hundreds of other footprints all squished into the duckboards, but I manage because the footprints of this thing are freakishly big and just a little bit incredibly unsettling. Not to be dramatic or anything.
I've been aware of how disgusting this trench is for awhile, but this is just ri-goddamn-diculous. You'd think that it'd be somebody's job to clean this bloody trench up a little bit, but I guess people are too busy dying. And I know that the war's important and everything, blah blah blah. I know, but this is fucking awful. Every single day I watch my friends of that week die, because nobody lasts long enough to know each other for more than that. But for some reason, my sorry ass keeps on living, and it's unfair. Why do I get to live, when everybody else with an actual purpose in life dies? I am a nobody, I live on a fucking dirt farm with my dirt poor dirtbag dad, with nothing but dirty potatoes and old pig to eat. This war was a godsend because I finally got to do something useful and die. Well, this is fantastic I'm rambling to myself in my head. This isn't going to solve anything Elliott, whining didn't bring back mom, nor did it kick the bottle out of dad's stupid hand. …Fuck, there I go again.
I sigh and keep tracking the thing down, ambling along when finally something interesting happens. Well, not as interesting as it is a well fuck-me moment; a couple dozen shots are fired from the other side. I know they can't see me, as the walls of the trench are too high, but hey, anybody'd get antsy if they were getting shot at. I crouch lower and keep my eyes open for grenades. Maybe the Germans will finally come pouring over the top of the barbed wire and sand bags. Maybe today is the day that I finally start counting worms in the grave.
The shooting stops after a couple of minutes, must've just been shooting to scare us a little bit. I notice that I'm shaking in my worn out old boots, and internally berate myself for being such a pussy. It's what dad would have done, berate me. Ass. I start to calm myself down, assure myself that I might live 'till tomorrow, when all of a sudden I hear a resounding cry. I know this cry, I've heard it a hundred times in battle. Someone very close to someone else just died, or is dying. Poor bastards, I hope they weren't brothers, or this scream will haunt me forever... just like the Hayworth brothers.
The scream didn't sound as if it was far away, and for a moment I forget about the "demon" I saw earlier. But only for a moment. I walk slowly towards where I heard the scream came from, and I can hear the broken and hitched breathing of a fellow soldier, crying over a fallen comrade.
"I... I was supposed to bring you home," A deep voice let out,"and now... I can't go back."
I steady myself with my back against the wall, and allow myself to sink next to a munitions crate. What is wrong with me? I lean against the crate now, and let my gun fall from my grasp as a hold my head, hiding it from the world. Why are my eyes tearing up this much? I am a... I'm a man for god sakes, and have seen this shit happen over and over and over again. Why now am I breaking? I can't break, men don't break. If that bastard of a dad taught me anything, it's that men don't cry. Don't you fucking cry!
At least I don't use cheap whiskey as a crutch, I answer his imaginary voice in my head. I can practically feel the reply of a whiskey bottle to the back of my head; dad never did have a way with words. I duck my head further into my knees. Even though I know in my head my dad can't hear me, I still duck from his blow. Muscle memory.
"It'll be okay... you can be leader now," the voice coughed, "just like you've always wanted," The voice spoke with a surprisingly strong optimism for someone who was dying.
"NO! I don't want that, take it back Leo! You have to live I can't...I..." The voice starts out fierce and fast, but dies out and begins to choke out a low, anguished sob.
I guess the second one isn't dead yet. Maybe... maybe I can help?
I look up from my protective position in the trench. Across from me is the muddy wall of this God-forsaken trench. Everything, even the air, is sticky and wet. It's sickening. I start to stand up slowly, using the munitions crate for support. I can't let anybody else die. I will try to help this soldier get back home. I bend over and pick up my gun, and as I round the corner I think that maybe today I can finally be the man my dirtbag father always commanded me to be.
I stop dead in my tracks when I see the soldiers in front of me. They are hideous, hulking monsters. They somewhat resemble turtles, but more humanoid in form. The things that I once thought were wooden backpacks I can now see to be bloodied shells. One with a red, tattered piece of cloth tied around it's helmet, the other one with a blue one. I can't move, my brain can neither process nor compute anything that's happening.
The red clad one quickly stands up and faces me, confusion and fury gleaning at me through it's tear reddened eyes. With the red one out of the way, I can see the extent of the blue one's injuries, and even though the thing isn't human, I know that this thing can't possibly survive without immediate treatment. Blood is diluted by the ever-present mud and grime that it's currently lain down in.
"What are you going to do?" The red one asks, and I am finally awoken from my stupor. I say nothing in response, it's as if my brain isn't aware of my tongue's existence.
The blue "turtle", or whatever it is simply looks at me, it's brow ridge is knotted, like it's either trying to figure out whether I want to kill it or scream and run. The things intrigues me; even though it is inches from death, it looks accepting of it's fate. It's confusing, and I stare at it more. I can see the bullots riddled in it's skin... or whatever it has.
I open my mouth to ask what the things are, when nearby, a mortar finds it's pay dirt and lands not twenty feet away from us, exploding. The blast itself doesn't hurt us, but my body's reaction to the sounds is what does it. My fingers tense, and like an idiot I had my finger around the trigger. The gun was facing downward towards what I hoped was the dirt...
The bullet hit the dying soldier in the gut instead.
I didn't have time to beg for mercy before the red one slammed into me. Right before the impact I could see his eyes. They were dilated into pinpricks and looked like they belonged on a feral animal. He pushed his huge bloodied hands against my throat and pinned my against the grimy wall of the trench. He stared into my eyes as I gasped for air, trying to pry his clamped hands from my throat.
"Raph," a voice sputtered, it was the blue turtle who spoke, choking on it's own blood, "I was gone either way."
The eyes of the red clad turtle exposed his emotions. At hearing his brother's voice, his pupils expanded slightly, becoming more human. He turned his head slightly towards his brother, and his breath that was just fast and steady in rage, became slower and more erratic in fear. He let me go then, and I collapsed on the ground, gasping for air and shaking. The red one looked back at me before slowly backing away, as if he was afraid of me, or what he was about to do to me. He then quickly turned toward his brother, but fell down onto his knees, as he spun around too quickly. His knees would provide him with no more support in his emotional state. He hastily crawled towards his dying brother, not wanting to miss another moment with him.
I watched as the blue one looked towards his brother, his eyes more sad for the other than himself. They said no words now, although a couple times I could tell that the larger red one attempted to say something to evade the stinging silence. He was hunched over the dying one's chest, propping the blue one's head up with his now gentle hands. The dying soldier eventually went limp and the remaining turtle shook in what could only be fear and uncertainty of the future.
After some time I was able to sit myself up, finally recovering from earlier. I felt like shit, not because my trachea was sore, but because of what I had just done. Whatever hope that turtle had of surviving was destroyed by me and my actions. If I hadn't stupidly left my hand on the trigger, that turtle might have had a chance. Human or not it deserved to live, and now it's brother had to live without him, alone in this war. I left then, it wasn't my place to intervene any more on this tragic moment. I had done enough.
On my way back I had done some thinking about the two. Why were they here? They couldn't have possibly been recruited or drafted, as they weren't human. They must have come on their own initiative. It was difficult to wrap my brain around the fact that they must have chosen to be here and fight. Why, I wondered, were they fighting for a country that, given the chance, would have them killed for being monsters? It was an unfamiliar concept to me, the nobility of it all.
It was a couple weeks before I saw the turtle again, even though I never did expect to see him beyond that single meeting. He never said anything to me, just watched me from a distance. Sometimes I wonder if he was ever really real or not, and if I'm just growing insane from this war. Then I feel the guilt set in, and know that in my heart I am a monster, just like my dad. I really am more like him these days than I'd care to admit. I guess that's just how we are, someone dies, we take up drinking, and turn into a bitter old bastard. I know that it's just a matter of time before I take on his personality.
After a few sightings here and there, and several more bottles of bootlegged gin, I finally reach my demise. After another barrage of bullets from the other side, I get shot in the neck. Everyone else in my company is dead around me and I collapse backwards, bleeding out. Just as things start to go dark, I see the red turtle walk towards me, gliding like a ghost over the bodies in it's swift movements. I am in an incredible amount of pain, and I know the thing can see that. It is all I can do to hold on and see what the creature will do. It stares at me blankly, and I am able to utter a few lasts words to him.
"I didn't mean to," I sputter, as I hold my neck wound closed.
"I know," He replies simply. He doesn't make eye contact, he just looks down at the ground. His eyes are sunken, and he has more wounds than the last time I saw him. He must have gotten reckless after his brother died.
It is difficult to speak but these last words are vital, "Kill me," I plead.
He nods in understanding, and the last thing that I see is a silver weapon reflected on his eyes. The foreign weapon stabs deep into my skull, and I am saved from becoming my father by someone I can never thank.
–
Author's note/whatever
Huh, longer than I thought it'd be.
Welp I hope you enjoyed this thing. Now be good and go find a better fanfic to read, preferably not one so needlessly dramatic.