Drinking Alone
Baby-blue eyes, dulled by age and time, snapped open. He yawned and sat up, stretching to try and work out the kinks in his muscles. It was a wasted effort, of course - his muscles were near constantly knotted from tension and stress. And in this case, the cold.
His breath steamed in the frigid air as he ventured outside of his shoddy little hideout. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine, but he ignored it in favor of checking the time on his Shell Cell. Honestly, it was a miracle the thing still worked, especially considering the fact that its creator had been missing for...oh, about thirty years now. The system was still too complex for any of the rebels to figure out or duplicate, and most of the apps didn't work anymore - why did he even have a "Flappy Bird" game to begin with? - so it was almost useless. But he held onto it anyway.
The display was faint, but he could just make out the numbers. 11:58 PM. Two minutes before the New Year.
Thirty-some years ago, at this moment, his whole world had gone to pot. He remembered when they'd found the Bo staff lying in a pool of blood outside the Lair's entrance. The looks of horror and disbelief on his brothers'faces. The false hope he himself had clung to. He remembered all of it. Always. It's what started this whole downward spiral of the world. The team had quickly fallen apart without the purple-banded turtle to keep it together; his oldest brothers each went their separate ways - each blamed the other, and neither one was capable of trying to heal the rift their silence was causing. And so he was alone.
A sigh escaped his lips and he pulled a scarred and worn flask from his belt. He twisted the cap off with his teeth, wrinkling his beak at the rank smell that emanated from inside. He never had been that fond of drinking, but he'd learned over the years that maybe the pain wasn't so sharp while he held a bottle in his hand. Of course, in the world today - or what was left of it - alcohol wasn't cheap, and had to be bought on the black market. Or for a favor.
He was already up to his neck in debts, anyway. Why not make it worthwhile?
Another glance at the clock. Another sigh. 11:59.
And as the minute passed and the clock showed midnight, Mikey raised his flask. "Happy New Year," he said into the wind. Because maybe, just maybe, his brothers - wherever they were - would hear him.