They don't belong to me. After the box office for the new movie, I wish they did. Rated for language, violence, gore. Please review. (Edited for format 3/1/08)
Another night, another patrol, another fight.
Michelangelo sighed, idly spinning his nunchaku over his fingers, watching the moonlight glint on the burnished chain. A quick glance around revealed two of his brothers, well hidden in the shadows, their eyes watchful, taking every detail of the street below. Leonardo was crouched on the cornice of the building, steadying himself with one hand on the stone block. His other hand was upheld in a "wait" motion. Anyone looking up to the sky would have thought him to be a very strange, albeit lifelike, gargoyle.
They had spotted the small knot of Purple Dragons on the street below, which as Raphael had pointed out with no lack of expletives, meant no good. Being as Donatello had the best ears and was generally the stealthiest, he had crept down toward them to try to discern what they were up to. If Mike looked over the edge of the building, he could see his other brother standing still as stone on the fire escape just above the alley.
With a sudden movement, Leonardo's upheld hand clenched into a fist, and without a word he leapt from his perch, plummeting toward the street. He was followed closely by Raphael, who had been passing his time by whetting his sais on the concrete wall of the edifice. With a sigh, Mike vaulted over the edge himself.
He touched down briefly on a darkened balcony, somersaulted further downward to catch a hanging cable line, then dropped the final distance to the ground, chucks in hand, to land at his brothers' sides.
Raphael had an evil-looking grin on his face, reveling in the terror in the eyes of the younger gang members. He started to take a step forward, watching with glee as a nervous ripple went through the teenagers. A glance from Leonardo reined him in, and with a growl, he made due with smacking the tips of his sais together, sending an ominous-sounding 'ting' through the charged air.
Donny materialized at Leo's side, and a low murmur reached Michelangelo's ears. Leo gave a miniscule nod, and Don backed away, yielding the lead position to his oldest brother. He stepped backward to Mike's side, and Mike felt himself relax a little as he registered the warmth of his brother next to him.
"This robbery isn't going to happen tonight, guys." Leo's voice was low, but the warning therein was clear. "This is your chance to clear out, and to make it home in one piece."
A nervous rumble went through the group, as if they were trying to gather courage from one another. All eyes were on the largest thug, who was standing at the front of the pack, arms crossed, legs akimbo. There was a sneer on his face and hatred in his eyes. "I wouldn't worry so much about us, freaks. You're the ones whose gonna go home in pieces." The man's voice was a rumbling basso, and disdain poured from every word.
Feeling Donatello shift his stance next to him, Mike muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "You're just dyin' to correct his grammar, aren't ya." He was rewarded with a bo knocking against his shin, and he couldn't suppress a grin.
"Besides," spat out the gang leader, "We brought you a present." The crowd of young delinquents parted to reveal a sight that Mike immediately knew would haunt his dreams. A hulking young man, covered from neck to navel with intricate Purple Dragon tattoos, had a body slung over his shoulder. With a lip-curling smile, he flung the body to the concrete. The skull hit the ground with a sound like a ripe melon, ringlets of red hair spreading across the pavement. Her face was battered almost beyond recognition, oozing blood and swollen grotesquely. Her shirt was torn open, exposing her blood-soaked bra, and her white pants were almost completely crimson.
"April."
Leo's voice was quiet, without emotion. Stating a fact.
A growl, low in the throat, split the night air, and Mike's gaze immediately flew to Raphael. But his brother was standing stock still, his face pale, eyes glued to their prostrate friend, and at the blood that was spreading around her head like a halo. The growl increased to a roar and Mike was nearly knocked from his feet as Donatello bashed into him, launching himself towards April's body, a blood-chilling scream ripping from his throat.
Don's snarl seemed to goad the others into action. Raph responded with a scream of his own, leaping forward to slash at the lead thug with his sais, opening a crimson line in his throat that pulsed and spurted blood in cadence with his heartbeat. It only took a split second, but Mike watched as the life-light left the man's eyes, realization being replaced by a soulless stare as he toppled to his knees and fell face-forward over April's body.
Leonardo's katanas were a shining blur as he slashed his way forward, his face a study in concentration. In contrast to the raging mask that Raphael wore during a fight, Leo's visage was blank, calculating. Only his eyes belied his feelings, and then only to his brothers who knew him so well. To his enemies, he was a killing machine, and they fell before him one after another, some silent, some screaming, some gurgling as they choked on their own blood.
Mike fully expected Donatello to stop at April's body, drag her to safety, protect her. So he was vaguely shocked when Don planted his bo and vaulted over her, striking the tattooed dragon in the chest with both feet, knocking him backward into his mates, bowling them all over into a heap. Don landed straddling the tattooed one, and without a word, he wound up and swung his bo like a golf club, connecting with a sickening noise. Teeth, blood, and bone spattered from the thug's face, and he crumpled like a rag doll.
Since his brothers seemed hell-bent on the fight, Mike sheathed one of his nunchacku and skidded forward to kneel at April's side, shoving the dead gang leader away from her body. Her breathing was shallow, hitching in her chest, and her eyes were glazed, half-lidded. The blood that was oozing from her head seemed thick, clotted, slow-moving. Every few breaths she would give a wet-sounding cough, sending a froth of blood out of her mouth to drip down her cheeks.
Mike made a little noise of distress as the tumbling body of one of the thugs crashed into his back, then caromed off and landed on April. He shouldered the man's body out of the way, then grasped April beneath the arms and began dragging her away from the fray, toward the curb, where he knew a manhole awaited. Levering the handle of one of his chucks into the cover, he wrenched it from its seat and shoved it aside. He knelt and, with a silent apology to April, heaved her over his shoulder and dropped into the sewer.
Sharp stinging traveled up his calves as he landed flat-footed on the stone below, but he ignored it and began to run. He was torn, considering leaving April below and joining his brothers in the fight, but he sensed that April was in dire condition. Splinter will know what to do. Please, God, let Splinter know what to do.
