Geeky Wimp of a Brother

By Kellyanne Lynch

8 May 2008

Beta-Readers: Quoth The Raven, Alyssa Barnes, Heather King

Disclaimer: Eastman and Laird own the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, not me. Too bad, huh? No copyright infringement intended. I just want to play in their sandbox for a while, this time with Donatello. I hope they don't mind.

Summary: How is such a minor injury from a frelling foot soldier cutting Donatello this deeply?

Author's Note: Quoth The Raven told me I should warn y'all that Donnie is in for some self-loathing here. He is going to say some really mean things about himself. You have been warned, so no pummeling allowed. For the record, I do not endorse what Donnie is saying about himself here.

Rating: PG

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I leap a mere three feet into the air, my foot extending toward Leonardo… and I miss. I swallow a gasp as my carapace strikes the floor. They're all looking at me. I force myself to smile as I ease myself to a seated position, my shell against the wall. Drawing my knees to my plastron is such an asinine idea. I realize too late. Pain gnaws my left side, and a whimper escapes.

Those eyes upon me widen. Nunchucks clack to the floor, and Michelangelo is by my side. "Donny," he coddles, crouching beside me. "Are you all right?" Fear and concern are woven through my youngest brother's voice and features, lashing at my pride. I know he means well. Nevertheless, I shy away from the hand reaching for my shoulder.

"Yeah, Mike." Again, I try to smile. The effort twists an invisible knife through my skull. I draw in a sharp breath and swallow hard. "Don't mind me."

Mikey grimaces. "You're doing such a great job," he says. "I'm proud of you, man."

This time, his hand reaches my shoulder. He squeezes it – inadvertently shooting pain up and down my neck - before getting to his feet and rejoining the others. They continue their little game of everyone verses Leo…

Little. Now that's derogatory! How dare I diminish this exercise when I can't even handle it?

My own breaths turn against me, seemingly worse with every inhalation. Shouldn't this be getting easier? So I fell down a few stairs. My leg has healed. My shoulder barely twinges when I maneuver my bo into stances and action. Only three days have passed since that foot soldier managed to take me down in combat. A frelling foot soldier! And not a particularly skilled one at that! My injuries have all but healed, yet sparring takes so much out of me. What the shell is my problem?

You're doing a great job. I'm proud of you, man! Mike's words sear my already tension-riddled mind, and I close my eyes. Why did he have to go and say that? He's proud of me? Why? Because I got back up from a fall? I didn't, really, at least not initially. Leo had to save my sorry shell, yet again. I did go right back to practice, but so what? So I'm fighting, but it's obvious that it's taking a lot out of me.

I watch Raphael and Michelangelo circle our fearless leader. Raph is sneering at Leo, staring down his prey like a tiger preparing to pounce. Mikey is bouncing on the balls of his feet like those little yip-yip dogs in the Beggin' Strips ads, like Leo's katanas are the bacon. Centered between them is our hero, my hero. He is as calm and focused as ever. Our brothers crouch like two velocaraptors in the wings with congruent intensity, biding their time for that instant they collectively perceive Fearless distracted in the very least. Fat chance!

I can never live up to Leo. He truly is an incredible ninja. Dare I say, he will be better than Master Splinter someday. I recognize that as Raph and Mike attack, and Leo holds them each a bay with a single katana. I recognize that Raph may be reckless but almost equally effective. I accept Mike as my sweet baby brother who could easily rival the others hands-down, if only he applied himself.

I've accepted a long time ago that I am physically the weakest of my brothers. My mind can only carry us so far in battle. Far too often, I'm the one who needs to be carried. What use is a state of the art motherboard in a glass mainframe? It has come to a point where I am unacceptable. I'm irreparable. There's just something inherently feeble about me. No matter how hard I try, even at my most virile, I don't compare with my brothers. But when I'm injured…

How can I rationalize this so-called injury as a mitigating circumstance to my frailty? My injuries are nothing. Three days have passed, and they are all but gone. And yet I still sit here panting on the floor like a tire-gutted middle-aged executive going up a flight of stairs, having clumsily fallen from a half-assed kick.

Really, that's the worst part of this deal, that my fighting is substandard, even when compared to my typical, pathetic baseline. Why am I so timid? Why am I so afraid of falling? The fall I took wasn't even bad. I am not afraid of getting hurt again… am I? I cannot possibly be getting worked up over the dullest bruises. I didn't break a bone. I didn't get knocked out or sprain an ankle or even pull a hamstring. All I did was fall. That's all. And I couldn't get up.

For Mike, Leo, and Raph, it takes a shell of a lot more than a few bruises to knock them off their game. In fact, all three of them sustained worst injuries in that battle. I watch as they dance around one another, their weapons sparking and glittering in the candlelit dojo. Mike's knee is wrapped with an Ace bandage, and yet he is still bouncing on his toes and grinning. A flash of red streaks across my direct line of sight to my youngest brother as Raph slams his heavily scraped right leg into Leo's plastron. Leo stumbles back a couple steps with the slightest hint of a limp. He grips his katanas in his scabby fingers, crossing them and blocking an onslaught of sais and nunchucks. Not one of them considers himself as being injured.

But oh no, not their geeky wimp of a brother! One little fall, and Brainiac is out of commission. It sickens me how I just laid there, wheezing and trying to catch my breath while that lowly foot soldier stood over me and laughed. He knows I am the weakest. Hell, Shredder's entire operation must know that by this point. How long will it take for them to use that little fact to their advantage?

This is humiliating! I reach for my bo, ignoring the muscles through my shoulder protest. I drag myself to my feet and rejoin the fray. Leo inclines his head in my direction as I approach, the slightest smile hinting at his lips. He blocks my first three jabs with the same katana he is using to deflect Mikey's nunchucks. My fourth blow smacks his shoulder, charging a bolt of white hot pain up my arm. Leo quickly pivots on his heels and nails me in the plastron with a swift roundhouse kick. I double over. I stagger backwards but catch myself. I force myself to stand upright, fighting nausea and a throbbing knot in my stomach.

The others stop. Leo's eye ridges furrow. An apology forms in his eyes but fortunately never makes it to his lips. After all, I don't need big brother babying me… at least I shouldn't. After all, he's the one who caught that foot soldier's sword as it swung toward my chest, while I was laying at the bottom of that flight of stairs, shell shocked. He's the one who lent me a shoulder to lean upon when I was unsteady and weak on the walk home.

That attack was just one more reminder to my brothers that I do need to be protected, that I can't even deal with a tenth of the physical stress that they can handle. I kept waiting for those bruises to form, willing them to mar my left side with deep purples and blues and blacks, for my skin to bear proof that I have not faltered over virtually nothing. I scolded myself when the barest streaks of gray materialized instead. How had I wussed out over something so insignificant?

I realize my brothers are still just standing there, staring at me as I gasp for breath. "Um, gah, guys?" I manage. "Aren't… we puh, practicing?"

Leonardo sheaths his katanas. He stretches his arms over his head and pushes out a sigh. "I think that'll do for now. I'm beat."

He is such a horrible liar. I can almost hear the adrenaline singing through his veins. He hasn't even broken a sweat. Leo, beat! The only way that guy is "beat" is when he has been beaten within an inch of his life. Even then, it's debatable. Who the shell does he think he's kidding?

Mike grips the handles of his nunchucks in loose fists at his sides. "Fine by me," he shrugs. "More time for comics. Besides, I'm starved."

I await Raph's snappy retort in vain. Instead, he stashes his sais in his belt in silence. When I meet his eyes, he looks away. My weakness disgusts him. He shuffles out of the dojo.

They all walk away, leaving their frangible brother alone. I stand there grasping my bo, turning it over in my hands. It's such a joke that I even call this my weapon. Each of my brothers has mastered his weapon of choice. They are also all better at wielding a bo than I am… not that they even practice. They are just better than me.

How long can we perpetuate this charade? How long can we go out, night after night, facing down the evils of this planet and others with three ninjas who are growing more rugged and fierce by the day… and me. Really, it is an apery to ninjitsu that I even call myself a ninja turtle. I'm just holding them back. One day, I may even get one of them killed.

THE END

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A/N: And now for a little vocabulary lesson:

Frangible \FRAN-juh-buhl\, adjective:
Capable of being broken; brittle; fragile; easily broken. (Source: ). Something that is frangible crumbles to pieces with little impact, like a cookie.

As for the word "frelling", it comes from the Jim Henson science fiction series Farscape. It's a euphemism for the F bomb. Don uses this word in the fic, because I can imagine him being a fan of the show.