A companion ficlet/oneshot to Newspaper, inspired when someone who reviewed asked if I could give more insight to Raph's discovery (see above mentioned fic for further explanation.) Can stand alone, so you don't have to read Newspaper.
The reason this was written as a stand-alone rather than an addition is because Newspaper is supposed to focus on Broody Leo, with the events leading up to his emotional state being… not unimportant, but I was trying to focus on the Here and Now rather than Then. Obviously there wouldn't be much of a fuss without the happenings contained here, so it IS important.
Ninja Turtles and related Characters don't belong to me. They are simply an inspiration.
He would have welcomed death had it presented itself to him now.
However, he was unlucky tonight. More so than he had ever been, which was pretty damn bad, considering. He lay on the ground, bleeding in to the pavement. He knew from the gleam of the little rivulets yellowed in the poor light of the street lamp that it was bad.
Karai had left him here, bleeding, and until moments ago, he had been wondering why. Now, as the shrill wailing of the sirens drew closer, realization dawned on him with a punch to the gut. Groaning, he moved.
Naturally, the press made it first. No chance for the government to pull the blanket of secrecy. After all, what point would there be of telling the human populace about his existence, if the general public couldn't catch a glance? Cameras began to flash as he pulled his leg out from searching eyes, leaving them to gawk at the piles of bodies which hopefully redirected attention from his trail of blood.
The world took on a dreamlike quality as he dragged himself forward at a pace that was as fast as he could move, yet not fast enough. With each movement, the various, deep cuts littering his body would open and close, red mouths of muscle and bone and blood screaming in agony as he crawled forward. Panting, he made his way to a drain, knowing he was too weak to lift a manhole cover. His only stretch of luck: the bars securing the drain had been removed. He was thankful not for the first time that vandalism provided him an easier passage underground.
He landed with a splash to the water below, resting in the knee-deep water. The bottom was coated in a slime many humans preferred not to think about, much less soak their wounds in. Exhausted, trying not to think about the warmth of his blood swirling and heating the frigid water, he leaned back and let the current take him. The water became deeper, ran faster, and he couldn't trouble himself to worry whether or not something of his would snag on something below; as it was, his calloused heels effortlessly scraped the uneven and unseen bottom, aided by the slime and strength of the current.
Time swirled around him, carried him further in to the sewers of New York, yet it went unnoticed by the semi-conscious turtle as he stared blankly off to the side, eyes half lidded. Barely registered were images of rats and trash, of various pieces of rusted scrap metal and bicycles left behind by those too lazy to address the junkyard.
Such sights escaped his notice because not only were they common props to a setting such as this, but because his thoughts, fuzzy with the drunkenness following blood loss, had centered themselves around a more important issue: one that struck through him to his deepest core, one that had earned itself so much priority with him that it merged itself with instinct.
He thought of Leo, Don, and Mikey, mixed and melted to a green blur of color and emotion, pitting around feelings of desire and hopelessness. He knew his family. He knew they would look for him, but worst of all, he knew he'd been discovered, and they would find that out, probably before they came around to noticing his absence. He had given them away. If he lived, if they found him, that would be the last straw. It would have to be. They'd hate him permanently now, it wouldn't be a twenty-four hour upheaval of generalized anger at his absence. They'd shun him to the deepest corners of hell.
He'd welcome that. It would be well deserved if they found him and kicked him out before he had the chance to apologize, as though words could possibly span the sheer size of his guilt.
If they punished him accordingly, they would let him heal and leave him with his own demons. Demons, those he has carried with him his entire life, who would be so saturated with this treachery their weight would surely crush him, and he knew with a singular pang of satisfaction that he wouldn't live that long alone with them. He'd die within the month, but at least he'd pay.
However, dying now, here, seemed too much a blessing. Pity and Forgiveness would let him pass now, and truth be told he was never really good friends with either.
No, an apology would do his mistakes no justice, would be a pathetic attempt at self expression, would surely fail, cause him to crumble in their eyes to nothing but dust, something to be cleaned and thrown away, unwelcome in the home. And besides, who would ever believe him if he told them the extent of his love after this? No one possessing a reasonable amount of sanity would accept such a display, would see it as anything other than a watered-down attempt to readjust his nonexistent halo.
He had done enough damage as it was, and the thought rang clearest in his mind as he reached to the side, grasping for purchase on the slick cement. They would snap, because that was all that was left to do after years of building to this climax. As he hoisted himself from the filth, all but falling to slightly dryer ground outside the little river of muck, that thought among all others gave him the most peace.
Because, with his skin slicked with the brown-red mixture of blood and grime, with his outside merged with his in as he began to look like the way he felt and acted, he knew he was finally getting what he deserved. Santa came early this year, and boy did he deliver.
His head began to sink down to the floor, against his will and yet he did little to fight it. The muscles of his neck ticked spastically as the sudden weight of his skull pressed against his control.
Blackness descended upon him, and he almost welcomed it. Unspoken, barely intelligent thoughts nibbled at the edge of his resolve, grounding him in reality. With a grunt, he rolled almost lazily on his side, reaching down slowly, fingers fumbling at his gear.
He had to lift the device to his nose to make sure what it was. Blue light illuminated his face, causing his pupils to constrict painfully. With another grunt, he placed the phone face down on the pavement, and slid it to the water. Sweet satisfaction mixed with the pain, and his lips curved to a ghost of a smile as he lowered himself back to the dirty cobblestones.
If they found him, they wouldn't find his brothers.
…If they found him, his brothers might follow… The thought remained incomplete, trailing off as his consciousness began to slip.
His belt pocket was empty. And now, blissfully, so was his mind.