Silent and Deadly
By: Pink Cloud Assembly
Disclaimer: Yeah, right.
Yo-ho-hello-there! Fancy meetin' you here. I come bearing gifts— either a moderately cute fic that might actually manages to get a few light chuckles out of you sad, bitter folks, or something you can print out and use for TP if you ever run out. You decide. :]
"This is bad," Donnie murmured softly, adjusting his grip on the gun. It looked so foreign to him, though hardly unnecessary if he wanted to remain living, and it surprised him how quickly he'd gotten used to using it.
"No kidding," Mike nodded solemnly, never once making eye contact.
From then on out verbal communication was kept to a minimum, neither one wanting to risk alerting anything that might be dragging itself up the box-ridden, blood-caked metallic staircase of their presence. From their posts, they could see everything. The broken-down, boarded up window, the wall; dingy and littered with scrap wood and moldy boxes. And most importantly, the second level of stairs, leading further into the establishment.
They waited for what seemed like hours, hunched behind that godforsaken wall, until a weak chorus of groans found them.
Mikey swallowed dryly and spoke up after a moment or two, jerking his head towards the direction of the stairs. "Donnie, you hear that?"
"Yeah," Don said grimly. There was only one direction they could come from, and even though they came slowly, they came in numbers. Numbers apparently very impervious to bullets. "I hear it. They're coming. Keep an eye out."
One by one they slowly ascended the steps, all shuffling and rocking stiffly together, as though one being.
Don winched and readied himself, waiting for the right moment to spring into action and open fire. He quickly glanced over to make sure Mikey was following suit and ready himself, but he was nowhere to be found. Dumbfounded, Don physically twisted around the corner and peered down the staircase, and as expected, found his brother leaping down the stairs, taking two at once, firing at anything, and everything.
"Damnit, Mikey!" Don hissed under his breath, tearing away from the wall. "You always do this!"
"I told you to cover me!"
"You didn't tell me anything!"
"Oh. Well I was thinking it."
"Lot of help that does us, Mike."
The fighting seemed to go on forever. No matter how many holes they put in these things, unless you actually killed them, they didn't appear at all deterred. The two fought side by side for the longest of times, Mikey favoring hand to hand combat while Don preferred gun power. It was when there were none left that Don noticed something odd. It was quiet. Far too quiet. He could no longer spot Michelangelo from any direction, and could only assume his brother had traveled farther down the stairs. Why? He could only guess.
"Mikey? Where are yo—"
A familiar sound ripped through the entire establishment, a thousand times more startling than shattering glass. Don recognized the terrifying sounds they instant they cracked through the air.
Kpow, kpow, kpow.
"Mikey?" He said between clenched teeth. "I don't see you!"
At first, there was no reply. Then, at least, he heard a low, guttural groan. It sounded like Mikey.
It was Mikey.
"They just keep coming!" His voice was obviously strained, though Don didn't know why his brother was even attempting to remain quiet. There was no point in it, now. "They're everywhere, I can't—"
Kpow, kpow—
"Where are you?" He asked again, moving blindly into the darkness.
"I'm over he— shit! I just—"
KPOW.
This particular gunshot stood out more so than the others, and sent a feeling of defeat throughout Don's entire body. His chest tightened, his heart began to seize. No. No. They'd come so far. It had taken so long. It couldn't be over now.
It couldn't.
"Mikey?"
When he found his brother, he was nothing more than a bloodied heap, awkwardly strewn over the staircase, unmoving.
"Oh god, Donnie. They got me! They got me! I can't—Damnit!"
There was little Don could do for his brother now. The damage had been done. And worse, more were on their way. There was simply no time to tend to him.
"I have to deal with these creeps, hold on."
"What?" Mike guffawed, his eyes nearly popping out of his head in disbelief. "You can't just leave me here, dude!"
"I don't have any other options!" He barked back. "It's not like you can walk or anything, and I can't carry you. I'll only be a few feet from you, all right? I'll be. Right. Back."
He didn't stick around for an answer— or rather; the onslaught of whining that would surely follow. This time, there were only two, which was perfect, because he was low on ammunition. This was it. He either killed these things where they stood now, or he went down like Mike. There was no way he was going to just give up now, not after all he'd gone through.
Choking groans poured from the creature's open mouths as they staggered closer, arms and legs stiff and grasping for anything they could get their bony hands on.
Don took a deep breath and stepped forward, raising his gun, when suddenly—
The entire couch area exploded in a wave of yellowish-white light, causing both Mike and Don to rock back, groaning in pure agony.
Don's arm automatically flew up to shield his poor light-deprived eyes. Mikey, with his hands still entangled in the controller wire, sadly was not as quick-witted. While he was busy wailing and writhing and trying to untangle himself, Don squinted his eyes, locating a Raphael-shaped blur looming over the edge of the couch.
"My eyes! I'm bliiind!"
"What the hell are you two boneheads doin?" He asked, staring at his brothers in confusion, the pull string to the lamp still between his fingers. He cocked his head and raised an eye ridge, awaiting an answer. "Ain't you a little old to be playin' games?"
"Aren't you a little old for your face?" Mikey quipped back quickly, grinning triumphantly.
Both Raphael and Donatello chose to ignore the incredibly lame attempt at an insult.
Mikey rolled his eyes and frowned. Nobody appreciated good humor these days.
Sighing exaggeratedly, Don leaned forward and let the game controller slip from his hand, dully thudding onto the coffee table. "Nothing," he clucked, his tone holding the slightest hint of sarcasm, and an equally small portion of annoyance.
Raph turned to Mikey next, anticipating a more in-depth explanation.
"We were playing Resident Evil," he chirped, making a big show of smacking the game controller into his lap. "Everything was fine until somebody freakin' blinded me and messed everything up."
"What? You were dead, Mikey." Don said. He sighed and began rubbing his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, Raph was still there, dumbly staring at him. "You wouldn't get it, Raph," he rolled his eyes and stood up, stretching a little.
"Smooth move, exlax," Mikey muttered under his breath.
"Couple'a dumb asses, ya ask me. 'S a matter, Don? Test tubes and beakers ain't fun anymore?"
"Please," Don huffed, moving away from the couch. He yawned lightly and began to stretch as Raph moved closer to the couch, grabbing Mike's forearm.
"Scram. It's my turn."
"What?" Mikey shook his head, a brow arching questioningly. He twisted his arm away. "No can do, bro. Videogames don't count, 'cause Don and I were doin' it together."
"Move it, shell-fer-brains."
Raphael leaned further over the side of the couch, his demeanor growing less playful and more threatening every second Mike didn't move. "Mikey, move."
The lump that was Michelangelo remained unmoving, his eyes seeking out the rationality and possibly protection of his more intelligent brother. Donatello shrugged gently, held his hands up defensively, and then folded his arms over his chest. That was the universal 'I'm not touching this one' look. "That's totally not fair!"
"If you don't get up, I'm gunna—"
"Donn-ie," Mikey whined in a singsong-ish tone, gesturing in Raph's direction. "Make Raph stop being a jerk."
"That's it, ya little pukestain," he grabbed Mike's arm again and climbed over the spine of the couch, quickly enforcing his earlier threats. "C'mere!"
"Donnie, help! Gah! He's… crushing… me!"
It amazed Don how Raph had the audacity to question his maturity earlier, when he himself acted just as obnoxious, —if not more— than Mike did at times. He smirked watching Raphael palm their younger brother's face, then mash it into the couch cushion.
"Are you two really going to fight over the television?"
"No," Raph grunted, shoving Mikey's face further into the couch. He promptly climbed up onto his shell and grabbed for the remote, nudging a game controller out of the way with his foot. "We aren't, are we, Mikey?"
"…No," The reply was strained and quiet.
Don blinked a few times and immediately took a step back, recognizing the look on his little brother's face.
For the next few seconds, everything was quiet, aside from the dull rumble of the television. It didn't take long for Raph to realize something was wrong, though. He narrowed his eyes and began turning his head; first left, then right. His eyes zipped from one side of the room to the other, then began seeking out specific items. "You guys…"
Although what Mike had just done was absolutely disgusting, Don couldn't help but fold an arm over his plastron, the other covering his mouth. He tried to stifle a laugh or at least disguise it as a cough, but his attempts were futile.
"What the—" Grabbing two handfuls of couch, Raph jerked himself up off of his brothers shell. "Mike, did you just— Ugh! You fuck, you did!"
"Haaaaa! I got you good!"
"How did you 'get me good'? You fuckin' farted on me!"
Hurriedly moving to the spine of the couch, he nudged (kicked) a hysterical Michelangelo onto the ground, his shell clicking against the cement, his entire body wracked with embellished cackles. Scowling, he hopped off the back of the couch, turning to leave. "You're one sick turtle, you know that? Forget this, I'm outta here."
Watching Raphael vanish, Don lost it, hunched forward, and began to sputter. "I can't believe you did that," he gasped, glancing down at Mike who was still in the floor, his face pulled back in a disturbing grin. "That is so gross, Mikey."
"You love it. Don't lie." Crawling back up onto the couch next to Don (who waited a few seconds to allow the smell to clear), Mike shook his head gently. "I can't believe he actually sat there and smelled it. What a tool."
Don paused for a moment, considering what Mike had just said, and if he even knew what he was talking about. "How does that make him a tool?"
Mikey paused and visibly tensed, his eyes darting off to the side. Apparently, he wasn't expecting to be called out.
"It uh... He. Just…"
Shaking his head, Donnie leaned back into the couch and smiled. "That's what I thought."
"He just is, okay? Jeez. Gotta suck the fun out of everything." Frowning, Mike leaned forward and began fussing with the game controller again. The wires were horribly twisted, and he was amazed it actually still functioned. Actually, he thought to himself as he began to unravel the wire, this would probably explain why it 'just stopped working' sometimes. "Now, you wanna beat this level, or what?"
Don sighed gently and tilted his head at his younger brother, trying to decide if he was serious or not. And he was.
"Fine. Hit the light."
Squealing with joy Mikey scrambled to the edge of the couch and clicked the light off, then assumed 'the optimal gaming position'.
"But this time," Don said, adjusting his position on the couch, "I'm Jill. You be Chris."
"What?" Well, that was weird. Donatello was opting to be the female? It wasn't as though it mattered, but Mike generally made it out to be a huge deal, teasing him and such. Why had he picked her? "Why d'you wanna be the chick?"
"Because Jill can carry more things and pick locks. Chris is stronger and more resistant to attacks. He starts out with a knife, too," he said matter-of-factly, grabbing for his controller with a condescending grin. "Think of it as a permanent head start."
"I don't need special treatment, Donnie. It was just a bad round."
"Fine, but if you die again, it's your own fault."
"We'll see about that," Mike replied darkly.
"Whatever you do, just don't fart on me."