Title:Curtains

Rating: T

The rain fell from a black-gray sky, blanketing the night in a muggy familiarity that joined one battle-filled hour to another. The citizens of New York jogged across streets and ducked beneath overhangs, turning their backs to the weather and their eyes from the calamity that storms so often mask. For wind and rain and claps of thunder are but a setting in which darker deeds take place.

Raphael was no stranger to dark, torrential conditions. His hands gripped the metal of his sais just a little tighter so that the water slinging from it would not effect its purpose. He encountered foot ninja after foot ninja, using the raging surroundings to channel his own ferocity. Though he would never talk about it, it was spiritual; in a world where he didn't belong, his spirit still pressed against his body to thrum and run with the fury of nature. Through indiscernible haze, the clangs and cracks of his brothers' weapons sounded from within the terrible flurry, and he was home.

The Foot had improved in their training over the years, but so had the Hamato clan. The humans' fighting style was so familiar that it seemed almost second nature to dodge the recovery kick, parry the thrust, roll out from the attempted box-in. Raphael's breathing was labored, his eyes wild, but his body was performing fluidly. A yelp rang out from the mist at the same time that the butt of his weapon cracked against an enemy's skull, yet he had no question as to the owner. If the next handful of these guys were as equally skilled as the ones groaning on the pavement, then Raph was going to dive into Mike's fight in a few minutes and save his loud mouth. Maybe gloat a bit.

An obvious downward strike had Raph stepping back, but thoughts of a counteraction were halted as muscles in both of his legs tightened and seized, making his footwork clumsy. It wasn't until he directed a margin of focus to the problem, did he feel the pain. The bastards had laid caltrops, then herded him into them. The sharp points of the tacks cut into his feet, causing the tendons and muscles spasm despite the disciplined orders that his mind gave. It took only a moment to realize what had happened, but that moment compounded with its physical consequences was enough for a fatal blow to be delivered. Raphael ducked the swing of the sword by kneeling to deliver an entrails-revealing slice to half of the foot duo. The blade missed Raph's throat, but cut deeply into his shoulder.

He didn't have to think about it this time, the pain was immediate and searing. The blow crushed his collarbone, causing it to break toward his throat. The foot ninja stared, the knowledge and pride of the strike's fatality making him relaxed. Raphael shot a high back-handed swipe beneath the man's chest, causing them both to cry out.

The man crumpled to the ground and Raph fell forward, onto his hands and knees. The weight on his shoulder made him yell again as his arm buckled and he thudded against the concrete. The sound of fighting drifted from deeper within the alley, but the sheet of smoggy rain made him unable to see any movement other than the shallow rise and fall of the foot ninja's chest. Then there was nothing.

Raph took the time of limbo to lean himself against the wall for an inspection. A metallic weight settled in his stomach at the sight of what was far too much blood for just a shoulder wound. Rivulets, looking black in the night, ran down his side to puddle quicker than the rain. The night hadn't been this cold a few minutes ago.

Minutes. That's all he had. His eyes stared, unseeing, toward the sounds of the fight. Would they struggle without him? Would his absence cause another to be hurt or worse? No. He was sure that they could handle themselves. They would finish the battle, then call out to a brother who could no longer answer.

That couldn't be it. Wouldn't be it. Raphael squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to ignore the laws of biology. He didn't need blood, or intact arteries. He just needed to live. One breath after the other, and he could make it. Don was a miracle worker; if his brother could fix a television that had been gutted worse than this, then patching him up would be nothing. The warmth would return. He would stop feeling so goddamn tired.

Live, dammit!

A presence caused Raphael to open his eyes and look down the open alley. A figure moved toward him, and he cursed his rotten luck. Some bystander was about to stumble upon him and possibly alert others, reducing the chance of a clean escape.

As the person came closer, Raph wondered how they'd missed the sounds of the nearby battle. And why, through the rain and haze, he felt so targeted. Remaining perfectly still, he simply watched as the details became clearer.

She watched him with an eerie calm, as if she had known what she would find in this trash-strewn alley. The weight in his stomach shifted beneath her gaze, causing him to shudder. Something wasn't right- why wasn't the wind touching her?

The drops fell heavy against his eyes as he strained to look up, blinking away the water. He spent a few bewildered moments looking for her eyes, but he then realized that they were simply black. It was as if the pupils had enlarged to encompass everything from lid to lid. Although she stood in the wind untouched with eyes of ink, it wasn't the sight that made Raph want to keep away. There was an energy, like striking a tuning fork only to have the reverberations go on and on without end. It was an energy that he had never before felt, yet was so very familiar with.

Death.

His words were strong and sounded unfitting in such a weak rasp. "Ain't ready to die."

"People seldom are." Her voice was surprisingly plain. He wasn't sure if he was expecting rattles and chains, but the voice of a young woman, calm as it may have been, wasn't what he envisioned.

Without thinking, he went to shake his head in denial. No pain came, because he was unable to work the muscles in his neck to do so. Nevertheless, he heaved a deep breath, as deep as it would go at least, and gave his reply. "Ain't dying."

Her eyes softened just a fraction as she moved closer. "Yes, you are." Said with such simple understanding.

Raph was never one to care what other people understood. He did however know that he didn't like her getting closer. Her proximity made his heartbeat want to rest, as if it had worked long and hard and was due some sleep. His beak curled into a snarl and the shallow breaths spaced his words. "Not today. It's...not over."

She was within touching distance now, if only she were to reach out. His comment made her cock her head just slightly, as if considering his words. Raph waited for her response, not really caring what it was. If he just delayed, distracted, then perhaps it would be too late. If his brothers were to show up, would she have to retreat into the storm to wait another night?

"No, it's not over. Death is only an end to this way of being; not an end to being."

No sooner did the words leave her lips, than her hand began to reach out toward his face. It was then that he could feel it, nearly see it: a quiet energy was thrumming through her body, circulating and moving and calling to him. All he needed to do was touch her, touch it, and he would be swept away with it, free from the confines of this physical world. It was like some spiritual whirlpool, where simple touch would break the surface of body and soul. A part of him wanted it, sighed with the relief of it. As if his spirit had known all along that this day would come, recognized it, accepted it.

But that was only part of him. The inch that he managed to strain his body away from her fingers felt like miles though she was still far too close. The contortion of her face reflected those miles that he had dragged himself, and her eyes watched him curiously. Her voice was a whisper, wondering. "I have never seen such a fight."

There was a mantra within him; need only touch. He could feel the tides pulling in her skin, like a positive charge waiting to be conducted through her. So engrossed was he, that the glint of steel was almost missed from his peripheral vision. The familiar shape of his brother was recognized just moments later as it bounded from a fire-escape toward them. Attack mode. That meant that Leo could see her, she was real.

Raph looked back to this real phantom, gaze locking. He wondered if she would, could die, but another question lashed through him with the fierceness of a physical blow. At the moment that the question completed itself in his mind, he found the answer in her bottomless black eyes. She was a conduit, and any touch would do at this point.

Seconds stretched to was there, leg poised for a round-house kick to disable the stranger standing over his fallen brother. She was perfectly still, waiting.

Raphael grabbed her hand.

TBC