72 Hours
The glaze in the light broke through the disjointed mirrors. Broken and cracked, it drained downwards in a splinter of shards that pooled about the base and seemed to reflect up at him. His knuckles bled, his breaths were sharp, and there was a quiver in his arms that he couldn't quite control, but it felt good. The rage, the honesty, the brutality and the revenge….It felt right. Deserved, even. He needed this. Wanted this.
But it wasn't his.
The reflection, the lying cold snivelling reflection, it was a mirage. A façade of what he would never become and could never be. Green skin ripped and his fists clenched at the human reflection; the cause of his suffering. He could never become human. It was foolish of him to ever enter the weird world in the damn first place, but he had been drawn in. For all his mind's spitting and loathsome remarks he had dared to dream. It was a fool's dream, a desperate dream, but it was his dream.
The others, his brothers…they didn't know. They didn't need to know. He had it all under control. Or, at least, he did have…before his seventy two hours began to tick by him faster than he could count. And now they were all but gone. Lost to the guzzling monster of time.
Hollow brown eyes glanced down to the red that dripped. It stained the concrete floor and tainted the pretty clear shards an enclosed pink.
Raph's colour, he thought. Red hot rage for a red hot heart.
Raising his hand, he trailed his fingers down the front of the mirror, nicking the edges of the last remnants of glass and smiling, soft and sad. The blue back was covered in a sheen of glossy thick red that slowly diluted the further his fingers dropped.
Leo's colour. A deep secure blue for a deep secure soul.
He flinched as the glare hovered over his shoulder and pierced the last sharp fragments. The sun sneaked through the purple tent and sank deep into the glass, becoming absorbed and ingrained before it glared outwards. The sunset smouldered his vision and the smile faded in the fog of the cold air once more.
Mikey's colour. Buoyant and playful for a vessel of hope.
The glare became too much and Donatello was forced to close his eyes. The wounds wept and the wind whispered by, dragging the autumn leaves with it across the abandoned fairground of the Lost Plane. He didn't have to turn to know the Programmer was back.
"Player One, seventy two hours have chipped away."
The voice came with a hiss and Donatello's fingers itched for the weapon that had been wrestled from his grasp. His head dipped slowly, his mouth tightened into the small workings of a frown, and the overbearing tension tightened the knots of his muscles.
"I know…." It was all he could say. He couldn't think. The very thing that identified his personality had failed him when he needed it the most. His world had become a charade of smoke and mirrors and his brain could not pierce the deceptive clues forged from false lies from the ones bent on hiding the truth.
Something moved over his shoulder and a cold brush settled there. He didn't attempt to move it. It was already so pointless.
"You have failed to find your way home…my clues were clear."
Donatello stayed silent. There was no use in arguing. The clues had been clear, but they could only be clear to a man of madness. This backward world had tricked him and teased him to the point where he physically and mentally ached. His bones cracked, his brain hurt, and his mind begged for it all to just make sense. There was no room for a man of logic upon the Lost Plane. The Programmer had made that clear in the beginning.
"My rules are clear, Player One. You had your chance-"
"It wasn't fair!" Donatello barked. The words felt whiney to him, but he was glad they came out strong and clear. "Seventy two hours was never enough time-"
"Time is a luxury the world cannot afford, Player One. Your time is up. Your last life used."
Donatello's hands clenched until his knuckles turned white. The hall of mirrors about him seemed to mimic his reflection and cast the Programmer out. But the strength in numbers was just another illusion, and Donatello was still suffering alone.
The colours flashed past him.
Red.
Blue.
Orange.
Then the voice was back.
"Game Over."
I know it's short but it's just the prologue :) let me know if you like it and if it's worth continuing!