S e n t i e n t
They knew very well why he hadn't: because of the enormity of the knife descending and cutting into living flesh; because of the unbearable blood ~ Lord of the Flies- Page 31.
Leonardo was no stranger to darkness. From before he could remember, he'd grown up with it. Before Master Splinter had found them a lair, and they were lying on bits of fabric and chip packets, there had always been darkness. It was broken only by the cars above as their light fell down in little chinks past the grate above them. Still, there was light, some light. Not much, but enough. Leonardo had never been exactly afraid of the dark. He was a ninjas. Ninja's needed the dark. Sometimes, though, he could feel the unease pushing past his defenses when everything was still and black.
It was never really dark though. One of the televisions was always on, or Donatello would be busy in his lab. Sometimes, when Raphael came home late, he'd forget to switch of the light to the bathroom or their makeshift infirmary.
Leo felt along the wall, moving in careful, measured steps.
"Leo, have ya got dem candles yet?"
A bubble of annoyance, "Working on it Raph!"
"Tch, well hurry it up."
Leonardo sent his best death glare into the darkness, drew his lips into a thin, tight line, and pressed on.
Alright.
Candles.
He knew they had some... but where? This new lair was so big. He'd put them in the dojo... no, Raph was still busy with that. They didn't have a dojo yet. Maybe Master Splinter's room? He wishes his father had not chosen a time like this to go out.
Kitchen?
Leonardo felt around the wall, fingers edging around a corner. Inch by inch he pulled himself into the room. He couldn't see anything. If he had woken up to this power outage, he would have thought he'd gone blind.
Now where was that old locker that they hadn't been able to pry from the wall? It had a bit that was sticking out and he bumped into that every- Leo bit down on his lip, rubbing the soft skin between his plastron. He knocked into that every time.
"At least it's the right room..." Leo muttered, his voice sounding loud in the old plant.
The place had a sour, pungent smell, and as Leo ghosted his fingertips across the counters, he could feel something sticky.
He pulled his hand back.
So... not in the kitchen then.
He turned to go back, but when he reached the lounge, everyone was gone.
*0*
Something was moving. Every breath sounded loud, echoing in the chamber. Leo wasn't sure where he was anymore.
Count the seconds. The minutes. How long since the power was out?
One.
The cement clung to his skin, dragging scratches across his legs, his palms. He could smell the blood. Copper. Faster. Move faster. The floor starts to feel wet. It's slick. An oil leak. No. Copper. Blood.
Whose?
He scrambles back, drawing his hands to his chest. They smart, burn and ach and slowly he lowers them, torn and bloodied to the ground.
Two.
Something's here. Keep moving. Moving. Where are his brothers?
His hand slips, and suddenly, there's nowhere to put it. There's a pit of nothingness in front of him. He shrinks back, eyes narrowed. Calculated.
Three.
He can hear it. Them. Something. Something's in the lair, in his home. No, his home was destroyed by Karai. Karai. A burn in the pit of his stomachs stirs to anger. The anger is hot, bubbling beneath his skin. Festering in his heart, in his brain.
He has to think clearly.
Michelangelo.
Donatello.
Raphael.
Find them. Don't loose sight of that.
Pushing himself up, he takes careful steps, following the slick trail that he can't see but can feel. He's always hated the feeling of blood. Wet and slimy, but at the same time dry and lacking substance. Almost there. Too there.
It's a haunting feeling.
Leonardo takes one step. Then another.
There's a breath by his ear, and a voice. Rough, grating, raspy, "Leo."
It's a reflex reaction, and Leonardo wishes that is was his keen alertness or honed senses that moves to strike, but it's something more primal than he cares to admit.
There's a grunt, and his fist is caught. Someone clears their throat, "What the hell'r ya doin'?"
Raphael.
Leonardo can feel the blood rush to his cheeks, tingling and hot, "Raph." He chooses to ignore the question, "Do you know where Mikey and Don are?"
He can almost sense his brother's shrug, "Dunno. They went off a couple a minutes afta you." There's a long, tense pause, and Leonardo realizes that Raph still has his fist in a vise. He tries to pull it away, but the grip only tightens, "Yer bleeding?" It's more of a statement than a question.
Silence.
Drip.
"Let's get moving."
Raphael says nothing for another long moment. Excruciating, for Leonardo, standing with his weakness exposed. His muscles tense, and then he is pushed away with a force that almost sends him stumbling. Almost.
"Don and Mike went off too, lookin fer candles. Let's check Sensei's room."
Leonardo nods and then realizes how stupid it is, "Yeah."
They move slowly, staying close to each other. A brush of their arms, a clearing of the throat keeps them from drifting too far away.
*0*
Raphael is tense. Has been for a while. Leonardo can feel it pooling through the air, greasy and hot. It's stifling. But there's something else. Something he can't quite put his finger on. Something has been following them for some time, and right now, Leonardo thinks his brothers tension is the least of his worries.
Leonardo stops, bracing a hand and catching Raphael around the chest, halting him.
"Leo, what th-" Raphael's voice is biting, angry, but Leonardo interrupts him anyway.
"Raph, behind us."
There was a mumbled cuss, a pause and then something crashed into him.
Grunts of pain, the slam on a hard floor against his shell. A body on top of him.
Leonardo rolled away.
Snarling, hissing, vicious flailing of limbs.
Leonardo twisted, thrown on top of a writing body. He could feel the hot breath on his cheek and lashed out with his fist. How many were there? He was jolted, torn. He felt flesh against his lips and bit down hard on something that felt like an arm. Tearing until he could taste the blood. The hissing, the screeching, had risen to new heights, and Leonardo could feel sharp talons digging into his skin. He hit out in a failing on limbs. Scrambling back. Breathing hard, trying to get his bearings.
It was delirious abandonment. The adrenaline, the way his heart pounded and he moved like he'd never moved before. It was hysteria.
They can hear your heartbeat. Don't breath, don't move.
When a leg slammed up, driving deep into his stomach, Leonardo collapsed. Clutching at his middle, gasping.
A screech.
A blade.
And silence.
"Leo?" Raphael's voice, heavy, exhausted and thick with hidden pain.
Leo swallowed hard, feeling the pain blossom. He fought to keep his voice steady, "You okay?"
"Yeah." He could hear his brother grunt and the scraping as he pushed himself to his feet.
Leo did the same, "We should move on." He could smell the blood now, taste it. He wiped his mouth, spitting to the cement. It tastes like death now, more than life.
"Yeah." He could hear Raphael take a few steps forward.
Touching his brother shoulder, they continued on, Leonardo's heart lodged deep in his throat.
But he kept silent.
*0*
"Donatello, what happened?"
The room is lit with the power, streaming from the globes.
Michelangelo is standing beside his brother, his skin pasty, clammy. He is twisting his hands, twining his fingers. His eyes are glued to the floor, shifting as if he is counting the cracks. For a moment, Leonardo counts with him. One, two, three, four-
"The main shorted. I'm surprised it was still connected, actually. This isn't registered as…"
Donatello cuts his own explanation short, seemingly unwilling to continue, "It would bore you guys anyway." He mutters.
Michelangelo shoots him a quick glance, then returns his eyes to the floor. Donatello remains staring at his brother for a long moment. Then he shrugs, "Lets get going?"
He looks at Leonardo who nods.
They haven't been walking long when Leonardo starts to get that sick, sick smell. He doesn't want to turn the corner. He doesn't and he wants to warn his brothers, but he can't seem to make his mouth work. His body betrays him.
The floor is slicked in patches, now sinking into the cement. There was less blood than he thought but his hands are still shaking. He expects to see bodies piled. Instead, there is only one. One tiny, fragile body.
Even before Leonardo turns, he can feel he horror, the grief. There's a choked gasp, and Michelangelo stands, eyes wide, what little colour was left drained from his face.
Leonardo expects him to run and grab the body, gather it to his chest and sob, run to his room, scream, cry. He expects it. He needs it.
This is your disgrace.
But Michelangelo says nothing. Just runs. Runs from them.
No one follows.
This is the sentient mind.
Leonardo is shaking now, trembling until he no longer think he can hold himself up. And when that happens, he tears his gaze from Klunks mangled body and meets Raphael's eyes, searching for reassurance, for hope.
But he finds nothing.
They knew very well why he hadn't: because of the enormity of the knife descending and cutting into living flesh; because of the unbearable blood.
This- the meaning and plot- may have been a bit subtle for some, so if anything is unclear, refer to the reviews page where I have included a brief summery of the text.
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