"Eye for an Eye"

By Donny's Boy

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Warnings: Mature language, violence (no blood or gore, however), non-depicted character deaths.

Author's Notes: Though this story is set in the universe of the 2003 series, it was inspired by a quote from an old episode of the 80's series that I was watching the other day.

"An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."
—Mohandas Gandhi

High above the city towers the Saki building, casting its long dark shadow over its smaller neighbors like an evil deity. As soon as I can see it, I feel my skin prickle with ice-cold sweat. So many bad memories. I didn't want to come here, but I had no choice—he's forced my hand. For the last five years, Saki Industries has been financing international terrorism, and while they're not the only company with a squeaky-clean image and dirty hands, they are the only company to which I have a personal connection. As I walk up the steps to the building, I reach into my jacket pocket, just to double check. My fingers touch cold, reassuring steel.

My gun. My last hope.

The receptionist in the lobby barely glances up as I approach her desk. Her hair is swept back from her forehead, giving her face a certain severity, but otherwise she's quite unremarkable looking. I don't know why this surprises me, but it does. I guess I'd forgotten that Saki Industries, to most of the world, was just another international company specializing in technology, just another IBM or Microsoft. It actually amuses me a bit that this bored-looking woman is the public face of evil. I tell the receptionist that I have a meeting and give her my name. After briefly checking her records, she points me towards a far bank of elevators, adding somewhat unnecessarily, "Top floor, end of the hallway."

Before the elevators there's a metal detector, which doesn't overly worry me. I'd expected this and came prepared. The big, beefy security guard manning the detector gives me a smile as I approach, and I smile back. As his smile gets bigger, I glance away in what I hope is a suitably shy, flirtatious manner. This is my excuse to look at the machine and scope it out. Fortunately, I'm pretty sure I can sneak my gun through without much fuss.

I shrug off my jacket, place it into one of the plastic tubs provided, and slide the tub onto the machine's conveyor belt. Out of the corner of my eye I watch its progress as I step through the detector. I get through without a hitch. On the other side, I turn back and see that the guard is still smiling at me. I lean forward, far enough that I know some cleavage is visible, and rest my hands on the edge of his monitor.

"I'm Tom," he says, winking. "And what's your name, little lady?"

Licking my lips seductively, keeping my eyes trained on his, I run my fingers along the metal detector until—there. Found it. Just before my jacket goes through, I flip off the alarm switch on the detector while telling the guard, "April. April O'Neil."

He nods as if I've said something very profound. Then his eyes light up. "Let me get your jacket for you, Ms. O'Neil," he offers brightly.

"Why, thank you, Officer."

As he turns to reach into the tub, I flip the alarm switch back on so that he won't even suspect what I've done. Then I walk over to the end of the conveyor belt and graciously allow Tom to put my jacket back on me. He jots down his phone number for me on a piece of paper and, as I head towards the elevators, I stuff the paper into my pocket.

I count the seconds, to help calm myself down, while the elevator rises. By the time the doors open at the top floor, I've reached forty-two. Before me sprawls a long, high-vaulted hallway with red carpet and pure white walls. It's quite different from the last time I was here. For some reason, that surprises me a little.

I slowly make my way towards the desk at the far end of the hall, taking my time to drink in my surroundings. Once upon a time, this hall was decorated with innumerable old Japanese sculpture, screens, and paintings. While a few remain hung, most have disappeared, only to be replaced with large exhibits that look like they belong in a museum.

To my left is an old telegraph nestled in a glass display case. A small sign on the case explains that it's an exact replica of Samuel Morse's first telegraph. To my right is a replica of Galileo's telescope.

At the desk at the end of the hall sits yet another receptionist, a young woman with sharp features and midnight-black hair. Her dark brown eyes glare up at me as I approach. I stuff my hands into my pockets and wrap my fingers around my gun. She cocks an eyebrow and asks, "May I help you?"

"Yes, please. My name is April O'Neil, and I'm here to see Mr. Hamato."

Impossibly the woman's eyebrow climbs even higher up her forehead. "And is Mr. Hamato expecting you?"

I smile through gritted teeth. "Yes," I reply, my fingers almost involuntarily tightening around the gun. "Yes, he most certainly is."

Grunting, the receptionist picks up her phone. As she turns her back to me—I suppose so as to keep me from hearing—she speaks in a hushed voice. The only words I can make out are "two o'clock meeting." Then she hangs up, turns back around, and glares at me some more. Without a word she gets up and strides over to the ten-foot-tall oak doors, beyond which lies the inner sanctum. I wasn't invited to tag along, but I didn't come this far just to stand around looking dumb. So I follow the woman over to the doors.

She quickly keys in a password, and with a quiet groan the doors open. The woman leaves, to return to her desk, and I take a step into the office. It's spacious and purposefully impressive, with large luxurious furniture and tasteful decorations. One entire wall is nothing but a huge glass window. There's a man standing there, looking out over the city like a monarch surveying his kingdom.

Mr. Hamato himself.

He's handsome in a navy blue suit. Though he's on the short side, his regal bearing makes him seem taller. He's an older man, but time seems to have been kind to him. His short hair is still mostly black, faded to gray only at the temples, and his hard face shows only a few heavy lines around his mouth.

Though I know he senses my presence, he doesn't even look over. "Good afternoon, April."

"Hello, Don."

He glances over and flashes me a mirthless smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again," he says and almost manages to sound sincere.

To ensure the privacy I want, I manually shut the doors behind me. "I wish I could say the same."

Donatello's only response is a deep laugh.

For some reason this makes me angry, and inside my jacket I grip my gun so tightly that I'm afraid I'll cut off the circulation to my fingers. "Cut out the parlor tricks," I order with false bluster. "I want to see your face—your real face. I want to look into your eyes when you tell me what the hell happened to you."

He stops smiling. "And what, pray tell," he says darkly, "makes you think I'm going to tell you anything about anything?"

"Because you used to care about me, and it's the least you owe me. We used to be friends, Donny."

"That was a very long time ago."

"Only ten years. If I've got my math right."

With a small grunt, he strides over to the back wall to a lighted keypad. He punches in a code that I'm not close enough to see. After a momentary flicker of lights, the man before me vanishes, to be replaced by a more familiar figure, his shell turned to me. As he turns to face me, I see that he's still very much Donatello, but … he looks older, and he's been badly disfigured. Deep scars cover his face and hands, making his skin look more of a gray than the olive green I remember. I can only wonder how much more of his body bears similar scars, as his business suit hides most of his skin.

His eyes are different too. Don's eyes had always reflected his inner calm and composure, but right now? His eyes aren't calm, they're cold. Almost dead.

He looks over at me and raises an eye-ridge. "So? Better now?" he asks, with a hint of mockery in his voice.

"Holograms?"

"Not quite. Something similar, though."

I'm not surprised. No way could Don run the company as a walking, talking turtle. But aloud all I say is, "I didn't know the suit was real." I feel my body relax just a little. Though the person before me is just as much a stranger as the one from five minutes before, at least he looks like my old friend.

Don runs a three-fingered hand down the lapels of his coat jacket. Casually, conversationally, he tells me, "Yes, it's real. And Italian. And expensive."

"Nothing but the best for the president of Saki Industries, eh?"

He smirks. "That's right."

He disgusts me, and I'm sure he knows it but doesn't care. Which disgusts me even more. He's just playing games with me, now, and I decide to cut things short. I pull out my gun, turn off the safety, and aim it straight at his chest.

Though he doesn't even flinch, I see something flicker in his eyes—surprise, followed quickly by fear.

Good.

"I applaud you on getting that through the metal detectors," he says in the same conversational tone from before. "I'll have to make sure I have a talk with my chief of security after our meeting is over."

"After our meeting is over, you won't be able to." I pull back the hammer on the gun. "Trust me."

Don's eyes go dead again. "April, I'm afraid that might be a little overly optimistic of you." A nasty grin slowly creeps over his face, causing my blood to turn cold. "I'm ninja, and you're not. That puts you at a distinct disadvantage here."

"I have a gun, and you don't. That evens things out."

"Perhaps." He cocks his head, as if thinking it over, before continuing, "You want to know what happened to me? Really and truly?"

By now my heart is pounding in my ears. "Yes, dammit. That's why I came here."

"I see." Hands folded behind his back, he steps away from his desk. As he walks towards me, I take a few steps back to keep distance between us.

We stare into each other's eyes. A face-off, of sorts. Again I see something briefly appear in his, but this time I can't place the emotion.

"This," he says, throwing out his arms, "is what happened to me." He takes another step forward; I take another step back. "Oroku Saki happened to me. Hun happened to me. Karai happened to me."

"But, Don, they're all dead. For years now. Even Karai has been dead for … " I trail off as suddenly I make an important connection.

"Ten years." Don chuckles and seems pleased that I've figured it out. "And just who do you think killed her?"

I frown. "But the newspapers said she died from cancer."

"Oh, I know," he whispers, still grinning. Suddenly nauseous, I can't believe how much I hate him. And it's almost as though he can read my mind, because he adds, still speaking in a quiet voice, "But let me assure you, it was a very painful, very drawn-out death."

"You fucking ani—" I cut myself off abruptly. Even though it's come to this, I can't bring myself to call him that.

But it's too late. "Animal? She took my family, but I'm the animal?" he spits at me. Shaking, his calm façade crumbling, he clenches his fists at his sides. "She hunted us down, and she tortured us to death. First, Mikey. Then Raph. Then, she set me on fire and left me for dead. You see, she wanted to save Leo for last." His face twists angrily, hatefully, and I feel my fear spike. "She took everything I ever loved, so I took what she loved—her father's business, her honor, her life."

I take another step back, hitting the office's rear wall. I stare at him and feel a small twinge of pity mixed in with my terror. Forcing my sympathy away, I tell him, "Vengeance was never like you. You aren't half the man you used to be."

His eyes flutter shut, and his chest heaves with his deep, ragged breathing. But when he opens his eyes, he's calm again. "Actually," he says dryly, "thanks to the wonders of holographic technology, today I am much more of a man." He unclenches his fists and looks me straight in the eye. "Besides, it wasn't about vengeance. It was about honor."

"Bullshit."

He glances down at my gun, which has been trained on him the whole time. "Well, it seems we're at an impasse. Are you going to shoot me now?" Oddly, he doesn't sound upset or worried, merely intrigued.

"I haven't decided yet," I reply truthfully. "It depends."

"Upon?" He smirks again, and I almost shoot him on the spot for his infuriating smugness.

"Well, you can't change the past," I begin, working hard to keep my voice calm, "but you can change the future. I want you to change Saki Industries' policies. I know over the last five years you've been primarily manufacturing ammunitions and weapons. And selling them to terrorists."

He shrugs. "It finances my other areas of research."

"And you're okay with all those innocent people dying?" He doesn't answer, so I press onward, "You've always invented things to help people, Donny, not to hurt them."

"Things change," he mutters, glancing out the window at the New York City skyline. "For example, the human race has forfeited any hold on my sympathies."

I set my jaw. I didn't want things to come to this. Despite everything, I really didn't. "So that's your decision?"

His eyes—his terrible, cold eyes—turn back to me. "Yes. That's my decision."

"I'm sorry," I tell him as I begin to pull the trigger.

"As am I."

And before I can get off a single shot, he's right here on top of me, as strong as ever, batting away the gun as if he's swatting a fly. It lands with a soft thud on the plush carpet. As I lean against the wall behind me to catch my breath, Donatello does a front roll, grabs the gun, and has it pointed at me as soon as he's back on his feet.

All of this didn't take more than a second, and I find myself admiring him, just like I always have. I have to hand it to him. Burn scars and all, he's as quick and strong as ever.

Clicking his tongue, like a disapproving mother, he shakes his head. "I told you, I'm ninja. You of all people should realize what that means, April." He grins, and it's almost his old grin—the lop-sided one that used to make me feel so warm inside. "A gun, especially in the hands of an inexperienced shooter, does not 'even things out,' I'm afraid."

I force myself to look him in the eyes. If I'm going to die, I will die with the dignity and honor that he has thrown away.

"Sayonara," he whispers, placing his large index finger on the gun's trigger.

A second goes by. Then another. Then another. My breath is ragged and raw in my throat, but I never look away from him. I wonder if he's toying with me yet again. Apparently he made Karai's death a lingering one, so maybe that's what he has in mind for me. God knows what horrors could be dreamt up by such a brilliant mind as his.

But then, inexplicably, Don lowers the gun. His eyes look troubled for a moment, and he turns his shell to me. Walking to the other side of the room, he gently places the gun on his desk then goes to the keypad of the wall. He punches in a code, the room's lights flash, and once again I'm looking at the public, human persona of Mr. Hamato.

"Go," he commands.

My mouth is so dry that I have a hard time speaking. "Don … "

"This is a one-time only offer, April." He throws a threatening glare over his shoulder. "Leave and live, or stay and die. It's entirely your choice."

Keeping my eyes glued to the gun on the desk, I back my way out of the office and shut the doors once I'm out in the hall again. I retrace my steps at a fast clip, just short of a full-out jog. I don't look at Don's secretary on my way to the elevators, I don't look at Tom the security guard on my way to the lobby, and I don't look at the lobby receptionist on my way out the door. It's not until I reach the street that I allow myself to slow down and begin breathing again.

Well. So much for that plan.

But as I make my way home, I realize that while I've failed in my mission, I did learn something very important this afternoon. I've learned that while Donatello may have forfeited his sympathy for humanity in general, he hasn't lost all sympathy for me. He could have easily shot me. He had every reason to shoot me. But he didn't.

Which means that maybe, just maybe, all hope hasn't been lost. Not yet, anyways. Not yet.

"If Donatello's gone bad, there's no hope for the world."
—April O'Neil, "Donatello's Duplicate"