Desperation
"Help! Turtles!"
Leo sits forward. Tense. "Kirby?"
The panic of the man's voice cuts through the question, lancing him, shearing him thin. He moves so quickly that the part of him turning his head in slight curiosity is left standing near the man-shaped heavy bag Raph had been beating even as his feet race over the concrete, the woven rug, as his elbows knock his brothers aside to see why Kirby sounds so frightened. Fighting back the precognitive acknowledgement that it can only be one thing. Only ever one thing can make a father sound like that.
His daughter in peril.
April.
Something is wrong with April.
"Snake bite. Please. Help me," Kirby stutters, voice laced with terror.
His mind catches up to him as his breath flees. It is the only part of him that is calm.
"Guys, quick. Give her some space," he orders even as he falls forward, crowding her, guarding her from all but her father who holds her like a broken doll in his arms. As if by being close to her he can keep whatever it is that has hurt her from doing more damage. His heart hammers and his stomach is in knots.
Calm down. You'll help no one if you panic.
He takes a steadying breath, blows it out quick. Using that cool detachment he relies on in the midst of emergencies - when his brothers lay unconscious or bleeding, fractures hidden, bones protruding or carapaces cracked; depending on him alone to make it better; to fix it all - he assesses her condition. Considers what little information Kirby had given them.
She's unconscious, but why? Kirby said something about a snake bite. But that can't be right. It doesn't make sense.
As his mind races, Kirby lays her at his feet. She groans as if in pain and his knees buckle. His grip on detachment slips before he tugs on the threads holding him together. Tightening them. Like a vice. A strait-jacket. Keeping him focused.
Now is not the time to lose it.
But she looks so lost. So distant despite being right here in front of him. Pale and drawn. In pain. His heart crushes in sympathetic anguish; tripping over itself in a clumsy staccato.
Focus.
His hand brushes the top of her head and she tosses it with a jerk of her chin; moaning, fighting him weakly. He wants to tell her everything will be okay, but he can't. If he starts speaking to her directly, he won't be able to control himself. He won't be able to remain clam. That's what she needs most right now. So, his emotions are kept in check.
He needs to fix this. To fix what's hurting her. Right now. He can. He will.
His hands roam over her, gently, checking her pulse, which is rapid, but weak – a fluttering butterfly against a glass pane. Picking up her arm as soon as his gaze spots the swollen lump through her pajama fabric, he turns it to see the puncture wounds. Gaping, oozing and angry with infection.
He doesn't even register his brother's softly murmured question, "She's gonna be okay, right Donnie?"
His heart sinks. "Oh, no," he whimpers.
How did this happen? The size of the snake would be enormous. And without a doubt, he knows. Weak, fluttering pulse, pale, trembling, semi-unconscious. The symptoms flock together in a mass that blots out composure.
She is poisoned. She is dying. She is dying in front of him.
Making no sound, he gathers her into his arms. Jumps to his feet. Raph and Mikey stumble back as Kirby makes sounds of protest. "Wait!"
He chokes out, "There's no time to lose!"
He races to the lab and kicks open the door. It swings back and crashes against the bricks. Gently, he lays her upon the table, reaching up to cradle her head as he sets it back.
"I've got you," he murmurs, "I promise. I'll fix this, I-I swear . . ." But bites back anything else he was about to say as the door slams open.
Kirby is a frantic ghost on his heels. Following his every move about the lab. Donatello can feel the man's breath on the back of his neck. Smell his sweat. Sense his barely restrained panic. It's annoying, he needs space to work, but he understands. The man's daughter's life is resting in his hands.
Donatello feels the weight of it all too keenly.
He spins around and throws several cabinets open before finding his anti-venom kit. He rummages around, swallowing back the string of curse words dancing along his tongue. It's a long shot, but he has anti-venom both for copperhead bites and massasauga bites from their time spent up at the farmhouse. There are only three species of poisonous snakes in New York. Three. And those are uncommon. Especially within the city limits.
How likely it is that one got into April's bedroom, into her bed, and bit her . . .?
Highly improbable. His hand seizes for a moment, gripping the pack until his knuckles whiten. You know what did this.
No time for conjecture. He has to deal with facts. Fact: she's been bitten. Fact: she's suffering signs of a lethal snake bite. Fact: anti-venom may help.
It has to.
Kirby frowns. He's at his elbow, hovering, breathing fast and shallow. "What is . . . Is that going to help?"
With hands that tremble imperceptibly, he injects her with the first and checks her vitals. Nothing changes. He pulls back her sleeve. The swelling of her arm seems to be spreading. He tries the other. It's all he has.
Realizing that he needs more information as to how her body is reacting to the poison, as well as his attempts to slow and stop it, he rifles through the medical equipment from under the wall of monitors and old television screens. His large fingers fumble with the thin wires and sticky pads. He drops them in a heap at his feet.
This time the curse erupts past his lips. He straightens and wheels about. Kirby moves out of his way as he begins to affix the modified electrocardiogram pads to her body. Her upper chest, her temples, under her jaw. Donatello's eyes widen. Her flesh is clammy and he can feel her trembling.
She turns her head and moans.
Hang in there, April. Please. Stay with me.
Behind him, the screens come to life, depicting blurred images of her organs and skeletal system. The heart monitor bleeps and fizzes out. Donatello turns and slams his fist into the top of it. The screen is nothing but snow and loud buzzing, but then clears to the rhythmic beeping of her heart. The relief Donatello feels is fleeting.
"What . . ." Kirby stares at the screens, eyes darting wildly from each one. His panic is palpable and Donatello cannot hide the truth from him. He raises his arms and drops them helplessly. The question hangs in the air.
Donatello reads the feedback with a sinking stomach.
No.
"Her condition's getting worse."
Kirby turns, a flash of anger in his expression. Donatello does not try to buffer the truth. Kirby may not understand everything he's seeing on those screens, but Donatello recognizes the inflammation, sees it spreading, the distress of her heartbeat, making her pulse race and sputter, her breathing is erratic. She's beginning to show symptoms of shock.
"The poison's not showing any signs of stopping."
Dimly, he hears Leo reasoning out the events from the other side of the room. He blocks the sound out. Donatello takes a blood sample. The pearl of crimson upon the microscope slid seems strangely ominous to him. He barely registers Leonardo's words interrupted by Raphael saying something about Casey. Leo orders Mikey to go with Raph and the room clears out.
Better. He just needs to concentrate. It's easier when there's less people crowding the lab.
I can fix this. I can.
He looks up, briefly meeting Kirby's face. The man's expression is vacillating between fury and despair. Kirby rests one hand upon his daughter's forehead, his other hand cradles her delicate wrist.
"Augh, m-maybe I should have taken her to a h-hospital," he says as if he's convincing himself to leave while he still has the reassurance of his daughter's heartbeat resounding in his ears.
"N-No. You did the right thing, Kirby." He wants to sound convincing, but even to his ears, he sounds afraid and meek. Pleading. Give me a chance to fix this for her.
Doubt strangles him. An invisible trip wire hung at throat-level. Some hero. You can't even save her from a snakebite.
The man stares at him for another beat, clearly waffling between leaving the lair with April and staying. But he can't worry about that now. He turns back to the microscope in front of him.
Please. Give me good news.
He adjusts the tiny wheel, peering at the details of the living tissue beyond the lens. Searching for some indication as to the type of venom he's dealing with or some sign that the anti-venom is at least helping somewhat. Anything to solve this mystery.
You know what did this.
You know who did this.
The answers he is looking for are nowhere to be found. He feels a flash of terror and gasps. Leo is at his side instantly.
"What is it, Donnie?"
He swallows. "None of the anti-venoms are working," his voice drops, a whisper of fright, "if we can't come up with an antidote soon . . ." he trails off, but the look on his face must have given voice to what he could not.
Leonardo's eyes widen and his breath is a soft gasp of denial.
Donatello turns away, unable to maintain eye contact. He distracts himself by rifling through the rest of his stash of anti-inflammatories. Maybe he can formulate something stronger than an anti-venom. Maybe if there's a way to cease the inflammation, or halt the building fluids before her lungs are crushed by the exudative effusion. If he has to, he can drain the fluid. But that's the last thing he wants. An open wound like that down here . . . The snakebite is bad enough.
His fingers fall upon an instant ice-pack. He snaps it between his hands, feeling the flood of chill wash through it. He places it upon her arm, then turns back to the table loaded with equipment.
Leonardo hovers, but says nothing to him. His shell is turned to him. He murmurs reassurances to Kirby, things he cannot quite hear, but comprehends the tone. It's meant to keep him calm, to relax him; making false promises that they have everything under control.
A glance at Kirby and Donatello sees the man is not buying it. Not in the least. He huffs through his nose, praying that Leonardo's skills as a negotiator have grown as much as his fighting abilities. The last thing they need is April's father falling into a manic state of panic and dragging her rapidly declining state of health through miles of sewers.
A needle drops from Donatello's shaking hand. He moves to pick it up and snaps it in two. Leonardo risks a glance over his shoulder, eyes wide and chastising. As if to say, 'you're not helping.'
Donnie kicks the broken bits out of the way and refills a fresh syringe. He is on the brink of breaking. The edges of his vision are tinged with black shadows. Narrowing his focus. But he can't quit now. He won't.
He blends an antibiotic that he hopes will help fend off any secondary infections adding complications to the bite site with an anti-inflammatory. He turns and injects her, just above the site of the puncture. Knowing it'll do little to nothing. What he needs is a sample from the snake that bit her.
The snake-girl that did this.
A flash of fury streaks through him. No less irrational than it is devastating.
He knows who did this. And so does his brother, despite his supposed bewilderment.
He looks at Leonardo, who is now helpfully pacing the length of the lab, then back to April. The anger twists. A splinter in a storm of anguish, but one that digs deep; lodging firmly to spread tender roots of resentment and rancor.
It isn't Leonardo's fault for believing in her. For wanting the girl to be what their Sensei hopes. In spite of the years raised by their enemy. In spite of the poison fed to her, day in and day out. The lies. The deceit. Even when they thought she was coming around to see reason.
And yet. Donatello never quite bought her consideration to join their clan. Karai was a natural liar. Her mutated state did not change that fact.
Donatello's jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth.
It isn't Leonardo's fault for wanting to believe there was good in a place that was cultivated to remain bleak and unforgiving. And it's not his fault that Shredder recaptured her and is no doubt using her against them. Again.
But still. The anger is real. And it is a safer thing to feel than this fear dragging him down to drown him. He turns back to the multiple screens, searching for an answer he knows he will not find.
Kirby steps from April's side. Getting up close to him. Too close. In his face. The man is pale and shaking. Eyes flashing with rage beneath his heavily wrinkled forehead, pinched with worry and fright.
"Any luck Donatello?"
Donatello drops his head. The only luck lurking about this dank lair is the worst kind: turtle-luck.
"A-Anything?" The man's trust in him – what there was left of it from when he cured him of his mutation - is swiftly evaporating.
He can only shake his head. Defeated and helpless. Pathetic. He can't bear to even glance at the girl laying on the table.
Kirby's face drops, his shoulders slump as he groans with impatience and helplessness.
We've failed him, Donatello thinks, eyes bright with shame and unshed tears. He trusted us to help when he needed it most. And we . . . I failed.
From the entranceway, Splinter appears, a scroll in his hand. Donatello turns as his brother tells him he should be resting. Splinter holds the scroll as if it's an amulet against an evil presence, warding away the vile situation; as if it were as simple as that.
"An ancient, poison draining mantra."
A mantra. A chant. A spoken string of words meant to chase off invisible demons who afflict the patients with various ills. He would laugh if he had the strength. But he doesn't trust himself to breathe.
Donatello feels the color draining from his face. There comes the familiar twist of irritation in the center of his chest. His eyes dart to Kirby who is looking as doubtful as he is feeling.
He very nearly tells Kirby to get April to a hospital. Now. Where there are monitors which actually work, anti-venoms, testing facilities staffed with experts who have years of education and experience behind them.
But Leonardo's phone rings and he hears his brother calling Karai's name. The irritation swells. His head is pounding along with his heart. Before he can do anything, say anything, Kirby wheels around to face him.
"She's not getting any better!"
He advances on Donatello, and the young mutant steps back, forgetting his anger, as the father of the girl he loves erupts into panic. He steps back as Kirby crowds him.
"I brought her here because I thought you could save her!"
The words cut through him. His mouth gapes. His heart pinches. Defensiveness rises to the surface, that old reliable standby to failure. He wants to tell him that he's trying. That he can. He will! But there's no strength to back up the falsely courageous declaration. Instead, the air squeezes from his lungs in a weak wheeze.
"Calm down, you two!" Leonardo calls out. "We have another problem."
From the corner of his eye, Donatello sees Kirby's face grow mottled with suppressed fury. His hands ball into tight fists.
"There is no other problem!" he shouts.
He steps forward, leaning on the table where his daughter lays, unconscious and moaning softly in distress. His voice cracks, revealing the betrayal he is feeling in this moment, "April is the only thing you two should be worried about."
Donatello feels his heart pinch. The man is right. He's right. April is dying and Leonardo is saying something about another problem. There is nothing else in the entire world than the nightmare that he is faced with right here, right now.
The defensiveness rears its misshapen head again and this time, the words vomit from his mouth, sounding petulant and whiny, even to his own ears, "I'm doing my best, Mr. O'Neil."
His best. Ha. It isn't enough. Why did he ever think it would be?
He feels the room collapsing in on itself. Around him. Inside his chest. How could he have ever thought he could keep her safe? Give her the protection she deserved when he can't even stop her from succumbing to a snakebite.
Kirby sneers at him and Donatello braces to hear something awful, something demeaning; something true.
"Silence! All of you!" Splinter's voice fills the room. "If I can focus," he shoots a meaningful look at the eldest, "I may be able to get the poison out of her system."
Leonardo looks momentarily sick, but rallies, as if he knows what he needs to do.
Kirby glares at Donatello. An ugly look filled with disgust and frustration.
He can only stare back, useless and meek. He has nothing to say in his defense. He tried. He failed. Her father. And her.
April.
Now, the superstitious rat will take it from here. There is nothing more he can do. It is out of his hands.
More so than ever is that clear when Leonardo orders, with no quiver in his voice, "Kirby stay here. Help Master Splinter with whatever he needs. C'mon, Donnie, you're with me."
Out of habit – because he doesn't want to admit it may have been out of hopelessness and fear - Donatello's legs move forward. Rushing away before he can protest or consider how quickly things were taken from his hands.
How immediately their father accepted his inability to remedy the situation.
His failure. His shame.
As if he never expected anything otherwise.
He feels April's father's eyes on his shell as he moves faster, until he is running from the lab. Without a glance back. Running from the specter of April laying in his lab, on a table, dwindling away from a simple snakebite while his father attempts a magic trick to save her. Running from the sting of his Sensei's correct assumption of his abilities. Running from the terror of losing his only love due to his ineptitude.
He pinches his burning eyes shut. Feels his heart thrumming. The expansion of a scream building within his squeezing chest. Hearing only the thumping of his brother's feet up ahead, the jangling of weapons against belts, the ragged measured breath erupting from between his gritted teeth, the splashing of water, the screeching of the train above.
All of it reverberating through the tunnels until it is the same sound, the one, the only sound: desperation.
And he tries not to think about what they will find when they return.