Falling Out of Clouds
by KC
When your spirit is not in the least clouded, when the clouds of bewilderment clear away...
—Miyamoto Musashi
He stood on the steel edge between safety and death, leaning out into nothingness.
New York jutted up around him, skyscrapers of steel and glass glimmering like knives, all corners and edges pointing up at him. Their lights flickered and merged until the closest towers blurred into the distant background, and the city was one giant mass of points that glowed and burned, ready to cut him apart.
He only had to let go.
Splinter liked to say that he'd trained the fear of heights out of him, but Leonardo knew there was a world of difference between a thick, sturdy pipe beneath you...
...and the absolute emptiness of a sheer drop of nearly a hundred stories.
One hand clasped the outer rim of the observation deck, knuckles turning white. Were there security cameras up this high? He'd closed his eyes as he crept over the curled wire fence, turning as he went and grabbing the steel bars meant to keep people from falling out.
One foot braced against the fence, one hand holding cold steel—he'd finally opened his eyes...and now he was trapped. His hand refused to move, either to bring him back to safety or to let him go. His body froze like a statue stuck permanently to the building, a gargoyle with a turtle shell.
Beneath him, an abyss of black light. Icy wind and warm updrafts roared past, carrying the scent of pavement and rain and the ocean. Something thin and sandy struck his face, and he turned his head away. The wind was solid, heavy, feeling as if it could lift him right into the sky and never let him down again.
The city gaped like a giant mouth ready to snap shut on him.
He was the oldest, thirteen, and already he could substitute for their master, setting his brothers through their morning routine while Splinter made tea. He knew the hardest katas and practiced every move a dozen times more than they did, had learned to abandon his eyes in the darkness, recognized death coming behind him on silent feet, and yet standing more than twice his height in the air still made him seize up. He dreaded the times Splinter took them onto the rooftops.
"Slow poke."
"Lead butt."
"Yer coming in last again!"
Teasing was becoming more edged as they slowly noticed how he lagged behind. Michelangelo picked the worst times to look up from his self-absorbed handstands and backflips, and Raphael looked harder every day for Leonardo's screw-ups. This crippling fear wouldn't stay hidden much longer.
Nothing but the clouds up here. The clouds grew so thick that it smothered all sound and sight. No cars, no yells, no sirens—just the clouds drowning his heartbeat, smothering his spirit.
He faced the wind again and made himself open his eyes. Dark, silhouetted edges and tiny lights loomed in all directions. The wind picked up, pushing and whipping around him, pulling his mask tight. New York's glare faded into the clear black sky.
His arm was nearly numb. He could've held himself like this three times as long, but adrenalin and his overly tight grip meant he was out of time. Time to climb back up the fence, back to safety, and return to the underground, lowering himself back into the sewers, back into his clouded spirit.
Or he could open his hand and drop.
He could break his fall with his line and grappling hook, although it would cost him in friction burns on his palms. He could use his climbing claws, even if it would jolt an arm out of its socket. He could scale the concrete and glass, risking being seen and losing his grip on the old masonry. Whatever he chose, he had to do it now—avoiding the ledges below would mean a deliberate leap, not a reluctant fall.
Fear made him pull himself against the fence, ready to take the safe route up and over the top—
Before he knew what he was doing, heart falling into his stomach, he pushed off the ledge and felt the fence edges slash his hand as he tore himself free.
The floors rushed by in a blur. The first ledge—he saw that he'd clear all of them. He'd thrown himself too far to save himself with the climbing claws. He'd have to use the line.
The second ledge passed as he drew his grappling hook and chose the column of windows he'd use. He'd have to toss at an angle and swing, using his momentum to ease the fall. Couldn't throw too early, though—cool reason calmed his panic. If he panicked, he was dead. Wait for it...wait...
And as he waited, he looked up.
The wind around him drowned out every noise, even his heartbeat, even his breath. The points of light turned into lines streaking by like shooting stars. The darkness wasn't terrifying—it was him, inside and outside himself. The air froze on his skin and cleared his clouded senses.
His paralyzing dread followed the sense of vertigo up from his abdomen, up from his chest, up and out of his heart and into the air, vanishing into the clear sky.
Only the fall and himself existed.
He threw the line. His aim was off, bursting the wrong window, but he only wrapped the rope around his hand doubly and steeled himself for the shock.
His weight and momentum slammed into his shoulder and jolted it, but his body held together. The arc of his swing had been wide enough that his arm wasn't ripped out, and the arc lifted him back into the air and freed the grappling hook. He snapped it up as hard as he could. There was precious little time as he started down again, and he aimed at a window only a couple stories away.
The next swing was easier. He used his good arm, as his right was already going numb, and the arc brought him up just enough to land on his feet on the last jutting ledge of the building.
Forgetting the rope, he collapsed to his knees and lay his hands on the solid surface. Deep breaths—his heart was racing and he had to fight to draw any air. Only the discipline of his training kept him from hyperventilating and passing out.
Long minutes passed. He realized there were shards of glass under him, long pieces from the broken windows. His knees and hands were scratched and cut. Shuddering, he carefully got to his feet and looked up.
There were lights in the broken windows. Forgetting his injuries, he pressed against the wall and moved, hoping no one had seen him. Probably not. They would think someone had somehow smashed their way in first.
Even with his arm refusing to lift more than halfway, it was easy to climb down the rest of the building. A little harder to stay out of sight in this part of town. He kept to the shadows as his shoulder screamed with each step, pressing his hand against his side to staunch the bleeding and dull the pain. His whole body shivered from the adrenalin and shock and he moved slowly on an ankle he now realized was twisted. He knew he'd probably throw up in a few minutes.
But he felt no panic. No paralyzing fear. No anxiety. Only pain—clear, triumphant pain and the memory of falling out of the clouds into a clear sky.
end