Ashes to Ashes, We All Take A Stand

AN: Short little ditty.

WARNING: may trigger bad memories/heartache. DO NOT READ if easily affected or offended. Relates to the terrorist attacks of 9/11.

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Some things will never fade, regardless of the passage of time.

As I watch my sons attend to their daily katas, I'm reminded of the day I nearly lost them. No, it wasn't the fire in the lab, though that too was something that will remain with me forever.

The time that I speak of was roughly 15 years ago when they were still toddlers, in form and in mind. Curious. Naive. Innocent. Always hungry for knowledge. Except Michelangelo, he was more attuned to food than learning. A trait that has followed him into adulthood.

The day had started out as any other though little to my knowledge, it would soon change.

Horrible.

Tragically.

Permanently. Placing a mark upon the heart and souls of every living creature in this vast and beautiful city.

Being an only parent, it was difficult to provide for my four young sons. I could not leave them for long periods of time as they suffered as any other child with the fallacies of youth. Especially Michelangelo. Energy has always been abundant in them, which meant I had to wait until sleep finally claimed them before scavenging for food.

Going to a restaurant or walking into a grocery store was out of the question. I possessed no money, nor any means of paying for what I needed, and it would be dishonorable to steal provisions, despite the circumstances. Also, I am a four foot talking rat.

My options were not favorable.

However, we found a way to survive.

One thing New York is famous for is its food. There are thousands of eateries spread throughout this great metropolis. I merely needed to be at the right place at the right time. The numerous homeless citizens that live on the street like my own family, were a fountain of knowledge. Often they discussed the best places for food, either waiting by doors or picking through dumpsters.

I valued this insight as it assisted me in providing for my sons. I merely had to time everything right. Far be it from me to arrive before those who had unknowingly supplied me with such valuable information. After all, they were here first. They knew the best routes. The best time to collect food. The schedules of the eateries and the collection of garbage by the city.

There is no doubt that if they would have known my sons were hungry, they would have shared. I have found that those with so little are far more adept to sharing than those with plenty.

As I was heading home with some breakfast scraps from the dumpster, there was the sound of a terrible crash.

I have heard more than my share of traffic accidents, but this was most certainly no automobile accident. It was colossal. Monstrous. A thousand times worse than anything I could imagine. The ground quaked. Water sloshed along the underground drain. Bricks rattled and fell to the ground.

Above, came the resounding screams of mortal terror.

Hurrying to the nearest street drain, I peered out to find mass panic. The world was a haze of dust and chaos. Billowing white clouds rolled down the street. Feet pounded the pavement. Shouting. Screaming. Fear. Confusion, everywhere.

Powdered ghosts ran by, fleeing an unknown evil. My heart stopped for a moment when I realized the direction they were running.

Away from the middle of town.

Away from the three point juncture I had established as our underground home.

Away from where I had left the turtles alone and unattended, sleeping peacefully.

Sirens wailed. There was a tremendous sound of crackling and popping followed by the sounds of a giant monster moaning in pain. Shrieks were a cadence from the river of humans that ran along the sidewalks and road.

The only thing I could think of was getting back to my sons.

I ran as hard and fast as I could, hoping, praying they would be safe. Running on all fours gave me the speed I lacked while being upright. Approximately one block away, the ground shuddered. The world buckled from the throes of pain and suffering. Brick walls cracked, pipes burst. A mist of sewage and gasses filled the air.

Eyes burning, throat raw, lungs choking on the lack of oxygen, I found my way blocked by a cave in. Growling a word I learned on the street, and would never repeat in front of my sons, I sidetracked, taking a smaller tunnel. It had suffered a partial cave in, but I was not to be deterred. Squeezing through the jagged opening, my fur and clothing being brutally torn, I managed to get through.

It was then I heard the distinct cries of my sons. They were terrified.

I don't know if it was animal or the paternal, but instinct drove me into our lair. To my horror, the place I had chosen to be our home was nothing more than a wasteland.

The ceiling was bowed and partially collapsed. Pipes spewed scalding steam and mixed with the dust in the tiny enclosure, creating a dense fog that made it hard to breathe or see. If I wasn't mistaken, this form of gas could be toxic. We had to evacuate and quickly. I scanned the dilapidated tunnel that was once our home, searching for the turtles.

"Leonardo?" I called, choking and gagging on the burning stench filling the room. "Donatello? Raphael? Michelangelo?"

"Dad!" Leonardo's voice was tinny, frightened.

Using his voice as a beacon, I honed in on Leonardo who emerged from the grey fog. He turned from where he shielded his brothers in the corner, his blue eyes wide. I had never seen him so scared.

"Dad?" Leonardo was terrified but trying to be strong for his brothers. Even at two and a half years old, he assumed the role of leader, keeping his brother's safe and maintaining an air of calm.

I have never been more proud.

"Calm, my son," I answered, glancing behind him to see Donatello hugging Michelangelo. Raphael was no where to be found. "Where is Raphael?"

"Hurt,' Leonardo said, pulling aside Donatello and Michelangelo to reveal Raphael's broken body. "Help, Dad."

There was an ominous rumbling from above, followed by more screams, but none of that mattered. Time stood still. My heartbeat faltered. The world did not move forward. Everything was suspended, frozen forever in that single second that spanned eternity.

"No wake up," Michelangelo whimpered, his turbulent blue eyes so full of sorrow and fear. It was unnatural to see the usually boisterous and happy turtle so cowed and timid.

I knelt, staring helplessly at the lifeless form of my son. Blood oozed steadily from a gash along his temple. An angry red burn branded his right shoulder, a waffle like pattern from searing metal which had broken off when our home was crumbling around us.

But the most worrisome of his injuries was the blistered and charred flesh that covered the top of his juvenile head. The heat had cauterized the blood vessels, preventing him from bleeding out from the trauma.

Leonardo knelt beside me. "Pipe fall. Raph got hurt. We hide."

Hoping to keep my sons calm, I smiled. "You did well, Leonardo. Now come, we must get your brothers to safety. Leave everything behind. I will return when it is safe."

Raphael was so light in my arms. His burned head lulled on my chest. As we were leaving our home there came another terrible crash, bigger than the one before. Thunder rolled overhead, a great and terrible sound that shook the ground. The concrete threatened an upheaval of its very soul. The turtles cried, huddling around me as we made our escape.

The screams of the humans echoed down into the sewer. Their wailing adding to the din of a world coming apart. I could only pray that whatever catastrophe had befallen the world would not venture to the sewers. That I could keep my sons safe. Especially the one that remained unconscious in my arms.

Normally the turtles paused at every drain and culvert, curious of the world above ground. But not today. They stayed fixed to my side, following my steps as silently as shadows.

I'm not sure how far we traveled. It's hard to tell in the sewers. One can only guess the distance when the tunnels are identical and never-ending. I followed the example of the humans, putting distance between my family and the loud crashing noise. Ash and smoke seeped through the drains. Within a few moments, all of us were covered in a heavy chalk-like powder. We were ghosts, casting shadows along the wall as we wandered, lost, frightened, homeless, my broken son bleeding in my arms.

I could sense Raphael's heartbeat slow and steady, and detect his breath, but he would not wake up. He was calm, motionless, the bleeding along his temple finally stopping to form a crust along his face.

I was at a total loss. I didn't know what to do. He was my charge. My son. I swore to protect him and his brothers, but I had no clue what to do. I didn't know how to help him.

A doctor was out of the question. He wasn't human.

I couldn't take him to a vet. We had no means in which to pay and if a human saw us, we would become laboratory experiments all over again. I would die before I allowed a human to harm my sons.

So what could I do?

Wracked with guilt, I barely registered my surroundings until Michelangelo spoke.

"Cool."

It was then I realized we had stumbled upon what would become our new home. Five tunnels converged upon a room that was nearly twice the size of our original home. Iron beams supported its domed roof, reinforcing it as a stronghold. Despite it being so far underground it was warm, welcoming. Alcoves along the inner chamber would serve as separate bedrooms and private rooms for when the turtles matured and their talents and interests would require space.

I found the safest spot I could find, grateful for the discarded throw pillow that had been lying in wait until our arrival. Michelangelo and Donatello curled up on Raphael's sides while Leonardo took it upon himself to guard his siblings.

I know they were too young to be left alone, especially after experiencing such a traumatic event, but I had no choice. I had to find help for Raphael.

"I will be back as soon as I can," I told Leonardo.

Scared eyes reflected upon a childish face. "Okay, Dad."

Not wanting to lose my resolve, I bolted from our new lair, mentally mapping the route it would take me to return. I still had no clue what to do, but desperation fueled me. I reached a manhole cover and climbed the ladder, listening intently for sounds of life above ground. There was none, save for the distant cacophony of traffic. I took the risk and slid aside the heavy lid and peered out.

Empty.

Hoisting myself out into the world, heart pounding in my ears, blood rushing through my head, and panic setting in full force.

What could I do?

WHO would help?

A phone booth greeted my eyes at the end of the alley, a relic from a time long past. I was thankful for its existence. Not having any money to dial a vet's number, even if there was a phone book to look up such a thing, I took a chance and dialed 911.

Minutes passed. The phone rang over and over. Eventually someone answered.

"911. Please state the nature of your emergency."

"Please, it's my son. He's been hurt." I tried not to shout, but it was hard when time was of the essence. "I need someone to tell me how to help him."

"What is your current location?" The female voice asked. She had a heavy accent that made her sound permanently annoyed.

I tried to be vague in the hopes she would be able to redirect me to someone who could help. "Please, this is an emergency. A pipe fell on him and burned him. He needs medical treatment."

"Sir, I need your location so I may direct you to the nearest hospital or trauma unit."

"I don't know my location!" I yelled, finally at the end of my tether. I needed to get back to my sons. I needed help! "I need you to direct my call to a doctor who can tell me what to do to help him!"

"No reason to get nasty," she barked. "In case you missed it, we're dealing with a national crisis here!"

"Just, redirect me. Please. I need someone to help me tend to my son." I tried to calm myself, but my situation was reaching critical.

"Take your son to the nearest hospital. He'll be seen like everybody else."

Before I could reiterate my situation, she hung up. I stared at the phone, feeling all hope abandon me. There was nothing I could do. No help would be coming. My son could die and no one cared. No one wanted to help. We were literally surrounded by millions of people. All were capable of compassion. Had access to resources.

But Raphael would pass, unseen and unknown. A child lost among a sea of millions.

Defeated, I hung up the phone and made to the open manhole.

And then I heard it.

Bells.

Ringing. Singing. Joyous in song. Offering a balm to my weary spirit. They called to me, drawing me from the depths of despair and pulling me to their sweet music and baptizing me in a renewed hope.

I had heard some of the homeless citizens talking about such places. Where one could find help and comfort, even in the most devastating of times.

Well, this certainly qualified.

The bells rang, a beacon for my hopelessness to find solace, and to my surprise there was only one human when I gained entry. A human male was seated at the very back of the room, but he was soon joined by a woman who exited a small booth on the left.

He asked, "What did the preacher say?"

She linked arms with him and answered as they left. "He said everything will work out."

I stared at the small booth. A distant smell of cologne mingled with sweat emanated from one side. The odor was distinctly male. If I wasn't mistaken, there was a man on one side, the one who could help people.

Carefully I slipped around the room until I was at the door the woman had left partially ajar. A glance inside told me it was empty. I entered, closing the door behind me and sniffed around the small cubicle. I nearly jumped out of my fur when a small door slid open and a voice said, "What troubles you, my child?"

I can not explain how those simple words gave me hope. It was difficult to see through the screen separating us so my appearance wouldn't be an issue. I still kept a safe distance though, as my protruding nose and eyes would alert this human that was I not of his species.

"Please, my son has been hurt and I don't know how to help him."

"Can you take him to a clinic or emergency room?"

"No. I can... can not... pay. For medical care." It was the best excuse I could find at the time. I could hardly tell this stranger that my son was a turtle toddler.

"There are free clinics everywhere." The man offered. "And hospitals can not refuse medical care to those who can't pay."

"It's more complicated than that,' I said, trying to relay my dilemma without giving away vital information. "He was orphaned and I am not his biological father."

"You care for another man's child on your own?" he asked. I'm not sure if he was genuinely curious to the situation or fishing for information that could be used against us.

"He and his three brothers lost their parents at a young age. I have accepted the role as their parent and guardian, however by a legal standpoint, I hold no standing."

"I see." The man spoke slowly. "Is your son here? One of the sisters has medical training. She can take a look at him for you."

"I'm afraid he is with his brothers, back at the... home. They are at home. Waiting for me." I had almost said the lair, which would have roused suspicion. I must be cautious. Some humans are perceptive. "I would not be able to bring him as the brothers do not interact well with others and are quite the handful when in strange surroundings."

Not entirely a lie.

"Maybe the sister can come to your home and attend your son?"

"I'm afraid that is impossible as well." There truly was no help for us. Too many risks. Risks I couldn't take, lest my sons end up in cages. Hope deflating, I reached for the door to leave the small chamber when the man stopped me.

"Perhaps if you described what has happened, we may be able to help you attend his injuries at home. Describe everything that has happened. Was it an injury incurred from the attacks?"

"Attacks?" I asked, wondering what brought on that kind of question. We had no enemies, save for humankind itself. The urge to capture and dissect us was too great a temptation.

"Did you not see the news?" he asked, surprised. "Terrorists hijacked two planes and flew them into the World Trade Center towers. They're gone. Destroyed. Thousands are dead and more are still missing."

"No," I said, unable to comprehend this kind of evil. "I did not know. But we heard a tremendous noise and then the building began to break apart. A steam pipe broke and burnt my son."

"I'm so sorry," the man said. His voice was sincere. "How badly is he burned?"

I recounted the patches of darkened skin and after a few more questions, he gave me instruction on how to clean and care for Raphael's wounds. To my surprise, he offered a medical kit. And I could collect the supplies anonymously. Payment would not be required, though I vowed I would make restitution. Someday. Some how. I would find a way to repay this act of kindness.

Hope restored, medicine clutched in hand, I raced back to the new lair and found Raph awake and crying. I cleaned the burns as instructed and applied ointment from the first aid kit before wrapping a clean gauze around his head.

The burn on his shoulder wasn't as bad as I thought. I cleaned and dressed it as I did his head. All the while, his brothers quietly watched. For many days they haunted my steps, fear keeping them attached to my side. The only respite I had was when I ventured out for food, and the single time I returned to our old home to salvage what I could.

But for the most part, the turtles remained near, seeking and offering comfort to Raph. The bandages on his head had to be kept clean and redressed often. Thankfully, he showed so signs of infection, no doubt due to the mutagen in his blood. He healed at an accelerated rate, but the damage had been so severe to his young skin, there still remained blackened scars.

Even after they had healed, Raph kept his head covered, hiding the reminder of when the world came crashing down upon us. As his wounds healed, his spirit returned. His brothers soon following suit and becoming the rambunctious toddlers they once were, the memory of having our home destroyed fading away to become the thing of vague nightmares.

But oh, how that day is etched into my memory. Never forgotten. Always present in the back of my mind. Not only for the pain and suffering my young charges endured, but for the devastation that reigned upon the city.

My tiny sons, who did not deserve to lose their home. Did not deserve to have their small bodies broken. To nearly have their short existence wiped out in a single heartbeat.

The humans did not deserve such devastation and sorrow either.

My heart mourns for the loss of those lost that tragic day. For those who never got to say goodbye. Those who suffered unimaginable pain as they were crushed or burned alive. Those who realized they would never again see or embrace their loved ones.

I came so close to sharing such a fate.

That is another reason I taught my sons the ancient disciplines of martial arts. The disciplines have allowed them to hone their power, focusing on doing what is right, protecting those who are weak and helpless. Ready to stand up against the dangerous and corrupt. Never again will they allow evil to claim innocent lives. They protect the streets and its people, taking their place as silent guardians, hidden in shadow.

They are skilled warriors. Honorable. Strong. Masters of their weapons.

And in Michelangelo's case, food. Which is why pizza rolls randomly appear midair and I am amazed as he performs complicated acrobatics during his katas.

I do not think Michelangelo, Donatello, or Leonardo remember much of what happened more than fifteen years ago. As time has wore on and they matured, the terror faded, as if a bad dream.

But Raphael remembers. The darkened scars beneath his mask hide the true tragedy that transpired. The others may have forgotten, but not Raphael. He will forever be marked, destined to carry the memory of those lost with him. He hides the scars but deep down I know, he is honored to carry their memory.

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After watching the new movies several times I always wondered why Raph had a full head mask while the others sported thin bands. So, this is what I came up with. Why Raph wears a full mask and why he wore a toboggan in the flashbacks when the turtles were little. It's not because he's a bad ass, (though he is) it's because he wants to keep everything private and not flaunt his scars.

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If you're Shredder and want to post something nasty, move along. I'm not interested in hateful or spiteful remarks. This is a site for propagating imagination and encouraging future writers. You wanna be a troll, the G.W. bridge is thatta way. - - - -\/