*Welcome to my teaser for Solo. I've written my fair share of stories elsewhere, but none exactly like this one. I hope you will give it a shot. The fic is mostly finished, so there is no danger of me abandoning it.
This story is important for reasons I can't explain yet. But if you give me a chance, I promise...I will try hard not to disappoint you. I own nothing related to the TMNT.
Splinter's ears automatically twitched at the sound of voices. It wasn't the first time he'd heard humans within the last thirty minutes, but on this occasion, they felt closer by. Paranoia over the individuals had driven him away from their project about ten minutes beforehand, to discern how much nearer they'd come.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the shipping container which had at first felt like a gift from Heaven. To find the unit wide open was an unexpected advantage, but the presence of people within the warehouse was something he could no longer ignore.
The rat darted the rest of the way up the ladder which led to a second level, and hurled his overstuffed bag across the platform. Splinter would grab it upon their exit, which now needed to happen sooner than later. He skipped the ladder on his way back down, choosing to silently somersault through the air, and landed nimbly on his feet.
There is still a possibility we could return to this place at a better time. Seeing what I have in the last few minutes gives me good reason to bring all my boys back with me. Would that I could have done so tonight.
Splinter's tail flicked angrily at the memory of the physical altercation between his oldest sons, which had resulted in them being banned from the supply run, and a third being left behind to help maintain peace in his absence.
The rat stole back inside the shipping container and snapped his fingers twice; it was his traditional signal for calling one of his sons to him when they'd been slightly separated above ground. He hesitated in the entrance of the unit, shaking his head at the sight of so many dry goods which were being forced to go to waste.
With the number of starving people in this city alone, you would think that such a large company could find better use for their product, even if it is recalled.
Splinter listened intently for his nine-year-old to react to the hail, but heard nothing in response. I warned Michelangelo to stay in here. He had better not have wandered off. He veered between crates and boxes, backtracking to where he'd seen the young turtle last. Now that the humans were coming near their position, it was definitely time to go.
"Michelangelo," Splinter hissed, breaking his own rule for not speaking out in public.
He rapidly scanned over boxes in the immediate vicinity. All of them were properly sealed as if they hadn't been touched, making it appear his son had followed instructions. Yet now that we need to depart, he chooses to disappear? I will consider hard before taking my eyes off of him in such a place again.
Lifting his head, Splinter collected the scents surrounding him, seeking out the nine-year-old. He grumbled under his breath while he followed what he could sense into deeper shadows.
"Musuko?" (son) he called softly, sending another harried glance backward at the sound of footsteps outside.
Splinter dropped on all fours to search for more definitive clues of the way the youth had gone, and was relieved to discover a trail which merely led deeper into the shipping container. Relief barely registered in his mind before the echo of voices gave him greater cause for alarm.
Panic caused Splinter to run the opposite direction from them, despite there not being another way out of the unit. And I still must locate Michelangelo. It would be like him to try and play a game with me, but if he heard those men, he would stop at once.
Ignoring the urge to shudder at the threat of strangers, Splinter slipped between another row of crates, checking for any more signs of the turtle. He left his flashlight off for fear of attracting additional attention, even as he felt like screaming Michelangelo's name.
Splinter kept his mouth shut and focused on the scent he could pick up. When he took another deep breath to steady nerves, he detected a strange odor mixing with that of his son. His nose wrinkled at the chemical after-taste he couldn't identify.
"I'm positive I left it here," someone said from the entrance. "Or it could have been A64."
"You're a moron," a second returned. "Only guy I know who'd misplace something like that on the job."
"Didn't hear you complaining before," the original man retorted. "Go check the other unit, would ya? It's a red jacket with black accents."
"I doubt I need a description. Nobody else is dumb enough to leave clothes lying around with their drugs."
"Next time I score something good, I'll be sure and keep it to myself. Would you just check the other open one?"
Splinter didn't wait to hear the companion's reply. He cursed inwardly when the figure at the door jogged down the center of the container. The rat braced up against the side of the unit, staying near the ground behind boxes while his desperate search for Michelangelo was kicked up another notch.
He dearly wanted to call out for his son once more, but was now afraid to even whisper. While maneuvering between two crates, Splinter finally noticed the top of one was askew. The rat nudged the lid slightly to glance at its contents, and could tell the box had been somewhat rummaged through. The proof that it had neither been straightened nor closed correctly only increased his nerves.
Splinter sniffed the air again. The scent of both his son and the unfamiliar substance were strong enough that he felt he had to be getting closer. Not yelling for him required biting his tongue. The brash footsteps of the man tramping around the container should have been deterrent enough.
The moment came when feet hesitated, and the lack of sound was infinitely more frightening. Splinter was tempted to be disgusted with himself for fearing the human, but couldn't escape the concern of not yet having located Michelangelo.
The stranger began moving again, abandoning the center to cross in between crates the way Splinter had been doing. The rat dove out of the path, flattening against the wall at the disturbing proximity of the human. He valiantly fought to control his breathing and not give his position away, while praying the man would find something more interesting to do.
Ears twitched at another soft sound nearby, which was inconsistent with the figure who'd been making so much noise. Splinter crept quietly forward on his knees, heedless of the danger the man could pose for him. A soft gasp had the rat picking up speed to follow the signal which was more reminiscent of his son.
The faint traces of light which resulted from the pin-prick holes in the sides of the unit revealed enough for Splinter to be able to note the difference of shadows between piles of crates, and another bundle sprawled on the ground.
"Michelangelo?" Keeping his voice at a whisper was difficult while scrambling across the floor to the turtle. "Musuko." Splinter tugged hard on the youth's frame to upright him from his plastron. "Michelangelo, we must move now," he insisted, hardly audible. "You have to get up!"
"Sensei?" he mumbled. "'m tired."
The rat fixed on the jacket wrapped around his son's frame; an article of clothing he'd never seen, but seemed to match the description of what the human was searching for.
"Michelangelo." Splinter repeatedly patted the young turtle's face with growing urgency. "My son, do you hear that? We are not alone here. We have to flee." But not before I remove the odd clothing choice you have made, which could endanger us both worse than I already have.
"You must take it off," he hissed insistly, pulling the young one's arms to force him to sit up. Michelangelo was limp in his grasp, and his dead weight immediately slumped backwards. "There is no time for this. My son, help me get it off."
The turtle made no effort to assist in the process, leaving Splinter the difficulty of wrestling the coat off of him. It was hard enough to both support his weight and force his limbs out of the sleeves, without having to do it silently. Michelangelo's right arm proved more difficult to separate than the left, and ended with the rat yanking stiff fabric as hard as he could to release him
The jacket whipped into Splinter's grasp, releasing a small, unexpected cloud when it collided with his chest. The rat buried his face in his own robe to muffle the instant need to sneeze, and caught a strong sense of the substance which had muffled his son's scent.
Once two sneezes were successfully contained, Splinter dragged the jacket by its sleeves closer to the middle of the container and waited a moment. When he heard the loud footsteps of their intruder, he moved cautiously toward them. The rat didn't want to leave the coat anywhere near his oddly-behaving son.
Splinter moved forward in a crouch for several paces, before throwing the coat on a stack of boxes. He desired to stay low to reduce the chance of being seen on his return to Michelangelo, but found his legs experiencing a strange spasm. The rat paused for a moment to stretch them out with a soft groan.
I have not worked out hard enough tonight for them to feel like that.
Straightening up rapidly had the effect of causing him to stagger, and he was hit by another urge to sneeze. Splinter covered his face while stumbling between rows to locate the turtle again.
Michelangelo had pitched forward from the propped position in which Splinter left him, and the stillness of his form increased the rat's concern while he turned him back over.
"Musuko." He braced hands on his shoulders to lightly shake him, then stared upon the flaky residue on his skin. The scent reminded him of the cloud he'd been struck with. "Michelangelo, what did you do?"
He didn't expect a reply from the youth, nor did he receive one. All thought of the amazing food haul they'd found that evening fled with the fear for his son's strange condition. I must get him out of here, and into water.
The turtle's shell added to the burden of carrying him, although Michelangelo was otherwise skinnier than Splinter preferred. He was still perfectly capable of handling the son who already matched him for weight. At least, it wouldn't have been hard if the rat's own legs were supporting him properly.
Splinter waited for a minute to gather more hidden reserves of strength, trusting in adrenaline to assist his faltering body. Try as he might, he couldn't lift his son over his shoulder in a normal carrying position.
The rat had to settle for barely drawing Michelangelo from the floor, so that he mostly dragged the turtle's frame. This is one of the most ridiculous risks I have taken, but I thought the pay off would be worth it. With Winter bearing down on us, I only wanted a little more assurance of my boys having enough to eat. Letting them scavenge as I have had to would not bother me as much, if the elements did not prove so dangerous to them.
Even pulling his son behind him was proving more challenging for Splinter than it should have been. He stared bleakly at the turtle and then glanced at his own arms, perplexed. I am stronger than this. Whatever chemical is in that residue did something to Michelangelo, and I fear it may be hindering me as well. I must get both of us to fresh air, and away from these humans. To be discovered here in this condition would be a disaster.
His next tug of Michelangelo's arms resulted in nothing happening. Splinter bent over the youth, using the necessity to rest as an opportunity for a closer look of the turtle. He lifted his son's chin, cradling the turtle's head in both hands.
"Please, Michelangelo. Open your eyes. Show me something."
Splinter held his breath while praying for an answer, but didn't get one from Michelangelo. Instead, he heard a whoop from nearby, signifying the human's cry of triumph.
"Travis, I found it! We can clear this section out."
Splinter hovered low over his son's body, as if he could hide him from the imminent threat of discovery. By all means, human, move on from this place. The sooner you get out, the better.
"Yeah, maybe that'll teach you," his friend retorted. "You have any idea how close you cut it? Dinner break's over. C-Team is getting ready to load up. Did you even finish securing this rig?"
"Eh, close enough. And I would have found my coat faster with your help."
"I was checking the other unit like you said! What more do you want from me? I'm not the one who misplaced the jacket or your chrono."
"You enjoyed sharing some of it with me though, huh?"
Splinter cringed when the glare of a flashlight light cut through the air over his head, but remained bowed over the nine-year-old without daring to move.
"I didn't take anywhere near as much as you. Pretty obvious too, based on the way you're already losing it. You need to go home, man. I'll tell Fink you got sick."
"What are you talking about? I'm fine!"
"You look like crap. You've got to disappear before the boss shows. I'll tell him you threw up, but if he sees you, he'll know. Fink is a bloodhound."
"Thought he wasn't supposed to be here tonight."
"I told you two more teams got called in to help handle the recall. We have to get things moving, and you're in no condition to operate heavy machinery, Adam."
"That's because we weren't supposed to be loading junk," the intoxicated man grumbled.
"Look, man, if we argue for much longer, he'll catch you. Get the hell out of here, and I'll cover for you."
"Can I get your keys then?"
"Adam, you're not driving my car trashed. Take a cab. You remember where you live, right?"
"Shut up, Travis. I'll find my own way home."
Whatever you are going to do, just go, Splinter inwardly begged.
"Nah, I don't think so. I'll grab a cab for you myself, Adam, but I gotta finish here real quick. C'mon, move those feet."
Yes, please move.
Splinter's arms shuddered with the effort of rising from the crouch, but he didn't mind the difficulty as much since the strangers were leaving. It sounds as if they were using an illicit substance. I have encountered many drugs through my years, but this one does not smell like anything I have sensed before. I do not care for how it has affected Michelangelo or myself either.
Splinter leaned on the floor beside his son. What did the young man call it? Chrono? I will have to ask Donatello to look that up at the Library, though I fear I will not be able to go with him. I do not know how I will get us back to the den in this condition as it is. Perhaps if I wait to regain some strength, I will be able to do more.
But the moment his eyes started to close, an alarm bell went off in his mind. No! No, I cannot fall asleep now, else I may not get back up. Those men, they inferred that more are coming. We cannot remain here and risk being found, especially this helpless.
His 75lb frame felt unbearably heavy while he sat up, and tried to get legs beneath him. Limbs trembled with the exertion, and Splinter found he couldn't straighten his back. Closing both hands around Michelangelo's wrists, he tried moving him again. The rat only made it a couple of inches off the ground with him before knees buckled and he pitched forward, falling on top of the turtle.
Splinter cursed his inability to perform a simple task, and the noise he'd created in the process. The lack of response indicated he hadn't been heard by the young men, but it wasn't a true comfort. There is no more opportunity for failure. I have got to get us both up.
The pile of boxes to his right looked distorted while he levered against them to assist in rising. Crates appeared to shift from side to side before his eyes, and left him unsure about their stability. Again he tried to straighten, and fell heavily against the containers. A couple of them were knocked from the stack, spilling precious contents across the floor.
We risked everything for food tonight, and it was a mistake. We should not have come alone, or stayed when men were so nearby. I have learned my lesson, and will not do it again-
The thought was interrupted by a tremendous bang which sent a shudder through his entire frame. What light had been filtering in through the open door vanished into thin air, leaving Splinter with nothing but the tiny beams which traveled through minuscule holes to see by.
The door! He forced his way up partially on his knees. I must get us out – both of us. But where is Michelangelo?
He jerked to his feet despite dizziness. The way he spun ended in him slumping sideways against the crates a second time. When one tumbled over on him, he barely felt its weight.
"Michelangelo? Where...my son...?"
Splinter's fingers grazed the plastic surface of the container on top of him, but he couldn't move it. He couldn't even fight with the continued weight of eyelids, nor stop them from closing a second time.