A/N *wais* Sawatdee, ka! How ya goin'? Let's just get this on the table; this isn't a death fic. (Polygraph: *freaks out*) Alright, I lied. This is most definitely a death fic! Mwahahaha! If it helps any, I'm a firm believer in continuity. So... I'll let you figure that out. ;D
Disclaimer: *drops another penny into the 'Purchase TMNT Rights Savings Fund' coin jar*
P.S. Last thing, I promise. Don't let my past fics fool you; this is rated T for a reason.
~3~1~4~
There's no excuse for a poorly timed kick. An ill-aimed punch. A less-than-adequate block. There isn't an explanation for missing a shuriken or throwing knife shooting squarely at your chest, or not noticing the silent enemy sneaking up behind you with his blade raised high. Sometimes it just happens, and there isn't a dang thing you can do about it.
For example, what do you do when your joints decide to lock up... just when a grenade lands at your feet? Pray someone will save you.
~3~1~4~
The place was a mess. The once proud historical building was nothing more than a shadow of its former self. The internal walls were collapsed, leaving the four primary walls to groan under the weight of the cracked, drooping ceiling. Clouds of senescent, powdery mortar sprinkled from fissures in the wood, coating the piles of debris that colonized the floor.
In the southeastern corner, against the wall, a mound shifted, causing dust to puff and swirl. It filled the air and cast a hazy shimmer over the dark brown of logs and old furniture, the black of charred wood, the green of skin. The pile shifted again. Three green fingers at the end of a green arm... twitched.
Within the mass of wreckage, a pair of eyes opened. They couldn't see anything, which currently didn't make much difference to the hazed owner. He shut his eyes again. No point in keeping them open when the only good was to get dust in them. Instead, he switched to his sense of feeling. He was laying face down, and his mouth was full of gritty dust. Yuck. He spit as best as he could. Nothing hurt yet, which concerned him. He moved his left fingers. Good, no pain. Then his right. Same result. He decided to risk moving his entire arm, and found that his left arm was stuck completely. Just wonderful. To his relief, his right arm moved without difficulty. He must be in a small cavity in the rubble. Lucky. Both of his legs moved, as much as they could in the barely large enough space.
Moving around a bit more, he eventually decided that he was fairly uninjured- until he moved his head. Ouch! Nice little gash there. Lots of blood, he felt with his fingers, but that was typical for head wounds. That must be the cause of his lack of clarity. It was already clearing up. Now to free his arm, so he could work on getting out of his little cave. Already he felt a little lightheaded, due to the ever decreasing supply of oxygen.
His thoughts jerked to his brothers like a bolt of lightning. A surge of panic shot through his senses, and he gasped, sucking down more dust than he intended. The turtle coughed into the floor until his eyes watered and spilled over, leaving a dirty streak down his cheeks. Great! Now even more dust would stick to him. He wiped at his eyes. At least the tickle was gone.
He grabbed at his belt, located his Shell Cell, and yanked it out, simultaneously discovering that his pack was missing. A quick once over with his fingers told him that the Cell was undamaged- his second lucky break. None of his brothers answered. Two of the calls resulted in nothing but static, one rang unanswered. Severely anxious, and a bit frustrated, he jammed the cell back into his belt, hoping against hope that it would ring. Any second now. I really need to get out of here.
With a bit of difficulty, he shifted so that he was laying on his right side, his trapped left arm extended above him. He figured that simply trying to pull it out was a bad idea, but he really needed to get out of there. He tugged. Immediately, icy fire sliced through his upper arm. He sucked in a quick breath, and found that the noise was a strange relief to his ears. Only now did he realize the pressure the complete silence had been building. "Ok, then. I'll just talk to myself. Mikey would say, "It's the only way to have an intelligent conversation, anyway!"" The turtle laughed quietly. He missed Mikey, and with the feeling his sense of urgency came back with a vengeance.
He scooted closer to the rubble wall and pushed up against the debris that buried his arm. No dice, but his arm was throbbing nice and painfully now. Where was his weapon? He could use it to pry the junk. He felt for it, and found that it wasn't there in the cavity with him. Probably took his pack and eloped. How typical.
Moving quickly and doing his best to block the pain, he moved his arm back and forth, attempting to widen the hole his arm was trapped in. It was working, but who knew the damage being caused to his arm. However, compared to suffocating, it was an easy choice to make. After a minute or two, he had managed to move his arm an inch, and it was loosening increasingly faster. "Come on..." With a final jerk and a crack of wood, his arm was free. It came out so quickly that his hand slammed against the opposite side of his enclosure. He reached over with his right hand and felt the wound on his bicep. His fingers met wood and wetness. "Well, isn't that nice."
Gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain, he dug his fingers around the shard and yanked it out in one smooth motion. The breath he'd been holding came out a little shakily, but the wound felt a little better now, in its own way. The shard seemed to be about two and a half inches in length by one inch in width. Who cares how big it is? No size shard feels good sticking out of your arm. I need to find my brothers. He dropped the wood and pressed his hand against his bicep. Blood was trickling from the wound through his fingers, but not at an alarming rate. At least, it didn't feel like it. He relaxed as the pain gradually died down to a more tolerable level.
He realized that he could see a little, thanks to the now vacant spot where his arm had been lodged. A dim shaft of light was streaming in, and he leaned over to peer out. Rubble and more rubble. It was time to get out. He turned over onto his stomach and climbed into a crouching position. He pressed his shell against the beam that was the most responsible for his little cavity and threw his weight against it. Dust and fine mortar rained down, but the beam was moving. He grunted, as inch by inch, he was able to straighten his legs. The beam soon became lighter as it angled high enough for debris to slide from it and fall to the floor.
He broke free. Sunlight, although very dim, attacked his retinas and he squinted against the onslaught. Anything's brighter than pitch black. He tossed the beam off of his back and stretched, eyes instantly scanning for any sign of his brothers. A hand sticking out. A weapon on the ground. Something! Nothing. Inhaling deeply the fresher air, he refused to let his hopes drop. They were out there, and he would find them. No questions.
He turned his head to survey his arm. The wound was starting to clot, but still bleeding a little. He replaced his hand over it. He wanted to get right to locating his brothers, but the equipment inside his pack might be invaluable if the situation became dire. With a nod, he decided he would devote 10 minutes to search for it. If he couldn't find it, tough.
He bent down and began picking at the pieces of broken wood and furniture with his other hand, delving back into the pile of rubble under which he was trapped, careful not to get any more splinters. He dug deeper and deeper until his hand hit the floor. He felt around, and his fingers closed upon a different piece of wood. It was smooth, rounded, familiar. He smiled to himself. "There you are." He pulled his bo staff, fortunately unharmed, from the debris. He lovingly fingered it for a moment before sliding it into its rightful place on his back. Several minutes later revealed no pack, much to his dismay, and he couldn't spare any more time. He had to accepted the circumstances as they were. Repossessing his bo within his right hand, and with an air of adamantine purpose, Donatello began the quest of locating his brothers.
~3~1~4~
A/N The end. ;D Not really. This fic is pretty much written for the most part. (Around 5,500 words. Pretty short.) I don't like the ending very much, but I don't think I've written anything where I have liked it. Like I said, it'll be kinda short, but I'm afraid I'll never get it completed if I try to make it longer. Well, lemme know what you think, if you feel so inclined. I'll upload the next 1,000-ish words tomorrow, maybe/possibly. :D