The
city lay spread out below him, a mass of twinkling lights. Here, on the rooftops, the nightly noise
faded into a background hum, and the wind carried just enough edge to make him
shiver. Leaning casually on the Bo
staff in his right hand, he allowed himself a small sigh. Out there, amidst the inviting glow of
humanity, parents were kissing their children goodnight, lovers lay in each
other's arms, and workers were preparing for sleep after a long day at their
respective jobs. It was a pretty mental
picture—but not one he would ever be privileged enough to become part of. He was condemned from the moment of
existence, a freak. Not even fit to
live above ground, he spent his days under city streets, in the sewers, with
his master and brothers, all similarly barred from a normal life by an accident
of science.
Donatello
shifted his weight, three-fingered hand twirling the Bo staff idly. At least he was not denied all dignity—his
skill in martial arts saw to that. He
served a purpose, of sorts, protecting the city's inhabitants from evil they
sometimes never saw coming. Which was why he was out here tonight, on the
rooftops, on patrol. They took the night in shifts, from sundown to sunup,
roughly three hours each—occasionally four, if Raphael had disappeared on one
of his hell-raising ventures for the evening.
"I
should be getting back," Donny muttered to himself as he checked his watch. It
had been a long, dull three hours, and he wanted to get back to his lab.
Suddenly, though, a faint noise from the alley below put him on the alert.
Peering over the edge carefully, he saw a black-clad figure racing away. About
to pursue, he suddenly stopped. Squinting, he could just make out another dim
shape in the alley—it looked like someone lying on the ground. Leaping over the
edge of the building and onto the fire escape, he quickly made his way down
into the alley, adrenaline thrumming through his system. Dropping to one knee
beside the body, he did a quick once over. It was a girl, between 15 and 18,
with dark brown, shoulder length ringlets. She was white as a sheet, probably
due to shock and blood loss from the deep, jagged gash in her side. Her left
leg was twisted at an angle limbs didn't usually bend in, and her face had the
sharp, angular look of someone who hasn't been eating too well. A torn backpack
lay beside her. Donatello was guessing she was a runaway, probably had been for
quite a while, judging by the state of her clothes and sneakers. Which meant
taking her to the hospital was out of the question. He closed his eyes briefly.
She needed help, and quickly—he had to take her back to the lair. Gently, he
lifted her, trying to keep her broken leg from bumping into anything. Walking
quickly to the nearest manhole, he silently lifted the cover and disappeared
from sight, along with his burden.
"Dammit,
Mikey, you've seen this show a hundred fricken' times—can't we watch something
else?"
Michelangelo
grinned at his brother, tightening his orange bandana. "Lighten up, dude, you
can have the remote as soon as this is over."
"'Laverne
and Shirley' was over the day they aired the first episode, Mike," Raphael
argued. "C'mon, gimme the remote."
"Will
you two knock it off?" Leonardo snapped in annoyance from the doorway. "Some of
us are trying to read."
"Sure
Leo, we wouldn't want to interrupt you while you're reading 'Politeness 101: A
Beginner's Guide'."
Leonardo
opened his mouth, about to make an appropriately scathing response, when he
heard the door to the lair open, followed by Donatello's voice:
"Guys,
get in here and help me out, will ya?" His voice held a note of high-pitched
panic, and soon all three brothers were gathered around the still unconscious
girl in Donny's arms. Leonardo immediately took charge.
"Mikey,
get Master Splinter. Raphael, help me carry her into the sickbay—Donny, you get
cleaned up," he added as an afterthought as he noticed the drying blood on his
brother's plastron. With Raphael's help, he carried the girl into their
impromptu sickbay, setting her down cautiously on one of the empty stretchers.
Moments later, their master appeared, followed by Michaelangelo.
"Raphael,
hot water and towels. Leonardo, bring me needle and thread. Donatello, come
here—your eyes are sharper than mine." The old rat moved aside to make room for
the young would-be doctor. "The wound in her side must be tended first—clean it
well, then stitch it."
Too
busy concentrating to answer verbally, Donny merely nodded, wordlessly
accepting the needle and flaxen thread Leonardo handed him. Carefully washing
out the wound with hot water, he winced slightly as the blood began to flow
freely once again. Quickly, he threaded the needle and began the laborious task
of stitching—thankfully, he'd had plenty of practice on his brothers. A half
hour and a good deal of thread later, he sighed, straightening. "That's all I
can do for the knife-wound. Now, for the leg." Chin in hand, he surveyed it
thoughtfully for a moment, then went about setting it, with occasional advice
from Master Splinter. Once he felt confident that he'd done everything he could
in that field, he began a more in-depth examination for any injuries he
might've missed. It was not a promising diagnosis—aside from the obvious
wounds, she had a severe concussion and appeared to be slipping into a coma.
She was running a slight fever, and taking into account her emaciated
condition, he doubted her immune system had the strength to fight off whatever
she was carrying.
"So
like, is she gonna be ok?" Mike asked anxiously.
Donny
shook his head. "I just don't know…it doesn't look good." He turned away from
his littlest brother's dismayed expression. He felt guilty as hell. If he'd
been paying more attention, he might've been able to stop whatever had happened
in that alley, and this girl would be a lot closer to the land of the living.
Instead, it looked like he'd be digging her grave.
"I'm
checking her backpack," Leonardo announced, breaking the silence. "Maybe she
has something in there that can help us ID her, see if she has any family."
Raphael
looked grim. "And if she don't?"
"Whatever
you do, take it somewhere else, guys; I need a little space to work here,"
Donatello interjected as he began setting up an IV.
"Right—Mikey,
Raph, let's go." Without a backward glance, Leonardo headed out of the room,
the girl's knapsack in hand. All but Donatello followed.
The
search of the girl's belongings proved uninteresting. Aside from a change of
clothes and a little food, there was a Walkman with a homemade cassette tape
and headphones, along with a small wooden box buried at the very bottom of the
bag. It appeared to be a keepsake box of sorts, holding a small silver ring, an
Indian-head penny, a piece of polished quartz, a sachet of dried rose petals,
and a photograph of some tropical bay. Nothing, however, gave them a clue as to
who she was or whether or not she had relatives alive and well somewhere.
Leonardo
sighed, re-zipping the bag and tossing it aside. Raphael grunted: "Great—no
past, no family, no name and no money. Supposing she manages to pull through.
Just what are we supposed to do with her?"
Mike
looked mildly irritated. "Dude, she's a person—you wanna stop talking about her
like she's a stray puppy?"
"I
would, if I thought you'd treat her any differently than one," Raphael snapped.
"Be honest Mikey, it's always the same. We take in some down on their luck
runaway, and one of us ends up getting hurt. Always. If you don't mind, fine,
but I'm not payin' the price. Speaking of which, it's not like we have the cash
to support anyone else--"
"Raph."
Leonardo spoke his brother's name quietly, but with a distinctly commanding
tone. "Leave it alone."
"Always
the righteous leader, Leo," Raph sneered. "Let me tell ya somethin' bro—you can
take that noble pose of yours and shove it, because this time I'm right and you
know it." He stood, folding his arms and shifting his weight to one leg in a
challenging pose. Leonardo slowly rose, matching Raphael stare for stare. Mike
sighed and looked away, murmuring quietly, "Five…four…three…two…one…"
The
door to the lair slammed, coinciding perfectly with Mike's perceptive countdown
of how long it would take Raphael to break the glaring match and head out to
let off some excess aggression. Leonardo immediately dropped his stern
countenance and fell to the couch, looking pained.
"I
hate it when he pulls this crap."
Mike
could only offer a few words of surfer-logic for comfort. "Hey dude, it's
like…you gotta accept him how he is."
"He's
a pain in the ass, is how he is," grumbled Leonardo. "Listen, Mike…I'm gonna
get some practice in. If there's any change, let me know." With that, the
eldest—but feeling far from the wisest—stalked into the training room,
prepared, like Raphael, to burn off his anger physically. It wouldn't have been
so bad, rebuking his brother, if he hadn't know deep down inside that Raphael
was right—it seemed like every time they took someone in like this, one of them
got seriously hurt. As he prepared to move into a kata, he prayed that just
this once, his instincts were wrong.
The
next morning, only three turtles sat down to a breakfast of cold pepperoni
pizza—Raphael had yet to return from last night's bender. Leonardo had just
pushed back his plate and begun contemplating searching for his wayward
brother, when the slam of a door announced Raphael's return. Donatello, not in
the mood to witness a confrontation, retreated to the sickbay, alternately
tapping something out on his computer and hovering over his still unconscious
patient. The fever, thank God, had broken, leaving her pale but with a better
chance of survival. He resisted the temptation to search through her bag
himself—it would yield no further information, and it was unnecessary prying.
Still…there was a certain fascination about the whole affair, and the curiosity
was killing him.
Abruptly,
he became aware of voices from the living room—not precisely yelling, but not
too far from it. As the argument escalated, he could distinguish Leonardo and
Raphael's voices.
"Dammit
Leo, just get off my case, will ya?"
"I'm always off your case, Raph—this
time I'm tired of backing down—"
"Backing down, you? Christ Leo,
where the hell has your memory been? You never back down—it's always your way
or the highway!"
"I let you pull as much slack as I
can, Raphael. You disappear without telling me where you're headed, you
challenge my decisions every chance you get—"
"Oh, well excuse me, oh fearless
fricken' leader, for daring to challenge your decisions! I should have
realized I'm not worthy to be in the same goddamn room as you, let alone have a
mind of my own!"
Donatello took a step towards the
door, and stopped. It was never wise to interfere when Leo and Raph were like
this. Reluctantly, he turned back towards the girl…and blinked. Surely it was
imagination—she wasn't nearly healed—but he could have sworn she'd shifted.
Another
slight but definite movement confirmed it—she'd moved. Impossible, given her
status. Carefully approaching, he examined the readings, then the girl herself.
Nothing seemed to have changed, so what was going on?
Without
warning, the steady bleep of the monitors switched to a long, unending
note—she'd gone flat line. Alarmed, Donatello grabbed for the equipment to
resuscitate her, but froze in mid-reach as the girl sat up, blinking--and
apparently, very much alive. Wordlessly, he turned to look at the monitor.
Numbly, he checked the connections and glanced at the other indicators.
Finally, he looked up, meeting the girl's confused and slightly frightened
stare. Her eyes slid towards the monitors, before widening slightly.
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
