Notes: So I was working on a project called The Medic for April 2016's Camp NaNoWriMo. I didn't finish it in time (not even close), but I did get a fair way into it. Now's all's left is to fill in the blanks and polish. I was trying to teach myself how to complete larger projects, in part because I kept leaving things unfinished here. Which seems needlessly cruel. This will be updated regularly every two weeks, so please look forward to it!
The Introduction
"Ha!"
Four short turtles in a neat row cried out as they lifted a fist toward an unseen enemy.
"Yah!"
They turned as one, drawing one hand back as they pushed forward the other.
"Ha! . . . Woa-woah!"
Three turtles fell over themselves in confusion, flailing at the feet of their Master. The fourth completed a tricky maneuver that ended with one leg extended almost straight upwards.
"Enough!" Master Splinter commanded.
The four turtles fell into place, standing at attention.
"Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael," Splinter said with a raised eyebrow. "You have been working at these forms for weeks now. If you have such difficulty with them, I suggest spending some of your tv time in the dojo."
A turtle with a blue bandanna blushed in shame, turning his eyes downwards.
"Michelangelo," Splinter continued, darting dark eyes down at his youngest son.
The remaining turtle chirped in response. "Yes, sensei?" He kept a wide grin off of his face with visible effort, sliding a sly look toward his chastised brothers on either side.
Master Splinter stood aside, waving one hand at the wall, where their practice weapons were kept. "Choose your weapon."
All mischievousness fell from Mikey's face. "Wait —" he protested, eyes wider than their salvaged dinner plates, "Do you really mean — I can have my own weapon?"
"I have found you fully capable of the basic precepts of ninjutsu," Splinter responded gravely. "Though you are not the most mature of your brothers, you are the first to approach this point in your training. Choose wisely."
Mikey could barely contain himself, darting toward the nunchucks that he favored so much during their armed sparring sessions. He removed them from their place on the wall, giving them a spin.
The entire experience seemed different, now that these were his weapons. He glanced at his brothers, who were staring at him with a combination of brotherly pride and personal disappointment.
"Dismissed," Splinter proclaimed, waving a hand as he settled down beneath the tree for his afternoon meditation.
Mikey shuffled toward the door, one eye on his sensei and father. He paused at the opening behind his brothers, settling one foot in the living room and turning back toward the dojo.
He wasn't stopped. He really was allowed to bring these everywhere now, instead of being limited to their father's supervision in the dojo.
He skipped off, nearly flying with the force of his joy.
—
"Please!"
A few miles away down the sewer pipes, a man slid down a brick wall, curling in agony. He rolled over, the Foot emblem on the back of his black uniform exposed to the dotted light fixtures in the tunnel.
"Stop it!" he sobbed. "End it!"
There was no audible response, but he froze as if there had been. He slowly reached a trembling hand to the wakizashi that lay on the ground nearby. He unsheathed the blade and stared at it as if entranced, nodding his head.
"Anything," he answered. He held it before him as he strode further into the shadows of the tunnels, muttering under his breath. "Anything, anything."
In the reflection of the blade there was an image — most likely a trick of the thin lighting. It was a flash that seemed to be the face of a young woman of Asian heritage, plain and unremarkable but for the self-satisfied twist of her lips.
Wakizashi — a type of Japanese sword wielded by the samurai class, typically used as the companion sword of the katana
Next: The Decline on July 29th