Sweat trickled along his brow, creeping down his neck and sticking the folds of his mask against his skin. His weapons felt hot in his iron grip; fingers cramped from holding so tightly for so long. How long had this been continuing on? It felt like an eternity. But he was well aware that a mere 30 minutes might seem like hours to an adrenalin pumped mind.
Stamina was not his current issue. It was rather the frozen winter night air setting his lungs and nostrils on fire. The snow beneath them had compacted to ice, creating new and unique footing challenges (not always to his disadvantage). His coat had been shed regretfully at the start of the matter, to ensure freer movement, and he hadn't the time to remember precisely where it lay now.
Lunge, jump, swerve, thrust –another enemy down. Each move was tactical, even those decided and executed in the blink of an eye. Every action counted, all contributing collaboratively like steps in a dance. Only in this dance, just one misstep could cost dearly.
Too many. Many more than originally anticipated. Like stumbling on a little cockroach lair. He hated cockroaches. Never quite recovered from when one of his brothers had slipped one into his training pads as a kid. (Then again, neither had his brother.)
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him he ought to be a bit concerned for the outcome of his current situation. But from past encounters and frequent triumphs enabled him to brush the thought aside. He felt insured that skill and history would prove faithful (even if it also proved in need of an ice pack later).
Time crept by, seemingly slower than life. While at times it seemed monotonous, it was beginning to show progress. A well-placed kick here, head butt there, swift elbow elsewhere. He felt certain a good number of his current companions would be requiring more than an ice pack the following morning. Almost like squishing bugs.
One down here, two taken care of over there, some retreating with their wounds. As things began to thin out, he almost pitied the few stragglers who idealistically hoped determination could win against trained skill. Almost. He grinned malevolently as things turned in his favor.
The preverbal finish line in sight, he delivered another innate stroke of his weapon and snapped a nearby laundry line. It fell, dropping one of its charges (a rather large, checkered night gown rimmed with a hideous lace) directly onto the head of an opponent. The poor schmuck didn't even see the final kick coming.
Gazing around, none stood but him. He shrugged. Not such a tough job to finish after all. Quite refreshing, in retrospect.
Casually, he cast a glance into a sheet of ice on the cement floor the rooftop where he found himself. He tensed, seeing into the reflection. Behind him and just above; hidden in the shadows. Realizing its discovery, the figure cast stealth aside and lunged from concealment. With mere moments to avoid this new opponent, he fell backwards, bending at the knees and launched himself into a double back handspring.
The timing was better than clockwork. His feet collided with the figures jaw in the first rotation. Quite ungracefully, the lunging man hurtled backward from the blow, crashing loudly and unconsciously to the ground.
Finishing the second rotation, he landed onto the building ledge with a thump and put away his sai. A smile tugged up at the corners of his mouth as he prepared to admire his solo handiwork. It was then the crack sounded.
A sharp, piercing, ugly crack. One that rang out loudly in the night and his ears. Gravity shifted rapidly, forcing his heart up from its rightful place in his chest to his throat. The ledge, the frozen stone ledge coated in layers of ice, snapped under his weight. Like a toothpick.
Wind rushed past his head at a whistling speed. Arms flailing, he reached frantically about for anything to cling. He felt his shell slam onto (and off) a metal railing, and his hand shot out to grasp it. His fingers locked around it for a fraction of an instant before his body weight then wrenched them off again. He collided with several more objects attached to the building before crashing onto a dumpster with resounding force.
A stifled moan escaped his lips before he tipped off the side and onto the pavement in an ally. Everything hurt. Blood pounded through his veins at an alarming rate. He halfheartedly lifted his head a inch and thunder roared through his skull. Dropping it down again, he heard himself whimper.
The ground was like ice. Chilling wind rushed over him, but he hadn't the control or coordination to shield himself from it. Darkness ensued. . .
First chapter up (short as it may be). Even that's surprising, considering the company I've kept today (your brain cells would hurt too if you had to spend time around the cackling numbskull I call neighbors). Little miracles. . .
Anyhoo, first fanfic here, so have fun with it (and try not to barbecue 'er just yet). Remember my darlings, Flamers is a greasy burger joint, not a profession you want to occupy. (And after all, we are talking about giant talking turtles, how fastidious must we be?) So review, if you please.