Metal, forged by a technique perfected through centuries of passion and discipline, sliced cleanly through sinewy muscle, soft fabric and supple skin. The blade reflected crimson in the moonlight.
A warrior is trained to work through pain and strife. A ninja is taught to use every tool at his disposal in order to complete his mission. A man, however, is taught to survive from the day he was born.
This bleeding man refused to feel the pain of the slice dealt so effortlessly to his shoulder. Instead, he blocked the strike of that magnificent blade with his own katana and met the cold gaze framed by a deep blue mask opposite him.
The one he battled was a ninja as well. His adversary was a warrior, and one of the highest caliber, despite his humble circumstances. Human, however, this one was not.
Rough skin under which lean, heavily trained muscle rippled was a deep shade of green. The torso which held his balance was armored with shell and plastron. The hands which gripped the viciously beautiful blades possessed only two thick fingers and a thumb.
Under the mask, the human grimaced as the wicked left blade landed another slice along his thigh. He leapt away from the shorter figure, only to be driven back when the right sword closed in on his head.
Sparks left spots in his vision when katana again clashed. A strange, calm certainty of death filtered into the embattled Foot's consciousness. With that awareness, he knew the battle was lost. When one survives on a bladed edge, one must be prepared to perish by that same edge at any moment. Each fight could spell out the end.
This was his final battle.
When he'd joined the ranks commanded by the great Oroku Saki, his mission had become that of a hunter. He was to hunt the four mutated ninjas and their rat sensei. Each recruit had been told the story of betrayal, freakishness and noble revenge.
He had no way of knowing that this ensured his fate to fall at the hands of the leader of that small, troublesome group.
The nameless ninja's life faded as silently as it had been lived. His last thought had been that of gratitude for the honor of life. His last prayer was of rebirth into a life of peace.
Leonardo left the adversary he knew for only a moment behind, ignorant of the final thoughts of the dying man. It was another life he would meditate over later, another man to ask forgiveness of in stolen moments of solitude. Death was never something to take lightly, regardless of whose life had ended.
For now, his keen mind was fastened on the mission at hand. They had each seen disturbing evidence of new experimentation within the ranks of the Shredder's army. Ninjas with impossible speed or strength. Ninjas who would drop in the middle of a fight without being cut – dead before they hit the ground.
Worse yet were the discarded bodies they had each found in the alleyways. They were all the unwanted dregs of society. Each corpse had been arranged to appear as if they had been in a fight, or perhaps had overdosed on some drug or another.
The brothers had known better. So, too, did the police. Unfortunately, the cops were limited by the law in what they could do. The turtles, however, were not.
As Leo sprinted, he knew that each of his brothers was carrying out their own martial duty. The images of his brothers when he had last seen them flashed into his head.
Raphael had already been bloodstained from the tussle they had resolved on their way to the adjacent rooftop, and the omnipresent fire in his eyes was fully lit with his lust for the fight. Michelangelo had been grinning with his usual cheerful light – a dynamo of swirling movement and energy, much like his favored nunchaku. Donatello was his usual cool self, deep, dark eyes intent as he listened to the plan Leo had lain out before them, bo held casually over his strong shoulders.
He trusted that his brothers would be fine. He was sure they would be fine – they trained every day together. They were each powerful fighters in their own right.
This certainty in place, he streaked over the rooftop – each muscle moving with lean power and grace. Every adversary he happened across fell easily to his blade. His prize lay on the other side of the rooftop.
The access into the building upon which he stood.
Innocents' lives were at stake, and there was nothing he could do but slice his way to their aid.
First of five installments. I can't promise any sort of time line on when the next will be out, due to an insane personal life. Written for micaturtle over on LJ. Enjoy!