Set a few years before Same As It Never Was.
H e.N e v e r.L i k e d.H i s.K n i v e s.F a n c y
The evidence was clear. To Michelangelo, the whole place was one big clue. One big letter. A note that may have screamed, 'I'm here. I've been here and I could still be lurking.'
To Mikey, the note screamed danger.
It spoke of funerals. Of another death to add to the list of fallen comrades. Fallen friends. He'd been to enough of those, over the years. Most of them were watched from the top of buildings sanctioned for demolition. Buildings like the one he sat on now.
He'd sit, pressed against the gritty plaster. Pressed against the windows. He was always silent, the wind whipping the moisture from his eyes before he even had the chance to cry.
But he had no time to mourn tonight; he had a job to do.
Mikey let his eyes drift from the houses and boarded windows, to the street where a mutt, a stray dog, was running past. It was the only sign of life he'd seen since he started scouting a few hours back. The dog was a mangy looking thing with hair clumped in thin patches over its body. It looked up at Mikey, pausing to scratch at the fleas on its back, and snarled. Puppy love.
Mikey looked from the dog back to the bolted window, sliding on the rubber gloves he had stashed in his pack. He peeled off their protective layer, fingers safely incased in the latex. He flexed his digits. Good. He couldn't afford to leave fingerprints. That may not have been a concern in the past, but Saki was starting to wise up. Just a bit. A bit too much for Mikey's taste.
He ran a finger over the window pane, looking it over. Pulling a knife out from his belt, he started working at the wood, prying and chipping it in a few, deft strikes. The wood was half rotted anyway, and he was surprised that the window was even there at all. Most of the other windows were out. But this was the room he needed and he couldn't be seen.
Pressing his hand flat against the glass, he felt it rattle. Loose. He pushed at it. Pulling it and wriggling it free.
A few moments later, he was stepping inside, setting the glass back into place.
Okay. Phase one: complete.
The walls looked like they were about to give in, all crumbling brick and peeling paint. The room smelt dirty too. Like soot and the smell of too many bodies huddled together. Like too many people had been forced into one room because there were too many children, and not enough adults to control them all.
In the shadows, he could see the blackboard in the front of the room. It was still a filmy grey, dusted over with age-old chalk. You didn't use water to clean anymore. You drank it. You saved it. You bathed the wounds of your injured comrades with it in a desperate attempt to save a life.
Most times you did everything you could to save them.
And then there were cases when they were just too far gone. Those times, when the wounds were too bad, you just left them to their suffering. Laying a hand on their forehead, soothing them, hushing them as they begged and pleaded for water, for mercy and for freedom.
And finally, when they started screaming in agony, screaming for help, for release, for God. Only when they started screaming God's name did you stab a dagger though their hearts, or slit their throats.
Mikey hated killing through the throat. Always so much blood. Messy. Hard to clean up. Hard to get off your skin. Harder to forget.
Because you couldn't use water to clean anymore.
Mikey took a few steps into the classroom, crouching down to touch the scraps of papers on the floor. They had scribbled muses, doodles and multiplications. Not much Math. The children were barely learning anything these days, other than the Shredders mighty dominance over humanity. They only studied for a few years before being shipped off to the camps. So they never learnt anything. Then again, there weren't many teachers left either.
They were all locked in the camps. Stripped of their degrees, of their freedom. But then again, even the Rebel group were bound to some extent.
Brushing the papers aside, Mikey noticed something in the clearing. A patch of floor that was different from the rest. It looked almost like magic. Just an area that looked as if it had been scrubbed almost raw.
The trap was painfully obvious.
Still, the door was there, just like the Rebel leader had told him, while trying his best to keep his face neutral. No emotions were to be involved, even if this concerned him. Even if this concerned his daughter.
It was all according to the brief.
General Carter was a brave man.
Mikey fell to his knees, prying at the board with his gloved hands. It gave easily, opening up to reveal a stairs leading down into a passage.
Mikey checked his pack again, where it was strapped to the belt running over his plastron. Water. Rations, More gloves. Bullets. His tourniquet. A knife.
The rest, his Bowie, his gauze, his nunchucks and his phone all stayed strapped to his belt.
Mikey's lowered himself into the hole, using his balance as good leverage. The floor was rough, and he bushed his hands against the walls. All senses on alert. Taking in everything.
Then he heard something.
A voice?
He strained to lean forward. Taking another step.
Was this some kind of test?
That step was bigger. A bit of a drop.
Michelangelo stumbled, his hands reaching out as he tumbled to the bottom of the stairs. To the ground. The ground was damp, pressed against his cheeks. The air smelt damp too. Miff almost.
A moment of tense silence.
Did they hear him?
Silence.
A painfully obvious trap.
Chest heaving, Mikey pushed himself up.
Hands came first, then knees, then elbows and, finally, feet.
It didn't take him long to reach the bottom of the decaying stairway. Though Mikey was a little concerned about it giving way, it was only a few steps in before he rounded a corner and was hit by the stench of oil and year-old dirt. The most surprising thing was the little circle of light near the middle of the room. Two men were standing at the inner circle, gesturing to each other, saying something that Mikey couldn't catch.
His eyes narrowed, darting from them to the light.
The light seemed to tease him. She called him, 'Come. Nothing will hurt you on the light. You'll be safe. Warm. You won't have to hide any longer.'
But Michelangelo had heard enough of her bitter lies. Promises and regrets. The light lied. She always lied, promising safety from the storm. She spoke of summer strawberries and feather kisses and hot, sticky sweat washed off by the waves.
But she would never speak of the weapon, hidden near the place that could have once been called a beach.
She would never speak of death.
He shrunk back and continued to survey the room. There was one door at the other side of the room, just behind the men. The rest of the place seemed strangely cluttered, stacked with crates and other strange objects that Mikey couldn't quite place. He had his money on them being weaponry. In the back of the room, a young girl lay sprawled, her hands bound at an unnatural angle. Beside her sat a bucket of water. You could drown in a bucket of water. The mere thought had made lesser men than him crack.
He looked back at the girl.
A hostage.
The child of General Carter he'd been asked to rescue.
Rescue or, if there was no other choice, kill.
The man was a threat to everything the Shredder stood for.
But his child was innocent and it made Mikey's blood boil to see that these men had even touched her. Not even ninja but hired guns. All thick, beefy muscle. The kind of men who never made the plans, never questioned anything they were doing, simply followed their bosses blindly at all times. Never thinking for themselves.
Mikey hated people like that.
But that just made his job easier.
The men didn't turn as he crept closer. Closer and closer and he was almost on top of them before they turned around. From this distance, Mikey could see the greasy spots across the first mans face.
It took a moment for the surprise to register, the sloppy gash of a mouth widening. He barely made a sound before Michelangelo buried his fist into his nose, sending him reeling back. Mikey grimaced, wiping his hand.
He spared one look upwards, trying to see the supports but unable to in the dimness.
Then the second man was upon him, lunging at him with a knife in each hand. The first man was already too his feet, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and lumbering towards Mikey, wielding a huge club-like object.
Sweat trickled into his eyes as he moved. His movement's swift, fluid. They were rapid. Fierce.
Don't fucking touch her- ever.
He shouldn't be breathing this hard. This was kids-play. Easy. Lakies. But still, Michelangelo's chest heaved as he slammed his weapons into their faces, spinning kicks, thrown onto the floor. Punch. Duck. Hit the floor. Get down! Sweeping kick. Fast. Faster.
Don't fucking touch her again. You've done it once too much. She's my charge. I take care of her. Don't hurt her. Don't even try to save her.
Don't touch her.
Adrenaline. Something almost like excitement as he smashed the wood into the mans face over an over and over.
The next man attacked him, slamming his body into Mikey, his club raised to fight.
It slammed into his nunchuck. Snapping it. Breaking it.
Splinters.
That man was hanging onto his supply-pack, dragging him down. He reached for his second knife, slashing at the bindings and watching as the pack went flying over the crates.
He'd have no time to go back for that.
Don't fucking touch her.
Seeing red. Renewed vigor. Everything was just a red, hazy blur of smells and copper and filth. And screams and grunts and hard, heavy breathing until the men were dead and Mikey was on his knees, panting and clutching at his chest.
"Don't…. fucking… touch her."
He sat for a few more moment, just breathing as he wiped the sweat from his eyes. Then he stumbled to his feet.
Hands came first, then knees, then elbows and, finally, feet.
He swallowed, gathered the splintered wood with one last, sad look, tucked everything else into his belt, and scooped the girl into his arms.
The discarded pack still lay somewhere among the crates but he didn't have time to look for it. It was a small loss. A part of him, a part of his gear. But still, a small loss. He had cut it loose to save himself, after all. To save his life, and the life of this precious little girl.
Mikey looked up, listening intently at the crashes and sounds of running feet. Judging by the sounds above his head, it seemed the Shredder's hired guards had heard the commotion.
So going back the way he came was not an option.
He needed to get out of here. Get her out, get himself out. He had to get them free. She couldn't stay here. They couldn't go back to a place that smelt of death.
He ran towards the door just on the other side of the room, the one he'd spotted earlier.
Even though he'd never been in this building before, all the old layouts had a similar base pattern. The alleyway exit should be just through that door, a couple of turns and through the official storage room, up the stairs and probably behind the old boiler, if they had one. It was predictable, but he'd probably have to be prepared to fight his way out.
So he stumbled through the door with the girl still clutched in one arm, other arm steadied for a fight even though it was awkward, moving while using only one hand. One hand was cumbersome, clumsy. More so than usual.
He shifted the girl to a more comfortable position, eyes darting for the exit. Behind him, he could still hear the Shredders lakies moving. He'd probably mobilized some of the older foot units. Or, if he knew who it was, the foot elite.
He'd become very popular over the years, moving up the most wanted lists until Leo and Raph were all but forgotten.
Of course, Mikey wouldn't have it any other way, but it could be such a damn pain in the ass.
It lead to generally uncomfortable situations.
Like being chased.
Like when he ran for what felt like hours, but really, it couldn't have been more than a few moments. And when he finally reached the room he had been looking for, Shredder's lakies were almost upon him.
He dropped the girl to the floor, trying to be gentle but not fully succeeding. He rammed into the door, slamming it shut. He had to bolt it somehow. He had to find away to shut the door and stop them from finding him, and finding the girl. They couldn't have her. They couldn't. And he didn't know if he had the strength to kill an innocent.
She was still unconscious.
He needed to get out of here. Get her out, get himself out. He had to get them free. She couldn't stay here. They couldn't go back to a place that smelt of death.
A frantic look around until his eyes fell on the boiler he knew would be there. Good. Perfect. In disregard, he grabbed the girl again, sheltering her in case something he got it right to dislodge it, as he rammed his shoulder into the metal, trying to push it from the wall. Trying to get out. To survive.
Right now, even with all these doors, he was trapped.
Slamming over and over until his arm felt bruised. Raw.
But still he kept going until he could almost feel the breath of the men chasing him, hot on his cheek. Then he heard the crack.
No.
It was more like the groan of a dying building finally, finally giving in.
And Mikey was right in the middle of it.
It was like everything was happening in slow motion. Mikey had always thought that was an overrated thought, a cliché. But even as he heard the creak, the shuddering sound as the support beans collapse, he couldn't seem to move to get out of the way. It was all he could do to hug the girl to his chest, sheltering her as he tumbled, on arm out as a shield.
Collapsing on the ground.
Pain shooting up his arm as the debris fell. Coughing and choking on the dust in an eternity of seconds. A jolt through his heart as he landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
When the dust finally cleared and he raised his head those few, painful inches, he saw his arm.
Trapped.
The pain.
His hand and lower forearm were numb. A smooth, untouched piece of arm lay wedged between.
Crushed between the boiler and debris. Not wedged. Crushed. Mashed and Mikey really wanted to throw up.
He almost touched it but turned away, checking over the girl. Fine. She was fine. She was breathing. She was safe.
He pulled against the boiler. Pushing and pulling but it was stuck good. Stuck and useless and his arm was so damn broken.
Mikey's breath was coming in short, little gasps. He hung onto his shoulder like it was his only life line.
Have to get out.
He was starting to panic. He couldn't think clearly.
He needed to get out of here. Get her out, get himself out. He had to get them free. She couldn't stay here. They couldn't go back to a place that smelt of death.
He had no time and he spent precious minutes listening to the sounds of the Shedders men scrabbling to get in through the door.
He was tired. So damn tired.
Then it hit him. With a sick, freezing, cold kind of panic. Fear. Deep in his stomach.
He had to get out.
He had to get her out.
Now.
At any cost.
That's what he was taught. The rebels drilled it, he drilled it into the new recruits.
At any means necessary.
He glanced back at his arm.
A few more days and it would decay, release gasses if he slit his thumb. It would be completely numb then. Pity. He didn't have a few days.
But he had a good leverage, so this would be the easy part.
Pulling his belt from his waist, he watched the contents tumble to the floor. When that was done, he went about steadying himself. He pushed against his arm, using the torque to push and grind. Bighting down on his lip, he shoved at the bone.
Break the bone first.
Almost.
Almost.
Almost…
Crack.
When it finally happened, it was excruciating.
Painful, like someone was constantly twisting his limb over and over and over, but it wouldn't come off. With each passing moment, the pain increased, and it felt like that person was determined to rip him apart.
But it was broken.
His breath was loud in his ears. Heavy and hot, and he just couldn't get enough of a grip on his belt to tie it around his arm. His fingers fumbled, sweat slicked and numb with fear. A sick, desperate kind of fear.
They were coming.
They were almost there.
The girl.
He glanced down one last time, a quick, stolen look at the innocents face. It was streaked from the dirty water, but still, she managed to look peaceful.
He had to get her out alive. Had to get himself out alive.
Mikey's chest was heaving. Great, shuddering breaths as he took the belt between his teeth and pulled. He felt the band tighten. Knowing his luck, he'd probably fuck this up and kill off the tissue. He'd end up loosing the rest of his arm, from the elbow to the belt.
Another good four inches. Five maybe.
Another breath.
His fumbling fingers tied a second knot.
Teeth.
Tightening.
He picked up the splintered nunchuck from the floor, wedging it between the make-shift tourniquet and his arm and twisting it until it pinched his skin.
He'd have to throw the wood away when he was done. It wouldn't make a difference anymore, now that it was broken. He wouldn't have to use two anymore. Mikey choked on the thought, a sharp, trembling laugh that might as well have been a sob. Breathy. Desperate. Determined.
His arm. His goddamn arm. His art. His life. What was he without the words?
But so very, very unsure.
He hadn't lost any feeling yet. That was the worst.
He needed to get out of here. Get her out, get himself out. He had to get them free. She couldn't stay here. They couldn't go back to a place that smelt of death.
He swallowed a cry.
Running his hand across the floor, he felt for his knife. As it touched his hand, he didn't even have to look. He traced the shape. It was straight. Straight and smooth. Just under fifteen inches in length. The blade a full nine inches. He knew it was black. Could feel the carbon steel pressing against his palm as he raised it.
Focus on the numbers.
Wasn't that what Don had always taught him? He'd said that was what got him through. The facts. He'd told him that, a long time ago. When? Before? Before he'd left them in the dust, to sweep up his ashes and fight for the war torn world? Before Leo and Raph had started fighting? Yes. Before. When Mikey had still been happy.
Focus on the facts.
Focus on the facts as you raise the knife. Focus on the facts as you press so hard that the skin just splits beneath the blade like some kind of sick, twisted fruit.
The handle material was GFNPA66.
Mikey had never felt anything like this- the pain as you hacked as fast as you could go, sliding through muscle, twisting through tendons, so damn grateful your knife was sharp enough. Trying not to close your eyes. Trying not to throw the knife to the floor, and lay in a shivering, sniveling heap.
The blade detail was plain. Plain edged. He'd never liked his knives fancy. He'd never even liked knives, so why make a show of one?
Trying not to succumb to the urge to phone for the backup that would arrive much too late. Much too damn late. Chest heaving. Ragged breaths. Blood. Blood hot and wet and sticky and almost slick.
His name was Michelangelo Hamato.
As every movement brought him that much closer to the little bundle of nerves. The strands of sick, twisted spaghetti that ran through his arm. That would be the hardest.
He was twenty-five years old.
His head was clear. Or was is just so fogged up with pain that it simply felt clear? He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell. But there was too much blood. Was his tourniquet working? Panic. Had he tied it correctly? What if, after all this, he still bled out? What if he lay on the floor just inches from the door, bleeding and sobbing as he was pulled away. Or left to die. Because Michelangelo knew that he would cry. He hadn't cried for so long.
His brothers were Leonardo, Donatello and Raphael.
There it was. Sticking out from the bloodied, fatty, raw mass of flesh. The nerves. Even as he slipped the knife beneath them, he could feel it. The burn shooting up his arm. Hot. Like his arm was in hot metal. That was the closest comparison he could gather right then. He couldn't think clearly anymore. He felt sick and his arm was so fucking hot.
He'd have wished for the expertise of Donatello, his quiet, reassuring voice. His decisive hands. He'd have wished for Leonardo's leadership and strength, and how he always used to know what to do. He wished for Raphael to hold him and growl at Mikey to not give this up, ever! And that he'd fight the men off for as long as it took for backup to arrive. And that he'd never let them get his brother.
He'd have wished. But he never wished for his brothers anymore.
Not anymore.
Donatello was gone.
Force them together. Ignore the bone, severed almost cleanly. Steady yourself. Take a deep breath. Don't scream. Pluck the nerves straight through. Don't scream as the pain doubles and you have to stop to clutch at your shoulder, dragging the bloody knife with you.
Michelangelo didn't scream. But he damned nearly did.
His father, his master, was dead.
After that, it was a few more minutes. Heavy breathing. Hack. Cut. Lean back, lean back and watch your arm just-
- Separate.
Leonardo and Raphael had been feuding after Splinters death. They left Mikey behind. Their little brother. This was their fault. They weren't with him. He had no back up.
And Michelangelo was half crying, half sobbing, and half laughing as the worst kind of euphoric ecstasy exploded in his chest. Free. Free. Alive.
If they could have saved him. They never tried to save Mikey.
And he grabbed the roll of gauze, still breathing way too fast. He wrapped it around the stump of his forearm. He was still gasping for breath as he tightened the gauze with his teeth and stumbled to his feet.
Hand came first, then knees, then elbow and, finally, feet.
He scooped the girl up in his arm, slinging her over his shoulder. The belongings scattered on the floor had nothing there he'd miss. Nothing to give him away. The bloodied knife was strapped to the belt crossing over his chest.
Okay. All clear.
He stumbled through the door. It took him too damn long to open the door.
The voices outside had stopped, so he knew he only had a few minutes to get through that door and as far away as possible, hiding the blood that stuck to his hands, to his legs in slick, sticky rivers.
God, please don't let them catch me.
Stumbling.
I can't fight anymore.
Falling.
I've already lost my arm, what more do you want?
Hand came first, then knees, then elbow and, finally, feet.
It was unreal- running away.
He hated that. When he wasn't quite sure whether it was him or not. Completely him. There at that time, or if he was a mix of everyone he'd met in his life and that's why there were times that he just couldn't remember.
And now he just cut a part of himself off. To get away. To get away because if he didn't he would die. And she would die too, the innocent in his arm. Because they dared to lay a finger on her. They dared to talk to her.
With their filthy lies and probing questions.
Never again.
He clutched her tighter to his chest.
Stumbling again, but making sure she was safe. The brunet girl. What colour were her eyes? He'd never know. Were they like her fathers?
Push yourself up again.
Hand came first, then knees, then elbow and, finally, feet.
A few more steps now, boy. Just a few. A few more.
Shuddering breaths.
They were far. Far now. From the search lights and the blood and all the noises. In a secluded ally strewn with trash and filth and probably guns.
But it was quiet.
God… please.
Why was he praying when he didn't believe? He'd never believed. Not really. He supposed he just needed something to cling to. He could barely hear now… barely see.
Exhaustion.
He hoped the girl would be found.
Stumbling again.
Falling.
He was trying to push himself up without loosing the grip on her. Not possible.
Knees, then elbow and, finally—
Not this time.
He slammed back to the ground. Back to earth. A fallen angel. A fallen demon, more like. A freak.
Looking up and seeing the girl slipping from his sweat slicked fingertips. Blood slicked too.
She'd never go back to that place again.
It took all the effort in his word, to blink back the tears and hold the bitterness in his expression just before his eye began to close. All the regret. The pain.
So Michelangelo smiled.
She wouldn't ever go back to that place, but neither would he.
He was free.
But at what cost?
And he could hear the shadows whispering to him. And he listened to them, like he'd never listen to the light…
Rest now.
Right. So there are plenty of versions about how Michelangelo lost his arm. This is mine.
What did you think?