Splinter had finally left the lair.
That in and of itself was a fairly unusual occurrence, but coupling this phenomenon with the absence of all three of his brothers simultaneously had proven even trickier than first anticipated. Rarer than a blue moon, he knew this would be his only opportunity for a very long time, and already enough time had been wasted.
Master Splinter did not keep a habit of locking or forbidding any room in the lair from his sons. Instead, it was like an unspoken rule that had created an invisible barrier around the cramped, but rather large closet tucked away in the corner of their home. A closet that contained every life altering artifact or relic from the turtles' past.
The power and mystery emanating from these objects seemed to permeate through the closed door as the young turtle pressed his palms against the brittle wood. It was as though he could feel a threatening buzz throbbing out, sending tingling shocks through his fingertips and up his spine-electric pulses that forced a shiver through his body.
Either real or perceived, there was no turning back now.
Closing his eyes, he focused on his heartbeat as he stood squarely before the threshold of the room. He recalled that the last time he had stepped inside had been with the sole intention of releasing the final hold of a most painful chapter from his life. He remembered how badly he had wanted to believe those questions of turmoil and torment had been severed from him forever. The gentle hands of Master Splinter, freeing him from that wretched object which had thrust such a shadow of doubt over his own identity.
Only this time Master Splinter couldn't help him find the way back home.
With a grunt he squeezed his eyes even tighter, 'Please understand, Sensei…'
Grimly setting his jaw, he forced his eyes open and pressed against the thin sliver of wood. It was harder to open than he anticipated, a difficulty that had nothing to do with the actual door. As it silently swung open, he audibly gulped before taking an apprehensive step inside.
Nostalgia, coated in bitterness, invaded his senses.
He longed for the time when Master Splinter could easily remove from him whatever clouded his heart and thoughts. How absolutely he could rely on his father to relieve him from the doubts and pain that hung over him and their family. He didn't quite know when he and his brothers suddenly became too old for such comfort, or when the realization settled in that the aging rat could no longer protect him from the one thing which could permanently alter their lives forever.
Suppressing such unproductive thoughts, he forced himself to step deeper inside the room. The temperature dropped and a wave of goose bumps broke out across his arms. He had expected it to smell stale, but it didn't. It smelled like nothing at all. A nothingness which proved to be even more unnerving.
He realized with a strange sense of pride how every object within this room had, in one way or another, shifted their relationship as a family. They had survived. They had persevered, striking a bond together impenetrable from the inside out.
Of course, that hadn't always been the case.
He turned his eyes upon the magical scepter leaning against the wall, an ancient artifact which had transported him and his brothers to Japan over a year ago. It almost seemed to glow with an alluring façade of warmth, an uneasy comfort which felt out of place in the shadow-filled room.
With a frown he tore his gaze away and looked deeper into the organized room.
He was well aware he was avoiding the glare of the Shredder's mask, which sat innocently and intimidating upon the narrow shelf opposite of where he stood. His eyes skimmed disinterestedly across the other trophies stored within, glossing over a Foot Ninja mask, before he paused upon pieces of heavy, gray armor. He stared at the dull metal until it no longer meant anything, the pieces no more than a mass of history and broken memories that didn't really feel like they belonged to him anymore.
He was well aware of what object it was he was truly eluding. Its taunting presence tugged at the peripheral of his vision, refusing to be ignored. His hands balled into fists, as though forcing the memory away of what it had felt like in his hands before he had surrendered it to Splinter.
It wasn't what he needed.
It wasn't what he had stepped inside this room for. To once again break the bonds of trust he had so diligently built between himself and his brothers, only to find it still such a fragile and precarious balance to maintain.
His chest tightened and he knew he could no longer avoid the reason he had stepped inside. The object which had threatened to tear their family apart for good just a mere six months ago. The object that should never have existed in the first place, and the very same one he needed to steal back from the shadows in deadly secrecy.
His sharp eyes met the cold stare of the dark helmet. Its sleek metal buffed to a shine, glinting at him with a malice all its own. Even before he lifted his hands to remove it from the shelf, a stark aura of anger and violence radiated out, the pressure nearly pushing him back. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of such musings. Without another thought, he deftly picked it up and nearly dropped it. It felt heavier than he remembered. He ran his fingers gingerly over the brim, the surface actually quite pleasing to the touch, a sensation that was most unsettling.
Inhaling, he lifted it up and turned it around. It was now or never.
He settled the helmet on his head, and his hands fell away. He realized his eyes were closed again and he reluctantly forced them open.
'The Nightwatcher will patrol the streets of New York one last time.'
-oOo-
"Michelangelo, I told you to get that accident waiting to happen out of my face!"
The younger turtle managed to duck out of range from his older brother's agitated swipe with a yelp. He nimbly balanced on the tips of his toes, barely succeeding in preventing the steaming hot cocoa to spill over the sides of the dangerously full mug he had shoved under said older brother's nose for the fifth time in a row.
"Well 'scuse me! Don't have to take it out on the hot chocolate! S'not my fault you're still cranky cause I whipped your tail at boarding the other day."
Donatello at last lifted his eyes from the sea of loose papers and textbooks that blanketed the kitchen table before him. He opened his mouth to retort, before quickly snapping it shut with a sigh, looking fully as though the mere effort of arguing was headache-inducing.
Don decided to shift his approach.
"Why are you awake, anyway?" he muttered as he shifted one stack of papers over to another, shuffling a few things before the neon glow of the digital clock winked out at him. 1:30 a.m. "I thought you had decided to turn in for the night?"
"Eh, not tired, " Mikey nudged one of the nearby chairs with his toe, flipping it around so he could straddle it casually as he cradled the mug in both his hands, "'sides, it's kinda impossible to sleep with Leo snoring through the walls. I don't know if it was all the cheese he ate earlier or what, but he sounds like a growling lawnmower." He gave a shrug, "Plus I thought I saw Raph take his trench coat when he headed out earlier. He doesn't get all gussied up for just any date on the town, so he'll probably be gone awhile. You didn't see him?"
Don squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them as their dryness was beginning to blur his vision, "What? No." He sighed, glancing back over at his brother once more, looking twice as tired as before, "I'm not sure. Maybe? I suppose it doesn't matter. Why did you ask that again?"
A frown creased the corners of Mikey's mouth as he stared hard back at Donatello. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he inched his chair a few centimeter's closer to the edge of the table, taking note of the heavy bags under his brother's eyes. He contemplated sneaking Don a soda, despite Master Splinter's forbiddance that Don drink any caffeine while in the midst of his lingering sickness. It was almost disturbing to notice that even Donnie wasn't immune to the stupefying effects of exhaustion, and Mikey's unease only heightened as he watched the usually vigilant and alert turtle cave into the ramblings of a numb mind. He was beginning to sound kookier than normal, and that could never be a good thing.
With a deliberate sip of his drink, Mikey tipped back his chair, glancing down at the hoard of books and crinkled papers that littered the table. Most of them were scribbled over with Don's ridiculously tiny and precise handwriting. Rows upon rows of numbers were layered and squashed upon one another, divided by short dashes or arrows every fourth or fifth line. He crinkled his nose at the swirls of calculations and formulas. Though as he examined the faint stress lines plaguing his older brother's face, he decided to feign interest.
"Hey, what're you working on?" he gazed intently over at Don, who already seemed to have forgotten his previous babbling anyway, "Can I help?"
"Go away, Mikey."
"Aw, come on." Michelangelo leaned forward, placing himself directly in Don's line of sight, "I'm serious, you don't look so good bro. I can try to help if you wanna go to sleep or something. I can alphabetize? Or uh, numeratize? Whatever, you know what I mean."
Don looked ready to shoo his younger sibling away once more, but at the sincerity he found on the other turtle's face, his weary expression softened. He shook his head, "No, I'm alright. Really. I'll have this completed in just a few more minutes."
With a roll of his eyes that indicated he knew exactly how long Don's 'few minutes' usually lasted, Mikey tipped his seat forward just a bit more, "But what if I just-"
The shrill shriek of the phone ripped through the air.
Mikey's head snapped up and in an episode of sheer adrenaline induced panic, he found himself juggling the blaring phone, tipping his chair and balancing his hot cocoa. A moment later he discovered his multi-tasking had somehow gone terribly askew.
"Michelangelo!"
The legs of his chair screeched back with a deafening urgency as Mikey once again barely managed to avoid the furious swipe of his older brother, who now stood with a stack of dripping papers clutched in one shaking fist, "What have I told you about bringing liquids near my work!?"
"I'm sorry!" Mikey staggered back a few paces, clutching his now empty mug to his chest protectively. It was his only Batman mug and he'd lost many an awesome cup thanks to Don's apparent vendetta against soggy papers and the brothers who cause them.
"I'll help you dry them off!"
"Just go."
"But what about…"
Mikey held up the phone, only to be met with a loud dial tone. He shot a glance back over at Don, but his older brother was only glaring at him and with a forceful gesture, pointed him out of the kitchen. Shoulders slumped in defeat, Mikey turned where he was directed.
"Man, I was only trying to help." He muttered as he swung himself over the back of the couch in the living room. He settled himself amongst the cushions, still mumbling loud enough, "Didn't know it was against the rules to have hot beverages in the kitchen of all places."
Sulkily, he used one of his toes to press the power button on the remote. The music for the early morning Channel 6 News broadcast filled the room, and the familiar face of April O'Neil flared to life on their big screen television.
Don thumped back into his seat, the mass of mushy papers falling from his grasp. With a frustrated sigh he held his head in his hands, scowling at the mess.
"Thanks a lot Mikey…" the scent of the hot cocoa was nearly overwhelming, and although Don had a rather strong affinity for the drink, he crinkled his nose in disgust as though to emphasis his utter annoyance at his younger brother's mishap. "Perfect, this is just what I need."
"Um, Don?"
Determined to ignore his younger brother, Don was already shuffling back through the piles of paper, dry and dripping alike, sorting and re-piling. He was thankful the ruined papers had mostly been those with a relatively small amount of writing on them and would take little time to replicate.
"Hey Donnie…"
Holding up a particularly dripping sheet before him, Don squinted as he stared at the blurry numbers. True, they would be easy to replicate, but only if he could read the actual inscriptions on them. He really didn't have the time to recalculate everything all over again, and he hoped he still had the original formulas saved elsewhere.
"Donatello!"
"What?!" Don finally spun around, exasperation etched in his face.
Mikey wasn't smiling.
He hadn't even moved from the couch, staring hard at the screen in front of him. Don saw what Michelangelo was pointing at and all past offenses immediately disappeared.
Both brothers stared silently at the blackened silhouette that darted off and on the screen, the blurry image caught on a cellphone camera. The image of a familiar, stocky form running across the rooftops left Don icy cold, and he was aware of the thundering of his heartbeat that nearly drowned out the voice of the newscasters.
He tried to look over at Mikey, but found himself unable to tear his gaze from the video clip. The tape was no more than five seconds long, set to replay over and over again, but it was all he needed to recognize the figure on the screen. That sleek sheen of a metal helmet glinting against the streetlights. That undeniable curve all his brothers knew so well: a large, protective shell, sheathed in black leather and steel.
There was no doubt who they were watching.
"It's…"
Mikey couldn't bring himself to nod. "We have to wake up Leo."
