Author's Note: To my readers, I deeply apologize. I know that this has been a long time coming and believe me when I say that I have been frustrated by how slowly it progressed. I am not a fan of excuses, but life got in the way. I have been working between 55-70 hours a week fairly consistently and by the time I get home, I am too mentally shot to do much other than suck down coffee in staggering quantities (I am always AMAZED by how prolific SleepingSeeker is...I swear she must be part typewriter!) . So, again, I apologize. To those of you who waited patiently for me to update, you have my gratitude. You are all ridiculously awesome!
There was no moon. A canopy of clouds, thick and amorphous, blotted out the stars and shrouded the city in darkness. He paid no mind. Perched atop an aged gothic edifice, with its sharp angles; tall, foreboding spires; and patinated gutters, he waited and watched. Watched and waited. There was no hurry, no rush. Only an objective. All that mattered was its fulfillment.
Tucked into a steep gable beside a fieldstone turret, he peered into the penthouse. An older woman, short and gourd-shaped, stood over the sink scrubbing dishes. One at a time, she took hold of the plates and utensils. With one hand, she submerged them; the other worked in vigorous circles, wiping away offal and debris, before slipping them into the basin of rinse-water. When the basin was full, she side-stepped fluidly, emptied the dishes, and placed them on the dish-rack. In spite of her stature, of her short, chubby fingers and thick, squatty legs, she moved with practiced grace, with the ease and dexterity only time and repetition can instill.
A smile crept across his face. In the weeks he had been watching, he had come to know something about her: she took immense pride in her work. She was precise. Meticulous. Everything, from the way she comported herself to the way she organized the pantry, spoke of her dedication. To most, her job probably seemed paltry—tiresome drudgery that paid little and made her middle-aged joints stiffen and ache. But she seemed to find freedom in it and held her head high. It made her, in her own way, remarkable.
He watched as she replaced the flatware and cookery and scoured the basins with borax. When she was through, she passed down a hallway into an adjoining room and disappeared behind the velvet curtains in the windows. He checked the time. It was 9:47. She was right on schedule. He squatted down, unzipped the duffel bag at his feet, and pulled out his line-throwing gun. Earlier in the evening, he had broken it down, cleaned it, and put it back together, but to err on the side of caution, he inspected it again. When he was satisfied, he slid the canister of line into place. It locked with a click and a hiss. All that was left to do was be patient and wait for his window of opportunity to present itself.
In the distance, a flash of lightning peeked out from behind the clouds, lining them for an instant in bluish-silver. A faint crackle of thunder followed, sounding every bit like the rumblings of a great and ravenous beast. He took note, pressed himself more tightly into the gable, and inhaled deeply. The air smelled as it usually did, of brine and smoke and exhaust, but whispered of rain—of the subtle, almost mossy scent that lingers just before a storm. It calmed him and slowed his racing heartbeat. It untangled the knots in his core. It pushed his qualms aside and, as the thunder rolled, conjured a memory from the depths of his mind.
"Don't walk away from me, Leo!"
It was yet another fight; another in a series that only escalated and intensified. He'd been careful not to push, not to provoke, but the calmer he was, the angrier Raphael became.
"Leo, I'm talking to you!"
"I heard you the first time, Raph. My answer is still the same."
"'Course it is. 'Cuz you know it all, doncha? You know what's best and the rest of us don't know anything."
"It's not that. It's not that at all." He turned and stood toe-to-toe with Raphael, whose body language—from his tightly clenched fists to his quick, heavy breaths—suggested he was clinging to his last vestiges of restraint.
"BULLSHIT! You just don't have the stomach or the nerve or whatever to do what's gotta be done. The Foot's laughin' at us, man. They're mocking us. They're out there in the open, not even tryin' to hide, because they think we're weak and that they got the upper-hand. You really think that if that bitch was in the ground where she belongs that they would be so high and mighty? That they would think they own the streets?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it's too risky to go topside half-cocked, looking for trouble. For all we know, it's a trap. For all we know, they're counting on us to slip up, take the bait, and play into their hands. Until we know more, until we know for sure, we don't make a move."
"So THAT'S IT? THAT'S the PLAN?!" Raphael's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "Nah… Nah… That won't cut it. Now's the time to send a message. Waiting around is pointless…"
Leonardo inched closer, teeth gritted, until they were almost snout-to-snout. His rage was a white-hot poker twisting in his gut. "We wait. We let them think they have us on the ropes. Then, when they get comfortable and let their guard down, we make our move. And we will make a move. But we have to be tactful. Timing matters now more than ever."
"Well, that's just fuckin' great." Raphael spat. "Y'know, you're so off-the-mark on this, it ain't even funny…"
"Off-the-mark?"
"Yeah. You act like nothing's wrong—like everything's fine and there's no reason to be upset."
Despite his strong will and an equally strong desire to avoid coming to blows with his brother, Leonardo seethed. Though he was slow to anger, Raphael's constant goading and bickering had pushed him to the edge. His heart hammered. His muscles were loaded springs. His body felt the way it often did just before a fight. Sensing this, he drew a deep breath into his diaphragm, held it until the moment passed, and turned away; Raphael, however, refused to yield:
"Typical. You hear somethin' you can't handle and you walk away. I guess it gets easier the more you do it." His voice boomed in the small space, filling it. "Or maybe it's because you weren't there. You were too late. You didn't see how he was at the end. Or maybe you don't care. He was our brother and they took him away from us and you don't even care."
Despite their immaterial nature, Raphael's words were powerful. Just as water seeps into small fissures and cuts paths through mountainsides, they burrowed under Leonardo's skin and eroded what remained of his composure. In a flurry, he swung around. His fist flew seemingly on its own and connected with Raphael's jaw. Stunned, Raphael stumbled backward; Leonardo preyed upon the opportunity and charged. Legs pistoning, he slammed into him. The momentum carried them over the back of the couch and into the living area, where they spilled out in a jumble of tangled limbs. Growling and cursing, they punched and kicked and clawed at each other until Michelangelo, who had taken refuge in his room, rushed toward them from down the hall.
"Dudes! Chill! CHILL!" He reached into the fray, hooked Leonardo under the arms, and tried to heft him from atop Raphael. "Alright, bros, break it up! Break it up!"
Before Michelangelo could separate them, Raphael cocked his leg and kicked Leonardo below the belt. With a yelp, he went limp and crumpled to the ground.
"Raph, what is your deal, man? What's wrong with you?!"
"What's WRONG with me?" Raphael grimaced and slowly got to his feet. "This ain't about me. This is about HIM… " His eyes settled on Leonardo, who managed to take to a knee. "Our damned piss poor excuse for a leader…"
Michelangelo knelt down, threw one of Leonardo's arms over his shoulders, and helped him over to the couch. "You okay, Leo?"
Breathless, Leonardo nodded.
"So, what's it about this time, huh? Same stuff?"
"Same stuff." Leonardo muttered. He sat down with a groan and a sigh. "That's what it always comes back to, isn't it?"
Raphael rolled his eyes. "Oh, blow it out your ass, Fearless. This ain't the same and you know it."
Michelangelo folded his arms over his chest. He stood between Leonardo and Raphael, his eyes darting from one to the other. "What's going on?"
"You really wanna know?" Raphael asked, lurching forward. "Fine. I was down by the docks a couple nights back blowin' off some steam, and right there—right out in the open—was the Foot. They were getting a huge shipment in: guns, drugs, explosives, the works. But that wasn't what stood out to me. What stood out were these two big metal containers. They were different than anything I've ever seen them unload and they were handlin' them real carefully. So, I decided to get a better look. I slipped into the alley by the boathouse and wouldn't ya know, right there by the dumpster, was one of their guys takin' a leak. Well, let me tell ya, he almost shit himself when I grabbed him…"
Michelangelo's eyes widened. "Woah… What'd you do next?"
"Let's just say we had ourselves a nice, long chat. Some stuff he gave up right away. Other things? Well, he needed a little convincing…" Raphael thrust his fist into the heel of his palm. "But he told me what he knew."
Leonardo shook his head. "You don't know for sure. You're taking his story, one that you beat out of him, and treating it like it's completely above-board. He probably just told you what he thought you wanted to hear."
Raphael dismissed him with a wave of his hand and continued: "He couldn't tell me what was in the containers, but he did mention the manufacturer's mark on them—Harbinger Industries. Their specialty? Medical supplies and equipment. Gee, why would the Foot need anythin' like that?"
"You don't KNOW. You have a hunch, that's it."
Michelangelo's brow furrowed. "Know what?"
"That Karai's alive. All the signs are there, but Fearless here is in denial." Raphael spoke pointedly and glowered all the while at Leonardo. "Donnie said he'd hurt her, somethin' with the gas in those canisters, but she got away. Do ya think the Foot would be carryin' on the way they've been if she was dead? Nah. I think they'd be more careful. They'd be organized. And they'd be lookin' fer us, not worried about business. And since when are they in the medical supplies racket, anyway?"
Michelangelo's expression washed away. He trudged to the couch and took a seat. With downcast eyes, he studied the floor.
"You're unbelievable, Raph." Leonardo snorted. "You might be willing to risk everything, but I'm not. They have numbers on their side—resources. To bring them down, we'll have to be smart. We'll need a plan. If we rush it, we'll fail. Is that what you want?"
"Nah. I wanna show the Foot that we ain't afraid to stand our ground. To show 'em that there's a price for comin' after us. Best way to do that is to hit 'em back hard where it counts. I say we find where they're hidin' her and we make an example of her. Maybe we redecorate Shredder's Lair with her guts or maybe we mail her back to daddy dearest a piece at a time. It don't really matter how it's done, it matters that it's done…"
"And then what?" The muscles in Leonardo's neck jumped with every word. "If she IS alive and you do that, Shredder will send everything he's got at us…"
"Then we take 'em all on. The rest of the Foot and then the Shredder himself. I ain't afraid, let 'em come. We'll finish this thing the way it's gotta be finished and fight until there ain't nothin' left of them. It's what we shoulda done from the beginning and it's the only way we're ever gonna be rid of 'em for good."
Leonardo looked at Raphael and, for the first time in a long while, actually saw him. And what he saw was a different shade of himself—someone who was suffering and struggling to cope; someone who mourned a loss so great it seemed to echo into eternity. When the realization sunk in, his frustration ebbed. He swallowed the lump in his throat and sighed.
"I miss him, too, Raph. Everyday. But I can't change it. I wish I could, but I can't. You can't change it, either. No matter what you do, no matter how many of the Foot you beat or torture or kill, it'll never change what happened or the way you feel. You can spill all the blood in the world and it will never bring Donnie back."
Raphael's features softened. His gaze, previously razor-sharp, became distant and contemplative. He seemed on edge, perhaps taken aback or unsure of himself. Leonardo hoped that he would open up and share the burden he so clearly carried, but it was not meant to be. The moment passed suddenly and before he could say anything more, Raphael blew his breath out in exasperation and whipped around.
"Go to Hell, Leo." He barked. He stomped toward the dojo, his theatrics failing to hide the quaver in his voice or the arc of his hand has he roughly wiped his eyes.
The tolling of a bell snapped him back to the present. He pulled his T-phone from his belt and checked the time: it was 10 o'clock. He glanced down into the penthouse in time to see the woman emerge from the room with the velvet curtains. She made her way across the living area to the hall closet just beyond the entranceway. There, she pulled on her long, grey coat and swapped her loafers for a pair of heavy-looking boots. She wound a scarf around her neck, slipped her purse over her shoulder, and, as quietly as she could, closed the door behind her as she left.
He raised his line-throwing gun and waited, marking the seconds in his mind. He couldn't afford her hearing the gun discharge and returning to the apartment. The timeframe of his plan was precise and any interruptions were potentially disastrous. He slid down into the crook of the gable, took aim, and fired. The cable embedded in a crenellation just above the penthouse's balcony. He tugged the line a few times to test its tensile strength and the integrity of the connection, pulled it taut, and fastened it to an eyebolt he'd driven into the turret beside him. Satisfied, he took hold of the line, brought his legs up, and began shimmying across. For most, it would have been unthinkable. For most, the prospect of losing purchase on the line and dropping twenty stories to the streets below would have been, at the very least, a deterrent. But it was nothing to him. He spanned the distance quickly, purposefully. When he reached the other side, he lowered himself onto the balcony, pressed his carapace against the building's stone façade, and cast a sidelong glance into the apartment. There was no movement, no one to happen upon him, no one to bear witness. He unsheathed one of his katana and, with a flick of his wrist, severed the cable. It whipped in the stiff breeze like a silver ribbon, twisting and flailing as it fell limply away. There was no turning back.
He grabbed the sliding patio door's handle and tested it with a firm pull. As expected, it did not give. He reached for his belt. There, strapped to his body, was Donatello's lock-picking kit. The leather case was worn—soft and pliable from years of use. He held it in his palm and found comfort in its warmth and smoothness. As he undid the snap on the case, tears pricked his eyes. He knew it was absurd to tie oneself emotionally to material things. He had lectured his brothers time and again about placing too high a value on the material and not enough on the spiritual; on detachment from the world and the enhancement of the self through meditative refinement. Yet he could not deny the connection he felt to Donatello nor the wrenching sting of helplessness that ate at him.
He dropped to a knee and examined the lock on the door. Each of the metal rods inside of the case had a unique purpose. Their heads were angled or shaped to manipulate the tumblers of a specific type of lock. He knew well from experience which to use and got to work. It wasn't long before everything aligned properly and snapped into place with a sharp, satisfying click. Then, as quietly as he was able, he slid the door open. The warmth of the apartment reached him first, playing upon his arms and cheeks and chasing away the cold. Its scent followed. He expected it to be as he remembered from their encounters—from their nights together—but it was different somehow. Something laid beneath the subtle bouquet of cherry blossoms and cedar incense, something that smelled fresh yet foul; clean, but only on the surface. He steeled himself against it, repacked the lock-picking kit, and checked the time. 10:08. He didn't have much longer.
He stepped in deliberately, the bulk of his weight on the balls of his feet, and shut the door noiselessly behind him. Nothing but the droning of a machine welcomed him. It was subdued, muted. It emanated from down the hallway, from the room with the velvet curtains. He made his way there. His every step was precise. The hardwood floor beneath him was unforgiving and threatened to voice its discontent if he was too hasty. Outside, lightning strobed, casting malformed shadows across the walls and floor. Thunder bellowed. Rain battered the windows in heavy, bulbous drops. He had almost reached the room with the velvet curtains when a noise from behind pinned him in place: it was a door slamming shut. Jangling keys chimed before being tossed on something hard and smooth, most likely the kitchen counter. His eyes widened. Third shift had arrived earlier than he anticipated. Under duress and with little time to hide, he opened the nearest door and ducked into it.
It was a small space. The walls were lined with shelves that pressed in on him from all directions. Though he could move, he didn't want to risk knocking anything over and alerting the worker to his presence. Instead, he crouched down and listened to her movements through the door. As usual, they were hurried, almost frenetic. Her footfalls clattered from one end of the apartment to the next. She only stood still for mere moments at a time, but it was then—without her heavy footsteps to provide cover—that he could hear her voice:
"Ugghh… Might as well get it over with…"
His brow rutted. Reconnaissance had taught him much, principally that she was disgruntled. Apart from arriving late, pocketing small items, and falling asleep on the job, he'd often observed her talking to herself. But never before had he overheard her. Her words, and the vitriol with which she spoke them, piqued his curiosity. A host of questions sprang to mind but were shoved back when her footsteps drew closer. He stayed still. She passed him by without regard and continued to the door at the end of the hall. She knocked, entered, and flicked on a light. It flooded in on him from the thin gaps between the closet door and its frame. He inched back until his carapace made contact with the shelf behind him.
"Good evening, Mistress." The woman said in a saccharine tone that did not suit her. "I am very sorry to disturb you…"
He swallowed the lump in his throat. Everything was unfolding just as he'd envisioned it would. All he had to do wait—wait for animosity and boredom to drive the third shift worker to her usual distractions. He settled back on his haunches, closed his eyes, and breathed. The rhythm—the ebb and flow of energy—calmed him and he was swept away by recollection.
The Lair was dark save a sliver of light that spilled into it from beneath the door of Donatello's Lab. He'd been sitting on the steps for the better part of an hour, thinking of what to say and watching his silhouette mirror his movements on the wall. What lay ahead held the promise of discomfort. Though he had hoped to avoid it, he knew doing so was unwise. The damage he had done was considerable and it would only worsen if left unaddressed.
He rose and knocked on the door. The feverish clickedy-clack of keys—which sounded like the prattling of a snare drum—stopped and was replaced by the grinding chatter of Donatello's wheeled chair rolling across the concrete. He took a deep breath to calm himself as the patter of approaching footsteps grew steadily louder. He had never let his family down before and was unaccustomed to the feeling. He could sense their disappointment—their outrage. Their eyes seemed filled with unspoken accusation and he hated it. He hated that one misstep had sown the seeds of doubt.
With a low rumble, the door slid along its track and Donatello appeared in the doorway, rubbing his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. "Uh, hey Leo. Is something the matter?"
"Uh, no… No, Donnie." He could feel his heart thudding relentlessly in his chest. "Um, I'm not interrupting anything important, am I? I can always come back…"
Donatello shrugged. "Nothing that can't wait. I've just been working on Metalhead. You know, upgrading his systems to prevent the Kraang from syncing with him again."
"Oh, good. That's good…" Blood rushed to his face. The heat of embarrassment radiated from him. "I was just wondering if I could talk to you… You know, about what happened earlier…"
He couldn't bring himself to be more direct and he cursed himself for it. Nonetheless, Donatello nodded, moved aside, and gestured for him to enter. The Lab smelled as it usually did, of grease and oil masking subtle undertones of coffee. Donatello usually brewed a pot when he woke up, drank a cup or two, and left the remainder to cook on the burner until it reduced to a thick, syrupy sludge. Parts and gadgets lay strewn about projects in various stages of completion. And though it seemed chaotic to him, he knew nothing in the Lab happened arbitrarily. Everything had a place and a purpose.
Donatello led him back to his desk, pulled over a stool from beside his work table, and motioned for him to sit before taking a seat himself. "So, what's on your mind?"
He fidgeted and wringed his hands. The look in Donatello's eyes made him uneasy. There was no anger or hurt or condemnation, none whatsoever. Rather, his expression was neutral; a mask of stoicism and calculation. "Quite a bit, actually. It's been a rough night." When he heard the words aloud, he winced. He cradled his face in his hands and groaned. "What I meant to say and what I came to tell you is how sorry I am about what happened tonight. There is no excuse for it. I lied to you—mislead you, at least—and I never should have… I guess I was just worried that you wouldn't… That maybe you would…"
"Get the wrong idea?"
He nodded. "That's fair. I mean, I knew Raph would see it in terms of black and white, even though I don't think it is nearly that simple. And I didn't know how Mikey was going to feel about it—whether he'd be angry or confused or something else. But, in all honesty, I don't really know why I kept it from you…"
Donatello leaned forward in his chair. "Because I would have advised against it."
"You… You would have?"
"Of course. If you look at it logically, it doesn't make any sense. After all, she is in league with a bitter enemy—a man who loathes our existence and wants nothing more than to see the end of us. Hoping to win her over as an ally or sway her, especially when she is likely as manipulative and deceitful as the Shredder, is flawed at best and laughable at worst."
Leonardo shrank back. Hearing it laid out so frankly only made him feel worse.
"But…" Donatello continued. "There's more to life than logic, isn't there?"
Taken aback, he struggled to find his voice. "Wh-what do you mean?"
"Leo, are you at all familiar with the story of Galileo?"
"I know of him, but the details are a little fuzzy..."
Donatello nodded. "Well, in the 17th Century, it was widely believed that the sun revolved around the Earth. It was a belief espoused and propagated by the Catholic Church which, at the time, was the authority in matters both secular and ecclesiastical. It went largely unopposed for many years until Copernicus, and later Galileo, spoke against it. You see, Galileo used physics, mathematics, and astronomy to build a strong argument for a heliocentric solar system—one in which the planets revolved around the sun. But the problem was that, though he was correct, church doctrine said otherwise and so he was brought up on charges of heresy and jailed…"
"That's… very interesting, Donnie. But what does that have to do with me? With what I did?"
"My point is this: logically, it made little sense for Galileo to stand toe-to-toe with the church. He risked much and stood to gain very little. It would have been far easier for him to publish his findings in secret, under an assumed name. But he didn't. Or, maybe he couldn't. I like to think that it was his faith in science that compelled him to stand his ground, or perhaps an unshakable belief in the nobility of truth. I can't be sure, but that's the version I like best. In any case, he disseminated ideas that were polarizing—ideas that he knew wouldn't be well-received—simply because he knew them to be true… And he feared compromising himself more than the repercussions for taking a stand. Maybe in that way you are like Galileo and the rest of us are just too set in our ways or reactionary to see that you might be right."
Leonardo eyed his brother. "Do… Do you seriously mean that, Donnie?"
"Well, let's just say that I'm open to the possibility. To be clear, I have reservations—she is part of the Foot Clan, after all."
He raked his hand across his face. "I know, I know… But it's much more complicated than that."
Donatello's eyes lingered on him and he smiled a strange sort of smile. He didn't seem to be looking at him but rather past him; the way one looks when thought and contemplation supersede everything else. "I understand..."
A swell of realization gripped Leonardo. To point, he had focused exclusively on his predicament, never realizing that while it was vastly different from Donatello's relationship with April, it was plagued by many of the same obstacles. "Y-you do?"
"I think so. You see something in her—something that sets her apart; something special. It might not be so easy for anyone else to see, but you know it's there. And whatever that is, you believe in it and want others to see it, too." Donatello wheeled forward in his chair. "So, what is it that you see?"
"It's kind of hard to explain. That's part of the reason I kept everything to myself."
"Try me."
He blew out his breath and swallowed hard. "Alright. Do you remember the night that I got into that argument with Raph about leading the team?"
"Of course."
"Well, after I left you guys, I went to cool off and collect my thoughts. I ran until I got tired and stopped to rest on the roof of an apartment building on Delancy. I don't know if she was already in the area and I crossed paths with her or if she had been tailing me the whole time, but she was there. She had a few Foot soldiers with her and I took them out…they weren't much of a challenge. But she was different. She caught me off guard and hit me with blinding powder. I couldn't breathe, couldn't see… I could barely think… And the next thing I knew, I was on my back with her blade pressed to my throat. She had me dead to rights, Donnie. She could have finished me right there. But she didn't. She let me go. And ever since, I've been trying to figure out why.
Donatello dropped his chin into his hand. "Hmm, that's certainly… unusual. What have you made of it?"
"That's the thing. It's hard to say. I think she wants out of the Foot. I think she sees us as her best shot at getting away without spending the rest of her life looking over her shoulder…"
"Or…" Donatello offered. "She might be trying to win you over; to use your faith in her against you…"
"No… I don't think so. She's… She's different. She's not like the rest of the Foot…"
"How can you be sure?"
"I… I don't… I… I guess I don't know… Not for sure, anyway." His frustration mounted. His explanation crumbled beneath its own weight. "I just feel it. I know she's good, deep down… at least better than she pretends to be…"
"Look, Leo… I get it. I'm not trying to tell you what to think about her. Master Splinter and Raph covered that already. But, it's important that you're careful. Whether her association with the Foot is by chance or by choice, she is dangerous… I mean, she could have gotten us all killed tonight at TCRI. If you hadn't've been able to stop…" He rolled his eyes. "'Justin', who knows what could have happened…"
"I know. And that never should have happened. That's on me…" He shifted uncomfortably, clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap. "Y-you know I would never do anything that would put you guys in danger, right Donnie?"
Donatello's brow quirked. "Leo, I…"
"And that no matter what you guys come first?"
"Of course. Um… I certainly didn't mean to sound like I was questioning your loyalty, because that's not what I meant..."
"I know it wasn't. I… I guess I just needed to hear myself say it."
Donatello put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't keep beating yourself up over it. Things may have gotten out of hand tonight, but I know you won't let it happen again. You'll figure something out… You always do… If she really wants out of the Foot, I know you'll find a way to help her…" He trailed off. For a moment, he hemmed and hawed, seemingly unsure of what to say or how to say it. Then, with a quick breath, he added: "Just be careful. Please…"
Relief warmed him. That Donatello was so understanding and supportive took him by surprise. He'd expected rigidity—hard logic and unbending reason. But instead, he was given support and a sympathetic ear. He wasn't entirely sure why, but he was nonetheless grateful. He smiled. "I will be. Always. Thanks, Donnie…"
He emerged violently from the reverie, his chest feeling strangely tight and his heart racing. The image of Donatello he'd framed in his mind had warped into that of him on the rooftop, battered and covered in blood. Though he tried to keep calm and stay focused, dread laced with panic and he found himself unable to be still. He had to move. His muscles twitched and burned and ached with the need. Sucking in a breath, he opened the closet door a crack. The hallway was dark save periodic flashes of lightning and, apart from the thunder, only the muffled whir of the machine and the continuous chatter of the living-room TV mingled around him.
He stepped from the closet and crept down the hall. In but a few steps, he reached the room with the velvet curtains. He listened for movement—for the frenetic gait of the third shift worker—and when he heard nothing, pushed the door open. The hum of the machine greeted him. Only the small LEDs on its display and what light could spill in from the window revealed what lay within.
Much was indiscernible, blots in the blackness with indecipherable features and softened edges. There was a large form in the corner, an oval-shaped mirror flanked by shelves of glass that caught flickers of light and scattered them around the room. His eyes pulled to something long and narrow—either a small sofa or a chaise—that sat in front of the window. He imagined her draped across it, with her long legs stretched out and her dark hair framing her face, taking in the skyline and city lights. The thought made his heart flutter and pinch and he shoved it away. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Inch by inch, step by step, he approached the bed. The coverlet heaved and bunched around a small form. He moved closer. A length of clear, plastic tubing ran from the machine and disappeared beneath the covers and sheets. He moved closer still and stood at the edge of the bed, mere inches away from her sleeping form.
Even in the low light, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her. One side of her face, from her ear to the bridge of her nose, was peeled back, practically melted away. The plastic tube—a cannula—was tucked behind her ears and held in place by strips of tape. Scars—raised, thick, and angry-looking—ran along her forehead just below her hairline and in a semi-circle that dipped from her jaw to her neck. Her features, once delicate and soft, were sharp and garish; all jutting bones and thready sinew beneath glossy skin that seemed unnaturally tight and ill-fitting. She murmured and shifted, clasping the sheets weakly with hands that trembled. Then, as if aware of his presence, she shuddered and rocked and her eyes fluttered open.
""L-Leo…?" His name left her lips in a throaty rasp. She lurched back on her elbows until she was propped up by the pillows, all the while taking him in—her one eye gleaming, the other dull and unseeing. "Is it… really… you..?"
"It is."
"I don't… How did you..?"
"You didn't think you could hide forever, did you?" His throat felt tight. The hands of ambivalence were around his neck and bearing down. It took all he had to keep his voice from wavering. "If you were trying to cover your tracks, you did a good job… just not quite good enough. Your people were too bold or too careless. They led me right to you…"
She cackled. It sounded as painful as it did forced. "Do I…look…worried…to you..?"
He knelt beside her. "I've never been too concerned about appearances. You know as well as I do that things are rarely as they seem to be—that, like it or not, the truth tends to be far more complicated."
The muscles in her throat undulated as she swallowed. "Oh? And… how…does it…seem…to you..?"
"That your moment of glory came at a steep price."
What remained of her lips tugged into a grin. "And for…you…as well…"
Rage threatened to unhinge him. He bit it back, held it down, and brandished it coolly against her. "It's not the same."
"Don't…fool yourself. Pain…is pain. It doesn't…matter…how it's…suffered…"
"You're wrong." His words sprang forth forcefully. "Not all the pains we endure or sacrifices we make are equal. I don't expect you to understand that, much less believe it, but it's true. So don't waste your breath comparing your pain to mine like they're the same thing... They're not."
She chuckled weakly. "Oh..? And how…are they…different..? Because...you want…to…believe they are..? Because…it makes…the pain…easier to bear…if there's a…silver lining..? Look for…meaning in it…if you want. I prefer to… savor... what's real… My blade…slipping inside of him. The look on his…face when…he knew…he was going…to die. And oh… all the…sounds he made…" She kept her gaze upon him and nodded. "You know…I thought…he was you..? When I saw…him on the rooftop…I could have sworn…he was you. It wasn't until…I got close…that I saw…I was mistaken…"
His ire rose but he refused to allow it to show. He had an objective. All that mattered was its fulfillment. "You should have left him out of it…"
Laughter erupted from her in rolling hacks. She didn't stop until she was out of breath—wheezing between gasps. "Why…would I've…done that..?"
"Because we had a deal. Because my family was off-limits. You knew that."
"Don't preach…to me…about integrity…" She scoffed. "Not…after you…betrayed me. Not after…you tried to…kill my…father…"
"Your father was going to…"
"It doesn't…matter. Once you…went back on…our deal… I had no…reason to…honor it. Tell me, Leo… What bothers…you more..? That I killed…your brother or…that he…chose it..?"
"You hardly gave him a choice."
She leaned in close. The muscles in her neck twitched as she spoke: "Wrong. He could…have saved…himself. All he had…to do…was leave me…the girl. He could have…walked away… but he…didn't. He chose…foolishly…"
He shook his head. Tears pricked his eyes but he blinked them back. He wouldn't let her see them. "You chose foolishly. That's why you're here. That's why you're stuck in this bed, hooked to machines... That's why you're kept hidden away…"
She glowered at him. Her hands quavered as she pulled and twisted at the sheets.
"And you know it. You know Shredder's mind—how he thinks, why he does the things he does—so at some point it must have dawned on you." He stared at her, unflinching. "You managed to do something that he was unable to do—you succeeded where he couldn't. You're a symbol to the rest of the Foot, and you're worth a great deal to him as a symbol. Too bad he couldn't care less otherwise."
"So…what..?" She spat. "Who…cares..? Is that… supposed to… make me… feel bad..?"
"I think it does. You can say what you want but I know better. I know you better." He shrugged. "All you've ever wanted was to make him proud…"
Her features gnarled.
"…for him to show you the affection a father shows his daughter."
Her chest rose and fell more quickly and her body shook.
"…only to find that even your greatest victory—your proudest moment—wasn't enough. That you came away from the fight…" He paused for a moment to find the right words. "…less than whole makes you nothing more than another freak to him… a disgrace… After all, I've been watching for weeks and he hasn't so much as stopped by to see you... It's sad …"
"I don't…want…your pity…" She spoke pointedly through bared teeth.
He continued, paying her no mind. "You've given up everything you are and everything you'll ever be and for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing…"
His words hit home. She lashed out, bucking and swinging her fists at him with what strength she could muster. She continued until she was out of breath and coughing violently; he remained still, her blows having no effect.
"I…I felt something for you once… Cared for you once…" His lips pressed into a tight line and he sighed. "I couldn't put it into words... I still can't. I just wanted so badly to believe that there was good in you, that you wanted to change, that I deceived myself. I only saw what I wanted to… I wasn't as cautious as I should have been… You took advantage of that and Donnie paid the price." He disconnected her cannula from the machine. "I won't make the same mistake again."
Her eyes widened. "Wh-what...are you..?"
"You'll never hurt my family again…"
An alarm on the machine sounded and panic took hold of her. She tried to move, but he held her in place. She struggled against him, but he swatted her hands away. She thrashed and flailed but was not well enough—not strong enough—to throw him. And he did not relent. He countered every move and absorbed every blow. Before long, she was out of breath. She stared back at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her strikes weakening and her body betraying her.
"It never should have come to this. I never wanted it to be this way…"
Her breaths grew shallower, more intermittent. Her fumbling hands came to rest at her sides, leaden and useless—too heavy for her to move. She was at his mercy. She muttered something indiscernible—an airy slur of vowel sounds—as her eyes drifted shut and her head slumped to the side. Each rattling breath left her lungs in a languid murmur.
Emotions warred within him. He pulled a pillow from beneath her supine form and pressed it down over her face. There was no struggle, no fight. Not this time. Only the thrumming of his heartbeat set to the rhythm of the bleating alarm. Time limped along like a wounded animal. He did not know how long it had taken, only that it took every measure of himself to do it.
When he was through, he slipped the pillow beneath her head, reconnected her cannula to the machine, and pulled the covers back over her body. She looked as she did earlier, before she had awoken. He brushed errant strands of hair from her face and ghosted his fingertips across her cheek. It was a goodbye. It signified an end to every hope he clung to; to far-flung dreams of alliance and entanglement. It meant turning away from idealism and forsaking the yearnings of his heart in favor of rationality and cynicism.
"I'm sorry…" He whispered.
And he meant it. But from the moment he learned that she was responsible for Donatello's death, he knew what had to be done. Though she no longer posed a direct threat, her persona was formidable. She was lionized—revered. Tales of her triumph swept through the Foot and inspired imitation. The meek grew bolder, listlessness gave way to zealotry, and acts of self-preservation were replaced by those of sacrifice to the cause. With morale at its zenith, they were more dangerous than ever. And his family was still grieving—still lost. Raphael had vowed revenge; to pour their collective hurt into Karai until it destroyed her. But he knew better. He knew he had to find her first. He had to bring her end about quietly, in a manner that appeared accidental if not natural. It eliminated the possibility of reprisal at a time when they were weak, it prevented a symbol from becoming a martyr, and it bought them time—time to adjust, to heal, and to plan their next move.
He turned away from her, slipped from the apartment as quietly as he had slipped in, and left no trace behind. Rain pelted him as he climbed to the roof. Thunder rolled. Lightning flashed. The cosmos hid behind the clouds and he was grateful for it.
Author's Note: Thank you all so much for reading and for sticking with me these past months. I appreciate it more than you know. To my network of supportive colleagues (Terraform, Lexifer666, Jay Jones, SleepingSeeker, TheIncredibleDancingBetty, calloutdrummer1247, Poetique-Justyce, BelatedBeliever1127, and FaithfulWhispers to name a few) I am in your debt! As always, please leave me a review and let me know what you think!
Also: The Stealthy Stories Fanfiction Competition is underway and in full-swing! The ballot is posted and the reading period has begun, but it is not too late to read some awesome stories by some talented authors in the fandom! Until next time!
