The lashes flickered upon her cheek. The darkeness parted, paled. A soft light beckoned, mellowing the surrounding din
of the empty room. She lay still, feeling the weight of her body in the tangled covers, breathing steadily, consciously. Her eyes blinked
rapidly, sporadic movements. She curled her fingers into her palm, her left hand, felt the fingertips scrape against her exposed clavical.
She curled her fingers into her palm, her right hand, felt the unyielding metal that hugged her two inner digits scrape against her clothed
leg. She curled her toes, gripping the bottom sheet. Pain, sharp and instant, lanced through her right foot, spreading like a lit fuse up her
calf, deep in the muscle of the leg. Her harsh gasp hung think in the air before being swallowed by the consuming shadows. The fire
jumped to her side, attacking her right lung, choking the air from her withered body, demanding the slow, measured breathing pattern of
her sleep. She took in small gasps of air, filling her lungs only briefly. As the pain that cleaved her side abated, she moved her limbs,
gingerly. Legs; muscles screamed in protest. Arms; one securely strapped across her chest, shoulder tender when moved. She moved
her neck, carefully, slowly, grateful for the stiff movement. She paused as her vision faded slightly at the shift. Equilibrium regained, she
moved to sit, then, in time, to stand, right hand clutching the bedside table as best it could.
The bare room was dark, lit only by unseen, external forces. The only door stood ajar allowing the blessed light to leech into the
gloom. Eyes now adjusted to the dim, vision steady after the jarring movement, she glanced around the room, memorizing, studying the
strange surroundings. The room, as it was, was not indeed bare. Minimal, yes, but subtly personal. The bed stood at the far wall of the room,
directly in sight of the lone door. A well-worn wooden bedside table stood beside it, housing a clock, a bowl of water with washcloth, and on the
shelf below, a small stack of neatly arranged books. At the foot of the bed, a few short steps away, was a low-set table, on it's top,a closed
notebook. A series of capped pens lay, lined up at attention, at the notebook's head. On the wall above, a rather ornate sword display, hand-carved
from dark wood, it shone in the reflected light, obviously much-loved, well-tended. Kitty corner to the bed, hidden behind the door, were pillows, rather
large, rather plush despite their wear, piled, no, arranged, and particularly so. And in front of them, a small tray that carried an array of candles and
insense and small, almost canopic-like jars. Sitting by the doorjam, a green canvas sac, seemingly forgotten, and painfully out of place. The room,
though small, was beloved. It was clean and organized. Someone's haven.
Her hand left the tabletop. Her head pounded, blood thundered through her ears, her side screamed and her legs protested with the slightest
of movement. Her vision and equilibrium, however, remained constant. Encouraged despite the constant and obvious discomfort, she made the few
steps to the door. She rested by the jam, toeing the canvas bag. It was full to busting, the teeth of the clamps holding desperately. Breathing shallow,
willing her vision clear, she listened beyond the room. Distant, muffled sounds drifted down the corridor to her, their meanings unclear.
She walked through the door to be met by a long, lit hallway. Doors lined the right side, at the far end, stairs, and beyond, a vague, cavernous area.
Her right hand pressed against the wall as she walked, each step uneven, every muscle protesting. She at last stopped at the first door on her path.
The door lay ajar. Inside she found a room not entirely different from the one she had departed. The bed in this room lay open, un-made, sheets crumpled
and thrown at it's end, one pillow having fallen to the floor. The room, though not entirely unpleasant, held areas of controlled mayhem; papers, magazines,
books stacked on the floor, organized, surely, in some fashion, as some stacks were more abundant than others at their sides. An occasional cup or bowl
could be found atop certain columns. They rose, like climbing vines from the floor. Along one wall, a tall bookcase leaned, swelling with contents. A necessary
and apparently over-worked desk sat along the wall farthest from the bed.
She gripped the doorjam, and continued along the hall. The next door she came upon stood open to reveal a bathroom. She peered into the small room, memorizing;
the cups that sat on the ledge of the sink, the bristled heads of toothbrushes poking out the top; the towel that hung out of the basin; its mis-matched cousin
that lay crumpled on the floor, overlapping the still-damp bath mat. The shower curtain hung open, an array of soaps, each in their own dish, in a standing
shelf that seemed built into the corner of the stall. A yellow duck sat on one of the shelves, head down, tail feathers in the air, having lost it's footing. The lights above
the mirrored cabinet shone. She stepped into the small room, feeling the cool puddles beneath her left foot as she moved the short distance to the sink. Her right hand
fell to the wet porcelain lip of the basin. Her left curled at the curve of her neck. They seemed polar to her; the left seemingly unaffected while the right lay maimed, swathed
in metal. It seemed unlikely, improper, that they should belong to the same person.
Healthy. Strong. Capable. Crippled. Broken. Torn.
She met her eyes in the mirror. The image glared at her. Taunted her. Scorned her with dead eyes, ashen skin, bruised features. She watched her pink tongue snake from
between her lips to touch the tear that lined her bottom lip. She tasted metallic.
She made her way along the hall.
The next door was closed. Firmly. Surely. She moved her broken hand over the door's face as she passed. The jam itself was scarred, had been repaired, ripped free, and
repaired numerous times. Her fingers traced the relief of the indents that pocked the wood.
The last door in the hall stood open like the rest. Inside was a bedroom, similar to the others in layout. The walls of this room, however, were plastered with
posters. Sirens stared out from their perches. She assumed this room also housed a bookshelf and desk in addition to the bed she was able to make out, but was
unable to peer past the absolute clutter of the room to the objects themselves. Small books, magazines, various objects of brightly coloured plastic filled the small
space almost beyond capacity. She glanced at her feet, in line with the doorway, and marvelled at the exact line before her bare toes, as though there existed
a mystical border that contained the chaos in this one space.
Two flights. The stairs were wide. Abnormally so. Handrails graced both sides, atop the banister on the outer edge, and built into the stone wall on the inner.
The stone was cool, almost cold against her cheek and forehead. She welcomed the calloused touch. She felt entirely too warm in the oversized clothes. She reached
a hand briefly to the gaping neck of the sweater. She leaned her body heavily on the wall, hand grasping the railing. She slowly crept down the stairs, pausing
often. Her thighs burned, quivering with the effort, her left more-so, taking more of her weight as she lifted her right foot as often as possible, trading the sharp
searing pain that furrowed up from her foot for the all-consuming torment that clawed at her every muscle. She took her time. Finally, her foot gripped the floor.
The sounds, various voices, movement, were closer, louder. Slightly clearer, but still ambiguous. They eminated from there. A room off of the one
in which she now stood. A glance in the obvious direction, through an archway, offered only a stone wall. The room in which she currently stood was, in fact,
a rather large living room. It was a vast, open area defined only by the furniture in it's midst. A long couch sat near the centre. It faced a low coffee table laden with
bowls, cups, utensils, baggies and wappers, books, magazines, remote controls. Behind the table, facing the couch, stood a large and ominous appliance that
seemed to loom over the simple, common furniture. A television. Two mis-matched chairs completed the set, one flanking each end of the coffee table. Small
end tables, lamps, standing and tabletop, peppered the space. Behind her stood the kitchen, a space once again defined not by walls or partitions, but by
the furniture and appliances that occupied the area. Beyond that, a short hallway led to a darkened corner. She moved through the area, dragging her
gnarled hand over surfaces, touching, feeling, testing various textures she came across. Testing the validity of this world she seemed to have awakened
in. Fogged, clouded images sat in her mind's eye. Murky ideas, circumstances, persons gnawed at her. The fever had tainted her mind, drugged her, leaving her
reeling now, unsure. Dreams of ninja and Genbu, escape and care tickled her senses. This place, the people of those rooms and the sounds she now approached
were not the unrelenting and exact cruelty she had last known. This place, a home, held no fear within it's bowels. This was not a place of anger, retribution, hatred.
Instead, the cold stone walls seemed to hold peace, normalcy, even.
Her fingers felt along the rough stone, wrapping around the lip of the doorway carved within it. The room was large, cave-like, simillar to the previous. Massive.
In it's centre stood five figures. Four hulking forms moved, their gestures fluid, lyrical, as though performing a dance, each part choreographed to compliment
the others. In the thick stood a lone figure, smaller in stature, the authortiy indisputable. The sounds were now evident. A command, short and definate from the
stooped central figure. A response from the rest. An adaption of their movements. Fluid, lyrical, each in counterpoint to the remaining, and yet, subtly new.
The four breathed hard, grunting in exertion, each pushing their voice from their throats, using the energy to complete their task, to regulate their movements.
These were the sounds.
The one turned, seemed to - regard?- her.
A small sound caught in her throat, more a symptom of her mental discomfort that now gripped her than the physical, which she harboured with little complaint.
The remaining four ceased their constant movements. Her mind warred to compute the vision. Fever-polluted dreams mingled with the present, leaving her
breathless, confused, unsure. The layered sound of breathing echoed within the confines of the great room. Those of the warriors. Those of the girl.
Then, from the one closest:
"Hi!" His face seemed to snap to life as if suddenly awakened, his manner polar to the concentrated movements prior.
"Ang, you're awake! How ya feel?" A large clumsy grin accompanied his wide questioning eyes.
Her mouth fell a fraction, breath passed her lips.
"Michelangelo." The gruff voice held no anger. Simply a beckoning.
"What?" The closest turned, genuine curiousity lining his face.
"Mike, she may not remember anything that happened during her fever." The figure far from the door offered an apologetic, almost embarrased smile in return
to attention from the girl. He raised a large, awkward paw. "Hi?"
"So..."
A pointed stare.
"Ooohhhh..." Michelangelo turned once more to the girl, slowly, eyeing her - what was that expression now?- warily.
The central figure, gripping a wooden stick in one of his hands, made his way to the door. He stopped, an arms length from the girl who stood, injured
hand still gripping the archway.
"My child," he spoke only after meeting her eyes. "How do you feel?" His dark eyes bore into hers.
She felt her lips move, tasting his words. "I'm... a little thirsty.?.."
"Donatello," The embarrassed one made his way to the archway. She heard him scrape against the stone as he crept through the wide arch. The strange being's
movements sounded behind her in the kitchen.
"You have been resting for a long while, child. We have been awaiting your return."
Her face belied a multitude of emotions; her brow creased with worry, her eyes wide with questions, her lips hesitant and unsure. "I'm sorry."
The corner of the - man's - lip twitched, pulled up. A fine line of white teeth glinted in the light. " Do not think on it. Though , now you have awaken,
and you have much to tell us, " he leaned in conspiratorially, "and you, aswell, have much to learn."
"I think, perhaps - I need to sit down," Her knees quivered and she began to sink to the floor, archway at her back.
Strong arms gripped her and guided her to the floor, bracing her between unrelenting strength, one arm at her back, the other curled under her knee.
She glanced up into wide blue eyes. Her eyes moved from his face to the others, still motionless in the room. They stood silent, unyielding. Visions clouded and cleared,
mingled and parted before her eyes. Sounds echoed in the recesses of her mind. A cup was presented to her, placed to her lips. Mindlessly she took a sip, then rested
her head against the creature that held her. She gazed at the side of It's face. Fever-induced dreams swam at her. She stared at It's cheek, and remembered- them.
She raised her left hand, pulled against it's restraint enough to to graze her fingertips across his skin, across his freckles. He turned his head to her at the light contact.
His skin was cool, yet flushed, smooth and moist to the touch.
"Uh, yeah, sorry about that. Mid training sesh and all. I suppose I'm a little ripe."
She pulled her hand from his cheek. Her fingertips glistened. She could see It's pores, feel the relative warmth of the moisture on her hand. And that face. Such an expressive
face. The eyes, the mouth. She watched even as his nostrils flared.
"Yeah. Just be glad Raph wasn't closer, cuz he is, like, the all-time Funk Master, and I don't mean old school!" The skin on his snout scrunched.
She brought her dampened fingers to her lips and tasted salt.
The old rat watched the interaction, patient with the Girl's questioning, uncertain nature.
"Michelangelo, if you would assist her travels to my chambers-"
A quick nod, a quiet 'yep'. He stood promptly, unemcumbered by the burden in his grasp.
"- Leonardo, you will oversee this morning's activities until I return - "
"Hai, Sensei." The statue in the farthest corner of the room bowed deeply, formally, at the waist, straightening once again into his rigid, unmoving stance.
The rat turned to the figure at his side, the awkward form who still held an orange plastic cup in his great hand. Quick, hushed words passed his thin lips.
The phrases drifted over her, familiar somehow, but unattainable. The great creature gave a jolting nod of his head, an abbreviated bow.
"Hai, Sensei."
Japanese. The language bobbed and floated in her clouded consciousness. The words, their meanings hid in the dense haze.
She was lifted and taken from the room, led by the revered Sensei.
Her skin twitched. Eyes bore into her , she knew. She could feel them as firm as flesh on her tender skin. It was those eyes. Those eyes she had seen before.
Somewhere. Nebulous eyes. So dark, they shone. They absorbed all light; coveted it, gluttoned upon it, and devoured it. That darkness that lured the light into
it's depth, promising reprieve, only to claim the luminesence as it's own. She felt those eyes search her, stroke her, claim her. She felt them long after she was
escorted through the den, past the kitchen, down the shadowed hall.
His chambers.
The old rat moved assuredly in the dark, reaching for and finding candles, matches atop small tables. He positioned himself atop a pillow, gestured to a
similar arrangement in front of him. She was deposited.
They were alone.
He regarded her. Watched her. Studied her. He read her. And, in the short moments before they were interrupted, presented, formally with tea, and left alone
once more, he knew her.
She sat. She regarded him. Memorized his lines, his nuances, his presence.
He poured the water, steeped the herbs. Placing a small steaming bowl before her, he raised his own to his snout, breathing the healing, fortifying scent.
He sipped. He watched her.
She did the same. Raised the bowl. Breathed. Her gentle lips pursed and she blew over the top of the liquid, steam displacing, spreading across her face, across
the distance between them. She sipped.
He spoke;
"My child, there is much you have been through. My heart warms to see you so strong of body and mind. However, there are those who would still seek to harm you.
The Foot Clan is a worthy and dangerous advisary. Do not underestimate the danger you are in, nor the grave risk your presence poses to my family. We may be able
to sanction you, but I must know everything of your situation to do so. My child, what is your name?"
His black eyes drove into her. Sho looked down to her hands, bent and broken, balancing the hot bowl of nourishment. She blew across it. She sipped.
Her breath felt thin in her lungs.
"You have been quite generous, and - kind." Her voice was coarse, and quiet, as though unfamiliar to her own ears. The rat's ears prickled at the unusual lilt,
her unique inflection.
"You have my thanks, and my gratitiude.Your acts will not be forgotten.
My name is Angou Li."
