Chapter Nine – The Parting of the Ways
When Leo had given him the dragon, that first night in the new Lair, he had thanked him with sarcasm.
"Geez, Leo. You go all the way to Japan, and all you get me is a lousy dragon?"
But he had loved it, really. He had fallen asleep, that first night, with it clenched in his palm, the grating of the catwalk pressing hatchmarks into his skin.
The next day he had gone into each of the upstairs rooms, inspected them critically, and chosen his favorite. He left his dragon in the middle of the floor, as a marker.
RAPH'S ROOM. KEEP OUT.
As he acquired or built furniture for his new room, the dragon migrated to more and more privileged positions, until it took up final residence on a shelf near the hammock. Every morning, if Raph did not wake up in the right position to see the dragon when he opened his eyes, he rolled over to look at it before getting up.
Some weeks later, noticing how much Mikey missed his action figures, Raph let him borrow the dragon so it and the wooden cat could engage in an epic superhero battle. Raph warned Mike that if the dragon did not come back in that "near-mint condition" he talked so much about, the difference would come out of his shell.
Mike returned the figurine without a scratch.
Raph let him borrow it again.
But he never felt quite satisfied unless it was in his own possession, guarding the rest of his meager belongings.
When he found out that Leo was making other carvings, and selling them, it made him furious. How dare Leo give these special gifts to strangers? How dare he make a dragon even more beautiful and detailed than Raph's own, as if the palm-sized serpent were only practice, a rough prototype to be given away for nothing?
Raph had seen the receipts. He had done the math. He knew how much the larger dragon was going to sell for.
And he had heard what Leo was planning to do with the money.
"A couch, a TV, motorcycle parts, whatever you want…"
But he doesn't want any of it. He can't be bribed, with gifts or money or promises. He can't be bought.
He doesn't want this damn artist/salesman that Leo has become. He just wants Leo, the brother who fought by his side in battles, scavenged with him in junkyards, starved with him when no food could be found.
It's not that he's opposed to his family being more comfortable, to having a wider margin between themselves and death from hunger or cold or sickness.
He just doesn't want to do it like this.
He'll gladly sell himself, to make his brothers happier. But he won't sell a brother to secure material gain for the rest of the family.
Leo is priceless, and Raph won't give him up for any amount of motorcycle parts.
Leo traces Raph's path to the dojo. He knows his brother went this way. He would know it even if the sounds of Raph punching the sandbag couldn't be heard all across the Lair.
This is one thing about Raph that didn't change while Leo was gone.
He goes in quietly. Leans against the wall by the door. Knows that Raph knows he's there, even if he doesn't choose to acknowledge him.
Give him space, Don had said.
He can't do it. He needs closeness just as much as Raph needs distance. His mind knows that he should back off, but his heart can't bear to let his brother drift away from him like this.
This is counterproductive, his mind tells him. You'll only chase him off.
This is your family, his heart replies. You can't leave them alone when they're hurting.
Even when being alone is so clearly what they want.
Yes, all right, he says, to head and heart. I'm doing this for myself. And that's okay too.
He stands a while longer, watching Raph ignore him, working out the least aggressive way to force this new confrontation.
"Raph..." he begins cautiously.
"Got nothin' to say to you," Raph grunts.
So much for that.
Leo sighs and sits on a stack of tires. The hole in the middle makes a surprisingly comfortable nest for his shell, and the incongruous image of the wooden panda fitting into the egg cup flits through his mind. "The whole point of banning the phrase damn idiot," he says, "is to get you to elaborate on why I'm being an idiot."
Raph doesn't reply. Or maybe he does, in some kind of violent Morse code, the sharp tattoo of fists against sandbag.
"What bothers you about this, Raph?"
Still no answer. Just thump, thump, against the heavy bag.
"I promise, it's safe. I'm not putting any of us in danger. Why -"
The loud wham of a double-punch cuts him off. "Why do you keep gettin' rewarded for this?"
Now it's Leo's turn to be silent.
"Story of two Turtles, Leo," Raph says, without interrupting his routine. "One o' them's a perpetual grouch, likes to jump into battle like he got a death wish, and does loads of other stupid impulsive things. 'Control your temper', they tell that Turtle. 'Find your focus. Let go of the anger.'" He kicks the bag savagely. "The other Turtle, he gets real mad this one time. Starts actin' a lot like the first Turtle. But instead of lectures, and lessons that don't help, he gets sent to another master, who can help him, and a couple months later he comes home magically cured!" A shoulder-barge followed by a palm strike. "Sound familiar, Leo?" He doesn't wait for Leo to answer. "And not only that, but you come home with this new skill that you can make money off of, and you go and get famous for it, and you are just so generous, to buy the rest of us poor fucks goodies with your money."
"Raph -"
"And once again," Raph goes on, "you're the special one that can do everything but wrong, and I'm -" he hits the bag as hard as he can "- still -" another ferocious punch "- USELESS!" A spinning kick that nearly throws the bag off its chain.
"You're not useless," Leo says softly.
Raph steps out of the sandbag's arc, making no move to stop its crazy swinging. "Name one thing I'm good for."
"You were a good leader while I was gone," Leo says. "Don told me so. He said that when you pretended to be me -"
"Great." Raph dusts his hands off and moves to the door. "I'm only worth somethin' when I'm pretendin' to be you." He looks at his hands before lowering them to his sides, and Leo is pretty sure his knuckles are bleeding. "I'm outta here."
"Raph –"
"To my room. And don't fucking follow me again."
Then he's gone, slipping from Leo's grasp, and once again his selfish stupidity has stolen everything from him.
"Donniiieeeee."
For a moment, Don doesn't react. He remains turned towards the door of the dojo, his eyes tracing Raph's departure.
A swat on his shoulder. "Donnie."
His mouth twitches, and then he turns to face his visitor.
"Donnie, I'm –" Mike trails off. "Why are you wearing Leo's mask?"
Don sighs, pulls the bandana off, hangs it over his computer speaker beside his own mask. "Never mind. What's up?"
Mike puts on his best pouting face. "I'm bored."
"Ah." Don swivels his chair back to the desk, and opens some windows on his screen. "I have a task for you."
"Ah, I have a task for you," Mike mimics. He drops the impersonation and slides into deadpan. "Wow, Don. That sounds fun."
"You will like this," Don promises.
Mike leans closer, in spite of himself.
Don brings up a map of the sewers under Central Park. It's marked with dozens of dots, dots that certainly do not exist on any official map of the tunnels.
"These are the locations of my sensors," Don says. "Pick one. Don't tell me which. Go there and make yourself obnoxious. We'll see if the system notices."
"Gotcha," Mike says.
"The system doesn't have sound in either direction," Don continues, "so keep your phone on." He rummages in a drawer, comes up with his own shell-cell, and sets it on the desk.
"Can I –" Mike starts.
"Yes, Mikey," Don says, with great benevolence. "You may pretend you are a spy."
"Sweet." Mike extracts the headset from his shell-cell, and fixes it over his ears. "Double-oh-Mikey, at your service." He makes a sweeping bow, then ninja-spies out of the Lair, humming the Mission: Impossible theme.
Don shakes his head, and opens a browser window. He can check some e-mail while he waits for Mike to try to infiltrate his security.
The lights above his computer start flashing, and he flips back to the security program.
"What is the matter?"
He almost startles at his master's sudden approach, but keeps it under control. "Only a test, Sensei. Watch."
He bends his fingers to the keyboard, and calls up a stream of data. He points to a critical phrase in the output, even though he knows it means nothing to his father. "There's our interloper." A string of commands rapidly entered, and a video window fills the screen.
The video shows Michelangelo's back, as he searches the wrong wall for the camera.
"Freeze, Agent M," Don says into the shell-cell lying open on his desk. "We have you in our sights."
"Oh yeah?" Mike's voice comes back through the phone. "Where am I, Doctor Dastard?"
"You are at the south end of the Mall," Don replies. He enters a few more commands. "You got there via the Ramble and Cherry Hill."
"Hey, come on." The Mike on the screen wags his finger, still in the wrong direction. "It's cheating if you watch."
"I didn't watch," Don says. "The new system keeps a log of minor disturbances, as well as setting off the alarms for anything major. Enough blips in sequence, and it will let us know something is moving around."
"Neat," Mike says, and Splinter also nods in approval. "So, how come I don't hear any alarms?"
"Disabled them for the test."
"Aw, come on, Donnie. That was gonna be the most fun part."
"For you." Don shares a look with Splinter.
Mike makes a small noise of hopes raised and broken. "Well, I'm here. What do you want me to do?"
"First," Don says, "see if you can find the camera."
Mike starts moving his hands over the wall.
Don rests his forehead in his palm. "Hint, it's behind you."
Mike turns and beams. "See me now?"
"Yes, Mikey."
"Secret Agent Mikey, to you."
"Okay, Secret Agent. Find the camera."
Mike commences to thoroughly search the wall. He looks back and forth, up and down. He peers between the pipes and into the mortar of the bricks. "Can't find it, bro," he says finally.
"Good," Don says. "Then no one else will either."
Mike steps back from the wall. "Anything else?"
"Yes," Don says. "I'd like to test one more thing. Would you move a little to the left for me?"
Mike sidesteps, his image moving right across the monitor.
Don glances to Master Splinter. "Watch this."
He hits a button on the keyboard. On the screen, a cloud of dust sprays out of a hidden nook in the sewer wall, coating Michelangelo with fine particles.
Mike screams.
"Donatello!" Splinter says sharply.
The screaming coming through the phone resolves into words. "Aaah, get it off, get it off, get it off –"
"Don't worry, Sensei," Don says. "It's only a test payload." He leans over the shell-cell again. "Mikey – Mikey, stop screaming. It won't hurt you."
On the monitor, Mike continues to flail around. His hands bat at his snout, trying to brush off the dust. Then he pauses, holds his fingers above his nose, and sniffs. "Is this sawdust?"
"Leo's been making a lot of it lately," Don says. He moves the mouse, clicking controls in his program. "No reason to let it go to waste."
"Dude," Mike says. "That is not funny."
"It's not supposed to be," Don replies.
No answer from the other end of the line. On the screen, Mike wipes the wood particles from his arms. His movements are sharp, angry.
"Mikey?" Don says. "Are you mad at me?"
Mike glances up. He isn't smiling. Then he goes back to trying to remove the stubborn dust from his person.
"I'm sorry," Don says. He looks again to Master Splinter, apologizing to him as well. "Come back. I'll make it up to you."
Mike glances down the tunnel. Then he turns in the opposite direction, walks out of the camera's range, and disappears.
From the shell-cell, a dull click as Mike hangs up.
For a while, Leo just sits there in the dojo, watching the bag swing. Then he sits there watching the residual swirl of dust motes disturbed by the bag's motion. And then he sits as nothing around him moves.
Eventually, he gets up and goes back to the main room, his heart heavy and his feet slow.
He finds himself sitting again on the corner of Don's desk.
"I'm not talking to him anymore," he says.
Don doesn't look up from whatever he's doing on the computer. "Hm?"
"I'm just..." He sighs. "It's pointless. It only ends in more arguing."
Don doesn't answer.
"Donnie?"
Don makes a frustrated noise - whether at him or at what's on the screen, Leo can't tell. "Look, you want to be useful? Leave Raph alone. Help Mike."
Leo blinks. "What's wrong with Mike?"
Don looks at him, finally, sadly. "You haven't noticed?"
Guilt grips Leo's guts. "No...?"
Don turns back to his work. "He's been so jumpy lately..."
Leo frowns. "No he hasn't."
"Yes, he has," Don says. "He seems okay, but it's always right under the surface. He's on the edge of panic all the time. He never really feels safe..." He looks up again. "Do you know, he's hardly been in the water since -?"
"What?" Leo searches back through his memories. Surely Mike had gone swimming in the past weeks. They all did it, a spontaneous jump-in as they walked by the pool, just for the fun of getting wet. "Really?"
Don nods.
Leo rubs his head. "You want me to... get him back in?"
"It would do him a world of good." Don looks up from his work again. "But not today. I promised him something else. And don't tell him I put you up to it."
"I won't," Leo says. He remembers a promise he made to Mike himself, and realizes he doesn't know if he can make good on it. "But while I'm thinking of it - did April give us any more money?"
Don stares at him. "Why are you thinking of that?" Immediately, he holds up a hand, stopping Leo from answering. "No, never mind. We have -"
Leo raises a hand too. "Don't tell me how much. Just yes or no."
"Yes," Don says. "And while we're exchanging inapropros information, when is this interview of yours?"
"Tomorrow," Leo says, half a second before he realizes how bad that sounds.
"What?" Don twists in his seat, to face Leo more directly. "And you're only telling me now?"
"Donnie, it's not like that." But it is. "I only found out -" That sounds even worse. "I -"
Don is looking at him with something almost like pity.
"Don..."
"Leo, don't."
He discovers his mouth is still open, waiting for the right words to tumble out. He closes it, shifts back on the desk.
"Does it make sense to you?" Don asks. His usual calm is back, his momentary irritation seeming to have vanished as quickly as it came.
Leo nods mutely.
"Then you don't have to explain," Don says. As if sensing that the words are not enough, he rests his hand on Leo's knee and squeezes reassuringly. "How many times have you trusted me, even though you didn't understand my reasoning?"
Leo considers this. Often enough. "And you're sure? About Mike?"
"Positive," Don says. He glances back at the screen. "Now go away. He's coming."
"Is -"
"Go away." Don reaches out, suddenly impatient, and virtually shoves Leo off the desk. "You were never here."
Leo stumbles under the pressure of Don's hands, and heads for the stairs.
"And take your mask!"
Leo turns, catches the strip of fabric twisting towards him, and makes himself scarce, just as Mike comes in the front door.
Don meets Mike halfway between the door and the computer. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Yeah, well, don't shoot things at me," Mike says sourly. He scratches at his arm, and sawdust snows gently to the concrete floor.
Don steers him towards the former alcove, with a light hand on his back. "I downloaded one of those games you like, and configured the computer so it will run. It's yours for the rest of the evening."
Mike smiles in spite of himself. "Really?"
They reach the desk. Don pulls the chair out for Mike, and gestures him into it. "Really." He hits a combination of keys, and the game's opening screen fills the monitor, accompanied by tinny music.
Mike sighs happily at the familiar intro. "You redeem yourself well, grasshopper."
Don relaxes. He is forgiven.
"Look at this floor." Splinter's voice comes from nowhere, addressing no one in particular. "It is very dusty. Someone ought to sweep it."
Don gets the broom. His penance is incomplete.
After dinner, Leo shuts himself in his room to finish the dragon. Tiny curving strokes to outline the scales, thin parings to create the layered effect of reptilian skin.
(Not like his own. He and his brothers have always simply had skin, without hair or scales or feathers or any of those other things Donnie's science books say vertebrates are supposed to be covered with.)
He lowers the knife. The dragon is complete, as vibrant and lifelike as any of his other creations.
He feels nothing for it.
He puts the carving on the shelf, puts the knife in his knapsack, and goes to bed.
"Michelangelo."
"Yeah Sensei."
"It is very late."
"I know. I know. One more level."
He dies eleven times before making it to the next level. Then he plays two more levels. Then he goes to bed.
"I want to see my brothers. I WANT TO SEE MY BROTHERS!"
The Utrom regarded him calmly. "You cannot see them now."
He tried to struggle, but the healing compound that encased him contained such a powerful analgesic that he couldn't even feel his limbs. Couldn't move. "Where are they? What happened to them? Are they all right?"
"They are in another wing," the Utrom told him. "You can see them later."
"Now." He rested his head back against the padded edge of the tank, tried not to give in to the numbness. "Now. Please."
"Not now. They are undergoing treatment."
"What -" He fought again, to at least sit up, to at least look like a person, and not an invalid. "What are you doing to them?"
"Relax, Leonardo." The Utrom tended to the tubes snaking into the tank, tubes that controlled the composition of the healing gel. "We are caring for them, just as you would."
A scream echoed down the white hallway outside his room.
Leo pitches upright in bed, his own scream ringing from the concrete walls.
Within seconds, the light snaps on, and Raph is there, the harsh light glinting off his sai.
Then the rest of his family is there too, alive and unhurt and worried about him.
There had been no scream. The Utroms had made him rest. Later, they had brought him a floating video screen, its display divided into four quarters.
Raph. Don. Mike. Splinter.
He had seen them, talked to them, known they were all right.
Then he had turned his head to the side, and said softly to the attendant: "Take it away."
He hadn't talked to his family again for a week.
Every morning the Utroms would offer him the screen, tell him his family was asking about him. Every morning he would refuse, and every morning they would tactfully drop the subject for another twenty-four hours.
Then Don had gotten well enough to climb out of the healing bath, and he had come to Leo's door, and he hadn't taken no for an answer.
"Leo?" Don leans over him, concern etching his face. "Leo, talk to me."
"I don't want to talk to them."
Memory and nightmare blur in his mind, confusing him.
"I'm sorry." He kicks off the blankets, pushes Don back. Moves brothers and father out of his way as he circles the room, snatching up knapsack, dragon, bandana, weapons. "I'm sorry."
Then he's gone, leaving the Lair, searching for a place where he doesn't have to face his failure, where the only one he needs to apologize to is himself.