Prepare yourselves, dear readers. There will be blood.
Chapter 35: Fire and Moonlight
His heart was pounding hard against his chest, the quick, steady rhythm that erupted in his ears, telling him that yes indeed, he was still alive. But this man that stood before him, like a wraith cloaked within the shadows, that cold stone look upon his face, had every intention of putting an end to him, of stamping him out of existence, extinguished like a candle's flame.
He breathed deeply, ears pinned flat against his skull, and channeled in that flitting nervous energy, all the flowing hate that radiated from the enemy, and came to terms with it. He closed his eyes and let it seep through, drawing it in like cool water before breathing it out in one long exhale, seeping from his every pore. He took his battle stance.
But Bishop stood silent and unmoving, seething with blackened disgust and hatred for the creature that stood before him. The rat. That ugly, disgusting freak that continued to elude him time and time again. But it was not the rat that he had wanted, it was his sons, the turtles. They were warriors, tough and hardy. Their DNA would be a priceless addition to his genetically improved army of clones. Perfect, just as the crocodile had proven to be. Nothing like the rat, putrid, weak and feeble. This would not do.
His look of disgust only deepened, traced within the hardened lines of his face, when a voice poured over his headset, unbeknownst to the rat who struck a battle stance before him.
The containment chambers had been breached.
He had failed.
The rat waited patiently for him to make the first move, and he knew in the back of his mind that he should not give in to such temptation. Though the rat was weak, it could still prove to be a formidable opponent. But the rage bubbling inside of him was building into a suffocating pressure, telling him to lash out, to make the rat pay for everything he had done, all the crippling losses he had made him suffer. The pressure of it all was weighing down on him, chipping away at his placid exterior until it broke like a crack in a porcelain dam, letting all that rage and frustration flow out in one great rushing torrent that manifested into a howling war cry.
Bishop charged, but the rat was ready.
When his rash act of fury got the better of him, Bishop took the first swing, a graceless backhand punch that landed him nowhere and resolved itself in a quick jab in the abdomen, sending him backward a step in surprise.
With the turtles, he never had to worry about this, he never had taken it into consideration. They always attacked first. They always made rash decisions. Never before had he been so exposed, so vulnerable, forced to strike out and land into nothing as the rat took on the defense. He was the defense, always the defense, smiling wryly as each clumsy attack would miss him by inches to be returned tenfold, and he would always win.
But with the rat, things were different. He tried a kick to the face, his ankle was caught in one hand and twisted, nearly throwing him of balance and onto the floor. Adjusting his black glasses, he tried again, a fruitless attempt to grasp the rat's shoulders and throw him to the ground as he had that foolish man that had attacked him earlier with the baseball bat. But again, he was foiled, nearly brought to his knees by a blow from its walking staff.
And his anger only deepened like a coursing river. He never lost.
Striking out again with a very well blocked punch, he stared deep into the rat's glassy blackened eyes and saw no fire of anger burning there, only hurt, sorrow, pride, fear.
He could work with that.
Shaking loose his frustrations, Bishop's face hardened and cracked again into a joyless smile. He had found his enemy's only weakness, his only chance at victory.
"What is it rat, with you and your family constantly eluding me? You do know that I will hunt you like the animals you are until your dying days?"
The finality of the words rang through the air and hung there for a moment, seemingly incapable of penetrating the rat who simply stood there, silent and unwavering, blocking every one of his attacks.
"You don't think I will find you again? I need the turtles, and I will not stop until every one of them is lying cold and dead on my dissection table."
Part of that was a lie, or, a twist of the truth. Killing the turtles would get him nothing. Yet it was an effective sharp-edged blade to crack the rat's stoic exterior.
"You do not understand the quality of life, Agent Bishop" the rat said quietly, blocking another kick with the end of his walking stick, and swinging it just so, knocking the agent off balance enough for him to land upon one knee.
He glared viciously back at the rat, the fire within feeding upon his increasing rage, hidden behind those darkened glasses.
"I did" he spat through clenched teeth "once."
And he lept up quickly to attack again, strikes coming with more speed, more ferocity, and though not a single blow managed to break through the rat's defenses, the force delivered behind each block had driven him backward a considerable distance. Now they were away from the holding chamber, hand-to-hand within the winding halls. Bishop smirked as he watched fatigue settle down to mingle with the fear dwelling behind the old rat's eyes.
"Aliens, mutants, freaks," he said viciously "you're all the same. Your very lives defy the laws of nature. Your existence is a plague on humanity, an infestation."
The battle was heating, strikes and blocks becoming almost rhythmic to the sound of their beating hearts, blood laced thickly with adrenaline coursing through their veins. They were almost to the entrance and Bishop's fierce smile widened slightly. The rat was growing tired, he could see it in his eyes.
"I see nothing natural about what you have done" the rat said solemnly, effectively blocking yet another ferocious roundhouse kick, but taking several steps backward in doing so.
Bishop's hardened smile turned into a vicious grin. "I protect the earth from this disease, rat, and I put each of you freaks to good use, to benefit humanity. The discoveries I have made dissecting alien and mutant bodies have allowed me to accomplish the impossible."
"Increased stamina."
He kicked. Blocked.
"Superhuman strength."
Another punch. Blocked.
"Even put a stopper on Death."
The last phrase came as a devilish hiss as he lashed out one last time, doling out a ruthless kick that connected, sending the rat skidding over backwards across the concrete floor.
Dusting himself off and regaining his stone-cold stoic composure, Bishop smirked at the ruin of his enemy, decimated to a mere pile on the floor, though it was still not enough to take him down.
The old rat's weathered hand reached out and fumbled across the hard stone floor in search of his walking stick, thrown from his grasp on impact. He had heard the hollow sound as the wood had clattered onto the ground nearby. It must be close.
His hand reached out into the darkness and his wiry fingertips brushed against wood, though nothing like the rough and knotty wood of the walking stick. This instead was smooth and worn. The touch had brought back something familiar in him, a flood of memories that washed over his consciousness as he grasped the hilt of his son's treasured sword. How it had gotten there was a mystery to him, but the sacred weapon felt kind and sharp against his hand. He caressed the hilt one last time before taking it up in his paw and standing to face him once again.
He could not fail.
His son's lives lay in the balance.
Bishop had seemed to grow impatient as he stood watching over him, a mere silhouette in the darkness.
"You tire, rat" he seethed through his teeth as he watched the rat stand again, something in his hand glittering silver in the moonlight that poured through the broken main entrance door. A sword. Bishop nearly laughed to himself.
"You cannot stop me, rat" he sneered "No matter how hard you strike me down, I will never rest until I have found you again. I will not rest until I have each one of you strapped to my dissection tables."
His words had finally seemed to have made the desired effect because not only did the rat look worn, but a flitting expression of anger had swept across his face. There it lingered for only a moment before washing away with the tides, though its fiery afterglow never faded from his eyes.
The rat lifted the sword and regained his battle stance, its lethal blade pointed straight to his enemy's heart, and then, he charged.
At the sight of his oncoming foe, Bishop grinned at this twist of his good fortune. The tables had turned and he found himself back in his element once again.
As the rat swung the blade, he ducked sideways to avoid its cutting edge kissing the tender flesh of his throat. The metal sang through the air, stopping just short, hovering there for only a moment, and then posed for another attack.
The rat struck again and again with the katana, swinging close and nearly striking with each passing cut in a nearly rhythmic flow of movement, the sound of steel slicing though the air.
And each time, Bishop ducked, turned, feigned, blocked every oncoming strike until he could see the weariness taking hold of his enemy's eyes, settling hard into his ancient features until every swing of the sword told tales of his sorrow, his fear, his failure.
And when he saw this, he made his move, ducking beneath the silver arch of that bloodthirsty blade and dove for the vulnerable flesh, the weakest spot, delivering a debilitating punch.
In mid-swing, the old rat staggered backward at the pain exploding through his abdomen, a stark and twisting fire that told of the things to come.
If he was to die tonight, he would take his enemy with him.
It was the only way he could protect his sons.
He drew his eyes into a vicious, focused glare and swung the sword, moving with the speed of silver spirits, faster than the rushing wind. He leapt into the air despite the pain and slashed through the tender flesh, landing in a crouch beyond the enemy, sword drawn behind him, its blade now flecked with blood.
Bishop stood stock still, unmoving from the spot where he stood, hearing the rat's soft landing behind him, the sting of the blade that had kissed his flesh. The black glasses cracked and broke from his face, landing with a soft clatter at his feet, exposing eyes, human eyes behind the demonic blackness. A thin trickle of blood ran down his cheek from the slash that was left behind.
And when he felt that warm, life-giving blood run smoothly down his face, he did not falter, he did not reach to touch it. Instead, that familiar cold smirk spread thickly across his face. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his lethal weapon.
"Enough of this foolishness!" he roared, spinning on his heels in one swift movement, holding the laser gun in the palm of his hand, aiming at the rat and firing.
It all happened before the blink of an eye, the laser's red beam piercing through the air to meet the rat with bewildered eyes. The beam connected with flesh, burrowing deep between the shoulder bone and muscle, cutting straight through him to the other side, upward into the bleeding tissues and bone.
Yet the rat remained unfazed. There he stood like a boulder against a river's current, blood running black in the filtered moonlight of this haunted place, so near the limbless bodies of his sons' latest victims. He did not stumble or waver, only gripped the sword tighter in his hand, one thousand fires burning behind his eyes.
He swung his sword, tip silver gleaming in the moonlight, its vicious point thirsting for yet another taste of blood.
He could see his eyes now, the emotion they betrayed. Gone was that cold and barren exterior. Now, he could see the rage, the frustration, the hot, vehement passion that lingered there with nowhere left to hide.
Within those eyes, he saw victory. Within those eyes, he saw his demise.
They circled each other now, stalked like predator and prey, though neither could tell which, like two lions hunting in the dark, calling for each other's blood.
Bishop kept his gun raised, pointed at the old rat's head. When his hand moved quickly downward, the rat foresaw his next attack. The red beam was born again, aiming for the abdomen, though the rat flipped quickly out of reach and light faded into dark once again.
Landing soundlessly on the concrete floor, the rat flipped again, turning himself in the air and swinging the katana in another swift arch of silver bent on decapitation.
Bishop quickly ducked out of the way, bending backward to narrowly escape his fate.
The blood on the old rat's shoulder ran thick and cold, warm rivers of stabbing pain that were erased from his memory in the heat of the fight.
Defeat was not an option. Pain was numbed by fear.
He had expected the last strike to miss, narrowly sweeping over his enemy's now defenseless body. He landed softly on the ground behind him and turned the katana in his hand before the man could straighten, thrusting its point deep into the enemy's back.
And the blade plunged through bone and flesh, singing a death song into the dark man's weeping arteries. He fell to his knees, breath escaping him in soft, deepened thrusts.
"You cannot defeat me, rat" he heaved, clutching feebly at the sword's tip that protruding through his chest, the thick stream of blood that erupted there, coating his hands and spilling onto the floor.
"I am a god!"
The last four words rang through the hollow quiet and hung there. In response, Splinter grasped his son's katana, buried so deep into his enemy, only the hilt was left behind, and reminded him of the mortal sensation of pain.
Like sliding the sword from a living sheath, he drew it backward, drawing a trail of blood that hung thickly in the air and spattered like living rain upon the floor.
And Bishop laughed as the blood wept from his gruesome wound, a deep, hearty cackle that rang though the silence and shattered it to one million sharp little pieces, edged and ready to pierce.
But the laughter ceased with a snap, a slight hitch of the dying man's breath as his blood ran cold upon the floor.
"I cannot die" he said soberly, all traces of smirk or smile erased from his pale, hardened face.
And then, he fell, face first onto the concrete without a single word, drowning in a black pool of moonlit blood.
When he heard the last rattle of death seep from his enemy's mouth like one long exhale, the rat gazed down at his son's blood-covered katana. He closed his eyes, ears flattened against his skull, and said his silent prayer.
My sons, you are safe.
And then he let the pain erupt, pulsing through his shoulder. He reached a shaking paw to the gash and knew the blood would leave him soon.
Clutching his mortal wound, the rat held fast onto his son's bloodied sword and staggered toward the moonlight where another glint of silver winked at him like a star in velvet skies. He took up the second katana, brothers united once again, one cloaked in blood, the other silver and pristine, and let his heart guide the way through the beckoning cold of snow to where Leonardo lay.
One last chapter and an epilogue to go, which will be posted simultaneously in another week or so. Please bare with me, for the ending will be bittersweet.
It is a dark story, and I do hope that I have not taken you down a path you did not want to travel.
But thank you, dear readers, for traveling it with me.
Much love,
Willowfly