Just to let y'all know, I'm probably gonna change posting day to Fridays.
Enjoy!
When Slash opened his eyes next, he had to take a moment to figure out where he was, and why everything hurt.
His first instinct, when he realized he wasn't at the Mutanimals' hideout, was to push himself to sit upright.
That proved a mistake, one that cost him immense pain coursing through both his arms－ searing hot pain in the right, and straining, biting pain in the left.
He hissed and tucked his arms close to his half-eaten plastron, or at least as close as his right arm would go.
Right. He'd managed to temporarily lose the use of both his arms. At least he really hoped it was temporary.
After making a mental note to keep his upper body still, Slash took a good look at the room around him.
The room was small, a single-person apartment that had seen better days, but it would serve as shelter all the same. Dust and cobwebs littering the place said the apartment had not had a tenant in some time, but the sound of people moving below them told him the same couldn't be said for the entire complex.
They would have to be careful.
A large window took up the entire back wall, but if he went to the window and looked down, he would be able to see that no one would look in at them from there, the apartment being many stories in the air.
Squares of faded paint marked where pictures had once hung, but the place had since been stripped of all decoration.
They couldn't risk turning on the lights for fear of being discovered, so only the TV was on, turned to the news and set on almost inaudible volume.
In front of the TV, on a couch covered in a sheet to protect it from the light and dust, Michelangelo slept with one arm dangling off the edge.
The young turtle was speckled with cuts and bruises, but otherwise had no major injury.
Which was more than Slash could say for himself, he thought as he glared at his useless limbs.
The one that had been eaten away had mostly scabbed, but a gooey yellowish substance had started to form around the outside. Slash didn't take this as a good sign, but Michelangelo had already used all of his ointment on Slash, and the apartment's bathroom was bare of anything helpful.
The other one was worse.
Even if it wasn't an open wound, it was ugly and discolored and downright uncomfortable to look at. The joint would have to be reset.
Slash glanced at Michelangelo to make sure the young turtle was still sleeping.
Mikey was, although the sun was setting over the horizon and casting bright rays into the apartment, signaling that it had been almost a full day since they'd found the apartment and gone to sleep.
Slash supposed Michelangelo was tired after fighting for so long and gaining various wounds.
Slash certainly was.
And yet he had woken up earlier.
Slash dismissed the matter and focused on his arm.
He grabbed the dislocated arm's wrist in his opposite hand and held his breath.
Be strong, he told himself, and no matter what, he must not alert the neighbors to his presence.
Slash pulled his wrist.
The same sickening pop jarred his body, and he flopped against the couch's armrest as white dots danced over his vision. The floor tilted, threatening to tip him over.
For a second, he was convinced he'd just dislocated it at a different angle, until he brought himself to look at it through all the dots.
It looked better. It was no longer horribly deformed as it had been, although still very swollen.
Slash felt worse. The sudden feverish feeling had returned again. His elbow reminded him with every heartbeat how sore it was.
He took some shaky breaths to steady himself and slid down the couch's side until he was flat on the floor again. He breathed steadier, slower, in, out, in out.
Eventually, he allowed sleep to come again to distract him through the worst of the pain.
When he awoke again, Michelangelo was awake, too, blinking blearily on the couch. He must have just gotten up, because his eyes were very red.
"'Mornin'," He slurred, though one glance through the window could tell Slash it was the middle of the night.
"How are you?" Slash asked.
"'M'tired," Michelangelo said, despite having slept for who knows how long now, "and hungry."
The latter was more understandable.
Mikey's eyes settled on the news. "Whazzat?"
Slash turned around.
"Reports have been coming from all over the city, saying various loved ones have spontaneously gone missing," the reporter said. "Police and scientists alike are baffled. There has never been such a sudden spike in suspected kidnapping cases on record. People are going missing left and right, and there is no known common link between those who have gone missing. People are beginning to speculate that this is connected to the strange fog all over town, which has been analyzed and deemed chemically harmless. Some theorize that the fog was intentionally dispersed to cover up these suspected kidnappings."
"The Kraang?" Slash wondered.
"It doesn't really seem their style," Mikey said. "They're usually all, 'zap, zap, pew pew, rawr! Imma mutate all you lowly humans!"
"Yeah, they're usually a lot louder about their plans," Slash agreed. "But if not them, then who?"
Mikey gave an unhelpful shrug.
Slash sighed and shook his head.
Michelangelo started at the nonverbal response like he'd been struck.
Slash raised a brow at him. It wasn't as if Slash had responded to his lack of help with anything violent or even remotely extreme. An agitated sigh could hardly be considered harsh.
Slash glanced around the room for something else that could have caused the small turtle's reaction, but came up with nothing. His eyes settled on Michelangelo again, and the orange-clad turtle averted his gaze upon Slash's scrutiny.
Michelangelo's stomach rumbled, and he lowered his hand to his belly. He glanced sidelong at Slash. "Up to pizza?"
"From where?"
"Antonio's, of course."
Slash pursed his lips. Had Michelangelo completely forgotten the talk of an unknown enemy kidnapping people left and right? Not to mention the fog down below.
Slash jumped. He had completely forgotten about the fog. He hadn't been keeping track of where it was; for all they knew, it could be right below them, waiting to swallow them in only a few minutes.
Slash stood and speed walked to the window, trying to ignore the room's spin. He pressed his forehead to the glass and looked down alongside the base of the apartment.
It was hard to tell for sure from this height, trying to gauge a semitransparent substance, but judging from the height of the streetlamps down below, the gas had settled to waist depth. Most likely, it had dispersed enough outward that it was no longer being pushed up, and would continue to sink until they could walk the streets again.
At least they had that going for them.
Slash considered Michelangelo's proposition. On one hand, it was a risky move. The Kraang, the gas, and the unknown enemy lurked out there, and they had no means of help should they run into trouble.
Slash subconsciously ran a hand over his weakened plastron. Just one well-aimed blow. That was all it would take to do him in.
On the other hand, they needed food. Long-abandoned apartments didn't come with much of a selection, unless Slash considered spiders and dust bunnies sustenance. Which he did not.
As uneasy as the prospect of going out there without the reliable armor of a healthy shell made him, Slash was hungry, too. He'd just been through a long battle, and hadn't eaten in about a day and a half. They needed to heal. They needed food.
Slash growled. He wasn't about to sit around and waste away while their enemies progressed right under their noses.
He wasn't about to keep himself on the sideline.
"Alright, I'm in." He looked at Mikey. "Call ahead, but don't give them this address. We'll go someplace nearby to pick it up."
Michelangelo patted his belt, and shrugged. "Uh…" He shrunk half into his shell, ready to hide away from everyone.
"Right."
Mikey spotted a landline phone hanging on the wall. "Oh!" He approached it.
"Wait. Too risky."
"Then what do we do?"
"We'll find a payphone somewhere."
"Aren't they all covered in clouds?"
"I just checked out the window," Slash said. "They're low enough the phones will be uncovered."
Michelangelo stretched. "Alright then. I'll swing by and get it. You stay here and chill out. Relax. What kind of toppings do you like?"
"I'm not staying here!"
Slash caught it when Michelangelo's arms darted to both of Slash's arms, then met his gaze again. He growled.
Michelangelo shrunk into his shell again, looking up at Slash with pleading eyes like the towering turtle would strike him down. Like Slash hated every cell of his being.
Which, Slash realized, wouldn't be an unfounded assumption. He had, after all, nearly killed Michelangelo upon first being mutated.
When Slash had said the mutagen warped his brain, he hadn't been lying, but perhaps not in the way others expected.
The mutagen had given him a greater power of choice. More power to think, more power to do, more power to act. Power to finally stand up to those who had wronged him. And boy, did he have a score to settle with Michelangelo.
As a normal turtle, he hadn't had any ability to stop toddler Michelangelo from his various shenannigans－ doodling on his shell, taunting him with food just out of his reach, dressing him up like a fairy－nothing that merited what Slash had done to him in return, Slash realized too late, but it was enough for the now larger and stronger turtle to build up quite a bit of resentment.
But Michelangelo was Raphael's brother. And as much of that resentment still lingered, Slash would stick with Michelangelo now.
Not because Slash needed anyone. If someone were to ask him, he'd say he could still take care of himself and fight! But because Mikey was Raphael's brother. And although Slash often pondered what it was Raph saw in these dorks, he would not let Raph down again.
But here he was, Michelangelo cowering before him.
"We have to stay together," Slash explained. "We can't afford to split up now."
"I hate to break it to you, but uh, you're not exactly looking so well, dude."
Slash's fists clenched by his sides. "It's only a pizza run. I can handle it."
Michelangelo hesitated, but nodded.
Good. The little dork wasn't going to get snatched on his watch.
Slash walked to the door and put his ear against it. The hallway sounded still, so he cracked it open, double-checked, and stepped out.
The hall was simple: four numbered apartment doors led out into a bicolor hallway, the one end of which led to an interior staircase and an elevator beside of it, the other end marked EXIT with a heavy door opening into the fire escape.
Michelangelo dashed to the fire escape and held the door for him, then the two of them descended the escape until they were low enough to leap across the street onto the buildings on the other side of the alley.
It took a few minutes of walking, but eventually Slash found a payphone embedded into the concrete on the side of a corner store, right next to a bus stop and lamppost.
Slash checked the vicinity to make sure they had enough time to make a call before someone walked in on them.
Thankfully, people still seemed wary of the gas covering the streets like swampwater. Very few ventured out of their houses, and those who did stayed to the main streets, making sure they were in plain view.
"Coast is clear," Slash said. He leapt onto the bus stop's roof.
Michelangelo slid halfway down the lamppost like a fire pole and reached out to grab the phone.
"The phone!"
Mikey raised a brow at him. "Yeah, that's what we're here for?"
"Can you call your brothers?"
Michelangelo's eyes grew wide. He turned to the phone's pad, and his finger hovered over the numbers.
"What are you waiting for?"
Mikey said nothing.
"You don't know their numbers, do you?"
Mikey kept staring at the keypad. He shook his head.
Slash groaned. "How could you not?"
"I usually have their contacts saved!"
"Did you not think this could happen? Did they not have you memorize at least one of them?"
Even facing away, Slash could tell from Michelangelo's body language that he was supposed to have memorized them. He sighed. "Just order the pizzas."
Michelangelo did exactly that, and Slash tried to ignore the tremor in his voice when he did so.
The two then went back onto the roof to wait for the delivery guy.
Michelangelo fished some change out of his belt and counted it. "I only have enough for this order."
"The lair will still be filled with gas," Slash thought aloud. "It's trapped down there, so even when it's died down everywhere else, it'll still linger down there."
"What about your place?" Mikey asked.
Slash shook his head. "It's too far to walk, and we don't have a ride."
"What happened to the Stealth Bike?"
"I had to leave it. 'Sides, it's probably totaled. A missile hit it."
Mikey smiled. "It's not done yet, if Donnie has anything to say about it. He can fix anything." His smile slipped, and he stared off into the distance.
Slash paced the roof, although every step sent a little jolt through his no longer dislocated elbow.
Michelangelo reclined against a vent on the roof, and seemed ready to fall asleep again, despite how many hours of rest he'd just woken up from.
The delivery bike zoomed into view and stopped next to the bus stop some time later. The guy pulled the ordered stack of pizzas from the back of his bike, then looked around, uncertain of where to put them.
Mikey folded all the dollar bills into a neat stack and deftly tossed them to rest atop the bus stop's bench.
The delivery guy saw the movement, picked up the bills and counted them, shrugged, and left the pizzas in their place. He mounted his bike and zoomed away.
Mikey fetched the pizzas and went back to join Slash on the roof.
Slash regretted letting Mikey choose all the toppings－ the freckled turtle proved to have the weirdest taste in combinations.
All the same, the aroma drifting up from the boxes was heavenly to someone who hadn't eaten in some time. As much as Slash wanted to stop and eat right there, this was not the time or place.
"We're too exposed out here. Let's go back to the apartment to eat."
They left for the said building.
The delivery guy zoomed past them on his route to his next delivery. His bike quickly passed their earshot and sight.
He ducked into an alleyway where his next delivery was to be dropped off.
He dismounted his bike, read the order, and went to pull it off the back of his bike.
A pair of strong hands closed around his mouth. He tried to scream, but the hands muffled the sound.
He kicked and thrashed and punched, but all efforts proved futile as he was dragged out of sight and into the shadows.
Splinter walked into the dining room to find Raphael sitting at the table, staring into the tank like Leo would suddenly drop dead if he so much as blinked.
Splinter knew too much about how his sons got when someone was hurt to assume Raphael had been getting a healthy amount of food or sleep, and to ask if Donatello had been taking proper care of himself would have been downright laughable.
Splinter walked up behind Raph and put a hand on his shoulder. "You need rest, my son. I will watch over Leonardo."
Raph swatted Splinter's hand away. "M'fine."
Splinter sighed. Raphael's tone said the matter was non-negotiable.
"If you get tired, let the O'Neils or myself know to switch out with you." Something told him Raph wouldn't jump to that offer anytime soon, but Splinter felt it necessary to include someone other than himself as an option, especially when Raph was still mad at him.
"I'm not tired."
So much for that.
Splinter left Raph in peace and crossed the hall to the living room, where Mr. O'Neil had prepared a kettle of tea on the coffee table and was sipping from a cup, reclining on the couch and watching flames crackle in the fireplace.
Mr. O'Neil turned when he heard Splinter enter, and gestured to the kettle.
"My thanks," Splinter said, helping himself to a cup.
Mr. O'Neil nodded. He considered something, then half-whispered, "How is everyone adjusting?"
His lowered voice alerted Splinter at once that he'd heard the exchange between him and Raphael. Not that the rift between them was any secret; Raph hadn't said one remotely friendly thing to him since they'd left the city.
He shook his head in reply.
The front door opened, and through the living room doorway, the two could see Donatello make his way from the hallway entrance to the dining room table.
"Hey. You should get some rest," Donnie said.
"Same thing I told you," Raph replied.
"I said I would as soon as I was done with my next task."
"Which has been going on for how many hours?"
"Still one task. My point still stands."
Raph kept his voice even, yet it had a chill to it. "I'll get some rest after you do, you hypocrite."
Donnie took a deep breath and left it at that. He turned and retraced his path to the front door.
"Wait." Splinter stood and ducked into the kitchen before returning and handing Donatello a protein bar.
It was no sit-down meal, by any means, but Donnie was likely to eat it if it meant not interrupting his work to go elsewhere to eat. It was better than nothing.
Splinter went back into the living room and sat down in the armchair beside the couch Mr. O'Neil had claimed.
"They really aren't doing well, are they?" Kirby murmured.
Splinter, knowing Raph was trained to still be able to hear Kirby at his volume, lowered his own voice even more when he said, "No. I fear they may become ill if they continue on this path."
Kirby mimicked his volume. "What are you going to do?"
"I do not know. When my sons are disheartened, they are stubbornly so."
Mr. O'Neil gave a humorless chuckle. "I know a thing or two about raising a stubborn child."
"I do not doubt that." Splinter clutched his teacup tighter. "Yes, my sons have become quite despondent. They neglect their own needs as if to suffer with those they cannot help." He raised the teacup to his mouth. "But in doing so, they lessen their own chances to be able to do anything should the opportunity arise." He sipped the tea, then lowered the cup and tapped its side, his nail making little clicking sounds as it came into contact with the ceramic. "With them being so forlorn, I… question whether I made the right choice."
Kirby pursed his lips. "You think you should have let them fight?"
"I… I am not sure."
Mr. O'Neil stood. "Would you like to go for a walk? I've been cooped up in this house all day."
Kirby's question took Splinter off-guard, but some fresh air sounded like a good idea.
He stood in response, and Kirby set his tea aside and followed.
They walked out the door and towards the edge of the property.
Mr. O'Neil walked the edge line of the land, Splinter accompanying him.
It was nice enough, being bordered on one side by a forest and having all the branches hanging above. It still provided the fresh forest smell and woodsy feel.
Kirby considered the house from afar. "You know, my wife and April and I used to come here every year. It was a lot of fun, just the three of us; I have a lot of fond memories from this place."
"That sounds wonderful."
"It was." He smiled, a distant look in his eye. "I could show you where the best picnic spots were, or where April would bring us to play monkey in the middle－she'd always make me start out as the monkey." His smile faded. "I'm not sure if I could show you that now without getting sentimental, but I still remember exactly where those places are."
"I believe you."
"April was so happy playing with the two of us." Kirby's expression grew dark. "But then the Kraang attacked and tried to take April away. I scooped her up and fled, but I had to leave my love behind to save our daughter." He collected himself. "April was in shambles for the weeks to follow. She'd always wait by the window every day my love was supposed to get home from work, and-" his voice broke and he trailed off. "She'd always ask when Mommy was coming home. When I saw the look on her face, I questioned for weeks whether I'd made the right choice."
"But you saved your daughter. That is what your wife would have wanted." The irony of Splinter saying so was not lost on him.
"That is what she wanted," Kirby confirmed. "She told me so in the few seconds we had to plan an escape. Yet I couldn't help blaming myself for not saving her, too. But she would have been furious, if I had put April on the line. I should be grateful just to have my sweet baby girl alive and well."
Quiet fell between them. Kirby kicked a rock lying on the ground and watched it roll over the grass.
"Guilt is a horrible thing. I've spent so many years consumed by something that I didn't do. It happened to me. And that's the thing, realizing you've done nothing wrong when something happens to you－when someone else is the one who intended harm all along. Why is it so hard to tell yourself you meant well?" He pursed his lips. "But I chose what would keep April safe. It wouldn't have been wrong in my love's eyes, just in mine. Don't let your conscience lie to you."
Splinter hummed.
Kirby glanced sidelong at him. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to intrude on your-"
"No, no. It is quite alright. You have some interesting points. It is just that I…" he chuckled. "It has been a while since I've been on the receiving end of one of these talks."
Mr. O'Neil snorted. "Well, I hope it's been of some use; April's so grown up now, it's been a while since I've had to give one."
"I believe it has. Thank you."
"Mhm."
They had made a lap around the clearing at this point, and returned inside.
The music that floated from the living room told them someone was watching a horror film, and out of the corners of their eyes, they saw Casey lounging in the armchair as they passed.
Mr. O'Neil made his way upstairs, and Splinter glanced into the dining room in (low) hopes that Raphael had changed places with someone.
Instead, he found his second eldest son slumped in the chair, chin fallen to his chest and snoring softly.
Splinter's heart ached. He wondered if Raph's brothers had often found him like this the first time he'd spent days watching over Leo's helpless form.
Raph would wake soon if left be. His neck would soon stiffen and ache under his drooping head, and he wouldn't be able to rest long with that discomfort.
Splinter knew Raph would be furious with him if he tried to take care of him, and could possibly distance them more.
He also knew that Raph wouldn't be keen on falling asleep again any time soon while Leo was still in this fragile state.
Parental instincts won out, and Splinter carefully scooped Raphael up in his arms and carried him towards the living room.
Splinter had a good guess of Raphael's weight before the Kraang plot, from sparring with him in training. Carrying his son now, he realized either his guess was off, or his son had lost an alarming amount of weight for the short time they'd been there.
He hoped it was the former.
Carrying his child in his arms brought him back to when the turtles stood no taller than his knee, which was probably the last time he'd carried the red-clad turtle. Splinter had thought that his situation then, having to scavenge for food in the time the baby turtles were asleep, was bad.
What he wouldn't give now to spend a day with only those problems.
As he neared the living room, it occurred to him that Casey would likely find his treatment of Raphael hilarious, and that as Raph's closest companion, Casey would have no trouble teasing him for it.
Splinter resigned himself to accept whatever profanity Raph threw his way after Casey taunted him.
When Splinter reached the living room, however, Casey looked up and saw Raph, and his expression became sympathetic.
Casey reached over to the couch and positioned a pillow against the armrest.
Splinter set Raphael down with his head on the said pillow, and gently arranged his limbs into a comfortable position.
Casey turned the volume down and continued watching as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Splinter gave a nod of thanks and left to take watch over Leonardo.
He realized that it was close to feeding time and retrieved a meal from the refrigerator, which Donatello had pre-arranged to ensure that Leo got a balance of all his needed vitamins.
Splinter walked to Leo's tank and dropped a few chopped-up vegetables in.
The little turtle left the water to snatch the meal from his basking rock.
At least one of his sons was still taking care of himself.