Staggered
When the overhead light clicked on, Sharra swallowed a gasp then couldn't quite remember the proper rhythm for actually breathing again.
She had observed the fighting on the rooftops through the nearby building's security cameras. And some of what she'd witnessed had looked... odd. But it was hard to make out exactly what was off with all the swirling snow and fast movements.
Examining the intended victim of the Foot Clan up close however was deeply shocking and incredibly surreal. For one thing, he was green.
He definitely isn't human, unless that's an ultra real-looking silicone costume. And who wears a costume out in a blizzard?
For half a heartbeat, Sharra second-guessed her decision to invite him into her sanctuary. Crammed in her small entryway, he seemed massive, and far stranger than from the anonymous safety of her computer monitor.
He's– He's an anthropomorphic turtle. With hands the size of my face! He could snap my neck with just one.
And he was smeared with splotches of blood.
Sharra shivered. Without a doubt, he was dangerous. He took down multiple trained ninjas in the blink of an eye during the battle, but now he slumped motionless at her feet. He didn't try to rise from the floor. In fact, he shrank away from her when she turned on the light.
Those who glimpse him probably either scream or turn on him... or both.
With that in mind, he no longer seemed so imposing. His posture read as more resigned or frightened.
He's an outcast. Like me.
Sharra drew a deep steadying breath and knelt beside him. She silenced a moan as her thighs and back protested the movement, horribly bruised from where he'd knocked her down.
Ignoring their grumbling, she hesitated only a moment before laying a hand on the turtle's arm. Dense muscles and ropey tendons tightened under her gloved palm, proving once and for all he wasn't wearing a disguise. Otherwise, he didn't move.
Ten long seconds passed before he shifted, peeking up at her through one eye behind a slightly hunched shoulder. The pose was so childlike Sharra fought to suppress a smile.
He really is kind of cute with his bright orange mask and round cheeks... if you look past the blood.
The turtle finally raised his head, his timid peek becoming an open stare.
Sharra struggled to retain her composure. Such intense scrutiny unnerved her. Mostly she strove to be invisible.
But, turnabout's fair play.
She stared bravely right back at him and got caught in his gaze.
He's got the most unbelievable eyes.
A blazing blue of the sort only a cloudless summer sky could deliver.
Light brown scales dotted the green of his face. A pale gold armor plating covered his front, crossed by a belt. Several different sized pouches and two pairs of martial arts weaponry hung from it. And his shell was in perfect proportion to his body.
Sharra flushed when she realized he wasn't wearing any clothes.
Protective pads encased his knees and elbows. A pair of oddly shaped leather boots clung tightly to his calves. Otherwise, there wasn't a stitch of cloth on him. Not even any gloves on his three-fingered hands.
The silence stretched on and she squirmed. Now that they were technically safe, neither of them knew what to do next.
I gotta make the first move or we're gonna freeze to death out here in the hall.
She held out her hand.
"Hi, I'm Sharra."
The turtle glanced from her palm to her face several times in confusion before he hesitantly straightened and took her fingers in a delicate grip to shake—as if she might be fragile.
"Michelangelo. Call me Mikey."
His voice radiated warmth—completely unlike his hand. It was so cold it burned through her glove.
"Shit!"
Sharra snatched her hand away from the ice-cold appendage. Then cursed again mentally when he flinched at her sudden profanity and recoiled into his former crouch.
"Sorry," he murmured, staring at the floor. "I won't hurt you again. I didn't mean to before. I promise."
"No," she reassured him, somewhat flustered herself. "I didn't think you would. It's just, well, your hand is freezing. What were you doing out in this weather without a coat?"
His head jerked up at the gentle scolding.
"I had a coat," he objected almost automatically, "but- Wait... You aren't afraid of me?" His expression was puzzled and sad; reflecting an aching kind of loneliness.
Ummm... yes. Absolutely.
Michelangelo was, quite frankly, odder than she previously imagined. She almost closed the door on him when he bared his teeth at her in that terrifying snarl on the rooftop. The only reason she persisted and let him into her private hideaway was he fought against the Foot.
They were worse than any other gang. Fatal to cross. Yet Michelangelo seemed unafraid. He consistently beat them back and would have escaped if not for the ice.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
That had been her thought at the time, but as she held his stare, Mikey's amazing blue eyes filled with a hopeful kind of pleading. Sharra couldn't bear to admit her fear and see such fragile hope die. She swallowed hard and temporized.
"Should I be?"
He shook his head almost violently, setting his mask tails flapping.
"No! No. You've got nothing to worry about, dudette. I- I'm just not used to... " He gestured in a small circle with his hand taking in the room and her sitting next to him as if he couldn't describe what he wished to express.
"People not shrieking and running away?" Sharra guessed aloud.
A nod confirmed her theories. "I'm so different, you'd be crazy not to."
Crazy. Not the first time I've heard that.
People called her crazy too. 'Normal' people. Like the ones who screamed at him. People who had apartments and regular income. People who didn't have to fly under the radar of the powers-that-be.
People completely the opposite of us.
Michelangelo dropped his head. He looked so depressed Sharra dared to chuck him beneath the chin with a knuckle. One of her favorite phrases rolled off her tongue.
"We're all a bit mad here."
He laughed.
Sharra blushed and pulled back, startled by the sound. No one ever thought she was funny. The few acquaintances she maintained told her not to give up her day job when it came to comedy. Yet she still cracked jokes and quoted books, movies, and whatever else came to mind.
It's a defense mechanism.
"Alice in Wonderland, right?" Mikey asked. "I always liked the 'Jabberwocky' part, ya' know? The poem with all those funky made-up words."
Sharra blinked at him in surprise.
He's read Lewis Carroll?
"Paraphrased, but yeah. Come on. We need to get you inside so you can warm up."
What's gotten into me? Bad enough I let him in this far and risked exposing my home, but... He's so cold. And he promised not to hurt me.
Michelangelo's gaze flicked to the trapdoor.
"Are you sure they're gone? Maybe I ought to stay here, on guard."
Sharra pointed to the green light at the corner of the hatchway.
"The Nightwatcher Surveillance System version 5.75 says we are a-a-a-a-ll clear. They've moved out of range, at least for the moment."
The turtle's mouth dropped open. "Can you tell him I'm here?" he exclaimed in excitement.
"Uh, who?"
"The Nightwatcher."
"Sorry, no. I never met him. It's just what I call my security system. I didn't think the vigilante would mind if I borrowed the name since he up and vanished on us poor street folk so long ago."
"Oh. Right. Yeah, he disappeared."
Mikey sighed in disappointment and his eyes started to glaze over. His eyelids were also beginning to swell. Now that Sharra was past the first shock of meeting a... whatever he was, she recognized he was far from well. His leg and foot twisted out at an awkward angle and he must be hurting from the falls.
I have to warm him up and clean him off so I can see what's wrong.
Drawing another calming breath she rose and grasped his left forearm.
Jeez', he's big.
With both hands wrapped around his wrist, Sharra stuck her butt out for leverage and tugged, attempting to pull him vertical. He didn't budge, simply sat and regarded her with a bewildered expression.
Sharra let him go and put her hands on her hips. She brushed her hair back and attempted to tuck the annoying strands behind her ear. They wouldn't stay.
I chopped the stupid things too short last time.
"You're gonna have to give me a hand here," she said.
Mikey smiled revealing the polished white teeth which so terrified her earlier. This time though his expression was sheepish.
"I'm not sure I can walk. I, uh, pulled a quad. And no offense, but I'll probably squish you again if I fall over. Could I wait here until the snow stops? If you don't mind, of course."
A few minutes ago Sharra might have agreed, but Michelangelo was charming, playful, and concerned about hurting her. That counted for a lot in her book. She couldn't allow him to sit out here and freeze. He had stopped shivering and as cold as his skin felt, that was a bad sign.
Also, the storm is supposed to continue for days.
"I DO mind. I've only got a crappy ancient space heater and I have to close the door to keep the warmth in." She masked her concern with not-so-sly humor, elbowing him gently in the bicep. "Besides, if I let you freeze to death in my doorway, how would I ever remove the body?"
He burst out laughing again and Sharra smiled shyly back in amazement. Despite his injuries and recent overwhelming danger, he sounded so carefree. Suddenly she was very glad she let him in.
Perhaps my first reaction wasn't a fluke. The world needs more people who can laugh. God knows it's been a while since I did.
"I bet you could come up with something," he retorted with a snort.
"I already have"—Sharra shot back—"I also think I can use it to help you. Sit tight."
Spinning on a heel, she bounded through the door of her workroom.
Fuck! The place is a mess.
Her home wasn't dirty. Her mother would roll over in her grave if Sharra lived in filth, but there was so little space everything had to be stored in the open. And since she never had company she hadn't seen any reason to tidy up.
She winced at the thought of her mother.
Where did that come from?
Usually, she avoided thinking about family at all costs.
Sharra glared at the piles of boxes holding the results of a thousand scrapping expeditions. They were stacked over and under a dozen or more tables of various sizes, with pathways scarcely wide enough for her to squeeze between. Ordinarily, she was proud of her collection, but today it was in the way.
I'm going to have trouble getting him through the door, much less near the heat.
Her main work surface on the left balanced several sensitive projects, but there was a little extra space underneath it. With some effort, she might be able to shift enough clutter to open up a wider aisle to the rear and her living area.
She hurried back to the entry and tossed Michelangelo an old towel.
"This is gonna take a few minutes," she muttered. "You might as well wipe off some of that blood while I free up some space."
After lugging armfuls of gear, cursing, and kicking some crates to widen the path; Sharra latched onto her goal. The simple black cloth-covered, well-worn desk chair was small and cheap. The kind of thing a broke college kid might throw out of his dorm at the end of the semester. Michelangelo would look rather silly sitting on it, like a giant balancing on a child's toy.
But it has wheels!
Mikey had wiped the blood spatter off his face and forearms by the time she returned, and he raised a skeptical brow when she rolled out her prize. His expressions weren't the open book to her most people's were, but the gesture was similar enough for her to read—despite his complete and total lack of eyebrows.
And really, all types of hair...
His mouth twitched at the corners, holding back ironic laughter.
Or that might be a grimace of pain.
"Don't knock it 'til you try it," Sharra snapped, falling back again on humor.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, this time with a genuine smile.
Getting him in the thing took some maneuvering. Michelangelo groaned and hauled himself upward using the ladder. Sharra scooted the chair around behind him.
The seat was barely deep enough to accommodate his shell, and the old plastic and metal creaked in protest as he settled. As he placed his feet on the rolling supports, Sharra crossed her fingers that the whole thing wouldn't collapse before they passed the threshold.
"Ready?"
Without giving him a chance to reply, she shoved the poor piece of furniture hard. They moved an inch and stopped dead.
Mikey glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming as he watched her predicament.
Sharra gritted her teeth, put her back against the stubborn thing, and heaved again. This time it moved even less. Her feet slipped out from under her and she sat down hard.
Behind her, the seatback quivered.
He's laughing at me!
She growled in mock anger.
I'm already gonna be one gigantic bruise for a week but he asked for this...
Sharra stood, backed two steps, and threw herself at the chair. She hit bodily with such force Mikey shot through the door and coasted a few feet beyond. The look of astonishment on his face was priceless.
"How did you— what was— Where did that come from?"
Without warning, one of the wheels snapped off and dumped him on the floor. Sharra yipped and rushed to his side.
"Sorry!"
She yanked the chair from atop him, knelt, and stripped off her gloves to pat him all over searching for new damage.
"I'm so sorry. Here you are all banged up and exhausted and I'm galumphing all over the place and—Oh!"
Michelangelo chuckled through a groan of discomfort, presumably at her overly enthusiastic apology, but glanced up at the shocked exclamation. Horror flashed across his face as she turned bloody fingertips towards him. This blood was fresh, a vivid red, not the congealed stuff from before.
She flinched as he bolted upright and snatched at her arm. He pulled her to a seated position alongside him and magically produced a stack of pure white gauze squares out of thin air. Pressing one firmly over the blood, he tried to lift her hand over her head.
His firm grip instantly sent her into a panic. Sharra yanked back and scuttled away, surprising him once again with her strength. Though there wasn't much space to put between them.
Shit! Was this all a ruse? Yet another guy trying to-to—
She couldn't finish the thought.
"What are you doing?" She demanded.
"You're bleeding," he huffed a little desperately. "You must have cut yourself on one of my weapons. You need to elevate your hand above your heart."
Her expression softened.
He's not trying to trap me. He thinks he cut me.
"The blood's not mine. You're the one who's been fighting."
"Huh?"
Sharra used the bandage to wipe her hand and wiggled her fingers at him.
"See? I'm fine, but your shoulder is not. Let me have another look?"
At his nod, she cautiously approached again and pushed him gingerly back until he reclined partway on his shell. His right arm bled sluggishly from a deep gash. Dark spots she assumed were bruises blossomed everywhere under his skin. And a whole catalog of cuts littered his extremities.
The worst wound was on the lower left side of his abdomen. Blood trailed down the golden armor shielding his front. She leaned in for a closer inspection and gasped.
His armor ITSELF is bleeding!
The plating was actually a part of him. And the short handle of a knife protruded from it while the blade disappeared into his flesh.
"Mikey, you've been stabbed!"
"Huh," Michelangelo remarked. "No wonder I feel funny."
Without another word, he collapsed.