Title: Depth of Field
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author: Jayde
Summary: Don't ask me where this came from. Raphael-centric.
Credits: I credit this fic to cold medicine. Thanks to Magda (Raphael's Mary Magdalene) for the edit.
Disclaimer: Is there any doubt at all, in anyone's mind, about who owns the turtles? I mean, seriously? 'Cause I know I don't own them.
Depth of Field: The zone of acceptable sharpness in a picture …
It was like wading, this walk through the high summer grass. The seeded tops waved gently back and forth. Whole sections of the field would suddenly bend and ripple as if a current passed under them. Like a pale golden sea, it stretched before him, and surrounded him. He held his hands out – waist high – and let the plant life brush his palms. It was wet. Just faintly damp with a touch of dew. The sun was still rising, and there wasn't enough heat in the new day to burn off this bit of moisture. Soon, it would grow hot. Soon, the daylight would chase him back inside, because this wasn't safe.
This wasn't wise.
But since when had he listened to wisdom?
And the grass was high. In case of emergency, he could duck down and hide. It would cover him – protect him in its fragrant depths from anyone who might visit this isolated farm.
This place brought a certain kind of serenity. He could feel the muscles in his shoulders unknotting as he walked. His bare toes curled into the soil that he could not see. It was cool, shaded there below the tall grass. He paused, enjoying the feeling of the earth.
A small flock of birds shot out of the trees behind him. He froze, listening to them squawk their way across the sky. Something had disturbed them. Likely, one of his brothers was up and in the woods. Wandering, like he was.
He continued with his walk, parting the grass with unusual consideration. The seed heads, some of them very heavy, nodded as he passed. In a couple of weeks, maybe less, all this would be gone. Cut down to stubble and bare earth to prepare for another year. Burned and tilled up, this would be a bare field before the snow flew.
Dead and barren. He shivered, as though a cloud had passed over the sun and taken all the heat from his skin.
He was nearly to the middle of the field now, and he stopped to turn in a slow circle to see the sea of golden grass all around him, surrounding him. Living plants now, but soon to be dead and destroyed. And then new grass would grow here in the spring; a cycle of destruction and renewal.
He had fought with Leo again.
But that wasn't a cycle of destruction. That was a habit – almost comforting like Mike's drumming on everything with his fingers. Like the feel of the weapon in his hand, it was familiar.
It was time to go back, again. Time to continue their cycle of rage with the Foot clan. Strike and counterstrike, followed by a season of rest – here or elsewhere, it didn't matter. That was their purpose, wasn't it? To balance out the Foot clan, and create some bizarre symmetry between good and evil, except it didn't feel like balance. It felt like a spiral that would be turning until they were all dead or used up. Or until the battlefield they fought on was only a blasted space – a sea of broken glass and dead bodies. Then it might actually be over.
He would miss it when it was over. For all that he could drink in this – this open space and time away from the battle – he would still ache to fight. That's what the argument had been about. Leo wanted it over – his brother craved the peace they felt when here. He was happier meditating and practicing than he was in the heat of the kill. In that, Leo had much in common with the others. Mike and Don had no desire to continue the cycle.
Odd one out, but that was an old story now. He wanted to keep going. He lived for the spill of hot blood over his hands as his weapons struck home. Only there, in the middle of it with the smell of fear and hate all around, did he feel truly at home.
Which was fucked up.
He walked further, the grass brushing against him softly. A breeze rippled the field, and swept over him, cooling his skin. He wondered what would happen if he took out a sai and started hacking and slashing at the grass. Not that he would, but curiosity, you know? Likely Leo, who was now watching him from the upstairs window of the farmhouse, would come running over to chew him out. The lecture that would follow, though, almost made him smile. 'No attacking defenseless field crops!'
Raphael chuckled. After a moment, he started to laugh out loud, his head back and the sun blinding him.
"Hey!" He turned at the shout, and smiled over at Mike, who reflected the grin back only a thousand times brighter. "You want breakfast, you lunatic?"
"Yeah," he replied. He started back over to the buildings. His strides were careful but the grass still bent and swayed in his wake.
Finis.