Chapter 8

January 17th; 2:14 a.m.

There I was, crouched in the snow with my enemy in front of me, his blade locked to the ground at my right, far too close for comfort. Mikey's cry still echoed in our ears, as it seemed like the world around us had stopped with it. There was just so much feeling bouncing off of his scream, so much fear - and even though it didn't freeze us for more than a spilt second - it was just enough time for me to get the upper hand.

Before the opportunity passed, I supported my weight on my left arm, pain grasping it as I used my right foot to throw my enemy off balance, causing him to fall backwards at the impact, his eyes facing upwards in shock. Quickly back up on my feet, I plunged my right katana into his chest, feeling as the blade bore past his ribs, through his lungs and connected with the concrete surface underneath him, only then reaching to a halt.

Looking up at me with terror gaping his eyes open, he fought to breathe, the sound of blood spluttering in his throat as it filled up with the red fluid. His stomach convulsed and one final smoke of breath escaped his open mouth, until there was nothing left but a bloody corpse, its limbs cramping to the spastic rhythm of death's melody; dancing into the afterlife.

Retreating my sword and sheathing it behind my back, I didn't stay to watch.

My feet stumbled over each other as I ran, as though they weren't connected to the same mind. But it didn't matter, because the only thing I could think about was to reach Donatello. There wasn't any room for other thoughts in my head, not that it was much of a thought.

It was pure instinct.

Once I caught up to them, I turned the right corner of the chimney, discovering Donnie's motionless body leaned against the brick surface, his head lulled to one side. Michelangelo clasped his shoulders with his hands, trying to force life into him by shaking him. There were tears welling up in his eyes and panic twisting his features as he pleaded and begged for Don to open his eyes, but the agony in his words were mute to my ears.

I couldn't hear a thing.

I saw his pain, and I felt his desperation, but all sounds were lost to me as the world spun around me, mocking me, making my stomach revolt. I felt like throwing up, if only to remove some of the tension, some of the unbearable feelings that built up inside of me.

How could this have happened? I asked myself, as if actually expecting an answer. How could Mike be crying for our brother to answer him? Pleading for him to come back? How could Don have gotten that severely injured? How could I have let it happen? How could I have failed them?

Suddenly, sounds came back to life as Raphael crashed into my left shoulder, the impact waking me up from my dazed state. He hurried up to our brothers, blocking my view and shoving Mike to the side as he kneeled in front of Donatello, his quick hands checking his throat for a pulse. All attention was focused on him as he opened his mouth to speak, his shell turned to me,

"He's alive."

Several breaths of relief were released, knowing Don was still among us. But, like always there had to be a 'but.' Because Raphael's bitter voice told us he might not be alive for much longer.

Raph's hands urgently travelled to the wound on Donnie's right upper arm, his fingers turning red when touching the soaked tourniquet I made for him, only a few minutes earlier.

"We hafta stop the bleedin'," he said, his harsh voice filled with control and direction, foreign when coming from his vocal cords. Searching, he turned his head away from Don, his eyes travelling across the many bodies of our enemies that were spread across the rooftop, most of them lying in a pool of blood, while others laid unconscious in the snow, freezing to death in the cold.

He drew back his bloody hand from Don and tensely rose to his feet, his grasp reaching for one of the sais in his belt. "Keep pressure on it," he ordered, gripping the tainted steel in his right hand as he rushed up to one of the corpses, dropping to his knees beside it.

This time quick to act, I crouched in front of Donnie, my hands pressed to the makeshift bandage on his arm, praying it wasn't too late to save him. The blood was still warm, heating up the cold skin on my palms.

It sickened me.

"Is-is he gonna make it?" Mikey's tear-filled voice cut into my very soul, tugging on the grief I did my best to restrain, knowing I was fighting a loosing battle.

I turned to look at him, my gaze caught with his teary, chestnut brown eyes.

I felt like I could cry. The mere look of him just broke my heart in two.

Breaking the contact and turning back to Don, I answered him sadly; honestly, "I dunno, Mikey. We'll do our best." But when looking at Donatello, his pale face immovably resting on his left shoulder, I found myself wondering if the best was enough. Don was unconscious, and he was the one who carried the knowledge and information on how to save him, how to treat the wound and bring him back to us. How could we possibly do it without him? How could we do at all without him?

I didn't want to think it, but it seemed like Saki had won this time. And while there were many times in my life where I had lost, defeat had never before felt so bitter.

Before I had a chance to do anything else, Raph appeared to my right, a piece of ripped, black clothing grasped in one of his hands. I realized he must have taken it from one of the fallen Foot soldiers, using his sai to tear it off. I instantly rose to my feet and backed away, allowing my brother to change the red-soaked bandage on Donnie.

He fell to his knees in front of Don, clutching the cloth in-between his teeth when using his hands to work the knot of the tourniquet. His stressed fingers travelled over the drenched fabric, pulling on one of the ends of the mask to untie it. Finally, after having managed to open up a small loop in the knot, he slipped one of his fingers inside and undid it, tossing the dripping piece of cloth to the snow. The contrast of the icy white snow made it all more clear to my horrified eyes.

My bandanna wasn't blue anymore.

"Oh God.." Mikey whimpered, his wide eyes staring at the bleeding wound on Donatello's exposed arm. Most of his arm was covered in blood, while there were deep marks in the skin, imprinted by the makeshift bandage. "He's dying," he fearfully whispered to himself, his voice cracking at the overburdened weight of his tears, causing Raph to drop the cloth he held in-between his teeth, turning to Mike with an angry glare.

"We still got time, okay!" he snapped, grabbing the dark garment with his bruised hands, moving to tie it around Donnie's arm. He turned back to look at the wound, uncharacteristically focused as he wrapped the fabric around the limb, tugging at the cloth to make sure it was tight enough. "We ain't losin' 'im. It didn't cut through the artery," he determinately mumbled, draping the cloth around the arm for the third and final time as he moved on to tie the knot.

"How d'you know?" Mikey asked, his cheeks damp with tears as he turned to Raphael, finding slight comfort in his tenacious behaviour.

Raph never broke his stare on Don, but focused on securing the knot while answering Mike's question, "Iffit had, there'd be blood spurting in the rhythm of his pulse." His voice was grim and firm, as is he was too mad to answer any questions, too upset to talk to anyone.

Michelangelo wordlessly nodded, sniffling as hope was planted inside of both him and myself. Because Raph was right. As long as the artery was intact, we still had a chance of saving him. How, though, that was a different story, one none of us knew the words to.

"All right," Raph said, securing the knot one last time. "We hafta get 'im back ta the lair," he declared, wiping his forehead with the back of his right hand, leaving a wet bloodprint.

A warning bell rung in my ears, forcing me to speak up, "That's twenty minutes away from here, if not longer in his state. He'll never make it," I objected, causing Raph to spun around to face me, hostility obvious in his eyes.

"You got a better idea, Fearless?" he snapped, challenging me with his stare. "You've been nothin' but dead-weight since we got 'ere, an' now ye wanna take charge?" he yelled, his chest heaving with his laboured breath, waiting for me to respond.

Even though we didn't have time for his accusations, they still stung me... hard.

Because I knew they were true.

Keeping my voice collected, I answered him, "I'm serious, Raph. We'll never make it back in time." Impatiently boring my eyes into his, I witnessed as the truth dawned on him, causing him to turn back to Don, thoughtfully looking over our options as he searched for a solution.

Then it hit me, like a nerve striking my mind with the speed of light, piercing the dull fog that clouded my thoughts.

"April," I breathed, quietly speaking to myself as the idea surfaced. The mention of her name caused both Mikey and Raph to look at me, hope visible in their worn eyes. "We gotta get him to April's," I spoke up, something resembling a plan taking form in my mind.