"Michel, where are you when I need you?!"

His grassy refuge was discovered. Shouts from a stray group relaying his position to one another alerted the physician to their threatening proximity. He could hear their exerted panting and picture their excited approach, spears and blades in hand, at the ready. Searching about with the wild whipping of his great head he found, to his sinking dismay, there was no cover of any sort to run to. No concealing boulder or accessible thick brush. His sudden movement caused his patient to gasp, the weak sound worsening into a wet gurgle.

This was insane! Sending females out do battle, but the humans did it often, seemingly ignorant or uncaring of the most basic of logistics.

The pitiful pulse pressed to his middle and forefinger was spending fast, compliments of half a dozen jagged knife wounds. Her weight was dead in his lap and despite their apposing sides the woman leaned into him, searching for her last comfort from the gator's encompassing presence. It was all he could do not to give voice to the mournful mewls itching at his throat. No matter how many times it happened, every single time without fail, each life he felt drift off to that irretrievable place came as a harsh personal loss. He knew better, some were beyond his skill to save. He could only give his best efforts in this peace barren land, and with its limited resources, that wasn't much. His eyes stung as he barely held his frustrations inside.

The female was being very brave, bringing a sad smile to the gentle beast's long muzzle. Knowing that fear and panic would do nothing but cause her heart to race and her life force to gush faster, she settled for accepting his odd care and nuzzled his plated chest, the clumps of stickiness matted in her hair streaking his scales reddish brown with drying gore. She brought a shaking hand up in a futile attempt to wipe away her mess from his middle. This time the hoarse sob came unhindered. He caught her hand with his large, clawed one, and moved the ratted strands out of her ghostly face, tucking them back behind her bleeding ear. For mere seconds she lay atop his crossed legs while he whispered softly to her till she found ultimate peace. As the pale fingers turned limp and cold in his grip he lowered the lifeless limb back down to her side and after carefully lowering her head to the ground staggered to a stand.

Unlike when battle prepared men lost their lives as a consequence of their people's refusal to compromise, Leatherhead had to consciously fight to maintain his professional composure when faced with the natural frailty of human females. Untrained, conflicted, and obviously lost, these women were handed a tool and herded onto the plains to flounder beside their men, all for the sake of increasing their numbers and tempting the terra warriors with the ease of their killing. It was a low tactic, but sickeningly effective.

Distant and solemn, Leatherhead didn't turn around to confirm by sight what he knew, that the soldiers were almost upon his exposed backside. He couldn't care, his ingrained instincts for survival overpowered by the intense twisting in his gut. The Clan of shelled reptiles he serviced could never hope to understand the severity of what they did. Leatherhead knew. Like a perpetual nightmare he would wade through the dead and dying of every bloody campaign, healing those few he could, and sending the rest on their way. No matter how fervently he prayed to the gods known by his people, despite his pleadings with the elders to spare them, always, Leatherhead found himself losing pieces of his suffering will with every delicate, soft featured body he had to leave behind. He couldn't help but compare these women with the loving, kindhearted females of his species. In their glistening eyes he saw his mother, his sisters, his possible offspring. All of them cold and lifeless, their sweet futures wasted, much like the desensitizing unfortunates who's lives these women would never get to touch and influence with their nurturing light. It felt like an eternity, but Leatherhead finally allowed himself to look away from the corpse and bent to retrieve his knapsack, full of his healing supplies.

As he straightened the shaft of a precisely thrown spear shattered on forceful impact with his integument hide. A terrible roar of inconsolable rage stopped the men in their tracks, a few stumbling back from the glazed, unseeing whites of a monster. When it did nothing but stand there breathing heavily, massive fists clenched at it sides, they shook off their previous hesitance and charged the creature. It stayed un-moving till the first cam within reach. A blur claws, the snapping of a powerful jaw, and several screams later Leatherhead was the only living being in his grassy clearing.

Exhausted and disappointed to the depths of his soul Leatherhead fell to the muddied soil.

"Michel, help me... Michelangelo! Where are you!?"

Being a low ranking soldier had its meager perks. Like being allowed to prove their unwavering loyalty as a body in the front lines, the higher ups in turn demonstrate their appreciation by using them as sword cushions. Lucky them, the first turtles in and the first turtles out. Oh, and was it mentioned that they get the privilege of showing everyone how its done with their bare fists? Yes, that's right, they don't receive weapons, those sharp and pointy things being expensive and all. Sometimes they get to be lazy and filch a blade off one of the dead, but that's only the really nontraditional ones. Real low class terra turtles die before they have the chance to scavenge mutilated carcasses in the hopes to even the odds for their survival. The best part is that they are already at the bottom, they can only go up from here. Most of the time literally.

Yeah...

This was the spry turtle's third run as a honorary sacrifice, only two more and he could graduate from good-as-dead to not-quite-living. It should have been on this cheery morning, if he made it out with all four essential limbs (tail and head optional), that he could don the black scribbles on his shell that would indicate his advancement to second rank. But his pesky habit of falling behind for wounded comrades, and, or, openly flouncing his ever so positive attitude at the most inopportune times, like in the midst of his betters, never failed to impress his running leader. That happy, hunched terra always bestowed upon him the most pleasant of rewarding positions: standing runner up for the deceased.

If he were any other poor idiot he'd be contentedly molding with the remnants of his first and second platoon. No biggy.

Today they were ordered to run with the southern border guards. Once again their human neighbors had grown covetous of their rolling plains and fertile soil and refused to settle the dispute in a civilized manner. Many platoons from the various borders were being called to the south as well and word by the carapace was that their destination was the current location of the clans bearer. Every terra among the ranks whispered questions and theories of why the elders weren't simply pulling the bearer out.

They could gossip all they wanted. He wouldn't get involved in rumors when he was self-assured of the truth. They weren't relocating the bearer because the turtle couldn't be moved. Because the bearer was bearing. Bearing his last babe.

Mikey hugged himself as his group ran in formation. Donny, his Donny, was almost free.

A/N: sorry for the late update of doom. I blame school. This whole story has been written out on paper and will be transferred to my computer whenever I get a free spell. I have been scheduling my week like a boss so way more updates soon. Thanks for reading.