Nope, still don't own them. But reviews, I do love them. Hint hint.
One of the odder things about living underground was that one never knew when dawn rose. There was no soft light, no gentle birds chirping a greeting to the sun, no dew drying slowly in the morning glow. The same dark shadows blanketed the lair no matter how brightly the sun shone on the street above. Underground, the only clue that a new day had begun was the atonal blast of Leonardo's alarm clock. Usually at some ungodly early hour.
Dawn was one of the things Donatello missed most about the farm. He missed sitting awake the whole night, watching the diamond-sharp stars move across the sky. He missed waiting for that first pink glow to edge the hills, for that first ray of sun to break over the horizon and warm his face. Mostly, he missed seeing April's sleep-bleary face as she stumbled into the kitchen, moaning for the cup of coffee he always had ready for her. They had spent many mornings talking quietly across the rough-hewn kitchen table, welcoming a new day, enjoying one another, enjoying life.
Now, Don sat silently on the couch, one leg tucked up under him, hugging his arms over his chest against the chill of the damp lair. His head was throbbing with a low-level headache, brain clamoring for sleep. He heard the low buzz of the overhead light as the fluorescent blinked on, and squinted against the glare. A quick glance revealed Leonardo at the door of his room, brow creased, one hand knuckling the sleep from his eyes. "Have you been up all night?"
Don shrugged, unwilling to admit that he had. He, as always, preferred to remain in the background, on the periphery. Being the center of attention was never his cup of tea. And he knew that if Leo had any idea what was on his mind, all hell would break loose. No point in stirring the pot. "Not just me, bro. Mike was keeping me company."
Mike was sprawled across an armchair, open-mouthed, one arm flung over his eyes. He had succumbed to sleep after about an hour of sitting in silence. Bless his heart, thought Don. The boy's not cut out for introspection.
"You need to get back to a routine, Donny." Leo ducked his chin to make sure Donatello looked at him. "It's the first step to healing." He dropped a hand onto Don's shoulder and squeezed gently.
Don bit back a snotty remark, reminding himself that Leonardo was only doing what he knew how to, trying to help, trying to lead. There was no way for him to know what was in Don's heart. Don didn't want him to know. He never wanted his noble brother to feel anger strong enough to stamp out every rule, every moral, you ever believed in. Without his nobility, he wasn't Leo.
Donatello shrugged away from Leonardo's touch. "I'm gonna take a walk, Leo. I want to check the sensors in the south tunnels, make sure that everything is working. I've had some glitches with them lately, and we don't need any surprises right now." Don stood and stretched the kinks out of his neck. "Don't know how long I'll be."
"Donny." Leo's voice held questions, and concern.
"It's okay, Leo. I promise." Don turned, aware of Leo's gaze burning a hole in his back. He shrugged into an overcoat and buttoned it to his chin, and slipped out of the lair into the sewers.
The sky had brightened to a soft gold as the sun's first light spilled into the city. After a quick glance up and down the street, Don crept down the fire escape to April's window. He pulled a shuriken from his belt and used it to jimmy open the lock, and with one last look at the street, he slipped inside.
His heart clenched as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The apartment was a shambles. Chairs overturned, broken glass strewn everywhere. Blood on the floor. Obviously April had put up a hell of a fight. Donatello felt a surge of rage in his stomach, but pushed it down, stored it away. He'd need it later, he knew. He walked the perimeter of the living room, eyes wide and scanning, searching for something, anything that could lead him to the answers he was seeking.
His eyes widened as he walked into April's bedroom. The room was untouched, pristine, with flowers wilting on the bedside table. April's dressing gown hung on a hook by the door, and Don ran his fingers over the silk sash. It was as if any moment April would come walking out of the bathroom, hair tousled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and smiling a welcome. But Don's eyes were drawn to the wall, where there hung a framed picture, a photograph that Don remembered well. They had given it to April for her birthday, a photo of the four brothers and their father, smiling into the camera. Mike's fingers had sprouted bunny ears behind Raphael's unsuspecting head. Even Leo was smiling, smiling for real. It was a moment caught in time, a moment that they could never have back, and it made Don so sad.
But it wasn't the photo that transfixed Donatello. It was the dagger that pierced the glass, sending a spider web of cracks reaching outward. The point of the dagger had split Splinter down the middle, right at the heart. From the knife there hung a tassel, which was wound around a scrap of parchment. With shaking fingers, Don unwound the tiny scroll and read the words, scrawled in kanji.
"Oh, God," he whispered.
"No God to help you now, freak."
Donatello whirled, dropping the scroll and snatching his bo. Immediately, he cursed himself for his inattentiveness. There was a helluva lot of Purple Dragons in the room, all of them with sneers and smirks. All of them with weapons. This was going to be bad. He quickly sized up the room, searching for an exit, for an escape. But out of the corner of his eye, Don caught a glimpse of another photo, propped up on the dresser. It was a shot of April and Casey, grinning wildly into the camera, blissful, joyous. The sight of his friends' faces, of April's face, hardened Don's heart into a pulsing ball of flame, of anger.
"You sons-of-bitches." His voice was a whisper like granite. Rage pulsed in him, a roaring fire that raced from the pit of his stomach and through his chest, scorching him, and he leapt forward, bo flying. He bashed into the first Dragon, a glancing blow of his fist sending teeth skittering across the floor. Two other punks leapt onto his back, but he shrugged them off, rewarding one with a stunning mule-kick to the midsection. His staff flipped through his fingers, smashing into the skull of one of his attackers, and a lightning-swift tornado kick sent another flying back to crash through a window.
As Don stepped backward, he stumbled over the prone form of one of the Dragons, briefly losing his balance. The punks were smart enough to take advantage, four or five of them piling on, knocking him onto his back. Don bucked and writhed, clawing and snarling, his anger bringing him strength he had never known before. He managed to squirm free of their grasp and started to roll to his feet.
But before he could get upright, he felt a sting in his neck, and fingers of ice began to creep across his skin, sliding up to squeeze his brain. He struggled against it, lashing out and shattering the nose of the nearest Dragon, but the gang piled back on, forcing him to his knees. Someone snatched his staff away, so he just started swinging wildly, each blow weaker than the last until finally he couldn't bring himself to fight anymore. Darkness was creeping in, narrowing his vision to a pinpoint. The last thing he saw was the grim face of Hun, and then there was only black.