Chapter 11 -Swan Song-
Jeremy woke with a start. He'd just begun to doze off when… something… disturbed him. He had the distinct, and uncomfortable feeling someone was in the tunnel. He got to his feet, and, using every bit of the skill of moving silently Sylvia had taught him, he moved to the crack in the tunnel wall, and peered out. He couldn't see anything in the darkened tunnel, but that didn't mean nothing was there.
His instincts were on high alert, and Jeremy had long ago learned to always follow his instincts. He slipped out of the den, and made his way down the tunnel, clinging to the wall, making less noise than the rat which paused to glance at the boy before going on its way. Jeremy didn't see the Foot ninja creep into the den, but he did hear a faint thud as the throwing star landed in the center of his pile of blankets.
He had no idea what the sound was, but he hadn't survived most of his young life on the streets by being foolish. He kept moving away from the den, deeper into the sewers. He thought he heard a faint curse, then a crash of metal. He winced, certain that someone had discovered, and destroyed, Sylvia's heating system. They'd have to find a new place to stay. Jeremy cursed under his breath, and picked up his pace. There were other exits from the sewers. He'd lay low for a while, and find Sylvia. It wouldn't be safe to return to the cave-like hole. It was too bad, really. The den had begun to feel like home.
***
Silvia curled up on the rather lumpy couch. Raphael settled himself in an armchair a few feet away. Michelangelo had provided her with a blanket. Sylvia lay down and closed her eyes, pretending to go to sleep. She waited, listening to his breathing. It was steady and even, as if he were resting, but she could see the glitter of his eyes under his mask, and his hands rested on the handles of the deadly sais tucked in his belt. She reached out with her mind, but his defenses, if anything, were stronger. She withdrew. There was no sense in wasting her energy if he were prepared to consciously guard against her attempt to influence him. She closed her eyes. Time passed, but her racing mind denied her sleep.
"What happened to yer neck?" The growled whisper came out of the dark, startling her into opening her eyes. "I know ya ain't sleepin'. Yeh can write on the pad if ya wanna talk, ok? Ya don't hafta tell me. I just wondered where ya got that scar." He gestured with a sai toward the notepad Donatello had so thoughtfully left on the table.
Slowly, watching him, she reached for the pen and pad. It was a fire, she wrote. I was burned. I had surgery to fix my face, but they couldn't fix my voice. Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them away. I used to be a singer.
"Really?" Raphael's eyes widened. She felt surprise from him, the first emotion she'd been able to sense since he stationed himself in the chair.
I sang at a nightclub. The Swan Song.
"That was some snazzy joint before it burned," he said. "Wait a minute, is that how you got burnt? Were you in the club when it went up?"
Yes.
"Huh."
What about you? What do you do? Besides kidnap girls?
If she could keep him talking, maybe he'd let his guard down. It wasn't much of a chance, but it seemed like the only one she had.
"Hey, you busted into our Lair, remember?" he scowled.
Fair enough.
"I hang out wit' my friends," he said.
Your brothers?
"I got other friends, ya know. Human friends."
Really?
Her eyebrows rose. The turtles had allowed themselves to be seen by humans? She hadn't thought they would trust anyone.
"Yeah. What's da matter, don't think a human could be my friend?" The hostility was back now. His eyes narrowed, darkening dangerously. She felt anger, and carefully concealed hurt. She'd touched a raw nerve. "You t'ink 'cause I'm a mutant, I'm some kinda freak what don't have no friends?" he asked. Sylvia shook her head.
"Just 'cause my skin's different than yers, doesn't mean I ain't got friends."
Sylvia sat up. She moved toward him, slowly. Raphael's sais were in his hands, but he didn't stand up. He sat still, watching her warily, and let her approach. She knelt beside the chair.
It's not different, she wrote, showing him the pad. Look.
She unbuttoned her shirt, thanking God she'd worn a tank-top underneath. She heard the turtle's breath hiss as the angry scar was uncovered.
Cautiously, she reached up, and touched his arm. Raphael moved his sais so he was holding both in one hand, out of her reach. Sylvia held out her hands to him, palms up. She turned so he could get a full view of her scar. No one, apart from the doctor and Jon, had seen it before. She trembled under his gaze.
Raphael stretched out a finger and traced the edge of her scar. Sylvia moved her hand over his arm, feeling the cool, leathery skin under her fingertips, fascinated. She felt him flinch, tensing at her touch, but he let her trace the muscle along his arm to his elbow-pad. She laid her palm against his fore-arm, and smiled up into his eyes, projecting warmth and friendship. She saw his eyes widen, then the barrier came down again. He jerked away.
"Don't try that mind-control jazz on me," he growled.
Sylvia fell back, alarmed. She grabbed the pen.
I don't mean to, she wrote. I'm not trying to do anything. It's how I communicate.
"Yeah, well, sorry, but I don't trust ya," said Raphael, slipping his sais back into his belt and adjusting his elbow pad. He crossed his arms over his plastron, covering his arm where she'd touched it with his hand in a defensive gesture.
Sylvia crawled back to the couch. She climbed up, covering herself with the blanket, and closed her eyes, withdrawing from Raphael, from contact with anyone, closing herself off. She curled up, and tried to sleep.
***
Donatello watched through the crack of his slightly ajar lab door. He sighed, seeing Sylvia go back to the couch, and went back to Googling. Sylvia… Sylvia Rose… The Swan Song's webpage came up.
Come in and be carried away by the sweet melody that is Sylvia Rose… he read. Donatello snorted softly. Who wrote this stuff, anyway? He checked the page's publish date, and found it was over six months since the page had been updated. So she had been a singer. He searched further on The Swan Song. The place had burnt down months ago. So that's what had happened to her.
Typical, thought Donatello. Sylvia had a small-town air about her. She must've come to the big city, hoping to make it as a singer or actress or something. Looks like she was actually talented, if she sang in a upscale place like The Swan Song. She must have lost her job, and her voice, when the place burned.
Donatello frowned, reading the articles on the fire. "Police are baffled as to the cause of the fire…", "Arson suspected…", "No one was injured…" Donatello stared at the screen. No one injured? But the fire had to be how Sylvia lost her voice. And he'd overheard Raph asking her about a scar… he'd just assumed she'd been in the fire.
He shrugged. He'd ask her, tomorrow. For now, he'd try to get a few hours sleep before morning training.
***
Jeremy kept moving. He made his way through the streets, back to the bakery where he'd gotten the bread. He curled up in a doorway, trying to make himself comfortable. He didn't like sleeping out here in the open, but for now there was no other choice. He'd wait a few days before returning to the den to find Sylvia.
***
The Lair was quiet. She stretched, opening her eyes, and carefully projected, searching for the turtles. She sensed them, nearby, but not in the room. Their emotions felt focused, concentrated. Cautiously, she got off the couch.
I wonder where they are? she thought. She heard a distinct thud, and a grunt. She moved silently toward the source of the sounds. Peering through the open door, she spotted the turtles. They stood in two pairs, circling one another, Raphael and Leonardo, Donatello and Michelangelo. Each had their weapons out. Splinter was off to the side, watching. She watched in fascinated horror as Leonardo rushed at his brother. A clang rang out clearly as metal met metal, Raphael's sais turning his brother's katana away. Raphael ducked low, rushing Leonardo. Leonardo dodged to one side, twisting to avoid his brother's onslaught.
Sylvia heard wood rattle as Michelangelo's nunchucks met Donatello's bo staff. Michelangelo grunted as the end of the bo swung around, catching him neatly on the thigh just below his shell.
She backed away from the door, and slipped toward the exit. Perhaps while they were distracted, she could escape. She didn't see the chair leaned back against the wall, or the tall man sitting on it, until she nearly tripped over him.
"Hey, Babe."
Sylvia nearly jumped out of her skin. She backed away, trembling, as the man stood up. His shoulders were wide and muscular. He wore a torn tank-top and stained cargo pants. A hockey mask was pushed up to the top of his head, the strap holding back long black hair. His eyes twinkled, blue and cold. Sylvia stumbled backward.
His emotions were raw, open. Horror overwhelmed her as she felt his strength, his innate hostility, a touch of lust as he looked her up and down. She felt as though she were a T-bone flavored antelope, being eyed by a hungry lion. He held out his hand, and she tripped over her own foot in her haste to escape his touch. She felt panicked, suffocated by the whirl of emotion from him. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Confusion floated to the surface of the onslaught of mental projection, and… humor. He was laughing at her. Like Jon.
I'm dead. He's sent this guy to get me, and I'm going to die. The thought drifted through her mind as the haze came down over her vision and she sank to the floor.
***