Chapter 10

With Roku Squad, as he'd learned they were called, looking at him expectantly, Michelangelo ran a nervous hand over his head, wondering how best to begin. Agete's large training area made him feel even more openly scrutinized, with its high overhead lights reflecting off of shiny new floors, a stark contrast to his comfortably cramped and dim underground home. Earlier today, he had very much wanted to ask Leonardo's advice on basic training exercises, but had immediately recoiled from the idea; he didn't need to salt the wound. "Okay," he said. "Let's start with some sparring."

Snake, his arms crossed, snorted. "That's all we've been doing so far this week. You're supposed to be teaching us teamwork stuff, coach."

"That starts with me knowing what each of you can do, and how you fight," Mike said lightly. "Something different today, though. Three on one." He shifted into a ready stance, beckoning for Tami, Ren and Snake to attack him together.

They looked at each other. Snake curled his lip back. "Can you believe it? He's trying to show off."

Mike shook his head. "I'm not. No need to pummel me, just stay loose, relaxed."

Tami came at him first and he defended without retaliating, watching and assessing the way she moved. He'd learned a fair amount over the past few days. Tami was quick and feisty, weaker in close quarters and empty-handed, but a positively lethal sharpshooter with her throwing knives. Ren was inexperienced, especially with weapons, but was a solid, practical fighter with good instincts. As for Snake, he seemed to draw from a mix of street fighting, martial arts, boxing, military training, and who knew what else. He could handle himself, no question. But he moved lazily, as if he were only slightly amused and bored by Mike's presence.

Simon was the exception; he had no combat training but was a technical whiz that could hack into any computer or crack any security system. Mike imagined that he and Donatello could have some pretty interesting conversations- interesting to them, at any rate. The man was sitting against the far wall, his laptop, invisibly and constantly tethered to his body, sitting open on the thighs of his ripped jeans, his eyes fixed on the screen. Every once in a while, he would look up with some interest before returning to his mysterious work.

He paused to watch now, as Mike took advantage of Ren's attack and chipped him with a kick behind the knee, causing him to stumble into Tami. He dodged Snake's grab and swung behind him, putting the big man between himself and the other two fighters. "Okay," Mike said, calling time-out with his hands. "There actually is a point to this.

"The first thing to know about fighting as a team: your teammates are your worst enemies. Unless you know how to fight together, you'll just get in each other's way and neutralize each other's attacks. If you don't communicate, you'll be confused, but if you do, you'll give yourselves away."

They were listening to him. Mike picked up speed and confidence as he pried out memories of how he and his brothers had trained to fight together, and started putting into words his intuitive knowledge of how they did so now. "Fighting together against multiple opponents isn't about taking turns, and it's not about splitting up, like, 'you take him, and I'll take him'. It's actually about controlling space. Control the space and you control the fight. That means always knowing where your teammates are, and understanding the space each of you is responsible for, all the time." Excitedly, he pulled Tami and Ren over and positioned them near each other. "Okay, for example, let's say Tami and Ren are fighting me and Snake. If I hit Tami and then move over here to hit Ren, and you both jump to get me, then I can use you against each other, plus you just gave Snake a big fat opening. But let's say instead, that Tami knows that this space, including her flank, is Ren's..."

He worked with them for a few hours, and even Snake, though he remained coolly unsmiling, did nothing but listen attentively, ask questions, and do the drills Mike devised. At the end, as they climbed the stairs back to the team room, Tami asked him, "Is it easier, or harder- fighting together?"

"Harder," Mike said without hesitation. "But better."

Tami's small chin jutted out in thoughtful, grudging appreciation. "That was a good session tonight," she admitted without looking at him, then grabbed her coat and gear and headed for the door.

Mike smiled; it had been pretty good. Cogent, articulate, damn near Leonardo-like, if he did say so himself.

He pulled his coat on (it was still too cold to be outside without one), then paused, noticing Ren still sitting on the sofa. Snake and Simon were already gone. On a whim, he sat down next to the teen, leaving a comfortably large space between them. "Waiting for someone?"

"My friend was going to give me a ride."

"Tall guy with one earring?"

"Yeah," Ren said in surprise. "How would you know?"

Mike shrugged. "A good memory for faces. Speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask you... um, how your wrist is doing."

The boy looked down at his right wrist, rolling it in a slow circle. "It was in a cast for a while, but it seems okay now."

"That's good." Aw, heck. "Hey...sorry that I broke it. It was the circumstances at the time, you know?"

"S'okay. I get it." He glanced up at the turtle nervously, then looked back down at his hands, as if he'd only just realized he was alone with one of the fantastical killer mutants of lore and didn't want to make eye contact, but couldn't help wanting to stare at him. "I can't believe you even remember me. I was just one guy that night."

Mike didn't mention that he'd seen Ren twice more after that, without him knowing it. Instead he said, "Good memory, like I said. Besides, it is hard to forget a guy who was that bad with a short sword."

Ren's head came up, a retort on his lips, but was thrown off by Michelangelo's wide, teasing grin. "I wasn't that bad," he mumbled. Then, with drooping shoulders, "Well, maybe I was."

"I'm just playing," Mike said. Constant put-downs and insults were part of life with three brothers, and he hadn't really stopped to think that this lonely-looking kid who didn't know him might not take it in such good humor. "Although," he added, "I really don't see you as a short sword person. Have you thought about focusing on the hanbo? Or the kama? They would suit your fighting style better."

"Really? You think so?"

"Sure." He stood up. "I should get going. I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah." The nervousness in Ren's face had faded into a slightly quizzical expression. He raised a hand briefly. "Tomorrow."

It would take Michelangelo a long time to get home. Each night, he took a different route, detouring and doubling back, taking every precaution to make sure he never compromised the way to the lair. And when he did arrive, a pall of tension would arrive with him, a clingy film that his forced good cheer and best cooking could push against but not dissolve. Dwelling on it, as he slipped from shadow to shadow, alley to alley, moving quickly to keep his heart rate up and his body warm, his good mood dissipated into the cold night air like the steam from his breath, and he felt a heaviness of heart settling in. After he was certain that he was not being tailed, he found himself, not rounding the bend in the tunnel near home, but climbing up the fire escape ladder of April's apartment building.

"Mike," April exclaimed, sliding open her balcony door when he tapped on it. "What are you doing out here alone? It's late and cold." She hugged herself in her pajamas, letting him in and shutting the door quickly.

"Sorry, April. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, no, it's fine." She started a kettle of water boiling. "Is everything okay?"

Yes. No. "I was just on my way home..." he stalled in his explanation and sat down on her sofa, mutely watching as she opened the tin of hot chocolate powder, measured a spoonful into two mugs, added milk, poured in water from the steaming kettle, and stirred, eyebrows raised and fingers turning the clinking spoon long after the chocolate had dissolved, but not pressing him to continue.

She handed him a mug and tucked into the corner of the sofa across from him, pulling her legs up under her. After taking a short sip from her own mug, she asked, "How's Raph?"

"Doing a lot better," he answered, his spirits lifting at his own words. As rapidly as Raphael had fallen ill, he was rebounding; his fever was down, his color and energy returning. Michelangelo had retrieved the bottles Raph had thrown against the wall, painstakingly gathered all the scattered pills he could find and held a dose out to his brother in one hand, a glass of water in the water. "Take them," he'd urged. "Hate me if you have to, but take them." The line of Raphael's jaw had stiffened. Without looking at Mike, he'd accepted the pills and swallowed him, turning away as he did so. But he'd been taking them without fail ever since.

"Thank goodness," April said. "He looked so sick...it was like last year..."

Mike sidled over and put his arms around her, comforting himself. She was so soft and warm, with no hard carapace or plastron, no rough calluses or scars- slim and fragile. When he let go, he rested his head against the cushions, his voice a little muffled as he said, "It happened over New Year's."

She listened in silence as he talked, recounting the awful first three weeks of the year, unloading the weight of what he had done, and then sharing with her what he couldn't comfortably tell his brothers - what the people on Roku Squad were like, the challenge of training them, his accomplishments so far. He didn't pause and she didn't stop him. When he was finished, he drained the dredges of his mug and said, "That was really good hot chocolate." With a sigh, he set it down on her coffee table. "I've kept you up really late," he said apologetically.

"I'm glad you came." She reached over and put a sympathetic hand on his knee. "You should get home before they worry about you."

He nodded, standing, and feeling, finally, as though he had enough fortifying warmth to brave the chill. "Thanks April," he whispered as he slipped out.