Chapter 9

"Leo? Leo?!"

"Mikey give him room," Raph barked, hoarsely, shrugging out of Master Splinter's grasp.

Donatello placed a hand on Leonardo's brow. He looked up, glancing at each of them in turn. "He's out."

They stood, lost in their own individual storming emotions with the sound of Karai choking and breathing in wheezing gasps behind them. Master Splinter broke the moment. He gripped Raphael by the upper arm just under his armpit and dragged him from the room. Mikey and Donatello exchanged worried glances. Then Don turned his gaze to Karai. Hair mussed, hand at her throat, she stared back, face flushed and mottled. The ruddy complexion had her green eyes standing out, bright and vividly through the fringe of dark bangs. In that moment she didn't appear to him as predatory, she just looked like a human girl, weak and frightened. But then his eyes fell on his brother laying beneath his hand and his own anger flashed bright and blinding, leaving a phosphorescent blot in the center of his vision. It would be easy to lay the blame solely on this human girl. To blame her for the predicament that they found themselves in. The suffering and pain that his older brother had to endure. To turn the fury of the betrayal he felt from his father's decision fully in her direction. Logic dictated that none of this was her fault in actuality. And yet, his heart thumped and his fists tightened until his knuckles turned pale.

"Is . . . Is he okay?" she croaked.

The nerve of the statement, the gall of her asking if he was all right, as if he'd banged his head or tripped over something, scraping his knee. The depth of the impunity of that simple question. It served to push Donatello right over the precipice he balanced on between the emotional and the reasonable. He rounded the table, marching towards her. Karai shrank back. The look on his must have been murderous for Michelangelo jumped in front of him, hands out, placating and pleading.

"Donnie . . . please, just. Just help Leo right now, okay?"

Donatello stared at him, flat eyes filled with rage bouncing between his brother's pleading gaze. Michelangelo held his breath and then as he turned away, Mikey sniffed once, hard. He shuffled backwards and sat on the edge of the cot, trembling and unable to stop his shivering. He felt her fingers clawing at his own and he jumped. But their fingers intertwined, sweaty palms braced against one another and he looked at her and she mouth the words, 'sorry' to him.

He wanted to say she had nothing to be apologizing for. None of this was her fault. She wasn't the one who'd done this to Leonardo. She wasn't the one that took him out from his home and turned him over to the Shredder. But the words clung to the back of his throat and formed a lump that he could not expel nor swallow back.

Raphael flung his arm free of Master Splinter's hand. He rounded on his father and met the hard amber gaze with his own furious green.

Master Splinter's voice was low, part growl, "You will not disrespect me again, Raphael."

Raphael raised a shaking finger up at his father's face, but the wrist was caught, twisted and forced around to the back of his shell as his feet were kicked out from under him. His face was shoved into the floor with a grunt. Splinter pinned his back with one knee. Raph snarled and squirmed, but he was held in such a way that all the struggling only caused him more pain.

"I do not expect you to understand why I did what I did," Splinter's voice was in his ear, seething and furious, a tone that Raphael had never heard from him before. A sliver of fear ran through him. He clenched his jaw and pinched his eyes shut. He stopped struggling. To his horror a small whimper broke from his throat. "You are but a child. You have no idea what it means to lose everything you hold dear in a moment. You have no idea what it is like to discover a child you thought long dead was actually alive and within reach. You have no idea what it means to a father to regain a lost child."

"I know what it's like to have a b-brother taken away," his breath hitched and filled with tears, making it thick and distorted. "You betrayed Leo for someone . . . someone who's not even family," Raph spoke into the carpet beneath his cheek. Each word full of hurt and accusation.

Splinter released him. He sat up and turned around on his bottom to face his crouching father. Splinter looked at his son's face so filled with hurt and anger, then dropped his gaze to the floor. Raphael would never understand. None of them would. He barely understood it himself. All he knew was that he had to save her. He had to. He rested a hand over his brow, bracing one elbow on a bent knee as he sat fully down. His initial anger at Raphael's outburst and disrespectful behavior was already waning leaving him exhausted and emptied out. Every muscle, every bone was leaden and limp.

He did not blame his son for his response to Leonardo's injuries, he himself, was still struggling to accept what he'd seen with his own eyes. His son. His arm. The fact of where they had found him. And yet, still his denial worked like a poison worm through his logic and he wondered how Leonardo could have avoided what happened. He'd need to know. He'd need to address it with his son. Get to the bottom of where it had gone wrong. Because it had gone terribly wrong. He was supposed to be handed over to the Shredder and rescued a mere twenty-four hours later. If he'd behaved and acted appropriately, then the Shredder should have had no reason to punish him.

They had an honor-bound agreement. No harm. No harm was to befall either child. It was to be an even swap under that guarantee. For a brief second, he wondered if somehow the Shredder had seen through his duplicity and figured out that he was going to rescue his son back despite the agreement. Despite the honor of the signed contract. But he dismissed it. No, he was sure that the fault lay not in his plan but somewhere between Leonardo's arrival at the Foot headquarters and his rescue. Even as he placed the blame squarely on his injured son's shoulders, he felt his heart twist and stomach churn.

How did this all go so wrong? How could he have predicted this? It was so simple in his mind. A brief deviation of their lives to recapture something more precious than any of his adopted children could ever understand. They'd be angry. Yes, of course they would be. They'd be hurt. He knew this, accepted it and had rehearsed everything he would explain to them once Leonardo was home again. How he would smooth it over and make them see that it was a momentary burden to bear, nothing more. That he'd never truly betrayed Leonardo or any of them. That he could never do such a thing to his children that he loved so deeply. Almost as much as if they'd been his own flesh and blood. He'd planned everything so carefully in the weeks of meeting with the Shredder, in the long hours of the night when he wrestled with the possibilities of having his daughter back, having the second chance at knowing her, knowing how Tang Shen carried on in her, his love, and the fact that the transaction would cause pain to his sons.

But he trusted in Leonardo. He trusted in his eldest son to be smart enough to understand, once it was all said and done; to be strong enough to carry such a responsibility as he had in the past as the leader. To bear the burden of acting as sacrificial lamb for the greater good. Their family becoming whole. Because . . . once he'd rescued Leonardo, it would all be made clear. All his reasoning, all the planning. Leonardo, with his keen mind would grasp it and comprehend it. He would understand how he served the clan's best interest and it would be a source of pride for him to keep always in his heart. How he'd come to his father's aid, how he helped rescue his Master's lost child by enduring a short period of time under the false belief of betrayal and abandonment. All the gratitude and pride would be bestowed upon his son for enduring the seeming betrayal and acting appropriately, dutifully, by carrying the responsibility of the burden as befitting an honorable warrior. It was going to be a triumph of planning, loyalty and devotion. Instead it was complete failure. In every sense of the word. He had failed his son, but his son had failed, as well. If he'd only . . . if there was only some way to have known . . .

Splinter raked his fingers over his face. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He was to be unharmed. And though Splinter knew that there'd most likely be some violence towards him by the soldiers and even possibly by the Shredder, himself, he never imagined to what extent that violence might rise. He believed the lie because he needed to. It was the only way he could carry out this exchange. He chose to believe the lie and turn a blind eye to the truth in order to regain his daughter. He never thought it would go so far. He never thought the price could be so very high. His son's battered body, his son's disfigurement, his son's innocence.

Splinter clenched his eyes and pressed his claws into his forehead. A choked sob broke free before he could smother it. He couldn't be weak now. They all needed him to pull the family back together. Once again, Splinter had to singularly stitch the fragments of his life and everything that he held dear back together from the scattered remains of devastation.

"You know what really sucks?" Raphael asked as his bottom lip quivered and rubbed his aching wrist and arm.

Splinter gazed up at him. His eyes spilled forth his pain that might have been blood as much as tears. Spilling out all his sorrow and regret. And yet. His resolve to regain what belonged to him remained firmly in place. The Shredder had taken her from him, stolen away years of a life that should have been. It was within his right to reclaim her. He just needed his sons to forgive him for this, this terrible mistake. He needed some time to reconstruct his family from the rubble of these ruins before him.

"She doesn't even care about you," he finished with a break in his voice.

Splinter considered this. In an even voice that belied the torture he felt within he replied, "That does not matter. She is my daughter."

Raphael scooted away from him, heels digging into the floor. His face was a mask of betrayed anguish. "W-Well, Leo's your son," he spat and jumped to his feet.

He ran around Splinter to his room where the door slammed shut. Behind the door, Raphael braced himself as hard as he could, chest heaving, feeling the sting of tears spilling free. He lurched forward and turned his radio on, throwing the headphones up on top of his head, tuning the sound up as high as he could without making his ears bleed. He had to drown out the voice that was telling him that Splinter valued Karai as a daughter over the sorry excuse of freaks for sons that he'd been stuck with the last fifteen years. But the sobs broke free and he buried his face into his pillow and screamed.

Later Donatello finished cleaning up the bits and pieces of first aid materials, washing his hands, and covering his still sleeping brother with a light clean cotton blanket, he stooped to retrieve the quilt they had bundled his brother in from the Shredder's chambers. Michelangelo had left and Karai lay facing the wall. Not moving. A part of him wished she'd somehow died laying there and not for the first time he wanted to do something to her. Something violent. But he just stood there, clutching the vile blanket in his fists before he snapped out of his hazy delirium of fury and left the room before he did something out of character and something he'd regret. Because his logical side continued to reassert that it was not the girl's fault. But to turn blame where it belonged was too frightening. And none of it made sense. How could his father not have seen this as a possible outcome? Were they all that naïve and trusting to think that this madman was not capable of doing something as base as molestation or . . . rape?

He felt hollow as he stepped out into the living room, listening to Michelangelo crying softly and Splinter reassuring him that they would all get past this. Out of the corner of his eye, he just saw them moving into an embrace and something like a sneering bitterness crept along the edge of his reason. It stunned him, this sudden derision towards comfort, this cold spot inside him that was freezing him slowly from the inside out, numbing him as it splintered through his organs and limbs, chilling his heart and making his footsteps heavy and dull. He continued on his way.

He moved to the room behind their bedrooms, to the large metal contraption that served as something like a furnace that he and Master Splinter had rigged to bring heat into the main area of the lair and their rooms. He bunched the blanket up in his arms and held his breath as he brought it up to the open panel, doing his best to block out the scent of blood and sex that the material reeked of. He shoved it in with both hands, a short wordless shout of hatred burst from him as he did. The fabric caught quickly and began to blacken and burn. The heat increased but it wasn't enough to warm the wintry expanse spreading inside of him. The smell intensified and Donatello slammed the panel back into place, then stumbled back to crouch on his haunches, arms wrapped around his knees.

His shoulders bounced as the fire consumed the evidence of Leonardo's sexual assault, he felt the tears, but his fingertips lingered over his mouth, surprise raced through him as he discovered his lips were turned up in a smile. His strange mix of giddy laughter and bubbling sobbing erupted through his fingers. He pressed both hands to his mouth but couldn't stop.

It was all so ridiculous. It was all so futile. They were all so . . . so stupid. Master Splinter for letting his baby girl get taken in the first place, the Shredder for giving up his supposed daughter so easily, like she was a commodity to trade, Splinter again for accepting the offer so graciously; Leo for not standing up for himself; for just going along with it; without question; without a fight; the laughter erupted harder from him and the center of his chest squeezed with a frightening tightness, he was laughing so hard, he couldn't breathe. Then Splinter's face when they found him on the bed like that . . . used. His body all cut up like that, cut to ribbons, his private parts hanging out so pathetically, then finding out about his arm.

"He raped you and cut off your arm, Leo!" Donatello's voice shouted in the quiet of the room.

Panting, he covered his mouth, the laughter died, abruptly cut off like someone had turned off a switch. His stomach roiled and he bent over and was sick all over the floor between his splayed knees. He braced himself up by his hands, palms pressing hard against the cool concrete bordering the spreading pool of his stomach contents. His abdomen seized and he gagged, spilling out nothing but bile; retching again, there was nothing more to give, but he heaved and heaved until, shaking, he wiped his dripping bottom lip and fell to one side, curling and rolling away from the mess. Not moving after that, staring at the air in front of his face, dry-eyed and still. His heartbeat counting seconds in the back of his blank mind.

Michelangelo jumped in Splinter's arms as he thought he heard Donatello's scream something. Splinter stiffened but did not let go. It was almost as if he needed the tender physical contact as much as Mikey did. Mikey pulled away, though and took one step away. Splinter's hand on his arm made him pause. He looked up at his father. He beloved father, whom he already forgave. Who he was so terribly frightened for and of. For he turned Leonardo over to their enemy so easily it seemed. Any one of them might be next. But even as that terror slid through him, he put on a brave smile, determined to not give in and believe the worst of his fears. Just the look in his father's eyes told him that Splinter was in pain. Almost as much as anyone else at the moment. He patted the hand on his arm, reassuringly and Splinter's expression softened. Mikey was happy to help him.

"Give him some space, Michelangelo. He just finished repairing your brother's wounds. I'm sure he is exhausted and spent. As we all are."

"Okay."

Splinter moved and pulled out a chair. He sat heavily into it. Mikey wiped at his eyes; crossed the kitchen and took the kettle off the burner and poured himself and his father a cup of tea. He set it down in front of Splinter who nodded his silent thanks, as he sat down next to him. He really wanted to go to Donatello, knowing that his pensive older brother never was one to act out or raise his voice unless really, really upset. But he was split in two. His father needed him, as well.

"Master Splinter?" Mikey asked tentatively. "You okay?"

The look on his father's face was so withered and drained that Mikey's throat reflexively swallowed. In that moment, he feared his dad was about to keel over from a stroke or a heart attack or something. He didn't think he could handle that on top of the stress that was going on around him. A tremor went through him as he pulled together his strength. He was glad that he decided to stay with his dad. He'd help Donnie later. A need to fill the silence between them had Michelangelo shifting in his seat.

"Why do you think they did that to him?" he asked. Now that he was speaking, it was as if he couldn't stop. "I mean, his arm . . . do you think maybe, he fought them? Maybe he was fighting the Shredder? That's probably why he was all sliced up like that. But why did they patch his arm up like that? Why bother if they were just going to hurt him more? Will Leo still be able to . . . train and stuff? With only one arm?"

Splinter reached out and placed a hand on top of Mikey's, stilling further questions. It was hard to do, but he pressed his mouth into a tight line to keep quiet. Master Splinter nodded.

"There have been great warriors in the past who only had one arm."

"Really?"

The childlike hope that sprang into his son's eyes at that comment made him cringe and hate himself even more than he already did. He ran a hand over his face. He wanted to recall the famed warrior's name, but came up with nothing; his mind a jumbled mess of scattered fears and broken thoughts. He would have to have Donatello look him up in one of their books on ancient Japan or the internet . . .

"Th-That's cool. I bet Leo would like to hear that . . . once he wakes up. That he doesn't have to stop training and stuff. And that he can still be a ninja hero, you know?" He looked desperately into his father's eyes, hoping for some kind of assurance. "That stuff's important to Leo. N-Not being a hero. I don't mean to say that Leo only cares about being a hero. Well, yeah, he does. But I mean, I-I mean . . ."

Splinter squeezed his hand.

"What Raph said in there . . ."

Splinter stiffened, freezing in place. Michelangelo kept his gaze carefully trained on the tea cup in front of him.

His voice dropped to a whisper, "You didn't really say that, did you? About it being Leo's fault that he was . . . he was . . ."

Mikey couldn't form the word. He barely understood what it meant, but knew it was BAD. He'd heard the term before on t.v. and in many of the dramas that he'd sometimes watch out of boredom when there wasn't anything actually interesting on television to see. It always involved dark alleys and quick cut-always of women being dragged off somewhere and then lawyers talking in hushed tones. But Raph had said the word in regards to what had happened to Leo. Splinter removed his hand from Michelangelo's and he felt the absence of the warm presence like a stinging slap.

He got up and moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a baggie with a sandwich and a small bottle of water. He turned away from Mikey without another word and moved towards the lab. Mikey sat there, wondering why Splinter was bringing Leonardo a sandwich when he knew Leo was still unconscious. Only realizing after a moment that the food was for Karai. His stomach did a strange flip flop and he felt like he was going to cry, only nothing came out of him. Nothing at all.

A/N: So, maybe you can see how each boy is handling this all and how it is already shaping them into the people they will become. Hardened and angry, cold and clinical, frantically superficial, almost shallow in turning away from deeper pain - hiding from it in the haze of feigned happiness... what will be the key to bringing them all back from the brink of collapse?

How much can strength be tested before it shatters beneath the weight?