No one understands how Raph feels right now, but if he said so, no one would believe him. He spent seven out of the past ten years yelling about it, out loud and inside his head, and if he has to hear Donnie say yeah, sure, Raph, whatever you say one more time, or watch Mikey nod, wide-eyed and not paying attention, he'll scream.
It was never true — he and his brothers understand each other too well, because that's what happens when you grow up knowing three heartbeats as well as your own — until Slash. The mutagen may have unleashed Slash, but Raph made him, like he'd built Slash with his own two hands. It's no surprise that Slash came out the way he did, when Raph poured the worst of himself and the worst of his brothers into Slash's — Spike's — ears.
He'd been dumb enough to think Slash was dead, cleaned out with the rest of the garbage after Shredder died. Now look where that's got him. Slash is alive, Slash is working with the Boar, and no one, no one, isn't thinking about how Slash knew exactly where to hit them all.
Donnie rubs his left arm, eyes far away, and Raph sees him at sixteen years old, all sarcasm and skinny arms and legs, left on a roof like garbage. Like a message: it's so easy to take them out, because you taught me how.
They're older now, and their moves are different, but they're still them, and Raph would still know their heartbeats in the dark from a mile away, but Slash knows all that too. And who knows what the hell he's learned, those seven years he'd been sleeping?
And Leo wanted him to walk away. Turn his back on Slash and walk away, with that mess still spread all over the street and blood covering Leo's arm like bruises had covered Mikey and Donnie's faces. Maybe Raph hasn't grown up at all, because he screamed at Leo, and still wants to scream, about turning their backs on a fight — but it's about Raph turning his back on what he left unfinished.
No, on what he started.
"Let it go, Raph," Leo warned. "We got out alive. That's enough for now. We can —"
"We can what? Figure out how we'll run away next time?" He shoved into Leo's face. His brother might be taller but pound for pound Raph still matched him, and he could take Leo. He could beat that look off Leo's face, then go find Slash, and beat him until — until —
Until Raph doesn't have to feel like this, like there's fire in his gut, like it's all his fault.
"Raph —" Leo put his hand on Raph's shoulder. "I'm sorry."
Hit him, Raph told himself. Do it, he deserves it. Then he'll hit you back, and you'll deserve that. You'll be even.
He hit the shelter's wall instead, over and over, until his knuckles bled.
His knuckles are bleeding again, but he hits this wall over and over too, waiting for something to give.
"Raph."
Casey tugs him away from the wall, muttering quietly, but it's Leo's voice that Raph hears.
"Raph, come on. We need you."
No, you don't, Raph yells silently. You don't. The Boar said —
Now he's scared, because he never thought about it, never could put words to it, but the Boar is right: they don't need him. He's just the angry one, the muscle, the extra heartbeat. If his stopped, they would keep going, wouldn't they? So he should have stayed to fight Slash, and let the rest of them get away, right?
Right?
"Don't let it get into your head," Leo says. "Listen to me now, Raph. Listen."
Raph tightens his fists. "Whatever," he says.
What he means is Okay, because he trusts his brothers more than he trusts himself, and he knows Leo understands. Raph's not ever going to want to talk about how he knows, but he does. Leo gives him a quick nod, some of the tightness around his eyes loosening, before he looks back at Donnie.
"It's not about keeping secrets," Leo says. Donnie cuts him off with a dry, nasty laugh that prickles all along the inside of Raph's shell, but Leo waits it out, his face blank, until Donnie's done.
Just this once, Donnie, Raph thinks, you could not be a grade-a dick about being right. But then he wouldn't be Donnie, and besides, Raph figures that just this once, Donnie's earned the right to be a dick. It's not right that Leo made Raph leave before he cleaned up his mess, and it's not right he let Donnie come unglued like that. Leo doesn't let things get this bad. So why'd he do it this time? Why was Raph the one to chase Donnie down? Why'd he have to do Leo's job for him? Now he has to watch the fallout, and hope the lair's still in one piece at the end of it. At least when he and Leo fight, it's just noise; they might get bruised, but that's it. They don't tear each other apart on the inside, where it counts.
Raph figures there's a sixty percent chance that Donnie will try to set Leo off anyways, because Donnie can be a vindictive little shit, but as soon as Donnie opens his mouth, he shuts it. He frowns at Leo instead, cupping his chin in his hand.
"You said don't let it get into your head," he says. "I thought it was just me but — maybe that's its game. Get in our heads, mess around with whatever it finds." He gives Leo a cool, assessing look, and Raph steps his mental alert level down to orange. Donnie might be looking at Leo like he's a science project, but it's better than what Raph expected.
"Dude, it sent Karai," Mikey interjects, letting out a blustery sigh as he boosts himself onto the counter. "It doesn't need to get into Leo's head. Uh, sorry, dude."
Leo waves away the apology, eyes narrowed. "You have a point, Donnie?"
"Not a point, but…a speculation." Donnie rubs the back of his head. "I can't believe I was so slow on this — sloppy, so sloppy — but it had a plan of attack long before we knew it was here."
"Go on." Leo sits down, and leans against the table. Raph lets himself relax, as his anger fades into a distant background hum. Now he can press a little closer into Casey's uninjured side, and steal some of his body heat. Casey lets him, smirking without glancing at Raph. "But wait — how is that a surprise? It had Rahzar, and Karai — not to mention whatever Slash told it before he went to sleep."
"It's not a surprise. At least, it shouldn't have been. Stupid, stupid." Donnie starts pacing, wincing and rubbing at his bandages absently as he lopes across the kitchen. "Let's go back to the beginning. To the — to the roof." His steps stutter briefly, and Raph may be shit with emotions but he knows Donnie, and there's no way Donnie isn't thinking about that jump, and the run to the hospital. Donnie recovers a second later and keeps moving. "We hadn't seen action on those docks for years. Then, out of nowhere, movement. And on the night when Casey and April were doing recon alone, a weapons shipment? With Rahzar overseeing it?"
Leo sits up straight as Mikey lets out a low whistle, and Raph's gut freezes over. "Let me get this straight," Raph says, shrugging off Casey's arm and propping his knuckles on the table, relishing the sting. "You're saying it was all planned?"
"Think about it, Raph," says Leo. He's staring at Donnie, blue eyes bright. They're not in sync, but the fight's been tabled for the moment while they're both distracted by their mutual brainwave. "The six of us hadn't patrolled together in years. Nothing big enough to warrant it."
"But Rahzar, and a weapons shipment…"
"And we all came running." Leo sighs. "Like good little soldiers."
"Yeah, but if that was the plan, it wasn't a very good one." Mikey kicks the cabinet with his heel. Over Raph's shoulder, Casey makes a light noise of agreement. "Like, we took out Rahzar. End of the line, partner."
"Sometimes," Usagi says slowly, the first time he's spoken in what feels like hours to Raph. Something in his voice twists in Raph's ears, "you sacrifice a valuable piece to find out how your opponent plays the game."
"But what about April?" Casey breaks in, shoving Raph out of the way to make room at the table. "What was that? Why did she…"
"A test," Donnie says, in the same slow voice. He smiles, a hard, grim smile. "Her powers…she could have sensed what Rahzar was going to do. She should have been able to, but something stopped her."
The unpleasant thought that the Boar planned all of that — the attack, the fall — just to make sure April was out of the way hits Raph the same time it hits Mikey and Casey, and he sees his own horror on their faces.
"We came rushing in, just like it expected," says Leo. "And it sat back and watched us, and learned, and —"
"Uh-uh," says Casey. "Some creepy pig ain't watchin' us and learnin' all our moves. Fuck that noise."
The ain't only shows up when Casey's ready to blow and trying his hardest not to. Now it's Raph's turn to throw an arm around Casey's shoulders and pull him back to the table. "Chill out, Case," he hisses, not caring who sees him pull Casey's forehead down to his. "Don't lose it now."
"Don't tell me not to lose it!" Casey yells. "I got — this is messed up, you guys. Like, we can handle the Kraang and the Foot, but this? What the fuck."
"I think it's been watching us for a long time," says Donnie, ignoring Casey frothing at the mouth just a few feet away. "And I think…I think it's been in our heads, too." He takes a deep breath, and Raph thinks No, Donnie, don't say it, man, just in time for Donnie to open his mouth and say it anyways.
"I mean, why else wouldn't you have straightened me out, Leo?" he says, in as gentle a voice as Raph's ever heard him use. He shrugs down into his shell, all apologetic, and Raph knows that if he was ever pissed at Leo about this, that's long gone. Now Donnie's just sad, resigned to being left out in the cold. "Any other time, you'd have hauled my shell back here the second I took off on my own. So why not this time?"
Leo blinks at Donnie, his mouth working like one of the stupid koi in the pond out back, and for a second Raph thinks Leo's about to be sick.
"I was…lazy," Leo chokes out. "I got used to — we were looking — no."
"It's not like you, Leo," Donnie says, still gentle, and Raph wants to shut him up, but he can't. No more secrets, nothing held back. "I'm not…I'm not mad. I mean, I don't have the right. If it kept you from coming after me, it kept me out of where I was supposed to be." His mouth twists and he looks at his hands.
Raph would slap Donnie out of his kicked-dog routine if a thick, slimy dread hadn't started to crawl up his spine. In his head. It's sick and the Boar is deader than dead if Raph ever gets his hands on it — but before his temper takes over, he remembers the massive shape in the lair, pacing slowly toward Donnie's lab.
"Aw, god," he says quietly, his stomach knotting into a greasy ball.
No one talks after that, until Mikey's foot slips and bangs against the cabinet door. Everyone's heads snap to him, and he ducks his head, laughing like a little kid.
"So, uh…good thing it didn't count on Raph getting stuff done, huh?"
Raph grits his teeth. The last thing any of them need right now is to be on the business end of Mikey's sense of humor, and he's ready to say so, only with much shorter words, but then he sees how Leo and Donnie are looking at him.
"What're you looking at?" he snaps.
"Good thing it didn't count on you, Raph," says Leo, smiling a little. "Because who would have thought that you'd be the one to go after Donnie?"
"Not me," Donnie blurts out. "Wait, I didn't mean — well, I did, but —"
"Have fun getting that foot out of your mouth, Donster," Casey says, then cackles, his anger burned off as quickly as it ignited.
"Are we done yet?" Raph yells above everyone. "Great, so I went after Donnie. Big deal. Who cares? It had to be done."
"But don't you see?" Donnie leans toward him over the table, poking a finger at his plastron. "You came. The Boar counted on it being Leo, as usual, so that's what it stopped. Fault lines," he says, pushing away from the table and pacing again. "Enough pressure on the right point, and —"
"Snap," says Leo, nodding along, like any of what Donnie's saying makes sense. Raph wishes they'd go back to almost-fighting. "We break, and we're easy pickings."
"Like a predator cutting one animal off from the herd," Usagi adds, helpfully. Raph rolls his eyes. Donnie and Leo are bad enough, he doesn't need the samurai bunny to start with all the doom talk too.
"Exactly." Leo nods at Usagi. "It's checking for weak points, trying to get us alone." He pauses before swiveling on his stool to face Donnie. "To get you alone," he says. "It probably already knew what you — who you are. What you'll do. And we played right into it. I did." Leo shudders.
"I thought it was me," he says, after a short silence. "My decision." He shudders again, a full-body, wracking twist that has Raph reaching out before he knows what he's doing. Leo goes still under his hand, and gives him a short, grateful glance. "I'm sorry, Donnie." When he looks up, he looks a hundred years old. "I should have known. I should have gone after you."
Donnie starts to shake his head. This is how Donnie handles the apologies he really deserves, and it kills Raph to see it even as he wants to pound it into Donnie's head that he can just accept this, and move on: No, no, you're fine, it's probably my fault anyways, I didn't fix it.
Over and over, for twenty-five years. Raph is tired of it.
"Don't," he says to Donnie, "even think about it. I'm sorry I didn't go sooner."
Donnie stares at him, wide-eyed, until Mikey clears his throat. "I…yeah, I'm sorry too, D," he says. "We all kinda screwed you on this one."
"I don't…" Donnie's doing his own koi impression now, and Raph's not so touchy-feely that he'll hold back on laughing at how dumb Donnie looks. "I don't know what to say, you guys. It's…" He stops himself, huffing. "Thank you," he says. The words come out too sincere, like everything else about Donnie, and Raph has to end this moment before they all start hugging and crying and painting each other's nails.
"So if we're done with the feelings hour, can we get started on a plan?" he asks.
"Step one," says Mikey. "Don't let Miss Piggy get into our heads anymore."
"Don't call it that," Leo and Donnie say in unison. There's a muffled snort from Usagi's corner of the room, and while Raph's busy trying to process that Usagi actually does, in fact, laugh, Donnie beams at them.
"Well, if someone wants to get Splinter up," he says. "I've got a plan — well, technically, April and I have a plan, but — wait, where's April?"
Ten years ago, April wouldn't have worried about sending a text. She'd have gone running, without a second thought, confident she could take care of herself, no matter how many times experience had proved her wrong.
She misses that sweet arrogance. That April disappeared a long time ago, but the long process of her vanishing began when her mother died, or maybe even earlier, when the Kraang first meddled with her life.
Or maybe before that, when they first set foot on Earth. Maybe April's never been anything at all, a genetic sport and not really a person.
April sighs, and gives herself a shake. New York subways aren't ideal places to have existential crises, even when you're not on your way to meet a god. She still needs to text Donnie about her sudden vanishing act, even though she knows no text is going to head off the inevitable freak-out. Hi, Donnie. I know you're already worrying about everything ever, but I decided to go topside on my own and hang out with the Black Bull. At least I hope it's the Black Bull. Fun times! Don't wait on me for dinner.
She lets out a bitter laugh that makes the people around her shift away, then heads toward the turnstiles. Good thing she has her MetroCard tucked into her phone case; for all the girl's urgency, the Bull didn't seem too concerned about how April got there.
By the time she gets on her train and finds a seat, she's already considered turning around twice. This is, without a doubt, the dumbest thing she's ever done, and that includes trying to take on Karai by herself and sneaking into TCRI. She left the lair, without telling anyone where she'd gone, and on the word of some kid she didn't even know. What the hell was she thinking?
She wasn't. She was too busy acting like she was sixteen again, back when her father was gone and her only friends were mutants and — well, nothing'ss really changed but her age. Her father's gone, and her best friends are the turtles. And this is how she repays that friendship.
That kid said the Bull could help my dad. And Donnie. I couldn't stay. I had to do something. She clenches her hands on the edge of her seat and closes her eyes. For once, she's glad her powers are gone, and she doesn't have to deal with the insistent press of a carful of emotions that don't belong to her. She hasn't been aboveground in a week, and she's not sure if it's misanthropy or agoraphobia that has her cringing away from everyone around her.
Or maybe this is guilt, and she's so selfish that she has no idea how to process it.
She still hasn't texted Donnie.
Hey, Donnie. I'm sorry. I had to go. This is how I can help.
Better, but it's still selfish, more about her than him, and the pain she's causing him. After last night's warm, hazy intimacy, the enormity of what she just did galls her. She left Donnie, without a word. No matter what her reasons are — and she's smart enough to know her reasons are shit — he's going to take this one way. There's no way she can take that back.
I fucked up, she thinks. Oh god, I fucked it all up already. Fuck.
Her fingers tighten on her phone until her knuckles ache, then she lets out a long breath. The truth is, she came because she believes, and because she's never done well with sitting out a fight — and yes, because she's the only one they can afford to lose.
Wow, pessimistic, April. She takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly as the train slows to a stop. Whatever's happening, you'll figure a way out. Now figure out what to say to Donnie.
April opens her eyes and stares down at the blank message box. Her seatmate shifts to let someone pass, then they stand too and shuffle toward the door.
Donnie, April types. Her fingers still over the display, as something nudges her awareness. Not her empathy, but her hearing — Splinter didn't let her other five senses atrophy, and Leo hasn't either. They pushed her hard, honing her situational awareness, and the people leaving the train are too quiet. No one's talking or shoving. They're all just moving silently toward the doors in long, orderly lines.
More importantly, no one's pushing to get on the train either.
April shoves her phone into her pocket and stands, careful to keep her movements slow and unworried. She needs to get to a safe distance and assess. If it comes down to it, she could run maybe three blocks before her leg gave her serious trouble — if she needs to fight, she won't be able to run at all.
Something gathers behind her, a vast shape taller and wider than the train car, heavy and slow and old, so old it makes April's skin crawl.
For once in your life, April, she tells herself, as the doors of the train car slide shut and the lights go out, don't turn around.
"Sit down, April."
The voice is ordinary, pleasant, reasonable, a sixth-grade teacher's voice, nothing special about it at all. Except, of course, that the voice isn't coming from a mouth.
She sinks down into a seat, her hands wrapped around a pole. "I really hope you're friendly," she says, breathlessly. Her heart thuds in her chest, a laboring, painful beat, and suddenly she aches, every scar on her body hurts, even the ones more than twenty years old. "I'm going to feel really stupid if you're not."
A dry noise fills the car. It takes April a minute to separate herself from her body's reactions — sweaty palms, dry mouth, a shiver building deep in her belly — and realize that whatever's behind her is laughing.
"I'm going to take that as a good sign," she says. With a massive effort of will — look at me, Leo, look at my self-control — she peels her hands from around the pole and settles them in her lap. The movement sends a ripple of pain through her, even her oldest scars flaring brightly, as if the injuries they healed from were new again.
"As you should," says that plain, unremarkable voice, with an undeniable note of amusement running through it. April feels the presence rise up behind her, a great shift that makes the car rock on its rails, and then a quiet footstep grits on the dirty floor behind her. Her instincts scream at her to run, to shove herself through the glass if that's what it will take to get away, but she keeps still, the blood roaring in her ears, as the footsteps reach her seat.
"May I?"
Amazing, how different a voice sounds when it comes out of a throat and mouth, with a set of teeth and a tongue to shape it. April nods, still forcing herself not to look, but fails at holding back a shudder when a weight settles on the seat beside her. From the edge of her vision, she sees a small flicker of movement, and then the train rumbles into motion, speeding up as it leaves the station and plunges into the dimly-lit tunnels.
"It's probably a little late for me to ask this question," she says. "But how am I supposed to know you're the Bull?"
"Never too late," says her new seatmate, settling back comfortably. "The answer is quite simple. Your pain."
"My what?"
"I apologize for the discomfort," comes the sideways reply. "It is…a condition of our being. You are mortal, and we are not…safe, for you. The body knows, when the mind does not."
"But the Boar —"
The dry laugh fills the car again. "It would not be in the Boar's best interest to cause pain to its potential servants. As for me…well, I prefer a certain transparency. It does hurt, it will hurt." Another laugh. "It will pass, in time."
April has no answer to that. She has no idea if it's true, or a carefully constructed lie, and she doubts her empathy would help her figure it out even if she still had it.
"I thought…" April's voice fails her, crumbling away into nothing before disappearing completely under the clatter and roar of the train. She swallows as best she can with her throat blasted dry, and unclenches her hands to lay them flat on her lap. "I thought you wanted me to go to the athletic fields," she says, talking too fast and not caring — anything to get the words out, anything to make this normal. "We've got another ten stops to go."
"A small subterfuge," says the creature sitting beside her. It shifts slightly, its hip bumping her in a rustle of soft fabric. April flinches away. "I trusted my messenger, but your home is no longer safe. It has already been…" The creature makes a short, impatient sound. "Tainted," it says at last. "The Boar's hoof is already stamped upon it."
April licks her lips. "A subterfuge," she says, aware in a faraway part of her mind that any step she takes might be the wrong one. "You mean a lie."
The creature shrugs. "If you like. But for a few moments, the Boar's eyes are elsewhere, and we may talk. And I have very much wanted to meet you. Such an incredible creation."
She flinches again, not in disgust or from the pain still radiating through her scars, but as an old, old sadness rises in her. "Yeah," she says, her voice bitter and cold. "That's me. The great experiment. I am April, destroyer of worlds."
"You were designed, yes, and you were used. But that is not all you are. You have been made more."
"Made more." April laughs. Her voice echoes over the train's rattle, too loud and too bright. "The Kraang didn't — I haven't changed. I'm just me, just…" Her gaze falls on her hands, and the edges of the marks still staining her palms.
"Pretty," says Casey, his eyes still closed. "Pretty, pretty, pretty."
"No!" April tries to shout, but her voice is lost. Instead, she raises her hand, her five fingers spread wide, and snaps them closed into a fist.
She doesn't know why she does it; there's no instinct or silent instruction telling her what to do, but as soon as she feels her hand clench, Casey's mouth snaps shut, and the words are gone.
"No," she whispers, her stomach plummeting. This is worse than being eaten, worse than Donnie's worry or the guilt at leaving him, worse than her father going so far away she can't bring him back. This is white tiles and needles in her skull and metallic voices laughing as she cries and screams. This is the same as always, her body on the operating table and her brain split open and toyed with, and it shouldn't be possible for a heart to break so many times. It shouldn't, it can't be possible, but there it is, one more fracture, one more faultline, because she's been changed again and —
"You bastard," she hisses, her throat burning and her eyes pricking. "What did you do to me?"
The Bull shifts. "What was necessary," it says, after a brief hesitation. "April —"
"No. Don't — don't try to explain, you changed me." She stands up, her anger and pain making her sluggish, and fights her way against the inertia and toward the door. "That night in Donnie's room," she says. "It happened then, didn't it? After I saw —"
"Yes." There's no contrition or apology in the Bull's voice now. "It had to be done. I expect no forgiveness."
"Good!" April shouts, her control breaking. She spins around, her marked hands clasped at her chest. The Bull watches her, its pale face a smudge in the low light. "You all — you all take, and take, and it's fine, because I'm just one more experiment, even now!" She takes in a deep breath, and pushes past the instinct telling her to stop, to stop screaming at the god she's trapped with. She doesn't care. It changed her, and she's still never going to be whole.
The anger swells inside her, until every nerve feels blistered and raw. This isn't anything more or less than what the story promised — the Boar gives, and the Bull takes — but she never thought the story would touch her like this, and leave one more mark on her body.
"You bastard," she says again, her voice breaking. God, she's going to cry, and that makes it worse; she can't even stay angry enough to avoid tears. "Why me? Because it was easy to change me? What did you do to me?"
"April," says the Bull, its voice inches away. She can feel its breath on her face and neck, a thick, hay-scented fug, and she reels away, flailing with both arms. There's nowhere to run on this dark, speeding train, but she tries. She turns her flail into a spin, every scar shrieking as she moves, and just pushes off the balls of her feet when the Bull's arm fastens around her elbow. "Please, April, listen."
"No!" Her voice is a howl, and she rounds on the Bull, tears on her cheeks, almost spitting as she screams. "Don't touch me — don't fucking touch me!"
Again, there's no instinct, no internal urge. April just slams her free arm forward, fingers splayed, and screams as something pours out of her. It feels like an entire river is rushing out of the palm of her hand, a flood she never knew she carried inside her. The lights in the car go up and her pupils contract, one more note of pain, and the Bull's grip on her arm loosens as it stumbles backward down the aisle.
"Yes," it says, barely audible over the train's noises. "Good."
The train rounds a corner and April falls back against a set of chairs, her legs too weak to hold her up. She drops to the floor, too drained to care about dirt or trash, too bewildered to do more than stare at her hands.
I did that, she thinks numbly, then screams as an iron-hard pair of hands drags her to her feet.
"Do it again," orders the Bull, through white, crooked teeth. Its face is close enough now to make out details: weathered, sagging skin, a fringe of white hair just over its ears, and a concave slope where one side of its face used to be. "Again, April, there is no time."
"Let go of me!" she yells, trying to wrench herself out of its grip. "I'm not — let go!"
This time, she uses both hands, her fear and anger forgotten, because she can feel it now, the flood, pressure and heat and power rising through her from some hidden reservoir. When it leaves her body, the Bull flies back down the length of the car, skidding the last few feet on its back.
"Oh my god," says April, wobbling and light-headed, then sinks into a chair. She senses the place where the power lives, like a pocket universe hidden inside her chest. It flares when she pushes her mind toward it, a welcoming tendril reaching out to her, and she lets herself enjoy the contact for a brief moment.
By the time she comes back to herself, still a little dizzy but exhilarated, the Bull has risen, and walks toward her.
"What did you do to me?" she asks, with a sharp sting of betrayal as she hears the wonder in her own voice. She can't like what's been done to her. She can't.
The Bull stares at her for a long time, swaying with the motion of the train, its black eye shining like tar in the fluorescent lights. "You were powerful before," it says. With one crooked finger, it touches her forehead. April closes her eyes. "Now you are mighty."
She doesn't feel mighty; she feels small and used.
"Did I do that?" she asks, nodding at the Bull's broken face. She doesn't feel guilty, not after what it's done to her, but a part of her cringes away from the implications. If she could that much damage without trying, what could she do if she put some thought behind it?
That line of thought ends when the Bull lets out one of its dry chuckles. "No. That is from a battle that happened long before your time. But I applaud your confidence."
April flushes, the warmth in her cheeks barely noticeable against the heat burning low inside her. "Then what did I do?" she demands, her voice rising as the heat crests under her skin, then fades. "I pushed you around. So? That's not — wait." Somewhere between the first flood and the second, the pain disappeared. Her scars, even the newest, have gone back to sleep. "Wait, wait, wait," she murmurs, and tugs the collars of her sweater and shirt to the side. The ragged edges of her scar are still here, but they're pink, not blistered red, and long-healed.
"Holy shit." Now that she's paying attention, she can feel the heat most there, and at her thigh. If she could see that scar too, would it be just as healed as this one?
Yes. The answer is yes. She can fight again. She can help Donnie.
"I'm healing?" she asks, still staring at her old-new scar, marveling as the heat bleeds away completely and leaves only a faint, cinnamony tingle behind. No stiffness, no extra strain on the bones and muscles surrounding the scar. "Is this —"
"Think of it as a kind of entropy," says the Bull lightly. "Since I know how Donatello feels about magic."
April almost laughs, but a new thought catches her attention — a sweet, tantalizing thought. A healing factor is one thing, and she wants to sink her teeth into that, but —
"Can it…" April swallows, squeezing her eyes closed. She won't pray, not with a god standing in front of her and its finger touching her like a benediction, but she hopes. For Donnie. "Can I kill it?"
The pause before the Bull replies is all the answer she needs. "No," it says, ruefully. "But you can slow it down."
Yes. She can do that much.
Yes. She can do that much. It's nowhere near enough, but it's more than she had an hour ago, even if she doesn't know what her limits are. Or if she has limits. What she did to the Bull — that's just the beginning. "How do I do that? Are you going to teach me?" What she did to the Bull — that's just the beginning. "How do I do that? Are you going to teach me?"
"There is no time," says the Bull. "I must return you before the Boar's eye turns toward us."
"That's bullshit," she snaps, and yes, pun very much intended. "You can't just shove all this into me and leave me to figure it out. You —" She stops herself right before she says you owe me, because she's pretty sure that's the fastest way to a smiting, or whatever the Bull does.
"I can," says the Bull, all kindness dropping out of its voice. April feels her blood freeze, and her bones ache; forget the scars, this is pain she never thought she'd feel, like the Bull is aging her right out of her body. "You are an instrument, however gifted. Do not presume that I am inclined to be overly generous, simply because you are on my side." It grips her chin gently and lifts her head. "The body knows," it says. "Listen to yours."
April jerks her chin out of its hand, all giddiness gone. Now she's just pissed, same as she is whenever Leo tried to cut her out of missions. "Great advice," she says. "Are we done? Because this has pretty much been pointless, and if you're not going to tell me anything —"
"I will call for you and Donatello, when the work begins," the Bull interrupts. "Tell him…we will speak soon, he and I." It holds out a knobby hand, and April takes it warily, letting it pull her to her feet. The skin under her fingers is cool and dry. "By then, I expect you to have learned some respect. This is your stop."
"My stop?" April asks, turning her head and boggling at the sign outside the train. "But this isn't a circular route, how did you —"
The Bull is gone.
"Well," April says to the empty car. "Shit." When the doors open, she starts to shake, and can't stop.