Chapter 3

Leatherhead was more than willing to help Donatello run some tests, and insisted that he come over the day Donatello called. He agreed, but he drew the line when Leatherhead offered to carry all of his equipment over to the lair for testing. Donatello wasn't one to put people out, and he was worried that if they saw all the testing equipment, his family would start preparing a coffin.

Once he was there, Leatherhead got right down to business. The initial testing was a broad troubleshoot of any issues. He checked Donatello's heart rate and blood pressure, and analyzed his saliva, mucus, blood, urine, stool…if it could be extracted, they tested it. When the tests proved negative for common ailments, Leatherhead sat back in his chair, completely stumped. He pinched the bridge of his snout, closing his eyes as he ran through Donatello's symptoms again. Headaches, nausea, dizziness, fatigue, loss of appetite...they were common symptoms, all pointing to a mystery cause.

"We will need to do some further testing," Leatherhead finally said. He dropped his hand and stood from his chair, crossing to a large machine in the corner of the room. Donatello realized the tube-shaped machine was an Utrom version of an MRI scanner; flashier on the outside, but composed of the same parts. The machine was a walk-in, with a narrow metal door in the front.

"Step inside. I'll do a full body scan to check for any cysts or abnormalities. It should only take a few minutes." Donatello obeyed, barely flinching when the unfamiliar pink light broke across his skin, scanning him from top to bottom, then up each side. The scan was quick and painless, but the following wait was excruciating. It couldn't have been longer than a minute after Donatello stepped out of the machine, but he sucked on his lip the entire time, his fingers tapping in a constant pattern on the desktop.

When the images were complete, Leatherhead set to work, bent over his computer monitor in concentration. As he looked over the images on his computer screen, he frowned, his eyes narrowed as he tapped a few more keys. His shoulders coiled with tension when he reached the end of the page, his eyes flicking back up to the top of the screen.

"That can't be right," he mumbled, and without even acknowledging Donatello, he flipped open the large medical text on his desk. He muttered nonsense as he flicked through pages, seeking something in particular and totally unaware that Donatello was not two inches behind him. Donatello leaned over Leatherhead's shoulder as he consulted the text, analyzing the scan for whatever had thrown Leatherhead into his confused state. The images of his limbs and torso looked perfectly fine. He flicked up to the page with the close up of his head and felt his stomach drop.

There were three abnormal, ovular shapes dotting the front of his right hemisphere.

The colour must have completely drained from his face, because when Leatherhead looked back at him to speak, he grabbed Don's arm like he was expecting him to faint.

"Donatello, I don't understand…there must have been a mistake with the equipment, there is no way you could have…."

He trailed off, unable to say the word out loud. But the word came screeching into Donatello's mind, emerging from the unspoken fears that had danced around the edges of his consciousness since the beginning: Cancer.

The whirring machines filled the silence between them, and a fresh headache started to paw at Donatello's forehead in warning. Donatello staved off the assault, fighting to maintain his breathing even as his mind swirled in panic. Leatherhead was right, it shouldn't be possible. He was so young, he was in such good health…

But the scans didn't lie. The proof was staring him in the face.

It was then that Donatello registered the sniffles, and he snapped out of his panic. He looked down at Leatherhead, whose maw was tight in his effort to contain his tears. That didn't stop moisture from gathering at the corners of his eyes or the rogue sniffle that popped out.

"Hey, LH," Donatello said, rubbing circles into Leatherhead's shoulder much like his father had done to him not twenty four hours ago, "There's no need to get upset. We don't even know what kind of growth is going on in my brain; it's very possible that it is possible to remove."

Donatello's calmness seemed to affect Leatherhead, for he stopped sniffling immediately, straightening in his chair.

"You are right, my friend." Leatherhead wiped the tears from his eyes and stood tall, his chest puffed with purpose. His voice ringing with determination, Leatherhead said, "We will do a biopsy to diagnose the nature of the tumour, and then we'll run a myelogram to see if the abnormality has spread to other regions."

He now wore his doctor's face, the one that helped him run his tests objectively and maintain his cool through the procedure. Don almost collapsed with relief. At least he didn't have to console a weeping crocodile while he internally screamed about his impending death.

Donatello smiled, trying to encourage Leatherhead; to keep his spirits up. He didn't say what was really on his mind: that the abnormalities looked like stage 3 tumours.

It was a long shot, he knew that. He also knew that Leatherhead would find out eventually. But for even a moment, Donatello couldn't deny him a shred of hope. He owed that much to his friend.

-T-

For the first time he could remember, Donatello wasn't happy to be proved right. When the tests were complete, there was no denying the severity of Donatello's illness. They were both quiet for a very long time, staring at the screen as if that would change the results, but the data remained constant. Stage 3. Just as he suspected.

When Leatherhead finally spoke, it was with an aged voice. "I know the results are poor, but do not give up yet. I believe that with some radiation treatment, we can reduce the size of your tumours and kill some of the cells that have spread to other regions."

He reached across his desk to pick up the Shell Cell that lay there, buried under the stack of urine test results. Leatherhead held the phone out to Donatello, waiting for him to take it. Donatello didn't react right away, and Leatherhead nudged his arm as he spoke.

"You should call your family, Donatello. They will need to hear about your treatment."

Donatello stayed completely still, his eyes glued to the screen. His words came out in an unfamiliar monotone: "I'm not telling them."

Leatherhead blinked at him, unsure if he had heard Donatello properly. One look at Donatello's hardened face indicated that yes, he had heard Donatello correctly, and no, he was not joking. He was in shock, Leatherhead reasoned, and needed someone to talk some sense into him. He needed someone to be his brain.

Leatherhead's hand landed on Donatello's shell, a comforting weight. His words deliberately gentle, he said, "I know this is scary for you, Donatello. But that's why you need to tell your family–"

"No." Donatello cut him off, his tone sharp. "There's a chance we can fix this, you said so yourself. We don't need to tell them until it's more serious."

"That's ridiculous! You're seriously ill and your family needs to know. You're being unreasonable, Donatello." Leatherhead was raising his voice now, trying to make headway with his friend, whom was notoriously stubborn in his own health affairs.

Donatello sighed in frustration, rolling his eyes and letting his head tilt to the side, his hands flying up in exasperation. "But LH, if I can just–"

"NO!" The sudden roar shut him up, leaving Donatello starting wide-eyed at his friend. Leatherhead calmed himself down just as quickly as he got worked up, and his breath evened out within seconds.

Leatherhead's voice was understanding, but firm, as he said, "You are afraid, Donatello, and you do not want to burden your family. But I promise you, I will do everything I can to help you, and so will your family. You need their support. You cannot do it alone."

Donatello absorbed this for a moment, staring hard at the floor. When he looked up, Leatherhead could see the fatigue creeping into his eyes, eyes that echoed with future ghosts now made real. He shook where he stood, his fear and determination mixing into one terrifying emotion that he couldn't name; a feeling that surged through him when he was faced with powerful enemy.

Donatello released a sigh that held a lifetime of weariness. He looked up at his friend and pleaded in a low voice, "I don't want to tell them today. Just…give me time. Give me time to figure this out."

Leatherhead felt another wave of reason swell over him, prepared to fight Donatello. Another look at his broken friend killed the power within him, and he bowed his head in resignation. He too knew the darkness of disease, a demon that crept into your bones, making its home in the marrow and sucking your energy, turning you into something else. It was the greatest fear he had ever known, a sensation that he would never forget. Donatello felt it, he could see it in the nervous way his eyes flit about, trying to pin down a single thought that wasn't conceived by despair; only to be reminded that thoughts were spectres, appearing one moment and gone the next. You can't pin down a spectre, or destroy a ghost. They continue to drift around you, cloaking you.

But Donatello was not like him. He was much more resilient. Leatherhead trusted Donatello, and would give him the opportunity to come to terms with today's revelation.

"Alright, Donatello. This may remain between us for a few days. But you must tell them soon," Leatherhead agreed, his emphasis on timeliness.

"I know," Donatello replied, his expression serious. His lips turning up at the corners, he said, "Why don't we take a look at this radiation treatment, see what it's about?"

His positivity was convincing, even to himself, as he set a treatment schedule with Leatherhead, thanked his friend for his help, and left the old subway station, a special pain medication in hand. It was only when he was walking through the tunnel, quiet save for the faint trickle of water and the slap of his feet on concrete that Donatello's earlier thoughts returned.

As he rounded the corner on the last tunnel to the lair, he was certain of one thing: he would not tell his family. If all went according to plan, he wouldn't need to.