Chapter 4

Donatello leaned back in his computer chair, rubbing at the early morning crust rimming his eyes. After a big stretch, his left arm reaching far above his head, he righted himself in his chair to take another look at his formula. Research journals, textbooks, and loose sheets of equations littered his desk, his messy scrawl crammed in the margins of every page. The letters were starting to swirl into alphabet soup, but he continued on, refusing to admit defeat. He would find a cure even if it killed him.

"Maybe if I attach a different type of transport protein…" he mumbled absently to himself as he rose from his chair and crossed to his lab table. This too was completely covered in his materials, topped with petri dishes, chemicals, test tubes, a Bunsen burner, and biological samples. He slipped down the goggles perched on his head, and found one of his incubating samples. He placed one of slides beneath the microscope, flicking the light and focusing the lens on the slide.

There were a few seconds of silence, followed by a loud, "Dammit!" He stepped back from the microscope, his hands gripping his skull as the frustration reached a high point.

He had been working on a cure eight hours a day for the past two months, barely taking a break, and he had nothing that could even slow the cancerous growth, let alone destroy the cells. All this alien tech at his disposal, and he was powerless to stop the illness destroying his brain.

Donatello was so lost in thought that he jumped when he heard the characteristic beep of his alarm.

"Time to see Leatherhead," he muttered to himself, his voice heavy as he slid out of his lab coat and prepared himself for the torture that was radiation treatment.

-T-

Another day, another radiation treatment. He was often startled by how routine it had become. His schedule had reached a new level of redundancy: wake up at 6:00, go to practice (if he wasn't completely exhausted), have breakfast (if he wasn't nauseous), then work in his lab on the cure until his treatment.

His family, although concerned with his health and growing increasingly suspicious about his daily visits with Leatherhead, were still unaware of his illness. An easy lie slipped past his lips when he was questioned about his condition. A fabricated story about the negative effects of work-related stress and a mild case of food poisoning satisfied his family, although at the two month mark they were starting to ask questions again.

After his radiation treatment, Donatello usually stole back to his room for a nap under the premise of working on some delicate material that required total concentration and silence. After a few hours of shut eye, he returned to his bio-chemical work until dinner, which he rarely ate. Then there was patrol, which was always a challenge when his mind was more focused on the properties of neurotransmitters and the permeability of cancer cell membranes than purse-snatchers and thugs. He had almost lost his head to a Purple Dragon's rusty crowbar last week and got seriously chewed out by Raph and Leo afterward.

By the time he returned home from patrol, Donatello was often too tired to take off his gear, falling face first onto his mattress with his bo still strapped to his back. Skip to the next day, where he repeated the cycle over again.

Donatello could hardly stand the tedium of his days, which often left far too much time for him to be alone with his thoughts; thoughts that were becoming progressively more defeatist. Strapped to a table for a solid hour of radiation, unable to move, read, or speak, Donatello found his thoughts sinking into that slick, cool darkness that enveloped him on the day of his diagnosis. These thoughts had nimble tendrils that coiled into his subconscious, making a home there and coming to the foreground when Donatello had nothing to occupy himself with.

They permeated his every action, making him wonder whether his efforts were worth the time, or if they were merely his final, desperate cling to life.

It was a relief when the timer went off and Leatherhead removed the mould holding his head in place, momentarily distracting him from the morbid thoughts that plagued him. There was nothing like Leatherhead's calm, soothing voice and optimism, whether genuine or false, to improve Donatello's poor mood. Leatherhead assured him it was a side effect of his illness; a combination of the chemical changes in his brain and his personal struggle with cancer. Donatello wanted to believe him, to banish the alien voices that sucked the hope out of him, but the darkness grew with each small failure.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the table. His head spun at the movement and he clenched his eyes shut. He sometimes forgot how slowly he had to sit up to avoid vomiting. Donatello sucked short breaths in through his teeth, his brow creased as he fortified himself against the nausea that crashed over him. Leatherhead steadied him with a hand, watching the discomfort recede from his features. When Donatello finally opened his eyes, they showed months of exhaustion.

"Well done, Donatello. That's all for today," Leatherhead said in a low voice, helping him slide down from the table. Don nodded groggily, shuffling over to where he left his duffle bag. He stooped over to pick it up and slung the strap over his shoulder as he straightened, releasing a groan of discomfort when his muscles flared in pain. Leatherhead frowned at Donatello's lethargic, painful movements, concerned about the walk back to his home.

"I can walk you home, Donatello," Leatherhead offered, watching the wobble in Donatello's first step to the door.

Donatello turned at his voice, giving a half smile that stopped at the corners of his mouth. His eyes glassy with weariness, Donatello said, "No thanks, LH. I'm alright."

Leatherhead always offered to walk with him, and Donatello always turned him down politely. It was an elaborate routine now, much like the rest of his life; they would continue to dance around Donatello's prognosis, both refusing to admit what little hope there was. Two months of treatment using machinery made of salvaged Utrom technology, and there was still no improvement in his tumours. The treatment wore on both of them, Donatello physically, and Leatherhead emotionally. They were both helpless in the face of such progressed tumours, and not even the Utrom's advanced technology could help.

Donatello's iron will – also known as stubbornness – could not be moved, and Leatherhead respected his Donatello's wishes. "If you are sure, my friend. Don't forget to ask someone in your family to help you with those injections. Be careful, and do not hesitate to call me if you need help."

"Okay," Donatello mumbled, his eyes moving to a point beyond his head and then flicking downward. The way his fingers flexed caught Leatherhead's attention, and he frowned at the movement. Donatello was known for nervous twitches, and he only fidgeted like that when he was impatient, or lying. He wasn't bolting for the door, so it wasn't impatience. That meant it had to be a lie. But what would he lie about?

Realization crept over Leatherhead, and he felt the heat spread over his head, enveloping him in frustration. He couldn't believe it.

"Donatello." He forced his voice to stay calm, but he shook with apprehension. "Have you told your family about your illness?"

Donatello remained completely still, staring hard at the ground. His silence was more telling than any confession, and a growl ripped from Leatherhead's chest.

"You need to tell them, Donatello. It is cruel to keep them in the dark. Don't you understand the severity of your illness?"

Donatello's head snapped up at the question, his jaw pulled tight and his eyes flashing with rage.

"You think I don't understand the 'severity' of my illness?" Donatello demanded, his tone dangerous. "I more than understand it, I am living it! I've spent two months holed up in my lab, trying to make some kind of cure to stop this thing and nothing is working! I – I don't know what to tell them! How do I tell them 'I'm dying of cancer and pretty soon I'm gonna be incapable of getting out of bed, let alone doing anything! Eventually, I'm going to be a vegetable–"

He stopped as he choked on a sob, his hand flying to his mouth. The horror was written on his face, in the panic of his wide eyes. He was a child, seeking comfort where there was none, unable to defend himself or slow the cancer down or even breathe.

Leatherhead took a step forward, halting to gauge Donatello's reaction. When Donatello showed no resistance, Leatherhead took another step, reaching out to hug him. It was only when he had his arms around him that Leatherhead remembered how small Donatello was. He had always been significantly smaller than Leatherhead, but the lost weight and lack of muscle definition made Donatello barely more than a ragdoll in his arms. He was worn down from months of poor diet and sleep habits, daily treatments and medication. They all deflated him from within.

Donatello returned the hug, and Leatherhead didn't mention the wetness that seeped into his lab coat from Donatello's eyes. They stood there for a minute before Donatello sniffled loudly and pulled away, the walls going up again, with nothing left of his distress but the puffiness of his eyes.

"You are not alone. I am here for you, Donatello." Leatherhead waited until Donatello met his gaze before he continued. "But you must also seek help from your family. They need to know what is going on. They love you and will support you through your healing."

Donatello smiled weakly and nodded, pretending to take it all in. But he couldn't ignore the voice in the back of his head that wondered in a whisper: 'Who will support my family?'