A/N: What a productive couple of weeks! I was originally intending on completely finishing this, but after sitting on it and ignoring it for months on end, I think what might help is accepting what is so I can move onto the very next chapter. Then the next one. And the next. And hey, I might even get it done! This is probably going to be a slightly longer fic and Mikey heavy. It's still finding it's feet. It may end up being disjointed tales. That said, I really do hope you enjoy it!
And before I go, thank you so much for all the positive feedback on the last tale (The Walk). I'm brimming with gratitude. It makes me want to write. You are the best! And a special thanks to Nov who has been listening to me whinge about this thing forever.
A blur, Raphael thought. That was how he would describe his brother's fighting style. Ever the quickest; the one that could jump the highest; the one Splinter would shake his head at most, saying 'If only you applied yourself, my son, your form would be unparalleled'. But then again, Michelangelo never was one for geometry. Battles always seemed like a game to him as he moved between the hoards of combatants like a breeze, dodging a sword strike here, jumping a scimitar swing there. There was little wonder as to why he had gravitated towards the fastest weapon, one that seemed to propel him with the very air it generated from its constant motion.
"Nothin' bad sticks to me," he would often chime after a battle, "I'm teflon, man. They try and lay down the hurt, and I go serve 'em dessert. Say, why don't ya print it up and hang it in ya room like a motivational poster: Thoughts by Mikey."
"How 'bout I stare at an empty wall." Raphael had said back, "Same difference."
"I can't hear you, bro. I think my ears are full of teflon."
"Funny, baby bro, 'cause ya head is otherwise full of sweet fuck all."
"Huh?" Mikey had pointed towards his head, "Teflon, dude. Not hearing it."
But in way he had a point. How many times had he come out of a fight with the least amount of bruises? The least puffed out? The least troubled by what he had seen and done? He was as wily as a goddamned wet bar of soap in an oil slick. Just watching him and you could understand. Half of the style he had evolved consisted of avoiding an attack, followed by lightening fast retribution: Dodge then strike. Strike then dodge. It was simple in its approach and deceptively complicated in its execution. The way of Mikey.
Nothin' like me. Raphael found himself thinking. He caught anything coming his way and threw it back ten times harder. Such was his nature. God knew he had the scars to prove it.
Sure, it would have been easy to accuse Michelangelo of phoning it in, but even Raphael could admit that in any battle Michelangelo was completely and unquestionably committed. It was a profoundly strange thing to see, the switch over of Mikey into battle mode, where as soon as any real fight erupted, all of the frivolous bullshit that often frittered about in his mind would disappear in an instant. Even the rest of them struggled with that switch - you could practically hear Leonardo's wheels turning during a battle as he strategised every play; see Donatello's second guessing; and no doubt feel the heat of his own anger...but for Michelangelo, it was different. Nothing but a chilled wind on an empty plain. Yeah. A really empty plain. But as barren as it was, Raphael quietly admired it. Not that he would ever - under any circumstances - admit it. No fucking way. And it was a skill that did not go unnoticed by their master, either. Splinter had made note of it on more than one occasion during training, making the rest of them feel unaccomplished in something they had no idea of how to attain. Something that Raphael was sure bugged Leonardo no end. Leonardo might have been perfect, but Mikey was something else. Once, on the pretense of giving him shit, Raphael had even asked his little brother how he did it. The reply still touched him in its casual sweetness:
"Gotta look out for my bro's. Even you, Raphie." Michelangelo had explained with a cheery grin and a dismissive wave of his hand.
It was almost humorous that he had neglected to mention anything about protecting himself.
And now here were they were, in the thick of an ambush. They had been not expecting anything more than a routine training run. That was their first mistake. Not believing what Michelangelo had seen only a week earlier was their second. How often did they take Michelangelo's musings with a large grain of salt? Hell, a salt-lick, even. Prone to jumping to conclusions or making monsters out of shadows, they would constantly be reassuring him that it was all . Just. Fine. Thank-you very much, and here's the complimentary bleed with the shave. Oh, boy. He'd never let them hear the end of it now. But if they had had any inkling from the start that this was the shitfest that what was going to go down, he suspected they would have come along with something more than basic weapons. Maybe even given this one a skip and let the gangs do the dirty work on each other for them. But now, having been jumped, their options were fewer than none.
The attack had dropped in from higher ground, cornering them in an industrial area by the docks. Raphael did a quick mental count. At least fifty foot-soldiers had come from nowhere, headed by Karai. She barked out her high-pitched directions in Japanese, ordering them to:
"Kill them! Kill the green freaks!"
The conviction in her voice was imminent. The soldiers were out for blood. Turtle luck was running true to form.
"Mikey! Behind you!" he snarled, throwing up his sai and stopping a sword strike in its tracks.
A quick flick of his wrists and he could hear the cheap metal snap beneath his tines. Foot soldier weapons were a mix of Chinese forged shit that the newbies shook about and the serious Japanese shit that the long-timers wielded. A strong sidekick sent the foot soldier careening backwards into the brick alleyway wall. But the fight was far from over. Raph didn't waste a second, curving his body to slam shell-first into three others headed his way.
"Fuckers." he ground out between clenched teeth as they tumbled to the cement.
Far to the left he could hear the whir of Donatello's bo over the ruckus of shouts and clashing weaponry, hitting targets with horrifying accuracy. The sound was practically clockwork. He could almost imagine his brother's grim set face, cold and calculating, as he made light work of the goons with his staff. He slung a quick eye over at his youngest brother, ready to jump in at any second. So far Mikey was holding his own. Until the trickle of Foot soldiers became a swarm.
"LEO! It's rainin' Feet down here!" At the lack of instruction he shot his gaze up only to see his brother engaged with Karai in a very lackluster battle. Infuriated he turned to Michelangelo, "What in the fuck? LEO!"
No time to chase Fearless, now. Their hands were full.
"Mikey, how ya holdin' up?"
Ten feet over, Michelangelo casually side-stepped a flailing manriki as if he had the premonition to so in the first place. It skimmed by his unperturbed face, not a sliver of worry crossing it. A near-miss category 1 asteroid.
"Got it, bro. You?"
"Ain't even broken a sweat."
"I haven't even broken wind." Michelangelo snickered.
"Sh'yeah. Wouldn't wanna make it too easy."
"I hate to tell you I told you so..." Michelangelo said before springing to higher ground, "Wait, who am I kidding? I TOLD YOU SO."
CRACK. Now Raphael had broken something. A face. He shook off his knuckles.
"No shit."
Mikey let out a snort and a chuckle. The soldier he had been engaged with jerked his manriki back before lashing out again. This time it flew out to the exact place Michelangelo wanted. He swung himself aside, catching the chain around his arm. Moving fast, he leaped across to a locked dumpster and over its edge, pulling the chain taut. The foot soldier yelped in horror as he was dragged along for the ride, and rendered silent when smashed head first into the grime caked steel. Michelangelo tossed the metal links off his arms. But there was no time to rest. Another soldier had approached brandishing nunchaku. A speck of delight lit up Mikey's face.
"Bring it, Little Foot." Michelangelo flipped his own weapon over his shoulder and caught it in his right hand, "Show me what ya brought to the party."
The foot soldier made a bad decision that would be his last. Michelangelo darted in with break-neck speed, taking his opponent out with a side whip of his 'chucks. Blood spurted from the soldier's nose as he crumpled motionless onto the ground. Within moments he repeated the action. It was like he didn't even have to think about it.
He probably wasn't.
But even he couldn't have seen what was coming next. From behind them, Leonardo called it, his voice ringing above the commotion.
"Incoming! Look alive!"
Raphael knew one thing- if Leonardo had made a point of giving a heads-up, things were going to turn nasty. He glanced up from his position, simultaneously delivering a roundhouse to a hulking foot soldier's ribs. They cracked wetly, bending inwards like broken fingers. Screams turned to gasps around a punctured lung.
Then he saw it. A stream of tattered violet clothing. Ugly on ugly. Purple Dragons.
"Holy fuck..." he muttered under his breath. Just their luck to get caught in the cross-fire of a gang war. He glanced over at Leonardo to receive their next move.
Catching his sight, Leonardo flicked his eyes upwards.
"Mikey! Don!" Raphael bellowed out, "We're outta here!"
.
"What. The fuck. Was that?" Raphael snarled lowly to Donatello and Michelangelo, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder to the direction of Leonardo's quarters. Donatello stood leaning against Michelangelo's bookshelf, crossing his arms before returning an understanding nod.
"He must have had his reasons." Donatello tried to rationalize with him, "Leo is not exactly what I'd call reckless."
"Yeah. I can guess those reasons." he slapped his upper plastron with both hands, "Two fuckin' A-cups attached to a grade-A bitch."
Michelangelo tipped his head in confusion.
"Wha..? Did I miss something?"
"Oh, nuthin' much. Just yer Fearless Leader there goin' on a little dance date with while we were bustin' our balls with the henchman."
"No." Michelangelo exchanged an uncertain look with Donatello, "No way, dude. He musta been trying to get her to back off or something, right?"
"Ol' Crazy Eyes? Do what Leo says? Are we talking 'bout the same Karai, here?"
"We have to at least give him the benefit of the doubt, Raph." Donatello countered warily.
"I'm through with the givin' him anythin' unless he starts talkin' to us."
Not that he was going to start holding his breath waiting for that to happen, he thought sourly. On the way back Leonardo had barely uttered a word, and had the nerve to look annoyed when confronted.
"Hey, it all came up turtles." Michelangelo said brightly in a misguided attempt to alleviate the mood, "We got out with barely a scratch. Well. Except that thing on your leg... yeowch."
A compress was barely containing the dribble of blood anymore. A newbie, of all people, had nicked him with a lucky strike… but that was just another story to add to the collection of those going to the grave.
"Yeah. It all worked out for the best." Raphael scoffed, slamming his weight down on the desk chair and slinging his gammy leg onto an upturned crate as he prepared to stitch the gash on his calf. "This time."
"Here, " Donatello began, "Let me..."
Raphael lifted an arm, practically blocking his brother from the task.
"S'ok. I got this one."
Donatello relaxed his hands by his side, watching Raphael unwrap his wound before coming to a conclusion all of his own:
"Let's treat it like what it was. An anomaly. There's no need to go undermining things unless we establish a pattern of behavior." He turned to go, but not before adding, "Sit on it for now. If I can get anything out of him, I'll let you know."
"Yeah. Good luck with that."
But sitting here was better than getting nowhere, Raphael supposed. Leonardo would crack, eventually. And some version of the truth would filter through. That was the thing about Leo, he was a little too much of a boy scout to keep secrets. Besides, the cut was deep and stinging like a motherfucker. He let out a sigh through his nostrils and cracked his neck, as his youngest brother fell onto the bed shoved up into the corner of the room. Mikey may have been spent, but retreating from the battle had left Raphael twitching with restlessness, his body unsatisfied with not being muddled into exhaustion. He glanced around Michelangelo's room - cluttered with a random assortment of pop culture junk and dotted with the occasional container rotting food - and was oddly comforted by the disorder.
"That." Michelangelo began croakily, "Was not easy. Where are they even getting these new ninja from?"
"Must have a new hound master. Considerin' we took the last one outta commission."
Raphael squeezed his sliced calf together between his thumb and forefinger, muttering a few curses at the fresh pain. To his annoyance, the new scar would cross an old one. It was tougher to stitch over old scar tissue. But he would make it work. He sure as hell had enough practice. Out on the field he'd more often than not be the one making compresses and slings for renegade injuries. Donnie could only do so much at once, especially if he was the patient in question.
Fascinated with the task, Michelangelo propped his head upward to watch.
"Why didn't ya just get Donnie ta do that?"
Raphael gave a wry grin, "'cause he don't fix it up as pretty."
He pinched the needles end and struck the lighter beneath it, letting the flame lick the metal clean. Cooked to his satisfaction, he slammed the lighter on the bookshelf behind him. Snorting, he made the first pass through his skin, suppressing a twitch of his eye as a sharp pain laced up his leg.
"Man," Michelangelo groaned, spread out on his comforter, "My everything hurts... I'm talking everything. Even my mask." his voice was suddenly affected with a phony rasp, "Hey. Bro. Can ya do me a solid and get me some water after ya finished there? I don't think I can move for the next few centuries."
"Get it yourself. If ya hadn't been so damn lazy the last few weeks ya wouldn't be all laid up."
"...how did you know?"
"It's called repeatin' the usual shit, little brother."
Typical of Michelangelo to get away unscathed with only sore muscles to show for it. He grimaced as he wove the needle through particularly tender section of his flesh. He'd always find himself doing this in Mikey's room, figuring his kid brother was a good distraction to the part of him that, ironically, wanted to punch a wall at the pain. Finished with the job, he knotted the string. He leaned in close and bit off the trailing thread as drops of blood streamed down his leg.
"Aw, man! Ya bleeding on my things!"
Raphael threw the thread on the ground.
"Yeah, 'cause ya room's so fuckin' pristine. For Chrissakes, Mikey, it smells like cat piss in here." he prodded the job then lifted his head, "Where's the stuff?"
Michelangelo lifted a weary finger to the shelf behind his brother. Raphael swiveled around, grabbed the small bottle of disinfectant and uncapped it before pouring it neat over the sutures. It seared like a burn before regressing to a dull throb. Placing it back he noticed a small scrap of paper beside a stack of comics on the floor, covered with Michelangelo's unmistakable scrawl. The heading caught his attention:
Brothers
"What the…" he muttered, picking up the blood splattered page. He flicked off the remnants of liquid and read it.
these green fists don't miss,
mask like tomatoes and blood,
eats you with sharp forks.
Frowning, he screwed the paper up in his hand before tossing it at his brother's head. It pinged off then rolled under the bed to join the rest of the dusty junk shipwrecked there. Michelangelo jerked up.
"Hey! What did ya do that for?"
"'Cause yer a little punk writing frou-frou crap about me. That's why."
Michelangelo chuckled sheepishly, resting his head back down onto his mattress.
"Oh haha, yeah, I was just practicing writing with some haikus. Y'know: 'a poem with five, and then seven syllables, then five more again'…They say ya meant ta write about what you know so I did one for all of you guys: Leo, Donnie, you. I thought yours was good. But no-one respects the artist anymore...it's a crime, really."
Raphael emitted a low grunt of displeasure before a spark of competitive curiosity reared itself:
"Wait, what's Leo's?"
"Ohhhh...now ya want to know, well-"
"Forget it."
"Fine. You twisted my arm." Michelangelo stretched his arm out, sweeping it down the side of his wall and bending it obliquely under the bed. "See? I'm literally twisting my arm for ya here, Raphie. Ah, got it."
Michelangelo pulled the crumpled notepaper up. He briefly hesitated, looking down at the poem then back to his surly brother. Maybe this was not a good idea, he thought with a pointed molecule of logic. He held it tightly, considering if the fallout would be worth the attention...
Impatient for the reveal, Raphael hobbled over then slammed himself down on the end of the bed, causing Michelangelo to jolt skywards against the pull of gravity. He snatched the paper away and straightened it out.
Michelangelo watched him, "Other side."
Flipping the paper around, Raphael's eyes scanned the page, finally landing on the promised haiku:
Blue mask, blue balls, why?!
Karai is why but he's shy
Low Kleenex supply
A gravelly crack of laughter erupted from Raphael, ringing through the lair like a thunder strike. Anyone that heard that sound knew that a storm was coming.
"O-ho, I'm keepin' this one."
He folded it up neatly and slipped it by his sai.
"No! No no no...He he's gonna kill me if ya show him that. Do ya hear me? KILL ME! Write my eulogy, bro, 'cause it's happening."
"Relax. I ain't gonna show 'im." he shot his brother a snake-like grin, tapping where the evidence lay, "I'm keepin' it. For leverage."
Michelangelo balked in alarm, any exhaustion long forgotten. Last time he had been blackmailed saw him on bathroom duties for a month.
"If you think I'm plunging the toilet next time ya jam it up... just forget it. I'd rather take my chances with Leo."
Raphael leaned back on the stool and cracked his knuckles, appraising him with an expert eye, "We'll see about that."
Called on his bluff, Michelangelo eyes widened, "Damn those delicious spicy chicken and black bean fajitas."
"An' now I know what I'm eatin' the rest of the week."
"No!"
Without further thought, Michelangelo launched himself forwards and snatched his note back. He slammed it into his mouth, grinding it to mush between his teeth. Raphael had not even had time to knock him off before the paper was gone. Michelangelo gulped hard, grimacing.
"Ugh, tastes like disinfectant." Globs of pulp littered his tongue."And blood."
Then the retching began. Raphael sighed. Michelangelo always did have a weak stomach. He frowned at a dark and imposing memory and glanced down at the long trailing scar on his brother's thigh that had all but faded.
"Stay here." Raphael grumbled, still a little peeved that his brother had bested him, "I'll go get ya some water."
...