Consequences

Michelangelo yawned hugely and lowered himself gingerly back to the blankets as Donatello pressed a hand against his uninjured shoulder.

"I didn't sneak out to meet anyone," Mikey protested. "I left to get you guys a present! You've all been so tense and I didn't want us to be at each other's throats. It was supposed to be a surprise."

Of course.

Leonardo had spent days wondering what sent his little brother out into the blizzard. Michelangelo realized the weather was hazardous, but the emotional danger of a spiteful family over what should be a loving holiday outweighed the physical one in his mind.

The throbbing in Leo's head increased. He and Raphael hadn't been quiet about their latest argument.

We upset Mike and drove him from the lair... over a stupid misunderstanding.

"What was it?" Raph asked, not meeting Michelangelo's eyes. Obviously, the hot-head had come to the same conclusion.

Mikey snaked his good arm above his head and pulled a small flat rectangle box from his pile of belongings. Being careful not to jostle Sharra, he tossed the plastic case to Raphael with a hint of his former smile.

He can never stay mad at any of us for long.

"Star-crusher XV? I didn't think this was out yet!" Raph exclaimed.

"It's not," Donnie remarked as he drew a hypospray full of pain reliever from his bag and pressed it against Mikey's shoulder. "The publisher got behind in manufacturing and missed the Christmas release date. It must be a beta copy."

Raph clicked the cover open and his shoulders slumped. "I hate to break it to ya' Mike, but there's nothin' in here."

"What?!" Michelangelo's smile disappeared as he moaned and dropped his hand over his face.

Donatello awkwardly patted his brother's bicep. "It's the thought that counts."

"I'm so sorry," Mikey repeated. "This was all a massive mistake."

Leonardo forced his face to relax enough to give Michelangelo a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. Finding you is the only present we need. But I still want answers about the message, the gir— Sharra," he corrected, "and the Foot."

"I don't know about any message, and Sharra is... a new friend. I have no clue what the Foot were up to, but once they crossed my path I couldn't shake 'em. They were everywhere." Michelangelo yawned again. "Honestly? After I got hurt, I thought I was a goner. But then Sharra popped that hatch and demanded I come in. The door's... hard 'ta find... and they didn't see it..."

His eyes blinked, once, twice, then slipped shut. A small snore escaped his lips.

Donnie pulled a blanket up over him.

"How bad is it really?" Leo asked; though he could hazard a guess from the fact his hyperactive little brother just dozed off in front of him.

"Critical," Donatello said at last. "Sharra's triage saved his life. I don't know how she knew what to do, but if she hadn't reacted exactly the way she did... Well, I wasn't kidding when I said I was surprised he was moving at all. He shouldn't be."

"What do ya' mean?" Raph asked, "You think he should still be passed out?"

"No," said Donnie solemnly. "From these readings, he ought to be dead..."

Dead?

All the color drained from Leo's face.

Don cleared his throat as it tried to close. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and continued his report in a more even tone of voice. "He'll need a blood transfusion as soon as we get back. And constant care for weeks, if not months to recover.

"The knife pierced his plastron and did several inches of damage to the soft tissue underneath. His red cell count is at dangerous levels. He's got torn muscles and bruises galore and his ankle's out of joint."

"Is he stable enough to rest here for a few hours?" Leonardo asked in a choked voice, "Or do we need to plan a daylight operation to get him home?"

"I'd rather he slept until nightfall. Intervening on the roof strained him further and he's suffering the effects of hypothermia. It'll be hard enough to transport him in this weather. I'd prefer not to add the stress of light.

"But I ought to check out this security system of hers before we decide to stay. And I've got to do something about the temperature or we'll all be too cold and stiff to move."

"I got d'at," Raphael growled.

"I can do it," Don protested, "just let me examine at the computer first."

"Don't botha'."

Stepping past them with a grimace, Raph hauled on the lukewarm space heater until the plug came out of the wall socket. He lifted the clunky appliance high above the sleeping pair and carried it to one of the less cluttered tables.

"I gotta have somethin' ta do if we're stuck here all day."

He turned on a desk lamp and peered in the old contraption, using its disc-like back to hide his expression of pain at Mikey's condition.

"It's kinda like the one we got in the garage," he grumbled. "I think I can boost it."

Donatello surrendered the verbal battle with a shrug before returning his attention to Leo. Only to shoot him a questioning glance as Leonardo jumped to his feet and began to remove his white thermal camouflage.

"You said Mikey is too cold," Leo explained. "He needs this far more than I do."

I'll give him anything I can to improve his chances.

Don eyed the sleeping turtle thoughtfully.

"If we can wrestle it on him it might help," he agreed. "I highly doubt he'll wake up to assist. Now that I've relieved his pain, he is totally down for the count."

"Should we transfuse blood now?" Leo asked. "You can hook him up to me."

Donatello shook his head.

"I brought the equipment, just in case. But he's not crashing so I'd rather hold off on that type of invasive procedure until I get him to the infirmary."

"What about the girl?" Raphael asked. "Is she gonna be okay?"

The usually gruff voice was hushed in a way Leo had only ever heard once before, the distress in it palpable.

'I didn't think I'd fallen that far, like to where I'd hurt an innocent...'

Raphael was taking his part in these events hard; hammered with a double dose of guilt.

He's not the only one. The girl IS innocent. She saved Michelangelo's life and we attacked.

"Sharra,"—Donatello stressed her name as if offended by the fact Raph called her 'the girl'—"will likely only be out for a couple of hours."

He skimmed her with his goggles again while Leonardo stripped off his pants.

"While I suspect Leo was merely placating our brother by inquiring about her health, I,"—Don emphasized again—"would like to keep an eye on her for as long as I can. She has several odd things going on. Catatonia is rare and an extreme reaction, even for someone with severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And she is, weirdly, not even cold. Her temp is reading 98.6 degrees."

"She has a fever?" Raph asked in surprised worry.

"No, 98.6 is too high for us, but average for a human."

"So why is that weird?"

"Her heart slowed during her attack, so did her blood circulation. She was traumatized and left lying in the snow!"

Leonardo frowned internally but kept it off his face. Don and Raph were getting awfully worked up over her state. Leo felt bad for her, of course. But he didn't seem to feel the same intensity of concern as the others.

"Her body temp should not BE normal," Donnie ranted. "Also, she has internal injuries I didn't want to mention in front of Michelangelo. He more than bruised her—she's got a cracked rib. And Leo practically dislocated her arm. If she'll let me, I'd like to treat those once she wakes."

Leonardo shot him a warning glance as he handed Donnie his shirt. Donatello nearly always followed his orders to the letter, but the genius wasn't shy about giving his opinions on Leo's decisions afterward.

If this passive-aggressive conversation was anything to go by, Don was ready to tear him a new one for the way he treated the girl.

And he would be entirely justified in doing so... You fucked up. Again...

Leo told his internal critic to shove it.

We're still topside in an uncertain situation, with a brother teetering at death's door! I'm not in the mood for constructive criticism.

"What if she's still out when we want to leave?" Raph asked.

"We should stay until she wakes up, even if it's after nightfall," Donatello answered, holding Leonardo's stare without flinching. The expression on his face dared the leader to object.

"It's the least we can do after all she's done for Mikey. Besides, from the way he's acting, I think he will insist on it."

Leonardo sighed, letting the challenge pass. Their conversation about his behavior wasn't over, simply postponed, but now was not the time.

Michelangelo stirred and groaned, recapturing their attention. Leo frowned visibly this time, anxiety for his youngest brother overtaking all other emotions. He gestured for Donnie to help him dress the unconscious turtle.

"What do you think is going on there?"

Don leaned down and propped a limp Mikey upright against his bent knee. They both struggled with the stretchy shirt until Mikey's head popped out the top hole.

"With her illness?" Donatello asked.

Leonardo slipped his brother's less injured arm into the long sleeve and Don eased the body of the garment over his wounded shoulder to avoid jostling him.

"No, with Michelangelo. I mean, he seems pretty attached to someone he only met a few days ago."

The pants portion was easier. Though Mikey groaned when they shifted his left leg and ankle, despite the copious amounts of pain killer Don injected.

Raph grunted. "Ain't that the Nightingale somethin'?"

Two pairs of eyes snapped to him in astonishment and he flushed.

"What? I saw it on TV. On one of Splinter's hospital shows. Ya know, the problem where the patient falls for da doctor?"

Raph watches soap operas?

Leo couldn't quite contain his shock at the revelation, though he rapidly smoothed over his expression. It was no secret their father enjoyed his "stories" as the old rat called them. Leo just never imagined his hot-headed brother taking any interest in them.

"I think you're butchering a reference to the Florence Nightingale Syndrome. And no," Donnie objected. "That's an old drama trope which imagines a nurse falling in love with the invalid, not the other way around. And it's not based on any sort of factual events. The actual person didn't ever do that. At least as far as history knows."

"Thank you, Mr. Trivia," Raph groused, sounding a little more like himself. "So what's it called?"

"What's what called?"

"When the patient likes the doc too much?"

"I don't know, maybe transference of some sort? Why do you assume that happened?"

Raphael shrugged. "Mikey's been waitin' for somebody ta notice him all his life. Outta nowhere, this girl pops up and saves his shell. That's gotta be powerful."

Don's frown deepened as he pulled the covers back up over their brother. "He might have formed some type of trauma bond. If he did, it won't last."

Thank goodness.

Leonardo breathed a noisy sigh of relief and Don raised a brow ridge.

"Michelangelo has enough misery on his plate," Leo clarified, "He doesn't need to add lingering heartache from unrequited love to the list."

Donnie stared at him for a moment then nodded and stood—crossing to Sharra's computer to investigate whatever primitive security the girl might own.

Mikey said the system was complex, but I doubt Don will be impressed. Maybe she's got a couple of cameras in addition to the strange keypad at the entrance. But at this point, I'll take any kind of advance warning.

Donatello prodded at the space bar and waited for the monitor to light up. The main viewport contained a startlingly familiar scene. A perfect view of the top of the building.

"Isn't that the security feed you couldn't block?" Leo blurted out.

It has to be! The perspective is the same as the one I studied for hours in the lair. Why does she have access to it?

Blinking in amazement, Donnie nodded. He minimized the window to find at least a dozen smaller ones crowding the edges of the screen. Each featured a looped recording.

In one, Michelangelo slinked along a darkened rooftop. In another, he engaged Foot soldiers, three at a time. A third showed the orange-banded ninja leaping from one building to the next as a street light glinted off his shell.

An on and on.

Donatello sucked in a breath in shocked recognition. His eyes glowed with something like suppressed awe as he clicked through ten windows. Fifteen. Twenty.

"What is it?" Leo prompted through his teeth as the silence went on a little too long.

He forgets the rest of us don't make the same leaps of thought he does.

"Sharra is the one who scrubbed Michelangelo's digital trail. I recognize some of these, but the ones I downloaded were clean. She replaced them all!"

"An' that's hard?" Raph asked.

"There was an extremely short window of time before I got to them," Don replied with a glare over his shoulder. "And I had to hack dozens of systems to copy the footage. That means she found them first, broke into each one, and then modified ALL the clips featuring Mikey in a convincing enough way that we missed any reference to him being there. It's more than hard. It's nigh on impossible."

He poked around some more, piecing together the majority of scenes into a comprehensive timeline. With a final keystroke, a recap of Mikey's experience on the rooftops began to play.

At first, it was tough to make out what was going on. Then the camera switched to a bird's eye view and they watched in sick fascination as a veritable horde of Foot Soldiers swarmed across the screen, herding their little brother.

Michelangelo did well in the beginning, beating them back despite a number of open wounds. But Don winced as a cluster of flung kunai shredded Mike's coat and skin. When he plummeted off the side of the building, Leo's jaw dropped. By the time the helicopter appeared, Raph stood next to them as well, intently absorbing the playback with narrowed eyes.

Michelangelo regained his feet and his body language changed. For two seconds, he curled in on himself.

Agony stabbed through Leonardo's heart.

There. Right there. Mikey thought he was going to die.

And he was right. The ninjas surrounding him pressed their advantage. Their goal not to capture but eliminate.

Clenching his jaw and fists tight, Leo barely held back a whimper as on-screen the trapdoor raised. It was open scarcely enough to be noticeable. After a few tense moments, Mikey rolled toward it and disappeared.

The door closed and the blowing snow from the rotor blades buried his trail in seconds.

As soon as the aircraft cleared the area, the Foot were back; prowling over every inch of the building. Fury and frustration were visible in every movement but, since there were no tracks, the search eventually moved elsewhere.

The screen faded to black.

Raphael whistled appreciatively and returned to his work, ducking rapidly behind the heater. Don leaned back in the chair, and stared blankly at the ceiling, crossing his arms. Leo turned away.

They all needed a moment to process.

Mikey told us Sharra saved his life, but I didn't fully realize what he meant. And Don said he should have died but somehow Sharra helped him survive. He's still in danger, but we owe her... everything.

Emotion choked him. Leonardo knelt at Michelangelo's side and rested a hand on his oblivious brother's forehead in silent benediction.

Reality was almost worse than all the 'what ifs' I imagined. We'd have never seen him again...

Everything Leo had stifled into submission—days worth of helplessness, anger, fear, and despair—crashed into him like a tempest. He couldn't keep the feelings at bay any longer. With a shudder, he let them drain out in the form of silent tears.

Several long minutes passed as Leonardo wept and slowly he felt lighter. But one emotion remained unresolved by crying.

I did this.

Yes. His damned internal voice agreed in a tone laced with scorn.

You neglected your responsibilities to the family. Michelangelo should never have needed to be the mediator. And to make matters worse, you practically killed his savior! You lost control.

Leo quelled an agonized groan before it could leave his mouth.

Sharra may not have feared mutants before, but she's going to hate us now. And with Mikey's infatuation, that will hurt him even more.

A soft noise interrupted his inner torment and snapped his eyes open.

Sharra stirred in front of him and whimpered beside Michelangelo, rolling to her side.

Instinctively, Leo eased toward the shadows but paused when he noted her eyelids still closed and twitching in sleep. Curiously, her hand groped about in the covers. The mumbling trailed off as her fingers touched Mikey's and tightened; five entwining perfectly with three.

Leonardo's heart stuttered and tripped over itself.

She can't be that comfortable with him.

Comfortable was too mild a word. Sharra was a heretofore unknown human, unconsciously and actively seeking Michelangelo out for reassurance.

She rescued Mikey. She ambushed Raph. She locked out Don. She misled me.

"Who is this girl?"

Leonardo didn't realize he voiced the demand aloud until Donatello replied.

"I don't know, but we owe her big time."

"Do me a favor," Leo said. "Find out."

Splinter paced the open area of their living room, traveling from one end to the other, back and forth, like waves upon the shore. His children had been gone for hours and as yet he had no word of their findings.

Their auras hadn't changed drastically. Most hovered in the grey mists of anticipation and angst colored with just a tinge of hope. He could only suppose they were still traveling the distance necessary to reach his fallen son.

Once fastened onto them, Splinter had found he could no longer stay in the quiet posture meditation required. He rose to his feet, pacing the floor as his mind's eye focused across the city.

Leonardo's spirit was the first to shift, morphing into anger, disgust, and more than a little fear. The reaction chilled Splinter.

What have they found?

In moments, he had his answer. Leonardo's aura turned into a pure blue flame.

Justice. He seeks justice and revenge!

It wasn't the first time Splinter sensed these emotions from his eldest, but under these circumstances, there was only one conclusion he could draw.

Is my poor Michelangelo past saving?

Desperate to understand this change Splinter sought the others nearby to check their condition. Donatello was verging on panic, a shocking state for his logical son. Raphael, oddly, remained calm.

If Michelangelo passed, I would know. I would feel it! He would come to me on the ancestral plane. And Raphael would be beyond rage as well. Something else is occurring.

Splinter's hand hovered over the shell cell at his side, wondering if he should call.

They are in hostile territory. Distracting them now might be disastrous.

To Splinter's dread, Donatello's aura shifted again. The panic faded and he now spiked red.

Anger. Another unusual emotion for him.

His ire was not aimed at an outside force, however, for the waters were muddied with doubt, worry, and fear; a mirror of Splinter's own soul.

Leonardo has done something questionable.

Splinter would have laughed had the situation not been so severe. Leonardo doing something out of character was the only thing that inspired such confusion in his gentle genius. But Leonardo would only act rashly if circumstances were different, or more dire, than predicted.

Raphael turned red.

This, at least, was expected. And while not out of the ordinary, the combination of feelings his sons were projecting did nothing to satisfy his hunger for news of Michelangelo's condition.

The old master froze midstep, one foot still in the air as the next transformation stole his breath—and his hope. Raphael's rage surpassed all normal boundaries as his aura also turned blue.

No. It can't be— It can't—

A fourth spark appeared out of nowhere. A strobe full of fear, despair, and betrayal. It flared brighter than the others, so radiant it left after images seared into Splinter's retinas.

That light burned out almost as fast as it materialized.

Michelangelo!

Splinter howled and collapsed to the floor, wringing his paws that those horrible emotions should be the last ones felt by his son's beautiful soul.

Tears clouded his eyes.

But they did not impede his Sight.

And it showed him something miraculous.

Three auras stood on the rooftop of a snow-swept building, scoured free of all negative sentiments. All were blazing a bright orange.

Joy?

They gathered, surrounding a very pale fourth.

Michelangelo?

His spirit shone dimly as if the previous burst had stolen virtually all his life force. But a pulsating glow surrounded and sustained him—in shades of deep, deep violet.

Tints of purple had swirled around Splinter and his boys all their lives. It bound them together and occasionally tore them apart. But never had he seen it this strong.

This resides in the very depths of Michelangelo's soul!

Violet buoyed his essence, giving him the energy to stay on the physical plane past the point of expending all his earthly strength.

Moment by moment Michelangelo's spiritual vitality improved.

Only one emotion encompasses that much power.

Splinter buried his face in his paws. Sobbing with relief.

Michelangelo found love.