Wrong
Donatello sighed. Leonardo often made such sweeping statements of expectation.
Just, 'Do the research Don', or 'We have to own those cameras,' without any thought to the preparations required for such mental gymnastics.
'Find out' wasn't a new directive. Or even a surprise. But it irked him. If Donnie hadn't been so curious himself about the girl he might have subconsciously procrastinated the task.
However, her mysteries intrigued him.
And like Raphael said, 'I've got to have something to do all day.'
So, here was a girl—a young woman—Donatello corrected himself, for his medical lenses placed her age in the mid-20s despite a childlike appearance. Who for all intents and purposes should not exist. From Michelangelo's outburst on the rooftop, he gathered she, or her family, had crossed the Shredder personally.
That kind of rebellion usually ends up in familial extinction. As well we know. So how did she survive?
She's clever.
Don left the rickety chair and wandered toward the entry area.
She's carved out a place of her own here.
Workstations, a kitchen, a bed, even a makeshift bathroom from an old janitorial closet were easily identifiable.
Sharra's den may be rough, but she is no more homeless than we are. Her home is simply... less conventional than usual for a human.
Not that they had been in many human homes for comparison. All he had to go on were the various apartments April and Casey rented over the years. Besides sitcoms on TV. Of course, Donnie was not naive enough to imagine most of the population lived that way.
Too many of them actually are living on the streets.
Donatello gazed about, cataloging the vast collection of items spread in front of him while his conscious mind wandered in thought. Where his brothers saw haphazard piles of junk, Donnie noted careful collections.
She's organized. Intelligent and creative.
Her workroom for example was very much akin to his. There wasn't however, any sign of medical competency or chemistry equipment. She didn't appear to have an infirmary or even a complete first aid kit— just a tiny pile of supplies gathered in one of the work 'zones'.
Most of them look like they came from Michelangelo's emergency allocation. So how did she deal with his injuries so well?
Putting aside for the moment the puzzle of treatments for mutant turtles, he wondered how she accomplished anything with an unconscious Michelangelo.
How did she move him? She doesn't have the musculature to lift his body weight. How did she clean him up? And the room?
A brief scan of the space during Mikey's retelling only revealed the slightest traces of mutagen. A substance he knew firsthand was extraordinarily hard to eliminate. Considering the amount of blood Mikey lost, Don's lenses should have glowed with residue, but the whole 'house' was remarkably pristine.
Sanitized to be precise, though it doesn't stink of cleansers.
Donatello sniffed experimentally and only sensed a comforting medley of solder and ozone from the electronics, besides the rather soothing perfume of the girl herself.
What is that scent anyway? Bergamot and lilac?
He shook his head to get his thoughts back on track.
Mike said he was out for days. That means she not only cleaned up the blood but also took care of his... personal hygiene. Probably, after he woke up as well.
She's done so much for him, but WHY?
Donatello stared hard at Sharra's sleeping face across the room. He didn't find any answers there, but he was relieved the twisted expression of shock and terror had faded from her face.
She still seemed pale though. Her skin was sallowed at the edges from malnourishment. Dark circles plagued her eyes and her hair resembled a bird's nest.
Without his invention, he couldn't see the extensive bruising and telltale marks of past traumas buried under her clothing and blankets. But he would never forget them. The scars, and the abuse they implied, made his jaw clench.
Most of them were old. Years old. Signs of multiple healed breaks appeared in both arms and in virtually all the digits of her right hand. Her cheekbones showcased a latticework of mended hairline fractures.
Scar tissue sliced its way across her lower abdomen and crisscrossed her thighs; trailing into locations he didn't dare pursue without proper consent from the patient. And thin white parallel lines of calloused skin banded both her forearms, indicating long-term imprisonment with manacles.
Someone tortured the poor girl at some point. Physically, psychologically, and presumably sexually. No wonder she suffers such severe PTSD.
Don marveled she functioned at all, much less at the level of brilliance he saw around him.
She's had a hard life. And we didn't help.
Donatello's anger increased almost exponentially as he recalled Leonardo's choices on the rooftop. He turned abruptly away from the others to hide his scowl, though neither were paying him particular attention.
Raphael I expect to lose control. Leonardo knows better. He can do the job without permanent injury. The moment he realized Sharra was not an immediate threat, he ought to have let her go. But he lost himself to that unfeeling monster.
Donnie was well aware of the leader's concealed 'personality'. The bloodthirsty, blind, justice-seeking identity forged in the heart of the Amazon.
The one he thinks makes him emotionless...
He snorted.
That stony-faced justice is merely an emotion Leonardo hasn't acknowledged yet. One that surfaces when his conscience goes to sleep.
How did this rescue go so wrong?
Don scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling oddly helpless and infuriated as Sharra's terror-stricken eyes again dominated his thoughts.
Concentrate Don. Get yourself together. You're finding out about her life—before we crashed into it.
Cautiously, he browsed through several of the crates of material in front of him, being mindful not to disturb Sharra's careful curation. There was a peculiar order to the items. A method to her chaos.
The main aisle of the space divided two types of work. One side of the room housed analog, clockwork, and mechanical devices, while the other focused on digital and electronic technology. Within these two categories were subdivisions allowing for an almost assembly-line efficiency of construction.
A vast selection of specialty parts, including some he recognized as coming from industrial labs covered one bench. So many, in fact, he envied them.
I haven't done half this well scavaging in the last year. Maybe we can swap sources?
Donatello shifted closer to her primary workbench and peered through a magnifying glass mounted to the tabletop. Mikey's shell cell, or what remained of it, sprang into focus.
Donnie picked up a pointed awl and traced her remapped circuitry without touching it, marveling at the delicate handiwork.
She identified all the existing circuits, bypassed the missing pieces, and managed to activate the GPS locator.
The signal still broadcasted on its original frequency, and as he previously noted, it varied in pitch to construct a message.
Holy crap, she's an imaginative engineer! I wouldn't have come up with that.
A nearby oscilloscope displayed the waveforms. When he watched the waves it rapidly became apparent his quick program hadn't grasped all the nuances of the text. But he didn't need to retranslate it for next to the device, scribbled in neat script, sat Sharra's notes.
'Clashed with the Foot. Injured but ok. Totally secure. Waiting out the storm. No need for rescue. M.'
Shit.
"Leo," he called in an undertone, "The message I isolated IS originating from Mikey's phone but the broadcast is not what we thought."
Leonardo slipped instantly to Don's side. His eyes skimmed the handwriting on the notepad Donnie held up and his brow furrowed.
"I rushed the translation," Donatello murmured in apology. "She definitely wasn't trying to trick us. She was telling us he survived."
Emotion flashed across Leonardo's face and vanished in a split second, but Don caught the edges of it. It looked like the leader had swallowed something unexpectedly sour. Leo's voice when he spoke though, was serene.
"I'll tell Master Splinter. He will be anxious to learn what we found." Leonardo returned to his seat near the wall and pulled out his own shell cell.
That's going to be an interesting call...
Turning away to provide as much privacy as he could in the tight space, Don's eye fell on a framed photograph. It was the only decorative item in the room, yet it faced down.
Curious.
He picked it up. The image was a beautifully composed shot. And Donnie assumed the two adults in the foreground must be Sharra's parents—for the young, carefree girl hanging off the back of the trailer was undoubtedly Sharra.
Donatello couldn't tear his eyes away from her. She was an endearing child, though as young as she looked now she was likely a teenager in this photo. Her face was full. Her hair thick and long. A glorious smile graced her elfin features. But there was no mistaking those intense soulful eyes, surrounded by dense lashes.
He glanced between the picture and Sharra's prone form; remembering the broken bones, bruises, and scars.
A fist closed around his heart and squeezed.
Shredder had been involved in so much destruction. And so many deaths. Donatello didn't need another reason to hate him...
Yet here she is.
The phone rang less than an hour later.
Splinter slowly drew himself off the floor.
He knelt.
It rang again.
Splinter wiped his eyes.
Michelangelo is alive.
A third ring.
Injured and weak, but alive.
A fourth.
My sons need me. I must focus.
He cleared his throat, pressed the answer key with studious intent, and raised the small device to his ear. He hardly dared to blink in case the Sight would fail and he would lose the presence of those most precious to him.
"I am here," Splinter said and waited, seeking a cue as to what role his children required.
"Father," Leonardo's voice cracked.
Splinter's battered heart clenched. Leonardo did not want a sensei or Master. He did not need strategy or advice, but the comfort and protection of a parent. His aura radiated guilt and the others' joy at locating their brother had not lasted.
"Father, we found him."
"Tell me."
"He's alive."
Splinter exhaled heavily. He could still See Michelangelo's spirit among the group, but hearing Leonardo say those words released a constriction in his lungs.
"I know."
"He's– Don says he's not good though. Physically. He needs to rest before we bring him home."
"Michelangelo is asleep now?"
"Yes."
Hmm... His aura is gaining strength, the light is growing.
Generally when his sons slept the glow dimmed as their conscious mind retreated. He had feared Seeing that in Michelangelo, whose spark was already too faint.
"Will you wait for evening?"
"Yes, if we can. Donnie says the longer he rests, the better his chances."
So many hours away. Perhaps I should go to them?
"Are you somewhere safe? Warm? Out of sight?"
"As safe as we can be. We're inside, out of the weather."
"I See you haven't moved. Did you capture the place where he was being held? Was anyone else hurt in the fighting? Are you expecting to deal with reinforcements?"
I didn't feel any major injury to the others but...
"There was no fight."
"Leonardo!" Splinter's tone became sharp. "Do not try to shield me. I Saw the battle. I Saw your brother almost..."
His voice grew hoarse and petered out as his breathing sped. He couldn't bring himself to speak of the near-extinction of Michelangelo's vital essence.
Silence echoed down the line for a few seconds.
"There was no fight."
Splinter's ear twitched. "Explain."
"The location was suspicious. A perfect kill box."
Splinter stifled a gasp. That clarified some things.
"It put me on edge and I... made some questionable decisions."
"Continue."
As if flood gates opened, Leonardo began to babble.
"I was sure it was a trap. There was a message within the beacon. An impossible message. A lure. I sent the others out of range and when a... scout showed up, I questioned them harshly. Too harshly. I... Father, I lost control."
Ah. That would be what Donatello objected to.
Splinter spared a moment to hope Leonardo had not killed the scout, if only for his son's peace of mind; though he would not feel particularly troubled if Leonardo was forced to act. Splinter did not typically condone killing, preferring to leave it as a method of last resort, but...
I do not know that I would have acted differently in this situation, with Michelangelo being used as bait.
"Do not be too hard on yourself, Leonardo. You were protecting your family in desperate circumstances."
"I didn't get the information I needed,"—Leonardo paused—"so I went to spring the trap myself."
Splinter's blood ran cold, despite knowing the outcome.
What possessed Leonardo to venture into a death trap on purpose?
"That was perhaps... not the best idea. Yet there was no fight?"
"There was no trap."
Splinter hesitated, processing. "This is good to hear, but what happened, my son?"
"Mikey wasn't captured. He fought while severely wounded. Foot ninjas—" Leonardo broke off, then began again. "He was stabbed, Father. And beaten. And he fell off a building. He was... distraught. He thought he was going to die."
Each sentence landed upon Splinter's body like a blow he could not block; with the power of a battering ram. He shuddered where he sat, fighting to stay upright.
My poor boy...
But beneath the horror of its content, everything about this conversation was wrong.
Leonardo is traumatized.
There could be no other reason for this mish-mash of a tale. Normally, his reports were succinct and to the point. This story rambled and barely made sense.
"There was a video—" Leonardo panted, "Father, I— "
"Hush, my son," Splinter said, interrupting the downward spiral of emotions and words. "Breathe. Breathe and center yourself."
Splinter took a moment to follow his own advice as he heard Leonardo obey. When his aura balanced the old rat began to probe again, gently.
"So, Michelangelo escaped and found cover? And you are staying where he was sheltering."
It was the only solution that fit the facts he had so far. It even correlated with the feelings he sensed days ago. But it didn't explain what he Saw this morning. Or why Michelangelo almost perished.
"No, and yes. He was rescued," Leonardo whispered. "Snatched from right under the Foot's nose at the last possible moment. They hid and stabilized him."
This news should be joyous, but Leonardo sounded troubled. Splinter sighed and pinched the bridge of his snout.
I do not understand.
"Is this rescuer unreasonable? Is he making demands you cannot fulfill? Holding your brother hostage?"
Splinter could not conceive a scenario where Leonardo, Donatello, and Raphael would not move heaven and earth to reclaim Michelangelo. Unless this third party had some hold over his life. But no, Leonardo had said they would return at nightfall.
So his release must already be secured.
"No, No! Nothing like that. I— it's—" Leonardo drew in a deep breath.
"Father, we hurt her."
Her.
With that one word, Splinter's confusion cleared. All the pieces dropped into place.
Michelangelo fell in love with his rescuer.
She was attacked and he surrendered the last of his strength to save her.
The pulse of incredible betrayal from Michelangelo's aura suddenly made sense.
His brothers harmed her. Why?
"The scout," Splinter said, making the final connection.
Leonardo choked, suppressing a sob, and Splinter knew he was right.
"She lives?" he asked, trying to remain calm. Though he was sure she did, or Michelangelo would not be breathing.
He is holding on for her.
"She's— Well, she's unconscious for now. Donnie wants to stay until she wakes up."
"How bad are her injuries?"
"Not life-threatening, or I promise we would have taken her to a hospital."
Splinter breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"Do you wish my presence?"
It was a somewhat loaded question.
Splinter wanted Leonardo to say 'yes'. He felt a frantic need to be near Michelangelo and the rest of his family. To offer support through more than words.
But the query was, in reality, a bit of psychology. A gentle prod to provoke a defensive answer.
Leonardo is a remarkable leader and justifiably proud of his skills.
Splinter sought to rekindle that pride as a way to reset his son's emotional equilibrium.
He knows I believe in him. This is why he called. I will not question his competence by showing up without invitation. This is the support he truly needs.
"No," Leonardo replied, as Splinter knew he would. "Thank you, Father. I know you are anxious to be with Mikey, but we will be fine here until tonight."
"Very well. I will prepare the lair and await your return. Be gentle with the girl," Splinter advised. "She will be fearful when she awakens. Be guided by your brothers, for each of you must convince her you regret your actions. Also, please convey my gratitude, for she has saved a life in the Hamato Clan."
"I will. It took great courage to... do what she did."
She is doing more than you know. Take care you do not crush her heart, for she is sheltering your brother's.
"Until this evening then. Farewell, Father."
Splinter ended the conversation with the pledge he always vowed to his children. The same words that began this call what felt like a lifetime ago.
"I am here, my son."
Always.
Raphael boosted the heater in less than half an hour, then found himself in a predicament he absolutely abhorred—sitting still for an indeterminate amount of time.
As a ninja, he had trained for inaction. Patience and waiting were essential skills.
It don't mean I have to like it though.
When they weren't on a mission Raph much preferred to keep his hands busy. He may not be as dedicated as Donatello, but he often built improvements for the lair or tinkered with the vehicles in the garage. Otherwise, he lifted weights and beat the crap out of his punching bag.
Idleness left too much time for thinking, for stewing in emotions. Today, it meant contemplating precisely how close he'd come to becoming one of the monsters he fought.
Way too close.
Raphael was more than angry at the girl on the roof. The moment their suspect showed the tiniest sign of rebellion, all his fury at the whole situation—with Leo, losing Mike, and discovering how broken his family had become—boiled to the surface.
He didn't know how to channel that much rage.
And I was ready to take it all out on her.
His thought at the time made him flinch now.
'How dare this bitch deny me?'
Sharra lay defenseless underneath him.
Writhing.
Screaming.
Yet he hadn't budged.
I woulda' hit her too. If Mikey hadn't stopped me.
Fuck. What have I become?
He took a surreptitious glance around the room. Donnie had left off wandering around, doing... whatever Don stuff he was doing, and returned to the girl's computer. Leo was on the phone with Splinter. Michelangelo was still out.
Sharra curled in a small ball, hidden behind Mikey's shell. Raph couldn't see her face from here, but he wasn't sure he wanted to. The horrid rictus of fear from their first encounter was etched in his memory.
Damn it! She's only a kid. If I'd seen her on patrol, I'd have shadowed her home to make sure some asshat didn't harass her. How'd I end up on toppa' her?
Raphael grit his teeth and slunk to the other side of the room, moving as far away as he could from the sleeping pair; lest his monstrosity be contagious.
She saved Mikey's life and I fuckin' frightened her into a coma.
What am I gonna do? I got plenty a'guilt, but I'm no good at apologizin'. I ain't sensitive like Mikey. How can I ever make this up to... any of them?
Raphael sighed in defeat.
I don't know how to be anythin' other than me.
"Can this day get any worse?" he muttered under his breath.
As if the universe was listening, the overhead lights flickered and went out.