Home
Perhaps it was an instinctive reaction. Or maybe it was Splinter's warm paw. Whatever the reason, Michelangelo roused the moment they crossed the threshold. His eyes cracked open and he blinked blearily at his father before staring up to the ceiling.
A beat passed before he realized they were in the lair, then his blue eyes widened. His gaze darted frantically around and he opened his mouth to speak but the only sound he produced was a strangled whine.
Raphael shot Leonardo an agitated look as Michelangelo fought weakly against his hold.
"Woah, bro!" he grumbled in reassurance. "It's ok. We're home. Everythin's gonna be fine!"
Unwilling to be placated, Michelangelo struggled a few moments more, but his eyes dimmed and he went limp again.
Splinter blinked back his tears and narrowed his eyes in concern.
What could possibly disturb Michelangelo about being home?
Seconds later, he realized the problem lay not in the location but in who was present. Or rather, not present. Splinter twisted rapidly, counting heads again. All his sons were safely returned but no one else carried a burden. He speared Leonardo with a questioning glance as the others retreated into the depths of the lair seeking the infirmary.
"Father?" Leonardo answered the unspoken demand. He stared distractedly after his brothers but stayed by his sensei's side.
"Where is the girl, Leonardo?" Splinter wanted to be there for Michelangelo's examination and got straight to the point. "Did her injuries worsen?"
Perhaps her decline caused the aural flare? She cannot have died! Michelangelo can not weather such loss in his condition!
Leonardo sighed but quickly dispelled that fear.
"Sharra is fine. Donnie patched her up and she's safe in her home. We have access to the rooftop cameras now, so if anything changes there, we'll know."
Splinter shot Leonardo a sharp look. Some of his words contained the hint of an echo. None were outright lies but they were coached more towards convincing himself than his master.
He does not believe she is fine, nor safe.
"You did not think to bring her with you?" Splinter gestured ahead with a paw and they began walking together to the medical bay, though he kept a close eye on his son's expression.
He did not use his Sight—he did not have the energy to waste—but in Leonardo's physical presence he did not need it. Small signs betrayed his emotions to one who had known him since birth. The tension around his eyes shouted of distress. And the way his lips thinned at the question concerned the old rat.
"I thought a great deal about doing so," Leonardo admitted. "However, I concluded it's best—for all concerned—that she stays where she is."
"Your brother cares for her," Splinter stated with caution. He knew full well Michelangelo had completely given his heart, but perhaps Leonardo was not yet aware.
"I know."
There was a long pause but Splinter waited patiently, using the silence to leverage more explanation from his reticent son. He didn't have to wait long.
"I... I asked him to break off the relationship."
Splinter stopped dead and regarded Leonardo with alarm.
"Why? Did she give you some reason to think she was untrustworthy?"
"No!"
Leonardo seemed almost at a loss for words, startled by his own vehement denial. It took several seconds before he composed himself enough to continue.
"She is, most definitely, honorable. But... bringing her any further into our world would be folly."
Splinter frowned. "Is there something wrong with her? Or do you simply not approve of Michelangelo's choice?"
"What? No! I didn't say that! I mean, she's fine. I... liked her well enough." Leonardo flushed at the admission and Splinter raised a brow as an echo reverberated from the word 'liked'.
"She's intelligent and clever," Leonardo rushed on, "And she sacrificed a lot for Mike. She saved his life—in more ways than one. And they get along well, but I... just don't think it's wise to associate with her regularly."
Splinter hummed. "Perhaps," he said, "perhaps not."
"It's for her own protection," Leonardo insisted as they started walking again. "She has a past with the Foot. One she is hiding from. It's safer if they do not connect her with us. She understands this. So does Mikey."
Splinter grunted noncommittally. From the aural fireworks he Saw, he doubted that was the case. But nothing could be done about it until Michelangelo awoke and told them himself how he wished to proceed.
They rounded the last corner and the injured turtle lay in front of them on a heated table in the center of the infirmary. Splinter bit back a gasp at the sight. Michelangelo wouldn't be telling them anything soon. If it weren't for Donatello's instruments loudly echoing his heartbeat with a steady beep, Splinter would have feared his son dead.
Again.
Michelangelo's face had paled to a greenish-white cast. His chest barely rose with his breath and his eyes stared—open and seeking, but glazed and unseeing. The expression frozen on his face was one of abject horror, though it had only appeared after his brief bout of consciousness.
In the background, Donatello rushed about gathering supplies to start the blood transfusion. He quietly gave orders to Raphael who removed the blankets and the neoprene shirt covering Michelangelo's upper torso.
The removal of the garments did not improve Splinter's estimation of his health. Blood-stained gauze wrapped the turtle's shoulder. Partially healed cuts and abrasions were littered across his plastron, down his bridge, and over both arms. Another large swath of white peeked from the top of the odd-looking pants still clinging to his legs and his ankle looked broken.
What happened to you, my poor son?
He could stand to watch no longer. Sprinting to Michelangelo's side, Splinter rolled up his sleeves and reached for the prepared bowl of hot water. He dipped a washcloth and wrang it before brushing it across his unconscious son's face—using the motion to gently close his eyelids.
Splinter didn't realize he'd spoken the question aloud until Leonardo answered in a hushed tone.
"I'm sorry, father. He was awake and talking—even walking—when we first arrived. But none of us were with him when he collapsed. I was hoping you Saw what caused the additional strain."
Pausing in his delicate washing, Splinter cocked his head to the side in thought. Michelangelo's emotions had been all over the place as the day progressed. Angry, then frightened, then joyous by turns. Any of these might be draining to one already grievously injured, but he supposed Leonardo's question pertained to the mysterious aural flare.
Many things happened in a short moment. Some of which I have no explanation for.
"Michelangelo experienced a rush of emotions," he said at last, considering each word before he spoke. "Most were negative, including significant apprehension and loss. This is why I asked after the girl's health."
Leonardo swallowed hard and glanced away. He might as well have flinched in guilt for it was obvious he felt responsible.
There is undoubtedly more to this story than he has disclosed.
"Afterward a... surge of aural energy consumed him. One unlike anything I have ever seen. The glare blinded my Sight and I was unable to focus on any of you again until you were nearly home."
"Aural energy?" Leonardo asked, his tone surprised. "What did it do, Sensei?
The old rat sighed, feeling the weight of his years pressing on him harder than ever.
"Use your training, my son, and See for yourself,"
Leonardo blinked taking a full breath to concentrate on his Sight, then the color drained from his face. His mouth gaped in horror.
"What the hell is that?!" he sputtered.
Splinter wearily bowed his head, for once willing to excuse his son's choice of vocabulary, for the troubling darkness looked no less sinister up close than it had from across the city.
To those with the Sight, it appeared a vacuum of nothingness surrounded Michelangelo's body—drawing all nearby energies into its dark core. The only positive Splinter could See, now that he was closer, was a small violet bubble of protection that safeguarded the last of Michelangelo's vital essence.
"What is what?" Raphael demanded, "Ya' know I can't see that shit!"
"I do not know how this came to be," Splinter admitted, "But the bright flame of Michelangelo's spirit has been depleted. There is a... void where there was once boundless energy. And the light of his soul flickers as dimly as a single candle."
"What can we do?" Leonardo asked in choked desperation.
"It is my hope that as Michelangelo's body recovers, his spirit will revive as well," Splinter explained, pausing to rest a paw against Michelangelo's forehead. "In the meantime, Donatello will continue to apply his knowledge of the physical and I will siphon as much of my chi to him as remains in an attempt to replace what he has lost."
With a whispered mantra, Splinter quelled his own internal alarm and began to send power through his palm. It glowed slightly golden in his fluctuating Sight.
I am sorry, my son. After days of searching, I do not have much energy left to grant you.
Splinter bowed his head in silent apology, uncertain if his limited gift would be enough.
I pray to our ancestors a father's love and absolute dedication will suffice.
Across the table, Raphael grunted.
"Mikey can have my blood straight if he needs it. An' my chi too. I ain't good at that sorta thing, but he can have everythin' I got."
Splinter's gaze snapped up and his pupils widened as Raphael's face solidified into a fierce expression of determination. This was a startling declaration—for Splinter was very much aware of Raphael's dislike of needles and meditation. For him to offer both would be astonishing, if one did not also know the depths of his abiding love for his brothers.
Especially Michelangelo.
"I've got enough blood on hand for now, Raph," Donatello said, "But I'll keep you posted if I need more."
Raphael's expression never wavered. "Anytime. Just tell me when." He turned back to his father. "Let's do this."
He reached out toward Michelangelo and before Splinter could begin to describe the mantras needed to focus his energy, Raphael's hand too was encompassed in gold. The light flared and throbbed with his fluctuating emotions, unlike the calmer healing power emanating from Splinter's own body. But he picked up Michelangelo's limp hand from the table and poured forth a mighty stream regardless.
Splinter straightened in shock. "That is... impressive, my son."
Leonardo joined them moments later, closing his eyes briefly before shifting to rest a luminous palm on Michelangelo's shoulder. Donatello shot them all a skeptical look as he moved to insert the I.V. line. But, to Splinter's eyes, the scientist's hands also began to shine as he worked.
Nobody spoke for a long time as they settled into their self-appointed tasks, each lost in some combination of meditation or medication. An hour disappeared before Donatello took his father's pulse at the wrist with a gentle hand. A moment later, he removed Splinter's palm from Michelangelo's forehead, ending the restorative trance.
Splinter opened his eyes to meet Donatello's concerned gaze.
"You must stop, father," the genius stated, worry plain in the furrow of his brow and the tenor of his voice, "or you will collapse as well."
"Did it work?" Raphael gasped, breaking his own connection. Sweat beaded on his face and his breath came in huffs.
Exhaustedly, Splinter blinked and examined the void again. The rough edges had smoothed somewhat, making the darkness appear less like a jagged tear in time and space and more like a puddle with glowing golden sand disappearing into its depths at an incline.
"We have made progress, my sons," he said.
Lightly he touched Leonardo's shoulder and when the oldest turtle opened glazed eyes, Splinter separated his hand from Michelangelo, despite his protest.
"I can keep going, father," Leonardo said.
Splinter's eyes softened and he squeezed Leonardo's wrist affectionately. He had to tread carefully here. Michelangelo absolutely needed the devotion and strength of his family to stabilize. And he did not wish his children to lose heart.
But I fear they will empty themselves of vitality as well.
"I believe we might eventually fill the vacuum in this way and strengthen your brother. But it will take time. We should proceed in rotation so as not all exhaust ourselves at once."
Leonardo engaged his Sight to check their progress and eyed the darkness askance. "It has gotten smaller. Sort of, but I don't think we reached Mikey's essence at all. If we're going to truly help I think we need to bolster that shield."
"What shield?" Donatello demanded.
"There is a barrier of energy which protects the remaining wisp of Michelangelo's spirit," Splinter said. "It is a translucent violet color."
"Purple?" Donatello asked with a frown. "Sharra mentioned his eyes glowing purple too."
"She saw this?" Splinter exclaimed in shock.
"What's wrong with that?" Raphael asked.
"The layperson should not be able to detect such things."
"She seemed confused by it," Leonardo said.
"She may be a natural empath," Splinter mused. "One untrained."
"Purple means love on the aural spectrum, right?" Donatello asked.
"L-Love?" Raphael stuttered over the rarely used word in shocked surprise, "Like the romantic kind?"
"Love can take many forms, Raphael," Splinter scolded his assumption. "Familial, plutonic, or romantic—all its manifestations are powerful."
"But..." Raphael protested, then let the objection die. His eyes narrowed and he shot a glance at Donatello. Clearly, Splinter's other sons were aware of the past association between Michelangelo and Donatello—even if the two had not been overt about it.
It was murkier, however, whether Raphael's sharp look and retracted question were in concern for his intelligent brother's feelings about this development or for some other reason. The infinitesimal nod Donatello gave back to Raphael implied the query was about another relationship entirely.
They know. Or, at least, they suspect Michelangelo loves the girl they left behind.
Internally Splinter sighed, relieved Donatello did not seem to take this realization too hard. He'd known of the connection between the two but had respected their privacy—not delving into its existence too deeply.
"However," Splinter continued without giving away his thoughts, "We cannot affect this particular manifestation. It is new. Far too pale and fragile to equate to long-term attachment. No, this barrier is not of our making, nor of Michelangelo's—or it would have responded to one or all our efforts."
"Then who?" Leonardo stared at him for a long moment before, surprisingly, he flushed.
"Sharra," he stated flatly.
Splinter nodded.
"You knew before we got here," Leonardo accused.
"I suspected," Splinter corrected. "Until we all tried to reach him, it was solely a theory. But there are few emotions potent enough to keep one active when physical energy has been expended. Even hate burns out. But love... love has no limits."
"You think Mikey was still moving when we got there because he's in love with Sharra?" Donatello asked.
"Yes. But I believe she was feeding him as well."
"Mike already told us that," Raphael said, "She starved herself so he could eat."
Splinter shook his head, "I do not mean in a physical sense, my son, although such a selfless act also deserves merit. She used the emotional bonds they established to share energy with him. Just as we did."
"I should have realized..." Leonardo mumbled and scrubbed a rough palm over his face. "If I Viewed him before we left I might have caught it."
"It is not often necessary, or wise, to use the Sight on your siblings, Leonardo. You should not berate yourself for this," Splinter said.
"It makes perfect sense, though," Leonardo objected. "Mikey collapsed after he told her he wasn't coming back. Sharra must have withdrawn her energy."
"No!" Donatello objected. "She would never purposefully hurt Mike."
"You think it's a coincidence?" Raphael barked, though his tone was far from the bitter anger Splinter anticipated.
"You weren't there," Donatello snapped. "You didn't hear her crying. Leo's command broke her heart. If she did anything, it was totally on accident."
Leonardo sighed. "Don's right, Raph. I did View Sharra and there was no malice there. She probably reacted out of shock. I doubt she knew she was sustaining him."
"I do not believe she recoiled from Michelangelo at all, my sons," Splinter interrupted, "or this current protection would not exist. It is more likely the aural flare coupled with the emotional strain depleted him despite her assistance."
There was a long pause as the turtles digested his words.
"Will it happen again, Sensei?" Raphael asked.
"The flare? I can not say. As we do not know the cause we must wait until your brother awakens and see if he might enlighten us on the subject."
"We ought to go back for Sharra," Donatello said. "If she is holding the shield, we need to keep her close until he heals."
"How are we gonna do that?" Raphael said with a bitter laugh. "She don't trust us! We show up without Mike an' she ain't even gonna open her door."
Donatello squared off with Raphael. "She'll open it for me. We had an... understanding."
Absently, he stroked a still glowing hand along Mikey's forearm. "I'll explain how Mikey needs her and she'll come. She's very astute."
"You can't leave, Don," Leonardo said. "Not with Michelangelo so physically unstable."
Donatello's face hardened, "I think you've made enough decisions for other people tonight," he snapped. "This is a medical situation and that means what I say goes!"
"No one is going tonight," Splinter declared, cutting off the argument. "We are all drained and there is still the storm to be wary of. This is the time to rest—as best we can. Tomorrow we will reassess."
Donatello set his jaw but didn't say anything else as he returned to caring for Michelangelo. Raphael grunted and folded himself into the cot at the back of the room.
Leonardo covered his eyes with one hand. His shoulders curved in, sunken under the weight of his responsibilities. Splinter let out a sigh so silent it was scarcely a breath. As much as he needed rest, his son needed him more.
"Leonardo," he murmured, placing a paw on his son's forearm. "Come. Help me to my room..."
Slowly darkness and the black and white of ultraviolet night vision gave way to light.
Real colors painted themselves across the flat panel monitor on the other side of the room. The change was gradual at first. So slight an hour passed before Sharra blinked at the brightness of the screen and emerged from her rigid stupor.
Dawn. I didn't think I'd live to see it.
Outside the storm had died to a blanket of grey clouds and the rising sun illuminated the sky enough to expose her roof momentarily. Red and orange stabbed briefly over the surface of the snow, revealing an empty space.
Sharra stared dumbly at the expanse of nothing. Not a human in sight.
Where are they?
Slowly, she began to move. Every muscle protested and she had to stop and stretch before attempting it again. Her lips twisted in a sour line as her tongue hunted for any kind of moisture in her parched mouth.
That's twice now.
In less than 24 hours she had succumbed to the frozen grip of terrified paralysis—twice. Her muscles rigid, her senses numb; she disassociated from her body and her life. It was a learned response. A form of protection during captivity when 'fight or flight' could never prevail. When being inert, immovable, and untouchable was the only way to keep her mind intact.
With a bitter grimace, she managed a modicum of motion, crawling over to her chair and pulling herself upright in front of the keyboard. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her ribs and the pounding of her head, she squinted against the double vision of her desiccated eyes and logged herself into the computer.
According to the Nightwatcher, the last of the Foot soldiers had slunk off more than an hour ago. And though her program searched thoroughly for further human-shaped shadows it came up with nothing. She was safe—for the moment.
Gradually, as her brain returned to life, Sharra woke her body as well. She rolled her shoulders and jiggled her arms. She drew a number of deep breaths, trying to loosen the tension that still choked her lungs. She patted her thighs, her face, and her forearms with shaking hands.
Her fingers brushed the small shell-shaped bracelet and she paused to caress its face with her thumb, just as she had so many times during the early hours of her terror. It was a poor substitute for Michelangelo's majestic carapace but its presence comforted her—though it remained inactive on her wrist.
Despite the danger of the Foot clan at her door, she hadn't triggered it. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind a part that could still function had fought the idea. Dragging the turtles back before they got Michelangelo home was unthinkable. And she had no concept of how far away home might be.
She hoped they made it without encountering any enemies. She had no doubt the other three were just as deadly in a fight as Michelangelo. And she knew they would battle to the last to protect their injured brother, but it would be ideal if they got away clean.
They must have since the Foot were still looking for Mikey here.
The thought cheered her a little. And, luckily, the black-clad ninjas hadn't found her trap door. At least, she didn't think they had. After she froze up, she remembered nothing.
Quickly, she checked. But while the cameras captured hours of them circling the perimeter of her secret hideout like vultures with strange devices in their hands, there were no scenes of them discovering her home. Sharra slumped in relief.
She shuddered and forced her body back into motion. Picking up a glass of water discarded hours ago, she downed it in one gulp then stumbled back to the kitchen for some more. Three glasses later, she started feeling human again.
Her eyelids no longer scraped horribly when she blinked and her muscles were slowly—ever so slowly—stabilizing. But she couldn't pull her eyes away from the monitor, afraid the second she did her wrist would vibrate again in silent alarm.
I can't... can't survive another round of that.
Her heart couldn't take it.
In a startling moment of clarity, she realized she didn't have to hide here in fear. This wasn't 'home.' She no longer owned one of those—only temporary safehouses. And since Michelangelo was now presumably secure she could leave.
She had other accommodations. Granted, they weren't her favorite but she could move temporarily and wait for the Foot to give up on finding the disappearing turtle on her workshop roof.
Once the thought had occurred, she couldn't shake it. The need for action seized her and stiffly she rose to her feet. Stumbling back to the bedding, she dug through the pile of clothing until she found a battered knapsack. Groaning with aches and effort, she sorted her personal possessions, deciding what to take with her.
Work can wait.
She'd been paid for all her Christmas items. And she didn't need to take much else as her bolt holes were independently provisioned. But she rolled up a few pairs of leggings and her favorite sweater. She packed the rest of the fresh food, some water, and her most treasured book.
After much hesitation—she picked up the photo of her parents.
Telling Mikey about them had been painful, but also cathartic. She had hidden from her memories for a long time, but she didn't truly wish to forget her family. Sharra slid the irreplaceable image from the frame and tucked it inside the novel.
Back at the computer, she set the Nightwatcher system on automatic—forwarding all vital information and camera feeds to her dockside hideout. As a last-minute addition, she grabbed the knife she pulled from Michelangelo's wound and stuffed it in the front pocket of the bag.
The blade was small and easy to conceal. It wouldn't help her against ninjas but the docks were rougher than uptown and at least this way she'd have a weapon handy.
If some drunk tries to maul me he'll get a surprise.
She put on her coat, grabbed her pack, and slipped up the ladder. Then, fingering her bracelet, she gathered all her courage. With one last deep breath, she opened the hatch and vanished into the dawn.
There was movement on the rooftop. Black against white as a ninja slunk over the drifts of snow; taking extra care to leave only irregular smudges, not footprints, in the piles. His eyes narrowed at the solitary figure outlined in the rising sun on the building a little ahead of him and a story above.
The woman stood poised and perfectly still on the top of the knee wall protectively encircling the roof. She stared into the distance or perhaps at the frosted cityscape below. And if she noted his presence, she gave no sign of it.
Not even when he climbed up and silently approached her from behind.
Three steps away from her back, he abruptly went to one knee despite the snow. He bowed his head and waited.
"Rise and report."
The Foot soldier shivered, for the voice was colder than the ice under his hands. But he rose as requested, keeping his eyes tilted down in a respectful manner.
"Mistress Karai, as you supposed, there was a hidden door."
She turned at that and met his eyes.
"And did you follow the turtle who emerged?"
"No. There was no sign of the accursed beast. A single human exited. A girl."
"A girl?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Describe her."
"Slight. Dark short hair. Dark eyes. Like one of the homeless teens who camp on the rooftops."
"And the door?"
"She secured it behind her. It has a complex magnetic lock. Without the key, it will take some time to break in."
Karai grunted. "You followed her?"
"Yes, Mistress. Since she had the dagger I tailed her via the tracker hidden in the blade."
That earned him a nod of approval.
"And did you... detain this mystery girl?"
"Unfortunately, she escaped."
Karai's brow rose. "How?"
The ninja straightened at her incredulous tone, glad she could not see the flush of shame under his hood. An untrained girl should not have eluded one such as he.
"I followed her to a subway platform and had her within arms reach, but she detected me at the last moment. She darted into a departing 'E' train. The door closed before I could pursue."
He held out a tattered camouflaged canvas backpack with torn straps.
"I did manage to secure her bag though."
With a nod, Karai indicated he should dump it and he scraped a portion of the rooftop at his feet bare so they could examine the contents. Clothing, some food, bottled water, and a book fell to the damp tar paper.
He watched in trepidation as Karai gazed indifferently at the basic items. Desperate to find something of value, he unzipped the front pocket. With a final shake, the kunai tumbled out as well.
Karai's lip curled into a snarl, "You fool. She must have interacted with the turtle or she wouldn't possess the blade. And yet you removed our only way to track her!"
The ninja began to sweat as he picked up the knife. His Mistress had ruled the Foot clan with an iron fist in her father's absence. Now that he had returned, she had become even more ruthless. There was no telling how he might be punished for this mistake.
But, like a gift from the gods, 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland' fluttered open in the stiff wind and released a single piece of paper. A photo.
Karai's eyes snapped to the fluttering page and she held out an imperious hand. He scooped it up before it could blow off the edge of the roof and placed the picture on her palm. She glanced at the back where a small word was penciled, then turned it over to analyze the front.
Her lips parted with a quick intake of breath and her pupils dilated. The ninja flinched in surprise. His Mistress was known for her stalwart, emotionless mask. He'd never seen her this... unguarded.
"Does it help?" he blurted out.
Normally, he wouldn't dare to speak without an order, much less question Karai. Especially when he was already on such shaky ground. But if the image led them to one of the elusive turtles, he might regain some of the pride he lost to the girl's escape.
"Did you show this to anyone else?" she hissed.
He'd thought her voice cold before, but this sharp question was downright freezing. And her eyes pierced him with the intense stare of a predator about to spring.
"N-no, Mistress," he stammered.
"Did any of the others see this girl? Or the door she emerged from?"
"No, Mistress," he replied a bit desperately. "At your command, we kept the surveillance teams minimal and only among your personal guard. Sentries were posted on top of all nearby buildings, but as my target was not a turtle, I did not alert them and I alone shadowed her."
Karai huffed and glanced again at the photo. Some of the tension drained from her shoulders and the ninja breathed a silent sigh of relief. She wasn't about to take his head off after all.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," she said.
Taking that as his dismissal, he dropped again to one knee and bowed. He never would have done it if he'd actually looked at her. He missed the knife flashing in her hand and the deadly gleam in her eyes.
Blood spurted and pooled as Karai pulled the double-bladed kunai from the joint of his shoulder with a practiced tug. And the Elite Foot Soldier—one of her best—died in seconds from the severed vein.
But Karai had already sheathed her weapon and turned her back; resuming her position on the ledge before his body even slumped over.
Her eyes no longer scanned the city, however. She couldn't tear them from the photograph.
A slender gloved finger traced the figure of a young girl with a carefree smile hanging off the back of a silver trailer with an easy grace.
"Sharra..." Karai sighed.
Her heart clenched for the innocent girl depicted there before her brows knitted and she shook her head.
"What the hell are you doing?"