Focus

"LOOK OUT!"

Glaring light blinded Sharra and squealing tires drowned out Raphael's cry.

As she threw a hand up to protect her eyes, a flash of red streaked across her vision. Overwhelming pain raked her body as something large slammed into her. A shockwave tossed her over the rail.

She shrieked as she plummeted face down toward the Hudson, but she wasn't alone. Raphael fell with her. The armored vigilante pulled her close and twisted them mid-air to become a shield. He landed shell first—hard. The impact stunned her lungs but Raph's bulk protected her from the broken bones a four-story fall would cause, even into liquid. But as the icy river engulfed them, his arms slipped away.

Sharra struggled upward while fighting the drag of her baggy clothing. It weighed too much. So, still underwater, she worked her sodden sweater over her head with a great deal of effort and kicked off her boots.

Braking the surface, she sucked air and floundered; splashing about until she remembered the correct rhythm for treading water. With aching ribs pressing on her lungs, she gasped to catch her breath and looked around. The bank was a very long way away.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Raph?" she called.

Wind-blown waves slapped against her face. She choked and spat liquid. It tasted of blood, but now was not the time to worry about her insides. Not when her outside was in such peril.

"Raphael? You OK?"

When he didn't reply, she spun in place scanning for any sign of him.

I'm supposed to stay with him! Was he knocked out? What if he got dragged down by all that armor?

"Raph?" she yelled, "RAPH!"

If he were conscious, he would have found her by now.

Seven minutes. Donatello said he only had seven minutes.

It took her at least one to orient herself, so she was down to six.

I have to find him!

She grabbed a breath and ducked under to search. The partially frozen sludge of the Hudson stung her eyes but she squinted and peered past the pain.

One-thousand-one… One-thousand-two… One-thousand-three…

Turning a careful three-hundred sixty degrees, she checked in every direction.

One-thousand-fifteen… One-thousand-sixteen… One-thousand-seventeen…

Her mental countdown continued as she rose to grab a mouthful of air. But shock hit her hard when she saw the shoreline was moving. The current had snagged her, drawing her further downstream.

But Raphael probably got dragged out as well, right?

She dove again, praying the theory was correct.

Three-thousand-fifty-eight… Three-thousand-fifty-nine… Three-thousand-sixty…

When she resurfaced, a boat was heading her way at speed.

Donnie? Oh please be Donnie. And please, hurry!

If the brainy turtle was tracking Raphael's location, as Leonardo claimed, then she must be searching in the correct place.

Three minutes down. Come on, Raph! Where are you?

Her arms and legs were numb and her chest hurt. Still, she forced a deeper inhalation and dove again. When her ears popped, she equalized her sinuses and continued down, stroking hard despite the discomfort. There was now a distinct lag between her brain's order to turn and her body's response, but she compelled herself to focus.

This was her last chance to find him. She couldn't dive again.

Don's brow furrowed. He was about to remind Leonardo to wipe the blood off Sharra's face to prevent mutagenic contamination; when Raphael released a god-awful bellow. That shout was followed by Sharra's high-pitched scream, and Donnie's brain stalled for a full count of three.

The sound echoed through the night and cut off with a crash. And his first thought thereafter was an useless automatic protest.

No! This can't be happening.

Splinter's orders—shouted through his earpiece—sliced through the horror. "Donatello! Go! Now! They are in the water!"

His body moved, responding to the command before his mind caught up. Adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream and he sliced the rope holding the boat to its temporary mooring. The engine was already running so he slammed the control lever to its highest position, opening it up all the way.

"Raph, come in!" he demanded as his brain activated sufficiently to form words. He strained his ears for a response as the others muted their feeds to leave them open air. "Raphael? Do you read me? Is Sharra still with you?"

This craft wasn't super swift, but nothing faster had been available. Now, when every second counted, he could only hope it would be enough.

Please, let it be enough.

He locked the tracker on his brother's signal and propped it on the dashboard. If Raphael could not help him triangulate, the flashing beacon was his only chance at finding them in the water.

"Raph, if your swimming, or something, just grunt; we'll hear you."

"Are you OK? Is Sharra?"

"Raph?!"

Only silence answered his increasingly frantic hails.

Where is he?

Their shell cells were waterproof. Sensors indicated Raph's remained in the specially designed holster, so he hadn't lost it in the fall. If he was conscious he should have responded.

Donnie's stomach plummeted as he realized the target on his screen was fairly stationary, only moving downstream at the rate of the current.

Raphael isn't swimming! This is bad. So, so, so bad.

Without muscle movement, the window of opportunity for rescue shrank dramatically. Rapidly, he calculated the odds, the distance, and his speed. His palm hit the dash, rattling the controls in a fruitless display of anger.

No, no, no!

Even at full throttle, he wouldn't reach Raphael in time. His vision blurred and he dashed away tears with a fist, ninety-nine percent sure he was chasing a corpse. And since a dead turtle wasn't able to hold onto much, there was no guarantee Sharra would be anywhere near him.

Something brushed against Sharra's ankle in the muddy water and she swallowed the urge to shriek out all her precious air.

A fish, it's just a fish.

The touch came again, followed by something long and slimy clinging to her skin. Visions of giant krakens passed through her mind; pulling sailors to their doom. But logic hurriedly reasserted itself.

Don't panic! Do. Not. Panic. Those aren't real. Hell, there aren't even any octopuses in the Hudson. It's fresh frickin' water. So I'll just reach down and untangle whatever this is.

She bent to run her hands down her leg and encountered a handful of… something.

What the fuck IS this? Fabric?

She blinked in confusion, then froze in horror. Below her, an ominous figure hung motionless in suspended animation. A thick, human-shaped form. The cloth trailed up from its head.

RAPH!

Hysteria lent her new strength as his body tilted and sank. She flailed after him—forcing her ice-cold limbs to move. With a great thrust of her legs, she managed to scoop an arm under the crook of his shoulder.

Four-thousand-thirty-five… Four-thousand-thirty-six… Four-thousand-thirty-seven…

They were running out of time. Air escaped her mouth in alarm. She turned in the direction of the bubbles and kicked for all she was worth, her lungs screaming for relief.

When they reached the top, she gasped and wrestled the turtle until he was face up, keeping an elbow hooked beneath his chin. Raphael was unresponsive. She doubted he was breathing. And searching for a pulse was impossible in moving water.

Five-thousand-eighteen… Five-thousand-nineteen…

Her eyes sought the boat. Help was still too far away. Frantically, she checked Raph over, seeking a way to dump the extra weight of his armor. She couldn't find any fasteners to remove it, but she did discover his head wound was leaking blood.

The deep red ran down his face and into the river, enveloping her pumping legs. Her morbid imagination painted the liquid as suddenly warmer because of it, but the idea made her nauseous. Quickly, she reframed the notion.

At least it means his heart is still beating.

Desperate to do more before his time ran out, she racked her brain for what she remembered reading about rescue breathing in water. It was possible, with the help of certain flotation devices.

Not that we have any…

A light flashing on Raphael's upper-left chest plate caught her eye.

Was it doing that before?

Remembering the switch on his helmet, she flexed her frozen fingers and felt around searching for controls. The light itself turned out to be a button. When she pushed it a black life vest explosively deployed.

Unfortunately, it also dunked her. Sharra grabbed the webbed straps and clung to them, wasting a few precious seconds coughing and wheezing. Then, she reached up and tilted Raph's head back to clear his airway.

Hoisting herself across his plastron, she leaned over to share what little air her lungs might offer. However, unable to determine how to block his nose, she hesitated before she pressed her lips to his. While she considered, he blew out a choked breath and spontaneously inhaled.

Sharra squealed, startled into dropping back to his side. "Raph? Are you awake?" she pleaded, "Can you hear me?" She shoved her ear against him to listen for any sort of answer, but his eyes didn't open.

The pressure from the inflation and my weight on his chest must have triggered him to breathe.

Yet his body remained stiff and the rest of him felt far too cold. Worse than when she found Mikey. And his breathing didn't steady. It remained intermittent and labored.

Sharra refused to give up on him. When water sloshed over his face and he choked, she grabbed the back of his neck and forced his head higher. Skin to scales, she maintained the contact despite the rocking waves.

"Raph!" She prodded him in the chest. "You have to listen to me! Don's coming any minute now. Just hang on!"

Abruptly angry, she hit his shoulder with the flat of her palm.

"Damn it, you're the Nightwatcher! You can't go out like this! Freezing water? That's dumb. You always plan ahead. So why isn't there some sort of heater in this thing you're wearing?"

She didn't feel cold herself one bit anymore. That was probably a dangerous sign, but she didn't have the energy to concentrate on it. All of her awareness was focused on Raph.

"Raphael… please… " she sniffled, "don't leave me alone…"

An unremarkable-looking van containing two concerned humans and one extremely edgy mutant turtle was cruising not too far away; keeping to the speed limit to avoid drawing attention this late at night. But at Sharra's scream, Michelangelo let out a desperate yell. He leaned forward and growled in Casey's ear. "We need to be there, NOW!"

Casey stomped on the gas and whipped around the next corner, cutting across sidewalks and hitting trash cans on the way. None of it slowed him down. April braced herself against the wild ride with the ceiling handles, used to frantic high-speed chases. But they couldn't move fast enough for Michelangelo.

Raphael hadn't answered Donnie's frantic cries. His brother might be hurt, or dead. And perhaps Sharra as well.

No! I would feel that. I would know.

With that reminder, Michelangelo groaned and fought to calm himself. To find his center. To search for her inside—with his chi. But it didn't work. All he felt was pressure, building to almost unbearable levels.

Mikey clutched his arms across his chest, feeling ready to explode.

Sharra broke down, begging the big turtle at her side to stay. But there was nothing more she could do except be with him as he passed. Reaching out, she gripped Raphael's huge hand in her free one, squeezing it.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, resting her head on his shoulder. "Please don't think I'm ungrateful. You… did everything you promised. You saved me from those asshole Purple Dragons AND that car. Not to mention the fall. You did everything right. I— I just wish I could return the favor and save you too."

With that admission, a strange sensation vibrated through her. Her numb limbs began tingling as if she had somehow completed a circuit. Heat crawled up her left arm and into her hand.

Where she touched Raph's neck, he started to glow. His face relaxed as the golden light spread over it, and his breathing eased into a more regular rhythm. Their clasped hands warmed as whatever this was cycled through him and back into her.

Her mouth dropped open in shock.

"What the hell?" she mouthed. But she dared not let go or shift a muscle—in case this miracle decided to cease.

"RAPHAEL!"

Donnie's frantic voice shattered the spell holding her entranced as he hollered his brother's name. Her's followed.

"SHARRA?"

"OVER HERE!" she shouted, waving wildly in reply.

A small craft glided alongside them, almost swamping them with its wake. And Donatello appeared in her field of view. He looked like the best damn thing she had ever seen. Green and powerful. The savior she needed.

He hung off the side of the boat, muscles tensed, and stretched towards her. Presumably, because she was the one without a flotation device. She brushed off his offered hand.

"Take Raph first," she ordered. "He's been in the water too long."

Don simply stared at her, a grief-stricken expression contorting his features.

"DON-nie," she urged, "HELP him! I got him breathing again but he's bleeding!"

For a second, she got the weirdest feeling he might refuse. Then his eyes softened. He leaned out further and grazed her cheek with his fingertips, so briefly she would have accused her mind of playing tricks—if their difference in body temperature hadn't caused the caress to burn.

Just as quickly, he gripped the straps of the armor his brother wore, braced himself, and hauled Raphael on board.

To say Donatello was shocked when Sharra answered his cries was an understatement. Her voice sent electricity jolting up his spine from his tail to his medulla oblongata. He cut the engine, shed his coat, and was hanging from the rail to pluck her from the water before the echo of her answer faded away.

But what he saw shattered his grieving heart anew.

Even in death, Raphael was playing the hero. For reasons he took to his grave, he had donned his old Nightwatcher gear tonight. And its built-in safeguards were keeping Sharra afloat.

She met Don's gaze, and he began to fear for her sanity. A crazed gleam graced her eyes. Though she stopped him as he tried to help her on board. "Take Raph first," she insisted, her voice hoarse from screaming. Don faltered uncertainly, but she claimed his brother was doing the most improbable feat of breathing.

Oh, love. I'm so sorry...

He couldn't bring himself to destroy her fragile illusion. The night's events shoved the poor girl to the edge of reason. It wasn't necessary to tip her over it by revealing she clung to one already dead.

So he humored her.

Biting his tongue to hold back his emotions, Donatello hauled the literal deadweight of Raphael, plus his armor, onto the boat. When the remains hit the deck—and groaned—he almost passed out in shock.

"RAPH!" he cried, rushing to turn the big turtle on his side.

Raphael coughed and spewed water. But as soon as Don wiped his mouth with a towel, he opened his eyes. "Shay?" he grated out.

Ancestors! She's still in the river! I should have grabbed her right after Raph was safe!

Donnie hastily returned to Sharra, but she was sinking. Desperately, he thrust out his bo and climbed over the side again. "Here, grab onto this!"

She tried. She really did, but she couldn't raise her arms. She went under.

Don's body tensed, demanding he dive in after her, but his logical mind objected. Both parties needed immediate medical attention. Assistance he couldn't render if he were freezing as well. Instead, he seized a life preserver attached to the boat and tossed it in beside her. And he breathed a sigh of relief when Sharra thrust herself up and across it.

He dragged her closer carefully until he could scoop her up in one arm. Even that brief immersion caused regret. The temperature left him shuddering. But it was the bone-cold flesh nestled against his elbow that truly sickened him. He swallowed back bile.

How did they survive?

Suppressing a whimper, Don lowered her to the deck, far more tenderly than he had his brother. But the moment he set her down, Sharra collapsed into a heap. He covered her in towels; wrapping one around her wet hair, another across her shoulders, and draping a third over the knees she pulled up to her chest.

As he tried to check her vitals, she weakly pushed him off.

"Help RAPH," she pressed.

Seeing her tiny body curled in the fetal position practically killed him, but she was right about Raphael. The turtle might be a hothead, but he was cold-blooded. He required heat and he needed it now. With one final glance at her, Donnie darted over to aid his brother.

Raph was struggling, trying to deflate the life vest and undo the clasps of his gear. Violent shivering made that virtually impossible. Donatello made short work of the problem. His experienced hands stripped his brother bare, dried him with gentle patting and wrapped him up in the largest beach towels on board.

Thank god this boat was well stocked for swimming.

"Donatello!" Splinter prompted when their silence went on too long with no explanation. "Did you locate Raphael? Is the girl… present?"

Don shoved a hand into his duffle bag for emergency heat packs and foil blankets.

Have to raise their core temperatures. Not the extremities, or it'll induce a heart attack.

"I found them, father," he muttered, his mind only somewhat on the conversation. "They're alive. I'm going silent to treat them. Meet us at the marina. Berth 7-9-2. I'll head there as soon as I stabilize them."

"We will be waiting, my son."

Donnie muted himself and cracked the chemical packs to start them warming. He placed some under Raph's arms, along his bridge, and over his plastron. Two went on either side of his neck and one on top of his head. Then he laid on more towels.

"Sh-sh-sh-shay?" Raph asked again.

"In a minute," Donnie said, holding him down with one hand. "You need to stay flat. And no sudden movements. It's vital, OK? If too much cold blood reaches your heart at once, bad things will happen."

A lot more than 'bad things', actually, but Raphael is in no condition to comprehend the cascade of catastrophic failures leading to cardiac arrest.

Before his brother could answer, an odd croaking had Don turning back to Sharra. Her eyes were clenched tight and her face was blue. He panicked. Being pulled back and forth between two critical patients was tearing him to pieces. And another brain dump left him caching nothing but underwhelming and non-productive thoughts.

Not good!

He rushed to her side, trying to recall the primary phases of CPR—a basic methodology that had been, figuratively speaking, tattooed on the inside of his eyelids since he was old enough to understand the reason for the steps.

It was certainly more difficult than it ought to be.

This brain fog doesn't make sense.

He'd had to juggle multiple brothers' injuries before. Sometimes theirs and April's or Casey's. Or even theirs and their fathers.

Or theirs and my own—in the middle of a fight, no less.

But every time something happened to Sharra, he lost his mind…

"Sharra? Talk to me… Are you choking? Can you speak? Breathe?"

She opened her mouth but no words came out, instead, she tried to inhale and failed.

"You can't breathe," he confirmed.

She clutched at her bosom as he forced her to lay flat on her back and tilted her head to the ideal angle for an open airway.

"Try and stay calm…"

His actions remained direct and confident. But inside he was falling apart. He checked her pulse. It was thready.

Suddenly, her teeth clenched and her breathing stopped altogether.

"Sharra?!"

His stomach flipped when she failed to move at all. Immediately, he leaned in to start resuscitation. Pinching her nose, he pried her mouth loose and sealed his lips around hers. He gave two quick breaths, but in a ghastly parody of life, only one side of her chest rose.

Don drew back in horror and groped blindly in his bag for the medical goggles. A short scan confirmed what his mind already knew. His heart faltered.

"No…" his voice died, then he was shouting. "NO! Don't do this to me, love…"

"Wha- what's the matta'?" Raph said in a horrible raw voice.

Donatello didn't spare him a glance. He dug madly through the duffle again.

What do I have? What can I use?

He located a large syringe and sought a long hollow needle. Raphael blanched as he unwrapped the tools and tried to crawl closer.

"What the h-hell are you doin' D-don?"

"She's suffered traumatic pneumothorax! Somewhere in all this, a rib punctured her lung. She can only breathe on one side. Air is trapped in the pleural space of the other. I have to let it out to help the damaged one reinflate."

He snapped the pieces in his hands together, then hesitated over her unmoving form.

Raph grunted. "S-so what are ya watin' for?"

"I've never done this before," Don spat back. "And the deck of a wet heaving boat in the dark, at 19 degrees, are hardly ideal conditions to experiment with sticking a needle between someone's ribs. She's in shock and I don't have any oxygen to give her, but letting this go long enough to reach shore will likely kill her."

He pulled the lenses back down to find an insertion point that would miss her bones; while still reaching the trapped pocket of air. But his whole body was shaking now. His hands weren't sufficiently steady to perform the procedure.

"I can't do this!" he moaned.

"Donnie."

Raph had managed to drag himself closer with his elbows. His hand landed on Don's arm. He patted it gently, though his voice couldn't be. "You can. You got this. Take a breath."

Donatello barked a delirious laugh at the irony. Both that Raphael—famously afraid of needles—had to talk him through using one. AND that he was counseling deep breathing when the half-drowned girl in front of him was struggling to do so.

"She needs you, Doctor Don," Raph grated, "Now focus."