Aftermath
Splinter frowned but kept his thoughts to himself as Casey Jones raced the van through a maze of one-way streets. The vigilante appeared to be consumed by the same desperate need as they—to be safe underground.
He took turns at reckless speeds until they were close to the warehouse. But he wasn't so incautious as to lead an enemy to their home. Within a few blocks of the concealed garage, Casey became a paragon of traffic virtue. He drove just under the speed limit and circled the neighborhood while Donatello checked on the area's security.
When the genius gave the all-clear, they pulled through the loading area of the secret entrance into the building. The massive wall opening sealed behind them and Donatello vaulted out the back of the vehicle. In seconds, he slid open the side access and locked gazes with his youngest brother.
"I know you just got her back, Mike. But I need to treat her ASAP."
Michelangelo stared at him for a long moment before uncurling and allowing him to gather Sharra in his arms. Donatello didn't wait for the rest of them. As soon as he had the girl secured he strode rapidly into the elevator that rose from the floor and disappeared behind the sliding doors.
"Let us help you, my son."
Splinter offered Michelangelo a hand and April shifted his legs until they could ease him slowly out of the van. On the far side, Casey and Leonardo hauled Raphael upright and supported him, one per shoulder. When the elevator returned, they all limped in and the whole group waited in silence as the small room descended—trapped in their own thoughts.
Once below, they headed to the infirmary where Splinter took charge. Generally, his sons took care of each other after a battle, but tonight all were damaged. Some in heart or mind as well as body.
Thankfully, the Joneses are here to assist.
"Casey put Raphael in the cot at the back. Remove all his weapons and armor. He is to remain prone as much as possible, and cover him with multiple blankets."
"Prone?" Casey mouthed up at Raphael who leaned against his shoulder.
"Layin' down, ya' bonehead," Raphael replied.
Normally the turtle would have rough-housed with the impertinent human, slapping him up the back of his skull. Or objected to being 'benched.' But tonight he only yawned and tottered back to the indicated resting point.
Concerned at this lackadaisical response, Splinter engaged his Sight. His poor son's aura was grey with exhaustion. Which was not particularly surprising as he'd been hit by a car, taken a formidable fall, and been paralyzed by cold water.
The water temperature had been especially worrying. When Donatello fell silent during the rescue, Splinter had feared the worst. And from the shock on his learned son's face when they finally returned to the harbor, the worst should have occurred.
But Raphael had miraculously survived it all.
I suspect I have Miss Sharra to thank, somehow, for that as well.
Despite his weariness, Raphael's watchful amber eyes narrowed keenly and flicked between Michelangelo and Donatello as he got situated. But he commented on Sharra.
"She's gonna need some new clothes. Her sweater got burned and Don tore her undershirt when he fixed up her lung. She lost her boots too."
Splinter nodded, shifting gears. "April, perhaps you have something the young lady can borrow? Socks, a thick pair of sweatpants, and a long-sleeved top, no matter the size, would be most helpful."
"Certainly," April said, with a tired smile. "I always keep extra things here. With you guys, it's a fifty-fifty chance I'll end up bloody, mucky, sweaty, or all three on each visit."
She dashed from the room as Splinter escorted the wobbling Michelangelo to the specialized shell-accommodating gurney and assisted him with lying down. "Rest now, my son," he murmured.
"Speakin' of bloody," Raphael groused. "I can smell Leo all the way over here."
Leonardo had remained so silent and still Splinter had almost forgotten he was in the room. But the quick glance of assessment he directed at the leader became a concerned stare. Standing out of reach of his family—isolated and alone—Leonardo held every shield he knew in place against them; physical, emotional, and spiritual.
Splinter closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep breath. Raphael wasn't the only son he had feared lost this evening. Leonardo still barely held himself together.
The underlying pain showed through in the way his muscles tensed inside the bloodstained clothes, his face presented a blank mask, and his eyes had no color. Splinter couldn't even See his aura properly. As he Watched, the swirling cacophony of hues fogged and faded into wisps of mist.
Love turned insanity is a catastrophic event with violent ends.
As a father, he wished he could console Leonardo, but right now his son needed solitude and time to process. The leader's sense of duty, however, would not allow him to forsake his brothers for his own relief, thus he suppressed his emotions and stood guard.
With a hum of thought, Splinter gave another firm order.
"Go and shower, Leonardo. Then gather all of your siblings' weapons and gear and tend to them. Leave the armor to drain, but I expect the rest to receive the cleansing and maintenance they deserve tonight."
This was a typically Splinter-ish thing to command. Often interpreted by his sons in the past as a punishment or strict adherence to the ninja code for respect to their armaments. But tonight Splinter didn't give a rat's ass about their equipment.
Not when so many of my children are injured and hurting.
The order was purely for his son's benefit. The shower would remove the blood evidence of Leonardo's violent battle. And the repetition of caring for their weapons in the familiar environs of the dojo—something he could do in his sleep by this time in his life—would provide the distressed turtle a 'safe' space to meditate on events.
"Hai, Master," Leonardo said with a bow.
The respectful reply was an automatic reaction to Splinter's tone, but he didn't move. Instead, his eyes shot to Donatello—who tended to the girl across the room with a single-minded focus.
"We're fine here." Donatello answered the silent question without ever looking away from his patient, his posture stiff. "I have enough help. Go on."
With one last searching look at Sharra, Leonardo headed for the door. Splinter sighed at the tension and implied conflict in the exchange, but other matters were more pressing.
He returned his attention—and Sight—to Michelangelo.
Uncertain feelings had tortured the youngest turtle all week as he psyched himself up for the potential of Sharra's loss. Anticipation and dread had kept him teetering on the brink of collapse. But though the emotional strain had worn him thin, it did not account for the actual amount of misplaced energy.
Michelangelo lay before him aurally drained. Again. This time no dark void punched through his soul, but the little vitality that remained was painted a putrid yellow with shock, horror, terror, and grief. Softer, more expected emotions like relief or doting affection were not present at all.
Where can they have gone?
"Donnie?" Michelangelo called in a wavering voice. "Can you bring Sharra over?"
Donatello glanced up, his eyes softening as he acknowledged this brother.
He had worked diligently on the girl. A clear mask covered her mouth and nose, linked via a plastic tube to a small metal canister of compressed gas. And an I.V. bag full of fluids hung over her head on a pole. He had removed the coat, wrapped her hair in a dry towel, and—with April's help—swapped her wet clothes.
"She's stable, Mike," he reassured. "I think we got to everything in time. Though I won't really know until she wakes up if she has lasting brain damage from the cold or lack of air."
Splinter winced at the bluntness of the update, but Donatello wasn't one to sugarcoat things.
"Please," Michelangelo begged, pushing himself upright. "I need to touch her. It makes it easier…"
"Easier to what?" Donatello asked, his tone curious as he wheeled her closer.
"To help her."
Splinter blinked at that, before turning his Sight on Sharra. He froze. Here was the answer to the mystery of his son's missing emotions. The violet hue of Michelangelo's devotion clung to the girl from head to foot, with a light so bright he could not discern her own underneath it.
The power pulsed through her arteries and veins in time with her heart, providing gentle warmth to her frozen form. While a thicker band constricted her chest in a regular rhythm—the same pattern of breathing Michelangelo used.
But it is all oddly external.
Michelangelo hadn't given Sharra the energy to save herself. Somehow, he had connected his body to hers across the water and guided those energies, keeping their vital functions aligned.
Splinter had never seen anything like it.
The light flared as Michelangelo stretched out and brushed the girl's cheek with his fingers. "Babe," he whispered in agony. "Please, please... Wake up… I need you to say you'll stay."
"Hush, my son," Splinter said, setting a calming palm on his shoulder. Though weary himself, he managed to muster a stable golden flow to reinforce his exhausted child. "We will treat her here beside you, but she needs to rest, and so must you."
Donatello took that as his cue to start on Michelangelo. He reached for the medical goggles and gave his brother a quick scan. His face paled. Michelangelo's pulse was sluggish. His eyes were glazed and half-closed against the overhead light.
"Do you know what happened to him, father?" Donatello asked in an undertone, pushing the goggles back on top of his head. "His previous injuries aren't any worse. But April said he had some sort of relapse."
"He is supporting Miss Sharra with his chi," Splinter said. "Though I am unclear on exactly how this was accomplished."
"She was cold," Michelangelo explained, his words slurring. "And so so sad… She couldn't get any air."
"You sensed this when we were on the boat?" Donatello exclaimed in surprise.
Michelangelo nodded. "She begged me to let her go. To let her die"—his voice broke—"but I couldn't." Again, he stroked her cheek, but his face twisted in distaste as he added, "It hurt her, but I forced her to stay."
"What did you do?"
Michelangelo shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno. I just held on to our connection tight and willed her body to reflect mine."
"How is that possible?" Donatello demanded.
Splinter shook his head. "Everything I have ever studied, or experienced, states only emotion can be shared via chi at a distance. With enough concentration I can View your auras from afar—even sense your injuries if they are traumatic. But I have never been able to communicate telepathically with you. And reinforcing with my personal power requires touch."
"So Michelangelo is coloring outside the lines?" Donatello groused. "Great. Why am I not surprised."
"Many impossible things might be accomplished when one has an overwhelming need," Splinter chided. "It may also have to do with her own abilities—if she is indeed empathic."
The genius's sharp gaze darted from one patient to the other, noting the tandem rise and fall of their chests. "So you're still doing it? She's not actually breathing on her own?"
"Yes, I—"
"You can't keep this up, Mikey, your body is under too much strain."
"I won't let her die, Don. I'll give her my last breath first."
"I know little brother, that's what I'm afraid of."
Donatello paced away with clenched fists. "Of course, the one thing I don't have is a ventilator! Think Don, think! What else can we do?" Desperately he turned to Splinter. "Father, is this something you can maintain? I've been practicing this past week, but I don't think I'm accomplished enough to manipulate my chi into…whatever he's done—I can't even see it," he growled in frustration.
Splinter's head tilted as he examined the complex lines of power. He withdrew his hand from Michelangelo—who shuddered—and walked a few steps to the girl's side. "I am uncertain, but I will try."
Closing his eyes, he centered himself, then rested a palm on her forehead. His energy roamed over what Michelangelo had constructed, but he couldn't quite grasp it. He tried to reach through it to feed golden healing power directly to her, as he did to his sons, but Sharra gave no reaction.
He shook his head, coming out of the light trance. "Her chi does not respond to me."
Michelangelo's bone-weary expression hardened with determination. "Then I will keep going."
"I can grant you some support, my son," Splinter said, returning to press his palm to Michelangelo's shoulder, "But I believe you will have to remain conscious to hold this creation in place."
"That's not going to work," Donatello said. "At least, not for a protracted period. Mikey's already pushing exhaustion. And since Sharra's lungs weren't functioning after the reinflation, she may need a more long-term breathing solution."
"How long?"
"Who knows? A week? A month? I'm not a respiratory expert." Donatello sighed and rubbed his beak, thinking. He pulled his goggles down and peered at Sharra once again. "That might be a worst-case scenario," he said, sounding a little more upbeat.
"Her lung tissue has stabilized and her temperature has come up. So you might not have to continue now that I've got her on oxygen and warm fluids. Let's give her a while to adapt to those, then maybe you can ease off 'helping'."
"Until then, here." He created a small tunnel through the blankets. "You said contact helps, so hold her hand. But keep it covered, and don't touch anything else because her ribs are broken. I'll be right back."
He veered off to consult a computer, then to check on Raphael. The big turtle slept with Casey watching over him. He had a few words with the vigilante before returning to their side.
"Father, do you think you can assist Mikey for an hour? Possibly two."
"I can. Why, my son?"
"I've got to go out. I have to acquire a portable ventilator."
"I thought you said she might not need help?" Michelangelo said in alarm.
"Might is the operative word, Mikey. If the situation requires it, I'd rather have one on hand than have to source it later when you're too tired to sustain her."
"And by acquire I suppose you mean—"
"Steal, father."
Splinter's ears flattened.
"I don't like it any more than you do, master. But I can't wait to find and fix a broken one. If Sharra needs it, it'll be tonight."
"Don't go alone," Splinter said, sighing in resignation.
"April will come with me."
Donatello cleared his throat as Splinter's gaze slanted sharply in his direction, well aware his sensei had not been suggesting a human companion.
"We're not going into battle," he justified. "We won't even need to infiltrate a building. My research found most ambulances carry them. And emergency crews should still be on-site at the fire. April can run interference with anyone we encounter while I liberate the equipment. She will be much more useful in a crowd situation than Leo."
At Splinter's reluctant nod, Donatello turned and clasped hands with Michelangelo, piercing him with a weighted stare. "Stay strong for me. Don't let her go."
"We'll be right here when you get back," Michelangelo said.
It's going to be a very long night.
Donatello collapsed into the chair in his lab and powered up his computer.
His mission to retrieve the ventilator had gone off without a hitch. April had distracted a couple of local officers and the first ambulance he hit up had the piece he needed. They returned in under an hour, though by that time the worrying blue tinge had cleared from Sharra's face. They waited until her body reached standard human temperatures, then Michelangelo—with a lot of trial and error—withdrew his energy and eased his stranglehold on her lifeline.
Surprisingly, Sharra's lungs resumed functioning on their own.
For now.
He was still relieved to have the support equipment on hand in case she had a relapse.
Donatello rubbed his hands down his face, then loaded the new security updates program to work on. After Mikey passed out, Splinter chased him out of the infirmary, and he had promised to go to bed, but sleep was the last thing he wanted.
Instead, he was dying to lose himself in code. In matters of logic and the mind. To find some way to shut off the ache eating him up inside. Because every time he blinked his lids a different horror appeared behind them.
Raphael, unmoving in the river water.
Sharra laying in a pool of blood.
Mikey nearing collapse in the van.
It was all too much.
For another fifteen minutes, he forced himself to focus on the glowing words on his screen, to type a complex algorithm. But even this project did not offer a true escape, for they were upgrades inspired by Sharra's Nightwatcher program. And thinking of her and Raph only started the downward spiral of thoughts anew.
He sighed heavily.
This is a lost cause.
He folded his arms in front of the keyboard and set his forehead on them. Letting a few silent tears leak out. He had never felt so disoriented in his life, so…destroyed. He banged his head lightly on the desk, needing something to make the emotional anguish just—stop.
He should have been prepared for this. Every mission included the risk one of them might not return. As the resident doctor, Don faced this reality more often than most of his brothers. But too many events had occurred, too close together.
Wearily, he sat up again and shut everything down. If he was going to keep fending off such disasters, he needed rest. And if sleep wouldn't come naturally, he'd have to induce it. He rummaged in a cabinet on the back wall, found a pill bottle, and shuffled off to his room.
Sharra woke with a jerk, a scream dying on her lips. But the nightmare, be it a memory or something entirely new, slipped away before she opened her eyes. Leaving behind a pounding heart full of terror.
All around her, it was dark.
Where?
The last thing she recalled was Donatello's heroic arrival. And the alarm twisting his face when she lay gasping at his feet. Now, something rigid encased her mouth, and one arm was tethered. But she occupied a bed—a real one.
She patted cautiously to determine its dimensions. It felt a bit precarious, with its narrow profile and short railing. It stood higher above the floor than she liked, but it had an actual mattress. Momentarily, she relaxed back into it.
I haven't slept on a mattress in so long!
Her whole body seized abruptly as her hazy mind identified why the bed was so specifically shaped.
It's a gurney. I'm in the hospital. Shit! I can't stay here!
She did not have money or insurance to cover the bill and the Foot could easily infiltrate a public building. Pinned down with this medical stuff she was the proverbial sitting duck. Her gaze darted—seeking an exit—but gradually she calmed. There was not enough light and sound around her. No hustle and bustle of workers. Wherever this was, it wasn't a hospital, despite the beeping equipment.
She inhaled to calm her nerves and winced. Her lungs hurt. The left one in particular. But at least they worked.
Doctor Don must have fixed me up himself and brought me somewhere safe to rest.
The where wasn't a certainty, but she thought it might be their home.
Where else would he go?
Excitement energized her at the thought of being reunited with Michelangelo, but as she tried to sit up a low moan escaped her throat. Her skin protested the movement—every inch tight and itchy. Her bruises ached and a sharp pain shot through her ribs. All her muscles complained of strains and her head pounded.
Geez, I feel like crap.
She pulled the clear mask covering her face to the side. Without the assistance of the gas, breathing was difficult, but she didn't want to shout to be heard.
"Don?" she asked, putting a hand to her spinning head—though that small action was a struggle. "Are you there? I could use an aspirin."
She smacked her lips against the feeling of cotton mouth. "And some water."
Across the room someone shifted, rising from a chair, and an unknown voice answered.
"Donatello is resting in his room, but I can provide you with both, Miss Sharra. If you will permit."
She cringed but the motion hurt, so she froze instead. She couldn't see them, but whoever approached, didn't sound cruel so she asked a cautious question.
"I— Where are we? Who are you?"
"I am called Splinter. And you are in our home. The room we designate as the infirmary."
The voice drew nearer, and she hunched back a bit further. But with his second sentence, she thought perhaps she had heard him speak once before.
Maybe that crazy conference call during the battle?
"Michelangelo has told me a great deal about you, though I am afraid he has not spoken as much of me," Splinter said.
"You're the man who adopted him?" she guessed. "Them?" she corrected.
She recalled the story Mikey told her. That man had lost his wife and child to the Shredder. Yet retained the grace to take in four mutant children who needed him. He was probably trustworthy.
Abruptly, Sharra became nervous and anxious for a whole new reason. She had wanted an introduction to the patriarch of the tight-knit turtle family, but not this way. The hand not restricted by the I.V. rose to smooth her disheveled hair, but her muscles refused to cooperate. Her palm smacked against her face before it climbed high enough, only to find a towel wrapped around her head like a turban.
What the hell do I look like?
Bad, she supposed, making a painful face. Her bruises were unsightly when she left to meet Raph. And after the night's harrowing events, there was no telling how horrible she appeared.
At least her clothes were dry, though too big. They had obviously been swapped. She flushed, wondering if Donatello had done it.
"Yes, I am their father," Splinter said, distracting her, "And a very grateful one. Do not fret about your appearance, child. We do not put much stock in such things here. Your actions have already made you most welcome."
Drat. Can he see me? But it's so dark!
"Please, hold out your hand."
His voice was too near now, looming to her left. Instinctively, she jerked away, though the bed did not give her much leeway.
He paused and stepped out of her personal space.
"You are wary. I am sorry. I mean you no harm."
Damn it! You know better than to show weakness! Get it together.
"I'm sorry too," she said and stuck out her hand. Or at least attempted to. She was unable to keep it aloft. Her weary muscles rebelled and her whole arm fell to the mattress. "It's been a rough few weeks, I didn't mean any offense."
"None is taken, I assure you. I will step closer now if that is all right, but only to give you the items you requested. Then I shall withdraw."
I can see where Don and Mikey learned their sensitivity.
This time she didn't sense him move, but two tiny pills dropped into her palm. And the sound of a glass being set to her left indicated a table must be within her reach.
"This medicine should help with your pain," Splinter said, his voice receding as he moved away. "But if you need anything else, simply ask."
Sharra blinked, staring straight up into the darkness. It was so pitch black the room had to have no windows.
"What time is it?" she asked, trying to wrap her head around the day or even the date.
"Late morning. It has only been a few hours since your ordeal, child. You should try to rest some more. Your body has suffered considerable trauma and needs time to recover."
Sharra nodded. With a sigh, she raised the medicine to her mouth. The attempt failed and her loose fist landed on her stomach instead. At this rate, she wouldn't be able to manage the glass of water at all.
She needed more help, but she was nervous about asking Splinter. He was still an unknown person—courteous though he may be. But, if Donnie and the others were resting, she had no choice. And, since he had already seen her mess of a face, there was nothing to be gained from hiding in the dark.
"Can we have a little light?" she asked.
A deep sigh sounded from his post across the room. "There is a small lamp I might turn on if you must see, but I am loath to do so at this moment."
Sharra blinked in confusion, but her curiosity was piqued.
"Why?"
"You have already endured too much. I do not wish to frighten you further, my dear."
It took several seconds for his answer to process through her still-muddled brain. She heard the words, but somehow they didn't make sense. "Frighten?" she asked.
"My appearance is…different. Once, I was human, but now I present as something less so. Though it is only my physical aspect that has changed."
"You're a mutant too?" she blurted, startled. She snapped her jaw shut, embarrassed by the outburst. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "That was rude."
Sharra sucked in a shortened breath, her chest was so tight she fumbled to hold the mask over her face for a few breaths as she gathered her thoughts. She had assumed the one supporting the turtles in this human-centric world was, well…human. Owning a house, or commercial building where they could live safely and venture forth when needed.
Suddenly his comment about not putting much weight on appearance made more sense.
He chuckled at her obvious embarrassment, but the sound was good-natured. "I am," he admitted. "Though I was exposed at the same time as my children, I was not blessed with a cross nearly as appealing as theirs."
"Not a turtle?" she clarified.
"No, my dear."
"What animal was it?"
"If you are certain you wish to know, I would rather show you than tell you. So you do not imagine something far worse than reality."
What could he be? Part lion? A wolf?
Shredder had always experimented with the larger predator animals, at least in front of her. And although most of his victims did turn into something ferocious and terrifying, she had always felt an underlying sense of pity for the creatures they became. Maybe that was because that's what they were afterward, creatures—with no humanity left in them.
She had to admit, she was curious.
What if it wasn't an animal, but an insect? Or a spider? Or since turtles are reptiles and they were turned at the same time, possibly a snake?
Splinter didn't hiss, but as she thought about it for a few heartbeats more she realized she needed to know or she would indeed picture more objectionable scenarios. And if he was going to continue watching over her she did not want to be surprised by some glimpse of him in the future.
However, she did not want to offend him either.
"Splinter, I… Thank you for your care. Without that and the bravery of your sons, I wouldn't be here."
"No thanks are necessary, my dear. You have also saved them. And I am forever beholden to you for that."
Sensing she had more to say, Splinter prompted, "But..."
"But since it feels like I will be requiring your hospitality for a lengthy stay, I would like to meet you face to face—If that's OK," she tacked on hastily.
"Very well," he said in a grave tone. "Please bear in mind all I have said. I may appear fearsome or disgusting to your female sensibilities but I will never harm you."
Sharra closed her eyes to gather her nerve as his warning kind of freaked her out.
"OK," she said, "I'm ready."
Light blossomed behind her lids and she waited a moment for her eyes to adjust before she blinked them open. The room was larger than she thought, with a tall concrete ceiling, though there were no echoes when they conversed.
She wanted to know about their home, but her gaze shifted to the lighted lamp. It sat on a small table next to a wooden door near an empty chair almost twenty feet away. Splinter stood beside it, head raised and arms folded—hands tucked into his faded burgundy robe. He had fur, dark eyes, and a long pointed nose.
He was a rat.
Sharra's eyes clenched shut as the past roared to life, breaking free from the shackles of her subconscious and flying forward to overwhelm her mind. The last sounds she heard in reality were her own labored breathing as she hyperventilated. And a single word forced through a choked throat.
A softly whimpered, "No."