Blood glistened on his blade.
Leonardo tilted the weapon and watched the viscous fluid slide off. The drip fell in slow motion and splashed on the ground, joining the runnels and spray at his feet. Trails of red smeared the floor around him. They streaked over the sides of the vehicles—turning the once mundane parking garage into a spectacle of horror.
He blinked and instead of the concrete jungle of New York, a lush tropical one invaded the scene. Towering trees replaced skyscrapers. Moist dirt curled under his toes. Cold dry air turned hot and humid. Some things stayed the same though. Blood still surrounded him, saturating the torn earth. And the metallic scent of death seared his throat with every breath.
Smoke clouded his vision momentarily and the pavement returned. Flames enveloped the cars on his right. A truck exploded behind him, rocking the building to its foundation. Both were active, possibly fatal, threats.
Neither deterred Leonardo from the hunt. The rage in his chest blazed hotter than the fire.
City or rainforest—past or present—the setting didn't matter. He had been lenient with his enemies for too long. Swayed by the views of his father and his own morality, he had allowed each new faction of corrupt humans he encountered a chance to prove themselves more honorable than the last.
He wished he had not.
If I had wiped out the Foot Clan earlier—removed the risk in its entirety—then she might not have…
Leonardo let the thought die, unable to face its completion, and refocused on his surroundings. Unadulterated anger coursed through him, consuming him, burning its way through his veins. It sank its venomous teeth into his heart, making it jolt with a cry of vengeance.
Hurt. Kill. Destroy.
These three words played on repeat in his mind as two new opponents stumbled from the haze. The dark-clad ninjas scanned the lifeless bodies around him and then scrambled in the opposite direction. Leo shifted his pair of lethal katana into a more offensive position and stalked after them.
One man tripped and fell. When the other stopped to tug his companion upright, the menacing turtle gained ground.
"Mercy!" they cried, shooting fearful glances at him as they lurched away.
I have no mercy left.
Leonardo lunged. With a powerful swipe, he severed their heads from their shoulders. Blood surged forth, coating his face in hot sticky red as he slid past the dead men on his knees. But the slumping bodies did nothing to ease his lust for retribution.
Something vital had broken within him—unleashing a monster.
Rising from his crouch with lithe menace, he locked eyes on his next target: a mutant covered in dark fur. He didn't stop to identify if it was one of Shredder's or not. At this point, he didn't care. He attacked with a flurry of blows.
But this foe proved to be a more worthy opponent.
He might be enraged, but Leo was still a strategist at heart. Since pure wrath and extreme force were not bringing his enemy down, he changed tactics. Deliberately, he broke form—leaving himself open. The mutant reacted immediately to the misstep. Paw struck wrist, forcing Leo to drop a katana. But before his adversary could close, Leo swept his remaining sword under its guard and against its neck.
The game was over.
But not in the way the infuriated turtle expected.
"Leonardo, PLEASE!" the creature yelled as it flattened a glowing palm on his plastron, "Cease this madness!"
The forlorn agony packed into his name made him pause. In that moment of hesitation, waves of sensation—of belonging—crashed into him. Love, fear, and forgiveness rolled over his mental shields.
An ocean of realization rushed in to drown the fury.
The mutant was Splinter.
"Father?" Leonardo croaked, jerking away as if scalded.
His ears rang, drowning out the rat's next words. Numb fingers released his blade. His knees followed it to the pavement—dumping him amidst the gore.
I almost killed my father!
Tears flowed, mixing with the blood, blurring his master's form as self-disgust consumed the remnants of his soul. He scraped his forearm across his eyes to clear them, desperate to know if he had injured Splinter…
And everything disappeared.
When he looked up again, Leonardo knelt—not among the carrion, or even in the depths of an ancient rainforest—but in the lair. His body was bare, displaying only his natural golden armored plates and deep green skin. It was no longer cloaked by black clothing drenched in blood. His shins ground into the thick woven mats of the dojo. The soft glow of candlelight encircled him.
Leo trembled and clutched at his head as his heart howled in confusion and bitterness. He wanted to deny this calamity. Declare it nothing more than a gruesome dream. But this was no delusion. It was reality. A memory.
A flashback.
He hadn't had a name for the nightmarish occurrence of reliving traumatic events until recently. But he had experienced them in the past. His teenage trials on the five-fold path had left him deeply scarred. Yet this incident did not follow that familiar course, regardless of the flickers of encroaching vegetation.
This torment was new. So fresh it was only hours old.
Their rescue mission this evening had ended in near catastrophic failure. The culmination of a downward spiral he did not know how to halt, much less reverse. In the last few weeks, he had made nothing but horrendous mistakes. Decisions so disastrous the Hamato family were at each other's throats.
But tonight, he lost control of his demons entirely and slaughtered almost thirty people.
He shuddered and sank into himself with a low moan, uncertain what to do.
"The mind can not make peace with what the heart does not understand. But the body may help both recover."
This wise advice had been his father's counsel during previous episodes of hellish recollection. Leonardo could only pray he was correct. That the methods they developed to ground him would chase these feelings away as well.
He settled back onto his heels, unable to assume a more meditative posture, and spoke aloud—though it felt like a fist had closed over his throat.
"The past is written. Over and done."
His lungs still heaved as if he were in the midst of battle. He forced them to slow.
"I must live in the now."
Bowing his head to center himself, he pressed an open hand to his plastron to quiet his pounding heart. His deep breaths brought calming scents: the dried grass of the tatami, oil, metal, and wax. Reminders of where he was.
"I am home."
As his heartbeat evened, he lowered his gaze to the floor and examined the results of the task he was working on before the flashback interrupted. Sharpened sai, pairs of nunchucks, several steamed hickory bo, and four gleaming katanas lay fanned out in front of him, polished to a high shine. Various smaller blades like ninjato, tanto, and kunai were stacked to the side near a pile of throwing stars.
"Splinter asked me to tend to our weapons."
He had, but only to give Leonardo a purpose in leaving the infirmary. To soften the blow of Donatello's abrupt banishment.
Don had been especially hostile since their return home. When he retired to bed, he had marched through the dojo, dumped his staves in front of Leo, and stomped off—waving away the leader's terse query about his emotional state. To see the warmhearted genius act so distant was disheartening. And the rejection stung worse because of the bottle of pills clenched in his brother's fist. Donnie hated relying on sleep aids. That he turned to them implied how desperate he too was to forget the night's happenings.
His reaction tomorrow will probably be more severe.
The full extent of Leo's murderous rampage would become apparent when Donatello skimmed the morning headlines. Leonardo grimaced as he imagined the backlash. Despite Raphael's positive response when he admitted to some of the carnage, Leo didn't think any of his siblings would regard him in quite the same way after they discovered the whole story. Regaining their trust might be impossible.
Not that I would blame them if they never wanted to listen to me again.
He lifted a sword and ran a critical eye over the spotless surface. Though he had already cleaned the entire array of weaponry once with meticulous attention to detail, he picked up a rag and started wiping the blade down. Its weight felt comforting in his hand, and he concentrated on its pristine condition—using the reflected light of the candles to cleanse his visions of blood.
"We need these because—"
His voice faltered for a moment, along with his conviction. A flash of pale skin and blue lips in a drowned face overshadowed his thoughts. But he recalled Donatello's confident dismissal in the medical bay and reinforced his affirmation.
"Because I was wrong. Sharra is still alive."
And she is finally home. Where she belongs.
He didn't say that part out loud, but those statements settled him the most. Though if the woman in question heard them, she might wonder why. Because Leo had argued vehemently against the presence of Sharra Ravansguard in the lair since they first met.
If someone had told him a month ago the tiny twenty-something with choppy hair would completely transform his worldview, he would have laughed in their face. But in such a short time she had left a significant imprint on his family.
Michelangelo was a lost cause from the beginning. He had been smitten before his brothers ever encountered the ingenious young woman. Not too surprising when one accounted for the fact that she saved his life.
But Donnie is halfway infatuated with her as well. Even Raph acts responsible for her now.
Leonardo frowned. It wasn't like he couldn't see the appeal. Sharra was stunning in an understated sort of way. Raw and… real. So unlike the self-absorbed people of the city.
While her life had been rough and her treatment by others barbaric, she remained compassionate enough to see beyond the exterior of a being totally different from herself; to offer him help. She was kind, and clever, and smart; approaching Donatello's level of intelligence.
Not to mention loyal. Leo knew—from shameful experience—that she would never reveal information to harm the Hamato family. She would carry their secrets to her grave.
Literally.
But her most miraculous trait? How much she desired the orange-banded prankster in return. Her acceptance of Mikey had been instant; her friendship freely given. And with that opportunity, Michelangelo's lovable personality had triumphed.
She was unquestionably the type of person Leonardo would wish to pair with any of his siblings—if he had believed a mutant turtle could find love in their human-centric world. And Mike having a shot at a happily-ever-after should have made her instantly welcome in their home.
But Leonardo had still objected.
She reminded him too much of another girl. One whose life ended because he got involved. And though eleven years had passed since the events in Central America, he still hadn't recovered.
Trying to avoid thinking about the circumstances, he scrutinized the faces of the two women side-by-side in his mind. Both were petite dark-haired female beauties, with large appealing eyes. Ones who had become his responsibility to safeguard—whether they knew it or not.
He ground his teeth as Sharra's expression twisted to one of mortal terror. The one she wore when the Foot Soldier drove a car into her and knocked her into the Hudson. His heart seized and his stomach churned with nausea at its reappearance. It was far too similar to the contorted face of frozen death that haunted his dreams, reminding him of a harsh truth.
Associating with us is deadly.
It was a lesson hard learned and ingrained. For the first young lady had perished in the dark unforgiving rainforest at the hands of his enemies, in retaliation for his actions. Leonardo hadn't even known her name, but he had found her body—left as a warning against his further interference.
Twisted and humiliatingly violated, she was displayed garishly along the trail where he had chastised a group of looters and bounty hunters who had raided the nearby village.
Her torment… her death... It was all my fault. I let those bastards live. And I practically painted them a road map for revenge by returning the stolen goods.
Leonardo's nature was not inherently bloodthirsty, but after that disaster, he had learned to suppress his emotions when necessary. For assassinating such monsters was his only option if he wished to protect the innocent.
He became the embodiment of local legend. The fierce and savage "ghost of the jungle."
When he returned to New York, the brutal lesson of that journey accompanied him. He permitted looser associations with the clan to dissolve. And protected, with obsessive vigilance, the few devoted allies who refused to leave their side. Leo had insisted his brothers train until they were nearly ghosts themselves—emphasizing more than ever the need to strike hard and fade away without a trace.
Yet it was because he was so committed to the practice of separation that Sharra almost perished.
In trying to keep her out of our sphere of influence, I denied her the help she needed. The aid I swore, in a moment of weakness, to give…
It was a grave lapse in judgment. One he wasn't sure his brothers, or Sharra, would forgive.
He swallowed hard, suppressing a staggering need to sneak into the lab and apologize. But Sharra was unconscious. And even if she wasn't, she wouldn't want to see him.
The turtle who failed her.
Leo sighed, shook his head, and returned the blade in his hand to its spot on the floor. Seeking a more distracting project, he turned to examine Raphael's sodden equipment.
For reasons only their ancestors knew, Raph had been dressed in his old Nightwatcher armor when he dove after Sharra and the river had caused significant damage to it. Whether or not his brother would wear the gear again was anyone's guess. But the protective suit did have its advantages. It would be a shame to let such a resource rust away and decay.
With that in mind, Leo separated the parts into three main groups. The metal could drain into one of the culverts on the floor. And Donnie would have to repair the electronics. But the support harness and Raph's everyday belt he could handle restoring.
Leather was a finicky beast, so he dug out some special soap and set to work. His hands went through the motions of cleansing, softening, and oiling automatically. The material slid smoothly across his fingers and its pleasant aroma soothed him somewhat. But as his disposition quieted, another irritation surfaced. An unusual ringing echoed in his ears.
Leo cocked his head to listen. The noise wasn't tinnitus from the heavy silence of the late hour. Nor was it a recurrence of his flashback. It was odd. A sound that was not a sound.
A buzzing started under his skin. The irritation grew until he couldn't sit still. An itching need to move drove him to his feet. He peeled back the shoji screen door and peered out suspiciously. The living room was empty. The tvs off. But the irritating vibration continued.
He scanned the back hallway that led to the guest quarters. Perhaps this unusual sound came from April and Casey? Leo didn't want to intrude upon the Joneses, but with something this out of the ordinary he felt compelled to investigate. He slipped ninja-silent to their door at the end of the hall and strained his ears.
Nothing. I must be imagining it.
Irritated, he rubbed his mask over his ear slit and headed back to the front room.
There it is again.
With intense concentration, he tracked the quirky resonance across the lair. As he got closer to their quarters the clamor grew louder. Without warning his stomach tensed as it did when one of his family was in danger. But Raph and Mike were under Splinter's watchful eye, so it was doubtful the problem lay there.
Is Donnie in some kind of trouble?
The security system would have sounded if there were intruders, but Leo couldn't shake the uneasy feeling as he slunk down the hallway. He stopped in front of Donatello's door, hesitant to go in. Don was already vexed with him. But there would be no putting his fears to rest if he didn't.
And having checked in on his sleeping brothers most of his life, Leo was sure he could do so without disturbing the disgruntled inventor. He rested one hand on the knob, steeled himself to enter, and only then realized he was basically naked weapons-wise. Everything was still piled on the floor in the dojo.
It was an oversight, but it was irrelevant.
If someone is hurting Donnie, I don't need a blade to make them suffer.
The well-oiled hinges opened silently. Leo's gaze raced around the room.
Though the blue light of the digital alarm clock illuminated little more than Donatello's face, things appeared in order. Don's expression was sour— brows angled down and mouth screwed up into a frown— but he was alone. And most definitely asleep.
Who is it then?
The dread increased as he wavered next to the bed. His heart rate doubled. A cold sweat slicked his body, but he couldn't get a fix on the reason.
The apprehension didn't feel like it belonged to him at all. It was once removed, like when Splinter shared his emotions.
Outside feelings? Like from an empath?
His hand darted out and shook Donatello awake.
