Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Fan Fiction ❯ Bad Places ❯ 17 ( Chapter 17 )

Part 17

The sick room, he noticed, had one thing in common with the game. Time was meaningless. He was sure they'd been inside for several days, but all he could tell by was Donatello occasionally bringing in food and new bandages. He also wondered why Mike was inside when his worst injuries were minor burns to his hands from the ladders, but then Michelangelo slept almost as much as he did.

He looked down at his sketch pad and the half-done drawing of Donatello standing over his brother, applying iodine with all the grace of Florence Nightingale, and Mike howling with the look of Massacio's Eve expelled from heaven. As much as he loved their brother, Leo suspected the stinging remedies were Donatello's way of getting even at them for past transgressions.

Still...he had to admit they worked. He flexed his right arm and the burn only pulled slightly. There'd be a scar, but nothing too bad. His other arm would fare even better. The infection from the screamer's teeth was cleaned out and he had full use of his hand back. None of that would have been possible if Donatello hadn't looted Stockman's lab, and he chuckled, imagining Casey forced to drag crate after crate into his truck and down to the warehouse where they kept the van.

His family and friends were watching television right now, eating take-out and trying to keep their voices low because they knew he could hear and didn't want to wake him. But he still heard them laughing and talking, teasing Raphael about his broken arm. Splinter was not among them. He wondered what his master thought of him now, perfect son turned mindless killer, attacking his own family, yelling at him. Going so far as to choose death over them. The pencil slipped out of his hand and he noticed it was trembling. With a sigh he picked it back up and touched the tip to the paper, but he didn't continue drawing.

He knew what Raphael had told him, that Splinter had approved of letting go of the weight, but he had a feeling that his brother wasn't telling him exactly what had been said. If only he knew...was Splinter disappointed? Hurt? He must have seen the sketch of himself. Angry? Leonardo frowned, his own anger rising. So what if he saw? Splinter had no right to get angry at him, not after fifteen long years of service. Raphael could take off at night with Casey, but he had to stay home and practice. Mike could slack off and watch tv and play games, but he had to perfect his techniques. Donatello could hole himself away in his lab for days on end, but he had to keep on them to practice, wake them in the morning, see that they stayed in shape, that they weren't seen, that they were never followed home from April's, that they were safe in a fight, that they were never--

The pencil snapped.

He let out a breath and leaned back on his propped up pillow. Yes, he admitted, Splinter had raised them, protected them, and genuinely cared for them. Well, three of them. The fourth was a living weapon to keep the first three alive. He glanced over the side of the bed. Cleaned and sheathed, his swords lay on the floor next to his bed. Maybe his brothers were trying to tell him they trusted him again. More likely he didn't appear normal without them.

Paradox. Be ready to kill, but try not to. He hadn't told Raph, but he wouldn't have minded being their weapon if they'd just let him be that weapon. Killing didn't bother him much anymore. Does the sword care about who it cuts? But they constantly insisted that he draw his punches, dull his edge, leave his enemies alive, enemies that would surely come back and harm the family. At least Stockman was gone. No one minded Donatello's robbing the dead, either.

"Ah, you're up," Donatello said as he came in, carrying his bag of tricks. This time he remembered to close the door quickly and leave the lights dim. "We, uh, didn't wake you, did we?"

"No. I'm not tired so much anymore," Leo said. "But it's been four days. Why is it taking me so long?"

Donatello sat down and opened his bag, rummaging through it. "Considering what your blood test told me, it has to do with the air from the demon dimension. Essentially the higher amounts of oxygen combined with some enhanced enzymes that--"

"Don," Leo said, "in English."

"Oh, sorry. Well, essentially when inhaled, it converted lactic acid to endorphins and especially some unique poly--"

"Don," Leo said, "so I can understand it?"

Donatello looked at him for a moment, then half-smiled. "The air wouldn't let you get tired, but it gave you false boosts of energy. Now that you're out of it, you're feeling all the exhaustion you didn't before."

"How come I'm feeling more of it now?"

"You are? Um...if I had to guess, probably because you went straight into a fight when you got here. That must have depleted every last endorphin out of you." He finally found what he was looking for and pulled out a blue bandana. "Here, I made this for you. If it works, I can make a lot more."

"What is it?" Leonardo took it and held it out. Similar to the rest of his bandanas, the only differences were two black pieces of cloth sewn over the eyeholes. Already understanding, Leo slipped it on and adjusted it while Don went and turned the lights on full.

No pain. Leo looked up and saw in the same murky twilight most sunglasses give. "Turn the lights off."

Once the room went dark, he looked around. The only light came from under the doorjam as the televisions flickered, but he was able to see even better than in the game. He wouldn't have to constantly take them on and off, then. "Perfect. What is it?"

"They work? Excellent." Donatello turned the lights back on. "They're woven plastic fibers that Stockman had. I think he was going to use them in radiation experiments, but this is a much better use. I'll do five to start with. I know how fast you've been going through your masks lately."

Now if they would get used to a brother will completely black eyes, it'd be perfect. He looked down at his sketch and easily made out the lines. "You don't think they're going to get better, do you?" he asked softly.

Heaving a sigh, Donatello turned and faced him. "Technically speaking, your eyes are perfect. Your hearing is perfect. It's just that you see a different range of illumination. But no. If they were going to come back to normal, we would've seen some improvement by now, even a tiny bit. You were just...in there too long, I guess."

Strange, that that didn't hurt. Still, he wished he wouldn't stand out from his brothers so much, with eyes that would forever look black and soulless. "But Raph and Mike, they're okay?"

"They're fine. Better than you at the moment." Don walked by him and opened the cabinet behind his bed, bringing out the burn ointment for Michelangelo. "You don't have to worry about them so much now. You can take some time and worry about yourself."

As he went to walk by again, Leo caught his arm, stopping him for a moment. "Did he say anything?"

"Splinter? ...yes."

"What did he say? Exactly?"

Don paused, remembering what Splinter had told them. "That he had placed far too much weight on you, more than anyone could be expected to bear, and that you'd carried it for so long that you'd come apart. He said that from now on the burden is to be shared by all four of us, but he suspects that you'll continue to shoulder a lot of it because you still care, and that Raphael is allowed to smack you when you start taking more than you should."

"'Smack'?"

"Okay, maybe that's not exactly his word," Don chuckled, "but close enough."

Leo thought that over for a moment. "So...he doesn't hate me?"

"Hate--? Leo, no. No. He doesn't hate you at all." Donatello pulled a chair close and sat down, keeping one hand on his brother's shoulder. "He doesn't hold that night against you. You didn't try to hurt us, you were just trying to escape the only way you knew how. None of us hate you."

Leo swallowed reflexively and wouldn't meet his eyes. He wanted to ask another question, but he could only make himself speak one word. "Disappointed?"

"Not that either," Don said, shaking his head. "If he's disappointed, it's only in himself, that he didn't see what he was doing to you. What we were doing to you. We...we thought you would hate us."

From his sketches, what else could they believe? He shook his head once. "No. I...I didn't want to leave, not really. But I just couldn't see any other way out."

"I never even thought about how hard it was on you," Don said. "I'm sorry we were such a burden--"

"No," Leo said, looking up. "It wasn't that, not all of it."

"It wasn't? Then...?" Don tilted his head. "Then what is it?"

Leonardo hesitated. How could he explain the need to kill when they couldn't stand it? "I was raised to keep you safe," he started, "to protect you so that you three could have your own lives. And it gave me a place in the family. But..." He looked down again. "But I wasn't allowed to do it. When I had to kill, I wasn't allowed. If I can't kill, the threats will never end. Splinter made me to be a sword but he wouldn't let me cut."

For a moment Donatello digested that, turning the thought over in his head. "But...is every cut lethal? A sword doesn't just kill, it disables, it...it's so much more than just a killing tool. It's an extension of its user." He smiled sadly. "Leo, I'm grateful that you protect us. We all are. But no matter what you've been told, you're not your swords. A sword doesn't care what it cuts, but you do. You're not just here to protect us."

Don opened his mouth to mention Leo's occasional practical jokes on his siblings, signing Raphael up for the Barry Manilow fanclub not being the least, when he noticed the half-done sketch on the top of the drawing pad and his innocent torture of his youngest sibling. "Hey! They don't hurt that much."

Leo couldn't help a laugh as he looked at his sketch. "I notice you don't put iodine on yourself."

"That's because I don't get cut," Don said. "The worst I get is splinters."

Before Leo could reply, he heard Mike's quiet grumbling which meant he was about to wake up. A few seconds later Donatello heard them as well and stood, stepping next to Mike's bed. "Wake up," he said, tugging on the blanket, "breakfast time."

"Don't wanna..." Mike yawned and cracked an eye, glaring at him. "Wait...is the light on? Turn it off before--"

"It's okay," Leo said. "He took care of that."

Too curious to go back to sleep, Mike pushed himself up and looked at him through bleary eyes. "Whoa, spooky. Hey, does that mean you can look at the tv screen now?" Before Leo could answer, Mike was already uncoiling the controllers on top of the playstation.

"Not yet," Don said. "Breakfast first. You sure your hands aren't bothering you anymore?"

Mike waved him down as he ripped into the cereal box and tore open the bag, dipping the milk inside. "They're fine, no problem, you come near me with that red stuff and I swear I'll--hey, you forgot the sugar! I can't have cereal without my sugar."

"Live with it," Don said. "We're out 'till April brings more. If you want kung pao, though', there's plenty to go around."

Leonardo hefted the apple he'd been given. It was large and heavy, but that was all he'd eaten since he came back and he was starting to get sick of them... "Is there any egg drop soup left?" Mostly clear, just some egg, maybe a couple pieces of boiled chicken, he could do that. Probably.

"Yeah, plenty." Donatello smothered his grin and nodded once. "I'll be right back with some."

"Aww," Mike said as their brother left, "I think you 'bout made his day. Now here--" and he tossed the second controller onto his brother's lap. "I'm tired of this game cheating all the time. If you can see the screen now, then we can play!"

Setting aside his sketch, Leo took up the controls and looked up at the flickering light. For days Michelangelo had played alone, since the light from the television and especially the occasional sparkly effects had overwhelmed his eyes. "You're not gonna eat?"

"I'm a big turtle, I can do two things at once," Mike said, slurping his soggy cereal while waiting for the screen to load. A moment later two Crash Bandicoot cars raced down an icy slope hurling dynamite at each other.

When Donatello came back with both a single restaurant packet of sugar and a covered bowl of soup, he glowered at Mike but didn't say anything about the game. He simply set his packages down and sat next to Leonardo, making sure the dressings were still clean and secure.

"How's Raphael?" Leo asked while knocking Mike off a ledge.

"Doing better," Don said. "He's on some painkillers for the arm, but it's healing well. He just has to stop using it every time he feels like it. He's sleeping about as much as you two, though."

"Then why isn't Raph stuck in here?" Mike asked. "It's not fair."

"True, he adapted faster, but it was also less permanent. You adapted slower, so coming back will be slower."

"That reasoning is vaguely suspicious," Mike said. "It's been four whole days."

"And you've slept through most of it. Don't argue."

"Aww..."

Listening to them banter, playing games, working on his drawings openly, all felt like a strange version of his life that he didn't recognize except from half-conceived day dreams. Part of him wished they'd stop, that he could live inside the nightmare of killing and mutilation and horrors far more recognizable, grown familiar over time. And part of him, quiet and small, hoped it would never end.

Donatello was half-right, at least. A sword misused and ill-handled could turn on its owner, essentially what had happened to him. But a sword does not discriminate in who it killed, and he did. Mishandled, he still had not hurt his brothers. He could hold himself back from killing if he wanted.

If he wanted.

Leo glanced at his swords again. Maybe they weren't there to show him trust. Maybe they were there to remind him that they were swords, and that he...wasn't.

TBC...