Endgame, chapter 5

[tori_angeli]

Michelangelo could count the last few shocks from the taser, although by that point he couldn't remember the names of numbers. The tasing stopped, and air rushed into his burning lungs as he felt them roll him over onto his back. His head lolled painfully over the edge of his carapace, his muscles limp after having been rock-hard. Residual tears escaped the corners of his eyes and dribbled down his temples to be absorbed by his sweat-soaked mask. Holy shit, I'm about to get raped to death. The pain was gone, but there was no relief. His eyes squeezed closed as shudders of terror wracked his laboring chest. A sob escaped his throat. Oh god, I'm so pathetic. I'm about to die and all I can do is cry.

I can't die! Canticle 2 is coming out next week! I've been waiting for a year!

No more two-player with Don. No more movies with Raph.

No more Don and Raph at all.

Just because I'm too scared to move.

All his life, he would have liked to think he was too strong to crumble under torture. But he'd never expected torture to hurt so much. The pain was gone as quickly as it had come, but even thinking about moving caused ghosts of electricity to crackle under his skin. Rage at himself boiled in his chest, and another sob broke through his teeth, but he couldn't budge. I'm about to die and I can't move. They'll do it again if I move.

God, I'm pathetic.

Pain stabbed through his side and the wind was knocked out of him. Someone had kicked him. He curled defensively. Suddenly he was straddled across his plastron and staring up into the face of the youth he had taken captive. The boy said nothing, only drew back his fist and let fly. Mike jerked, trying to bring his hands up, but his chains were immediately pulled taut. More pain exploded in his face. Again. Again. Stars burst before his eyes. The youth paused to breathe, and that was when Mike saw the key on the lanyard around his neck.

No way.

The boy hit him again, and Mike shouted and spat blood. “Little bitch!” choked the boy. “Hold him for me. I wanna be first.”

No!

A large hand clamped over the boy's head and jerked him backwards. “Get outta the way. You gotta earn the right to go first. Where's the, uh, the thing?”

“What thing?” asked one of the gangsters holding the chains binding Mike's arms.

“I ain't fuckin' a turtle. Tell me someone brought something.”

“We don't gotta fuck him.”

“Let's do it anyway. It'd serve him right. You know what they carved in House's forehead?”

The boy straddling him was glaring at him. Mike met his gaze head-on. The kid couldn't have been older than he was—clean-faced, not even able to grow decent facial hair. Come on. I'm the same as you. I'm just a kid. I'm scared and helpless like you were just now. Please.

The boy leaned forward and spat in his face, then crawled backward and sat between his legs.

“MacCool. Get up. You gotta earn it.”

The boy glanced up. That lanyard called to Mike. It's probably just his car key. Is he old enough to drive? Mike's tongue dashed out, but it lacked the moisture to properly wet his lips. His left foot was free, and in the opposite direction from the way MacCool was facing. A quick glance around told him no one else was looking. Please let me be a better thief than I think I am. Please, please, please!

His toes clasped the key dangling from the lanyard. One swift motion had it over MacCool's head. MacCool blinked, then grasped at his chest, finding no key.

“Hold him down,” someone said.

MacCool opened his mouth as if to speak.

The chains tightened, forcing Mikey flat.

“MacCool, get outta the way!” A big man shoved the kid aside and grabbed one of Mike's legs, forcing it upwards. Mike's arms strained against the chains holding them, his burned and blistered wrists slick with sweat.

Holy shit. Holy shit.

His harsh breathing quickened and grew to a deafening wheeze in his own ears.

No.

 

There was no hesitation, no pause to regroup or prepare. The flunkies guarding the door saw him coming like a hydrogen missile. It didn't even enter his mind to be concerned. Maybe there was a world where the anger that now blinded him to caution had saved him when he'd needed it. Maybe it could save his brother now, even if it only disrupted and distracted long enough to allow Mikey to escape on his own.

By the time he was at the door, the flunkies had called for backup and received it. His sais were out. Three ran to meet him, raising their weapons—their very large, semiautomatic weapons. All three went down before they'd fired a shot. Someone else found himself too close to aim, and swung at him with his gun. Raph caught the barrell and rammed the butt into the gangster's teeth. More came, and the familiar haze of rage fell over him.

He saw the world in black and red, shadows of night and blood in his vision sealing translucent glass over his sight. His mind was devoid of words; an inhuman, shrill, ethereal roar of primal rage drowned out thought and dimmed the senses. He couldn't tell if he was actually uttering the scream or if it was only in his brain, a product of seven months spent without a face to put to his enemy. If conquered every corner of his mind, until there was no room even for Michelangelo.

But this was never about Mikey, was it?

Suddenly, he was aware of his feet on the ground. His vision cleared, and he saw his enemies fallen like cut grass around him. He had run out of things to kill. His grip on his sais was sticky and slippery. A few heartbeats later, he became aware of pain in his upper left arm, near his shoulder. Passively, he noticed he was bleeding his life out through two bullet wounds there.

Shit. Oh Shit.

The abating adrenaline began to return. His knees buckled. Shot. I'm shot. I've been shot. The blood poured from his face straight through the wounds. His stomach cramped hard, and he didn't know if he was going to throw up before he passed out. He was barely aware of how long it took before he was on his knees on the concrete. Concrete, but it suddenly felt like asphalt, rough and greasy with oil and slick with his own blood.

I'm shot. I'm down.

Fear, the numbing power, the faceless entity, robbed him of his senses once more, horribly, just as it had the night when he'd last taken a bullet. Casey had been there, and he's still ended up face-down on the asphalt, subdued by pain, blood loss, three gangsters and their vendetta. Now his hands pressed flat against the concrete, fighting to keep him from falling on his face again. Even then, his face was chafed with the phantom sensation of asphalt. His cramping stomach finally expelled its contents when the pain in his arm was translated into the crushing grip of thick, meaty fingers. Someone's shins pinned his calves, and the feel of cold metal between his thighs--

His right hand seized his left arm and clamped around the wounded flesh. A roar of pain tore from him, but a spike of clarity pierced his mind. The haze disappeared from his eyes, and the prickle of asphalt faded. He was kneeling on the concrete with eight Purple Dragons lying around him. Eight, and two bullet wounds. It had only taken one bullet and five enemies last time.

It ain't “last time,” 'cause this ain't a second time. This is different. I'm different.

But they're still your enemy.

They got my bro.

But this isn't about Mikey.

It was always about Mikey, and the others. But it's also about me, an' everyone in that building who's gonna die for what they did, an' what they're tryin' ta do. What I couldn't keep them from doing.

The bullets had simply grazed his flesh. The wounds were deep and bleeding profusely, at least one was deep enough to have exposed muscle. FUCK, THAT HURTS. Slow, deep breaths cooled his body and cleared his mind somewhat. If the wounds were bandaged, he would estimate he had at least ten minutes before he passed out from blood loss. In those ten minutes, he would take out as many as he could, whether or not they were between him and Mikey. Every Purple Dragon in the building was going to die if he wasn't cut down first. Vengeance was a bloody cycle, but it would end here. None of them would live to hurt him or his family again.

He ripped a sleeve off one of the gangsters' shirts, grimacing in pain as he tightened it around his arm. His teeth gnashed as he tied it off, breathing hard and wiping the sweat out of his eyes. He forced his hand to close around one of his sai, though his fingers ached in protest. Gripping his weapons, he pushed to his feet, shoving the pain as far from his mind as possible. He had work to do.

Raphael had killed many people over the course of his seventeen years, but tonight, for the first time, he would become a murderer.

 

As he fell, he realized he had misjudged the distance he was falling. There was one frozen, breathless moment he had to think of this before he crashed into his brother.

Then it was a tangle of limbs and bodies fighting against the power of momentum to rise. As soon as a quick glance told him Leo was okay, Don rolled to his knees and began sweeping up handfuls of the white tests that had scattered from the tipped, damaged box. The alarm blared overhead as he jammed them into the crook of his arm. He really only needed a few, but his instincts told him to be safe, to take as many as he could while he could so he wouldn't have to risk a second trip. He dripped with them as he jerked to his feet, snatching the first part of Leo he saw—his shoulder—and twisting him around in blind panic. “The roof!” he gasped.

Up the shelves again, and the tests kept escaping his grasp. It's okay. I took more than I needed. Up, and up, and up, and he was at the top again, glancing down to make sure Leo had followed him. The height made him dizzy. I fell that far? Am I hurt?

Leo was already yanking a grate from a large vent. Don leapt up and caught the edge, pulling himself in with difficulty and still clutching the last three tests in one hand. He jammed one sideways between his teeth to make sure he had at least one by the time they were out of here. Using his feet and his free hand, he shimmied up the duct as quickly as possible. Below, he heard Leo follow him and close the vent. Above, he heard the faint sounds of sirens.

Shit. The truck.

He burst into free air, crawling out of the duct like it was his own coffin. He still had two tests. He wished he had three. Belatedly, he realized he should have jammed them into his belt. He spit out the one in his mouth and rapidly did so with both the ones he had left. Behind him, Leo was coming out of the duct. He had two tests in his belt. Fantastic. Even when he was the one in crisis, he was more collected than Don.

Come to think of it, Leo had handled this entire evening better than Don. It meant one of two things: either he was simply staying calm, or the turbulence on the inside would explode at any time. That wasn't very reassuring.

Flashing red and blue lights were headed their way. Don sensed Leo duck down low and followed suit. The truck was parked right by the warehouse, and a mysterious vehicle pulling away near a recently-robbed warehouse would cause suspicion. I should have parked further away. Shit, shit, shit.

The police car parked by the warehouse, lights still flashing. Two men stepped out at a rather leisurely pace—maybe they had false alarms all the time. They went out of sight as Don followed Leo down the fire escape on the far side of the building. As they descended, Don's heart slowly crawled back out of his mouth. We'll be okay. We're ninja. Actions that seem frantic and hasty to us are actions they can't even see. Sometimes he didn't give himself enough credit for that.

They got into the truck as casually as possible. Don couldn't stop watching the flashing lights. The police had already gone inside. He started the truck. They had to get away before the police came out again. He slowly pulled out. “What do you think they'll think?” he asked nervously.

“The police?” Don felt his brother shrug. “The box fell off the shelf. Probably 'Why do they keep calling us to check up on shit like this?'”

Don nodded, reassured, glancing briefly at the tests in Leo's belt. “Thanks for picking those up.”

Leo was already leaning back in his seat, arms balanced equally on the arm rests, eyes halfway drifted closed. “It doesn't matter. It won't make a difference in whether I have five years or one hundred.”

Red light. Don frowned. “In five years, you probably won't even have symptoms. HIV is a scary diagnosis, but it's not instant death.”

“It is to me,” Leo said softly.

Don glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked, hoping Leo was speaking metaphorically.

He gritted his teeth when his phone rang. Leo's words caused a belated spike of alarm in his head, and he was half-tempted to ignore the ringing. Leo's eyes opened fully, however, and slid toward Don. “I'll take it,” he said softly. Don handed him the phone. Leo flipped it open and held it to his ear. “Hello?” His face was passive, then shifted slightly, his eye ridges drawing down a fraction of an inch and his mouth tightening. “Yes?”

There was a longish pause. Leo’s face slowly became less irritated and more focused, his tense features barely shifting into something more intense and less internalized. It was a subtle change, almost undetectable to anyone who didn’t know him, but it meant something serious. “On your voicemail? What did—“ There was another pause, and Leo’s lips tightened, his face becoming very grave. “Casey. Let me talk.”

Casey? Don suddenly understood Leo’s irritation. Although Raph and Casey were now on good terms, Leo had never quite released the last traces of his grudge against Casey—not, Don believed, for carelessly allowing Raph to remain in the situation that ended in his rape, but for being the one Raph ultimately went to for help. In a way, Leo was more obsessed with setting things right than Don, but not out of a desire to fix things. At heart, Leo had a sort of mother hen complex and wanted to be everyone’s savior, everyone’s protector, everyone’s hero. Casey hadn’t consciously robbed him of this, but Leo resented him nonetheless.

Apparently, Casey hadn’t let him talk, and Leo’s face was transitioning from irritated to mildly angry. “Casey. Where?” Another pause. “That’s in Jersey. Don and I have the truck. We’ll make it. You stay home and wait—CASEY!”

Don actually jumped when Leo shouted. Granted, his brother was certainly allowed to be volatile tonight of all nights, but he was unused to hearing Leo simply explode. His brother’s face was on fire. “Last time there was a crisis,” Leo hissed, “you failed. You’re fucking useless to us. Stay home.”

Don couldn’t bear to see his brother like this. He wanted to tighten a bolt and make it stop. But I can’t fix you. I can’t fix anyone.

Leo snapped the phone shut and whirled on Don. “Lincoln Tunnel. Now.”

Don made a sudden left on a yellow light without signaling. The woman who almost ran into him gave him three seconds of horn. “What’s going on?”

But Leo was already dialing something on his phone. He held it to his ear and was quiet for a moment. “Mike’s in trouble,” he said quickly. “Raph went after him. Purple Dragon HQ.”

No way. Not tonight. Don depressed the accelerator as his stomach turned. I can’t handle more than one brother in crisis. He took a deep breath. Leo needed him. But now, Mike and Raph needed him more. They also needed Leo. Tonight.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Tonight it is, then, he thought as though he had a choice.