But He's The Cute One
Characters: thepartydude, allmyturtles, betterthanraph, betterthanleo, tic_tech_turtle, heavyweaponsbot ... whoever else plotted with Mikey-mun XD
Location: The Gym, deck 3
Date: Friday 23rd after this
Rating: PG-16 to R for horrible injuries
Michelangelo.
The moment he saw the footage, Splinter knew he had to be there now. He took pride in letting the boys solve their own problems, for the most part - but they were still ( Read more... )
Location: The Gym, deck 3
Date: Friday 23rd after this
Rating: PG-16 to R for horrible injuries
Michelangelo.
The moment he saw the footage, Splinter knew he had to be there now. He took pride in letting the boys solve their own problems, for the most part - but they were still ( Read more... )
But not as much as Michelangelo thinks it should, surprisingly. It's almost as if his brain has just shut down, or the burns were too deep. Hell if he knows, he's not Don. He can't even lift his head to see his own injuries.
All he knows is that he can't move. It's difficult to breathe; the air is thick with bitter smoke tainted with the acrid taste of plastic and burned flesh, and his throat and chest hurt. Something bites sharply against his skin every time he tries to breathe, so he takes small, shallow breaths. Is his plastron cracked?
He can't move. He tried, but his limbs won't listen to his mind's orders, they refuse to obey.
Is he gone? The other guy? Did he leave, or is he planning another move? Mike hasn't heard a sound from him in forever. Or is it a minute? His mind keeps wandering, it's difficult to stay focused and he just wants to sleep. Something instinctive knows that is a bad thing, and a small part of him wonders if he'll die here. Alone ( ... )
Reply
Splinter's in Damage Control Mode. The only problem is that Mikey's injuries are completely out of control. There is nothing either Splinter (or Donatello) could do. Perhaps there might be a slim chance, if the ship doctor was here - it appeared skilled, no matter its demeanor - but by the time it got here...
No, Splinter knows. He's seen death before, and it is very close now. The old rat does not cling to false hope, or deny the obvious. His youngest son is dying.
Cool, dry hands gently stroke Michelangelo's temple before Splinter carefully - oh so carefully - lifts the turtle's head just a few inches. Splinter edges his leg beneath Michelangelo's skull so that his son can have his head in his lap.
"I am here."
Reply
It's okay. Mikey's not sure what's okay, but it is. He was waiting for something, he's forgotten what but he was waiting and now he doesn't have to wait anymore. He's not scared anymore.
Another small, ragged breath, and then he just ... stops.
Reply
He's gone.
Splinter remembers finding them, frightened from the long fall, alone in the cold. To this day he remembered; one was assertive, one was curious, one was feisty, and one was the smallest - but such energy. He had cleaned them up and kept them safe. They were all so small then...
And then Michelangelo was the cheerful one, the mischievous one. Always goofing off, playing jokes, but so good when he applied himself. All the back-flips in the world couldn't dampen his sense of fun, and to be honest, Splinter hadn't wanted them to.
Michelangelo warning the pizza shop about anchovies, Michelangelo clapping his hands to pretend he was doing his flips, Michelangelo falling off the couch before hugging his long-absent big brother...
Just this week, Michelangelo brought him cake.
Splinter's breath catches in a hoarse, quiet sob.
Reply
It was becoming something of a trend here on Elegante; he was always too late. Too late to fix his family. Too late to stop Raphael. Too late to protect someone, to make things right, to do anything useful. Too late to make a difference.
Too late to save his baby brother.
Leo entered the gymnasium numbly, staring at Splinter kneeling on the floor, cradling Michelangelo. He can already tell that his brother is dead; hardly recognizable, a burnt and bloody husk, puss and some sort of clear liquid oozing over cracked skin -what was left of it, anyway. It must've been agonizing. Leo stood beside his -their- father, staring down at Mike and clenching his fists. Sure, people who die usually come back. Sure, it's not a big deal if it doesn't happen to you. Sure, there's no problem.
That's not the fucking point.
"Master." Leonardo didn't even have the mind to try and cover up the tremor in his voice. Rage and heartbreak fought for attention and he didn't know to which he should give in.
Reply
But at the same time their presence - how Master Splinter was cradling Mikey and how Leo was just standing there and how neither of them were doing anything - made the situation that much worse. It meant that there was nothing to be done. It meant that there was no breathless half-relieved, half-panicked-to-fury lecture to give. It meant there was nothing. It meant that there was no Mikey to help.
Don didn't care if he had to shove past Leo or Master Splinter or both, but he would drop to his knees across from his father, beside Mike's body, without registering anything. Not the roasted flesh or the blood or the plasma or the way it would stick to his fingers or how this was his best friend and baby brother. His eyes focused and cataloged each injury without thinking too deeply about it. His hands flew to the body's throat where the pulse should be and wasn't, ( ... )
Reply
"Mikey," he gasped, his throat tightening in shock. He gaped, his face frozen in horror, and he clasped one hand over his mouth. What was this. This wasn't possible. This couldn't be. It was a charcoal briquette. With a plastron...
"No! Mikey! Oh my God!!" He harshly shoves Don and Leo aside and drops to his knees, oblivious to Splinter next to him. His hands raise like he wants to touch him, touch his brother, but the simple fact that this lifeless hunk of crusty meat could have ever been little Mikey still hasn't registered at all. His eyes dart to the corpse's face, and it's then when it sinks in: that face, those features ( ... )
Reply
Didn't make this any easier.
Ironhide hung back. As much as he wanted to charge to the rescue, experience told him there was no point. There was nothing that could be done. Not now. They were too late--all of them were too late. One more time he couldn't protect his own. Jazz, Mikaela... Prime. The little one. And now this.
Heavy hands clenched, itching for cannons that simply weren't there. His reaction was somewhere between Raphael and the rest of them, silent, but then, he turned, lashing out at the wall nearby, his engine revving while cold rage wrapped around his spark.
What could he say? What could he do?Except ( ... )
Reply
"Blanket. Now." A towel, an exercise mat, anything. If Splinter's robe was large enough, he would use that, but his sons had far outgrown him. It would not cover half of Michelangelo.
Even as he issues the clipped order, voice far more hoarse than usual - almost weak - his paw rests on Raphael's shell. He couldn't protect him from this. It was devastating to all of them, but how Raphael would deal with it (or rather, how he wouldn't deal with it) worried Splinter the most.
There was little he could do to stop any of them from handling it in their own way. Splinter would simply have to do everything he could to prevent it from tearing apart their very family - no matter if it cost his own grieving process.
Reply
Leonardo sprang into action; he nudged Donatello toward Ironhide, and turned to address the Autobot directly. "Ironhide. Please..." He trailed off, not wanting to outright ask him to look after Don but hoping Ironhide would catch his drift easily enough.
He- Yes. A blanket. Splinter wanted a blanket. He would find out if he had to piece one together by ripping the floor mats apart. This was a gym, there had to be a tarp or something in here somewhere, something. Leonardo put himself to work, trying not to think about Raphael screaming, trying not to think that all these scorch marks on the ground were from Michelangelo being hit over and over and over-
Blanket.
A blanket.
He needed to get a blanket.
Reply
He'd probably have glared at Leo, but he was too angry, too tired, too shocked still to muster up any irritation at anyone, so he didn't.
Leo would get the blanket, so Don just followed Leo with his eyes and folded his shaking hands - dirty and stained and black - in his lap and waited, and listened, and thought about that voice, the murderer's voice, and trying to connect it to any he had heard before. There was nothing he could do, so he waited for something. Whatever that was.
If Ironhide came up to Don, or tried to get his attention right now, he would find him rather passive.
Reply
What had happened? Why would anyone do this, and more importantly, how? This wasn't some kind of accident. Someone hadn't just thrown a match at him. Even something bigger, like a burning cloth or torch - or even alcohol, which would've burnt quickly if someone had doused him - there was no conceivable handmade weapon available on the ship that could do something like this ( ... )
Reply
Ironhide hated that. A complete inability to do anything for the situation. He was a heavy artillery mech. A heavy hitter. That was how he solved his problems. And that wasn't how he was going to solve this one. He was helpless. He didn't function well with helplessness.
He drew in a long intake of air, and limped forward. His gaze dropped, avoiding the body altogether. With joints and panels creaking, popping, he knelt next to Donatello, as requested. One large hand hesitantly rested on the turtle's shell, his good optic flicking between him and Raphael. It was about all that he could do.
And it just wasn't enough.
Reply
He already knew it would give the boys nightmares.
Reluctantly Splinter covered Michelangelo's face and rested his son's limp head back on the ground. In some ways it was at least as bad, this formless shape under a tarp, his son made anonymous. But it was better than the charred flesh, the blisters - the many things he didn't want to remember.
Splinter stood with the aid of his cane. He very much needed it.
"Leonardo." His voice was weak, almost a whisper. The boys deserved stronger than that. Splinter didn't have any more to give.
"Donatello... Raphael." He takes a moment. The list is too short. Part of him knew that it would never be the same again... because Michelangelo was dead. But no - Raphael had died, before Splinter arrived. He was back now ( ... )
Reply
A statistic.
He couldn't stop to think about this; Ironhide came all this way, but he was probably uncomfortable. He should go. He probably wanted to go. He nodded to Splinter, bowed, and turned to Ironhide.
The words caught in his throat again and he shook his head before croaking. "Thanks Ironhide. We've got it from here." He could deal with his brothers later, after he collected himself. Raphael might be violent. Or he might need someone. Don would definitely need someone.
Leonardo could grieve on his own time.
Reply
Then he wordlessly attempted to stand, and to pull Raph to his feet with him. Don wouldn't be able to, of course, if Raph fought, but he'd at least try and if Raph didn't want to then he wouldn't push him. He listened with only half an ear to Splinter, though the words were something like a lifeline. Wait.
He could do that. Wait. Patience was ingrained in his bones.
He'd always tried to be patient for Mikey.
He kept his hand on Ironhide, even when Leo asked him to go, and another, hopefully, on Raph.
Reply
Leave a comment