A/N: Hey guys! Thanks to my two lovely reviewers. :) Much appreciated, hope you enjoy this next chapter - and that goes for all of you. Just a heads up, yes, I am talking about illicit substances in this chapter, and I will be addressing the subject throughout the rest of this fic. Sorry if you've had bad relations to this. Sorry, but my internet is about to be cut off again, that's why this A/N is rushed.

If you want to contact me about a Raph/Mikey predicament, please PM to save spoiling it for other readers if I decide to use your idea. :) Please and thank you, now go read this chapter and ENJOY! :D

~Keiba~


I pushed a straight purple bang out of my face and behind one ear. I let my eyes drift over onto an empty cork noticeboard, my mind mulling and numb. I wasn't exactly focussing properly. When my eyes feel glassy and unfocussed; I quite enjoy that sensation really. It's a lot different than concentrating all the time. Glassy eyes sort of give me a break and I find I'm capable of being comfortably bored for a period. Weird as that sounds, sometimes I like being 'comfortably bored'. You might as well call it something like disengaged, but I call it comfortably bored. It's just what I use.

The blood rushed slowly through my veins. I shivered, and automatically my hand flew to my forearm, felt the tiny needle scar there. I hadn't had enough money lately to buy ... buy in any of my happiness. But that didn't bother me so much. I could always pinch some of Kayla at that grungy downtown club. She wouldn't mind. She never does. I think she likes it that I go ahead and let go with her once in a while.

I can recall the pounding blood and adrenaline and – and ecstasy that pump through me like a heavy beat at Kayla's downtown club. I remember all the prettiful colours that I can see; all the blues and pinks and reds and yellows. It's like a swarming rainbow. A brilliant rainbow.

But I know that it's not good for me, the bliss that enters my system from just that simple press down on the syringe. Ooh, but doesn't it feel enchanting. I love it so much... I used to get headaches when I went too long without my liquids. Now I wasn't so bad, according to the doctor. Now I could go for at least six weeks, give or take a few, before things got out of hand.

Before I started screaming at everyone who looked at me.

Before the terrible mood swings.

Before the rattling started up in my brain, the cells bashing each other around, jiggling my brain hither thither. I don't like that. It's not nice of my cells to do that to me. Not nice at all.

So that's why I give them their little reward for being so good... so good to me for a top of 1008 hours. Or 42 days. Or a month and two weeks, whichever you prefer. But they get their treat at the end of each time slot. I make sure I only ever fill the syringe half-way, but Kayla says I fill it more once the first injection is in.

I can't count on one hand how many recyclable syringes I've chucked out. Tim and ... and whoever the other guy is at work tell me I'm destroying myself, little by little. But it's not fair on my cells if I don't reward them! It's like depriving a good little kid of the giant lollipop they so desperately wanted. It's just not fair.

I think I might be ending my time slot again. I need to go talk to Kayla. She needs to give me the rest of my meds, that's for sure. How do I get out of this hospital bay to see her though? I don't even know where I am. I haven't even stood up yet. Apparently I still haven't fully recovered... I probably won't ever fully recover anyway.

Just not fair...


Raph stared intensely around the room. He was searching. "Oh Mikey," he called gruffly, emphasising his younger brother's name. "Come out, come out and play," now he was taunting, a sing-song quality edging the creeping fury of his voice. He ninja sneaked forward, leaping over the couch, sidling behind pillars, feeling particularly stupid when he crab-walked into the kitchen.

Little did Raphael know that high above his head, clinging to pipe work for dear life was his soon-to-be-murdered sibling. Michelangelo dared not breathe. He knew personally how keen his short-tempered brother's senses were – he had, after all, been on the receiving end one too many times before.

Terrified blue eyes darted about behind a striking orange mask. Mikey's gaze followed his crab-walking relative into the kitchen. It was certainly a sight, and despite the young turtle's current predicament he found himself choking back a gasp of laughter. Quickly calming himself, Mikey trained his eyes onto the green and red figure that slinked quietly back into the main area. The youngest mutant begged the gods – or god, depends on what you follow – begged them for mercy, praying that this angry creation would fail to look up.

Down below the pipes and plumbing that sheltered the terrified turtle, Raph was getting sick of searching for Mikey. The red-masked teen sighed in exasperation, rubbing the back of his green neck and turning his face upwards.

Mikey swallowed and tensed, ready to flee for his life.