256A/N: Greetings, friends. Just a quick note on the future of this story. As you might have noticed, this is the epilogue. However: IT IS NOT THE END. This story has been an ongoing project of mine for sometime now and I feel like I need a fresh start on it. This felt like a natural stopping point, so it bears the burden of being the epilogue. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO! I have already written and posted the prologue (minutes ago, so it might take some time to work properly) and have included the link within the end A/N for anyone who would like to continue on with me in the telling of this wild tale. :)
There is a second reason that I have decided to make a part two: there are two scenes in the works that I honestly feel might come to deserve the M rating. Everything else will remain in the T rating realm, I assure you. I also assure you that I will put big beautiful warnings for anyone who would like to skip reading those two scenes! I will also provide a brief, nondescript summary of what happens in those two scenes in the end A/N's so you can hopefully continue enjoying this story without feeling like you're missing anything. In this way, I hope to allow myself the creative and emotional freedom to craft the story that is inside me, as well as offer you wonderful readers the opportunity to feel safe in taking this journey with me and our favorite turtle boys. :)
If there are ever any questions, concerns, or comments, please feel free to drop them in that little box down there or PM me. I know I have been absent, but I promise you that the only way I'm ever not coming back to this fandom is if I die. I have to finish this story, after all. ;)
Warnings: None
Word count: 1392
Epilogue
Slow Bleed
Date: March 25; Time: Unknown; POV: Leonardo
The buzzing of some unseen creature pulls me from the blackness. I blink into the dimness of dawn, my head swimming when I lift it from the dampness. Insects crawl over my skin, crowding around the soiled cotton that wraps my arm. I brush them away, pull out the ones that burrow, and sit up. Nausea nails me in the gut, and I dry heave into the mud, chest tight, lungs pinched. When the pain passes, I lean against a rock.
The world here is small, green, and freckled with dancing shadows. I sink into the marshy ground, press a palm against the vines that wrap themselves among the trees and stones. A bird caws overhead. I search for it, but only find the long, arthritic arms of trees reaching out, branches overlapping, vines draping from them like braids of fine silk. Moss creeps up the bark walls of this alcove. The thorns that reside in this hole of space rake my shell when I shift to unstick my legs from the mud. I blink owlishly at the cramped, upward curving path leading back into the open, unsure how I ended up in here.
Thunder cracks through the sky. I lift my face up to feel the first fat drops fall. But my chin falls when another wave of sickness hits me. Through my nose, I breathe, counting the inhales and exhales until the urge to vomit passes. I see it then, half sunk in the mud, right in arm's reach: a dart. I pluck it up and twirl it between my fingertips. That's one question answered.
With a soft grunt, I flick the dart away. The movement sends fire cascading through my nerves. The pain, sharp and hot, shoots from my shoulder to my elbow. It leaves me reeling. The wound in my arm yawns open wider when I wind my hand around it. I've been shot before. The feeling isn't new. But the memories that gurgle up with the blood crumple the lush foliage like a paper ball before my eyes. I sway, cupping my mud caked face with trembling fingers.
Everything that happened last night hits me at once. "Raph—" I choke on his name, choke on the feeling of loss and failure and fear. He was there. He was within reach. How could I let him slip away again? I just left him there. I abandoned him. And now he and those bastards that took him are gone. Right? What are the chances that they wouldn't be?
Is there a chance?
If there is, then I'm wasting it.
I lurch to my feet just as the buzzing comes again. Chest heaving in rage, I cast around. The sound bubbles up from the mud. A moment later, I fish my shell cell out. Once free, the ringer chimes through the forest, loud and obtrusive. I answer, if only to silence the noise, and hold the phone to my ear. On the other end, something cracks and thuds. "Leo? Leo?"
"I'm here." The words are little more than a rasp, but the voice heaves a sigh of relief through the speaker.
"Dammit, Leo." Donnie, I realize dimly. "I've been trying to call you for days. I thought you were dead." He quietens, draws back as if the thought drained the fight from him. "Are you alright?"
The events of last night flood back again, hurricane strong and just as devastating. Raphael. The compound. The man clad in ash. The betrayal of abandoning my brother. A keening noise slips from my nose, unwarranted. What was in that dart?
"What's wrong?" Don clips, worry clinging to the words. And I can hear his fingers flying across his keyboard, probably activating the tracker on my cell.
I push my way through a prison of thorns and climb up the steep path. "Raph," is all I'm able to say. I found him. He's alive. I left him so I could escape. The thoughts stick in my throat, thick and bitter.
The tapping stops. "What about Raph?" His next words are a whisper, wispy and thin. "Mikey hasn't been home for days. Master Splinter isn't doing well, Leo. He needs you here. We all need you here. If Raph isn't… if you found—I don't think Sensi will be able to cope with it."
Nonsensical or not, Donatello's words slap me with understanding: Our father will not survive the loss of one of his sons. I slow to a stop, my legs watery. And Mikey? "But he isn't," I say. Raphael isn't dead. Not yet. Not if I can help it. Static fills the silence on the other end. I wait, unsure how to explain this mess to Donnie. My brother always knows the right questions to ask. I need him to do that now. Guide me through this, bro. But his voice never returns. And when the static fades away, I realize that the phone battery has finally died. I shove the cell in my belt, hand stilling over the fabric of my brother's mask. Will he even want it back?
I shake myself hard, brace myself against a tree until my stomach stops rolling. Why wouldn't he?
Why didn't he call back to me?
I drop the thought, drop the mask. My feet trudge on. Roots reach out to trip me as I retrace my steps, but soon enough the terrain evens out. The compound is close. I need a plan. The downpour doesn't block out enough light for stealth. They know I am coming anyways. Just stick to the trees. Only get close if you need to. And the dead cell? Donnie is probably checking for a flight right now. Just keep a vigil until he gets here.
I smell the smoke before I see the compound. It burns my nostrils with every breath. On my tongue, ashes leave a bitter taste. The whole world, once green, lush, ancient and sweet: now gray. Flames lick the wet air from their perches on vines and moss. At one time, the fire was an inferno—nothing else could cause such devastation. The east warehouse lies in ruins, a mess of stone and cargo turned to indistinguishable rubble. They burned everything.
The rumble of thunder and crackle of still hot coals fills the silence that follows my path into the destruction. Smoke, thick but fleeing, clouds the world like a New York noonday fog. Standing amongst fallen gates and ruined walls, I watch the colorless plain that once felt the march of countless feet. I watch it smolder, my shoulder slumping against a still standing post. Of course they burned it. Of course they destroyed everything—anything that might bring even a shred of hope or opportunity to us, the enemies. The freaks.
I hit the post, hard; hard enough to feel the vibration of the wood deep in my bones. "This isn't over," I breathe. Then, louder, "you hear me, Shredder? This isn't over!" The threat echoes around me, carried by the wind and folded into the flaps of fabric. I ease forwards at the sound, eyes narrowed at the silhouette shuddering on the tip of a post. In all the gray, the wispy cloth bleeds a muted red: Raphael's missing mask.
It waves at me like a challenge, like an answer to my own threats made moments ago. Better luck next time. I pull the mutilated mask from its prison and tuck it into my belt besides the one I've carried all these months. A mask, a dead cell, a bullet wound, and a log book are all I've gained from this. If this is the game Shredder wants to play, I'll play. But this game—this war means life and death. One way or another, a day from now or years, this will end.
And when it does end, it will be in death.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you found some enjoyment in this madness. :)
And if you did, then you can find the prologue to part 2 here: s/11977062/1/Nothing-Is-Unbreakable-Part-Two
Much love, my fellow TMNT fans.
~RWR