Fade

Part 6

By Dierdre

Now, if y’all will excuse me… I have a bed I’d like to get reacquainted with. I hope y’all enjoy. :)

There is an art to running that few people will ever understand.

It is not enough to merely pound the pavement in a mad rush to get from point A to point B. Such actions will often leave you gasping for breath, with a frantically pounding heart and limbs that shake from exhaustion. It wouldn’t typically matter much, but when you also happen to be rushing towards a fight against people who really want you dead, then such physical ramifications can be lethal.

The secret to survival, therefore, is control. Practice will eventually allow you to regulate your breathing and maintain a deep and even rhythm, which then forces your heart to beat strong and steady. Your body will then gradually bend to your will and running will become less like physical exertion and more like meditation. The sharp drumming of your heels striking pavement becomes almost soothing, your muscles relax and cease to ache from the strain, and your mind will slowly still its usual mad swirl of memories and emotions. You can run for hours in this fashion, crossing the miles in a steady, ground-eating lope, and reach your destination with little more than a light sheen of sweat and a heady rush of endorphins.

It was one of the first things Master Splinter had taught us and one of the few activities that still had the power to calm me. Which was why it was so unfortunate I couldn’t properly concentrate.

I had given up trying to achieve that trancelike state after only a few minutes. I now ran wildly, recklessly, flinging myself from rooftop to rooftop with all the panicked desperation of a lifelong sinner pursued by demons. My clothes had been discarded long ago, fluttering down to the pavement of several seedy back alleys like wing-clipped birds, and the wind was no longer cold as it pulled and snapped at my bandana tails, sliding across my skin and cooling me before the sweat had a chance to form.

I ran until my vision blurred from the thick smog that snaked through the city’s canopy, the lights below blending into one long sheet of multicolored radiance. I ran until the breath screamed in my lungs and the lactic acid began eating away at my overexerted muscles. My body was begging for relief, yet for now I welcomed every harsh pant and stab of pain, because physical agony was better, cleaner somehow, than the emotional nadir I’d endured for so long.

I have no clue how long I kept this up, leaping madly across the city without plan or destination, but there was no mistaking when my body finally decided to call it quits.

Heaving myself across a fifteen foot gap that I barely cleared, my feet hit the rooftop with an audible impact that jarred my bones and caused my legs to simply fold up beneath me. Sheer momentum sent me tumbling forward with an involuntary cry, skidding on my hands and scraping away a thin layer of skin, until my chin cracked sharply against the concrete and halted my movement.

Mind fogging over from profound exhaustion and sudden pain, I groaned weakly and pushed myself over unto my shell. I remained that way for a long moment, my breath hissing in a throat made raw from exertion and my heart pounding like a crazed drummer high on methamphetamines.

I was in the process of taking another deep breath when my throat suddenly closed. I choked, rolling over to my side, coughing and hacking for a time in a paroxysm of misery, until my esophagus cleared and I was finally able to breathe again. I greedily sucked in air, my cheeks flaming from the force of my coughing fit, and glared through bloodshot eyes at the weak starlight overhead. Damn cigarettes. I’d only been smoking for three months and already they were wreaking merry hell on my body. I had to quit soon or I was going to be the first turtle in history to die of lung cancer.

Sniggering humorlessly at the thought, I pushed myself into a sitting position with arms that shook from fatigue. I rubbed at my chin, growling when I felt the warm stickiness of blood, and looked around curiously in an attempt to get my bearings. Where the hell was I?

It took only a moment for me to recognize the location. I hadn’t been to this area in a long while, but it figured that my body would seek out this place while my mind was otherwise occupied. It knew the route here very well, after all. The manhole cover that led to our old home was only a little over a block away.

A few more minutes of deep breathing and endorphins finally began to seep into my blood, dulling the pain and giving me strength enough to move. I stood cautiously and stretched my already stiffening muscles, before leaping across two more buildings and coming to a halt on one roof that held particular significance to me.

It was nothing more than a filthy rooftop, caked in pigeon shit and guarded by weather worn gargoyles, but a slight smile still came to my lips as my feet touched down on the familiar concrete. I had discovered this place during one of my first forays into the outside world, when I was reckless enough to venture above street level but not yet brave enough to wander far from the familiarity of home. It didn’t matter that the building was owned by an obscenely wealthy software company; its roof had become my place. I had often come here to be alone, when my brothers had pissed me off worse than usual.

Lowering myself into the familiar shelter of my favorite gargoyle, a hulking thing with a vicious snarl that I found somehow comforting, I did my best to relax. With one leg folded beneath me and the other dangling carelessly out into space, I sighed and stared down at the latticework of interconnected streets far below. Heights had never bothered me, not even as a child. In fact, I had always found them strangely soothing.

Watching humans bustling about, completely unaware of how blessed they were, somehow hurt less the higher I rose above them. They may have the unfiltered sunlight, the freedom of movement, the fresh food, the clean water and the whole damn world… but they didn’t have this. The whole city was laid out beneath me in all its bizarre splendor, and as a child I’d imagined that all I had to do was reach out with a godlike hand and I could claim anything in New York as my own.

…God, I was stupid when I was a kid.

Shaking my head and reaching for my belt, I fumbled around with scraped and insensitive fingers in an attempt to find my cigarettes. I must’ve reached into the wrong pouch, because my knuckle slid against something rough and my eye ridges drew together in puzzlement. I pulled the item from its pocket and ran a thumb across the scorched bit of shell. My lips thinned. I’d almost forgotten about this.

A few days after everything went to hell, I had left the safety of my unnaturally quiet home and returned to the gutted office building. The entire block had been cordoned off with ribbons of yellow police tape and makeshift fencing, but the rubble had not yet been cleared away. It had only been the work of a moment to bypass the flimsy barricades and descend undetected into the rubble.

To this day I wasn’t sure why I’d visited that damn place, sifting for hours through shattered concrete and blackened wood. I guess I was looking for some clue as to what had gone so terribly wrong, some inkling as to who could have tampered with the bomb so effectively that not even Don could stop it. Or perhaps I was just half-crazed from grief and needed something to do.

Regardless, it was during this aimless search that I found the piece of shell. Little more than a hunk of warped plating a few inches long, there was no real way to tell whom it had belonged to, but it had nevertheless taken just a single touch for me to know instantly.

I scowled and gripped the shell tightly; suddenly afraid it would slip through my treacherously numb fingers. This was all that was left of my gentle, creative little brother, who would’ve had the technological world kneeling at his feet if only he’d been born human. He had a plot right next to Mikey’s, but without a body to bury, only a single initial carved into moldy brickwork stood as proof that Don had ever existed at all.

I had pocketed the bit of shell with the intention of later interring it with the rest of my family, but when I’d finally made it to the gravesite… I found that I just couldn’t do it. It had seemed incredibly pathetic and somehow wrong to deposit a single shard of carapace into a grave meant for a whole being.

And so, since I couldn’t bring myself to bury it and I sure as shit wasn’t going to throw it away, I’d slipped it into my belt pouch and carried it with me ever since. I’d taken it out often the first few weeks after the explosion, shifting it absently from hand to hand as I waited to see if Leo would live or die. My own personal worry stone. Depressing and macabre as hell, I know, but I don’t think Don would’ve minded.

Sighing lowly, I carefully replaced the bit of shell and found the correct pocket, fishing out a cigarette. I was just lifting it to my lips when I felt a sudden chill shiver down my spine, the skin tightening along the back of my neck in an innate fear response. I ducked with the lightning reflexes of one very familiar with personal danger, my left hand lancing out instinctively, and plucked the arrow from the air even as it sliced past my shoulder with the distinctive hiss of displaced atmosphere.

I had little time to celebrate, however, for I was still in the process of scrambling for safety when my stiff muscles betrayed me, a cramp seizing my calf in a sudden twist of agony.

My afflicted leg shot out beneath me and my arms pinwheeled for a desperate moment, before gravity finally noticed me and decided to get down to business. My foot lost its hold on the narrow ledge and I was sent tumbling into space, my body dropping like a stone and leaving my stomach behind.

I plummeted without ceremony, the wind ripping at my bandanna tails and sending them snapping about my face like live things, and for a wild moment all I felt was exaltation. The ground eagerly rushing up to meet me was the unexpected answer to my prayers. No more worries. No more heartache. Just a few more seconds of freefall, a brief flash of pain, and then all my problems would be over.

…Except that Leo and April still needed me, and I’ll be damned if I was going to die for such a stupid reason.

Adrenaline pounding in my veins with a newfound desire for self-preservation, I twisted around like an astronaut in Zero G and lashed out with my right hand. It was a minor miracle that my fingers hooked a slender ledge as it blurred past me, and full-out divine intervention when my grip held. Tendons screaming as they stretched and pulled from the strain of halting my descent, I was unable to stop a howl of pain as I felt my shoulder partially separate from its socket. My plastron slammed against window glass hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. An intricate spider web of cracks formed on the glass and began to snake outward as I hung there, dazed and gasping, the wind pendulously rocking my aching body.

It was a long moment before I had recovered enough to even consider moving again. I eventually reached out with my other hand to get a better grip on the ledge… and found that I was still stupidly gripping the arrow. My eyes widened in surprise as I noticed the length of rice paper attached securely to the shaft. Even if I hadn’t noticed its approach until it was too late, the arrowhead had been deliberately blunted so that the impact probably wouldn’t have done more than bruise. Well, ain’t that just fucking peachy. I’d nearly gotten myself pancaked because some bow-wielding idiot was too lazy to just send me a postcard.

Gripping the wooden shaft between my teeth, I reached out with my other hand and slowly, carefully, pulled myself up unto the narrow ledge. I pressed the length of my body against the smooth expanse of glass and concrete, my heels dangling out over the brink, and began shuffling sideways with the deliberate care of one only a slight misstep away from messy death.

When I finally reached a corner of the structure, I dug my fingers into the tiny recesses of one window frame and risked a glance around me. There, separated by only a few yards of narrow alley, stood another building. Covered with graffiti paint at its base and much less fancy than the one I was now clinging to, it was still one of the most inviting sights I’d seen in a long while, for it sported a rust-covered fire escape running down its length. My ticket out of this mess.

I slowly inched my way around the corner, determinedly ignoring the protestations of my abused muscles and throbbing shoulder, until I had my back to the smaller building. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, fighting to achieve the serenity that Master Splinter had always struggled to instill in me. I then bent my knees and pushed hard with my hands, flinging myself away from the wall.

I executed a complex flip in midair, twisting my body around and removing the arrow from my teeth just in time to see the fire escape rush up to meet me. I landed hard and force of the impact drove me gracelessly to my knees, the metal structure bucking and squealing like an enraged horse. Safe.

I remained kneeling with my hands resting limply on my thighs, panting hard until the fire escape settled with a final protracted groan. Not my most graceful moment, but I’d take it. It just was good to feel solid metal beneath my feet again.

The simple act of standing up a moment later set all my nerve endings on fire, sending currents of pain arching from my toes to the top of my head. It was tempting to sink down to my plastron and let some of my exhaustion seep its way into the cool metal, but I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge. I had to get away from here before the bowman got bored and decided to use me for target practice again. With my luck, the next arrow probably wouldn’t be quite so benign.

I was tramping through the sewers five minutes later, hugging the edge of the drainage pipe and ignoring the foul stench with the ease of long practice. There was no lighting of any sort along this stretch of sewer, but being temporarily blind had no effect on the length of my stride. I’d been through this area countless times, both alone and with my brothers, and could probably navigate the meandering tunnels in my sleep.

My pupils were so dilated that I couldn’t help but wince when finally I rounded a corner and caught my first glimpse of watery light. I was getting close. About damn time, too, since I now felt like I’d been run over by a semi. Christ, even my bandanna ached.

The light grew stronger as I continued onward, until I could see the outline of a wide ledge suspended a few inches above the sewage runoff. I left the relatively dry outskirts of the tunnel and stepped into the viscous liquid, my mouth drawing back into a sneer of disgust as unmentionable detritus snaked and sloshed around my ankles.

Quickly crossing the river of filth, I clambered onto the platform and shook the muck from my feet as best I could. I felt like an old man as I carefully lowered my maltreated body into a cross-legged position, my joints popping and creaking in protest.

The light from a street lamp far overhead filtered through a grating, casting bars of illumination across my shoulders. Finally able to see properly, I carefully peeled the fragile paper from the wooden shaft and tossed the arrow away, where it struck the runoff’s surface with a dull plop. Unrolling the scroll and peering at kanji written in an elegant and unfamiliar hand, I blew out a low breath and began to read.

Raphael,

The Foot clan seeks an audience with you and your surviving kin. A delegation will meet with you on neutral ground at eleven thirty tomorrow evening, by the North Wall of the New York Marble Cemetery. This will be a diplomatic discussion to our mutual benefit, and so both parties are to be obligatorily unarmed.

I swear on my honor that this is not a trick. We have much to discuss, you and I.

The letter ended there, with only the Foot symbol stamped below in simple black ink, but no personalized calligraphy was needed for me to know who it was. This letter had been written by the new leader of the Foot clan, the one behind the blast that had killed my family.

Murderer. Backstabbing, traitorous bitch…

My hands coiled into fists, fingers tearing holes in the thin paper as my mind fogged over in a haze of red-tinted fury. I stared blindly at the sewer wall, hissing out my hatred through teeth clenched so hard they hurt:

“Karai…”