Chapter Text
Drops of harmonious sync, yet non-linear and unproportioned in their nature. Rain that motions for a cowardly pain with a gaze of water that falls so gracefully. Eyes follow the scars adorned through the grace of your hand, array of spectrums that embody a gutless end. Shame and disgust that recoils through your spine, a lasting familiarity of incompetence. Watchful, as you fall from your feet, collapsed as you plunge into the puddle adorning the pavement roof of this silent terrace. You lay, allowing the clouds shower to swallow you whole — a momentary peace as the black sky weighs upon you. A silence both deafening and becoming of tonight's agenda.
You lift your hand, grabbing for something unbeknownst to yourself or the toppling downpour of this murky city. The pungency of the streets, always a disgusting acquaintance. Pollution that salvaged the area of nostalgia and the dusky addition of undefined scents. Sounds of silent whispers of the wind's patrol and an orchestrated sympathy to the hollering noise of the city's wails. The ponder of how this place could always feel alive but dead.
You lurch from your positioning, allowing the tension of muscle to howl accompanied by the cries of the tendons to stay. Your body does not forgive the movement you take, as you continue to fall into your pattern of depravity. The rhythm of a practice that was built, founded, and forged into the skin and engraved through the insides of crackling bones. A classification of determination or nature in the midst of your world. Who you are does not equate to the desires that lurk from the pits of your stomach — buried and hidden — yet they are a constant that reminiscences and holds the reality that there was a before. But the preceding is not of utilization; its a weakness, a hinderance, a hopeless disgust from a child.
Do not salvage words or the hindering truth, for the world cannot mind of the disgusting conscious hidden within this peculiar event in relation to this forsaken evening.
Your eyes linger to your hands once more, wary of the tales wrapped in strangled transiency. But once your footing is no longer a figure of speech you look anew. Eyes looking upon the city while hands grasp for new suppressing purpose, slowly discovering the kilt of the tanto, though passing by to make the fond grounding of a katana. The piece a comfort, it was equanimity within the storm.
There's a gruff, "let's get this show on the road." Words a spell, as a short-lived smile curves your lips, a show towards no one but the fog that dims the city's lights. Yet it never reaches your eyes, not a trace of warmth or a fragment of compassion to fulfil the gapping emptiness that lingers from the piercing stare you behold. A careful focus as the mind wonders and calculates.
And as the wind begins its next bellow, the rooftop is empty. Forever being a void of its previous self.
There are moments that ponder the neglectful strides of the thunderous past. Memories that are tormented by the hateful present. Yet they hold the façade of unknown territory inhabiting your being and character. Perhaps, if fortune shallowed its voice and wrapped its arms around your frame, you could ponder the possibility of novum principium?
There is a moment, a time, that begins to materialize itself during the episodes of growing obscurities and sensations. It pulls you away from a reality, to one originating before adolescence.
Only mere children they were — not crossing the age of 10. Young and full of naivety. Credulity that would collect its debt in due course.
"C'mon guys!" There's annoyance scattered in your tone yet the urgency continues to entail throughout your sharp requests. "You're being wimps..." but there's a smile that tugs at your lips, as you flail short limbs in the air. There's wariness of your movement, potentially deriving from the fact and state of your erratic motion of a thrashing bokken in your hand. Your grin widens before you lace your words with taunting venom, hoping for someone to take the bait that you fished out. "Oh wait..." your index finger finds your lips to gesture a thought, quickly followed by a shocked exaggerated gasp "don't tell me... your- YOUR scared!"
They bite. Hard.
"SCARED?" a scoff follows pursuit "I'll show you scared!" The fuming turtle begins to lunge before being abruptly stopped by the arm of his fellow brother. His hand hits his plastron, an echo in the midst of the chaos. A strange and unpractical attempt to cease the disorderly situation and growing commotion. Mayhem in the small world of their disclosed home. A sanctuary outside the pandemonium that awaits patiently in the darkened and tainted shadows.
The air seems to heat, the irregular thermal change attributed to a single figure. The steam seemingly rolls unnaturally into the atmosphere. There's a scowl decorating his features, a piercing and unwavering glare reserved just for you. But your quick flash of a smirk only makes his brows tense, fist clenching to allow his nails to dig further into his palms, and jaw tightening a staggering and concerning amount more — the transparent signals for the mere moments before havoc unleashes in the calm of the lair. Like a feline ready to jump, he was in position to pounce.
"Don't you remember what happened just before!?" The words accompanied by the assault of a shove cut through the hostile setting. "C'mon Raph, think with your head! You're not Mikey!" There's a short silence, registration of his statement, although quickly interrupted by the shout of another. It's the realization that the undertone of that phrase was allocated just for the orange-banded terrapin.
"Hey..." he fussed. Yet the sentence dawns on him once he finds the comprehension for the true nature of his companion's words. A sudden click in the turning wheels of his brain. "HEY! I can think! Like I'm the most thinkful, thinkish, and absolutely thinklet person there is!" It's an urgent wine to be recognized as something not so apparent in his role. A trait that doesn't fully just forsake himself. "I..." He rests his hands on his chest, making an unmistakably clear notion that he is the sole habitant of his next words "...basically am the most thinking person there is. I am basically the brains of our renegadeFUL group."
A boastful laugh erupts from your lips, the sound escaping without means to an end. The chocking wheeze as you clutch your stomach, a hopeful yet useless attempt to grasp at the origin of your spewing commotion. A need to rip apart your innards, to clasp at an organ until you choke — endeavors to halt the becoming hyena.
Another voice chimes in, confusion and a constant urge for correction that yields himself in transparency "Mikey, those words aren't even apart of the English language nor any language to my understanding."
"Uhh yeah duh they are, where do you think I got the boo-yak-a-sha?" his words exaggerating the syllables as if it is the most obvious piece of information. Continuing with his rambles as he explains the foundations of his dialect and truth "It's ok Dee," he swings his arms around the shoulder of his newfound pal, a grace of sympathy and inscribed pitifulness etched in his lingo, performably succeeded by the sing-song of a cry "at least one of us can carry the smarts of the group." But before the rebutting critic engraved in his character could respond to the profound magnitude of inaccuracies, a voice cuts through the air. Bringing the attention and reeling the fish back into her hands.
C'mon just bite. One more bite.
"Oh well, I guess you guys are just wimps" a sigh follows pursuit "but at least you can still be my favorite scaredy cats." Before the wrath of particular reptile can be unleashed from trembling gates of his tranquility, a quick and sharp "bawk bawk!" releases from your taunting lips.
And so it bites.
But there is an interruption, another forsaken interruption testing the boundaries of your degrading patience. Hands latching onto the edges of his brothers form, preventing him from nearing the position you held with unrelenting ground. "RAPH! She's baiting you! Don't you remember what just happened before? She's just gonna whack you with that weapon as soon as you even step close to her." He eyes you with wariness, a spoil to the fun of your mischievous tendencies. Although, you play along, a continuation of your performance. Embellished and hyperbolic acting as you raise your hand to the placement of your heart buried within the anatomy of your lungs. A shocking and hurt expression adorning your face as you take playful offence to his tongue.
"Me? Want to hurt you with this silly thing?" A wave to the bokken that has become a part of your physiology. "Me? Try and hurt you? With this goofy stick? That is absolutely absurd!"
"Well technically its a 'bokken,' a Japanese wooden-"
"Not now Donnie!" His voice penetrates, commanding the room to full under his control. A look of caution and vigilance to the suspicious tone laced in your words. Begging him to bite down on the bait you spew from the perpetual provocation.
"Lee," you coo, a thought arising while you purr his name. A silent shiver rolls throughout levels of his connecting vertebrae. A warning to himself to block the sirens unwavering song, yet the nagging of your voice only pulls him deeper into the water's depths.
"You know..." words sharp and teasingly threatening, yet there is no real semblance of real forewarning. "As a fellow supporter and advocator for 'Space Heroes,' I wonder what Captain Ryan would do?" The reptile's posture stiffens, a sense of curiosity lingering in between the circumspection.
You cast your bait. Patience a practice of forgotten activity.
"What would Captain Ryan do?" You speak again, letting the pondering thought sink through the green scales of walls that begin to break. Cracks forming without any proper resolve or mend.
You wait quietly — composed and steady. Waiting for the hopeful bite.
"It's quite disappointing" you huff "At least Ryan would've actually of done something instead of standing around and doing ab-so-lut-ley nothing."
A bite, an inevitable lunge will transpire from the fish, circling the hook with unguarded hunger.
You can see the way he tenses, a short fume, a craving to become the something of the foretelling future. Yet, he's rash, inexperienced, and more importantly not of yet qualified. But you continue, allowing the venom of your voice to perform mocking salutations to the boy.
The lingering scent of bait submerges itself into the plentifulness of the river's end. The abundance of fish that wait patiently for the bite of a single sea creature before they themselves commence on the feast. A standby to devour the bait.
One more push. "Oh what a tragedy!" You flounce your arms for the Shakespearean melodrama of this lingering exaggeration. "Oh how Ryan would be oh so disappointed."
It bites. An event that follows the actions of the remaining fish. They all bite. Caught in the web and trapped in the net. They bite hard.
Leonardo dives without calculation, without plan, and without the known of the underlying reality of your actions. Leaping furiously for the bokken, for the hands that hold it with determined purpose. You take a swift step back, nearing the wall behind you. Watching as the red-banded terrapin lunges like a bull into your point of view. You cast your mesh, pulling to the side with prompt maneuvring. Watching as the speeding wrath of his character plunge into the bricks of the unforgiving wall.
Glee steadies your smile, a grin and calculating expression as you fall into motion. Though you are met with the clownish acts of your fellow comrade, gazing and studying as he moves with a comical series of dives. You briefly glimpse at the protruding freckles defining his face. A stare manifesting a fraction too long. Perpetuating, as you see the jocular goofiness of his swings. It's easy avoidance of his tomfoolery, practical simplicity to evade.
You hear the grumble behind you, the consciousness and regaining posture of Raphael. A smirk decorates your face, the slight lick of lips as you ready yourself. A predictable spring as he goes to grab you from behind, yet there's a moment of confusion, of calm, as the occupation of your space and vacant region become cause for catastrophe.
"Wait, wait, WAIT-" beckons the startled cries of his brother. The two colliding with an ungraceful manner, a stumble of limbs and shells as they merge to become a singularity. You watch the sitcom, a relation to the amusing cartoons you find yourself captively drawn to. Out-bursting and gut-wrenching outlandish chortles in pursuit of your cries. Heaving for oxygen that had become absent-minded, disregard for the vitality of O₂ that the lungs crave in hunger for. Nevertheless, the violent cackles force you to incline forward into your abdomen, the fierce labored breaths a causation for the body's turbulence. However, the behavior is immediately disrupted by the seize of your wrist by a certain brainiac.
The mind that depicts and beholds libraries, a machine of sophisticated and refined motors. Turning and coiling that spins with an alternation of twists. But his gifted sympathies are not of great fortune when it betrays the execution of his actions. Through the moments he overanalyzes, perpetuated by the variables and extraneous possibilities, you strike. A fierce shove and whack of the bokken as he trips into the mess of tumbling brothers. Erratic movements, groans, and frustration merging the males into a ball of knotted appendages and carapace.
Across the mist of plummeting terrapins, a playthrough of the televised nostalgia, a rush of warmth stretches vast in your chest. The slow rhythm of shoulders arising and falling between the moments of breath restabilizing. Although, once again an interference seems to become your inevitable compromise. An instance for every timeline to transpire, the fated canon occurrence that becomes one with you. Even so, the placid hydrangea were of natural invitation. Welcome of the tender blue jays and its glory ballad.
"So," you whine, light-heartedness attached to its roots "you gonna stand there or do I have to come there and hit you with my stick?" Amusement as you tap the side of yourself lightly with the wooden sword. It shoulders something through a de novo appeal, clouding your judgement while he watches the click of your tongue and tilt of the hips. Before you register on your own contemplation — conceptualizing a new innovative remark — a frame enters close proximity. Closing in fast. Your thoughts hit a halted conclusion, mumbled and incoherent of an accelerating figure. Movements an emergence of a consuming tsunami. Yet, the preceding anticipation never ensued from you, attempts to elude now futile. It was pointless and inescapable.
"Holly crap-" He pushes quickly, no room for defense or reaction to arise. A margin for error non-existent as your voice squirms, and a reflex of any kind is uninhabited. A plummet from grace, as you lay against the cement of the longing sewers. The cold a frigid crisp of its properties, an icy chill that prickles at the depraved exposure of skin. He bores his palms into pulses of your forearms, embarking the drop of the timber piece that you held so dear. "Let go!" words pointed with utter annoyance, succeeded by the jerks and struggles that escape your limbs. They were fruitless efforts; your relentless behavior in vain and wasteful of the energy it consumed.
There's a tightened grip, a snicker and entertained expression at the expense of your struggles. "Nope," as he pops the 'p,' an emphasis of the pure enjoyment that's being devoured whole. Surveying eyes dig graves into his cerulean oculars, promising to pluck and tear a part every ounce of his observatory. A scowl decorates your face. As you pout, his smirk evolves even more in proportion of the before.
"I have a small suspicion, that if I were to let go, you might hit me with that bokken."
The show must go on until the curtain falls. Till the hindering applause and response of the audience presents itself. Oh, how the performance must continue towards the second Act.
And so the theatrics proceed. Dramatic flare as you are repulsive of his statement. A gasp igniting the tongue as you choke out "how could you accuse me of such foul play!?"
"Foul play?" He quirks a brow, a decisive decision as he joins the show. He leans closer, inches away from your face. A child in his right, enjoying your tormented face. "Well, I'm finding it hard to believe that you don't want to hit me with that device of doom or instrument of destruction." There's a pause for the development of the script before he progresses, "tell me villain, how can I allow the world to end to your hands, your hands that hold the scepter of death." The words echoing themselves as he shudders at the thought of the figurative world collapsing before themselves.
You wait. A second to notion your thinking consideration of his allegation. A prolongation of the masquerade. "Me? Do such horrendous acts? I could never-"
But before you can turn your head, before your next words can properly release from your lips. It seems as though destiny and its foregoing power and divine will was truly loving. Devoted with benevolence to your adversity, oh how fate caressed and scorned you at its volition.
"Oh no-"
Like a storm of unrelenting havoc. A knot of the eager and instantaneous fiasco — a sudden physical interjection as the mortifying bodies of disarrayed turtles slams its break into the pair of you.
Arms or legs in this fray of combined bodies? A type of Frankenstein creation that's become reality. From the position that you held, there was no differentiating of limbs. The sudden pain of the unyielding collision, a source for the stifling pain that aches your being. Your head a pounding mess, as you gaze over the sight before you.
"That was not very cowabunga dudes."