Disclaimer: Don't own TMNT. Never did and... (sniffle) probably never will. So there.
A/N: With the way I've been posting lately, it sure looks like my muse is back from her little vacation (which, BTW, I SO didn't grant her). This, however, is darker and a tad more disturbed than the other projects I've got going right now. It's not for the sensitive. So, that said, I hope you'll enjoy the read, and review before you leave. If all goes right, I should have a few minutes here and there to keep working on this one next week. So keep your fingers and toes crossed everyone. Until then, you'll just have to settle with the following chapter. Tah tah!
Fan Fiction Rated: T
Trapped in the sewers, hunted by enemies they never even
imagined they had, one brother desperately fights to keep the other
Splashing, panting, the never-ending taunting of our demise hungrily breathing us down our necks... The sewer tunnels were so dark, and, for some reason, they felt much narrower than they usually appeared. The musty air we had to inhale was almost making me claustrophobic, probably because I knew I couldn't go topside; I knew I had to keep taking hungry breaths of this thick, damp oxygen. Even the water felt colder than usual, biting into my feet with its freezing determination to slow me down.
But I knew we had to keep running.
I just wished I could've run for the both of us. I wished there had been enough time to stop and treat his injuries, if only temporarily, just enough to keep him going. God, everything was still so confusing, so painfully surreal. I couldn't quite grasp the last few minutes, as if they hadn't really happened in the first place. Maybe this was all a dream, maybe I was just about to reach the part where worst comes to worse and you abruptly wake up in the middle of your own sweat.
That's when he suddenly tripped, and my obsessive hold on his left wrist across my shoulder tightened substantially on pure reaction.
Dammit, we didn't have time for this.
"Get up!" I ordered frantically, holding his entire weight by that one arm. To help him... to force him back on his feet, my right hand quickly reached around his shell and fumbled for his right shoulder, which, reactively, jerked away from my stressed touch, a hissing noise seeping forth between his gritted teeth.
I knew his wound must have hurt like hell, but unless we kept going he would earn another one just like it – only this time in his skull.
Looking down at him, his sapless form depending almost completely on me to hold him up, I traced my hand back to his shoulder, this time not caring whether or not it was welcomed. The warm, sticky feel of his blood against my palm made me want to gag, and its slippery touch forced me to clutch his muscle even tighter.
"Get up, Mikey!"
He turned his head upwards, and I somehow managed to make out his eyes in the unmerciful darkness we'd been swallowed by. He was panting in exhaustion, and his gaze seemed to hold something that held a scary resemblance to defeat. There were tears in his eyes, but they never fell as he spoke, his voice nearly as frail as the rest of his being.
"I don't think I can..."
"Don't," I firmly cut him off, trying to reach through to him with my urgent stare. "I don't wanna hear it. Now, c'mon, get up." I had never been this dominant before, this pushy, and I couldn't say I liked the person it was turning me into, but the price was just too high to pay, simply because I didn't want to order my little brother around like the others d...
Pushing back the sudden pang of guilt and pain that washed over me with their faces, I turned my attention back to the issue at hand.
Michelangelo swallowed once, as if forcing down the tears with his will, before finally nodding weakly in reply, his entire face twisting in torment as he pushed himself back up with his legs, rising to his full height beside me, my hold instinctively tightening around him, cherishing the feel of my brother next to me.
I then held his eyes for a short moment, silently thanking him for not giving up, for not giving in, before we once again picked up our pace and continued down the tunnel, tramping hysterically through the arctic stream. My feet kept sinking down the muck covered bottom as we ran, sewage mud oozing up between my toes, and Mikey just couldn't quite keep up with me, limping tiredly by my side, wounded. I obstinately fastened my hold around his wrist to the point where I half expected it to crack right in my very hand, and basically forced him to keep moving, to keep running, because it was our only chance.
They may have had us trapped down here, due to the city being alive with people, traffic and – most importantly – daylight, but at least it was on our domain. We knew these tunnels much better than they did. We had grown up in them, navigated through them for years. If only I could somehow shake them off our tail, trick them into a wrong turn, go down a tunnel they didn't know of, maybe then we'd actually have a chance.
What really bothered me, though, was that I still didn't get it. Who were they? Where did they come from? How did they find us? Even though there sort of was a loose rumor about us passing from mouth to mouth amongst the teenage outlaws of the city, that still didn't explain how they found us. What I did, understand, though, was what they wanted.
They wanted us dead, and they wanted it on tape.