Disclaimer: TMNT=still not mine.

Holy crap, two updates in the same month. It's probably a sign of the apocalypse, huh? :b Or a sign that I'm getting back into the groove. I've missed writing, and I really need to kick myself back into gear and not let work drain it out of me. After writing work stuff all day, it's hard to spend more time at the computer, but at the same time, I'm remembering what a relief/release it is to write for fun.

Either way, here's another drabble! And it's actually drabble-ish in length, just about 550 words. Time for a nice dark romp in the Shredder's brain; this is set post-Exodus, after Saki gets sent to time out on his little ice cube in space. This is both a case of brain-word-vomit, and also a bit of catharsis for me, because I have a movie-honed dislike of uncertain endings, and a TMNT-honed distrust of just putting villains aside; it's Saki, after all, and I'll never believe he's gone for good until we know for sure he's dead.

Also, this was written in about half an hour, so bear with me if it seems choppy. I'm playing with the style a little.


For days and days, Saki doesn't even notice the biting cold buffeting the miserable little rock he's stranded on. His rage consumes him, leaving room for nothing else but memories that inspire more rage.

Those damn, cursed turtles and their little rat master, destroying his plans once again with a finality that makes him quiver in fury.

His useless, traitorous excuse for a "daughter," the tool that should have served him wholly and utterly betraying him instead, his right hand failing him in the middle of an attack.

And his own puling brethren, daring to impose their will upon him when he is the greatest of them, the only one willing to and capable of rising above their sickening pacifism to claim the power his intelligence entitles him to.

It cycles over and over, filling him, so that he snarls into the wind, tentacles writhing in helpless fury against the ice and snow, and he disregards all else around him, focused only on the black hate pumping through his veins, filling him full to bursting.

He doesn't notice the cold for days, not until his voice has disappeared, replaced by the howling wind. He doesn't notice the slow, creeping freeze, not until he realizes he can't move, his body frozen to the ground he is bound to. The ignominy of it all fans his rage higher, that he should be overcome so easily by mere elements. Even as the cold creeps deeper into him, his anger burns on, a sullen ember that never dies.

Even when he feels his heart slowing, even as the creeping stupor dulls his thoughts, the hate remains. He will never let it die. He pictures himself eviscerating his enemies, breaking their bones, building his empire ever greater over their corpses. It is his right. It is their destiny to perish for standing in his path.

Oroku Saki dies with his malice frozen over and perfectly preserved in him forever.

Utrom sentries are sent to the asteroid days later, part of a monthly pass to ensure Saki never escapes his prison. They find him, even now capable of inspiring terror, his face frozen forever in a rictus of hate, eyes wide and piercing. They hesitantly detach him from the ice, taking him back to the council.

There will be no burial, the council decrees. Beyond the fact that Saki does not deserve such consideration, any ground they placed him in would only be blighted as his poison seeped into the earth.

They disintegrate him instead, sending him the way of his beloved armor, erasing even the last fragments of his existence.

The council watches uneasily, relief tempered with the knowledge that Saki has blighted even their own race, because they can never again assume that another soul like him, full of ambition and empty of empathy, can be contained. If any others like Saki rise up, they will have to be put down. Saki will make them murderers by necessity, held forever by his hate and the knowledge of what it can do. They hate him for the task he has bound them to, for the blight of his existence as one of them, for the possibility of what he might inspire in others.

They have learned all about hatred from him, the depth and breadth of it, the timelessness of it, the sleepless watchfulness and cold patience it teaches.

And so they watch, and they wait.

Hatred is one long wait. ~René Maran