Michelangelo had always wanted to fly. Not in an alien hovercraft, just fly, himself and the air, weightless. Perhaps this had spawned his fascination with superheroes like the Silver Sentry, but he knew it was why running over the rooftops brought him so much exhilaration, leaping over open air from building to building. He'd heard somewhere that when one realizes that they are dreaming, they can control the dream. So every time he dreamed and realized he was dreaming, he put every effort into flying. It was harder than it seemed, and he had only managed it once, ungluing his feet from the fake dream-gravity and soaring through the air, doing flips, rolls, dips, and dives. He'd had the feeling that if he touched the ground, the enchantment would end, and he would be bound to the earth forever.
Don's voice was shouting indistinctly at him over the radio. Mikey ignored it. He was supposed to have been home hours ago. Now, the sun was setting, and he was nowhere near home, but well outside the city, watching people fly. He'd driven off on an impulse, every pore of him fighting the idea of going back home to the same thing he always came home to. He hadn't known about the people on hang-gliders, weaving their way peacefully through the sky, shuttles moving back and forth through patches of color.
He'd always wanted to try hang-gliding. Leo had taken the only similar contraption they had, and Don hadn't made any more since. It seemed to Michelangelo that this was the closest he would ever be able to come to real flying. If he could do just that before he died, he would consider his life complete. Maybe it was the last thing he had left to look forward to.
Maybe he could take one of those sets of wings and fly away, coasting over America to Florida, or California, or Hawaii. He could fly over the Atlantic and see Amsterdam and Dublin and Berlin. He could find Leo. He could bring Leo back, and that would make everything peachy again, normal again, exciting and fun again. Or maybe he couldn't. Maybe Leo didn't want to come back.
Maybe those wings could carry him somewhere else. He could coast through the free air, then cut himself loose from his harness and fly on his own for just a few seconds before...but he didn't want any pain. He could get drunk or high first. That would make him less nervous, relax his inhibitions, dull the pain of the impact. He could go out flying.
Michelangelo watched the hang-gliders, in his mind the ultimate expressions of ultimate freedom, with a small smile.
Don's voice had been quiet for some time, and now Mikey heard a motorcycle approaching, growling like a tiger as it came to a stop beside where the van was parked. He didn't have to look to know who swung off the bike and jogged toward him. Two sets of footsteps interrupted his flight of fancy, and the driver's side door was jerked open.
"You are in deep shit, Bueller," growled Raph's voice. "Move over."
Mike moved over without comment, and Raph stepped aside to let Don hoist himself into the driver's seat. Both were wearing their classic trench coat and fedora combination. Don was already going on a tirade that Mike wasn't listening to while fumbling for the keys, and Raph closed the door from the outside. Seconds later, the sound of the motorcycle pulling away from the shoulder could be heard. Michelangelo stared out the window at the hang-gliders, touched by longing—not to die, not even to run away, just to change, to take back his own life, to accomplish, to have something for himself, to break free of this constant routine in any way possible, to be totally and completely and irrevocably free.
Don suddenly broke off in mid-sentence. "What are you grinning about?"
Mikey's grin stretched. "Nothing."