Found this in my old writings.

It's not good, but I thought it was... interesting enough to put up.

Raphael is OOC in this. Really OOC.

Don't know why I made him that way. Oh well.

Sixteen year old Donatello stumbled around, a fog clouding his mind. He fell. Struggling to his feet, he continued on. He tried to remember where he was, but he couldn't; the fog was too great. All he knew was that he was hurt and hurt bad. In the distance, or so he thought, he heard voices. They sounded so familiar. Why? He fell again, but this time, he couldn't get back up; the energy he had was gone. Before his world turned black, he saw the twinkling of a single star in a break in the clouds, and a voice murmured in his mind, "Live." Then he knew nothing more.

April O'Neil peered into Donatello's lab to tell Raphael that dinner was ready. She stopped short. Raphael had fallen asleep in a chair next to his injured and comatose brother, his right hand curled around Donatello's. April walked over, looking at Raphael with a sad expression. Ever since they had found Donatello, hurt and unconscious, in the junkyard, Raphael hadn't left his younger brother's side. No one knew why. Normally, the red masked turtle would go on a rampage and would turn the city upside down trying to find his brother's attackers. Not this time. She saw a blanket and covered the slumbering turtle with it. She turned and walked out, heading for the kitchen. It had been ten days since they found Donatello; and they were all taking it hard, but Raphael seemed to be taking it the worst.

Donatello felt a searing pain in his entire being. He whimpered, wanting to escape the pain. Someone took his hand, placing their other hand on his forehead, talking to him. He thought he felt tears on his face. But he wasn't crying. So who was? He forced his leaden eyes to open. All he saw was a blur of green and a little bit of red. He opened his mouth to speak, but a harsh and dry couch pushed through his chest and throat painfully. Something was held to his beak and he tasted water. He drank a little before it was taken away. He forced his eyes open again and rasped, "Raph." He heard his brother's voice distantly and rasped, "Don't... leave me... please?" Then he slipped back into a painful darkness.

Leonardo watched with mixed emotions as his youngest brother wept openly. He walked over to him and sat down next to him on the couch. Michelangelo buried his face into his brother's plastron, sobbing even harder. Leonardo wrapped his arms around him in a hug. He know that Michelangelo was terrified that Donatello would die. He was also scared of what Raphael would do. Would he kill himself? Go on a rampage that hadn't happened yet? Leonardo ended his dire thoughts when he realized that Michelangelo had cried himself to sleep. He covered him with a blanket and then rubbed his younger brother's shell and tried not to think of the worst.

Although Casey Jones was not as close to Donatello as he was with Raphael, he was still just as worried as the rest of them. True, Donatello usually talked circles around the man, but he still would have Donatello guarding his back any day. But now, as he watched his best friend in red sit next to the still form of the brainy turtle, he couldn't help but seethe. Whoever did this to the genius was going down. Hard. Casey knew that he wasn't the only feeling that way. Leonardo was feeling the same, if not more enraged. Michelangelo was far too upset to feel angered by his brother's attack. He wasn't sure what Splinter was feeling, but he knew that the old rat was taking it hard. Oh, yes. Whoever did this... was going down.

Splinter meditated for hours. He was trying to sense his unconscious son's spirit. Only once did he find it, but it had gone in an instant. Although he didn't show it, the old rat was terrified. Terrified that his son-the gentle pacifist of the four-would die before his time. Many times when he has gone to see Donatello, he has felt a presence, but it was always gone before could determine if it really was there. While Splinter was worried about his purple clad son, he was also worried about Raphael. This behavior was not normal for him. His anger-filled son was supposed to be just that, filled with anger; although he was trying to change that, even after all of these years. But now, his son was... almost like Michelangelo and Leonardo combined; horribly upset, yet refused to show it and tried to hide it. Often, that resulted in Raphael sobbing as quietly as he could, and then falling asleep next to Donatello. At night, Splinter would pray for Donatello's recovery so that their family would not be torn apart by his death.

A young woman stood next to Donatello's bed. No one had tried to talk to her since they found him in the junkyard. Not that it mattered. She knew they didn't realize she was even there. For sixteen years she had been with them, watching them, caring for them. Briefly, she wondered if Splinter even sensed that she was there. She shook her head. Now was not the time to be thinking about that. Donatello's family and two human friends were gathered around him. They thought he was dying. She frowned. It wasn't his time. She saw a small ball of blue and white light rising from his chest. It kept rising and falling, as if it was battling to stay with the living. She smiled softly. Donatello was fighting, but he needed help. She stepped between April and Michelangelo and placed her hands on the light. Gently, she pushed it back down and held it there. Slowly, she withdrew her hands. The light did not rise back up. She waited; as did everyone else. They had seen the slight change in the dying turtle. Then slowly, Donatello's eyes opened. Tang Shen smiled. Yes, she would continue to watch over them.


So, review, flame, ignore, whatever.

Later. My head is killing me.