lucetilogs | (no subject)

Sleep. A luxury whose intimacies Leonardo, from childhood, has never fully embraced. Unless the heavy hands of exhaustion are present to push him beneath, the eldest always finds himself just barely scraping at the surface of awareness. The pull of danger is always stronger.

Tonight, it digs into his wrist like a claw and tugs. The brittle glass shatters as he passes through, and he's shot upright in bed moments after his brother hits the ground.

"Don?" Sleep drips from his voice as he wrestles his way out of the bed, pupils shifting furiously as his eyes snap to where his brother is a silhouetted lump on the floor. He staggers his way over, molasses thick on his limbs. "Donatello?"

No, Leo, you idiot, don't sit there.

Don slaps at his brother's knee while Leo is still thirty degrees from kneeling. "Leo -- bucket..."

Don isn't sure that Leo will have time to grab a pail, or a garbage can, or some other convenient container. But he knows that Leo is at least fast enough to dodge a horrible fate, if he isn't too stupid to get out of the way.

The strike against his knee is enough of a prompt for his body to catch up with his mind; he steps back suddenly, eyes widening as he processes Don's words. His head whips around the room furiously until his eyes catch a garbage pail sitting against the far wall.

His hands are numb as he dives for it. This - it can't be - it's happening again. The infection. Oh God. Leatherhead, not even Bishop - the cure. Donatello's relapsing and the cure is back home and none of them know what to do. Don doesn't even know it's happening because he can't remember.

Christ.

When Leo blinks again, the can is on the floor and his hand on the back of Don's shell. He's saying something. What? "It's okay, Don. You're fine." He swallows back its emptiness and tries to regain control of his own words. "I'm here."

Leo is talking, but the only thing Don cares about is the garbage can that materializes in front of him. He sticks his face halfway down it and vomits spectacularly.

Then he does it again.

Then he withdraws, slowly, shiveringly, and carefully moves the can arm's-length away, making sure it stays upright. He releases it, moans, and lowers his head to the floor.

Oh, and now he's wiping the vomity drool leaking down his chin onto the carpet. Oops.

"You're fine. I'm here."

"That's great, Leo," he groans.

Leo seems intent on staying here, so after a moment Don prompts him to go and get a few things that would make life so much better right now. "Towel, Leo. Water."

"I - "

Leonardo hesitates, looking from Donatello to the door, back and again. He grabs his own wrist and squeezes lightly in frustration; the sound of Don emptying his stomach is still echoing in his head, dull panic ringing in his ears. What's he supposed to do about an ill brother? He would normally turn to Donatello in this sort of situation, but -

"...I...okay. Okay, I'll be right back. Um." His fingers slip on the doorknob several times before he can grip it, his eyes still on Don as though his sick brother could relapse at any moment. "Don't - just, stay there."

Idiot, like he's going anywhere -

He suppresses the groan in his throat and pushes the door, the scent of vomit leaving his nostrils at the open air.

Towel. Water. He could do that.

Raph's awake again. He has been most of the night, just like every night, silently guarding the apartment as his brothers sleep. He's not tired. No, he's not tired, but his eyes are heavy as he leans his forehead against the cool window glass. He's starting to think if these daily mostly-all-nighters are really helping anyone. The lack of sleep is definitely gonna put a hamper on his reaction time, and that wouldn't do much good.

He should talk to his brothers about taking shifts...

Then he's snatched mid-thought by the distant sound of choking. It plucks at something inside him like a taught rubber band, and he moves out the door and down the hallway before the sound registers. From Leo's room. Not good.

His heart is pounding when Leo's bedroom door opens, and Leo himself is in the hall looking pale-faced and shaken. Raph feels something in him drop like a stone.

"Donnie. He's - ?"

"Yeah. He's sick." The word 'again' is clipped from his sentence as he talks to this shadow he thinks is probably Raph. "I'm going to get him some water." Pause. "And a towel. And medicine."

If they have any; Leo blinks and moves to the front door, intending to rummage around the kitchen area for the water and something to settle Don's stomach. No way is he taking the tap water from the bathroom. "Watch him, Raph. I'll be right back."

Don turns his head just enough to blink at the empty doorway.

Leo never did trust himself to provide adequate medical attention to a sick or injured brother, but Don hardly thinks that this will tax even Leo's limited first-aid abilities. It's only indigestion. Food poisoning, at worst.

He'll kill Mike for it, as soon as he can get up.

"Have thirds, Donnie, there's always more..."

"Mike, I shouldn't..."

But he had anyway, because the idea of thirds was just too novel to pass up.

Never. Again.

He wonders why it's taking so long for Leo to get a glass of water, and hopes this will not be a repeat of the infamous "What's the dosage for tea?" incident.

"Leeeooo..."

Raph swallows hard, eyes moving nervously between Leo and the open door. But Leo retreats and Raph is alone, the sickness in his brother's voice tugging at his heartstrings. Then he acts, because he's useless standing there, paralyzed with worry and fear. So he opens the door a little further, grimacing at the scent of vomit and the sight of his brother sprawled out on the floor.

He crouches down and puts a hand on Donnie's shoulder. "Aw, man. Don - " He scrubs his face with his trembling free hand. Don't think. Act. "I'll help ya back in bed. Floor's too cold."

Don doesn't think his vomiting was so unreasonably loud that it should have woken up someone three rooms away.

... Unless, maybe, it was Leo who had woken Raph.

Either way, this is really not necessary. He resists Raph's efforts to move him from the floor. "Bed's too far from garbage can."

Raph is not swayed by this impeccable logic, so Don tries to imitate Klunk's trick of increasing his mass when he doesn't want to be picked up. "You want to be useful, go explain to Leo how the sink works."

Yes, he is totally unswayed. There's no way in hell he's gonna leave his brother on the floor, and this whole dead weight thing isn't gonna do much either.

He tugs a little harder on his brother's arm, heaving his weight around his own shoulders. "Garbage cans move, Don. Just don't hurl on me."

"You realize you're only increasing the likelihood of further hurling," Don says, as he's hauled upright and propelled towards the bed.

Still, it does feel good to collapse onto the huge pile of blankets thoughtfully provided by whoever's responsible for Luceti's housing.

He flings an arm out, pointing vaguely towards the door. "And once again: water."

He stalks across the room in a bit of a huff to retrieve the garbage can, then sets it down at the edge of Don's bed. "Leo's getting you water. He told me ta stay with you, an' I'm not leavin'."

He sits down at the foot of Don's bed, cradling his head in his hands with a weary sigh. Praying. If he knew what god to pray to, or if one even exists, he could call it praying. But right now, he's just pleading the dark, the empty walls, and all the nightmares that come crawling from them.

Don't do this to us. Don't let this happen. Please don't let this happen...

"I-I should've told you...when I had the chance." His voice is a harsh whisper, full of an unidentified emotion. "Like it'd change anything..."

He's feeling much better now; he really just wants to drink something, wipe his face, and go back to sleep. But it seems Raph has other plans.

"I should've told you... when I had the chance."

Well, that sounds ominously like a death-bed confession.

"Wha -?" He props himself up on his elbows. "Raph, I'm not dying. It's just an upset stomach. Why are you and Leo acting so weird?"

No medicine. Christ. Leonardo dully watches the stream of water as it pours into the glass. A towel is slung over his shoulder, but there wasn't any medicine. A towel and water. At least he has what Don asked for.

He spends several moments zoning in and out of existence while the cup grows heavier in his grasp. There's a clinic in town. Doctors. They can help, can't they?

(No. You needed Bishop. You needed technology. You don't have that here; you're helpless.)

His mind his yanked back into his head by the cold of water as it overflows, and he reaches for the faucet to turn it off. His hand is shaking. Water continues to spill over his hand. He swallows.

(At least do what you've been asked.)

He turns and finds his way back to the bedroom, pushing the door open and pulling the towel off his shoulder with a free hand. "Here."

Finally.

Don pushes himself up into a proper sitting position, so he has both hands free to take glass and towel. He drinks first, swishing a gulp of water around his mouth and spitting out the grossness into the garbage can.

After that he sips slowly, letting the cold water go down easy.

When the glass is mostly empty, he wads up the towel over the top of it, and upends the whole thing, letting the water soak into the fabric before righting it again and setting the glass on the nightstand. He wipes the towel over his sweaty brow, then scrubs his face.

Lastly, he folds the towel, dirty part to the inside, and lays it beside the glass. Once all is in order, and he feels marginally like a person again, he turns to his silent and watchful brothers.

"Okay, guys. Spill."

Edited 2010-02-22 16:02 (UTC)

Raph's eyes stay glued to Don. They won't move, even if he tried. But he feels like if he even blinks, in that quick second, his brother would be gone. Changed.

Leatherhead's words echo from a dark place, words he wishes he could leave forgotten.

His cells are degenerating at an alarming rate...

I cannot cure him...

We're running out of time...

He dares to breathe, and it comes out ragged. He gets off the bed and starts pacing across the room, face set and grim, fists clenched at his sides.

"It's what - what I was tryin' to tell ya before." He stops, changes his direction, paces back. "I-it's...I asked ya, if you remembered being sick?"

He throws a pleading look in Leo's direction and tries not to make it look helpless. It reads: Tell him the story. For the love of god, don't make me do it.

Edited 2010-02-22 18:42 (UTC)

Leonardo watches with a familiar resignation as Don begins to clean himself up. An ache gnaws at his stomach; this is all he can ever do. Only as useful as Donatello will allow him to be, but it's a helplessness that he's had to grow used to.

"Okay, guys. Spill."

Everything goes still. Leonardo sits on his bed, Raphael chokes on his words. The eldest can feel the pleading gaze tearing a hole into the side of his head.

Leo inhales, his throat tight, and scrubs a hand over his face. No hiding anything anymore. "Get Mikey."

The order is dealt and with it comes a dizzying rush of relief. He nods and doesn't hesitate before stalking out of the room. The quick trip down the hall to Mike's door takes ages. Prolonging the inevitable.

When he gets back, there's no guarantee his brother will be there. Only a monster. Just a savage, hollow shell.

As he crashes through Mike's door without knocking,he can't help but think that Don, out of all people, doesn't deserve this. But irony's a bitch.

He looms over his brother's bed, urgency palpable in his voice. "Mike. Get up. Now."

"Wha?" The door startled Mike into jumping in his blankets, but did little to rouse him from sleep. He wearily rubbed at his face and wondered if maybe he was still dreaming; it wouldn't have been the first time he'd imagined something like this while still half-asleep only to found out later that it had never happened in the first place.

"Raph? Whatsit...am I still asleep?"

"Don needs you. Somethin's happening."

Something about those words make his own heart race, and he stumbles back into the hallway as if drawn by a magnetic pull, hopefully with Mike in tow. When he emerges in Leo's room, nothing's changed, and he can breathe a little easier.

"He's coming." Then he trains his eyes nervously back to Don, wringing his hands. "You feelin' okay?"

What a stupid question.

"Honestly, I'm feeling less okay than I was ten minutes ago."

Ten minutes ago, he had thought Raph was about to tell him why everyone was acting so panicked over nothing. But ten minutes ago Leo had sent Raph to get Mike, and since then every question he had asked had gone flatly unanswered.

He might as well have tried interrogating a brick wall.

Now all of his brothers have crammed into the still-dark bedroom, and instead of giving answers, Raph is asking more questions.

"This is ridiculous." He rearranges the blankets over his lap again, because he needs to do something and that seems to be the most strenuous activity Leo will permit him to engage in right now. "Somebody turn the light on, and tell me why you're looking at me like I'm about to grow another head."

"Bro, I'm with you," Mike yawned, and invited himself to have a seat beside Don on the bed. Raph and Leo had been acting like Donatello had swallowed TNT since the moment he'd shown up, and still hadn't told them why. Or told either of them why Leo had a scar, or why they were so freaked out when they talked about a battle that they didn't remember.

"Though seriously, can't these things wait till morning? Like, how come we always gotta have these Earth-shattering talks in the middle of the night? Turtle needs his sleep."

"It's morning, Mikey," he says almost reflexively. Then closes his eyes and chides himself because - what does that have to do with anything? He needs to focus. His palms open and close in his lap and he stares, not knowing where to begin.

"There was...an outbreak. Bishop and Stockman." Start there. They remembered Bishop, didn't they? He's not sure. "They were mutating things. Turning them into monsters. Feral, mindless animals. We had gear to fight them - you made it, Donnie - they...were in the sewers. And..."

He stops, gives the tiniest shake of his head. His fists clench again, and he lifts his head to meet Donatello's gaze. "They scored a hit."

Mutated monsters in the sewers.

That sounds gut-sinkingly like the kind of thing that would happen to them.

Except that it didn't happen.

Not to him, at least.

"Scored a hit on what?" he asks.

His first guess is Leo's shell, but Leo had mentioned Karai as the cause of that, and she hasn't yet figured in this story. His stomach sinks lower, as thoughts of everything else the monsters might have attacked rise in his mind.

Raph listens, trying to look as stoic as possible. But hearing the story, reliving this nightmare they all had thought they could put past them... it was threatening to tear down every inch of his resolve. So he stays quiet, crosses his arms over his chest and tries to hope to god that they're just overreacting.

Ha. Yeah. Not likely. Turtle luck always runs true to form.

"On you, Don. On your leg." There's a silent Because of me. that adds a bite of guilt to the memory, but he swallows and it's gone. "You got infected."

"Whoa whoa wait, when did this happen? 'Cause I totally don't remember any of this either." In fact, he doesn't remember anything about an outbreak at all. Or them fighting monsters in the sewers, though Donatello making gear was commonplace enough.

He's beginning to wonder if maybe the ones who had their memories tampered with weren't he and Don, but Leo and Raph. ...although that wouldn't explain Leonardo's scar. It was nicer to think that maybe those awful things hadn't happened too, but...

"On you, Don. On your leg." A pause. Two heartbeats, while Don waits to learn the fate of this character who wasn't himself. "You got infected."

This is crazy. It's impossible, and Don doesn't know what to say.

He's saved from having to say anything, by the fast action of the Mikey Automatic Reponse System.

"Whoa whoa wait, when did this happen? 'Cause I totally don't remember any of this either."

Don breathes a little easier. He's not alone. Sure, there are more reliable witnesses he would like to have on his side at a time like this, but when it gets right down to it... he's not alone, and that's what matters.

"Guys, why don't..." He rubs his forehead, trying to think of a major event they're all likely to remember. If the last thing Mike knows is the Volpehart incident... "Why don't you start from the Triceraton invasion?" He looks around, and sees the light of recognition in everyone's eyes. Good. "Just go slowly, and tell us everything."

A thought occurs to him, and he turns to Mike. "Actually, Mike, why don't you go first? What do you remember about the invasion?"

Edited 2010-02-24 01:43 (UTC)

"Um...everything? I mean, it was all done and over with. Like...I remember the park, and then they got you, and then we got you back 'cause we're awesome, and then they left..." He remembered losing the Professor and Bishop about to dissect him too, but there was no need to mention that little spot of sunshine considering he still had nightmares about it.

Only occasionally, mind you.

"Ummm..." It was extremely difficult to wrack his brains for the minor details when he was still half in the land of slumber, but apparently this was deathly important to everyone so he did his best. "Mr. Touch and Mr. Go...and Raph took the money to some old lady. LH flipped out, and then we went up to the farm and met those stupid hicks with the bomb. Uhhhh...geez, what happened after that? Like there was a while with just us doing runs and stuff. Ummm...me an' Leo met up with Nobody and kicked some tail...and then we totally did that thing with the old Triceraton base. Like...infiltrated it. Blew it up. Then Christmas rolled around and I was totally awesome and got my Klunky." Oh boy did he ever miss his cat. "And then that creepy alien thing. That's it."

Edited 2010-02-24 16:44 (UTC)

"That...creature beneath the mansion where we found Angel's brother, right?" Leo's question sounds distant to his own ears, but he's trying as hard as he can to process it. The eldest can remember the sickness in his stomach as the monster tried to coerce him into sparing it - digging into his mind like a tick, drinking down the desires that Leonardo himself never spared second thoughts to. His throat is dry and he whispers, "That was almost a year ago."

Silence. He swallows again, laces his mind back around the topic at hand, and steels his voice. "The infection stayed dormant for a while, but you needed to use your bo as a staff to get around, and after a few months, you got sick." he stops before 'like you are now'. "We had to go out to handle the rest of the outbreak, but you were in no condition to come, so we left you at with April and Casey. And..."

He inhales, and it shakes. "And then you - mutated. You..." he trails off, turns his head, and clenches his eyes. "We didn't even realize it."

"Then you... mutated."

Fascinating.

Morbid, but fascinating. Don has always wondered whether their mutation was quite stable, or whether the right combination of events (or maybe just time) would trigger a further metamorphosis.

(Sometimes, when he thinks of what they could become, he yearns. Other times, he fears. Always, it keeps him awake, staring at his ceiling until night turns into day.)

He shakes his head. "What do you mean, you didn't realize? What kind of change was it?"

Leo seems to need time to organize his answer. While he's thinking, Don jostles Mike's shoulder, rousing him from his drowsy state. "Mike, where are your art supplies? Paper, markers."

A non sequitur request, maybe, but his brothers are used to that from him. Certain things are starting to fall into place, and he needs to see them outside his head to know if they mean what he thinks they mean.

"Wha?" The dire tone in Leonardo's voice had pierced something, but despite all that Mike had still slowly been drifting off. He was always horrible when he didn't get enough sleep. One could only be a ball of energy for so long, after all.

Don's request at least gave him something to do, so he leaped to his feet to obey. Maybe he could get his blood moving and wake himself up as he dug around for his things in his messy room (how it was already so messy was a mystery).

Mike leaves the room and the three of them wait in wire-strung silence. Raph shifts from foot to foot, his eyes still glued nervously on Donatello. He knows this question's probably getting old fast, but it's way too damn quiet in here and he's worried.

"You sure you're all right, Donnie? I mean, I heard ya hurlin' all the way down the hall..."

And it reeks in here. It's making Raph feel a little sick himself. He gestures to the garbage can.

"Somebody should take care of that. Smells like shit in here."

Yes, all right. I'll increase my ninja training until I learn to hurl in silence.

He bites back the response, because there's no need to be that sarcastic when his brothers are still genuinely worried about him. Instead, all he says is: "Sorry I woke you. I'm really not that sick."

"Somebody should take care of that."

Don nods. "Please. I think I'm done with it."

He nods, happy for something to do that isn't talking. The task doesn't faze him much. He grew up in the sewers, after all. And it makes him feel useful to do the jobs no one wants to, because someone's got to do it. Might as well be him.

He ducks for the can and tries not to look inside it, but his beak is still wrinkled in disgust as he heads for the bathroom to go rinse it in the tub.

At this point, distractions of any kind are welcome ones. So he takes his time, lets the water run, because he can brood about the past on his own time. All this storytelling is doing is digging up old ghosts that are better left dead and buried.

It didn't take long for Mike to locate the aforementioned objects and he hurried back to deliver them to Donatello. He didn't have markers here -not yet- so instead he provided his brother with a pen, his colored pencils and a sheaf of blank paper. "So what's this for? Are you gonna put like chemical stuff all over it, cause I'm not gonna follow that at all."

"Nope," Don says. "Just an illustration of a minor temporal paradox."

He dumps the drawing supplies into a dip in the blankets, moves aside the glass and towel to make room on the nightstand, and leans over to draw his sketch. First the pen, to set up the axes. Then the pencils, a different color for each set of data points. And then the pen again, to scribble some rough labels.

"Someone gave me a guide to Luceti," he says, as he works. "I read it this afternoon. It says that people who are drawn here from the same world, might come from different times in that world." He drops the pen with a clatter and holds up his graph. "I don't think I've forgotten, Leo. It just hasn't happened to me yet."

Edited 2010-02-26 17:36 (UTC)

Leonardo had read that guide. He'd studied it inside out. The possibility of Don being from a time before his secondary mutation is one that he's recognized before, but only vaguely and never seriously. A part of him refuses to accept that he has the knowledge that it will happen - unlike last time - and realize that he won't be able to do anything with it.

But more than that, it creates so many complications.

These versions of his brothers are softer. Less able, both physically and emotionally. Maybe he hadn't seen the gentler youth in their faces before, but now that the possibility has been dragged to life, he can trace the scars on their skin and see fewer.

Scars. Leonardo gestures slowly to Don. "The scar on your thigh. Where you were infected. Is it there?"

This story is getting awfully hard to follow.

"The scar on your thigh. Where you were infected. Is it there?"

His first thought is of the old scar where Raph had accidentally stabbed him in practice, the time he had been convinced he was coming down with gangrene. (He'd been only twelve, and suffering from a bad case of paranoid delusional prepubescent med-student syndrome.)

His second thought is that Leo is referring to the mutant monsters who had allegedly injured him and infected him with some agent (a mutagen?) that hasn't been explained very well.

It's cold in the room (I was so hot a few minutes ago) and Don is reluctant to unwrap the blankets. But he does it anyway, and shivers as he traces his fingers along his bare legs.

Good thing I didn't get as far as opening a window. It's February; what was I thinking?

He catalogs each scar as he touches it. The sai mark. A thin line from a jagged edge of broken-off pipe. For each pale inscription, a date, a place, an image, a memory of pain.

But none that trigger repressed memories of being stung by a feral mutant. None that he can't account for.

"I don't... I don't think so..."

"So you're tellin' me - " He's nothing but a shadow in the dark c doorway, arms crossed, his shell leaned casually against the frame. He'd been listening silently since he'd reappeared from the bathroom, and he hopes his entrance slipped under the radar enough to catch them off guard. "That you and Mike got pulled from a completely different time than us, and you know nothin' about the Outbreak 'cause we're from the future?"

He snorts a laugh, half amused, half giddy with relief, before turning his glare to Mikey. "I was wonderin' why you picked up that Battle Nexus shit again."

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Weird - school usually blocks LJ. OH WELL!

*\o/*

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\o/