#chxrites

Your muse sees mine having a nightmare. Send me ‘❗’ to hear something my muse mutters in their sleep.

Sweat clung to the rat’s brow as his face twitched, the typical stillness of his sleep giving way to a strange murmuring and shifting. Unaware of anything except the cruel depths of his dream, he took no notice of the young turtle watching from just a few yards off.

“...No... you must get out of here...”

Shredder was at the forefront of this nightmare, just as he was in most others; taller than usual, shrouded in shadow, monstrous and untouchable. Though in most of these dreams Splinter found himself to be nothing but a ghost like observer, now he was there, unable to move due to some mysterious paralysis as he watched his sons rush to his defense.

“...stay back..”

They didn’t heed his warnings. Rather, they followed Shredder into the shadows and the impenetrable darkness filled with the sounds of horrible screaming. It was then that Splinter finally broke through his state of immobility and flew headlong into the shadow. What greeted him were four still forms laying lifeless around one ominous armor clad warrior. The darkness was so thick that he could barely make out all the details aside from the still forms and the dark pools, but some part of him knew that he was far too late.

 this is what happens when my friends call off a...

I’m not sure what I was expecting but I do not regret pressing play CHRIST I broke out into giggles almost immediately. You perfect and adorable bean uvu <3

chxrites:

Your character finds mine passed out on the floor, how does your character react?

It was bound to be an awful night. One of the worst. This day had been doomed from the start. Raphael alone had known this.  

They all had been upset by his stubborn refusal to participate in their festive, pointless efforts. No, he would not assist Don in cleaning the lair from top to bottom, or help with the hanging of cheesy hand-made decorations, or join them in the careful unwrapping of tin foil or the artful assembly and re-frosting of Mike’s birthday gig leftovers until they formed a single, giant multi-flavored cake that read “WELCOME HOME!” God, how could they even stand the cloying, too-sweet smell of it? If he never saw another god-damned piece of birthday cake in his life it would be too soon.  

His whole family had been completely unwilling to face the facts. They had looked at him with varying levels of hurt, scorn, and reprimand every time Raph stated what should have been plainly obvious to everyone.

Leonardo wasn’t fucking coming home. Not today, and maybe not ever.

And it had been obvious. Raph knew it wasn’t just his usual gloom and paranoia talking. Once upon a time Leonardo’s letters had come to them like clockwork, a steady stream of fat envelopes containing pages and pages of their brother’s too fancy, show-off handwriting. He was sending them a god damn novel every other week in the beginning. Yet another episode of The Amazing Chronicles of Fearless, World Traveler! Be sure to tune in next week for more of his incredible adventures fending off pirates and saving the whales and sticking it to corrupt governments and capitalism and dealing with constant digestive issues from the lack of clean water and terrible food!

Raphael had found endless reasons to bitch and gripe during Mike’s dramatic readings of those long and rambling letters, but the truth was that he had loved them. Splinter had kept every single one, enshrined in an unassuming Tupperware box on a shelf next to his many other cherished mementos. In his most shameful, sappy, lonesome, and stupidly sentimental loser moments, Raph would creep into the treasure room in the dead of night, open the box, and look through them. Some he had accidentally memorized from doing this so many times.

He made a point never to read them in order. Otherwise it was painfully apparent when they started getting shorter and shorter, when the dates on the postmarks began to stretch further and further apart. No more trinkets or pressed exotic plants taped to the pages, no more maps or crude sketches in the margins. Eventually his communications were reduced to an infrequent post card or hasty notes scribbled onto paper scraps. Near the end of them you could learn more about his whereabouts from tiny smudges and stains, or the type of paper he had scavenged, than by what he actually wrote.

The very last one had come three months ago. All it said was: Still alive. Please forgive me.

What a fucking waste. Finally Raph had wised up. It was almost a relief when his heart had finally hardened enough to stop hoping. Gone was his compulsion to trudge up to the garage every day to check the mailbox. He hadn’t needed to open the box of Leo’s letters for some time now.

The boat that should have carried their brother home was scheduled to dock at 2:30pm. By now the sun had set, which meant Raphael had been proven right. He didn’t stick around to say ‘I told you so’.  

Splinter looked up sharply and shouted his name as he was leaving, clearly intending to stop him. Raph had glanced back with a snarl on his lips, ready for a clash of epic proportions if that was what it would take to get away. It had not come to that.  Donatello’s wisdom had prevailed. Without lifting his head from the cup of his hand, he suggested very flatly, “Please just let him go.” 

So he had gone, suited up, and lashed out at the world with his fists and his manriki. It was the only method of release that he could rely on these days. Thugs and petty criminals would pay for Leo’s crimes that night, as would the rest of the Hamato clan.

He was dangling some poor carjacker off the side of a building, soaking in the pheromones of terror pouring off him. A good smell, but quickly spoiled by the acrid reek of fresh piss running down the car thief’s leg as he began to cry and beg for mercy. 

Raph had very nearly tossed him, but abruptly came to his senses. It was a bad night, a doomed night, and he had come to terms with occasionally crossing his own personal boundaries, but -- not tonight. Not because of Leo. Not because of that selfish, spineless fuck. He tossed the punk back to safety, left him hog-tied with zip ties and sobbing with his cheek pressed to the pebbled rooftop. 

He was determined after that. He would not cry or rage or kill, because he didn't care. Tonight was just business as usual.  

Unfortunately there was no fun or relief to be had after that. There were plenty of targets, sure, but Raph couldn’t seem to get his adrenaline going properly, couldn’t revel in the violence like he usually did. His limbs began to feel heavy and slow, sapped of strength and momentum.

He was completely discouraged by the time he made it back to his hideout. He parked the bike, hung up the helmet, peeled off the heavy leather suit, and left it in the corner in a careless heap. Feeling like Leo had somehow cheated him in spite of his best efforts, Raphael trudged home. 

---

Raph could tell something was off the moment he stepped through the door. The large industrial lights which normally illuminated the common area were off, but it was too early for a night owl like Donatello to be sleeping -- especially after such a terrible night. He peered into the gloom and eerie silence, then lifted his gaze to scan the second level balcony. His amber eyes caught briefly on the only illumination in sight: the bathroom door cracked slightly open to reveal a thin stripe of pale florescent light. 

The lone turtle descended the stairs and poked his head around the corner to check Don’s lower level computer nook. Only the glossy black faces of powered down LCD monitors and beady eyes from the LEDs of server racks stared back at him. He drew back with a shudder and continued to wonder at the creeped out feeling which he still hadn’t been able to shake, prickling the skin on his arms and heightening his senses.

He moved towards the couch where his brothers often drifted off these days, but it was unoccupied. His eyes were becoming adjusted to the dark by now. As Raph glanced down, he realized the carpet in front of the couch looked weird, littered with something. He nudged the mystery bits with one toe and realized they were made of paper. There was more of it as he glanced around, hundreds of little pieces of paper in many different shapes and shades, scattered in front of the couch like so much... confetti? 

His heart lept in his chest suddenly, a traitorous hike of pure elation. If someone had covered the ground in confetti while he was out -- had Leonardo come home after all? Maybe he had. They might have all gone out for pizza or something, to celebrate! Maybe the front door would burst open any minute and they would all pile through door, chattering and laughing. Leo would have thought to bring him carryout as a peace offering, and Mike would see him standing there and trip over his own feet in his eagerness to close the distance and tell Raph this hilarious story about how Leo had missed the boat...

He knelt to scoop up a handful of the strange confetti, and some of it slipped off his palm and fluttered back to the ground as he pinched and rolled a few pieces between his fingers experimentally.  

The truth hit him all at once. His gaze shot up to check the walls, the railing of the balcony, the archway above the stairs, hoping fiercely he would be mistaken. Grief slid into his gut like an icy katana blade as he confirmed that they were now barren and unadorned.

Leonardo was not back. Someone had taken down the homecoming decorations and torn them apart. Someone had sat there on the couch, relentlessly tearing and tearing, until there was nothing left but hundreds of tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

Raphael let the bits of paper fall to the floor as all the hope and love that had rekindled like magic inside of him was just as swiftly crushed. For a moment he could only stand there in the quiet dark, blinking at the sudden flood of heat and salt stinging his eyes, hating his absent brother more than ever.

His large, freshly bruised and battered hands clenched and unclenched, but he would not break down. Not for him. Not a chance. 

He looked again at the mess on the floor and that sensation of dread spilled over his skin once again. By now Raphael had learned time and again to trust these subtle instincts. It was not hard to deduce who had left this colorful mess for him to find. Obviously Splinter would never do this. And Donatello was the sort of person who suffered quietly and internally. He would retreat into a pair headphones, lock himself in his lab, binge on MMO computer games and elaborate projects, and forget to eat or sleep until confronted. He was not prone to emotional outbursts or irrational behavior, and deeply embarrassed any failure of his logic or stability. He would certainly never leave the evidence of a breakdown lying around for the rest of them to find.

“Hey Mike! Where you at?” Raphael called, turning his face towards the balcony. No reply.

He crossed the room and jogged up the curving staircase. There was a good chance Mike was holed up in his room, desperately chasing distraction in the pages of his favorite superhero comics, or he was trolling YouTube for funny videos, or customizing an action figure, or -- the list went on and on, really. Raphael hoped like hell it was something like that, but there was also a chance that his little brother was hiding under a blanket and crying into a pillow to muffle the sound. It wouldn’t be the first time, and if it had been going on the whole time he was gone...

That was an unwelcome thought, one that spurred him to move faster. For the first time since making his explosive exit from the lair, Raphael regretted his decision to leave. 

“Hey, Mikey!” Raph was no good at remembering niceties like knocking. “You holding up oh... kay?” He only made it a few steps into Mike’s bedroom before coming to an abrupt stop. The room was empty. He backed out quickly, closing the door behind him and muttering to himself, “Where the fuck is everybody?”

Scanning the balcony with a slight frown, Raph’s eyes caught once again on the stripe of florescent light spilling out from behind the bathroom door. He moved towards it and called out, “You taking a giant dump or somethin’? Fucking answer me!”

The silence stretched. That spooky prickle of warning returned, sliding down the back of his neck and creeping under his shell.  He moved over to the door and gave it an experimental nudge, half expecting it to be empty.

But it wasn’t. 

He saw the curved arch of a green foot, a roughly calloused heel, and a three-fingered hand splayed over clean white tiles. 

“Mikey!” Raph cried in dismay, flinging the door open hard enough to make it slam against the opposite wall. Immediately the sour smell of vomit hit his sensitive, slitted nostrils, causing his beak to wrinkle with worry and distaste. For a stunned beat or two he can only stare wide-eyed at the terrible sight of his little brother passed out on the bathroom floor.

“Oh, fuck... What’ve you done?” Raph drops to his knees and grabs Mike’s shoulder, rolling him onto his side and giving him a less than tender shake. His blood spikes with fresh panic at the way Mike’s head lolls, completely unresponsive. 

“Are ya drunk? Did’ja take somethin’? Talk to me, buddy!” Raphael leans closer to the freckled turtle and sniffs. He doesn’t smell alcohol, which is terrifying and almost unthinkable. Hopefully he just can’t detect the smell over the stench of vomit, not to mention the gallons of bleach and lemon-smelling shit that Don used in here earlier.