#tmntfanevent

Michelangelo should not have been the one thrown into the sword display. Anyone else would not have made the mistake. Not Raphael, large enough to crash through the glass case, roll to his feet and come back roaring for more. Not Donatello, shaking off broken shards and complaining about the damage to the priceless antiques. Nor Leonardo, who would have known what all of these weird looking swords were.

But Michelangelo, who took a long moment to breathe and absorb the shock of smashing through glass and landing on the spilled metal, didn't immediately notice what he'd landed on.

In the rest of the exhibit, the fight raged on—Raphael screaming his little brother's name but too occupied with Foot ninja to come to his aid. There was the sound of blaster fire and Donatello's triumphant yell as he figured out yet another piece of alien tech on the fly.

The lights went dark. Michelangelo sighed and let his eyes adjust. So much for visiting the museum.

A ninja yelled as he flew past, sending ancient vases rolling noisily across the floor, followed by another vase flying the other way. The sound of breaking pottery joined the rest of the yells and clanging steel and laser bolts peppering the walls, scorching and crumbling the plaster.

Michelangelo curled and pushed up on his elbows, brushing off glass. He'd been lucky—only some scratches and a nasty triangle of glass stuck in the edge of his shell. No lacerations or shards stuck deep in his skin. Wincing, he pulled out the shard and flicked it away.

"'chucks..." he wondered, patting his belt. "No 'chucks...aw man, Splinter's gonna kill me."

He'd lost them in the throw, even his spares, and he glanced around for anything he could use.

Laser fire flashed through the museum gallery, glinting off the glass and sharp steel. The curators had arranged Japanese décor around the room, framing the naginata, tessen fans, odachi and katana. In the strobe effect of gunfire, the blades all looked the same.

He sighed again—

A pair of ninja appeared at the smashed case, looking to take cover from Donatello's exuberant firing, and they tripped over him instead. He grinned as they sprawled across the floor, but as they noticed him, raising their knives, Michelangelo scooted back, feeling over the cold tiles for anything in reach.

Glass, the edge of a fan that slid away, a hilt—

His hand slid over the thick grip of a surprisingly heavy sword that dragged as he hefted it up. He had to turn his whole body as he swung it, bringing the blade down over the closer ninja's head—the weight of the blade forced the steel to fall deeper.

Arterial blood sprayed across the floor, across Michelangelo's face and along the edge of the sword, and he froze.

The shadows darkened and the scant light from the window became crimson.

The body was bisected, slit down the middle and sliding apart as blood and organs spilled in a growing pool. The second ninja's mask contorted in one long scream that Michelangelo didn't hear. The air was silent, absolutely silent—save for the blade cutting the air, cutting the head diagonally.

He didn't see the body land. The blade was so heavy that he had to follow its fall, stepping forward to catch himself, bringing the blade up again with its own momentum. It was a nodachi, he realized—a sword as long as himself, a sword for cutting through men.

All he heard was his own breathing and the growing sound of his heartbeat in his ears. The air turned heavy and thick, like moving underwater.

He tightened his grip on the sword. So satisfying. So fulfilling to cut something so cleanly. He hadn't even felt the edge catch on the bones.

He hefted the blade up and over his shoulder. As he walked back into the fight, he let the blade swing in a vast arc. They looked like shadows—all of his enemies looked like shadows, black shapeless things cut in half like paper fluttering aside.

Fewer shadows now. Wet blood slicked his hands. Fewer dark shapes, fewer still, now just a last handful that he turned toward, quickening his step.

His brothers, he realized. With widening eyes, he knew what he was about to do and couldn't stop himself, didn't even try to stop himself as he raised the blade. His hands tightened so satisfyingly around the leather hilt. Two steps away, he started to laugh.

Raphael saw the look in his little brother's eyes just in time to push Donatello to the floor.

Cold fire stole through Raphael's body—he rolled to one side, pulling Donatello with him, missing the next hit that sank into the tiles where their heads had been. The ends of a purple bandana, neatly sliced at the knot, fluttered down to join the mask soaking in Raphael's blood.

"Ow, Raph, get off, you're too heavy—"

Donatello hadn't seen. Raphael let him scurry away, trembling as the pain started to leech through his side. The cut edges of his shell ground like sandpaper, and he clutched at it with one hand. How did Michelangelo move so fast with something so huge—he brought up a sai for the attack he felt coming—the nodachi hit his sai and shattered it, the blade sinking into his hand and coming for his face—

Stopped mere inches away by the flat of Leonardo's sword against not the blade but Michelangelo's wrists.

"Mikey, stop—"

Meeting Leonardo's stare, Michelangelo turned his hands, tilting the blade toward Raphael again.

Dragging the edge of his palm free from the blade, Raphael flattened himself to avoid the strike, wincing as he landed on the floor and could go no further. The clang of steel rang in his ear, and when he opened his eyes, he found the sword lodged in the tile again, its length and angle all that kept his head from being split in two. The sword audibly dug into the floor as Michelangelo put his whole weight on the hilt, trying to force the blade down those last inches to reach Raphael.

"Useless..." Michelangelo grunted, pushing with all his strength "...when you can't muscle through."

"What the hell—" Raphael grabbed his brother's hands, trying to push up as his palm bled onto his face. "What's wrong with you?!"

"We'll figure it out when he wakes up," Donatello said.

Finally seeing what was happening, Donatello brought his staff around in a wide arc, swinging toward Michelangelo's legs and losing part of his staff as his little brother moved just enough to let the bo strike the nodachi instead.

Michelangelo's look slowly slid from Raphael's bleeding hand, along the floor, up to Donatello, matching the growing grin on his face.

"Not so bright in a fight," he whispered, and Donatello's stricken look told Michelangelo that he'd hit his mark.

Even though Michelangelo knew his brothers were yelling, their voices sounded like they were a mile away. This time Michelangelo had to put his full weight into pulling the sword free from how deep he had thrust it. By the time he had the sword loose, Donatello was helping Raphael escape down the long hallway. No matter. Raphael was trailing blood from two deep wounds—he would find them soon enough.

Finally wrenching the sword free, Michelangelo struck at the shadow left behind—pieces of steel skittered out of sight as Leonardo's sword broke under the nodachi.

Michelangelo's head snapped back as Leonardo slammed the hilt of his broken katana against his little brother's face.

It bought Leonardo enough time to dive toward the darkest parts of the room, far away from the long windows. If he could strike from a distance, stay out of reach of that monstrous sword—

Michelangelo's low laughter echoed in the empty room as he turned, then half-turned again, scanning the room. The sword dragged a circle along the floor.

Leonardo went still. There were precious few places to hide—he watched Michelangelo's silhouette in the scant moonlight of the window. Turning, turning again. He didn't dare breathe. But the sword hilt still lay in his hand—he flung it toward the far side of the room, past Michelangelo—

The nodachi swung and caught the hilt in midair, slicing it in two pieces to opposite corners even as Michelangelo purposely strode toward where it had come from, cutting the suit of samurai armor from helmet to boots, scraping the wall behind it.

On all fours, Leonardo crouched low and scrambled away from the wreckage. His heart pounded. He was out in the open now—the moment Michelangelo turned, he would see him—

Or not. Michelangelo held the sword aloft again, silently searching the room. Long shadows stretched across the floor. Empty, noiseless, the gallery echoed with every panted breath, every footstep. Leonardo covered his mouth to hide his breathing and wondered how his little brother didn't hear his heartbeat.

With slow movements, Leonardo backed along the shadow toward the center of the room. Keep his thoughts clear, stay calm...

"You always...like hiding."

Leonardo froze. It was his little brother's voice—strained, frustrated, panting with painfully shallow gasps—but still his little brother.

"Stay in the shadows," Michelangelo sing-songed. "Hide, hide, hide. Can't get in a real fight without getting his shell kicked."

Leonardo squeezed his eyes shut, listening to Michelangelo pad closer to the costumed dummies, slicing one in half.

"I should throw one through the window," Michelangelo said. "You could follow after it, shell first."

Like a knife through Leonardo, that jibe. That Christmas Eve was one they didn't talk about, wasn't even alluded to, not even in their hottest arguments. Some things just weren't said.

"You should've run off with Nerd One and Jock Two," Michelangelo said, slicing a display case and sending bits of glass across the floor. "Why'd you stay here? Little lamb throwing itself in harm's way...that's what 'leader' is to you, isn't it?"

Ignore him, ignore him—Leonardo turned on all fours, quietly moving to the side, away from his brother. Alien mind control? The Foot soldiers had nothing like that. Magic or telepathy? He would have felt something in the air or Splinter would have contacted them by now. Then—

"'Fearless leader'," Michelangelo said, dragging out the syllables as he dragged the edge of the sword behind him. "Not as strong as Raph, not as smart as Donnie. You have to practice twice as hard as me just to keep up."

Hard to think when Michelangelo listed out loud all the failings that needled him awake at night.

"The only reason you're leader is that I don't want it."

Leonardo wanted to throw up.

"Hide, hide, hide. That's the only thing you're good at."

Yes. Yes, Leonardo thought. Yes. I am good at that.

Leonardo blinked away tears.

And that's all I have to be good at.

Michelangelo still couldn't find him—all of Leonardo's presence completely submerged so that Michelangelo couldn't feel him in the dark, couldn't sense his silent breath, his quiet movements, not even the pulse of his heart or glow of his soul. Everything...silent.

The only sound was the sword coming to rest as Michelangelo stopped pacing.

The sword.

Leonardo's mouth parted. It was a faint chance, but it was the whole reason he'd wanted to come to the museum tonight—the Muromachi and Kamakura periods of Japan, their art, armor, jewelry and weaponry, with several pieces of the most famous swordsmiths of their eras. A real Masamune sword. A real Muramasa demon blade.

Moonlight streamed in through the windows, pale and silver, and Leonardo slunk beneath the light itself, moving over bloody corpses to the far wall. The stench of blood and bile came strongest over here, and his hands fell on the toppled displays of swords and fans and spears.

Impossible to read the titles of everything in the darkness. He had a handful of flares in his belt, but he didn't dare set one off now. But if he was right, he wouldn't have to, methodically moving over the weaponry, grasping a hilt, then moving on.

"...but...at least you try."

Leonardo lifted his head, listening. Michelangelo's voice was different.

"I could be leader if I tried, couldn't I? But I don't try. I don't..."

Michelangelo's voice broke.

"I just play games and make jokes and..."

Michelangelo took a long, shuddering breath.

"I'm not just the baby of the family. I'm not...I'm not..."

Leonardo crept up onto the display case, carefully balancing amidst the broken glass. He'd looked over everything on the floor and still nothing. He didn't want to think that he was wrong—he had no clue what to do now, and—

And all of the venom of Michelangelo's earlier attacks now turned inward on himself.

"I'm not!" Steel scraping tile followed Michelangelo's shriek. "I'm not!"

The nodachi audibly cut through the last remaining armor dummies, the last display case, the stack of pottery left standing, punctuated by Michelangelo's screams.

"It's not fair! You're just a wanna-be who can only run and hide! A nerd with a toothpick! A clumsy bull charging at anything that pisses him off!" Michelangelo swept the blade across the wall, lunging at anything that might provide a fight, even more enraged when nothing struck back.

"...and I'm not even that!"

The nodachi crashed through each window in turn. The air filled with flying glass.

"Why am I even here!"

The screaming and crashing stopped. Leonardo's breath halted as he strained for the slightest whisper.

"...why am I here?"

The question was tired. Muted. A nodachi was heavy to swing, and Michelangelo breathed hard as he rested on the blade.

"...why am I even trying?"

Michelangelo looked around himself. The gallery was dark. Everyone was dead. He was the last one left. He knelt down beside the sword, staring at the floor. At the darkness.

There was a very obvious solution to his problem. His hand was still on the long blade's hilt. He took a long breath and leaned forward to put his throat against the edge—

A loud scratch and flash of light made Michelangelo jolt back, already swinging the blade up and around, raising it above his head as he charged. He crossed the gallery, ran over bodies, brought the sword down with a terrible crash—

—blocked by the sword braced in Leonardo's grasp, the blade barely longer than his hands.

Michelangelo screamed in frustration, inches away from his brother. In the smoking light, his tears glittered in his eyes and shone on his face, his teeth bared as he dragged the blade uselessly down and away, swinging again for another strike.

Again caught by the other sword. Then Leonardo tilted the tiny wakizashi, and Michelangelo's nodachi slid with the movement, plunging into the wall and sticking fast.

Michelangelo's scream was cut short as Leonardo grabbed the broken display case and braced himself for a solid kick that sent his little brother flying, finally tearing the nodachi out of his hands. As Michelangelo slid across glass and blood, coming to rest against a corpse, Leonardo sprinted after him, falling to his knees as Michelangelo flailed.

Like a wounded animal, Michelangelo thrashed and turned and tried to claw past him, hands out to snatch the sword again. When another hilt was offered to him, Michelangelo wrenched it immediately out of Leonardo's hands, intent on cutting his brother's throat, drawing the blade half out of its scabbard.

And stopped.

The room wasn't crimson and the air wasn't heavy anymore. The room was simply a room and the floor sparkled with blood and glass.

Silence.

Where the other sword had been satisfying, neatly cutting everything into little bits that made sense, this sword...was empty. Hollow. Lighter and smaller, the sword in his hands wanted nothing more than to stay in its sheath. At rest.

This sword was quiet.

This sword brought quiet.

"...Michelangelo?"

Leonardo leaned over his brother, cupping his face, searching for recognition.

"Mikey?"

Something twisted in Michelangelo's stomach. What had he been holding onto before? His hands felt like he'd been holding onto something dirty, absolute filth that still clung to his fingers. The blood was turning cold on his skin. The insults were still in his ears.

Michelangelo's grip tightened on the hilt, then twisted, and he began to curl in on himself. His eyes squeezed shut. The voice that came out of him was a strangled groan. The tension that had tightened his whole body was replaced with the clear, perfect memory of each cut and each insult.

Leonardo breathed out, relaxing next to him. He glanced across the gallery at the side display, the collapsed sword mounts for two of the more notable artifacts of the collection: a Muramasa nodachi and a Masamune wakizashi. The Muramasa lay buried to the hilt in concrete. The much smaller Masamune blade lay in Michelangelo's grasp.

Tired, feeling a dozen cuts from kneeling and falling on glass, Leonardo gathered up his little brother and held him close.

"Stay with me," Leonardo whispered. "It's gonna be—"

He stopped himself. He couldn't tell if Michelangelo heard him. His little brother shivered and groaned and refused to meet his look, falling farther and farther in on himself. Michelangelo knew what he'd done. Knew what he'd said. Remembered every last word. Just like Leonardo would. Like Donatello and Raphael would, even after the wounds healed.