Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Fan Fiction ❯ And What I Can't Figure Out ❯ The Story ( Chapter 1 )

The idea popped up in my head, and I simply can't get rid of it. The final chapter of 3 Weeks is in the works, but I couldn't concentrate on it with this bouncing around! And I sort of have a bit of writer's block (though I debate whether or not writer's block is a plausible excuse), so this will hopefully get things opened up.

 

Disclaimer: I do not own the turtles or their other various characters and plotlines. Just so you know.

 

“This,” Raphael snarled succinctly, eyes flashing in a dangerous manner as he paced unsteadily, batting away Leonardo's attempt to pull him off to the side and look more closely at his injuries, “is gettin' ridiculous.” Undeterred, the eldest turtle made another similar attempt, unable to help agreeing with his temperamental sibling on the matter.

 

Tonight marked the third time in a single week that a horde of Foot soldiers had seen fit to launch an ambush upon the somehow still unsuspecting turtles, and it was starting to get tiring. The attacks had begun to surface sometime around mid-October, only increasing in frequency and potentially deadly accuracy as the holiday season encroached, bringing the brothers to entirely new levels of paranoia. Every flickering shadow cast by multicolored string lights, every repetitively jerking roof decoration, every light-hearted twinkle of Christmas bells in the wind, now contained nothing short of the most menacing promises of battle and death; routine rooftop runs left them, more often than not, battered and bruised and utterly exhausted, jumping at the slightest indication of another presence.

 

“Raph's right,” Donatello called from his position on the sofa of the lair, taking a close look at a shallow gash stretching across Mikey's left shoulder. The youngest turtle squirmed as he poked and prodded carefully at the wound, but was held in place by a firm hand and an even firmer commanding glare. “That they managed to get away at all was surprising enough: the fact that they somehow managed to escape intact is nothing short of miraculous.”

 

The most recent attack had been particularly better thought out than previous attempts on the enemy's part. Rather than go through the extremely daunting process of trying to take on all four brothers at once, the ninja had opted to wait until they ventured forth in smaller groups or, ideally, alone. They'd managed to jump and effectively corner the two youngest turtles, both of whom had only just been able to squeeze out of the situation.

 

“What do they like so much about jumpin' us? Is there somethin' going on that we don't know about? Do we got signs on our shells that say `Foot ninja attack here'?” The hotheaded turtle ranted, gesturing furiously as he wheeled about on the spot, sending his older brother stumbling back slightly. Leo palmed his face, growing frustrated: if it had been Donnie attempting to force Raph to sit down, the red-banded ninja would have conceded, having never been able to argue against the pacifistic turtle for long. But no, the genius had had to look over Michelangelo first, a fact made known when the second-youngest turtle had rather forcefully shoved his little brother in the bo-wielding ninja's direction upon stumbling through the lair door. Apparently operating on a first-come, first-served basis, Donatello had pulled the youngest to the couch, leaving Leo to try to deal with an irate Raphael on his own.

 

Perhaps the eldest wouldn't have been so frustrated with his brother if he'd actually been present for the battle. But the fact that his youngest siblings had been ambushed and cornered while he trained in the lair, not even suspecting danger despite the fact that they'd been attacked on at least a dozen separate occasions over the past few months, had a way of whittling down his tolerance levels to near-zero. Guilt gnawed at his insides, too familiar for comfort, at the thought that he'd managed to let them down so badly. Adding in the fact that they'd yet to fill them in on the details of the fight, he found it nearly impossible to push back. Muttering to himself, he decided he'd simply do what he could manage until Donatello was free to persuade Raphael to sit down for more thorough treatment, and picked up a bottle of antiseptic, turning it over in his hands and reading the directions.

 

“Maybe it's like their Christmas bonus or something,” Mikey observed glumly, wincing and shooting Donnie a half-hearted glare. “Only instead of getting a bigger paycheck and a few days off, the Shredder tells `em they get to wipe the floor with us whenever they want to.”

 

The youngest turtle was most definitely fed up with the situation at hand. At first, the extra activity and excitement had been a source of great amusement for him. He skirted around the battlefield like a kid in a candy store, throwing as many puns and quips as he was punches, grinning almost maniacally in the faces of their identical foes. After a few weeks, however, the novelty wore off and he found himself to be running low on new battle cries and insults. There was also the fact that the Foot ninja seemed to be getting better at fighting them, which led to injury, which led to burning disinfectant and (potentially) numerous stitches. Needless to say, he was beginning to wonder what had been so fun about it to begin with. Especially with the new change in tactics that had nearly gotten him made into turtle paste on the side of a building.

 

Raphael snorted at the comment, picking up his pace and looking to be about 5 minutes away from a complete nervous breakdown. The others exchanged wary glances: a hysterical Raph was never a good prospect, and the numerous attacks seemed to be getting to him at long last. Coming from the turtle who had always taken the most satisfaction from a good fight, this was downright disconcerting to consider. Taking no notice of the stares directed his way, he gestured wildly again, continuing in his tirade.

 

“Yeah, and instead of gettin' a new pair of socks under the tree, he gift-wrapped `em a fuckin' bazooka!” His voice seemed to go up by about half an octave at the mention of the weapon, eyes darting about the enclosed space with all the suspicion of a cornered animal. Leo made an odd choking noise in the back of his throat; Donatello dropped the roll of bandages he had fished out of his duffel bag.

 

“They fired a bazooka at you?” The leader asked incredulously, eyes taking on the appearance of tea saucers. His grip on the antiseptic bottle tightened considerably as he attempted to make eye contact with the hothead. Seeing his question was unlikely to be answered by the afore-mentioned brother, who was currently observing the shadows beyond the dojo door with narrowed and mistrusting eyes, he spun around to face Michelangelo. “A bazooka, bazooka? With missiles?” The youngest turtle paled somewhat at the memory, nodding as the purple-clad brother attending him seemed to recover himself and began wrapping the suddenly much less significant-seeming gash. Raph turned and began his fevered pacing once again, growling in a frustrated manner.

 

“No, Leo, they were firin' strawberry yogurt at us through a potato launcher! Of course it was a bazooka, bazooka, with missiles! They nearly obliterated Mikey with it!” Raising an eye ridge questioningly, Donatello looked to the youngest, who was scratching the back of his head nervously, for confirmation.

 

“Uh, I kinda planned on leavin' that part out, Raphie,” Mikey said, chuckling a little. Donnie's eyes leveled a deadpan stern glare on him, informing him in no uncertain terms that they would be discussing that later and also prompting him for more information. “See, I was distracted by these guys and then one of the ones farther away pulled it out and took out the wall behind me, and it sorta started to fall on me- but it's fine!” He tacked onto the end hastily, noting his older brothers' muscles tensing up violently, preparing to drag him into the lab for more extensive observation. “Raph jumped in and tackled me outta the way before I could get…you know…crushed or whatever,” he finished lamely, fumbling for suiting words and drawing a blank. Donnie made a dubious sound, but let it rest for the time being.

 

“An' what I can't fer the life of me figure out is where the sonuvabitch was hidin' the thing! It doesn't even make sense! We were doin' alright, we were makin' headway, maybe five seconds away from getting the shell outta there, and he just pulls it outta nowhere!” Raphael continued, halting momentarily to emphasize just how overwhelmingly odd such an event was, to make a point of how ridiculously unlikely the very idea of such an event should be; all the while holding his hands out to show the general length of the weapon in question. “A bazooka, Leo! Outta nowhere!”

 

“Yeah, I know, Raph, we heard you the first time,” the eldest stated as calmly as he could manage, voice somewhat weak as he considered the possibilities of what various kinds of doom could have befallen his brothers while he wasn't around to watch their backs. He forcibly shook off the urge to whip out his swords and deliver innumerable varying levels of absolute kick-assery upon the heads of the Foot clan, who, he felt, ultimately had it coming. Fishing around in the first-aid kit left open on the table, he pulled out a cotton ball and fitted it to the top of the antiseptic bottle, which looked a little worse for wear in the aftermath of his formidable death grip. Now, how to go about this?

 

“How the hell does this stuff always end up happenin' to us? How is it that it's always us getting swept up inta epic, world-savin' battles and grudge matches with gangs and ancient ninja clans? Or travelin' through time and savin' alien races we ain't gonna see again? Or bein' fired at with random bazookas? An' fer chrissake, Leo, will ya quit comin' at me with that?” The hothead raged, artfully dodging a second or third swipe from his eldest brother with an antiseptic-laden cotton ball. Leo growled in frustration, forcefully catching hold of Raph's wrist and attempting to pull him over to the nearest chair.

 

“No, Raph, I won't! You can take all the time you want to drive yourself crazy after you let me take care of these cuts! In case you forgot, you just tromped home through the sewers with open wounds, and your immune system, if I'm remembering right, seems determined to pick up and fight through every type of infection known to mankind! Now will you please just shut up and sit down!” He snapped, attacking one of his younger brother's numerous lacerations and dodging an emerald-green fist in the process. As the final sentence was finished, Raphael seemed to surrender, plopping into the chair with an annoyed huff. For a moment, he seemed to have fallen into brooding silence, but soon regained his sense of outrage.

 

“We never even go out lookin' fer trouble, but we always end up knee-deep in the biggest loads of shit this side of Jersey!” He snarled. Leo said nothing in response, working to take care of the superficial wounds as quickly as he could: getting Raph to sit down wasn't nearly as difficult as getting him to stay seated for long, and he didn't think he'd be able to press his luck much further this evening. Losing no enthusiasm despite the lack of response, the red-clad turtle continued.

 

“An' did ya ever notice that any fightin' we do in the sewers always ends up on a cruddy catwalk over a ragin' whirlpool of death? What are they even doin' there in the first place, huh? Did the guy who designed `em sit there at the desk and think to himself, `hey, I bet there's gonna be some kinda massive ninja battle in those sewers someday, maybe they'd appreciate havin' a little atmosphere ta go with it'?”

 

“Huh,” Michelangelo voiced simply, face a cross between serious consideration and the mischievous urge to egg his big brother on. “You know, now that I think about it, he's right. Lotsa raging whirlpools in the sewers nowadays. What do those things do, Donnie?” He asked, turning to face the genius brother curiously and sounding as though whirlpools of doom in the sewers were something one could comment on as casually as the weather. Donatello blinked, wide-eyed, at the question.

 

“I…don't know,” he murmured, eyes narrowing in serious thought as he struggled to find an explanation.

 

“And I always wondered,” the youngest continued, using the voice he kept in reserve for sounding profound and mysterious, “why the Shredder decided to call himself the Shredder. `Cause, like, there are so many other, cooler names he coulda chose from, you know? Or maybe something that at least sounds kinda deadly, like Megadeathtron or Fatalitor.” He brought a hand to his chin in thoughtfulness, eyes misting over with the possibilities of being allowed to fight an enemy known as Fatalitor. The idea definitely held more promise than fighting what sounded like a common household appliance.

 

“He probably chose Shredder to match his armor,” Leo interjected dryly, wondering how it was that their conversation had turned from bazookas to whirlpools to the name of their enemy in one fell swoop. “I mean, it is very sharp.” Mikey and Donnie nodded, seeing sense in the theory, but Raphael saw fit to snort once again, looking to be calming down somewhat after his mini-episode.

 

“The hell's up with that armor, anyway? No way it's comfortable, and he'd probly be able ta move better without all the spikes. An' with that name? The guy doesn't even sound like a threat at first! I mean c'mon, if ya met him in the grocery store, what's he gonna do, grate yer cheese for ya?” He asked scathingly. Despite themselves, his brothers chuckled at the mental image. “Yeah, some threat. Won't even take us on face-to-face; he's gotta wait `til we got our hands full with Foot ninja before he'll even think `a comin' at us.”

 

“What kind of respectable ninja clan calls itself the Foot anyway?” Mikey asked, now thoroughly enjoying the outcome of the evening despite the presence of antiseptic and enemy soldiers. “I mean, really, what's the appeal in that? Where's the connection?”

 

“Well that's obvious, Mikey; haven't you ever smelled one of them?” Donnie asked, stifling laughter. At first, the youngest turtle laughed with him, but then his look faded from one of hilarity to one of consideration and, finally, to one of utter disgust.

 

“Wait a sec,” he said slowly, brow knotting momentarily. His eye ridges both flew upwards and he hurled himself over the back of the couch and away from the genius. “Ewwww, Don, that's sick! Sick and wrong, you hear me, just plain sick and wrong! Leo! Leo!” The orange-banded ninja shouted, making a mad dash for the security and stability of his eldest brother, scrabbling to catch hold of his arm. Leonardo sighed, seeing that the universe seemed fully intent upon seeing him defeated in his efforts to see Raphael properly cared for, and turned rather baleful eyes to his youngest brother.

 

“Yes, Mikey?”

 

“Leo, Donnie sniffed a Foot ninja! With his nose!” When this didn't gain an immediate and uproarious response, when nobody was halted in their tracks by the sheer and utter gravity of such a statement, he pressed onward with undeterred intensity, voice raising in pitch with every consecutive word.

 

“Were you aware that we we're living under the same roof as a ninja sniffing pervert? There's no safe place to hide! He'll invent machines to track us down so he can smell us in all our manly ninja glory! It could be the end of life as we know it!” He insisted, flapping his arms wildly and overriding Donatello's half-laughing, half-horrified protests in the background. At this point, the emerald-green hand of Raphael settled firmly against his forehead before giving him a powerful push backwards.

 

“Quit hoppin' around like a chicken with its head cut off, Mike,” the older turtle growled. “Believe you me, no one in their right minds'll wanna smell a ninja livin' in the sewers in New York. `Course, no one in their right mind'll wanna smell you regardless of the location. So I think yer safe either way,” he concluded, voice the epitome of both annoyed-ness and surety. “Now if ya don't mind, I'm goin' ta bed.” Raph yanked his arm out of Leonardo's grasp and trudged his way towards the stairs, leaving an utterly lost for words leader in his wake.

 

The eldest turtle dropped his head to his chest in defeat, cursing the fact that his brother had stayed conscious. It was so much easier to deal with Raphael when he was passed out from exhaustion or blood loss. Mikey chuckled sheepishly, picking himself up but still making sure to keep Donnie at a safe distance. Couldn't be too careful, after all. The door to Master Splinter's room, which had for the summation of the past several minutes been opened a crack, slid shut as the sensei settled himself back into his bed, seeing that his sons were fine and not in requirement of his assistance. Replaying the night's events, he shook his head, finding only one word suitable to sum up the entirety of the frivolity of the conversation and ensuing events:

 

“Teenagers.”

 

I know, I know, it's pretty crappy, but I just HAD to get it down, it wouldn't leave me alone. And yeah, it was all over the place, but that was my intent. That's how conversations always end up between my friends and me: one thing to another, bam-bam-bam, and in the end we have no idea what we were talking about to begin with.

 

Please, tell me what you thought. I'd like to know about any errors, OOC-ness, general constructive criticism and thoughts and the like. Doesn't even have to be a long review. I take smilies and frownie faces without grudge lol. Er, that's all I guess, so thanks for reading! The conclusion to 3 Weeks, for anyone who reads it, should be up today. So, like, keep an eye out.