TMNT: Ricochet ▶ON HOLD (till gets more reads, votes and comments)◀

Chapter 11

It takes him a while to work up the confidence to move back toward Splinter's chamber. There were so many things that made him want to just turn around and run. Living the life they did, he's used to seeing injuries. He's not the type to get squeamish over blood or needles or broken bones that weren't his own. He's seen Raph get more stitches than a baseball glove after falling through a broken skylight. He watched his sensei set and bind Don's foot after he crushed it under an I-beam while they were cleaning out the old lair. And he all-too-well remembers when the Foot beat Leo within an inch of his life. But burns are something different, and seeing Splinter this hurt kills something inside of him. He knows how strong his father is. He's a master ninja, and really resilient for an old guy. But seeing his father, his master, looking so small and old and fragile floating in that chamber is almost more than he can take.

Not to mention the worms. He tries his best to ignore the worms.

But he has to do this.

Meditation never was his thing. He's never been the kind of person who could sit still and think about nothing for hours on end. But energies. Energies he was good at. Sensitivity to chi, the essence of a person, is something you can only be born with. It was a gift, and ever since he was a little kid, he has always had an uncanny sense of what others were thinking or feeling, of sensing exactly which one of his brothers had walked into a room without relying on anything but how the air had shifted.

It was a natural gift that came to him as easy as breathing, and not something he could ever force. But for once, he could try. For Master Splinter, he could try.

He presses a hand to the cool curve of the glass. Inside, he can feel the thrum of life whirring like the invisible cogs of a machine. Just a spark of his father's fierce, nurturing spirit teases at his fingertips to remind him that he's far from gone. He grabs onto that energy, the chi that ebbs and flows like a river of warm water in the dark. Then, he closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and lets it flow into him.

Suddenly, his father is all around him, a steady presence, a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"You always say I need to pay more attention," he starts, his voice already wavering. The prickle of tears threatens to escape from beneath his closed eyelids. "I should've seen him coming. I could've gotten out of the way. It should be me in there."

He waits, but nothing happens. Just a presence, a ghost. A steadying energy that urges him onward. The words tumble from his mouth like water from a broken dam.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry you died because of me. But the utroms say you could get better. They said they're just waiting for your heart to get stronger." He swallows hard, steadies himself. "I promise I'll do better next time. I promise I'll train more. I'll do the dishes, I'll clean my room, I'll even meditate instead of just thinking about comics. From now on, I'm gonna try way harder. I promise no one is gonna get hurt trying to save my shell ever again, okay?"

He waits again, but nothing changes. The tank bubbles beneath the glass. Strange sounds echo from the dark places all around him, sending a chill down his spine. He always hated the quiet.

"We can't do this without you, Sensei. Leo's... Leo's not good. He needs you. Me and Don, we're not so good with the whole wisdom thing." He shakes his head. "He's blaming himself. He said he killed us. I don't know how he got that into his head, but he did. And now he won't even look at me. I don't know what to do."

He screws his eyes shut tighter, focusing with all his might.

"I know you're always trying to prepare us for when you're gone. But we're not ready yet. I'm not ready. I still need... I still need my dad, okay?"

Grief seizes in his chest, making him gasp, sniffling back tears. He wipes his face on his arm.

"See?" He laughs wetly. "I'm just a big baby. I've been crying all day. And Raph... who knows what Raph would do if you were gone. He'd go crazy."

"So you have to get better," he croaks. "We can't do this on our own."

For a long moment of silence, he just breathes, leaning his forehead on the smooth surface of the glass, swallowing back tears. And then, something changes. The landscape shifts. He can feel a quiet breeze stirring inside of him, smell the crisp scent of autumn leaves.

He's somewhere else, far away from the creepiness of the chamber room, beyond the living walls of the utrom starship, past the never-ending darkness of space. Grass is soft beneath his feet, and the orange husks of leaves rattle musically in the trees. There's rolling green hills and gray mountains in the distance.

"My son," says his sensei's voice. In his mind, he reels around to meet the old rat, sitting crosslegged on a flat rock, watching him calmly.

"Master Splinter!"

He stumbles forward, wrapping his arms around him, can almost feel the warmth and softness of his fur. Can smell the familiar scent of incense in his robes.

"My son," he begins again, holding him tight. "Do not blame yourself for what has happened."

Mike lets go, pushing away to hug himself instead. He shuffles at the dirt beneath his feet. "Yeah, I know what you're gonna say. But-"

Splinter puts up a hand to silence him. "Do not blame yourself for what has happened, Michelangelo," he repeats in an almost scolding tone, "for it is what a father will do for his son."

Mike looks up, only half understanding. "Well, yeah. I know, sensei, but you shouldn't-"

"As the great master Masuo Mitsumoto once said," he cuts in, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "'Nobody's perfect.'"

Despite how crappy he feels, Mike struggles hard to fight the smile tugging at his lips.

"Your most fatal flaw has always been your focus. Or lack thereof," the old rat says wryly. "Use this as a lesson, as an opportunity to grow, to become a better ninja. But do not forget one very important thing."

"What's that?" He asks.

"That I am your father and you are my son. For as long as I am alive, I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety."

But Michelangelo still seems unconvinced, his eyes fixed on the ground again.

"You have all grown so much," he says quietly. "Our lives have never been easy. I have seen my sons go hungry, I have nearly lost you all to injury and sickness many times. But despite many struggles, you have survived. I am lucky to watch my sons become fine young men. Skilled warriors. Ninja."

The old rat wrings his hands, his voice growing oddly soft. "No father should ever know the pain of outliving his own sons, especially ones so strong."

Sniffling miserably, Mike stumbles to his knees, resting his head in his father's lap. The old rat runs a gnarled hand over his scalp, and Mikey realizes just how much he needed this.

"Except I don't feel very strong right now," he whimpers, remembering his father's scent, wishing to all the world that it was real, that this wasn't just some weird astral projection.

"You are doing fine," Splinter hums, stroking the lip of his shell. "Slowly, I am healing. They will be able to release me from the tank soon. Until then, you must be strong for your brothers. You must all be strong for one-another."

Mike only nods in the folds of his robes, and clings to the vision for as long as he can.