-green tears- 緑の涙 {TMNT Oneshots}

apocalyptic -終末論的- raphael x reader

You let the bitter liquid drip bit by bit from the brown bottle into the glass you gripped in your left hand, humming a little tune to the empty bar you were in. Scattered chairs, flipped tables riddled with bullet holes and abandoned knives stabbed into their sides. Broken overhead lights with the glass shattered and wires hanging from the ceiling. The ground was covered in dried blood, bile, sticky stains of where evaporated alcohol once was. Feathers, chunks of bloodied fur, scales, and all kinds of human remnants laid in piles in the corners of the lifeless bar. It was a pleasant place, or it had been, before the rebellion.

Now, you found solace in watching the drops of brown liquid dribble into your little shot glass, one by one, drip by drip. You dragged your tongue along the rim, lapping up the little bit of alcohol you could catch. You shuffled your feet back and forth along the footrest, pieces of broken glass crunching underfoot along with half smoked cigarettes. You reached forward and pushed one of the beer taps daintily with your fingers, letting out a small sigh as it groaned but refused to spew any of the golden liquid it may have had left. The bar top was littered with bloodied hand prints, a few guns scattered across, and a bottle cap that you kept on rolling across the leather armrest.

Outside, the brick walls were being constantly pelted by bullets. The windows were long gone, replaced with wooden slabs shattered by the prior riots led by bigoted humans against mutants. Humans. You were one of them. You exhaled loudly, pressing the battle cap into your forehead as you leaned forward ever so slightly.

"Are they still out there?"

Raphael snorted, leaning away from the boarded up as he turned his head to gaze upon the human. "Really? What do you think?" He scoffed, banging his fist loudly against the battered wall as a stray bullet slammed through the wood against the window.

You glanced to your side as the bullet flew into the wall opposite of you, riddled with shelves of decapitated beer bottles. "Don't patronize me." You muttered as you held the glass to your lips, allowing only a dribble to enter your mouth. Your taste buds burned and your throat contracted, but you would be lying if you said that you didn't enjoy it. It made you feel something other than the melancholy that had begun its long journey to suffocate you.

Raphael exhaled, rubbing the back of his scarred neck as he peeked through the cracks of the window once more. Dangerous, sure; there was the possibility of a bullet lounging itself into his eye or even his brain- but it would be a less painful death than what awaited him outside. Police cars with their incessant wailing sirens, blockades of tanks and guards, even the military awaited them.

The last leaders of the rebellion to be found in Manhattan, the last mutant and mutant sympathizer in the city.

Everyone else had been evacuated out into the country, where it was safer, isolated, and, most importantly, away from the people that hunted them. Tucked into the forests of New York, where they could create a civilization with mutants at it's front- until the world was finally ready to accept them. The Sanctuary. A stupid name, for sure, conjured up by the little mutant children who had been one of the firsts to step upon the land. It was the first time any mutant had ever felt safe in their homeland. Where they could breathe a sigh of relief and live as regular people; where the young ones could play, where they could eat without fear of poison, drink without fear of harsh discrimination, sleep without any fear of being dragged from their families and tortured; living without the constant pestering of the rest of the human race.

Raphael would mostly miss the children. Those kids with their tails, scales, teeth the sizeof his fingers, pupil less eyes, gills, or fur. Those small, curious little buggers who would cling to his arms and wrist and swing back and forth, would scale up his body to sit perched on his shoulders, or would tug at his hands to show off their forts made out of sticks and pieces of lumber stolen from piles set aside for the construction of other homes. Those same children that would make him crowns, made of feathers and flowers and sticks and other little trinkets they managed to find, who would weave dead vines around his wrists and would proudly declare him the Guardian of the Sanctuary. Those fleeting memories brought him a sense of peace that had left him in the past two days, hunkered down into a hell hole.