Number 73 - A TMNT story

Part Two: On the road again

  The first rays of the sun flitted over the rooftops of the city, illuminating the polluted atmosphere like a layer of bright orange fog.
  Having rested, the party of seven began to prepare to leave their temporary shelter. They were closer than ever before to escaping from the city, and with a solid night's sleep they could continue their route with a faster pace.
  Donatello was sitting next to Mikey as the others packed.
  Shining a small flashlight into his eyes, he moved the light down, then up, then down again, making sure his concussion wasn't progressing for the worse.
  Mikey had been nearly silent the entire trip, not even to gripe about how tired he was or how much he mourned his home being demolished by the Foot.
  In any other instance, Michelangelo would have been the chatterbox that drove them all nuts, but here he sat, not having said more than a few sentences in four days.
  It scared Donatello.
  Turning his flashlight off, he reached into one of his bags. He'd always kept two duffels of medical supplies and equipment prepared for emergency situations, and he was glad for it now, seeing as how vital his preparations had become.
  "You're concussion is healing better, but it's not fixing itself as fast as I'd like it to." Donatello said with a sigh.
  "We don't have much medication left, so I'll have to halve-"
  Mikey stopped him there, putting a hand up.
  "The others need it more, including Splinter. I'll manage."
  With that, he stood up, going to help the others.
  Donatello felt he should have been proud, but in that moment, seeing his young and usually immature little brother deny a release from pain he knew he felt in favor of helping the others made his spine shiver.
 
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  In the rafters above, two figures crouched, observing the troupe with great interest. The larger one's tail swished, his emerald-green Jaguar eyes looking upon them like how a cat looks at a canary in a cage, pupils dilated and glimmering.
  The one next to him, 62, spoke into his wristwatch.
  "We have eyes on the target. Should we go in for the job?"
  A rough, deep Russian voice came from the other end, and the insignia of a tiger appeared on the screen. Seeing it, 73's brow furrowed.
  "No. Wait and watch. We have reason to believe they know where resistance is. You two make good trackers, keep on trail and we shall see where it takes us."
  The message ended with a blip, and 62 let his arm flop down.
  "If that's true, 73, we'd not only be the ones who brought in the turtles, but also found the big thorn in the clan's side. You'd probably get big brownie points from Master Shredder, and Tiger Claw-"
  "I don't give a single flying damn what that old geezer thinks." 73 growled, cutting him off.
  "I don't need his approval, 62."
  62 shrugged, looking back down at the group making their way back beneath the warehouse and into the sewer system.
  62 loaded a blow-dart with a small, metallic tracker. The plastic mouthpiece let out a fwoosh as the tiny locator landed directly onto a duffel bag near a purple-masked turtle.
  "There, our main job is taken care of. Now, we get to sit back and let this victory fall into our hands."
  62 stated as he leaned back, relaxing on the metal-grate as if it was the most comfortable thing in the world.
  73 leaned further off the edge, looking at the turtle nearest to the tracker a little closer. He had a pretty nasty gash going over his shoulder, and was bruised and beaten up.
  There was something strange about this turtle. 73's usual checklist-assassin mentality wavered as he watched his steady an older, mangled rat onto his good foot. He looked kind, the face of a weary traveler yearning for home. 73 looked away, frustrated.
  Now is not the time for this, get your head in the game. He is a task to be completed. That is all. You are a trained warrior, no time to be going soft.
  73 looked at the now-asleep 62, letting himself slip away into the past for a distraction.

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  A green sludge seeped around its paws, dripping down its back from where he hunched over. Animalistic eyes wandered around, and he backed away from the surrounding group of creatures. Some human, others seemingly a mix between that and animal.

  Bad place. Run. Get out get out get out.

  It clawed against the metal restraints holding it in place, solid poles connected with chains to onlooking soldiers on the balconies above. Wild eyes scanned for any escape, roaring in fear and rage and emotions.
  A large figure came forward from the platform it stood on, another big cat like it. This one bore stripes and walked on its hind legs as he spoke to the newly-emerged creature.
  Slowly, the chained creature began to recognize the sounds as words.
  "Another good one, doctor. Keep the production up."
  The biped bent down, inches away from where it stood, snapping.
  "Do you understand me, 73?"
  The Jaguar growled, green eyes locking with the tiger's gold.
  73 went completely still.
  Another humanoid came out from behind the tiger, a man with the appearance of a fly.
  "Stockman, give me reading." The tiger said.
  "Vitals are all good, the readings are stable, and it should start regaining basic memory, such as talking, social cues, etc. soon. However, all of our subjects have ended up with long-term loss in the form of amnesia, so if you have an interview plan I'm not certain that's going to be possible."
  Tiger Claw stood up from his crouch, nodding to the doctor.
  "I want him on my squadron. I'll take charge of his training along with the others. It'd be good to have another big cat out on the field."
  As Tiger Claw began to go down the stairs behind the fly's desk. Stockman clicked his pen, flicking the page with a slight buzz. Quickly reading the file, he snapped it closed and called after the feline.
  "Mr. Claw, sir!" He yelled as he buzzed off the platform and down the balcony as soldiers came to subdue 73 for transportation from the lab. One of the robotic soldier's heads went flying as a snarl echoed in the chamber.
  "What is it, Stockman-fly?" The tiger asked, annoyed at his interruption.
  Stockman handed him the file, along with the fresh-out-of-the-printer test results.
  "This was the anomaly subject I was telling you about, sir. The one that was born with the-"
  "Oh." Tiger claw stated, his hand curling into a fist as he watched 73 be loaded and sedated into a Foot-issued transport truck.
  "I suppose I will deal. You, Stockman, have done good work."
  The doors to the truck slammed closed, and 73 was coated in darkness. He felt the rocking of the vehicle as it turned on, speeding off under the cover of night.

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  Opening his eyes, 73 heard his fellow soldier lightly snore next to him. They had a few hours to rest before they absolutely had to leave to follow, so 73 decided against waking his friend. 62 had been working hard, and deserved the rest far more than most.
  73 held his paw out, studying it, then placed it onto his chest. Underneath his uniform, he could feel the scars underneath each bicep.
  Had he had another life before the Foot? People weren't born with scars, especially not ones so prescient and surgical. Maybe he'd had a tumor before, or a heart surgery, or something.
  Shaking his head, tired of thinking, he pulled his hood up and lost himself in  the creaking, grating sounds of the warehouse.

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Golly gee, what could those scars be from?? And what's the anomaly that Baxter saw in the readings?? Do the turtles really know about the resistance, and if so, what the hell is it? Did I stay up till four writing this???

Those questions will soon be answered! I hope you're all enjoying your weekend, and if you're liking the series so far, tell me what you want to see in this fic. I'll probably add in little "bonuses" every now and then for you to enjoy, depending on what y'all want.

Adios y'all

- Max