No Use |TMNT

Chapter 12

A furious throw was sent to the punching bag. Under momentum, it swayed, the spine of chains creaking which held it above the centered flooring. It swung a distance, clattering loosely until it gave way to the suffocation of its steel restraints. It returned to its heavy sustained hover, waiting for a next round.

Sunlight bristled itself from the open coverts of sewer grates, creating a light harmonization through the thistle oak tree of the dojo. Delicate beams traced themselves woven through branches and shedding taints of light on the two terrapins in its wake.

"Alright, Don―" Raphael, who turned from beating his way to the punching bag's core, turned to his brother. A sweat beaded forehead glistened slightly as a green hand wiped at them roughly.

"We need to get you back into shape. So― try to hit this sucker!"

He looked at his brother, driven by his own determination; emerald hued eyes flashing glaringly at the terrapin. But all he did was direct a blank eyed look sideways, towards the arsenal of their weapons sheathed into ember wooden compartments masterfully.

At first, Raphael chipped his mouth shut, his mind pushing a midway command down his throat once more. The turtle was sat down on the rugged floor, clumsily though in dumbfounded content. He said nothing― did nothing― but stare; it was all he ever did all day no matter how much they tried him for any other gesture. He refused to even take notice of his idly stitched head but, like a pink elephant in a subway, it sat― challenging him and staid gout above all else.

A lining that encircled the top of his head was woven to a close timidly. Scabs of blood pulsed from slightly unfinished jobs, the dried blood through stitches. The scar kept vile at the scalp and Raphael thanked that the rest was vanished into the crevices of the back of his head― where he couldn't see them.

The unprofessionally fixed wound made a morbid display on the turtle's head but, as if the injury wasn't there, he stared― sat there with an idle expression in his eyes like he was aware of nothing.

Raphael wished that weren't the truth.

The mahogany lit gaze that he knew so well had vanished for eternity from his brother's solace; same eyes― but his eyes now grew unfamiliar. He didn't know this Donatello; he didn't want to know him. Raph still couldn't believe― wouldn't believe― that this was now his blabber mouthed genius of a brother.

"... Come on, Don," his voice pushed a bit further, fathered with a slight patience in reminder of Donatello's condition.

"You gotta get moving!"

He clasped his hands together in attempt to get his dumbfounded attention. This was like trying to encourage a stale infant to smile for a camera or trying to get an old dog to chase after a ball.

He didn't like it.

Raphael started to frown. He wasn't about to give into the case scenario and click his lips together in desperation. With a flick of his wrist, he dashed his torn tails of crimson away to where they lay dangling on his coarse, shell covered back.

"Come on― you can't just sit there! You gotta move one way or another!"

Nothing.

All motions that arose from the turtle was a wiggling of his toes.

Anger started to boil in Raph with a mix of fear. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. Raphael tried scanning for a signal― an oral sign to ensure that his brother wasn't lost. He wanted to believe that under that dazed, one noted look, was the Donatello he came to know.

As the unpleasant realization started to course through him, a surge of irritation struck him bitter.

"Do something, dammit!"