You were wondering before; yes, apparently it cracks, not splatters like you thought it would.
You are not sure how that is the only detail you remember about today. Some things happened before, you are sure. You do not remember those things, but you know there was more that happened.
As soon as the deed is done, you start climbing down the fire escape. You jump down the last story down onto your hands, wiping the blood off on your jeans as you sprint out into the street, running and busting through the front door. You scramble up the steps towards the front of the building, taking your bag and smashing it through a window to climb through. You hear the cries of combat above you as you grab Murakami by the ankle, crimson staining his skin as you swing him back onto solid ground. Electricity flows through your veins as you grab a shard of glass off the metal balcony, sawing at the rope and cutting him loose. You pull the gag out of his mouth, pulling him, staggering, to his feet as you both start back down the stairs.
He is saying something. You do not hear him, the sound of muffled screams and shattering bones ringing in your ears like a gong, his face tattooed onto your eyelids. A part of you notes how strange it is that you are not being followed; then again, it is not you they are after.
The walk is surprisingly short, you think. You push the door open for him as you both walk inside.
"Murakami?" You hear your voice call out to him.
"Yes, Y/N?"
"Do you have a bathroom?" Why are you so quiet?
"Yes." He walks behind the counter. "Right in the back."
"Thank you, sir." You walk to the back of the shop, pushing the appropriately labeled door open and walking to the sink. You start scrubbing the blood off your hands, scraping what had dried from under your fingernails as you look up at yourself in the mirror. You blink, perplexed by your expression. You look corpselike, the dim lights of the tiny bathroom casting long shadows across your features. You reach up, feeling the structure of your face. Your fingers gently pull your skin out of place to confirm that, yes, that is you.
Your digits are ice against your skin.
You remember more details than you wish you did about what transpired the minutes before. You remember how much he strained not to shake underneath you. You have muted memories of talking of some sort, but when you try to focus on the memory, your ears fill with static.
'I must have dissociated or something,' you reason to yourself, trying to cling to your own body as you relive that scene in your head.
You remember the sounds he made before you let go. You remember how his shirt was drenched with sweat as Leonardo tried reasoning with your enemy. You remember how he had squirmed underneath you, how odd you found that; he must have known that he would not be able to make it out of this unscathed, you are sure.
You feel your fingernails graze your now pale complexion. Paler than usual, anyways; you were never the observant type.
You remember securing your position with one foot against the edge of the building, your heartbeat irregular as you held him there, knuckles going white around his clothing and skin. You remember hearing what you thought was a laugh as you leaned forward. Oh, how he had tremored, eye to eye with his executioner.
"If you knew what was coming next," you murmured into his ear, "you would thank me."
You had promised yourself not to look over the edge when you dropped him. There was nothing you could do about the sound.
Your middle and ring fingers feel at the ledge of your eye sockets. They gently tug your eyelids apart, holding your eyes open as you stare yourself blankly in the eyes. A lump rises in your throat as your limbs tingle from the excess adrenaline.
'I killed a man.'
You wipe your face off with your sleeve as you shut off the faucet. You flick your hands dry, wiping the excess on your pants as you walk back onto the main floor, collapsing in one of the stools and resting your head on the counter. Time is swirling together now. Is that normal? You do not know.
'You solved a lot of problems.' You close your eyes, replaying his last few moments on repeat. 'If he survived, he'll never be able to do ninjutsu again. Taking only Xever down will be a cakewalk by comparison, and Karai... there's no way Shredder can get allies to the states that fast.' You hug your sides. 'The episodes after next, besides the Stockman ones, cannot happen, meaning I have more time to come up with a game plan regarding Karai's arrival. I doubt he considers us much of a threat, even now, so as long as I can figure out how to get the guys to survive next—'
Your thoughts are interrupted by the ceramic thump of a bowl being placed in front of you.
"You must eat, my friend. Food heals the mind." He smiles gently. "Your murmuring speaks to your distress."
You look up at him, sitting up properly despite yourself. "Thank you, Murakami." Your fingers wrap around the handle of the spoon. It shakes violently in your hand; you place your hands on the table, for now, not trusting yourself to not spill the broth over yourself.
"Would you like me to lend you my ears?"
You hum in discontent. "I'm alright." You chuckle dryly. "You should probably sit down more than I should; you must be in quite a bit of shock after what happened."
"That is true." You watch him pour himself his bowl. "Yet I feel as if we've experienced equivalent amounts of pain over both of our lifetimes."
That made you smile, if only weakly. "Hardly." You fold your hands together, scratching at a piece of dried gore that you had apparently not gotten off the back of your hand. "You have quite a few years on me, sir. The stories you could probably tell would make my head spin."
"My life has, thankfully, been rather peaceful." He sets the bowl down next to you, sitting and starting to eat. "I came to New York when I was a young man, and I've run this shop since then."
You hold your hand up to see if the shaking has lessened; it has, slightly. "And your family?"
"Thankful for my health and wellbeing." He smiles. "I see them, still. They live farther downtown."
"For your sake, I'm grateful."
He chuckles. "I'm sure they will be quite excited by my story."
You slow your breathing, taking a sip from the bowl and humming softly. "Did your mother teach you to cook?"
"She did, although," he nods, "I must admit that her food will always be better than mine."
"I feel that." You smile shakily, taking another bite. The dryness of your throat does not lessen. "I've been trying to get some family recipes down for at least two months on my own, and every time it's just not the same."
He nods slowly. "As always is the case with these sorts of things, I'm sad to say. It doesn't get better with age, I'm afraid."
You rest your head in your hands, closing your eyes. You can still hear him. "That totally sucks."
He laughs. "Yes, well," he sighs, "that is the nature of getting older."
He reminds you too much of people you knew for you not to smile at that. If nothing else, this conversation serves as a slight distraction, some sort of relief from the ringing in your head; you do not even know how you would talk to the Hamatos about this sort of thing. They may be the only friends you have right now, but they are hardly known for their tact or reassurance. You do not want their advice to let it go or to hear that this whole thing will pass. They cannot understand this, you do not think. "You know what?" You take another bite. "Getting old, from where I stand, seems completely and totally overrated."
He smiles. "You remind me so much of my son; he used to say the same thing before he left for college."
"And after?"
He clears his throat. "'It's not totally overrated.'" He chuckles. "He has a wonderful little girl. She has the sweetest voice you'll ever hear."
"I guess that's true." You pause. "It just feels like, sometimes, I'm never going to be that old, you know? Never have kids or a life after high school."
He nods. "I'll tell you this right now: every adult you'll ever meet has had that same thought. There's no way around it; everyone has that sort of doubt." He sighs. "But there are a lot of adults out there with kids and lives, so we must be doing something right."
Maybe Murakami does not fully understand what you mean, but you feel better, talking to him. You might have talked to Yoshi about this, but you doubt you would want to; he seems too high up, almost, too important to bother with this sort of thing. "I guess that's true." You sigh. "It doesn't make it seem any more possible, though."
"Well, there isn't anything I could say that could make that change." He takes another bite. "But never forget that things, no matter how bad they are, have to get better eventually. Life comes in waves, and if you stand your ground against them, the calm will come."
You pause, sigh. You reach into your bag, pulling a wallet out and placing a twenty onto the table. "Thank you, sir." You finish your food, getting to your feet. "I'm sorry about roping you into all of this. Hopefully, at least, the others will be able to help you more and keep break-ins to a minimum."
"You don't have to pay." He smiles. "You saved my life, after all."
"I insist." You rub the back of your neck. "Besides, the guys are probably going to come to see if you're alright in a bit, and I don't want them to raid your kitchen."
He laughs. "For the young men that saved me? I owe them my life itself. Gyoza is the least I can provide."
"Still." You start towards the door, pulling it open. You look back at the man.
'This is worth it.'
You wave back at him. "I'll see you later, Murakami."
"I look forward to when we meet again."
You close the door behind you, starting up the street towards your apartment.
You feel sick.