Disclaimer: I've the heart of a poet and the 'lungs' of a novelist; what I lack are any turtles or rats.

A/N: Huge thank you to Amonraphoenix for beta-ing this little venture! She has also convinced me to write a sister one-shot thingy for this. I'm working on it now and hope to have it up by the end of this week! It'll be titled: The Found.

Don't forget me in the reviews. They inspire such things as this little One-shot. ^_^

Word count: 1256

Rating: T, just to be safe.

The Lost

They trembled down beaten paths, bodies broken and breaths bare. He marched with them, an oddity amongst the normal. A freak, even here. Yet he felt detached. The snarl the thought usually brought snoozed in a far off memory. And the people who'd hurl such insults walked beside him, shoulder to shoulder, hardly sparing him a second glance.

All eyes laid ahead. The turtle's wandered from the heads in front of him to the fog that surrounded everyone. Listlessly, it shivered against their ghostly steps. It stroked dull hair and colorless cheeks as if it moved. He wondered.

Where was this place? This place of no smells and no sounds, of gray eyed sight and numb skin.

The answer sat at his feet. With this wispy awareness in his grasp, he shifted his eyes to the ground. Under the mist, something glistened. It rippled—stones made of puddles. And there was color in its depth. In this grayscale world, its name slipped from him.

It had a meaning.

It had a smell.

At one time, he knew that to be true.

The Lost continued on the endless road, and he counted the steps. Thousands and thousands of steps, until the number became absurd. Where were they going? Where was he going?

To his left, something jostled him. The disturbance drug his gaze around, and at his side hobbled another man. This one he was sure he recognized... if only he wore the right clothes. Something dark. Something that covered his light skin from head to toe.

Toe...

The fog brushed his cheek, softly, slyly, and left with that promising line of thought in its delicate fingers.

He trudged on, counting again.

Monotony meandered at his heels; moped on the naked bodies that never moved except to walk. In the boredom it brought, he thought. His mind fought for an understanding that floated just beyond reach; so close his fingertips tinged. Maybe if he jumped? Yes, he knew he could reach it then. The mental leap, however, meant a ledge. A precipice, on which he balanced like a drunken bee and peered into the abyss below. Jumping meant leaving the only ground around for some thousand feet.

Life and death, then.

His heart stuttered, briefly, but didn't beat again. The stillness ached with a wrongness; and the wrongness pried at the numbness. It let in pain. A fire that flared through him and him alone. He writhed. He fell out of line. The Lost ghosted through him, drifting through his chest as if he were the barest of curtains brushed aside. Hands, finally moving, grasped at the wispy remains. At the clouds of skin and hair that came and went like long held cigarette smoke. Through his fingers, colors filtered into the tendrils. Colors he knew, but once more could not name. They lived in a long crafted memory; one forged over a lifetime of love and loss. Three colors that thrummed against the mist like heartbeats, and trembled against his flesh like a plea.

Come back.

He gasped and found no air. At his feet, the floor fractured. Through the cracks a light crackled, lashing up at him, burning his ankles and boiling the puddles of nameless color that paved this eternal path. Fear fondled him, forced him forwards, to safety, with a heavy handed touch.

But something stopped him. Something tugged him back so suddenly that he stumbled. Knees struck the ground and arms sank into its melting depth. He stared into oblivion; stayed even as Fear ordered him to stand.

The tugging intensified. It drove his nails into the ground, chipping away at the little that held him up. Maybe it was some obscene suicidal urge that pushed him on. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe it was a desire for life.

This grayscale world was wrong. It lumbered like death. Like an unplanned after. Life slumbered beneath this ground, laid at rest in a bitter grave; never visited. It hid, afraid; ashamed; ashen faced from its disgrace. But he wanted it.

He wanted it as this world wanted him. Once listless beings fell upon him with clammy skin and empty eyes. Hands clawed at him, caught at his arms, pulled at his legs. They drug him from his desire as Fear and another watched from afar; one tall and shadowed, the other cloaked in the first and hooded in lust. They made no move, but he, the oddity, felt their touch.

The gaze beneath the hood sought him out as he struggled. It was as menacing as it was mesmerizing. It called him away from the grave. It promised him rest. He felt the fatigue in his bones now, where before there was none. It dragged through him like a dagger, leaving him gaping and hollow; it drained him of his strength as only blood loss could.

Death—known now because he clearly ruled this realm—dipped his head and held out his hands. He beckoned the Lost towards him; and they ached to meet him where the mist no longer lingered; where it parted like a sea around the figure and his friend. They marched. They clung to nothing. Nothing except the arms of the few who fought.

But he, the oddity, he clung to the colors. They danced along the roadside, puffs of breaths that the mist chased away like a winter's wind. He strained towards them; neck craning towards the grave he'd unearthed, heels dragging along the damaged path, and eyes burning to see.

The yearning yawned within him, waking and growing as the light dimmed and darkness swallowed the grays. His mouth gaped in a soundless scream. Nails tore his skin as he squirmed beneath those that held him, flaying him and it was agony. An agony so hot it turned bone to ash and blood to flakes that floated through his veins. Still, he struggled. Slowly, he fought his way back to the hole he dug. Bright newness washed over him when he dipped his head into the grave. And the Lost balked. They released him.

Within the void, Life's sagging cheeks flushed, its eyes blinked like stricken stars. And he reached for it. Once more, fingertips tinged at its nearness.

So close. If he just jumped...

When the thought whispered to him this time, he listened. He leaped. And as he fell he remembered.

The color was red.

The smell belonged to blood.

Of this, he was sure. Of this, life baptized him in anew.

His body ached. At his ear, sound played like candy giddy children; loud, careless, high on a manufactured fuel. He cringed against it; tried to move away but found himself immobile. Breaths ran over him and through him, grateful without and grating within. Another touch, this one warm, welcomed him with a shaky strength. It wiped sweat from his brow and pushed remembrance into his pounding head.

"You're going to be okay."

In the arms of a brother, he felt and heard and smelled all the world wash over him. Apathetically it regarded him; not caring for his return, but not casting him back to the land between it and the next either. He tried to smile, but it smudged around the corners. The brother held him tighter. And as he lifted the Nearly Lost from the bitter ground, once gray-seeing eyes broke open. They saw the colors of the cruel world, vivid and vast, named and not. Each one a stroke of life that painted death as a distant dream.

Thanks so much for reading! And please take a moment to leave your thoughts/feelings/questions/qualms in a review. They make my day and keep my muse from turning into a moody little bugger.

Random side note for my sanity: I kept the brothers anonymous here, but knowing me, Raphael was the one fighting for his life, and Leo was the one telling him it was alright. :)

Lastly, if any Nothing Is Unbreakable readers have stumbled upon this one-shot, the story has been updated (as of 6/26/14)! I've been dying to know what you think of the newest chapter; so please go show it a little love! ^_^

Have a wonderful day!

Cheers! your Red Writing Rebel