"Mikey! Mikey, it's okay, I'm here." Leo dropped to his knees on the unforgiving concrete, not caring about the shock of pain it sent all the way up his thighs and into his shell. He reached for his youngest brother, grasping in the damp fog and shadows between the shipping containers for a form he could only vaguely see.

"N-no, don't." Cringing, Michelangelo recoiled. "Don't touch me."

It wasn't like him; of all the siblings, he had always been the one to crave contact, seek it out; now he jerked away from the lightest pressure on his forearm.

"Don, get over here!" Leonardo knew he was projecting hysteria rather than leaderly command, but couldn't have suppressed it for the world. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a dark pool behind Michelangelo's head, spreading almost imperceptibly slowly across the pavement, reaching yearning fingers to the ocean just beyond; where the sun broke through the clouds, it was lurid red and sparkled with deceptive beauty.

"What happened?" There was a sound of heavy footfalls, and then Donatello skidded to a halt next to him. His voice was urgent; he reached out to touch Michelangelo's arm, and was rewarded by a shrill cry of pain, almost a scream. "No, please!"

"Mikey! You have to tell me, or I can't..." He trailed off as he noticed what Leonardo had already seen and was still trying to process, his mind roaring in his ears.

Donatello closed his eyes for a moment. With a grim, clinical kind of determination, he moved Michelangelo partially onto his side, as gently as he possibly could; he cringed almost invisibly at the cry of pain it created.

"No, no, no." He wasn't the team's medical expert, but Leonardo knew the injury to the back of the smallest turtle's head was more than bad. The orange bandana was crimson red from tails to mid-temple, pushed into and barely staunching a grievous wound; flecks of bone and strangely pink flesh speckled the wound, simple punctuation to a deep gash that spoke for itself.

He reached out to touch Michelangelo again; the other whimpered pre-emptively, but Leonardo pulled his hand away in time. Glancing to the side, he saw Donatello's hands balled into fists, eyes open but staring into nothingness.

"His brain stem is probably partially severed." His voice was cold, tight, quiet; if Michelangelo were listening, could understand the anatomical terms, there was no sign of it. He lay twitching restlessly as though trying to escape the pain, but hurting himself more with his tiny struggles.

"Donnie!" Donatello reached out to touch his knee, stopped himself at the last moment, knowing he could bring no reprieve now. He moved closer to Michelangelo's head, gazing down with all the comfort he could muster; he had always disguised his emotions well, but he felt the deadness beginning in his own eyes; his mostly logical mind had already accepted the unthinkable. His eyes glimmered reddish. Michelangelo's hand twitched as though he wanted to reach out; his mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile.

"What is it, Mikey?" For once there was no impatience, only careworn tenderness, in Donatello's voice.

"Is it...is it..."

Donatello squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"Mikey, I'm sorry, but..." He clenched his fists so hard that he felt muscles creak and crack slightly.

"No, I need to know..." He opened his eyes, looking into the gentle blue ones below. They were almost fully dilated in the dim light and miasma of agony. Still, Donatello couldn't speak. One corner of Michelangelo's mouth turned up in an imitation of a grin, his own brand of uncompromising stoicism that no one had understood. Until now, perhaps.

"Please, Donnie." His voice shook. "Just tell me. It's going to be over soon, right?"

It hurt not to touch him, but the small body before them literally vibrated with suffering. No one was more sensitive to physical sensation or emotions than Michelangelo, and the injury he had would leave most people screaming even with a full complement of morphine; he had to be holding onto sanity by a thread. A lump rose sharply in Donatello's throat, threatening to choke the words back down.

"It's almost over, little brother." He paused. "I promise."

Michelangelo's smile evolved, blossoming fully; it was almost dreamy in its quality, a breath of sweet sunlight in the gloom of a New York winter. The hard lines of pain creasing freckled green skin softened, leaving his natural beatific, gentle hope in their wake. He reached out, grasping with fingers aflame in nerve-shot agony, but seeking as he always did; when two larger hands covered his one, he jumped, but his fingers curled into theirs as comfortably as though they'd belonged there all along.

"Thanks."

He didn't close his eyes.