"Man, it's cold." Mikey shivered, going to a kneeling position and he crossed his arms over his chest to keep himself warm. Unfortunately, being a mutant turtle came with its disadvantages; all in all, the reason why Leo refused to let him, as well as Donnie, leave for the chilly topside. But Don being Don, stubborn as always, has reassured he was only going to the junkyard for less than two hours.

That was a week ago―

When three hours passed, worry started to sink into more than just his afterthoughts. Donatello was never late, and if he was, he would've called. Leo had thought his brother was distracted by all the junk and decidedly went out himself that same night to find him. All to be found was a broken Bo. The rest was speculation.

When their leader returned to the lair, he unwillingly told them of the news; someone had taken their brother, and all fingers pointed to the Shredder like clockwork.

The same night the blizzard came and started raining its dismays upon the city and the eldest warned his two remaining brothers it was dangerous to go out with the storm. The cold made their muscles more tensed and can take all their lives to save one.

They tried a rescue mission, but it failed miserable. And it left them with lost hope; there was nothing they can do.

Mikey was fed up waiting, his brother, possibly dead or gravely injured, was in the hands of their arch nemesis. He couldn't just wait, it wasn't that simple. Donnie was his best friend, and he couldn't live without him.

After waiting for another sign of Operation: Rescue Donnie, it never occurred, and Mikey finally had the guts to go for himself.

Thoughtlessly, Michelangelo was beginning to regret the idea. The icy winds of the somber night were starting to get to him and his muscles caved into unintentional shivering. Only being out for a good short thirty minute, Mike turned to a second thought. Maybe he should've paid more attention to his brother's cautions.

― But Donnie…

Even if he did find his brother, he would already be too frostbitten, too cold, to fight for his freedom. He was about to turn back in defeat. His thoughts now pointed him home― but then a scream.

"Huh―!" At first, he thought he was imagining it, daunting his ears clear to assure himself he wasn't just feverish from his unnatural weather condition. But when numerous cries, sprouted by several people followed, his suspicions were confirmed.

Mike let his non-bearing imagination run to conclusions.

Thugs? He guessed. Gunman? A possibility. Killer Mutant Chicken Nugget with Laser Fingers? Well it was nothing out of the ordinary for his standards. He turned to his heels and followed the noise, using the snow tainted rooftops as his own makeshift runway. He didn't look back― he didn't flinch― despite how rough the thicket of wind blew on his cheeks. As he was certain that he reached his destination, he was quick to look on instant, and he wished he hadn't been.

His heart skipped a beat.

Oh my god, that can't be him… Michelangelo thought, and he leaned forward to get a better look. He gazed down on the colorful streets of Christmas lights, cars coated with light blankets of snow on their hoods, he saw his brother.

His missing brother, in the middle of the street.

"Donnie―" Mikey gasped out, reeling away from the ledge with a small fumble of his footing. He needed to get down there. Now. Mikey placed his hand on his belt pocket, immediately ready to speed dial that he found their missing brother, but all Mike felt was the icy air.

"The one time I forget my phone, and I need it…" Mikey rolled his eyes at himself, annoyed. He usually brings everything with him before going on patrol, but this was a last-minute thing.

Mike, then, turned to the fire escape and without hesitation, ran thoughtlessly into a jump, landing on the snow topped alleyway. He can get Donnie out of there himself…

As he made his way to the clearing of the hallowed back alley, he was cautious on making sure he was hidden.

Donnie might be injured, or delusional, or – or Mikey didn't want to think of anything bad. He'll be useless if he wastes such petite time.

Cars, which trapped themselves as trafficked, blared with the rambunctious muses of honking. People of all ages and citizenry screamed with their shrill cries haunting the December air. Even a few people, brave enough to even face the limping turtle, held whatever baggage they had in their hands and deemed it a weapon. In short, it wasn't pretty.

Mike timidly hid behind the wall, overhearing the plastered clicks of heels rushing past him, hearing the squeals of two runaway cars attempting to skid to a halt before they crashed into one another. The turtle muttered a quick curse under his breath. How was he going to get his brother out of there?

The answer came natural: stealth.

Mikey's eyes delved themselves into a deeper shade of white as he then started to crouch, waiting. He watched people lashing their cellphones out and calling 911 ― calling the police in news that there was a freak in the middle of the street. The name would've made Mikey cringe if it wasn't a label both he and his entire family had constantly to bear. Taking a deep inwards breath, he bolted in haste to an empty car and lowered himself once again. He waited for more people to leave before he made a lasting sprint to the other side.

"Donnie?" Mikey whispered as he walked, still in a crouching position.

Donatello didn't hear him, his eyes were too busied with looking at their surroundings, hobbling in his footsteps while he grasped tightly at his head. The lucid turtle only stared momentarily at the chaotic scene around him before he turned to retreat his head once more. Mikey rolled to the other side of the street, landing himself nearer to his brother as he sent a whisper of his name ― this time, harsher.

"Donnie!"

As view of the svelte turtle became more vivid, realization made its stroke. There was something wrong. But Michelangelo had only a lean window of time to grasp. It wasn't before long when the muffled ringing of sirens had caught his attention. Glancing up at the looming sky, Mikey shut his eyes and mumbled.

"There's no time for stealth."

He moved. Jumping, Mikey ran in the street and tore himself through the open. He took sight of the hand that nursed his head and grabbed his brother's lanky arm before lugging him away from the scene, his legs moving in a wild sprint. The police, he could feel them just behind his tail. He prayed in desperation he wouldn't get caught… Splinter would kill them if they were on the news.

He rushed them both towards the nearest manhole and, without thinking, he took hold of the steel lid's frostbitten edges and tore it away from its place in heavy motions. As his legs moved past the entrance way, Mikey brought his brother's arm over his shoulder, taking most of his weight, and jumped in the manhole.
______________________________________

"Donnie!" Mikey started yelling as he gently slid his brother from his shoulders. The murmured dripping of water loudly ricochet in the sewers.

"Dude, what were you thinking? You know―!"

He paused for a moment of hard turned silence. His anger trickled and his blue eyes hardened in command. Why wasn't he answering? A twist in his gut, coarse and vile, turned what was left of his irritation into dust. The underground lighting made all object dark but, through trained vision, he saw little details of his brother's condition. He didn't like it.

Donatello stood with his body slumped and barely able to retain any stance. His usually vivid hazel eyes were let dim with his eyelids in tight discomfort of pain. But not once did he ever look his brother in the eye― he gaped at if he was a stranger. The arm that Mikey had let go of was clutching to a spot of his head for dear life. His body tensed in his swaying strengths as his dense breaths lingered about. Mikey, on instinct, removed his coat and placed it over Donnie's coarse shell instead.

"Don?" He touched his hand, jerking away instantly. There was something sticky on his fingers.

"How… did you escape…?"

Nothing.

Something isn't right. Something was wrong― very wrong.

Michelangelo took an unwilling glance over his brother's body. Cuts, gashes and scars created blood wounds that marred his body in scars― spectacles of open flesh disfigured his body from the neck down and stained crimson tints on his weather worn coat. He didn't look right. Maybe it was the blood lost, yeah― he was just feeling a little lightheaded…

Mikey let his hands hesitate in front of his body carefully. Unsure what to do, he wasn't a doctor, he didn't know where to begin.

"O-Okay, let's just get you home and bandage you up." Mikey said, but his voice was held with so much insecurity. "Wouldn't want April seeing ya with all those scars, right? A Turtle's gotta look his best for the ladies…!" Mikey tried to tease at him, but it did no aid. His brother's empty gaze just stared at the wall, like he was unaware of Mikey's presence.

He stared down at himself in discomfort, but only grew more anxious when he looked at his own fingers he used to touch Donnie's hand – the same one his brother used to clutch his head. It was covered in blood― a large amount of blood.

Wait…

Mikey skimmed where his brother was grasping, his head. Something that Mikey didn't seem to think too much about, and he hadn't realized the reason Donnie was clutching to it. Mikey slightly tilted his head, his cognitive mind repeating in prayers that it was just a small cut like the rest of his brother's wounds, but… it wasn't.

It was a large dent which severed a hole in his brother's skull, a mixture of open flesh and detached bone compiled in a mess of blood. The markings of three silver blades has caused the wound and set the turtle in mental paralysis. The metallic scent of his brother's blood tormented a nauseating feel through his stomach that made Mikey wishing he haven't seen it.

Oh shell, oh shell, oh shell…

Michelangelo didn't even think twice as he unsteadily removed the knot of his own mask, quickly balling it up with shaking fingers and pressing it on the flesh wound in haste. As if it would help. He lobbied his arm around his shoulder and ran with no clear certainty that his hold was kept firm.

His running turned into a jog, his brother's knees buckled loosely and retained, collapsing under his weight, making Mikey waste precious time. In both frustration and fear, Mikey came to a halt of his movements and pulled Donnie's arms over his shell. Bending over, he gathered his brother's legs and began to carry him to the lair.

Under his brother's weight, he gasped for breath, his legs begged to collapse, though his mind spoke out otherwise. He wasn't sure how long he was carrying the semi-conscious turtle. But, when he felt Donnie's head plop onto his shoulder, he turned his head over for a quick moment's peek. He found his injured brother's eyes lightly closed into a state of unconsciousness.

Mikey forcefully carried Don's dead weight to the lair as the strength in his legs buckled under him. Don's going to be okay― Don's going to be okay. He just needs to take him to the lair and the guys could patch him up.

Like Donnie always did for them.