Cold Fire Rising

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

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Somehow, at some point, because there was no such thing as time, Raphael had slumped back in his rolling chair that had gotten cushions thanks to Honeycutt. He reached for the cold, limp three fingered hand, pretending he could use that motivation to sit up and forward. Mikey didn't twitch. At all. Nothing.

This was nothing like watching over Leo in the bathtub. Leo stirred occasionally. Leo showed signs of life even in hibernation. Michelangelo was barely anywhere and only because of machines.

He remembered four weeks ago - four weeks ago exactly? Was it important to keep track? - when it felt like everything was going to be okay. Mikey had gotten hit with psychedelic acid, of all things. And magic mushrooms. And they way he spoke, moved, bantered, laughed, pointed out things that weren't there, lamented being unable to dance... Raph wasn't really angry. He wasn't angry at Casey, not anymore. They had been poisoned before, they had all been under the effects of hallucinogenics and wild delusions. But Casey's story had thrown him and shook him. It shouldn't have surprised him; Jones had been oddly tight-lipped about some parts of his past. It had surprised him a little, and he had felt a little guilty. He shouldn't criticize. He had been born from a synthetic chemical drug with unusual effects, after all. He couldn't fault anyone who decided to try a psychoactive substance. He just was angry at a system that turned them into criminals, he took that anger out in different ways.

Memory: A while back, the Foot Clan had gotten into making and selling a devastatingly potent form of crystal meth. People died. And he and his brothers had taken care of it. Leonardo had gazed in pure puzzlement at the empty, smashed chemical lab and wondered how in the everliving fuck could anyone want to put anything like that in their body. And Donatello had stepped up and said, very softly, "People with ADHD." Leo and Raph had both frozen and stared at him, but Mikey... Mikey had just tilted his head, a quiet serene look on his face, chewing on his thumb. Because Mikey had ADHD. He had it badly. And the only current medicine known was, well, derivatives of methamphetamine.

Leo had stammered an apology; it wasn't like that, he'd said, he'd meant bad people, people who were addicted, because...because pure meth was so dangerous, and and...

And Mikey had slowly taken his finger from his mouth and held it up.

There was an unmistakable white powder, nearly dissolved, covering the pad of his thumb.

Leonardo had exploded. What have you done? Don't you know how dangerous that crap is? You could get addicted! I can't believe you-

And it had been Raph who had put out a hand and said, Leo, stop. Look at him. Look at his eyes. Does he look like a crazed addict to you? Look how fuckin' calm he is. And Mikey had smiled and shrugged and said, Dudes my brain is nice and quiet. I feel like I could probably meditate. Leonardo had continued to stammer, perfectionist pure unflappable Leo, but he deflated. Donnie had giggled, a little, and went about examining Mikey, asking intense questions.

Long after they had left the building, and headed home, Michelangelo had walked up to Master Splinter, hands clasped, standing completely still in the most un-Mikey way they had ever seen, and explained. Splinter had listened with eyes narrowing and ears going flat. At the end, he had told them to come to the dojo for a meditation session. And for the first time in his entire sixteen years, Michelangelo had meditated perfectly, without a twitch.

It hadn't lasted, of course, and Raph was almost grateful. It had been unnerving to see his annoying, weird, hedonistic buoyant brother so calm and concentrated, almost scary. Donatello had called April's father, the psychologist. Kirby O'Neil had said that it was probably better to train Mikey with "stuff like biofeedback" rather than attempt medicate him. Although Kirby knew plenty of psychiatrists and neurologists from whom he could have procured Adderall and the like, he had observed the bouncy turtle enough times to know that what Michelangelo really needed was concentration therapy and maybe cognitive behavioral therapy. He spoke with Splinter, and had begun teaching Splinter how to apply such techniques when the Triceratons attacked and the planet had been destroyed.