Cold Fire Rising

Chapter 23

(Author's Note: Well, after watching the last episode of the Turtles In Space story arc, I got an idea. And that idea led to another idea. And that made me decide that I still have several more chapters to go, even after the grande finale. I'm evil and this is fun.)

Chapter Twenty-Three

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Nobody expects the psychic inquisition. He knew he should have prepared. He was jolted straight up and out, and he could easily look down and see himself, see his brothers, fast asleep in their futons. He didn't have time for this.

"Fine!" he yelled, in a whiny tone. "Can we get this over with?"

"I really did miss your jokes. I missed you. Literally, actually."

And he couldn't stop that shiver running up and down his spine, probably would never be able to stop.

He couldn't form words, after that. There was something snarky and strong on his tongue and he was frozen. It might have been fear. Bravery is the art of having fear and still facing the adversary. But it could have been plain weakness, cowardice, desperation.

No, he decided. He remembered how it felt to die.

His tongue loosened. "No use crying over spilt milk, ya know? Just clean it up and move on."

"Ohh, but you are my spilt milk, as it were, my boy."

Michelangelo felt himself yanked through the walls, out into nothingness. The figure finally materialized in front of him.

"And as you suggest, I need to clean up my mistakes." His sharp teeth looked even sharper, his dark yellow eyes even brighter.

"Way to take it out of context, dude," Mikey muttered, reaching for his kusarigama. He didn't have weapons. Ohh, hooray hooray. Fine, then. He concentrated and focused – hyperfocused, in fact – and a psychic version shimmered into his hand. If they were going to do this, they might as well do it in style.

Neat, he thought. I love telekinesis!

Looking up, Mike saw that The Alchemist had a psychic version of his trusty sabre in his hand. And in the other was a blaster gun. Ah, fantastic. Damn it, how do you make armor in the astral plane anyway?

"Too late for pondering," his former killer yelled, and flew at him. Mike dodged and rolled backwards, leaping to his feet with a guttural hiss. The Alchemist hissed back, and they leapt at each other. Weapons clashed. The Alchemist cleverly used the bulk of the microbeam stun gun physically to block some of the attacks. Mikey wrapped his chain around it and yanked. The Alchemist grinned widely. Mike followed his eyes and noticed a red dot in the center of his chest

The gun went off, silent and unseen.

Michelangelo flew back, rolled backwards, and landed flat, arms and legs spread wide. He coughed. It was bloody. Well, fuck this. He wondered about the searing pain in his torso and lifted his head. The burn was in the upper center of his plastron, and there was blood. Fourth degree burn? It didn't look good. Was this happening in reality? Argh.

He got to his feet, casually ignoring the burning somehow. How? Hell if he knew, this was the psychic world. He threw three shuriken and struck the reptilian in the throat; the man fell to his knees gurgling. Blood there, too. Hey, a tie!

Mikey grinned, coughed up more blood, and spat toward the Alchemist's feet. "So, look," he gasped. "I hate you, you hate me, but I'm bored right now, so I'm gonna see if I can get outta here. Good luck with your throat thing." He hyperfocused as hard as he could, felt himself being pulled backward, felt the burning grow worse.