TMNT fanfic
Aug. 13th, 2007 02:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onemuseleftTitle: Miles to Go (tentative title) 1/?
Fandom: TMNT
Characters: Donatello, Casey
Setting: 2003 'verse
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter.
Summary:Once, a long time ago, Casey hadn't stripped the bodies of the Marauders he'd killed – hell, he'd gone out of his way to avoid killing them. He remembers what it was like to be so fucking stupid.
There's a storm threatening on the horizon, black clouds piling up on top of each other and spilling over the mountains, thunder rolling toward them in a slow, lazy rumble. The sky went on forever here, so it was hard to say how far away it really was, but the wind would blow it right to them, eventually.
Casey crouches down beside the last body, eyeing it appraisingly. The jacket is denim, which is too bad; leather would trade for more; but it's in good condition. Casey strips it off, checking the pockets through long practice, slipping out the pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter, tossing both onto the pile he's slowly built. The shirt is all right, but nothing special and the jeans are worn through which is just as well since Casey's not in any hurry to strip a Marauder down to his skivvies. No belt, no holster, no hidden weapons. Casey doesn't remember this guy specifically from the fight and they've already gathered up the fallen weapons, so no way to tell what he'd been carrying. Still, it could have been a machine gun and it still would have been smart to carry a backup. No one in their right minds wandered the world anymore without a backup weapon. Which pretty much said it all about the Marauders.
Casey flips the body over and checks the pockets for anything usable. The boots are in good shape, the soles intact with some tread left to them, the seams still strong. Casey pulls them free and tosses them onto the pile as well.
He straightens and grunts, rubbing a hand over the small of his back as his spine creaks ominously. He hadn't wanted a fight, so of course the Marauders had given them one.
"Anything?" he asks.
Donatello has added his own items to the pile of gathered goods, and is now sorting through Casey's. It's become Don's job to sort out what's worth keeping and what will serve them better as trade. Sometimes he discards items Casey would have held onto, but Casey's okay with that. They haven't got a lot of room to carry all this shit, so if Don doesn't think it'll bring enough in trade, it's just as well to toss it there instead of carrying it around.
The turtle waves his hand in Casey's direction, a sideways back and forth movement that manages to convey his total lack of enthusiasm for their haul. Casey can't blame him. With Marauders it can be pretty hit or miss.
Once, a long time ago, Casey hadn't stripped the bodies of the Marauders he'd killed – hell, he'd gone out of his way to avoid killing them.
Casey wistfully remembers what it was like to be so fucking stupid.
He doesn't bother carrying the body, just grabs it by the front of the shirt and hauls it toward the pile he's slowly built. His back aches a little and his knuckles are throbbing from punching a guy who'd had a chin like freaking concrete or something, but he had lugged each of them personally. Bad enough Don had to travel with his arm and leg still messed up – and fighting was necessary for survival, you couldn't outrun the Marauders and there was nowhere to hide out here in the wide open space that they'd found themselves in – but no way Casey was going to let Don end up with a permanent limp because he was hauling corpses around. Raph would haunt him.
Casey hooks his boot under the corpse's ribs and flips it onto the pile as he glares at the sky. "We're gonna get soaked."
Donatello flashes him a grin – he walks around naked for christsake, he loves the water, Casey's bitching about the rain never gets him any of Don's sympathy – and tosses the Zippo back at him.
They carry a lantern and a small amount of kerosene with them, but that stuff's as good as gold these days, and they can't be bothered to waste any of it on Marauders. Casey eyes their surroundings – the desert spreading out around them for miles and miles – and figures at least they won't have to worry about starting a forest fire or anything.
He kneels down and tears a long strip of cloth off the shirt of the nearest corpse. He holds the Zippo next to his ear and shakes it – the slosh of lighter fluid is reassuring. It's not full, but it'll last a little while. He flips the top back and thumbs the lever, then holds the strip of cloth into the flame.
It burns slowly, but the fire creeps up the cloth. Casey flips the lighter shut and pockets it, then drapes the cloth strip across the pile of bodies. They burn slowly, but thoroughly. Casey and Donatello stay and watch, making sure the fire doesn't spread as they pack up the pile of looted goods.
By the time the storm arrives, lightning shooting down the sky in wicked purple forks, thunder crashing directly over their heads, the bodies have been burnt beyond recognition. As the first fat drops of rain splatter across the rocks and sizzle in the fire, they finally leave.
****
Dinner is a bag of trail mix and a pot of rainwater set to boiling over the world's smallest campfire. Donatello turns the rainwater into coffee, using some of the instant stuff from their supplies, while Casey briefly contemplates ways to make trail mix interesting and fails utterly. It's far from the worst meal they've had lately, and there's something to be said for the company. At least Casey knows Don isn't going to kill him in his sleep.
Their campsite is a small dry area underneath a rocky overhang, surrounded by scrub brush and reasonably well camouflaged. They'd scouted around beforehand, checking for signs of human activity and found nothing. There are undoubtedly more Marauders roaming around out in the desert, so they kept the fire small and hid the bikes in the bushes.
There's enough space to spread out the sleeping bags and they really ought to take turns on watch, but Casey's half-asleep on his feet and anyway, Don's a light enough sleeper that Casey pities anything that tries to sneak up on them. He'd tried it once, sneaking into camp, thinking he was being considerate. This was right after he'd found Don, when they still weren't used to each other and he'd nearly caught a faceful of shuriken for his trouble. Months later, they were used to each other, recognized each other's footsteps and movements and Casey very rarely pulled a gun anymore when Don returned from taking a leak.
Casey yawns around a mouthful of nuts and raisins while Don dumps sand over the campfire. "We have a destination in mind?"
Don looks thoughtful for a moment, then traces a finger through the air in the shape of the letter 'Z'.
Six months after Casey pulled Don out of a Marauder camp and Don's still not talking. There's nothing wrong with his throat, not that Casey can tell, anyway, and Casey suspects it's something psychological or mental or whatever, that whatever injury took Don's voice away is in his head, not his flesh. The same injury, probably, that took his memories, leaving him with a gap in his life several days long.
It isn't any longer than that, Casey's pretty sure. Don's injuries were fresh, the cuts only beginning to become infected, the bruises still vivid blacks and purples against Don's skin. There were no older wounds, and if he'd been a prisoner of the Marauders for more than a few days, he'd have had a slew of them.
"Zed, huh?" Casey says. It's not a bad idea –they'll need to stock up on rations and ammunition again soon, and Don doesn't say anything, but Casey knows their supply of antibiotics is nearly out. "The Safe House is a couple days from here."
Donatello stretches out on his stomach, rolling his right shoulder slowly, testing the still-healing muscle, stretching his right leg out behind him. He offers Casey a raised eyeridge and a sardonic smirk.
He's right, Casey admits as he flops onto his own sleeping bag. It's not like they have anywhere else to be.
tbc
Fandom: TMNT
Characters: Donatello, Casey
Setting: 2003 'verse
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter.
Summary:Once, a long time ago, Casey hadn't stripped the bodies of the Marauders he'd killed – hell, he'd gone out of his way to avoid killing them. He remembers what it was like to be so fucking stupid.
There's a storm threatening on the horizon, black clouds piling up on top of each other and spilling over the mountains, thunder rolling toward them in a slow, lazy rumble. The sky went on forever here, so it was hard to say how far away it really was, but the wind would blow it right to them, eventually.
Casey crouches down beside the last body, eyeing it appraisingly. The jacket is denim, which is too bad; leather would trade for more; but it's in good condition. Casey strips it off, checking the pockets through long practice, slipping out the pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter, tossing both onto the pile he's slowly built. The shirt is all right, but nothing special and the jeans are worn through which is just as well since Casey's not in any hurry to strip a Marauder down to his skivvies. No belt, no holster, no hidden weapons. Casey doesn't remember this guy specifically from the fight and they've already gathered up the fallen weapons, so no way to tell what he'd been carrying. Still, it could have been a machine gun and it still would have been smart to carry a backup. No one in their right minds wandered the world anymore without a backup weapon. Which pretty much said it all about the Marauders.
Casey flips the body over and checks the pockets for anything usable. The boots are in good shape, the soles intact with some tread left to them, the seams still strong. Casey pulls them free and tosses them onto the pile as well.
He straightens and grunts, rubbing a hand over the small of his back as his spine creaks ominously. He hadn't wanted a fight, so of course the Marauders had given them one.
"Anything?" he asks.
Donatello has added his own items to the pile of gathered goods, and is now sorting through Casey's. It's become Don's job to sort out what's worth keeping and what will serve them better as trade. Sometimes he discards items Casey would have held onto, but Casey's okay with that. They haven't got a lot of room to carry all this shit, so if Don doesn't think it'll bring enough in trade, it's just as well to toss it there instead of carrying it around.
The turtle waves his hand in Casey's direction, a sideways back and forth movement that manages to convey his total lack of enthusiasm for their haul. Casey can't blame him. With Marauders it can be pretty hit or miss.
Once, a long time ago, Casey hadn't stripped the bodies of the Marauders he'd killed – hell, he'd gone out of his way to avoid killing them.
Casey wistfully remembers what it was like to be so fucking stupid.
He doesn't bother carrying the body, just grabs it by the front of the shirt and hauls it toward the pile he's slowly built. His back aches a little and his knuckles are throbbing from punching a guy who'd had a chin like freaking concrete or something, but he had lugged each of them personally. Bad enough Don had to travel with his arm and leg still messed up – and fighting was necessary for survival, you couldn't outrun the Marauders and there was nowhere to hide out here in the wide open space that they'd found themselves in – but no way Casey was going to let Don end up with a permanent limp because he was hauling corpses around. Raph would haunt him.
Casey hooks his boot under the corpse's ribs and flips it onto the pile as he glares at the sky. "We're gonna get soaked."
Donatello flashes him a grin – he walks around naked for christsake, he loves the water, Casey's bitching about the rain never gets him any of Don's sympathy – and tosses the Zippo back at him.
They carry a lantern and a small amount of kerosene with them, but that stuff's as good as gold these days, and they can't be bothered to waste any of it on Marauders. Casey eyes their surroundings – the desert spreading out around them for miles and miles – and figures at least they won't have to worry about starting a forest fire or anything.
He kneels down and tears a long strip of cloth off the shirt of the nearest corpse. He holds the Zippo next to his ear and shakes it – the slosh of lighter fluid is reassuring. It's not full, but it'll last a little while. He flips the top back and thumbs the lever, then holds the strip of cloth into the flame.
It burns slowly, but the fire creeps up the cloth. Casey flips the lighter shut and pockets it, then drapes the cloth strip across the pile of bodies. They burn slowly, but thoroughly. Casey and Donatello stay and watch, making sure the fire doesn't spread as they pack up the pile of looted goods.
By the time the storm arrives, lightning shooting down the sky in wicked purple forks, thunder crashing directly over their heads, the bodies have been burnt beyond recognition. As the first fat drops of rain splatter across the rocks and sizzle in the fire, they finally leave.
****
Dinner is a bag of trail mix and a pot of rainwater set to boiling over the world's smallest campfire. Donatello turns the rainwater into coffee, using some of the instant stuff from their supplies, while Casey briefly contemplates ways to make trail mix interesting and fails utterly. It's far from the worst meal they've had lately, and there's something to be said for the company. At least Casey knows Don isn't going to kill him in his sleep.
Their campsite is a small dry area underneath a rocky overhang, surrounded by scrub brush and reasonably well camouflaged. They'd scouted around beforehand, checking for signs of human activity and found nothing. There are undoubtedly more Marauders roaming around out in the desert, so they kept the fire small and hid the bikes in the bushes.
There's enough space to spread out the sleeping bags and they really ought to take turns on watch, but Casey's half-asleep on his feet and anyway, Don's a light enough sleeper that Casey pities anything that tries to sneak up on them. He'd tried it once, sneaking into camp, thinking he was being considerate. This was right after he'd found Don, when they still weren't used to each other and he'd nearly caught a faceful of shuriken for his trouble. Months later, they were used to each other, recognized each other's footsteps and movements and Casey very rarely pulled a gun anymore when Don returned from taking a leak.
Casey yawns around a mouthful of nuts and raisins while Don dumps sand over the campfire. "We have a destination in mind?"
Don looks thoughtful for a moment, then traces a finger through the air in the shape of the letter 'Z'.
Six months after Casey pulled Don out of a Marauder camp and Don's still not talking. There's nothing wrong with his throat, not that Casey can tell, anyway, and Casey suspects it's something psychological or mental or whatever, that whatever injury took Don's voice away is in his head, not his flesh. The same injury, probably, that took his memories, leaving him with a gap in his life several days long.
It isn't any longer than that, Casey's pretty sure. Don's injuries were fresh, the cuts only beginning to become infected, the bruises still vivid blacks and purples against Don's skin. There were no older wounds, and if he'd been a prisoner of the Marauders for more than a few days, he'd have had a slew of them.
"Zed, huh?" Casey says. It's not a bad idea –they'll need to stock up on rations and ammunition again soon, and Don doesn't say anything, but Casey knows their supply of antibiotics is nearly out. "The Safe House is a couple days from here."
Donatello stretches out on his stomach, rolling his right shoulder slowly, testing the still-healing muscle, stretching his right leg out behind him. He offers Casey a raised eyeridge and a sardonic smirk.
He's right, Casey admits as he flops onto his own sleeping bag. It's not like they have anywhere else to be.
tbc
