My muse just took a fatal blow for your muse. Tell me how they respond.
I’d only just gotten him back.
Michelangelo stared, dry-eyed, down at his brother, absently crouching a little lower behind a chunk of debris as a laser blast whined overhead. Don was lying still and lifeless where Mike had dragged him to cover, the terrible, bloody wound from the fatal blow that had been meant for Mike gaping up accusingly at him.
After so long, I’d finally gotten him back. And now he’s gone again.
Michelangelo rested his hand flat against Don’s blood-stained plastron, and it seemed as if he could feel the warmth fading away, just like his brother’s life had. More laser blasts began burning past, chewing away at their cover and sending bits of shrapnel flying, some slicing across his cheek.
But he just dropped from his crouch to his knees and huddled a little lower, ignoring it all. That death-blow had been meant for him, but at the last moment Don had shoved him out of the way and taken the hit himself.
He’s gone again, but this time… there’s no hope of him coming back.
It felt like a yawning, gaping black pit had opened inside of him, threatening to swallow everything. But with it came a sudden sense of clarity and focus and purpose, sharp and bright and diamond-hard, gleaming in the darkness.
The flurry of laser fire was dying down, and he could hear wary, hesitant footsteps approaching; the enemy wondering what had happened to them, wondering at the lack of resistance, wondering what they’d find behind the debris.
I have nothing left to lose.
Mike grabbed his nunchucks in a white-knuckled grip and wiped the back of his hand across his face, the blood from the shrapnel cuts across his cheek smearing across his skin. He could taste it, salty and metallic, as he licked his lips and lowered his hand again.
Then he waited, still on his knees beside his brother’s cooling corpse, his bloodied knuckles resting against the floor and his head bowed. The cautious, wary footsteps drew closer, and he tensed in preparation, his eyes closed and his breathing steady.
As the enemy came around the edges of the debris, Michelangelo’s eyes suddenly snapped open and a feral, blood-smeared grin split his face. The soldiers had only the briefest moment to register the expression before Mike was suddenly moving, a green and orange blur.
Shouts of alarm and the stutter of laserfire was swiftly punctuated by the whir and thud of nunchucks, the crunch of breaking, shattering bones, the dull thumps of collapsing bodies, and the shouts turned to cries of pain or went suddenly silent.
Mikey has left the building.
Return laserfire sliced through the air, but Mike didn’t even notice if any of it hit him. He was moving faster, reacting more swiftly, hitting harder than he’d ever done before in his life. There was no mercy, no remorse, no regret left in him. All that was left was vengeance.
And you are all going to PAY.