Chapter Text
There’s this strange buzzing coating Michelangelo’s skin as he blinks his eyes open, squinting slightly as his eyes sting. Almost like they’ve been kept open for too long. Confusion. That’s the first emotion that manages to surface as he begins to register his surroundings—or lack thereof.
Because there’s nothing around him except for a void of white.
No walls, no ceiling, no floor. Nothing. Not even a shadow as his eyes dart to his feet, and then back up to the void around him. There’s just nothing, except the fading stinging of his eyes and the odd lingering tingling along his skin. He takes a breath, but he can’t feel the faint drag of air entering his lungs even as they expand, like he’s not even breathing.
Something is wrong. Something is so very incredibly wrong.
Panic starts to pluck at the edges of nerves, pulling them apart as he takes another breath of nothing. For a moment, Mikey closes his eyes, bathing the world in pitch black. That’s wrong, too. There should be light penetrating his eyelids from the blank world surrounding him. But it’s not. It’s pitch black.
He’s missing all of his gear, leaving him in nothing but the shorts he normally where’s. It makes him feel exposed, vulnerable.
He swallows, his throat doing the motion but nothing really happens. The saliva in his mouth doesn’t move, and now that he’s paying attention, he can’t even feel it. His mouth isn’t dry, but it’s not wet either. It’s so strange and so out of place, despite being so small. And somehow, it’s those little things, the non-air, the lack of light shining through his lids, the lack of saliva in his mouth despite it not being dry—things he wouldn’t even think about normally—that seem to tip him over the edge before a voice catches him just as he descends into panic.
“Ugh, finally. Glad to see you’ve finished loading in,” A girl’s voice echoes around him, vaguely familiar in a way he can’t quite place. He sucks in a breath, eyes darting around the space for the source but he’s only met with nothingness. There’s something familiar about that voice, but he can’t place it amongst the worry rippling through him. “That took way longer than expected, but whatever. You’re here. I’m sure you have a lot of questions, but I don’t have the patience to answer any of them. Much less more than once, so we’ll do this altogether.”
There’s an odd shift that happens before Mikey can even fully process what’s even been said. Gravity seems to invert, his weight tilting but not falling for a split second as that buzzing ripples across his skin, cutting unpleasant lines across his nerves. Then it stops just as abruptly as it started, non-air catching in his lungs as he shivers, jaw clenching as he blinks, plunging the world into that unnatural, jarring pitch black before his eyes open once more and he realizes he’s not alone anymore—and he couldn’t be happier about it.
“Raph!” Mikey breathes, relief flooding him as his body moves of its own accord, running to throw himself at the snapper. Immediately, large arms are encasing around him, lifting him with ease as his feet dangle off the ground so he can wrap his own arms around Raph’s neck.
“Woah! Mikey?!” Raph startles, sounding a mix of surprised, astonished, and relieved all at once. “Yer here?!”
“I am!” Mikey cries, which feels foolish because it’s obvious. But he doesn’t really care. “And we’re stuck in this weird white void!”
“Don, Leo!” Raph calls over Mikey’s shoulder, “Are you also here?!”
“Sigh, unfortunately,” Donnie’s voice responds from behind Mikey. Automatically, he loosens his hold on Raph a little to bend backward and crane his neck as far as he can to indeed see an upside down softshell looking rather unimpressed and an upside down slider looking equally nonchalant. Donnie frowns at the box turtle, brows pinching as huffs, “Michael, stop that. We’ve talked about this—it’s bad for your neck.”
At the same time Leo responds, “Ditto the unfortunately. And, Raph, you’re looking right at us, Boss Man. Ya don’t need to ask.”
“Raph just wanted to check,” The snapper huffs as Mikey sticks his tongue out, but rights himself anyway. He lets go of Raph, wriggling out of his grasp to stand leaning against him instead, facing the other two.
“So,” Leo says, almost conversationally, dragging the word out. “Anyone got any ideas as to where we might be?”
Despite having said ‘anyone’, implying that he was asking everyone in general, he immediately turns to give Donnie a pointed look. Not that Mikey judges the slider for it, considering he automatically looks to the softshell as well.
Donnie frowns, squinting as he asks, “Why are you looking at me, Leo?”
Leo shrugs, pressing his lips into a thin line like he’s considering the question before responding, “Mmmm. . . no reason.”
“Uh-huh. . .” Leo only gives the softshell another, somehow more intense, pointed look. Donnie only scoffs, glaring as he spits, “Eyeroll, Leo, I don’t know where we are. Obviously! I don’t even have my gear!”
“Just do your nerd thing, Don-Tron,” Leo sighs, though there’s no mocking edge behind ‘nerd thing’.
“Scoff, it is not a ‘nerd-thing’,” Donatello retorts. Then he straightens, face smoothing out, “But if you insist—it would appear we are in a giant white void of some kind. It would also appear that there’s no friction to the air surrounding us, evident to the fact that we are completely incapable of feeling it. Conclusion: we are either A, we’re in a vacuum of some kind—which is incredibly unlikely as we would be dead due to the lack of air and immense pressure our bodies would be subjected to—or B, we are in a simulation. There. Happy now?”
“Yes, thank you, Donald,” Leo accepts politely.
At the same time Raph yells, “We’re in a simulation?!”
And Mikey cries, “We’re stuck in a vacuum?!”
“Great!” That voice from before, the girl’s, booms around them and Mikey jumps, pressing closer to Raph. Leo flinches as well, Donnie’s eyes going comically large. Automatically, Mikey’s eyes dart up, like he might still find the source. He doesn’t, obviously, and the voice barrels on, “Now that you’ve all caught up with each other, we can move onto the more important part. I’ll keep this short, you are in a simulation. Or a game to be more accurate, and the rules are simple enough that I’m sure even you four should be able to understand them.”
The confirmation that they’re not in a void doesn’t bring much comfort to Mikey. If anything, it’s almost more nervewracking. Anything could happen in a simulation—or, rather, a game as she called it—he’s sure. The look on the softshell’s face when he turns his gaze back down doesn’t bring any comfort either. Brows furrowed and mouth set into a thin, stiff line.
“If you want out of this game, you’ll either have to win it, or die,” The voice explains, and Mikey definitely doesn’t like the sound of that. He swallows. “And the only way to win is to be the last one alive. Oh, and to keep things interesting, of course, you won’t be playing alone! There’s other contestants, too, though those ones aren’t real pe—”
“Wait, what’s stopping us from just. . . offing ourselves and leaving?” Leo interrupts and, admittedly, he’s got a good point. When Mikey glances over to the Leo, their eyes meet for a brief second before Leo shrugs as if to say ‘hey, it’s not a bad question’. Then he’s tearing his eyes away, looking back up to the sky of the void.
The voice only laughs, “Oh, you’ll see, trust me. You will want to win. But that’s your choice of course. But I’d keep in mind that while whatever happens in here isn’t real, everything that happens to your bodies out here is. And the longer you refuse to play, the longer you’ll be away from them. So you should really think about your options here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Raph yells back, an edge of anger and something else in his voice. It’s not something Mikey really recognizes, and he doesn’t like it. He can guess the reason would be because it’s unpleasant in some regard. Maybe because it’d feel real?
Kind of like when Donnie had built that virtual reality headset, and Mikey would sometimes forget it wasn’t real. Like when he’d fallen off a building in a game and had actually screamed before remembering it was a game.
“Yeah, why don’t you just tell us!” Leo calls, and Mikey spares him a glance before turning his gaze back to Donnie, who looks. . . unsettled.
“Where would the fun be in that? You have fifteen seconds to choose a weapon,” The voice laughs, interrupting Leo without a care, “and then the game begins.”
“Kendra—!” Donnie yells, and immediately, it clicks in Mikey’s head. Kendra. He’d heard the softshell briefly mention her name beforehand, but he doesn’t think he’d ever met her. Had he?
Whatever else Donnie was going to say is cut off as the world snaps into place around. Buzzing erupts over Mikey’s skin again, light shining into his eyes and he has to squint harshly against it, breath hitching as his stomach rolls with gravity itself. The only thing that keeps him from falling is Raph’s hand on his arm before it disappears.
Panic surges into Mikey’s gut as he tries to peer around for his Raph, mouth opening to call for him but the words get stuck in his throat. Then there’s texture beneath his feet, jarring and rough as his eyes finally adjust to the light and—
He’s standing outside, in a grassy field. Not far off is what looks like a stream or maybe a small river, beyond that are trees. As his gaze darts around, it looks more like he might be standing on a tiny islet of sorts, the river curving all the way around it. His gaze sweeps until he meets the bright eyes of a yokai, covered in varying colors of feathers and talons on their feet, standing only a few feet away.
For a moment, he can only stare, mind still trying to catch up. There’s something wrong about it, about this yokai. He doesn’t know what, but it just feels off, and he opens his mouth to say something, but they’re sprinting off before he can. He almost jumps with the abruptness of it, watching for a moment as they take off toward the river, splashing through what appears to be shallow water at surprising speed before disappearing into the trees.
It leaves him standing there at a complete loss, helpless to let his gaze be pulled away when he hears shuffling behind him. What he sees surprises him, it’s not what he’s expecting. But then again, none of this is.
There’s a small structure a handful of feet away from him, almost like a building but it’s missing the closest wall to him. Several people, yokai and humans alike, are moving around the area, quickly picking up items from the ground and tables within the structure before running off the islet like the yokai from before had. He swallows, feeling almost breathless as his eyes dart around the chaos, searching the moving bodies for a familiar face. For his brothers.
But there’s no sign of them, and he kind of feels like crying as his eyes scan the thinning crowd uselessly over and over again. And there’s a giant, red number floating above the building, reading twelve. Then eleven, then ten–a timer. Fifteen seconds. Kendra said they had fifteen seconds to grab a weapon.
Mikey sucks in a breath, heart pounding as his eyes dart from the timer to the structure, the thinning crowd and the people who are obviously hanging around it. Waiting.
Fifteen seconds, and then the game begins. The one where they have to die or win to escape, and people are hanging around the building. Waiting.
Waiting to kill.
So Mikey swallows, steals his nerves, and forces himself to move, stumbling a couple feet on weak knees before running the short distance to the building. There’s weapons strewn about the grass, various blades of different sizes. From kitchen knives to swords, he pays them little mind. Gaze darting around for something else, something familiar, as his heart pounds, anxiety clawing its way up his chest with each passing second.
He tries to glance up at the time, but can’t see the number past the roof with how close he’s standing to the building. He tears his gaze away, eyes searching frantically before they land on something—a flail. The spiked ball is attached to a short wooden handle by a metal chain, and swoops down to pick it up without hesitation. His foot slips across the grass, knee slamming into the ground as he grabs the weapon, pain shooting across his knee and he doesn’t dwell on it, scrambling to stand. He doesn’t think, he turns, and he runs.
Feet pounding against the grass, nearly tripping over himself, and heart slamming against his chest as he races toward the water. He spares a glance over his shoulder, eyes widening at the number hovering above the building now—three. He sucks in a breath, heart skipping a beat as he whips back around, pressing himself to run faster as the flail swings wildly in his hand. The ground around the shallow stream is wet, almost feeling slimy as he steps onto it. His foot slips a few inches down the tiny back, a mix of mud and grass giving way beneath him and he barely manages to catch himself by practically jumping into the water, scraped knee aching.
The water just barely reaches his knees as he stumbles in, cold enough to have goosebumps erupting across his skin. He barely suppresses a shiver, small, smooth rocks and pebbles line the bed of the stream, hurting his feet just a little as he splashes through the water. The stream is only a couple feet wide, the bank on the other side slightly steeper than the one he’d just crossed. Water splashes violently around him with how fast and desperate he moves, icy water sloshing up over his knees and sending droplets flying onto his plastron and arms. He pays it no mind, focusing on one thing only.
Putting distance between himself and the structure.
He lifts his knees high, swinging his arms violently enough to almost knock him off balance and flail rattling, using the momentum to try and combat the drag of the water pulling him back. He crosses the last of the distance, raising his foot to scramble onto the bank. He slips against the wet mud, leg sliding back down, and shoots a hand out to grab onto the bank as he falls forward, grabbing onto a gross mix of wet dirt and grass. Practically clawing his way onto the bank, he climbs out of the water, hand grasping at clumps of wet, muddy grass and feet slipping across the loose earth, the other holding his weapon in a death grip. Behind him, a loud siren sounds, almost like a loud horn.
Without thinking, he pauses. Glancing over his shoulder, the number reads zero now, and it’s slowly fading away. Faintly, he can see people moving quickly around the structure again, but they’re not grabbing things off the ground. It looks like they’re fighting. For a moment, he almost forgets what he’d been doing, that he’d been running away.
He watches, faintly curious in a strange, unsettled way. A scream rings out, loud and bloodcurdling and echoing, and his blood freezes in his veins. Run. He has to keep running.
He jerks back around, climbing up the short, steep bank and onto his feet, taking one glance back over his shoulder to see bodies on the ground, people still fighting, and he disappears into the trees.
Michelangelo runs, not stopping to breathe or get his bearings or even to think. He runs, nonstop, lungs aching, heart pounding so hard he’d worry for it if he had the capacity to right now. His legs burn, feet aching and dirty from the rough dirt and he keeps running. He weaves between the trees, ducking under branches and shoving the brambles away as he stumbles through a bush, thorns scraping his legs and hands and finally, finally, he slows. He heaves, exhausted and lightheaded as he stumbles to a halt, catching himself on a large rock.
Against his will, he sinks down, legs trembling and knees weak as he practically collapses against the rock. The flail slips from his fingers, too heavy to even hold now as it thumps against the ground. Cool stone presses against his palms and arms, and even his forehead as he leans forward, resting his head against it. The earth beneath him sways even as he sits, gasping for oxygen and trembling with exhaustion, squeezing his eyes shut to try and collect himself. Air scrapes down his throat, leaving it raw and stinging as he gasps, lungs begging for oxygen that he just can’t seem to get.
He wants nothing more than to lay down in the dirt, curling into a ball until he regains his strength. But he can’t. He has to keep moving, to find his brothers. The thought of his brothers has his chest tightening. He wants nothing more than to be with them right now, to not have to be alone in this. But there’s only one way to get that.
He has to keep moving.
Begrudgingly, heaving in a breath that scratches his throat, he flips over to lean back against the rock. Hard carapace scraping against the stone, he peels his eyes open and scans his surroundings.
There’s not much to see. Trees surround him, spread out in a way that looks almost like a pattern. Leaves litter the grassy earth, roots and rocks sticking up every here and there, bushes and small shrubs almost randomly scattered about. But there’s no obvious indicator of a direction he should go or even one that he came from. Of course not.
The game isn’t about reaching a check point, it’s about killing each other until only one person remains. Leonardo’s question presses into Mikey’s mind, about them just killing themselves to escape. The way she’d laughed, said they wouldn’t want to do that. . .
Mikey gets it now, the aches and scrapes along his legs and arms answer that question.
They could just off themselves, but it’d hurt. Probably pretty bad, too.
“Fuck,” He whispers out of breath, only to pause for a split-second, expecting one of his brothers to scold him. The forest remains quiet, the only sound being leaves rustling faintly. Right. No brothers.
He groans quietly, scrubbing a hand across his face only to immediately regret it when he can feel dirt smearing across his skin. Annoyed, he wipes his forearm across his face instead, trying to get the mud off. It’s probably a lost cause, he’s practically covered in more dirt than he’s not. It’s caked all over his feet and legs, all the way up to his knees, mud and grass staining his hands and one of his forearms. Great.
He’s stuck in a simulation where he has to kill people, he doesn’t know where his brothers are, he’s kind of cold, and he’s covered in an unprecedented amount of mud and bits of plants. Pointedly, Mikey ignores the tears welling in his eyes, sucking in a breath before looking around once more. A plan would be nice right now, but he’s not even sure where to begin. Does he keep walking? Does he call out, stay put?
Dad once told them that if they ever got lost, the best thing to do was to stay put until help could arrive. But Mikey had no idea how long that’ll take, or if help even will arrive. His brothers could die before then. They could be dead now. Or maybe they’re not even here. He hadn’t seen them at the start of this, so what if they’re not even here with him?
The thought makes his stomach churn. It wouldn’t be real of course, but this all feels very real right now. Regardless, he tries to hang onto the knowledge that it’s fake.
So, a plan. He can’t stay here, he doesn’t know how big this place is or if his brothers are even here. That leaves moving, walking in a random direction because there’s no indicator of a place to go. Maybe he can find a hill or something, some place high up to get a good view of the area. Great.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s the closest thing to one he’ll probably get. The only other option is to. . . win the game. The thought makes him shudder, that bloodcurdling scream echoing in his mind. It’s not real—it wasn’t real, but it sure sounded real. It’s not something he wants to resort to either way, but if push comes to shove. . . he imagines he won’t have much of a choice—snap!
The sound of a twig snapping behind the rock he’s leaning against has his heart leaping into his throat, shoulders jumping as he scrambles to stand, scooping up his weapon as he whips around to see. . .
“Leo?” The box turtle calls out, grabbing Leonardo’s attention, who had been looking down at the twig he’d just stepped on. Immediately, his gaze snaps up, eyes lighting up when they land on his brother. A grin breaks across his face. Relief floods Mikey at the sight of the slider who, like himself, is also covered in dirt.
“Mikey!” Leo calls back, bounding toward him and Mikey rushes to meet him halfway, earlier exhaustion and worries forgotten. Something quietly thumps on the ground as the slider sweeps him up in a hug, but he pays it no mind as he squeezes back as hard as he can. Leo makes this little wheezy sound, but doesn’t complain as he spins Mikey around once before releasing him. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you right now!”
“I think I’ve got a good idea,” He argues, laughing a little. “I was kinda worried you weren’t even here, I didn’t see you at that weird structure.”
“Yeah, I didn’t see you either,” Leo agrees, bending down to pick something up off the ground. When he straightens, he’s holding a sword. It’s not quite as long as his normal katana, and both sides of the blade are sharpened, but Mikey supposes it’s probably as good of a substitute as they come. Kind of like the flail in his hand. “At least we know we’re all actually here. We should try to find Raph and Don, then we can all get out of here. They might still be close to where we loaded or spawned in or whatever.”
Mikey immediately nods in agreement, “Of course, that’s what I was thinking!”
No, it’s not. Not that he’d ever admit it. He hadn’t even known where to really start before the slider conveniently showed up. He can definitely see the logic behind it, though.
“Great, then let’s get a move on!” Leo announces, raising his sword a little to motion Mikey onward. Gratefully, he follows as the slider walks past him, moving in almost the same exact direction he’d come.
Which he supposes makes sense, circling the tiny islet from a distance. It raises their chances of finding Raph and Donnie.
But it also—
“Aren’t you worried about running into the other people?” Mikey blurts, trailing behind Leo and watching as he just shrugs. He glances over his shoulder.
“Not really,” Leo admits. Huh. “I mean, if Kendra wasn’t lying, then they’re not even real people anyway. They’re just. . . NPCs or whatever, I guess.”
Mikey nods, although a little conflicted. Because Kendra could have been lying, and if she was, that means they’d feel pain just like he can. He focuses his gaze back on the ground, the fight at the structure replaying in his mind unbidden. It makes his skin prickle.
“I heard one of them scream,” Mikey murmurs, brows furrowed a little. Real people or not, they certainly sounded real. Too real.
“I doubt it was a real person,” Leo argues, not even glancing back this time. “It’s just a simulation anyway, so it’s not like it matters.”
Mikey slows to a stop, eyes widening slightly as a burst of indignation alights in his stomach. It’s not that Leo’s wrong, because he’s not. But it’s something about his flippant attitude that tugs at Mikey nerves.
“How can you just say that?” He snaps, hands curling into fists before he relaxes them. It’s not fair to get mad at the slider, he knows that. But how can he just say that?
Leo slows to a stop, too, a few feet in front of Mikey. He turns to fully the box turtle, brows furrowed and face pinched in what seems like genuine confusion.
“Because it’s not real?” Leo responds, sounding just as confused as he looks. “You know that right?”
“Of course I know that!” Mikey shoots, fists clenching again. It’s not, but it feels pretty real. The pain definitely feels real and that scream. . .
“Mikey, it’s not a big deal, okay?” Leo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before motioning behind him, the direction they’d been walking before Mikey stopped. “Let’s just find the other two so we can get this whole thing over with and get out of here. Alright?”
A part of Mikey wants to nod and let it go. The other part has him crossing his arms, demanding, “How?”
“How what?”
“How are we going to get out of here?”
“Oh, ya know,” Leo responds, his tone sounding stilted—forced almost—as he gives a half-hearted shrug, “Play the game probably. It’s the easiest way out.”
Mikey slows to a stop, brows furrowing slightly. Something about the slider’s tone gives him pause, the barest hint of anxiety prickling over his skin. ‘Play the game’. But that would mean. . .
“Leo, you’re not actually thinking of. . .” Mikey hesitates, not even really wanting to voice the thought but he swallows, and presses onward, “killing each other, are you?”
Leo seems to pause at that, turning back to Mikey, brow arching slightly before he asks, “Well, what else are we supposed to do? Dying is the fastest way out of this place, and it’s not like it’s real, anyway.”
Mikey’s heart sinks, eyes widening minutely as the words sink in. There’s no way Leo’s actually going to play along. He sucks in a breath, knee aching slightly as his eyes dart away for a brief second.
“Leo—” he starts, but the slider cuts him off.
“Look, I get it’s not ideal, but we don’t have another choice right now,” Leo points out. “I know you don’t like the idea, but who knows what’s happening to our bodies in the real world right now. The sooner we’re out of here, the better. You know that.”
Mikey does know that, but that doesn’t stop his heart rate from picking up, beating hard against his plastron. It doesn’t stop the way his muscles tense, dread pooling in his stomach, and all he can think is but it will hurt. The thought makes him even more anxious, stomach rolling, and before he knows it, he’s shaking his head.
“No. No, I—” His voice says without his permission, eyes darting from Leo’s face to the weapon still in his hands. Leo frowns, brows turning up slightly and he looks apologetic. It doesn’t ease Mikey’s fear at all. “There’s a better way, there has to be. I don’t want to—”
“Mikey, it’s not real,” Leo implores, cutting the box turtle off again. He has the decency to look a little guilty, but his eyes dart to the sword in his hand and Mikey can’t help the way he takes a tiny step back.
He shakes his head again, a little more frantic as his own hands tighten around the flail, words rushing out, “No. No I don’t—Leo, there-there has to be another way!”
But Leo sighs, shaking his head as he closes his eyes for a moment. Like he’s stealing himself. Mikey takes another step back, a larger one this time, eyes darting between Leo’s face and his sword. He reaches up, punching the space between his eyes as he takes another breath.
“Mikey,” Leo starts reproachfully, voice a little softer as he finally opens his eyes, looking at the youngest turtle again. He looks no less guilty now. If anything, he looks even more regretful. “I know it’s scary, but this is the only way. The sooner the better, and I promise it’ll be quick.”
“No—no, I don’t want to,” Mikey pleads, taking another step back, putting space between them that Leo almost immediately takes back, stepping forward. Mikey freezes, heart dropping. This is happening.
There’s no way, but it is. The slider’s going to kill him.
“Mikey, I know you don’t want to, but it’s not even real. You’ll be okay,” Leo assures, fingers twitching around his sword and Mikey’s eyes jerk toward the movement. He opens his mouth but the words get stuck in his throat, forming a lump as his eyes begin to sting. He shakes his head again. “Look, I’d really prefer we were all together for this, but I think it’d probably be better if you didn’t have time to think more about it. You’ll just work yourself up even more, so we can just. . . we’ll do it now. It’ll be quick I promise—”
“No! No that’s not—no!” Mikey insists, head shaking as he takes another step back, then another, and another and Leo follows step for step. The muscles in Mikey’s shoulders tighten, fingers aching from how tight he's holding his fists.
“Mik—” Leo starts, raising his hand just a little, the one with the sword, and Mikey doesn’t think. Just like he’d done at the start of this, he turns, and he books it. Heart beating out of his chest, mind nearly hazy with panic, with the idea that the slider—his brother—wants to kill him. Even if it’s not real, it’s going to hurt, Leo has to know that and he doesn’t care. It makes Mikey sick, bile rising into his throat as he runs, feet pounding against the earth as desperately pushes himself to go faster, the slider’s voice calling out, “Mikey!”
He doesn’t know if his brother’s following, doesn’t really care, only runs as fast as he possibly can to get away. To survive.
He shoves past trees, pushing off one that he nearly runs into, stumbling over a rock or root sticking up from the ground. He doesn’t care, he just runs. Blood pounding in his ears, lungs heaving, bile burning the back of his throat, and eyes stinging, he runs. Raising an arm to shield his face from a low branch he barely even bothers to duck under, bark and twigs scrape his arm, leaving a hot, stinging trail across his forearm.
His brother tried to kill him—wanted to kill him.
He tries to shake the thought from his head, vision blurring as he stumbles, catching himself on a tree, softened, rotting bark scraping his palm as he shoves off, claws catching on the wood, dirt and bark gathering beneath. He just runs. And he runs.
And he runs and runs and runs.