Disclaimer: I do not own TMNT nor any of its related franchise.

Other disclaimer: I am not a doctor nor am I studying medicine, so please forgive any mistakes and vagueness on the medical side of things.

This is my first story for this fandom of which I'm relatively new to, so hopefully I wrote the characters alright. Rated for some modest swearing. Nothing haircurling. Just a few odd words sprinkled where needed.

It was a bout of cursing that woke her this time and not the explosion that shook her head but nothing outside of it. The woman frowned. The man (boy?) sounded like he was drunk. And furious. She pulled her bag towards her, crouching on her worn but trusty combat boots so as to make a quick escape down the abandoned street if needed.

The cursing came again from the alleyway, filled with pain and worry. Another barked curse and there was a sudden thud accompanied by a sharp cry.

Instincts rearing their usual head, the woman dashed towards the commotion. Gunfire thundered in her head, loud and lethal, pulling down more than she could get to, pinning her further as her hands tried to pin the life of the one beneath her to this world, loud, so very loud, inescape-

Focus. Don't go back there now. Someone needs help.

She rounded the corner and drew up short.

Something, a creature...man...soldier was splayed before her, on its...his (his?) back, its- his legs obviously having given way beneath him.

She inhaled sharply. The red on its- his...armoured chest complemented the red wrapped deliberately around his head nicely. In a grotesque way. But she had seen more grotesque things during her consecutive tours. Legs gone. Arms completely torn away. Once even a head that was not so much missing as it had been turned to pulp.

That had been a bad day.

It still was, when she forgot she wasn't there.

"What, no screaming? That'd be a first."

The voice jolted the medic from her turbulent head. "You have a gash along the length of your arm."

"Do I? Couldn't tell from all the blood."

"Looks like it missed any arteries, but it's bleeding too much to have not..." she mumbled to herself. The medic blinked. "I need to stitch it up."

That got a reaction. The...soldier in front of her, for it was a soldier for his wound was clearly a soldier's one, began to move, first seeming to attempt to get up, then to reach a metallic dagger with... prongs? … on the ground. He was successful in neither task, too weak from the steadily flowing blood.

"You ain't stickin' anything in me! Not needles. Not stitches. Not a fuckin' thing!" His voice, though, was as strong as she assumed it always was.

"They always are. Them soldiers ain't gonna cry over a little spilt blood, but you can be sure as hell they're gonna swear themselves blue in the face. Let 'em."

A small smile twitched at the edges of her lips, bittersweet and sad. She missed her commander. As brash a man as he had been, he had been even gooder at heart. And full of advice too.

"When they get uncooperative, that's when you get tough."

His voice echoed in her head, driving her professional mask further into place. Not even a bomb could shake it, though many had tried.

"You will let me give you stitches, soldier," she said sternly. "I think you might've nicked your Brachial artery-" Does it even have- Yes. Yes it- he did. All soldiers did and this was a soldier before her. "-And I can probably put a suture in to close it, but if I don't you'll bleed out before any other help can arrive."

Silence. The medic took this as a sign to start working.

Moving forward, she took the belt from around her waist and slipped it above the cut on the...soldier's upper arm. Once in place, she tightened it mercilessly.

"Argh... What are you doing?"

"Torniquete." She offered little else in ways of explanation.

"I thought I said I didn't want your help!"

"Do you want to die?" Pleased when the soldier gave no response, she continued working.

She would have to be fast, the medic knew this. Too slow and she could lose her patient if he had indeed nicked an artery. But too quick, and she could lose him anyway. There was no room for error, not with blood and knives and bombs and-

The woman bit her lip, forcing herself to focus on the present.

"Talk to me," she ordered as she turned to drag her bag towards her. There should be a needle in here somewhere…

"What?"

"I need you to stay awake. I don't have anything to help if you fall asleep

There was a ripe pause. The medic, having found the needle, began to look for medical thread she had likewise 'acquired'. She still had some spare from the last time she had used it. She was sure she did.

"You called me soldier before," he finally said, words slow and wary. "You army?"

"Combat medic." She exhaled as she found the object of her search. "Ex-medic. Discharged."

"What for?" Even warier words. Somehow, though, the woman could not fault him for them. Perhaps it was the look in his red-framed eyes.

Fear was an old friend of hers no matter how well hidden.

"My service time was up," she answered, examining his gash once more. I should clean that first.

The medic dived back into her bag. Alcohol would be as good a disinfectant as she could access. It was better than what she had sometimes had back in the front lines of the action.

"This is going to hurt, but it needs to be done."

"What do you- Argh!"

She had given no warning before she poured a modest amount of the liquid onto his wound, continuing for a few seconds before she swiped away the blood as best she could. Her water helped here, brought fresh from a petrol station not an hour ago and half gone within three seconds. The blood kept welling. She needed to fix the nicked artery.

"Keep talking to me," the medic said somewhat desperately.

"Ungh. A little warnin' next time. I ain't a piece of meat."

The woman took up the needle and sighted the eyehole, running a piece of thread through with trained hands. "I never said you were, but you'd make a hefty piece of meat, that's for sure."

He almost grinned. "Strength lets me pound my enemies into the ground and you need muscles to be strong."

"But strength is nothing compared to healing hands." And old joke from her time in the service, made at the expense of the regular grunts who found themselves doing all the heavy lifting.

This...soldier did not seem to think of the joke in the same manner. "I know…"

By now, the medic had found the place where she guessed her patient's artery had suffered damage. A further look proved her guess right and she swiftly began the task of repairing it. "Keep still." She pressed her knees against his arm to reinforce her command. "You were in a fight?"

"S'pose ya could call't that." The soldier snorted, voice a little weaker than before. "'S nothin' but a warm up though. Can't fight for shit, the lot'a 'em."

Steady hands made a steady stitch. "Looks like one of 'them' got you good with a knife."

"'S'was a lucky shot." A pause as he raggedly inhaled. "'S hurts."

"I'm sorry." And she was. She always was. "But it will hurt for a bit longer. I've still got to stitch up your arm."

"Hmm…"

The medic frowned, trying to thread her needle once more. "Keep talking to me."

"...Ya ain't s'bad, ya know?"

The woman smiled. "Thanks. You don't seem so bad yourself."

"'S not what I 'ear most o'th'time."

"Oh?" The medic could understand. There were a lot of people who opposed...soldiers these days. Opposed the things they were told and forced to do, as if there was some moral high ground that could be maintained when both sides were shooting to kill. Everything in the name of protection until they saw what said protection meant.

She had not been welcome home when she returned, not so soon after a scandal from another unit where she had served: the alleged torture of an enemy child.

The woman sighed, turning down the corners of her lips. People could be fools.

"Most o'th'time screamin' 's'what I hear." The soldier seemed to think on this. "S'pose ya get used to it... Ow!"

"Sorry." She focused on easing the force she had used to send the needle through his skin. Twenty stitches. Then she would be done.

A litany of faces flashed through the woman's mind, like the credits at the end of a tragic movie giving the viewers one last moment to mourn the deaths of their favourite characters and cheer for the survival of others. One name after another after another after another. One face to replace the one that had come before.

She had never been done back there.

There's so much blood...

"Sucks, ya know?" The soldier shifted and the medic pressed harder with her knees to keep his arm still. "Can't go out in th'day. Gotta keep hidin' a'night."

The woman pursed her lips, tying one more stitch off. Hiding was something she understood. "It must be lonely."

"Nah…" Adoration. This soldier had someone waiting at home. Maybe several someones.

Several someones and a home more than me, she thought the sort of wryness that never did become anyone.

"Jus' wish people'd be better, ya know?"

"Fuck off!"

The door slammed in her face not a minute after opening. A second later and a bag half full of not a quarter of the things she had left behind but all the things that weren't worth much in a pawn shop crashed through the window. The bottle of vodka she had brought to celebrate with silly little jello shots like they had celebrated her leaving hung loosely from her hand.

The woman made to throw it away but rethought and placed the unopened bottle in her bag. Turning her back on that place, she walked away, vodka, demons and a broken heart in tow.

That bottle of vodka had been opened three times before this night. None of those times had she drunk its contents herself. Yet, it was sorely tempting now.

"Do ya think they can be?"

Another stitch tied off. Her tears were non-existent. The medic didn't cry for anyone but her patients. "Be what?"

"Better."

"I'd like to think so." It was a hard question to answer. But the soldier had lost so much blood, not a fatal amount but still enough…

Surprisingly, though, he laughed. "Ya don't need to lie. Knew I couldn't be th'only pessimist 'round."

Now a laugh shook itself from her lips. It was a short, barking thing. "Then I am pleased to meet you. There are far too little pessimists in this world." And far too many bastards and warmongers.

"Yer not s'bad."

"So you've said before." Another stitch, another trickle of blood that ran over her dark fingers. If her skin had been any lighter, she might have thrown up from the grotesque contrast. "Sorry I can't give you anything for the pain."

"'S'alright." The soldier gave the impression of waving off her apology without moving his hands. "Almost done?"

The medic bit her lip. "Almost."

"'S'alright then." Another pause. They were becoming more frequent with him. "Th'people 'ere think they're s'good…'s'frustrating. Don't give a damn 'bout us. S'long as we protect 'em, they don't care. An' if they never see us too. Protectin' an' not-seein' - that's what they want. An' they like to talk 'bout good an' justice an' things...an' say how good they're a'followin' things, but they're not interested in givin' any of 'em things to us... Buncha bastards. We'd die for 'em an' they wouldn't care. 'S'just…"

"Frustrating?"

"Yeah…" He seemed to blink at her. "Ya think I got a temper?"

The woman was saved from answering as voices sounded through the wind, too far away for any words to be audible but close enough to distinguish three different tones among them. A hand gripped her wrist like an iron shackle. Unbreakable. Near immovable. Certainly impressive with the amount of blood the...soldier seemed to have lost.

"Don't tell anyone about me," he said. Growled. Voice clear once more out of need. "That bastard who got me isn't the only one handy with a knife."

The medic blinked.

"I thought I was dreaming," she finally replied, tone almost conversation like. "Why would I tell anyone about a dream? I never remember the ones I have." And the ones I do I would rather forget…

The soldier's face twitched a little at that, perhaps a wry grin the result of that twitching. The medic didn't ponder too much on it. She still had to tie off her last stitch so she could move onto her next patient who would need another row of neat little stitches, another pint of blood, another leg, another arm, another heart, another thing she didn't have but they needed to stay alive in this fucking-

"'Kay?"

She looked up at the creature- soldier and did her best to smile. "I will be once I've sent you off to a hospital."

"Ain't a single...hospital round 'ere...that's gonna let me in."

The medic laughed. "That's what I hate about these wars. No damn hospitals available no matter how far you book in advance. Only the shoddy stations we can put together at the front."

"Ah, some stations ain't so...shoddy. Not if th'person puttin' them...together knows 'is stuff." Admiration. Someone in this soldier's life had done him proud. Someone he clearly loved.

"I'm sure." She brushed her fingers lightly over her now completed work, wincing at their roughness but confident they would hold until further help could arrive. That was the essence of her job, after all. Her former job.

"Keep 'em alive long enough for the doctors to ensure their survival."

She missed her original commander, Jersey accent and all.

"RAPHAEL!"

The soldier seemed to wince in something other than pain. "Know 's'bad when 'e uses my full name…" He seemed to focus back on the woman kneeling at his side. "Time...to...scram."

"Don't fall asleep just yet. I've sewed you up, not given you a transfusion. You still need fluids to replace that blood you lost."

"Yeah, yeah... Don't worry. Donnie'll...give me...th'speech when 'e gets 'ere." A pause as he watched her open her battered bag, pulling out a roll of white cloth and laying it on the ground. A final offer of help, albeit a small one. "Thanks."

Somehow, she got the feeling that the word was not the easiest thing for the soldier to say. Not that she looked for it. Too often the people she had managed to piece back together were too out of it to even open their eyes.

Still, the sentiment was nice. It made the ache in her heart ache a little less.

"RAPHAEL!"

"Here!"

Footsteps pounded along the rooftop above them, three pairs of feet marching to a frantic timbre. The medic grabbed her battered things and ducked around the alleyway's corner, out of sight before three bodies landed upright beside their wounded friend. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

"Raph! Thank the Fates!"

"You alright, bro?"

"What d'ya...think, shell-for-brains?"

"Is that blood?"

"I'll...be fine, Mike. Don'll fix...me up."

"Stay still. Don't move until I tell you."

"Trust me, movin'...ain't...a problem."

"And I know you. Don't move." A pause. "What the-"

"Just...get me...home, Don. Then I'll...tell all, I...swear."

"Come on." The first voice again. "It's almost five am. We need to get out of sight. Mikey, grab his sais. Donnie-"

"Got him."

She kept her back pressed against the alley wall, head steadfastly straight, eyes steadfastly closed as something metal scraped along the ground. It wasn't until the echo of a second metallic sound of a manhole cover being replaced had long since faded into the waking day that she opened her eyes.

Simone smiled to herself and slide down the wall. He would be alright.

Stretching her legs out in front of her, the veteran pulled her frayed sleeping bag over them. The alleyway would be as good a place as any to grab a quick nap, as sheltered as the street could get with the added bonus of security in the form of a strange soldier and his friends supposedly a manhole cover away. It was certainly the most secure she had been in several years.

Stretching once more before huddling down to form another faceless bereft lump on the streets of New York, the woman closed her eyes once more wondering what other creatures she would dream of. More turtle-children? Or perhaps a man-rat? It did not matter. Whatever it was, it would be better than more dreams of war.

This is a first. I don't usually wrote OCs on here and I've never written from one's POV before. Still, I couldn't get the idea out of my head of one of the brothers running into a former combat medic after being injured in battle. Hope I did alright and did all characters involved justice. And just so it's clear, Raph doesn't die. ;)

On nicked arteries - I'd imagine it would only have been small, in which case you can close it with a suture. Raph being a mutant, Simone also would have known that he couldn't go to a hospital meaning she would have to close it (skil she would have as a doctor & combat medic). Donnie could fix everything else up properly when they got back to the Lair. Blood loss wise, I don't think Raph would have lost enough to lose consciousness, but did lose enough to not really be able to do much of anything. At least that was what I imagined. If I've muddled any medical information, please forgive me. I myself am no doctor nor am I training to be one.

Hope you enjoyed this. And please review if you did. I'd love to hear your thoughts!