I tried to move out of the way, only for it to be too late as I felt a cold sting of pain across my chest. I tried to back away, to recover, but before I could I had to block a swing aimed for my neck. I could feel my arms buckle under the strike, and for that one moment as I looked into those bloodthirsty eyes, I felt scared. My plans, my ambitions, meant nothing. But then the pressure stopped, and that cruel smile that seemed to grow closer and closer—at one point I could feel Shredder's breath on my face—pulled back. A laugh, sounding more like a hyena, escaped his mouth. Flesh bag has good instincts.
And that's how I spent my days: crossing blades with Shredder. Then I would recover from the beating I had taken. In those moments when our blades would sing as steel struck steel, Shredder would give advice, correct my posture. Slowly, as the years passed, I began to stand my ground. And when that blade came for me again, I did not bend under the pressure like so many times before. No—I pushed back. When my blade grew close to his neck, stopped only by his own blade, I realized something. That same scarred scavenger that had once made me fear for my life had grown old. The dirty black fur now had patches of grey. How long had it been? How had time flown past me so quickly?
And when I looked at Shredder, I saw he wasn't looking at me, but behind me. As I stepped back, I turned—and there stood Skrull, looking as if he had not aged a day. What grabbed my attention, though, was the look in his eyes. The look of someone who had finally seen the fruits of his labors.