The Merry Whump of May 2024 - RotTMNT - aTalewithEars (2024)

Chapter 1: Kept in the Dark - Michelangelo

Chapter Text

Darkness was all Spots could recall from his youth, and it persisted into the present. He remained frozen, waiting. His shell provided safety, a constant refuge in uncertain times. Reflecting on his earliest memories, he could discern why he found himself in this situation. There had been a sudden flash of light, followed by intense pain and a barrage of sensations. Amidst the chaos, voices had erupted in loud, angry shouts.

In a panic, he had retreated into his shell until the tumult subsided. Emerging cautiously, he discovered himself in a dimly lit, chilly environment, with a towering figure looming over him. Though he had glimpsed this person only a handful of times since then, he held onto the hope that obedience might elicit kindness. Yet, just as before, the man’s reaction remained unchanged. With a disgusted and furious snarl, he commanded, “Get back in there.”

And so, he obeyed. And he waited.

In fleeting moments when he dared to venture beyond the confines of his shell, even if only for a breath, the turtle would catch sight of the spots adorning his arms. They seemed almost whimsical, a small semblance of beauty in his confined world. Hence, he dubbed himself Spots. Occasionally, amidst hushed conversations between the man and others, he caught wind of a name—Baron Draxum. It carried an air of grandeur, a title befitting someone of authority. Yet, whenever Spots dared to peek out from his shelter, barely exposing an inch of his head, he would swiftly retract, as if caught in the act, his mind echoing, "Get back inside. Stay there. He doesn't want to see you.”

When the time came, there was a ritual of desperation, each movement a symphony of agony orchestrated by the relentless ache that permeated every fiber of his being. Spots's limbs screamed in protest as he contorted his body, struggling to extract himself from the suffocating confines of his prison. With each agonizing inch of progress, he could feel the sinewy strands of muscle protesting, stretched to their breaking point by the relentless pressure of his confinement.

And yet, even as his bones ground against each other like rusted gears, the promise of sustenance would beckon him forward. The sickening squelch of food hitting the floor echoed through the chamber, to coax him out. With trembling hands he’d force himself to the threshold of his confinement, just enough to allow his emaciated form to reach out and grasp at the meager offering before him.

Even in the darkest corners of his shell, where loneliness became a tangible presence, Spots found himself haunted by phantom touches that teased at the edges of his consciousness. It was as if spectral hands reached out to him, offering solace in the void of his existence. In those fleeting moments, a sliver of hope would pierce through his desolation, only to crumble into despair as the illusion dissipated into the shadows.

Sleep offered little respite from his torment, for even in the embrace of unconsciousness, his mind was plagued by visions of companionship that dissolved like mist upon waking. The emptiness that greeted him upon opening his eyes mirrored the hollowness of his existence, a void that no amount of longing could fill.

In the dim light that filtered through the cracks of his prison, Spots found solace in the remnants of his meager meals, transforming discarded scraps into makeshift toys to alleviate the crushing weight of his solitude. With fingers stained by the residue of his sustenance, he traced delicate patterns upon the unforgiving surface beneath him.

With painstaking precision, he dragged his sticky fingers across the surface, etching ephemeral patterns that danced in the shadows of his confinement. Though his creations remained shrouded in darkness more often than not, Spots found comfort in the familiarity of their forms, tracing the contours of his makeshift artwork with a reverence born of necessity. The Baron always said he was useless. A failure. But could a failure do this? Maybe someone out there would think his drawings were pretty. It was a nice thought, and sometimes Spots even let himself smile when he thought of it.

As the relentless march of time wore on, Spots found himself trapped in a perpetual cycle of growth without purpose, his body expanding within the confines of his prison even as his spirit withered beneath the weight of his oppression. Despite the urging of his own body, a primal instinct that begged for release from the confines of his prison, Spots remained steadfast in his resignation, his muscles atrophying beneath the weight of his inertia. Though he grew larger with each passing day, strength was never something that accompanied it. Some days, even the food that the Baron gave him seemed almost too heavy to carry.

He had grown larger since then. The Baron insisted that this meant he should possess greater understanding. On one occasion when he attempted to desperately extend a limb, the Baron swiftly approached his enclosure, having seemingly anticipated the action. Spots had instinctively recoiled, yet found himself ensnared by some sinewy appendage, constricting around his neck and suspending him in place.

"Do you harbor such a fervent desire to defy me?" the Baron's voice resonated.

Spots's mouth agape, yearning to protest. No, no, he didn't intend to—

"Then you shall learn the consequences of disobedience."

The tendril released its grip, but instead forcefully pushed back on his head. Spots required little prompting, instinctively retreating into the safety of his shell—or so he believed.

It marked the inaugural instance the Baron extracted him from the cage. He felt himself moving, lifted somewhere, then placed somewhere else. Spots didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave. The Baron didn’t seem to want him to leave either, not with the slightly muffled “ Stay.” above him. That’s ok. Spots could do that. He couldn’t do many things, but he could do that.

Then, the sound of rushing water engulfed him. Waves crashed against his shell, chilling and seeping through the crevices, where his young shell couldn’t fully seal shut yet. Water flooded in, and Spots coughed in shock. Even as he attempted to retract himself, to escape the deluge, it only granted the water more ingress. Anxiety and panic surged from his primal instincts to the forefront of his consciousness. Water, ceaseless and suffocating. Spots found himself sinking deeper.

Before he could stop himself, his head and limbs thrust out of his shell, driven by the desperate need to evade the rising tide, to reach the air, to evade drowning.

As soon as he emerges, the Baron seizes him, refusing to release his grip. Vine-like tendrils ensnare each wrist and ankle, hoisting him from the inundating tank. "You can't even accomplish one task correctly. Utterly worthless." Never before had Spots beheld the man in such close proximity, and fear gripped him tightly. He struggled to free himself, but his efforts were all in vain. His limbs seemed as thin and brittle as bones. "If you're so eager to emerge, allow me to assist you."

The Baron had begun to pull. Pull. Pulling. Spots's body screamed in protest, engulfed in white-hot agony coursing from shoulders to hips, searing along his spine. Breath escaped him, thoughts consumed entirely by the overwhelming pain.

Spots had eavesdropped on the Baron's conversations, diligently attempting to mimic the words, comprehend their meanings, and employ them correctly. He felt he had attained a rudimentary grasp of speech. Though he had never utilized his newfound linguistic skills to communicate, remaining silent and reserved.

That day marked the first instance Spots truly found his voice, shrieking until it faltered into silence. He sobbed despondently as his limp body was flung back into the cage, his limbs pulled from their sockets, snapped back in, then pulled out again. Again. Again. The pain induced vomiting, perhaps even unconsciousness. All Spots could remember was the need to go back into his shell. Go back in and stay there.

Even though his limbs screamed at him for doing so, Spots tucked himself back in like a good turtle and stayed there. Even when he heard the wet plop of new food, he didn’t come back out.

Spots had learned many things that day, and there were more lessons for him in the future, whenever he got caught. At times, he endured immersion in icy cold substances; at others, he endured scorching heat. As time elapsed, even the sanctuary of his shell seemed imperiled. Agonizing sensations penetrated his protective barrier, sending waves of discomfort through him. On the rare occasions he mustered the courage to explore, he encountered an unsettling reality—his shell felt wrong: rigid, angular, and jagged, devoid of its former smoothness. Sections of his plastron throbbed, damp and warm, evoking a profound sense of unease. Unable to bear the sensation, Spots refrained from further exploration.

However, it did induce moisture—a dampness that would gradually seep out from beneath him. Despite the overwhelming sense of wrongdoing that accompanied its presence, a chorus of internal protests urging him to stop, Spots found himself unable to avert his gaze. He couldn't resist running his fingers through the fresh puddle, captivated by its hue. The moisture from his food had always been clear, resembling water, but this... this was yellow, closer to the colors of his spots. Perhaps there was even a hint of green when he dipped his fingers for a second exploration, though the distinction was difficult to discern.

As Spots pressed closer, purposefully applying firmer pressure in his quest for more, the liquid transformed into red. The merging of red and yellow created orange—just like his spots. It was his favorite color. That wasn’t all he could do. The green and the red made a light brown too. He liked experimenting, seeing the different colors he could make. Spots felt a creeping sense of delirium settling in; some part of him acknowledging the inherent wrongness of all of this.

Driven by desperation, Spots plunged both hands into the liquid, heedless of the consequences. In the dimness of his enclosure, he traced patterns across the stone surface with his own bodily fluids. When the morning light revealed the results, he couldn't contain his delight. Though the red had transformed into a rusty brown, the color remained, the color was there to keep him company. Company. He wasn't alone anymore.

He was so happy, Spots-...no, he liked the colors more. Orange was the prettiest color, the same color of his spots. He liked Orange. Orange was so happy, Orange could cry.

One day, the noises and tremors beyond his shell took on an unusual tone, tinged with a hint of recognition. There were shouts, grunts, and unfamiliar chatter, all new to his ears. Amidst the unfamiliar cacophony, the Baron's voice pierced through, uttering, "Accidentally impressive. But all of you are worthless . Failed experiments and naught more.” And that was all it had taken for Spots to know he should stay right where he is. In his shell. Safe, relatively speaking.

As the clamor grew louder, reverberating with terror-inducing intensity, Spots's primal instincts screamed at him: Danger. Danger. Danger. Stay inside. Stay inside. Stay inside. Without hesitation, Orange obeyed, retreating deeper into the safety of his shell. After all, why wouldn't he?

He remained tucked within his shell until one of the unfamiliar voices grew markedly louder, almost as if it were right outside his cage. "What's this? Some sort of messed-up paraphernalia because you miss us so much— holy—"

Slowly, Orange had extended his head just beyond the front of his shell, curiosity overriding the discomfort. Pain was a familiar companion by now, and thus hardly enough to deter him. Before him, through the mesh of his cage, stood... another turtle? Someone akin to himself? The two locked eyes, and Spots blinked, tilting his head slightly. A soft, almost imperceptible chirrup of confusion escaped his throat.

The sound seemed to jolt the striped turtle—now dubbed Blue for that really pretty clothing on them by Orange—out of whatever reverie he was in. His expression twisted into one of disgust and anger, a familiar sight reminiscent of the Baron. Orange wasted no time retracting into his shell. "Guys!" Blue's voice echoed, "He's here! He's here! This guy always had him!"

A chorus of "What?!"s erupted, followed by the clamor of combat and shouting. Suddenly, a deafening rumble, an explosion, and heat against his shell. Was he back in the burning room? Orange had left his shell. Perhaps this was punishment; it seemed fitting. He deserved it. After all, Orange had been disobedient.

The flurry of voices, though intense, lacked the familiar echoes of the Baron's commands, and the scorching heat that once left him disoriented was notably absent. Instead, there was warmth here, gentle and reassuring, stirring a faint recollection buried deep within him. With cautious curiosity, Spots ventured to peek out of his shell once more. He found himself cradled in someone's arms—green and scaled, yet distinct from the striped turtle he had encountered earlier. This creature was larger, with a darker green hue and a hint of spikiness along its form.

His appearance got the voices to stop and the silence let Orange take in the sight of them all.

The creature holding him was red.

Red, like the colors that had kept him company when he was strong enough to try drawing.

Purple, like the color of bruises the Baron would give him when he disobeyed.

Blue, like the color of the sky he’d only seen in his dreams.

As Orange glanced around, a sense of wonder filled him. This wasn’t the familiar confines of his cage, nor was it the presence of the Baron. Instead, he found himself beneath an expansive sky, a far darker blue than Blue, but it was a sight he'd only ever imagined or heard about, a concept distant and abstract until this moment. This deep, rich shade of blue stretched out above him, more vibrant than anything he had ever known. Overwhelmed by the beauty before him, Orange couldn't suppress a delighted chirp, his heart brimming with joy.

Amidst the cacophony of new sounds and the kaleidoscope of unfamiliar smells, Orange felt overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all. The novelty of everything bombarded his senses, leaving him slightly dazed. However, as he observed the other turtles around him, a sense of belonging and camaraderie washed over him. Other turtles, like him! Others like him! He was feeling happier and happier.

"Hey there, little guy," boomed the deep, rumbling voice of Red, breaking through the sensory overload. Orange turned to face him, and his heart soared at the sight. A greeting! And then, as if a reward for his newfound sense of belonging, Red's hand extended, gently rubbing the top of Orange's head.

Orange couldn't resist the urge to press himself closer against Red's sturdy plastron, absorbing his comforting scent and reveling in his warmth. It felt as though he had finally found his place, as though he had always been meant to be here. If this was indeed a dream, Orange prayed he would never have to awaken from it. Tears of overwhelming emotion streamed down his cheeks, leaving streaks on Red's shell, yet Red didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

Even as Orange weakly attempted to clutch onto Red's limbs, his emaciated form betraying his efforts, the others surrounding him offered gentle support. Hands reached out to soothe and stroke his sore limbs, offering reassurance in their touch.

"We've got you," whispered Blue softly, their voice a balm to Orange's troubled heart.

Beside him, Purple whispers, his voice a bit firmer, “You’re going to be alright.”

Chapter 2: A Not-So-FABulous Discovery - Michelangelo & Leonardo

Chapter Text

It had been a stereotypical mission. Donatello’s sensors had picked up some criminal activity and they were heading towards it, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as they traveled. (Or some of them were, what with Mikey deciding to hitch a ride on Raph’s shell the entire way, and Donnie just straight up deciding to not even expend the effort and fly there.) Upon arrival, it seemed to be a break-in. Cloaked figures were breaking into an electronics store, a crime that Donatello seemed to be taking very seriously.

The only problem? When Donatello’s weapon was the first one to come into contact with one of the goon’s heads (a blow that should have easily knocked them out in one hit flat), Donatello’s the one that bounced off of it. His bo staff wobbled and wiggled as the vibrations shuddered along it. “R-R-R-R-Really h-h-h-hard h-h-h-helmets!” Donnie’s voice wobbled out, his entire form jittering. Too bad that jittering meant the aforementioned goon could reach around and grab him.

"Donnie!" Leo's urgent cry pierced the chaos as a hand, unnaturally tight and unyielding, wrapped around his brother's throat. Before Donnie could react, the rest of the criminal group turned their aggression toward him, converging with startling speed.

"What the- Hey, let go of me! What are you-" Donnie protested, his voice strained as they seized his limbs, pushing and pressing with alarming force. He felt the pressure building, threatening to snap his bones as they attempted to overpower him. Suddenly, amidst the struggle, a surge of resistance emerged as Leo and the others fought back, knocking some of the assailants away.

"Get off him!" Raphael's voice thundered as he came to Donnie's rescue, forcefully shoving two of the smaller criminals away with a precise shoulder tackle. However, their intervention revealed a troubling reality: Two of Donnie's limbs, already inserted into his shell, had been coated with some sort of hardening spray, sealing them in place. Despite Raphael's efforts, the barrier remained unyielding, trapping Donnie.

As the criminals supporting the other half of Donnie's body faltered, the imbalance caused him to topple over ungracefully. "Tipping! Tipping!" Donnie's warning came out in a panicked shout as he struggled to regain his footing, his left leg and arm scrabbling against the floor in a desperate attempt to stabilize himself, even if it meant standing on just one leg.

“You ok, Donnie?” He hears Leo call out over the sound of combat, too far away and blocked off to be there to give him a proper look over.

"I'm stuck in my shell! I can't get myself back out!" Donnie's voice strained with frustration as he struggled to respond to Leo's concerned inquiry. With his hand beneath him and a knee supporting his weight, he managed to prop himself up slightly, but the confinement of his shell thwarted his attempts to free himself.

"What?!" Leonardo's voice rose a pitch higher, cracking with escalating panic as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks. These humans weren't random criminals; they knew them, had plans specifically tailored to deal with them. The entire alert had been nothing more than a cleverly orchestrated set-up, an ambush designed to trap them.

Throughout the confrontation, Leonardo had been cautious, acutely aware of the lethal potential of his weaponry against human flesh and bone. Yet, the shock of witnessing his twin's predicament caused his usually careful control to falter slightly. As he brought his blade down on the assailant's arm with more force than intended, the sound of tearing fabric added a new layer of concern to his already racing thoughts.

"Oh, pizza supreme—I—Are you okay?!" Leonardo's mind raced, his worry mounting as he considered the potential severity of the situation. The pressure exerted by his blade could easily have inflicted life-threatening injuries, possibly severing an artery. He mentally prepared himself to apply a tourniquet, his focus solely on ensuring this human didn’t bleed out.

However, his concern turned to confusion as he realized there was no blood, no sign of injury at all. The arm that he had expected to find maimed moved effortlessly, devoid of pain or impairment. Before he could fully process this revelation, it swiftly seized the top of his head, exploiting his momentary surprise to deliver a forceful shove downwards.

With a sudden pop, Leonardo's head was forcibly shoved back into his shell, accompanied by a loud hiss and a disconcerting sensation of trapped air. As he attempted to push himself back up, he encountered an unexpected barrier preventing his escape. Panic rising, he called out to his brothers for help.

"Guys?!"

"Leo!" Mikey's voice rang out beside him, a beacon of reassurance in the midst of uncertainty. Sensing his brother's distress, Mikey's hands found their way to Leonardo's arms, offering a comforting presence in the darkness of his shell. Though Leonardo longed to offer his brother a reassuring smile, he couldn’t even do that.

"What's wrong?" Mikey's concern was palpable, his voice filled with urgency as he sought to understand the situation.

"Same thing with Donnie!" Leonardo's voice trembled with unease as he echoed his twin's predicament. His legs shifted unsteadily within his shell, frustration mounting as he struggled to free himself.

Feeling Mikey knock against the barrier blocking his shell, Leonardo strained against the obstruction. "It feels like Donnie's FAB spray!" Mikey's voice echoed with a mix of concern and realization, the implications of their situation sinking in with each passing moment.

“What?!"

“What?!”

Leonardo and Donatello responded simultaneously, their voices laced with urgency, but Raphael was already assessing the situation. With a sharp eye, he spotted sparking wires protruding from Leonardo's slice, a troubling sign of the severity of their predicament. In that instant, Raphael's instincts kicked into high gear as he understood the imminent danger they faced.

"Mikey!" Raphael's voice cut through the chaos, commanding attention. He seized one of the robots by the head and hurled it into another assailant, using their own momentum against them. "Get Leo out of here! I've got Donnie!" His directive was clear as he sprang into action, determined to protect his brothers at all costs.

As if Mikey even needed the encouragement, he sprang into action without hesitation. "C'mon, bro!" Mikey's hand gripped Leonardo's tightly, guiding him with urgency as he yanked him away from the danger. Leonardo struggled to keep up, disoriented and blind within the confines of his shell, relying entirely on Mikey's guidance to navigate through the chaos.

Despite the odds stacked against him, Donnie had managed to activate the flight mode on his battleshell, briefly soaring above the chaos below. However, his aerial escape was short-lived as a relentless robot latched onto one of his wings, tearing it clean off. With his maneuverability compromised, Donnie was forced to land, balancing precariously on one leg to avoid the risk of catastrophic imbalance.

His bo staff served as a makeshift support, but it provided little defense against the onslaught of adversaries closing in on him. As two enemies rushed towards him, intent on trapping him within his own shell, Raphael's timely intervention saved the day. With a swift maneuver, Raphael barreled through the assailants, seizing his brother by the waist and pulling him to safety before they could enact their sinister plan.

"Please tell me you made a way to get this FAB spray off, Donnie!" Raphael's urgent shout cut through the chaos as they fled, the relentless pursuit of the robots driving them into full retreat.

"Of course I do! It's in my laboratory on the right, third shelf from the—" Donatello's response was cut short as Raphael's attention wavered, his focus diverted by the imminent threat closing in on them. His instincts screamed danger, but he couldn't react fast enough.

In a sudden and brutal attack, something sharp pierced the back of Raphael’s head, sending waves of blinding pain coursing through his senses. Despite the agony, he instinctively pulled Donatello close, shielding his brother from the fall as they crashed to the ground together. A guttural groan escaped Raphael's lips as he winced, feeling warm wetness trickling down the back of his neck, pooling on the pavement below. Donatello's alarmed gaze met his own, both of them realizing the gravity of the situation as fresh blood dripped steadily from Raphael's wound.

"Raph!" Donatello's urgent call reverberated through the chaos, his concern palpable as he tried to reach up to assess the situation, only vaguely aware of Michelangelo's call ahead of them.

"Raph? What happened to him?!" Leonardo's voice joined in, quieter but no less worried, echoing the concern of his brother.

But neither Donatello nor Raphael could focus on their brothers' inquiries, as the onslaught of robots descended upon them with renewed ferocity. Despite Raphael's formidable strength, the combination of blood loss and excruciating pain left him dizzy and disoriented. The weight of all eight assailants pressing down on his shell made it nearly impossible for him to mount a defense.

Unlike his brothers, Raphael was never designed to retreat into his shell for protection. His species relied on brute strength, defense, and size to ward off threats. Whoever was controlling these robots seemed to understand this, and Raphael found himself facing a different kind of attack than his siblings.

As something sharp pierced into his neck, Raphael's vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. "Don-" he managed to croak out before his head hit the concrete with a dull thud, consciousness slipping away as darkness engulfed him.

“Raphael!” The robots are turning on him now that the oldest brother is out of commission and he’s scrambling to his feet. But one of them grabs his leg and pain reverberates through his skull as his chin hits the ground again, hard. Ahead of him, he sees Leonardo and Michelangelo, frozen as they watch, far enough away that they can make it out. Probably.

Leonardo’s still looking unsteady on his feet, Michelangelo, the only unmarred one, is looking more panicked by the second. “Mikey!” Donatello calls, and his youngest brother is looking at him. “Mikey get out of here!”

“But-”

Donatello keeps yelling, even as he feels his other arm and leg get shoved inside. He ignores the hissing sound of the sealant. “Michelangelo! You have to get away!”

Mikey’s own heart is pounding a mile a minute. One hand holding his weapon, his other holding Leonardo’s hand. He hears the voice of his brother, on the verge of panic himself. “What’s going on?! Where are Raph and Donnie?”

“Mikey! Run!”

“Where are they?! What’s happening, Mikey?!”

"Get Dad and—" Donatello's voice was abruptly cut off as his head was forcibly shoved into his shell, his words devolving into a string of curses and hisses.

Helpless, the box turtle watched as his brother was sealed within his own shell, the muffled sounds of struggle still emanating from within. With the robots beginning to turn their attention towards them, Michelangelo managed to gather his resolve. "They're... we have to go," he urged, seizing Leonardo's arm and propelling them into motion, leaving their trapped brothers behind. Tears welled in his eyes, but there was no time to dwell on emotions. Leonardo's survival depended on him, and there was no room for hesitation.

"We have to—Mikey! Where's Raph? Where's Don—" Leonardo's frantic questions were met with Mikey's urgent response, pushing them to move faster despite Leonardo's struggle to keep pace. The sounds of their pursuers grew louder, a constant reminder of the imminent danger.\

"They're down!" Mikey's voice rang out urgently, pushing them to speed up despite Leonardo already struggling to keep pace. The relentless pursuit of the robot assailants echoed behind them, a constant reminder that they couldn't afford to slow down.

“They’re-we have to go back for them!”

“We can’t!”

"We aren't leaving them behind!" Leonardo's voice rang out with fierce determination as he suddenly dug his heels in, almost causing both himself and Michelangelo to stumble and fall to the ground.

“We don’t have a choice! You can’t see, Leo!”

"But our brothers—" Leonardo's voice was filled with panic as he continued to resist, his fear of leaving anyone behind evident in his every word. Since the invasion, the red-eared slider had harbored a deep-seated fear of abandonment, a fear that Michelangelo couldn't fault him for, given their past experiences. But despite Leonardo's protests, they had no choice now. Michelangelo tugged and pulled once more, determined to get Leonardo to move, only to freeze when he heard his brother hiss at him.

"I'll slow you down! You need to leave us behind!" Leonardo's words were sharp with anguish, a stark reminder of the pain they had endured and the scars that still lingered.

"What?! Leo, I-" Michelangelo's words were cut short as a robot charged at them, interrupting their argument with imminent danger. Their hands are separated forcefully and without his brother, Leo tumbles and falls to the ground.

The robots moved with alarming speed, faster than anything Michelangelo had faced before, except perhaps the Kraang, a memory he hoped would never be surpassed. But their swiftness only heightened the intensity of the battle, requiring every ounce of his attention to evade their metal limbs and avoid being struck in the head.

As he fought off the relentless onslaught, Michelangelo couldn't help but glance towards his brother, witnessing Leonardo's valiant struggle against their assailants. Two robots had latched onto his shell, while another pair attempted to restrain his flailing arm. Despite the odds, Leonardo managed to wield a sword, swinging it with determined ferocity. But even that brief glimmer of hope was swiftly extinguished as a foot connected with his wrist, the impact causing the weapon to fall with a sickening crack.

"Leo!" Michelangelo's desperate cry echoed through the chaos, but his focus remained unyielding as he dodged another incoming attack, the rush of wind grazing past him. With agile grace, he executed backflips, creating fleeting moments of distance, only to find the path to his brother obstructed by the relentless robots.

In the distance, he watched in horror as Donatello's battle shell was hoisted into a nearby truck, while Raphael was seized and dragged away. Panic surged within him as he realized the dire situation they were facing. Donatello was the one with the expertise to deal with robots, not him. He couldn't hack them or exploit their weaknesses.

But the sight of Leonardo, so close yet so vulnerable, spurred Michelangelo into action. He couldn't bear to lose another brother. With a surge of determination, the cracks in his arms, long concealed beneath his arm wraps, glowed with a fiery intensity, fueled by his unwavering resolve.

"Get into your shell!" Michelangelo's voice rang out, his words a command imbued with the trust that ran deep between brothers. Without hesitation, Leonardo complied, retreating into the safety of his shell. The robots may have sought the same outcome, but the bond of brotherhood was a force far stronger than any adversary.

With a burst of turbulent energy, flames engulfed Michelangelo's arms as he propelled himself forward, driving the robots away from his fallen brother. With unwavering determination, he scooped up the heavy form of his larger sibling, refusing to let him fall.

No, he takes Leonardo and runs, leaving nothing but a scorched trail behind him.

Upon reaching the safety of the sewers, Michelangelo's strength ebbed away, his arms still throbbing ominously despite releasing his mystic energy as Draxum had taught him. With a heavy heart, Leonardo cautiously extended his remaining limbs from his shell. It was jarring to see his brother missing a head and an arm, but Michelangelo crawled onto his lap nonetheless, seeking solace in their shared embrace.

They needed to return to the lair, to seek help, but in that moment, all they needed was the reassurance of each other's presence.

"Never again," Michelangelo hissed against his older brother's plastron, his voice laced with raw emotion. "You never do that again. If I didn't—If I couldn't—Don't you dare ever say that again-"

Leonardo fell silent, his words weighed down by remorse. "...I'm sorry," he eventually murmured, his apology barely more than a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Mike."

In response, Michelangelo held onto him tighter, allowing his pent-up tears to finally flow.

Chapter 3: Left Behind - Donatello & Leonardo

Chapter Text

When he took in a breath, all he could smell was death. It hit him like a physical force, the air heavy with the weight of finality. The scent clung to his nostrils, insistent and unyielding, wrapping around him like a suffocating shroud. It was as if the very essence of mortality had seeped into every molecule, saturating the atmosphere with its sickly perfume.

He was laying on the ground. No, laying in it , and while the sensation of such would’ve normally given him immediate and violent nausea, he was too exhausted to even react. The entire world seemed fuzzy around him, a ringing in his ears, and when he got a hand underneath himself, it sunk into the ground, like pressing into warm, firm jelly.

Around him, the world steadily came into focus, and so too did the condition of his body. Pain seemed to scream and reverberate through every ounce of his being, both inside and outside. His shell screamed at him, the weight of his battle shell no longer comforting, but actively applying pressure to wounds that screamed in protest of it. Each breath tore through his lungs, leaving his throat raw and seared, the rasping sound reverberating in his ears. Surrounding him, the landscape shimmered with hues of pink and pale purple, the ground pulsating as if alive.

Because it was.

The memory of how he ended up in this dire situation crashed over him with such force that his hand trembled, threatening to lose its grip and send him plummeting back into the slimy muck below. It was a Krang outpost, and he had led an elite force here, emphasizing stealth and precision, likening their approach to wielding a scalpel rather than an unwieldy axe.

Yet, his calculations had faltered. Perhaps they had been detected, or maybe the Krang had been aware of their presence all along. At this point, however, the how hardly mattered. Pushing himself up from the floor, he disregarded the swirling dizziness and the pulsing ache in his head, and propped himself up against the nearest undulating wall for support. With a shaky hand, he retrieved his goggles from his forehead, belatedly noticing their nearly irreparable state. Fortunately, he had opted for reinforced alloy, sparing them from utter uselessness in this critical moment.

Regardless, he does a cursory scan of his own body and grimaces when he sees the prognosis. His shell was punctured by his own caved in battle shell, legs broken, ribs cracked, most likely a concussion to add to it. The slimy feeling beneath him wasn’t solely from the Krang flesh, but his own blood, no doubt.

With a resigned exhale, Donatello flips his goggles back up, shaking his head slightly. They had succeeded in their mission, managing to infiltrate the outpost and plant the bomb. The fading colors around him hinted at the success of their endeavor. In the heart of the Krang stem, the surrounding flesh would wither and perish without the vital nutrients to sustain it. Once the decay began, the rest of the resistance could initiate cleansing efforts, paving the way for this region to become habitable once more.

But dwelling on Leonardo's absence was futile. He wasn't here, and surrounded by darkness, the softshell could only deduce that he was either still within the decaying confines of the Krang base or that night had fallen outside. In either scenario, death seemed inevitable. If he didn't succumb to his injuries and bled out, then surely a stray Krang beast would stumble upon him amidst the wreckage.

A shiver of revulsion courses through him at the thought. Undoubtedly, the Krang would prefer him “alive”, if only to exploit his intellect for access to the resistance's technology. Becoming their captive would spell doom for the resistance, for his friends, for his family.

But he doesn't need to say anything more. His brothers understand all too well. The tone of his voice, the weakness, and the cracks convey everything they need to know. It's the voice of someone facing death alone in the unforgiving wilderness, surrounded by Krang-infested dangers.

“No, no, Donnie, you stay awake-I’m coming out there-Mikey can get there faster than all of us, I’ll send him after you, you just need to stay awake.”

The soft sound of sniffing echoes in the darkness, likely emanating from a Krang hound or some variation thereof, Donatello surmises. The weight of the knife in his hand feels almost unbearable as he grips it tightly. "Leo, listen," he begins, his voice strained but determined.

“Don’t you dare, Donnie, don’t you f*cking dare-” The voice crackles over the speaker, filled with desperation and fear, but Donatello sighs, his resolve unwavering.

"Shelldon will take over for me once you report my status," he manages to convey, interrupted by another fit of coughing that drowns out his brother's increasingly frantic yells.

"Mikey, f*cking go! Stop waiting, run!" The urgency in his brother's voice pierces through the static, slightly quieter as Leo’s no doubt yelling off to the side, not directing his voice to the communicator. He does return after, however.

"Donnie, I don't care about Shelldon or whatever you're saying. Tell me what's happened, what's wrong? You need to focus on stabilizing yourself, not giving up," his brother's frantic pleas echo in his ears, but Donatello can feel his strength waning by the second.

As his brother's frantic yells come through the speaker, they start to draw attention. Donatello catches sight of the softly glowing eyes of a Krang beast in the distance. "Leo, the smell of my blood... it's attracting scavengers already. I can't let them..." he struggles to articulate, the fear evident in his voice.

But Leonardo understands. He always does. They both know what needs to happen, yet that doesn't stop the other from shouting back, "Mikey will make it in time. He can handle scavengers like they're nothing. You just need to hold on, you just—"

“Leo,”

"Donnie..." Leonardo's voice trembles, mirroring the emotions swelling within Donatello. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes as he draws in a ragged breath. With both hands clenched tightly around the knife in his lap, he steadies himself.

"Leo, sing to me... the song Father would sing when we were sick. When we were children," he requests, watching death crawl ever closer.

The weight of their shared sorrow hangs heavy in the air, a palpable silence stretching between them.

"Don't make me, Donnie. Please. I can't lose you too," Leonardo pleads, his voice cracking with raw emotion.

"I'll only be lost for a little while, brother," Donatello whispers, his gaze fixed on the approaching glow of the beast's eyes.

A half-stifled sob escapes from the other end of the comm unit, and then...

"Close your eyes, my little dear," Leonardo sings softly, his voice trembling with grief and love. Donatello inhales deeply, allowing his eyes to slip shut as the familiar melody washes over him.

"Underneath the moon so clear, stars above, they softly gleam," Leonardo continues, his voice tender and gentle. In Donatello's mind's eye, the blade in his hands indeed seems to shimmer in the lunar light, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

"Bringing you the sweetest dream," he sings, and for a moment, Donatello allows himself to imagine a future where he might be brought back. Perhaps one day, when the Krang are vanquished and the world is saved, someone will pick up where he left off, completing the research he was never able to finish. It's a fleeting thought, a glimmer of possibility amidst the despair, but in that moment, it offers a sliver of comfort.

"Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye," Leonardo's voice continues to weave its soothing spell, but the soft padding of the Krang beast's paws against the fleshy ground grows louder, closer. Donatello lifts the knife in his hands, his grip steady despite the tremors coursing through him.

"In your cradle, softly lie," Donatello knows he can't hesitate any longer. With a deep breath, he focuses on the task at hand. Just one solid thrust, aimed true. If he can destroy the brain, render his body useless to the Krang and his family will be safe.

"Sleep, my darling, rest your head," Leonardo's voice fades into the background as Donatello prepares himself for what comes next. He hears the growl of the approaching Krang beast, but it's mercifully brief. His brother's verse had lasted longer, and for that, he's grateful. In this final moment, he wants nothing more than to be surrounded by the comforting embrace of his other half's voice.

"Thank you, Leonardo," he whispers softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the comm unit. With a steady hand and a determined heart, he readies himself to face the inevitable.

The red-eared slider hears it all. The violent squelch of flesh as the knife tears through skin and thin bone to its target. Then, the soft thud as the body hits the ground, lifeless and limp like a puppet with its strings cut.

Leonardo finishes the song, "In your dreams, be safely led," his voice steady despite the tears threatening to overwhelm him. He swallows them down, his resolve unyielding. With a turn of the dial, he switches to Michelangelo's frequency, his voice quiet but urgent as he calls out, "Come back, Mikey."

As the words escape his lips, Leonardo knows that Michelangelo understands their weight, their finality. Yet he says them anyway, for himself, for his brother, for Donatello. "He's lost," he murmurs, the truth heavy in his heart.

Leonardo and Michelangelo remain, the last two of the Hamato clan, the last two turtles fighting a war that seems to have no end. Over two weeks later, the recovery team finally makes it to the withered zone, when they can spare the necessary resources to stage a cleansing mission. Amidst the desolation, they discover the rotting bodies and skeletal remains of Donatello's team.

April tells him and Michelangelo that they shouldn’t see the body. Yet, amidst the darkness, a flicker of familiarity emerges as she offers something recognizable.

That night, in his bunk, the smaller, frailer form of his aged brother curls against him, seeking a sort of solace and comfort in their closeness. It’s late, but neither of them can sleep. Instead, the box turtle's exhausted eyes watch in silence as his brother's hands move with a sense of purpose. With painstaking care, Leonardo winds his hands slowly and diligently around the handle of his sword. Purple threads intertwine with red, weaving a bond that transcends the physical, a symbol of remembrance and resilience. He ties it tight so that the color is never lost again.

Chapter 4: A New Life - All Turtles

Chapter Text

Eight months since their brother had gone missing, they find him without even meaning to.

A trip to the Hidden City for a normal supply and grocery run, Leonardo and Michelangelo had been walking at the front of their trio with Donatello lagging behind. The silent acceptance that their brother may never be found had started to sink in for the orange and blue turtles, but never for the purple one. No, he was supposed to be able to fix things. To always have a solution, and all of his machinery, his greatest inventions, none of them could find his own brother.

Then, a sudden alarm blared through Donatello's headset, causing him to stagger. Ignoring his brothers' concerned looks, he focused on the alert, his breath catching in his throat. Leo’s the one to ask, “Don? You ok?” but Donatello’s pulling his goggles down to see what the alert was and he stops breathing.

"Raphael's designated voice signature matched. Direction: northwest, 784 meters."

"I... I don't know you," Red interrupted, growing increasingly uncomfortable. "I live here. I... oh!" His face lit up with realization. "If anyone can figure this out, the headmistress can!"

The headmistress, initially irked by the intrusion of the three boys, proved to be kind-hearted. Red clearly adored her, readily complying with her requests and soaking up her affectionate gestures—just like Raphael would have.

Their conversation with her yielded four crucial pieces of information. Firstly, the place was a yokai orphanage. Secondly, Raphael had been brought there on the same day he disappeared. Thirdly, he had arrived with severe injuries. And lastly, those injuries had resulted in amnesia.

Raphael had no memory of his past—no recollection of his identity, origins, friends, or family. As a teenage orphan with no one to claim him, the orphanage had provided him with a bed, shelter, food, and clothing. This was now his home, whether he remembered his previous life or not.

Leonardo's frustration boiled over as he slammed his hands on the table. "He's our brother! Can't you see the family resemblance?!"

The headmistress merely tutted in response. "Just because you're all turtles doesn't mean you're necessarily family. You're not even the same species of turtle," she rebuffed, shaking her head disapprovingly. Then, her tone shifted, and she turned her attention to Leonardo. "And I want to know where your parents are as well, Leonardo, was it? You boys aren't living out on the streets, are you?"

The implication made Donatello instinctively shield Michelangelo behind him, a protective gesture. "We have parents," Leonardo asserted firmly. "And we all want to find where our brother went. We've been trying to find him all this time."

The headmistress remained unmoved. "Well, how about you come back with your parents, and we can sit down and talk about things, alright? And next time, you can come through the front door instead of scaling the fence."

When they explain things to their father, Splinter is far from pleased, but even more-he isn’t quite sure what to do. In the legal realm of the Hidden City, all of them were undocumented and there were…quite a few arguments to be made about him being unfit to be a parent. Getting Raphael into their custody legally would be virtually impossible.

"So... we just sneak him out, then!" Michelangelo exclaimed, a spark of determination in his eyes. "I'll whip up his favorite pizza cookie recipe!"

Donatello's grin mirrored Michelangelo's enthusiasm. "Brilliant idea, Michael!" His voice resonated with more fervor than it had in the past year. "If we bring him items from his past that he connects with, we might be able to jog his memory!"

The next time the boys show up to the orphanage, they do not go through the front door. Concealed near the bushes by the basketball court, they patiently waited for Raphael to emerge. After what felt like an eternity, the orphanage finally released the children to the playground, and there was Raphael, making his way toward the basketball court.

A well-aimed pebble diverted Raphael's attention, followed by another to pique his curiosity. He glanced up, locking eyes with Michelangelo's pleading gaze.

Raphael's initial reaction was less than ideal. He frowned and glanced nervously around before reluctantly making his way toward the fence where Michelangelo awaited. Crouching down, he whispered, "You guys shouldn't be here! They told me not to talk to you without an adult present."

"We wanted to bring you presents!" Michelangelo exclaimed, his excitement barely contained.

"Presents?" Raphael's smile brightened, and as Michelangelo nodded eagerly, Donatello stepped forward with a large box they had brought. "We thought you might enjoy things from your past, and maybe it will help jog your memory," he explained.

Raphael winced slightly at the mention of memory, but he nodded in agreement, taking a seat. Leonardo reached into the box and pulled out the first items—a trio of teddy bears, each dressed in its own adorable costume. "This one's Dr. Huggenstein, this one's Captain Snuggles, and you named this one Cheech!"

"I did?" Raphael tilted his head in confusion. "I do love plushies, but I've never had any teddy bears before. Oh! But I do have this dinosaur plushie. Maybe I could show it to you and introduce them to your little bear friends!"

Leonardo blinked in surprise, caught off guard by Raphael's abrupt interruption. "They're not mine, they're yours, Raph—I—"

"And can you stop calling me that?"

The trio exchanged bewildered glances, but Leonardo replied, "What?"

"Raph. Raphael. That's not my name. My name's Red."

Any semblance of joy faded from their expressions. Donatello managed to regain his composure, stepping forward and clearing his throat. "I brought your retainer. I designed it especially for you, after all." With the assistance of his robotic arms, he presented the dental appliance. "To help correct your snaggletooth."

Raphael—now Red—paused, lifting a finger to touch the mentioned tooth. "It was sore for a while. The headmistress says she wants me to go see a dentist about it."

"See?" Michelangelo interjected hopefully, producing his own bag of treats. "And these are your favorites! Pizza cookies with your preferred toppings! Meat lovers!" With a smile, he fed a cookie through the gaps in the chain-link fence for the large turtle to enjoy, which he did eagerly.

Stars practically twinkled in Michelangelo's eyes as he witnessed the amazed smile spread across Raphael Red's face. "These are great. Ah, Michelangelo, you said?" RaphaelRed inquired.

"Yeah!" Michelangelo nodded enthusiastically. "I also brought your favorite sandwich, snacks, soda, and—"

But the overwhelmed expression on Raphael Red's face halted Michelangelo's litany. Leonardo stepped in, clearing his throat and shooting Michelangelo a meaningful glance. "So, Red, convinced now?" he asked, attempting to gauge RaphaelRed's reaction.

The hand that had been holding out another pizza cookie trembled and dropped, tears welling up in Michelangelo's eyes. The three brothers watched from their hidden spot as Red joined his friends to play basketball.

After a while, Leonardo let out a long breath. "We just have to keep trying. Come on, let's head back home."

Michelangelo didn't want to leave. Donatello carried him away in silence, each step away from their brother only seeming to intensify the box turtle's tears.

As the days passed, the trio continued their vigil by the fence, offering various items each time Red appeared. Some days, he refused to interact, simply shaking his head. Other days, he approached willingly, but none of the items they brought seemed to trigger any memories. His skateboard, his old weapons, his ninja gear—none of it rang a bell.

When Michelangelo mentioned mystic powers, Red seemed bewildered. Even when prompted, he couldn't connect with his ninpo at all. "Maybe I really am a different turtle," he’d chuckled. Donatello's tests had confirmed that their DNA matched.

Every day brought more disappointment, more tears, and more frustration. Then, one day, when Red voiced his observation, "You know, you guys keep showing up here—and you've never brought those parents of yours," Leonardo was struck by the realization he had overlooked.

They brought Splinter the very next day. This time, Red blinked incredulously. "Your parent is... a rat?"

"Adoptive parent," Donatello clarified with a nod. "Long story."

"A very long one," Splinter added, reaching out as if to touch his eldest son, but Red flinched away. Splinter took a deep breath to steady himself. "My son, you are missed immensely. When your brothers told me you were here, I was overjoyed that you were finally found. I only wish you would trust us enough to come with us."

Red glanced between the turtles on the other side of the fence and the other children behind him. After a moment, he shook his head. "I've thought about this a lot and..."

"Yes, my son?" Splinter's hope was palpable, everyone holding their breath.

"...This... Raphael that you keep calling me. It might have been me... but I'm not him anymore." His voice carried a tinge of sadness as he stood. "I like my life here. I like living here. Everyone here's like my family now too."

Mikey's hands covered his mouth as he shook his head in a silent plea.

"I... appreciate everything you've done, but..." Red began, his voice tinged with regret.

Leo swallowed hard, nodding. "...No, that's... you don't have to... we get it." He forced a smile, though it wavered. "We shouldn't... keep pressuring you, but—" He drew in a shaky breath. "Even if... we're not brothers, I know all of us would love to be your friend, right guys?"

Leonardo was trying to maintain composure, attempting to find a middle ground.

Donatello managed a nod, his expression solemn.

Michelangelo could barely manage that much. He was silently crying again, wiping away tears with his palms and wrists, nodding shakily as he choked out, "Mmm... mhm..."

Red smiled sympathetically at them. "Hey, maybe if you asked the headmistress if you could just join us for our playtimes, I bet she'd say yes! Just... maybe don't mention all this sneaking around for days and days. Kinda stalkerish."

They nodded, bidding their farewells and gathering their things to leave.

That night, as Michelangelo sobbed loudly into his chest, a dark, selfish thought crept into Leonardo's mind—wishing they'd never found Raphael in the first place.

Chapter 5: A Laboratory is no Place for Children - Michelangelo & Donatello

Chapter Text

Among his siblings, Donatello trusted only Michelangelo enough to allow him into his lab, albeit on a selective basis. Donnie, with his meticulous attention to both form and function, took pride in his work. Yet, there were occasions when his envisioned designs didn't quite translate into reality through his own hands. In such moments, he welcomed Mikey's assistance, particularly in applying the finishing touches to their projects, with the understanding that his younger brother would maintain a quiet presence.

Mikey, always eager to help, readily agreed to the arrangement, and together they formed an effective partnership. Over time, Donnie increasingly sought Mikey's input on designs, recognizing his brother's innate artistic flair. After all, Mikey wasn't dubbed the family artist for nothing, and Donatello wasn't foolish enough to overlook such a valuable resource.

The one detail Donatello had overlooked was properly explaining to his brother why he restricted access to his lab. It was convenient to claim he simply needed alone time or that his lab was his sanctuary for recharging, but the truth was more serious. With numerous ongoing projects and experimental equipment strewn about, any of his brothers could unwittingly stumble into a hazardous situation.

On an ordinary day, much like any other, Donatello didn't require Mikey's assistance. Yet, their shared habit of working alongside each other led Mikey to be present in the lab nonetheless. Donnie, engrossed in his tasks at his workstation, delicately soldered new circuitry for his latest project, while Mikey, settled in a corner with a sketch pad and colored pencils, nodded along to the music streaming through his headset.

A companionable silence between the two of them, the soft ambiance of his tools and the soft, near imperceptible of pencil running across paper. Donatello had come to cherish moments like these, though he’d never admit that to anyone. If only things were perfect…and they weren’t, because he’d already run out of the flux he’d brought to the table, having completely miscalculated how much he’d need.

If anyone asked, it was not because he’d only slept about two hours last night.

"Mikey?" Donnie called, glancing over his shoulder, hoping for a response. When none came, he sighed, lifted his goggles, and turned to face his brother directly. "Michelangelo."

Startled out of his reverie, Mikey blinked and removed his headset, letting it dangle around his neck. "What's up, Dee?" he asked, turning his attention to his brother.

Donatello nodded toward a shelf tucked away in the far corner of his lab. "Could you grab the flux for me? It's a critical part of the soldering process, and I can't afford to leave it unattended."

"Sure thing, Don!" Mikey bounded up from the floor, passing by his brother's desk without complaint as he made his way to the shelf. However, he paused and turned back. "Um... what does flux look like?"

"The flux I need is in liquid form. You'll find it on the shelf labeled 'acids,' but don't worry, it's not particularly strong," Donatello reassured him. "It should appear clear, like water, but slightly thicker, akin to very thin syrup. Think you can spot it?"

“Of course I can manage it!” Mikey nods and heads over, analyzing the shelf for a while. After all, this was a simple retrieval task for something that wasn’t even that dangerous. Clearly Donatello trusted him with this, otherwise he never would have asked! Still, the tall shelf lies before him, filled with beakers, jars, and bottles filled with all sorts of things. Things that looked like water, things that looked like oil, and things that…well, Mikey didn’t even want to know what those were.

But! He wasn’t here to get distracted, he was here to help! “Acid…that is…clear….like water….” The box turtle squints, scanning the many, many bottles. Ok, this was way harder than he thought. Thank the Pizza Supreme in the sky that Donatello had at least narrowed it down to the “Acids” shelf, because that cut out two-thirds of the chemicals stored over here, but this was still a lot! At the very least, Mikey manages to narrow it down to three bottles of varying sizes.

He looks behind him, mouth open to ask for which of three he should grab but when he looks, Donnie’s goggles are down again, looking at some sort of schematic he has beside him. He’s so hard at work that his tongue’s just peeking out of his beak as he concentrates. Ok, right, don’t interrupt his work. He didn’t want to throw off his big brother’s mojo.

"Thanks, Michael," Donnie says, still a bit distracted. But when the box turtle doesn't immediately leave, the scientist looks up from his work, tilting his head. "What is it?"

Mikey, with both pointer fingers tapping nervously against each other, looks like the poster child of guilt. "I, uh... might have spilled some. What should I use to clean it?"

Donnie's eyes widen in horror as he looks up just in time to witness his baby brother, Mikey, reaching down with a simple rag towards the spill. Time seems to slow as Donnie's mind races through the potential consequences of Mikey's actions. A surge of panic courses through him, his heart pounding against his chest like a jackhammer.

"Mikey, no!" Donnie's voice rings out in a desperate plea, the urgency unmistakable. But it's too late. Mikey's hand is already descending towards the spill, unaware of the danger lurking within.

In a split second, Mikey's hand makes contact with the spilled liquid, and a sizzle fills the air as the rag soaks up the corrosive substance. A faint, acrid smell rises from the rag, a warning sign that something is terribly wrong. But before Mikey can react, his fingers brush against the exposed live wire nearby.

A blinding flash of light illuminates the room as electricity surges through Mikey's body, his muscles tensing with searing pain. Donatello hears the scream of pain as the box turtle’s muscles clenching and seizing up. Michelangelo falls to the side, stiff and unable to move, but his hand won’t let go of the damn wire.

“What-” And Donatello, who wasn’t even aware that the spill had been on a wire in the first place, is more than a little shocked. He rushes to the scene, only to pale when he sees the convulsing form. Electricity. Right. Ok. He rushes off to turn to disconnect the electricity, yelling as loud as he dares for “Leonardo! Lab! Emergency!” in hopes their family medic would hear it and get to them in time.

But until he got there, Donnie had to see Mikey’s condition, to know what needed to be done. His baby brother’s limbs are still twitching and convulsing when he arrives, but Donatello’s at least able to get him moved away from the spill and corroded wire. Ok. Alright. What was the thing Leo had told him? STOP? No, that was for the scene, he’d already pulled Mikey away…it was safe here, relatively speaking, as long as no one went near the spilled acid.

Right, ok, check for consciousness. He taps Mikey’s shoulder, then his cheek. “Michelangelo. Mikey! Can you hear me?” No response. Ok, alright. Assess the breathing and pulse.

His hand flies to his baby brother’s wrist, checking the pulse point Leo had shown him for times like these. The softshell pales. Ok, maybe he’s just not…doing it right.

The point on the throat’s easier and stronger, so he pushes his fingers there and-...nothing.

No pulse. Mikey isn’t breathing. He’s dead, he’s dead.

“No, no, no, Mikey!” Ok, one hand over the other, over the chest, and he shoves down hard.

He’s in the middle of his first set of compressions when he hears feet running into his lab. “Donnie?!” It’s Leo, sliding to a stop by Mikey’s form, taking in the sight. “What’s going on? What happened?” The red-eared slider is already on Mikey’s other side, crouching down and opening up his kit.

“Electric shock, touched a live wire.” Donatello grunts, letting his twin figure out the rest, especially considering the context clues of the scene he just arrived at.

Leo curses under his breath, the air thick with tension as he looks up, eyes scanning the room frantically. "Raph!" His voice reverberates with urgency, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. "Raph, where are you? Get the AED from the med bay, quickly!"

Then, turning back to Donatello, Leo's gaze is intense, his words cutting through the chaos like a knife. "Where are you at? And apply more pressure, you need to penetrate the plastron; this is real, not like practicing on dummies anymore."

"Twenty, twenty-one," Donatello begins counting aloud, his voice strained with determination as he dares to push harder, shoving his entire weight into each compression. He only stutters slightly when he feels something nauseatingly akin to cracking underneath him.

When he hits thirty, Leo tilts their baby brother's head back and breathes for him. Raph arrives only a few seconds later, the AED machine in hand.

With steady hands, Leonardo attaches the AED pads to Mikey's chest, his heart pounding in sync with each agonizing moment that passes. They all hold their breath as the machine analyzes Mikey's heart rhythm, praying for a miracle. Donatello had crafted this machine at Leonardo’s insistence, as one designed for humans just wouldn’t be able to get the job done on their reptilian biology. Donatello had hoped they’d never actually have a reason to use it.

But the first shock brings only silence, a crushing weight of disappointment settling over them. Donatello's hands shake as he continues compressions, refusing to accept defeat.

His arms ache with the effort, but he ignores the strain. Donnie only dares give himself a break when Leo orders him off and away for the machine to do its job, or at least try to do so again. This time, it's as if time stands still, their collective breath held in anticipation. And then, finally, a gasp. Mikey's chest rises, his body convulsing as life floods back into him.

He’s breathing. He’s breathing. Donatello collapses over his brother's frail form, exhaling breaths that verge on sobs, though tears elude him. Just as he's on the brink of succumbing to the overwhelming stress, Leo interjects, snapping his fingers to regain Donatello's focus. "Not yet, Don. I need you to get the med bay ready.”

Ok. A job to do. Leo’s telling Raph something else, but Donatello can hardly hear it. This was his fault. His fault! His baby brother was on death’s door thanks to him. He could feel the guilt eating him from the inside out. Even as he started prepping the bed and a catheter for the IV, he could barely stop shaking.

It's Raphael who tenderly lays Mikey down, with Leo working diligently beside him. As the medic begins to apply the tourniquet, he steals a glance at his distressed twin. There's a moment of silent understanding, and then Leo exhales as he starts swabbing the arm down. “Raph, take Don outside.”

He can’t catch it. Everything feels dizzy and blurry and disorientating. He feels like he’s going to be sick, and when Raph puts a hand on his shoulder, the softshell collapses right there. Next thing he knows, he’s up in the air, cradled protectively in his big brother’s arms, soft words of reassurance echoing around him. They settle on the couch in the main living room, focusing on steadying Donatello's breaths while Leo works alone to further stabilize and assess Mikey's condition.

"Heya, Dee!" Donatello perked up as the familiar voice echoed through the entrance to his lab, prompting him to rise to his feet almost instinctively.

"No, Miguel, it's off-limits," Donatello's tone was resolute as he shook his head, arms folded, his gaze fixed on his bandaged baby brother. It had only been a couple of days since Leo had given Mikey the green light to move around the lair freely and not be confined to the med bay, and Donatello wasn't willing to take any risks that might send him back there.

After they had stabilized his pulse, Mikey had regained consciousness after another ten minutes, waking up just as Leo was administering his painkillers. It took time to ensure his chemical burns were properly treated and wrapped, and even longer to assess any damage to his body from the electricity. There was some lingering damage, and even now, Donatello could see it: the shakier way Mikey stood, leaning against the doorway for support, and the occasional tremble in the arm that had grabbed the wire in the first place.

Mikey squints, studying his brother's poker face for a moment before his frown softens into a smile. "Well, I guess what I really want to do is sketch with you. So, the lab was always just the setting. Would you mind being with me in my room then? Or literally anywhere else?"

When he enters Mikey's room, Donatello finds his brother already settled on this hammock, sketchpad in hand, already working to bring some new piece of art to life.

Without a word, Donatello joined him, settling in beside Mikey with a tender sigh of contentment. He draped an arm around his brother, drawing him close as if to protect him from any harm the world might bring. Mikey only responded by subtly snuggling closer, a soft smile coming back to him as they both worked in the comfortable quiet.

Chapter 6: Soft Shell, Soft Turtle - Donatello

Chapter Text

It was evident to all that despite the four boys not sharing genetic ties (unless one counted the portion of Lou Jitsu's DNA they all bore), their bond transcended biology; they were a family. Four brothers, united in solidarity in a world that often cast them aside. Their unity was unwavering; they'd always be there for each other.

And just like a true family, that also meant that as brothers, they could get on each other's nerves quite a lot. While Mikey might abuse his younger brother privileges and Raph may get a bit too overprotective thanks to him being the eldest, nothing would compare to the rivalry between Leo and Don. As the “middle children” and self-proclaimed twins, the two were always butting heads, always competing, always thinking up a new prank to get under their twin’s skin.

Given their shared aquatic nature as turtles, their competitions naturally extended to underwater feats as well. Raphael, being an aquatic turtle himself, assumed the role of a vigilant overseer during these underwater antics, although nothing catastrophic ever transpired. Meanwhile, Mikey always made an effort to observe from above, dangling his feet into the water, eager to catch a glimpse of the action.

Over the years, a recurring truth became evident between them: while Donatello possessed superior stamina and efficiency, allowing him to swim faster and cover longer distances than Leonardo, Leo excelled in agility and precision. His ability to turn sharply and maneuver with accuracy surpassed anything Donatello could achieve.

Despite their efforts, these were immutable facts, accepted with a mutual respect that acknowledged each other's strengths. They understood they could never outperform the other in their respective areas of expertise. It was a humbling realization, albeit one that fostered a deep sense of camaraderie and mutual admiration.

Meat Sweats had been up to his old antics once more, this time terrorizing a farm situated to the north of NYC. Well, perhaps "terrorizing" was a bit of an exaggeration, considering the chaos had already been unfolding there well before his arrival. It appeared that something or someone had contaminated the farm, resulting in a proliferation of mutant cows, sheep, chickens, and even mutant crops. Meat Sweats, as he casually informed them, had simply been there for a spot of "grocery shopping."

Even if the mutant cows and sheep behaved basically the same as normal cows and sheep, still munching away on their grass without a care in the world, that hadn’t meant the turtles had intended to let Meat Sweats freely take and butcher them for his next culinary creation.

“Leave the cows alone, Meat Sweats!” Raphael yelled, slamming a ninpo-powered fist deep into the ground, strong enough to create a wave of ripples, ripping up the ground. The pig man had seen it coming though, and had jumped up in the air before the attack could affect him.

“Well, perhaps I could have been convinced to change my dinner plans for tonight, if one of you got on the chopping block!” From his higher vantage point, he’d thrown his meat cleaver, aiming right for Donatello.

Raph yelled out a “Look out!” but he had been too far to make it to protect his younger brother.

Thankfully Leo and his extreme speed had made it before the cleaver did, a loud metal clang echoing into the air when his katanas had come into contact and then deflected the deadly metal weapon. “I gotcha, bro!” The weight of the pig man’s massive weapon though, in comparison to Leo’s, had made his feet skid back a few inches from the impact of the two, but it had been nothing he couldn’t handle. He just hoped it hadn’t actually damaged his blade…

“I could’ve handled it, Leo!” Donatello huffed, shoving past his twin and running towards where Mikey and Raph were tag-teaming the mutant. Michelangelo had managed to wrap his chains around one of Meat Sweats' massive biceps (they had looked larger than normal, maybe he had gotten to one of the cows before they had gotten there…) and had been attempting to hold him in place for Raph’s next punch.

The box turtle’s feet dug into the muddy ground, creating small dips of churned-up mud and grass as he attempted to hold his ground. “You think that’s enough to hold me back?” Meat Sweats laughed, his head turning to see the snapping turtle running for him, “You really should eat more protein!” And he planted his own hooves into the ground and yanked his arm around. In a battle of raw strength, the mutant chef was the clear and easy winner as he used Mikey’s own chains against him. The small turtle was thrown hard, right for Raph, whose attack quickly turned into a catch to save the other.

“I got you, Mikey!” Oh, he had him alright, perhaps had him a little too well, considering the box turtle’s body is slammed against his plastron, hard enough to make even the snapping turtle’s scales throb with pain. Mikey had hit him shoulder first, but that wasn’t the main concern. The main concern was the fact that his screaming brother had suddenly stopped screaming when contact was made, his ninpo chains dissipating into thin air upon impact. Not only that, but the impact was strong enough to send Raph flying backwards.

Thankfully the paddock they were fighting in was fenced off before it dropped off to the fast moving river along the edge. The only caveat to that was the fence itself was barbed wire. They hit it hard, the metal wire bending underneath the tremendous weight and force of their combined bodies and the impact. Thank the Pizza Supreme in the Sky that alligator snapping turtles had some of the strongest shells on the planet, because the wire slides in underneath Raph’s spikes and catches there. While he can feel the uncomfortable pressure, it isn’t cutting into his flesh, so that’s a plus.

The bad part is the wire, or at least, where the wire is attached to the metal posts, can’t withstand the combined force of both Raph and Mikey hitting it at such speeds. There’s a snap as it breaks from the fence, and lets the two spill into the river. Raph holds Mikey close to keep him safe, and while the river was deep, a quick extension of his arm with his own ninpo is more than enough to grab onto the drier river bank and yank them back out.

Leo and Donnie had watched all of this as they ran up on their opponent, both calling out the names of their brothers in concern, “Raph! Mikey!” In fact, the sword wielder is already preparing himself to change his running direction to go towards them instead in case they need help.

Mikey gives him a look.

“A-nope!” But the agile slider transitions to his knees just as easily, using the wetness of the grass beneath him to slide underneath the swing, springing back up on Meat Sweats’ other side and landing a kick right to the small of his back.

“Why you little-!”

Since Leo’s so close to him, this means he also needs to dodge, lest he become part of Donnie’s collateral damage. “Watch it, Dee!”

Leo’s in front of Donnie to shield it before the softshell has his bo staff up. “Leo, wait-”

Getting a face full of writhing tentacles is bringing up a lot of bad memories for Donatello right now, but given the current pain he’s in, it’s keeping the softshell rather focused on the present. His hands come up to wrench himself away, but the tendrils are over his face and wrapped around his neck, trying to yank away only chokes him. Add onto that the fact that every second he’s in Meat Sweat’s grip, he can feel his own energy getting sucked right out of his body.

“Donnie! Let go of him!” His brother sounds genuinely concerned, enraged even. When he brings his blades down, there’s no longer any hint of him holding back. Too bad, the pig man has quite the defense now as he yanks his hand up and uses Donatello’s battle shell to block the shot. Thankfully, the slider realizes this, and pulls his slash before it can do any real damage.

“What will you do now, turtle?” Meat Sweats goads him, grinning and waving Donatello’s increasingly limp body around, right in his face. He can see the green power of his brother’s mutant abilities getting absorbed, and Meat Sweat’s own form contorts to match its new abilities. A plastron grows on his front, the beginnings of a softshell on his back, a thinner form, more dexterous. Rectangular patterns pop up along his shoulders and thighs. “Why, I can see every possible angle of attack. With your brother in my hands, you can’t touch me!”

It’s at that time where Raphael makes it, joining the fight with a roar, “Brother saving like a boss!” and shoulder checks right into Meat Sweats’ side.

There’s a yelp of confusion as the idiot snapping turtle falls backwards, landing on his shell with both pig man and Donatello flying over him. But…Raph hasn’t let go of Donnie either. With a yell of effort, Meat Sweats yanks them both up, or up enough, with how tall Raph is, his legs are still partially on the ground, but the two turtles together create a wall to put in Leonardo’s way.

Using their brothers against each other, and for the third time that night! Leo is seething, though Raph easily sees a solution to this problem…and lets go of Donnie’s waist. The lack of weight lets Newton’s third law work its charm, and with Meat Sweat’s arm lifting higher, Leo shoves right under his hanging brother’s legs to slash right through the back of Meat Sweat’s thighs.

There’s a roar of pain as the mutant staggers, jumping backwards to get away and spreading his blood over the grass as he does so. His legs are quaking, deep, but not deep enough to ground him. Deep enough to make the bleeding a problem if he keeps fighting. Another meal would be able to repair his flesh fast enough…but they’d never let him reach one of the livestock to do so…unless…

The limp weight in his hand is all he needs to enact the master plan. “Fine! You want this softshell so badly? You can have him!” And the pig man throws with all of his might.

“Don!” “Donnie!” Both brothers chorus as they see Donatello fly for the river and the decision is made quickly. Meat Sweats is trying to get away. Leonardo trusts Raphael with his life, and of his brothers. They split up. Raphael rushes back for the river, Leonardo runs for their enemy. They’re going to finish this.

Donatello was vaguely aware of things that were happening around him; he just didn’t have the strength to do much about it. He felt Raph’s familiar arms around him for a brief moment, but they were gone the next. The next thing he realized, he was flying. He was flying and perhaps he should have been more scared, but everything felt really warm and cold all at once right then, and seeing the way the sunset soared above him so prettily...maybe that's why Mikey loved painting sunsets.

His body hit the frigid water of the river, his battle shell sinking in immediately. Already his instincts were kicking in, trying to move his limbs to swim as he was born to do, but his body was exhausted and it felt like he was moving through sludge. The water was moving too fast for him to fight against, and he was getting pulled along the current...until something hit and caught his battle shell. It felt thin...maybe one of Mikey’s chains? So Donatello reached out to grab it and...pain. Pain. That wasn’t a chain, that was barbed wire. Why was there a line of barbed wire just whipping around wildly in the river?!

The turbulent current worked against him again, and before his hand could yank away, the barbs had caught onto his fingers, then his wrist, then his arm. It ripped into his flesh as the river kept trying to yank him, and Donnie screamed. He screamed, and that was also a bad decision because bubbles left his mouth but there were no bubbles going in, and that was all of his air and now he was at risk of drowning.

The stench of his own blood in the water was suffocating, and he didn’t like how his fingers were starting to feel numb. That couldn’t be good. Nerve damage. Shock. Maybe he actually was drowning and losing consciousness. Maybe it was all of the above. Maybe it was...

A hand, strong and reliable, the size of his entire chest, was yanking him up out of the water. Donatello coughed and hacked the moment his head breached the surface of the river, sucking in air and expelling what water had managed to slip into his lungs. “You’re ok, Donnie. I gotcha. You’re ok,” Raphael’s voice said, but he was speaking like he was the one underwater. His throat just hadn't cooperated enough at that moment to let him respond. In fact, just trying to keep the large red and green blob at the center of his vision had been taxing enough to give him a headache.

“Is he ok?!” He heard another, younger voice ask. Not Leonardo. Mikey.

“I-I don’t know-he’s breathing, but he isn’t responding. Can you help me get this wire off him?”

“I can try-it’s…it’s really…stuck…”

“I don’t have anything to cut it-”

The two of them were talking over him, their voices fading in and out of Donnie’s consciousness. He had just felt so…tired, and since Leo wasn’t there, there was no one to scream at him to stay awake. Unless they were already doing that. Donatello couldn’t tell anymore, and it felt so good to let his eyes rest, just for a little while.

His brothers' absence during the confrontation with Meat Sweats suited Leonardo just fine. Without them here, he didn’t need to worry about what they’d think, seeing him like this. Anger surged through him at the memory of the harm inflicted upon Mikey, Raph, and Donnie, fueling his desire for retribution.

Meat Sweats had mocked him when he realized only one turtle remained to challenge him, but Leo didn't dignify his taunts with a response. The time for jesting had passed. Meat Sweats had crossed a line, and now he would face the consequences.

Leo materialized in front of his adversary, then vanished before the blow could land. With precision born of training and determination, he maneuvered, exploiting the softness of Meat Sweats' shell. Portal after portal, strike after strike, until the large mutant was teetering on his feet and then falling to his knees, unable to keep himself standing.

As Meat Sweats gasped for breath, Leonardo stepped out of a portal before him once more. The turtle made a show of sheathing his katanas before advancing, his gaze intent. "Wait," the chef pleaded, raising a feeble hand. "I-I wasn't serious. I-I know you turtles can swim! I didn't mean to-"

Leo circled him, his movements deliberate. "That softshell you gained is really special, you know? Donnie says he doesn’t mind having one, but I can tell," he remarked.

Meat Sweats blinked, not quite sure where this was going, trying to crane his head around to follow the other’s movements.

A foot pressed down on that vulnerable softshell and dug in painfully, shoving the pig’s face into the ground, the sensitive flesh already bruising from the hits Leo had given it before. “And since I’m the one that patched him up every time he got hurt, I know how painful this is,” Leo’s voice hissed bitterly right next to the pig’s ear. “So here’s a recommendation, stay away from my brothers, or you’ll regret it.”

"Y-Yes! I swear! I won't do it again! Pig's honor!"

The slider watched as the mutant scrambled up and away from him, running off and away from the farm entirely, most likely to wherever he’d hidden that truck of his. Fine.

With that, Leonardo turns and strides away. He had brothers to go and help, after all.

"Do you need help reaching, Dee?"

Donatello groaned, rolling his eyes as Leo slid next to him on the couch. "Nardo, I swear-"

"Hey, I figured since I kept getting in your way during that fight, helping you out is the least I could do," Leo said, shrugging nonchalantly, ignoring his twin's confused blink.

"You were— that wasn't—" Donatello sighed, gesturing with his heavily bandaged arm, practically useless until it fully recovered. "Leo, if you gave yourself another guilt complex because of this—"

"Well, I wouldn't feel so guilty if you let me help you."

"You shouldn't feel a need to help me in the first place."

"That's just what brothers do! You telling me you don't want to be brothers anymore?!"

"You know that's not what I—" Donatello pinched his nose, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Fine." He nudged the bucket of lukewarm water toward his brother. “I’m practically dislocating my shoulder trying to reach anyway.”

Leonardo smiled and nodded, grabbing the big yellow sponge, soaking it, wringing it out, and carefully dragging it down the soft shell to moisten it. He worked diligently, mindful of how sensitive his twin's shell truly was.

A soft "Thanks" escaped Donatello's beak.

Leo beamed even brighter, trying to contain his enthusiasm in his voice so as not to scare Donnie away. "No problem, bro."

Chapter 7: The Key to Success - Michelangelo

Chapter Text

Opening the portal had been hard. It had been painful. The cracks had traveled along his hands where the mystic energy had ate away at his very being, devouring himself to feed the portal. The pain had been excruciating, but he had to do it. He had to. And he had his brothers, too. With one of their hands on each of his shoulders, he could feel their ninpo connecting with his, strengthening him. Like giving him two extra batteries to work with, and the cracks had reacted accordingly, rippling their way up his brothers’ arms too. But none of them had stopped.

Not until they got Leo out.

And they did-but the moment Leo was through the portal, all of the attention was on him, not Mikey. Not the portal that was still open. Not the very angry Krang that was still speeding towards him. Opening it was hard, holding it open was eating him alive, literally. Trying to close it shoved all that mystic energy back into him and that burned worse.

But he had to. He had to close it. He had to, or they were all dead. The world was as good as dead. So he grunts, choking on the pain as he forces his hands closer to one another, forcing the energy to compress and shrink. The cracks shoot from his arms to his shoulders, not eating him, but his skin splintering as it struggles to contain it all. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

The edges of the portal burn his limbs as he passes through, the air suddenly growing cold, and smelling like death…

The portal closes behind him, the only source of light in the desolate expanse. His hand is still hanging in the Krang’s grip, but he’s flipping himself up, trying to use his feet, his other hand, his teeth, anything to wrench himself free. And the Krang only laughs.

“Oh.” They sound even more demented than before, like something in them has snapped. (Was there anything even left in their mind to break at this point?) They sound breathless too, like they’re panting as they laugh at him. Maybe they’d actually worked up a sweat from beating his brother into a bloody pulp.

“Let go of me!” He screams, ignoring the way his arms screamed at him. Just because the portal was now closed didn’t mean all the damage had suddenly reversed itself.

“I don’t think I will.” They sound so smug, sneering at him. “And not to worry, I won’t kill you either, little terrapin.” Another hand reaches forward, and Mikey flinches away from it, but with him trapped here in the Krang’s grip, he can’t exactly get far. The claw caresses his cheek, trailing down to cup his chin and the box turtle wants to vomit.

“No, I won’t kill you. You’ve just proven how strong you are. I’ve never met a creature that could rip apart dimensional walls before.” They finish floating, with the Krang’s feet landing on some sort of broken piece of land. “You, my little key, are going to open that portal again.”

“I won’t!” Is the immediate refusal. Predictable. Mikey has tears in his eyes now, breathing hard and fast, panic starting to overtake him. “I won’t! Never! You’re staying stuck in here! Forever!”

He doesn’t like the way the pink brain blob smiles at him. So assured of themselves, a gleam of something exciting in their eyes. They leap off the little rock again, heading towards where far larger pieces of machinery and debris lie. In the darkness, Mikey can make out massive mechanical bodies. Like this Krang’s robot body but a thousand times larger. How big could a Krang grow? How large and strong could they be, to control something like that?

In the distance is what he can only assume is the remnants of their technodrome, cleaved in two and smoldering with alien-looking green flames. The pink and purple fleshy mass that made up its body is graying, dying, decaying, but this doesn’t seem to bother the Krang. No, he could do repairs, even if they took awhile.

And he glanced at the turtle still struggling to get their pathetic body out of his grip. Oh, he had time.

Deep within the technodrome's belly, Michelangelo found himself suspended in a dismal chamber, ensnared by the pulsating tendrils of Krang's flesh, rendering him completely immobile. His limbs were splayed, bound tightly, while the invasive Krang appendages penetrated his flesh, weaving through muscle and vein, inducing waves of nausea with their wriggling presence. Mercifully, his eyes remained untouched, spared from the invasive intrusion, at least for the time being.

The monstrous Krang had callously subjected Mikey to this torment upon their arrival, leaving him to endure the unsettling creaks and tremors of the beleaguered vessel as it was manipulated for the Krang's insidious purposes. Eventually, his captor returned, exuding a perverse satisfaction as he approached, relishing in Michelangelo's futile struggles against his restraints.

"Mmm..." The Krang's voice dripped with irritation. "Utilizing mystic energy to facilitate an escape? How primitive." He withdrew the tendrils with a disdainful shake of his head. "I had hoped for a more technologically adept approach from your kind, but it seems my expectations were misplaced."

Gasping for breath, Michelangelo's head hung low, his chin resting against his plastron. "I-I won't..."

"Yes, yes, spare me your defiance," the Krang interrupted dismissively. "Save your energy. You'll need it."

The Krang had become Michelangelo's grim reality. Whether it was enduring excruciating experimentation to try and forcibly extract mystic energy, enduring the revolting "food" shoved into his mouth, or enduring what the Krang euphemistically termed as "conditioning," every day was a relentless cycle of torment.

On a day like today, as remnants of slime dribbled from his mouth, the evidence of today’s “meal”, Mikey found himself utterly drained. Trapped in his constrained position, sleep was an elusive luxury, his body aching and rigid from prolonged immobility.

Yet, this wasn't their first encounter, and despite the agony, Michelangelo remained resolute in denying the Krang the satisfaction of compliance. "How is my little key feeling today?" the Krang would mockingly inquire, feigning concern.

Mikey's response was a silent glare, his beak clamped shut to prevent the outburst that would only invite further torment. He had learned the consequences of defiance all too well—tentacles forced down his throat, silencing him in a suffocating grip.

The absence of retort seemed to amuse the Krang, their grin widening in perverse satisfaction. "So it seems you have learned some things. Good."

Mikey still winces when their disgusting tentacles slide up to his face, still gasps and wheezes when they shove their way into his skull. All he can hear is the Krang’s voice in his mind. His brain.

“Forget.” They command him and Mikey refuses, holding on with all of his willpower to the memories that the monster kept trying to rip from him. “Forget about them.” The Krang insists and Mikey snarls back. He had to keep fighting. He had to keep fighting.

Whenever their sessions were over, Michelangelo would typically pass out, his body and mind pushed to its absolute limits. He hated how foggy and cloudy his mind was when he woke back up, hated even more how he’d started to have…issues. The first few times, nothing was wrong. Then he started forgetting the names of places. New York City had awesome pizza places. He loved pizza. He loved that yokai pizza place with the skeleton.

Despite the confines of his imprisonment, Michelangelo's keen observational skills and sharp wit served as his unlikely companions, providing him with a unique perspective on his captors, the Krang. Through countless hours of confinement, he began to discern patterns in their behavior, unraveling the intricacies of their flawed attempts to wield mystic powers.

One particularly memorable incident etched itself into Mikey's memory with vivid clarity. It was a day like any other within the technodrome's bleak confines, with the Krang embarking on yet another ill-fated endeavor to harness Michelangelo's latent energy. With a series of complex apparatus, they sought to extract his essence, viewing him as naught but a disposable power source.

As the process commenced, Mikey could feel the tendrils of energy coursing through his being, a tangible connection to the mystic forces that flowed within him. Yet, to the Krang's dismay, their attempts at control proved futile. The energy, far from submissive, rebelled with an intensity that bordered on chaotic, manifesting in a spectacular display of fiery defiance.

In the wake of the tumultuous eruption, the technodrome trembled, bathed in the flickering glow of the uncontrolled flames. Amidst the chaos, Michelangelo found himself seized by an unexpected sensation—an irrepressible urge to laugh. And laugh he did, his amusem*nt bubbling forth despite the gravity of their situation.

"You think you can just use me like a battery?" Mikey's voice echoed with incredulity, his amusem*nt tinged with defiance. "Good luck, Gummy!"

The Krang's reaction was immediate and visceral, their frustration palpable as they scrambled to contain the unruly energies that had spiraled beyond their control. It was a moment of fleeting triumph for Michelangelo, a small victory amidst the relentless onslaught of his captivity.

Though his defiant outburst inevitably invited repercussions in the form of punishing sessions, Mikey harbored no regrets. For in that brief moment of levity, he glimpsed a crack in the facade of his oppressors—a glimmer of hope that fueled his resolve to persevere, no matter the odds.

To the Krang, everything was a calculation, a meticulously orchestrated symphony of numbers and equations. Those who failed to conform to their meticulously crafted plans were summarily discarded, cast aside like obsolete pieces of machinery. Mystic energy, however, defied such linear logic. It flowed not from the cold calculations of a machine, but from the depths of one's emotions, requiring a surrender to the intangible currents of the mystical ether.

And therein lay the Krang's fatal flaw—they were incapable of surrender. Their minds, shackled by the chains of logic, could never grasp the ephemeral essence of mystic energy. They could trap it, contain it, but never truly control it. It was a volatile force, unpredictable and untamable, like a ticking time bomb waiting to detonate.

What amused Michelangelo most was his newfound role within the Krang's meticulously constructed equations. Try as they might, every plan, every schematic devised to extract and harness his mystic energy inevitably faltered, collapsing under the weight of their own hubris. They could use him as a conduit for their experiments, but without the ability to control the chaotic energies that surged within him, their efforts were doomed to failure.

And through it all, Mikey remained defiant, his smirk a silent testament to his refusal to play their game. He offered no assistance, no cooperation, content to watch as their grand schemes crumbled before his eyes.

And crumble it did. Eventually, the day came where the Krang grabbed the entire console, their metallic hands grasping multitudes and multitudes of tendrils as they screamed into the air, ripping the tendrils away until naught but a juicy, slimy puddle remained where one would have initially connected with the machinery.

That day the sessions got worse. Mikey was barely allowed to think anymore. At the end of a session, he’d pass out, only to wake up to the sensation of them plunging back into his skull anew. A relentless onslaught.

Sometimes he could hear himself yelling and crying during the sessions, but everything felt so far, far away.

They tear into his mind again.

As Michelangelo's hunger gnawed at him relentlessly, he found himself confronted once again with the repulsive offering presented by his Krang captor. Thick drool, born of starvation, dripped from his beak as the slimy morsel was raised tantalizingly towards him. Despite the revulsion that churned within him, his primal instincts clamored for sustenance, driving him to lower his head in eager anticipation.

The sensation of the writhing mass squelching between his beak was akin to devouring raw meat, the taste surprisingly satisfying despite the unsettling circ*mstances. A pang of shame flickered within him, a fleeting acknowledgment of the depths to which he had sunk in his captivity. Yet, amidst the turmoil of conflicting emotions, there lingered a spark of gratitude—that he, at least, had something fresh to sate his hunger.

His "Master" chuckled indulgently at the sight, a tendril affectionately patting his head as if rewarding a compliant pet. "Open the portal for me, key," they commanded, their voice laced with expectation.

But within the recesses of his mind, a voice screamed in protest. He couldn't, he shouldn't—his instincts warned him of the danger inherent in complying with the Krang's demands. Despite their title of "Master," they were still a formidable adversary, their motives shrouded in malevolence. Michelangelo understood the peril he faced, trapped within the clutches of this enigmatic entity.

With a defiant shake of his head, he resisted the insistent pressure of their tendrils, recoiling from their invasive touch.

In the heart of their lair, the brothers—Donatello, Raphael, and Leonardo—had been unwinding in their respective corners, relishing in the tranquility of yet another uneventful day. But tranquility abruptly shattered when a small, innocuous orb materialized before them, casting an eerie glow across the chamber.

"Uh... Donnie?" Leonardo's voice trembled with apprehension, his gaze fixed on the mysterious orb. But before he could voice his concerns, Donatello was already engrossed in analyzing the enigmatic object, his expression a mixture of fascination and alarm. As the orb pulsated and swelled in size, their apprehension escalated into dread.

"That's... it's..." Donatello's voice faltered, his mind racing to comprehend the implications of what he was witnessing. The orb's blazing orange hue sent shivers down his spine—an unsettling reminder of the portal that had once ensnared their brother, Michelangelo.

Their worst fears were realized as the orb expanded, its surface rippling and contorting until it towered over Donatello himself. With a grotesque display of brute force, clawed hands burst forth from its center, tearing through the fabric of reality with savage determination. Through the tear emerged a monstrous figure—Michelangelo, or what remained of him—a grotesque fusion of turtle and Krang, his body contorted and mutated beyond recognition.

The once-beloved brother now bore little resemblance to his former self, his form distorted by the invasive tendrils of Krang flesh that intertwined with his own. Mystic energy crackled around him, devouring and regenerating his limbs in a grotesque cycle of agony. His eyes, devoid of pupils, blazed with an unholy fervor as he cackled in a voice twisted by madness.

"Open. Key. Key. Open. Key opened!" his voice echoed, a haunting refrain of delirium and obsession.

But amidst the chaos, a chillingly familiar laughter resonated from behind—the unmistakable voice of their ancient adversary, the Krang. With a sinister grin, he lets their corrupted baby brother nuzzle up against him, even as some mixture of slime and blood drips liberally from his mouth.

"Why yes, you did," they crooned, their presence a sinister omen of the horrors yet to unfold. "Very good key."

Chapter 8: Burning Bright - All Turtles

Chapter Text

Leo straightens with a grunt, rolling his shoulders and adjusting the strap of his hefty backpack, “You better have, because I didn’t carry all this heavy stuff up here for nothing!”

“Don’t be like that, Leo!” Mikey steps up to bat next, his cheerful demeanor always serving as the perfect antidote to any lingering bad moods. “This is gonna be really cool! Donnie said that this only happens once every 200 years!”

“Hey!”

“But let’s try to not use them, fellas. I’m in the mood for relaxing.”

“Sure, as relaxing as being in the middle of the woods could be.” Yeah, Leo still isn’t convinced.

Raphael and Donatello make eye contact, a smug, knowing smirk being exchanged between them. “Oh, really, Nardo? Why…you wouldn’t be excited at all if we said…”

“We get the whole lake?!” Leo is bursting with excitement, practically itching to dive into the water this instant, if only Raph wasn't holding onto his arm.

“Yup, apparently humans don’t like doing anything here because there’s,” Raph’s smirk only grows, “Snapping turtles all over the lake.”

The four turtles had reached the cabin, with that illustrious lake just a bit of a jog away, nothing for some ninja turtles, of course. A river that ran near the cabin fed into it, making this quite the beautiful spot for fishing or even kayaking, all things considered. Too bad since April assured them that she’d put in a note that there were repairs that needed to be made and this campsite was out of use. How absolutely perfect.

"You sure you're okay with unpacking, big man?" Raph asks, disregarding the excitement of the twins as they haphazardly toss their backpacks onto the dirt and grass. Donnie, despite his attempts to stay clean, seemed to have caught the water zoomie fever with his brother, and was eagerly discarding his gear. From the snippets of their conversation he caught, it seemed to be another competition—this time, "Last one in the water was a rotten egg!"

Maybe a standard playground barb for humans, but for turtles, eggs were serious business.

"I'll be fine!" Mikey nods, shooting his largest brother a thumbs up. "Gives me time to claim the top bunk."

Ah, so that’s why the youngest wanted to get inside the cabin before everyone else. Welp, Raph couldn’t blame him. “Alright! I’ll try to get the numbskulls back by sunset!”

That did indeed turn out to be a try and a half considering the size of the lake. As soon as their bodies hit the water, both red-eared slider and softshell were off zooming , taking advantage of their natural abilities underwater to zip around and scare the souls out of possibly every single fish in the entire lake. Raph, as always, was present, but not particularly interested in the high-speed chases the twins engaged in. Instead, he watched them for a while before taking a deep breath and allowing himself to sink to the bottom of the lake. It felt so right and natural, like reconnecting with his roots. And well, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to take a little nap, right? Just let himself doze. After all, he deserved it.

Eventually, they all made it back, albeit a bit after sunset, for which Raphael apologized profusely to Mikey. "No worries!" the box turtle smiled ever so sweetly. "I got everything out and made dinner!"

Even if it was mostly dried meats and some veggies they'd managed to stuff into the spare spaces of their bags, Mikey could always cook up something delicious. And apparently, it was a stew of all things, which meant water. This realization dawned on them when they noticed that Mikey had gone down to the lake to fetch water at some point, and nobody had even noticed.

Each older brother takes their first bite of stew and who even needs a meteor shower since there’s practically stars sparkling in their eyes right now. “This is so good!”

Mikey, looking smug and secretly warmed by all the praise, calmly digs into his own bowl, content in knowing he's brought joy to his brothers' taste buds.

It was everyone else's responsibility to clean the dishes, given that Mikey had cooked. However, the box turtle was more than happy to assist in carrying buckets of water back and forth to the lake. With his mystic powers, getting a fire going was an absolute breeze. Things were... calm, relaxing, perfect.

Since the attempted Krang invasion of the planet, since Leo had finally regained the ability to walk without crutches, they had needed something like this. Something to help mend their souls and minds, just as much as time had healed their bodies.

Despite all of Leonardo’s whining on the way here, the night the meteor shower arrived, he was right outside with the rest of them, gasping and guffawing at the absolute splendor of the night sky.

Perched on a moss-covered rock, Leonardo craned his neck upward, his eyes wide with wonder as streaks of light painted the darkness above. Each meteor left a fleeting trail of brilliance, like celestial brushstrokes on an infinite canvas. Some streaked across the sky in quick bursts of brightness, while others lingered, leaving behind shimmering trails that seemed to dance among the stars. The tails of these particular meteors took on cooler colors this night, some even bright enough that Leo could swore he saw their cosmic blue reflecting on his own skin.

Donatello stood nearby, his gaze fixed intently through the lens of his telescope. With a gentle touch, he adjusted the focus, capturing the intricate details of a particularly bright meteor as it blazed across the sky. He was silent and focused, but more content and calm than Leo could ever recall seeing him and the slider couldn’t even take himself to break the air of the moment, lying his shell back on the rock to take in the sky in its entirety.

Michelangelo had already had that idea, though, and was lying out in the plush grass instead a few feet away. He was the loudest of all of them, his arms and legs stretched out wide as if he could reach so far as to embrace the sky itself. Giggles and laughter bubbling up forth from him at each bright pass of beautiful color. Leo didn’t doubt that they’d all be seeing a lot more space-themed artwork in the coming weeks and months once they got home.

And Raphael, the large turtle just stood by them all, arms crossed as he looked up to the sky, a soft smile on his face. He takes in a long, slow breath and lets it out again, listening to the soft sounds around him. Leonardo’s barely-heard gasps of awe. Donatello’s little, sharp inhales and accompanying click of the telescope, Michelangelo’s giddy sounds of joy. It was perfect. This was perfect. This was what they needed.

While the meteor shower would never be as grand as its peak night, it was scheduled for smaller showings throughout the week, which is why the four brothers were staying here for so long. It wasn’t really a problem for them, though, considering how easily they could catch fish to eat, how easily Raph was able to take down dead trees, and how easily Mikey could start fires, they really weren’t having that bad of a time.

Since the meteor showers primarily occurred at night, it left them with whole days of nothing to do. As much as the brothers loved the water, their natural teenage curiosity demanded they romp around the woods as well. Yet, it seemed the water wanted to follow them, as the skies clouded over with rain halfway through their camping trip. It was a bit of a downer, but Donatello conceded that he'd already gathered plenty of pictures from the peak night at the start of the week, so even if the sky wasn't in perfect condition tonight, he was very satisfied.

As for Mikey, the turtle who hardly ever wanted to wade deeper than waist height in water, he was absolutely loving the rain. His typical giggling bounced off the trees as he ran about and jumped in the mud. "Isn't this great?!" he exclaimed with delight.

"Sure is, Mike," Raphael nods, trailing behind the pack as they stroll through the woods together, without any particular destination in mind, just walking. While he was happy to see his brothers so relaxed, something had been nagging at him all day. It crept along his spine, refusing to settle—like a sense of danger. They'd been away from the cabin since morning, and now it was sunset. Almost twelve hours! What if something happened? What if they were attacked? What if they lost their way back? What if something had happened back home in the lair? What if Dad was hurt?

The snapping turtle tilts his head up towards the sky, watching as the rain falls gently on them—not a downpour, so they were fine.

"Hey, wasn't the point of this trip to help fill in the chasm, bro?" Leo's voice snaps him out of it, and Raph whips his head down to look at the slider.

"What?"

"Relax, Raph. Weren't you the one convincing us how safe and fun this trip would be? Lose your nerve or something?" Leo's voice carries a tone of light teasing, but he's staring at Raphael's form with more intensity than simple eye contact would warrant. It's as if he's trying to dissect Raph with his eyes alone.

"Raph didn't lose any of his nerves," comes the quick response, the largest of them folding his arms across his chest. "I just…don't want us to get lost is all."

"Get lost?" Leo scoffs, reaching a hand up to fiddle with the handle of one of his swords. "Now I think you're just trying to insult me, big brother."

"You know I wasn't trying to—" Raph starts, but Leo's already shaking his head and turning back to his brothers.

"We've been out in the rain for long enough, hermanos! Time to watch some movies and boca some dillos, ey?"

Donatello turns around to face his brother, giving him the most exasperated look only a twin can muster. "That isn't even how those words work, Leo."

"Eh, boca, mouth. Bocadillos, snacks. Get some dillos in this boca, I thought it was good," Leo explains, grabbing a sword and effortlessly swinging it down. "Was it good, Mike?"

"I thought it was funny!"

"Thank you, at least someone appreciates me." Leo smiles and in another easy slice, rends open a portal comfortably large enough for all of them to pass through. He steps aside, bowing down with one hand over his plastron like some kind of butler towards his twin. "Donnie? Your chariot awaits."

And the softshell gives him the longest eyeroll he's ever conjured, but steps forward anyway. "I'm telling Hueso about this."

"You wouldn't!"

"I would—" and whatever Donnie's about to say cuts off as he moves through the portal, disappearing to the other side.

Leo's eye twitches, and while Mikey had been the one to move towards the portal next, the slider is the one running ahead to take second place, needing to get the last word, especially when a twin barb match is at stake.

Mikey's the third through—or he would have been if Raphael hadn't yanked him backward all of a sudden. Good thing he did, too, since Mikey had been on his way to become the second and a half through, as the portal abruptly shut right where his body would have been. He'd almost gotten portal-chopped by his own brother. "Leo!" Raph yells into the air angrily, yanking up his wrist to get on the communicator, more than ready to chew out the slider for almost killing someone with his recklessness. He had thought Leo had left that sort of irresponsibility behind since the Krang…

In some ways, Leonardo was rather glad he was the second one through the portal. It meant that he was the one who got something heavy and metal slammed against his head the moment he stepped through into their cabin. The impact sent shockwaves through his skull, rattling his brain against the confines of his cranium. His body hit the ground hard, a sharp pain exploding in his head as his vision blurred and spun wildly. Colors danced before his eyes in a dizzying kaleidoscope, and the world seemed to tilt at a nauseating angle.

As he struggled to regain his bearings, voices echoed around him, distorted and muffled as if coming from underwater. "Another one! How many aliens are there?!" The words pierced through the fog of confusion, spoken in a hick country accent that grated against his senses. Every movement sent waves of agony radiating from the epicenter of his pain, each attempt to rise met with resistance from his protesting muscles.

Through the haze, he glimpsed the crumpled form of Donnie, his twin's movements sluggish and uncoordinated, a mirror of his own disorientation. One of the humans had Don's arm in a vice-like grip, the struggle evident in his feeble attempts to break free. Leonardo's heart pounded in his ears, a sense of dread creeping over him as he watched helplessly.

Then, horror seized him as he witnessed the brutal blow delivered to his brother's temple, the sickening sound reverberating in his skull. Donnie collapsed, unmoving, and Leo's breath caught in his throat. Panic surged through him, adrenaline flooding his veins as he fought against the hands restraining him, desperate to reach his fallen brother.

Leo grits his teeth, shoving past the searing pain blazing through his entire skull as he forces himself upward. The human clearly wasn't expecting the surge of strength, as they tumbled off him with a yell of surprise. Now his arms are free. Okay. Good. Progress.

He's on his feet, but the world is still spinning, his vision swimming as if he's trapped in a whirlpool of agony. Adrenaline surges through his veins, dulling the edge of his pain and lending strength to his unsteady limbs. He takes a step forward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, his muscles protesting with every movement.

"Get away from—" he starts, his voice wavering as he struggles to maintain his balance. His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out all other sound as he confronts the threat before him. But then the gun's barrel is leveled right at his face, and he stumbles backward, his body betraying him as he fights to stay upright.

“Kill it!” One of the humans cries.

Ok, no, no, ok, he sees their finger inch towards the trigger. Leo shoves his hands up into the air, “Don’t!” He cries, “Don’t-don’t kill me, I mean-I have really valuable information-”

The gun wielder narrows their eyes, “So ya can speak english, can ya?”

"I could... show you where our entire hive is." He takes inspiration from the last Jupiter Jim movie they'd watched, sure, but these guys didn't exactly seem like sci-fi buffs. "Just-uh," he clears his throat, disguising it as a cough, and does his best to bring out his acting, even as his throbbing head worsens with each animated movement. "Just d-don't kill me! I don't want to die!"

The gun wielder stares him down for a good few seconds before they smirk, their eyes glinting with cruel amusem*nt. "Ya got yerself a deal... with some... conditions." They keep the gun aimed right for his head, the barrel steady and threatening. Leo feels a shiver of apprehension crawl down his spine as he realizes the gravity of the situation.

Next thing Leo knows, rough hands grab his arms, yanking them down behind him with brutal force. The coarse rope bites into his skin as it's tightly wound around his wrists, binding them together in an unforgiving knot. He winces at the sensation, feeling the blood pulse beneath his skin, his hands now rendered useless.

His prized swords, the extensions of his own body, are ripped from their scabbards, the sound of metal scraping against leather echoing in his ears like a death knell. Leo's heart sinks as he watches them being confiscated, his lifelines snatched away in an instant.

A forceful blow to the back of his knees sends him crashing to the ground, his knees buckling beneath him with a sharp jolt of pain. He grunts in agony, his body protesting the rough treatment. Two humans flank him, their grips like vices on his shoulders, holding him in place with ruthless efficiency.

The gun-wielding human strides purposefully towards him, their footsteps echoing ominously in the cabin. Leo's heart races in his chest, a cold dread settling over him like a heavy cloak. His breath comes in shallow gasps as he watches the gun being raised, the barrel looming ever closer to his forehead.

"W-Wait, but you said—" Leo stammers, his voice trembling with fear and disbelief, his mind reeling with confusion and desperation.

"Never trust an alien," the assailant retorts, their voice dripping with malice. And then the gun comes down, crashing against his skull with a sickening thud. Pain explodes behind his eyes, white-hot and blinding, before everything fades into blackness.

Leo isn't answering his communicator. Donnie isn't answering his communicator. Oh, he should've listened to his instincts! Raph curses at himself over and over as he and Mikey sprint back full speed towards their cabin. "What do you think happened?!" He hears the younger yell over his own panting breaths and the rain.

And Raph doesn't exactly want to tell Mikey what he's thinking, but..."Considerin' they're not pickin' up and the portal closed without warnin'...think somethin' got 'em," Raph answers back, his voice strained with worry as he forces himself to move faster, no matter how much his legs burn.

"Something like—like what?!"

"I don't know, Mikey!" When two trees dare to grow too close to one another, Raph nearly breaks through them, leaving nothing but splintering logs behind. "But whatever it is, it can't be good! We gotta get there as fast as we can to help!"

Given the state of the cabin when they arrive, they nearly don't make it in time. The entire place is being ransacked, torn apart by a group of five humans, three of whom hold guns. Two shotguns, one rifle. All bad. But what concerns Raph more is that his brothers are nowhere to be seen. "Make sure to grab all of their junk!" One of the humans yells. "Bet it's got all sorts'a their DNA all over it! We'll make a fortune!"

Two are in the cabin, while three are outside. Two of them aren't moving, standing near the car. They bump their elbows like they're celebrating. "EPF's gonna give us gold for this find, ya think?"

"Damn straight they are. If they don't, I'd just say they escaped, then sell 'em to the highest bidder."

The two are laughing. Laughing! Raph feels his blood boil, and he nearly leaps from the bush right there, but Mikey's hand is on his arm, pointing something out with tears in his eyes. One of the humans inside their cabin, barely visible through one of the windows, is spinning around something blue and silver. One of Leonardo's swords. They're playing with it like it's a toy.

Ok. Ok, time is of the essence. "Ultimate ninja mode, Mike," Raph whispers down, though he hardly even needs to say that. "I'll make a distraction and get them out into the woods to chase me. You focus on finding Leo and Donnie and getting them somewhere safe, ok?"

As if he needs to ask. Mikey gives a determined nod, already pulling a nunchuck from its holder.

Alright, distraction. Scare them, but not close enough to get shot. He could do that. Raphael sneaks backwards, dipping into the denser foliage and making his way to the back of the cabin. There's no one back here, thankfully, and the backdoor seems untouched. Raphael cracks his knuckles and grins. The guns are all outside. Which means...

There's screaming coming from inside the cabin, high-pitched and terrified, echoing through the tense air. "Alien! Alien!"

"Earl?!" One of the humans outside calls, his voice tinged with panic, only to receive another shriek of terror in response.

Mikey can hear Raph's roar, the very same dramatic, practiced one they used when playing Dinosaurs Take Manhattan, with Raphael embodying the intimidating Tyrannosaurus they had to defend the city against. The sound reverberates through the forest, primal and commanding, striking fear into the hearts of their assailants.

One of them makes it out of the cabin, stumbling down the porch's staircase and face-planting into the dirt, their frantic movements a comical attempt to escape the unseen threat. The second... makes it to the doorway. There, Raph's silhouette looms behind them, one of his massive hands reaching out, ready to grab the terrified man completely around the waist. He roars again, a thunderous bellow that seems to shake the very ground beneath them, causing Mikey to struggle even harder to contain his laughter at the absurdity of the situation.

It's like a scene straight out of a horror movie, probably inspired by one too, as the human scratches and scrabbles at the wooden door frame to get free, their desperation palpable in the air. But Raphael easily pulls them back inside, their screams of terror piercing through the night. Then, a large crashing noise echoes from within the cabin, followed by frantic cries of "They've got me! They've got me! Help!"

Raphael emerges from the cabin, carrying the struggling human in his grasp, their voice growing quieter by the second as he carries them deeper into the dark woods.

"EARL!" The loyalty of these hillbillies is commendable, as evidenced by their frantic cries for their kidnapped comrade. The three with guns charge after Raphael, leaving just the petrified unarmed one behind to guard the site, his eyes wide with fear as he watches his companions disappear into the darkness.

Mikey waits for the sounds of the screaming to dissipate enough before he makes himself known. Though his weapon is already ready in his hand, he realizes he didn't even need to bring it out, as the human takes one look at him and promptly faints. The box turtle blinks, snorts, stows away his nunchucks, and approaches the van with a bemused shrug.

The back doors are still unlocked, a consequence of the humans being in the process of stealing all of their stuff. However, Mikey could hardly care about that. When he wrenches those doors open, all he can say is, "Donnie! Leo!" The two twins have been stripped of all their gear, and judging by the pieces of it piled up in one corner of the van, it's clear it wasn't done delicately. It's as if someone had carelessly sheared through the leather straps and bindings, too impatient to take them off with any care whatsoever.

To make matters worse, however, Donnie isn't responding, and Leo... well, Leo looks worse. While both turtles are bound in multiple layers of rope, on their wrists, arms, legs, ankles, everywhere, they've also been gagged with rags. Given the stench and the slider's watering eyes, he'd already thrown up... or tried to throw up. Mikey doesn’t want to know how long his brother had to lay there with a sick-soaked wadded-up ball of fabric in his mouth.

Considering Leo's in that condition, Mikey rushes to help him first. As soon as the gag is out, Leo starts gagging, coughing and heaving the worst, ugliest sounds Mikey's ever heard. The smell hits him like a punch to the gut, a nauseating mixture of bile, vomit, and whatever other foul substances had been stewing in Leo's mouth. It's all Mikey can do to fight back his own rising bile, his stomach churning in revulsion.

There's no time to even get his limbs untied; Mikey just does his best to keep his older brother on his side as more bile shoves its way out of his throat and onto the floor of the van. It's a vile, slimy mess, mixing with the already putrid smell that permeates the confined space. Only when he's sure Leo's calming down a bit does he slice through the rope and ease his brother away from the van and onto the ground outside. He hears a soft, slurring, "Mmmm…key?" through Leo's weak, raspy breaths.

"I'm here," Mikey's voice is quiet, soothing, as he kneels beside Leo. "Just relax, ok? Me and Raph got you."

"…ph?"

Mikey can't answer that question right away. He moves back into the van, his heart pounding with worry, to pull Donatello out and remove his own bindings. There's a worrying amount of dried blood at the top of Donnie's head, sticky and crusty. It's a grim sight, but Mikey tries to reassure himself that the fact it's old blood suggests he isn't still bleeding. That has to mean something good, right? He lays Donnie down beside Leo, careful not to jostle him too much. But as he turns back to Leo, he sees the slider trying to push himself up, his movements weak and unsteady.

"Stay down, Leo," Mikey isn't messing around now, a firm hand planted on his brother's plastron and pressing. It’s almost laughably easy to get Leo lying back down again, if only this was a situation they could laugh in…

"Nnn...d...." Leo pants, trying to shove himself up again, but Mikey can see the way his brother's pupils shake as his head's elevation changes just those few inches. And then his body convulses again, his head shoved to the side as he heaves. There's nothing left to throw up, though, so he's just heaving up raw, slimy trails of nothing, rancid-smelling saliva sticking to his chin and clinging to the dirt and grass they're laying on.

Mikey's heart clenches at the sight, his concern escalating. Leo seems completely out of it, disoriented and nauseous. Each attempt to move sends waves of dizziness and nausea crashing through him, leaving him weak and struggling to stay conscious. At least he’s conscious though, but Mikey wasn’t the medic. He didn’t know enough about any of this to know what was good and what was bad and what he should even do.

"And that's why I wanted you to stay down," Mikey sighs, his voice heavy with worry as he continues to rub the back of Leo's shell comfortingly. "As soon as Raph gets back, we can pack up and get out of here, ok? In fact, I'll call April to come get us right-"

Leo and Mikey both go rigid when they hear the sound of a gunshot ringing through the woods. The noise cuts through the tense air like a knife, sending a shiver down their spines. Mikey's hand flies to his communicator instantly, fingers trembling as he tries to reach their missing brother.

"Raph?" No response. "Raph!" Still nothing. "Raphael!" Panic begins to rise in Mikey's chest. Raph isn’t answering after they just heard a gunshot.

Mikey's on his feet first, adrenaline coursing through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest. Leo tries to follow him, but Mikey stops him with a fierce hiss. "Stay down, Leo!" His voice is urgent, bordering on frantic. "If you have to do something, then protect Donnie!" There's a hint of desperation in Mikey's tone, a sense of helplessness as he grapples with the fear of the unknown. Leo may be injured and disoriented, but Mikey can't afford to argue. Raph is out there alone, and he's most likely hurt.

The box turtle is running off to find him in less than a second, leaving his injured brothers behind. Too bad his mystic powers didn’t let him clone himself... but he knew what he could do.

As he runs, he lets his mystic energy spark to life inside his body, a literal growing flame that blazes through his veins, making him faster, stronger. But when focused, it could also sense the ninpo of his family. He just had to calm himself and focus.

The rain is still coming down steadily, each drop a percussion against the forest floor. Everything is obscured by the same shade of dark brown and green. Each raindrop feels like a tiny pinprick against his skin, but Mikey pushes through, determination fueling his every step.

He stops by a tree, resting a hand on its trunk and clenching his eyes shut. Ok... focus. Focus.

Red. Raphie’s brilliant, blazing crimson, a soft trail of it leading faintly into the trees. Michelangelo dashes after it, following, following, nearly slipping and falling on his face multiple times. The mud squelches beneath his feet, making each step more treacherous than the last.

And then...

“Are you okay?! Are you hurt?! We heard the shot and-”

“I’m fine, Mike, I’m fine,” Raph assures him, though his tone doesn’t quite match his words. Mikey can’t get a good look at Raph in this weather, can’t see if his brother’s trying to hide anything from him again. But fine.

“We need to get out of here.” As the most physically capable right now, Michelangelo straightens up to take charge, grabbing one of the snapping turtle’s hands and pulling. He expects Raph to just follow him, so he’s quite surprised when he... doesn’t. “...Raph.”

“S-Sorry, Mike. Raph’s just a bit… tired. Can I get some help?”

“Of course!” Mikey responds without hesitation. By help, that meant sharing some of Raphael’s weight, practically dragging his brother along with him. Raphael, three to four times his size, feels like a mountain on Mikey's shoulders. Every step is a struggle, every movement an exertion of sheer willpower.

Despite the overwhelming strain, Mikey presses on, driven by the urgency of their situation. He pushes his body up against Raphael, trying to half-carry him on his own back as much as he can. With each step, he channels his mystic powers, relying on them to boost his strength enough to bear the weight of his unconscious brother. It's a desperate move, one that he knows could cost him, but he hardly cared about that right now.

By the time they wobble back to the cabin, Mikey's body is pushed to its absolute limit. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle against the weight of exhaustion that bears down on him. His mystic cracks flicker with erratic bursts of light, a visual testament to the strain he's putting on his already depleted energy reserves.

He and Raph practically tumble over by the van, their bodies unable to muster more than the bare minimum of movement. With great effort, they manage to lean their shells back against the solid surface, seeking whatever support it can offer in their weakened state. Panting heavily, Mikey's voice emerges as little more than a hoarse whisper amidst the cacophony of his labored breaths.

“W-We… made it, Raph…” Mikey pants, his words punctuated by fits of coughing that wrack his exhausted frame. With a heavy sigh of relief, he feels the last remnants of his mystic energy leaving him, draining away like water from a cracked vessel. His arms burn with the fire of exertion, but the pain is a distant echo compared to the bone-deep exhaustion that consumes him.

“Mikey?” Leo’s voice breaks through the darkness, soft but stronger, lacking the slurred quality it had before. It's a relief to hear him speak with more clarity, a sign that he's regaining his strength.

Mikey pauses, his brows knitting together in confusion. How long had they been stumbling through the forest for Leo to recover so quickly?

“We’re here,” Mikey responds, his voice strained with exhaustion as he pushes himself to his feet. Despite the overwhelming fatigue weighing him down, he forces himself to focus on the task at hand. “How’s Donnie?”

“Here…” Donnie's voice, though still weak, is a welcome sound amidst the darkness. It's an improvement from the silence of unconsciousness. With night fully descended upon them, the absence of moonlight makes it difficult to see anything beyond the shadows.

As his brothers' stumbling footsteps draw nearer, Mikey's frustration with the darkness grows. Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, he summons forth his mystic energy once more, burning through his reserves to cast a soft, flickering orange light into the air around them. The glow offers a semblance of visibility in the enveloping darkness, but Mikey can feel the strain in every flicker of the flame, as if he can barely hold onto the mystical fire that now illuminates their surroundings.

As Donatello and Leonardo come into view, leaning on each other for support, Mikey feels a rush of relief flood through him. Despite their evident exhaustion and the lingering effects of their ordeal, their smiles at seeing him bring warmth to his heart. They may be nursing the worst headaches imaginable, but their presence alone is enough to fill Mikey with a sense of reassurance.

The trio share a brief but heartfelt embrace, their closeness a comforting reminder of the unbreakable bond between them. However, Leo's smile soon fades into a more serious expression, a neutral line etched upon his features. "Raph?"

"Here," Mikey replies, stepping back to reveal the large, slumped form of their eldest brother against the van. "Said he was tired, I couldn’t see any-" Suddenly, Mikey notices something that sends a chill down his spine. In the dim light provided by his flickering mystic flame, he sees a thick strip of red staining the grass, leading to where Raph sits. Except it's not just sitting there; it's still spreading, pooling around his brother's side.

Mikey's heart races as the horrifying truth dawns on him. It wasn't rain he was feeling against his skin, but something far more sinister. As he had been bearing the weight of his injured brother, the sensation he had brushed off as rain was actually Raph's blood, seeping from his wounds. The box turtle refrains from looking at himself. He doesn’t want to know how much blood is on himself.

"Raph!" Mikey's scream echoes through the darkness as he falls to his knees beside his brother, a surge of panic coursing through him. Raphael's bridge, the piece that connects his plastron and carapace along their sides, is cracked and splintered, the source of the profuse bleeding that stains the ground beneath him. Leonardo rushes to Mikey's side, crouching down to assess the extent of the damage, while Donatello remains too out of it to do much but lean against the van. With a quick glance behind him, Leo takes in the long trail of blood that led up to his brother’s body.

“Donnie!” He yells and his twin lets out a slurring noise of acknowledgement. “Get April over here now!”

“...kay…” Don’s doing his best, stumbling his way back to the van to try and fetch his gear. In the meantime, Leo’s grabbing Raphael by the shoulders, trying to push him to lie down, but he hisses, one hand falling away to grip his own head.

"sh*t-shh..." he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the chaos. Leo backed away, grunting as he pressed a hand over his mouth, desperately trying to suppress the rising urge to vomit. Mikey caught snippets of the muttered, "Stop it. Stop it," as Leo battled with his own discomfort. Taking initiative, Mikey moved swiftly to gently maneuver Raphael onto his back, his movements careful and deliberate amidst the turmoil.

As Mikey exerted every ounce of his dwindling energy to maneuver Raphael, beads of sweat formed on his brow, his muscles straining against the weight and resistance. With a final, desperate shove, Raphael lost his balance, crashing to the ground with an audible thud. Mikey found himself sprawled atop Raphael's plastron, his own breath ragged and labored, his chest heaving as he fought for air in the midst of his exhaustion.

The young turtle’s limbs trembled with fatigue as he struggled to push himself off Raphael, his movements slow and deliberate. His gaze flickered to Leo, who knelt nearby, visibly struggling to contain his own discomfort. Despite his own weariness, Mikey couldn't ignore the concern gnawing at him, prompting him to voice his worry. "Y-You sure you’re good enough, Leo?"

“I-I have to be-” Leo swallowed back something thickly, his voice strained with determination. “He’s lost too much blood-too far from home to help-” The urgency in his words was palpable, his resolve unwavering despite the overwhelming odds stacked against them. As Leo's strength faltered, the slider slipping further, Mikey surged forward, bracing himself against Leo to offer support. Their bodies leaned heavily against each other, the weight of their exhaustion nearly overwhelming.

“We have to….to stop the bleeding,” Leo insisted, his words carrying a sense of urgency born from desperation.

Maybe Leo’s thrown up too much. Maybe he’s still incredibly concussed and is delirious, because when he says stop the bleeding, the first thing that comes to Mikey’s mind is not a sword. How or where Leo even got one of his swords back is impossible to know, but it’s out now, and he’s holding it off to the side.

“Mikey,” Leo's voice trembled, his words strained as he struggled to maintain focus amidst the chaos. Blinking rapidly and shaking his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, he called out again, desperation evident in his tone. “Fire.”

“Fire?” Mikey's confusion lingered, but he trusted Leo implicitly. If his brother said fire, there had to be a reason.

“Heat the-the sword-need to-” Leo's words faltered, his mind clouded by pain and fatigue, but the urgency in his voice remained undiminished.

Mikey's heart sank as he pieced together Leo's intentions. He winced at the thought, but he knew better than to question Leo's expertise. With a deep breath, he summoned his inner fire, his arms crackling and sparking with energy. With a sloppy but determined motion, he directed the fiery energy towards Leo's sword, igniting it with blazing heat.

The air crackled with energy as the sword glowed white-hot, the heat radiating off it in waves. It was a desperate measure, born of necessity in the face of Raph's relentless bleeding. And though Mikey's heart ached at the sight, he knew that Leonardo, their medic and leader, knew best.

With every ounce of determination he could muster, Mikey threw himself into the task, channeling his energy into heating the sword as quickly as possible, regardless of the toll it took on his own body. Each spark of fiery energy drained him further, but he pushed past his own limits, driven by the urgent need to save his brother.

As the heat intensified and the sword glowed white-hot, Mikey felt a wave of relief wash over him, mingled with a pang of guilt at his own selfish gratitude. The unconsciousness he had been desperately fighting against finally began to claim him, wrapping him in its comforting embrace before he could witness Leo's next action.

On the contrary, this is what Raphael wakes up to, abruptly jolted to consciousness by a searing, agonizing pain emanating from his side. His eyes flew open to witness a surreal scene unfolding before him—his brother, Leonardo, wielding a sword ablaze with intense heat, pressing it against his wounded flesh.

The shock of waking to such torment sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through Raphael's veins, his body convulsing in response to the overwhelming pain. He gasped, a guttural cry escaping his lips as he instinctively tried to recoil from the fiery blade, only to find himself immobilized by his body’s own feebleness. With all the blood he’d lost, nothing moves, and everything is heavy.

“I’m sorry-” Leo's voice pierced through the cacophony of screams, distant and strained with remorse, but Raphael could hardly focus on it amidst the relentless agony tearing through his body. The screams that tore from his own throat were so raw, so agonized, they echoed in his ears, reverberating through his very soul until his throat felt raw and cracked.

Hunched in the van, Donatello could hardly bear to witness the gut-wrenching sounds of his brother's suffering, his own heart breaking with each anguished cry that tore through the air.

With a final, ragged breath, Raphael's eyes fluttered shut, his body succumbing to the merciful embrace of unconsciousness once more. The pain, the fear, the anguish—all melted away as he slipped into the comforting abyss, his consciousness drifting into oblivion.

Throughout his lifetime, Leonardo couldn’t imagine ever escaping that scent. It was etched into his memory—the acrid odor of burning flesh and seared shell, mingling with the metallic tang of fear. The echoes of his brother's anguished cries haunted him, reverberating in the depths of his soul. Raphael, stalwart and selfless, endured so much pain because of Leo's mistakes, his agonized pleas echoing in the recesses of Leo's mind.

Donatello hadn’t managed to contact April. The service in the park was far too weak for that. The Donnie Pods however, did have to be used. They got them home, at least, and with April, Casey, and their father present, they could finally receive proper medical attention.

At some point, April had promised that she’d get their stuff from the cabin back, Casey vowing to go with her, and Leo hadn’t said anything but nodded. Now, in the darkness of the med bay, as he listened to the various hums and beeps of machinery (the majority of which were on Raphael), he let himself tear up.

His head buries itself against his knees, the stress of what just happened crashing down against him. He’d gotten careless, again. Gotten reckless, again. How many times would his family have to pay because he was so pathetic?

Then, a familiar voice, raspy and low, pierced through the silence, causing Leo to catch his breath. He looked up to see his brother Raphael, eyes half-lidded and not quite there due to the heavy painkillers he was on. Unfortunately, the faint glow of the monitors only made the snapping turtle look even paler than he already was.

"Leo," Raphael murmured, managing a smile despite everything, his voice a soothing balm to Leo's frayed nerves, a beacon of hope in the darkness that threatened to consume them both.

Without hesitation, Leo abandoned his own bed, his movements careful yet urgent as he stumbled towards his big brother's bedside. "I-I…you…you should be asleep—you're in no condition to-"

“Raph needs a brother to sleep against if he wants to sleep,” Raphael insisted, his words carrying a quiet determination that brooked no argument.

Leo felt a swell of conflicting emotions rise within him—a mixture of relief, gratitude, and lingering guilt. Yet, despite the turmoil churning within him, a small, amused sob escaped his lips, mingling with a tear-streaked smile.

With a gentle gesture, Leo raised a wrist to wipe away the tears that threatened to spill over, his touch tender against his own cheek. Then, without hesitation, he abandoned all pretense of distance, all barriers crumbling. The younger brother crawled right into Raph’s bed, his body molding itself seamlessly against his older brother's uninjured side.

Chapter 9: Who's to Blame? - Leonardo & Michelangelo

Chapter Text

Three out of four of the adolescent radical shell-backed fighters were able to pull themselves into their shells. Raphael was simply so strong he had no need to rely on shutting himself in the shell for protection, whether he was a mutant or not. Donatello and Leonardo could go into their shells, but Michelangelo could count all the times he’d ever seen them go into them with his hands, and he only had six fingers! In fact…he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen them retract into their shells, except for the Lair Games, or maybe when any of them happened to be practicing for it.

They weren’t like him, who seemed to hop into his shell at any point. Sometimes he did it on purpose, like when Raph wanted to use plan BB (Brother Ball) or he just wanted some calm quiet time when he was relaxing in his room. Those times would be perfectly fine, perfectly acceptable, even. However, his tendency to slip into his shell at the most inconvenient times was not.

There was the grocery store with the whole Gumbus fiasco, if Leo hadn’t grabbed him, he would’ve fallen to the floor for sure and who knows what would’ve happened to him.

There were plenty of other times too, but none were as bad as the Krang invasion. The whole world is under threat of being destroyed and his brothers are fighting for their lives and he just-freezes up. Raphael is corrupted, infected, whatever Donnie had termed it and he can’t even move. He’s in his shell before he even realizes and Donatello has to carry him away!

Then Leo’s counting on them to take control of the ship and he and Donnie have to fight a Krang and Donnie’s who knows where and he saw a tendril coming at him and instead of dodging. Instead of doing literally anything, his instincts react for him and into the shell he goes. Sure, it had worked out thanks to sheer dumb luck, but what if it hadn’t? The entire mission could have failed because he couldn’t keep it together.

Leo hadn’t gone into his shell once, nor had Donnie. Just him. Just him.

In the midst of the showdown with the latest adversary, the enigmatic yokai assassin known as Tigerclaw, Michelangelo found himself engaged in an internal struggle to maintain his momentum. Towering like a titan, Tigerclaw's imposing stature rivaled even that of Raphael, if not surpassing it. Yet, his immense size seemed to be no impediment to his agility; on the contrary, it only amplified his speed and strength, posing a formidable challenge to their survival.

What made Tigerclaw even more formidable was his fusion of ancient prowess with modern technology, reminiscent of Donatello's own ingenuity. Armed with weapons capable of unleashing sudden ice rays and seamlessly transitioning to conventional firepower, Tigerclaw proved to be a multifaceted adversary.

Raphael had already learned that the hard way, with him getting ready to jump, just to find his feet completely covered in ice and effectively sticking him to the ground.

None of them even knew who hated them enough to set this kind of hitman after them. The main theory was Big Mama, but even then, they’d hardly even heard of her after the whole invasion. The Hidden City itself was damaged in the invasion, so things were more focused on repair efforts than anything. So, then who would have this much of a vendetta to want to kill them?!

Leo runs forward first to match blows, two swords parry against the tiger’s one, but that’s just one hand and the other is aiming the gun right for where Donnie’s back is turned, trying to melt the ice. Reacting instinctively, Mikey vaults over Tigerclaw's massive frame, ensnaring the assassin's arm in chains and wrenching it skyward just as the gun discharges harmlessly into the air, eliciting a frustrated growl from their adversary.

The chilling sound resonates deep within Michelangelo, sending shivers down his spine and triggering an overwhelming urge to retreat into the safety of his shell. The sensation is akin to being struck by ice, rendering him momentarily paralyzed by fear. Despite managing to land safely, his wide-eyed stare betrays the turmoil raging within him, his instincts screaming a warning to hide. Hide. Hide. Hide. Danger.. Danger. Danger.

They bring their arm back, whipping it around to try and bash Leo’s head with it, but their leader dodges backwards, slipping away with a smug, “Too slow!”

They clash blades again, again, Michelangelo fights to shake off the paralyzing grip of fear, repeating a mantra to himself: Don't freeze up. Don't freeze up.

Their attacks aren’t intending to do much but keep Tigerclaw preoccupied, keep him away from the other two. In fact, the more they fight, the more used to the assassin’s fighting style they get, the easier it becomes to find gaps in his movements.

Mikey’s even gaining confidence now, even daring to land on the tiger yokai’s shoulders, giggling right in his ears and ignoring the roar of frustration as he leaps away before those claws can catch him.

“You flit about me like insects!” Tigerclaw finally roars, the first thing he’d said this entire time. When Leonardo swipes for him this time, Tigerclaw doesn’t parry it, instead, blocking it with his own arm. The slider isn’t exactly expecting this, never wanting to legitimately spill blood unless it’s absolutely necessary. At least Tigerclaw had leather gauntlets on to protect his flesh, but there’s no way the yokai was completely untouched.

When he tries to pull his blades free, they catch on the material, giving just that additional second that he’s far too close to Tigerclaw. The yokai is a tiger, after all, and when Leo looks up, he sees an open jaw and fangs coming right towards his shoulder. Leo abandons the swords, jumping away before Tigerclaw gets the taste for turtle.

Chains fly from the sides to grab onto Tigerclaw’s legs, but a slash of their sword breaks them in two, barely making the yokai falter in his stride. More chains, Mikey lets his mystic powers flare, forcing the assassin to slow down or get grabbed, the mystic weapons coming in from every angle, trying to loop around in wide arcs.

Leo grins, Mikey could do it. The greatest mystic warrior the world had ever seen indeed! So he skids to a stop and turns, rushing to get his weapons while they have this gap of time.

And Mikey? Well, Mikey was proud of himself! He was doing it! The mystic energy only burned at him a little bit, a vast improvement from before! His lessons and training with Draxum had clearly been paying off, it-Mikey feels a sudden yank, as Tigerclaw hadn’t dodged one of his chains.

No, the tiger had grabbed them, uncaring of how the flames licked at his palms and wrenched Mikey in towards himself. He’s pulling Michelangelo in…and aiming the barrel of his gun right at the small turtle’s head at the same time. Mikey stares down the black barrel and his body freezes. He freezes. He’s just getting pulled closer as seconds stretch to minutes, everything slowing down as memories of his life begin to flash through his mind. Fear. Fear. Fear. His eyes see the sharp, feline pupils, the long, sharp teeth snarling at him…and Mikey’s instincts take control again.

He snaps into his shell with just enough time to both hear and feel the intense heat of the shot whizz right where his head just was.

And Donatello wasn’t watching.

Before Mikey can look out again, he hears Donatello’s strangled gasp, hears Leonardo’s scream, “Donatello!”

His shell is thrown to the side, skidding and sliding on his plastron until Mikey feels himself bump against the edge of the rooftop. He isn’t…quite sure what’s going on then, there’s a lot of sounds of combat, roars and screams, swear words and slashes, clashes of metal and more firing of weapons.

And then nothing, quiet. Michelangelo can finally hear his heartbeat as it hammers away in his chest. Can hear the rattle of his breaths as the panic finally makes himself evident enough.

He’s panicking. Their calm and collected medic is panicking. Now there’s an entirely different type of terror shoving its way through. He’s out of his shell in the next moment, rushing over to try and help, and nearly can’t stop himself in time before he steps in the slowly growing pool of Donnie’s blood.

They manage to get Donatello back to the lair and stabilized thanks to the turtle tank’s emergency medical equipment, but it very nearly wasn’t enough. Even now, their brother lays in a medical bed, seeming more machine than flesh, with two IVs and multiple monitors to watch every single aspect of his health. Leo was sitting by him with Raph, the two of them just watching, listening to the heart monitor's beep.

The shot intended for Mikey had hit the soft shell right in the head, ripping through flesh. The x-rays showed a cracked skull, but it didn’t seem like it got all the way through to his brain…but the bleeding was immense. Donnie had passed out on the rooftop then, nearly making all of them think they’d lost them until Leo managed to find his fluttering pulse, and now he was here. His body depended on these machines to do the heavy-lifting for it, to help keep him alive, but he was alive. They’d made it.

And Mikey was standing in the doorway to the med bay, taking in the sight before slowly, carefully, walking to be with his brothers. The tension in the room is thick, everyone can feel it…and when Mikey gets within three feet of Donnie’s bed, Leonardo whips towards him. The slider stands up so swiftly that he nearly topples his own chair over. “Get out of here!” He yells, voice sudden and loud.

“Leo-” Raphael is behind him now, trying to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, trying to get him to calm down, but Leo turns on him, smacking the hand away.

“He had one job!” Their leader yells back, “I trusted him!”

“I-I-” His voice cracks, mystic-scarred hands clutched tight against his chest. He hadn’t meant to-he didn’t mean to-

“Enough?! Look at Donnie! My brother's breathing out of a-”

Raphael narrows his eyes, “That shot was aiming for Mike’s head, Leo. He dodged it. Donnie didn’t turn around in time.”

There’s the sound of shifting, Raph getting down onto one knee to be on Leo’s eye level now, “He told me he was just happy to have been able to do something. Like he thought he was useless during that entire invasion. Like he thought he did nothing.”

Michelangelo had always been the bleeding heart of their family. The turtle with a heart of gold, and that heart that he’d gladly shine on his sleeve to anyone he ever met. And Leonardo had just-

He’d just torn that heart right off and smashed it into the ground. “Mikey!” He gasps, angry again, but at no one but himself. To lash out like that-

He’s running off to find his baby brother, and Raphael doesn’t stop him, just watching him go.

“Yeah, Donnie’s pretty annoying too. Pretty narcissistic sometimes, if you ask me.” Leo says abruptly, leaning back on his hands and staring up towards the ceiling, “I mean, remember the time he tried to actually change us because he thought we were all idiots? And Raph can be pretty overbearing sometimes too, condescending even. He can’t make plans to save his life, thinks he always knows the best way to do things…” Leo peeks down towards Mikey, and the young turtle is looking at him with large, shocked eyes, “And I can be a loud mouth know-it-all too. I go off on my own too much, try to do things on my own, even when that means I end up hurting you guys.” Leo looks back down slowly then, smiling softly at his sniffling brother.

The med bay doors slide open and Raphael turns to see just who it is, only for his somber expression to change to one of bright joy as he sees Mikey riding along on Leo’s shoulders, a whole bunch of blankets up in his arms. “The comfort squad has arrived!”

Chapter 10: Kept in the Dark - Pt. 2 - Michelangelo & Donatello

Chapter Text

Orange had never known things could be so…so… awesome! In fact, he wanted the whole world to know how awesome this was too, so he did! “Whoooo!”

And trailing closely behind him were his brothers (brothers!). The concept still amazed him.

"You're going to love it, Mike!" Oh yes, Mike. Mikey. Michelangelo! He had a name now. A real name! And a dad! His brother (brother!) Leonardo, formerly known as Blue, ran up alongside him, effortlessly matching his pace. "This is hands down the best food ever, in every sense of the word."

Right, right! Tonight was the first night they were letting him run outside with them and they were celebrating with something called pizza! Of course, Michelangelo couldn't fathom anything better than what they had back in the lair. "Just don't overdo it, okay?" Raphael was now on his right side, his gaze more concerned than anything. "We don't have to rush. The pizza can wait as long as you need."

"A moment, Mikey," Donatello called to him. Donnie! His absolute favorite brother!

No, that was a lie, Raphael was super comfy to lie down on, so he was his favorite…

But Leonardo always made him laugh and always knew what to do if he was hurting again, so was he the favorite brother?

Could someone have three favorite brothers?

Mikey's mind grappled with the situation, feeling like a stuck gear as he stared off into space, even as Donnie landed next to him. "What's up, Don? Something wrong?" Leo interjected, stepping forward to assist, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he noticed his twin reaching for the shell he had crafted for their youngest sibling.

"Hopefully, everything's fine. I just want to do a quick inspection, ensure it's holding up well, and make notes for adjustments if necessary, etcetera, etcetera." Donnie tapped lightly on the shell's back, applying pressure at specific points, observing for any signs of discomfort. "Everything feeling okay, Michael?"

"Everything's fantastic!" Despite feeling Donnie's tapping, it was distant and not at all uncomfortable. Michelangelo spun around, deeply touched by Donatello's concern, and immediately pulled him into a tight hug. Donnie didn't resist as Mikey's arms wrapped tightly around him, the smaller nuzzling his cheek against his plastron repeatedly.

"Don got a Mikey hug?!" Leo gasped, looking even more affronted when Mikey responded.

The small turtle let out a giggling, "Favorite brother!" which left Leo and Raph looking as if Mikey had just slapped them.

And that wouldn't do! So Mikey reluctantly parted ways with Donnie and rushed over to give Leo a hug too. "And you're also my favorite!"

Now they're getting it “And Raphie's my favorite too!" Raphael was up next, his arms already open as Mikey jumped into them, laughing and giggling like the happiest person in the world as his brother spun him around. Probably because he was the happiest person! There was no way he wasn't. I mean, who could have better brothers than his? No one, that's right.

No one corrected him about the favorites thing, so that must mean he was right, and he can have three favorites! Donatello tapped him on the shoulder to get him to sit down so he could complete his assessment of the shell. This was Mikey's outdoor shell, specially designed for protection against heavy impacts, with super tight clamps to ensure it wouldn't fall off him, no matter how much he jostled about. It was heavier than his lair shell, which was way lighter and comfier. With his lair shell, Mikey almost fell asleep on his back a few times! It was actually comfortable to lie on his shell. He didn't know such a thing was possible!

Leo didn't like it when Mikey slept on his shell like that, though, so he never got to do so for long, but it was still so comfy!

While Donnie checked the shell, Leo checked the rest of the turtle, taking one of Mikey’s wrists to time his pulse as Raph waited nearby. There was nothing wrong with the shell, no chafing or cutting off circulation, and Leo grinned once fifteen seconds had passed. "Well, look at that, little bro! You're feeling just fine!"

"Because of you guys!" Mikey laughed. "Can we get pizza now? Is the checkup done?"

He couldn't help the happy series of chirps that escaped him when Leo rubbed his head. "Sure can, Miguel! Thanks for waiting so patiently for us worrywarts."

Forget what Mikey said before about being the happiest person in the world. Now, he was undoubtedly the happiest person in the world. 100%. Nothing could ever top this. Unsure of what he’d like, they'd gotten a ton of pizzas, all different with all different toppings. Leo showed him his favorite, something with pineapples? It was sweet and sugary, and Mikey wanted to go for another slice, but then there was Raphael with his favorite, meat lovers, and Mikey’s taste buds nearly died and went to heaven. But then Donnie showed him his preferred pizza, a white pizza with no tomato sauce at all, and that also was so good.

Suffice it to say, Mikey would eat and eat and eat like he’d never eaten anything in his life. Leonardo hadn’t been kidding! Pizza was the best food on the planet. That was unequivocally, without a doubt, true. He ate until his stomach cramped, and then he ate more, or at least until Raph was pulling away the box before his hand could get another one. "Alright, alright, easy Mike. Don’t want ya gettin’ sick."

"But it tastes so good!" Mikey whined, attempting to get up to follow the box and snatch it back, but Leo's hand rested firmly on his shoulder to stop him.

"Raph's right, little bro. I think you've already eaten your weight in pizza as it is."

It seemed like even Mikey’s body agreed with his brothers, especially as he felt another cramp, one strong enough to make him whine and flop back down onto the rooftop.

The noise had everyone immediately dropping what they were doing and rushing to him.

“Mike!”

“Mikey!”

“Are you okay?! What’s wrong?!”

Leo’s hand was on his forehead, the other back on his wrist, his touch gentle yet firm, searching for any signs of distress. Donatello was scanning him with a concerned furrow in his brow, his eyes darting between Mikey's face and his scanner. Raphael's hand was pressing gingerly on his shell, providing support in case Mikey was going to fall over.

Mikey felt overwhelmed by all the worry, especially for little ole him. The way everyone had to stop having their own fun just because he made a noise? Now he felt guilty. “I’m okay!” He tried to persuade them, but that didn’t seem to do much.

“No pressure points are being constricted, the shell isn’t pressing down on any of his pyramids-”

“Heart rate is a bit higher than usual. He might be stressed, I-”

“Guys,” Raphael cut through the twins' panic, his voice calm yet firm, “Mikey was trying to say something. What was it, Mike?” He gave the small turtle a reassuring smile, and Mikey beamed back at him, the warmth of Raphael's expression easing some of his guilt.

“I said I’m okay! Just ate a lot! Reaaaaaally full!” Mikey rubbed his belly for emphasis, his eyes sparkling with amusem*nt as he reassured his brothers. Leo and Don both let out sighs of relief, their features softening with reassurance.

“Well, that’s why we don’t want you to eat anymore, okay? Don’t want you burstin’!” Leo's smile was gentle, his tone warm as he nodded in agreement, sitting back and gesturing towards Donnie. “What do you say to packing up here, heading back, and watching a movie before bed, huh?”

Donatello nodded, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. “Mikey’s lessons have only gotten him to JJ 32,” he added, “he’s still vastly behind in his knowledge of the JJ Multiverse.”

They watch two movies that night, and Mikey loves every second of it. The amazing acting, the action, the drama! He wants to keep watching more, wants to keep being here, in this moment, in this pile of turtles. He’s always the center of their piles, with Raph at his back and the twins at his side, squeezing him in and keeping him comfortable. The place that his mind had always told him about, even when he thought it wasn’t real. It’d never be real.

As the credits finish rolling for the second movie, he can’t fight the urge to yawn, so yawn he did.

Immediately, Raph’s arms wrap around him, Leo's in front of him now, and Donnie just over his shoulder. “Heya, bro. Gettin’ tired?” Leo's voice is soft, filled with warmth and concern.

“Mhm.” Mikey rolls his shoulders out and snuggles back against Raph’s plastron. He was always so big and warm.

“Sounds like that’s Raph winnin’ tonight then,” the deep voice behind him rumbles, and Mikey nods, not minding in the slightest as he was picked up and carried off to his big brother’s bedroom for the night. To be perfectly honest, Mikey was more used to his brothers’ rooms, even Donnie’s, more than his own. While they all wanted him to know he had his own space, his own room, the small turtle could never feel... comfortable there.

In the dark, alone, away from everyone... it would prickle at the back of his mind like an incessant itch. Despite the reassurances from his brothers, a nagging doubt lingered—a fear of being left behind, forgotten. What if his curtain just didn’t open one day? What if he couldn’t get back out? What if he—

Thick fingers snap in front of his face, breaking through the fog of his thoughts. The sudden sound startles him and Raph's concerned voice accompanies the gesture, “Mikey? Ya there?”

“Huh?” Michelangelo startles out of his thoughts, blinking rapidly as he refocuses on the present. “O-Oh, yeah! Sorry, was just lost in thought.”

Raphael moves towards his back to help him get off his lair shell, his presence comforting and reassuring. “Thinkin’ about anything in particular?”

“Uh…” Mikey pauses, his mind racing as he tries to find the right words. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand, pressing down on the releases that Donnie had shown him. His shell unclamps with a slight hiss of air, and there's a shudder that runs through him as his real shell is exposed to the air, feeling weird and almost wrong without it. In fact— “C-Can’t I sleep with it on?” he asks tentatively.

“You know what Don and Leo said, big guy,” Raph replied, setting the manufactured shell down on the other side of the room carefully. “It isn’t good for yer skin and shell to have something covering it constantly. It’s a good thing to let it breathe.”

“Feels weird though,” Mikey mutters, his voice carrying a hint of discomfort. When Raph sits down on the bed next to him, he was already leaning on the snapping turtle's side, seeking comfort in his brother's presence.

And then he says something unintentionally, just blurts it out as it comes to his mind. Mikey had thought about it for ages ever since he got here, ever since he’d seen his brothers. “My shell shouldn’t be like this. I’m wrong. Grew wrong.”

“Woah, woah, woah, Mikey, no.” Raph's voice is urgent, and he pulls his youngest brother up onto his lap in less than a second, wrapping his arms around him protectively. He holds Mikey tightly, feeling the trembling in his brother's body, hyper-aware of the bare, unprotected shell that even his own mind screams about how fragile it is. How weak Mikey is.

“You’re not wrong. You’re perfect, Mike,” Raph reassures him, his voice filled with conviction. He strokes Mikey's back gently, trying to convey what words alone couldn't express.

“My shell isn’t smooth like any of yours,” Mikey mutters against him, his voice tinged with frustration. “It makes me sick. Your shells don’t make you sick.”

Raph’s quiet for a while after that, his expression tight and thoughtful. Eventually, he says, “Donnie has a different shell from me or Leo. He has to wear a shell for protection too. Does that mean he’s wrong?”

“His shell doesn’t make him sick,” Mikey insists, his tone filled with a mix of resentment and longing. “And... and earlier today, you don’t crowd all over him if he just sits down wrong.” The words spill out in a rush, and the box turtle can’t even meet Raph’s eyes as he says it.

“Leo and Donnie are just really protective of you, Mike. That’s all. We all care for ya, a whole lot,” Raph murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring. He nuzzles in against the top of Mikey’s head, hoping to convey through the gesture the depth of his affection and support. It seems to have the desired effect, as Mikey's brewing rebuttal fades into frustrated silence, replaced by a small grunt of acknowledgement.

“We looked for you for years, so now that we finally found you, they want to try and make up for all the time they lost too. And, sure, your shell might be different, but mine is different from Leo’s too. It’s a part of you, that doesn’t make it good or bad, it’s just you. Ok?”

There’s another huff from Mikey, but it's followed by a yawn, signaling his exhaustion. With a nod, he mumbles, “Ok,” his voice heavy with fatigue but also a hint of acceptance.

“Let’s get your mask off before you pass out on me, yeah?” Raph suggests gently.

“Nooooooooo…!” Mikey protests, though his tone is more playful than serious. “I like it on.”

“Mike—”

“It’s just my mask! I didn’t have a mask for so long, so I wanna make up for lost time with it too.”

“...Promise you’ll remember to take it off and wash it?”

“Promise!”

Raph snorts and rubs the top of Mikey's head affectionately. As they lie together to sleep, Mikey allows his brother to tuck him in, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. Raph carefully arranges the pillows against Mikey's back for extra support, ensuring his comfort before settling in beside him.

Now, Michelangelo loved hanging out with his brothers, but he also loved hanging out with his father as well! Despite how much they wanted to, times would come when Raph, Leo, and Donnie needed to head out of the lair for one way or another on a trip that Mikey simply couldn’t tag along for. Of course, Mikey never liked being left behind, but Splinter was always there to call him over to watch some TV or something else.

As of late, Mikey had been using the times with his father to learn other things as well. Now, don’t get him wrong, everything his brothers had done for him had only made him feel better. They had taken the pain away and replaced the void it left with soft love and care. But, if they thought Mikey didn’t care about every wince and flinch whenever they shifted slightly and put pressure on a new bruise, or would casually walk over to the med bay, telling him everything was fine, then coming out with bandages on six different places, they were wrong. They were fighting out there, on the surface. Fighting who he had no clue, but he did have ideas.

He’d listened to them when they thought he’d been asleep. Things called oozesquitoes that had escaped with him the night they’d saved him from the Baron’s laboratory. People called Meat Sweats, Hypno-Potamus, Albearto, The Purple Dragons…

His brothers had to fight so much and anytime Mikey ever asked them to let him help. To be able to do anything. They’d give him that worried little look again and pat him on the shoulder and just say, “Ah, don’t worry about it, bro!” Or, “You’re just not ready for any of that.”

So, when all three of them had been gone one day and he sat there, sharing the large lounge chair as another commercial came up on the wall, he’d brought up the topic. “I want to be able to help more, Dad.”

Sure, Mikey was ashamed to admit he’d doubted their father when he insisted on watching movies as a way to train, but in the end, it had worked. His sensei corrected him on stance and posture and the movements flowed through his body like water. Even Splinter had remarked on how quickly he was picking things up, like he had a natural aptitude for the martial arts. Mikey’s heart had only soared, and he moved to his next form with a grin.

Several more months had elapsed since then, and while he hadn't been practicing the martial arts for as long as his brothers had, Mikey still felt a sense of accomplishment. Just this month, Splinter had finally deemed him ready to commence training with a weapon: the fourth of the set, which had long hung untouched on the wall. They were called nunchucks, and although his father cautioned him about their complexity as weapons, Mikey hardly needed the warning. The nunchucks felt like a natural extension of himself—wild, erratic, and liberating. While he still occasionally accidentally struck himself on the arms or head, more often than not, he hit his intended targets and practiced with relentless determination, only stowing them away when he heard his brothers' voices signaling their return to the lair.

Splinter never told his brothers that he’d been training, it was a silent agreement between them. Mikey would be the one to tell them, when he wanted to.

"Hey, hey! Don't overdo it!" It was the usual scenario. Mikey had been eager to boost his arm strength, attempting to leap up and grasp the higher railing to vault himself to the second floor instead of using the ramp. Raph had been supervising him, but his older brother's eyes widened noticeably at Mikey's audacious attempt. "That's really— you shouldn't be—"

Mikey just smirked down at him. With a sudden jump, he seized the railing and decided to add some flair, propelling himself off the railing with his arms and executing a backflip onto the metal walkway. From there, he called down to his bewildered brother below, "Easy peasy, Raphie!" Raphael had been speechless, blinking at him…and then those wide eyes filled up with sparkles and soon the snapping turtle was right next to him.

Mikey folds his arms across his chest, leaning to the side to see his other brother from around Raph’s body. Thankfully, the snapping turtle moves to the side to give Donnie room to join the conversation physically. “You all keep treating me like I might break like glass.” Is how Mikey brings him in, a sour expression on his normally so joyful face.

Donnie blinks, looking from Mikey, to Raph, to Mikey again, to Raph. There’s obviously something in there that seems like Donnie really isn’t comfortable being in a conversation like this. But, he’d shown himself, and disappearing now wasn’t really a viable option…so the softshell sighs and leaves his lab, coming up to the two others. “We’ve been giving you increasingly rigorous exercises to help build your muscle tone, Michelangelo.” He says, keeping his voice monotone and as factual and logical as possible.

“At a snail’s pace!” Mikey counters, huffing, “You only let me do one pull up for almost a month!”

“The Leon is here-he-oh-” And beckoned by his own name, the slider’s up here now, ready to flash a grin only to see the…very not-positive tension in the air the moment he lands.

His brothers are looking at him like he’s become a completely different person and while their shocked faces are slightly satisfying to see, the way he’s treating them does make him wince inwardly. But, his resolve couldn’t waver. If he wanted them to see how capable he was, then he’d have to do it himself.

In the next move, Mikey leaps for the railing, grabbing onto it and pushing himself off. He hears his brothers cry his name out of concern, but Mikey simply lands with ease, straight legs dipping himself into a practiced crouch as the downward momentum moves through him. He moves to his room, releasing the clamps on his shell to put on his…Mikey’s eyes squint.

To put on his battle shell before grabbing his nunchucks. When he leaves that barren room, he still can hear his brothers arguing amongst themselves. When he reappears, though, they’re in front of him, hands splayed out to try and stop him. “Mikey-” Leo starts, “I-...I’m sorry-we all are-we didn’t mean to make you think you were less than us, really. We just don’t think you’re ready for-”

“But not my shells. If I faltered in their creation, then I too would not be allowed in the martial arts, hmm?”

Leo blinks, and then smirks, “Oh, you are so on after that, hermano.”

Michelangelo didn’t have the speed of Leonardo, didn’t have the strength of Raphael, or the intellect of Donatello, but what he did have was agility. His brothers couldn’t believe their eyes with how well he was able to move and contort his body in the air. With how he could be moving one direction and in less than a second, suddenly change and dash off to some other destination entirely. His fighting style was as eccentric as he is, bouncing and jumping and flipping.

In fact, sparring with their brother was so much fun that it’s all they did for the rest of the afternoon, and when Mikey started to slow down and sweat, starting to wheeze as the exertion got too much for them, one of his brothers would sit down beside him for support as they watched the other two show off their moves.

Leo and Raph in particular were amazing! The weapons that they’d apparently stolen from the Baron’s laboratory allowed them to use magic! Leonardo could make portals (when he could, he still wasn’t really the best at it) and Raphael would be able to grow even larger. It was so cool! If Mikey hadn’t been feeling slightly dizzy like he was, he definitely would have demanded to climb big Raph immediately.

Mikey had proven himself despite his physical limitations, and since then, his brothers allowed him to join them on all their escapades, much to his happiness. They fought against evil and tackled various tasks together, like shopping for Dad's robe or building an entire puppy paradise in the woods. Mikey was always there with them, feeling like an essential member of the team. Sometimes, he needed to take breaks to manage the strain on his frail, deformed body, but he persevered nonetheless.

Mikey never retreated into his shell, despite the urge that sometimes crept into his mind. His instincts whispered that it was safer there, that danger lurked outside. Occasionally, Mikey would entertain these thoughts momentarily, but the mere hint of his limbs starting to retract would send him into a panic, forcing himself back out. Being a box turtle, retreating should have been natural, but for Mikey, it was terrifying.

Watching his brothers practice bowling, sliding down the ramp encased in their shells to knock over mannequins, would leave Mikey frozen, trembling. The clatter of the mannequins, the whoosh of his brothers' shells, and the thud as they collided with their targets echoed in his mind, amplifying his anxiety. He'd stand there, his heart racing, envisioning himself trapped inside his own shell, unable to break free. The uncertainty gnawed at him, his anxiety mounting with each passing moment, until he could no longer stand the sight.

As the wall shattered, revealing their nemesis, Mikey's world turned upside down.

He sees him.

The Baron.

Every fiber of his being trembles, and in the proximity of Donatello, only the softshell could feel this. "Mikey?" Donnie's voice breaks through the haze of fear, attempting to anchor him back to reality. "Mike? Michelangelo."

Leonardo's urgent hiss from his own web cocoon draws Mikey's attention, reminding him of the need for silence amidst the chaos. "What's going on, what's-"

But Mikey's breaths are ragged, drowning out Leonardo's words. Trapped. He feels utterly trapped. Every attempt to move his limbs yields no results. He's immobilized. He's stuck, imprisoned by his own fear. The Baron's presence paralyzes him with terror.

His chest tightens, each inhale feels like a struggle, his heart racing as if it's trying to escape his ribcage. The room spins, blurring his vision, and the sounds around him echo like distant whispers, barely registering in his overwhelmed mind. Sweat beads on his forehead, his palms clammy and trembling.

"Donnie..." His voice is barely a whisper, choked with panic. "I can't... I can't..." He tries to articulate the terror gripping him, but the words catch in his throat, suffocated by the overwhelming sense of dread consuming him.

“You’ve been very bad.” Something in his mind slithers in, hissing at him from where he’d stuffed it, long ago. “He’s going to punish you. You deserve it.”

He isn't sure what's going on. Everything blurs together into a chaotic whirlwind of fear and confusion. He can't see, can't hear—sensory overload consumes him. It feels like his heart is about to burst through his plastron, each beat reverberating through his entire being.

Every breath becomes a Herculean effort, each inhale weaker than the last, shaking his entire body with the struggle to draw air into his lungs. But then there's nothing. Panic sets in as he realizes he can't breathe. He can't breathe!

"Mikey!" Leonardo and Raphael can only watch helplessly as their youngest brother is torn apart by a merciless panic attack. Mikey hyperventilates faster and faster, his face draining of color with each passing second. "Don! My shell! Use it to get you guys free!"

With Michelangelo incapacitated by his overwhelming panic, time stretches on, each moment feeling like an eternity. In the background, the clash between Baron Draxum and Big Mama rages on, a chaotic symphony of violence that threatens to engulf them all.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Donatello's determined efforts bear fruit. With a swift and calculated maneuver, he manages to roll them over and slice through the confining webs that bind them.

The moment he's freed from his restraints, Michelangelo disappears in a blur, a soft pop signaling his retreat into the safety of his shell.

"Mikey!" Donatello's desperate cry echoes through the chaos, but time is not on their side. Baron Draxum is slipping away with the precious oozesquitoes, and Raphael wastes no time in sprinting towards Leo's portal. With a swift leap, they vanish into the swirling vortex, leaving Donatello and Mikey behind.

Donatello faces Big Mama alone, his heart pounding in his chest as he stands as the sole barrier between her and the shell of his brother. It also doesn’t help that none of them have their weapons besides Leo, because the slider was the only one who hadn’t trusted the spider woman.

The spider woman lunges forward, a feral scream tearing through the air, and Donatello knows they're out of time. With swift determination, he reaches down, scooping up Mikey's shell into his arms, and without a moment's hesitation, he breaks into a run, fleeing from the danger that threatens to consume them all.

"Mikey!" Donatello's heart wrenches with every desperate call, his movements fueled by sheer determination to protect his brother. He leaps to avoid a vicious claw swipe from Big Mama, narrowly evading the deadly strike.

"Micheal!" He dodges to the side, escaping the sticky embrace of her web. "Hard as nails, right? Come on, hard as—" His words are cut short as a web snags onto his ankle, sending him crashing forward with a sickening thud. His chin collides with the ground, stars exploding behind his eyes as he loses his grip on Mikey, the momentum of their frantic run carrying the box turtle forward.

"No! No!" Tears blur Donatello's vision as he watches in horror, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Catch him, catch him! He's going to—"

But it's too late. He's too late, and all he can do is watch helplessly as his baby brother's shell slips through the broken wall and plummets out of sight. "Michelangelo!"

Time stands still for Donatello as he stares, transfixed, at the empty space where his brother had just been. If only he had held Mikey tighter, if only he hadn't lost his grip. He wouldn't be plummeting to his death—

Tears spring to Donatello's eyes, a choked sob clawing at the back of his throat. Above him, Big Mama's callous laughter cuts through the air like a knife. "Too bad, really," she taunts, the sound of her cruel amusem*nt grating on his raw nerves. She taps a claw against her jagged teeth, a sinister glint in her eyes. "I'd say he would've been an absolute hit with the crowd. They always love the adorable, young ones."

Despite being ensnared in her web once again, being tossed aside like a discarded plaything, Donatello can't summon the energy to care. His world has narrowed to the gaping void left by his brother's absence, his heart heavy with grief and regret.

Donatello remains motionless, his gaze fixed on the floor, his eyes vacant and unseeing.

Big Mama's belated arrival on the roof comes too late to prevent Baron Draxum's victory over the two turtles. Down at street level, their defeated forms lie sprawled, while the oozesquitoes have been freed from their jar. Such defiance is not acceptable in Big Mama's book, and she wastes no time in engaging Baron Draxum in battle once again.

Donatello hangs there in a state of numb despair, the weight of guilt and sorrow pressing down on him like a leaden cloak. His mind echoes with relentless self-blame, each thought a piercing dagger to his already shattered heart. "He was too young," his inner voice screams, "He wasn't ready." This was all his fault. "He's dead. You lost him again."

But amidst the suffocating darkness of his thoughts, a faint sound cuts through the silence—a grunt of exertion. Slowly, tentatively, Donatello dares to raise his eyes, his vision blurred from tears and exhaustion. And there, against all odds, he sees it—a green hand, reaching out and grabbing the edge of the broken window.

Michelangelo. Against all odds, it's Michelangelo. Donatello watches in awe and disbelief as his brother lifts his entire body with just one arm, the broken glass cutting into his palm, blood oozing from the squeezed flesh. "I-I'm here—" Mikey's voice trembles with pain, but his determination shines through as he manages to hoist himself up onto his front, one arm dragging limply behind him.

"Mikey! Mike!" Donatello's joy bubbles over, threatening to spill out in tears that he no longer has to shed. The sight of his brother, battered but alive, fills him with an overwhelming sense of relief.

Donnie's legs kick back and forth, a futile attempt to free himself from the cocoon that binds him to the wall. Despite his efforts, he only succeeds in jostling the cocoon slightly. It takes time, but eventually, Michelangelo manages to drag himself up from the floor. Bruised and wheezing, the box turtle appears dizzy and pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Donatello's mind races with a myriad of potential diagnoses as his younger brother totters his way over, nearly colliding with him in his unsteady state.

“I g-gotcha… Dee,” Mikey manages to choke out between coughs and winces, his voice strained with pain. His good hand presses against his front, trying to give his chest some sort of relief before he stumbles forward. Donnie can hear Mikey muttering under his breath, "Hard as nails… hard as nails…" Despite the piece of window glass digging into his palm, Mikey doesn't release it. Instead, he uses it as a crude knife to slice Donnie out of the cocoon.

Once Donnie is freed and on his feet, Mikey sags against him, his strength waning. Without hesitation, Donatello wraps his arms around his brother, offering support and comfort in equal measure.

“Mikey? Mike!” Donatello's voice is laced with concern as he quickly assesses the situation. Goggles down, he activates the scanning system, and warnings flash up on the screen almost immediately.

Dislocated shoulder. Bruised ribs. Actively bleeding cuts from the glass—

But Donatello doesn't need to read any further. They need to get Mikey back to the lair, and fast. With each passing moment, Mikey sags more heavily against him, his strength rapidly fading. "Stay awake, Mikey," Donatello urges, his voice tinged with urgency.

Deploying the Bug Slapper, Donatello swiftly maneuvers Mikey in front of him, ensuring he can hold onto the box turtle securely as they ride.

Chapter 11: A Brother's Sacrifice - All Turtles

Chapter Text

"Raph?" Their voices reverberate through the oppressive darkness, swallowed by the void. Beneath their feet, jagged rocks and unidentified debris crunch ominously with every step, a constant reminder of the desolation surrounding them.

Donnie's mind recoils from the unsettling possibilities lurking beneath the surface. Despite his aversion to shoes, the necessity of protection against the unseen dangers below outweighs his discomfort. The thought of even the slightest injury, a gateway for infection in this desolate landscape, sends shivers down his spine. Fortunately, his Genius-Built™ apparel offers a semblance of comfort amidst the grim reality of their situation.

"Mikey!" Leo's voice pierces through the oppressive silence, amplified by the crackling static of the communicator. The loudness of it makes the softshell wince, and he moves to turn down the volume a bit before his twin blows out his eardrums.

Still, he keenly discerned the desperation seeping through his brother’s voice, a palpable manifestation of both of their worst fears. Drawing in a deep breath, Donnie braces himself before unleashing his own cry into the void, "Raphael! Michelangelo!"

Their presence in this forsaken place was never part of the plan. Raph’s and Mikey’s mission had been three entire sectors away from Donnie’s and Leo’s. It had required some of Donatello's most intricate work to deceive the scanners long enough to permit their unauthorized expedition. Without his ingenuity, the EPF would have descended upon them with relentless scrutiny, accusing them of further defiance and betrayal. The mere thought of facing another round of accusations of "going rogue" and "betraying humanity" weighed heavily on his mind.

Donnie releases an exasperated sigh, the weight of their predicament pressing heavily upon him. The tangled web of accusations and suspicions could wait for another time; at present, the urgent matter lay in the sudden silence of their brothers' communicators. Despite his attempts to reconnect, he'd been met only with the stark realization that their communication devices have been rendered useless, likely by some force strong enough to incapacitate his technology completely.

"Anything, Don?" Leonardo's voice breaks through his thoughts.

"Nothing. Their trackers' last known positions align with this area."

A heavy silence follows his statement, punctuated only by the sound of Leo drawing in a shaky breath, then releasing it. "This is all rubble, Don,"

"I'm well aware, Nardo," Donnie responds tersely, his words hanging heavy in the air.

The silence persists as they navigate through the precarious ruins, each step echoing through the desolate corridors. Somewhere in the distance, Donnie hears his brother's voice calling out again, a desperate plea cutting through the stillness. "Miiiiiiike! Raph! It's Leo!"

Since the abrupt cutoff of their communicators, a seed of dread had taken root in Donnie's soul. In this unforgiving world, communication failures were rarely benign. People didn't just vanish without reason. As his brother’s voice reverberates through the crumbling halls, a sense of foreboding tightens its grip on his heart. The absence of any other sounds amplifies his unease. If Mikey nor Raph weren't responding to their calls, it could only mean one thing—they were incapacitated.

Or worse.

Donatello grapples with the stark realism of the situation, a bitter realization settling in his mind. Why couldn't he possess the same unwavering optimism as Leo? Or perhaps it wasn't optimism at all, but rather a desperate hope born out of necessity.

“Michelangeloooo!”

Donatello cringes and shakes his head in dismay as Leonardo darts from room to room in a reckless frenzy. It's an idiotic decision in Donnie's eyes, given the utter darkness shrouding the area. They're reliant on the faint glow of their ninpo just to discern anything in front of them. The potential for disaster looms large—a stumble over unseen debris, a careless cut, a dangerous fall leading to a concussion—the possibilities are endless.

Yet, despite his reservations, Donatello can't bring himself to admonish his brother to slow down. How could he, when they're in a race against time to find their missing siblings? Their only remaining family, their sole reason for clinging to existence in this nightmarish landscape.

No, Donatello would sooner face death than utter those words.

The sound of Leo's footsteps abruptly halts, prompting Donatello to alter his course towards his brother, guided by the faint, reassuring glow of blue emanating from Leo's direction. "What is it? What did you—" His words trail off as he approaches, his concern mounting with each step.

Leo stands motionless, his gaze fixed upon the ground as he lifts his boot slightly. Something thick and viscous drips from it, splattering onto the floor below.

Donatello's initial shock morphs into a visceral wave of nausea as he follows Leo's gaze downward. They were all too familiar with the grotesque anatomy of the Krang.

Without hesitation, Donatello takes a calculated risk, deactivating his ninpo and activating the blinding lights of his battle shell. The sudden burst of brightness floods the area, overwhelming their senses. As their eyes adjust to the intense illumination, Donnie's stomach churns violently, a sour taste rising in the back of his throat.

The entire hallway is a macabre tableau, lined with the lifeless bodies of Krang monstrosities, their twisted flesh and broken bones sprawled grotesquely across the floor. The air is heavy with the sickening stench of decay, mingling with the metallic tang of coagulating blood. Each detail, from the glistening pools of congealing gore to the contorted forms of the fallen enemies, intensifies Donnie's revulsion.

He struggles to keep his composure, fighting back the urge to retch as the nauseating scene unfolds before him.

Leo's foot meets the ground with a heavy thud, his hands clenched tightly at his sides as he takes in the gruesome sight before him. Donatello hears his brother draw in a deep, trembling breath, a palpable tension radiating from him, before he exhales slowly, steeling himself for what lies ahead. With determined resolve, Leo advances, stepping resolutely through the massacre.

As they progress further into the hallway, the carnage only intensifies. The air grows thick with the sickening scent of blood and bodily fluids, overpowering the faint aroma of minerals and dust. It assaults their senses relentlessly, seeping into every crevice and corner of their consciousness. Even Leonardo, usually stoic in the face of adversity, finds himself pulling his scarf over his mouth and nose in a futile attempt to block out the noxious odor.

But it's a futile effort, merely a token gesture to provide some semblance of relief as they press on deeper into the heart of the devastation.

Donatello's grim observation does not escape him as he takes note of the familiar manner in which the bodies around them met their demise. Some bear the telltale signs of scorching and burning, while others appear to have been mercilessly pounded and pulverized into unrecognizable masses. A silent exchange of glances between him and Leo speaks volumes—there is no doubt in their minds. Their brothers were here.

The sight at the back of the hallway offers a glimmer of hope amidst the chaos. Most of the bodies are piled around what appears to have once been a wall, now reduced to a heap of rubble. It's evident that the Krang beasts had been clawing furiously at the obstruction, driven by a primal, bloodthirsty frenzy. Something within the rubble had incited their rage, compelling them to remain fixated despite the imminent danger of collapse.

Leo and Donatello exchange no words about their discovery. Instead, Leo rolls his shoulder, the tension evident in his movements, before sheathing his blade with a decisive click. "Integrity here?" he inquires, his voice steady despite the weight of their situation.

Donatello conducts a series of scans and taps at his wrist, the subtle glow of his tech illuminating his features as he works. After a few moments of tense silence, he responds, "...Sufficient."

"Good," Leo acknowledges with a nod of determination. Without hesitation, they set to work, methodically kicking away the bodies of the fallen Krang beasts and carefully beginning to clear the rubble obstructing their path.

As they methodically clear away the rubble from the top, Donatello and Leo are met with unexpected results—the debris parts to reveal a room hidden behind the collapsed wall. Donatello furrows his brow in contemplation, recognizing that such a collapse seems too deliberate to be mere happenstance.

Despite his suspicions, Donatello keeps his thoughts to himself for the time being. Instead, he accepts Leo's offered hand, allowing his brother to assist him over the remaining pile of rubble and into the room beyond.

In hindsight, Donatello would have preferred not to enter.

Once the room is bathed in light, both turtles freeze in shock. The space is expansive, but their attention is immediately drawn to a long trail of red leading from the rubble they just traversed. It extends deeper into the room, culminating at the farthest wall where a familiar woven orange cloak lies in a crumpled heap.

"Michelangelo!" They both call out in unison, rushing to their youngest brother's side. There's no response, but that doesn't deter them. With urgency fueling their movements, they drop to their knees, hands fumbling to find purchase on Mikey's shoulders, attempting to gently pry him away from the wall.

Mikey's form is tense, his grip on something unyielding. Yet, relief floods through them as they hear the faint sounds of his shallow, rapid breaths. It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. The sight of him curled protectively against the wall, clutching onto whatever he's holding with a fierce determination, evokes memories of his innocent slumber, hugging his pillow with childlike abandon.

It was not a pillow that Mikey was holding.

Leo's hand recoils as if burned, a gasp escaping his lips as his eyes widen in horrified realization. There, in Mikey's grasp, is a green, spiky-scaled limb tightly bound in crimson wraps.

Mikey’s holding onto-

He’s clutching onto-

That’s-

It’s Raphael’s arm.

Donatello dares to glance towards where the upper arm would have connected to the shoulder, where the majority of the blood pools, where the red trail had led to.

The remaining blood seeps out sluggishly, its metallic scent mingling with the musty odor of decay from the rubble they recently traversed. Each drop seems to echo through the silence, a morbid percussion to the unfolding nightmare.

He can feel the telltale sting of tears gathering in his eyes, but Leo is swallowing down his own emotions as he always does, his stoic façade barely masking the terror that threatens to consume him. Raphael may be gone, but Mikey was not. They didn’t have time to grieve.

“Scan him and report,” comes the order, the words dripping with an ominous weight that sends shivers down Donnie's spine. He complies without hesitation, his trembling hands betraying his façade of composure.

He lists off the results as they come in, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the oppressive silence that surrounds them. “No signs of infection. Shell is cracked. Heavy trauma on the back of the head,”

Leonardo’s hands move with urgent precision as he rolls Mikey over, a gasp escaping his lips at the ghastly sight of the gaping wound at the back of his brother’s head. The wound is more than just flesh-deep; it exposes the bone beneath, a sickening glimpse of skull amidst the crimson tide of blood.

His brother’s lifeblood oozes from the ugly gash, its crimson hue staining the fabric of Michelangelo’s mask like a morbid canvas of suffering. Yet, despite the evident agony, Mikey remains eerily silent.

With a sense of grim determination, Leonardo rips gauze from his emergency pouch, pressing it hard against the wound in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood.

Donatello’s voice trembles as he continues his grim assessment, each word a somber melody of despair. “Ninpo levels are critically low. Probability of feedback or cracking is high. Multiple fractures…” It just keeps getting worse, a nightmarish spiral into the depths of despair. Donatello soldiers on, his voice a desperate lifeline in the suffocating darkness, listing out the myriad issues because it’s all he can do to cling to a semblance of control in the face of unfathomable horror.

When he's finally done, Donatello just stands there. In their team dynamic, he's always been the one in the background, the strategist orchestrating their missions from the safety of their headquarters. Unlike his brothers, he was never fully accustomed to the raw, visceral chaos of the Krang-infested battlefield. He's used to being the one who analyzes data, who calculates probabilities, who finds solutions from a safe distance. But here, in the midst of this nightmare, he feels utterly unprepared.

“Okay, Mike,” Donatello hears Leo's voice, soft and gentle, cutting through the suffocating silence like a beacon of hope in the darkness. “We’re going to get you out of here, okay?” Leo's hands work swiftly, packing fresh gauze against the wound on Mikey's head and wrapping it, his movements purposeful as he tries to stabilize his injured brother.

Donatello steels himself, his heart heavy with the weight of the situation, and moves over to Michelangelo's other side to assist in assessing his condition. He can't stand idly by; he needs to do something, anything to help. Donatello's hands tremble slightly as he reaches out, his touch gentle yet firm as he begins his examination.

His brother's eyes are wide open when he steps into their line of sight. His mouth is parted, each breath stuttering and shallow. "Mikey?" Donatello's voice is a whisper, filled with concern as he crouches down to meet his brother at eye level, his own eyes searching for any sign of recognition in Mikey's gaze.

Mikey remains unresponsive, his vacant gaze fixed on the wall they had pulled him from, oblivious to his surroundings. Donatello's heart sinks as he observes his brother's lack of reaction, a cold knot of dread tightening in his chest.

With a shaky hand, Donatello brings a flashlight down, its beam slicing through the dimness of the room as it illuminates Mikey's face. He angles the light into his brother's eyes, searching desperately for any sign of life. But Mikey's pupils barely react to the sudden brightness, remaining dilated and unresponsive.

A sense of foreboding washes over Donatello, his mind racing with grim possibilities. Could this be a sign of severe neurological damage? Or something even more sinister? Fear claws at his insides as he struggles to maintain his composure in the face of such uncertainty.

"Leo," Donatello's voice trembles with barely concealed panic as he looks to his brother for guidance, "We need to get him out of here, now."

“I already know, Don.” Leo says back at him, a tinge of annoyance. Of course, Leo knew the severity of Mikey's injuries; they all did. But leaving wasn't an option, not with Mikey still clinging to the severed arm of their eldest brother. Donatello watches as Leo reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he tries to gently pry the limb from Mikey's grasp. His baby brother’s fingers are tangled in the worn bead bracelet that Raphael had never taken off since Mikey had gifted it to him.

"You… you have to let go, Mike," Leo whispers, his voice strained with emotion.

Unexpectedly, the sensation of the arm being pulled away triggers a startling response from Michelangelo. The room erupts in a blinding flash of bright orange, the glow emanating from Mikey's eyes like molten fire. Donatello's heart pounds in his chest as he braces himself for what comes next.

"Mike—" Donatello starts to speak, but before he can finish, a violent wave of burning ninpo erupts from Mikey's body with astonishing force. The sheer magnitude of the blast sends both Leonardo and Donatello hurtling backwards, their bodies slamming against the walls with painful cracks.

Stunned and disoriented, they struggle to regain their bearings as they hear Mikey's voice echo not in the air, but in their minds. "̴̪̽Ğ̵̦ě̷ͅt̷̼͌.̴͈̓.̶̘͊.̸̣̉a̶͚͗w̴̖͝á̵̜y̶̫͆.̸̩̄"̷̲̇ his voice reverberates with a sense of urgency, a warning that sends shivers down their spines.

But that warning isn’t meant for them. Even now, in this place, this condition, after everything, Michelangelo is still trying to fight off the Krang. Still trying to stay alive.

“Don!” Leo calls out over the flaring sound of Mikey’s powers, “Don! You have to connect with him!”

“I’ll try!” With unwavering determination etched into his features, he harnesses his ninpo prowess, conjuring protective barriers around himself as he strides toward Mikey's side. Mystic energy swirls around him, akin to navigating through a tempest until he reaches the calm center—Mikey's body. There, he gently cups Mikey's face, pressing their foreheads together, allowing their minds to connect.

The surging magic momentarily falters, as if recoiling, then gradually subsides, tranquility replacing the tumult. “We’re here, Mikey.” He reassures him, sensing his youngest brother's soul reaching out, seeking solace. It's a surreal experience, almost transcendental, and in the background, he registers Leonardo's approach.

“̴̨̃Ŕ̵̩à̴̡p̶̞̑h̵̰̄-̷̦̀R̶̤͆a̶͓͆p̸̤̾ĥ̸͍,̵̤̂ ̷̺̚h̷͉͂e̴̤̽’̸͉́s̸̪͘,̷͎͆ ̸̪̏h̴͉̎e̵͙͂-̷̪͛u̸̻̾ṅ̴̥d̴̰͝e̸̜͝r̷͇̈́n̷͔̂e̵̟͒a̵̹̔ṱ̴̛h̶̠̃-̸̹͒”̵̝͗ ̸̳̌ Mikey’s spirit, typically robust and resilient, is now crumbling, fracturing underneath the weight of everything.

Donatello channels his own energy, infusing it into his brother to provide stability before Mikey succumbs entirely. “Shh,” he murmurs, “we know. You have to let go.”

Donatello's attempt to console backfires as he's almost overwhelmed by the torrent of Mikey's emotional turmoil. Anguish, self-hate, pain, and guilt surge through their shared mindscape, threatening to engulf them both, "̴̻̟̈N̴̪̉o̷̞͌!̵̻̱̔ ̸̱̏̐Ĭ̸̹̻ ̶͈̰͐c̷̱̜̎ą̷͊̂n̸͙̈̀ ̸̪̕s̶͕̼̏ạ̸̘̊v̶͈̋e̸̢͎̋ ̵̨͊h̸̦͔̿̚i̸̲̅m̴̲͚̅!̷͈́̍ ̴̺͍͝I̸̖͆ ̷̬̂c̷̳̾a̵̡̱̿̎ṋ̷̋̈́ ̸̯̝̏s̶̢̀́͜ṭ̶̄̐i̴͓̣̿̇l̷̛̠̱l̶͈͖̉͘ ̴̨͂ș̸̝̌̕à̸̖̏v̷̛̟̞͂è̴̗̒ ̵̛̬̤̔h̸̳̀̔i̷̳̩͝m̷̖̂!̸̹̻̾ ̶͚̘́Ĥ̶̨̈́ẹ̵̔͜'̸̟̣̿̃š̴̭̚ ̸̥͊̽w̸̰̽a̴̟͊i̵̠͝t̵̨̋͆i̶̹͙͗ṇ̴͍̋̽g̷̢͔̐́ ̴̡͘f̶͇̍̈́ō̶̙ŕ̴͉ ̸̛͚̫̌m̶͎̪̅͝ē̷̡̺̆!̴̺͙͂͒"̷̢̅

Mikey's sudden convulsions send shockwaves through his body, causing Leonardo to curse as the carefully wrapped bandages around him unravel with the force of the motion. "Mikey, please, stop!" The strain of exertion is palpable, his brother's grief manifesting as a turbulent storm of emotions. The desire for revenge, to reduce everything to ashes, burns hot within him. Michelangelo's thoughts are clouded, his mind consumed by the overwhelming power coursing through him. The heat of his brother's abilities threatens to sear his soul, blurring the line between friend and foe. Worse still, if Mikey persists, his very essence risks being torn apart by the relentless exertion.

Something gentle and understanding pats the top of Donatello's head, a comforting presence in the midst of chaos. He looks up to see the wavering form of their brother's soul, Raphael, who strides past him with purpose. Raphael reaches out to the crumpled form of Michelangelo's sobbing soul, lifting him tenderly into his arms.

"Shhhh," Raphael soothes, holding Mikey close as the younger brother clings to him with a desperation that surpasses Donnie's attempt at comfort.

"Go with them. Leave me here," Raphael whispers to their youngest.

"̴͕̼͂B̶̝͐u̵̺̖͘t̷͕̜̆̽,̸̗͐ ̸̘̏b̶̼̠͋̔ų̸̹͋̑t̸̯́-̵͉̈̓"̸̟͝ And Mikey just cries against him, voice hoarse.

Donatello is unaware of the events that led to this moment, the harrowing experiences that brought his brothers to such a state. He can only speculate based on what he's witnessed, but that doesn't diminish the intensity of this moment, which feels deeply personal, almost intrusive.

Raphael, embodying the protective older brother role as always, gazes at his flickering purple form and offers a gentle smile. His subtle nods and gestures beckon Donatello closer.

With cautious tenderness, the three brothers embrace, mindful not to strain Mikey's fragile soul any further. "Go with them," Raphael urges once more, brushing a stray strand of hair from Donatello's face with a tender touch. Turning to Donnie, Raphael extends his hand, a silent invitation.

Donatello meets his brother's gaze, their hands interlocking in a wordless understanding. There's comfort in the shared grip, a silent reassurance passing between them without the need for words.

Trust.

Raphael is trusting him.

Donatello nods in silent agreement, acknowledging Raphael's unspoken directive. Raphael's form gradually withdraws, leaving Donatello cradling the fading essence of Mikey in his arms.

As Donatello blinks and returns to reality, he gasps for air, feeling the weight of the transition from the intense mind meld. "Everything okay?" Leonardo's voice breaks through the haze, concern evident in his tone.

Donatello takes a moment to compose himself before nodding in response. He gently pulls on Raphael's arm one last time, and this time, Mikey's grip loosens, shifting to cling onto Donatello instead. On his baby brother’s wrist rests Raphael’s bracelet, despite neither moving to pull it from the limb. Unfortunately, there's still no significant response from Mikey's physical body, not even after all of that.

With cautious movements, mindful of Mikey's injuries, they carefully lift the mystic warrior into Leonardo's arms, preparing to leave the unsettling place they found themselves in. They’d have to come back for the body later.

Donatello's schedule became packed from then on, leaving little room for missions. Even during his rare moments of scheduled downtime, he remains in his cluttered workshop sat at the edge of the base. Surrounded by the comforting hum of machinery and the scent of metal, his nimble fingers guide the ninpo-conjured welding torch, its fiery dance melding yet another piece of green metal into shape.

Peering through his well-worn welding mask, Donatello's eyes meet a familiar sight, adorned with its perpetual deadpan expression and the endearing snaggletooth that time refused to correct. Despite months of meticulous effort, every detail of his creation, from the arch of the brow to the curve of the cheek, still required his unwavering attention.

The workshop seemed frozen in time, the only movement the flicker of sparks as Donatello meticulously worked. Though the journey had been long and arduous, months upon months of research and creating the right components, searching for the right materials, they were finally here. Donatello knew that Raphael would only have to wait just a bit longer...

Chapter 12: Holding On - All Turtles

Chapter Text

Leonardo's consciousness swims back to the surface like a diver emerging from the depths, but the waters were murky and disorienting. His senses, assaulted by a cacophony of chaos, struggle to make sense of the world around him. A dull throb of pain reverberates through his skull, a relentless reminder of the violence that had rendered him unconscious.

As he gradually regained awareness, Leonardo found himself enveloped in a haze of confusion. His vision swam with swirling shapes and blurred outlines, making it difficult to distinguish friend from foe amidst the frenetic dance of combat. Beneath him, the unforgiving hardness of the ground pressed against his body, grounding him in the harsh reality of the moment.

Amidst the chaos, a familiar voice cuts through the din like a beacon in the storm. "Leo!" The word echoes through his consciousness, a desperate plea tinged with panic and urgency. It was Michelangelo, his younger brother, his voice laden with fear and concern, calling out to him.

Struggling against the fog that clouded his mind, Leonardo forces his heavy eyelids to obey, lifting them with a determined effort. The world swims into focus with agonizing slowness, shapes and colors coalescing into a semblance of coherence. Though every movement sent fresh waves of pain crashing through his battered body, he pushes through the agony, driven by the need to respond to his brother's distress.

"...ikey?" Leonardo manages to slur out, his voice strained and barely audible over the chaos surrounding them. A harsh cough erupts from his throat, sending a lance of pain through his head, intensifying the throbbing ache that already plagued him.

“He’s up!” Michelangelo's urgent voice rings out, not directed at him and subsequently sounding so much farther away. The distant sound of another voice, likely Donatello's, drifted to Leonardo's ears, but the words remained indistinct, lost in the clamor of battle.

A firm hand grips Leonardo's arm, yanking him unceremoniously from the ground. The sudden movement sent the world spinning around him, his vision swimming with disorientation as he struggled to remain upright on unsteady legs.

“Ok, ringing in the ears. Dizziness. Blurry vision…” His thoughts are interrupted by another wave of pain that shoots through his skull like a lightning bolt. The signs were unmistakable, pointing to one wonderful conclusion: concussion.

The fact that he didn’t remember only made him think it was more obvious that he did, in fact, get a concussion. “Great.”

“Leo-” Mikey’s the one at his side, balancing him so he doesn’t fall over. Right. Right, they were in a fight. Awareness crashes over Leonardo like a wave, flooding his mind with clarity amidst the haze of confusion. They were in the midst of battle, their lives hanging in the balance with every passing moment. His hand instinctively reaches for the familiar weight of his swords, only to find emptiness where they should have been. In their place, Michelangelo presses the hilt of one into his palm. “We need a portal, now.”

Ok. Portal home. Portal home so they can get Raph help. He can do that.

He channels his ninpo into his fingertips, feeling its power envelop the hilt and surge up the length of the blade. But the effort is like trying to grasp smoke; it slips through his grasp, elusive and ephemeral. The distant clang of metal and the shouts of his brothers echo in his ears, distorted and surreal.

Ignoring the chaos around him, he focuses on thoughts of home, the sanctuary of the sewers, the sound of dripping water echoing off the walls. But with each passing second, the pressure in his head intensifies, a relentless pounding that threatens to split his skull. He winces, his hand instinctively reaching up to massage his temple, but the action only seems to worsen the sensation, like shards of glass scraping against his brain.

"Is it working?!" Donatello's voice pierces through the haze, the urgency in his tone cutting through the fog in Leonardo's mind. But the ringing in his ears grows louder, drowning out the world around him.

"L-Leo, you need to-" Mikey's voice interjects, his words a desperate plea for attention, but Leonardo can barely make sense of them through the fog of his concussion.

"Focus, damn it! They need you!" Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forces his hand away from his face, his vision swimming as he struggles to maintain his balance. Gripping the sword's hilt tightly with both hands, he traces a sloppy circle on the ground, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. Every motion feels like wading through thick molasses, his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

But there’s a flicker, a spark, and a swirling blue portal opens up at their feet. Leonardo pants heavily, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath, but there's no time to dwell on his exhaustion. Raph couldn't make it through the portal on his own, and every second counts.

Michelangelo springs into action, his movements swift and purposeful as he rushes to assist. With practiced efficiency, they each grab hold of one of Raph's limbs, pulling with all their might. It's slow progress, each tug met with stubborn resistance as they strain against the weight of their brother's unconscious form. Donatello, preoccupied with defending their position, can offer little assistance, leaving them to rely solely on their own strength and determination.

The sounds of battle echo around them, a constant reminder of the danger that lurks just beyond the edge of their sanctuary. Donatello's shield groans under the relentless assault, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface like fractures in glass. Time is running out, the pressure mounting with each passing moment.

With a grunt of effort, Leonardo digs deep, summoning every ounce of strength he possesses to move their burden. Raph's size becomes painfully apparent at this moment, his inert form feeling heavier than anything Leonardo has ever encountered. "C-C’mon, Raph-" he grunts through gritted teeth, straining against the weight as he pulls with all his might.

And then, he takes a leap of faith, launching himself through the portal with Raph in tow. The momentum carries them both forward, the swirling vortex enveloping them in its embrace. Behind them, Michelangelo follows in swift succession, ensuring that no one is left behind.

As Donatello crosses the threshold, the swirling circle begins to shrink, closing off the passage between worlds. With a final snap, the portal seals shut, leaving them standing in the relative safety of their sanctuary, their escape narrowly achieved.

Though escape seems to be a bit of an overstatement since they don’t end up at home, but they do hit something soft. Tahiti? They wish. Though sand is what greets them, there’s no glorious sounds of the waves nearby nor a breeze by some palm trees to cool them down. No, this was just….the desert. An arid, rocky place full of shrubs and sand and dirt and he can already feel the sun beating down on his shell. Normally, Leonardo would love to do some good basking, but this was not one of those times.

After landing, everyone remains grounded for a few moments, allowing the adrenaline to dissipate and their breath to steady. Predictably, Donatello and Michelangelo are the first to rise to their feet. Donatello, the soft-shell brother, immediately tends to Raphael, whose labored breathing is punctuated by harsh, wet coughs echoing through the silence. Each cough seems to convulse his entire body, sending shivers down his brothers' spines. Donatello takes hold of one of Raphael's arms, pulling with urgency, but it's not enough. "Mikey! Help! Now!" Michelangelo swiftly joins in, pressing his own shell against Raphael's and pushing forcefully with his feet. Together, they manage to maneuver their brother onto his side before he chokes on any obstructions in his throat, a relieved sigh escaping them both. Thankfully, there's no vomiting, but a concerning speckle of red accompanies some of Raphael's spittle as it sprays onto the sand.

"Wh-What..." With the rush of adrenaline fading, everything suddenly feels disorienting for Leonardo. He groans, his hand slowly scraping against the ground as he attempts to prop himself up. Finally finding some support, he begins to push up, but his arm trembles and gives out after lifting only halfway. At least he's managed to roll onto his back—

No, the sun is right above them, the sky an unbroken expanse of nauseatingly bright blue. Its searing rays feel like fiery daggers piercing his eyes, threatening to split his skull. With a gasping hiss, he lurches to the side, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as tears stream down his face. "I’ve got Raph," Donatello's voice comes from somewhere nearby, but even that is too loud to be bearable and he curls up even tighter on the ground.

Then, a gentle hand rests on his shoulder, and a concerned voice, "Leo?" It's Mikey. "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

Leo wants to open his eyes, to reassure his younger brother that he's fine, but the pressure behind his skull feels like it would burst if he moved. Instead, he emits the softest, most pained groan he can manage. It feels as if something is trying to split his head open, and he just wants the agony to stop.

"Leo? Can you talk?" Mikey's voice cuts through the haze enveloping Leo's mind, sounding distant yet urgent. His younger brother’s thumbs move in slow, soothing circles on Leo's cheeks, offering a brief respite from the swirling chaos within his skull. Leo's stomach churns with waves of nausea, and every movement sends sharp jolts of pain radiating through his head. But Mikey’s hands don’t bring pain. If anything, they chase it away, the softest of grateful chirps coming from him, anything to let his baby brother know he’s doing a good job.

It’s a stupid question. His head. Everything is spinning, everything feels like a rollercoaster that he can’t get off of. “...ead…” he manages, the words slurring together as if tangled in the haze of his mind. He clamps his mouth shut immediately, before something else comes out that isn’t words.

“Ok, good, that’s good…” It’s not good, but Mikey doesn’t know what else to say. Donnie’s too busy worrying about Raph, who seems to have woken up, at least a little bit. The soft shell is coaxing him through drinking water from the looks of things. So, he was the only one left to care for his slurring, struggling brother. Ok…

Surveying their surroundings, the box turtle takes note of the mountainous desert terrain they find themselves in. It's a relief compared to being stranded in a flat, sandy desert with no cover. Memories of sand lodged in his shell send a shiver down his spine; it's an experience he never wants to repeat. However, being out in the open leaves them vulnerable. He refocuses on Leo, alarmed to see his brother's eyelids drooping.

"Leo, stay with me," Mikey urges urgently, his tone laced with worry. He's relieved when Leo manages to fight off the encroaching drowsiness, his eyes briefly brightening. Leo grimaces and emits a pained growl, likely in response to Mikey's loud plea, but Mikey pays it no mind. He's determined to keep Leo awake and as comfortable as possible until Donnie can take over.

Despite his efforts, Mikey feels the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. He's grateful when Donnie arrives to relieve him, knowing that Leo is in capable hands. The soft shell kneels down beside Leo’s head, reaching out and gently, lifting his twin’s eyelids, one at a time, using two fingers to avoid putting pressure on the eye itself. He peers closely, trained eyes scrutinizing the size and reaction of Leo's pupils to the ambient light.

Mikey can only sit and watch as he brings out a flashlight from his battle shell, turning it on and shining it right at Leo’s eyes. With each movement of his eyelids, Leo winces and emits a low, irritated growl, his natural reaction to the intrusion. His eyes flutter involuntarily, struggling to adjust to the sudden changes in brightness as Donnie holds the flashlight steady. His head twitches to get away but his twin huffs at him, “Stay still, Nardo.”

As Donatello's fingers trace along Leonardo's jawline, Leo's irritation peaks, his furrowed brow and clenched jaw revealing his discomfort. Despite his best efforts to remain still, Leo flinches involuntarily at the touch of Donnie's fingertips, his heightened sensitivity amplifying even the faintest sensation. "Bare with me," Donnie murmurs, his voice a gentle reassurance amidst Leo's discomfort.

Leo does his best to comply, his patience wearing thin as Donnie continues to maneuver him, now looking to inspect the actual place on his head where he’d gotten hit. The sensation of being turned and tilted triggers a wave of nausea, the world around him blurring and swaying like an unwelcome encore of a nauseating roller coaster ride. He grits his teeth, willing himself to endure it, knowing it was all necessary.

"Is he... okay?" Mikey's voice cuts through the haze of Leo's discomfort, drawing Donnie's attention. His brother’s response is a thoughtful hum, his focus still on his examination of Leo's condition.

"It's incredible he managed to portal at all," Donnie remarks, "Adrenaline is a shell of a hormone."

Before Mikey can respond, another voice joins the conversation, rough and strained. It's Raphael, sounding as though he’d just swallowed a whole barrel of razors. "Leo's..." Raph's words trail off, his concern palpable despite the gruffness of his tone.

"Hey! Hey," Donatello's head whips around, though he hasn't released his grip on Leo's face. "You should be resting, especially your voice—" Raph struggles to rise, determined to join his other brothers. Michelangelo rushes to support him, pressing against his front as the snapping turtle stumbles forward. "And, as usual, nobody listens to me." Donatello sighs in exasperation, gently lowering Leo's head back to the ground. "Leo has a severe concussion."

"Can he get us home?" Mikey asks, his voice tinged with hope and optimism. Despite his hopeful tone, his expression betrays his awareness of the likely answer, clinging to denial.

"If we're willing to risk falling into the middle of an ocean, or a volcano, or insert any other incredibly dangerous biome here, then maybe," Donatello replies, shaking his head. "We'll have to wait for him to recover a bit before he can reliably portal anywhere."

"W-What about your machines? A distress signal? Anything?"

"My GPS has located us in the Mojave Desert, but exact coordinates are difficult, considering we're too far from any signal towers to make contact," Donatello explains. “Even if we were, this is too far for any of my tech to come and fetch us, and any distress signals would call humans, which some green creatures out in the Mojave Desert are just asking for someone to call the feds.” He sighs softly and shakes his head. "Considering Raphael's condition on top of this, resting for at least a little while is better. I do have some emergency provisions if needed, so we aren't in dire straits quite yet."

With their two leaders out of commission, Donatello becomes the de facto eldest, and Mikey nods along without argument. He watches as Donnie picks up Leo into his arms and says, "Let's find some shelter." The box turtle helps Raphael along to follow the soft shell, the four turtles moving slowly across the rocky landscape.

They manage to find a covered alcove in the rocks, just large enough for all of them to squeeze into, but barely. It wasn’t spacious enough for Raphael to lie down in comfortably; his feet would poke out if he tried. So, the snapping turtle settled for sitting up against the back, using his lap as a makeshift bed for Leo to lay on. Donatello and Michelangelo positioned themselves at the mouth of the alcove as protectors, though the journey had taken a toll on everyone. Sweat dripped from their foreheads, and Mikey looked like he was struggling to stay awake.

At least the alcove provided them with some shade, shielding them from the direct sunlight, but it was still sweltering. "I officially," Mikey whines, pressing the back of his head against the slightly cooler rock, "don’t believe those people online…t-that say a dry heat is better than a humid heat." His voice comes through pants, and Donatello winces. The burden of carrying much of Raphael's weight during the journey had strained him. He knew his baby brother was strong, but…

Donatello took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. It could take days to over a week for any of their allies to reach them, so they had to rely on Leonardo's portals. Leonardo, the red-eared slider.

With a grunt, Donatello moved his arm in front of himself to bring up the projected display of his files, navigating to the detailed documents he and his twin had created for situations like these. Understanding the different needs of their species, how they might react to various stimuli, was crucial. Especially after the winter when they had thought Mikey had died due to not knowing box turtles can stop their heart when they brumate, they were determined not to repeat that mistake.

Red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans). Semi-aquatic. Dependent on water for: Thermoregulation (9 - Critical), Hydration (10 - Vital). Can’t aestivate. Urgent care needed in arid conditions.

Donatello grimaces, glancing over to Leo. He’d vomited twice on the way here before falling unconscious. Vomiting was a dangerous waste of liquids.

Ok, Raphael was also injured. Maybe his wouldn’t be as bad.

Alligator snapping turtle (Macrochelys temminckii). Primarily aquatic. Dependent on water for: Thermoregulation (8 - Significant), Hydration (9 - Critical). Can’t aestivate. Critical need for proper aquatic habitat.

Only marginally better, but that’s thrown off balance by the fact Raphael is so large. He eats double portions at home anyway, he’d need double the water, or more, to stave off dehydration alone. Donatello hadn’t been expecting the possibility of getting dumped in a desert today. All he has are three water bottles. Three. Raph had already drank half of one to help him recover from what he’d inhaled…

Donatello growls to himself, typing in the next. He already knew he wasn’t going to enjoy seeing this.

Spiny softshell turtle (Apalone spinifera). Primarily aquatic. Dependent on water for: Thermoregulation (8 - Significant), Hydration (9 - Critical). Can’t aestivate. Urgent care needed in arid conditions.

He glances outside, to the sweltering heat. His sensor had read 41.67°C (107°F). He heaves out a breath. This wasn’t good. Three out of four of them were aquatic. They needed water. Otherwise, their scales could start to dry up, rip off. Dehydration could lead to organ damage, respiratory problems, neurological issues… The softshell shakes away the thoughts and types in the last of them.

Ornate box turtle (Terrapene ornata). Mostly terrestrial. Dependent on water for: Thermoregulation (3 - Low), Hydration (5 - Medium). Can aestivate. Moderate care needed in arid conditions.

His eyes drag up to Mikey, sitting across from him. The young turtle is wincing and rolling his shoulders out, but otherwise... well, it looks like he’s already caught his breath from the walk here, at least compared to the rest of them. Ideas are thrown through Donatello’s mind, and he hates the idea that they might have to entertain any of them. The youngest notices his staring and blinks up at him. “Donnie?” he asks, curious. “What is it? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Donatello shakes his head and pulls the half-full water bottle from his shell. “We need to get Leo awake and get him to drink. Think you can—”

Before he can finish, Michelangelo is already on his feet, and Donatello feels a pang of jealousy because his own legs still feel like jello. Maybe he’d feel better if he enabled his battle shell’s cooling fans, but that would be a potentially bad waste of electricity. They couldn’t spare any resources like that right now.

“Heya there, Leo,” Mikey greets cautiously, his voice a soothing melody amidst the tension. “Donnie wants to make sure you’re getting enough water, ok? Then you can get back to sleep.”

Leo’s eyes take a bit to focus, but then he slowly becomes more aware. There’s a constant grimace on his face, no doubt fighting through the pain in his head, but that doesn’t stop him from checking his brothers. Raphael that he’s against, Mikey leaning over him, Donatello on the side. He feels warm. So warm. His mouth feels like it’s sticky. “D-Did-” he tries, voice weak and stuttering, but not as slurry as before. An improvement. “Did you all…?” His voice trails off, his eyes tracing their faces the best they can.

Before anyone can say anything else, Donatello is the one that responds immediately. “Yes. Drink.”

And Leo does, with Mikey hovering close by, his gaze unwavering as he ensures the other doesn’t choke, his body so desperate for hydration. Leo drinks, his eyelids fluttering with each swallow, and then, as quickly as he had awoken, Leonardo slips back into unconsciousness. The alcove is filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the soft sounds of their breathing and the distant rustle of the desert wind. There was little more than a single mouthful left now, dwindling at the bottom of their first bottle.

Raphael waits for Leo's breathing to even out before his head tilts up towards the softshell. Despite the weariness etched into his features, there's a flicker of concern in his eyes as he speaks. “I drank some before,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper amidst the quiet of their shelter. “You two didn’t.”

Donatello and Raphael meet eyes. They both know. It's a silent exchange, a battle of wills that speaks volumes without a single word spoken. Without breaking eye contact, Donatello addresses the third conscious turtle. “Give me the bottle, Mike.”

Raphael watches as Mikey complies, handing over the bottle without hesitation. He observes as Donatello takes one mouthful, nearly finishing it in one go. When it’s handed back to Mikey for him to drink, their youngest gets the least out of all of them. This is the only moment when Donatello breaks eye contact with Raphael, his gaze shifting to take in the box turtle’s face instead as the small amount of water touches Mikey's tongue. Mikey swallows, winces a bit, and smacks his beak a few times. “Give yourselves more, Don-”

“No,” the response is immediate, Donatello's tone resolute. “We have to ration it. This’ll be enough for now. We should try to sleep away from the daylight sun.”

“Mikey needs,” Raphael begins, but Mikey interrupts before he can finish.

“I’m fine!” Mikey interjects, stepping between them with a gentle smile aimed at both his brothers. “I’m not super thirsty anyway. Just tired, mostly. I could go for a nap!”

Raphael doesn’t exactly look pleased by this, but Donatello is already tapping away, setting an alarm for sunset. “When the sun goes down, Mikey and I can leave and attempt to find a source of water, alright?”

“Fine,” Raphael concedes reluctantly, and waits for Mikey to settle in, slipping into his shell to conserve space in the small alcove, his carapace pressing lightly up against Raph’s leg in an attempt to make him feel better. Then, all of them sleep, or try to, anyway.

At least when the alarm buzzes to life along Donnie’s arm, the world itself is much cooler. The sensor now reads 22.22°C (72°F). Much better. He can already feel the relief in his body, not having to fight the air tooth and nail from drying him out. Not to say he doesn’t feel dry already, though, but that was different.

Regardless, he and Mikey are up first, again, but Donnie’s faster this time, heading to the back to inspect the other two. Raphael has a slight, tight wheeze to his breaths that makes Donnie suck in a breath. Not only that, but he hadn’t gotten up at the alarm. Leonardo hadn’t either, but the slider is still sweating, even in the cooler temperatures. Of course, of all the—of course his body had to trigger a stress response—

“Donnie?” Raph asks, blinking away his sleep and wincing as his back screams at him. Falling asleep sitting up with your shell against a bunch of rocks can’t be comfortable or healthy, but they had far more pressing problems right now.

“It’s me,” Donatello confirms, feeling around Leo’s head gently. “How are you feeling?” His voice carries a note of concern, mirrored in the furrow of his brow as he waits for Raphael's response.

“Dizzy…k-kind of,” Raphael admits, his voice tinged with discomfort. He shakes his head in a futile attempt to dispel the sensation, but it stubbornly lingers. “Hot. Throat hurts.”

“We’re in a desert. But you also did inhale what seems to be some…mystic derivative of muscimol. Your body is trying to fight it off,” Donatello explains, his words tumbling out in a rush. Raphael blinks dumbly at him, struggling to keep up with the soft shell’s rapid explanation. Sensing his brother's confusion, Donnie simplifies it. “You’re sick. You need to rest.”

“But, you two need—” Raphael starts, but Donatello interrupts firmly.

“We need you to focus on resting and conserving energy. You and Leo are at the most risk here. Mikey and I can scout. You stay here and rest. If something bad happens, use your communicator. We shouldn’t go far enough to leave its local range.”

Leonardo isn’t waking up, even through all of this, but his mouth is open, parted as he sucks in panting breaths as his body attempts to cool himself down. Donatello's gaze shifts between the motionless slider and Raphael. Michelangelo is still sitting there behind him, watching. He can’t make Mikey hear this, so, “Mikey, go outside, try and get a good vantage point, but be careful.”

“On it!”

There’s the scrambling of rocks outside and Donatello makes this quick. “Raphael, listen to me. We’re not built for deserts, and Mikey’s the only one out of all of us that can handle high temperatures, but not forever.” The snapping turtle blinks at the sudden seriousness. “Leonardo’s the only one that can portal us out of here, so he needs to get all the resources to get better as quickly as possible, you understand?” His words are urgent, a plea for understanding.

Raphael blinks, “But, what about—”

“You and I will be able to drink—but Leo needs to get the majority, understand me?” Donatello interrupts, his tone firm and unwavering. “Even if we start to dehydrate, as long as he’s strong enough to get us back, it’ll be worth it. We’re aquatic—without it, we’ll die in less than 24 hours.” Donnie's words are laced with urgency, a stark reminder of the gravity of their situation. He doesn’t mention to Raph that he's already feeling a bit dizzy. The mouthful of water he’d gotten during the day had no doubt already been sweated out while they slept.

“I wish there was a safer way but—Mikey—if we can’t find any, then he’ll have to go without—”

“Without water?!” Raphael's voice rises in alarm, his eyes widening at the implication. Donatello's suggestion of depriving their baby brother of such a vital resource strikes him as unthinkable.

“Listen to me!” Donatello hisses, his tone urgent and insistent. “It’s this or we die, Raphael. There’s no other option. We have to prolong the water long enough to give Leo the best chance, assuming we don’t manage to find a watering hole somewhere. He’ll likely start to aestivate, but that’s ok—that’s…it’s natural. I wish it could be more controlled, but we don’t have the luxury to ease him into it, alright?” His words carry a sense of desperation, a plea for Raphael to understand the dire necessity of their situation.

“If Mikey can’t, then-then Raph won’t—”

“None of that self-sacrificing sh*t, Raphael,” Donatello cuts in sharply, his voice laced with frustration and determination. “Got it enough from you two before. I intend for all of us to make it out of this, you understand? I’m the smart one and you two are too out of it to do much of anything anyway, so you need to trust me.”

There’s another pause, the tension palpable between Donatello and Raphael as they glare at each other. They don’t have time or energy to waste on arguments like this. Leo stirs in Raphael’s arms, breaking the silence. “W-What’s…”

Donatello stands up and presses the second of three water bottles down onto the ground, close enough for Raphael to reach. It’s a silent exchange of words, a gesture of solidarity and sacrifice for Leo’s sake.

Raphael ducks his head and looks away, clinging to Leonardo tighter. “Huh…?” Leo blinks woozily up at Donnie, but the soft shell’s already turning away.

“Me and Mikey are going out to scout. We’ll be back,” Donatello announces.

They’re out in the dark for hours, trying every trick in the book. The tallest point of this mountain of rocks only shows miles and miles of arid landscape, with cacti and shrubs dotting the barren terrain. They head towards where they see the first tree, since vegetation means water, but even then there’s nothing to rely on. They walk for hours until his feet are aching and sore.

Donatello swallows, feeling sick as his own saliva seems thick and gloopy in his mouth. His throat feels parched, every swallow like sandpaper against his raw throat. “Mike, I just—just a second—” He practically collapses beside the nearest boulder, legs splaying out and his head dizzy. The world spins around him, and he struggles to focus his thoughts. There’s a third bottle of water in his battle shell. He could practically taste it now. So delicious and good and—

No. No, that water was for Leo.

“Donnie?!” Mikey hurriedly calls after him, concern evident in his voice. The box turtle quickly moves to his side, kneeling down and grabbing onto his brother’s shoulder to try and support him.

“I’m fine,” Donatello grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to ward off the dizziness. “Just—tired. Didn’t get much sleep.”

Mikey winces, his gaze scanning their surroundings, searching for any sign of relief. With a resigned nod, he reaches for the empty bottle. “Give me that empty bottle.”

“What?” Donatello blinks, slightly puzzled by Mikey's sudden request, but he quickly complies, handing over the empty plastic container. His eyes follow Mikey as the youngest rushes off, heading towards... a cactus?

There’s a flash of Mikey’s ninpo, but it’s brief, a few awkward shuffling movements as Mikey panics, frantically moving his hands around... And then he’s running back, a wide grin on his face, holding out the bottle to Donnie. It’s not crystal clear, a bit cloudy with some visible bits of dirt, but it’s unmistakably water. Donatello sniffs it, confirming its contents, and any concerns about cleanliness are pushed aside by his desperate thirst. He practically snatches the bottle, bringing it to his lips eagerly. Mikey has to pull it back slightly to prevent him from choking, but Donatello keeps drinking until every last drop is gone, letting out a deep sigh of relief once he's finished.

“How did you—?” Donatello manages to ask, still slightly baffled by Mikey's sudden stroke of genius. The box turtle looks positively smug and proud of himself, standing up tall with his hands on his hips.

“I told you binge-watching Wild Trek would pay off! There’s water in cacti!” Mikey nods towards the one in the distance. “Not a lot, but some! Are you feeling better?” His voice is filled with triumph as he waits for Donnie's response.

Donnie blinks, a sense of relief washing over him as he moves his tongue around his mouth and finds that his saliva doesn’t feel as thick. “Yes, yes,” he confirms, feeling a renewed sense of energy coursing through him.

Mikey beams even brighter at Donnie's response. “Then let’s go get some more!”

There aren’t a lot of cacti to choose from, and some of them aren’t healthy or large enough to yield any water at all, but they manage to find a few viable options. Mikey knows how to cut them at the base now, expertly guiding the blade to create a clean incision, and then he quickly shoves the open water bottle into the cut to catch as much dripping water as possible. Each time, they collect a few mouthfuls, sometimes even filling half a bottle, and Mikey gives it all to Donatello.

When a sharp pain begins to radiate up through his feet, Donnie finally makes the call for them to head back. They’ve saved up ⅔ of the bottle for water, ensuring there’s enough for Raphael too. “Take a drink, Mikey. You’ve done a lot of work today.”

And Mikey smiles right back at him, he takes the bottle and drinks happily, gleefully. “Nothing better than enjoying the fruits of your labor.” He says, happy and content and making sure to leave an equal amount for Raph left in the bottle. When he hands the bottle back, his hands grasp each other behind his head, as casual and carefree as one could look in this sort of situation.

When they arrive back at the alcove, the two of them flop down onto the ground, leaning back against the walls and groaning. Their feet are irritated and raw, the constant abrasion from the sand leaving them pained and sore despite their well-developed calluses. “H-Hey…”

But their own discomfort takes a backseat when they hear that voice. Leonardo is awake in Raph’s arms, still lying there and looking sick and pale, but awake nonetheless. His hands are wrapped around the water bottle Donatello had left for them. Well, his hands are, but so is one of Raph’s, helping him hold it up and not spill a drop.

“Leo!” Mikey’s the one up now, springing over and enveloping his brother in a big, tight hug.

The sudden embrace elicits a hiss from Leonardo. “E-Easy, Mike…”

“Oh! Sorry…” Mikey quickly releases him, looking apologetic.

Leo reaches a hand up, gently rubbing the top of his baby brother’s head. “‘s good… t’see you,” he murmurs, his voice still slurring slightly, but there’s a better clarity to his eyes too, despite the exhaustion evident in his expression.

Raphael looks past the interaction, towards Donatello, his expression hopeful. “Any luck?”

“Only thanks to Angelo,” Donatello responds, smiling gratefully at Mikey and nodding in appreciation. He stands up to carry over their bottle of gathered water. “For you, Raph. Michelangelo and I already had our fill.”

When Raphael takes the bottle from Donnie's hands, this time there’s no hint of suspicion or worry about deceit. He smiles warmly at his brothers, lifting the whole bottle for himself and swallowing it down with a satisfied sigh. “Thanks, guys.”

“How are you feeling, Leonardo?” Donatello asks next, sitting down in the dirt beside Mikey and gently placing a hand on the slider’s forehead.

“B’tter,” Leo says, offering a small smile.

Donatello nods, noting the slight improvement in Leo’s condition. However, as he examines him further, he can’t help but notice the lingering signs of stress-induced fever. Concern furrows his brow as he feels the warmth radiating from Leo’s skin.

“You still have a bit of a fever,” Donnie remarks, his voice laced with worry. “We need to keep an eye on that.” He glances at Mikey, silently communicating his concerns before turning back to Leo. “Try to rest as much as you can, okay? We’ll take care of everything else.”

“Mhm.” Leo nuzzles against Raphael’s plastron, taking solace in the comfort of his brother’s embrace.

“How much has he drunk?” Donnie asks, his concern evident as he observes the roughly half-full bottle. “Leo, before you drift off again,” he gently taps the slider’s arm, “I really want you to finish drinking all of this.”

“N…” Leo's refusal stutters out weakly, his exhaustion evident in his slurred speech. “F’you…”

“We already had some, Leo. Mikey found us water,” Donnie reassures him, hoping to alleviate any guilt or worry Leo may feel about drinking the remaining water.

“M’ke found?” Leo's voice is a whisper, barely audible.

“I did!” Michelangelo chimes in with a chuckle, his enthusiasm brightening the mood. “Barrel cactus! Or something! Yeah!”

“We had our own water. You’re the one with a fever and were vomiting. Drink.”

Leo's reluctance is palpable as he scans each of them with his blurry gaze, his expression one of stubborn determination. He seems to find something in their faces that solidifies his decision, and he huffs before stubbornly turning away. “Y’aven’t drank ‘nuff,” he mutters, his voice strained with fatigue.

“Leo!” Donnie hisses, frustration creeping into his tone. “Drink the water!”

“You drink first.”

Donatello’s eye twitches with frustration. “I repeat, you’re the one with the fever. You’re using up water far faster than the rest of us,” he reiterates, his tone firm and insistent.

But Leo only tenses his jaw and keeps it clamped shut, his silent rebellion evident.

Not even Raphael’s soft nudging and “C’mon, Leo…” nor Mikey’s tender rubbing up and down his arm and puppy-dog eyes make him release.

So Donatello, feeling a mixture of frustration and resignation, yanks the bottle up off the ground. He hates this, but he knows it's necessary. Despite having already had plenty to drink compared to everyone else, he takes a single mouthful and swallows it, all while Leo watches intently. Then, without a word, he hands the bottle off to Mikey.

Mikey takes a sip, but there's a noticeable wince as he swallows. Before anyone can react, he takes another, longer draw from the bottle. Donatello's heart clenches with a mix of concern and guilt. "Of course he was, he was walking around all day in a desert and giving you all the water!" he chastises himself silently.

Raphael takes the last mouthful, drinking enough to appease Leo before handing the nearly empty bottle back to him. Donatello watches with a pang of unease, feeling a sense of dissatisfaction at the insufficient amount of water consumed. However, Leo seems satisfied, offering a small smile of gratitude as he drinks the last drops. "Thanks," he murmurs softly before shifting to press his forehead back against Raphael’s plastron, settling in to sleep once more.

As the sun starts to rise, casting its brutal rays over the desert landscape, the bale settles in to sleep. The darkness of the desert night gives way to the searing heat of the day.

And brutally hot it is. Not a single cloud in the sky, just a vast expanse of bright blue, with the sun beating down mercilessly upon them. Even in the shade of their cramped alcove, the heated air seeps in, turning the rocks closest to the entrance into an oven. Donatello awakens when the heat becomes unbearable, feeling a slick stickiness over his entire body—sweat. When he lifts his head, he sees Raphael and Leonardo aren’t faring much better. Raphael appears to be awake, but he's struggling to keep himself upright, his body swaying.

Donatello’s eyes widen in alarm as he notices Raphael's barely open eyes start to flutter, and he reacts instinctively, ignoring his own screaming body's protests. With adrenaline coursing through him, he lunges forward to catch Raphael before he collapses, potentially endangering Leonardo and the rest of them.

Their oldest brother snaps more awake and coughs slightly, clearly struggling with the intense heat. However, he manages to shift his position, leaning back to alleviate the pressure on Donnie and the others. It takes up more room in the cramped alcove, but it’s a small sacrifice for their safety. “S-Sorry…” he mutters, his voice strained with discomfort.

“What’s happening…?” Mikey's voice cuts through the haze of exhaustion, his drowsiness evident as he blinks away sleep at the sudden noise.

“We’re-Raph’s-” Donatello starts to explain, but a wave of dizziness washes over him, causing him to sway unsteadily. The adrenaline rush has faded, leaving behind exhaustion in its wake. “So this is what heat exhaustion is like?” he muses aloud, feeling the soreness in his body despite having taken no physical hits. Meanwhile, in Raphael’s arms, Leonardo shifts restlessly, his body radiating heat without a drop of sweat.

“L-Leo-” Donnie tries to voice his concern, but he finds his thoughts muddled. How long did they sleep? What time is it? How long have they gone without a drink? “Leo needs to drink-” He clumsily collapses beside Raphael’s leg and retrieves the last bottle of water from his shell. His hands aren’t even steady enough to open it, but his instincts are screaming at him for it. If Mikey hadn’t come over to take the bottle from him, he might’ve ripped it open with his bare teeth in frustration.

“You all need to drink,” Mikey insists, his voice tinged with worry. Their baby brother’s face looks sunken, his scales a bit chapped, but nothing…terrible. Donatello doesn’t even want to know what he looks like right now. Maybe like Raphael, with his dulling, dried-out colors and the dark circles under his eyes. The box turtle holds out the opened bottle for Donnie, but the soft shell shakes his head, unable to bring himself to drink despite the desperate need.

“L-Leo’s not sweating-” Donnie pants, his words coming out in short bursts as he struggles to catch his breath, “needs it more.”

He watches as Mikey’s face creases into a frown, but thankfully, they don’t argue. Instead, Mikey nods in understanding and moves to try and rouse the slider. It takes a while, far too long for Donatello’s liking, but Leo’s eyes eventually pry themselves open, gummy with exhaustion. He can’t say anything, but instead, a desperately agonized chirp escapes from his throat.

Raph supports him, while Mikey holds the bottle, allowing Leo to take little sips at a time. Little by little, he drinks until he’s consumed all he needs. When the slider finally lets out a sigh of relief, there’s barely a Donnie-sized mouthful left, having practically drunk all of their remaining water without realizing it. The three turtles stare at the almost empty bottle, Mikey especially, his gaze fixed on it with a mixture of concern and resignation.

Donnie shakes his head and nudges the last of it towards Raphael. “He…he needs it more.”

So Mikey swallows thickly, standing up to give the snapping turtle the last bits and looking away. The box turtle’s own body is demanding hydration, and the sight of the precious water sloshing around is too much for him to tolerate.

Raphael watches Donatello for half a second before he decides to drink only half of what’s left and nudges Donnie with the rest. The softshell takes it with a frown, eyeing Raphael back before sighing and drinking the rest. Mikey gets nothing.

The box turtle watches the exchange, swallowing again as he licks his beak nervously before shaking himself out of it. It’s the best they’re going to get right now, and the four of them huddle as far away from the alcove’s entrance as they can to avoid the heat. It’s too dangerous to look for water now. They just have to wait.

Mikey wakes up first this time, without Donatello’s alarm to signal that the temperatures are safe enough to move around. His three aquatic brothers are still huddled in the back, emitting a soft chorus of desperate panting as their bodies struggle to cope. When he shakes Donnie’s shoulder, the softshell’s head lolls for a bit before his eyes blink open. “Wh…ikey?”

Realizing it’s dark outside, Donatello assumes it must be night, and therefore cooler. He tries to stand up, but his limbs are shaking, and he gasps in pain. Suddenly, his world tilts, and he’s gagging, his stomach rebelling as he tries to throw up nothing but thickened bile. What little liquid he had left comes out in clumps, barely avoiding getting it on his legs. “D-Donnie! It’s-ok, ok-” Mikey pushes him back down, resting against Raphael’s larger form. They need water.

In a panic, Mikey grabs the three empty water bottles and rushes out into the night. His brothers are dying, and the sound of Donatello vomiting hadn’t woken Raphael or Leonardo. They aren’t moving.

No. No! He has to find water, and he has to find it now.

Frantically, he travels back and forth, cutting into cacti repeatedly until there’s nothing but clumps of them left to rot in the sun tomorrow. Three full bottles of water. One for each of his brothers. It takes too long to get each of them conscious enough to drink. Too long before he's rushing out again to get more.

As he trudges back from his second trip, each step feels heavier than the last. The darkness of the night wraps around him like a heavy blanket, adding to the weight of his fatigue. The sand beneath his feet seems to pull at him, each grain a tiny anchor dragging him down. His breath comes in ragged gasps, the dry air parching his throat with every inhalation.

Mikey's vision blurs at the edges, his surroundings becoming hazy and indistinct. The only thing keeping him going is the thought of his brothers waiting for him, their desperate need for water driving him forward.

There’s a tree that he walks under. The only larger piece of vegetation left for miles. Mikey had destroyed every cactus he could find, now, this was all that’s left. He lets himself rest there, just for a second, a hand planted against the trunk to help support him as he catches his breath. The longer he stands here though, the more tired he feels. Exhausted. Some part of him just wants to lie down for a nap right here. Wants to dig right under the roots, use the whole tree for shade away from the horrible, horrible sun.

No. He was fine. He had to be fine. Everyone was relying on him. The filled bottles of water hang heavily from his belts, knocking against him with every movement. So Mikey shoves himself off the tree and back to the alcove.

He’s so tired.

Leo’s calling his name, he’s pretty sure. Leo’s-right, Leo-he plants a hand under himself, but things are so…so dizzy…and…and warm right now…and the ground is so cool…The hand that was supposed to push himself off the ground only drags more of the damp dirt towards himself, clumsily shoving it against his face before he lets himself sigh. Just a little rest. It’s so comfortable.

Leo lies in Raphael’s embrace, his head throbbing. However, the sight of his baby brother collapsing jolts him to a semblance of clarity. “Mike! Mikey! Michelangelo!” His voice stirs the others, but it’s Donnie who reacts first.

Donnie spots his brother sprawled in the dirt, his face pressed against the ground, raw and reddened feet beside him. “Just... just calm down,” he urges Leo, maneuvering to flip Mikey onto his shell. “Mikey isn’t perspiring; has he not taken a single drink all night?”

"W-What’s wrong with—"

Donnie's heart lurches at Leo's shaky inquiry, his own worry mounting. Ignoring the faint grumble of Raphael stirring nearby, Donnie swiftly adjusts his goggles, their lenses reflecting the dim light of the surroundings. With a furrowed brow, he leans over his fallen brother, the urgency evident in his every movement. "His heart rate's plummeting," he murmurs, but his tone is more detached than worried.

“What—” Raphael’s voice rings out, full of alarm, his own panic rising. But Donnie swiftly silences him with a firm hand.

“It’s plummeting… faster than I'd like, but he should be fine. For now,” Donnie reassures, his tone measured yet tinged with underlying concern. He glances up briefly, meeting Raphael's eyes before refocusing his attention on the task at hand.

“Fine?! No—” Leo interjects, his voice edged with concern, his instincts as a medic kicking in.

“Remember that winter? Just like when he was brumating. Box turtles are a species capable of aestivation,” Donnie explains quickly, “His condition is far from ideal, but he isn’t dying,” he asserts, though a shadow of doubt looms in his mind. While he clings to the hope that Mikey is simply utilizing a biological heat safety net, the possibility of severe heat stroke nags at him—a scenario he staunchly refuses to entertain.

“Leo, listen to me—I don’t care where we end up, but we need to get out of here,” Donnie insists urgently, his tone leaving no room for argument as he swiftly retrieves Leonardo’s sword from the ground.

Leo nods, his expression tight with pain as he accepts the sword into his trembling hands. Gritting his teeth, he attempts to summon his ninpo—but it feels like scraping the bottom of a barrel, each attempt bringing forth more pain than the usual flow. The sword slips from his grasp, his hands shaking uncontrollably, and he's overcome by a fit of coughing. Each cough sends new waves of pain through his head, intensifying the agony until it feels like everything is throbbing in unison.

“Leo, breathe, breathe,” Raphael’s voice cuts through the air, thick with worry, his hand resting gently on his brother’s trembling shoulder, a futile attempt to offer comfort in the midst of their dire situation. Leo winces and wheezes, struggling to draw air into his lungs, his chest heaving with the effort.

The sword slips from his shaking hands, the sound of its clatter echoing in the tense silence that surrounds them. It had only been two days—barely enough time to recover from a mild concussion, let alone one as severe as his twin's.

Their water supply is depleted, leaving them parched and desperate. If any of them left to try and get more, there was a real risk of them collapsing and not being able to make it back. It was a miracle Michelangelo even managed to get back here at all.

Donnie grits his teeth, his frustration boiling over as he seizes the dropped sword and thrusts it back into Leo’s hands with uncharacteristic roughness. “Again,” he practically snarls, his urgency palpable.

“Don—” Raphael's expression betrays his shock at Donnie's uncharacteristically harsh treatment, but Donatello cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“We can try to bolster him with our own ninpo, but we’re running out of time. One more day out here, and we're all dead,” he declares grimly.

Leo's grip tightens on the sword's handle, his resolve firm as he nods in acknowledgment. This time, as he channels mystic energy down the blade's length, he senses the presence of his brothers at his side. Streaks of red and purple intertwine with the blue, blending seamlessly into a vibrant cascade of power.

A surge of energy courses through him, overwhelming his senses. It feels as though he's being pulled in all directions at once, caught between the extremes of icy cold and scorching heat. Agonizing sensations assail him, as if blades pierce through his chest, his ribs constricting around them, his lungs gasping for air.

In the midst of this torment, Leo's mind drifts to home—to the warmth and comfort of their shared sanctuary. He recalls the simple pleasures of their brotherly bond, the laughter and camaraderie that defined their turtle piles. It's a fleeting moment of solace amidst the chaos, a reminder of what they're fighting to return to.

They're all huddled together now, their grips on each other growing weaker by the second. They're depending on him, relying on his strength to lead them home.

With a final burst of energy, Leo channels everything he has left, pouring it into the blade. The energy snaps from him, consumed in an instant. Donatello and Raphael scream his name in desperation, their voices echoing in the void, but Leonardo is already gone.

As unconsciousness claims him, there's a fleeting sense of happiness—a blissful descent into numb relief.

Chapter 13: Lost, But never Gone - Leonardo

Chapter Text

“Tell me how it feels.” Donatello’s voice is monotone as ever. As if this was fine. As if nothing had happened.

But Leonardo, for all he wanted to do. All he wished he could do. Did nothing. He laid there on the bed, staring at nothing in front of him. He could see his twin off to the side of the bed, of course, but even moving his eyes seemed like too much of a task right now.

“Leo.” Donatello demands, leaning more over the bed, forcibly putting himself into the slider’s field of view.

The two meet eyes, or at least, Donnie’s looking right into his eyes. They’re hard, firm, and yet hiding something so desperate beneath the surface. Leo knows his twin well enough to see past the calm and cool facade.

But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Leonardo doesn’t deserve it.

“Are you even trying?”

Donatello’s yelling at him now. Yelling. A fury born of agitation and anxiety and desperation and frustration. His hands have grabbed onto the slider’s shoulders. He’s shaking him.

And then the shaking stops. The doorway out into the hall is at the far side of the room. A smaller figure, a cloak tightly wrapped around them, covering them from shoulder to toe, with only their head popping from it. Even then, their head is mostly wrapped and covered in bandaging. But Leo would recognize them anywhere, even if not a shred of skin was showing. Because he’d always recognize his brothers.

Both brothers are on the same side now, and when Michelangelo snakes a hand out from under the cloak and onto the arm, Leonardo can’t feel it. He doesn’t deserve to feel it.

“I feel you.” Their youngest brother says gently, in that soft, ethereal way he’d started speaking in ever since his mystic training had taken more and more of him away.

Leo’s eyes finally move, focusing on where Mikey’s hand rubs over lifeless metal.

Donatello is watching him. Watching his expression silently. Judging. Analyzing.

“Can you feel him?” It’s such a quiet question from the box turtle. One they both know the answer to.

Leonardo had stopped being able to access his own ninpo for years at this point. Michelangelo knew that. Something hot and sad builds up in his chest. It’s something to crawl and writhe against the clogging nothingness in his soul.

Something must have changed in his expression, because Donatello of all turtles is the one to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him in close. Mikey stands there, rubbing a finger over and over again across the metal. Like it’s actually comforting him. Like it’s doing anything.

But Leonardo can’t find it in him to be even the tiniest bit mad at their baby brother. Not when Donatello’s hand is against the side of his head, guiding him to lean against the soft shell’s plastron. His face is squished against his twin’s front, firm enough that subtly, softly, he can make out the heart beat of the other.

No, Leonardo can’t be mad at him. Can’t be mad at Donatello either for daring to do this to him.

It isn’t their fault, after all.

“It isn’t your fault.” Donatello says, like he can read minds. It doesn’t matter if he can, though. Doesn’t matter if that twin sense of theirs lets him see right into his memories.

Leonardo’s body trembles.

“It isn’t your fault.” Donatello insists again, harder. He squeezes the entirety of his twin in a tighter grip.

He hears himself take in a rattling, shaky breath.

“Leonardo, it isn’t your fault.”

And Leo lets out the first sob, gasping and crying against his twin’s body, shaking and trembling, rambling out apology after apology. Because it’s all he can do. It’s all he can ever do. Just apologize after the fact. After it was too late to do anything. After people had already been lost.

Failure. Failure.

He hears Donnie whisper against him again, “It isn’t your fault.” And Leonardo only breaks harder.

Michelangelo hasn’t stopped rubbing his hand up and down the arm, the lightest glow to them. But Leo can only see the glow. Or-

No, he can feel the dullest of pressures now from where the youngest is methodically feeling over the limb, his own expression neutral.

But he’s crying too hard to even inquire. To even ask. He can’t answer when Michelangelo asks him again, “Can you feel him?”

A soft warmth. Like someone holding onto his shoulder. A ghost, in every meaning of the word, and Leo chokes. He nods jerkily against Donatello’s chest.

That gets the box turtle to smile, no matter how small that smile is. “He’s here for you, Leo.”

Because, even if he was gone, that didn’t mean Hamato Raphael ever stopped being their older brother.

Chapter 14: What Might Have Been - Donatello

Chapter Text

The ground squelches beneath his two-toed foot, heels digging in with each pump of his legs, thrusting down and pulling up as the living tendrils try to grab hold. They try to keep him there, to make him trip and land face-first in the muck. If that happened, the tentacles would stick to his plastron, his face, his hands and arms as he tried to push himself back up.

They’d press in further, sink into his skin, wriggle into his mouth, and root themselves behind his teeth, piercing through his tongue to anchor. They’d shove in alongside his eyes and sink deeper, trying to reach his brain. To infect it. Infect him. Make him Krang, or at least a slave to them, groveling at their feet and drooling like a deranged beast, waiting for a bone to be thrown.

No, he keeps running. He has to keep running. He has to. He’d been caught in a Krang’s empyrean screech. Ninpo wasn’t working. Each time he tried to call it to his body, the energy burned through his veins and snapped back, stinging him, rebelling, trapped. It was useless. Until he could get back to base or get back to Mikey, he couldn’t rely on it.

So that left running. The only sounds he could hear were his own shallow, panicked breaths, the putrid squelch of the fleshy ground beneath his feet, and the distant—but not distant enough—cackling of the Krang, hot on his heels. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum of urgency as he sprinted through the nightmarish landscape.

“I can smell them!” they screamed, demented and hungry, bloodlust dripping from every word. “I want to feel them squish between my teeth! I want to see their face as I rip their skull in two!”

He could almost feel their breath on the back of his neck, the heat of their words searing into his mind. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the tendrils beneath him seemed to pulse with a malevolent life of their own, reaching up to snag his legs. The ground was uneven, slick with muck and treacherous, threatening to send him sprawling with every step.

He pushes himself faster, adrenaline surging through his veins. His muscles burned, screaming for relief, but he couldn’t afford to slow down. Each stride was a desperate gamble, each breath a frantic gulp of air. He had to keep moving, had to stay ahead. Otherwise, he was dead.

Donatello doesn’t even know how he got into this situation, just that he was here. He had blinked awake, delirious and confused, and then his senses had sussed out where he was. What danger he was in. That’s when the chase had started. But how did he even get here? In the middle of some Krang outpost, alone, with no recollection but no apparent injuries, and even worse, without any of his gear?! No tech bo, no battle shell, not even a single knee or elbow pad.

Normally, Donatello would’ve been focused on why he was in this situation, one he’d never expect to find himself in. However, the cackling voice drew nearer, snapping him back to reality. He didn’t have time to worry about that; he had to get away first. The urgency of escape overshadowed every other thought as he raced through the alien terrain, the grotesque tendrils and twisted vegetation clawing at him, trying to slow him down.

His mind raced as fast as his legs, piecing together fragmented memories and searching for a way out. The Krang’s taunts echoed in his ears, each word laced with sad*stic glee, spurring him to push harder. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, his survival instincts taking over. He had to keep moving, had to stay ahead. The thought of capture was unbearable, the consequences unthinkable. He couldn’t afford to slow down, not even for a second.

The terrain was a nightmare of uneven, pulsating ground that threatened to trip him with every step. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sound of his ragged breaths and the relentless squelching beneath his feet. Donatello’s mind raced through possible strategies, but without his gear, his options were limited. He needed to find safety, a moment to catch his breath and think. But first, he had to survive the chase.

His feet trip up, nearly slipping, nearly stumbling, nearly sending him crashing to the floor and no doubt to a fate worse than death. The surface of the ground is no longer Krang flesh, and the thing he tripped on was—a leg?

He only has time for a glance. A single second to see a green body, scales and shell covered by Krang tendrils. A head covered by a red bandana. His eyes meet the body’s, and the pink and yellow snap up sharply to him, a long, slithering tongue and sharp, jagged teeth hissing at him, about to lunge—

Donatello runs. He runs because there’s no time. Raphael was lost, stolen by the Krang, turned into one of their puppets. He runs because there’s nothing he can do. Their brother was lost. Lost. Lost!

He couldn’t fix it. He could barely even keep himself safe. His mind reeled, the image of Raphael’s corrupted form burned into his memory.

Bare feet sprint across hard cement, the air turning cold, moist, and musty. The sound of running water echoes around him. He knows this terrain well. The sewers. He makes a quick turn at an intersection, one that only he or his brothers could navigate without sliding into the sewer water below.

More running, more panting. He hadn’t heard the Krang’s voices for a while. Maybe he’d gotten away? Maybe he’d—

“G-Get off of... me!” The voice is strangled and strained, coughing and choking, intermingled with desperate cries of pain. It sounds like Mikey.

Donatello turns another corner, running with a whole new burst of desperation, just to come across the scene. A Krang has his youngest brother slammed up against a wall, a tentacle wrapped around his neck and squeezing, another wrapped around his wrists, effectively cuffing him. Even worse, the Krang’s fans were out, and a horrifically smug expression spread across the monster’s face. It’d finally hit the mystic warrior with one of its empyrean screeches after years of the Krang trying.

Donatello sees his brother’s markings trying to flare up. The world’s strongest mystic warrior, without his mystic energy. Mikey coughs and sputters as he tries to reignite his ninpo over and over, but it’s useless. His legs kick out from under him, trying to do anything to get away. But he can’t. He can’t.

Panic surges through Donatello. His mind races, calculating options, but without his gear, he feels helpless. For a brief moment, their eyes meet. Softshell and box turtle. His brother mouths “Run” at him, and Donatello sees.

He watches as the Krang cackles again, levels a tentacle, and thrusts it right into his baby brother's eye. The death is mercifully quick, just a sudden, sharp jerk of agony. Mikey’s body tenses, then relaxes, going limp. The tentacle pulls out, slick with blood as more pours from Mikey’s pierced eye. The body is let go, crashing against the concrete below unceremoniously. His brother’s long, majestic, orange cloak is already staining with more and more red.

Donatello’s breath catches in his throat, a scream building that he can’t let out. He feels a wave of horror and helplessness wash over him, nearly paralyzing him. But he can't afford to be paralyzed. He forces himself to turn away, his vision blurring with tears. He has to keep moving. He has to survive, for Mikey, for Raphael, for all of them.

With a choked sob, he pushes himself to run, every step fueled by a desperate need to escape the nightmare unfolding behind him. The Krang's triumphant laughter echoes through the sewers, “Come back! There’s plenty more left for you!” but Donatello doesn't look back. He can't. He has to keep running, keep surviving, if there's any hope left at all.

Concrete gives way to wooden floors, but Donatello doesn’t have the wherewithal to think about the sudden change in scenery. He can only listen to the screaming voice in his head. “Run. Run. Run. Run!” But his body feels even more exhausted now, more run down. The adrenaline isn’t enough to keep him going... so he needs to change tactics.

He rips open a door in this strange, unknown home. It reveals a bedroom. Donatello yanks open the closet doors and shuts them behind him before he can blink. His soft, vulnerable shell is shoved up against the wall, his body curled up into a shaking, quivering ball.

“Come out… come out…” He hears the Krang’s sing-songy voice, relishing in the hunt, the chase. It was always a joke to comment on their eldest brother’s various emotion-driven “stinks”, but right now, Donatello could only pray that the Krang couldn’t detect his own fear, radiating off his body.

In the confined darkness of the closet, Donatello tries to control his ragged breathing, his heart pounding in his ears. Every muscle in his body is tense, poised for action, yet paralyzed by fear. He can feel the cold sweat trickling down his forehead, his throat constricting with the effort to stay silent.

The Krang’s taunts echo through the halls, sending shivers down Donatello’s spine. He grips his knees, trying to steady himself, trying to drown out the voice that threatens to unravel him. He prays for silence, for safety, for any chance to escape the nightmare that has become his reality.

Minutes pass like hours in the suffocating darkness of the closet, each second stretching into eternity. Donatello clings to the hope that the Krang will lose interest, that they will move on to their next victim. But deep down, he knows that the hunt is far from over. And in the oppressive stillness of the closet, he waits.

He waits until there’s a soft creak of the wood in the room—the subtlest sound that has his breathing stopping completely. He hears something grab the closet door and slowly begins scraping it along its track, the door sliding open. Donatello’s hands leave his knees, clamping themselves instead over his mouth as he tries to tuck himself even tighter against the wall, to hide behind as much clutter as he can.

And then the door opens, and something falls over and thuds right at his feet.

And when Donatello looks down at it, he sees the blue bandana, the blue scarf, the metal arm. It's Leo.

He cries out his twin’s name, “Leo! Leonardo!”

His twin responds, pushing himself up with a twitching, sparking arm, just enough for them to meet eyes. Donatello sees the desolate, hopeless face, illuminated by a dim light filtering through the cracks in the closet. There’s wetness touching his toes now, warm and growing. Donatello doesn’t even need to look down to know what it is. His brother’s mouth is already dripping blood from its corners. “It’s over,” his brother tells him.

“It’s over.”

The words his brother would never say. The words he could never say. Leonardo collapses again, face down, bleeding out onto the wooden floorboards.

“No! No! Leo!” Donatello cries out, gripping his twin’s body, trying to yank him up, to turn him over.

But a larger shadow covers the open closet door. Shining yellow eyes, that absolutely glint with glee.

And the Krang whispers it out. “Found you.”

The last thing Donatello sees is those same tentacles that stole his family from him, aimed right for his own skull, as the closet becomes engulfed in darkness.

Donatello wakes up screaming that night, the echoes of his nightmare still reverberating in his mind. His cries pierce the silence of the subway car, a raw expression of terror and anguish.

In less than a minute, his brothers are by his side. They rush to him, gathering around him in a circle of comfort and support. They hold him close, arms wrapped around him tightly, as he sobs uncontrollably.

Each of his brothers offers their own form of solace, murmuring reassurances and words of love. They rub his shell soothingly, their presence a tangible reminder that he is not alone, that they are here for him.

Donatello clings to them desperately, his hands clutching onto their clothing as if afraid they might disappear if he lets go. Their warm bodies against his, alive and unharmed, he has to keep reminding himself that they aren’t limp and lifeless in front of him.

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, a united front against the darkness that threatens to consume them. In the safety of their embrace, Donatello gradually begins to calm down, his sobs subsiding into shaky breaths.

They're here. They're all here. And in that moment, it's enough to chase away the lingering shadows of his nightmare, at least for tonight.

Chapter 15: Dangerous - Raphael

Chapter Text

Swimming had come naturally to all of them, except one. Water was an abundant resource in the sewers, making swimming an ever-present activity. The first time those heavy summer rains arrived, flooding the entire system with warm rainwater, something had just... clicked in Raphael, Leonardo, and Donatello. They dived right in, swimming like pros without needing anyone to show them how.

Whatever had clicked in them, however, hadn’t clicked in their youngest brother, Michelangelo. Maybe it was age, or maybe it was something else entirely. Regardless, when the three-year-old saw his older brothers diving in, laughing, and having fun, he hadn’t wanted to be left out. So the little toddler, with legs that had been getting better and better at walking, toddled right towards the edge, his eyes wide with excitement.

The three aquatic turtles hadn’t even been paying attention, too invested in their fun and games beneath the surface. Donatello was discovering how fast he could truly be, his lithe form slicing through the water like a knife. Leonardo was more than happy to join him in a game of underwater tag, their sleek shells gliding effortlessly. Raphael enjoyed floating near the bottom, his body relaxed, watching his brothers dart around like underwater acrobats. It was peaceful and warm, the murky light filtering through the water creating a serene underwater dance. Until he noticed a new splash near the surface.

At first, he’d been ecstatic! Mikey could join the fun with them too! He smiled as the box turtle hopped right in, but then he noticed that Mikey wasn’t moving through the water. His arms and legs flailed wildly, but his body didn’t go anywhere. Instead of the joyful clarity he’d seen on Leo or Donnie, Raph saw a primal fear and panic on Mikey's face. The little box turtle couldn’t swim; he was just struggling to keep his head above water, even as his bulky, defensive shell filled up and dragged him down. What was meant for defense and safety was practically a death sentence in waters as deep as these.

That was the first time Raphael had really saved any of his brothers. He launched himself upwards, nearly barreling into the still-distracted Donnie and Leo to get to his baby brother’s side. He remembers their confused chirps, borderline annoyed that he’d interrupted their game, until they realized what he was doing, what was happening. Raph's arms wrapped around Mikey's front, hauling him up and out of the water. He heard the youngest cough and draw in a breath… and then let out a screaming cry, sobbing from the stress of nearly drowning.

Raphael dragged him to the side, hauling the box turtle out of the water and sitting by his side. He was there, a warm body for Mikey to cling to for safety. Each cry intermingled with the most heartbreaking chirps. The youngest hadn’t found his voice yet, but the turtle in him still knew how to communicate. He sounded out desperate, rattly chirps for “Safe. Need. Safe. Keep. Safe. Please. Please. Please,” over and over.

And Raphael had been there to wrap him up in his arms once more, holding him tight and nuzzling against him. “It’s okay, Mikey,” his young voice assured, his large body already so big that with Mikey swaddled in his arms like this, you could barely see the box turtle beneath his protective embrace. To ensure Mikey understood, Raph pressed his cheek against the top of the hiccuping toddler’s head and chirped back, “You. Safe. Always. Safe. With. Me.”

They learned early that Donatello just wasn’t as… hardy as the rest of them. While Raphael, Leonardo, and even Michelangelo could roll around on the floor in good-spirited, wrestling turtle balls, Donnie just couldn’t keep up. The other three could engage in rough-and-tumble play, their laughter echoing through the sewers, their shells clacking together like playful drum beats. But for Donatello, those playful brawls often ended in bruises and aches that lingered far longer than they should.

It was because of his shell, Dad had told them. Donatello was different from the rest of them. His shell was softer, less resilient. Dad emphasized that they had to be careful with Donnie, to look out for him.

And all Donatello had heard was that he was born different. Or more accurately, that he was born wrong.

So, he threw himself into other things. Things he could do that his brothers couldn’t. Good things, positive things. While his brothers sparred and played, Donatello immersed himself in his makeshift lab, a cluttered sanctuary of wires, tools, and blueprints. He spent hours tinkering and inventing, his young mind a whirlpool of ideas and possibilities.

He created a filter so they could always have clean, running water, a precious resource in their underground home. He rigged up electricity, so they could have lights in the dark and heat in the cold, transforming their dreary lair into a haven. Each invention was a triumph, a tangible proof of his worth.

Mikey's eyes would sparkle with amazement at each new contraption, his face lighting up with childlike wonder. Leo, usually so composed, would be rendered speechless, his awe a silent but powerful validation. Raphael would beam with pride, a soft smile on his face and giving Donnie a soft pat on the shoulder and a heartfelt, “You did awesome, Donnie!”

Today was one of Donatello's biggest tasks: attempting to get them a working refrigerator in the kitchen. With that, and a functional freezer alongside it, they could store food properly, ensuring they wouldn’t go hungry as often. They could save food for the future, instead of having to eat it even when it started turning green. The eight-year-old was balanced precariously on a wobbly table, an assortment of tools scattered nearby as he stood at its edge, leaning into the freezer to fiddle with its innards.

Just what he was tinkering with, Raphael had no clue. What he did know was that Donatello’s current position only made him more and more concerned by the second. This just didn’t feel safe.

Sure, Raph had always been a bit more protective of Donnie due to his softer shell, but it was for good reason! He’d protect any of his brothers, but right now, one of them was at the edge of a rickety table, leaning over more and more, too focused on his task to even realize the high likelihood of falling. It wasn’t that Raph hadn’t tried to warn him, either. He’d called out to Donnie, making sure to say, “That really isn’t safe!”

Donnie had just waved him off dismissively with a scoff. “Let me work in peace, Raphael.” He hadn’t even turned around.

And there was no way Raphael was going to walk away when he saw this happening. So, he moved to an empty piece of wall and leaned back, crossing his arms. Watching. Just in case.

Donatello’s small frame was dwarfed by the bulk of the freezer, his brow furrowed in concentration as he adjusted wires and examined components with a meticulous eye. He muttered to himself, his voice a quiet hum of calculations and hypotheses. Each tiny adjustment brought him a step closer to his goal, but also closer to the edge of the table.

As everyone (besides Donatello, apparently) could’ve predicted, the table teetered and finally gave way, flipping up and over. Donnie let out a surprised, shocked squeak as his footing was suddenly lost and he fell to the ground, hitting his plastron hard. Above him—

Above him were all his tools, the table, and the refrigerator itself, tilting forward and falling toward him because he’d dared to use the fridge as support. They were all coming down on him, right onto his soft, unprotected shell. His hands flew to the back of his head as he curled up, trying to minimize the damage—but nothing hit him.

Given the trajectory of so many of those flying objects, at least one should’ve hit him. However, the reason none did became apparent when a wheezing breath came from above him. “D-Donnie— move!”

Raphael was above him, limbs trembling as he held himself up, holding up everything above him. The snapping turtle had always been big and strong, but he was still only nine, and an entire table and fridge on top of him was proving to be too much. Already, shaking limbs strained and slipped, and Raph’s plastron pressed hard against Donnie’s shell. There was a rattling breath and the eldest said it harder, louder, “Get out!”

Donnie finally snapped out of it, yanking himself out from under his brother, just in time to see Raphael’s arms give way and his brother get trapped under the fridge. “Raph!” the soft shell cried, rushing back forward, fearing the worst as he saw his older brother lie still for a few seconds... only for him to cough out and groan.

“Raph? Raph! Are you okay?” Donnie’s voice was high-pitched, filled with panic.

“M...Mhm...” Raphael shook his head and winced, “Just need to catch m-my breath...” Donnie watched him fearfully for a few seconds, then Raph said, “Back up, need some space.” This time, Donnie listened without hesitation, stepping back to give his brother room. With a grunt of effort, the snapping turtle shifted and pushed, shoving the fridge off to the side. He barely managed to avoid having it land on his legs as he did so, but he was out, with tools and various items clattering to the ground around him. Scrapes marred his plastron and carapace, but for now, Raphael simply pushed his legs out in front of him and sat, leaning back against the fallen fridge.

Donnie was next to him in an instant, his mind racing as he tried to assess the damages and decompress from the near-life-threatening experience he’d just endured. If Raph hadn’t been there... if he hadn’t— “I’m sorry—I’m so, so sorry—I should’ve listened—” he rambled over and over, only stopping when there was suddenly a weight on his head.

Raphael’s hand was there, rubbing tenderly over the top of it, over and over. “Don’t worry, Dee,” he said with a tired smile. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

“But you shouldn’t need to—you—if I was just—if I was stronger—”

Raph’s hand stilled. He let it fall from Donnie’s head, cupping his younger brother’s cheek instead. “Hey, you’re more than that soft shell of yours, okay?” He grinned, a wide, snaggle-toothed grin. “Besides, as long as I’m around, this shell of mine is as good as yours.”

Out of all his brothers, Raphael would argue that Leonardo was the more rebellious one. While Donatello could be sassy and dismissive at times, and Michelangelo sure knew how to act stubborn when he didn’t get his way, at least the two of them knew to obey Dad’s rules. They weren’t allowed up to the surface. Shell, they weren’t even allowed out of certain parts of the sewer, much less all the way up here.

But here they were anyway, and Raphael could feel the nervous wrongness emanating from every inch of his body... only for Leonardo to grunt and shove a hand over his nose. “Can ya stop?” the ten-year-old huffed, “Your fear stink is clogging up the whole alley.”

“We shouldn’t be up here, Leo!” Raph hissed at him, hands picking and fiddling with each other in his nervousness.

“It’s like, midnight, Raph! Calm down! No one’s out here anyway!”

Leo popped his head out of the dumpster, leveling his older brother with a frustrated look. He lifted a hand and lobbed an empty milk container right for the snapping turtle’s face, which Raph managed to dodge. “What are we going to do for breakfast, then?”

“W-We have some cereal left—”

“And lunch? Dinner? We can’t keep waiting for Dad to come out!” Leo turned back to the dumpster, his frustration palpable. “Rationing food because he can’t get out of bed, well, I’m not starving!” Leo’s throws became more aggressive with each word, and Raph started to realize that maybe this wasn’t just about finding more food.

“It... it wouldn’t be that bad—we could try and order some—” Raph tried to interject, but Leo cut him off before he could finish.

“I heard your stomach grumbling last night!” Raph paled, blinking rapidly, and Leo continued without missing a beat. “We all did! Mikey started to cry when you left the room! You’re not giving us your shares anymore!”

“But—” Raph blinked, caught off guard by Leo’s sudden action.

The slider hopped out of the dumpster suddenly, wincing at the disgusting feeling on his legs, but he now held a single plastic bag filled with... not the best-looking vegetables, but they’d have to do. Maybe they could cut off some of the brown bits... “Come on, there’s another shop a few blocks down.”

He’s already shoving right past Raphael, that stubborn look on his face again. The snapping turtle already knows that even without him, Leo would keep moving ahead. If he believed what he was doing was right, nothing would stop him, no matter what. So Raph lets out a sigh and moves to follow.

They hit one store, and then another, spending hours, until Raphael’s eyes feel gummy from the lack of sleep and his body is aching, just begging to be allowed to sit down and rest. From how Leo’s plodding along too, he can tell the slider is feeling just as tired, if not more so. Their scavenging run had given them two filled plastic bags, one hanging from each of his hands.

But just as they were about to turn the corner and head back home, the sound of frantic footsteps echoed behind them. Raphael’s heart leaped into his throat as he turned to see a store clerk bursting out of the store, brandishing a gun. “Alright, you damn raccoons, I’m not cleaning up after you anymore!” And they pause, the human staring at two mutant turtles, blinking. With a scream and “Aliens! They’re aliens!” they point the gun right down at the two. Panic surged through the snapping turtle, and he instinctively pushed Leo behind him, shielding his younger brother with his own body.

Leo’s frozen in terror, his eyes widening in shock as he stared at the gun-wielding clerk. It was clear he didn’t know what to do, paralyzed by fear and uncertainty. But Raphael couldn’t afford to freeze up too. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, he knew he had to act fast to protect them both.

“Stay behind me, Leo!” Raphael barked, his voice firm despite the fear coursing through him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he stepped forward, putting himself between Leo and the gun.

With a surge of determination, Raphael lunged forward, his muscles tensed with adrenaline as he aimed to disarm the clerk and knock the gun out of their hand. But before he could reach them, there was a deafening bang, and searing pain exploded through his side as he felt something hot tear through his flesh. His body collided with theirs, the impact sending both turtle and human crashing to the ground in a chaotic tangle of limbs. The harsh thud of the clerk’s head hitting the pavement echoed in the alley, drowned out by Raphael's gasp of pain.

As he lay there, his senses reeling from the shock of the gunshot wound, Raphael felt a two-fingered hand grip his arm tightly, pulling him up and away from the fallen human. “R-Raph! Raph, come on-” Leo’s voice was urgent, filled with a mixture of fear and determination as he guided Raphael away from the danger, the forgotten bags of scavenged food left behind as his brother leaned heavily against his side.

The dim light of the alleyway cast long shadows across their faces, highlighting the grimy streaks of sweat and dirt that marred their features. The slider had only recently taken an interest in medical studies, inspired by their father’s care for Donatello’s injuries after a nasty fall in the sewers. While Leo didn’t know much, he realized they were both grimy from hours of dumpster diving, and now his brother was bleeding heavily against him.

Amidst the chaos of their escape, Raphael could hear Leo’s murmured medical jargon, the urgent pleas to stay awake, and the self-recrimination that tumbled from his brother’s lips like a torrent. “Stupid, stupid, sh*t, sh*t, sh*t!” Leo’s voice cracked with emotion, his frustration and guilt palpable in the dimly lit tunnel.

With a weak chuckle, Raphael tried to reassure him. “I’m not tired…and you shouldn’t be using bad words.”

“That’s what you’re concerned about right now?! You got shot!” Leo’s voice was tinged with panic, his hands shaking as he applied pressure to the wound.

Raphael winced again as he felt Leo’s clumsy attempts to staunch the bleeding, the pain radiating from his side in waves. Despite his own discomfort, he couldn’t bear to see his brother in such distress. “You’re not stupid.” he insisted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes I am!” Leo’s response was stubborn, his tone laced with self-doubt and fear. “This—this is all my fault—if I’d just listened to you and just—just waited for tomorrow—maybe—if…if I hadn’t frozen up like that or, or—you wouldn’t have…” His words trailed off into choked sobs as he buried his face against Raphael’s chest, the weight of guilt bearing down on him like a heavy burden.

Raphael closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Leo’s tears against his plastron, the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. The hand from his good side came around to wrap around the slider’s shell, rubbing up and down it carefully, “I would’ve pushed you behind me whether you froze up or not.” He said simply, “Because big brothers are always there to protect little brothers.”

His brothers laughed at the dining table, a rare and cherished sound that had only recently started to fill their little home again after so long. They were healing since the Krang invasion, slowly sometimes, but steadily.

Michelangelo was experiencing more good days than bad ones. His hands moved with newfound precision, no longer trembling or dropping objects with gasps of pain.

Donatello's seizures had become infrequent, allowing him to shed his bulky battle shell more often. He was beginning to accept gentle touches from close friends and family, no longer flinching violently at the slightest contact.

Leonardo was regaining his ability to walk, his steps growing more confident each day. He could finally relax with his brothers, the perpetual guilt in his eyes gradually fading.

And Raphael...well, his eye would never fully heal; forcibly ripping something from it had left indelible scars. His arm still trembled occasionally, echoing the lesser effects of what Mikey endured, and his shell bore permanent damage. But that was alright. If Raphael had to bear scars to keep his brothers safe, then so be it.

But knowing his brothers bore scars because of him was something he couldn’t live with.

He’d seen April wince and flinch in pain whenever she moved, her ribs broken from his blow. While many of the Slider's injuries had come from his brief time in the Prison Dimension, not all of them were. Even now, he could see the scars where his malformed tentacle hand had squeezed Leonardo’s neck until the skin bruised and then broke, nearly strangling him. Some of Leo’s shell cracks had come from their fight, where Raphael had flung him against the walls with such force that he bounced off them multiple times.

He was so much larger than everyone else. So much stronger. He’d pushed himself to become stronger, to never stop, so he could better protect his brothers. But that strength had only made him more dangerous.

He flinched as Leonardo said something at the other end of the table, something apparently funny, given how Michelangelo and Donatello immediately erupted into bouts of loud chuckles and laughter. Raphael hadn’t even heard what was said.

So when the laughter stilled and he heard the slider address him specifically, “What about you, Raph? Whaddya think?” the snapping turtle couldn’t respond. He could only stare.

The silence was palpable, and when he heard Mikey’s concerned, “Raph? Are you okay?” he wanted to run away and hide. Even worse, when the box turtle’s hand touched his arm ever so softly, so gentle and caring, Raph’s eyes snapped down to stare at it. Mikey’s hands, so small in comparison to his own. A body so small, he could grasp the entirety of Michelangelo in one hand. If he had gotten his hands on the smaller turtle, he could have squeezed and squeezed until the shell snapped.

Something still slithered through his mind, dangerous and potent. Donatello had told him there was nothing left of the Krang inside him. That their burst of ninpo had expelled all of their influence. But Raph knew better. He still remembered how good it felt to feel his brother’s pulse quicken beneath his grasp. He still remembered how good it felt to be praised by them, to kneel at their feet.

If Michelangelo had retreated into his shell, Raphael could imagine grabbing each side and wrenching until it ripped open—

The snapping turtle’s eyes snapped open wide—since when had he closed them?—and he wrenched himself away from Michelangelo. He ignored the “Wait, look out, Raph!” and accepted his fate as both he and the chair tumbled to the floor.

His brothers were out of their seats in seconds, with Donatello scanning Leonardo by his head to check if he’d hurt himself.

“Raph! You okay, big guy?” Stop touching me.

“Nothing is coming up on my scanners.” Stop touching me.

“Hey, can you look at me, Raph?” Stop touching me.

“Raph, you need to breathe, big deep breaths like we—”

“Get away from me!” It was too easy to push, to rip himself away, to forget his own strength again. It was too easy to hear the yelps of surprise from his family as he shoved them, again. Used his strength against them, again.

He was on his feet and running in seconds, heading to the only place that made him feel safe—or a place he could lock himself in to make it safe for everyone else: his room.

He barely had time to make it to his bed, wrapping himself in blankets and trying to ignore how they caught and pulled on his shell’s spikes. Every part of him felt dangerous. Every part of him was designed to hurt, maim, and kill. He was designed to be a weapon. A weapon. Dangerous to everyone.

The room felt too small, the walls too close. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, each thump like a drumbeat of impending doom. His breaths came in short, rapid gasps, his chest tightening as if a vice were clamped around it. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down to sting his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe it away. His hands were trembling too much, clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white.

He barely registered the knocking at the door and the calls of his brothers, their voices distant and distorted, as if coming from underwater.

“Raph?”

“Raph, let us in!”

“Raph, it’s okay!”

Their voices were muffled, almost drowned out by the sound of his own ragged breaths. He curled tighter, pulling the blankets over his head, trying to shut out the world, the fear, and the self-loathing. The weight of being dangerous, of being a weapon, pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to be.

His vision blurred as tears filled his eyes, and his body began to shake uncontrollably. He pressed his hands against his ears, trying to block out the sounds, the memories, the voices telling him he was a danger to his family. The room seemed to spin, the walls closing in further, trapping him in his own mind.

He could hear his brothers outside the door, their concern and desperation palpable. But he couldn’t respond, couldn’t reach out to them. He was trapped in a spiral of panic, each thought darker and more terrifying than the last.

“Raph, please! We’re here for you!”

“Just breathe, Raph. We’ll help you through this.”

But he couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like it was on fire, his lungs refusing to expand. He was suffocating, drowning in his own fear and guilt. He pressed his face into the mattress, hoping to ground himself, to find something solid in the chaos. But all he felt was the overwhelming sensation of his own failure, his own monstrosity.

The room spun faster, the air growing thinner. His brothers’ voices became more frantic, but they were just echoes now, lost in the storm of his panic. Raphael was adrift, lost in a sea of fear and self-hatred, unable to find his way back to the shore.

That is, until there was a beacon to guide him. Something bright and warm that refused to leave him, no matter how dangerous he was. No matter how many times he tried to shove them away. His brothers.

Somehow, they’d gotten through the locked door, and now they were here. Leonardo and Donatello flanked him on either side, their presence steady and reassuring, while Michelangelo was right in front of him, holding him tight. Mikey’s arms wrapped around him, breathing with him, silently coaching him to help him get his breathing under control.

The warmth of their embrace began to cut through the suffocating darkness. Raphael could feel Leonardo’s strong grip on his shoulder, grounding him. Donatello’s calm, methodical breaths were a guide, a reminder to inhale and exhale slowly. Michelangelo’s gentle hold was a lifeline, pulling him back from the brink.

Gradually, his breaths started to match theirs, becoming slower and deeper. The panic began to recede, like a tide pulling back from the shore. His vision cleared, and he could finally see their worried faces, their eyes filled with concern and unwavering love.

Once his breathing was under control enough, he choked out, “Y-You need to get away from me,” the words thick with sobs. The oldest brother, breaking down, continued, “I’m dangerous. I c-can hurt—I did h-hurt you. I’m dangerous.”

Mikey’s grip tightened, and he shook his head fiercely. “No, Raph. You’re our brother. We’re not going anywhere.”

Leonardo’s voice was calm but firm. “We’re a family, Raph. We stick together, no matter what.”

Donatello nodded, his hand gently squeezing Raphael’s shoulder. “We’re here to help you, not to run away.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Raphael sobbed again, his eyes squeezing shut as fresh tears welled up. “I’m supposed to—and I—”

“You do protect us,” Mikey replied easily, his voice gentle but firm. “You protect us every day.” One of his hands left Raphael’s body to squeeze one of the snapping turtle’s hands. “What you did there, it wasn’t you.”

“But I—I… I enjoyed it—it felt good to hurt you, to hurt—”

“And it felt good to be their pilot,” Donatello chimed in. “I could feel their strength, and I was proud to be a part of that. It nearly took me too. That doesn’t mean it was who I was. It’s what they do. It’s how they control you.”

“But I should’ve been stronger!” he yelled. “It was because of me they found the lair, and it was because of me that you all nearly died, and—”

Leo’s arms, the same arms he had clashed with in battle, blade versus hardened flesh, with glares and snarls and feral screams, now wrapped around him so gently. The slider let out the smallest, quietest chirrup, “Safe.”

And Raphael broke, nuzzling back against him, crying too hard to say anything else… so he didn’t. Leonardo spoke instead. “You’ve held us like this so many times over the years, I’ve lost count. For once, let us hold you.”

And how could he ever say no to that?

Raphael let himself be surrounded by his brothers, their warmth and love breaking through the barriers of his pain and guilt. He felt Mikey’s reassuring grip on his hand, Donatello’s steady presence beside him, and Leonardo’s protective embrace. The storm of emotions inside him began to calm, their words and touch grounding him, reminding him of who he was beyond the fear and the violence.

He was their brother, their protector, but also someone who needed protection and love in return. As he cried, he felt a strange mix of vulnerability and relief, a sense of safety he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. His brothers held him tightly, their collective strength forming an unbreakable shield around him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Raphael allowed himself to be cared for, to be the one who was held and reassured. His tears began to slow, his breathing evening out as the panic ebbed away, replaced by the comforting rhythm of his brothers’ presence. They were his beacon, his anchor, guiding him back to the light, back to himself. And in their arms, he knew he was home.

Chapter 16: Not Strong Enough - Raphael

Chapter Text

His heart throbs hotly, pulsing blood through his veins, each beat shooting pain through his body. Every muscle is sore, every joint aches. His ankle twists in a way that can't be healthy, but he shoves it against the ground anyway, forcing himself to stand.

Because he has to stand. So he does. He rises even as his bones creak under the pressure, his muscles screaming and spasming in protest. But he stands. He stands and extends his hands in front of him, clenching them into fists, the knuckles whitening with the force.

Behind him, he hears a wheeze, the sound weak and strained. He doesn't have time to look back. He doesn’t react even when he hears the achingly familiar voice, "R-Raph," they call, voice cracking with the effort, "Stay down—"

It's an idea he can't tolerate. Raphael is the oldest. The strongest. His shell belonged to them.

Those behind him, still struggling to pick themselves off the ground, need his protection. He glances at them briefly, their faces etched with pain and determination, their bodies battered but not broken.

And he will protect them.

In front of them stands the beast. The monster. Its metallic body gleams menacingly under the harsh lights, towering over them with an aura of invincibility. The mechanical form gives the Krang more power, enabling them to flick away their strongest ninpo attack as if it were nothing. Its eyes glow with a cold, calculating light, promising further pain and destruction.

The pink alien only watches him prepare to fight again, a smirk spreading across its face. Even as the floating piece of skyscraper tilts and wobbles beneath them, its eyes remain fixed on the snapping turtle. “Listen to your brother, red one.” Their voice slides out like a snake's, slithering and dripping with malice. “For once, he’s said something intelligent.”

The insult to his family isn’t lost on him, and he dares to growl at the enemy.

The growl is all it takes to provoke them.

Faster than Raphael’s dazed mind can process, the Krang is in front of him, landing a kick squarely on his side and throwing him off balance. His body skids and smears against the skyscraper’s concrete, blood pouring from wounds both old and new.

He crashes into a window, hearing it crack beneath his weight before it finally gives way. The glass shatters, and he plummets through, landing on an overturned cubicle or table—whatever it was, it breaks under the force of his fall. His shell smashes through it easily, leaving him splayed out on his back, his head ringing with the impact.

Above, the broken edges of the window frame the sky, the floating piece of skyscraper still swaying ominously. Dust and debris rain down around him, the sounds of the ongoing battle muffled but relentless. His vision blurs as he tries to focus, the pain in his body pulsing with every heartbeat.

He can feel the weight of his mission pressing down on him, the need to protect his brothers pushing him to move, to stand, to fight.

Pain. Pain. But pain was always temporary. Pain was something he could push through. The snapping turtle ignores the way his head swims, disregards the nausea roiling through his mind. He puts a hand on the splintering piece of furniture beside him and uses it to stand back up.

Each movement sends fresh waves of agony through his body, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to rise. He sways unsteadily, the room tilting and spinning around him, but his resolve is ironclad. His vision blurs, but he focuses on the task at hand, pushing everything else to the periphery.

There’s a thud and a gust of wind accompanying the shockwave of the landing. The Krang is in the destroyed office space with him now. “Still standing? Color me surprised,” they mock, starting to take steps towards him again. They’re just walking.

Raphael grits his teeth and does his best to get back into a defensive pose. Even as the Krang approaches, even as he lifts his elbows to block the punch, the force is still enough to send him stumbling and falling backward. He crashes into a heap of debris, his body protesting every movement.

It's not enough to stop the Krang from walking towards him again, their steps deliberate and unhurried. The alien's smirk grows wider, eyes gleaming with a predatory glint.

And they haven’t stopped talking.

"You should’ve stayed down," they sneer, their voice a low hiss. "Now you’re just making this harder on yourself. The only being able to wrest itself from the generously given gift of the Krang.” They muse, “Stronger than all,” this time, when they arrive, their tail sweeps around the back of his legs, leaving him sprawling onto his shell again.

“But not strong enough.” Their large, taloned foot crashes onto his chest, and Raphael feels the crunch of ribs, the broken ones shifting painfully. Wetness rises in his throat and dribbles from his beak.

“And now, you refuse to submit. After everything, even now. Even when accepting our gift would end your pain, you persist.”

The snapping turtle’s hands reach around, grabbing onto the talons. He’s not strong enough to pull them away or push them off, but he holds them. He forces a smirk onto his face. “We’ll never surrender.”

The Krang sighs in exasperation, as if talking to a stubborn child. They roll their eyes. “Is it stupidity? Or is it naivety?”

They press down harder, and the pain intensifies. He feels the air escape his lungs, unable to return. Spots dance in his vision, but he refuses to let go. His grip tightens on the talons, his resolve unwavering despite the agony.

He’d never stop. He’d never quit. The longer the Krang was busy with him, the more chance his brothers had of waking up, of getting away.

Maybe the Krang knew his plan. Knew that’s what he wanted.

They lean down, pressing all their weight onto him until their pink, twisted visage is right above his face. Pressing, pressing, until his plastron snaps under the pressure, and what was convex becomes concave. “No, you know better,” they whisper, their voice a venomous hiss. “Naive little creature. You’ll never be strong enough.”

And Raphael knows the Krang speaks the truth, especially as the agony-fueled fuzz in his head refuses to abate. The dark spots gather, group, and become larger, until they take over his vision completely. He was never strong enough, and the cackling laughter of the Krang echoes, fading off more and more into the distance, only proving that.

But even as consciousness slips away, a part of him clings to hope. The hope that his sacrifice bought his brothers time. The hope that they would rise and fight another day. Even if they rose to fight without him.

Chapter 17: Interspecific Competition - Donatello and Leonardo

Chapter Text

Among all the brothers, the bond between Leonardo and Donatello was undeniable. They were considered twins, even though they never knew their exact ages or real birthdays. Their dad had seen they were the same size and decided they were twins. That was all it took.

And that was perfectly fine by Leonardo. The two of them clicked so easily and naturally. They often stayed up late at night, researching facts about their species, which further solidified their connection. Ornate box turtles lived on land in prairies and grasslands. Alligator snapping turtles lived in swamps and marshes. But the red-eared slider and the spiny softshell turtles, like Leonardo and Donnie, lived in rivers and streams, sharing the same habitat.

They never would know where Draxum had found them, and Leonardo brushed off Donnie’s snide comments about probably being store-bought while Donnie was from the wild. It didn’t matter. They just clicked, as if their instincts understood each other. They shared many favorite foods, flavors, and smells. Sometimes, Leonardo imagined that if they had never been mutated or taken by Draxum, if they had been ordinary turtles in an ordinary river, he would have found Donnie anyway. They might not have lived together, but they would have been close. Together.

It felt like they always belonged together, no matter what life they had.

Recovery from the Kraang invasion was... brutal, to say the least. Everyone faced their own harrowing challenges, but Leonardo had barely escaped with his life. Any attempt to display strength and reassure his brothers crumbled the moment they pulled him out of that dimension. His body went completely limp and unresponsive in their arms, the weight of his ordeal evident in every fiber of his being.

Since then, reality had become a blur. Leonardo drifted in and out of consciousness, each awakening a disorienting glimpse of his surroundings. Sometimes he found himself cradled in Raphael’s strong arms, other times he felt Mikey’s gentle hands pressing down on an injured leg. Despite the chaos, he felt safe with them. Raph’s imposing size and Mikey’s constant closeness were oddly comforting, familiar in a world that had become terrifyingly uncertain.

Then there was Donatello. When Leonardo opened his eyes and saw Donnie leaning over him, something primal and ancient stirred within him. It was a recognition that bypassed thought, a deep-seated instinct that flared to life.

Just as he instinctively knew Donnie’s favorite foods or the texture of blankets he preferred, Leonardo knew this without understanding how. Instinct surged through him again, this time screaming danger.

He hissed, an ugly, feral sound that hadn’t left his lips in years. Despite his bloodied, weakened state, the threat embedded in that hiss was potent enough to make Donnie flinch backward, his eyes wide with surprise and hurt.

They weren’t twins; they weren’t even the same species. Donnie had reminded him of that fact countless times, but now, Leo’s body fully agreed. The stark realization hit him hard: they weren’t brothers. They were just two beings sharing the same territory, always amicably, because deep down, Leo knew—or at least his body knew—that if it came to a confrontation, they were evenly matched.

In that moment, everything shifted. The bond they had always relied on felt tenuous, fragile against the backdrop of Leonardo’s raw, instinctual fear.

But now, all he could hear pulsing through his mind was, "Danger. Danger. Danger!" Donatello was competition; he was dangerous. The hissing, the bristled, bared teeth—just that small threat display—took all the energy Leonardo had. Yet he still remembered. He remembered the shock on Donnie’s face as his own vision clouded and he slipped back into darkness.

When he next awoke, it was to find Mikey at his bedside, welcoming him back to the land of the living and ensuring he could eat and drink. The ornate box turtle never evoked feelings like those he had with Donatello. In fact, Leonardo was always happy to be near his youngest brother, welcoming his cuddles and nuzzles. Mikey would grip him tighter—protectively?—whenever Donatello approached to check the monitors.

The softshell would stare, and Leonardo would glare back. When Donnie left, a small sense of security and pride blossomed in Leo's chest.

The next time he woke, the room was quiet and dark, the hallway even more so, with the only light coming from a dim screen casting a soft glow onto Donnie's exhausted face. Leonardo felt... better, stronger, or maybe just more numb. Perhaps it was better painkillers. Either way, he didn’t bristle as much at seeing Donnie in the room, though his mind wouldn’t let him take his eyes off his brother. Donnie hadn’t noticed he was awake yet, so Leo watched as the softshell blinked and blinked again, his body slumping, head falling forward until—

Donnie snapped himself back upright before he could slip off the chair. Unfortunately, his phone clattered to the ground loudly. Muttering to himself, Donnie forced himself to his feet to retrieve the dropped item, which had slid right up to Leo’s bed.

But Leo was asleep, wasn’t he? Donnie could quietly slip over and grab it before—

"Hisssssssssssssssss..."

Donatello's eyes widened as he looked up to see Leo very much awake, staring him down with something primal and angry in his gaze.

And Donatello liked to believe he had some patience in him. Not as much as Michelangelo, Raphael, or Leonardo, but some. Since Leonardo woke up that first time after being rescued from the Prison Dimension, Donnie had tried to be understanding. He had devoured article after article about the potential mental trauma his twin might be experiencing, hoping to find some way to help.

He meticulously arranged pillows around Leonardo’s body to keep pressure off his cracked shell and support his broken ribs. He collaborated with Mikey to ensure Leo had his favorite foods and proper nutrition, knowing how important comfort and sustenance were for recovery.

Donnie brought in comics and music he knew Leo loved, hoping these familiar pleasures might offer some semblance of solace. But none of it worked.

The slider kept hissing at him, shoving him away. Raphael had to intervene when Leo nearly bit Donnie once. And by Newton, something in Donatello had wanted to bite back just as badly.

Weeks had passed, and Leo still looked at him like a stranger, treating him like an enemy. “What?” Donnie demanded.

But Leo didn’t answer. Instead, his hissing intensified as Donatello stepped forward rather than back. The slider's eyes widened, and he scrambled backward, still uncoordinated and weak. Leonardo hadn’t been able to stand yet, but he still tried to shove himself back to the head of the bed, away from Donnie, as far away as he could get. “You’re scared of me,” Donatello said, his voice quiet and firm.

Leonardo still didn’t answer. Donatello’s hands balled into fists. “You’re scared of me,” he repeated, his voice harder. His hands gripped the bed’s railing, feeling it creak as his arms trembled with repressed emotion. “I’m Donatello!” he yelled, loud and angry.

Something twisted further inside him when he saw Leo flinch. His brother was trying to pull back into his shell, an instinctual move to defend himself, but his wrapped-up limbs wouldn’t let him. The best he could manage was barely ducking his head inside, half-hiding away.

“I’m your brother!” Donatello yelled again, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m your twin! Your stupid twin, even though I always said we never were!”

Leonardo continued hissing at him, the sound raw and desperate. Donnie felt something clawing at him, a desperate need for connection, for anything to bridge the growing chasm between them.

Suddenly, Raphael and Michelangelo burst into the room. Raphael’s strong arms wrapped around Donnie, pulling him away from the bedside. Michelangelo quickly slipped into the bed, squeezing himself into the small open space to hug and comfort the shaking, terrified, whimpering Leonardo. Donatello hated the spark of jealousy that dared to ignite within his soul.

With a wrenching motion, he tore himself from Raphael’s grip, ignoring their concerned voices as he stormed out of the room.

Leonardo watched the softshell leave, his terror unabated. The softshell in the river had finally come after him, attempting to invade his territory. Dangerous. Dangerous. Leonardo shoved his head against the friendly box turtle’s body, continuing to shake as he absorbed all the reassurance and affection Mikey offered.

Michelangelo held him tightly, whispering soothing words and gentle reassurances. “It’s okay, Leo. You’re safe. I’m here. We’re all here.” The room felt heavy with the weight of emotions, the air thick with unspoken fears and simmering tensions.

Outside the room, Donatello’s heart pounded as he stalked down the hallway, the echo of his own footsteps ringing in his ears. He could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him—the fear, the frustration, the helplessness. The image of Leo’s terrified eyes haunted him, even now he felt them, piercing right into his soul.

Inside, Leonardo clung to Mikey, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The friendly presence of his youngest brother was a lifeline, grounding him in the midst of his fear. He buried his face in Mikey’s plastron, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and tried to convince himself that he was safe, that the danger had passed. Never once did he realize what he’d lost.

Chapter 18: I Got Him from a Rescue - Donatello

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, Donatello immediately knows that something is terribly, horribly wrong. Everything feels like he’s moving through thick mud, his limbs caught in tar, refusing to cooperate. A heavy weight presses against his plastron, making it difficult to draw a full breath. His vision is wavy and blurred, and when he tries to raise a sluggish hand to rub his eyes, something stops him. He tries again. Something stops him again.

He realizes he’s sitting on something hard, his arms and legs pressed firmly against cold, unyielding metal. His entire body is restrained, and he can feel his soft shell pressed uncomfortably against the back of whatever chair this is. The room is small and metallic on all sides, with thick wires and cables snaking from the walls to somewhere behind him, casting an eerie, technological aura over the claustrophobic space.

“Ok, don’t panic, Donatello. Don’t panic.” The restraints around his wrists and ankles are unyielding, metal bands biting into his skin. He struggles to twist his wrists, but he can’t even get a single finger on anything. What happened? How did he get here?

April had said she needed help with an afterschool project in the science classroom. So, being a good brother-from-another-father, he went and—

Donatello squints, pausing as dizziness pulses through his head instead of proper memories. He’d been in the hallway and started to feel unwell, a strange weakness creeping over him.

But that’s all he remembers.

Unwell. Had he been drugged? Most likely. How? Or why? Still unknown.

He doesn’t have to wait long for answers. The door clicks open, casting a harsh rectangle of light from the hallway into the dim room. And who steps through but—

“Kendra.” He snarls, baring his teeth, a low, threatening hiss escaping his throat. This has far crossed the line, especially after they tried to use him to kill his own brothers in that mech. “Let me go, Kendra! This is too far, even for you!”

The lilac-haired girl only tuts at him, her expression one of mocking disappointment. “Othello, or should I say, Donatello, right?” She shakes her head slowly, her eyes gleaming with twisted amusem*nt. “The only reason you’re tied up like that is because I knew you’d try to hurt me when you woke up.”

Donatello blinks incredulously at her. “Why wouldn’t I?!”

But she doesn’t even blink. “That big brain of yours, it’s really sad how confused you’ve gotten, Donnie.” She strides past him, moving behind him into his blind spot, the click of her heels echoing ominously in the small room.

He jerks in the metal restraints, trying desperately to twist his head just enough to see what she’s doing. “Hey, wait! What are you doing?!”

“That’s alright. The Purple Dragons will be here for you when you feel better.” Something thick and heavy presses down over his head, a helmet, completely covering his eyes and ears, leaving only his snout and mouth exposed. He hears nothing, sees nothing, the world reduced to a stifling darkness.

“Kendra? Kendra! Get this off me! What’s going on?!” He can hardly hear himself through the muffling material of the helmet. The leader of the Purple Dragons isn’t answering, or if she is, he can’t hear it. There’s nothing but darkness, nothing but the tremble of his own body as his head sags from the weight of the helmet. The snug pressure is familiar from his battle shell, the soft vibration of compressed air settling into place within the pneumatics. He’s not getting this off without his hands free.

Maybe she intends to drive him mad with boredom, he thinks. Sitting here, only able to hear the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears. He’d read about that anechoic chamber in Minneapolis. Orfield Laboratories. People get nauseous and disoriented after not even half an hour in absolute silence, hearing their own bones creak, their heartbeat thundering, blood circulating through veins.

Maybe that’s what this is. Their own form of torture, to make him beg for release. To make him join their stupid gang and use his inventions for their own purposes. Well, tough luck. Donnie is well accustomed to silence, and this helmet isn’t even good enough to achieve that. He can hear his own heartbeat, sure, but not his blood or bones. This is definitely a failure. Ha.

And then the blackness in front of him slowly fades in from darkness. It’s a video…or something like it, maybe more akin to a virtual reality headset, one that he can barely interact with with the limited mobility he currently has.

Before he can fully digest the implications in Leo’s eyes, the scene shifts. He’s pulling Mikey away from an arcade, probably to head back home because of curfew. Because if no one did, the box turtle would stay out all night and someone had to be the responsible one.

And then Mikey snarls at him, yanking his hand from Donnie’s grip, “You’re such a killjoy, you know that? Can never have any fun with you around.” It isn’t unfamiliar for Mikey to throw tantrums when he doesn’t get his way-but the snarl feels real and Donnie recoils.

The image shifts again, he’s sparring against Raph, the snapping turtle suddenly seeming…way larger than he remembers. Maybe it’s just the way the frame was shot that it feels this way. That he’s…about to be squashed. He’s hit-though thankfully he doesn’t feel it, spiraling to the ground in a dizzying circle before he comes to a stop. Raphael doesn’t come over to help him up. “Come on, Donnie,” he says roughly, “You have to stop being so weak.”

Leonardo leans over his chair in his laboratory, watching him fix the toaster for the umpteenth time. “C’moooon, Donnie. Can’t you do this in your sleep by now? I thought you were supposed to be good at this stuff.”

Michelangelo laughs at some joke from the Jupiter Jim film, loud and raucous enough to bump into him from where they’re all on the couch, “Ha! And I thought you had no social life, Dee! But this nerd guy really gives you a running chance!”

Raphael charges into his laboratory, grabs his arm to pull him from his chair. “Turn down your damn music!”

“Raph would never say that.”

“And go to bed at a decent hour for once!”

“No, none of them would say anything like this-”

But the audio is too loud for him to get his thoughts in order. Scene, after scene after scene.

As his eyes are finally granted respite and the cacophony mercifully subsides, Donnie finds himself panting as if he had just endured a marathon, despite having undergone no physical exertion. The helmet is lifted from his eyes, leaving everything blurred and fuzzy. The air feels cold and clammy against his skin as he gazes at the ground, straining and hissing in a desperate attempt to escape the tormenting onslaught of images flashing incessantly before his eyes.

He recognizes Kendra by her shoes, and his snarl pierces the air, every bit as vicious as a spiny softshell turtle's can be. “Leave me the f*ck alone!” he yells, his voice strained and desperate, his glare fixed upon the indistinct figure slowly materializing into the girl.

Her tutting fills the room once more. “That’s quite rude, Donnie,” she chastises, shaking her head. “I only wanted to bring you some food.”

Then it dawns on him—the new smell in the room. Fast food. A burger and fries. Something so simple, yet enough to trigger hunger pangs, despite the grease that would normally turn his stomach. But she's also the one who kidnapped him, torturing him, so he summons all his resolve and spits out as much saliva as he can manage, aiming right for her shoe.

She gasps, as if wounded, betrayed. He braces himself for a retaliatory strike—kick, slap, punch. But as her face comes into focus, she appears more saddened than angered, though he can still detect that deceitful glint in her eye. He braces for impact, but instead, she just sighs sadly, setting the food down. “Fine, Donnie, I won’t push you any further,” she concedes, her voice tinged with resignation. “Here, let’s get you some more help.” With that, she moves behind him once again—

“No, wait—” But the helmet is slid back on, the sweat that had accumulated now cooling against the interior cushioning, pressing uncomfortably against his skin. The hiss and pressure of the pneumatic clamps return, and he watches helplessly as the screen before him begins to illuminate once more.

“It’s not real. They’ll find you. They’ll get you out. None of this is real.”

Now it's Michelangelo sparring with him, his exuberance filling the room as he flips and somersaults with characteristic flair. “C’mon, Dee!” he cheers, as if genuinely encouraging his brother for once. But then Donatello goes crashing to the floor, tripped up by an unexpected chain around his legs. “This is why I don’t like training with you, I get more out of the training dummies!” Mikey’s words sting, adding to the barrage of insults and assaults.

More and more and more. “Stop it—” maybe he’s thinking it, maybe he’s saying it.

But nobody can hear him anyway.

When she returns, he’s trembling, head throbbing with an ache that seems to pulse in rhythm with his racing heart. How long has it been? His entire body is sore, undoubtedly bearing bruises from his futile struggles against the restraints. His breath rattles out of his chest, shaky and uncertain, and when he sees her face looming close to his own, he flinches backward, the sudden movement causing him to unintentionally slam the back of his head against the chair. Pain shoots through him, and he hisses in agony.

Kendra hisses in sympathy. “Careful there, hon,” she murmurs, tutting as she reaches out to touch him. He watches her hand warily, his head dipping down close to his shell, a mixture of fear and defiance swirling within him. He doesn’t want her touch, yet he dares not anger her further. After all, if she was mad at him, the helmet would go back on.

“Little Donnie, always such a wimp!” Leo's mocking voice echoes in his ears.

“I thought you were supposed to be the brains? Why are you acting so stupid? ” Raph sneers.

“Well, at least there are two other turtles I can look up to,” Mikey laments.

She’s going to touch him, strike him, or—

Kendra’s hand softly settles on the top of his head, stroking downward over the tender, sore spot at the back of his head. It feels oddly comforting, the first living touch he's had in what feels like an eternity. He hadn’t realized how much he missed physical contact until now. He doesn’t even realize the rumbling chirrup in his throat until she smiles warmly at him. “There you go. It’s okay, Donnie.”

And then something snaps within him. She’s touching him, this deranged woman is petting him! And he’s enjoying it?! The smile on his face twists into a snarl, but she withdraws her hand just in time, narrowly avoiding his snapping teeth. He snarls and hisses at her, his anger and frustration boiling over. “Let me go!” he screams, his voice cracking with desperation and pain.

Too late, he notices the bottle of water beside the open door. His throat tightens as he stares at it, his eyes tracing a single drop of condensation trickling down from the lid onto the floor.

Kendra watches him intently, observing his thirst and discomfort with a calculated detachment. Softshell turtles were primarily aquatic, after all. She had wondered how long he could endure without a drop to drink. So, she decides to push him a little further. “You nearly bit me, Donnie!” she chides, her voice tinged with false concern. “I thought you’d gotten better.”

She starts to move slowly toward the side of the chair, toward the back. “But it’s okay, I can wait a bit—”

“No!” he screams, a desperate plea echoing through the room as he hurls himself against the restraints. “No! No! No! No!”

Kendra pauses, watching as her adversary devolves into animalistic noises and frantic pleas. Oh, how the mighty fall—but he’s not completely broken yet.

The sheer relief she sees in him when she reappears at his side is almost delicious, and she hums in satisfaction, placing a hand on her hip. “Donnie, you tried to bite me,” she states matter-of-factly, waiting for his response.

For once, Donatello doesn’t immediately reply. He stares at her with wide eyes and narrow pupils, his breaths shallow and shaky.

Sensing his vulnerability, Kendra decides to push a little further, dangling the promise of relief like a carrot on a stick. “If you behave, I’ll get you a drink, alright, hon?” she coos, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Donnie’s eyes flick to the water bottle once more, just for a moment.

“And if you’re good, I’ll even get you some food,” she continues, her tone enticing. “I won’t put the helmet back on until you’re done eating.”

He recoils slightly, as if her words struck a nerve, shaking his head frantically. “K-Kendra—” he stammers, his voice choked with fear and desperation. “Don’t put it back on—don’t—it’s—” his words falter, tripping over each other like a newborn giraffe attempting to stand. Or perhaps, more accurately, like she’d broken its legs, and now it struggles to remain upright despite the pain.

“I know,” she soothes, reaching out to cup his cheek, causing him to flinch instinctively. But this time, he doesn’t try to bite her. Progress. “It’s supposed to help you, but I understand it’s not the most pleasant experience.”

“It’s not helping me!” he chokes out, his voice trembling. “W-What do you want from me? Do you want me to...to build something for you? Or hack into something? I’ll do it—just don’t—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” she interrupts gently, silencing his panicked ramblings. “Let’s get you something to drink and eat, alright, hon?”

And she smiles, hearing him purr softly as the water, offered from her hand, finally quenches his parched throat.

She smiles even more as he savors the last french fry, the bag now empty. As he realizes what’s happened, as he tries to resist, his heels scraping against the floor. But he freezes when her hand returns to his cheek, her thumb tracing soft circles across its sweaty surface. “I’ll come back for you, Donnie,” she promises, and locks the helmet back in place.

She comes back every now and then, and Donatello finds himself waiting for her. Where once he hated every ounce of her being now he’s-he craves it. He needs her here. When she was here, the helmet wasn’t on. When she was here, things were soft and gentle and nice. She smiled at him so gently. So caringly. She helped bandage up his wrists and ankles when they started to get bloody.

Even during the times she can’t stay long, when the helmet remains in place, her hand is there, holding onto his own. A gentle, almost imperceptible squeeze, reminding him that she’s there for him. And he clings to her touch desperately.

Today, the helmet is off, and he finishes the last chicken nugget, eating it right from her hand. He hears his brothers’ voices screaming at him in his mind, but instead of moving away once the food is gone, he presses closer, yearning for her comfort. When he strains against the restraints this time, it’s to press his face against the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. He feels her tense beneath his touch, and panic grips him. Had he overstepped? Angered her?

The thought of her putting the helmet back on terrifies him. Leaving him here with his brothers, to be yelled at, berated, and abused—

Her hand finds the back of his head, and Donnie lets out a shaky cry. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“Shhh, hon,” she soothes, petting his head, and he cries into her affection. She lets him. She lets him soil her perfect purple sweatshirt.

Because all he ever did was make things worse. The idiot. Stupid. Useless. Never good enough. And she was comforting him. “Dee?” she asks gently, sweetly, and he nods against her, chirping once to let her know he’s listening.

“I don’t want to keep you here, hon,” she says, her hand sliding down to his shoulder. “I was worried about you, you know…wanting to go back to those horrible brothers of yours.”

He flinches at the mention of them, something hitching in his throat. “No,” he starts, his voice barely audible, “No, no, no, no—”

But she shushes him. “You don’t have to ever go back to them if you don’t want to, hon.”

And if that isn’t the best thing he’s ever heard. He never wanted to leave. Never wanted to go back to them.

“Good riddance.”

“Finally, it took long enough to get rid of him.”

“I give it a week before she gets sick of him too. No, less than a week.”

Blood rushes to his fingers and toes as the restraints come off, and she carefully wraps her arms around him, helping him stand. She’s smaller than him, but so much stronger, a steady rock to rely on as he trembles violently. Her hands press snugly against his soft shell, but he doesn’t flinch. She’d never hurt him.

The mech was just a gift, to keep him safe from his brothers. It was all an accident.

And Leonardo was the one who'd gotten his son, SHELLDON, killed. She’d shown him the feed. She’d shown him how he died, nothing better than bait. Donnie shudders at the thought, nearly slipping, but she catches him, guiding him to bed.

Each breath catches and wheezes out of him. Just standing brings pain shooting up his spine, the world spinning. “Let’s get you to bed, okay? You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

Donatello couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

Raph’s snoring kept him up for hours. His brothers laughed when he begged to switch rooms.

He’s too out of it to realize they’re moving, but he knows when his body hits something plush and soft. Bed. And he falls asleep to her gentle strokes, whispering reassurances that he’s safe. Her lap is softer and more comforting than any pillow could be.

Wherever she is, he’ll always be safe.

Chapter 19: A Ghost - Donatello & Michelangelo

Chapter Text

Donatello’s eye twitched as he watched Michelangelo place a bowl on the table, humming cheerfully and whistling the credits song from "Jupiter Jim and the Hailing Star." Mikey’s eyes sparkled with the same joy they always had, as if the world hadn't fallen apart around them. Donnie's gaze shifted to his own bowl of soup, the rich red-orange color promising the same comforting taste as always. The aroma of melted cheese, ripe tomatoes, and the sight of two perfectly placed basil leaves floating on the surface filled the air. On the side, a slice of toasted bread with a golden, crisp crust completed the meal. It was perfect, just like Michelangelo always made it.

Across the table, Raphael sat with his own portion, noticeably larger than the others. His mind, however, was far from the food. His intense eyes followed Michelangelo’s every move as their youngest brother cheerfully set a plate with another serving of grilled cheese next to the soup, pausing too long by an empty chair before heading back to his own seat.

The three brothers sat in a heavy silence, punctuated only by the sound of Mikey’s laughter, a haunting echo of happier times. Donatello and Raphael ate quietly, their hearts too heavy for words. Michelangelo, on the other hand, giggled and spoke animatedly to someone only he could see. “No! That’s completely different!” he exclaimed, and then, “Actually, this is the classic cheddar-mozzarella combo. I’d have gone fancier, but we didn’t have any fontina.” He shrugged, taking a bite of his sandwich before pausing mid-chew. “Hmm?” He blinked as if responding to an invisible question. “Oh, I dunno, they’re being stupid again.”

Donatello felt his shoulders tense, his jaw tightening as he exchanged a look with Raphael. The snapping turtle’s gaze was a mix of concern and frustration.

“Hey, Donnie,” Mikey addressed him suddenly, and Donatello forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes, his voice already tinged with irritation. “Yes?” he grated out, teeth clenched.

“Leo’s asking again why you hate him.” Mikey’s voice was plaintive, filled with the innocence that should have been lost long ago. He turned to Raphael next, his frustration palpable. “You too.”

Donatello’s control snapped. He couldn’t handle this conversation again, the same painful loop of denial and false hope. He stood up so abruptly that his chair clattered to the ground, the noise startling Michelangelo into silence. The youngest turtle blinked rapidly, confusion and hurt mingling in his wide eyes. “W-what did I—are you okay?”

Donatello’s anger boiled over. “You know what’s wrong, Michelangelo!” He shouted his brother’s full name, watching as Mikey recoiled, shell hitting the back of the chair. “Use common sense for once!” Ignoring Raphael’s attempts to calm him, Donnie strode over to the empty chair, the one Mikey had lingered by. He grabbed it and threw it across the room, his voice a raw scream, “He isn’t here, Michelangelo!”

The room fell silent. Mikey’s eyes filled with tears, his hands rising to cover his mouth as he choked on sobs. The anger drained out of Donatello as quickly as it had come, leaving him hollow. Raphael was at Mikey’s side in an instant, his large hand rubbing soothing circles on their youngest brother’s shell, murmuring soft reassurances. But Donnie could see the tension in Raph’s frame, the barely contained grief and anger.

Mikey gasped, “He isn’t gone!” before wrenching himself away from Raphael and fleeing the room, his sobs echoing down the hallway.

In the past, Michelangelo would have sought comfort from his brothers, but now he couldn’t. They weren’t safe anymore, not Raph, and certainly not Donnie. The two older turtles stood in the heavy silence, staring at the doorway through which Mikey had disappeared. Finally, Raphael sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and sorrow, and moved to retrieve the chair Donnie had thrown.

“He can’t help it, Donnie,” Raphael said quietly, setting the chair back on its legs.

“I know.” Donatello’s hands clenched at his sides, his guilt a physical weight pressing down on him.

“You have to be patient with him.”

“I know.” His voice wavered, and he heard the scrape of the chair being set right.

“None of this is your fault, Donnie.”

Donatello didn’t respond, his own tears blurring his vision. Raphael’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, offering silent support. They stood together until their tears subsided, the shared pain knitting them together in a fragile bond.

They reheated their soups and sandwiches, placing Mikey’s outside his room. Then, for the first time, Donatello accompanied Raphael to deliver the food to Leo.

The lair was eerily quiet as they made their way to the blue curtain that marked Leo’s space. Inside, the shrine they had built was as pristine as ever, a testament to their brother’s memory. Raphael set the tray down reverently, and Donnie lit the incense, the fragrant smoke curling up in delicate spirals.

The shrine was adorned with mementos of their brother: his favorite books, his katanas, and a well-worn photo of the four of them, taken during happier times. The sight of it brought a fresh wave of grief crashing over Donnie. He stared at the photo, his vision blurring with tears. “I miss you, Leo,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Raphael placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “We all do, Donnie.”

They stood in silence, the weight of their loss heavy in the air. The memory of Leonardo was a wound that refused to heal, a constant reminder of what they had lost. The shrine was their way of keeping him close, but it was also a stark reminder of his absence.

The last time they’d seen him was with the Krang. Was barely seeing him out of the corner of his eye, looking terrified as the monster was right on top of them. A fist larger than himself shoved against his plastron, cracking and breaking through his ninpo shield. Everything had gone fuzzy and a nauseating blur of colors after that, he barely even noticed when Raph had grabbed them midair. That terrified, horrified face, and the pained laugh of Leo’s voice through their communicator. That was the last he had of him.

Raphael had retaken the mantle of leadership, but it was a heavy burden. He was doing his best, but the strain showed in the lines of his face and the tension in his shoulders. And Mikey…Mikey was lost. He clung to the belief that Leo was still with them, his mind unable to accept the reality of their brother’s death.

Donatello wiped his eyes, taking a deep breath. “We have to keep going,” he said, his voice firm despite the tears. “For Leo.”

Raphael nodded, a very, very soft smile on his face. “For Leo.”

They left the shrine, the incense smoke trailing behind them like a ghost. Back in the main room, the silence was oppressive. Donatello’s eyes fell on Mikey’s untouched soup and sandwich, a pang of guilt stabbing through him.

“I need to talk to him,” he said suddenly, turning to Raphael.

Raph nodded. “Go. He needs you.”

Donatello made his way to Mikey’s room, the door slightly ajar. He could hear his brother’s soft sobs from inside. He knocked gently, pushing the door open. “Mikey?”

Mikey was curled up on his bed, his back to the door. He didn’t respond, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Donatello’s heart ached at the sight. He approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Mikey, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just… I miss him too.”

Mikey’s sobs quieted, and he turned to face Donatello, his eyes red and puffy from crying. “He’s not gone, Donnie. I can still feel him.”

Donatello swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I know, Mikey. I know you feel that-”

Mikey shook his head stubbornly. “No. He’s still with us. I talk to him every day. He helps me cook, he watches movies with me… He’s not gone.”

Donatello felt tears welling up again. He reached out, pulling Mikey into a hug. “It’s okay, Mikey. It’s okay to feel that way. We all deal with grief in our own way.”

Mikey clung to him, his body shaking with silent sobs. Donatello held him tightly, offering what comfort he could. They stayed like that for a long time, the silence filled only by the sound of their breathing.

Finally, Mikey pulled back, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, Donnie. I know it’s hard for you to not be able to see him.”

Donatello shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize, Mikey. We just…we have to stick together. We have to be there for each other.”

Mikey nodded, a small, sad smile on his face. “Yeah. Leo says that all the time.”

“I’m…sure he does.” Donatello eventually managed to choke out.

Chapter 20: Brothers Make Mistakes - Raphael

Chapter Text

He was dangerous, but he didn’t always think he was, and that was worse.

He was the oldest too, so he got to try things before his brothers did. He got to watch different shows, he got to read different comic books, he got to go on food trips with their father before any of them did either.

And that was a good thing. It was a lot of work, don’t get him wrong, but Dad had always told him, “You’re the oldest one, Raphael. You’re the biggest, and you’re the strongest.” His voice barely audible over the sound of the sewer’s running water and the crinkling of plastic bags, “So you have a responsibility to look after them. They look up to you.”

Raphael had puffed out his broad chest, reveling in the profound importance bestowed upon him by the wise rat's words. Yet the true weight of being the "biggest" eluded his naive understanding. At that tender age, he could only perceive it as a badge of honor - tangible proof that he reigned superior over his siblings.

Sibling rivalries raged like wildfire through the underground tunnels they called home, their roughhousing and bickering echoing against the damp stone walls. Leonardo and Michelangelo became a blur of spinning shells, crashing through the lair in a whirlwind of youthful aggression as they grappled for dominance. Donatello's keen intellect sliced through Leonardo's pride with calculated precision, his biting witticisms chipping away at his twin’s ego until their verbal exchanges devolved into snarling threats of violence. Even the ever-buoyant and infinitely energetic Michelangelo could test Donatello's patience until the softshell snapped, giving chase through the meandering sewer paths in pursuit of retaliatory vengeance.

And Raphael? Time and again, he played referee - inserting his formidable bulk between flaring tempers with a booming command for hot heads to be cooled and apologies exchanged. As the eldest brother, such was his duty according to their father's sage wisdom. But that twisted blade of responsibility cut both ways, for even Raphael could not fully restrain the savage beast that dwelled within when his own innate rage was stoked.

On this fateful day, Leonardo’s and Michelangelo’s latest misbehavior struck a deep, subcutaneous nerve that reverberated through Raphael's very core. While he’d been attempting to relax on the couch and read from one of his comics, their reckless horseplay had shattered one of their father's cherished vases - an irreplaceable object carefully saved from their father’s elusive previous life. While the two had faced their father’s stern reprimand, Raphael suffered the harshest tongue lashing for failing to intervene as the elder sibling. His prized comic book collection confiscated for a week as punishment, the snapping turtle stormed into the secluded training room to vent his fury in unbridled solitude, fists pounding the unyielding surfaces with savage intensity until his very arms throbbed in searing agony.

"It's so unfair!" His anguished roar reverberated through the chamber as if the very walls could empathize with the torment burning through his muscular frame. Why was he always the one punished most severely simply for being the eldest?

"Wow, very imaginative with your training."

The dulcet tones of sardonic smugness oozed from Donatello's smirking lips as the softshell sauntered in with that insufferably arrogant gait, radiating condescension from every jerking step. Such a habitual display of superiority from the self-professed "genius" of the family sent Raphael's blood boiling hotter than the depths of hell.

"Maybe try another punch?" Donatello persisted with his insidious goading, hands clasped casually behind his narrow shell. "I'm sure the training dummies will be quite shocked by your creativity."

Raphael felt his shell prickling with visceral rage, every fiber of his being tensing like lean muscle primed to strike. His beak clenched so tightly that he could taste the faintest hint of blood seeping across his leathery tongue - the bitter flavor only fanning the roaring inferno of his fury into an uncontrollable blaze.

"Go away, Donnie," he growled through gritted teeth, his plastron heaving with each labored breath as he fought to restrain the primal aggression consuming his psyche. Raphael refused to face his tormenting brother, fearful of what inhuman impulses might be unleashed were he to gaze into those mocking eyes.

But the soft-shell persisted as he ever did, slinking ever closer with that exaggerated saunter of intellectual superiority. "I heard what happened from Leo," Donatello's voice adopted a tone of artificial sympathy that somehow made the venom dripping from his words all the more potent. "Serves you right for constantly acting like you're better than the rest of us just because you're older. I'm sick and tired of you just being another Dad."

In that moment, something primal snapped within the deepest recesses of Raphael's psyche. Like a rubber band stretched beyond its tensile limits, his restraint disintegrated in an explosive burst. He whirled on Donatello with a guttural snarl that reverberated from the barbaric depths of his very soul - a feral display of unbridled hostility that momentarily caused his brother’s co*cky veneer to crack. For the briefest of instants, Donatello's features betrayed a flicker of primal fear at the sight of the alligator snapping turtle’s anger in front of him.

Donatello, however, had always been a turtle that acted based on logic, not emotion. Perhaps, one could argue, that he should’ve been able to read the room, to see that the threatening display Raphael was giving him was not the same as when he got glares and hisses from Leonardo or Michelangelo. However, the softshell had never been fantastic at reading emotions either, and he crossed his arms right over his chest, face schooling back into something nonchalant and unimpressed as he merely quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t scare me.”

All he’d wanted to do was get Donatello to go away. To make the turtle in front of him realize that he was being serious. That’s all he wanted. He remembers the slight flicker of realization when he’d grabbed the softshell’s shoulders, feeling how much smaller it seemed in his hands. He’d felt how much lighter his brother was than he’d been expecting, making it all too easy to use every ounce of pent-up rage and frustration as fuel. Raphael shoved his younger brother backwards with such brutal intensity that the breath was ripped from Donatello's lungs in a strangled cry of shock and fear.

That paralyzing sound filled the stifling air as the soft-shell turtle tumbled backwards in seeming slow motion. Donatello's stumbling feet struck an errant cushion - a pitiful obstacle that merely added insult to grievous injury as it tripped him up. Then, with a sickening crash, he fell shell-first onto the haphazard pile of dumbbells their father had procured as a rare Christmas gift.

Donatello's agonized scream pierced Raphael's ears, the world blurring at its edges as a spreading pool of crimson began to seep from the soft-shell's battered carapace. The rest of their family arrives within seconds, but it’s Leonardo who’s in his view first, jabbing an accusatory finger into Raphael's rigid plastron.

His mouth is moving fast, speaking to him, but Raphael can’t even hear him. He was the largest and the strongest. Because of him, there’s blood on the dumbbells.

Donatello sequestered himself away in his workshop after that, only coming out when he’d made his first “battle shell” for himself. Even when walking around their home, he rarely ever takes it off. Leonardo has to convince him to take it off sometimes, instead of sleeping with it on.

Everyone doesn’t say what they already know. The reason why Donnie doesn’t feel safe without it on.

Raphael notices the other things. Like how Donatello never sits next to him. Never touches him. Never even wants to look him in the eye.

It takes years, but their relationship gets better, just a little bit. Donatello's ease around Leonardo and Michelangelo always stands in stark contrast to his guardedness with Raphael, but that’s okay. Raphael knows he deserves it.

Michelangelo would clamber atop his shell, treating it as a whimsical perch, while Leonardo would commandeer a shoulder as his mobile throne. Each tender moment triggers Raphael's visceral dread - what if he hurt them too? What if he snapped, and cracked their shells? Scarred them, as he’d done when he’d been so much younger with their softest, most fragile brother?

As he’d aged, his body had steadily grown more and more covered with defensive spines, sharp and dangerous to the touch. The fangs within his jaw were too big and overcrowded for the more humanoid jawbone, the one of them sticking out jaggedly down his mouth, too large to even be let back in.

Every part of him is dangerous. With arms larger than his youngest brother’s entire torso and a height that’s nearly twice that of Donatello or Leonardo, he was a monster, in every sense of the word.

And on the rare, incredibly rare occasions where he sees Donatello’s shell again, revealing the jagged, misshapen scar bisecting its curve, Raphael's spirit splinters anew. At the very least, throwing his body in front of his brothers’ to protect them is the least he can do. To use this horrible body he has to try and do some good, it’s all he’s good for.

When the Shredder attacks, he doesn’t hesitate to throw himself over Donatello’s prone form, holding up the monster’s foot with his own shell to keep him from crushing his brother. He ignores the way Donatello’s eyes widen beneath him. Of course he’s still terrified of him. Of course. Raphael just shuts his eyes tight so he doesn’t have to see that expression on his brother’s face. He already knows Donnie hates him.

And when the fate of the world is at stake, when his brother’s life is on the line, Raphael’s the one that makes sure Leonardo lives, even if he doesn’t. His head falls even as he sees the slider’s mouth moving silently behind the pod’s window. It’s familiar, Leonardo screaming at him, even when he couldn’t hear the leader’s words at the same time. He could only hope this made up for things. That Leonardo forgave him.

But who was Raphael kidding? He’d never even forgiven himself.

So all of that is to say…he is profoundly confused right now. Donatello calls out from the entrance of his newly constructed laboratory, his voice carrying an impatient edge. "I haven't got all night."

Raphael stands rooted, a full two body lengths away, blinking owlishly at his brother. His vision, still recovering from the lingering effects of Kraangification, renders Donatello's form somewhat blurred, though the distinct hues aid in identification. He would never resort to addressing them by colors - a regrettable eccentricity.

"Well?" Donatello prompts, arms folded across his plastron, foot tapping insistently against the concrete. Raphael startles from his daze, shaking his head. "I don't - uh, what?"

"I told you," Donatello sighs dramatically. "The prototype is ready. Everything's set up."

"...Prototype?" Raphael's brow furrows in confusion, head tilting quizzically.

"The fix I told you I was working on. For your bad eye." Donatello points to his own eye. "The other can most likely be corrected with some lenses, which is on my list -"

Raphael's thoughts grind to a halt. Donatello had mentioned this endeavor during their first week of post-invasion recovery. Raphael had dismissed it as an empty platitude, just to include him as he listed out his ideas for their other brothers. Michelangelo would receive state-of-the-art compression gloves for his shaking hands. Leonardo, a new battle shell to protect his cracked carapace and support his legs.

And Raphael would get a new eye to replace the one irrevocably lost.

"But -" His voice cracks, throat constricting. It had been months since that statement. Had he truly been - "But why?"

Donatello regards him as though he has uttered the most inane inquiry, blinking dumbly for several moments. "...What do you mean?"

"Why would you -" Raphael's hands wring together, a futile effort to quell his rising anxiety. "Why - for me?"

Something in his words seems to resonate with Donatello. Realization flits across his features before smoothing into a gentle smile, then transitioning to his trademark, nonchalant smugness as he averts his gaze. "Do I need a reason to want to help a brother?"

Raphael flinches, eyes downcast. His response spills forth unbidden. "If it's me, then yeah."

Silence stretches between them, the distance now a vast, impassable chasm. Raphael shifts his weight, preparing to withdraw, but Donatello's hand shoots out, grasping his arm and halting his retreat. Somehow, he has crossed the expanse in the blink of an eye, holding Raphael firmly in place. When their gazes meet, Raphael finds himself transfixed by the warmth and compassion emanating from Donatello's expression, entirely devoid of pretense.

“I’ll never need a reason, especially not for you.”

Chapter 21: Not Turtle, Not Yokai - Michelangelo

Chapter Text

“Mike, I just—I really don’t—” Raphael’s voice cut through the lair, slicing through the casual afternoon atmosphere like a knife. The turtles had been enjoying a rare moment of relaxation, the hum of video game sounds filling the air.

“The last time you got into something like this, you ruined it for me!” Michelangelo, the box turtle, exclaimed as he stomped past the couch. The twins, Leonardo and Donatello, were lounging there, engrossed in a racing game. Donatello paused the game, his fingers hovering over the controller, as he looked up to watch the drama unfold.

“Sure, not wrong,” Raph conceded, his tone begrudging. “But that was a solo mission! This is an invitation from a bad guy, Mikey!”

Both Leonardo and Donatello exchanged concerned glances before Leo raised a hand, trying to mediate. “Uh, context por favor?”

Before Raphael could respond, Michelangelo turned to face Leo, his shell protecting him from Raph’s looming presence. “I got an invitation to Rupert’s new restaurant,” he said, pulling his phone from his belt and offering it to his brother.

Donatello took the phone, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the screen. “Rupert? You mean Meat Sweats? The guy who tried to eat us? Tried to eat Dad?”

“And,” Raph interjected, stepping closer and placing his hands on his hips, “the same guy who nearly killed you and Todd. You were covered in band-aids and nursing a concussion for over a week!”

Mikey waved his brother’s concerns away, his expression defiant. “I was a really bad friend on that trip too, remember? I still feel bad about it.” He grimaced, shaking his head. “Getting some thorns and being thrown around by a tree was what I deserved, and we were fine in the end. Todd loved his pork chop!”

“Still find it weird that he indulges in half-cannibalism like that, but segue,” Donatello said, handing the phone to Leo. “This isn’t a personalized invite, so it wasn’t directed at you.”

“But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t—” Mikey started, but Leo interrupted, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Leonardo blinked, scrolling through the invite. “He’s opening a restaurant? They’re letting that maniac out into the public? Feeding people?”

“See! That’s what I said!” Raph chimed in, his voice rising.

Michelangelo’s beak curled into a frustrated snarl. “People can turn over a new leaf!” he half-yelled, snatching his phone from Leonardo’s hand, ignoring his indignant “Hey!”

“I was still reading that!”

“I’m going!”

“Mmm,” Donatello rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You, alone, Hidden City, many yokai you don’t know, and a mutant who has tried to kill us multiple times.” He shook his head. “I must agree with dear, sweet Raphala this time, Michael.”

“Why don’t we wait a bit?” Leo suggested, his eyes flickering with concern as he watched the growing anger in Mikey’s eyes. “Wait for the reviews to roll in first, you know?”

“I’m going to be there on his opening night to support him!” Mikey yelled back, his voice echoing through the lair. “Remember when April met Sunita? He just wanted his old life back! He didn’t come after us, just went back to his old job!” The box turtle huffed and resumed walking, his body tense and rigid with defiance.

The bustling energy of the Hidden City's nightlife engulfed Leonardo and Michelangelo as they found themselves standing before Spirits & Swine on its grand opening night. The restaurant, nestled in a vibrant corner on the far end of the mystical metropolis, pulsed with an unexpected popularity that caught both turtles off guard. The location was a bit of a walk from any of the portals the turtles knew, but not intolerably so.

Mikey’s want to “ensure he was there for opening night to support him” was a non-issue, considering the sight of a queue snaking out the door and wrapping around the corner that almost made Leo regret his decision. Yet, with Mikey's eyes sparkling with anticipation, turning back wasn't an option. Thus began what Leonardo could only describe as the most agonizing wait of his life, a grueling test of patience interspersed with heart-pounding moments of paranoia.

Every few minutes, Leo would instinctively tug his hood tighter, his muscles tensing as he ducked his head low. The Hidden City's criminal underbelly was notorious, and the last thing they needed was to be mistaken for one of its many nefarious inhabitants and hauled off by the local authorities. Between these tense interludes, the line crawled forward at a snail's pace, each shuffling step punctuated by the growing cacophony of excited chatter from the diverse array of yokai around them.

After what felt like an eternity (but was closer to thirty minutes), they finally crossed the threshold. The interior was a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, every inch of space occupied by patrons. A host, their whiskers twitching with each word, led them to their table with a soft, professional murmur: "Sit. A waiter will be with you shortly." They set down two intricately designed menus before gliding back to the bustling entrance.

Leonardo's initial reservations about this whole idea melted away the moment he saw Mikey's reaction. The box turtle's eyes grew wide, shining with unbridled excitement as they darted across the menu. "Dude!" he exclaimed, his voice pitching higher with each dish he recognized. "A lot of these are from his show! What he's famous for! This is his pork risotto, roasted duck breast, beef carpaccio, mm mmm MMM!" His tongue unconsciously lolled out, a clear sign of his culinary delight.

Seeing his little brother so animated, Leo couldn't help but smile. He slid his own menu across the table, untouched. "Order for me, lil bro. You know culinary stuff way better than me anyway."

"Ooooh!" The sparkle in Mikey's eyes intensified tenfold, any lingering shadows of doubt evaporating like steam from a simmering pot. He nodded with such vigor that his mask tails whipped around his face. "I'm about to take you on a one-way trip to flavor town, baby. You just believe in me! Mikey's got it all under control!"

Leo watched, amused, as Mikey pored over the menu with the laser-like focus of a scientist analyzing a complex equation. It reminded him vividly of Donatello during one of his inventing binges - that same intense concentration, that same tunnel vision. The similarity was both comical and heartwarming, a reminder that despite their vastly different interests and species, they still were indeed brothers, through and through, deep down.

The waiter's arrival brought a sudden halt to Mikey's eagerness. Just as the box turtle was about to unleash his carefully curated order, his finger planted firmly on the menu and his mouth half-open, the waiter let out a startled gasp. Their whiskers drooped with apparent shame, drawing confused blinks from both turtles.

"Oh, I'm so sorry gentlemen!" the waiter tutted, their tail twitching with embarrassment. "You received the menu for our human guests. Just a moment," they hurried off, leaving Mikey and Leo to exchange bewildered looks.

"A menu for... humans?" Mikey glanced down at the one in his hands, perplexed. "Looks pretty normal to me."

"Maybe it's like the menu at Hueso's?" Leonardo mused, his fingers forming air quotes. "Where they have the normal food and the yokai food mixed in?"

"Maybe?"

Their question was answered when the waiter returned, presenting two new menus. These were a far cry from the previous ones - vibrant colors danced across the paper, and what they assumed were words seemed to shimmer and move on the page, as if alive. Mikey's earlier excitement deflated as he stared at the indecipherable text, sinking lower in his seat.

"I knew I should've been paying more attention in Draxum's lessons..." he muttered, a tinge of shame in his voice. Leonardo raised a curious brow.

"Learning yokai language was part of those mystic-whatnot lessons?"

Mikey nodded, his brow furrowing as he struggled to make sense of the shimmering symbols. "I mean, I recognize... some of the symbols. Like, this is... herb, and this is... animal, I think." He let out a frustrated groan. "Ugh, he'd be so disappointed in me. Just... the mystic stuff just kind of... I never had to really study it to... you know..."

Leo watched his brother's internal struggle with a thoughtful hum. He couldn't deny Mikey's feelings; Pizza Supreme knew all too well the struggle of studying topics he deemed unnecessary. An idea sparked in his mind.

"Hey, what if we get a recommendation from the chef?" he suggested, his tone brightening. "Or at least from the waiter. Or, well..." He eyed the mesmerizing yokai menu skeptically, the symbols seeming to dance under his gaze. "...you're the more adventurous one here. How about you order something for us off the human menu, and we get something off the yokai menu? No matter what, we'll at least have something we'll like, right?"

The suggestion seemed to lift some of the weight off Mikey's shoulders. His frown softened, replaced by a glimmer of his earlier excitement. "Yeah... yeah! That could work!" He perked up, his eyes darting between the two menus. "I mean, we're here for the experience, right? And what's more experiential than trying something totally new and maybe a little weird?"

Leo grinned, relieved to see his brother's spirit rekindled. "Exactly! And hey, if the yokai dish turns out to be, I dunno, live worms or something, at least we'll have a story to tell Raph and Donnie."

Mikey laughed, a sound that seemed to brighten their corner of the bustling restaurant. "Dude, can you imagine their faces? Donnie would probably want to dissect it, and Raph... well, he'd either run screaming or try to wrestle it."

As they shared a chuckle, the waiter reappeared, this time with a sympathetic smile. "Have you gentlemen decided on your orders?"

Mikey still looks slightly disappointed in himself when the waiter returns, "He'll have the scallops and sea bass, please," he says, his voice softer than before. Leo blinks in surprise; Mikey knows full well how much his older brother adores fish, particularly these delicacies. It's a thoughtful choice, one that makes Leo have to fight hard lest his tail start flailing about on his chair in excitement.

"Very well," the waiter responds, his tone professional but his eyes betraying a hint of judgment. It's clear he's questioning their decision to order from the 'human' menu, though he refrains from vocalizing his thoughts. "And for you, sir?" he turns to Mikey.

The box turtle musters a small smile, his fingers tentatively tapping the shimmering yokai menu. "I was wondering if you had a suggestion?" he asks, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of uncertainty and hope. "Something you'd recommend for us?"

The waiter's demeanor shifts, his whiskers twitching with what seems like newfound respect. He nods, leaning in and pointing to a symbol that, to Mikey, looks like a winding river dotted with lotus blossoms. "This Riverbed Salad is designed for kappa yokai such as yourself," he explains, his voice warming. "It comes with crispy river serpent scales, striped eel slices, pink lotus root chips-"

He doesn't need to continue. With each exotic ingredient, Mikey's eyes widen, the dullness evaporating like mist under the morning sun. His pupils grow until they nearly fill his irises, a giant star sparkling in their center, "Leave the rest as a surprise!" he interrupts, nodding so vigorously that his mask tails bounce. "You had me at designed for kappa yokai!"

The waiter chuckles, genuinely this time, his earlier judgment forgotten. "Excellent choice, sir," he says, scribbling down the order. "It's a favorite among our kappa patrons. I'm sure you'll find it... refreshingly familiar." With a slight bow, he collects their menus and glides back towards the kitchen.

"You sure about that, Mike?" Leo asks, his own curiosity piqued despite the lingering doubt in his voice. His eyes sparkle with a mix of excitement and apprehension as he leans across the table. "I mean - river serpent scales? Striped eel? Pink lotus? Do you even know what any of those ingredients are?"

Mikey shrugs, his earlier confidence returning in waves. "How different can they be from *normal* eels and lotus? I've never had a serpent though..." His grin widens, a shadow of his usual mischievous self. "I'm sure it'll be fine!"

And 'fine' doesn't even begin to cover it. When their dishes arrive, Leo's scallops and sea bass are beautifully plated, glistening under the restaurant's warm lighting. But it's Mikey's dish that steals the show. It's not just a salad; it's a miniature ecosystem, a slice of the Hidden City's mystical wilderness captured on a plate.

Leo's jaw drops, his own meal momentarily forgotten. Mikey's plate is a living riverbed, complete with gently flowing, crystal-clear water that casts a faint, ethereal glow. Amidst the current, slices of what must be the striped eel undulate, their iridescent scales flashing like sunlight on water. They move with such lifelike grace that both turtles' instincts scream at them to snatch the morsels before they swim away.

Unable to resist, Mikey deftly maneuvers his chopsticks into the mystic stream, capturing a piece of the eel with a skill born from years of pizza and sushi nights. As he pops it into his mouth, his eyes widen, and he lets out a squeal of pure, unadulterated delight. " Wooooah! It's like... it's like biting into a sunbeam! But, like, a sunbeam that tastes like the ocean!"

Leo chuckles at his brother's exuberance, before turning to his own plate. The scallops are perfectly seared, and the sea bass flakes apart at the touch of his fork, melting on his tongue in a buttery, herby bliss. "Okay, this is definitely a win," he admits, especially grateful for the minimal vegetables compared to Mikey's leafy extravaganza.

Speaking of which, the "salad" part of Mikey's Riverbed Salad is no less impressive. Surrounding the mystic stream is a vibrant array of greens, purples, and reds, mimicking the lush foliage of a mystical riverbank. Mikey, still wielding his chopsticks with the precision of a master, plucks up a cluster of dark, crisp leaves interwoven with ruby-red stems that look almost too vibrant to be real.

As he crunches down, his eyes light up again. "Leo! This must be like... like... mystic chard or something!" he exclaims, chopsticks waving excitedly. "It's got that chard bitterness, but then it hits you with this sweet, peppery aftertaste. It's like it's telling a story in your mouth!"

Leo can't help but smile at his brother's joy. Curiosity piqued, he reaches over with his own chopsticks, snagging a leaf from the vibrant array. "Let me try some of this story-telling chard," he chuckles.

But the moment it touches his tongue, something primal within him recoils. The taste is... wrong. It's bitter, but not in the usual vegetal way. There's an underlying sweetness that feels off, almost like decay, and a peppery aftertaste that makes his throat tighten. It's as if his body is screaming at him, This isn't for you!

Leo forces himself to swallow, his face a mask of neutrality to avoid disappointing Mikey, who's currently in culinary heaven. "Mmm," he mumbles unconvincingly, quickly reaching for his water to wash away the taste. He watches, bewildered, as Mikey deftly plucks up another mouthful, crunching down with unabated enthusiasm.

"Maybe box turtles just like vegetables more," Leo offers with a shrug, hoping to mask his distaste. He focuses on his own plate, the familiar flavors of scallop and sea bass a comforting respite. Mikey's chopsticks dance over the plate, expertly snagging a lotus root chip that crunches with a sound like wind chimes, and a piece of the eel that makes him squeal again.

"But, you know," Leo muses, chewing thoughtfully and chasing the lingering flavor of that chard away with more sea bass, "I think I get why Draxum wanted you to learn all this stuff. It's not just language or history. It's... it's understanding a whole different world. A world that, turns out," he gestures to their plates, his tone genuine despite his personal distaste for Mikey’s plate, "makes some pretty amazing food."

Mikey nods, his earlier self-doubt completely washed away by the mystic flavors. His chopsticks dance over the plate, expertly snagging a lotus root chip that crunches with a sound like wind chimes. "Yeah... yeah! And just think, this is only one dish! Imagine what else is out there, what other yokai cuisines we could try!" His eyes sparkle with renewed determination. "Next time Draxum has a lesson, I'm gonna pay extra attention. Who knows? Maybe one day, I'll be the one creating dishes like this, blending human and yokai flavors!"

They have such a wonderful time that Leonardo even decides to indulge his younger brother when he says he wants to visit the wishing fountain. “And despite what Draxum said, I know it totally works!”

Leo didn’t really need the convincing, considering the pictures he’d sent Raphael and Donatello of the food and the subsequent shocked expressions and demands for them to bring some home had him more than in a good mood. “The Hidden City’s pretty beautiful at night. As long as we stay in the more public areas, we’ll be fine.”

That’s how the two of them found themselves walking down the cobblestone street, watching as sky warps and moves above them, the last vestiges of mystical sunlight moving towards stars and comets. The slider had taken a seat on a bench around the fountain, watching fondly as the box turtle bounded around, taking pictures here and there, all so he can go and make drawings of this place later, he said.

Leo's heart races as he helps Mikey settle against the fountain's railing, his own discomfort forgotten in the face of his brother's distress. The vibrant, mystical city around them seems to fade, the kaleidoscopic sky and the gentle murmur of the fountain a distant backdrop to the urgency of the moment.

"Mike? Mikey. Tell me what's wrong," Leo repeats, his voice a mix of command and concern. His hands hover over Mikey, unsure where to touch, what to do. The box turtle's usual vivid green has dulled to a sickly pallor, his skin clammy under Leo's touch. Sweat beads on his forehead, catching the light of the nearby lanterns in a way that seems almost mocking in its beauty.

Mikey tries to speak again, but it comes out as a pained groan. His arms tighten around his midsection, and he curls in on himself further. "My stomach," he finally manages, each word a struggle. "It's like... like it's on fire. And I'm... I'm dizzy..."

Leo's mind races. Food poisoning? But they ate the same seafood, and he feels fine. Then a cold realization washes over him. The mystic chard. The riverbed salad. That strange, primal revulsion he felt when he tasted it. His body had been trying to warn him, but Mikey…

"Okay, okay," Leo murmurs, trying to keep his voice steady. He pulls out his phone, fingers shaking slightly as he dials. "I'm calling Donnie. We need to get you home, fast."

As the phone rings, Leo's gaze darts around. The once-welcoming streets now seem fraught with danger. They're exposed here, vulnerable. And if something in that salad is toxic to them... His eyes widen. Not just to them. To turtles.

It was designed for kappa yokai. Something they weren’t.

"What happened?" Donatello asks quickly.

Leonardo places a hand on Mikey's forehead, hissing at the heat radiating from his brother's skin. "Something we ate. Mikey thought it was mystic chard. I'm almost certain that's what did it. He's dizzy, nauseous, heavy cramping-" Leo pauses as Mikey lets out a wet, guttural sound. He pulls his hand back just in time as his baby brother wrenches to the side, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the cobblestones.

The vomit is a vile mixture of partially digested greens, fish, and bile. It clings to Mikey's chin in thick, viscous strings, dripping onto his plastron. The stench is overpowering, mingling with the metallic tang of blood from where Mikey has bitten his beak in pain.

"Mikey," Leo whispers, his voice a soothing balm. He gently turns his brother's face away from the mess, untying his own mask and using it to wipe his baby brother’s mouth and chin. "It's okay, let it out. Don't fight it."

Mikey's response is a pitiful chirp, a primal sound of distress that cuts through Leo more than any blade. The box turtle's eyes, usually so bright, are glassy with tears. He slumps against Leo, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his retching.

Leo holds him close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his shell, the other checking his pulse. It's rapid, thready. Not good. "I've got you, Mike," he murmurs, falling into the calming rhythm he uses when patching up his brothers. "Deep breaths for me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth."

He guides Mikey through the breathing exercise, but another wave of cramps hits. Mikey lets out a pained hiss, curling in on himself. Leo helps him lean over, just in case, but this time it's dry heaves, his stomach having nothing left to give.

"Donnie," Leo says into the phone, praying his twin didn't hear the awful sounds. "We're dealing with severe vomiting now. I need you to bring the emergency med kit. And water, lots of it."

"We're tracking you," Donnie's voice is terse. "ETA ten minutes. Keep him hydrated if you can."

Leo nods, though Donnie can't see. He glances around, spots a yokai shopkeeper watching with concern. "Water," he calls out, his voice authoritative. "Please, we need water."

The shopkeeper hurries inside, returning with a bowl. Leo takes it gratefully, helping Mikey take small sips. Between sips, Mikey lets out soft, distressed chuffs, a sound Leo hasn't heard since they were tots. It tugs at his heart.

"You're doing great, Mike," he soothes, wiping sweat from his brother's brow. "Donnie and Raph are almost here. Just hang on a little longer."

Mikey responds with a weak whine, his hand finding Leo's and squeezing. Leo squeezes back, his mind churning with guilt and worry. But he pushes it aside. Right now, Mikey needs him to be the calm, competent medic, not the regretful big brother.

The sound of pounding feet and labored breathing heralds the arrival of Donatello and Raphael. They burst into the plaza, sending startled yokai scattering. Raph's massive form parts the crowd like a ship through water, his eyes locking onto his youngest brother with a mix of fury and fear.

"Mikey!" he bellows, skidding to a halt beside them. But his outburst is cut short by a wet, guttural sound that makes even the battle-hardened snapper recoil.

Mikey wrenches to the side, his body convulsing as another wave of dry heaves wracks his frame. There's nothing left in his stomach but bile, the acrid stench hanging in the air. Leo, already kneeling beside him, rubs soothing circles on his shell.

"That's it, Mike," Leo murmurs, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Just breathe through it."

Donnie is there in an instant, his med kit already open. "What do you need?"

"Anti-emetic and pain meds," Leo responds without hesitation. "And prep an IV kit. We need to combat dehydration."

Donnie nods, rummaging through the kit. He hands Leo the requested medications, their movements practiced and precise. It's a dance they've unfortunately had to perform too many times before.

Leo quickly administers the injections, his hands steady despite the urgency of the situation. Mikey doesn't even flinch despite his fear of needles, a testament to how terrible he feels. His eyes flutter, a soft hiss escaping him as the medications start to take effect.

"Okay, he's stable enough to move," Leo declares, giving Raph the go-ahead. "But be careful. His stomach is still sensitive."

Raph nods, his earlier fury now tempered with concern. He scoops Mikey into his arms with a gentleness that belies his size. The box turtle is limp, exhausted from the ordeal, but he manages a weak, instinctual chuff at the familiar warmth of his big brother. Raph cradles him close, mindful of his tender stomach.

"I've got you, little brother," Raph rumbles, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You're gonna be okay."

As they rush through the Hidden City's winding streets, Michelangelo's condition remains worryingly unstable. In Raphael's arms, the box turtle shivers, his muscles twitching sporadically. While the anti-emetic seems to have quelled the worst of the nausea, the pain medication hasn't fully taken hold, evident in the occasional soft whimpers that escape Mikey's throat.

"Leo," Raph calls out, his voice strained with concern. "He's still in pain."

Leonardo, running point, glances back at his brothers. His brow furrows as he takes in Mikey's pallid complexion and labored breathing. "The meds should be helping," he says, a hint of frustration in his tone. "But it looks like whatever's causing this is fighting back."

Donatello, bringing up the rear, chimes in. "We need to get him back to the lair, run some tests. Those meds are a band-aid, not a cure."

Leo nods, his jaw set with determination. "Agreed. Raph, how's he doing?"

Raph adjusts his grip, cradling Mikey closer to his plastron. "He's shivering, but not as violently as before. And he seems a bit more responsive. Mikey? You with us, buddy?"

Mikey's eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused. He manages a weak nod, a soft churr escaping his throat. It's a far cry from his usual vibrant self, but it's a sign of life, of fighting spirit.

"That's it, baby bro," Raph murmurs, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "You just hang on. We're gonna fix this."

They pick up the pace, the lair tantalizingly close now. Mikey drifts in and out of awareness, his head lolling against Raph's shoulder. But even in his semi-conscious state, he seems to draw comfort from his brothers' presence, from the steady beat of Raph's heart against his ear.

As Leo and Donnie work to set up monitors and IVs, Raph gently lays Mikey down on the cot. The box turtle stirs, a soft whine escaping his throat at the loss of contact. "Shh, it's okay," Raph soothes, taking Mikey's hand in his own. "I'm right here. We're all here."

With Donnie's advanced technology, the results from the blood test come back fast. The purple-banded turtle stares at the screens, his expression unreadable. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat, emotionless. "Extreme levels of oxalic acid in his bloodstream."

Raphael's head snaps up at the word 'acid', his eyes wide with fear and confusion. "Acid? In his blood? What... what does that mean?"

But Leonardo understands. The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. "That wasn't chard," he growls, his hands clenching into fists. "Rhubarb. No wonder-goddamn it!"

He slams his fist against the wall, the dull thud echoing through the lab. "Rhubarb leaves are packed with oxalic acid. In high doses, it can be lethal. And for turtles..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. The grim reality hangs in the air, as heavy and oppressive as Mikey's labored breaths.

Raphael looks from Leo to Donnie, desperation etched into every line of his face. "So what do we do? How do we fix this?"

Donnie is already moving, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "We need to neutralize the acid, support his vital functions. I can synthesize a calcium gluconate solution, it should bind to the oxalate and reduce its toxicity."

Leo nods, his earlier outburst replaced by steely determination. "Do it. And let's push more fluids, try to flush his system as much as we can."

As Donnie works feverishly on the antidote, Leo focuses on Mikey, adjusting his IV, checking his vitals. Every number, every readout is a lifeline, a fragile thread of hope. But as the adrenaline that's been fueling him starts to fade, Leo feels the effects of his own brush with the poison creeping up on him. His head throbs, a dull, persistent ache that makes his vision swim.

He grits his teeth, trying to ignore it. One leaf, that's all he ate. Just one, compared to the pile Mikey consumed. He'd felt fine back at the restaurant, even during the frantic rush to get Mikey home. But now, with the immediate crisis past and the adrenaline wearing off, the toxin is making itself known.

Raphael, still keeping vigil at Mikey's side, glances up at Leo. His eyes narrow, taking in the tight lines of pain around his brother's eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. "Leo? You okay?"

"I'm fine," Leo snaps, his voice harsher than he intends. "Focus on Mikey."

But Donnie looks up from his work, his gaze sharpening. "Leo, did you eat any of that rhubarb?"

"Just a leaf," Leo admits grudgingly. "But it's not important. Mikey's the one who needs help."

"Even a leaf can be toxic," Donnie says, concern coloring his tone. "Especially for turtles. And with the adrenaline wearing off, you're probably feeling the effects now. You should sit down, let me check you over."

Leo shakes his head, ignoring the spike of pain the motion brings. "No. We don't have time for this. Mikey's kidneys could be shutting down, Donnie. We need to-"

He sways, his vision blurring. The adrenaline that's been keeping him going is well and truly gone now, and the full force of the toxin hits him like a truck. Raphael is up in an instant, his strong hands gripping Leo's shoulders.

"Whoa, easy there, Leo, calm down.”

"I'm fine," Leo insists, trying to push Raph away. But his strength fails him, and he finds himself being guided into a chair.

"Like shell you are," Raphael growls. "You're no good to Mikey if you collapse."

Leo wants to argue, to insist that he's fine, that they need to focus on Mikey. But the room is spinning, and his head feels like it's about to split open. He leans forward, cradling his head in his hands.

Donnie is there, pressing a glass of water into his hand. "Drink," he commands. "And stay put. I'll get you something for the pain."

"No," Leo protests weakly. "No meds. We can't spare them. Mikey..."

"Will need you functioning," Donnie cuts in. "A mild analgesic won't deplete our stocks. And it'll help clear your head so you can help Mikey."

Leo wants to argue, but he can't find the words. The pain is clouding his thoughts, making it hard to think. He takes the pill Donnie offers, swallowing it down with a gulp of water.

"Rest," Donnie says, his voice softening. "Just for a bit. The adrenaline masked your symptoms before, but now your body needs to recover. I'll wake you if there's any change."

Leo wants to protest, but his body betrays him. His eyes slip closed, the pain and exhaustion pulling him under.

As the hours tick by, the atmosphere in the lab grows increasingly tense. Despite Donnie's antidote and the constant care, Mikey's condition continues to deteriorate. The heart monitor's steady beeping becomes erratic, punctuated by the alarming sound of the oxygen saturation alarm.

Donnie is a flurry of activity, adjusting medications, checking and rechecking vitals. The stress is evident on his face, in the tightness of his shoulders. "His kidneys are failing," he announces grimly, his voice strained. "The toxin is overwhelming his system."

Raphael looks up from his position between the cots, his eyes wide with fear. "What do we do? Donnie, what do we do?"

Donnie takes a shaky breath, his mind racing. "We need to filter his blood, remove the toxins. But without a dialysis machine..."

He trails off, the unspoken reality hanging heavy in the air. They're not equipped for this, not prepared for a crisis of this magnitude.

But Donnie refuses to give up. He can't, not with Mikey's life on the line. "I'll build one," he declares, already tapping at his wrist and hurrying for the door.

Raphael turns to Leo, still unconscious in the chair. His heart clenches at the sight of his brother, so still. But Donnie's right. They need Leo, now more than ever.

With a gentleness that belies his size, Raphael kneels beside the chair. "Leo," he calls softly, one hand on his brother's shoulder. "Leo, bro, you gotta wake up. Mikey needs you. We all do."

There's no response, and Raphael feels a surge of panic. But he pushes it down, focusing instead on the steady rise and fall of Leo's chest. He's alive. He's fighting too. And Raphael will be damned if he lets him fight alone.

A twitch of fingers, a flutter of eyelids. Raphael's heart leaps into his throat. "That's it, bro," he encourages, his hand tightening on Leo's shoulder. "That's it. Come back to us."

Slowly, painfully, Leo's eyes open. They're hazy with confusion, but they're open. "R-Raph?"

"I'm here," Raphael assures him, his own voice thick with emotion. "I'm here, bro. And I need you. Mikey needs you."

“I need a scalpel, the large needle, should be the one all the way on the left in the drawer,” Leo rattles off as he works, tilting Mikey’s head to the side to expose the collarbone.

Everything goes by fast, and Leo’s hands are trembling, enough that the slider hisses as he tries to steady to get the needle in properly. It takes long, too long, and eventually he has to resort to guiding Raphael instead.

Donatello arrives not even half an hour later, looking half-frantic as he wheels in a clunky, awkward, strange looking machine. It has none of the coloring or bells and whistles of any of the softshell’s other works, its welding and circuitry messy and unattractive. But the machine works, and that’s what matters.

Not a turtle says a word through the process, sitting or standing around the med bay, watching as blood filters through again and again, as minutes turn to hours.

Gradually, incrementally, Mikey's condition begins to improve. His vital signs stabilize, the numbers on the monitors climbing steadily towards normal ranges. The sickly pallor of his skin warms, a hint of his usual vibrant green returning.

And then, a miracle. A soft groan, a flutter of eyelids. Three heads snap up, three hearts leap into throats.

"Mikey?" Leo's voice is a whisper, a prayer.

Slowly, painfully, Mikey's eyes open. They're hazy, unfocused, but they're open. "L-Leo?" His voice is a mere thread of sound, but it's the most beautiful thing his brothers have ever heard.

Tears spring to Leo's eyes, a mix of relief and lingering fear. "Hey, little brother," he manages, his hand finding Mikey's, careful not to disturb the lines and tubes. "Welcome back."

Raphael is there in an instant, his large hand engulfing Mikey's other one. "You gave us a real scare, Mikey," he says, his usually gruff voice soft with emotion. "Don't ever do that again, you hear me?"

Mikey manages a weak smile, his fingers tightening slightly in his brothers' grip. "S-Sorry," he whispers. "Didn't mean to."

Donnie, exhausted but triumphant, checks the readouts on the machine, a smile tugging at his lips. "The dialysis is working," he reports, relief evident in every word. "Toxin levels are dropping. Kidney function is improving."

He lays a gentle hand on Mikey's forehead, checking for fever. "How are you feeling, Mikey? Any pain? Nausea?"

Mikey takes a moment to consider, his brow furrowing slightly. "Tired," he admits. "And my stomach still feels kinda weird. But not like before."

"You're still recovering," Leo says easily, finally letting a smile slide back onto his face. He's exhausted , but nothing would keep him from his brother now. "You'll feel weird for a bit, I think."

Mikey stares at the slider for a while before he giggles ever-so-softly, "So... when I'm better... are we going back?"

Leo blinks, and then snorts , "Well," he looks over to Donnie then, "maybe when DonTron builds us a yokai translator, yeah? So we can actually read what we're going to eat before we eat it."

"Any self-respecting establishment should be able to make substitutions for dietary restrictions," Donatello nods sagely, a tired but genuine smile on his face.

Raphael chimes in, his voice a comforting rumble, "And those fish thingies you showed in the pictures did look really good."

"You hear that, Mikey? Sounds like a plan," Leo turns back to the box turtle, ready to discuss more of their future culinary adventures. But when he looks down, he finds that the youngest has already drifted off, his breathing even and peaceful, no longer the shuddering, painful gasps of before.

Leo smiles softly, running a gentle hand over Mikey's head. The touch is both affectionate and reassuring, a tangible reminder that his little brother is here, alive, on the mend.

The slider lets out a long, slow breath, feeling the tension and fear of the past hours finally begin to dissipate. It's replaced by a bone-deep relief, a gratitude so profound it brings tears to his eyes.

Chapter 22: And Then There Were Two - Leonardo & Michelangelo

Chapter Text

As Donatello demands Michelangelo to remove his battle shell, the young box turtle hesitates, his heart pounding with a dreadful sense of foreboding. It's not that he distrusts his brother or fears him directly, but rather, he's terrified for Donnie. The pulsating, grotesque growths snaking up the softshell's arms from where his hands are embedded in the Krang ship's bizarre bio-computer send chills down Mikey's spine. Donnie's voice, usually filled with calculated rationality, now resonates with an unsettling fervor. Gone is the typical apprehension about exposing his vulnerable shell to the alien technology; instead, an almost manic excitement to be more, to be connected, consumes him.

Mikey's instincts scream at him to refuse, to pull his brother away from the sinister machinery. Donnie's grin, all gritted teeth and constricted pupils, sends a shiver through his body. Yet, Leonardo's fate hangs in the balance. Raphael’s fate hangs in the balance. The entire world’s fate rests on the success of this plan. Donnie must seize control of the Technodrome, must force it back through the portal. With trembling hands, Mikey reaches for his brother's battle shell, bearing its weight as the hiss of compressed air signals its release. He watches in horror as Donnie eagerly offers more of himself to the machine, the fleshy tendrils coiling and squelching as they penetrate his exposed shell, fusing nerves with nerves, senses with senses.

Donatello's eyes roll back in ecstasy, a chilling giggle escaping his lips. "Donnie?" Mikey's voice quivers, small and frightened. When his plea goes unanswered, desperation takes hold. "Donnie!" he cries out, louder this time. A sickening sensation of wrongness slithers through his being, like repulsive slime latching onto his soul. He tries to shake it off, but as he looks at his brother, he realizes Donnie’s soul is completely consumed by it. "Donnie, no!"

The battle shell clatters to the fleshy ground as Mikey lunges forward, desperate to wrench his brother away from the machine's clutches. But he's too late. The maw of the Technodrome's pulsating heart splits open, and the tendrils tighten, *yanking* Donnie inside. The softshell doesn't resist, his hands splayed out in twisted welcome. Mikey thrusts his own hands into the bio-computer, determined to rip his brother free, but a violent electric shock sends him flying backward. He skids across the slimy ground, his shell digging through the wet flesh like a sled plowing through slushy snow.

As Michelangelo's eyes flutter open, he's confronted by the tangled, malformed visage of his brother, recreated by the ship's fleshy vines and tendrils. Donnie's eyes glow with an eerie brightness as he laughs maniacally. "A technological marvel!" he squeals with delight. "Where man and machine have finally combined! The Krang hold the secret to such technology, the Krang, they..." His misshapen face falls into a frown, staring into nothingness. "The Krang are... they know so much."

Mikey staggers to his feet, clutching his brother's battle shell against his plastron as he backs away from the console, unable to tear his eyes away from the grotesque sight. "The Krang are... all they have is power and solutions to all of our problems," Donnie's distorted voice echoes. "And they want to share it all."

Suddenly, Donnie's searchlight-like eyes fixate on Mikey, trapping him in their intense gaze. Frozen like a deer in headlights, Mikey's heart races as his brother's voice booms, "They are a gift!"

Maybe they would have had a chance against one of the Krang, with all of them and all of their ninpo synchronized, mind meld letting each other know what each other was doing. Maybe they would have won then. Maybe they would have destroyed the Technodrome, kicked that Krang back to the Prison Dimension, and grabbed a slice of pizza afterwards.

Maybe they would have. Or maybe they wouldn’t have.

It hardly mattered now.

Against the leader Krang, his engineering Krang underling, their Krangified brother, and…

And Donatello, they had no chance.

Michelangelo was always the fastest out of all of them, the most nimble, the most agile, but no matter what amount of skill he had, no matter how much he believed himself to be the greatest mystic warrior the world has ever seen…he couldn’t get away. Not when he was inside the heart of the technodrome, not when panic was clawing at every corner of his mind. Not as his breaths burned and rattled through his chest. Not as he heard his brother yelling after him. “Where are you running?”

“Don’t you always accept my gifts?”

A slimy, pulsating tendril snared Mikey's ankle, sending him crashing to the ground. His brother's battle shell clattered out of his grasp as his chin slammed against the surface, the impact cushioned by the grotesque, flesh-like material. The tendril tightened its grip, and another coiled around his other ankle. "D-Donnie—please!" Mikey's desperate plea fell on deaf ears as he clawed at the ground, his fingers sinking into the moist, yielding surface. Despite his efforts to pull himself free, he was helpless, sliding along the slick ground as he was dragged inexorably back towards the console.

Mikey's attention was briefly drawn to a glimmer of light from above as the ship's interiors split and pulled apart. The leader of the Krang peered down at the heart, his expression shifting from anger to cruel amusem*nt. In a nauseating, dizzying instant, the box turtle found himself wrenched into the air, arms twisted behind his back as he struggled to focus on the scene before him.

Their Krangified brother, Raphael, had Leonardo locked in a merciless death grip, a tentacle-turned-arm constricting around the slider's throat. Leonardo's wheezing gasps filled the air as he fought for each desperate breath, his legs kicking out weakly in a futile attempt to break free.

"This was your plan?" the Krang's voice boomed from behind Mikey, just out of his line of sight. "Come onto my ship? Try to take control of it?" A dark, cruel laugh echoed through the chamber. With a simple gesture, the fleshy mass and tendrils of the ship coalesced, rising from the floor and descending from the ceilings until they formed a familiar shape—Donatello. Or rather, a grotesque facsimile of their brother, his soft shell nothing more than a form composed of hundreds of thin, writhing tentacles, tightly woven together to mimic his appearance.

"D-...Donnie—" Leo's strained voice called out, barely audible, before Raphael tightened the tentacle around his throat, silencing him with a choked cough.

The Krang leader's voice dripped with condescension as he stepped off his throne, heavy metal footsteps echoing across the bridge. "A feeble mind like yours? Trying to control the heart of the entire Krang hivemind? How naive." His walk towards Leo brings the monster into Michelangelo's field of view, prompting the box turtle to cry out in desperation.

"L-Let my brothers go! Let them—" His plea was cut short by a tendril slapping hard over his mouth, the force strong enough to bruise. Mikey gagged as the writhing mass briefly caught his open beak, the taste making him retch.

The likeness of his brother, Donatello, suddenly next to him, leaned in close. "Shhhh," Donnie cooed softly, his voice devoid of concern for Mikey's muffled yells or the tears streaming down his face. "Don't interrupt Master."

The Krang leader continued, "A valiant, if not idiotic attempt, a plan born out of ignorance, willful or not. Even if you two continue to deny it, you will eventually learn what I have always known. That strength is power." He moved to stand beside Raphael, who lowered Leonardo just enough for a metal, clawed hand to replace the tentacle around the slider's neck. "Even with all of those paltry little tricks you attempted when we first met, no matter how impressive they are, you fall like vermin beneath me."

Mikey's eyes widened in horror as he watched his brother's body spasm and flail, hands clawing desperately at the Krang's metal-organic wrist as the hand tightened its grip.

"He's going to kill him," Mikey thought, his mind reeling. "I'm going to watch him die."

As if reading his thoughts, the Krang turned around, bringing Leo's nearly limp body into full view. "Watch," he growled, his voice dripping with malice. "Watch as I kill him. Watch as the light leaves his eyes. Watch as his skin grows gray and cold in my hands. Watch."

Mikey's gaze locked with Leo's, seeing the hazy, half-lidded eyes struggling to focus, trembling with fear. In that moment, Mikey saw the raw terror etched on his brother's face, a silent plea for help that he was powerless to answer.

As the all-consuming rage ignited within Michelangelo, he felt an explosive surge of power coursing through his veins. His arms, now free from their restraints, pulsed with an otherworldly energy that set his very soul ablaze. The roaring flames that engulfed his senses drowned out Donatello's distant screams, reducing them to mere whispers amidst the inferno.

Mikey's eyes darted to the bridge, where he saw Leonardo's crumpled form struggling to rise on trembling limbs. A fleeting sense of relief washed over him, knowing that his brother still clung to life.

"There it is," the Krang purred, but Mikey's focus was drawn to Raphael, who charged at him with a primal roar that shook the very foundations of the ship. The box turtle's instincts took over, his body moving with a fluid grace that defied comprehension. Flames danced along his limbs as he dodged Raphael's onslaught, his newfound speed allowing him to flicker in and out of existence like a phantom.

Raphael's tentacles lashed out, seeking to ensnare Mikey, but the youngest turtle's awakened knowledge guided his movements. Chains materialized from the ether, wrapping around Raphael's appendages and searing his flesh with their white-hot touch. The Krangified turtle bellowed in pain and fury, his attacks growing more frenzied and erratic.

Mikey ducked and weaved, his kusarigama blades slicing through the air with deadly precision. The clang of metal against metal reverberated through the chamber as he parried Raphael's strikes, sparks flying with each collision. The box turtle's heart raced, adrenaline pumping through his system as he pushed his body to its limits, desperately trying to subdue his brother.

But Raphael was relentless, his Krangified form granting him unnatural strength and resilience. Mikey's flames sputtered and waned, the toll of the mystic energy becoming increasingly apparent. Sweat poured down his brow, mingling with the tears that streamed from his eyes as he realized the futility of his efforts.

If only his family had been united, if only they had faced this threat as one, victory might have been within reach. But alone, Mikey found himself outmatched and overwhelmed, his hope dwindling with each passing second.

Amidst the chaotic dance of combat, Mikey's heart seized as he caught sight of the Krang leader plucking Leonardo from the ground. Abandoning his battle with Raphael, the box turtle launched himself towards their enemy, a scream tearing from his throat. "Let go of him!"

But the Krang was prepared, his razor-sharp claws poised at Leonardo's neck, digging into the soft, vulnerable flesh. "Ah, ah, ah," he chided, his voice dripping with sad*stic amusem*nt. "Touch me, and your brother dies here."

The pressure on Leo's neck increased, drawing a pitiful whimper from the battered turtle.

Mikey froze, the flames that had once engulfed his body flickering and dying as despair consumed him.

As the flames surrounding Michelangelo vanished, a crushing force slammed into his carapace, shoving him face-first onto the ground. Raphael's hiss filled his ears as the snapping turtle's immense weight bore down on him, threatening to crack his shell.

"For thousands of years, the Krang have shared their gifts with every world we set foot on," the leader began, his voice dripping with arrogance. "And no place has had such raw power as this planet. This mystic energy you wield is strong, but the Krang are beyond such strength. Your mystic energy is useless in its current state—untempered, volatile, chaotic. But in the hands of the Krang, it could become something so much greater."

Mikey's eyes widened, a new wave of terror washing over him. He thrashed and wriggled beneath Raphael's grasp, desperate to break free, but his efforts only caused pain to lance through his shell as the snapping turtle pressed down harder.

"Once you are part of the Krang, the ability to wield mystic energy is lost," the Krang mused, a hint of annoyance in his tone. "An unfortunate blemish in our otherwise perfect genetic code. However, the Krang's new pilot and scientist seems to have a solution."

Donatello re-solidified by the Krang's side, his form marred by charred tendrils that were quickly replaced with new ones. "The Hamato clan's connection to mystical energy is a genetic one," their brother stated matter-of-factly, keeping his false head bowed. "Mine and Raphael's genetic codes have been changed by your gift. We are no longer suitable."

"No, you aren't," the leader agreed with a nod. Leo's eyes met Mikey's, a shared horror passing between them as they heard the next words. "But these two are still viable."

“N-No,” Mikey’s voice cracks out, his body shaking and trembling, the lights of the room boring down on him and piercing into his retinas. And yet, he’d keep his eyes open anyway. Keeping his eyes open was better than closing them, unable to see what was going to happen next. “D-Donnie, please-” begging often fell out of his mouth when he was on the table, but it never did anything.

Leonardo had tried to get through to his twin too, but nothing ever worked. Just last night, he’d heard his brother admit it softly from his cell.

“They’re gone.”

Even if he chirped, begging in the way only turtles knew how, nothing changed. It didn’t stop the pain from coming. It didn’t stop them from tearing open his body and soul, trying to yank out the prize of his ninpo for themselves to use. Maybe, once upon a time, he would’ve felt better at the sensation of that not-hand cupping his cheek. He could pretend it was Donnie in there, deep down, his brother, comforting him before a saw cut through his plastron again.

Now, Mikey flinches back at it, feeling the writhing tendrils wriggle against his cold skin. He hates how warm they feel most of all. This time, the hand is there not for some false depiction of comfort, but to simply tighten and hold his head still as more writhing tentacles dropped down from the ceiling.

“No. Not again, no, nono no-” He clamps his beak and eyes shut tight, trying to resist, even now. It’s all he can do.

And the Donatello above him has the gall to sigh in exasperation. “Open your eyes, Michelangelo.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Open them. Now.”

Mikey refuses, the muscles of his jaw trembling from the ferocity of how hard he has them shut.

“Open, or Leonardo takes your place.”

Mikey opens up immediately. It’s Donatello’s hand against him that keeps his head held down against the table as his body lurches when the first tentacle snakes its way down and presses in along the side of his eye. His body spasms, flailing along the straps that tie him down to metal, keeping ankles and wrists down against the surface, when another shoves its way down into his mouth, slithering down his throat. He feels his stomach acid rising to meet it, but the tendril is undeterred, and shoves the fluid back down. It burns, it burns, it hurts.

He’s crying from the one, untouched eye, body seizing as he feels the one tentacle make contact with his brain, and flashes of imagery shove themselves to the forefront of his mind. Draxum’s lab. Training with his brothers. Fighting the shredder. Every time he’d ever used his ninpo, wrenched out of him and then thrown back at him. It digs into his emotions, into his feelings. Something hot and ugly sparks in his gut as the memories flash to worse things. His brothers were hurt. Being injured.

Him, standing there, unable to help. He had to help. He had to-

Mystic energy sparks within him instinctively, reacting to the violent and distressing stimuli. The moment fire licks at his hands, there’s agony ripping through him and he cries out, the sound muffled around the tentacle down his throat, gagging and coughing and convulsing as his very life force is sucked from him. Donatello dares give his cheek a little pat, like he’d been a good boy for doing another donation, and the scientist lets another tentacle press its way into his other eye to ensure that the amount they received this time was just as plentiful, and just as potent.

Leo’s pressed against the bars when Mikey’s dragged back, thrown into his cell on the other side of the hall by Raphael’s lumbering form. He’s shaking, twitching. Everything feels hot and freezing at the same time, and he feels so filthy. So filthy. Not just from the bile that had dried to his chin and plastron, not from the taste of it on his tongue. No, his soul felt dirty and abused and he just wanted to curl up. “Mikey?” Leo’s soft, croaking voice calls out to him, and the box turtle forces himself to respond.

He drags himself on trembling limbs, trying to make it to the bars of his own cell, but falls before he can make it all the way there. He’s not even close enough for his fingers to grasp one of the bars, and he’s shaking too violently to get any weight onto any of his limbs in any meaningful way. He’s at least managed to turn himself just enough so he can see Leonardo through his hazy vision, making out the slider’s frail form around the black spots dancing around him.

They don’t really need to say anything. None of this was new. The two of them had been here…who knows how long. No doubt the world had become the horrid thing Casey had told them about. Was Splinter alive? April? Anyone? They had no way to know. Their world had shrunk to the size of this Technodrome, of these cells, and the hallways connecting here to Donatello’s laboratory.

Leonardo blamed himself for all of it, of course. It was his recklessness that got the key taken in the first place. It was his failure that had gotten Raphael captured. It was his plan that had forced Donatello into the ship and gotten his entire being corrupted by the Krang hivemind.

And while Leonardo had ninpo of his own, the Krang knew Mikey’s was stronger.

So his baby brother got the brunt of the experiments. Of the testing. Of the procedures. Each time, his brother came back looking a bit older. A bit more ragged. A bit more lifeless. The light in Mikey’s eyes had been extinguished a long, long time ago.

Leo wasn’t exempt from Donatello’s research, of course, enduring many of the procedures himself, but more often than not, his presence was just used as leverage to make Mikey behave. Him just being here, being alive, was bringing nothing more than misery and more suffering.

Still, the Krang had come no closer to being able to harness mystic energy, to being able to wield it like any of them had. They didn’t understand what was missing. What they didn’t have when they’d torn every other necessary piece from the two turtles bodies.

Leonardo knew. Their hive mind species, treating one another like pawns and units and tools. They didn’t have the connection of family, didn’t have the bonds needed to fuel the ninpo’s desire. They were simply incapable of it, and that brought only the slightest shine of bittersweet joy to the slider.

But none of that helped the current situation. None of that brought him closer to his brother, who’s cell was always close enough for them to see each other, but never to touch.

“Hurts,” he hears his baby brother rasp out against the slimy floor, and Leo winces.

“I know. “ He answers back just as softly.

The silence stretches between them, only broken up by the sound of Mikey’s ragged, wheezing breaths. He’d been getting worse after every donation. Leonardo had attempted to tell Donatello this, but it had only resulted in his once-brother wrapping a tentacle tight enough around his throat to strangle, just to get him to stop talking.

He hears it then. An achingly familiar sound. “I-I wanna go home,” Mikey says, voice soft with the beginnings of sobs and crying. “I want D-Dad…”

And Leo swallows the heavy lump that’s forming in his throat, blinks back the stinging pressure he feels in his own eyes. What can he even say in this situation? What can he even do? Sitting here and watching his brother curl in on himself, sobbing away what little, precious energy he has left, until he’s an unconscious heap on the floor, body too exhausted to do anything else but pass out and sleep.

Mikey’s too tired to even rouse when the familiar footsteps of Raphael come by hours later. When the tendrils forming his cell’s bars uncoil, Leonardo doesn’t even try to resist as the strong, muscled hand grabs his arm, and drags him from the cell. He does, at least, look up when he sees the writhing mass of tentacles again, unbuckling the straps on the table for him, scalpels glinting eagerly by the scientist’s side.

Chapter 23: Invincible - Leonardo & Michelangelo

Chapter Text

They were teenagers, but they were also ninja, the coolest combination to ever exist. Well, actually, even cooler because they were mutant turtles, I mean, who can even top that? Not only that too, but their dad was the best ninja to ever exist, Lou Jitsu! Or well, Yoshi Hamato, which means they were all part of the Hamato clan too, now. Only the comics and TV shows he would watch ever had stuff like superheroes and being born into a destiny far greater than yourself. And yet, here they were.

He and his brothers, facing down larger-than-life villains, enemies that left them scarred, emotionally and physically, enemies that threatened not just them, but the whole world. Enemies that wanted them dead. Enemies that cursed their names. Cursed the names of teenagers. Wanted to see teenagers bloody and beaten and broken at their feet.

But like they were in their own show, their own comic, he and his brothers always won. No matter the odds. No matter how much it broke their bodies in the attempt. They always got back up. They always beat back the darkness. It was what they’d been born to do, always.

That’s why, this way of all ways, they weren’t supposed to die.

They were heroes. They’d fought off aliens and other mutants and-

And-

They were supposed to be strong-

They could get through anything. Get up no matter the odds. So why wasn't he getting up?

"Mikey!" "Michelangelo!" The frantic calls from his brothers echo behind him, but he can't turn around to look. Everything in his vision is stained a sickening crimson, *red, *red. It coats his trembling hands and soaks his legs where he's knelt in the ever-expanding pool of blood. Donatello shoves past him, a hand roughly yanking Mikey back by the shoulder and away, thrusting him into the much-larger grasp of Raphael. The snapping turtle wraps his strong arms around the shell-shocked Michelangelo, holding him in a desperate embrace, trying to provide comfort while also preventing the box turtle from turning back to the nightmarish scene.

A deafening ringing fills Mikey's ears, growing louder still as Donatello's anguished scream pierces the air.

"Leonardo! Leo-open your eyes! Leonardo!"

Mikey's world narrows, his vision blurring at the edges as a cold numbness seeps through his veins. His breath comes in short, shallow gasps, barely registering the rise and fall of his own chest. The once vibrant colors of the city fade into a dull, lifeless gray, and the sounds of the world around him become muffled, as if he's submerged underwater.

They were crime-fighting teenagers, unstoppable heroes bound by brotherhood. Just moments ago, Michelangelo had been showing off a new skateboarding trick, something he'd practiced tirelessly to perfect, his face scrunched in concentration with a bit of pink tongue peeking out from his beak.

"Look out! Mikey!" Leo's urgent warning rang out, just before he slammed into Mikey's side, shoving him to safety. In the next instant, the ear-splitting blare of a truck horn shattered the air.

Mikey had heard it all. The sickening thud of flesh against speeding metal. The gut-wrenching crack of a shell.

Stumbling to his feet, heart pounding, Mikey staggered forward, one foot in front of the other, desperate to reach his fallen brother. His brother needed him. His brother needed-

But as Mikey collapsed to his knees in the rapidly expanding pool of Leonardo's lifeblood, his mind began to go blank. A heavy fog descends upon his thoughts, smothering any sense of coherence or understanding.

Because they were heroes. They'd saved the world countless times, never asking for reward. They were selfless, kind, invincible…

There's no way they could lose a brother like this. Right?

Raphael's hands squeeze ever-tighter around Mikey, as if the feeling of his brother's presence is the only thing keeping him grounded. Michelangelo can feel the moisture of Raph's tears landing on his carapace. Yet Mikey's own eyes remain dry, shock numbing him to the core, his body and mind disconnected from the horrific reality before him. Donatello's wails continue to rend the air, but they sound distant, as if coming from a world away.

And Leonardo hasn’t made a sound.

Chapter 24: We Fought for a Brighter Future - Michelangelo

Chapter Text

Long ago, in an age lost to the mists of time, whispers of unspeakable evil swept across the land like a chilling breeze. These whispers spoke of monstrous creatures, abominations born of twisted flesh and towering over man and beast alike. They strode across the earth, their every step sending shockwaves through the ground, leaving deep, jagged cracks in their wake. Their cruelty knew no bounds, and from their gaping, tooth-filled maws dripped venomous poisons that seeped into the soil, corrupting everything they touched. The once-vibrant landscape, teeming with life and beauty, withered and died, leaving behind a barren, lifeless wasteland.

Amidst the suffocating darkness, tales began to emerge of brave souls who dared to stand against these nightmarish beings. These valiant warriors, both human and yokai, united in a desperate bid to reclaim the skies and breathe life back into the world. They dreamed of a day when cool, clear rain would fall from a brilliant blue sky, and the sun's radiant light would once again grace the earth, warming the soil and coaxing new growth from the ground. A day when all could breathe freely, their lungs filled with pure, untainted air, free from the choking miasma that now blanketed the land.

Yet, for all their bravery and determination, those who ventured forth to battle alongside the humans never returned. As time passed, the sounds from the world above grew silent, and an eerie stillness settled over the land like a suffocating shroud. When the first yokai emerged from their hidden sanctuaries within the ether, their hearts filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation, they were greeted by a sight that would forever haunt their dreams. The world they had once known was gone, replaced by a desolate wasteland, littered with the decaying bodies of the fallen. The air was thick with the stench of death and decay, and the howls of horrific beasts echoed in the distance, a chilling reminder of the horrors that still lurked in the shadows. But the flesh-monsters who once ruled the land, the ones who had brought about this apocalyptic nightmare, were nowhere to be found.

Undeterred by the bleak scene before them, the yokai set about carving out a small haven for themselves amidst the ruins of the old world. With each passing week, month, and year, they poured their steady magic into the earth, their hearts filled with a fierce determination to restore life to the barren soil. Progress was slow and arduous, with food and water forever scarce, and the constant threat of the beasts that roamed the land hanging over their heads like a dark cloud. When the beasts attacked, as they inevitably did, the yokai's brave defenders would return gravely injured, their bodies broken and their spirits battered. Some would not return at all, their lives lost in the eternal struggle against the darkness.

One fateful day, the beasts swarmed over the hills in a frenzied horde, their numbers far greater than anything the yokai had ever seen before. They came, driven by an insatiable hunger for the elusive scent of life that clung to the yokai's small haven like a beacon in the darkness. The yokai braced themselves for what many believed would be their final stand, the snarls and howls of the creatures a chilling prelude to their impending doom. After centuries of suffering and waiting for a chance to reclaim the Earth, it seemed their efforts would be rewarded with nothing more than a swifter demise, a final, bitter end to their long and arduous journey.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans. As the beasts closed in, their eyes glinting with malice and hunger, the skies above burst open in a dazzling display of brilliant orange flames. The flames ripped through the horde like the wrath of a mighty mystic warrior, consuming the beasts in a fiery inferno that lit up the darkness like a second sun. The creatures fell in smoldering heaps, their charred remains turning to ash and drifting away on the wind, nourishing the ground beneath them with the essence of their own destruction. In mere moments, the horde was vanquished, and the yokai were saved, their haven spared from the ravages of the beasts.

In the aftermath of this miraculous event, whispers began to spread among the yokai of a mysterious figure who had appeared in their hour of need. They spoke of a green-skinned yokai with blazing orange spots, a being of immense power who had materialized out of thin air, wielding the flames of salvation like a divine instrument. Yet, as quickly as they had appeared, the mysterious savior vanished, leaving behind only the smoldering remains of the beasts and the awestruck whispers of the yokai.

As decades and centuries passed, life slowly returned to the Earth in gentle, sweeping waves, each new generation of yokai born into a world that grew a little brighter with each passing year. Wherever pain and suffering lingered, wherever the remnants of the old darkness tried to take hold, the mysterious orange flames would appear, a guardian force that protected and aided the yokai before disappearing once more. The legend of the green-skinned savior passed into myth, a story told around campfires and whispered to wide-eyed children as they drifted off to sleep.

One day, in the crumbling ruins of an ancient city, four young yokai children explored the dilapidated tunnels beneath the streets, their laughter and chatter echoing off the moss-covered walls. They stumbled upon a hidden space, steeped in a thick haze of mystic energy that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Amidst the dust-covered relics of a bygone era, they discovered a faded picture, its edges worn and its colors muted by the passage of time. The picture was nestled beneath a tattered blanket on an aging couch, a silent guardian of the memories it contained. Before the couch lay a sword, its blade dull with age, but adorned with three intricately woven strips of red, purple, and blue fabric that seemed to glow with an inner light.

As one child, a curious and bold young kappa, reached out to examine the picture more closely, a ghostly hand emerged from the ether, stopping them in their tracks. The apparition took form, revealing the legendary green-skinned yokai from the legends, their eyes consumed by swirling mystic energy that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe within their depths. The ghost smiled knowingly, placing a finger to their lips in a gesture of quiet reverence as they traced a hand over the sword's hilt.

In a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, barely above a whisper, the ghost spoke: "They fought to save the world, and they won. At the cost of themselves." With tender care, the spirit adjusted one of the fabric strips, a wistful smile playing across their ethereal features. "I've stayed to make sure their sacrifice was worth it." The ghost turned to the children, a playful wink in their eye, and a glimmer of hope in their voice. "And seeing you now, I know I can rest."

As the ghost spoke, their form began to unravel, mystic energy dissipating into the air like mist in the morning sun. The final words echoing into the nothingness, "After all this time, I'll see them again." The sword glowed a blinding orange, its light filling the hidden space and casting long shadows on the walls before settling once more, a new strip of orange fabric joining the others on its hilt, a silent testament to the ghost's final act.

The bold kappa child, their heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, reached out and grasped the heavy blade, toppling backwards with its weight. As their hand brushed against the woven fabric, a spark of blue flashed within them, accompanied by a distant chuckle that seemed to echo from the very depths of their soul.

"Are you alright, Uno?" his sister asked, her voice laced with concern as she helped him to his feet, her own eyes wide with wonder at the strange events that had just transpired.

Uno nodded, his mouth opening to speak, his words coming slowly as if he were waking from a long and vivid dream. "It just felt like... I'd forgotten something, is all. Something important. But I can't quite remember what it was." He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Let's go home."