Chapter Text
Michelangelo tucked himself into his shell. God, this plan was crumbling around him.
Slip in the mentionings of their other siblings into the conversation casually; surely at the arrival of himself would maybe cue the slider that maybe they weren’t the only two dropping by for a visit.
After that, probably talk with Donnie or dad with the details; were there any extra mystic readings? Was there such a thing as reincarnation in the Hamato clan? Michelangelo had visited his older sibling after his death a multitude of times before, and even seen Donnie a couple times in the past four years, but he didn’t think there could be reincarnation or being brought back from the dead.
Multiple times Donnie had mentioned about “being brought back to the primary plane” or “once I see Raph again I’m gonna RUB IT IN HIS FACE!” while holding a design for new robotic body parts, each marked with a gracious amount of purple and the Genius Built ™ logo.
“Well- Y’know, we’re here and all that jazz- They’re probably here as well. Somewhere. Sometime.” Michelangelo stammered, picking at the scars on his hands.
“Mikey, what do you mean by probably? ” Leonardo asked, turning the dial of the stove with a click .
CJ looked at Michelangelo with eyes that asked for something. He knew what it was. He couldn’t mention it here.
“Well- When I- Y’know, supernova'd and appeared back in New York- I was, holding, like- Ninpo. Or magic. Or souls. Or whatever it is- and it kinda. . . Fluttered away, so to speak.” The box turtle explained, glancing towards Junior; the boy’s hand clutching the cloak around his neck.
“How does that mean we’ll see them?” Leonardo spat, hand trembling as he poured coffee grounds into the mug. The slider shook his head. “How do you know it wasn’t just my Ninpo? Their energies are so faded now.” He said, sighing, not wanting to believe the box turtle’s words.
Michelangelo clenched his jaw. “Because; it was their Ninpos. There was red and purple and blue. It was them.” He hissed, glancing away.
“I’m not entirely sure what it means, but you're here, so it’s not that unlikely. I don’t know where they are, but I don’t think they’ll be hidden for long.” The box turtle explained, fingers drumming along the countertop.
Michelangelo signed. He knew what was coming up. “Mikey-” Leonardo started, but the orange turtle cut him off with a hand. “No. It’s not a dream this time. I know you don’t trust me anymore but it wasn’t a dream.” Micheal stated, sliding off the barstool chair and out of the kitchen with a huff.
He felt their eyes while walking over the threshold. The slider’s frustrated stare, his younger self’s sympathetic expression, Leo’s eyes narrowing while his jaw worked; trying to figure out the puzzle between them.
Michelangelo had dreams. Dreams that whispered to him, telling him things. Showing him things. Whispers of his mind and voices from those beyond.
Sometimes they were visions, sometimes they were warnings, sometimes they were memories, and sometimes. . . Just fabrications of his mind; too real in his imagination to ever seem fake.
One of them had led to a blood bath. He thought he had been told about a Kraang base far east, past the hardship of the rocks. It had hardly seemed worth it; but his visions never lied, so Leonardo insisted on going. Hell, he had even led the team.
They had lost so many people just at the passing, a small ground headed back to the base. Some turned around, but only about three had actually made it to the protected doors.
And the spot that it was going to make everything worth it?
A trap from the Kraang.
Leonardo, Micheal, and the two others remaining turned back. Thirty six people slimmed down to four in the final trap. All because of one stupid dream.
Michelangelo had to live with that guilt for years. He knew Leonardo blamed him. Afterall; he had instructed this wild goose chase, reaching for something that didn’t even exist.
But why had there been a trap?
Maybe the Kraang were teasing him. Maybe it was some god giving him a sign that he wasn’t needed all the time.
Maybe, it was simply a fluke.
The box turtle stepped into the training room, the memories vanishing in seconds.
The simple dojo always had a charm that he’d never been able to place ro repeat. The nearly empty but so personalized room had always said so many things in so many silent whispers; each a missing memory. Like how the pipes overhead leaked onto the walls, crystal-like water dripping into the small pool they used for a quick drink, the soft clinking of metal signs tapping against the walls, the creaking of the mat, each spot singing with its own groan, the small areas that showed hit after hit; the unavoidable spots in a spar, splintering and cracking as the room breathed.
The simplest sounds and textures made his heart flare with fondness. The familiarity of the area had never been replicated, not in any of the places they could call home. Nothing matched the dojo here, not even the one before; each quiet creek from his weight making a new memory spark into his mind. Of times yet to come and long passed, forgotten recollections of his life that would be long gone save for here.
Michelangelo settled to the mat, the floor letting out a meek creak under his weight.
The box turtle closed his eyes and breathed. His lungs filled and collapsed, one small reassurance that he was alive.
The lair murmured with life. The footsteps of each character, each subtle breath from the members of his family, each sound of a turtle or rat or person shifting. Each little reminder of life, all echoing between the walls and straight to him.
Each sough of the lair rolled into the room, wrapping him like a warm blanket. The noises comforted him; the fullness of not-so-silent silence.
But it all drew his mind to the true hush of his past. The world that was left desolate from the Kraang. Not a bird chirped, not a cricket sung; just the roar of unforgiving fires and deafening zephyrs.
Each little sound reminded him just how much he had missed his home. The noise was so warm; fuzzy around the edges, and comfortable enough to let his mind rest. He breathed in the fond warmth; spinning the liveliness into a record and storing it on the wall of his mind, ready to be played at any moment. It sat nicely next to the sound of his family’s voices, and the soft melody that his father would hum when the sounds of destruction overhead was too much.
Michelangelo didn’t flinch when he noticed the footsteps crawl closer to the dojo. Heavy feet, appearing as light as they could to not disturb any of the others gliding towards the doors.
When he realized who was nearing, Micheals heart froze.
He thought he held himself together pretty well when he first arrived and cooked breakfast; Raph was one always easy to quell. Hell, he thought he even held it together with Donnie pretty well!
But Raphael was an odd case in his heart. Micheal was supposed to grieve the snapper years ago, yet he was still tender at the mere mention of him. Yes, of course, his dead brother was gone, but he wasn’t truly gone. Micheal had visited plenty of times in the past ten years, even if they were just short visits to assure the lonely goliath that it wouldn’t be much longer.
Raph stepped into the dojo with a click of his beak, peering at Michelangelo. The box turtle stared back at him, not knowing when he had opened his eyes.
“Yeah, Raph?” He invited, doing his best to keep his voice stable. The snapping turtle shuffled for a moment, then settled across from the similarly sized box turtle.
“Weird thing that we’re around the same size now, don’t you think?” Micheal prompted, pulling his eyes away from the snapper to watch gold ripple through scars as his fingers flexed.
“Well- Yeah, I guess, but. . . I mean, I saw- Uh, big Leo, so I assumed that. . .yeah, maybe you too but- you know.” He stammered, tail brushing along the floor.
Michelangelo nodded. “Yeah. It’s weird. You reached seven foot three, but you were still growing.” He confirmed, making Raph shuffled, uneasy with the news of growing taller .
“Don’t worry. You enjoy being lofty after a while. Said that everybody just kinda looks like a sugar glider after a minute. Plus, you could pick anybody up at that point.” He said with a chuckle, the tension in the snappers' shoulders falling away.
“Yeah, I guess Leo outgrew me too, huh?” He said with a small smile, watching Micheals hands as the gold webbing pulsed.
Raph’s smile faltered, hands folding into each other again. “Well- Uh, I guess- Well, I want- I wanted to ask you something. About Casey.” He said, eyes dropping to his lap.
Michelangelo froze. Casey? Casey Junior; the one and only Casey since his mother’s passing.
“What is it, big guy?” He asked, the tremors in his hands appearing again, liquid gold draining out of his fingers and back to his heart, rolling through his arms with a warm tingle, leaving his appendages shivering once the gold faded.
He tried to look at his face. The eye patch, the scar, the snaggle tooth; tears stung at his waterline, but he kept composed. Thank god Raph didn’t look up while he was nervous.
“It's just- Does- Does Casey not meet me in the future? He’s. . . So distant. And I’m- I’m pretty sure he’s been avoiding me, and even hesitates to call me and. . . There’s never been a close call with “Uncle”, and he seems fine with everybody else but so. . . Nervous around me?” He sighed, head landing into his hand wrappings.
“Did I do something wrong? Was I. . . Gone? Soon enough we didn’t meet?” He asked, lone eye peeking out from his fingers and peering into his lap.
Micheals heart dropped.
How could the poor guy think that?
“Raph, he met you. I promise, you didn’t do anything wrong. But. . . If Junior hasn’t told you himself yet, it’s not my place to speak. I can talk with him, but-” He took a breath. His throat was dry and his eyes stung and it was hard to speak without his voice cracking and god he wanted to cry. How was Leonardo holding up here?
“I’ll talk with him. It’s not my place to say, but I promise; he doesn’t, and would never hate you.” Michelangelo assured, placing a hand on the snappers’ knee.
Raph looked at his bandages and sigh, placing his own hand along the box turtle’s. “Thanks, Mikey. I knew I could count on ya’.” He said with a small smile, tears dotting the corners of his eyes. Michelangelo just smiled back.
Michelangelo did his very best to sit on the mat and just listen. Hear his younger self scratch graphite onto paper. Visualize Leonardo’s comic book as the page crinkled in his fingers. Tune into the static of the projector as Splinter watched his favorite shows. Listen to the mutters between Leonardo and his Nephew.
Raph had left not long ago. He hugged Michelangelo(which he surprised himself by not crying when he did so) and scuttled out of the room, apologizing for interrupting his meditation(or whatever bastardized version that Micheal had), and simply left him with the sounds of his own heartbeat and the breath of the lair.
So, he simply sat. Breathed. Let the sounds seep into his lungs and his heart, filling him with a familiar warmth. Each little tick and drip and dink and sough of the family echoing throughout the walls.
He was caught in a moment. Simply existing within the lungs of life and chambers of his heart.
So, yes, Michelangelo did fail to notice the turtle walking into the dojo.
The door clicked closed, pulling the box turtle out of the trance. He pulled his gaze to the threshold, seeing an extremely startled Mikey.
He hummed in acknowledgment of his younger self, still trying to pull his mind back to the realm his body was in. The younger box turtle looked around, scanning golden chains that covered the room. Each one seemed to waver in and out of the walls; simply existing without a handle for him to throw or manipulate with his limbs. In the center of it all was Michelangelo; floating a good five feet in the air, hands folded into each other.
Speaking of his hands; they flared, sending heat straight through his limbs. He lost focus and fell with a yelp, landing on the mat with a thump. Micheal shivered, looking at the dimly glowing scars that covered his fingers.
Mikey shook his head, snapping his focus away from the rapidly vanishing chains and to his older self.
“ Were you just floating?!” The box turtle exclaimed, hands trembling with bewilderment and exhilaration. Michelangelo groaned and worked his way to standing up, stretching his legs while doing so.
“Are you not doing that yet?” Micheal asked, stretching his knees. Mikey shook his head frantically, looking at the older box turtle with stars in his eyes. “ Can you teach me?” He breathed, making Michelangelo chuckle. “Maybe, kid. I gotta make sure I don’t shatter into oblivion before I can start flaunting all my razz and tazz again.” He said with a grin. Mikey smiled, knowing that at some point, someday, he’d learn maybe just a little bit of Michelangelo’s power.
The older box turtle grinned, stretching his hands. “Tell ya’ what; I’m still able to summon chains; so, that means I gotta do some mystic exercises. Do you want to join?” He asked, shaking out his fingers. Mikey radiated excitement; his figure shivered and he bounced up, throwing his arms in the air “DO I?!” He shouted, vibrating in his spot. “Of course I do!! That’s not even a question!” He exclaimed, rolling on his feet and running over to the weapons wall.
He grabbed a pair of nunchucks; not his normal pair, but one he was comfortable enough to channel Ninpo into. “What do we start with?!” He asked, spinning the shafts. Michelangelo chuckled and pulled out his own pair of ratty, almost broken nunchucks, gently spinning them.
Mikey looked at them for a second, his face softening. They’d seen countless deaths and battles, but continued to hold together in the toughest fights. He’d only decided to retire them after a rough battle that nearly broke the kusari links, forcing him to focus more on his chains.
“Don’t worry; they last a while. Todd made them to be the best of the best.” He said with a smile. The younger box turtle nodded, not seeming eased. Maybe he didn’t read him entirely right(weird; reading other people better than himself?), but he exhaled and sat down.
Mikey followed, sitting down across from him with his nunchucks in his lap. “Alright, we’re gonna start off with simply extending the chain.” Michelangelo explained, flicking the shaft towards one of the barbells, the kurasri wrapping around the metal with ease and pulling it to the air. He held it for a moment before letting it gently drop back to the holder.
Mikey followed; the box turtle stretched the nunchuk and picked up a fifty pound weight, twirling it in the air before setting it back to the rack. Michelangelo blinked at him.
“What’s the heaviest thing you’ve thrown around so far? Minus the cargo ship; I know that guy.” He asked, watching Mikey with an fascinated look. Mikey shrugged with a grin. “I got to throw a building! It was floating though, so I’m not sure if it counts but it happened.” He explained, making the older box turtle's jaw drop to the floor.
“A building? Already? Your- What, sixteen? And you’re already throwing buildings?” Michelangelo exclaimed; Mikey chuckled nervously, folding his nunchucks into his lap. “I’m fifteen. Is that bad?” He asked.
Michelangelo shook his head. “No, that’s amazing. First time I threw a building I was twenty-four! It’s just wild to me how much you’ve done at this point!” He said with a small laugh, glancing at his younger self's hands.
He didn’t realize it before. Michelangelo’s laughter died out as he trail shimmering scars with his eyes.
They stopped at his biceps, but his fingers were left with dark patches that told a story he didn’t like. The cracks were too large, too expansive for this young kid.
“What happened?” Michelangelo breathed, making Mikey shift.
“It’s. . . A long story. The Kraang. . .”
“Aren’t easy opponents.” Michelangelo finished for him. “I know.” He hissed, looking at the scars on his own hands; the dark spots that pulled back his bandages, edging towards his wrist. “Do you. . .Want to talk about it?” The old turtle asked, looking back at Mikey.
He sighed, rubbing his palms. “It was. . . The night. You know, right?”
“You probably know the start with Leo and Raph. April brought CJ to us. . .”
Mikey started with the story. Michelangelo’s heart dropped as he continued.
The story spun. Small bits at a time. Like starting from one corner of a canvas to the whole picture.
He was not excited to see this finished painting.