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Mikey angles a flashlight at his sketchpad, trying to complete the near-impossible task of holding it while also sketching out what he intends on drawing. He had been trying to go at something more abstract to clear his head, but it hasn’t exactly been going smoothly. Begrudgingly does the box shell turtle rip the paper off the spiral notebook and cast the now-balled up piece of paper across the floor, where it meets up with several other failed art attempts.
He turns off the flashlight and directs a brief glance outside the window closest to the wall he’s leaning up against—it’s practically pitch black out. If he looks up, there’s a severe lack of light pollution to the point where he can actually see the stars now. It’s… unsettling. Especially for New York.
Naturally with the whole “aliens invade the city” charade, the power lines were unfortunately one of the first casualties—that was practically the end of poor Donnie, seeing as using electronics had gotten more restrictive. It was definitely a challenge—but not the worst they’ve gone through by a long-shot. Their lair has gotten destroyed—TWICE, after a particularly bad Krang attack—and they’ve defeated The Shredder for shell’s sake! The entirety of New York losing power and getting attacked by aliens shouldn’t be the worst of their problems, yet somehow Mikey can’t help but feel that this time is… different, to say the least.
Different enough to keep him awake until 1 am trying to finish this stupid drawing. Being the insomniac of the family has almost always been up to Donnie and Leo, but this is one of the first times both of them have taken to actually sleep for a while. Probably an even more rare occurrence than seeing stars in New York, Mikey muses to himself. He won’t question it, though. He can recognize just how important their rest is, especially for… their whole situation.
But as it turns out, the average New Yorker doesn’t care as much for seeing mutant turtles and their 3’0” rat dad roam freely on the streets when people are getting overtaken by weird pink fleshy alien parasites. It makes it all the more convenient for the Hamatos to travel topside. Mikey even managed to snag this sketchpad and a couple pencils during their expedition! It’s just great, he has… six different colors to choose from! What a diverse selection of color he can work with, and…
…..he’s trying to be optimistic here. That’s his job. He’s the one who sees the good in every situation. The hype man. The optimist. He’s been working at this since an hour after sundown, and Mikey can feel the unfamiliarity of frustration bubbling up as he stares at whatever the hell he’s scribbled down on this paper. Usually his creative mojo isn’t this disrupted! Art block rarely hits him, he’s practically a fountain of ideas! What is wrong with him tonight… The turtle’s grip on the poor sketchpad tightens ever so slightly, and he hits it against his forehead.
……..Before then realizing that the thud that resulted was totally louder than he intended. Shoot. Angelo freezes up, gaze darting around the dark abandoned hotel lobby they took refuge in for the night, looking for any sign he might’ve woken up his sleeping brothers. Raph, sleeping. Donnie, sleeping. Leo—surprisingly enough, sleeping. Phew. Mikey’s hunched shoulders slowly relieve themselves of tension, and—
“...I was unaware you were still awake, Orange.”
…Crap.
Splinter. His dad. Had he been awake this entire time? He definitely doesn’t sound like a guy that just got woken up by his son on accident. Mikey should’ve known, Splinter snores when he’s asleep, and—Oh MAN, is he starting to sound like Dee with how much he’s overthinking this.
Mikey sucks in air through the gap in his teeth, and half-grimaces half-smiles toward his father’s direction. “Sorry pops,” he starts, “didn’t mean to wake ya.” He lowers the sketchbook to his chest and squints at Splinter’s silhouette as he watches it shift to an upright sitting position. Great, now he’s really woken him up.
His gaze eventually dances back down to the blank sketchbook page. Based on how thin the book is starting to get between his three fingers, Mikey surmises there’s not much left to draw on. Guilt pools in his stomach—maybe it would’ve been for the better if he didn’t ball up those pages and throw them on the other side of the lobby… then he might’ve at least been able to doodle on them…
The sound of his father getting up and quietly stretching is enough to garner his attention, however, as Mikey looks up to his now approaching father. Perhaps his company wouldn’t be all bad. Splinter moves to sit not too far from Mikey, his legs crossed.
“And what exactly has you up working so late?” He inquires quietly, his hands planted on the ground in front of his crossed legs for the sake of balance.
“Oh—nothing much!” Mikey whispers back, directing the empty sketchbook page toward his father. “...Just drawing, is all.”
Splinter tilts his head forward to observe the blank page, then to Mikey.
“I didn’t know you had an invisible marker,” he quips, stroking his beard as Michael moves the sketchbook and rests it on his own lap. “I just—I just gotta get my creative juices flowing again. That’s all.” The orange turtle explains briefly with a hand motion to accompany—even if it’s not very visible in the dark. “...It’s just hard to do when all I got is… six colored pencils, haha...”
This causes Splinter to drop his gaze elsewhere, deciding that Mikey’s red pencil is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. The box turtle glances back out at the window, holding his right shoulder with his left hand. There’s a sudden sort of tension that makes itself evident in the abandoned hotel lobby, and the rat mutant looks over at the youngest turtle’s surprisingly large stack of crumpled up paper.
“Is,” his father eventually starts, swallowing thickly, “something bothering you, Michelangelo?”
Ah, the full name card. It’s a rare event for their father to ever actually refer to them by name. He must be serious. Mikey’s the hype man, he can’t be harboring all of this frustration and negativity!
Michelangelo smiles lopsidedly at his father, pulling his knees in close to his chest.
“Not at all! It’s just art block, you know how it is,” he dismisses Splinter with, although he can tell that’s not quite convincing enough for him—so he continues. “...And actually, you seem like you’ve been up for a while too—if something’s getting YOU down Dad, you’re talkin’ to Doctor Feelings right here—”
“...That trick might work on your brothers, but I can tell when you’re changing the subject Orange.” Splinter retorts quietly. Curses. The rat’s expression softens as he continues. “But in all seriousness… I wouldn’t expect you to be entirely fine with… everything that’s happening. If you need to talk, I am here.”
Mikey hums in acknowledgement, his legs stretching out in front of him. Maybe… maybe talking about it just once would be okay. To his father, of course. To his brothers, he’s the optimistic one. They’ve got their own burdens to bear, and that’s totally fine! Maybe he’s just tired, maybe he’d be fine in the morning, but… Mikey knows the frustration isn’t just because of his art block.
“...It’s just… weird,” he eventually confides after a hefty pause. “I’m not used to this whole “staying on the move” thing.” He crosses his arms, tapping his right fingers against his forearm. “...I kinda miss the lair, y’know?” Splinter nods solemnly in response.
“I get it. Everyone lost something during the attack—”
A distant crash can be heard. Then a bang. It’s not loud enough to be disruptive of his brothers’ sleep, but loud enough to get both Splinter and Mikey to pause and glance out the window. The Krang must be miles away—but it’s likely they’d start moving soon regardless.
His father turns back to him, and rests a small pink hand on top of his own. It’s cold.
“...But I understand how you feel. This whole Krang invasion is a hardship, yes, but,” he looks past Mikey and to the window for just a moment, gaze eventually focusing back on his youngest.
“We will get through it, Michelangelo. As long as there is Hamato, there is hope.”
–
Nothing was the same after Dad died.
They had gotten suddenly ambushed by the Krang—the rest of them barely made it out alive. If Splinter hadn’t sacrificed himself for them, it would’ve been game over for their entire bloodline. Mikey supposes he should be grateful.
Something inside of him isn’t. Something inside of him is resentful that his father chose to sacrifice himself. It’s an ugly feeling. He tries not to think too hard about it. His eyes are already red enough from crying.
Raph has been trying to keep the group together, but Mikey knows that he’s likely having an equally-if-not-more difficult time managing himself. Leo’s been picking fights with the poor guy—Mikey’s tired of hearing the two of them argue. They’ve gotten along worse as of recently due to Leo’s lack of proper leadership skills. Once they found a suitable base, Donnie’s made a lab and that’s the last Mikey has seen from him. He hasn’t left in days—going in would only raise the tension and disturb him further.
Being the optimist of the team is difficult when everyone’s on edge. At the very least, April and Draxum found them after what happened to Splinter. They had their own excursion to worry about—Mikey still isn’t entirely sure of the details, but it had something to do with April’s parents. All he knew was that Draxum said when he and April finally arrived at the lair, it had already been destroyed.
Their new base—the basement of an abandoned homeless shelter they had found—had since been modified with food reinforcements and training equipment. There was already bedding due to the nature of the building, so they were set for a short while. Ever since Draxum had found out their father perished, however, he’s begun to push the five of them to be the best in combat that they can possibly be.
…Mikey knows that emotions aren’t Barry’s strong suit. He’s known that. He’s the Great Baron Draxum, after all, a powerful yokai warrior scientist and still a technical war-criminal. But with all the training the alchemist has put him through has left him tired. Mikey’s muscles are sore, and he’s not sure if he can go through another round of training tonight.
But most importantly, he’s not sure what to put on this final page. A blank page has so many possibilities!
He’s been saving the last page of his torn and tattered sketchbook for something special. Art block is bad enough, but art block in the middle of an apocalypse is infinitely worse. Not to mention, he only has five pencils remaining ever since his yellow one had broken. It’s not like they have any pencil sharpeners immediately available, so it’s game over for yellow. What should he even try to draw? Should he draw his family? He’d have to map out space for himself, Leo, Donnie, Raph, April, Draxum, and…
…maybe he should try abstract again. But he just KNOWS that it won’t turn out the way he wants it to, and… he might just give up. He can figure out what to draw at a different time.
Mikey readjusts his sitting position on the bottom bunk of one of the crappy bunk beds, and slowly begins to put the colored pencils back in their respective order—minus yellow, of course. It feels weird leaving a gap in the middle, but he had opted not to keep the broken pencil in with the fine ones. Looking at them all lined up like that, leaves him noticing that the orange pencil is a bit worn down. It’s a sad sight to see. Hopefully he can get a bit more use out of it before it’s practically unusable.
Right as he gets up, the tap of familiar hooves can be heard approaching the relatively small room. Draxum ducks his head to get in the room due to his height—if it had happened months prior, perhaps Mikey would’ve thought it funny.
All he manages is a nod to acknowledge the other who’s essentially his second father at this point. He is to Mikey, at the very least. He doubts his brothers feel the same, no matter how much he attempts to convince them.
“I don’t suppose I’ve interrupted your arts and crafts, then,” the Great Baron Draxum muses, arms crossed as he nods his head toward the supplies resting on Mikey’s bed.
“Oh—nah, I was just gonna get up… and maybe get a snack.” This statement earns a scoff and a flick of the ear from Draxum. “You say that as if our supplies aren’t limited,” he starts, and seemingly ends it there before tacking on, “...but I suppose if you’re hungry, I cannot stop you.”
“Great! I’ll make it quick then, Drax—is Leo done with his training already…?” The easiest way to implement a system was supposedly to have their training schedule go by age in descending order. April first, then Raph, Donnie, Leo, and then himself. Leo has definitely complained about training with Draxum in the past, but everyone is a bit on edge. Too much complaining always ends in a fight, and no one WANTS to fight with each other. Especially not now.
Draxum shifts uncomfortably where he stands, not quite moving away from the door yet.
“That’s,” he begins incredibly slowly, seemingly unsure as to what to say. “Not necessarily why I entered your room in the first place.”
He’s not here to inform Mikey that it’s time to train his abilities to be the best they can be? That’s been what he’s majorly focused on ever since the apocalypse has started—surely he’s not here to ask about the weather. Usually Doctor Feelings is able to analyze people fairly well, but he’s got nothing on Barry this time.
The box turtle peers up at his tseudo-father figure from their more than two foot height difference, and Draxum eventually drops both of his arms at his sides.
“Ugh, I was hoping you would put two and two together…” He mutters under clenched teeth, gaze eventually making its way back down to Michelangelo.
“......What I’m trying to say is—I’m well aware that the rest of your family isn’t exactly keen on my presence. And I know that I’ll never be your old man, but…” Draxum looks as if he’d just been stabbed in the chest with the way he forces his next sentence out. “...I came to the ultimate conclusion that… warriors won’t be as effective if they’re emotionally burdened. And the first… ‘warrior’ that I would relieve of said barrier would be you, seeing as I… doubt your brothers would appreciate that anytime soon…”
Mikey blinks up once, twice—as if that will somehow ensure that he heard Draxum correctly. Is he… trying to have a heart-to-heart with him? Oh, how he's grown. The orange one almost feels a sense of pride seeing Draxum come to him unprompted… It's a nice positive change in a whole world of hurt.
At the lack of Michael's immediate response, Draxum's eye twitches and he moves as if he intends to leave the room.
"...Nevermind—"
"No, no!" Mikey insists, raising his hands in a feeble attempt to stop the Baron from leaving the room. "You can stay! I was just… super surprised that you asked that," he verbalizes, glancing back up at his second father before slowly backing up and plopping down on his bottom bunk bed. Months prior, he would've fought with Leo about who got the top one. After all, the top bunk IS always the best. No one felt like starting any disputes when they settled into their new "home".
When the sheep yokai wordlessly pivots his body to face Mikey once more, the orange box shell takes that as a sign to… start talking, he supposes. Start talking? He’s not even… really sure what to talk about. Sure, he’s always been relatively aware of his emotions to some degree, but ever since the whole Krang invasion had happened, everything got all jumbled. Nothing really FEELS right anymore—his dynamic with his brothers, training, and even the stupid goddamn drawing he can’t figure out how to get out onto the page. The sudden and constant serious tone has him feeling as if his creative mojo is slowly but surely ebbing away… Mikey had thought that he did a pretty okay job of keeping the spirits up, despite it all—but clearly not, if DRAXUM of all people is checking up on him.
…He appreciates the sentiment, though.
“I just—I dunno, Drax. It’s hard to explain,” he vents after a moment’s contemplation, holding his head in his hands.
“I figured as much,” he retorts, although there’s no venom behind the statement whatsoever.
“.........I… want things to go back to normal.” Michelangelo eventually decides on. It’s not quite a general statement, but it encompasses most of what he feels. A sardonic chuckle escapes his lips before he can catch it. “I can’t even remember the last time we’ve all eaten pizza together, man! And… and I really miss Dad.” The youngest turtle continues—despite the countless tears shed over this, he can already feel his vision blurring. The voice crack at the mention of his father doesn’t necessarily help his case—Mikey thought he was done with this! Is he really beginning to blubber like a tiny turtle by just bringing him up?
He’s not even sure how Draxum reacts due to the tears blurring his vision, but he doubts that it’s anything good. The room is silent as Mikey attempts to reign himself in—sure, Draxum asked if he was doing okay, but he doubts he really wanted to sit here and watch him cry, for shell’s sake!
The suffocating silence is then broken by the sound of supplies being pushed over on the surface of the bed, followed by something hitting the hard surface of the bottom of the top bunk, a growl, and then a weight beside him. Mikey runs his palm across his face, and glances over to his left. Draxum looks so cramped, trying to fit within the confines of the bed and the bottom of the top bunk. It’s almost comical, but things lose their comedic value for a while after your dad dies.
“I’m not going to tell you that everything is going to be okay.” Draxum prefaces him with. Mikey wouldn’t expect him to. “Your father isn’t just going to rise from the dead. No, he’s been a cadaver for much too long. If that were to happen, it would’ve—”
“I got the point,” Mikey immediately cuts him off. He doesn’t want to hear the yokai go on about that particular detail any more than he has to.
“...Right. What I’m… trying to say, is that… it will not happen again.” The Baron states as if it’s a fact. He sounds so sure of himself—even amongst their current situation. A sigh follows soon after. “You’ve unfortunately burdened me with the curse of caring about your family, which is partially why I’ve taken the necessary precaution to prepare you ahead of time. As long as you keep up with your training, this will not happen again.”
Something about that… oddly resonates with Michael. Draxum’s sense of pride in what he does gives him the feeling that he knows just what he’s talking about. Maybe… maybe he has a point. The training is exhausting, but it makes a bit more sense to him now. He sniffles, and looks up at his second father. There’s a heavy pause before Mikey lunges forward to hug Draxum tightly. It never fails to catch the war-criminal off guard, and Mike can’t even blame him for it—but he’s always been clingy to a certain degree. Draxum simply lingers there, before putting an entirely uncertain palm on the other’s head reassuringly.
“Thanks,” he says, desperately clinging onto the hold of his next-closest parent-aged-adult.
“...Hm.” Draxum hums in response, clearly not used to the whole parent thing. They linger there for a brief moment.
Maybe Draxum is right. It's been hard to retain his position as the optimistic one in the group recently, but... As long as the four of them and April have proper training on how to defend themselves against the Krang, they might actually have a winning chance. After all, what could go wrong with the warring warrior scientist on their side?
–
It happened again.
Thrice, actually.
It hurt just as much each time his family got picked off one by one, but Mikey found himself unable to cry more frequently as the time passed. (He’d learned how to properly channel his grief into mystic energy long past when Draxum died.)
After his father, Raph was next in line. It happened years ago, and the memories are a bit fuzzy, but Mikey remembers bits and pieces clearly. Donnie had slapped Leo. Mikey had snapped. He’d practically begged the Baron to teach him how to properly utilize his mystic powers after that—he’d never really understood how they worked until it was taught to him.
“Mystic powers are guided by those with strong emotions,” Draxum had explained years ago. “It requires much of your energy to use effectively. Using your mystic abilities too much within a specific time-span could very well end in your demise.”
That last part had ended up mattering less and less as time went on, he inevitably ended up realizing. Mikey was easily recognizable as one of the Resistance’s strongest mystic warriors when his powers were used in such a way—hell—he’s created several gateways for them to escape close calls, and channeled all of his rage and frustration and fear and happiness into his attacks to make them as powerful as possible. Sure, it’s gotten bad enough to leave him winded for the next week—a vulnerability that he’s sure has Draxum shouting down at him from the heavens—but whatever it does to keep his family safe. (What’s left of it, that is.)
Speaking of the devil, he’d recently argued with Leo about whether or not he should be allowed to follow through with the next scouting mission—an argument he’d only lost due to the presence of Casey Jr. midway through, bless his little heart. What an absolute deviant his older brother was, getting the 9 year old to be his accomplice and insist he should stay in his room due to his exhaustion of mystic energy. He had no choice but to comply—as much as Leo can be a stubborn asshole at times, he’d rather not dig into his brother when the kid’s present.
…So here he is. Confined to his makeshift underground base and destined to rot until he gets angry enough to fight again. It’s quite a vicious cycle to consider if he dwells on it too long, so he ultimately decides it would be for the best if he focuses his attention on something else. The mystic warrior’s eyes drift to the right wall of his little bunker hellhole—he’d created a small mural on it when they’d first arrived at their 6th base—this base—with a couple of spray paint cans Leo had scrounged together and given to him for his birthday a few years back.
He hadn’t really ever… had time for art ever since Dee passed—with a newfound idea, Mikey pushes himself off of his stiff cot and plants a knee on the ground so he can look under the poor excuse of a bed. Sure enough, he’d kept his ratty old sketchbook from years ago. He’d kept the final page blank, unsure what would be the perfect concept to sketch out. The possibilities were limitless—terrifying. Yet, it’s weirdly enough one of his only reminders of how things used to be—when everyone was still back together. When the streets of New York were semi-recognizable.
…….That’s it! That’s it—oh shell, that was the inspiration he’d been looking for. The sudden idea nearly has him up and floating out the door, until he realizes that floating is a luxury he can’t quite afford at the moment. Maybe… Leo and Casey had a point. He’s exhausted—there’s pencils in Donnie’s old lab, but Mikey thinks he’d rather just drop dead than go in there. He hasn’t gone since… OH, he nearly forgot. Pencils, right.
…There’s always the pencils he’d gotten with it. The box shell had rested the pencil box inside the sketchbook so they stay together, but he hasn’t a damn clue as to how it’s not in pieces by now. The mystic warrior sets himself on the cold dirt floor, flipping past several pages of layered scribbles to get to the untouched blank page. All of the pencils are near-unusable. The yellow one was still broken, he’d since lost the green one when they were fleeing from one of their bases, and purple and red were in horrible condition due to Mikey’s… “vent art” era. (The sketchbook took the brunt of his frustration before he found out how to vent properly. Not his proudest moment.)
…So that leaves him with blue and orange, then. The blue pencil had somehow gotten snapped in half, the butt of it’s still left in splinters. Mikey couldn’t figure out how it happened if he tried—but it’s fine. This is fine. He’ll make do with the broken blue and the worn-down orange.
For what seems like the first time in years, Michelangelo finally feels inspired to draw something. Bold strokes meet decade-old paper, and a drawing is finally formed.
After years of longing for it, he’s recreated a fairly accurate sketch of a corner of New York City. Sure, it’s just a portion of it highlighted in shitty pencil, but it’s undoubtedly home. Down to the rats in the alleyway right next to Lou Mike Tony’s.
…It makes him long for the way things used to be. How things were before Dad died—hell, even before their lair got destroyed. Before the Krang showed up. Before all of them lost the ability to be kids anymore. What he wouldn’t give to eat pizza again—
—but Michelangelo cuts himself off before he can possibly spiral into a bad mentality again. Does it stop him from feeling like shit? Absolutely not—but he’ll be able to channel this frustration into mystic energy again, at the very least. He’ll be able to levitate, and eventually feel well enough to aid in combat again.
For now, however, he continues to gaze at his rendition of how life in the city was before shit hit the fan. A fatigued sigh escapes his lips.
…Maybe if he stays here just a bit longer, he won't have to watch it go a second time.
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