Chapter Text
Watching the laboratory crumble in front of his eyes, Draxum sat upright, head pounding.
“No, my ooze!” He reached out, trying to make sense of the situation, before being sent flying backwards by the falling debris. In the midst of everything, he heard a commotion from the other side, as well as a horse whinnying and running about. Crashes and explosions rang inside his ears and head, and he grimaced, preparing for the migraine that was sure to come.
The sound of gates squeaking open rang around him and he distractedly looked around, seeing all his other experiments stampede out of their confinements. He caught a glimpse at the corner of his eye of Lou Jitsu, contorted and nearly falling over, but carrying several small forms in his arms. Green smoke clogged Draxum’s vision, but that didn’t stop him from reaching out, yelling at him, anger choking out every other emotion in his heart at seeing him carry away the prized possessions he had worked so hard at cultivating.
Blue explosions erupted around them, sending a cascade of brick and wall crumbling to shield Lou Jitsu as he inevitably made his getaway. Draxum cursed himself, cursed his useless, crumbling laboratory, cursed the whole fucking world. Dizzy with exhaustion and pain, he made his way across the decaying debris, working his way towards the exit.
Out of nowhere, throughout the chaos and crashing as his goyle servants flew amuck, a tiny squeak rang through the lair. Draxum paused. He hadn’t expected to hear such a frail, helpless sound. And yet, such a tiny sound had been so strong and heard throughout the deafening sounds of his laboratory coming apart. It was something he must investigate.
Ignoring the urges of his servants to follow them to safety, he dove and dodged the falling rocks and machinery as he tried to navigate the source of the sound, his ears pricked for detection of the slightest noise. Another cry was heard, and he finally tracked it to a cluster of steel shedding and chunks of drywall. He shoved the rest aside, only wanting to find what in the world was making that noise.
His heart dropped.
Then shot to the high heavens.
Hidden behind a slab of rock, was a baby turtle.
The outside world seemed to fade away. Draxum held up the little thing - it was truly so tiny. Had he really kept the sizes in mind? It let out a yelp at being brought up so suddenly, quickly retracting into its tiny shell.
Irritation swamped Draxum. His entire lab fell apart and he was tired and annoyed. Why was this creation so jumpy? What did he have to fear? He was going to be a great warrior. He didn’t need useless emotions like fear and hesitation.
Was this a mistake?
Were these creatures - scratch that, this sole creature - the right specimen for something like this? Should he just scrap the project as a whole?
The little thing was shaking inside the palm of his hand. Draxum tilted it to the side, trying to view it from different angles. In his head, there were two options - take this thing with him, or leave it here.
The tiny turtle’s head popped out of its shell, its little eyes blearily looking at Draxum - terrified.
But perceptive.
Despite the fear this turtle felt, it still braved the destruction and wanted to understand who exactly was holding him. And why.
Curiosity was a fire that was begging to be flamed. Something shifted in Draxum’s heart, holding this tiny creature, so small he could fit with only three fingers holding him.
He knew he couldn’t leave him here.
. . .
Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, crevice to crevice, Michelangelo’s feet barely touched the surface as he leaped into the night air. He felt he was flying more than walking, and god, he loved every second of it. He wished he could touch the night stars, hold their twinkling presence in his very own hands.
He pushed these thoughts to the side. There would be time for daydreaming later. He landed quietly in the alleyway leading to the Hidden City. Taking out his medallion - gifted lovingly to him by Muninn on his tenth birthday - he gracefully traced the entrance to the Hidden City on the brick wall. The portal rumbled open, and he jumped eagerly inside.
He nervously traced his leather sash with his finger as he ran down the aisles, his route to his home ingrained in his memory to the point where he just let his feet carry him as his mind wandered.
He hadn’t been able to nab anything from the human world this time around. Usually he was able to snatch a knick-knack here and there, but this time around he couldn’t find anything. His annoyance threatened to overtake his good mood at being able to get out of the house, so drab with its iron-clad structure and rain gray walls. It was nice to see the brights of New York for a change, even if it was under the moonlight.
He leapt over the armed fence, knowing full well his father had it at full powered protection during the nighttime. He crept up the side of the wall and lowered himself into the window leading into the center room, grateful for the bustling outside keeping his footsteps hidden.
He leapt quietly into the room. Barely withholding a giggle at a job very well done , if he should say so himself-
“ Michelangelo .”
The stern voice shocked him out of his joyful mood. He let out a yelp of surprise, barely withholding from retracting into his shell. He glanced at his father, clad in his dark purple bathrobe along with the bunny slippers Michelangelo had gifted him. And his father did not look amused.
He crossed his arms, tapping his finger, waiting for his son to speak up.
Michelangelo cleared his throat, rocking on the back of his heels. “A hem , erm, Papa-”
“ What , pray tell, were you doing out at such an hour?” Every word was enunciated with clarity, with a tone that meant no funny business. Michelangelo’s stomach turned. He knew that tone. It meant an hour-long lecture and usually being grounded for a period that was way too long for Michelangelo’s antsy legs.
“I waaaaas…” Michelangelo drawled out, playing with the fraying ends of his sash. “Trying tooooo… find a needleworker! Yes! A threader, a craftsmen, a… seamstress or seamster or seam… erm, person, to fix my sash, because, you see-”
Draxum raised an eyebrow.
“-I wanted tooooo add some cute! Little! Buttons!” Michelangelo stuck a pose at the end of it, hands clasped and nestled against his cheek, looking at his father with the largest, most adorable puppy dog eyes he could muster.
Draxum stared at him for a long moment, to the point where Michelangelo was considering adding some eyelash-fluttering to throw him off his scent, before his father sighed and massaged his temples. Michelangelo barely refrained from letting out a whoop of delight followed by a fist pump to the air. Another victory by yoooours truly!
“And was it really so urgent you had to wake me up with your thumping and bouncing?” Draxum snapped, irritable, though Michelangelo knew it was only because he had interrupted his sleeping, something his father almost never seemed to do. Guilt weighed down on him as he thought this over, dampening the joy of his victory by a tad.
“I… I’m sorry, Papa,” Michelangelo responded, and he really meant it, too. Usually his father was up late at night, crafting and working and building in his laboratory underground. When Michelangelo felt too worked up to go to bed and needed some fresh air, he could always count on his father being too preoccupied with his job to notice during the nighttime. But it appears tonight was a once in a lifetime Draxum needs his beauty sleep night, go figure.
Draxum sighed, and leaned against the wall, his expression shifting from his previously annoyed one. “I do not have any anger towards you, Michelangelo. I simply wanted to rest for a brief period tonight, and you woke me up sooner than planned. That is all,” he said matter-of-factly.
Michelangelo nodded, though that didn’t stop him from regretting doing this in the first place. Maybe I should stop these nightly outings, if only so Papa could get some rest…
Draxum was still going on. “Perhaps, if I have time once I’m finished with my analog research, we can see if there’s a subordinate in the city’s shop spreads that is worthy of adjusting and designing your sash.”
Michelangelo perked up at that, feeling both immense gratitude at the fact his father was listening to his interests (even if they were apart of a lie he just made up) and eager to spend some rare quality time with his father that wasn’t him tagging along inside the laboratory, listening to him rant about things he didn’t understand nor really care about. “Really?”
Draxum nodded his assent, allowing a tiny… something that almost looked like a smile to cross his face when Michelangelo let out a whoop of delight for real this time, jumping up and down in excitement.
“Alright, alright. You’ll wake Huginn and Muninn with all that racket, and believe me, they are the last beings I need to annoy me right now,” Draxum said, cracking his back. He sighed, turning around and walking down the long hall.
“You may join me for a quick nutritional break if you wish, Michelangelo,” he threw over his shoulder. Michelangelo nodded, taking off after his father and eager to sink his teeth into something good.
. . .
Dinner was delicious as always. The skeleton cat servant bowed to Michelangelo as he placed his first dish in front of him. Michelangelo eagerly petted the servant’s head, much to Draxum’s annoyance, who groaned outwardly at the show of affection.
Digging into the lemon ricotta pasta, Michelangelo listened as his father droned on and on about cell function and DNA testing he was doing on his current experiments. A bunch of science mumbo jumbo Michelangelo didn’t understand. In fact, he wasn’t sure why Draxum was so insistent on talking about things he didn’t get. Maybe he hoped his son would take after him in the science aspect.
No chance of that, Pop, sorry... Still though , he thought to himself, glancing as his father carefully sliced his omelet, it’s sweet of him to try bonding with me over… something .
It wasn’t that Michelangelo didn’t ever attempt trying to see things his dad’s way. He tried, and tried, and tried … but he just couldn’t get it. He couldn’t help but worry about being a disappointment, but that’s just the thing. Science and all that stuff just didn’t stick with Michelangelo.
He was more of an art’s man. He loved to paint and create, and Draxum had furthered this passion by ensuring Michelangelo had only the most optimal paint sets and art supplies. In return, Michelangelo threw himself into his training as it was something he agreed he was adept at that would help his father out whenever he needed it, which he sometimes did.
“And what of you, Michelangelo?”
“Mffph?” Michelangelo spluttered through his mouth full of food. Draxum narrowed his eyes.
“Chew before you swallow. We’ve previously discussed this issue of yours.”
Michelangelo nodded vigorously, swallowing and letting out a contented sigh at the finishes of his dinner. Wiping his mouth, he responded, “Sorry, Papa, what were you saying?”
“I had asked you how your training is coming along. The program results show me you are doing an excellent job with the third phase of your learning.”
Michelangelo nodded. “It’s been okay so far, I guess. There’s not much I have a hard time with.”
Draxum held a glass of water to his lips, swallowing carefully. “You’ve understood the larynx compression module with efficiency?”
“Yup!” Michelangelo chirped in response. He reached for his cup of green tea - he always asked for orange juice or that Cherry Coke stuff they show on TV, but Draxum always insisted on him drinking green tea during meals - and swallowed a boiling mouthful. He gagged mid-response, coughing and spluttering, over exaggeratedly clutching his throat.
Draxum rolled his eyes at his son’s over-the-top behavior, silently pushing the tiny silver bowl of German chocolate ice cream towards Michelangelo, a common remedy for him during situations like this - which, Draxum had learned the hard way, were very common with his airheaded son.
Michelangelo gratefully swallowed several spoonfuls before sighing of relief. “As I was saying before I was brutally attacked -”
“You were not.”
“-training is going great. No problemos there, Papa-la.”
Draxum grimaced at the nickname his child had coined from Father of the Bride , one of Michelangelo’s favorite movies. “You’ve come to understand the science and precision behind strangulation with the utmost effectiveness?”
“Yessir!”
“What is the best procedure for beginning such a process?” Draxum questioned. Michelangelo inwardly groaned. He hated these pop quizzes.
“Whisk any potential weapon away, knock ‘em off their feet, restrain ‘em, then, uh…” Michelangelo ticked each step off his finger, then caught his father’s eye, embarrassment sending fire to his cheeks. Right. He likes when I use those scientific words.
“Then…?”
“T-Then, I, er, apply pressure to the, uh… c-cara… carrot arter-”
“Carotid.”
“-Right, the carotid arteries. They’ll become unconscious in about ten seconds. Continued pressure will cause death.”
“Excellent work!” His father boomed, thumping Michelangelo on the back. Michelangelo coughed at the sudden pressure, but basked in his father’s praise.
“You seem to have retained enough knowledge. You not knowing the name of the specific body part isn’t as much of a concern to me,” he added, possibly upon seeing Michelangelo’s perplexed look. “You still knew where they were and how to apply the pressure and for how long. A clean and concise job. Good work, Michelangelo.”
Michelangelo leaped from his seat, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. His father let out a strangled gasp. Michelangelo nuzzled his head into Draxum’s neck. “Thank you, Papa!”
Draxum shifted uncomfortably at the sudden affection, settling for patting Michelangelo’s back awkwardly. “It’s time for me to take my leave, Michelangelo. I’ve got my latest target to track.”
Michelangelo released his father, looking at him curiously. “Latest target? Like that Bullhop guy?”
“What, him?” Draxum waved that off. “Simply a result of my ooze being let into the wrong hands. That suboptimal lifeform has nothing to do with me. No,” he continued, getting up from the table, “I find my focus in a much more… interesting subset of the human world.”
Wait.
Pause.
The human world ?
Michelangelo let out a squeal, following his father’s footsteps. Draxum spared him a glance, a cringed expression forming on his face as he realized his son wasn’t going to let him be.
“The human world ? Papa, are you serious?! I would- I… I would be… Can I-? Can-? Papa,” Michelangelo finally said, grasping his father’s hand. “May I complete this mission?”
Draxum stared at him for a few moments, before letting out a bark of laughter. “What? You ?”
Michelangelo’s face fell. Draxum was too busy laughing heartily to notice his response, clutching his stomach. Upon not hearing Michelangelo protest, no, father, i was just joking, haha , wasn’t i so funny , he straightened up, a serious look on his face now. Not looking at his son, he continued, “I will not allow it.”
“But-!”
“What I have tracked down,” Draxum continued, as if Michelangelo had never spoken, “is a very special, very important, very integral part of my vision. One I’ve had since before you were born and brought under my care. Not to mention, I’ve seen how you are about the… human world.”
Michelangelo froze, his stomach feeling as if it were dropping a hundred stories.
“You find excitement and wonder in it. You wish to explore and shove your… face and… fingers everywhere . Such curiosity and excitement cannot be displayed in this situation. Too much is riding on this.”
“It-”
“It’s far too important , Michelangelo, and that is final,” Draxum finished, his voice having risen in volume, signifying an end to the conversation. He spared Michelangelo a glance, and upon seeing the crushed look on his son’s face, he sighed, kneeling down. Despite Michelangelo being thirteen now, his father was still much, much taller than him.
“Michelangelo.”
“Mm?” Michelangelo mumbled, not meeting his father’s eyes. Tears threatened to slide out.
Draxum visibly seemed to hold back a grimace and brought his hand to Michelangelo’s head, resting it gently in what Michelangelo had assumed, from the parenting books he’d seen Draxum reading from when he scavenged them from the human world, was in a paternal manner. Michelangelo sank into this show of affection, leaning in. Longing crept into his heart. He always craved moments like this.
Draxum was speaking again, and Michelangelo tried to tune in this time and not get lost in the warmth of his father’s hand. “My dearest creation,” he started, and oh , Michelangelo’s heart melted at the term of endearment, “This decision is what’s best for us both. You still have much training before you’re ready for bigger missions. The time will come when it is you I need by my side, and you only. But you have much to learn, and much to relearn and unlearn, too.”
“Really?” Michelangelo responded, voice barely above a murmur.
“With certainty. There will always be a time for such things. But now is not such a time. This is far too important, and you’re still too young,” Draxum responded, and by god, did that sting . Swallowing back a snippy comment about how he was not too young, hell, he went out almost every night and came back just fine , thank you very much , he settled for an angry pout at his father as he stood up, deeming the conversation over.
“I need this to work. And I will not stop until I do. You are to go to your quarters and freshen up, then continue training.”
“But, Papa-”
“I will reconvene with you later in the day,” Draxum stated, and off he went, to his lab, which was clearly the most important here. Michelangelo contemplated running after him, then decided it wasn’t worth it in the end. He’ll probably just end up making his father angry.
He groaned, irritable, swinging around and heading to his room. He would have a fuck ton of angry vent drawings to make after this mess.
. . .
Hand cramping from the artwork and then the immediate training that followed, Michelangelo wrapped some bandages around them and pulled, tightening the muscles and allowing for it to heal properly. He had more of a skip in his step now that he had given himself some time to cool off.
Still, though, there was no way in hell he would let any of this slide. Curiosity itched at him, pulling him closer and closer. He needed to know. Putting his hand in his mouth and sucking on the bandages wrapping it (a nervous habit he picked up), he crept silently towards his father’s laboratory. It was padlocked with a pin, but of course, Michelangelo had learned it years ago.
Inputting his birthday, he unlocked it, suppressing a giggle of delight at a job well done. He slipped quickly through the winding hallways and down the stairs, hiding behind a large steel machine of some kind, as he heard his father tinkering and clinking with vials of liquid.
He overheard his father muttering to himself. “I still can’t believe it… and turtles , no less…”
Michelangelo’s heart stopped. He leaned closer, trying to pick up on what his father was saying. He was going back and forth, pacing as he mixed concoctions together. “And of course, with Lou Jitsu, no less.”
“I still don’t see the problem. I mean, you’ve already got one of them.” That was Muninn.
One of what? Michelangelo’s head spun.
“Yeah, why do you need the others? Is lil’ Mikey not good enough?”
Michelangelo’s stomach clenched at the thought, waiting with bated breath for his father’s response. Each second felt like an hour. Bile stung the back of his throat.
Draxum tsk’d in response, pushing his goyle servants aside. “It’s not a matter of Michelangelo’s skill level. He is quite adept for his age and size.”
It felt like warm air and, perhaps, butterflies, were bubbling up inside Michelangelo’s stomach. So, Papa does think I’m doing a good job! It wasn't as if Draxum withheld praise purposefully… though Michelangelo knew enough, from both cartoons on TV and basic common sense, that Draxum hadn’t jumped into raising him with the intent to be a father.
He struggled in showing affection, but had done his best with what he could. He ordered his servants to scavenge any materials that discussed how to properly raise a developing life form, and stuck by them to the best of his ability. Not much had been discussed about Michelangelo’s creation, just that Draxum held a prime role in bringing him to life, and Michelangelo was now under his care and that was that .
Michelangelo loved Draxum more than anything. He never felt the need for explanation more than that. But from what Muninn and Huginn were saying, there were… other people? Other creations created with Michelangelo? But what could that mean ?
Could Michelangelo have had… siblings ? A cocktail of emotions swirled inside his heart. Excitement at the prospect, worry at how these supposed siblings would react, and, perhaps, a little jealousy at the concept of Draxum’s attention being divided.
But, holy fuck . Siblings… siblings!!
How old were they? Would he be the youngest? Or the eldest? He pictured about five tiny babies blurbing and giggling and spitting up while he held them in his arms, and had to stifle a giggle at the mental picture. I’d be the best big brother ever .
The others, however, were still talking. “I’ve settled for a package to be sent to this location. Big Mama has promised me hush money in the creation of her latest pet project,” Draxum continued.
“The Battle Nexus?”
“Yes, it appears she plans to ask me for advice on creating an optimal fighter for such a thing. It’s still in the works. And with my ooze on the loose…”
“I can only imagine,” Huginn sympathized. “It must be real stressful on you, bossman.”
Michelangelo could practically hear Draxum’s eyeroll from here. He pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle the giggle that threatened to escape.
“Be that as it may-” The doorbell rang clearly. Draxum groaned.
“That must be her!” Huginn and Muninn took off. Draxum huffed.
“Wait, you fools! You mustn’t let anyone see you!”
Hoovesteps pounded closer to Michelangelo. He held back a gasp of surprise, leaping down quickly next to the boiler, ducking into a sheltered section as Draxum’s hooves pounded the stone floor, mumbling and grumbling about ‘useless goyle servants who he should’ve kicked out ages ago’.
Michelangelo waited several moments until he was sure his father had gone. Then, silently, he crept out of his hiding place, towards the cluttered ‘idea desk’ he had given his father the idea to make. Several pieces of paper and folders and notes and sketches covered the large desk, top to bottom.
It almost gave Michelangelo a headache to try and pilfer through this mess. And he knew clutter - he was, after all, an artist.
He pushed through sketches of new machinery, discarded project ideas and scientific observations. Then, he caught a flash of color… crayon ! There were drawings he himself had made, mixed in with the more complex notes on whatever the hell a Coccinellidae was.
Oh, Papa… he thumbed through the drawings, several of them art he had done of him and Draxum. One was them on a picnic, another was them as cartoon characters he associated them with when he watched TV, yet another was them fighting bad guys together. Michelangelo chuckled.
His heart warmed. Papa kept every single one of the drawings I’ve given him. They’re just… lost in his work place. Tears pricked at his eyes, and cascaded down his cheeks. He had never once doubted his father’s love for him, only wishing for it to be shown in ways that made more… sense to him. Lost in thought, his hand brushed a manila envelope, half covered under the artwork and science plans.
He brushed them aside, opening the envelope. Unlike the other paperwork, this one was new, and not coated by a layer of dust or grime. He brushed off flecks of dirt, and, ew, was that blood ? Majorly gross.
He opened it.
Then nearly dropped it.
He slapped a hand to his mouth, unable to stop the strangled squawk that escaped him. His heart pounded hard, as if it would pop out of his chest. His head swam with questions.
What the fuck? How the fuck? When…? How did this happen ?
Who are they?
He screwed his eyes shut and slapped his hands to his cheeks, trying to bring himself back to reality. He picked up the envelope again, his hands shaking so much he could barely hold the papers together. He skimmed over the notes scrawled in botched handwriting, so unlike his father’s focused and elegant scrawl. He forced himself, despite his churning stomach, and currently unfocusing vision, to look, once again at the photograph clipped to the notes inside.
He stared at the photo, the blurry, haphazard, colored photo that seemed to be taken as quickly as possible.
And, in the photo, the three, standing shocked and truly, truly green , turtles stared right back.