Chapter Text
Michelangelo traced his fingers along the fabric. Its time wavered and bent under his hands, reality twisted into its very threads. Time and space was at his fingertips; he could change his entire world if he wanted to. Michelangelo could bend the whole universe to his liking.
But he couldn’t .
Michelangelo couldn’t change everything. He couldn’t save everyone, he couldn’t protect everyone. He had this power to fix anything, and yet,
He.
Could.
Not.
Save them.
Michelangelo couldn’t save the broken world that was unleashed upon them. He couldn’t fix what they had.
And that failure led them here.
The box turtle dug his fingers into the fabric. It wavered and hissed under his hands, refusing to snap. Refusing to give into his pleads.
But then it ripped.
It ripped and tore, the threads twirling around his burning hands, his fingers splintering into flecks of sunlight. His arms, his heart, his face, his soul, all ripping itself apart under the pressure.
Leonardo was talking to their nephew behind him. The last hope of the resistance; Casey Jones Junior. His grin could light up a room, and his laugh could make the mountains shiver under its power.
He’s a lot like his dad.
Michelangelo brushed away the thought. Junior’s father was long gone. But Casey would get to continue. He would keep them going. Casey would survive; he’d carry on where the others faltered.
The warrior let out a cry, ripping the seams in another push of mystic energy. Leonardo instructed Junior of something. Casey tried to respond, but was cut off by Leon’s command.
Michelangelo felt his soul peel away from his body. He was slowly being ripped away from the barren land under his feet. The old turtle turned to his brother and Nephew, trying to take one last look at his remaining family.
Michelangelo grinned. He could be funny even in his demise.
He winked at Junior, the tears in Casey’s dark eyes rolling down his cheek as Michelangelo's body shattered, his consciousness falling, drifting past rocks, past blood, past grime, and past hurt.
Then he was floating.
There was nothing but blackness. Michelangelo looked at his hands, the cracking against his scales smoothing to unblemished, green skin. Micheal twirled, spinning himself to try and find something; some one . Just to be sure he was real. That he still existed .
The box turtle was tired. He was supposed to rest in the afterlife. But there wasn’t anybody to rest with. There was no one to be safe with. Not a single big brother to curl up against, and not a single person to hold.
Michelangelo needed someone. He needed someone to hold him. For someone to be held. He needed someone .
The warrior curled into his plastron, eyes closed and fingers intertwined. He breathed. In, out. In, out. In, out. He exhaled, eyes fluttering open. It was still black.
Michelangelo couldn’t stand this. He couldn’t ever stay here, without color or people. He couldn’t be asked to cope. He couldn’t ever continue in this place.
Micheal took controlled breaths. He outstretched his hands, pulling them to his line of sight. He took another breath in, and during his exhale, energy crackled underneath his knuckles. The golden fire twirled between his digits, flames painlessly licking his scales.
He inhaled. He held the air for a moment, letting it escape through his mouth, the mystic flames growing between outstretched fingers.
He blinked. He sighed. Michelangelo didn’t know what he’d do. He was here; this was the void where his brother’s should have been.
But they weren’t.
Michelangelo twisted the flames into a ball, pulling the fire into itself, a small pocket ripping through the darkness.
Michelangelo didn’t want to stay here. He was never ready for this end. He had denied that this was his death up until the moments he had opened the portal.
But what if. . .
What if this didn’t have to be the end?
The warrior stretched his hand through the burst of color, fingers fizzling as a soft breeze blew on the other side.
What if Michelangelo could continue? He could change anything in the world. Shell, he sent his nephew through time. Micheal was probably the most powerful mystic warrior in the universe. He didn’t have to stay here.
The box turtle inhaled. He felt through his finger tips, power rippling under his scales, and released the breath, letting the flames pool into the tear between the void. It pulsed and grew, the pocket opening into a ring of fire; on the other side, it showed the most magical thing he could ever think of.
The lost nights of New york.
Michelangelo felt something pound in his heart. They were familiar. They pulsed, recognition in his chest. The energy had always been with him until it had been lost. Micheal spun around, his eyes searching the abyss.
His gaze landed on a soft blue flame. A wave of purple flicked into his vision behind the fire. Then a shield of red pixels showed itself.
He couldn’t leave them. The warrior flicked his wrist, hand grabbing a mystic chain, throwing it towards the energy.
The energies were locked in his golden glow. He tugged his brother’s towards him, sending them sailing to Micheal and the flaming gateway The portal crackled with life behind him, the muffled honks and ambiance of newyork making itself known. The energy soared towards the box turtle faster than he would’ve liked.
The chained ball of mystic slammed into his plastron, he grasped it in his hands and spun through the flaming portal.
Michelangelo hit something hard . His carapace cracking like lightning against the cool ground below him, probably sending spiderwebs through the concrete.
His fingers burned . His head drummed, his lungs felt like they were being stabbed by needles, and his entire body sparkled in pain.
This was horrible.
Michelangelo tried to push himself from the ground, fingers protesting his movements. His shoulder hitched, and the box turtle fell to his plastron.
Micheal glanced at his surroundings, vision blurred. The graffiti, trash, and oddly damp ground complimented the alley; it made it feel like home.
Michelangelo’s gaze fell to the dumpster, metal handle in arms reach. His grip on the ball of energy tightened as he wrapped his hand around the green spray paint, letting his aching arm pull him to aching feet.
Micheal looked at the people walking down the sidewalk. Few bat an eye, the ones who did wore clothes that did not fit the common New york style. A small tear rolled down his cheek, smile splitting across his face. The mystic turtle laughed, saltwater dripping down his chin as his chest rumbled.
“We made it.” Michelangelo breathed. He looked towards the night sky, smog clinging to the clouds and covering the stars.
He pulled his hand from his plastron, the ball of energy he was clutching slowly fizzling into smoke. He reached for the glowing particles, color slowly fading to the background. The mystic warrior pulled his gaze from the dust, watching his blue brother dash past the alley. His legs faltered. Micheal fell. He tried to call Leonardo, but nothing more than a squeak escaped his throat.
Michelangelo was in no shape to search. He couldn’t even move. The old turtle groaned. He pressed his forehead to the concrete, still damp from a recent storm, and took in a breath.
He’d just take a quick nap.
Yeah, he would just sleep for a moment.
Everything would be alright tomorrow.