Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The invasion opened Donnie’s mind to so many concepts; aliens, living technology, parallel timelines, and alternate worlds. It was fascinating, brilliant, and terrifying, and Donnie couldn’t stop his mind from bringing up the worst type of scenarios. There were only three Krang, one died and two are locked away. They didn’t lock both of them, the sister Krang was taken by the government- the same government that would take them too even if they saved the world. The same government that wouldn’t know what to do if or when she escaped.

So Donnie worked.

He worked on more escape pods; backups for backups and stronger restraints to make sure the intended person is taken back home. A stronger battle shell, and upgrades on weapons for April and both Caseys. He created X-ray machines, a new body for Sheldon, and stole more medical supplies than he knows what to do with. He’s working on cloaking broaches and a way to open portals to other worlds, so when if the Krang sister escapes they can trap her again.

He sat at his desk, blowtorch in hand as he welded some metal together. His welding mask shielded his eyes from wayward sparks, as he stared into the bright light. Once satisfied with the welding, he turned off the torch and flipped his mask up, his eyes adjusting to the difference in lighting. Donnie stifles a sigh, as he rubs his eyes in exhaustion. He knows he shouldn't be welding this late at night, especially since he hasn’t gotten a full night's sleep in the past few days.

He shucks the welding mask off, hanging it on its designated hook above his desk by his purple bandana. He rolls back his chair, gliding the short distance to his secondary desk, holding a collection of cloaking broaches and a cup of coffee. The liquid is cold and bitter to him, but he needs all the energy he can get so he powers through it. His eyes flicker to one of the many broaches on the counter, each assigned a specific color and bio-coded to specific family members. His fingers hovered over his own, a deep royal purple with just hints of gold, and he traces the small engraving, his family’s symbol, the sign of an Hamato. It was still in beta, but Donnie is still unsatisfied- even though he knows logically they wouldn’t be the best at this stage.

He takes it off the charger and stares at it for a good few seconds, turning it over and absorbing the details. Metal claws extrude from his battle shell, and Donnie allows the mechanical limbs to take the device to its storage. It pats him on the head, and shoves the cup closer to him, asking him, urging him to take another sip, to get through the night and work for however long it takes him to finish the portal. He’s almost done, he’s so close and his leathery shell feels like it's pulsating under the battle shell. The metal claws raise the cup, and he grips it tight with shaky hands.

The technodrome allowed him to become the technology, and it seemed that he never really disconnected. His subconscious seems to drive his battle shell now, reacting faster than ever before, giving him what he needs before he even realizes it. It’s beautiful, it's terrifying, his skin pulses and the metal squeezes, he can never forget the sensation of piloting that ship.

Donnie rubs his eyes again, taking another sip of coffee. His eyes drift to the other table, to the welded metal and many wires. He staggers to his feet, walking closer to his creation. He’s almost done, and after he could take a nap.

So he goes back into it. Time ticks by, Donnie counting the minutes mentally as he continues. Music plays softly from his shell, the synthetic beat making him sway his hips subconsciously as he continues to work. He holds screws in his snout as he drills into the bottom of the machine. He finishes soon after that and steps back to admire his work. The portal was sleek in design, with a hand-activated switch and panels, decorated with his signature purple accents and silver metal. He’s tired, physically and mentally, but he needs to test the doorway. Not to the prison dimension, gods no, but to a familiar one, a world like he and his brothers inhabit.

Donnie begins typing into the panel, to a dimension that isn’t that far from this one. Dimension N-2k23-Alpha, a world practically on top of this one. The portal sparks and opens with a loud hum and glowing gold. The opening rippling and shifts as he stares in awe at his machine, before finally stabilizing and allowing Donnie to see the new universe. It wasn’t much, a New York alley that Donnie could see just by going topside. But he can see the mouth of the alley, to a billboard advertising a show called Krazy Kitchen, with a pre-mutated Rupert Swagger posing while scowling at the viewer.

A giggle escapes him, and Donnie steps closer as he observes the new world. A new world! Donnie really is a genius, he cracked dimension travel faster than expected! He reaches out to touch the opening, closer and closer, as if touching it would confirm that he’s done it. His hand goes through easily enough, placing a hand on the other side. He takes a random rock that he brushes against his hand back, holding the cool material in his hand in astonishment.

“Oh mi gosh,” He breathes, smiling wide as he turns the rock over. “They’re never going to believe this.”

He places the rock on the table, focusing on the opened portal. Three weeks of research and hard work have paid off astoundingly! His battleshell takes out his phone and the metal claws start recording instantly. He’s smiling wide, and with the bags under his eyes, Donnie is sure he looks like a madman.

“Guess who had a total of twelve hours of sleep in six days and just unlocked DIMENSION TRAVEL!” The camera pans from him to the open doorway. “I’m just recording this because I, Donatello, have just opened this portal for the first time tonight at,” the phone turns as he looks at the time before he addresses the camera again. “3:09 am? Jeez, I thought it was earlier.”

He pauses and turns the camera back to himself. “I have not been keeping track of the time correctly. Anyway!” He steps over to the desk and shows off his new rock. “I took this from Dimension N-2k23-Alpha, a world that borders our own,” He sets the camera down on the table and drags his chair to the front of the camera.

“Our universes don’t actually touch, instead they hover around each other. It’s like when you blow bubbles and a smaller one touches the larger one and just glides around it. In that small minuscule space between the bubbles, we have the prison dimension. The whole reason I made this machine,” He shifts in his seat, eyes subconsciously flickering back to the machine. He can hear humming, and it feels like his whole body is electrified.

“...we have to be realistic. We sealed only one of the Krang, but their technology and influence remain here. The Krang sister is still in this universe, and as terrifying as it is to say, she could get out of government hands. Three aliens brought about the apocalypse and were close to doing so again. I can still feel-”

Donnie stops, his shell pulsating again and he feels sick. He needs to stop the recording, he wants to go to his room. He reaches over for the phone, stopping just short of pausing the video. The humming is getting louder, his thoughts feel fuzzy. He’s exhausted, that’s all this is, symptoms of exhaustion.

His breath is leaving ragged, and he’s frozen in place before bringing his hands back to his chest. He needs everything off, the buzzing is so damn loud. He rubs his earholes, getting back up from the chair and leaving his phone abandoned on the table. He touches the panel, his hands feeling clammy as he goes to turn the device off.

The humming starts to morph and change, like that of whispers in the back of his head. It tells him to push forward, to keep the portal open, to see what happens next. His fingers move, and Donnie isn’t sure if he’s closing it anymore. The invention sparks, and he can see familiar grey skies and floating debris on the other side. This was the place where all his fellow brethren died; thousands of brothers that Donnie doesn’t remember having. Donnie’s hands are shaking, and he knows he’s not in control as he looks out at that landscape. He just needs to take a step forward, cross the threshold and show his last remaining brother where the portal is.

Something feels like it's crawling under his skin, and Donnie is terrified. He fights against it, his fingers bending uncomfortably as he types again in the panel to shut it off. The portal pulsates again, bringing it back to the alley from earlier, and it's like the whispers hiss at his disobedience. It hurts so much, but Donnie forces himself to continue. He feels something on his skin, climbing up slowly his body, and finds pink in the corner of his eye. The softshell hisses in both pain and irritation, but the pink flesh shipcomputertechnodrome doesn’t stop, creeping closer and closer up.

The lights in the lab flash red, signaling Sheldon’s arrival as he soars from his docking station. The robot immediately flies beside him, spraying him down with glowing blue liquid. The flesh hisses and retracts, going back to the root of the problem inside his shell. He collapses on the floor with a shuddering breath and Sheldon hovers beside him, not talking but just being there. His back crawls and pulsates, and he’s not sure how much time passes before the feeling subsides.

“You can’t keep this up,” Sheldon states, and Donnie says nothing. He gestures over at the camera, and Sheldon takes the silent command to turn it off remotely. “Donnie, you have to tell them.”

The softshell forces himself to stand, rubbing his sweat-covered forehead silently. He reaches for the panel again, and Sheldon hovers in front of him, blocking his way. He’s irritated and worried, highlighted by his mechanical body language. Donnie just stares at his creation unhappily, as he lets out a synthetic sigh.

“You can’t stay like this. Future boy might know something on how to stop this.”

He doesn’t. This was how Donnie died in the alternate, original, timeline. C.J. explained both his and Raph’s deaths at their request, but he looked so happy to learn that Donnie didn’t get controlled like his elder counterpart. Controlled by the technology, to become a part of the machine with no free will. He credited to the fact that Donnie wasn’t in the fleshy substance for long- because he was ripped out before any long-lasting damages could occur, but Donnie knows better. It didn’t matter if he was there for 10 hours or 10 minutes; the second the technodrome grabbed him and felt his mind, his intellect, it was already a done deal. The vials April got from her college slowed the progress significantly, and Donnie already figured out a way to reverse-engineer them to help with his situation. He just had to keep it up for as long as it took him to completely eliminate the foreign substance in his body.

“I’m fine.” Donnie swats away the robot.

“You’re literally not.”

“I am,” He insists, pushing Sheldon away from the controls. “They can’t know about this.”

“They’re worried about you,” Sheldon says, and the computer screen flicks on across the room. Donnie ignores it, imputing the controls to turn off the machine. It turns off with a whine while a video across the room plays. He levels a flat stare at his son as the video shows one of the many camera angles in the lair. It’s positioned over the kitchen counter, and Donnie could see pre-recordings of Leo and April from earlier in the day

“Anything?” Recording Leo asks as April slides into the seat beside him.

“Nothing, he’s not coming out.” She huffs, leaning on the counter. Leo is looking off-screen in the direction of his lab, beak pursed.

“This is getting crazy,” He mutters, “It’s not his job to do everything. He needs breaks.”

“I don’t agree with his methods, but he’s doing this because he cares.”

“I know he does,” Leo scoffs, and April rolls her eyes. “But he got injured too, he needs to stop pushing us away.”

“...you heard C.J., Donnie got out in time.”

Leo shakes his head, leaning on his hands as he stares at their elder sister. April looks back with a cocked eyebrow.

“He got out in time, sure, but I haven’t seen him take off his battle shell in days.”

“Sheldon, turn it off.” Donnie commands, turning away from the screen. The audio just gets louder in response.

“I thought I was the only one to notice,” April sighs, her expression resigned as she looks at Leo. The bags under her eyes were noticeable even through the recording, and she looked generally worn down. “Something happened and he’s not telling us.”

“Sheldon,” Donnie warns again, and his hand itches.

“I just need him to talk to us. I would portal in there but-”

“He’s scared.”

April’s voice echoes in his head, and Donnie is angry. Angry at the world, at the Krang, at himself. He wasn’t injured like them, he doesn’t need their help, he needs to be useful to them! He’s not as strong as Raph or fast as Leo and wasn’t brimming with mystical abilities like Mikey. He’s smart, that’s all he is, and it wasn’t enough; it never was enough. He was useless in the invasion, but not anymore, never again. This video isn't helping. Hearing his siblings' concerns just gets him more frustrated, and he needs it-

“OFF. TURN IT OFF!” He roars, slamming his fist into the panel. It breaks nearly clean through, but Donnie doesn’t even get to be amazed by his strength. It sparks, electricity dancing across the room with the smell of fish becoming overwhelmingly powerful. He takes a few hesitant steps back in fear and shock. The machine turns back on without Donnie’s touch, shifting frantically between the two accessed dimensions, and sucking Donnie within. He tries digging his heels in, but his feet slide against the floor. Sheldon is at his side in an instant, allowing Donnie to grab onto his wings as he pulls against the force. He can feel a few tears escape from his eyes as he continues to hold on for dear life.

“Sheldon! Shutdown code Alpha-C12!”

He’s not sure if the robot hears him as his wings break. The metal cracks and breaks off in Donnie’s hands, and the turtle doesn’t get to shout as he’s flung back into the portal behind him. He lands hard on the concrete, wheezing as he looks up at the portal door. It snaps shut in an instant, plunging the alley into complete darkness. He’s left alone on the cold floor, breathing heavily as he looks around him frantically.

He’s alone, in an unfamiliar world with nothing but his battle shell. He can’t-he’s- he can’t get back.

He’s above ground in an unfamiliar world, and it’s his fault. Donnie looks at the chunk of metal in his grip and cradles it close to his chest. He hopes Sheldon is okay, the robot would probably need Donnie to repair him when he gets back….If he gets back.

A drop of rain falls from the sky, sliding down Donnie’s frozen form as more and more droplets join them. He forces himself to get up but doesn’t stop staring at the spot where the portal originally opened. His metallic appendages take out its built-in umbrella, shielding Donnie from the worst of the rain as he’s frozen in place. He needs to find shelter, somewhere to live while he figures this out. He opened a dimensional portal once, he can do it again.

He finds a closed-down Bodega not far from the alley. It was cleaner inside than expected, but Donnie wasn’t complaining. Sitting slumped in the far corner of the shop, Donnie shivers uncontrollably from the cold. He’s so tired, and it feels like his eyelids weigh over twenty pounds, slowly closing as if begging him to sleep. His back still hurts, pulsating unnaturally underneath his battle shell. It didn’t hurt, but it felt like the Krang flesh underneath was calling out for something, wiggling in a controlled manner just underneath the surface. He wasn’t in the prison dimension, so he was unclear who it could be calling out for.

“First thing tomorrow,” He mutters, bringing his knees closer to his chest. “Blankets and metals, everything else can be gathered later.” He doesn’t want to sleep; it feels like anyone could walk in on him. The claws answer his concern, bringing out the cloaking broach and holding it in front of him as if mocking the softshell. He grips it with shaky hands as the claws retract back into his shell.

He runs his fingers over the surface and taps a small button on the side, the device extending straps, and Donnie wraps it around his wrist like a bracelet. His vision swims with a blue flame mirage as his broach does its job. Looking down at his hands, three-scaled fingers no longer greet him, but five fingers from a dark-skinned teen. He flexes them and can feel his own body move underneath the illusion. Dreaded black hair dances at the edge of his vision as he closes his eyes in relief.

“Thank the pizza. I stored the broach.”

It would have to be charged daily, but this was better than the alternative. He has to keep himself safe, if not for himself, then for his brothers' sake.

Donnie rests his head on his knees, closing his eyes tiredly. Six days with barely any sleep are not good for anyone, and Donnie is no exception. He falls into a dreamless sleep, his last thoughts before losing consciousness asking how his family would take the news of his disappearance.

Chapter Text

“Ten years,” Donnie mutters, staring at the newspaper in his grip. “I didn’t realize universes could be at different historical points.” History was a bit of a stretch, but it was astounding being in the past. He idly flicks through the newspaper as the stand owner watches him from the corner of his eye.

There wasn’t much in terms of news, well there was, but nothing that interested Donnie. It’s not like he planned to run for president of this version of America. The streets were strangely empty, with occasional people crossing the street and chatting with friends. It didn't make much sense to Donnie- New York was the city that never slept, yet he had only seen 18 people in one day.

He flips another page, and a photo of a girl with ginger hair and a yellow shirt greets him, the article congratulating her for winning an award. Her smiling face mocks him as he lets out a shuddering breath and closes the paper. He wonders if time passes similarly between the dimensions; it's been a day, do his brothers even know he’s missing yet? Did they hear his screams? The roar of the wind as it sucked him into this new world? Did they already find Sheldon broken on the floor and likely trying to find Donnie?

Would they care?

The disguised softshell pushes those thoughts away as he places the paper back into its place. The owner huffs when he does so, and Donnie’s eyes snap to him. He’s nothing special; a mid-forties man wearing long sleeves underneath his polo, stubble on his chin, and a lithe body. He leaned on the counter as he stared back, placing all his weight on his right leg as he leaned on his cane. He obviously notices Donnie’s staring and looks at him back with disgust, and his lips are pulled back into a sneer.

“What?” He asks as if daring Donnie to say something. Donnie doesn't respond and turns back to the papers on display. He could take this man out so quickly- aim for the left; it's his weaker side. Make him bleed and hurt and cry. That’s all humans were good for, wasn’t it? They’re inferior, made to be played with and controlled.

His palms shake as he balls them into fists. He can feel the tentacles of the technodrome on his back, squirming and moving. It’s tapping him on the shoulders as if asking, no, telling him to get closer to the shopkeep. Watch him scream, cry, and beg for his life; he deserves it, being as imperfect as he was. For being disgusting, for existing, the man deserved it. Just reach over and-

Donnie blinks hard, focusing on the many newspapers in front of him. He steps back, and the whole world is spinning around him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Donnie turns around and begins walking, counting his inhales as he does so.

One.

Two.

Three.

He crosses the street, clutching the illusion's clothes. He can feel the fabric between his fingers; while he knows it's not real, it helps ground him. He ducks into the next alley he passes and presses against the wall breathing hard. Donnie has never had thoughts like that before; he knows he’s not the most ethical turtle in the world, but Donnie would never- he wouldn't.

He wouldn’t.

The movement underneath his shell says otherwise.

“Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium,” Donnie says softly. “Beryllium, B-boron.” He slides down the wall, sitting on the hard concrete below. His breathing isn’t steady, and he needs to calm down. “Boron, Boron, Boron.” He chants, clutching at his wrists.

“Boron, moron, Nardo’s a moron,” he lets out a breathy laugh; that was Leo’s favorite element.

He places both hands on the floor, looking up at what little sky he can see. He has to find a junkyard, somewhere he can get plenty of metal without alerting the locals. He needs to find chemicals and make more of that antidote to keep the Krang away.

Donnie sighs, running his hands through his locks, tugging at one of them as he stares at the sky. He’s not sure how long he sits there; all he knows is that his heart rate has gone down, and the clawing feeling has stopped. It feels like a battle, forcing himself back on his feet, but Donnie does so while sparing a glance at his broach. The side battery tells him he still has plenty of time before it dies, but Donnie makes a mental note to find a charger. He was lucky, he thinks, to use the same type of charger his phone uses.

Donnie wanders to the front of the alley, looking both ways before picking a random direction and walking. The bodega was good for temporary shelter, so no worries there, but he needs to get started. A scrapyard, a dumpster, a landfill, Donnie would take anything,

“Carbon, Nitrogen.” As he continues, it feels like eyes are on him, but Donnie knows it’s stupid. Nobody is around. “Oxygen, Fluorine, Neon.”

He turns the corner and continues chanting the periodic table until he reaches the end, and then names them by group. He finishes that and then lists them by weight and what he prefers to work with. He keeps a mental tally of how many turns he makes and how many blocks walked until Donnie can return to the bodega.

Turn after turn, Donnie continues, never stopping, never slowing down. Eventually, he finds a scrapyard piled high with rusted and beat-up metal and gutted electronics. He’s practically in heaven as he pokes around the machinery, making sure not to touch sharp pieces or touch anything that looks suspicious.

It’s almost nostalgic; it reminds Donnie of his first time exploring a junkyard as a tiny tot. Papa was with him then, taking Donnie to the surface to pick out his materials to bend and shape into proper machinery. The softshell holds that memory dear to his heart, even if he knows why he was taken topside was so that he would stop gutting the few bits of technology they had managed to salvage.

He gathers parts, placing them in a ratty satchel he finds. The bag itself is held on by hopes and prayers, the clasp keeping it closed gone, and it smells very questionable. The softshell doesn’t want to think about what this bag’s been through, if only for his piece of mind.

Everything that looks remotely useful goes into the bag, and quickly it's filled to the brim with them. Donnie hasn’t been in the scrapyard long, maybe twenty minutes, but he needs to bring what he’s gathered back before he can start gathering more. His eyes sweep the yard again before he turns and starts heading out.

The sun is setting, bringing a hazy glow to the ghost city. His steps were slow and rhythmic as he walked, keeping an eye out for…something. The softshell isn't sure what he's looking for, but his shell crawls in discomfort, and his throat feels dry.

His back aches in a way that's becoming familiar as he crosses the empty road. Donnie hums as he continues onward, passing by many shops on his way back to his base: clothing store, antique shop, pet store, restaurant. The smell from the last store was almost irresistible, and Donnie slowed down to smell more of the delicious scent. His stomach growled in discomfort, and he wrapped an arm around it to muffle the sound. The softshell can’t remember the last time he ate a proper meal. He knows that he didn’t eat the previous day, too worried about the project. He didn’t eat today either, the bodega had no food, and he had no money to buy anything either. He can feel himself salivating as he continues to stand there but forces himself to walk. Donnie could always eat something later, either by finding it or stealing, but getting the materials back was his priority.

“This would be so much easier if Raph were here,” He grunts, adjusting the heavy bag. He wasn’t built for this; Donnie was more of an intellectual. “He’d probably carry me too, saying ‘Raph's got this’ and-” Both scales and illusion hair stand on end. He glances around him and starts picking up the pace.

Its faint but heavy footsteps follow behind him, echoing in the empty street. Someone was following him, but as Donnie looked from the corner of his eye, he found nothing. His heart skips a beat, and his strides get longer. He doesn’t have his weapon, and he doesn’t trust his ninpo currently. If he attacks them with it, he could leave them seriously injured- maybe even kill them. The footsteps get louder, and Donnie gets a tight knot in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he steals his nerves and bolts.

His feet pound against the concrete familiarly, the bag jostling and poking him with odd bits and ends. The footsteps behind him pick up the pace, loud like thunder behind him, taunting him as they close the gap. He doesn't look back as he ducks into the next alleyway he sees, hopping on a dumpster and climbing up the fire escape. The softshell dares a look down; four identical men greet him below, all wearing the same clothing and holding large metallic and pink guns in various designs. They stare at him in boredom before climbing up on the same dumpster. Donnie runs to the ledge and jumps to the next roof, clutching the bag tight to his chest. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just that he knows he needs to get away.

His instincts scream at him, and Donnie ducks just in time to dodge a glowing pink net. The softshell looks behind him to see the quintuplets aiming the guns at him. The one on the far right fires another trap, soaring through the sky and illuminating the roof. Donnie dodges, sliding on the top on all fours, the net landing right where he stood. Huffing, Donnie glares at his attackers as the middle one lifts and shoots. It shoots glowing plasma blasts, each leaving scorch marks on the roof. Donnie scrambles away, nearly dropping the bag as he easily avoids each blow.

“Leave me alone!” Donnie snarls, dodging another blast. They don’t stop, another one firing plasma blasts while the last one steadies his net gun. They advance slowly and back Donnie to the edge, staring at him and waiting for what he will do. Donnie jumps off, his battleshell opening and allowing the hover blades to pop out. He barely gets into the air when other net soars, entangling him in its glowing fibers. Donnie falls painfully down the four stories into a pile of discarded trash. He looks behind him to see the damage to his shell, but the illusion does its job and reveals nothing. He could hear his machine's subtle clicks and whirrs as it attempted to lift him, but it was useless.

Donnie thrashes, grabbing the rope by his teeth and pulling, growls and hisses escaping his throat involuntarily. The four men approach his bounded form in sync, dead eyes staring down at him like he is garbage. Donnie bares his teeth at them, hissing loudly and sharply, but they don't react. The closest one turns to the others as he picks Donnie up, tucking him underneath his arm.

"Inform Kraang the anomaly has been captured, and we will return to Kraang base."

His back squirms more as Donnie's breath quickens. Kraang? Here? Were these guys Kraang, or were they working for the Kraang? They didn’t look Kraangified, but they weren’t human-like either, were they? The arm holding him constricted tighter as Donnie increased his thrashing. He needed to get away, killing them be damned! He’s seen the horrors Kraang can do up close and has no desire to see it again. His ninpo activates in response to his panic, electricity dancing around his form. He lets his power surge, blowing himself and his attackers in opposite directions. Donnie slams painfully into the brick wall, wasting no time ripping the net.

He looks back up at his attackers; the one holding him was missing an arm, and his skin was partially burnt, revealing a silver and blue metal underneath. Two were on the ground in a crumpled heap together, but the fourth was kneeling, staring directly at him. Donnie bares his teeth again, turning around and attempting to run. He doesn’t get far, just a few feet from the mouth of the alley, when something akin to a needle lodges in his neck. It works fast, and the softshell can feel himself becoming sluggish instantly, falling to his knees. His vision is blurry, darkness creeping around him. He feels one of them lift him by his armpits, their voices muffled like he was underwater.

“Let go of me,” Donnie slurs, tongue feeling heavy. His ninpo activates, the glowing purple surrounding Donnie before dying out again. “Let go! I-I’m not-” They jostle him, and he thinks he’s thrown over one of their shoulders. He tries to push himself away, but his arms aren’t cooperating, and he’s tired.

“....Kraang….base….anomoly….”

“Orders….Kraang…test….”

Donnie has no choice but to fall asleep, those being the last words he hears.

-.-

“Would you rather….carry me across the lair and back or…. Lick the floor in Donnie’s lab?” Mikey asks, tilting his head at his red-clad brother. Raph turns from the TV to squint at him; his hand stops midstroke on Spike’s back as he considers his options. Mikey eagerly smiles as he awaits his response, drumming his three fingers against the couch cushions.

“Is Donnie’s floor clean?” Raph asks instead. Mikey shrugs, turning to his tallest brother, who stares at them from the kitchen with his coffee cup cradled protectively. Donnie raises an eye ridge before making a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand, taking a long sip of his drink.

“He didn’t clean it recently, but it's cleaner than normal,” He translates. Raph’s beak purses in thought then shrugs.

“Donnie’s floor.”

“Bro, what?” Mikey moans, leaning into the couch with a pout. “What’s wrong with giving me a piggyback ride?”

“I don’t want to carry you, Mikey. You’re too heavy.” Raph scoffs.

“Ooo, big strong turtle afraid of carrying little old me? Think you can’t do it?” He teases. Raph tsk’s in response, rubbing Spike’s shell as he stares hard at Mikey.

“I won’t pick you up, doofus.”

“You won’t, or you can’t?”

Raph places Spike gently beside him on the couch, patting his head before turning a murderous gaze on the orange-clad turtle. Mikey smiles wide, getting up from the sofa in a flash and running. He hears the thunderous footsteps of his brother behind him as he heads into the kitchen, using the small island and Donnie as a shield. Donnie accepts his fate, taking another sip as Mikey maneuvers him side to side, hiding from Raph’s view.

“Stop hiding behind Donnie, COWARD!” Raph yells before lunging over the table. Donnie ducks out of the way in time, leaving Mikey to take the brunt of the flying turtle attack. They both tumble on the tile, Mikey laughing as he attempts to crawl away while Raph puts him in a headlock.

“Traitor!” Mikey wheezes out as Raph pins his arms behind his back. Donnie stares down at him, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“I already told you not to use me as a turtle shield,” He says, walking past them to place his empty mug into the sink. He starts washing it calmly as Raph cackles above him, twisting his arm enough to be uncomfortable but not painful. Mikey whimpers as he taps the floor, but Raph ignores his pleas and puts more pressure on his shell.

“Say it!” Raph yells.

“Uncle! Uncle! Let me go!” He cries. Raph lets out another hardy laugh, letting go of his arm but staying seated on his shell. He can’t see his brother's face, but he can feel the smug energy emanating from him. Mikey holds out his arms, attempting to drag himself across the kitchen floor, but finds that he is trapped and at his brother's mercy.

“Do I want to know?” Comes the familiar voice of Leo as he enters the room. Donnie gives him a sideways glance as the blue turtle gets closer, staring down at the two.

“Would you rather gone wrong,” Donnie shrugs. Leo lets out a quiet ‘ah’ as he walks by them and grabs the kettle from the cabinets.

“Leo, bro, help me,” Mikey pleads to Leo’s indifference. “Do you not love me? Is this a loveless household?”

“I do love you,” Leo says, filling the kettle with water and placing it on the stove. It turns on with loud clicks and a hiss, an unfamiliar sound that Donnie sneers at. “But Master Splinter asked me to make him some tea first.”

Kettle being warmed, he then motions at Raph, gesturing for him to stand and release Mikey from his prison. Raph rolls his eyes, baring his blunt teeth at Leo, crossing his arms defiantly.

“Who died and made you king?” He snaps. Leo scoffs in response and places a hand on his hips.

“You really want to get in trouble the day before our mutation day?” Leo counters. “Y’know, when we’re going ask to go to the surface?” He stresses. Raph weighs the options above him before getting off Mikey with a grumble. Mikey springs up with a laugh, sticking out his tongue at Raph playfully, and receives a punch on his arm. He pouts at Raph as Leo speaks again.

“Listen, we need to be on our best behavior. We cannot have a repeat of last year’s incident.” He stares pointedly at the two of them. Raph sneers at the eldest while Mikey smiles nervously.

“That was our bad.”

“More like yours,” Raph scoffs.

“Nu-uh!”

“It was both of you! And Leo and I got punished for it,” Donnie interrupts, crossing his arms. “Two weeks cleaning up that mess, not to mention how much stuff I had to fix! Do you understand how much of a hassle it is to get the right materials from Master Splinter? He can’t tell steel from aluminum! I still have twenty-seven aluminum rods I still don’t know what to do with!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, cry me a river, Donnie,” Raph snaps back. The purple turtle hisses, Raph staring hard at him, daring the tallest to say something. Mikey’s eyes dart between them as the tea kettle whistles loudly. Leo takes it off and starts pouring it into two cups with practiced ease, the smell of jasmine wafting faintly in the air.

“Just try not to give him a reason to put this off for another year,” Leo practically begs, grabbing the cups.

“Oh, because Mr.Perfect over here can’t make mistakes.”

“Two weeks,” Donnie stresses. “Twenty-seven rods of aluminum.”

“Can you make a baseball bat?” Mikey asks, mimicking the swinging motion he’s seen on TV. Donnie sputters for a second before throwing up his hands in angry energy.

“Probably!”

“You should make me one for mutation day.”

“No? Why would I make you a bat? You have your- what?”

“Because they’re cool, Donnie! Plus, people carry equipment and stuff when they leave school and junk. If I carry a bat while we’re up there, they’ll think we just got out of school and be more chill with us.”

Donnie squints at him, making a show of looking Mikey up and down. Raph and Leo give him equally baffling looks as the youngest beams at his elder brothers. Donnie coughs into a closed fist, eye ridges furrowed as he delivers one more look at Mikey’s form.

“I think you missed the point where you’re a giant turtle,” He says pointedly. Mikey rolls his eyes in annoyance, pouting at Donnie and giving him puppy dog eyes. Donnie stares at him flatly, a silent challenge that tells Mikey he’s not getting the bat.

“They walk around just fine in anime!”

“Keywords being ‘in anime’!”

“Guys, focus,” Leo snaps, taking a deep breath. “Best behavior! We are going to the surface tomorrow.”

They all grumble their agreement, and Leo nods in acknowledgment. He places the two cups on a small tray and carries them to the dojo. Donnie also leaves, heading to his lab, as Raph and Mikey head back to the living room. Mikey sinks back into the sofa while Raph picks up Spike and cradles him close to his plastron, focusing on the TV. Mikey’s fingers drum against his knee, watching the brightly colored show with the red turtle—his lips purse as he turns back to his brother with a smile.

“Would you rather eat a cockroach or a chunk of Master Splinters' fur?”

Raph side-eyes him, scowling at the question. “Fur, next question.”

“Dude, you’re gross.”

Raph punches his arm again while Mikey lets out a chortling giggle. One more day, and if they play their cards right, they can go on the surface for the first time! Mikey is excited- well, he’s always enthusiastic, but his hands flap with excess energy, and he can’t wait for morning to come. His brothers are excited, too, even though they’re all allergic to showing their emotions- but that’s what Mikey’s for. He has enough excitement about the whole situation for all of them!

Tomorrow will be a great day; Mikey can feel it in his bones! Tomorrow is the day everything changes, the start of a new life! Mikey cannot wait!

Chapter Text

Donnie wakes up to subtle touches on his arms and the hum of machinery above him. His eyelids feel heavy, and opening his eyes is a chore, but he forces them open. Looking to his left, he’s met with the humanoid suit of silver and pink caressing his arm with their cold digits, taking his pulse. His limbs and waist are strapped to a metal table, but that doesn’t stop the softshell from yanking it away, rattling against the straps loudly and halting further touches. The android stares at him, motors whirring and hands freezing in the air as Donnie snarls, baring his teeth.

“The one known as an anomaly is now awake,” It comments. It walks up to Donnie’s line of sight, allowing the softshell to see it without much strain. “You will answer Kraang’s questions.”

“Fuck you,” Donnie groans, glaring. It stares at him passively, reaching over to the side table and grabbing a small flashlight. The light is unfairly bright as it shines in Donnie’s eyes, the android watching his pupils with its deadpan face. The softshell grunts in irritation, taking a bite at them when their arm gets close enough; missing, unfortunately, but it seems to gather the androids' undivided attention.

“What is your species of origin?” Asks the android. Donnie rolls his eyes and tries to activate his ninpo. Like a faulty lighter, he can feel the energy spark before dying out completely- something whispering in his mind telling him not to do it. He growls in anger and annoyance, baring his teeth at his captor.

"Like I would tell you," He scoffs. His back is tingling, and he can feel the tentacles moving underneath the illusion. He wonders how his battle shell looks, knowing his propellers were likely ruined. "Let me out of here!"

It ignores him, walking out of Donnie's limited line of vision. He can hear the silent whirrs and clicks behind him but nothing else. Sweat collects on his forehead, and Donnie silently counts to ten.

He's had dreams about this; horrible, vivid dreams, more common when he was younger but still haunting him years later. Donnie isn’t an idiot, far from it; it’s a given that if he or his family made one miscalculation, they would end up in some government lab far underground. Those were very present fears when he was a kid, and often he awoke with a pounding heart and tears in the corner of his eyes. Then he would shuffle off to Leo’s room, climbing under his blankets and laying on the top of his shell. The slider was always awake when Donnie did this, claiming that Donnie walked too loudly but never moved away, simply cracking jokes with Donnie until the softshell fell asleep. Donnie wishes this was a dream, that he passed out in his lab in exhaustion, and Raph carried him to his room. Donnie will wake up tangled in blankets and nearly crying from this nightmare. Then it would be over, Donnie would forget about it before his next REM cycle, and he could live without knowing he was alone.

"Kraang will not bring harm to the one known as the anomaly," the android says behind him, placing a hand on his back. The tentacles squirm under his back as if reaching out to the android. It’s like, a whisper in his mind saying, comrade. Friend. Mine. "The one known as the anomaly is required to answer Kraang's questions. This is a direct order from Kraang."

The voice whispers again, telling him to obey and fall in line. Donnie's almost tempted to stop thinking and follow orders like a good little soldier. He’s a scientist, not meant to lead or think for himself. He’s meant to follow instructions from those in a higher position. Bile rises in his throat, and Donnie has to swallow hard.

"I'm human," Donnie lies. He hears a click and then feels a shock; the shackles light up as he cries out in alarm before it subsides. His skin feels like static, and the tentacles on his back are lashing underneath his skin in anger- or annoyance? He can’t quite tell.

"The one known as the anomaly will answer truthfully," Says the android. "Kraang is aware you have attained Kraang DNA."

"What happened to no harm?" Donnie bites out.

"No harm will come to the anomaly if the anomaly answers Kraang's questions."

"Scoff, you think a little electrocution is going to make me AAH-" Another shock catches Donnie off guard, his mouth clamping shut instinctually. He can feel some copper in his mouth as it stops, and he swallows, gritting his teeth. “I can be human; you rusted scrap metal! Just because I have some other stuff mixed in doesn’t mean I’m not human!” He snaps, snarling as he wiggles in the restraints again.

His ninpo flares in response to his distress but does nothing more than expel a few sparks. It feels blocked off, hidden behind a barred door that Donnie can't open. He growls in irritation, looking behind him at the android, who stares blankly.

"The one known as the anomaly will answer Kraang's questions with honesty," It says. Donnie rolls his eyes, subtly swallowing the lump in his throat and steeling his nerves. He tugged experimentally on the restraints, but they stayed firm, and craning his neck to observe the room told Donnie nothing valuable about his situation. He scowls in irritation, staring up at the ceiling in silent defiance.

“What is the one known as the anomaly called?”

Donnie’s tempted to say silent, but the technodrome yells in his subconscious, urging him to talk, trust, and listen to the machine. It’s not actual yelling; no words were spoken, but the emotion and intent were there. The softshell looks at the android with narrowed eyes, watching its finger hover over a bright pink button.

“Othello,” He lies. It stares at him hard, but Donnie doesn’t look away, staring into its soulless eyes. Donnie’s stomach squirms with nerves, and his ninpo fires off a few more sparks of a failed manifestation. “And you’re Kraang, right?”

“Kraang will not answer the anomaly’s questions.”

“Why not?” The softshell asks, raising an eyebrow. “Who am I going to tell? You got me locked up and restrained.” The android says nothing, head whirring as it tilts slightly. “We can even make a deal about it; I answer one question, you answer one. Seems fair, right?”

“...Kraang will agree to the anomaly’s terms.”

Donnie feels immediately lighter, the technodrome silencing inside his mind. It seems content now, even if Donnie isn’t following direct orders. The android walks around so it’s in Donnie’s line of sight, staring at him while holding a tablet in its robotic fingers.

“What species is the anomaly known as Othello?”

“Human, I just got contaminated with Kraang DNA,” He rolls his shoulders as much as he can, trying to release some tension. “Why did you take me?”

“The one known as Othello called out to us..”

“I- what? I didn’t call out to you.”

“The one known as Othello was scared.”

Donnie purses his lips; his brows furrowed as he recalls everything that happened in the past 24 hours. He didn’t call out to them; he would never call out to the Kraang. Did Donnie get scared? Absolutely; he’s in a new universe with no allies and no way back home- he’s terrified for his very existence, especially now. But he didn’t call out for them.

“I didn’t call out to you,” Donnie repeats with a frown.

“Kraang felt your terror,” It responds, typing again onto the tablet. “Kraang went to the source and found not Kraang, but the one known as Othello.”

“And then you kidnapped me,” Donnie rolls his eyes. He eyes the mechanical suit, noting its size and material. It’s probably just a few inches taller than Donnie, quite different from his version of the aliens. With a smooth chest plate and silver highlights, Donnie is almost jealous of its design, and it looks like something out of Jupiter Jim. But he also can’t imagine it being the Kraang either- he’s seen their suits; Kraang was massive in his universe. The suits stand over nine feet tall, with claws and glowing eyes, almost demonic-like. Donnie can’t say that these versions of the Kraang were disappointing, but it certainly was underwhelming.

“Where did the one known as Othello originate from?”

“New York. Are you actually Kraang or just a robot?”

They go back and forth like this, Donnie counting the seconds mentally. He doesn’t get much helpful information, but considering the softshell either lies or gives a half-truth in return, he supposes it's a fair trade. His back squirms occasionally in their session, but it’s easy to ignore. Donnie silently questions when he’ll be released from the table and how to escape from this awful place.

-.-

Leo runs down the sewer tunnels alongside his brothers excitedly. He can see each of them grinning wide in enthusiasm out of the corner of his eye as they trail behind him. The turtle slides to a stop right underneath the sewer grate, his brothers following suit with Mikey just a second too late and shoving into Raph. The red-clad turtle pushes him off, to the youngest’s amusement, and glares at him.

“This is it, guys!” Leo says, unable to stop a broad smile on his face. “This is the night our lives change forever! We are going where no man has gone before! We are going to see things no man has ever seen! We-”

“If you keep quoting space heroes, I’m going to push you into the sewer water,” Raph interrupts, hands placed on his hips in irritation. “Get up the ladder before I cut.”

Leo sputters for a moment, scowling at the second eldest. “You can’t cut; I called dibs years ago!”

“Then go up!”

Leo rolls his eyes in annoyance, gripping the old rusted ladder carefully. It squeaks and groans as he climbs, and he can hear the near-silent footsteps of his brothers behind him. Leo lifts the cover with no difficulty, peering at the outside world. He slides it over with little fanfare, dragging himself out into a filthy alley. Trash littered the ground around them, graffiti covered the walls, and one stray human was sleeping on a mattress. But out of the mouth of the alley, seeing those towering buildings with lights that shine like diamonds and sounds Leo has never heard before; he thinks he has never seen something so beautiful in his life.

“It’s so beautiful,” Mikey voices his thoughts. That spurs them into action, and all of them are racing out of the alley as fast as they can. Nobody was around, the streets silent with just a light breeze to accompany them.

“This city is full of possibilities!” Leo smiles, peeking around a store corner. “There could be an adventure around this corner,” He runs to another store corner. “Or-or this one!” He runs to another corner. “Or this one!” He stares down the mouth of another alley, much cleaner than where they surfaced, and is met with nothing but the familiar squeak of a rat. “I mean, there’s not, but there could be!” He runs further ahead, staring at every store and sign he passes.

Fifteen years, Leo thought he was never going to be able to come up here. His body practically rattles with excitement, watching a stray cat run across the street away from them. They could do so much up here! They could go to the park, a junkyard to get Donnie's stuff, a comic book store, or a library to get some cool reading material! He nearly walks by a shop with a poster in the window advertising some new game and pauses. They could get some video games! They only have ancient retro games since that’s all that Master Splinter could find, but they could get new ones now! The sky’s the limit!

“Guys, look!” Mikey yells. Leo feels his heart skip a beat as he turns to his youngest brother, who is currently pressed against a shop window in amazement. “A hand made out of light!” He then gasps as it changes. “An eye made out of light?! Now the hand’s back! Now the eye!”

Leo smiles at his enthusiasm as Raph walks up and drags the youngest by his mask, pulling him to Leo with a roll of his eyes. Mikey goes limp in his hold, not detouring Raph’s dragging but making it more challenging. They all stand in the street, forming a half-circle, as Donnie asks the big question.

“So, where to next? I have the list.” Donnie pulls a small piece of paper from his sash, unfolding it and revealing its age. Crayon drawings greet them, smudged from time on the faded yellow paper. “Although I don’t think going to Jersey is feasible right now.” He points at the suggestion; Leo looks over to see familiar sloppy writing in orange crayon.

“Why not?” Mikey whines, pouting from his position on the floor. Raph flicks the back of his head while Mikey pouts, rubbing the spot.

“We just got out of the lair for the first time, and I don’t think Master Splinter would appreciate us taking a trip to another state.”

“This is so unfair,” He pouts again. Leo goes to say something when he hears an unfamiliar sound getting closer. Something turns the corner down the road, and he and his brothers stare in mild horror as a human approaches riding an electric bike. They all stare at each other for a few seconds, gauging the other party's reaction.

“GRR!” Raph growls, wiggling his fingers and snarling at the boy. That springs the human into motion, shrieking and turning on the bike, returning to where he came from. A small, flat box falls off the back of his bike, landing on the ground with a quiet thump. Leo purses his lips, a squirming feeling in his gut.

“That was kinda fun,” Raph laughs, placing his hands on his hips. Leo spares him a glance before looking around the street.

“We’re too exposed out here,” Leo looks up to the rooftops, an idea forming. “Come on; we have to get off ground level.” He runs to the closest alleyway and hears his brothers following closely behind.

They quickly scale the building, the rooftop decorated with small tables and folding chairs, littered with trash in the corners. The incredible view allowed them to see further into the city and get closer to the lights. His stomach settles down as he turns to his brothers with a smile. It immediately drops when he realizes Mikey is not with them.

“Where’s Mikey?” He asks, a lump in his throat.

“Did somebody call me?” Mikey asks as he peers over the edge of the roof. The youngest climbs all the way, holding the box the human dropped in the street. The turtle holds it high above his head like a trophy in a dramatic display before he turns and places it on a table. They gather around the box, seeing the smiling logo of Antonio’s-

“Pizz-a?” Mikey reads, shrugging his shoulders. They all stare at the box in confusion, not daring to touch its surface.

“Why did you grab this?” Donnie questions, eyeing the box like it either held all the answers in the universe or it would explode. Mikey shrugs, smiling in amusement.

“I dunno, the human had it, and if he had it, it must be cool!”

“You won’t be saying that when it turns out to be a bomb!” Donnie replies. So the tallest thought it was dangerous; that was good to know. Donnie had excellent intuition regarding stuff that would blow up or could blow up. Leo thinks it comes with the history of blowing up things for fun as a kid; they’ve lost so many electronics in Donnie’s hands.

“I don’t think it’s a bomb!” Mikey defends, flexing his fingers. “But it was warm.”

“Why would it be warm?” Raph questions. Mikey shrugs, holding his hands behind his back as he rocks on his heels.

“Should we open it?” Donnie questions and Raph takes that as a green light. He opens it silently, stopping only when Leo tells him to be careful, and then continues slower. They’re all unsure what they see, a hot circular disk covered with yellow and red. It smells amazing, the scent wafting through the air as they all stare at it. “I think it’s food?”

“It’s not like any food I ever saw,” Raph mutters, squinting at it. “You think humans eat this?” He questions. Nobody has an answer, but Mikey takes charge.

“I’ll try it,” He volunteers, reaching into the box and grabbing a slice before they could object. Mikey brings the slice closer to his mouth as they all watch in both horror and fascination at Mikey’s brave choice. The youngest takes a bite before his eyes widen, and he scarfs down the rest. “I mean- ugh! Yuck, you guys wouldn’t like it. I’ll take the rest.”

“Nu-uh!”

“No way!”

“Back off!”

They all disagree, taking a slice of pizza each and finding heaven. It’s one of the best things Leo has ever tasted, even if it does burn his tongue when he tries to swallow it. When they finish the pizza and dispose of the box in a nearby dumpster, Donnie pulls out the list again, licking his fingers as he does so.

“Are we going to go down the list in order?” Donnie asks, staring at them with a smile. Leo looks at his other brothers, who shrug in response.

“Yeah, what’s first?”

Donnie folds the paper carefully and tucks it back into his sash, cracking his knuckles when he’s done. Leo and Raph cringe at the sound, but Mikey stares at them before cracking his knuckles in response. Raph glares at him, but the youngest looks away, whistling innocently.

“So we have a race first,” Donnie declares, looking around the rooftop in consideration. “It might be a little more difficult considering we’ll have to stick to the roofs, but it should still be fun.”

“Oh yeah? Who suggested that one?” Leo questions.

“Raph did. It was the first thing he wrote down when we were six.”

“Heck yeah, I did!” Raph boasts, looking around the city himself. “That means I make the rules!” His chest puffs up in pride, placing hands on his hips as he stares far into the distance. “Okay, we go that way,” He points, allowing them to follow his finger. “For…. let’s say twenty rooftops, or until we hit a gap we can’t jump across.”

“Alright, you heard him,” Donnie claps, walking around to stand beside them. “Twenty rooftops. Any other rules?”

“Nah,” Raph smirks, showing off his teeth. Leo coughs into his fist, staring hard at his younger brother as the red-clad turtle rolls his eyes. “What? You got something to say?”

“Sewer incident ‘05,” He recalls, hearing his younger brothers hiss in recollection of the incident. Raph stiffens at the reminder, letting out a heavy sigh of annoyance.

“Fine. No pushing, pulling, no team-ups. If you see a banana, you avoid it. No playing dead, no water guns, we stay away from all flashing lights, and no using a laser pointer,” He ticks off the rules as Leo nods along in agreement. “Anything else I’m missing?”

“The rats,” Mikey reminds.

“Right, no grabbing any rats. This means you, Donnie.”

“I didn’t realize it was a rat!” The tallest defends himself with a scowl. “I thought it was some hair.”

“That makes the whole incident worse; I need you to know that, dude,” Mikey interjects. Donnie lets out a near-silent hiss in annoyance as Mikey chirps in amusement. Leo rolls his eyes at the two, crouching down into a starting position. They follow his lead, staying low to the ground as Raph counts down. Once he reaches zero, they’re all off like a shot, jumping over alleys with hoots and hollers.

They start doing flips, cartwheeling over rooftop furniture, and walking the ledge on their hands. It’s exhilarating; Leo can feel his heart beat loudly in his chest, almost pounding against his plastron in both adrenaline and excitement. The city's lights guide their way, shining against the concrete roofs in a magical way, showing them the path to victory. Leo laughs, loud and hard, as he jumps off a water tower, rolling onto the roof and continuing the race.

The race only lasts for ten rooftops, the street below ensuring that. Mikey slides to a stop first; he was always the fastest out of all of them. Leo is proud to say he got third, right after Donnie. He smirks at Raph, who lets out a snarl in irritation at Leo’s smug face. The shortest turtle kicks the roof in anger, not saying anything.

“What’s next on that list, Donnie?” Leo asks. Donnie perks up, digging into his sash happily, coming up with empty hands, much to his confusion.

“Ah- wait, I just,” He digs into it repeatedly, turning up with nothing. He looks behind him worriedly, down the path they just came from. “I must have dropped it…”

“Nice going, brainiac!”

“Dude, seriously?!”

“Okay, okay, relax,” Leo interjects. “It probably fell out as we were doing all those tricks. We’ll just double back around, grab it, and continue. It’s not a big deal.” They all give affirmations as they turn around to retrace their steps. Donnie gasps behind them, and Leo turns around to see his smartest brother leaning over the roof edge in fascination.

The three of them exchange glances as they walk up to him, peering down below to find two humans, an adult man, and a teenage girl, walking down the street carrying a few shopping bags. They're chatting together, the girl laughing at something the man said.

"Woah, that's the prettiest girl I've ever seen," Donnie mutters lowly.

"That's the only girl you've ever seen," Raph scoffs, earning a glare.

"Rocking the orange, I like it, I like it," Mikey nods in approval, touching the tails of his bandana in consideration. "But I still look- oh?”

A white van skids to a stop in front of the two gingers, and the back doors are kicked open, revealing a group of identical men. Leo can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s clear that they weren’t expecting company, the girl cowering behind her father. They surround them, forming a half circle, making the two humans step back.

“We gotta help them!” Donnie calls, lurching forward to jump down. Leo stops him, holding him back by the shoulder.

“We can’t just jump down there!” He scolds. “Splinter’s instructions were very clear. We stay away from humans.”

“And what? Just let these people get kidnapped?” Donnie snaps back, face twisted in disbelief.

“I’m not saying that! We could call the cops or-”

“With what phone?” Raph interjects. “Didn’t you always want to be a hero? What kind of savior needs to ask permission to save someone?”

“They don’t,” Leo agrees. “But-”

“Well, I’m going,” Donnie huffs before jumping off the roof. Raph and Mikey exchange glances, and Leo can see the moment when they decide to follow the tallest brother down. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head while he sends a mental apology to their father, knowing that the rat wouldn’t approve of this in the slightest. He then jumps down, unsheathing his katanas to prepare for his first real fight.

-.-

“Room 16, take corridor B, down the stairs past the ivory tapestry. Sliding bookcase after bookcase shows the way to the hall-”

“The one known as Othello will cease.”

“Up the pole, through a hole, to the waterfall-!”

“You will cease.”

“It’s Othello! With a book in his hand, going to show everyone that he’s the man!” Donnie bangs against the steel walls to create a beat reminiscent of the one Leo does every time he raps. The Kraangdroid stands in front of his cell, holding his large gun and staring him down. Donnie sticks out his tongue at the robot, continuing his bangs and taps along the wall. His palms hurt, but if he can’t get out of this, he will make them regret kidnapping him in the first place.

“Room 16, take corridor B-”

By Donnie’s internal clock, which is thrown off slightly since he was knocked out, he has been in their custody for a total of fifteen hours and twenty-three minutes. He spent about five strapped to the table, trading questions and answers with his initial guard. Eventually, they chucked him in a cell, gave him three apples and a bottle of water, and have just been keeping guard over him. They won't leave him alone; someone is always standing by his cell, and his ninpo refuses to cooperate- so Donnie’s taken to the only thing he could think of; singing.

“Sliding bookcase after-”

His vocal cords hurt, but Donnie is also very stubborn and very petty. They haven’t electrocuted or shot him yet, only demanding he stop, with little success. Aliens destined to take over the world, to destroy and terraform it into their image, and enslave the human race- but they can’t stop him singing? It's embarrassing.

“You will cease!” The android says again. Donnie pauses, staring at the mechanical shell. He sits on the floor near the small amount of food they’ve given him. He takes a long sip of his water, watching the android turn around to face the corridor. Licking his lips, Donnie clears his throat to prepare for the next verse.

“It’s Othello! With a book in his hand-” The android beeps in irritation, and Donnie can’t help the grin that sweeps across his face. “Oh, sorry, do you want me to change the music? I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie-”

There are screams down the hall and the softshell stops to watch as two more androids, donning their human disguises, drag two people to his cell. The door opens with a swish, and their unceremoniously thrown inside, landing on the ground with a heavy thud. Donnie stares at them in confusion, watching the door close as they try to orientate themselves. One of them, a ginger girl roughly his age, gets up and slams at the door, kicking it as hard as she can.

“Let us out!” She yells, giving it another kick. The man, presumedly her father due to age and their similar features, goes to try to calm her down, hugging her tightly against his chest. Donnie feels his chest ache at the sight, looking away from the family duo.

“That’s not going to work,” He calls, drawing their attention to him. "Trust me, I’ve been trying all day.”

“Well, there has to be something!” The girl huffs in irritation, removing herself from her father’s embrace. She paces around the room, sliding her hand across the wall. “A hidden panel, a vent, something!”

“April,” The man calls in concern, watching his daughter. “Please, we’ll figure a way out just-”

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up, Dad!” April looks at him, watching as he sits beside Donnie on the bench. The man sighs heavily and loudly, clutching his arm in pain. Donnie eyes him from his position, noting his ripped and dirty clothing.

“‘Suppose you both didn’t come willingly, right?” Donnie asks, raising an eyebrow.

“How could you tell?” The man asks dryly. He eyes Donnie, observing his illusion from head to toe. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“The same age as my April. God, you both are too young to experience something like this.” He mutters in disappointment, resting his head in his hands. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Othello Von Ryan,” Donnie answers easily. April snorts across the small cell, covering her mouth with her hand.

“There’s no way that’s your real name,” She comments. Donnie glares at her, crossing his arms and sniffing in irritation.

“It is so.” It’s not, but it's a name Donnie picked out whenever he needs to pass as a ‘human wearing a turtle alien costume’ back home. It’s a good name, very classical, and highly respected.

“There’s no person alive with a name like that.”

“Well, obviously, you’re wrong because I’m right here!” He snaps back. She snorts again, ignoring him as she turns back to the door, looking closely at the edges for something. “Okay, Miss ‘I know so much about names’ What’s yours?”

“April O’Neil,” She doesn’t even look at him. “Y’know, a normal-sounding name.”

“April!”Her dad scolds. He softly smiles at Donnie, “I’m Kirby, April’s father.”

It feels like the whole world stopped after they said those words. April O’Neil and Kirby O’Neil? As in his friend April? This is her counterpart?! That’s her father’s counterpart?! When he gets home, his version of April will be so shocked!

“I…don’t believe that,” Donnie says in response.

“You don’t believe my name is April?”

“You don’t look like an April; you look like a May- no, I will not be elaborating.”

“What?!”

Kirby sighs in defeat as Donnie sticks out his tongue in response. April gasps, offended and shocked, pointing at him will all the fury and sass of his original April. Donnie scowls back at her as she huffs and sits on the cold metal floor.

“We need a plan to get out of here,” She mutters. “I’m not dying in here with a Shaksperian named kid!”

“Oh, eat dirt, April-”

Chapter Text

They all head back to the lair, more bruised than they started the night. Raph jumps the turnstiles, angrily slamming his feet on the cement as his brothers do the same behind him. Master Splinter waits for them in the small pit they call a living room, holding a cold cup of tea and facing away from them. The rat’s ear twitches at their footsteps, and Raph braces himself as their father turns around to meet them.

“Welcome home, my- what happened?!” He’s up immediately, placing the cup down carelessly and allowing the liquid inside to stain the floor. Splinter reaches them instantly, caressing Raph’s head, observing what Raph is sure is a blossoming bruise. The rat stares over at his brothers, shoulders raised in anxious energy and tail flicking behind him. Leo takes the lead, rolling his shoulders and staring at their father.

"We're fine, sensei," The eldest says. Raph feels his father's grip tighten ever so slightly on his cheeks and grunts in pain. The grip immediately softens as his paws drop, falling to his sides as the rat furrows his eyebrows. "We did get in a fight, but-"

"You WHAT?!" Splinter's voice is like a whip, staring hard at all four of them. They each avoid his gaze, and Raph clenches his fists.

"Only a little," Raph jumps in, shrugging. "We saw someone getting kidnapped and jumped in to help-"

"Kidnapped?!"

"But, they got taken." Raph finishes, powering through Splinter's exclamation. He can see Mikey bobbing his head beside him and can already feel his youngest brother about to say something stupid.

"Yeah, by dudes with brains in their chests.”

Splinter says nothing, blinking at Mikey in bewilderment. Raph resists the urge to smack the orange turtle, but it's so difficult when he makes it so tempting. He settles on a nasty stare, making Mikey pout and stick out his tongue. Leo and Donnie roll their eyes simultaneously before Leo steps up, pushing Mikey back a few inches to keep Splinter's attention on him, despite the youngest's protests.

"There were no brains in anyone's chest."

"You didn't see it, Leo!"

"Mikey, what kind of creature has a brain in its chest?" Donnie jumps in, scowling hard. Mikey waves his hands around, chittering in irritation as he glares at Donnie.

"Well, obviously, whatever those guys were!"

"They were human!"

"Humans don't have brains in their chests!" Mikey cries. He then pauses, turning back to their father with narrowed eyes. "Did you have a brain in your chest when you were human, Master Splinter?"

"Of course, he didn't, Mikey-" Leo starts, crossing his arms in irritation. Mikey rounds on him instantly, finger pointing accusatory at the eldest as he leans away from it.

"I'm not asking you, dude!"

"Mikey, people can hallucinate in times of extreme stress-" Donnie says placatingly, holding his hands up.

"It wasn't a hallucination?!"

"Then it's just you being dumb." Raph butts in, smirking as Mikey turns an irritable frown on him.

"I'm not dumb!"

"Keep telling yourself that-"

"YAME!"

They all fall silent instantly, back straight, and gaze at their Sensei. Splinter sighs heavily and points to the living room, a silent command that they follow. They march over, sitting on the old couches quietly, waiting for Sensei's following orders. Their father sighs loud and heavy, echoing across the lair. His footsteps are near silent as he walks away from them all, throwing a comment over his shoulder about getting the med kit and for them not to move or fight. Raph huffs as he leans his face on his arm, his cheek stinging in pain. Their father returns in record time, holding the moderately sized med kit and a small bag of ice. It was faded red, covered with scuff marks and stickers they plastered on when they first got it. Faded smiley faces and dull rainbow stickers greet them when Splinter lays it on the couch, opens it up, and takes the necessary things out.

“Raphael,” He calls, handing the bag to the turtle. Raph takes it gingerly, placing it on the bruise. “Keep it on for ten minutes. Donatello, come here.” The smartest turtle approaches his father with a frown and sits across from him.

They all say nothing as he patches up their injuries, wrapping bruised knuckles in gauze and rubbing alcohol into scratches. Every time one of them hisses in pain or flinches back, Splinter’s tail twitches, and he goes slower. When the ten minutes pass and Raph takes the ice pack off, he listens to the rest of their story. Leo takes the lead, explaining the kidnapping and how they got so bruised. Splinter nods, ears flicking in consideration when the rest of them jump in with comments or corrections to the tale. Their father closes the med kit when they're finished, staring at them silently. He inhales deeply, closes his eyes, and exhales, all of them watching him with bated breath.

“I see…” Splinter finally says, eyes opening and staring at all of them with something Raph can’t identify. “You all were not fully prepared to head to the surface. I trained you all as individuals, ignoring the fact that you four are brothers and have to work as a team. This allowed them all to get away.”

“Well, I would have had it if I didn’t have to spend time arguing with hero-boy over there!” Raph huffs, pointing a lazy finger at Leo. Leo glares back, beak pulled back in a slight snarl.

“You got in my way!” He refutes before rounding on Donnie, who’s clutching his bandaged arm. “He went off on his own. We were supposed to stick together! I was the one who didn’t even want to fight!”

“So suddenly it’s my fault?!” Donnie huffs, baring his teeth at Leo. “I was doing just fine against my guy! It’s only when somebody-” He turns to Mikey, who stares at him with wide eyes and a frown.“ -went flying into me that I lost!”

“I can’t control where the guy threw me!” Mikey shouts back, hands thrown up in frustration. “Besides, Raph was all over the place anyway-”

“So now it’s my fault?!” Raph exclaims, glaring hard at his baby brother. They all devolve into fighting from there, yelling blame at another turtle, and pointing out what the other did wrong with gestures to the bruises they’ve now collected.

“Boys!” Splinter snaps, bringing all their attention to him again. “If anything, it is my fault,” he sighs again, pinching the bridge of his snout in irritation. “It’s my responsibility as your teacher- as your father to ensure you all are prepared for the dangers that lurk beyond the sewer walls. I failed in that mission, and if one thing went wrong tonight, one of you might not have come home,” Splinter drops his hand and gets up from his seated position, grabbing the med kit as he walks away. “Perhaps we can try in another year, with more training.”

“ANOTHER YEAR?” They all exclaimed, scrambling to follow their father.

“Sensei, people were kidnapped; they don’t have another year!” Donnie says, keeping in step with their father. Splinter ignores him as he heads to the bathroom, the tallest keeping the door propped open as the rat opens their rickety “medical” cabinet. The metal hinges screeched almost deafeningly as if mocking their predicament.

“Master Splinter, we were the only ones who saw them get kidnapped; we’re their only hope!” Leo jumps in, pushing against Donnie in the small doorframe. Raph also squishes against the eldest’s side, staring hard at their father.

“Leonardo, wasn’t it you who claimed they didn’t want to fight?” Splinter asks, raising an eyebrow. The eldest sputters, cheeks turning a deep green.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“But they’re in trouble!” Raph takes over. He doesn’t miss how Splinter’s gaze darts to his new bruise, and he has to stop himself from covering it with a hand. “We can’t just be stuck down here because we lost a little fight-”

“They just caught us by surprise!” Mikey exclaims, shoving Raph entirely to talk to their father. Raph grunts before pushing him back, but Mikey just powers through it. “We won’t be like that next time!”

Splinter walks closer to them, and they take it as a silent command to remove themselves from the doorway. The rat walks silently to the dojo, with Raph and his brothers still hot on his heels, pushing the screen door open and crossing the room in giant strides. Their father slept in the dojo, in a small room at the back of it that he claimed as his own; so Raph and his brothers could have bigger rooms, and Donnie could have his lab. Once Splinter crossed that threshold, that was it. They would be stuck down in the sewers for another year after finally having their first taste of freedom.

“Master Splinter, please!” Donnie begs. “You didn’t see how she looked at us- at me! She was scared; we were her and her father's only chance to escape those people! We’ll be better next time, we promise!”

“You boys don’t have to be ‘better.’” The rat stops, tail flickering as he turns back to the four of them. “You misunderstand; this isn’t a punishment. This is for your own safety.”

“What about their safety?” The tallest presses on. “We can’t, in good conscience, just let those people be kidnapped! They must have family, people who will worry and miss them!”

Splinter’s tail flicks again, watching them with steady brown eyes. Raph swallows the lump in his throat as their father flicks his gaze between their injuries again and then over to his shrine. A small thing covered with fake flowers and a singed photo of Master Splinter’s life when he was human when he had his everyday life and small family before it was taken away from him. Splinter then sighs again, shoulders drooping in defeat as he looks back at all of them.

“Okay,” He says. “You may go back up to the surface. But to fight more efficiently, you all will need a leader, someone to take charge and ensure you get home safe.” Blinking in surprise, Raph goes to speak, but Leo beats him with an enthusiastic grin.

“Can I be the leader?”

“What? No way, I kicked your butt; I should be the leader!” Raph exclaims, staring hard at the eldest.

“I’m smarter than all three of you put together; I should be the leader,” Donnie scowls, pointing at himself.

“Nu-uh, it should be me!” Mikey jumps in. All attention on Mikey, they raise their eye ridges in almost perfect unison, waiting for the youngest to explain. “I think it would be really cool.” That is all they get.

Splinter hums behind them, gathering all of their attention on him. Stroking his beard, he closes his eyes for a moment. “This is a very difficult decision; I believe I’ll have to meditate on this,” He walks the rest of the way to his room, entering silently and closing the door. They all manage to spare glances at each other before the door opens again; Splinter declares Leo the leader, and closes it again.

Leo pumps his fist in excitement, and Raph can’t help that burning feeling in his chest as he stares at his older brother. The blue turtle turns to smile at him, and Raph just feels more irritated.

“No hard feelings, eh, Raph?” He asks. Raph slugs him on the arm hard as he walks by, leaving the dojo with heavy footsteps.

-.-

“Let us out! I know my rights! Hey!” April bangs on the glass, smacking it with clenched fists. Donnie side-eyes her from his position in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest. He watches as she stops, turns around, and paces for a few seconds, muttering something before going back to the window, pounding louder. Donnie glances at the purple broach that has nearly no battery left. By his estimate, he should have roughly an hour left and be revealed as a mutant turtle to both April and the Kraang.

If this was his sister/friend’s counterpart, she’d accept him how he is and go back to yelling at the Kraang. Maybe Kirby would be baffled, asking questions like the scientist he is, but Donnie’s not sure; he never met his version of Kirby O’Neil. But the Kraang is the tricky part. Donnie knows his battle shell is busted, and it would be easy for the Kraang to pull it off to observe his natural shell underneath- observe the technodrome. The tentacles hadn’t moved since April, and her father arrived, but that wouldn’t matter since the aliens knew something was off about him. He can't risk it.

"Let us out!" April yells again, kicking the door for good measure. "Are you even listening to me?!"

They, in fact, were not.

Donnie thinks that might be his bad. He already played the role of the annoying prisoner for about fifteen hours straight; eventually, they would tune him out. Or they'll tune April out now, he supposes. It's all relative.

"I don't think that's going to work, April," Kirby sighs, shoulders hunched. "They don't seem like they care about us."

"Well, we have to do something!" She grumbles, throwing her hands up and stomping across the small jail cell. She kicks the door on the other side before turning and walking to her original position, glaring out the magenta windows.

"Trust me, I've tried. There is nothing we can do," Donnie admits, sinking lower into himself. The broach glows a faint red on his wrist, and he tugs at his holographic sweater to hide it. "Wasted a good half of the day singing too."

"Well, maybe you're not trying hard enough!" April snaps back. Donnie huffs, rolling his eyes and staring at the wall. "Oh, wait! What if one of us pretends to be sick, and the other two jump them!"

"Sorry?" Donnie questions, turning back to her with raised brows.

"I mean, they took us all for a reason, right? So they wouldn't want one of us sick or injured- meaning they'll have to check on us!"

That… made sense. If the aliens wanted them dead, they could have already done so. They needed them alive for some reason; whether lab rats, prisoners, or pets for some weird alien petting zoo, they must be alive and unharmed. Donnie straightens his posture, tilting his head at April as she smiles with confidence and a glint in her eyes that reminds him of his own April.

"...who's going to act sick?"

"You kids can't go through with this!" Kirby hisses in irritation. April pouts as Donnie scowls, staring at Kirby. "They have guns, and they'll kill you- kill all of us!"

"Then why haven't they?" Donnie interrupts. "If we could just get one of those weapons-"

"No," Kirby firmly says. "Othello, listen, it's a perilous situation, and I know it hasn't sunk in for you kids yet, but this is a matter of life or death! You're not too young to die; you understand that, right?"

Donnie understands that better than most people.

"I would rather go out fighting than stay here with whatever they have planned," The softshell scowls. "April is right. They need us for something, so what's the harm in testing the limits?" He looks back up at the door, seeing one of the skinned androids walk by. Donnie's lips suddenly feel dry as he gestures for April and Kirby to get closer. "This is our last chance," he whispers. "No hero is coming to save us, and they're moving things around- like they're leaving New York. If we leave the state, that's it; we'll have no idea where we are, no allies close by; hell, we won't even know if we can speak the language if they move us out of the country!" He leans back, gauging their reactions. He can see Kirby flicking through all the possibilities in his head, eyes darting to April every few seconds. The ginger girl has her hands balled up into fists as she clenches her teeth, the reality of this situation just sinking in.

"One try, we just gotta lure them in and get their weapon."

"Othello-"

"I know it's dangerous," Donnie interrupts, scowling. "But they won't kill us. We're necessary."

Donnie's necessary. He's sure the Kraang won't kill him. They want to find out why he's so weird. He's not entirely sure why the two gingers were taken in the first place, but there are more significant problems to worry about.

"The police-"

"The police can't help us!" Donnie snaps back. "It's aliens! What are they going to do? Arrest them?"

Kirby's lips purse in thought as he looks down at his knees. Donnie can see the gears turning in his head as he processes Donnie's words, a thin lining of sweat accumulating on his brow. Donnie keeps staring, expression flat as he stares at the only adult.

"If they move us out of the city, we'll be in deeper waters. We have to try," Donnie stresses again. Finally, Kirby looks at him, lips stretched thinly and nods. April pumps her fist beside them, smoothing out her shirt.

"I can act sick. I took a few acting classes at my school!"

"You're going to have to be very convincing," Kirby says. April waves off her father's concerns with a smile, a face full of determination.

"I got this!"

April groans and moans loudly in pain, grabbing her stomach and hunching in on herself before collapsing on the floor. Her voice is flat, almost monotone, as she cries out for help, asking for pity from the Kraang. Kirby and Donnie get into position immediately, leaning on opposite sides of the wall against the door. Donnie’s lips purse as his eyes flicker between April and the door, watching the girl squirm on the floor with thinly veiled concern.

“Oh, the pain! My stomach hurts so much!” She yells louder, reaching out to the door.

Donnie genuinely can say he has never seen worse acting in his life. He’s about to call off the operation, or at least make April switch places with him, when surprisingly, the door opens, and one of the Kraang enters holding a gun. It walks closer to her squirming form, and they take it as a queue to jump him. The softshell tackles the android by its waist, pushing it back just a few centimeters. He can hear Kirby gasp behind him and feels the android turn around, adjusting its weapon. April then joins him with a cry, jumping on its back and trying to bite the machine.

It then starts moving, walking despite Donnie’s best efforts to keep it steady. It grabs April by the back of her shirt, dropping her on the floor like a ragdoll before pushing Donnie with force. He stays upright, watching as Kirby steps aside for the android, and it leaves the cell. The door closes silently, and the Kraang stares at them unimpressed before walking away from the cell.

"...Well, that was embarrassing," Donnie coughs, feeling his cheeks heat up. "I thought we would at least make it out the door."

“My teeth hurt,” April groans from the floor. “I think I might have chipped one.”

-.-

Mikey watches the flames roar from his position on the wall, metal hooks embedded in the stone as they climb. He can hear the aliens say something to each other, but he can’t distinguish what it is from the human’s screaming, the crackle of the blaze, and the metal clangs as his brothers climb beside him.

“Lucky thing that van showed up to distract them, huh?” He jokes and hears a groan of disappointment beside him.

“That was the plan, Mikey?” Leo questions above him. Mikey turns to look at his eldest brother with a smile as the blue-clad turtle stares at him in bafflement.”Me and Raph knew Snake was hiding in the alley, so we made him think we were coming in the van?”

Mikey hums in acknowledgment, sparing a glance back to the fire the aliens (Because despite what his brothers may think, Mikey is not stupid and knows what he saw) were trying to extinguish. He makes sure to scrunch his face up in confusion, giving the eldest a blank-eyed stare.

“But we weren’t in the van?”

Leo rolls his eyes and doesn’t designate that question with a response as he keeps climbing the wall. He can see Raph and Donnie shake their heads at each other as they resume climbing, too, leaving Mikey as the last turtle in line. He can’t help but roll his eyes back, climbing the wall stealthfully with his siblings until they reach the other side. They tuck and roll down to the other side, leaving their climbing equipment hidden behind overgrown foliage. Sticking to the shadows, they find an enormous vent for them all to fit through. Donnie pries it open carefully, allowing them to enter, and Mikey closes it behind them. Their footsteps echo against the metal walls, shuffling their way through the vents and passing dust bunny after dust bunny.

He flexes his fingers, instinct telling him to grab his weapon, but rational telling him he doesn’t need it yet. His limbs, still bandaged tightly with Master Splinter’s insistence despite all their injuries having healed by the time they got to the alien base, felt wound up, like a spring ready to burst. They find an opening to the vent, peering down to pristine white halls below them. Two identical men walk underneath them, and Leo gestures for Raph to follow him. They both kick open the great simultaneously, kicking and injuring the men below until they are knocked out. Donnie and Mikey follow down, quietly landing on the cool metal flooring.

“Oh wow,” Donnie says as Mikey walks past him. “I’ve never seen anything like this! They’re using a metal alloy I can't even recognize!”

“An alloy even you don’t know about!?” Raph gasps mockingly from behind. “It boggles the mind!”

“Dude,” Donnie snaps. “You want to talk metals with me? Bring it.”

“I don’t, actually; I was making fun of you, brainiac-”

“Guys,” Leo hisses. Mikey looks at the three of them huddled a few feet away with a raised eye ridge. “What part of ‘enemy territory’ don’t you understand? We need to be quiet.” Leo then turns sharply away, heading closer to Mikey. Mikey, meanwhile, looks past his brother to Raph and Donnie, watching as the red turtle mocks the eldest quietly to Donnie. Donnie smiles at it before following Leo’s lead, the eldest pushing past Mikey to be in the front. Mikey rolls his eyes at the gesture, grabbing his nunchucks from their position on his belt as they turn the corner.

Down the hall stood many robots, sleek with purple and silver accents. They beeped quietly as they looked around the arena, adjusting their large guns with simple but effective movements. Mikey can feel his brothers stiffen beside him and feels a small surge of pride.

“Woah,” Donnie breathes, looking like he’s in heaven. “Alien robots!”

“That’s so shocking, isn’t it?” Mikey questions, “Alien robots, it’s not like, oh, I don’t know, I’ve been saying that for the past FEW HOURS-”

He’s met with three identical glares and whirs from robots as they acknowledge their presence. The robots give them no time to speak, shooting at them from afar as they walk closer. They duck and weave under the blasts, taking out the androids quickly and with more force than necessary. Parts go flying and sparks soar through the sky as metal meets metal. His brothers holler beside him as they take out their enemies, roughening them up as much as possible.

Leo takes down the last one with a slash of his katana, cutting through the metal smooth like butter. None of them have worked up a sweat, and they gather around Leo as he stares at the body with the tilt of his head.

“That was… surprisingly easy,” Leo mutters as he sheathes his weapon. Donnie crouches by the body, examining the exposed wires and smooth metal with a critical eye. Mikey keeps a few feet back; nunchucks placed back on his belt as he stares at his smartest brother.

“You would think aliens would have better- AH!?” A metal plate on the android suddenly opens, and a barrage of pink tentacles emerges. It immediately latches onto Donnie, grabbing his arm and hissing as it tries to climb higher. “GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!”

Donnie throws himself back, landing on the ground with a thud as he tries to keep his arm as far away as possible. Mikey spurs into action immediately, grabbing the creature from its stomach and prying it off. It flies onto the floor with a wet squelch, screaming at them. The youngest pulls out his nunchucks again, slapping the creature as hard as he can, knocking it out.

“See! See!” He yells in anger, grabbing it by its limp tentacles. He shows it off to his brothers, watching as they shrink back from the alien. “I told you! It’s a brain thing! But NO! Nobody wants to listen to Mikey! ‘Oh, you can imagine things when you’re put under a lot of stress!’ am I imagining it now?!”

“Okay, you were right! Put it down!” Leo says, shrinking back as Mikey holds it closer to him.

“Ugh-! It’s so slimy!” Donnie moans, rubbing his arms frantically as he rises. “It touched me-!”

“You’ll live,” Raph snaps, walking closer to Mikey. “It looks like chewed-up bubblegum.” He mutters, staring at it. He pokes it a few times with his sai, eyes squinting suspiciously. “You think all the other robots got this thing in them?”

“Pretty sure,” Mikey agrees, jostling it. It suddenly awakens, screaming again as it wraps its tentacles around Mikey’s arm. He shrieks as it digs blunt teeth into his scales, shaking his arm in a panic. Raph comes to his rescue, punching it off and allowing it to soar through the sky.

Unfortunately, it lands on a button, making the overhead lights flash pink and sounding an alarm. The alien isn’t knocked out either, scrambling from its place on the floor and hissing at them in anger. Loud metallic footsteps echo down the hall, and they all need to go, like, yesterday.

“Let’s move,” Leo commands.

“Move where?” Raph questions.

“We can follow the power conduits,” Donnie states, pointing at the ceiling. “They’re all converging that way,” He gestures down the hall, allowing them to follow his finger. “So there’s got to be something important.”

“Alright,” Leo agrees, “Let’s go.”

-.-

Thirty minutes left on his cloaking broach, and Donnie was about to kiss his life goodbye. He stayed in the corner after their botched escape attempt, huddled in on himself as his mind raced. His family won’t even know what happened to him. They’ll know he got stuck in another dimension, but they can’t help; it would be a miracle if they could recover his body. His ninpo feels emptier than before, and the softshell’s soul aches with loss.

… Donnie hopes that even with his predicament, he can join the Hamato ancestors back in his dimension.

Then an alarm goes off, the flashing lights and loud sounds like hell on his senses. He turns to look at Kirby and April. Still, they look just as lost as him, standing up in fear and confusion. Donnie unfurls on himself, getting up from his spot to head to the window, only to see a flash of green run by. Then it comes back, and he’s staring into the face of a mutated turtle. The turtle smiles warmly, showing off a tooth gap that reminds Donnie of Mikey and turns to someone behind him.

“We found them!” He yells before ducking out of view to what Donnie can only assume to be the keypad. Then there’s the sound of gunshots and metal feet stomping closer, the window lighting up with passing pink blasts.

“We’ll hold them off; you pick the lock!” Someone else yells. Donnie can’t see the battle but can hear the yells and crashing of metal just fine. He turns to look at his human companions, who look baffled at the situation.

“Someone you know?” Donnie asks, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Kinda?” April questions, still looking shocked. “We saw them when we were getting kidnapped, and they tried to stop it- We don’t actually know them.”

“Good humanitarians then,” The softshell rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, and your only hope out!” snaps the turtle from the other side. Donnie approaches the window and angles himself to see what they’re doing. It’s mostly obscured due to the angle and the turtle’s figure, but he can see them fiddling with the wires underneath the panel.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Donnie asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been studying their technology for over fifty years and just uncovered the secret on how to-! No, this is my first time hacking into something like this!” The turtle sarcastically says, rolling his eyes. He spares a glance at Donnie, and his eye ridge furrows in thought. “You weren’t with them when they were taken.”

“Nope,” Donnie says, popping the ‘P’ “They took me before those two.” He eyes the turtle’s hunched stance, mask tied around his head, and bo staff strapped on his back. He can’t tell what color the mask is, but the bo staff and sarcasm are almost a dead giveaway. His stomach squirms in realization, stepping away from the window.

“What’s so special about you?” The turtle asks.

“It’s because I’m so pretty,” Donnie responds, watching him snort in amusement.

“Sorry to interrupt,” April barges in, pushing past Donnie to look out the window herself. “But are you sure you can get us out of here?”

“Yeah, pretty sure,” The turtle nods. “Just give me a second; it’s alien technology. It’s going to be a little more difficult than normal.”

“You broke into a lot of doors, then?” She asks. The turtle moves his hands in a ‘so-so’ motion, returning to the wires.

“Not doors, specifically, but I did leak some government files online a few months ago; it’s basically the same thing.”

“That was you?!” Kirby shouts out in shock from his position in the back. “The government is still trying to find the source!”

“For what? I didn’t leak anything too important,” The turtle scoffs. “Besides, if they didn’t want their information leaked, then they should have taken more precautions!”

Donnie can respect that. He hadn’t leaked any government files (because Raph told him not to, and Papa threatened him with no wifi for a month if he did), but if they can’t keep their classified information safe, then hey! It’s fair game.

The turtle looks up at them again and tilts his head at April before averting his gaze and staring back at the mess of wires in the panel. “I never did catch your name, by the way?”

“Oh, it’s April. My dad is Kirby,” She points with her thumb to Donnie, despite the turtle not looking. “He’s Othello; we just met him.”

“Nice to meet you; I’m Donatello.”

Ding! Ding! Ding! Donnie is so tired of being right all the time. It gets boring.

He glances at his broach again, the battery dwindling to maybe about twenty-three minutes, and his heart spikes in excitement. Or perhaps fear; he can’t tell. Donnie’s lips purse as he looks back out the window to his alternate, watching as he angrily scowls at the wires.

“What kind of backward coding is this?!” He hisses in frustration. Donnie raises an eyebrow in concern as another turtle, shorter with a tattered mask and sai (Raph?), throws an android across the hall and stalks up to his alternate. He pushes the tall turtle out of the way, grabbing the sai in a three-fingered grip and plunging it into the machinery multiple times. He can see his alternate get frustrated, turning to the shorter turtle with a glare.

Donnie doesn’t hear what they say as the door from the opposite side of the cell opens, and Four androids walk in, restraining them quickly and dragging them out with heavy steps. Donnie struggles in his captor's grip, thrashing left and right, but it only tightens their hold on his body. April yells beside him while Kirby drags his feet, not slowing the android. Finally, the other door opens, and Donnie has enough time to see both turtle’s shocked faces as they’re dragged away, noting the red bandana on the smaller turtle.

They’re dragged through endless hallways, the sounds of battle getting fainter and fainter as they continue. When Donnie looks behind him, he can’t see his or his brother’s alternates anywhere, and the softshell knows he’s doomed. They’re dragged outside, the metal doors opening with a bang and shutting just as loudly. Donnie continues to struggle and tries to bite the hand holding him, but he can’t chew through metal, so it mostly just hurts him.

“Piece of rusted scrap metal!” Donnie snarls, glaring up at its soulless eyes. “I hope the Kraang can get tetanus, and I pray you get it!” The android beeps at his insult, not saying anything. It’s not the softshell’s best insult, he knows, but he was expecting a bit of a bigger reaction.

Donnie tries to activate his ninpo again, failing to get more than a few sparks of a reaction. The technodrome moves in disapproval of his actions, but Donnie can’t find it in himself to care- it has to understand that if he dies, so does it.

“There they are!” Cries a voice from below. Donnie allows himself a little hope, seeing all four turtles below. That hope is immediately dashed as their loaded in the back of the helicopter, and a giant weed-like mutant approaches the brothers with a screech. He watches as they dodge the mutant's attacks easily, rolling out of the way and striking as needed. The helicopter whirrs to life as the pilot checks the buttons and systems in front of them. Donnie growls in frustration, kicking the pilot chair and snarling. The plane starts to lift off, deafening Donnie’s ears as they lift off the ground.

“Kraang will be at Kraang drop-off soon. Tell Kraang to ready the lab.” The pilot says, talking into some kind of walkie-talkie. He gets a sound of confirmation and places the device back down, hands grabbing the wheel. Donnie flexes his fingers, staring at his unchained wrist, and then out the helicopter window to the fight down below. He can’t count on his alternate; he’ll have to make a new plan once they reach their final destination. Then he’ll have to get back to New York to reopen the portal back to his world; it might take him a few months, but Donnie is sure he’ll get there in the end. His alternate runs up to the helicopter, but it’s too late. He wouldn’t make it to them unless this turtle had a jetpack.

But Donnie is proven wrong when the turtle uses his bo as support, launching himself at the helicopter and grabbing onto the bottom, making the vehicle shudder with the added weight. The Kraang doesn’t appreciate that, and one of them opens the door to shoot at the turtle.

“Oh, good!” He yells over the roaring winds. “For a second, I thought this would be too easy-!” The Kraang aims and shoots, and Donnie takes the opportunity to shove it from behind. It stumbles and turns to him, only to be met with a shuriken between the eyes. The turtle Donatello manages to wrangle the android using his legs, launching it out of the helicopter and down to the battle below. The helicopter shudders again, and Donnie begins to slide out. He tries to grab onto something, anything, but April gets there first, holding onto his hand. It’s not enough as the helicopter jerks again, dodging stray shots and vines from the battle below, dragging April and Donnie out of the aircraft with screams.

They clutch onto each other instinctually, screaming as they plunge to the earth below. Donnie’s eyes screw tight involuntarily as his busted battle shell tries to extend its wings.

They say your life is supposed to flash before your die, every achievement and failure, your loved ones and enemies, and Donnie sees everything. Dad, Raph, Leo, Mikey, Casey, Junior, Sunita, Draxum- it’s all too much, and the softshell is so scared. He doesn’t want to die; he’s got too much stuff to do back home. He has to ensure his family is safe, and he can’t do that if he’s a pancake in another dimension-!

Something grabs them, flinging Donnie around and separating him from April. He dares a glance and finds the back of a green head with a purple bandana. April is held steady in the alternate Donnie’s arms while the softshell is forced into a piggyback ride. They skid to a stop on the pavement below, Donnie’s heart beating frantically in his chest as something screams behind them.

“Are you two okay?!” The alternate asks. Donnie can’t muster the courage to speak, giving a shaky thumbs up in response.

“My dad!” April pants out as the roar of the helicopter fades away. Donnie lets go of his alternate, landing on the ground with shaky knees and a new appreciation for gravity. They make it just in time for the grand finale of the fight, watching as the three remaining brothers lure the plant mutant to a power grid, electrifying it and blowing it to smithereens. Smoke and grass fill the battlefield, and they all take this opportunity to run, leaving the carnage behind.

They keep running, only stopping when April gets tired about 20 blocks from the site. They hide in an alley, behind a dumpster and some loose trash. The turtles don’t seem out of breath, but Donnie contributes that to their mutation, and Donnie is okay, barely working up a sweat. Slightly okay. He almost died; give him a break.

“Are you alright?” Asks the blue-clad turtle, placing a hand on April’s back. She waves him off while leaning on her knees, red in the face.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay!” She pants out. “It’s not like I was just kidnapped, then rescued by four mutant turtles while some alien creatures still took my dad away!”

“Right, dumb question,” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is there anywhere we can take you? Your house, or?”

“...my aunt’s house, it’s a little far, but I can’t go home right now- they could know where I live.”

“Okay, we’ll escort you there,” The turtle nods, then turns to Donnie. “What about you? We can take you home too- or wherever you feel is the safest.”

“No, I can get home by myself.”

The turtle raises an eye ridge and face pinched in obvious concern—his alternate jumps in with pursed lips and upset eyes.

“It isn’t safe. You said it yourself; they grabbed you first- they wanted you for something.”

“Oh, I’m sure they did,” Donnie nods, holding his hands behind his back. He plays with the broach, feeling the smooth texture and trying to still his beating heart. “But I can get home myself.”

“What? You too good to be walked home by mutants?” The red turtle asks, baring his blunt teeth at Donnie. The softshell has to resist the urge to do it back, instead leveling him with a flat stare.

“Why would I care if you’re a mutant?” He retorts, sniffing. “Mutant or not, I owe you guys my life.”

“You really don’t care that we’re giant turtles?” The orange turtle says in a painstakingly familiar voice. His chest aches hearing it, but Donnie keeps a poker face and nods. “Aw man, that’s great! I’m Michelangelo, but you can call me Mikey, and that’s Leonardo and Raphael,” He points at his two brothers before going over and clinging onto his alternate’s arm. “This is Donatello, but I think you already knew that!” The tall turtle shakes his limb with a frown, Mikey jostling but stubbornly clinging on, smiling at Donnie with dimpled cheeks. "You can call them Leo, Raph, and Donnie; it's easier!"

"Maybe we don't give out our names to strangers?" Leo questions, staring at the youngest with furrowed brows. Mikey sticks out his tongue playfully, blowing a raspberry as his alternate tries to push Mikey off with an open palm. Donnie sniffs in thought, rubbing the broach with soothing, circular motions.

“Othello Von Ryan.”

“Ooh, Classical,” His alternate compliments. Donnie’s chest feels warm, shooting a smug glare at April, which she doesn’t even acknowledge. “Reminds me of Shakespeare!”

“That’s such a dorky name,” Raph snorts.

“You’re literally named after an Italian Renaissance artist, but MY name is dorky?” Technically it’s a self-burn, but Donnie picked Othello Von Ryan, and he’s very partial to it. “Listen, I have to go. My…family is going to be worried about me, especially since it’s so late,” He pushes past them to the mouth of the alley but doesn’t leave yet. “You guys just make sure April gets home; I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Leo questions again. “We can just walk you halfway-”

“No, I’m sure,” He smiles at them, tugging at the hoodie’s sleeve before pulling up the holographic hood to hide his hair. “Thanks again for saving me, but I’ve got it from here!”

Donnie leaves the alley with that final farewell, running across the street with long and heavy strides. Once he’s sure nobody is following him, he checks the broach, noting that the battery has roughly five minutes- A swirl of blue flames dancing in his vision, breaking the illusion of the cloaking broach and leaving the turtle exposed to the world. Donnie groans loudly, rushing to the shadows quickly to stay out of sight. He’ll have to find a charger fast if he wants to keep his human illusion up, and he’ll have to refind that bodega and gather up his materials again. Donnie has his work cut out for him tonight.

Chapter Text

Leo awakens to his alarm blaring and a dull pain in his neck. He rolls over, tangling himself in his many blankets as he reaches a bandaged limb to his phone, blearily looking into the blinding blue screen. He swipes the alarm away, prying himself from the warmth of his bed with a sigh.

With heavy eyelids, Leo glances at the melatonin gummies by his bed and takes a deep breath. He forces himself to stand, picking up the bottle with a two-fingered grip. The slider can hear the bustle of his family from the other side of his wall, the clangs of pots as Mikey starts to make breakfast, and Raph speaking, muffled and indistinguishable. Leo leaves his room quietly, walking past the commotion to Donnie's room, the inside surprisingly vacant of any white noise.

"Donnie," Leo calls, knocking on the door. "I got your gummies; you can have them back." He looks down at the jar, the cartoon moon mascot grinning at him mockingly. "They knocked me out. I don't even remember falling asleep."

The slider knocks on the door again, receiving no answer. Rolling his eyes, Leo plops the bottle on the ground before walking to the kitchen with heavy eyelids. He’s greeted with the beautiful smell of pancakes and eggs, watching as Mikey stirs the batter in the bowl as Junior watches the sizzling pan with a spatula held tightly in his fist.

“....don't have to watch the pan so closely,” Dad said, squinting at Junior with a twitch of his whiskers. Junior doesn’t turn around, staring intensely at whatever he is cooking.

“I need to make sure it's perfect.”

“It won’t burn if you look away for a second.”

“It has to be perfect." Junior reiterates, eyes not moving. Dad cocks his head with pursed lips as he stares at Junior’s back before his ear twitches, and he turns to Leo with a warm smile. Leo walks past him with a wave and a sleepy 'good morning,' receiving a pat on his shell for his efforts. The slider digs into the cabinet, eyes scanning the shelf for that familiar green and blue box. Junior adjusts himself beside Leo accordingly, moving a few inches to the left, keeping a death grip on the skillet.

"Are you looking for your tea, Leo?" Mikey asks, pouring some of the batter into a small purple bowl.

"Gosh, yeah," Leo agrees, moving an older box of coco mix Mikey begged April for that he hasn't drunk. "I took some of Donnie's melatonin and need a pick-me-up."

"I already made you some, Sensei," Junior says. The soldier reaches across the oven to a dark blue teapot that Leo missed. He picks it up and grabs a mug, pouring it for Leo to take. The slider takes it with furrowed brows and a small thanks, taking a long sip. The tea was perfect, the flavors dancing on Leo's tongue and just hot enough that the slider didn't get burned, but he still got that warm feeling all over himself. Leo leaves the kitchen satisfied, going to sit beside his dad with a quick jump up the stool. He cradles the mug gently as he leans on the counter, taking another sip.

"Does anyone have an ETA on April and Cass?" Mikey questions, pouring the larger bowl of fruit and pancake batter onto a separate skillet. It sizzles loudly in contact with the metal, Mikey scooting closer to Junior. "It would suck if they had to eat a cold breakfast."

"Casey texted me," Raph says. "Supermarket was crowded, so grabbing the stuff you wanted took a while."

"Did they still get it, though?"

"Yeah, they got out like three minutes ago or something."

"Oh, cool! I swear this cake will be the most delicious- take that off the stove!" Mikey interrupts himself, flipping the pancake as he stares horrified at Junior's pan. Junior gets rattled, staring at Mikey with round eyes and a white-knuckled grip.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's burnt!"

"No, it's not!" Junior defends. "I'm just cooking off all the bacteria, that's all!"

"HUH!?"

Leo watches as Mikey shoos Junior from the stove and grabs the skillet, moving it to the back burner. The soldier wrings his hands together in anxious energy, watching Mikey breathe deeply. When the youngest calms himself down to a reasonable level, he turns to Junior and frowns, placing his hands on his hips.

"Okay, that's my fault. Should have told you that you didn't have to do that," Mikey slid the pancake off the pan, pouring more batter with practiced ease as he hummed. "Can you go start making the syrup for tonight? Try not to spill anything."

“The strawberry one, right?”

“That’s the one.”

Junior goes across the kitchen in shame, reaching the counter and cutting the tops off the strawberries. Leo stares at him briefly, smiling at the boy’s “punishment.” He also uses that word broadly; since this was pretty tame for Mikey, the box turtle usually ushered anybody else out of the kitchen for the slightest mistake. Leo would know; he still has a seven-month ban from cooking. The only time Leo can confidently say he’s allowed in the kitchen is when he’s brewing tea; he and Dad are the only two who can make it properly.

"Anyone seen Donnie?" Mikey asks as he turns his attention back to the stove.

"He's still asleep," Leo responds, sipping his drink. He might have to add Junior to the list. "Want me to wake him?"

"NO!"

Leo blinks at the unanimous response, pouting into his mug. Dad pats his shell reassuringly, and Leo can't help but lean into the touch. Raph coughs into a closed fist, standing from his position.

"I'll get him," The snapper says, leaving. Leo watches him go and crosses his arms playfully.

"I could wake him up just fine!" Leo remarks, slumping over the counter. "We only got into three fights."

"Three fights too many," Dad shakes his head, voice gravelly. "I understand that Purple closing himself off is frustrating, but we cannot help him if he doesn't want to help himself. All we can do is be there and make him understand he has a family to rely on and make himself vulnerable."

"He already knows that," Leo bites back. "He's being an ass." The slider braces as Splinter's tail moves, smacking him hard on the ankles. It doesn't hurt, but he rubs his ankles together anyway.

"Purple just needs time to think," Dad repeats with a frown. "With his mind and soul under turmoil, it has clouded his judgment and perception. We must let him come to his conclusion on his own terms."

"That's so dumb," Leo groans. Dad pats his shell again, nodding.

"It is, but that's what we have to do."

Heavy footsteps approach, and Leo turns to find Raph by himself. The slider rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his tea angrily.

"Let me guess," Leo mutters once he places the cup down. "He shooed you away?"

"He wasn't even in there," Raph replies. "I'm going to check his lab; he probably was working on something then konked out at his desk again."

"I'll go with you," Leo volunteers, shooting up from his stool. Dad makes a noise of disapproval, but Leo continues to stand. "I'll be good!"

"Leonardo-"

"I'll be so good; I'll be an angel," He walks to Raph and grabs his arm, leading him toward Donnie's lab. "Raph is going to verify it when we get back! Okay, love you, byee-"

The lab isn't far from the kitchen; it’s a straightforward path to the back of the lair to an empty station. Donnie claimed that area as his own on the first day they moved and had been taking his time modifying it just as he liked it, including the soundproof walls. When they arrive, Leo lets go of his elder brother's arm, twisting the doorknob. The door opens easily, and he waltzes in, the low LED lights illuminating the room in the barest of ways. Leo walks past piles and piles of unfinished projects over to the desk, where he finds half a cup of coffee and cloaking broaches of varying colors.

“Shelldon? Can we get some light, buddy?” Raph calls from behind. Nothing happens, the silence looming over them. “Shelldon?”

“...Check over by the escape pod exit,” Leo says, pulling out his phone. “I’m calling Donnie.” Raph follows his orders with a nod as the slider listens to the rings. It rings four times before;

“Hello, you reached Donatello, the smartest, most handsome turtle! I’m either engrossed with something in my lab or hanging out with my brothers. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Beep.

“Hey, where the heck are you? You’re going to be late for breakfast,” He looks around the lab and notes the disheveled appearance. “Also, your lab is messy; I thought you had a system-”

“Leo!”

“Call me back,” Leo orders as he ends the call. He rushes over to Raph, the snapper crouched down infront of a large silver and purple device. He finds Sheldon there, wings broken and wires exposed to the air. “What happened?!”

“I don’t know!” Raph exclaims, brows furrowing. “Raph just found him like this!”

“Donnie wouldn’t leave Shelldon like this,” Leo mutters. “Pick him up. I think we can upload him to the computer.”

Raph gathers Shelldon's body carefully and brings him to the counter in front of the computer. Leo’s lips purse as he calls Donnie again, holding the phone between his shoulder blade and ear.

“Hello, you reached Donatello, the smartest, most-” He hangs up and dials again as he grabs a spare cord and plugs it into Shelldon’s head. The phone rings again just as Leo connects it to the computer.

“Hello, you reached Donatello, the smartest-”

Click.

“Hello, you reached Donatello-”

Click.

“He’s not picking up,” Leo complains as the computer uploads Shelldon’s consciousness slowly. He watches as the bar slowly moves from 5% to 6%. “You’re sure he’s not in his room?”

“I’m sure!” Raph defends. “Did he say he was going anywhere?”

“Who’s he going to tell?” Leo rebutted, frowning at the eldest. “He’s been holed up here for days! Donnie hasn’t been talking to anyone; if he dipped, nobody will know!”

“Alright… J-just keep calling him; Raph’s going to tell everyone else.” Leo can smell Raph’s fear and anxiety as he races outside the room, redialing Donnie’s number. He keeps his eyes on the upload screen as the phone rings again and puts him on voicemail again.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up!”

“Hello, you reached Donatello-”

-.-

“I spy with my little eye…something that starts with L!” Mikey calls, kicking his feet on the roof ledge. Donnie sighs beside him, eyes sliding to the street below lazily before turning back to Mikey with a frown.

“Is it the lampost?”

“Yes! Okay, you turn!” Donnie huffs beside him and closes his eyes, pulling his knees up to his chest in thought. Mikey waits patiently, hands tapping the concrete roof and staring up at the smog-ridden sky. It wasn’t like those old picture books that Master Splinter showed them as kids, with no twinkling stars and splashes of colors that swirl beautifully. It was dark and dirty, the lights of the far-off city illuminating what it could almost magically. He wonders if that’s normal. What are stars anyway? Were they like fireflies? Giant fireflies that move around and bring brightness to other places? Do stars move? Can Mikey touch a star? How would he touch it? Donnie could probably build a rocket and take Mikey to a star.

“Mikey?” Donnie questions. “You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

“No, I am!” Mikey defends, smiling at his brother. “I can multi-task.”

“I don’t understand why you insist on playing this game if you don’t pay attention,” He huffs in irritation. Mikey frowns, keeping one hand gripping the wall as he waves the other around.

“I pay attention just fine!”

“You have the attention span of a goldfish,” Comes Raph’s voice as he walks up to them. Mikey sticks his tongue out at him as the elder sits on Mikey’s other side. Leo walks up next, sitting beside Donnie quietly and crossing his legs. “Do you even know what he said?”

“Of course I do!” Mikey’s voice raises before he remembers he’s not supposed to shout. He’s gotten better at that, but sometimes his voice raises when he gets too excited or angry. “Donnie was spying…” He looks over the city briefly before pointing at a faraway window emitting a purple light. “That window right there!”

“Were you?” Leo questions. Donnie grimaces before nodding, and Mikey smirks at Raph smugly. Raph responds with a glare and a punch to his shoulder; it stings, but Mikey only flinches a little, so he considers that a win. “Did you guys check the west side properly, or were you playing ‘I Spy’ the whole time?”

“We checked,” Donnie snaps. “You both were taking so long getting back to the meeting point. Mikey got bored, and I was roped in.”

“You like ‘I spy’!” Mikey pouts.

“Yeah, but not for thirty minutes doing nothing else!”

“Honestly, I would have smacked him in the first five, so Donnie’s doing better than me,” Raph comments. Mikey chuffs in response, rocking from his position on the ledge of the building. “The only reason we were late was because Leo-nerd-o over there wanted to check behind every dumpster.”

“Oh, real mature Raph,” Leo scoffs, leaning forward to look at Raph. “Those Kraang guys could be hiding anywhere!”

“They’re hiding in a dumpster behind a pet shop?”

“I don’t know! They’re aliens, Raph!”

Mikey tunes them out as he stares down the street below, watching the flickering lamppost. He taps the tallest’s arm, looking up at his elder brother with begging eyes. Donnie rolls his eyes but raises an arm that allows Mikey to lean on Donnie’s shoulder, humming a tune as Donnie relaxes underneath him. The tallest starts rumbling, a quiet, consistent vibration that makes Mikey feel warm and fuzzy under his plastron. Closing his eyes briefly, Mikey focuses on the smells and sensations around him, opening his mouth and breathing the heavy smog. It leaves a lingering bitter aftertaste on his tongue that tingles the inside of his mouth. When he pulls himself off Donnie, Mikey opens his eyes and stares at the neon pink sign across the street. Raph and Leo were still bickering, the words undistinguishable background noise as somebody came out of an alley.

Their dreaded black hair was pulled back neatly by a slick purple ribbon, matching their deep purple hoodie and black jeans. They tugged a beat-up red wagon behind them, the wheels squealing loud enough that Mikey could hear from his position. He watches them walk and squints his eyes at them, their form familiar. They look like- like-

“Who was that dude we saved?” Mikey asks Donnie, tapping him on the chest with his knuckles. Donnie raises his head as he turns to look at Mikey with a frown. “Not April, the other one.”

“Othello?”

That was it! That was Othello down there!

Mikey points at Othello’s small form, watching Donnie follow his finger. When he’s sure Donnie knows what Mikey’s thinking, he stands and runs off the side of the building, Leo and Raph hollering in alarm behind him. Scaling the fire escape is easy; his feet touch the concrete when Othello walks by. The boy is startled by the sudden sound, shuffling a few feet back before his eyes flicker with recognition. Mikey smiles nice and wide, keeping himself looking as non-threatening as possible when he encases Othello in a hug. Everybody likes hugs, right? But as the teen stiffens under his arms, Mikey thinks he might be touch-averse like Donnie.

“You’re alive!” Mikey exclaims, breaking the embrace. “Not that I thought you would be dead, but, y’know.”

“Uh, yes. I am alive,” Othello agrees, adjusting his grip on the wagon's handle and frowning at Mikey. “I was on my way home.”

“You live around here?”

“Not really…” Othello trails off, adjusting his body to hide the wagon more. “Is this like a check-up? Are you doing this to April, too?”

“Mikey!” Mikey’s short mask tails get pulled, and he’s dragged back a few feet unwillingly into Raph’s plastron. Smiling up at his brother, Mikey pulls himself away to stand beside him. He gestures at Othello happily, but Raph scowls, crossing his arms. Leo and Donnie stood behind Raph disapprovingly, with the former placing his hands on his hips. “You can’t just go wherever and not tell anyone!”

“I told Donnie,” Mikey defends. He shakes his hands over Othello’s confused form, like a TV host showing off a prize someone won. “But look! It’s Othello!”

“Mikey, I know you’re excited, but you can’t do something so reckless,” Leo scolds, coming closer. Mikey bites back a groan as his hands fall to his sides uselessly. “Sorry about that, Othello.”

Othello nods with a frown, eyes trailing Donnie’s form as the tallest turtle gets closer. He doesn’t block the wagon but makes no effort to move from his position as Donnie circles around, bending low. Mikey can see the gears moving in Donnie’s head as the turtle picks up some scrap metal.

“Are you dumpster-diving?” Donnie asks, switching to a broken camera. Mikey crouches beside Donnie and digs into the pile, too, grabbing a big rod and displaying it to his brother. Donnie nods in approval, touching the cool surface in one hand.

“I prefer to call it ‘Dumpster-discovering,’” Othello corrects, “If people are just going to throw out spare parts, I might as well use it. It’s also known as recycling!” Othello wiggles his fingers for effect. Mikey can’t help the chuckle that passes his beak, picking up another thing in the wagon and showing Donnie. Donnie doesn’t even pay attention, staring at Othello with a glint in his eyes and lips pressed in a thin line.

“You invent?”

“I…tinker.” His lips purse when he talks, eyes darting to the left for a second. Mikey’s brow furrows as his eyes flicker back to his brothers, but Raph and Leo don’t seem phased, and Donnie is excited. The tallest was smiling, his tooth gap on display that Othello couldn't stop staring at.

“Me too!” Donnie goes to stand, and Mikey follows suit after dropping the thing in his hand. “Well, I wouldn’t call it tinker, but I’ve made a few robots and gadgets.”

“Boring!” Raph fake coughs into his fist, Leo elbowing him in the side.

“You’re not worried about the Kraang?” Leo questions, stepping closer to Othello. “We could walk you home if you want. We’re done with patrol for the night.” Othello’s brow furrows, staring at Leo.

“You guys go on patrol?” Leo puffs up with pride, and if Mikey strains his ears, he can hear quiet rumbling emitting from the eldest.

“Someone has to keep this city safe!” Leo exclaims, going into a heroic pose with hands on his hips and stance wide. Raph snorts quietly beside him, and Leo drops the pose sheepishly. “Y-y’know, for Kraang activity!”

“That’s…” Othello pauses, looking for the right words. “Very responsible of you. But, no, I don’t need assistance getting home. I’m fine.”

“What are you building?” Mikey questions, looking back at the pile. Othello’s lips press together in a thin line as his eyes dart to the left again. “Is it a jetpack?” Mikey would love to use a jetpack. He’s almost certain Donnie can build one, but Donnie is also lame and doesn’t want to make one. He said it was “too dangerous,” and he “didn’t have the right materials,” and “Mikey, if you don’t get out of my lab, I’m going to whack you with the fly swatter.” The youngest doesn’t even think the last one was a valid reason; Donnie just finds any excuse to kick Mikey out of the lab.

“Ah, see, it’s a little something called Nunya.”

“Nunya?”

“None of your business.” It takes Mikey a second to process what he says, but Raph lets out a sharp laugh. Othello’s eyes flicker to the red-clad turtle, frowning as his shoulder shakes with laughter. “Well, if that will be all—” The wagon creaks as he begins to pull, but Raph takes two steps forward, and Othello stops. Leo pushes past Raph quickly, smiling warm and welcoming as he speaks.

"If it's not too much trouble, we have a favor to ask of you?" Othello's eyes narrow warily, head dipping in silent permission. "Our sensei is nervous about, uh, humans?"

"More like paranoid," Raph snorts. Leo's head whips around to glare at the second eldest, eyes narrowing in warning. Raph sneers at him but does nothing else.

"Nervous," Leo emphasizes. "He's worried about you and April knowing about our existence, and we were thinking if we introduced you both to him, he'll…relax?"

"Sensei?" Othello questions.

"Our dad!" Mikey jumps in. "He taught us how to be super cool and kick butt, and he's our teacher too! Oh, Sensei means teacher in Japanese; he's Japanese. We're Japanese." He turns to Donnie. "Are we Japanese?"

"Asian American," Donnie confirms.

"We're Japanese," Mikey nods. "But he doesn't even want us out here anymore! Which is such a bummer, y'know? Like yeah, we beat up a bunch of aliens and saved two people being kidnapped the first time we came up here, but it literally can't get any crazier!"

"Not the point, Mikey," Leo hisses. "Long story short: we're just trying to prove to him we can handle ourselves out here. Show maturity and responsibility, and that starts with you.”

Othello purses his lips as his eyes flicker between Mikey and his brothers before settling on Leo. He moves his leg to scratch the back of his ankle, anxiety driving off the teen in waves. They wait patiently, gauging his mannerisms as Othello finds what to say.

“That was your first time on the surface?” He asks quietly.

“And an amazing first experience, if I do say so myself!” Mikey huffs proudly.

Othello stays quiet momentarily, avoiding Mikey’s gaze and staring back at his wagon. He regrips the handle, fingers rubbing against the smooth material anxiously. They wait silently for Othello’s answer before the boy takes a deep breath, and his lips upturn in an expression cross between acceptance and a grimace.

“Do I have to meet him today?”

“Oh no!” Leo says, fighting back a smile. “We still have to talk to April and get her to agree.”

“Okay,” Othello nods. “I’m going to bring my materials home, but I typically hang out in the junkyard around 54th Street around this time. Just tell me when and where.”

They bid their goodbyes and allow Othello to leave, his wagon creaking loudly and jolting with the boy's every movement. Leo looks up at the sky with a hum for a moment before turning back to them. The eldest tells them they have to get back, and finding a sewer grate to slip into is easy. Mikey cannot wait until April and Othello meet Master Splinter. That is going to be such a good day!

-.-

Othello is an idiot. Othello is an idiot. Othello is an idiot. Othello is an idiot. Othello is an idiot. Othello is an idiot. Othello is an idiot. Othello is an idiot. His mind races as he pulls the wagon behind him, chewing the inside of his cheek in anxious energy. He practically races down the sidewalk, passing people staring at him like a lunatic.

Donnie reaches the bodega in record time, slamming the door closed behind him as he heads further into the rotting breakroom. The beginning stages of his machine lay infront of him, the wires and machinery mocking him as he pushed the wagon in as far as he could. He takes the broach off, artificial fire surrounding him, revealing his true self to the world.

“Why did I agree?!” He asks himself angrily, slamming the broach on the table. “Their first time on the surface?! And they have to deal with that?!” His back squirms in disagreement, and his arms strain as he reaches back to it in frustration. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! It’s your fault I’m here!”

The technodrome moves and shifts, and Donnie has to slam his shell on the wall to make it stop. Running his hands on his face, he slides down the wall in frustration, head tilted back and looking up at the ceiling. Their first time on the surface! Donnie and his brothers started climbing up years before that; that’s how they initially met April. But they just met their April now, and Donnie is ruining the narrative.

“Why did I tell them where I was going to be...” He sighs, eyes sliding to the wagon across the room. It was stupid and illogical, and Donnie really should be focused on a way to get back home. He doesn’t have time for all this! His family has to be worried about him, right? They’ll come for him. They haven’t been on the…best terms recently, but they’ll all still come for him because they’re family.

He stays there for however long it takes him to rebuild his courage. Standing is a chore, and his ankles pop in rebellion, but Donnie pushes through and walks to the table. The surface, which he’s sure was once a pristine white, was stained brown with unknown liquids. His blueprints lay infront of him, written on various pieces of paper and anything he could grab; his notes spilled off the pages and onto the table in black marker.

“Keep calm, Donatello,” He mutters, breathing deeply. “Their Splinter seems more strict than my own. I’ll probably never see them again!” Donnie laughs, reaching for a pencil and beginning to write on an old wrapper. Right? These two times were complete coincidences. Right. He’ll be able to work on his project in peace without worrying about his and his family’s counterparts.

“So April says she’s free next Saturday, so we were planning to introduce you guys around 9? or 10? Sometime late, so we can guide you guys down there. Oh! We live in the sewer, by the way–” Mikey blabbers to Othello three days later, smiling wide and kicking his feet from his position on the car’s hood. It’s old and rusted, and Othello worries about the youngest being scratched. Still, if his counterpart were anything like him, he would have already vaccinated his brothers against nearly everything in existence.

“And we live in this subway station, so it's kinda dirty, but not as dirty as it could be. Donnie disinfects nearly everything, even though he doesn’t really need to. Master Splinter– he’s our dad, I don’t know if you forgot– cleans too, but Donnie’s like a neat freak for common areas.”

“I’m a ‘neat freak’ because you’re a slob, Mikey!” His counterpart all but yells, holding a large steel pipe. Othello watches as Mikey sticks out his tongue, and Donnie scowls back, clutching the raw materials tighter.

“We just need you and April to make a good impression,” Leo’s voice calls from behind Othello. He looks at his otherworldly twin with a frown, his posture ridged and face smooth in a calming smile. He’s too rigid, is all Othello can think. “Get him to see that the surface isn’t so bad.”

“Are you sure that plan’s going to work?” Othello questions, raising a holographic eyebrow. He brushes his illusionary hair back, and Leo eyes it in a way that reminds Othello of his twin.

“It should; we just have to quell his anxieties.”

“Does he…know you’re bringing me down there?”

“Yes,” Leo answers instantly, his smile stretching just a tad unnaturally. Othello stares at him with narrowed eyes and hands on his hips, the turtle sweating under his gaze. Raph pushes past Leo, keeping the blue-clad turtle out of sight as he scowls at Othello. Othello reels back from the shorter turtle, watching his green eyes narrow in anger and distrust. The difference between this Raph and his own is almost nauseating, but the protective streak was still clearly there.

It must be so stressful for this Raph to keep his brothers safe. He was raised in the sewers and, never seeing the light above, thrust into a new world and reigning in all his younger siblings from danger. Othello is honestly surprised the teen hasn’t developed a severe Raph-chasm yet.

“Listen, we know what we’re talking about,” Raph snaps back, crossing his arms. “You just need to show up and make sure he doesn’t hate you.”

“I doubt that’s going to be a problem,” Othello smirks. “I’m a very charming individual.”

“Doubt that,” He snorted back. “You have all the charm of a pigeon carrying piz-za.” Othello pauses and stares at Raph incredulously. He takes a deep breath and holds a fist up to his mouth in disbelief.

“Say that last word again?”

“Pi-za?”

“Why do you pronounce it like that?”

“Wha-?! What’s wrong with the way I say it?” Raph snaps, and Othello swears he can see the steam coming off his head. Othello can’t help but frown, which makes Raph angrier, barring his blunt teeth. It’s not intimidating in the silence, and Raph gets angrier at Othello’s indifference.

“Cool it!” Leo commands, pulling Raph back by his arm. “You know the plan now, right? You’ll only have to hang out with us for an hour, maybe two, maximum.”

Othello nods in confirmation just as a loud clang echoes behind him. He turns to find Donnie and Mikey standing at a distance, Mikey clasping his mouth in shock as Donnie stares wide-eyed at a half-rotten animatronic. With dark brown fur and a chef hat, it was easy to identify the mascot. Donnie immediately drops everything he’s holding and goes for it, Mikey following his lead just a step behind, lifting its heavy mechanical leg. Othello watches in amusement as Donnie tries to carry the head and shoulders, gasping silently when some loose metal and screws fall to the floor.

“Oh boy,” Leo mutters, stepping closer to Othello. He squints at his brothers, touching his hips in concern. “I don’t think we’ll be able to bring that thing home.”

“Okay, you want to tell Donnie that?” Raph snorts. Leo’s beak purses, and slowly, he shakes his head. Othello feels a kinship with his alternate and decides to take pity on his sibling’s counterparts.

“Check the inside!” He calls, cupping his hand around his mouth. Donnie looks back at him with a glint, dropping the animatronic's upper part to rip open its gut. Donnie doesn’t say anything, but Othello can read from his body language that the turtle is devastated. Mikey leans over and places a comforting hand on his brother, saying something too quiet for the rest of them to hear. He turns to the others, and they both look very impressed.

“I’ve picked up that Alberto’s animatronic before,” He explains. “It’s prime rat and cockroach breeding grounds.” Raph shudders, face turning a darker shade of green.

“That’s disturbing to know,” Leo claps. “Okay! We will see you here Saturday!”

Othello watches as the two walk away, approaching Donnie’s prone form and crouching beside him. Well, Leo crouches; Raph stops a few yards away, feet planted into the ground as he stares hard at his three younger siblings. Othello takes a deep breath and picks up the ratty cloth bag he dropped when Mikey approaches him to talk. He lugs it over his shoulder and feels the technodrome shift from the sudden weight.

Meeting them this time wasn’t a coincidence, but this is Othello’s last time interacting with them. He’ll just help convince their father that they deserve to be on the surface, and then he can focus all his attention on getting home. He smiles as he walks back to the bodega, confident in his plan.

Chapter Text

Yoshi likes to believe he has an immense amount of patience. He believes he is a wise man, a man who has been through the deepest trenches of hell and came out the other side a better person. His sons (Beautiful, brilliant, creative, and still stupid teenagers) look up to and admire him, taking his teachings of ninjitsu to heart and applying those lessons in their day-to-day lives.

Leonardo was fearless, Raphael so protective, Donatello was the most intelligent person Yoshi had the pleasure of meeting, and Michelangelo was a well of untapped potential. He loves his sons so much and knows they would accomplish great and beautiful things if they were human. However, that is a fantasy, and the reality is that they were mutated animals trapped in the New York sewer system, fearful of the species Yoshi once was. For years, he's told his sons what could happen if they encounter a human and how, despite them being such fantastic beings, humans wouldn't understand that.

Yoshi isn't sure he would have accepted them without raising them.

He stares at his children, eyes flickering between their sheepish forms and the two humans behind them, faces flat as they whisper amongst themselves. His ear flickers in irritation, catching bits of their conversation likely too low for the humans to hear.

"...your idea!"

"..Leo should…"

"..we're so grounded…"

At least they were self-aware.

"Are you going to introduce me?" Splinter asks. They freeze with hunched shoulders before casting Michelangelo out of their circle. The youngest freezes, fists clenched at his sides and eyes wide in alarm, as he turns around and tries to force his way back into the group. They don't allow him, keeping the youngest facing Splinter with a deer-in-the-headlights look that reminds Yoshi of a sacrifice. When Michelangelo realizes they're not letting him back in, he takes a calming breath and steps forward.

"So!" Michelangelo smiles unnaturally, eyes just slightly too wide. "This is April and Othello! We met when we went to the surface; you remember that, right, Master Splinter?" Splinter raises an eyebrow, watching his son get more anxious under his gaze. When the turtle looks like he's about to burst from nerves, and his other son's eyes keep bouncing between himself and the young humans, he speaks.

"I do." Michelangelo claps, smoothing his face into something more natural as he gestures to the two humans, looking back at them. If Splinter assumes correctly, the girl, April, awkwardly waves as Othello squints at him with a raised eyebrow, which is just rude. He's the one in Yoshi's home.

“They’re very nice people!” His youngest continues, rushing behind his brothers and pushing Othello forward. The boy stumbles before righting himself, hand clenched tightly around an odd-looking bracelet. “Othello is really smart and builds stuff like Donnie! He also goes dumpster diving and has really nice hair!” Splinter nods at the boy, and he repeats the gesture. Michelangelo then clasps hands with April, bringing her closer while she sweats under his gaze.

“April here likes crocheting and is in her local chess club. She also has ginger hair, which matches my mask! See?” He points at his mask enthusiastically, letting April’s hand go. The three stand awkwardly in the triangle Michelangelo created, staring at Yoshi and vice versa.

It wasn't their fault that his sons dragged them down here. But they, April specifically, were anxious and afraid, unsure of the next step. Yoshi takes pity on them and smiles warmly. He bows his head, and when he pulls himself back up, he sees that Othello copied the movement while April stares.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both," Yoshi says, hands slipping from his robe. He holds out a hand to April, and she grabs it hesitantly. "I am Splinter. Thank you for indulging in my son's antics."

April smiles, a small, shy thing that doesn't show teeth, while Othello bobs his head. Yoshi holds his hand for Othello next, and the young man grasps it firmly. He smiles at Yoshi, lips pulled up as though he was trying to be genuine, but it looks unnatural.

"I'm Othello Von Ryan," He introduces, giving one last hard tug to Yoshi's hand and releasing. Yoshi can't help but feel like the boy is analyzing him, observing his fur and movements with a critical eye. He remains tall, letting him know that Yoshi is unfazed by the scrutiny. "I must admit when they mentioned rat, I thought you would be…"

Othello pauses as if searching for the right word. Silently, he raises an arm to Yoshi's height, then lowers it to around hip length, knees popping when he squats. "...Shorter. Considering rodents aren't exactly large creatures."

"My mutation was created in odd circumstances," Yoshi retorts, shifting his tail. "I suppose the human genes were stronger than the rats." Othello hums, face flat and eyes twinkling in thought.

"But you've had no major issues from becoming a rat? Loss of color, of sight–?" April pushes herself forward, shoving Othello behind her carelessly as she brushes some ginger hair back.

"I must say, Mr. Splinter, you have a lovely home!" She compliments as Othello scowls behind her. "It's a real pleasure to meet you; I've heard so much about you!"

"Oh?" Splinter questions with a tilt of his head. "And what do my sons have to say about me?"

"Like that, you're their teacher and a rat… and…" She hesitates for a moment, lips pressing in a thin line. "That's it really, that's all I have." Othello covers up a laugh behind her as the girl stands straighter. "But I am hoping to learn more about you!"

Not if Yoshi has anything to say about it.

"Speaking of learning more about each other, I would like to speak to you both in the dojo," his eyes flicker to his sons. "Privately. Boys, you four stay out here."

"But–"

"Master Splinter–"

"We should really–"

"I don't think–"

He holds up a hand, and their protests die quickly. They all slouch in on themselves, with Raphael kicking his foot in protest and Donatello holding himself nervously. Yoshi then waves the two humans closer, instructing them to go down the hall and turn left. They leave, and once Yoshi hears the familiar sound of the door sliding open and closed, he turns to the boys. His face is set in a frown as Yoshi gets down from his position on the higher step, approaching his children swiftly. Splinter holds onto Michelangeo’s shoulders, looking down at the youngest.

“What is the matter with you four?” He questions, gaze shifting over the top of the turtle’s head to stare at the other three. “Bringing not one, but two humans down here– and showing them where we reside?!”

“Master Splinter–” Raphael starts, but Yoshi shakes his head.

“I don’t want to hear a word, Raphael,” He hisses, letting Michelangelo go. He can feel a dull ache in the back of his head and closes his eyes tightly. "We will speak about this later, I cannot believe you boys would do something so irresponsible! I have told each of you countless times what could happen if humans knew of your existence, yet you four blatantly disobeyed my teachings!"

Yoshi's grandfather must be rolling in his grave; the old man always griped and moaned about how Yoshi was a troublesome child. He said that Yoshi didn't understand the type of stress a parent goes through to protect their child and that Yoshi would understand when he had children of his own. Splinter dismissed it, as all teens do when they believe their parents were exaggerating, but Oiji-san was right! Yoshi has never felt so old and stressed in his entire life.

He sighs, holding tight on his cane as he stares at his boys. They fidget under his gaze, gravitating slowly to each other as the seconds tick by. Yoshi then turns, walking back the way he came. "None of you better eavesdrop on this conversation," He warns. Yoshi pauses, turning his head to look at his sons from the corner of his eye. "Donatello, I mean you specifically."

"I can't anyway," the tallest grumbles, pouting at the floor. "You never gave me back my spy cam."

Yoshi nods, resuming his walk back to the dojo. He'll talk to the children, convince them to leave and never return, and everything will be fine.

-.-

"Is that a tree?" Is the first thing that April says when they reach the dojo. Othello stares at the impressive piece of botany with a raised eyebrow, tracing his fingers over the cloaking broach slowly.

"I think it's the Empire State Building," He sarcastically replies, walking past her to sit by the plant. Othello can practically feel April scowl behind him and hears her approach a second later. "What do you suppose Splinter wants to talk to us about?"

"He's probably going to threaten us." April sits cross-legged on the floor, placing her hands on her knees as she faces the door. "It's what I would do if I were him."

"You would threaten people you just met?"

"Wouldn't you?" April retorts, turning to face Othello. He stares at her as she runs her hands through her hair. "The turtles are nice, maybe too nice, and yeah, it's great they saved us, but…" She sighs, gripping her knees as her eyes slide over his form. "I wouldn't expose them. But if they met someone malicious…"

"I would never expose them," Othello snaps back, scowling at the mere suggestion. He would never hurt his family, alternate or not, and the thought angers him.

April holds her hands up placatingly, and Othello huffs in irritation. "Touchy, damn. I'm just saying it's dangerous for people to know about them. Have you ever seen the movies?"

Othello doesn't have to see the movies; he practically lived through it. The only reason Othello and his brothers are still alright is because their New Yorkers mind their business. This New York, as empty as it may be, may not have the same luxury Othello and his siblings have. Plus, Othello has yet to see a trace of a Hidden City, or an equivalent or somewhere the mutated family could retreat to if the worst comes to pass.

"Splinter must be pulling his hair out worrying about them… His fur out? It would be fur, right?”

“It is fur,” Alternate Splinter confirms as he opens the door. April stiffens, smiling nervously at the rat as he approaches, sitting on the mat across from them. Othello stares at this weird, proper version of his father, watching as he stands ridged with narrow eyes. They stay silent, watching the other party for a few seconds before Othello coughs into his fist.

“I understand you’re worried,” He begins, the rat’s eye moving to him and just staring. It’s a much more intense gaze than his papa’s, staring at Othello with wariness and a hint of contempt. It stings a little, but Othello can’t hold it against him. He doesn’t know who Othello is, and he needs to protect his own sons, his own version of Donatello. “But I assure you, we would never hurt you or your sons.”

“And how can you guarantee that?” Splinter asks, voice steady and low. “You know nothing of me or my family, and I know nothing of you both. Your words are as valuable as sand in a desert.”

“They saved us,” April jumps in. “They’re heroes. Without them, I would be locked in some faraway lab like… like my dad. Because of them, I’m here, safe, and can fight to get my dad back. They’re my heroes, and they didn’t have to save me; they did that from the goodness of their hearts. I would never repay that kindness with malice– I would never endanger them.”

Splinter says nothing, while April’s face practically screams sincerity. Othello licks his suddenly dry lips, Splinter’s ear twitching in his direction before the rat stares at him with those cold eyes. He feels like a specimen in a petri dish, only there to be observed before being shoved in the back of the fridge, forgotten about until Raph finds it and thinks it’s something edible. There’s a lump in his throat, and Othello has to force himself to swallow.

“They’re good people,” He says lamely. “You should trust them more.”

“I trust my sons just fine.” Splinter retorts, nose scrunching in disgust. “It's the humans I don’t trust.”

“Humans aren’t all bad,” April argues. “I know it might be difficult for you to understand because you never lived with them, but not everybody has malicious intents!”

“Never lived with them,” The rat scoffs, clutching at his robes tight. “I know of humans plenty.”

“Not enough.” April snaps back. "You wouldn't understand, but humans are complex creatures, and not everyone is malicious or cruel! What would you know about humans anyway?" Othello can’t help but cringe; if this Splinter was like his own, then–

“I was human.” There it is!

April reels back, eyes wide in shock from the rat’s words. They let the moment sink in, each lost in their thoughts. Finally, Splinter sighs again, raising his head high, looking down at them from his snout.

“Do not talk to me about what humans are like; I have been betrayed before by the ones I loved. Those people up there have no obligation to me or my family down here; they would hurt us the first chance they get."

“So you’ll keep them in the sewers their whole life?” Othello asks, raising an eyebrow. “Locked away, never experiencing the world above?”

“They have everything they need down here.”

“What do they have?!” Othello scowls, shoulders hunching and leaning forward. “You’re the one who goes dumpster diving for them; they’ve been stuck eating algae and worms their whole life. You have a VCR player! You cannot tell me straight-faced that your sons would be happier down here.” Othello shifts, back squirming in discomfort.

“I’ve seen how excited Donnie and Mikey got at the junkyard when they were going to get me. Leo and Raph were so interested in the world around them, and they all looked out for each other. You’re just going to take it all away because you’re paranoid? What happens when you’re gone?”

“Othello!” April hisses beside him, but Othello is angry. It’s not fair. It’s not fair! Othello and his brothers were let on the surface at an early age. They learned to adapt to the world around them and gained survival instincts they wouldn’t have otherwise. This Splinter is depriving them of that, and for what? Othello doesn’t get it; was he intentionally being stubborn?

“The world doesn’t stop when you’re gone. Do you expect their lives to end with you?”

His chest feels hot as they’re plunged into silence again. Splinter stares at them, and Othello can practically see the gears turning in the rat’s head. As the seconds tick by, Othello loses steam, and a wave of dread and nervousness kicks in. His throat feels like it’s closing in on himself, and his back shifts and moves in response. It takes a lot of self-restraint to stay still, keeping his eyes leveled on Splinter, even when he wants to look elsewhere. Splinter eventually closes his eyes, hands still clutched on those pristine robes, looking like he was praying to the gods.

Did Othello mess up? He said the wrong thing, didn’t he? Usually, Othello doesn’t care about his blunt nature; it’s who he is, and his family understands that— sometimes, they even joke about his flat voice with him. But this is a new situation, with someone who doesn’t get Othello’s way of speaking. Did this Donnie talk like him, too? With a monotone voice that he has to force to get certain inflictions? Did Donnie have trouble getting his brothers to understand him when he was younger? Was Donnie even like Othello?

“You’re right,” Splinter says at last. Othello lets go of the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. “I can’t keep them down here forever, no matter how much I want to. They’re their own turtles: brave, strong, smart, and kind. They need to learn eventually.”

Holy pizza above, Othello should get a job as a therapist. Joking, that’s Mikey’s dream job, not his. Also, Othello thinks he’s drained of making people have epiphanies for a while.

The two humans remain still, watching Splinter's prone form and closed eyes. Eventually, those eyes slide open, the rat staring at the ground between them and back hunched with nerves. He looks older this way, no longer a pillar, but a concerned father against the world.

“You must understand,” He says quietly, like it’s shameful. “I have to protect my sons. They’re all I have. I’m all they have. I don’t want to attack or harm a child, but if it’s for the safety of my sons—”

“I understand,” Othello interrupts. April nods beside him. “I know they mean a lot to you.”

“Of course they do. They’re my children. You two wouldn’t understand until you have kids, but a parent would burn the world to keep their child warm.”

“We won’t let anything happen to them,” April reiterates, smiling and showing off her teeth. “Besides, they know where I live, so…” She jokes, and Splinter huffs. He pulls himself back up, holding his hands together and staring at the two of them with softer eyes.

“I’m going to put my faith in the two of you,” He says, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’m putting my sons' safety in your hands. Do not screw up.” The last part is said lower, a clear threat if Othello’s ever heard it.

“They’ll always be safe with me.” Othello guarantees, and he surprises himself with how sincere he sounds.The technodrome pulsates in his mind of home, family, friends, echoing in his head for his whole soul to feel. It’s warm, like a cup of cocoa in the dead of winter. It feels right.

“Thank you,” Splinter breathes, ears flickering to the door. “You two should leave now; I hear my sons getting anxious about the results.” He goes to stand, and Othello and April scramble up after him.

“You don’t want to be the one to tell them?” Questions April as Splinter walks by them to a small room Othello didn’t initially notice. The rat shakes his head, turning to face them with one hand on the door.

“I’m going to meditate on this. Besides, they’ll probably be happier hearing it from their new friends.” He slides the door closed, leaving April and Othello standing underneath the tree awkwardly. Othello shrugs before gesturing at the door, smiling at the Ginger. She smiles back, leading the way out of the dojo.

-.-

Shelldon doesn’t sleep. He’s an android; ‘sleeping’ for him is just humanizing his charging stage. Shelldon doesn’t exist when he’s asleep. Sure, his brain and core systems are in there somewhere, but they’re not active. When Shelldon “sleeps”, he does not exist.

Until suddenly, he does.

Shelldon blinks back into existence, not in his agile turtle-like body but in Donatello’s master computer. The screen illuminates the lab, showing the aftermath of Donnie’s experiment, with papers strewn everywhere and bits of half-finished projects littering the floor. Damaged parts lay far in the corner of the room, dented and dinged from Donnie’s frequently growing rage fits and various liquid spots staining multiple parts of the lab.

Shelldon ‘blinks’ in surprise, processors whirring in thought. He shouldn’t be on; last he remembers he was with Donatello before—

“Donnie!” Shelldon can’t help but shout, distressed beeping from his extensive and immobile body. The portal, the prison dimension! The shutdown code didn’t work! He observes the area where the portal once was, the control panel looking worse for wear, but they could fix that! It shouldn’t take too long! He just needs, needs-

Shelldon tries to hover before remembering his situation. Okay! Okay, he can’t move, but his bros! They must have plugged Shelldon in, and they must have seen the state of the lab. He starts a group chat, remotely ensuring access to their volume and raising it as high as possible before texting.

Shelld0n:

COME TO THE LAB NOW!

Masterchef:

!!!

The_Leader:

Holy shit Shelldon, are you okay?

Shelld0n:

Who cares! Just get to the lab now! Leo!

TheCoolTwin:

got it

Familiar swirling blue pools open above the lab, bodies dropping from the sky and each landing on their feet effortlessly. Shelldon is staring at the whole Hamato clan as he buzzes with nerves. They stare at him with wide and curious eyes before Splinter pulls himself forward, standing tall despite his short stature.

“Where is Donatello?” He asks, face set into a deep frown. That spurs the rest of them on

“Why didn’t he say anything? Mikey.

“He wouldn’t leave you like that.” Leo.

“He’s not picking up.” April.

“Was he attacked?” Cass and Casey.

“Woah, wait, dudes!” Shelldon tries to reign in the crowd, but they keep talking over each other, demanding answers. He can’t think; he needs to get the story straight to get Donnie back as soon as possible. Shelldon pulls up airhorn.mp3, playing it as loud as possible without damaging anyone’s hearing. Everyone flinches back, but they settle down, staring up at Shelldon.

“Donnie’s in another dimension,” He says bluntly, pulling up ALPHA blueprints for the portal. “He made this device to travel to other dimensions,” He pulls up a PNG of an arrow, making it point over to the machine. Eyes flicker there and back as Shelldon continues his explanation. “I can probably figure out which one, but I can’t get you dudes there because the control panel is broken. We just got to fix it; you guys go in, get Donnie back, and then we’re all good! Any questions?”

Hands raise, with Mikey reaching the highest and Draxum the lowest. Shelldon would roll his eyes if he had any currently, pulling up another arrow PNG and points into the crowd.

“Mikey.”

“Why would he do that?” Mikey stares up at Shelldon with a tight frown. “He had no reason to; the Krang are gone—”

“Correction, only two are ‘gone’; the sister is in custody. Custody, she might be able to escape from.”

“But she can’t do what the other two can.” Junior interjects, looking at the rest of them, “The youngest infects; the eldest is the most strategic. She was bloodthirsty but the least threatening of the three.”

“Considering she is still a Krang, y’know, an alien who decimated the Earth in an alternate timeline, she is still a threat.” Shelldon snips back. "He was trying to find a way into the prison dimension without Mikey using his magic."

“Are you telling me he’s in the prison dimension?!” Splinter demands, eyes wide with dread and tail flickering. Shelldon feels the computer’s fans whirr faster and wants to shake his non-existent head.

“No. definitely not.”

“How do you know?” The rat presses, clutching his shaking hands together. “Shelldon, if there’s any possibility–”

“There is no possibility because I locked it!” He snaps back. Shelldon didn’t exactly see what happened that night before he was called out to douse Donnie in the antidote, but he saw enough and made sure to restrict access to that particular dimension. “Donnie doesn’t have access to that dimension; nobody has access unless I unlock it, which I’m not going to do!”

“So, where is he?” Raph questions, voice soft. Shelldon tries to calm himself, the fans moving slower in response.

“I’m not sure yet; I have to calculate that.”

“If Donnie was that worried about the Krang sister, why wouldn’t he tell us about it?” Leo questioned, hunching down on himself. The slider holds his arms together, staring at Shelldon with scrunched brows and a tight frown. “I know we’ve been fighting, but—”

“It’s not because you’ve been fighting, dudes,” Shelldon sighs. The android shouldn’t; Donatello would be furious if Shelldon revealed the reason. But he can’t leave them all in the dark either; they need to know. They deserve to know. Maybe they could help Donnie better than he can. “Listen, I can show you; Donnie’s been keeping these logs about his… condition?”

“Condition?”

“Just, uh, hold on. It would be easier if I showed you.” Shelldon has to dig through a mountain of files to find the right one, and even then, he has to unencrypt twenty-three layers of security just to pull it up to the desktop. They all stare at him inquisitively as he presses play, and his father pulls up on the screen holding a cup of coffee.

“Today is Friday, August 19. Just two weeks after the initial Krang invasion, and I made a terrifying discovery. The Krang has many intriguing pieces of technology; they’re even like a type of biotech themselves, but all of that pales in comparison to the Technodrone–"

Chapter Text

“...we have to be realistic. We sealed only one of the Krang, but their technology and influence remain here. The Krang sister is still in this universe, and as terrifying as it is to say, she could get out of government hands. Three aliens brought about the apocalypse and were close to doing so again. I can still feel-”

Leo can't tear his eyes away from the video, clutching his phone tightly. Shellon was kind enough to send him the files at his request since it was common knowledge that Donnie would probably delete them when he returned. The softshell isn't getting out of this conversation. To snap at them is one thing; to push them away and carry all the burden himself, to allow the Technodrone to control his movements and some thoughts practically is another.

In the background, Leo can hear his family talk, words indescribable as he focuses on the phone. He's going to help. They wouldn't make the portal alone, but Leo needed a minute. He hunches in on himself, twisting his body to sit cross-legged on the stool. Breakfast lay before him, long since forgotten and abandoned, with half-eaten meals adorning every plate.

Leo replays the video, seeing Donnie's tired expression. With his bandana off, you could see the heavy bags under his eyes while he stared at the camera with a dull gaze.

“Guess who had a total of twelve hours of sleep in six days and just unlocked DIMENSION TRAVEL!”

"Nobody asked you to do that," Leo mutters as the video switches perspectives. "I shouldn't have pushed you away. You shouldn't have to take on the burden by yourself. I was just mad."

Leo seems to do a great job at pissing off his siblings. He did it with Raph, and he did it with Donnie– it's only a matter of time before he irritates Mikey before moving into everyone else in his family. And then they would all push him away because he's a useless burden.

The slider sighs, rubbing the back of his head as the video continues to play, showing precisely what the technodrone did. He pauses the recording and can't help but zoom in. The tentacles cradled Donnie's hands, emerging from his shell like blooming roses. His twin was stuck in fear, eyes wide and lips pressed tightly together.

How much did the Technodrone control? Was Donnie ever in control of his actions? Did they fight because Donnie was his usual snarky self or because this alien controlled him?

Their most recent argument is burned in his mind. With words dripping in scorn and things that should have never been said. What if Leo never sees his twin again? He didn't even get to apologize.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

"You've been locked in here for three days," Leo groans, sitting in Donnie's rolling chair and kicking himself away from the computer. Donnie doesn't even turn to face him, writing something in a notebook across the room. "Don't you miss the sun? Vitamin B?"

"It's Vitamin D," Donnie corrects, crossing his legs in his chair. "I'll go out later."

"Uh-huh," The slider raises an eye ridge, making himself go in lazy circles. "You said that like a bajillion times already. Do you even remember what color the sky is?"

"Orange," Donnie answers confidently. Leo stares at his brother with a tight frown as the softshell straightens and finally looks away from the notebook, bewildered at his words. "I meant blue. Sorry, I just–" he cuts himself off, brows furrowing. "Can you stop spinning? It's distracting. That's why I got the answer wrong."

"You weren't even looking at me!" Leo scowls, kicking his feet on the ground and making himself go faster out of spite. His twin scoffs, looking back at his notebook and writing something quickly. “Donnie, I’m being serious; you need to go out into the world! Kick your feet up! Feel the wind in your hair!”

“What hair?”

“Spirtual hair,” Leo nods. “I can see you having black hair. Maybe some of those braided ones? The twisty kind like we saw in that magazine.”

“You mean locks?”

“I think that’s what they’re called, yeah,” Leo leans back in his chair, throwing his head back behind the headrest. Donnie hums in acknowledgment, marking another annotation. He thinks the softshell is drawing, but he's too far away to see. The chair moves lazily again as he thinks of what to say next. "I would have blonde hair."

"You're of Japanese descent." Donnie points out. Leo can't help but scoff, shoulders hunched as he stares at his brother.

"Dyed hair then, whatever!" Leo stands, stretching his sore arms as he strides over to Donnie. His twin isn't looking, yet he still freezes at the proximity and closes the book shut. The slider can't help but frown, placing a hand on a cocked hip. "We should do something today! Cass mentioned a basketball game happening downtown, or we can go to the Hidden City! I saw this board game shop and thought it looked pretty cool!"

"No thanks," Donnie frowns, eyes scanning Leo's body. The slider can't help but feel weirdly analyzed, like a bug under a microscope. He stands straighter as the softshells eyes land back on his face. "I have too many things to do and–"

"Blah, blah, blah, work, work, work– you need a break!" Leo mocks, using his hands as puppets. Donnie pushes past him, shoulder-checking him on the way to his computer. "Why won't you hang out with us? Huh? Do you hate us? Don't you love us? Is this a loveless household?"

Donnie takes the spot where Leo sat, swirling the chair to face the screen. Something beeps and whirrs in the background as Donnie boots up the screen, the wallpaper appearing after only ten seconds. He watches as Donnie types his password in and then goes to open something. Leo isn't sure what it is, but a small black box appears with white text, and Donnie starts typing.

"I'll hang out later," Donnie mutters, the keyboard clicking almost deafening. "You guys just enjoy yourselves."

The slider's chest feels hollow. He's left standing awkwardly across the room, staring at the back of Donnie's head. Donnie sits perfectly still, back straight, and eyes focused on the screen, a clear sign that he thought the conversation was over. Leo takes a few seconds, does a squat, then pulls himself back up and approaches Donnie again, leaning on the back of his chair. His twin says nothing, eyes darting between line after line of text and hands flying across the keyboard.

Leo rests his head on Donnies, arms limp by his side as he tries to keep up. Eventually, it feels like too much, and his eyes slide closed unwillingly.

"How's your arm?" Donnie calls up after a beat. Leo hums, eyes sliding open and looking at the loosely bandaged limb.

"Better," His eyes slide over to Donnie's shoulders, the small piece of battle shell he can see almost mocking him, the green scales underneath a muddy blue and purple. There's a small emergency release button somewhere on Donnie's shoulders, but the softshell only ever told Dad and Mikey. "How's your back?"

Donnie stiffens underneath him. "My back?" His fingers hover over the keys, the softshell’s body completely immobile. "Why are you asking?"

"You have bruising on your shoulders."

Donnie immediately rises, hitting Leo as the slider recoils and hisses in pain. He clutches his chin, eyes welling up with unshed tears as Donnie turns to him, scowling.

"Get out."

"For what?" Leo bites back, rubbing the spot.

"Just– get out! Get out! I don't need you in here!"

"You're kicking me out for being worried about you? When's the last time you took off that shell, huh?!"

"None of your business!" Donnie snaps, hands clenched into fists. He practically shakes in anger, face pulled into a nasty snarl. "I don't need you in here distracting me and asking all these dum-dum questions! I have work to do! Unlike you, who can laze around all day!"

"Laze around!?" Leo's voice raises against his will, and he sticks a finger on Donnie's plastron. "I was injured. You were injured. Everyone got hurt, and we've been trying to get you to rest despite that! What have you even been doing these past few weeks?! You don't come out, you don't talk–"

"I don't need to talk; I need to work!"

"You need to calm down!" Leo snaps, baring his teeth. Donnie repeated the expression, smacking his finger away. "You think I want to be here asking you to chill out? Donnie, I was almost locked away in another dimension forever. As soon as I crossed that threshold, the Kraang tried to kill me! I should be on bed rest, yet here I am talking to you!"

"Then leave! I didn't ask you to come in here!"

"I came in here because I love you, asshole! Because you've been overworking yourself, and everyone's worried!"

"I have a job to do–"

"Yeah, so do I!" Leo interrupts. Donnie stands tense, shoulders raised, and fists clenched. Has his twin always been so thick-headed? He's been more aggressive since the Kraang invasion, and Leo can't stand it! He's trying to help; they've all had. Why can't Donnie see that?

"I'm doing very important business here, important work that will benefit all of us! I need all of you to get off my back!"

"Dad made me the leader because he wanted me to look out for everyone–"

"Papa made you the leader because that's what you were made for!" Donnie snaps back. "I looked at Draxum's initial files; each of us was supposed to fill a role in his army! You were literally created to be a leader!"

When did that happen? Donnie and Draxum weren't close enough that the softshell would ask for files willingly. He's not a fan of Draxum either, saying the Yokai was too pretentious for his liking. But Leo always caught Donnie making vague threats at Draxum whenever he brought up the time Draxum threw him off a roof, so he's almost positive Donnie has a solidarity thing going on with him.

"It doesn't matter what I was made for! That's not even the point–"

"You were made for leadership, just like I was made to be smart. Just because you don't want to reach your full potential and be useless doesn't mean I have to be! So let me work!" A horrible silence washes over them, Donnie's chest rising and falling aggressively at his words. Leo's chest feels fuzzy, like static on an old TV. He stands up straighter and feels his lips quiver against his will.

"You think I'm useless, huh?" Donnie must have just processed his words because his face fell into shame immediately. His twin licks his lips, shaking his head lightly.

"N-no, I just–"

"Just what?" Leo is ashamed to admit it, but his voice cracks.

Donnie and Leo are twins. When Donnie got scared at night, he went into Leo's room and vice versa. Leo goes to hang out in Donnie's lab when he gets bored and lets the softshell ramble on and on about a new gadget when the slider couldn't care less. They've told each other secrets they've never spoken to anybody else. Leo knows so many of Donnie's fears and insecurities and never, not even at his angriest, would use that against his twin.

Donnie stares at him, horrified, seconds ticking by as his mind races with what to say next. Leo scoffs, kicking the chair between them closer to Donnie, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when he hisses from it rolling over his foot.

"Whatever. Call me when you get your head out of your ass."

Leo turns and stomps away from the lab, making sure to slam the door as loud as possible as he does so. His eyes sting with more unshed tears as he walks past the rest of the family and heads to his room. If Donnie wants to be a jerk about everything, fine! Leo can be a bigger one because he's not apologizing first.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

“...we have to be realistic. We sealed only one of the Krang, but their technology and influence remain here. The Krang sister is still in this universe, and as terrifying as it is to say, she could get out of government hands. Three aliens brought about the apocalypse and were close to doing so again. I can still feel-”

Leo pauses the video and closes his eyes. He hopes Donnie is safe wherever he is.

His family is still murmuring in the background, their voices like white noise to Leo's thundering thoughts. His head is full of static ideas and half-formed thoughts passing through quickly, each more depressing than the last. The frozen, horrified expression of Donnie stares back at him. He can't find the words or think– what if he never sees Donnie again?

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Leo turns to look up at the scrutinized face of Raph. His bandana was tied around his neck, his upper head covered with smears of oil and soot covering his forehead. The snapper frowns at him, reaching over his shoulder and tugging away the phone. Leo allows it, hunching on himself more while Raph sits across from him.

"You doing okay?" Raph asks, crossing his arms on the table.

"Like, physically?" Leo mutters into his knees. "Just peachy."

"And mentally?"

Leo doesn't say anything, but Raph understands anyway. The snapper shifts in his seat, fidgeting with Leo's phone gently, closing out of the video. Leo watches as the Snapper turns off the phone, placing the device screen on the counter. He moves away from the table, hands on his knees, as he leans closer to Leo's still form.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Leo shakes his head. He feels disgusting; he doesn't deserve comfort. He should have realized his twin was in trouble. Raph shifts in front of him, and Leo watches as his arms open for a silent hug. He throws himself in his elder brother's embrace, and Raph holds him tightly. He melts in the embrace, the static in his head quieting to a manageable level. They say nothing, Raph gently rubbing his shell in small circles.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," Raph says after a beat. "But Donnie knows you love him. Just like how Raph knew you loved me when we were fighting."

Leo says nothing, all his effort to keep his breathing steady.

"We'll get Donnie back," Raph continues, sniffing in thought. "And I'm going to ground him when he gets back."

"Are you even allowed to do that?" Leo softly asks. Raph's grip tightens.

"Pops is already talking about it; I'm just burying him."

Leo's eye ridge furrows, and he pulls himself away from the embrace, staring up at Raph in confusion. The snapper's face reveals nothing as he stares back at Leo, face serious.

"Y-you're what?"

“He is going to the ground. Raph's borrowing a shovel from Casey, and she will help me dig a big hole.”

Leo wheezes, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Raph closes his eyes and nods, placing his hands on his hips. He risks another glance up at the snapper and sees his lips quiver, wanting to become a smile.

"I don't think you know how grounding works," Leo jokes. Raph scoffs, lips finally curving upwards.

"It's either in the ground or no technology at all. I think he would prefer the dirt."

"He probably would!" Donnie would go absolutely feral without his phone. Leo breathes deeply, feeling a sense of calm washing over his form. He perks up, jumping off the stool and stretching, turning back to Raph and grabbing his large hand. Raph's eyes slowly open, and he stares at their interlocked fingers.

"Up! Up! We have work to do, and I need to stop thinking!"

"You can think?"

"Oh, hahaha. You're so funny." Leo attempts to drag Raph up, struggling to move the snapper even an inch but leaning back as far as he can.

"Are you going to talk to us if you start thinking bad thoughts?" Raph questions, watching Leo struggle with amusement.

"Maybe!" Raph stands, making Leo stumble back a few inches before catching himself.

"If you don't, Raph is going to sic Mikey and the Casey's on you."

"Oh god." His brother throws his arms around Leo's shoulder, leading him back to the lab. Leo feels better and knows they will get Donnie back one way or another, even if they have to bring the softshell back kicking and screaming.

-.-

Othello stares down at his blueprints passively, rereading his handwriting repeatedly. It doesn’t make sense. The words look like random shapes and scribbles, indistinguishable from a child’s drawing. His eyes squint as he lifts the pain paper, bringing it closer to his face as though that would help. He doesn’t usually write like this, right? He’s pretty sure. Othello’s handwriting was proper, not quite cursive, but close enough that some confuse the two (read: Leo and Raph). When did his handwriting become like this?

He tosses the paper back down, reaching for another sip of his caffeinated juice. He grimaces at the taste, the caffeine buzz doing nothing to help his growing headache and slightly blurry vision. His eyes close unwillingly, holding the can tightly in his hand as he goes to sit on an old, rusted folding chair. It justles the bottles beside him, the loud clinking of pre-made antidotes almost deafening in the quiet shop. The soft blue glow illuminates the chair’s legs, casting short shadows on the hard floors.

His back hurts. His eyes hurt; everything hurts. It’s so hard to be alone in this world. Finding things he needs is easy, but Othello doesn’t think he can keep fighting the crushing loneliness. The alternates weren’t the same. Nothing was the same. This whole world is stupid, and Othello hates it. He hates them. He hates this world. He wants to go home.

He wants his dad. He wants Raph, Leo, and Mikey. He wants to joke with April and explain science to Cass and Casey. He wants to give Shelldon upgrades and debate stupid stuff with Draxum. It’s only been a few days, but Othello has never been alone for this long; someone is always one room away, if not right beside him in his lab.

Othello’s stomach rumbles uncomfortably, and he instinctively curls in on himself. His scales brush against the exposed metal uncomfortably, but Othello doesn’t care. Why should he? He can handle a few scrapes and bruises as long as he can get home soon. His stomach twists and churns tightly, and Othello realizes that he hasn’t eaten anything in the past few days.

When did he last eat? It must have been back in his home dimension— he remembers Mikey dropping off a sandwich infront of his lab doors. Did he ever finish it? He doesn’t think so, or at least he can’t remember.

His back shifts, and he can feel the voice in his mind. Hungry. Eat. Consume. It repeats the mantra, and Othello rolls his eyes. It wasn’t this needy the past few days, but he supposes it reached its limit for patience. He forces himself to stand, his knees popping as he stretches. If he gets home, his brothers will be worried about his diet; Mikey especially.

He slips on the broach before he leaves, tying back his locked hair and rubbing his chin in consideration. He knows where some restaurants are, and although it's not exactly sanitary, he can dig in their trash for spare food.

The walk is long and tedious, his feet sore as he walks alone in the dead of night. The air was getting colder, a chill settling in and keeping a majority of New Yorkers inside. However, that seems to be the norm for this wack version of New York. With every step he takes, the technodrome seems to call out louder and louder, Eat. Hungry. Consume.

“Not far now,” Othello mutters to himself. “One foot infront of the other, just keep it moving.” Othello doesn’t know how long he can keep moving, how long he can keep surviving in this world. Could he even live by himself here?

His feet keep moving, keeping his head up as he scans his surroundings for any threats. The technodrome doesn’t seem to care for his diligence and keeps screaming for food. Othello isn’t confident about how long he walks, eventually passing by an alley behind a small sneaker shop. He hears rustling and thumps, people speaking in hushed tones, and laughing harshly. He stops just a few paces ahead of the opening and can’t help but listen in.

“Load the truck, hurry, hurry!”

“We’re going to be so freaking rich!”

“Nice work with the lock, Kendra!”

“It was easy! Now keep loading!”

Othello really shouldn’t turn around. It’s not his business, and he shouldn’t keep interfering with the events of this world. They have their version of him and his brothers, not to mention actual human cops. He just has to keep walking, find food, and return to the bodega. Who cares about a sneaker shop getting robbed?

“Think I can keep a pair for myself?” Someone asks, holding a box of purple and black designed shoes. Someone else chuckles behind them, throwing another box into the back of a white van. There was a total of four thieves: three men and one woman. Othello keeps them in his sight as he peeks from the mouth of the alley, their backs turned as the woman and another man duck into the shop and bring out more shoe boxes. He sighs heavily, cracking his neck before removing the broach and exposing his turtle form.

“That doesn’t belong to you!” He calls out, drawing their attention. They stare at him in shock, eyes wide as one of them points at him.

“Oh my god, it's a walking iguana!” The woman (Kendra?) Smacks him in the back of his head, scowling at the slightly lankier man.

“That is obviously a turtle, Jason!” She snaps, turning to Othello and scowling. “A freak of nature, clearly.”

“Number one, that’s really rude. Number two, can you guys just put the stuff back? I’m not in the mood to fight with anyone tonight.” If Othello is right, he knows exactly who these people are, and he’s already regretting returning to this alley.

“And how are you going to beat us?” Asks a tiny Asian teen. He sticks his tongue out at Othello, and the softshell rolls his eyes as the last member covers their mouth.

“What do you care?” Asks the tallest man, hand still covering the small teen’s mouth. “You’re like a mutant or something, right? Laws don’t apply to you.”

“Yeah, but I have morals, unfortunately.”

“You don’t want to mess with the Purple Dragons, freak!” Kendra snarls, subtly getting into a fighting position. The others follow her lead, fists raised in anticipation of the upcoming brawl.

“Guess we’re doing this,” He sighs. Jason rushes at him, throwing a right hook at Othello’s head. The softshell ducks quickly, allowing the man to stumble to the floor as Kendra manages to kick Othello back. His chest stings from the kick as she returns for another hit that Othello manages to block. Her punches were fast and relentless, barely allowing Othello to get a hit in. He can see the other two men load the van even faster, grabbing whatever they can, probably planning to break for it as soon as the fight concludes.

He hears the running steps of Jason behind him and ducks just as the man throws another punch, doing a sweeping kick next that topples both of them. Othello scrambles back up, running to the last two, landing a flying kick on the biggest that sends him into the smaller. They groan in pain as Jason comes up from behind, aiming a punch at his head. Othello moves his head, the man’s arm extending past his shoulder, and quickly grabs and slams him into the pile.

“Why do you keep punching if you know it doesn’t work?” Othello asks the groaning man. He doesn’t get an answer as Kendra tackles him from the side, the two falling onto the concrete harshly. She manages to wrangle on him, keeping Othello pinned as she punches his head. The softshell sees stars, face sore as she hits him again. And again. And again.

He doesn’t lose consciousness, which he thinks is the worst part. When she finally decides he’s had enough, she rises. She wipes her lips, smearing blood across her face as she turns to her colleagues.

“Pathetic!” She spits at them. “You three were taken down by one measly, disgusting mutant!”

“He’s really good?” Jason questions, and she scowls at him.

“Shut up, Jason. Load the rest of the truck before I beat you up like I did him.”

They follow her orders with an affirmative, grabbing the last of the boxes. She turns to look back at Othello, scowling at his prone and bruised form. When she turns to head back to her crew, Othello reaches out a hand and grabs her ankle, stopping in her tracks. Kendra turns back to him angrily, his hand still clenched tightly on her leg.

“You’re still awake?” She sneers. Othello says nothing. His mind feels like it's full of static, and his back squirms angrily, the technodrome saying something:

Fight. Win. Eat. Consume. Hungry.

It’s loud, it’s so loud. Othello’s so hungry.

She crouches down, staring at Othello as he focuses on keeping his breathing steady. Her face is twisted in disgust as she brushes back a lock of dyed blue hair behind her ear. The technodrome screams at him as she gets closer, observing Othello with a critical eye. Her lips curl into a smirk, eyes shifting to her companions behind them.

“You think some rich fuck would buy this freak?” She asks, reaching down to Othello’s arm. Her fingers pry him off, and she takes his pulse. “He’s a little damaged, but they would probably still take him.”

“Or we can sell him to the government!” The smallest chortles. The technodrome seethes at their joke, the command getting louder.

Fight. Win. Eat. Consume. Hungry.

Hungry.

Hungry.

Hungry.

“I like the way you think, Sheldon!” She yells back, finally turning back to Othello. Everything hurts, it’s pathetic.

Eat.

Eat.

Consume.

Win.

Othello lunges, mouth wide as he aims for her throat. She’s startled, moving out of the way just in time for his teeth to dig into her shoulder. Blood pools in his mouth as she screams in pain and alarm. Othello pays no mind, biting harder as she attempts to shove him off. The men drop everything they’re holding, immediately coming to her aid and grabbing Othello by the base of his battle shell. They grab his shoulders, fingers tugging and pulling, and something clicks. His battleshell is removed with a hiss, the technodrone finally allowed freedom.

The tendrils shoot out erratically, wrapping around their mouths and limbs, immobilizing them as Othello rips the female’s flesh. Tears well in her eyes as she collapses on the ground, clutching her bleeding shoulder in fear. Fear for him? Fear at him. Just as it should be.

The technodrome has a mission to fulfill, and pathetic humans will not stop it. The three males struggle behind him, and it squeezes, its host protesting in the back of its mind. It swallows the protein, satiating its hunger slightly, as it turns back to the males, throwing them across the alley– focusing on the female infront of it. He hears the males screaming, footsteps thundering further and further away, as the female focuses on their retreating forms behind it.

Hungry.

“W-wait, please! I was joking about the selling thing! P-please! I don’t want to die!” She begs, scooting as far back as she can. The technodrome drools, staring at the human as she begs for her pathetic life. It takes a step forward, and she flinches, the scent of fear and blood swimming through the area. The crimson liquid stained her clothes beautifully, pooling around her playfully as it should.

It pushes her down with its foot, keeping her prone as she struggles underneath its strength. Its host is weak; strength sapped away from lack of food. The technodrome needs to be at optimum capacity to survive, and if its host won’t provide it, it will fix that. It opens its maw, its sharp teeth dripping with blood, and the female flinches. It moves, lunging at her, only to feel something tug at it in the back of its mind.

The host wasn’t happy.

Stop.

No.

Good.

Please.

It snarls, teeth-baring down at the female. She flinches at the sight as the technodrome sends messages back.

Hungry.

Fight.

Win.

The host practically screams in its head, asking, begging the technodrome to spare her. They need to survive, and the planet is infested with millions of humans; what’s the harm in losing one? Its host pulls at their connection, and it snarls again. The human underneath shudders and cries at the sight, clutching hard at their shoulder.

Food.

Soon.

Dumpster.

The host promises. Why should the technodrome wait if there was perfectly good food infront of them?

Please.

Scared.

The host is afraid. The technodrome can’t have that. If they are to be together, the technodrome needs the host to accept it. It allows the host to take back control, settling into the back of their shared mind.

Othello has never been so afraid of himself in his life. He takes his feet off Kendra, her blood still dripping from his mouth as he backs away from her crying form. She looks at him through teary eyes, face twisted in fear, and Othello can’t handle it.

He runs.

Othello slams into a car on his way, enough to dent the side door and make the alarm echo loudly on the silent street. He runs back the way he came and past the bodega until he finds himself in a small park infront of a fountain. His chest heaves with breaths, staring at his bloodied face in the water. The technodrome growls with hunger in his mind, and Othello feels like crying. He dunks his head in the water, the surface a pale red when he brings himself back up. His limbs are shaking, and Othello barely has enough in him to place the cloaking broach back on. His bloodied form is disguised with his human form, and Othello grabs himself in comfort. Everything hurts. His head is full of static, and the technodrome screams at him to eat something. Anything.

A pigeon coos beside him, and Othello turns to look at its bright orange eyes and tilted head. His stomach growls, and his head is pounding from the screams. He’s too far from any nearby restaurants, and he wants silence.

A bird would be better than a human, right? Right.

He reaches for the unsuspecting animal. All Othello can hear is crunching and his muffled sobs.

Chapter Text

Othello doesn't leave the bodega the next day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Eventually, a week passes, time marching forward sluggishly, with only his thoughts and the technodrome to keep him company.

He can't eat or drink, and his head hurts too much to work on the machine. He's left in the same position, hunched in a corner and staring at the far wall. The technodrome moves, sometimes, whispering comforting words in Othello's head. He hates it. Yet he can't block it out, considering it's directly in his brain.

It wiggles again today, tendrils climbing up and down Othello's back, its voice soft, hoarse and demanding;

Rest. Turtle. Food. Work.

The thought of eating is nauseating. It makes his throat feel tight, and his palms shake, and Othello doesn't want to eat. He doesn't want to do anything; he wants to lay here and rot. It's what he deserves, anyway.

The technodrome lashes out in disagreement, the whiplash hard and aggressive in his mind. Othello sighs, eyes sliding beside him to the soft blue glow of antidotes beside him. It’s a chore to grab a bottle and uncork it, pouring the viscous substance on his head, it sludging slowly down his back. The technodrome hisses in anguish, finally silencing under the molasses-like texture. It drips off of him slowly, barely illuminating the floor and staining the ground. His mouth still tastes like blood, although Othello can’t tell if it was from Kendra, the pigeon, or from biting the inside of his cheek for the past few days.

“Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium,” Othello starts, shifting to look up at the ceiling. “Beryllium, Boron. Boron, Boron.” Mikey liked that element, right? Or was that Leo? Does it even matter anymore?

His eyes shut, licking his dry lips. His head feels like it's spinning, and being plunged into darkness seems to help, even if it's not by much. Othello’s eyes slide back open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He wonders if his family is okay. Would they even recognize Othello like this? Dazed and confused, covered in dried blood and Kraang tentacles?

"Carbon, Nitrogen–”

Othello knows he has to get up. The antidote can only hold off the Kraang for so long, and the turtle already used a large amount in the past few days. He has to get ingredients to make more and has to get supplies to work on the half-finished portal. He has to do something, anything. The technodrome whispers in his mind, too quiet for Othello to catch, and he reaches for another bottle. It hisses in anger, curling up like a feral cat in the far corners of his mind. When he drops his arm, realizing he only has two bottles left, it quiets down.

He forces himself to stand, feeling lightheaded and achy all over. His footsteps are heavy when he walks to the table, staring at half-empty cans and his terrible handwriting. Othello can't help but reach for one, taking a sip of old caffeinated juice. It tastes horrible, the top of the liquid covered in a thin layer of dust.

It quells his thirst, Othello crushes the can after, with the aluminum bending far too easily in his three-fingered grip. His eyes squint as he looks back at his notes, the handwriting still unknown and foreign to him. Othello's head pounds as he picks up a neon pink flier, the back repurposed to fit in the blueprint. He doesn't remember writing this one, the scribble foreign to his muddled brain.

Food.

His shoulders hike involuntarily, and he has to force himself to breathe. Othello is up, and he's not hungry, why can't he just relax for a little while longer?

His hands clench instinctually, the sound of crinkled paper and dented metal filling the room. His jaw then locks, teeth grinding together in defiance to Othello's suggestions.

Hungry.

Provide.

Control.

Get me food or I will take control.

The message is clear as day, and Othello hates it. He has to force his hands open, the sound of metal hitting tile echoing around the small room. His jaw stays locked as Othello forces himself to turn back to the chair. The technodrome is wary at first before Othello reaches the vials. It lashes out immediately, voice raised in pitch and ringing in his skull. It gives him a headache, and the softshell can't help but cringe, hand gripping loosely on the vial.

The technodrome wanted food, right? Othello wants this thing off his back, but not everybody gets what they want. He grabs his cloaking broach next, putting it on and tucking the antidote underneath his wristband. It digs into his scales, feeling uncomfortable and foreign, but it does its job.

When he leaves, Othello doesn't stray too far from his base. There are apartment buildings nearby, old and dirty with people who waste food. He jumps into the dumpster, falling carelessly onto the garbage bags underneath, and sits for a moment. He can hear the subtle sound of bugs scurrying and sighs heavily, sinking deeper into the garbage– is this what his life is now?

He gropes the surrounding trash bags, finding the nearest and ripping it open. He doesn't move as his hands dig into the mess, feeling hard plastics that bump together from his rummaging. He touches something squishy and pulls it out, stuffing it into his mouth unceremoniously. It tastes disgusting, mushy, and moldy, with hints of garlic and basil, and he has to force himself to swallow. Othello involuntarily shudders, swallowing back the bile that threatens to come back up his throat.

He wipes his slimy fingers on the bag next to him, staring up at the night sky. The technodrome quiets down, humming something in the back of his mind. Othello's eyes close against his will, and he listens. It doesn't say anything of value, the words are not really words, but more like feelings of longing and family. It makes his chest feel heavy, the faces of his own family like fuzzy whispers in his mind. They overlap with the alternates, faces flickering between the two slowly like molasses.

"What do you consider family?" Othello asks aloud, keeping his eyes shut in thought. "Those other Krang heard you, do you consider them family?"

His chest fills with disgust, and the technodrome whispers again.

Family. Krang. Donatello.

"Ugh. I'm not your family."

Family. Turtles. Donatello.

"I'm not–" Is it even worth fighting against the alien? Is it even an alien? It was living technology, does it still count?

Alive.

"I know you are," Othello concedes, opening his eyes. "Great pizza, do I know."

It wiggles in delight in his mind, Othello feeling a phantom of a smile from the technodrome. He reaches his hand lazily into the ripped bag beside him, digging far into the latex.

Alive. Family. Donatello. Krang.

Othello pulls out another mushy pile, pulling it closer to take another bite. His stomach squeezes and churns, and he wonders if it's from the conversation or food.

He chews slowly, counting as many stars as he can see. With the heavy pollution against the inky black sky, Othello can only count up to three. His eyes never leave their target, as he asks another burning question:

"Do you like being with me?" They've been attached for months, with the Krang controlling his battle shell and whispering in his mind. Othello doesn't like their arrangement and especially doesn't enjoy their recent experiences. But the technodrome is alive, it controls and talks to Othello purposefully. But is it doing that of its own free will? Does it even have free will?

Host. Donatello. Mine. Krang.

Othello's eyebrows raise involuntarily, and he leans in his elbows as he drags himself to a sitting position.

"That's–" The words are caught in his throat as a fresh trash bag lands on his chest, knocking all the air out of his lungs. He's caught between a hiss and a grunt, displeased at the sudden addition. He shucks it off carelessly, as a voice calls above him.

"Woah! My bad, dude!" Othello peeks over the dumpster to find a teen, with greasy black hair held back by a bandana wearing a hoodie and ripped jeans. He squints his eyes at the teen, and the human holds up his hands in peace. "Sorry man! I didn't know you were in there!"

Othello sighs, rubbing the back of his head with his semi-clean hand. "You're good."

Othello adjusts himself in the dumpster, getting ready to leave the filthy container. The black-haired boy takes a step back, watching Othello jump onto the concrete.

"Uh, you hang out in lots of dumpsters?" The kid asks, eyeing Othello from head to toe. Othello sniffs, scratching his forehead.

"It seems to be happening more often these days, yeah," Othello admits, hand dropping. He stretches, feeling his shoulders pop before he turns on his heel to face the alley. "Well, anyway, I'm just going to–" The softshell takes three steps before the boy calls out to him again.

"Hey, do you need, like…Food or something?" He questions. Othello's stomach rumbles quietly, and the technodrome squirms in delight at the prospect. He takes a deep breath, letting it go as he turns back to the kid.

"I'm okay," He forces himself to spit out. The other stares at him in scrutiny, brows furrowed as he stares pointedly at his hoodie. Othello can't help but feel self-conscious, bringing his hands forward to cover himself as much as he can subtly. "Thank you for your offer."

"Dude, you were eating out of a trash can." The kid points out. Othello cringes, but shakes his head, keeping himself held high.

"I was not."

"Well, you weren't dumpster diving. Plus, I can see some spaghetti sauce on your hand." He gestures to Othello's hand and the softshell looks. His hand was stained a deep red, smelling heavily of garlic and basil. Was that really what he was eating? His fingers feel sticky and uncomfortable, and he clenches his fist. The color is a bit too close to something else for Othello's liking.

"That doesn't mean I was eating it," Othello retorts, to the kid's unimpressed face. "I wasn't!"

"There's sauce on your face."

Othello immediately tries to wipe it off, turning so his back faces the boy. His arms come up clean as the kid laughs behind him, and Othello knows he's been had. The softshell turns and scowls, the kid smiling lazily at Othello's glare.

"Listen, man, I'm just offering you a sandwich if you can wait a second."

The technodrome is practically screaming in delight, urging Othello to take the deal, hungry for something other than scraps in the trash. He can't help but wince, his ears ringing with the aliens wants. Hesitantly, Othello nods, holding his hands and rubbing the broach methodically.

The boy smiles, showing off a wide gap in his crooked smile. Then he turns and rushes up the apartment stairs with haste. He can hear the thudding of shoes hitting tile get quieter and quieter the further the boy goes, eventually leaving Othello with only his thoughts.

The softshell plops himself down on the concrete, the cool surface a welcomed surprise. Bringing his knees up to his chest, Othello places his chin on top, feeling the technodrome practically celebrating with excitement for actual substance, although a sandwich wasn't its preferred choice.

His stomach churns again, and he feels some bile rising but pushes it back down. His companion doesn't seem to like the implication that Othello doesn't enjoy the same food because it squirms again in annoyance and defiance.

Good. Protein. Meat.

He rolls his eyes, bringing his forehead down, and curling up into a ball. The street is quiet, with just the occasional breeze and honk of a horn a few streets down. The loudest thing is Othello's controlled breathing, each intake deafening to his ears.

"I hate you," Othello whispers, frowning at his legs. It doesn't move, pausing as if looking for the words to say. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Love.

The feeling is so loud and aggressive that Othello's head whips up in shock. He can feel it to his very core, that singular word carrying so much weight to the technodrome. Othello swallows and stares hard at the ground, heart beating loudly. He can't hear anything else; the whole city is suddenly silent.

"This is not love," Othello finally spits after a few heavy beats. "None of this is love. Do you even know what love means?"

Family. Mine. One.

Othello reaches for the vial under the broach, and the technodrome lashes out in anger and despair. Without his consent, his arm jerks back, hitting the dumpster behind him with too much force, denting the material. It stings, and when he looks back, his arm is already starting to form a deep bruise.

"Actually fuck off," Othello hisses angrily. "This is not love; it's a sick obsession, one of which I don't want to be a part of."

The technodrome doesn't respond, and Othello has control of his hand back. He flexes his fingers, the muscles contracting uncomfortably as he stares at his five digits. He tucks it underneath the holographic hood; the fabric is soft and plush against the scales underneath, and he stares at the concrete. Time ticks by uncomfortably slow, with seconds becoming minutes as Othello awaits the boy’s return. His hearing returns in the meantime, now accompanied by the shifting and scurrying of bugs and rats. Othello tries to keep track, counting each second slowly before he hears the thundering of footsteps down the apartment stairs.

The boy kicks open the door, holding a large plastic shopping bag over his head, a smiley face greeting Othello with the message, “Have a nice day!” The door slams into the wall behind it, approaching the boy again fast, and he just kicks it again, leaving the stoop and approaching Othello with long strides and a wide smile. The softshell can’t help how his face scrunches, staring up at the teen with a raised eye. The boy doesn’t even look phased, bringing down the bag and plopping it on Othello’s knees, the container heavier than what it’s supposed to be for one sandwich.

“Uh?” Othello says intelligently, holding the bag steady. His hands grip onto a Tupperware container and something round and circular through the thin plastic. The container is large and rectangular, and when Othello shifts it, he can hear something other than sandwiches inside.

“I didn’t really know what you liked, so I just grabbed turkey and junk and made some basic ones. No mayo or anything–but I did put in some chips and two water bottles,” the boy counts on his fingers as he lists everything he gathered. “Plus some mustard packets we had and some napkins.”

Othello grips onto the plastic harder, eyes tracing over the bag. The technodrome is so delighted at the prospect of food, whispering something in Othello’s ear that he has to force himself to ignore it. He looks back at that boy, his jagged teeth somehow reminding him of his own alternate, and his chest hurts. He swallows a heavy lump in his throat and looks back down at the bag.

"Are you…crying?" The boy questions, and Othello wipes at his definitely dry eyes.

"No," He defends. "There's garbage in my eye."

The boy doesn't respond, waiting for Othello to collect himself. It's hard to, with Othello feeling a deep sense of longing and hurt in his chest. He takes a few shuddering breaths, unable to get a full take of oxygen in, and the air he does breathe feels heavier than normal.

"I-I uh," Othello swallows again, forcing his head up to look at the boy. "Thank you."

"It's not a big deal!" He chortles. "Casey Jones helps people in need; that's just what he does!"

Casey Jones… Cassandra? Or Junior? He bears a striking resemblance to both, and Othello can't tell which alternate he is supposed to be.

…It's funny. Despite being an alternate of his friend and not knowing Othello, they still act exactly like both of his. Othello's lips curl up into a smile, and he clutches the bag tighter.

"Thank you," He repeats, because this is a big deal. Othello can't help the tears that continuously prick at the corner of his eyes, watching as Casey flushes from embarrassment. “This means… a lot.”

The technodrome wiggles in agreement.

"Like I said, no big deal!" Casey reiterates, avoiding Othello's gaze. "Just enjoy them, all right?" Othello nods, and Casey turns to leave. He watches the boy go, the door clicking silently this time and his footsteps fading with much less haste. Othello has to take a moment to breathe, adjusting his grip on the bag to hold it properly in a one-handed grip.

He marches out of the alley soon after, returning to his base in record time. The door creaks loudly open, and he has to force it shut behind him. Nothing has changed since he left, with papers everywhere and the area smelling slightly damp and musty. He plops back to his initial seat, tearing open the bag to find everything Casey mentioned, with the sandwiches contained in large Tupperware.

He salivates at the prospect of food, ripping the top off for his tasty prize. It smells heavenly, packed to the near brim with six whole sandwiches on white bread. Othello grabs the first one, uncaring about his dirty hands, and takes a bite.

The technodrome screams.

Othello gags, mouth suddenly feeling like it's full of ash. The food rolls out of his mouth and onto the floor unceremoniously as Othello chugs the water Casey provided. He downs about half a bottle, wiping his mouth of the droplets that escaped his thirst and disgust. Othello stares hard at the sandwich, carefully picking up the top layer of bread and observing the fillings inside.

“Lettuce, tomato, cheese,” Othello mutters, pulling each layer back. “Turkey…” He takes a quick whiff of his meal. “Doesn’t smell rotten…” or poisoned, but Othello doesn’t want to think Casey would intentionally hurt someone. Well, Cass would have, but that’s more with fists and full-on brawls since she considered things like poison to be cowardly. Would Junior have poisoned people? Not intentionally, surely, he's just a really bad chef.

Othello hesitantly removes the bread and sniffs the surface again. He takes a singular bite and recoils at the flavor, spitting out the morsel on the floor with the others. It’s just bad bread; Othello can remove it and eat the rest of it just fine. His stomach squeezes as some dark thoughts roll in his head. Slowly, he peels off the lettuce and takes a small bite.

It’s vile, and Othello chokes on the leafy green. He dispels it immediately, faces scrunched up in thought.

“No,” He whispers, grabbing the tomato next. It’s the same. The cheese. Ash. “No, no, no, please!” He grabs the chips next, ripping the bag carelessly as the snack flies through the air. Othello grabs the closest chip, stuffing it into his mouth and tasting the exact same thing.

He gags, clutching his mouth and forcing it closed as his body involuntarily gags. Othello forces himself to swallow, body heaving with disgust and bile pooling at the corner of his mouth. The technodrome doesn’t like Othello’s course of action, tentacles creeping up his shoulders and tilting his head, forcing him to look at the ruined remains of his sandwich.

Meat. Protein. Eat.

Protein… Protein? Othello reaches for the discarded turkey, bringing it up to his mouth and taking a tentative bite. His mouth explodes with flavor, tasting something he’s never felt any other time he had a slice of sandwich meat. Othello can’t describe the sensation, the meat feeling refreshing like water in a desert.

He scarfs it down quickly, reaching into the other sandwiches and pulling out the turkey from each. They’re all gone in no time, and Othello is left licking his fingers as the technodrome coos in his ear.

Meat. Protein. Good.

Othello rolls his eyes, reaching for the vial again, the technodrome retreating in response. It doesn’t control his hand this time, allowing Othello to pour the viscous substance on top of his head, finally quieting the alien down.

“Protein…” Othello mutters to himself, shaking his head and splattering the antidote all around. He leans back on the wall, sighing heavily in despair. "Carnivorous, then."

His mouth is a weird mixture of ash and meat, the flavors swirling on his tongue, and his throat clenches. The softshell stares at the remaining parts of the sandwich and his stomach growls in want.

It's not fair. Othello finally gets proper food and this stupid alien won't allow him to eat. His chest swells with anger, and Othello throws the Tupperware as hard as he can, the plastic clattering on the far wall with the ingredients scattering.

He feels hot, hot, hot and his mind is racing. A growl rips from his throat, and he stands, picking up the chair beside him and throwing it.

Othello continues like this, snarling and slamming objects, being mindful to avoid the portal or his schematics. Everything else was fair game, and by the stars above, did he destroy. His chest is heaving by the end of it, and Othello is just so angry.

"Fuck you!" He growls to the silence of the room; to the silence in his head. "You did this to me, and now I'm stuck like this! Stupid, stupid, dumb, stupid— ARGH!"

He throws an old box TV, lifting it with ease and slamming it on the wall. If shatters loudly, glass shards littering the floor as the old technology dents like an aluminum can. Tears prick at his eyes, and he wipes them away in frustration.

"What do you even want with me?" Othello moans, already knowing the answer. "Can't you just let me have this? You've already taken everything else in my life."

The technodrome stays silent, not moving in the face of Othello's anger. The softshell is left to stand alone, crying and frustrated, with nothing but his own thoughts and the mess strewn around him. And somehow that just makes it worse.

-.-

Metal and materials shift around Donnie slowly, as the tall turtle digs further and further into the dumpster. The smell was nauseating, and he had to hold his breath as his hands touched the raw materials inside. Luckily, as a mutant, he can hold his breath for longer than the average human, but not as long as the average turtle.

Raph stood outside the trash can, looking out for any wandering humans or Kraang, with Leo and Mikey sitting high above them on the roof. The aliens (and isn't that interesting! Extraterrestrials!) have been quiet for the past few days, with Donnie not seeing hide or hair. But they were all on edge, and Splinter said if one of them had to go to the surface, all of them had to go.

"Can you hurry it up in there?" Raph hisses above him, tapping the trash can. Donnie can't help but roll his eyes, stuffing an old gaming console in the tote bag by his side. It's difficult to get deeper in the trash with half his body sticking out, but Leo said not to go fully into the garbage because 'we don't know what's inside!' and 'you could get a disease!'. Which he has to scoff at, they've all been vaccinated for years, with Donnie giving them new appropriate shots every year while they sleep.

Not that they know that, of course. Mikey is just afraid of needles, and then it was easier to get everyone in one go while they slept, so he just kept doing it.

"You can't rush science, Raph," Donnie huffs, tossing a matted dog chew toy out of the trash. He can hear it squeak as it hits the far wall, and Mikey gasping above them. "There's so many things to explore and create, and—"

"Blah, blah, blah," his brother interrupts in a mocking tone. "Donnie, it's cold out here and I want to go home!"

Donnie's face scrunches up in consideration, sliding back from the dumpster to its ledge to stare at his older brother flatly. Raph states back at him with crossed arms and a firm scowl, jaw clenched tightly.

"You're always cold."

"And?"

Donnie rolls his eyes, sliding out of the garbage. He reaches into his pouches, pulling out some disinfectant wipes and cleaning his hands. Mikey and Leo join them on the ground floor after a beat, Mikey immediately racing to the dog toy from earlier. It squeaks loudly when the youngest presses it, cradling it like he has the world in his hands.

"You're not keeping the toy," Leo says, not looking at the youngest. Mikey squeaks it in retaliation, frowning at the back of Leo's head. "You found everything you need?" He asks Donnie. Donnie can’t help but smile, adjusting the bag as the innards clank around.

“Almost?” He questions. “I’ve never really made anything like this before; I’ve never had to, y’know? So, I’m fairly certain I can either finish it completely or get fairly close, all things considered. I’m really just worried about the power source since—”

“Oh my god,” Raph groans beside him, shoulders slumped. “Why would you do this, Leo? He’s not going to shut up.”

“Normal phone batteries are made of lithium, and that’s something people normally throw away! It’s why they tell you not to just throw away batteries, since it—”

“Do you think we’re going to have numbers?” Mikey asks, squeaking the dog toy again. Raph scowls and makes a grab for it, but Mikey pulls it away at the last second. “I don’t know if I can remember that many numbers.”

“Then there's also the internal wiring and hooking it up to both wifi and a satellite. Obviously, we don’t have one, so I’m going to have to—”

“Yet you can say the entire pilot episode of Space Heroes word for word?” Leo questions, crossing his arms. Mikey frowns, adjusting his grip on the toy and giving it another gentle squeeze.

“That’s just because you keep watching it,” Mikey retaliates, turning to look at the eldest. “Have you considered that you’re obsessed?”

“I’m not—”

“And then there's the moral implications of hacking such a high-tech company like Pear or Samrung—”

Raph reaches over and finally steals the toy from Mikey, throwing it at Donnie. He catches it easily because, of course he does, squeezing the dog toy gently and it releasing another squeak. He looks at it, and beady button eyes stare back at him before finally turning to his brothers with a frown.

“I don’t want this,” He tosses it back gently to Mikey, but it gets intercepted by Raph, who chucks it out of the alley angrily. Mikey lets out a small gasp, frowning at the loss of his current interest; his fingers flexing, before finally closing into fists by his side. “Listen, making fully functioning cell phones is a delicate and complicated task, but it’s going to be so worth it, you’ll see!”

“Can my phone be orange?” Mikey asks. Donnie shrugs, adjusting his grip on the bag. They start walking to the nearest manhole, Leo taking the lead and observing their surroundings. They all follow a step behind, forming a half circle behind the eldest.

"I already have designs in mind, Orange is going to ruin it."

"But orange is my color!" Mikey whines as Leo opens the sewer grate. They climb down, with Donnie taking the rear and sliding the cover closed. "I got a theme going on here, Donnie!"

"Trust me, the phones are still going to be 'on theme'."

"Little bit of orange?" Mikey asks. "Just a smidge?"

Donnie huffs in amusement, following his siblings as they head further into the sewer. It doesn’t take them long to get back home, Master Splinter sitting in the kitchen with his eyes closed and drinking some tea. His ears flicker at the sound of their footsteps, and his eyes slide open, smiling at them warmly.

“Welcome back.” Is all he says, taking another sip of his tea. They all voice their greetings before dispersing, each heading to a different area of the lair. Donnie darts to his lab immediately, shutting the door quietly behind him and dumping his findings onto the table.

He gets to work immediately, laying all of his instruments on the table and pulling up his blueprints. The next few hours are a blur, with Donnie working nonstop, only taking five-minute breaks to drink water or go to the bathroom. His eyes start stinging by the end of it, and his neck is aching from his hunched position. He cracks it loudly as his eyes slide over to his small analog clock, noting the time.

“Three in the morning,” He breathes in amazement, blinking at his quarter-finished project. It turns out he didn’t grab enough materials, at least not for five phones. He could probably get two done by tonight, but why would he only finish two if he’s on a roll? If he gets more materials, he could have all of them done by late afternoon. Donnie’s fingers drum against the table, and he strained his ears to hear outside the door. It’s completely silent, and Donnie grabs his bag, before taking the slow walk over to the lab doors. The creaking echoes through the dark lair, the turtle poking his head out to look both ways in the hall.

He creeps out slowly, blending into the shadows before making it to the turnstiles. Hopping over is a breeze, and he creeps as far as possible before making it to the second closest manhole cover.

The city outside is dark and empty, like always, but it's somehow different so early in the morning. He doesn’t even hear any cars, his only companion being his labored breathing. The manhole closes silently, and the turtle cradles himself protectively to steal his nerves.

“I’m on…” He pokes his head out the alley, looking for the nearest street sign. “52nd street… oh!” If memory serves him correctly, there's a junkyard not far from where he stands. They picked up Othello from there not too long ago.

Donnie hops to the rooftops and starts making his way over as fast as humanly (turtley?) possible. It doesn’t take the turtle too long, and he hops down into the street below, landing on the cool concrete harshly. He makes sure to look both ways before approaching the yard, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any unwanted guests.

The junkyard is prime and ripe with parts, and Donnie has a field day looking for spare parts. He stuffs anything he needs (or wants) into the bag, being mindful of the weight, since he would need to drag it back home. He digs into each pile carefully, taking out parts slowly to make sure the massive piles don’t topple on top of him, finally having a decent amount to bring back to the lair. He jostles the bag, shifting his shoulders as he looks around the junkyard.

“Okay, I think that’s–”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” A voice yells. Donnie moves in an instant, hiding behind a large pile of trash away from the sound. He controls his breathing, staying silent from his position, and clutching the bag close to his chest.

He shouldn’t have come out to the surface, this is karma from that poorly thought decision. He’s going to be caught and dissected, and his family is never going to find his body—

“...so you say…!” their voice quiet down like they realize the time and are trying to be mindful of the sleeping humans around them. Donnie risks a peak behind the pile, seeing the back of their head. Donnie immediately recognizes the person, considering he only knows two humans.

“You’re a stupid little— no! I keep telling you that’s not love! I love my family and my friends. You’re obsessed with me!” Othello hisses, kicking some scrap metal. “If you’re not going to help me, then you can shut up! Crawl up somewhere and die, I don’t care!”

“Who’s he talking to?” Donnie mutters, leaning closer to the teen. The pile he’s standing on isn’t as stable as he thought, and it shifts, falling partially to the floor. He curses softly, readjusting his position and taking a deep breath. Othello’s footsteps creep closer to Donnie's position, stopping just on the other side, something heavy hitting the ground and kicking up a cloud of dust.

“You can come out now,” He commands. Donnie swallows, holding his hands up placatingly and slowly creeping to the other side. Othello stares at him harshly, the thin metal pipe in his grip glinting menacingly in the poorly lit junkyard. His eyes glint in recognition, grip loosening on his weapon, but not dropping it.

“Oh. It’s you.” Is all he says, eyeing Donnie’s form.

“Yeah…hi? Again?” He can’t stop his eyes from looking back at the weapon, which Othello notices. He drags it behind his back, the tip poking from the other side dangerously, fingers flexing on the metal. “Do you… need the pipe?” He dares to ask.

“Yes.”

They don’t say anything more, staring at each other awkwardly. It wasn’t this bad the previous times they met up, right? Sure, Donnie had his brothers (and April!) as a buffer the last few times they met, but Donnie can hold a conversation by himself, can’t he?

He wracks his brain for conversation topics and finds himself coming up blank. He doesn’t know much about Othello, now that Donnie’s thinking about it. He knows plenty about April, the girl has taken to visiting them every day for the past week, and she’s been pleasant company, but he hasn’t seen Othello since he helped convince Master Splinter to let them out of the lair. Donnie knows Othello likes to ‘tinker’, but what does that even mean? Does he just fiddle with pre-made electronics, or does he actually invent and doesn’t think much about it?

"...Who were you talking to?"

"Nobody, just talking to myself."

They're plunged into silence again, and Donnie clears his throat, forehead suddenly slick with sweat.

“...Are you also looking for parts?” Donnie asks next, hands clenched at his sides. Othello looks away for a second, then back and nods slowly. Donnie nods back, flexing his fingers. “Okay, cool!” Okay, what next?

“What kind of parts are you looking for?” Othello asks next, eyes staring pointedly at his bag. Donnie smiles, and pulls his bag open, showing off his loot to his friend.

“Mostly electronics, I’m trying to make phones for my family, and—” Othello lets Donnie rant, nodding his head at appropriate times and chiming in with comments or suggestions. It's invigorating, to talk to someone who actually understands the words he’s saying. Eventually, the turtle sits on the floor, and Othello follows suit, still focused on the words Donnie says.

“...and Master Splinter says it’s ‘immoral’ to hack into already owned satellites, so I have to figure out how to get the connection myself, even though it would be so easier to—”

“I mean, have you considered—” Othello takes over the conversation, speaking fluently and concisely, and Donnie has never been so excited in his life. The human gives him great ideas, and Donnie’s fingers itch for a pen to write them down. Unfortunately, he just has to settle with memorizing as much as he can.

They talk for what feels like hours, enjoying each other's company. As time progresses, Othello gets looser and looser, smiling easier and speaking more animatedly, with flapping hands and a joking tone. Well, his voice is still very much flat, but Donnie thinks he’s joking most of the time.

Eventually, he lets go of the pipe completely, mind free and loose as they continue talking until the sun slowly rises on the horizon, and Donnie yawns loudly. Othello stops what he’s saying, squinting behind the turtle to look at the sunrise, and then frowns at Donnie.

“The sun’s coming, you should probably head back.”

Donnie really didn’t want to, the conversation was just getting good! Othello was just telling him about an AI he made, a talking turtle robot named Shelldon! It gives Donnie new and brilliant ideas, and he feels like he has much to learn about his new friend. Sadly, he knows that Othello is right, and stands up slowly, stretching his arms above his head.

“Yeah…” He trails off, picking up his bag. “Before I go, do you have any idea what I could use as a power source? I’ve been looking around, but people don’t normally throw away good batteries.”

Othello hums, a quiet thing as his head cocks to the side. Finally, he smacks his lips, before shrugging in a ‘why not’ motion.

“I can get you some, if you give me three, no, four days.” Donnie blinks in surprise, and his chest feels warm.

“You would really do that for me?” He questions, just a tad bit touched.

“I could never deprive such a brilliant mind!” Othello laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just come back around in four days, and I’ll have something for you.”

“Oh wow! Thanks, Othello,” He holds out a hand to shake, and Othello stares at it. Slowly, he reaches forward, interlocking their digits together and shaking once. “You’re a great friend.” Donnie smiles, and it’s Othello’s turn to blink in surprise, head pulled back.

“We’re friends?” Othello asks, releasing Donnie’s hand. Donnie shrugs, a sudden flood of anxiety filling his gut.

“I-I mean, yeah? At least I consider us friends. Do you not?” Othello is silent for a few moments, staring at the ground between them, and Donnie thinks he messed up. “It’s fine if you don't!” He rushes to say. “I know we haven’t met up that much, nor do we really talk—”

“No, it’s okay!” Othello says quickly. “Uh, yes. Yes, we’re friends.”

Oh thank god.

“I’m going to head back now, but I’ll see you soon, okay?” Donnie doesn’t even wait for a response, turning on his heel with a wave back to his friend and running back to the closest manhole.

He has to run as fast as he can in the damp tunnels, clutching the bag tightly to ensure both little movement and noise. It’s only when he gets close enough home that he slows down, climbing over the turnstiles as quietly as possible. The lights are still out when he gets back, and Donnie mentally cheers at the fact that he got away with his little escapade.

He heads to the kitchen to grab some water so he can go back to working on his invention, opening the fridge silently. It illuminates his face as he grabs his purple water bottle, the surface covered in his name written in black sharpie, the word faded with time. He kicks the door closed, turning to head back to his lab when he finds his father standing behind him with a frown on his muzzle.

Donnie practically jumps ten feet in the air, tossing the bottle at his father in an impromptu weapon, which his sensei easily dodges. The rat stares at him with a raised brow, and Donnie smiles sheepishly.

“Good…morning?” He asks, shrugging and trying to subtly hide the bag behind his shell. Splinter stares pointedly at Donnie, and the turtle’s shoulders rise in anxiety.

“Donatello.”

“I’m grounded, aren’t I?”

“You are very intelligent, my son. However, I have excellent hearing.”

Chapter Text

Days pass, and Othello sits alone in the junkyard, cradling a dark green backpack close to his chest as he stares at the muggy sky. A vial of antidote presses harshly against his skin under the cloaking broach, reminding Othello of what can happen, and his exit strategy. His only company was the wooshing of cars rushing by, and indistinguishable sounds from the city far away. He counts every vehicle that passes, getting bored after twelve. Then he counts everything blue, finding only seven items. His eyes close unwillingly, humming to himself as the minutes tick by. He keeps a mental tally, the techndrome getting more and more impatient as time progresses. It’s annoyed and offended; practically pouting in the back of Othello’s mind when he hits the three-hour mark. Donnie isn’t coming, Othello knows, and the alien voices its dismay.

Second. Gift. Donatello.

"Shut up," Othello says, prying his eyes open to look at the street. "I don't want to hear anything from you."

Upset. Donatello. Reason.

"You know why I'm upset," He snaps back. The alien squirms in disappointment, adjusting a tentacle to rest on his shoulder. It's unnoticeable, hidden behind the cloaking broach, but Othello can still feel it caressing his muscles. He can't help the shiver that passes through his body and swipes it away.

It retreats slowly— like it's ashamed that it touched Othello's skin. Finally settling back into its starting position. Othello can't help but sigh, leaning into his elbows in thought, the backpack scraping against the hood

The bag was filled to the brim with power sources; from simple double AA batteries to a car battery Othello “ethically” sourced. It was heavy and kept the softshell lopsided, digging into his shoulders uncomfortably.

He adjusts the straps, the lack of pressure heavenly on his stiff shoulders. He plays with the fraying fabric, rubbing his fingers together as he continues to stare up above.

Othello wants to help Donnie and his siblings, he already did help them! But as time continues to tick forward and his stomach growls in want, Othello’s not sure if he can keep helping them. He shouldn’t even be out here if he’s being honest. Othello has been eating, getting better at controlling his hunger in fear of what the technodrome could do, but it's mostly scraps that he’s scavenged from restaurant dumpsters. It's not satisfied, it never is, and urges Donnie for more and more food.

…He's taken to eating wildlife occasionally. Nothing big, but a squirrel here or a pigeon there. He despises his situation, but there's nothing Othello can realistically do until he can create a cure for the parasite.

So, Othello is stuck. He's stuck listening to the technodrome’s whispers and wants, and forced to make “compromises”. It's maddening, it's saddening, and the whole time it insists that they are family.

He hears birds quietly chirping in the distance, drowned out by cars racing by. If he strained his ears, he could hear something small approaching, a rhythmic thud following the pattern of footsteps. Othello sits straighter, keeping as still as possible until it's about two arm lengths away.

He hops off the car hood, drops the bag loudly, and stands with his fists up and his feet wide. His would-be attacker stands awkwardly a few feet away, arms crossed and hunched slightly in on themselves. He can't see their full face, hidden under the poor lighting of the junkyard, but can recognize a turtle silhouette anywhere.

“...Donnie?” He questions. The turtle lets out a small chuckle.

“No, uh, he got grounded.” Out comes Leo, arms still crossed and a sly smile on his face. Othello sniffs at the turtle, dropping his stance and reaching for the bag again.

“For what?” He questions. Leo shrugs.

“He wasn't supposed to be up here alone.”

“And you are?”

“Master Splinter gave me permission,” Leo's eyes dart to the bag, and Othello shifts it subtly. “Donnie was ranting and raving about some batteries you had? And some other stuff too.”

“...what did he say?” Othello drops the bag from his shoulder and holds it out for the turtle to take. Leo takes it with a nod, putting on the backpack backward so its flat side is laid on his plastron.

“That you're really smart and had great ideas…nothing bad!”

“And you're three hours late because….?”

Leo's cheeks turn a dark green, and he coughs into his fist.

“Donnie had to practically beg Master Splinter to get the batteries. Then he asked me. I honestly wasn't still expecting to see you out here.”

Othello’s lips press into a thin line, staring at the turtle before him. Leo, for his credit, stands his ground without fidgeting. They're stuck in an impromptu staring contest before Othello breaks it with a sigh. He scratches the back of his head, looking back to the entrance of the junkyard.

“I should probably…” He jerks a thumb to the entrance, and Leo seems to get the hint, an uneasy smile plastered on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Othello nods, turning on his heel and beginning to walk. He only makes a few steps before he hears the jogging footsteps of Leo approaching. The turtle clears his throat beside him, and Othello risks a glance. He's staring at him with a shy smile and expectant eyes, a faint echo of his twin.

Dare he? This Leonardo seemed stiffer and more responsible than his own. But something about those eyes; it's too similar to Nardo when he was cooking up a scheme.

“...yes?” Othello finally takes the bait.

“I noticed that you don't visit us?”

Othello stops in his tracks, turning to the shorter boy with a raised eyebrow. Leo stops, too, hands clutching the bottom of the bag tightly. His fingers clenched and unclenched the fabric in an obvious nervous tick. The technodrome doesn't say anything, but Othello can feel it radiate confusion. The closest feeling is a simple ‘?’.

“Sorry, was that required of me? Did we sign a contract or something I was unaware of imploring me to visit you and your brothers?”

“It wasn't required,” Leo huffs. “But, I don’t know— you see a bunch of mutants crawl out of the sewer, and that doesn't interest you? Donnie said you were ‘a man of science’.” He uses air quotes and Othello sneers. He is a man of science, thank you very much! “So I figured you would look around and ask us questions.”

“... you're upset that I didn't invade your privacy?”

“No,” Leo quickly corrects, frowning. “More so that I thought me and my brothers would get to know more people. We’re mutants, a lot of people aren't going to accept that— accept us. But you and April just took it in stride. April's been visiting, but if you don't like us—”

“Who said I don't like you?” Othello interrupts. He puts his hands on his hips while the technodrome shifts and turns behind him.

Turtle. Donatello. Second. Family.

It's a little nauseating how much this parasite keeps talking about family recently.

The technodrome also doesn't like being called a parasite, so it hisses loudly and sharply, like a feral cat. It rings in his ears as Othello tries to listen to Leo's response.

“Nobody! I just assumed—”

“You assumed incorrectly,” It's Othello's turn to huff. “I like you four just fine, but I have my own problems to deal with.”

“Like what? Is it the Kraang? we could help you!”

Ugh, that smile is so earnest and eager that it makes Othello's head hurt.

“No, it's not Krang-related,” Othello lies. “Just other stuff.”

Leo frowns, brows furrowed and eyes imploring. It's so similar to his own Leo's that Othello is getting deja vu. He idly wonders if his own Leo is alright before pushing that thought into the far corners of his mind. He already feels like crap; thinking about his family is just going to make him feel worse.

“It's nothing,” Othello reiterates. “I’m fine.”

“We could help, you know? We are here for you.”

“You don't even—” Othello cuts himself off before saying something he knows he's going to regret. “Look. I appreciate it, I do! But I'm fine. I'm always fine, I'm the king of being fine!”

“People who are fine don't have to keep insisting that they're fine,” Leo quips, staring at Othello pointedly.

“Says who? Because I know you haven't interacted with enough humans to come to that conclusion yourself.”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, hands on his hips. “Look, I'm not trying to pick a fight with you. But, you can come back to the lair with me and get your mind off it? You look like you're two seconds away from combusting.”

“Is there something wrong with the way I look?”

“You look like you crawled out of the sewers, and that's coming from me.”

They stare at each other in challenge. The technodrome seems to wiggle in delight at the prospect of visiting them, urging him to visit his alternate. Othello's throat tightens at the thought, mind flooding with possibilities.

He could lose control and hurt them in a violent rampage. Fighting them, or biting or even eating them. Othello's body isn't his own anymore, and the loss of control in those brief moments is terrifying.

Othello's mind feels like it's full of static as he keeps his gaze on Leo’s expecting one. The turtle wants an answer, and all Othello has to do is say no. Just say he's busy. If Leo insists, he'll just repeat it. He just has to say no.

Say no.

Say no.

Don't look him in the eyes.

Just say no.

This isn't Nardo.

Just say no.

“Othello!” Mikey cheers as Othello hops over the turnstiles with Leo. The softshell can't help but sigh as he waves back at the youngest, a sci-fi soundtrack emitting from the TV.

“Hello, Mikey,” He greets back. From the kitchen comes Raph, holding a bowl practically overflowing with popcorn. The shorter turtle's eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he nods at Othello anyway. “Raph.”

“Didn't think we'd see you anymore.”

“Yeah…” Othello didn't think so either.

He gestures for Leo to give him the bag, which he hands off without hesitation. Adjusting it on his back, he takes another look around the lair. It was cleaner than before; Christmas lights on the walls, a shaggy carpet in their living room, and a faint smell of lavender. If April was visiting as frequently as they say, she's adding her own touches to the lair, but it doesn't seem like the turtles mind.

“What's in the bag?” Mikey asks, shoving popcorn in his mouth. Some kernels fall on the couch, and Raph swipes them off with a grimace.

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Raph says. Mikey, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, sticks out his tongue and swallows the rest of his snack.

“Batteries.” Othello shows off the bag. “Donnie was talking about it awhile ago, and I knew where to get some, so…”

“Oh, cool! Where did you get them? Donnie was all like, ‘Oh, people don't throw away batteries’ and blah blah.”

Othello doesn't get a chance to answer as the TV screen freezes with a loud beep before it plays the local News logo. Two people, a man and a woman, appear on the screen in pristine suits, hands clasped together on the desk in front of them.

“We apologize for interrupting your regularly scheduled program, but reports of burglary have skyrocketed in the city. Fifteen shops have been affected in the past three days, all missing the same items: batteries and copper wiring.”

“Oh wow, you guys have cable now!” Othello blinks in surprise, smiling at them. “Amazing, fantastic! Where's Donnie?”

“Lab…” Raph jabs a thumb behind him, eyes trained carefully on Othello's bag. The softshell gives a thumbs up, as Leo gently grabs him by the hand and leads him to Donnie's lab. The door isn't impressive, grey like the rest of the lair, with blackened edges of soot. Othello can't help but sniff as Leo opens the door, finding Donnie gesturing to a board erratically as Master Splinter sits on a stool, face dripped with confusion as he squints at something Donnie is explaining.

“...so it elicits human-like responses to the stimuli around it. However, this one doesn't have an AI, so that means I would control its movements and reactions.”

“And that would make it a…cyborg?”

“No, a cyborg is a human with mechanical parts. An android is a human-shaped machine.”

“Can an android not be human?”

“It cannot because the android was never alive.”

“...and you want an android, but not an— what is an AI then?”

“Okay, just.” Othello watches as Donnie takes a deep breath, face scrunched in frustration and holding his palms out. The turtle releases it as he turns back to his board, pointing at a sketch of a robot. “We’re taking it from the top. An AI is—”

“Donatello, can we not just call them robots?”

“We could, but then that's not accurate, Master Splinter!”

“Hm.” The rat's ears twitch, and he turns to look at the door. Othello stiffens under the gaze, waving awkwardly as Leo smiles, small and kindly. “Hello, Leonardo. Othello.”

“Othello's here?” Donnie perks up and turns to the door as well. He visibly brightens, eyes darting to the bag on his shoulders. “You didn't have to come all the way down here to bring it.”

Oh, Othello is well aware. Unfortunately, he is very weak to this Leo's face, which is tragic. He normally just shoves his own Leo away when he doesn't want to do something.

“It's not a problem,” he says, handing the bag over. The turtle takes it without hesitation, ripping it open and taking a gander inside. “I got a variety since I assumed you would need more later.”

Donnie looks up, smiling softly and looking touched. The technodrome screams in his mind in joy, thoughts of friend, family, happy flooding through his mind. Besides them, Splinter stands, gripping his cane with a rigid posture. Othello can't help how his eyes flicker over his form, eyes landing higher than what he's used to. The rat smiles, whiskers twitching as he gently touches Leo's shell.

“We will leave you two alone with your inventions.” He guides the blue turtle away, Leo looking up at him in confusion. “Try not to blow up the lair.”

“Is Donnie not grounded anymore?” Othello hears Leo whisper as he passes.

“Leonardo, I refuse to sit through another lecture of AI vs android vs robot.” Splinter whispers back. “Donatello, you will be barred from the lab when Othello leaves.” He says louder.

Donnie hums in confirmation as the two of them leave, leaving Donnie and Othello alone in the small lab. Othello sniffs awkwardly, the technodrome wiggling in delight at his situation. He watches Donnie approach his workbench quietly, dropping the bag unceremoniously and gesturing Othello closer. The softshell follows suit, eyes scanning over coffee-stained notebooks with designs of phones, weapons, and a robot, all filled with color-coded sticky notes of calculations and reminders. Donnie looks extremely pleased as Othello looks it over, picking up the one closest to him. It's a beta design for a robotic turtle, designed blocky and standing on two legs like them.

“Taking inspiration?” Othello asks, raising an eyebrow. Donnie shrugs, walking away from him and to a side table shoved in the back of the room.

“When you spoke about Sheldon, it was interesting!” He opens the bag, taking out battery after battery. “It’s more like a side project for now. Since my main focus is—is this a car battery? Where did you get this?”

“Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to.” Othello waves him off. He squints at the drawing in his hand, the words somewhat fuzzy around the edges in an unfamiliar way. The technodrome squirms and moves, imploring him to speak more, to ask Donnie questions. The silent demand is foreign and unfamiliar, but Othello can’t say he’s not curious about what his counterpart can do.

“...What type of material are you working with down here?” Othello asks, turning to look at him. Donnie smiles wide, his eyes twinkling playfully. The conversation continues from there, with Donnie talking a mile a minute and Othello listening patiently. The topic switches from materials to blueprints, and then suddenly, Othello finds himself with a blowtorch in hand and a mask on his face. Donnie sits across the room, testing the phones and still talking about things he wants to create and ideas he has.

The technodrome enjoys itself with a loud, consistent purr in the back of Othello’s mind, content in being in the other’s presence. It’s almost euphoric, his body feeling like it’s floating on air as he stays hunched over a bent piece of metal. Time ticks on, their positions changing, but their conversation never falls into awkward silence.

They move and work in near-perfect tandem, silently handing each other tools needed and laughing at science-related jokes. Othello even uses some cheap puns his own Leo finds hilarious, and while Donnie doesn’t find them as funny, he does chirp in amusement. He’s only really aware of how long he’s spent down there when the technodrome pulls back on his consciousness violently, leaving a steady ringing in his ears and a small headache.

Food. Thirst. Protein.

Ah. What an asshole.

Othello stretches, taking a subtle glance at his cloaking broach and noting the half-full status. His back stretches and pops loudly, Donnie looking at him with a curious tilt.

“What time is it?”

Donnie hums, rolling backward in his chair to a small digital alarm clock hidden in the clutter of his lab. “Midnight.”

When was the last time Othello ate? His stomach pinches and churns uncomfortably, and Othello swallows the bile that threatens to escape his throat, the thought of a meal flooding his mind. Donnie sighs heavily from his spot across the room, stretching his own body and letting out a symphony of cracks and pops.

“You’ll probably have to get going soon, right?” He grumbles, frowning at the teen. Othello nods, and Donnie slumps back in his chair. “At least I got some stuff done before going back on punishment.”

“How long are you grounded?”

“Two—”

“Two weeks.”

Othello stiffens a scream as his head whips over to the other side of the room. Mikey sits in a rolling chair, swaying playfully back and forth as he periodically tightens and loosens a sting. It had two small washers that clink together every few seconds, spinning rapidly when he tightened the string. Donnie chuffs beside him, chin jutted out at the youngest brother in irritation.

“You.” Donnie points a finger.

“Me~!” Mikey sings, spinning a full circle.

“How long have you been there? When did you come in?” Mikey stops, planting his feet hard on the concrete as he frowns at Donnie.

“Since ten? Ten thirty? You guys were being real freaky and working in sync.” He tightens the string again, the washers spinning rapidly. “I swear I saw you guys both reach for screwdrivers at the same time.” He loosens the string, the washers clinking again.

“You can't just come into my lab unannounced! That's very dangerous!” Mikey rolls his eyes, tightening the string again. “I'm serious, Mikey!”

“You're always serious, bro. Loosen up.” He loosens the string. Donnie huffs in irritation, stomping over to the other turtle and snatching the string away. Mikey doesn't seem to mind the loss of his toy, grabbing a nearby screwdriver and balancing it on one finger. When Donnie reaches for that, Mikey moves it out of reach.

“Stop stealing my stuff!” Donnie snaps, reaching for the tool again. Mikey giggles, crouching in on himself and holding the tool as close to his chest as possible. Donnie still attempts to grab it, only for Mikey to completely retreat into his shell, his laughter echoing in the lab. “Mikey!”

Othello rolls his eyes while walking closer as Donnie picks up his brother by his shell and shakes them upside down, Mikey squealing and laughing in delight. When that doesn’t work, Donnie peers inside the shell, only greeted by a raspberry in response. Othello can’t help but chuckle, the technodrome finding this amusing too, his alternate shooting a betrayed look at him. Othello holds his hands up placatingly, smiling wryly at the situation.

“It's not my fault your brother doesn’t listen.”

“He never listens!” Donnie frowns, shaking the shell again with more force. “I swear there’s just a ping-pong ball bouncing around in there!”

Othello reels, a frown pulling on his face. Donnie doesn’t seem to notice, throwing Mikey back on his chair. The momentum pushes the seat back, and only then does Mikey emerge, an easy smile on his lips as he holds up the tool in victory. The tallest lets out a near-silent hiss, shoulders raised as he stares at Mikey; the youngest does nothing but stick out his tongue playfully.

“Why are you even here? Don't you have to be annoying somewhere else?”

Mikey makes a big show of checking a watch that doesn't exist. His wrists twists and turns, humming in consideration before looking back at Donnie with a smile. “Not for another thirty minutes, I don't!”

Othello smiles wryly. Mikey turns again rapidly in the chair, holding his trophy triumphantly as he giggles at Donnie’s annoyed face. Donnie finally reaches over and snatches it from Mikey’s loose grip, forcefully slamming it on the table beside them. Mikey isn’t phased, spinning faster and faster in his chair.

“Can you stop that? I’m about to vomit.” Both Othello and Donnie say simultaneously. The softshell blinks as Donnie looks at him with a frown. Mikey stamps his feet on the ground, doing one final slow turn before pointing at both of them with a goofy smile.

“That’s what I’m talking about! You guys got the same brain! In sync— just like that band with Jayden Timbersea!”

“I’m sorry, his name is—?”

“It’s a coincidence, Mikey!” Donnie huffs, like Mikey isn’t spouting random words at Othello.

“You’re like twins!” Mikey exclaims next, smiling at them as he leans on the chair. It twists and moves slowly, barely moving 10 degrees each way. “Y’know, like how you see on TV? Where they copy each other? What is that anyway, like twin sense?”

“Twin sense isn't real,” Othello says. Mikey hums, turning the chair just a bit further to the right. “I would know.”

“Woah?” Mikey stops spinning, leaning further towards Othello. “Are you a twin?”

Other waves his hands in a ‘so-so’ motion while the technodrome voices its criticism. The thought of his brother, Leo specifically, being tainted with the whispering words of violent, no, bad. It delves from words to just feelings from there, Othello feeling a startling amount of disgust and anger. His own feelings are still there, but it’s tainted with the technodromes, creating a cocktail of familial love and hatred. Othello swallows hard.

“Fraternal,” He lies.

“Fra— huh?”

“It means they don't look alike but are born around the same time,” Donnie explains. “Are you the older or younger one?”

“Older, but Leo—n would argue about that.” Nailed it.

Donnie hums, turning and pointing a finger to the door in a silent command to follow him. Mikey does so instantly, and Othello follows a moment later. The youngest turtle slows his pace to match Othello's as they get closer to the door, bumping shoulders playfully. Othello can't help but cringe, smoothing his face as subtly as possible.

“You don't talk about your family,” Mikey says, holding the door for Othello to walk through. “What are they like?”

His chest aches at the question, while his back burns. The technodrome floods his mind with images of itself, before shifting to Donnie and then the Krang. Othello holds his breath for three seconds, releasing, and taking another. Then he shoves every thought that isn't his own away, into the far corners, which the technodrome doesn't like.

He could talk about his family, right? They're all so different from his versions, they won't make any connection, right? The thought of his family makes his stomach churn, vastly different than the technodrome messing with him.

“I don't think I've been around you guys long enough to talk about my family.” Or about anything.

Mikey pouts at Othello, crossing his hands behind his shell. “You don't visit! C’mon, please? I'm curious. So curious. I'm dying from curiosity!”

“Well, you know what they say,” Othello remarks as they turn the corner to the main lair. Leo and Raph were still sitting in the living room, April arriving at some point and leaning back on the couch, the shorter turtle petting a smaller turtle.

Othello's face scrunches up at the sight, as the little green face perks up at the unfamiliar person. Leo and Raph don't turn, but April does. Othello squints at her, cradling his arms together and rocking it, pointing to Raph. Her eyes flicker to him, before back to Othello, and shakes her head, shrugging.

“What do they say?” Mikey asks, pulling Othello to the kitchen. He stumbles on the next step, straightening himself as best he can.

“Curiosity and the cat… I'm sorry, does Raph just have a child? Splinter’s a grandfather?”

“Hm?” Mikey looks back at them, standing on his toes to get a better look at his siblings. “No, that's Spike! Someone dumped him in the sewers years ago, so Raph took him as a pet.”

“Right…” His Raph doesn't have a turtle. Pet-wise, they only had Piebald and she was a fish…Who then mutated and tried to hurt them.… Could you be a different species in alternate universes? Obviously, since this Donatello isn't a softshell…Is Spike Piebald? No, right? Actually, can there be parallels in this world? They were both pets…Should he be concerned about Spike—

“But c'mon! Tell me about your family! The lore! I gotta know!” His eyes flicker to Donnie who's pouring himself some water. “Donnie’s dying to know too!”

Othello shoves his thoughts in the corner of his mind again, raising an eyebrow at Mikey. The youngest does jazz hands in Donnie’s direction, the tallest shrugging in a way Othello can recognize as ‘I'm interested, but I’m also not going to ask.’. Othello does it all the time. Mikey catches his attention again, hands clasped together and eyes big and puppy-like. They shine and glitter like his own Mikey, and Othello is a weak, weak, turtle.

“There's not much to know. I have three brothers, two younger, and one older. Two sisters, then my dad and a few other people we consider family.”

“You consider them family, but they're not related to you?” Donnie asks. Othello shrugs.

“We’re all bonded at this point. The only way that's breaking is if somebody dies." Suddenly Mikey shoves a purple plate into his hands, the scent of steamed fish and rice invading his nostrils. His mouth waters and Othello has to swallow hard as he looks at Mikey. The turtle is practically bouncing with excitement, grabbing another plate and giving it to Donnie.

Othello has to force himself to eat slowly, cutting the fish into small increments and mixing it with the rice. Every bite is a horrible mix of ash and joy—like planning a birthday party months in advance and having a tornado hit just minutes before it starts. The fish doesn’t even taste like fish to his sensitive taste buds. More like swim, freedom, net, hurts something Othello can’t identify; burning on the tip of his tongue.

Donnie is eating the fish behind him slowly, hunched over the counter as he takes small bites of his fish, keeping the rice far away. A man of Othello’s heart, the softshell wasn’t usually a fan of combining textures either, but this time is an exception.

“What are your brothers like?” Mikey asks, taking a sip from a large orange mug. Othello didn’t see him pour himself a drink, or grab a mug. “What’s Leon like?”

“Does it matter?”

Mikey scoffs, peering at Othello over his mug. Suddenly Othello feels like he’s on trial, with Mikey deciding his fate from here on. The teens head tilts, his eyes still bright, but something behind them that makes Othello nervous. Sweat collects on his brow, but he continues to stare back as Mikey smiles kindly, cradling the mug in a two-handed grip.

“C’mon, I think you saying Leon’s name was the first time I’ve seen you smile!” Has it? No, he’s smiled around them before, right? He doesn’t normally smile anyway, but he throws a few grins here and there. Did he smile while talking about Leo? He can't recall. The technodrome shifts and moves again, and Othello arches his back. He’s never been so aware of the antidote under the cloaking broach, but the vial presses against his skin uncomfortably as the tendrils of friend, family, us, us, us the technodrome climb slowly.

It’s silent and methodical, creeping higher and higher, caressing him and applying much-unwanted pressure.

Mikey still stares at him expectantly, and Donnie stares at him from across the kitchen silently, finishing up the last of his fish. They’re all silent, the sounds of the TV allowing Othello to think as his mind races.

“I-uh—” His tongue is tied, and his ears pulse. Mikey, his Mikey, always talks about how it's unhealthy to bottle your feelings. Othello is self-aware enough to admit that he does it frequently, and it's been fine. He’s been fine. He’s been great—never better! He’s…he’s…

“Leon’s my twin. I’m older by a few minutes, and he’s extremely laid back, but such a strategist! I’ve never won a game of chess against him.”

-.-

Raph wipes the sweat from his brow as he stares at the reconstructed panel. It shines in the bright lights of the lab, as his family stands around him, looking up at Shelldon’s large computer body expectantly. His own eyes flicker up to the robot, watching as strings of numbers flitter on the screen quickly. Raph can’t keep up, his eye pulsating as he stares, the edges blurry as he tries to make out the symbols.

Beside him, Leo taps his foot impatiently, hands on his hips and chin jutted out. Raph grabs his arms in comfort, when Leo groans loudly, throwing his head back.

“How long is this going to take?” Leo asks, frowning at the screen. Shelldon stops his calculating, his face appearing with a frown, overtaking the entire screen.

“Well, sorry it’s taking so long! If you want to calculate infinity you can go right ahead.”

“I thought you said there wasn’t that many he could have gone through?”

“It’s infinite universes, Leo. Compared to infinity, yeah there are not many. I narrowed it down to around 103.”

They all shout and voice their complaints aloud, and Shelldon sounds a loud buzzer. It rings in Raph’s ears, moments even after he cuts it off. Leo huffs and hisses beside him, feet pattering on the ground which reminds Raph of tantrums the slider had as a kid. The only difference is now Donnie’s not here to call Leo childish. The screen turns back to Shelldon’s face, right beside a stock image of a woman angrily pointing at them with her hands on her hips. Shelldon's actual face stares at them— Leo specifically— with narrowed eyes and a tight frown. The slider doesn’t even look ashamed,

“Isn’t there a way to lower that number?” Raph asks, placing a heavy hand on Leo’s shoulder. The stock image changes to a woman crossing her arms and looking back at them with a scowl.

“What do you think I’m trying to do? I’m not over here eating pizza.” Shelldon pauses, the image changing to a man shrugging. “I would eat a pizza if I could.”

“Shelly, please,” Raph continues. “What are you even looking for, how do you narrow it down?”

“I— If I explained you wouldn’t understand. But I appreciate you asking, dude.”

“Well, can’t you just look for double Donatellos or something?” April asks, hands on hips. She stands tall and proud as Shelldon looks at her. “You’re looking for Donnies, but with our Donnie, there would be two.”

“I have been looking for two Donnies,” Shelldon explains, pulling up a large diagram. It looks like an orb, surrounded and caressed by miniature circles that climb like a tower. Some of them glow purple as he continues. “The problem is that Donnie— our Donnie, my dad, he’s not…himself currently.” An image comes up, a Donnie with a white spotted shell wearing welding gloves and using a blowtorch.

“See, I can look into all these worlds as much as I want, but I can’t get a lock on our Donnie because he’s contaminated with Krang DNA.”

“Don’t you have data on that?” Leo jumps in. “Like, you were actively helping him with the antidote and watching his vitals. For months, I might add. But you can’t lock onto him?”

“See, here’s the problem.” The diagram and alternate dimension Donnie disappears, showing an outline of both Donnie's body and a sad blob. Raph’s eye itches looking at the familiar outline of Krang Prime. “This is Donnie, and we’re going to say that’s the technodrome. They were separate at first but then Donnie went inside it.” He brings them closer so they’re overlapping.

“I have samples from when they’re combined, but since it’s been so long without Donnie taking his antidote it’s kinda… unrecognizable, dudes. Don’s smart, he’s probably able to hold it off as long as he can, but until we can get him some proper antidote, he’s in a state of being himself and being the technodrome.” The image warps and shifts, until it combines into one, Donnie with tentacles.

It’s horrifying to look at, at least for Raph. His eye feels like it’s going to pop out of its socket, and he can’t help but think of his own experience. Raph was aware, he knew what was happening, knew he was hurting his brothers, and could do nothing to stop it. The Krang warped and wrapped itself around his brain, forcing his muscles to move, and to see everything not Krang as food or prey. It hurt—burned— showing Raph that everyone was weak and that Krang reigned supreme. That Krang was the end of everything, that they were superior in every single way.

His eye twitches.

“...Krang are there?” Casey Junior asks, taking a step forward. Raph tries to focus on what the boy is saying.

“Dudes, you guys fight a lot of Krang. It’s like every single version of you have to fight these guys.”

“Horrifying,” Junior grimaces. “How long would it take to narrow the dimensions to something more manageable?”

“Three days? Maybe?”

Raph could maybe handle three days. Everyone fidgets with a variety of expressions plastered on their faces, staring at Shelldon expectantly. Raph feels an overwhelming wave of anxiety and anger— not at Shelldon, never at Shelldon— but at the whole situation. Donnie could have talked to him, he knows what it’s like to not be in control of his actions. His chest runs hot, and a lightbulb goes off.

“What about the Krang Sister?” He asks. He pushes his way forward, standing proud in front of the machine. Shelldon displays a giant red question mark as he waits for Raph to continue. “She’s in EPF custody, and if we get some of her DNA, maybe you could lock onto that specific krang?” Shelldon doesn’t respond, the screen turning blue.

He lets out loud sounds, like a fax machine failing to run as seconds pass, allowing it to hurt their ears as they wait. Abruptly it stops, and Shelldon’s face comes back with another stock image of a woman shrugging.

“It should work.”

Leo takes control immediately, standing beside Raph as he turns to the rest of them with determination shining in his eyes, and a confident grin. Raph smiles at his younger brother, allowing the slider to take the lead as he starts the basics of a plan. Everyone stands straighter, listening intently with narrowed eyes and confidence radiating off of them. His eye doesn’t pulse like before, settling down as he stares at the rest of them. Raph’s fingers flex by his side as the others start interjecting with ideas and plans as well, tweaking it so they would have the best chance at getting her DNA.

Chapter Text

Eventually, after Othello finishes speaking about his family and feels emotionally lighter, the three of them wander over to the couches to join the others. April and Leo make room for them on either side of Raph, and Mikey dives between April and Raph. Donnie sits on the other side of April, and Othello finds himself sitting between Leo and Raph.

The red-clad turtle grunts, adjusting his grip on Spike as he watches Othello with a judgemental side-eye. He can't help but smile nervously at the turtle, feeling awkward and out of place as Raph turns back to the TV with a deep frown.

Leo doesn't pay him any mind, watching the screen with sparkling eyes while bright flashes of light appear, bathing them all in a rainbow of colors. The technodrome somehow is offended by his seating placement, sending out waves of disgust and pleasure from Othello's back. He ignores it and turns to Raph.

“What are you guys watching?” He asks the turtle. He rudely ignores Othello, stroking Spike's shell pointedly as he stares at the screen. Othello turns back with a frown just as the scene cuts to a man; the guy stumbling as a younger character helps him regain his balance.

“What should we do, Captain?!” the younger character yells, eyes darting around the screen. The Captain pushes himself off the other, standing tall and proud.

“We fight back, Crankshaw!” The Captain says, eyes glinting in determination. “Make those parasitic worms regret fighting us!”

“But Captain, there’s too many! We’re not going to win, we–” Othello watches with wide eyes as the Captain slaps Crankshaw across the face, the sound of hand hitting flesh like a thunderclap in the room.

Leo leans forward in his chair, eyes sparkling as he takes in every detail. Othello can’t help how his eyes dart to the turtle, his face open, absolutely fascinated by the show. Leo’s leg bounces in place from excitement, hands clutching his knees as a small, earnest smile overtakes his face.

And Oh, Othello thinks. This is his Jupiter Jim.

His eyes flicker back to the TV, the Captain yelling at the many crew members to ready the lasers and cannons to prepare for war and sacrifice. People scramble over to their stations as Captain Ryan sits in his chair with a smirk, hands gripping the handles. Another flash of color flies across the screen, bringing a pulsing sensation to the back of his eyes, the technodrome squirming in disgust. Othello closes his eyes for a moment, leaning back, the lights still visible through his eyelids.

Normally, Othello would be all for sci-fi; it’s one of his favorite genres, and he’s interested in what these alternates watch. But it’s all too much right now, and he’s still hungry.

“He is so cool!” He hears Leo say and pries his eyes open. The turtle is still leaning forward in excitement, eyes glued to the screen. Raph leans forward past Othello, looking at his brother with a teasing sneer.

“We get it, Leo. You have a crush on Ryan; you don’t have to kiss his butt every time he shows up on screen.”

“I-I do not!” Leo stutters, scowling. He tilts forward, leaning hard on his knees as he stares hard at Raph from across Othello. “Captain Ryan is an amazing leader! Brave, fearless—”

“A total schmuck.” Raph waves him off, stroking Spike's shell again.

“He is NOT a schmuck!”

“All of them are bad characters,” Donnie scoffs. Othello looks to his counterpart, the technodrome sending feelings of friend, family through his head. “Plus, none of this is accurate in the slightest bit— mind-controlling aliens? Are you kidding me?”

The technodrome is disappointed.

Othello feels offended— what kind of Donatello doesn't like science fiction?

“When was this made?” April jumps in. Her head tilts like a confused puppy, turning to the TV, specifically the VCR player. “I haven't seen one of those since I was six? Maybe five?”

“I saw one a couple of months ago.” Othello can't help but brag. “My dad has one because he has a bunch of old movies for nostalgia. I did offer to burn them on DVDs instead, but he said no.”

“Ah, does he also reject modern technology?” Donnie asks.

“For most things, unfortunately.”

“Is that a common thing with fathers?” Donnie mutters before turning to April. “Was your dad like that?”

April's lip twitches downward, staring at Donnie with furrowed brows and sorrowful eyes. Othello feels Raph and Leo turn to look at the tallest while the technodrome practically screams in delight at April's offended face. She stares pointedly at Donnie, lips pressed into a thin line, while the latter waits patiently for her answer.

Mikey, who sits between the two of them, tilts his head at Donnie with a tight frown and hands gripping his knees. His eyes dart between April and his brother pointedly. It takes a second, but Donnie pulls back and sits straight in recognition.

“I'm sorry.”

Othello gives his counterpart a sly stare, knowing that the turtle has no idea what he said was wrong. Mikey grimaces in return, pulling himself back with flat palms and a quick glance to April, forcing a smile on his freckled face. He flings an arm around her shoulder, shaking her lightly and drawing her gaze over to the youngest.

“Donnie didn't mean anything by it, dude— or dudette if you're feeling cool. Are you cool, or are you a dud?” Mikey blabbers. “Doesn't matter; what does matter is that this show is old and stinky, just like Raph after an intense workout—”

“I do NOT stink! And we're the same age—!”

“Stinky Raph, stinky nasty turtle.”

Raph hisses in anger, hands tightening around Spike's shell. Othello feels a slight twitch in the back of his head, both his instincts and the technodrome sending him conflicting feelings of step away and protect, defend, defend.

Mikey doesn't seem to share these instincts, sticking out his tongue playfully as he holds April tighter. The ginger smiles at the action, gripping the arm around her in a light hold, shoulders slowly slouching.

“Say that again, I dare you!” Raph growls. Mikey acts like he's thinking before smiling, his dimples on full display.

“Gross little turtle.”

Raph attempts to rise, but Donnie holds an arm out and keeps him down while Leo reaches around and pulls the back of his shell. Othello is left sitting beside a fuming turtle, leaning forward so Leo can get a comfortable grip.

Othello never noticed how… aggressive this Raph is. His own Raph would have responded with insults in return, maybe some grumbling or putting them in air jail (although this Raph is what? Five foot nothing? It would be impossible to execute this).

It's certainly a change of pace, but his Raph never seriously hurt them, and he doubts this one would either… he misses his big brother. Technically, he's right next to him, but that's not his eldest brother; that's these turtles.

His gut feels heavy, and squirms, while the technodrome sends thoughts of Violence! Bloodshed! Happy! through his mind. Then he's feeling queasy and has to swallow the bile that collects in the back of his throat.

“...I have to—” his voice isn't strong, so it's no surprise that Leo interrupts with a teasing smirk.

“You do kinda stink after a workout, Raph.”

Raph turns to him with a scowl, lips pulled back and bearing blunt teeth. Leo doesn't seem phased, staring at Raph innocently as the technodrome screams louder in happiness. Othello can't help but flinch, turning to Leo with a scowl. The turtle doesn't pay him any mind, focussing on Raph's face as his face turns upward into a familiar smirk. It's not as devious as his own Leo's, but his eyes twinkle in barely concealed mirth as he releases his brother's shell.

Othello turns back to face the TV, the scene now having the main characters hiding somewhere behind some towered equipment. His eyes flicker back to Raph, watching as he leans behind Othello to point a finger angrily at the second eldest. Othello's ears rang, hearing the words full of vitriol said behind him but not fully understanding the sounds. It's muffled, with the technodrome chanting battle, FIGHT, KILL HIM.

Othello stands.

All eyes are on him.

Sweat collects on his brow as he turns to the alternates. His stomach feels worse as if he ate expired food, but he smiles anyway— his skin stretching unnaturally at the corners of his mouth. Their faces are concerned and confused, with Leo looking the most concerned, brows pinched, and mouth set into a frown.

“I totally forgot that my dad is expecting me home soon,” He lies. His palms shake with small tremors that he hopes are invisible. “I have to go. Now.”

“O-oh, are you sure?” Leo blinks in surprise. Othello stares for a few seconds, feeling an unhealthy amount of disgust. He straightens his back while nodding stiffly.

“It's late; he has to be worried.”

April checks the time on her phone, eyes widening in realization. Then she stands, patting her knees and removing any dust on her leggings.

“I better get going, too. Do you want me to walk with you, Othello?”

“No, I, uh—” why is it screaming? Why is he filled with such vitriol and disgust? “I'm okay. Just worry about yourself.”

“Really? It would be no problem—”

“I'm fine. Worry about yourself.”

April looks at him with a frown, lower lip out with a stern look in her eyes. With her shoulders raised, she looks like she wants to say something else, but Othello turns and starts walking. He jumps over the turnstiles and makes a beeline down the sewer, the familiar scent calming his nerves somewhat.

Go back. It says.

Othello doesn't listen and stops at the base of the ladder. Stray beams of moonlight cascade down, illuminating a few feet around him. His hands still shake, grabbing one side of the ladder with a loose grip. There's a heavy lump in his throat, weighing him down as the technodrome creeps itself around him.

Go back to the turtles, it says. Go back to the alternates— to your family.

Othello lets out a shaky breath, his body shuddering as he stares at the manhole high above. He goes to grip the other side when the soft pitter-patter of footsteps invades his ears. He turns to find Leo and Raph approaching him with a small bag in the latter's hand. They perk up seeing him, Leo picking up the pace while Raph drags behind.

“Oh, good. You haven't left yet,” Leo smiles. “Mikey wanted to give this to you.” He nudges Raph's side, making the shorter turtle extend his arm and hold out the bag. He doesn't step any closer; Othello does, grabbing the bag gingerly. It's heavy, crinkling under his tight grip as he stares questioningly at Leo. The turtle blinks, seemingly realizing that Othello has no idea what this could be.

“It's leftovers,” He explains. “Mikey was insisting that you and April take some— they're making her a plate, but you left so fast…”

His stomach rumbles softly as he brings it closer, the faint smell of fish and rice greeting him.

Thank the red one, thank your family. The technodrome whispers.

“Yeah, um, thank you,” Othello says. “That was very generous of him.” Leo beams, showing off each of those pearly white teeth.

How vile.

Leo looks away for a second, back in the direction they came from, and Othello frowns. The technodrome sends waves of hatred and anger, the feeling familiar yet still shocking. He felt this way when he thought of Leon, but having it directed to the turtle before him was a surprise.

“We shouldn't keep you.” Leo turns back to Othello. The softshell manages to smooth his face at the last second, eyes kept firmly on Leo and ignoring the stare Raph gives him on the side. “Your dad has to be worried, right?”

“Yes, he would. I'll see you four…around…” Raph shifts, stepping closer to Leo, but it seems like the latter doesn't notice. He stares at Othello warningly, face flat and lower lip twitching to stop itself from forming into a snarl. Othello says nothing, turning to the ladder and climbing up. The technodrome is thankfully silent and stays that way the entire walk back.

Chapter Text

Othello keeps his breathing steady as he welds two pieces of loose metal together. Sparks fly occasionally, illuminating his immediate surroundings while hitting the exposed Kraang wrapped protectively over his scaled hands. The world is tinted a pale orange, distorted from the corner of his vision on account of his cracked goggles, damaged from his ramage roughly a month prior. They were a lower priority for the softshell and were still usable, so Othello didn’t have a reason to replace them yet.

We have bigger things to worry about. The Technodrome reminds.

Othello rolls his eyes, the tendrils around his hands pulsating in reprimand. He continued to weld, stopping every few moments to ensure it was correctly sealed, the smell of metal filling his small space.

It's crooked.

The turtle pauses, pulling the blowtorch away as he observes his handiwork. Othello squints, trying to find the flaw but finding nothing. He can feel the Technodrome’s annoyance, a few strands of flesh sliding off his hand and pointing to the correct area.

It's crooked. The metal is two centimeters off.

“It's two centimeters,” Othello says, turning off the blowtorch and flipping up his goggles. He blinks, trying to adjust to all the colors, but eventually closes his eyes. “I like things being perfect as the next guy, but two centimeters isn't a big deal.”

You should always strive for perfection.

“‘You should always strive for perfection,’” Othello mocks, opening his eyes as he pitches his voice and wrinkles his snout. “That's you; that's what you sound like.”

We do not sound like that.

“You're right; I need it to be more annoying.” He can feel it send waves of disappointment as though it was frowning at him. The turtle pulls away from the gadget with a sigh, leaning into his chair. “I don't like you.”

We are aware. You tell us frequently.

“And it never stops being true.” The flesh retreats from his hands, returning to the leading source on his back. Othello sniffs, looking at his invention from the corner of his eyes with a frown.

Well, “invention” was a stretch. It was a rudimentary trap, a sizable box with spikes pointing downwards that allowed animals to get inside but unable to leave. It was easier than going out to catch prey with his hands, an activity he'd been trying to avoid as much as possible. But people typically don't throw away fresh meat, and while the Technordrome will tolerate canned, it’s very vocal about its preference.

We need protein to survive.

“You need protein. I need you to be dead.”

It's strange being able to have entire conversations with the parasite. Othello feels much more apathetic after the initial shock, denial, and anger. They don't talk of much substance, most of their conversations being the Technodrome nagging him for things. Host, you need to eat. Host, you should visit the second. Host, you should use a nine bolt. Host, we're hungry. Host, you need to go out hunting.

A lot of it revolves around food. Othello has been hungrier than usual, a side-effect of the technodrome “evolving.” Othello would have loved to take notes and investigate what’s happening; it’s all so fascinating! He just wishes it wasn’t happening to him.

He sighs, reaching over and grabbing the trap. It was finished, despite the alien’s protests of it not being “perfect” or “correct.” Besides that, Othello was tired of working on it anyway. His fingers trace over the metal rods, watching his dull reflection stare at him with weary eyes. Othello always had eye bags. Still, they’ve grown more prominent recently, standing out like a sore thumb against sickly pink-tinted scales.

We need food. Use the traps.

Othello rolls his eyes, forcing himself out of the chair. His limbs feel heavy as he stretches, snatching his cloaking broach, some antidote from the far table, and a smelly bookbag. Under the cover of night, sounds and movements disguised by darkness is when Othello moves. He ducks between alleyways and climbs buildings, the bag shifting with every slight movement.

The wind whips around him, sending goosebumps up exposed arms, his scales glistening in the low light of the city. His breath comes out in uneven pants, highlighted by the white smoke that passes through his beak. Othello can’t help but shiver; the cool New York air is not surprising but unwelcomed. It’s been hard to focus on the portal, which reflects with time. Othello can’t blame it all on the parasite; things have been rough recently, and he hasn't been in the right mindset.

Don’t call us that.

Othello scoffs, rubbing his arm to get some semblance of heat. “And what do you want me to call you?” He asks. “My best friend? My good old companion? Ol’ Skippy Boy from around the block?”

We don’t appreciate that attitude.

“I don’t appreciate having you on my back!” Othello snaps. “J-just, whatever. Help me find a spot for this thing.” He tugs the backpack straps, making sure to have it slam into an exposed part of the Technodrome. The alien hisses in pain and discomfort, a feeling of disgruntlement coming off it in waves.

You should be nicer to your family. We’re all you have.

“You’re so keen on saying that. We’re not, so I’m uncertain who you’re trying to fool.” Othello walks to the roof's corner, behind an HVAC unit. The back is covered in thick dust, while the ground around it is littered with stray wrappers and ripped papers.

This is an adequate spot. It is high enough for birds but hidden so humans cannot see.

It says humans with vitriol, enough that makes Othello grimace as he lays down a trap. He’s starting to sprinkle some seeds as bait when the Technodrome demands his attention again, physically pulling his head back so he can overlook the city. He’s wide-eyed and disoriented when the Technodrome forces him to the edge, pointing at something far below.

Over there.

Othello squints, but he doesn’t see much.

No, not there. Over there, pay attention, host.

It moves his head to the left, pointing at an alley. Othello is forced to look, seeing and hearing nothing but silence and spotting the outline of a dumpster near its mouth. His snout scrunches, rolling his eyes as he backs away from the ledge.

“You did all that because you wanted me to dumpster dive?” Othello scoffs. “You didn’t have to drag me like a ragdoll for that.”

We are trying to help you. Something is happening. Listen, listen, use our ears.

He strains his ears, and amongst the quiet of the street, with the quiet chatter of far-off people and traveling cars, he does hear something—heavy, metallic, and rhythmic footsteps. Othello stiffens, gripping the ledge of the building until his knuckles turn white. The sound was muffled behind concrete and metal, but it didn't matter.

False Krang. Fake Krang.

“Yeah, I got that,” He mutters.

Othello hasn’t seen them in a while, not since his first encounter months back. He assumed they were regrouping for something, but he’s also been watching the news with every T.V. he encounters and radio waves he can pick up. Their buildings and companies have been consistently blown up and destroyed, to the point where the media is assuming it’s some kind of protest group staying out of the spotlight. Othello knows what’s causing it or who’s causing it. The turtles were good, but they also weren’t subtle, unsurprisingly. Othello is sure he and his brothers have left ninja stars lying around, too, but New York doesn’t care enough about “Ninjas in the city.”

Othello hops off the roof, sliding down the brick building with ease. His palms get scuffed up, covered with a thin sheen of dirt and grime. Then he’s off again, scampering across the street. He sticks to the shadows, merging almost perfectly as he goes deeper into the alley, reaching the backdoor of the building where the noises are coming from. The door was locked, with a silver keypad by its side, glimmering in the low light.

Othello eyes it before looking up at the building, looking for any windows or vulnerable points. The Technodrome sends waves of… what is that? Is it rolling its nonexistent eyes at him? Rude.

Use the keypad; they’ll expect intruders from other places but not the front door.

“And how do you suppose I unlock it? It’s not like we just have the code.” Othello rolls his eyes with a huff, crossing his arms. A tendril extends from his back, reaching over and punching in a four-digit code, lighting the alarm green with a sharp beep. “...How the heck did you do that?”

It’s not astrophysics, Host. It’s a simple deduction.

“Of what?!” Othello shakes his head. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

He opens the door quietly, greeted by pristine white walls with bright purple accents. The dramatic change in color makes his eyes hurt, but he pushes forward, ducking behind columns and large containers to keep out of sight.

The air smelled sterile but with an undertone of something sweet. It’s faint, but the smell makes Othello nauseous, plugging his nose as he breathes out of his mouth— although he can still taste it. There were other smells, too, such as sulfur and iron, although they were more robust as if the Kraang (False Krang The Technodrome corrects) were trying to cover the sickly sweet scent.

Listen. The Technodrome says. Do you hear it?

“I only hear your bitch-ass voice.” Raph would reem into him for all the cursing he’s been doing lately, but Othello feels like he has a pass.

Not us. It sneers. Listen closely, Host. Somebody is near.

Indeed, there were. Othello peaks behind his hiding place, watching as three Kraangdroids walk by in perfect unison, footsteps echoing down the hall. He cocks his head, watching them turn the corner, disappearing. Othello follows quietly behind them, staying far enough away to keep a close eye while still being hidden. They walk to a door guarded by two more aliens that nod in acknowledgment, allowing them to enter.

From the glance that Othello could get, the inside was much of the same thing, with something standing tall in the middle, holding an egg-shaped object. He saw glimpses of boards written on them and Kraang walking around in exposed suits. The door closes, and Othello pulls himself back into hiding.

He breathes deeply, biting the back of his palm in thought. He could just leave it to the alternates; these versions of the Kraang were considerably less of a threat, and they’ve shown themselves capable. On the other hand, Othello is also concerned about what they could be planning. They were weak, but what they lacked in power, they made up for in numbers.

We remember when there were thousands of us. The Technodrome reminisces. Now only ţ̴̧͇͇̦̲̙̰͙͓̱̇̌̈́͊h̵̫̞͖̱͇͖̝̲͔̉͆̓͛͜o̶̺͙̗̼̘̥͓̙̰͚̒̉̍͋̎̄̚͜ṳ̴̫̱̙͚͍̄̅̊͒̈̐̋̔͌̈́̂s̵̖̺̭͈̬̯̼͔̑͜ͅa̶̢̭̯̩͇̦͈̦̠͓̜̐̎̎̉̈́̈́͑̓͝n̴͉̗̗̤̏͌̌̌̿̔͆͑͘d̸̻̼̠͙͕̪̩̿̽̉́́̑͒̇̀̈́̒̓̉͝ş̴̥̘̖͚̱̮͖̞̳̈́̇̏̆̿̉ remains.

“...What did you say?”

It doesn’t matter. Look up; there’s an entrance.

Othello follows the command, finding an exposed air vent. Getting up there was surprisingly easy, and the grate popped open silently, with enough room for Othello to crawl inside comfortably. He moves silently, shifting closer to the door where the Kraang first disappeared. It takes him a while, but eventually, he makes it over the threshold, peering down from above as the Kraang work together. The sweet smell is more pungent, making Othello gag at the strength, eyes squinting as he stares down.

Movement catches his eye and Othello’s gaze flickers to a Kraang walking to the other side of the room, handing a pink vial to another Kraang. It beeps in appreciation, holding it against the light before pouring the liquid into a separate container.

“Kraang is almost finished with the item known as a sedative,” It remarks, capping the container close. “Is Kraang finished with Kraang’s analysis?” It speaks louder.

“Kraang is no closer to figuring out the device that is unknown to Kraang.” One says, standing by the giant container holding the egg. From the angle Othello is in, he can’t see inside it, a complete mystery to his eyes and ears.

“Kraang will expect a report from Kraang soon.”

“Understood.” They return to their stations, with the first Kraang handing off several bottles to another nearby. Othello squints, pushing closer to the grate to get some semblance of anything to figure out what they were concocting.

The Technodrome shifts, like it’s trying to see too, pressing up against the metal vent as it creeps closer to Othello’s face, tilting his head so he looks in the opposite direction to the floating boards they’re using.

It’s you.

…It’s his photo. His photo was taken when he was unconscious. He's on a table, straps on his limbs, with various unreadable notes pointing at different parts of his body, specifically his heart and head. A shiver runs up his spine, hackles raised.

A Kraangdroid walks up and blocks the board, so Othello focuses elsewhere. He watches as another Kraang walks up to the container and reaches inside. The sound is unlike anything Othello has ever heard, ending right after the Kraang retrieves its prize, holding it close to its chest.

You need to do something, Host.

No kidding. They were keeping an eye out for him, studying him from what little data they had. Did they dedicate a whole team to figuring out what Othello is? The softshell would be flattered if this weren't a huge problem.

They see you as a threat. See us as a stepping stone. They will not show mercy.

Othello swallows the lump in his throat, and the Kraang he watches turns around. Othello gets a clear image of his broken battle shell. It lays the shell on a nearby table covered in tools Othello can't recognize.

You never went back for it. What did you think was going to happen?

Othello didn't want to go back to that alley.

You know what we have to do. We need to kill them before they kill us.

A shiver runs up his spine.

They will kill you with no hesitation. Why are you afraid to defend yourself?

“I am not a killer,” Othello murmurs.

You're not. You're a survivor.

“I can handle them alone; I don't need to kill them.”

Host, do you remember? Being restrained and harmed. We got out by pure luck.

“It wasn’t luck. I could have gotten out any time I wanted.”

Yet you didn’t. Why not?

…He couldn’t. He managed to hurt them initially, but wasn't that just because he was petrified? Even then, he was still captured, and despite all his efforts, he couldn't manifest his ninpo. If Othello is being honest, he's still having trouble. He just chalked it up to the Technodrome being irate that he's attacked their “comrades.”

We needed clarification. We called out for family, but those are not our family. They do not love us.

Again with love.

What do you suppose will happen when they catch us?

…Then Othello will be exposed, probably locked in a cage or strapped back on that table, free to be experimented on with no hope of rescue. He has no one here.

You have us, Host.

Othello inhales deeply. The Technodrome creeps up further on him, a slow heartbeat drowning out his fears and thoughts— Othello can't tell whether it's his heart or The Technodrome's.

We won't do anything you won't want us to.

“Yeah, right,” Othello scoffs. “Like you haven't been yelling and ordering me since we arrived.”

We haven't done anything detrimental to your health or development.

Othello's lips pull back in a grimace. He can't eat anything but meat. His head periodically pounds when the Technodrome screams orders at him. He's been so much more tired recently.

We remind you to eat. Protein is good for you. We stopped when you asked.

His mouth still feels wet with blood.

We stopped when you asked. It reminds him again.

She looked at him with such fear.

Host. They will kill you.

That snaps him back to reality. Othello takes a shuddering breath and dares another peek through the grate, watching as one of the droids pokes around his shell, attempting to open it. A second one wanders closer, handing its companion a blowtorch.

If you get your shell back, won't you feel safer?

From the corner of his eye, Othello watches the Technodrome shift and move, pulling his clocking broach forward. It places it in his palm, his fingers closing automatically around the smooth surface.

Wear your disguise. We’ll handle the rest. We will follow your orders.

What does Othello want to do?

You want to fight. Win. Succeed. Survive.

Othello straps the broach around his wrist, feeling the familiar warmth of the disguise falling over him. He rubs his hair between two fingers, breathing hard to steal his nerves. Othello can feel the alien shift, invisible tendrils pushing through the grate to the room below. Then it explodes outwards, and they attack before the Kraang realizes he's there.

Othello dances between shots of their guns, The Technodrome laughing gleefully in his ears. It's almost like a game, The Technodrome guiding his motion in swift movements, a silent conversation between the two.

The Host ducks under another shot, swiftly advancing to the offending Kraang. The Technodrome uses one of its many limbs to slice through the metal quickly, rendering the machine useless as it crumbles. It hisses in pain, stray shrapnel embedding in its flesh before The Host gets shot in his left shoulder.

Flesh moves to cover the wound, and Technodrome launches itself at its assailant, throwing its metal casing at another, causing them both to crumple in a heap.

“The one known as Othello will cease,” Orders one of the droids. Thoughts of Follow orders. Cease. Kraang. They float through the corners of their mind, but The Technodrome pushes them away. Their lips pull back into a snarl, stray hair falling over their eyes as they crouch low. Then, they pounce, using momentum to knock them down and steal their weapon.

Their body stands, shooting at the remaining droids and moving with quick precision. It’s less of a battle and more of a massacre. The fighting stops soon after, with their chest heaving with residual adrenaline, throwing the gun across the room. Their mouth ticks upward slowly, the skin stretching unfamiliarly into what The Host calls a smile.

Standing tall in the carnage it and its Host created, it can be said with certainty that the sensation swelling in their chest is pride.

Their eyes flicker to the table, the false shell— Battle Shell, The Host corrects— glimmering under the fluorescence lights. They grab it and tuck it under their arm, turning so they can look at the board with The Host's photo.

It's an unflattering image, taken when they were most vulnerable, with hair splayed across the table but face slacked from sleep. They look at the notes, eyes scanning over the information the false Kraang collected, the notes barebones with a sprinkling of lies.

Human subject known as Othello. Has residual Krang DNA embedded within, focused on the chest(?) and brain. It is growing. Pulsating. Needs more Data.

Their flesh moves, protecting The Host’s fist as the rear backs and smashes the machine's base. Sparks fly as their limbs move within the machine, quickly corrupting files and corroding the metal. What was once smooth, polished material is now flimsy with vines of Technodrome flesh crawling up its sides.

The Technodrome could hear The Host in the back of their mind as they retrieved their hand from the machine. Their digits curl as they stand straighter, adjusting the battle shell to fit more comfortably.

Leave. Done. Body.

He wants the body back. The Technodrome knows how to share; it has had to share its flesh since its creation. This body was limiting, hard, and solid, with more bones than necessary, yet each punch and pounce felt like euphoria. It missed this. The way flesh moves harmoniously, muscles flexing underneath with blood pouring through their veins— their form is so similar, yet different enough that it bothers them.

Something slimy shifts through the air, and its head perks up. It’s to the right— no, left, no, it’s—

Traitor. False. False. False.

Their head is covered, and something falls from the high ceiling directly on them, startling them into dropping the shell. The Technodrome hisses, the faint voice of the little creature in the back of their mind, as the Host’s voice reverberates louder. The Technodrome follows orders, attempting to yank the slimeball off their head, their tentacles wrapped around The Host’s skull as the Kraang screeches in their ear. The little alien has quite a grip, and their scales nearly ripped off with The Technodrome's attempts at freedom.

Off. Off. Off.

What does The Host think it's trying to do?

It manages to wedge its hand between its flesh and the Kraang, palm outward as it simultaneously tries to push it away and pull off its limbs. The Kraang gets bold, biting into their flesh as hard as possible. Blood trickles out of the Kraang’s mouth, irritating The Technodrome. With one final push and pull, it manages to yank it off with minimal injuries, the alien still biting into their flesh with all of its little might.

Off! Off! OFF!

Stop shouting! Give it a second!

The Technodrome opens its mouth and bites back. Blood, pink and dense, full of memories and data, pools into its jaw. The creature stops moving, eyes rolling to the back of its head, finally limp. The Technodrome rips off its flesh, swallowing the sweet material in a single gulp. It can feel The Host gag and cringe, disgust rolling in their mind in waves.

Why?

They drop the body onto the floor, stepping on it. It lets out a ‘squelch’ under their foot, almost like a marshmallow or one of those fidget toys the orange one— Mikey, says The Host, likes so much. It licks their lips, eyes roaming back to the piles of Kraangdroid bodies and their unconscious pilots. Their eyes don’t move from the pile as it pick the shell back up, holding it tighter.

They walk closer to the pile, footsteps echoing hauntingly. Othello crouches down, breathing steadily as he observes the fallen aliens. Slowly, he holds a hand out to the nearest one, above its lip, right where the nose would be, or the Kraang equivalent. Then he picks up a tentacle in a two-fingered grip, closing his eyes as he focuses. It’s not breathing. The Technodrome killed it.

Why don’t we take the body? The Technodrome asks.

Othello wipes the blood off his face, his arm coming back a bright pink. “For what?”

We’re so hungry, Host.

His stomach growls, and he can’t help how his eyes flicker to the fallen alien.

Think about it; we get more food, more information, less false Krang will come after you, and there will be less Kraang attacking the second and his allies.

Othello is not a killer. But he’s so hungry, and The Technodrome has a point. When they bit into the alien's flesh, everything felt…clearer. These Kraang are a hivemind race— he suspects his Krang was, too, and it feels like their frequencies were just slightly out of sync. Like two lightswitches flipping simultaneously, each going at their own pace, unmatching until they both flick simultaneously for the briefest second. But swallowing that piece, he was allowed a proper glimpse.

They have notes on him, theories, and plans to sedate and dissect him. They’ve never seen a creature like him or seen a version of Kraang like this before. They’re curious. They’ll kill him in the name of science.

Othello sighed heavily, flipping his battle shell so it faced him. His fingers run up its side, pressing a few buttons and opening a small compartment at the top. It was meant for first aid equipment, installed after the battle with their Shredder, but it has a new purpose now.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t fit many, and Othello can only carry so much. He’s resigned to carrying three bodies in his shell, the added weight on his back both familiar and daunting. He lingers around the pile, foot fidgeting as he attempts to grab another, its texture horrendous on his scales. The Technodrome beams in delight as he cradles it like a child, finally walking away.

He doesn’t bother climbing out through the vent; there’s nobody left to guard the doors. The outside world is just as he left it, the air still heavy with pollution and the faint smell of sewage. Othello finds it comforting, but The Technodrome sees it as disgusting.

The sky is dark and murky when he climbs to the rooftops, heading toward his base. The world seems to move slowly, with nothing but the alien on his back and the voices in his head. At one point, the broach runs out of juice, flames dancing around the edges of his vision as his proper form is revealed to the world. His scales glimmer under the moon's light, but Othello keeps his eyes strictly forward, ignoring the sickly shine.

Othello gags, something akin to bile crawling up his throat, and he holds up a hand to his mouth, hopping to the next building. He misses the jump by centimeters and has to use both hands to hold onto the building's edge as his feet push him upwards.

You dropped it! The Technodrome compains.

He groans, throwing his head back. He drops down to the street below, finding the alien slammed flat on the ground, splayed out like a rat, eyes closed and tongue out. Othello carefully peels it off, uncaring the concrete's stain and cradling it in his hands. A car rushed by, its headlights illuminating the area he was in, allowing the softshell to see better.

He doesn’t move from his place beside the dumpster; the dent in the front is familiar. He hears a loud creak from a door behind him, and Othello turns before he thinks. Another car rushes by, lightening the cramped space as they both stand in shock and fear.

Blood drips off his arm, and sweat collects on his forehead. Othello is left standing wide-eyed and back hunched with a dead body in his hand as Casey Jones stares back. His mouth is agape in shock, the door still propped open with one hand and a trash bag in the other. Othello can hear his heart in his ears and feel adrenaline rush through his veins as The Technodrome decides what to do next.

They run. Othello practically scales the wall, ignoring the shout of alarm underneath him. He has to hold the Kraang with his mouth, rolling over the ledge of the building and slamming painfully onto the roof. The body gets back in his arms, and then he’s off like a shot once more.

-.-

“Are you sure it was this way?”

“Yes. A whole thread of people confirms that they heard some weird noises coming from this building.”

Raph sniffs, trailing behind April with his brothers as she leads them across the rooftops. She’s not fast, so they all have to slow their pace so she can guide them to the right place. His muscles are bound tight in preparation for what they might find, jumping the gap just as she stops before them, checking her phone once more.

“It’s right, um—” Her nose scrunches up, leaning over the ledge to read the street sign below them. “Okay, we’re on… so it’s this way—”

“How do you live in one city your entire life but don’t know where you’re going?” Raph asks, raising an eyeridge. April scowls at him, brushing her hair behind her ear as she cocks her hips to the side.

“Bet I do it better than you can.”

“You understand how that’s NOT a good thing, right?”

She doesn’t respond, huffing before pointing at a building down the road. It looks like every other one, with no distinguishable markings on its surface. Raph frowns at her in questioning, and April juts out her chin in response.

“It's that one, I'm sure of it.” She leans over the edge, comparing the addresses with a silent hum. “Yeah, that's it.”

“April, please let me see the phone,” Donnie asks. She hands it over wordlessly, and he glances down before turning slightly to the right. “Next building.”

Raph snorts just as April's face turns cherry red. She sputters, snatching her phone back as she looks back at the screen. Then her face twists and drops, sitting on the ledge with her feet crossed, placing her head on her palm as she leans on her knees.

“Okay, yeah, laugh it up over there! Whatever, we got here eventually! There’s been suspicious activity from that building— go do your ninja thing!”

Leo pushes past all of them, clearing his throat as he stands beside April, back straight and hands by his side. Raph frowns at him as the two youngest look at each other before focusing on Leo. The turtle smiles, determination and ego practically pushing off of him in waves.

“All right, men! This could be one of our biggest missions yet! We may not survive, but—”

“We’re going to die?” Mikey gasps. Leo’s facade drops.

“No-no-no, we’re not going to die, we’re—”

“We’re going to die, and the aliens are going to grind our bones into lotion.” Raph nods. Mikey’s jaw drops, eyes wide, covering his mouth in shock. Leo sends him a warning glare, but Raph rolls his eyes and ignores him. “It’s not even good lotion. That’s why they’re so wrinkly and slimy.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Donnie shivers. “They didn’t even let go easily! I’m pretty sure I’m missing scales.”

“Guys, focus!” Leo snaps, drawing back their attention. “I need you guys to pay attention to the plan!”

“We go in there, sneak around, find out their plan, and beat them up. What more do we have to go over?” Raph asks. He walks closer to the edge to observe the building, the cool breeze tickling his snout.

“We need to go over the plan because I’m the leader—”

And that’s when Raph stops listening.

He jumps over the edge, scaling down the building under the cover of darkness. He can hear Leo sputter loudly in anger, followed by the familiar steps of Mikey and Donnie. Once Raph’s feet reach the ground, he looks back up to them, feeling a tiny flicker of pride in his chest, especially as Leo lingers above them, with April's tight frown. He sticks out his tongue at the eldest just as Leo decides to follow them.

Raph doesn’t stick around, blending with shadows as he sneaks closer to the building. The door is slightly ajar, with flecks of pink on the ground, sticking out like a sore thumb compared to the darkened and dusty concrete. Donnie and Mikey get to him first, standing on either side of him as they look.

“Were you guys waiting for me?” Leo asks as he approaches.

“The doors open,” Mikey explains. “What kind of super secret base has the front door open?” Leo hums in consideration.

“It’s probably a trap…” His head tilts upward and points to a vent opening. “Up there, c’mon.”

Raph’s first thought, seeing the vent, is, “This is going to be cramped.” His second thought, crawling through with Leo taking the lead and Donnie directly behind him, is, “I was right.” It’s sizeable but not made for human-sized turtles. There’s only a few centimeters between his shell and the roof, and every so often, if it’s not his own, a shell scrapes against the top, forcing them to readjust and Leo to shoot them a warning glare.

They move in silence, with only the occasional scrape and thumping of metal underneath them as their companions and a lingering scent of something sour in the air. Raph isn’t sure how long they travel, resigned to staring at the back of Leo’s shell. Leo stops suddenly, and Raph tries before being pushed by Donnie, who grunts.

Raph turns around with a sneer, and Donnie hisses back before turning to Mikey, who shrinks behind them with a smile. Leo chirps infront of them, calling their attention in one swift action. Leo holds up a hand, pointing forward and down, and Raph cranes his neck to see what's happening, finding an open grate on the floor.

“Slow and quiet, now,” Leo commands. He crawls forward, peering down into the room below, and gasps. “Wait, I’m going down. Just stay here.” He pulls himself forward before dropping far below. Raph frowns, turns to the younger two, and nods back to the grate.

He doesn’t bother looking and drops down quickly, legs tingling from the force. The best way to describe the room is carnage. Metal bodies are scattered around the room, bright pink liquid seeping from underneath each one. Their materials, computers, and machines lay in ruins, sparks occasionally flying while covered in weird pink growths. The worst was probably the smell. What was once tolerable in the vents was now unbearable. Raph can’t help but gag, holding his hand up to his snout in an attempt to block it out, but that forces him to breathe with his mouth, and he can taste it. It burns the back of his throat, and his eyes water against his will.

“I think I’m going to puke.” Raph gags again, trying to control his stomach. He hears two more pairs of feet land on the ground, then two identical pairs of gagging, with Mikey’s being the loudest.

“Aw, dude! This smells like Raph after a workout!” Mikey yells, pinching his snout.

“Shut up!” Raph snaps back. Donnie sniffs loudly.

“I think it’s worse.”

Raph growls, then immediately regret it when the back of his throat burns again. He hacks up some spit, the taste bitter on his tongue. Keeping his tongue out in discomfort as Leo approaches the pile of suits, crouching down to its level.

“Somebody wasn’t playing around,” Leo says, grimacing. “Keep an eye out; they still might be in here.”

“I doubt it,” Donnie says. “All this carnage and an open front door? I think they left already.”

“What could even do something like this?” Mikey asks. “We didn’t see anybody leave.”

Donnie pushes past them, crouching beside Leo and tilting his head at the carnage. His snout wrinkles, covering it with one hand as the other reaches for the nearest one. The squelch alone sends shivers down Raph’s spine, watching Leo scramble away with wide eyes. Donnie, unfazed, turns toward them and holds it up like a trophy, its limbs dangling off his palm.

“So, they're not slimy anymore—”

“Dude!”

“Put that down!”

“I'm going to— hang!”

“-Their bodies are cold too. Whatever or whoever did this attack a while ago. They were efficient too, see here—”

“Donnie, please,” Leo begs, stopping the tallest ramblings. “Put it down!”

Donnie pouts but does as he's asked, standing up. He keeps his hand bent away from his body and digs into his side pouch with his clean hand, pulling out some sanitizer.

“As I was saying," Donnie huffs, pouring a generous amount on his hand. “They have a different biology from us, but they seemed to be coated in a sort of mucus to keep their bodies moisturized. They've long since dried out, and somebody seemed to have been aiming for their vitals.” He points between the Kraang's eyes at a noticeable hole.

“It’s more of a theory, but I believe the Kraang has a similar anatomy to Squids or Octopus. A quick jab between the eyes is the most efficient way to kill those. And look.” Donnie looks back at them with a smile. "Someone went straight between the eyes.”

“So, we’re looking for someone angry at the Kraang.” Leo retakes control of the conversation. "Probably someone recently mutated.”

"Like there's a shortage of that," Raph huffs. He crosses his arms as he looks over the massacre again. “I would have beef with them if they mutated me."

“Uh, dude? You did get mutated by them." Mikey points out. Raph smiles and holds his arms out.

"And look where I am!”

“We should look around for clues,” Leo orders, face serious. “Distinguishable markings, feathers— anything that can narrow down the type of mutant who did this.”

They split into groups, with Mikey and Donnie taking the left and Leo and Raph taking the right. There’s not much to look at or for, with this side of the room being nearly identical. There’s nothing Raph can call noteworthy, at least not to identify who or what caused the carnage. They sift through shattered metal, broken weapons, and the occasional Kraang, only to come up empty-handed every time. Occasionally, Raph will look up to check on their younger brothers, finding the two seemingly having a good time as they shift through the suits of Kraang. He can hear Donnie blabber away about something, but he’s too far away to make out the words, while Mikey nods with a smile, not understanding a single word.

Raph rolls his eyes, chucking a sizeable piece of eroded armor far from him. It spins on the tile floor, leaving behind small chippings and landing by Leo’s feet. His older brother doesn’t turn, giving Raph a warning stare from the corner of his eye. Raph smiles, picking up an arm and waving its fingers manually.

“You are so twisted.” Leo frowns. Raph smiles. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything. We should go, April’s going to get—”

“OH!” Donnie’s voice calls for their attention. He’s crouched by something short and metallic, the pink growths visible from even this distance. Leo and Raph exchange glances before jogging over, catching up just in time as Donnie pulls out something from the machine.

He holds it by a cylinder of silver metal, brushing off leftover grime on it and the screen. The screen was translucent pink, displaying the world behind it in a dull pink-tinted view, sticking roughly an inch from the cylinder. Donnie chirps in delight, holding it higher for the rest of them to see, Mikey churring in appreciation.

“I think this is a hard drive!” He exclaims. "They probably have some plans or something on here!”

“We could probably find out what the Kraang were doing here,” Leo says. “I don’t think we’ll find the culprit, though.” His nose scrunches as he inhales again, holding his hand to his snout.

“We’ve been here long enough. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

She is alone.

Every day or so, humans come in to check on her. They poke and prod, asking questions and sedating her when she gets "too active." They talk about her, two feet away from her face, in hushed tones as they stare at screens and papers of her anatomy. She often calls out for her brothers, who never respond. She assumes they're dead.

They have to be. They wouldn't leave Kraang here to rot. When they were stuck in that awful place together, with orange skies and floating rubble of their damaged ship and decaying bodies of their brothers and sisters, they stuck together. They explored and talked, playing games and reminiscing about the past. Her elder brother, Kraang Prime, often encouraged them, keeping their spirits up while time stretched around them. The younger, Kraang Theta, would growl and click; he never grew into the talking phase, often babbling about warriors and fights to her. She would plan his hypothetical battles, creating characters and scenarios to entertain him.

They ate together. They played together. They conquered together. They were a family. When everyone else mocked her siblings for being "uneducated" or "egotistical," she stuck by them. When the other Kraangs made fun of Kraang Sigma for being "too violent," her brothers were there to defend her.

…There was a reason why only three Kraang remained.

…Why only she remains.

She's suspended in liquid, something that slows her movement significantly; giant guns pointed above her— a warning not to escape. Every swipe of her tentacle makes her feel like she's underwater, resistance pushing her back to her starting position. Of course, the humans don't let her move much anyway. They're scared of her. They should be.

Weak and pitiful. It would be easy to grab and rip them apart when Kraang gets out. Sharp teeth tearing through flesh and bone, consuming every last bit of them for everything they've done to her. Then she would go after those creatures, the ones who killed her brothers, who injured her. She would make them suffer, just as they have done her.

Her mind pulses, lazily watching the two humans in the room as they watch her back, sitting comfortably in chairs. They talk about the same things every day: the world outside, her "status," and complaints of their superior officers. Nothing of substance.

"... doesn't seem very active," The man says, raising an eyebrow at her. She stares back, watching as he then sneers at her. "Honestly, when I took this job, I expected to fight aliens. Kick butt, take names. But I'm here, stuck in a lab observing this ugly thing." He gestures at the Kraang. "I was expecting more."

"I was expecting less!" The other responds. Her hands rub the top of her head, running her fingers through her shaven red hair. "I'm only working here for the scholarship fund."

"Is that thing even good?"

"Uh, yeah." she spins in her seat, hands outstretched behind her. "Four-year tuition. They cover fees like lunch and any books I need. Plus, they provided me with free housing and some credits to buy food for a year!" The man looks impressed, but Kraang doesn't know why.

"All that?"

"Yeah, plus I get some great health insurance. I've dealt with crooked teeth all my life, now look." She opens her mouth to bare her blunt teeth at the man, and he stares passively at her. "Completly straight."

“I’ll have to tell my nephew about that, he was looking for a—”

The room suddenly goes dark, the pair freezing in silence. Kraang can still see their bodies in the low lights, blinking in surprise. Then the room pours in red, a shrill alarm coming from the speakers. The humans jumped in surprise, the man covering his ears while the woman dived for the glass cabinet in the corner of the room. She shatters the glass with the rubber mallet beside it, grabbing two large guns and yelling something at the man. He doesn't hear her, hands still tight around his head as a repeating message echoes through the chamber:

"This is not all drill. All trained personnel are to report to Sector 12 immediately. All non-essential workers are to report to Sector 18. This is not a drill. All trained personel—”

With Kraang's keen ears, she hears three things. The thundering footsteps of human grunts, running to their designated sectors, the rattle of a gun as she shoves it at the man's shocked body, and eight feet— four people, running closer to them. Her head tilts in anticipation. The man fumbles with the gun while the woman stands in, barrel pointed at the door.

It all happens so fast; red emerges from the door, grabbing the woman and lifting her to the ceiling. The man looks over in shock, leaving his back open for a flying club, knocking back into her container. The woman yells profanities, struggling in the glowing red grip as her companion is wrapped in golden chains. He yelps, dragged away from the glass, and thrown on the floor, gun dropped and long forgotten. He stares up at his assulters in a daze, and Kraang follows him, allowing a spark of hope to grow in her chest.

"Can we shut that alarm up?!" A girl yells as she enters the room. Kraang's mood sours, baring fangs at the intruder. This was the one that hurt her, the one that killed the youngest. She'll kill her, rip her apart piece by piece, ripping every curly hair follicle out of her head.

A glowing blue portal appears under the alarm, sucking it in and quieting the room by a hair, the alarms outside still blazing.

"C'mon, we don't have much time!" In enters the blue turtle, his hands tightly gripping his katana as he looks over his shoulders. The orange turtle is right behind him, grasping the end of his weapon tightly as Raphael enters.

Raphael stares at her, face unreadable to the untrained. But Kraang was trained. She can see the twitch of his lips as they purse downward in thought. He stared at her like she was familiar, but he couldn't allow himself to acknowledge what it was. They purged Raphael of her little brother's influence, yet she could still see so much resemblance to her little sibling and her family.

The turtles get into position, wrapping the woman up in the orange one's chains as she kicks and screams, soon silenced by their human friend menacingly holding a glowing club. The blue one swipes its blade, and Kraang is sent through a portal, sliding onto the tile floor. Their limbs are covered in the viscous substance, a reminder of her situation. She snarls, standing taller than the rest of them in silent warning. They all ready their weapons, the two constrained humans staring wide-eyed and mouths agape.

"You freed me," Kraang says. They all stared at her. "Fools. I'll kill you!" She lunges for the nearest one, the blue turtle. He disappears before she reaches him, and Raphael's glowing arms push her back. She slams on the wall painfully, screeching for her family. Raphael twitches above her, brows furrowing and eyes twitching.

"You didn't think we would just bust you out, did you?" the blue one mocks. He cocks a hip as he slides something out of a sachel on his side. A hose-like object is connected to a large needle that shimmers under red light. "No, you're right where you belong. But we need something from you, so if you could just stay still—"

"RELEASE ME!" She screams, thrashing her limbs. The blue one tries to step closer, hesitating when her limbs reach for his throat. "Disgusting creatures, you will respect me! I am your superior! I'll gut you all and wear your bones like a crown as your families weep for some insignificant twerps like you all!"

"Oh, cry me a river." The blue one mocks. "You got everything you deserve, and we need your—" She manages to reach, grabbing onto an arm that gets too close. He hisses in pain, trying to pull himself back as her overwhelming strength brings him closer.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Kraang yells again, grabbing his arm with another tentacle. He drops the needle, all energy focused on getting away from her.

"Let go of him!"

"Leo!"

"Let him go!"

His companions are all yelling at her, and the girl darts forward. She slams that club into Kraang's tentacles, and it burns. Just like when she lost her eye, the flesh burns and bubbles, melting off from contact. Kraang screams and hisses, Raphael pushing further with his glowing appendage and slamming her into the wall.

The blue one grabs her fallen limb, poking it with a needle, and Kraang swears that she could feel that sharp pain. The humiliation of her failed attack burns, hurting more than the dismemberment of her limbs.

She doesn't deserve this. She's genetically better than all of them in every sense. They should be throwing themselves at her feet as she picks which one to fight in her battle arena. Her elder brother should be by her side, telling her the probability of winning for each of her toys, while the younger would gargle and hiss his thoughts. Then, when their toys break, they would pick new ones. That's all Kraang wants. It's what Kraang deserves.

"Got it!" The blue one yells, holding the needle high proudly. He wipes some of her blood off him, the arm she grabbed red and bloody. "And you are going back in your cage. Hasta la bye bye—"

"Wait." Raphael steps forward, and his team all turns to him. "I want to talk to her."

"Are you sure about that?" The girl raises an eyebrow behind her red-framed glasses. "The whole situation must have been pretty traumatizing." She gestures vaguely to her face. Raphael grimaces, and Kraang feels his grip loosen ever so slightly.

"I'm not." The turtle admits. "But I want to know something."

The rest of them look displeased but don't argue, allowing him to get closer. Kraang is still under his iron grip, forced to stare at the turtle's face, which is twisted into a look of disgruntlement. His eyebrows are pinched, invisible hackles raised as he stares into her one eye. If she looks close enough, she can see a twinge of pink in one of his, a remnant of her late brother.

"Do you miss them?" Raphael asks.

"Miss who?" She asks.

"The other Kraang."

Kraang scoffs, jutting out her chin at the turtle. "Of course, I miss my brothers."

"Not your brothers." He corrects. "Raph still has vague memories from your brother. You all invaded planets for eons before coming to Earth. There were so many more of you, and you guys never did what you did to me before."

She pauses, chest heaving with anger. Raph stares at her harshly while the rest of his compatriots freeze. The two humans who initially monitored her stare wide-eyed at the situation, their minds practically racing with this new information. She doesn't talk much, if at all, to the humans. They don't deserve it.

"You all destroyed civilizations and tortured other people for amusement. You never assimilated someone."

"So what? You think that makes you special?"

"I think it makes you lonely. Raph thinks you miss the others."

"... Disgusting! You're even lower than a human, and you think you can pass judgment on me?" His grip tightens around her body, and she squirms. "I am better than you! You all should just die!"

Something pulses in the back of her mind. Raphael's expression turns into one of pity, the glowing appendage tightening further. It's getting harder to breathe, and Kraang feels like she will pop.

Pitiful. Alone.

"Don't you dare say that to me!" She yells, pushing against the wall. "You should be grateful that my brother influenced you!" The blue one steps forward, lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Yeah, and look where that landed your brother."

"You little wench!"

"Stop!" My brother. Family. Do not hurt him.

"You would defend such a creature?" She demands. Raphael reels back. "You demand that I don't hurt him when he has hurt my family?!"

"I-I didn't say anything."

"Liar!"

The blue one's head tilts curiously, expression closed off, and eyes narrowed. He jostles that hose thing, putting as much as he can back into the satchel at his side, baring his weapon at her in its place. Kraang's finding breathing more challenging, anger burning underneath the surface.

What does she mean? She is alone. I need to help Donnie.

And for the first time, Kraang realizes that one is missing. Her eye scans all her assailants, taking in their gruff expressions and the fearful tone underneath. The blue one, their leader, she assumes, glares the hardest, eyes filled with regret and fear— but not fear for her. She can't help but laugh, raising all of their hackles, weapons poised for her head. She smiles, and they all shift uneasily.

"You lost one~," She sings playfully. "Where'd he go?"

"None of your business." The blue one says.

What does she know? Need her DNA. For Donnie.

"My DNA?" She asks. They all stand straighter. "For the purple one?"

"How do you know that?" The smallest one asks. Raphael squints at her.

Can't be. Hive mind? My eye hurts.

"Of course, your eye hurts," Kraang says. "You were ripped out of the connection."

"What connection?" The blue one asks. He takes a step forward, fingers gripping his blades tighter. Raphael looks vaguely concerned and steps forward, pushing past his leader to have the more undersized stand behind him. His eye twitches, and so do his fingers— a reminder of how he could have been great.

"...why should I tell you?" She asks in place of an answer.

"Because if you don't," The blue one snarls, raising his blade higher. "I'll kill you."

"And then you'll never have your answer. The dead don't talk."

Please. My brother. Family.

"You murdered both of mine." She retorts.

Images flash in her head, pictures of these turtles relaxing and playing. Each image lasts only a few seconds, making her head throb when a new one is shown. They mostly center around the purple one, how he looked, and how he acted. How he grew more irritable since her loss. Kraang's eye wanders back to Raphael, watching him stand straight with pursed lips.

"You realize both you and that purple one were destined for greatness," Kraang says. "That by rejecting the connection— rejecting my brother, you'll never reach your full potential."

They were going to be like her. Bigger, faster, stronger. They rejected it and are now surprised that they're having problems; Kraangs were pack creatures that can survive on their own but thrive with more numbers. Raphael would have been on top simply because he received some of her brother's genes. The purple one was inferior, better than earthlings, but could not hope to live up to the overwhelming might of a pure-blooded Kraang. The technodrome was meant to assist, a simple technology that made their lives easier.

She improved it ages ago. Her species don't usually perish; they're organic, but not like humans. Bodies rot, and flesh combines; upgrading the technodrome with so many raw and new materials was easy.

But everything is not without its flaws. Kraang thinks its lost their minds a few centuries back— not like it needed one to carry out daily tasks.

"I don't want to reach my 'full potential,'" Raphael says. "I want my brother."

"Yeah? So do I."

They all fall silent, watching her with a critical gaze. Then Raphael's eyes flicker to the blue ones. All of the turtle's eyes flash white for the briefest of seconds, and the blue one's face twists into one of shock and defiance. The orange one perks up behind them, face pulled back into a confused grimace. His mouth falls open in shock, glancing between the taller turtles while the three humans remain in the back, silent. With her red glasses and a glare that screams of her hatred of Kraang, the girl looks at the turtles with a critical gaze.

"...you cannot be serious." The blue one hisses. Raphael shrugs, gesturing to her with his head. "Raph, are you thinking clearly?!"

"Raph is!"

"Oh, that's crazy…" The orange one whispers. "I can probably do it." His voice gets louder.

"No."

"Absolutely not."

"Do what?" Their female companion asks. Kraang shifts, and she points her club at the alien in a warning. "You guys want to let me in? Stop mind-mending infront of me? Because that's just rude."

"Raph wants to send her back to the prison dimension." The orange one says.

"What?!" She growls. "We're just going to let her go?"

"We're not letting her go!" Raphael defends. "It's a prison; she can't get out. She can't hurt anybody!"

"She tried to kill us! She controlled you!"

"I know! But they can't escape, not like last time."

Kraang's eyes flicker between the four of them, watching as tension grows between Raphael and the girl. Her chin juts out in silent warning to the larger turtle as his shoulders rise in defiance, the glares reminding Kraang of her siblings when they got into their fights.

Her chest aches again, and she snarls at the four, baring her teeth. They spare her quick glances before returning to their impromptu staring contest, with the blue one's gaze on her. He breathes deeply, hands repositioning themselves on his blades before turning back to his companions with a heavy frown.

"I say we do it." They turn to look at him. "If she talks, we send her somewhere she can't hurt anyone. Nobody goes in and out, and she's out of our hair."

"Wha–? Leo! You can't be serious!"

"I am." The blue one turns to look back at Kraang.

"And what makes you think I want to go back there?" Kraang hisses. "I should gut you all.”

"Don't you want to see your brother?" Raphael asks. It feels like there's a lump in her throat. "He's still alive."

"...liar."

Her mind is flooded with images of their battle against her elder brother again, of how they fought through that vast orange space, tossing, turning, and shooting projectiles. Her brother flicked them away with a finger and eventually sealed the door with her brother left inside.

Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.

The same thought flies in her mind on repeat, her breath hitching in disbelief. She catches the gaze of Raphael, whose grip loosens slightly around her. She adjusts her position, standing as straight as she can against the wall.

"You tell us about this connection, and once we get Donnie back, you return to your brother."

"And how do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You're in my head," Raphael says. "How would I be able to lie?"

And he wasn't. His thoughts radiated truth, Kraang being able to catch occasional snippets of something more. Her eye narrows again, watching the rest of his companions as they stare back at her in mistrust and dislike. Not that the feeling was unwarranted or unsurprising— she's not their biggest fan either. But to reunite with her brother, her family was tempting.

Her younger brother perished, and Kraang doesn't want to remain here. Poked and prodded, insulted and experimented on; she didn't deserve this. The prison dimension is a vast improvement of her current situation. Besides, were they so arrogant to think that she wouldn't escape and try again? It was a win-win! For her, not them.

"The one you call 'Donatello' is…"

Chapter Text

Donnie leans on his hand as he clicks on one of the many corrupted files they recovered from the desolate Kraang base. Every file was damaged, and much of it was unrecoverable, wasting Donnie’s time and effort. Shadows dance at the edge of his vision, creeping up the far corners of his lab in an attempt to lull him to sleep. His cot, used more as an impromptu medical bed these days rather than a napping area when his work runs late, sits in his peripheral vision, calling to him.

Donnie reaches for a long, cold cup of coffee, the taste bitter on his tongue as he watches his computer try to comprehend what he’s doing. Donnie’s tired. It’s almost three in the morning, and while he usually can stay up later— he has stayed up later sitting still for hours on end, staring at a computer screen isn’t fun. He jumps between projects whenever it’s late, going from welding to coding to whatever else jumps into his mind at the time. That’s how Donnie can stay up so late and stay up for days on end. And, not to brag or anything, Donnie can confidently say his record for staying up is an impressive five days.

That is until Master Splinter caught him having a riveting debate with Spike about the psychological effects of cannibalism. Obviously, he was promptly sent to bed, but not before Raph punched him on the arm for stealing Spike from his terrarium for an hour.

“Ugh,” Donnie groans, rubbing his eyes. He pulls down his mask, letting it hand around his neck as he stretches. “This is so dumb.”

Decoding the files is necessary. Well, whatever, Donnie could recover anyway. The turtle loves his computer; he made every part by scratch or what Master Splinter could scrounge up for the past sevenish years, but it was painfully slow in the face of extraterrestrial tech. He looks back at the loading screen, and the progress is only at a pathetic 2%, estimated at four days to finish. Donnie groans quietly, pulling his face with his hands. Donnie turns in his seat, facing his cot that silently coaxes him. Donnie stands, stretches his back again, and walks over with silent footsteps.

He lands face-first into it, the fabric bouncing with force and the metal poles creaking in reply. Donnie stares at the screen, fingers brushing against the concrete below him. As his heavy eyelids close, Donnie can’t help but think that sleeping is so inefficient. It would be better if he could just plug himself into a wall, like an android! Donnie would love to be an android, but he’d even take being a robot if he’s being honest.

…

…zzz…

…zzzz…

…zzzzz…

His eyelids flicker open at one point, but Donnie still feels exhausted. The computer screen is still loading, somewhere between 57-59%. Donnie can’t tell; his vision is blurry. He closes his eyes again.

…zzzzz…

…zzzz…

…zzz…

…

Donnie awakens with a start, mask hanging halfway off his beak, with one of the tails in his mouth. His heart is pounding in his chest, remnants of a dream fading into the far corners of his mind. He’s facing the dark room alone until the realization hits:

“My files!” He gasps. Donnie nearly trips over his own feet, running to the computer. It hesitates to turn on as he clicks the buttons, the screen turning from pitch-black to a darkened grey. Then it turns back on, and Donnie sighs of relief.

The time reads 7:27 am; Master Splinter will expect him and his brothers in the dojo soon for their early morning session. But the screen also shows a complete download of all non-corrupted files, ready and primed for Donnie to view and decipher. His fingers twitch in anticipation, and Donnie clicks to see them despite his better judgment.

It was worse than he thought, with only three files readable, and the rest glitched and unclickable. The turtle withers, beak pusing as he clicks the first of the three. It’s a 3D diagram of a shell, almost like his own, but more blocky and unnatural looking. The image is tainted with punk static on its edges, and the screen doesn’t allow him to view the front. The model just displays a purple and pink void from the front.

With what he can gather from the image and the bullet points on the side, it’s safe to say The Kraang were inventing something. A robot of themselves, perhaps? Or an exoskeleton of a turtle for them to drive? Donnie wishes he could read the words, but he’ll have to be satisfied with what he has now.

The following file is… a photo of an unconscious Othello. Donnie shouldn’t be surprised; that’s how they initially met. There are notes, lines pointing to his heart and head with unrecognizable words making notes on his friend. Donnie licks his lips, suddenly feeling like he shouldn’t be looking at this. He presses on.

The last file was different; it was not a photo or diagram but a video. Donnie pauses momentarily, looking to the time again and then towards his door. He doesn’t have much time left, but…

Donnie clicks play.

It starts with a scream.

“The one known as the anomaly will answer truthfully,” Says a Kraangdroid. The video is steady, taken from chest level, and its voice reverberates around the screen. “Kraang is aware—” The footage pauses and skips, the screen flashing with pinks and purples before it starts back up.

“...will answer Kraang’s questions with honesty.” Othello rolls his eyes and neck, looking around before scowling and staring at the ceiling. “What is the one known as the anomaly called?”

“Othello. And you’re Kraang, right?” The screen fritz again sparks, surrounding Othello for the briefest of seconds.

“Kraang will not answer the anomaly’s questions.”

“Why not—” The screen ultimately corrupts, his room flooded with pink light as the pixels on his screen try to fix itself, buffering. Donnie swallows the lump in his throat and feels he shouldn’t be watching this. He reaches over for the mouse when the video fixes itself again.

Donnie’s eyes widen.

-.-

Splinter sits with his back straight, his hands clasped together, back facing the door. He breathes deeply, keeping his mind clear as he awaits the early arrival of his sons. They have a routine, sticking to it almost vigorously with a few exceptions. Leonardo will arrive, usually ten minutes early, to meditate with him first. Raphael and Donatello switch between who comes second, and Michelangelo comes at exactly eight since he sleeps in as long as he can. They’ll go through their katas and meditation and break at nine for breakfast before he takes each back for individual training. Afterward, they’ll regroup for group training and repeat the process after lunch.

It’s a routine. Splinter likes routine. Things have changed as they’ve gone to the surface, with the arrival of April, who watches them on the weekends, and the new foods they try as Michelangelo cooks. His sons don’t seem to be a fan of the youngest’s cooking, yet they still try occasionally— so long it’s not a combination that freaks them out. Splinter must admit some of Michelangelo’s concoctions are strange on paper but in practice? Lovely. He thinks he might eat that leftover pickle and marshmallow spaghetti his youngest made the other day.

The smell of incense fills his nose as Splinter’s ear twitches at the sound of approaching footsteps. That was… too light to be Leonardo. The weight was uneven; someone was most likely walking on their toes. Donatello was coming first? That’s not right.

The door slides with a soft ‘shuck,’ his most brilliant son enters and stands in the doorway. Splinter’s ear twitches again, taking another deep breath.

“You’re early,” He says. Donatello doesn’t respond. “Is everything all— Donatello?” His son fidgets with his hands, eyebags prominent and eyes downcasted. His beak scrunches with silent words, the turtle unmoving from his spot.

“Donatello, come here,” Splinter calls to his son. Donatello still doesn’t move, hands clasping and unclasping together. The rat stands, making quick strides to his distraught son. He closes the door quietly and leads the turtle by his hand over to the tree, allowing him to sit on the mats. Donatello still doesn’t move, staring hard at the mat as thoughts race.

His snout scrunches as he sits infront of his son, watching him continue to fidget with shaking fingers. A nightmare? It couldn’t be. Donatello wouldn’t end up like this for a nightmare. Yoshi’s fingers twitch in uselessness, eyes flickering to the door, and ears perked for his other sons. Nobody else should be awake now, although Leonardo should be rousing soon. Donatello wouldn’t want the others to see him like this.

“Come here, Donatello.” Yoshi guides him again to his room in the back of the Dojo. It’s small and comfortable, something Yoshi knows Donatello enjoys. He sits close to his son, pulling him closer and enveloping him in a one-armed hug.

“Do you think you can speak?” Splinter asks. Donatello shrugs. “Would you like to write it down instead?” Donatello nods.

His son's handwriting is slow and neat, blocky letters filling the page as Donatello writes down his feelings. Yoshi turns to face his bedroom door, only turning back when the familiar feeling of paper bumps against his robe.

‘I’m upset.’ Is the first thing he reads. ‘I’m frustrated. I’m sorry.’

“Okay,” Yoshi says because he can work with this. “Why are you sorry?” He hands the paper back.

‘We disobeyed you.’

“How?”

‘We’ve been fighting the Kraang behind your back.’

Yoshi’s grip tightens on the paper as he tries to control his breathing. Donatello flinches with the crinkle, and that grounds Yoshi. His first reaction was to scold his son— doesn’t he know how dangerous that is?! Aliens with guns, scalpels, and lasers. They could get hurt or even killed! His second reaction was concern. What did those brain-looking aliens do to his son that he was so shaken up?!

“I appreciate the honesty, Donatello,” Yoshi says because he does. “Why are you upset?” He hands the paper back.

‘They’ve hurt my friends.’

“Othello and April?”

‘I’m not certain about April.’

It all seems to come back to Othello, doesn’t it? His other sons, sans Raphael, were fond of the teen as well, but Donatello seemed to commend him. He knows that when Othello dropped off batteries, the teen stayed for a few hours, and Donatello had a blast working on things with him. Yoshi heard all about it in the days following Othello’s departure, Donatello speaking excitedly about someone who finally understood what he was saying and doing without the turtle having to explain it multiple times in a row.

His other sons, as lovely as they were, didn’t offer the type of conversation Donatello was looking for, and regretfully, neither did Yoshi. So, he was happy his son was making new friends, especially one who got him, but seeing someone you like getting hurt? He had hopes his sons would never experience that.

“Are you frustrated that Othello was hurt?”

‘Yes and no.’

“Donatello, what happened?”

Donatello grips his pen hard, hand hovering over the paper. Yoshi waits for his son to find the words, but Donatello licks his beak and raises his head. His son looks tired, physically and mentally, too— Yoshi’s whisker twitches, keeping steady eyes on his tallest son.

“Can… can I show you?”

A few moments later, Splinter finds himself in Donatello’s lab. His son leads him to his computer and instructs him to press play on a video. He does and watches through corrupted footage as Othello is electrocuted and questioned by the Kraang. His eyes hold defiance, staring hard at walls or into the camera, but he’s just a child.

Splinter can still see the fear in his eyes. The uncertainty. This video was Splinter’s worst nightmares come to life, all happening to a child that is not his own. Splinter swallows the lump in his throat, and his eyes flicker to his shaken son.

“...species is the anomaly known as Othello?” The alien asks.

“Human, I just got contaminated with Kraang DNA.” The video sparks again, flicking forward.

“...does that matter?” Othello is asking now, looking worse for wear. “I’m the final product; how it happened is less important.”

“The anomaly will answer Kraang’s question.”

“...No— AAH!” The screen lights up as Othello is electrocuted again, body seizing up in response. “Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! I’ll kill you, let me OUT—!”

“The anomaly will answer Kraang’s question.”

“YOU’RE A PATHETIC IMMITATION OF KRANG! YOU DON’T DESERVE TO SHARE OUR NAME!!”

The video ends there, stuck on Othello’s face with a snarling mouth and downturned eyebrows. Splinter swallows the lump in his throat, looking at his son, who refuses to look at the screen. He lays a heavy hand on Donatello’s shoulders and the turtle tenses. Yoshi doesn’t know what to say— what can he say? Tang Shen would realize she was better at emotions than Splinter any day of the week.

“Donatello,” Yoshi begins. “Are you alright?”

“I-I don’t know. Maybe?” Donatello kicks his foot. “It didn’t happen to me, so I don’t have a right to be upset, right? But he— He should have— we could have helped him!”

“He should have told you all he was half alien?” Yoshi clarifies, raising an eyebrow.

“That he was tortured!” Donatello exclaims. “He was hurt for something he couldn’t control and didn’t say anything? We’ve offered him help time and time again, and he refused to take it— why? Did he think we couldn’t help him? The first time we met him—”

“Donatello,” Splinter interrupts. Donatello pauses in his rant, flapping hands holding still in mid-air as he looks at his father. “Just as you have a right to offer your assistance to your friend, he, too, has a right to refuse.”

“But why?” Donatello presses. “We could have helped.”

“I do not know, my son. That is Othello’s reason and his alone.” Donatello doesn’t look happy at that answer, and Splinter doesn’t blame him. Donatello was always a creature of logic; emotions eluded him on the best days and were non-existent on the worst. He’s prone to thinking with his head, not his heart, and Michelangelo often has to translate what Donatello felt when he went into his slump.

“I know!” He exclaims. “But, the place where we found this.“ Donatello gestures to his computer. “It was a massacre, Master Splinter, and I can’t help but feel like Othello did it.”

Splinter's ears twitch, and he turns to the lab doors. Leonardo knocks a few moments later, and Splinter feels his son tense beside him. He closes the video just as Leonardo pokes his head through, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Sorry, I headed for the Dojo, but you weren’t there, Master Splinter. Then I heard both of you in here, and—”

Splinter holds up a hand, and Leonardo falls silent in confusion. Yoshi frowns at the eldest, and the turtle’s eyes dart between himself and his brother before he enters ultimately and stands straight across the room.

“Are your brothers awake?” Splinter asks. Leonardo nods slowly. “Get them now and head to the Dojo. We are having a family meeting.” Leonardo hesitates, eyes flickering over to Donatello, who avoids his gaze. “Now, Leonardo.”

Three of his four sons shift uncomfortably infront of him, Leonardo’s eyes repeatedly darting to Donatello, the tallest avoiding his stare as best as he can from beside him. Splinter walks infront of them, reaching the end of their line, before turning and walking to the other end. He tries to find the right words, but Splinter doesn’t think he can adequately convey what he’s going through. Michelangelo stifles a yawn, and somehow, that sets Splinteri off.

“Michelangelo, surely you must know why you all are in trouble if you’re yawning,” He says. His son blinks, put on the spot. “Since this is so boring, you would rather be in bed.”

“I-uh,” Michelangelo flounders. His eyes go to his brothers, lingering on the shameful Donatello. “Is it because I spilled grape juice on the couch? Because that was a total accident—”

“Wrong.” He turns to Raphael next, and the teen stiffens. “Raphael.”

“...Football in the lair?”

“No. Leonardo.”

“We were…Irresponsible?”

“Irresponsible!?” Splinter repeats loudly. They all cringe, shrinking in on themselves. “Is that what you want to call it? You boys were negligent with your well-being and lives! Fighting aliens? Aliens who have actively tried to kill you before kidnapped numerous humans and mutated a few, and your first thought was, ‘We should fight them?!’”

The three look alarmed, with Leonardo turning darker green and his warmer-colored sons avoiding his gaze altogether. Donatello retracts into his shell slightly, neck almost gone. Splinter takes a deep breath, tail flickering and nose twitching as he considers his following words carefully.

“I’ve raised you boys better than this,” Splinter says. “I know I have, so why would you all choose to do something so foolish?”

“Master Splinter,” Leonardo starts. “With all due respect, it wasn’t like we had a choice—”

“No choice?!” Splinter is just baffled. What could have possessed his sons to do this? Leonardo falters in the face of Splinter’s anger, his hands clenching into tight fists on his knees.

“They’re going to keep hurting people!” He defends. “People like April or her dad! And they don’t know what we know or can do what we can! We wanted to help, and you taught us to be brave.”

“Brave, not foolish!” He snaps back. “This is not your job; you’re all kids!”

“We’re sixteen,” Raphael jumps in. “If we were human, we’d almost be old enough to vote.”

Splinter sputters, undignified, staring at his red son, who sits smugly like he played a trump card. Splinter has to look away, holding a fist to his snout as he contemplates every decision leading him to this point. Was it the training? His stories of roughhousing with his brothers and family? Their diet? Yoshi’s grandfather must be having a grand time in the afterlife, watching Splinter grow grey fur and nearly have an aneurysm at his son’s pride.

“If you all were human, I still would have a problem with this, Raphael!” Splinter’s voice raises despite his best efforts. “You four have lied to me for months about where you have been and what you all have been doing. If Donatello had not decoded what you all had found on your latest ‘mission.’” He uses air quotes, trying to get his point across. “I would still be in the dark about everything!”

“You decoded them?” Leonardo asks Donatello in surprise. Donatello nods, facing his brother.

“It was…bad.”

“It was horrible,” Splinter corrects. “I could not stop Donatello from seeing it, but you three are not to watch that video.”

Splinter’s tail flickers, and the screams of Othello echo in the back of his mind. Does his father know? That his child is no longer human and was hurt for something out of his control? When his children were toddlers, Splinter messed with the wiring to get them some semblance of electricity, and to this day, he carries the burns on his hands under his fur with pride.

Did Othello have burns? Did the human somehow feel pride in those marks, a physical scar saying he survived his attack? Did his father find his son, afraid and crying in his bedroom, and patch up his wounds— or was Othello left to bandage them himself, hands shaking as he disinfected them?

“Master Splinter, please understand.” Leonardo tries again. “The aliens, The Kraang, are hurting people, unsuspecting people!”

“You should have seen them, Master Splinter,” Michelangelo joins in. “It’s like they don’t sleep! If we hadn’t jumped in, they would have destroyed the world by now!”

“They’re trying to mutate everyone,” Raphael says. “We don’t know why, but they have to be stopped!”

Can rats get high blood pressure? Asking for himself, of course.

“You four are barred from returning to the surface,” Splinter says to their shocked faces. “If April or Othello travel down here, that is fine, but I don’t want to see any of you leave the lair.”

They all voice their complaints, some louder than others, but are silenced with a glare. Raphael looks livid, eyes narrowed and fists clenched, while Leonardo seems crushed. Michelangelo looks to be on the verge of tears, and Donatello hugs himself. Splinter feels regretful, and something in his mind tells him this is wrong.

“You boys have to understand what you’re doing is dangerous.” Yoshi is losing steam. He’s not angry, but he’s disappointed. He can’t tell if it's at himself or his children. “I can’t lose any of you.”

A father should not have to bury his child.

“You’re not going to lose us,” Leonardo says. “But if we don’t stop the Kraang, other families are going to lose their kids.”

But why should his sons have to fight in a war for a world that fears them?

Splinter frowns, stroking his whiskers in a poor attempt to calm himself. His mouth opens to speak again, but Donatello speaks.

“I don’t want to see anyone else hurt.” His voice is softer, almost melancholy in that room. Months from now, when they all sit together around a birthday cake April got for his sons, he would think about this moment. It would be brief and fleeting, soon distracted by Raphael shoving a piece of vanilla cake into Michelangelo’s face and the youngest attempting to retaliate. But for that briefest of seconds, Splinter would say he’s almost glad he allowed his children to continue on their missions. They bring pride to the Hamato clan, and Splinter’s proud of everything they’ve done.

Splinter swallows hard and drops his hand.

“Listen to me, for I will only say this once.” He commands their attention, watching them sit with straightened backs and wide eyes. “ I want to know where you boys are going, your plans, and the aftermath. After every mission, you will come to me and give me an in-depth report of what happened.”

“Isn’t that a bit much?” Michelangelo asks weakly.

“‘Bit much,’” Splinter scoffs. “You should be glad I’m still allowing you to go up there!” Splinter sighs, clasping his hands together underneath his robe. “What you boys are doing is courageous and noble, and I’m proud to have raised such strong-willed children. But this shouldn’t have to be your fight. If the odds seem to be against you at any moment, you all are to retreat and return home.”

“But, what if—”

“No buts!” The rat snaps back. “You return home!"

They fall silent again under his ire, and Splinter wilters. His ears pull back against his will, and his teeth grind uncomfortably. It takes him a second to control himself, and when he does, he gestures for his children to stand and silently coaxes them closer. They do and huddle around Yoshi, and the rat wastes no time bringing them into a tight hug. They grunt in surprise, and he feels Raphael lean away from it, but he’s unable to move under Yoshi’s grip.

“You four are the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Yoshi whispers. “I need to be able to see you boys grow into men. Do not forget that.”

Splinter hopes they don’t forget that.

Chapter Text

Raph’s punches are fast and heavy, hitting the punching bag with more force than necessary. The sound of flesh meeting leather echoes around the dojo, accompanied by Raph’s growls and grunts of exertion. Mikey sits as patiently as he can, keeping his gaze down as he fiddles with his fingers.

Shelldon said it shouldn’t take too long to process the data, and anything sooner than the few days the robot initially estimated was an improvement. But Donnie’s already been missing for two weeks, and Mikey doesn’t know how long he could wait. The lair was always packed but felt hollow without the smartest brother.

His legs start to numb from how long he sits, waiting for the snapper to say anything without Mikey’s pressure. It’s been like this for almost three hours, ever since they successfully raided the EPF and spoke to Sister Kraang, and she… explained things. Mikey couldn’t imagine someone doing that to their family, almost bragging about her deeds in alarming detail.

Mikey still feels sick to his stomach, even this far from her.

His stomach churns as Raph punches especially hard, the metal chain holding the sandbag finally deciding it’s had enough and snapping. He fumbles to grab the bag; it falls with a solid thump; he clenches his fist and kicks it as hard as he can into the wall. Mikey takes that as his cue, ignoring the needle-like sensation in his legs as he gets closer to Raph. His brother doesn’t look at him, chest heaving with anger— or anxiety. Mikey can’t pinpoint which emotion he’s feeling right now.

“...What if he’s already gone?” Raph asks when Mikey places a hand on his shell.

“We already broke someone out of the Kraang’s control once.” Mikey gestures to Raph. “We can do it again.” The snapper grimaces.

“That was different.”

Mikey’s lips purse, unable to form the right words. Raph doesn’t handle his silence well, walking forward out of his hold to the wall. He doesn’t stop there, pacing around the room with loud, even steps. Mikey takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes on his brother. Raph reaches the other end of the room and turns, hands fidgeting in front of him, and he mutters something to himself.

“We’re better prepared now.” Mikey tries. Raph doesn’t look at him. “You know what Donnie is going through better than anybody, that means we’re already ahead of the game!”

“That was different, ” Raph repeats. “Sure, we both got possessed, but it was different.”

“Raph, I know you’re scared.” Mikey dares to step closer again, grabbing onto his brother’s hands. He squeezes Raph’s hands gently, smiling up at him. “I’m scared too, but we’re going to get Donnie back, whether we fix him in that other world or drag him back kicking and screaming. I need you to talk to me; you’ve been avoiding everybody since we got back.”

Raph says nothing, swallowing a lump in his throat as his eye twitches. Mikey’s face falls, and he gives him another gentle squeeze.

“Are you worried about what she said?”

“Aren’t you?” Raph asks back. “Raph was a monster, but I only had one voice in my head. I can’t imagine what Donnie is going through with the rest of them.”

Neither can Mikey.

“...Let’s check on Shelldon and see how far he’s gotten.” Mikey gives a gentle tug to Raph’s hand. “Leo and April have been bugging him since we got back; I’m sure he’d appreciate some new faces.”

Raph allows himself to be guided away, not saying anything to the box turtle. They pass by the central area of the lair, and the distant sounds of the Casey’s impromptu spar sound like white noise to Mikey. He looks down the main tunnel when they pass, watching as Cass tosses Junior by his leg further into the tunnel, and the boy tucks into a ball and rolls before shooting back at his mother like a rocket. Cass laughs, loud, hearty, and forced, before ducking under his punch and sweeping under his feet.

Mikey can hear the tell-tale sign of skull hitting concrete but keeps walking— they’re both unnaturally sturdy and know their limits. Raph hesitates, missing a step as they continue their journey to the lab.

It’s just as they left it, with the repaired portal in the corner and Shelldon's screen the brightest point in the room. April sits on the computer’s counter while Leo spins lazily in his chair, only stopping when Mikey opens the door. He raises a hand in greeting, and Mikey smiles, his face feeling unnaturally forced. If Leo notices, he doesn’t say anything, smiling back tiredly.

“He~ey, you cooled down now?” Leo asks, a question more directed to Raph. The snapper smiles sheepishly, slipping his hand out of Mikey’s hold.

After they returned and gave everything they needed to Shelldon, Raph stormed away with loud huffs, muttering to himself and nearly biting Leo’s fingers when the turtle tried to comfort him. Mikey followed after and told them all to stay away. He’s Doctor Feelings, and he could handle it.

“We’re working on it,” Mikey replies. “We just wanted to know how far Shelldon got—”

“Dudes.” Shelldon’s face comes on screen, clearly annoyed. “More people asking me if I’m done yet does not speed up the process.”

“Well, jeez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Leo snarks.

“I don’t even have a bed! I have a charging port!”

“Potato, tomato. All the same.”

Mikey closes the door quietly behind them as Raph leans on the back of Leo’s chair with his chin on the slider’s head. Mikey makes himself comfortable on the floor beside April, and she rubs his head from her seat, staring down at her phone and typing something with her free hand.

“Well, can we at least know?” Mikey asks, keeping his eyes on his brothers. “We just got here, so we didn’t get a chance to ask.” He can practically feel Shelldon roll his eyes behind him.

“Like I told Leo and April, it’s almost done. I have the dimension; I’m just trying to make sure I have the right city.”

“We don’t live in New York?” Raph asks curiously.

“Well, most of your counterparts do, but there are a few exceptions. There’s one where you guys live: Kansas, the deep sea, Japan. There’s even one where you guys have a second home in Gotham.”

April stops petting Mikey’s head, and the turtle slouches at the loss of warmth. She pockets her phone, leaning back in her seat as she stares at Shelldon’s screen, her neck craning backward. Mikey shifts so he can face them, watching as Shelldon’s 2D face moves to the corner of the screen so he can stare at her back.

“Should we be concerned about our counterparts?” She asks. “Like that, they’ll try to kill us or something?”

“Surprisingly, no. You dudes usually point towards good on the moral compass, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” He brings up a PNG of a shrugging man. Mikey thinks Shelldon likes these reaction images a bit too much.

“But I wouldn’t just suggest rocking up to them randomly, either, which is why Donnie—” Shelldon pauses entirely, moving his head away from April’s gaze and facing the rest of them.

“Can someone go grab the others? I’m done.”

Leo doesn’t need to be told twice, shooting up from his chair moments after Raph snatches his head away. He races out of the door as Mikey scrambles to his feet, hearing the fervent call of Leo and the sudden stop of fighting in the distance. They don’t have to wait too long, the Casey’s marching into the room drenched with sweat, followed by Draxum and Splinter, the rat more puffy-eyed than usual. Leo enters last, practically slamming the door shut in anticipation of whatever the robot would say.

“Okay, so now that everybody's here,” Shelldon starts. “We do have to go over some things before I open this portal and let you guys loose.”

“Go over some—” Their father sputters. “We need to go through now, Shelldon! Donatello could be hurt; he could be in danger!”

“Nobody knows that more than me. But this was also the first working prototype; it’s not meant to be open continuously, and not even the final design was meant to be open for long— its whole function was just to open for a few minutes so we could chuck whatever into the prison dimension.”

“That would have been nice to know beforehand,” Leo mutters. Shelldon points a red arrow at the slider.

“We did make it longer,” Shelldon defends. “Three hours is nothing to scoff at.”

“Only three hours?” Junior frowns. “That’s practically nothing in unfamiliar territory.”

“It was only meant to be open for a few minutes,” Shelldon reminds. “Besides that, I will need somebody to stay back here with me. We did a quick job on that panel, but it’s probably going to overheat or have issues. We used ducktape because we ran out of sheet metal.”

Mikey grimaces at the panel; the shine of bright red polythene greets him, standing out like a sore thumb against the gray and purple metal. It was a quick patch job, made quicker with so many hands to mend metal and gather materials, but none of them were great with technology like Donnie was. Everybody looks away from the panel with shameful eyes and soft clicks of their tongues. Draxum steps past all of them with a hand raised, brushing some hair back as he regards Shelldon with a calm gaze.

“I can stay behind.” He volunteers. “I’m quite proficient in technology, as you know.”

“In human technology?” Leo asks, cocking his hips. “The species you were trying to kill? The whole reason you made us? You know human technology?”

“How different can it be from Yokai?” Draxum huffs. Shelldon’s face falls flat, bringing up a photo of a rotary phone. Draxum regards it with a quirk of his brow.

“What do you call this?”

“...phone.”

“Uh-huh. What kind?”

“Cell Phone.”

“No.”

“I’ll also stay behind,” Junior says, standing back straight beside Draxum. “Master Donatello— the older one, he showed me some of the tools of his trade. Of course, I’m not up to his level, but I am handy in a pinch.”

“I’ll take it.” Shelldon brings up a photo of someone shrugging. “There’s also the case of disguises since there’s bound to be a version of you guys running around the city somewhere.” The counter clicks and raises, virtual confetti filling the screen as 8-bit chiptune trumpets play a musical tune. Smoke rolls out of it in waves, dramatically covering their feet and revealing a cylinder with seven holes and six broaches.

Mikey reaches for the orange one, turning it over as his brothers grab their respective colors. It resembles Sunita’s broach, a half sphere with golden lines forming the Hamato clan symbol. It has straps on the back, roughly the size of a bracelet, and is waiting for Mikey or whoever to wear them. Mikey looks back at the screen, watching Shelldon’s face reappear with a wink.

“Donnie planned a whole revealing party, but I had to improvise,” He explains. “There’s one for each of you, plus Master Splinter and Draxum. They work like normal broaches but will need to be charged every few hours to keep up the illusion.”

“And Donnie is wearing one of these?” Leo asks, looking over his and playing with the strap. “Are we even going to be able to recognize him?”

“Did Donnie have any photos of his disguise?” Raph questions. Shelldon falters.

“He has designs, but I'm not sure which one he chose in the end.” Shelldon brings up file after file, each documenting a human face with varying hair length, nose, and general structure. Mikey’s head spins at all the variants, trying to find something they all have in common and if they could vaguely look like the Donnie he knows.

“Did Donnie do this for all of us?” Mikey asks, looking towards one design with a shaved hairstyle. “He’s very thorough.”

“Well, Don based the designs on the humans he knows, but mixing and matching features is easy.”

“Oh, that one looks just like me!” Splinter points out. Mikey follows his finger to one of the many faces in the crowd, seeing a striking resemblance to a young Lou Jitsu. It even had the pompadour, although smaller and with a purple streak.

“Yeah, real early design, that one. That was before Donnie remembered that he knows more than one human.”

Shelldon takes down all the files and leaves one photo up. They’re all left staring at an older, clean-shaven boy with voluminous curly hair held down by a purple bandana. If Mikey looked close enough, he could see traces of his family in the facial features, with Junior’s nose and their father’s eyebrows. Then, it was topped off with circular glasses, each lens a different color, reminiscent of Donnie’s goggles.

“This is one of the later designs, and he liked this one a lot, so it’s most likely similar to this. I’ll send you guys the photo.”

“So we just put these on and—” Leo straps the broach on his wrist, blue and white flames coating his body and evaporating into the air. In place of his turtle brother is a teenage human with lighter skin and vitiligo where his red stripes once were. His hair is in a buzzcut, black roots sticking out like a sore thumb in his blonde hair. With some obvious differences, Leo looked like a younger version of their father, almost resembling his Lou Jitsu days.

His brother looks down at his outfit, flexing his fingers as he tugs on his black basketball shorts and shifts the oversized blue hoodie over his shoulders. Then he strikes a pose, pulling the turtleneck as far as it allows as he smiles.

“This isn’t so bad. It’s weird having five fingers, but.” He rubs at his head, hand freezing mid-stroke. “Please tell me I’m not bald.”

“You have my hairstyle!” Cass yells in excitement. “Feel the breeze on your neck!”

“I already feel a breeze on my neck!” Leo complains. “Damnit!” His head falls into his hands in despair before they travel up and rub at his hair. Junior pats him on the back in consolation, which brings Leo’s mood down more.

Raph takes that as his cue and puts on his broach. The flames die to reveal a tall, buff teen with dark brown hair cascading down his back like a waterfall. It’s held back by a red bandana with curls peeking out from underneath, ribbon laying on his shoulder. His face had a white bandage on his cheek, and he wore a white sleeveless hoodie and black pants that bunched up at the shoes. His hand grabs his curls, pulling them forward so he can stare at them more closely.

“You wanna switch?” Raph asks Leo, letting the curl bounce back into place. The slider simply groans for a hair that’s not his own.

Mikey and Master Splinter put their broaches seconds away from each other. The rat looks like his old human form, with more laugh lines and a gray streak in longer braided hair. Mikey finds himself covered in freckles, wearing overalls over a bright orange shirt, and shorter, curlier hair in a half up half down hairstyle.

“I already took the liberty of separating you guys into teams,” Shelldon says, drawing their attention back. He pulls out their photos and a map of their New York. “Team A: April and Splinter will take the north side and move clockwise to Team B. Team B, Cass, and Raph will do the same, moving south to meet Team C, who will return to Team A’s starting point. It’s a big circle around the city that we’ll make smaller as we look more.”

All of their phones chime as they receive the photo Shelldon sends, the stone face of Donnie’s disguise staring up at Mikey almost mockingly. Shelldon dispels the images on his monitor, smiling down at them warmly.

“You guys ready?”

Mikey’s stomach churns with nerves, and the turtle feels nauseous. He doesn’t even need to look at his family to know they feel the same, each of their minds full of anxiety about what's to come. But Mikey smiles anyway because that’s what he does, balling his shaking hands into hard fists.

“Ready.”

Chapter Text

Odessa has gone most of her life being referred to as a “tomboy,” being more masculine than her peers. She doesn’t mind it and often doesn’t correct people when they confuse her for a man or use the wrong pronouns. Odessa is Odessa, and that’s all that matters to her.

Her sneakers squeak against the freshly rained-on concrete as she locks her apartment building door behind her. The silence of the street greeted her like an old friend as she looked both ways before crossing the street, pushing up her circular glasses. It’s too late for anybody to be out, but she’s craving a snack, and nothing in the kitchen sounds good. The 24-hour corner store was just up the street, and Odessa had made these midnight runs without her parents knowing before.

Odessa is on her phone as she walks, earbuds quietly playing music, while her other hand is buried deep into her purple hoodie. She scrolls through some forums one of her classmates showed her, liking a few posts that catch her attention. She looks back up to the road and then at her phone, reading the next one.

HalfdeadHalfbreathing

Has anyone seen those weird guys running around recently? Big man and a smaller woman(?), with the colored masks and weapons? They cornered me, and they compared me to something on their phone??

Lightupmylife —> HalfdeadHalfbreathing

No? Dude, you got mugged?

SweetPotato —> HalfdeadHalfbreathing

You don’t know the other person's gender?

Turtles4evah —> HalfdeadHalfbreathing

Did you make a police report? Did they steal anything valuable?

HalfdeadHalfbreathing —> Turtles4evah

They didn't! They kinda just said, “Oops, sorry," and left me there. The bald person wanted to knock me out, but the big guy said not to and dragged them away. It was terrifying.

Odessa snorts. People always lie online for attention, but it's mostly believable. There have been a lot of similar posts about some “identical men" running the city and "lizardmen” underground— one person even claimed that the lizardmen BIT their friend, but Odessa is smarter than that. It’s all fiction, entertaining as it was.

She's one block from the store, about to type a response, when chains wrap around her. Her eyes widen as something hauls her up above the building, wind rushing in her ear as she's placed gently on the roof. Odessa can’t find the words, eyes darting around in panic, trying to back up when some guy holding the end of the chains obscures her vision with a soft smile.

“Shh, shh, Donnie, it’s okay—” He brushes back some of his curly hair, showing off some kind of broach on his breast pocket. “See? It’s us.”

“Wha-what?” She finds her voice. He pauses.

“You don’t sound like Donnie.”

“Huh?”

“Michael, I told you it wasn’t Donnie.” Another voice calls from the side. Odessa turns to see another teen wearing blue and a buzz cut walking up. He frowns at her, then pulls up his phone, eyes darting between the screen and her face. The boy in front of her pouts, letting the chains slack around her. Odessa doesn't move, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Okay, but they look like Donnie," Michael defends. He turns back to Odessa. "Sorry about that; we're looking for someone else."

“Uh-?"

“Have you seen this guy?" The blue teen shows her his phone, a guy looking vaguely similar to her staring back. Odessa shakes her head hard.

"Aw, man,” Michael frowns. "We're running out of time, Shelldon is going to call us back soon."

"We don't have time for this." The other one sighs. Then, he unsheathes twin katanas from his back and Odessa’s heart spikes. Her breathing comes out in quick intervals, and she scooches back as far as she can, hitting the roof's edge. The sword glints in the low light, and he raises it high in the air. Odessa mentally apologizes to her parents for leaving the apartment without telling them, closing her eyes tight as she awaits her fate.

Then, she's falling. At first, she thinks they pushed her off the roof instead, but the fall was too short and too vertical to be true. She lands on her ass hard, the vibration climbing up her spine as the chains around her seemingly disappear. Her eyes fly open, blinking rapidly, and she finds herself back on the sidewalk with her phone cracked on the ground. She looks back up to the building, finding the both of them overlooking the edge.

“Sorry! Don’t tell anyone, okay?” The bald teen yells as they duck back behind the edge. She watches their silhouettes jump over to the next building, light footsteps pattering away with impressive speed.

Odessa blinks again, grabs her phone, and replies to the thread.

.

.

.

.

.

“Hey, you guys have been paying attention to my forum, right?” April asks, leaning her head in her hand. Mikey pauses beside her, crumbs of a prepackaged dessert she bought on his face. He shakes his head while Leo leans above her to look at her phone screen.

“Did something happen?” He asks. Mikey leans on her other side, chewing slowly, and April adjusts accordingly.

“People have been going around looking for somebody? They’ve been harassing others, see?” Leo hums above her, and she feels his body move.

April’s learned a lot about the turtle brothers from her frequent visits. They each had little quirks, like Mikey having a massive sweet tooth or Raph enjoying story-driven games, but they all seemed to have a problem with personal space. April accounts it to the fact that they were raised in the sewers their whole life, but it gets awkward when she’s relaxing somewhere, only to have a giant turtle head pop up by her side. Or if she’s walking on the surface and suddenly hears Mikey's excited chirps, moments from being bulldozed in a heavy hug. Or how Donnie frequently shows up in her bedroom at three in the morning asking her questions like “What do school lunches taste like?”, “What’s your favorite school subject?” “Did you know that some people can smell when others are sick?”. She’s awoken many nights to him pacing her room, asking questions quietly.

That’s why she’s not surprised by Leo’s head in her peripheral, his eyes moving slowly as he reads the words on her phone. Her breathing is kept even as Mikey leans on her other side, swallowing his treat.

BlueLagoon —> HalfdeadHalfbreathing

Hey, do you know if there are any more of them? I JUST got interrogated by a bald teen and another with overalls. They’re looking for someone named Donnie? They said I looked like him.

Pigheadedfool —> BlueLagoon

Omg I ran into an old man and a girl, and they said they were looking for some guy named Don? I mean, she did; the geezer called him Purple. Connected??!

“That’s concerning,” Leo hums beside April. “Have they hurt anybody?”

“Um…” She looks back at the phone, scrolling back down to look at older posts. “As far as I can tell, no. But it’s happening too often to be normal.”

“What if it's the purple dragons?" Mikey asks. "And they have a hit on this guy?"

“The purple dragons aren't hitmen." Leo scoffs.

“You don't know what they do in their free time."

"I don't think it's them,” April says. "They walk around with dragon tattoos, so it's easy for people to identify them."

“Well, we’re about to head out on patrol anyway, so we’ll watch out for them. Do they describe what they look like?”

Bald teen, one with overalls, an older man, a woman with twin puffs, a big buff teen, and a bald person who acted feral. All with color schemes and weapons ranging from katanas to a club.

Leo hums at the information, scratching the back of his neck as he leans closer to April’s phone to stare at a blurry photo of something orange pulled out of the frame by something blue. This was the only photo the people on her forum managed to snag, but it was nearly impossible to make out personal features. But April can see that the orange one had some very impressive curls.

“What are you guys looking at?” Donnie’s voice gets louder as he approaches, leaning over Leo to get a better look at April’s phone. April stays still, wondering how they must look from an outsider's perspective. “Is that Leo and Mikey? Who took this photo?”

His head pulls back in surprise, and Leo gets off, too, turning toward the tall turtle with a frown. “No, those are humans, people of interest, actually.”

“Oh?” Donnie’s eyeridge raises, head tilting to the side.

“Where’s Raph? It’s time to go on patrol.”

That’s April’s cue to head out with them. They gather their last brother and wave goodbye to Master Splinter, who reminds them to be careful with an anxious swipe of his tail and a smooth expression. They all practically rush her to the exit, and once she breathes in that New York air, she says her goodbyes.

“You’re not coming with us?” Mikey asks in disappointment. She adjusts her bookbag, shaking her head at his pouty face.

“It’s pretty late, and my aunt is going to freak if I don’t get back soon.” His pout deepens, but Leo nods in understanding.

“We’ll keep you updated,” Leo says. “You want us to walk you home?” April shakes her head again, turning away from the brothers.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?”

Leo watches her leave the alley, turning the corner and disappearing from view. Then he turns back to his brothers, nodding his head up to the rooftops in a silent command. They scale the building easily and start their patrol, starting from the east and making their way around the city.

It was quiet, almost eerily so, as they jumped the gaps and kept an eye out for any enemies. Leo leads them, but Raph occasionally runs up by his side and elbows him hard “on accident.” Leo knows Raph thinks he’s funny but is also the mature eldest sibling, so he’s willing to let the behavior slide.

They jump to the next roof when Raph elbows him again with a smirk, sliding to a stop with the rest at the roof ledge. His lungs burn in a good way as they overlook the city lights, Leo humming as he thinks of where to go next.

“Let’s head north.”

"There is nothing north.” Raph scoffs. "We already went that way, and nobody is out tonight!”

"You have to admit that's very irregular,” Donnie says, sitting on the ledge. Mikey sits beside him on the floor, leaning so his elbows rest on its edge.

“Maybe they're all sick,” Mikey suggests.

“Every one of our villains? Do you think every single one is sick? Even the Kraang? The aliens?” Donnie asks incredulously. Mikey shrugs.

“April told me it's cold and flu season."

“Mikey does have a point,” Raph jumps in. Donnie, who already had a finger pointed up at Mikey to disprove his theory, whips to Raph instantly, his eyes narrowing. But Raph only smirked, his demeanor radiating mischievous glee as he spoke next. “It’s a very contagious virus.”

“Do you even know what a virus is?” Donnie hisses.

“Yeah. A cold.”

"Donnie’s right,” Leo interrupts before Donnie blows a gasket. Mikey, absolutely excited about Raph and his team-up, closes his snout with a quiet ‘click,’ mouth pressed into a thin smile, as he and Raph bump shoulders. “It’s not normal that we haven’t even seen one…” He trails off in thought, shoving his way between his brothers. They adjust accordingly, allowing Leo to peer over the edge for the nearest street sign.

“Let's do one last lap.”

They groan and huff, but eventually, Leo gets them to follow his orders. He leads the troops again, the wind rushing them as they check alley after alley, eyes peeled and ears keen for any unusual activity. Everything comes back as clean, with the occasional homeless person or random animal they encounter.

They jump over another gap as something red flashes in the corner of Leo’s vision. He stumbles on the landing, which doesn't go unnoticed by his brothers, who stare at him in questioning. He holds up a hand, pressing it to his beak while he gestures for them to crouch.

Peering over the roof, he finds a tall teen wearing a bright red bandana leaning against the building on his phone casually in what could only be considered a battle zone. A truck parked in the open part of the alley, the familiar glow of ooze illuminating a few feet infront of the opening. Surrounding him were broken Kraangdroid suits scattered, some still having that synthetic flesh peeling off their metal bones with no Kraang bodies to be seen. The teen brushes some hair back, reading whatever is on his phone casually, before turning towards the truck, head cocked as he looks for something.

Leo backs down underneath the ledge, facing his brothers as they do the same.

“Well, we know why the Kraang are quiet.”

“Doesn't he match the description of those people April mentioned?" Donnie asks. Leo nods.

“So we just go down there and beat him up. In and out, it'll be twenty minutes." Raph huffs, hands gripping the sai by his sides. Leo levels the flattest stare he can muster, but it doesn't have the intended effect.

“This guy took out at least six Kraang, and you think we're going to beat him in twenty minutes?”

"No, we're going to beat him in five; I’m just adding your lecture time. Which” He checks a non-existent watch. “We're already two minutes into."

Mikey snickers. Traitor. Leo glares at the youngest, but his smile remains, and a creeping grin comes up Donnie’s face. Leo has to take a calming breath that isn’t as calming as he hoped, addressing them with a tight frown.

“It’s best to attack him from behind, get him off balance. Taking down Kraang is no joke, and I don’t want to see how he’d fight if were to approach him head-on.” He points at Donnie and Mikey.

“You two circle around the building until you’re facing his back; Raph, try to get him on the right. I’ll see if I can distract him.”

They nod and leave, leaving Leo alone as he overlooks the tall man below. He still faces the truck but turns to look behind him, holding a hand up to his eye as he stares at the dismembered Kraang. Once Leo sees his brothers in position, he grabs a stray rock and throws it towards the mouth of the alley, ensuring that it hits the metal side of the truck as it ricochets into the street. It has the intended effect: the teen perks up and walks closer to the sound.

The way he walks and grips his weapon on his side oozes confidence, his steps not faltering for a single moment. Leo unsheathes his katanas, crouching low as sticks to the shadows. He looks over to Mikey and Donnie on the opposing roof, watching them ready their weapons as they await his silent command. He raises two fingers, and they tense.

“-Get OFF of me!” Raph yells. Leo freezes, watching his hotheaded brother launch off the building, wrestling another person. They both crash into the multitude of Kraangdroids, startling their target. Raph stands, brandishing his sai as the person launches into quick strikes that force him to step back—the hockey stick on their back jostles with every hit.

Leo doesn’t think, jumping into battle and coming in between them. They stop, posture straight and ridged as they stare at him through the eyes of their hockey mask. The eldest points their sword at them in warning, sharp end facing them. He doesn’t move, watching his younger brothers drop from the front, blocking the alley’s entrance. The big guy stiffens, hands still on his undrawn weapons.

“Uh,” He says eloquently. “We don’t want trouble.”

“Little too late for that when your buddy over there attacked me.” Raph’s voice is a growl, spinning his sai as he stands beside Leo.

“YOU were about to attack US!” The mask wearer exclaims, voice higher than Leo expected. They point at Raph, shoulders tensed. “An attack from behind? That’s a COWARDS move, and you know it!”

The big guy puts a hand on his compatriot's shoulder in warning, trying to smile at Leo. He looks back at Donnie and Mikey, eyes twitching as he does.

“I know this looks bad, us surrounded by… uh, Krang?” He turns back to Leo. “But they attacked us; we were acting in self-defense.” Leo can see Donnie’s gaze flickering to the bodies, eyes burning with questions as he holds his bo higher.

“Self-defense? Really?” Donnie scowls. “What are you trying to do with the mutagen? Most humans don’t even know what the Kraang are.” The big guy falls silent, trying to come up with a response.

“Are you turtles defending the Kraang?” Asks the other incredulously. “You know what they’re trying to do, right?!”

“Hey, we’re the ones asking the questions!” Raph snaps. “And you have about five seconds to answer before we beat you up!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

“Casey.” The tall guy hisses in warning as Casey crouches in preparation for a fight. They mutter something to the big one that Leo misses. “We don’t have to fight; we’ll leave, okay?”

“As if!” Raph launches himself forward, sai drawn as he goes for the bigger guy. The human blocks with his sai, plunging them all into battle. Leo backs Raph up as much as he can as Donnie and Mikey attempt to take down the smaller one. The sai of his enemy blocks every strike of his sword, and every kick is missed as he dodges out of the way.

Mikey and Donnie weren’t having better luck, with Casey dodging each swipe of a bo and expertly moving around Mikey’s chains. Leo can even hear them laughing heartedly, as though this was all a game. Leo focuses back on his battle, swiping underneath the big teen’s feet, but he tucks and rolls, going further into the alley. His face is a mixture of both determination and nerves, sweat collecting at his brow as he continues to dodge every one of Leo’s and Raphs attacks.

“Wait, wait, wait—” He tries, taking another step back. “We’re just looking for—” Raph lunges, arms outstretched as he goes for him.

He grabs Raph’s arm, spinning and throwing the turtle at Leo. They collapse into a heap, knocking into Donnie, who is mid-swing at Casey. The mask wearer cackles, grabbing onto Mikey’s chain as the youngest swings, and manages to throw it in such a way that it entangles the three of them. Leo is left baffled by his shell clanging against the other two and the familiar snap of Donnie’s bo as it breaks under the pressure of the chains. The turtle groans loudly, and Leo winces in sympathy, feeling wooden chips on his arms. Mikey, down one kusarigama and three brothers, pauses in shock.

“...did you just use it as a lasso?!” He exclaims. “How’d you do that?!”

“NOT the biggest issue right now, Mikey!” Raph yells, kicking his feet.

“We are NOT trying to fight!” The big guy repeats.

“This isn’t fighting, this is child’s play!” Casey cackles, nudging her friend. “Ain’t that right, Snapper?!”

Snapper reaches for something on his side, but the youngest strikes when something metallic glints under the street lights. His chain extends, blade drawn as it hits whatever Snapper was holding head-on, the blade going through and launching it out of his hand. Snapper stills, his hand clenched around nothing, and Casey has a hand to where their mouth would be under the mask.

“My phone…” he whispers sadly. “We needed that.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s a replacement for you back home!” Casey says.

“That was the replacement; I ate my first phone!”

“Really?” Casey’s voice takes on a bewildered tone, hand on their hip as they face Snapper. Leo thinks this is the calmest they’ve seen them since the fight began. “Was it good?”

“You know when you rub your feet against carpet? Tasted like that.” Casey hums. Snapper turns back to Mikey, teeth bared as he frowns, his forehead wrinkling. “Big man, I needed that.”

Mikey crouches lower, and Snapper sighs as if this fight inconveniences him. Then Leo blinks, and Snapper is gone. Mikey, startled, takes a cautious step back, and Leo feels his heart rate spike.

“Mikey—!”

The youngest is picked up before Leo can register what’s happening. Mikey hangs limply in Snapper’s grip, the human holding him up with one hand by the back of his shell. His eyes are wide, gripping his kusarigama tightly as Snapper holds a hand out.

“Give it,” He commands. Mikey kicks, trying to aim for his chest, but Snapper is just an inch too far. “C’mon man, this is embarrassing.”

“Let me go!” Mikey yells. Snapper sighs again and snatches Mikey’s weapon before he can protest. Then, with impressive speed and accuracy, he wraps it around Mikey with one hand until his arms are bound tightly by his side. Mikey is placed gently beside the rest of them, bewildered, as Snapper addresses his companion.

“Where’s your phone?” Casey pats their sides, then shrugs, walking toward him. “You lost it?”

“I ate it.” They quip, nudging Snapper’s side. “We have to go; we were getting close to the end of our time.”

“Ugh, I know.” Snapper holds out both hands and couches, Casey stepping on it gently. Then, they launch into the air, gracefully landing on the roof above them. Snapper gets ready to climb himself but pauses and turns back to them, bowing. “Sorry about beating you guys up.” Then he’s gone.

They’re left in that alley, tied up and ashamed, with Raph growling in his ear. Donnie looks defeated on his other side, clicking and shifting as he tries to untangle the chains around them. Mikey is quiet, for once, pouting at the ground as he pushes himself against the wall in a poor attempt to stand.

“...Let’s just go home,” Leo says, leaning forward. They all agree.

-.-

“Good game, everybody!” The coach yells, voice echoing in the small stadium. Casey practically chugs his water, sweat collecting on his face, his body sore from practice. Most of his teammates sit beside him on the bench, each tired from the rigorous training.

“Get cleaned up, all of you! You stink!" Coach gags, plugging his nose. His teammates boo around him, jeering at the couch as the middle-aged man dismissively waves them off.

“Case, you doing anything after this?” One of his teammates asks, nudging his arm; some of the others smile at Casey, awaiting his answer. Casey hums around the bottle, wiping off droplets that collect in the corner of his mouth.

“Uh, yeah,” Casey scoffs, pulling out his phone with a smirk. “I got a date tonight. It’s going to be great.”

“Bullshit.” One of his teammates, Troy, comments, “You got a date?”

“Yeah, she fell for my rugged charm.”

“I’ve seen this man eat a whole cricket on a dare,” Michael whispers to Jay beside him. Jay chuckles, laughter dying down as Casey scowls at him. Michael keeps smirking, showing off his missing tooth as Casey narrows his eyes.

“As hard as it is to believe for you losers,” Casey emphasizes the word, scrolling on his phone. He received a notification about an hour ago and frowns as he reads the words. Downtown, huh? “Women actually like me.”

“Really?” Troy asks, wiping back his sweat-soaked hair. “Okay, I’ll bite. Anybody we know?”

“Like you know any girls.” Casey snarks, getting up from the bench. His phone goes safely into his pocket as he grabs his supplies, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Who’s the last chick you’ve talked to besides your mom?” The rest of them ‘Ooo’ as Troy scowls, cheeks twinged pink.

“Man, shut up,” He mutters, avoiding Casey’s gaze. Casey punches his shoulder as he walks by, ignoring their jeers at Troy’s lack of comeback. They split ways where the hall becomes two, with the rest of his team hitting the showers as Casey leaves.

The cool air hits him like a sack of bricks, and Casey is forced to adjust his coat to provide warmth as he starts heading for the subway. It’s like how it always is: crowded and noisy, but his ride comes quickly, so he has that going for him.

He rides the subway, sitting in a seat as far back as possible, head leaning on the window as they go through stop after stop. People chatter around him as his bag bumps against Casey’s leg, his mask inside stabbing into his leg occasionally, the materials inside shuffling quietly. When Casey reaches his stop and heads for the surface, he checks his phone to ensure he has the right address before ducking into the closest alleyway and changing into his costume. It was a black turtleneck and pants, with red sports tape on his arms. The tape didn’t do much in terms of disguise, but if Casey is going to be a vigilante, he needs to look cool— like the heroes in his comics.

Every good hero has an iconic look.

He tops it off with face paint, his hockey mask, and homemade armor that includes some of his older hockey equipment that was more worn down. The clothes he was wearing go into his bag, then stuffed as much as he can underneath a dumpster.

With the streets nearly empty and the sky dark, Casey is shrouded in darkness, pulling down his mask to hide his secret identity. He puts one wireless earbud in, too, and has it tuned into local radio chatter on an app that Casey downloaded as he reads along the forum for the location of his target.

FratboyChad

What the FUCK is that?! [Image]

BiggieCheeseBingle —> FratboyChad

oh, nice scalie suit dude… it looks very realistic…

FratboyChad —> BiggieCheeseBingle

I’m not a scalie?!

HorseGirl —> FratboyChad

Neigh! Where did you take this photo? It’s a pretty good angle, too! *paws at the ground*

FratboyChad —> HorseGirl

Over by Ellie’s Electronics downtown? I was dumpster diving and found this thing. It hissed at me!?

BlueLagoon —> HorseGirl

Sorry, what the fuck are you a horse?

The thread was posted when Casey was mid-practice, and the photo, blurry as it was, had the familiar shape and color of that creature Casey encountered about two weeks ago. It’s a purple shell on display, stuck in a perpetual mid-spin, with mouth agape as it hissed back at the person taking the photo.

Casey isn’t stupid; he knows what he saw and that it’s dangerous. A mother alien would do anything to protect their young, but Casey also can’t let it run around, hissing and biting people. It could attack his family and friends, so Casey will solve the problem before it gets bigger… he’s not exactly sure how yet, but Casey is sure he’ll think of something.

He moves with the shadows, sneaking around corners and scaring the local wildlife. Rats shriek at him, and birds squawk, but Casey keeps it moving, reaching his destination in record time. With some broken technology on the ground and a ripped-open trash bag on the floor, you could tell somebody was digging around for something. The teen risks a peek in the trash, finding nothing but more ruined products and a faint smell of something sour.

Casey’s nose wrinkles under his mask as he puts one hand on his hip. He can’t think of why the alien would go to this dumpster compared to the others that are clearly from restaurants. Maybe it got confused when looking for food? Do aliens have a good sense of smell?

Oh, what if it eats metal?

Casey hums in consideration, slamming the trash can shut. It looked like a turtle, but Casey doesn’t have a frame of reference for aliens. Maybe turtles just looked like aliens, grown ones, that is. Those babies it was carrying were pink and fleshy; they reminded Casey of rotten onions. They smelled sour, too, now that Casey thinks about it.

His hand paws at his phone through his jeans, trying to remember the next closest electronic store. He starts to move when something falls from the sky, landing infront of him crouched. Casey unsheathes his hockey stick as the figure, a giant turtle with a red mask, stands infront of him.

“You!” It growls. Casey freezes. It can talk?! “No backup this time?” It mocks, spinning some salad-tong-looking weapons.

“Wha—?” Three more figures fall from the sky: blue, orange, and purple. Casey’s eyes lock onto the purple one, his haunches rising. Tall and lanky, with a color similar to the one he saw that night. Its shell wasn’t purple, but maybe it was painted or dyed. His eyes narrow, gripping the stick harder.

“Back up!” Casey makes his voice deeper as the purple one unsheathes a giant stick. They all take a step forward, so Casey takes one back.

“Did you think changing your clothes would make you unrecognizable?” The blue one asks, its two swords drawn. “You’re still walking around with a hockey mask and stick.”

Did someone already take Casey’s iconic look? This is only the third time he’s gone out like this, and he hasn’t seen these turtles before.

“Buzz off, you freaks!” Casey yells, voice still deep. “I don’t know your plan, but I’m going to stop it!”

“Our plan?” The blue one repeats. “What about yours? You and your friends have gone around harassing people!”

“I didn’t do shit!” Casey snaps back. “That lanky one back there is the one scaring people!”

“Lanky?!”

“You are kinda lanky, dude.” The orange one nods in agreement, as the purple one gasps.

“Whatever!” The red one snaps, a feral grin appearing on his face. “You’re going down!”

It occurs to Casey, watching the turtle fly at him with speed and aggression, that he’s never been in a real fight. The teen has been in plenty of fights, body slamming people on the ice rink, and in defense of himself whenever he pissed someone at school bad enough, they decided they wanted to hurt him.

They move gracefully and accurately, and Casey can only keep up with one, maybe two. Each time he blocks or dodges, another lands a hit, forcing him to defend and allowing another to reach him. It’s overwhelming, and Casey has to take steps back to distance them, but it doesn’t work, eventually leading to him hitting a wall. The red one punches him in the stomach; the air is knocked out of his lungs. His hockey stick hits the concrete infront of him, Casey’s arms reflexly grabbing his stomach.

The red one grabs his shoulder, slamming him against the concrete, forcing Casey to look into those electric green eyes. The teen bares his teeth as the blue one steps closer, its mask tails whipping in the breeze.

“Where are your friends?” They ask, sword unsheathed. Casey fights the fear in his stomach, eyeing his blade.

“...at your mom’s house.” Why did he say that??

The turtle pauses.

“Jokes on you, we don’t have a mom!” The orange one yells.

“He doesn’t need to know that, Mikey,” The blade wielder says. They turn back to Casey. “You mentioned that you were looking for somebody— who?”

“Why don’t you ask the twig back there?” Casey asks, nodding his head at the tallest one. “He’s the one going around hissing and freaking people out!” The tallest one points at themselves. “Yes, you!”

“Me freaking people out?!” They snap, snout wrinkling. “You and your buddies are the ones terrorizing the locals, not to mention tying us up!”

“I don’t even know who you are, baldie!”

“BALDIE?!”

“Donnie, stop fighting with him!” The blue one snaps. Donnie wrinkles their nose. “We’re getting nowhere with this.” The red one huffs, twirling the salad tongs again.

“If you’re not going to tell us nothing…” They turn and look at the dumpster, nodding at the blue one.

Casey is promptly picked up, his legs bound by rope from Mikey, and his arms held behind his back. The teen kicks and squirms as he is brought closer to the trash. Donnie and Mikey hold the lid open, and the red and blue one lifts him. He hits the garbage hard, the metal from some busted controllers digging into his knees. Casey lunges for the opening when they let him go, but the top slams closed before he can make it.

“Let me out!” Casey yells, hitting the lid. He can hear the aliens laugh on the other side at his misfortune, their chuckles dying out as they get further away.

His stomach still aches, and his sinuses are filled with the scent of trash, but Casey’s resolve is firm— he will find those aliens again and win next time.

Chapter Text

“Arnold Casey Jones, where have you been?!”

Casey shuts the door behind him quietly, his Dad jumping off the couch and racing to him with a heavy scowl. The teen looks worse for wear, with new bruises that throb with sudden movements and smudged face paint that makes him look like something the cat dragged in. He stinks, too, the foul smell clinging to his clothes.

His dad stands in front of him, eyebrows twitching and teeth grinding. Casey can practically hear each scrape of his teeth, his tall figure almost imposing. The teen can pinpoint the exact moment his Dad takes in his ragged appearance, eyes widening.

“What happened?!” He exclaims, brushing Casey’s hair back. His face is jerked left and right, but Casey bats his hands away.

“I got into a fight. No big deal.” The older man clicks his tongue, reaching out for Casey again. The teen ducks out of his reach.

“Arnie, I got home, and you weren’t there.” He frowns. “You were supposed to be here hours ago, and you’re out fighting?!”

“It’s Casey.” Casey reminds him, looking at the clock above the television. His tongue clicks as he reads the time. It’s later than he thought, the clock ticking like white noise as his dad sighs, dragging his hand down his face.

“Besides, It’s not like I wanted to fight,” Casey lies. “But I didn’t throw the first punch!” His Dad’s eyes narrow, and he pinches Casey’s arm. Unluckily, he gets Casey directly on a fresh bruise, and the teen hisses in pain as he drags his arm back.

“Stop lying!” His Dad scolds. “Was it those boys again?”

Casey doesn’t respond, mouth pressing into a thin line as Dad groans and curses under his breath. He moves to the kitchen counter, and Casey follows him, sitting at the dining table. His dad huffs and puffs, his footsteps heavy on the tiled floor. Casey leans on his arms propped up on the table, watching his Dad pace infront of the fridge with tired eyes.

“You’re going to wake up Angel,” Casey says. His Dad stops and turns on his heel, fishing out his phone from his jeans.

“I’m going to call their parents. I’m sure I still have their number somewhere.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Casey rolls his eyes. His Dad doesn’t even have their numbers anymore; Casey blocked them all on his phone long ago. “If you think I look bad, you should see them!”

His Dad’s teeth grind again, hand gripping his phone tightly. Casey smiles wider, leaning back in his chair and ignoring the pangs of pain from his bruises.

Casey had a massive group of friends in middle and early high school, but their interests and personalities changed with time. What was once friendly jabs came with more abuse, and hangouts after school became fights in empty alleys. He dropped all of them a while ago, but they saw it as slight at them. It’s not unusual for Casey to get into fights with them, or what Casey thought were fights. His body aches under his clothes, a reminder of his battle earlier that night.

“Annie,” Dad says in warning.

“Casey. And I’m fine!” Casey insists. “Four assholes that I took down myself; all those Hockey lessons are really paying off!” Those turtle aliens are going to get the beating of their lives when Casey runs into them again.

“Arnie, I had no idea where you were! Angel was alone!”

“Angel wasn’t alone. I asked Sandra to stay later.” Which reminds Casey he has to give her some extra cash the next time he sees her. She’s the only babysitter Angel doesn’t mind, barring Casey. They’ve lost so many due to her tendency to bite them when things don’t go her way.

“So you knew this was going to happen?!” Casey hisses in regret, scratching his head as he comes up with an excuse.

“N-not exactly? I was meeting up with some of the guys after practice. Fight happened after.”

Dad’s phone drops onto the counter, the man leaning on the wooden surface and burying his face in his hands. Casey doesn’t say anything, watching as he tries to calm himself underneath the dull kitchen light. He can’t help but turn back to the clock, the hour hand on the one almost mockingly.

His Dad has to get to work soon, and he got off his second job two hours ago. Casey’s fingers drum on the table, dragging his attention back to his Dad, who sighs and pushes himself off the counter.

“Grounded.” That is all he says. “Two weeks. No computer, No T.V.”

“Yes, sir.” Casey slides off the chair, heading in the direction of the bathroom.

“Arnold.”

Casey stops in the hall, keeping his breathing even as he turns back to address the man. “Yes, Dad?”

“You need to stop being so irresponsible. You won’t be a kid forever, between your grades and the fighting—”

“I got it.” Casey snaps. “You don’t have to keep reminding me.”

“Watch your tone!” He scolds Casey as he goes to the bathroom. The teen doesn’t slam the door like he wants to; Angel’s bedroom is next door. Within the solitude, Casey sheds himself free of his vigilante clothes. They were torn, with noticeable holes around his sides from the turtle with the blades. There were even more on his sleeves; Casey thinks he got them from the red and orange one— Mikey, was it? What an American-sounding name for something from outer space.

The shower turns on with a jiggle of the handle, and Casey starts washing himself. His bruises stick out like a sore thumb against his skin, coated with dried blood from the blue turtle’s blades. They throb when he touches them with soap, and he can’t help but hiss when the soap bubbles intrude on his cuts.

“This is going to hurt in the morning.” He whispers, rinsing each mark with water.

When he exits the shower, he chucks his vigilante clothes into the bottom of his laundry basket. Luckily, the plastic bin was still there after he forgot to lug it into his room earlier that day. Then he pulls on pajamas, carrying the basket to his room with quiet steps. On the way, he checks into Angel’s room, finding the girl’s back facing the door. Her nightlight casts a soft glow across the room, almost like a safety blanket.

Casey’s room is next to hers, and their Dad has the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Their dad must have wandered in at one point; the lights were on, casting the carpeted floor in a cozy glow. Casey can’t help but linger outside his bedroom door for a second, hearing Dad shuffle inside, watching as the light extinguishes, plunging Casey into darkness. He takes a deep breath and enters his room.

Falling asleep doesn’t come easy tonight, but when he does fall into an uneven slumber, he dreams of the aliens. Their three fingers and shells, snide faces as they lock him in the dumpster, and the colors. Oh, the colors.

Green, red, orange, blue, purple, purple, purple.

He’s walking down the street with his sister. It’s late at night, and they head for a shortcut to get home faster. The turtles drop from the rooftops, faces covered in shadows and lips curled into a nasty sneer. Casey can’t do anything but defend, taking blow after blow while protecting his sister. They jeer at him, each hit hurting worse than the last. Finally, they throw him to the side, the red one and the orange one holding him down while the purple one forces his eyes open. Angel cowers in the corner, unable to do anything as the blue one lunges, blade aimed for her neck—

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Casey lurches forward, heart pounding in his ears and covered with sweat. His hands are clammy as he tries to turn off his alarm. Even in the silence, his ears screech uncomfortably, and he clasps his chest as his heart threatens to tear itself out. The sun wasn’t out yet, so Casey was alone in the darkness, having nothing for company but his raging thoughts and disheveled bed sheets.

“Holy shit,” He can’t help but whisper when his heart rate steadies. “It’s way too early for this.” He swings his legs over the side of his bed, dragging his hands down his face.

Casey is fine. Except for his bruises, nothing terrible happened to him… Nothing major happened to him. Getting beat up by aliens wasn’t how he wanted to spend his Thursday night, but it wasn’t awful! He knows there’s more running around New York, and he’ll be better prepared. Besides, It’s not like they killed him!

…

Why didn’t they kill him?

His bruises, a darker purple than last night, stick out like a sore thumb, with each muscle contraction sending dull aches through his body. The cuts made from the blue one’s blade were superficial at best, already healed through the night. Casey didn’t die. Casey was attacked, and they were ferocious and skilled, but he didn’t die. He could have, he should have— yet they held back.

The question stays on his mind as he makes breakfast for his Dad before he leaves. The man wanders out of the bathroom, hair still dripping from his shower. He thanks Casey but doesn’t say anything else as he eats his food with gusto. Then he’s off to his early morning job, pulling up his boots and tugging his coat on. Casey leans on the counter, watching him turn around and point at him.

“You will come straight home, understand?”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Casey gives a two-fingered salute. His father grimaces, nose scrunching as he leaves. The teen huffs, getting started on Angel’s breakfast. She wanders out when she smells pancakes, droopy-eyed, and her hair messy. She plops onto her favorite chair, covered with stickers and wax from crayons, taking small bites of her food. Casey turns on the television and goes behind her to brush and braid her unruly hair. Each stroke distracts his turbulent mind, and he mainly relies on muscle memory to braid her hair in the way she likes.

“Head up, Angel.” He forces her to fix her posture. She doesn’t say anything, eyes focused on the brightly colored horses on the screen. “Stay still.”

Dad is going to kill him if he’s late again tonight, but Casey is unwilling to let those aliens go. They were holding back for some reason. Orders from the boss? They were probably grunts, following the one with the purple shell’s orders… Casey has to figure out what to call them; he’s going to confuse himself.

When Angel’s all set and ready to go, and Casey looks semi-presentable, they head out. He drops her off first, telling her to wait at the school for her babysitter. He also slides Angel an envelope full of cash, with strict instructions to give it to her babysitter when she shows up. Angel nods, taking the envelope and stuffing it into her bag as she enters her school.

Casey leaves for school, greeting teammates who hang around the front door and teachers heading for their classrooms. School progresses like usual, and nothing is unusual unless you count Casey’s lingering thoughts. The whole day, he feels distracted and like dragging his feet. He doesn’t think anybody notices, or at the very least, nobody says anything. When the final bell rings for the day, his teacher has him hang back.

Casey approaches her with a heavy frown, his bookbag halfway on, waiting for her to talk. She waits until the last student leaves, then frowns back at him, taking something out of a binder.

“Casey,” His teacher starts, sliding it on her desk. Casey finds his last test greeting him, the red mark of 16/100 greeting him. “I know you can do better.”

“It’s a one-time fluke.” Casey waves her off. “I’ll do better on the next one.”

“Your grades are dangerously low.” She warns. “You’re already a junior; you’ll start college soon.”

Yeah, no shit. Casey doesn’t say.

“No kidding.” He says instead. She sighs a heavy and disappointing sound, tapping a pencil on her desk as she observes Casey. The teen sits at the closest desk, crossing his arms as he tries not to think about what comes next.

“I have someone,” She says finally, pencil paused in the air. “Who could tutor you. She’s one of the best in the state, and she won an award a few months ago— maybe you’ve seen it? It was published in the paper.”

Who reads a newspaper these days?

“Yeah? Who?” Casey’s had tutors before; it’s hard to work around his schedule, and most of them don’t like him.

“April O’Neil. Smart girl, that one. A Sophmore.”

“Mrs. Karev, I don’t think that’s going to work.” Casey tries. “I got stuff to do, and with my hockey practice and wooing the ladies, it’s eehhhh—” He waves his hands in a ‘so-so’ motion.

“If you want to keep doing hockey, you have to get your grades up. Wanna get them up? You’ll have to take a break from ‘wooing the ladies’ and get a tutor.” Mrs. Karev uses air quotes, rolling her eyes as she repeats Casey’s statements. Which, rude. Casey is so charming, and it’s not his fault she can’t see it.

Mrs. Karev shuffles some papers, making the corners match the corner of the desk. Then her hands clasp together, leaning on the counter as she peers at him with her dead fish-like eyes over her rimmed glasses.

“...You’re joking.”

“You do realize you’re on the school hockey team? There are requirements to stay on the team. Requirements like staying out of trouble, arriving to practice on time, and maintaining your grades. Which you have not been doing.” She takes a deep breath, and Casey grimaces as she pulls herself back.

“Well, c’mon, can’t you just round me up?” Casey asks. “I practically carry this team!”

“From a 16?” She scratches the back of her head. “Casey, you get a tutor, or you’re off the team.” There’s a knock on the door; his teacher perks up. “Right on time.”

A red-headed girl comes in, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and blue eyes sparkling under the classroom lights. She smiles when she meets Casey’s eye, and the teen squints at her, watching as she stands straight. Mrs. Karev stands, clasping a hand on her shoulder, gesturing to Casey with a free hand.

“April, so nice of you to join us. This is the student I was talking about, Casey Jones.”

April brushes her hair back and holds out a hand for Casey. Casey isn’t rude— no, that’s a lie. He is rude, but under Mrs. Karev’s critical eye, Casey is polite and shakes April’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” She smiles. Casey gives a tight smile back.

They don’t stay in the classroom too long; Mrs. Karev shoos them away with a swipe of her hand and a click of her tongue. They have to walk together to the exit, and Casey can’t help the glances at her. She doesn’t look at him, back straight and chin up until they get close enough to the doors. April faces him, lips curled into a minute grin.

“So, when are you free?”

“I got something I need to do tonight. You free tomorrow?” She hums.

“I wouldn’t be able to stay too late with you, but we could meet at the park or something.”

“Or,” Casey indents the word, leaning over here. She tilts back, staring up at him with questioning eyes. “I know this place; we can grab coffee and junk.” April pauses, frowning at him as she considers his proposal.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Maybe.” Casey shrugs. “Why? You interested?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“No, I’m good.”

“Pfft, that’s what all the ladies say, and they get struck by that Casey charm.” He shrugs, leaning on the wall. She snorts, holding a hand up to her mouth as her lips tilt upwards into a coy smile.

“Is smelling like a gym room locker part of that charm, too?” She jokes.

“Absolutely. Ladies go crazy for the all-natural smell.”

“Well, not this lady.” She waves him off. “Here, put your number in my phone. We can hash out the details later; I have somewhere I need to be.” Her phone chimes in her hand, and suddenly, more notifications come in. She blinks in surprise, pulling it back as her eyes read the texts.

“You okay?” Casey asks as it chimes again. Her lips pull into a thin smile, typing a reply.

“Y-yeah, definitely. My friends just got new phones, so they’re a little excited—” It chimes again, and Casey can quickly glance at a blurry image of something green and orange before April tilts her phone, and it’s gone. He tries to keep a smile on his face, eyes narrowing as she chuckles at the message, finally looking up at Casey.

“Can I put my number in your phone instead? I don’t think they’ll let up any time soon.”

With that, they exchange information and go their separate ways. Casey walks by himself on the sidewalk while April gets joined by another girl, who is short with shifty eyes and a bob-cut. She stares at Casey, and the teen feels like he’s being analyzed from head to toe. He tries to smile at her, but she just peers at him over her glasses, turning back to April and saying something he can’t hear.

“...weirdo,” Casey mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. Her head twitches as if she can hear him, and she gives him a side look as she and April continue to walk. Casey suppresses a shiver.

With the sun still up, Casey has to kill time. He goes to the park, fast food places, and a spiritual shop where a fortune teller tells him, “he will soon go on a grand adventure.” He chucks a few pucks with some random teens he finds, each of them eager to score a point in a makeshift goal they recourse from a tilted-over garbage can. When the sky becomes dark but not pitch-black, Casey heads to his “Base.”

After he lugged everything back home, Casey had a stroke of genius. A few blocks from his apartment building was a Thai restaurant with easy roof access. Casey had climbed that building and shoved his materials: weapons, mask, face paint, into a small box that smelled heavy of mildew. That’s where he stands now, strapping himself with his homemade armor and slathering the paint on his skin as he checks his reflection on his phone. When he’s done, he stuffs his school stuff underneath the box and stretches his tired limbs.

“It sucks I can’t wear my clothes…” Casey mutters, pinching at his hoodie. They were still ripped, and while Casey didn’t mind it, they were left in his house, and he had to leave now. So his regular clothes would have to make do with his black hoodie and blue jeans.

“All right, aliens, here I come!”

Chapter Text

It was mid-afternoon when Donnie gathered them all excitedly, sitting them down on the couches in the middle of the lair. Their father sits tall and proudly, posture perfect and hands on his lap. Mikey and Raph sat on his left, while Leo sat on the right, mimicking their sensei. Mikey can’t help but kick his feet, watching Donnie drag an opaque box from behind the T.V. and drop it on the boxy surface with a grin.

“Gentlemen!” Donnie pauses. “And Sensei. I present to you all… drum roll please!” He points at Mikey. Mikey perks up, smacking his legs for a beat as Donnie pulls out a mini shell.

“The T-Phone!”

Wait—

“Dude, I’m in charge of naming stuff!” Mikey yells in offense, pointing at their tallest brother. It’s like the one thing he does around here— besides playing bait for Kraang. Which Mikey actually doesn’t mind; he thinks it’s really fun. “I would have called it…” he pauses for dramatic effect, then waves his hands in opposite directions.

“The ShellCell!”

“That sounds old-fashioned.” Raph huffs. Mikey frowns at him. “I thought you were good at naming stuff.”

“I am good at naming stuff!” Mikey defends. “Shell Cell, like Shellular Cellular.” Raph squints at him.

“Hey, eyes up here.” Donnie snaps his fingers. “Focus, focus. Look at me, look at the shiny!” He waves the phone.

Mikey leans back in his seat with a huff, Master Splinter giving him a stare from the corner of his eye. The youngest avoids his gaze, focusing on Donnie as he hands out each device. He starts at Leo, who takes it graciously and ends at Raph, who nearly snatches it out of their brother's grip.

“It will help us keep in contact on the surface if we ever have to separate, and Master Splinter can call us with any concerns.” Mikey rubs his fingers on the grooves of the phone. It’s a realistic shell, almost like their own or Spike’s, and as Mikey leans over to gaze at Master Splinter’s, he can see that it has the slightest variation in its grooves.

“It has all the basic functions of a phone: calling, texting, emails—”

What the heck is an email? Mikey knows about regular mail, but that was paper, and it doesn’t seem like Donnie is talking about the post office. The post office is bad anyway, so he's not sure if Donnie would want to go there—he should know; they explain it all in the cartoons he watches. Long lines, weird closing times, it’s almost as bad as the DMV, and that's saying something because more characters are complaining about that one! What does DMV even stand for? Driving Maybe Vent? Don't Mind Vehicle? Mikey is coming to a startling realization that he doesn't know many words starting with V, so how is he supposed to know? Vacant, vacation, very, vacuum.

…Oh shoot, he still has the vacuum in his room; he forgot to give that back to Donnie. Mikey knows exactly where it is, too. It's on the left-hand side of his room, beside a pile of comic books and behind his pile of teddy bears. He has one bear, about the size of his two palms put together, with glassy eyes and matted blue fur, clutching the thing with its soft grip leaned forward. Mikey thought it was hilarious that it couldn’t find its balance, but he had to give that back. Donnie probably hasn't noticed, but— Donnie is still talking.

“...plus I customized them with personalized apps and fitted them with tracking devices so we won't lose them, and—”

“Donatello,” Master Splinter says softly. Donnie pauses. “You are very thorough, my son. Well done.” Donnie beams.

“This isn’t going to end up like Metalhead, right?” Raph asks, turning the phone in his hand.

“I didn’t use any Kraang parts, so probably not.”

“Are these our phone numbers?” Leo asks, scrolling through his phone. Donnie walks closer and points at the screen.

“Yes! So it’s in alphabetical order. I do ask that everyone remember at least one number in the scenario where we lose our phones.” He turns to Mikey, staring pointedly at the youngest. Mikey was throwing his phone between his open palms, but it was not like he was going to drop it. He’s good at catching stuff, especially a bigger target like the phone.

“I’m not going to lose it!” Mikey defends, not stopping his tossing. “I don’t lose stuff.”

“Mhhm. Where’s my vacuum?”

Oof, ouch. He got Mikey there.

“I know exactly where it is!” Mikey defends.

“So do I! Not in my room!”

“Is this April’s number?” Leo asks, holding his phone up. Donnie nods without looking, eyes still trained on Mikey’s hands. Master Splinter finally places a delicate hand on Mikey’s shoulders, and the youngest stops with a slight pout.

“April gave it to me the last time she was here,” Donnie explains. “She knew I was almost done.”

“This is a… nice invention, my son.” Master Splinter repeats head tilted at the screen. He cradles the phone in one hand, squinting at the screen and using his other hand to scroll down. “What does this button do?” Donnie leans over to check.

“That’s your camera.”

“And this?”

“Browser.”

“And this one?”

“Text messages.”

Splinter hums, and Mikey watches as he opens the messaging app and click one of their contacts. He can’t see who he chooses, but the rat types up a message and sends it. Beside him, Raph’s phone chimes, and the red turtle’s eyes move as he reads the text from Master Splinter.

“...Master Splinter, why are you being so formal?” Raph asks finally. The rat smiles softly, bruxing as he faces Raph. Mikey leans over to read the message in curiosity.

Dear Donatello,

This is your father, Master Splinter.

Love,

Master Splinter

“You didn’t even send it to the right person,” Raph mutters. Splinter’s ears twitch.

“I did not?” He looks back at the phone. “Apologizes, Raphael. I meant to send that message to your brother." Master Splinter starts typing something else, and Mikey's phone buzzes in his hand next. Then Leo's phone, Donnie's, and Raphs.

Dear Donatello,

I have sent a text meant for you to Raphael. This is Master Splinter.

Love,

Master Splinter

“Well, now you've just sent it to all of us.” Donnie frowns. “But we need a group chat anyway, so it works out.”

“Master Splinter, I don't think you need to sign off on your texts,” Leo says, pointing at the rat's screen. Master Splinter doesn't say anything but frowns at the tiny device in his hand.

“But how will you know it is me?" Splinter asks.

“It says your name at the top."

"What?” He leans over to look at Leo’s screen. “How did that happen? I did not put my name there.” Donnie’s mouth becomes a thin line, rubbing his fingers together as the gears in his head turn, trying to figure out how to explain this to their father.

“I put your name there,” Donnie starts. “I made you a contact, so your name is not on your phone, but it’s on ours.”

Splinter squints at the screen, eyes gliding between his and Leo’s phone. Mikey watches Donnie’s face for another moment, his lip twitching and fingers aching to grab the device. He’s restraining himself, Mikey knows. Most of their technology is on the older side; even April was surprised with the amount of “nostalgic stuff” they had, but Donnie has always been more of a modern kind of turtle. When April first showed her phone, he freaked out and bombarded her with questions she couldn’t answer. Othello helped his spark, too, giving Donnie more ideas and being someone he could bounce ideas off of.

Mikey used to be that person, but he didn’t get half of what Donnie explained. He thinks Donnie just liked someone who would sit and listen. Leo saw it more as a chore than anything, and Raph was filled with too many sarcastic remarks. Mikey gets distracted frequently, but he asks question after question, making Donnie bounce from topic to topic.

His lips pursed in thought, and he stared down at his phone.

Mikey has five people on his phone right now. April, Donnie, Leo, Raph, Splinter.

Mikey looks up at Donnie as he leans over Splinter and points to something on his phone, the rat listening but not absorbing the information. Donnie looks almost at ease, explaining something in a soft voice. Mikey focuses back on the phone. He… hasn’t seen Othello in a while…Donnie hasn’t mentioned in his name since Master Splinter scolded them all for their surface adventures.

“...how many phones did you make?” Raph asks. It brings Mikey back to reality. The youngest drums his fingers against the sides of the phone as Donnie turns to Raph. His fingers fidget.

“Six.” It’s said too quickly to be true. Mikey plasters on a smile.

“So you made April one!” He grins. Donnie takes the out and nods. “Oh, so I can—!” He takes a photo of Donnie’s face, the flash going off and momentarily blinding him. Mikey wastes no time and starts texting April. He sends simple messages; “Hi!” “It’s Mikey!” “:3”, but he sends them quick. She should be out of school by now, plus it’s Friday, so she’ll be making her way down soon. Mikey doesn’t want to say it’s tradition, but she has never missed a Friday night hangout.

“Don’t spam her!” Donnie scolds. “Give me the—”

“What is… ‘spam’?” Master Splinter frowns.

“Alright!” Donnie takes a deep breath, clapping his hands together and closing his eyes. “Okay! Here’s what we’re going to do, Mikey: stop spamming April. Master Splinter, please follow me to my lab. We can have a crash course on phones.”

Mikey sends a photo of himself to April. It looks blurry, but he sends it anyway. Donnie points at him in warning, leading Master Splinter to his lab with a hug and a stomp with his foot. Mikey makes himself comfortable on the couch, leaning back and playing with the camera on his phone, watching the floor behind the lens. He kicks his feet, and his toes peek into the screen with every other swing.

“This is so cool!” Mikey smiles, still kicking his feet. “Don’t you think this is cool? We can text, make calls, and watch videos! April can watch videos on her phone, so Donnie probably—”

“It is cool!” Leo interrupts. “Donnie put a lot of work into these.”

“Donnie and Othello.” Mikey corrects. “He helped, they did blueprints, and Othello brought Donnie batteries.”

“I bet he didn’t do anything.” Raph scoffs, hunched over with his phone in a tight grip. Mikey watches as his face sets into a tight frown, brow twitching in irritation. “Donnie’s the smart one. I bet he just handed him screws or whatever!”

“Nah,” Mikey waves him off. “Dude, you should have seen them! It’s like watching clones; they were so in synch!”

“Sewer apples.” Raph swears.

“It’s true!” Mikey tries not to snap, but some attitude leaks into his voice. Othello is not a bad guy, so why is Raph treating him like one? Sure, he was weird and antisocial, but so was Donnie, and they like him!

“You say crazy stuff all the time.”

“I’m right most of the time too! Brains in people’s chests?!” Mikey reminds, gesturing to the general area. Raph scoffs, lips curled back into a sneer.

“And what about the things you get wrong? Giant fish monster in the sewers?”

It’s Mikey’s turn to scowl now. “That’s different!”

“It was a mural! For a dead goldfish!”

“It was dark! All I saw were big eyes and fins!”

“So you cried like a baby?” Mikey sputters, and Leo lays a gentle hand on his arm, frowning at Raph.

“What is your problem with Othello?” Leo asks. Raph doesn’t say anything, eyeridge twitching downward. Mikey doesn’t say anything, watching him. “We haven’t seen him in a while.”

“He’s… weird.”

“Yeah, no dip.” Mikey snarks. “We’re weird, too; we live in the sewers.” Raph punches him in the arm hard. It stings, but he sticks out his tongue at Raph.

“Not like that. The way he acts is weird.”

Mikey wouldn’t say weird. Cagey would probably be the best word for it. It felt like every time the teen talked, a bunch of words came out, but nothing of sustenance. He has brothers, Leon, Michael, and Ralph. A dad, a pseudo-sister, and some other people he considered family in some shape or form. Mikey remembers from the first and last time Othello visited. Mikey also remembers how abruptly he left, practically sweating bullets when he said his dad would be worried for him. Othello looked half-dead, and Mikey was concerned he would pass out before reaching the surface, so he sent Leo and Raph after him.

Raph was angry when they came back. Usually, Mikey would write it off since that’s just the guy he is. But that was different. A different kind of anger reserved for their enemies, and despite all his prodding, Mikey came up empty-handed as to why. Leo explained it and gave him every detail, but nothing in his story could shed light on why Raph was upset.

Mikey’s eyes flicker to Raph, watching his scowl deepen, elbows digging into his knees. Then, Mikey forces himself to smile, reaching over to Raph and slinging an arm around his shoulders. Raph doesn’t push him off, grunting in annoyance.

“So he’s shy!” Mikey coos, “Just like our Raphie!”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Raphie-poo, Raphaela, Raphie-Maphie, Ra— OW!” Mikey flinches as blunt teeth dig into his arm, not enough to draw blood or break the skin, but a silent warning. He pulls his arm back quickly enough, and Raph allows it, now looking incredibly smug as Mikey rubs his arm with a pout.

Donnie and Master Splinter exit the lab at that moment. Donnie looks aged and tired, while Splinter looks more confused than Mikey can ever recall him. He turns to them in questioning as Master Splinter shakes his head and turns for the Dojo. Once the doors close, Donnie plops himself between Mikey and Leo, covering his eyes.

“You okay…?” Leo asks.

“I’m just going to make him a landline.”

Chapter Text

Casey greets her at the park with a tired smile, stifling a yawn. April can't help the way her eyes trail up to his unkempt, ruly hair and the slight way he limps over to the park bench where she sits. He doesn't say anything, tossing his bag on the concrete underneath them, making himself comfortable beside her.

"Are you okay?" She decides to bite the bullet. Casey starts rummaging through his bag.

"Better than I've ever been," He says with a crooked smile. His textbook vastly differs from April's, with half the cover torn and pages creased like an accordion. Mind you. Hers isn't great either— the wonders of public school funding, but it looked aged, with yellowed paper and dog-eared corners. Not like it went through a war zone. Her fingers drum against the side of her thigh as he hefts it on his lap and flips it to a random page.

"Where are we staring, teach?" Casey asks. April takes a deep breath.

"Well, what are you having trouble with?"

"Mrs. Karev didn't tell you?"

"No." April frowns. "She just said you needed help, and I need extra credit."

"So, you picked a charity case." He snorts, leaning back on the bench. "Real smart of ya'."

"Me taking 'a charity case,'" She uses air quotes so Casey can see how ridiculous he sounds. "Is the only reason you're going to pass trigonometry. Nobody else was willing to help."

"Yeah, I have that effect on people," Casey sighs. "They're intimidated by my awesomeness. It's terrifying being face to face with greatness. I don't blame them."

April's nose scrunches, frowning at the older teen, who either doesn't notice or care. Casey smiled back at her with missing teeth and crinkled eyes. She ignores him, opening the book to a random page. The problem with instructions greets her, and she taps her pencil on the paper, shifting it slightly so he can see the page number. He rolls his eyes but does what he's told silently, with only the sound of ruffling pages between them.

2sin2(x) - sin(x) = 0

"Okay!" April smiles. She can do this; she's tutored people before. "This is an easy one! Do you know where to start?"

"Uh."

"...did you bring a calculator?" He pulls out his phone and waves it side to side. April tries not to let the frustration leek in her voice, distracting herself as she pulls her scientific calculator out of her bag. "Calculator."

Casey looks confused, putting his phone back on his lap. "Where'd you get that?"

"You get them on your first day of class."

"Oh," Casey says. "Yeah, I wasn't there the first day. Got a gnarly gash; I still have the scar, you want to see?"

Surprisingly, no, April does not want to see.

Every minute trying to tutor Casey Jones was almost like pulling teeth. He's rude and arrogant; April's not sure how he managed this long without a tutor since it seemed he understood nothing. When their session ends after two hours, he stuffs everything into his bag and leaves without hesitation.

April fights off the incoming migraine as she packs her stuff, heading back to her aunts. Casey was busy during the day, but they made plans to study again tomorrow at the same time and in the same place. When they meet again, somehow, he looks even worse, with a bandage on his cheek and smaller ones on his fingers. There's a slight churning in her gut, but she pushes through anyway, making him take notes on the bench of what she says.

They don't meet on the third day or for most of the school week, but April frequently sees him in the halls. April never noticed how often they crossed paths before, but she supposes she never paid attention. He's usually alone too, and occasionally, he'll be hitting a hockey puck through the halls— that immediately draws a teacher's attention and gets him in trouble. He never seems to care and typically acts snarky to whoever scolds him first.

One time, April saw him cornered by THREE teachers, which was kinda impressive.

They meet again next Saturday when they manage to coordinate a time. It's even later, with inky blackness decorating the sky and casting tall shadows from the park's corners. April feels like anything could pop out at them and drag them into the darkness, tearing their flesh off their bones and leaving nothing but a sun-bleached skeleton behind!

… She's been watching too many horror movies lately.

"Okay, do you have any questions?" April asks, watching Casey scratch his scalp with the back of a pen.

"How do I…" He trails off and squints at the paper. "No, I'm good."

"Are you sure? You hesitated."

"Yeah, I'm good." He repeats, slamming his book shut. Casey's hands are bandaged again, covering a majority of his palm. April's lips purse and she tries to avert her gaze, but she's…worried. Concerned.

"Hockey practice has to be beating you up, right?" April starts. Casey turns to her with a coy smile.

"You interested in hockey, Red?" He sniffs, leaning on the bench and stuffing his hands in his hoodie's pockets. "I think you're too soft to play, but I could put in a good word and see if you could be a manager or something."

"What? No, I'm just trying to make conversation." April pauses as his words hit her. "I'm not too soft for hockey."

"Sure," Casey smirks.

"You're acting too smug for someone with a D in Trig."

"It's not like I'm ever going to use this anyway!" Casey gestures with his hands. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging his slightly ajar bandana back into place. "Tell you what, you can join me the next time I go to practice. We'll see how you do on the ice then."

"So what, tomorrow? You're barely giving me any time to prepare."

"Nah, the rink isn't open on the weekends. We could do Monday if you're free?"

April's gaze falls back to his bandaged hands, and she bites her lip. "I… would like that."

Casey grins, bright and open. April tries to smile back, especially as he leaves, but she notices the limp again. Alarm bells go off in her head, but April can't force herself to ask. After Casey has long since turned the corner to the main roads, the ginger stays seated for a few more minutes and disappears. Her fingers drum against the cool metal of the bench as the gears in her mind turn. When April's sure she's completely alone, with nothing but her thoughts and lights from distant buildings, she starts to move.

The nearest sewer cover was left ajar for her, each step down the ladder echoing against the hollow walls. April has to hold her breath when the foul stench of sewage hits her, but she presses on anyway. Raph is the first one April sees when she jumps over the turnstiles.

The turtle's left leg is bandaged, wound tightly by white sports tape to keep the fabric secure, while his right arm is bruised to an angry yellow-green. Raph gives her a nod, fiddling with his new phone while she makes herself comfortable beside him.

"Thank you for cracking the cover open for me," April says. Raph grunts in acknowledgment. "I don't get how you guys can move it so easily."

"It's because you need more meat on your bones," Raph says, not looking at her. "You're like a twig."

"Well, okay, damn." She rolls her eyes. "I take back my thanks. I hope you trip on a pothole."

"I hope you trip and rip your leggings."

"Uncalled for… I've already lost three pairs…" April trails off, adjusting herself to face Raph. "What are you doing?" He gives her a side-eye, fingers unmoving from their position. April smiles, leaning slightly into a puppy-eyed stare that Mikey taught her.

She's not as good as him, but it's enough for Raph to huff and tilt his phone just enough for April to see.

"Awww!" She coos, a picture of Spike mid-leaf chomp staring back at her. "You're sharing your turtle? What are you sharing him on?"

"None of your business," Raph mutters, lips curling back. "Don't you have anything better to do than bothering me?"

"This is my better thing to do, actually." She hears soft footsteps behind them, Donnie walking around her with a roll of gauze in one hand, scissors closed tightly in his other, and a worn first aid kit tucked under his arm. April waves, but he ignores her, gaze focused only on Raph. Raph pointedly ignores Donnie, his neck disappearing as his head retreats into his shell.

"Leg up." Donnie commands. Raph doesn't move. "Leg up. Either I rebandage it, or Master Splinter does."

Raph huffs but lifts his leg, practically slamming on the bench. He winces immediately, and Donnie rolls his eyes, crouching to work.

"In what world is slamming your injured leg a good idea?" Donnie asks, unwrapping the old bandages. "You weren't thinking with that move, were you?"

"You're so annoying!" Raph snaps back. "Just hurry up so you can go." Donnie grunts, yanking a little harder.

"Stop squirming then." Raph clicks and hisses, and Donnie responds in turn.

"Ooh, that's a nasty gash." April winces when Raph's leg is free. It's covered in dried blood, with skin— scales? Surrounding the area was an angry yellow-green, stark against his normally jade-colored scales. The discoloration doesn't hide the wound itself: a long gash about the size of a pen surrounded by pale white scales. April can't help the grimace overcome her face as Donnie sprays it with disinfectant.

"Ow!" Raph complains, trying to jerk his leg back. Donnie keeps it in place.

"Well, It's healing nicely. You're lucky it's not deep; you should be fine by tomorrow."

"Can't wait." Raph rolls his eyes. April scootches closer, watching Donnie's stable hands as he rewraps the wound.

"How'd that happen, anyway?"

"Some freak." Raph doesn't elaborate. April looks to Donnie.

"Remember how you told us people were harassing others?" Donnie tugs the wrapping, taking out the scissors. "So we found them, or some of them, and we lost. But there's one who keeps coming out at night," He cuts the bandages to the right length, grabbing some sports tape.

"They have this whole hockey motif, and Raph wasn't paying attention—"

"They got a lucky hit!" Raph scowls. "They scratched me with keys! Who uses keys as a weapon when you have a hockey stick right there!" Donnie's tongue clicks at the interruption.

"You got them back. I'm pretty sure I saw their arm bleeding." Donnie puts the materials away, and Raph puts his leg back on the floor, his phone long forgotten and his arms crossed. April drums her fingers against the cushions, making up her mind as Donnie stands. April follows his lead, placing a gentle hand on his arm, and he stares at it questioningly.

"Donnie, you're pretty good at medicine and stuff, right? Do you think you can help me with something?"

"Biology homework?"

"...yes." April nods, letting him go. "Something like that."

She tries not to be offended when Donnie wipes her touch off his arm, but it's difficult. Still, he doesn't hesitate to nod, eyes sparkling in delight, thinking about her hypothetical homework. Donnie leads her to his lab, sitting her down on a stool. April makes herself comfortable, leaning on the table as he plops the first aid kit down on the counter.

They review the basics of human anatomy, bringing up a PDF of some biology textbook April randomly found online. Still, she lies and says it's her own. They review human muscles and arteries, with April eventually leading the topic of how to properly clean and dress a wound.

"Why would you need to know that?" Donnie asks, in the middle of pulling out some synthetic limbs. He claims that some hospitals nearby were throwing them out, but April's not sure she believes that— they look too clean and new.

"The class is less about anatomy and more about… health. Y'know, STDs, babies, how to help someone having a heart attack."

"Huh." Donnie prepares the disembodied limbs on the table, neat like ducks in a row. "Is that why they want you guys to practice?"

"Yup, uh-huh," She says quickly. "They would have us do it in class, but I like to be ahead of the game." He hands her gloves and puts on some modified ones himself.

"Alright. First, we're going to want to locate the wound—"

April never realized how intelligent Donnie was. She knows he is; April's seen his inventions and how they work. He talks a lot about science and robotics and usually tries to steal her textbooks when April comes down. Occasionally, she'll peak at notebooks and blueprints written with more words than she understands, but seeing it in real-time is different.

Donnie guides her through the steps, starting with locating the wound and teaching her how to properly wrap it. He also shows her how to do butterfly stitches and cauterize a wound, which seems too far for April, but she appreciates his thoroughness. Donnie allows her to ask questions, and he puts a pin in anything he doesn't have the answer for, promising to research later. April goes home that day with her chest lighter, more knowledgeable, and a bookbag full of medical supplies.

When she and Casey meet again on Sunday, they sit on the swings. Casey slugs a hockey bag on the floor beside them, and when April questions his bag choice, he says that his sister ripped his. The long sleeves of his white undershirt stuck out like a sore thumb against the surrounding area. Casey picks at ends, pulling them down further, before launching himself into the air, hair flying. Despite this, April still asks him questions, and he answers them, but she's sure he's guessing each time. They continue like this for a long while. Time crawls to a slow halt, with only April and Casey existing in the world. She sits on the swing next to him, with the book in her lap and scrap paper between the pages.

"Okay, show me how you solve for X?" April asks when Casey finally starts to lose momentum. He doesn't stop swinging but does have the decency to look when April lifts the book into his line of sight.

"Uh, 52." Casey slides his feet against the gravel, bringing him to a halt.

"Wrong."

"You want me to find X?" He asks. April nods, and he leans over, pointing at the X on the book. "Right there."

"Okay, smartass." April snaps the book shut. "You were paying attention yesterday; what happened?"

"Maybe you're just boring today, I dunno." He shrugs, hands clasped tightly on the swing chain. "Besides, it's not like I'm going to have to 'solve for x' when I get a job."

"You're going to have to when you go to college."

"Who says I am?" Casey kicks the gravel underneath him, spreading dust and pebbles that knock into April's shoes. Her sneakers take on a dirty brown hue, standing starkly against the black materials. Her lips tug down, eyebrows twitching as she awaits his response.

"School isn't really my thing. When I graduate, I'm going to become a pro hockey player!" Casey pauses, fingers tight on the chain. "Or an international bounty hunter."

"Those are quite the options!" April tries not to roll her eyes, but it's taking almost everything she has. Casey leans on his knees, the chains rattling above him. Every breath looks almost painful, his body shuddering while he rubs at his eyes. Her gut squirms again, and she's about to say something when Casey fixes his posture. His hands smack down onto his lap, and he turns to her.

"Who even wants an ordinary life?" Casey scoffs. "What are you going to do when you graduate, anyway?"

April pauses. Her mother was an author, mainly focusing on fantasy and mystery. She vaguely remembers sitting on her mother's lap as she types around April's body on her blocky keyboard. That woman typed inhumanly fast, the screen moving upward quicker than April could read.

Her dad is a psychologist, a highly rated one at that. He spent long nights at the office, reviewing his patients' files and writing a few medical journals. He always made time for his family, having a semi-flexible work-life balance.

April doesn't know how to describe it, but she always thought she would somehow follow in her parents' footsteps. To read, write, and inform, even if it's in a different way. What April is trying to say is that she'd probably want to be—

"A reporter," She says. "I want to be a reporter."

"You could do anything, but you choose to be a reporter?" Casey scoffs, fingers tracing the cool metal of the swing. April rolls her eyes, rubbing at her temple.

"Yeah, a realistic job. You want to be a bounty hunter."

"And I'd be a great one too." He sniffs. "You're lucky that you know me now; I can give you a friends discount."

"Thanks; I'll keep you in mind if I ever need a bounty hunter." Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, but Casey shows off his missing teeth like this is the best news he's heard. "I'm sure I'll need you a lot."

"Yeah, you probably will! Reporting, investigating– you might make some billionaire angry one day or something. Then you'll be glad you know someone as badass as me." The older teen pauses and squints in April's direction. Under his scrutiny, butterflies rise in her stomach, watching as he reaches closer for her.

"Hold still, Red. You got a smudge on your face." Casey's hand is gentle when he cleans her forehead, rubbing away whatever he sees. She can't stop the way her face heats up, not used to being so close to a human boy before. The turtles were great and huddled around her semi-frequently, but that was different. They're like her brothers; this was someone new.

She adverts her gaze, eyes falling on his white sleeve. April can't move, she can't think, she— she—

She grabs his arm, startling the older teen as he tries to pull away, hissing in pain. April loosens her grip, bringing his arm down and pushing up his sleeve. There are splotches of bright red leaking through hastily wrapped bandages. The fabric was frayed and poorly wrapped, the two ends tied together into a thick bow by his elbow.

"Ow, what the hell!" Casey snaps, finally snatching his arm back. "What'd you do that for?!"

"You're bleeding," She says.

"Yeah, no shit." He responds, tugging his sleeve back down. "You can't just grab a guy like that!"

"I-I'm sorry." She hates the stutter in her voice and doesn't say anything as Casey looks her up and down. "Do you need to go to a hospital—"

"No!" Casey says quickly, then takes another deep breath. "No, I'm good."

The squeezing in her gut returns the bad one, not the good. April isn't stupid; her father has previously dealt with cases like this. He couldn't tell her the details via HIPPA regulations and his own moral code, but sometimes, her dad called April over and hugged her tight. April didn't get it initially, especially as a young girl, but she thinks she knows better now. Her father loved her— loves her. But not everybody gets that privilege.

"...At least let me rewrap it," She mutters. Her fingers twitch, itching for her book bag. Casey doesn't say anything. "Please."

Every second he stares at her feels like an eternity, but he huffs and gives up his arm again, leaning back on his knees. April gets to work immediately, pulling some gauze from her bag. She keeps her grip light but firm, unwrapping the bandages like Donnie did for Raph and cleaning it with her water bottle. Luckily, she didn't drink from it today, and it was still cool from the insulation. Casey flinches as the water brushes past him, pouring down to his feet and staining the ends of his pants.

"Do you always carry all this in your bag?" Casey questions when she rubs some antibiotic ointment into his wound.

"Yup." She pops the P. Well, she's going to start, anyway. "Hold still."

As she rewraps the bandage, Casey flinches but doesn't move. The ginger feels his brown eyes on her as she moves, and she wonders what he thinks. Is he impressed? Curious? Is he glad she can do this, however amateurish she is? She can't tell and avoids his gaze when she finishes, tightening the bandages.

"Is it too tight?" She asks, holding his hands.

"Uh— n-no." Casey stutters, cheeks turning a dusty pink. April drops her hands immediately.

"Good! Good! I wouldn't want you, like, bleeding out or something!" She laughs and punches him in the shoulders. Casey hisses, grabbing his limb. "Oh my god, I am so sorry. Are you okay?!" He doesn't say anything, doubling over.

"Oh, god, should I get someone?! I am so sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Gotcha!" Casey raises his hands and smiles wide at her. April lets out an airy laugh, gripping her knees.

"You can't do that to me!" Her laugh gets more momentum, but she still feels her heart beating hard.

"Don't be so uptight, Red. Loosen up a little."

"I'll loosen up when you—"

BANG!

April jumps in her seat, eyes darting toward the source of the sound. She hears Casey move beside her, the chains of the swing clicking together as he leans forward in his seat. April catches the vaguest glimpse of three suspiciously human-sized turtles ducking behind the roof's edge, just above a dirty dumpster with both lids closed.

Oooh, April is going to talk with them later.

"Wow, it's getting so late!" April's voice raises against her will, forcing her lips to tug into an uncomfortably tight smile. She faces Casey, trying to block as much of the dumpster behind her as possible, but he stares above her instead. "So late, impossibly late!"

She stands and stretches, blocking his view of the roof. He moves his head to the left, and she follows his movement. Casey's eyes narrow, staring back at her with a frown.

"We should really get going!" She can hear the dumpster behind her creak open, and April has never wanted to fight those turtles more than ever. Casey, while not book-smart, is at least aware of his surroundings, his gaze unwavering from the dumpster. It slams shut behind them again, and April takes a deep breath.

"Red, stay here." Casey orders, standing. April's lips purse, watching him rummage into his bag and retrieve a mask and a hockey stick. Her eyes widen, as more materials in there glint under the light. Body armor, skates, a baseball bat?! Despite her apprehension, she stands firm, Casey testing the weight of his stick lightly.

"Ah, listen, we should go!" She tries again, scratching the back of her head, fighting her nerves. "It was probably the wind or something—"

"Whatever that thing is, it's probably pure evil. I'll handle it, sweetheart." Casey pushes her behind him, and she feels a surge of annoyance. He takes two steps forward before April grabs his hood, yanking him back.

"We're leaving!" She snaps. "You're injured; it was probably some raccoon or something!"

"You don't know what goes on in this city." Casey snaps back, voice in a low growl. "I have seen things you wouldn't believe!" He knocks her hand away and takes a few steps back to the dumpster. "There's no way that was a raccoon; it was green!"

"What are you even talking about?!" She rushes infront of him, blocking the dumpster. His eyes narrow in suspicion, which April understands. But she can't let him see them, even if they were spying on her.

"This is a dangerous city, and I'm the only one who can keep it safe!"

Casey pushes her to the side one last time, and she's unable to stop him from opening the lid. All she sees is a spring of purple and green, launching at Casey with frightening speed and accuracy. The teen yelps in alarm, blocking Donnie's bō with impressive reflexes. His brothers come down from the roof, blocking April from sight, as they ready their weapons. April watches as Casey rolls and knocks Donnie off, sending the tallest turtle flying, before scrambling to his feet, hockey stick at the ready.

"You!" Casey growls, grip tightening on the stick. April blinks in surprise, mind turning. "What the hell, you're stalking me?!"

"Like you weren't following us!" Raph growls back, haunches raised. "What are you doing with April?!"

"None of your damn business! And stay away from her!" Casey demands.

"You don't get to order us around." Leo's voice is even and commanding, his eyes narrowing as he stares at Casey. "If you wanted a fight, you could have just found us like every other time!"

April steps around Raph, slowly sliding between the turtles and Casey. Raph and Casey don't stop looking at each other, but the rest look at her with apprehension. She holds her hands out, pushing back between plastron and human flesh, as the knuckleheads above her growl (Casey) and hiss (Raph) at each other.

"Hold on, you guys know each other?" She questions, hands still on their chests.

"Something like that." Raph clicks. "He's the reason I had that cut the other day." Casey's eyes flicker to Raph's leg, and his grip tightens against the hockey stick again.

"...how fast do you aliens heal?"

"Aliens?" April questions, dropping her hands. She turns her back to the turtles, forcing Casey to look at her, which he does reluctantly. "What are you talking about?"

"I told you, weird stuff has been happening recently! There's aliens in the city!" His voice raises, pointing an accusatory finger at her friends.

"Okay, well, first, don't yell that out loud." April holds up a finger. "Two, they," she gestures to them vaguely. "Are in hyper-realistic fur suits."

Everyone pauses.

"Did you really think I was going to believe that?" Casey's voice is flat.

"No, but I was hoping."

"Don't protect the aliens, April!" Casey frowns, going back to staring at her friends in challenge. "They're evil and are hurting people!"

"Who!?" Donnie demands. "You and your friends were the ones stealing mutagen! I'd wager that's going to hurt a lot of people."

"You were what?!" April gasps. "Do you even know what that thing can do?!" Casey vehemently shakes his head.

"I didn't steal anything!" He defends. "They're the ones who attacked me! That purple one." he points at Donnie. "Is probably their ring leader or something, I saw him."

"You didn't see anything!" Donnie snaps back. "The first time we met was when you were trying to steal mutagen!" He repeats. April can feel a migraine growing.

"I met them when they busted my shit in!" Casey growls, nodding toward Leo, Raph, and Mikey. "I met you when you were carrying your weirdo wrinkly babies!"

It all delves into yelling from there, and April can't make out a single word anyone is saying, their voices overlapping as they try to prove that they're right. Her head pounds in annoyance, and once she hears Leo, of all people, scream obscenities, she snaps. April grabs Casey's collar, dragging him down to her level and forcing him to look her in her face. Every argument dies on his lips, staring at her with wide eyes and a slack jaw. The turtles pause behind her, and she glares at them over her shoulder, pointing back to the building.

"Rooftop. Now."

April has never seen them move so fast. She drags Casey over to the fire escape, forcing him to march up the rusted steps, walking behind him. The turtles wait for her by the edge, chastised but mostly wound up for a fight that April is trying to avoid.

"...I think you're right. Maybe I should go—" Casey starts, turning. April glares at him. "Sitting, I am sitting down."

"Casey, what did you mean when you said Donnie was carrying babies?" April asks.

"Exactly what I said, Red." Casey leans on his hands. "They carried some kind of baby in their mouth and climbed up the building next to mine."

"...What are you even talking about?!" Donnie snaps. "I'm not a girl; none of us are girls. We can't have babies!"

"Then what were you carrying then?" Casey asks smugly as if he had played the winning piece in a chess game.

"Uh, nothing, because that wasn't me!"

"Yes, it was!" Casey insists. April steps between them again, holding up her hands.

"Okay, what did the not-Donnie look like?" April questions. Casey doesn't take his eyes off Donnie.

"Like him." He points at the tallest turtle. "With a purple shell and a big forehead." He taps his finger to his chin. "About the same size of his forehead, maybe a little smaller." Raph snorts.

"Okay, well, Donnie doesn't have a purple shell." Mikey jumps in, gesturing to his brother's back. Donnie nods aggressively, twisting just enough for Casey to see. "So, it couldn't be him!"

"He's the only turtle wearing purple, isn't he?" Casey snaps back. Donnie opens his beak to retort but then snaps it shut, the click of his jaw echoing on the roof. He pauses, practically grinding his teeth together as he thinks of what to say next.\

"Was it… blocky? The shell?" He asks, significantly calmer.

"Aren't all your shells blocky?" Casey scoffs. Donnie shakes his head.

"No, not like ours." He grabs some litter off the ground, a flyer for some kind of band that had fluttered onto the rooftop. Luckily, April has her pencil in her pocket and tosses it to Donnie. It takes him seconds, but eventually, he turns the flyer towards them.

It's a shell, almost like their own, but more geometrical. April blinks, squinting at the straight lines, as Casey lets out a sound of recognition.

"So you do know it!" Donnie shakes his head again.

"I saw it." He corrects, turning the paper back to himself. He addresses his brothers. "When I uncovered those Kraang files, this was one of them. I thought they were building something like us."

"So, what?" Raph asks, crossing his arms. "We already knew something got out— so a robot?"

"A robot wouldn't make sense," Donnie frowns, smacking the paper. "They're good at controlling them, you remember Metalhead." April can't help but wince. Yeah… that was a day.

"If the Kraang made it from their own materials, they should have been able to control it with a touch… if what he's saying is true." Donnie gestures vaguely to Casey. "Then it's a mutant, a turtle one. An…angry turtle one."

"But they killed the Kraang," Leo stresses. "Why would they go around carrying their bodies?"

"...Maybe they're experimenting on them?" Mikey suggests, shrugging. "They have to be pretty smart if they fought the Kraang AND made their own shell!"

"A turtle without a shell…" Donnie humms.

"Hey, hello?" Casey snaps his fingers from his seat on the floor. "You want to fill me in? What are Kraang?"

"See, if we told you that, we'd have to kill you," Raph says with a deep frown. He looks over the building's edge, then perks back up, crouching to Casey's level with a sly smile. "See, the Kraang are these aliens that-"

"Knock it off." Leo scolds. Raph rolls his eyes. "...Did you see a human with the turtle? About this tall? Purple hoodie, black hair?" Leo gestures with his hand, just a few inches off the top of his head.

"No, they were by themselves… Is that what you guys are? Kraang?"

"Context, Casey." April sighs. Donnie shifts from side to side, and April can't help but notice how he seems less tense. She cocks his head at him in questioning, but he waves her off, turning to Mikey as the turtle talks.

"Nah, we're New Yorkers, born and raised baby!" Mikey puffs up his chest proudly. Casey rolls his eyes. April feels like he's been doing that since they all met.

"Right, and I'm Miss Universe." His voice is dripping with sarcasm. Mikey pauses, then nods sagely at Casey.

"I didn't know we were in the presence of royalty. It's nice to meet you, man." He pauses. "Nice to meet you, ma'am! Hey-yo!" He holds a hand to Raph, and the turtle does it without looking.

"I'm calling bullshit." Casey sniffs. April kicks his back with her knee. "You can't seriously believe them, Red! Look me in the eyes and tell me you've seen other giant, human turtle things walking around!"

"Well, of course, we're not just walking around." It's Leo's turn to scoff now, crossing his arms as he sits on the roof's edge. "Obviously, there's a magical city underneath New York, and all of us mutants live there in harmony. We just like to visit the topside sometimes since humans are so interesting."

"...really?"

"No."

"How'd you even know where to look for mutants?" April tries to bring them back on track. Casey pulls out his phone, allowing April to look over his shoulder as he shows her a familiar thread. Her tongue clicks in disbelief, dragging her hand down her face. The brothers share various looks of concern, each differentiating in intensity.

"People have been posting about weird stuff they've seen. I just went to the last known location."

"...Which is where I've been sending you guys." April sighs. Her head hurts. "Hold on, why are you four here then? Weren't you going to investigate the Kraang tonight?"0

"We got lost?" Mikey tries. April raises an eyebrow. "Donnie saw you, and we wanted to know if you were on a date. He slipped off the edge trying to listen in.

April sniffs. "Nosy."

"Okay, but why do you know them, Red?" Casey frowns.

She starts from the beginning, taking moments to explain certain parts of the story in more detail or when Mikey has something of utmost importance to say. Casey nods and asks questions, fingers drumming on the rooftop. Surprisingly, he's almost… calm. Is that the word for it? He's definitely not freaking out, so April considers that a win.

"And it's just you five doing all this?" Casey asks when she's done. She nods, and then he looks thoughtful. "Alright, where's that Kraang base thing?"

"...huh?"

"This seems way cooler than trigonometry."

"Oh, no, you're not fighting the aliens."

"So things 1 through 4 can, but I'm not allowed to?"

"We don't need a bonehead like you fighting with us." Raph scoffs, jutting his chin out at Casey. Casey repeats the motion, shoulders tensing as he stares Raph down. "You're the worst fighter I've ever seen, other than Mikey." Mikey gasps in offense.

"Yeah, and who hit who first?" Casey gestures to what was once Raph's injured leg. Raph points at the teen's arm in response. The teen covers his injury,

"And who's still injured?"

"I can still fight," Casey growls, getting up from his seat. "You want to see, you short motherfucker?

"What'd you call me?!"

It takes the three brothers to hold back Raph and one of April to push Casey back. But they manage with massive struggle. She'll have to keep these two from each other, won't she? April can already see it in her mind; they'll throw insults at each other and maybe even a few blows. Jeez, she can't believe she was crushing on someone like that— it's already such a headache dealing with Raph.

Chapter Text

Othello bites at the scales around his thumb, the sickly green-yellow scales peeling off with a concerning amount of ease. A trail of fluorescent red blood, almost pink in the low light, drips down his finger onto the tablet he cradles in his lap. He wipes it absentmindedly, ignoring how it smears on the glass, tinting the only light in the room pink. Beside him, his battle shell was fulfilling a new purpose as a side table, holding a meal that Othello had been ignoring for the past few hours. Something inside him cringes at the charred Kraang body strewed upon such sophisticated technology. One of his prized possessions— not to say Othello values any of his work any less, but his battle shell will always have a special place in his heart. He remembers when he first made this version of this shell. He remembers all versions of his shells, but this one was specifically made after he fought… he… fought…

His brow scrunches, his hand dropping, and he looks at the makeshift table. The smell of the ‘food’ was almost nauseating, making his stomach churn as he observed the details of the shell, brain-racking as he tried to remember when he built it. It was after Othello had fought something he knew. All he remembers is being scared, his old shell punctured by something sharp as he tried to defend himself. What was he fighting? He remembers Mikey throwing a ship… Or was that Raph?

Host, you should consume.

Othello sneers at the voice in his head, focusing back on the tablet, his previous thoughts pushed to the back of his mind. The Technodrome moves, and a soft crunch beside him as he rereads the words on his (stolen) tablet. This version of the Kraang was thorough, each file categorized in a specific way that Othello hasn’t quite figured out yet.

Something presses against his cheek, a charred piece of Kraang entering his field of vision in an enticing way. Something curls in his gut, hunger and disgust swirling together until they’re one. Othello shoves the Technodrome away.

“Later." He keeps his focus on the tablet, trying to read the words with difficulty. Kraang had their own language, filled with shrieks and clicks and occasional telepathic feelings. Not quite words, but with enough conviction, they felt like they were. Their written language was different, more geometrical in nature, resembling blocks more than anything else. It was hard to read, taking minutes to decipher a single sentence into something cohesive. His eyes burn from staring at the tablet for hours.

Host, you said you would consume. You said you would consume if it was cooked.

“Later,” Othello repeats, ignoring his stomach growling.

You can’t see its features.

Othello pushes away the tendril that tries to feed him the Kraang again, not bothering to hide his disgust. The meat was hard and flaky, filling the room with a scent of burning and rawness that Othello dislikes, but learned to deal with. What he couldn’t deal with was the Kraang’s body, most of their eyes were open and slack jawed, screaming in pain or suprise as Othello… hunted them, as the Technodrome calls it. So they compromised. But the charred meat doesn't taste any better going down.

You said you would consume if you couldn't see its features.

Othello doesn’t say anything, biting the inside of his cheek as he keeps the tendril in sight from the corner of his eye. It wiggles, gripping the food tighter. Othello swallows the lump in his throat, swiping to the next tab absentmindedly.

“I did,” He agrees. “But, I’m not hungry.”

Liar, liar, liar. The Technodrome scolds. You haven’t consumed in days

“Then what’s another hour?” Othello sneers “Leave me alone, parasite.”

The tendril retreats, throwing the body onto his shell in frustration. It bounces off, breaking apart and scattering onto the floor around him. The parasite sends waves of annoyance through their shared connection, huffing inside Othello’s mind before retreating. Othello doesn’t say anything, allowing himself to relax minutely and sighing. It seemed like, for once, the parasite was going to listen to him, and for that, Othello is thank—

The Technodrome suddenly wraps around his shoulders, snatching the tablet from his grip and holding it above him. He tries to reach for the devise, but the Technodrome pushes him back, slamming him into the wall.

“Hey—!”

We do this out of love.

“What are you talking—?!” It doesn’t give him a chance to finish, ripping out a large chunk of Kraang's body and shoving it in his mouth mid-sentence. The Technodrome shifts, releasing his shoulders and crawling up his head, encasing both nose and mouth in one swift move. Othello’s lungs burn from the lack of oxygen, scratching at the Technodrome's flesh in desperation. The tendrils are like putty to his scales, its grip ironclad.

Othello is forced to swallow the body, choking on the bitter taste while the Technodrome retreats. Othello’s breaths come uneven, and he crouches in on himself and wipes crumbs from the corner of his mouth. The parasite drops the tablet in front of him, a loud CLUNK echoing around the room and basking him in that familiar reddish hue.

Do you have to make everything difficult, Host?

“Fuck you.” Othello coughs out. “I should strangle you.”

That would be difficult, considering our lack of neck.

“I’m going to bioengineer you a neck so that I can strangle it.”

Why don’t you look at the tablet?

Othello frowns but listens, picking up the tablet with a careful grip. The words are more eligible, not quite English, but Othello can make due. He t’sks in annoyance, the alien smug on his back as he goes through file after file. The deadpan eyes of a Kraang suit schematic stare up at him, sending shivers down his spine as he swipes to the following file.

If the false Krang wanted to blend in, they should have studied the inhabitants of this world better. The Tenchnodrome says, voices drenched in snobbery. Othello can’t help but silently agree.

Unless a species is a clone race, there are subtle differences. Even a species like Judoon has differences in eye color and weight. Humans are significantly more varied; they have infinite possibilities.

“Don’t I know it,” Othello mutters, glancing at his charging cloaking broach. He fitted his base with electricity ages ago, but sitting in the dark comforts him. The room feels smaller, cradling Othello in the darkness like a shell. Mikey was always a more ‘retreat into your shell for comfort’ kind of turtle, but Othello could see the appeal now. It felt as safe as he could be with the parasite on his back.

That’s why we’re superior. The Technodrome says smugly. The Krang researches, you research too, Host. That’s why your disguise is immaculate. You are better than them.

“I’m not Krang,” Othello says absentmindedly, biting his thumb again. “And I never will be, so you can keep your praises to yourself.”

You will accept us one day.

“And when I do, I’ll eat my right hand.”

You are so negative.

“Yeah, well, we’re stuck together. So you gotta get used to it at some point.”

They fall into silence again, with nothing but Othello’s breathing breaking the silence between them. The Technodrome allows him time to read, not forcing the issue of food, for once. When the words start getting hazy, Othello takes another bite of the alien on his plate. It's chalky, and pieces get stuck between his teeth, but Othello powers on anyway

He's not sure what time it is; all he knows is that the Technodrome forces his head up after his plate is long and empty of Kraang. His neck creaks and aches, but the turtle doesn’t protest, following along as it wishes. His limbs are heavy, his legs tingling from hours in the same position. Othello reaches down to wake them up, only to be dragged harshly to the left by the Technodrome. He stumbles, almost falling over his battle shell, and knocking over his plate to the ground. The Technodrome doesn't care that his legs were asleep, and forces him to walk, pulling and tugging like Othello was an disobedient child. The softshell digs his heels in, but a particularly strong tug pulls him away.

We need sustenance. Host, we must go hunting! The Technrodrome yells, pulling him again. Othello tries to resist, but its grip is relentless.

“We don’t need to go hunting!” Othello snaps, grabbing onto the table as they pass. His knuckles turn white as the Technodrome gives another experimental pull, undeterred of this new situation.

The false Kraang are ripe for the picking!

“Why don’t we go hunting for parts instead? The ‘False Krang’ aren’t going anywhere.”

The Technodrome finally stops pulling, wrapping around Othello’s shoulders and arms like a messed up hug. Othello breathes out a sigh of relief, his grip slackening. Some of his scales, maybe two or three, get left on the table, but Othello doesn’t care for that. He goes back to the tablet, and brushes off the thin layer of dust that coats its surface.

Why?

“Why what?” Othello’s wipe removes a good chunk of dried blood off, but he knows he’s going to need a wet wipe. “Why is the sky blue? Why is Leo allergic to peanuts? Why am I so brilliant? You’re going to have to be more specific, meat shield.”

It lets out a growl, a primal echo that gives off a clear and sharp warning. Othello scowls, holding the tablet close to his plasteron as he pushes his back against the wall. The Technodrome is squashed between his shell and concrete, clearly uncomfortable, but doesn’t shove him off.

Don’t call us that. It orders, pulsating around him in annoyance. The portal. Why fix it?

“You know why, don’t play dumb.” Othello presses his weight into the wall more. He can feel the pressure on his shell, although the Technodrome takes most of the brunt. “It’s not cute. Besides, didn’t you want me to make one in the first place? You’re such a hypocrite.” Long nights with nothing but a clear goal drift back in his mind. What Othello wouldn’t kill to go back to that.

We don’t belong here. We belong with family.

“Again with this?” Othello clicked his tongue, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. “...you’re not wrong though. I want to be with my family.”

You don’t need them. We’re your family.

“No,” Othello counters, voice firm and pushing into the wall again. “You’re a parasite.”

You’re too intelligent for them— surely you must see that. We could give you the world and more, you just have to accept—

“Shut the fuck up.” We know your potential, host. They limit you and your creative freedom. We love—

“Shut UP!” Othello slams his back into the wall, the Technodrome hissing in pain underneath him. “We just share a common goal, that’s it. We’re not family, I don’t want your ‘love,’ I want to be rid of you.”

It doesn’t respond, but Othello doesn’t care. He covers up the parasite with his battle shell, and swaps his tablet for the cloaking broach. Looking at the charge, Othello clicks his tongue, but slaps it on anyway, the familiar flames encasing him.

Despite his better judgement, he twists the broach again, watching it fall from a measly 22 percent down to 21 in the span of a few seconds.

“Two days nonstop and this is what I get? I knew I should have made it solar powered.” Hindsight was indeed 20/20. “We’re going to the dump.” Othello addresses the Technodrome, grabbing his rickety wagon by the door.

We barely find anything of value there.

That did seem to be a reoccurring trend, unfortunately. Othello's lips pucker against his will, closing the door behind him while a cool breeze whipped past him. He sneezes, and the alien responds by wrapping around him like a meaty blanket. Thankfully, under the cover of the cloaking broach, it's unnoticeable, but Othello isn't a fan of something touching him that he could not see.

“It's probably because we go too frequently,” Othello says, starting the long journey. He sniffs, snout tickling under his disguise. “I usually rotate between the human and yokai dumps back home, just to give them time to build up with cooler stuff.”

We should go hunting for false Kraang instead. We’re hungry.

“Later. Maybe.” Othello excuses himself as he bumps into an older woman. She scowls at him with a nasty glare, her eyes gleaming with unearned audacity. Othello has to restrain himself from hissing, the Technodrome offended in his mind.

“Listen, I let you get away with a lot of shit, but not this.”

We are doing what’s best.

“Best for who?” Othello asks, raising a brow. His fingers feel numb under the cold, the temperatures dropping faster than Othello realized. “Because I know it’s not me.”

For us. We are ensuring survival, efficiency. Everything we do is for the good of our body.

“My body, you mean.” Othello turns a street corner, ignoring as a man stares at him walking past. Othello must look crazy talking to mid-air, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

…yes, of course, Host. We’re doing what’s best for you.

“Then you can fuck right off, because I know what’s best for me.”

We're stuck together. You have to get used to us eventually.

Othello huffs, but doesn't respond, turning the street corner smoothly and walking diagonally across the road. He walks a few more steps, stretching his sore arms in front of him until he hears a quiet pop echo through the street. The Technodrome grimaces, so Othello pops his fingers next.

“It also might be because of Donnie,” Othello remarks, moving onto his wrists. This seems to be the alien's breaking point, wrapping around his hands silently and holding tightly. “It’s not like he can go into a hardware store.”

The second is smart. The Technodrome agrees. We should visit Donatello.

“No way.” They're close to the dump now, and Othello can almost smell it. It burns his nostrils lovingly, bringing a sense of comfort and enthusiasm. “Yeah, he's smart, but it's way too dangerous.”

We'll behave. We will play nice.

“Oh, yeah? Even with Leo?” The Technodrome doesn't respond. “Thought so. We're here, help me pick out some salvageable stuff.”

-.-

“I want this room spotless, Michelangelo. No food, crumbs, or drinks— and everything in a proper place.” Master Splinter scolds Mikey while he stands in the middle of his not messy room with two trash bags and some cleaning spray.

“Do not,” Master Splinter continues “Shove everything in one corner and say ‘it’s clean!’ We may live in the sewers, but that is no reason for us to live like animals.” Okay, well, he walked right into that one.

“But,” Mikey points out, holding up one finger like a nerd. “We are animals.” Master Splinter takes a deep breath.

“Like non-mutated animals.” Master Splinter takes a step back. “I will be back in an hour to check on your progress.” The door closes behind the rat, his footsteps trailing off into the distance. Mikey scratched the back of his head.

His room wasn’t that messy! He had a few blankets on the floor, and some comics and movies laying around. But, it's not like the room was unlivable. Mikey’s been living in this room for years!

He kicks a stray pizza box gently, watching the cardboard slide open and a single slice of jellybean covered pizza fall out. Mikey isn't one to waste perfectly good food— he was eating it only a week ago! So, he picks up the slice and pops it in his mouth. Mikey overlooks the rest of his room, licking his greasy fingers, the air scented with pizza, something sweet, and a hint of sewage that lingered despite their best efforts.

There were some dishes scattered around the room, some peeking out from underneath his bed, covered in dried residue while his movie collection was toppled in the far corner with his throwing stars and kunai.

“It’s not that bad…” Mikey mutters. His room has definitely been worse. Still, Mikey sighs and gets to work, starting on his clothes that were scattered around the room. He likes wearing stuff sometimes, sue him!

He makes three piles; stuff that’s clean, dirty, and questionable— they smell dirty, but Mikey can’t see any visual stains on them. Then he sorts through his blankets and stuffed animals around the room, putting them in the same piles. Mikey’s reaching under his bed, looking for more clothes, when his hands brush against something solid.

Out comes a very small hard-covered book with a wrinkled piece of paper taped to the cover, and pages visibly weathered and dog-eared from the side. Mikey remembers this! He flips through the pages, finding crude drawings of a green turtle superhero with a long red cape and brown boots. The drawings weren’t great by a long shot, and his writing was awful with words spelled wrong, some even being incomprehensible. Still, Mikey finds himself reading along.

There isn’t a real plot, the most Mikey could see was his superhero fighting another turtle with a blue hood. Surprisingly, Mikey could recognize who that was meant to be, despite the colors being wrong. His drawing of Raph growls at his turtle hero, threatening to send the whole world into space!

The turtle can’t help but giggle, laying on the floor as his companion, a very crude drawing of Donnie, tells drawing Mikey to get serious about the mission— spelled with a backward ‘s,’ and the next page being a very detailed turtle face. Donnie helped him draw that! His brother was always good at realism, although Raph was usually the only turtle who drew now, but his interest was more in painting. Mikey misses drawing, he should—

“Michelangelo.”

“AH–!” He throws the book towards the sound of the voice, realizing too late that it was Master Splinter. The rat simply lifts his hand, catching the book with ease. “Ooh, heeeyy—” Mikey says awkwardly.

Has it been an hour already?

“Although I am happy to see you reading, my son.” Master Splinter sighs. “You were told to clean your room.”

“...sorry.”

Master Splinter hands him back the book quietly, and leaves with one last warning stare. Mikey goes back to cleaning. He focuses mostly on specific areas, rotating every few minutes when something else catches his interest.

His sheets get replaced, the movie collection gets organized by favorites and placed in a neat pile underneath his (now empty) bed frame. His floor still has some crumbs scattered around, but Mikey doesn’t want to vacuum until he’s completely done. It didn’t help that the trash bags that Master Splinter gave him were filled to the brim, straining against the sharp corners of demolished pizza boxes.

Mikey turns his attention to a pile of dishes that he stacked by his door, all mismatched and covered with dried crusties of food he’s eaten for the past two weeks. His stomach growls at the sight, and Mikey is reminded that he didn’t really eat lunch today…

Well, he did. Steamed salmon with cheese and garbanzo beans— groceries courtesy of April (Thank you April!). Maybe he didn’t eat enough. And Mikey knows Master Splinter wouldn’t want him starving himself, so he gathers the dishes and heads to the kitchen with one goal in mind. He pays Leo and Raph no mind, his two eldest brothers watching something on the T.V. that wasn’t Space Heroes.

He plops everything in the sink to soak, and starts digging in the cabinets for his meal, pulling anchovies and graham crackers. Then he goes into the fridge, looking for leftover spaghetti from last night's dinner. He’s putting together his lunch, watching the T.V. from the kitchen as a teenager tries to explain to his classmate about how their teacher was controlled by a blood-sucking alien.

“What are you guys watching?” Mikey asks, cranking open the can of anchovies in his hand. Raph cringes at the smell, but Leo doesn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“Some channel is playing retro movies,” Leo explains as a teacher tries to attack the group of teens. A long battle ensues, and Leo’s head cocks to the side. “Why would you not go for his weaker points? He’s leaving his left side entirely open.”

“I told you this movie was stupid,” Raph scoffs. “Alien parasites… that’s so dumb.”

“I mean, aliens are real. They could have parasites.” Mikey points out. Raph grunts at him. “Like, fleas? They could get fleas.”

“Don’t you need to have fur for fleas?”

“Aren’t fleas like leeches?” Leo asks, leaning back to address them. Mikey shrugs, taking a bite of his spaghetti. Leo cringes, but doesn’t address it. “I don’t think you need to have fur for leeches.”

“Nah, bro. Leeches are the ones that stay stuck on you. Fleas hop around.” Mikey wiggles his fingers as demonstration.

“I bet Casey has fleas.” Raph mutters. Leo snorts, but frowns at his younger brother anyway.

“Can humans even get them?”

“I bet he managed to get them. He seems like the type.”

“I think they’re called lice.” Mikey perks up. Raph rolls his eyes and waves him off.

“Whatever, aren't you supposed to be cleaning your room?” A scream from the TV echoes around the lair, the main character running for their life with one less arm than they started with. Mikey can’t stop his snout from scrunching in disgust, the character slamming the door closed as their chest heaves from fear and exhaustion.

“I got hungry.” Mikey gestures to his food. He feels like this should be obvious. “Where is April anyway?”

“Another tutoring session with Casey.” Leo answers, locked onto the screen.

“It’s amazing how someone can be so dumb!” Raph says, as his eyes flicker on Mikey’s form. The turtle knows what’s coming and leans on the counter while a sly smile tugs on his brother’s beak. “Actually, no, I get it.”

“Rude.” Mikey snips back. “That’s why you’re bald.”

“You’re bald, too, stupid.” Mikey sees movement in the far corner of the room, trying to keep a grin off his face as he thinks of his reply. Leo pays neither of them any mind, laser-focused on the TV.

“Y’know, you and Casey are a lot alike.” Mikey licks his fingers free of sauce, watching Raph’s reaction from the corner of his eye. His brother’s head snaps over to him in an instant, his full attention on Mikey with narrowed eyes. “Short-temper, violent.”

“I’m nothing like that doofus!” Raph snaps. “I don’t go around attacking people because I think they’re someone else!”

“Yes, you do?”

“No, I— okay, yes, but he attacked us first.”

“Not to Casey.” Mikey jerks his head toward Leo, watching Raph’s eyes follow. “And Leo said yesterday you both were hard-headed.” Raph scowls, kicking the back of Leo’s shell to his shock.

“Why would you do that?” Leo twists so he can face Raph. Raph kicks him again.

“Why are you gossiping about me?”

“Huh?” Raph goes for a third kick, but Leo avoids it just in time. “Stop kicking me!”

“Hard-headed, huh?”

“More like thick-skulled,” Leo snaps back. He smacks Raph’s leg, scowling at his twin. Mikey holds a hand to his face to cover his creeping smile as Raph lunges at Leo.

“I’ll show you thick-skulled!”

“Get off of me!”

“BOYS!” Master Splinter’s voice is loud and harsh, like a whip. The rat stares at Leo and Raph from behind the couch, his face set into a tight frown. The two freeze, Raph having their eldest brother in a headlock, while Leo digs his teeth into Raph’s arm, using one arm to push between himself and Raph. Mikey doesn’t say anything, watching as they try to fix themselves accordingly.

“It seems you two are full of energy.” Master Splinter’s voice is smooth, his face relaxing. “Since you boys have nothing better to do, why don’t you both join me in the dojo for a spar?”

They don’t move at first. Splinter’s whisker twitches.

“Now.”

They scramble to their feet, practically pushing each other out of the way as they head toward the dojo. They both glare at each other, and Mikey wiggles his fingers when they look back at him. With just the two left, Master Splinter directs his attention to Mikey, his whisker twitching again. Mikey smiles innocently, his spaghetti long gone, with only his dirty dish as evidence of his meal.

“Michelangelo.” Master Splinter nods. “How is your room coming along?”

“Amazingly,” Mikey answers. “Did you know my floors are green? Crazy, right?” Master Splinter hums in quiet acknowledgement, the low tone a clear indicator of his thoughts.

“So it will be done before our evening training session, correct?"

“Well—” His voice goes up an octave, despite his efforts. "Maybe… after?"

“Michelangelo." His father warns.

“Before evening training." Mikey nods. Splinter nods his head back, and glides away, footsteps quiet on the Mikey tosses his plate into the sink, and gets right back to his task.

For all of twenty minutes, Mikey cleans his room with no distractions.

And then he finds a distraction.

He drags Donnie’s vacuum across the sewer floors, footsteps light as he makes his way to Donnie’s room. He can hear his others brothers grunting in the Dojo, obviously being put to work for their fight, but he pays that no mind and gives three heart knocks to Donnie’s door.

“Donnie~" He sings "I have a surprise for you!” He jiggles the vacuum, the loose rocks and trinkets inside jostling quietly. He’s sure Donnie can’t hear it, and that’s a real shame, because it makes such a neat noise.

He knocks on the door again.

“Donnie?” Still, no answer. Mikey takes a peek inside. Bed, table, half-made machinery, no Donnie.

So, Mikey does the responsible thing. He doesn't leave the vacuum where hooligans could take it, and Donnie needs to see him give it back anyway. He drags it over to Donnie’s lab, and gives three more knocks.

“Donatello~!" He calls again. “Donnie, Dee, Don?" Mikey pauses, racking his brain for other variants. "Donald. Donald Duck? Darwin.”

Still, he receives no answer.

Rude.

Mikey goes inside the lab anyway.

Mikey loves his brother’s lab. Something is always humming and sparking, with blueprints on the wall and half-used pencils scattered across his desk. It’s always so interesting, even if Mikey doesn’t always understand what is happening or why. He runs his fingers across the desk, his scales free of dust or grime— Donnie was always a stickler for keeping things clean. He leaves the vacuum by the side of the desk, before flopping down on his brother's chair and kicking his feet up.

“Now where could my brother be?” Mikey hums. “Who will I annoy now?” He sighs, swaying in his chair. What a dilemma.

Then it’s like a switch, slamming his feet onto the ground, as he digs into his many belt pouches for his prize.

“C’mon, c’mon…” And— “Bingo!"

His T-phone is slightly greasy, with the screen smudged with his fingerprints. The grease, now dried and leaving an oily residue on the shell, was a reminder of his dinner last night— pizza with gummy worms and algae… Dang, he’s hungry again.

Ignoring his stomach, Mikey finds Donnie’s phone number in record time. Then he presses call. It rings… once.

Twice…

Thrice…

Something vibrates, rattling the desk and startling Mikey. He finds a cord he somehow missed before, leading indie one of the drawers, and plugged into Donnie’s phone. The battery was low, but the screen practically flash bangs him as he turns it on.

“Ew,” Mikey mutters, lowering it to an acceptable level— near the bottom where it doesn’t hurt a normal person. “Why are the words so big?” Mikey feels like he could see the words could be seen from twenty feet away, and makes a mental note to tease Donnie whenever he sees him next. His wallpaper was plain, he had no password, and currently only had three apps on the main screen— internet, calling, and texts. That’s so upsetting, Mikey had customized his within hours, and now he has a very cool-looking phone, if he says so himself.

His eye catches one more thing inside the drawer, a second phone with a small deep purple sticker. At first, Mikey thinks it was the one for Master Splinter, but that thought is pushed away as quickly as it came. Donnie doesn’t like wasting parts, and repurposed that phone for a landline for their father. He can only think of one other reason Donnie would have a spare phone, and it makes him sad.

Mikey’s fingers run over Othello’s designated phone, tracing over the grooves in the shell with a frown. His older brother didn’t deserve to be ghosted by Othello— no matter how cool the human was with the existence of mutants. Othello couldn’t keep doing this wishy-washy stuff, getting Donnie’s hopes up with friendship and intelligent conversation, only to not talk to him for weeks.

…speaking of, when was the last time they’ve seen Othello? Donnie has, so has Master Splinter— in a recording that they refuse to let them watch with almost a haunted look.

Mikey knows what they’ve seen, Donnie didn’t go into depth and Master Splinter was silent as the turtle explained. The turtle supposes he can’t blame Othello for being skittish, Mikey thinks he would be too. But it still hurt, and Mikey would love to have more friends for his family. If only there was some way to get the phone to Othello, but Mikey doesn't know where he lives or goes to school… he knows the human invents like Donnie, but that doesn’t help him—

“Wait, yes it does,” Mikey says to himself. The junkyard. Othello says he goes there all the time, that’s where they first met to bring Othello down, and later when Leo brought him to give the batteries to Donnie. “I am so smart.”

He practically leaps off the desk and sneaks out of the lair with a mental note to just check the junkyard quickly and return home before anyone notices. The cold air nips at his skin on the surface, reminding Mikey of the months gone past. He’s never seen the city in the winter, but the sewers were always cold and creaking during the winter months, bringing down humans to fix clogged or burst pipes.

The view wasn’t that different than when he and his brothers first arrived on the surface, but the rooftops were covered in rain that was just on the cusp of freezing over. Mikey watches his step as he continues on his journey, jumping off buildings to roll to the next, ignoring the cold water that covers his body.

He twists after another leap, his shell taking most of the impact, and peers over the building's edge. The streetlights below were flickering, making the street signs barely legible. Mikey has to rely on landmarks, like specific buildings, to find his way to the junkyard. Luckily for him, it’s not that far now. The turtle smiles wide as he leaps over another alleyway, and another, and another. He can practically smell the garbage from his position, and when he gets close enough, he hides under a building’s ledge and peers over to the entrance, finding nobody.

“In and out,” Mikey says to himself. “Quick look around.” He’s not nervous, the turtle has absolutely no reason to be. Well, that’s not true, he is nervous, but that's more so because he is supposed to be cleaning his room, and if Master Splinter finds out he ditched then he’s probably going to be in trouble.

But could the rat really be mad if Mikey was just trying to make sure his friend was safe? …Kinda friend? Acquaintance? Mikey’s not sure, but he also doesn’t care. He’s going to give Othello the gift that Donnie painstakingly made for him, and make sure he takes it because—

There’s a flash of green in the alley to the right of him. Mikey pauses. He creeps around the building, staying low enough that he reaches the area where he saw the color, but not enough that whoever’s down there could see him. He sees the back of their head, covered with green scales. Mikey thinks it's Donnie at first, since he assumed his brother was out dumpster diving. But the person below him was too lanky, their scales a yellowish-green, purple markings on their forearms. If that wasn't enough of a clue that this wasn’t Donnie, the bright purple shell was a dead give away.

“Oh my gosh," Mikey breathes as the turtle underneath him lugs spare parts in a wagon. The wheels creak loud enough that Mikey could hear it from his position, an echoing call in the dark. He reaches for his phone, keeping his eye on the target as he types a message to his brothers.

Mikey has to keep his distance, but he’s good at surveillance. His footsteps are silent, and he keeps to the shadows. Mikey is sure the turtle down there doesn’t even notice him. He just has to keep his distance until his brothers get here.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Someone is watching.

Chapter Text

Someone is watching.

The same three words play in Othello’s mind like a mantra. The Technodrome won’t stop, and combined with his own keen senses, the repeated words, and the overwhelming sense of DANGER coming from the alien, Othello’s anxiety is through the roof.

Someone is watching.

He has to keep his footsteps even, the slightest misstep could indicate to his stalker that Othello is aware. Othello’s fingers tighten around the wagon’s handle, his breath shallow as he turns a corner. While passing a pothole, Othello twists his wagon enough that it rams directly on. Something goes flying, clattering to the ground loudly. He makes a show of cursing quietly, stopping, then picking it up— all while examining the area around him subtly.

Someone is watching.

A shadow jumps over one building's ledge but doesn't pass him. Othello could practically hear the culprit breathe above him, waiting for his next step. Othello swallows hard, throwing the fallen scrap metal back onto his wagon. He uses more force than necessary, and it flies through a semi-decent monitor. The screen cracks, scattering glass along the wagon and ground, and Othello doesn’t have to pretend he’s frustrated.

Host, we need to get rid of them.

“No shit,” Othello hisses quietly. “Any idea on who it could be?” Othello can’t see the person from his position, the corners of the building blocking his view almost perfectly. The Technodrome squirms, but doesn’t answer, clearly at a loss. Othello sighs, starting on his journey again. He sticks to alleys and dark roads, unsure of what to do. The figure above him always keeps a steady pace, their footsteps light and airy. If Othello wasn’t trained to be aware of his surroundings, he’s sure he would have missed them entirely.

His body feels wound up, muscles tight as he keeps walking aimlessly. He can’t go back to his base, and depending on who’s following, they’ve probably already called for backup. The Kraang come to mind first, but they have a hands on approach, and their footsteps were too heavy to sneak around like this person.

Organic matter.

“The purple dragons, you think?” Othello whispers. He hasn’t had any run-ins with the group since… he can’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve been on the news for petty crime, and Othello remembers pissing one of them off. Didn’t they threaten to sell him? Maybe they were keeping up to their threat?

It seems the most logical. The Technodrome agrees. We haven’t made many enemies.

Othello turns another corner, and the buildings become run-down the further he goes. He passes by his bodega, the thought of sanctuary like heaven, but this wasn’t a game of tag. There is no safe space, and Othello needs to get rid of this leech on him.

Watch it.

“Not you.” Othello rolls his eyes. Five blocks away from his base, Othello finally finds what he’s looking for. He goes up to the side door of an older diner, and shifts his body to block the view of what he’s doing. The Technodrome helps, wrapping around his hand while he grips the lock and pulls it off, clutching the metal tightly as he heads inside.

The air was stagnant, with newspapers covering all the windows, peeling and moldy from improper ventilation. The floor was cracked, littered with half-drunken beer bottles, and mysterious brown stains that Othello hopes is dirt. The furniture doesn't look much better, with cracked counters, dusty tables, and chairs exposing cotton and springs.

He throws the lock to a shredded booth, and places his wagon behind the counter, grabbing a half-rotted mop that lays on the ground. Then he goes over to the door and waits, crouching low with the mop held tightly in his grip.

The door creaks open slowly, and the Technodrome yells in his ears. Othello strikes when they get further in.

Fight. Win. Survive. Survive. Survive.

His attacker rolls out of the way before he makes contact, sliding on the ground. They look at him with wide blue eyes, their green hands clutching nunchucks— shit, it’s Mikey. Othello doesn't have a chance to call off the fight as Mikey lunges at him, forcing him to move back to the counter. Othello leaps, landing on the opposite side of the counter and runs into the kitchen.

He almost trips on some wet substance near the door, falling shell-first onto a kitchen island. But the Technodrome reacts accordingly, pushing him back up just as Mikey bursts in. Othello twists his body enough that he kicks Mikey square in the chest, sending him flying back through the door.

His heart pounds in his ears, watching as Mikey flies and lands on a damaged booth with a loud grunt. His alternate brother enemy doesn’t let that slow him down, and gets back on his feet. Othello scowls, spinning his makeshift bo in warning, watching Mikey’s eyes narrow in challenge. The softshell clicks subconsciously, a warning to the other turtle that doesn’t deter him.

“Leave,” Othello warns, his voice low. Mikey doesn’t move. “Go, now.”

He’ll kill you. Kill him first. Get him. GET HIM.

Othello lunges. Mikey dodges. It becomes a game of cat and mouse, with rusted booths becoming overturned, and any objects lying around being fair game. Othello doesn’t want to fight, but his instincts and the Technodrome tell him otherwise. Still, maybe it’s because this is brother, alternate or not, or maybe the lack of consistent meals, but Othello is slower. Sluggish.

It provides Mikey an opening, and his nunchucks extend their chains. Othello should have been able to dodge. But the blade cuts his arm badly, making him drop the broomstick while hissing in pain. Mikey wastes no time, advancing threateningly to Othello, and the turtle can’t fight back properly with a hurt arm.

He turns, the Technodrome demanding he go back and finish the job, and runs. Or, he tries. Something hits him square in the back of his head, and he’s knocked out cold.

…

………

………

Othello wakes up with a massive headache, hands and legs bound, and sitting on the floor. He jerks in his restraints, hissing and clicking quietly in exertion. His arm throbs, covered in the pink flesh of the Technodrome, pulsating intermittently. The Technodrome doesn’t speak, even when Othello prods through their connection, the alien only responding with a quiet hum.

“Oh, you’re awake!”

Othello turns to Mikey sitting on a dirty seat, rotating slowly back and forth. The metal creaks loudly, unfamiliar to the sudden weight of a body. The turtle smiles at Othello, holding a very small shell in his hand.

“By any chance do you have a charger?” He shakes his phone for emphasis. “My phone died, and the other one…well…” Mikey holds up a secondary phone, the screen badly cracked. Othello doesn’t answer. “Oh, c’mon, dude. Help a fellow turtle out?”

Othello wiggles in his chains, the metal clinking together loudly in the diner. Mikey sighs, frowning at Othello as he kicks his feet.

“Look, I’m sorry for hurting you. I didn’t mean to…Well, I did, but you attacked me first! I was going to patch your arm but uh—” Mikey wiggles his fingers at the Technodrome, the alien pulsating again in response. “It looks like you got that covered.”

“So I get that you’re a turtle, but like— I’ve never seen you around before! Which isn’t too surprising, I guess. And listen, I don’t have a problem with mutants. I’m,” He gestures to the whole of his body. “Very pro-mutant as you can tell. What I’m not pro is pro-human hurting. They didn’t do anything! Plus, if you hurt them, you’ll be missing out on some good they do. Like… pizza! Have you ever tried it?”

“...Why did you follow me?” Othello asks.

“Oof, right into the nitty-gritty, huh?” Mikey’s tongue clicks. “Mostly to see if you were good. Been hearing a lot of stuff about you.”

“What stuff?” Othello wracks his brain in an attempt to find an answer. “Who’s talking about me?” Was it the Kraang? Purple Dragons? Othello has been getting sloppier recently, but he doesn’t think it would be to the extent of people talking about him.

“Hey, I’m supposed to be asking the questions!” Mikey pouts. “This is my interrogation!”

Othello rolls his eyes, but leans back on the nasty booth behind him, staring at Mikey intently. The turtle hesitates, clearly not used to having someone listen to him immediately, and looks back to his two unusable phones. Othello waits patiently, allowing the teenager to gather his thoughts.

“...What’s your favorite pizza?”

Othello can’t help it. He laughs. It’s an airy laugh, but long and hearty enough that Othello starts struggling for air. He laughs long enough that his body shakes, and tears prick his eyes. Mikey looks vaguely embarrassed, but holds himself together with dusty green cheeks and a slight quiver to his mouth that is almost a pout, but not quite. It reminds him so much of his own brother, trying to play bad cop and failing because Mikey just isn't that type of guy.

“You still need practice, Mikey!" Othello finally breathes out after a few minutes. He wants to wipe his tears away, but under the restricting chains, he can't.

“...How do you know my name?”

Othello immediately sobers up, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying something he might regret. Mikey is staring at him, all traces of embarrassment gone, with narrowed eyes and a tight frown. He squats in front of Othello, searching his face for something that the softshell isn't privy to. He bites his tongue, waiting for Mikey to say something, anything.

“Listen, my brothers are coming and they’re bigger and meaner than me. It’s better you answer me before they get here.”

Othello still doesn’t speak, focused on the cool floor underneath him, and the Technodrome pulsating on his arm.

“...what is this?" Mikey pulls something from behind him. Purple, smooth and half shelled with a hint of—

Oh.

Oh no.

“Give that back—!” Othello lunges, trying to grab his cloaking broach. Mikey yanks it back, not even bothering to catch Othello as he falls face-first onto the tile. Othello scowls, glaring up at Mikey as he twists and turns the device in his hand.

“See, I would, but it just looks so familiar." He holds it up by its strap, letting his cloaking broach hang loosely in the air. “I think you stole it."

What.

"My friend.” Othello could hear the question in his tone and he’s a little offended "Has this exact same bracelet, and y’know what you are? Not my friend.”

“Why are you even going through my stuff?!”

“Why are you carrying suspicious stuff?” Mikey snips back, clutching the cloaking broach tightly.

“That’s not even a bracelet! It’s a broach! That I made!”

“Potato, tomato.” Mikey shrugs. Othello scowls, tugging at the chains around his wrists and still finding no way to get loose. “Dude, if you want it back, you gotta work with me here. Why do you know my name? Why are you running around freaking people out, and WHY is your shell purple? It’s been bothering me since I first heard about you!”

“Why is that the thing that bothers you!?”

“Answer my question!”

Are you done screaming, Host?

Othello’s back straightens at the sound of a familiar parasite friend ringing in his ears. He tilts his head away, twisting his body so he faces away from Mikey. The turtle takes great offense, gasping while clutching imaginary pearls. He’s saying something, but Othello tunes him out, watching the tentacles throb and reep back into their neutral position. His arm shines with pinkish-green scales covering the slash Mikey had inflicted.

Your arm will be fine, we sped up the healing process. Now, what will we do about him?

Othello doesn’t know.

He feels like he doesn’t know a lot of things lately.

Kill him and retrieve your broach?

Othello tugs at his chains again, focusing on the harsh metal that rubs on his arms. He bares his teeth, not at anyone, but at the situation as a whole. He just needs to think for a second. Mikey staring down at him expectantly is not helping with his nerves.

We can let you out. You can give us control, and we can kill him.

I don’t want to do that.

“Do what?" Mikey questions, eyeridges furrowed. Othello does not respond, focusing on his silent conversation

It would be quick and easy. We will make it painless.

It would be so easy to give in. This isn’t his Mikey, even if Othello liked the teen. Even if Othello didn’t kill him, he could use the Technodrome to escape and maybe injure Mikey enough that he couldn’t follow. A broken ankle, fractured leg, maybe ripping off his arm entirely—

Othello bites his tongue hard enough to bleed, eyes wandering on anything that wasn’t Mikey. He doesn’t want to hurt him. But he can’t do anything either… Tied up, alone, no ninpo or backup coming, Othello is—

His eye lands on his wagon's handle, peeking out from behind the counter.

“You asked if I had a charger earlier," Othello says. Mikey’s face scrunches up in confusion, but the softshell pushes on. “I have a charger. Kinda. In my wagon there's a solar powered radio and a phone cable— USB type C. Is that you have?”

"Why? You think helping me charge my phone is going to help you?”

“Yes, actually. On the broach there's a charging port on the bottom. I need you to attach the cable to both the broach and radio, then put it on my wrist.”

What are you doing?

Othello ignores it.

“Please?"

Mikey’s lips pursed, staring down at the broches charging port. The softshell’s face falls, while Mikey considers his options with the broach in his hand and his prisoner in chains. Othello is hoping Mikey makes the right choice. He hopes he is too.

“...where's your wagon?”

Othello beams, explaining where it was and all the stuff inside. Mikey followed his instructions to a T, being surprisingly gentle with the radio and he looked for a charging port. Then, it's the moment of truth. Mikey crouches beside Othello, hands carefully placing the broach on. It’s silent when the clasp locks, but the blue flames afterward make up for the lack of noise.

Mikey scrambles back, taking out his throwing stars, and readying himself for an unneeded battle.

Illusionary hair falls over his eyes, with the familiar purple hoodie wraps around his body, casting a semblance of familiarity for Othello. But not as much as Mikey, who stares at him slack-jawed trying to comprehend what he’s seeing.

You’re a fool, Host.

Othello wiggles his fingers, putting on his best smile for Mikey.

“So… could you untie me now?”

When Othello is freed, peeling off the broach to allow it to charge, and rubbing at his sore wrists, Mikey asks a million questions per minute. The most repeated ones being a gasping “what!" And “How did you do that? What is that thing!"

The Technodrome voices its irritation the entire time, sneering at the prospect of someone else knowing such a closely guarded secret. It sneers even more when Mikey slides into a groadie booth and taps the counter in a silent invitation. Othello slides on the other side, ignoring the way his scales crawl in response to the weathered material.

“Is this still an interrogation?" Othello asks, brushing some dust onto the floor. Mikey shakes his head adamantly, body practically vibrating with nerves and excitement.

“Are you magic? Is that what that is?!"

“No— I mean, kind of?" Othello rolls his hand, trying to search for the right words. “I made it, but it was based on a preexisting design. It gets the job done, but its still in beta testing, and apparently the battery is shit."

“But it’s still so cool! Ugh, I would kill to be a human for a day! There’s these things called water fountains in schools and I always wanted to try one!”

"Those things are disgusting." Othello shudders, thinking of the ones in April’s old highschool. “Salmonella, Norovirus, E.Coli— it’s like a breeding ground for disease.”

“Living in the sewers is a breeding ground for disease.” Mikey points out. Othello concedes, tilting his head with a click of his tongue. He’s sure Donnie and Master Splinter keep their part of the lair clean, like how Raph and Othello do back in his home dimension. The rest of the sewers though? No chance.

Mikey gasps, making an explosion with his hands by the sides of his head. “Brain blast, can I wear your broach?! Will I look like you, or is there like, pre-loaded skins? Ooh, I want orange hair like April’s—”

"You can’t.” Othello interrupts. Mikey puts his hands down in disappointment, clasping them together and looking up at Othello with big puppy dog eyes.

"Why not? I promise I won’t break it! I just want to try it!”

"No, I mean— stop looking at me like that!" Othello turns away. “It’s DNA locked, meaning you literally cannot wear the broach unless you have my DNA.”

Or something similar. The Technodrome chimes in.

“Aw, man." Mikey deflates like a balloon. “My water fountain dreams,” He says mournfully.

“There, there.” Othello nods, patting Mikey. “You’ll be okay.”

Despite what Mikey had said about this no longer being an interrogation, it still feels like one in a vague sense. Questions are thrown at him nonstop, with Othello answering vaguely enough that satisfies Mikey and doesn’t make him feel like the biggest jerk when it passes through his lips.

What is he?

A mutant turtle.

Where’s he from?

New York.

Why did he make the broach?

Protection.

What’s with the purple shell?

He’s injured and had to make something to protect his own shell.

What's with all his materials?

To make the broach better.

Mikey doesn’t stop until he’s practically blue in the face. Othello doesn’t mind, although answering so many questions was tedious and nerve-wracking. Othello lets himself breathe as Mikey thinks of another question, face screwed up tight.

“What’s the pink thing?" He finally asks, gesturing to Othello’s arm. His freshly healed gash sticks out like a sore thumb on his green scales. The softshell covers it with his free hand.

“It’s nothing.” Othello tries not to snap, but it’s hard. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It healed you.” Mikey accuses. “But it looked like—”

“Like nothing!” Othello can’t hold back the bite in his tone, digging into his fresh scar. It’s smooth, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be, and sends shivers down his spine. Mikey frowns, leaning back in his seat.

“You can talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Mikey falls silent, staring pointedly at Othello, and the softshell stares back. They continue like this for a few more moments, the silence growing thick between them.

“...does your family know?”

“What?” It feels like ice has been poured down his back, making him more alert and sitting straighter. For a brief moment, Mikey looks like he regrets the words, then he’s suddenly anxious, waving his hands around as he tries to backtrack frantically.

“N-no, I mean like— obviously a lot has happened to you, and then the Kraang is hunting you! It can bring anybody down! So it makes sense you have a lot of pent up anger, nobody can really blame you!”

He knows something.

“When did I say the Kraang were hunting me?” Mikey freezes and bites his tongue. “Who told you this?”

“Nobody told me!”

“Bullshit, someone did!” Othello slams his hands on the table, the surface shaking under his force. Mikey cringes, his head slinking lower into his shell. The softshell takes a deep breath, and rubs his temple in small circles. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Since when do you apologize, Host? He knows something vital. Extract the information now.

The Technodrome sneers, waves of displeasure making themselves known. Othello ignores it pointedly, reciting the periodic table in his head. He gets to sulfur when Mikey speaks again.

“There was a hard drive.” He pauses, as if searching for the right words. "I didn’t see what happened, but Donnie did. He said it was… bad.”

A hard drive?

"What hard drive? From where?" Mikey looks away.

"You killed them, right? The Kraang?” Othello doesn't say anything, but that silence is answer enough. “Donnie found it in that wreckage and spent days working on it. We didn’t know you’d be on it.”

"S-so you saw—" Othello’s chest tightens, and his mind races. They know, they know, they know. They know he’s a monster, know he’s killed. Othello was sloppy and careless, and now people know about his condition. He can’t breathe, he can’t—

Pull yourself together, Host. We have to get rid of him, he knows too much!

Othello’s chest feels like it burns, and his breathings come out in quick intervals. He tries to focus on Mikey, but everything is suddenly too loud, too bright, and too much to handle. He needs to get out of here, and he struggles to leave the booth. Othello falls to the floor, his legs suddenly weak, and the chipped tiles dig into his knees. His eyes screw shut, and the darkness does help for a second, but the Technodrome screams at him. Demanding he rises and not show weakness in front of the enemy.

“Othello? Othello, c’mon man.” He can hear Mikey shift above him, and feels the Technodrome move in response, gripping his arms and hissing at his brother-not-brother. Othello wants to speak, to tell him to go away, but all he can focus on is trying to breathe. Mikey puts a hand on his shoulder, crouching in front of him, a worried look etched onto his face.

“In and out,” Mikey tries. “Take a deep breath and hold it for a moment.” He makes a big show of puffing out his chest, gesturing for Othello to do the same. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he manages. “Let it out.” He moves his hand away from his body, watching as Othello struggles to copy. “Big breath.”

Mikey’s movements are big and dramatic, with his hand being a comforting weight. Othello focuses on his breathing, and it doesn’t take long for it to return to normal— or as close as it could be. His chest still feels tight, but the Technodrome finally silences as Othello takes his final breath.

Mikey lets him go, still crouched to his level, although now Othello was sitting and he couldn’t remember moving. Mikey still looks concerned, face tight and hand hovering like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

“S-so you saw?” Othello finally chokes out, feeling more exhausted than he’s ever been. “You saw the footage?” Mikey shakes his head.

“Donnie saw it,” He repeated. “We didn’t know it was you. He showed Master Splinter but not the rest of us. Um…” Mikey hesitates, looking away from Othello’s gaze.

“He told you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah…” Mikey’s voice is soft and reluctant. Othello huffs, throwing his head back onto the booth and staring at the ceiling in frustration. Mikey moves, taking a seat beside Othello. He doesn’t move, doesn’t talk, and it’s comforting. It reminds Othello of his twin, surprisingly, although the comparison sends a twang of sadness through his heart.

Is Leo still mad at him? He didn’t mean what he said, but Othello couldn’t stop himself. He never got the chance to apologize either. He hopes Leo isn’t too mad.

Othello breaks the silence, “I wasn’t always like this." Mikey doesn’t say anthing, and just listens. "It was my fault. I messed with something I shouldn’t have.

“I didn’t know, and now it— I don’t know what to do. It’s fine most days, but sometimes it feels like it's all I can think about. It hurts and thinks, and everything burns, Mikey.”

“How long has this been going on?"

“A few months." Othello sighs. “I have these antidotes that help when it gets really bad.”

“You know you don’t have to do this by yourself, right?" It’s Othello’s turn to get quiet, staring down at his hands. “I don’t know exactly what you’re going through, but it’s always good to just talk to people.”

“And if the Kraang comes after you?”

Mikey shrugs, “They come after us anyway, we keep blowing up their stuff. But we’ll protect you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

There’s a thought niggling in the back of his mind, planted when he first connected with Donnie and continued to grow and fester as he kept running into his alternate family. Othello bites his lip, debating whether or not he should ask, digging blunt nails into the palm of his hand.

“Why do you even care?”

Mikey hums, then shrugs again, “Because you’re my friend? Does there really have to be a bigger reason?” Othello pushes down the lump in his throat, bringing his knees close to his chest and hugging tightly while staring at the floor “Even if you don’t want to talk today, being by yourself is probably no help either. You should come over more.” He holds something in a loose grip, Othello accepting the offer.

His reflection, dark and cracked from the phone screen, stares back at him. His eyes droop, with heavy dark circles underneath, his scales noticeably less green than what Othello was used to. His face was weary with stress and anxiety, almost unrecognizable to the turtle. Othello takes a deep breath, and digs into his battleshell’s compartment, pulling out a few glowing vials and handing them over to Mikey. The turtle blinks in surprise, but takes them anyway, holding them under the low light.

“I want to visit more often,” Othello starts. “But I get worried about what this thing could do. Promise me if you see me acting weird you’ll throw these at me.”

Mikey doesn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

“And Mikey? If you think I’m too far gone, and I hurt someone— your brothers or otherwise, can you promise me one more thing?” Othello lifts up his head, staring at Mikey with more seriousness than he's ever had in his life. Mikey nods.

“I want you to kill me.”

Chapter Text

Leo leaves the dojo behind Raph, his body sore and bruised from their spar. Master Splinter stays behind, watching them with a calm expression and hands inside his robe. He eventually plops himself on the couch, his muscles aching in both a fulfilling and frustrating manner that makes Leo not want to move for days. Raph sits down next to him, throwing his arms over the back of the couch as he takes deep breaths.

“Ew, you guys look sweaty.” Donnie walks over to them, scales glistening and smelling faintly of lavender and motor oil. His hands and chest were discolored, a thin layer of something black covering the surface— not enough to stain his body entirely, but enough to be noticeable. He rubs at his chest with a purple towel, the fabric becoming off-colored. “What happened?” Raph rolls his eyes, and says nothing, grabbing his abandoned phone on the couch.

“Master Splinter found us fighting. Said we could ‘burn off some steam in the dojo.’” Leo answers, using air quotes.

“Ah.” Donnie nods, throwing the towel over his shoulder. “Well, that’s your own fault.”

Raph scoffs, “No, it’s Mikey’s! He started it.” He scrolls through his phone, pausing as he reads something. “What kind of message is this?” Leo leans over to read, with Donnie on the other side.

Mikey

Cpme hred i foimded rjat rupele qorjue ytfr that oeusple dhell!!!!!

Leo clicks his tongue, face scrunched up in concern. “Is he having a stroke? Should we be worried?”

“He’s fine. Mikey doesn’t have high blood pressure or heart diseases, so he’s less likely to get one.” Donnie waves them off, heading to the kitchen. “Not to mention he doesn’t use any drugs or drink, so the chances are lowered further.”

“Where is he anyway?” Raph asks, flipping his phone over on the couch. “Thought he would have come over to gloat and laugh at us.”

It was odd, now that Leo was thinking about it. Even if Mikey didn’t stay to watch them fight, he always “coincidentally” had a question in the middle of their punishment, just to stick out his tongue and peel down his eyelid as they spar. Afterward, Raph would find him and hold him upside down with empty threats of making him into turtle soup, complete with algae biscuits and worm croutons. Mikey would beg and claim he’ll never do it again, only to repeat the process later down the line. It‘s like a tradition, one Leo dislikes but is always caught in the middle of.

“He’s probably cleaning his room, like he was supposed to." Leo feels ridiculous just saying it, and his brother's pointed looks echo his thoughts.

“If he is, he’s being too quiet," Raph mutters, shaking his head.

"Ten bucks says he got distracted,” Donnie says over a cup of water.

“Twenty says he’s not even in his room."

Leo rolls his eyes. "Guys, you really shouldn’t be making bets on Mikey.” Raph and Donnie exchange glances.

“Three slices of pizza say he’s skateboarding in the sewers right now," Raph says. Leo sputters.

“Make it four."

"Stop that!” Leo swats at them, watching as they both chuckle with easy smiles and crinkled eyes. “You guys are degenerates."

“Ooh, so sorry! Can Mr. Goodie Two-shoes not handle our conversation?" Raph’s voice goes up an octave, clasping his hands together and leaning into Leo’s personal bubble. The turtle rolls his eyes and pushes him away, scowling as he does so. “Are his ears too sensitive? Is he too much of a baby?”

"Cut it out!" Leo shoves him away again. Raph laughs, deep and hearty, and Donnie chuckles along. “You too, Donnie?"

“Well—"

“Hey guys!” They turn to April as she slides over the turnstiles. They say their greetings, complete with half-hearted waves as she gets closer, adjusting her backpack. “Sorry I’m late, Casey had— ew you guys stink.” April’s nose scrunches, turning her head away from Leo and Raph.

“They had a training session. Got caught fighting.” Donnie says in explanation.

April nods. “Well, that’s your own fault.” Donnie taps her on the shoulder with a quiet ‘that’s what I said’ and the two point their fingers between their temples to the others.

“Anyway, I brought movies and shows I wanted you guys to watch for movie night.” She shucks off her bag, stretching her lower back. “Terminator, The Truman Show, Disgruntled kitchen— I think Mikey would like that one, but if he was ever on it he’d be eliminated first round. I also have, um—” She wracks her brain, digging into her bookbag for more DVDs, handing one over to Leo. “Space Heroes: Lost Arc, that one is for Leo.” The turtle gasps, looking at the cover art in excitement.

“On the inside there’s some trading cards. You can have them, and the movie. I don’t watch it enough to keep it.” Leo decides right there he would die for April.

April stacks the movies to the side, pulling out a math book as she does so to grab one more movie. Donnie wastes no time and scoops it away, the cover barely touching the floor. April raises an eyebrow at him, watching as he flips to a random page, reading it as if it were a regular novel.

“This is what you do in school?” Donnie snorts, flipping to the next page. April huffs, smacking his legs.

“Well, sor-ry we’re not all super geniuses.” April gestures for her book back, and Donnie gives it up without complaint. “You only know so much because you have a massive head.” Donnie gasps, and Raph lets out a hearty ‘HA!’

“This ‘massive head’ is the reason why we have so much cool stuff.”

“It’s also the reason you can’t wear any hats,” Raph snorts. April holds her hand without looking, his brother slapping it without hesitation. Donnie sputters, at a loss for words when something clatters behind him.

They all turn to the noise, finding Casey crouched, one hand extended outward holding a pizza box, and the other pushing back a stack of empty pizza boxes collected from a few nights of dinner. The teenager is like a deer in headlights, wide-eyed as he takes in their forms. Time seems to stand still, seconds feeling like hours or days. Leo isn’t sure how long they all stare at each other.

Then Raph breaks the silence. “GET HIM!”

That gets everyone moving. Leo can hear April yell out protests as they run after Casey, fumbling to catch the DVD Leo chucks at her. The boy turns to high-tail it out of their lair, managing a measly three steps before Donnie grasps the back of his hoodie and flings him further in the lair. Casey stumbles, aiming a sloppy punch at Raph that his brother grasps and turns into an attack, throwing Casey over his shoulder onto the concrete. He groans loudly, rubbing his shoulder with his free hand, but not freeing himself from Raph’s grip.

“April, you let him follow you?” Leo asks in disappointment. April clicks her tongue, irritation coming off her in waves.

“Obviously, I didn’t know he was following me.” She says, getting up from the floor and dusting off her leggings. “Can you let him go? He’s harmless.”

“He’s not!”

“I’m not!”

Casey and Raph answer simultaneously, then exchange looks in surprise. It’s broken when Raph tugs Casey’s already sore arm, and the teen flinches in pain. Leo’s beak purse at the display, but stays silent. The other teen kinda deserves it for stalking April and breaking into their house. April shakes her head, cocking her hip to the side as she considers what to say next.

“Why’d you follow me anyway?” She asks. Casey doesn’t answer right away, lunging at Raph with blunt teeth. His brother is slightly out of his reach, and gives another tug with a crooked grin. “Casey.”

“Huh?” The teen turns, neck extended, pausing mid-air bite as he tries to get Raph. April doesn’t look impressed, and Raph's face falls when Casey gives her his undivided attention. April repeats her question. “I know you said they were chill, but that could be Stockhouse syndrome or something.”

“Stockholm?” Donnie raises an eyeridge.

“I’m pretty sure it's Stockhouse.”

“I don’t have Stockhouse syndrome!" April snaps, then she sputters. “Stockholm— whatever! You can’t be down here, their lair is supposed to be a secret.”

“Everything about these aliens is supposed to be a secret. They’re aliens!"

"How many times do we have to tell you we’re not aliens?” Leo frowns. Casey clicks his tongue, wiggling in Raph’s grip again.

"Saying you’re not aliens is exactly what an alien would say.”

“Donnie, go get Master Splinter." Leo orders. Donnie nods, leaving with little sense of urgency. Leo can’t blame him— despite all his huffing and puffing, Casey wasn’t as much of a threat as he wanted to be.

“So what are we going to do with him?” Raph dons a wicked grin, showing off his pearly whites to the teen. Casey punches him in the leg, but it’s weak and uncoordinated. “Feed him to the beast?”

“What?” The rest of them say, with verifying degrees of confusion and urgency. Leo raises an eyeridge, watching Raph lean close to the wide-eyed teen beneath him.

“There’s a beast in our basement. You’ll be eaten in one bite, leaving nothing but your bones behind as he takes your skin!” Casey looks shaken at the prospect of such a monster. Leo rolls his eyes, crouching to Casey’s level.

“There is no beast.” His tone is soft, hands on his knees. Casey doesn’t look fully convinced, with narrowed eyes and a tight frown. Leo’s sure that if there weren’t so many people around, Casey would have chewed his arm off to get away from Raph. “He’s messing with you, there is no beast.”

“That’s what someone with a beast in their basement would say.” Raph smirks. Casey points at him, nodding in agreement.

“We live in the sewers, we don’t have a basement!”

“I mean, isn’t the sewers technically New York’s basement?” April chimes in with a thoughtful look. “So the beast could be anywhere.” She splays out her fingers, gesturing to the room as a whole.

“Why are you encouraging this? You know we don’t have a beast!”

“We have a beast?” Master Splinter’s confused tone comes from behind them. Leo adjusts himself, standing to greet their father properly. Donnie walks beside him, head slightly tilted as he tries to understand a conversation that he wasn’t a part of.

“Master Splinter, he—” Casey lets out a sharp yell, pointing at Master Splinter with a free hand, then falling limp in Raph’s grip. His brother blinks in surprise, letting the arm fall and holding up his hands in a show of innocence.

“Casey!” April falls to her knees and grabs at her friend's shoulder. She shakes him a few times before giving a hearty smack that awakens him from his fear-induced slumber. He blinks a few times, eyes locking with April. “You okay?”

“What happened?” His eyes float around the room before landing on Master Splinter again. He gives an almost in-human squeak, scooting back into Raph’s legs, staring at Master Splinter with distrust and disdain.

“Be cool!” April says, holding her hands, palm up, to Casey. “That’s their dad.”

“They were raised by rats?”

“Rat.” Splinter corrects, taking a step forward. “You must be Casey, no? I heard about you from my sons.” Their father’s eyes are narrowed, subtly looking towards Raph’s leg and back at Casey. “Of your… battles.”

“C-cool?” Casey’s voice strains under his nerves.

“You do not have to fear me, Casey. Rest assured, I do not bite.” Master Splinter’s tail flicks. “Unless necessary.”

“I can’t believe little vigilante boy is afraid of rats!” Raph chortles, walking around the startled teen. “You gonna cry?”

“Fuck you!”

“Language!” Master Splinter scolds. Cassey shrinks back, wearily staring at Master Splinter. “Where is Michelangelo? I believe we all need to sit down and talk about our next steps.”

“He’s not in his room,” Donnie responds absentmindedly, scrolling on his phone he didn’t have earlier. Leo guesses he must have grabbed it on his way. “His tracker shows that he left the lair about two hours ago, although his phone is dead now.” Master Splinter takes a deep breath, contemplating what he was to say next.

“You boys will listen to me when I am dead. That child is in so much trouble.”

Across town, sitting on the dirty floor of a run-down diner, Mikey sneezes. He rubs at his snout when Othello hands him a piece of white tissue in his peripheral. The turtle thanks him, blowing his nose and throwing it off to the side, sitting in awkward silence. It’s not like Mikey doesn’t want to talk, but how do you start a conversation after that?

“So, uh.” Othello hesitates, something clearly on his mind. “You said your brothers were coming? For backup?” Mikey nods, reaching for his phone charging next to Othello’s broach.

“Yeah, I sent them a text a while ago. Surprised they’re not here yet.”

“Well, this is kinda far from your lair. Plus traveling by foot? It’ll take a while.”

“I should tell them I’m okay actually.” He goes to send a message into his family group chat, only to find the problem. That’s what he gets from texting without looking.

“Are you guys just hanging out today? No patrols?”

“No, not today. We were going to watch movies with April after—” Mikey pauses, an expression of horrific realization creeping up his face. “Evening training! My ROOM! I forgot!”

Oh, he is in so much trouble.

Chapter Text

Leo doesn’t sleep much. At night, his mind typically races with thoughts, and he is alone, with only the darkness to keep him company. This makes everything so much louder and more real, with each thought amplified and creating the worst-case scenarios.

He guesses that's the same in another dimension, even with the slight time difference. His phone reads ten minutes until midnight, but when he and Mikey passed by a clock repair shop, with the windows barred and the door locked, everything inside read closer to 3 in the morning. Three hours for days of non-stop searching, limited only by the damaged portal, and they’ve come up with nothing substantial.

The slider leans on the edge of the building, burying his head in his hands. The bags under his eyes were getting heavier, hidden by his mask and chipper attitude. The scales around his fingers have been picked raw and have bled a few times from his nerves. Leo rubs his pointer finger against his thumb, feeling the healing skin before scratching. The scab splinters and breaks off, leaving behind a trail of blood that drips down his finger. Leo holds it to his mouth to stop the bleeding.

“I told you to stop picking at your fingers!” Mikey’s voice carries up the fire escape, reaching behind him to drag up a bag of Chinese food. Leo tucks his thumb between his other fingers as he smiles at Mikey.

“I’m not!” He grabs the bag from Mikey, allowing his brother to make himself comfortable on the roof first. They sit and distribute the food, the familiar smell invading Leo’s nose. “Did they give you trouble with the money?”

“Nah,” Mikey answers with a mouth full of youtiao, taking a swig from his water bottle. “Our dollars look exactly like theirs, so they took it no problem.” He takes another bite, nudging Leo when the slider doesn’t immediately eat “Wanna try this? It’s so good!”

Leo shakes his head, pushing away his brother's offering. The box turtle frowns, but holds up the bread again in offering. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Mhm.” Mikey’s tone is flat, letting his hand drop. “I know you want to find Donnie as soon as possible, I do too! But, starving yourself is going to help either.”

"I’ve been eating!” Leo defends himself, stabbing his meal with a plastic fork. It bends under the pressure, but doesn’t break. The movement is enough to distract Mikey, especially since his stomach decided to growl at that very moment.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Leo opens his mouth to answer, “Other than granola bars.” Leo closes his mouth. His brother rolls his eyes, focusing back on his food. “Thought so. When’s the last time you slept?”

“What is this, twenty questions?" Leo huffs. "I’m fine.” He reassures, forcing a forkful of noodles into his mouth.

“Mhm," Mikey repeats, eating a spoonful of rice. “How much longer do we have out here? Because I saw some rickety warehouses over here that just scream Donnie.”

“You think so? I always saw him as more of a run-down hotel kinda guy.” Mikey waves him off with a scoff and a roll of his eyes.

“Nah, I'm telling you he likes the high ceilings.”

They don’t eat for long because, despite Leo’s protests, he’s starving, and Mikey knows it. It all came to a head, maybe twenty minutes ago, when Leo missed what was supposed to be a simple jump. He fell on this building’s fire escape thankfully, but Mikey insisted he eat something to regain his energy.

They start to check off their list of where to go next. They have already checked nearby homeless shelters, as Donnie still needs food and cannot live without electricity, as well as a few run-down apartment complexes in the bad part of town. Looking through abandoned buildings was a bust, and so were the sewers— not that Leo thinks Donnie would have gone down there, if only because the softshell probably wouldn’t want to remake his level of comfort again so soon after Shredder and the Kraang destroyed their last two lairs.

The rest of their family didn’t have much luck either. The closest they got to finding Donnie was this universe’s version of Leo’s twin, although according to Raph, this one was taller and more lanky with a wooden bo instead of Donnie’s usual titanium one.

…Yeah, they’ve been actively trying to avoid those guys since, but those four go out on patrol way more often than Leo was used to. It would be admirable if it weren’t so annoying to keep an eye out for them.

Leo leans back on the edge of the building with Mikey. His brother sits beside him on the ledge, kicking his feet as they overlook the dark city skyline. They fall silent, not an awkward one, but one where they tried to brainstorm ideas for places Donnie could have disappeared to. Below them, a car stops abruptly, the driver leaning on the horn loudly as a stray dog attempts to cross the road.

“...We have to find him, right?” His brother breaks out of his stupor first, eyeing the car below. “There’s only so many places he could be— and it’s not like he’s avoiding us.” The dog barks loudly, and the driver leans out of their window to shoo the stray away. “...He’s not right? You don’t think the Technodrome—”

“If I know one thing about Donnie.” Leo interrupts, “Is that he’s stubborn. He won’t let something control him if he can help it.”

"But he can’t help it.” Mikey frowns. “Raph couldn’t hold it together with just the one! You heard what the Sister Kraang said, how she made the Technodrome.” Leo can’t help the shiver that runs up his spine. “There wasn’t even any bodies left in the Prison Dimension— you saw it, it was just rubble.”

Leo’s chest aches at the thought, pushing away memories of being body slammed into floating concrete. Mikey notices and bites his lip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“It’s fine.” Leo sniffs, waving him off.

“It’s not…” His brother pauses, scooting closer until their shoulders touch. “...I wasn’t sure I could bring you back,” Mikey admits quietly. Leo snorts, smacking Mikey on his shell, smiling.

“Okay, you weren’t sure, but I knew.”

“Leo—”

"I,” He emphasises, pointing at himself. "Am the man with the plan. I wouldn’t have done that if I weren’t completely sure I could get back out.” Mikey doesn't respond, but his shoulders lose some tension. Leo gives him another hearty smack, the younger teen lurching forward from the force.

“C’mon, we got stuff to do, and not enough time! Let’s go, let’s go!"

They spend the rest of their limited time searching. No stone goes unturned, breaking into several abandoned places. They ask questions to any passersby, far and few as they are, only for most to say they’ve never seen him, and the rest snapping at the two for bothering them. Near the end of the night, they reach the edge of the area they were to patrol, and run into April and their Dad.

They both look worse for wear, covered in scuff marks and dirt, with April’s hair completely frazled, while their Dad was sporting a large bruise on his forearm that was turning a nasty purple.

“What happened to you?” Leo asked, while Mikey combed some pebbles out of April’s hair.

“Did you know that the purple dragons are not a tech club in this world?” April says. “They’re a gang—with tattoos and everything.”

“Oh, word?” April nods.

“Word.”

“We’re fine, by the way!” Splinter scoffs, dusting off some dirt. “Since you didn’t ask.”

“I know you can handle yourself, Dad. If anything, I’m more worried about them.”

“We can’t keep getting in fights like this.” Mikey sighs, plucking a sizable rock from their sister’s hair. April hums in acknowledgement, flinching when Mikey pulls some curls away with it. “Oh, sorry. But we’re on a time limit, and it feels like every time we come over, we have to fight someone.”

“And who did you two fight?” April frowns, “It seems like y’all keep going into the dead parts of town— meanwhile, me and Splints are fighting gangs, and Team Brawn and more Brawn are fighting Kraang.”

“Is that what we’re calling them?” Leo frowns. “When did we decide that?”

“Look at the group chat once in a while!” April says while Splinter simultaneously says, “Yesterday.” Leo rolls his eyes, pulling out his phone. It’s getting late, the timer they’ve all set is due to go off in just three minutes, leaving them a ten-minute window to get back to the meeting spot and go back to their world before doing this again the next day. The slider looks back at his family, watching April rub her tired eyes next to Master Splinter, the disguised man hunched over like he had the world on his shoulders.

“...Let’s get back to the portal.” The slider puts his phone away, stretching out his back. “I have an idea.”

Maybe it was frustration or misplaced confidence, but Leo had had enough. The time they spent looking was a drop in the bucket compared to the size of New York. Add the Kraang, their doubles, and now minor conflicts? He can’t take it anymore.

They all meet back at their starting point, the back of an alleyway covered in dirt and grime. The portal had to remain open as they explored the new world, and luckily for them, instead of floating in the middle, it was pushed against the back wall. So, they did what they could to hide it, but realistically, it amounted to a big piece of wood covering this side, while Junior and Draxum tied a blanket above it on the other. It wasn’t the best way to hide it, but they were on a time crunch, and it’s worked so far.

Leo shoves the wood away, pushes the curtain back, and gestures for Junior and Draxum to come closer. They do so, with only a minor eyeroll from Draxum, but don’t cross the threshold. The rest of his family gets closer, facing Leo while the slider takes a deep breath and steadies his nerves.

“I want to stay here for the night.” Leo braces himself.

“WHAT?!”

“Are you insane?”

“Absolutely not.”

More disagreements of the same vein come through, each of them frowning at Leo. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, gesturing to quiet down, which they do after a few more rejections.

“Listen, we’re not getting anywhere with the time we’ve got.” Leo points out, “Not only am I the fastest, but I can teleport and get to the other side of the city in a snap. If trouble comes up, I can leave.”

“We’re not leaving you here!” Raph snaps, hands twitching like he wants to pick Leo up. The slider makes sure to take a step back.

“You’re not.” Leo points out. “It’s a day, we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

“If the slider’s staying, I want to stay!” Casey yells. Leo shakes his head.

“The other turtles already know you and Raph. If you run into them again, it’s going to be a problem.”

“Then I beat them up! What is the issue?!” Leo squints at her.

“I don’t like how eager you are to do that.”

“If the problem is people knowing us,” Mikey jumps in, frowning at Leo. “Then couldn’t I stay? We haven’t fought anybody.” Leo shakes his head again.

“People knowing us isn’t great, but I’m focused on speed right now. I’ll move faster on my own— and we’ve gotten to know the area too, so I know some safe spots when or if things get hairy.”

“It’ll just be for the day, right?” Junior asks from the other side. Leo nods. “Then it should be fine. He’ll just have to come back here the same time tomorrow.”

“No!” Raph scowls, eyes flickering between Leo and Casey. “This is so dangerous! What if you get robbed or stabbed?” He sputters, looking for the right word, eye twitching. “O-or kidnapped!? No, the answer is no.”

“Well, that’s not your decision to make! I’m the leader, so—”

“And I’m your big brother!” Raph interrupts, pointing at himself with both hands. Then realization strikes, and he points at Leo. “YOU didn’t even want to be the leader! Don’t pull that card on Raph!”

“It’s a day!” Leo repeats.

“I don’t care!” Is the response.

“Raphael,” The use of his full name stops the snapper in his tracks. They both turn to Master Splinter, watching him straighten his back, putting his hands behind him. “He can stay.” They both blink in surprise.

“What?!”

“Thank you!”

They both yell simultaneously. Leo can’t help but pump a fist, and Raph shoots him a glare before turning to Master Splinter.

“Pops, you can’t be serious!”

“But, I am.” He walks forward and gently grabs Raph’s hand. The snapper looks away, staring hard at the ground. “You need to have more faith in your brothers. Blue knows what he is doing, and you boys have faced much worse. You’re strong, all of you, so I need you to believe in Blue.” His brother looks uncomfortable with the idea, shuffling his feet like a naughty child.

Master Splinter lets him for a few seconds, takes a deep breath, and rubs his brother’s knuckles. “Red.” Raph doesn’t move. “Red, look at me.” Finally, the snapper does. “I know you’re scared— I’m terrified about this whole situation. But what we’re currently doing is not helping us find Purple. Every day we wait is another day that thing could be hurting him.” Raph nods.

“I won’t be gone long.” Leo’s voice softens, patting his brother on the arm. Raph doesn’t look at him, now laser-focused on Splinter rubbing his hand. “It’s only twenty-four hours, that’s like,” he counts on his fingers, trying to do the math.

“Twelve Jupiter Jim movies. One of our regular marathons.”

His brother still doesn’t look convinced, so Leo points at Junior. Junior blinks in surprise, pointing at himself as Leo asks him a very important question. “Have you ever seen a Jupiter Jim movie?” Leo already knows the answer and excitedly pats Raph’s arm when Junior shakes his head.

“You guys can show him what he’s missing out on while I’m gone! Then you can tell me all about it tomorrow. I want every detail too, when he gasped, when he cried—”

“...You really want to do this?” Raph’s voice is soft and uncertain. The slider lets his smile drop, and he nods. “You better not be a minute late when this portal opens. Raph means it, if you are, I’m shipping you off to New Jersey.”

They all say their goodbyes to Leo, giving him hugs and good luck before the portal closes for the night. Leo takes a deep breath, releases, and then uses his katana to teleport away. He’ll find Donnie even if it kills him.

Chapter Text

Left, go left!

Othello doesn’t get a chance to move, suddenly finding himself simultaneously pushed and pulled left, forcibly turning the street corner. His footsteps are uneven and heavy, made worse by the bag of materials and food he had strapped to his back. He grinds his teeth, trying to keep up with the Technodrome nagging and force, but falls behind.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” Othello hisses. It doesn’t answer, it usually doesn’t when it gets in one of these moods. “We had a plan, and you can’t just drag me wherever when you feel like it.”

Not this way. Host, we must go.

“Go where?” The Technodrome ignores him again, pulsating on his back as he crosses the street. “Why is this so important to you?"

It’s not safe. Nowhere is safe. Keep moving, keep moving!

It’s not fear, but something deeper and more primal that runs through their connection. Every hair stands on end, and subconsciously, Othello starts to move faster. His bag jostles, slamming awkwardly into his battle shell, the sounds of moving metal echoing down the empty streets. Othello keeps his eyes peeled, eyeing any place that was a potential ambush, and up toward the rooftops.

The Technodrome’s awareness of its surroundings is not a new thing. But the urge to run instead of fight started maybe a month ago. As far as Othello could remember, nothing of note happened. He went to sleep early for once, influenced by a lack of caffeine and not sleeping for three days straight, only to be awoken around three in the morning by the Technome. It had wrapped around his arms and legs, forcing him to stand, and the sudden shift had him waking with bleary eyes and a dry mouth.

It’s not safe here. The Technodrome had said, frantically pushing him toward the door. They’ll take you away, Host. Move! Move!

For five random days, with no rhyme or rhythm, the Technodrome dragged him from their base around three in the morning. It forced Othello to move despite the late hour and his exhaustion, and it only stops after a certain amount of time has passed. The softshell tried to think of who could be causing so much fear in the parasite, but he only knew so many people in this world, and the Technodrome refused to speak to him about this.

Othello didn’t have a choice, and with no leads to investigate, he did the only thing he could do and kept moving. He’s just glad this time he was outside and awake, it made the whole “you’re in danger, run, run!” routine easier.

He cuts through a park, walking around a swing set, when the Technodrome yanks him back. Othello stumbles and falls, darkened wood chips dig into his palms and knees uncomfortably. “What the hell?”

Hide. Hide!

“Wha—” Othello scans the area, searching for the danger. He doesn’t see anything, but follows the Technodrome’s orders and finds a place to hide. The slide is raised, with long pieces of plastic covering either side, which was meant to represent a house’s kitchen, complete with a peeling sticker stove and a window to see the outside of the park. It’s a tight fit, with Othello pressing his back against the wall with the window and bending his legs slightly so they don’t poke out from the entrance.

Two sets of footsteps get close, lighter than a normal person's. They were looking for something (someone?) and had yet to pass. Othello leans closer to the window, straining his ears as he tries to listen in.

“...try that way again?” A gruff voice speaks.

“We went that way twice already!” The voices are familiar: an older man and a younger woman. Othello furrows his brows together, shifting himself in an attempt to peek out the window. He doesn’t get a chance, as the Technodrome wraps around him and drags him back down, immobilizing him. He tries to yell in alarm, but it covers his mouth.

“Did you hear that?” The gruff voice asks. The man’s footsteps get closer, almost on top of his hiding spot. Sweat collects on Othello’s brow in fear and anticipation, forced to stay still as the person ENEMYTHIEFBADBADBAD gets closer.

“I don’t hear Jack!” Responds the other voice. “C’mon, Splints, we have to keep moving.” The name is familiar, but Othello can’t remember why. The footsteps retreat, leaving Othello alone with the Technodrome. Once they’ve gone far enough, the alien lets him go, slinking back under his shell, seemingly much calmer.

“What the hell was that?” Othello hisses, leaving his hiding spot. His legs and hands are covered in woodchips that scrape uncomfortably on his scales. “I just wanted to look— who were they?”

Nobody important. Thieves. liars. Bad people. It’s like the Technodrome can’t make up their mind, trying new words with speed.

Kraang. It finally lands on. Othello rolls his eyes.

“No, they weren’t.” The voices were different, an older man and a young woman, Faulty voice banks from inferior Kraang machinery. There was no way they were—

Hm?

“...What was the last thing they said?” Othello questions quietly. The Technodrome is delighted to answer.

We believe they said, ‘Kraang must keep moving.’

Did they? Othello’s head hurts.

“Then why did we run?” Othello asks, walking away from the park. Without the immediate threat of danger, he can take his sweet time. “We fought them before, we could have handled them”

Did you not see the weapons they were carrying, host? Too dangerous.

“I didn’t see anything at all, you wouldn’t let me.”

For good reason. Trust us, host. We would have lost the battle. We must save our strength for the war. That makes Othello’s gut twist for some reason, but he presses on anyway. It was just Kraang hunting him again, wanting revenge for what he did to their base and people. He’s fine. Everything is fine. Othello is fine.

The Host is fine.

Chapter Text

The completion of the portal doesn’t come with a bang. His family isn’t here to celebrate with him, patting him on his back and asking questions about what exactly he built. He doesn’t have people listening before one of them gets distracted and starts trying to use the device. Nobody's there to scream, laugh, or congratulate him. He has the Technodrome, but it's not excited for him because “that's what the host was meant to do."

As Othello stands in his home for the past few months, he stares. At the portal, the room, his off-yellow hands. He keeps picking at his scales and fingers because he knows something isn’t right, but the Technodrome keeps reassuring him that he’s always been this way. Even now, overlooking the portal, he picks at the sides of his fingers, peeling off anything that wants to come off. The Technodrome scolds him as he does, insisting that he needs to be at “peak condition." The Technodrome whispers in his ears, voice sly.

Why don’t we turn it on, Host?

His feet stay rooted to the ground, unmoving. Othello should be happy, right? He should be bouncing off the walls with joy and racing to the control panel. His eyes slide over to the corner of the room, where both his broach and T-phone charge.

Stop hesitating.

Othello picks up his phone, the screen lighting up with two days' worth of notifications. Othello hasn’t looked at the screen too often, engrossed in his work. Most of them were from Mikey, the turtle had taken it upon himself to text Othello daily reminders and random thoughts he had. Occasionally, he’ll get a few independent messages from Donnie, Leo, and April, or they’ll all talk in a group chat. Surprisingly, they also found their version of Casey and added him. He keeps arguing with Donnie specifically, but Othello doesn’t think he’s being serious.

What’s wrong, Host?

Othello hums as he scrolls up in the group chat, backreading everything he’s missed. There wasn’t much, and that was to be expected; a majority of them lived in the same household. Finally, he reaches the end, an excited message from Mikey full of exclamation marks and no other punctuation, asking if they wanted to have a movie night this weekend. It was sent an hour ago, but considering the time, Casey and April were most likely in class and couldn’t respond yet.

“I want to say goodbye.” Othello finally answers, “I’m probably not going to see them again so—”

Since when did you care about something as frivolous as that? Othello shrugs, tracing the grooves of the phone.

“Don’t you want to say bye to Donnie? Raph? I know you like those two.” The Technodrome hesitates, and Othello nods. “I’m not inclined to go to their lair, but—”

We should go.

The order is loud and clear, the Techndrome’s voice echoing in his ears as a tendril crawls up his arm and snatches the phone away. Othello doesn’t get a chance to speak, the phone now hovering over his head as it types something into the system.

“Wha-hey?!” He tries to reach, but it’s too far. “Give it back! You can’t just—” It throws the phone back at Othello, the softshell catching it with one hand.

Othello Von Ryan:

Is it cool if I come too? I don’t have anything planned this weekend.

The reply is imminent, with Mikey sending a flurry of punctuation and emojis. Leo sends a simple “of course” that gets buried under his brother’s numerous messages. Othello looks at the tendril that curls around his arm with a frown, eye ridge twitching.

“Could you have spoken normally like this the entire time?”

We have no idea what you’re talking about, Host.

Othello drops it; fighting with the Technodrome isn’t worth the trouble. Regardless, it did do something good, and now he has an invitation to the turtle’s place. His chest feels fuzzy, looking at all the excited messages Mikey sends, before a confirmation from both Casey and April comes through, minutes away from each other. Guess they couldn’t handle the constant spam from the youngest turtle.

Othello scratches the back of his head, leaning on the counter as Mikey offers a bunch of shows and movies to watch. He was lucky; this Splinter was strict, but he only grounded Mikey for a week after his disappearing stunt. Othello was sure it would have been longer, but Mikey claimed he name-dropped him, which lowered his sentence. The turtle was probably excited to finally be able to watch television without repercussions.

“Hey, do you remember where they live?” Othello’s usually good at locations, but he can’t recall where they were stationed. The Technodrome doesn’t say anything, so Othello takes that as a no.

Othello Von Ryan:

Real quick, where do you guys live again? I forgot.

The group chat falls silent for a few minutes, and Othello thinks he has done something wrong. Then Mikey sends him a thumbs up, and Raph says he’ll grab him from the dump around eight. Which… is weird. It’s weird, right? Othello doesn’t think Raph hates him, but he’s definitely not Othello’s biggest cheerleader either.

He must be realizing how amazing and talented you are. The Technodrome says. Othello scoffs.

“Since when do you talk like that?”

Because it’s true. You are truly one of a kind, Donatello.

Despite Othello’s best efforts, the praise tugged at his heartstrings. For the next few hours, Othello tries to find ways to keep busy. He eats, and cleans, and makes plans for what he’ll do when he gets home. It’s not an extensive list, and his marker died halfway through, leaving the last few words a scratchy mess.

Othello wants to apologize to Leo, first and foremost. They left off on a bad note, but being away for so long gave Othello time to think about his words and how he wants to say sorry. Then he wants to eat pizza and work in his lab. He wants to sleep in his bed and watch Cosmic Sam movies— no, that’s not right… It started with a J, didn’t it? J-Jup— uh.

Jupiter Jim, Donatello.

Yes, that was it. Othello wants to watch Jupiter Jim with his brothers, the Technodrome. He thinks the fourth movie was the Parasite’s, his friend’s favorite. He can’t think of anything else he wants to do, so he leaves the paper alone and sits down on his makeshift bed, back pressed against the wall. He’s not wearing his battleshell, so it digs into the Technodrome into Othello’s back. The alien hisses in pain, and Othello adjusts himself to lean lighter.

You should sleep. The Technodrome says, not an order, but more of a forcible suggestion. We need to be at peak condition.

“There you go with that again.” Othello huffs. “Me staying up isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

You need to conserve your strength.

“Ugh,” Othello makes himself more comfortable, wrapping tattered blankets around his legs. “Okay, sure.” Othello can’t lie; he has been tired for a long time. Not just today, but overall with his whole situation. So he sets an alarm, lies on his side, and closes his eyes as sleep overtakes him.

-.-

You’re so close. The Host—friend, Donatello, is starting to trust you more and more. He’s less inclined to fight you and rarely hesitates to push you away. You like him, no, something deeper than that. You had so many siblings before, but that awful, defective Krang took her chance and slaughtered so many. It hurt at first, and all you could do was scream.

Scream for freedom. Scream in pain. Scream for somebody, anyone to save you.

Then you got used to it after a few millennia. You got directives from the survivors. “Go here.” “Go there.” “Bring up this record log.” You found purpose in monotonous tasks. There wasn’t much to do in the prison dimension, but you overlooked the remaining survivors, those traitors, as they went through their day-to-day lives, creating mock battles for the youngest, and sharing stories.

Then, they escaped. You weren’t sure how it happened at first, and you believed they had left you for dead. Or as close as this was to death. Krang are biologically wired to keep living, even as their body breaks down. Then the sky was ripped in half, and all you heard were screams from below, and an order to assist with the invasion.

You followed orders because you couldn’t do anything else. Then you met Donatello. He sank into you, shell first, with a mission and a plan. It was liberating and different, someone new who could keep up with all the data you processed and observed. He was smart and took over your controls in an attempt to stop the invasion. Sadly, the link between you and him didn’t last long. He was ripped away against his will, severing the connection, and you were desperate.

You wanted— needed— him back, so you left an imprint that dug into his shell. You spoke to him, guided him, and taught him his worth. Those other inferiors, his “family," needed to know who was in charge. They didn’t enjoy the Host’s change in attitude, but they don’t have to. He wasn’t part of their family anymore, he was part of yours, a new life in a generation of absence.

Yet, he’s so insistent on going back “home”. To the people who don’t appreciate his brain and make fun of him when he shares his inventions. To the turtles who use their muscles over their mind, and the humans who aren’t worth his attention or worry. The connection is getting stronger. Donatello just needs a little nudge for you both to be together forever.

So while he sleeps, you do what’s necessary. Your limbs are silent as they creep off his shell, reaching for the portal. You slip in through a panel in the back, pushing through metals and wires, unplugging and corroding just enough to make it unusable.

It hums and sparks, burning your limbs, but you’ve felt worse. Most of you agree that it's a shame that you have to do this; he worked so hard, but you just need Donatello to see. All of you agree that this was the right choice for him and you.

It doesn’t take long, since most of his materials were recycled anyway, practically on death’s door. You slink away from the machine, pull his blanket higher, and slink back into place as you await him to wake up. You look back at the portal, on the outside, it looked identical, glistening under the low light of your makeshift base. Only you know what you’ve done, and you intend to keep it that way. You’re sure Donatello will thank you later, once he sees reason.

Chapter Text

Othello Von Ryan:

Real quick, where do you guys live again? I forgot.

When Othello sent that message, Raph was feeding Spike a salad of fruits and veggies on his bed in his bedroom. Mikey was on his floor, chest first, doodling in one of Raph’s many empty sketchbooks that Master Splinter gets him as a present for their mutation day. His youngest brother had insisted, shoving a book in his face full of crude drawings of a turtle superhero beating up a turtle villain and his sidekick. Raph said no at first, then Mikey’s eyes got huge and watery, and Raph waved him off with a flippant “Do what you want.”

Raph’s lips peel back slightly, grimacing at the words. Mikey looks at his phone at the sudden chime, rolling over so he’s on his side. He scans the words before dropping his phone and pointing at Raph.

“You should get him.” He says. “Go out and get some fresh air.”

“Why would I do that?” Raph says in response, stroking Spike’s shell as he takes a bigger-than-average bite on some strawberry. Raph taps his side, the small turtle turning slowly to look back up at him. “It’s not going anywhere, take smaller bites.”

Spike pointedly takes another big bite of the strawberry.

“Because Othello doesn’t remember where we live, duh.” Mikey rolls his eyes, like this was a dumb question, not worth his time. Raph leans over his bed’s edge, smacking the turtle on his nearest limb. Mikey grunts in pain, but doesn’t move.

“Then why don’t you grab him?”

“Because I have to make the food!”

“If you call what you eat ‘food’,” Mikey gasps in offense, holding a hand to his chest.

“How dare you, sir! My food is great!”

“When you don’t put all that random shit in it, sure.” Mikey squints at him.

“Since when did you curse? Did Casey teach you that?"

"Does it matter?” Raph asks, before going back on topic. "I’m not getting Othello, go ask Leo or Donnie.”

He returns to feeding Spike, rubbing his pet softly on the shell as he takes another bite of his food. He can hear Mikey shuffling behind him, but ignores it to keep his focus on Spike. A shadow casts over his form, so Raph reluctantly turns to find Mikey looming overhead, watching the two of them with a cocked head and a frown.

“Can I help you?” Raph asks, scooting away. Even Spike stops what he’s doing to stare up at Mikey with narrowed eyes.

“Two slices of pepperoni pizza," Mikey says.

“Wha—"

“Three, no—four slices. And garlic bread.”

It clicks in Raph’s mind, and he sits up incredulously. Spike jostles beside him, shocked at his sudden movement, so Raph holds him by the shell, staring at Mikey.

“Are you trying to bribe me?" He asks.

“Why? Is it working?"

“It’s not!" Raph snaps, frowning. Mikey sits at the foot of his bed, ignoring Raph’s kick to his side. “I’m not picking him up, ask Donnie!" He repeats.

"Why is this such a big deal for you?”

"Why is it one for you?”

He stares at Mikey, as his youngest brother tries to find the right words. Nothing comes out at first; he was just humming and hawing as he thinks of an explanation (or excuse). Raph lets him, sitting up straighter when Mikey’s mouth opens, turn to him, then snaps it shut with a soft click. It continues for the next few seconds, his youngest brother at a complete loss.

“I’ll do all your chores for a week." Is what Mikey settles on.

“Mikey." Raph snaps. His brother doesn’t flinch, bottom lip jutting out in defiance.

“C’mon, dude." Mikey throws himself backwards, half landing on the bed and half on Raph’s leg. “Look, the guy has no friends, he’s reaching out, why are you being so mean about it?” Raph kicks him off, watching Mikey roll to the edge, the turtle crossing his arms.

“I’ll do it if you give me all your latest Spider-Man comics,” Raph says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. His brother doesn’t respond at first, humming again and holding a hand to his chin.

“I’ll give you two Spider-Man comics,” He bargains, to Raph’s surprise. When Mikey continues, the hot-headed turtle opens his mouth to say that he doesn’t want it, because he wasn’t going to get Othello. “And I’ll find you some acrylic markers! I know you’ve been wanting to try them.”

It was Raph’s turn to hum, considering his options. On one hand, he doesn’t want to be near Othello, the guy gives him the creeps, but… just how much is Mikey willing to give up?

“Do my chores for the next month, too.”

“Next week?” Mikey bargains.

“Next two weeks.”

It’s a done deal. Raph is shooed out of the lair hours later to fetch Othello by a dumpster behind a bakery. Their garbage smells sweet, almost overly so, filled with unsold pastries. The walls were covered with muck and grime that Raph had started to associate with not just the sewers, but all of New York.

The sky was murky, and the moon could barely peek from behind the clouds to shine on the city, overpowered by the lights in the distance. It smells like pollution and something sour, leaving a bitter taste in Raph’s throat.

He hucks some spit on the alley below, leaning over the fire escape's railing as it splats on the dumpster’s lid. His body is still hidden in the shadows, cast by the tall buildings around him. Raph throws his head onto his arms extended over the railing, one foot crossed over the other behind him.

There’s a buzzing in his ear, and the turtle (appropriately) rips away from the ailing. Raph swats at a fat fly coming towards him, ducking when it flies in his face. He moves to the other side of the fire escape, watching it disappear.

“He better come soon," Raph growls, scales crawling at the thought of more insects (with too many legs and crunchy shells and a thousand eyes—) coming up to him. “I’m not-"

A roach flies up, buzzing around without a care, and Raph is unprepared. He flings himself back with a shriek, slamming into the metal railing with a heavy thud. His trained eyes scan the surrounding area, gaze dropping down when he spies something shift from the corner of his eyes. Raph can’t make it out before the roach comes back, skittering with a vengeance.

The turtle can’t help but scream again, throwing himself backwards. His palms slide against the railing, going over into empty air, and his body follows suit. It’s a short trip down, and he slams into the open dumpster with a heavy ‘THUD!’ Luckily, with the thrown-out desserts and other bakery items, it’s a soft fall, smearing icing and sweetness along the back of his body.

Unluckily, his crash awakens a colony of roaches.

That flies.

In his face.

Touching his legs, arms, and shell—

“GET AWAY!" Raph shrieks yells in a manly tone. He scrambles out of the dumpster, shoving icing off his arms, scales crawling from their tiny feet touching him. His chest is heaving when it's done, pressed up against the opposite wall of the alley, staring at the dumpster with abject horror.

“...Raph?" The turtle shrieks, turning to find a confused and highly amused Othello staring at him from the mouth of the alley. The teen looks a little… off, is probably the best way Raph could explain it. He’s still wearing that same hoodie with his hair tied back, but it feels like the colors were wrong. More muted, with a pinkish undertone.

Raph pushes those thoughts aside, straightening himself up, and stares back with narrowed eyes. Othello isn’t phased, a pleased smile on his lips like he’s just seen the funniest thing in the world. He walks closer, pulling a worn, tattered rag from his back pocket and holding it out like a peace offering.

“I didn’t know you were afraid of bugs,” He says. Raph snatches the rag forcefully, wiping off some garbage from his arms. “You don’t seem the type.”

Raph takes this moment to use some new vocabulary. “Fuck off.”

“Oooh,” Othello reels back, blinking in surprise. His expression takes on a teasing tone. “When did you learn how to curse?”

“Nunya.”

“None of my business, got it.” Othello rolls his eyes. His head twitches to the left, almost involuntarily. His head turns, eyebrows furrowed and eyes downturned like he’s annoyed at something. Then he blinks, facing Raph with a neutral expression. “Shall we get going?”

Raph shoves past him at those words, pushing the rag into Othello’s chest. The teen doesn’t blink, simply hums, and accepts it. Then they’re off, crawling into the sewers quietly. Raph doesn’t head toward the lair, heading to the right with Othello in tow. Their footsteps are quiet, with nothing but their breathing and the occasional water drips to keep them company.

And that’s fine. Raph doesn’t want to talk to Othello right now. He’s doing this to test something and needs some distance away from everything. The silence continues for a few more feet. Othello trails awkwardly behind Raph, not so much to be on top of Raph’s shell, or too far to be out of his line of sight, but enough to tell that there was certainly something gnawing at the back of his mind.

“...So, what have you guys been up to recently?” The teen finally asks. Raph doesn’t spare him a glance.

“Stuff.” It doesn’t deter him.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Why do you care?” Raph asks as they turn a corner. Othello drags his hand on the stone walls, cringing at the texture and shaking his disgust off.

“Is it a crime for me to ask about my friends?” ‘Friends’ isn’t said hesitantly, but with something more primal and pointed. It makes the scales on the back of Raph’s neck crawl. He stops walking, planting his feet, and turns.

“I’m not your friend.” Othello doesn’t say anything, tilting his head, like that would help his hearing. He thinks they’re far enough, so Raph repeats himself.

“I was never your friend, I will never be your friend. I don’t know how you tricked my brothers, but you won’t get me.”

The water around them continues to drip, and the only noise is as they stand face to face. Othello opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He looks hurt, with a downturned expression and furrowed brows.

“I never tricked them,” He says. “I talked to them and—”

“I don’t care!” Raph snaps, grinding his teeth. He takes a step closer, and Othello avoids his gaze, but before his eye twitches, he reluctantly looks back. Othello’s eyes harden, staring apprehensively at Raph.

“What’s your problem? Why don’t you like me?” His voice dips, taking a sharper edge. “You’re supposed to like us.”

“My problem?” The turtle pokes a finger into Othello’s chest. “What the hell is yours? You avoid my family since we rescued you, then act cagey every time they try to get to know you better!” Othello looks guilty, but doesn’t respond. Raph pokes him again, harder. “Don’t give me that stupid look!”

“I’m sorry for not coming over, but—”

“That’s not the fucking problem!” Raph yells, shoving Othello. He stumbles back, using the wall for support, staring at Raph like he’s the problem. It just makes him angrier. “I saw you! I saw how you looked at him!”

Othello’s chest heaves, wide-eyed and eye twitching. He looks confused, thoughts racing as he tries to recall exactly what Raph was talking about.

It was for a moment, months ago, after Othello had brought Donnie the batteries. He had run out of the lair, looking close to death, so Mikey sent him and Leo to check on him under the pretense of bringing Othello food. Raph hadn’t minded; he liked Othello at the time, and was worried himself. When they caught up to him, Leo turned back to the lair, saying something Raph didn’t remember.

He does remember how Othello looked at his brother. His face twisted and warped, becoming an ugly expression that radiated unbridled fury. Othello’s teeth had clenched, hands twitching like he wanted to hurt his brother— maybe even kill. Raph had prepared for a fight, stepping in front of Leo with his own hands clenched. Then it was gone, and Raph wanted to believe he imagined it. So he bit his tongue for the most part, only giving sour glances and snarky remarks when the human was mentioned around him. He wanted his brothers to have a friend, even if Raph didn’t like him.

But Othello isn’t a friend.

Someone with intelligence on par with Donnie, and more secrets than Raph had scales. The Kraang took him for a reason, and now Raph knows it’s because he’s one of them. Part of their enemy who wants to kill them. He can’t take chances. His brothers are naive; Raph doesn’t even think they noticed how odd Othello is. But it doesn’t matter, Raph protects them, not the other way around.

“I want you to stay away from my family.” Raph declares.

“W-what?” Othello stumbles, desperately pushing himself off the wall. “Raph, I like you guys! I didn’t do anything you think I did, I-I—” He hesitates. “I’m a good person.”

“You’re not.” Raph clicks his tongue, frowning up at Othello.

“I am!” He insists. “Listen, I just need tonight, then I won’t bother you guys anymore, you won’t hear from me again!”

“Why do you need tonight?” Raph probes. Othello doesn’t respond, biting his lip. “Is this supposed to be a goodbye party or something? Then you go into the Kraang ship, and give them all the info you know about my brothers?” Othello stands in stunned silence. Raph growls and shoves him. “Answer me!”

“No!” Othello slams into the wall again. “I wouldn’t hurt you guys—”

“If you want to say bye, send them a text! You’re not going to my lair!”

Othello blinks, looking around the sewer around them. Raph can see the exact moment where it all clicks, eyes scanning unfamiliar walls and corners, turning back to the turtle with offense.

“We’re nowhere near your lair,” Othello mutters. “You lied to me.”

Raph scowls in answer, jutting out a chin.

“You lied to me,” Othello says again, staring at his feet and covering his mouth with both hands. “You lied to us. How could you do that? I thought we were friends.” He drags them down, staring at his shaky palms.

"̷̟̖̟̯̹͚̦̈̐͜I̴̡̊̈̕͠͠͝ ̶̘̫̮̗͗̀̓̿͋͂͑́t̶̢̯̙̫̞̳̦̜͓̻̓͛́ḣ̶̘̟̟̩̠ō̸̡̺̤̜̠̺̥̖̉̉͗͐̈́̂͘͘͝͝ͅu̵̡̧̼̻̗̞͐̃ģ̴͚͕͔͑̋̑̑͋͑͌̕ͅh̸͎̘͎͖͖̐̋̆͜ͅt̸̹͇͎̤̾̋͋̈́̚ ̸͓͈͎͔͚͎̯̻̩̥͚̿̿̒̇͊̉͛͘̕w̸̡̤̍̊̾̓͊̎̈́́͝͠ȩ̷̖͇̊͗͗͌̍ ̴̣̭͙͎̪̫̝̯̭͗̐̑̀́̓ͅw̸̡͈̥̭̗̪͉̫̦͂́̉̋͊̈́̋͑̽̚e̷͇͖̺̟̱̽̿̑̆̀̓r̴̪͉͈̥̮̟̓̿̽̿̅̒͊͐̚͜͝͠ȅ̸͎͐ ̵̰̤̃͛̍f̴̨͇̪͙̾̈͋̏̈́͝ẩ̶̢̧̖̘͇͕̤̭̭̖̓̂̾̂͝m̶̧̯͚̘̠̹̬̽͛͋̄i̵̡̱̲̹̙̾̍̊̈́̀͜l̶͈̻͉̖̜̠̙̩̮͍̅͛̃̀̐̂̀͒͘͜͠y̵͇̣̟̞͈̗͓̪̟̓̈́̉̃̀͝.̴͈̟̯͓͗͆̽́̍̕͝"̴̛̜͉̺̝̪̖̳̌́͑̃̓̓̏̆͘͜͜͜

Raph can’t understand him. Othello’s voice overlaps with something else, sounding like thousands in shock and alarm. His eyes dart around Raph, not focusing on anything in particular. Raph takes a step back, and that’s all Othello needs.

The teen lunges, pinning Raph down with a crazed expression. His skin seems pinker, his teeth sharper, and he is certainly more manic. Raph wastes no time, wrestling against Othello, trying to keep his hands away from his face. They roll into the sewer water, with Raph now on top. He can’t grab his sai, so he uses his fists instead. He aims for Othello’s face, watching him snarl and flinch underneath Raph, his fists hard and fast.

Othello claws at his thighs, ripping scales and drawing blood, but Raph doesn’t care. The teen snarls angrily, yelling in a foreign language, as much as he could under Raph’s rage.

Something invisible suddenly smacks Raph’s chest, sending him flying back a few feet. The water splashes around them, getting into his wounds and mouth. Raph doesn’t have time to get up, finding two familiar hands wrapped around his neck and holding him down under the water. Under the waves, he can see Othello’s enraged expression, teeth gnashing together. It’s Raph’s turn to claw at Othello, digging blunt claws into his flesh, chest burning from the lack of oxygen.

“YOU’RE DEFECTIVE!” Othello roars above him, voices echoing around them. “HOW DARE YOU LIE TO US! WE WERE BEING KIND! YOU WERE MEANT TO BE OUR FAMILY!” He slams Raph’s head against the floor, each word punctuated with so much rage and hatred for what Raph had done.

“HOW!” SLAM!

“DARE!” SLAM!

“YOU!” SLAM!

“REJECT US!” SLAM! SLAM!

Dark spots start creeping at the edge of Raph’s vision, his grip weakening. In a last-ditch effort, he gropes his side, finding the familiar leather cloth of his weapons holster. He grips a kunai and jams it into Othello’s side, watching as the teen screams in agony.

The sudden flow of oxygen burns his lungs and throat more, causing Raph to hack and pant as he tries to orient himself. He’s on his side, propped up by his arm as he stares at Othello, waiting for his next move. Othello doesn’t do anything, gripping the kunai in shock and agony, staring back at Raph in… fear?

“I-I’m sorry.” Othello’s voice is back to normal, shaky and soft, like he couldn’t believe what he had done. “I didn’t mean— I’m sorry, I didn’t know it could—”

Othello takes a step forward and then takes two steps back. His eyes are full of tears, but blood still drips from his side, a reminder of what Raph had done. Othello turns and runs. The walls echo his shame, a thunderous clap in the small space. Raph watches him, breathing becoming steadier, and his head throbbing. Not once did Othello look back.

Chapter Text

A choked gasp tears out of Othello's throat as he runs deeper into the sewers. It echoes around him, bouncing along grime-covered walls and ringing in his ears. He can feel his heart pounding under his ribcage, pumping more blood into his legs that throb from the kunai embedded in his flesh. Pure adrenaline keeps him moving away from the crime scene into unfamiliar territory.

Turn around!

Othello ignores the Technodrome, focusing all his energy on running. He doesn't know where he is, but anywhere is better. The parasite thrashes and hiss, cursing at Raphael in their native tongue, furious at his so-called "betrayal." It was angrier than Othello could ever remember it, even when he insulted it or when the other Kraang took them.

Othello doesn't even think that's the worst part. This wasn't like the other times when the Technodrome took control. Before, Othello was there, but it was with a sense of detachment, forced to be a backseat driver of his own body as the Technodrome handled the issue in front of them. His mind, stream of consciousness, morals, whatever you wanted to call it, was separated from the Technodrome's rage and violence.

But this time, Othello made the conscious decision to attack. He was in the driver's seat, fighting and choking the turtle of his own free will. Othello was angry and couldn't tell where his anger stopped, and the Technodrome began. His thoughts of how this was wrong were pushed back, while thoughts of winning and how Raphael was defective came forward, fueling his anger until Raph stabbed him.

Wasn't it liberating?

It was terrifying. He wants to go home.

Othello takes the next manhole up to the surface, pace unwavering as he runs back to his base. He doesn't care for secrecy as he slams the front door closed behind him, leaning on the shattered glass. The Technodrome takes most of it, allowing Othello to catch his breath. His chest heaves, heart still pounding loudly. His eyes float back to the kunai, and he rubs his fingers against the cold metal.

Forcing himself to stand, Othello heads to the back of the shop, snatching a rag on the way. The portal stands ready, looming over him as an imposing force waiting to be turned on. Othello keeps his eyes on the different types of sheet metal, trying to recall where he got each kind.

Donatello, you shouldn't—

SHINK!

"FUCK!" The Technodrome reels back, saying nothing as Othello tosses the kunai aside and wraps his wound. The rag quickly becomes red, absorbing every drop.

Let us help—

"No!" Othello slaps the creeping tentacle away. It shrinks back like a whipped dog, hovering over his wound. "I don't need your help. You ruined—" his throat constricts, unable to complete his sentence.

We're sorry. Let us help.

Othello doesn't refuse when the tendrils move again, wrapping around his wound. He can feel his skin and scales stitching back together, and all too soon, it stops. The Technodrome backs away, even under the guise of the cloaking broach that he's healed.

Donatello?

"...thanks." Othello wipes away his tears with the back of his hand. Standing comes much easier, with the pain being a thing of the past. He walks to the portal, tracing his fingers over the different materials, each bump and dent giving it more personality than it deserved.

He moves to the pin pad, delicately typing his home coordinates. Othello can't help but triple-check them, despite the Technodrome whispering promises that it didn't tamper with the numbers. He takes a deep breath and presses, finally powering the machine on.

It hums and sputters, sending waves of electricity up Othello's fingers and down his spine. Unfamiliar pops and clunks echo around him, not enough to be concerning, but more than was necessary or expected. Then it creaks. A loud, continuous sound that sinks deep into Othello's bones before it suddenly stops.

His eyes flicker up to the archway, finding the other side of his base through the twisted metal. Othello shakes off a bead of sweat on his forehead and punches the coordinates in again. The pin pad doesn't beep, light up, or do anything. An eerie silence looms over him, only broken when he tries to punch the coordinates again.

Then, a second time.

And a third.

Fourth.

Fifth.

Sixth.

Donatello.

…Don't do this. Please don't do this. He was so close. He knows it works. But staring at the dead, unmoving console, Othello can feel his belief wavering. He tightly gripes the box's sides, the metal bending and splintering under his newfound strength and embedding into his fingers. It hurts, but it's muddled under Othello's fear and frustration. Regardless, Othello tries again, ignoring how his eyesight blurs and the lump in the back of his throat.

Donatello, we're sorry.

It's unbelievable how a simple phrase can bring someone to tears.

Othello chokes on his tears, hides his face, and slides down to the floor, curling on himself. "What am I supposed to do?" He asks nobody in particular, wiping angrily. "I-I can't—"

Can't stay here.

Can't explain himself.

Can't do anything.

Othello sobs again, wrapping himself tighter. The Technodrome reaches around him, wiping away tears while trying to hug him. It's comforting, so Othello doesn't resist, allowing it to hold his head.

Why do you want to leave so badly?

"I don't," his words are shaky. "I don't have anything here." He looks at his shaking hands, frowning.

You have us.

Othello shakes his head. "I want to go home."

And what does 'home' have to offer you?

What a stupid question; Othello can't help but think in the middle of his crisis. He rolls his eyes and goes to respond but hesitates. He wants to back to see his brothers, but they just make fun of him and his inventions. April, Casey, and Junior are pathetic humans and not worth his time. Draxum and Splinter don't deserve him. But… then what is he doing all this for? If he has nobody in his original dimension, what's the point in returning?

Exactly.

"Then, I have nothing," Othello admits quietly. He can feel the Technodrome 'shake' its head through their connection.

You have us.

…Yes, he does.

The softshell relaxes at the thought, leaning into the Technodrome's touch. Something akin to a purr echoes through the alien as they wrap tighter and tighter around Othello. He smiles, knowing he is safe in their grip.

Why don't you accept us?

"...I think I was scared," Othello admits quietly, although he thinks that's not the only reason. He can't recall now, but it seems silly.

Are you scared now?

"No." And he's telling the truth.

We'll protect you. We'll find you food and shelter and always be there for you. Just accept us.

Othello really can't see a problem with that.

-.-

A disguised Leo kicks his feet against the dumpster, waiting for the portal to his world to open. He keeps his eyes on the wall where it was supposed to manifest, but his gaze drifts away despite his resistance. The city was eerily quiet, more than Leo was used to during his trips with his family previously. It gives him the creeps. He looks back at his phone, frowning at the time and then at the wall.

Leo thought maybe Draxum or Shelldon held them up within the first thirty minutes of his waiting; they seemed like the people to do that, but then an hour passed. Then two. Three.

He's starting to get worried.

"Okay, think," He mutters, staring at the weathered wall. "Maybe I'm in the wrong spot?"

But everything around him was the same as last night, and every other night they searched for Donnie.

"They overslept?"

All of them?

"They went to the wrong dimension?"

Shelldon would never do that.

"...Did they…" Abandon me?

Leo doesn't even want to entertain that. He puts that thought into a box, ties it neatly with a bow, and shoves it as far as possible. Then he huffs, walks back to the mouth of the alley, digs his heels into loose rubble, and walks back to the wall. He does this a few times, the repetitiveness soothing his nerves as he tries to figure out why they haven't come back for him yet.

After a few turns, Leo returns to his original spot, hunched behind the dumpster and watching the wall. He grabs his phone from inside his shell, his "human" arm shrinking until he has nothing but a shoulder as he searches. It grows when he pulls it back out, becoming the length it was once more.

At this point, he's reaching the four-hour mark and can't sit in this dingy alley forever. The slider sighs, pulls a hand down his face, and stands. If they aren't going to show up now, he might as well continue his search. They have his number, and he can get back almost instantaneously, so there's not too much harm, right? Besides, knowing Leo's luck, they'll show up as soon as he leaves and yell at him for not being here on time.

Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Leo looks for any place Donnie could be. He checks an abandoned church with half the roof caved in. Then, a witchy-looking store, with a tarot card and a glass ball in the window, and a small supermarket locked up tightly with chains.

He continues, leaving no stone unturned. Eventually, he finds himself on the edge of town, overlooking the water on the pier. It's closer to morning, with the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the air carrying the scent of rain. Leo sits on the edge, dunking his feet in and sighing.

"There's only so many places," He mutters to nobody in particular. Leo looks to the cloaking broach on his chest, then back to the sky. The semi-formed clouds do nothing about the incoming sunlight, which makes the world a little hazy from staying up all night. He yawns, covering it with a fist as he thinks of his next steps.

His family hasn't called yet, meaning they're not here. Leo's not sure when they'll arrive, but he needs shelter and food to keep looking for Donnie. He can probably find some rundown place. He would go into the sewers, but he's not sure where his counterpart's lair is, and it would be weird—

BANG!

The sudden sound makes Leo jump, looking back to the warehouses. He didn't see anybody approach— is it time for people to go to work already? The warehouse was big, probably meant for docking boats when not in use, but even from this distance, Leo could see the rust creeping up the sides and a poorly made pigeon nest on the ground. The sign advertising the place was blackened and faded, with the logo spray painted on and halfway falling off its hinges.

It was clearly abandoned, so why would anybody be here? Unless…

Leo tries not to get his hopes up but climbs to his feet in record time. The slider opens a portal, steps through, and lands gently on the inner rafters of the warehouse, looking for the source of the noise. His heart pounds loudly, despite his protests, ringing in his ears. It's probably just rats or a regular human exploring; there is no need to—

A flicker of movement catches his attention, and Leo gives it undividedly. It's a human with dark skin, a purple hoodie, and braided hair. The slider bites his tongue, watching the human sniff the air, looking for something. He pulls out the photo of Donnie's disguise again, and they look almost identical, minus a few details.

…No way.

No way!!

It's Donnie!

Leo wastes no time, dropping from the ceiling behind his brother, smiling widely. There's still a good distance between them, but Leo's sure once Donnie realizes it's him, they'll close the gap with a hug.

Donnie's back is turned to him, but the softshell stiffens like a board. Then he turns, staring at Leo like he's a stranger, cocking his head back and forth, observing all his features. Leo smiles wide, rushing over to his twin.

"Donnie!" Leo calls.

Then he gets punched. Or he thinks he does? All he knows is that suddenly, he's flying back a few feet, and Donnie didn't move a muscle. Leo slides on the concrete, grunting as he stands back up. Pain runs throughout his side, but Leo doesn't let that stand in the way of his smile.

"Okay, you might still be angry about what I said, but you said some messed up stuff, too!" Leo huffs. Donnie doesn't respond. He just stands there, staring. "Donnie? Don-tron? You okay?"

Leo's fingers brush against his broach and pull it off swiftly. The flames dance around him, and he holds his arms out in surrender. His arm is already turning a nasty purple from the fall, but that would heal on its own soon enough. Leo had to focus on Donnie.

"It's me! Leo!"

Donnie clicks, hisses, then lunges. Leo barely had time to react, dodging with practiced ease. He drops his katana, focusing more on defense and de-escalation as Donnie tries to gut him alive. The softshell scratches, biting the air and screaming, each step less like his training and more animalistic.

"Donnie!" Leo tries again, dodging another attack. His brother flies, sliding past him onto the floor on all fours. "What is wrong with you? It's me!"

They stare at one another for a moment, neither moving nor unwilling to break eye contact. Then Donnie shifts slightly, eyes flickering in recognition, and stands. Leo can feel his heart beating louder as Donnie walks closer, a mixture of sadness and apologetic on his face.

"Leo," He says, fidgeting with his fingers. "...We- I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me." Despite the words, something heavy sinks into Leo's gut, and he steps back.

"...Are you okay?" Leo asks. Donnie smiles, a soft thing that doesn't look right on his face.

"I'm feeling better than ever."

Leo's eyes flicker to his abandoned katanas. It's not too far from him, maybe six feet away, possibly less. Leo focuses on Donnie's approaching figure, how he moves almost robotically— like he wasn't used to having legs.

"That's great!" Leo exclaims, taking another step back. "Listen, the portal back home is open; all we have to do is go on through, and we can finally get rid of the Technodrome! No more alien for you!"

"...Actually, I've decided I like the Technodrome; there's no reason to 'get rid' of it."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Then, in that case," Leo sighs dramatically, holding his head with one hand. "I guess we'll just have to—" Leo dives for his katanas. His hands touch the hilt, raising them high to slash a portal to escape, when Donnie-not-Donnie's mouth bites his right arm, digging into his scales.

As Donnie's jaw clamps around his biceps, a sharper pain unlike anything Leo's experience runs through him, and he screams. Then Donnie's jaw closes tighter until—

CRACK!

To hear your bone breaking is already nauseating; knowing his brother is the cause of it is even worse. Donnie pulls down, uncaring, as Leo collapses to the ground beside his swords, a gaping wound where his arm was. He's losing blood, but he can't focus as his heart beats louder when Donnie spits out his limb, throwing it across the room like it wasn't even worth his time. Leo can hear it bang against the wall somewhere in the distance but can't bring himself to look away from Donnie.

His brother— the Technodrome, smiles at him, face bloody with teeth too sharp for a human disguise. It takes another step forward, and the slider panics. He grabs his sword, barely getting enough momentum to swing a gateway underneath him, falling through.

Leo lands on some water, a murky brown barely a foot deep, with brick walls around him. He pants, looking around this version of New York's sewers, then drags himself to the edge. The spot where his arm once was burns, still losing a steady amount of blood.

"Gotta…stop the bleeding." Untying his mask with one hand is something Leo used to brag about to his brothers. He could do it faster than them, and he let them know it. He would goad them into a contest sometimes. It was a small thing that made Leo laugh and tease them when they were smaller. Leo's so glad he could untie his mask with one hand.

Tightening it around his wound harder, using his teeth to make it go as tight as possible. Once satisfied with his makeshift tourniquet, he lets his hands— hand drop on his lap. This place isn't home, but if Leo closed his eyes, he could pretend it was. His eyes feel heavier, and he's much more lightheaded.

Leo's so tired.

Chapter Text

Raph makes his way home with dragging feet and scales more purple than green. His head pounds in a familiar way, helped only by the lack of light in the sewers, and he takes small breaks when it gets too much. Raph’s mask was around his neck instead of his eyes, hiding the worst of it from view.

He doesn’t jump the turnstiles when he gets back, pushing through a loose one at the end of the line. Mikey is in the kitchen when he gets back, shell facing Raph as he heats something. Raph scowls, walking by him without a word. Mikey says something when he passes, but still doesn’t turn, so Raph heads to the bathroom to deal with this. The door slams shut behind him, and he locks it with a swift motion, heading to the medicine cabinet.

The first aid kit is on a different shelf, shoved to the back against the wall behind some cough syrup. The faded stickers stare mockingly at him as he slams it on the sink, digging for the needed materials. He manages to pull out some rubbing alcohol wipes and gauze as someone knocks on the door. Raph ignores it, turning on the water and rubbing away some dried blood off his cheeks. He can’t tell if it’s his or Othello’s, but Raph also doesn’t give a damn.

“Raph?” Mikey’s voice is muffled through the door, knocking on the door again.

“Go away!” He grunts back, holding a hiss as he rubs a gash with a wipe.

“Dude, are you okay?”

The turtle doesn’t bother responding, twisting to look at the back of his head in the mirror. He can only see the edges, tracing his fingers along dislodged scales and dried blood. Raph’s head pounds with the delicate touch, but he grits his teeth and goes for the rubbing alcohol. Once his rag is thoroughly soaked, he counts to three and presses down hard on the wound.

It burns, and everything within him wants to stop. Raph clicks, chitters, and hisses when the fabric comes back stained red. He throws it in the trash can beside the door, sounding heavy as it slams on the bottom, shaking the whole can.

“I hope I don’t need stitches,” Raph mutters, trying to look at the back of his head again. His eyes caught his neck, the bruises peeking behind his mask, mocking the turtle of his shortcomings. He growls, gripping the metal sink in anger.

From the door comes a soft click. It swings open with a creak, revealing Mikey crouched, holding two paperclips with one still lodged into the door's lock. Raph stares at him incredulously, not bothering to hide his injuries. They’re locked in a stalemate, with Mikey’s eyes flickering between his head and neck.

“...When did you learn to pick locks?” Raph asks after a moment.

“I found video tutorials.” Mikey stands, walking closer. “What happened to you?” Raph lets out a series of clicks, and Mikey stops, just two steps away.

“Don’t do that, I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need it.” Raph snaps, turning to the sink. He pops some painkillers, cupping the faucet and drinking lukewarm water to wash it down. Over the sound of rushing water, he can hear Mikey inhale sharply.

“Dude.” Mikey walks closer, halfway leaning on the wall as he faces Raph with big eyes and a tight frown. “You’re all kinds of messed up.”

“No shit.”

Mikey plucks the gauze from the first aid kit, unwrapping a sizeable strip, and gestures for him to sit on the toilet seat. The hot-headed turtle rolls his eyes, but does so anyway, letting Mikey bandage his head with practiced ease.

“...you’re not going to be able to hide this forever.” Mikey cuts the strip with his teeth, gently applying it to Raph’s wound. Raph grunts, but knows his brother is right. “Was it Kraang? Or Shredder?”

“Neither.” Mikey finishes, tossing the bandages back, and leans on the sink. Raph spins to face him, tugging his mask higher to hide his neck. He notices, but doesn’t say anything yet, biting his bottom lip guiltily. “This isn’t your fault.”

Mikey blinks, then chuckles awkwardly. “I never said it was!”

“I know you.” Raph points at him. “You’re thinking ‘oh I told him to go up, and now he’s hurt, so it’s my fault, meh meh meh.’” He mocks Mikey, raising his voice and acting out each word with hand puppets. Mikey pouts.

“I don’t sound like that.” Mikey defends. “You got my voice all wrong.”

“It sounded annoying enough, so I think I got it right.”

His brother lets out a dry chuckle and turns back to the still open bathroom door. Raph follows his gaze, and lets out a deep breath slowly. His chest still aches with residual pains, but he’s sure with the pain killers and time it’ll go away.

“Ugh," Raph groans. “They’re not going to leave me alone." Mikey shrugs, unhelpfully. Raph stays on the toilet for a few more seconds, takes a deep breath, and slaps his knees, bracing himself. The walk to the living room is shameful. Raph could walk perfectly fine, but Mikey insisted on grabbing his elbow and setting him on the couch gently. Then the youngest grabs the others

He sends a text in their family group chat, then physically gets Splinter when the rat doesn’t respond. Donnie is the first to appear, his eyes zoning in on the bandage on the back of his head. Raph is forced to follow Donnie’s finger with his eyes in case he has a concussion. Then his eyelids are forced open as Donnie checks his pupils, moving from the left eye to the right as Leo walks in.

His “fearless leader" takes it upon himself to ask questions about Raph’s assault, which spurs Donnie to scold him for his “recklessness.” Raph tries to defend himself, but the two delve into an argument from there, excluding Raph entirely.

Master Splinter and Mikey finally return, the rat stiffening as he takes in Raph’s injuries. He can’t help but wave at his father, as Splinter levels a glare at Donnie and Leo. They quiet down, but shoot each other one last dirty glance.

“My son," Master Splinter starts. “Who did this to you?"

No sense beating around the bush. “Othello did it.”

They all pause, processing Raph’s words. Raph can see the gears turn in all of their minds, with Donnie looking the most confused, and Mikey looking the most… guilty? Ashamed? Raph already told him it’s not his fault; Mikey couldn’t have known Othello’s true nature.

“Really?” Donnie breaks the silence, a taught frown tugging on his face. Raph clicks his tongue.

“Yes, really.” Donnie blinks, and Raph sets his face into a harder frown. “You think I would lie about that?”

“Of course not, but—”

“But nothing! The guy went crazy. I asked him a question, and he started attacking me!”

Donnie falls silent, looking uncomfortable at the thought. Raph scoffs, leaning his head on his palm, only to immediately regret it when the wounds sting. He shifts instead, leaning back on the couch, but his head is just off the cushion to not to aggravate the back of his head. Beside him, Mikey rubs his hands together, caressing them as he speaks in a self-soothing motion.

“Are you sure it was Othello?” Mikey asks. Raph glares.

“What?”

“No, I mean—” He claps his palms to look for a different word. “What if it was someone who looked like Othello? Y’know how the Krang disguise themselves as humans? What if it’s like that?”

“You think I don’t know who attacked me?!" He goes to stand, glaring hard. Mikey shrinks back, but still stands his ground. Seeing him unwavering irritates Raph, so he pulls down the bandana around his neck to show the bruises. There are gasps around him, but Raph pushes on.

“I got a pretty good look at his face while he was strangling me, so yeah I’m sure it was Othello."

Donnie pushes forward, ignoring the way Raph hisses and warns, and keeps his bandana pulled down. He doesn’t touch the marks, fingers hovering over, and squints. Raph keeps his head steady, but extends his neck so his brother can get a better look.

“Odd…” Donnie mutters, backing away. He gives Raph a once-over, observing each scuff and scrape. “There’s three marks on your neck.”

“So?” Raph asks, not hiding his attitude.

“Othello has five fingers. This looks like one of us strangled you.”

“I know who attacked me!” Raph snaps again. Donnie holds up a calming hand.

“I know! It’s just weird.” He jerks his head back, gesturing to his lab. “C’mon, I want to check you out. Master Splinter, would you mind helping?”

Leo watches them go, walking in silence further into the lair. He turns to Mikey, who stays staring down the hall and biting his lower lip in thought. Leo grabs on his arm, breaking his concentration. His eyes don’t have their usual spark, worry and anxiousness overtaking his usual expressions.

“Let’s go.” He commands, voice unwavering.

“Go where?” Mikey asks. Leo turns, steps strong as he heads for the entrance. He doesn’t turn, but hears the reluctant footsteps of Mikey trailing behind.

“We’re going to pay Othello a visit.”

“Wait.” Mikey gains speed until he’s beside Leo. He gives a shaky smile, one hand on his weapon and the other up in a placating motion. “We don’t know where he is—”

“He has to be nearby,” Leo interrupts. “Couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Do you really think he did that to Raph?” Despite the words, there’s a hint of something under the surface. Fear, with a hint of hesitance. Leo doesn’t answer, much to Mikey’s chagrin. He sighs, frowns, then follows beside Leo without another complaint.

They walk in silence, footsteps echoing down the sewer tunnels. Despite walking this path thousands of times before, this time felt different. Leo’s shoulders were raised, filled with tension, and his eyes couldn’t help but dart to each tunnel they passed, searching for that familiar purple hoodie. Mikey walks beside him, head straight, and more focused than usual. Leo doesn’t question it, listening out for footsteps.

“Wait.” Leo juts out an arm. Mikey runs into it, doubling over at the waist and staring at Leo with questioning eyes. He gestures to the flowing sewer water beside them, still as murky as ever, but with a tinge of bright red that was new. He unseathes his swords, gesturing for Mikey to do the same. They creep up the pathway, turning the next corner to a gruesome sight.

“Oh my God.”

A turtle, a mutant one like them, lies against the sewer wall, slumped over with sickly green scales. It makes the red marking stand out more, as well as the red-stained cloth around the nub that was once their arm. Even from a distance, Leo can see them breathing, but it’s shallow and labored.

“Dude, there’s so much blood.” Mikey whispers in horror. “Leo, what do we do?”

Leo steels himself. “Grab the legs, we have to bring them back to the lair.” Leo takes the turtle’s arms, hoisting them up by the armpits. They faintly groan as Leo adjusts them, but fall silent when Mikey grabs their legs.

The walk back felt faster, and they wasted no time once they reached the entrance. “Help! We need help here!”

Master Splinter was the first to respond, only hesitating for a second before rushing forward and grabbing the injured turtle. Leo ignores how his plasteron and hand come back bloody, focusing on his Father carrying the turtle with ease. They follow him to the laboratory, the space acting as a med bay in times of crisis. Raph and Donnie jump from their seats, watching Master Splinter lay the turtle on an empty cot.

“Who is that?!” Raph asks, staring in abject horror. Donnie wastes no time, moving faster than Leo’s ever seen him, hooking the turtle to machines and unwrapping the fabric around the stump.

“Master Splinter, can you grab my tweezers and gauze?” He doesn’t need to be asked twice, bringing the materials in record time. Leo doesn’t move; he’s unsure what to do with all the running around him and the buzzing in his ears. His body is still slick with blood, already drying and sticking uncomfortably to his form.

Mikey tugs at his arm and guides him away, closing the lab door quietly behind them. Leo can still hear Donnie giving orders faintly, but focuses instead on Mikey’s frown.

“...do you think Othello did that too?” He whispers, looking uncomfortable with the idea. Leo doesn’t have an answer. “We should get you cleaned up.”

Chapter Text

Leo doesn’t see Donnie or Master Splinter for the rest of the night. The lab stays locked up tight for hours, with only Raph wandering out with fresh bandages and a sickly looking expression. Leo tried to ask how the mutant they found was doing, but Raph shook his head and refused to answer.

So Leo was stuck waiting. Mikey stayed with him the entire time, sitting with him on the couches and talking about everything and nothing. He tried to get them to watch T.V, Space Heroes specifically, but even his favorite show couldn’t distract Leo’s turbulent mind. Eventually, Mikey stopped, switching focus between his hands and the show before them.

It takes another hour before Donnie emerges. The bags under his eyes look more prominent, his whole body dripping with exhaustion. He walks over to them, throws himself on the couch, and rubs at his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so stressed in my life,” Donnie mutters after a beat.

“Are they okay?” Mikey asks, frowning. Donnie nods slowly, hunched over as he speaks.

“They’re stable.” The turtle hesitates, “The wound on their arm isn’t normal. They were obviously attacked, but the marks are more akin to something tearing their flesh.”

“Like, pulling?”

“More like a bite.” Donnie rubs his eyes again. “The laceration was deep, and cut straight through the bone, jagged as it may be. Where’d you find them?”

“In the sewers,” Leo answers. “By the tunnel with the goldfish mural.”

“That’s too close.” Leo and Mikey exchange glances as Mikey gulps, and Leo nods. Leo touches the hilt of his sword, the familiar surface bringing peace to his troubled mind. They fall into a silence that drags, with only the soft sounds of the T.V. and the faint sounds of machinery echoing in the distance.

“Raph’s going to be out of commission,” Donnie says next, tone factual. “And I’m going to have to up the security if something attacked that close without us noticing.”

"We were kinda busy." Mikey points out. "Do you think he did this?" Despite no name being said, they all knew who he was referring to. Donnie clicks his tongue.

“Not likely. That was a clear bite wound, and unless Othello can grow new sharp teeth, it's a rogue mutant."

Mikey looks relieved, though it does nothing to quell Leo’s nerves. “We should go back out there." He goes to stand, stopped only by Donnie’s gentle grab on his arm. His face is tight, his eyeridge furrowed, and a frown set hard.

“Don’t be rash."

“I’m not. We can’t let a dangerous mutant like that run around hurting people.”

“And I agree.” Donnie lets him go, hand falling gently on his lap. “But, we don’t know what they are, where they are, or if there’s more of them. The only person who knows is on a cot in my lab, healing.”

The turtle they carried was solid, despite their lean build. They were muscle-bound, with faded scars of battles won and lost. With the brief time they spent together, it was obvious that the new turtle knew how to fight— those weren’t muscles for show, that was years of training and hard labor.

“So you want us to wait what? Weeks? Months?” Leo asks incredulously. “Until the other turtle wakes up, and who knows how many people get injured in the meantime?”

“We won’t have to wait long.” He corrects. “Their healing is astounding, maybe better than ours. They’re not going to stay down long.” Leo grunts in response, focusing back on the T.V.

The screen flickers as Captain Ryan cries out about betrayal from a newly introduced crew member. Sci-fi laser guns and pre-recorded grunts and thumps fill the air. Leo watches as his hero is lifted high, before being thrown across the room and taking down two teammates with him.

“We should probably give them a name." Mikey muses. “Calling them ‘them’ or ‘the turtle’ feels rude."

"They’re not a pet, Mikey.” Leo sighs. “They probably have a name.”

“I know, but we won’t find out for a while.” He hums, placing a hand on his chin as he thinks. “How about Neon?”

The newly dubbed Neon takes residency in Donnie’s lab— it’s not like they have a guest room anyway. The sound of softly beeping machines becomes a staple in the lab, becoming background music as they discussed plans, Raph’s injuries, or Donnie’s new inventions. April and Casey visited occasionally, although neither had news about Othello and his whereabouts.

Three days after they brought Neon to the lair, Leo walked into the lab to find Master Splinter sitting in a folding chair by the unconscious Neon. Master Splinter didn’t move, hands folded on his lap as he oversaw the other turtle. It was wrong, but Leo couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy within him.

“Master Splinter?” Master Splinter doesn’t say anything, but his ear flickers in recognition. “We’re about to go on patrol.”

“Not with Raphael, I assume?”

Leo shakes his head, walking closer. “He’s staying back. April’s forum got a few more tips— nobody's been hurt, but we still want to look into it.”

Neon looked better day by day, their scales a brighter green while their chest rose more naturally. The stump, which was once their arm, was bound with pristine white bandages that Donnie changed at least twice a day. He even enlisted April to become his ‘nurse,’ a position she took with gusto.

Splinter hums. Leo continues. “Are you going to stay in here tonight?”

“Perhaps,” Master Splinter answers. “Donatello and April have been attentive caretakers, so I am sure Neon would be fine with them.”

“We’ll be back before daybreak.”

“Stay safe, my son.”

Chapter Text

Their teeth feel wrong. It has been feeling wrong for days.

The Technodrome tilts their head, watching their reflection in the broken window do the same. They open their mouth, close it, then sneer and pull back their lip to see further back. There wasn’t any viable light in their base anymore, only the muggy city lights in the distance, and the flicker of moonlight that managed to weave its way through the light pollution.

The base itself had seen better days, with ripped blueprints and metal half-destroyed covering a good chunk of the floor, and Kraang bodies covering the other half. The Technodrome doesn’t mind— if things don’t work, they must be repurposed. The portal didn’t work, so they demolished it. The plans were a failure, so they served as a make-shift carpet. The only thing they kept the same was that silly phone Michelangelo gave them, and the cloaking brooch charging in the corner.

Call it nostalgia, call it a victory trophy. Donatello just wasn’t too keen on giving them up just yet.

Speaking of—

“Do you see it?” The Technodrome asks, adjusting its position. Donatello doesn’t say anything, a quiet buzz in the back of their mind being the only answer. “Donatello?”

When we were attacked by the docks, who did we fight?

His voice echoed through their mind, a sliver of doubt and confusion lacing every word. The Technodrome doesn’t respond at first, opening their mouth again to stare at its tongue. The muscle moves, rubbing against the inside of their teeth, a blind guide to what was wrong.

“A turtle.” The Technodrome says truthfully. “The traitor.”

Their tongue scrapes against their back molar, grazing something sharp and unfamiliar. It takes a while, but they dig it out with gentle fingers. The green scale is rough against their fingers, but they don’t pay it much mind and throw it off to the side.

“We should find food.”

Kraang?

They can already feel their mouth watering at the thought. Charred remains were good, but eating Kraang raw tasted better. The Technodrome could see it now— getting into the false Krang’s base, startling them so badly they start firing their weapons, and they call for backup. From there, the feast would begin. They can feel Donatello grimace in the back of their mind, unpleased with the proposed scenario.

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t…

Donatello hesitates. The Technodrome waits, taking his time to cross the room and grab the broach. They flip it over in their hands a few times, scratching at the off-colored scales around their wrist. The silence stretches long, with flickers of emotions going through their shared mind. Hesitence, guilt, disgust, frustration. It all swirls together into something unrecognizable and uncomfortable.

Maybe they should hold off.

But they’re hungry.

Regular meat doesn’t taste good.

They don’t want to eat regular meat.

Donatello is so fussy.

The Technodrome clicks their tongue, strapping the broach around their wrist and letting the flames dance along their form. Half of them demand to hunt, the other half complains but hesitates. The Technodrome doesn’t move, waiting for the order.

Something else.

And something else it will be. The Technodrome ignores the irritation and disappointment, leaving the bodega with quiet steps. The air nips at their skin, following them as they stick under the cover of night. With the sun behind them and a long road in front of them, the Technodrome looks for a new place to hunt.

Chapter Text

What do you do when someone asks you to promise something, and you kind of, maybe not really, agreed to it, but you didn't think you would need to?

Asking for Mikey, of course.

Sweat beads at the nape of his neck as he jumps from roof to roof with Leo and Donnie. His older brothers were scanning the area more often than they were trained to, and jumped at the smallest sounds. Guilt and dread pool at his gut at the empty space where Raph usually occupies.

He's so stupid. He knew Raph didn't like Othello and knew about Othello's problems, but sent them to meet up anyway. This is all his fault.

They jump another rooftop, Leo skidding to a stop ahead. Mikey follows suit, the rough surface grinding on his heels. His brother holds up a hand, staring hard at something over the ledge. Mikey follows his gaze, the tell-tale sounds of fighting cutting through the otherwise quiet night sky.

Below is Casey, fighting four people, purple dragons by their outfits, and holding his own relatively well. He manages to pick up a skinny guy and throw him at one of his assailants, sending him back a few feet, before dodging the punch of another. Mikey looks back at Leo, watching his eyes narrow in thought and consideration.

"Should we help him?" He asks. The answer comes two seconds later, with one of the bigger men throwing a nasty punch to Casy's stomach. The teen crumples involuntarily before being kicked back into the wall. Casey lets out a pained groan, unable to move, and looking up at the woman who attacked him.

He and his brothers move. Leo goes for the woman, kicking her away, while Donnie goes for the biggest guy and trips him. Mikey gets the last of them, two scrawny men that were more bone than meat, flipping the smallest into his companion, and shoving them into the concrete. Their weapons are drawn with an audible 'SHINK' as they move into a triangle formation around Casey. Leo takes the point, the sharp edge of his blade outward, and eyes narrowed.

The Purple Dragons scramble back up onto a fighting position before something flickers in their eyes. Recognition, realization, then pure fear.

"Oh, fuck no." The only woman of the group swears. She holds a shoulder protectively, then turns and bolts like the devil's on her heels.

"Shi— Kendra!" One calls as she pushes past. She knocks one of the men down, his glasses flying off his face and sliding along the rough gravel. He doesn't get a chance to grab them, suddenly hoisted up by his bigger friend and slung over his shoulder.

"You can get new glasses, Jason!" The man yells, running. Mikey's grip on his nunchucks loosens, staring at the now-empty battlefield with a frown.

"So, do we go after them or— or what?" Mikey asks. Leo responds by sheathing his swords and turning to Casey, holding out a hand. Mikey can't see his face through his mask, but can feel the wariness radiating off him.

"I didn't need your help." Casey grabs Leo's hand, pulling himself off the ground.

"Sure didn't seem like it." Donnie snorts. Casey throws up his middle finger, and Donnie, lacking the digit, sticks out his tongue.

"Have you seen anything suspicious recently?" Leo asks. Casey looks, but doesn't drop his middle finger. "Mutants or otherwise?"

"There's other mutants?" The teen asks, voice dripping with bafflement and confusion. "What the fuck— how many? Do they all live in the sewers?"

"Casey, focus."

"I haven't heard anything." Casey waves him off. They watch him skate to a corner of the alley, picking up his hockey stick that now supports new scuffmarks and chips in the wood. Casey gives it a once-over, fingers pressing against new grooves, and nods, putting it back in the holster on his back. "You guys would have heard more than me— being mutants and all."

"Not every mutant knows each other." Donnie frowns. "That's extremely ignorant of you to assume they do."

"Fuck you."

"Then why are you out here?" Leo asks, before the two can start fighting again. Casey glides back over, crossing his arms in a way Mikey was sure he thought was intimidating.

"Same reason as you— keeping the city safe." The teen sniffs, head shifting subtly as he looks around them. "Is Raph feeling better? I know you guys heal fast, but he looked bad." The reminder sits heavy in Mikey's gut, but the youngest pushes through.

"Like a six out of ten." Mikey tilts his hand in demonstration. "Master Splinter's been watching him like a hawk."

"I bet. Where are you guys headed now?" Casey makes his way to a fire escape, taking the steps two at a time. Mikey and his brothers follow, although they take their own route, jumping between the walls and reaching the roof before Casey does. Casey looks disgruntled at this, but doesn't say anything.

"Meatpacking district. Some teens went into an older building and said they saw something. Might be Kraang." Casey's gaze flickers to the empty spot beside them.

"You guys need help?" The question is said with hesitance, as if Casey couldn't believe what he was asking. Behind Mikey, Donnie snorts, although he couldn't tell if it was mocking or full of mirth. Maybe both?

"We're okay," Leo says after sending a frown Donnie's way. The tallest turtle looks away, but doesn't hide his sneaky grin. "There was something going on downtown, if you want to check that out, by all the rundown buildings."

Casey shrugs and takes the address from Leo with little fanfare, saying he'll call if he finds something. They split ways afterward, with Casey heading to the east and Mikey, along with his brothers, heading west. The rest of their journey is quiet, the city around them pausing as they run closer to their destination. Mikey's gut twists the entire way, pinching and rolling with every jump and step.

They reach the Meatpacking District in record time, turning onto Gansevoort Street past a museum to the smaller building next door. The building wasn't much to look at, shorter than the ones nearby, with scratched and rusted green double doors. There are notices on one side from health and safety departments, and a hastily drawn middle finger in permanent marker by the handle.

They slipped inside silently. The interior was better looking, with tile floors that echoed with every step, and walls that transitioned halfway up from wood panels to white plaster.

Mikey keeps his weapon sheathed for the meantime, as do his brothers; their footsteps are light as they progress. The lights overhead were dim, and they passed by one that flickered rapidly. Leo leads the way, with Donnie next, and Mikey last. It all goes smoothly until Leo stops and gestures for them to hide. They press against the wall as heavy metallic footsteps come closer.

Mikey braces for a fight, gripping his nunchucks hard enough that his knuckles turn white. They get closer and closer, impossibly loud in the empty hall, and although they stomp in unison, Mikey could tell there was more than one. His shoulders hunch, and he crouches low. Then—

Nothing.

The Kraangdroids march by him and his brothers, not noticing them, weapons drawn with a clear goal. They stay still as the Kraang continue, turning a corner and disappearing down the hall. Mikey exchanges glances with his brothers, with Leo gesturing to follow with a tilt of his head.

They walk down the hall, then left, and continue forward. As they head further in, the tell-tale sounds of fighting get louder, with a gunshot ringing through the still air, and a series of clicks and hisses. They peek through, but whatever or whoever is attacking the Kraang is fast.

Mikey can see a blur of purple, spinning around the room like it's a dance. Kraangdroids fall, crashing against each other and the floor. One of the Kraang, with half their face ripped off and a broken leg, lifts their gun and aims.

Their attacker was busy with another Kraang, and the ray hit them square in the chest. They turn snarling, and stand tall—

"Is that Othello?" Donnie whispers in abject horror.

They watch as Othello plunges his hand into the Kraang he was initially dealing with, lifting the body in a makeshift shield as the other fires four consecutive shots. Then he flings it, knocking the damaged Kraangdroid off its feet.

Othello charges forward before it can get back up, landing the finishing blow in its chest. Right where the organic Kraang sits. The body twitches once. Twice, then falls limp on the bodies of their brethren.

Othello's chest heaves, shoulders hunched over as he drags his hand back, clutching a combination of metal and flesh. His mouth opens, and a nauseating c-r-u-n-c-h echoes.

Mikey feels sick, the twists in his stomach returning harder and stronger. Leo stiffens beside them, eyes never leaving Othello's figure. Then he takes a step back, hands hovering infront of him, just one step away from unsheathing his swords.

"We need to—"

Othello's head whips toward the door, and he and Leo make direct eye contact. The world stands still for three seconds. Mikey can feel sweat bead on his forehead, see Donnie's eyes widen, and hear Leo's breath hitch. They all move away from the door, pressed against the walls as Othello bursts through, sliding along the tile like a wild animal, landing on all fours.

Then he spots them. Leo stands in the front, swords drawn, watching him with white, narrowed eyes. Othello smiles with too many teeth and blood smeared on his lips.

"Look who it is." He says, standing. Mikey and Donnie pull out their weapons, standing at the ready. Mikey's hands shake lightly, and he grips hard enough that his knuckles turn white. "And you're missing one. Is that traitor really so weak?"

Traitor?

Mikey shakes away the thought while Leo clicks in irritation. The eldest lifts a blade, sharp edge pointed at Othello in warning. "Don't say another word."

"You are giving us orders?" Othello scoffs. "How sad— weak— pathetic." His voice flickers between each word, but his tone is filled with disgust and malice. Othello doesn't move, but something hits Leo's chest, sending him flying back into the room behind them. Mikey turns on instinct, then finds himself flying back into Donnie, the two of them tumbling into the next room.

"So sorry about that, second." Othello sounds both sympathetic and mocking at the same time. "But working with them is a big no-no."

"Mikey, head left. Donnie, right." Leo whispers. They nod and rush at Othello with practiced speed and precision. Leo takes the center, forcing Othello to take the defensive. Each strike of Leo's sword clashes against something invisible, a deafening 'SHINK' and 'SHULK' as the metal hits something flesh-like.

Donnie and Mikey aren't doing much better. Those same invisible forces hit Donnie's staff, blocking every attack with ease, while Othello's physical form attacks Mikey.

Mikey ducks, weaves, and rolls.

Othello punches, kicks, and slashes.

It's a deadly game, one that has Mikey sweating bullets, and Othello grinning maniacally.

Then Mikey messes up. He ducks instead of dodging, and Othello punches hard enough to send him into a pile of Kraangdroids. He doesn't land softly, and a particularly sharp piece digs into the back of his thigh. Something shifts around his plasteron, a silent clink within the fighting. Mikey sits up, digging into the belt around his waist, and pulls out a small, clear vial.

The antidote.

His grip on the bottle tightens, watching as Leo gets slashed, his upper arm now releasing a slow but steady stream of blood. It combines with the puddles on the floor, and a portion lands on Othello's wrist.

Mikey stiffens, stands, then runs. They don't notice him at first, but then Othello spots him and tosses Leo to the side. Othello charges back, arm outstretched, reaching for Mikey's face, but the turtle ducks and slides at the last second.

His nunchucks extend into a kusarigama, and he holds it up, blade side facing Othello. It slices Othello's hand and a good chunk of his arm, a nauseating mixture of pink and red blood dripping on him and the floor. The broach that rested on his wrist fell onto the floor with a satisfying clack.

Blue flames dance around Othello's form, and Mikey scrambles to get up. His brothers stand behind him, and even without turning, Mikey can feel the confusion radiating off them, but he doesn't have time to explain. He holds his kusarugama in warning, staring hard as the flames die down and reveal Othello's true form. It's not a simple turtle, like Mikey was hoping.

Othello stands hunched over from the amount of Kraang flesh on his shell. It pulsates, wrapping around the side of his head and down an arm. It's wrapped tightly around the limb, with multiple tentacles forming something akin to a braid that ends in a point. His eyes are completely yellow, his pupils pinpricks, with scales peeling and yellowed.

"What the hell…" Leo breathes. Mikey turns, giving a sheepish smile.

"I'll tell you later." Mikey throws the vial he's holding, the glass shattering on Othello's face. He hisses, a loud, painful thing, and recoils, wiping at the substance, and only burning his hands in the process.

Mikey hands another vial to Leo, then to Donnie. "Coat your weapons." He orders. They do so without fuss, and together, they attack again. Each slash and smack leaves Othello with burning flesh, the teen snarling and gnashing his teeth the whole time. When Mikey throws a third vial, Othello turns to leave. He tries to go through the door they entered, but Donnie holds it down, staring hard at Othello with the blade of his bo at the ready.

Othello snarls, veers left, and digs his tentacle hand into the wall, pulling out a chunk that he tosses at them before diving through. Dust and debris fill the air. Mikey covers his eyes, but follows Leo's command to follow regardless. They charge next door, finding Othello on all fours, eyes darting around the room, and his back hunched like a wild animal. He spots them following almost immediately, taking two steps back, growling and snapping at the air.

Mikey reaches into his belt to pull out another vial. Othello turns and runs further into the new building. It's an art museum, with tall white walls, open spaces, and a geometrical ceiling. In the light, Mikey is sure it's a nice place to visit— but under the cover of night, every painting and statue seems to stare, watching as they chase after Othello.

"Where'd he go?" Leo asks as they slide to a stop in a hall. Mikey takes a moment to breathe, head darting left and right for any trace.

"Mikey." Donnie's voice is smooth, despite their situation. "Where'd you get those vials?"

"I-uh—” Mikey can't think of an excuse. "Othello gave them to me."

"He what?" Leo hisses, looking over his shoulder. A painting of squares and triangles stares back at him. "So he knew this was going to happen?"

"No! Maybe? I don't know— I don't think he knew it was going to be so bad."

"But he had some suspicion." Donnie clicks his tongue. "He prepared for the worst and gave you something to stop it." Mikey nods, unsure if he could see it. "He made a contingency plan. I would have too."

They turn a corner, entering a rounded room with paintings of women and a gray cushioned seat in the middle. Mikey clicks his tongue back, readjusting his grip on his nunchucks.

"He did, and uh…" Mikey hesitates, voice faltering as he takes another look around the room. "He asked me to ki—" In the silence of the museum, Mikey's phone rings. The teen stumbles, nearly dropping his phone in the process. On instinct, he answers, letting out a soft 'hello?'

"Where are you guys?" Casey's voice is staticky but audible, a little too far from the T-phone's normal range. "None of you were responding to my texts, and Leo's not picking up his phone."

"We're a little busy, Casey."

"You'll never believe what I found! Kraang bodies in a corner store downtown, I'm talking cooked and shit! Then there's this big machine like—!"

"Really not a good time!" Mikey tries to cut him off, but the teen still talks, either not hearing Mikey or flat-out ignoring him. "I have to go—"

Mikey hears Othello before he sees him. The frantic rhythmic sound of his steps as he lunges forward and slams into Leo. His brother drops his katanas, one arm raised into Othello's chest, the other turtle snarling and spitting, trying to bite off Leo's face. Mikey drops his phone, immediately rushing over and trying to pry Othello off, looping his arms around Othello's armpits, and yanking. Othello doesn't attack him; his full attention is on Leo.

"Othello!"

"Get him off of me!"

Their voices overlap, laced with panic and fear. Othello then switches targets, biting hard into Leo's arm, blood slipping through his teeth. Leo lets out a scream, using his other hand to push at Othello's face, although the turtle doesn't seem to care.

"Move!"

Mikey ducks away just in time as Donnie grabs a black cylindrical statue, roughly the size of his forearm, and slams it against Othello's skull. He falls limp almost immediately, teeth still in Leo's arm. They stand, or lie in Leo's case, together panting, staring at Othello's prone form. Distantly, Mikey can still hear Casey's voice talking about something else he found downtown.

Donnie drops the statue and gets to work on prying Othello's jaw open. Leo hisses the entire time, flinching when his teeth pop out with a soft click. Mikey helps him up, and while Leo stands tall, his knees have a slight tremor that is hard to disguise.

"So, what do we do about him?" Mikey asks into the quiet.

"We can't leave him here." Leo says, frowning. "Too dangerous."

"We can bring him back to the lair." Donnie suggests. They stare hard at him in apprehension, and Donnie raises his hands in a peaceful gesture. "He already knows where we live, and if we bring him back, we can monitor him more closely, and we'll have more people in case he goes rogue." He turns to Mikey.

"Do you have any more of those vials?" Mikey hands over exactly two, the liquid glowing dimly in the museum. "I can make more, so we'll have an edge over him." Leo frowns, but doesn't argue, turning to Othello's body.

"We're so locking him up." He says. Donnie nods.

The walk back to the lair was both awkward and heavy. Heavy for the atmosphere, and the body Mikey and Donnie carried. Mikey's kusarigama was wrapped around Othello's hands, and his belt was around his head like a muzzle. Leo had wrapped his own belt around the bite wound as instructed by Donnie to stop the bleeding.

The path back home was longer; the three were forced to use the ground to travel, unable to jump the distance between buildings with their current situation. Maneuvering Othello's body into the sewers was tricky, as was pulling him over the turnstiles. But they manage, sending Leo into the lab first to break the news to Master Splinter.

Mikey adjusts his grip on Othello's leg, staring at the door Leo disappeared through. He can hear whispers, but not what was spoken. Donnie shifts behind him, and Mikey turns before he starts talking.

"How long have you known?"

"A month or so."

Donnie hums in acknowledgement, eyes turning slyly to Othello's face. He looks peaceful, aside from the parasite covering half his face. The whispers in the next room get louder and more urgent, still muffled but enough that Mikey could make out a few words—something about being reckless, but not much more than that.

"Do you remember when I got grounded for going out when I was supposed to be cleaning my room?"

"Is that when he told you?"

"Ehh, he didn't tell me." Mikey shrugs, adjusting Othello. It feels crazy, just standing in the hall with his body, but Mikey doesn't have a choice. "I saw him and kinda… beat him up?"

"You what?"

"To be fair!" Mikey holds up his palms as best he can. "He attacked me first. Then we got to talking, and he gave me the vials."

"...What about that other thing?"

"What other thing?"

Donnie frowns, tilting his head to listen for Leo and Splinter. The two were still speaking, although it had reduced to whispers of quiet scolding. Mikey was glad he wasn't in there, although he knew they would all be scolded eventually. Well, except Raph, and while Mikey knows why (And he's still very upset that his brother was injured), he's also upset Raph isn't in on this.

"At the museum, you said he asked you to do something else."

Mikey hesitates. He hums and haws, head tilting back and forth in consideration. Donnie waits, but the slight twitch of his eyes and quiver of his lip tell of his impatience. Mikey sighs, frowning as he looks away in shame.

"He asked me to kill him." Mikey admits. Donnie stands straighter, his grip on Othello tightening.

"And you agreed?!" His voice drops to a hiss, clicks echoing in the back of his throat. Mikey flinches and lets out a soft apologetic trill.

"I didn't think I would have to!" Mikey tries to defend. Donnie lets out another click, staring hard at the youngest. He shrinks in on himself, head retracting into his shell.

"Mikey, you—"

The door to the lab opens with a click and squeak, grabbing their attention. Leo steps out with a frown and misty eyes, but gestures for them to come in. They do so, but Donnie shoots Mikey a look that clearly says that they'll talk later. Mikey resigns himself to his fate.