Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Donnie was up late again.

That, by itself, wasn’t too strange. Even before things went to hell, Donnie liked to push two o’clock in the morning, at the very least. Right now, though, it was late. Late-late. So late in the evening it was early. At this hour, even Leo was asleep, or at least pretending to be, and here Donnie was- still up. Still working. His lab still casting an ambient purple glow.

When it got quiet like this- when a hush seemed to fall over the entire lair- it was so easy to convince himself he was alone. Really alone. That even in the city that never sleeps, he was the only one left awake. The thought used to amuse him… It used to make him happy. Each long, dark hour held so much promise, back then, so much to explore…the dark voids in these halls, the things that went bump in the night, they used to be mysteries, not monsters; but that was a different lair and a different Donnie and fuck, everything was different now. That feeling. That silence. That solitude. It would never make him happy again. After all of this, after everything he’d been through, nothing would never, ever be the same.

Taking everything into account, the things that Donatello knew- in order- were this.

Number one: he could not stop moving. He could not let his guard down. He could not rest. His family, his home, his reality, his planet- everything he’d taken for granted, he gripped it white-knuckle tight in his fists. If he relaxed for even a second, something would be ripped from him. It was vigilance, vigilance, that kept his family safe; vigilance and coffee, which he set Shelldon to make every hour on the dot. He couldn’t afford to waste even a second of his time.

Number two: if there was any part of him still useful, it was his logic. It was the beauty of his own genius. The way he could boil a problem down to its most basic elements, distill a situation into physics, into moving pieces, into numbers; into moves on a chessboard. Pawn to e7, rook to h5. Emotional reactions, chemical reactions…they were both the same thing, in the end.

Donnie was an engineer. And what is a body, really, other than a complex machine?

Number three. As the eldest remaining capable Hamato son, the safety of their family officially fell on his shoulders. With Raph…

…

With Leo out of commission, it was Donnie’s job to fix this mess. It was his job to deal with the Problem. In the eyes of his family, if there was any sort of solution to be found, it was his job to find it- to toil in his lab over attempt after attempt after failed fucking attempt at a Cure, trying to run away from a problem he knew full-well was in hot pursuit.

Number four. The stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And if Donnie knew anything, anything at all, it was that the numbers didn’t lie.

Persons infected: one.

Maximum acceptable number of casualties: one.

At this point, the question was not if the beast should die, but when- but how. How to kill it, and how to break the news. How to make the death humane, but also a plausible accident. More importantly, though…how to make sure that his family- that Mikey, specifically- never, ever, ever found out the truth. Donnie loved his brothers, he really did, and he liked to believe that they loved him back, but he knew full well: this went SO far beyond Doctor Delicate Touch. If Mikey ever caught wind of this, there were gonna be TWO funerals in the making.

 An uncapped syringe. A spiked IV line. It was funny, almost, how easy it would be to put that thing out of its misery…funny in a way that really wasn’t. Funny in a way that made him want to hit something. The question was not if, but how to carry this burden; how to live alone, for the rest of his life, with the knowledge of what he’d done. It was a question that no amount of all-nighters could answer.

Still.

If the first stage of grief was denial, Donnie was going to be dancing that tango for as long as he physically could. He could fix this. One of his slapdash “cures” would work. There had to be some other, any other way- until he’d tried every last option, exhausted every last shred of hope, he wasn’t going to admit defeat. He wasn’t. He couldn’t. For as long as he was able, he’d run on denial and spite; circling until the ground caved beneath his feet. A beautiful, supremely illogical dance of devotion.

So maybe that explained his lack of common sense.

To be honest, Donatello had no clue how he got to this point. He had no clue how he’d ever thought this was a good idea. He didn’t remember pulling on rubber gloves, stumbling from his lab to their makeshift kennel; unlocking the spare room door. He didn’t remember doing any of that, but here he was- standing over the Problem as it slept. Watching its chest rise and fall. 

Watching the soft breath come and leave.

A lighter sort of darkness spilled in from the open doorway, moonlight stained purple, filling out the angles of the Problem’s face- the ridge of its brow, lips ever so slightly parted; yellow light burning through its closed eyelids, backlighting the irises through the skin. A sort of bioluminescence. Just looking at it, Donnie shivered in his hoodie. He didn’t dare look away.

Sleep made the beast look softer. Vulnerable, almost…a teddy bear was snuggled against its cheek, arms slack around its prize. It was one of the ones that Raph had named. One of the ones from Teddy Bear Town. The plushie only had one eye now, seeing as the Problem had torn out the other one- the softshell stared at his own reflection in its remaining button eye, the dark shape of his silhouette. Watching. Waiting. His hands going tight at his sides, he bit down hard on his tongue.

The thing wearing his brother’s skin blinked awake.

The Problem shifted back a bit, squinting, making a soft squeak, a mewl; its pupils went wide, trying to get him in focus. The glow from its eyes cast the room in sickly shades. Donnie searched its eyes for anything resembling intelligence, anything resembling sapience, recognition- instead, all he found was confused curiosity, a bad imitation of his older brother. The softshell’s mouth began to fill with slivers of red iron.

If anything, the beast should be hissing at him- that’s what passed as normal behavior for this thing, at least when Donnie was the one observing it. Out of everyone, it seemed to hate him with a special, specific vigor. Maybe it could sense his thoughts. Hah.

Actually…the more Donnie thought about it, the more that seemed like a valid hypothesis. When he- when, when he was…ugh. When he was in the Technodrome, involuntary shudder, for lack of a better term, he could “feel” Raph’s consciousness- shattered like glass, welcoming him into the Hivemind with open arms. He could feel the compulsion to serve. Right near the end, right before they’d forced him out, one of the Kraang said through the Hivemind, bring us that signal, and he…and it had complied. Right near the end, Donnie had felt Raph’s consciousness “grabbing” his, fetching him like a dog with a tennis ball. If anything, the Problem was living proof that any contact with the Kraang should be taken seriously. “Living” proof, anyway.

The beast meowed.

Donnie broke from his reverie, attention snapping back to the creature in front of him; the Problem. It was staring at him. It’d pushed itself up onto its elbows, tail curled around its legs. Defensively so, maybe. It didn’t matter. Running on a cold, burning rage, the softshell removed his Project from the front pocket of his hoodie, slowly, methodically uncapping the needle- the light from the Problem’s eyes illuminated the liquid inside through the thick glass. Running down the side was a sticker that said DANGER, WILL BURN. HIGHLY TOXIC.

Donnie squatted down, pushing his Project in the Problem’s face.

“Do you see this?” he asked, like the creature in front of him could answer. He turned the syringe around in his hand, letting the Problem take a good, long look at it- letting the beast familiarize itself with every sharp point, every angle. It tilted its head like a dog. “Do you know what this is? Kraang?”

It just blinked.

“This is Plan Z,” the softshell continued; his last resort. His contingency plan. “Concentrated pentobarbital. A lethal sedative. Strong enough to kill ten elephants. I inject this, you go to sleep and you never wake back up.”

The beast went very, very still.

“Yeah. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

It whimpered. Donnie flinched, but he suppressed it as best he could, not daring to show weakness- not when he finally had the upper hand. Movements clumsy with exhaustion, he flicked the side of the syringe with his finger. The gentle clink faded out into the empty air.

“One wrong move, and you lose your only pawn. You wanna play chess? You wanna play chess, Kraang? Here you go. Checkmate. That’s checkmate, for you.”

Donnie didn’t know what he was saying anymore. He was too exhausted. The words flooded out of him without rhyme or reason, voice wavering, trembling under the weight of it; he leaned forward, looking the beast directly in its glowing eyes.

“I know the truth.” The softshell’s hands started to tremble, making the liquid vibrate in the syringe. He took in a hitching breath. “Casey Junior told me all about Kraang Fledglings. I don’t care what everyone else thinks about you, I know the truth- you killed my brother. I hate you.”

The Problem tilted its head.

“One wrong move a-and you lose your only pawn,” Donnie repeated, grasping at the dying embers of his resolve. The Problem made another soft noise, a coo, and the intimidation in his voice started to melt into devastation instead. “I… Don’t think I won’t do it. I will.”

The thing in his brother’s body leaned forward.

For a moment, Donnie startled, shoulders jerking tense, expecting an attack- but no hurt came. Only a gentle touch. The Problem pressed its forehead to his, bunting him like a cat; a gesture of soft affection. Something so Raph it made every part of him hurt at once.

The softshell’s ears started to buzz with static.

To be honest, Donnie didn’t remember the walk back to his lab. He didn’t remember putting Plan Z back in its case, putting the case back into the clinical refrigerator, gingerly peeling off each of his gloves; he didn’t remember throwing them, one-by-one, into the trash can by the door. He didn’t remember closing the lid. He didn’t remember any of that.

Really, for all Donnie knew, he could’ve been teleported to this spot, shoved into this exact moment in time- in the span of a blink, he was staring at his own reflection in the trash can’s dark metal. At the dead, exhausted stranger in the mirror. The softshell leaned forward, bracing his arm against the wall; resting his forehead in the crook of his elbow. For all he knew, right at this moment, he was completely, utterly, entirely alone.

And something inside of him just snapped.

(The second stage of grief. Anger.)

CLANG. 

Before Donnie knew what he was doing, his foot collided hard with the side of the trash can; a sharp kick. The impact sent a brief thrill of pain up his leg. For a moment, he just stood there, panting, staring at what he’d done- staring at the newly-dented metal. As the whole world tinged itself red around him, he geared up to kick it again. And again. And again and again and again and again. Over and over, Donnie slammed his foot into the trash can, hitting it with everything he had in him- with all of his rage, all of the dark emotions that lay coiled and simmering beneath his skin.

Another kick. Another. The air filled itself with noise, with clanging and grunting and sharp breath, as Donnie lashed out, losing himself in the motions of violence- fantasizing about beating someone’s face in. Making the trash can rattle and flinch against the wall, like it was the source of all of his problems. Pretending like the metal against his skin was part of a Kraang mech, not just a receptacle for garbage. Like he was making one of those aliens hurt.

Mouth closed, Donnie stoppered a scream in the back of his throat, swallowing the sound; eyes burning with hot tears. They traced down his cheeks like rivers of lava- like sulfuric acid improperly kept, burning through his skin to his core. Even with his lips pressed tightly shut, the taste of saltwater spread across his tongue.

As the adrenaline-rage started to burn from his system, the softshell’s kicks got weaker and weaker- as the adrenaline started to dry up, his entire body started to tremble, foot burning with the kind of pain he reveled in. The kind of pain that reminded him he was still alive. Panting, trying to catch his breath, he stared at his reflection in the trash can lid, distorted and monstrous in the newly-dented metal; warped like a funhouse mirror. Like a sick joke. The kind where nobody was laughing.

He was just so, so tired.

Like a puppet with cut strings, Donnie collapsed to the floor. He buried his face in his hands and his knees, heaving, gasping for breath- gasping again and again and never quite seeming to get enough. He was so tired. He was so, so, so tired. He hated this, he hated this situation, he hated every part of it- he hated the responsibility. The tragedy. The breakneck pace. He hated the brave face he put on for his family. He hated the constant questions, the need for reassurance- yes, yes, I promise, I’m working on it. He hated that damned syringe he’d once held so proudly. He hated the taste of coffee. He hated that he wasn’t there for his older brother’s death.

Because Raph was dead. If he didn’t get this done, if he didn’t figure out how to fix this quick, his brother was dead. Dead or dying, trapped, drowning in the sweat and goo of the Technodrome; flickering like candlelight, stuck in whatever impossible world lay behind that beast’s eyes. His brother was dead. So unless there was a way to get him back- to pull Raph up from those pink-tinged depths- then the Problem, the thing in their spare room, was just a walking corpse. 

That’s what Casey Junior had told him, at least.

Kraang fledglings. Unlike Kraang zombies, they either come from a willing victim or a dead body. Knowing his brother, knowing their sweet, stubborn Raphael, there was only ever one of those he could be.

The blood trail. The bathroom. The handprint on the mirror- streaked and splattered against the sink, red liquid, so much red on green. Tiny beads of it, dripping down. Puddles forming in the grooves between the tiles. 

Six hours, nine minutes, and forty-two seconds before they find him on the bathroom floor, Donnie says to his eldest brother, go to sleep, dumbass. Raph says in return, I just finished brushing my teeth. It’s the last conversation Donnie ever got to have with him. The last words he and Raph ever got to share. He wished he would’ve known…if he had, he would’ve used them better. He would’ve said good night. Sleep well. I love you.

At the very least, he would’ve said goodbye.

Curled up on the floor of his lab, eyes squeezed shut, Donnie set his headphones to noise-canceling; retreating into hideous grief. Listening to the shrill ringing in his ears. Like a dial tone, calling for someone who’d never pick up- hands trembling, he put on a random song, cranking the volume as loud as it could go. Trying not to fall asleep. He couldn’t. Not yet. There was still something about his hypothesis, something about this whole situation that bothered him, other than the obvious…he felt like he was missing something. Getting something wrong.

But he was so tired.

Back pressed against the wall, Donnie’s body finally gave out, relaxing slack against the cold floor. Coffee. He needed more coffee. He’d get it in a moment…in a minute or two, after he’d caught his breath again. After he’d had a moment to rest.

No. No rest. He needed…he needed to get this done… but laying down, it was so, so nice. He could stay down for another few seconds. Couldn’t he? Not to fall asleep, but just to take a break. Just one break. That was all he was asking for…just one day where things didn’t get worse; one single, beautiful, quiet day. To become an immovable object instead of an unstoppable force. Just one peaceful day. That’s all he wanted. 

But he absolutely, positively was not going to sleep. He wasn’t. Any second now, he was gonna get up and get back to work. He was gonna make himself another cup of coffee. He was gonna do that, and he was gonna do it soon. He was. He was going to get up.

He was going to get up, any second now…

Any second now…

Any…second…

...

..

.

The Attendant’s tests were weird.

Not that Pet was complaining, of course- no, these tests were a good kind of weird. Nothing like the ones the Warden and the Watchman used to make. These ones were a whole lot better. A whole lot more fun. With these tests- with the Attendant- each satisfactory answer got him a reward, a little treat; a piece of hard candy. And he ALWAYS got one, in the end. The Attendant literally wouldn’t let him get a wrong answer- they’d ask the same question, over and over again, until he got it right. Until there was a piece of candy, sticking and cracking between his teeth.

The taste of artificial cherry was sweet on his tongue.

“Okay, Raph. Let’s try it again.” The Attendant, the box turtle, they were sitting with him on the ground, at the very edges of his sleeping-pile; tantalizingly close to the door. They had a bag of candy in their lap. He tried not to look too excited about it. “Can you say Leo? L-E-O. Lee-oh. Try to say it.”

From behind them, the voice of the Watchman- using a wet rag to wipe away yesterday’s terrified scribblings, so that everyone could pretend it hadn’t been there at all. “Ugh. Mikey…I’m not tryna criticize your coping mechanisms or anything, but why’s it gotta be my name?”

“Because it’s the easiest to say,” the Attendant retorted, glaring over Pet’s shoulder. Over where the other Guard presumably was. “It’s only two syllables.”

The Watchman scoffed. “Miy-key. Dah-nie. Both are two syllables.”

“Well, yours has easier sounds. Less consonants.”

“If you insist…”

To be honest, at this point, Pet wasn’t actually listening to what they were saying. His gaze moved back and forth between his Guards, trying to study the way they spoke- the way their lips moved, throats shifting and contracting around the sounds. They made it look easy. The longer he watched, the more a nebulous shame began to rise in him, shapeless and vague…the feeling like he knew this, or that he should have, and that he was an idiot for forgetting. The snapper’s eyes fled to the ground.

“Raph-” Pet glanced up on instinct, and the Attendant was looking right at him, a finger pressed against their throat- “it’s your turn. Say Leo. Lee-oh. ”

He tried. It didn’t come out quite right- something in the back of his throat snagged, turning it into a low, garbled growl. He clicked his tongue in frustration. From somewhere behind him, the Watchman’s voice; Mikey, this isn’t gonna work. The Attendant just shook their head.

“Try it again. Put your tongue behind your teeth-” they demonstrated- “like that, see?”

What? He didn’t understand…he tried again, and then again after that, but the sound just kept evading him. Pet’s face burned hot with shame. C’mon, why couldn’t he just do this? How could they make it look so easy? He’s pretty sure he was able to do this, a long time ago, before his family took him in…before he was Kraang. His lip curled in annoyance; in frustration at his own incompetence.

The Attendant grasped at his hand. He hadn’t realized, but apparently he’d been digging his nails into his calf, leaving little half-moon circles indented in the skin. He kind of liked how it looked. Still, voice endlessly gentle, the box turtle took his hand in both of theirs; clasping it close to their chest. “No, no, it’s okay! Try it again. You’ll get it, I promise. Just keep trying.”

The snapper tilted his head and whined. He didn’t want to try again. He wanted to have already done it- he wanted to be good at this. He wanted to BE Good. He saw it, the search in the Attendant’s eyes, every time they looked over in his direction. He wanted to give them whatever it was they were looking for.

“C’mon, just one more time? Please?” The box turtle released his hand, holding up the bag of candy instead; shaking it enticingly. “I’ll give you another Jolly Rancher.”

No. He shook his head. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want to do this anymore, he was too ashamed of himself- he wasn’t going to sit here and do tricks for the pests, not even for his favorite of the Guards. He wasn’t going to do it. No candy bribe could possibly win him over.

“Fine, I’ll give you two. How’s that?”

…Alright, just one more try.

Trying really, really hard this time, Pet furrowed his brow, curling his mouth around the syllables. Leo. That shouldn’t be so hard. From somewhere behind, the Watchman teased, he made you barter with him? The Attendant just rolled their eyes. The Guards…they made this ‘talking’ thing look so easy. Pet’s throat contracted in a weird way as he pushed the air out, trying to force out a sound- the vague shape of their neat, clipped words. After a few false starts and with a little extra effort, he managed to twist it into something recognizable.

“Luh…”

Pet touched his fingers to his throat, gazing up at the Attendant for approval. They nodded enthusiastically. “Keep going.”

“L…Luh-ee-oh?”

Thwap. The sound of a wet rag hitting the floor.

The Attendant’s entire face lit up with a startling, beautiful joy- as bright and as radiant as the sun. In a flash, they dropped the bag, grasping at his hands again. Their smile was the most wonderful thing Pet had ever seen. “That was it! You did it! Raph, you did it! That was so great- hold on, hold on! I’ll get you some candy. You deserve it. Good job!”

He purred, fluffing under the praise. The Attendant put two pieces of candy in his hands- two red ones, again, even though it looked like there were other colors. For a moment, he pondered the significance. There was candy to be had, though, so he just smiled, popping it into his mouth; cracking it between his teeth. Swallowing the broken shards. Chuffing at the Attendant, he pressed their foreheads together.

“Ugh.” The Watchman’s crutch clicked against the floor as they backed away, coming into view from Pet’s right- moving towards the door. “Mikey, that was creepy as hell.”

“It’s progress,” the box turtle insisted, shooting the Watchman a glare. When they turned back to Pet, though, their smile bloomed again easy. “Whatcha say, Raphie? Is that enough speech therapy for the day? D’you wanna draw?”

The snapper drew back, moving to respond, but something caught his eye. A flash of red. A brief flicker, right in the corner of his eye- he turned his head, trying to chase it, but it moved with him, fleeing his gaze. Taunting him. A mockery.

Holding the Attendant’s shoulders, Pet moved again, turning further this time. The red thing gave him another fleeting look before it was gone. He turned his head the other direction, craning his neck as far as it would go, but there was nothing- whatever the red thing was, it was perpetually behind him. Its movements too quick and too clever for him to catch. Pausing for a moment, Pet laid in wait, waiting before he snapped his head to the side, finally seizing the end of the thing between his teeth. He tugged at it sharply.

Like a defense, something shifted in response around his eyes- around his non-Kraang eye, specifically- blinding him with vibrant red. He bit down hard in surprise. Yowling, squirming, he tried to claw it off- after a moment, soft hands pulled away the ‘blindfold’, revealing two very amused Guards. Or, slightly amused, at the very least.

“Uhhh, hermano… ” The Watchman chuckled, eye twitching; nervous. The slider’s voice was teasing, but it held none of the usual sting. “That’s your mask. Those were your mask tails. You know that?”

“Aww, but look at ‘im!” The Attendant pulled the fabric from his mouth, moving to cup his face in their hands. Pet just blinked. “That was adorable.”

“If you say so…”

Ignoring them, the Attendant gave him a piece of paper, scattering their box of crayons all over the ground. The pink one, the ‘salmon’, had a thick line of tape around the middle. The Watchman positioned themself out of the way. “Here, Raphie. Let’s draw something.”

For a quiet moment, Pet just watched the Attendant at work. They’d shifted to lay down on their stomach, feet kicking, and the snapper copied their position- putting his paper next to his elbows, his hand in his cheek. For a moment, he just watched the box turtle draw. Their stabilizer gloves were smudged with color, he’d noticed, smudged with crayon wax rubbed into stains against the black nylon- a tiny artist’s palette, a galaxy in their palm. It kinda looked like an abstract painting. He chirped in their direction, smiling soft.

The Watchman glanced up at the sound. For a moment, he and the slider made very uncomfortable eye contact- as soon as they locked eyes, both of them moved to look away, to look literally anywhere else. Pretending to study the texture of the concrete. The snapper’s hand stretched across the floor, picking up a crayon; trying to ignore the burning intensity of the Watchman’s gaze. For a couple of minutes, Pet just scribbled on his paper, sitting in silence.

He’d almost finished his drawing by the time the slider spoke back up again.

“Hey, Mikey, d’you think a laser pointer would work on him?”

Pet didn’t know what that was, but the Attendant bristled; turning back to give the Watchman yet another glare. “Don’t even try.”

“I bet we have one somewhere,” the Watchman teased. Sometime while they’d been watching him, they’d shifted, leaning their shoulder against the wall. Their smile a bit realer than it had been. “I bet Donnie would make me one if I asked.”

“No. No, he wouldn’t,” the Attendant retorted, a bit more mad than they should’ve been- at least until the anger in their face melted into concern, gleaming in their eyes. “He hasn’t left his lab at all today…I tried to bring him breakfast, but the door was locked. He wouldn’t let me in. I really hope he’s okay…”

A flicker of doubt. “Nah, I bet he’s fine. Just passed out at his desk again. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“He spends too much time cooped up in there, even more than he already did! He just keeps talking about some ‘big project’, something that apparently needed ALL of his attention.” The box turtle gave a tiny whine. “I just can’t wait for things to go back to normal…”

The Watchman looked away, the smile slowly falling from their face. “Me too, Mikey. Me too.” A silence- in it, the air hung thick with some negative emotion, some inexplicable grief. The slider looked back, eager to break it. “Hey… Uh, why don’t you show me your drawing? It looks really good.”

“Raph can go first.”

“I…” the Watchman sighed. “Yeah. I guess so. Raph, show us your drawing.”

The snapper took a moment to put the finishing touches on it, smiling proud, before he held it up.

The Guards just looked confused.

“That’s…” the Watchman moved to take his drawing, and he let them, let the slider turn it around in their hands; examining it from every angle. “I was expecting scribbles, but this is…”

The Attendant snatched it away. “Raphie, you drew this? Who’s that?” They held his drawing out, pointing between the figures, asking, “is that Donnie? I can’t read what that says, but is that you? And is that Donnie?”

“Huh,” the Watchman said, peering at it. “That really DOES look like Donnie. Donnie with a big needle…”

“It’s how he gets blood samples,” the Attendant explained. “I think that’s what this is.” The box turtle traced a finger around the edges of each shape, eyes flickering between Pet and his creation. Nervous. Suspicious. “Why’d you draw this, Raphie?”

To be honest? He didn’t really know. It was something that’d happened last night, something he hadn’t quite understood…some half-faded memory, some half-forgotten dream; an old nightmare, haunting these empty halls. Some vision of the Warden, their body shaking like the ground beneath them was giving way, and their fingers; gripped tight around a capped needle. Blurry words. Blurry actions. Blurry sentences- what he knew were threats, just in a language he couldn’t quite speak. Turns out, it wasn’t any easier to parse on paper.

The snapper reached for his teddy bear. The one the Warden had given him, a couple of days back…it’d been for a test of some kind, but they’d never ended up taking it away. Regardless, he pulled it into his arms, pressing his lips to the fur; breathing in its scent. Old and frayed, tied around the bear’s neck was a ribbon. He drew the ends of it into his mouth, playing with them between his teeth- spitting out any loose threads onto the concrete. Sitting together, Pet and his little friend watched the Guards deliberate.

“What’s that say? I can’t tell.” The Watchman pointed to the words he’d written, the messy black lines; studying it, like he’d hidden some massive, terrible secret in the crayon wax. Rambling, they continued, “it’s not Spanish, I’ll tell you that. But it doesn’t look like English either. I don’t know what it says.”

The Attendant’s brow knit, now their turn to sound things out. “Uh…I think it’s…um. Lee-thul, said-a-tive? I don’t know if it IS a word, but-”

“Hold on.” The Watchman put their hand up, stopping the box turtle in their tracks. “Say that again?”

“Um…lee-thul said-a-tive?”

Something very, very dark passed over the Watchman’s face. Slowly, they repeated their sentence, some horrible puzzle beginning to solve itself behind their eyes. “Again.”

“I SAID, lee-thul said-a-tive.” The Attendant put their hands on their hips. “Leo, what are you-?”

The Watchman cut them off.

“Lethal sedative.” Eyes hard like steel, the slider’s hand clamped down on the Attendant’s shoulder; grip white-knuckle tight, like the both of them would crumple. “Is that what it says? Lethal sedative?”

The world itself stopped turning.

For what felt like forever, the room was pin-drop silent, enough to make each heartbeat a gunshot in his ears- strangely terrified, Pet tucked his teddy bear under his chin. His tail curled around his legs. Both of the Guards were stood stock-still, like statues of grief…not daring to even breathe, the snapper watched the Attendant’s eyes go wide, their gaze flickering from piece to piece. The box turtle’s hands went tight.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

A jolt of alarm shot through Pet’s system. It must’ve shot through the Watchman’s system too, because their mouth just kept opening and closing. Choking on words left unsaid. The Attendant was boiling with a kind of rage he’d never seen before- it was honestly scary, the way they could shift so quick. In the back of Pet’s mind, something whispered Doctor Delicate Touch. He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know, but the thought was gone as soon as it came.

The Watchman flinched. “Mikey, don’t you think-?”

“When I get my hands on him…” The Attendant launched themselves to their feet, eyes burning bright with fury. “Ohhh, he better hope his door is locked.”

“He’s gone too far this time,” the Watchman half-argued, half-agreed. “He’s making a huge mistake.”

“How could he do this? How could he even think of doing this?!” The Attendant gripped Pet’s drawing so hard the paper started to rip. They seethed, “don’t you understand? He’s trying to commit murder!”

Pet whimpered. The sound was lost in the chaos.

“Mikey,” the Watchman reasoned, “let’s talk about it. You know Donnie doesn’t really think things through.”

The slider put an arm around the Attendant’s shoulder. The box turtle jolted, trying to shrug it off, but the Watchman refused- the Attendant glared at them, eyes narrowed into tiny crinkled slits. “No. We’re gonna confront him about this, right now. He can’t get away with this. We can’t just pretend like this is OKAY!”

“Mikey…” Glancing at their Prisoner, the Watchman began to herd their fellow Guard towards the door. “Donnie’s always thinkin’ of backup plans, you know that…”

“But he can’t just do this! He can’t just hide something like this from us, it’s not fair!”

“It’s not,” the Watchman agreed. Even as they drifted away, the box turtle just kept fighting. “I know, it’s really not. But let’s talk about this somewhere else…”

Pet made a soft noise, grinding his teeth down hard on his teddy bear’s ribbon. He’d gotten the Warden in trouble. He wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about that, whether to feel guilty or start jumping for joy…as the Guards drifted towards the door, still arguing, it was like they’d forgotten he was even there. He didn’t even get to keep his drawing. The Attendant took it with them out the door, clenched tight in their first. The scattered crayons. The sheets of paper. The bag of candy- it was the only proof the Guards had ever been here at all.

Just like that, the snapper was completely alone.

Pet didn’t like being alone…even if, at this point, it was basically his default state. He mimicked the sound of the lock, click-click-click, as the Guards shut the door behind them, but it went completely unnoticed- his noises faded out into the empty air. He whimpered, but that sound faded out too. His Cell was utterly, entirely silent. That was what scared him the most.

If his Master asked him what he hated the most about being alone, about being in Prison, and he only got to pick one thing, Pet would say it was the silence. How quiet this place got, when sound wasn’t pumping through the halls. No sound but the sound of his own breathing, whatever could seep its way in through the walls or slither underneath the door frame- always with the same low rumbling, a rhythmless, unfamiliar tune. The sound of the pests in their cities above. The sound of meat- so close, yet so tauntingly, untouchably far. A sound that came from nowhere and everywhere and heaven, all at once. He didn’t like it. It made him feel like he was being watched.

And well, he was, but still.

In the quiet- in the solitude- it was always so easy to convince himself that the Prison itself was alive. Alive like the Technodrome, he meant. The Warden’s security camera, the concrete, the cold stone pressed under his feet, against his back- it was so easy to believe that he’d been enveloped, swallowed whole by some massive, concrete beast. His Cell could so easily be a stomach. That low rumbling could so easily be a growl. The tendons of this place, running slick with cold blood instead of hot, the Guards its little blood cells, dashing in and out with signals for the nerves; in the quiet- in the solitude- anything and everything could be the sign of a predator. The sign of a hunt. Every crack could have an eye peering through it. Each shadow was a monster in the dark.

Pet clutched his teddy bear a bit more tight.

Gingerly, a tremor running through him, Pet claimed the bag of reward candy. Fleeing back to his sleeping-pile, he pulled the blankets up around him, a defensive little hideaway supported entirely by his shell and some pillows- in this new, warm darkness, he scooped an entire handful of candy into his mouth, crushing it between his teeth. Savoring the taste. Making a soft noise, he buried himself and his teddy bear further inside.

He could hear the Guards arguing through the walls. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he could hear their anger, loud and clear…their words overlapping like oil on water, incoherent and flammable. He could hear it, the way their voices raised. The way their fight drifted through the hallways like bonfire smoke, leaving the burnt smell of it wherever in the Prison they went. He could hear the Watchman’s crutch clicking against the ground, the Attendant’s fist banging on some foreign, faraway door…and above it, maybe the loudest sound of all, the Warden’s complete and utter silence. Pet shivered in his makeshift blanket fort.

Still clutching the bag of candy, he popped another piece of it into his mouth. One of the red ones. The artificial cherry. This time, he didn’t bite down- he just turned it over on his tongue, focusing on the taste. Listening to the Guards scream and rave through the walls. Trying his best to stay still.

He wasn’t sure how long the whole thing lasted…until the Attendant’s voice gave out, at the very least; their frenzied knocking dying down into tiny thumps. Until the candy in his mouth had dissolved, breaking down into color and chemicals- stuff that dyed his spit with sugar. Until he felt safe to start breathing again. Gathering up all his courage, he opened the front of his little fort, checking if the coast was clear…it looked like it was. The snapper crawled out on his hands and knees. His blanket shelter collapsed behind him. 

His teddy bear and the candy bag. One of them, he held in his lap, sitting it down like a child on his crossed knees- the other he deposited on the floor, setting its contents free to roll about from the packaging. Pet picked one of them up, a green one, and turned it around in his hands.

The Guards weren’t arguing anymore. That was nice…that made things a little less scary. For him, at least. For now. At once, like a jolt through his system, he realized something; a fact that he’d simply forgotten. He hadn’t offered his little friend any of the candy. It had heard the yelling too, it was probably just as scared as him, and he’d kept the candy all to himself. That was no good. That was no good at all. They were in this together, weren’t they? It deserved some candy. Pushing the green candy against its fur, he held his plushie gently, trying to get it to eat.

The teddy bear, for its part, didn’t do anything at all.

Pet furrowed his brow. A bit frustrated, he pushed again. Why wasn’t it eating? He didn’t understand. Making a low noise, he pushed the candy harder against its flat mouth, until it stuck against his teddy bear’s fur; staying there when he drew back his hand. Satisfied, the snapper huffed, bunting his head against his plushie like a cat. Gently returning it to the floor. Gathering up all of the scattered crayons, he started to organize them into neat rows and lines- making whatever sounds came to him, growls and babbles and words. Practicing his new trick in the relative safety of his Cell.

“Luh-ee-oh.”

Leo. If anything, to the Guards, it was a highly useful word. Leo meant reward. Leo meant candy. Leo meant a happy Attendant, meant a beautiful, radiant smile- a reward almost as good as the candy, if a bit more difficult to come by. Tricks. Those were his currency, in this place; doing what the Guards told him and doing it well. It’s how he earned his keep. If he could just keep doing this, be the Goodest Boy he could possibly be, maybe he could win each one of them over.

Practice makes perfect, after all.

“Luh-ee-oh. Lee-oh. Leeeeeee-oh.” The snapper pushed the words out, trying to force them familiar on his tongue- trying to say it how the Attendant said it, what now felt like forever ago. “Lee-ohhh. Lee-oh. Leo.”

He was actually getting pretty close. It was sounding more like a word, now, instead of some strange, unnatural growl- still not perfect, but getting there. Pet huffed again, curling his tail around his legs. Grinding his teeth together. Digging his snaggletooth into his lip. Breathing out sharp, capturing the last bits of sweetness on his tongue, he resolved to keep trying. If he wanted to earn the Guards’ affection, he had to get it perfect.

“Leoooooo. Leeeeeeo. Lee-oh. Leo.”

A shadow passed in front of the door, blocking the light that filtered in underneath- someone walking by outside. One of the Guards, surely. Now was his chance to prove himself. Chirping, Pet practiced the word in his head before he spoke it, studying the ins and outs of each syllable; fingers twitching, aching to pick up his teddy bear again. He had to get it absolutely, utterly, completely Perfect.

“Leo?”

The shadow stopped dead in its tracks.

And the door began to unlock. It made the same noise, the same click-click-click it always had, but the sound was different this time, almost shakier; like the hand that held the deadbolt was trembling. Achingly slow, the door began to creak open. As soon as it did, there came a flood of light, a tidal wave- and there, backlit in the doorway, stood the Watchman. Eyes wide like shock, one hand braced against the hinges. Their face painted with some fragile, undefinable emotion. Opening and closing, the slider’s mouth flapped uselessly as they tried to find the words, ending up with nothing at all. The snapper just sat there and watched them tremble.

“Raph…? You, uh…you called for me?”

Pet tilted his head and blinked. To be honest, he hadn’t planned that he’d get this far. This wasn’t the Guard he’d wanted, he’d been hoping for the Attendant to come instead…but really, the Watchman was just as good. They had the potential to be, at least.

Their crutch making a high, sharp noise against the ground, the Watchman took a cautious step forward; distanced, like the snapper might bite. And maybe he would. The Guard raked their eyes across him, something they did time and time again, and this time, something about him stoked the dying fire inside the Watchman’s soul- just like the Attendant, they scoured him, searching, reaching for something undefinable inside his head. Something that Pet honestly didn’t know was there. Either way, he resolved to try. It was only fair to them.

Tilting his head the other way, Pet spoke again. “Leo?”

“Yeah. That’s…” The Watchman came a little further in, still keeping a reasonable distance; settling against one of the walls. “That’s me, buddy…that’s me. Was there…um, was there something you…?”

Oh. The snapper understood now. His new trick. Leo. That series of sounds. That was how you summoned the Watchman, wasn’t it? That was its callsign. That explained, then, why he got the slider, instead of the Warden or the Attendant- he needed to learn their callsigns, too. And hadn’t they said them all, earlier? Hadn’t the Guards been discussing each other, when he and the Attendant lay drawing? He couldn’t quite remember, now. It didn’t really matter, though. Not really…after all, he had the rest of his life to learn. Pet just tilted his head again, back the other direction, and chirped.

“Lee-oh.”

“Yeah, Raph. Lee-oh. That’s me.” The hallway light formed brilliant pools in the nooks and crannies of Pet’s cell, illuminating each golden hair of his teddy bear’s fur; eyes still trained on him, the Watchman took another step forward, seeming almost desperate. “That’s… That’s me, Raph, that’s me. That’s my name. That’s me. Don’t you…?”

It wasn’t that the Watchman was close to crying, exactly. He isn’t really a crier, supplied some choked, half-dead corner of Pet’s psyche. Not even as a kid. No, there weren’t any tears in the slider’s eyes as they stepped forward, eyes locked on his, like he held some ultimate, final answer- but the tone in their voice, it was…

“Say it again,” the Watchman begged. In the silence that came, an awful smile crossed the green expanse of their face; their lips beginning to tremble. “C’mon, say my name. Lee-oh. You got it right, Raph, that’s me… Leo, that’s me…” Shoulder braced against the wall, one arm gripping tight on the handle of their crutch, the slider’s free hand moved to cup their mouth, fingers splayed sideways across the angles of their cheek. “Lee-oh. C’mon, Leo. Please, you got it right…c’mon, please, just say it again? Please, Raph, please, just…”

The Watchman’s sentence petered off. And they never once stopped staring.

For one long, surreal moment, Pet shifted, sweating under the intensity of the Watchman’s burning gaze. Like some strange magic, it was as if the snapper could suddenly read his Guard’s very mind- in the silence that came between them, it was so easy to plumb those blackened depths in the ring of the Watchman’s iris.  It was so easy to see, in their eyes, in their body, that they were just waiting on a cue.

A cue. They were waiting for him to say his line. The two of them, actors on a stage, performers for an audience that neither of them would ever truly know; Pet looked at the slider and realized, and for once, that in the Watchman’s eyes, it was not they who was Guard and he who was Prisoner. It was he who held the key to their absolution, a line in a play whose script he couldn’t remember. Looking up from where he knelt, the Watchman loomed above like an altar- a religious man in no right, Pet could see in their eyes, that they were waiting and praying for a miracle.

And like any coward faced with absolute trust, the snapper just turned and looked away.

He couldn’t see what happened, obviously, but just from the sound, he could tell that the Watchman shattered. When he looked back up, the slider was cupping their own chin, leaning into the palm of their free hand; shoulders trembling like great tectonic plates. Still shaking, they went to speak.

“G-d. Of course you weren’t…of course you weren’t calling for me. Of course you don’t remember.” The Watchman smiled, the Watchman laughed, but there was no joy in it- the sound was bitter and cold and lost, like a burned out, long-dead sun. “G-d, of course…I’m so stupid. I’m so sorry, Raph. I’m such an idiot.”

Pet whined. He didn’t like hearing the slider talk like that…he didn’t like it when the Guards were sad. He was stupidly attached. And yet, the Watchman had left the door open…the snapper’s gaze flickered between his Guard and the open hallway, fingers twitching at his sides. Nobody was guarding it. Nothing was in his way. Again, he whined, shifting a bit closer to where the slider stood; trying to keep it out of sight, out of mind. Trying to let the Guard’s despair capture his complete attention.

“G-d, I’m sorry…” They just kept repeating it, trembling; voice hitching with the sound of pure despair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

The Watchman was supposed to be the put-together one. They were supposed to have everything under control. Between the heart-driven Attendant and the always-logical Warden, they were supposed to be the middle ground; they were supposed to be the one that was, loosely, in charge. They weren’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be joking and laughing, not coming apart where they stood. The snapper dug his snaggletooth into the soft flesh of his bottom lip.

“I’m so sorry,” they just kept repeating.

Pet just sat there, torn, fingers tapping in an endless, repeating pattern. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to make things better. He wished the Attendant was here, they could probably do this better…he wasn’t sure how he knew they were good at this, but he just did. He just knew. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees, at a loss for what to do next. The Outside of his Cell grasping at him with a strange, tantalizing pull.

Seeing the Watchman begin to break down before him, seeing their mask of false composure begin to unwind itself at the seams, Pet did what any good Prisoner would do.

He turned and bolted out the door.

“Wh-?! HEY!” The Watchman snapped to attention, left behind in the Cell alone; after a stunned moment, they called out after him, “GET BACK HERE!”

Pet didn’t listen. On all fours, he took a sharp left, scampering down the nearest hallway- running as far as he could in a random direction. Dashing through the Prison’s veins. Sticking to the shadows, keeping his breath quick and light, he watched the slider burst out the door after him, eyes slipping right over Pet’s makeshift hiding space.

“Oh my fucking- GUYS!” The Watchman turned, charging off in the complete wrong direction. “GUYS, HE’S OUT! GUYS!”

As soon as the Watchman turned the corner, leaving the coast relatively clear, Pet kept running- as stealthily as he could, he darted through the empty hallways, keeping his head on a constant swivel; glancing over his shoulders, half-expecting a Guard to be around each and every corner.  His pulse, an entire drum solo in his ears.

Pet’s head whipped back around just in time to avoid running face-first into a door. Skidding to a halt, the momentum still launched him forward, palms smacking flat against the metal- his head righting itself just barely enough to spare him a concussion. This door was different from the others…a bit more futuristic in its design. He scoured it for a knob or a keyhole, and on the side, he found one. Or something that looked like one, at the very least.

A small peephole. A little bar underneath it, reflective and black. Rearing up on his knees, the snapper pressed his non-Kraang eye against the opening, fingers on the bar, trying to peer inside. The peephole- a camera, apparently- flashed in his face, leaving him scrabbling, blinking, temporarily blind.

“ERROR,” came the voice of the Warden. Oddly stilted. Glitching, it spoke again, “retinal- ret- retinal match. Fingerprint match. Welcome, Raphael.”

The door in front of him slid open.

Adrenaline still pumping through his system, he dashed in, hitting the CLOSE DOOR button over and over- a small button on the right of the inside frame. He wasn’t exactly sure how he knew where it was, but he did. It was only when the door slid shut in front of him, re-locking, when the panic in his chest finally began to recede. Pet slid to the floor directly underneath the button, resting his shell against the wall; letting out a relieved, shaking breath. For the first time in days, he was Out of his Cell. He was finally, actually Out.

A flash of purple caught his eye.

Somehow, he didn’t know how, but he hadn’t noticed it before- laying there on the floor, curled up beside a dented trash can, was the body of the Warden. His stomach dropped like a stone. In a flash, the snapper had crawled his way to their side, a confused flurry of emotions shooting through his system; mind screaming at him to protect. Protect the Guard. Protect the child. Putting a hand in front of their snout, he checked for breath- finding it, he pressed two shaking fingers against their throat. A steady pulse. Alive, then…alive. Just sleeping.

Face-down. On the floor.

For the first time, Pet actually took a look around the place he’d locked himself in; what looked like the Warden’s…room? Security office? Lair? Their something, anyway. Really, he’d been expecting something more classically villain-y, with big spikes and sawblades. There were plenty of them, big weapon-like machines, just scattered about, but none of them were active…they all sat in various stages of decomposition, metal guts torn out for the world to see. In the back of the room was a massive computer.

The computer. Multiple screens like hydra heads, every crack and cooling vent poured out a stable, brilliant light, casting the entire room in lilac shades. Everywhere except the back of a circular table in the middle of the room, its shadow cast long and monstrous across the floor; swaddling the Warden’s crumpled body in darkness. A live feed of the Prison’s security cameras played uselessly into the open air.

Speaking of the air…it smelled familiar. So awfully, unbelievably familiar. It was coming from the table, from a half-open box sitting lonely on the top- the smell wasn’t bad, but for some reason, it made his non-Kraang eye start to prick with tears. Overwhelming him with some all-powerful, unfamiliar emotion. Taking a moment to rub the Warden’s shoulder, to reassure himself with the soft fabric of their hoodie, he dared to step forward and investigate. The closer he got, the stronger the smell became. The harder it got to keep his composure.

The box- just looking at it, some choked, half-dead part of his psyche insisted, food. It didn’t smell like meat. It didn’t smell like meat, and yet for some reason, he knew it was food all the same. Family, that same part of his brain urged, still withholding any of the context; it smells like family. Go get the box. You need it. You need to see this again. Crawling close, nose pressed to the edge of the table, he flicked the lid further open with his snout. Staring at whatever treasure lay inside.

A strange hesitation passed over the snapper. Staring at the food inside, his mind didn’t recognize it, but for some reason, his heart did, with all of its strength- it was a memory that transcended Kraang. A memory that lingered, hiding within the flesh. An artifact of the Before Times. How did it get here? How did the Guards find something from his old pest planet, that home-that-wasn’t-home, a place that the Kraang had surely already purified with holy flame? It didn’t make any sense. It didn’t make any sense, but at this point, tears had begun to gather and blur in the base of his non-Kraang eye. Shaking his head hard, blinking quick, he willed them not to fall.

He hadn’t really minded before, but it was really dark in here…the only light being from the computer, harsh and purple, the lettering on the box was washed-out, barely legible on the side. If only to try and make sense of things, he tried to read it anyway. At least from this angle, he could make out the words’ vague shape.

TONY FAMILY PIZZA, it said. Order for Donatello Hamato.

Pet decided to leave it alone. Out of sight, out of mind. The more he looked at it, the more a sad, strange longing began to burn at his heart like acid in his chest.

Behind the table, the Warden’s computer- the massive mechanical monster, a dragon that hissed and whirred and breathed out light. The hydra. The looming machine. On his hands and knees, looking up at it, Pet sorta felt like he was looking at an angel. An old-style angel, though, a torah angel…the kind with wheels and wings, prefacing their prophecies with BE NOT AFRAID. He was, though. He was afraid. Crawling over, pushing away the wheelie chair at the desk, he approached the angel; half fascinated and half terrified. Holding his breath like cards against his chest.

A keyboard. Headphones. A mousepad. A mouse. None of this looked like Kraang technology, none of it looked anything like the Technodrome…it was just so sterile. So strangely, familiarly new. Searching the many screens, Pet looked for any kind of bedroom, somewhere better than the floor for the Warden to rest. Though, maybe it was only Cells and common rooms that had cameras. Next to the keyboard was a giant toggle switch- SECURITY SYSTEMS, ON/OFF; gingerly reaching out, the snapper flicked it to OFF. They didn’t really need security systems. The Warden didn’t really need to be watching his every move, anyway.

The Warden. He’d have to do a little searching, probably…searching for a couch or a bedroom or a bed, or even just the supplies for a sleeping-pile; anywhere other than the floor, really, to build the softshell their little nest. Turning back to the Guard on the floor, he prepared to get going-

And he stopped dead in his tracks.

The table. On that round table in the middle of the room, there sat something new- something that hadn’t been there before. He was sure of it. A little stand with an artifact, something intricately carved from tannish-brown rock. A statuette. A Key. The second Pet clocked it, a new dose of adrenaline ran hot through his blood. The thing his Master had told him to fetch. There it was, just sitting there on the table, an impossibly easy solution…a test of faith. He hesitated, and the Key’s carved eyes just sat there, staring at him. Almost tantalizingly easy for him to take.

But…but the Warden. He should deal with them first. Right? They looked so vulnerable, and the ground was so cold…he could always come back for the key later. Couldn’t he? The Warden was never his favorite Guard, sure, but he still couldn’t bear to see it suffer. Right now, he needed to get them to bed. They needed somewhere softer than the floor to sleep. (This protective instinct. This love. It burned in a familiar, acid-eaten spot in his chest.)

But what if he couldn’t come back? What if this was his only chance? The future was never a guarantee. What if the Guards found him again? What if they dragged him back to his Cell? What if they never let him go, not ever, ever again? The Watchman looked so angry when he got out, and he didn’t want to get stuck in there again, not yet, not ever…he wanted just a little more time on the outside. Just a little bit more time. But now that he’d escaped...now that he’d shown them that he could…

Well. It was very unlikely that they’d let him try again.

Security systems could be upgraded. Doors could always have more locks. Honestly, the Warden’s door letting him in felt kinda like an accident in the first place, like a glitch in the system…a trick he couldn’t pull off twice. This may be his only chance to get the Key. This might be his only chance to take back what was always rightfully Theirs.

But the Warden…

But the Key!

Rearing back, the snapper dug his nails into his skin, clutching his head in his hands. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like having free will! He didn’t like having to think for himself! Why couldn’t someone else just make the decision for him?! Someone smarter, someone better- someone more? He froze up under pressure, they should know that! He missed the Technodrome, how they’d commanded him, molded him entirely to their will…he needed someone else to order him around. He was an attack dog, not a tactician. He needed someone to tell him which thoughts he Could and Couldn’t have. He didn’t know how to live with himself without it.

Think, idiot, think. He needed to make a decision. If he went to put the Warden to bed, went to search for a bedroom, there was always a chance of running face-first into a Guard; a Guard who might drag him back to his Cell before he could even get anything done. If that happened, his chances of getting the Key effectively went to zero. But he couldn’t just abandon the Warden! Maybe he could run the Key back to his Cell, and then come back to collect them? Assuming he didn’t get caught in the process? Would that work? Would it?

Like a tidal wave, a surge of thoughts that were-and-weren’t his, flooding his head with noise- the Key the Key the Key, it insisted, get the Key. Remember who you belong to. You need to get the Key. The thoughts were so intense, they were almost deafening. His mind screamed for the Key, but his heart insisted, you have to take care of the Warden first…the snapper just cradled his head, whimpering in response. Too much pressure. Too much responsibility. His non-Kraang eye burned with tears. His Kraang eye burned too, but with a more regular, stinging sort of pain- like a shock collar on a dog, ensuring his compliance. Like encouragement to get going already.

Pet glanced between his Key and his Guard. The others could be here any second now, he was running out of time…but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He couldn’t bring himself to choose.

Unless…

Unless he didn’t have to choose at all.

Pushing himself to his feet, Pet gazed around the room; taking in the sights. The Key on the table. The Warden on the floor. What up until now he’d considered his only two options. The light from the computer, brilliant and bright, so intense it even dyed the shadows purple- filtering out into the hallway, down the short path back to his Cell. Up until now, he’d thought that he only had two options, but maybe he was thinking of this wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he could kill two birds with one stone.

Stumbling back over to the Warden’s side, he crouched, picking them up by the back of the hoodie; holding them like a child in his arms. Caressing the soft fabric. Maybe he didn’t have to choose. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as he seemed. Standing there, cradling the Warden in his arms, Pet was going to commit some of his biggest blasphemy yet.

He was gonna come up with a Plan.

Someone was touching Donnie’s face.

As his consciousness trickled back to him, senses seeping in through the black, that was the first thing he registered. That he was warm, that the ground was soft, and that someone was poking him in the forehead. Directly between the eyebrows. Groaning, the softshell clamped his eyes further shut; trying to temper his own disappointment. He’d fallen asleep on the clock. He’d wasted precious time. Both of these things, things that he’d promised himself he WASN’T going to do. Smooth moves, genius, his mind berated, snout wrinkling with frustration- he’d only been awake for a few seconds, and he was already failing at something. Typical. Just typical. Ab-sol-utely typical.

Mm, but the ground was so soft, though…so warm. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe a little sleep was good for him, in the long run. Just maybe, he’d stop seeing those shadow people in the corners of his eyes. Judging by the silence and softness of the room, he probably wasn’t in his lab anymore, which meant that someone- probably Leo- had dragged his sorry ass to bed…Donnie wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Before the Incident, before the Problem, it would’ve felt like an act of affection. Now, it was more like a violation of trust.

Still.

Whoever was poking Donnie in the forehead, they weren’t stopping. Their finger traced, almost reverent, across the ridge of his brow, working all the way up to the tails of his mask- tugging lightly, almost experimentally at the fabric. Someone was clearly trying to get him awake. Groaning again, the softshell peeled open his eyelids, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The world was blurry with exhaustion, but at the same time, strangely sharp…he’d fallen asleep with his contacts in, hadn’t he? Another failure on his end. Vaguely in front of him, a face swam in and out of view. A green claw moved to trace the angles of his cheekbones. Raph’s face. It was just Raph…that’s okay, then. Eyes fluttering shut again, Donnie sighed; resisting the urge to beg for five more minutes.

Wait.

It was Raph.

All at once, shooting through his system like electricity, the part of Donnie that knew logic jolted awake. 

The Problem. It was right in front of him. How did it get here? His eyes shooting open, breathing hitching in his throat, Donnie frantically pressed his body against the nearest wall- trying and failing to get away. The monster in his house was knelt beside him, making cooing noises and garbled nonsense. The softshell grabbed the blankets underneath him in a white-knuckled grip. Good g-d, he’d somehow ended up in the thing’s bed.

Not daring to even breathe, Donnie just stared at the thing, eyes wide and terrified. Head running through a billion different calculations at once. How the hell did he get here? More importantly, what the hell did the Problem think it was doing? The thing in his brother’s skin, it moved to tuck him in, pulling a blanket up around his chest- Donnie shied away from its hand. In response, the Problem just tilted its head. Like it didn’t understand. Like some kind of sick, unfunny joke.

At least the kennel door was still open.

Shifting into a proper sit, Donnie’s elbow hit hard against something sharp and dense beneath the blanket. He let out a soft hiss of pain. He’d observed, before, how the Problem would hoard objects under its pile of blankets, like a dragon- trinkets, plushies, the first plate it’d been given. Somehow, it never seemed to cause the beast a disturbance. Maybe it was because its blankets were the densest and softest ones from Mikey’s room. The box turtle had always been sentimental like that. Still, Donnie had caught one of its harder “treasures” at just the wrong angle…for a moment, he wondered what the hell it could possibly be.

But then the Problem made a soft noise, a mewl. And Donnie remembered the situation he was currently in.

“Guys…?” His voice caught in his throat, coming out a breathless whisper; Donnie took a deep, trembling breath, and resolved to try again. “GUYS?”

From somewhere down the hallway, Leo’s voice. “Whaddya want?”

“IT…” Donnie would’ve commented on the venom in his brother’s tone, but the Problem reached out, tracing the line of his jugular in his neck. Donnie shuddered. “IT’S TOUCHING ME.”

The silence was deafening.

“What?” Doubt. Incredulity. Senses heightened from the adrenaline, Donnie could hear Leo’s crutch clicking against the ground, drawing near- he could hear a second pair of feet, probably Mikey’s, shifting at the slider’s side. For some reason, their youngest brother wasn’t talking. “What d’you mean, it’s touching you?”

The softshell tried to pull away from the beast, from the touch of its stolen hand, but it just followed him where he leaned. Donnie reported back, “THE PROBLEM. THE PROBLEM, IT WON’T- IT WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE.”

The sound of footsteps, now. Two sets, drawing closer. Leo and Mikey. G-d, he hoped they got here quick…breath hitching, Donnie kept trying to lean away from the Problem’s touch, but there was nowhere left to go. For a small, beautiful moment, it moved, and Donnie thought he had his chance to run- but no. It sat down beside him, uncomfortably close, and casually rested its cheek against his shoulder. Staring directly into his soul. It chirped in his direction, and Donnie just shuddered.

G-d… he REALLY hoped he wasn’t pissing it off.

Right as Donnie started to contemplate the Spotify playlist for his funeral, Leo appeared in the doorway- and if the situation was anywhere close to funny, his brother’s double-take would’ve made Donnie laugh. But it wasn’t. And it didn’t. He just sat there, staring at his twin, shivering in the Problem’s grip; waiting for someone to come and take it away.

“Leo?”

His brother’s expression was unreadable. Somewhere between angry and disbelieving, with a healthy dose of pure confusion. Glancing between Donnie and the Problem, Leo, in all of his genius, opened his mouth and asked-

“What? In the fuck?”

Sighing, Donnie deflated like a balloon. His answer, the truth, came out almost comically pathetic. “I…I don’t know how I got here. I passed out in my lab.”

“Huh. Is that where he…?” For a moment, Leo seemed to be considering something. There came a brief silence. And then, just then, for some g-ddamn reason, Donnie’s brother settled back, almost too casually, on his heels; an amused smile playing out over his lips. “Well…I guess he likes you, then. More than I can say for Mikey.”

“Wh- Mikey? What does Mikey have to do with it?” Now that he mentioned it, their youngest brother wasn’t anywhere in sight…though maybe he was just waiting beside the door. Briefly clamping his eyes shut, Donnie shook his head, like he was trying to dislodge the train of thought. “Nevermind, that doesn’t matter! Why’re you being so casual about this?! Get it off me!”

Leo’s smile turned deadly. Staring at his brother, Donnie was beginning to notice that it didn’t quite reach his eyes- that in the slider’s expression, there held a quiet, burning rage. He wasn’t quite sure what to think about that. Still, when his brother opened his mouth, the softshell's shoulders went tight. “Nah. I don’t think I’m gonna.”

Donatello’s heart skipped a beat.

“Not funny.” The Problem made a strange, soft noise, as it tried to grab his hand. Donnie clenched it into a fist. “Get me out of here, now.”

His sharp smile never dropping, Leo shifted to lean against the doorframe. “No.”

“Wh-?! What do you mean, no?! You are DIRECTLY putting me in danger!”

“Well, y’see, Don-Don…” All too casually, Leo curled his fingers into his palm, pretending to study his nails. Completely ignoring Donnie’s pleas. “I wanted to get a chance to talk to you before Mikey did. ‘Cuz, oh, believe me, I’m mad at you. But Mikey? Oh boy. Mikey’s pissed.”

What?

“Wh-What are you talking about? I didn’t even do anything!”

Once again, Leo locked eyes with Donnie, gazing up at him from under the ridge of his brow. Expression curled with disrespect. “Didn’t you? ‘Cuz last time I checked, Mikey said that the next time he saw you with a needle, he’d- and I quote- “punt that purple son of a bitch directly into the sun”. That ringing any bells?”

The Problem made another soft noise. A whimper. Donnie roughly shrugged it off, but the beast just settled against him again; leaning heavily against his shoulder. Tail curling around Donatello’s back. “I-I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Not even a little?” Leo chuckled. The sound was empty of levity. In the same hand that held his crutch, there held a piece of paper- with a little maneuvering, Leo passed it to his other hand, holding it up so that Donnie could see. “Because Raph drew this earlier. And, y’know…we were just a tiny bit curious about what it meant.”

Crayon scribbles. Mikey was the real artist of the group, but the thing wearing his brother’s skin, its drawing shared a real resemblance to a kindergartener’s; all open lines and smudged wax. How the hell was Donnie supposed to know what this meant? Near the top of the paper, at least, were words. Squinting his eyes, Donnie leaned forward a bit, trying to read his only clue- in messy black lettering, it said lee-thul…

Oh.

Oh shit.

Rearing back, after a split second of panic, Donatello composed himself into a mask of false calm. “I don’t know anything about this,” he insisted, lying through his teeth. “I don’t even know what you’re showing me.”

Leo couldn’t have been buying it any less if ‘it’ was another Invasion. Though, to be fair, Donnie probably should’ve expected that his lie wouldn’t work. Dropping the paper, letting it flutter to the floor, Leo hissed, “don’t you even try. Donnie, what the fuck are you doing? What went wrong in your head to make you think this kinda behavior was okay?”

“It’s…ugh.” Cupping his forehead in his palm, Donnie wrinkled his snout, trying to find the right words. He probably should’ve expected this. Stupid and impulsive, of course his brothers didn’t understand…Mikey, especially, was almost dangerously sentimental. They never wanted to do what really had to be done. “It’s a last resort. Okay? It’s a precaution. I’m still working on a Cure, I’m just- I’m just trying to make sure we’re safe.”

“Yeah, about that.” Leo stepped to the side. From the doorway, a flash of trailing fabric- the color orange, just barely out of either of their reach. “Mikey and I have been discussing, and-”

“And I want to take over.”

And just like that, Mikey was there; appeared in the span of a single blink. Almost like he’d teleported, like he’d taken some invisible portal, Mikey was standing in front of him, as tall as he could make himself. Shoulders set, his fists clenched at his sides. The box turtle’s face was set with hard determination- all Donnie could do was splutter out a reproach. “Wh- take over? You don’t even know what you’re doing! You don’t even know the names of the chemicals I’m using, not to mention the chemistry-”

“No,” Mikey insisted, cutting him off. “That’s not what I meant.”

For a moment, a silence. Donnie and Mikey locked eyes. A battle of will. A childish sort of challenge, a game of chicken, seeing which one of them would back down and look away. Neither of them did. Staring at his brother, looking into the dark, angry dots of his pupils, Donnie commanded him, blink. Both brothers stood incredibly, incredibly still.

Out of the corner of his eye, in his periphery, Donnie watched the Problem. Watched its eyes flicker between the brothers and the open door. Donnie snapped, pointing at it, and Leo moved to block its path- in the brief interruption of tension, the softshell sighed, turning and looking away. Losing the battle. Endlessly tired, he capitulated, “fine. Then what did you mean?”

“Your science isn’t working,” Mikey said, simply, like it wasn’t the deepest cut he could possibly make. “It’s time to try something else.”

“But-”

“We’re respecting your quarantine, if you’re worried about that. Barry and Casey Junior are gonna text me some tips, but that’s it- nobody outside the lair is getting involved. But we are gonna try mystic stuff,” Mikey explained, like Donnie was an unruly child, “and I’m gonna be doing it myself. At this point, we’re kinda running outta options.”

“But…your hands,” Donnie protested. “They haven’t fully healed yet.”

Finally, finally, the Problem released the softshell from its grip. It moved, affectionately nuzzling its cheek against Mikey’s scarred wrist- the box turtle glanced down at it, resting a careful, care-full hand on its head. In an impossibly small voice, Mikey said, “I know.”

“But…”

Donnie tried to protest again, tried to argue the merit of magic, but with one look at his younger brother’s face, he knew better than to try. Mikey wasn’t going to budge. There was a determination on his face, one that Donnie could almost say he’d never seen before- but that wasn’t true. He had. He knew he had. He’d seen it once before, when Mikey stood on that parking lot in Staten Island, hands outstretched towards the sky- when crack by stubborn crack, his little brother had torn the universe itself apart, all to save a brother that they’d all thought was lost forever.

The thing in Raph’s body purred.

Even by Donnie’s own standards, this was…a bad idea among bad ideas. Almost monumentally stupid. But with Mikey giving him that look, with the last scraps of his dying hope, his fingers curled around one of his brother’s childhood blankets, Donatello closed his eyes; breathing out a sigh. He still didn’t trust mystic magic. He didn’t trust it at all, but time and time again, it had proven itself a useful wildcard- Leo’s very existence was living proof of that. He may not trust magic, but G-d damn it, he trusted Mikey. Donatello trusted his baby brother. Taking in a sharp breath, the softshell went to speak.

“Okay.

I guess it’s worth a shot.”

Chapter Text

Just for the record, Pet didn’t like being alone.

It was a trait of his that the universe seemed oddly insistent on reminding him of, considering just how often he ended up with only his thoughts for company. Frankly, it was getting kinda ridiculous. He was Kraang, of course he was, but underneath all of that, in the folds of his inferior genetics, he was still a social animal- thirsty for water, hungry for food, and desperately, desperately craving of attention. The gaze of another. The warmth of flesh. Beasts like him, they worked better in packs for a reason. He wasn’t SUPPOSED to be alone. He wasn’t supposed to be alone, and yet he was- and yet he continued to be.

At least this time, it felt like it had a Purpose.

A real Purpose, he meant- something other than just plain ignorance or anger. Something far, far Bigger than that. After the Guards’ big fight- their big something, anyway, seeing as he hadn’t understood almost half the words- they’d all filtered out, claiming they were going to “get things ready”; for what, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure, but the tension in the room had gone from a boil to a simmer, and he was grateful for it- whatever the hell those weirdos were cooking up, it had his full, enthusiastic support. Pet didn’t like it when the Guards were angry. Not at him, and not at each other. The sound of them yelling made his insides churn in a bad way.

Though, he did wish they’d come back…he wished they’d spend more time with him. It was a pipe dream and he knew it, but still. Even if he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy here, sitting alone on the floor, he knew his place full-well. He supposed he’d just have to get used to it.

They were probably busy, anyway. They all had some Big Important Guard Work to do. They probably didn’t have the time to sit and stay with a Prisoner, not even to soothe the odd, all-consuming nervousness under his skin; the strange terror that bloomed in him the second they stepped out of sight. And that was okay. It really was. Their work was probably more interesting than him, more Important than him, and he’d just have to get that through his thick skull already. He couldn’t expect a monopoly on their attention. Pet was a simple creature, stupid and selfish, but the Guards, the Guards were oh so complex- and yet, other than the Situation with the Warden, all of them had been so kind to him. They’d been so nice already. Really, he didn’t deserve anything more than he’d already gotten. He really should just be grateful for what he had.

(Words that meant nothing to the growing ball of jealousy in his chest.)

Still, though.

Still.

It’s not like he was really alone, now. Not after what he’d done. Not after what he’d gotten away with. Brushing a hand over his sleeping-pile, the snapper singled out his hiding spot, a space between the blankets- the place where he’d hidden his Key. The fabric was so thick, you could hardly even tell something was there. Kneading the blankets like a cat, pushing it further into the wall, he grabbed the statuette through the cotton.

Immediately, he found himself rewarded. Even not holding it directly, he could feel the pleasant thrum of it, the heartbeat of the Technodrome- it pulsed in time with his own through his wrist. A brief thrill of connection went through him, something beautiful and unique; a reminder of the Kraang’s endless Love. Pet pulled his hand away.

Soon. Soon, he told himself, not yet, but soon. The mantra itself was comforting. Soon, he would show this planet the Glory of the Kraang. They would rise again to the Technodrome. They would, but not yet- soon. He just had to wait for his Master’s signal. He just had to bide his time. The most useful thing he could do was sit here, protect the Key, and be patient. That was all that his Master was asking of him.

Man. He hated being patient.

Reaching out across the floor, to soothe his busy hands, Pet took one of the Attendant’s crayons, up from the neat little rows he’d organized them in. Brick red, this one said on the side. A perfectly suitable tool. Picking up some spare pieces of paper, he started to draw. The Kraang, the moon, the hazy figures from his dreams- what brief glimpses he remembered of his planet’s stars. Some strange nostalgia began to froth inside his chest.

Those figures. Three of them. Orange, purple, and blue. The vague figures of his past, the people he’d made up in his dreams. He drew them standing in a field of flowers, embraced by the sun, and the ache inside of him only grew stronger. He tried to draw the Guards instead, trying to get his mind off of it, but those hazy not-memories just kept insisting to stay; peeling the skin off of his lip with his teeth, Pet scribbled out their faces. His drawings looked awful anyway.

Almost as soon as he’d begun, he found himself running low on paper. What now? He didn’t want to stop drawing, considering it was the only thing keeping the not-memories at bay, but…there was nothing left to draw on. Unless he wanted to use the backs, of course- but the crayon might bleed through. Might make both sides unreadable. He didn’t want to stop drawing yet.

Unless…

Maybe he didn’t need more paper. The walls of his Cell were empty enough as-is. He’d drawn on them before, and the Guards hadn’t gotten too mad at him- sure, they’d washed it away, but that just meant he had more room to draw. If the Guards were going to leave him alone, well then, they couldn’t fault him for entertaining himself, could they? Turning to the newly-blank walls of his Cell, his empty canvas, he braced his forearms against the concrete; hesitating. For what, he didn’t know. 

Pressing the wax end of his crayon against the wall, the snapper began to draw once more.

Sentences. Words. Scribbles. Drawings. There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to it, no great artistic plan- anything that came to mind, any half-baked idea or holy prayer, he just scrawled it out, gave it a place. Filled out his canvas with madness and rhymes. On the right wall, in a shade of darkish-pink (what according to the label was ‘razzmatazz’), were all drawings; were all figments of his imagination. The controls of a rocketship. A spaceship. The Technodrome. On the left wall, in burnt sienna, were phrases, sentences, the same one on repeat- “all test no play Kraang goes bye-bye”. He wasn’t sure what it meant, if anything at all, but it’d been circling in his head for hours. Getting it out kinda felt like bloodletting, and he meant that in a good way. It felt like finally balancing his humors.

The third wall. Around the doorway, in what was apparently brick red, he drew a mural of tentacles- reaching out, embracing, the arms of the Kraang. Their eyes, watching him. Always watching. Scribbling on the back wall, the fourth wall, the one directly opposite to the door, he was almost finished with some writing when his crayon snapped in his hand. He’d been pressing it down too hard. A bit disappointed, he put it down, picking up a different one instead- what was apparently canary yellow. Thankfully, he only needed to put some finishing touches before he was done.

Settling back down, Pet sat cross-legged on the floor. A bit unsure of what to do next. Reaching out again, he picked up the Attendant’s crayons, one by one, beginning to put them all back in the box- canary yellow and razzmatazz and burnt sienna. There was probably an order they were supposed to go in, but he couldn’t quite remember. He just shoved them back in, haphazard, and threw the box back down on the floor; letting a few of the crayons rattle out from the hard landing. Hoping the Attendant wouldn’t be too mad about it.

So of course it was just then, like an act of divine comedy, that the door of his Cell clicked open.

Light. Spilling in from the open doorway, light, the silhouette of the Warden- their shadow, cast long and monstrous across the floor. Two of their fellow Guards, standing behind them. The Watchman and the Attendant. Reinforcements. Hands shaking, the Warden reached out, clutching at the door frame. Pet watched all three pairs of eyes in front of him go wide.

“Jesus christ,” the Watchman hissed. At the same time, in those exact few seconds, the Attendant reached out, taking the slider’s hand; murmuring under their breath, oh my g-d. “We were only gone a couple ‘a minutes…”

The Warden shifted, audibly swallowing. Jaw clenching tight. Their voice a bit too even, they ordered, “Leo, distraction maneuver alpha. Mikey, hand me the tranq gun.” The box turtle opened their mouth to argue, but the Warden shot up a hand, cutting them off. “Does that thing look like it’s coming willingly?”

Pet chirped the Attendant’s way. A smile spread across his face. Did they like his drawings? He worked really hard on them, the ones on the floor and the ones on the walls. He wasn’t an artist- not like them, anyway, not even close- but he really thought it came out beautifully; he was really proud of them. He really was. The box turtle wouldn’t meet his eyes, though…they refused to look his way. Instead, shoulders held tense, they turned their back, handing the Warden some boxy metal device. The Watchman somberly held up a small gray stick. Observing them, confused, the snapper tilted his head and whined.

A drop of red appeared on the floor.

A bit startled, Pet reared back, taking a moment to stare at it. Glancing up to the ceiling, looking for any kind of leak. The concrete was as smooth as ever. That ruled out one explanation, then. His gaze returning to the red thing, the whatever-it-was, he paused for a moment, watching it lay unmoving- again, he tilted his head.

The red thingy. The dot. What was it? Where had it come from? Why was it here? It didn’t look like blood, it wasn’t the right shade…didn’t smell like it, neither. Besides, he was pretty sure that nobody here was bleeding. So the question remained- what liquid was this, if it was even liquid at all? Gingerly, hand traveling slow, he reached out to touch it.

The red circle darted away.

Startled, the snapper drew back his hand; clutching it close to his chest. So the red thingy was alive! But what was it? He was still no closer to knowing. The Guards didn’t seem off-put by its existence, so they probably knew what it was- and they probably didn’t think it was dangerous, either, seeing as how nobody had made any sudden moves. (Though, that could’ve also been proof of the opposite.) Was this some sort of vermin? Something that lived in the Prison, some infestation? Or was this another test? Pet reached out, batting at it, and it slipped through his fingers- the pest was made of light. It stained the back of his palm. 

The red dot moved again, and so did he. It fled up a wall, and he turned, straining to chase it down- batting at it like that would do anything, like he could capture the light in his hand. The dot perched on the webbing between his fingers. Docile against his skin.

Up it moved again, further up the wall. Closer to the ceiling. Back fully turned to the Guards, now, raising up on his knees, Pet reached his arm up after it, body pressed against the crayon; smudging his mural across his cheek. Fingertips stretching out towards an impossible goal. Itching to hold it in his hands once more. Behind him, one of the Guards says, ready when you are. If he shifted JUST right, the dot would rest on the keratin of his nail…he moved to do it, but he didn't get the chance.

Fft. The sound of a tranquilizer dart in the air. 

The pain came a moment after the impact did, sharp and square in his bicep, and he had the span of a single breath to process it- because in an instant, the snapper’s mind was blurring into something fuzzy and vague, gravity pulling him sideways with an inescapable grasp. His head landed hard on one of the pillows of his sleeping-pile, just inches away from where he’d hidden his Key. His limbs were heavy and immovable, like dull clubs. The red dot stared down at him from its perch, impassive to it all. The snapper made a soft noise of reproach.

He knew, logically, that he should have a sense of betrayal about this. He should be mad at the Guards’ deception. But he couldn’t feel anything at all…other than the pain, quickly dying in his forearm, and a warm, sleepy pull; hauling his eyelids shut like stage curtains. The intermission of the show. His eyes began to roll up into the back of his head behind them, and there was nothing he could do about it- nothing except to breathe slow and let himself fade away. One of his arms was pinned under his plastron, already going numb against the blankets beneath. The other was sprawled palm-up across the floor.

Walking up to his side, the Watchman and the Attendant. As his vision blurred and doubled, he saw the slider put their little stick away, leaning down to grasp at his limp arm; speaking above him, across him, direct to their fellow Guard. I told you a laser pointer would work. The Attendant scoffed and went to speak. He couldn’t stay awake long enough to hear their reply.

Pet closed his eyes…

...

..

.

..

...

…and he woke up Somewhere Else.

Cold metal. Cold metal and darkness, underneath him, around him, fastened to his face- metal bars and leather straps, holding his mouth shut. Giving him the space to breathe and swallow, but nothing more. Even with his eyes closed, he knew he was laying down; spread out on some kind of table, some kind of metal-ish stretcher. The blood was already beginning to rush to his head.

Eyelids pushing open, the snapper blinked rapidly, trying to clear out the wetness gathered between his lashes. Trying to familiarize himself with the formless black. His eyes were taking longer to adjust than they should’ve…were his predator senses dulling, trapped in a place like this? He hoped not. He really hoped not. Slowly, though, painstakingly slowly, the room around him came into focus.

Gurneys. Cabinets. Scary-looking machines. The medbay, came a soft voice from the back of his mind; we’re in the medbay. The place where broken people went to get fixed. Why was he here? Was he broken? The Guards seemed to think so. He didn’t really know how or why, but he recognized this room…it was so vaguely, tantalizingly familiar. The whole Prison was, in a way. As if responding to his thoughts, discouraging them, his Kraang eye started to pulse with sharp pain. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

Pet tried to reach up, tried to rub the pain away, but…he couldn’t. For some reason, he couldn’t move his hands an inch. They wouldn’t budge. Head twisting to the side, he quickly realized why: his wrists were strapped down, held in place by metal cuffs. Tied to the table beneath. Laying there, pinned like a butterfly, a spike of pure panic shot through him at the realization. His stomach dropped to the planet’s core.

Bound hands never meant anything good.

Pet’s heartbeat started to race inside his chest, pounding like he’d run a marathon. Ironic, considering he couldn’t even move. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t get up. He couldn’t escape if he needed to. His legs were free to push uselessly against the metal, and he did, desperately trying and failing to get away- shoulders free, he thrashed, knowing full-well he wasn’t going anywhere. He was stuck. He was trapped. They’d got him. Breath hitching, he opened his mouth to pant; to start hyperventilating. The thing strapped to his jaw, that strange leather-metal mask, gave him just enough space to do it.

“Shh. You’re okay.” Someone was touching him, now. Startled, he flinched from it, but the touch remained; a steady hand against his cheek. The Attendant’s hand. Some of the darkness beside him sharpened, abstract black becoming the shapes and angles of their face. Pet whimpered. The box turtle’s presence was reassuring, but not reassuring enough. “You’re okay, Raph, you’re okay. Shh. You’re okay. It’ll all be okay in a minute.”

From his other side, his left side, closer to the door, the Watchman. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear their voice- could hear the concern bleeding through. “Can’t we, like, turn on the lights, or something…? Why’s it gotta be so dark in here? Raph doesn’t like the dark.”

Inside the snapper’s head, chiming in, a familiar voice. The same one from earlier, whispering soft- that choked, half-dead voice of reason. He’s right, it said, we don’t. We never have. For a moment, Pet furrowed his brow, reaching out internally, trying to find where the voice was coming from. The awareness, the answer- it just slipped like sand through his fingertips. Nevermind, then. It probably wasn’t that important. Focusing back on the conversation at hand, Pet squinted, trying to get the Watchman in focus.

(Trying to ignore the anxiety building in him, like a receding shoreline in his chest.)

The Attendant was speaking again. “Barry said that the room should be dark and quiet, especially for our first try.”

That answer didn’t really seem to please them. A piece of darkness near one of the cabinets sharpened, turning into the Watchman’s silhouette- crutch under their arm, shell pressed back against the wall; leaning back, faux-casual, on their heels. When they went to speak, it was a question. “Didn’t, like, Casey Junior say that future-you had a bunch ‘a candles? For this exact purpose?”

“Well, now-me doesn’t have any candles, so. No. We’re not doing that.”

“Still…”

Still.

Still.

In the brief silence that came, Pet shifted, rubbing his shoulder against his jaw- hooking one of his spikes between the metal bars of his mask. That leather-metal monstrosity the Guards put on him. The thing holding his mouth closed. Twisting, pulling his head in the opposite direction, he actually made a bit of progress dislodging it before he stopped- before he was stopped, by a familiar, terrible sound. But of course, by then, it was all over anyway.

The sound of finger against palm, a snap. The sound of the Warden pointing. The death knell of many a failed exploration attempt, back on that first night, when he hadn’t been put in his Cell yet- when he was more unruly but just as curious. The softshell’s voice, a weapon of simple, deadly efficiency- from somewhere behind him, they commanded,

“Don’t let him do that. Mikey, stop him.”

And stop him they did. Gently but firmly, the Attendant grasped at his jaw, holding it still; whining, Pet gazed up at them with pleading eyes. His favorite Guard. His only hope. C’mon, they had to know he didn’t like this, right? They had to know this was scaring him. It should’ve been obvious in his expression. Staring at them, eye-to-eye,  he tried to tell them without words, he’d do what they wanted, so long as they took the mask off. He’d be a Good Boy. He’d behave. He’d follow their every order, so long as they allowed him his hands free- he just didn’t want to be on this table anymore. He wanted to feel the ground beneath his feet.

The box turtle didn’t help him, though. They didn’t even pretend. Carefully unhooking his shoulder-spike, the Attendant guided his shoulder back against the table, holding it there for a moment- a promise, a silent threat. All the snapper could do was make a frustrated noise through his teeth. Damn it, why couldn’t they tell they were making him uncomfortable? Why couldn’t they tell he was afraid?

Unless…

Unless they wanted him to scare him. Unless that was the point.

As the Watchman drew a few steps closer, ever-accompanied by the clicking of their crutch, Pet made a soft, terrified noise; the word Punishment circling in his head like a mad carousel. Maybe in response, the slider stopped dead in their tracks. Staring at him. Hesitating. Maybe they’d heard his little noise. Maybe they hadn’t. Either way, after a tense moment, they kept walking, shifting their hold on the bar of their crutch. Either way, when they went to speak, sarcasm dripped thick from each syllable.

“Wow, Donnie. The muzzle was a great idea.” The Watchman passed by on his right, disappearing somewhere behind him. Over to where the Warden presumably stood. “Make ‘im even more scared than he already is, that’s genius…”

The Warden huffed with irritation. “Casey Junior told me that the infection can be spread through bite and blood. I’m not taking any chances.”

“Sure,” the Watchman scoffed, venomous. “Sure, yeah, ‘cuz it’s all about safety, with you. ‘S always been… Where’d you even get that, anyway? Do you just happen to have muzzles in all of our sizes?”

“I think you’d prefer if I didn’t answer that question.”

As the other Guards argued, the Attendant hitched a leg up, using the curves and grooves of his plastron as handholds; beginning to climb onto the stretcher with him. Pet shivered against the ties that bind. Swallowing thickly, he tried to jerk his hands out of the restraints, but all he got for it was a bruised wrist- halfway up, the Attendant put a hand on his shoulder, a universal sign for stop, but he couldn’t. The panic was too strong, now. It was too strong, and it was only getting stronger. He wanted the muzzle off. He wanted his hands free. He wouldn’t try to escape, please, he’d be good, he’d be Good- he just wanted his hands free. Bound hands never meant anything good, especially when he was being Punished. Especially then.

The logic went like this. If his hands were bound, that meant the Guards were expecting some kind of outburst. They were expecting him to push them away. They were expecting him to scream and tear and thrash and cry. If his hands were bound, that meant whatever they were gonna do to him would make him upset- enraged enough or in pain enough to lash out with his nails and his teeth, and of course, they couldn’t have that. If his hands were bound, they didn’t want him reacting to what they were about to do. If his hands were bound, whatever happened next was gonna hurt. That’s the way it always went. That’s the way it's always been.

Nostrils twitching inside the muzzle, the snapper opened his mouth a bit, teeth tearing strips of skin from his bottom lip. His pulse a whirlwind beat in his plastron, he shivered, hands curling into fists. The motion was comfortingly familiar. It might’ve been all the comfort he was gonna get, right now…the air curled with the scent of his own pathetic fear.

A sound from behind him, so soft he could barely hear it- the push of a button. A tiny click. Pet startled, flinching, as the table beneath him started to move. Buzzing, whirring, the part behind his head shifted, pushing it up- letting the blood pool back down to his limbs. Letting the Attendant grab at him easier. Straddling his chest like this, he and the box turtle were forehead-to-forehead, eye-to-eye. They moved to hold his head in their hands. 

Seeing their hands coming, the snapper flinched away, but there was nowhere to flinch to- at that fact, Pet whimpered in pure dread. Something dark passed across the Attendant’s face at his reaction. 

“Shh.” Whispering, the Attendant bent low, pressing their foreheads together. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. We’re trying to help you, Raph. We’re trying to help you.”

The Watchman added, “this is for your own good. It’ll only hurt a bit.”

We’re trying to help you. This is for your own good. The Kraang said that, too. Too many times for him to count. They’d say that and put things in his eyes and make him scream in agony, but right after that, they’d make him feel alive- like a high from a snake bite, it made him feel alive, the Kraang’s venom pumping through his veins. The pain would come, yes, but as soon as it did, they’d make it go away. They’d wrap him up with the universe as a blanket, kiss his head, lower the stars down into his eyes. Yes, the pain would come. But only as long as it was needed. Only so long as he deserved it. Both the Guards and the Kraang claimed to love him, after all.

So maybe they were right. Maybe it was always right, every time, when all of them had said it- maybe this wasn’t Punishment. Maybe this wasn’t Punishment at all. After all, this time, he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. Laying back, taking in a sharp breath, Pet squeezed his eyes shut, letting his fists uncurl; letting whatever was going to happen just…happen. We’re trying to help you. The Guards hadn’t lied to him yet. If the Attendant said it was for his own good, maybe it was. They wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, would they?

Would they?

The Attendant raised back up again, grip tightening on his face, and the whole world screeched to a halt. Now-or-never. The air had been filled with a clicking noise, one Pet hadn’t noticed was there until it stopped- the sound of an incessant tapping, of fingers on keys. The room was uncomfortably silent without it.

Still from somewhere behind him, the Warden. “Are you ready?” they asked. “Are we doing this?”

“Ready when you are,” the Watchman responded. There came a soft sound, a paff, the noise of flesh on fabric, and Pet realized- them and the Warden’s voices came from almost the exact same place. “Mikey?”

The Attendant hesitated. Their eyes flickered down for a moment, down to the snapper’s, and he just laid there; gazing up at them in a strange mix of anticipation and dread. “Yeah,” they answered, “I’m ready, just- just gimmie a second. Okay?”

The box turtle leaned down again. Pet made a soft, confused noise. They weren’t as close as they were before, this time, but still- the Attendant’s snout hovered mere inches away from the snapper’s muzzle, their eyes shiny and round as they held his gaze. A strange intensity in their expression. When they went to speak, their question came out a breathless whisper.

“Raph. Do you trust me?”

Of course he did. Implicitly. But he really wasn’t sure about this.

“Then trust me.”

He would. He did. Closing his eyes, leaning back into the Attendant’s hold, he let out a shaking breath; gathering courage like water in his cupped palms, slipping out and away through the cracks. This wouldn’t hurt. This wouldn’t hurt, and if it did, they’d stop. They’d fix it. They were trying to help him. This was for his own good. And it was too late to get out of it, anyway, even if he could, because above him, the Attendant said-

“Okay, guys. I’m ready.”

Breath hitching, Pet forced himself to exhale the tension from his shoulders. To stretch his fingers out, flat against the table, until his joints screamed. This was it. Now or never. Inside his head, that same fragile voice reassured, as ready as we’ll ever be.  

And just like that, the Attendant’s hands started to burn.

Burning. Fire. Searing heat and blazing flame. Mystic energy, rushing through their fingertips, dripping down from their eyes- like lava, seeping in through their palms. Between the bars of his muzzle. Their hands, hot as an oven coil against his skin. Pet tried very, very hard not to flinch away and yet still, one of his legs jerked up on instinct, bending at the knee; a hissing breath sucked in through his teeth. His shoulders twitched tense. Afraid.

The Attendant bent low again, touching their foreheads together. Staring directly into his eyes. Strangling a whimper in the back of his throat, Pet made a choked, anxious noise- whispering gentle, so endlessly gentle, the Attendant responded, “easy.” Their thumb traced the angle of his cheek.

Staring up into their eyes, leaning back into their burning hold, it suddenly occurred to Pet- it would be so incredibly easy for the Attendant to snap his neck. One quick twist to the side, that’s all it would take. One quick turn. But they didn’t. Still loving, still gentle, the box turtle’s nails curved inwards, scraping the edge of his skin; locked in a gaze almost as intense as the heat in their palms. At this point, it was almost like they were reaching through him. Two heartbeats- his and the Attendant’s- pulsed a steady rhythm in his ears. Like a connection between them both, at the same time, his vision began to bloom with orange-gold. The Attendant’s hands somehow blazed hotter than they already were.

Reaching. Burning. The air, filled with sparks of orange light. The touch against his face was hellish hot, branding-iron hot, enough for him to seriously wonder if they were melting his skin- gasping in a breath, he screwed his eyes shut. It’ll be over soon, he reminded himself, a steady mantra. It’ll be over soon. The pain would only come as needed. They’d only Punish him as much as he deserved.

The hotter the Attendant’s hands got, the brighter they burned, the more clearly Pet could see it, in his mind’s eye: a reaching hand, a blurry forest. The feeling of falling. Familiar faces, all of them rushing past. All of it, brief flashes, like polaroids; his thoughts raced at a million miles an hour, washing away every little snapshot as soon as it’d come. Slipping right through his six-fingered grasp.

Beneath them, the stretcher began to rise.

Hotter. Hotter. The Warden and the Watchman were saying something, calling a name, Mikey, but Pet couldn’t even begin to hear. The world rumbling, the static rising, the snapper’s eyes were wide open, but completely blinded by the Attendant’s golden light. Reality was burning, curling up at the edges. Unraveling itself at the seams. He couldn’t take much more of this, but it would be over soon, it would be over- he just had to grit his teeth and bear it. Jaw tight enough he’d thought his teeth would crack, he began to count the seconds.

One mississippi, two mississippi… The Guards were still talking, but Pet could barely focus- the whole world was drowned out by an endless chorus, screaming BURNING, BURNING, PAIN PAIN PAIN. Three mississippi, four mississippi. Five mississippi, six… The snapper’s nails raked across the stretcher, wrists flexing in their place. Snout twitching in the muzzle. He’d tell them to stop when he got to ten.

Seven mississippi. Eight mississippi. Just a little bit further. Just a little bit more. The Attendant’s well of gold fire, hot embers, it never seemed to run dry. All of the heat was beginning to stoke a different fire inside of him, or maybe it just melted the permafrost- either way, the result was the same. Something was churning inside of him, awful and low. Something he didn’t want alive again. Some dybbuk, some old truth. Something too great and too terrible to face. Just a little bit further, now. Nine mississippi.

Ten.

Making a low clicking noise, choked in the back of his throat, the snapper tried to tell the Attendant to stop. He’d learned his lesson. He wanted the fire and the burning to stop, now. He’d gone through enough. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he tried to sit up, but the Attendant forced him back down, holding him in place; burning hotter, hotter, as if in direct response. A spike of panic shot through his veins.

No. No. Pet tried to sit up again, tried to slide out of the Attendant’s grip, but they wouldn’t let him go. They wouldn’t let him move. No. He was- this was supposed to be over. He’d counted to ten. He’d counted to ten! Eyes screwing shut again, legs pushing uselessly against the metal, he made a pained, pleading noise. Was this what he deserved? He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand what was happening anymore. He didn’t understand what he was being Punished for.

The heat was really starting to hurt, now, more than grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it pain, more like ball-your-fists-and-pray. And pray, he did. A broken mantra, a holy prayer, circling in his head- I TRUST YOU I TRUST YOU THIS WOULDN’T HURT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OVER SOON. But it didn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop. Holy fire burned inside him like a crucible.

And just then, something inside of him clicked into place.

That description, actually, was kind-of inaccurate. It was less of a click and more of a crash, a cave-in, the bones of his plastron caving in, crumbling into charcoal, dissolving into ash; the Attendant reaching through, grasping at his heart. Their burning hands, tearing at him. Digging their fingernails into the soft expanse of his soul. 

The snapper tried to breathe and choked. Strange calm descending upon him, wrapped around the frothing ball of panic inside of him, he thought to himself, oh, this is what people mean by agony- something huge and hot and awful, like a separate entity, taking up residence inside of his chest. Leaving him jerking and twitching in the Attendant’s steely grasp. They were supposed to be his favorite Guard. They were supposed to understand him. They needed to stop. They needed to stop, they needed to stop, please, please, this wasn’t working- this was too much for him to handle. They’d already made their point.

But they didn’t stop. They didn’t stop at all. Gasping in a sharp breath, agonized, Pet opened his mouth to make a sound, any sound at all. He didn’t even get the chance.

Sharp prickling in his eye. Pain, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The fire felt targeted, now, like a surgery on his soul, crackling and popping inside of him- his blood boiling in his veins, seething with dark betrayal. They were trying to burn something out. They were trying to incinerate him. They wanted something inside of him to die.

The Kraang inside of him, it was screaming, THEY’RE KILLING YOU THEY’RE KILLING YOU THEY’RE KILLING YOU; immolating him, punishing him. Using him as a sacrifice. The rest of the snapper’s mind, it screamed just as loud- SERAPHIM, burning one, touch his lips with coal; make him holy holy holy. Purify him. Cleanse him of all his mistakes, even if he didn’t know what he did wrong. Even if he didn’t know what he did to deserve this. 

Desperate, like pleading, he promised the Guards, he’d never draw on the walls again. He’d never step foot in the Warden’s office. He wouldn’t touch any of them, not ever, ever- whatever he did wrong, he’d never do it again. Please. Please. He’d be a Good Boy, he’d be whatever they wanted, now and then and forever, he’d follow their every command- he just wanted everything to go back to normal. He just needed the heat to die. 

Scorching, blistering, the inferno inside of him blazed impossibly bright. Cauterizing his veins from the inside. Pet remembered the word STOP and remembered the word NO just long enough to say it as loud as he could, coming out either an agonized scream or a broken whisper; head jerking to the side, a useless attempt at escape. He could feel the Attendant’s eyelashes brushing against his own. Rumbling, cracking, the snapper gasped in a shaking breath, his eye sockets roaring with gleaming light. Shivering against his binds, he tried his hardest to scream, and he-

And he-

And, and-

He- 

He was-

He was slowly sinking, floating in a sea of endless, radiant light.

Pet- or Raphael, or Raph, or whatever his name was, at this point, whatever they needed him to be- was laid on his back; swaddled with color. He felt it running between his fingers. Felt it pooling in the cracks of his shell. Light. Warm, gentle light. Infinitely cold against his once-burned skin. A gradient of it ran down towards where he was, down from the surface of the water- gold becoming orange becoming red becoming pink. Dark pink. Pink like the inside of a warm body, muscles pulled taught in rigor mortis. Eyes half-lidded, the snapper floated in the midnight zone. His hands reached out impossibly towards the sky.

Down here, he didn’t need to breathe. He didn’t have to. If he wanted to, though, he could…inhaling, he let the light spill into him, buzzing like warm static inside his lungs. Hold for four, whispered an old voice, a familiar, tattered scrap of a memory. Counting the beats, it continued, hold for four, and out for five. His exhales came out bubbles. A bit curious, he studied their journey, trailing them with his eyes- watching them form at the edge of his lips. Watching their ascent to the surface. The gradient dyed them rainbow as they captured heaven’s light.

Down here, there was no agony to writhe in. There was no fire. There was no pain. There was nothing and no one at all, save for the snapper and his breath- a sleepy sort of peace nestling in his bones, he just blinked, grasping fruitlessly at the colors far above. Savoring the quiet. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually, truly, blissfully calm.

Emerging from the depths, warm and gentle, the arms of the Kraang; soft flesh, wrapping around his midsection. Enveloping him in a hug. Pulling him deeper into the abyss. Breathing deep, the snapper sighed, letting a tentacle slither under his chin- letting it tilt his head back, until the back of his skull brushed against his shell. Letting his eyes unfocus. Letting his vision become a hazy, colorful blur. It was warm down here. It was safe down here. No problems, no responsibility… nothing except the Kraang. With them, he was Loved. With them, he was Useful. That was all that mattered.

Each blink lasting mellow eons, he thought, I could stay here forever. He could stay with the Kraang forever. He could stay here, in the warm and quiet depths- he didn’t have to go back to the Guards and their fire, not yet. He didn’t have to wake up yet. He didn’t have to go back. He could stay here, with them. He could become Mindless, a creature of pure devotion, lulled into an endless, blissful sleep…rotting from the inside out. He could stay here. He could stay with the Kraang. He could stay with them. Forever. Forever. He could stay with them forever.

But you can’t. You know full-well you can’t.

A familiar voice, rippling through the water. Soothingly familiar. Soothingly divine. Mind Raph…that or something similar, he really couldn’t tell. Some nagging voice of conscience. Either way, it was wrong. He could stay- he Had to. He didn’t want to go back to the fire, the Seraphim, the burning burning burning pain. He didn’t want to go back yet. Not yet, and not ever. He could stay here. He could Sleep.

No, the voice argued, his own voice- you can’t. You know you can’t. You know they all still need you.

The Kraang. The Kraang needed him. He still hadn’t gotten his Master their key. The Kraang, they needed him, they Loved him; he was their Dog, their loyal Pet. The Kraang Loved Him. To them, he was a he and not an it, a privilege he didn’t even begin to deserve- he needed them and they needed him. He didn’t want to let that go.

Think of your brothers. Think of your family.

No. No, he didn’t have any brothers. Liar. Heathen. Betrayal. Eyes clamping shut, the snapper violently shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought- trying to shake away the blasphemy. He didn’t have brothers. He didn’t have a family. Not anymore, at least. Those blurry figures from his dreams, blue and purple and orange, they weren’t real- lonely and delusional, he’d made them up, lacking a Master to obey. Dogs like him, they needed Masters. They needed a Purpose.

The Kraang had showed him that. The Kraang showed him the Truth. The Kraang said he’d made it all up, trying to fill the void where a Master should have been- tricking himself into believing he was anything more than property, an attack dog, a tool to pet and bite. Good Boys know that the Kraang are never wrong.

Open your eyes, the voice pleaded. You know something’s wrong. You can feel it.

No! No, he didn’t want to. This was some trick, some Satan, some ploy. He knew his worth, with the Kraang. He knew his Purpose. Even if he did have brothers- which he didn’t- they clearly didn’t want him anymore. Nothing was wrong. Everything was fine. He wasn’t scared, he wasn’t- he couldn’t still feel the phantom burn of the Attendant’s fire, blazing underneath the skin of his cheek. He was totally, utterly, completely fine.

(A memory of a memory of a memory- a story told so many times, he remembers the words more than the sights. He knows, once upon a time, someone tells him, I love you. He responds, sobbing or terrified or perfectly content, I love you too. Always had. Always would. That’s just the way the story went.)

The darkness of his vision began to prick with tears.

Raphael.

Whimpering, pathetic, the snapper cracked open his eyelids a bit, just enough to let the tears escape him- to let them fall away. Through blurry vision, he watched them, curious things, as they drifted off from his face. Weightless, they followed the path of his exhale-bubbles, escaping towards heaven…rising towards the sky. His mouth filled with the taste of salt either way.

Raphael, please- look up.

He did.

Cutting through the water, plummeting down from the surface above, a hand- or, at least, the shape of one. A giant bolt of mystic energy, crackling and fizzing against the sea of light. A hand with three huge fingers, reaching with everything they had. Boiling any tears of his it touched, down it came, like a torpedo, like a nuke; gasping, the snapper’s eyes went wide, his hands twitching tense beside him. The Kraang’s tentacles went tight around his ribs.

And that was all the time he had before the Impact came.

The hand. Slamming into him like a train, the collision sent out a blast of current, both water and electricity. He hadn’t had the chance to brace. The wind knocked out of him in an instant, a flurry of bubbles shot from the snapper’s open mouth, all of them beginning to pop from the heat- bubbles, and something like a yelp. His teeth clicked painfully together in his head.

Somehow, some way, as soon as the hand grabbed onto him, he knew it was the Attendant reaching. He knew it was the Attendant’s hand. He knew it was the Attendant clutching at him, dragging him to the surface, seizing him like a bear with a salmon- like something that knew that it’d already won. He knew it was the Attendant, capturing him in a bizarre inferno of pain.

Heat. Heat and burning, crackling electricity; a blinding glow, fire blazing as hot as starlight. The Attendant’s hand. The touch of it. The smooth skin, the cracked scales- it tore at him like razors, like shards of broken glass. It was cooking him, impossibly hot. Boiling him from the inside out. The Attendant. The hand. Their hands- the ritual, what now felt like forever in some impossible place called Earth. He was getting close to the surface, now. He was beginning to know too much.

The snapper opened his mouth to scream. It barely moved an inch.

The muzzle. He’d forgotten he was wearing it, in one of the realities he was in- he was glitching between them now, the Attendant’s burning grasp, the stretcher, the metal cuffs. The endless sea of light. His entire body flaring with pain, he realized, there were two heartbeats pulsing inside him, one in his chest and one in his eye- both of them ran a terrified rhythm. Both of them sent a sour note of adrenaline shooting up his throat. Twitching, jerking, the snapper thrashed, uselessly pushing against the strength of the Attendant’s grip.

(Not yet. Please, not yet, not now, he wasn’t ready- he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go back to reality. Not yet. Not yet. Please.)

The Kraang. The Attendant. The light, the noise, the waves. Their grips on him were tight as tourniquets, trying to keep him in place, trying to drag him away- locked in a stalemate, straining, holding him just below the surface of the waves. He could barely move. He could barely see. His vision was clouded over with blinding, eye-searing orange, the Attendant’s magic, burning as bright as the sun- head singing a choir of panicked nonsense, the snapper felt his bones begin to creak and pop in their sockets. They needed to let him go. They needed to let him go.

Ichor dripping down from the Attendant’s wrists, drops of yellow traced a scorching path down the snapper’s cheek. Throwing his head to the side, an agonized croak escaped him, something shaped like NO- for the second time, his thoughts were consumed with a burning chorus. What did he do wrong? Why was the Attendant hurting him? He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand.  

For a split second, he broke the surface.

For a split second, taking in a gasping breath, the snapper’s mouth filled with air and water and light- for a split second, the Attendant’s fire burning so hot it was freezing, control of his body was tossed back to him, a parting gift of adrenaline surging through his veins. Just as quick, he was dragged back beneath the waves. Grasping onto that final, withering spark of action, for a split second, ripping his hands free from the restraints, he acted. He did the only thing he could.

Pet socked the Attendant in the face.

And immediately, the world around them exploded into force and noise.

Pet. The Attendant. The stretcher beneath them both. Everything in the room was seized again by gravity, plummeting from the air- things that sounded like paper and glass and metal going clink clink clink…clink against the floor. The world erupted into a deafening CRASH. Pet hit the floor and lay still, thrumming with soreness; entire body one giant ache. His wrists were red from thrashing. His face still stung with phantom burns. Laying there, something wet and slick pooled its way between his fingertips- he couldn’t tell what it was, but he hoped it wasn’t blood. He hoped it wasn’t his. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t see it. Still blinded by the Attendant’s radiance, he couldn’t see a damn thing at all.

Mikey, are you okay- it was working- careful, there’s glass everywhere- we need to get you cleaned up- hold him down, don’t let him get away- Mikey, you’re bleeding- there was light down there, so much light. Noise, from everywhere. Noise all around him. Everyone talking over each other, talking all at once. Scrambling, blind, onto his hands and knees, Pet curled up into a ball of shaking terror, joining the cacophony of desperate pants for breath.

Someone tried to grab his shoulder. Vision still searing with bright orange, he couldn’t see who it was, he couldn’t tell, but he lashed out anyway, trying his best to bite them- a useless action, of course. The muzzle wouldn’t let him. The hand yanked itself away regardless. Everything was too loud. Too bright. Too painful, too hot. Too much, too much, too much.

Gathering up every last scrap of energy he had- his breath leaving him in a high, terrified keen- the snapper broke into a run.

Running. Running. Stumbling over his own feet, running face-first into door frames. A mad dash, the beginnings of a chase, a random direction- gone before the Guards could react, a fugitive down these endless halls. Gone before the Guards could catch him. Gone before they could do anything worse. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know what he was attempting to achieve- there was no logic in this fresh adrenaline, no sense among the frantic chant. GET AWAY, GET AWAY, BURNING, FIRE. There was nothing in this world save for Pet, his feet, and their rhythm against the ground. And, of course, a way forward. Always, there was a way forward. Always, there was another corner to turn.

Concrete inclines. A staticky buzz. The sounds of panicked yelling, from somewhere far behind. Rising and falling and rising again, Pet kept running for what felt like forever, not daring to stop, not daring to slow down- drawn to the sound of television laughter. In some small, secret corner of his brain, the sound of a TV meant safe. He had to get there. He had to get there, sailor to siren, even if it killed him. He had to get to safety.

The snapper was thrown to the floor.

Thump. A collision, the concrete rushing up from below to meet him. A trip-and-fall. A new terror. A hard landing. The edge of the muzzle slammed Pet’s jaw like a bat, straps cutting like knives into his cheek- his foot had caught on something, a bean bag, by the feel of it, and sent him sprawling across the floor. Still blind, he thrashed wildly, trying desperately to free himself. He’d reached the laughter, he’d reached the TV, but he couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t stop. He had to keep running. He had to keep going. Blind and grasping, Pet latched on to anything he could hold, reduced to a wild, frightened thing in the light; clutching at something stable, positioned right in front of him. Terrified, he tucked himself close.

Wooly yet hard. The feel of fabric beneath his fingers. The shape of, very roughly, a rectangle; a piece of furniture, pressed up against his side. Curling up into a ball, Pet closed his eyes and covered his ears, whimpering pathetic, as he began to tremble apart. See no, hear no, speak no evil. Like a Punishment, like he Deserved this, more hands took hold of him, warm hands, gentle hands, different ones- he didn’t have the energy to push them away. He couldn’t see who they belonged to. He couldn’t, but the texture beneath his fingertips changed, smaller hands lacing reassuringly with his. Hungering to trust, Pet let whoever it was guide him away. Let them drag him from his place of panic.

“Raphael?”

Long claws. Soft fur. A familiar smell- the rat. The Nurse. One of the only Guards he could still trust. One of the only ones who hadn’t tried to kill him yet. Holding, clutching, the Nurse pulled him forward, capturing him in a hug- shaking, Pet buried himself in their shoulder, clinging to the back of their kimono. Hot tears sloshed against the back of his eyelids. He wasn’t sure when he’d started crying. Either way, the next breath he let out was a hitching sob.

“Raphael, my son- what has happened? What is wrong?”

Everything. Everything was wrong. He wanted to go home. He wanted the other Guards to get it over with. He wanted the world to go silent, he wanted everyone to leave him alone. They wouldn’t understand if he tried to explain it, though. Nobody would even listen.

“It’s alright.”

Nothing was alright.

“It’s alright, my son, you’re alright…nothing is going to harm you.” The Nurse promised; either a bold-faced lie or a misunderstanding. It almost would’ve been funny, if Pet wasn’t already so terrified. The Nurse’s chest rising and falling against his own, Pet gasped for air and got it, but he just couldn’t seem to get enough- the tightness inside him just wouldn’t dissipate. For some reason, he just couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Ever-calm, the Nurse stroked his arms and spoke up again. “You’re alright, Red, just breathe…take deep breaths. You’re alright, my son. Just breathe.”

He tried. He really, really tried.

“Breathe, my son…everything is alright. You know the rhythm. In for a count of three-” the Nurse demonstrated for him, an exaggerated breath whooshing past his ears. “-hold for four, and out for five…”

He tried. The timing came out all wrong.

“It’s alright. You’re alright. In for three, hold for four, and out for five…”

I-In for three…

“You’re doing well, Red. You’re doing well. In for three, hold for four…” The Nurse’s mantra, their breathing, a reassuring rhythm. In the arms they’d wrapped around him, the steady tempo of their heartbeat. “In for three, hold for four…”

And out for five.

“Very good.”

Deep breaths. Deep, slow breaths. Slowly but surely, the longer they sat there, the calmer the snapper’s breathing became- the more control over it he had. It still wasn’t stable, no way, but it was calmer. It was falling in line with the Nurse’s steady beat. The wild, scrabbling thing in Pet’s chest had quieted, no longer trying to dig its way to the surface. The air no longer hitched in his throat. Slow and soothing, the rat traced a hand up and down his shell. Like a storm passed, finally, the snapper let himself collapse into their arms. Somehow, they could support his entire weight. 

Gently, the Nurse’s other hand moved to cup the back of his head- trembling, Pet clung to them like a lifeline. “You are alright. Everything is alright, my son.”

And with the sincerity in their voice, he could almost believe it.

Almost.

Like the universe was laughing at him, daring him to stay calm, from somewhere behind him, there came the sound of the other Guards yelling. Calling a name that wasn’t his. Whimpering again, Pet shifted, trying to wedge himself between the Nurse and the furniture- between his Guard and the common room’s armchair. He could recognize it, now. He could make out the vague silhouette. The flaming orange in his vision was finally beginning to recede, his sight returning to him drop by sluggish drop; squinting, Pet watched the general shapes of the other Guards march into the room, all in a discordant line. Mind reciting a little prayer, he clutched the Nurse’s kimono white-knuckle tight. Let’s just get this over with.

“Boys,” the Nurse started, before anyone could speak, “what happened? Orange, why are your hands bandaged?” Sure enough, the box turtle’s blurry shape was mottled with beige.

“Dad,” said the Watchman, “it’s kind of a long story…”

The Warden made a noise, the stiff start of a word, but the Attendant cut them off. Taking a few impassioned steps forward, they insisted, “we were trying to help him! I was using my mystic powers, a-and it was working! It was!”

“It was?”

“Well-”

The Warden held up a hand, interrupting. Or, at least, that was what Pet assumed had happened, squinting at the blur of purple and green. “You have him? That’s excellent. If we can get him back to the medbay, we can try again. If we can maybe forge some stronger cuffs-”

The rat shook their head. “Boys, why did it stop working? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” the Watchman admitted, voice thick with devastation. “He just freaked out and ran.”

The Warden scoffed. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world, they explained, “it’s because he was awake. If we can drug him for longer- tie him down a bit better- it’ll be fixed in no time.”

“NO!” The Attendant whirled around, hands clenched tight at their sides; their face twisted in rage. The noise left Pet scrabbling for his ears, trying to cover them all too late. At least the Attendant’s words covered the pitiful whimper he’d made. “What is WRONG with you?! I know exactly why it didn’t work. It’s because he doesn’t trust us!”

The Watchman and the Warden said at the same time, “what?” Directly after, the softshell added on, trust is irrelevant. Pet shivered. Everyone was staring at him now, everyone was talking too loud- the snapper let out a shaky exhale, blinking fast. Trying to clear the last of the Attendant’s light away.

“It didn’t work because he doesn’t trust us. In order for all this to work, it requires trust. That’s what Casey Junior said.” The Attendant’s voice began to raise into a shout. “He doesn’t trust us, and it makes perfect sense! Have we done anything, literally anything at all, to make him feel safe?! He doesn’t know what’s going on! He’s SCARED OF US!”

This is for his own good, the Warden said, at the same time the Watchman murmured, Mikey… Anxiety buzzing like bees against his ribs, Pet rocked back and forth on his knees, trying to soothe himself, hands still curled up around his ears. It wasn’t really working. Once again, the Nurse began to gently stroke his back.

“REALLY,” the Attendant continued, “how much time would it have took, just to tell him what we were doing? To assure him he was safe?! We keep him locked in a room like an animal! You know he gets scared when he’s alone, and yet-! And yet-!”

He wouldn’t understand anyway, the Warden tried to argue, but the box turtle paid them no mind.

“D’you think he would’ve let us do this, if it was one of us who was infected? Do you really?!” The Attendant’s voice was getting louder and louder, cracking with desperation, with devastation- a soft voice in the snapper’s mind whispered, Doctor Delicate Touch. The box turtle’s hands went white-knuckle tight at their sides. “He hasn’t done anything wrong! He’s so- so compliant, and, and we- and just LOOK at us, look at how we treat him! All of us! What is WRONG with us?! I-I miss him, and I miss April, and- and-!”

“Stop.”

Silence captured the room.

Slow and slurred and uncanny, the snapper spoke again; a whimpered plea, a whispered prayer. A broken set of sounds. Stop. Of the Guards’ language, it was one of the only words he could remember, now- he’d screamed it so much, so loudly, that it waited, perched on the back of his tongue like a vulture. Like muscle memory. Sitting there, that word. It waited. It anticipated the second it could run a start and fly from him, up from his lips, out from this broken place- upwards towards the concrete sky. Free of this place, this Prison. Free.

“P-Please,” he stuttered; another word he’d picked up through screaming. All of the Guards were staring at him, now. The syllables were chewy and alien in his mouth. “Please…stop.”

Arms shifting, fabric catching, the Nurse moved forward a bit; holding him a little closer. A little tighter. Behind him, someone sighed that name that was-and-wasn’t his. Voice soft and thick and devastated, it could’ve been any of the Guards, speaking- it could’ve been none of them. He couldn’t tell. And he supposed it didn’t really matter, anyway.

“Raph…”

There came a hand. From somewhere behind him, a hand, extending- he watched it, out of the corner of his eye. Trembling and small, the box turtle’s hand. The Attendant’s. Reaching out to stroke him or hit him or g-d knows what else, Pet didn’t take the chance- hackles raised, clutching the Nurse’s kimono tight enough to tear, he violently flinched away, entire body gone tense. The hand drew back as quickly as it’d come. Turning, burying his face into the Nurse’s shoulder, Pet shuddered, almost afraid. The silence stretched for an uncomfortable eternity.

“Raphael.”

The Nurse’s voice. The Nurse’s hand, slipping into his, after a brief hesitation- pulling him forward, an affectionate pressure. Trying to get him to walk with them. Voice as even as it always was, calm and kind and quiet, they beckoned him,

“Come.”

Refusing to look anywhere but the ground, the snapper let them drag him along.

It felt like forever before they got anywhere- turn after turn, they journeyed through the halls together for strange, quiet eons. Pet was just relieved to get away. Eventually, though, the door to his Cell came into view, hastily propped open with a cardboard box; guiding him inside, the Nurse sat him down upon his sleeping-pile. Curled up beneath his mural. Burying himself in his blankets, the snapper began to rock back and forth again, breathing soft. Turning back towards the door, the Nurse gave his hand one last gentle squeeze.

“Wait here,” they said, a direct order. “My other sons and I have much to discuss.”

How could Pet even think to disobey?

He wasn’t actually sure how long he sat there. He wasn’t actually sure how long he waited, wide-eyed and innocent, staring at the door. Long enough for him to get bored and start drawing, page after page of the Attendant with devil horns and a pointed smile; nearly running out of paper entirely. Long enough for his legs to go numb beneath him, buzzing with pins-and-needles. Long enough for him to start pulling at his muzzle again, compulsive, trying to get it off. Trying to break the straps. It was no use, of course. The harder he pulled, the harder the metal and leather bit into his skin- growling, giving up, the snapper dug his nails into the side of his head. Relishing in the sting. He hadn’t eaten since this morning- his stomach ached like it was digesting itself, like he’d swallowed shards of broken glass.

(If his Master had told him to, he would.)

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there waiting, but it was long enough for him to gently collapse onto his side, curled up into a ball, knees pressed up against his chest; falling away into a daydream. Letting himself fantasize about his Master coming back for him, his Master bringing him Home. About everything being okay. Raking his teeth across his tongue, Pet listened to the Guards arguing through the walls- unintelligible words of sorrow and bitterness and rage.An echo of an echo of an echo.

Mouth clamped shut, in the back of his throat, the snapper swallowed a scream.

Beat. Beat. As if responding to his distress, from somewhere nearby, there came a pulse of mystic energy- sharp and pointed in its hiding space, the thing his Master wanted, what he’d stolen from the Warden. The statuette. The Key. Reaching out, Pet traced a hand around it, not quite touching it; feeling the stone like skin under his fingertips. Feeling the energy pulse in time with his heartbeat. Soon, he reassured himself, soon- not now, but soon. Everything would fall into place, eventually. The world would start making sense. He just had to find a window of opportunity, some quaint hour where the Guards wouldn’t find him. He just had to give it time.

So of course, it just had to be then that the door swung open. 

‘Cuz the universe just loved to play jokes.

Snapping to attention, Pet scrambled onto his hands and knees; a jolt of new panic shattering the uneasy quiet. There was someone standing in the doorway. A Guard- of course, a Guard- backlit by the hallway light, one hand braced against the frame. Their face shadowed and ominous against the dark. Of course one of them would come, right when he was at the verge of serenity…of course this fragile peace couldn’t last forever. When had the universe ever been kind to him? Of course it all had to end. That’s just the way the femur crumbled. That’s just the way his luck went. Sitting like this, staring at them, it brought on a strange sense of deja vu…a half-familiar sort of reprise. This time, hopefully without the tranquilizer darts.

“Raph…?”

The Guard came an inch or two forward, pushing the door further open behind them. Taking step after ginger step into the light. The snapper had known who it was, already, just by the silhouette alone, but maybe childishly, he’d hoped that he could’ve been mistaken- but no. He was right. He’d always been right. Standing there, maybe a few feet forward, was the box turtle; was the Attendant. Pet’s lips curled back into an unsteady snarl. Just who he hadn’t wanted to see.  

“Raph-”

Wringing their hands, the Attendant dared to take another step. Dared to come closer. Dared to speak. Pet didn’t even give them the chance. Shying back against the wall, burying into a corner, the snapper growled low, biting the air; tail rigid and straight against the ground, he bared his teeth. Turncoat. Friend-not-friend. Wretched pest. Traitor. They weren’t getting any closer than this, he wouldn’t let them. He’d make them regret it. Drawing back a bit, face shattered, the Attendant made a miserable noise in response. For a brief moment, Pet felt a thrill of sick satisfaction at being the reason why.

“Raph,” they begged. Calling that name that still wasn’t his. “Please, can I just…?” Breath hitching, tangling into knots, they continued, “can I come near you? For just a second? Please?”

Pet hesitates.

He should’ve been smart. He should’ve told them no. He should’ve been safe- he should’ve chased them off, hissing, spitting, lashing out with tongue and teeth. He should’ve followed the command he’d been given, all that time ago, and sunk his fangs deep into the soft flesh of the Attendant’s shoulder. That would’ve been the better thing to do. The obedient thing. But he wasn’t. And he didn’t- he just sat there, eyes to the ground, as they waited for an answer, instead. Making a soft noise of acknowledgement. Hands curling loosely into fists.

The box turtle took another step forward. Moving to close the gap between them. Moving to kneel at the edge of his sleeping-pile, so close they were almost touching, now; sitting there on the blankets, almost knee-to-knee. Pet’s heart beat like a war drum in his ears. His veins roiled with abstract terror. His thoughts raced a million miles an hour in his head- too close, too close, his instincts were screaming, make them back off, make them go away. Use those claws and earn your safety- they’re going to hurt you again, and you can’t let that happen. You know it.

And yet.

Even with that knowledge, even with his fear going haywire, sitting as they were, Pet just couldn’t seem to hurt them- he couldn’t seem to scare them off. Something deep down inside of him just refused. Something burning at his core, some treasonous spark in his chest, it was lonely. It was sympathetic- sympathetic for the Guard who burned him, for that awful, broken look in their eyes. That tiny piece of him, that nagging voice, it yearned to pull the Attendant back into his arms, an embrace. To feel the warmth of their body heat. It wanted so badly to be the Attendant’s friend again, to accept whatever blatant lies they were sure to toss his way…to get back on their good side. Betrayer or not, the box turtle was the one true friend he had in this place. And he was so, so tired of being alone.

Once again, the snapper hesitates.

Slowly, achingly slowly, the Attendant shifted forward, reaching out a hand again. Reaching towards his face. Pet flinched back, but there was nowhere to go- buried in a corner, there was nowhere left to flee. Out of options, out of desperation, he whimpered, baring his teeth. And it worked- a bit startled, the Attendant drew back, reaching for something else instead. Pet barely had the time to feel a flicker of satisfaction before he saw what it was.

Soft and furry, sitting at the edge of his sleeping-pile, his teddy bear. The Attendant held it by the shoulders, and a dose of fresh panic shot through him at the sight. His teddy bear. His only other friend. Was that why they came here? To take it from him? If they couldn’t force him into submission, couldn’t brand him into compliance, of course, they’d get leverage on him instead- they’d force his hand. If they couldn’t burn him, they’d burn everything he cared about. He couldn’t stand the thought.

Already anticipating the feel of soft fur blackened, the snapper stole his plushie back, snatching it from the Attendant’s hands; cradling it against his chest. Grabbing one of the few pieces of fresh paper remaining, he scribbled out his thoughts like there was a time limit. Like the Guard would snatch it back.

I don’t got any information, he wrote. What do you want from me?

The Attendant, for their part, just looked confused. “What? No, I- I don’t want anything from you. Raph, I just came to tell you I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry.”

Growling low, the snapper held his plushie impossibly closer. Going for terrifying and falling just short of terrified. The paper crinkling under the force of his hand, he wrote- you want me to be your brother. Right? You want me to pretend to be him. You keep calling me by his name. I’ll be him, if that’s what you want from me.

“What?!” the Attendant yelped, waving their hands. “No, G-d no, that’s not-!”

Pet just kept furiously writing. As if they hadn’t said anything at all. Running out of space, having to flip to the back, he continued, I’ll be him, I will. I’ll try my best. I promise. I promise. Just don’t take it. Just don’t hurt m-

He didn’t get to finish that sentence.

In a flash, eyes wide, the Attendant had grabbed at his wrist, yanking it away from the page. The snapper couldn’t even begin to disguise his flinch. Their expression crumpled into a thing of open sorrow- sorrow and horror- they shouted, “NO! No, that’s- I’m not here to hurt you, and I’m not here to take anything. Why would I ever want that?! Is that what you thought was happening? G-d, that’s… I’m so…”

Pet tore his hand free, anxiously rubbing the back of his palm. Trying to scrub off the Attendant’s touch. He grabbed the paper again, and desperately, the box turtle leaned forward to watch him- only writing down two words this time, he threw the crayon down when he was done with it. It was all he needed. Prove it.

“I’m sorry!” they half-said, half-sobbed, “I’m so sorry, Raph, I’m so- I didn’t mean to hurt you, I promise! I promise…”

You burned me, he wrote back, hands trembling. I trusted you, and you burned me.

“I didn’t mean to!” For a second time, the box turtle grabbed at his hand, holding it in both of theirs; voice lowered, like an oath, they swore, “I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. You have to believe me, I promise- I didn’t know that was going to happen. Hurting you was the LAST thing I wanted. I didn’t mean to, I promise. I didn’t.”

The snapper pulled his hand away. Like he was dying to say it to someone, to anyone, again, he wrote, you burned me.

“I was trying to help you! I was only trying to help…” The Attendant’s breath hitched. “I burned you because I love you, Raph. More than anything. I love you.”

I hurt you because I love you. Because I was trying to fix you. It made no sense and too much sense at the same time. It was Kraang logic. 

The Attendant’s arm shifted just the tiniest little bit, not even in his direction, but Pet was so wary, he had to resist the urge to shy away; to press impossibly closer to the wall behind him. He didn’t trust them just yet. He couldn’t trust them, he wouldn’t trust them- he refused to be so naive. He couldn’t afford for this to be a mistake. Fool him once, shame on them, fool him twice, shame on him. He had to keep them at arm’s length, even if he yearned for their affection, for the warmth of an embrace. He had to keep a distance between them. This was all some trick, some deception. It had to be.

A horrible silence took the room, settling awful and alien in the air between them; as tender as a fresh bruise. Pointedly, the snapper pushed the crayon away, purposefully looking anywhere other than the Attendant’s eyes. Their stare was beginning to make his skin crawl.

Running an anxious hand across his teddy bear, Pet shifted uncomfortably, brushing his lips against its head; gently stroking the fur. Playing absentmindedly with the ribbon. Holding it in his hand, winding the frayed end of it between the gaps of his fingers, he stared at it, like there was some huge, perfect Answer woven into the fabric- the key to something More. Like he wasn’t just staring at a tattered piece of cotton. Like he wasn’t just trying to avoid the Attendant’s eyes. 

(Something he was failing at. Miserably.) 

Head still angled low, Pet watched something drip down onto the Attendant’s lap- fat droplets of water, running down their calves, downwards from above. Automatically, he looked up, trying to see where it was coming from, but the sheer pain in their expression, it forced him to look away; like staring directly into the sun, it burned. It should have been boiling the water, at that point, what traced out of their eyes. Their tears.

The box turtle was crying.

“Raph.” Still not his name. “Raph, I’m sorry- I’m so sorry. I love you. You know that, right? I just want you to trust us again. I just want you to trust me.”

The snapper just sat there blinking.

It was a delayed reaction for him, seeing something so strange and unreal- the Attendant crying because of him. Tears tracing down like rivers, dripping from their jaw onto the blankets below. A Guard caring about his trust. It was a half-second of stunned silence before the realization hit, but then it hit, and suddenly, immediately, he loathed himself for what he’d done; for having dragged them down this far. Both of them just sat there breathing.

Softly, slowly, the Attendant reached out again, cupping his face in gentle palms.

He let them.

For a long moment, the Attendant just stared at him, lovingly tracing the angles of his cheek. Their fingers curled in, brushing him with the edge of their nails. Pet couldn’t resist going tense, but he managed not to flinch, which was at the very least an improvement- squeezing his eyes shut, he strangled a whimper in his throat, waiting for the fire to come. Waiting for their hands to burn. For his Punishment to start back up again.

It didn’t.

The box turtle shifted their hold, and this time, Pet couldn’t resist the urge to flinch- this was it, surely. This was where the pain started. But there was nothing. Slowly, deliberately, they reached behind him, fiddling with something at the back of his head; undoing some hidden latch with a tiny click. Pulling the muzzle from his face, depositing it on the floor beside them. Like freeing him was that easy. Like it’d always been. Opening his mouth, flexing his tired jaw, Pet stared at them, searching their eyes for some ulterior motive; for some hidden unkindness. Instead all he found was fragile hope, clear and shining in their expression. Gently, oh so gently, the Attendant held his face again, their thumb coming to rest at his lip. Against his conscious mind, the snapper leaned into the touch.

“I love you,” they said, like it was some dark, all-powerful secret. “I love you.”

I love you too, Pet didn’t say. Please, let this be the right choice. Please please please, don’t hurt me. Molasses slow, the Attendant leaned forward, collapsing against his plastron; sitting in a strange sort of half-hug, a quiet truce. Pressed so close up against his chest, he was sure they could hear his heartbeat through the bone. Exhaling soft, leaning towards them as well, Pet actually began to relax into the embrace.

The box turtle. This tiny, trusting thing in front of him- their cheek was flushed and swollen, the fading proof of fist meeting flesh. The mark from where he’d punched them in the face. Letting out a high, pitiful whine, Pet ghosted his fingertips over the outline of it, guiltily stroking what was sure to become a bruise. Realizing what he was doing, the Attendant moved away from his hand.

“Raph, no- if this is about my face, I’m fine. I promise.” A bit startled, the snapper drew back, placing his hands at their shoulders instead; surprised they could read him so easily. In response, the Attendant breathed out a shaky laugh, a sigh. Their voice had a remorse to it that he couldn’t quite parse. “Even all messed up by the Kraang, you’re still worrying about us…guess some things don’t ever change.”

Pet bit down hard on his tongue, leaving little curved divots in the muscle. Sending the sharp taste of pain shooting through. Distracted, his grip momentarily tightened on the Attendant’s shoulders, but he quickly forced his hands to loosen, drawing them back to his sides; trying not to dig his nails into the soft expanse of their skin. Trying not to hurt them any more than he already had. Making a sad noise without meaning to, he stared down at the box turtle, wondering how they could stand to be near him- hugging someone who hurt them.

(And yet, wasn’t he doing the same?)

The Attendant tried for a smile. “For real, it’s okay…you didn’t REALLY hurt me. Donnie said all I need is an ice pack.” They nuzzled his plastron, some soft reassurance in their eyes. “I’m fine, Raph. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. I swear.”

Donnie. That was the Warden’s call sign, it had to be. Like a reward for giving a damn about him, a Pavlov for soft behavior (a phrase he could’ve sworn he’d heard before, specifically in the Warden’s voice), Pet tore a strip of skin from his lip, trying to remember the shape of the sound in his throat. The taste of the Warden’s name on his tongue. Pressing it to his teeth, he tried to push out the sound; like a baby bird from the next. Trying to get it to fly.

“Dzz…” It started out as a low buzz, nothing like a word at all, but the Attendant still watched him with growing anticipation. Waiting for him to continue. “Dzuh…”

“Are you…?” The Attendant trailed off, their question fading out into empty air. The snapper didn’t answer them. Not in the traditional sense, at least. 

Lips curling with frustration, he forcibly pushed the air from his lungs, letting out a strained wheeze- determined to prove himself, determined to get the sounds right. Determined to try again. 

Voice unsteady, he struggled out, “Dhh…Dah-uh…”

The Attendant’s eyes went wide.

Slowly, slowly, never once taking their gaze off him, the Attendant reached for a bag sitting lonely in the corner- one that Pet had forgotten was there. The Jolly Rancher bag, the candy. The rewards from their test this morning. Had it really only been a day since then? One long, improbable afternoon? At this point, it felt like eons ago.

Still.

Rummaging around for a red piece, the Attendant nodded slowly, encouragingly. Beckoning him to continue. “Donnie,” they prompted. An example.

“Dah-uh-nie,” Pet repeated, his fingers pressed against his throat. A little clearer now. A little closer to correct. The Attendant prompted him again, and this time, he tried as hard as he could to focus on the way their mouth moved; the contractions of their throat. Studying the sound. Eyes squinted, licking the underside of his teeth, he tried again. “Dah…Dah-hn-ie? Dhh…”

“Keep going.”

“Dah-nn… Donnie?”

The room went pin-drop silent.

For a moment, the Attendant just sat there staring at him, mouth slack and statue-still. For a moment- one excruciatingly long moment- Pet just sat there with them, beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake; if he’d somehow done something wrong. At least until the Attendant’s face broke into a brilliant smile, brighter than the sun, like dawn over the Hudson- eyes crinkled, they breathed out a laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s- that’s right. That’s his name. Donnie. You…you got it right, Raph. You got it right! Good job! You got it right!”

Fluffing under the praise, the snapper nuzzled the Attendant’s cheek, saying it again- “Donnie”- just to show off. Just to show that he could. Donnie. Dah-nie. The softshell turtle, the Warden. The box turtle gave him a piece of candy, and he bit down on it, the taste of artificial cherry exploding across his tongue; his aching jaw screaming in protest. Trying to impress them, Pet ran through a mental list of all the other words he knew, trying a different set of sounds- a different call sign. Trying to earn more of their flattery.

Trying again, he said, “Leo?”

The Attendant’s smile somehow grew twice as bright. “Yeah, Leo! That’s right! You- you got that one right, too! Both of them!” Giving him another piece of candy, they placed a hand against his cheek, and he chirped happily in response, managing not to flinch. Their face was sheer relief and joy. Explaining, they said, “he an’ Donnie are in the arcade, playing on the Wii, I think. D’you wanna go and see ‘em?”

Hesitating, a bit uncomfortable, Pet glanced towards the door.

Was he…allowed? To just do that? To leave? He’d been under the idea that leaving his Cell was a bad thing, a very bad thing, Bad Dog, bad Prisoner- the Watchman, “Leo”, had gotten mad at him for it, last time. When had the agreement changed?

Maybe it was because the Attendant was offering. Maybe if he had a Guard with him, he was allowed to go where he wanted. Was that right? He was allowed to leave, as long as he had a chaperone? As if noticing his discomfort, the Attendant nuzzled his chest, looking up at him with a mix of sheepishness and care. Excitement and grief.

“We’re not gonna keep you stuck in here anymore,” they said. Something darker passed over their face, something like guilt. Firmer this time, they insisted, they promised, “we’re not gonna keep you stuck in here. We aren’t. It’s not fair to you, Raph- you shouldn’t be cooped up like this! Kraang or not, you’re one of us…this is your home too.”

The snapper churred, a bit taken aback. The word Kraang circling around and around and around in his head. 

Surely, they couldn’t be saying what he thought they were saying. They couldn’t mean what he thought they meant. It just wouldn’t make sense- surely, they couldn’t be letting him, a Prisoner, just walk around, free. They couldn’t be so naive. But they looked genuine, though…they’d sounded genuine. Genuine or capable of telling a very, very good lie. Pet wasn’t betting on the latter. The blind trust in the gesture, the foolhardiness, it blew him away- the Attendant moved to take his hand, and he let them. He let them pretend to pull him standing. He let them pull him towards the doorway.

“Don’t worry, we all agreed on this- even Donnie’s on board.” The Attendant muttered under their breath, “even if it took a bajillion years of convincing.”

A bit guilty, the snapper glanced back behind him. Back into the murky depths of his Cell. All of this, this gesture, it was almost a blinking sign, an obvious chance- it was almost like they were saying, run far and fast, dog. We know you have the Key. Like they were begging, please please please, betray us. But maybe that was the point. Maybe this was all a test, looking to see if he’d do it- if he’d take the obvious choice. If he’d abuse what little they gave. Even if it was, he couldn’t do it anyway. He couldn’t betray them, not like this- he couldn’t spit on the Attendant’s generosity. Not when they’d surely fought so hard for him to have this.

Perhaps his Master and the Key could wait.

The Attendant asked again, “You wanna go see Leo and Donnie?” and it only cemented the idea that damn, they were really doing this, weren’t they- continuing, they asked, “do you remember the way to the arcade?” He shook his head. So nice to him, so kind, the Attendant didn’t even look disappointed. “That’s okay,” they said. “I’ll show you.”

Repositioning his teddy bear, on its side like sleeping, Pet left his teddy bear over where he’d hidden the Key, maybe to guard it- to hide it from the Guards, or maybe from himself. Either way, when they went to leave, the snapper’s arm was curled around the Attendant’s; hands interlocked, following just a half-step behind.

Neither of them acknowledged it out loud, but they both knew what the gesture meant.

Maybe it was just a trick of the mind, but the walk from his Cell to the arcade felt shorter than the walk from the common room had been- less hallways to walk down, less corners to turn. Maybe with the Attendant guiding him forward, rubbing loving circles into the back of his palm, it was just easier to believe it took less time. A vague anxiety settled over him regardless. 

He was allowed to leave now, he knew that. They’d told him directly. He even had a Guard with him, for g-d’s sake, but some stubborn part of him still hadn’t gotten the memo- some nervous part of him insisted he stay close to the Attendant, insisted he walk just a little bit behind. Can’t get you that way, something in the back of his head provided. Can’t get punished, if this turns out to be a lie. Can always turn and run.

Pet was trying very hard not to listen to that part.

Still. He’d been in the arcade once before, wandering aimless on that first night in Prison, and it was the same as he (vaguely) remembered it; a big old room of screens and chairs, huge machines and colorful beeps. Many-faced computers, lining the walls like angels. Like the Warden’s terminal…now that he thought about it, this place really did look like their office, down to the purple tinge of the light. Something nervous yet fond settled inside him at the thought.

Speak of the devil- stuffed in one of the farthest corners, on a couch crammed way in the back, the Warden and the Watchman sat engrossed in some unseen something; fiddling with strange-shaped technology in their lap. So distracted, they didn’t notice him and the Attendant approach. Pet’s grip tightened on the box turtle’s arm.

“Guys?”

The Warden and the Watchman snapped to attention at the exact same time, turning their heads in perfect sync. That same voice in the back of his head, that past ghost always haunting, it whispered, the twins. He supposed they looked enough alike.

“Oh, Mikey,” the Warden sighed, “and…Raph.”

The Watchman flashed an exhausted smile. “What’s up?”

Walking around them, behind them, the Attendant hoisted themselves up, perched on the arm of the couch like a gargoyle; resting their soles on the Watchman’s thigh. Pushing them off, the slider muttered, get your cold feet offa me. Muttering back, was barely touchin’ ya, the box turtle began to shift away. After a moment’s pause, a bit uncomfortably, the snapper came forward, moving to sit on the ground beside them, like a dog at their heel- making awkward eye contact with the Warden, both of them going stiff at the sight of each other. Some trust like hesitation held tight against their chests. Relaxing sideways, a lazy arm thrown over the top of the couch, the Attendant asked,

“Whatcha playing?”

The Warden pressed some button on the tech in their hands. Immediately, the screen went from blankish-white to colorful, the images beginning to move- bright characters driving big machines. An animation. Quite simply, they answered, “Mario Kart.”

Holding out another piece of strange tech, a second controller, the Watchman asked, “You wanna play?”

“Hah!” Grinning, the Attendant snatched the device from their hands. Playfully sticking out their tongue. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”

For the first time in a while, the smile on the Watchman’s face actually seemed to reach their eyes. “Ohoho…you’re on, little brother.”

You’re on, the snapper’s thoughts repeated after them. You’re on.

As the Guards went back to pushing buttons, the snapper sat there a silent, fascinated witness. His eyes flickering between them like a tennis match (even if he wasn’t exactly sure what that meant). This…this button pushing. The images on the screen. Somehow, some way, he knew what it all meant- he didn’t know how, but he did. This was a friendship ritual between the Guards, a game. One that, at the very least, this time, he’d been allowed to watch.

Progress.

Slowly, like he might get Punished for it, Pet shifted closer to the Attendant, leaning up against their thigh; coming to rest his head in their lap. Reaching down to the nape of his neck, the Attendant rewarded his courage with scritches. Lots and lots of scritches. Purring, a full-body shiver running through him, the snapper’s tail beat happily against the ground, all but melting into the affectionate touch. They seemed to know just the place to make his eyes slip shut with pure delight.

“Hey, guys?” His eyes still closed, still purring, the Attendant talked, but Pet was barely listening. Too consumed with the feel of their nails- it was so nice- he almost didn’t notice the sweet air go sour under the box turtle’s next question. Almost. “Where’s Raph’s controller?”

The twins went still and silent.

“…Mikey,” the Watchman started, cringing, after a moment’s hesitation. The Attendant’s hand froze in place, and the snapper peeked open an eye. “He doesn’t even recognize us. I don’t think he remembers how to play.”

“And we’re already halfway through lap one,” the Warden agreed, another half-formed sentence at their lips, before the Attendant cut them off.

“Well, we can just start a new game, can’t we?” 

“Mikey,” the Watchman said, a bit more urgently, “d’you think he even wants to play?”

“We’ll never know if we don’t find out.”

An awful hush settled over the room.

For a second- for a very, very long second- the tension in the air was so thick, Pet could cut it with a knife. He could slash it apart with his claws. For a second, the Guards all just sat there staring at each other, and the snapper went tense, curling up, ready to take a blow if one came- but none did. Instead, the Watchman just chuckled, and all the tightness in the room blew out the door like smoke; the tension dissipated like magic. Like it’d never been there in the first place.

(The slider had the uncanny ability to do that. To de-escalate. If there was one quality he could steal from them, one thing he could rip out and call his own, it would be that…their easy, affable charm. A flicker of resentment found a familiar home in his chest.)

“Heh, yeah…” Shaking their head, the Watchman just smiled. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” Turning to rummage around in a cabinet, as they drew back, victorious, they continued, “Don’t worry. Raph’s controller ‘s right here- or, actually, maybe I should just take his. He can have mine. He’s the reason it’s all fucked up, anyway.”

Something in the back of Pet’s head chided, language.

Still. Just as promised, a piece of Guard technology, a controller all in blue, was passed his way- and yeah, they weren’t exactly wrong. “Fucked up” wasn’t too far off a descriptor. Whoops. To be fair, though, the slider wasn’t lying, because this actually was totally his fault, even if he hadn’t meant it to be; on that first night in Prison, while the Guards were all too busy arguing, he’d chewed on it, not knowing it was fragile. Assuming it unimportant. Trying to relieve his boredom. Even now, deep teeth marks scarred the plastic, but at least it still seemed to work…all the buttons were pressable, and the light on the top still glowed. Maybe he hadn’t screwed it up completely.

Maybe.

As soon as he got a hold of the controller, the twin Guards turned back to the screen, falling into some meaningless debate. As soon as the Attendant gave it to him. The device slotted into his hand like a book into a bookshelf, like puzzle pieces, made for each other; something like muscle memory. He wasn’t exactly sure what to think about that.

“Okay,” the Attendant started, “Mario Kart’s a racing game, right? We’re pickin’ our characters. Designing our carts-” For a moment, the twins’ conversation spilled over, overpowering the Attendant’s voice. As the Warden groaned, Leo, the Watchman yelled, highest speed, baby, the full two hundred- what kinda coward do you take me for? Exhaling sharply through their nose, the box turtle continued, “anyway, you- you wanna make it as fast as possible. You wanna be at the front of the race. That’s how you win.”

Pet resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The Attendant was just trying to be helpful, he knew that, they were just trying to show him the game, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew all this already- like he’d always known. Controller snug in his hand, pushing one of the buttons, he began to scroll the character roster.

The Attendant lit up in response. “You remember how to use it? Okay! Okay, okay, so, uh- that button is the select button, right? You know that. Right now, we’re picking characters. You can be whoever you want, except Waluigi or Luigi, ‘cuz Leo and Donnie already picked those- and you can’t be Isabelle, either. But everyone else ‘s fair game.”

He had literally no idea how, but for some reason, he knew what the Attendant was talking about. He knew which character was which. That lanky, purple figure on the bottom left, that was Walu-something, while the green one just above it, that was the one that started with L- the dog on the right, that was the Attendant’s choice. That was Isabelle. It was a strange, useless sort of knowledge, locked-in yet utterly forgotten. There were so many options, it made him dizzy.

Breaking from the conversation, the Warden piped up, “Y’know…I wonder. Before we banned him from it, he always used to pick-”

Pet decided on the pretty girl, the blonde one. The one in the bright pink dress.

“…Princess Peach,” the softshell finished; much, much quieter than how they’d started. Voice dripping with a mix of grief and wonder and surprise. All three Guards were staring at him now, faces painted with some bittersweet confusion, and the snapper shifted uncomfortably under their gaze- hands tight around the controller, he began to wonder if he’d messed up again. If he’d somehow done something wrong. Some excitement growing in them, some anticipation, the Watchman chimed in,

“Let him pick the map, too. I wanna see…” Trailing off, their sentence faded out into empty air. At the push of another button, the screen changed into a display of cartoonish vistas, and the slider continued, “He always used to pick the same map, didn’t he? It was always-”

Pet chose one of the icons at random. The one that seemed the most familiar.

“-Coconut Mall!” the Watchman shouted, jolting forward in their seat; eyes wide like revelation. “I knew it! I told you!”

The Warden put up a hand. The universal sign for quiet. “Hold on,” they said, “this doesn’t mean anything yet- let’s play a round first, see how it goes. We ought to gather some data, at the very least.”

Yeah, Pet agreed, in the safety of his head. We oughta. To be honest, the snapper was just happy to be out of his Cell for once. Just happy to be included. He’d done something right, here, he knew he had, even if he wasn’t exactly sure what it was- somehow, through some charm or charisma or divine intervention, he’d managed to get back on the Attendant’s good side. He’d managed to get back in their good graces. They trusted him…they all trusted him, at least a little, to let him out here in the first place. They’d given him a gift. They’d given him a gift, and the snapper just sat there fumbling like an idiot, asking why and how and not what he should be doing with it. With this awkward, uneasy peace.

At this point, the friendship ritual was less of a game and more of a trial. Sure, he had the Guards’ trust- but did he have their respect? Did he even deserve it? Pet didn’t know why, but he ached with the need to prove himself, to be a worthy opponent. He needed to be good at this.

All too casual, the slider relaxed back against the couch, pushing a button on their controller; staring at the screen in front of them, like they weren’t watching his reflection. Like they weren’t studying his every move in the smooth black glass. The game began to gush with colorful music, and Pet went ramrod straight over the rumble of standby motors- watching the track fade in from darkness. Lights flashing, red to yellow, a countdown to one from three. Genuine but unhelpful, the Attendant leaned over, explaining,

“When it gets to green, you press this button to-”

GO!

Pet took off like a bullet from the starting line.

The friendship ritual had begun.

High turns, low turns; speed boosts, item boxes. Where the shortcuts were and when to take them. For some reason, it came to him as easy as breathing- neck and neck with the Watchman for first place, throwing a green shell at them, missing entirely. The feeling was electric. Bumping into them on purpose, the snapper peeled off down a side hallway, another shortcut he somehow remembered how to take; briefly stealing first place from right out the slider’s hands. Briefly, anyway. He had maybe ten seconds to savor the flavor before somebody stole it right back.

The Warden. What was third place behind him, the softshell turtle. Sending some creature his way, some special item, they blinded him, covering his vision in splotches of black- as it cleared, all he could see was blurs of purple and green speeding off in front of him, leaving him in the dust. The twin Guards, bumping him down to third. The Attendant’s fourth-place yellow, riding close behind. Eyes narrowed, leaning forward, the snapper took in a breath through his teeth; beginning to get serious.

(The motion felt vaguely familiar.)

Another side hallway. Another ramp. Hitting every possible speed boost, stealing back second place, riding faster, faster- furiously pushing buttons, focused entirely on the screen. The pink dress girl, his avatar. She was a lucky charm. She had to be. Breathing down the Watchman’s neck, for all of lap two, he challenged them for first place, edging closer, closer, from just behind- Pet hit every coin, every shortcut, like he’d been playing this game for forever. So focused, he didn’t even notice the Guards in third and fourth both staring at him. Studying his every movement. Purposefully not trying to win.

Another lap. Another dash. Another few seconds of first place; toe-to-toe with the Watchman, always just a hair’s breadth ahead or behind. Always just a millisecond after. The Attendant had apparently thrown a banana peel here last round, because the Watchman, distracted, tried and failed to swerve around it- racing ahead, Pet seized a fair few feet of distance between them. Jumping at the chance. The Watchman was catching up and quickly, but he was in the home stretch, now…the finish line was close. If he could just keep first place for another thirty seconds- if he could just hold onto this lead-

Blue shell incoming.

Pet slammed down hard on the brakes. Brought to an instant halt, stopping dead right there on the raceway, the snapper reared forward in his seat, like whiplash from the false momentum- his avatar sitting there dull and still, he let the Watchman race ahead of him, obliviously confident and confidently oblivious. Eager to take his place in first.

And take it they did.

BOOM. The slider grasped at the win just long enough to lose it, ground zero of an explosion, stunning them in place; the ash of a golden first slipping right through their three-fingered hands. It was a dirty trick and Pet knew it, but he peeled out regardless, speeding off towards the finish line as soon as the smoke began to clear- taking back what had always been his.

(Some familiar-unfamiliar voice in his head whispered, suck it, Leo. Its tone snarky and light with a grin.)

Just a little bit further. Just a little bit more…just another few seconds with this lead, and he’d have it. Just another few feet ‘til the finish. Sitting there rigid, pressing on the up button so hard it sent sparks of pain up his fingertip, Pet internally begged his luck to hold. He was so close, at this point. He was almost there.

C’mon. C’mon…

Just another few feet. Just another few seconds.

C’mon!

Racing full-speed beneath the exit gate, Pet finally crossed the finish line; finally securing the win. The game rewarding him with music like applause. Erupting into a cheerful, victorious commotion. For the first time since lap one, the snapper finally had the chance to breathe, the adrenaline beginning to come down.

And with its absence came the high.

The term ‘dopamine rush’- he’d heard someone say it before, someone he used to know. Whoever coined the term, they were right on the money. A rush was exactly what it felt like. Eyes pressing shut, a waterfall of triumph and relief surged through his system, a flow of victory victory victory in his veins, making a joyous noise; hissing out a breath through his teeth, excitedly pumping his fist. Peeking his eyes open again, the snapper beamed.

And all of the Guards were staring at him.

A bit nervous now, Pet froze in place, killing his celebration. The joy deflating in him like a balloon. His shoulders creeping up towards his ears. He got the feeling he’d been caught, somehow, with one hand in the cookie jar, in the cash register, but he didn’t understand what he did wrong… Should he have just let the Watchman win on purpose? Had he made a mistake? The Guards all turned to each other with the same look of shock on their faces, some wordless conversation passing between. Pet boiled in the ambiguity. At least, he did, until the Watchman chuckled, shaking their head- smiling with that same damnable sincerity.

“And that,” they said, “is why he’s banned from Peach.”

And all at once, the tension-hesitation in the air blew out like smoke from the room.

“Holy shit,” said the Warden. “Holy shit,” they repeated, “holy SHIT, oh my peaches and cream- everyone else just saw what I saw, right? I’m not hallucinating?!”

“Yep.”

Donnie- the Warden, he called them the Warden, why did he remember their call sign- continued, “and…the blue shell feint. That was real? We all saw that. That was a thing that really actually happened in our reality.”

Nodding somberly, the Watchman grinned, “I got pwned.” Beside him, the Attendant cheered, he even did the gamer lean and everything!

Sitting there, blinking, the tension in Pet’s shoulders finally began to unwind.

He…hadn’t made a mistake. He hadn’t made a mistake. Everyone was smiling, everyone was laughing- was this what it felt like, to succeed in the friendship ritual? To earn the other Guards’ respect? The Warden was going on about neurocomputational matrixes and the Attendant was talking about proof he’s there, but the snapper wasn’t listening- too consumed with the feeling of praise. Of finally getting something right.

The twin Guards. The Watchman and the Warden, smiling, proud, proud of him- happy because he’d made them happy. Their expressions curled with pure wonder. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, but he yearned for more of it- more pride, more admiration. He yearned for another chance to impress them. Another chance to be their friend.

(Welling up on his fingertip, from some unnoticed papercut, there came a bead of pink- a drop of warm blood, diffusing across the ridges of his fingerprint. Tracing down a bit, collecting in the bend of his knuckle. Like a brand. Like a reminder. Pet vaguely remembered the Warden saying, way earlier, the infection spreads through blood and bite.

It would be so easy to just do it. It would be so easy to reach up and brush his finger across one of the Guards’ lips, or rub it into their scars- he could force them to like him so easily. He could betray them quicker than they ever imagined. He could hold them down and force them to Ascend, lift them all up into the glory of the Kraang. He could. He could.

The snapper put his finger in his mouth, licking the blood away. A precaution.

He couldn’t.)

Everyone was speaking at once. “This…” the Warden, again, rambling, “this proves so much, this proves so much- this is SO helpful. If we CAN reason with him, then we can do trial runs without risking more incidents-”

The Attendant spoke over, “-maybe we can do some more mystic test runs, after a couple more bonding moments, we can rebuild the trust-”

The Watchman, “-still can’t believe he JUKED me.”

The snapper let out a chirp. 

The Guards all stopped, turning to him, smiling at him, and Pet felt warm; not hot, not like the burning from before, but warm. Happy. Safe. The Attendant reached down, scratching his neck again, and the snapper purred, leaning into the touch. On the screen, his avatar raced and smiled and waved.

Never taking their eyes off him, the Warden pressed a button on their controller, starting another game. To anyone else, their expression would be curious, maybe intrigued- but somehow, for some reason, Pet knew that from the softshell turtle, that expression was one of the highest forms of love.

“Raph,” they said, breathless. “Do that again.”

Anything. For that look on their face, that pride, he’d do anything.

He’s not actually sure how long they spent playing- long enough to start doing tournaments, ranked matches on maps that sent them careening into walls and flying out of bounds. Long enough for the Prison to grow dark, the glow from the arcade machines the only thing lighting the room. Coming in first or second place every game, always due to some chance item or well-timed shortcut; enough to consider (and discard) the idea they were letting him win on purpose. But no. The Guards poked too much fun at it for that to be true. 

(“Wow…I forgot that he was a boss with Peach.”

“Like I said, brochacho, we banned him from it for a reason.”)

Pet wasn’t exactly sure how long they sat there playing, but it was long enough for him to start yawning, leaning heavy against the Attendant’s thigh; letting his eyes begin to flutter shut. Sleepiness calling at the edges of his senses. A warm, gentle sort of tired. The box turtle moved his head into their lap, and he let himself melt into them, finally safe again, finally at ease- purring, wagging his tail, he was finally on all the Guards’ good sides. He passed the trial, he earned their trust and their respect. Letting the Attendant play with the tails of his mask.

He wasn’t exactly sure how long they spent playing, but it was long enough for the snapper’s eyes to slip shut completely, breath evening out; falling asleep to the sound of the twin Guards’ good-hearted bickering.

Call it Stockholm Syndrome, but maybe his Master and the Key could wait.