Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What is said at the beginning? Maybe some clues about the trajectory that took Mikey to this moment, not to create a diary or a journal, but only to familiarize the friend reader to this very moment. One sees: clouds hung over the ninjas that Saturday. They weren't dark, nor did they draw pictures, they were just clouds. Mikey and his brothers headed to the Saint Roch edifice to discuss patrol plans. It was a safe building: it was exposed to only a small paved street with considerable traffic. The sound of the cars rocking, bouncing, bumping against themselves as the wheels rolled over each tile was enough to drown out any conversations coming from the roof of the edifice.

"— and Mikey, you get the area between Hollowtown Street and Boole Avenue. Got it?", Leo's voice echoed over his thoughts.

"Got it!", he answered proudly.

He had got it, indeed. With the Kraang regrouping and the Foot Clan weak but cunning, it was only a matter of time before one of the two groups made an reappearance across the city. And where there's them, there's mutagen, which means nothing short of trouble — as if pink aliens or ninja robots weren't enough, there's always the possibility that a passer-by could merge with a bat and suddenly decide they'd like turtle soup for dinner. No, thanks.

And so, they patrolled. No passer-by would find mutagen if Mikey's brothers, or even Mikey himself, found it first. He ran over rooftops, but he was not really focusing on anything. It's always better to nip it in the bud, that was what Donnie always said. When he had first said it, Mikey had turned his head, as if wanting to understand more, and asked why compare a problem to a plant. Donnie went into a monologue about how weeds had been a problem for farmers for thousands of years... His brother liked to explain things, and the why of things. When Mikey wanted to hear about all kinds of things, he went to hang out with his brother. Mikey usually liked to sit in the swivel chair in the lab and spin around, like a spinning top, seeking any kind of fun for his bored mind. He asked a lot of questions, too, to which Donnie grumply replied. Whenever the chair spun too fast, or was on the verge of crashing into the wall or a table, Donnie would stop what he was doing and hook a leg into the spinning top it became, aiming to stop it. And so Mikey never got hurt in the lab. As much as Donnie liked to say that there was only danger in his lab, dangerous experiments, dangerous failures, Mikey never felt as safe as he did there. The lab was the only place he could be head over heels and confused, because Donnie would always be there to explain things, because in there was Donnie, and Donnie would never let him get hurt or confused or sad.

But recently, though against his will, Mikey has never felt so sad.

He couldn't quite explain it. Except that sometimes there was a pain in his chest, a really sharp one, not like he'd been punched or the hilt of a sai or katana or a bo had suddenly pressed against his plastron. No, it was not that kind of pain, but it was one like that, the kind where he didn't know why, but which came on suddenly every time he felt unable not to feel it. Which came every time he lost the one-on-one in Saturday's practice, every time his mind wandered and he missed an important explanation, and every time the look of disappointment, but used to and expected, from his brothers appeared. It was a pain he had to die knowing, but live in effort to let everyone not know it themselves until they died.

The focus was low. Hollowtown was as uncrowded as ever and there were no signs of aliens, ninjas (except himself) or mutated passer-bys. Mikey didn't remember how he got there.

He often had trouble concentrating. And remembering, too. There were often small gaps in the memories, sometimes important things, sometimes not. Donnie worried over it, and Raph joked that his brain was all molten and formless, without any thoughts. At the first joke, he felt a little embarrassed and ashamed, but Raph's smile was always worth it. Mikey liked Raph. After a difficult night, his brother would go to the training dummy, beat it, leaving it all crumpled, rage screaming, nerves on edge. Mikey would sit cross-legged on the side, almost always almost asleep. He wouldn't get close to the dummy, Raph wanted distance. After the beating, Mikey would undo the knot that hung the object over the floor and place it on the dojo mat, lightly pressing his hand on the dummy. It was always entirely crumpled in the inside. Raph's breathing behind him would become calmer, but never leaving. His brother never left the dojo before he made sure Mikey did too. And Mikey only left after the dummy was fluffy again and back in the box. Once everything was in place, rope included, Raph would offer his hand to Mikey, who always rose to his feet. And then a hug. Raph rarely returned it, but allowed him to hug him so. 

Those nights, those difficult nights, had very few gaps. But the most tranquil nights had many. Mikey knew that Raph made fun of him all the time. About his thoughts, about his hobbies, about his skills. But Mikey couldn't remember any jokes in particular. They were big question marks in his memories, although he always remembered how he felt after them. With that kind of pain.

Foghorn's Students street was calm too. But Mikey wasn't paying attention.

Raph was amazing. He truly was. But sometimes he crossed the line. Mikey never had the nerve to tell him that, his brother was too good at heart. Raph's strong arms were always there whenever Mikey had a nightmare, or was hurt, or just needed some comfort. In his key memories, Mikey remembers falling asleep on the couch only to wake up some time later in Raph's arms, which smelled so much like Raph, so sweet, quietly carrying him to his room. Mikey pretended he never woke up, and the next morning he made a point of saying he didn't remember going to bed. And Raph responded by reminding him that he was a sleepwalker. And he acted like he believed it. When he was younger, much younger, he had cases of sleepwalking. Only Leo and the Master remembered them. Leo would wake up in the middle of the day, disoriented, with Mikey at his door, babbling incomprehensible things. His brother had insomnia, he had trouble sleeping, Mikey feels guilty for every time his sleepwalking woke his brother up. But Leo never cared, and put his arms around Mikey, guiding him to his bed, where the two slept together until dark. Their schedules were confusing. They slept during the day, woke up at night. Donnie never explained to him why, maybe he should ask someday...

Mikey wasn't paying attention when he got to Boole Avenue. And there, he didn't see any trouble.

But what such a trouble he didn't see.

Leo didn't feel as safe as Donnie, nor as warm as Raph, but he was the one Mikey turned to the most whenever Mikey felt that pain. He never told Leo, but Leo must knew. Leo always knew. He always knew how much training they could take, how much time on patrol they could do before they burn out, and he knew that whenever Donnie or Raph are down, they should stay home. But not Mikey. When Mikey was down, Mikey would come on patrol too, just like this Saturday. Sometimes Mikey would wonder if it was the wisest choice, on this Saturday he was feeling a lot of that pain, he was distracted, but Leo was a good leader and knew what is good for them. Sometimes the patrol would help, sometimes it wouldn't. The exercise was good, the icy wind refreshed his head, and he didn't see the danger close behind.

—x—

Leo patrolled near Tornhorn Avenue. It wasn't far from the border of his area and Mikey's. The night was calm and serene, there was no danger anywhere.

—x—

Baxter Schildpadman was sitting on Mikey's shell, plastron down, preventing him from getting up. The fly flapped his wings towards the ground, and, combined with gravity and the pain that came from the cracked shell, forced Mikey to face-kiss the pavement. Mikey had been taken aback, by a surprise attack. One moment his mind was wandering in Boole Avenue (he doesn't remember getting there) and the next Baxter was on him. The goo coming out of his mouth was disgusting.

"Ew, man, that's gross!", Mikey screamed as he writhed on the ground. "Get out, get out of me!"

"Zzz-no, ridiculous-zzz turtle."

"What do you want with me, Schildpadman?! I was just fooling around! Can't a guy think and live in peace anymore?"

"It'z Stockman!" he screamed. "And the Zzzherreder hazzz some planzzz for you... Where are yourzzz brotherzzz?"

"Nope! No way, dude!", Mikey said as he, using all his strength, rolled to the side quickly, throwing the fly against the ground. Taking his nunchucks quickly, he rose to his feet and stood in a ninja pose, ready to attack. On his left hand, nunchuck rocking and turning and following the flow of his hands. His right hand was aiming for his belt. His T-phone was on his belt. All he had to do was press a button and his siblings would be notified of his call for help. But Baxter knew this...

"No-zzz, you won't!", Baxter exclaimed as he flew towards Mikey, grabbing his belt and throwing it far, far away. Gone were the smoke bombs, the T-phone and the right nunchuck, which was still in its support. And only the right nunchuck had the kusarigama blade. The left one didn't extend, and wasn't suited for long range combat. And he was fighting a fly.

Baxter spat out his goo. Mikey dodged, and occasionally landed an attack or two whenever the opponent got close enough. Mikey always was the most agile among his brothers, and they teased him a lot for that. He was the bait most times, even when he didn't want to. And the goo was coming fast, but Mikey dodged it faster than he could process that it was coming. It was almost automatic, his acrobatics. 

“Not gonna get me!”, he taunted.

He eventually used the emergency stairs of neighboring buildings to get some overhead support, crashing into the walls to gain more height and catch up with Baxter in the air. There was even a moment, take that!, sometime during the fight, that Mikey managed to latch on to the fly's feet, bringing Baxter down with him, who squirted goo onto the hands gripping his feet, burning them with acid. The bandages burned, the underlying layer of skin tissue started to sting, the scales were up, the hands reddened and tiny blisters started to form, and suddenly the fingers were numb.

His grip on his nunchuck grew weaker.

Despite this, Mikey continued to fight. It didn't hurt at all and everything was a little fuzzy. And those who knew knew that he would fight until the end. Or run away. Whatever came in handy… The fighting continued for unknown lengths. Mikey's brothers weren't coming, they didn't know about the fight, the T-Phone was blocks away. Mikey was alone, fighting alone, dodging alone, and he could only continue to do so for so long.

Suddenly, something hard and long grabbed him. A metal cable, extendable perhaps, held onto his arm and the nunchuck in his other hand, though it banged and banged against the cable, had no effect as it tried to free him. Bebop and Rocksteady were on the other side of the tug of war, pulling and pulling, and Mikey's arm burned and burned. They laughed, Mikey didn't remember Baxter calling for backup. Must have called at some point. He took advantage of the now stationary target, swirling and flying over Mikey like a real, irritating fly. He threw his goo, and Mikey even tried to get it to eat through the cable, but Mikey was tired. His dodges were more fatigued, not very fast, he was burned a little on his legs and carapace. The goo never fell into the thin line that held him in place. His arm was getting numb, circulation poor, and he dropped his nunchuck.

The ninja looked to the side, trying to think of something, anything, only to notice the van that had brought them. In it, there were several Foot Clan ninja robots. How did Rocksteady fit in that tiny van, so full of bots? Did the ninja-bots, being robots, not mind how little social distance being in a van with a rhino brought? And Bebop, did he care? Or was his friendship with Rocksteady great enough not to make that uncomfortable?

Putting this thought aside, Mikey looked forward, across the cable and... oh. In rhinoceros strength ready to trample MIkey, came running Rocksteady. Bebop was holding the ends of the cable as he could. 

When Rocksteady hit him, Mikey saw very little. Almost passing out, he saw how Baxter approached him and removed his orange mask to the ground. 

And with his vision funneled and black, he went to an unrestful sleep, but not before swearing that Bebop had a baby turtle in his hand…

—x—

Patrol time was over. Donnie was already in the Saint Roch edifice, the roof was empty, it was almost 4 in the morning and Leo said he wanted everyone to be in the lair by 4:30. Donnie didn't think too much about it, he sat down and leaned his head over the door that led to the roof, tired after the run around. Running is tiring. He wasn't the toughest, nor the fastest, nor the most persistent among his brothers, so all the physical and mental effort that running and patrolling required certainly made him tired and even stressed. When he got to the lair, he would hole up in the lab and continue working on his project: Shellraiser 2. It would be faster, stealthier, and carry more cargo, so his siblings plus April plus Casey plus... whatever one could fit comfortably, plus survival supplies for up to two months or so in a post-apocalyptic world where the Kraang would dominate. It would have filtered water, canned food, equipment for first aid and for surgery if time and the fight deemed it necessary. It's always better to be safe than sorry, although Donnie doesn't dream of performing surgery on his brothers. But it was complicated. The suspension wasn't perfect yet and would collapse under that much weight. For it to work, he would have to find a way for the force vector between the wheel axis and the—

"Donnie!", said a voice besides him.

It was Leo. Leo always came back refreshed after a patrol. He was smiling and Donnie felt happy to see his brother exuding positive energy.

"Where’s Raph and Mikey?", Leo asked.

"Don’t know. They haven't come back yet."

"Okay. We’ll wait. How was patrol?" 

Donnie shrugged.

Not after a long wait, Raph appeared on the roof. Came through one of the fire escapes, stealth mode. Leo and Donnie saw him anyway. He had a smirk on his face and laughed when he saw Donnie tired and sweaty.

"Did runnin’ tire ya, Dee?"

"Shut up."

"Heheh, did the big brains weigh your head so much you tired over runnin’?"

"At least my big brains and my slow running”— yawning —”weren’t late to the curfew Leo said."

"It wasn’t a curfew, it was a suggestion. See? 4:17 in the morning, no big deal."

"I wanted us to be home by 4:30”, Leo stated. “When we get there, I’m gonna have a talk to you, Raph", 

"What are you, our mom? Didn’t ya hear me, Fearless? It’s 4:17 still."

"But it takes more than just 10 minutes to get home."

"21… if we run at our average speed, to be exact", Donnie complemented, yawning.

"Shut it, Dee. Why are ya two gettin’ mad over me? We’re gonna be just a little late, the Master will be fine. And what about Mikey, huh? Dude’s not even shown up yet!"

"He is also in trouble, Raph, don’t worry about it."

Raph went next to Donnie to sit down. He felt some kind of anger at the interaction, and it showed. Seventeen minutes wasn't exactly late, not as late as Mikey was, but for Fearless it was late enough. Master wouldn't sleep until all of his children were home, and given recent events, Master already hadn't slept well in weeks. Raph knew this. Leo, like a good son and a good leader, could not allow his team to be home even a minute late, out of love for their father. Raph also loved their father, but it was hard to keep track of time sometimes. He felt guilty enough when he got to the edifice late, he didn’t need Fearless to scream at his face more than he already screamed at himself in his head. But guilt and shame were too difficult to feel, so he felt some anger, not much, but enough to go sit down beside Donnie, cross his arms, and sulk his face.

Meanwhile, Leo remained standing, arms crossed, looking at the horizon waiting for the inevitable arrival of the youngest.

Some time passed and Mikey did not arrive. 4:17 in the morning turned 4:37, and then 4:41, 4:50, 4:56, 5:01, 5:03, 5:04, and it seemed the more often Raph looked at the clock on his T -Phone, time passed more slowly, so he just stopped looking at some point, leaned his head on Donnie's shoulder and went to try to get some sleep. His brother beside him had already half-closed his eyes, he was sleepy, knowingly tired from today’s patrol. Did something in particular happen to make him so tired? He was kind of already daydreaming, his answers were slow and lethargic, and his shoulder was so inviting for Raph. Donnie was a good companion to sleep next to, he didn't move much or complain, although he did whistle through the little hole in his teeth from time to time. And Raph melted into Donnie's shoulder, snuggling up to wait for Mikey in dreamland.

"That's it!", Leo’s voice interrupted his dreaming not even five minutes later. "It’s 5:06! An hour late! Donnie, Raph, get up."

"Hm…", Donnie said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "...Where do you think he might be?"

"I don't know".

"If he got distracted by pizza… or any of that nonsense of his again, I swear...", Raph grumbled.

"No," Leo said seriously. He didn't need to clarify. Raph and Donnie kind of already knew something must have happened. Mikey was distracted and distracting, of course, forgetful even, but to be an hour late, it was almost dawn on top of that, something surely must have happened. It was summer, if Mikey forgot or was distracted, the morning rays must have reminded him, but nothing yet... The clouds, which weren't dark nor did they draw pictures, Raph noted, they were just clouds, were letting some of the blue sky appear and through them the sunrays appeared clear. 

The brothers broke into a run. The day came, being exposed to daylight was dangerous, but then again, the Master did not sleep until all of his children were home. Each one of them. Possibilities of what could have happened to Mikey ran through Raph's head. Could he have gotten into a fight with the Purple Dragons? Or the Foot Clan? Perhaps kidnapped by the Kraang and seriously injured? What if humans have found him? Did they put him in a cage, like an animal, took pictures of him, made a stamp of what his hand looked like on paper, what his foot looked like on paper? Did they check if he had ears? Did they put a bright light on his pupils to see if they dilated, did they give him a scientific name? What would it be? Tortoninjas michelangelus ?

"Donnie, quicker!", Leo screamed.

"I’m trying!"

Donnie had his T-Phone out. He was trying to access Mikey's T-Phone location, but he was nervous. The possibilities were also racing wildly through his head. He hated sometimes being able to think so much, do math so quickly, because the numbers of possibilities just grew by the moment and the probability that they were essentially negative increased with every extra second that passed. Mikey didn't like to worry his brothers, so to each new instant he didn't show up past the agreed time was almost a confirmation that the reason he was late was anything but good.

"He is at Boole!"

"Okay! Guys, separate and search!", Leo commanded.

The sky was getting a little grayer, it started to rain, a light rain, the sun still showed through the clouds, rainbows appeared, but the brothers didn't care. The day was beautiful, but it could have been smeared with blood that they couldn't find. Or it could be just beautiful, they hoped.

—x—

It was Leo himself who found the mask. Orange, thrown in the wind, as if wanting nothing. Then the belt. The T-Phone was there, tethered, emitting the light from the active tracker. The smoke bombs, all of them. So strange, none were used on this Saturday’s patrol, it didn’t sound like Mikey. His littlest brother loved those smoke bombs, he was the master of stealth. Whenever they needed an escape route, Mikey would throw one of these and take them through the nearest exit, so fast and so serious he almost didn't look like his goofy brother. Mikey could pop in and out of pretty much anywhere. Nothing really stopped him. When he didn't want to be seen, he wasn't. Leo was often a little envious of Mikey's skills. He would never admit it, but every time Mikey succeeded in stealth training, the way his eyes glowed in the dark, Leo wanted some of that glow for himself; his favorite memory was when he beat Mikey at hide and seek six years ago, take or give some. He had hidden behind the TV, Donnie and Raph had already been found, so his three little brothers were looking for him. Looking back, he realized Mikey turned a blind eye, he knew Mikey smiled at him behind the TV from the living room, and made so his other brothers searched anywhere else, Donnie and Raph had gotten a little mad at Mikey, who said he searched in the living but didn’t found Leo, although he was there the whole time. Leo likes to remember it like he won that little stealth game. 

That Saturday, however, Leo found Mikey’s mask and belt, with the stealth bombs all there, his littlest brother was gone, and Leo had already and even more now the feeling that he didn't do it out of his own accord in a hide and seek game.

Leo texted his brothers on what he found. His T-Phone rang almost immediately. It was Donnie.

"Hello? Donnie?"

"Did you— you really find Mikey’s stuff?", Donnie asked instantly, almost hysterical.

"...Yeah." Leo was still confused. Where were…? "Only one nunchuck though."

"Leo, I found something I— his other nunchuck—  and— oh sh—"

"Calm down, Donnie, where are you?"

"A fight took place he— and— oh my god, Leo—"

"Dee, where are you?"

"Mikey’s a turtle!"

Ok.

"...We’re all turtles, Donnie."

"No, not that kind of turtle! I mean, like, a turtle turtle! Like—”

"Wait, you—"

"I’m holding Mikey on my hand, Leo!"

Leo never said it, but it was a necessity at that moment.

"Fuck."

—x—

And now what was to be said at the beginning has been said. The clouds saw it all, wept and took shape, their tears embracing New York City and the turtles that inhabited it. Some were crying, others were worried, one was sleeping... Sometimes, life happened, and there were just things like that.

Chapter Text

"I'm holding Mikey on my hand, Leo!"

Donnie was in hysteria. He couldn't believe what he saw. The little turtle, tiny, biting Donnie’s finger…

"Fuck," came Leo's reply.

Donnie choked in a sob and nodded. Leo couldn't see it, of course, but Donnie did it anyway. When he had found his little brother, the youngest of the turtles had come out of the alley, into the light of day, looking just like… that . It was the raindrop that broke the dam.

And it was quite the splash of the flood, which overtook Donnie's words, as far as the shock could reach. At the moment, Mikey had been stepping, groping, paw and plastron, against greater height, biting his nunchuck. The flood of emotions Donnie felt as he took his little brother on his hand was incomprehensible. His heart had a thousand faucets, which until a few hours ago was just a thin stream, and during the break of the day had gathered a lot of water, level rising and overflowing to the rest. It had grown, for the past hour, as Leo searched at one corner, Raph the other. And now, Mikey was inside the dam, he was going. And the river of Donnie's heart came, until they both collided and flooded Donnie inside, who couldn't resist the tears overflowing from his body.

Donnie said in a choked murmur:

"Mikey...? Little— little brother?"

Mikey was trying, even now, to bite Donnie's fingers as if they were lettuce leaves. That tired the air. Mikey was little. Tiny. There was hardly any peace, too much. It wasn't worth it there.

"Donnie.", Leo's voice came from the T-Phone. "Where are you? I am coming there, I'll bring Mikey's stuff."

Donnie gulped down his sob.

"We're here— uh, near the intersection with— with Don Bosco... It's a small alley, and—  I— we’re right at… at the back of it."

"Is there any danger nearby?"

Donnie looked around.

"Uh-um."

"Good. Try to climb a building, it's daytime and it's dangerous for humans to see you."

"Uh-hm."

Donnie climbed the emergency stairs, nunchuck in the mouth, Mikey in the hand, the uncertainty ahead.

"How is he?", Leo asked, breathless with running.

Mikey at some point got into his shell, which was cracked. Donnie tried to look into Mikey's little eyes, but they were too hidden inside the carapace.

"Mikey? It's me— Donnie. Come out, you're with me now..."

Mikey didn't come out and Donnie took a deep breath.

"Do you want me to call Raph or would you do it?" he asked.

"I’ll call him. Stay with Mikey," Leo answered. "Is he okay, though?"

Donnie took another deep breath.

"He's got a— a crack in his shell, but I don't know what else, Leo, he’s so— he's hidden and won't come out and—," Donnie sighed. "...Okay. I'll call you later."

"Okay. Take care until I get there."

The T-Phone began to beep, signaling the end of the call. Donnie sat cross-legged on the roof floor, holding Mikey in both hands, and took another more deep breath.

"Mikey? Are you there, little brother?"

Mikey was little. Tiny. Donatello's three fingers alone could support his entire weight.

"Mikey?"

He must be very scared. When they were little, Mikey used to hide in his shell when the sky thundered, or when the candles in the lair ran out, or there was some noise sufficiently loud and sudden. And right now, Mikey was little. Tiny. Donnie could have crushed him with his hand if he wanted to. He must be so scared. Mikey couldn't speak, or scream, he was helpless without weapons or thought. Thus why he hid in his shell. Probably.

But for now, he was safe, because he was in Donnie's hands. And he was only in Donnie's hands because he was little. Tiny.

Donnie sickened at the thought. What could have happened? Mikey was just a small, tiny turtle hiding in his shell, and up until early yesterday evening he was a normal teenage turtle, standing at 4'10 tall with pride. He had eaten pizza for dinner and sulked when Raph switched channels in the middle of an episode of Space Heroes, only to laugh at him when Leo immediately called everyone to patrol. He was Donnie's brother. More than that, he was Donnie’s friend. Best friend. Their friendship was as insoluble as the sum of two numbers: it was useless to try to develop for more than a moment that certainty. He was normal. He was happy. And now, he was a fragile, little, tiny, miniscule turtle, which couldn’t eat pizza or even recognize characters on a screen as representations of real-life people, as if all the life Mikey had built was thrown away, simply a memory left in the past. And that creature was there, in Donnie’s giant hands, only a shell of Mikey, fragile, and deleting every trace of what his little brother used to be.

And Donnie lost his little brother. His heart sparkled with anger.

Mikey was 15 years old. His teeth were about 8 years younger, and his claws on feet and hands were much more recent. In the afternoon he had eaten bread, which was 3 days old, and coffee, which was harvested about 2 months ago. Upon leaving the lair, which was around 50 years old, wearing an 9 year old mask, a belt with no more than 4 years and 16 year old nunchucks, Mikey exchanged words with Donnie that were about 900 years old. And then, it seems, during the patrol, 2 hours into the story, someone came and painted Mikey as if he were a picture in Donnie's head which lived less than one second. So, that wasn't Donnie's little brother. It was not. If it were, it would be smiling and joking. If it were, it wouldn't be 6 inches tall. It wouldn't be small. Tiny. It would not be a memory, or an entire history being trashed. The pain was less than the anger. And how angry he felt! Looking deeply at the creature in his hand, so small and so— so not his brother— not Mikey— anger filled the space for pain, because it is from pain that anger always comes. And Donnie’s hands were big, the creature so small— No. He suddenly was scared of himself, the strength of his hold weakened. How could he think of that?

His blood boiled even further.

In Donnie’s senses, as quickly as he hung up the phone, Leo, with all of Mikey's gear on his shoulder, came followed by Raph. It could have only taken minutes, it could have taken an hour, but Donnie’s brothers were there. The two wore indescribable eyes, they were speechless, their mouths were curved, Leo had it slightly, Raph was clearly forcing himself not to take the corner of his lips further down. More than that, it was impossible to see. The eyebrows were hidden behind the masks, and any possible redness on the face too. They approached Donnie quite slowly, hands up, not to startle him, before they stopped some meters away. And only their eyes couldn't be hidden. Leo had his eyes almost closed, head was down, shaking it "no", as if he was following the old philosophy: out of sight, out of mind. Raph's eyes betrayed more, they were bright, moist, threatening… 

When they caught better sight of Donnie, and Donnie caught first sight of them, Leo sighed loudly, eyes begging, and Raph looked at him in disbelief, even if he believed everything at that moment. Donnie’s brothers looked like they were begging: "Please, tell me it's a prank, I'll even laugh if you want." Their eyes were wide, pleading, hurried, as if they were about to miss a train. And Donnie was crestfallen, as if he had just missed it. He knew he had to use words. Here, they were all that was left. And they now only counted on them.

"Of course this isn’t a prank, you…!", are some words he wanted to shout. His heart was flooded with anger. There would be some colorful adjectives too, painting this and other sentences in many different, painful ways. But it wasn’t fair to his brothers, nor to himself. These were words he shouldn’t say, words that no one should listen to, so he let them remain in the silence where they come from in the dark depths of the tongue, with other unformulated cruelties. And just in case, hidden here in this paragraph, where no one would find them.

When his brothers saw the little turtle, and Donnie’s mind registered their eyes, their sad eyes, his anger suddenly became numb; Raph fell to his knees in front of him and took Mikey in his own hands, looking deeply into the tiny broken carapace.

"Is— is it true? Donnie?"

Donnie nodded, but couldn't answer anymore. Raph’s eyes started stinging with tears. He hugged Mikey close, on his plastron, and hung his head low. He didn't need to. His brothers already knew. They had tears, too.

—x—

Logbook entry 12#418.

It has been one hour since the capture. The turtle stirs in his sleep. I wonder if it is related to injuries from the capture process or if it is just a sleeping pattern of this particular individual. 

The injuries were not serious, although acid burns on his front paws, which were not treated at the time of injury, will leave scar tissue which may limit his fine motor coordination. It really depends on how deep the damage was, perhaps it is treatable with the right medications, but I fear overdosing him, as I did not investigate yet what is an acceptable milligram dose for his weight and species. There is no need to capture a new turtle. With the right physical therapy, it may be possible to mitigate the damage, although I do not see how this will be relevant in the near future.

It does not matter, anyway. He serves fine.

(Note to self: I question if his paws should be reclassified as hands. How much did his original mutation alter his turtle anatomy? He appears to have three fingers on each paw, but the front ones have a change compared to traditional turtles: He has opposable thumbs. This is a characteristic seen only in primates, one of which, humans, was the basis for his mutation. Would that be enough to reclassify his paws? What is the threshold for calling something a paw and something a hand? This is an important matter I must investigate at a later date.)

—x—

When they told Master Splinter, he demanded to see Michelangelo. Raph, who was hiding the small turtle behind his carapace, brought his hands in front of him, exposing his de-mutated brother, a little embarrassed. The Master, however, only brought his face closer to Mikey, his whiskers touched his son, he sniffed him; then, the Master's spine rose, he stood erect, his arms crossed behind his back, he said he would meditate on it and left, heading towards the dojo, without saying a word, either of punishment or comfort. Raph wasn’t sure which he would prefer.

In the lab, Donnie began working on the cracked shell. Raph didn't like that Donnie's hands seemed too big to work on his fragile little brother, who had just gathered courage to come out from his carapace, but he would rather let them work than to Mikey die by an infection. Donnie tried giving intravenous antibiotics to try and kill any damn fucking germs that decided Raph's little brother would be a good host, but Donnie hesitated, for fear of making Mikey have some kind of overdose. He was very small. Very tiny.

Leo was quiet throughout the entire procedure.

When Mikey's shell was closed, his carapace properly bandaged, and the antibiotics given, Donnie also had an IV drip set up for Mikey. Better a skewered but hydrated little brother than a fainted little brother. Raph patted Mikey's head all the time, encouraging him to come out of his shell when the needles came towards him or the pain rose up too much. What worried him most weren’t even Mikey's size or Mikey’s new ways; no, no, what worried him most were Mikey’s eyes. Eyes without recognition, without shine, that looked at Raph, the giant, not as a big brother, but as another giant in his life. It was as if Raph was an old tree that Mikey had always lived on, but a tree that Mikey barely knew. There were, after all, many of the old trees. It was as if Mikey didn't remember who Raph was. Of who he himself was.

"So, what now?", Leo asked from the corner, arms crossed.

"I don’t know.", Donnie, who was sitting in the swivel chair, answered. His voice cracked a little, and Raph wasn’t sure what was the expression resting on his brother’s face. The entire lab was dressed in silence, as if death had a silk walking. "Maybe we can try to find out what’s happened to him", Donnie continued.

"And that would help because…?", Raph said.

"Because, genius—" Donnie answered angrily, removing Raph’s hand from the top of Mikey’s head. "— that would mean I could plan the most efficient way to turn him back to normal. If it was a retro-mutagen sort of attack, that would mean I would have to find a way to regrow his mutated cells, or reactivate them if the retro-mutagen hasn’t killed them all; if Mikey’s mutagen got somehow— somehow sucked out of his body, then we would have to find whoever did this to him and take every single droplet back, so I can reinject it to his bloodstream; or even— or even— or even maybe it was a case of a double mutation, which somehow annulled his first one, and— and I would have to manipulate the retro-mutagen we have to affect only the second mutation; or it could even be a time-travel situation, in that case I would have to find—"

Leo abruptly held Donnie’s hand in his own and kneeled, wanting to be eye-level.

"Donnie, it’s okay", he said, smiling.

When Leo opened his arms, inviting Donnie, the youngest buried his face in the oldest’s shoulder. There were no tears. He was quiet, Leo was rubbing the back of his neck.

"I can fix it", Donnie mumbled grumply.

"It’s okay."

"I can."

"I know."

Raph looked down, it was a little strange to see Donnie the way he was now. 

He stood up towards the kitchen, allowing the two to be alone. They looked like they needed it. Maybe not so alone, because Mikey was there, but Raph doubted his little brother could even understand what was going on around him. It didn’t matter. He had some calls to make.

The kitchen was quiet. He didn't like that quiet. It was wrong, that quietness was too silent, too uneasy, it usually wasn’t like that. That silence was just too much of himself, of his thoughts, too much. He wanted to hold Mikey in his arms now. His little brother was very small, very tiny, and the separation anxiety, even just a room away, was bothering him a little. 

He needed to make some calls, to do something with his hands. They itched. 

He thought first of April. When she’d find out, she’d come immediately. Besides Mikey, she was always the most empathetic person the brothers knew. April would certainly come in less than ten minutes, hug each one of them, give them words of comfort and sit with Donnie in the lab, helping him think of some solution. Her arms were small, thus so were her hugs. If no one was looking, she might pet Mikey, and would also give him words of comfort, as if he was aware enough to take them in his heart. It would be good, it would be nice. Any act of love was already a little bit of health, a rest from the frenzy. But it wasn’t enough. The itch spread through his arms. Raph thought of Casey, then. Casey was sincere to sincere ears. His words wouldn’t be much of comfort, he wouldn’t say "Tomorrow will be better" or something like that, as for hate and love that hurt, tomorrow was no consolation. Casey’s actions would be enough for Raph. They could watch TV, or play video games, listen to some rock, just be friends, to perhaps take Raph’s mind off a certain little brother. Friend, for Raph, it was just that: Casey was the person he liked to talk to, as equals, arm to arm. The person that he took pleasure in being close. That's all, almost; that and all the sacrifices. Friends is what the they were, but without needing to know why they were. Raph’s arms itched more. No, it wasn’t that. In the ninja system, a friend was the arm, and the steel. But Raph wasn’t ready to get up for another battle yet. He needed another kind of friend— not one with comforting words or comforting actions, but a firm arm for a hug to ease the itch in Raph’s arms, without malice, with patience, without insistence. 

Raph longed to hold Mikey in his arms, even though it had been only a few minutes. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling like this, for his heart was too hidden in himself for him to know exactly. It wasn’t anger, which is rare for the limited range of emotions he thought himself capable of feeling freely. It wasn’t fear either. Of course what has happened to Mikey was scary, but Raph thought it hurt him more than it hurt his brother himself. Everything that changes life comes quietly in the dark, without warning preparations. Raph wasn’t prepared. If he was, he would have been kinder, gentler, quieter and more tolerant towards Mikey before Mikey had to go.

Mikey had always believed in friends, and because he believed, they existed. No gesture of friendship should be wasted. And there was one of Mikey’s friends in particular that was in Raph’s mind, one who, because he was Mikey’s friend, was also Raph’s friend.

He wouldn't keep quiet in his presence. He always spoke if he had words stronger than silence. Otherwise, he would be words-silent, but his actions would be loud, he would give Raph a firm hug that could make his arms stop itching. Donnie wouldn’t like it, Donnie was afraid— it was okay, Raph wasn't that close to him either and he was also a little afraid, but here the reader understands: that one fears for love; but that, out of love, courage is also born. Raph needed a good reptilian hug, scale to scale, or the itch would last until Raph had Mikey in his arms again.

Besides, Mikey might be happy to see him.

Therefore, he dialed Leatherhead's number first.

—x—

Suddenly, there was no darkness in his eyes anymore. They opened first, inviting a blurry sight, then came touch, the cold feeling of lying on the porcelain floor, then the pain in his hands, his hearing, an annoying buzzing, and finally consciousness. As his brain gradually woke up to the world, he had to close his eyes again, the single light on the ceiling was too bright and made his head hurt. He got up little by little, rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken up from a good midnight nap.

Sitting upright, legs apart, he looked around. The room was small, the cell, two walls of exposed metal, one of glass with breathing holes, and a wallless-wall with visible and noisy buzzy electrical currents. The impulsive sparks, in a row, separated him from the world. More than that, nothing. Only himself.

It pressed into him that sadness, that pain, the worst of all, which is a lack of reason.

Mikey didn't think much about where he was, what he was doing there, and why, oh well!, you see, memory always reads the day backwards. When consciousness came, so did the memory, the struggle, the blood, the consequence. So soon, it was too late. He had been captured, and God, Raph would never let him forget it. Rising up slowly, he verified the room more calmly. There was no door. Every door, like every border, was only to be crossed quickly. It took very little physical contact to be useful and very soon one was already on the other side. The outside and the inside were born from it, it which being the void itself. So no door, no other side available. Did that even make sense? Perhaps. Mikey couldn't help but feel a profound sense of disorientation and thirst. Thirst? Yes, thirst. His throat felt dry, he longed for water, but there was none. Water was like health or freedom: it only had value when it ran out.

He couldn't remember the exact minimal details of how he had ended up here, but it didn't matter, the recollection of the struggle sent shivers down his spine. The consequences of his capture were starting to weight heavily on him, and he knew that his brothers must be worried sick, probably wondering where he had vanished to. He knew, of course: he was here.

The cell was a cold, sterile space with no personal touches, a place designed only for confinement. The buzzing electrical currents on the wallless-wall continued their relentless dance. He was alone. Not so alone, as there was a security camera in the corner. Mikey's disorientation deepened, he longed for a way out, "Let me out!", he shouted out loud, eyeing the camera, but nobody heard.  The walls seemed too close to him, and the constant buzzing of the electrical currents grated on his nerves. And thirst continued to gnaw at him. So thirsty. He wished for water, for something to quench his parched throat, but there was none to be found. It was a profound sense of loss. "Hello?! You hear me, right?! Let me out!", he screamed louder, getting closer to the camera. "Oh, you wanna—!"

Mikey was disoriented. It didn't matter, of course, as he went closer to the camera, and punched it. Hard. Its pieces fell to ground loudly.

"Let me out!", Mikey screamed to the void.

But nobody let him out.

After awhile, after some time screaming his lungs out, he decided to sit down and rest his head against the cold glass wall, closing his eyes, trying to shut out the situation. Maybe if he wished hard enough, he would wake up in his bed and this would have all been a dream. In a sudden rage, he punched the glass, which did not break or crack, but resounded loudly, with a noise that could be compared to thunder. And he didn't even flinch. Mikey wanted to be afraid of thunder, as he always was, but at that moment, whoever was on the other side of that once-camera scared him more. Raged him more. His thirst was making feel like this, he supposed. It was not rage, per say, but more like a will to fight. To be hopeful, violently. He started making little noises, though. Some whining, some calling for his brothers, demanding, saying, suggesting, begging, and finally whispering "let me out"s, some mumbling of a popular tune, he needed to say something, okay?, his thoughts were echoing in the silence, which extended for a long period, maybe some minutes, maybe hours.

Eventually, he gave up on the "let me out"s and whispered to the void: "Please, I want to go home". The words simply hung in the air. Mikey missed his family. But for now, all he could do was wait for his brothers to come for him.

And, God, he was thirsty.

—x—

"Hello?", came Leatherhead's breathy voice though the phone.

Raph couldn't be happier.

"Hello? Is there someone—"

"Yes!", Raph answered suddenly. "Yes, Leatherhead, I'm here. Can we speak now? It's kind of important."

Leatherhead was quiet for a moment, only his labored breathing could be heard on the other end of the line. He was tired, why?

"...Yes, for a while. I am in a kind of situation right now, but if it important, my friend, I'll make time for you. What is the matter, Raphael?"

"It's— uh. It's about Mikey."

"Did something happen to Michelangelo?"

"Yeah. In patrol today— he— ah... I can't even begin to explain."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"If ya don't wanna, Leatherhead, ya don't—"

"Let me reformulate, Raphael. Do you need me to come over?"

"...Yeah."

"Okay", he sighed. "I'll try my best to be there by 9. Do you need anything in specific?"

"We don't need anything right now—"

"Do you, Raphael, need anything in specific?"

"...a hug would be nice."

Leatherhead chuckled.

"Do not worry, my friend. I am cominng", Leatherhead's gentle deep voice echoated. "Is Michelagelo alright, though?"

Raph hesitated.

"No."

—x—

He was alright. It was okay. It really was. He could get through this. He could survive until his brothers rescued him. Every current, crooked, evil, dark river — so full of water! — was navigable with only paper boats.

(Even though, after awhile, they would become withered and weak, they would fall apart and colappse, before finally sinking.)

—x—

Raph, while waiting, put away Mikey's things in his closet. He hung the belt on a hanger and made sure to keep all the smoke-egg bombs in a protected place, wrapped in newspaper, so that they wouldn't break, and if they did break, they wouldn't hurt anyone, the way the Master taught them. The orange cloth was folded and placed in the drawer. The mask, without Mikey inside, wasn't a mask. It was just a piece of cloth. Because that mask was Mikey, entirely. Raph cleaned all the sweat from the nunchucks before they were put on display, in the dojo. Mikey was in display, too, in Spike's old tank, in Raph's room.

He also called for all of their other friends. Only April and Casey answered the phone.

Suppertime took place before Leatherhead's arrival.

"Hey, guys, look what’s for dinner today", Leo said softly, almost whispering, kind of smiling, kind of frowning, trying to get the mood up. It was pizza. The table was ready, the plates, the cutlery, Raph realized there were only three, and that made him want to go to his room, hug Mikey and never go to dinner without him on his lap again. The table was settled, as was the pizza, which was already sliced and ready to eat, it was in the center, the glasses were already there, half empty, Leo had already served grape juice for Raph, water for himself and nothing for Donnie, just the way they always liked it. There were few glasses in the kitchen. Mikey accidently broke most of them. If he were to be at the table, there would be orange juice too, but Raph had a feeling that that flavor would go bitter and spoil in the fridge without anyone touching it. That night, the Master would not have dinner with them. He was meditating. Raph sat down, next to Donnie, and started to eat. The pizza was good, but lacked flavor. "I know this is none of our favorites, but that’s what I found. It is Mikey’s favorite, though. Do you remember how Mikey loves this one?", Leo asked, smiling.

No. Raph didn't remember. Because to remember, one first needed to forget, and Raph would never forget. But he nodded, and continued eating.

"Do you think he still does?", Raph asked after a moment of silence, as he made a mental image of Mikey, resting in the tank.

Leo put a hand over Raph’s shoulder and smiled.

"I’m sure of it."

He wasn’t.

—x—

Logbook entry 12#419

It has been four hours since the turtle woke up from the capture. He took very few moments to get up, which to me indicates no major motor complications related to injuries. It has surprised me that he’s came to conciousness so quickly, however. Contrary to what I initially thought, he appears to be somewhat sturdy, which is promising. He is uncoordinated and confused, though. As predicted, little to no experience in a confinement area has led to a demanding adjustment period, notably regarding social and communicational needs, visible as he spent the last few hours vandalizing the chamber and making incomprehensible sounds. Could it be his native language, or just the babbling of a child in a tantrum? I'm sure that this period is phasic, and that it will pass through smoothly given necessary time.

They are currently isolated, as the nature of their curiosity at each other is uncertain right now. I will investigate this more carefully at a later date after he has become quieter and she has become less rebellious.

He does not appear to understand what is happening around him. It does not matter anyway. He is perfect.

Chapter Text

Logbook 15#420

The subject spent approximately one hour engaged in vocal distress behavior, whining, crying, and pacing, before ceasing without clear cause. Due to observational equippment malfunction, I chose to investigate the shift myself.

At first, I observed from a distance. The turtle appeared to be inspecting his surroundings, pressing his hands against the walls and floor. It seemed he was attempting to locate a structural weakness or exit point. He remained silent throughout the process, which was a marked improvement over the earlier outburst. Possibly, he had redirected his focus to escape-oriented behaviors.

Upon noticing my presence, he tensed. His body language became guarded and his posture shifted. He exhibited classic signs of wariness:
✓ fixated eye contact;
✓ lowered stance.
(*I was under the impression he had formal training, which would include some sort of poker-face).

Understandable. Suspicion in such a context is both natural and anticipated. Still, it suggests he is slightly more perceptive than initially assumed. Of the four, I had predicted him to be the least observant. A minor miscalculation, though not a meaningful one. His usefulness remains unaffected.

I stepped forward. He pressed himself against the far wall, eyes widening. Another step, and he responded with a low, defensive gesture:
✓ teeth partially bared (possibly instinctual).

The lack of available weaponry limited his options, but there was clear intent behind his posture. Were I within reach, I suspect he would have attempted to bite.

I closed the distance further. His agitation increased visibly
✓ erratic breathing;
✓ dilated pupils;
✓ muscle tension;
✗ agression.

He withdrew into his shell.

At that point, I disengaged. There were other matters requiring attention.

The behavioral contrast between the two is notable. Whether that difference proves advantageous or presents complications remains to be seen.

—x—

Leo swept the lair.

It's been five days, and ever since Mikey was de-mutated, Leo swept the lair. 

For five days, he has been sweeping the floor, trying to collect all the pieces, and the shards of glass from the fallen saucer.

It had been an accident, really. Leatherhead had arrived worried, a little awkward about having been a little later than he and Raph had agreed. Not that it was a problem, of course; Raph greeted him with a warm hug, which caught Leo off guard. Raph wasn't known for hugging, especially not friends-almost-not-friends, like Leatherhead. Nevertheless, that was okay. If Raph needed that comfort, Leo wouldn't intervene. His role was to lead and reassure his brothers; he couldn't afford to burden them further when they were already feeling miserable. His brothers needed him. All of them.

If Raph found peace of heart in Leatherhead's company for some reason— well, who was Leo to say anything? When someone needed another person, their mere presence could bring comfort. There was no need to dissect the 'why.' Leo suspected that even Raph himself might not fully understand it. Sometimes, all that was required was their presence, and nothing more. The hug was short, but it fitted all of Raph's sadness. It seemed, for a moment, that he had melted in Leatherhead's arms, as if the giant, because he was there, could solve the problem. And what a problem! Leatherhead didn't know, of course, so a mere glance at Donnie was enough to tell the younger brother to bring Mikey from the tank. 

Leo extended a cup of tea to Leatherhead, carefully placed on a saucer, which, as fate would have it, would find its way to the floor, shattered into pieces. But that was for later; for now, the saucer was whole, even if cracked, with a piece missing. It was a customary gesture to welcome guests with something to drink. Leatherhead took a seat at the table, next to Raph; thankfully, the table was already all clean, the dishes washed, the napkins collected, the trash thrown away, the cloth smoothed, all by Leo's hand. He just needed to sweep the lair.

But that was what Leo’s been doing for the last few days. Sweeping the lair.

"Leatherhead...", Leo began. "So, about Mikey—"

"What happened to Michelangelo?"

"He—"

"How serious is the injury?"

"No, no, he's not hurt...", Leo stopped to think for a moment. "That was a lie. He was hurt, yes, but we've already taken care of that. Something else happened..."

"Which was...?"

"Well, you see—"

"Oh for the love of God, Leo! Spill it out already!", Raph snapped.

A stillness was enough for Donnie to return, sullen-faced; the little turtle in his hand as if he didn't want anything to do with it.

"Is that—?", Leatherhead began.

"It's Mikey, yeah."

Leatherhead, at the moment, supported the saucer in one hand, in the other he held the handle of the cup. Seeing Mikey like that must have brought back some bad memory, Leo is sure: the saucer found the floor while his friend's third eyelid closed. Something else must also have closed inside Leatherhead at that moment. He stood still, static, mouth half-open, like a real alligator that patiently waits for his prey not to notice him, due to his stillness. He froze in that moment, that moment in which, little by little, Leatherhead felt his body and everything else made of spirit return to his center. It was a death that returned to his life.

The saucer fell and it broke in a million pieces.

So Leo has been sweeping them clean.

In fact, Leo's duties had multiplied ever since Mikey was de-mutated. Sweeping and mopping had become routine tasks for him, but it was only the tip of the iceberg. He has been doing many things; sweeping and mopping were just his favorite.

So, this was the scenario: ever since Mikey was de-mutated, Leo has been responsible for sweeping and mopping the lair. Donnie became frantic, obsessed with finding a cure. Raph took Mikey for himself and placed him in Spike's old tank, talking to him every now and then, as if that would somehow make him remember and reverse what was done. The Master spent the whole day meditating in the dojo, and only left when he was going to cook something for his boys.

And Leo swept the lair. It was as if the lair always needed to be swept. There was always some dust here, some dirt there, crumbs and mold, the remains of some experimentation, soot, fur, loose scales, lint, everywhere. And Leo readily took the task upon himself, ever since Mikey was de-mutated. It didn't demand much of his attention. He didn't need to think much, he was always a call away if he was needed, and his mind was free to wander as the broom moved in a steady, slow, quiet motion.

Leo understood why Mikey enjoyed the task. There was something gentle about sweeping, something peaceful. The rhythm. The soft hush of the broom against stone. The way he could make something just a little better, a little cleaner, even if it didn't last. It was calming, in a way.

The Master didn't mind Leo's silence. He could see Leo losing himself in the repetitive motion, and though it must have hurt to watch, he never interrupted. The Master had stopped giving him orders, had stopped expecting much at all. It was Leo now who made sure Donnie ate, who told Raph to sleep, who checked the water level in the tank and made sure the dojo was warm enough for the Master's knees. The Master never gave him any more tasks, nor did he ask him what Leo was thinking while he was sweeping, even though the floor was crystal clear.

Leo thought a lot about Mikey, and the Master let him be. 

The broom passed through the silence like a metronome. Housework gave him peace, it was mental hygiene. He didn't feel angry, nor sad, nor afraid, nothing. His mind was clear, as was the floor he was cleaning.

Leo, indeed, thought a lot about Mikey. His thoughts came and went, like waves on dirty tile, rising and falling before they could form anything whole.

He thought:

How unfair. How unfair.

Mikey never missed training, he always fought with everything he had, but he lost one fight and was de-mutated. He was kind to his enemies, but this time, he ended up de-mutated. He had a smile on his face and dreamed of having many friends, but he had very few, fewer who came to see him in the tank. Everyday, he would always come to see Ice Cream Kitty in the freezer, but she wouldn't visit him now. And the chores that Mikey did, that he did to keep the lair so clean and functional, were never even noticed until he was gone. The floor that Mikey swept so eagerly didn't care if he was going to sweep it again, and it was back to dust and dirt some days later. Everyone could always count on him to wipe out their tears and make them smile, but after he was de-mutated, nobody came to offer his family any comfort, even if it was only a shoulder to cry on.

So, in life, Mikey always taught Leo to be the best person he could be. And in death, Mikey taught Leo to expect nothing in return.

So Leo swept the lair.

He swept and thoughts went up and down. He thought of old thoughts, but they were swept away before they could be thought of.

And so, Leo swept the lair.

—x—

Logbook entry 15#441

As the days pass by, the subject has become largely nonverbal. Vocalizations have reduced in both frequency and intensity since containment began. Stress response appears to have plateaued. Emotional distress is still observable in physical tics (rocking, pacing), but with less urgency than prior sessions.

He has developed a routine of repeated exploratory behaviors. Notably, a fixation on the drainage grate, despite clear evidence of its inaccessibility. I considered removing the grate entirely to prevent pointless fixation, but decided against it. Observation of persistent but fruitless behaviors may yield insight into cognitive function under restriction.

Today, I decided to conduct an auditory stimulation experiment: low-volume playback of various environmental sounds (urban traffic, underground water flow, human speech, etc.). The subject responded to none except the human speech sample, specifically a distorted male voice reading from a book. Upon first hearing the sample, subject sat still for: 43 seconds.

This is longer than any previous stillness during observation. He looked at the speaker but ceased all movement. When the voice sample ended, he made a skeptical face and resumed pacing. Will repeat with clearer vocal recordings. He obviously is familiar with language, as he appears to speak it (possible human-equivalent language processing?). It is obvious a prior exposure, but how much of the sample did he really understand, in an emotional level?

When I offered him an item resembling previous dietary intake (synthetic pizza analogue: wheat disc, tomato byproduct, processed cheese substitute), he refused it. Not due to unfamiliarity, as his body language suggested recognition, but also avoidance. Possibly a negative emotional association, or wariness. Interesting. Emotional aversion strong enough to override hunger. Indicates at least a moderate level of emotional memory retention. Further testing needed to determine if associations are specific to content, appearance, or smell.

—x—

Who would Donatello be if Michelangelo were not who he was? A very different turtle, surely. Less careful. More closed off. And, of all the things Donatello was (and all the things he wasn't), he would certainly be less tired.

But Michelangelo was who he was. So Donatello was tired. And angry.

Ever since Mikey was de-mutated, Donnie had locked himself in the lab. And he hadn't shown up anymore, for anything or anyone. For eating, going out, sleeping, washing his face to remove all the dirt and bad stuff that had built up over the last few days. He didn't want to leave his little world, call it frenzy, call it epiphany, call it obsession, call it mania, but he needed to stay in it because otherwise, he would forget why he had to do everything that needed to be done. Why saving Mikey was so important, who he would leave disappointed if he didn't do it. The Master. His brothers. Friends.

Leatherhead cared about Mikey.

But still, he had decided to break Mikey’s favorite saucer, hadn't he? What other explanation could there be, except that he didn't care as much as Donnie, that he didn't love Mikey as much as Donnie did? Leo went to get the broom to clean up the shards, Raph took Mikey in his hands and went to comfort their friend. But Donnie apologized and withdrew.

Donnie had been withdrawing a lot these last few days. To work hard and try to bring his brother back to the family. No one else was doing it, and that filled Donnie's heart with many things, too many things, because at the end of the day it seemed like only he was working to fix anything, and everything rested on him. No one loved Mikey as much as he did, because none of them was trying as he was.

Donatello told himself he was trying to help. That he was fixing it. That if he worked hard enough, long enough, slept less, ate less, thought faster, he'd bring Mikey back. He'd undo it. But, one day, maybe the third, the fateful thing happened that he should have seen a long time ago: The truth came, and this particular truth was something he did not wish to name. Because somewhere between the third failed serum and the seventy-second discarded project, Donatello stopped thinking of the little turtle in the tank as Michelangelo. And that, more than any of his failures, was the part he couldn't say out loud.

He looked at the creature, at him, and felt nothing like love.

He knew how that sounded. But he didn't admit it at first, because if he couldn't love Mikey anymore, what could be said about the future of his little brother? Who would Michelangelo be if Donatello were not who he was?

Donnie let Leatherhead leave the kitchen on his own, hours later and in a private conversation with Raph. Not out of fear, not out of malice, but Donnie finally waited for him to leave to go back to the kitchen, take Mikey back from Raph’s hands, and ensure his health, just to give him back to his brother. Donnie smiled, Leatherhead went on to say some words, but… Some days, anger was the only honest emotion left. Donnie never warmed up the alligator anyway.

And he had broken Mikey's saucer.

So Leatherhead was yelled at before finally leaving. Raph was angry at Donnie then, and Donnie was angry at everything else. He couldn't stand anyone anymore, so he withdrew back to his sanctuary, where he could work in peace.

Mikey was given Spike's old tank to live in. He blinked sometimes. That slow, blank blink. Not curious. Not afraid. Just hollow. There was nothing behind it, except for just the gentle hum of the pump, the occasional twitch of a limb, and the reminder that Donnie, the smart one, the fixer, hadn't fixed anything. And so Donatello worked, but the thing in the tank annoyed him, the scratching, the blinking, the stillness, it all got under his skin like static. He would never say it, never write it, but most days he let Raph have the tank because Donnie often wished it would just stop, just for a moment of quiet. Just long enough to let him think clearly, without the noise of failure clawing at the walls.

What he felt wasn't love. It was obstruction, an interruption, with problem he couldn't solve, and Donatello hated unsolved problems.

The twitching and the dull eyes and the silence, what was there in this world more wrong than this? It was wrong in a way that made his skin crawl, in a way that made his hands shake. Wrong in a way that made him think, once or twice, that maybe Mikey wasn't in there at all. And if Mikey wasn't in there… what was he trying to save? He didn't want to ask that question. But it came back, again and again. Every time the scans failed and every time the DNA rejected a serum and every time the DNA failed to show any trace of mutation and every time the little turtle tilted his head, slow and stupid, like a machine running on too little power.

He had tried. He was trying. But somewhere along the way, something in him had stopped reaching. A switch had flipped. A wire had burned. What was left wasn't love. It was routine.

He couldn't think of the thing in the tank as Michelangelo anymore. Not really. Not most days. And that’s what made him angry. Because if Mikey wasn't Mikey, then what was left to save? Every hour he spent in the lab was another hour being told to believe in a memory. Another hour being expected to love something that no longer resembled what he had loved.

He would never hurt him. Of course not. He would never lay a hand on Mikey.

But the thoughts came. Quiet, creeping things. Cold things.

He thought:

What if. What if.

What if it never worked? What if Mikey was gone and everyone else was just too cowardly to say it out loud? What if the turtle in the tank wasn't someone to save, but something to let go? What if he was the only one honest enough to admit that whatever was left in that tank… wasn't?

What if...

He didn't say those things to Raph. He didn’t say them to Leo. He certainly didn’t say them to the Master. But he thought them.

Donatello had always believed in cause and effect. If Mikey was gone, then something in Donnie would be gone too. But he hadn't expected what remained.

And then he got back to work.

—x—

Loogbook entry 15#443

Tested proximity tolerance again today.

I entered the containment unit and stood precisely 1.2 meters from subject. He immediately ceased movement. Displayed no vocal response, but stared at my knees without blinking. When I stepped forward, he slowly turned away and sat facing the wall. An avoidance strategy. Not defensive, simply disengaged. No attempt at retreat, but clear rejection of interaction. He remained motionless until I left the space. I have noticed he has stopped retracting into his shell and no longer shows overt fear. 

How does he react when another, more familiar face is in his proximity? I introduced a reflective surface into enclosure: stainless steel panel bolted to east wall. The subject ignored it for the first hour. Eventually approached, hesitantly. He stared at his reflection for an extended period (12 minutes, 9 seconds) without any apparent understanding of what he was observing.
✗attempt to interact with reflection;
✗touching of surface;
✗vocalizations.

I would have expected some behavioral indication of recognition, or at least distress, but there was only silence. He looked at himself as if looking at a stranger. 

This may be a concern.

—x—

Raph liked to think he was handling it all better than his brothers. He wasn't locked away in a room, and he wasn't losing himself in endless tasks. Or maybe he was, but in the most important task of all: taking care of Mikey. It was a lot like taking care of Spike, really; hardly any difference. Except there was. Because Mikey was greener, rounder, his shell flatter (even if the freckles had faded) and he was slower. Way slower, and it hurt more, way more. The pain of it. Taking care of Mikey, what kind of phrase was that? When did he have to start thinking like that? It had always been protect, save… not take care. Mikey used to do that on his own, and he was good at it.

The thought scared Raph, knowing that in the tank, it wasn't Spike, but his brother. Maybe it would have been better not to know. Maybe ignorance was safer than living in fear with a thought like that. But in the end, it didn't really matter, did it? Fear is just extreme ignorance at a very acute moment.

The sound of the broken saucer had long since stopped echoing through the lair, but it might as well have still been falling. The silence afterward hadn't been kind. Leatherhead stood stiff in the kitchen's corner, staring down at his hands like he hadn't seen them before; they were shaking in a way too slow to be shock and too steady to be panic. It was something... quieter, and Raph cound't think of what.

Now it was all a mess, there was glass dust on the tile. Leo soon came sweep it up, like always. Raph hated that. That Leo kept cleaning up after all of them like grief was just another mess to tidy, like they could organize it into something manageable. Donnie couldn't, so he left, and Raph couldn't as well, so he grabbed Mikey in his hands as Donnie left and sat in front of Leatherhead, who stood awkwardly near the table, still holding the empty teacup by its handle, before sitting back. The rest of it was scattered at his feet, jagged and glinting in the overhead light like it was accusing him. He looked like he didn't know what to do with his hands. Like he wanted to say something, but couldn't.

Raph sighed

"It's just a saucer", he said. "Don't worry about it." Leatherhead didn't look at him. His eyes were locked on Mikey.

"It wasn't just a saucer," he said, voice low.

"No", Raph admitted. "Guess it wasn't."

Silence again. Mikey tried to lay in his brother's arms in a lazy half-circle, then bumped gently into the table stone. It made a dull sound, like a knuckle tapping a coffin.

Raph rubbed the back of his neck. He hated this part, this awful middle space between meaning well and it not being enough. He had brought Leatherhead here, called him, reached out, that wasn't easy for Raph, asking for help never was. But he'd done it because because Mikey would’ve wanted it. Because Raph needed it. And now? Now Leatherhead looked like he would rather be anywhere else.

"Hey", Raph said. "Look, I didn't bring you here to... break stuff or feel bad or whatever." Leatherhead flinched, just a little. Raph looked back at Mikey. Then he looked at the table, at the place Mikey used to sit. "I just... I didn't know who else to call." That sat heavy between them. "I needed—" Raph stopped. Swallowed it. Started again. "I needed someone who'd get it."

Leatherhead's throat worked as he tried to breathe through something that didn't quite come out.

"I get it", he said. "Too well."

"Yeah."

"Michelangelo was the first one to trust me", Leatherhead added, voice like gravel. "Back then, when none of you knew what to make of me, he didn't care. He just... said 'you look like a hugs kind of guy.'" Raph let out a breath that might have been a laugh. Or might have been a sob he turned inside-out.

"That does sound like him."

"It was him", Leatherhead said. "And now he's... this. And I broke his saucer."

Raph stepped forward, slow.

"Hey, man. It's just a saucer. You came when I asked, when he needed you to look out for us. That's what matters, ya?"

Leatherhead blinked hard.

"You called me to help bring you peace of mind, but it surely looks like the other around", he laughed in wet sad eyes. "I don't know what to do here, Raphael."

"Well, me neither." And then, after a pause: "But you don't gotta do anything. Just sit. Just be here. Like before."

"And if Donatello—"

"Forget Donnie", Raph snapped, sharper than he meant. Then, quieter: "He's hurting. We all are. But you're not the problem."

Leatherhead finally nodded. Barely.

"I'll stay, then", he said. "For as long as you and your brothers allow it."

"Good."

Now, Leatherhead had been yelled at and left and Raph was alone all again. In his room, alone alone, only his baby brother to keep him company. Not just the empty kind of alone you feel when a room is quiet, but the kind of alone that hums under your skin like something's missing, something's wrong, but it won’t say what. He had felt it for the last days now. But it was fine, fine fine. Because Mikey was here. Still here. Still in his room.

That was how things had been lately: Mikey spent most of his time in Raph's room now, the rest of it in Donnie's lab, where things beeped and clicked and scanned and never worked. Raph didn't like him in the lab, it felt too clinical, not-home. So most of the time, he kept Mikey here, where it was warm and full of noise, where the tank glowed soft in the corner and nothing felt like an experiment. Raph took care of everything baby-brother-related. That was his job now. Tank cleaned daily, water fresh and filtered, plenty of food, plenty of light, temperature steady, bed soft, there were blankets folded neatly at the base, even if Mikey never used them. And there was a wall full of pictures next to the tank, Mikey's favorites. Him and Ice Cream Kitty. Him with his brothers. Him with his tongue out, cross-eyed, holding a half-eaten slice of pizza.

Raph didn't care if Mikey couldn't understand the words. It didn't matter, not really. What mattered was keeping him close, not forgetting, and not letting him go.

Unlike his brothers, Raph didn't spend his days in silence. He talked, talked talked, constantly. He told Mikey about everything, what Leo was doing, what Donnie had broken, what the Master cooked for dinner, what weird dream he had the night before, what song had been stuck in his head since morning, he complained about the busted showerhead, he ranted about Donnie's recent temper, he told stories, jokes, bad ones, everything. Mikey never laughed (couldn't) but Raph laughed enough for both of them. Mikey was a good listener, just like Spike had been. But then again… Slash had a lot to say, once he got the chance. And Raph knew what that meant; somewhere deep down, he knew it. So he prayed, not out loud, but inside, where it counted, that when Mikey came back, he wouldn't remember any of this.

The tank, the silence, the yelling... The picture on the wall.

Because Raph never acted like anything had changed. Not around Mikey, not even a little. He talked like everything was normal, like Mikey was just tired, just resting, and Raph refused to believe otherwise, he couldn't afford to. So he kept talking, every day, every hour. As if his voice alone could stitch the world back together.

Because when he was quiet, and he stared at Mikey, all that came were thoughts.

He thought:

How strange it was, and how cruel, that the brightest thing in the lair had become the stillest, who now barely stirred the water around him. He thought about how long it had been since Mikey ran, since he fought, since he was anything but here. And how, somehow, here still felt like gone. Like looking at an old photo and realizing the person in it will never look back. And just like a picture, Mikey was in the tank, looking at Raph, eyes wide, before going back to eating lettuce leaves. The tank was static, his little brother's movements as small and slow as if they were static too. This was what Mikey had been reduced to, a decoration in the corner of a dark room somewhere in the sewer. But every time Mikey looked, lifted his head, eyes wide, it was as if he said:

"Remember me, every now and then."

And Raph, as always, nodded, before placing his head back on the pillow, and returning quietly to wandering through the corners of his mind. Remember him, always. 

Not for long, of course, because the quiet brought the thoughts, and the thoughts brought the pain. So he would sit up again, clear his throat, look at Mikey, remember him and start talking. Talking, talking, talking.

Unlike his brothers, Raph didn't spend his days in silence.

—x—

Loogbook entry 15#451

Testing response to visual stimuli: sketches and printed images affixed to wall with magnetic backing. Image set included crude illustrations of turtles, food items, various objects, and photographs of the test subject group (dates unknown, recovered during previous intercalations with subject).

He ignored most images. He did, however, approach the photographs and stared at it for several minutes; his hand hovered near the surface but did not touch. His eyes fixated on specific points in the images, particularly the faces, one of them of the other subject. His expression was unreadable. He made no sound and made no movement, before, eventually, walking away.

He remembers.

Preparations underway for reintroduction trial. The second subject has remained largely unresponsive to external stimuli for weeks. However, minor reflexive behaviors have resumed in recent days:
✓ eye tracking;
✓ partial limb movement;
✓ occasional vocal resonance (unintelligible).

This correlates loosely with this subject's stabilization. Perhaps proximity or shared sensory exposure will yield useful responses. Initial contact will be strictly controlled. No direct physical access. Observation only.

I do not expect significant interaction. But I have been wrong before.