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Raph is the big brother. The brother who is the biggest. The oldest, the most responsible, the one they all looked up to and relied on in their darkest hours.
As kids, the voice of reason, keeping his little brothers in check. As he grew, a leader, using this voice to guide them in missions.
Always the leader, always . Even if deep down he always knew he wasn't cut out for this, wasn't ready to take on this responsibility, wasn't ready to lead .
Even in the back seat of leading, he could not be there for them when he needed them most.
…
His eye hurts.
His shell hurts from where it was pierced. His limbs hurt from those damn Krang tentacles holding him up for hours . His throat hurts from endless hours of shouting, sobbing. Forgetting how to breathe.
He still remembers, still feels them. Any amount of time can pass. He will never forget.
Never .
But Raph knew. He knew the kind of burden that befell his clan, his family, his younger brothers .
The kind of burden he would always bear.
Even holding a hand over his eye could compromise his position. The snapper forced it to his side, shaking his head in protest. One no one would ever have to see should he have a say.
His physical recovery would take its time – something the family insisted on. Lots of rest, lots of check-ups from in-house and other professional medics.
Rest only made him grow restless . So often would the unconscious mind lead him to where he could train, get the energy out of his system.
If not allowed to leave the Lair without supervision, even when he was nearly an adult … he would work with what he had.
Lifting weights, for the most part. Smashing stuff when he could get his Ninpo in order.
So often did this energy act as an aid.
Just as much, a good old-fashioned punch would be enough to shake his core. Just as it has before the Krang nonsense.
This was his element. Practicing until he was certain he would never fumble the same way again. Roughing it out until emotions had no place to bring up their ugly mug.
Agh.
Ignoring the pull from angling his arm wrong that last time.
But such would only be a weakness.
And Hamato Raphael could not afford to be weak.
Not now, never again.
Pain would only be an obstacle. He could punch that bag just fine. Pretend it's one of those Krang jerks. Ignore the tears .
Punch again. Stinging.
Ignore the voices .
Feel the energy charge from within, red and crackling and loud and burning and worthless–
Another punch. Hard. Stinging. Burning .
Falling back. The punching bag, that is. Collapsing under his strength, just as his hands grip at the ground on either side. Curling in on himself. Refusing to make further noise.
Refusing to let anyone know how far he fell from grace.
Hamato Raphael.
Once the leader.
Now a shell of his former self.
Weak .
_ _ _
Leo is the leader.
He is the leader now. Ever since he was hardly sixteen years old; taking the burden from his older brother due to a haphazard decision.
And sometimes it just… sucks. It really fucking sucks. Point blank, no tricks.
Being a leader meant he had to be responsible . Meant people were counting on him to make the right decisions and not majorly fuck it up for everyone.
What they all saw him as now would determine every factor of stress a younger Leo could never even begin to dread so strongly.
…
A leader should never be alone.
Easy was it to become antsy, planning missions in the confines of his room, boards with pictures and string wide enough to stretch through what could have been a billboard.
Pictures of who the team would currently be after; their ties, their crimes, their possible upcoming locations to strike.
Sticky notes throughout telling himself to not fuck this up.
Not let what happened with the Krang…
No, he would not. For the sake of the whole world, Leonardo could not afford to let himself be so foolish.
Forever would he glance at the comics scattered about, picked up and thrown as quickly when realizing the distraction they held. Sports equipment throughout, thought about before realizing his utmost time and focus would not allow it. His katanas stuck in various objects, abruptly halting any efforts to leave.
A responsible leader did not leave when time was of the essence. They planned, so he, to, would plan.
Planning was his forte. Always was, always has been. Spontaneous as his ideas were, they were still plans .
A fist slammed on an empty space on the board, careful not to screw up his hours of careful work and yet… brows furrowing, teeth clenched, trying not to scream.
It was just a plan. A simple plan! It's not as if the world would end again if his plan wasn't done in an hour, in five minutes, in mere seconds like he used to be able to achieve.
A good leader was supposed to be quick-witted, natural, planning with little thought and winning the day.
A good leader did not have a brain that felt so hopelessly empty .
…
Damn, is this what Raph used to feel like?
No matter. Leo was not Raph. He was his only turtle, second in line and the one everyone counted on now.
Forever pacing his room at the planning board stared daggers into him. Hearing the light hum outside of music , of laughter . Easily a party of some sorts.
Or perhaps the confinement was getting to him. Not that he would ever say. Not when everyone counted on him.
Too often would he try to pull bouts of optimism from his past, from the day of the Krang invasion; anything to bring his mojo back.
Too often was he reminded of the hardships every brother of his faced. His dad thinking he lost them all. His best friend thinking she failed them. The kid who believed in him.
If he was going to be a good leader, he would stay here and make a fucking plan until it was perfect. Until it could undo every mistake his past brought upon the ones he loved and the rest of the world.
He could not afford to be Leonardo. Never again.
_ _ _
Donnie is the smart one. Always has been, always will be.
It would take a fool to ignore the decrease in the Hamato Clan's normally high-spirited approach to life. Similar to their recovery after the Shredder incident months prior, and yet… one few were able to bounce back from. Even those who roamed among the surface.
Not Donnie though. Donnie was fine . Other than a few occasional and unfortunately memorable sensory icks to his soft shell, there was not a single symptom of trauma he carried from the Clan's most recent misadventure.
No, he was obviously quite fine in comparison. While the others continued to make a steady recovery on their own, Donnie would return to what he did best: science.
A struggle it had been, arguing with his dear Papa over his right to use the lab once more. Try as that old rat and his brothers might, nothing could keep away a man on a mission.
Soon, the softshell found his place among his work. Tears in his eyes as he finally felt the smooth exterior of all his tech, ecstatic to realize it would not need dusting.
Well, his time apart consisted of only a few days… but still!
Now there would be nothing keeping Donnie away from his sweet, sweet work. Chugging down energy drinks for hours as he ran the same few lines of code over, replaying security clips from the Sister Krang's intrusion. Eyes dry despite consistent tears.
…
Perhaps there was a reason he was separated from his beloved for so long.
But no, the scientist would prevail. Emotions had no place in the lab – only important work, that of which he never wished to part with. Never again.
So, Donnie would just have to prove the utmost importance of his place in the Clan, the family. If there were two things that allowed them to get as far as they did in defeating the Krang, it was his tech and his conveniently soft shell.
That of which this ached, dozens of alien tentacles inching across–
NO! Enough of that thought! Scientists did not allow themselves weaknesses as a distraction. They did not allow themselves the opportunity to falter. They did not allow themselves to fail .
His tech never failed to this level… the Lair still needing countless repairs… his father and best friend almost dying… his robotic son, crushed before his repairs were complete…
Donnie would not wipe away these tears. They must stay if he must remind himself, if he must prove why failure was not an option.
That was all he was good for. If he had nothing else… he had no worth in this family.
So, he would replay the footage for hours if needed. Become accustomed to every crack of rubble that the home invasion caused, study every alien sound wave and every possible fluctuation in his home-built security system.
Hamato Donatello was no failure. He was a damn scientist .
And for the sake of his family and his worth within it, he must never be anything less.
_ _ _
Mikey is the youngest.
Forever and always the baby of the family. No one person made that clear over the other – held on a pedestal, but at what cost?
These days, unable to even reach them. Every single one of his brothers hiding themselves away, refusing to even answer if someone knocked.
Not that Mikey was much better. His hiding spaces simply had less walls to close him in.
Cooking, for the most part, making the most of their open-air kitchen to hopefully entice any hungry family member, bring a sense of normalcy to a life that seemed far from it.
Disappointed, when plates remained full, untouched. Rations gone to waste.
So often did the youngest have to throw out his own food. Tasting it before it goes bad, only to realize an unsteady hand factored in too much salt. Raph wouldn't like it either way.
Walking around the Lair, hoping to find an open door. The closest thing being the living room, his dad never blinking as he binged; falling back on bad habits.
Trying to text April, her responses coming in less and less.
Debating if it would be worth it to sneak out, if only to go supply shopping with Barry in the Hidden City. Leo refused to go or take him anywhere, even with New York scrambling for rations among the citizens, and Donnie hiked up the security as of late. Sneaking out for menial things would not be worth it.
They would still be fine supply-wise for a while, leaving no reason to leave.
Leaving him truly alone in what was once a full house.
…
A part of him always had art.
With only a boom box worth of the family's favourites to fill his thoughts now, Mikey took to one of the still-empty walls, brainstorming.
Tremors in his hands would not allow for clean shapes. Escapism would allow it even less.
No thought would be put forward as endless colours and lines took the lead. Thoughtless graffiti, one may think. Mikey wished to think such.
Tossing the can of dull pink when what came out was a squiggle instead of a line. Throwing it at the boombox by mistake. Quickly scrambling to cover it with something else. Colours galore.
A big red blob. Blue, purple, yellow, green, pink. Endless coloured blobs.
All surrounding orange.
The small, small orange.
Small, desperate , lonely orange.
The can of his coloured namesake dropping to the floor, hand shaking in its place. Two steps back. A hitch in his breath.
Crossing his legs, finding himself on the floor before an inevitable collapse. Wrapping his arms around himself, flipping his hoodie up to hide his face.
Tucking in his head regardless.
Forever did he crave the gentle reassurance of his oldest brother, a pat on the shell and a blanket from his father, a playful punch and a speech from the family's face man, and an awkward but gentle meeting of the minds from the younger twin.
A hug, if nothing else.
For as close as everyone was right now, they would never be so far away. Never find him in this state.
Mikey is the youngest.
And damn it all if he didn't miss the way things used to be. Damn it all if he didn't miss his family .