Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Raph held his breath, his heartbeat pounding anxiously in his ears as his muscles themselves tensed in uneasy anticipation— and, without further hesitation, the snapping turtle charily peeked his eyes open to view the digital numbers below him that would serve as the ultimate measurement for the wearisome week's success….

…And immediately, what little expedient hope that Raph had gathered shattered.

In the span of one week— one torturous week of staying within a strictly low caloric range, ignoring his stomach's insistent demands, lying to his family (and somehow doing so successfully), purging any accidental extra calories, and exercising for at least two hours per day— Raph had only lost three point one pounds.

Thus failing the first week of his fifteen-pound-elimination-per-week plan, regardless of its level of achievability.

And thus leaving seventy-four point one more pounds to banish.

Raph inhaled shudderingly and forced back the torpid tears of terror and shame beginning to flood his oculars—

How was he ever going to reach his goal weight if he could only lose three pounds maximum per week? 

At this rate, he was never going to— to not look like—

Leo's lighthearted voice replayed tauntingly. "Raph is the most hippo-like," he had once teased.

The familiar chorus of Leo's, Mikey's, and Donnie's snickering laughter followed the quote as always— and, almost as if on cue, the wave of overwhelming anxiety, shame, and hopelessness crashed against Raph's chest.

Raph swallowed forcibly, willing away the familiar surplus of tears threatening to cascade down his pallid green visage.

  …Why did he have to be trapped inside that abhorrent, ludicrously large body?

Why did his status as the "biggest brother" have to be so painfully literal?

Raph was so dreadfully, achingly tired of breaking the objects in his immediate vicinity, tired of playing the laughingstock who always somehow found himself risibly stuck— the most recent display of this exhibit had occurred a week prior, when he had accidentally wedged himself in the Turtle Tank's floor hatch that had once been designed to fit Raph's specifications— tired of frightening any young humans who caught sight of his monstrous shadow, and tired of the miserable reflection who couldn't even fit in the mirror.

Why couldn't he simply be thinner, like his brothers? They managed to maintain both svelteness and muscle— so why couldn't Raph?

Why did he have to resemble a hippo?

The familiar laugh track of his brothers instantaneously replayed itself at the notion.

Couldn't he simply be weightless?

Invisible?

Feeling heavier than ever, Raph miserably disembarked the light gray scale and began to sink again into the heartless sea of chilly bathroom flooring.

The titanic number that had been on the scale seemed to follow, pitilessly haunting the empty bathroom and the snapping turtle's tempest of thoughts. 

How hadn't Raph lost more weight? He had done all that he was supposed to….

Raph despondently stared at his increasingly blurry hands, desperately wishing that he could grasp and destroy the number that had been taunting him for so long. "What am I doin' wrong?" he whispered aloud despondently, his throat strained.

Torrid tears began to drip down his cheeks. "Why can't I do this?" Raph choked.

He had thought he had come so far this week— again, adding and subtracting calories, exercising obsessively, purging in secret, improvising guilty excuses, and inconspicuously escaping family meals, all while pretending that nothing could possibly be wrong— 

And yet so far, he had only lost three point one pounds— eleven point nine pounds short of his weekly target.

Raph sank defeatedly to the bathroom floor, despondent tears streaming down his visage, as the suffocating world seemed to swallow him whole.

—                     —                     —                     —                     

Donnie inhaled sharply in deep, serene satisfaction, his purple-masked oculars closed as he held out his arms and drank in the verdant, palacious, and susurrous world around him: his latest grandiose achievement.

A long, satisfied exhale departed his lips.

"You've outdone yourself again, Donatello."

Donnie blinked open his bright eyes, basking in the otherworldly wonders of his surroundings and planting his tech-bō into the soft grass below.

"A botanist's paradise: the Symbiodome."

The scattered kaleidoscopic hues and patterns around the solitary turtle— from tangles and twists of poisonous deep purple, diaphanous yellow, radiation-like green, ominous blood red, and to the ethereally glowing white— remained silent.

A faint programmed breeze, seemingly the only congratulatory response, softly brushed itself against a spiraling, pine-green fern frond adjacent to the softshell's head.

Donnie sank his quondam-proud shoulders as a prick of hollowness like a burr clung itself to his chest cavity.

"...So why don't you feel anything?" he murmured aloud, gazing mirthlessly at the suddenly mundane world around him.

…Suppose the Symbiodome wasn't impressive enough? 

…Or perhaps it wasn't quite exceeding expectations enough?

Donnie had created an organized assortment of wondrous, exotic plants and realistic land formations from arches to plateaus to waterfalls— each plant genetically modified to enlarge its brilliance and magnify his own— all in one admirably, efficiently controlled, and symbiotic micro-climate.

…But as the lone softshell turtle gazed absently upon his latest creation, he sensed something uncomfortably prodding his insides.

Something… lacking.

A soft whirring noise approached the softshell turtle. 

"Maybe because you haven't shown it to anybody yet," a casual voice suggested.

Donnie turned curiously to grin once more at the hovering, dark purple conversation newcomer. "Ah! S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.," the softshell turtle blurted pleasedly. 

Relieved, Donnie thoughtfully turned again toward his lush, verdurous creation. "Yes, yes, you're right," he agreed in expedient satisfaction. "Until the coming grand opening, I don't have anyone to gloat to just yet…."

Donnie grinned complacently, straightening heartenedly— what had he been thinking? Of course the Symbiodome was perfect; Donnie didn't make anything that was lackluster as, after all, he himself was flawless.

A twinge of apprehension suddenly squirmed in his stomach, fertilizing the discountenancing seed of doubt.

Donnie was flawless.

…Right?

—                     —                     —                     —                    

The four turtle brothers lounged about on the cool floor adjacent to the skating ramps, three-fourths of the turtles again arguing incessantly around the colored cardboard game board.

Raph, meanwhile, fiddled absently with an ivory one-dollar bill, hugging his knees and attempting to distance himself from the painful awareness of how much space he was occupying around the light green square.

"Uh, okay, go back," Leo commanded embitteredly. "You rolled a four. You landed on green."

"I beg to differ, dear brother," Donnie retorted dignifiedly. "And I am now going to collect my Community Chest card because I, in fact, rolled a five."

Raph silently folded the tip of the ivory dollar bill, wishing he were anywhere— truly anywhere— but here.

"What?" Mikey blurted indignantly. "No, you didn't—!"

Raph distractedly studied the printed black-and-white pattern upon the bill as his dreary thoughts again began to drift.

Why did I agree to this, again? Raph wondered lethargically.

"Wait," Mikey said, his distant voice seeming to echo in Raph's empty mind. "...Where'd the dice go?"

Oh. Right, Raph answered himself testily. So nobody suspects nothin'.

A droplet of panic plinked upon his pale green visage at the thought that he'd been trying to distance himself from— how would his brothers react if they discovered that something wasn't right?

That Raph was resorting to such drastic methods of weight loss?

That Raph was plagued by headaches day after day?

That Raph couldn't sleep well, if at all, at night?

That Raph constantly felt as though his aching, empty stomach was consuming itself?

That Raph's body was so unbelievably sore from neverending overexertion due to obsessive exercising? 

That Raph's scratchy throat ached from repeatedly gagging himself and sending forth burning, acidulous vomit?

That Raph broke down into sobs each dawn at the mere notion of getting himself out of bed?

Raph swallowed uneasily; while it was true that the sewer-sequestered Hamatos often tried fad diets on and off as a family bonding activity, there was no possibility they would appreciate this one for one simple reason: 

This diet's goal, unlike the harmless others', wasn't achieving healthiness; no, this diet's goal was losing weight.

Much, much weight.

As quickly as possible.

And by any means necessary.

…So if anyone discovered that Raph was inflicting this upon himself—

"Oh, look, there the dice are!" Donnie blurted theatrically.

Disoriented, Raph jolted and glanced upward to watch, his cramping stomach churning restively, as the dice fortuitously fumbled from Donnie's fingers and clattered, spinning, onto the cardboard.

"Oh, whoops!" Donnie exclaimed monotonously. "Silly me," he said airily. "Guess we'll never know what I rolled…."

Mikey scowled at the smug softshell turtle. "So roll again," the box turtle commanded impatiently.

Raph miserably returned his gaze to the strewn collection of multicolored bills below him, longing to collapse into his aching head into his comforter and into the unconscious blissfulness of sleep….

Realistically thinking, however, Raph figured that that evening would be yet another sleepless night— and yet, even so, if he could escape to his bedroom now, he still could at least retire from this evening's charade.

Donnie shook his head sagely. "You can't roll again if no one sees the first roll," he countered wisely.

"What?" Mikey blurted incredulously. "Yes, you can!" he insisted.

Leo groaned dramatically. "Donnie, stop making stuff up and just roll again," he commanded irritably. "You're making this take forever."

Raph watched joylessly, his head throbbing, as a silver mechanic arm sprouted forth from Donnie's spider shell and dug determinedly through the nearby Monopoly box— to dramatically brandish the familiar paper rulebook, splayed open. 

"Page seventy-six, article two, and clause three," Donnie informed pleasantly.

Raph forlornly studied the lustrous metal arm, wishing with a sickly stomach twist that his own could be half as thin.

Leo frowned suspiciously. "Lemme see that," he snapped, snatching the rulebook hotly— within moments, however, he bitterly tossed the booklet aside.

"...Whatever," Leo muttered, chagrined. "That wasn't there before."

Donnie grinned deviously. "Oh, right," he said with a derisive scoff, waving away Leo's acrimonious utterance. "Like I just magically typed and printed an identical rulebook, furtively incinerated the old one, and snuck the new one into the lower right corner of the Monopoly box during my very limited free time just so I could again clandestinely adjust the rules and simultaneously gaslight you like in Animal Farm to increase my chances of winning and thus boost my incredibly low self-esteem," he said sarcastically.

Mikey narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "...Why did you say that so specifically?" he asked distrustfully.

Raph readjusted his weary gaze onto the floor, wondering how much more of this he could endure… but then again, no one was paying attention to the snapping turtle— and no one had been for quite some time, thanks to the softshell turtle's familiar cheating antics….

Raph furtively glanced between his brothers— perhaps if they truly were too busy arguing, he could discreetly sneak into his room…? 

Raph slowly, cautiously leaned backward— until Leo disgruntledly slid the dice over to the snapping turtle.

Immediately, Raph froze in rueful panic— before shifting his gaze to the dice before him and forcing a relieved, sheepish smile. "Oh. My turn," he mumbled. "Uh. Right."

Agonizingly aware that the others' gazes were now on him, Raph hastily picked up the dice, hurriedly shook them together, and tossed them toppling and sliding across the cardboard.

The others' inspecting gazes fell upon the two dice— one die reading three, and one die reading four.

"Seven," Donnie narrated. 

Raph began hurriedly hopping the metal Scottish Terrier across the board.

"I think he knows how to count," Leo said sardonically.

Donnie merely shrugged off Leo's comment. "Just proving my point," the softshell said innocently. "I do not make miscalculations when adding the sum of dots of two dice," he added indignantly. "Or ever, in fact."

Raph halted his piece on a dark blue property marker— a dark blue property marker decorated clutteringly with several bright red hotels (a rule that Donnie frequently insisted existed) that Donnie currently owned.

A rushing wave of relief washed over the snapping turtle— Raph hadn't the necessary ten thousand dollars to pay for rent, and therefore, he had gone bankrupt, thus excluding him from the competition and ultimately giving him an excuse to escape to his room at long, excruciating last.

"Oh… man!" Raph said awkwardly, feigning disappointment. "I, uh… don't have enough! …That's sure a shame, huh?"

Donnie began laughing maniacally at this statement— and unfortunately for Raph, before the snapping turtle could again attempt to force himself unsteadily to his feet and mumble some sort of incoherent excuse, Leo abruptly rose to his feet.

"Okay!" Leo exclaimed impetuously. "That's it," he blurted frustratedly. "I'm out."

Mikey, too, relievedly jumped to his feet. "Me too," he agreed wholeheartedly. "You win, Donnie. I'm goin' to bed."

Seizing his chance to escape, Raph hastily forced his dizzy self upward, grimacing from the nauseating effort—

Donnie suddenly fell silent, his devilish grin faltering. "...What?" he blurted incredulously. "Oh, come on," the softshell turtle pleaded playfully. "You guys are done already?"

Leo and Mikey disappeared wordlessly into their respective rooms.

"...Guys?" Donnie called uneasily.

Raph held his breath as he silently headed toward his own sleeping chamber of rest at long, long last—

"...Wait— Raph!" Donnie blurted hastily.

Donnie, grinning obsequiously, scrambled hastily in front of the baggy-eyed turtle. "Hey, uh— I'll let you re-roll," the softshell offered ramblingly, proffering the dice brightly, "and you can try again, and then—"

"...Sorry, Donnie," Raph interrupted quietly, guiltily avoiding his brother's gaze. "Maybe some other time."

Miserably, and head still pulsating, Raph trudged past the frozen softshell turtle, disappearing into the welcoming darkness of his room and collapsing onto the bed of rose-red blankets at last.

"...Oh," Donnie mumbled, his distant voice suddenly small. "...Yeah. Okay," he said awkwardly. "Uh, yeah. I guess later… then."

A few hesitant moments lingered before the softshell's footsteps reluctantly padded away; at Donnie's final departure, Raph exhaled in weary relief into a pillow.

Well, Raph thought sullenly, maybe if my brothers argue all the time… at least hiding this'll be a lot more easy than I thought.

Raph nearly chuckled morosely. …It's almost like I really am invisible, he added silently.

Yet somehow… this notion didn't seem to be eliciting the relief that Raph had previously thought it would.

With another long sigh, the snapping turtle rolled over, threw a pillow over his head, and disconsolately closed his aching oculars, regardless of the fact that he would most likely not be falling asleep any time soon and that his restless ruminations would only intensify hour after hour until the dreadful dawn.

Donnie listlessly packed away the board game pieces and slid the cardboard covering over the box.

The softshell picked up the rectangular box and paused, glancing around the deserted evening atrium again in hopes that a familiar face might appear— perhaps April's, which was poring over a mountain of homework, and perhaps even Splinter's, which was currently binging "Scorpion Treadmill."

…But no familiar faces appeared, only a charcoal cloud of solicitude beginning to loom above the empty atrium.

Donnie exhaled softly and traipsed down the hallway, distractedly returning the Monopoly box to its rightful place upon its dusty shelf.

The softshell turtle had thought that spending time with his family would've temporarily satiated his need for validation enough and weeded out the seed of doubt taking root— yet instead, spending time with his family seemed to have only fertilized the gut-twisting fern seed.

Donnie reluctantly returned to his own tenebrific room, numbly removed his spider shell, and sluggishly climbed up and into his indigo comforter and complementary purple weighted blanket.

The softshell turtle traced the ceiling, feeling hollow.

…Why couldn't he shake himself of the nagging feeling that he wasn't achieving all that he was supposed to? Usually, the feeling of commingled invisibility and worthlessness had departed by now, as it came and went depending entirely on the external validation the softshell turtle received— but then again, Donnie hadn't received any validation today.

Almost as though he was invisible.

Donnie hadn't anyone to reveal the Symbiodome to yet, hadn't won at Monopoly— and perhaps worst of all, hadn't been amusing enough to maintain the attention of his siblings for longer than an hour.

And if Donnie couldn't maintain the attention or earn the admiration of his siblings… what was he around for?

Donnie expeditiously climbed down his ladder, retrieved his cat-ear headphones, and wriggled back beneath his purple weighted blanket; the softshell turtle then placed the headphones upon his ears, carelessly removing his goggles, resumed whatever he had been last listening to, and sank his head back into his pillow—

—Do I have your attention? Yes or no? 

Donnie sighed softly, allowing the music to exacerbate the dread beginning to boil inside. 

I bet I'd guess the answer, but I don't wanna know…. Am I on in the background? Are you on your phone?

After all, if the squirming feelings like a papercut— too weak to throb and yet too strong not to burn— wouldn't leave, why not multiply them exponentially to at least experience a sense of catharsis?

I'd ask you what you're watching, but I don't wanna know…. Is there anyone out there? Or am I all alone? It wouldn't make a difference; still, I don't wanna know….

Donnie wearily closed his oculars, soaking himself in the pool of misery and again lulling himself into another agonizing, cryogenic-like shutdown.

I thought it'd be over by now, but I've got a while to go.… 

I'd give away the ending, but you don't wanna kn—

Chapter Text

Splash! Splash! Splash!

Racing step after step— followed by frantic flashlight flickers— thundered in the rumbling, dripping sewer tunnels, drowning out the sickly gasping breath. 

Splash! Splash! Splash!

Approximately an hour had passed since Raph had begun running in the tenebrous tunnels— and much earlier than usual; since Raph again hadn't been able to sleep due to hours of agonizing rumination and bodily dysphoria, he had decided to complete his morning cardio instead.

Splash! Splash! Splash!

And although his legs were burning, his chest was tightening, his head was throbbing, his throat was pleading for hydration, and his surroundings were slowly spinning, Raph desperately forced himself onward, onward, and onward.

The remaining issue, however, was that regardless of how far or fast the snapping turtle ran, he could not outrun the spiraling vortex of implacable anxiety— and furthermore, Raph's energy-and-nutrient-depleted body could only accomplish so much.

Splash! Splash! Spl—!

The suffocating world suddenly blackened.

Within moments, Raph frantically blinked open his eyes to discover a murky, shadow-adorned ceiling above him— and with a woozy glance to the side, himself supine and panting disorientedly on the grimy, mucky floor.  

Oh, Raph thought blankly.

He had fainted.

Raph wearily closed his burning eyes, allowing himself to catch his fleeting breath and soak in the flowing brook of feculent misery.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Raph exhaled exhaustedly, his racing heartbeat beginning to slow, and reopened his subfusc, lifeless oculars.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The familiar burning sensation again gripped the snapping turtle's pale visage, stinging his tear-welling eyes— and within mere moments, Raph again broke into hot, despairing tears.

Soft gasping, choking sobs echoed faintly in the darkness. 

Why couldn't he do this?

Raph needed to do this, to— to appear the way his brothers did, to be thin, to fit into the Turtle Tank floor hatch the way his brothers did with such ease, to not occupy three-quarters of any given room's space—

But he couldn't; no— instead, he was choking on wailing, despondent tears and lying pathetically in nauseating, murky sewage water at three-something in the morning.

Raph wept harder, scrunching his aching face, as hot tears cascaded down the sewage-water-tainted sides of his emaciated visage— and as he lay there, sobbing softly in the dim-flashlight-illumined gloom, the snapping turtle began to feel as though he was slowly dissolving, his soul ebbing away and trickling along with his tears into the gurgling pool of the pungent murky water below.

—                     —                     —                     —                    

Hazy violet and magenta glows glumly illumined the caliginous laboratory— and there, in the depths of the dark and loyally near the resplendent silver throne, hovered S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N., his glowing cerise eyes casting subdued light upon the hunched-over form of the sleepless, goggles-askew, muttering softshell turtle.

"Symbiodome… but how…? Flawless… have to…."

Dark mauve circles clung to Donnie's bloodshot oculars compulsively retracing the disorderly scrap-paper list before him.

"...Uh… Donnie?" S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. prompted disconcertedly. "Are you almost done yet?" he asked awkwardly. "...It's almost six in the morning."

Donnie didn't seem to have heard and instead hysterically muttered something unintelligible, frenzily flicking his pencil against the indigo desk.

"...Donnie?" S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. tried awkwardly.

Donnie, seemingly deaf to whatever noise S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. had uttered, frustratedly craned his emerald-green neck. "Flawless grand opening… flawless…."

"Donnie," S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N repeated impatiently.

Donnie guffawed abruptly and began to hyperventilate. "Disgrace… has to be perfect," he whispered in a sing-song tone, pulling frantically at his face and flexing his feet. "Donnie's always perfect!"

Recognizing where this capricious thought-spiraling was to inevitably lead, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. groaned exaggeratedly and hovered away. "Aaaand here we go again," he muttered indolently.

Despite how often S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. complained about serving as Donnie's assistant, however, the purple robot carried a begrudgingly fond respect for his creator; therefore, whenever Donnie was feeling particularly insecure, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. would offer to play the recorded loop of reinforcing self-affirmations until the softshell turtle regained a false sense of Donnie-trademark supercilious confidence.

"PERFECT!"

The feverish softshell turtle laughed frenzily, his maniacal laugh echoing eerily in the semi-silent laboratory, as he tore in rising panic at his emerald-green countenance. 

"HAS TO BE PERFECT!" Donnie repeated hysterically, tremblingly rocking himself back and forth in his silver seat as his shallow breath quickened frantically. "Why— why can't I be…?"

It was then that S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. returned to Donnie's side stultifiedly, the cat-ear headphones in the purple robot's grip, and robotically replaced the askew silver goggles with the comfortable lavender headphones—

—You are the bravest turtle, Donatello. And strongest. And hunkiest. You are a real dreamboat.

A wave of disorienting relief flooded the fried senses of the soporific, sleep-deprived softshell turtle. "...Perfect," Donnie mumbled drowsily.

You are the smartest turtle, Donatello. And strongest. And hunkiest. You are a real dreamboat.

Donnie's frenetic self-soothing rocking slowed to a sleepy halt as he slumped defeatedly in his chair, as his panicked breathing began to slow, and as his bleary, bloodshot oculars began to droop to a close.

"...Have to… be…" Donnie mumbled slurredly, sinking further into his resplendent silver chair.

You are the greatest turtle, Donatello. And strongest. And hunkiest. You are a real dreamboat.

"...Perfect…."

The dismal, drooping world shifted to obsidian.

—                     —                     —                     —                     

Raph wretchedly set his pale-pink-bristled toothbrush back into its place and returned his miserable gaze down into the gloomy bathroom sink, the begrimed drain gagging in the shallow pool of frothy cyan-toothpaste-and-crimson-blood tainted water.

The snapping turtle had almost managed to escape dinner— he had even survived most of the sleepless day without hunger, thanks to several diet sodas and watermelon-flavored chewing gum— until a suspicious inquiry from Mikey had forced Raph to evade said suspicion… by eating.

Raph, heavy bags beneath his oculars, distractedly watched the choking pool of water slowly drain itself as the acrid, acidic flavor of vomit clung pestiferously to his teeth and as his sore, scratchy throat smoldered as per repugnant routine.

…I hate throwing up, Raph thought vehemently, a fresh swarm of dreadful tears watering his wilting eyes.

Clandestinely throwing up meals, Raph had discovered, was far from a pleasant experience; in fact, there was absolutely nothing about purging undigested and semi-digested food that was in any way soothing or enjoyable or relieving— 

Nothing, from the numerous, impatient gagging attempts to choking up thick, slimy, burning boluses of undigested food; nothing, from the sour scent of vomit tainting his nostrils to the rogue gooey strings of saliva webbing down his arm and front….

But purging was less agonizing than soaking in the searing shame and anxiety of knowing he'd eaten more than he was supposed to.

Raph lethargically glanced upward into the mirror to blink at the miserable, dizzy, near-mint pale green reflection before him.

…Why did losing weight have to be so laborious?

Eight excruciating days had passed since Raph had begun his new diet— and yet, the only thing that Raph felt he was effectively losing was his sanity.

And his physical wellbeing.

And his sleeping routine.

And the motivation to escape his bed.

Raph's exhausted expression crumpled further at the notion of returning to his bed; in little time, he would again be staring at his ceiling, tossing and turning restlessly, and drowning in the dreary doldrums of despondency only to again restart the same strenuous, sickening cycle of torment.

Raph groaned internally at the dreadful prospect— how was he going to bear tonight? 

Melatonin gummies (approximately twelve point five calories each) would no longer prove somewhat useful, since the snapping turtle had eaten the last two remaining gummies ereyesterday night, and those would thus now prove unequivocally useless.

Even drinking warm milk as he had once used to when younger was irrefutably out of the question, considering that milk contained far more calories than did the melatonin gummies….

If only there was some sort of drink without calories that would put me to sleep, Raph thought wistfully. Somethin' like… I dunno, like….

Raph's dull oculars suddenly brightened.

"Tea," Raph thought aloud.

A frond of hope hesitantly grew in Raph's chest— yes, tea could possibly work… and Raph had seen Splinter make tea many times before; therefore, making tea couldn't be too difficult… could it?

Raph glanced furtively around the lair, hoping desperately that he wouldn't meet any inquisitive faces, lest they possibly notice anything odd about his behavior, as he silently snuck toward the kitchen.

…Just gotta make some tea, Raph thought in an attempt to reassure his tensing self. And if anyone asks… there's nothin' weird about that, he continued. Well… 'cept for the fact that I don't really like tea that much—

"HEY!"

Raph froze in utter heart-wrenching panic, his heart seizing and his sore body aching with such a halting jolt—

"Did you just hit my sheep?"

Blinking in perplexity, Raph cautiously peered toward the source of Mikey's indignant inquiry— to view a glowing two-player-split Minecraft screen illumining the nearby evening arcade room.

"Oh, c'mon, Mikey," Leo groaned impatiently. "I need food— and your sheep's just gonna despawn anyway!"

Raph sighed in tremulous relief and held a weary hand to his head. "It's just Minecraft," he mumbled soothingly. "Just Minecraft, Raph…."

Shaking himself resolutely, Raph continued cautiously down the hallway, hoping anxiously that his father was watching television and that Donnie had again sequestered himself in the laboratory; if Raph could successfully evade his family members, he could thus successfully evade their suspicion and—

"Oh, hey, Raph."

Raph again halted in horror and glanced disorientedly upward— to discover himself in the kitchen and Donnie, leaning indolently against a nearby cupboard, sleepily holding before himself his violet-cased phone, and curiously blinking bleary eyes at the snapping turtle.

"...Donnie!" Raph spluttered anxiously, his irritated throat burning at the utterance. The snapping turtle instantly tremulously fumbled his fingers and glanced inconspicuously around the room— would Donnie notice how sleepless Raph appeared? Donnie seemed to recognize intuitively when something was malapropos; therefore, would Donnie now suspect something was wrong? 

A flutter of feverish fear beat against Raph's churning stomach—

Had Donnie already suspected that something was wrong? 

Had Donnie been waiting to confront Raph?

Did Donnie already know about—?

It was then that Raph espied the ornate silver-and-indigo tea kettle adjacent to Donnie.

"...You're makin' tea," Raph realized aloud.

To something of Raph's relief, Donnie seemed not to realize that anything was amiss with the snapping turtle's behavior and instead yawned lengthily.

"Yeah," Donnie affirmed in a drowsy mumble, nodding toward the tea kettle atop a ring of miniscule, flickering blue flames. "Lavender."

"...Oh," Raph said awkwardly, fumbling his fingers nervously as venomous, rambling anxiety again seized his brain— had Donnie known that Raph couldn't sleep? 

…Was that why Donnie was making tea?

Had Donnie suspected something after all? 

…Then again… Donnie's eyes now appeared without their usual keen, sharp glitter.

Raph shook himself from the derailing, spiraling thoughts. "Uh, me too," he mumbled.

Donnie blinked and furrowed his brow curiously. "I thought you didn't like tea?" he said, confused.

Raph stiffened, arctic panic instantly congealing his blood— if Donnie realized Raph (who was well known for not being fond of tea) was resorting to the bitter lavender drink solely in order to sleep, the softshell turtle would've certainly deduced that something was generally wrong, and if Donnie deduced that something was generally wrong, it wouldn't be long until his brothers banded together to determine whatever Raph was hiding, which meant that the others would soon attempt to stop him from starving upon their discovery— and almost worse, worry about him— which Raph, as the Strongest and Most Responsible Eldest Brother, simply could not allow.

"Oh— uh, I don't!" Raph blurted, forcing a bright, hopefully-natural grin. "I just, um, wanted to— uh," he continued, anxiously glancing around the room as he grasped for the correct, inconspicuous dialogue, "to…."

A sudden wandering thought sprouted forth, fortuitously rescuing Raph from his fruitless satisfactory sentence search.

"...Wait," Raph said, confusedly furrowing his own aching brow, "I thought you didn't like tea?"

Donnie suddenly stiffened, almost as though he, too, was hiding insurmountable exhaustion— and thus the root of said exhaustion— by simply not admitting to it.

"What?" Donnie uttered disorientedly. "Oh— no, no, of course I don't," he said hastily, quickly returning his widening gaze to the expression-concealing safety of his purple device. "I'm just, uh, making… some for… for, uh…. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.. Yeah."

Before Raph could conjure any reply or thought to this statement, however, both brothers flinched skittishly as a bloodcurdling shriek screeched eerily in the quasi-empty place of eating— 

AaaaaaaAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

Hastily, Donnie cursorily removed the tea kettle from the stove— and Raph watched distractedly, as though watching a mildly interesting documentary, as the softshell turtle then lethargically opened a creaking cupboard and procured the nearest mug.

Raph watched blankly as Donnie reached sluggishly for the nearby small, pastel purple box of lavender tea, adorned with kitsch, fluffy lavender-colored sheep, and propped open the flimsy cardboard lid—

Donnie halted, curiously peering over at the absentmindedly standing Raph. "...So… are you gonna have some tea, or…?" 

"Oh— uh, yeah!" Raph blurted, hastily shaking himself of his dissociation. "Uh, thanks," he added quietly as he awkwardly walked toward a cupboard.

Donnie nodded in abstracted acknowledgement and returned his gaze toward the lavender box as the vertiginous, wobbling Raph anxiously procured a plain white mug.

Desperate to busy himself and copy his brother's tea-making steps so as to avoid further conversation, Raph then glanced hurriedly at the softshell turtle and back at the plain white mug; glancing furtively at the softshell turtle's actions, Raph hastily and fumblingly retrieved a light and delicate tea bag, nearly dropping the tiny pouch in his large and graceless fingers in the process, tossed the tiny tea bag into the mug, cursorily filled the mug with scalding water, anxiously returned the tea kettle to its place, flinched as a splash of steaming water landed upon his clumsy fingers, and scurried toward the kitchen's exit—

Raph exhaled softly as he stared stiffly into the trembling mug of earthy, lavender-scented liquid.

The flood of deafening, stiffening anxiety began to drain itself as the snapping turtle released his squeezing grip from the cup and shifted his bleary-eyed focus to the miserable, faint oculars rippling like waning moonlight shrouded in dreary fog.

A flood of misery replaced the crashing anxiety.

"...Hey, uh… good night."

Raph glanced upward distractedly to discover the somnolent softshell turtle, lingering awkwardly nearby with a lavender-colored cup of tea.

A weak, wavering smile had stretched itself like an over-flexed rubber band upon Donnie's bleary countenance.

Raph returned the feeble smile. "Night," he echoed quietly, his aching throat strained.

Donnie swallowed, dipped his head, and quickly departed down the hallway, leaving Raph watching forlornly in the funereal kitchen lighting.

The kitchen silence seemed deafening.

…Well… at least that's… over, Raph thought halfheartedly.

The snapping turtle distraitly returned his gaze onto the trembling caramel-colored liquid before him— and yet despite the humid cloud of delicately spiraling, lavender-scented steam embracing his visage, no sensation of soothing, blissful warmth cavorted into his desolate, despondent heart; instead, the piercing thicket of indefatigable despair crept further into his rumbling stomach.

Raph's weary, water-rippling expression fell further in the kitchen lighting's gloomy glow— and for the first time in his existence, he could sense the inoffensive, innocent prickle of fantastical escapism tugging at his blood-dripping heartstrings.

For the first time in his existence, Raph understood the desperation of longing to die.

—                     —                     —                     —

Donnie abstractedly trudged into his laboratory, a trail of fleeting steam coiling behind him and the mentally programmed pathway. Hardly aware of his surroundings, the softshell turtle miserably seated himself in his silver chair and sluggishly placed his mug onto the desk— and Donnie stultifiedly returned his gaze onto his computer screen, the eye-straining screen before him reflecting faintly in his puffy oculars. 

The preparations for the imminent Symbiodome grand opening— taking place as soon as possible (i.e. the following day) due to Donnie's currently severely low level of external validation— were so very nearly complete; all that remained on the softshell's to-do list was the tenth check-through of all required festivity elements and back-up plans, a task he was currently finalizing while sitting miserably before his computer screen….

Donnie's foggy mind began to wander as he attempted distractedly to re-read the first element of the checklist.

Imperfection equaled disappointment, and disappointment equaled disdain, and disdain equaled his status as the bothersome, boring burden he had always believed himself to be….

…But once Donnie had completed the aforementioned check-through, surely nothing about the grand opening could possibly go awry, his nagging feelings of worthlessness and self-hatred would evanesce, and he'd soon see how foolish he had been to worry that he could ever fall short of expectations or be anything less than perfect….

A nauseous pang of fear suddenly gripped the softshell turtle's heart as Donnie swallowed, his bleary oculars abstractedly blinking apprehensively at the same taunting, floating letters of the checklist's first item—

The Symbiodome and its grand reveal… would be perfect….

…Right?

Chapter Text

Raph blinked open his eyes blearily, groggily allowing in the dismally dim lighting of the confining coffin of his crepuscular-illumined room— and almost immediately, a throbbing pain gripped his cranium, a tempestuous sensation of nausea swept over him mercilessly, and an infirmity like energy-ingurgitating leeches clung to his bones.

The ceiling slowly fell into focus as Raph again uncomfortably unstuck his dry tongue from the roof of his sweet-metallic-flavored mouth—

…Wait….

Raph suddenly furrowed his soporific brow— if he was awake, why wasn't his programmed alarm beeping?

A pang of fear suddenly shot through Raph's drowsy mind— had he missed his alarm?

Raph frantically glanced around for his phone, his head pulsating and neck achingly sore— and upon spotting the outline of his phone, he quickly reached an aching arm toward the phone and checked the time—

1:03 AM.

Far before his dawn alarm.

Raph stared drearily at the blinding numbers, his misery deepening at the prospect of soon waking once more to restart the dreary, repetitive routine— if he could return to sleep, that is.

Raph's doleful oculars shifted, sluggishly sliding his gaze below to a handful of apparent missed text message notifications.

Instinctively, Raph reluctantly tapped on the notification and transported himself to the blindingly bright Hamato family group chat; squinting and wincing, Raph attempted to discern the myriad swimming letters before him that appeared to be from Donnie:

Greetings, esteemed family

members whom I tolerate

In case you somehow did 

not receive a gold-studded envelope,

this is a friendly announcement/

reminder that my latest project's 

exclusive grand opening/project 

reveal is TOMORROW, 

FROM 4 TO 6 PM, IN MY LAB

Ergo, please prepare 

yourselves for this incredibly 

astounding, one-of-a-kind opportunity:

a tour of my latest creation: THE 

SYMBIODOME

Flash photography and 

recordings are not only permitted but

encouraged as we traverse up the 

Symbidome's grandiose garden path

You're welcome, and

thank you

This has been a PSA

A sinking sensation of dread suddenly snatched the snapping turtle's heart— a grand opening?

Usually, Raph rather enjoyed attending Donnie's project reveals, since 1) Raph cheerfully endeavored to support each of his brothers and since 2) Donnie always had something intriguing to eagerly display—

…But now?

Raph hadn't a drop of physical or mental energy, and exerting himself in any manner— showering, exercising, removing himself from his bed, even and spending time with his family— warranted every last drop of non-existent energy.

Raph wearily shifted his oculars to the last remaining message from the softshell turtle:

There will also 

be ice cream cake

Immediately, the torrential riptide of paralyzing hopelessness again swept the snapping turtle away.

If Raph didn't attend Donnie's grand opening, the snapping turtle would irrefutably arouse the others' suspicion, considering that he virtually always attended Donnie's project reveals… and in addition, the gnawing guilt would swallow the snapping turtle whole— yet if the energy-devoid Raph did attend Donnie's grand opening, how was Raph to avoid eating ice cream cake without arousing the others' suspicion?  

Feeling as though the walls were crumbling around him, crashing against him, and crumpling his frangible, hollow-soda-can-like frame, Raph languorously buried his face into his nearby chocolate-brown bear plush.

Regardless of his current physical and emotional agony— Raph hadn't a choice. 

Forgoing Donnie's project reveal would result in curious questioning, which would result in Raph's excuse-stumbling, which would result in the others' fomenting suspicion, which would ultimately result in the inevitable discovery of Raph's current mental and physical state… when Raph had only lost a total of three point four pounds since his draining diet's beginning.

Raph inhaled forcibly and curled his fists determinedly— he had to attend Donnie's project reveal, however much the snapping turtle dreaded doing so.

…As for the ice cream cake aversion….

The flickering burst of steely determination extinguished itself almost as quickly as it had ignited.

…How was Raph going to avoid consuming ice cream cake? If anyone directly prompted him, Raph would need to formulate some sort of sensible excuse….

…But he hadn't any; his mind was as empty and as frustrated as his gurgling, cramped stomach.

Raph exhaled wearily, removing the quasi-comforting bear plush from his face and returning his miserable gaze toward the gloomy ceiling above.

A thin glaze of tears blurred his vision as he began to drift away in the smoggy, sleepy misery of his mental confinement… and as he embraced the tenebrosity and closed his dolorous oculars at last, Raph soon began to wander innocently toward the shadow-barbed fence of catharsis… and visions of himself meandering in the tranquil dread of the Asphodel Meadows soon began to mollify his miserable mind.

—                     —                     —                     —

Easeful, contentedly swaying purple and black balloons, seeming to welcome the invisible newcomers, adorned the lustrous laboratory; jovial violet streamers contentedly festooned the walls; a glistening violet patch ice sculpture glowed serenely in the hazy laboratory; several bouquets of assorted purple primrose stood in contented placidity— and there, pacing back and forth anxiously, squeezing his tightly crossed arms against his upper plastron, and tremulously gnawing his lip, was Donnie.

The jittery softshell turtle halted impatiently and hurriedly withdrew his phone to again glance anxiously at the current time: 

Three fifty-nine post meridiem.

Approximately one minute until the Symbiodome's grand opening officially began.

Disconcerted, the softshell uneasily pocketed his phone and glanced wistfully at the room's entrance, a tentative hope precariously climbing in the desolate mountain range of his tightening chest….

His family… would arrive at this event, right?

Donnie swallowed determinedly, forcibly removing the nagging uncertainty from his mind— of course his family would arrive; Donnie was the greatest, strongest, smartest, and most estimable turtle of the team.

Donnie stiffly straightened and inhaled deeply— yes, this situation certainly was but another instance of his silly, misplaced, and deep-rooted existential anxiety that would again evanesce with another instance of recurring confirmation that his beloved family adored his work and thus loved him, too, which ultimately meant that his burdensome existence at least served some sort of purpose.

Donnie again exhaled tremulously and glanced at the laboratory's entrance again, fearful apprehension reflecting in his eyes and tugging at his twisting gut….

Yet despite his half-hearted self-reassurance, Donnie could not ignore the paresthetic prickle of apprehension.

If he was truly as magnificently deserving of praise and love as he hoped he was….

Why was he still alone?

—                     —                     —                     —

Raph languidly fiddled with his fingers as he lay supine on the comforting isolation of his crimson-red bed sheets.

Innumerable, agonizing hours had again dragged by… at least without any suspicion; lunch and dinner hadn't proved an issue, since Splinter's current whereabouts were of an unknown status and since Leo and Mikey, too, had vanished earlier, presumably to mischievously engage in the juvenile, non-discreet discord that Raph— as the responsible eldest— had always strived to guard them from.

Three or four cans of diet soda along with a handful of painkillers had again carried the emotional-crutch-ambulatory Raph through the day, allowing him to momentarily distance himself from the awareness that his sore and weary limbs remained as tremulous as gelatin, that his pulsating headache continued to drill itself into his skull like a jackhammer on pavement, that the world slowly spun like a kaleidoscope lens on a carousel, and that Raph would soon need to inconspicuously endure Donnie's imminent project reveal—

…Wait.

A pang of unease suddenly gripped Raph's stomach.

…What time was it?

Hurriedly, the snapping turtle dizzily reached for his nearby phone and checked the current time—

No.

A commingled jolt of fear and dismay shot through Raph's body, stupefying the vertiginous, heavyheaded turtle—

No, no, no—

The current time was seven o'clock PM; Donnie's project reveal, meanwhile, had ended at six.

Raph was beyond late.

Tremulously, Raph cursorily forced his nauseated and weak form upward— he needed to immediately rectify this—

The effete snapping turtle hastily clambered out of bed, rushed unsteadily to the doorway, and found that the wobbling world was beginning to darken— and, hardly aware of his surroundings, the snapping turtle hazily clutched and steadied himself against a chilly bedroom wall—

Gathering his ebbing strength and determination, Raph dizzily disembarked the wall and marched resolutely through the lair's dim corridors.

Raph was going to repair this potential bullet hole in his surreptitious rapid weight loss plan.

Another wave of nauseous dizziness crashed against the snapping turtle.

…Somehow.

—                     —                     —                     —                

Donnie forlornly trudged about the umbra-illumined laboratory, the softly scuffling pair of footsteps and intermittent rips of protesting tape echoing desolately in the violeaceous vacuity.

Donnie lethargically divested a wriggling purple streamer from the wall, the softshell's oculars as vapid and as vacant as his misery-infested mind.

The streamers were the last decoration to dismantle; the ice cream cake had melted into a saddening soup, the magnificent ice sculpture had reduced itself to a pitiable puddle, the purple and black balloons had somehow deflated, and even the floral decorations seemed to droop their violet heads in shame.

Another string of sepulchral streamers spiraled to the floor with a frenzied flutter.

The softshell had spent nearly a month fastidiously crafting and perfecting every minute detail on both the Symbiodome and its grandiose reveal— and yet, three excruciatingly impatient hours had passed by and away in the laboratory's funereal silence, seeming to drag on for decades.

Not one of the five invitees had arrived.

Perhaps they purposefully hadn't arrived, finally recognizing that the softshell turtle's validation-seeking efforts would only fall short of their standards and ultimately waste their time?

A stone of fear sank into Donnie's stomach—

Or worse, perhaps his family already banded together to vote the purple-bandana-clad impostor out of the great Hamato family?

If the softshell turtle failed to consistently impress his family members and simultaneously rectify his burdensome, useless existence, how could he ever be—

"Donnie!"

Startled, the softshell instinctively flinched and spun toward the noise's source— at the laboratory's entrance huffed none other than Raph, panting desperately and shuddering violently as he leaned against a supportive wall.

"Donnie!" Raph repeated hoarsely, struggling for breath, "I'm… so sorry I'm— late, I… lost track of… time—"

…Lost track of time? Donnie thought blankly, his startled expression slowly morphing to one of hazy, uneasy confusion— of course, Mikey and Leo were often late to meeting times, but Raph— perhaps the most punctual of the turtle brothers— rarely ever lost track of time.

A torpid wave of humiliation, self-frustration, and shame suddenly crashed against the softshell turtle's chest as he leaped to the most likely conclusion and landed with a torpedoing splash in the one-placid pond of pondrance:

Raph— who had always believed wholeheartedly in his brothers and who had always been proud, honest, and supportive of them—was now lying.

Out of pity.

And if Raph, of all people, no longer believed in him but instead pitied him—

Donnie truly had lost his family's respect and admiration, hadn't he?

The softshell turtle miserably returned his dismal gaze to the floor and sluggishly kicked away a stray streamer string. "...Oh," Donnie mumbled, swallowing back the crashing waves of emotion, "it's fine, don't— don't worry about it."

A heavy, searing silence gripped the laboratory as the softshell turtle curled his fists tighter in an attempt to fight against the tormenting tidal waves of despair and self-hatred thrashing mercilessly against his chest. 

The thrashing, pounding waves nearly drowned out Raph's distant, unconcerned reply.

"...Oh. …Okay."

Donnie stiffened himself further as the waves tossed him to and fro, threatening to capsize him as he began to tremble with overwhelming emotion—

"...So, um," Raph continued awkwardly, seeming to grasp for words, "what'd I, uh— what'd I miss…?" 

Another pang of shame and despair pierced the softshell turtle's chest; Raph hadn't missed anything worth enduring.

"...Oh," Donnie uttered, his face and tone forcing a twitching, cheerful smile. "Just— y'know. …Just a tour. Nothin' much," he replied nonchalantly, his voice quivering.

"...And what's, uh, what's this tour… of?" Raph asked impassively after a beat.

At Raph's vaguely interested words, a gentle burr of hope tentatively caught itself on the softshell turtle's bramble-pierced heart.

"...Oh? Oh, um—" Donnie choked out, briefly shaking his dumbfounded self, "the, uh— the Symbiodome." The softshell turtle hesitated uneasily, squeezing his thumbs and anxiously awaiting the tacit confirmation to continue— did Raph… somehow care for the project after all?

…Somehow care for Donnie after all?

"Cool, cool," Raph responded hurriedly, "so are you still doin' tours and stuff?" 

Donnie merely blinked, utter, blank surprise enveloping his wearied countenance and fluttering hope ascending his chest. "...Now?" he said quizzically.

Was this perhaps some sort of joke? Surely Raph wasn't that eager to view the project he'd avoided earlier— or… no, surely Raph wasn't eager at all—

"Yeah! Why, uh— why not?" Raph replied quickly, his tone certainly seeming cheerful and genuine.

Perplexed and strangely heartened, Donnie finally willed himself to slowly turn around and face the snapping turtle. "...Oh— um— yeah, yeah, okay!" Donnie stammered, glancing about the room as his anxious heart beat quicker in his chest. 

Relievedly abandoning the pathetic pile of purple streamers, Donnie awkwardly gestured toward the set of sealed steel doors before him.

"...Well," Donnie said tremulously, holding his breath, twitching nervously, and swallowing in apprehension, "this is it."

Like a swarm of furious buzzing wasps, nagging anxiety again began to besiege his mind— what if the Symbiodome failed to travel beyond Raph's expectations? What if Raph would be disappointed? What if Raph would be embarrassed? What if— what if—?

Raph caught Donnie's gaze, a brazen determination suddenly alight in the snapping turtle's oculars.

"Show me everythin'."

For a moment, Donnie froze dumbfoundedly, his anxious heart soaring in joy— and slowly, the smug, clever grin marked its glorious return upon his countenance. "Well… if you insist," he answered airily, the tone of supercilious modesty echoing eerily in the laboratory's silence.

And, with a hurried complex passcode, Donnie finally opened the bolted doors, spilling bright, ethereal lighting like limelight over the two forms lurking in the shrouding darkness.

"So this is probably one of the least perilous sections," Donnie narrated, confidently leading the way as his and his brother's footsteps padded softly through the verdant grass. 

Donnie continued brightly onward, neglecting to even glance over to his trailing-behind brother, past towering plants of assorted hues and a nearby small babbling brook.

"Over there, however," the softshell continued jovially, flexing his tech-bō staff and pointing its tip pompously toward the distance, "is the off-limits section due to the poisonous, venomous, and also notably murderous plants that I keep there."

Donnie paused to plant his tech-bō into the soft grass matter-of-factly. "A word of advice: should you ever enter the forbidden zone— which no one shall— do not go near the genetically modified giant venus flytrap," he advised. "And under no circumstances should you eat the fruit of the Cerbera odollam tree. …That would be… not good, to be euphemistic."

Donnie glanced toward Raph cheerfully— only to discover that Raph was, in fact, not there. "...Raph?" Donnie frowned, glancing backward and catching a glimpse of the snapping turtle who now appeared particularly pale as he heaved for breath.

A trickle of disconcertment ran down the softshell turtle's spine. "Uh— Raph…?"

Alarmed, Raph glanced upward, straightened himself, and smiled brightly. "Y-yeah?" he stammered.

Donnie narrowed his eyes scrutinizingly at the snapping turtle and suddenly realized how pale his sibling had become. "...You… uh, good…?" he asked awkwardly.

"Wh-what?" Raph laughed nervously. "Whaddya mean? Of— of course everything's good, you're good, I'm good, and everybody's good!" he added, laughing boisterously as his legs trembled and as a bead of sweat trickled down his visage. "Let's— let's keep goin', yeah?"

Before Donnie could formulate a response to this suggestion, however, Raph suddenly marched onward animatedly, leaving the softshell turtle to stare in perplexity and worry.

Donnie quickly shook himself and hurried uneasily after his unsteady sibling.

"So— so what's this flower?" Raph asked eagerly, pointing hastily toward a towering cluster of flowers before them.

Donnie slowly followed his gaze and suddenly brightened. "Oh— I'm glad you asked! That is a candytuft, or the Iberis sempervirens—" Donnie suddenly halted, peering at Raph's Donnie-avoiding countenance, and furrowed his brow. 

"Hey, wait a minute," Donnie realized accusingly, simultaneously dubious and disappointed. "I see what's going on here— you're just trying to change the subject!"

Raph laughed nervously, avoiding the softshell's steely gaze. "...What? 'Course I'm not— I'm not— I'm not—"

Whatever Raph was not, however, the softshell turtle would never know— for at that very instant, Raph's anxious expression grew horrifyingly vacant, his wobbling knees buckled, and his face collided painfully into the dirt.

"Raph!"

Instinctively, Donnie tremulously dropped to his knees and fearfully searched his brother's vacant countenance.

"...Raph? Raph!" Donnie shouted in panic, desperately nudging his unconscious brother. "You— you okay, buddy? …Raph?"

For a few horrible, gut-wrenching moments, Raph's etiolated form was as still as a corpse in the bright artificial sunshine.

Raph's eyelids slowly fluttered open, revealing his squinting eyes and wincing countenance.

Donnie leaned backward slightly, a shuddering wave of cleansing relief washing over him.

"...You okay?" Donnie demanded worriedly, his eyes alight with flickering fear.

Wincing, Raph weakly forced himself to a sitting position. "Oh," he mumbled, grimacing, glancing away, and rubbing his head sheepishly, "yeah, yeah, fine, totally."

Wordlessly, Donnie proffered an assisting hand to his brother— but Raph immediately leaned away, tacitly declining the offer, and tremulously forced himself to a wobbling standing position.

After an awkward, tense pause interrupted only by the softly babbling brook, Raph spoke again.

"Well, um… thanks for the tour, and, um, see you, and good night—" the snapping turtle blurted, smiling sheepishly, and hurriedly turning around to retreat.

Donnie blinked, hurriedly shaking himself from his stupefaction. "Wh-what?" he stuttered incredulously. "No—" he started, stunned, as Raph only hurried onward. "Raph— what—?" the softshell stammered.

Yet before Donnie could formulate a coherent sentence, Raph had already vanished from view. 

The cheery, artificial sunlight suddenly seemed sinister as a gentle breeze flitted by, ominously rustling the leaves of whispering plants.

The brook babbled faintly as the softshell slowly recovered his wits.

Donnie swallowed anxiously. "...Y-yeah," he mumbled, his distant gaze lingering anxiously on the Symbiodome's exit. "Good night," he bid weakly, his voice trembling in worriment.

Donnie remained in place and tightened his grip on his tech-bō, his oculars absently tracing the bright green grass below.

Something was seriously wrong with Raph— something dangerous, as evidenced by the snapping turtle's loss of consciousness, and—

…Why hadn't Donnie noticed earlier?

Donnie squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his tech-bō tighter in jaw-clenching resolution, stiffening resolutely against the intoxicating gale of guilt, self-hatred, and shame instead of allowing it to sweep him into the wallows of despair— and, gathering himself, the softshell exhaled wearily and quickly reopened his eyes, his dull oculars suddenly alight with fervent flames of determination.

Something was wrong with Raph, and Donnie would not rest until he weeded that something away.

After then— and only after then, Donnie resolved silently, would the softshell quarantine himself in his room until his burdensome existence was no more.

Chapter Text

Beneath the training room’s dizzying lighting, Raph watched distractedly, his head throbbing, his muscles sore, his throat aching, and his stomach churning, as the four turtle brothers stood stiffly side by side with the silent murine mutant before them captivating their curious gazes.

Unfortunately, training— and thus another rendition of charades— had begun.

Donnie subtly craned his neck backward, his eyes indubitably locked on the snapping turtle as Splinter gingerly placed a violet into an ornate metal box— and Raph stiffened, a twinge of anxiety tugging at his chest, and willed himself not to glance over as the softshell's searching gaze scanned him suspiciously once more.

Throughout the morning and afternoon, Donnie had been endeavoring to gain an audience alone with Raph— most likely to interrogate him about the fainting incident the night before— and thus far, Raph had been able to evade him… but Donnie would not remain evitable forever, and a simple untruth would not placate the fastidious gears spinning in the softshell’s perspicuous mind.

How am I gonna convince Donnie nothin’s wrong? Raph wondered despondently, his cramping stomach wailing in faint agreement.

Splinter glanced upward again solemnly, regaining Raph's attention, and began pensively pacing before the four brothers— and a lasting, taut silence flooded the training room before Splinter spoke solemnly at last.

"Iwanuga hana."

Raph's indifferent gaze grew distant with hazy thought. Wait… how many calories can I have today, again? he wondered despairingly. One hundred? Or… no, one hundred and fifty?

"Literally, it means 'the flower is not speaking,'" Splinter began stultifiedly, "but it also means 'silence is golden,' 'some things are better left unsaid,' yada, yada, yada."

…I’ll have to look at the chart again, Raph resolved mentally. 

"Today, however," Splinter continued dignifiedly, "it means that you boys will be briefly practicing one of the most important skills of being a ninja: silence."

Raph exhaled morosely. Just… gotta get through trainin’ first, he thought bracingly, refraining from closing his dizzy oculars. …Somehow.

Donnie covertly nodded at the snapping turtle once more; yet, resolutely disregarding this, Raph stiffened irritably. 

If only Donnie would stop tryin’ to get my attention.

"If we wish to stop Draxum from stealing the Kuroi Yoroi and dooming mankind," Splinter continued, his serious voice seeming distant, "you four must become a master of silence.

"You boys will work together— in complete silence— to retrieve this violet," Splinter added, gesturing illustratively toward the locked container beside him. "You will have two minutes to steal this key from me.”

From the snapping turtle’s glazed oculars, Splinter brandished a golden key with the adroit assistance of his salmon-colored tail. 

Raph, Donnie mouthed furiously.

Raph frustratedly curled his fists.

“Okay, okay, okay— lemme get this straight,” Leo’s distant voice began slowly, “when you say ‘complete silence,’ you mean—?”

“Complete silence,” Splinter repeated seriously. “None of you may speak.”

Raph clenched his jaw as he uncomfortably discerned Donnie's searching gaze upon him once more.

Mikey politely raised an arm. “What if we think of something really cool…?” he asked hopefully.

A wave of buzzing nausea descended upon Raph once more as Donnie furtively stepped on the snapping turtle's foot.

"Begin!" Splinter commanded abruptly— and, without waiting for protest, he cantankerously clicked his silver stopwatch.

Before the flinching Raph could register Splinter’s command, however, Leo and Mikey adroitly readied themselves into battle formation, their oculars sparkling with an evident challenge— and wordlessly, the two shared a nod and brandished their glinting weapons.

Raph watched dizzily as Donnie listlessly summoned his tech-bō— and the swaying snapping turtle, using the majority of his depleted energy and focus on attempting to keep his swaying, heavy self upward, merely watched his brothers as though he were on autopilot.

As Leo and Mikey lunged uncoordinatedly toward Splinter, Donnie— his narrowed eyes inscrutable— briefly caught Raph’s gaze… and time seemed to freeze as the snapping turtle’s breath snagged on his constricting throat.

Before Raph could tear his deer-in-headlights gaze from the softshell turtle’s scrutinizing gaze, however, Donnie glanced away, adjusted his tech-bō, and leaped toward the fight.

“Raph!” Leo blurted, causing the snapping turtle to flinch once more. “What are you standing around for— oops.”

Raph swallowed tremulously, the world seeming to slowly spin like a torturous carousel ride he could not disembark from, as Splinter scowled in frustration and lowered the golden key. 

A commingled surge of guilt and relief enwreathed itself around Raph at the realization that… he, Raph, had ruined the training session.

A sudden glimmer of fear ignited the snapping turtle’s oculars— how would Raph be able to attend missions with the dizziness, weakness, mental haze, and consuming exhaustion against him?

Splinter placed the key aside and sighed wearily. “Well,” he said defeatedly, “that is all for today.”

Raph refrained from exhaling in something akin to relief— yet the relief was short lived as Donnie returned his gaze onto the snapping turtle.

Stop lookin’ at me, Raph thought bitterly as he stared at the revolving ground.

Why couldn't Donnie simply mind his own business? The softshell turtle wasn't the one who had fainted, after all. This was not Donnie's burden to carry.

Mikey exchanged a glance with Leo. “Wait, what? It’s over already?” the box turtle questioned. “But… we didn’t even get a chance!”

Splinter narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you four do not understand the weight of this assignment,” he warned delicately. “You do not get a do-over if Draxum gets the remaining pieces of the Dark Armor. You four need to work as a team and figure out how to communicate without speaking.”

Still studying the wary Raph, Donnie retracted his tech-bō into his shell.

…Can we leave already? Raph thought with growing, pulsating anxiety.

Mikey’s expression drooped in despair. “But that’s impossible!” he interjected hopelessly. “We can’t read each other’s minds!”

Leo groaned dramatically as Donnie only continued studying Raph. “Dad. Everything’ll be fine— Draxum’s not gonna get the Dark Armor. Right, guys? Donnie? Raph?” A slight frown dimmed the red-eared slider’s curious countenance as Raph flinched. “You two are weirdly quiet today.”

Raph glanced upward and stiffened in panic, but before he could interject—

“As you all should be,” Splinter warned. Rubbing the bridge of his nose and heaving a sigh, he added defeatedly, “You are all dismissed.”

“What? But—” Mikey protested— yet Splinter merely lifted a palm, tacitly indicating the conversation had ended.

Reluctantly, Leo and Mikey sulkily departed the room; eager to avoid Donnie’s interrogative gaze, Raph woozily hurried after them.

Just gotta get to my room, Raph thought as he hurried down the hallway, his gaze fixated on the distance. And Donnie’ll finally leave me alone… for now, at least.

Raph quickened his stumbling pace as he spotted the familiar sanguine room entering his sight.

And who knows— maybe he’ll even forget what happened yesterday? the snapping turtle thought expediently—

 Yet the sensation of oculars tracing his shadow shuddering down his spine suggested otherwise.

Raph clambered into his room, weakly collapsed onto his stuffed-animal-crowded bed, and attempted to catch his fleeting, laborious breath.

Please tell me he doesn't follow me, Raph thought anxiously. Please, please, please….

The softshell turtle whom Raph was telepathically pleading to did not register this entreaty, however— for following these words, Donnie's familiar shadow approached, and Raph’s empty stomach lurched.

—                     —                     —                     —                    

Inhaling bracingly, Donnie determinedly strode into the crimson bedroom, awkwardly crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall to discover the familiar cluster of teddy bears sequestering the snapping turtle buried in the coffin of a bed.

There was no conversatory escape that would serve Raph now. 

Donnie investigatively swept his scrutinizing gaze across the sepulchral room— yet apart from the cascading crimson blankets on the disheveled bed, nothing… seemed to indicate that anything might be amiss… but regardless, something remained inherently wrong with Raph’s recent display of behavior, and Donnie refused to rest until he uncovered that something.

Donnie pushed himself from the wall, exhaled softly, and discreetly seated himself at the edge of the crimson bed.

The stuffed-animal-concealed Raph seemed to deflate at this presence. “Whaddya want?” his muffled voice mumbled brusquely.

Unperturbed at this less-than-warm welcome, Donnie merely crossed his arms and lifted his gaze toward the gloomy ceiling draped in shadows. “You to tell me what’s going on,” he returned.

“...Nothin’,” Raph’s muffled voice answered automatically.

The mattress muttered in the silence.

Donnie inhaled and pensively crossed a leg. “Y'know,” he began gingerly, “people don’t just pass out for nothing—”

Raph abruptly lifted his head. “Look— I can’t tell you, alright?” he snapped. “Just— drop it,” he added tetchily as he irately flopped his visage into the carmine sheets.

Bewilderment furrowed the softshell turtle's brow— only one thing drove Raph to such an obstinate silence: the notion of worrying the others.

Donnie hesitantly bit the inside of his lip.

…But similarly, only one thing would spill Raph’s secret.

“...Okay,” Donnie began reluctantly, uncertainly feeling the back of his neck in the gloaming. “What if… I promise I won’t say anything about… whatever’s going on?” he offered tentatively.

To something of Donnie’s relief, Raph slowly lifted his head. “You mean… you really wouldn’t tell anyone?” the snapping turtle asked breathlessly. “...You promise, no matter what I say?”

Again, Donnie hesitated as a jarring bramble of anxiety began to prick the insides of his stomach— the premise of the promise depended on the verisimilar factor that Raph was not harboring a ghastly secret, which was often the case, but… Raph had also never lost consciousness before.

It was then that Raph, his anxious eyes glittering hopefully, shifted and turned his gaze onto Donnie’s— and a pang of anxious sympathy lurched inside at the misery so perspicuous upon Raph’s sunken, strained expression.

The softshell turtle resolutely clenched his jaw. “I promise,” he uttered.

Raph closed his oculars and exhaled relievedly. “...Okay,” he acquiesced. “So… um,” he began, resting his chin on a teddy bear. “...You remember about a week ago, when I, uh— got stuck in the Turtle Tank?”

The Turtle Tank…?

Donnie stiffened in stupefaction, a dreary darkness eclipsing his oculars at the remembrance; when crafting the floor hatch, the softshell turtle had committed a miscalculation in Raph’s specifications— but, due to an extemporary utterance relative to Raph’s ‘doing sit-ups every day’ phase, the softshell had successfully maintained his flawless image, for if anyone had discovered that Donnie was not the flawless genius and entertainer that he strived so desperately to be, how could he ever be worthy of appreciation?

The softshell turtle adrift in thought blinked back to the crimson bedroom. “Uh… y-yeah?” he stammered disorientedly, swallowing uneasily.

A flurry of fear suddenly besieged the softshell’s mind— did Raph suspect that Donnie had perpetrated such a crime?

Raph bit his lip. “Um, I’ve been, uh… on a diet since then,” he mumbled. 

A sickening dropping feeling twisted in the softshell’s stomach. “...A… diet?” Donnie repeated in mortification. 

…Because of the floor hatch…?

Yet the horror intensified with a blood-congealing flurry of venal ice as the sudden realization struck him— this furtive dieting had caused the snapping turtle to pass out.

No— dieting was a euphemism.

Raph was… starving himself.

“Raph—” Donnie blurted tremulously. “Y-you can’t— you—”

Raph glanced away in the depths of the dusky room. “I just… gotta lose some weight, that’s all,” he mumbled. “Then I’ll be able to fit in the floor hatch.” 

Your size is fine— it's me who made the mistake! Grgh— I mean, I! I who made the— I'm sorry! Donnie longed to scream. Please tell me you don't want to change your body because of a stupid lie I said.

Donnie swallowed and exhaled tremulously. “...Look, I… I can adjust the floor hatch,” he offered frantically. “Then you’ll fit.”

“No! I should’ve fit in the first place,” Raph insisted. “I just need to lose some weight.”

You never used to fit! I lied! Donnie longed to exclaim. “Listen, you… you don’t need to lose weight, Raph. You’re all muscle. And… who cares about some dumb floor hatch?” Donnie added nervously.

“The floor hatch ain’t the problem. I am,” Raph asserted miserably. He shook his head, his expression giving way to misery. “I’m becomin’ an inconvenience to all of you,” he whispered.

Donnie bit the inside of his cheek. No, I’m the problem! he longed to assert— but the words did not escape his sealed lips. I’m the inconvenience! I made a miscalculation!

But the emotional confession of failure did not escape Donnie's chest.

“Anyways,” Raph added, jolting the softshell back to the present. “Um. …You won’t tell anyone, right?”

“...Right,” Donnie mumbled, his miserable gaze shifting to his lap.

Raph abruptly pulled the softshell into a brief embrace. “Thank you."

A burning glaze of tears began to blur the stupefied softshell’s oculars— and it was no longer then that Donnie discerned not the prickle of dissatisfaction, not the feeling of waning worth… but arrant self-hatred surging relentlessly inside.

Donnie could no longer excuse his vast history of failure and malfunction.

What had he done?

Donnie acrimoniously dug his teeth into his cheek, desperately attempting to withhold tears.

Why had Donnie made a miscalculation? Why had he exacerbated the crime by inventing a muttered lie? And how could Donnie ever inform the others of Raph’s treacherous secret when its strongest root was a miscalculation? 

No, no, no… Donnie alone had broken this; therefore, his duty— alone— was to convince his eldest brother that starving oneself was not a viable option.

Donnie’s stupefied expression hardened into resolution as Raph continued to wrongfully embrace him.

…And once Donnie succeeded, he could return to his self-hatred endeavors and disappear from the family altogether.

…Perhaps he could… start somewhere anew…?

…Or— no, better yet— end everything for good?

Chapter Text

Deep in the susurrous laboratory shadows, tepid droplets of coffee weeped from its overturned home and lurched despondently off of the desk. Incalculable hours had dragged past since this evening brainstorming session had begun— and still, there hunched the softshell turtle over his desk, his leg jittering restlessly, and his puffy eyes pried open despite all his body’s fruitless protest.

Frustrated, Donnie tapped his pencil against the desk. Come on, think, he begged himself mentally. There has to be some sort of way to fix this….

The softshell turtle fished through the crumpled up papers scattered across his indigo workbench and paused, forlornly tracing his faulty measurements. 

Donnie scoffed humorlessly. “‘Doing sit-ups every day’ phase,” he quoted acerbically, crumpling the paper and tossing the ball across his desk. “Yeah, nice one, Donnie! Protect your pride! And make Raph starve himself for a week.”

With a shrill wail from the swivel chair, Donnie flopped defeatedly into his seat and despondently rubbed his forehead. “Why didn't I just tell him when I had the chance?” he mourned. “Or at least check my calculations? Or— I dunno, maybe just build the floor hatch the right size?”

Donnie heaved a sigh and buried his visage in his palms— and slowly raised his head, a victorious spark igniting his weary oculars.

“That’s it,” Donnie breathed, snatching the crumpled blueprints and prying it loose.

Raph’s issues had begun with the floor hatch… and they would end with the floor hatch, for even total muscle loss could not alter the size of the snapping turtle’s shell and skeletal structure.

Zealously, Donnie lay the blueprint on his desk and hurriedly smoothed out the crinkles.

In order to rescue Raph, all Donnie needed to was remake the floor hatch— this time to Raph’s accurate measurements— and gaslight Raph into believing that Raph and the floor hatch had been the perfect size all along.

“S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.,” Donnie summoned, his poise returning as he hastily piled assorted tools and papers into his arms.

Squinting groggily, the violet robot whirred toward his summons and wearily rubbed his glowing eyes.

Behind the pile, Donnie grinned, determination alight in his oculars. “Meet me in the Turtle Tank,” he commanded as clattering objects began to slip in his precarious grip. “I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get.”

—                     —                     —                     —                    

Indistinct arguing accompanied the arcade ambiance of intermittent flashing lights prying for attention, the cacophony of eight-bit chimes of the arcade room, and the occasional distant zooms of S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nearby.

Leo was leaning agitatedly over Mikey's shoulders. “Ugh, you're doing it wrong,” the red-eared slider argued. “Let me try,” he insisted, reaching for the controls—

Mikey swatted him away indignantly. “Excuse me,” he retorted snappishly. “I think I know how to play Pac-Man.”

Almost immediately after this statement, however, sounded the familiar sound effect and flashed the words GAME OVER on the screen.

Mikey's reflection gawked in disbelief.

Leo couldn't help but smirk in satisfaction. “Told you,” he rubbed in.

Mikey muttered incoherently into his plastron.

“Hey, guys!” a cheerful voice echoed.

Synchronously, Leo and Mikey eagerly whipped around from the game screen to discover exactly whom they’d been anticipating—

“April!” the brothers chorused gleefully.

Curiously, April stepped further in the glowing room and peered around the Pac-Man arcade cabinet as though she expected someone to appear. “...Where’s Raph and Donnie?” she asked quizzically.

Leo blinked thoughtfully. “Well, Donnie’s probably locked up in his lab, and Raph… come to think of it, I haven't really seen him this week,” he realized. Shrugging, Leo finished, “Eh, he's probably just busy training— either that or harboring another Foot Clan soldier.”

“Ex-Foot,” Mikey corrected helpfully.

Leo narrowed his eyes at the correction. “Yes, ex-Foot,” he agreed dryly. “Thank you for the correction,” he said sarcastically.

Mikey beamed and dipped his head. “You’re welcome,” he replied just as dryly.

Leo elbowed him playfully, resulting from a squawk from the box turtle; April shook her head affectionately.

The brothers’ grins and quips vanished immediately, however, as the familiar shadow of Splinter stalked past the arcade, his kinked tail lifted haughtily.

April furrowed her brow as Leo crossed his arms and as Mikey pointedly turned his shell toward his father.

Unspoken tension asphyxiated the lighthearted arcade atmosphere until the arcade drowned out Splinter's stiff padding.

Uneasily, April glanced between Leo and Mikey for answers. “O-kay,” she started awkwardly. “Uh… sorry, what just happened?”

Mikey spun back toward April and sighed sulkily. “Dad's being extra grumpy just ‘cause someone spoke during a quiet exercise the other day,” he explained, pointedly raising his eyebrows at Leo.

Leo scoffed indignantly and uncrossed his arms. “Hey, I— the only reason I said something is ‘cause Raph wasn't paying attention,” he bristled defensively.

April raised her brow playfully. “Raph wasn't payin’ attention? You sure it wasn't you two?” she teased.

Mikey gasped in exaggerated indignation. “It wasn't us!” he protested. “...This time!”

April gazed fondly at the terrapin brothers. “Well, whoever's fault it is… how ‘bout we go round up the guys and get some pizza?”

Leo slung his arms over his siblings’ shoulders. “Now that,” the red-eared slider said with a grin, “we can all agree on.” Releasing his siblings and cupping a palm over his mouth, Leo hollered, “Hey, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.?” 

The purple robot promptly appeared, his begrudging berry-red eyes betraying his reluctance.

Leo grinned obsequiously and clapped his palms together in a mock bow. “Could you be a dear and go get Raph and Donnie for us?”

“Nah,” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. said blandly. “Donnie says they can’t be bothered,” he informed boredly. 

April blinked, dumbfounded. “Not even for pizza?” she said incredulously.

“Guess not,” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shrugged. “Said they were working on some kinda techy… science thingy or whatever,” he recalled.

Mikey straightened eagerly. “I wonder what they're working on,” he mused. “Ooh!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Maybe… Raph's helping Donnie finally finish his drill?”

As S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. whirted away, Leo furrowed his brow, unconvinced. 

“I dunno… brains and brawn working on a science project?” Leo said suspiciously. “Why do I get the feeling they’re up to something?” he muttered.

Mikey playfully placed his palms on Leo's shoulders. “Don't worry— I’m sure Raph’ll keep ‘im in line,” he said with a teasing grin.

Leo grinned and elbowed his youngest brother away. “Yeah, unless Donnie’s already corrupted him,” he retorted.

Gazing fondly at her ridiculous compatriots, April said, “Alright, you guys, are you ready to eat or what? I’m starvin’.”

—                     —                     —                     —

“...Raph…?”

The very next sensation was sudden swallowing pain akin to a lightning strike; in fact, the snapping turtle’s achingly sore, rigor-mortis-like frame felt one skipped heartbeat away from a corpse.

Disoriented, Raph groggily blinked open his dry eyes to discover two wobbling figures before him. Something like relief and regret twisted in Raph’s aching stomach as the figures morphed into one familiar frame.

“...Donnie?” Raph grunted huskily. “Whatimesit?” he slurred hoarsely, lethargically rubbing his dry eyes awake.

“Twelve o’ three post meridiem,” Donnie informed instinctively.

Frantically, Raph weakly propped himself up on his elbows. “Wait, it’s twelve?” he rasped in panic. “Did— did anybody notice I was—?”

“Don’t worry,” Donnie reassured quickly, his gaze lingering on the bed frame. “I’ve instructed S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. to inform the others we are not to be disturbed.”

“...Oh.” Somewhat relieved, Raph leaned back in his bed, hating the way it creaked beneath his elephantine weight.

The realization that he'd missed his morning cardio elicited little dread, however, as the exhaustion clinging to his was far too discouraging now.

It was then that a glass of water materialized in Raph’s face. Confused, the snapping turtle glanced upward and met his brother's countenance for the first time in days.

Alarm flared in Raph's chest as he espied the softshell’s puffy eyes, exhaustion dampening the genius’s usual radiance.

Has he been up every night worryin’ about me? Raph thought despondently. Agh, I knew I never shoulda tangled ‘im up in all this!

Distraught, Raph glanced away and blurted, “Donnie, you don’t hafta—”

“I know,” Donnie said quietly.

The crease in Raph’s forehead shrunk. “Well, uh… thanks,” he grunted, hesitantly reaching for the glass— yet as his colossal fingers curled around the glass, the cup seemed to shrink, and his jaw tightened.

Immediately, flashbacks of broken items in his palms— accompanied by teasing jeers of “sausage fingers”— echoed at full volume in his mind.

Swallowing, Raph dipped his head and sipped delicately from the glass, grateful for his brother’s gesture.

Glancing anywhere but at Raph, Donnie suggested innocently, “So I was thinking… it's been a few days— what if you tried to fit in the floor hatch again?” 

Confused, Raph furrowed his brow and lowered the glass from his lips. “...What?”

Donnie shrugged casually. “You could try to fit again,” he repeated. “Plus, who knows? Maybe you were just bloated that day.”

Raph chortled humorlessly and gingerly leaned over to set the glass down. “I, uh… don't think Raph was just bloated that day.”

Donnie casually leaned against the crimson wall and nonchalantly crossed his arms— a tactic clearly stolen from Leo. “But what if you were?” he pressed, glancing disinterestedly at the ceiling.

Raph chuckled weakly— but after glancing at the thinly veiled worry etched across Donnie's emerald-green countenance, the snapping turtle raised a brow skeptically.

“You… really think I’ll fit?” Raph murmured.

—                     —                     —                     —                   

Distant laughter echoed through the lair as, claws gripping the circular living room entrance, Splinter furtively peered at the blurry forms of April, Leo, and Mikey until they vanished from view.

Tail dragging against the concrete floor, Splinter sulked away and collapsed into the creaky, stain-claimed sofa with a sigh.

Beside him, a drooping violet caught his straying gaze; pensively, the murine plucked it from its clear, cracked jar and distractedly studied it in his pink palms.

“Perhaps I was too hard on them the other day,” Splinter mused aloud, absently stroking a soft, rubbery petal. “Maybe… I should apologize,” he added grudgingly.

Yet determination hardened his wavering resolution, and Splinter clenched his fists, crushing the violet in his claws. 

“Agh— no!” Splinter snapped, casting the violet’s shredded remains back into its jar. “They need to realize how important iwanuga hana is,” he insisted. “How important— everything is.”

Sighing wearily, Splinter rubbed his wrinkled forehead and narrowed his eyes at the torn violet petals.

No, for the benefit of all, the flower spoke not.

—                     —                     —                     —                   

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

Shaky fingers typed in the floor hatch opening code. As the hatch opened with a mechanical hiss, Donnie hastily stepped out of the way, leaving Raph to peer apprehensively down the hole.

Well, Donnie thought anxiously. This is it. Moment of truth. Or— moment of lies, I guess.

The softshell held his breath as Raph, his limbs shuddering, carefully lowered his midsection into the hatch and planted his soles on the cold garage concrete below.

Donnie gnawed his lip anxiously as Raph shifted slightly, assessing the new room between his frame and the floor hatch.

Raph laughed in disbelief. “I— I fit,” he observed. “You were right.”

Donnie exhaled in relief. 

Yet the joy in Raph's eyes died as his gaze strayed to a freshly dried drop of coffee.

Raph glanced at his midsection again and closed his eyes in disappointment. “You made it bigger,” he realized, his voice a murmur.

No! How did he find out?!

Panic reactivated the softshell’s sympathetic nervous system. “Wha-ha-hat?” Donnie laughed nervously, averting his gaze and anxiously fumbling shaky fingers. “What makes you think I would alter the Obviously Perfect Size?”

Wincing, Raph weakly climbed back up and gestured to the innocent droplet of coffee.

Donnie squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself mentally.

Raph sighed softly. “Thanks, Donnie, but… I should’ve fit the first time,” he insisted quietly.

No, that’s impossible! Donnie screamed inside. My measurements were off, your— your shell wouldn’t even— I-I just said that stupid comment about sit-ups to— I’m sorry! Please, don’t starve yourself, your size is fine—

Yet a bramble closed around his throat, his eyes watered, and the only utterance that escaped his lips was an incoherent stammer.

Donnie stared at the floor, his eyes wide. “I— I-I—” he choked.

“Hey.” Raph placed his palms on Donnie’s arms and squeezed gently. 

Donnie’s watering eyes darted to Raph’s. 

“Don't worry about it, alright?” Raph pleaded gently. “I just— need to get a little smaller, that's all,” he continued. “Don't worry. Please.”

Petrified, Donnie watched helplessly as Raph miserably let go and turned to leave.

“Raph’s gonna go lay down, but, uh… thanks for tryin’ to help,” Raph said softly— and, with that, he tremulously walked down the ramp and vanished past the shadows of the Turtle Tank.

Hot tears began spilling down the softshell’s quivering cheeks as Donnie’s despairing knees buckled and, with a thud, collided painfully against the floor.

It was over. The softshell turtle had beat around the bush until it was bare.

A salty tear dribbled down his shuddering lips thirsty for death— for now, only over his cold, dead body could Donnie admit the truth.

Chapter Text

Fern fronds whispered uneasily as its creator solemnly sauntered past a muttering brook, his drifting gaze absorbing his symbiotic surroundings for the final time.

Patches of red-stalked plants with orbs like eyes seemed to follow the softshell turtle as he strode further down the path until he halted at the ominous steel doors, climbing vines like a serpent absconding the text beneath: “A t orized  ersonnel nly b yond this point.”

Donnie placed his palm against the frigid scanner. Momentarily, dark crimson flashed to green, and the steel doors rumbled apart, granting him access into the flickering fluorescent lights of the inner chamber.

The softshell turtle stepped in, the grassy ground promptly returning to cold, sterile concrete, and with vacant eyes, Donnie stalked past the ten-foot venus flytrap lurking behind its acrylic glass habitat, past the writhing mass of strangleweed, and pressed his palm against the very last enclosure: a grove of tangled trees beside a murky pond.

The chamber hissed open, blasting a wave of humid, jasmine-scented air across the softshell's countenance. Donnie stepped in, the lush grass warm between his toes, as the acrylic glass doors sealed themselves shut.

Hypnotized, Donnie approached the grove of twisted branches tangling the sky: trees with sweeping leaves, white blossoms resembling ninja stars, and green and red orbs resembling mangoes. 

Littering the ground and bobbing leisurely in the scintillating mud-green pond were red and brown orbs— and as though in a trance, the softshell turtle reached down and tentatively curled his fingers around a windfall fruit, its red skin peeling and revealing the brown, coconut-like husk beneath.

Perhaps better known as the pong-pong tree, Cerbera odollam was mainly grown for decorative purposes, but deep inside its husk lay its sinister secondary purpose— and the reason for its best known name: the suicide tree.

Donnie’s palm tightened its grip.

—                     —                     —                     —                 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The empty training room thundered with each rendition of heart-and-head-pounding jumping jacks. 

“Four ninety-seven— four ninety-eight,” Raph puffed breathlessly. “Four… ninety… nine….”

Gasping for air, the lightheaded snapping turtle steadied himself on his wobbly knees. 

Sweat and tears spattered against the concrete as Raph straightened and determinedly clenched his fists. “Pull it together, Raph,” he begged himself aloud. “Everybody’s dependin’ on you.”

The snapping turtle exhaled and straightened once more, determination burning in his sunken eyes.

“Five hundred,” Raph resumed weakly. “Five hundred one… five hundred two….”

—                     —                     —                     —

In the dark of the laboratory, Donnie scribbled wildly across the tear-blotted page, occasionally glancing at his tech gauntlet, a bright red screen steadily counting down… down… down….

02:10:59. 02:10:58. 02:10:57.

The beginnings of nausea had begun to cling to his frame, digging its talons into his plastron and pressing his chest with force equivalent to a hydraulic press. 

The diluted, bitter taste of cerberin lingering on his tongue was of little assistance.

02:09:01. 02:08:59. 02:08:57.

Tremulously, Donnie signed his name and exhaled shakily. His desperate eyes zigazagged across the page, scanning for errors.

You all know how much I hate clichés, but here goes, the note began.

By the time you guys read this, I will be dead. Well, probably. I’m not actually confident how long the poison takes to kill me. That reminds me— unless you guys want to wind up dead too, you should probably throw out the blender because it is thoroughly tainted with poison. Seriously, throw it out. Cerbera odollam’s called “the suicide tree” for a reason.

Dad, Raph, Leo, Mikey, April— I’m sorry I never lived up to the Hamato Clan name. I’m sorry I’m the weakest. I’m sorry I don't have mystic powers. I’m sorry my tech is riddled with malfunctions and miscalculations. 

I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that I am the root of miscalculations— that I am the miscalculation.

But Raph… I’m sorry to you the most. I should’ve told you from the start— the floor hatch was never to your specs! I made a mistake while designing the floor hatch and made up the whole ‘sit-ups phase’ thing after I realized it wasn't sized right just so you guys’d still… need me, I guess.

Stupid, I know. I never thought it would make you want to starve yourself. 

I don't know why I couldn't just tell you what I did. What I am. Or why I still can't tell you— I’m dying just to get out of telling the truth!

Anyway, all of you, feel free to take whatever you want from my lab, room, wherever. Granted, it’s all useless junk like me, but do what you want with it all.

Love,

Donnie

The pen slipped out of his grip and clattered to the floor, echoing with an air of finality. 

It was complete.

Now all Donnie had to do was wait.

Again, the softshell turtle again glanced at his tech gauntlet, casting blood-red light across his countenance.

02:08:27. 02:08:26. 02:08:25—

“Um… whatcha got there?”

In one motion, Donnie flinched, flipped the note upside-down, and threw himself over the desk, slamming his elbows over the paper as his aching heart beat wildly in his ears—

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. had spoken.

The softshell could feel his robot’s gaze scanning the oozing blender, husk remains littering the shadow-clouded desk, the empty cup of pong-pong smoothie, and the half-hidden note crumpled beneath two shaky elbows.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Gaze averted, Donnie swallowed. “A smoothie,” he answered carefully.

Machinery hummed skeptically as S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. hovered quizzically in place; Donnie’s heart, meanwhile, palpitated either from anxiety or cerberin.

Curiously, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nodded toward the wrist gauntlet. “What’s the timer for?”

“I— none of your business,” Donnie answered curtly. Shaking himself of his anxiety, he blurted irritably, “What are you even doing here? Didn’t I tell you to clean the lair?”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. rolled his glowing ruby eyes. “Uh, I did,” he said flatly. “Like, hours ago.”

“Every single room?” Donnie pressed obstinately.

“Duh.”

Defeatedly, Donnie studied the light green smoothie remains oozing from the blender and onto the desk. “...Well, go and find something else to do,” he grunted. “I’m busy.”

“Doesn't really look like it,” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. muttered mutinously.

Donnie’s uneasy expression contorted to a scowl. “Out!” he snapped, accidentally crumpling the paper beneath his elbows.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. narrowed his eyes indignantly. “Fine,” he snapped back. “I don't wanna be near you anyway!”

The softshell's heart fluttered sickly in his chest as  the purple robot furiously zoomed out of the laboratory and down the darkened corridors.

Beyond miserable, Donnie hung his head in his palms as the laboratory hummed its song of lament. 

Deafening, buzzing electricity vibrated the walls as Donnie strode in the Symbiodome control room, grabbed a large silver switch, and thrust it downward.

Donnie watched emotionlessly through the looking glass as instant darkness spread over the Symbiodome. Sprinklers halted. Whispers of wind died. Streams trickled to a halt.

Feebly, the softshell turtle passed through the gate and trudged through the crepuscular dome once full of life. Plants deflated around the turtle long due for a dirt nap as he dragged his feet through the wilting grass.

Donnie weakly pushed past the shroud of a tall weeping willow and lay down to die with his creation, for without the steady presence of automated sprinklers, artificial sunlight, climate controls, and super fertilizer, the wonders of the Symbiodome would soon all be reduced to a wasteland.

Through blurry eyes, Donnie glanced at his wrist gauntlet casting sinister scarlet across his countenance and watched as his life slowly ticked… ticked… ticked away.

02:00:01. 02:00:00. 01:59:59….

—                     —                     —                     —

Beneath the kitchen lighting, Raph grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen atop the humming fridge and shook a few miniature tablets into a shaky palm. 

Closing his fist and opening the other, he opened the fridge and procured a cold can of Splinter’s diet cola and closed the fridge door—

“Hiya, Raphie!”

Raph’s heart leapt out of his throat as a pizza box jumped out, an unseen hand operating its jaws as though it were a puppet; instinctively, Raph shrieked and stumbled backward and into the counter, darkness beginning to splotch his vision.

April, Leo, and Mikey snickered as Raph gripped the counter tighter, fear hardening into indignation.

Leo heaved an amused sigh and caught his breath. “Whew.” Wiping a joyous tear, he closed the box and plopped it on the table. “Oh-ho, man,” he blustered. “You should’ve seen the look on your face!”

Raph glowered at Leo. “Don't do that,” the snapping turtle growled. “You nearly scared me half to death!”

Mikey giggled and waved the box of pepperoni pizza in Raph’s face teasingly. “What, you don't like Mr. Pizza?”

Raph scowled and swatted Mikey away irritably. “It ain't funny,” he growled, gripping his can of seltzer water tighter.

April chortled. “Sorry, Raph,” she said, smiling sympathetically. “I couldn't change their minds."

Apologetically, Leo leaned on one knee and brandished the box of pizza as though it were an engagement ring. “Will you accept our humble apology?”

Apology? Raph thought incredulously. If anyone needs to apologize, it's me.

But the snapping turtle hesitated, staring deep into the meat-adorned pie and its puffy stuffed crust calling his name….

But how many calories were in a single slice? Three hundred? Four hundred? Five hundred?

As expectant eyes studied him, Raph swallowed, his heart and stomach twisting indecisively despite knowing full well who would win.

Well, Raph thought glumly. I s’pose I could just give Donnie my slice. He’s probably hungry by now anyways— and he deserves it for tryin’ to help me….

Reluctantly, Raph’s large fingers curled around a single grease-dripping slice and pried the cheese free.

An awkward pause gripped the kitchen as Raph stood there, pizza, pills, and diet soda in hand.

Mikey’s gaze drifted to the can of diet soda. “Wait…” he blurted. “Since when do you drink diet?”

Raph jolted in panic. “Well, uh, gotta go back to the lab!” he blurted, clumsily backing out of the kitchen and down the corridor. “Uh, lotsa work to do, for sure, I’ll, uh— see you all later!”

Miserably, the snapping turtle sighed, steadied himself against the wall, and sighed despondently at the swirling slice of pizza.

How much longer can I keep this up?

Wearily, Raph stepped into the muttering laboratory. “Donnie?” he called tentatively. “I, uh… brought you some pizza.”

The snapping turtle’s call echoed faintly in the deserted room.

Quietly, Raph approached the softshell's silver chair and gently turned it— but only shadows lingered in the space the softshell had once been.

Raph furrowed his brow and squinted into the haze, scanning for the signs of life. “...Donnie?” he repeated skeptically. “You in here?”

It was then that Raph noticed the cracked-open Symbiodome gate… and that a letter, splayed out in the middle of the desk, caught his gaze.

Head pounding, Raph furtively glanced around the laboratory— but as there was no sign of Donnie, apart from the open Symbiodome, to interrupt his curiosity….

Maybe just a peek… Raph thought innocently.

Delicately, Raph set down the pizza, pills, and diet soda, and picked up the note. Squinting at the letters, Raph murmured aloud, “‘You all know how much I hate clichés, but here goes. By the time you guys read this, I will be—’ what?” 

Raph stiffened, his heart thumping faster in his chest; frantically, his weary eyes darted across the page—

Well, probably, the note continued. I’m not actually confident how long the poison takes to kill me. 

Raph blinked the words out of his vision, desperately hoping he’d misread. “Wh— poison?!” he spluttered. 

That reminds me— unless you guys want to wind up dead too, you should probably throw out the blender because it is thoroughly tainted with poison. Seriously, throw it out. Cerbera odollam’s called “the suicide tree” for a reason.

Raph's horrified gaze slowly swept across the desk like a crime scene— and, ignoring his trembling dizziness and aching body, Raph hurriedly shoved the note in his belt and instinctively raced toward the open Symbiodome gates.

“DONNIE!” Raph cried breathlessly. “DONNIE! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

The snapping turtle dashed past the maze of withering plants— chrysanthemums to black roses to poppies to a tall weeping willow with a faint red glow to—

Raph skidded to a dizzy halt.

Apprehensively, Raph pushed past the whispering veil of leaves….

And there, lying still on the tangled roots, was Donnie, vomit trickling down his chin and pooling to his side.

Instinctively, Raph cursorily threw himself to his knees with a thump and cradled his little brother's head. “DONNIE!” he burst. “Donnie, can you hear me? Donnie?”

The softshell's turtle’s glazed eyes lethargically flickered open as his chest rose shallowly.

Raph laughed in breathless relief and embraced him instinctively— before noticing the blood-red glow of the softshell's tech gauntlet timer ticking away.

00:40:02. 00:40:01. 00:39:59.

Letting go of the embrace, Raph narrowed his gaunt eyes determinedly. “Hang on, buddy,” he begged, audibly terrified. “Raph’s got you.” Effortlessly, Raph protectively scooped up the limp softshell into shaking, brother-sized arms.

Ringing blared in the snapping turtle’s throbbing head as Raph desperately sprinted as fast as his weak muscles could muster, weakly gripping Donnie tighter against his wheezing plastron.

“HELP!” Raph begged as his feet again reached the concrete—

“Raph, what—?” someone called faintly—

But the patches of black vision spread like blight, Raph's unsteady knees buckled, and his shell collided against the floor, his last sensation Donnie slipping out of his grip.

Chapter Text

The sickening scent of chemicals enveloped the sterilized air; murmurs and shutting doors tainted muffled commercial jingles emanating from the floating television.

Sitting on the edge of a worn faux leather sofa and staring dolefully into the glaring polished floor, Raph fumbled absently with Donnie’s silver goggles.

In all the snapping turtle’s daydreams of death, he'd never envisioned his family's perspective— and now, he was living in it.

Nearly an hour had passed— and yet, the vortex of memories continued to whirl in the snapping turtle’s tumultuous mind: the horrible note; Donnie’s eery scarlet-painted form lying across twisted roots; cradling Donnie’s limp body in trembling arms; waking to terrified family members crowding above; listening to frantic arguing; and watching a desperate Leo repeatedly attempt to create a portal, ultimately displacing the Hamatos… here.

The Hidden City emergency room.

A small hand rested on Raph's palm; glancing down, the snapping turtle recalled with relief and despair who was sitting beside him: April, behind tear-speckled lenses.

“You sure you’re okay?” April murmured worriedly, her glossy eyes haunted. “You still look a little pale,” she observed uneasily.

Distractedly, Raph glanced at the others; Mikey was hugging his knees and anxiously gnawing on his nails; Leo’s expression was unusually pensive, and his leg was bouncing restlessly; S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was hovering morosely; and Splinter was pacing, his tortured gaze anywhere but the television, and his tail was dragging despondently against the squeaky floor.

Raph forced a shaky smile. “Yeah,” he grunted, his voice husky with emotion. “I’m alright.”

Compared to Donnie, anyways, Raph’s mind added grimly.

April gently squeezed Raph’s thumb.

“I still don’t understand,” Leo complained, planting his heels on the ground. “What even happened? He can't just be sick— no one gets that sick that fast.”

Desperate for answers, Leo gazed beseechingly at the snapping turtle. “Raph,” he began apprehensively— the snapping turtle flinched— “what kind of project were you guys even working on?”

A cluster of inquisitive, haunted eyes turned to study the weary snapping turtle.

Raph swallowed anxiously. “I— I don't…” he trailed off, for roots entangled his throat, slunk up his spiky shell, and fed horrific visions into his leaky eyes:

Donnie’s vomit-trickling countenance bathing in crimson red, a cluster of yōkai in scrubs removed the body from Raph’s trembling, reluctant grip, swimming echoes of By the time you guys read this, I will be dead.

Raph desperately squeezed the silver goggles—

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. spoke up, his voice low.

“I don't think this was an accident.”

Splinter halted cold in his tracks; April, Leo, and Mikey exchanged a glance.

Uneasily, Splinter seated himself in a creaky chair and gripped its peeling leather edges. “What do you mean?” he breathed.

Apprehensively, the spine-tingling snapping turtle glanced up to view S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gazing distractedly at the floor.

“Donnie was acting… weird earlier,” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. admitted, his robotic brow furrowed in thought. “I— I went in the lab ‘cause I was bored, and I guess Donnie had some kinda smoothie all over his desk, but… something was weird,” he repeated, squinting his glowing red eyes. 

Raph held his breath bracingly, his heart fluttering nervously in his chest as the robot continued.

“There was, like… a timer, and— and he wouldn't show me what he was writing, he just… yelled at me to go away. I thought he was just being a jerk like usual, but…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. trailed off.

Raph's visage paled, tears again accumulating in his puffy oculars as he realized the scene S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was unwittingly describing: Donnie preparing for suicide.

Mikey forlornly fumbled with his fingers. “...You think he experimented on himself again?” he finished.

Mournfully, Raph shut his tear-accumulating eyes and gripped the goggles so painfully tight that they imprinted his weak palm.

“Or something,” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. agreed.

Splinter’s amber eyes flashed with ire. “If he did,” he growled, “I will ground him from the lab for life.”

Finally, unable to bear the raw emotion tugging at his vine-wreathed throat, Raph abruptly stood and dizzily marched toward a bathroom stall. In his darkening peripherals, his family members looked up quizzically, but he could bear them no explanation, lest he burst into tears.

The door clicked shut— and in one moment, Raph collapsed against the door, slid defeatedly to the cold floor, desperately clutched the goggles against his plastron, and began to sob without restraint, his gasps echoing in the single stall.

With every trembling breath, the snapping turtle’s head throbbed, a gut-wrenching reminder that the painkillers lay forgotten on Donnie's darkened desk, but nothing throbbed more than the grief trapped in his pounding, shattering heart.

How could Donnie do this to himself? To them? But most of all, how could Raph have just let him?

Tears and snot leaked down the snapping turtle’s pain-twisted, shuddering countenance.

Raph had been so focused on himself, on fixing his own ridiculous body, that he hadn't noticed his little brother struggling right before his eyes. He hadn't been there to protect him—

It was then that something slipped out of his belt and drifted innocently against the floor.

Raph’s blood froze as he recalled what he had thoughtlessly tucked in his belt hours ago— and shakily, his fingers curled around the crumpled note oozing dread.

You all know how much I hate clichés, but here goes.

By the time you guys read this, I will be dead. Well, probably. I’m not actually confident how long the poison takes to kill me. That reminds me— unless you guys want to wind up dead too, you should probably throw out the blender because it is thoroughly tainted with poison. Seriously, throw it out. Cerbera odollam’s called “the suicide tree” for a reason.

With unsteady breaths, Raph hurriedly pushed onward, his tears darkening the page.

Dad, Raph, Leo, Mikey, April— I’m sorry I never lived up to the Hamato Clan name. I’m sorry I’m the weakest. I’m sorry I don't have mystic powers. I’m sorry my tech is riddled with malfunctions and miscalculations. 

I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that I am the root of miscalculations— that I am the miscalculation.

But Raph… I’m sorry to you the most. I should’ve told you from the start— the floor hatch was never to your specs! I made a mistake while designing the floor hatch and made up the whole ‘sit-ups phase’ thing after I realized it wasn't sized right just so you guys’d still… need me, I guess.

Raph furrowed his throbbing brow— the floor hatch… had been the wrong size at first? What did that have to do with anything? 

Stupid, I know. I never thought it would make you want to starve yourself. 

Raph paled, his breath snagging on the lump in his throat.

I don't know why I couldn't just tell you what I did. What I am. Or why I still can't tell you— I’m dying just to get out of telling the truth!

Anyway, all of you, feel free to take whatever you want from my lab, room, wherever. Granted, it’s all useless junk like me, but do what you want with it all.

Love,

Donnie

With trembling hands, Raph slowly lowered the note, horror and despair etched in his bleary oculars.

“What’ve I done?”

—                     —                     —                     —

Muffled television and murmurs continued in the gutting silence as Splinter stared crestfallenly into his lap, his brow furrowed in torment.

How did this happen? the murine wondered wildly. Was he experimenting with DNA again? Testing immunity? Testing poison antidotes? Gah!

Splinter scowled, his ears flattening further. You'd think with a turtle so brilliant, he wouldn't be so stupid with his own safety, he thought bitterly. If Donnie dies, I am going to kill him.

Despondently, Splinter massaged his wrinkled, weary forehead. Why did this have to happen? he wondered in despair.

“Yoshi Hamato?”

Instinctively, Splinter craned his neck upward to discover a donkey-like yōkai clad in scrubs and a badge standing in the doorway, his tufted tail swishing impassively.

“Could you come with me for a minute?”

Splinter scurried to his feet. “O-of course,” he stammered— but he glanced back at April, Leo, Mikey, and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N., who were looking on in terror.

The murine’s heart wrenched in sympathy as warbled television commercials continued in the background.

“I-I will be back,” Splinter reassured them hastily— and without further hesitation, he padded hurriedly after the nurse and through the door.

As soon as I make sure Donnie is alright.

The nurse continued onward, his hooves clopping down the wail-echoing corridor; at last, the nurse halted and held open another door. 

Eagerly, Splinter peered past the doorframe and darted his eyes across the room in search of Donnie— but only a computer desk, a mercilessly ticking analog clock, and a few worn chairs greeted them.

…Where is Donnie? Splinter wondered desperately. Surely he cannot be… be….

Petrified, the murine watched as the yōkai seated himself in a creaky chair and gestured kindly for him to sit.

Mind racing with questions he dared not speak, Splinter climbed into the padded chair and leaned on the edge of the seat, his legs dangling like his last thread of hope.

“Your son’s going to be okay,” the yōkai nurse informed.

Splinter closed his eyes and exhaled tremulously.

“You and your family members can visit him shortly, of course, but we wanted to let you know a few details and… ask a few questions first,” the nurse continued, glancing at a computer screen.

Barely containing his beam, Splinter nodded fervently. “Yes, yes, o-of course.”

Donnie's going to be alright! he celebrated internally.

But Splinter's smile slowly vanished as the yōkai nurse continued.

“Have you noticed anything unusual about your son lately?” the nurse asked lightly. “Irritability, less interest in activities, giving away treasured items, withdrawal…” he prompted.

Baffled, Splinter frowned. “What? I… no, nothing,” he admitted.

The yõkai returned his hooves to the hovering keyboard. “Any mention of thoughts of self-harm? Suicide?”

Alarm flashed in the murine’s amber oculars. “What?” Splinter spluttered. “No, no, no,” he insisted, vehemently shaking his furry head. “Donnie would never— I-I would have noticed—”

It was then with a sharp pang that Splinter realized he hadn't been spending time with his sons lately due to iwanu ga hana.

How would Splinter have noticed something was awry?

The equine yōkai exhaled softly. “Mr. Hamato,” he began hesitantly, “your son willingly ingested the toxic seeds from a plant called the suicide tree. Given the signs—”

Again, Splinter shook his head, refusing to even entertain the notion. “No,” he insisted. “My son is brilliant, he… he must've been experimenting on himself again— testing an antidote or— or something—”

“Mr. Hamato,” the nurse murmured delicately, “there was no antidote in his system when he arrived.”

Splinter's tail fell.

The nurse fidgeted with his badge. “I’m so sorry, but… Donatello tried to take his life today.”

Splinter paled, his ears drooping in defeat.

—                     —                     —                     —

Distractedly, Raph forlornly traced the softshell's silver goggles with his thumb and watched as light from above ricocheted from the goggles and cast a glare onto the gleaming floor.

The door leading to the hallway creaked open.

Instinctively, Raph and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. glanced up, and April, Leo, and Mikey leaped to their feet with soldier-like alacrity.

Splinter was standing in the entrance, his distracted gaze and tail dragging against the gleaming floor. 

Raph held his breath as the door wailed shut, reverberating the dismal walls as murmurs carried on under the blaring television.

“...Is he gonna be okay?” April asked breathlessly.

Disoriented, Splinter raised his head and shook himself. “Yes, yes, he's alright,” he reassured, forcing a smile. “He is— he is resting.”

Raph closed his eyes relievedly as S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. beamed and as April, Leo, and Mikey laughed and hugged one another in joyful celebration—

But as Raph opened his eyes, Splinter mournfully seated himself in a squeaky chair. “But… we cannot see him yet,” the murine added heavily. 

Smiles collectively evanesced from the Hamatos’s countenances.

“The doctors say he needs rest first,” Splinter continued quietly. “It… will be a few hours, at least.”

Raph watched miserably as Leo, Mikey, and April sank back into their seats and glanced guiltily at his belt, where the truth lay, etched in blotchy ink.

The snapping turtle inhaled bracingly.

“I’m sorry,” Raph choked, hanging his head regretfully. “This… this is all my fault.”

The Hamatos’ haunted gazes drifted uneasily toward the snapping turtle.

“...What?” Mikey whispered hoarsely.

Reluctantly, Raph pulled the crumpled paper out from his belt and shakily unfurled the dreadful note.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. stiffened. “That's it,” he exclaimed in wonder. “That's the note Donnie didn't want me to see.”

Hurriedly, Splinter patted his robe down, donned his half moon reading glasses, and anxiously snatched the note.

Shadows snuck beneath the door as yōkai staff and patients squeaked by.

Nervously, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. and the others exchanged a glance as Raph despondently studied the shimmer of Donnie’s silver goggles.

“...What does it say?” Leo piped up apprehensively.

Despairingly, Splinter slowly lowered the note. “This… was no experiment,” he murmured sorrowfully. “It was suicide.”

Raph winced as S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s rotors halted, nearly causing him to crash to the ground, and as the others gawked speechlessly in his peripherals.

“What?” Mikey squeaked.

“Wh— why?” April stammered tearfully.

Miserably, Splinter returned his gaze to the note for further answers; Raph squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for his father's second heartwrenching revelation… and sure enough—

“Raphael,” Splinter blurted, briskly lowering the note, “wh— why does it say you are starving yourself?”

“What?!” the others chorused, their alarmed gazes shooting toward him.

Ashamed, Raph lowered his throbbing head. “I’m sorry, I— I know it’s bad timin’, what with Draxum and the Foot Clan and now Donnie, I….” The snapping turtle shook his head wretchedly, tears streaming down his visage. “I shoulda never started that stupid diet,” he insisted through tears. “I put everybody at risk, an’— an’ now Donnie's actually hurt. Because of me.”

Splinter gently folded the note. “Raphael,” he began softly, placing a small palm on his son’s muscular arm. “What happened to Donnie is not your fault.”

Raph shook his head in fervent disbelief, tears dripping down his quivering cheeks— how could it not be? If Raph hadn't been so obsessed on some stupid unattainable goal, Donnie would’ve never—

“It is mine,” Splinter confessed. 

Raph slowly lifted his head, his bleary eyes widening.

Splinter lethargically removed his reading glasses from his snout. “I— I was so focused on iwanu ga hana, but… this was a case of takane no hana— it— it was unattainable, impractical— idiotic, even,” he rambled.

Signing heavily, Splinter squeezed his wrinkled snout. “I should never have avoided you just to teach you a lesson,” he continued. “I should have been there. I should have noticed something was wrong.”

Splinter lifted his gaze, his tortured eyes meeting the snapping turtle’s. “I am so sorry, my son.”

Jaw quivering, Raph sniffled— and in one motion, he scooped his father into a hug, and April, Leo, Mikey, and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. followed suit. 

An explosion of warmth ignited the snapping turtle’s shivering heart as he held them in his family-sized arms— and as they held him.

As the others gently released their grips, April’s warm palm lingered soothingly on the snapping turtle’s spiky shell. “When’d you eat last?” she whispered.

Raph glanced away sheepishly.

Correctly decoding the response, Leo heaved a sigh and stood. “O-kay. Cafeteria time it is,” he announced decidedly— and, almost as if on cue, April, Mikey, Splinter, and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. stood together, their teary gazes fixed on Raph.

For once, Raph felt small beneath their protective gazes and stiffened, tears steadily leaking from his petrified eyes.

“Raph,” Leo said softly, “we know you don't wanna eat right now, and we're definitely gonna have a talk about that later, but right now, you need your strength, ‘kay?” 

Raph swallowed back a sob as he clutched Donnie’s mystic goggles.

“You're not facing this alone anymore, okay?” April added with a friendly nudge. “You or Donnie.”

“Yeah,” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. agreed fondly. “What they said.”

Splinter proffered a small pink paw. “Let us help you for once,” he invited somberly.

“...Please?” Mikey begged hopefully.

Hesitantly, Raph shakily wiped the dripping tears from his chin— and despite his cramping stomach and aching heart, he finally accepted the hand that fit snugly in his palm.