Chapter Text
When Donnie opened his eyes he knew immediately something was wrong.
He was working on an improvement for the Turtle Tank (better tires means less metal shrapnel punctures and less metal punctures meant more junk yard excursions and rallies) when he blinked. Which wasn’t that weird. Donnie blinks all the time, 10 blinks per minute is his usual amount. So he blinked—as per his body’s request.
But when he opened his eyes…he wasn’t in the lair anymore.
In fact he wasn’t exactly sure where he was at first. He was surrounded by children, mid-pubescent, greasy and awkward. Teenage. (Donnie himself was teen age but being almost 18, he had begun to stop thinking of himself as a teenager.)
Every single one of them was stationed at a desk. Gum plastered to the undersides and pencil scratches marred the tops. Some of the other adolescents were sleeping, heads shmoshed and drool making a puddle on the desk’s germy surface. Some were on their phones, scrolling, eyes dull and disinterested. Some were looking frantically over a typed document clutched in their nervous, sweaty hands. Mumbling words to themselves and legs bouncing the speed of sound under their desks.
Donnie blinked, looking down to his own hands. There was a stapled document in his hands. 12 point font, Times New Roman. Double spaced. How strange. Donnie briefly skimmed through it. It was a short research paper about AI and its role in the coming years. The topic was interesting and the content was adequate—if a little dull.
Hm.
Donnie looked up. There was a girl up front giving a speech about whales and the role they play in marine life and ecosystems. Most of it was logical fallacies and popularized but mostly incorrect facts.
Donnie watched her wrap up her speech and everyone clapped like they were supposed to. Donnie followed suit after a confused second.
He noticed something while clapping. He was surrounded by children. Human children. Yes, this was previously established but the difference now was that his hand was green. A three fingered, mutant turtle hand. He could feel the way clothing was pulled over a shell—not his battleshell. But a real keratin shell. Like the kind he didn’t and would never have.
He could feel something on the edge of his beak and he recognized the way it took to the light that it was a pair of glasses. Glancing into his peripheral he could see thick, black frames. There was a pair of clunky headphones around his neck. A baggy, purple hoodie went over everything and beige cargo pants scrunched up over a pair of well loved, marker white sneakers .
And his hand was green. He had a shell. He had three fingers and he would bet his brother Leonardo that he had a plastron as well.
Okay. Sure. Fine. Whatever. This was fine.
Donnie looked around again. He watched another human teenager stand up, paper gripped tight and a nauseous tint to their already pale skin. They started a speech on world markets and the value of international trade.
Humans. He was surrounded by humans.
And he was sitting right next to every one of them.
Now Donnie had infiltrated a high school before. In fact he’d done it a lot of times to see April when it was appropriate. (Even when it wasn’t.) His head tucked low and hood obscuring everything.
But this was different. He was sitting in a desk amongst them. Like a peer. He was surrounded by human highschoolers and he was one of them. He was one of them.
And nobody was screaming. (Not that he expected them to. Those incidents happen far and few between but it was still strange to be sitting with them. Like he belonged. Like he was meant to be there.)
Donnie looked down at the stapled paper again. Seeing speech notes scribbled in red pen, crowding the margins. He looked up and watched the orating highschooler finish.
Everyone clapped.
Donnie followed suit, quicker to the jump then before. The clapping pattered out and the instructor called another student up to the front.
Oh. Donnie saw what this was. This was one of those presentation days April often complained about. One where you would stand in front of the masses and bare your words and bits of your soul to an unyielding and increasingly judgmental audience.
Everyone was giving a speech on a subject. And Donnie—in a different body and a different place. Still mutant but societally accepted, was supposed to give a speech as well. Donnie looked down to the research paper, to the red scribble notes and pointers the original owner of this body had left.
Donnie looked up. Analyzing the way each student said their piece. The way they said the words, what they did with their hands, how they presented each crumb of information. How their eyes flicked from the paper to the audience to the floor and back up again. Donnie drank it in, knowing instinctively that he would have to give a speech as well.
Obviously whoever’s body this was a high schooler. They had this opportunity, this chance. Donnie wouldn’t ruin it for them.
(He needed to figure out how he got here. How he swapped bodies or if this was some incredibly enhanced illusion. If it was an illusion then Donnie would have an idea of how to go about it. If and when illusory is confirmed. Things like that happen from time to time. A stray mystic artifact, Hypno found a new method or toy to use, a cosplay wizard that had accidentally landed on something much too real for what they initially bargained for.
Though usually he was with his brothers in those situations. With Raph at his back, Mikey to his side and Leo just to his left. They faced the illusion head on and broke through with the power of friendship or with the power of blunt force trauma. They made it through.
But this time Donnie was alone. As far as he knew at the moment.
Thinking back, Donnie didn’t know how he got here in the first place. Maybe even then he did a mere minute before. One moment he was in the garage, welder in hand and tongue poking out as he worked—and in the next he was here. In a different, mutant turtle teen body, with highschoolers surrounding and a speech imminent.
Donnie didn’t know what to do but what he couldn’t do was freak out. He needed to stay calm. He could have a well deserved freak out session when he was back in his own body, in his own home. He would figure it out. He just had to play along for now.)
Another speech. Another child. So on and so forth.
Donnie watched children stand and sit, some speeches good and some laughably bad. Donnie watched, eyes sharp and expression blank.
Until:
“Donatello Splinterson,”
The instructor called, voice just a step up from monotone. Well rehearsed and not nearly as well said.
(Donnie snatched the piece of information out of the air and carefully tucked it away. Donatello Splinterson. Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.)
Donnie waited a second and when nobody moved—he did.
Donnie moved to the front of the class on stiff joints and a rising heart beat.
He stood and looked out.
Highschoolers on their phones. Highschoolers sleeping. Highschoolers frantically looking over their own notes and dreading the moment they had to stand before the class.
Donnie blinked slowly and realized that none of them really cared. While some looked up, interest sparking in their eyes. Donnie walking to the front—well loved sneakers echoing on the linoleum, the student’s eyes trailing behind him.
Most still had their eyes down. Uncaring. Tired. Burnt out.
Donnie looked out in the class size of nearly thirty. A small bundle of anxious energy unfurled in his stomach and Donnie squashed it under his off-white heel.
He didn’t know how he got here, let alone why but he certainly wasn’t going to have a nervous breakdown in front of literal children.
It didn’t matter that he was a mutant because that’s what his senses were telling him. Or at least it didn’t matter in the way he thought it would. Should, perhaps.
Donnie had heard April wax poetic about grades. How important they were, your GPA being how colleges deemed you worthy. How scholarships were awarded like piggish caviar to only the qualified and deserving. Snobbish and watchful. April complained about how she was failing one class or another and Donnie had always offered to change that grade. April, always unfailingly, said no. And Donnie respected her for it. He didn’t understand it but he respected it.
And looking down at the scribbled notes and anxious energy clawing at his stomach—Donnie found himself wanting to respect this ‘ Donatello Splinterson’ and any work he had put into this assignment.
So Donnie took a deep breath and started talking, using every bit of word placement and previous orating formulas he had gathered from watching the other students.
Donnie would respect this.
So he talked.
—||—
“—and that’s why AI remains in our futures and virtually every job yet to come. Thank you,” Donnie finished, trying to add some kind of emotion into the final ‘thank you’.
He didn’t know if he did well. He didn’t know if he ‘got the grade’, so to speak. He didn’t know if he conquered the rubric.
But they clapped anyway. The class raised their hands and clapped. Exactly as they were supposed to.
Donnie mentally counted to five before he started back to his seat, only:
“Donnie?”
Donnie stopped dead, his sneakers squeaking. He turned.
The instructor was looking at him, their expression pleasantly surprised. Their shirt was beige yellow and flannel, Donnie noted.
“That was really well researched and well thought out, if you don’t mind I’d like to talk to you after class,” They said, eyebrows slightly upturned.
Donnie's mind blanked.
What? He frantically thought.
This wasn’t a part of the script. The instructor didn’t call out specific students, let alone ask to speak to them after class. Did he say something wrong? Did he gesture wrong or…
No, wait, they said his speech was ‘well researched’ and ‘well thought out’. That was a compliment. So..it was a good thing?
Donnie knew he added things to the speech. Things instinctually slipped in. Thoughts, anecdotes posed as professional experiments, personal research queries and answers he had years ago. All of it accidentally or carefully slipped in to make the speech more interesting, to hopefully give this other Donatello a good grade. Because it was the least he could do, right?
But it seems it’s given him unwanted attention.
Donnie didn’t know what to say. So he just politely agreed and sat back down.
Another child was called up and the march continued.
Donnie watched passively, wondering when this perverse, deluded dream would end.
—||—
He carefully packed up the messenger bag that the original owner of the body carried. Trying to find the exact places things went and how to make it so the weight balance was optimal.
He watched the last child leave and turned his gaze to the instructor, gently swinging the messenger bag over his shoulder.
The instructor smiled and Donnie dutifully walked up.
“Hello Donnie, how has your day been so far?”
Donnie fought to keep himself from promoting any of the confusion and tingles of anxiety he felt.
“Good,” He replied neutrally.
“Good, good, I’m glad,” They paused for a moment. Their nose was a little crooked, they must’ve broken it at some point. (It’s not that Donnie was avoiding eye contact..he was just…observing other features about them. Eyes never told the whole story.)
“I guess I’ll get straight to it,” The instructor took a breath for themselves, smiling slightly. “That was incredible, Donnie. Truly one of the most in depth reviews and exploration of AI that I’ve seen from someone your age,”
“Pardon?” Donnie blinked, just the bit startled. (He had begun to notice how dreadfully high pitched his voice was. If he wasn’t so busy being confused he’d be embarrassed. Mortified even. )
“In fact I’d say it’s one of the best thought pieces on AI, I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to,” They said, baffled even to themselves. There was tech memorabilia on the desk and a Sci-Fi poster of a franchise he didn’t recognize hanging on the wall. It led Donnie to wonder what subject they taught.
“I have a friend that used to work at Stanford as a technologies professor,” The instructor turned to their side for a moment and fished out a business card out of the top drawer of their desk. “He’s moved on to development and advancement in software and engineering. He’s always looking for bright minds to help encourage the latest gadgets and gizmos. AI happens to be an interest of his at the moment,”
The instructor handed Donnie the business card. Donnie took the business card numbly. Something akin to dread churning right alongside with the anxiety that was starting to rise again. (Some part of him was excited about the fact that he was getting this opportunity but it wasn’t really him, was it?
Donnie tucked the card away somewhere. He didn’t remember where exactly.
He didn’t know how long he would be in this body. He didn’t know what would happen if he accepted and then suddenly one morning he was gone.
It didn’t make him feel good about taking the card.)
The instructor looked at him, beige flannel and all. “If you’d like, I would love to send him your research paper and maybe we could get you an early internship. You’re a sophomore, yes?”
Donnie didn’t know what to do. Somehow his issues became a lot more than just help, I’m not in my body anymore. This was moving too fast. Too quickly. Donnie didn’t know what to do with his hands.
(They ended up in his hoodie’s front pocket. A default of his.)
Donnie didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. He tucked the information away, hoping it was correct. Donatello Splinterson. Highschool Sophmore Mutant Turtle. What a title.
Somehow, they smiled even more. “Great, you’re in the perfect situation for a highschool internship. It’ll probably be a summer one or one for next semester. Do you know what classes you’re going to take?”
Donnie could feel himself slipping.
“I—no? Not..not yet,” Because what else could he say?
The instructor hummed and turned to their computer, typing something in.
“That’s good, that gives us a lot of leeway, do you have any preferences for it? Early morning? Afternoon?”
Donnie felt himself slipping. His thoughts were tunneling, turning away and clouding up the glass with breath and frosty air. Donnie forced himself to blink and violently yanked himself back. His hands were twitching and his breath came in sharp.
“Wait can we—can we slow down?” Donnie felt pathetic saying it, fumbling and childish.
The instructor paused and slowly turned back to him, expression apologetic.
“Oh, yes. Sorry I just got excited there for a moment. Maybe you can talk to your counselor and your family about it?”
Donnie felt himself nodding and he had to adjust the glasses a little because of the sudden force of the nod.
“Great,” They said, talking much slower now. “Sorry for keeping you so long, I’ll send out an email to your dad and include you in on it as well with more information—if you’re interested,”
Donnie nodded, taking a step back.
“You don’t have to say yes,” They said, expression painfully hopeful. “But just…think it over,”
Donnie nodded again.
“Alright, have a nice weekend Donatello,”
Donnie mumbled something in response and stumbled out the door, shoes squeaking and his heart beating in his ears.
—||—
Donnie was just about to password break this Donatello’s phone when someone playfully punched him in the shoulder.
Donnie is ashamed to admit he flailed a little out of surprise.
“Geez, jumpy much?”
Donnie looked and saw…a red overshirt.
“Where were you by the way? We were waiting forever. Nards was looking ready to flip his lid and Mikey had to do the comic book shipping thing with him,”
Donnie had to stare for a moment. His mind collected all of the pieces and took quite a bit of him putting them together.
Red over shirt. Wild, bright eyes. Scars that looked like they came from reckless living. A missing tooth. A gym bag slung over one shoulder.
A nasty smell.
Donnie took too long to figure out that Nards might’ve been this world’s Leonardo. And if Mikey was the very same Michelangelo and Donnie was currently in this world’s Donatello’s body, then that left…
“Raphael?”
The other mutant, Raphael, raised an unimpressed but slightly surprised eye ridge. (His face was painfully naked without a mask. Donnie was lacking one as well and he was Not Pleased.)
“Um—yes? Donatello???” He scoffed.
Ah…right. He was probably being…weird. And not… his Donatello. (How was he supposed to act in this situation? He had virtually no reference point and he’d already messed up twice.)
Donnie didn’t know what to do with his hands. So back in the front hoodie pocket they went.
Say something, say something, say something damnit—
“Sorry…I was…talking to an instructor,” Donnie said stiltedly, trying to find the most neutral terms he could use to not rouse suspicion. “They wanted to talk to me about my research paper,” The words tasted like ash and Donnie spat them out like used gum.
Raphael stared at him, eyes squinted.
A second passed. The two, then three.
Only at the fourth second did Raphael blink.
“ Instructor?” He said in lue of asking. “Since when did you become a 50 year old man ?”
“Uh..” Donnie replied intelligently. “..I’m..not?” He knew it was a joke but the blunt words clawed themselves out of Donnie’s throat before he could stop them.
Donnie doesn’t know what it was or what he did, but something caused Raphael to pause. Whether it was his tone of voice, delivery or even just the words he said. Raphael paused and looked at him again. Really looked at him.
Donnie resisted the urge to squirm.
“...uh..okay dude, whatever you say,” He said, like he didn’t believe it. He was still looking at him and Donnie desperately tried to stand in a way that wouldn’t get him immediately prescribed as other.
Raphael looked at him for two seconds longer before he looked away, his expression odd. He pulled out a phone, the case red and bulky and the screen cracked beyond repair. He turned it on and put in a quick digit code (Donnie memorized the numbers) and opened a contact.
Raphael made quick work of texting whoever it was and pocketed his phone once more.
“Come on, Mikey can’t keep up the shipping fuel for much longer,” Raphael glanced back at him once before walking off in a westward direction.
Donnie followed, because what else could he do?
What else was he supposed to do?
How could he fix this?
And…
And what if he couldn’t?