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Run. Don’t stop. Keep breathing. Don’t look back. Focus on what you’re doing. Just keep your legs moving—they were straining, but that’s why they practiced daily. They were powerful, enduring. Duck! Watch the sword. How long could he keep this up before they caught him? Every nick would eventually take its toll.
Thoughts flying, the orange bandana turtle raced across rooftops, searching for openings—anything for an edge. All he could do was keep moving or risk being overwhelmed.
(A few minutes before)
Michelangelo was sitting with his feet dangling over the edge of one of the high risers, taking in the sights and sounds of New York City. The city itself had such a pulse and a beating heart that anytime he was topside, he never wanted to go back down to the lair. He wanted to just take it to the point where it overwhelmed him. His mind was always chaotic, and it always seemed to get worse when he was cooped up for too long down in the lair. When he stepped out and flung himself across a rooftop, he felt like his mind became one track instead of jumping from one thing to the next in a matter of seconds. It could be all the things you had to worry about when you were a one mutant turtle topside. Not being seen. Not being heard. Making sure you cleared the rooftop and didn’t fall to your impending doom. A lot of things went into it, so for Michelangelo, it was a way to relax. Especially when he was sitting by himself. Being the youngest, he got babied, which he didn’t mind, but a lot of the time, because of Leonardo and Raphael’s dynamics, he always felt he needed to shift the energy. Bring the mood back from the intoxicating, almost suffocating anger those two put out into the very environment they breathed.
Lost in thought, he never heard them. If Master Splinter found out, extra dojo practice and months of grounding awaited him. He spun to find himself surrounded by the Foot and jumped down from his perch.
Michelangelo thrust his arm out, carving a desperate pocket of space between himself and the encroaching Foot ninjas. Instinctively, his other hand darted to his side—searching for the familiar grip of his nunchucks. Nothing. Just air. His heart stuttered. No way. Not now. He patted frantically, disbelief crashing over him. How could he forget the one thing Master Splinter drilled into them since day one? Weapons, always. He could already hear Splinter’s voice, see the stern look, and feel the threat of endless backflips and a year’s worth of grounding.
He groaned inwardly. Of all the times to space out, he’d picked the worst. The memory flashed: his brothers, fed up with his antics, practically shoving him out the door, laughter echoing as he bounded away—so caught up in the joke, he’d left his gear behind. Classic Mikey move. Maybe Raphael had done dumber things, but this was top-tier. He was weaponless, surrounded, and about to pay for a moment’s distraction. Still, he couldn’t help but smirk. If he made it out of this, he’d never live it down.
Okay, he was weaponless, but that didn’t mean he was defenseless. They never were. Anything and everything in their surroundings could be used at any given time; he just needed to be on the lookout for it. Stall them, maybe they didn’t want to fight him? Maybe they wanted to send a message, a very strong message, but nothing that included him losing his life over it right……right?
“What brings you out this fine New York night?” He searched for a leader among the Foot. All stood with weapons ready. Finally, one stepped forward.
“You will come with us, turtle. Easy way, or what we prefer, the hard way.” The foot ninjas were inching closer. Making sure Michelangelo had nowhere to go.
“Yeah, see, I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. So I’m disinclined to acquiesce to your request.” The Foot Ninjas turned, looking at one another, confused. Michelangelo grinned. “Gah, have none of you seen Pirates of the Caribbean? Stellar cast. Great writing. Anyway, for you non-cinema folks, it means, no.” Without missing a beat, Michelangelo launched himself backwards over the building’s edge. He dropped to the fire escape below, having already clocked its position while perched earlier.
He moved quickly, jumping as fast as he could. He could hear the sounds of their Foot Clan right behind him, though they were silent, and an average listener may not hear them. To the trained ear, like Michelangelo's, he could distinctly hear their feet touch the metal of the fire escape. He knew he had little time with the surprise move. They probably thought he would stand and fight, not go for the option of fleeing; however, he was vastly outnumbered. He wouldn’t win. He was good, but not that good. He took a breath in, steadying himself as he then threw his body to the other building’s fire escape. He caught it barely, one grasp, fingers almost slipping, which would mean falling to his death. Muscle-straining, he pulled himself to safety. Climbed quickly back towards the roof of the building, and as soon as his feet hit the asphalt, he was running at a dead sprint.
Run. Don’t stop. Michelangelo’s lungs burned as he tore across the rooftop, every muscle screaming for relief. The city lights blurred past, but the only thing that mattered was survival. A chair flashed in his peripheral vision—he snatched it up mid-stride and hurled it with brutal force. “Heads up! Complimentary seating, courtesy of Mikey!” Michelangelo quipped. The impact sent a Foot Clan ninja sprawling, but the split-second pause cost him. Another enemy lunged, hands grasping for him. Michelangelo twisted, barely escaping, but a blade sliced across his arm. Hot pain seared through him; blood splattered onto the asphalt. “Aw, man! That’s gonna leave a mark.”
No time to falter. He ducked under a flurry of fists, feeling the rush of air as a sword missed his head by inches. Didn’t they want him alive?! Maybe they knew he’d duck that. Vaulting over a ledge, he landed in a tangle of tables and chairs. Another sword arced toward his chest—he grabbed a flimsy chair, using it as a shield. The blade ripped through the wood, but Michelangelo twisted, wrenching the weapon from the ninja’s grip. He drove a kick into the attacker’s chest, sending them crashing into a pile of debris. Another Foot Clan member closed in—Michelangelo spun, delivering a side kick that snapped the ninja’s head back.
A blade flashed toward his shoulder. He blocked with the chair, splinters flying, but another sword slashed deep into his leg. He gritted his teeth, adrenaline overriding the pain. Time to move. He leapt, legs splitting in midair, knocking two ninjas aside before landing in a blur of backflips. Rolling out of the flips, he launched into another sprint, heart pounding, blood trailing behind him.
The rooftop vanished beneath Michelangelo’s feet, forcing him to react in a split second. His eyes darted—there, a fire escape. Without hesitation, he hurled himself over the edge, muscles coiling as he dropped. He crashed through a window, arms raised to shield his face, but shards of glass still sliced into his skin. He hit the ground hard, adrenaline surging, pain flaring where the glass had found him—but he was already scrambling to his feet, desperate to put distance between himself and the relentless Foot Clan.
The hallway was dimly lit. He sprinted, doubling back the way he came, desperate to lose his pursuers, but two Foot Clan ninjas appeared ahead, weapons drawn. No escape—close combat. Channeling Raphael’s ferocity, Michelangelo charged. He caught one ninja off guard, slamming them into the wall, then spun and delivered a savage right hook to the other’s gut. The first attacker staggered to their feet, charging—Michelangelo grabbed, flipped them over his shell, sending them crashing behind him. As he stood up to continue his path, he found the hallway erupted into chaos as even more Foot ninjas surged in, their numbers swelling. Michelangelo barely had time to react before the mob, and he crashed through a flimsy door, tumbling into a cluttered common area. Suddenly, he was buried beneath a mountain of bodies—dozens of masked attackers piling on, each one determined to pin him down with brute force.
For a moment, the world narrowed to darkness and suffocating weight. But Michelangelo refused to be crushed. Twisting and wriggling, Michelangelo used every ounce of agility and shell-strength to slip through gaps, elbows and knees driving, shell scraping against the floor. With a burst of energy, Michelangelo rolled free from the pile, flipping onto his feet in a blur. The ninjas scrambled after Michelangelo, but he was already moving—dodging, weaving, and turning the crowded room into his own chaotic playground. Anything in the room became a weapon, and it was like an MMA fight, only there were coaches and tables in the way. Michelangelo used a lamp to throw it hard against someone’s head. A side table was thrown, and at one point, Michelangelo took one of the Foot Clan members and body launched this enemy over the couch and into the coffee table, shattering the furniture into a thousand different pieces from their combined weight. It was a straight free-for-all. But Michelangelo knew the advantage would slowly disappear, and he would need to find a way out. Once again, Michelangelo found himself dodging, weaving and maneuvering till he threw a few out the window, creating his exit strategy. Climbing back up the fire escape, Michelangelo was back up on the roof and running again.
Every breath was agony, every movement a gamble. But Michelangelo refused to yield. Surrounded, wounded, and outnumbered, he fought with everything he had, turning the rooftop and hallway into a battleground, determined to survive.
Another building cleared. What was he going to do? How was he going to get them off his tail? He needed to do something fast. He was running out of buildings, and then what? Make a final stand? He yelled in pain when he felt a ninja star hit the back of his calf. In a swift motion, he grabbed it and used it to embed it into someone’s chest and continued his pace. But again, it cost him to slow down. Another sword caught him on the side. More of his blood spattered across the rooftop. “Seriously, guys, I’m running out of limbs here!” he shouted, forcing a grin through the agony.
A throwing star whistled past, grazing his cheek. The sting snapped his focus—he ducked, rolled, and grabbed a trash can lid that had been discarded on the ground. Sparks flew as he deflected a barrage of ninja stars, the clang echoing his racing heartbeat.
Suddenly, a ninja tackled him from behind, driving him to the ground. Michelangelo’s shell slammed into the concrete, pain exploding in his back. He kicked out, catching the attacker in the chest, then spun to his feet, only to be met by another blade. He blocked with the trash can lid, but the force knocked him sideways, straight into the building’s side wall. As he went to launch himself for the hundredth time over another building, a Foot Clan member following came at him, swinging a chain. It wrapped around his feet, and suddenly, he felt air, and then Michelangelo hit the ground beneath him, all the air knocked out of his lungs.
Gritting his teeth, Michelangelo twisted, freeing his legs rather quickly and launching a desperate kick that sent the ninja tumbling. He used the rooftop wall for footing and a discarded piece that looked like a mop handle. Using it that would make Donatello proud, he wielded it like a bo staff, parrying and scoring points himself on his would-be attacker. He jabbed, swept, and parried, knocking weapons aside and sending Foot Clan members tumbling. But the numbers kept growing—ninjas pouring in from every direction. Michelangelo’s breath came in ragged bursts, his wounds burning, his muscles screaming.
Cornered at the edge of the rooftop, he glanced at the dizzying drop below. The Foot Clan fanned out, blocking every escape. This was it. He was truly surrounded with nowhere to go. His last energy was spent from all the running. The constant hits that he took from trying to escape had finally caught up with him. It was meant to slow him down, for him to slowly lose blood and possibly lose the energy to continue fighting.
Hot blood trickled from Michelangelo’s shoulder, weaving down his arm and mingling with sweat as it pooled in his palm. Every fresh cut added to the slickness, turning his grip on the bo staff treacherous. He tightened his hold, feeling the weapon threaten to slip, each drop a reminder of how close he was to losing his edge.
The Foot Clan leader’s voice sliced through the night, cold and commanding: “Do you yield, turtle?” The words yanked Michelangelo out of the haze of pain and adrenaline, forcing him to focus.
Michelangelo’s body screamed in protest—every cut, every bruise, every aching muscle begged him to give in. But surrender? Not a chance. He wiped the blood from his brow, forcing himself to stand tall. You can’t let them see you’re hurting. Not now. Not ever. If you give up, you’re not just letting yourself down—you’re letting your brothers down and Master Splinter and everything that they stood for. It wasn’t in him to stand down and just give up.
He met the leader’s gaze, defiance burning in his eyes. “Yield? Sorry, that’s not in my vocabulary. Honestly, I’d rather call this a draw and go home. But if you’re smart, you’ll let me walk. My brothers… they’re not exactly gentle when someone messes with me. Especially Raphael. He’s like a wrecking ball with a bad attitude. You really don’t want to see him angry.”
The leader’s patience snapped. “ENOUGH! Stop stalling! Do you yield?” The demand thundered across the rooftop, tension crackling in the air.
Michelangelo felt a wild grin stretch across his face, adrenaline surging. This is it. No more running. No more jokes. If I go down, I go down swinging. I’m not just fighting for myself—I’m fighting for all of us. For every time I was the punchline, for every time I was underestimated. Tonight, they’ll remember the name Michelangelo.
“Surrender?” he laughed, voice echoing with reckless courage. “Not a chance, you dumb turd blossom. If anything, we’re just getting started. Let’s dance!”
With a primal roar that seemed to shake the city itself, Michelangelo hurled himself into the heart of the Foot Clan, every ounce of pain fueling his final stand. The world narrowed to the clash of steel, the blur of motion, and the unbreakable will of a turtle who refused to yield.
(Lair)
“Shouldn’t chucklehead be back by now?” Raphael was the first to sense that something was off. Their youngest brother, usually a whirlwind of noise and energy, had been unusually quiet. When Raphael stepped out to check on the orange bandana turtle, he realized it had been far too many hours for a simple pizza run.
Donatello, absorbed in the guts of his latest machine, barely registered the passage of time. He only looked up when Raphael’s question broke his concentration. For Donatello, time always slipped away when he was tinkering—disassembling, reassembling, and inevitably ending up with an extra screw or two. He liked to joke that he just put things back together better than the original engineers.
“When did Mikey leave again?” Donatello asked, rubbing his eyes.
“He left hours ago,” Raphael replied, concern creeping into his voice.
Donatello shrugged. “Come on, he probably just got distracted. You know how Mikey is.” He turned back to his work, but paused when he noticed Raphael standing unusually close, tension radiating from him.
“Yeah, I know Mikey. So do you. But I’m telling you—something’s not right.” The unease had been gnawing at Raphael for a while, even before he left his room. He’d tried to ignore it, but it clung to him like an annoying gnat. The silence in the lair was almost deafening, and as he passed Mikey’s room, the feeling only intensified. Something was definitely wrong.
Just then, Leonardo emerged from the dojo, a grim look on his face. He didn’t need to ask what was going on—he felt it too, perhaps even more strongly after meditating. The tension was thick in the air. Donatello glanced at his brothers; even if he couldn’t sense what they did, he trusted them completely.
“Get your weapons,” Raphael said, determination hardening his voice. “Let’s go find our brother.”