Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Had someone asked Baron Draxum six months ago if he was happy, he would have said yes. All the sections for the Dark Armor were within his grasp. He had cultivated a partnership with the Foot Clan. The rat was finally separated from his experiments, and he was closer than ever to eradicating the plague calling itself Humankind. His near two decades of work were almost over. Granted, it wasn't quite how he expected it to come about, but that didn't matter. The Great Baron Draxum was going to fulfill his destiny and save the Yokai race.

What he hadn't accounted for, however, was the reason the Foot Clan were insistent that he was the one who needed to wield the Dark Armor.

Draxum had never felt stronger. All of that power, his for the taking, and not even those turtles stood a chance of stopping him. Everything he had ever wanted was within his grasp and then, as usual, the human had to ruin everything. In the following moments, as the armor attached to his mystics and biology, his power's viciously ripped away. Baron Draxum, Warring Warrior Yokai Scientist, was blindsided. Chewed up and spit out like a wad of stale bubblegum. The only time he had felt anything close was his laboratory's destruction those long thirteen years ago.

There he lay, abandoned on the field as his experiments faced the mess the Foot Clan had wrought upon the world. Draxum barely had enough energy to crawl away from the monster, let alone drag himself, defenseless, across the Hidden City. If anyone would even welcome a disgrace like him. It was a miracle he could pull himself into the portal the Foot Recruit recklessly left unattended.

Evidently, he need not worry about such things. Between one blink and the next, hard turf turned into free falling space. With the armor's apparent ability to rip open dimensional portals, it was just Draxum's luck that an already devastating day took an even worse turn. He did not understand exactly how unlucky he was about to be when he landed face-first on coarse sand. Draxum took the small blessing of a soft touchdown and levered himself up on shaking elbows. Still on Earth's surface, unfortunately, but nowhere close to where he had been. No sign of the armor or the turtle boys. He doubted the city would look so serene in the following days, however. Not with the Shredder now on the loose.

Draxum crawled away from the water lapping at his heels towards the large grate installed into the stone wall. He barely managed to squeeze his scrawny, feeble body through one of the bended bars and into relative safety. Draxum prayed that no one was around to witness the failure he'd become.

==========

It took embarrassingly long for Draxum to understand why his senses couldn't relax. As he scavenged for food scraps to survive, brought lower than he had ever been in his life, his energy slowly returned to him. Each day became easier until he finally tried to return to the Hidden City.

Draxum found it odd that there were no signs of gateways in his travels of the sewer system. But, as he attempted to open his own doorway, there was no mysticism to draw from. What followed was a pitiful display of desperation as he tried every trick he knew to find a disguised portal, only to come up empty. Eventually collapsing in resigned exhaustion in a desolate alley, he'd forced himself to face the full truth of the situation.

His own hubris had cast the Disgraced Baron Draxum from his own dimension. Now, he had to (somehow) find the will to survive in a mystic-free world. That rat should have finished the job thirteen years ago. It would have been the kinder fate.

==========

He learned quickly to conserve his mysticism unless extremely dire. The first month, Draxum allowed himself to wallow in his misery, only eating enough to keep himself alive, and letting his ingrained magic sustain him as far as it would go. The second month was the most treacherous. He almost found himself at the mercy of this worlds equivalent to the Foot Clan once again. Had it not been for a quickly inscribed cloaking rune in a spilled puddle of mustard, the passing mutants would have easily spotted Draxum.

By month three and four, Draxum knew something needed to change. He's disgraced, weak, and mystically drained, with no purpose in this blasted dimension, but never let it be said that he gives up. No matter how enticing that sounds. On a particularly rough day, where he'd scrapped his leg on a protruding wire and ruined his trousers, Draxum had stumbled into some kind of maintenance room. It had obviously gone unused for quite some time.

He despised the idea of settling down. It would mean letting go of the hope of getting back to his rightful place within his own universe. But, until Draxum had experienced it, trans-dimensional travel had merely been a theory to ponder in the late hours of the night. With none of his familiar tests and mystics, his chances of recreating the event that brought Draxum here are near zero.

So the maintenance room it was. He gathered all manner of soft things for a bed and restored the bare minimum of electricity to be comfortable. One corner gets dedicated to tinkering and various other supplies, another for rest, and one more for the meager storage Draxum can manage. He keeps up on the general goings on of the city with the newspaper, noting every instance that pointed to mutant activity. Not that he was interested in meeting any of them. His existence has always been a lonely one, even before being cast into this depressive universe. That could have changed, if only Lou had seen his side—

Now and then, along with the needed food, equipment, and medical supplies, Draxum scavenges the books wasteful humans toss out. By month five, he has to construct a ramshackle bookcase to keep them all organized. Despite his best efforts, he admits that there were a few human authors who were passable. Homer has a knack for storytelling, and Jane Austen has such a way with words Draxum can almost forget she had been part of humanity. Charles Dickens, however, justifies his utter disdain for the humans a hundred times over. Certainly, if dimension travel is possible, so is time travel, and he would take delight in going back to strangle the man to death with his own two hands. 

Month six is when he finally retires his armor. It's simply too damaged to continue wearing daily. What he couldn't find himself to part with, however, was his helm. Draxum's last piece of pride he could hold on to. A patchwork mess of a gray and black tunic and the largest pair of (somewhat) clean sweatpants he could find replaces everything else with little fanfare. The helmet he had inherited from his Mother and had proudly shown his station within the Hidden City was something he couldn't bear to part from.

The first time he thought of his derelict dwelling as 'home', Draxum knew there was no turning back. He was adapting to this sad excuse of a life. That night, he fell into a fitful sleep, resigning himself to the existence those idiotic Foot Clan generals had cursed him with.

==========

Draxum was not familiar with the beings that called themselves Kraang. They weren't mutants, but they weren't any species of Yokai he had ever seen, either. Dissecting the cast aside bodies he had found yesterday did not shed light onto it. He knew, however, that they were the ones responsible for the unwavering noise above and around him. Likely an invasion of some kind, if he had to guess. If they eradicated the humans, then Draxum would cease his complaining and let them continue their mission.

It would be better if the Kraang were quieter about it, however. There had been unending explosions and rumbling throughout the night, and his sleep was suffering. It makes scavenging a much more annoying affair than usual. If Draxum were lucky, then perhaps he'd be able to find the book 'Frankenstein' in his searching. That would restore the faith he used to have that today would be a positive one.

Slinging his pack over his shoulder, Draxum steps out of the door and quickly turns to activate the cloaking runes. Thankfully, though there were no outside sources to siphon from, his own mystic power was substantial enough for most of the common spells. No one could find his home unless he, himself, uncovered it again. It was likely only that fact that allowed him to live as peacefully as he had been. Draxum was no fool, and he knew there had to be alternate versions of his experiments running around these sewers. If he never saw a turtle again, it would be too soon.

The surface was near devoid of the incessant human traffic he had become acclimated to. All that flowed through the tunnels were orders from the Kraang and the movements of troops. To Draxum, it appeared the Kraang were making good progress in eliminating the humans. He shoved down the pang of jealousy.

An hour into his search, he found enough scraps to fill his tiny cupboard for another week, but no new instruments, toys, or books to occupy himself. Thankfully, he had also not run into any of the Kraang. Draxum knows he'd be able to fend them off if they picked a fight, but he doesn't have any interest in letting them know he was living under their feet. They could level the city if they wanted—as long as Draxum was left out of it.

His ears flick in annoyance at a particularly loud explosion above. If they truly intended to decimate the city, the least the Kraang could do is do it quietly. After another such boom, Draxum resigns himself to what he had gathered. It was a perfectly acceptable day overall. All he had to do was return to his home, and he could sequester himself safely for another week. By then, those blasted Kraang should have calmed themselves with the apparent rampant destruction. With a gusty sigh, Draxum turns on his heel, ready to head back, when a soft, pained groan floats out of a connecting tunnel.

Draxum clenches his jaw and attempts to move on. More than likely, it was simply a human that had escaped the Kraang's wrath. He has no ambition to help a human when the promise of his safe, warm home lay ahead. And yet, his ethics make him pause and refuse his wants to ignore it.

He hates humans with his entire being. Gladly uses them for his experiments with little thought. What he does not do, however, is needlessly cause pain or torture. Everything he does is for a purpose, no matter how cruel his methods may seem to those that his experiments affect. Draxum would be remiss if he let the human die a painful, slow death when he could end their suffering quickly.

Cursing himself, Draxum trudges towards the noise. Even with his own dignity stripped from him, he can hold himself accountable and give what mercy he can. When he does carefully step into the adjacent tunnel, it's not a weak and bloody human that greets him. Instead, it's a weak and bloody rat.

Unconsciously, Draxum's lips curl into a snarl. Just the sight of the mutant, slumped on the floor and side sluggishly oozing blood, is enough to bring back the memories of the other rat that ruined his life. Any inclination to help or being merciful slowly drains from his being. Draxum does not know this mutant, but if he's anything similar to Lou, then the world may be better off if they stew in whatever pain and mistakes that have led them to this position. And yet, his ethics war against his selfishness until they finally break through his disdain.

He approaches with a barely repressed sigh and kneels next to them, scanning for any sign of consciousness. The pulse Draxum takes is slow, but fairly strong. Based on the large, bloody gash across their side not showing any sign of stopping its leaking, that assessment won't hold for longer than a day without intervention. He has plenty of medications and relevant supplies back at his home. It would be no problem to fix the issue.

Draxum blinks and furrows his brow, staring down at the pinched, painful expression on the rat's face. When did his resolve to put them out of their misery turn into thoughts about helping? He barely has enough motivation to keep himself alive, let alone an injured stranger. Is it truly only the fact that they're not a human that switched his mind so fast?

Knowing himself, it likely is.

"This is a terrible idea," Draxum murmurs. His voice cracks from disuse, not having had much reason to talk while in his self imposed isolation. At the noise, the rat twitches, one eye peeking open a sliver. What pupil he sees is nothing more than a pinprick, frantically darting around until hazily landing on Draxum. Their entire body tenses, an aggressive hiss coming from their throat, before they slip fitfully back into unconsciousness.

Draxum rubs his chin in thought. Could they have mutated recently? It was not uncommon within his own experiments for the freshly changed to retain abnormal amounts of their animal instincts. If so, then the likelihood of them surviving on their own was slim to none. In that case, it was practically Draxum's responsibility to ensure their well-being, as he was the expert in these types of problems. They may not have mutated with Draxum's strain of mutation, but he will always feel a sense of responsibility towards mutant lives, no matter that he's in a different dimension.

It seems his decision is made for him. Draxum only wishes that he had run into any other manner of mutant. The only thing worse would be a turtle, and that's not saying much at all.

He makes sure the mutant is thoroughly asleep with a quick spell, and then shifts his bag of supplies to heft them into his arms. When he returns to his home, it's a slight challenge to undo the enchantments with only one hand, but he manages well enough. If the rat's head accidentally knocks into the doorframe, then it's a good thing they're not awake to notice. Draxum places them on his makeshift bed, already mourning however long he'll have to sleep in his hobby corner, and reinstates the concealment charm over the door.

Cleaning and bandaging their wound is a simple process. Afterwards, he discreetly places another rune into the paste he rubs into the bump on their head, ensuring that if (when) they wake next, they'll be of sound mind. He only waits long enough to ensure the spell took hold before wrapping that wound away, too.

Finally done, Draxum groans and places his riches from the day in their proper places. He avoids looking at the mutant in his space for as long as he can, but soon enough, they're the only thing his eyes gravitate towards. It's been too long since another living thing has inhabited his space, and the nervousness twisting in his gut tries to insist that he's made a mistake. That as soon as they wake up, they'll know exactly how much of a failure and disgrace Draxum is to his race. It's foolish, of course. No one in this dimension had any idea who he is, not mentioning the face that he's from a different world.

Regardless, it takes a long time before he's able to relax in the opposite corner of the rat. Draxum does his best to be diligent and keep his eyes open for any symptoms of serious head trauma. The rat simply sleeps on, twitching as if to change positions, only to fall still again after a pained wince.

He's going to really miss his bed. As much as he refuses to admit it, Draxum is not as young as he used to be. Hopefully, this little stint of generosity won't last long, and he'll be back to his solitude in no time. 

==========

Surprisingly, one of his restored blades brandished at his throat is not the worst thing Draxum remembers happening after waking. He makes no sudden movements and gazes passively into the stone cold gaze of the rat standing above his slumped form.

"Typically, people only try to kill me after I've attempted to dispose of them first," Draxum can't help but quip. "Having my life threatened for saving someone from doom is new."

"Where am I," the rat demands, his accent thick and words dragging. Draxum's surprised he's on his feet. He makes no mistake that it's a weakness to exploit, as the blade is the only things about the rat that isn't shaky. "Where are my sons."

Draxum raises a brow. That would explain the unexplainable strength, at least. He has firsthand experience with determined rats ensuring their sons' safety. And apparently, even across dimensions, that will always be a fact Draxum will have to keep in mind. "You are in my home, and I have no clue who your sons are, nor where they could be. You were the only one bleeding out into the sewage. A thanks would be nice, actually, unless you would have preferred to die."

For a moment, the blade presses as close as it can without breaking skin. Draxum doesn't flinch, nor does he show any sign that it bothers him. He has no stake in this universe. It would be a disappointing death, and certainly not how he imagined going down, but if this is how he met his end, he won't fight it.

Finally, the steel in the rat's eye wavers and he lowers the blade to his side. He refuses to let go of the handle and he slowly backs away, allowing Draxum to stand to his full height. If he finds his height intimidating, it doesn't show on his wary expression. Draxum feels the analytical weight of his gaze and returns it with one of his own. It's clear based on the rat's stance and their grip on the weapon that they have training of some kind. If he attacked, even in his wounded state, Draxum would have to tread carefully. Whatever the rat takes in about him is enough for him to become even more suspicious, as he refuses to sit down despite the clear dizziness.

"If I wanted you dead, I would have left you where I found you," Draxum sighs, ignoring the way the rat tenses and shuffles to keep him in view as he moves to grab a can of mystery meat. "Either that, or the Kraang would have grabbed you first. I doubt they would be as merciful as I am."

The rats ears perk. "What do you know of the Kraang."

Draxum rolls his eyes. Are all rat mutants this demanding? It's a disturbing trend, if so. "I know that they've invaded the surface and have killed or captured nearly all the city. Their explosions are annoying. Oh, and their biology is alien to anything I've seen before. Any more demands, Oh, Great Injured One?"

He doesn't respond, eyebrows furrowing as Draxum tries his best to shake off their heated gaze. The mystery meat is a flavor he's yet to have, but it's not entirely unpleasant, unlike this conversation. If it were not for the goodness in his heart, it would be tempting to knock the rat out and drag him right back to where he found him. He'd be nice enough to leave the current salve and bandages in place. After that, he'd be on his own and likely kill himself while trying to find his precious sons.

"...who are you?" Draxum raises an eyebrow and finally acknowledges him again. He's not as high-strung as before, but the blade never wavers in his tight grip.

"Graduated to actual questions, I see." Draxum gets a glare in return and relents with a huffed sigh. His mouth opens, ready to begin his title and station, before he clenches his mouth shut and grunts out the new answer. "Draxum. Just Draxum."

It's clear the rat is trying to place his name, but if he does, Draxum would be infinitely surprised. All the names he's discovered in this world so far have been extremely basic. And if there are no Yokai in this world, then there would be no Draxum. There is no way any universe would allow him to be born as any other than what he is, let alone a human, so he must not exist in any capacity.

"Thank you." Looking up at the whispered voice, he critically eyes where the rat is swaying, the weight of the blade slowly dragging him down. When Draxum pointedly doesn't answer, he continues, slightly louder. "Thank you, Draxum. I know with what is happening, kindness is a hard thing to spare. You may call me Splinter."

The can gets crushed in his hand as he suppresses a groan. He really should stop believing in coincidences. How is it that, even across realities and during what can only be an alien invasion, this specific rat mutant keeps shimmying into his life? The only saving grace is it appears this one has more manners. And taller. In fact, this Splinter is what he imagined Lou would have looked like had he ever planned to mutate him. Visibly strong, intimidating when needed, and standing unwavering in the face of danger.

Which also means, more than likely, Splinter's sons are the same turtles he knows and loathes.

Splinter finally uses up all of his strength and collapses back into the makeshift bed. The blade clatters to the floor, but hopefully the only annoyance about the treatment of his property that comes through is a single twitch of his ear. "You've heard my name before. I'm finding it hard to believe you're telling the truth about not knowing my sons."

Smarter than Draxum assumed. But, he supposes, he should try to separate most of what he knows of Lou from the Splinter sitting across the room. There's only so much history that will be the same when there's no existence of himself or Yokai in this universe. Any chance he could have started with a blank slate is out the window now, though. Splinter will continue to be suspicious regardless of what Draxum says to, but he at least has the choice of how much he bends the truth.

"Only in passing," is what Draxum says, throwing the crushed can into his garbage. "And no, I can assure you I haven't met any children."

"They're teenagers. Teenage turtles." Well, any doubt Draxum may have held of Splinter and Lou being the same gets promptly squashed. "If they haven't run into you, then where else have you heard of me?"

Taking a moment to ponder, he goes with what is likely the safest option. "The Foot Clan isn't exactly known for keeping quiet about their enemies."

"That is true. And where do you fall on that spectrum? Is my rescue one of pure intentions, or are you biding your time to me over when it's convenient? There is quite the bounty on my clan."

Draxum is quickly growing tired of these suspicions, no matter how well founded. Let's see him do any good deeds in the future if this is how he gets repaid, especially amid an alien invasion. So far, being a supposed 'villain' has served him much better than extending kindness. Serves him right for saving the alternate version of Lou Jitsu—he's bound to be endlessly annoying, regardless if it's in a quieter, more subdued way.

"Right now, I fall on the side of sticking it to those aliens who are making me lose sleep. Forgive me for assuming you weren't a fan of the Kraang, either."

Splinter merely hums, never taking his eyes off him. The constant vigilance has ants crawling across his skin. It's been months since Draxum's been perceived by anyone, let alone someone who appears so completely different from the rat-man he knew. There's no screaming, insults, or constant glares being thrown at him, as Lou would have done in the same position. It's unsettling.

When that piercing gaze tears away from him, Draxum's forced to stand and block Splinter from getting off the bed, visibly struggling the entire time. The red spotting through the bandage around his waist doesn't escape Draxum's notice, either. "I wouldn't be going back out there if I were you."

"Then it is fortunate that you are not me," Splinter snaps back, trying to stand straighter under the threat Draxum poses but failing miserably. Even through the fur, he can tell Splinter is becoming pale. "I must make sure my children are safe."

Draxum pinches his nose and lets out as much exasperation as he can through a long sigh. "Leaving now, with your wounds, would make it so your children live the rest of their lives without a father." The words came out harsher than he truly intended, but they have the desired effect. Splinter hesitates with a stricken expression. "If that is something you can live with, then by all means—be my guest. I am not your jailer."

He moves to the side, blatantly showing Splinter the door. He shouldn't care what Splinter chooses. Let him go back out into the chaos and see how far that gets him. In the long run, were he ever to make a name for himself here, it'd make his job of securing his place in this world easier. And yet, even through all logic, Draxum has to consciously make his face blank and unassuming. He wants desperately to purse his lips, tap his hoof, or flex his fingers to dispel the sudden anxiety when he thinks about Splinter leaving so hastily.

Which is a foolish thing to deal with, as he's been faring fine on his own. Better than fine, actually. Why on earth would he want his life ruined once again by a mutated rat and the family that's no doubt looking for him? Draxum is destined to be a lonely creature.

That's why, when Splinter ends their stand off and lowers himself down with an agony clear in his eyes, Draxum ignores the pang of relief that slumps his tense shoulders. 

==========

"Your bandages need changing."

"Hand me the supplies. I will do it while you're away."

"No." Splinter furrows his brow at the blunt tone, but this is one thing he won't budge on. There's been...an embarrassing amount of things Draxum's allowed Splinter to do in his state that he definitely shouldn't, but he's come to learn over the past few days that the rat's stubbornness matches his own blow for blow. "I will do it before I leave. Unless you know healing runes and were simply keeping it a secret?"

"Runes?"

Draxum doesn't catch the slight alarm in his tone before the words spill out of his mouth. "Yes, just strong enough to insure infection doesn't set in. You should have been feeling a slight tingling around the wound, meaning it was working, but the effects only last for so long."

Splinter sits up with a wince, arm curled protectively around the bandages. He lightly rubs over them, other hand rising to touch against the one wrapped around his head. Draxum's not sure where this sudden hesitance is coming from. They are by no means friends, but he would have thought that Splinter had enough sense to see he had no intent to harm him. Not on purpose. "I...was not aware that such runes existed."

It takes all of Draxum's willpower to stop himself from facepalming at his own idiocy. He had made a clear line in his mind that he would keep any mention of mystics and magic under wraps. There was no need to alienate himself further than he already was in this dimension. Were a few days of company and lighthearted, empty conversation really enough to lower that barrier? If so, then Draxum's standards have truly taken a nosedive for the worst. This dimension seems intent on killing any sense of pride he clings to with pitiful desperation.

But, even barely knowing the man, Draxum is confident Splinter won't forget about it. "As far as I know, no one else practices them. And I will likely take all of my knowledge to the grave." That, at least, is the most truthful statement Draxum's made yet.

He continues gathering the needed bandages and all the ointment he has left in silence. He'll need to try and find more when he's out, or the ingredients to make his own in the meantime. Splinter's eyes are on his back the entire time, but he refuses to acknowledge it and bites his tongue when he instinctively wants to fill the lull with awkward chatter. It's one of his vices he had hoped to grow out of, to no avail. The habit was only helpful when monologuing.

"I'm sure there are plenty of people who would be more than eager to learn them," Splinter finally says. Huffing a dull laugh, Draxum avoids his gaze and kneels in front of the bed.

"No one wants my guidance. You can trust me on that." If his own creations rejected him, then he doubts anyone else would listen to anything he tries to teach them. Draxum has been told time and time again he's not a 'people person', and time and time again those words have rung true in all facets of his life. Whether he likes it or not.

He unwraps the bandages around Splinter's waist, only to freeze when one of his hands lands gently on one of Draxum's own. His breathing stalls, and he keeps his eyes locked onto the place where they touch. It's the first time they've made contact since Draxum first dragged the rat back to his home, which doesn't count. That was necessary to make sure Splinter survived. He's not sure what to think of the slight tingling warmth that runs over his fur, but it's not strictly unpleasant. Uncomfortable, yes, but not as much as he would expect.

Splinter's voice is warm as he speaks. "Let me rephrase—I would be grateful to learn them, if you are willing."

Draxum's first instinct is to assume he's making a joke, but one quick glance at Splinter's genuine interest has his heart beating faster with the mere possibility. "You're being serious?"

"Yes," Splinter confirms, and Draxum fights to control the pulse that's quickly fluttering out of his control at the real chance he can spread the knowledge this dimension is so dearly missing. "I have my own way of healing grievous wounds, but it takes more out of me than I'd prefer. Perhaps these runes could help with that."

"They would!" Draxum blushes and clears his throat, reining in his visible excitement. Splinter's lips twitch into a tiny, easy to miss grin. "Yeah, yes, runes spend much less energy and are relatively simple to use. There are multiple different kinds, but the most useful ones are the healing and passively acting ones. Runes requiring a key phrase will take more energy. I can expand on that later. For now I will go through the ones more relevant to your situation—"

Draxum loses himself in his speech, lighting up each time Splinter asks a relevant question. It simply shows how much he's been devoid of intelligent conversation. Every encounter with the turtles of his world rotted his brain, and Lou wasn't much better. The Foot Clan Lieutenant wasn't terrible, but all the interactions with him, as well as the Brute, are tainted with their betrayal. Foot Recruit wasn't a terrible conversationalist, if a bit too enthusiastic about...everything, yet the difference in their ages was too much to bridge. Being able to have an open, analytical discussion teaching Splinter what he knew is a welcome breath of fresh air.

Of course, because of Draxum's innate mysticism and Splinter's distinct lack, he isn't quite able to reproduce the full effects of the runes. Not for a lack of trying, and Draxum is suitably impressed the man made any progress at all. That of an infant, but progress is always promising. Perhaps with consistent practice, Splinter could improve.

With his bandages clean and runes set to advance the healing process, Draxum leaves Splinter to rest while he gathers more supplies. If he has an extra pep to his step as he slinks out the door, then that's no one's business but his own. Perhaps his house guest won't be as draining and annoying as he originally thought. Draxum will still appreciate getting his bed back, though. The hard floor is wreaking exactly as much havoc on his joints as he suspected it would. 

==========

Draxum does not know how to deal with the problem in front of him. It's one that he's never had to fix before. Technically, it hasn't even happened yet. But with Splinter's condition improving day by day and the increasing stories of his sons, Draxum knows it's happening soon.

Splinter's going to leave, and Draxum is dreading that day more than he would ever admit out loud.

After the impromptu lesson on runes, the following weeks were the most enjoyable in Draxum's recent memory. Being able to teach what he knows about mysticism and magic has been a treat, and Splinter so obviously soaks up every word he says during their lessons. He provides a steady stream of conversation, all of it pleasant and mentally stimulating. Their verbal spars are some of the best Draxum has experienced in ages. Splinter's a constant, warm presence he's now accustomed to seeing when he returns to his home.

And then the day finally comes that Splinter is quieter than usual. It's obvious that the Kraang have completely settled into the city above, and that they continue to do whatever they wish to it. Knowing that this was inevitable does little to soothe the sting when he finds Splinter stretching with no obvious pain, running through different forms.

He tries not to pay any mind to it. The bits of metal in his hands mold together as he imbues a touch of mysticism, working it as easy as clay. His thoughts refuse to land on a specific design, not for lack of trying. It's still nothing more than a ball when he senses Splinter peering over his shoulder. Draxum pauses his fiddling, chancing a glance back and grinding his jaw at the rat's pursed lips and furrowed brows. There's little relief to be found in the evidence that Splinter, too, seems to have issues voicing what he really wants. He only agreed to stay for as long as it took him to heal, and that time has come.

When one of his hands lands heavily on his shoulder, Draxum shrugs it off. Is it petulant? Sure. Not becoming of someone of his previous session? Absolutely. But he's never been one to accept what he doesn't want to hear.

"Draxum," Splinter says on a sigh, taking a step back. "I would like to thank you again for your kindness. If not for you, I do not know where I would have ended up."

"Dead, most likely. You've said this already."

"You've earned my respect and trust." Draxum pushes down the warmth that blooms throughout his body at those words, staring blankly into the distance as Splinter continues. He's once again grateful he hung on to his damaged helmet to hide the effect. "But my family is still out there, and I need to make sure they're not in danger."

The ball twists between his fingers, and Draxum swears a heart appears within the bubbles, just for a moment, before breaking under the pad of his thumb. "Your wounds are healed, and you're not a prisoner here. If you truly wish to leave, you're free to go. And to take what supplies you need."

"No, I don't want to inconvenience you. I'm sure it's difficult to find what you need, considering..."

"I've managed through worse."

Splinter falls silent, and Draxum festers in it. His mysticism roils through his body, imbuing heat into the metal and threatening to burn his fingers. It still doesn't faze him, and he's surprised his teeth don't crack under the strain of how hard he's clenching his jaw. The last thing he needs to do to is say something stupid. Draxum wants to fight against Splinter's decision, but it would be hopeless. He can say with certainty that the man he's been living with is not Lou, yet the one major constant is how determined they are to keep their families close.

Quiet footsteps draw away, forcing Draxum to choke down the lump in his throat. He blinks hot eyes down at the metal trying to form into a shape and takes purposefully deep breaths. When the door creaks open, Draxum flinches, and even though he can't see him, Splinter pauses at the threshold.

"After the Kraang are gone, I hope we will see each other again. I have enjoyed your company, despite the circumstances."

Draxum grunts, clearing his throat of the thickness that lingers there. "Perhaps we will. But...probably not."

He's already messed with this dimension too much. Who knows what fractures Draxum's made simply with his presence, let alone intervening in what could have very well been the time and place Splinter was supposed to die. He doesn't regret his actions, yet he knows the smart and responsible move is to remove himself from any more interference with this world's affairs. No matter how much his better emotions rebel against it.

"It has been an honor, Draxum."

"...indeed."

The door closes, and Draxum spends the better part of the night in silence, staring listlessly at the small, metal rat curled in the center of his palm.

==========

He has his bed back, but it's colder than ever before, no matter how many blankets and sheets Draxum piles onto himself. Every task he completes is in silence. No witty quips or back-and-forth banter. Only a hollow sense of accomplishment for surviving another month.

The metal rat is a constant companion, no matter where he goes. It comes with when he salvages metal scraps, when he scouts for an ever decreasing amount of food, and rests on the ledge closest to his mattress when he resolves to stay in his home. If Draxum is destined to be alone, then at least he can have solstice in his tiny creation. That's what he has done in the past with his creations, and it reigns true now. Especially as things become harder to overcome.

While he had known it was likely to happen, Draxum had expected more time to prepare. Alas, his houseguest had taken up most of his attention for nearly an entire month. Which left him in his new predicament (other than his loneliness). Food is running frighteningly low, and there is no sign that the Kraang is slowing their destruction. Ordinarily, Draxum wouldn't care what they did to the surface. The fewer humans around, the better. In the recent days, however, the explosions had been coming close enough to rattle the ceiling and rain concrete dust into his home.

It's concerning. Draxum doesn't need to go through the hassle of finding another place to live again, especially during an invasion. Another explosion and more dust settles onto himself and his bed, which he promptly sits up and brushes away. Scowling at the ceiling, Draxum runs a tired hand over his face.

He's been losing weight once again. With each passing day, Draxum toys with the idea of venturing to the surface to find food, but talks himself out of it every time. Who knows what it looks like up there? Based on everything he's been hearing, it's very possible the surface has turned into scorched earth. And if that's true, then there won't be anything left for him to scavenge. That's not even considering the possibility of facing the very real consequence of letting Splinter go through it all on his own—

Fortunately, he doesn't have to dwell on those thoughts for long. Unfortunately, it's because the wall of his home explodes.

Ears ringing, Draxum leverages himself off the ground, coughing out the debris lodged in his throat. Through the cloud of dust are clear silhouettes of the Kraang robots he's been avoiding, steadily marching towards him. There's no hesitation as he grapples for the metal rat on the ledge, latching on and shoving it deep into one of his hastily sewn together pockets. He rises to his feet right as the robots clear the dust, all six of them brandishing shining, glowing guns towards him. Draxum snarls as the weapons power up, drawing on his own mystics in return.

These Kraang have destroyed his home. Draxum's willful ignorance can only stretch so far and definitely doesn't apply when his possessions get destroyed.

"The one known as the Hermit will surrender to Kraang for experimentation—" the one at the front says, aiming his weapon higher. "—or submit to execution at the hands of Kraang." As a unit, the others ready themselves, guns glowing to prepare to fire.

Blood rushes through Draxum's veins, faster than it has since he first ended up in this cursed dimension. Unwittingly, a near gleeful smile pulls at his lips, stretching further as the Kraang shift uneasily. Hands flexing, Draxum takes a moment to straighten his helmet and give a reassuring pat to his pocket, ensuring the metal rat won't be going anywhere. Then, he allows the mystics to flow right to the edge of a cliff. There's a reason his title used to include 'warrior', and it's been too long since he's been able to flex those muscles.

"Baron Draxum submits to no one."

Vines erupt from the concrete wall as his hand lashes out, spearing all six of the Kraang at once. He aims for their fleshy bits, and the bodies fall lifelessly out of their robotic husks. Draxum allows himself a flicker of satisfaction at the sight before darting over their corpses and out of the hole of his now destroyed home, snagging a mostly intact blade along the way.

He's immediately met with gunfire that slices a line down his calf. Draxum barely feels it through the adrenaline roaring through his mind, summoning two more vines to thrash whatever enemies lie beyond. Over the sound of crushing metal and the Kraang's frantic screeching, he scales the fallen concrete towards the light of the surface. As soon as he's free and squinting in the muggy light of day, Draxum ducks behind the cover of an overturned moving truck, temporarily avoiding the blaster fire heading his way.

After so long of being sedentary, only venturing out for necessary supplies, Draxum revels in the thrill of battle. It came at the consequence of his home, but he will have time to mourn and recoup later. Right now, his only priority is losing the Kraang that will no doubt continue hounding him, and destroying the ones that try to get in his way. If he finds enjoyment in rendering those aliens into nothing more than wads of discarded bubblegum along the way, then that's merely an unintended perk. A perk that, since his house guest left, is very much welcome.

With a jovial laugh, Draxum takes the moment of pause from the Kraang and gleefully takes advantage. His blade swings out as he ducks away from his cover, slicing through the body of the closest robot like butter. Never let it be said that Draxum doesn't take care of his weapons. He gets no time to soak in the satisfaction as he deflects another blast, making a run for an alley before any more back-up arrives. He has all the faith in his abilities against the run-of-the-mill Kraang, even the ones in the hairier suits, but there's no need to stick around until one of those walkers or airships arrive. While they'd likely be no issue to take down, it'd be tedious and attract even more attention. Besides, the more he can conserve his mystic energy, the better.

It doesn't take much effort to lose his attack squadron. What's harder is staying away from the dozens of zombies and other mutts wandering the streets doing the Kraang's will. Draxum holds little sympathy for the humans being reduced to such things, but he always preferred quick deaths for them.

The wound on his thigh stings by the time he ducks into a secluded, half-demolished building and barricades himself in what used to be a supply closet. Whispering a quick spell to delay the full feeling, Draxum slides to the floor and rubs a harsh hand over his face. With his adrenaline dropping, the effects of his day crash down. It's a sensation he's used to and knows how to handle, but that was also when there was a place to retreat after battle. Now, with his home destroyed and being in a completely different New York, there isn't much Draxum can do to ensure he can be well and truly safe.

No matter. He's a warrior, and he won't be taken down by the lowlife Kraang. The metal rat in his pocket is warm against his palm as he grips it, pushing back the foolish thoughts of how Splinter fared in this war zone. He's just as much of a fighter as Draxum. He won't acknowledge the niggling worries of Splinter being overwhelmed, outnumbered, with no mysticism on his side to turn the tide, having to rely on his wit and strength alone—

Digging a nail into the wound on his thigh cuts those thoughts short. Taking a steadying breath, Draxum stands and twists the closet door open a sliver. There's still plenty of Kraang crawling around the streets, but it seems they're avoiding walking into any buildings. It's a bit of luck Draxum isn't about to take for granted. As long as he can dart between alleys and buildings, staying out of sight, he should be able to move throughout the city undetected. Where he will go, he doesn't know, but staying in one place will only make him an easier target.

He stays in the shadows of the buildings as he moves vaguely north. Perhaps, if he can get to the edges of the city, he'll be able to escape its borders. Draxum isn't sure how far the Kraang's reach extends, but surely life would be easier away from the epicenter. After a day of travel, however, it's clear getting over the wall and out of the city isn't a viable option.

After that depressing realization, Draxum resigns to becoming a wandering specter. It's not so different to how he was living before—find food, keep to himself, and conserve energy in case of emergencies. Of course, now he has no home to return to, and has to make do with the tiny hobbles he plasters with as many cloaking runes as he can afford. It's a harder life, but one that Draxum can manage. Things could always be worse, and the Kraang will deplete the city's resources sooner rather than later. For him, it's merely a waiting game to see what crumbles first; the Kraang or Humanity.

==========

A week after the Kraang forces him into a nomadic lifestyle, Draxum runs into a particularly interesting group. He was merely trying to find enough food to last him the day, perhaps even a sweet treat for dessert later. What he was not expecting to see as he slinks around the alley corner is a medley of ragtag mutants glaring at the skyscraper in the distance.

Draxum blinks away his moment of shock and quickly turns on his heel, not wanting to be involved in whatever their 'deal' is. From all of his experience, when mutants group together, it means nothing but trouble. Ordinarily, Draxum would be all for it. Mutants are unpredictable in the best of ways. One of his proudest creations to date, and in his eyes, a humane way to deal with the plague of humanity without killing every single one. But, occasionally, that unpredictability can come back and slap Draxum directly across the face, despite him being the one to give them life, those stupid, harebrained turtles—

An invisible force drags Draxum back by the collar of his shirt, slamming him into the brick wall. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, but when he does, he's met with the glares of a crocodile, ape, pigeon (?), and, of course, a turtle. Even across universes, he can never escape. At least this one appears to have a threatening bite as he raises his mace to pin Draxum further to the wall.

"And who the heck do you think you are?" the turtle snaps, voice grating Draxum's ears.

"Someone who was trying to leave, until you dragged me back," Draxum bites back, snarling as the mace presses harder against his chest. The crocodile looms over them, and despite his life being pathetically threatened, he's impressed by their mutation. Other than Splinter, it's the cleanest transition he's seen in this dimension. Regardless, he twists his wrist in slow circles, ready to summon his vines at the first downward turn of what might be a mildly intriguing conversation.

The ape draws closer, and it's only now that he realizes they're floating. Fascinating. It likely has something to do with the metal helmet and accessories. "Hm, your mental defenses are quite impressive. Although, I wonder if it is skill or that helm you feel so protective about. Perhaps it's the little knickknack in your pocket—"

He makes a move to reach for his pocket, and Draxum jerks away from the attempt, aiming a ferocious glare their way as the ape surprisingly backs off. "Touch me, and I will spear you where you stand."

"I have little doubt about that." A tiny, sharp smirk cracks the ape's face as the helmet briefly glows. "I'm surprised a specimen such as yourself has avoided the Kraang for this long. I bet they're jumping at the chance to get you into a laboratory for all manner of experiments."

"Yeah! This guy's breath smells all fruity!" Everyone squints at the pigeon perched on the crocodile's back, leaning forward into Draxum's space. "Not even alien stuff smells as weird as that! You must eat a lot of sweets."

Draxum stares at the pigeon's blank, unknowing gaze as he jerks and pecks at something under his wing. If the crocodile has a smooth mutation, this pigeon has one of the worst he's ever seen. A million different theories bounce around in his head as to why that is, but all of Draxum's questions will have to wait. They are threatening him, after all, and while not particularly well, getting into a fight would be inconvenient.

"We are wasting time," the crocodile growls, placing a heavy hand on the turtle's shoulder. "Our friends will strike soon. This is our best chance of stopping the Kraang for good."

Draxum's ears unconsciously perk, immediately more invested in this group. He has his doubts, but the idea of getting rid of those annoyances so he can find a new underground home is mighty tempting. And, with them gone, there's a chance he'd be able to study the pigeon closer to figure out exactly what went wrong with their mutation to get the end product in front of him.

"Stopping the Kraang?" Draxum allows a slow smile to come across his face, gaining the suspicious attention of his captors. "Well, that's something I can get behind."

"What, not fond of your masters?" the turtles hisses, but eases the tension held on his mace.

His smile turns to a snarl and Draxum pushes the weapon away, brushing off the invisible dust it left on his shirt. "I am my own master. The Kraang are extremely annoying, and if you have some hare-brained sceme to get rid of them, then I'm interested in seeing you succeed."

The turtle opens his mouth to reject him (like all mutant turtles) when the crocodile steps forward, narrowing his gaze. Draxum meets it head on even as a low growl rumbles through his chest. "Why would you help us? And why should we trust anything you say?"

"You shouldn't trust me," Draxum answers shortly, making them all tense. It takes all of his effort not to roll his eyes. "What you should trust is that my anger towards the Kraang far outweighs any intentions I may have for your little crew. I will gladly destroy as many of those walking abominations as I can, and if that building is their base?" He points to the skyscraper they had been staring at when he stumbled onto them. "Then it will be crawling with Kraang waiting to meet their ends."

"...and stopping this invasion will save humanity," the ape adds on. It's not quite a question, but they are all staring at him as though it is. Sighing, Draxum grimaces and tightly crosses his arms.

"Yes, I guess it would do that, too."

There's a beat of silence before the turtle grunts, sheathing his mace and sparing Draxum one more suspicious glance. "You're lucky we need all the help we can get. But if I catch you trying to hurt one of my team, you'll be answering to me. Keep up and don't get in our way, or I'll gladly leave you behind as bait."

"It sounds like we've come to an agreement," Draxum tacks on, casually following behind the turtle as though it doesn't grate on his nerves to be following orders.

His nerves spring to life at the prospect of the imminent battle ahead. Running around and surviving is dreadfully boring, and with his home gone, so are his trinkets, books, and all the experiments that could have kept his hands busy. Destroying the Kraang robots he's come across is all fine and good, but his hands and his mystics long for more blood. Those aliens have taken away all the things he's squeezed even the slightest bit of joy from while trapped in this dimension. It's only fair he takes it back in whatever way he deems fit.

And if he goes down in a blaze of glory? Draxum will have fulfilled his duties, and be able to go out as he always knew he would. 

==========

His feet automatically follow the group as they trudge away from the ransacked tower. Draxum was never fully let in on the plan (other than destroying as many robots as possible), but whatever the Mutanimals' other team did spelled an end to the Kraang's presence in the city. Exhausted and mystically drained, he stares at the pigeon, apparently named Pete, fluttering around him with endless astonishment. That this mutant is alive, let alone somewhat sentient, is a miracle in his eyes.

"And what exactly do you feel when a feather gets ripped out?" he asks, yanking out a feather to get a fresh sample as he makes another pass around Draxum's head.

Pete gives a crackling giggle. "It tastes like sandpaper! Or maybe just sand. It's been a while since I've had sandpaper, but I ate sand two days ago. And then my head gets all tingly, like a lot of needles all at once."

Draxum desperately wishes he had paper to write these things down. He's now learned that it was the Kraang who created the mutagen in this dimension, but it's much more unstable than his own. How could the same mixture that created the ferocious Leatherhead and sturdy Slash also create Pete? It's simply bad science, is what it is. Were there any trials to ensure consistent results? Just how frivolous were the Kraang when making the mutagen? Did they release it into this world with no plan? It's absurd.

At least they had some successes. Leatherhead was a force to be reckoned with in battle, taking out nearly as many Kraang as Draxum and his vines combined. While brutal, Slash held his own remarkably well with only his mace. Pete acted as a delightful distraction and cannon fodder when necessary, and Rockwell's intelligence nearly matches his own. Being a part of their battle roster was easier than Draxum expected. When they claimed victory after a long battle with many near captures, he reluctantly had to think back on the League of Mutants he had created once upon a time. Had it lasted more than two days, Draxum imagines the League of Mutants would have continued on to become a team such as this, with himself leading the formation.

"Pete, you're going to be banned from traversing the surface without a buddy if you keep eating sand," Rockwell says, sending a glare over his shoulder to where the bird still wildly circles Draxum. Pete whines but doesn't protest the warning, and quickly goes back to idly trying to peck his helmet horn.

The small distraction doesn't deter Draxum from asking more questions. What he wouldn't do to get Pete on a table to study him from the inside out. Perhaps, once he found somewhere to set up shop again, he'd take all sorts of samples and blood to determine what went wrong in the process of creating him. And, if he's an alchemist worth anything, he can try to cure his ailment. Surely the Mutanimals would appreciate the improvements he could make to Pete.

He's so involved in brainstorming fixes and committing as much of Pete's information to memory that Draxum doesn't realize they've finally stopped until it's too late. The first thing that registers is a new set of voices, and when he turns his head to inspect what must be the Mutanimals' other team, he has to choke back his screams of frustration.

Four color coded turtles stare at him, confusion and suspicion written clearly on their faces. His delight at finding a study subject shrivels. He smacks Pete out of the air, straight into Slash's shell. He can feel the glare Slash gives him on the side of his face, but he doesn't care. They're lucky his mystic energy is nearly gone from the battle, otherwise the Mutanimals would have to hold him back from skewering all four of those tiny turtles where they stand. Seeing those colors standing together once again is enough to have rage pouring out of his ears.

The turtles are the reason Draxum is stuck here. Away from his world and any familiarity he once had. What was once his greatest successes returned to him as the disappointments that rat raised them to be. And here are their counterparts, having no clue how much Draxum wishes they never existed, nor how willing he is to make that happen.

"Um, who's that?" the orange one (Mitchell? No, no, something else more aggravating—) asks, scratching a finger over his forehead. "I thought you guys were a four person thing."

"Yeah, Slash, who is that?" the one in blue (Rio, maybe?) interjects. "Do you even know this guy's name? What if he's working for the enemy?"

Slash growls and meets the blue one head on, stepping into his space. "This was an all hands on deck situation, Leo. Without him, the Kraang would have gotten the jump on us in that lab."

"His name is Draxum, for the record." The colored turtles all blink at him in varying levels of realization. Of what, he's not sure, but he hopes it's the wire they walk between life and death while being in his presence. "The Kraang destroyed my home. I'd obviously want them gone, and a common enemy gives plenty of trust within battle."

"You're Draxum?" They all question, some more incredulous than others. Draxum raises an eyebrow instead of raising his voice at their obvious stupidity. Why must he always be the one to deal with these pests? Eventually, he's going to think fate enjoys playing the same cruel, cruel tricks on him.

"Yes?"

The orange one leaps forward with a wide smile on his face, eyes glittering in excitement. Draxum instinctively leans away, but he doesn't take the obvious hint, regardless of the red one's (Ronald?) hissed warnings. By the time he's done looking him over from top to bottom, Draxum could have easily slit his throat with how far his guard's dropped. He won't, because his intense curiosity about what he's going to say can't tempered, but it's tempting. Very tempting. For supposedly being a ninja, the orange one is much too comfortable getting close to a stranger who's double their size.

"Sensei's talked about you so much!" The orange one says, smile never dimming. "You, like, saved his life!"

Draxum's heart constricts, and his hand unconsciously drifts to the metal rat in his pocket. He has to lick his lips before he responds. The only thing he can mutter is a small, hoarse, "Splinter?"

Nodding enthusiastically, the turtle leans up and down on his toes. "Yeah, dude! That's our Sensei, and...and..."

Draxum's left reeling in the knowledge of Splinter being alive. And, evidently, he's talked about him to his sons. He's too frozen to dodge the sudden embrace launched at him. He immediately goes rigid under the tight grip around his waist, arms raising, awkward and very unsure of what to do. Instinct tells him to wring his hands around the turtle's neck and ask what on Earth he thinks he's doing. The other, slightly louder part of his brain screams that if he hurts one of Splinter's children, he'll never speak to him again. Which leaves him in the strangest limbo of his life. The Mutanimals barely hold in their laughter at his obvious discomfort as the other turtles screech at their brother to let Draxum go.

"Thanks for taking care of our Dad," the turtle whispers into his shirt, just loud enough for Draxum's ears alone to hear.

Swallowing, he slowly lowers his hands, intending to peel the little vermin off, but a skitter of metal and whirring has his head whipping to the side. A lone Kraang robot flicks its charged gun over the lip of the roof. Straight for the head of the turtle attached to him like a leech.

He's not thinking as he grabs the orange turtle and flips their positions. The gun goes off. A burning warmth spreads through Draxum's back and out through his shoulder, knocking his helmet loose in the aftershock. Eyes immediately watering in pain, he pushes the turtle away from him as a copious amount of blood leaks from the wound. Yelling swarms the ringing of his ears as he collapses to his knees and clutches the hole in his chest, right below his left shoulder. A pair of shaky three-fingered hands struggle to keep him upright, even as his body wants to collapse.

Draxum knows it's bad. Even without seeing the extent, the amount of blood he's losing is too much too quickly. It wouldn't be as dire had he not already used his mystics in an extended battle. Now, he has none to spare to stop the bleeding. How could he be so stupid? Had he not just been fantasizing about discarding the turtles himself? Why would he interrupt fate and save one of them from a death that no one would blame him for?

He'll likely never know the answer. Through the ringing, voices shout at him to stay awake. Draxum elects not to listen to them. Fire licks through his chest even as the rest of his body gets unreasonably cold. He barely gets his hand into his pocket, palming the small metal rat into his hand, before he drops his entire weight into the hands holding him up. Something rips the bottom half of his tunic, pressing to the blazing heat from the wound on both his back and front. Whoever it is trying to staunch the blood flow stays hovering over him even as large hands lift him from the gritty ground. Draxum hisses out a breath when he gets jostled in their grip.

As the yelling gets drowned under the ringing static, Draxum blearily thinks that maybe this is for the best. He doesn't belong here. There's nowhere for him to go. The metal rat grows cold under his palm. Perhaps it's better if he doesn't wake up again. At least then, Draxum can rest easy knowing he could do one last favor for Splinter, and someone can remember him in a positive light.