Soap doesn't clue into it at first. In the beginning, it was just an extra chair stuck in the corner of his office. It was old and worn, and he had a newer one in the other corner, but it was only for him to use when he needed a break while working, or for company, so he didn't care to replace it. Then Ghost started hanging around after hours, or even just during the workday, tending to his own responsibilities while Soap worked, but every time he'd sit in that exact chair. It confused Soap for a minute, and at first he'd try to make small talk, not wanting Ghost to feel uncomfortable or unwelcome, but eventually he catches on that Ghost isn't interested in conversation, or any interaction. He just doesn't want to be alone. Just wants to have a little company without the pressure of actually having to engage in social activities.
So Soap doesn't say anything when some of Ghost's belongings, officeware and paperwork start accumulating in a small bin under the chair overtime.
He doesn't say anything when he walks up to his office one afternoon to do some paperwork, only to find it unlocked and a bell set on top to alert anyone inside, and merely sits down at his desk to work on his reports when he sees Ghost curled up and out cold in the chair.
He doesn't bring it up when he continues to find Ghost curled up in his chair, sleeping or otherwise, even when Soap isn't in his office. Eventually he gets used to Ghost just being an accessory to his office, like a picture frame or a little basket of pens, always there, even when he wasn't.
He does say something when another recruit is in his office and they go to sit in that chair and he's struck with this overwhelming feeling of just... wrong and politely but firmly directs them to the other chair because 'that's not their chair'.
The first time Soap walked into his office after Shepperd's betrayal, and he sets eyes on that empty chair, he feels like a cold bucket of water was dumped over him, because seeing that chair empty has a whole different meaning now. It didn't mean Ghost was just off training or busy with other things. It didn't mean Ghost was just tied up somewhere else busy working. No, now that empty chair was a sign of pain. A symbol, of how Soap had been betrayed, a constant reminder of how the person that chair belonged to was no longer around to use it.
It takes a solid three weeks of Soap gathering his things and working somewhere else on base before he can finally stand the thought of sitting in his otherwise empty office to do his paperwork. The first time he does, he has to take multiple breaks to sob and pull at his hair and curse the world, and curse himself because damn it he should've known better than to get used to something that could get taken away from him so easily.
A few months later, Soaps snaps at an ignorant rookie who sees the old worn out chair and suggests getting rid of it, replacing it with something in better shape, and he only has half a heart to feel bad after the fact.
That chair never leaves Soap's office, even after he dies, because Price knew. He knew and he doesn't have the heart to clear out Soap's office. Not yet. Not for a long time. It isn't until Price leaves active duty and someone else takes over that that office gets cleared out, and even then, that chair and most of the belongings in that office leave with Price, set up and stored safely in a room in his house, because he'll be damned if he lets the only things left of his teammates just get thrown away, like they never mattered. Because they mattered to each other, more than anything or anyone else.
Soap doesn't clue into it at first. In the beginning, it was just an extra chair stuck in the corner of his office. It was old and worn, and he had a newer one in the other corner, but it was only for him to use when he needed a break while working, or for company, so he didn't care to replace it. Then Ghost started hanging around after hours, or even just during the workday, tending to his own responsibilities while Soap worked, but every time he'd sit in that exact chair. It confused Soap for a minute, and at first he'd try to make small talk, not wanting Ghost to feel uncomfortable or unwelcome, but eventually he catches on that Ghost isn't interested in conversation, or any interaction. He just doesn't want to be alone. Just wants to have a little company without the pressure of actually having to engage in social activities.
So Soap doesn't say anything when some of Ghost's belongings, officeware and paperwork start accumulating in a small bin under the chair overtime.
He doesn't say anything when he walks up to his office one afternoon to do some paperwork, only to find it unlocked and a bell set on top to alert anyone inside, and merely sits down at his desk to work on his reports when he sees Ghost curled up and out cold in the chair.
He doesn't bring it up when he continues to find Ghost curled up in his chair, sleeping or otherwise, even when Soap isn't in his office. Eventually he gets used to Ghost just being an accessory to his office, like a picture frame or a little basket of pens, always there, even when he wasn't.
He does say something when another recruit is in his office and they go to sit in that chair and he's struck with this overwhelming feeling of just... wrong and politely but firmly directs them to the other chair because 'that's not their chair'.
The first time Soap walked into his office after Shepperd's betrayal, and he sets eyes on that empty chair, he feels like a cold bucket of water was dumped over him, because seeing that chair empty has a whole different meaning now. It didn't mean Ghost was just off training or busy with other things. It didn't mean Ghost was just tied up somewhere else busy working. No, now that empty chair was a sign of pain. A symbol, of how Soap had been betrayed, a constant reminder of how the person that chair belonged to was no longer around to use it.
It takes a solid three weeks of Soap gathering his things and working somewhere else on base before he can finally stand the thought of sitting in his otherwise empty office to do his paperwork. The first time he does, he has to take multiple breaks to sob and pull at his hair and curse the world, and curse himself because damn it he should've known better than to get used to something that could get taken away from him so easily.
A few months later, Soaps snaps at an ignorant rookie who sees the old worn out chair and suggests getting rid of it, replacing it with something in better shape, and he only has half a heart to feel bad after the fact.
That chair never leaves Soap's office, even after he dies, because Price knew. He knew and he doesn't have the heart to clear out Soap's office. Not yet. Not for a long time. It isn't until Price leaves active duty and someone else takes over that that office gets cleared out, and even then, that chair and most of the belongings in that office leave with Price, set up and stored safely in a room in his house, because he'll be damned if he lets the only things left of his teammates just get thrown away, like they never mattered. Because they mattered to each other, more than anything or anyone else.
Two steps forward and one step back, Logan Walker style.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
TW; major descriptions of self harm, if you're sensitive to that kind of stuff or easily triggered please be extremely cautious reading or find another fic because this gets dark and graphic near instantly and doesn't lighten up for a while. please. i urge you to read this with caution.
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Logan had been kidnapped by Rorke, brainwashed and abused. It was a horrible reality, but not one that lasted long, thankfully. The team had been torn apart by Logan’s loss, specifically Hesh and Keegan. Logan had been the only family Hesh had left, And as for Keegan…
That was complicated.
Just a few months ago, the Ghosts had finally managed to rescue Logan. In the months that past,They all, including Logan himself, thought Logan had gotten better, and they were all happy to see that Logan was healing.
Until one morning.
|
in which Logan just wants to be ok and not feel like a complete failure and Keegan just wants to help him feel better. takes place after the campaign.
Prowl let out an agitated huff, narrowing his optics at the datapad in his servo.
“Of all the-... “ he shook his head.
Another report. On the Twins, wreaking havoc as usual, much to everyone else’s inconvenience. If he’d known that 30% of it would be dealing with those two, Prowl wouldn’t have taken to paperwork as a distraction from the Praxus disaster.
“Some job Ratchet's doing, keeping them in check,” Prowl muttered, “he needs to get those two on some sort of leash, or I’m talking to Ironhide.”
Prowl always thought it took at least a few minutes to lose one’s patience.
Then he met Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.
Then they introduced him to how sorely, utterly and indefinitely wrong he was, because Those two figured out how to get on nerves Prowl didn’t even know he had, and turned it into a fine art.
Prowl sighed, in spite of himself, and pinched his nasal ridge. Begrudgingly, he signed off on the report and tossed it aside, into the record bin. Not any vaguely categorised bin, but the bin. The one dedicated to the twins and all their shenanigans. They'd only recently started a third bin, but, as though the two were aware and took it as some sort of game or challenge, it was already half-way full.
Prowl was about to pick up a new file, praying it wasnt another record entailing the Twins’ endeavours, but paused when he heard a knock at his office door.
“Can’t you find someone else to bother?” Prowl muttered, not bothering to look and see who had come heralding his attention as he picked up the file, “im working.”
A soft huff reached Prowl’s audials.
“I’m gonna pretend I ain’t mad about that greetin’, cause I know it'd kill ya to act happy to see me, or anyone for that matter,” a soothingly familiar voice said, mildly agitated. Jazz stepped into the office, folding his arms over his Chassis and leaning against the doorway,
“... but trust me, Prowler, you’ll wanna hear this,” Jazz continued, voice pointed, “Ratchet’s got a new kid in the medbay, and yer gonna wanna see ‘im.”
Prowl paused for a moment, staring at Jazz blankly. Then he let out a heavy ex-vent, leaning back in his chair.
“And why do you believe I’d be interested?” Prowl said flatly, a mostly neutral but mildly disinterested tone to his voice. He could practically feel the Polyhexian narrow his optics behind his visor.
“Cause i know ya, babe,” he said, “and I know better than to bug ya while yer workin’, and i wouldn’t be here if it weren't important.
Prowl frowned and went to speak, but Jazz cut him off with a raised servo.
“The kid’s praxian.”
The datapad in Prowl’s servo hit his desk with a clatter. Prowl remained silent for a long few nanokliks, willing the crackle in his circuits to subside before he cycled a shaky vent.
“... you’re sure…?” He asked quietly.
Jazz sighed, his expression softening. He took a few steps forward and gently took Prowl’s servo in his own.
“Red Alert found him in one of the collapsed buildings in Praxus earlier today,” he said softly, “kid came back online a cycle ago, but he ain’t talkin’.”
Jazz sighed softly, hanging his helm briefly.
“Babe, ya gotta come talk to ‘im. Right now, he probably thinks he’s the only Praxian alive.
Prowl was quiet for a moment, hanging his helm slightly. His optics dimmed in thought as he gently squeezed Jazz’s servo.
“... yeah. I suppose you’re right…” he said quietly.
Prowl paused, a vulnerability to his expression as he lifted his optics to meet Jazz’s. He scanned Jazz’s face for a moment, before speaking quietly.
“.... i don’t..know.. If I can do this alone…”
A soft smile spread across Jazz’s faceplate.
“What do I always tell ya, Prowler?”
Jazz gave Prowl’s servo a gentle squeeze.
“Long as I'm around, ya ain’t ever alone. I promised ya that, and I ain't ever breakin’ it.”
Prowl averted his gaze down to their servos to break eye contact. His thumb ran over Jazz’s knuckles in a soft gesture, his voice becoming a barely audible, slightly staticky whisper.
“I don’t deserve you, you know…”
“Oh disconnect yer vocalizer,” Jazz said, shaking his head before pressing his forehead to Prowl’s, “We ain’t got time, right now, for me to list all the ways that ain’t true.”
Jazz slid around Prowl’s desk, keeping a firm hold on Prowl’s servo, and gently tugged the tactician to his pedes.
“Now C’mon, we got a kid to check on,” Jazz said, offering a reassuring smile.
Prowl just stood in place for a moment, squeezing Jazz’s servo, before he gave a meek nod, and the two shuffled out of the office.
As the two walked, Jazz discreetly linked their pinky digits together, offering what little comfort he could without using complete PDA on Prowl. They headed down the long halls of the base, slowly making their way toward the medical bay.
“Kid’s real skittish..” Jazz spoke up after a moment of silence.
“He hasn’t said a single thing since he woke up. Ironhide had to practically pry the twins off ‘im when Sides wouldn’t stop talkin’. Kid wouldn’t talk to Ratch’, or even Prime.”
The corners of Prowl’s mouth tugged down into a frown. He wasn’t surprised both Ratchet and Optimus had made attempts to talk to the kid. It made sense, if Ratchet was the one looking after the kid, and Optimus had a soft spot for newbies and younglings.
“Any idea how old he is?”
Jazz huffed, briefly scratching his nasal ridge.
“.. not very…” Jazz said, “Ratch guessed he’s probably around his late teens– ah, in earth terms. He seems to be around the twins’ age anyway.”
Prowl frowned, nodding meekly.
“What’s his designation?”
At that, Jazz turned slightly sheepish, giving a small shrug.
“Ah, dunno,” he said awkwardly, “like I said, kid ain’t talkin’. Ratchet’s gettin’ fed up with all the unanswered questions, though. He's about one more pouty frown for an answer from overridin’ the kid’s circuitry so he can actually start a record on him.”
Prowl's hand tensed, and he bristled visibly.
"What. He can’t," He said harshly, glaring at Jazz, "... He... can't *do* that. The kid is frightened. He just needs some time-"
The words sounded hollow even as he said them. He knew the medical staff didn't have that kind of time to play the kid's waiting game. But he couldn't help a spark of sympathy for the kid. He knew first hand how fun it was, having your circuits scrambled.
He let out a sharp ex-vent and forced himself to calm down a little. Jazz didn't say Ratchet was actually considering it. It was a harmless comment. A tease.
Jazz let out a soft huff.
"... yeah... Ratch ain't known for his patience, but any other medics skilled enough to patch him up, the kid wouldn't sit still for. He'd only stay put for Ratch and Red Alert, and Red had to bounce about thirty kliks ago."
They continued to walk and rounded a corner. The med bay was just down the hall now. Prowl vented slowly in an attempt to ease the gentle thrumming in his spark.
Prowl’s gaze flickered around the room, his attention split between the situation they were walking into and the feeling of Jazz's pinky still intertwined with his own. He found himself squeezing the servo discreetly in an attempt to ground himself.
They reached the door to the medbay, and Prowl felt a spark of anxiety race through his lines. A hundred different scenarios ran through his processor, none of them good. He squeezed his optics shut for a moment, praying for that unpleasant crackle to leave his circuitry. Primus, how he hated that crackle.
Jazz gave Prowl's pinky a reassuring squeeze, and the two stepped inside.
There were a bunch of injured autobots that medics were skittering around and tending to, and the two gave a few here and there a brief nod as they passed by.
Jazz led prowl over to a corner of the room, where Ratchet was hunched over, working on a young bot's ankle. the framing and circuitry had been crushed, and the plating split open. Upon a closer glance, Ratchet had needed to cut off The circulation in order to stop the energon leaking.
The kid was small, sensor wings drooping low on his back. one leg was stretched out for Ratchet to mend, while the other pulled up to his chassis, chin resting on his knee. He was a dark charcoal grey with black accents, with a red torso and thigh plating. He had a red chevron on his forehead, a third of which was broken off on the one side, and His paint was chipped and scuffed just about everywhere. His chassis raddled as he let out a wheezy cough.
Needless to say, the kid looked like shit.
But Prowl wouldn't say that, not out loud.
No, Jazz would smack him upside the head for that. Especially if it was the first thing out of his mouth upon seeing the kid.
So instead prowl kept quiet, letting his optics scan the young bot's frame, taking in his injuries and the dull, defeated expression on his features. His spark seemed to clench with some strange, almost *foreign* sensation that Prowl didn't recognize, and it took him a moment to identify that it was grief. There was that incessant crackle in his circuits again, and he squinted his optics momentarily.
Prowl stepped closer, silently watching Ratchet work, and Jazz stood a pace behind him.
Finally, After a few nanokliks, he found his voice, and spoke in a quiet, even tone.
"How is he, Ratchet?"
Ratchet glanced up, arching an optic ridge.
"... stable and conscious, obviously," Ratchet said with a gesture, earning a frown from the kid, "... but he won't talk. To anyone."
Ratchet let out a heavy sigh. the kid hung his head, curling in on himself as much as possible, violet blue optics dimming to a barely noticeable glow. Prowl was barely a metre away from the kid, and he couldn't even sense his energy field.
"... his ankle's about 70 percent of the damage. There's barely enough stable tissue and circuitry for me to reconstruct and repair it. Everything else is just dents and cracks and internal damage that'll have to repair itself in time.”
Prowl's frown deepened slightly as Ratchet's bluntness did nothing to help the kid seem any less miserable. Prowl's sensors were focused on the young bot, noting his small frame and slumped form. He seemed scared and uncomfortable, and it was a wonder he allowed Ratchet near him at all after what Prowl assumed must have been some painful surgery, and how skittish he’d been informed the kid was.
Prowl took a step closer, optic ridges creasing slightly.
The kid's Optics flicked to peer at Prowl out of the corner of his optics, and he discreetly shifted toward the opposite side of the medical berth, letting out another small cough. Ratchet sighed, his servos stilling.
"Kid, ya gotta sit still," he said exasperatedly. Then he tried to continue working, but the kid winced and pulled his foot back slightly.
"I would've put him under for this, I wanted to... but he wouldn't let anyone near him to shut him down..." Ratchet sighed, "... but this leg needed to be fixed, so the best I could do was deactivate some of his pain receptors."
Jazz shot Ratchet a disapproving look, but it was ignored.
Prowl said nothing, but his expression darkened further. It was a miracle the kid had even let Ratchet do even rudimentary repairs, much less more invasive surgery. Then again, he was only a young mech, and he was probably scared out of his processor.
"He's obviously traumatised." Prowl said, just loud enough for Ratchet to hear.
Ratchet sighed somewhat agitatedly.
"... that is... prominently evident," he muttered, "... we're just lucky he was barely conscious when Red Alert found him, or we probably never would've even gotten our hands on the kid.”
Then Ratchet paused for a moment before continuing.
"..I gave him an energon sedative to subdue his anxiety and help keep him calm... but even that can only do so much. I'm surprised it hasn't worn off yet."
so the kid was sedated. That explained why he was acting so lowkey and relaxed.
Prowl’s optic twitched as his optic ridges creased.
“... and hardly anyone has thought to try talking to him?”
“Please, Sideswipe did nothing but talk to him before Sunstreaker and Ironhide dragged him away,” Ratchet scoffed, rolling his optics, “...And Prime.... he's a gentle giant, but still a giant. He was more intimidating than anything, and he couldn't stay long, regardless.”
Prowl frowned slightly.
"...And I suppose you've just been fussing over him in the most clinical manner you're capable of?" He said, unable to quell the slight edge to his tone.
“Oh, like you're the expert on bedside manner,” Ratchet snarked. Then he sighed heavily, hanging his head.
"Look-... you can lead someone to water, but you can't force them to drink it," he said, "... he wouldn't talk to prime, Ironhide or either of the twins, I doubt he'll talk to me. And if the kid doesn't wanna talk, I can't make him."
Prowl narrowed his optics briefly, but ultimately let out a heavy sigh, beside himself. He glanced down at the kid, who was watching Prowl and the conversation between him and Ratchet with weary but calculating optics, gaze flicking back and forth between the two mechs.
Prowl knelt down, so that he was no longer towering over him. He could only hope this would make the kid less intimidated.
"...Are you in much pain?" He asked quietly, slowly, not wanting to scare the kid even further by speaking suddenly.
The kid blinked at Prowl for a moment, scanning him up and down.
Then he bowed his head, optics turning downcast in thought. After a second, he sheepishly raised a servo, tilting it from side to side in a 'so-so' gesture. His movements were slow and quiet, like a side-effect of the sedation, but it was almost like a soldier's practised stealth, as well. someone used to being quiet and hiding, sneaking around.
Prowl noted the kid's quiet movements and expression, and suddenly he thought that he understood what the problem with getting along with the kid might be. This was a *Praxian,* after all, at least in a technical sense. And all Praxians, young and old, had a few things in common.
He was about to try asking again, when he paused. His optics traced over the mech's body, studying him.
"... You're still a bit too drugged, aren't you?" He commented, his voice soft as he could make it.
The kid stared at Prowl for a moment. Then he creased his optic ridge and turned his head away. The kid went to vent in, but he hid his face in the crook of his elbow instead, coughing up dust. After his coughing fit settled down, he hung his head, a pouty, sort of dejected expression on his faceplate as he rubbed his throat. After a second, he wrapped his arms back around his leg, resting his chin on his knee.
Prowl's optics flickered for a moment as he heard the kid's dry cough, noting the amount of dust on his frame. He'd been digging through rubble and dust for days, and probably hadn't had any fresh energon or a wash since then. The thought sent a jolt through Prowl, and a spark of unexpected anger rose in his spark. How could he have been so... ignorant?
"... When was the last time someone fed you anything?" He asked the kid, his voice suddenly sharp.
The kid flinched back at Prowl's tone, staring at him for a moment. There was a long moment of silence before the kid hung his head, optics downcast as he wrapped his arms around his torso. He curled in on himself slightly, another weak, dusty cough wracking his small frame as he shook his head.
Prowl’s circuits sizzled and a harsh glare formed on his faceplate. How long had the kid gone without fuel? Why had nobody thought to give him any?
“Jazz, go get some energon.”
The kid’s head perked up at Prowl’s sharper tone. He frowned softly, tilting his head in a puppy-like manner. His gaze flicked to Jazz, watching intently as the larger black and white Mech shuffled out of the room. Once Jazz was out of sight, his optics flicked back to Prowl, peering up at him.
Prowl sighed.
“I’ll bet you’re starving,” Prowl said, voice now as soft and… kind… as he could make it. He prayed he was hitting the tone right. This felt way out of his league.
The longer he was with this kid, the more Prowl wished he knew how to deal with kids that weren’t red, yellow and trashing everything they touched.
It didn’t help that this kid was one wrong move away from making a run –or, to be entirely honest, a hobble– for it, and if he slipped through their fingers now, they'd never get their hands on him again. Or that this kid was so drastically different from the two punks Prowl did know how to handle.
The kid just blinked at Prowl for a moment after his question, then hung his head, stubbornly silent. He placed a servo over his presumably empty fuel tank for a moment before letting his servos rest limply in his lap, gaze shifting between Prowl and Ratchet.
For the umpteenth time, Prowl sighed. Maybe he should’ve let Jazz handle this. He had a lot more patience for stubborn bots.
The kid went to vent again, but caught another hacking fit. He curled in on himself, burying his faceplate in the crook of his elbow as he coughed up more dust.
That was when Prowl noticed a weld line that went from the middle of his chassis to about halfway down his torso. It looked mildly messy, like it was done in a rush. It also looked fresh, as if it had been done recently.
Prowl bit back a curse, trying to keep the… concern…. Off his faceplate. His optic twitched as that incessant crackling sizzled through his circuits again.
Prowl vented heavily as Jazz shuffled up behind him, a few energon cubes in hand. Prowl gave his version of a smile as he took one of the cubes, slowly holding it out to the kid. An offering. If they fueled the kid, maybe he’d feel more inclined to trust them, and they could finally get some answers out of him.
Or so Prowl thought.
Because the kid just stared up at him with the same pitiful, pouty expression that seemed to be molded into his features. Then he let out a soft whine, pulling his uninjured leg closer as he gave another weak wheeze.
How was this kid even online? It made Prowl’s circuits crackle unpleasantly and he couldn’t stand it.
The kid wrapped his arms around his shin tightly, resting his head on his knee as he shut his optics tight, sensor wings low and limp against his back. Ratchet glanced up, letting out a pitiful sigh as he shook his head.
“... just hang in there, kid…” he mumbled, “...i just need a little more time to stabilise your ankle, then we can give you a proper diagnostic and flush out your systems.”
Prowl frowned at that. The kid had probably been wheezing and coughing since he came back online to earn that reaction from Ratchet. Prowl pursed his lips and, almost a little desperately, offered up the cube of energon to the kid again. All he got was the same pouty stare.
But then the kid’s optics flickered, and he slouched a little more, looking impossibly exhausted and ready to go offline right then and there. His frame shook with another wheeze. Prowl looked the kid over scrutinizingly, taking in all the cracks and dents and the energon stains on the medical berth beneath his foot.
“... how is he still conscious…” Prowl muttered, mostly to himself.
Ratchet had been about to speak, probably some snarky reply on the tip of his metal tongue, but he caught himself when the kid’s optics dimmed completely and flickered shut, his frame slumping against the wall. Jazz went to step forward, but Prowl raised a servo to stop him.
“Shit-” Ratchet sighed, “that answer your question?”
Despite the snark to his tone, Ratchet got up and checked the kids vitals, letting out a relieved vent. He paused, Optics fixing on the weld line Prowl had noticed earlier.
“Red Alert forgot to mention that…” Ratchet mumbled to himself. Then he shook his helm, optic ridges creasing.
“... he’s stable for now, but the internal damage is likely worse than I initially anticipated, and there’s no telling how long he’ll stay stable on an empty tank.”
Ratchet gently laid the kid down, taking the time to briefly examine him as he did so. Then he pulled a small monitor on a pole over with a hook on it. He grabbed a cord hanging from the monitor, clipping it to the inside of the kid’s wrist.
“Any idea how long he’ll be unconscious?” Prowl asked somewhat reluctantly.
“Until we get some energon in him, at least,” Ratchet said, “my guess is this is a low-fuel induced shutdown, and if that’s the case, the kid will stay offline until we get some fuel into his system.”
Prowl frowned.
“And how exactly do you plan on doing that? It’s not like we’re able to just pour it down his intake, if he’s offline.”
Ratchet sighed, scrubbing a servo down his faceplate. Then he noticed a supply cupboard and headed over it. He opened the cupboard and pulled out a large metal funnel with a small fixture at the bottom and a tube attached to it.
Ratchet headed back over to the kid and the monitor and fixed the funnel onto it, then he took the tube and clipped it into the kid’s wrist. Ratchet grabbed the energon cube from Prowl and poured some of the contents into the funnel. Ratchet watched intently as the bluish purple liquid began to filter through the tube and into the kid’s system.
“An energon drip,” Ratchet muttered, “... it’s not the most effective method of refuelling, but it’s the best we’ve got until the kid comes back online.”
Prowl nodded, watching the drip intently for a few minutes as everything fell quiet- mostly. The only noise for a while was the bustle and steady chatter of other medics and patients as Ratchet went back to working on the kid’s ankle. Prowl took the time to think, and hopefully put an end to that irritating crackle in his processor. He watched the kid with a creased optic ridge, once more taking in all the chips, scuffs, dents and cracks.
“... He’s so small…” Prowl commented despite himself. Ratchet sighed, the sound one of pity.
“I know. Especially for his age,” Ratchet murmured, “... my guess is stunted growth from a lack of nutrition and a lack of proper physical care over the years. Either that, or he’s a lot younger than I figure.”
Prowl frowned, falling silent once again, for a moment. He watched the energon drip for a moment before his gaze turned back to the kid.
“... how old do you think he is?” Prowl inquired. Ratchet frowned, scratching his nasal ridge briefly.
“Judging by the developmental stage of his frame, I'd say anywhere from 16-20,000?” Ratchet said uncertainly, “... he’s around the same age as the twins, regardless, but his size makes him seem like he should be a lot younger.”
Prowl nodded with a frown, letting that sink in for a klik.
The two lapsed back into silence for a moment before Ratchet let out a heavy ex-vent.
“... y’know what, I’m gonna take advantage of the kid being unconscious and actually get some work done on that ankle,” he said, shuffling around to take a seat near the kids pedes once more. Prowl nodded, watching the medic as he began to work again.
Everything else slowly faded into the background as the seconds ticked by while Prowl watched Ratchet work, and something warm filled Prowl’s spark at the thought this kid was finally getting the care he needed. But one question still stood, poking incessantly at the back of Prowl’s mind.
Rorke shot Elias through the hands of his youngest son. He did that for revenge against the man who left him behind. Then Rorke grabbed Logan by the ankle and dragged him off the beach, older brother screaming his name in fruitless desperation. He did that for revenge against the team who’d left him behind. After that, he tossed Logan in the pit. He did that as part of a plan, fueled by vengeance. When he pulled Logan out of the pit, he tortured him and erased his memories. He did that to break him, as part of that plan. After Logan was broken, Rorke started to put him back together with pieces that weren't his own. He did that to turn him into a weapon to use against the ghosts, also part of his plan.
Then he turned Logan into his personal little pet. An errand boy, doing what he was told when he was told, taking a permanent knee to Rorke.
He did that for fun. He did that just because he could.
And the results put a twisted sort of pleasure on his face. A twisted sense of accomplishment buried deep in his blackened, stone encased heart.
Logan… before he was quiet, but he was feisty. Wouldn’t do anything without a fight. He was stubborn, and determined. Until Rorke broke him. Now, Logan was reserved and even more quiet. He was stuck in his own head a lot, just thinking. Hardly said a word. Until he got his hands on a journal, Then he started to write his thoughts in it. Rorke tried to peek in it one day, see if he could use it to his advantage, but Logan did all his writing in some type of encryption that only Logan knew how to crack. Not that it really mattered. Logan was broken enough, anyway. Broken, and absolutely perfect, in Rorke’s cruel opinion.
Rorke had sent Logan out on a mission earlier this evening. Rorke couldn’t give an exact estimate on how long the mission would take, but he knew Logan should be back any time within the next hour or so. Rorke had some paperwork to deal with in the meantime, so he went into his office.
He was only half surprised when he caught Logan out of the corner of his eye, standing by the door. He was leaned against the wall, head down and arms crossed, curly blonde bangs hanging in front of his eyes. He was standing on the hinged side of the door so that when it opened he was hidden behind it and not immediately seen. Clever. or maybe habit. Rorke couldn’t decide.
Logan also had a nasty bruise across his nose, and split bottom lip that caused a thin trail of blood to trickle down his chin. Rorke arched his brow.
“You’re back early,” he commented. Logan’s gaze flicked up, peering at Rorke with empty brown eyes, a wide, doe-like look to them.
“Didn’t know I was supposed to stay out for a certain amount of time. Mission report’s on the desk…” the blonde mumbled in that meek, blank tone he always spoke in these days. That is, the few times he did speak. Rorke vaguely wondered if Logan talked more often, more lively, before.
“Looks like you had a rough night,” Rorke said, fixing his gaze on Logan’s slightly busted features.
Logan merely stared at Rorke with a blank expression for a few seconds before he shrugged. Then he dropped his gaze back to the floor. Rorke sighed, vaguely irritated at the emotionless silence and leaned against the edge of his desk, folding his arms.
“What happened?”
Logan slowly lifted his gaze back up to Rorke.
“... things went sideways. I adapted,” he said quietly.
“How?” Rorke pressed. Logan creased his brow, blinking owlishly
“Stop looking at me like that,” Rorke huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “how did things go sideways?”
Logan’s brow pinched, eyes flicking up and down Rorke’s form.
“... a squad of American soldiers showed up. They were all wearing masks with skull prints. Except for one- he had face paint.”
Rorke stilled at that, staring at Logan with a frown. Logan took in a shallow breath.
“... the one with the facepaint knew my name…” Logan commented quietly.
“They saw your face,” Rorke said, tone displeased. Logan tilted his head slightly, like a puppy.
“... why is that a problem…?”
Rorke cursed under his breath.
“Rorke, who were they?”
“Go to your room, I’ll deal with you later.”
Logan stayed in place, expression puzzled.
“I said get out,” Rorke snapped. Logan flinched. Reluctantly, Logan bowed his head and slipped out of the office. He’d already taken one beating tonight, and Rorke was apparently in the mood to deal out another. Logan, decidedly, was not in the mood to receive it.
Hesh sat in the medical bay on a cot, head hung low and hands in his lap. Keegan stood next to him, off to the side as a medic stitched up a cut on Hesh’s bicep, giving the younger ghost a pitying look.
Hesh was just trying to wrap his head around what happened tonight.
The blonde hair, the eyes, the face.
It was him. There was no way it couldn’t be.
But that look on his face… that wasn’t Logan. Not the Logan he’d grown up with. Not the Logan he’d joined the Ghosts or fought in the army with, not the Logan that followed behind him and their dad without leaving his own set of footprints on the beach.
That was a Logan that didn’t Recognise him. A Logan who didn’t know who Hesh was, or Keegan or any of the Ghosts. That was a Logan who was no longer the one taken from them. He was a Logan who wasn’t a Ghost.
And that thought gave a headache to Hesh’s heart. Hesh always took tylenol for headaches but this…
Tylenol couldn’t fix this.
Nothing could fix this, and it made Hesh want to scream and cry and rip his hair out and carve open his chest, anything it took to stop this ache. Any other wound would be able to be fixed up with sutures and bandages, or food and rest.
But hesh couldn’t fix this. He couldn't make sense of this.
When hesh got hurt, or sick or didn’t understand something, Elias would take him to the doctor, or patch him up with home remedies. He’d walk Hesh through it until it made sense to him,
But Elias couldn’t do that. He wasn’t here to put a bandage on Hesh’s scuffed knee, or make him a bowl of his mom’s chicken noodle soup, or sit at the kitchen table to help him with his homework.
Elias wasn’t here.
He wasn’t here, and his mom wasn’t here and Logan wasn’t here.
But Hesh was.
Hesh was here and alone and he didn’t understand.
He didn’t understand why he had to lose his mom. Why Rorke had to kill his father, had to take his brother, he didn’t understand-
Hesh had that feeling like he wanted to cry, but he had no tears left. He’d given them all to Logan when he needed them over the years, letting him cry out his grievances in the comfort of his big brother's arms.
He couldn’t cry, even though, for the first time in years, he wanted to. He wanted to be selfish and sob and scream until someone heard him and made everything right. Until someone made it all make sense. But he couldn’t, so Hesh sat in the medical bay on a cot, head hung low and hands in his lap, numb and refusing pain meds.
Because tylenol couldn’t fix this.
Hesh let out a shaky breath, finally looking up as he heard someone walk into the room. Merrick sighed as he caught the kicked puppy look that Hesh couldn’t seem to shake.
“How you holdin’ up, kid?” Merrick asked, dragging over a stool and plopping himself down on it. Hesh merely sighed and hung his head again. Merrick fought the urge to sigh and pinch his nose bridge.
“Hesh-”
“Did you know…?” Hesh asked quietly, cutting Merrick off. Merrick froze, frowning at the younger brunette.
“I-.... what…?” Merrick asked quietly.
Hesh slowly lifted his head to look at Merrick.
“Did you know?” Hesh asked, tone quiet but insistent. Merrick furrowed his brow in confusion.
“...I-.... I don't-”
“Did you know that Logan's alive?” Hesh asked, tone turning a touch harsher, making Merrick flinch a little in surprise.
“I-... no, god, no I didn't know!” Merrick said firmly.
Hesh sighed and buried his face in his hands. Fuck, this was such a mess. Merrick sighed sympathetically.
“David, why-” but Merrick stopped when Hesh recoiled like he'd been poked with a knife. Merrick blinked at the younger Ghost for a moment before furrowing his brow.
“Hesh, why don't you take tomorrow off?” He said, “... get some rest and clear your head.”
Hesh stared at Merrick for a moment, before sighing. What was the point in arguing?
Besides, on one hand, a break did sound nice. On the other hand, that break was because Logan was, evidently, alive. And Hesh couldn’t process that. He’d just started to accept the chances that his baby brother was most likely gone after their increasingly sour luck.
But then he saw his face.
And that look in Logan’s eyes was going to haunt him all night, because Hesh didn’t know how to make it do anything else.
Merrick scrubbed a hand down his face.
“Just… get patched up and go get some sleep, kid,” he said, “you’ll think better when you’re not running on energy drinks and half a bowl of pasta.”
Hesh frowned, peering up at Merrick, but could’t find it in himself to protest. Or say anything, really. And again, a break didn’t sound that bad.
When was the last time he’d taken a day off?
Oh.
Right.
It was the day they’d returned from Vegas. Without their father. Hesh had taken the day off to spend time with Logan and get his mind off things.
Hesh sighed, slipping away into his thoughts. He didn’t watch the clock as the seconds ticked by, and he didn’t listen to Keegan's footsteps as he eventually left.
When the medic finished stitching him up, Hesh sluggishly stood up and headed to his barracks.
Hesh begrudgingly opened the door to his room, stepping inside and locking the door behind him. He let out a heavy sigh and began stripping unceremoniously, tossing his gear and clothes uncaringly around the room as he headed toward the bathroom. He turned on the shower and set a towel on the toilet seat. Once the water had warmed up, hesh stepped inside and began to half-assedly wash himself. He grabbed the three-in-one that Logan always criticised him for using off the little shelf and poured some onto his hand and began to scrub it into his hair. He did have separate bottles of shampoo, conditioner and bodywash, after Logan had bought them for him with a disappointed lecture, but Hesh didn’t have the energy to fumble between three separate bottles. Not tonight.
Hesh washed the suds out of his hair lazily before pouring the three-in-one onto his palm and smearing it over his body. He didn’t feel like having to rinse the excess suds out of his loufa- again, something Logan had bought for him in disappointment toward his brother’s showering habits.
Logan stripped out of his gear, folding it into a pile in the corner of his room. He would’ve taken the time to fold it neatly, but his mind was distracted.
With a huff, Logan changed into an old t-shirt and gym shorts, reluctantly crawling into bed.
Logan tried to sleep, but he tossed and turned, rolling this way and that. Sleep wasn’t a friend. Not tonight, anyhow. But neither was Logan’s mind. Then again, his mind wasn’t his friend most days, regardless.
Logan couldn’t figure it out. Why that face was stuck in his mind. Green eyes and face paint in the vague pattern of a skull, expression shocked, hurt, disbelieving. How did he know his name? Who was he? Who were the ones he was with? Why did they all just… stop, when they saw Logan’s face, as though they… recognized him?
And why the fuck did Logan have this sinking, aching feeling he should know the answers? That he should know who that guy with the facepaint was, that he should know who they all are? That he… was supposed to be with them, rather than standing opposite of them, alienated? That he should remember them?
Logan squeezed his eyes shut, willing that thought away from his mind. God, the things Rorke would do if he could hear that thought.
Rorke.
Why… Why did Rorke flip like that? Why did he look so apprehensive when Logan mentioned them? Why did he get pissed when he found out those soldiers had seen Logan’s face?
What the hell was going on?
Logan sighed agitatedly as he rolled over again, tucking the thin blanket up over his shoulders. There were too many questions without answers. Too many unknown variables. And he hated it.
Memories were a funny thing. Sometimes they weren’t accurate, sometimes they were faded and vague, or vivid and clear. For Logan, they didn’t exist. And Rorke seemed… eerily pleased about it, when Logan actually gave it some thought.
Logan rolled over again, fighting the urge to scream into his pillow.
Hesh stepped out of the shower and half-heartedly grabbed the towel off the toilet seat, towelling off his hair before tying it around his waist. He shuffled back out of the bathroom, scouring through his dresser for a clean pair of underwear and sweatpants. He was starting to run low- he’d need to do the laundry soon. It was funny, how hard it was to think to do all those basic things on his own without Logan to remind him. Not always a direct, verbal reminder, sometimes just as small as seeing Logan do something, or hearing him mention it to someone else and thinking ‘oh yeah, I need to do that’.
But Logan wasn’t here. And Hesh had needed to get used to doing a lot of things on his own. Honestly, looking back, it wasn’t really all that hard to see why they’d often been mistaken as twins, growing up. They might as well have been.
Hesh tugged on the clean items of clothing and, with a rough, tired hand, shut off the lights and climbed into bed.
As hard as he tried, sleep evaded Hesh like water to silicon. It was… agitating. All Hesh wanted was to drift off into sweet, empty, thoughtless, questionless nothingness. But sleep wasn’t a friend, tonight. It wasn’t most nights, these days, and Hesh would curse it if he had the patience to figure out how. Aside from the obvious fact he was alive, there was one question Hesh couldn’t get out of his head.
Why did Logan look like he didn’t recognize him?
Hesh rolled over, adjusting the sheets with a frown.
How could Logan not have recognized him? Was it some kind of sick Joke? Was it someone who just.. Looked like Logan? Was he just being fucked with?
Hesh rolled over again.
Then he screamed into his pillow.
Keegan took a long pull from his bottle of whiskey. This night was a goddamn mess. Hesh was a goddamn mess. Keegan, normally, was good at fixing messes.
But how the hell did he fix this? It was broken, but not like glass or ceramics, where he could just sweep it up and be done with it. This was more like needles he had to pick up with his bare hands. Sure, Keegan’s hands were tough and calloused, but they weren’t that tough. Keegan could try talking to hesh, hell, he wanted to, but his mouth was glued shut by the sharp, poky realization that he didn’t know what to say.
So Keegan tipped the bottle back again. Logan would snort and tease him for sitting on his bed on a friday night and drinking a bottle of whiskey by himself, which, in the past, would’ve been followed up with the two splitting the bottle and Logan sneaking cash into Keegan’s wallet the next morning as thanks, like the older sniper was some sort of bartender requiring payment for his liquor.
Keegan missed those moments. Losing time in the bottle as both their cheeks flushed just a little more with each sip, shaking his head at the inevitable cash he found in his wallet the next morning that wasn’t there before. The comfortable silence as they listened to the radio while servicing their weapons or drank their morning coffee during breakfast.
Keegan sighed, running his free hand through his messy dark hair as he let the other rest in his lap.
How had it all gone to such shit?
Keegan frowned as he peered down at the bottle, grimacing as it clicked, just how much he’d drunk to soothe his guilt. He was gonna have a rough hangover in the morning. He always did, back when Logan would join him, but… Logan wasn’t joining him. And he wouldn’t wake up to a random ten dollar bill in his wallet. He wouldn’t walk into the mess hall and sit with Logan as they soothed their headaches together with instant coffee, and suddenly digging out that bottle all felt so much less worth it.
“Fuckin’ hell…” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face.
Hiding his struggles in the bottom of a bottle felt pointless. Invalid. Because there wasn’t another bony, pale hand for that bottle to be passed between.
Keegan hated these moments. The moments that reminded him just how different everything was without Logan. It was always the small things. There were things that you got used to with time, where you adjusted to that new normal. But then that single small moment comes along, and everything’s jarred back into place, like somebody blowing the dust off an old box, or a cut splitting back open when it had finally started to scab over. Keegan hated those moments because it always seemed to be the smallest things that cut the deepest. Like that one small piece of glass that gets stuck in your palm.
Keegan let out a heavy sigh and stood up, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and returning it to the freezer. Then he grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge and headed back over to his bed.
Keegan flopped down onto his bed, stretching out and leaning against the headboard. He grabbed a remote and turned on the TV, putting on an old movie. He needed to sober up at least a little before he fell asleep. So, Keegan dutifully drank his water as he got lost in the familiarity of ‘Transformers; the movie (1986).’ a childhood favourite that had comforted him through anything and everything growing up, and often served as a pleasant background noise while working as he got older. He allowed himself to get lost in the lines and animation despite having seen it too many times to count, actually immersing himself in the film for the first time in years. When he finished the water bottle, he took a bathroom break and grabbed another before finishing the movie.
After the movie ended and the credits rolled, Keegan sighed, shutting off the TV. he took the last few sips of his water bottle before setting the empty bottle on his nightstand. He fished a pair of sweatpants out of his nightstand and shucked off his tactical pants. He felt a little grimey from the whiskey and being in the field, but it was late, and he wasn’t in the mood to shower and fall asleep with wet hair. With a sigh, Keegan tugged on the clean pair of light grey sweatpants, deciding he would just wake up a little earlier and shower in the morning.
Keegan shuffled back over to his bed and sluggishly pulled the covers back. With his eyes starting to droop a little, Keegan slipped in underneath the blankets, tugging them up over his body and settling in. Keegan lay awake for a little while, but eventually the exhaustion and the alcohol worked their funny tricks on him and he dozed off. Not to say he stayed asleep consistently all night, but he dozed off nonetheless. It wasn’t the best sleep he’d had, but Keegan was certain he’d had worse. The only thing he really cared about was this night coming to an end.
Rorke panted heavily, a sneer on his face as he watched the coffee mug shatter against the wall, ceramic shards falling to the floor in a scatter.
God damnit.
The Ghosts knew Logan was alive, now. And Logan knew about them. That changed… everything.
Now Rorke had to change everything. Had to adapt.
There had to be some way he could use this to his advantage, twist it to his benefit.
Rorke huffed out a growl as he sat down in the chair at his desk.
Maybe he didn’t have Logan on as short a leash as he thought. Or should. Rorke sighed as he peaked at the file on his desk. Logan’s mission report. Rorke frowned as he picked it up, flipping through it.
Then he pulled Logan’s old records out of the false bottom of his desk drawer, glancing over it as well.
Maybe it was time Rorke shortened Logan’s leash.
Rorke grinned as he glanced over the files one more time. Sure, he could reign Logan in a little closer…
Or maybe it was just time to bring out the shock collar.
Rorke let out a low chuckle as he put the records back in the hidden compartment and filed the report away.
Yeah, he could use this to his advantage.
He could definitely twist this to his benefit. And he was going to enjoy every second that followed.
I was shocked when I realized I was still missing some of his Dialoge after the fact smh
Leonardo Desk Top Ghost by @venelona-turtle-den
LFLS by @eternalglitch
I’m a very introverted/shut-in person and having this lil Peepaw on my laptop has made me immeasurably happy and left me feeling slightly less lonely, he’s so much fun to interact with and his dialogue is hilarious (unless it’s the angsty stuff, which is absolutely heart wrenching), and he’s also helped me out with little things like remembering to eat or keep track of the time. I highly recommend downloading him if you have Windows! and LFLS is one of my absolute favourite fics, I highly recommend reading it if you have the time, the story is so well written and leaves my heart in tatters every time.
A little disaster twins doodle that will be part of a bigger project. Sometimes they just sit together in silence, saying nothing, but basking in each others company while they do their own thing.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
what happened in the years of the bad future timeline that we didn't get to see? how did everyone die? what led up to the beginning of the movie.
what was future donnie like? how did Casey Jr get along with his versions of the turtles?
basically an au focusing on Donnie from a year post-krang invasion up until his death in the bad future timeline.
3 chapters of FSoP are up, with the Future Donnie design inspired by @kathaynesart and their beautiful design!! Her art is amazing, so I highly recommend you check her out along with her Replica AU, which somewhat inspired this story!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
”That’s ok. Let yourself fall apart, I’ll help put you back together. But don’t phrase it that way, you don’t need to be fixed, Leo, you just need help. Someone to talk to.”
"what, like Someone Like you…?” Leo scoffed lightly. He paused.
”wait- I'm sorry I…. I didn’t mean that, I don’t know why I-…”
”don’t apologize. I know.” Donnie rubbed his brother’s shell soothingly as they both sank to the ground.
Or
After his brothers rescued him, Leo struggles to deal with the aftermath of being kidnapped by shredder. When Donnie finds Leo alone and upset on a rooftop, he does what he can to help his older brother.
Future Donnie design! I got myself thinking about an AU with future Donnie, so I decided to try my hand at designing him!! I’ll probably make more art of him later, but for now this is him! Also yes I’m aware I put his gloves and wrist on the wrong hands/arms leave me alone
Details and additional sketches under the cut!
His battle shell was destroyed by the Krang in an attack, and he was only able to salvage some of the jet pack, as he only had enough materials to rebuild that. Without a battle shell to store it in, it clips to the little Mini cloak thing. There are drawstrings on the hood of it to make sure it doesn’t get caught in the rotors
Plain black boots (cause he still has style even in the apocalypse), with tactical pants because he needs all the pockets he can get without his battle shell now, which is also why he has the strap pocket on his arm
His mask, the glove on his left hand and his elbow pads are older than the rest of his fabric, so they’re faded, hence why they’re a lighter shade of purple
The black glove on his right hand has magnets and sensory tech in it for an easy recall on his staff, inspired by @kathaynesart because that’s a sick concept
He still has his old goggles and wrist tech, they’ve just been upgraded a little (hence the new lens on the goggles). They do have wear and tear from battles on them though
Here’s the additional sketches!
Yes Casey Jr is wearing Donnie’s old hoodie and socks. He found them when rooting around in Donnie’s old stuff
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
There’s the link for the first chapter of the AU!! It’s gonna be much shorter than my other au, ATTWF, as this is just a small side project i got excited about from a burst of inspiration (thanks @kathaynesart for that btw), but I’m still pouring my heart and sole into it!
Future Donnie design! I got myself thinking about an AU with future Donnie, so I decided to try my hand at designing him!! I’ll probably make more art of him later, but for now this is him! Also yes I’m aware I put his gloves and wrist on the wrong hands/arms leave me alone
Details and additional sketches under the cut!
His battle shell was destroyed by the Krang in an attack, and he was only able to salvage some of the jet pack, as he only had enough materials to rebuild that. Without a battle shell to store it in, it clips to the little Mini cloak thing. There are drawstrings on the hood of it to make sure it doesn’t get caught in the rotors
Plain black boots (cause he still has style even in the apocalypse), with tactical pants because he needs all the pockets he can get without his battle shell now, which is also why he has the strap pocket on his arm
His mask, the glove on his left hand and his elbow pads are older than the rest of his fabric, so they’re faded, hence why they’re a lighter shade of purple
The black glove on his right hand has magnets and sensory tech in it for an easy recall on his staff, inspired by @kathaynesart because that’s a sick concept
He still has his old goggles and wrist tech, they’ve just been upgraded a little (hence the new lens on the goggles). They do have wear and tear from battles on them though
Here’s the additional sketches!
Yes Casey Jr is wearing Donnie’s old hoodie and socks. He found them when rooting around in Donnie’s old stuff
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
First chapter is up, for those who are interested!! Hope you enjoy!
“Someone’s coming!” April whispered urgently.
Draxum's initial exepiriment with Lou Jitsu wasn't a failure. not entirely. his lab was still left in ruins, and Lou Jitsu still got away with four of his turtles, but that was it. just four of them. and Draxum wasn't ready to give up just because some famous action movie star blew up his lab. especially when he finds something tiny and green hidden in the rubble. the rest of the test subjects, and the ooze, were all gone, but at least he still had this, tiny, green thing in the palm of his hands. this wasn't over yet. not by a long shot. or a lucky one by some famous actor.
Or
what if there were five turtles? Who was the fifth? what happened to them? Do the brothers even know they exist? what would happen if they did? Or didn't? and who was this Baron Draxum and the weird living statue at his side? the turtles didn't know, but they were as sure pizza supreme in the sky gonna find out.
