It's such a nothing question in the face of the complete rearrangement her reality has gone through in the last hour. Walk me through it one more time. You're ninjas? The very polite rat is your father? You've been living underneath New York City this entire time and no one ever noticed and now I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life wondering what else might be looking back at me from the other side of my bathroom drain?
Also, not to belabour a point, but - ninjas?
She really is working on not fighting what her eyes and ears are telling her, though, and the dual swords strapped to the back of the large humanoid reptile standing next to her haven't stopped being dual swords the last few times she snuck a glance at them. The empirical evidence is strong, and an April O'Neil who is not half-mad with fear and adrenaline is an April O’Neil who accepts rational conclusions - therefore, ninja mutant turtles it is.
This particular ninja mutant turtle's head turns towards her, and she marvels at how easy it is to read the awkward wariness on features that have so little in common with her own.
“Yes,” he says simply.
“Oh,” April says, and tries a smile, tucking loose hair behind one ear. Perhaps the dog years rule applies. They're much shorter than she'd realised while down on her knees in filthy sewer water, and certainly they're a little rowdy and she could have sworn she heard one of them complain about the threat of being grounded, but it's not as though high school sophomores of any species should be waving around ancient weapons and declaring eager readiness to launch corporate sabotage on megalomaniacal ex-bosses, so…
No. Surely not. Fifteen?
As if he can hear her thoughts, the turtle shoots her another little sideways glance, and shuffles on his feet, tightening the arms crossed over his chest and tilting his chin up.
“We'll be sixteen in four months,” he says, faintly defensive, his voice pitched a semitone lower than it had been before, and in that moment April knows dog years have nothing to do with it - can hear her own little sister like it was yesterday, I'm twelve and three-quarters, April, that means I'm PRACTICALLY thirteen - and with the addition of this one last piece of empirical certainty thinks, Ohhh no.
“I am so sorry about that,” Jecka apologized profusely. “Really, she’s not always like that.”
Okay, back it up. Now Jecka was starting to sound a lot like those battered wives stuck in their hostage marriages. Not that she and Nicole would ever get married. But that’s not important.
“It’s alright,” the girl on the hospital bed reassured.
No, it was not fine. Nicole basically mouthed this kid off into fucking offing themselves a few minutes ago before storming off. Jecka’s face remained unsatisfied and conflicted. What the hell pissed Nicole off so much that they would say that to someone? Let alone possibly give them early onset alcoholism? She could understand hurling her usual catchphrase from high school if it was some sleazy, sweaty dude trying to get into her pants. There were probably a couple Jefferys walking out and about in a place like New York.
But this kid?
Jecka couldn’t really sense anything wrong with them. She seemed completely normal, and definitely carried such a demeanor where she would much rather keep to herself than be associated with too many people, or even any at all.
But then she remembered that fake blonde student that kept coming into her office. All the problems she would talk about mostly encompassed her relationship with her partner. No reliable parental figures, pedophile teacher, emotionally repressed as hell, engaged to a man much older than her.
Then it all clicked into place. This girl wasn’t normal at all. This girl was the “Nicole” to Jecka’s client.
And now that same client of Jecka’s was sitting in the same hospital room only a few feet away from her, holding the other girl’s hand. And she just heard Nicole mouth off that poor girl into potentially offing herself.
What an absolute fucking mess.
“I’m very sorry,” she apologized again before storming out to catch up to Nicole. She didn’t give a chance for her client to say anything back. Not like it mattered.
If she refused to see her again because of Nicole, then okay. That’s fine.
If she reported her and got her fired because of the shit Nicole did. Okay, that’s whatever. There’s other jobs out there.
If Jecka got blacklisted as a therapist because of Nicole’s actions, then maybe this shit isn’t for her!
Where the hell was Nicole? It’s not like she would’ve gotten too far after her outburst.
“Nicole!” Jecka cried out.
No response. She just kept walking.
“Okay, bitch let’s see if you ignore this,” she muttered to herself.
She sped walked right up behind Nicole and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt, yanking her like she was some misbehaving dog.
Nicole choked a bit, but finally stopped in place.
“Dude, what’d you do that for?” she snapped.
“Dude…” Jecka repeated mockingly, “What the hell was that for?”
“What was what?” Nicole replied sarcastically, stopping in her tracks as Jecka pulled her shoulder.
Jecka paused, then inhaled sharply to control her temper. Out of all the clients she’s worked with as a therapist, Nicole was definitely up there. She was the type to send a therapist to the therapist’s office. “Don’t fucking play dumb with me.”
Nicole didn’t respond. She continued to look at her with a deadpan look as she popped a cigarette in her mouth and pulled out her lighter.
“Nicole, you can’t smoke in the hospital,” Jecka reprimanded.
“Okay,” she simply responded. “Then that means we take the bitching outside.”
As soon as they reached the designated smoking area, outside the hospital walls, Jecka repeated herself. “Okay, now that we’re out here where no one else can hear us, can you answer my question now?”
”Hm?” Nicole looked back at Jecka as she lit her cigarette.
Jecka sighed. Almost ten years later, Jecka still didn’t know how she continued to have the patience for this self-proclaimed sociopath.
“Nicole,” she bit the air. “Why the hell did you just tell an alcoholic, possibly depressed college student to go kill themselves??”
“What?” Nicole could only roll her eyes. “She looked too much of a pussy to actually do it. C’mon, you don’t actually think-”
“How about you think for once, asshole!?” Jecka cut in.
Nicole just looked away, inhaling both the nicotine and cool night air into her lungs. She really didn’t want to talk about this. Was it a dick move to fuel some random college kid into pulling the trigger? Yeah. Nicole wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what she was doing. If that kid didn’t end things, then that means whatever Nicole said got through to them, even if it’s a fucked up way of giving someone a wake-up call. But if that kid did do it–if they decided to grab the rope, kick the chair, or maybe even take that one step leaping into the abyss, then she would’ve done herself a favor.
At least the pain would be gone, right?
Jecka already knew what kind of person she was, yet here she was scolding her like she was her mom or something.
“I am thinking-,” Nicole declared flatly before turning to face Jecka.
“About going to jail?” she crossed her arms.
Nicole furrowed her brow in disbelief. “The fuck you mean?”
“The few times you mentioned this kid coming into the cafe you work at, you said they were one,” Jecka put up one finger in front of Nicole, “...an exchange student. Two,” she put up another finger, “...from a pretty rich as hell family. And three,” she put up a third finger, sharply shoving her hand close to Nicole’s face, “...if she actually followed your dumbass advice, you’re forgetting there was a witness, who by the way, could get your ass thrown back in prison for like…I don’t know, emotional damage or something.”
All Nicole could do was stare at Jecka’s hand in her face, cigarette still lit in her mouth.
“Are you saying I should get rid of that fake blonde too?”
“Nicole!” Jecka couldn’t take her bullshit anymore, uncrossed her arms, and ripped out the cigarette from the other woman’s mouth. She didn’t bother to check if it was still lit before throwing it off to the planters. But whatever. “Can you fucking be serious for once!”
Sydney refuses to come down to the sewers, though she's apologetic about the one-sided inconvenience. After the last few weeks, Don's too hungry for a little sunshine himself to mind.
"I keep telling them I don't remember anything," he says. "It's - it's not a lie, really. I'm not sure you could even call them memories in the conventional sense. More like a compressed sensory packet. There's a lot of missing metadata."
It's a clumsy analogy, ill-suited for this audience. April would understand, but he didn't ask April out here, because April is brilliant and wonderful and Don would never, ever want her to understand this. Also, because three weeks ago he tried to slam her into the ground and tear her throat out with his teeth.
Not that he remembers it that way, of course. Just the packet: anger pain impact anger bite bite kill bite KILL-
"It's not medically significant. I'm not showing signs of regression, or continuing memory loss, or anything like that." He draws lines with his finger against the concrete balustrade. The anatomical outline of a brain, labels branching off. "It's just - all still in there. In its own way."
"The feeling," Sydney says, with shades of Quarry's deep-voiced gravitas, "of being a monster."
She looks tired and thin, leaning on the edge of a New York rooftop in the wan autumn light, hair tucked beneath a moth-eaten beanie. The Foot had snatched people less likely to attract media attention, teary relatives, missing posters. It's been a challenging re-integration for many of them. Don feels guilty for not asking first. Is Katia still with the Professor's group? Does Razorfist still insist on that as his truer name? Has Sydney remembered her mother yet? Has she decided if she wants to?
A hand gently covers his fidgeting one. The warm brown tones of a normal human hand, resting on just-once mutated turtle skin. He'd fixed her, exactly how his brothers had fixed him: most of the way.
"Don," she says. The lines around her eyes deepen when she smiles. It's still a little unfamiliar, but he likes that about it; smiling wasn't something Quarry had had the facial configuration to really pull off. "Talk to me."
Lightning cracks across the sky, bathing the distant woods in brilliant white; and Leo flinches, tasting cold and bloody rain in his mouth.
The reality of the farmhouse seeps back in slowly, each piece of it a fresh humiliation in the face of his racing heartbeat: the low whistle of the old kettle, a soft tapping from sensei's walking stick, April's voice lifted in companionable conversation. He stares out the rain-streaked window, wondering with dull resignation how many storms he will have to chase to find again the courage left in pieces on a rooftop; the ability to hear only the thunder, and not the mocking laugh.
“Yo, Case,” Raph shouts distantly through the kitchen window. “What's with the tiny house?”
It's a sign of how desperate they're getting for something to do that isn't stacking enough firewood to see out an ice age, or patching up another hole in the tiling, or watching Leo flinch and sweat through nightmares; they all end up piled around the side of the farmhouse, peering at the rickety stand of timber and mesh and old hay.
“Oh, I know,” Mike says with grandiose confidence, gradually leaning more of his weight on Raph's shell until he draws out a low growl and an elbow thrown back towards him. “This is where they used to put Casey when he was being too, you know, Casey to be with the rest of the normal people.”
“I think they call that a doghouse,” Don murmurs, all mild-mannered innocence that isn't fooling anyone.
“It's a coop, you morons,” Casey says, exasperated. “Y'know, for chickens. Grandma Jones had a bunch of ‘em, used to send us kids out to fetch the eggs every morning.”
“What's a chicken?” Mikey says, then snorts at the look on Casey's face. “Dude! Joking. Come on.”
Raph's still half-crouched, staring inside the dilapidated coop with the sort of look he usually reserves for rusty carburetors. “So... me and Donnie fix this thing up, then you can get more chickens, right?” He looks around. “What? It's free eggs, you heard him.”
Casey shuts that down, and hard. “No way. It's not free eggs, it's a bunch of crazy birds that'll peck your face off as soon as look at you.” He grimaces. “Chased Sid all the way to the road one time like they were tryna run him into traffic. Not saying the squirt didn't have it coming, but...”
If anything this review only seems to deepen Raph's sudden interest in permaculture; but the Jones Word is final, and the bite of frost underfoot puts a hard deadline on how long anyone's willing to stand around arguing about it.
“You know what you should get?” Mikey says as they amble back towards the house. “Cows. And horses so you can lasso the cows. Oh, and sheep because, obviously, then you get to have sheepdogs-”
“Yeah, yeah." Casey makes a lazy shove at the back of the shell in front; thinks maybe, chickens or not, it isn't so different to having the farm full of cousins again. "You just keep walking, Farmer Brown.”
[son-der] The feeling one has on realizing that every other individual one sees has a life as full and real as one’s own.
The old instincts do not go away overnight.
In later years he will gentle this story; place the moment of pity at first sighting, and cast the act of collecting and caching four turtles as a knowing kindness.
But on this morning, the first morning, he lies in his cramped burrow and hungers. Brief scavenging has eased nothing. Roaches and mice no longer satisfy. It seems that he could eat and eat and eat, and never fill the pit at the centre of his new body.
The turtles have swelled as well. They cluster together beneath the burrow, licking at the slimy growths on the damp concrete, chewing at the scraps of his bedding that have fallen. He plucks the smallest from among them, sets it down amidst straw and paper, and runs sharp claws over the length of its body, investigating the puzzle of its shell.
The little creature squirms under his touch. Cries in a plaintive and reedy way. It twists to set its jaws to his flesh - not in defense, but simple animal need, mouthing at the warmth of him with tearful insistence.
It is hungry, he thinks. Just as I am hungry.
The first thought of his new existence has been to look at long grey digits raised before his eyes, tipped with familiar claws, and remember with strange clarity the shape and scent of the fingers that had slipped him slices of taro and shreds of chicken, the amused huskiness of the voice repeating a word and rewarding all obedient response. To understand, with stunning suddenness, what it is to be given a name, and what he has lost in losing the one who gave it.
This thought stuns him no less. It finds unshakeable purchase in the empty space inside him, a hunger of the mind as urgent as that of his body, translating instinct into intention, reactivity into revelation-
It lives, as I do. It wants, as I do. There is something inside of it, the very same as there is something inside of me.
Inside, there is... someone.
The other three look up, uncertain and curious at the sound of their companion’s whimpering. Not yet fearful of descending claws, of musky scents, of being bullied into a coffee can and buried for later.
Splinter removes his hand from the hinges of the shell; adjusts himself into a more accommodating curve, and carefully sweeps his tail around the squirming body, tucking it against his side. It kicks and cries, and he ignores it, lowering his head with a weary sigh and closing his eyes, attempting to grant his aching mind respite, however brief.
"Me first! Me first, me first, me first-" Mike's capering is better suited to a dancing monkey than a ninja turtle, but he ducks Raph's swipe effortlessly and scrambles over the back of the couch, popping up on the other side with a familiar crumpled magazine in one hand. "Okay, okay, so, picture this: Us. Spandex. Rad code-names." He flicks his wrist, snapping the comic against the air. "Super-powers."
"English," Raph insists.
"C’mon, dude, it’s not that hard. Read my beak. We - were - superheroes!" The comic does a little jig along the worn linen, guided by dexterous fingers. "And it was the whole package too. Superhero base, superhero computer, superhero buddies with the mayor, and did I mention the super-powers?"
“Only a hundred times in the last three minutes, ya bonehead.”
Leo can feel a smile spreading despite himself, the wild energy of Mikey’s glee as contagious as ever. There’s no small measure of relief in it too - for all their talk of suffering and retribution, all the Ultimate Drako seems to have managed is to make his brother’s day.
He rescues a teacup from the floor, cradling it gently in his hands long enough to confirm a few extra chips from the rim are the worst of it, before finding it a seat back on the restored coffee table. A tornado of magic appearing in the middle of the Lair means scattered papers, toppled trinkets, furniture shoved rudely out of place. It's so far from the first time that the pattern of clean-up is just another drill. The kata of putting a home back together, every time someone decides to toss their lives about like they're still nothing more than pet turtles in a jar.
Less practised is the need to put themselves back together. Leo doesn't really know what to do with it, this sense of dislocation; of looking at his brothers and knowing there's a week's worth of experiences inside each of them that none of the others share. Doesn't know if there's anything to do but patiently line it all up again, the same as the Lair.
“So when you say ‘us’...”
“I mean there were four of them, they called themselves the ‘Super-Turtles’, and they were trained by a rat. And one of them was definitely as big a nerd as Don.” The turtle in question just blinks at the finger that swings excitedly his way, apparently unsure what to do with this information.
In truth, Leo isn’t too certain himself. Different worlds he understands, at least as a general concept; strange otherworldly copies of their family are something else. “Raph,” he says, “did you-”
“Spend a couple’a days hanging out with a bunch of weirdo clones?” Raph cuts in. He props his hands on his hips, eyeballing Mike up and down like an engine that’s started coughing smoke. “Nope.”
Mike sighs, arms flopping limply over the back of the couch. “Not clones. Alternate dimension versions of us. Seriously, Raph, pick up a comic sometime.” He turns his palms up. "It's a totally legit thing. Like… quantum physics and stuff. Yarn theory."
Helplessly, Leo looks at Don, who's the only one of them with any hope of confirming whether this is a genuine proposition or complete gobbledegook. Donnie's staring down at the dented metal plate he's picked off the floor, though, and all he does is murmur, equally cryptically, "String."
"Yeah, well, my world followed regular physics," Raph says. "Which reminds me." He bends over, lazily telegraphing the movement so that Leo has his hand up well in time to catch the tape as it’s flung at his head. "Thanks for the friggin' heart attack, bro. Nearly cost me the race, jerking me around like that."
"Sorry," Leo says, and means it. The real payback lies less in the flimsy plastic in his hand, and more in the nauseating memory of watching his brother's eyes snap wide as his wheels skidded under him. One more mistake hanging over Leo's head, forming a third of the new heartbeat driving him through every frantic second to follow - please be okay, please be okay, please be okay. "I didn't really have control at that point - you were racing?"
"Planet racing." No excitable jigging for Raph; any pleasure sincere enough for that is sincere enough to be embarrassed by, so it's arms folded across his chest and a disaffected shrug aimed at the room at large. "Figured I was better off getting on board than stayin' stuck being a turtle-shaped speed bump in the middle of the racetrack." He can't quite mask the glint in his eye, though, the satisfaction in his voice.
"That is so cool," Mike says, grinning. "Didja win?"
Raph spreads his arms, answer and deep offence rolled into one expansive gesture. "Bro."
The insult's forgiven in the next second, though, Mike's crow of delight finally drawing out Raph's own grin as their palms slap together.
"Racing," Leo says again, and shakes his head. The surge of relief rises again, and he almost doesn't know what to do with it. Turtle luck, Raph would say; only it's usually reserved for all the ways life doesn't want to work out in their favour. "Okay, well, that's a lot better than any of the ideas I was coming up with."
"Whaddaya mean, ideas," Raph says.
Leo ticks off them off in turn. "Pursuing someone, being pursued, outrunning an avalanche…"
Raph's angling a considering look at the mangled remains of their lawn chair, but that makes him pause, eye ridge raised. "Huh. You sayin’ you saw me out there?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Don look up sharply from the pit. The chair rattles as Raph gets his hands on it, trying to bend it back into a shape that can carry turtle weight again, and Leo moves closer to grab the other end, holding it steady.
"That was the whole point," Leo says, and it twists in his gut like the metal frame. He tries to smile through it, but he's no Michelangelo. “To give me just enough information to know you were in trouble, but not enough that I could do anything useful with it.” To use his family like they were disposable pieces on a game board. Like none of them even mattered, except for the fact that they mattered to him. His grip tightens. “It was all just him trying to get back at me. Over a stupid fight I didn't even choose.”
The chair's a lost cause, he can tell already. At least one permanent casualty from this whole mess. He dumps his half down again too hard, ignores the look Raph shoots him from the other side.
Mikey makes a face from the couch. "Not to kick a guy while he's, you know, five years old, but he kinda sucks at this whole revenge thing. I mean, if he and Drako wanted to punish us so badly, why didn't he just send us to the Triceraton arena? Or April's evil bug world. Or a world without pizza!”
“Easy,” Raph says. He gives the lawn chair a last once over, shaking his head, then tosses it aside, slapping his hands together loudly and dismissively as he saunters over. “Guy's all talk. Always has been. He took his best shot and he came up bust-" and he pins the look on Leo like the point of a shuriken this time, unavoidable, "same as he did the last two times.”
“Steeee-rike three, you're out,” Mike agrees sagely, and steeples his fingers in contemplation. “You kind of think he'd learn after a while, though. Maybe we should write to the Daimyo and suggest some serious homeschooling this time around. Or a Kill Bill marathon.”
“Lord Simul-whatever said the sceptre had a mind of its own, right? Didn’t like what those guys were trying to do." Raph curls a smile that's all teeth. "Sounds to me like the Ultimate Douchebag should'a started with picking a weapon he could actually use.”
The core tenets of weapons mastery they had learned with Splinter's oversight hadn't exactly covered multidimensional time-warping devices with an opinion - but some rules had the sort of weight to them that just might carry across universes.
“Maybe the sceptre even went a step further than that,” Leo says slowly, trying the idea out. It’s marginally more reassuring than the notion of turtle luck, at least. “Tried to - give us a fair chance?"
“It would explain a lot.” Mikey pulls himself higher. “I mean, come on. Superheroes? Racing? It's like those places were made for us!”
Raph looks inordinately pleased with himself to have helped crack the mystery. “And I'm guessin’ you didn't just stumble on Usagi outta nowhere.”
“Uh, no, not exactly.” The smile shapes itself reluctantly, but it fits itself into place all the same. “I ended up in his world, actually.”
Raph smacks the back of his hand against his plastron and, for once, Leo's inclined to let him. “Well, there you have it. It stuck me and wonderboy where we'd do some good, and stuck you on a warrior’s retreat with the one guy who knows anything about this stuff. All part of the plan.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, head turning with it. “Hell, Donnie here probably ended up some place with a whole lot of tech and a problem just waiting for his big brain to come along and solve-”
Raph stops. The knot that had been gradually loosening in Leo’s belly goes suddenly tight again as all humour falls from his brother’s face in an instant, and he turns around to follow Raph’s gaze.
Donatello is a rigid statue in the pit. Unmoving, still staring down at Sewer Sweet Sewer clenched tight in his hands. Not joining the conversation; not chiming in with a dozen thoughtful theories about multiverses and magic tech, curious probing for more details about the other's experiences, dry anecdotes from his own.
The Ultimate Drako had shown Leo a dark lane, his brother running full-pelt down it, following a hazy shape ahead of him. He'd hoped it meant Donnie had found an ally too. That if Leo couldn't be there with them, or bring them to him, his brothers at least weren't alone; a small comfort to hold onto in the hectic days to follow.
“Don?” Leo says uneasily.
Don's plastron flexes on a jagged breath, and then he raises his head. The look in his eyes turns the knot in Leo's stomach to the bite of cold steel in a flash: raw grief vanishing the next second behind shutters drawn down so hard and fast it rings in Leo's ears like a porcelain cup going to pieces on the ground.
At least one casualty, Leo thinks numbly.
“Yep,” Don says, and his smile is bright and brittle. “That was pretty much it.”
