(Warning: alternate worlds and realities, neglect, abuse, depression, underage smoking and drinking, fear of assault, attempted assault, death, murder, passive suicide mentions, mentions of suicide attempts, found family, forced family, creepy, dark, creepy fluff, gore, descriptions of dead bodies...)
Lounging on the worn, beat up couch, smoking in the dark, the end of your blunt barely glows in the gloom. Shadows clump in the corners, growing ever bigger as you inhale the smoke, letting your nerves numb under the effects. Tired eyes watch the curtains, illuminated by what little moonlight makes it through the clouds.
It was another one of those weeks.
The turtles kept fighting bigger and badder foes, so did Casey and April. At first you'd been a part of it, too, helping where you could, fixing intercoms or fighting the Purple Dragons or a few Foot Ninja. But the more everyone grew, the more distant they became. And the worst things got, the more everyone was gone. Which meant leaving you alone for longer and longer, sometimes a few hours, sometimes for weeks. And sweet shell were you tired.
Taking another drag from your blunt, you reminisce further. At first you thought you could handle things. That things would die down, and you'd all get some rest, and you'd have time to get closer, to rekindle your friendship. And that never happened. If it wasn't the Underground City, it was the Purple Dragons, if it wasn't the Purple Dragons, it was Baxter Stockman, if it wasn't him, it was the Foot, and so on and so forth. As foes increased and the world fell into danger, your friends went off to fight or train or just disappeared, leaving you to clean up the city on your own at times.
You were good at taking care of yourself. You kept the streets mostly clean, you kept what gangsters you could in line, you kept the house and the Lair as neat as you could... but it didn't mean you were great with the emotional crap that came with it. Like wondering if each phone call would be the last. Or if the Shredder would come back.
So you did what you could to stem the flow, to keep your nerves in check and keep yourself from breaking. Beer didn't do it; trying one of Casey's was your first attempt to deal with your unwanted emotions, which ended up with you throwing up and trying not to break down the rest of the night. As time ticked on, you got better at this. A few small cuts to control your anger; working and fighting until you couldn't stand; a small puff or two of one of the blunts you'd found, hidden away in a forgotten place.
You handled yourself and you got the job done. That was what you were supposed to do. You couldn't slack because no one else was here to help or to keep you occupied.
That still didn't quell the simmering in your gut. It didn't stop the tears forming as you ride things out silently, patiently. If you were anything, you were patient when it mattered. So you'd handle this like you did everything else.
***************************************************
Groaning, you roll, trying to stop the annoying beeping of the alarm clock. Smashing its buttons with your hand, it thankfully falls silent. Rubbing at your face, you move to sit upright, blanket pooling around you. Standing up, you start to get ready, tiredly grabbing your jacket and mask, slipping into the bathroom to tie your hair back and brush your teeth.
The person in the mirror stares back, hardly feeling like you at all. But their movements are yours, and their eyes are yours, and you can't hide from yourself. Lifting your mask, you fix it to your face. As you walk out, you grab the dented softball bat and the apartment keys, stuffing them into your backpack. Stepping through the window and out onto the stairs, the faint glimmer of stars peeks through the stormy clouds. Drinking in the quiet moment, you close your eyes.
The moment hardly lasts before you can hear the wailing sirens and crashing noise of the city. It hardly sleeps, as do you. Slipping down the metal stairs and out of the alley, you disappear into the foggy streets.
Winding through the blocks of apartments and businesses, you spend the night patrolling. Not much happens. You end ul helping a stray cat get some water, stop a handful of thieves from running off, and then a thunderstorm later, you already want to call it a night.
Soggy grime coats your boots as you stalk through the streets, avoiding the worst of the puddles and muck that clogs the air with the smell of decay and rot. Lamps glow in the dark, your only source of light. Murky yellow reflects off of shining windows and glassy panes, momentarily blinding you.
Until something jumps you from behind.
Swinging your arm back, your elbow crunches into their nose, earning a curse as you pull out your bat. Swinging it in an arc, it slams into the thug's stomach, sending him away from you. But another comes from the shadows, grinning like a shark.
"Quite the party, huh, short stuff? See you found a piñata," he chuckles. Hunching your shoulders, you widen your stance, keeping your bat in front of you.
"What do you want?" you spit. The air is tense as you back up.
"I want my enemies dead... but it seems you'll have to do for now." As soon as he says it, something strikes you in the back, causing you to yell. Whirling around, you whack a blue haired goon in the face, but not before another tackles you from the side. As they claw at your face, trying to drag off your mask, you're forced to drop your bat to protect yourself. Scrabbling for your pockets, your hand grasps something. Screeching, you shove at their chest, trying to put distance between their hands and your throat. Wrenching your hand into their thigh, red liquids starts to drip as they shriek in pain, falling off of you to clutch at their wound.
As you gasp for air, clutching the box cutter in your fist, a large hand wraps around your neck, cutting off your air.
"How fun. But your time's run out."
The hand tightens, clenching until you choke, clawing and cutting at the hands, fighting to breathe. Blackness starts to creep in at the edges, spreading further and further as Hun laughs...
Until there's a crackle of harsh static. Something bright glows, blinding you...
And then you're able to breathe.
Clutching at your throat, you gasp, collapsing on the asphalt as you try to regain your senses. The skin is already tender to the touch and you hiss at the feeling. The smell of wet dirt and electricity fill your nose, as sound trickles back into your ears. A car honking; the chatter of pedestrians; the screech of tires. Slowly blinking, you take notice of your surroundings. Tall buildings of glass. Taxis. Black and gray concrete. And several dozen faces, not all human.
Gasping loudly, you scrabble backwards, staggering to your feet as you run, trying to trace your way back home.
The streets are different, newer, cleaner. The faces, half of them aren't human. And the signs and televisions glow, showing faces and brands you don't recognize, that you'd never heard of. Trying to calm your breathing, you back into the closest alleyway, hiding behind a dumpster as you sink to the ground, clutching your head.
Just where the shell are you?!
***************************************************
As your mind slowly winds down, the click of a handle alerts you to a new presence. Slowly moving your eyes to stare, you see someone dragging a trash bag out of an alley door. The rattle of metal and rustle of plastic covers the hitch in your breath. As they draw closer, you push your hands into your pockets, trying to find one of your razors.
"Oh my- are you alright?"
A concerned face stares at you, multiple eyes blinking at your disheveled appearance. Their mouth twists into a frown as their voice softens.
"Oh you poor thing! What happened? Who did this to you?" Multiple fuzzy arms reach to inspect, but when you flinch, they pull back. The bug person stops, anxiously blinking. "Do... do you need help? I can help clean you up. You shouldn't be out here in an alley when you're wounded."
You could be tricked... but this clearly isn't your New York, not as you know it. Chances are this is a scared civilian who only means well. So with a pained grunt you pick yourself up, stretching out a hand. They gingerly take it in theirs, shaking.
"Now, tell Miss Arachne what happened. We'll take good care of you."
Following the spider woman back into the building, you duck under the hanging beads and gauzy curtains. The thick scent of incense fills the air, as does the smell of mangoes and cherry blossoms.
No one is there, save for you and her.
"Sit, sit. I'll make some tea after we get these wounds looked at." Gentle hands tilt your head up, which is when you notice you're missing your mask. Paling, she gasps. "Look at these bruises! Do I need to call the police? Was it one of those brutish humans?!" Shaking your head, you try not to look her in the eyes.
"I... I don't know what happened. Someone jumped me, and I... I'm not sure where I ended up," you tell her. Miss Arachne tuts, one of her hands wiping your nose gently with a handkerchief. Dark red smears it, staining the beautiful cloth. Your throat feels horrible, even worse when her fingers barely touch the skin, sending pain right through you.
"Oh dear... is your home far from here? I can call you a taxi," she kindly offers you.
"I'm... I'm homeless." Not a lie, exactly. Wherever you are, it isn't home, and if your home is here, someone else is likely living there. The kindly spider gives you a pained look and carefully gives you a side hug.
"It will be okay," she tells you, brushing hair out of your eyes. You want to believe it. You have to believe it.
***************************************************
Popping your back, you scrub the counter, shining the tile as best you can. The lights glow across the room, cozy and warm, like the inside of a giant hive. Various beads and charms hang from long silk strands, as bolts of fabric line the walls in colorful rainbows of cloth. The smell of glue and ink fill your lungs as you bustle about the shop, trying to wipe away any dust or fingerprints.
"Diligent as ever, dear," your boss says, watching as you work. Miss Arachne flicks the sign to her shop, humming as the first of the morning rush flock over to admire the store.
You'd been lucky that she was a kind mutant, someone who needed some assistance at her art and craft shop. The pay was well, and it was only open three days a week. While she didn't seem to like a majority of humans, you seemed to be the exception.
"Brutes," she hissed when she explained. "Most have no manners and no taste. A few, like you, seem to know how to be polite. Don't get me started." Despite being averse to the majority of humans, she accepted a few as customers, the ones who were polite, at least. You've seen her toss out a giant triceratops man for starting a fight over a teapot, so you know she doesn't take shell from anyone.
It does, however, mean you deal with some odd sorts.
A robot who asked for special metal only two other shops had access to.
A man with purple hair looking for a specific type of tool.
A rhino who need a certain crystal for his partner's jewelry.
It felt nice to have a steady job, familiar faces, and a small income. You even got to have your own apartment, instead of living with someone else. Life here wasn't too bad.
But you also knew you couldn't stay here forever.
This place wasn't to be trusted, but until your friends figured our what happened to you, you were stranded.
You could risk seeking out the Turtles of this world... but what if that was a bad thing? If this is an alternate world, chances are there is an alternate you. And if there's an alternate you, you can't meet them, in case it destroys the time continuum or blips you both out of existence. So, for your peace of mind and safety, you figured it was best to stay on the downlow.
Being on your own, really on your own, was scary.
But like shell if you were a quitter.
***************************************************
With the loud blare of music in the air and pulsating lights cutting through the dark, the club vibrated with life. Dancing bodies filled the floor as patrons took shots and drank fancy wine. Couples made out on the walls as others slipped out the back door, rushing home for the night.
Seated on a a couch, taking in the rhythm of the night, you sat alone. Your drink was untouched, bright green liquid bubbling under the flashing lights. Inhaling the scent of sweet smoke and acrid beer, you make a face.
But you're here to have fun, even if it's under the radar.
So you down your glass in one go and move onto the floor. You haven't danced in forever; maybe it's time to change that. Steeling your nerve, you join the sea of moving people, swaying to the music as feet stomp and hands clap and vibrations rock the air.
It felt good to throw worry away for a while, laughing and cheering to the music, for once not an outsider. As the room sways and you with it, you think maybe this isn't so bad.
Shoving roughly at the person trying to drag you behind the building, you hiss and bare your teeth. All it earns is a hand squeezing your shoulder tightly, sharp claws digging into your skin.
"Shut up," the wolf mutant growls, shoving your head against the wall with a crack. Your vision swims as your hands fall to your sides, limp.
As hands claw at your clothes, teeth about to sink into the curve of your shoulder, a blade is jabbed into the wolf's head, a howl of pain ringing out as you shove him off, running as fast as you can into the night.
Feet slipping on rain-soaked stone, you crash through the door of a convenience store, sinking quickly behind the aisles with a shaking breath. The startled cashier glances at you, gawking, as you stare back. You give them a small wave.
You can hear the growls and howls outside, the rain slowly building in power as it thunders down on the asphalt. The chill of the store sinks into your bones, freezing and cold.
Right up until a painful scream peals out, soon followed by thunder as cries and yips fill the night. You and the cashier hide in frozen silence, both too scared to move, too afraid to be attacked. As the screaming dies down, gurgling into dead silence, you take a shaky breath.
The door opens, a bright ding your only warning as something large and green tromps in. Curling further away from the door, you watch fearfully as it looks around.
Leo is standing right there, blue mask covering his face as he raises a brow. But then he turns his back, tapping the counter lightly.
"Hey, you can come out now. He won't bother you two anymore," the turtle says. The cashier gulps and nods, shaking. Leo turns around, giving you a once-over. "That means you, too. What, never seen a turtle before?"
You blink as he walks around the store, picking up a few items before returning to the counter. As he mumbles about getting home, you take in something.
Leo didn't recognize you.
He had no clue who you were.
Slowly going around the aisle, carefully keeping your eyes ahead, you reach for the door, cracking it open with a jingle. You don't dare turn around, simply marching out and down the sidewalk. You didn't look back.
If you had, you would have noticed the pool of blood staing the ground, and the corpse of a wolf, blade stabbed through its eye, frozen in a scream.
***************************************************
Shifting to flick the television off, the large green turtle looks around the room.
His little brother is curled up, snoring away against Don, barely awake as the drowsy inventor hugs the littlest turtle close. Sprawled out on the couch with him are their two human members, sinking into the cushions under their assortment of blankets. An old orange cat lays across his lap, purring roughly as he strokes its ears.
Inside, the sounds of the downpour are muted, static to fall asleep to as they rest. His brother should be back soon. He should have been back earlier.
Rubbing at his eyes, the turtle wipes at stray tears.
He doesn't like this time of year.
And by shell he wants his older brother here.
Gently setting Klunk aside, Raphael rises, careful not to wake anyone as he stalks down the hall, approaching a closed door. He hesitates.
But he eventually pushes it open, flicking on the light to illuminate his surroundings.
Old drawings and photographs line the walls, chaotic and clashing with various paintings arranged around the room. A few stacks of books line the bookcase, most of the backs worn and fraying. A bed lays untouched, blankets rumpled and messy, a soft layer of dust coating them like ash. And on the dresser, a framed picture stands, surrounded by small offerings and white candles.
He flicks the lighter, then taps it to one of the wicks, setting it alight with yellow flame.
"Hey, buddy. It's been a while," he whispers, sinking to his knees as he speaks. He doesn't get a reply. "I know it's been a while... but I promise we haven't forgotten. It's just taking Leo some time to get home. It's raining tonight."
"You were always understanding. You know that? Didn't matter if Leo pushed too hard, or Mike's prank went haywire, or Don needed some help, or I just needed to talk... you were always a good listener, too. I just... I miss you."
Tears stream down his face as he crumples, hiding his face in his hands as he tries to stifle his sobs. A warm hand falls on his shoulder, pulling him into his brother's embrace as he cries.
"Sssh... shhhh..." Leonardo shushes, cradling him close. Raphael can't help but hug tighter, trying to keep quiet.
"I'm sorry I took so long, little brother. I needed to get them a gift. Want to help me set it out?"
He nods, not trusting himself to speak. A small bag is placed in his lap, his brother looking through it before pulling out a white candle and a can of soda.
"Their favorite," he croaks.
With his brother next to him, the two place the items in front of the picture, gentle, reverent.
Staring back is a mutant, bright eyes warm as the sun as they stand next to someone in the picture.
"Miss you. Happy birthday, bud."
(Tagged: @sugar-soda @thewickedweiner @ainsellshadewalker @danniloversugar @vivid-bun @wolvesbane1984 )
