This scrap involves the concept of a reality multiple sets of the turtles have been pulled to, known as The Nexus (which yes, is a play off of the 2003 series, and which some of my friends will be familiar with my similarly-named-but-otherwise-not-the-same version). In this reality there is a massive maze-like green stone structure that looks like a blend of triceraton and Central American design in the middle of an even more massive unusual forest.
This also brings in 2003 Leo, here dubbed ‘Acolyte Leo’ in reference to the fact that he and his brothers were acolytes of the Ninja Tribunal in season 5 (and assumed to be a characteristic that sets them apart from other realities).
The Spear-verse turtles are 25 here, and the 2003 turtles are 19 or 20.
—————————————————————————————————-
Raph hissed before letting it gradually slide up into a low yowl. Leo smirked, not bothering to move from his crouch, and watching his little brother with wry amusement. Neither of them missed the way the alternate-universe turtles flinched (to varying degrees) at the sound Raph made, but they also weren’t dropping their stare down. Even so, Leo held onto his aloof demeanor only as long as it took Raph to start up a low-key growl before a wicked grin crept onto the older turtle’s face. Leo slowly started to stand, not quite abandoning his crouch fully, and he gave a call of his own— almost like an abbreviated and quiet version of one of their long-distance howls. Another light-toned hiss from Raph, which he answered with one of his own, and then the taller turtle darted for him.
Leo wasted no time leap-frogging Raph, briefly perching on the curve of his little brother’s carapace before pushing off to leap to the top of a green stone wall. When he landed he spun to meet Raph’s mildly infuriated glare and was treated to an irate click. He didn’t even bother disguising his laugh. “Sorry Raph, too slow.”
“I’ll show you ‘too slow’ smartass-” Raph retorted before his words slid back into irate clicking and snarling. To anyone not familiar with them and their sounds Raph probably sounded legitimately pissed off. To Leo it was obvious this was going to get out of hand in very short order and be fun as hell.
Leo snickered before giving a series of taunting clicks— and then immediately bolted when Raph made to follow him up on top of the wall. He only had a limited amount of time before Raph got up on the same level, so he was going to take those precious few seconds and run like the wind. It at least put a little distance between the two of them, but it didn’t matter for much as Raph gave a call that was echoed somewhere up ahead by Mikey. Not one of their howls, they didn’t need to freak out the other sets of turtles that much, but still a sound that was pitched to carry. And still… Shit.
He swerved and pushed off from the stretch of wall he’d been on to leap across the gap to another, prompting a mild, “Damn it Leo,” from behind him. Another laugh escaped him. At this rate he’d manage to avoid Raph for a while, and if their brothers stayed out of it then he might keep it up even longer. The two of them jumped from wall to wall, sticking to the parts of the complex that lacked a ceiling (so they would avoid stampeding over someone’s room), and occasionally running along the ‘path’ provided by the walls they were on— clicks and yowls being thrown back and forth between them as Leo did his best to stay out of Raph’s reach.
And that was when Mikey came flying in from the side, almost out of nowhere, to tackle Leo so the two of them fell from a wall to crash into an enormous pile of blankets that had been temporarily put in the hall on their way to be washed. The startled squawk Leo gave was far from dignified, and when Raph came to a sudden stop so he wouldn’t fall off the wall he immediately started cackling.
“Nice one Mikey!”
Mikey grinned as he batted a corner of a blanket off his own head. “I aim to please.”
Leo huffed, shoving at Mikey to try to get his youngest brother off him (not that the blanket pile was making that easy). “Oh, ha ha. You ambushed me. That’s hardly fair.”
“Perfectly fair!” If it was possible, Mikey’s grin got wider. “All’s fair in love and war bro.”
“Right. My brothers conspiring against me is ‘fair’. I see how it is.”
“You started it smartass!” Raph retorted (still laughing) before finally dropping from the top of the wall.
Leo rolled his eyes, finally managing to push Mikey off of him as he did so, and began fighting his way free of the blanket-pile. “I did not.”
“Actually,” Donnie said from on top of the wall across from them (surprising Leo enough that he slipped and fell on his face in the pile), “you kind of did. I was close enough to see. You’re the one who took to the walls.”
Pushing himself up so he was at least propped up on his hands and could aim a playful glare at Donnie, Leo huffed, “Maybe so, but I still didn’t start it. Raph was the one who started yowling at me firs—oof!” Leo was cut off by Mikey throwing himself onto his carapace, making his hands slip out from under him as the blankets slid over stone. “Miiiiiikeeeyyyyy…” And Donnie and Raph weren’t helping. Apparently laughing at their older brother’s plight was more entertaining.
And apparently one of the various Leos had been keeping track of their nonsense out of curiosity, though it looked like he’d been following on the ground level— probably due to having more sense than to run on free-standing walls if he didn’t have to. “…Do you need help?” When Leo looked up he was able to identify the other Leo as Acolyte-Leo; the large gouge in his shell and missing chunk of his carapace behind his left shoulder gave him away. He sounded torn between being amused and wanting to disapprove, though it looked like his amusement was winning out.
“No, I’m just fine. Just ready to strangle my little brother if he doesn’t get off,” Leo answered sarcastically as he gave a pointed glance over his shoulder at the snickering turtle on his back.
“But Leeeeooooo, you looooove meeee. And aren’t you always the one who says, ‘no fratricide’?” Mikey cackled.
Acolyte-Leo’s eyebrow-ridges went up, aiming a questioning look at his taller counterpart. And he looked even more tempted to laugh. Damn it.
“…Donnie never should have mentioned that word when he found out about it.”
Donnie shook his head. “I absolve myself of all responsibility of you using that word and Mikey turning it around on you.”
A snort of laughter escaped Acolyte-Leo before he could help himself. And then, the ultimate betrayal… “Well Leonardo, it looks like you’ve got things well in hand.”
Leo sighed. “Great. Not only betrayed by my brothers, I’m betrayed by myself. Thank you. Really.”
“We survived the collapse. You’ll live,” Raph grinned before extending a hand to him to help him up. It would have been more helpful if he would have just shoved Mikey off Leo’s back, but apparently Raph wanted to be just as obnoxious.
My scraps are complete or mostly-complete scenes that currently don’t have any larger narrative, but exist in the Spear-Verse all the same. Essentially short little one-shots that I’ve written as I thought of them.
With this one we have Leo trying to argue with his (current time) ex, Sassy Sofía Clemente Fernandez, early on in their relationship and failing miserably. Leo is 17 and Sassy is 18 here.
Ignoring the wind that seemed determined to throw her hair in her face, Sassy tossed her hair over her shoulder before aiming an amused look at Leonardo. “You know you’re not going to talk me out of this, right?”
Leo shook his head, a wry (and somewhat disbelieving) smile on his face. “And I’m still having a hard time understanding why you’d be attracted to a mutant turtle.”
She snorted. “And clearly you don’t own a mirror or you’d see it.”
“Hmmmm— doubt it.”
“Trust me. You’re sexy. An’ I know what I like.”
He rolled his eyes. This ‘argument’— if it could be called that— had been going in circles for at least an hour. He’d long since given up trying to maintain some semblance of polite distance. It was obviously something she couldn’t care less about anyway. “Then you have very strange tastes,” he finally said bluntly.
Sassy grinned at that, wicked humor flashing in her eyes. “You’re the one who hasn’t told me to stop y’know. Giving me mixed signals here bonito.”
Leo narrowed his eyes just slightly. Too bad she seemed more than able to see through his faked irritation. “You know I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Not my fault, chico guapo. You keep turning up an’ you might learn some though.”
Two could play at that game. “Anata wa hidoi,” he retorted.
She shoved back her wildly flailing wind-blown hair again, giving a brief eyebrow-waggle as she spoke. “If you said I’m pretty, I’ll have to agree and take the compliment as is.”
It was either the eyebrow-waggle, the comment, or the cheeky grin that followed it that surprised a laugh from him, and he wasn’t entirely sure which one. “I said you’re terrible. Because you are.”
“Right. ‘Terrible’ enough that a cute turtle keeps visiting me on a regular basis,” she teased.
Leo tried to fight off the snort of laughter he could feel building, but it was a near thing. “You are such a xenophile.” Let it never be said that he never listened to Donnie’s rambling about words and language any time he came across a word he hadn’t previously known.
“Hey, last I checked mutant turtles are on the rare side, so unless there are some of you stashed somewhere I don’t know about… takes a xenophile to know a xenophile chico-tortuga.”
“Oh my god.” There went his ability to keep a straight face in its entirety. One thing he couldn’t deny was that even if she confused him at times, Sassy was fun to be around.
THIS IS THE COOLEST THING EVER!!So, if these turtles get into a lot of cross-dimensional hijinks, where are the stories? It sounds so cool, but I can't find anything!!! Have you even written stuff for it yet? Or am I in the wrong place?
You are absolutely in the right place. n.n
Aside from the character studies I don’t yet have any full-blown fics going (though I have two-ish in the works and some vague ideas planned), but I do have random scraps that I plan on posting (like Leo trying to argue sense to Sassy), along with a rough (but long) timeline of what I have figured out so far.
I’m open to answering any questions, and who knows? Some of those questions might spark off some short fics.
Edit: Speaking of which, it’s about time that I posted a couple of my short fics/scraps.
Stupid question, but where’s the tea from and how do they not run out? I know there are a few native plants around the continent that are sorta like tea—I like the two I’ve tried—and I know that basically any herbs used to flavor water are called tea, but do they like have a tea garden or what? (Does the Hamato clan have *any* garden?)
I’m finally getting around to answering this!
SO, IN ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION–
The Hamato Clan do have a garden (up on the rise looming over their home, the house is backed up against it)– but most of it is dedicated to the plants Donnie uses for the medicines he produces, with a small section set aside for Mikey’s plant-based dyes for his art projects.
That said, they do grow a few plants for tea (though the mint is kept cordoned off in its own subsection with extreme prejudice), but the vast majority they get through trade with Keno while he’s on his trade route. Between Mikey’s various art projects, the skins they regularly harvest and tan, and the various tools/bags/etc. they make, they’re plenty capable of paying for what they need through trade and barter via Keno (though admittedly most people Keno comes into contact with on his trade route have no idea that some of what they’re trading for was made by a family of mostly mutants).
As for the tea they’re able to more easily grow in their own garden, it consists of mint, dandelion, raspberry, blackberry, and rose with plans to include ginger if they can get any. (In other words, mostly plants that are native to the area or are just REALLY hard to kill.)
I forgot, when I asked, that those plants could be used for tea, lol!
I was thinking more of—oh shoot I forgot the names! One is a desert plant native to the Colorado plateau/four corners region, and the other I just looked in my tea cabinet for—since we still have it—is Yaupon Holly.
Since I don’t think there were either of these growing in the north Eastern parts of the states when the fall happened, I wondered if they ever traded for those?
It's entirely possible that they have traded for them! Ultimately I’d have to go nosing around to look up what plants native to what areas can be used for various teas (beyond the ones I’ve listed and know of), or figure out if I want to pull the author thing of just saying that someone somewhere in range has been able to keep and grow whichever plant. Or just leave it up for question. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
(I do know that Leo has a weakness for jasmine, but since it's harder to come by when he does have a supply of it he tries to stretch it out for as long as he can.)
Stupid question, but where’s the tea from and how do they not run out? I know there are a few native plants around the continent that are sorta like tea—I like the two I’ve tried—and I know that basically any herbs used to flavor water are called tea, but do they like have a tea garden or what? (Does the Hamato clan have *any* garden?)
I’m finally getting around to answering this!
SO, IN ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION--
The Hamato Clan do have a garden (up on the rise looming over their home, the house is backed up against it)-- but most of it is dedicated to the plants Donnie uses for the medicines he produces, with a small section set aside for Mikey’s plant-based dyes for his art projects.
That said, they do grow a few plants for tea (though the mint is kept cordoned off in its own subsection with extreme prejudice), but the vast majority they get through trade with Keno while he’s on his trade route. Between Mikey’s various art projects, the skins they regularly harvest and tan, and the various tools/bags/etc. they make, they’re plenty capable of paying for what they need through trade and barter via Keno (though admittedly most people Keno comes into contact with on his trade route have no idea that some of what they’re trading for was made by a family of mostly mutants).
As for the tea they’re able to more easily grow in their own garden, it consists of mint, dandelion, raspberry, blackberry, and rose with plans to include ginger if they can get any. (In other words, mostly plants that are native to the area or are just REALLY hard to kill.)
He is and he isn’t part of the Hamato clan, their backup engineer and scientist, occasional backup muscle for when situations are bad enough to call him in (thankfully few and far between), their friend who they can rely on in a heartbeat even as they shelter and protect him from the worst of his triggers and provide him with the meat he can’t bring himself to hunt to spare him the memories brought on by knives and blood. He is the tallest connected to the clan, seemingly the most intimidating by virtue of being a mutant alligator of his size, and yet to him that status of being intimidating feels at odds with who he is. He feels his fears and scars— both physical and mental— run too deep for him to have any claim on such a distinction. Admittedly, the title of ‘most intimidating’ should go to Michelangelo in his opinion, but he knows that many judge by appearance before they truly know anything. And yet, ironically, the Hamato clan and everyone who knows him seem to have reached the consensus that he is among the least dangerous of everyone in the area— a sentiment which he strongly disagrees with. If he weren’t dangerous, then he would be able to trust himself and trust that he wouldn’t hurt anyone when the memories and flashbacks block everything else out.
Leatherhead was not always like this. There was a time when he didn’t fear himself, where the traumas and progression of years didn’t haunt him and feel like they were waiting in the corners of his mind for the opportunity to become active and blot out everything, where he didn’t worry that he might seriously hurt someone he cared about. There was a time when he never would have imagined it possible that he could hurt someone. Certainly not severely, and never on purpose. That was before the collapse. Before the collapse he might as well have been an entirely different person. During and after it though… that was when everything fell apart.
In his earliest memories he was with the utrom and their human Guardians, his family. There might be just the barest fragment of a memory from before his mutation, but it’s so cloudy and unclear that it might as well have just been a dream. He was the only one like him, the only mutant and the only alligator, but that had been alright because utrom and humans were so radically different from each other that his own difference hadn’t seemed all that important. They never made him feel like being what he was made him ‘unwanted’ in any way. None of them had even attempted to disguise that him being the way he was had been an accident when he asked, but they had also never given him the impression that his mutation was a bad thing. Yes, they’d had to be secret about his existence, but that had held true for all of the utrom so he’d hardly been unique in that regard. In fact, one of his ‘fathers’— Mortu actually— had told him that the world was a better place for having him in it and that his mutation had been an unexpected gift.
They had all encouraged his sweet and gentle nature, as well as his interest in learning. They’d told him stories, taught him, celebrated his creativity, and held him close whenever he’d needed it. Yes, he’d been shy and slow to warm up to people he didn’t know, but they’d taught him to take things at his own pace and to make overtures on his own terms— gradually building his confidence from the ground up when it so easily could have been crushed. He really had been the shy but sweet boy who had enthusiastically absorbed every last bit of information he could get his small scaly hands on; a far cry (in his opinion) from who he had become over the years. One of his ‘mothers’, Terezebet, had often made games of what he learned to help him lock the knowledge in place. She’d even gone so far as to weave some lessons into the stories she told him, challenging him to pick out the specific information for the lesson as she went. It was a game he missed with the nostalgia of one who could never go home again.
As wonderful as the utrom members of his family had been, he had one of his human parents— Fred, or his ‘Freddie’— to thank for encouraging him to be as comfortable in his body and active as he could have been back then. Fred had played with him, occasionally luring him out of his books and computers into games of tag or hide-and-go-seek that he might never have otherwise had access to due to not knowing any other children at the time. Freddie had taught him how to have fun with occasionally being bowled over in play, and that an accidental slice from one of his claws (which he tried to keep filed down) or his teeth was just that— an accident— and not something he should feel excessively guilty over. The utrom were wonderful family that he’d never want to forget, but physically playing with them had always been a limited possibility for the little alligator. Freddie had never minded the accidental scratches and scrapes that Leatherhead gave them, so that might have been a large part of why they took him in after the utrom left instead of one of the others.
Losing his utrom family had hurt beyond anything he could have conceived of at the time— no one could be prepared to lose more than half their family at age 6— but he’d understood why he couldn’t leave with them. They weren’t from Earth, and while they’d managed to survive on Earth for centuries they hadn’t been certain that he would have been able to survive on their world. It would have been too cruel to take him from the world he’d been born to only to go to a world where he might starve to death thanks to a lack of suitable food, so it had been decided that it was in his best interests to stay on Earth with the human portion of his family. He’d understood, but he hadn’t liked it. The only consolation had been that there was supposed to be a means for the utrom to visit. Returning to their homeworld had never been intended as a complete withdrawal from Earth, not when some of them had family that they might otherwise never see again. Even so, he’d cried for days and hadn’t been satisfied until the first time Terezebet, Mortu, and most of the rest of their family had returned for a visit. It hadn’t been the same as having them there constantly, seeing them only once a year for a week or two had never felt like it could be enough, but it had been better than nothing.
He’d moved in with Freddie, and for roughly seven years he’d alternated between Freddie’s house and the TCRI building where’d he’d spent roughly the first six years of his life. Being smuggled back and forth without being noticed got more difficult with the larger he became (it had been easier to keep him from being noticed when he’d been only 3’6” at age 6 than it was once he’d passed the 5’ mark at age 10), but it was better for him than being alone in either place. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be trusted to be alone, but more that he didn’t like not having at least one person in the next room over in case he felt the need for company. There was also the fact that, at least at Freddie’s house, it was safer for him if someone else was present just in case a stranger got the idea to try to drop by or break in. Even back then, while he more than trusted his human family, he knew better than to trust most humans. The chances that humans outside of his family might react negatively and attack him had been too high, and so he had never been willing to trust staying in Freddie’s house alone even though it was just as much home to him as the TCRI building.
Leatherhead had known things were getting bad when he was 12, had known things were getting worse as he hit 13, enough so that things were dangerous enough that Freddie and the other Guardians were increasingly reluctant to make the trip between their homes and the TCRI building, but nothing could have prepared him for the end. In those days it hadn’t been called ‘the collapse’ yet; it was just one more bout of civil unrest, one more riot, one more fire or shooting or ‘residential conflict’ with lives lost and blood spilled on the streets. It wasn’t that Freddie and the others hadn’t tried to keep him insulated from it all— they’d desperately tried to shelter him from the worst of it— but when it was on almost every channel, in every newspaper, and one of the most frequent topics of discussion when adults thought he couldn’t hear, it was impossible to not notice.
But that day… he can remember it clearly. The quiet of the house, the sirens in the distance, Freddie’s phone going off— the opening words of the song Freddie had as their ringtone, Soldier keep on marching on~ —Freddie’s silence as whoever on the other end detailed what was going on, and their increasingly grim demeanor as the seconds ticked by. He can remember Freddie telling him the two of them needed to go to TCRI immediately, and that when they got there he was to stay in the car until Freddie gave the all-clear. He can remember being bundled in the brown blanket he’d been using to disguise himself since he was 8 and climbing into the car, the silent trip as Freddie drove, the gridlock that slowed them down and— ultimately— saved their lives, the sudden pressure, the roar, the bright flash of light as the TCRI building suddenly exploded when they were only two blocks away. He can remember a chunk of the building falling through the air to crash into the hood of the car and the windshield cracking, Freddie automatically flinging out an arm to shield him as they let slip words they never would have said around him in normal circumstances, the hard reverse of the car after Freddie’s mind had kicked on again, the thud as they shoved back the car behind them to give a bit more clearance so they could hop the curb and take the suddenly empty sidewalk until they could turn onto an open side-street.
He can remember Freddie pulling to a stop and pulling out their phone to try to call one of the other Guardians, not getting a response, going down the list, not getting through, making the decision to return with him to the house before trying again. Only 13-years-old and he had seen one of his homes blown up in front of him, and to make matters worse Freddie hadn’t been able to get through to any of the other Guardians for a full 72 hours afterward, not even his other two human parents; there was no question that it hadn’t been safe for Leatherhead to go anywhere, and Freddie hadn’t been about to leave him alone to go to one of the other Guardians’ houses. Leatherhead had stayed close and clung to Freddie like he hadn’t since he was little, nevermind the fact that he had to have been a solid 5’8” at the time. The two of them had camped out on the pull-out bed of the living room couch during those three days, Freddie frequently holding him in their arms with occasional bouts of humming or rocking him soothingly. And when Leatherhead had hesitantly started to say that he was too big for Freddie to be comfortable doing so, they had only shushed him and insisted that he would always be their Little Bit— a name they had called him for as long as he could remember— no matter how big he got and with as much as the two of them had lost it was worth ignoring his size when he needed comfort.
Little Bit… What he wouldn’t give to hear that affectionate nickname again.
When Freddie finally did get through to another of the Guardians it was very quickly made clear that the explosion of TCRI had been an even greater disaster than they’d known. Mutagen had been scattered, some washed down into storm drains, much unaccounted for and enough Guardians killed in the explosion that those who remained were over-extended trying to achieve containment of the mutagen as they worked on clean up. That was also when they got confirmation that the transmat, the only means the utrom had had to return to Earth for their visits, was destroyed. Leatherhead had lost part of his family to death and part to distance, and it felt like he’d been on track to be a ‘family’ of one. He’d had no idea just how bad things were going to get.
It had already been dangerous for Leatherhead, it had just been a given that as a mutant alligator the world was a dangerous place for him. The mutagen outbreak made it worse. Some mutants had sense enough to go into hiding to avoid being seen, but others… Others either weren’t smart enough or just didn’t care. The reports of the first mutant-caused death (not that it had officially been labelled as such) were enough for what remained of Leatherhead’s family to insist that he needed to stay hidden— preferably taken out of the city for his own safety. The very idea had thrown him into his first panic attack. A family of 50 before the utrom left, to a family of 30 after they’d gone, to a family of 15 after TCRI had blown up… He’d lost so much of his family already, to leave with Freddie and possibly never see the others again was too much. And yet, what choice had there been?
Leatherhead might have insisted on staying in pure teenage stubbornness, if it hadn’t been for a mutant that took to calling itself ‘The Faultless’. The Guardians only found out about it thanks to a mutant squirrel they stumbled across, and that squirrel’s description proved accurate. The Faultless prowled the sewers, preying on any who ventured down into the tunnels and sometimes leaving torn corpses in its wake, sometimes venturing up to the surface in the dark and seeming to search for… something. The Faultless might have started out as a weasel of some sort or a lizard, but either way it was vicious and didn’t seem ‘right’ in the squirrel’s words. It was long-bodied and sleek with either a mane or a long strip of fur along the length of its spine, sharp teeth, and long claws on its hands, but it was so rarely still and so frequently stuck to the shadows that according to the squirrel it was difficult to get a better view of it. It barely talked, but watching and listening, having seen it kill someone unfortunate enough to bump into it in an alley had been more than enough for the squirrel— they passed on the warning to whoever they decided was safe to talk to. That fear was well-founded: it took only two weeks from that first mutant-caused death for The Faultless to start cutting a bloody swath through New York.
His family had agreed unanimously: he was leaving New York for his own safety, before the greater public could be made aware of mutants.
It was no longer a question of ‘if’, but ‘when’— and if there was one thing they knew all too well it was that it wouldn’t matter to the greater public that The Faultless was only one individual, any other mutants would become targets based on the assumption that being ‘different’ would mean they and The Faultless were alike. Of course, the decision being made that Leatherhead and Freddie would leave was one thing— carrying it out was another matter entirely. Riots, bombings, and the three-day fire that raged in Manhattan all served to make getting out of New York while keeping a mutant alligator from being noticed difficult.
Leatherhead turned 14 on the day the news finally announced that there were mutants in New York. He can remember sitting on the hardwood floor in the living room, staring at the TV in dumbfounded shock as terror slowly curled around his heart, a deep-reaching need to hide and not be seen. He remembers the parade of brief clips, images, showing glimpses of mutants who had been seen or hadn’t known to avoid security cameras. He remembers hearing the words ‘unpredictable,’ ‘dangerous,’, ‘death toll,’ ‘no way to know their source,’ ‘various species have been affected,’ ‘stay indoors,’ and ‘do not approach.’ He remembers the realization that outside of the Guardians most people would assume that he was no different than the dangerous threat portrayed on the news. He remembers feeling like he couldn’t breathe.
Several days later the power went down.
There’s more, he knows there’s more, but there are gaps— a lack of awareness in the days or weeks after the power went out. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say there’s an enormous gap with occasional scattered fragments of memory from that time left intact. He’s not sure if it’s because of something that happened then, or if he can’t remember because of what came later. Can memories from long before trauma occurs be affected by trauma? He doesn’t know, and the only one who he might be able to ask (or at least feel comfortable asking) might not even have the information. That aside, expecting someone six years younger than him to have all the answers feels entirely unfair, even if that person may be extremely intelligent and unusually skilled at recovering and absorbing information like a sponge. No, asking Donatello wouldn’t feel fair.
Regardless, the next point in time he remembers clearly without any confusion or uncertainty, he and Freddie were on their way out of New York City. There were others, he knows that, but he also knows that there were some who were absent— whether they’d died or couldn’t be present because they had other things to focus on, he doesn’t know, but he does remember the strong feeling that he might not see them again. There was also something about other mutants… working with the Guardians? He only saw one up close personally, a squirrel with a scar gouged down their left cheek and a deep notch in the ear on the same side (had it been the same one to give the Guardians the news about The Faultless?), and his strongest memory of them was the squirrel telling Freddie that getting out past the quarantine barricades was going to be difficult. What remained of whatever law enforcement there had been were trying to contain the uncontainable by restricting the mutant outbreak to New York City. The squirrel— Ahzen, that had been the name they’d gone by— had made it clear they would try to act as a distraction so Freddie could get Leatherhead through unseen.
Ahzen couldn’t have been mutated for even a full year— Leatherhead thought they had originally been a regular squirrel and not a human, but he wasn’t certain— and yet they chose to lay their life on the line to help others, to help him because he was still a child while Ahzen was an adult whatever their actual age difference had been. He remembers creeping close to the barricade with Freddie and several others, remembers hearing the chatter of gunfire start up, remembers the screams starting as they slipped through. He remembers following Freddie’s directions not to look back, even as he’s certain that he heard someone die. He knows it wasn’t Ahzen. He doesn’t know what happened to Ahzen.
Leatherhead isn’t certain, but he thinks the human supremacists started gathering together and joining forces not long after. Or that might just be him trying to make sense of the senseless chaos of the collapse.
They were supposed to get to a safehouse that was out of state, but not being able to take a car on their way out of the city eliminated that possibility. Because of what Leatherhead was (and considering the fact that with his size disguising him was impossible) asking for a ride had been out of the question, and that was assuming they could find transportation with fuel enough to take them where they’d needed to go. The next best thing was to try to find a place they could take shelter and settle, someplace he could hide. Easier said than done. For a while they roamed from place to place, taking shelter for a night or two in a garage, shed, or barn provided those places didn’t seem frequented before moving on to the next. They might have kept that up for three or four months.
Then word of the mutant outbreak arrived in the area.
It’s impossible to count the near-misses, the days and weeks spent running, the late nights where he had difficulty sleeping due to the fear that they would be found— that he would be found— and they would have to run again for his safety. There were times he thought it would be easier for what remained of his family if they didn’t have to worry about him anymore. The fear of what might happen to him if he was on his own kept him close to them.
Eventually they lucked out in one of the places they stayed. The person who owned the place stumbled across them, took one look at the way Freddie threw themself between her and the 6’1” mutant alligator (as well as the others), and chose to trust that they wouldn’t defend him if he was a threat. She invited the six of them in, giving them an opportunity to explain. There were details they left out due to necessity, but they made it abundantly clear that he was part of their family. Finding out that a 15-year-old had to fear for his life just because he happened to be a mutant turned out to be enough to convince Nayeli to open her home to them.
They had relative peace for two years, minus the occasional bouts of the six of them ducking into a secret room they’d helped Nayeli to build in the basement— big enough for the six of them to sit comfortably, if a little close, yet small enough to easily disguise that the wall had been brought in by a few feet. Leatherhead might have argued a few times that they didn’t have to hide with him, but if he had, the argument had been that so long as mutants were being hunted they in turn couldn’t risk being known about— especially since they would have come ‘out of nowhere’.
If that conversation actually happened.
If it hadn’t been a dream.
If it hadn’t been something his mind fabricated or stitched together from multiple events to try to patch the holes in his damaged memory.
He doesn’t know how many times they hid in that room, how many times Nayeli diverted people or was stuck playing host while they hid, how many times he fell asleep in that room. Yet despite that, it was almost peaceful. Even as he continued to grow and it gradually got more difficult for him to slip through the narrow hidden door.
There is something else, something he knows is missing. A near-miss perhaps? He remembers a vague impression of fire— not one he had to fear directly, but somewhere close— Nayeli alright even though she was rattled, fragments of sentences and words of an argument, Freddie insisting the risk was too great, and then… and then…
She hadn’t wanted them to leave. He remembers that. There was a sense that he and his family felt it was too dangerous for Nayeli if they stayed, but he’s not certain how accurate that is. He’s not certain if they stayed longer— if so, for how long— or if they packed up and left soon after. He doesn’t… think… they left immediately. Logic would imply that that wouldn’t be possible with everything they would have needed to pack and with everything they had later on, but he doesn’t know. There’s too much missing, too many gaps that scream in his mind if he risks probing them too deeply.
He can remember a conversation, dreamlike in quality. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it was real. If it was real, it was before whatever happened to cause the fires, whatever might have made him and his family leave. He remembers laying on the carpeted floor of Nayeli’s living room, looking at the almost surreal shafts of soft sunlight coming in through the window, the bright patches of sun on the floor. He can remember being torn between wanting to move into those patches of light to bask in the gentle warmth and wanting to move even closer than that to the window to look outside. He thinks he knows why he didn’t move closer, but he doesn’t know for certain. After all, it may have only been a dream. But he can remember Nayeli nearby, watching, until she gently asked what he wanted to do. He can’t remember what he said, but he remembers her clarifying, saying that having to run and hide couldn’t possibly be permanent, that she was certain he’d find his way, and she wanted to know what he wanted to do when that time came.
Leatherhead doesn’t remember having an answer to that question.
He also remembers moments where that hidden room in the basement felt like forever, as if it was all his life would be. Is it unfortunate that those memories now almost feel soothing for the comparative safety he had then?
More running. More nights of being terrified of being found. And Leatherhead getting bigger, always getting bigger. He was 6’1” when Nayeli found them when he was 15; he was roughly 6’5” or 6’6” when he was 17 (Freddie was always good at measuring and judging distances, lengths, and heights with a look); and he just kept getting bigger. Too big. Too big to hide. Always afraid of being found. Nights where they heard screams, nights where Leatherhead remembers the flash of gunfire. He can’t remember if it was intended to be directed at him and his family, if it was in defense of them, or if he was in hiding and happened to be terrifyingly close enough to see it. But the memory of the brief flashes still burn in his eyes when he thinks about it too deeply.
He can remember… Was it a panic attack? Or some other sort of breakdown? What even caused it? Was it something to do with the guns, that he thinks weren’t connected and came a long time before? He can’t remember, but he remembers clinging to Freddie, sobbing, terrified, almost unable to breathe as he kept repeating that something was his fault. When was that? What set it off? Was it sometime when he was 18? And Freddie, holding him tight, rocking him, gently shushing him, insisting it wasn’t his fault, it never was his fault and never would be.
…Had they lost someone?
More gaps. More time lost. Maybe his mind trying to protect him from remembering someone missing. And then…
And then he remembers walking. He remembers walking and suddenly coming into awareness in mid-stride in the middle of a forest on a dirt path; one of the others in front, Freddie beside him holding his hand, and one or two behind him. Hadn’t they escaped New York with six, including him? Was someone- s- was someone miss- miss- someone miss-
His mind shies away from it. No. No no no no no nonononono. Too deep, too dark, don’t touch the memory, don’t dig. Just the walking, the sudden awareness, the realization that he’d had no idea how long they’d been walking or where they were going, the unsettling silence, the tearful smile that lit up Freddie’s face as soon as they realized he was back from wherever he’d mentally retreated for however long.
Freddie’s relief, that’s something he can hold on to. That’s something loving, reassuring, and happy enough— even as heartbreaking as it was— that is at least safe to think about. Like how later that same night when they stopped to sleep Freddie made sure Leatherhead slept next to them with his head tucked under their chin as they hummed the lullaby they’d always used to soothe Leatherhead when he was little and had had a nightmare. It didn’t matter that Leatherhead towered over Freddie when they were standing, no, Leatherhead was Freddie’s Little Bit and always would be. Always. Yes, whatever prompted it, whatever had made Leatherhead retreat into his mind for he-has-no-idea-how-long was sad— it had to have been, even if he can’t remember— but those moments are happy. Hearing the others sing like they used to when they were walking again the next day was happy. Sitting near a campfire during one of their stops as one of them draped a blanket around his shoulders and complained that he was going to ‘catch his death of cold’ was happy. Getting coaxed into one of their old family word games was happy. Singing like he hadn’t in years— even if his voice had been reedy, ragged, and worn— was happy.
He doesn’t know what changed, what made him feel safe enough that he felt like he could relax. He doesn’t know what pulled him back, but he also doesn’t know what made him retreat into his mind in the first place. Maybe it was only a matter of shock wearing off, but even if that’s the case he also knows something had to have changed for him to start relaxing. Maybe they’d all thought they’d finally gotten far enough away. He can’t remember. But he does remember that things started getting better, he started getting better. No one was around but them, if anyone was coming their direction they’d hear them coming and be able to hide before they got close, and for their safety they’d stay on the move. They were nomadic. Against all logic and sense they’d found a way to live safely, happily, and together— even though it hadn’t been what any of them would have planned back at the beginning of the collapse.
And for another two years they had peace. They moved from place to place, Leatherhead gradually came out of his head enough to get a grasp of the passage of days, and they lived. Sometimes one of the others would temporarily separate for trade (they were extremely wary about exposing Leatherhead), but they always came back. Through it all Freddie never left him. Whatever had happened that he couldn’t remember had solidified something fierce in Freddie, something that made them absolutely determined to protect him from anyone who intended him harm. And while Leatherhead couldn’t remember what had happened, he remembered enough of the feelings around those gaps to feel safe with his Freddie near.
He was 21 when he was separated from them, and that night was almost as bad as the night he’d lost Sh- NO. No no no no no no no no no
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
There were things he dared not think about. Was it as bad as then? Maybe. Then why can he remember the night they were separated and not then? He doesn’t know. But he remembers the concerned muttering, the whispers about ‘supremacists’ that his family tried to keep him from hearing, the more furtive way they traveled because of the rumors and things his family had heard from others. He remembers that night.
They had been camped, out in a forest. It had been dark, the middle of the night. Their tents were circled around the fire and they’d sat in the space between. It had been quiet, but a sudden silence set them all on alert— they’d learned well by that point that complete silence in a forest disrupted by nothing but the wind was a bad sign. And just as they readied themselves for a fight that was when the attack came. It had been a whirlwind of fire, movement, yelling, and hearing the bone-chilling order from one of the attackers to the others to get ‘the freak’.
Just as adamantly, Freddie yelled at him to run. Run and not look back. It was one of the few times anyone in his family used his actual name rather than one of the affectionate nicknames he had. He could remember it so clearly, Freddie’s wild eyes, their hair in disarray as they spun their head to look at him, the way they slammed an elbow into an attacker’s pale face as they locked eyes with him. And those words.
Letherahd.
Run.
NOW.
And don’t
look
back.
He remembers running. Running as he sobbed, trying not to hyperventilate, knowing they would find him. They would find him, they would find him, they would find him. Running, knowing he had to run, that if he somehow outran them it wouldn’t be enough. Running, knowing he might never find his family again. Running, knowing they might die to protect him. Running, and trying to breathe but not being able to breathe and wanting to scream but unable to make a sound beyond his ragged too-tight breaths and then—
He doesn’t know… if he ran into the net then or a few days later. That is yet another blur. A confusing procession of time that’s unclear. But he remembers coming to at some point, seeing the parts and pieces they had harvested from other mutants, realizing he was caught, bound, and couldn’t escape, and the terror. He remembers seeing them milling around and the knives, the axes swung close to him as a threat of what they would eventually do, and the knives they did use. The bright flashing metal and the blades and the blood, all that blood, the pain and the blood and the laughter at his fear and screams. The certainty that they would kill him and add him to their collection. Hearing them talk about keeping his skull and mounting it on a pole. The terror that made him want to curl into as small of a ball as possible and vanish over what they might do to him before killing him. The thought that they might cut parts off rather than just the slices or gouges they made had been enough to make his breathing spasmodic and erratic, that and the panic both making him lightheaded— simultaneously floating and distant, and all too present.
He thinks if he had just died, without them touching him, it would have been a relief. An escape.
Leatherhead doesn’t know how long he was there with those people. It can’t have been less than four days, no more than two weeks, but beyond that vague timescale he’s uncertain. Sleep was difficult to come by. He’s amazed he didn’t die from lack of oxygen due to how difficult his panic made his breathing. But he remembers feeling that each moment it would come, they would finally choose to end him, piece him, take him apart and keep the parts that amused them to keep.
When the howls came he should have been afraid. Those sounds were the things nightmares were made of, enough to make at least one of the humans bolt and the others try to huddle up so they couldn’t be attacked from behind. Leatherhead had been on some sort of pile, tied down, cut and bleeding, unable to get up. He should have been terrified when he heard the howls, but instead they were a relief.
And then they were there.
Four mutant turtles. Fast. Violent. Trained. With some movements that somehow reminded him of something that said ‘safety’ to him. He’d been too worn out to process what it might be, just that it was. PurpleBlueRed— and a blaze of orange surrounding bright sky-blue eyes that had suddenly filled his vision as the smallest turtle checked on him and set to work freeing him. There was a lot that happened in a brief time— more violence than he wanted to consider, an ax getting used on the blue one before the blaze of orange rocketed over and slammed into the human to keep the ax from coming down on his brother a second time— but seeing those bright blue eyes surrounded by orange felt like a promise.
Red carried blue with blood running down his arms. As the tallest of the four, purple lent himself to being Leatherhead’s crutch. And orange, that bright burst of violence and hope darted back and forth between them. And Leatherhead felt safe.
Days passed and shifted, Leatherhead learned their names and met and spoke with their father, and Donatello worked feverishly to save both his oldest brother and Leatherhead. Maybe it was the adrenaline thanks to what he’d endured, but for some reason the full effects of his exhaustion and weakness didn’t hit Leatherhead until after they were safe and Donatello was done treating him. And then it was just… surreal.
He doesn’t remember if he told them his name or Splinter did, or at least the name he used most often. To tell them his name was Letherahd was too much, especially with it being the name Freddie had used when telling him to run. It doesn’t really matter in the scheme of things. Finding out that Splinter— or part of him— had been one of the Guardians had helped Leatherhead feel even more safe. He might not ever know for certain what had happened to the last remnants of his family, might not get a chance to know if they’d lived or died, but in a way he felt as if he’d found home. Or a home anyway.
But then his episodes started.
His nightmares, his bouts of explosive anger, lashing out in a kneejerk response, and the times where he was no longer there but lost in his memories in his mind… All of it told him that he was not safe. Not for others. He was terrified that one day he was going to hurt one of them, badly, and the images that thought brought to mind— of his friends, this new family of his, broken, bleeding, and dead— threatened to bring up memories that made his mind skitter sideways to avoid. Living in the same house with them was not an option.
But rather than push him away as he expected, they offered to build him a house of his own, closer to the river than their own home yet within easy walking distance. They gave him his own space while still making it clear they considered him one of their own.
Perhaps most baffling was that bright blaze of orange and blue eyes that kept seeking him out. Michelangelo was almost always ready with a smile for him, warm and welcoming, never criticizing him for his weakness and rages, gladly leaning against him, or hugging him, or sitting next to him. Somehow Michelangelo had a gift for breaking through to him, even when he could see nothing but what was in his mind. Somehow Michelangelo felt safe enough even during Leatherhead’s rages to drape himself on him and hold on tenaciously while giving a soothing rumble. Somehow Michelangelo was never scared of him, and never nervous.
The fact that Michelangelo was one of the most terrifying beings in that part of the world, and that he knew it, was probably why.
Time passed, April eventually joined the family, Leonardo met Sassy, and Leatherhead found himself gifting the smallest turtle one of his largest shed teeth on request. Strange how it didn’t bother him that Michelangelo put the tooth on a cord and wore it around his neck, almost never taking it off. Casey joined the family, Sassy moved away for her safety, and on his bad days Michelangelo made it a habit to stay with Leatherhead to help distract him so he’d feel safe. Their cross-reality incidents occurred, they experienced things that Leatherhead would never have dreamed possible, and Michelangelo always came back ready to tell him about the interesting and entertaining parts with bright eyes and a warm smile. Even as he gradually expanded the circle of those he would speak to in the small community near where they lived, Michelangelo’s influence was felt. Leatherhead rarely ever saw a blade or blood without some forewarning, and he knew he had Michelangelo to thank for that.
Leatherhead had lost everything after the collapse— his home, part of his family, his sense of safety, a second home, more of his family, all five of his parents— and yet he’d found a new home with a former Guardian and his sons, then their sister, then Casey. He’d found peace even despite his traumas, what those traumas made him do, and his fears of what the repercussions might be for his actions. Against all sense he’d found one who almost always made him feel safe. Leatherhead had his projects with Donatello, his easy company and debates over various books with Leonardo, his occasional light banter with Raphael, his (mostly) quiet friendship with April, and his occasionally perplexing conversations with Casey, but at the end of the day it was always Michelangelo who looked for him and calmed him.
At the end of a bad day it was Michelangelo who didn’t hesitate to fall asleep on him or tug Leatherhead into using him as a pillow.
If only Leatherhead didn’t have to deal with his uncertainty over whether he was reading Michelangelo correctly. It turned out that being a mutant raised by humans and utrom and having been on the run for at least seven years isn’t entirely helpful when it comes to knowing how to interpret the affectionate behavior of another mutant who’d spent the first fifteen years of his life without any human contact— especially when taken in the context of how affectionate the brothers were regularly. Maybe one day it will make sense, but until then Leatherhead will try to remain comfortable with his uncertainty.
Backup engineer and scientist, occasional backup muscle, friend, Letherahd, Little Bit, Leatherhead… however traumatized he is and whatever he is called, he knows he is safe and has found his way to family. He knows, even despite all the gaps in his memory, his triggers, his nightmares, his uncertainties, and all the rest of it, he has found his way home— and he has no intention of ever losing it again.
He is an enigma; father of four turtle sons, and later a human daughter— and later still perhaps a ‘father-in-law’ of sorts to a reckless human man; their sensei, and the unintentional focal point of his unusual family. He knows that without his existence then his family would not be as it is, would not have taken the shape it has. Without him, his daughter would never have met his sons and the last of their clan might not have met any of them. He knows this and has long since mulled over the thought and come to the realization that without his role in things, those who are most dear to him may never have become the family they are. How ironic then that he is uncertain about his origins, which truth is the truth, and which life was his life before the mutation— almost as if whoever he had been before his mutation was a figment of imagination only given a semblance of form and solidified through a catastrophic accident.
Hamato Splinter does not know who he was. Was he Hamato Yoshi? Or Hamato Yoshi’s rat, Splinter? Or was he somehow both? He doesn’t know. His mind during and after the mutation was a confusing swirl of incoherence and wildly conflicting impulses, with images, memories, and sense fragments flickering and dissolving into so much smoke whenever he tried to grasp them. It was easier at that time, so early on, to focus on a task (like Hamato Yoshi would) than to think— even if practicality (like Splinter’s) pulled at him to only look after himself. The turtles he ended up in the sewer with needed him, they were too small and too young to be on their own, they could have been picked off by predators, they were defenseless, he had to (had to?) had to protect them. But there had been the sewer, the dark, the unfamiliar— no, leaving them hadn’t been an option (it was the sensible option, no it was the wrong option, it wasn’t an option) —and no certainty about food or shelter. (Food? Shelter? Leaving them was practical—no, it was wrong. Take them, protect them, they were defenseless, they needed him.) There had been some vague awareness in his mind at the time that if he’d left them they wouldn’t have been able to get out of the sewer (before he knew just how drastic their physical changes would be after the ooze) and they would likely have died due to not being able to find food, but even though it had been a deciding factor in his (his? their?) mind it had been so far in his mental background that he hadn’t consciously processed it.
All he had really been able to recall at that moment was that something (something) terrible had happened, he was no longer home, he was in the dark (in the sewer), he couldn’t go home (where was home?) and there was no going back, but the small (turtles) needed him. Needed him? Needed them. Needed him. And the ooze, the sensation of it hitting his— skin? fur? —before he fell and landed in the dark near the small things (turtles) also covered in glowing green green green… and they needed him. If he was alone, they were more so. He… whatever he was… could survive, could figure out how to survive on his own. They couldn’t. Too young, far too young— so they were his.
He had been in a haze, but even with the confused jumble his mind had been at the time he could still recall the physical sensations of rolling an empty coffee can toward them, picking them up one by one and swiping off as much of the ooze as he could before putting them in the can, the eventual ache of his jaws as he tugged the can after himself (rolling it wasn’t an option, they could have gotten hurt— they could have gotten hurt?— yes, they could have gotten hurt, you don’t shake turtles in a coffee can damn it) to a more secure location (hands— useful hands, bigger hands —would have been helpful, but no his were too small). Safety, shelter, then food. And keeping the sma- turtles safe. Keeping them safe was more important than anything. Something bad had happened to carry them all into the sewer, there were bad and dangerous things (people?) in the world and might still be there and he/they/he (he? he) had to keep them safe. When he finally slept, with the coffee can safely upright so the turtles couldn’t go anywhere, it was with the worst headache he (Yoshi? Splinter? he?) had ever experienced.
The next day, or whenever it was that he’d woken up, had turned out not to be any less confusing. The coffee can looked much smaller than he’d remembered it being and where it had been big enough to keep the turtles contained without budging prior to his sleep, after waking it had been rattling ominously, in danger of tipping over. On seeing that the four of them were double the size they had been, it was fitting that his first real coherent thought had been along the lines of ‘This is not natural.’ And yet… they needed him. Too young, too small to be on their own. Bigger, but too small. And he had been bigger too. They didn’t stay in the can for long and he did his best to keep them close.
Days of rapid change followed, increasing clarity and increasing size, and some of the vague memories flitting through his mind became a bit easier to grasp— and along with it the realization that the turtles (his turtles) needed names. Names. Names were important, like his own, like— wait. Hamato. Hamato yes, but… Splint-er? Yoshi? Splinter? …Splinter? Yoshi? Spl— who had he been? It had almost been enough to set off another headache, but he’d resolutely shoved his confusion aside in favor of focusing on his turtles. They were bigger, they were smarter, and they were faster than they had been. They might be like him, words waiting to swirl in their minds, shaping and clarifying the world around them. They needed names. His own could wait. And memories… Almost like a message lighting the way, he had suddenly remembered a… a book… on art. Art classics. No, art history. And the feel of his/not his/his/not his/his? hands on the pages as he— Yoshi— studied the text with interest and… he knew what to name them. The calmest one, the one who tried to keep the others close to him, was Leonardo. The irritable one, the one who kept trying to bite— him as well as the other turtles— and charge off regularly, was Raphael. The curious one, the one determined to look at things even if it meant he had to climb to places he couldn’t easily reach, was Donatello. And the playful one, the one who happily chirped at him and started pouncing on his tail and on the other turtles’ shells, was Michelangelo. And they were… his turtles? His sons? His sons.
They were his sons and he was their… father? grandfather? father? grandfather? father and grandfather? Splinter or Yoshi, Yoshi or Splinter—who had he been? If the turtles were his sons then Splinter was Yoshi’s son, which would make Yoshi their grandfather— but was he Yoshi or Splinter? If he was Yoshi, then what happened to their… brother? father? brother? If he was Splinter, then what happened to their grandfather and why was he… why did he remember… why did he have some of Yoshi’s memories? And the cage— warm, home, safeplace— why could he remember that so clearly if he was Yoshi? Was he (could he be?)—was he both? (both? both?) Rat and human (human and rat)? Rat imprinted on human, human imprinted on rat, rat/human/rat/human/rat/human/rat but also human also rat? He’d had to put the brakes on that train of thought, too easy to provoke another painful headache in his confusion— and he couldn’t let on to his sons that there was something wrong with him. They were too young, they needed him, they couldn’t understand if he fell apart, they weren’t equipped to handle that— and he was their father. He would NOT lay that burden on them. He would solve his problems on his own, or at least what he could, and then he would put off the rest of it until he was better equipped to address those remaining problems, but he would not let his problems affect his sons.
Deciding that granted him a certain amount of clarity; he didn’t know who he had been, which truth was the truth for whatever he had been before the accident, but when it came to looking after his sons he didn’t need to. Knowing exactly what the truth was of whatever he’d been before mattered comparatively little when he needed to make certain they had shelter, a safe place to sleep, and food that wouldn’t make them sick. So, not knowing whether it was accurate or not but choosing to let his (bipedal rat) form dictate his name, he chose to go by ‘Splinter’. It helped soothe his frustrated self-questioning to know that if he was Splinter it was accurate, and if he was Yoshi then it was in respectful memory of Splinter. Confusing still, yes, but more tolerable than the self-interrogation that got him nowhere with only a headache to show for it. Letting go of that need for an answer had also made it easier for him to pay attention to whatever was occurring in a given moment.
He didn’t know when he started speaking to them, if he had even noticed a change in the structure of his throat or jaw that made it possible for him to, or if he’d been subconsciously trying to mutter to them from the start (since they ended up in the sewers, not before, before was too cloudy and confused), but the day he heard a warbled attempt to say ‘otousan’ it came crashing into his awareness full-force. Michelangelo, it turned out, had apparently been frustrated that he’d been lost in his own mind trying to sort out what he’d needed to do and hadn’t noticed his youngest son’s attempts to indicate that he wanted to cuddle in his father’s lap. (He’d been reasonably certain that Michelangelo was the youngest; he was the smallest and there was something about his scent that incomprehensibly said ‘youngest’ to Hamato Splinter’s mind.) And further, Michelangelo had been frustrated enough to attempt the complicated noises his father made. That it got him exactly what he wanted provided the impetus for his brothers to follow his lead and start speaking not long after. Within days all four of them were babbling, interspersed with the chirps and clicks they’d started aiming at him not long after he’d taken them in.
He’d been so proud of them, ecstatic that they were like him and that he could give them someone to speak to and— the realization that he’d needed to teach them to read as soon as they were old enough had hit him with the same level of severity as realizing that they were learning to speak. He’d been more than prepared for the possibility that his sons might not be like him, that they might not be able to grasp language like he did, but the fact that everything seemed to point to them being capable of what he was meant that he’d have to work to meet those unthought-of needs. So many things to plan, to prepare, to carry out to give his sons the best chance he could when there were things— no, people— who might lash out at them on first sight if they weren’t careful… it had been overwhelming. The infuriating question in the back of his mind of whether his own language fluency rested with Yoshi or (unlikely) Splinter hadn’t helped, but he’d shoved it back with yet another reminder to himself that the knowledge source didn’t matter. It only mattered that he had the knowledge and could use it, and that he could pass it on to his sons.
Finding a safe place for them to stay in the long run had been a Kami-sent gift, granting him the peace of mind in knowing that he no longer had to worry about them getting into trouble by drifting too far away from him. The abandoned subway station hadn’t been entirely ideal (broken glass, old garbage, and enough cobwebs and dust to make him feel like he’d never get it out of his fur after all), but as an enclosed space with doors to sub-rooms that could be closed it had been a vast improvement over semi-nomadically inhabiting tunnels that seemed not to get a lot of traffic from technicians (or whoever else might have reason to be in New York’s tunnels). It had also offered the benefit that with a permanent place to stay, or at least permanent enough, it was easier to accumulate the sorts of possessions and necessities that made things far less complicated— such as blankets enough to ensure none of them were too cold.
Even so, it hardly surprised him that his sons preferred to sleep curled up to him— not only did it provide them comfort, but he was also a constantly radiating source of warmth. It also had the added benefit of getting his tired mind to shut off when he was trying to sleep instead of constantly jerking awake in a mild panic that his (too cool for humans—they’re NOT humans, they’re turtles, they’re running WARM for turtles, so shut up and GO TO SLEEP) sons were going to freeze to death before they were even a year old. Or two years old? There was research that needed to be done if he could retrace their steps back to where they’d fallen and find out where the four of them had come from.
It was on that first time he temporarily left them— being certain to close his sons into the room that had become their communal sleeping-space after having carefully told them he would be back (Donatello seemed to have a better understanding of the concept of time, so he felt reasonably certain Donatello could keep the others from panicking over his absence) —that he discovered his odd mix of memories ran deeper than he’d thought. The rat in him made it easy to find his way back to where they had fallen, and the human in him made it easy to work out how to get up to the street and move around without being seen, even with the street lights not giving him anywhere near as much darkness and shadows to work with as he would have preferred. The glass from the tank his sons had been in (the pieces still undisturbed where they’d fallen in the sewer) had just enough scent clinging to the shards still that it gave him some direction, matching up with the smells he hadn’t really processed on that day. It wasn’t the sort of information he would have preferred to rely on, but a ninja (ninja? he was a ninja?) used the tools they had at their disposal. Without thinking, he fell back on almost two decades’ worth of training— whether it was his own or not his own didn’t matter— to trace the path to that specific pet store, to get inside quickly and quietly as soon as he was certain no one was around, to look around for sales records (did they have sales records? …Yes!), and to start looking through the files in the limited light.
And then he hit the first snag in his evening; he had no idea what species they were. Fortunately there were pictures of the animals attached to each sales record (why did that seem unusual to him? maybe they were more invested than most pet stores in making certain animals went to good homes?), but there were enough files that without a specific date or species to look by that he could easily look for far too long and never find it. A different tactic was needed. So he cautiously crept out from the back rooms to roam through the store itself, checking the scents of each tank that had turtles until he found the right smell— red-eared sliders. They’d been red-eared sliders. With that information secured, he returned to the back and tried again. Looking through the most recent sales and working his way back eventually led him to the file, the right one, and with it he found not only the day they’d been sold and the accident had happened (that date had felt like a bolt of lightning in his mind) but also the day they’d hatched— and their birth order. They already looked so different than they had, and the low-lighting hadn’t helped, but the patterns of their shells were as familiar to him now as his own unusual hands. The picture of the four of them on the page, with numbers and arrows pointing to each of them, told him what he’d wanted to know. His instincts had been right; Leonardo, then Raphael, then Donatello, then Michelangelo.
His training told him that he should have just left the record there and kept the memory of it locked in his mind. Leave no trace, leave no sign— and yet, as their father, he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the only picture he might ever have of them. He put everything back in order and left the shop, taking the file with him. It was perhaps fitting, due to his (discovered? re-discovered?) abilities, that on his way back out of the corner of his eye he spotted the brown gi top that would become part of his daily wear on a laundry line. That too went with him, the odd sense of familiarity completely overriding any confusion or guilt he might have had over the action. He had training, and lots of it, buried in his mind— if he could figure out the limits of it then he could also take that knowledge and teach it to his sons when they were old enough, so they could defend themselves.
That was far from his only outing, but it was certainly one of the most stressful due to how young his sons were. On another occasion, a dreamed memory belonging to Hamato Yoshi led him to retrieving his? Yoshi’s? weapons from a storage facility owned by… Who were the utrom? No matter, he knew that the facility wasn’t as guarded as most facilities they owned (???), Hamato Yoshi’s property would have been left undisturbed, and using the correct code on the keypad wouldn’t raise any alarms. Retrieving them had been easy, and when he’d returned home it was all the easier to test himself and the ingrained knowledge he had but wasn’t conscious of.
Picking up the habit of doing katas daily helped things fall into place. There was still an enormous amount of confusion in his mind, but testing his limits and knowledge (and adjusting to the fact that he couldn’t precisely match the memories of the way Hamato Yoshi had moved due to different body designs) helped make things clearer and pointed him toward other pieces of knowledge he’d been unaware he’d had. Meditation helped immensely. Fragments of knowledge and information were easier to take hold of and stitch back together when he was gently probing his mind instead of desperately trying to scrape together anything he remembered. Sometimes what he recovered initially made no sense to him, but trusting that it would in time eliminated a great deal of stress. Of course, there were times his sons pulled him from his meditation— whether by flopping against his side, clambering onto his lap, pouncing on his tail (usually Michelangelo, but the others had their moments), or trying to scale his back— but he could hardly be angry with them over it. How could he be when they made his confusing life worth living? Perhaps he was over-indulgent at times, but it set the tone for how he treated them.
Their lives passed like that for some years: his katas and meditation (often before his sons woke, although they each gradually drifted into joining him— of which Leonardo had been first— by occupying the edges of the room before he began formally teaching them ninjutsu), breakfast, teaching them to read through the supplies he carefully collected (he felt like a downright idiot when he realized he’d been teaching them nothing but Japanese on the day he began to seriously work on how to teach them to read), teaching them English, teaching them math and whatever else he thought they might need, lunch, giving them time to play and explore, taking them with him on his supply runs as needed (once they were old enough), dinner, putting them to bed, repeat. It wasn’t ideal, raising quadruplets in an abandoned train station underground with no one else to speak to could hardly be considered anything close to ideal, but he was happy. And while part of his mind often insisted that he should maintain some level of ‘dignity,’ he often shoved it back— he was their father, ‘dignity’ didn’t matter when it came to parenting his sons through play, training, and affection. It was far more important to him that they knew they were loved; ‘dignity’ was secondary. It made the day he gave them their masks and formally inducted them in as his students in ninjutsu all the more meaningful and heartfelt, and his heart had swollen with pride at the sight of the line of four young turtles seated in seiza before him for the first time. They were his students, his sons, and only the need for teaching them the concept of formality kept him from sweeping the four of them into his arms— at least until the formal mood broke anyway.
He delighted in watching them grow and change, in seeing how their personalities developed and where their own unique gifts lay. Seeing how Leonardo tried to be the responsible one, while Raphael fought to find the balance between his anger and his desire to protect, as Donatello absorbed information and tried to figure out how things worked, and Michelangelo was bursting at the seams with art and play… it warmed his heart. They were his sons, in all their tangled complexity and even as they tried to put too much pressure on themselves at times. They were his sons and nothing could change that. True, there were times he was frustrated— such as the rare instances when the brothers were fighting and he had to push them into talking things out— but it was still entirely worth it. Even before the collapse he’d developed a thorough appreciation for what made each of them who they were, but the onset of the collapse forced them to grow up faster than he would have preferred.
It started out small, political and social unrest that he overheard whispers of when his sons were 6. At the time he brushed it off, tried not to pay it much attention. He’d hoped that it would quiet down relatively quickly, and that his ability to obtain food and other necessities wouldn’t be hampered by what was happening above-ground. It didn’t quiet down. Things got progressively worse during the year, and it became increasingly dangerous for him or his sons to even consider being on the surface. The first riot he witnessed, just barely avoiding being caught in the middle of, was enough for him to decide it was no longer safe for his sons to accompany him on his supply runs. If humans were gunning each other down in the street, then it was far too dangerous to risk being a mutant and being seen— as mutant children his sons wouldn’t have stood a chance. And then there was the night the TCRI building (the utrom’s building! the utrom? The Utrom) exploded, the remnants burning to the ground. Were they gone? They were supposed to be gone, somehow Hamato Splinter knew that much, but the TCRI building going like that… It wasn’t good news, and he wasn’t entirely certain why.
Other mutants started turning up not long after. Things got even worse.
Splinter took to listening, eavesdropping at grates and drains, stealing newspapers when he could. People were disappearing, there were whispers that an entire city (Detroit?) had gone dark and no one knew what was happening there, rumors of partially-eaten corpses turning up in alleys started circulating. One of the hospitals was bombed. Schools closed. After one riot, fires raged in Manhattan for three days. Something, or someone, began prowling the sewers. He heard whispers that some people were seriously considering going into hiding in the sewers and tunnels underneath New York for their safety— a dangerous proposition for his sons. The day he stumbled across a body, someone who had either been a sanitation worker or seeking refuge with their throat torn out and smears of blood on the tunnel walls, was the day he decided it was time for his family to get out of New York and disappear into the largest span of wilderness they could get to on foot. His sons were 8 years old; he didn’t want them seeing dead bodies or blood on the walls, didn’t want to risk meeting whatever had killed the human he’d carefully stepped around, didn’t want to risk his sons encountering the source of that death. It was time to leave.
When he returned home he collected the four of them to tell them that things had gotten too dangerous, it was no longer safe, and that the five of them needed to pack up their things as quickly and as quietly as possible; and further, that once they left they would not be coming back. He hated seeing the fear in their eyes, the sadness at leaving the only home they had known. He hated having to tell them that there would be things they would have to leave behind. He helped them sort through what they wanted to keep, pack away what they could in backpacks that he’d gotten for them when he first started taking them on supply runs with him, and gave them a final day to be certain they had everything they wanted to take with them before they left.
Soon after he dismissed his sons to their rooms to collect what they wanted to keep, Leonardo silently approached him; he held Leonardo as his eldest son sobbed that it wasn’t fair that they had to leave when they hadn’t done anything wrong. When he was helping Raphael sort through his things his son suddenly turned and clung to him, prompting Splinter to wrap his arms around his second eldest just as Raphael started shaking wordlessly. When he checked on Donatello, his second youngest was a frantic mess of trying to sort out what books were important to him to keep, changing his mind almost as soon as he’d settled on a pile based on whether the information was important or if he could carry all of it or— Donatello broke down crying almost as soon as Splinter opened the door, prompting him to tuck the little turtle under his chin as he gently wiped away tears and traced soothing circles on his son’s shell with his claws. And Michelangelo… Michelangelo wasn’t in any better of a state than his older brothers; he’d gotten to his room and then just sat frozen and numb in the center of it, staring at nothing for as long as it had taken Splinter to reach him. That look, when Splinter saw it, was one he never wanted to see on his youngest son’s face ever again. Taking him into his arms hadn’t felt like it could ever have been enough in that moment.
They slept in his bed that night.
When they left it was in near-silence. They briefly stopped by the library, long enough for Splinter to look up a suitable location to travel to— the Stewart State Forest seemed both distant and large enough to suit their needs— and take a map before leaving. If New York was anything to judge by, it was far too dangerous for them to risk getting lost. They had to make their trip as quick as possible and hope that they could avoid encountering anyone on the way. If Splinter had never felt anxious before, he certainly felt so then. The days following were a nightmare of desperately avoiding being seen, trying to stay hidden from the roads while also following them to make certain they didn’t lose their way, wishing that there had been some easy means to carry his sons when they got too tired or hungry or sore to walk anymore, looking for safe places to sleep during their trip that wouldn’t leave them too exposed… and seeing the ways his sons handled their fear and uncertainty. If he could have taken that fear and uncertainty from them he would have done so in a heartbeat.
When they arrived, it should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. Where before Hamato Splinter had had a sizable amount of knowledge to fall back on to keep his family safe, in the environment of the forest he found his knowledge was far more limited than he would have preferred— even if he somehow knew that it exceeded what most humans knew about surviving in a forest. They had to go hungry that first night in favor of constructing a shelter; a rather laughable one in his opinion— they had downgraded from an abandoned station where they’d managed to get electricity and running water to a literal hole in the ground with woven branches to cover the entrance! —but it was better than sleeping out in open view in the elements. It was the first in a long stretch of days of uncertainty.
Despite that uncertainty, it soon became apparent that some good came from the change in where they lived. Where before Raphael had seemed perpetually at war with himself, his anger, and the way he felt he should treat his brothers, that fight within himself seemed to have completely vanished— as if he’d found himself and who he was meant to be. It started out small, Raphael jerking awake when Michelangelo woke up from a nightmare only to wrap his arms around his youngest brother with a growl as he promised he wouldn’t let anyone touch him, but in time it grew into much more. Splinter had thought, prior to the beginning of the collapse, that he would have had to encourage his sons to eventually give up their growls, hisses, snarls, chirps, and clicks— to protect them and give them a better chance of being recognized as people should they ever encounter humans personally— but the collapse had driven the thought from his mind. And that night, not reacting and laying still near his sons with his eyes not-quite-closed, hearing how that rumbling growl underlying Raphael’s words soothed Michelangelo, Hamato Splinter began to re-think the assumption that his sons would eventually have to ‘grow out of’ their sounds.
Just as Raphael seemed to have found his place, so did Donatello— diving with a fervor into reading the books he’d salvaged, putting the information in some of them to immediate practice and sharing what he learned with his brothers and father. Their home expanded, digging deeper into the ground with carefully placed supports, while at the same time the family began to learn the fine art of steam-shaping wood through trial and error. Nets, snares, and shaping stone for tools soon followed— something which Leonardo took to with enthusiasm. Soon enough Leonardo could tell whether a rock could be shaped into anything useful on sight alone (having the skill to do so was another matter entirely and led his eldest son into having an ever-growing rock collection that he intended to shape eventually). And while all four of his sons were initially squeamish about killing, cleaning, and skinning the prey that was caught in their snares or nets, once Michelangelo finally processed it as a food source it was like a switch had been thrown and he not only took to it with gusto, he began actively stalking small prey to see just how close he could get before they bolted.
And then came the day Raphael stood his ground against a bear that had been eyeing Donatello too much for his liking. They’d gone net-fishing, intending to get enough for a meal or two as well as some surplus to make their first attempt at smoking the meat. Splinter hadn’t been far from them, just around the bend in the river with Leonardo and Michelangelo ranged out in the opposite direction from where Raphael and Donatello had gone, but he’d been far enough not to see the danger obscured by trees and undergrowth. The bone-chilling howling scream Raphael had given instantly froze Splinter in place, provoking the rat in him to a near-instant panic that he’d fought down with an effort (not that the human in him had been much better off). That it made the bear turn tail and run changed everything. After he got the explanation from his middle sons, once he’d collected all four of them and they returned home, he began to put more thought into the practicality of their sounds. And when, several days later, Donatello came to him with a detailed argument in favor of the four of them not only using their sounds but learning how to refine them and use them deliberately, along with weaponizing some of them, he was unintentionally reminded of the day he had recovered the only picture he had of his sons. A ninja uses whatever tools they have at their disposal. Hamato Splinter approved.
Theirs was a world where being ‘acceptable enough’ to humans should a hypothetical encounter ever become reality could no longer increase the odds of their survival enough for it to be a goal worth pursuing, but using the skills they naturally had at their disposal in addition to their ninja training just might. Any remaining reluctance he’d had about his family’s ‘less human’ characteristics— his sons’ and his own— faded like so much smoke dissipating into the wind. He still hadn’t had any idea if he’d started out as a rat or a human, but he found his more rat-ish impulses far less infuriating and it became much easier to use them to his advantage. At least the more useful ones at any rate.
Chirps, clicks, purrs, hisses, growls, snarls, yowls, and— yes— even those blood-curdling howls became a larger part of Splinter’s lived reality. When he was training them, working on their kata (once they’d managed to suitably clear and flatten a large enough area for the purpose), or leading them in meditation practice, they were perfectly capable of being the silent ninja-in-training they needed to be. Outside of that training and moments dictating silence their sounds bled into the fabric of almost every conversation or interaction; to the point where if there weren’t clicks bouncing back and forth and his sons were otherwise being quiet for too long he found himself becoming concerned. That his own subconscious habit of occasionally clicking his tongue whenever he was comforting them reflected the expression of affection he’d picked up from them in their first year together, was hardly a surprise when he finally realized he’d been doing it. It wasn’t exactly the same sound as the one his sons made, but it was similar enough that the warmth contained in it was unmistakable.
Perhaps it was that comfort with disregarding the concept of being ‘human enough,’ born out of his comfort with his sons, that led him to barely bat an eye the day Michelangelo came running into camp with a (terrified) live bird in his hands while gleefully announcing that he’d caught it. Hamato Splinter found himself far less disturbed about the concept that his sons would grow up to be predators when they were 10 than he would have imagined he’d be when they were 8. It didn’t hurt that the four of them learning how to stalk prey and hunt could only increase their chances of eating well, while also honing their skills as ninja to move silently and go unseen. He found himself encouraging Michelangelo, as well as encouraging the other three to follow Michelangelo’s lead in adopting the practice of stalking small prey. He certainly didn’t want them actively hunting before they were ready for it, but getting in the practice until then could only benefit them.
Years of practice, training, building up their skills as he and his sons learned how to build a better dwelling and give it shape through the use of stone, wood, moss, and tanned hides transformed their section of the forest from just being where they were living into their home. Giving them the weapons they’d trained to use when they were 14, the very same weapons that he had recovered from the utrom storage facility, reinforced that feeling. Bestowing (his?) Hamato Yoshi’s weapons on them solidified the area that had become their dojo as a place that was special to all of them— one that could never be replaced. And when his sons finally did begin actively hunting, and Raphael began to show how deep his need to be the family protector ran by creating the arm-and-leg-guards that the brothers took to wearing, Splinter could find nothing in himself but pride and love for his sons. Moving to the forest and the circumstances that had prompted it had been far from ideal, but it had given Splinter and his sons the rare opportunity to live life on their own terms. Given the opportunity to reverse it all and prevent the collapse from even happening, he found he could never wish differently for them. His sons were free to live in the sunlight, express themselves in ways that came naturally to them, and live without the baggage that being a mutant in a human city could have come with.
Of course it was only a matter of time before a reminder of the fears he’d had before they left New York reared its head again. The night his sons came bolting into camp— Raphael with a seriously injured and bleeding Leonardo in his arms, Donatello supporting a limping mutant alligator who was in almost as bad a state as Leonardo trailing behind, and Michelangelo darting back and forth between them— was the night that Splinter was forced to remember the fears and nightmares that had plagued him in the year leading up to when they’d left. They might have escaped the nightmares that had come into being in New York, but on that night it became entirely too clear that those threats had persisted in their absence and spread out. It was a long night, not knowing if Leonardo would live (Donatello had been certain he would but hadn’t known if he could recover fully) and being just as uncertain if their guest— Leatherhead— would succumb to his own injuries.
That worry was all-consuming and for several days the Hamato family (at least the uninjured members) spent their hours in a tense watch over Leonardo and Leatherhead while keeping an ear out should anyone approach. Had their injuries not been so severe or the situation so worrying then perhaps the vague sense of familiarity brought on by Leatherhead would have stirred up his memories sooner, but it was only as his nerves finally began settling on the fourth day that an enormous chunk of Hamato Yoshi’s memories fell into place.
Hamato Yoshi had been a guardian— no, a Guardian for the utrom. He’d worked for them; furthering their goals, helping them bring down their enemy, helping them to… what? conquer? NO. Not to conquer, but to go home, to leave Earth. And Leatherhead… Yoshi had seen him, met him, long before the accident… The alligator had been so young, his head barely above Yoshi’s knee... Three years old. He’d been three years old at that point (how long ago had that been?), his mutation an unexpected effect of coming in contact with the ooze— no, the mutagen— and reason enough for the utrom to be concerned, yet… The utrom had taken Leatherhead in, not unlike what Splinter had done for his sons, and gave him a home and a family. His mutation had been an accident, an unqualifiable disaster that had resulted in repercussions for the Guardian that hadn’t been careful enough when transporting the mutagen, but they’d- the utrom had claimed Leatherhead as their responsibility, their child. Was that why he (Splinter? Yoshi? Splinter? Yoshi? Yoshi and Splinter, Splinter and Yoshi, Y- he) had responded so immediately to his sons’ need for him all those years ago? Had it been thanks to the precedent set by knowing Leatherhead? Was it— had it been? —knowing without knowing the effects of the mutagen that had helped him cope in those early days?
No, not important, not now, but… What had happened to Leatherhead after the utrom left? Had they left? They were supposed to have left several days after Splinter and his sons had been mutated, but for Leatherhead to be left behind… However jumbled and confused the memories he had from Yoshi and Splinter from before the accident, of one thing Hamato Splinter was certain— had it been him, he never would have been able to leave his sons behind. And if Yoshi worked for the utrom, and they considered Leatherhead their child, then he found it immensely doubtful that they would have voluntarily left him behind unless they felt it was in his best interests. Which— yes, that was it. Another memory, one of the Guardians had been assigned to take in Leatherhead after the utrom were to leave— and yet all those years later Leatherhead had been so alone that if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Splinter’s sons he wouldn’t have been alive. That memory of a shy and sweet three-year-old peeking around the robotic leg of an utrom exo-suit to quietly wave at Yoshi, giving a hesitant but genuine smile when Yoshi waved back, and the realization that that same boy had grown up to almost be killed for nothing more than just being what he was, had made something painful and sharp twist in Splinter’s chest.
He couldn’t erase the damage that had been done, the injuries or scars that Leatherhead had gained or that he had clearly lost what family he’d had left after the utrom had gone (if they had gone— it was a reasonable assumption that they had), but he could at least make it clear that Leatherhead was safe with them and was welcome. His sons made conveying that all the easier. Ultimately, Leatherhead chose not to live with them— he feared that his temper might cause him to do something he’d regret thanks to his traumas— although he did make the decision to live nearby. It took some time for the six of them to make a home suitable for Leatherhead to inhabit (the place he’d chosen was closer to the river than the Hamato home because he found the sound of the running river soothing), but the process cemented the bond between Leatherhead and the Hamato family. He could turn to them or visit whenever he felt the need to, and in turn he extended the same courtesy to them.
It was clearly a sign of how strong that bond was when Michelangelo took to wearing one of Leatherhead’s larger shed teeth on a leather cord around his neck— something which Splinter’s youngest at least had the sense to ask permission for before doing it— but it was one that Splinter could have easily done without. Leave it to his youngest to take an unsettling concept and run with it. Although admittedly that was probably preferable to his own uncertain avoidance of letting Leatherhead know that he (he? Yoshi) had known him before the collapse… No matter, it would eventually come out, of that he’d been certain.
Perhaps Leatherhead returning with his sons and living so close by was what made him trust so thoroughly in his sons’ judgement about others. They had proven every bit as compassionate as he’d hoped, even with the concerns about the dangers of the world he’d raised them to be aware of. And despite having their socialization limited to their family up until that point, they had proven to be more than capable of judging the trustworthiness of someone accurately— so when they came home with April he was far from worried.
Any worries he might have had were immediately discarded in recognition of the fact that April was hurting, and she had lost everything. The moment he laid eyes on her his heart had given that same painful twist as it had the day he’d made the decision to take his family and leave New York, the very same twist when he realized that the sweet little alligator he’d once known had been attacked just for not being human; and when his sons explained what had happened he looked into her eyes and his heart said daughter. Under other circumstances the familiarity of cupping her cheek as if she was one of his children while welcoming her into their home might have been unwelcome, but it proved to be exactly what she needed. In that moment as he held her while she cried, he knew that whether it was ever openly addressed or not he would forever consider her one of his.
He was happy to see April gradually heal and recuperate to the point where she could finally smile again, and when she eventually started slipping into the fold with his sons— bantering, bickering, teasing, and playing, casually interacting with them with affectionate words and contact— he couldn’t help but smile warmly. It was as if she was supposed to have been there beside his sons all along. She was home, she was part of their family, and he found he loved her every bit as much as he loved his sons. And when she called him ‘Dad’ for the first time, he’d wrapped her in his arms, his heart feeling fit to burst. She might have been 18 when she joined their family, but she was his and he would defend her just as fiercely as he would defend her brothers.
April becoming part of their family came with unexpected gifts; meeting her needs required them to reach out to their ‘neighbors,’ beyond Leatherhead, and gave them all much needed socialization and friendships. With April leading the way, their human neighbors soon knew and trusted them well— both increasing the safety of their family and helping eliminate the fear of mutants that so many humans in the area had had. For the first time since that fateful day all those years ago, Hamato Splinter and his sons were able to openly walk in view of others… and they had April to thank.
When Casey Jones turned up— someone who Raphael had already vented about on several occasions throughout the months prior before coming to grudgingly admit they’d become friends— he was far from the only person to have expressed any interest in his children, though he was the first to express interest in two of them at the same time. (The girl Leonardo had been with for a time was entertaining and almost a force of nature in her own right, but due to unfortunate circumstances she’d had to move away with part of her family for her safety. A pity really. Splinter was of the opinion that Sassy had been a good influence on his eldest son by keeping him from taking himself too seriously.) Not that Casey was immediately obvious about being interested in April and Donatello both, but when it did become clear his actions felt like a natural outgrowth of the way he’d started bantering with them from the first moment he was coherent enough to do so.
Splinter might have been annoyed (as only a good parent could be) by the situation, but he was nothing if not observant where his children were concerned. So long as Donatello and April weren’t uncomfortable with Casey’s behavior, he was content to sit back and let the three of them work things out on their own. It very quickly became obvious that, however loud his personality might be, Casey was the perfect gentleman when it came to respecting April and Donatello’s boundaries. Much to his surprise, Splinter found himself unbothered by the idea that his second youngest and his daughter might individually end up with the same partner— especially when that potential partner clearly respected them and cared for them so deeply. Seeing the poor young man nearly walk into a tree on several occasions also proved rather amusing, and to some extent Splinter couldn’t help but sympathize. Living with two people he was so clearly attracted to and in love with, without being in official relationships with either of them, couldn’t be easy for Casey. Despite that, Casey stayed— clearly having made up his mind that being near them was enough even if it was all he might get. If he’d approved of Casey before, with that knowledge his approval of him as a potential partner to his children increased substantially. (Not that Hamato Splinter didn’t get a fair amount of amusement from witnessing the reactions from all three of them when their neighbors eventually began verbalizing their assumptions about Casey’s relationships with April and Donatello. Still, the least he could do for them was to not make that amusement too obvious.) And really, with how unusual his life was, what was one more unusual piece to it? As long as his family— the rebuilt Hamato clan— were happy, then that was what mattered.
Enigma, focal point, sensei, and father; rat or human, human or rat, or even both; he is Hamato Splinter, and what’s most important to him is that his clan— his family— all know that he will always be there for them. And if that means who he was before his mutation forever remains a mystery, then so be it.
He is their backup, their distraction, one of their heavy-hitters— hell, he’s even the fuckin’ cavalry for when things start going south and his friends need just a little more fire-power to make it out intact. He is the bizarre whackjob who fought his way into their clan after repeatedly getting into brawls with the guy who became his best friend and then eventually followed said best friend home and just never left. Yeah, there might be an analogy to be made comparing him to a bitchy and violent alley-cat (even he has to admit ending up part of the clan the way he did is pretty fuckin’ weird), but it got him to where he is now, so he sees no point in complaining about the (accurate) comparison.
Casey Jones used to be a regular(-ish) kid back before the collapse went full-swing. He was 11 during the riots and when the power started going down. He can remember a fair amount of what there was before everything fell to shit— school, his grandparents’ farm up in Northampton that his family had kept even after his grandparents had passed away, the usual bullies and shit that he dealt with too damn often before he had his first ‘fuck everything’ moment and went to town on them (good times)— but he can also remember how quickly everything changed. He can remember when the schools decided it was too dangerous to stay open; how, because it was too dangerous for kids to show up, the schools closed down one by one and left all those kids staying home. He can remember his Ma pacing in the living room, muttering a long string of creative curse words (some invented on the spot) as she tried to make up her mind about whether to dig her heels in and stay put, or to jack a car that wasn’t boxed in like hers was and haul ass with him up to Northampton.
He also remembers her vaguely muttering about wanting to run over any Purple Dragons who might be dumb enough to show their faces on the way out if they left. Miranda Jones was something of a battle-ax when she was alive, and the Purple Dragons having been responsible for the death of Casey’s Dad back before the collapse had tempted her on more than one occasion to take a page from her own dad’s playbook and hunt them down one-by-one so she could kneecap the bastards. Only the fact that Casey needed her, and she’d been determined to keep him out of the trouble that their family so often tried to flock to, kept her from following through.
It turned out that in his own whackjob brawling bullshit he actually took a lot after her. Looking back on it, sometimes he’s not entirely certain what convinced his Dad— who was a really sweet and gentle guy actually— to get together with his grumpy and violent, but kindhearted Ma. And the fact that Arnold Casey Jones Sr. wasn’t bothered by her being adamant on keeping her last name, and instead chose to take her last name when they got married was always something that proved to Casey how weirdly mismatched— and yet perfectly matched— they had been for each other. It’s probably a large part of why Casey ended up so chill when it came to figuring out his own interests later on.
Because of his Ma, and his fights at school, Casey knew how to throw a punch when everything started going downhill. She taught him how to defend himself; originally so he could stand his ground and not get pushed around by people trying to start trouble, but after the collapse she ramped it up out of necessity. She had a feeling that things weren’t going to get better, that everything was going to go to hell in a handbasket, and as much as she never wanted him to get pulled into fights she also wanted to make damned certain that her son could survive whatever the world threw at him. She also made sure to emphasize that even if he had to become a brawler and bruiser out of necessity that she never wanted him to lose his gentle side or kindness. The world might be hard as fuck, but that didn’t mean that’s how she wanted her baby to be. And Casey… he took to those lessons like a fish to water. He never told her that part of his interest was out of the desire to get back at the Purple Dragons, but he was his Ma’s son— she probably knew.
He considered it training for whenever he felt ready to take them on, and she did her best to drill it into his skull to bail a fight if it ever looked like he was getting in over his head. Fortunately he had sense enough to put off going after the Purple Dragons until he was 14, and then only in causing them problems without going toe-to-toe with them at first. Even so, it didn’t take him long to become a massive thorn in their side, one who adopted his trademark hockey mask and sports-equipment weaponry within days of first going active— partly out of keeping his identity hidden so the Dragons (and others) wouldn’t know to strike at his Ma, and partly because (like his Ma in a lot of ways) he was a dramatic little shit. And yeah, revenge might have been the initial motivator for him, but over the years it shifted more into a desire to keep others safe. What point was there in fighting if he wasn’t doing it to help people? Proof that he was just as much his Dad’s son as his Ma’s.
To say that he’d been close to his Ma would have been accurate, if understated. It made losing his Ma when he was 17 hurt beyond words. She’d been his main frame of reference of what family was supposed to be like, how they were supposed to watch out for and support each other, for his entire life up to that point. He’d learned a fair amount from his Dad before they lost him about how important it was to know when to let go, relax, and be gentle, but he’d also learned from his Ma how to dig in and fight to protect what and who was important. Losing her to pneumonia (at least according to the doctor who had been their neighbor that’s what it had been) during that hard winter had left him numb and alone.
If he’d really wanted to he could have gone looking for the other remnants of his family, like his cousin Sid, but he’d never been all that close with them. From what he’d remembered Sid had always been a skeevy little self-interested asshole (not the sort of person he wanted anything to do with); and with the other relatives that he remembered on his Ma’s side having been similar, he had no desire to reconnect with them. Her funeral and burial ended up private. Just him, never having told their neighbors where he took her body and laid her to rest. It hadn’t been the prettiest solution, but laying her to rest with his Dad so they could be together again had felt like the right thing to do— even if shoveling down through the snow and frozen ground to do it had been hell. It was his Ma’s final lesson to him, that sometimes doing right by his family— and not just blood family, but real family— would mean doing the hard things that were too heartbreaking to have even considered doing before the collapse.
Sometimes the world fucking sucked.
He went back home that winter after burying her. Not because he wanted to stay in the old brownstone (the memories were too fresh and raw and the fact that he kept expecting to hear his Ma’s voice sparked more than one breakdown), but because winter was a bitch and he wanted the time to sort what he wanted to keep from what he was going to leave behind. Staying there in the long run was something he just couldn’t do. It hurt too much. So when late spring rolled around and things had warmed up, he left.
What followed was roughly four years of almost constantly being on the move, migrating from place to place in NYC as he stepped up his personal war against the Purple Dragons and anyone they allied themselves with, never settling in one place for long to avoid setting up others as targets that could be caught in the crossfire. Tussles and brawls with human bastards weren’t the only times his fighting skills got a workout either. There were run-ins with mutants, scary shit that he never would have dreamed of before everything went to hell. (Acid spit. Fucking acid spit. He’d liked that hockey stick, but that incident was the sort of shit that left him with nightmares.) It was almost ironic how the last newscast he could remember having seen on the tv when he was a kid was one of the first open acknowledgements that mutants existed and no one knew how they came to be or where they’d come from, and how all those years later he almost seemed to be a magnet for any mutant in New York looking to pick a fight or go on a rampage.
Considering that track record (and how frequently he’d been attacked by mutants with no forewarning— which, what the fuck, RUDE), his reaction on first meeting Raph was entirely justified. Completely. One-hundred-fuck-all-percent. (So he might have felt a little guilty about it later on, but at the time not so much.) Casey expected to get attacked, so he attacked first; logical really. Except the fight ended in what might have been a tie before Raph slipped away. And the second time Raph got the drop on him and knocked him on his ass; petty revenge or some shit for having been an asshole the first time around. So when Casey spotted him the third time around, he almost launched himself from the outside table at a diner where he’d been having lunch (or dinner, whatever) to go after him— which led to a solid ten-minute chase ranging from the streets up to the rooftops and back down again before Casey caught up to him and the two of them started slugging it out with insults flying back and forth. (And a mutant having a Brooklyn accent had to be one of the weirdest goddamned things Casey had ever come across up to that point, especially since most mutants he’d run into by then weren’t all that big on talking.) They got broken up that time by an explosion several blocks away, and they’d both split off without paying attention to where the other had gone. The fourth time had Raph kicking a Purple Dragon off a fire escape to land on Casey (he was still convinced Raph had deliberately aimed at him), right before Casey shoved the Dragon off to scramble up the fire escape after the jackass turtle only for them to end up brawling on the roof— which Casey ended up throwing Raph from. Not that it did much since Raph didn’t fall for long before he caught himself. Casey hadn’t stuck around, but the cursing in English and Japanese (which was even more ‘what the fuck’, because since when did any mutant in NYC speak Japanese?) had been satisfaction enough for the turtle having dropped a Purple Dragon on him. The fifth time was probably the most ironic since they’d both been caught up in their own fights when they bumped into each other; the people they’d each been fighting ended up getting caught in the crossfire of their sudden fight and… well… Saying it was a ‘mess’ would have been an understatement.
On reflection after the fact, Casey eventually came to the realization that the Purple Dragons didn’t like either of them very much. That made for an interesting thought, and one that made him hold back on his kneejerk reaction the next time he bumped into the mutant turtle. Oh, he was still tempted to punch Raph, especially since their hissed exchange outside a known base for the Purple Dragons involved a fair amount of bickering and trading insults, but once they each finally got around to explaining why they were there it was the easiest thing in the world for Casey to suggest that they should team up. That might have earned him a look that said Raph thought he was a few bolts shy of a stable ship, but logic won out. Plus, it turned out that when they were fighting on the same side it was a hell of a lot more fun and satisfying. And the fact that the Dragons had been hoarding explosives there? Blowing up the building after it got emptied out was just the icing on the cake, prompting their first fist-bump.
It was supposed to be a temporary alliance, a one-off thing or an exception to the rule where they’d put fighting each other on hold to fight together against the Purple Dragons or people like them. Instead it grew into a friendship, the two of them casually bickering or insulting each other in an entirely different tone than how it had started. Over the course of a few months they gradually got to know more about each other through bits of dropped information, casual conversation, and regularly teaming up when Raph was in town. It turned out that, mutant or not, Raph was a pretty regular guy— well, as much as he or Casey could be ‘regular’. He had three brothers, an adopted sister, his dad… all-in-all a regular family with regular family dynamics even with them (or most of them) being mutants. (That it turned out his dad was Japanese at least solved the mystery of how he knew the language.) Casey Jones would have been lying if he said he hadn’t been a little envious. What he hadn’t expected was that when he finally came clean about not having anyone, not having had anyone for four years, and having been constantly on the move— on a day where he looked like death warmed over because he hadn’t been sleeping well for about three days, it should be noted— Raph just up and invited Casey to go home with him so he could at least get a couple weeks of downtime.
At least he’d had the reassurance of knowing that Raph had talked about him to his family, so it wasn’t like he’d go in as a complete unknown. Hell, he’d heard enough comments and stories about Raph’s family that he was pretty sure he’d be able to tell who was who as soon as he finally met them face-to-face. On one hand politely declining would have kept him from imposing, but on the other hand his exhaustion gave zero fucks and wanted him to take a vacation. So he accepted, not knowing he was on his way to meet two people who could render him daydreaming and stupid by just being themselves.
Recognizing them on sight based off Raph’s descriptions— mostly their personalities more than anything else— turned out to be a reasonable assumption. When Casey arrived with Raph they hadn’t been expecting company, but apparently they were at least somewhat used to having random visitors at that point. He wasn’t up to processing more than that at the time (walking more than 60 miles when he’d already been worn out had fucking sucked), so it didn’t take him long to park himself in a guest room and pass out. And when Casey crashed, he crashed hard. He didn’t like acknowledging it after the fact, but for the better part of three days he spent most of his time asleep. It turned out that knowing he didn’t have to worry about getting ambushed if he stayed too long in one place did wonders for his personal sense of safety, resulting in the equivalent of his body cackling maniacally while shrieking ‘fuck yes!’ before plunging headlong into the deepest sleep he’d had in years. And since the rare times he was awake were spent taking care of necessities before passing back out, there wasn’t a whole lot of socialization going on between him and Raph’s family during that time.
That changed as soon as he was finally staying awake for more than a-few-minutes-to-half-an-hour at a time. Yeah, it took him a while to be up to 100% (his body had apparently decided without his say-so that since he didn’t have to be on the move constantly then it was going to have everything catch up with him at once), but that didn’t keep him from sliding into easy banter at the soonest available opportunity. Picking at Raph was already familiar to him— he already knew how to get the second-oldest turtle wound up and tempted to punch him— but Raph’s brothers and sister were each an entirely different ballpark. Mikey was a dramatic little shit who never seemed to take anything seriously and would give back as good as he got, cackling all the while. (And if that little bastard startled the hell out of him like he had on Casey’s eighth day there again, then Casey was going to find a way to exact revenge in a way that— hopefully— wouldn’t lead the four older siblings to murder him.) Leo would humor him up to a point before rolling his eyes and pointedly ignoring him if he got too obnoxious. (In one notable instance Casey had been enough of a pain that Leo up and decided to refuse to speak English around him for a solid three hours, which resulted in a lot of commentary in Japanese and random mutant-turtle noises that Casey only caught a few words of— and from the sounds of it, it had been full of sarcasm and snark.) April was fun to pick at, but damn did she have a talent for verbally cutting people when she wanted to. If Casey hadn’t been as secure in himself as he was, April’s responses to his nonsense could have easily cut deep. And then there was Donnie. Not only was Donnie fun to pick at and bother, but he had a sharp wit and some of the best reactions ever. (And, unlike Raph, being obnoxious at Donnie didn’t come with the promise of getting his ass kicked if he was too annoying.)
Donnie became one of his favorite targets, and it was made even more entertaining by the fact that if April was around then she and Donnie would join forces and tag team in snarking right back at him. The fact that he could see the amusement in their eyes and occasionally hear the undercurrent of it in their voices made it clear to him that they were just as entertained by their exchanges as he was, even if they weren’t admitting it out loud— which made the whole situation even better. That’s probably why, when the time came that he’d originally planned on leaving to head back to New York, he decided to put off leaving in favor of sticking around longer. And since none of them seemed to mind (heck, Splinter had seemed amused by the fact, though he didn’t offer up a single comment one way or the other) then Casey figured it was reasonable to extend his stay. And he kept putting it off. And putting it off. And putting it off.
The fact that April was gorgeous didn’t help in terms of giving Casey motivation to clear out of the Hamato home. She was beauty, brains, sarcasm, and salt all rolled into one— and it was a mix that Casey couldn’t help but be fascinated by. He’d recognized the first time he saw her that she was beautiful, but it wasn’t until he’d been there about a week after he’d originally planned on leaving that he’d realized that his attraction to her went way beyond her looks and that he was falling for her hardcore. If that wasn’t one of the biggest ‘oh shit’ moments in his life, then he didn’t know what would have been. For a solid two weeks he was in limbo, knowing that he was falling for April but not knowing if he should act on it, if she’d be interested in him and would welcome his advances, or if Raph would do the protective brother thing of wanting to throttle him if he did act on his interest. (He’d been reasonably sure that Leo, Donnie, and Mikey wouldn’t pull the protective brother thing, but Raph had an unspoken protective attitude about all of his siblings that hadn’t taken Casey long to pick up on.) He might have stayed in that limbo for longer if his brain-to-mouth filter hadn’t spontaneously stopped functioning one day while he was bantering with April.
His first pass at her had been comparatively subtle, but it was the beginning of the end. Before he knew it, he found himself flirting at her on a regular basis with every bit of cocky bravado he could muster, weaving it into his verbal sparring and banter with an ease that made him wonder just when the hell his filter had gone completely offline and why it didn’t seem salvageable. And then… then came the day when his flirting was unmistakable for the first time, and the day Donnie called him on it, pointing out that neither he nor his brothers wanted to deal with him flirting at April in front of them. Proof of how utterly destroyed Casey’s brain-to-mouth filter was came in the form of first thinking that with that look of mild annoyance on his face Donnie was actually kind of cute (which, what the ever-loving-FUCK?!), soon followed by flipping things around and throwing a pass at Donnie. And, like he had with April, Casey found himself unable to stop flirting at the genius after that.
It wasn’t that Casey had anything against the idea of being attracted to a guy, even without having spent much time figuring out his own interests the idea of being bi had never bothered him, but it was more the fact that he had never considered the idea that he might end up attracted to a mutant. Casey had officially achieved ‘disaster bi’ status (‘polyamorous disaster bi’ at that) and he had no idea how to cope, so he did the only thing that remotely made sense to him and just stopped thinking about it too much and let things happen as they would. It turned out that when he was just letting his mind do its thing without stressing over it, he started noticing a hell of a lot more about Donnie and April both that he found attractive. And sure enough, on more than one occasion Raph looked like he wanted to strangle him (it didn’t seem to matter whether Casey had been flirting at April or Donnie, the reaction from Raph had been the same), although (surprisingly) the temperamental turtle somehow managed to avoid acting on that protective anger most of the time. Mikey seemed to find the whole situation hilarious and Leo seemed determined to just stay out of it. As for Splinter… At the time Casey had had no clue what Splinter thought about any of it, but since he didn’t get any reprimands he figured it was safe to assume that he wasn’t in any trouble with the old rat.
Still, to be on the safe side he tried to keep his flirting (at both of them) on the light side; better to be assumed to just be goofing off and playing around than to make either of them uncomfortable. It seemed like the right approach to take, especially after April surprised him by throwing in a comment that could have been taken as her flirting at him. And when Donnie made a retort that seemed to imply that he was encouraging his attention, Casey was completely caught off guard— to the level that he’d been struck speechless for a few long minutes. The only thing was that both of them were subtle, far more subtle than he’d been. Casey hadn’t actually been certain that he was getting the encouragement he thought he’d seen. Despite that uncertainty, it hadn’t taken much for him to make up his mind that he was willing to go with the flow without directly pursuing them. They knew he was interested— at least he’d hoped they did and didn’t just assume he was playing around and being an obnoxious doofus— so to his way of thinking it was up to them whether one of them (or each individually) wanted to take him up on his open offer. And if neither of them did, that was okay too. Being able to be around them was more important to him than if he ended up with them. Even if being around them regularly made him space out— because holy shit April was gorgeous to the level that sometimes he couldn’t even string together a sentence, and if Donnie got any cuter then Casey was pretty sure he was going to start screaming because being that fucking cute should be illegal. Casey Jones had it, and he had it bad.
And then there was that day. The day Casey saw Donnie caught up in a hunt for the first time. He’d already seen the results of the brothers’ hunts by that point, had occasionally heard their howls, whoops, and shrieks in the process once they’d gotten past needing to be silent. Seeing the end result and hearing it at a distance turned out to be an entirely different matter than seeing it end right in front of him. Up to that point he’d thought Donnie was cute, adorable even; he’d liked looking at the tall turtle, but his mind hadn’t been driven to complete tripping-over-himself-stupidity over him like it had been when it came to April. Then, while Casey had been collecting firewood about 40 feet from the Hamato home, the hunt turned toward him— a deer crashing through the underbrush at full tilt trying to escape the mutant turtles. He had time enough to think he was going to be trampled right before Donatello jumped.
It was like the world moved in slow motion. One moment Casey was staring at a buck charging straight for him, and the next Donnie was arcing through the air from one of the treetops with precise control and coiled strength to drive his spear down into the buck’s neck. He had to have severed the spine with that hit since the buck immediately dropped, and that thought alone should have been terrifying. It was terrifying. Predators as a rule could be scary and mutant predators were more so due to their intelligence and the way they acted deliberately. This had been on an entirely different level. Donnie wasn’t just an intelligent predator, he was an intelligent predator with surgical precision.
And yet, even though Casey was frozen in place with his eyes wide and the logs he’d been carrying loosely held in his arms, he couldn’t help but register Donnie’s breathing: the low clicking growl/snarl/whatever-the-fuck-it-was that escaped him as he breathed while coming down from his adrenaline high, Donnie’s bared teeth (and just how the fuck had Casey never consciously noticed that he and his brothers had canines that might as well have been fangs before?!), the fact that Donnie was damn near 6-feet of lean muscle, the way his arms flexed as he wrenched his spear from the buck’s neck— and the unfamiliar rumbling undertone of his voice as he asked if Casey was alright. Casey’s mouth had gone dry and he just nodded dumbly.
Not only had that been one of the most terrifying things Casey had ever seen, but with Donnie’s question snapping him out of his reverie he realized something else— it had also been one of the hottest.
Casey Jones was officially in deep shit.
His prior ability to think somewhat coherently around Donnie like he hadn’t been able to around April flew out the proverbial window. He ended up just as tripping-over-himself stupid around Donnie as he was around April, and Casey almost felt like he had to bite back a scream at some moments. Living with one hot person who he was head-over-heels for and couldn’t think around was bad enough (and he honestly had no idea when it became a thing that he was no longer just a visitor and had ‘moved in’, but he had no intention of leaving); living with two people he found attractive enough to completely short-circuit his brain just wasn’t fair. It was bad enough that he was convinced he’d eventually collide with a tree because he was too busy staring at one or both of them to pay attention to where he was going.
Of course a very small part of Casey was convinced that he’d lost his mind because, of all that Casey had encountered up to that point, Donnie registered as one of the most dangerous mutants he’d met thanks to the turtle’s precision with a spear— and logic would normally dictate that a mutant that dangerous was someone to be extremely cautious of. The rest of him apparently gave zero shits and was all too happy to replay the memory over and over in his head and let it bleed into his dreams. NOT. HELPFUL. AT. ALL.
It wasn’t like he had anyone to talk to about it either. He couldn’t talk to Raph because squawking about the hotness of a person’s siblings was so far off the table that it wasn’t even up for consideration— which also automatically nixed Leo, Mikey, and April. Even if he’d been willing to talk to April, he couldn’t talk to her because she was the other person he couldn’t think around and, oh yes, his mind was giving him just as much trouble over her! And, again, Donnie was her little brother and it was just a given that one did not talk about the hotness of someone’s sibling to that person. And saying anything to Donnie about April wasn’t an option for the same reason! Then there was the fact that the ‘neighbors’ the family were acquainted with were also off the table; partly because he was convinced that most of them (at least the human population) would think he’d completely lost it for finding the scariest thing he’d ever seen Donatello do hot as hell, and partly because he was convinced Leatherhead wouldn’t be comfortable hearing him go on about two of his closest friends. (Leatherhead might have been an alligator and a force of nature when he was angry, but he was surprisingly shy and easily flustered. Making him feel flustered and awkward over Casey squawking about April and Donnie would have felt like a crime, like kicking a beaten dog. Casey couldn’t bring himself to do that to the poor guy.) So he suffered in silence, trying to keep his thoughts to himself.
But, of course, his brain-to-mouth filter still hated him and he kept right on flirting with both April and Donnie. Just his ‘wonderful’ Jones luck.
It was almost a relief when his mind finally started settling down (at least enough to let him think most of the time), but by then anyone who ever came over to the Hamato home (and anyone whose homes they’d visited) were well aware of his interest in Donnie and April both— as well as the fact that neither of them seemed to discourage him in the slightest. The first time Casey heard them referred to as his boyfriend and girlfriend he almost shrieked as he jerked back. He might have kept the shriek contained— because oh dear god, how much shit would he be in if that assumption got out and the two of them were offended by it?!— but that didn’t save him from tipping over his chair and hitting the kitchen floor in the neighbor’s house. Not his best moment, but he hadn’t wanted to explain himself because he just knew that if he’d opened his mouth that he would have made it worse.
And then it turned out that he wasn’t the only one skirting around clarifying his relationships with April and Donnie. Apparently a comment had been made around April to a similar effect; a comment which April hadn’t wanted to even consider getting into clarifying, and which had Leo cackling about it for hours and refusing to let her live it down. And when it came to Donnie… well when he caught wind of what had been said to April (getting his own dose of it from the same neighbor) he dropped his eyes and blushed furiously but hadn’t said anything to confirm or deny it. Casey was on cloud-fucking-nine; it shouldn’t have had that effect, but it did anyway— because neither of them had outright denied it. And if he hadn’t had a chance, then it would have made sense that they would have denied having relationships with him. But they didn’t.
It honestly shouldn’t have been surprising that down the line people ended up assuming that Casey married both of them.
Backup, bruiser, cavalry, heavy-hitter, distraction, member of the Hamato clan who just turned up and never left— whatever Casey Jones is called, he considers himself the luckiest sonofabitch in the world. Somehow, he thinks his Ma would approve.
She is their negotiator, the go-between, the one who fills the gaps and talks sense into them or others as needed, all while ready to throw down when words and niceties stop working. She is the adopted older sister who is every bit as fiercely protective of her adopted family as Raph is. She lost her family once before, and she will be damned if she lets anyone even consider taking away her family a second time. She may not have the lifetime of ninja training that her brothers have, but a salvaged baseball bat swung with enough force can be deterrent enough when necessary. Her little brothers may technically be more dangerous than she is, but April O’Neil is not a woman to be trifled with when someone dares to threaten her family.
The night she lost her home and father she wasn’t looking for another family, the furthest thing from it actually. She was heartbroken, torn, and consumed by rage so all-encompassing that she never felt anything like it before or since. She wanted revenge and she wanted the Purple Dragons who had killed her father and threatened her with worse dead. She can still remember the flames leaping high, the smell of her dad’s blood cutting through the smoke to settle thick and cloying on her tongue, the painful vibration radiating through her arms as she smashed an old lamp over the head of one of the Dragons who got too close. She can also remember the dawning realization that the numbers of the Purple Dragons were thinning, unnoticed by them until one of them was trying to call in backup against her that wasn’t there. She can remember the vicious grin that split her face as the first of the turtles crashed into view, sending a Purple Dragon flying into a collapsing wall, and the hisses, howls, and shrieks as the brothers worked to give her enough clearance to get out of the burning building before it could collapse.
And after… She can remember safely making it out into the alley, her singed curls still wisping smoke, and seeing the Purple Dragons bailing out into the street without noticing her. She can remember the turtles slipping into the alley to loosely circle around her, keeping her safe just in case. She can remember understanding that without even a word being spoken, and the sudden devastating and overwhelming wave of loss. She can remember going numb, staring with tears streaming down her face in silence as her home— the home she’d lived in almost all her life with all its antiques and memories, one of the few remaining fragments of what the world had been before the collapse— burned to the ground. It was Donnie who gently took the singed bat she couldn’t even remember having picked up during the fight from her limp fingers, Mikey who quietly asked if she was going to be okay, Leo who placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and asked if she had anywhere to go, and Raph who— when she admitted she had no one and didn’t have the slightest clue how to even go about the attempt to find her family and that they’d been scattered prior to the collapse— made the suggestion that she should go with them, move in with them, at least until she figured out what she wanted to do next.
It had been easy, at that point, to not think about it— to just agree and go with them so she didn’t have to think, didn’t have to remember, didn’t have to see the image of the last sight she would ever have of her dad lurking behind her eyelids and in her mind. What did it matter that she had agreed to move in with a family of mutants? Who cared about the horrible stories and rumors about what mutants might do to a human not careful enough? It was bullshit; if the brothers were going to eat her (or who knew what else) they wouldn’t have saved her, wouldn’t have expressed concern for her when they barely even knew her, wouldn’t have opened their home to her. They were safer for her than the all-too-human Purple Dragons had been, so it had been easy to just shut down for the entirety of their long trip from NYC to their home in the Stewart State Forest in Orange County and just go. That they took turns being on watch whenever they had to stop so they could sleep helped. They didn’t push her, didn’t demand anything from her, and when her feet and legs got too sore Raph offered to carry her for a while. She had been reluctant at first, but when her feet made it clear to her in no uncertain terms that they were done she took him up on the offer.
When they finally got there, when she met Splinter and the brothers explained what had happened, and when Splinter brought up a hand to gently cup her cheek with eyes full of sympathy as he welcomed her into their home, was when she finally cracked. She threw herself into Splinter’s arms and sobbed as the rat wrapped comforting arms around her, doing his best to soothe her while letting her cry herself out. He held her, rocking her as he quietly ordered his sons to get her tea, blankets, and prepare a room for her, and when she wound down enough to process what was going on around her it was all there waiting for her, along with a quiet mention from Donatello that if she wanted a shower she only had to say the word and it would be set up for her. And of course that was when it caught up to her that she didn’t know any of their names, just like they didn’t know hers, and she immediately felt like a heel. Fortunately that had been easy enough to remedy, even if it had been a few days late.
Her first days there were almost a haze, but they had been quiet days that gave her time to collect herself and gradually settle in. Eventually the brothers went back to their usual rhythms and patterns, though now with the addition of leaving space open for her if she cared to get involved, and despite the sorrow lurking around the edges of her mind she found herself being gently tugged into their fold. Before she realized it she found herself easily bantering with them, playing referee in arguments, playfully shoving them around like they did to each other, getting glommed onto by Mikey, her hair affectionately tousled by Raph, Donnie leaning on her shoulder as they bounced ideas back and forth, Leo casually slinging an arm around her shoulders as the two of them jokingly bemoaned the chaos of the other three, and having the sorts of alternating bouts of irritation and easy affection that said she was home.
Yes, there was no denying that none of them were human— Splinter’s status was questionable at best, and when he’d explained about how he and his sons came to be as they were he made no attempt to disguise his uncertainty about himself— but April found that fact to be unimportant. Well… maybe not ‘unimportant,’ because it was just as impossible to separate the brothers and Splinter from what they were as it was impossible to separate April from the fact that she was black, but them not being human was just who they were. So what if the brothers clicked, chirped, hissed, purred, and occasionally yowled at each other? (Though usually it was Mikey doing the yowling and screaming.) There was something reassuring about being immersed in their noises and occasionally snarking at them as one of them slid into clicking or chirping at her out of habit. (The time she got into an ‘argument’ with Raph while he was growling, hissing, and snarling without saying any words while she fired back comments meant to get him on his feet and helping her with the chores she was working on would never cease to make her laugh. He did eventually get up and help her, but only after she jokingly threatened to hiss right back at him.) Despite that, it was only obvious to her that she was ‘doomed’ to older sister status the day the brothers’ clicking call was bouncing back and forth and she absentmindedly slipped in one of her own without thinking. It didn’t come as easily to her as it did to them, but the effect was the same nonetheless— the brothers looked up at her in surprise right before Mikey glommed onto her while over-dramatically announcing that she ‘spoke their language’. (Yeah, she’d been picking up bits of Japanese because of them— freaking bilingual mutants for fuck’s sake— but apparently that hadn’t counted.) One thing led to another and before she knew it, it was settled. Not that she had any complaints.
It was good, it was comfortable knowing that she had a family who cared about her again. She liked being an older sister, liked having someone she could call her dad, even if they couldn’t erase what had happened to her and what she’d lost. She was where she belonged, she was home, and that sat perfectly fine with her. The only downside was that there were things she needed that her family couldn’t easily provide. Which meant trying to talk to whoever lived closest to them—not something she was thrilled about. April might have been a bundle of nerves over the fact that they had to reach out to their closest ‘neighbors’ because of her (leather was nice and all when it was soft and supple, but she didn’t want to wear it constantly), but they managed to work things out. Admittedly it was a shock to those ‘neighbors’ when they eventually found out that her mysterious adopted little brothers and father were mutants, but fortunately April was a fast talker and able to calm any fears quickly. That it eventually led to negotiations, trade, and regularly helping each other made those first nerve-wracking encounters entirely worth it. It also had the added benefit of giving her family friends beyond her or Leatherhead (who thankfully she hadn’t met during the first few months while she was adjusting, or she might have fainted).
All of that might have easily been enough for her. She could have easily just lived with her family in the peace (if not quiet) of their area of the forest, occasionally seeing other humans for trade, visits, or the occasional scavenging run into New York, and otherwise just letting things be. And then Raph brought home the human train-wreck known as Casey Jones— supposedly to give him a chance to rest for a week or two instead of being on the run constantly. She had her doubts and half-suspected that it had more to do with Raph not wanting to let go of one of the few people completely fluent in ‘Raphael-ese’; though to be fair, her grumpiest brother did tend to have a giant soft spot for others in need.
Casey was entertaining, infuriating, and had a tendency of bickering and snarking with Donnie almost from moment one that often made her fantasize about throwing something at his face. He was also charming (in his own rough way), kind, considerate, and good-looking enough to be mildly distracting and difficult to stay mad at. She and Donnie both took to verbally sparring with him, occasionally trading off when one of them ran out of energy for his cocky nonsense— and then, in the third week past when he’d originally been planning on leaving (spoiler alert: he never left), he started flirting. At her. Was she flattered? Yes. Was she annoyed that he decided to randomly do so in front of her brothers? Also yes. Was she still tempted to throw things at him? Absolutely hell yes. Fortunately, Donnie called him on it. Unfortunately, Casey flipped it around and started flirting just as much at Donnie as he did at her. April might have been tempted to try to talk Donnie into making a potato gun (or something similar) so she could shoot Casey with it. She kept the thought to herself.
Despite the initial frustration and not knowing whether Casey was serious or not (about her or Donnie), eventually it became clear that there was genuine affection. There were lines that Casey teased at, but didn’t cross out of respect for them, and he did genuinely care about the entire family. He just wasn’t shy about making his attraction to two members of the family obvious. He was respectful about it, classy even, not a single gross behavior in sight and entirely clear that he wouldn’t make any advances either of them weren’t comfortable with, but it didn’t change the fact that he was obvious enough that anyone who happened to be visiting quickly came to the conclusion that he was dating both of them. And wasn’t that just fantastic? The first time April heard someone ask her about ‘Casey’s boyfriend’ while also calling her ‘Casey’s girlfriend’ she just about snorted what she’d been drinking. (Leo, smartass that he was, almost choked on his tea and then immediately started cackling and wouldn’t stop even after she swatted his shoulder.) To say that she never lived it down would be an understatement— and letting people assume what they would was ultimately easier than trying to explain the amorphous tangle of a relationship that connected her and Donnie to Casey.
Without her, or really any of them, realizing it Casey had somehow ended up part of their clan; the first non-family-ish member, but still part of the clan all the same. April almost planted her face in Leo’s carapace when she finally realized it, and when she got questioning noises aimed at her (mostly from Leo, but there were a few from the other brothers) it also suddenly dawned on her that she had somehow slid into the role of the clan negotiator or diplomat—which immediately prompted an inarticulate groan from her followed by claiming that she wished for a swift death if only it would get her brain to stop. Her little brothers wisely didn’t ask her to explain.
And yet, even though the thought of being the diplomat aggravates her—because really, her being a ‘diplomat’ when she has enough salt to kill someone with words alone doesn’t make a single damned bit of sense and demands more patience than she wants to give— she can’t bring herself to let it go. It’s a way her family needs her, a way for her to keep them out of trouble and make things easier— so she remains the negotiator and go-between for the Hamato clan (even if she hates having to be so careful about her words at times). Negotiator, go-between, diplomat, queen of salt, adopted human sister and daughter in a family of mutant ninjas… April O’Neil’s life is a bizarre one that has had a way of creeping up on her, but she’s home— and she wouldn’t trade it for the world.
He is their bright ball of sunshine, the one who can find humor in almost any situation, the goofball who’s almost always ready to play and has done more to keep up his family’s morale than can really be quantified. He’s also their nightmare-fuel ninja assassin, the one who has taken his ability as the fastest of his brothers and has combined it with his raw martial skill and his creative mind to weld it into the ability to scare the ever-loving shit out of others. He seems to have a raw wealth of talent for getting into others’ heads and knowing how to combine sound, movement, and occasionally going unseen, to result in the most panic-inducing effect— and he’s had plenty of opportunities to exercise that ability. It’s far from being the part of himself that he wants to emphasize— he actually has a lot of fun with being the bratty, obnoxious, and goofy little brother and usually prefers focusing on nice things— but he also can’t deny that the sharp edges and vicious amusement he gets when making himself a nightmare is just as much a deep part of him.
Maybe it’s ironic that the youngest and shortest (and April would insist, the cutest) of the brothers is capable of being the most terrifying. Maybe the fact that he’s usually so bright, sunny, and downright adorable (who is he to try to deny the obvious?) should logically imply that he should be kept insulated, protected, sheltered— what the fuck ever. Maybe, according to that logic, he shouldn’t have blood on his hands or revel in occasionally going after ‘prey’ that can think. But that would be a denial of reality, a denial of the fact that he has a vicious and predatory streak that runs deep— deep enough that he can’t help but wince at the thought of what he might have become if he hadn’t had a good outlet for it. He counts himself lucky that in this world, in their world, he has that outlet and is occasionally called on to use that specific ability. He also counts himself lucky that his family just accepts it as part of who he is and they don’t feel any need to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Hamato Michelangelo takes a great deal of pride (and unmitigated glee) in being able to use his ability to scare others senseless as a precision tool for accomplishing the goals of his clan, but he is also keenly aware of the fact that he doesn’t want it to be his defining trait. He may have fun leaning on his sharp edges at times, but he likes being softer and playing more. He likes being able to climb into his father’s lap and stay comfortably curled up there (even if he might have gotten too big for that years ago, but Mikey doesn’t care and Splinter is adamant that his sons are always welcome to affection no matter how old or big they get). He likes being able to tackle Leo with a hug and get laughter and playful jabs in return. He likes being able to tease and play pranks on Raph, along with their games of Raph chasing him and threatening ‘death’ while a cackling Mikey runs and tries to stay just out of reach. He likes being able to drape himself on Donnie’s shell and whine obnoxiously about being bored or throw out random ideas of things that Donnie could make (it’s almost become a game to see how fast he can get Donnie to shoot down a nonsense idea— some ideas are serious and they get serious consideration, but others are just ridiculous and are only intended to pester the tallest turtle). He likes being able to glom onto April or aim puppy-eyes at her to try to talk her into the latest prank or off-the-wall idea he’s come up with (which almost always gets her to laugh, and sometimes she’ll let herself get talked into whatever he has planned). He likes being able to goof off with Casey and occasionally bait him into having the very Raph-like reaction of chasing him around.
He likes being able to crash in a pile with his brothers and having the security of knowing they’re there. He likes being able to fall asleep while using one of his brothers, or occasionally his father or April, as a pillow. He likes being able curl up on Raph’s carapace (Raph’s is the only one big enough to fit a curled-up ball of Mikey unfortunately) and sleep with the occasional reassuring thrum of Raph’s sleep-purring rumbling through his own shell. He likes knowing that even though he is the one able to create nightmare-fuel for other people and excels in scaring the shit out of people when he has to, that when he has his own nightmares he can turn to any of them to get the comfort he seeks. He likes knowing that being able to create nightmare-fuel doesn’t automatically cut off his status as the youngest and that if he needs a shoulder to cry on or a hug to help him feel safe or wanted that he can turn to any of them. Leo, for all his reserve, gives the best reassuring hugs; Raph has a way of making it feel like nothing can hurt any of them while he’s around; Donnie alternates between the gentle comfort Mikey sometimes needs and being able to coax a laugh or smile out of him when he’s in a low mood; April is the best at providing a solid reminder that any insecurities he might have are usually unfounded; and Casey’s great for giving him a solid point of calm to cut through any drama when he needs it.
And okay, yes, Hamato Michelangelo’s sense of humor is a little warped. He enjoys the hunt, scaring the hell out of people when he needs to, isn’t shy about killing as necessary, and is in large part shameless about the rough edges and underlying sharp steel of who he is. Sometimes, yes, it does come out in his play— like when he threw ‘water balloons’ of washed out deer and rabbit intestines that he’d painstakingly filled with blood at Raph right before running for his life— but he also likes being able to step away from that harshness and just be a lovable goofball who focuses on happy and pleasant things. Ninja, nightmare-fuel, predator, goofball, bright ball of sunshine, mutant turtle, and little brother— Hamato Michelangelo is seemingly a living contradiction, and it’s something he’s happy to be.
He is their inventor, their medic, their doctor, their academic, their historian, their engineer, and so many other things besides. He is the one his family turns to for answers, the one they trust to find the answers they don’t have readily available, and the one to provide answers that they hadn’t even realized had been needed. He has recovered information and improved their quality of life well beyond what they started out with after they arrived in the forest they call home. He’s become one of the most skilled doctors in the area around their home and strengthened the safety net for all of them by becoming someone their ‘neighbors’ can rely on as needed. He is a dreamer and has plans for things he wants to create and build, technology he wants to recover— he has never quite gotten over the sharp stab of envy after their first visit to another reality and he saw the tech they had at their disposal— but there also are things he has experienced in his home reality that he wouldn’t trade for all the world.
Hamato Donatello is tall, lanky in comparison to his brothers, seemingly more suited to his intellectual pursuits than flying through the treetops like he and his brothers do on a regular basis. And yet… and yet… He wasn’t always the tallest; in fact, there was a time where he and his brothers were all of a similar height, maybe with a difference of a centimeter or two, but then puberty hit him full-force and he shot up like a weed. There was a time when he hated it, hated being so long-limbed and sleek in comparison to his brothers with his height making his scrawniness all the more obvious. He’d felt like he was likely enough to be dismissed as someone worth taking seriously in a fight before his growth-spurt— after, it had felt like the possibility was even more likely. And while being underestimated was certainly a useful tool in any ninja’s tool-kit, at the same time there was a part of him that hated not being taken seriously.
It wasn’t even like he distanced himself from their less ‘human’ qualities— honestly, he could argue for hours over the semantics of centering ‘human-ness’ and how inherently problematic the entire concept was— but he also prided himself on his logic and reasoning capabilities, not to mention his rampant creativity that allowed him to tease vague thoughts into a solid form and plan. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get immense satisfaction from a well-executed plan, but there was so much more to satisfaction than the pieces clicking into place in the exact way that had been planned for. Sometimes there just needed to be a certain amount of unpredictability, the wind whistling by him as he launched from one tree to the next to the next, the scrape of bark on his palms and feet as he ran or swung through the treetops, the blood pounding in his ears and an uncontrollable grin splitting his face as he and his brothers called and howled back and forth…
He was as comfortable as his brothers with the clicks, chirps, purrs, snarls, hisses, growls, and howls they made. Raph might have been the first of them to make a battle-howl, but it was Donnie who recognized the potential in the sounds they could make. It was Donnie who came to the conclusion that they could weaponize their howls. It was Donnie who decided that training themselves out of using the sounds that came naturally to them would have been a shame that might have been equivalent to snuffing out a dialect. And it was Donnie who uncovered the linguistic information that gave him the support he needed to argue that they should simply let their natural sounds happen and not try to suppress them— not that the rest of his family took much convincing. Mikey’s eyes might have glazed over a little when he started talking about dialects, lexicons, vocables, and the like, but they’d been 9 at the time. Donnie could hardly fault his little brother for not being able to track his own jargon-heavy excited rambling. As it was, he’d been certain that their father had had a hard time tracking his train of thought as he spoke, but at least Splinter had sat with Donnie and pored through the book on linguistics with him (which Donnie had miraculously managed to carry without losing when they were escaping New York) during the hour or more that Donnie talked through his reasoning.
Donatello was proud of the sounds he could make and the subtle modes of communication with his brothers. He liked the warm feeling of knowing he was home, loved, and exactly where he needed to be that was generated by something even as simple as their affectionate clicking calls back and forth. He liked knowing that he could almost have an entire conversation without words through sound alone, and that if he was getting too frustrated his sounds would have provided the warning to his family before they even had a chance to accidentally push him further. He liked knowing that sometimes his calls were communication enough and he didn’t have to try to explain himself. He also liked their hunting calls, how they made the blood pound in his veins, the sense of freedom and unrestrained glee, the fact that Leo saw the value in talking out the meaning of specific patterns of howls early on and Donnie’s oldest brother had wrangled in the other two so that the four of them had been able to work out real communication on their hunts… The thought never failed to bring a smile to his face.
April mentioned once that Donnie tended to come off as the gentle one out of the brothers, but that having seen part of one of their hunts said otherwise. That might have worried him, but April wasn’t the sort to be scared by her adopted younger brothers. She hadn’t necessarily been looking for a new family after she lost her dad, but after she started living with them it didn’t take her long to naturally fall into the role. And if her lack of fear hadn’t been reassurance enough, she made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t going to judge him— or any of the others— for not being human. He was her little brother, even if he happily put his long limbs to use while rocketing through the trees and howling out calls that could make some people bolt in panic.
Casey was something else entirely. Casey was the only one aside from his brothers or father who Donnie had brought down prey in front of. Oh the games of bantering, picking on each other, teasing, being annoyed at Casey flirting at April (and Casey eventually aiming his flirting also at Donnie) had been plenty light and casual before then, but after that day there had been a subtle shift. Logic would have dictated that the shift would have been a negative one and that Casey would have withdrawn his easy interactions with Donnie. Casey Jones was anything but logical. Apparently there was something about having seen the tallest turtle leaping from a tree with a spear in hand to land while stabbing downward with the sort of precision to instantly drop a deer that caught his attention. It might have been Donnie’s imagination, but he was certain that relatively soon after that was when some of Casey’s flirting shifted from playing around to genuine flirting.
…He might have rolled his eyes, but Donnie couldn’t deny that on some level he found the attention flattering.
Hamato Donatello is the creator, inventor, doctor, and so much more for his family. With his skills he’s made himself invaluable to the friends and neighbors they live near, and his knowledge and creativity has been used to benefit many more than just his family. He’s gained security in himself, he knows where he belongs, and thanks to the thrill of the hunt he’s found the value in his height and long limbs. Ninja, doctor, engineer, inventor, historian, mutant turtle, brother, son, friend, predator— Hamato Donatello knows who and what he is and will not apologize for it. That people love him as he is, is proof enough that he shouldn’t have to.
He is the wall, the second-in-command, or so they let others think. Hierarchy doesn’t really matter for shit to Hamato Raphael, not when it comes to his family— but if it helps keep his family safe to let others think that, then he’ll let them think it. Maybe it’s because he’s the second oldest (technically third if April is counted), or maybe it’s because of the way he has a habit of regularly parking himself at Leo’s side and just a little behind him so he can provide both visible back up for Leo and an unspoken threat toward anyone who might threaten their family. He’s the heaviest of the brothers, the bulkiest; it goes without saying that on first glance he can be intimidating as shell. He has more than mastered the art of scaring people into backing off by just standing there and giving them a look that spells death the instant they step a toe out of line. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get some entertainment from seeing the fear dance in others’ eyes while he stood silently glaring at them, but at the same time he doesn’t want to instill so much fear that a person might attack.
Oh he likes his fights, his brawls, and not having to hold back while beating the crap out of whoever dares to be a serious threat (he could spend all day kicking the shit out of the human-supremacist group who tried to kill Leo, that’d be a special treat), but at the same time he thoroughly recognizes that keeping his family safe means trying to prevent a lot of fighting. One thing Raph takes seriously above everything else is keeping his family safe and alive.
He is the wall, the brawler, the brawn; he’s the one who can take the hits the others can’t, the one who can plant himself in place and hold the line to give his family time to get in place to strike— or time to get away right before he bails himself. He considers himself the last line of defense, the one who can’t and won’t break, because that’s what his family needs him to be. It wasn’t something he was ever told to do, his father never would have put that burden on his shoulders, but it’s something Raph chose to do early on. Nothing could sway him away from it and by the time his family noticed, he had already been firmly anchored in the role in his mind. The wall, the protector, the defender— if becoming the most terrifying sonuvabitch for others to face down was what it took to keep his family safe, then he’d do it.
Yet there’s another side to it, a side that demands that he put down his sais, let go of the urge to growl so loudly that it vibrates in others’ bones, and release the rage that he has painstakingly learned to use as a tool over the years rather than letting it control him. Being the protector of their family can’t mean a whole hell of a lot if the only language he can speak is violence, so soon after Splinter escaped with them from NYC Raph took it upon himself to learn.
His earliest lesson was in protecting his brothers from nightmares, snapping awake at the first hint of a sound of distress from one of his brothers to take his place by their side as a reminder that they’re safe. Mikey was the first to have Raph at his side, wrapping his arms around him, promising that he’d never let anyone touch him— with as deep a rumbling growl underlying his words as he was capable of when they were 8— but he certainly wasn’t the only one. Raph’s become so used to curling around his brothers after they’ve snapped awake or at the first hint of a nightmare that it’s second nature at this point. If he had ever bothered counting the number of times it’s happened, he’s long since lost track.
Then there was the bear when they were 9, which had been a little too interested in Donnie while they had been at the nearest river. Bears didn’t care about ninjas and what ninjas could or couldn’t do, they couldn’t understand, so Raph had put himself between Donnie and the bear and hissed— and when that hadn’t been enough to get the bear to leave he’d screamed. The very first battle-howl any of them made, and it had torn from Raphael’s throat to get the bear to leave his little brother alone. It worked (the bear had bolted actually), and in it working Donnie had realized that the four of them could weaponize some of the sounds they could make. Raph had gotten plenty of practice using that battle-howl since, they all had, and nothing made others panic faster than all four of them howling in unison. And yet, even with the violence of that action, something gentle had grown out of it. Allowing themselves to make that howl, and Splinter encouraging them to learn how to use it with precision, also gave them permission to play around with other sounds. Chirps, purrs, clicks, huffs, snarls, snorts, hisses, and growls gradually crept in with increasing frequency, especially after they made a game of it. Or several. There were even some in-jokes that consisted of nothing but a set pattern of noises they made. It also turned out to be easier to show that he wasn’t as mad as he frequently came off as depending on the quality of the noises he was making. As Mikey once put it, there was a difference between his ‘Raph being Raph’ growls and his ‘Raph is about to murder everyone’ growls— which had the effect of letting his brothers know just how much they could pick, tease, and be obnoxious before he had enough.
And then there had been their earliest times in the treetops, scrapes and bruises that he had locked away in his mind on the initial assumption that they wouldn’t happen after the four of them had enough practice. Beginning to hunt— actively hunting and not just using snares or spear-fishing like they had up until they were 15— made it clear that practice could only account for so much. Racing through the trees in pursuit of rapidly moving prey proved just how easy it was to get those scrapes and bruises, or even gashes, without noticing until well after the fact. His own slashed arms and legs and ripped out scales never bothered him half as much as seeing blood dripping from his brothers, so he put his mind to a solution. Mending the straps and belts for their weapons or sewing together pieces of leather for the walls of their home had already been a chore he’d been reasonably skilled at by that point, it hadn’t been much of a stretch to take that knowledge and apply it to creating the sleeves and lower-leg guards that the four of them wore on a regular basis— color-matching the beads on the ends of the ties to their masks had been just as much for the practicality of telling whose was whose at a glance as it had been for the small bit of flare.
And then there had been that night, the night that haunted Hamato Raphael as none other had before or since, the night he almost lost his older brother. He was the wall, he was supposed to be the wall, but on that night he’d been too far away from Leo. They had plowed into a ‘camp’ of human-supremacists to free a mutant that the supremacists intended to kill, an alligator they came to know as Leatherhead, but it went south quickly. True, the humans weren’t skilled fighters like they had been at the time, but when someone swings an ax at another person it doesn’t matter how skilled a fighter that person is if they get hit. Leo falling back as he got hit was probably what saved him, but even that wouldn’t have mattered if Mikey hadn’t been fast enough to body-check the bastard before he could bring the ax down on Leo again. Even despite that, despite the fact that they were able to pick up Leo and get Leatherhead out so they could run, Raphael can never forget the sight of his older brother laying on the ground, stunned and with blood seeping from his plastron as a human stood over him raising an ax to bring it down on him a second time. He can’t forget the slick feeling of blood trickling down his arms as he carried Leo in his arms and ran, or the way Leo kept having hitching gasps of pain as he tried to think clearly only to be brought up short by the pain tearing through his chest. He can’t forget how terrified he was to carry Leo on his back, scared that Leo would lose consciousness and fall or that he would land too roughly and cause Leo to smash his already damaged plastron into his carapace. He can’t forget being terrified that Leo was going to die before they could get him home and Donnie could do anything. He can’t forget the nightmare mental images that had run through his mind, of his older brother’s hollowed-out shell going to join the other ‘trophies’ the supremacists had ‘collected’ from mutants who hadn’t been fortunate enough to be saved.
And because he couldn’t forget, couldn’t stop blaming himself for not being close enough, and was scared that the weak spot in Leo’s plastron would get him killed until it completely healed, Raphael took it upon himself to make a durable breastplate for Leo that could grant him at least a little more physical protection. It was a relief that he didn’t have to explain himself to Leo at that time, that he didn’t have to argue, that Leo simply accepted it and had been wearing it since— even long past the time where the injury had healed and the damaged scutes shed. He insisted on sleeping next to Leo for a solid three months after that night. No one argued.
Meeting April provided another lesson, another stitch in the fabric of his self-concept of what being the wall for his family meant. Things had been bad for her; the old antique store where she’d stayed with her dad in NYC had been set fire to because Kirby O’neil had refused to bend before the would-be warlord in the area who had been trying to seize control. Kirby unfortunately hadn’t made it, but since Raph and his brothers had been in the area on one of their many scavenging runs they’d been able to run off the Purple Dragons and get April out. She’d been upset— she had every right to be, she had just watched her dad die and her home go up in flames— but despite that she came out swinging and spitting like an angry cat ready to take on the world. She didn’t care how terrifying the brothers looked, how when it came to the mutants who had become increasingly common after the collapse their behavior was varied and unpredictable from one individual to the next, or that the four of them radiated danger from the moment they swept in and started picking off the Purple Dragons one-by-one until they were noticed outright. All that mattered was that the Purple Dragons had killed her father and destroyed her home, and that she knew the four of them were there to help her. And after things had settled, after it was established that she had nowhere else to go because her family had been scattered before the collapse and she had no way of knowing where to even begin looking or how to get to them, Hamato Raphael had been the one to surprise both himself and his brothers by suggesting that she should live with them. Considering that he’d essentially gotten an older sister out of it, one he’d gotten close to over the years, he counted it as an unexpected positive. Being the wall didn’t mean just keeping others out for his family’s safety, it also meant knowing when to let people in.
And Casey-mother-fucking-Jones… The self-same maniac who became Raph’s best friend. Their first encounters were rough— they’d gotten into no less than five brawls the first five times the two of them bumped into each other— but stumbling across each other while they each independently had been looking to make things difficult for the Purple Dragons had provided some unexpected clarity, and a truce that had lasted far beyond when they had expected it to drop. Casey had initially been wary, which was fair since some mutants were bastards or off their nut, but somehow in the course of their brawls and fighting together against the Dragons the two of them had worked out what to expect from each other. Apparently the shared language of their fists had been enough. They were on the same wavelength, and in a bizarre way it had almost been like they were reflections of each other. And then it turned out that Casey, like April, was alone. Unlike April however, he’d been constantly on the move in NYC ever since he started up his one-person war against the Purple Dragons and anyone like them, just to make certain that they couldn’t easily find him and that others were less likely to get caught in the crossfire.
Casey going with Raph back to his home had been intended to be temporary, just a break so that he could stop running for a week or two and get some rest. Instead he settled in like everyone else and him being there became part of their new normal. That in and of itself would have been fine, he had never cared that the people he had moved in with were (mostly) a family of mutants, but then the jackass went and tested Raph’s patience. Banter and bickering between Casey and Donnie came quick and easy almost from moment one, but then Casey had decided (of all things) to start flirting at April— and because Donnie was Donnie he immediately had to point out that Casey doing so was annoying in the extreme because he did not want to see someone flirting at the person who was essentially his older sister in front of him (a sentiment which Raph thoroughly agreed with). And of course, naturally, Casey-mother-fucking-Jones had to be a smartass and immediately flip it around and start flirting at Donnie. Raph had never wanted to scream or strangle someone so badly in his life. And yet, even despite having to occasionally remind himself not to do so and that one did not strangle and/or murder their friends when said friends chose to flirt at their siblings, during one such infuriating incident Raph came to the sudden realization that if Casey ever died he wouldn’t know what to do. It was one thing to complain and give threats that lacked any sincerity, but when— in an effort to calm himself down— Raph asked himself what he would do if Casey actually did die, he came to the sudden and profound realization that he would have felt just as he had on the night his family had almost lost Leo. Being the wall also meant having instances of not noticing someone had slipped in and was close until they’d already been there awhile and having to be comfortable with that.
It also meant having a shit ton more patience than he would have ever expected.
Hamato Raphael is the wall for his family; the protector, the defender, the brawn, and the brute strength. He’s also the one who has learned to create practical things for their well-being, soothed nightmares, taken others into his home when those others had no one else, learned patience well and beyond his ingrained first impulses, and the one who pushed his family into the realization that there was no need for them to be as ‘human’ as possible when just being themselves could easily ensure their survival. He is a fighter who will not disguise who and what he is: ninja, protector, predator, mutant turtle, ‘monster’ to his enemies, and— yes— occasional hothead who charges into a brawl when he feels it’s warranted. And he isn’t even the most terrifying of his family, though few outside the family know that. He’s willing to leave that nightmare-fuel shit to Mikey and stick with what he’s always been. He’s far from perfect, but just so long as his family comes out alive and intact then he feels he has not a single damned thing to apologize for. And if anyone doesn’t like him as he is, then he’s not going to waste his time even giving two shits about their opinion.
He is their leader, both nominally and in fact, but his leadership is a relaxed one. He knows his family, his team, well enough to trust in their abilities— just as they trust in him to strategize and know how to move the pieces to make certain they all come out alive. Hunting has honed them, honed him into knowing their quirks— their harshness, their sharp edges, the ways they move, their sounds —and that he can trust that they will be where he expects them to be in a fight. Not because he has ordered them there, although he does use his knowledge of them to put them where they’re most effective, but because he has learned how to play to their strengths without demanding they do things his way.
There is a sense of relief for him, a weight off his shoulders, in knowing that his brothers are perfectly capable of handling themselves and that all he has to do is move the pieces to where they each can be the most effective and then just let them go. He leads, but he doesn’t control.
Why try to exert control or enforce some hierarchy when they have all learned the lessons that come from being a pack on the hunt? Hamato Leonardo learned early on that hierarchy and leadership didn’t matter in the hunt; what mattered was coordination, trust, and letting whoever was closest to their prey be the first to engage to take it down. He learned through the exhilaration of swinging and leaping through treetops after prey, the heart-pounding near-misses, the overwhelming joy singing in his veins as he or one of his brothers caught up to land the first strike, and the blood-rush that made celebratory calls bubble up from his chest and pour forth from his throat as they successfully took their prey down. Perfect control and behavior don’t count for much when it might cost them being able to eat, and so Leonardo has learned to be their brother first and their leader second.
Learning that has paid off. It opened him up to learn the value in his brothers’ ways of being— to see how Raph’s strength and carefully wielded anger was shaped by his need to be their wall, their protector, the one to scare off threats before they could even get started; how Donnie’s technical and medical interests, as well as his dedication to knowledge that might have been lost, is driven by his need to keep them healthy and sate his never-ending curiosity; how Mikey’s need to goof around and play softens his sharp edges and keeps the world bright when there is so much that could have made it dark and unbearable. Learning from them opened him to later learning from April and Casey— how her sharp wit and careful words can cut through so much unstated nonsense to get to the heart of a matter, diffusing fights and preventing problems before they can get started, almost like the verbal counterpoint to Raph; and how Casey, for all of his chaotic loudness, seems to have the bizarre ability to know exactly when to say ‘fuck it’ to being tactful and go all-in.
His pack, his team, his clan are everything to him. They are his family and he trusts them with everything. Hamato Leonardo is a ninja and the leader of his small clan, but he’s so much more than that.
In recognizing Raph’s need to protect them he was able to step back and accept the help— adopting the leather sleeves and lower-leg guards almost as soon as Raph finished the first sets. They’re effective; it’s much harder to end up with gashes or ripped-up scales on their arms or legs since they started using them. The same with the carved-bone breastplate that Raph strung together and presented to him after a particularly bad night that had resulted in Leo getting a nasty gouge in his plastron. A little deeper, with a little more force, and Leo might not have walked away from that fight— and thanks to some human-supremacists his family might have been down by one. It’s an injury that has since healed up and all physical signs of it had been shed, but the memory of it still lingers. Wearing the breastplate has become an ingrained habit.
In recognizing Donnie’s need to learn more he was able to stop and listen— accepting that where there are things he doesn’t or can’t see the value in, Donnie can and is more than capable of bringing what’s in his mind into the world. There’s so much that they’ve gained and learned how to do thanks to Donnie’s perpetual curiosity and enthusiasm for recovering information that might otherwise have been lost to them that it’s almost impossible to quantify. They’ve come so far from the rough home of woven branches covering the entrance of a hole in the ground that Splinter had scrambled to create when they first arrived in the forest, and it’s in large part thanks to Donnie and his persistence. Given enough time and resources, Leo wouldn’t be surprised if Donnie manages to give them their own contained electrical system with a functioning computer to go along with it. Maybe a functioning refrigerator while he’s at it. As it is, even with the tech limitations they have to live with, Donnie has still managed to be one of the most effective medics in the area— which has certainly kept Leo from dying more times than he cares to think about.
In recognizing Mikey’s need to play he was able to let go and be in the moment— enjoying humor, silliness, and opportunities for bonding moments that he might otherwise have let slip by without even noticing what he’d missed. Affection came easier, made it easier to read the others, made it easier to avoid unnecessary fights and work things out. Mikey’s humor and play kept all of them from giving in to the knife-edge bare-bones approach to the world that so many had after the collapse had happened. His playfulness was a constant reminder that there was still joy and happiness to be found in the world, even if they occasionally had to tip into the knife-edge viewpoint in order to survive— it was a reminder that even as bad as things were or could be, that the bad things didn’t have to be their entire lives. Even as obnoxious as Mikey could be at times, his usual cheer kept them from ever falling into depression.
April and Casey both had taught him the necessity at times of getting to the point within seconds. Negotiations, haggling, niceties— none of it matters when a resolution is needed as soon as possible, and in their time since others in the area gradually became aware of them it’s become a skill he’s learned to lean on time and time again. Other versions of him, he knows, aren’t as used to having to directly negotiate and work out boundaries with ‘neighbors,’ traders, and a whole host of other people who occasionally wander through his family’s home territory, but thanks to April and Casey’s guidance it’s a skill he’s learned in spades. It’s led to his family largely going un-harassed, but it’s also resulted in some unexpected friendships and instances of being called on by their ‘neighbors’ for help. Their closest ‘neighbors’ might be several miles away, but the friendships and alliances that have resulted have strengthened the net of safety around his family considerably.
Hamato Leonardo has learned to be confident, relaxed, and unapologetic about who and what he is. He is a ninja; his calm and poise are unrivaled when necessary, his swords an extension of himself, a fierce opponent who knows how to use shadows and subtlety to his advantage. He is a predator; familiarity with being able to track visually and at times with scent renders him unsettling, the reverberating calls and battle-cry howls he can emit as he races through the treetops induce panic in others and render him terrifying, to say nothing of how familiar he is with blood and death. He is a mutant turtle; chirps, hisses, growls, and other sounds are par for the course and he has come to refuse the idea of behaving ‘more human’ to make himself more palatable for others. He is a brother and son; his loyalty and affection for his family is unwavering and unbreakable, and he’ll continue his easy affection with them for as long as they live— and if it results in him and his brothers occasionally sleeping in a pile even when they’re in their 80s or older, then so be it. He is a leader, and because of what he’s capable of and has accomplished, he has become trusted far beyond what he would have imagined possible.
Because I’m lousy at judging heights (and my wonderful friend @sounddrive was kind enough to direct me to [this site]) I have these wonderful height comparisons for you all.
Since it may not be easy to read:
Leo: 5′11″
Donnie: 6′5″
Raph: 6′2″
Mikey: 5′6″
April: 5′7″
Splinter: 5′2″ (Rat-dad is short, okay?)
Casey: 5′9″
And because I had to add Leatherhead:
Leatherhead is 7 FEET TALL.
He’s gigantic. Mikey looks so freaking teeny next to him.
Leatherhead is ridiculously tall and I regret nothing.
If you’ve stumbled across this blog, you’re probably wondering what the heck the Spear-Verse is.
Well congrats! I’m glad to introduce you to my post-apocalyptic TMNT AU.
The short explanation of what’s going on in this world is that there was a massive societal collapse-- at least within the US, outside of it is unclear due to the characters’ limited views-- when the turtles were 8 (April was 10 and Casey was 11 at the time). In the course of it the TCRI building exploded, fortunately after the Utrom had already left Earth, and the resulting fallout of mutagen caused a mutant outbreak. Things got bad enough that Splinter decided to grab his kids and get the heck out of dodge by leaving New York to disappear into the largest forest they could get to by walking, and they’ve been there since (with occasional trips into New York).
Having grown up without access to a lot of the things other versions of them had access to has left its mark on them and in small ways-- and large ones-- they aren’t the turtles you’re used to. (If you’re really curious, I recommend looking through the [character studies] when you get the chance.)
That said, they’re also weirdly prone to getting pulled into other realities-- which with the lack of easy access to electricity in their world shouldn’t make a lot of sense, and yet it happens anyway. (They’re magnets for cross-reality nonsense, so they’re a little too used to it.)
I won’t go much deeper here, but this blog is basically a place for everything in this reality to go. Scroll or browse through, feel free to send questions, and I hope you have fun with what you find.
