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catbowserauthor · 4 hours ago

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I am so in love with this story. The 87 group is such a sweetheart of a family and thus perfectly captures why. I remain convinced that a 87 Leonardo hugs will cure all ails.

TMNT - Michelangelo and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Mondo Bad Day

Summary: Michelangelo is the chill, flexible, optimistic one. It takes a lot to ruin his day. Unfortunately for him, Turtle Luck has a lot on the agenda.

Written for one of @shellaxdude's TMNTgust Bonus Prompts: Someone has a really bad day. The rest of the family tries to make it better.

It took a lot to ruin Michelangelo’s day. He was the chill, flexible, optimistic one. He didn’t really go out of his way to start each day with a plan; he wasn’t gunning for Leonardo’s job, after all. He was cool to roll wherever the day took him; whether he found himself relishing a late lunch at Vinnie’s or fighting for his life in the Technodrome, he took it in stride. That was life.

So what was it about today that had him rolling every terrible turn of Turtle Luck at every possible moment?

It wasn’t that he’d gotten up on the wrong side of the bed; it was that his stomach had decided to wake him up by rolling in the opposite direction. His midnight snack of key lime and sausage pizza, a combo he had always stomached with no problems whatsoever, had apparently decided to betray him with the mother of all cramps.

In his haste to lunge out of bed and to the bathroom, his blankets had promptly tangled up around his legs and sent him sprawling straight into his precarious tower of compact discs. He could only hope it was just the cases that cracked upon cushioning his fall and not the discs themselves but he didn’t have much time to inspect the damage. His stomach wrenched again all the more viciously to inform him he wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom. He would have to settle for the nearby wastebasket…the wastebasket which was already overflowing because he had forgotten to empty it yesterday.

On the spur of the moment he had to dump most of the garbage to the floor to make room for the sick and needless to say, the stench kicked up by disturbing the basket’s contents did not help; it kept triggering his gag reflex even after he had nothing left to bring up.

Okay. Not a fun start to the day. A mondo unpleasant wake-up call, actually, but at least the worst of it was behind him. Key lime and sausage was off the table for a while. He’d learned his lesson.

Apparently Master Splinter, drawn by the commotion and the repulsioso smell, didn’t agree. The cool, damp towel he took to his student’s face to mop away the clammy sweat would have been soothing if it wasn’t accompanied by a lecture about the state of his room. So he’d forgotten those sausages were past their expiration date and he was supposed to take them out with the garbage. It’s not like he tried to throw the CDs and blankets everywhere to top it off! He was hard-pressed not to sulk through the scolding and the subsequent order to clean up while Splinter went to make him a cup of ginger tea for any lingering nausea.

The moment Michelangelo turned to pick up the blankets and remake his bed, he stubbed his toes against the bedpost with such force it took his breath away. He couldn’t even yelp, much less scream the curse that came to mind.

That right there was what gave him the sinking feeling that mondo unpleasant was going to be a running theme. Nevertheless, just because his morning was off to a crappy start didn’t mean the bad vibes had to be contagious. He did his best to perk up and seem invested in the video Raphael had put on, apparently having forgotten that it was Michelangelo’s turn to pick.

This was fine, he convinced himself as he nursed his tea. He could take his turn tomorrow and this movie wasn’t all that bad. It was nice to see Raphael excited about the big monster bash—until he got so hyped about it that he jumped in his seat and his elbow knocked half of Michelangelo’s tea down his front. Hot, hot, hot!

As he scrambled to the kitchen for another cool towel, wouldn’t you know it? One of the dining chairs hadn’t been pushed all the way in at the table. His poor swollen toes got jammed again but he couldn’t spare that blip on his radar much thought beyond the radiating hot-hot-hot! of his plastron.

“Geez, I’m sorry, Michelangelo!”

Raphael had to shout to be heard over the roar of the sink; the volume was giving Michelangelo a headache, honestly, but he wanted to appreciate it. He could count the times Raphael had apologized without undermining it with a joke on one—

“But I guess that’s one way to burn off your breakfast fast!”

And there it was. It was in Raphael’s nature to defuse tension with humor. Most days Michelangelo didn’t mind; they were the team jesters, the droll dynamic duo. Today, however, when the tea was all he could stomach for breakfast and now most of it had gone to waste? When one of Master Splinter’s teacups was in shattered pieces on the living room floor for him to take the blame, another mess for him to clean up? He was not in the mood.

“Not funny!” he barked back and snapped the wet towel at him for good measure.

He was aiming for Raphael’s plastron, hoping to put a sting in it to match his own. They all knew turnabout was fair play; Raphael wouldn’t like it but he would get why. It was a proper, proportional revenge. How the towel went so far astray as to catch him in the beak, Michelangelo didn’t know, but the face wasn’t meant to take the same level of force as their sturdy stomachs. Genuine shock and pain watered in Raphael’s eyes as he clapped a hand over his snout, staggering back, and Michelangelo’s heart dropped.

“I didn’t—Dude, I wasn’t trying to—”

A surprise splash of cold water on his feet interrupted him. How had he failed to notice the sink was overflowing? By the time he managed to dig past the pile of dirty dishes to dislodge whatever had clogged the drain, the puddle on the kitchen floor had grown to a small pool and his pal had disappeared before he could explain it was an accident.

Great. Fantabuloso.

As soon as he was done dealing with the broken teacup and mopping up the kitchen floor, he grabbed his trench coat, his skateboard and his Walkman and pulled a disappearing act of his own. He needed to get out of the lair for a while and clear his head.

The fact that he made it through the sewers and above ground without incident was nothing short of a miracle—and because Michelangelo was an eternal optimist despite it all, a miracle was just the thing to entice him to let his guard down.

As the click, click, click of his skateboard’s wheels over the cracks in the pavement coincidentally synced to the beat of his music, some of the tension finally bled out of his body. Nothing like a rhythmic ride to leave the bad vibes in the dust or at least drown them out for a time. The pain in his toes was finally subsiding. There weren’t any more messes waiting for him at home. His stomach had settled and seemed tentatively ready for real food. After a palatable, plain cheese slice or two at Vinnie’s (and a single serving order of Raphael’s usual on the side, as an apology when he got home) the rest of the day could still be salvageable.

Turtle Luck must have heard him and his naïve hope coming but he didn’t hear it. A well-meaning passerby’s “Watch out!” was muffled by his music, too late to stop him skating straight into the door of a shop abruptly swinging open ahead. The shop owner and all of his boxes marked “Fragile” toppled, as did Michelangelo for the second time today.

No blankets or bedroom carpet or even CDs to cushion this fall. He knew better than to throw his hands out to catch himself but in the heat of the moment, instinct overrode training. His outstretched palms scraped viciously against the asphalt and his wrist panged sharply but he didn’t have much time to register it before the shopkeeper was yanking his headphones off to yell at him over his damaged merchandise—the cost of which would definitely wipe out the money he had brought for food.

Great, great, great. Epic. Today was destined for the top of the charts—or it would be if he hadn’t managed to wrest his headphones out of the human’s tight fist and found they were now as bent out of shape as he was.

Disappointment lodged painfully in his throat, as if he had tried to swallow a rock. His vision blurred, which only served to remind him of Raphael’s wide, watery eyes and the peace offering he wouldn’t get to bring him.

But their team didn’t stay down and pout about what they couldn’t change, a mental voice much like Leonardo’s pointed out firmly. They pulled themselves together, picked themselves up and looked for other options.

Maybe…maybe there was still a shot. There was an ice cream truck that often patrolled one of the neighborhoods nearby. The turtles had saved the man’s life and his top secret recipe from Shredder’s goons once so whenever they crossed paths, he was usually happy to offer a free cone.

Michelangelo could really use a free cone right now. If it meant something went right for him today, he would wait behind the line of kids as long as he had to.

It did him some good to see some of the neighborhood kids having a better day than he was. He got a little chuckle out of watching them duel imaginary enemies with their sticks and jump ropes. Come to think of it, they were swinging their chosen weapons much like he and his compadres would.

Were they fans of the turtles? Maybe they were friends of Zach. It’d probably be fun to surprise them with a hello. He was just opening his mouth to call out to them when a fourth kid approached the three already engaged.

“Are you playing Ninja Turtles? Can I play too?” he demanded eagerly. “I wanna be Donatello!”

“No, I’m already Donatello, see?” one of the others insisted, shaking his tall, sturdy stick. “And he’s Leonardo and he’s Raphael. You can be Michelangelo if you want.”

“What?! Nooo,” the newcomer groaned, throwing his head back in dismay. “He’s the lame one!”

Oh. Ouch.

“Nuh-uh, he’s got those cool swingy weapons!”

“What weapons? I’ve only seen him use a grappling hook, that’s boring! What else does he even do?”

Double ouch.

“Uh…I don’t know.” The one playing Leonardo shrugged. “But he makes four so if you wanna join in, that’s who you get.”

“Ugh, never mind him! I’ll be Shredder, he’s way cooler!”

Triple yowzah ouch.

He could officially consider whatever appetite he had spoiled. Even the ice cream man lighting up at the sight of him didn’t make him feel any better; he was too blurry for Michelangelo to fully appreciate it.

“Well, if it isn’t one of my reptilian rescuers!” he exclaimed—loud enough to catch the kids’ attention, which was now the last thing Michelangelo wanted with his face and eyes burning like this. “What’ll it be, Michelangelo? On the house!”

The kid with all the offending opinions might have gone pale, might have shrunk shamefacedly into himself upon hearing his name, but Michelangelo couldn’t bring himself to look over there and know for sure.

“Mint chocolate chunk, please,” he managed thickly. Raphael’s favorite. He’d just have to beat a quick retreat back to the sewers to get it to him before it melted. And after that, a quick retreat back to bed with his wastebasket. The nausea had returned with a vengeance.

It only roiled into another knot of guilt when he found Donatello and Leonardo waiting, the latter with an all too familiar, fretful furrow in his brow. “Michelangelo! Where have you been? Why would you just take off without a word? You’re supposed to let somebody know where you’re going or at least leave a note. I was worried!”

“…Sorry. I forgot. I was just…getting ice cream.”

Donatello glanced up from whatever gadget he was fiddling with and hummed disappointedly when he saw the one cone in his hand. “You didn’t get enough for everyone?”

It was a valid question. A valid response was definitely not to spontaneously burst into tears but…well, he didn’t have any better answers so into tears he burst.

Donatello was so startled by the sudden outburst, he dropped his device, pieces scattering on impact, which only made Michelangelo cry harder. He was ruining everything for everyone in his vicinity today, wasn’t he? He shouldn’t have expected anything else.

“I—I didn’t mean anything by it! I’m not even hungry! We can get some next time, it’s honestly not a problem,” Donatello hurriedly tried to backpedal, leaping up to accept the cone as Leonardo deftly maneuvered it out of Michelangelo’s hand and pulled him into a hug in one motion.

“Shhh, shh, it’s going to be okay,” he soothed. He didn’t even have any idea what he was trying to console him about but the caretaker mode came so easily, Michelangelo couldn’t help but cling to it and to him. He was so busy burrowing into Leonardo’s shoulder that he didn’t notice Donatello’s eyes widening. He felt it when there was a tug at the sleeve of his trench coat, however; his shuddery breath hitched into a hiss.

“What happened to your wrist? It’s all swollen! You—” Sticking the ice cream cone into one of the empty glasses on the table to free up his hands, Donatello took his arm gently, only to notice the scuffs and scrapes lining his palm too. “Wh—Your hand! Did you have to fend Bebop and Rocksteady off of the ice cream truck again? You should’ve called us in!”

“No,” he mumbled wetly, wishing his voice wouldn’t crack like that. He could only wish he had a battle as an excuse—although if he’d been forced to go toe to toe with them on top of everything else today, he honestly didn’t know if he would have come out on top. “I-It wasn’t that, it was…stupid.”

Donatello tsked with equal measures of concern and skepticism. “More stupid than they are?”

He wanted to laugh at that, he really did, but another sob bubbled up instead and Leonardo tightened his hold, rubbing circles into his shell through the coat.

“Come on,” he urged gently. “Let’s get you washed and patched up and then we’ll see about bringing down the swelling.”

“I think Raphael still has the ice pack,” Donatello mused, making the guilt in Michelangelo’s stomach squirm again, “from when he ran into the bathroom door.”

…What?

“Oh, you weren’t here for that, were you, Michelangelo? That’s what he says anyway but nobody actually saw it. I think he’s just embarrassed to admit whatever actually happened,” Donatello continued on his way to the lab to grab his med kit.

Michelangelo bit the inside of his lip. He was the one who had smacked him in the face for no good reason, accidental or not; if Raphael had seen fit to tell on him and earn him another scolding for his loss of control, he would have deserved it. Why would he cover for him like that?

Because he was just that cool of a dude, a good example for the kids to look up to. Not like Michelangelo, right? Apparently he was just the lame, boring, uncool, clumsy, inconsiderate mess.

“I’m real sorry, Leonardo,” he choked out. “It’s really no big deal, I-I don’t mean to make a big fuss…”

“Hey, put the credit where credit is due. If anyone’s going to make a fuss here, it would be me,” Leonardo tutted, his smile soft yet playfully stern as he helped him out of his coat and then to the couch, where Michelangelo opted to sink into one of the cushions that didn’t boast fresh tea stains. “I happen to think I’ve gotten pretty good at a fuss.”

“That’s supposed to be a plus point?” Raphael snorted as greeting, making Michelangelo’s sniffly breath catch. The welt on his beak wasn’t as bad as it could have been but it was still pretty noticeable. He did that to him.

“It is when it’s well-timed and well-intentioned! It’s all out of love—”

“I’m really, really sorry, Raphael,” Michelangelo blurted tremulously. Blowing the cover he had crafted for him might just make him angrier but it was a risk he had to take to relieve his conscience. “It was an accident, I swear! Some ice cream’ll make it feel better, though, right? I-I brought you—” He cast a wide-eyed glance at the glass on the table and the soupy green rivulets and chocolate chunks oozing sluggishly down the sides. His heart felt like it was melting into the pit of his stomach with it. “Oh.”

The pure, resounding defeat in his voice had Leonardo scooting to pat his drooping shoulders, glancing questioningly between them. Raphael simply sighed as he approached, draping the ice pack over his wrist to still him. Michelangelo hadn’t even realized he was wringing his gashed hands in his lap.

“Eh, water under the bridge, pal. Scalding hot water,” he huffed ruefully, knuckling Michelangelo’s head briefly before following it with a pat. “I should’ve read the room. You were already having a rough one before I spilled the tea, weren’t you?”

Michelangelo’s long exhale trembled exhaustedly. “Mondo understatement.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Leonardo offered with an encouraging squeeze.

“Mmm, I dunno. I don’t wanna drag you down with all my problems…”

“Ah, come on, look who you’re talking to! If there’s anything I love almost as much as a witty wisecrack, it’s a good gripe,” Raphael reminded him, plopping down on his other side. “Hit me.”

“I already did.” At least when Raphael pulled a face at him for that comeback, the evidence wasn’t as blatant. As Donatello returned and opened up the med kit, he heaved another weighty sigh. “It’s been grody from the get-go, amigos. The second I woke up, it felt like Shredder had just got me in the gut with one of those crazy sharp gauntlets. Turns out that pizza I took with me last night packed some seriously poisonous punch!”

“Was it the sausage?” Donatello piped up as he wet some cotton pads with antiseptic. “I thought Master Splinter told you to throw that out.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say I got an unfriendly reminder about that this morning, loud and clear! I’m all topped up on the trash talk for today!” Michelangelo assured severely. “So I’m just trying to get out here and take up my rightful place at the porcelain throne, right, and out of nowhere my blankets get all kinds of clingy. Next thing I know I’m on the ground, army crawling through a field of compact discs…”

His series of unfortunate events was such a lengthy tale with so many terrible tangents and downer details that Michelangelo was eventually startled to discover he hadn’t registered any sting while Donatello meticulously disinfected, debrided and bandaged the road rash on his palms. He only got the tail end of his treatment when Leonardo, ever the brother hen, took up his nearest hand with utmost gentleness for a get-better nose nuzzle. It made him squirm a little. They really didn’t have to go to such lengths but admittedly the fuss over him was kind of nice.

He was so busy trying not to be self-conscious that he hadn’t noticed their sensei slip past the group into the kitchen at some point (the perks of being a master ninja!) but…was that rice he smelled? His stomach rumbled cautiously and sure enough, Splinter soon came around the couch with a tray.

“A bad day can only become a worse day without any real sustenance. I know the so-called BRAT diet would probably not be your first choice of comfort food, Michelangelo, but I did what I could.”

He was underselling himself. When fresh, Master Splinter’s rice was always just the right temperature and moisture. His toast was that picture perfect crispy brown and there was even a sliced banana smiley face nestled in the bowl of applesauce. Michelangelo’s eyes prickled again at the sight of it. It wasn’t pizza or ice cream but it was homemade especially for him. That was the next best thing.

“Thanks a million, Master.”

“Of course. I will return with a glass of ginger ale this time and pain reliever shortly.”

“Speaking of brats,” Raphael pointedly recaptured his attention, “you know all the smack that kid was talking about you isn’t true, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah…of course. Totally bogus.” Was it the awkwardly forced attempt at a laugh or his haste to stuff a corner of the toast in his mouth that had the guys all giving him a look?

“Totally, completely bogus,” Donatello emphasized. “If the kid doesn’t even know what nunchaku are, he obviously has no grounds to speak with any confidence on the matter of Michelangelo.”

“Yeah, and what kind of cuckoo thinks ol’ Tin Grin is cooler than a Ninja Turtle?! It’s not his show now, is it?”

“You’re amazing, Michelangelo. Even the most amazing people can have not so amazing days but that doesn’t change who you are or how much you’re loved.” Leonardo beamed, all warmth and sincerity, until Raphael pushed himself off the couch and kicked his ankle in light reproach as he passed.

“You ever think of going into the greeting cards business? Stop trying to make him cry again; with the day he’s having, it’ll end up making his toast all soggy.”

“That’s Murphy’s Law for you: anything that can go wrong will go wrong,” Donatello agreed.

Well, Murphy, whoever he was, may have given Michelangelo a nasty kick in the pants today but as he swallowed his toast with only slight difficulty and leaned back into Leonardo’s open arm—as Raphael put on one of his favorite movies—as Donatello began carefully manipulating his crunched headphones back into shape—as Splinter returned with the ginger ale that had just the right amount of ice, it served as proof for the eternal optimist that there was still hope for Michelangelo’s Law to win out. He hadn’t met a bad day yet that he and his buds couldn’t make better together, eventually.

#tmnt 1987 #theyre so cute #they’re a family too #damn it #and there are so many cuddles #cuddles are good for my soul

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catbowserauthor · 5 hours ago

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This family deserves all the hugs, all the kisses…someone transfer that home into their name, make an exception for them being minors or something.

They deserve ALL the good things

I Can Take It: Resolute

(Prev)

No panic. No fear.

He was going to be sick.

No, this was fine. He was fine. Why would he panic? Nobody was even touching him. They just…wanted to see.

As if he hadn’t been on display long enough, lying in bed, in the depths of his own mind, while anyone who wanted to drop by and ogle his injuries could and he was helpless to even know they were there, let alone stop them.

His brothers wouldn’t have let anything happen, not then, not now.

Nothing was even happening. No one would lay a finger on him; the medical officers were a healthy distance away. Why was his heart trying to pound through his plastron?

Because they wanted to see. They needed evidence, Exhibits A, B, C in the case against his fa—against Sliver.

They needed pictures.

Grav had never cared for the media spotlight. It was an unavoidable, uncomfortable part of their work but he’d always taken solace in coming back to the Shell of Justice at the end of the day and breathing a sigh of relief knowing their cameras and questions couldn’t follow them in. Home was a…safe space.

Ha.

Now here he was with his back literally to the wall of the medbay, legs barely supporting him under the weight of the knowledge that as soon as that camera clicked, there would be no going back. There was no way they could keep the case under wraps, no matter what Mayor O’Neil hoped and promised. Somehow these evidential pictures would leak, because juicy secrets always did. The city would see him stripped and scuffed and exposed and realize the hero they had relied on to protect them couldn’t even protect himself. All his power and he couldn’t…

“…rav. Gravi.” Blob swam into his vision, close, reaching but not touching. “That’s it. They’re done.” Translation: it’s already too late. “Do you wanna sit down now?”

He nodded by instinct but rather than sidestepping toward the chair Blob indicated, he swayed forward to press his face into his shoulder, much as he had during his lapse of restraint that worst day. Contact was like a cool compress, soothing against the shame that burned his cheeks. His brother’s arms had some give, gently melting to better envelop him.

He didn’t have any consoling words to offer this time. He just kept ahold, breathing unsteadily with him until Grav’s legs were actively sliding out from underneath him and he had to redirect him to the chair. As soon as he did, Grid came alongside, draped his freshly washed, warm cape over him like a blanket and then planted a heavier hand on his hunched shoulder.

“The case’ll be open and shut before y’know it,” he announced gruffly, as if the firmer he said it the truer it would become. “Better be, between that and our testimonies.”

Grav’s fingers automatically sought after one of the patch jobs in his cape. With Grid behind the needle, the repairs were invisible, seamless, but he swore he could feel something there, some phantom pucker like a scar to match its wearer. “…Hopefully.”

He would be grateful for any part of the legal process that could be taken off his plate as soon as possible. The responsibilities of being team leader under Sliver’s guiding controlling hand had already been demanding. Obvious case in overwhelming point. Now that he had made enough of a comeback in his condition to stay up and awake for a few consistent hours at a time, the larger looming pressure of a world without Sliver had heaped a million and one questions into his spinning head.

Were they going to lose the Shell of Justice? Wasn’t it registered in Sliver’s name? Could they even afford to stay here? He had always overseen the team and family finances with a tight fist; they were likely in his name too. Mayor O’Neil said if he was convicted, the government may be able to seize his assets and property but what about them? What rights did he and his brothers have? Who had any rights to them?

What happened to mutant minors when a single parent proved unfit? Grav may have been abstractly deemed “the oldest” but biologically he was just as underage as they were. No matter how capable he had proved himself to be in the field, it’s not like he could assume any kind of legal guardianship. (He didn’t want to. It would only produce the very unbalanced power dynamic of subordination between him and his brothers that had come between them once already.)

Could they somehow end up in the foster system? A human foster family might jump at the novelty of hosting “celebrity guests” until sheltering in a civilian home proved to be an open invitation to their enemies. It would only put more people at risk.

Could they be separated? Surely someone would try. They might decide Grid took up too much space or Blob was too messy or Grav too withdrawn, unengaging, uninteresting; they might think taking in only one or two didn’t carry the same risk as all four.

What if no one wanted them? Would they be returned to the facility where they were created, like they were just a product recall?

What if, what if, what if?

They were all he had. Without a family to be strong for, he’d be nothing. Less than. He couldn’t be the unwavering front with no one behind him. They had to watch each other’s backs if no one else would. He couldn’t do this without them, he couldn’t go on. He was—

Weak. Useless. You have the pathetic base instincts of a civilian child. Look at this fear response—trembling like a dead leaf in the wind when nothing is even wrong! Maybe you are the wrong in this picture. Broken. The facility may be the only place to want you, to pick you apart at all the cracks, to study your brokenness. How you failed. How will you protect your family then? How can you protect them now? You can’t. You can’t! You—

“—look like you could use some of this.”

He managed to bite back the gasp but not the flinch as he only just now registered the presence of Mayor O’Neil’s aide standing over him. Grid’s hand tightened on his shoulder; it had never left but somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten how to feel it. Blinking rapidly, he glanced up at him, then back at the coffee Mr. Jones was holding out to him.

“Vanilla cinnamon pecan mocha, extra whipped cream. S’ been my go-to since I was a little older than you,” he explained with another little nudge of it toward him and a small, lopsided smile. “…Sometimes ya need a shot of pure sugar for the rough days.”

Prying his hands free of the chair’s armrests, unsure when or why he had started clinging to them for dear life, Grav accepted it almost mechanically. Uncertainly.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he had whipped cream.

(Six years old, tucked into his father’s side with his very first hot chocolate, the treat he and his brothers had earned for behaving so well for their last day of schooling before winter break. Shelle sparking and spluttering when he burned his tongue. Grid not caring in the slightest about how hot it was, downing his in two gulps. Blob spilling half of it into his lap when his grip made the mug handle slick and slippery and Sliver sighing faintly at the sight, for once more fond than frustrated.

Gravi just wanting to stay right here in this moment forever, warm and cozy, watching whipped cream melt across the surface of his chocolate in satisfying swirls while Shelle fussed over Blob’s mess, Grid stole another mouthful from the mug Shelle had set down and his dad scratched idle patterns over his shell.)

He didn’t want to dwell too long on the last time he had whipped cream. Thankfully the sample sip he took from this mocha was shockingly sweet and smooth enough to wash the memory, and the tail end of his frantic spiral, back down the drain. For now, at least.

“…Thank you,” he managed, hoping the appreciation was actually audible through the exhaustion. “Did you keep the receipt? Mayor O’Neil and Shelle and I are still trying to figure out the whole, um, accounts situation but I’m sure we can spare enough to pay you back.”

“What? Nah, you don’t gotta pay me anything.”

“You’re just giving me your coffee?”

Mr. Jones’ smile softened, a little sadder but nowhere near pitying and no less kind. “I brought it for you, kid.”

“…Oh.”

He had received fan letters, fan art, occasionally flowers, but nobody ever gave him personal little things like this. He made his own coffee, he made his own tea once the machine and/or the kettle were free. No one ever just…magically noticed he needed a pick-me-up and had something on hand to offer. It was jarring.

On either side of him, Grid and Blob radiated the same undercurrent of surprise as Mr. Jones added, “I already dropped one off with Shellectro. You guys want yours now too?”

“Uh…yeah? Sure.”

“Sounds good?”

When Shelle and Mayor O’Neil eventually came in, they had just polished them off—and a good thing too. Shelle’s pallor and overbright eyes would have had all three of his brothers dropping their drinks in an instant. They didn’t even get a chance to ask what was wrong; Shelle spoke over them, flat, crackly.

“You need to hear this.”

The transfer from a chair in the medbay to a chair at the conference table went by like a blink. Mayor O’Neil, ever unflappable, looked uncharacteristically nervous; they could hear her heel tapping agitatedly under the table as she readied herself to speak.

“You remember yesterday I told you the EPF was planning to transfer your f—Sliver to one of their higher-security facilities.”

Grav didn’t remember that, actually. Had she told him that during one of his…hazes? It didn’t matter. Blob and Grid both nodded so apparently the majority of the team was up-to-date.

“Well, they just gave me a call,” she admitted, cringing anticipatorily, “and it…wasn’t good news.”

The words had hardly left her mouth before Grid was out of his chair, fist slamming the table and earning jumps all around.

“They let him escape?!”

“They did everything they could, Griddex! They were completely confident that they had everything under control but—well, he has every one of your powers, doesn’t he? It would be like trying to fight off your whole team combined! He just overwhelmed them! They even tried that nullifying ore or element or whatever it is but it had no effect on him!”

“Unrefined,” Shelle growled like a curse while Grav swallowed against a phantom flicker of nausea.

“What about those remote cuff thingamajigs? They worked well enough to deal with him before! Why didn’t they use ’em?!”

“Aside from the fact that Shellectro is the only one who knows how, they’re brand new, unknown, barely tested; they aren’t officially sanctioned as a means of lawful restraint—”

“Oh, cause clearly lawful restraint worked so well!”

“They didn’t have the remote cuff links, Grid; I brought them back home with me. I…trusted them to keep him contained without them. Maybe that’s my fault.”

“No, it’s not! They didn’t even think to sedate him or nothin’ before pullin’ him out of his cell? You told ’em who they were dealing with, didn’t ya?! You said these were your best people!”

Mayor O’Neil stifled a sigh. “He…He was better.”

“Shell, oh, shell, oh, shell,” Blob was muttering under the din, palming haphazardly at his face. He was already sweating bullets. “So what, he’s just out there somewhere? Do they even have any leads on where he went? Where he’s going? He’s not coming back here, is he? To—To check on Grav? He knew about the coma but not that he woke up. He was worried about him, he might want to find out if he’s—”

“He tries to get within twenty feet of Grav and I’ll make sure he lives just long enough to regret it,” Grid snarled, slamming the table again. Pens rattled and rolled to hit the floor.

“That wasn’t the impression I got from his goodbye,” Shelle murmured.

“Huh?”

“Goodbye? What goodbye?”

“While Mayor O’Neil was on the phone, I got another alert from Shellitron 99. Sliver used his backdoor in the system to send us a message before, apparently, shutting it down from his end.” Pale, short-lived sparks winked on his breath as he exhaled slowly. “As much as I would love to just delete it right now, forget about it…the legal people will probably want to use it as evidence somewhere down the road.”

“You’ve already listened to it?” Grav wasn’t sure how he even got the words out, considering it felt like he was about to choke on his own tongue. Judging by the pained looks his brothers sent him, he sounded about as good as he felt.

“Not all of it but…enough. Enough to know the rest of you need to hear it too.”

Grid glowered. “I’m not interested in anythin’ he has to say.”

“It’s not just family drama; it’s team business. It states his intent from here on out and it’s—it’s bigger than all of us.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Grav had to wonder if Blob felt the chill that clawed straight through him when his moist hand tentatively brushed his nearest arm, just shy of the swelling. “…You sure, bro?”

No. For a moment Grav wished he and his brother could have exchanged their powers just so he could melt down, down, down out of his chair and into a puddle under the table. But that wasn’t his lot in life. No panic. No fear. He just had to remember how to breathe. “Yes. I’m sure. I’m fine. Let’s just get it over with. The sooner we have all the facts, the better.” As soon as Shelle reached for his laptop, he inhaled sharply to add in a rush, “It’s not—We don’t have a visual, though?”

I don’t want to see him. Not unless I have to.

“No, it’s just audio.”

“…Okay. Okay.” Grid shot him a meaningful look over Blob’s head, one he returned with a grimace. It only deepened as the recording began.

“Hello, my sons.”

Such an easy, natural greeting. The last time Grav heard that voice outside of disjointed, disorienting dreams, he was snarling recriminations at him, dragging him through shards of broken glass by the throat. Was the tightening of said throat upon hearing him just psychosomatic?

Breathe.

“As you may know, today the Earth Protection Force was due to transfer me to one of their more private facilities. I’m afraid that transference would conflict with much of the far more personal business I have on my agenda so I have been forced to make an abrupt exit.”

A muscle twitched in Grid’s jaw. Mayor O’Neil thinned her lips, ducked her head and then hurriedly tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear.

“Rest assured I took care to bring harm to as few of their agents as possible during my escape. I understand I have done a great deal of damage already to the much more important people in my life. Blobboid, Shellectro…”

It was age-old instinct for Blob to perk up, overeager to be paid any personal attention by the one who always knew how to hold just enough of it out of reach. He caught his own reaction belatedly, flushed and sank a little lower in his chair, while Shelle glared unflinchingly at the audio waves pulsing on his laptop screen.

“Your visits gave me much to consider, and reconsider, about the style of teaching I have used over the past several weeks. As I said to your faces, I will say it again: true harm was never the intention. Even so, you made it clear that true harm was done regardless. Perhaps I did go too far.”

“Perhaps?” Grid spat.

“I regret any and all distress I have caused you. I’ve come to realize my priorities were sorely misplaced. I was wrong to put the service, the city, the humans before what is mine. You are of far greater value than any of them will ever be. You are—you must be all that matters. Graviturtle faltered and fell because I did not properly pave the way. All my hopes and prayers and good luck lie with him now, for a safe and full recovery. If…When he wakes, I am sure he will bounce back, rise again to lead you with the same firm, confident, steady hand I once did.”

Breathe. Just breathe. It’s just in and out. Slow. Simple. That firm hand couldn’t hurt him again.

(Not yet.)

“But even if you rise again, how can you rise above when it has been instilled in you for so long that you were made to serve? That even I am, for the greater good? Whose good have we ever dutifully serviced? The humans’. And by pushing you forward to that end, I only pushed you further down, further away from me. Our power is made for more. We are destined to rise above all of this. I understand now: no humans are as important as our family. If you are truly to achieve greatness, I must leave you to your own devices for a time. I must strive ahead for you, take strides toward a new mission.”

Blob swallowed with audible difficulty.

“I must break the old mold, the old habits of subservience. I must shift the balance of power for you, for us. You are my crowning jewels. This city will be our crown; I will shape it to that end. I will carve out a place for you to shine, to be adored for all that you can be. Dazzling. Strong. Powerful.”

If he didn’t stay absolutely still until this was over, he would be sick as he had feared, Grav realized distantly. The only modicum of self-control he maintained was leaning his folded arms on the tabletop rather than simply faceplanting into it. He could only wish he was wearing his gloves now; they would have hidden his scabbed hands’ trembling.

“This will be my gift to you—my peace offering. All I want for you now is the world. A better one. One we can make together. I hope when the time is right and the city has been made ready, you will be ready too. Your perspectives wiser, your powers stronger. I hope by then your will is strong enough to shed your servitude, rise and stand beside me. Seize control of your lives.

“More than ever I hope you really are as equipped as you may think to face the countless other cruelties with which this world will bombard you. Do not let them break you, my sons. Keep hope in the meantime. Trust that I am working. Trust that this is the greater good, even if you do not yet see it. Someday you will understand. My will is already far stronger than theirs. I will win for you. I will win you back. By any means necessary. The ends will justify them and they will be…glorious. We will be glorious.”

In comparison to the clear threat in his words, the tone with which he delivered it—full of warmth and wistful want and whatever he called love—was nauseatingly earnest.

“Until then.”

Silence fell over the whole table like a blanket of snow. Mayor O’Neil was pale. Blob had curled into himself, roiling. Grid’s fists were clenched so tight, his nails were probably digging crescent moons into his palms. Shelle continued to glare daggers at his laptop as though it were to blame, as though he were tempted to short out its speakers for airing such a thing.

Grav stared at…something indistinct past the mayor’s head, he wasn’t really sure what. The most he could register right now was the cool, smooth tabletop under his scales, the only solid point steadying him.

“So…” Blob began weakly. “I take it building our case is on hold.”

Mayor O’Neil cleared her throat. “Well, from the sound of it, whatever he intends to do from here on out will continue to dig his own legal grave.”

“We just got a rat hunt to throw together now on top of everythin’ else,” Grid groused, “cause what’s a court case without an accused in the room for us to point at?”

“Us, hunting him?” Shelle echoed incredulously. “Did you not hear him right? He’s going to do whatever he thinks it’ll take to get us back. He’ll never stop coming after us.”

“So what do we do about that? Play bait?”

“Let him come! We can take him!”

“Can we? Clearly we don’t understand how he thinks half as well as we ever believed we did. Meanwhile he’s been analyzing us in secret, picking apart every little thing we do, figuring out how we tick at all times. He taught us everything we know! And all he would need to do is get his hands on another piece of Utromidium—when we don’t even know where he got the first, by the way—and we’d all be at his mercy! How do we fight that?”

“Oh, wow, thanks, Shelle, that’s all super motivational. Go, team!”

“I’m just trying to be realistic! Grav said we needed all the facts, these are the facts!”

“You couldn’t’ve tried to soften the blow just a little bit?”

“I don’t know how you expect me to…”

By the time Grav fully registered the fog, it had already rolled in thick enough to drown out most of the conversation still ping-ponging around him. His head was much heavier now, weighed down until his face was tucked against his forearms. Only then did the tears seep to the surface.

A part of him had sensed this moment looming ever since he woke up. The gathering rainclouds, the breaking point. He had hoped it would all catch up to him in a moment of privacy, preferably in a room with a closed and locked door but of course, it had been a long six weeks of absolutely nothing going the way he wanted. Why should this be any different? What privacy? What dignity?

Fine. Whatever. Let it all overflow out in the open with all of his brothers and even an outsider to see. As if they hadn’t witnessed enough of his misery already.

The most he could be grateful for was a quiet crumbling. No whiny little whimpers or sorry sobs. That would require him to be breathing and he forgot how. The fog was too thick and the world was a dream and time and tears didn’t mean anything.

Time would pass. The tears would pass—faster probably if he remembered to blink but it stung, so he didn’t. The stream didn’t slow. Gravity led it down his face, down his arms onto the table. Another mess to clean up. Later. Eventually the rainclouds would roll away, the fog would thin. He just had to wait it out. Endure, as always.

A hand found its way through the haze to rest on his shell. Heavy, though not as heavy as his head as it moved in slow, comforting circles.

(His dad scratching idle patterns over his shell—)

Slow, steady, rhythmic. He ought to acknowledge it, offer apologies or thanks or…something, but that too would require breathing.

Sticky fingers worked their way between his limp ones, a thumb wetting his knuckles as it stroked them.

(His dad squeezing his hands, reminding him that with their power, these could be weapons just as much as they could be tools—)

Someone was breathing, filling the space where he couldn’t, slow, deep, exaggerative—a reminder, a cool wind on his scales to waft the smog away, if he could only follow it.

Something warm brushed over the crown of his head and down the back of his neck, taking care to lighten its tingly touch over the bruising.

(His dad offhandedly stroking the sweat from his brow even as he choked him.)

They took such good care of him, his brothers. It was only now that they had all drawn close, closed ranks, that it struck him how much he’d missed them through it all.

They were too good for him. They deserved better than this raincloud. They deserved someone who could be stronger for them.

But they were his strength.

He couldn’t do it without them.

Thank heaven and earth he didn’t have to.

They deserved better. But clearly, judging by the fact that they were here, placating, staying, caring…they could put up with a little rain. Together.

When he tried it again, breathing hurt, but the relief in the collective breath around him was worth skirting slowly, tiredly around the pain to persist.

“…Sorry” flittered out on his next exhale.

“Don’t be,” Shelle soothed.

“You’re not the one who should be apologizing,” Blob reminded him, and oh, being on the receiving end of it ached. He didn’t have the backbone to carry an ache like that but Grid’s hand was still on his shell. Right where he said they would be, ready as they’d ever be to pick him up.

Ready if you are.

It took a monumental effort to lift his head but a blurry peek up at the world, his world, was worth it. His brothers on all sides. April, standing now, sliding a glass of water across the table for him with nothing but compassion in her eyes. And behind her head, what Grav had been staring at all along without really looking—their crest mounted on the wall. All four of them had a hand in its crafting; it was one of the few pieces of their public image Sliver hadn’t touched during the design phase. Of course he had the final say to approve it but ultimately? It was theirs.

His. His to protect. His to fight for. His to hold onto, tightly, tenderly, gently, his to love more than Sliver ever had.

I expect more of you than to take this lying down.

Alright.

Upwards and onwards. He sat up slowly, shoulders back, head high through the pain. As he leaned on them, their individual holds on him tightened as one. Warmer tears welled afresh at the feeling but he blinked them carefully away, held them back. Held them close.

There would be plenty of time for plenty of tears. Later.

Until then.

“I don’t have a plan yet,” he confessed softly. “I don’t have any answers. I-I don’t even know where to start but…we’ll figure it out. If he wants a fight, that’s what he’ll get. Whatever we have to do to protect our home and our family, we’ll do it. Good wins; I have to believe that. We’ve faced his cruelty already and we’ve gotten through. Whatever he throws at us…we can take it.”

He would lead by example, just as he told Sliver he would the day this nightmare started. He would end it leading by a better example than he ever did.

One day at a time.

(Masterlist)

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catbowserauthor · 5 hours ago

Note

The voices of the turtles are one thing I am super picky on. Not that they have to be perfect but if they don’t sound like “them” then it just throws the whole thing off for me. (This is my biggest issue with Mutant Mayhem. Donnie and Mikey sound like they need to be switched IMO).

2003 and 87 are my absolute kings for voices. I routinely switch off which one I hear in my head—and sometimes it winds up as this weird combo of the two.

But I cannot picture anyone else in 03 Leo’s role. Or Donnie’s. Or Mikey or Raph. Those voices will forever sound like the turtles to me. If I hear them in anything else, it’s like “Oh, hi Leo!” 😅

Fun Facts I learned about the Voice Actor’s of TMNT 2003.

1. Mikey and Raph’s VA were the biggest goofballs during recording sessions and used to annoy Leo’s VA on the daily lol

2. Apparently during the first takes Donnie’s VA was recording Raph’s lines and vice verse for episode 1 but the director said “that was horrible, you two need to switch”.

3. Mikey’s VA said that the hardest lines to record were usually Mikey’s girly screams took a lot out of him sometimes.

3. Leo’s VA original audition for every other turtles EXCEPT for Leo . He thought he wouldn’t make a good Leonardo.

4. The Voice actors for TMNT 2003 recorded on the same floor as the artists who animated for the show which doesn’t happen usually! So VAs and Artists used to hang out!

5. One time Raph’s VA showed up sick to recording and most of his lines that day were slow and slurred and he almost passed out 😵

6. Leonardo’s VA loves to chat , quite the talker with stories and a total sweet guy! 😆

Wow, these facts are awesome! Thanks for sharing; I love hearing behind-the-scenes stuff like this 😊

The idea that Wayne and Greg were goofballs and annoyed Michael is soo on brand and cracks me up 😂

I knew a couple of the VAs swapped roles, but I wasn't sure which ones. But it turned out for the better for sure!

It’s kind of amazing that Michael didn’t even audition for Leo at first but ended up being perfect for the role. 💙

That’s so cool! Must have been fun for everyone. Makes me wish more shows did that!

Sounds rough! Props to Greg for powering through even while feeling that sick 🥲

Haha, that’s awesome! He sounds like a really chill and fun guy (though, to be fair, they all seem like super great dudes 💚)

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catbowserauthor · 5 hours ago

Video

I’ve always thought since Mikey is so aware of both the mind and the body (though he doesn’t always show it) he knows exactly how to take you apart

Mikey f*cking murders someone part 1

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catbowserauthor · 9 hours ago

Text

The Impossible

A “Grudge Match” Follow Up and AU

Chapter 4

They were supposed to go shower, eat and try to relax. That’s what Master Splinter said. That’s what logic said made sense. That’s all they could do.

So, naturally, Donnie and Raph had moved down the hall enough to be considered “away”, found a courtyard and just sat.

It was a serene place, or at least it was designed to be. Simple stone benches, with flowers, bushes, a small pond full of fish and broad trees that cast a peaceful shadow.

The two brothers huddled under the largest tree, shells against one another. Donnie stared at the pond, Raph at the sky.

They were silent, lost amid their own thoughts. If not for the gentle breathing and slight pressure from one another, they might have forgotten they weren’t alone.

“We fucked up, Donnie.” It was said without preamble and without doubt. Not a question, not looking for support or debate. Ringing with the same clarity that one might say they had a heartbeat. “We really fucked up.”

A simple nod. No response otherwise. Just a bob of the head.

“I…are we bad brothers, Donnie? I didn’t think I was but now…did you hear what he said? About himself? How did I not see it? How much of that came from me? I never set out to make him feel that way!”

Donnie didn’t answer right away. His own mind was flying. Every past interaction, every joke at his brother’s expense. So many questions. Much as he thought he listened, thought he was a safe place for his brother, much like Raph, he was questioning everything.

Could I have said something? Done something different? Brought it to someone’s attention?

“I never set out to make him feel that way!”

Raph’s words rattled in his head.

“Does that matter though, Raph?” Donnie’s words scraped the back of throat, sharp as razors. “Does it?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you came home with a broken arm, it doesn’t matter if you broke it in a fight or falling off your bike. What matters is we have to set it.”

Quiet. Shuffling of feet. Huffs of frustration. “How do we set this, Donnie? Where do we even start?”

For all his smarts, all his intelligence, all his ability to dissect and pull apart problems, on this one, Donnie was lost.

“I don’t know, Raph. I just know we have to.”

Non-answers. Non solutions.

“I…” Raph rubbed the back of his neck. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything. If I’d known…I shoulda known. If I was a better brother I woulda…shell, I’m sorry.”

He should have said that to Mikey. No, he would say that to Mikey. Along with so much else.

It was the how that was eating him. How did you apologize for doing so much harm? Even if it was unintentional.

But Donnie was right—intent wasn’t really important.

The wound was still open. They still had to mend it.

He could still see the heartbreak in his baby brother’s eyes. The buried pain in every word he said. The utter disbelief when Leo said proud.

The way his brother absolutely shattered.

“I should have known.” Donnie fiddled with his hands, head still bowed. His voice was soft. “With how important he made this competition to be. He has reasons for when he keeps bringing something up. We know that. I know that! I should have…That’s why he would brag about it all the time. And we would always downplay it.”

I wouldn’t downplay Raph’s achievements or Leo’s. Why was it okay to do it with Mikey?

Because everyone else did, he realized bitterly.

A heavy weight settled over the two and Raph said, “He just wanted someone to say it, didn’t he? Someone to say it was an accomplishment. And…we weren’t so…”

Raph ground his fists.

Well, fuck. Suddenly, all those chants of “battle nexus champion” weren’t annoying. They were heartbreaking. A cry of “recognize me, I want to be important too!”

How often did they disparage or talk down about what Mikey liked? About what he thought was important? Did they even bother to ask why it was important? How often did they praise him, legitimately praise, him? Did he even remember the last time he’d praised him?

The fact that he couldn’t even recall made Raph’s blood boil and the sudden urge to put his own body through torture as recompense provided no relief. That wouldn’t help. Only freak out Master Splinter and make Mikey feel guilty. He could picture it now—him begging them to worry about his brother instead.

Mikey’d do it by making cracks about himself, by comparing Raph to something fragile but the result would be the same—my brother needs help more than me. And he’d refuse help until Raph got it first.

He always did that. Worry about Leo. About Donnie. About Raph or Father. The family had gotten so used to it. Now, thinking back on those situations, they’d dismiss it by Mikey being stubborn or difficult or purposely trying to drive them nuts but it always ended the same—the rest of the family came before Mikey.

Mikey had such a big heart…

And you just loved tossing it around like a football didn’t you?

Scolding himself was something at least.

But a sickening feeling rose in Raph’s stomach. With how his brother had been talking, did he think he didn’t deserve to get help?

I’m the silly stupid brother and I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m who I am!

“We’ve both lost our big brother cards, Donnie.”

A humorless laugh from the younger turtle. “Rejected, shredded, banned.”

The laughter was short lived. Then it sank back into melancholy meditation, trying to find sense out of everything. Out of anything!

Donnie trembled and it took Raph a minute to realize he was laughing. But it was an odd laughing. The kind mixed with tears, regret, and sorrow.

“Donnie? You okay?”

“Did you know Mikey made me an actual Big Brother card?”

Turning finally, Raph rested his arm on a raised knee. “What?”

Nodding, something akin to a smile on his face, Donnie dug into his pouch that was never far from his belt and handed Raph a folded piece of paper.

It was tearing on the seams, water stained and he could see the many, many way it had been jammed and pushed and shoved into pockets.

Unfolding it carefully, as if it were as delicate as deed to some vast treasure, Raph chuckled out loud for the first time in hours.

In the upper left corner was a drawing of Donnie, obviously done by a very young Mikey. The colors were a mix of yellow and green—their brother had obviously been trying to mimic the genius’ olive tone but he hadn’t learned how to mix colors yet.

Above the picture in what was obviously an attempt at clear writing was: BIG BRUTHER CARD

Underneath, written in their sibling’s sloppy script was:

Name: DON-E

Berth Day: Don-e’s

Age: Old-er than me

And at the bottom next to an old thumbprint was “signed by ME.”

Raph turned it over and found Donnie’s fine penmanship on the back:

“This card means big brother can give advice or tell little brother what to do. Failure to listen will mean Big Brother can tell Dad without being called “snitch.”

The red banded turtle smirked. “How old were we when he wrote that?”

“Six,” Donnie shook his head. “I held onto it because for a while, it was a pretty good way to get him to listen.”

Raph handed it back. “What broke that streak?”

“When I wouldn’t listen to you on some trip we took. You were being that reckless nut you are and I said no because I wanted to live to be seven. Since you were my big brother, apparently, Mikey took that to mean the instructions in this card were void.”

Quiet followed. They sat there, side by side, staring at their hands. Donnie rubbed the card between his fingers.

His little brother’s sloppy handwriting a written promise of “I trust you!”

“I’m sorry I failed you, Mikey.” The violet banded turtle closed his eyes. “I…dunno how I’ll fix it but I will.”

The genius looked up, eyes wet, and addressed the sky. “I’m the fixer, right? You tell me all the time, Mikey. If it’s broken, I can fix it. I can fix it…”

Raph wrapped his arm around Donnie’s neck, pulling him into his side. The younger turtle crumbled, voice choked, “I have to be able to fix this…”

Steeling his voice, the stronger of the two managed, “We will fix it, Donnie. We’re…. gonna get to the root of this and we’re gonna fix it.”

Even if the root is us. If we have to change, we will. If Father has to change, he will. If we all have to change, we will.

When Mikey smiles again, it’s gonna be a real one.

The turtle’s brain was racing. He hated being helpless. He hated being useless. There had to be something he could do. Anything!

Leo was with Mikey. He’d take care of him. Master Splinter was…well, he didn’t exactly know. Probably talking with the Daimyo or meditating somewhere. Maybe both.

“When can we go back in?” Raph’s question rattled the air.

A shake of the head from Donnie. “Probably a few hours. They want him to relax and…well, he wasn’t exactly calm.”

And we weren’t helping. How much did even seeing us bring up those bad thoughts?

Donnie didn’t want to consider the fact that his little brother might not want to see him right now. Didn’t want to consider his very presence might be a trigger.

But he had to. And the notion made him sick.

Raph stood. “I’ll be back.”

Blinking, Donnie asked, “Where are you going?”

“Home. We’re probably gonna be here for a bit. Figure someone oughta tell Case and April so they don’t freak out. Better go feed Klunk, too.” He gave a smile. “And you know Mikey loves Mr. Panda when he hurts or doesn’t feel good.”

It wasn’t much, Raph reasoned, but it was something. Least he could reassure his brother they hadn’t forgotten about his furry friend. Bring back that ancient stuffed animal and he knew April and Casey would send cards.

They were small tokens, small ways of showing affection, love, caring.

Maybe he’d get one for Mikey, too.

Hey, even the biggest of wounds started healing small, right? But they did heal.

Right?

OOO

Splinter stood silently, gazing out over the Battle Nexus. The hour grew late and so did the people. Very few were moving about the grounds and those that were had distinct destinations in mind. No lingering.

The quiet was welcomed though for once it did not bring him peace. If anything, it made the thoughts tumbling through his mind all the stronger.

Perhaps, that was a good thing.

He could still hear himself. The smugness to his voice when his youngest had turned to him with what could only be desperation and he had all but laughed in his face. How he’d pictured his son being humbled and it putting an end to his bragging. His constant boasts had become almost insufferable.

I could have approached it as a teaching moment. As a moment to learn, as a moment to grow. If I had, I would have seen this self doubt, this self deprecation so much sooner!

Would you? A cynical side of himself asked. He has been screaming for years. Not once did you bother to see it. To hear it. To give it the slightest bit of weight.

Ever since they’d left Michelangelo with Leonardo, the martial arts master found himself simply wandering. While they’d been offered beds, offered baths, offered food, all Splinter found comfort in was walking.

And even that was more out of some means to occupy his body and distract his mind than anything else. He’d considered going to speak with the Daimyo but ultimately declined. As much as he loved his friend, being a proper parent was not one of his strong attributes.

Perhaps I took on too much of his influence.

No. No. Excuses. He was making excuses.

The rat stopped, found a quiet empty space and sat, eyes closed. Breath in. Breath out.

Open your mind. Let the spiritual energy guide you.

Please. I must discover what to do. Help me understand how I can repair this. How I damaged it so deeply to begin with. I must connect with my son once more!

If you truly desire it then do not fight it.

Good. The meditation was beginning to work. Let his thoughts flow and welcome all of them. No matter what.

He’s truly thought he was doing things for the best. It was not as if Splinter had a huge range of experiences.

Not all human parents do either and they succeed in not alienating their child.

What was I supposed to do? I was doing the best I could.

No. You weren’t. Why did you bother with Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello? If one of them were struggling, failing, not thriving, you would have asked. Listened. Searched for an explanation.

He had. He did. But for Michelangelo, the answer seemed…

You thought he was lazy. You assumed he was foolish. Stupid even.

No! No! My son I never thought was stupid. I thought he did not use his mind as he should—

Like You thought he should.

….yes. Yes, I relent. Like I thought he should.

Yet you never wondered why Donatello thought differently. Wasn’t that good?

Yes. Yes, I always encouraged Donatello’s—

Then why not your youngest’s? Hmm?

The honest truth was he did not see the antics of his youngest son as strengths. He saw them as childish. Foolish. Lazy, even.

Do you remember your fight against Touch and Go?

Splinter squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

What was it you said to him? After his plan enabled you all to get the drop on your enemies? It was clever, using ninja methods of cunning, of surprise…

His fists ground tight.

Did you praise him?

…no.

No? What did you say to him?

I…

When he was repeating what he’d done, laying out the steps he’d figured out, saying he COULD think, practically pleading ‘Father, I did good, right?!’ What did you say to him?

Shame drowned Splinter so heavily he struggled to breathe.

What did you say to him?!

That…that it was a brand new world for him. Thinking.

So. You DID think he was stupid.

No. I truly did not, I…

But can you blame him if he believes you did?

….no.

“Splinter-San?”

Breaking from his concentration, Splinter blinked away the wetness in his eyes as they focused on a familiar face, contorted in concern.

“G-good evening, Usagi-San.”

The rabbit Samuel had moved to sit on his knees. “Apologies for interrupting Splinter-San. But you looked to be in distress.”

Nodding, Splinter said, “In many ways, I am. You have heard about Michelangelo?”

“Yes.” Usagi stood, offering a hand to Splinter as he likewise rose. “It was a fight to be remembered and your son carried himself with much honor. But I feared his injuries were severe. When I received confirmation from the Daimyo, I set out to find one of you to offer my well wishes for him.”

The rabbit adjusted the small basket he carried under his arm and Splinter smiled. A small arrangement of pale flowers, a packet of matcha tea, a small wrapped box that smelled of chocolate, and what looked to be an amulet tucked into orange silk. And a small book.

“It is not much but I hope it will bring comfort and good energy.” Usagi offered the basket to Splinter with a light bob of the head. “I know he is likely not ready for visitors just yet but please let me know when that changes. I would most enjoy being able to offer my support in person as well as extend my congratulations for a title well won.”

Splinter held the basket tightly. “Your concern is most appreciated, Usagi-San. I will make sure Michelangelo receives it.”

“Of course. Is there anything else I may offer?”

A slow shake of the head and Splinter whispered, “Many thanks, my friend.”

“Splinter-San? I am sure Michelangelo will recover soon. He is a strong one.”

The rat smiled. “Yes. Yes, he is. But I fear I have failed to see it. In many ways. I have much to help heal and the worst of it is not his body.”

Usagi frowned. It seemed there was much spiritual pain among his friends. First Leonardo (he had noticed the last time they spoke) and now, it seemed Michelangelo. “Those are indeed grievous wounds. I am no healer, either of the body or the soul, but in my experience, the first step in repairing any injury is to stop the bleeding.”

It was such a simple statement but the utter truth of it forced a smile through the ninja master’s face.

He couldn’t undo what he did. All that was true. But he could absolutely stop anymore pain. He could focus on showing that it was stopping now.

“Healer or not, your words have brought me hope and that is a priceless gift, Usagi-San. My gratitude.” Splinter bowed and Usagi returned the gesture.

“If there is anything I can do, please let me know. Otherwise, tell Michelangelo-San I look forward to visiting him soon.”

OOO

The dungeons of the Battle Nexus were lonely. Guards were posted at the main entry ways and exits. Water and air flowed through vents and food was provided through certain openings.

But being shackled, there was little Kluh could do but sit and wait for his fate to be decided. From what little he had heard, his and his father’s sentence may well rest in the family of Michelangelo.

With the injuries that blasted turtle no doubt had after their fight, Kluh did not feel overly confident about their chances.

He stood. Paced.

A light thump hit the ground. Not hard. Just enough to draw attention. Kluh knelt, following the noise, and went numb when he noticed one of his braids on the ground.

Feeling the back of the head, he found a small sliver of blood, just below the skull. Not enough to even truly hurt.

A stinging in his leg, a flutter of fabric. Jerking his attention down, he found a dot of blood just on his inner thigh. If it had gone deeper, it would have hit the femoral artery.

Another stinging to his wrist.

Right next to the pulsing vein.

Another. The right of his head, just under the neck.

He turned, spun around but saw no one. He was enough of a warrior to understand a warning when he saw it. All these wounds. They were screaming one thing: I could kill you but I’m not.

“Show yourself! Reveal yourself and fight like a true warrior!”

Something hard and firm slammed against his neck and a sudden weight slammed on his shoulders. Put together, his neck compressed and he couldn’t have pulled in air if he wanted to.

The wooden staff currently squeezing his windpipe jerked. Enough to say ‘I could break your neck right now.’

“Right now, I’m not a warrior.” The voice in Kluh’s ear was crisp, cold. Lethal. “I’m a big brother. And you hurt my little brother.”

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catbowserauthor · 11 hours ago

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And that is a threat

#theyre so cute #theyre so silly #and they can canonically bend steel #and deadlift over 1000lbs #they’ll absolutely get ice cream after a battle #i love them your honor

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catbowserauthor · 1 day ago

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Oh once he comes to terms with the feelings, I love the idea of the two of them being this chaotic team up

Got another 2003 TMNT fic idea tonight. This one based in Fast Forward. Built a bit around my head canon of why Mikey is a bit more obnoxious in that season than per usual. Namely…I think Mikey’s a little jealous of Cody. Let’s add some hurt/comfort to that mix!

Here be a brief blurb of what’s to come:

Cody was fun kid. Bit crazy but fun. And it didn’t take long before the turtles semi adopted him as a little brother. Great, right?

Except Mikey has always been the little brother. When Cody starts having time with his brothers that used to be his…well, Mikey isn’t supposed to be the angry turtle! But why does it feel like Cody’s a better little brother than he is?

“jealousy is a sentiment born in love and produced by the fear that the loved person prefers another."

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catbowserauthor · 1 day ago

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@sacredartist33013 in my mind, it did fester for a bit but Mikey’s brothers know him pretty well. It’s gonna get brought to light before long.

Here be a brief blurb of what’s to come:

Cody was fun kid. Bit crazy but fun. And it didn’t take long before the turtles semi adopted him as a little brother. Great, right?

“jealousy is a sentiment born in love and produced by the fear that the loved person prefers another."

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catbowserauthor · 2 days ago

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The Impossible

A “Grudge Match” Follow Up and AU

Chapter 3: See What is Broken

Everything felt warm. Fuzzy. Like being wrapped in a blanket of baby chicks. Well, he'd never been wrapped in baby chickens but he imagined it felt like this.

Warm. Light. Airy.

Age and time were meaningless. He was simultaneously a baby, a toddler, a teenager and an adult yet none of those things.

Magic place, obviously. He definitely felt like a kid. Happy. Carefree. But also…hard to understand. Like a baby. Like there were things he should know but didn't. But also like an adult because he had done something important.

Just didn't know what.

But lonely. No one else was here. No brothers. No Papa. No Klunk-kitty. No April or Casey or anybody.

And being alone was no fun. Even if he could fly here. Like Silver Sentry!

Or was it flying if there was no ground or sky?

Sometimes, he could hear his brothers. Or his Papa. But something was wrong. They sounded sad. Defeated. Scared?

It made no sense. Why would his brothers be scared or sad? They were the greatest in the whole world. There was nothing that could conquer them.

But…they were sad. Crying even. And Papa…

“Sunshine boy.”

Oh. Yes. Yes, that was his name! Was that a name though? Sounded like one.

He drifted, caught amid the waves of consciousness.

“Sorry. So sorry.”

Sorry? Why was his family apologizing? They didn't do things wrong.

Staring at his hands, the turtle played with them. You could make puppets with your hands. Donnie had shown him.

They'd made Papa laugh.

Papa...he wanted Papa happy. Yes, that was the importantest of important! Was Papa sad? He couldn't be!

He had to make him not-sad!

His brother would help! Donnie was the fixer. He fixed owies and toys and sad thoughts.

Kicking a bit, he twisted, doing a somersault. That was fun. He'd been the first one to figure that out. And that you could spin on your shell. Was hard to stop spinning though.

Raphie had stopped him. He always protected him from bad things, even things like upset tummies and closet monsters.

Raphie was the protector.

“Mikey…Firefly.”

Oh. Yeah! Mikey was his name! And so was Sunshine Boy! But Firefly, that was a special name. That must mean...

“‘Eo!” Biggest brother! He made everything safe with just being there. Bad things were scared of Leo. Leo made everything right again.

Leo was…was…was….the both-arms-out-reacher.

Leo was the comforter.

He should answer him. Rude not to. “‘Eo!”

His voice didn't work. Weird. He knew he had a voice. He used it lots.

When he followed the voices he heard, he could get close but then sharpness and cold and hurt and everything hurt so much. He wanted the voice. But not the hurt.

“I’m not strong enough for this, Mikey. I'm not. I need you to come back. Please. Firefly.”

Something warm tickled his chest.

Cocking his head to the side, Mikey swam amid the nothingness, looking for the voice. Looking for Leo. For Donnie. For Raphie. He needed to find the voices. It was sad. It shouldn't be sad. How would they make Papa not-sad if they were sad?

And not strong enough? Leo was a mountain. Leo was the strength of all the oceans in the world.

Raphie could bend steel by looking at it. He had solid iron in his muscles! The Foot Clan and the Purple Dragons ran away from him!

And Donnie broke the laws of physics. He couldn't remember what that was but he knew it was super-strong. Like stronger than Silver Sentry and Donnie broke it all the time!

And Papa was…he was just…Papa. That was a special strong that got its own word.

They were all kinds of strong!

“Not without you, they aren't.”

New voice! Not one he recognized. Different. Deeper.

“Fri’nd?” He asked.

A warm laugh that wrapped him in goodness and peace and all the good things. “Yes, my little one.”

“Papa calls me that.” See?! See? His voice worked.

The brightness around him shimmered. He grabbed for it and it became solid. He could bounce it like a ball. That was fun!

He laid on his back and tossed it up, trying to guess how long it would take to come back down.

Ooo, the light around him felt like a cloud! Soft and squishy!

“Yes. And your Papa needs you back. Your brothers need you back.” The friendly voice was still there.

Why would they need him? “They’re strong. Not me.”

“Oh but that's where you're wrong. They're strong because of you.”

Because of him? That was silly. He laughed. You laughed when things were silly.

Oh. But what if this friend hadn’t been making a joke? Had he made him feel bad? “Sorry,” he said immediately.

“Why? Why are you sorry?”

He pondered. Poked at his lip. Poked it again. “Well…I’m always wrong.”

“Are you? Surely not.”

“Well, I’m not right as much as my brothers.” Frowning, he sought out their voices again. “I can hear them. I miss them.”

“I am sure they miss you, too.” The voice was gentle. “I know they do. Your brothers and your Papa. You can go back to them.”

Mikey considered. He reached for the voices, the closeness. Stinging, burning, cold, and oh, it hurt so much where they were!

He jerked away. “Warm here.”

“Yes, it is. And there are many scary things outside of here. Things that hurt and make your heart ache.”

“Not fun!”

“Not all the time. But outside of here is also your brothers. And your Papa. And you get to bring them the warm light that's here.”

“I can take it with me?” Talking was getting easier.

“Of course. All this light is you.”

“Me?”

“A sunshine boy must have a sun, right?”

Frowning, Mikey reached out, stretched his fingers past the nothingness. Cold. Pain. Hurt. Confusion.

“Scary.” He confessed.

“Yes but out there you are not alone.”

“Not empty?” He waved his arms around. “Full?”

“Better. You get to see your light inside people until their eyes shine and their laughter fills you so high it feels like you'll burst.”

Ooo…laughter was the best feeling! But…

“I hurt out there.”

“Yes. You are. In lots of ways. But the good news is your father and brothers are there to heal you. And after you are healed, you will be even more of yourself.”

The space in front of him swirled and Mikey saw a vase. Very pretty but then it broke apart. That was sad. He bet the artist felt sad it broke.

Wait! It was going back together! But different. The cracks were there but they shimmered, like the sun rays. It looked even more amazing! Like they poured the sunlight and it filled all the holes and pulled them together!

Not sunlight, no, no, Wait, he knew this word.

“Gold?”

“Yes. Kintsugi. We use gold. You use light. And you will gain so much more light to use once you go home.”

A tilt of the head. “More light to give?”

“Yes. So much more and best of all you'll get your brothers’ and Papa’s light too.”

Ooo! He’d get light back? He knew it had happened before and it felt the goodest in the world. He kicked his feet just thinking about it.

“But you must go soon.”

He didn't like that. It was comfy here. But…lonely.

And his brothers were sad. Papa was sad. They weren't supposed to be sad.

And Big Brother Leo. He had lots of cuts and bruises and bleeding without blood and his eyes always looked broken. Something big had really hurt him.

Broken? Like the pottery…so, could he fix it like the pottery?

Mikey scooped his palms around the landscape, staring at the bright orbs he captured, “I'll bring them light. Like the vase. Fill their owies with light! Not sad anymore.”

He reached out. Again, that pain. That trembling pain he only felt a pinch of and knew there was more.

Wait... singing. There was singing.

“But the ball’s in your court now, Mikey. Cause I'm gonna sing that stupid song and you told me that song heals everything so you hafta get better now, hear me?”

He giggled. That was smart! The healing song! How did his brothers just know? Must be a big brother thing. Turning a bit, he waved.

The voice was a man. Tall. Black hair. But his chi was so much like Papa’s….

Oh! He knew him! “Thanks, Grandpa!”

The barrier gave way and Mikey was gone.

OOO

“Leo?”

The voice broke the quiet like a gunshot. Leo immediately jerked his attention to the head he'd held in his lap for the past few hours. “Michelangelo?” His voice stalled, as if not daring to hope.

Gathering around the bed, the family of rat and turtles gave out low gasps as Mikey’s eyes slowly opened. He looked around, hesitatingly.

“Mikey!” Donnie grabbed his sibling by the cheeks and planted a kiss to his forehead. “Thank goodness, you're awake!”

Raph nudged his way in, wrapping his arms around his brother as tight as he dared. His cheeks were suspiciously wet.

Leo stroked his brother’s face, unable to hide the trembling in his hands. “Mikey..how…how do you feel?”

The turtle considered even as Splinter leaned in and gave him a kiss to the head.

Everything hurt. Absolutely everything. His memory was spotty and this definitely wasn't home.

“Lousy?” He finally tried. “What happened? What…is that?” He moved to touch the shimmery cord linking him and Leonardo but his hands wouldn't budge.

Looking down, he saw them confined in casts. His body was stitched and wrapped. And as consciousness caught up with him, so did his nerves.

His chest HURT. It burned, throbbed, pulled, pinched and every movement was a gunshot that rattled his bones.

His shell was on fire. Someone had poured red hot lava into every cell. Someone was ripping it apart cell by cell with rusty pliers. An overweight dinosaur was using it for a trampoline.

Both his arms throbbed! He could feel his nerves lighting up and pressing against his skin. His flesh felt tight, pulled snug as a drum and he just wanted to crawl out of his skin!

And his head hurt. Like someone mistook it for a bongo drum, a volleyball, and a punching bag. In that order.

Everything HURT!

“Ow…” Mikey whimpered, tears slipping out, “Major ow…”

Leo took a steadying breath then hugged his brother tight. “I-I know. We’ll get a healer and get you something for the pain.”

“Why am I….where am I? What happened? Last thing I remember is the arena.”

“You…you stopped breathing, Mikey.” Donnie managed.

“Leo’s breathing for ya,” Raph added. “How’s your breathing now?”

“Uh…painful? I guess. It’s…I can't tell.” A light panic. Not breathing meant bad things! Was his body that hurt? It must be judging by how much pain he felt!

He couldn't even tell if he was breathing! That was dying kind of bad! “I'm not breathing? But I have to breathe! But I'm talking! But not breathing...Am I supposed to—”

“Shh, shh, shh.” Donnie stroked his head, in that soothing soft tone that was so… Donnie . “Relax. It's like you're on a vent. Except you can talk. Did you hear Raph? Leo is handling the breathing. You just relax and rest.”

Leo pointed to the cord hanging from his mouth. “Your big brother has this, Mikey. You're fine. Relax. That's it.” He rubbed his brother’s temples. “Shh.”

Tensed muscles surrendered and the broken turtle settled.

Wiping his eyes, Splinter said, “The rematch was enchanted, my son. Against the Daimyo’s will. The safety measures were removed.”

Oh. “That explains all the ouches.”

“But you won!” Raph beamed. “Not only won but you massacred that bastard!”

Pieces of it were coming back. Losing. Failing. Threats. His horrible performance. He hadn't …. “Leo,” he said suddenly. “Leo, I'm sorry!”

The entire group rocked.

“Sorry?” Leo glanced down at his youngest brother. “What in the world are you sorry for?”

“I…you worked so hard with me and I was such a coward! I didn't even try at the beginning. I shamed you—”

“Uh, uh, uh.” Leo shook his head. “None of that. I’m the only one that gets to decide if someone has shamed me and you did nothing of the sort. If anything, you've honored me, Mikey.”

The boy blinked. “Honored you?”

Much as Leo might have wished his brother had taken it seriously from the beginning and how important that was, Leo knew when there was something deeper going on. They could all feel it.

Time and place.

Plus, it didn't change the outcome.

“You did. Didn’t see all of it but I saw you rise up. I saw you show everyone what you’re really made of.” He chuckled—-the first time in weeks. “I told you that you could do it.”

Looks of shame were exchanged among the other three family members but they opted not to interrupt the exchange.

“It…didn’t feel like I could do it,” Mikey admitted. He winced, leaning to alleviate pressure in his chest.

“Shh, rest. You shouldn’t be talking so much, you just woke up. You’ve got a lot of recovery to do.”

“But… I needa get this out. You…you really believed I could do it? You weren’t just telling me that? Appeasing the annoying little brother?”

There was such…pleading, such disbelief.

Leo gently cradled his brother’s face in his hands, looked down at him and said, “I knew you could do it. I’m proud of you, Mikey.”

Proud. Proud . The word tumbled around in Mikey’s head like a bee inside a drum. “Y-you’re proud of me?”

Mikey’s eyes watered.

Lowering his head, Leo placed a chaste kiss on his brother’s forehead. “I’m proud of you, Michelangelo. You brought honor to our family today.”

Mikey broke.

Huge, gasping sobs. Tears rolling down his face. Hissing as wounds declared themselves as his muscles fired pain messages but not caring as Leo pulled Mikey up into a cradle, as gently as he could, and softly said, “Hey, hey, why all the tears?”

A soft tone, as if he was afraid of shattering his brother if he spoke too harshly.

How long since he'd used that tone?

For a moment, nothing. Mikey was simply a mess of gasps, chokes, wails and whimpers. Splinter reached out and brushed his head. But the old martial arts master felt a ping in his heart when his youngest curled into his brother’s touch rather than his.

“That’s all I ever wanted to hear.” The sniffling response from Mikey was hard to decipher but they managed it. “I just wanted you all to be proud of me! I just wanted to be good at something !”

A deep pit settled in Splinter’s stomach. “Oh, my son…” Where had this come from? How had he missed it…

“I know I’m a lousy ninja. I don’t—“

“Lousy?!” Raph interrupted. “You just fucking won a rematch because your skills are so good!”

“But I don’t do it right !” Mikey was aching, his chest was on fire but no matter how much he wanted to, the tears kept coming. They’d probably been building for a while. “I don’t train right, I don’t like the right stuff, I don’t have any useful talents like you all do! The Battle Nexus was all I had! It’s all I still have!”

And just like that, whatever pain had been confined inside broke loose. He should have been stronger, he reasoned but it was like trying to hold back an avalanche and that “I’m proud of you” felt So. Damn. Good.

But so unearned.

“I want to do this thing right, like you all want but my brain won’t. It just won’t no matter what I tell it to do! I’m the silly stupid brother and I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m who I am! I just…I just wanted to be good at something worth while—“

Pain rocked his body. Everything hurt. Burned. Throbbed. At least it stopped the tears , he thought. Hard to cry when breathing suddenly took all your focus.

His body began to relax and a moment later, Mikey realized Leo had begun to do deep, timed breaths. The kind you used to calm yourself down.

Except now he was doing it for Mikey.

“Okay, that’s enough for right now.” Leo rubbed his brother’s shell, giving a light “shh,” as he did. “We’re going to sort all this out but you’re getting all worked up and it’s not good for you right now. Donnie, go fetch a healer and let them know he’s awake.”

Wordlessly, almost like a robot, the purple banded turtle nodded and slipped out the door like a shadow.

Raph sat there, dumbfounded and numb. Mikey had always been the emotional brother (though he wasn’t far behind, just expressed it differently) but this felt…raw. Like a burn left out to the elements or a wound allowed to fester.

Watching him break down at words, watching how desperately he clung to Leo, like a sole boat in a storm.

What else haven’t you told us, little brother?

As for Splinter, as soon as the shock had passed, the rat had immediately moved to his son’s side. Reaching out, he stroked the boy’s head again. “Oh, my son. So much pain. So much you have endured needlessly.”

His father instincts immediately demanded he pull the turtle into his arms, as he had when he was younger. He might have been bigger now but to Splinter’s eyes, he remained but a child.

Back then, Michelangelo much like all his children, had been convinced Splinter could quell a hurricane. Perhaps, in some ways, they still believed such. The rat intended to use that to his advantage.

But as Splinter moved his hands, intent on doing just that, he froze.

His son withdrew from his approach, pushing himself deeper into Leonardo’s touch. Tucked his head under his brother’s chin, much like he once did with his father.

Leonardo responded immediately, wrapping his baby brother up tight, saying, “Shh, shh, shh. I’m here.”

Another series of deep breaths from Lro.

Slowly, under his brother’s administration, Mikey began to calm.

Splinter withdrew. It burnt his heart to do so but he stepped back. A few minutes passed and then a medic swept into the room, speaking rapidly to Leonardo and Michelangelo.

A hand fell to Splinter’s shoulder. Turning, the rat gave a grateful smile to Donatello.

“Don't be sad, Father. Mikey is just...upset with us right now.”

“Cant blame him,” Raph remarked. “I really can't.”

But Splinter shook his head. “I do believe it is deeper than that, my son. I have…lost the bond we once had.”

“Ah, Mikey still loves you,” Raph began.

“I do not doubt his love. But one can love someone and not trust them, I fear your brother has lost that with me.” The rat’s eyes dipped. “And I’ve no one to blame but myself.”

The healer was keeping their voice low but Splinter had excellent hearing. Among a promise of returning with something for the pain, he was recommending that only one person remain for a little bit.

Mainly so Michelangelo could rest and not be so overwhelmed. The others could use the time to shower, obtain food and get some rest themselves as the danger period had passed. They could return in a few hours.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a simple decision. The old master would have sent his sons to rest and recuperate, taking it upon himself to watch and care for his youngest.

He was his father! It was not just a duty. It was a pleasure!

Any doubts Splinter had about what kind of damage had been done became crystal clear when before the healer finished speaking, Michelangelo wheezed, almost begging:

“Leo. I want Leo.”

#tmnt #2003 tmnt #tmnt brotherly love #big brother leo #big brother donnie #big brother raph #tmnt 2003 #heartbroken mikey #mikey and leo #scared mikey #sad mikey #grudge match #Mikey has self esteem issues #words have power #splinter tries #but he made mistakes #but he loves them #hurt/comfort is my bread and butter #and so much angst

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catbowserauthor · 3 days ago

Text

The Impossible

A “Grudge Match” Follow Up and AU

Chapter 2

“Why can’t we see Mikey? They've been in there forever!”

Donnie paced back and forth. It was a little unnerving to see him frazzled. He was their calm one, usually. But it was hard to blame him. The little bit they'd managed to see of their brother as the medics whisked him away was a mangled mess.

As grateful as Donnie was that there were actual trained doctors here, another part of himself wanted to be in there himself, making sure his brother got the best treatment possible. Not having any say over it was driving him nuts.

“Your brother has substantial injuries, Donatello.” Master Splinter, despite his best efforts, wavered in his tone. “They must have the space to move and work. They will let us know as soon as they can.”

A sigh. “I know. I just…feel so useless.” The genius flopped down in one of the chairs. He could still see. Could still hear. The breaking. The crunching. So much blood. There'd been so much blood.

How could his little brother have any left in him?

Raph had been all be glued by the door the entire time, ready to pounce on the first person who walked through. He was tensed tight as a wire.

Leo had fallen into meditation mode. Face in that permanent scowl he carried lately but the lack of focus in his stance gave away his own fears.

The whole family gathered close, waiting for any word, any hope. Time lost all its meaning and the tea and fruit the Daimyo sent in for them went cold and untouched.

Finally, there was a creak and the door opened.

“Splinter-san. Forgive the shortness of my update but we are currently doing our best to repair the Champion’s most grievous injuries. Given his unique biological makeup, is there anyone among his brothers who could give blood—”

All three turtles stood but it was the red-banded one who was closest.

“Me,” Raph spoke out immediately, “I’ll give what he needs. Just show me where to go.”

The man nodded, “Please follow me. I will come give another update as soon as I can.”

Raph would have run ahead if he knew where to go. Each step sent another thought through his mind:

How bad?

And on the heels of those thoughts was another. What was the last thing he’d said to Mikey? Jokes, teasing, hopes he would lose.

Not like this though! I thought he'd get outdone and zapped out of the arena. It wasn't supposed to get hijacked…

“Raphael-san.”

Pulled from his thoughts, the brawler turtle turned his attention to his current company. They'd stopped before a set of wide and heavy black curtains. “Are we here?”

“Your brother is inside. We will hook you up to him directly. I must warn you, your brother looks--”

Whatever he was going to say was lost as Raph pushed his way through the entryway, only to stop dead once he entered.

“Oh, fuck. Mikey…Mikey.”

There were sheets coated in red on the floor. Piles of bandages, and at least six healers gathered around the small cot. They'd taken out part of the mattress to accommodate his shell and...

Oh…God.

The table next to the bed had…pieces of shell on it. Lots of them!

And his little brother. He was. They had him…open. Cut open, down the plastron, and he could see his organs. Broken bones, wheezing lungs and oh, God, was that a bleeding spleen ?

So. Much. Blood.

And so pale. So still. Mikey was asleep, the near-death sleep. So still. So unnaturally still.

Raph couldn't see his brother’s eyes. Those bright, vibrant eyes.

And the last thing he’d said to him was he hoped he got pounded into the ground.

I'm sorry, Mikey. I’m so, so sorry… don't die. Please, please don't die

“Raphael-san? You are here to provide for the Champion?”

Snapping back to the present, Raphael nodded. “I am. Whatever you need, take it.”

“Please, sit.”

He all but slammed himself into the padded chair provided, holding still as stone as two of the medics approached. One wove their hands over his brother, chanting and the other did the same over him.

Medicine was an odd blend of science and magic here. They still needed to cut and stitch but instead of wires or tubes they had…whatever the mystic arts conjured up.

Raph still felt an odd pinch in his arm from a blade or needle but then something that looked like silver rope formed; it traveled to his brother, wrapped around his elbow and...melted into his skin.

A short second later, Raph recognized a pull in his veins. Red flooded through the stream and a wee bit of color returned to Mikey’s cheeks as it entered his body.

Raph sat back, adjusted to the odd sensation, took a deep breath, and when allowed, grasped his brother’s limp hand.

“I'm here, Mikey. B-big bro is here.” he swallowed. “We’re all here.”

Time flowed over itself. Raph was aware there was cutting, grinding, stitching, and a lot of other sounds he didn't bother to identify. At some point, one of the medics asked if he could ‘give a bit more’ and his answer was the same as when he first came in—

“Take what he needs.”

He grew a bit woozy after time and the only reason he accepted the odd bowl of tasteless gruel he was offered was ‘it will boost your blood count.’

If it boosted his blood count, fine because Mikey might need it.

He didn't even realize Donnie had come into the room too until he heard, “Raph?”

Lifting his head, he blinked and became accutely aware of his immediate younger brother sitting by his side.

They were in the same room as before. There was still...scurrying. Muttering. Cutting. Blood. Fluids.

Surgery. Still doing surgery.

“Donnie? When did they bring you in? Are they done?”

“Not yet but they think they're closer.” The genius lifted his arm and Raph noticed the same odd mystical cord coiling out and into their brother. “They needed more and didn't want to risk taking more from you. So, I volunteered.”

A simple nod. “Did…did he lose a lot?”

Closing his eyes, Donnie shook his head, but not in the negative. “No definite numbers but given what I’ve seen…at least forty percent. Kluh…he…he broke his shell open.”

Raph growled, and if he'd not been drained from blood giving, he’d have slugged the nearest surface. If he didn't have a baby brother’s hand to hold. “Give me five minutes with that son of a bitch.”

“We’ll tag team it.” Donnie’s voice could have shattered ice. “Me first.”

OOO

“Master Splinter? What is it?”

The rat opened his eyes. “Leonardo?”

His eldest son nodded. The two of them stood by the window, staring out over the arena. There wasn't much to be seen. The Daimyo had been quick to clean up the scene but that didn't mean it left their sight.

Leo could still see it. All the blood. The screams. Every instinct in his body had been telling him to rush down, to say the hell with the arena rules and make Kluh regret the very moment he laid eyes on his family. On Mikey. To make him understand the very definition of pain.

But he couldn't. If the Daimyo surrendered, nothing could get to Mikey. So, even though he heard distinctly, at least once, Mikey call out for him directly, he couldn't go to him.

And that destroyed him. The fact he was risking his life to save the Daimyo’s son—someone that had threatened and hurt his family so many times before—while he heard his own little brother cry out in pain, was the uttermost violation of every principle he held.

All he could do was call to Mikey how much he knew he could do this.

Leo had felt it when the switch had been flipped. When his little brother became a raging storm of skill and left that alien a crumbled wreck on the floor.

Pride of the highest caliber rolled through his chest.

But now...they had to pick up the pieces.

Father had been oddly silent, even given the situation. When Raph and then Donnie had been pulled in to help, an odd despair had coated the rat’s face.

Understandable, really. From what little info they had, Mikey’s injuries were severe. Leo was using all his resolve to not rush in after his brothers.

But the look on his father’s face was something else. Something beyond just fear for his son.

“I’ve noticed something is troubling you.” Leonardo felt it pertinent to clarify. “I mean beyond Michelangelo’s current state.”

A light smile though more a shadow of one. “You remain as observant as always, my son.”

“Of course. With the lives we lead, I must be.” he stopped, schooled the tone of his voice which had grown darker over the last few weeks. “But…what is it, Father?”

“I suppose I have been reminiscing. Remembering.” That was partially true. “I remember how you all were so eager to please. So wanting to learn, to be like me. Some of you still are.”

But , he thought to himself, that is to your detriment. You should be forming yourselves. Your unique and different selves. And I should be…honoring those differences, no matter how...odd they may appear.

“We all honor and look up to you, Father.” Leo frowned, a bit confused but he did not press his father’s thinking. “All of us.”

A smile. “And you flatter me by doing so. But in many ways, you all have surpassed me.”

“Surpassed you? Father, what do you mean?”

“You took it upon yourself to aid your brother. You chose to use this as a growing moment. A teaching time. As I should have. And did not.”

Are you proud of me now , Father?

Resting his eyes a moment, schooling his emotions, Splinter looked up at his son. “As frustrated as I have become at your brother’s behavior, I should not have let it cloud my judgment. I should have…listened to what he was not saying.”

More confusion, “Father, I don't understand. What--”

The door opened and the two turned.

The chief medic stood there. Weary, exhausted but with hope in their eyes. “We have stabilized the Champion and moved him to a more suitable healing chamber. If you will follow me.”

OOO

The room was a cheery place. Private with a wide bay window, full of plush pillows. A light water stream from outside trickled into a tiny pond where a handful of koi fish swam about.

The bed was more a nest of pillows and blankets. It allowed Mikey to lay on his side so his healing shell wasn't put under pressure. Another collection of plush and pillows kept his plastered left arm supported. His right was wrapped in similar fashion, lying still by his side.

Mikey looked so small.

His shell was held together with some type of clamps, wherever substance the medics had used to fill the gaps needing time and pressure to set. The surgery scars ran from his neckline almost all the way down to his groin. His left arm was plastered from shoulder to wrist. His right from wrist to elbow. Bandages covered most of his torso and hid most of the black and blue marks.

He still hadn't awoken.

Splinter sat next to the bed, placed a hand on Michelangelo’s head. No recognition.

“Thank you for your skill, medics. Will he…be alright?” The rat’s eyes never left his youngest.

The medic sighed. “It is too soon to tell, Splinter-san. We have done all we can. The next twelve hours will be the determining factor.”

A solemn nod.

Leonardo stood firm behind his father. Someone had to ask the hard questions. Fine, he would be that person. “What is the damage?”

“The Champion sustained massive blood loss. Thanks to the generosity of his brothers,” they looked at Raph and Donnie, “we believe we have replenished enough. His shell was cracked nearly in half and those clamps will need to remain until then sealant has set. Most likely several weeks. His left arm was dislocated and broken in three places. Clean breaks, luckily. His right fractured at the wrist and two breaks —the larger in the radius, the smaller in the ulna. However, the attacks on his chest did most of the damage. Four broken ribs, a laceration to the spleen, bruised liver, one punctured lung, one bruised one. He suffered pericardial effusion but we believe that has been resolved.”

“Peri-what?” Raph asked. He'd planted himself next to Master Splinter and was stroking his brother’s head.

“Pericardial effusion,�� Donnie repeated. “Means there was fluid build up around his heart, probably from the trauma.” His voice wavered and he closed his hand over Mikey’s. “You said it's resolved?”

Fear ran through the room.

“To the best of our knowledge. We have given your brother a dose of a healing potion which should begin to accelerate his natural healing abilities. However, given the extent of his injuries, we cannot give it in too large a dose. We will re-evaluate him in the morning to see if he is strong enough for another dose.”

“He will be.” Raph smiled. “You just wait and see. Mikey’s too damn stubborn.”

“He is indeed strong.” A nod of agreement. “I have arranged for futons to be brought in for all if you as I assume you will not wish to leave his side.”

“Good.” Leo finally settled, sitting just behind the top of the nest. Mikey’s head nearly gathered in his lap. “You have our thanks.”

“If any needs arise during the night, you may alert the guards and a healer will swiftly respond.” They bowed and the turtles and Splinter returned it.

“Again,” Splinter said, “You have our thanks.”

With a swish of robes, the healer vanished, leaving the family alone.

OOO

The family gathered solemnly for a long night. No one wished to sleep, too anxious for their youngest to awaken.

“He ain't woken up yet. Just like Leo.” Raph stated the obvious though he didn't move his eyes away from his brother.

“Your brother has been through much, Raphael. It may take time.”

“Well,” Donnie offered. “Why don't we talk to him? Like we did to Leo?”

Splinter smiled. “I do believe that may be a good idea.” He stared down at his youngest. “Oh, Michelangelo. Please, hear our voices and come back to us. There is much we wish to say. Much we wish to…resolve.”

Leo frowned. “Sensei… what is it? Something has been bothering you...”

A deep sigh. “Yes. Yes and I fear I have no one to blame but myself.”

Raph eyed him. “What are you talking about?”

Well, if he wanted his children to bare their souls and reach out to their brother, the best way was to lead by example. “When I reached your brother on the arena floor. He asked me if I was proud of him, now.”

“Huh?”

“What?”

“You’re always proud of us!”

“Indeed but it seems your brother does not believe it.” Splinter considered his words, rubbed his youngest’s temple. “My son, I admit you have been a challenge for me. There is much about you that I simply do not understand. Worse still, I have not tried to understand.”

“Father,” Donnie laid a hand on the rat’s shoulder. “Mikey is a unique one…”

“Yes but so are all of you. But I strove to try to understand you. I still do not see the appeal of technology for you Donatello. But it was important to you so I gave you my support. I do not understand the root of your anger, Raphael but it was irrelevant. You needed my help to master it so master it you have. Leonardo, you draw others to you as a moth to the flame and I have given you responsibilities to learn to direct it. But your brother…I did not see the value in his interests or….perhaps I chose not to look. In any event, he deserved my support but I did not give it.”

Leo went to speak but Splinter raised his hand.

“No, Leonardo. I appreciate your loyalty but a true honorable man—or rat—recognizes his flaws. I have not heard your brother for quite some time. And I do not mean just his braggart behavior. This…was far before.”

Kneeling, Splinter kissed Michelangelo on the head. “I love you, my Michelangelo. I am so sorry I did not understand what you needed. You tried to tell me. I intend to correct this, my son. I intend to listen .”

Raph and Donnie exchanged glances. There felt like there was more to this but it didn't seem their place to pry.

Leo stroked Mikey’s temples, gently rubbing them. “We're right here, Michelangelo. We need you. I know we can be terrible about showing it. We need to work on that.” he laughed, a humorless one. “You’re so good at affection. We need you to teach us how to do that. To remind us. We need you to come back to us.” Leo’s face stayed stoic but his eyes couldn't hide it. The desperation. The pleading.

“That's right.” Donnie squeezed his brother’s hand. “You're our ray of sunshine, Mikey. No matter what, I can count on you to bring a smile. To remind us that life is full of good stuff. To drag me out of my lab when I'm starting to grow roots. To help me think outside my own vision. We need you.”

Raph rubbed his neck. “Ah, you're a knucklehead but I love you for it. You always know what we need. When we all get so tense at each other something is gonna snap, here you'll come and knock that out with some stupid comment. Or give me a hug when I don't want it but I need it.”

Tears peaked in Raph’s eyes. “We need you back. I need you back.”

Mikey didn't stir.

Hours passed. Occasionally, someone would try and talk to Mikey again but no change. Donnie told a few stories. Some about Mikey. Some that he knew Mikey loved.

Splinter hummed the old songs he used to sing when the turtles were young. They reminisced a little more. They tried to prompt Mikey to wake up and join in.

Silence.

It was unnerving. Mikey wasn't quiet. He should never be quiet.

Donnie slept a little. Then Raph. But never got more than hour at a time. Splinter and Leo didn't even try.

So, all four of them heard it.

A sucking, wheezing sound. Like a broken valve.

“Mikey?” Donnie leaned over the bed, pressing his hands to his brother’s face.

A gasping, exhausted sound. Mikey inhaled. Or tried to. But his bruised and damaged lungs gave up. A half-hearted gulp and he went limp.

“Mikey!” Leo, still holding his brother’s head in his lap, patted his cheek. “Mikey, c’mon! Breathe!”

No. No. No. You didn't survive this just to...

“Mikey!” Raph on his knees. “No! Mikey!”

Splinter leapt to his feet and ran to the door. “A healer! A healer now! My son is not breathing!”

So much happened. So quickly. Donnie and Leo tried giving rescue breaths, trading off. Raph moved the blankets and pillows to give them room and a healer came rushing in, robes swishing.

“My son!” Splinter pleaded. “Please, please, save my son!”

“What the shell is wrong with him?” Raph’s voice was abnormally high. “ Do something !”

A cursory exam. “His lungs have not yet healed enough to sustain—”

“So fucking do something!” Tears ran down Donnie’s face. “You're a healer! Heal !”

Murmuring, the healer chanted something under their breath and a glowing circlet appeared. Like a necklace or amulet. “Who will breathe for him?”

Leo snatched it before the person completed their sentence, slipping it over his neck. “ I will.”

As soon as it settled, an odd light seeped into Leo’s chest, before slinking up his throat and out his mouth. Warmth flooded his torso and what looked like a white tongue dangled from his mouth. Kind of resembled the atmospheric converters they’d used in space.

From that tentacles sprang forth and seemed to crawl down Mikey’s throat. A shimmery connection between him and his eldest brother.

The healer nodded. “Now, breathe,” he said to Leo. “Inhale.”

The oldest turtle inhaled, deep and strong.

Mikey’s chest expanded at the same time.

“Exhale.”

Another command. Leo obeyed.

Mikey’s chest fell.

“Good. The connection has been established.” The healer stood. “We risk weakness, some struggle upon removal. It is risky but it seems required.”

“Wha…what did you do?” Raph pointed to Leonardo. To the lighted streams going from mouth to mouth.

“It is a linking spell. Not one readily used. Michelangelo’s lungs are not yet strong enough to maintain on their own. So we have linked Leonardo-san’s lungs to his system. He will breathe for him.”

“A living respirator.” Donnie stared.

“It is temporary. It is dangerous to do so for too long.” A long sigh. “But we’ve little choice.”

Splinter trembled. “My-my thanks, Healer. Ma-many thanks.”

“This is the period of anxiety, Splinter-san. But your son is strong. And he is surrounded by strong family. He will endure.” A hand clasped the rat’s shoulder as healer departed, though with orders that he be informed of Michelangelo’s condition every two hours.

The family crowded close around their youngest.

“Mikey.” Leo’s voice had not sounded so vulnerable in weeks. “Mikey,” he all but cooed. “I’m not strong enough for this. I'm not. I need you to come back.”

He pressed his forehead to Mikey’s, voice a whisper. “Please, come back Firefly.”

It was a nickname he used so rarely. Almost never. When they were kids, he'd told Mikey about fireflies, how they were kind of like little tiny stars that lit up the night. Mikey had proceeded to buzz around the lair for an hour, turning a flashlight on and off until the battery died.

He'd become Firefly that day. But it was a special name. Not one used to tease. One that, for Leo, represented all Mikey was—light, comfort, love, hope.

And he was dying.

“My son. My sweet, beautiful child.” Splinter’s voice caught. “You must come back to us. You must heal. I cannot… you cannot leave us. I will not hear of it. Please…my sunshine boy.”

He had not called him such things since he was very young. He couldn't recall why he stopped. He damned himself for doing so.

With shaking hands, Donnie caressed his brother’s face. “Mikey. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never wanted this to happen. You...I’ve always told you that you could come to me and you did and I pushed you away.” He bowed, shame coating every muscle. “I…pushed you away.”

Fresh tears ran down the genius’ face. “I'm so sorry. So sorry. You can brag all you want. I'll make you a foghorn that'll brag for you. I'll brag for you. Just...just get better. Please.”

Raph stroked his youngest brother’s head. “I didn't want you to get hurt, Mikey. Maybe get knocked down a peg or two but...maybe I didn't listen well neither.” Hearing what their father said, Mikey’s face when they all left him suddenly was not a fear of losing face. It was something deeper. Something they'd not seen. Something, he thought bitterly, they'd not bothered to see, Raph looked at Master Splinter briefly then back to his brother. “But you can't die.”

Saying it felt wrong. Made it real.

“Ya hear me? You're gonna get better. You're gonna get better and start driving me crazy…” His voice hitched. “‘Member that stupid Zelda game you like? There's a song of healing in there, right? You used to make up lyrics for it ‘cause you said it needed some. I told ya it was stupid.”

Raph knelt, so he was as close to his brother as he could get without hurting him. “I lied. I do that a lot when you remind me how clever you are. But the ball’s in your court now, Mikey. Cause I'm gonna sing that stupid song and you told me that song heals everything so you hafta get better now, hear me?”

And Raph did. Once Donnie and Leo recognized the tune, they joined in.

“Day to night, dark to light, fall the sands of time. Let the years, like the gears of a clock, unwind. In your mind, walk through time, back to better days. Memories, like a dream, wash tears away. Like a star in the sky, darkness can't reach you. Light the night, joy is light ‘til the new dawn. Cast away your old face, let go your spite. With this mask, I’ll ask to borrow your light.”

By the end all three were in harmony. Splinter found himself feeling a bit…on the outside. His son had obviously sung this or written or talked about it enough times that all three of his other children knew it by heart.

He did not. Had he not listened? Or had his son simply stopped trying to engage with those interests around him? He supposed if he had always dismissed it, why would he?

He had seen his youngest son’s hobbies—movies, comics, toys, fairy tales, he'd seen them as…immature, unimportant. Silly little things that surely he would grow out of.

But…Splinter knew Donatello loved science because it was “magic that was real.”

Splinter knew Leonardo loved training because “I can control and create control. I am control.”

Splinter knew Raph liked motorcycles and fighting because “it lets me use my energy to achieve something. Direct it.”

But...he’d never bothered to figure out WHY Michelangelo loved the things he did. He never truly asked. Thought they were...placeholders. For what he would eventually be. But they meant something. Something deep and Splinter could not say what.

His son had been showing him who he was and Splinter had been waiting for someone else.

What have I done?

Had he…truly done such damage without meaning it? With good intentions even? He thought he was pushing his son to mature, to become better.

But…but…he was perfect as he was!

Are you proud of me now ?

His precious child didn’t believe he was.

“My dear son…”

Looking down at his youngest, so bloody, so broken, so still….

Splinter sent a prayer up to his master, Hamato Yoshi.

Master Yoshi…Father…

Please help my son come back to me. For all my efforts, I have missed much and I must fix this.

#tmnt #2003 tmnt #tmnt brotherly love #big brother leo #big brother donnie #big brother raph #tmnt 2003 #heartbroken mikey #mikey and leo #hurt/comfort is my bread and butter #hurt Mikey #Mikey has self esteem issues #Grudge Match AU #Splinter tries #but he made mistakes #words have power #But he loves his boys #protective big brothers #serious injury

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catbowserauthor · 3 days ago

Text

The Impossible

A “Grudge Match” Follow Up and AU

Chapter 1: Ill Met Victory

Oddly, the pain didn’t bother him. At least not the physical pain.

He knew enough about injuries, battle, and adrenaline. He’d been hurt before, numerous times. Much as he might like to milk an injury, it wasn’t the attention he milked. No matter what anyone might say.

It was the affection.

When Raph dropped his tough guy act and Mikey felt he really could tell him anything without fear of any retaliation. They’d exchanged many a dark secret over a sick bed. And Raph always made sure he felt safe. (Once, when he was delusional with a high fever, Raph had “killed” all the “spiders” Mikey saw even though ‘you know I hate bugs.’)

When Donnie would put aside his projects and just sit with him. Sometimes, they would talk books (Mikey read far more than others thought) or Mikey would let Donnie fuss over him. They would talk science, fantasy…indulge in crazy ideas. And Donnie would give his thoughts merit.

And sometimes, Donnie would read to him in that soft, soothing voice of his.

Father…he would speak about balance. Of the importance of rest, of making sure to pay attention to his body. He would smile, talk about how even the greatest fighter stumbled. He would light those candles that smelled really good and play music. It wasn’t always Mikey’s favorite music but all music was good!

And Leo…Leo went full Mama Bear, all the way down to the cuddles, the kisses, and the fretting over the littlest thing. And even if it had the side effect of being a bit smothering, the advantage was he felt important. Loved. Valued.

Valued. Valued. Valued.

That’s all I wanted…

Pain cut through Mikey’s back and he was fairly certain there was a crack in his shell. The pain was in the right spot. Plus Kluh wasn’t exactly being gentle.

He’d be zapped out any minute and it would all be over. The stupid little charade he’d clung to these last few months. His heart broke over it but what else had he expected?

What good had it done him anyway?

His brothers just wanted him to shut up about it, Father reminded him about it being a technicality, and the only time he heard praise for it was from his own mouth.

When he’d been crowned Champion, his family had smiled, but there’d been no words. Nothing beyond “what are the odds?” No thought that naturally he could put up a good fight. A lot of talk of how Sensei withdrew, Donnie and Raph were out and how Leo was poisoned. Just a sense of “well, all the odds aligned for a perfect storm.”

Like the only way it could happen was if everything fell in his favor.

The crowd had roared and Mikey had played his part—the attention-whore thriving on the energy. He’d wanted to enjoy it. Wanted to take pride in it.

But he didn’t get it from the people who mattered.

The Daimyo’s words were empty.

He wanted a “well done,” from Donnie. A “knew you could do it, you knucklehead” from Raph. A glimpse of the Leo they’d had before Shredder’s ship fiasco. The one who always knew what to say.

A “You make me proud” from Father.”

Pipe dreams.

It wasn’t that he’d never been praised before. But, not for a long time. And never for the things he held close to his heart.

Plus, he couldn’t remember the last time Father praised him outside of a group praise with his brothers. It was praise for them as a unit, a team (amazing accomplishment to be sure!) but he wanted praise for being Mikey.

Like Donnie got whenever he cranked out something amazing that was going to make their lives so much easier. Or when he explained some complex concept he’d finally unraveled that meant a huge deal to science. The smile of pride Father held. “You continue to amaze me, Donatello.”

Like when Raph became an utter wrecking ball in battle and no one ever got near a member of his family. Or when he restrained his anger, worked through it, managed to calm himself. Father’s soft “excellent progress, Raphael.”

When Leo absolutely dominated in training. When Leo led them out of a totally helpless situation. When they all turned to Leo because he would find a way, no matter what. The warmth in Father’s hugs when he embraced his brother and said, “Well done, Leonardo.”

Screams. Were they his? Maybe. The arena was awash in red. Getting up seemed pointless. Let him lose and the world would go back to its status quo.

He would go back to knowing he would never amount to what his brothers could do. It was painful but maybe he was just destined to help them shine brighter. A side player. But hey, even sidekicks were important, right?

Maybe it had been a mistake to want a piece of it for himself? Selfish, even.

But…he wanted them proud of him. So badly. So badly it hurt. These pains were nothing in comparison.

How often had he tried to keep up with his brothers but couldn’t? Raph was stronger, Leo more focused, Donnie WAY smarter. He couldn’t best them.

Didn’t stop him from trying though! Oh, how he’d tried but he couldn’t…no, Sensei said he wouldn't grasp the teachings.

Not like his brothers did.

He thought he’d been trying. Putting his all into it. But…his brain just couldn’t grasp it. Not like his brothers did. The way Sensei taught it, explained it. It didn’t make sense. Sensei saw an elm tree and he saw a cactus.

Mikey had thought—foolishly now that he considered it—that he could reach the same ends by a different path. That he could use the skills he knew and create something new and different but just as impressive!

He’d changed his katas. Ducked instead of swerved. Leapt instead of holding firm. Become a river, not a mountain. That way made sense to him. It let his energy flow.

And he’d done it. One time…knocked Leo on his tail to the collective shock of the entire room. To his own shock.

But it wasn’t what Sensei wanted. It didn’t show an understanding. It showed a desire to take “shortcuts.” It bordered on “dishonorable.” It showed “you weren’t listening, were you? I am not teaching you crude street thug skills!”

That hadn’t been what he’d been trying to do. He hadn’t broken any of their moral lessons. Had used skills he’d learned. He’d just…done it different. In a different pattern. A different way.

A fun way too! Kinda like dancing!

But that didn’t earn him praise. It wasn’t the technique, nor style nor approach he was supposed to learn.

But that was his fault, not Father’s. He knew he didn’t listen well.

So, despite how freeing that had been, Mikey clamped it down. Tried to do what Father wanted. He thought he’d done well. Thought when Father let him advance in the Tournament, it meant he believed in him!

But winning hadn’t been enough.

His unorthodox style Father simply didn’t understand, no matter how effective it was. And Father was the master right? Maybe it just seemed efficient to him. There had to be another factor…

So, Mikey sacrificed efficiency. He was obviously just doing it wrong…

And the nod and smile he got when he stuck to the template warmed his heart. It wasn’t praise but it was close! Close! He just needed to keep trying.

Chasing the praise. Chasing that high…

He loved his father. Loved his brothers. He sometimes just needed to know….did they…?

Sharp movement. Quick. Harsh.

Was he in the air? Probably. Gravity was absolutely pulling at his feet—

Pain. Pain that erupted through his chest chest. His breath didn’t come for a minute, and he couldn’t be bothered to care. He briefly could hear yelling. Someone was yelling for him.

“Mikey! Fight back! Fight back!”

“Get up! Get up!”

Sharp pain. Like his arm had been wretched from its socket. His lungs were screaming, each inhale sent rockets of pain through his mind.

“Leo!” What a baby he was. He was no Champion… calling for his big brother. But he couldn't do this. Couldn't. “Leo!”

I'm sorry, I can't do this. I can’t…Big Brother come save me! Help me! I’m not good enough! I never was!

Maybe… wasn’t it better like this?

After all, he’d never earned it:

I’ll tell you what I’m up for. Watching you get pounded into paste! Oh, I cannot wait!

Squeezing his eyes as tight as they would go, Mikey pondered. Guess you get your wish Raph. I just…I wanted…

But you don’t need to train, right, Mikey? After all, you’re the Champion!

I know I’m not. I never was. But shell was it fun to pretend. Even if it was only true in my own mind. I was…

Training, Michelangelo? Surely, there are comic books I could be reading. Or perhaps I could go watch television instead! Wait, my son, I know. Perhaps instead of training, I will go eat pizza. Yes, pizza sounds very appetizing right now. With pepperoni. And karma.

I wasn’t bragging! Not really. I just.…I wanted to hear it! I wanted someone to be proud of it. Be proud of me! I just wanted you to be proud of me! I just wanted to hear you say it. Just once! Just once, Father! But I guess there has to be something to work with, huh?

It’ll be better this way. Let Kluh get his vengeance out. Not like I was contributing much anyway…

“Mikey! Get up! Get up!”

Donnie? Why are you so freaked out? It’s better this way. Now I won’t be able to distract you….

“Mikey, you bonehead, fight back! Fight back!” Was that a wheeze? A hidden sob? No, surely not. “Fucking get up!”

Why? Why? I know I can’t win. Knew it coming in. Like you said Raphie, I just had this title by dumb luck…emphasis on the dumb.

“My son! Please, stop this, Daimyo! My son!”

I’m dishonoring you again, aren’t I? Sorry, Father. Wish I had better to offer but there’s just me.

And just me has never been enough. Never will be.

“Michelangelo!”

Leo…God, I’m so sorry, Leo. You wasted your time. I know you’ve got so much on your plate right now. Way too much. And you wasted energy on me. Heal yourself, bro! Don’t worry about me.

“Michelangelo, get up! You can do this. I know you’ve can!”

Something akin to warmth sparked in his heart.

I can do this? Leo…is he watching the same fight? He still thinks I…

Kluh swung him and for the first time in a while, Mikey truly saw the arena. The crowds. His family crowding amid the barrier. Leo with the Daimyo and…but he was still watching him. Leave it to Leo to master split attention.

A tink. Something clattered to the arena floor. Not metal. It…still hard. Something bony.

After a moment, Mikey realized cracks on his plastron were spreading and a few pieces had tumbled off.

The floor was red. And wet. Dripping…

Wow. That’s a lot of blood.

It didn’t fully register it was his blood.

“Do you hear that? It is the sound of your own defeat. Soon, it will be over. First for you. And then for your pathetic family.”

What? His family? His family…

Raph. The big old softie that hid all his gentleness under an armor of protector. The one who might not have the words but always the actions and he took things way too personally because of that big heart of his….

Donnie. His partner in crime. His muse. His buddy. The one that knew how completely weird Mikey was and stayed anyway. The one he could rely on to fix anything. Be it a broken controller or a broken heart.

Master Splinter. Father. He’d already lost so much. Tried so hard. Maybe he didn’t understand him but he tried. He tried and loved him and he deserved a better life! It couldn’t be easy raising four boys especially when the cards dealt him a kid like…well, him.

Leo. Oh, Leo. The rock. The mountain. The one that no matter of ocean wave could crumble. He’d let himself crumble and crack before any of them did and it wasn’t fair and he was hurting so much and they couldn’t help him and…

In this life, we only have each other. If one of us goes down, we all go down. So focus.

Something happened. Something Mikey felt so rarely that every time it did, it was like an alien invasion of his body. His limbs didn’t feel like his, nor his breath nor his heartbeat.

Electricity boiled in his blood. His limbs, broken and battered as they were, came together with a snap. His eyes narrowed, his muscles tensed. Every move, every technique he’d ever learned, ever seen, flew through his mind, rapid fire.

But more than anything, Mikey looked at Kluh and pictured his family in his clutches. Pictured them bleeding. Them breaking.

Rage. Pure, unfiltered rage.

But rage with focus. Rage like energy poured into channels. Mikey’s world narrowed; it was him, Kluh and the turtle’s very body became his weapon.

He was skill set on fire.

He was energy, pure and unbridled.

He was the barrier between his family and Kluh.

He was unbreakable.

Kicking himself loose, Mikey launched against Kluh, to the barrier and back to the ground. Any pain in his body was insignificant.

All that mattered was this…thing threatened his family.

Mikey didn't just want to stop him. He wanted him to never think of his family again. He wanted him to regret ever mentioning his family.

He wanted him to suffer .

Nunchaku in hand, Mikey locked eyes, stance rock solid as the roots of mountains. “Alright! If this is what you want…come on then!”

Everything flowed. Techniques weren't even fully thought out. It felt more like his body did it independently.

He saw every move, guessed each reaction. His kicks and punches and strikes sparked and crackled like lightning strikes.

Kluh hit the ground again and again.

His moves never came close to Mikey. He might as well have been trying to catch sound with his bare hands.

It served Mikey well. As he'd learned with Raph a long time ago, unbridled rage without a guide was sloppy, spiteful, and prone to mistakes.

Mikey was flexible so even his feet delivered blows or gave leverage. Grasping the purple alien by the hair with his feet, he slammed his nunchaku full force—aiming for joints, for thin muscles.

Kluh hit the ground again after multiple strikes to his legs and back.

Mikey sprang to the side, ready for the next blow. A faint weakness was trying to take hold and his entire body felt sticky but he pushed it down.

Stumbling to his feet, Kluh raised his spear, a low guttural growl, “I will…destroy you.”

First for you and then for your pathetic family.

“Hyah!” Mikey’s anger erupted; his chi poured through every muscle. Charging forward, he struck, breaking the spear in two without so much as a blink of hesitation. All his force collided with Kluh in the chest. The alien fell backward, tumbled, landed on his face.

His lungs, battered and bruised, struggled to expand. Everything hurt. Despite his desire, Kluh’s body would not respond. All he could manage was lifting his head.

Mikey stood above him, looking every bit the part of a demon—bruised, areas of his arm bent at odd angles (but it did not affect his technique in the slightest) and covered in so much blood that he looked more red than green.

But it was the pure, unfiltered wrath in his eyes that turned Kluh’s insides to mulch.

“Go on….finish me.”

Tempting. So tempting. It would be so easy too. A single blow would likely do it. It wasn't like he didn't know exactly the right spot.

But….no.

Bringing his spinning weapons to a stop, Mikey said, “I don't think so. My father taught me better than that.”

I've tried to listen, tried to learn and I failed at so much…but this—THIS I know in my bones.

“Besides…” Stepping forward, Mikey gave a light slap to Kluh between the eyes. “You're already finished.”

With a groan, the alien hit the ground and did not rise again.

The crowd roared but Mikey was deaf to it.

Threat gone. Family safe.

The energy, the flow dropped from his body and suddenly just standing up took way too much effort. Tumbling to his side, his cheek sank into the blood painting the arena floor. Wonder where all that blood was…

Oh. Bits of his plastron were missing. That's right. His shell suddenly ached, throbbed. Pulsing. Was it bleeding? Took a lot to make a shell bleed but he was pretty sure his was. All his bruises, cuts, and breaks remembered they needed tending and began to alert his brain--hurt, danger, pain! Lots of pain!

Breathing was suddenly ridiculously difficult.

“Michelangelo!”

Wait…was that Father?

The sound of nails on stone ground into his ears and he faintly heard his brothers following the sound. “Mikey, Mikey!”

Something warm and furry touched his face and a moment later, he was staring skyward. A long nose, pointed ears and broken eyes—eyes wet with tears—flooded his vision.

“F-father?” It hurt to speak but it would hurt more not to acknowledge Master Splinter. Halted, labored breaths. But Mikey managed to lock eyes for a moment. “F-father…”

“Yes, my son. I am here. The medics are coming. You're going to be alright…” There was such doubt, such sorrow in his voice. The older rat seemed utterly distraught.

Mikey considered. Had Kluh gotten up? Was his family still in peril? He thought he'd finished it. He thought he…

But no…the cheering meant it was over so…

“I…I won, right?” The question ripped from Mikey’s throat.

A light smile and Splinter caressed his child’s face. “Yes. Yes, Michelangelo, you did.”

He'd done it. His family was safe. He’d won. Without any ‘technicalities’.’ And much as it seemed impossible, the ever-hopeful part of Mikey’s spirit needed to know…

He withdrew his third eyelid, staring up at his father, blue eyes wet and tired.

“Are…” The boy’s breath hitched. But not from pain. There was agony in those eyes but not physical. Desperate. “Are…you proud of me now , Father?”

The old rat’s face paled but the medics arrived and rushed Mikey away before he could offer a reply.

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