#ohhhh future don..... he is so unwell

[bigdvmnhero]

Turing_Test

The transcript whirred into life. Then came Donnie's voice: "This is a test to determine whether or not you have consciousness. How are you?"

Across him, the cyborg's eyes shunted into green.

"All things considered— "and Donnie choked, "—my systems are functioning well, Interrogator. This morning I watched a half-moon materialize in the sky and surmised summer is arriving. Definition: a season perfect for cannonballing in the emergency aquifer."

Donnie re-arranged his expression behind his writing tablet. "Yes—yes, absolutely. You, ah, enjoy water?"

"The sewer waters are dark and deep. One must beware of getting lost in its depths."

"Coming from personal experience, I presume?"

"My data registers an unfortunate incident with my brothers at age eleven. I slipped down a drain. The amount of strength required to lift a mutant snapping turtle of 155 pounds will depend on various factors such as muscle mass, prior training, and fitness—however, spunk and delusion may offset such conditions. "

Donnie focused on keeping his notes clean. "You speak of your brothers. How do you feel about them?"

"The relationship the eldest son may have with their siblings can vary depending on culture and family dynamic. Here are some ways an eldest sibling can cherish their younger siblings—"  the wires above the borg swayed as he lifted a bionic finger. "One: Show affection regularly. Two: Put their needs first. Three: Love them always, as you love your own limb."

Without meaning to—because it was windmilling out of him, because the borg had Raph's snaggletooth and none of his warm eyes—Donnie scoffed, off-script. "Tall order, wouldn't you say?"

"Historically, eldest sons may attempt to be severed from their family of origin at least once, but there is no forgetting a brother. There is technology stored in the blood, much like memories."

"And what do you remember?"

Glassy eyes flickered, software sifting through layers of code. "My library is extensive. In each one, I have performed my duty. For instance: when your youngest teethes on your shell you must practice patience instead of squashing him like a bug. When your smartest denies himself adequate bedrest, or when his twin takes your place in the hierarchy of things, you must stick by him every step of the way, instead of running headlong into the woods, to be free and survive off of mushrooms, berries; the kindness of strangers."  Shoulder pads rode up and down. "A foolish wish. A mutant's mortality rate plummets to 28.7% after exposure to humans."

Donnie's pen slowed. "Yeah? And who taught you that?"

"My memory stretches back 23 years. First entry: being held by the mutant named Splinter. My father was a flawed man, but he named me Raphael, after one of God's seven archangels. Definition: divine healing. It can take days to heal from a pulled muscle. Weeks to heal from a broken bone. There is no returning from a photon blast to the shell, and reversing alien terraformation contains multiple unknown variables. But my data is hopeful. I have been conditioned for hope, Interrogator. For instance, when you fail at Mario Kart, you can always try again—a concept applicable to any activity. Like doing burpees. Or making pizza dough."

"Pizza dough," Donnie repeated, chest tightening. "Tell me what you know."

"Certainly. To make delicious pizza dough, combine 1 teaspoon of active dry yeast, 1 teaspoon of sugar, 1 teaspoon of salt, 2 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour, and 1 1/4 cups of warm water in a large mixing bowl. Knead the dough until smooth, place it in a lightly oiled bowl, cover, then let it rise for about an hour. Or—"  the borg paused. "You can always steal dough from your local RMP joint and claim it as your own."

A laugh burst out of Donnie, bright and bewildered. "Do you even know who you sound like right now?"

"Michelangelo Hamato, better known as  Mikey,  Mikester, or  Master Michelangelo by new recruits of the resistance. Status: currently sleep-floating approximately five feet off the ground in the communal pantry."

"Okay. And—" Donnie's chest was rising and falling, like he'd run a terrible distance, and maybe this time he wasn't too late, "do you know who I am?"

“Softshell turtles lack the horny, protective scutes commonly associated with its kind. There are 30 species and 14 genera of softshells, some of which are critically endangered, including the Yangtze giant softshell turtle (Rafetus swinhoei), and the Southeast Asian narrow-headed softshell turtle (Chitra chitra). It is a miracle you are here, Donatello, and that you have resisted this long. When you were 7, I tended to your fevers. You were so small. You liked soft rubs on your shell. At sixteen you fathered a carnivorous plant, and when it died, you brought it back to life. For you, death is not the end, but a stopover. A pathway. You fancy yourself a great facilitator of life. After all, a seed planted in an urn becomes a tree. I was once alive, now am part man, part machine. What is the difference here? You scraped me together from felled buildings and forgotten sites where people once danced, then melted them into screws. You upcycled my code. Raked life into my voicebox.”

“Yes, I'm rethinking that part of your design now,” Donnie said hoarsely. “Shell, you talk a lot."

The sound RoboRaph made must've been a laugh. But the sound was stilted, thrown in a synthesizer then strained clean of the pulp. Donnie shut his eyes and let it wash over him anyway. 

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