Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Leo throws Casey through Mikey’s portal, it feels as though he’s throwing away the last remnant of hope he has for this world along with him. 

That’s fine. The sentiment will better serve his student than it will him. If everything goes according to plan, Leo shouldn’t have much longer to live. Casey screams for Leonardo as he falls away, and another piece of him chips away at the sheer distraught panic lacing his student’s voice. He’s already gone through so much pain. Experienced such loss. Leo will never forgive himself for adding to it. 

He plasters on a brave face, smiles, and jumps into action. If this is to be the kid’s last memory of him, he wants it to be of his sensei as the hero. 

He fights off the Krang with the last of his strength, watching from his peripherals as the golden portal gradually closes behind him. 

HIs little brother’s essence falls like glowing snow to the ground as the energy field snips shut behind him, and Leo’s smile drops, the facade falling with it. For the first time in his life, he is truly alone. 

His plan is complete. His job is done. Now all that's left for him to do is fight - his final stand.

The concept instils a strange sense of stillness within him. A detached kind of calm. His worldview narrows down to simple, fundamental actions. Attack. Parry. Slice here. Dodge now. The last time Leo has fought this recklessly he was sixteen, arrogant and immature, still holding onto the stupidly naive belief that he and his brothers were indestructible. 

Morbid questions pass over the surface of his mind in quick succession. Which strike will be his last? How will he die? Will it be painful? Leon holds frame. He’s afraid, he’s terrified, but he won’t allow the terror to tear down his composure. The thoughts - the fear. It’s not important. There’s only one truth here that matters. A whirlwind of potent emotions that the shock has cut down to a simple, comforting solace. 

He’ll be with his brothers soon.

A blinding wall of heat and light erupts to his right, engulfing his arm. His prosthetic disappears in the fiery glow. Leo glances at it, and the colour fills his vision, burning his irises. 

Why is it so red? So bright? It’s not sunset. 

Oh. 

Fire. 

The thought passes over his consciousness like paper in the wind, and Leo is far too dazed to capture it, let alone act upon such an observation. It’s not until a moment later that the shearing heat begins to register as pain. He barely notices the familiar shimmer of power that bursts up from beneath his feet past the waves of agony pulsating through his body, only getting a brief glimpse of the golden light before he’s being sucked into it. Then, he’s falling. Away from the heat, away from the pain, away from his fate.

He doesn’t recall making it to the ground. 

- - -

When Leon first blinks open his eyes again, everything is so hazy and indistinct that for a moment he’s convinced he has died. He attempts to move, tentatively pushing himself up with his left arm, then, forgetting that there’s nothing remaining to support himself on the right — he slips, and his entire side flares up in agony as he comes crashing down. Sparks of what feels like lightning race across his lower half. He almost blacks out again from the pain.

Leo’s pretty sure the afterlife isn’t supposed to hurt this much. 

His whole body feels like one massive sunburn - the gentle breeze his only point of relief, blessedly cool against his roasted scales. 

The initial question that underpins his existence is how? Just, in general. How? How is he here? How had he not disintegrated in that blast? How come he’s still alive? 

His mind casts back to the circle of golden light that had enveloped him the moment before he’d lost consciousness, and Leo comes to the realisation that he’s bathed in that warm, bright, beaming embrace of energy far more than once. In fact, he’s lived for so long surrounded by that essence he’s almost become indifferent to its constant presence. His presence. 

If anyone was capable of reaching him from beyond the grave - of defying the laws of fate and ripping through the very fabric of time and space, it was his little brother.

Leo had thought himself accustomed to this endless pit of loss in him. But the sudden, cavernous, gaping hole of grief that hits him as the pieces click into place is near-overwhelming. 

There’s a side to him that almost wants to laugh at the irony of it all. Leo’s gladly shared everything he has with his brothers all his life, and yet still, even in death… 

“My final moment of glory, and you just couldn’t let me have it to myself, could you?” He rasps into the air. 

No one laughs.

Leon’s gaze slides to his right arm, and his blood pressure drops, dread filling his chest as he’s met with the spine-chilling sight of the smouldering nub of his arm. The limb no longer exists. His prosthetic is gone.

Leon swears vehemently and jolts into action - tries to ignore the way his body screams in protest as he rolls himself onto his stomach. Heart beating wildly, he scrabbles on his hands and knees, desperately scanning the ground for the arm - the one that had been meticulously crafted in Raph’s image. The tech that Donnie had spent weeks painstakingly crafting for him. His right arm, his strength - his family’s tribute to their lasting love and respect for their elder brother. 

Leo freezes, his memory flashing to the bright beam of burning light that had enveloped the metal. Disintegrated it. Leon doesn’t want to believe it, but he knows it to be true. 

He’s lost it.

No, not even lost - that would imply the ability for it to be found again. Leon’s destroyed it. It’s just another notch on his great wall of failures, yet this time somehow the sense of loss hits differently. It brings him to his knees. 

At the very least, it seems his sword has survived the trip. He crawls over to it, carefully cradles the grip, traces a thumb over the worn purple and red fabrics tied there. The only thing he has left of his brothers. 

“Why?” He asks quietly. “Why am I here?”

Where even is here?

He curls over himself, forehead lightly touching against the dull surface of the blade. Then slowly, carefully, he sheathes the weapon. 

He breathes heavily, his hand finally reaching around to the agony radiating from the side of his plastron. It comes away warm and sticky. Ugh. It doesn’t come as a surprise that he’s still bleeding, but he knows if he doesn’t get medical attention soon, he won’t last for much longer.

He wonders if Mikey would resent Leon if he gave up so soon after saving his shell.

The thought finally kicks in some vestige of Leo’s remaining survival instinct, and disorientated, he lifts his head, searching for clues that’ll tell him where or when in the timeline he’s landed. He doesn’t have to look far. 

He’s on the top of a building, and as he looks across the city skyline, he comes to the realisation that he isn’t lost at all. He’s still in New Utrominon. Except, no, no he’s not. He can’t be, because the buildings aren’t crumbling, the world isn’t burning, there’s no battles raging, the sky is clear and blue, devoid of the watchful eye of the Technodrome. 

He… He needs a better view, Leo decides, holding onto his side and stumbling to the railing, heart beating wildly in his chest. 

Here, Leon stands at the origin point of the war that had destroyed his world, and yet, there, the metropolis is free of the cancerous infection of the Krang - the boroughs liberated from both tentacle and machine. He must be hallucinating - and not just because this is too good to be true, but because this is decidedly not the city he last recalls it had been - prior to the Krang invasion - unmarred and complete, a thousand panels of glass glinting in the sun. 

He scans the horizon, tries to convince himself what he’s seeing is real. 

This Manhattan is deep in the process of restoration. Dozens of cranes reach into the sky, scaffolding surrounds buildings, sounds of construction fills the city. Down below, by Lady Liberty, marine crews are fishing large chunks of debris out from the chocolate-milk hue of the Hudson river. 

A battle had happened here. A war that, until now, Leon and his brothers had lost. 

It’s over. 

Euphoria, unadulterated glee sparks across his body. He laughs in disbelief, his legs giving out from under him as the wave of relief crashes over him. His student, brothers, family… They’d done it. 

“Mikey,” He calls. His voice is shaking, either from the elation or the blood loss, Leon doesn’t know. Can’t bring himself to care about something so trivial right this moment. “Miguel, little brother, you have to see this. We did it. They did it, Mikey—”

He spins on his heel, staggering when the movement is accompanied by a flare of pain from his ribs.

“Mikey?”

He stops suddenly.

Oh. Right.

The joy dies in his throat as he’s hit with the sobering realisation that this isn’t the win he thinks it is. Not when none of his brothers are alive to see it. Not when there’s no one left to enjoy the moment with. No one left to blame for the absences but himself. 

It was the only way, his mind callously reminds him. And he knows this, he knows. But it doesn’t soften the blow. Doesn’t make the former any less true. He’s the leader. He’s responsible for taking care of his family, for keeping them safe, and he had lost them all. Worse still, Leo had asked Mikey to sacrifice himself - disposed of him as though he was no more than a soldier.

The reality of it all overwhelms him, and the next thing he knows he’s curled around himself on the floor, his whole body shaking from the force of his sobs. His side blossoms with a fresh bout of agony with each hitch of his breath, but the pain is nothing in the face of the dark pit of sorrow and loneliness expanding outwards from his chest, threatening to drown him. 

He doesn’t know how long he remains on that rooftop. He feels numb - like everything that once made him Leonardo has been scooped out and replaced with a black emptiness, leaving nothing but a husk. A useless, dried up, worthless exterior of the person he used to be. 

By the time he lifts his head again, the sun has set over the horizon - the skyline blinking to life, glowing with lights.  He can’t remember the last time he’d seen the city alive like this. Even now, Leon feels drawn towards the glow, like a moth to flame.

He unfurls from his foetal position on the ground, moves clumsily to the side of the building. The streets below are dizzyingly far away. 

It’d be a long way down, he thinks distantly, were someone to fall. 

His heart thuds loudly between his ears as he sways unsteadily, feeling a weird urge, an inexplicable pull towards the call of that void. 

Leo’s trance is broken by a sharp sting at his shoulder.

He sucks air back into his lungs — when had he stopped breathing? — and staggers backwards away from the ledge. His stomach roils. His thoughts slow. Leon’s hand groggily lifts to his shoulder to pluck the object out from where it’s pierced him.

He examines the offending needle, his vision blurring, concentration slipping with each passing moment. The dart slips from loose fingers.

The draw of sleep tugs at him, and some faraway corner of his subconscious tells him to fight it. Leon wants to know where the hell that voice was earlier. His body collides with the ground, and moments later his eyes slip closed, the promise of rest too compelling to ignore any longer. 

- - -

His second return to the land of cognizance is a similarly unpleasant experience. 

Reality trickles back in slowly, resistantly. Leon kind of wishes it wouldn’t. Unconsciousness is a kinder state to exist in than this — his increasing awareness greeted by a throbbing headache, cottonmouth, and the crushing weight of his life choices. 

He remembers Mikey, remembers Casey, remembers the burst of light and energy that had swept his feet from out under him. Leo had one, simple job left to do - die, and he hadn’t even been able to do that right. A useless memory floats up along with the rest, like blood circling the drain. A mechanical fist punching him through a concrete floor, claws pinning him to the ground, Krang prime slashing through muscle, ligament, tissue, bone. His arm aches with a phantom pain. 

No. He squeezes his eyes together and shakes his head. Wrong timeline, a decade too early, irrelevant. Hell of a useless thing to be remembering now. 

A part of him wants to fade away. Sink into the floor. Disappear from the world forever. Unfortunately, as nice as that all sounds, he can’t actually do any of it, so he may as well pull himself together and figure out what he can do. Which begins with figuring out what kind of predicament he’s found himself in.

He blinks open his eyes, examines his surroundings. He’s in someone’s home — a loft apartment, if the open-plan bedroom above his head is any indication. The dwelling is large and spacious, with an unobscured view of Central Park down below. Whoever owns the place is loaded, that much is clear. 

His shell is resting against something cold and hard. He attempts to shift, but finds his movement tightly restricted. He’s been firmly strapped to a marble table. It’s not an ideal position to find himself in. Then again, Leon’s just lived through an apocalypse. He’s woken to far worse conditions.

His side is no longer throbbing, which could be a good sign. The strong, web-like rope bound around him doesn’t allow for a lot of give, but he has enough free movement to angle his head downwards. He catches sight of thick, white bandages wrapped around his plastron.

“Leonardo, isn’t it.” 

He jumps, his head whipping to the petite woman standing in the doorway. There’s not many people that can sneak up on him. Leon recognises the purple skin, teal glasses and long, wavy, silver hair immediately. Big Mama isn’t big on change. Her human form looks as it always has. 

She grins widely, her overly-cheery, motherly facade pouring out in full force as she reaches down to pinch at his cheeks playfully.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised, turtley-boo. I have ears all throughout the city, and dear-oh-dear, your younger brothers have been making a positively deafening ruckus out on those streets.”

Her words sink in, and Leo’s hand tightens around his restraints, his focus resharpening. His brothers, April — Casey. They’re here. All of them. Contrasting emotions of elation and dismay clash around his chest painfully. The overwhelming desire to see them again is dampened by the sobering understanding that he’s not sure he’ll ever be to face them again. He’s not sure he deserves to. 

“I do admit, your brothers’ antics do provide some marvellously juicy gossip to the rumour mill. Why, when I heard the whispers about a little box turtle that could rip open the wall of reality and reach into the material of another dimension, I could hardly believe it. I thought it was a joke.”

Leo’s shoulders stiffen, his brow-ridge pulling taught in confusion. That… That sounds a lot like his little brother. Which is impossible. Because his brother is dead, and the one from the past has to be like, what… fourteen? Too young to be playing around with space-time manipulation for any matter. 

“And yet, here you are.” Big Mama continues, her lips curling upwards. “A turtle out of time.”

His heart thumps against his chest, panic setting in anew, even though he knows she’s wrong - that this is just another manipulation tactic of hers - laying the poison in his mind, breaking down his defences. Big Mama knows those walls are weak when it comes to his brothers. He’s proving that point to her again now, the anxiety churning in his stomach like a runaway motor. What if his Mikey hadn’t been the one to pull him back? It had taken his brother a lifetime to master the mystic knowledge and skill required to even fathom time travel. The fact that the mystic warrior hadn’t the power to survive the energy it took to draw open the door did not forebode well for any younger version of him, and the thought of Mikey being lost twice over for Leo’s sake… He can’t accept it. It’s too unbearable.

“Finding you was a breeze, by the way.” Big Mama drawls, unaware of his silent, depressive spiraling. “Those great, big, golden portals aren’t all that subtle, are they? Aren’t you boys supposed to be ninjas?” 

“Is there a point to this conversation?” He asks hollowly.

For a moment Big Mama looks genuinely put out by his emotionless response. Her face falls a fraction, displeasure creeping into her features, as if his refusal to participate in their usual banter is of personal offence to her. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked.” She recovers, her cheery mask falling back into place. “You see, I’ve been doing it tough these last couple months. You look pretty rough — I’m sure you can sympathise.” 

Leon’s jaw tightens, irritation sparking at her words. He’s not one to draw comparisons, but if accumulating misfortunes is a competition, Leonardo is reigning champ. 

“Let me think…” Big Mama sighs airily, “I lost my biggest score since the escape of my handsome scruggly-muffin.” She counts off her fingers. “My hotel was demolished. My deliciously dastardly plans were once again foiled by a gaggle of teenagers. My dearest pup Gus was injured. My reputation was ruined. And, oh yes, worst of all, I lost my biggest, bestest battle champion.”

Leon tries to follow along, but finds himself a little lost. 

Big Mama can be difficult to understand at the best of times, and beyond the initial psychological breakdown, Leo’s had very little chance to reorient himself to the point in history he’s landed in. The name Gus rings faintly familiar. Something about being chased through a hotel by a massive, talking dog? Wasn’t that a dream? It’s all fuzzy. 

He wracks his memory for missing pieces to a puzzle he’d put away a long, long time ago. He can remember the wildest, scariest fights - the world-ending threats are always the easiest to recall. It’s woefully difficult for your brain to set aside the trauma after all, but the finer details? The less important bits? They’re a little more difficult to ascertain. Whatever. He’s pretty sure he only needs the overall picture anyway.

“Your champion… You mean the Shredder?” He stresses, squinting at her. “Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, thanking the Hamatos for solving that little problem? I mean, if I’m correct in thinking what’s happened has happened, then they’ve saved the world at least twice over by now.” 

“Oh, I’m grateful, of course. Those icky, slime-faddled brain phlegmatics seemed like they could’ve been a real roadblock to business. And all things considered, I can easily rebuild from the losses I’ve suffered. I complain, but I already have a plan in place to bounce back better than ever. Really, there's only one, eensy-teensy issue I’ve yet to resolve.”

“That being?” Leon asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I need a new battle champion.”

He glowers at her. That’s why he’s here? Hasn’t he suffered enough?

“I don’t remember putting my hand up for this.” He deadpans. 

Her brows furrow in confusion, which perplexes him in turn. Did she think he’d be jumping for joy to join another one of her death pits? That he’d gone on a little field trip to the past because the thought of trampolining from the apocalyptic fire into one of her sizzling frying pans is somehow appealing to him? 

“Oh– oh.” Big Mama’s expression shifts, her eyes lighting up with understanding. “You think..? Oh, no, no, no.” She giggles and waves her hand in a gesture of ‘oh, stop’, her wrist going limp. 

“Can you imagine? Don’t get me wrong, you’d be a formidable opponent, but no one even knows who you are, darling.” 

The atmosphere goes tense as she leans over him, her sharp nails clacking against the metal of the table as she places her hands on either side of his head.

“No. To revamp my Battle Nexus, to restore my reputation, I need a frontman with real star power. Someone truly iconic. Famous and beloved by both New York and the Hidden City alike. A legend so dazzling people won’t be able to turn their heads away.” 

There’s very few people Leon can think of that could fit that bill. Even fewer still that his direct involvement would require. It’s not much of a riddle. He has the pieces clicking together in no time at all. He can’t say he likes the answer. 

“Lou Jitsu.” He breathes.

Leon hadn’t even considered the possibility of being able to see his dad again, and now it dawns on him that he’s alive and kicking in this timeline. He’s in this city somewhere, within Leon’s reach, and he doesn’t even know how to begin to process that information. He feels shaky and sick - which he supposes is one way of processing it. He wonders if dad would even recognise him anymore. If he would hate him for what he’s become - what he’s had to sacrifice to make it here. 

Big Mama’s smile widens. Leon can barely breathe. 

“You always were the sharp one.” 

The first to suspect her ulterior motives, she means. The only one of his brothers to perceive the malice concealed behind the polite, bubbly, maternal act. 

Leo needs air. He needs to be somewhere - anywhere but here. He grinds his teeth, pulls his act together.

“So, your plan is to, what - torture me until I agree to betray me family?” He asks venomously. 

Her brows rise, “Heavens no, Big Mama doesn’t mean to torture you. My, my, how pessimistic you’ve gotten with age.”

“Oh?” Leo verbalises sceptically, his eyes narrowing, “Do go on. I have difficulties imagining anything good that comes with being strapped to your table.”

She smiles at him. The expression isn’t smug or malicious. In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s fondness that softens her expression.

“What.” He hisses, a flare of irritation rushing through him.

Her eyes refocus on him, her gaze resharpening. “Apologies. Got lost in my head for a moment there. You do so remind me of my Lou.”

The comparison strikes something deep and painful within him, and he turns his head away from her. He smothers the thick emotion rising up his throat with a coat of indifference. 

“Ugh.” He mutters under his breath. “Gross.”

“Rude.” She chastises. “But honestly snookums, I wouldn’t concern yourself with the details. You’re merely a means to an end.”

He frowns. 

“A means for what?” He asks, patience growing thin.

“Why, to bring me your brothers, of course. How else am I to convince my little ratty-watticus to fight for me?”

If Leon were a young turtle — if he was the red-eared slider Big Mama knew, he might’ve replied with something witty. Eased his own fears with some weak quip or poor joke that would suck the seriousness out of the whole situation somehow.

Leo isn’t a young turtle. He feels every single one of the years he’s lived on this earth. He’s had enough of people threatening his family.

“Fuck you.” He growls.

She faux-gasps at his language, her hand reaching for her chest dramatically. “Really? Resorting to crudeness are we? No more little quips left in that big brain of yours?” Her lips curl upward. “I love it.”

Leo glares at the ceiling, refusing to respond. 

“It’s a good change. Take it from me, it’s not healthy constantly hiding all that pent-up rage behind smiling words.”

His eyes dart back to Big Mama when he hears the loud click of her stilettos against the wooden floorboards as she makes her way towards the small, ornate box situated innocently on the nearest countertop. With her back to him it’s difficult to see what it is she’s doing. 

“I spent some time thinking this through, truth be told. I could try to bargain with you. I could politely request a favour. Maybe make another deal.” 

She lifts something out from the box, then clicks the lid shut, her shoulders shimmying with barely-concealed excitement. 

“So you can change the terms of the deal at the very last moment again?” Leon asks dryly, watching warily as Big Mama turns, one of her hands remaining hidden behind her back. 

“Yes, you’re well aware of my song and dance.” She muses. “In fact, you’re quite good at spinning your own tune too, aren’t you? I know the slippery and stubborn troublemaker that you were - that you are - as a young boy. And when you live as long as I have, you come to understand that slyness and obstinacy are two traits that only worsen with age.”

Big Mama opens her hand, revealing a thin, silver chain. The jewellery dangles like a web from her fingers. A small, dark gemstone hangs at the bottom of the necklace. 

“That’s why, this time round, there will be no room for negotiation.”

Chapter Text

“April. We have a code red.” Casey announces, his voice grave. “I repeat.” 

“Code.” 

“Red.” 

April’s face is hidden behind a tower of dirty plates, bowls, silverware and mugs stacked precariously in her arms. 

“Code red?” She exclaims.

She offloads the dishes carefully next to the kitchen sink and wipes the sweat from her forehead. 

“How bad we talking? Is the guy who only pays his bill in pennies back? Did some kids from the club throw up? Has Larry passed out on the floor again?”

“Worse.” 

He gestures for her to follow him. April frowns, mouth downturning like she’s not sure she wants to find out what fiasco awaits them outside. Reluctantly, she follows. 

Casey guides her to the main floor of the diner, crouching down low as they come into the potential sight-line of customers. He presses his back to a wall, then rolls stealthily behind the counter, hidden from view. April slides across the floor, joining him. 

“Your nine o’clock.” He whispers.

Her eyes peek over the ledge of the countertop, scanning the patrons to the right side of the restaurant.

“Your other nine o’clock.”

“Oh. Right.” Her head turns to inspect the opposite end of the hall. 

Casey can pinpoint the exact moment she spots what he had. 

There, sitting at the corner of the dining hall is a frail, old woman. Her face is timeworn and wrinkled, her cheeks gaunt, brows thinly plucked, and her wiry, neon-pink hair wound up into a bun so tight that it pulls at the skin of her temples, all of which contribute to a distinctly haughty appearance.

April freezes, her eyes widening, then quickly she ducks her head, twists around and plasters her back against the counter. There, she stares dead ahead and slowly shakes her head. 

“Uh. Nope. Nuh-uh. No way. You’re taking one for the team today.”

“What?” Casey squawks quietly. 

He doesn’t even work here. He’s only supposed to be filling in tonight – a favour for April after her coworker called in sick too late for her to find a viable replacement.

“Why me? You’re Commander O’Neil.” He whisper-shouts. She could do anything. 

“And as much as you know I like that title, right now I’m just your friendly, exhausted, broke, diner-employee April.” She retorts, her gaze snapping back to him. “All she wants is to make it through to the end of the night unscathed.” 

Casey knows how rough this week has been on her – worn out and high-strung from days berated by customers. Sleep deprived and stressed from balancing long, sleepless nights on patrol outside with the brothers or locked inside, studying for exams. 

“My boss already has it out for me Casey, I can’t handle that heat.” She hisses, gesturing to the woman agitatedly, “One more strike and I’m outta here, and there’s no way I’m finding another job this close to my campus.“

He worries at his lip. He wants to help her, but…Casey has felt out of place the moment he’d dorned this stupid, bright yellow uniform that may as well make him a walking target. To be fair, he’s felt out of place ever since he being thrown into the past, but at least with the brothers he felt like he belonged, and at school he could keep his chest plate and some of Donnie's tech hidden beneath baggy clothes, comforted by the knowledge that his hockey-stick and mask were stashed nearby in his locker. Here, he feels naked and vulnerable. And according to April that’s encouraged - something about letting his guard down to make people feel more comfortable. Agreeing with them, even when they’re wrong, stepping down from confrontations and lying to everyone around him by forcing himself to be the sunny, carefree extrovert that by all accounts he is not. It’s all backwards. Casey doesn’t get it. 

Sensing his hesitation, she gives his shoulder a light punch. “Come on man, she’s just an old lady. Old ladies love you - your long hair and crooked, less than conventional looks remind them of their little white-boy grandsons or somethin'.”

“My what?” He squeaks. Casey shakes his head— no, focus.

“I eat here after school, April. I’ve seen how she treats the staff - I’ve fought Krang more friendly than her. I don’t even know what I’m doing. She’ll eat me alive.” 

Casey knows how to take down an opponent with a spinning roundhouse kick. He’s grown up being taught how to operate complex high-tech equipment and futuristic weaponry. He’d been raised, his entire life, not to be a weapon, but to be as deadly as one when required. His mom had fought battles with him when he was still young enough to be strapped to her chest. She had instructed him on how to defend himself, how to blend into the shadows, how to be brave in the face of unimaginable horror. He understood when and how to bunker down and hide from an alien enemy before he’d been old enough to tie his own shoelaces. He knows how to spread out and organise his inventory to make sure it lasts through until the next supply run. He knows intimately the sacrifices one must make in order to survive an apocalypse. 

What he doesn't understand is how to navigate the various social cliques at his high school. He doesn't get algebra or humanities or career development or why it's so important he maintains good grades. He was born a soldier into a world on fire. He’s used to constantly being on the move. Waiting for the next calamity to fall onto their heads. You can’t just switch something like that off. He can hardly stand to hear the things these children seem to be worried about - teen relationship and tiktok drama and parents not letting them go out at night and complaints about homework. It makes him want to puke. Casey just… he doesn’t belong here. He can’t stop checking exits and flinching at loud sounds and feeling naked without his weapons on him at all times, even though, rationally, he knows there’s no danger. 

And most of all, he has absolutely no clue how to deal with customers who only come in to order around underpaid service workers because they have nothing meaningful left in their lives, and take enjoyment letting everyone else in the world know it by making others feel as miserable as they do. In Casey's future, those kinds of people simply wouldn't be fed. 

The past is so confusing sometimes. 

“April!”

She lifts her head at the sound of her name, and Casey spins around to the source of the agitated voice. April’s boss stares them down, unimpressed, his big, hairy arms crossed over his chest. He points aggressively to the cash register where a customer is waiting to pay, then heads back into the kitchen. 

She uses Casey’s shoulder to haul herself up, then keeps it there to pat sympathetically. 

“Dude, you can do this. I believe in you.”

He frantically takes hold of her arm before she can escape.

“April-” He whispers, desperation leaking into his tone, “April, please, don’t leave me-”

She deftly slips from his grip. “Sorry-gotta-go-good-luck!” She rattles off quickly, racing off - mercilessly leaving him to face his doom.

He watches her go with an emotion akin to despair. 

Get a hold of yourself, Casey. What would Master Leonardo do?

Casey takes a deep breath, steels his resolve, then arms himself with a notepad and a ballpoint pen and goes to take the woman’s order.

He returns to April less than five minutes later, thoroughly deflated.

“Going well?” She asks, her brow raised. 

“She says I look grimy and unwashed and wants some hot water to clean her silverware with.” He quotes, reaching over to squeeze a liberal amount of disinfectant into his hands. He rubs them together thoroughly, and kind of wishes there were a mirror somewhere he could check his face with, despite knowing full well he’s the cleanest he’s ever been in his life. It’s a low bar considering he grew up without hot water or working plumbing, but his point stands. 

April has the decency to look guilty about putting him in this situation. “I’m gonna get you some hot water.” 

It goes downhill from there.

“You made my coffee wrong.”

(They only serve one type of coffee — black. Boiled in a pot. It’s terrible, and Casey isn’t just saying that because coffee makes his heart beat erratically and puts his nerves on edge. It’s objectively horrible. Achingly bitter, aggressively smoky and somehow still watery. Donnie would probably chug the stuff. He pours her another mug. She doesn’t know the difference.)

“What’s taking so long?”

(He doesn’t know how to politely explain to her that it takes more than two minutes to cook a damn meal, or that he has no control over when the dish is ready — only how it gets to her, so instead he simply apologises and lets her know the wait won’t be too much longer).

“I didn’t order this—”

(She had. Casey has the evidence tucked away in his pocket. On a page written in a hastily written scrawl, detailing every single one of her numerable, ridiculous requests. Casey does his best to try to sound genuinely apologetic for something he knows is not his fault, and takes her new order back to the kitchen).

“This is raw—”

(He doesn’t point out that she’s already eaten half the burger, and that this is a well known ploy for free food. The cook glares at him when he returns with her unfinished plate in his hands. Casey isn’t sure how he’s taking the blame for this, too, but the irritation isn’t what he’d call unwarranted).

“You’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you?”

(Her tone is dripping with condescension, and Casey can feel the red begin to creep up his neck and cheeks, born out of bottled-up frustration. Casey plasters on an artificial smile, laughs like it’s a joke, and agrees. April needs this job, and anything less than their peppy passivity in the face of boorishly obnoxious patrons could put that at risk).

The diner is its own battlefield — a jumbled rhythm of endless orders, steaming plates, footsteps around chairs that are pulled out with no warning, arms and elbows where arms and elbows should not be and burning hot coffee ready to scald him the second he isn’t fast or observant enough to dodge. It’s lucky that Casey is light on his feet. 

Twenty minutes past the shop’s official closing time, and the woman is still here, locking them in purgatory with her. Casey has almost finished mopping the floors by the time he finally hears her grouching at the register, lecturing April about his supposed appalling service and complete and utter incompetence. 

“I’m never coming back.” She spits.

It’s the strangest non-threat; like she believes with unshakeable confidence their salary will be somehow affected by whether or not she comes in. 

He wishes she would follow through with it for April’s sake. 

He knows she’ll be here next week.

April — who has no doubt heard this whole spiel more times than she can count - smiles through gritted teeth. 

“Hope you have a great night, Mrs. Dutton. We’ll see you again soon.”

The woman huffs, then spins on her heel and leaves. She doesn’t leave a tip. Casey doesn’t take it personally. He’s pretty sure she never has. 

He breathes a long sigh of relief as the door clicks shut, and April leans over the counter and offers her fist to him. He reaches over and bumps it with an exhausted smile.

“Mission accomplished.” He reports wearily. 

April beams. 

“You are a goddamn hero to this establishment, Casey Jones.” 

Warmth fills his chest. Casey decides that for his Commander, a little suffering is totally worth it.

The moment lasts approximately ten seconds before it is broken by the deafening crash of the store window shattering to smithereens.

Their arms shoot up to shield their eyes as glass rains down across the diner floor. When Casey’s arm lowers, he’s met with the sight of Raphael’s enormous spiked shoulders and dark green carapace. He gapes at him for a few seconds before his attention shifts to the commotion occurring out in the middle of the street, where Mikey is in the heat of combat with what looks like a large, reptilian, Komodo-Yokai. His nunchaku flinging wildly as he flips around dynamically, his attacks a whirlwind of controlled chaos. 

Horns blare loudly as cars screech to a halt, then continue to honk as the figures fighting in the middle of the road don’t immediately move out of the way. Casey is once again impressed by the impassivity of New Yorkers to the rest of the crazy shit going on in the world around them. 

Raph hops up from where he’s landed, brushes off the debris from his shoulders, then looks back and meets their shocked expressions with one of his own. 

“Uh, hi guys?” He says sheepishly, giving a little wave with one of his sais, before glancing remorsefully at the mess surrounding them. 

Outside, the Yokai reels back and swings their muscular tail at Mikey, catching him mid-air and sending him flying into a fire hydrant, causing an eruption of water to sprout into the air.

A blinding flash of purple slams into the komodo dragon, turning them into a crater-sized pot-hole in the middle of the road. 

“How’s the asphalt taste, you oversized varanid?” Donnie laughs manically from above, kept afloat by mystic energy in the form of powerful jets at his back. 

“Raph? Hello, care to join us?” Leo calls from the sidewalk, twin Katanas spinning in his grip.

No time to waste, Raph sprouts off a rushed apology to April and Casey, then races back into action.  

A man pops his head out of his car window and screams something about them holding up traffic - urging them to move their performance elsewhere. Others on the sidewalk have stopped to watch the fight - multiple faces lit up with blue light as they glue their eyes to their phones, filming the action. 

The brothers are equipped with jammers to interfere with security footage, but Casey has a strong feeling Donnie is going to have to employ some extra precautions to wipe all evidence of this little tousle of theirs from the internet the second he has time for a breather.

Casey doesn’t get that part either — the secrecy. The hiding. In the past, he had wondered what a life free of the Krang would look like. He’d imagined walking freely around the city with his sensei, going to central park — taking in the fresh air, smelling earth untouched by the terraformation of slime and machine. It’s with a sad heaviness that he came to realise that this was still a dream. That, despite saving the planet, the brothers have to remain hidden beneath the city for their own safety. 

The humans and Yokai are separate, divided entities here — the threat of their two worlds being annihilated is nonexistent, thus they share no common ground. It’s a strange concept to wrap his head around — peace born from war. Without the Krang, they have more reasons to hate than to unite with one another. The Yokai will not reveal themselves, and the humans will continue fearing monsters they do not understand. 

The lizard Yokai manages to crawl its way out of the ground somehow, and scuttles on all fours — battered and bruised — directly up the wall of an adjacent building, disappearing over the roof. Mikey is up again and fast on its heels, his chain whipping out and catching on a railing of the fire escape. He swings himself upwards, releasing a delighted woop as he careens upwards. Leo yells for Donnie, who in turn, swoops down from the air and grabs onto his hand. Raph catches hold of Leo’s leg, and together they fly after their little brother. 

Cars move on, phones return to pockets, and everyone goes on with their night. Or, at least, everyone except Casey and April, who stand motionless at the store counter, staring at the destruction before them. 

What just happened?

A small chip of the remaining glass in the window falls to the vinyl floor. The floor Casey had just finished cleaning.

Casey glances over at April. She has the face of someone who has already resigned themselves to the knowledge of how completely and irreversibly fired they are.

Casey swallows.

“Do you think there’s any way we can explain-”

“Nope.” April states bluntly. 

A thunderous roar erupts from the kitchen.

“APRRRIIIIIIIILLLL!” 

Casey winces, his head ducking into his shoulders. April doesn’t even flinch. 

“I think I’m going to look into studying from home.” She states, sounding oddly calm. She has yet to look away from the glass-covered floor.

Casey jerkily nods, voice thin as he tentatively agrees. “That sounds like a good idea.”

He clears his throat. 

“Should we-?” Casey points a finger towards the exit, “Before he…” He throws a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the kitchen.

“Yep.” April replies, her name tag plucked from her chest and already half-way through removing the apron from her waist.

- - -

The brothers never do end up catching the Yokai — the komodo slinking off and disappearing from sight before they can get any answers.

The knowledge unsettles Casey. It’s their third unexplained assault this week, and while the Mad Dogs aren’t strangers to conflict, the spontaneity of the fights are suspect. Coming across one crazy Yokai wanting a beat down without said beat-down being instigated by them, unintentionally or otherwise? Sure. That’s plausible. Having three bouts of nutsos coming at them in one week? Funny. 

And not ha-ha funny. 

Funny, weird.

“I’m really, really sorry we got you guys fired.” 

Casey looks up from where he’d been staring into space. Raph stands like a big, sad mountain before him, offering him a thick slice of consolatory pizza. 

Casey smiles up at him and accepts it. “It’s all good, Raph.” 

He nibbles on the crust. Casey’s not exactly hungry - he’s not yet accustomed to the sheer quantity of delicious, filling food that is constantly available in this timeline, but he forces himself to make the effort. This is the sixth time Raph’s apologised to them tonight, and Casey’s afraid if he refuses the peace-offering Raph will think the five other times he and April have told him they love him and don’t hold it against him were somehow lies. 

“Don’t worry about it, big guy. It wasn’t your fault.” April reassures him. She leans against the roof’s water tower, looking remarkably relaxed for someone who’s just been fired for no reason attributed to her own actions. “I doubt I would’ve lasted at that place for much longer anyway. The customers treated me like trash and the boss-man treated me worse than trash. It’s for the best.”

Casey nods in agreement.

The guilt eases from Raph’s expression just a little. They take it as a win. 

Donnie extends a hand to April from where he’s sitting, shell-to-shell against Mikey. “Here.” He says. 

April and Casey peer down at the thick wad of cash in his hand. 

“Uh... What’s this?” April questions warily.

“For the pizza. It’s on us tonight.” He explains. 

“Oh… Donnie, you shouldn’t have—”

Donnie shakes the cash, urging her to take it. “Don’t be modest. It’ll help ease Raph’s guilt.”

“No, I mean, you literally shouldn’t have.” April eyes the cash dubiously. “Who did you steal this from?”

Donnie’s hand drops.

“Wow.” He utters, affronted by the accusation. “Okay, A — ‘steal’ is a very strong word. I prefer to call it a ‘service fee’. And B…” He stands to his feet, his hands going to his hips. “Not that it matters, but I’ll have you know it was procured from the bedazzled handbag of an incredibly disgruntled old woman.” 

“Donald.” Mikey gasps, looking up at him with an appalled look. 

“Come on, man. We talked about this already.” Raph stresses. “We don’t take things from grannies.” 

Mickey nods. “That’s cold, brother.” 

“Do you still have the purse?!” Leo calls down from above. He’s seated atop the water tower, his legs swinging freely in the air. “Can I have it?”

“Leo.” Raph chastises, throwing up a finger at him. “We are not encouraging this behaviour right now.” 

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” He amends, his tone going serious. “Donnie, I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate that beautiful, bejewelled handbag.” 

Raph releases a tired sigh. 

“I took her money, Nardo, not her material possessions. What kind of monster do you take me for?”

Leo visibly deflates, disappointed. 

Wait a minute. 

A thought occurs to Casey - disgruntled. Old. Monster.

“Did this woman have pink hair?” 

Donnie stops and turns to stare at him, his thick brows rising in surprise. “How’d you know that?”

Casey and April exchange a look.

“Should’ve taken the bag.” She answers, swiping the money from Donnie’s hand.

Casey grins.

- - -

Casey doesn’t know how long they stay up on that rooftop, talking, eating, goofing around - trying to toss pizza slices to Leo, which rapidly devolves into a game of trying to throw pizza slices at Leo. 

He mostly watches them interact with a quiet, content fascination. It’s still so jarring to see his mentor like this. He didn’t think it possible for Leonardo to be so carefree. He’d never seen him smile so frequently, openly and genuinely. Casey can’t remember a time when it didn't seem like his sensei was carrying the weight of the world on his shell. Then again, he had never known Master Raphael. Perhaps that’s why Leonardo now could stand so tall - the weight of responsibility shared between their shoulders. 

Or maybe it's just being here - together. Casey notices the difference that makes, even within himself. It’s such a novelty for him to be able to simply hang out and relax like this. To talk about crappy bosses and school and video games and TV shows and sports teams they like. Conversations that didn’t matter to survival or training or any manner of mission, and that Casey found himself enjoying all the more for it. 

There had been time to enjoy each other’s company during the apocalypse, but it had always been underpinned by this dark, impending cloud of doom - like they only had a limited time to enjoy the brief levity before it came crashing down to an abrupt and horrifying end. 

This air of freedom - the lightness Casey feels in his chest. It’s all new.

And like most new, good things in his life, he should really know by now that this happiness can’t last.

They’re clearing up their mess and readying to head home when the tattered piece of cloth falls on Casey’s head.

The fabric temporarily obscures his vision, and Casey freaks out – a knee-jerk reaction that has him slapping himself across the face in an effort to remove whatever it is that’s attacking him. The rag falls to the ground, and Casey stares at it for a few moments as his heart settles and the adrenalin passes. He hears a smothered snort behind him, and when he looks around he finds Mikey with his hands clasped firmly over his mouth, putting a truly valiant effort into trying not to laugh at him.

Casey leans down and picks up the rag, his brows knit together in confusion. There’s a faint, chemical odour rising from the fabric. He takes a sniff, then chokes and hacks when the scent unexpectedly burns at the back of his throat. 

“Casey?” Mikey asks, open concern rapidly replacing the amusement in his expression.

Casey holds his arm over his nose, “Donnie-” He calls, holding the rag away with an outstretched arm, offering the item to their resident science expert. “What is this?”

Curious, Donnie takes it from his hands. He brings it to his face, takes a whiff, and immediately recoils. 

“Gah,” He holds the rag away from him and coughs. “Yikes. The hell, Casey? Why do you have this? What are you trying to do? Knock yourself out?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Donnie waves the rag, “This is thoroughly doused in chloroform. Where’d you even get this?”

Casey shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t- I don’t know, it appeared out of nowhere.”

Donnie scoffs. “Stuff like this doesn’t just rain from the sky, Case-”

April looks up as Donnie grills into him. She turns slowly, stopping when she comes to face the water tower. Her breath catches. 

“Hey, uh- guys?” She asks loudly, her tone laced with apprehension. Everyone stops, their attention shifting to her.

“Where’s Leo?”

- - -

Raph orders the team to conduct a thorough search of the roof. 

Casey hopes this is just another of Leo’s practical jokes. Best care scenario, he’ll be hiding around a corner, waiting to give someone a heart attack. He’ll have his fun, and then Raph will rip him limb from limb.

Worst case scenario…

Casey glances at the rag tightly clutched in Donnie’s hand. He holds his phone to his ear with the other, pacing back and forth as he listens to it ring out. 

“He’s not answering.” Donnie grinds out between clenched teeth. “He’s an idiot, but he wouldn’t have just walked out on us without so much as a text.” 

“I’ve checked the stairwell. He’s not here.” Mikey adds dejectedly. The anxious energy radiates off of him as he shifts foot to foot, fidgeting nervously with the leather strap at his shoulder. His eyes are filled to the brim with worry.

Casey decides that if Leo is playing a prank on them, future sensei or not, he will hurt him. 

“We’ll keep looking, Mikey.” Raph replies, doing his best to keep a level head about this. “We’ll expand our search radius. He can’t have gone—” 

A scream rings out from below. 

The noise sends them all sprinting to the side of the building. Casey leans over the railing and frantically scans the dully-lit street beneath them. 

“There!” Mikey shouts, pointing. 

Casey’s eyes follow the line of his finger to a subway entrance. A group of skateboarders plaster themselves against a wall, absolutely terrified of whatever it is they’ve caught sight of. Monsters that have already disappeared into the depths of the station below. 

Before anyone can say a word, a burst of red energy erupts besides them. Raph powers up, jumps from the building and lands heavily onto the street below. The skaters scream again at the sight of him. Raph doesn’t give them a glance — just drops his mystic form and races down the stairs in pursuit of his younger brother. Mikey jumps down after him, gracefully flipping from the fire escape to the ground.

Donnie flies April and Casey to the ground with a greater ease than he would carrying his brothers, and together they dash down into the subway station, hot on Mikey’s heels. They bypass the sleeping security guard, vault over the turnstiles, turn a sharp corner and bolt down another steep set of stairs.

Casey’s mind spins with questions. Who took Leo? The lizard again or yet another Yokai? How did they get the drop on all of them? He was on top of the water tower for god’s sake. Casey can’t help but feel this is his fault. He’s not used to having to watch his mentor’s back, but Leo isn’t exactly the sensei he knows. He should’ve been more vigilant. He should’ve said something. He knew there was something off about the attacks.

Raph and Mikey are ahead, hopping down from the platform onto the railway tracks. 

“Do we even know where we’re going?!” Donnie calls.

“I saw something big and fast heading this way!” Raph calls, “Come on!”

Together they sprint into the bowels of the subway tunnels. Casey doesn’t know how long they run for, only that by the time they begin to slow, his lungs are burning, his legs heavy with fatigue. They’re deep within the passage now, and the lights around them are dim and flickering — the strobe effect making it difficult to see.

Mikey suddenly presses his shell up against Donnie’s, he shudders, his breaths quickening. 

“What is it?” His big brother asks, his eyes darting around.

“I don’t know.” Fear thins Mikey’s voice. “I thought I saw something—”

Casey picks up on the sudden shift in the air. A cold shiver runs down his spine, a deep sense of unease settling into his bones. 

Then the light dims, and they hear a yell as something solid can be heard slamming into shell. The light returns, and Raph’s on his knees, heaving, struggling to suck air into his lungs, bent over his plastron — winded. They don’t see any sign of what hit him.

They spring into a defensive formation around Raph, their weapons shakily rising. 

“What was that?” Donnie snaps over his shoulder. 

“I couldn’t see.” Raph wheezes between breaths. “Keep your guard up.” He breathes, “Whoever they are, they hit—” another gasp, “hard.” 

Casey knew he should’ve taken his hockey with him to work. He’d thought he was going to have a quiet night tonight, stuck inside the diner with April. He should’ve known better. He and April raise their fists, backs pressing up against one another as they scan the dark corners of the tunnel. 

The lights flicker off, and the figure attacks again. Donnie releases a startled yelp. Casey can see sparks fly from his battle shell - lighting up the darkness as metal screeches across metal. By the time the lights return, the perpetrator has once again vanished, leaving no evidence of his presence other than the shallow lacerations peeling open Donnie’s shell, revealing the sparking maze of exposed wires and circuit boards inside. 

It goes on like this, their opponent’s assault coordinated with the blinking lights - his strikes powerful and fluid, too silent for any of them to track in the flickering luminescence. Whoever this is, they’re a master of the art of stealth, and are taking great advantage of the fact. They’re far outnumbered, but they’ve strategised to tip the scales of this fight through use of their environment. It’s smart. Tactical. They melt into the shadows, there one moment then gone the next, completely in tune with the shift of the light - too fast for anyone to get a good look at them. There’s only a brief glimpse of the whites of their eyes, the pain of his attack. 

Casey can’t see them, but he finds with mounting shock he almost doesn’t actually need to. There’s a natural rhythm to the speed and force behind this shadow’s attack — familiar, like his body already knows how to react before the hits land. The ferocity behind the assault is foreign to him, but he knows these moves. He had been raised with their patterns, down to the minutia, drilled into him. 

The lights go out, and Casey can anticipate what’s about to happen before it does. He blindly dodges the kick he knows is coming, then scrabbles to grab hold of his opponent — his fingers finding fabric. He holds on with all his strength, and the dark figure stumbles and jerks sharply away from him. Casey refuses to relinquish his hold, and the fabric rips from his form, but Casey’s managed to hold him in place for long enough that he can’t escape back into the darkness. The lights flicker back on, illuminating their form. Casey sees—

He sees…

He freezes, his blood running cold. Blinks. 

The room descends back into darkness, and Casey’s moment of hesitation is rewarded with a deep slice to his arm.

He stumbles back and slaps a hand over his bicep. He can feel the wetness of blood seep over his fingers. It stings fiercely, but Casey finds that the sensation is good — necessary, helps ground him to the present.  

It wasn’t real. His mind is playing tricks on him again. He’s not here. 

He can’t be…

Raph cries out his name when he catches sight of his arm. He jumps in front of Casey, sais raised, body glowing with red energy, protecting him from any further potential attack. Casey feels a tremble underfoot — a shivering vibration of the rails that builds rapidly in intensity. Casey blinks as the lights above them begin to flicker more rapidly, watches — dazed, as everyone shifts from position to position with each flash of light. A deafening horn fills the tunnel as blinding headlights bend around a corner and the five of them are immediately faced with the option of moving out of the way, pronto, or suffering a level of blunt force trauma only the 7-Train is capable of committing.  

The rattle of the tunnel now is so violent that the lights turn off completely, sending them into darkness. Their opponent forgotten, April, Casey, Mikey and Raph spring out of the way and hug the adjacent wall closest to them. Donnie is making a frantic scramble to join them when suddenly he shrieks.

Casey’s head swings towards him. The headlights of the train are so bright Casey can only make out their dark silhouettes. Donnie’s sparking battle shell is being held up by a single, muscular arm (taller than Casey, taller than Raph, even), the figure’s outline oddly shaped and indistinct — three limbs, a protruding back, something draped over his shoulder.

Donnie tries frantically to reach back and claw at the limb, his legs kicking wildly in the air, scrabbling to break free. 

“Donnie!” Raph cries, diving out from the safety of cover as their attacker flings the soft-shelled turtle into the path of the oncoming train.

Casey’s heart leaps to his throat as he watches Raph intercept his brother moments before collision, his own body bracing for impact in morbid anticipation. 

He doesn’t get a chance to see whether or not they manage to reach the opposite wall, the oncoming train consuming his entire wall of vision. Casey flattens himself against the wall, his eyes squeezing shut as the deafening blare of the train’s horn screams past him. The noise is like nothing he’s ever experienced, the ground shuddering beneath him like it might rip open. 

A torrent of wind whips at his face, tousling his hair and clothes. Casey clings tighter to the walls as the velocity of the airflow pulls at him — a blackhole that desires nothing but to have him sucked beneath the wheels of the speeding cars. Casey’s fingernails dig deeper into the wall. The rattle of the stone shakes his entire body, vibrations jackhammering into his bones. 

Then, it passes, and the tunnel is nothing but a humming, black void. 

The lights flicker back on. 

For a second Casey can’t bear to look, fearing he’ll find that Raph and Donnie’s bodies have been gruesomely obliterated by the train. He doesn’t know if he can live with himself, knowing he stood by while Mikey and Leo lost their brothers, again. Then he lifts his head, and he finds the two of them wide-eyed and alive, their carapaces plastered to the other side of the platform. 

The shadow is gone.

Casey lets out a slow, ragged sigh of relief as he falls away from the wall. 

“Everyone good?” Raph calls out. 

The tunnel fills with a chorus of pained affirmatives. Casey’s voice joins them, though he keeps a hand clutched around the hot, painful throbbing radiating from his arm. 

“No.” Donnie responds testily, shakily, his voice high-pitched and strained. “I was almost flattened by thirty-eight thousand pounds of metal travelling at over fifty miles per hour — I am the definition of not good.”

“I— yeah. No, sorry, you’re right. That’s fair.” Raph acknowledges with a nod. 

“Anyone see where stealthy, strong and scary went?” April asks.

Silence.

Casey stares at the worn, blue fabric still in his hand. Blood from the cut on his arm has travelled down to his fingers, dirtying the scarf further. It must belong to Leo’s kidnapper. He opens his mouth to announce the find, when-

He stops. His jaw clicks shut.

The wool threading towards the end of the scarf is tattered and ratty, the fabric split and malformed like a child has spent hours chewing at it. It’s frayed to a level that any normal person would throw it away.

Casey knows the owner of this scarf wouldn’t. He knows because he remembers how sentimentally attached they were to the fabric. Casey knows because he was that child, attached to their hip, mouthing at the wool. 

Casey shakes his head, hands tightening around the fabric. 

No, he immediately denies, squashing down the hope rising in his chest. 

The logical side of him wants to deny the very possibility, but his gut… Casey’s stomach is churning, the guilt and grief already coming to the surface, hitting sour and acidic like bile at the back of his throat. 

It isn’t possible, Casey tells himself — trying to quell the dual horror and hope crashing over him in waves.

Master Leonardo had thrown him through the time gateway - hadn’t even given him the chance to refuse. He exhibited complete and utter faith in his student, trusting that Casey could do what he couldn’t — save his family. Fix his mistakes. 

Find the key. Stop the Krang.

Save the world. Casey had done everything he could to follow through with that order. Anything less would have been a betrayal to all the lives of the people he loved that had been laid down before him. And perhaps that’s what Leonardo had planned from the beginning. Maybe he’d known that for him to sacrifice himself for Casey, failure would no longer be an option for him. Casey would live on, always feeling he never truly deserved this second chance at life — understanding deep in his heart that he’d spend the rest of it, haunted by Leonardo’s conviction in him, trying to repay the trust that’d been thrust upon him. 

A voice is trying to ask him something, prodding him for answers, but Casey can barely hear them over his own confusion, the ringing in his ears — the questions flying through his head, one after the other. 

“I was there.” Casey tries to reason hollowly. “I saw him.”

Leonardo shouldn’t have… couldn’t have survived that… That would mean surviving the blast and fighting off the Krang single-handedly. It would mean surviving his mortal wounds for long enough to make it through a portal that could not exist. 

It’s not him… It can’t be him.

How many nights has Casey laid awake at night, wishing for something like this to be true? False hopes to keep him going when he felt so, unbearably lost. Facing this new world, alone, without the steady guidance of his sensei. But, it couldn’t be true. It was a pipedream that ignored the realities — that if Leonardo were here, if he had survived, then that would mean that Casey had left him behind somewhere, broken and bleeding and alone in a city he once knew long ago. 

It would mean Casey abandoned him, moved on from him — inserting himself into the family he lost and replacing Leo with a younger version of himself. 

A warm pressure finds his shoulder — three-fingered, familiar, engulfing. It’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but all Casey is reminded of is the fire, heat and blood as the world crumbles around him. His master’s grip tight, expression strained from the pain, the fatigue, the loss.

I don’t want to lose you.

Casey rips himself away from the contact, his heart hammering. 

“Casey?” 

He tenses at the sound of his name and lifts his head to meet Mikey’s concerned gaze. His hands are extended into the air, gesturing placatingly like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.

“You good dude?” Mikey asks tentatively. He looks like he wants to reach out for him again, but he fights the urge, remaining where he is, giving Casey a wide berth. Master Michelangelo had always been good at reading him. Casey appreciates the space. 

He inhales a few times, shaky but measured. He looks around to the others, who are staring at him with their own expressions of bewilderment and concern.

“What’s wrong?” Mikey’s eyes flick from the red dripping down his arm to the scarf. “Is that the bad guy’s? Did you find something out?” He prompts. 

Casey hesitates, his eyes dropping. He– he can’t—

He forgets sometimes that here, his most painful wounds aren’t real to anyone but himself. 

They’re scars that have yet to be inflicted, and now that they’ve successfully dismembered the hand that would deal the blow, the traumas he recalls so intimately are nothing but empty threats of what could have been. The pain isn’t real. So long as he doesn’t let it spill out from him and hurt someone else, it doesn’t exist in this dimension. 

He’d lashed out at Leo once. The grief had boiled over — erupted in the form of anger, disappointment, frustration. He had needed desperately for this Leonardo to understand — to be his sensei again, and so he had released the floodgates, letting loose that agony writhing inside of him, thrusting the dagger of truth into his chest. 

They die, everyone dies fighting the Krang. 

Casey had allowed that pain to seep into the heart of someone he loved, and Casey had watched as the infection spread, influencing Leo’s actions, informing his decisions. Casey hates himself for it now, but he’d been unbearably relieved to see a shadow of his former mentor in this kid — been so damn proud that he hadn’t noticed the infection turn septic until it was too late. 

He’d wanted his sensei back, and here he was. Bloody, bruised, beaten — willing to send himself into the hellish jaws of death for the sake of his world. Even now, Casey can see how that darkness weighs on him. The insomnia, the endless, obsessive training, the way he holds onto his brothers, just that little bit tighter. 

Casey has done that to him. He is the bearer of messages of misery. They hadn’t ever needed to be delivered. 

Regardless of whether he’s wrong or right about Master Leonardo, he can’t tell the group. It’s too close to the pain. Too close to the truth. He can’t let himself destroy them, too. 

He can’t take back what he’d done to Leo, but he can protect the rest of his family. He can ensure his past remains hidden — festering inside of him. 

“No.” Casey states tonelessly, his hand tightening around the blue fabric, pulling it away from view. “Forget it. It’s nothing.”

It’s a flimsy deflection — unconvincing, even to his own ears. 

Mikey takes in his distant expression, his white-knuckled grip. He watches as Casey carefully folds and pockets the faded blue fabric. The concern doesn’t lift from his face. 

Mikey finally gives in and gingerly takes his arm. He asks Donnie to pass him some bandages, then sets to carefully wrapping it around Casey’s arm. 

Raph is muttering to himself quietly, pacing back and forth. “It’s okay, it’s fine. Keep your cool, Raph. Stay calm. Leo’s fine. He can’t have gone far.” The strain in his face is obvious, the fear.

April takes Raph’s hand. “We’ll get him back, big guy.”

He looks down at his massive hand in hers and a small fraction of the tightness between his shoulders drops away.

“Donnie?” Raph looks at him expectantly, his voice strangled. 

Donnie furiously taps away at one of the panels installed into his bracers. 

“See, times like these are exactly why I had you all attach tracers to yourselves. Everyone’s all ‘That’s an invasion of privacy, Donnie’ and ‘this is going overboard’ and ‘why can’t you just track our phones’ - right up until someone gets kidnapped. Should’ve just done this to start with.” Donnie rattles off agitatedly. His voice is sardonic and harsh, but no one berates him out for it. Not when his hands are visibly shaking, his face a paler shade of green than they’re accustomed to. 

“I’ve got him.” He announces, his expression lifting. The group crowds around his wrist tech. “Pulling up his location right…” He presses a button, and a holographic map bursts to life above them, showing a blinking blue dot not far from their current location.

“Now.”

Casey’s seen these blueprints before. It’s a chart of all the tunnel systems below the city. Sewers, subway systems, transit roads, abandoned rail. These maps had proved invaluable in Casey’s past — guiding their supply runs, revealing passages hidden from Krang surveillance — escape routes, potential hideouts, areas they should avoid. They wouldn’t have been capable of surviving as long as they had without a resource as useful as this.

They follow Donnie as he walks forward, his fingers running along a path, twisting and manipulating the map as he tries to figure out the fastest way to Leo. 

“Let’s see…” He murmurs. “We’re here… He’s here—”

“That’s an abandoned tunnel system.” Casey realises, the memory rushing to the forefront of his mind. He points out the narrow corridor the blinking blue dot is slowly travelling down. He’s walked these passages before. “There’s an unmarked door that leads into this maintenance corridor, here, which should connect to it. Assuming he doesn’t speed up, we can make it towards the end of this track, and—”

“We can catch him.” Donnie realises. He looks across to Casey, impressed. “Casey, you’re a genius.”

It’s high praise coming from Donnie. Casey ducks his head, his hand tightening around the fabric in his pocket.

“I had good teachers.”

“Okay.” Raph takes a deep, calming breath and retakes control. “Okay, Donnie - show the way. You guys know the drill. No touching the third rail. If you see lights coming our way, haul shell and cling to the walls.”

They settle into a sustainable jog, footsteps echoing off the walls as they race through the damp tunnel, the glow from Donnie’s watch illuminating the stone around them in a soft green. 

The mouth of the tunnel begins to narrow. It’s late. There shouldn’t be many trains running at this time, but Casey can’t help but take note of how little room there is between the wall and the track. It’s claustrophobic just moving through these passages. Casey can’t imagine there’s much leeway to cram their bodies between an unstoppable tram and an immovable wall. Donnie must be having similar thoughts, his pace noticeably quickening.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he screeches to a halt, causing a domino effect that begins with Raph colliding with Donnie’s back, causing him to nose-dive into the ground. Mikey releases a soft oof as he bounces off Raph’s solid, unyielding carapace. Casey stops Mikey’s backward momentum as he collides with him, and April, at the end of the line, grabs hold of Casey’s shoulders, catching him before he can fall.

Donnie groans from the floor. Raph murmurs an apology and steps forward to help pull him back up. 

“Door to your left.” He says, brushing the mud from his plastron.

Mikey leaps up onto the ledge and tries the handle. “It’s locked.” 

Casey reaches into his pocket and steps forward, planning on seeing whether he couldn’t work that lock open with some hairpins, when suddenly Raph puts a large hand over his chest, pushing him back.

“Make some room.” He growls, his fists firing up with mystic energy.

Mikey quickly dives out of the way as Raph crashes through the door. The metal crumples beneath the force of his strength, clearing the entryway. Raph stands on the other side, unmarked and impatient. 

“Come on!” He calls urgently.

Not a single moment left to waste, they file into the passage after him. 

- - -

Leo wakes to a pounding headache. 

He’s slumped over someone’s shoulder, his brain heavy from being held in a near-upside position for who knows how long. The ground swaying below him is definitely not helping with the woozy, sick feeling encompassing him right now. He feels the blood that’s pooled to his head sloshing back and forth with each nauseating step. 

He is straight up, not having a good time. 

“Ugh.” He groans, pressing a hand to his temple. He must have hit his head. 

The air is cool and damp, and it's a familiar enough sensation that Leo knows he must be underground. The sewers? No. Can’t be. The back of his throat stings when he breathes, but his nose isn’t burning from the stench. It’s more a faint, sickly sweet, chemically smell - reminding him of something out of Donnie’s lab.

“Raph?” He mumbles. “Raph, down-down me now.”

He doesn’t receive a response, which Leo finds himself a little offended by. His head is in hurty-hurty land so he can’t think clearly enough to pull together a coherent sentence, but he’s certain his poorly-worded string of sentiments there were voiced clearly enough for his older brother to understand. 

He shifts, frowning when he doesn’t brush up against the rough, jagged ends of Raph’s carapace. Now that he thinks about it (ow), the shell doesn’t at all remind him of Raph’s. His temperature is running a little colder than usual, but that’s not what strikes Leo as off. It’s more the fact that the sharp spikes rising from his shoulders aren’t poking uncomfortably into him, and the craggy, saw-toothed ends of his chipped carapace are now smooth. His broad frame is oddly comfortable to sprawl across. Leo could easily imagine himself being lulled to sleep on such a nice shell. He doesn’t though, because a small voice at the back of his mind is shaking him by the shoulders and telling him no.

Why not?

He blinks blearily, trying to force his eyes to refocus. It’s pretty dark - Leo would struggle to see much in the best of conditions. He presses a hand against the carapace to give him some leverage - maybe get some of the blood flowing away from his head. He freezes when he gets a better view of the shell. He definitely recognises the colour, the shade, the pattern of the carapace buttresses, the markings, but he can’t recall ever seeing them from this angle before.

Leo goes rigid, his skin crawling — who?

He comes to with a start, curling up and latching onto this strange turtle’s shoulder with sharp teeth. He bites down hard. The guy sucks in a sharp breath from the sudden pain and stumbles. As his arm shoots up to grab Leo, he springs forward with such a suddenness and momentum that Leo manages to slip free from his hold. 

He rolls to the ground. It’s hard. Wet. Definitely not as comfortable as the shell. There should be adrenaline racing through his blood. He should be ready to fight. Instead, he feels heavy and sluggish, unable to summon any of his usual energy. Everything is spinning, his eardrums are ringing with a dull roar. He’s pretty sure he’s going to hurl—

He looks at the imposing figure towering over him. 

Big. Is his first coherent thought.

The second principal thought being that Leo must have clonked his head a lot harder than he initially thought, because what he’s seeing…

Leo fumbles up on his hands and knees.

It’s like looking into a mirror. Or, at least, it would be, if that mirror hated him with a fiery hot passion and wanted to show him a living, walking, corporal form of his worst horrors come to fruition. 

He’s older — much older, and the years have not been kind to him. His skin duller, plastron thicker, facial features harsher. The right side of his body looks like it’s been scorched — his scales cracked and blistered over. There’s deep lacerations carved into his chest and his lower stomach is wrapped in a tight layer of white bandages. The yellow markings across his forearm are littered in scars. Forearm - singular forearm. Leo stares at what’s left of the other limb — an unsightly stump that ends just below his shoulder. All colour and emotion in his eyes are hidden behind the whites of his nictitating membrane. 

Goosebumps break out across his skin as a cold shiver runs down his back. He stands to his feet slowly. Leo’s gut instinct is wisely suggesting he retreat. He doesn’t make a habit of ignoring that voice. It tends to be right.

“I don’t suppose you’d be here to give me winning lotto numbers by any chance?” He asks, false optimism coating the hoarse rasp of his voice. 

The older red-eared slider unsheaths his sword, and Leo is alone, he’s powerless, with nothing to defend himself but his own two, woefully average katanas. Everything within Leo is screaming for him to run. But Leo finds himself frozen in place, unable - unwilling to move, his full attention unshakably captivated by the familiar red and purple masks wrapped around the hilt of his other self’s sword. 

This larger, older Leo is silent, but his very presence imposes accusation, warning, and threat, all at once. 

Clean up your act, or this is what you will become. Your world as you know it. Everything you love within it. By your hand, all of it will be reduced to ash. 

Leo takes a step back, his heartbeat loud between his tympana.

His counterpart takes a menacing step forward.

Dread settles like a led weight at the bottom of Leo’s stomach.

“I’m going to go ahead and take this as a no to us winning the lottery."

Chapter Text

Leon’s world is on fire.

Smoke rises high, obscuring the great, colossal tendrils reaching down from the sky in a dark, thick haze. Death hangs overhead — the Krang legion, their watchful eyes ever-present. 

Leon’s looking for...

For something. 

He can’t remember who or what, exactly. All he knows is that is of the utmost importance he finds it - them. 

An inky blackness seeps into the cracks of his consciousness. 

His target, it reminds him. The thought compels him forward.

Yes. He needs to find his target - he needs to deliver them to her. If he does, it could shift the tide of the war in their favour. If he doesn't… it will destroy them. And again, Leon’s not sure how exactly, but he knows it with startling certainty, deep in his gut. 

It scares him.  

The darkness presses against him, pushing away the fear, and Leon welcomes it. It envelops his vision, his senses, his thoughts. Rendering the whole of his being null once more.

- - -

Leon wakes to the sound of laughter. 

The bright, pure noise burns away at the blanket of cold emotionlessness cocooned around him. Leon’s drawn near-mindlessly towards the sound, hoping to seek out more of its warmth. It guides him to the sight of a group of kids playing on a rooftop.

Target. A voice hisses into his ear.

Unease bubbles in his chest, and the temperature abruptly drops. A shudder runs through him. Something… something is not right. 

Target. It repeats. 

Leon has to believe it. 

(This is wrong). 

She needs one of them alive. 

(No, they’re just kids. They’re children, you monster). 

It’s the only way. It will stop the Krang. 

(Finally fix your mistakes).

At that thought, Leon pauses. 

How?

Shadows filter over Leon’s vision, blurring his thoughts, sweeping away the questions. It doesn’t matter. Not how, or why, only that it is. It is the only answer. The only one remaining. His sphere of comprehension narrows down to the mission. 

He watches, detached from himself, as he closes in stealthily, his hand pulling out cloth from his satchel. 

The closer his approach, the more indistinct the faces of the kids become, the more warbled and muted their voices. Leo should find these things strange – suspect. But the darkness eating away at his thoughts consumes these concerns. Leon does not have the strength of will to refuse. The haunting, watchful eyes of the Krang above urge him forward. He has to stop them. No matter the cost. 

There, on the water tower, one of them sits isolated, vulnerable. 

Leon takes another step forward, then freezes, the clarity of his vision sharpening.

He remembers this boy.

He is the walking omen of calamitous disaster. The foreshadower of the apocalypse. The harbinger of catastrophe. 

He’s so young. So oblivious. How can someone so small hold the responsibility for so much?

He will destroy everything. Every loss, every grief, every tragedy born of the Krang. All the chaos and destruction that has befallen this world. It stemmed from him. It is because of him.

Leon shakes, the sickness in his stomach turning volatile, spewing fire, clouding his thoughts in a toxic cloud of smoke.

He is the truth you are afraid of. He is the cataclysmic event that brought war, sorrow, death reigning down upon his family. 

The entity lurking in the blind corners of his perception curls around him, pouring gasoline into that well of burning hatred deep within — directing the sentiment towards action. 

The disembodied voice repeats itself again, this time with forceful vehemence. 

Target. 

Leon agrees.

- - -

The boy is distracted. Relaxed. His guard lowered within the bounds of the false protection provided by the group. 

He falls before he even realises Leon is there. 

The scene shifts as Leon settles his weight over his shoulder. The heavy fog resettles over his field of vision, thick and suffocating, obscuring his view of the crumbling city around him. 

He hears growling, howling — distorted and garbled, apparitions of smoke morphing into four legs. The Krang’s dogs have found him.

Fear strikes like lightning across his frame. Adrenalin hastens the thud of his feet against the street. He needs to get underground, fast. 

He dives for the tunnels. 

His ribs are screaming in protest at every moment, but he can’t slow down. There are too many of them. He’s outnumbered and injured. He can’t fight them head on. Not by himself. Not with this disaster slumped over his shoulder, weighing him down. 

The dogs are hot on his heels. Leo lays his trap, then melts into the shadows. 

He attacks them with unparalleled speed and precision, disappearing from their field of perception just as quickly. There is no room for error here. Every strike must be hit true. 

The heat of battle sings through his veins. He’s almost enjoying himself, his adrenaline pumping, the mutated creatures stumbling in confusion. The tables have turned. Leon’s the predator now. 

As always, it’s his cockiness that causes Leon to slip.

The Krang sees his attack coming, and Leo’s committed too fully to the kick to have the time to dodge away. A tentacle wraps tightly around him - clutching at his collar, obstructing his movement. Leon’s heart rams into overdrive.

He’ll be torn apart if he’s spotted. Leon could accept that, but she needs the target alive. He must complete this mission. 

He panics and tries to rip himself away, but the Krang’s hold is like a vice, locking him in place. He jerks backward with greater force, and the fabric at his neck tears away in the Krang’s grasp. The lights flick on, revealing him to his enemies, and Leon stills. Something desperate and screaming slams against the walls of his consciousness as he looks down at his opponent (student, student). 

Leon can feel himself going under, his mind going numb as that darkness envelopes him again. The disturbance at the corner of his awareness is violently silenced. 

He slices wildly, blindly, then makes his escape. 

That feeling of wrongness however, remains. Leon’s stomach is roiling, his hands shaking. 

His thoughts turn to liquid, running uselessly through his fingers as the shadow coiled around his brain tightens, coaxing him onward. 

It wants him to continue. No more distractions. No more hesitation. 

He cannot be emotional. 

He cannot be weak. 

He cannot fail. 

The ground begins to rumble underfoot. The lights flicker, the stone walls of the tunnel shake. A plan forms.

The world fills with static as the darkness settles over him.

Leon obeys.

- - -

His awareness flares to life at the sharp sensation of pain radiating from his shoulder. 

He’s being bitten.

It’s superficial — hitting only scale, fat, muscle. Nothing important, but the audacity of the action pulls him from the thick, dark cloud choking his thoughts, if only briefly. 

Leon flinches and reaches up to rip the animal latched to his shoulder. It takes advantage of his fractured focus, managing to slip from his grip. 

The boy rolls to the ground. He peers up at Leon, and he catches a brief look of fear in the kid’s eyes before he manages to hide behind his thin veneer of false confidence and shrewd wit. He’s speaking again, his voice coming out warbled and indistinct. Leon can’t understand a word, but the sound spikes a wave of annoyance through him. 

Don’t you ever shut up?

Leon slowly unsheathes his sword from his back. 

The boy doesn’t rise to his challenge. He takes a step back, his own swords remaining untouched, strapped to his shell. 

The coward tries to run. 

He can’t allow him to escape. Leon gives chase. 

They’re of similar speed, but the kid is leaner and more agile than Leo is. His scrambling is frantic and graceless, and the desperation lends him the slipperiness of a fish. 

Leon swings for the tendons of his legs (she wants him alive; she never said anything about unscathed). The boy yelps and nimbly jumps over the steel. He yells something over his shoulder, and Leon can’t understand, but he knows when he’s being mocked – laughed at. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword. 

Within Leon lies an urge — buried just below the surface — to take this boy by the shoulders and shake until he takes things more seriously. To sit him down and cruelly lay out every last horror that would become of the world. Show him all the ways he is at fault. 

It’s because of you. You’ll kill them. 

Leon growls lowly and hurls his sword at his target. The boy’s head ducks into his shell, and the blade sails overhead, slicing at the blue strap over his shoulder and burying into the wall in the space his head had been not two moments ago. 

The kid falls to the ground, his head reappearing — breaths coming out faster, more ragged. 

He doesn’t look so amused, now. Leon revels at the sight. 

Leon walks calmly over to retrieve his sword, and the kid scrambles away from him on his hands and knees.

He fumbles his way back to his feet, his arms reaching back to shakily pull out his katanas. 

Yes.

Excitement races through Leon’s veins. 

Stop running. Step up, take some goddamn responsibility, fight me.

The thrill prickling at his skin morphs into alarm as he watches the boy begin to draw his blade in a circle, his eyes clenched shut in concentration. 

No. 

Leon bolts forward. 

It’s a fruitless effort. The kid will be able to summon a portal before Leon makes it to him. But... he doesn’t. 

He can’t.

Leon’s form crashes into the boy with all the gentleness of a freight truck — slamming him to the ground and causing his head to collide painfully against the metal rail. 

The kid doesn’t get up again. 

Leon rises to his feet.

“Leo!”

He freezes at the sound of his name — the sound of that voice. It scratches at the walls of his chest, unearths some echo of a memory, long put to rest. Buried deep below, beneath layer upon layer of denial, anger, despair, grief, resignation. 

Target. The entity hisses into his ear. Focus. Target. 

No! 

He pushes back against the haze. Something about this is wrong.   

He turns towards the voice. 

There’s an opposing reaction to his resistance, like the more he fights it, the harder that presence pushes back in return – hitting him with a wall of ice as his consciousness is plunged underwater. 

Wait!

Leon struggles against the darkness coiling around him, pulling him back down into cold impassivity - cramming him into a dark, oblivious recess of his mind. He blinks against the thick fog settled across his mind, clouding his vision, and catches a glimpse of colour. Red. Purple. Orange.  

Target.

Leon’s throat dries, horror slamming into him. He fights the shadowy presence with renewed desperation. Kicks and thrashes frantically against the tendrils pulling him into the depths. Flails wildly in the mindless hope that something will break the bonds it has wrapped around him. All the while his body grows colder and more sluggish as the darkness presses in harder, drowning him.  

No, no, no. He thinks — pleads to the presence bleeding into him, thick and suffocating as molasses. I can’t— I need to see them. I beg you. Please, please, just once. Just one last time—

The entity doesn’t reply. It envelops him mercilessly, swallowing him whole, and Leo’s world dims with it. 

- - -

Donnie finds his brother slumped over the rail tracks. 

A tall figure stands over him, a bloody sword hanging loosely in his single-armed grip. 

Put together, Donnie comes to a quick and terrifying conclusion. His heart drops out from his stomach, panic seizing his stomach and chest and throat-  

“Leo!” Raph shouts, fear and concern for his brother thrumming through him. 

Leo twitches, his half-lidded eyes falling on them. Dizzying relief floods over Donnie and oh you beautiful fool, beating the premature assumptions of your passing once again. 

Above Leo, his kidnapper freezes.

Donnie hadn’t managed to get a good look at him before, but… It’s strange… From behind, he almost looks like—

He turns, and Donnie sucks in a sharp breath, his blood turning to ice.

Bright red stripes are partially hidden beneath a worn, blue bandana — the long tails of which are ripped and singed. His lime green skin is dull and scarred. His plastron is littered with chips and cracks. Thick bandages are wrapped tightly around his torso and remaining left arm. Of all these things, Donnie’s attention is unshakably drawn to the two very familiar masks tied around his weapon’s hilt. 

Donnie is the least spiritual of the lot of them — even with Leo’s ninpo out of commission, but he knows a bad omen when he sees one. 

“Uhh, I’m not the only one seeing big, green, lean and mean Leo, right?” Raph asks, breaking the silence.

“No,” Donnie replies faintly, his grip tightening around his tech-bo, “No you are not.”

They jump when the battle-worn turtle suddenly drops to a knee, his hand rising to clutch at his head like he’s in pain. 

“Master Leonardo.” Casey breathes, his voice strangled by emotion.

Their heads twist to stare at Casey, his expression a complex blend of bliss and dismay. He looks very much like he’s trying to hold himself back from rushing forward to help the older turtle fight whatever invisible force is crippling him, his hand clasping tight around his wounded arm. 

“That’s your Leo?” Raph cries, voice shrilly. 

“He’s here?” Donnie frowns.

“How?” April asks. 

“When does Leo grow that big?” Mikey gestures at the pillar of lean muscle, broad shoulders and strong legs with an awed expression. “Are we going to get that big?”

The barrage of questions bounce off of Casey like he’s a solid wall. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and Donnie comes to the sinking realisation that he is as lost as the rest of them. Worse, actually, he’s in shock. 

The air shifts as the older turtle’s hand drops from his head, and he straightens to his full height. The emotionless mask slips back into place – flat and distant, his nictitating membrane sliding over his eyes. His stance goes still, his movements robotic like he’s fallen into a trance. 

Unease hums a low warning in Donnie’s head. 

He doesn’t like this. 

The red-eared slider takes a step towards them, and Donnie’s pulse skyrockets.

He fires up his weapons, purple energy flowing forth as his ninpo bursts into the physical realm.

“NO!” Casey yells, snapping out of his stupor to lunge forward and take hold of Donnie’s arm, “Don’t! You can’t!”

“Casey’s right. That’s our brother… I think… Maybe?” Mikey chimes in, confidence waning more with each passing second. 

It’s enough cause for Donnie to hesitate, though his eyes refuse to leave the older turtle as his posture lowers into a battle-ready stance. 

“Yeah, you guys are really putting forward a solid case here.” He bites sarcastically. 

“He might be Leo! We don’t use lethal force against each other!” Mikey reasons passionately. “Not since the sports-ball incident of ‘13.”

Donnie is having difficulties agreeing with Mikey when this hulking specimen of a dystopian turtle is standing over his real brother, bloodied sword in hand. 

“Okay, but could I at least try the gentle bazooka?”

“Donnie.” Casey, Raph and April snap. 

He powers down his systems with a disappointed sigh. 

“Fine.” Donnie grouses. He’s never going to get the weapon out of beta at this rate. He doesn’t see how it’s fair that big Leo gets to swing his deadly sword around while he can’t even partake in a little high-grade, lethal artillery.

“Donnie, Mikey. Get our brother—” Raph orders. 

Mikey opens his mouth to ask—

“The smaller one.” Raph clarifies.

His gaze drops to the bloodied bandages wrapped around Casey’s arm. “April, make sure Casey’s out of harm’s way.” 

“What?” Casey protests.

Raph spins his sais with deft fingers. “I’ve got this.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?” Casey stresses.

“I’m not going to hurt him.” Raph replies, his gaze hardening. “I’m just gonna teach him a lesson.”

The Hamato lesson. Nobody messes with family

… Not even themselves, apparently? 

Uh.

Donnie knows Leo is usually the voice of reason here, but he feels compelled to point out that he doesn’t see this ending well. Raph’s already rushing in before he can, pulling the older slider’s attention toward him. 

Donnie and Mikey slide to Leo’s side just as he’s pushed himself into a half-upright position, his shell pressing up against the heavy graffiti of the tunnel walls. His breaths come out in rough pants, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Leo!” Mikey yells, practically throwing himself into his brother’s arms.

“Ow. Loud.” Leo winces. He returns the hug regardless, clinging tightly onto Mikey’s arm. “What happened?”

“That big jerk chlorinated you and threw Dee in front of a train.” Mikey cries, sounding genuinely distraught over the whole ordeal.

Leo’s head snaps towards Donnie – too fast. He grimaces in pain. 

“What?” 

“It was chloroform.” Donnie corrects, dropping to a knee by Leo’s shoulder and bringing up a screen on his wrist-tech.

Leo stares at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“Oh, and I lived. Bitch.” He adds as an afterthought. He doesn’t understand why he has to clarify this. Leo can see him. Clearly, he’s fine.

Leo coughs out a relieved laugh.

Donnie runs his scanner over his twin’s form, scanning him for injuries. He ignores the sharp pinch of anxiety as he looks over the readings. He gently nudges Mikey so he has room to reach around and feel for potential bleeding at the back of Leo’s head.

“I told you we should’ve stayed in, by the way.” Donnie continues, hoping at the very least that his voice will keep Leo awake. If his brain is bleeding, they do not want him falling asleep. “Tonight has been abysmal. It’s pvp chaos out there and I do NOT want to participate anymore.”  

Leo flinches when Donnie’s fingers prod at the small lump at the back of his head. 

“You and me both, brother.” Leo says idly.

No blood. That could be good. Or it could be really bad – the potential of internal bleeding being a far more worrying prospect. Donnie needs access to his lab to check into this any further.  

“Hm.” He frowns, stress rising to his temples. “How would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten? Any dizziness? Nausea? Drowsiness? Shortness of breath?”

“I’m fine, Donnie.” Leo waves off Donnie’s pursuit for data (concern) and tries to get up. 

It’s the same thing he’d said after they’d pulled him from the prison dimension. Right before he’d passed out in their arms. Leo will have to forgive Donnie for thinking he’s a stinking rotten liar. 

“Riiight,” Mikey drawls, his arms crossing over his chest. “But are you actually fine or is this like— Leo fine again?”

“That’s not a thing.” Leo replies, his eyes clenching shut as he pushes off the wall and staggers to his feet.

“No, Mikey’s right, it absolutely is a thing. For someone who’s supposedly the team medic you are a terrible patient.” 

Leo responds with a sweet smile he knows Donnie finds annoying, then proceeds to sway to the side. Mikey stabilises him with a hand to his shoulder before he can fall. The furrow between Donnie’s brows deepens, his jaw going tight.

He can go ahead and check dizziness off the list, then. 

Leo clasps his hand to Mikey’s shoulder and squints at something over Donnie’s shoulder. 

Donnie looks back for a moment to take in the fight before them. Seems April has found the time to join the fray. Raph’s been nice enough to share one of his sais with her. Casey stands off to the side, looking deeply conflicted, like he can’t bring himself to decide who to help — his old family or the new.

“Y’know what,” Leo declares, pivoting the subject. “It was scary when he was trying to kill me, but now there’s a little distance between us…” He rests his chin against his hand thoughtfully, “Dare I say it?…”

“Do not.” Donnie orders, slapping his hand away from his chin and replacing it with one of his own. 

Leo gives him his best shit-eating grin. 

“Future me? Kinda a dilf.”

Donnie groans. He shines a light into both Leo’s eyes, checking for pupil dilation. 

“Truly, the suffering you inflict upon me transcends time and space.”

“Why is he attacking us?” Mikey asks anxiously. 

“Y’know what, that’s a great question.” Leo notes. He pushes Donnie out of the way then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Hey, uh, me? Why are you attacking us?!” 

The other Leo doesn’t answer. April ducks as he swings a strike that comes precariously close to her neck.

He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t blink when Raph is too slow to dodge and his blade manages to nick across his thigh, leaving a bleeding wound in its wake. Doesn’t hesitate when April puts her arms up to block a kick that has enough power behind it to send her flying backwards. 

Mikey leaps off the wall and somersaults upwards, catching her before she can crash into the wall. He puts her down, and she brushes herself off, gives Mikey a nod of thanks, then the both of them are rushing back into the fight. Leo jerks forward, looking very much like he intends to join them, and Donnie shoots his arm out and presses a hand over his sternum, pushing him back to the wall.  

“As your reigning lair games champion, your brother and to my absolute dismay your doctor-” 

(Donnie can still hear the echoes of Leo’s screams when he lays down to sleep. His leg had needed resetting - the next on the long list of injuries that required immediate attention. Donnie’s head wouldn’t stop spinning – he’s a scientist, not a doctor – He works in (relatively) controlled environments with reactions that, given the right ingredients, are easily reversible. He can break things, can weld them back together. Metal doesn’t feel pain when it bends. Its very existence doesn’t rely on Donnie; it won’t stop being if he makes a mistake… 

He’s not a healer. That’s Leo. But his brother can’t heal himself. He needs help. And Donnie’s the only one with the knowledge to understand how to do that. He’d had to get Raph to hold him down, careful of his cracked shell (next  on the list), and Donnie took the broken limb. His twin’s weak cries pierced through Donnie, adding to the rising sensory overload, and Donnie just wants to clasp his hands over his ears and hide in a dark corner, but Leo needs him, and he’s hurting and he’s half out of his mind with pain- please, Dee, please stop, I can’t- it’s too much its too much its too much-)

Donnie takes a deep breath, then releases it, dispelling the memory. 

Screw you, brain. Not the time. 

He presses his fingers to his lips. 

“I am strongly suggesting you sit this one out.” 

Leo scoffs. “And lose to this old, washed-up, boomer version of me? Uh, yeah, no — I don’t think so.” 

Annoyance prickles at Donnie. He’s doing it again. Trying to play off the seriousness of the situation with false bravado and a cocksure smile.

“You’re concussed, Nardo. Something you would realise if you had more than a half a brain to begin w- wait! Leo, don’t—” He shouts as his brother breaks free of his hold, takes his katanas. “Aaaand, he’s gone.” Donnie notes monotonously as Leo races into battle. 

Dumbass.

Okay, new plan: stop his brothers from dying violently. Which actually happens to be the same thesis underlying most (if not all) Leo’s plans, now that Donnie thinks about it.  

He takes his tech-bo and joins the mayhem. 

- - -

You’d think with five versus one, this would be a laughably easy fight. 

Yeah. That’s exactly what Donnie thought. Unfair odds, is what he’d call this. 

Not so, apparently. 

It seems Casey hadn’t been overexaggerating about the whole ‘greatest ninja the world has ever seen’ thing. 

Which is turning unfair into incredibly unfortunate for everyone except unsettling large, terrifying ninja Leo. 

The older red-eared slider demonstrates swiftly and violently just how inexperienced they are compared to him. He fends off their unified assault with a grace and intensity that speaks to the elegance of a dancer and the power of a master samurai. And he’s doing so single-handedly — his sword an extension of his arm — blocking and parrying and striking with a speed and fluidity that’s nigh-impossible to keep up with. 

This isn’t even a fight, Donnie thinks bitterly. This is bullying.

Some faraway part of Donnie (not currently present in the terrifying grips of this clash) follows that hypothesis — wondering distantly how none of them have been dealt a killing blow. They’re all consciously making an effort not to murder their maybe-brother. But said maybe-brother is under no obligation to return the favour. There’s been ample opportunity for it, too, as much as they all wouldn’t like to face that fact. And while Donnie has come close enough to becoming subway rail-kill for the theory to be eyed with pessimistic scrutiny, he can’t dismiss that niggling thought at the back of his mind. 

They’re not the only ones holding back. 

Leo is the first one to go down, which lends merit to Casey’s claim of this being his older counterpart. He not only knows every single one of his twin’s moves, they’re his own. He’s expanded on them — refined them over years upon years of battles. 

His brother doesn’t stand a chance. 

Leo missteps, and the older turtle punishes him for it, sending him landing roughly to the floor. 

Donnie jumps at the first opening he sees, jabbing forward with his tech-bo, only to quickly discover this hole in the older turtle’s defence is actually a well-concealed feint. He immediately pays for the sore miscalculation with a powerful kick to the centre of his chest that forces all the air from his lungs and sends him staggering backwards. 

“Eep!” Mikey ducks under the sweeping blade. He manages to quickly strike forward and wrap one of his spinning nunchaku around the blade, pulling the weapon sideways and clubbing him across the head with the other. It’s a clear hit, and Donnie would be cheering for his little brother if not for the speed in which the slider recovers. His knee drives upwards, catching Mikey’s chin, and the box turtle stumbles away, stars filling his vision. 

Donnie takes Mikey’s arm and yanks him back before the slider can strike again with the superior reach of his blade. 

The other two lunge forward simultaneously, Raph from the front and April from behind, and without looking over his shoulder, the slider’s sword flies back, the blade catching April’s sai. At the same time, one of his legs flies up with impressive flexibility, the heel slamming against Raph’s plastron and toes catching him by the throat. His sword-arm twists, knocking the sai from April’s hand, then the foot keeping him balanced on the ground surges up, joining the other to slam against Raph’s chest. He uses the upward momentum to flip backwards and whammy April with a kick to the face that sends her sprawling to the floor. The slider deftly lands behind her. 

Raph growls and charges at him as Leo pulls April away. The older turtle nimbly dodges, leaving his leg sticking out for Raph to trip over — sending his forward momentum crashing to the ground besides Donnie. 

“Sooooo. How’s that lesson panning out?” Donnie snarks, reaching down to help pull his big brother up. “You think he’s learnt anything yet?”

“Alright. You don’t need to rub it in.” Raph grumbles, rubbing at his bruised shoulder. 

The aged red-eared slider brandishes his sword, daring them to attack again. The cocky flourish is so, so Leo. Donnie’s a little creeped out by the resemblance. 

They circle the older turtle, none of them wanting to volunteer to be the first to have their shell kicked.

“Okay, time-out.” Mikey calls. Beside him, April leans on Casey’s shoulder, the both of them taking a step back from this fight. Donnie doesn’t blame them. Fighting someone that has the strength to kick through brick walls is a lot easier when you have the protection of a shell and mutant durability.

“Real talk? Big scary Leo is kicking our butts, here.” 

“I know right?” Leo exclaims excitedly. “This is amazing!” 

The group shoot heated glares at him. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s terrifying, and it sucks, and I wish that other me was on our side,” Leo amends, before throwing out a hand and gesturing animatedly at him. “But come on, he’s so cool.”

“Not helping, Leo.” Raph barks.

“No,” Leo agrees, dropping the act for a moment to put on his serious leader face - a shift Donnie still hasn’t grown accustomed to yet. “But you know what would help? If you guys would stop holding back and actually used your powers.” 

Raph looks conflicted at the implied order underlying Leo’s words. Regardless of the years he now wears, this is his little brother — someone he would struggle to bring himself to hurt, even though he currently seems to be in a headspace that allows for brotherly decapitation to be on the table. 

“If he’s you—” Raph begins.

“If he’s me, he’ll be able to take a little pain.” Leo cuts in, his voice turning serious. “Trust me.”

Donnie’s mouth twists at that, because he very much believes his brother when he says this. Leo, out of any of them, knows this from tried and true experience. 

Raph must be having this same thought, because he grimaces, before giving a reluctant nod. He’s still getting used to this - relinquishing control to his younger brother. Leo’s proven his mettle as leader. Has gone so far as to willingly lay down his life for all of their sakes. It makes it pretty hard to turn him down when he politely asks for a little faith. 

Raph’s form glows red as he activates his ninpo, the kinetic projection of his body growing and expanding. His bulk is confined by the narrow walls of the abandoned tunnel — great for playing whack-a-mole with an opponent that barely has any room to dodge. Not great for everyone else, who also have barely any room to dodge. 

Donnie has to admit, the older turtle is impressively agile. He parries Leo’s strikes, dodges Mikey’s spinning chaos, dives out the way of Donnie’s artillery, his bandana tails whipping wildly behind him. He leaps off of the walls and slices a long gash down the energy-field mimicking Raph’s great, sweeping swipes. Donnie can also see that he’s slowing, though — tiring from having to fight them all off for this long. He can’t keep this up forever. 

Raph finally catches him, swatting him like a fly, and he goes crashing into the wall. The stone crumbles behind him, and the slider groans as he slides to the floor — bits of brick and plaster falling over him. It’s the first noise that Donnie’s heard from his mouth, which has struck him as odd from the very beginning. 

A Leo that doesn’t try to come up with an obnoxious wisecrack every three seconds? In Donnie’s dreams—

Rather than retrieving his sword, Big Leo takes one of the broken pieces of stone from the floor, then, like a mutant turtle possessed, he stands, bits of rubble falling from his shell. 

— or maybe Donnie’s nightmares. Who’s to say?

Raph comes down with another massive, red fist, and the slider dives forward, evading the punch. His arm winds back, then, with all his might he hurls the stone towards the centre of the projection, right where Raph is sitting. The stone smashes through the energy field and cracks against Raph’s head. Dazed, he loses focus on his ninpo, and the red projection pixelates, then fractures. 

Released from his cradle, Raph falls and crashes heavily to the ground.

Donnie and Leo stare, momentarily stunned by the speed at which their heaviest hitter has been taken out of the equation. 

“Whip-o-rama!” Mikey yells, the chains of his nunchucks flying towards the large turtle. Leo’s going to have to have another conversation with him about announcing their attacks… 

Without blinking, big Leo reaches out and catches the chain with one hand. He doesn’t even flinch when the spiritual tool wraps around his fingers. The white space of his eyes narrows, then his bicep bulges as he yanks. Donnie knows full well that Mikey has the inner strength to throw airborne buildings when desired, which is why it's all the more shocking when Mikey is ripped off his feet and comes soaring towards the red-eared slider. He catches him with a chain-wrapped fist, sending Mikey to the floor with a sickening crack. 

Donnie flinches. 

“Mikey!” Leo yells. 

Donnie lunges at the older slider, fury burning in his veins. Leo’s right there with him. The older slider swoops down to his knees and takes hold of his sword, turning just in time to bring it up and block their attacks — katana and bo clashing loudly against the blade. Donnie and Leo lock their legs, pushing down until his twin’s katanas are close enough to graze his counterpart’s cheek. 

Then, big Leo bares his teeth and starts pushing back. 

Donnie’s putting in every ounce of strength into it, but he feels his feet sliding backwards as the large turtle presses upwards. Leo groans in effort besides him, his arms shaking as he tries to resist the force driving them back. The larger slider gradually rises to his feet, then shoves them both away with a powerful sweep of his sword.

Donnie and Leo stabilise their footing, their weapons rising for another bout.

They all know Raph is usually the one to pull his punches during their sparring matches, but Donnie is finding out the hard way here that Leo has never come at him with this level of unadulterated intensity before. The way Donnie’s arms are almost buckling from the strength of his strikes is honestly kind of terrifying. Though, from the way the younger slider is similarly struggling, it’s possible this is less of a case of their Leo going easy on them, and more the result of his older self having spent years packing an apocalyptic level of gains into a single arm. 

He notices that the slider’s starting to look as exhausted as Donnie feels. Weakening — losing focus. Leo can feel it too. He gets greedy, eager for the fight to end. He slices forward with reckless abandon, and the older slider spins out of the way of the attack. When Leo follows through with a roundhouse kick, he leans back, having foreseen the action, and retaliates with a kick of his own. The force behind it sends Leo careening into the air. 

Donnie doesn’t have time to look and see where he lands. His opponent strikes downward, Donnie blocks, then the slider’s right shoulder pulls back like he wants to strike with an arm that’s no longer present. It’s the first real mistake Donnie’s managed to spot. He catches the older turtle on his blunder, bludgeoning his bandaged side with the blunt of his tech-bo, and he doubles over in pain. 

Nailed it.

Big Leo takes a step back, his hand cradling his side. 

Any feeling of accomplishment Donnie can bask in for managing to land the blow is immediately dulled by the wheezy, rattling breathing coming from the older turtle. It sounds awfully similar to the time Leo punctured his lung, not all that long ago. 

Donnie pauses, unbidden concern forcing its way past his better judgement. 

He reflexively takes a step forward, a sudden and inexplicable desire to help rising from his chest. 

“Leo?” He asks tentatively, his hand slowly reaching out.

Donnie yelps in surprise when the older turtle suddenly bursts forward. He raises his staff protectively in front of him, and before he can even begin to consider just how dramatically he’s miscalculated, the strength of the slider’s strike is knocking his tech-bo from his hands. Disarmed, Donnie’s feet are swept out from under him in a sweeping move that is, again, very familiar.

The last time Leo had pinned him to the dojo floor, Donnie thought it had hurt. His brother had knocked the wind out of him, and he had collided so roughly with the floor his ribcage ached through till the next morning. Donnie had guessed that if it hadn’t been for the protection of his battle shell, his soft back would’ve been very badly bruised. He and Leo have this unspoken rule about not going too hard on eachother on the floor, so Donnie had made a huge scene about it, and Leo had apologised. 

Now, big Leo’s knee comes slamming down into his chest, brutally forcing the air from his lungs — crushing any possibility of sucking more in, the broken edges of his battle shell sink into his back, and Donnie recognises he may have been a little over-dramatic about the last match. 

Donnie sees the glint of metal approaching his face and clenches his eyes shut. He feels a cold, sharp sting at his neck and his stomach lurches with fear-horror-pain—

Leo, his brother, his twin, whom he loves and respects very much, though he would never ever admit it to his stupid face, has his sword to Donnie’s throat. 

He’s going to kill him. 

“SENSEI, STOP!” 

The solid weight pinning him to the ground down goes rigid, and everything goes still. 

“Master Leonardo, please.” 

That’s Casey. Donnie had kind of forgotten he was even here. Now he prays he’ll never leave.

“You don’t want to do this.”

A beat passes. 

“This isn’t you.”

Two beats. 

Nothing.

The seconds stretch out, and Donnie’s frozen. He can’t breathe. 

Then, the pressure crushing Donnie’s plastron eases as the mass shifts back, settling against Donnie’s lower half, and the sting disappears. 

Donnie wonders for a moment if he’s been granted a painless death. The idea is contradicted by his loud, gasping breaths and the rapid thump of his heart hammering against his ribs. 

There’s a metallic clatter by his head. Donnie flinches, his eyes snapping open.

The red-eared slider is frozen like a wall above him, sword dropped from his lax grip, long arm and broad shoulders trapping him in. His nictitating membrane has lifted, revealing his brother’s hazel green eyes, clouded with confusion. 

“Casey?” He croaks. That horrible wheezing sound can still be heard from his chest.

“Yeah— yes, that’s right, Leonardo. It’s me. It’s Casey. Casey Jones, your student, remember?”

He blinks, a horrified kind of recognition slowly dawning across his expression. 

His gaze drops to Donnie.

He goes more rigid, which Donnie would’ve thought impossible, were he not close enough to hear Leon’s breathing hitch as his muscles locked up.

He looks incredibly lost, his brows pulling together — like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing is real. For a moment, there he remains — big, green, lean and not-so-mean, simply hovering over Donnie, staring at him as if he’s witnessing a night sky for the first time after a million years underground. 

Donnie is… He is terrified, of course, but the sense of bewildered scientific curiosity is really breaking through that hard rock of horror in his chest, especially when his much, much older twin slowly reaches out and very tentatively places a big, gentle hand against Donnie’s cheek. 

It’s that warm, physical, affirming touch that finally seems to flip a switch for Leon. He gasps out a choked breath, his eyes filling with happiness and grief and guilt and relief and sorrow and a dozen other feelings that Donnie can’t hope to begin to put a name to — the emotion so intense that it causes the dam to break. Tears spill over — a river that rolls down his cheeks and spills over, dripping down onto Donnie.

“Dee?” He whispers, tone lower than Donnie is unused to, but his voice small and timid in that way it gets when he’s almost too scared to be hopeful.

And Donnie… He doesn’t know what to make of that.

Leon’s hands are broad — cradling most of his head, and Donnie should probably be worrying about the fact that he has the strength to crush his noggin like a watermelon, but honestly he can hardly find a thought at all, because he’s looking up and theoretical impossibilities be damned, this… this is his brother. This is Leo. And he’s disorientated and adrift and deeply, deeply hurting somehow. And despite it all Donnie senses his hand rising to comfort his twin before he can logically run down all the ways this might be a bad idea—

THWACK

Donnie flinches, his hand retreating as big Leo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. He slumps forward like a puppet with its strings cut and Donnie releases an oof as his full weight collapses on top of him, his face burying into his shoulder. 

Above them, stands Leo.

The other one.

“Leo.” Donnie blurts, scandalised by the interruption to… a moment that was finally becoming more intriguing than it was trauma-inducing. 

“Yes?” Leo adopts a light tone, sheathing his katanas and placing a thumb and his second finger to his ear, “Hello? Confirming your order of ‘thank you for saving my life’ with a side of ‘you’re the best, brother dearest’.”

Agitation prickles at his skin, which Donnie supposes is better than the stomach-churning fear. Which is probably what his twin had been aiming for.

Casey hastily slides to his knees besides Donnie’s shoulder. He reaches a hand out to his sensei’s carapace, his expression pained. He hesitates, then his eyes clench shut tightly, his hand falling away to clasp tightly at the fabric of his thighs. His head lowers in a solemn bow. 

“Okay. Roll-call. Mikey? You good?” Leo calls.

They hear a small, weak voice emit from the rubble, “Physically or emotionally?”

“Raph?”

“I’m fine.” Raph’s on his feet, one arm propped up against the wall as he massages his skull.

“April?” 

“She wants off this ride.” April groans.

Leo hops over to offer his family some help. 

Big Leo is motionless on top of him, probably unconscious, his breathing not sounding too good against his shoulder. One of Donnie’s arms is trapped under his plastron, and he reaches up to shake lightly at Leon’s shoulder. 

“Nardo?”

His brother is freezing. It hadn’t been important information before — filtered out between everything else, but he can feel it now. Deathly cold seeping from his body to Donnie’s where they’re pressed together. Donnie reaches back behind his head, probing around for where Leo had struck him with the hilt of katana. Donnie feels a small bump, matching the younger slider’s. Payback, he supposes. 

He adds another strike to the scoreboard of potential head traumas that have occurred tonight. They might have a new record on their hands.

Raph manages to stumble over and nudge Casey back into awareness. Together they help peel the dead weight off of Donnie. Once he’s free, Raph frowns and places a large palm over Donnie’s throat, feeling for any abrasions. Donnie allows it, knowing it’ll help ease his anxiety. He’s pretty sure the blade hadn’t even broken skin.  

Leo returns with April in tow. He helps her remove her arm from his shoulder and sit down, then goes back to help Mikey crawl his way out of his own small, turtle-sized crater in the ground. 

Casey remains silent at Leo’s side, processing. 

Mikey flops to the ground next to the older slider and peers closely at the older slider’s face, his eyes flicking between both Leos.

“Woah.”

Leo crouches down next to his younger brother. “Uh huh, yeah. Seconding that notion.” He pokes at the wrinkles lining the aged slider’s forehead. “This is some seriously wack uncanny valley stuff.”

Mikey’s look of awe falls away as his gaze shifts downward, his fingers trace along the shallow crack that started as the top of his plastron and expanded across his chest before slipping below the white bandages wrapped around his lower torso.  

Donnie feels numb. A little shaky. The echo of his heart still thundering between his tympana. He sits up, reaches over and picks up his discarded tech-bo. His palms are sweaty, but he holds tightly onto the staff. He feels slightly better with his baby in his hands – less helpless, at least.  

Raph has taken the older turtle’s sword into his hands. He gazes down at the blade, his expression drawn tight. 

His eyes — one milky white and scarred over — meet Donnie’s, and he hits him with this look. It’s all it takes for Donnie to understand that Raph had seen it; that switch that had flipped in Leon. Had watched as he broke free from whatever had taken hold of him long enough for him to regret his actions. He recognised it far too well. 

It’s hard to imagine what might be going through Raph’s mind right now. He’s been more… withdrawn, since the Krang. Developing a tendency to avoid mirrors and sit on the outlines of their sparring matches. It’s been immensely difficult to see their big brother — someone who is already so deliberately gentle, so full of open affection, who regularly plants himself in front of his brothers like a giant pillar of heroism to shield them from pain… For him to think, even for a moment, that he’s nothing more than huge red fists and roaring rage — another dangerous monster that they need protection from…

 Donnie tightens his hands around his tech-bo.

“What are we going to do with him?” Mikey asks quietly, his hand pressed against the older slider’s plastron.

"We're taking him back to the lair."

Donnie blinks and looks up at Raph, surprised by the decision. Mikey and Leo’s heads swivel around to stare at him, the former looking far more enthused by the prospect than the latter.

"We’re going to what now?” Leo asks, standing to his feet. "Am I the only one connecting the dots here. Are we going to pretend that this isn’t the same guy that knocked me out and kidnapped me? Hm? Attacked us? No? Held a knife to Donnie’s throat? None of this is ringing any bells for any of you?"

The air around them is thick, Leo’s words echoing off the walls. 

Donnie clears his throat. "Yeah.” 

The attention of the tunnel falls to Donnie. 

“Yeah, It does ring some bells… Kind of reminds me of that guy that got his brothers stuck in a death maze because he wanted to be on the champion wall of a pizza place.” He says, waiting a moment for his brother to wrap his little brain around that.

“Or the kid that ripped out my molar when I was seven.” He goes on, voice devoid of humour. “It also brings me back to the time his younger brother was almost decapitated because he wanted to play fruit ninja irl.” 

Leo’s eyes narrow. Donnie can practically see the defensiveness rising up from within him. 

“Yeah, y’know for some reason it niggles at a memory of dad yelling at us because someone decided it would be a good idea to use the glowing orb on his do-not-touch shelf as a basketball and ended up almost blowing us all to smithereens. And let’s not forget about that guy who sprained my ankle so he could win a competition-”

“You have got to let the lair games thing go one day—”

“Or that other guy, the one that almost portalled me into a volcano!”

Leo’s lips press into a thin line. His hands settle against his hips. “Okay, credit where it’s due. That one was my bad.”

Donnie pinches the bridge between his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath before he does something he’ll feel remorseful about later. Like blaming Leo for something that actually hurts him to be reminded of. The guy that fumbled the Krang key and inadvertently left Raph behind does not need to be spoken about. Leo spends enough time thinking about him already. 

“I think what Donnie is trying to say is that a Leo-related disaster is like, your average Thursday for us.” Mikey helpfully jumps in. Dr. Delicate Touch may be stretching the truth just a bit when he says this. Donnie had been very terrified that he’d have his throat slit less than five minutes ago. He’s not about to admit that to Leo though. 

Leo crosses his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing. The words land a little more harshly than Donnie initially intended. He knows how hard Leo has been working. How much effort he’s put into trying to actually take on this leadership role for them.

“Why are you so intent on leaving yourself unconscious in this cold, dank tunnel, anyway?” Donnie asks.

“Woah, woah, woah. Okay, backpedal.” Leo puts a hand up. “We can’t be sure this is me. I mean yes, he’s totally awesome and handsome and amazing but look- I have a Raph chasm. I would never let that happen.” 

He side-eyes Raph, hoping to get a reaction out of his big brother, but Raph looks like he hadn’t even heard him - his eyes trained on the masks at the weapon’s hilt, fingers softly pressing into the faded material, his eyes glazed over like he’s lost in thought. Leo’s shoulders slump a little.

“Look, I know you guys are accustomed to expecting the worst out of me, but I would never throw Donnie in the path of a speeding train, okay? A slow-moving vehicle, maybe—”

Raph stands. “We don’t expect the worst out of you.” He states.

“I expect the worst out of you.” Donnie counters. He flips his goggles over his eyes and casts his analytical eye to the unconscious brother lying at his feet.

“Fine. Mikey and I don’t expect the worst out of you.” Raph amends. 

“It’s him.” Casey speaks up finally, his voice shaking. “This is Master Leonardo.”

Leo narrows his eyes at him, all amusement draining out from him. “You told us you were the only one to make it through the portal. You said that.”

“I—” Casey stops, shaking his head. He looks lost.

Mikey taps his fingers together nervously. “Maybe he was wrong?” He gestures at the older turtle pointedly. “What if future handsome, amazing Leo got through somehow?”

“And what? Future me drops into the past and the first thing I decide to do is attack you?” Leo turns to him, his gaze hardening, “Was me becoming evil a plot point you decided to keep out for the sake of time, or…?”

Casey doesn’t respond well to the jab. He bares his teeth. “You take that back!” 

Donnie, only half-listening to the argument breaking out behind him at this point, spots a glowing pulse of energy radiating from his chest and - hello - his eyes narrow at the thin chain necklace hanging around his neck. 

“Master Leonardo sacrificed everything for you— for us. He fought, lived, di—”  Casey cuts himself off, swallows back against the thickness rising in his throat, his hands tightening into fists. “He would never attack us. Not off the bat of his own free will.” 

Donnie plucks the pendant from where it has dipped below the slider’s plastron, hidden from view. 

“And what if he didn’t have the choice?” Donnie asks.

Their gazes turn to him, and Donnie breaks the thin, silver chain with a sharp tug and lifts the obsidian gemstone into the group’s field of vision.

His brothers crowd over him to peer at the stone.

“Ooh, shiny… And a bit ominous. What is it?” Mikey asks.

Donnie examines the stone more closely under a light, turning it over between his fingers. 

“Seems to be resonating a low-pitch, subliminal frequency.” He murmurs. 

“So he’s a crystal mommy.” Raph notes. “That’s nice?”

“No. It’s not.” Donnie says, sliding his goggles back to his head. “This isn’t your everyday, ‘emotionally healing geode’... In fact, I’m pretty sure we’ve come across something like this before. It’s Hypno’s work… Or at least, it’s running on a very similar mystical energy wavelength to Hypno’s work.”

“So… you think the Hippo did this to him?” April asks.

Donnie shrugs. “I’m adding him to the list of suspects.”

Raph eyes the slider’s unconscious form warily. 

“Is he going to try and attack us again when he wakes up?”

Donnie shakes his head, fairly certain of this. 

“I only see one source of power that could have an influence on him and it’s beaming straight out of this bad boy.” He holds the stone up between two fingers, then curls it into his hand. “As long as he’s not wearing it, he shouldn’t be affected.”

Donnie thinks… hopes. Honestly, he should probably be more careful himself about how he handles the stone. He doesn’t want to start getting ‘my precious’-ily possessive over it and turn into a wicked evil genius hell-bent on destruction… Okay, more of a wicked evil genius hell-bent on destruction than he already is. They can take on master-ninja post-apocalyptic Leo any day of the week, but he’s pretty sure his brothers won’t be able to survive a Donnie with fewer morals and a greater proclivity for manslaughter. 

He’ll settle for putting the gemstone in a plastic ziplock bag or something. 

“I don’t trust him.” Leo states flatly. 

Casey turns on him angrily, “He’s literally you.” He points out, definitely annoyed, a bite to his voice. 

“Uh, yeah. Exactly.”

Casey’s jaw tightens, his nostrils flaring as he stands protectively over the older slider.

“Y’know it’s not often I say this, but I’m with Raph on this one.” Donnie says. “We should take him with us.” 

He’ll be able to better examine the older turtle with the equipment in his lab – could probably restrain him too, if needed. Not to mention he’s the only one here that may be able to give them answers on how or why he’s come back to the past in the first place. 

April hums her agreement. “I hide a lot of aspects of my life, but I don’t want to have to add pretending like I don’t know about the massive mutant ninja turtle running awol near my campus to that list.” 

Mikey nods vigorously to both points. 

They look towards Leo. 

Leo blinks, caught off-guard by the sudden attention. They’re not the only ones getting used to him being the leader.

It’s not necessarily that he gets final say, but each and every one of them trusts his judgement. Donnie listens because despite being a fool, his twin has an inexplicably high success rate when it comes to making the hard decisions that lead to the most net-positive outcomes. Raph had never been a bad leader, but he had a tendency to crack under pressure when the stakes got high, and, well… It had taken a while for Donnie himself to realise just how frequently and thoughtlessly he had unconditionally trusted his twin’s choices. It’s hard to beat that combination of intuition, strategic thinking and insight Leo displays naturally. Donnie would almost find it obnoxious were it not for his plans keeping him from dying horribly more than half the time. 

The others listen because…

Huh. Actually, Donnie’s not sure why they listen. Stupid blind loyalty and love, probably. 

“Fine.” Leo groans. 

Casey relaxes a little. Mikey smiles. 

“It’s not like I was going to suggest we leave myself down here in the cold anyway…” Leo mutters under his breath.

Donnie’s glad. He would very much like to go home right now. See dad and Shelldon. Blast his music at full volume. Get lost in his work. Pretend he hasn’t spent the last six hours being forced to experience the full spectrum of feelable emotion. Maybe rock back and forth in a dark corner of his lab for an hour or two. 

Y’know. Healthy coping mechanisms. 

Chapter Text

Leon wakes from a deep slumber to a cold sweat. The back of his head throbs with a pounding, dull ache that only intensifies when he cracks open his eyes. 

Ugh, too bright. 

He squints at the strip of fluorescent lights humming above and brings a hand over his face, obstructing the sharpness of the glow. He kind of wants to lean over the bed and puke out his guts, but he swallows down the urge. Leon imagines it would be an uncomfortably dry experience —  it doesn’t feel like there’s much of a gut left in him to cough up. 

He feebly wracks his memory for… something. Discernible information related to anything other than the nauseating spin of spots and colours behind his eyelids would be warmly welcomed right now. His mind feels scrambled and muddy – the effort to pull together coherent thoughts like trying to wade his way through a thick sludge. Leon lays motionless for a few moments, trying to pull himself together, then drops his hand and takes in his surroundings. The details of the room may be able to fill in some blanks.

The where missing from his memory turns out to be a refurbished subway car. The seats have been ripped back to make way for medical equipment and bedding. Shelves and cabinets are lined with more first aid supplies and medicine than Leon has seen in any one place for years. Various drawings of highly detailed turtle anatomy are posted to walls vibrantly graffitied with colour. Above them, the subway’s electronic destination sign blinks with cute little cycling animations of pixel art.

He… He may be more disorientated than before.

There’s a figure slumped over on a stool at his bedside, a human elbow resting against the mattress. 

Leon blinks, shock rippling through him. 

His student’s eyes are half-mast, red-rimmed and unfocused, his usually slicked-back hair dishevelled as if he’s been anxiously running his hands through it. Leon drinks in the sight of him, relief washing over him in waves. He knew his student had achieved the impossible — managing to win the war against the Krang, but… Leon hadn’t been certain he had survived such a feat. 

Twice over now, Leon has considered the potential of Casey being lost to him forever. Yet, there he sits — fighting to stay awake, a spool of drool falling from his mouth, his chin slipping from where his hand is trying to keep it propped up. 

He’s a goddamn miracle. 

Leon’s surge of euphoria sinks as his gaze drops to the bandages wrapped tightly around Casey’s arm. 

He frowns. Reaches out to touch—

His head explodes with pain. 

He whimpers, his hand shooting back to clutch at his head as a fractured memory pieces itself together: flickering lights, blade slicing across skin, the metallic scent of blood in the air, hands clutching at his collar, panic, eyes widening in fear—

His stomach churns with horror, revulsion, shame – the emotions twisting and coiling together. 

“Sensei?” 

His eyes dart back to Casey. He’s wide awake now, back ram-rod straight, his eyebrows pinched together in worry. His open expression of concern makes Leon feel like even more of a piece of shit than he already does. 

His eyes flick back to the bandages, his chest tightening painfully. 

Casey follows his gaze, his brow furrowing. He opens his mouth. 

At the same time, the words fall out of Leon in a stammering jumble. “I— I didn’t mean to.” He says, his voice gravelly, “I didn’t want to— I tried to fight it, but I… I couldn’t. I was too weak… I’m—”

“I’m sorry!” Casey blurts loudly, his head whipping down, bowing low to the mattress.

Leon blinks. Tries to process what he’s just heard. 

The words paralyse him, bafflement rippling through him. Why, why, why would Casey ever apologise to him? Leon is the reason he’s hurt. Leon attacked him. Leon could have killed him. Casey had every right to feel furious, disappointed — betrayed. He should detest Leon. 

He can’t read his expression — long, dark, messy hair sliding down and hiding Casey’s face from view. He doesn’t elaborate. He just… waits. Sits there like a good little student anticipating a lecture or a punishment from his teacher, all the while Leon lies there struggling to fathom a single reason why he’d ever be mad at him. 

“What?” Leon utters faintly.

Casey doesn’t shift. 

“If I hadn’t left you behind none of this would have happened.”

Leon gapes at him, completely thrown off balance by Casey’s words. 

Left him? How in hell had he reached that conclusion? Leon had quite literally thrown him away from him. And even if that wasn’t true, Casey could never have abandoned him. Leon had made peace with dying on that battlefield. Had wanted to— needed to, even. He didn’t want to imagine a world where he went on fighting while the rest of his brothers lay dead. 

Leon should act like the mentor he’s supposed to be and quell whatever toxic thoughts are poisoning his student’s mind, but he finds himself at a complete loss for words. He can’t get into his head… Doesn’t understand how Casey could ever think that—

“I… I thought I saw you die…” Casey says hoarsely, dismayed. 

His voice is quiet and incredibly soft, but the words pierce through Leon, bounce loudly and violently around his skull then ricochet painfully between the walls of his heart.

“All I can remember is seeing heat and light and you just… disintegrating away in the centre of it… And then I was landing in the middle of the city and I was lost and disorientated and you-” His voice cracks. “You were gone.”

Leon’s throat constricts painfully. 

Casey had been born into a world that had already fallen. He had to face atrocities and anguish and evil beyond comprehension from day one, and in spite of it all, his student had fearlessly faced each and every trial in his life with strength and heart and intelligence. Leon could see all the best parts of his brothers shining through this kid, and as such, however inadvertently, he hadn’t thought twice over whether or not Casey would be capable of handling the massive burden he planned on tossing to his feet. He had so, so many doubts, but not a single one of them had ever pertained to Casey’s ability to do what needed to be done.

Leon had never thought through what it might be like for Casey… After. 

There hadn’t been time to consider how he might feel about losing the only family he’d ever known. The aim had simply been to get Casey alive and en route to the past, and him dead. It was maybe not the most elegant or perfect solution, but it was the only one they could feasibly pull off, and at the time, that was all that had mattered to Leon.

Now he isn’t dead. There had never been a plan B. And Casey is about to crumble before him because Leon couldn’t think more than two steps ahead.  

A suffocating pressure presses down on his chest - so heavy he can barely breathe around it. 

“I couldn’t look back. Couldn’t let it distract me. I had to complete the mission. And the whole time I just assumed that you had...” Casey swallows. His hands start to tremble. “But you hadn’t… Which means that I had just left you behind somewhere.”

His student still refuses to meet his eye. His posture is slumped and his chin is dipping into his chest. Leon can feel tears prickling at his eyelids and he needs Casey to stop because this isn’t true. Surely he has to know that.

“Casey…” 

Leon’s useless. He doesn’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter anyway because Casey won’t let him get a foot in edgewise, the words flowing out from him like a river from a broken dam, leaving destruction in their wake. 

“Once the Krang had been stopped, I should have searched for you — could have at least checked. But I didn’t… I knew you were gone, and I couldn’t confront that, so I just… moved on. Buried you in a future that would never come to be and tried to live in the past… But I felt so lost without you. There was so much I didn’t understand, and the you that’s here tried to help but it just made it more painful because everything about him reminds me of you, but he isn’t you.”

“Casey.” He repeats, for lack of knowing what else to say, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, emotion thick in his throat.

“And just when I thought I had started getting the hang of things — when I began having hope that I wouldn’t wake up every morning with this pit in my chest, I saw you in the tunnels and I— I couldn’t go through it again. I just wanted it all to be over. I wanted to let you go. And so I told myself you weren’t there. That I was seeing things. I could’ve helped. But I just… I froze up… Then you were coming at us, and a part of me thought I deserved it. That this was my punishment. That you hated me for what I had become—”

Leon's molten shame turns to ice. His chest feels like it's being crushed. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand, bites down hard enough on his cheek for it to bleed. He can’t bear to listen to this anymore. Leon adopts his firmest sensei tone, and demands it.

“Stop!” 

Casey goes mercifully silent, but the words… They echo in Leon’s head. Hate. His student thought he hated him. There was a moment, however brief, where he thought Leon had wanted to hurt him. 

He… he can’t even—

Leon takes a deep breath. 

“Casey, look at me.” He orders.

Hesitantly, slowly, Casey’s head lifts. He’s a mess. Eyes red, lashes wet, face blotchy from the tears.

None of this is Casey’s fault. More than that — he’s the hero of this story. He deserves more accolades than Leon could possibly give him. He not only met his impossible expectations. He surpassed them. He saved his family — saved everyone. He resolved the mistake Leon thought he would die regretting, and he had done it all without him. The whole world owed him its gratitude, Leon most of all. 

Leon will never be able to repay Casey for everything he’s done for him. 

He will never be able to atone for what he’s put Casey through. 

There are so many things he needs to convey to Casey, Leon hardly knows where to begin. He’s well and truly stumped. His heart is hurting and his head is not cooperating and there’s no speech he can give that will make this better and he just… He needs Casey to understand—

“I love you.”

Casey stills. His expression freezes. He doesn’t blink. Leon’s not sure he’s even breathing. 

“I am so unbelievably proud of you.” He says earnestly, his heart bleeding into the words. 

He continues to receive absolutely zero response, and for a moment Leon worries that he has fundamentally broken his kid. 

“Honestly Casey, I mean it, I promise. The pride is killing me. I think it’s the only thing in the world that's gonna be capable of finally finishing me off. It’s so overwhelming it’s practically bursting out from my-”

Leon’s cut off when a warm, shaking body collides roughly against his chest. 

Leon, well and truly caught off guard, is nearly thrown backwards into the mattress from the force of it. Casey’s arms wrap around him tightly — the intensity of his hugs matched perhaps only by his mom’s. Leon blinks, warmth and relief washing over him. Leon looks down at him, his face buried against his sternum, cheeks streaked with tears. 

“I missed you.” Casey says finally, his voice broken and wet. “I missed you so much.”

Leon’s brows pull together in a pained expression. He circles his arm around Casey, closes his eyes and pulls him in closer. 

Leon doesn’t know how long he holds him for. 

There’s no wailing, nothing noisy or dramatic. Casey’s always been like that, even when he was a baby. Just the quiet flow of tears pressed into his plastron.

He wishes time could stop here for a while. He wants to have this moment, just this once, uninterrupted. His brain has other ideas. 

Pain bursts from behind his eyeballs as the distorted cracks of his memory rapidly piece themselves back together. 

Darkness pressing into him, steel sparking across mechanical shell, blinding lights, a figure squirming in his hands, footsteps echoing - thumping heavily in a tunnel, ragged, panicky breaths, mystical energy slamming into him, his sword pressed up against a throat—

His stomach lurches. 

He rips himself away from Casey, guilt piercing through him like a spear. 

“Donnie—” He gasps.

Casey wipes away at his tears and shakes his head. “He’s fine. You didn’t hurt him. We’re all okay-”

Leon’s eyes dart around the room with renewed understanding. This is their old medbay. The second Lair Leon has ever lived in. They’ve brought him home — they. His brothers. They’re all here. They’re alive, likely less than a room away.

There’s a side of Leon that wants to run the opposite direction and never stop. Ensure that he’s never responsible for hurting his family ever again. There’s also another part of him. A far more selfish, reckless side, that wants nothing more in this world than to see them. This sentiment greatly overshadows the former. 

Leon shoves himself out of the bed and tries to go for the door.

“Sensei, wait—” Casey’s hand reaches out tentatively.

Several things go wrong at once. 

For one thing, in his haste he forgets he doesn’t have the extra arm to pull away at the bedsheets, and when he flounders forwards, his legs get tangled up in them. His knees almost crumple when he stands due to how light-headed he still is, his ears ringing loudly. When he tries to stumble out of there, he loses to a subway pole sitting between him and the exit — smacking into it with a resounding metallic clang.

Casey hisses in sympathy and reaches out a hand to help him, but Leo is already up again, his heart pounding. He frees himself from the sheets with a determined flail and staggers into the heart of the old subway terminal he once called home. 

His head throbs with a pulsing ache, dizziness making the world sway beneath him. Casey shadows him with a troubled expression, aware that he probably shouldn’t be moving around, unwilling to stop him from doing so. 

He hears familiar voices, one pitched higher than the other. Leon follows the sound to the living room. 

He stands at the foot of the stairs, and everything screeches to a halt.

They’re all lying in a pile in the living room, surrounded by a mountain of cushions and pillows. Donnie lounges on a bean-bag, his feet kicked up as he casually scrolls through his phone. Raph and Mikey sit facing one another, one of Mikey’s arms in Raph’s hands. 

Leon’s foot slips down a step and lands with a thud. He catches himself on the railing and holds tight. When he looks up again, young faces stare back at him. Familiar, yet unfamiliar. A version of his family that he’s long since buried. 

“Oh! Hey— you’re up.“ Donnie greets, a nervous edge to his voice. 

He doesn’t answer, his gaze stuck on Mikey’s unwrapped arms — both of which are mottled with ugly, raw scar tissue, shiny from recently applied salve. The burns stretch like lightning across his arm, his skin lighter than its natural pigmentation all the way from his fingers to his shoulder. Raph, now frozen, is in the midst of bandaging him up like a mummy again, only having reached the point past Mikey’s palms. 

Leon’s gaze slides to Raph’s eye. His mask is ripped, revealing raised scars running over his brow and into his cheek, his eye clouded over and milky in-between. Both injuries look like they occurred at least a month or two ago. Too old for Leon to have been the one to cause them. The knowledge doesn’t stop him from feeling sick to his stomach. 

He must be doing something with his face, because Mikey hops up from where he’s sitting and waves his arms placatingly.

“This isn’t ‘cause of you! It happened ages ago.” He explains, giving him a reassuring smile. 

Raph nods along. “None of us got that hurt from the beatdown you laid on us, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“In the case that you do, for whatever irrational reason, feel bad for it, I’ll put it out there that I accept cash or paypal for psychological damages. I’ll send you my details later.” Donnie informs him. 

His voice is pitched higher than Leon remembers it. Then again, the last time he’d heard it, Donnie had been a decade or so older than he is now. 

They’re all here. Alive. And here. All of them are alive and here. 

Not as Leon last remembered them. The years have dulled his memory, but he doesn’t recall their faces being quite this bright and so young, the register of their voices higher than his ears expect. But Mikey’s last smile, the soft boyishness of his grin and the way his eyes had crinkled at the edges— it’s too soon for Leon to forget the snapshot of that moment, even if he’d wanted to. He should be gone. He looks exactly the same. 

Because time travel. 

Raph hisses an admonishment towards him that Leon is too far away to hear. He really needn’t bother. His twin is being nicer than Leon deserves, in context of what he had done to him. 

Even had Leon done nothing wrong, he would happily have Donnie insult him in a million different ways right now. Donnie could tell him to get ready, get set and go fuck himself with every last ounce of his hacking distaste, and Leon would simply be glad to hear him speak. 

Leon’s stands on the spot, speechless. The emotions are so immense and overpowering that it’s like everything has just cancelled out to numbness. Too much for him to process. 

The others are looking more worried by the second.

They’ve predicted he’d feel guilty about this, he realises. They’re already trying to downplay it like it wasn’t a big deal. Leon’s not even sure he can believe them. Leon’s not sure of anything right now except that his brothers are alive. They’re alive and they’re right there and they’re trying to make him feel better about attacking them against his will.

He feels himself put one foot forward, then the other. 

Donnie and Raph rise to their feet uneasily as Leon approaches, his expression set, determined. Their eyes flicker to Casey still standing at the foot of the stairs, unsure of whether this is a situation that calls for defensive manoeuvres or not. 

“Uhhh… Casey?” Raph asks timidly, “Should we be—”

Leon closes the divide, crashing into them before they can make a solid decision one way or the other. His left arm pulls Raph in tight. He wishes he still had his prosthetic to embrace Donnie with too, but it’s probably a good thing it’s gone. It would raise questions that Leon couldn’t bring himself to answer. He compensates for the loss of burying his face into his shoulder, breathing him in. 

They don’t pull away, but for a moment, they stand stiff and unresponsive – frozen in shock. Leon may as well be fervently clinging to two, inanimate pillars. 

Donnie’s phone slips from his fingers. 

There’s a beat of tense silence.

Raph, predictably, is the first to relax into the hug — his great, big, spiky arms reaching around the back of his shell to return the affection. 

Leon’s been trying to carry his burden of responsibility and maturity for the majority of his life now, and yet, the moment Raph embraces him, all those years seem to fall away. Leon’s body immediately surrenders to it. His legs go shaky beneath him, but he knows Raph will keep him up, because Raph is strong and safe and caring and reliable and good, and dear god, Leo has missed his big brother. 

Another small form joins the huddle, Mikey reaching up and throwing his arms around Leon and Donnie’s shoulders. This younger version of Mikey, who had apparently either not died bringing Leon back to the past, or hadn’t been the one to bring him back at all. 

Leon’s vision blurs as his eyes fill with tears, and he furiously blinks them away, desperately needing to keep eyes on his brothers, lest they disappear on him again. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The apology tumbles out from his lips without Leon really thinking to form it. A subconscious reflex to being in their presence again, maybe. It’s something he’s been waiting to say for hours, months, decades. Remorse that, in the past, he could only dream of expressing — no one left remaining in the waking world to receive the words. 

Donnie wordlessly circles his arm around him, squeezing him back. 

“We’re good, big guy.” Raph replies easily. “You don’t have to apologise. We know it wasn’t your fault.” 

It was. It is.

Shame burns cold and acrid in Leon’s stomach. He realises with a widening pit of gloom that Casey hasn’t told them.

They can’t see the layers beneath the apology. Leon could settle for their forgiveness if the only thing he was sorry for was being forced to attack them. But it’s not. it runs so much deeper than that. Leon’s past has tasted bitter for decades now. The feeling of guilt has grown familiar over the years, but it has never stopped feeling uncomfortable. When he hadn’t been making mistakes, he’d been having to make decisions that were cold and merciless. He’s let the people he loves down so many times. He’s caused them so much pain. To this day he’s haunted by the blood on his hands. He can’t fix it. Can’t make it right. 

Leon can’t reveal any of this to them. They can’t know what he’s become. 

“I’m sorry.”

Raph’s a lot spikier than he remembers him being, but Leon holds on tighter as his brother’s hand finds the back of his head, pulling him in closer. 

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, again and again. “I’m sorry.”

Mikey’s voice is muffled, his face buried into his shell. “We forgive you.”

No. You don’t. You wouldn’t. You can’t.

This is a cycle — Leon’s life set on replay. Who else can lay claim to losing every single one of their family members, then finding a way to go back in time just so they can hurt them all over again? 

Is this what he’s destined to do? Cause pain to his family, over and over? 

Leon’s shaking, his breath catching as he tries to subdue the tears. It takes everything within him to fight to keep it together. He wills himself to breathe. He can’t cry. He can’t break down on them. In their eyes, Leon’s probably already acting more devastated than the situation calls for. They’ll suspect something is wrong, and he can’t risk that. Leon refuses to let them cotton on to what their futures could have been. 

The rapid, fevered apologies continue to fall uncontrollably, quietly from his lips. 

His brothers only hold him tighter. 

Leon’s hand grazes the large crack in Raph’s carapace, and his body goes cold with dread. 

His vision goes fuzzy. One moment everything is fine – his brother’s arms are around him, the space is quiet, the ceiling and walls are a cold, solid encasing protecting them. Then, he blinks, and the next thing he knows, he’s alone, the Lair is burning, debris is strewn around the floor, blood stains the cracked tiles leading to the main exit. It’s like he’s looking up at the sun from the depths of the sea — rays of light rippling through the dust and smoke as tentacles rip open their home, exposing them to the world above. 

Leon pales, his breathing picks up, heartbeat loud between his tympana. 

Raph pushes him back slightly, “Leo?”

He blinks again, and the smoke and dust is gone, but the foreboding air of terror remains. His hand is gripped tight around Raph’s shoulder. He stares at the large chunk missing from Raph’s carapace. 

That wasn’t there before.

He’s here. He’s alive. 

Leon tells himself this, over and over, repeats it, ad-hominem like a broken record.

The unease and discomfort thrumming through him is enough to snap him out of the moment, setting off another realisation. His younger counterpart isn’t here. 

Leon recalls with a cold sweat the pure rage that had rolled through and consumed him. The hatred he had felt for his younger self — the resentment that had been growing inside like a tumour for years upon years, abruptly and violently bursting out from him. The memory of who he’d been and how it had led him to where he is had clouded over him for most of his life. He remembers the pleasure that had pulsed through his veins as he hunted him down. It had felt sickeningly close to hope. A chance finally to reverse the mistakes of his past. To stop the cycle of all the horrible events in his life from repeating again.  

He pulls away from his brothers. 

“Where’s Leo?” He asks shakily, the name sounding foreign spoken from his own lips.

“Hm, Leo? He’s fine. Been spending a lot of time in the dojo of late.” Raph explains, his brow furrowing. He looks Leon up and down. “Why? You wanna see him?”

Leon responds with a dazed look of bewilderment. His younger self in the dojo, by himself, at this hour, while the rest of his family is relaxing? If this is a joke, it’s poorly timed. 

Leon, at his age… he was a lot of things – a workaholic most definitely not being one of them. It’d been difficult to get him to take anything seriously. He had valued convenience and fun over training. His selfishness, his irresponsibility, his air of arrogance towards his own invulnerability and infallibility — these were just some of the reasons it had all gone so wrong in the first place. Flaws that only through time and suffering did Leon realise he had to work to mend. He’d always had to learn things the hard way.  

“Uh— no, I…” He stammers, head whirling. There’s one other person missing here. “Where’s April?”

“She’s good too.” Raph replies. “She was pretty exhausted so we ended up dropping her back at her place. She’ll probably want to drop in tomorrow and check how you’re doing.”

Leon exhales in relief. “That’s… That’d be good. I—”

“Blue?”

Leon’s heart stops.

He hasn't heard that name for years. A lifetime ago now, it seems.

“Hey dad!” Mikey beams, waving towards the room entrance. “Look, Donnie was right about the stone thingy. Big Leo is nice now!” 

Leon feels rooted to the spot. He can feel his pulse in his throat. 

There is a moment of sharp silence. 

Then—

“Boys, give us a moment.”

Raph hesitates, his eyes flicking from Leon to the foot of the stairs. “But dad—”

“Raphael.” Dad cuts him off with a stern tone. Leon can sense the startlement radiating off of his brothers at the use of a full name. “Please.”

Raph’s expression is strained, but he nods, bundling up Mikey’s wraps in his arms (Leon’s going to need answers about those later, and about Raph’s eye).

“We’ll be just outside.”

He places a reassuring hand on Leon’s shoulder as he passes him, and Mikey trails after Raph, connected by the bandage still half-wrapped around his hand. Donnie gives him a final searching look, then picks up his phone from the ground and follows them.

Leaving only Leon and Splinter. 

- - -

Leon has had dreams like this. 

He slowly turns, his heart hammering loudly against his chest. 

He drops heavily to his knees before him. Dad’s always been short, but Leon doesn’t remember him ever having been this small, he has to wonder if he’s shrunk, but… No. It’s Leon’s that’s grown. 

“How ‘ya been, pops?” Leo smirks, a wretched note of humour colouring his tone. “Long time, no see.”

Dad looks up at him with a deep concern, not buying the act for a second. 

Leon tries to keep up the smile, but it feels heavy, unnatural. For the first time in a long time, he wishes he could be that Leo from all those years ago, the carefree troublemaker, the one Splinter knows and loves. But he can’t. That’s not him anymore. He can’t even bring himself to pretend. 

His chest feels unbearably tight. Leon forces himself to pull it together. He can do this. 

Splinter reaches up and caresses his cheek, and that alone is almost enough to break him. The feeling of his father’s gentle hand brushing across the scars along his cheek. 

He drinks in the sight of Leon, worried eyes tracing each broken line of his face, reading each mark of age written across his features — wrinkles, blemishes, the tiredness weighing down on his eyes. 

“You look terrible, Blue.”

Leo can hardly breathe around the lump in his throat.

He tries to hold back the emotion swelling within him. He’s well practised in the art of pretending to be okay. It had been his responsibility as leader, brother, mentor, to put on a brave face, to not let show that anything affected him. Bottle it up. Shove it down deep. Get back to work. He couldn’t be weak, not when he had so much riding on him, not when so many people were relying on him — looking up to him for answers. Not when the slightest trace of doubt meant failure. 

Leon is so tired of having to be strong.

Splinter brings him in and presses his head against Leo’s, and all those walls he had put up – he feels them coming apart at the seams.  

“Oh, my son.”  Dad softly murmurs, wiping at the single tear rolling down his cheek. 

That’s all it takes for the dam to finally break. The tears flood forth, rolling down his cheeks and dripping to the floor. An ugly sob breaks free from his throat as he breaks down, crumbling to pieces before his dad..

Splinter’s expression crumples, his eyes turn to water, and he pulls Leon’s head into his shoulder and holds him. He wishes he could shrink down — curl into his dad like he used to when he was a young kid. He feels like he’s breaking - falling apart, but pops hugs him, squeezing him tight, holding together the pieces, and the action only makes Leon bawl harder. 

He cries until there are no more tears left for him to shed, until that weight crushing his chest lessens, just a little. The flow finally slows and then halts, then slowly, gently, he disentangles himself from his dad’s grasp and sits back.

“The Krang invasion…” He finally murmurs, his voice hoarse. “I want to know what happened.”

He needs to understand if he’s to move forward in this world he’s found himself in. 

Dad tells him. 

- - -

Leon hears of their encounter with Casey, and there’s a deep-rooted shame that accompanies the knowledge that his student had to learn of his mentor’s greatest failures in this way. Leon had never personally revealed to him how he had been the beginning their end, only describing to him vague notions of the burdens he’d come to bear. As the story continues however, the emotion fades to the background, overtaken by the monumental admiration he has for his student. 

There’s a profound pain to dad’s eyes as he skims over the details of their first encounter with the Krang. The loss of his sons’ mystic powers, their retreat, Leo going back for the key, Raph being left to the Krang’s devices. It sounds even worse than the events of his own timeline, with the one caveat of them successfully obtaining the key. 

Then dad gives him a second-hand account of what had led them to lose it — the chaos that had unfolded as a result of Leo’s poor decisions — his inability to unite the group as a team. And it hurts. Pains him to know this version of himself was no different to himself, despite the changing versions of events. Dad explains what had become of Raph — deformed and corrupted to a creature of the Krang’s will, and Leon’s stomach roils, suddenly having a much greater understanding as to why his brothers had been so quick to forgive him for attacking them. 

Leon slowly comes to grasps with a horrified understanding of just how close they had come to losing. Stranger still, he comes to learn how Leo had been the one to change the tide of this branching timeline — helping his family rally by taking hold of their greatest weapon. Hope. 

Hope and one hell of a plan, from the sounds of it. He freezes up when dad tells him about Donnie integrating himself into the Technodrome, his heart sinking like a stone. Splinter can be incredibly perceptive when he wants to be. He notices.

“You do not seem as amused by the idea of Purple taking control of an alien ship as your brothers were.” He points out shrewdly.

Leon’s eyes are hot. He looks away. 

“That’s not—” 

The words lodge in his throat. He can’t do this. He can’t face dad and lay out all his failures. He doesn’t think he’d be able to survive the disappointment in his eyes. 

He swallows. “Donnie… My Donnie— he… tried something similar.”

Pop’s bushy eyebrows rise, waiting for him to continue. 

“It didn’t pan out so well.” He states woodenly. 

Leon doesn’t elaborate. Dad doesn’t push the subject. 

Splinter continues the story, describing how they managed to break Raph free of his possession, the return of their ninpo; their valiant, unified, endgame fight against the Krang. He was too strong for them, dad tells him, and Leon knew this all along. His plan had been for them to get to the key before the invasion began. He never expected them to actually be able to defeat their enemy through combat. 

Splinter goes on to explain Leo’s idea, emotion thick in his throat, and honestly, the longer Leon listens, the less like him this Leo sounds. Dad’s explanation is brief and stilted. He doesn’t linger on the details, but Leon thinks he can fill in the gaps. His younger counterpart had managed to save his family and teleport the Krang leader into the prison realm, trapping himself off from the world with him. Leon can only imagine what it’d be like, the fully realised fury of Krang Prime reserved only for himself. He shudders at the thought. 

His concern spikes when dad tells him about Mikey ripping open the interdimensional portal, Leon’s mind casting back to the mottled burn scars creeping up his little brother’s arms. Dad is describing how his brothers had been able to pull Leo back, but he’s barely even listening. All Leon can think about is the fact that this Mikey is so young, and that accessing that kind of power… it should have consumed him. 

But it hadn’t. His brothers had been at his back, helping distribute the mystic energy devouring him, and Leon can’t help but be bombarded with the what ifs. Could his own Mikey have survived had he done the same? 

What Splinter tells him is incredible, improbable, inconceivable. This Leo succeeded where he had failed. All that burning hot rage Leon felt towards him, it was completely unwarranted in so many ways. His counterpart had given everything to make up for his mistakes. He achieved what Leon never could... And Leon is such an unbelievably shit person. He should be thanking this kid until the end of his days, kissing the floor at his feet, constructing monuments in his honour, but—

He can’t help but feel… Jealous. Because Leo got to make up for inadvertently freeing the Krang in the first place, while Leon had never had the chance to atone for that. Ashamed. Resentful. Because now he knows with certainty that there always had been a way for him to stop this from happening the first time. And he hadn’t. 

Leon’s the scum of the earth - the one guy that can’t be happy that the world was saved for a reason that is so ridiculous, egotistical and childish that it almost makes him want to laugh. 

Because he hadn’t been the one to save it. 

Because he’d been the one to cause the apocalypse, not stop it. 

Because the destruction that came after… The deaths… He’d carry that burden until the end of his days.

Because this Leo had never been a failure. But Leon will always be.

Dad is waiting for his reaction, and Leon remembers belatedly that hearing about the evasion of total destruction is something normal people are usually happy about.

His lips twitch. A smile, almost.  

“Guess the original Hamato clan would have been proud of that kid, huh.” He murmurs, stupidly, thoughtlessly, not at all considering how dad might take the words. 

Splinter meets Leon’s downcast gaze with a dumbfounded look. 

“What?” 

Leon blinks at him, regret shooting through him. He shakes his head. “Uh, sorry, no - it’s just… Something you said once. I’d forgotten that you, um— haven’t, yet. Sorry. Forget about it.”

Dad reaches forward, grabbing hold of his hand and squeezing, his expression serious. Leon stares down at the point of contact and kind of feels like crying again for some reason. 

“Tell me.” He insists, tone annoyed yet subtly concerned. His lips are curled down in a frown, his eyes searching Leon’s face. He’s likely never heard Leo sound so sombre. 

Shit. Not good. Not good. He can’t crumble under dad’s scrutiny again, but he can already feel the tears he thought had long run dry pushing for a return as the memory resurfaces. 

Wailing. The crash of metal. The crumbling of stone. 

Leon closes his eyes and bites his tongue, hard. 

He clears his throat. 

“You once told me that traditionally, for the Hamatos, martyrdom is a revered quality. That to sacrifice yourself for a greater purpose — for the greater good is the highest honour a warrior can achieve.”

Several emotions flash across Splinter’s face, and Leon could name all of them. It’s been over two decades, and yet, now that he’s facing him, he realises he still knows all his dad’s tells. 

“When did I say this?” He asks after a long moment, his whiskers twitching agitatedly.

Lights flash behind Leon’s eyes. Dad, buried beneath a heap of rubble, too heavy for Leon to shift, too far away for his brothers to help. Rain pours down from the cracked ceiling, drenching blood-matted fur.

His broken voice, thin, raspy, weak. Too weak. He’s struggling to breathe.

Leon clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath through his nose. Feels the fresh air in his lungs, then releases it through his mouth.

“Ahh,” Leo hides the emotion coating the back of his throat with a hollow chuckle, “I dunno… About a year from now?”

Splinter looks like he’s at a loss for words. His grip goes almost bruisingly tight around his hand.

“Leonardo.” He speaks, his voice grave. “That is not true. I— I would never… From here on out, I forbid you from throwing your life away for stupid sacrificial nonsense, regardless of the stakes.” 

Leon’s brows furrow in confusion. His life? Then, it hits him.

Oh. 

Splinter thinks his words had been directed toward Leon at the time. His mistake, he supposes, considering the context of what Splinter had just told him about this younger Leo. 

He’s struck with the sudden and terrifying realisation of how similar they are. 

“That’s— I think I’m at an age where you can’t actually forbid me from doing stupid shit anymore, pops.” He chuckles weakly. 

“Watch me!” Dad retorts passionately. “Blue, If throwing yourself over a cliff would stop a meteor from crashing into the earth, I wouldn’t want you to do it. We would find another way. I am not my grandfather. I refuse to raise you as soldiers.” 

Leon squeezes his hand. 

He’d done a lot of reflecting about dad through the years, particularly after taking Casey into the family. When he was younger, dad had always come off as… lazy. Aloof. It’d been easy to interpret his increasing distance as they grew older and more independent as disinterest, rather than, say, depression. To assume the colour-coded manner in which he referred to them were not affectionate nicknames, but a result of him not caring enough to remember. To see his unwavering love towards television shows as some weird, obsessive fixation, when it was likely a distraction from being constantly faced with the way his life had panned out; from flying action star to flubby sewer rat. 

It was only until… later. That Leon had begun to reconsider. Splinter had never wanted their childhood to be as miserable as his own — had tried to ensure that they wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes as him (Leon had slipped through his fingers there). He loosened the reins, let them have fun. Allowed them to be kids rather than tools of their destiny. Even when they showed an interest in the family art of ninjutsu, he detached himself from it. Made ‘training’ fun and lighthearted through games and Lou Jitsu movies. Sending them on ‘missions’ that were no more than glorified delivery runs for pizza or a ploy to get them out of the house for long enough for him to have some peace and quiet. 

“You are my sons.” Splinter stresses.

Leon’s stomach twists painfully, and it takes him a moment to realise the sensation is an emotional rather than physical one. 

He thinks of his timeline. Of Mikey. Of Donnie. Of Raph. Would dad still claim him as one of his own if he knew he’d led his sons to their deaths?

Leo wrangles hold of his composure before his expression can crack, hiding that pain behind a sheepish grin. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure you were just trying to comfort me at the time.”

Leo… Leo had been nothing more than a lost little kid back then. Afraid of the world that was crumbling around him. Afraid of losing his home. Afraid of losing his dad. Terrified of the thought of being alone. 

“They’re coming, Blue— we don’t have much time… Be brave, Leonardo. I made you leader for a reason. Find your brothers. Keep them safe. Do this for me.” 

Leon had been selfish. He had been immature. He had refused to move. Shot down his dad’s orders (his pleas). Ignored him, no matter how desperately pops begged. 

Leo’s mind snaps back to the present (past?) when another warm, furry hand settles over the top of Leo’s palm. Dad cradles the limb between both hands, handling him like he’s made of glass, moments away from shattering.

Very similar to the way he had last, more than two decades ago. 

“Did it help?” Dad asks quietly. 

Leo blinks away the tears, swallows back the thickness at the back of his throat and gives a minute shrug, which does its job in saving himself from speaking, if just for a moment. 

“A little. At the time.”

Yes. At the time. Immediately afterwards, he’d regretted following his orders. It felt like someone had ripped his heart out. Like someone had punched a hole through his chest and removed all his organs, leaving him hollow. 

It wasn’t until the emotion settled to a dull ache that the suspicion had begun creeping in. Hamato Yoshi had spent a lifetime running from his destiny. Had grown up resenting his own family for forcing him to sacrifice everything for a threat that didn’t even seem real. Splinter, just now, has confirmed those doubts he had so long ago. That pops didn’t believe a word of his little Hamato martyrdom speech. He was simply saying the one thing capable of driving Leon away. 

I want this. Allow me to make my family proud. 

Leon pulls his hand away, withdrawing into himself. 

Dad watches him with sad eyes. 

After a moment, he speaks again. “Blue… I don’t want to pry, but—”

Leon clenches his jaw. Here it is. It’s his turn to return the favour. To reveal to his father all the numerous ways in which he has failed him throughout his life. To act like it’s nothing but a sad story — the worst case scenario that could have been, all the while for Leon it’s depressingly, inescapably real. He’s still grieving the loss. 

His pulse quickens in his chest, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat. 

Splinter takes one look at his expression and simply declares, “I won’t.”

Leon practically sags with relief. He despises himself for it. “You deserve to hear it.” He argues, even though every aspect of him is revolting against the notion. 

“I don’t want you to if it’ll hurt you further to tell it.”

His chest fills with warmth, alleviation, sadness, frustration. It’s already a strange cocktail of emotions, then dad goes ahead and pours a healthy dose of guilt and shame back into the mix.

“I know you would’ve done everything to protect your family.”

Fuck.

Well now dad needs to hear the truth. Leon… He can’t continue to let him think he’s the person Splinter still thinks he is in his head.

There are voices coming from outside. The sound of a scuffle. Leon turns reflexively at the sound of his name. 

“Leo— Leo,” Raph’s voice calls from around the corner. “Dad said we have to wait, Leo don’t—”

A very agitated red-eared slider appears at the foot of the stairs, huffing, his skin gleaning with a thin layer of sweat. Leon stares at him in shock. 

It’s not the face he remembers from his nightmares - shadowy and smug as he destroys the world… He’s just a kid. A scrawny little teenager. Leon barely recognises himself. He’d forgotten how young he is. How young all of them are. Leon feels the strangest sense of protective anger bubbling up in his chest. 

Jesus christ… How had he taken on the Krang? How had he managed to survive that–

Leo’s wild gaze zeroes in on Leon. His expression darkens, then he’s descending into the living area, making a beeline for him. 

He raises an accusatory finger at Leon’s chest. “Why are you here?” 

Leon’s put a little off balance from the outburst. His eyes flicker from Leo to Casey and his brothers watching from afar, standing anxiously at the entrance. 

“Blue—”

Leo turns on Splinter, “No one’s even asked him yet, have they?” He exclaims in disbelief. 

Leon stands, and the younger slider’s attention snaps back to him.

“What happened to you? How did you get here? Why did you attack us? Why were you wearing this?” He lifts a small, dark, gemstone into the air.

Leon’s blood turns to ice.  

Behind him, Donnie frowns as he frantically checks his pockets, “Hey, when did you—”

“Explain. Now.” Leo demands. 

He feels the weight of the room’s eyes on him. His palm grows clammy and cold. They want to know what happened.

If he starts talking about his past, he’ll have to start talking about their deaths, and that… It will destroy them. It would destroy anyone. So, yeah. He won’t be doing that. 

He can’t reveal what happened with Big Mama, because Leon knows exactly where that’ll lead – they’ll seek resolution. They’ll want to go after her, they’ll find a fight, they’ll be hurt or captured or killed, and it’ll be Leon’s fault again. 

He doesn’t want them dragged into this, and he can’t usher them someplace safe.

The realisation hits him with absolute, crystal clear certainty. Leon can’t tell them anything. He needs to protect them. This is his issue, and he can handle it. His family deserves better than what life had handed them last time, and Leon can ensure that happens. He can stop the cycle of chaos.

“I don’t remember.” He states, more confident than he feels. 

Leo scoffs. “Really? Nothing? That’s surprisingly convenient.”

The others look at him — not sceptically like Leo does, but confused — waiting for answers that Leo cannot provide.

“And by convenient I do mean suspicious, so...” Leo prompts, impatient. 

Leon clenches his jaw. 

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He grinds out. “I was in my timeline one moment, and then here the next. I have a few flashes of fractured memories but everything else in-between is just… blurry. Incoherent. Like one of those dreams you forget the moment you wake up.”

There’s a tense silence. Raph’s forehead creases in sympathy. Leo’s eyes narrow. He’s not buying it. 

“You’re lying.”

“Leo.” Raph snaps.

“What? He is!” Leo retorts, his hand gesturing angrily at Leon. “I’d know better than anyone.”

“So… You think he wanted to attack us?” Mikey asks, frowning. 

“Wh– no. I didn’t say that, I just…” He turns to his twin. “Donnie, come on. Back me up here - something’s off about this.”

Donnie’s jaw tightens. His eyes shift away from Leo’s gaze. 

Leo’s shoulders drop. He looks between his brothers. Raph crosses his arms over his plastron. Mikey looks conflicted, but he remains silent. Casey leans against the wall, his expression pensive.  

“Seriously?” 

The room doesn’t respond.

Leo laughs. It’s a harsh, grating sound, devoid of amusement. 

“Huh. Okay… Y’know what? Clearly, I’m the only one here with a functioning brain cell, so I think I’m going to go ahead and take a step back from the crazy vibes in here before they start affecting me, too. Try not to miss me too much.”

With that, he spins on his heel, throwing the amulet back to Donnie, who fumbles it, then storms off.

Mikey follows, calling for him to hold up. Raph glimpses at Leon, his expression tight, before he turns and races after his little brother. Donnie watches wearily as they leave, then pulls out his phone and slinks away in the opposite direction, towards his lab. 

Casey hesitates at the foot of the stares, his eyes meeting Leon’s. He centres his body, then raises his index and third finger and points in the direction Leo had gone. His brows rise. 

Follow?

Leon sighs, nods, then pauses. He presses his thumb beneath his chin and flicks upwards, then flattens his hand and thrusts it forward. 

Don’t engage. 

Casey nods, understanding the message. He can go ahead, but Leon doesn’t want him getting into a fight. 

He leaves, and Leon collapses into the nest of pillows. The pain throbbing at the back of his head now extends across his forehead and around his eyes. He groans and rubs at his temples.

Splinter’s gaze shifts from where Casey had just left to peer down at Leon with an inscrutable expression, like he’s examining him under a new light. The emotion behind it… bemused? Mildly impressed? Leon is too exhausted to try and interpret it. He closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the cushions. 

“He hates me.” Leon smiles. “That’s kinda hilarious, isn’t it? Everyone used to be on my case for having this massively inflated ego, and yet somehow, here we are.” 

It’s odd, the way this makes his stomach coil tightly. He supposes it’s a natural reaction. To a certain extent, everyone wants to grow into a person that their younger self would look up to. 

“You were at times insufferable…”

“Thanks dad.”

“But he does not hate you.”

Leon opens an eye and squints at Splinter. “What makes you think that?”

Splinter pointedly looks at the bandages wrapped around his torso. 

“Who do you think patched you up?” He asks. 

Leon frowns. Now that he mentions it, his side is feeling a lot better. He had barely even noticed the injury, when before it had been fresh agony stabbing into his side with each jolting movement. Even the dirtied wraps around his arm have been replaced with clean, black ones — hiding the thick scars mangling his remaining arm. 

He pulls the bandages covering the lower half of his torso aside, revealing a neat line of stitches down his side – far neater than Casey’s work. Leo has always had the steadiest hands in the family. 

Leon’s eyes widen.

Splinter huffs in amusement at his reaction. 

“He’s stressed. He hasn’t been himself lately. Give it some time. He’ll warm up to you.” 

Leon still doubts it, but he’s also a little less pessimistic about his chances of reconciling with the kid than before. 

- - -

Dad retires to his couch, and Raph, Mikey and Casey return defeated. Leo has apparently barricaded himself inside his room. 

Leon is kind of surprised when they all join him on the floor, Mikey unabashedly sprawling across him, Raph leaning back against his shell, Casey laying down next to him. He already thought Casey had looked exhausted, but Leon must have interrupted the others in the middle of their nighttime routine earlier. It doesn’t take long before they’re all falling asleep. 

A little while later Donnie stumbles into the room like a zombie. He pauses at the site of Leon - his large brows lifting in surprise like he’d forgotten he was here. He gets over the moment quickly, pulling off his mask without preamble and collapsing into the pile.

Leon is a little perplexed. Is this… something they do? He doesn’t remember them doing this. Bar perhaps Casey, they all have individual rooms, he’s pretty sure. 

He looks at the dark circles beneath Donnie’s eyes. 

“How many hours have you been awake?” He whispers. 

Donnie doesn’t even try to lie. “thirty-two. Consecutive.” He answers tonelessly.

Leon makes a note to sabotage his caffeine intake again. This boy is switching to decaf. 

He’s not even sure Donnie will be able to comprehend him at this stage of sleep deprivation. Then again, Leon’s seen him pull together high grade explosives with little more than tin, wire and cleaning chemicals on more than seventy hours no sleep.

“I’m sorry about your battle shell… And for holding a knife to your throat. And for anything else I might’ve done. I- I’m just really sorry.”

Donnie sighs. “You remember that?”

There’s no reprimand in his expression. It’s worded as a genuine question, but to Leon it still feels like an accusation. He’s going to have to be more careful about how he phrases things in the future. 

“... Vaguely.”

Donnie hums and closes his eyes.

“You’ve already gotten the ‘it’s not your fault speech’ and clearly that didn’t get through your thick skull so I’ll throw you a bone here and forgive you.” 

Leo releases a sharp breath of amusement through his nose. “Thanks Dee.” 

Donnie yawns, his body turning away from Leon’s. “After what happened last time I’ve ensured I always have at least three spare battle shells in the lab ready to go, anyway, so.” He murmurs. 

Last time?

Leon wants to ask, but he supposes it can wait. It’s been a long day for all of them. He listens to Donnie’s breaths even out as he dozes off.

Leon should be at peace, finally surrounded by his family again. This is everything he’s ever wanted. It should feel like home. But… 

Leon can’t rid the feeling that he doesn’t belong in this picture. That he shouldn’t be here. No matter how happy and safe everyone is in this new timeline, Leo will always be haunted with the knowledge that his family died because of what he did. 

He can’t erase what happened, no matter how much he wishes he could. 

The thing is, Leon accomplished the final thing he’d set out to do. Master Michelangelo had succeeded. His student had succeeded. Casey, April, dad and his brothers should be able to live out their happily ever after as a family. And Leon… He played his part. He was never supposed to end up back home. He should’ve been with his Mikey until the very end. That at least might have felt like penance. But. Here he is. Leon doesn’t know how, or why, but Mikey has given him a second chance. It’s just one more person to add to a long list of people he’ll never be able to repay. 

He glances at his younger brother. He’s right there, he’s literally in contact with Leon — practically stretched out on top of him. Leon can feel the tide of his breaths against him, could probably hear his pulse if he tried listening hard enough, and yet… his chest aches. 

The grief of losing him is still fresh. 

“Thank you.” He breathes.

It feels incredibly hollow in the face of the enormity of how much he feels, but he can’t keep on going saying nothing at all.

He feels Mikey shift against him. 

“For what?” He whispers.

Leon jumps slightly, not having realised he was awake. 

Mikey had been his last remaining brother for so many years. His right hand man. The only person he could be completely honest with. Who knew all his terrible flaws and still loved him despite them… And this kid… He’s clearly incredibly powerful and apparently rapidly getting a handle on his mystic powers, but he’s also young and sweet and yet to be broken by the world. He can’t tell Mikey. He can’t do that to his little brother. 

“For…” Leon trails off, the words he wants to say rising from his chest and sticking to the back of his throat. 

For sending him back to his brothers? Can you thank someone for something that they haven’t done yet - that they’ll no longer have to sacrifice themselves for? Thank you, for being there when he needed him? For leaving a thousand smiles that lit up what would otherwise be the darkest times of his life? For being his brother? For being born?

He shrugs sheepishly and stares at the ceiling. 

“Just… Thank you.” He repeats, lamely.

It’s not good enough. Then again, Leon doubts there are any words in any language capable of stringing together just how grateful he is. 

He flinches slightly when Mikey’s hand takes his own. His little brother snuggling in closer.

“You’re welcome.” He smiles.

Leon’s heart goes unbearably soft. 

Then, that sick, tilted lurch of his stomach returns, like the ground is dropping out from under him. 

He doesn’t deserve this. 

He can rationalise it. Physical contact means he knows exactly where his brothers are at all times. It means he’s in the best possible position to protect them if the ceiling suddenly collapses, which Leon keeps thinking will happen for some reason. The truth is though, he wants nothing more in the world than to be here, sandwiched into a turtle pile, his brothers tucked safely beneath his arm. 

He doesn’t deserve it.

He tries to sleep, but his thoughts loop around him like a hangman’s knot. He ends up mostly just watching his family sleep, which the others would probably consider creepy, but he feels is like making up for lost time. 

Restless, he eventually gets up and takes the time to reacquaint himself with the Lair. It’s been a long time since he’s been here. 

His chest feels tight as he walks around, taking in his surroundings. He gently trails his fingers along the cold stone pillars. Everything is perfectly in its place — clean, fully stocked, no mismatching panels salvaged from scrap, no turrets at the entrance. Mikey’s art graffitied across the walls and the fairy lights and paper lanterns hanging around around each room make the old, dead station come alive in a warm, welcoming glow.  

Leon’s memories are foggy with age. It’s amazing how many aspects of their simple, day-to-day life he’s forgotten. Incredible how quickly so many moments, long buried, resurface. Having fun in the arcade. Practising Sydney’s tricks on the skate ramp, hanging out in Raph’s weight room, watching Mikey cook up a storm in the kitchen, dad snoring away on his couch. It’s almost enough to trick Leon into thinking nothing went amiss, that everything is how it had always been. 

Except it’s not. 

Nothing will be the same ever again. Home is two decades into the future, in a time branch so fucked that not even Leon, with all his self-loathing, wishes to go back there. Leon carries those years on his back, in his bones. He can’t wake from the future like it was all a brief, strange dream. 

Leon keeps circling back to the living room, and each and every time the air is punched from his chest as he looks down at his family. Alive, safe, together. 

Leon knows he’s a little broken, but he has to pull it together for them. He has to pick up the remaining shattered pieces, and reconstruct himself. The wardrum of one singular fact overrides every other confusion in his head. 

He can be useful here. 

Every single nerve in Leon’s body lights up as if scraped with electric wire, purpose snapping into place. They’re all alive, and nothing will touch them again. That the Krang aren’t actually forever dead and gone is an unfortunate reality that Leon has resolutely ignored up until now for his own sanity, but he’s very much thinking about it now. How they’re still out there, somewhere in the endless vastness of space, surely on a direct trajectory towards the universe’s slowest collision course back to Earth. The same Krang that burned the world, killed his family, reduced the fabric of his life to a terrifying premonition.

And his family is here again. Everyone is alive. They’re sprawled asleep across the living room in the safety of his childhood home and this is either an incredibly long, vivid hallucination or reality, and Leon’s not sure which would be worse for his health. 

Nothing will touch them. Leon can ensure his family have the opportunity to experience the peace he could never have. Leon had never been able to prevent the tragedy that befell his original timeline. The best he can do is protect his family here.

Maybe then, he’ll be able to live without it feeling like a betrayal to those he lost. 

Chapter Text

Leo sits cross-legged against his bed frame, staring at the door he’d just haphazardly barricaded with shelves and an oversized lamp. 

He sits, he stares into space, and he seethes.  

There is a very quiet voice at the back of his head - one that sounds suspiciously like Mikey - suggesting that he may be overreacting. 

Leo tells that voice to kiss his ass, because no, thank you very much, he’s not overreacting, he’s just…

Okay. Let’s put it this way. He’d thought after their battle against the Krang, his problems would slowly be fixed, and that, with time, the bad feelings associated with the whole ordeal would simply… fade away. He’d been messed up pretty bad by the fight. Getting hurled through space debris like you’re a very small, very fragile meteor tends to do some damage to a turtle held together with little more than a shell of cartilage, keratin and stupidity. 

Things hadn’t gone exactly as planned, he can admit that much, but he and his brothers hadn’t died, so… winner winner, chicken dinner, right? All he needed to do was focus on healing up so they could all move on. 

Except, like most things in life, it hasn’t been as simple as that. After the bandages came off and the physical pain began to recede, there had been a settling period. A point where, instead of being resolved, his issues only seemed to mount upon one another. 

His anxiety — of which he thought he’d conquered — has resurged as an unforeseeable constant in his life, rising up so frequently and abruptly that Leo is beginning to think the fear controls him, rather than the other way around. There are the nightmares, of course. The sleep paralysis and the resultant insomnia. But there are other, more bizarre times the anxiety hits him — inexplicable moments where he isn’t thinking about the Krang, or even really thinking at all. He’ll be eating cereal in the morning, and his hands will grow cold, then suddenly he won’t be able to breathe, his lungs empty, and there will be hot teardrops sliding down his cheeks and plopping into the milk. 

It happens when he’s sparring with Mikey and gets pinned a little too roughly against the floor — the weight of his little brother settling over his chest sparking images of magenta eyes and solid rock crumbling beneath him. It happens when he’s alone in the shower, his tears disappearing into the stream of water and circling the drain below his feet. It happens when they’re all watching a classic formulaic action flick, and the film reaches a predictable climax where they’re fighting on the top of a building, trying to close the bright, burning portal ripping open the sky. 

To be fair, they probably should’ve guessed that last one would set him off. 

He does his best to hide it from his brothers. Tries to cover up by quietly turning away and waiting until his disobedient body stops, or rushing to the bathroom and staring down his reflection until his eyes are dry and all he feels is dizzy. It’s not that he’s incapable of being emotionally vulnerable around his family, he just can’t have them asking why he’s crying, because Leo doesn’t know, and if he can’t explain it, they’ll be unable to trust him as their leader. They’ll think he’s broken, somehow. And it’ll hurt them more when they find there’s no way he can be fixed. 

They didn’t ask for this, and Leo earnestly wants to put everything he has into this leadership gig. 

He still feels guilty for the way he’d previously pushed back against Raph - goofing off, playing dumb, actively trying to rile him up in a desperate attempt to annoy him into taking the role back. He’d approached it all the same way he always had when wanting to offset responsibility - by displaying just how terribly incompetent he was at performing the task.

Don’t want the hassle of cooking for everyone? Burn down the kitchen. 

Washing dishes? Whoops, broke your favourite plate. Laundry? Somehow everything’s been dyed blue. Clean the bathroom? I tried to take a shower while wiping down the surfaces with bleach and that’s how you found me lying face down on the cold floor, waiting until everything stopped spinning.  

Oh? You want me to lead? Sure, I’ll show you how I lead. They think he’s immature? He’ll show them immature. Raph doesn’t think he takes things seriously enough? Perfect. Let’s crank that up to eleven. 

He’d show dad. He’d show them all. He’d make Raph revoke his leadership.

He’d been so caught up in being the most insufferable little shit in the history of the Hamato family tree that it had been difficult for him to even consider why he had been so dead-set on defying dad’s decision. Wasn’t until the Krang that he really came to terms with just how terrified he’d been of the idea of having his brothers hurt under his care. Petrified of how it would define him if he did mess this up. So much so, that, yeah, he’d rather set the kitchen ablaze. It’d been far less painful to not try at all, than to risk it and wind up failing. 

But he knows better than that now. He’s trying to make it up to them. Leo still thinks that between a super strong and reliable big brother, a tech genius twin and an emotionally intelligent mystic powerhouse of a little brother, he’s grossly underqualified for the job. And the loss of his ninpo only makes him feel all the more an outsider - disconnected from his family, isolated. 

But he has to try.

Leo’s fighting hard to find it within himself to put faith in his capabilities. His brothers won’t believe in him if he doesn’t come off as completely confident, so Leo hides his brokenness. He hides it behind a thick wall of bad jokes, smiling smugness and false egocentrism. He hides it in the form of long showers and half-hidden glances when his brothers aren’t looking and tantrums that allow him to take shelter within his room where he can safely allow the dark thoughts to creep in under the cover of darkness. 

He’s been hiding it pretty well, he thinks. Leo’s always been a good liar. 

He can run when it gets too much. He can conjure up bullshit when his brothers probe him for wellbeing updates. He can plan around the events he knows will trigger him. 

His counterpart showing up out of the blue however, had not been on his schedule. 

Pretty rude of the guy, really — interrupting Leo’s compartmentalisation like that. He’d be a little less pissed about it if he’d sent a message through time beforehand, like, Hey, I’m going to be dropping in within the next month or so — might want to psychologically prepare yourself for that. Leo could’ve at least had a joke loaded and ready to fire before freaking the hell out. Then again, crying out OH NO I GO BALD??? wasn’t really going to diffuse the situation, was it. 

At first, Leo didn’t believe it was him. Hadn’t liked the idea of some random entering their home, where so many unknown factors could blow up in their faces and put everyone at risk. Unfortunately, the big guy had also been the only one capable of providing any answers to their newest predicament. And then Donnie had checked his bloodwork for bugs and, well… DNA is a bitch that Leo cannot deny. The older turtle is undoubtedly Leonardo — or, an aged and apocalypsified version of him, at least. 

Donnie had left Leo to examine his injuries, needing to go to his lab to confirm he was clean in terms of dystopian nasties, and Leo rapidly came to terms with just how thoroughly unprepared he was for his task. It’s one thing to try to settle into a comfortable cognitive dissonance by treating his brothers as patients rather than family when they’re hurt and he needs to focus. It’s another thing entirely to try and treat a future version of yourself without the thoughts of oh god, oh fuck, this is what’s going to happen to me unhelpfully pinging around your head. 

The shitty half-assed stitches in Leon’s side had been torn open during the fight and that had required most of Leo’s initial attention, but afterwards he’d just been… overwhelmed. The slider’s whole body in general is just a map of scars - fresh and old. His shell fractured in some places from blunt-force trauma and soft and bumpy in others from malnourishment. And don’t even get Leo started on the arm. He shudders to think about what could’ve caused that. Knowing himself, it could very well have been accidental. He’s come close enough to portal-chopping his own limbs off before. Maybe he had finally performed a full amputation. Regardless, were it not for their enhanced healing factor due to Drax’s mutagen and their Hamato ancestry, he doubts Leon would still be standing. 

To sum up his condition? The guy’s a total mess. Which, y’know, figures, what with them being the same person. It’s the weirdest juxtaposition though, because while this older Leo is a physical apparition of all the failures he fears he’ll suffer, Leo can’t help but feel like he’ll never be able to live up to him. 

The world needs Master Leonardo, and all we’ve got is this guy. 

Seeing this older version of himself only makes him feel all the more inadequate — weak and inexperienced in comparison. He’d been lucky none of his brothers had been killed down in those tunnels. And the only thing Leo got out of the experience was the certainty that he needs to be better. Not only because he’s faced someone better than he is despite having the exact same skillset and one less arm, but because he cannot, under any circumstances, become the older slider. 

And then when Leo had requested a little back-up regarding his highly warranted suspicions around the guy that had turtle-napped him and tried to murder them all — asked for some trust from his brothers, and they had rubbed acid into his open wounds by going and siding with the old turtle rather than him. Which isn’t Leon’s fault, per say, but it’s easier to be resentful towards him than it is to blame his brothers, even though it had been entirely a dog move on their part. One that hurts more than he’s willing to admit - another bitter reminder that while Leo needs his family, they sure as hell don’t need him.

So, there, Mikey-brain. He thinks vindictively. I’m not being irrational. This isn’t an unjustified overreaction. It’s just… the long-overdue result of bottling up one too many situations – one too many jenga blocks stacked on a weak, unstable base. Leo’s been bound to crumble at some point, and the appearance of his older self suddenly might just be the poke that sends him crashing to the ground.

He feels the tears begin to well in his eyes. He digs his fingernails into his thighs.

Useless. Useless.

“Stop crying.” He mutters under his breath, as if he can demand his body get a grip and cease the waterworks. “Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying.”

Just sitting here and having his thoughts tumble in a downward spiral is doing nothing but make him more miserable. He needs to improve. He needs to be better again. He needs to set his mind on something else. He picks himself off the floor, removes the furniture blocking his door, and goes somewhere when he can work at all three simultaneously.

- - -

Leon doesn’t end up sleeping. This shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone. To say he’s got a lot on his mind would be an understatement. A pretty monumental one, at that. 

It’s about four in the afternoon when he wanders towards the dojo, lost in his thoughts, exploring this living mausoleum of his old life. He moves to slide open the Shoji screen, only to hear a thump and a curse from inside. 

He ducks behind the divider, his pulse surging against his neck. So Leon’s attention isn’t as sharp as it probably should be. To be fair, on the kids’ nocturnal schedule, he really hadn’t expected anyone else to be up.

He waits for a few seconds for his heart rate to drop, listening to the quiet grunts of exertion coming from the dojo, then proceeds to feel stupid for having been startled in the first place. 

He lives here. There’s no one present in the Lair but his family. Why is he still jumping at shadows? 

Leon takes a breath, berating himself, then peaks through the small space between the slightly ajar door. 

His eyes widen slightly at the sight of his younger self, repeatedly hitting a training dummy with the soft, flat surface of his forearms and shins. 

For a moment Leon’s convinced he’s working out some anger, but as the motions continue in a coordinated smooth pattern, he realises that the kid is actually running through a strengthening exercise.

It’s strange enough seeing him training (let him say that again, training — Leon had been certain his brothers were joking about that), but to see him doing conditioning drills of all things… 

There’s a reason why Splinter had never tried to make them endure the fresh hell that are these exercises. They’re dull. They’re monotonous. You have to do them everyday for years to actually see considerable improvement. And if you do them for long enough - which Leo clearly has, if the way his limbs are starting to bloom with a slightly deeper green hue is any indication - it hurts. Which is kind of the point; teaching the body to strengthen itself against attacks. It requires time, commitment, and a lot of patience. Virtues that he and his brothers had in very limited supply. Leon hates doing the drills now, which probably gives you a good idea of how much he’d hated doing them as a kid. 

Leo swings his leg and hits the training dummy with his left shin. His leg collides with the dummy with a loud thump. The sound is abruptly followed by a sharp yelp. Leo swears quietly and curls over himself, his hands tightening around the leg. He clenches his eyes shut, nostrils flaring as he tries to breathe through the pain.

After a moment, he exhales, rises back to his feet, then continues like nothing happened. 

Leon watches. He really tries looking into this kid, searching for some remnant of his old self, but all he sees is a teenager he no longer recognises. Leo, gritting through the pain. Being responsible and hard-working and supposedly holding a hero complex that Leon hadn’t developed to this degree until he’d been well into his twenties. He looks at the shell cracked in places that even Leon, with all his multitude of battles, hasn’t managed to fracture yet.

When Leo’s shin hits the dummy again, his knees almost buckle from the pain. His leg is clearly injured, or at the very least, healing from an injury — one that Leon can guess he’s likely been barred from training on. But hey, when did they ever listen to sound medical advice?

Leo curses, frustrated, then pulls his arm back and whammies the training dummy with enough force to send it toppling over with a dull thud. 

Having seen enough, Leon slides open the screen and steps into the dojo. 

Leo twists at the rattle of the door’s rollers against the wooden floor, his posture lowering into a defensive position, fists raised. 

Leon lifts his hands in surrender. 

Leo’s stance loosens, his brow furrowing. 

“Oh. Lovely.” He utters unenthusiastically. “Just the guy I didn’t want to see. Fancy meeting you here." 

It comes out strange, like he's trying to come off as cool and uninterested even though his voice is hoarse and thick. Leon can see the younger slider discretely studying him, his sleep-deprived, hyperactive mind probably working on overdrive, running through a thousand different conjectures as to why it is he’s here. 

“Yeah.” Leon agrees, looking pointedly around at the dojo. “Fancy that.”

A muscle in Leo’s jaw ticks. He crosses his arms across his plastron. 

“So, what do you want? Here to turtle-nap and murder me for reasons you can’t remember? Or were you suddenly struck with some details on stuff that you had conveniently forgotten earlier? No, wait. I got it — you’re here to pull out the knife my brothers left stuck in my back.”

Leon raises a brow-ridge. “Wow… I do not remember being this overdramatic.”

Leo shoots him a sullen glower. He turns his shell on him, limping around to the fallen training dummy. 

No smart-ass comeback? Damn, okay. He must be really affected by what’s bothering him. What’s bothering him being Leon, which, hm… Is not ideal. There’s not really a good way to reverse this bad foot they’ve stepped forward with. 

He knows Leo’s suspicious of him. Leon has only exacerbated that issue by effectively stripping the kid of his strongest weapon — intuition. They may be the same person, but Leon is still an unknown entity to him. The older slider is the superior warrior, but that’s only because he’s got a bit of extra height and strength, and the experience of years of battles on his side. They both know their real talent is in perception and deception. For sticking the knife in when their enemy least expects it, then walking away with a pun and a smug smile before they even realise they’re bleeding. Leon presumably knows everything about his past self, whereas all Leo knows of Leon is that he’s someone who can manipulate and lie just as well as he can, and that knowledge probably scares the shit out of him. 

Letting the kid understand where he’s coming from would help, but Leon’s heart and mind are places he can allow no living being to enter. Not even himself. And he doesn’t know how to explain that to Leo without tipping him off to the horrors lurking beneath the surface. 

Woah there, boyo, keep your distance now. I destroyed my world, and I’m pretty sure the universe is making sure I’m punished good and well for it. Everyone that ever loved me up to this point were probably wrong for doing so, but I wouldn’t take that personally. It seems like you really lucked out here by not being a total fuck-up, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. 

Ha. Yeah, no. Somehow Leon can’t imagine that being a productive conversation. 

Leo pulls the training dummy up and sets back into it. Leon wonders if he’s picturing his face in place of the target’s. Considering how similar they look, he can’t imagine that it’s an effective means of catharsis. 

“You’re angry with me. I get it. I would be too.”

The younger slider doesn’t respond, though Leon takes the loud thwack of his fists against the dummy as a clear indicator he’s not being ignored. 

“I know you want answers. I’m sorry I can’t give them to you, and I’m sorry for what happened… I promise I won’t hurt your brothers ever again. All I want is for them to be safe.” 

His words don’t seem to calm Leo down. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s wailing on the dummy even harder than he had been before. 

“I’m not here to try and get up in your space or change things.” Leon insists, because maybe he’s like this because he thinks Leon is here to try and take his place, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. Leon… He can’t lead anymore. He’d prefer to toss the keys to Leo and have him tell him what to do – better to have a teenager take the wheel than trust himself to drive. 

“I just want to protect my family. Nothing else matters to me. If you can trust nothing else, at least trust that.”

“I don’t have to trust jack from you.” Leo emphasises with a powerful punch. “Even if I did.” Another jab. “I don’t need you to protect them.” His fist slams into the canvas. “We’ve been doing just fine without your help.” .

He sends the dummy rocking with a solid kick.

Leo exhales, catching his breath, then reaches forward with both hands to re-stabilise his punching bag. 

“You’re not my sensei. You’re not going to tell me what to do. You have no right.” He looks over his shoulder and gives Leon a sickeningly sweet smile. “So thanks. But no thanks.” 

He goes back to punching the training dummy. Leon watches him, bewildered. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Leon cringes the moment the question leaves his lips. That definitely did not come out the way he wanted it to. It isn’t like he needs to tip-toe around himself, but most people ease into these conversations with an are you okay, buddy, or you seem down, or sometimes just a hey - what’s up. They didn’t go straight for the throat, Jesus Leon. 

Leo takes it in stride, barely flinching at the query. 

“What?” He snorts. “Other than being tragically good-looking and hilarious?”

Leon fights the urge to groan. 

“I’m being serious.”

“Uh, yeah. So am I.”

Leon sighs and rephrases. 

“You’re shutting yourself off from your brothers. You’re not sleeping. You’re training. At four in the afternoon. On a Sunday.” He punctuates, leaving some time for that to sink in. “I ask again. What is wrong with you?”

Leo pauses, then turns to face him, his features carefully expressionless. “Shouldn’t you be asking yourself that question?” 

“Why?” Leon questions, lost. “Because we’re the same person?”

“Aren’t we?” Leo shoots back. 

Leon narrows his eyes at him, unsure of whether Leo is framing this as an accusation or a legitimate query. Leon’s not certain he knows the answer himself. This kid… he’s strange. Leon hadn’t acted like this in his own timeline until long after Raph’s death. 

Leo tilts his head, his trademark smug grin slipping back into place. “How about we find out with a spar?”

Leon recoils at the idea. He knows Leo’s competitive, but the kid should still be reeling from their last bout. What is he trying to prove here? 

“Pretty sure we already did that.” Leon says uneasily. “Five on one, if I’m remembering correctly.” He adds, hoping the reminder will be enough to dissuade him.

“Sure,” Leo agrees. “But you weren’t thinking clearly, right? It could’ve just been the bling-bling voodoo, for all I know. Unless, of course, you did know what you were doing.”

Leon grimaces, his mouth pulling into a taut line. 

“Either way, we both know how the last fight ended… How’s the head, by the way?”

Leon ignores the taunt and places his hand against his hip. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Why? Scared you’ll lose to your former self?” Leo smirks.

He’s acting cocky, cranking up the ego to make it seem like he has complete confidence in the outcome of the challenge. He doesn’t truly believe it though. He’s only behaving like this because it makes his targets either underestimate him (making it easier to pull the rug from out their feet) or fight harder in an attempt to prove him wrong (usually resulting in mistakes on their part). It’s a ploy to piss him off. If Leon were to fall for his little game, this kid would be receiving an entirely different kind of visceral reaction than the one he’s expecting. The kind where Leon would do something exceptionally stupid like punch him in the face, then immediately hug him and say, I’m so sorry your life is such a mess. 

Leon is trying to be a good person. He’s not throwing hands with a sixteen year old. 

“I just attacked you all.” He explains rationally and evenly. “I’d rather not do it again.”

Leo’s face drops. 

“Okay, well. Feel free to let yourself out, then.” He replies, jerking his head in the direction of the door. “You’re kinda mellowing up my vibe here.”

Mellowing. Is that like… an age thing? 

He considers leaving, but this whole plan he has in mind is going to go a whole lot smoother if the two of them can cohabitate without hating the other. An idea pops into his head. 

“Oooor,” Leon drones, “I could show you how to fix up your footwork.”

Leo laughs loudly for a second, then in a snap, all false humour vanishes from his expression. “There’s nothing wrong with my footwork.” He states.

Leon gives him a taste of his own smug smile. “Are you sure about that?”

The younger slider frowns, and Leon lifts his hand, beckoning him over.

Leo regards him with a cautiously curious gaze as he reluctantly complies. He squares his shoulders, steps forward and stands before Leon. 

Good. Leon can lead the horse to water. 

Let’s see if he can’t make him drink. 

He opens up his arm, exposing his chest. 

“Hit me.” 

Leo’s face scrunches in confusion. “I thought you didn’t want me to hit you.”

“I’d like to see you try to hit me.”

Leo either has been waiting for an opportunity like this, or he isn’t as immune to provocation as Leon is. 

He lunges forward, hastily, sloppily. Leon sees the hit coming from a mile away. He swiftly dodges to the right, keeping his eyes on Leo’s as the fist flies past his face, then whips his arm forward, taking hold of Leo’s loose arm in a tight grip and twisting it behind his shell when he stumbles from his overcommitment to the strike. 

Leo tries to break the hold, squawking in pain when the movement only pushes his arm up further.

He’s either too stubborn or too proud to tap out, so Leon waits until he stops squirming. When he does, Leon leans over and rewards him with some advice. 

“Don’t shift your weight back to get power. You do that, you’re telegraphing your moves. Your opponent will see you coming.” He releases Leo’s arm then pats his torso. “Engage your core. Drive in with your hip.”

Leo takes a step back from him, his hands lowering protectively over his stomach. Irritation radiates off of him.  

“Again.”

Leo rolls his shoulders, then raises his fists. 

The next attack is better, though Leon can still pinpoint the millisecond Leo decides to make his move - the rapid shift of intent clear in his eyes. Leon deflects the punch, then takes hold of Leo’s plastron, partially turns his shell towards him, then kicks his leg backwards as he pulls hard — clipping Leo’s ankle, breaking his balance and lifting him off the ground in one clean sweep. He uses his resultant forward momentum to effortlessly toss the smaller slider over his shoulder and slam him to the dojo floor. 

Leo stares up at him from the mat, eyes wide, totally dazed, his vision swimming — one of his hands clinging onto the fabric of Leon’s pants like it’s a buoy in the middle of the ocean. 

“What was that?” Leo exclaims the moment he finds the words to speak, his tone dancing the line between crestfallen dejection and elated astonishment. 

Leon smiles. He’d thought Leo might appreciate the take-down. He remembers fondly the first time he’d had his ass handed to him with that particular move. 

Horse. Meet water.

“Uchi Mata.”

Leo’s mouth twists, his brow furrowing. “Oochi what now?”

“It's Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.” 

Leo pushes his hands against the floor and sits up. His eyes spark with reinvigorated fire. 

“Teach me.”

- - -

Leon’s always thought of himself as a slow learner, so it’s odd to be suddenly faced with this hyperactive ball of energy that’s completely fixated on soaking up as much information as fast as possible. Maybe he’s just more motivated to change than Leo was at his age, while Leon had been distracted or uninterested — taking far longer to access his full potential. Honestly, it’s hard to tell. 

What is clear is that the kid has far more internalised rage than he lets on. He goes at him hard, and Leon’s often forced to respond in kind. There’s other times where he settles his full weight on top of Leo and the kid freezes, his body going rigid. Leon fortunately immediately catches on, well accustomed to working with people suffering from trauma. He can’t know exactly what happened to the kid in the prison realm, but he knows the signs to watch out for, understands when he’s free to apply pressure and when he needs to stop and ease up.

It’s not long until Leo’s putting up a decent enough fight that Leon has to actually focus on working around only having his left arm available. With their shared injuries, Leon’s pretty sure neither of them should be engaging the other like this, but if a good fight means the kid is able to expel some of that pent up anger and ultimately treat Leon with a little less hostility, he’s happy for the both of them to endure a little pain. 

He loses track of time, and they don’t stop until Mikey pops his head into the dojo a couple hours later.

“Do I need to break up this category five Leo moment?”

They both freeze. Leon has the smaller slider pinned to the floor, his legs thrown over his chest, feet holding down one of his biceps, the other arm locked into a tight arm bar. They twist their heads to look up towards their little brother. He’s paused in the entryway, his expression a conflicted amalgamation of shock, flabbergasted concern, and looking like he’s mere seconds away from pulling out Dr. Delicate Touch.  

“I’m teaching him some moves.” Leon explains at the same time that Leo says, “I’m beating up this old man.”

“Ah…” The tension in Mikey’s form drops, the nonplussed expression remains. “Good to know.”

Leo flails his legs upwards, likely not wanting to be seen beaten down so easily in front of his little brother. It’s an ultimately useless attempt to break Leon’s hold. His body is perpendicular to him. The younger slider is flexible, but there’s no way he’ll be able to reach Leon from the position he’s got him pinned down into. Leon pulls his arm tight and leans back a little further, flexing the limb a little past its natural bending point, and Leo’s struggles cease for a moment as he releases a litany of ow, ow, owie—

“Did you need something Miguel?” Leon asks casually. 

Mikey blinks at the nickname. He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Just wanted to let you know breakfast will be ready in five.”

Leon flashes a smile. “We’ll be right there.”

Mikey beams at him like a little ray of sunshine, then disappears down the hall. 

Leon finally releases Leo, and the slider rolls away from him with a groan. He curls over his arm and rubs at the aching joint.

“I think that’s enough for today.” Leon says. He refrains from the usual phrases he’d use with Casey to mark the end of a session. He’s made some real progress with Leo in a very short period, and he’d hate to ruin that with a ‘Lesson over’ or ‘Class dismissed’.

“How’d I do?” Leo asks from his foetal position on the floor. 

Before Leon can open his mouth, Leo adds, “Awesome, right? Killed it.”

Leon raises a brow ridge. He’s beginning to see why people had difficulties giving him that external validation he craved so much as a kid. It’s hard to praise someone who already naturally comes across as arrogant. And it’s exactly this lack of encouragement that had initiated his insecurity complex in the first place. It’s quite the vicious cycle - one that Leon’s should have recognised and resolved far earlier in his life. Then again, hindsight is one hell of a drug. 

“Yeah. You did great.” Leon agrees candidly.

Leo's head lifts a little, his eyes lighting up for a moment.

It’s such a small acknowledgement, and yet the kid is practically thriving from the attention. Christ, Leon can’t remember it being this bad. He’s like a sad puppy. 

“Your humility could still use some work though.” He notes. If he can help Leo build up a self-confidence that isn’t faked or overstated, he’d have the potential to be worlds ahead of Leon by the time he reaches his age. 

He gets up and offers Leo a hand.

Leo stares at it for a few moments, his face unreadable, before he finally accepts, allowing Leon to gently haul him up. In the grand scheme of things it’s a very small step forward, but to Leon it feels like a resounding victory. 

He runs into Casey on the way to the kitchen, and his student’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of him walking around with Leo in tow. Leon shakes his head minutely, silently pleading for him to not make a big deal about it - lest he have the younger slider suddenly remember he’s supposed to still be pissed at him.  

Casey seems to receive the message, mumbling out a belated G’morning to both of them and taking his spot by Leon’s side. He tousles his student’s hair goodnaturedly. 

They hear a commotion towards the Lair’s entrance. Looking over, he sees Raph greeting someone, his larger form obscuring them from view.

Leon steps shakily towards the sound of their voice, hope rising in his chest. 

Raph steps away, and a profound, dizzying joy swells within him. Their commander, Leon’s big sister... April’s tight burgundy curls are tied up in a ponytail, a backpack slung over her shoulder. He pauses, once again struck by how young his family is. It’s like looking into an old photo, all the little details Leon remembers come to life. Her knowing smirk, her trademark bright yellow hoodie and red cat-eye glasses, the long black sleeves that reach past her hands. 

If Mikey had been Leon’s light in the darkness, April had been his compass. The upbeat, wisecracking firecracker, guiding their way. Keeping them moving in the right direction when all else felt lost. She had grounded them, kept him stable and strong. They’d disagree at times, but Leon knew that she always had his back, regardless of the chaos unfolding around them. None of them would’ve been able to survive nearly as long as they had were it not for her.

The last Leon saw of April, he’d been pretty delirious, practically dying on the battlefield as they spoke. The only thing that had kept him moving was Casey’s arm around him and the urgency and gravity behind their final mission. She’d given them the opportunity to escape. They hadn't had the chance to look back, but Leon knew she would’ve gone down fighting, right to the very end. 

Leon’s eyes well with tears. He really wants to tackle her with a hug, but he doesn’t really know what the protocol is for appropriate behaviour here. April ends up making it easy for him, closing the distance between them and immediately embracing him like there hasn’t been a day between them. 

“You look rough buddy.” She murmurs softly.

Leon laughs wetly into her shoulder. 

“I feel rough.”

She hums. “I might have a quick, unfortunately non-permanent fix for that.”

April pulls away, and that’s when Leon realises that somehow the two iced coffees in her hands had gone totally over his window of perception. She hands him one, and Leon gratefully takes it. 

It’s the little luxuries that make life truly civilised. Small, easily dismissible aspects of his life that had been easy to take for granted before everything went to shit. Hot showers, toilet paper, high-speed internet, temperature-controlled homes, caffeine. God, he can’t remember the last time he’s had a good cup of joe. Humanity had managed to hold out for a relatively long time, but the dwindling supply of coffee had marked a pretty pivotal moment of societal collapse. That had been Donnie’s considered opinion anyway, and now that he finally has the drink in hand again, Leon’s inclined to agree with that assessment. 

The younger softshell pops out from behind him. “Uh, excuse me? Where’s mine?” He asks, affronted. 

“You can come to me for all the free coffee you want after you’ve gone through an apocalypse.” April replies. 

Leon closes his eyes and takes a long sip, savouring the taste. He mouths ‘I love you’ to April behind Donnie’s back, and she grins.

They collectively congregate around the kitchen table, and are thereupon stunned by the sheer volume of food on display before them. 

Casey leans over and quietly informs him, “Mikey’s been stress baking.” 

“I can see that.”

It wasn’t uncommon for Mikey to commandeer the kitchen in the wake of a crisis — often after a mission gone wrong or when one of his brothers got sick or injured. He’d become an absolute baking machine, churning out more delicious treats than they could feasibly consume, and they’d all be duty-bound as big brothers to eat their way through the by-products of Mikey’s anxiety. 

Leon settles into a seat. Casey shoots into the chair beside him and immediately starts piling an assortment of pancakes, burberry muffins, bacon and hashbrowns onto Leon’s plate. 

April watches him, thoroughly amused at Leon’s expense. “I can’t believe Leo is the one that gave Splints a grandkid.” She remarks.

“Yeah, I thought Raph was going to bite the bullet on that one for sure.” Donnie notes. He plops down across from him and goes straight for the pot of coffee at the centre of the table. 

Raph splutters.

“And one so respectful, too.” April points out. 

Donnie fills his mug to the brim. “The wonders of this world will never cease.”

Leon glances down at Casey. He seems relatively unaffected by the conversation, more focused on his task of loading Leon’s plate. Well, maybe unaffected isn’t the right word. He can’t remember the last time Casey looked this happy. Leon gets it. Everything within him feels light and fluttery right now, his feet barely touching the ground. 

All of this seems too good to be true, to an extent that Leon can’t help but fear what will follow the moment, when the universe will balance itself out by swinging the pendulum to the other extreme and slamming disaster into his face. Little sparks of adrenaline and anxiety crackle along his nerves as he watches his family settle around him, talking, teasing one another, existing. 

Leo bets everyone he can catch an apple from the other side of the room with his teeth, and Raph calls his wager, tossing it to him. The apple smacks him in the face, bits of it exploding apart from the impact, but Leo swiftly recovers, lurching forward and snagging it between his teeth before it can hit the floor. Leon tries to reconcile the image of the angsty, disgruntled slider from earlier this morning with the jokester before him now. He’s putting on quite the show. The others laugh at him as he does a little victory dance, his arms waggling. Leon struggles to join in on the good humour. He sits back, his expression conflicted as he watches the younger slider merrily crunch into the fruits of his triumph. 

Casey tugs on his pant leg, sending him a concerned look. Leon blinks, then returns a small smile of reassurance, a slight shake of his head, and looks away, refocusing his attention to the food piled high on his plate. 

He doesn’t have much of an appetite. 

Leon was used to the constant feeling of hunger. His timeline had made him very familiar with the gnawing emptiness clawing at his stomach, but right now he finds his stomach is full on air. 

Leon slowly cuts into one of the pancakes doused in syrup. It’s awkward only having the one arm again, and he can practically feel Casey watching him from beside him, likely wanting to help. Leon’s thankful he doesn’t. 

He takes a tentative bite. 

An explosion of flavour bursts across his tongue. It’s so good that for a second he’s transported somewhere else. 

He hasn’t had a decent meal in years. Master Michelangelo is a goddamn wizard, but there’s only so much you can work with in the post apocalypse. Raging hordes had descended upon stores very early on. It’d been utter chaos. The looting had gone on for weeks, and when production and transport shut down, any surviving patches of humanity took a rapid nosedive. Humans and Yokai alike became no more than animals, fighting and clawing for what little was left. Breakfast for Leon usually consisted of canned beans, cough drops and a splash of bourbon — for strength. His stomach is probably going to revolt against this sudden influx of adequate nutrition, but the surge of sweetness igniting his dopamine receptors is so good that he doubts he’d be able to stop himself even if he wanted to.

“Leo?” Mikey calls. “You okay?” 

Leon coughs and discretely wipes away the tears that’ve welled in his eyes. Heat rises to his cheeks. God, this is embarrassing. Don’t mind me. Just crying over some pancakes. Totally normal stuff over here.

“Is it bad? I can make you something else—”

“No,” He chokes out, offering a tight smile. “No, it’s good, little brother. Really good. The best thing I’ve had in years.”

He doesn’t mention that his tastebuds at this point are essentially a barren wasteland. Mikey could’ve served up eggs burnt to a crisp on rock hard toast, and Leon would devour it and probably thoroughly enjoy doing so. 

“Better than leaves and rats?” Mikey asks.

Leon’s brain stutters to a halt. “What?”

Mikey pauses, his face reddening. “Sorry, is that rude? It’s just something Casey mentioned.”

A flush creeps up Casey’s face. He shyly ducks his head and shovels more food into his mouth. 

Not so long ago, he would’ve reached out and poked fondly at his little brother. Leon’s not so sure he’s entitled to those little affectionate indulgences anymore. Instead, he side-eyes dad at the other end of the table, seated in his high-chair. He looks like he’s hardly listening, far more interested by the meal in front of him than whether or not Leon knows what his flesh tastes like.

“Uh, yeah— no, I mean, no. No, uh—” He swallows the jumble of syllables, takes a breath, then clarifies, “no, it’s not rude. Yes, some of us ate rats.” He’d been desperate, at times. But never that desperate. “I was more partial to the leaves.”

“Why?” Pops asks, “We’re delicious.”

Leon grimaces. For dad’s sake, he hopes he’s joking. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”

April, bless her, shifts them away from the uncomfortable topic. “So, what do you want to do now that you’re back?” 

Leon tilts his head, brow furrowing at the way she says back - like he’s simply gone out on a long trip, rather than apparated here from a hellish timeline. Like Leon’s return had always been a given.  

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m assuming there’s a bunch of things you wanted to do but couldn’t anymore, right?” 

Honestly, Leon had tried to avoid thinking about his past at all costs. Getting stuck on the things he missed was an unproductive use of his time, doing nothing but landing him right in the middle of depression town. And Leon spends enough time in that place as it is.  

Leon shrugs. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“What about… sneaking into a wrestling match?” Raph prompts.

Leo hums in agreement. “Or riding one of the rollercoasters at Luna Park.”  

“Aquarium. Botanical garden. Museum.” Donnie lists off. 

Mikey snaps his fingers. “Ooh, Lou-Mike-Tony Tony’s Pizza! We have to take him there again.” 

They continue throwing around ideas. Donnie eventually has to pull out his phone to keep track of the rapidly expanding list of places they plan on taking him. 

Leonardo nods along to the suggestions, contentment warming him from within. He finds it amazing how, despite all the years that distance them, they’re still so familiar. He’d spent long nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, utterly torn apart by his inability to remember Raph’s voice, his facial tics, his laugh, the way his snaggle tooth pulled at his lips when he smiled. He’d struggled to recall Donnie’s little idiosyncrasies, the colour and texture of dad’s fur. Miniscule inflections that made them, them. Now that he’s here though, he realises that all these tiny mannerisms he had thought lost to time… they had always been there, tucked away deep in some dusty nook of his brain, just waiting to be brought to the light. 

He had never forgotten them.

Leon looks away, his heart clenching painfully. 

Please, please, please don’t have a breakdown at the kitchen table. 

It doesn’t help that every time he glances over to Leo’s side of the table, he finds the younger slider staring at him. He doesn’t look away when he’s caught either. He’s not even trying to be subtle about it. Not like the others are. 

When Leon meets his eyes again, he sighs, then warily asks, “Can I help you?”

“How old are you?” 

Leon is momentarily stunned by his counterpart’s brutal straightforwardness. 

“Leo!” Raph chastises. He turns to Leon, “I apologise for…” He pauses, his eyes flicking back to his younger brother, “Uh… your behaviour?… I guess?”

“What? I can’t even ask myself his age?” Leo exclaims, gesturing to Leon with his fork. “He looks old.”

Oof, ouch, my ego. 

“You do realise that’s you right? Like, this—” Donnie gestures to just… all of Leon, in general. “This is inevitable for you.”

This is not making him feel better. 

Leo leans back on his chair, his hands reaching behind his head. “Not me baby, I’m gonna die young and beautiful.”

“Really? Could I offer my assistance in helping you bury the body?” Donnie points to his youngest brother, “Mikey loves digging holes.”

“Okay!” Raph slams his palms on the table, “It is seven in the evening, can we at least try to be civilised? Were you all raised in a gutter?”

Donnie opens his mouth. Raph throws forward a silencing finger. “DON’T answer that.” 

“Rhetorical. Got it.” Donnie mutters under his breath. 

“I…” The full attention of the room swings back to Leon. “I don’t actually know how old I am.” He answers honestly. 

There’s a long beat of silence.

“Are you capable of remembering anything?” Leo asks. “Do you have short-term memory loss or something?”

“No.” Leon retorts irritably. “I just… don’t keep track anymore. Time kinda got irrelevant the longer it went on.”

Mikey’s fork clatters against the porcelain of his plate. “We don’t. Celebrate. Birthdays anymore?” He cries, like the concept of there being no parties in the apocalypse is some great travesty they should all be mourning.

“I’ve had birthdays.” Casey points out with a frown, “April and Donnie gave me the first version of my hockey-stick for my eleventh.”

“Well yeah, we wanted to make sure you had something to look forward to.” 

They couldn’t not celebrate a child’s birthday. Plus, it helped with morale. Sometimes it felt like they were so focused on survival that they forgot they were still living. Those little celebrations acted as a way to break up the chronic miserability of trying not to die all the time. 

“No matter.” Donnie announces. “We can still work this out. Casey’s sixteen, and he said he was born after the initial Krang invasion, so by my estimates you have to be over thirty-five, at least-” He brings a hand to his chin. “I could probably determine your exact age with skeletochronology. All we’d need to do get a radiograph of your humerus and examine the growth rings-”

Leon throws a hand up, “Let me stop you there!” He cringes, “I’d really, really rather hold onto my blissful ignorance when it comes to the age department.”

“Relatable.” Splinter mumbles around a mouthful of food. 

Donnie relents, deflating. He returns to his meal, though it’s clear his brother is still rolling the idea over in his head. Leon can only hope he doesn’t wake up tomorrow with his arm strapped under an X-ray.  

Leon relaxes more as the subject matter moves away from him. April catches him up on her life — college, the rotating wheel of different jobs she’s been spinning through. Casey talks about his school (what Leon thinks about this). Donnie infodumps about the newest inventions he’s been thinking up - some of which sound very familiar to Leon.  

Raph gives him a curious look as Leon casually offloads some of his food onto his plate. Leon leans back, taking a hearty bite from a muffin. Raph looks down at his plate, then his head lifts, and without a hint of warning, he poses to Leon a perfectly innocent question. 

“What was I like in the future?” 

Leon sucks in a sharp breath and chokes. 

Tears springs to his eyes as bits of half-chewed muffin lodge in his airway. His heart hammers against his ribs as he coughs and hacks up the food. Casey passes him some water. Leon accepts it with a shaking hand and takes a long sip. 

“Sorry.” He manages to get out, cringing as he thumps his fist against his chest. “Wrong pipe.”

“Right…” Raph gives him a concerned look and continues. “It’s just that… Casey says it’s hard to describe his past — our future. What it could’a been.” 

How’s Leon supposed to go about answering that? You want to know what you’re like in my timeline? Well gee Raphie, you’re very dead, mostly.

Fuck. 

His stomach is turning over so violently he thinks he might be sick. 

He glimpses at Casey, internally screaming for help, but his student is as much a deer caught in the headlights as Leon is, his frame completely stiff. 

He’s extremely conscious of the full weight of the room’s attention on him. All his regrets — should-ofs and could-ofs sitting around the table, staring at him. And it never affected any of them. His pain is pointless to them. He has no idea how to respond. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with his brother, not wanting to share the patchwork of broken emotions written across his face. 

Leon’s breaths quicken, his chest tightening. He needs to think up an excuse, and he needs to do it now. Think, think, think. 

Can’t think. Brain currently non-functional. Too busy firing up the first stage of a full-blown panic attack. 

In the corner of his eye he spots Leo calmly picking up a soaked pancake with his bare hands. Leon blinks, and in the next moment Raph has a facefull of said pancake. It slowly peels away from his skin and flops comically to his lap, leaving Raph’s features covered with a thick coating of maple syrup. 

The room falls into a deathly silence. 

Leon’s head whips back to the younger slider, along with the rest of the table’s. Leo’s arm is still extended, syrup dripping from his fingers. 

The blood in Leon’s veins turns to ice as a thick blanket of dread settles over him, sending shivers shooting over the nape of his neck and down his spine. 

He knows.

April goes incredibly still. Casey discretely slinks down his chair, his head ducking below the table. Mechanical limbs slowly unfurl from Donnie’s battle shell. Splinter starts stashing muffins and tarts into the pockets of his robe.   

Leo’s face breaks into a Cheshire cat grin. 

Mikey shoots up and screams, “FOOD FIGHT!” And from there everything erupts into chaos. 

Leo’s chair screeches across the floor in his haste to leap out of it as Raph lunges across the table towards him. He takes little notice of the jugs, pots and bowls that spill across the surface as he scrambles after his little brother. Mikey arms himself with a tray of little muffins and begins nailing his brothers with practised precision. Donnie immediately goes for the fruit platter, his mechanical arms rapidly pelting grapes, bananas and chunks of watermelon into the fray, causing squelchy juice to splatter across his victims on impact. Casey holds up his plate in a desperate attempt to block the barrage. 

April cackles madly as she shoves her hand into a custardy dessert and sends it soaring. Leo frantically races around in circles, using the table as a barrier between him and his big brother – juking left and right and barely ducking in time to avoid the whole stack of french toast Raph thrusts at him. 

Mikey has streaks of strawberry jam smeared across his cheek. Donnie releases an indignant cry when Leo manages to pause long enough to dump a platter of scrambled eggs over his head. 

April is roaring bloody revenge for the clump of unrecognisable mush caught in her hair, and Raph is howling a battle cry as he finally tackles Leo the ground and pops is catching flying treats from the air and stuffing them into his mouth, and Casey is bubbling with laughter and looks happy and carefree and like a normal sixteen year old, right where he should’ve been this whole time and—

And Leon sits, frozen, even as porridge splats against his cheek and drips to the floor. Paralysed in the wake of the realisation that thunders through him.

Leo can be immature, but he understands when the jokes need to be put on pause. He wouldn’t have interrupted Raph like that. Not without good reason. The violent shift of attention away from Leon had been intentional. He’s sure of it. And Leon can think of only one conclusion as to why his younger counterpart would’ve done that for him. 

Leo knew what had become of his brothers in the future. He knew exactly how Leon had failed, and he was trying to keep the terrible details from the rest of his family. 

The kid’s angered words from earlier ring sharply between his ears, a whole new meaning attached to them.  

I don’t need you to protect them.

You have no right.

- - -

Leon finds himself curled over the toilet no more than a half hour later, his abs shaking from the effort it takes to dry-heave into the bowl. There’s nothing to bring up anymore. All that remains is bile that stings acidic and sour at the back of his throat. 

He wishes someone would take Mickey out of here. Take Casey out of here. Wishes they would all leave, actually. There’s way too many scrappy, food-caked teenagers crammed into this tiny bathroom.

Leon doesn’t want to be seen like this.

“I told you we should have gone slow,” Raph exclaims to no one in particular. He has the younger slider trapped like a football under his arm. Leo’s limbs dangle limply from his tight hold. “We know what Casey was like the first time he wolfed down real food.”

Casey wipes away the sweat and flecks of indistinguishable breakfast mush from his head with a hand towel. “I’m really sorry sensei—”

“But Leo usually has the strongest stomach of all of us!” Mikey insists, looking stricken. 

Leon’s stomach clenches. It feels weirdly disrespectful to have expelled the productions of his creation into a product bowl. It’s a dumb thing to feel guilty about, considering Mikey had just been having the time of his life sending the food flying towards his family. 

“I wouldn’t call the chunks I just flushed away evidence of an iron gut.” Donnie says dryly. He wipes away the remaining bits of cream still adhered to his mask. 

“I dunno, I saw five year-olds projectile more barf when I was still working at Albearto’s.” April reassures? them. Leon kind of wants to crawl into a hole and die. “I’m talking like, painting the walls.” She shudders at the memory. “This ain’t that bad.” 

“Yeah but puking is like, a five year-old’s natural disposition. Have you seen the stuff they put into their mouths?” Leo reasons sensibly. “I don’t think it’s healthy for grandpa here on the other hand to be harking up his stomach lining.”

Leon tries to imagine how much better he would feel if they all stopped discussing vomit. 

As they argue amongst themselves, he weakly pushes Casey away and undergoes what is probably his most sad and pathetic escape attempt to date; hot sweaty palm slipping on cold tile as he slowly crawl-hobbles towards the door on his hand and knees. 

“Uh oh. Turtle on the run.” His counterpart announces from Raph’s arms.

He cusses out the little snitch. Curse his perceptiveness. 

“Leo. Infirmary. Now.” Donnie orders firmly.

Leon bows his head in defeat.

“You do mean him right?” Leo asks, pointing to the older slider.

Donnie turns on him with a scowl. “Both of you.” 

- - -

Donnie drags the troublesome two into the medbay and has Leon sit on the bed. 

Leo crouches down and searches the cupboards for some Pepto-Bismol or Ibuprofen, or whatever it is they still have stocked in there. 

Donnie should probably be helping somehow, but his focus keeps wandering away from him, his eyes flicking between the two sliders. 

It’s a strange paradox to become accustomed to someone’s face. At some point the features cease to be seen and all that he’s looking simply just is. Whether it’s pleasing or not becomes inconsequential, because the sum of the parts are so well known.

This turtle he’s looking at — it’s Leo… But it’s also distinctly not Leo. 

It’s not that Donnie doesn’t recognise this new, older version of his twin. Quite the opposite in fact. He’d known this was Leo the first time he’d set eyes on him. No, it’s the intricacies in-between that set him off — the scars along the hollow ridge of his cheek, the deep furrows in his brow, the world-weariness behind his eyes. His brothers had rationalised his guttural rush of dismayed apologies as him feeling guilty for attacking them. But the way he had looked at Donnie down in those tunnels? The tightness with which he had clung onto them, the sorrow and desperation in his voice, the way he struggles to look at them, even now… There’s more to it than they think. 

Donnie’s always had troubles with reading the non-verbal social cues of others, but he knows without a doubt when there is something wrong with his brother. 

… Something wrong other than him puking his guts out, that is. 

Donnie knows his rival. He’s spent most of his life trying to beat his twin with everything he has. Leo’s a lot of things. Irritating, is the first to come to mind. Immature. Impulsive, egotistical, rash, brave, charismatic. Surprisingly clever when he actually decides to put his mind to a task. Reliable when it comes to the stuff that really matters. It hasn’t escaped Donnie’s notice that the closer they get to uncomfortable truths with Leo, the more jokes per minute he makes. It’s a surprisingly effective defence mechanism. But if this is what the other side of the spectrum is… If this is what Leo is like with his barriers broken down, Donnie’s not sure he can blame his brother for trying to keep that wall up. His brother is a lot of things, but he’s not the quietly resigned red-eared slider in front of him now.

Donnie swipes some of his equipment from a shelf and makes himself useful, taking a q-tip, sticking it into Leon’s mouth and swirling it around his cheek. Leon endures the treatment without complaint, well-acquainted with Donnie’s poor bedside manner. He drops the sample into a test tube and pockets it for analysis in his lab later. He’s not expecting to find anything new, but it’s always good practice to double check.

Leo hands him some pills, half-turns to grab him some water, and stops as Leon, without hesitation, up and dry-swallows the tablets like a practised professional. Donnie tries not to dwell on the implications of that, though the scars marring his body already make it pretty clear that getting injured is not an uncommon occurrence for the older slider.

They’re both oddly quiet as they mechanically run through the steps of a usual check-up. Donnie would’ve marked Leo’s sudden good behaviour down as him not wanting to be released back into Raph’s clutches and forced to clean up the mess he started, but his brother keeps sneaking glances at the older slider, his jaw set in a hard line. Donnie’s not the only one to notice.

Leon, who, ever since the food fight fiasco seems to have developed an incapability to meet his counterpart’s eye, doesn’t look up when he asks flatly, “What is it with you and the staring?” 

“I’m not, I’m just… You’re kinda souped up.” 

Donnie snorts.

“What.” Leon utters, straight faced. 

Leo throws his hands up, “Y’know, ripped, buff, jacked, big. I’m having a hard time believing this is natural. I do not think I have the genetic make-up to be putting muscle on like that.”

Growing up, Donnie and Leo have always been on the leaner side of the family, struggling to put on mass. This is simply an aesthetic observation. They’re by no means weak, Draxum’s mutagen made sure of that. After Raph, Leo’s probably tied with Mikey in terms of sheer strength - a great deal of muscle hidden away in his lean frame. And while Donnie’s valued for his brains rather than his brawn, he has gains of his own from hours upon hours spent heaving around heavy equipment around the garage, cleaning parts, stripping down engines for rebuilds and hammering, sawing and bending materials into shape at his workbench. 

“They don’t appear magically. It does take work.” Leon assures him quietly.

“Thank god for that. I don’t want to be a beefcake. I like being a snack.” 

Donnie suppresses a groan as the tips of the older slider’s mouth quirk upwards slightly in silent amusement. At least he can still find himself marginally funny.

Donnie’s gaze slides down lower to the remaining stub of his arm. He wrings his hands together nervously. “Sooo…” He begins in a low drawl. 

Leon lifts the nub of his right arm towards him.

Donnie blinks.

“You want to take a closer look at it, right?” 

Wow. Okay. He’d thought he was being subtle about it. Could mind-reading be a thing in the future? Should he be wearing a foil hat? No, right? The more likely explanation is that they’ve spent so long trying not to draw explicitly attention to the arm that it’s had the opposite effect; Leon noticing their obvious efforts to not broach what is, for most people, an incredibly sensitive subject.

Donnie’s first instinct is to deny it. “What, pfft, no? What made you think that?”

He knows how his brothers feel about being studied by Donnie. No one likes being treated like a mad genius’s science experiment. But Leon doesn’t look angry. His tight features softened out. He simply lifts a brow ridge and smiles fondly at him.

The expression does more to crack Donnie’s composure than any of Leo’s usual teasing could. “Okay, fine! Stop looking at me like that. Curiosity has been killing me.”

“Uh…” Leo interrupts, “Maybe you shouldn’t—”

It’s too late, Donnie’s already unfurled the bandages, revealing what remains of Leon’s arm to the light, and… Yikes. 

Yes, that’s Donnie’s fully considered medical appraisal. Yikes.

The scarred, discoloured flesh begins where the limb abruptly ends. The skin at the stub is pulled taught, broken tissue overlapping in thick and jagged lesions. 

“Whoever stitched this up must have been drunk or blind… Or both.” 

Leon’s corresponding wince to Donnie’s blunt statement is subtle. His shoulders rise sheepishly. Leo’s head tilts slightly at the older slider’s reaction. He squints, then his eyes go wide, a horrible thought flashing through him. 

“Don’t tell me—” 

“DIY project.” Leon admits. 

Leo and Donnie’s gape at him.

“Say again?” Donnie manages to squeak out after a long stretch of shocked silence. Because surely he hadn’t heard that right—

Even if Leon had been able to stay conscious for long enough to tourniquet the arm and staunch the bleeding, what he’s implying… It would require him shearing away the excess damaged tissue from the wound, tying off and cauterising blood vessels as he went, leaving enough healthy tissue to staple – or even worse, pushing and pulling a needle through the flesh – to finally attach the flap of muscle and skin over the open wound. And then… Then there’s the bone. As far as Donnie knows amputations usually require the shortening and smoothening of the remaining section of the limb so it can be covered by an adequate amount of soft tissue and muscle. 

People can do superhuman things to survive under pressure, but this is different. What Leon’s talking about is performing surgery on himself, without anaesthesia, whilst suffering from extreme blood loss. Donnie would call it a miracle for him not to pass out in the first minute.  

Leo looks a little pale.

“I was lucky.” Leon says in a rush, like somehow that’ll undercut the insanity he’s just confessed to. “It was a clean cut, and we managed to come across a veterinarian to clean up my shoddy work not too long after. They made it look a lot prettier than the way I had left it.” 

“Where was I in all this?” Donnie cries out. 

Leon shrugs and looks away. 

“Busy.” 

Donnie knows by his tone that this will be all they’ll be getting out of him on the topic. And honestly, he isn’t sure he even wants to know what busy means. He tries to exchange a look with Leo, but the younger slider similarly refuses to meet his eye.

“Better an arm than a leg, right?” Leon says jovially, trying to lighten the mood.

“Better to lose nothing at all.” Leo shoots back. 

The smile slips off Leon's face and he shrinks back into himself. Donnie can’t help but feel he’s missing out on something here — an unspoken, underlying meaning behind Leo’s words that only the two of them understand. It sucks. Third-wheel twinning is an experience he did not think he would have to endure in this lifetime.

Leo sighs, the anger fizzling out of him. He takes the bandages and carefully rewraps Leon’s arm. 

Donnie turns around and reaches under one of the shelves, pulling out an electronic scale; the heavy duty one that Donnie had specifically calibrated to take Raph’s weight. Leo takes a seat on a benchtop as Donnie gets Leon to stand on the device. He pulls out his tablet to record his weight, glances down at the reading at his feet, and freezes.

Leon observes his reaction with a grim kind of humour. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s not ‘not bad’, I’ll tell you that much.” Donnie replies after a moment. 

Leo peers over and takes a glimpse at his weight. His brows lift. “Well damn.” He concurs.

“You have to account for me having one less limb.” Leon reasons, like that’ll make his condition seem better than it actually is.

“Obviously. But even then, a turtle your height…” Donnie trails off, then places the tablet down and sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised after having gone through Casey’s first check-up. I’ll be putting Michael in charge of making sure you eat more though.”

Ideally they’ll be able to sort out a diet for him that won’t come straight back up again.

“He did feel a lot heavier when he was sitting on my shell.” Leo mutters distantly.

“When he was what?”

Leo, suddenly realising what he just said, plays dumb. “Hm? What? Did someone say something?”

“We had a little training session earlier.” Leon confesses.

“Why would you tell him that?” Leo hisses shrilly.

Donnie tries to process that information. Leo had looked like he wanted nothing to do with any of them yesterday, least of all Leon. And what, now they’re doing morning drills together?

“Neither of you should be sparring.” He states. 

Leo waves off his concern. “What’s the point in sitting around waiting for stuff to heal when I feel perfectly fine as is?”

“Because, you pathological dumbass, it hasn’t healed yet. Your recovery isn’t a game.”

He rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’d be fun at parties?”

Donnie opens his mouth, but Leon is already at his defence, snapping back, “Has anyone ever told you you’re obnoxious?” 

Donnie stares at him, kind of stunned by the growl in his voice.

“It’s been brought up, yeah.” Leo responds nonchalantly.

“Okay, enough!” Donnie interrupts the little squabble before it can devolve into a full argument. He’s usually the one starting shit, not resolving it. Donnie would only be the family mediator if he were the only person bar Leo remaining. 

What d’you know? He’s mediating. 

“I did not drag you two in here so I could act as the filling to a snarky Leo sandwich. You-” He points at the smaller red-eared slider, “Check his stitches.”

“I just did them.” He whines.

“That was before you decided to roll all over the floor like animals.” Donnie counters. “Thou reap what thou sow. Check ‘em again.” 

Leo huffs a long-suffering sigh, then sets to work. 

Donnie glances from Leo back to the complexities of age and emotion etched into Leon’s features, and exhales tiredly. He hopes that this is both the first and last time he’s forced to reacquaint himself with someone’s face.

Chapter Text

“You can’t be serious.”

When sensei had brought him away from the group to have a talk, he’d been expecting a lot of things — a longer chat about the events he’d missed out on in the last two months, an update on how much his family knew about what had happened to them, an explanation of what was going on with him and his younger self. 

Casey would’ve been ready and amenable to any of those discussions.

He hadn’t been prepared for this. 

“I am being very serious.” Leonardo counters. 

Casey stares at him. He’s wearing a very carefully guarded expression, but he’s got a weary look to his eyes - dark circles beneath them like he hasn’t slept a wink. The face of exhaustion. The same one he dorns before going into battle. 

Casey’s stomach drops. This isn’t a joke. Leonardo’s already prepped himself for how badly his student will take this conversation. 

“Let me get this straight, just so we’re on the same page here. You want me to go back with Commander O’Neil and leave you here.”

Casey searches his face. Waits for him to crack. 

“That pretty much sums it up. Yeah.” His sensei answers, not a hint of humour in his tone. 

He blinks.

Casey… he doesn’t want to leave — he can’t. Leonardo’s still adjusting. He’s still hurt; his torso is wrapped — holding together the wound that had been slowly killing him. Practically his whole right side is bandaged, covering up the blistered scales underneath; burns from the hellfire that should have finished him off. His prosthetic is…

Just… gone.

One last part of his physical self lost to the Krang. And Casey can see he’s still readjusting to the loss of that weight pulling down on his shoulder. He’d only been a child the last time Leon bore a single appendage to rely on, but he remembers how his sensei had been. Withdrawn, irritable, hating the fact that he had to rely on people for things that were previously so simple and ingrained into his everyday routine. He’s going to have to relearn how to do things again, and Casey knows it won’t be easy for him. He looks vulnerable - smaller now that he’s dressed down of all his equipment.

He needs to be there for his sensei, but mostly he just really doesn’t want to go. 

He’d died. Master Leonardo had died. His very atoms had been deconstructed — vaporised before Casey’s eyes, and Casey may have made it through Mikey’s portal, but it felt like his heart had been caught in that blast. 

He’d gone to bed every night since, hoping tomorrow would make it better, and waking to the cold reality that not a thing had changed.

But now he’s back, for real. This isn’t another case of that weird deja-vu he gets whenever Leo says something familiar, or gestures in a particular way that reminds him of Master Leonardo. He’s actually here — the blue tails of his mask half-burnt and frayed, his grimy pants still carrying ash and dust from the battlefield they’d escaped. And Casey realises all those nights, he had simply been passing time, waiting for him to return. Waiting for this. 

It’s tomorrow, and against all odds, by some miraculous turn of events, he has survived, and Casey has come back alive in turn. 

They can’t just expect him to go back to the surface like nothing happened. 

Casey has hardly even had the chance to spend a day with him. 

“If this is because of what happened in the tunnels…” He starts.

“It’s not.” Leonardo states. 

He looks at him helplessly, and Leon sighs like this is some exhausting ordeal for him.

“Things are different now, Case… we’re different. You’re a human. You spent your whole life trying to survive an apocalyptic wasteland. I can’t watch you spend the rest of it cooped up underground. You shouldn’t have to isolate yourself from your world for me.”

Leonardo might as well have thrown a bucket of ice over him. 

His world? 

“What? Sensei, I— you are my world.” He insists earnestly, imploringingly. How can he not understand that? “You’re all I have left.”

Leonardo’s mouth opens, then clicks shut again. He closes his eyes and inhales, his head turning away from him as he composes himself. 

When he looks back, his jaw is set in a hard line. “You know that’s not true.” 

Casey has a sharp refutation on the tip of his tongue, but Leon’s already bulldozing over him. 

“You have a whole family here now. And they’re just the start. There’s so much… so much out there, and you don’t have to hide from any of it. You have your whole life ahead of you. You’re gonna meet so many amazing people. All I’m asking is that you take this opportunity into your hands and run with it.” 

He says it like this is all one big beautiful second chance for Casey — some golden gate of freedom that he should feel beholden to pass through. To Casey’s ears, all it sounds like is Leonardo pushing him away. Like his sensei has already given up on him. 

“No.”

Leonardo pauses, speechless, stunned by the blunt, blanket refusal. 

Casey kinda is too. He can’t remember the last time he outright declined one of his sensei’s orders. Isn’t sure he ever has, now that he thinks about it. 

His mouth dries. He curls his hands into fists.

“I don’t fit in there.” Casey tells him. “I don’t understand any of it. I can’t relate to the kids at school. All they’re worried about is, is… what they look like and who likes them and GPAs and where they’re going to go for college and- and hating their parents for making them do chores. There will be people complaining about the cafeteria food being terrible while I’m there next to them wolfing it all down because I can’t even control myself. And it’s not like I can talk to them, because all they’re going on about is superficial bullshit like popularity and not being able to decide between where they’re going to go on vacation and- and who to pick to take to prom and all it makes me want to do is tear out my hair and scream—” 

Leon regards him with a mix of despair and bafflement, the latter probably a result of him having to pick through the word-vomit he’s delivered directly onto his lap. He realises belatedly that Master Leonardo has never had to go to high school himself. He has no idea what kind of fresh hell it is in there. 

Having to change the way he thinks, how he eats and sleeps and behaves to adhere to this new world — learning all these new rules he must follow. That’s one thing. But trying to slot into the schooling system? 

Impossible.

He’s a resistance fighter, not a kid. He’s had to put people down. Mercy killings, most of them — people infected by the Krang or already dying from their wounds, but there’s something irreversible that changes in you when you extinguish a life, when you have to watch everything that once made them a person slowly fade from their eyes until there’s nothing but a cold, limp, blank slate. He remembers every detail of every face. He can’t shake the images from his mind. Casey had hated it, was deeply sickened by it, but someone had to do it. To refuse was to either allow them to suffer, or force the burden on someone else. 

He couldn’t even talk about it with April or the guys now, who seemed genuinely horrified by what he’d gone through.

“You’ve been killing since you were seven?” 

“Of course not.” He hadn’t made his first kill until he was twelve. 

They’re still better than everyone else on the surface, who are far more oblivious, and far less understanding. To them, the apocalypse was a non-factor. A dying star a trillion light years away, a black hole with a gravitational pull so strong even light can’t escape, leaving nothing visible but the open expanse of inky black space. No one can see it. No one does anything to acknowledge it. They just continue on living, going on with their daily lives, completely unaware of the lives that had been lost for them to do so. 

No one remembers, so no one cares. 

And all they want is for Casey to fit into a nice, neat little box, where he can be easily classified and shelved away. And when they’re unable to cram him into that tiny package with smartly tied bows and perfectly wrapped paper — when he struggles to act in accordance with their societal code, it disturbs them. 

“No matter how hard I try to hide it, everyone can tell that there’s something’s wrong with me.” He stresses.

And Leonardo still doesn’t get it.

“Yeah, fifteen year olds have a terrifyingly good radar for pointing out your insecurities. I wouldn’t take what they say to heart, though—” 

Casey grits his teeth, “I’m not talking about lunchtime bullying, sensei. It’s not even- they don’t need to say anything. They don’t have to. They look at me like I’m a freak.” And that’s not even the issue. He’d rather lean into the freak thing than partake in the vapid locker-room talk that occurs between his classmates. “I’m not blind. I can see it in their eyes… They’re scared of me.” 

He doesn’t want them to be. He’s never done anything to incite the fear. Casey tries to appear normal, but when he thinks on it, he decides he must look intimidating — scarred, ragged, scrappy, an oldness and tiredness to his eyes that doesn’t track with the age he’s supposed to be. 

The sad truth of it is that inside he’s still a raging bundle of emotions that he’s never quite managed to suffocate. He’s a veteran of a lost war, his new family is still suffering, and he has to pretend none of it had happened at all. Those other people, they don’t understand what it’s like to be angry down to your bones, to have despair woven into you, to be unable to switch off the hypervigilance that thrums though your mind, to be locked into this constant, elevated state of alertness without reprieve. 

It strikes Casey with depressingly hilarious irony that he’s managed to come through the war with flying colours only to be so utterly beaten down by what his sensei considers peace. 

Some people might pity him. Try to sympathise. For a while. But eventually they all want the same thing. For the moody, unstable ball of trauma to do what he knows is impossible for him. The same thing Leonardo’s asking him to do now. 

Move on.

He can’t. Not after all they’d been through. Not when Casey had just gotten him back. 

Casey shakes his head furiously. “You’re my sensei. You told me you would teach me. You can’t just change your mind. My training isn’t complete yet. There’s still so many things I have to learn—”

“And you will.” Leonardo says earnestly, “You will learn Casey. And I’ll be there for you when you need me, every step of the way. I just…” His voice trails off. 

Which is bad, because thoughts are pinging painfully between the walls of his brain, his mind racing through a billion different reasons as to why his sensei would want to push him away, and he doesn’t understand any of them. This doesn’t make sense. 

Why doesn’t he want him anymore?

“Have I… have I disappointed you, somehow?” 

That couldn’t be right. Leonardo told him he’d been proud of him, but maybe he was just saying that… Maybe he had just wanted Casey to calm down. He can’t think of any other reason he’d do this… 

“Am I not good enough a student?”

“Casey.” He says in a heavy breath, his brow furrowing deeply, eyes clenching shut like the words pain him. 

“Because I can be better,” He says in a rush, “I can work harder—”

Leonardo takes his shoulder, rendering him silent.

 “You have never in your life disappointed me.” 

Casey curls his fingernails into his palms and presses in deep. He doesn’t understand. 

“You’re the greatest student a teacher could ever ask for. That’s not what this is about.” Leonardo exhales, his hand dropping away. “I don’t know how to live without doom hanging over my head, and that’s okay for me. I’ve had a long life already. But for you— I don’t want you constantly stressed about the next danger. You shouldn’t have to deal with my messes anymore. You’ve earned some kind of normalcy… My greatest hope for you is that you’ll be able to step away from your old life.”

His old life. The life that Leonardo had always been a part of. Casey can barely speak. He knows Leon would still be down here, but… It wouldn’t be the same. He knows what it’s like trying to balance days with April and nights with the boys, their two worlds on entirely different schedules. He doesn’t want to live half a life without him.

“You can’t just expect me to pretend the past never happened.” Casey argues, his frustration rising. “I want to be here. I belong here. I belong with you.”

Leonardo’s face softens, but it's not the expression of a man giving in. Casey has had this look jammed down his throat for the last three months, and he’s sick to death of other people’s pity. 

Leonardo’s reaches across to ruffle his hair. It’s usually a comforting gesture, but now it just feels condescending. He slaps his hand away and takes a step back.  

“You told her you’d look after me.” He snaps. “You promised her.” 

Leonardo's face goes slack with shock. Unsurprising, considering how rarely Casey invokes his mother’s name. The anger still burns in his veins, but even as he says it a rush of regret flows over him. 

Leon’s vow to her was sacred, not something for Casey to sharpen to a point and attack him with. 

When Leonardo manages to find the words to speak again, there’s a stony, hurt edge to it. “I did. And I intend on taking that promise to my grave… I’m not going anywhere. I’m… it’s…” He exhales, his hand rising to pinch the ridge between his brows. “Don’t you think this is what she would’ve wanted for you too?” 

Casey doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know. He can’t say he cares what she would’ve wanted anymore. His mom is dead, and he can’t face the one here because she doesn’t even know him. 

“Casey, you have so much goodness in you… Every day I wondered what kind of life you could’ve had if you weren’t forced to become a soldier. You’ve fought all your life, and you did the impossible. You won. And for the first time in my life I can look into your future and see something more than pain and hardship, and that- it makes me immeasurable happy. You finally have the chance for some semblance of peace and simplicity, and I… I don’t want to be the thing pulling you away from that.”

Casey’s face contorts. He’s dimly aware that his hands are shaking, barely restrained fury clawing at his chest. His eyes wet with pointless, angry tears. He takes a deep breath, then he looks directly into Leonardo’s eyes and holds his gaze, allowing him full view of the pain deep inside of him – that bitterness and misery and weariness he’s been shoving down deep for as long as he’s been alive, and an instinctive, animal side of Casey wants to hide, to duck his head and run, but he refuses to let go.

“Everyone I’ve cared for in my life has died.” 

Yes, Leonardo could critique him here on technicality — they’re all back now. But it’s a bittersweet existence. They’re not the same. They’re not the people he had grown up with. They have no memories of him. They may love him, but they don’t know him. Not like they used to. 

“Everyone, everyone. Except for you. The only reason I’ve made it this far is because I had you to hold onto. You made the horrors manageable. You made life bearable.”

His throat constricts, and Casey swallows, his gaze finally ripping away, falling to the dirt between his feet. Casey can count on his fingers the number of times he can recall being truly happy in the past, and more than half those times it had been solely because of Leo. 

“Don’t you dare try and convince yourself that this is best for me, that cutting yourself off from everyone around you is the only solution, when all that would mean is having one less person I love in my life. When the truth is that’d accomplish nothing but making both of us more miserable.” 

The silence between them is unbearably loud. Casey can hear his heart thumping between his ears. 

“I’m coming by tomorrow.” He states firmly to the rock by his boot, leaving no further room for argument. 

He isn’t giving in. It’s not a compromise. He just can’t stomach looking at Leonardo a second longer right now. 

He’ll give him a day to think on how wrong he is, and that will be that.

- - -

Being the positive one of the group is tough. 

It’s more tough when you almost lose two brothers and watch your world come to an end at the ripe old age of fifteen. 

It’s even more tough than that when the older version of your brother comes home a couple months into dealing with the aftermath of the whole debacle, and adds the twenty years of trauma he’s got loaded on his back into the already overflowing ‘we got issues’ family pot. 

It’s tough. But that’s okay. 

Mikey’s tougher. 

People say negativity is contagious, and that sickness is going rampant at the moment. Seriously. It’s like Rat Flu city up in here, and Dr. Positive has had to figure out some serious measures to make sure he doesn’t catch it. He slips a smiling mask over his face, he prescribes his daily dose of laughter, he goes outside and touches— well… It's New York. It’s more cement than grass. The point is, he gets out. 

He isn’t getting his ass beat by those bad emotions. He sits up straight and he keeps his chin up. He does the same activities he’s always found fun (even when he feels tired and low and he doesn’t get as much pleasure out of doing them as he used to). He wears little bells on his toes and makes out like everything is going to be A-okay. Maybe it’s bullshit, maybe it’s maybelline. Either way, Mikey is going to keep throwing joy at his brothers’ walls until that shit sticks. 

His caseload is getting pretty goddamn heavy. Everyone’s still in a bit of disarray, but Leon’s his newest client, and he’s not about to let him down. 

Yeah. There’s just one, teensy-weensy little problem with that plan. 

Mikey doesn’t know where to start.

Sometimes, all his brothers will be hanging out, having a good time. Everything will be going perfectly, and then they’ll do something that just… sets Leon off somehow. He’ll go rigid and pale and misty-eyed, then he’ll melt into the shadows like he had down in those tunnels. Gone without a trace. And everyone will be left, confused and guilty, wondering where they’ve gone wrong. 

There’s no chasing after him. Once Leon’s in hiding, there’s no finding him. Nothing they can do but wait.  

Sometimes Mikey will cross paths with him later in the kitchen, reading through one of his lovingly hand-crafted cookbooks, gently carding through the pages, his fingers tracing almost reverently over his little sketches of Onigiri and Harumaki. Or he’ll poke his head into Donnie’s lab to find him tucked away in some dark corner, listening to Dee’s top hits - a mix of hardcore EDM that the younger slider complains is the absolute worst. Other times he’ll draw to a halt at the sight of him lying in the middle of Raph’s room. On the cold floor, rather than the bed sitting a few inches to his left, simply staring blankly, unblinkingly up at the ceiling. Mikey caught him once silently watching Leo train from the shadows, a complex look adorning his face. Like he didn’t understand him. Like he didn’t recognise him. And Mikey had been terribly confused. How can you not know yourself? 

Mikey can picture in his mind the points in which the two Leos intersect. He’s seen hints of Leo’s playful smirk tug at Leon’s lips. He recognises the way he tries to blow things off with bad jokes and a little dramatic flair. They both appreciate his cooking. Leon still praises Mikey’s creativity, although now the encouragement has this weird paternal aspect to it that he isn’t used to getting from Splinter and can’t help but bask in. The fondness Leo has for his brothers is generally more openly and unabashedly shown in the older counterpart actually - not that Leo isn’t loving, he’s just… he’s been more distant of late. And it’s these kinds of differences that get to Mikey. 

They’re supposed to be the same person, but in a lot of ways, Leon is so, so different from the brother he knows. Leo is on track to developing the dark rings that are constantly beneath Donnie’s eyes, but Leon… He looks chronically exhausted. It’s a different kind of weariness, too — his gaze dull and flat. All the vibrance he knows and loves in his brother is devoid in those eyes. Mikey can feel it too. That connection they have through their ninpo — they can all sense that Leo’s energy is still there, crackling below his skin, hiding below the surface. But as for Leon? Mikey can make out the space where his ninpo would usually lay dormant, but… all he feels is its absence. A cavern of empty, unfeeling stillness. There’s just… 

There’s nothing.

Every so often Mikey will approach the slider’s barrier of self-imposed isolation, and Leon will smile and act like nothing had happened at all. Other times, he will come across him curled over himself, his shoulders shaking, head bowed towards the ground, and he’ll be incapable of even meeting Mikey’s eye. And that’s okay, too. Mikey will settle down next to him, and they won’t need to say a thing. Mikey doesn’t need the full script on what happened to this older, sadder Leo. He loves his brother, and he knows that sometimes having someone sit and stay in the quiet is more powerful than filling the air with words.

One time, Mikey had asked with a little wave of his bandaged fingers if he wanted a healing razzle-dazzle of his mystic hands. 

And see, he still has no clue how his powers work, or where his limits lie. It had been more of a joke than an actual offer, a little dark perhaps, but he and Leo shared that kind of rapport. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the flash of pure fear that had flashed through Leon’s eyes at his words. He’d had hardly the time to blink in surprise before his wrist was being taken into a grip so tight it felt like his bones were grinding together. The touch had been so sudden, rough and painful that Mikey had nearly stumbled back into his Ninjitsu defensive stance. He remembers distinctly the jarring snarl of his features — the curl of his lip, the wildness behind his penetrating stare. 

“Don’t you ever use your mystic hands again!” 

The harshness lacing his tone had poured a cold wave of shock over Mikey. His nerves prickle at the memory of how his heart had hammered against his ribs. Leo doesn’t baby him. Not like the others do. But he had also never in his life scolded Mikey like this. 

Except… immediately after that display, Leon had collapsed into him, and a part of Mikey can still feel the violent shudder that had run through his big brother, like his body had absorbed the sensation. Internalised it. 

He had bundled Mikey in tight, and all the air had deflated from his lungs in a rush as Leonardo crushed him into an embrace — the sudden stillness of the air around them interrupted only by the quiet, choked sobs that managed to break past the clamp of Leon’s throat. 

Leon’s slowly acclimatising to it all, but Mikey doesn’t feel like he’s been very useful in helping him do so. 

Casey’s been coming ‘round way more often — nearly everyday now, and Mikey thought having him here would be good for him, but he keeps picking up on this strange tension hanging in the air between them. It reminds him of the bad vibes around Leo, dad and Raph before they managed to iron out the whole leadership thing. 

There’s clearly been some sort of disagreement there, but it’s not nearly as bad as when the two Leos are together. Where the tension becomes charged with palpable, angry electric sparks, the atmosphere stretching so taught Mikey’s scared it’ll snap and they’ll launch at each other. He supposes it must be hard to be around someone that has the same ugliness that you see in yourself, but… this is Leo he’s talking about here. The self-proclaimed king of self-love. He’s always been so confident. Borderline arrogant at times. Mikey didn’t realise he even had things he didn’t like about himself. 

It’s disconcerting. He has no idea where this animosity between them is coming from.

It gets so bad sometimes that Leon disappears to the surface. And Mikey gets knots in his stomach for fear that he’ll never return. He always comes home, though. Usually with gifts in hand — snacks, comic books, clothes. Mikey’s not sure whether it’s supposed to be an apology or simply yet another one of his quirks he’s picked up from the post-apocalypse. He’s grateful for each item, regardless. 

Tonight, Leon returns with a whole caché of art supplies, and Mikey lays it all across the floor of the living space by the kitchen. A surge of glee races through him, and he immediately suggests painting Leon’s shell. A grin breaks across the older slider’s face as he readily agrees.

Mikey can’t do art the same way he used to. His hands are mostly numb - the nerve endings burnt out, making it incredibly difficult for anything that requires precision. He has to go at an almost painstaking slow speed for anything to come out half-decent. But Leon is patient, even demonstrating hand exercises that help activate some mobility whenever he needs to take a break. 

“Why is your shell orange?” 

They both whip their heads around to see Raph watching them with bemusement written across his features.  

“That is an excellent question.” Leon replies casually. He turns back to him. “Mikey, why is my shell orange?

Mikey none too subtly nudges the acrylics beneath the couch with his foot. “No blue paint.” 

Leon shoots him a knowing smile before his gaze slides back to Raph. “Could you believe it? Total coincidence. No blue paint.” 

Raph snorts. “It looks nice, Mikey.” 

Leon straightens, “Oh right— Raph, here I got something…” He reaches across Mikey’s organised chaos, grabs a ball of wool and tosses it to his brother. 

Raph sticks out his hand. The ball flies right past it. 

Leon’s shoulders shrink. “Sorry. Bad throw.” 

“Don’t sweat it. It’s the eye.” He replies casually. He turns around and picks up the wool. “Thanks for this. I’ve been running low.” 

Leon gives him a half-smile, then pats the floor in front of him. “Did you want to join? We could get a sweet conga line going here.”

“Ah, man, can’t tonight.” He says, sounding genuinely bummed about the fact. “Me and Leo are going topside for a training exercise. You guys are holding down the fort.” 

“Okie-dokie. Stay safe up there.” Mikey responds lightly.

Leon makes a noise of agreement, his brow furrows slightly. “Try not to stray too far. Sun’s coming up soon.”

Raph gives them both a lazy, two-fingered salute. “Will do.” 

A distant voice yells from the Lair’s entrance tunnel, “Raph, come on! Moonlight’s burning.”

Leon cups his hand over his mouth and barks back. “Don’t die!” 

A sharp, “I’ll do what I WANT!” Is all he gets in return.

Raph departs, and Mikey returns to his little world of abstract swirls within the natural blue markings of Leon’s carapace. 

Leon cranes his head back. “Training exercise?”

Mikey grabs hold of his shell, stabilising his canvas. 

“Co-leader thing. We’re not missing out on much. Raph told me they mostly just trade advice and talk tactics.” 

Leon hums thoughtfully. His jaw tightens after a moment, a line appearing between his brows, expression drawing together like there’s something about this that bothers him somehow. 

Mikey gently prods his cheek with the stick of his brush. “Something up?”

The twitch at the corner of his mouth and the quick aversion of his gaze tells Mikey he’s lying when he nonchalantly denies it. 

Leon leans forward until he’s able to rest his elbow on his knee, allowing him more access to his shell. The positioning also conveniently hides his face from view. There’s a side of Mikey that wants to pull him around by the shoulder and ask him point-blank what the issue is, but, like most people, he knows Leo is not receptive to difficult conversations that are forced upon him. 

Instead, Mikey shoves down his curiosity, slides his paintbrush across his palette and gets back to work. He leans in close to the carapace, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he adds little flairs of detail between his scutes. 

Mikey claps a hand over his wrist when his hand begins to shake after a half hour or so, smudging his work. 

The tremors usually stop after a few moments, but this time they’re so violent the brush slips from his fingers and smears orange paint across the tile floor. Mikey releases a frustrated huff.

Leon shifts around before he can pick it back up. He eyes the quivering limb, then wordlessly takes Mikey’s smaller hand into his large one and begins massaging out the tremors. The motions are practised, precise. 

He’s done this before. 

 Mikey catches a glimpse of red smeared across Leon’s knuckles. He frowns. 

He doesn’t recall squeezing out that colour onto his palette. 

Unease prickles at his stomach. He reaches across with his other hand and grabs hold of Leon’s, twisting it over so that he can get a better view. 

He inhales sharply at the sight that greets him. The skin across Leon’s knuckles is cracked and bleeding, the blood still fresh. 

“What happened?” Mikey yelps.

Leon does this little shrug and simply murmurs. “Accident.” He tries weakly pulling his hand back, but Mikey holds firm. 

He lifts a dubious brow as he carefully grazes his thumb across the wound. “How do you accidentally bust open your knuckles?”

A beat of silence answers him. Leon’s face is shuttered off. He can’t read what he’s thinking. 

A sudden, loud crash from the kitchen pierces through the silence, and Mikey flinches. 

He looks over to where Donnie is swearing vehemently, hot coffee spilled across his legs and shattered pieces of porcelain scattered across the floor. 

“You okay Donald?” He calls. 

It’s a surprise to see him outside his lab. He’s been locked in there for a couple days now — completely fixated by his research on the amulet. Mikey wonders if he’s managed to sleep at all within this timeframe. The dark bags beneath his eyes, his poor coordination and the fact he’s only snuck out of his cave when Raph and Leo aren’t around to pester him into bed-rest all strongly point strongly towards no. 

“Yeah.” Donnie lets out another string of curses. “Dammit, that was my favourite mug too.” He laments. 

Mikey glances back to the slider, who so far hasn’t said a word. His hand is still clinging to Leon’s, and he realises with a start just how tightly he’s squeezing his bloodied knuckles, his thumb pressing deeply into the cuts. 

The moment he’s aware, he loosens his grip. “Sorry!” 

Leon doesn’t react. He’s simply staring into space, his eyes glazed over. 

“Leo?” A cold shiver slithers down his spine. 

He recognises that look. He does not like that look. 

Mikey slowly lowers Leon’s hand. “You good?”

He doesn’t respond to the word or his presence. His breathing goes shaky, his mouth clamping into a firm line. His muscles are locked tight, his whole frame rigid. 

“Um… is this an anxiety attack?” It’s not like the ones Mikey remembers, where you’re so present in the moment that the stress overwhelms you; pushing rational thought to the wayside and stealing your breath away. Leon’s face is just… blank. Detached. His million-yard stare looking straight through Mikey like he isn’t even there.  “Do you get those? Do you need a paper bag?” He asks timidly.

No response. 

Wherever he is right now, it isn’t here.

His breathing is worsening, and suddenly he doubles over. His bloody knuckles grip tightly to what little remains of his right arm, his face screwing up in pain. 

“Dee!” He cries out, a strong undercurrent of panic in his voice. 

He hears Donnie’s footsteps as he scrambles across the room, his woolly socks slipping and sliding across the floor in his haste to reach them.

“What’s going on?” He snaps, his forehead bunched together. 

“He just…” Mikey shakes his head. “I don’t know! One second he was here and then… I— is something wrong with his arm?”

Donnie’s scrutinising gaze quickly looks his older brother over as Leon groans gutterly, nails clawing at his stub.

“How do we help him?”

Donnie flicks open a scanning device on his wrist-tech, holographic light bathing Leon in a purple hue for a few moments. Donnie’s expression deepens into troubled territory the longer he examines his readings. 

“We don’t.” Donnie states, his voice hollow, brows pinching tightly together. “There’s nothing physically wrong with him. We can’t fix this. His brain is registering pain for something that’s no longer there.”  

Leon’s breathing is worsening, his pupils blown out wide. Mikey bites his lip, resisting the urge to reach out. 

Shaking, Leon gets up. He staggers like he hasn’t a clue of where he is or where he wants to go, only looks like he wants to get away. 

His hand catches against the wall, his breaths catching, chest heaving. 

They follow him, though they don’t encroach on his space. Mikey can barely think beyond the rapid litany of ‘what do we do, what do we do, what do we do?’. He glances across to Donnie, and his stomach drops to his feet at the terrible realisation that his brother is just as lost as he is.

Leon’s head lifts, and there’s something frantic around the whites of his eyes. His gaze locks with Donnie’s, and for a split second Mikey is relieved that he seems to at least have the presence of mind to recognise that they’re there in the room with him. 

Then, he pushes away from the wall, storms towards him, and Donnie jerks as he takes his arm into an iron hold, a sudden snap of terror passing though his frame. Mikey rises to the balls of his feet, preparing to leap into action the moment this gets violent. 

But Leon doesn’t hit him. He doesn’t throw him to the floor. He simply holds him firmly in place. 

“You’re here.” 

Mikey freezes. 

“Uh.” Donnie swallows, his eyes flitting nervously between his brothers. “Yeah. I’ve been here the whole time, Leo.” 

His eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “You– Dee, you can’t… You have to stay.” He demands, a desperation to his voice that scares them. 

“What are you talking about?” Donnie frowns at him. “Where would I go?”

Donnie winces as Leon’s grip tightens. 

“Dee…” Mikey squeaks. His hands rise to clamp over his ears. He doesn’t want to hear this, don’t dig into this. 

“Please, the plan doesn’t work, it won’t work, you can’t go, please—” He begs, voice cracking, giving way to something painfully raw. 

Donnie takes hold of Leon’s wrist. 

“Leo, breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Mikey’s never been so glad about Donnie’s ability to stay calm in tense, hyper-emotional situations, but Leon only looks more mystified by his words. 

He still has this misty-eyed look. Half in the present, half in the past. 

He shakes his head fervently. “Please. Please don’t go, I’ll do anything. I… I can’t do this again-” 

The panic leaks out from him in the form of hitching gasps and full-bodied trembling. His big brother is terrified. Mikey is terrified. This could be a terrible decision - it has the potential of making things even worse, but Mikey can’t stand hovering uselessly in the background for a beat longer. He launches forward and tightens his arms around Leon’s middle. 

Leon’s confused gaze drops to him.

“We’re here, Leo. We’re right here. Dee’s not gonna… he won’t leave.” He reassures him, hoping that something will break through the haze. 

Four more hitched, heaving breaths, a frown throughout them all. He inhales shakily, more measured than before, then those glassy, unfocused eyes narrow into a squint. 

He blinks like he’s trying to sharpen the image before him. His eyes jump around, taking stock of the living space - occupants, obstacles, exits. He sees Mikey; sees the art supplies scattered across the floor, but it doesn’t seem like it’s all registering. 

He falters, uncertainty still evident. 

“Mikey?” He croaks. 

He peers down to where he has Donnie’s arm in a tight grip, his forehead furrowing. Then, that glazed look manages to finally take in Donnie’s face, and his hand rips away from him. 

“Sorry.” He rasps, colour rising to his face.

“It’s fine.” Donnie takes his arm before he can withdraw into himself. “I’m fine, he’s fine, you’re going to be fine in a minute.” 

Leon averts his gaze, staring into the point of contact between Donnie’s skin and his own. 

Without pulling his eyes away, Donnie carefully pulls him down to the ground until they’re both sitting against the tile. “Just… Give yourself a minute.” 

“Deep breaths.” Mikey reminds him, his voice a little wobbly. 

Leon swallows and nods along to every word. 

Mikey anxiously sits cross-legged beside them. He wrings his hands out, his knees uncontrollably bopping up and down, all nervous energy with nowhere to go. 

What feels like an eternity but is probably only a couple stifling minutes later, Leon’s laboured breathing evens out. Tension bleeds out from his body, and he sags into Donnie, exhausted, his forehead falling against his chest. 

Donnie pats his back awkwardly. “You good brother?”

“Mm. Just dizzy.” He murmurs, a fatigued slur to his words. “Gimme’ a sec.”

Donnie’s brows pull together when he lifts his hand from Leon’s back. “Why is your shell orange?” 

His shoulders shake, a wet noise escaping his throat that could almost be a laugh. “No blue paint.”

His head angles towards the finger-shaped bruise blooming across Donnie’s arm.

The air around him stinks of guilt. 

It emanates from Leon so frequently that one could almost mistake it as natural. Mikey understands it to a degree. Leon went after his family with a blade in hand and murder in intent. Anyone sane would feel bad about that, regardless of their presence of mind in the moment. But…

Mikey’s not an idiot. He’s not a child. He knows there’s more to Leon’s bone-weary misery than he lets on. He’s buried under substance with far greater density than a bit of brainwashing and mentor-protégé stress. That much is glaringly obvious, and Mikey doesn’t require his creative imagination to think up scenarios that would incite such desolation. Leon has come alone, and he doesn’t speak of his brothers, which means he’s either had to leave them behind in a doomed timeline, or they’re already dead. The latter being the more likely explanation given his behaviour towards them... And honestly it’s probably the better option between the two. 

He keeps his mouth shut about it, though. He doesn’t know the exact details, and he doesn’t ask for them. Leon’s already on the brink of mental collapse most days, and Mikey’s not convinced he’ll be able to cope with any of them digging any deeper than the superficial, surface-level dirt. 

For Leon’s sake, Mikey goes along with the little white lies. Even when that remorseful stench rising from him clogs Mikey’s throat and causes tears to spring in his eyes, he goes along with it.

Leon seems to immensely enjoy being around him, and Mikey thinks that might be because he knows wishful thinking is kinda his thing. He’s the family’s shining optimist. Someone has to fill the role of the wide-eyed idealist. It doesn’t mean he’s innocent, or oblivious, or naïve. It’s not repression, it’s just… sometimes a bit of false hope is better than unearthing the harshness of reality, and Leon and Casey have already spent a lifetime facing the burning light of harsh realities. 

- - -

The Manhattan skyline splits outs before them, glimmering in the night. Leo flings a piece of gravel at it.

“He’s still hiding something from us.” He mutters. 

Initially, he’d thought it was because Leon had been trying to veer away from the heartbreak of what had happened to his brothers, but then he’d looked across that breakfast table, and Leo- (and this had been almost unbearable) -he saw Leon, and Leon saw Leo see him. And in that moment the both of them became aware that Leo knows the terrible truth. 

They seem to have reached a mutual silent agreement to not broach the subject, and yet still, Leon lies. And Leo is goddamn petrified of what might be lurking beneath those lies. What could he possibly be hiding that’s worse than what he already knows?

“We’ve been through this, Leo.” Raph says, exasperated. “He’s going through a lot right now. I mean, Mikey winked at him yesterday and he burst into tears. The guy’s clearly got issues to sort out, but I don’t think he’s like… malicious at all.” 

And Leo just has to bite his tongue in barely contained frustration, because his big brother doesn’t get it. He can’t understand it. He doesn’t have the threads Leo does to link the concerning points of information. And Leo can’t be a good brother and hand them over to him. 

“Maybe he’d be more comfortable with us if you didn’t try and interrogate him next time?” Raph suggests after a moment, not unkindly. 

Leo snorts. “I’m a compulsive liar, Raph. He’d sooner cut his other arm off than tell us the truth.” 

“Wow. That is dark man, I really hope for your sake that—” He stutters to a halt. “Wait… Do you lie to me about things?”

“Of course not.” Leo replies quickly. Too quickly.

Raph frowns at him. 

He moves on before his brother gets too stuck on that. “The point is, he’s lying about not remembering anything. I know it. And I’m not suggesting we pin him to a board and cut the answers out of him. I just think we should be more careful around him. He knows everything about us, while we don’t know the first thing about him.”

“Sure,” Raph concedes uneasily, “But… He’s you, Leo. He’s our brother. That’s kinda all we need to know.”

Warmth fills his heart, mingling with the raw frustration, and the two emotions become a painful pressure in his chest as they clash, warring against one another.

Leo throws his hands up, “ARGH, that’s stupidly sweet and also SO not what I want to hear right now.” 

“Leo…” And- Oh no. That’s Raph’s serious talk voice. Leo doesn’t like Raph’s serious talk voice. It’s like hearing dad call him by his full name. Spine-chilling. 

“I... How do I put this?” 

Raph rubs the back of his head. He sighs, then after a moment of consideration he says, “We know you’ve been struggling—”

Leo swallows. He must be talking about the training. Leo knows he’s been going hard, and it’s difficult to hide that from his family. Or he’s referring to the nightmares. Another thing that’s almost impossible to conceal given their new sleeping arrangements since… since the incident. Now that he thinks about it, his humour hasn’t really been the exact same either — the jokes coming from denial, rather than them being honest attempts to lift the team’s mood. The horrible thought strikes him that maybe he’s like Leon, that they can see how miserable he feels, despite barely witnessing half of what Leo had felt in the prison dimension, or knowing a hint of what he’s really trying to deal with right now.  

“And I think I know why.” Raph confesses quietly. 

Leo tries to play off his concern. He flicks the tails of his mask off his shoulder, leans against the railing, puts on a perfect face of impassivity. 

“Oh really? Please, do tell. I love hearing people talk about what’s wrong with me. All the more ammunition to rub in their faces when I prove them wrong.”

His brother doesn’t rise to the bait. 

Raph looks at him, and Leo feels like he’s already been flayed open for all to see. Two words, and his world of well-meaning lies crumbles to dust.  

“I died.”

A frigid shock engulfs Leo’s entire body, as though he’s fallen through thin ice into a dark lake. 

“What are you talking about?” He asks, and it comes out stiff and stilted, fifteen seconds too late. 

Raph’s brows draw together, but he doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look irritated. He just looks sad. “I know you guys think I’m stupid, but just because I’m half-blind doesn’t mean I can’t see. His sword - the masks, the way he looks at us, the way he acts. The way you’ve been acting.”

Leo counts several hard beats of his heart against his chest. He considers denying it, considers lying.

“Casey must’ve told you. That’s why you changed, isn’t it?” Raph asks. It doesn’t sound like a question. 

Leo lowers his gaze.

“He’s the only one that came back.” He murmurs. 

It’s the most honest and concise summary of The Problem Leo can bear to provide. All condensed into one neat little sentence. 

“He? Who…” Raph pauses. “He— as in you? Is… Is that why you’re mad at him?”

Leo’s head snaps back up.

Yes.

“No.” He says.

No. He repeats to himself. That would be stupid. 

That’s the worst part about all this. Leo is angry. He’s lost. He needs someone to blame, and the tragicomedy of it is that apart from himself, Leon’s the easiest available person to resent. But he can’t even do that. Resenting him is impossible when he’s constantly plagued by the shame and regret radiating from the older turtle whenever he’s around. 

Leo’s extremely conflicted. He wants to hate Leon, but it’s depressing to do so much as look in his direction. 

He has no right to be mad at him. Supposedly, none of this is his fault. Not the Krang, not the kidnapping, not the attacks, not him returning to the past without his brothers in tow. Leon is an excruciatingly okay guy. He’s cool, he’s nice, he’s clearly tortured by the life he’s lived and the decisions he’s made. And all Leo can think is that this asshole must be some kind of master manipulator, because Leo can’t do anything but pity him. 

“Losing you guys… He would’ve done everything within his power to stop it. I know that.”

Raph’s brow furrows. “So what is it that has you so bent?”

“I told you.” Leo mutters dejectedly. “He’s hiding something.” 

He’s come face to face with the one person he should know best, and yet Leon can still conceal something from him.

It’s infuriating. 

“So? Whatever it is, he’ll tell us eventually. You just gotta be a little patient.”

Raph telling Leo to be a patient leader. Oh, how the turns have tabled. 

“And just hope that it doesn’t blow up in our faces in the meantime?” Leo scoffs. “Screw that.” 

“Leo…” Raph starts. 

“No, look. Donnie’s getting nowhere with his research. I say, tomorrow night we take this into our own hands. We hit the streets. Play detective. Someone’s gotta know something.”

Raph looks across the city, the chasm on his forehead deepening as he considers this.  

“Alright.” He finally agrees. “We’re taking the team though.”

Leo nods. He was going to suggest that anyway. “Perfect. We’re on the same page.”

“The big guy included.” Raph adds. 

Leo’s face drops. “Okay, I take it back. Not the same page. Same book, maybe - since when was he part of the team?”

“Uh. Since birth?”

Leo releases a frustrated noise. “You know what I mean.”

Raph crosses his arms. “You can do it without him but I ain’t gonna be happy about it.”

Leo groans. Great. A choice between his counterpart and a disappointed Raph. Leo hates having to make decisions. 

“Just think about how nice it’ll be to have an extra set of eyes to look out for the next yokai attack.”

“We haven’t had a random attack for at least a week now.” Leo pauses. All the more reason they should be keeping our eyes peeled. 

He sighs, then relents.

- - -

Raph and Leo hear about Leon’s… intense episode(?) when they return. 

There’s no way they could’ve predicted it, and Raph doubts he’d have anything to contribute to help with the situation, but he still feels terrible for having inadvertently left his brothers to deal with the situation alone — angry at himself for having to receive the second-hand retelling from a teary-eyed Mikey, because Leon sure as hell isn’t going to talk about it. 

He and Leo have at least that in common. They don’t like to display their weaknesses, and it’s worse than pulling teeth to try and get them to divulge what’s really going on. It doesn’t help that the list of things going on seems to trail down into an endless pit. 

Okay, he feels like he’s being a little harsh here. They are a multitude of really great aspects to Leon. Like… Sometimes he’ll hug Raph out of nowhere, and it’ll be nice, because he’s big — as big as Raph (height-wise at least), and he isn’t used to being so engulfed by someone’s warm arms (arm). Or he’ll offer to help him with the exercises Donnie’s given him to improve his depth perception, and Leon won’t even feel the need to cut in with little quips about how tedious it is like the others do. Or he’ll stare at Raph for the entire length of a film instead of watching the— Crap, no-no, that one’s part of the going on pit. 

It’s hard for the good things to not be overshadowed by the bad. He keeps being struck by memories of Leon’s horrified-hopeful expression when he first realised it was Donnie’s neck that he had his blade pressed up against. He can’t forget Leon’s face when he’d asked over the breakfast table what his own Raph had been like in his timeline. You’d think that heated plumbing would be a small slice of heaven after an apocalypse, but Leon bathes in the freezing cold. Raph knows, because he comes in right after him, and there’s no steam fogging the mirror, humidity devoid from the room, and when he turns on the tap, it takes a minute or so to turn warm again. And that’s such a small detail, but Leo loves hot showers. Donnie had to install a new system after they’d all almost throttled him for taking up all the hot water for the fourth time in a single week, for god’s sake. And he doesn’t think it’s an accident that Leon refuses to partake in the things he used to enjoy. 

There is something like helplessness in the tilt of his smile, in the compassion and pain in his eyes. It’s a sort of hollowness. Like someone’s scooped all the light out of him and forgotten to put it back. 

Something is deeply, terribly wrong with Leon, and it’s not something he can solve. 

The last time Raph felt this powerless he’d had tentacles writhing through his brain matter.  

- - -

Another day passes, thankfully without further disaster, and the team preps for a night up on the surface.

He informs Mikey to gear up and get ready to head out, then pauses. “Where’s big Leo?”

They’d tried to differentiate the two by name, but that had only led to another argument about which moniker should refer to who, with Leo concluding that they’d both respond to whatever iteration of ‘Leo’ that he called them. 

Raph, frankly, has given up. Embrace the confusion is very quickly becoming his motto here. 

“He’s in the kitchen cooking something.” Mikey answers.

And he says it so casually that it takes a moment for Raph to really process. Leo. Cooking. 

He sprints to the kitchen at full speed, knocking into walls and tripping over items strewn around the Lair on his way.

When he screeches to a halt at his destination, he discovers…. Everything’s okay? 

Nothing’s on fire, the room is intact — Leo is brewing up something other than toast and two-minute noodles, and the kitchen isn’t exploding into chaos because of it. 

Huh. 

That’s… weird. 

Leon turns, and Raph’s heart stutters at the purple bruising around one of his eyes.

“What the hell happened to you?” 

Leon blinks at him like he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Then something clicks, and he points at his face and laughs lightly, “Hm? Oh, uh - this? It’s nothing. I lost a fight to a pot.”

“A pot.” Raph repeats. “You smacked yourself in the face with a pot?” 

Y’know, maybe Leo's permanent ban from kitchen-related activities is well-founded after all. 

Leon snorts at his expression. “Yeah, stupid right?”

Raph… He can't do this right now. He rubs a hand over his pulsing temples. “Look. We’re going after Hypno tonight.”

The air around Leon immediately shifts, his whole body going oddly rigid.

“What?” He utters, sounding a lot more put-off by the idea than one would reasonably expect. “Why?” 

“We’re following some leads on who might have mind-blasted you…” Raph frowns. “Don’t you want to find out what happened?” 

“That’s…” The muscle at his jaw goes taught. “It’s not necessary. You don’t have to do that for me.”

“Of course we do. We’re your brothers, aren’t we?”

Leon’s mouth opens. Closes. His lips press into a thin line. A blend of emotions pass across his features, too complex for Raph to name.  

After a puzzling moment, Raph prompts, “You’ll come, right?”

Leon swallows. “Uh, yeah… Of course, yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

- - -

Donnie helps them track Hypno down to the back alley of an upscale restaurant on the nice side of town, and the five turtles gather on the neighbouring rooftop to discuss their plan of approach.

“Alright, listen up fours, your ten is speaking,” Leo announces. “I’m thinking the play-by-play here should…” He stops, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”

Raph glances back to see Leon extending his arm behind his shell. The absence of two masks around the hilt of Leon’s sword has not escaped Raph’s notice, though he isn’t sure exactly what the change symbolises. Whether he’s doing it for their sake, or for his own. 

“What?” Leon says, “Not all of us are teenagers. I didn’t survive the apocalypse just to be done in by a torn muscle.” 

He flexes his tricep, before releasing the stretch and shaking out the limb until it's loose again. Then he breathes in, lifts his arms up, and bends down to touch the ground with impressive flexibility. Mikey joins in.

“You should try doing it more often.” He tells Leo. “My issues are eventually going to be your issues.” 

“Ignoring the voice of the bleak future in my ear, I think we should call operation face-guy for this one. I can go down there,” He frames his face with two fingers, “dial up the Leo, and get him to spill the beans.”

“What.” Raph utters. “Leo, that's not a plan. What are we supposed to—”

“Oop.” Donnie notes as Leo flips and dives his way down to the street. “Would you look at that. There he goes.” 

Leon passes by them and hops over the railing. “Who wants to join me in making sure the dumbass doesn’t get himself killed. Or hypnotised.”

Mikey raises a hand enthusiastically. “I do!” 

“Sweet. Let’s go.”

“Leo!” Raph whisper-yells as they both somersault down the rafters.

“At least this one gives us some warning before he goes all Leeroy Jenkins.” Donnie notes, pressing his fist to his chin thoughtfully as he leans over the railing. 

Raph answers with an irritated hng and quietly races after them. Donnie follows with a slow, hovering descent.  

- - -

Hypno is dressed in formal attire – his purple-navy suit paired with a maroon tie. His hair is slicked back, goatee combed into a neat twirl, moustache meticulously plucked - a gold hoop earring through one of his ears. He stands by the restaurant’s waste bin, focused on his reflection in the hand mirror as he rubs a white gloved finger over some nonexistent speck of dirt on his teeth.

Leon rests one of his swords casually over his shoulder. “Dressed up for a nice evening out, are we?”

Hypno jumps with a yelp - his mirror smashing to the ground. His eyes land on the red-eared slider, and immediately he summons two hooped projectiles and thrusts them towards him.

Leon leaps in front of his younger counterpart, deflects the metal rings with a sharp clang of his sword, then sheathes the weapon and swiftly slams Hypno up against the brick wall with his forearm. 

“Ow. Excuse me, who the hell do you think you…” Hypno looks Leon up and down.  “You’re new.” He observes with a lift of one his bushy brows.

“What are you doing?” Leo hisses at him. “Didn’t I say I had this handled?”

Hypno does a double-take, his gaze darting between both sliders. His ear flickers, then he points at the turtle holding him against the wall and sends Leo a curious look. “Is this your dad?”

Leo blanches. “What? No!”

Donnie drops to the ground behind him and crosses his arms over his plastron. “Our father is the rat.” 

“And the scientist-warrior sheepman.” Mikey adds.

Hypno looks more confused than he’d been prior to asking the question. 

“We’re related. He’s not our dad. That’s not the point!” Raph gestures to Leon. “What did you do to him?”

Hypno’s eyes dart to the older slider, his perplexment shifting to irate defensiveness. 

“Me? I’ve never seen the fella in my life!” He cries. 

It sounds unfortunately genuine to Raph’s ears, but Donnie scoffs. 

“He was mind-controlled or brainwashed or subconsciously influenced. I’m not one-hundred percent certain of the affliction just yet, but the Modus Operandi should sound familiar to you.”

The hippo scowls. 

”I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He snaps. “All I’m here to do is have a nice relaxing evening with my date - I’m not getting into another back-alley punch up with some teenagers and their not-father figure.”

“Oh yeah?” Mikey places his hands on his hips and leans forward. “Who’s this date of yours, then?”

“Yeah, Mikey’s right.” Leo agrees. “Where are they? I’m not so convinced they exist.”

Mikey’s dubious expression drops. His head turns Leo’s way. “Oh. No, I believe him, I just want to know who they are—”

Leon takes Hypno roughly by his collar, pulls him forward then, before Raph can register what’s happening, roughly slams him back against the wall. Hypno’s head collides into the concrete with a nauseating crack. 

The younger turtles flinch, shocked by the sudden show of force. Raph’s usually the smash first, ask questions later kind of guy, but this is extreme, even for him. 

Leon’s hand tightens around the fabric of his suit jacket and he mercilessly shakes him to awareness. Hypno clenches his eyes shut, his head lolling loosely around, dazed. 

“Why did you steal the key?” Leon hisses into his face.

Hypno rapidly blinks. “Bloody hell - what is wrong with you?” He wheezes, his voice high-pitched. 

Raph starts, stepping forward. “Hey—” 

Hypno’s eyes begin to glaze over and swirl with magic. Raph freezes to a halt, his heart leaping to his throat. No, no, not again.

Leon's hand shoots upwards, snatching the hippo’s thick throat. Hypno flails, his concentration fracturing, hands flying upwards to pry at the slider’s unyielding grip. 

Mikey staggers backwards. A wide-eyed Donnie grabs his wrist and yanks him behind his shell, obscuring his view. 

“Try that again, and you won’t like the consequences.” Leon warns him calmly; far calmer than Raph feels. 

“The key.” He repeats, a dangerous edge to his voice. “The artefact you stole for the Foot a couple of months ago. Y’know, that mess you left behind the second things started looking hairy.” 

Not good. Raph realises with a cold flush what’s driven him to ask this, and he strongly doubts Leon will be satisfied by and answer the hippo provides.

Hypno’s eyes widen, recognition flashing behind them, then fear.

“Yeah. There you go.” Leon growls out with grim satisfaction. “Why did you steal it?” 

“We didn’t know.” He squeaks. 

Leo strides forward and takes hold of Leon’s shoulder. The moment he makes contact with his counterpart, they hear a single, sharp intake of breath as Hypno’s trachea is released. Leon swings his arm back, pushing Leo forcefully to the ground. 

Hypno scrambles to escape, and they all flinch as Leon’s fist cracks into the concrete a few inches left of Hypno’s head, leaving a sizable dent in the wall.  

“WE DIDN’T KNOW! I SWEAR!” Hypno screeches, raising his hands to his face and cowering before the larger turtle. Raph can’t say he blames him. It’s hard to forget how terrifying it is to have the full weight of Leon’s distilled hostility on you.

Leon’s mouth twists, unsatisfied.

Hypno takes a few heaving breaths, then continues shakily. “It was just a job, alright? We didn’t care what they wanted it for - didn’t realise what it would lead to…”

“We didn’t know.” He insists again, like it’s a good excuse, like the lack of bad intention curtails the fact he’d directly contributed to total world annihilation. “We were just in it for the money.”

Leon’s expression leaves a jittery, icy pit of heaviness at the pit of Raph’s stomach. Not so much fear as it is a horrible kind of anticipation. A chilling rage radiates from his brother.

“Money.” Leon echos distantly, his nostrils flaring, fist trembling slightly. 

“Yes! Money, cash, dollarydoos, whatever you want to call it. Comprende?”

Trance broken, Raph lurches forward and grabs Leon’s arm before he can do something he’ll regret. 

“Leo, stop.” 

Leon doesn’t look at him, his expression doesn’t twitch, and for a horrible moment he has to wonder if the slider has even heard him. He holds his breath, waiting with a sickening dread for the sound of broken teeth and pulverised flesh. All it would require is a shift of his aim two inches to the right. 

Leon’s fist slowly unfurls, and the air leaves Raph in a rush. He releases his tight grip. 

A heavy silence falls over the group. 

The suffocating stillness is interrupted by the sound of the restaurant’s backdoor swinging open. Everyone’s heads whip around towards the noise. At first glance, there appears to be no one there. Raph’s brow knits together. 

Then he looks down.

“Ron, honey, I need you to go in there, those imbeciles refuse to show me, Warren Stone, to the VIP table. It’s unbelievable.” The blonde worm comes to a sudden halt at the sight of them all. 

A beat. 

“What are our greatest nemeses doing here?”

Mikey pokes his head out from behind Donnie’s battle-shell to look between Warren and Hypno. “Oh my God…” He gapes, awed. “They were roommates.”

Leo rises to his feet, brushes himself off, then pokes a finger at the worm. “Um, who are you again?” . 

The worm puffs up with furious indignation. “I just said my name. It was less than ten seconds ago. Is anyone hearing or seeing me? Am I going insane?” 

Leon slowly takes a step back from Hypno, then sweeps the dirt from his shoulders. Hypno cringes into himself with each flick of his hand. 

“He doesn’t know me.” Leon says, very mildly for a man that looked like he was considering murder a few moments ago. “Fight cancelled. Sorry to interrupt your little date night. We’ll be going now.”

The whole group, Warren and Hypno included, stare after him as turns on his heel and walks away.

Leon presses his fingers to his lips, sucks in a breath, then gestures in the direction of the departing slider. “Just to make it crystal clear for everyone, that is not what I meant by ‘dial up the Leo’.” 

- - -

They regroup on the rooftop. 

“So… We’re not thinking Hypno did it?” Mikey questions.

“Y’know, I get the feeling the motive for murder’s there, but I think it’d be a little difficult to pull off with a hitman that wants nothing more than to strangle him to death.” Leo remarks thoughtfully.

Leon’s on the other side of the roof, his back to them as he looks out across the city. Raph eyes the tight line between Leon’s shoulders. He frowns, then gently nudges Leo’s shoulder.

“What?” He voices.

Raph nods in the direction of the larger slider and lifts his brows. This is Leader Duty One Oh One — when someone on the team is hurting, you help. 

Leo’s eye follows his gaze, his jaw tensing. 

He gives in with a big exhale, then carefully approaches the hunched over, agitated and world-weary slider. 

He lifts a hand, but can’t seem to find the nerve to settle it against Leon’s shoulder. It hovers just above, and his voice is loud enough for them to hear him brightly ask, “How’s the homicidal brooding going over here Mr. Glum—”

Leon cuts him off with a short, growled word that is too low to reach their ears. 

He supposes there are some advantages to knowing yourself, because whatever it is, it’s deadly effective. Leo’s hand falls away in one quick motion, and he slinks back to the group with a scowl. 

“Nope.” Leo pronounces with a pop. 

Mikey, seated cross-legged on the ground and twirling the chain on his nunchaku between his fingers, gives him an encouraging half-smile. “You could… try again?”

Leo lets out a quiet bark of laughter. “After witnessing his last performance? Are you crazy?” He brings up a hand and waves it around his own face. “I like my assets in their current arrangement, thank you very much.” 

“Yeah, that’s probably wise.” Donnie intones monotonously. 

Raph heaves a great sigh, then makes a bee-line for the older turtle himself. 

He’s not dangerous to them, he’s not scary. He’s Raph’s little brother, and it just looks that way because he’s in pain.

He clasps Leon by his shoulder, noting the stiffness there. Tired eyes glance over to Raph, his jaw set in a hard line. 

“You okay big guy?” He asks gently. 

He’s quiet for a moment, then—

“I’m sorry… I thought- I thought I could keep myself under control. But then I saw him, and I just...” The veins of his hand bulge as it curls tighter into a white-knucled grip, his shoulders tensing. 

“You got angry.” Raph states. 

He knows a thing or two about that. That burning rage boiling away in the dark pit of your stomach, billowing out a thick fog that clouds your better judgement. Raph keeps a lid on it, letting it simmer in him until he can release bursts of fury on those that deserve it. He’d learnt to force it down into a tight little box from childhood – always being bigger and stronger and far more likely to get his little brothers hurt were he to lose control. 

“I got angry.” Leon agrees quietly. He steals another glimpse at him, then releases everything with a heavy sigh. “I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that.” 

Raph acknowledges the apology for what it is. He’ll add it to the going on pit that Leon needs help managing now. “You did freak out the guys a bit back there.” 

He averts his gaze, head lowering in shame.

Raph squeezes his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Leon makes a face like he’s swallowed something sour. “Not particularly.”

“Okay.” Raph’s hand slides away. “Well, uh- try not to be too hard on yourself about it. It’s a pretty understandable reaction considering that...” Leon stiffens. He stops. Rephrases. “Just… considering.” 

Leon responds with a jerky nod. 

“How about you take a minute to cool off.” Raph suggests. “We’re gonna try and figure out what our next move should be.”

He hums a quiet acknowledgement. 

Raph examines him for a beat longer, momentarily struck by just how morose this guy is compared to the younger slider. Then, he turns around and returns to the midst of discussion between the others.

“Mezmer-Ron was the strongest contender on my list-” Donnie admits. “But… The stone could have simply been a mystic item someone stole. No hypnosis required.”

“That would open up our mystery brainwasher to being pretty much anyone.” Mikey points out.

“Not exactly… They would have to hate us, and know Leo well enough to realise that the older Leo is him, and somehow track down where, when and how he landed in our timeline, and then be able to take him down or trick him into wearing the amulet- and sweet sassy molassy this is really narrowing down the list.” Donnie rattles off with a frown. “I got nothing.” 

They collectively think for a moment. 

“Ooh!” Mikey snaps his fingers. “We can call dad! He’ll definitely know something.” He pulls out his phone and begins tapping at the screen.

Leo gives him an odd look. “Uhh, pops didn’t know anything when we asked him.” 

“Our other dad.” Mikey clarifies.

“Oh god, please no. Anything but that.” Donnie says lowly. 

“No, this is great.” Leo notes with enthusiasm. “He’s our best next suspect.” 

“Barry!” Mikey exclaims cheerfully. 

They crowd around the phone. Draxum’s holding the phone too close, mostly just his forehead shown on screen. 

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” He grumbles. 

Leo frowns. “It’s like… ten o’clock, Drax. What has working school hours done to you?”

“Sorry, we had something important to ask you.” Mikey pauses. “Um, could you hold the phone back a bit?”

Draxum complies, and his face comes into view. He looks tired and disoriented like he’s just woken up — eyes bleary, fur mussed on one side of his face, still donned in his robe. 

“That’s better. Did you get my texts about the Leo update?” Mikey asks

“Yes. They were numerable. It was hard to miss.” He replies tonelessly. 

“Oh, okay. Just checking. You leave me on read a lot.” 

Draxum rubs a hand over his eyes. “In my defence, most of them did not make sense, both due to the complexity of the situation and your text abbreviations. I have many questions.”

“Oh, well, I can just show him.” Mikey turns the phone toward Leon.

Stars sparkle in Draxum’s eyes. He sits up, “He’s magnificent.”

Leo stands in front of him and pokes a finger at the screen. “Don’t be weird about it, Big D. We just want some information about an artefact.” 

He nudges Donnie. Mikey centres the camera on him. 

Donnie puts his hand out. “Would you happen to know anything about-” The metal arms unfurl from his battle shell and deposit a plastic zip-lock bag into his waiting palm. “This?” 

Draxum stares at him, deadpan. “The lighting is terrible. I can’t see a thing.” 

“Right. That’s fair. Give me a moment.” Donnie pulls his goggles down over his eyes and activates a light, lifting the bag into it so the runes etched into the stone are illuminated. “THIS?”

Draxum puts his glasses on and squints, his purple nose filling the screen as he leans towards his phone. 

Three heavy breaths into the speaker, then Draxum pulls away.

“Where did you fools retrieve this from?”

Leo snags the phone from Mikey’s grip. 

“It was wrapped around the neck of the guy trying to kill us.” He explains offhandedly. 

Draxum doesn’t seem surprised by this information — testament perhaps to the amount of people who have tried to actively murder them at one point. Three of which are currently engaged in this conversation. Four, if you want to include Donnie. Leo seems to realise this too, and he jabs a thumb in the direction of the older slider. “His neck, to be specific.” 

That manages to elicit the slightest rise of Drax’s brow.

“Do you know what it is?” Raph asks. 

His eye twitches. “I hold many positions of high esteem. Scientist. Alchemist. Warrior. Lunch-lady. A jeweller, however, I am not.” He states dryly. 

Donnie places a dramatic hand over his chest. “Gasp. The mystic genius doesn’t know more than me, the everything else genius. Who could have foreseen this?” 

“But,” Draxum cuts back in. “I have seen those runes before.” 

Donnie slumps. “Of course he has.” He mutters under his breath.

“It’s a magic of ancient craft, as old and long dead as the giants that the city was built upon—” 

Leo smirks, his eyes shifting to where Leon is standing on the outskirts of their discussion. Incapable of resisting the urge to kick the hornet’s nest, he begins to say- “Oh, no way! I didn’t think it was possible for anything in existence to be older than…” Raph, already anticipating the quip, clamps a hand over his mouth. 

“Do you have a death wish?” He hisses under his breath. 

Mikey plucks the phone from Leo as his arms flail in Raph’s grip. 

Draxum continues on as if none of them had ever opened their mouths. “I’ve heard of relics such as these before. The malevolent energies imparted into the engravings are capable of anything from burning the fundamental particles of one’s physical being until nothing remains but ash, to filling the host’s mind with a frozen mist that blends all thoughts to slush, rendering them mad. These artefacts are incredibly rare… They’re also extremely dangerous in the wrong hands. As such, they are highly sought after in the Hidden City’s black market.” 

“How does it work?” Mikey asks.

“You expect me to know that by simply looking at it over the humans’ pathetically primitive 5G network?” 

Donnie crosses his arms. “See. He doesn’t know everything.” 

Leo licks a stripe across the palm he has clasped over his mouth, and Raph rips his hand away. “Ugh! Leo, that’s disgusting.”  

The slider slips from his grip and flips over Mikey, retaking the phone. 

He lands gracefully, then strongly encourages Draxum to, “Take a wild stab at it.”

Drax releases a long-suffering sigh. “The runes inscribed into the amulet are similar to those carved by the followers of Arandolos, the spirit of perception and compulsion. Based on what you’ve told me, I presume that someone could have whispered or imbued their own desires into the stone, with these urges dominating over the will of the host when the amulet was placed on him.” 

“Okay, so… Who’s the O.G. whisperer, then?” Raph asks as he wipes his hand across his leg. 

Draxum stares into the camera. “How could I possibly know that?”

“There you have it folks.” Leo exclaims, throwing his hands out. “I think we’ve hit the upper limit of Drax’s helpful exposition.” He brings the screen up close to his mouth. “I’m hanging up on you now.” 

“What? You can’t silence me, boy! No one hangs up on The Great Baron Dra—” 

Leo gleefully ends the call and tosses the phone back to Mikey.

“I know where we’re going next.”

Chapter Text

Leo takes them to Señor Hueso’s. 

Raph isn’t sure how, or if this is related in any way to their conversation with Draxum, but he will admit that the warm, lively ambience of the pizzeria is on the nicer spectrum of settings he’s led them into. 

Business at Run of the Mill had been entirely unaffected by the near-miss krang invasion - the restaurant the same as it’s always been; the air filled with spices, aromas rich and earthy, the low atmospheric glow of the candles above illuminating walls lined with eclectic décor and framed photos, waiters busily bussing around immense trays of delicious pizza. 

Hueso turns from where he’d been serving a customer and straightens slightly at the sight of them all. 

“Ah, tortugas. Bienvenidos. Table for…” He halts, his expression going pensive as his eyes land on Leon standing behind them. “Who’s this? Your Padre?”

Raph suspects this is going to become a very common misconception. 

Leo runs a hand over his face. “No. No he is not.” He mutters tiredly. 

Leon smoothly nudges his way between Raph and Mikey, taking a step towards Hueso. Raph’s muscles go tense for a moment, a prickle of uneasiness spreading into his stomach. 

He needn’t be concerned. Leon’s face is more wistful than angry, his voice full of emotion when he breathes, “Hola tio.”

“Excuse—” Hueso stutters to a halt when Leon wraps his arm around him and pulls him into a tight hug. “me?” 

“You haven’t aged a day.” Leon mumbles into his shoulder.

Hueso’s arms hang loosely at his sides. Raph didn’t think it was possible for his skeleton to appear any stiffer than it already is, but here they are. He sends an uncomfortable, deeply bewildered look to the younger turtles. 

“Do I know you?”

Leon peels away. A sadness flits across his face. “No, I… sorry.” He brings his fist to his mouth and coughs, embarrassed. “You don’t, do you? I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

Raph’s heart pangs. Clearly there’s some kind of history there. He can only imagine how much it must hurt to not be remembered - for there to be no memory there to recover in the first place. He realises with a heavy sense of gloom that it must be like this when it comes to them as well. They just can’t know Leon in the same way that their future selves would. 

Mikey glances at Leon sympathetically, and points a finger at him. “That’s Leo.” He tells Hueso.

“You have two family members called Leo?” 

“No, I mean, yeah, but—” Mikey flounders.

“We’re the same person.” Leo states. 

Hueso does a double take, his jaw slackened. 

Leon opens his mouth to try to explain, but the skeleton raises a hand to silence him. “Dios mío. No. I don’t even want to know.” 

An impatient voice calls out from across the restaurant. “Waiter!”

Hueso sighs, then gestures behind him. “Take the booth towards the back and at least try not to annoy my customers.”

They’re efficiently shooed away. Their orders are taken, drinks are served, and it’s not long before they’re surrounding a table with steaming pizzas laid out before them.

“There any reason why you brought us here?” Raph finally asks. 

“Hunger, mostly.” Leo says, reaching for his Hawaiian at the same time as Leon. 

Leon seems to be enjoying the pizza immensely, and Raph realises with no small measure of guilt that they probably should have taken him here first. Though, then again, the food and the ambience of Hueso’s place does seem to be effectively dousing all that… murder-iness. A quirk that Raph had thought to be a more prominent issue in Donnie than Leo, but old enraged slider might just beat out feral gremlin softshell in this case. 

Donnie mutters something under his breath that Raph doesn’t quite hear from his side of the table, and Leo lightly punches his shoulder.

“We’re making progress, DonTron.” He exclaims. “Why do you have to be so salty about it?”

Donnie shoots him a sour look as he rubs his shoulder. “I’m not salty, I just believe the information we got from a single phone call would’ve been helpful twenty-two to forty-six hours ago, and I’ve completely wasted my time because this mystic relic mojo is complete bogus and makes zero context within the framing of science, and—”

Raph claps his hands together, interrupting Donnie before they lose him forever to the ouroboros of mystic-science contradictions. “Plan, Leo?” He prompts.

“Yeah, that would be good.” The slider agrees.

Raph resists the urge to face-palm. “No. I mean, what is the plan?” 

Leo’s mout forms an oh, then after a moment, he shrugs. “No clue. I’m making this up as we go.” 

Raph glances to the older slider for suggestions, but Leon honestly looks more interested in the pizza than tracking down his brainwasher and their would-be killers right now. 

Mikey takes the tablet from Donnie’s hand and begins scribbling something into it. Raph peers over his shoulder. 

Hypno-Potamus + the worm
Draxxy <3

“Donnie?” Raph asks, “Ideas?”

Donnie thinks for a moment, and Leo furtively reaches across his twin’s plate and begins slowly sliding one of his slices away while he’s distracted.

“Well. Repo Mantis harbours some pretty open disdain towards us, and he’s known to salvage scrap from mutants, yokai and humans alike.” Donnie pauses to violently stab his knife into his wayward slice without looking at Leo. “There’s a good chance the amulet came through his shop.”  

Leo withdraws back to his empty plate with a nod. “Alright. It’s worth a look. Let’s add him to the list.

Mikey jots down the yokai’s name before handing the tablet back to Donnie. The softshell takes in his little brother's notes with a frown. 

Leo glances at Leon. “You wouldn’t happen to have any money, would you?”

Leon freezes halfway through a bite, cheese dripping to his plate. 

“I’m not very liquid right now.” He mumbles.

Leo leans back into his chair. “Wow. Middle-aged, no money, no job and no girlfriend? Sheesh.”

His tone isn’t biting. It’s more in the vein of the sibling banter and teasing he exchanges with Donnie. All the same, Raph kicks Leo’s leg under the table.

“Ow,” He whines. “What?”

Raph glares at him and mouths silently. Stop. Antagonising. Yourself. 

“You say that as if you contribute at all monetarily to this family.” Donnie dishes out. 

He folds his arms over his plastron. “Well we can’t all commit fraud, can we Don?” 

“Not successfully.” Donnie mutters under his breath. 

“Wh—” Leon puts the pizza down. “Why would you think I’d have a girlfriend?”

Raph glances between the two sliders. That’s what he gets caught up on? 

“Why not?” 

His mouth opens, closes. “Uh, because I’m…” He eyes the others, the words sticking to his throat. “You?” 

Leo chokes out an offended noise. 

Mikey smothers a laugh behind his hands. 

Donnie snorts, “Incredible, a self-burn straight from your future. Self-burn squared. Oh, I love time-travel.” 

“That’s not what I…” Leon stops and shakes his head with a sigh. “Forget it. You’ll work it out on your own.” 

Leo shoots him a bewildered expression. His older counterpart doesn’t elaborate. 

They manage to get through the rest of the meal without mishap, finishing up by scarfing down all they can. Luckily, there’s no battle for the last slice this time. They’ve been trying to make sure Leon takes it easy as he’s reintroduced to real food - mostly only providing him soups and plain carbs and fruit for the first week or so. Here though, they all take one look at Leon’s sad, tired, malnourished figure, and not a word of argument is made when he takes it. 

Raph, as always, leaves a sizable tip, and together they take their leave into the grimy streets of New York. 

- - -

Outside, the night has grown cooler, the moon obscured by a thick layer of heavy clouds. There’s a heaviness to the air, the threat of an impending storm.

Rather than navigating the tight streets and narrow alleys in the turtle tank, the team comes to a mutual agreement that Repo’s junkyard is close enough to hoof it. There’s only one problem with this method of making it from point A to point B. 

His brothers are… easily distracted, to put it lightly. 

And Leo, who’s supposed to be helping him take control of this team, is just as bad as the rest of them when it comes to following a task that doesn’t involve serious or life-threatening stakes. He has a habit of hopping between different ideas when he doesn’t have something to narrow his focus on. 

Sometimes it feels like Raph’s doing the lion’s share of the work just trying to redirect the three of them — Leo chasing his impulsive thoughts like a dog trying to catch its own tail, Mikey’s attention slipping each time he spots a sick graffiti mural, Donnie a coin’s flip away from letting the intrusive thoughts win and setting something ablaze. It’s like trying to corral a herd of feral cats, and Leon’s not helping any. He’s just morosely following after them like a supervisory adult rather than the rebellion leader that Casey raves on about. 

They’re finally making some leeway when Raph pauses again. Overprotective big brother sense tingling, the light thud of Leon’s footsteps behind him have gone silent. Where—

He turns, and there Leon is, standing stock frozen at the juncture of the street and a narrow side-alley. 

“Guys, hold up a sec.” He calls. 

The group’s chatter stops, their heads swinging back to check what the newest hold-up is.

Raph approaches Leon carefully. His gaze is focused intently on something in the darkness, his eyes wide in a way that makes Raph just as freaked out, despite not being able to see what it is that’s gotten Leon like this. He looks in the same direction, blinking a couple of times as he squints into the dim light. 

There’s nothing. It’s an empty alley. 

“Leo?” Raph calls. 

Leon jerks abruptly, his head snapping towards Raph, breaths shallow. His eyes flit to his chest, just briefly. There and gone again. Easy to miss. 

Raph notices. It’s not the first time Leon’s done this. He just can’t understand why. 

“Sorry.” He’s constantly doing that now, too. Apologising.

“Thought I saw something.” He explains quietly.

“You okay?” Raph asks, his features pinched together in concern.

Clearly, Leon is not.

He looks thoroughly shaken, his face a shade paler than usual. He looks tired, unsettled, flustered, and a great many other descriptors that do not even begin to approach the vicinity of okay. 

Leon runs a hand over his mouth. He takes one last fleeting glance towards the alley, then swallows. “Yeah.”

Real convincing.

He doesn’t let Raph call him on it. “Come on.” He urges, swiftly taking his arm and pulling him back towards the rest of his brothers. 

- - - 

Leon’s seeing things.

Isn’t that a silly, not at all concerning observation to make about yourself? I’m seeing things that aren’t there. 

He’d say, ‘I see dead people’ for the fun of it, but the potency of that statement is kind of undercut by the fact that he sees people that have already died in his lifetime every single day at the moment. 

What he doesn’t get is why this is happening now, of all times, so long after the day he lost Raph. 

Maybe it’s his mind trying to consolidate his past with this timeline. Casey has mentioned that he finds it difficult trying to keep the past and present separate at times, though that was only in reference to expecting knowledge from his younger brothers that they had no way of knowing, or offhandedly telling an inside joke that no one is able to pick up on. Nothing like the symptoms Leon’s experiencing (and thank god for that, there are some small mercies to life). 

Maybe it’s because being around the four of them is just too much of a reminder of… everything. His youth, his childhood. His life as it once was, before he ruined everything. 

Maybe he’s just plain haunted.

It’s hard to say honestly. Leon’s mental health has been tail-spinning ever since he woke up in their old Lair. After all the struggles and fighting, all the strife and pain — being prepared to die, in the most lonely way, for his cause, sending the last of his family to safety and giving himself up to meet his end, to be locked away in a doomed timeline of his own making… After surviving all that, he’s been finding it… a bit difficult to settle into the relative calmness of this new old world. 

You would think he’d finally be able to experience peace now that he’s home and safe, but he can’t seem to switch off the part of him that’s screaming for him to be doing something about a danger that’s no longer present. His nerves are constantly on edge, his mind running at a hundred miles an hour, hyper-aware of the potential for catastrophe to fall upon them once again - to steal away this moment that he’s too highly strung to even fully enjoy. 

He’s not sure if time-travel gives you some kind of… portal jet lag (that’s probably a question for Donnie), but something has busted his body clock, because when he lays down to try and rest, he finds himself rolling around, unable to get comfortable, adrenaline and anxiety sparking down to his fingertips. A deep knot coils in his belly, keeping him wide-eyed and ready for a fight. There’s no sleep to be had. 

And yet, now he walks through a New York that is as vibrant and loud and alive as his brothers are, and it’s difficult to be convinced he isn’t adrift in his own subconscious. That this isn’t all just one long fever dream. 

It hits Leon with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia — unbearably sweet and leaving a little ball of glowing golden light in his chest that he’s growing dangerously addicted to. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and that makes him sick to the stomach, because the only reason he has it is due to Leon’s cloaking of the truth about his past, about what had happened to them, about Big Mama. About him. 

In Leon’s heart and his head, he knows this isn’t right. He can see the effect the lies are having in the kids’ faces when he loses the composure he’s been trying so hard to keep a white-knuckled grip on. When he’s triggered by something insignificant and nonsensical and can’t find the will to be in their presence any longer. They’re lost, they’re confused, and that tears at his chest. 

He’s mature enough to acknowledge how stubborn he’s being. He’s aware of the potential for this whole predicament to blow up in his face, and also how easily and succinctly it could be resolved if he would just talk to them. 

But, hey. Leon’s never denied having self-destructive tendencies.

Not to mention that they’re kids. 

Donnie is all wiry muscle and awkward, gangly limbs that he hasn’t quite grown into yet. Leon and Raph are roughly the same height now, but he’s still smaller than he can ever remember, and he refuses to make the same mistake of believing his big brother is indestructible. Mikey’s almost unbearably young - his eyes bright and spirits high, and there’s something infectious about that; his constant, unrelenting, utter delight with being himself. It makes Leon feel better just being around him. And Leo… 

Leo is the boy that Leon could never be. 

He knows they’re all far more powerful than they look. More powerful than Leon, who hadn’t had the strength to save his world. They have their own battle scars, too. Mikey’s hands, Raph’s eye - his shell. He hasn’t once seen Donnie take off the heavy battle shell since he’s gotten here, not even within the safety of his own lab. And it hasn’t escaped his notice that they’re walking everywhere; Leon not being the only one to have lost his ability to teleport. 

He wonders when they happened to the kid. His ninpo is only a flicker, which is admittedly more than the ashes left in Leon’s core — the flame there long ago burnt out, but it’s still perplexing. Leo saved everyone. The connection to his power should be ablaze in his chest. 

It seems that if there’s one universal rule between their timelines, it’s that no one gets away from the Krang unscathed. 

His brothers would deeply resent being kept out of the loop, but he can’t help but want to wrap them in blankets and hide them someplace safe, and the absolute last thing he wants is to be the one placing burdens on their shells again. He can follow them around on their wild goose chase, but he can’t lead them to the answers they’re seeking.

The group turns down an alley. Mikey hangs by his side, his arm linking between Leon’s. The others are in front. Raph trails behind Leo and Donnie; the twins bickering about something inconsequential. Though, those two still get along better than Leon recalls he and Don did back in the good ol’ days - all evidence to brotherly martyrdom being stronger than even the greatest of sibling rivalries. 

His moping is interrupted by a dull, low buzzing overhead, eliciting a prickling at the back of his neck, a sensation of his proverbial hairs standing on end. 

Leon doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate. His reaction is an automatic compulsion; muscle memory taking over.

Without so much as a word of warning, he takes hold of Mikey’s shell, picks him up, spins around and hurls him towards the noise. 

Mikey soars into the air with a high-pitched yelp, his limbs retracting into his shell. He hurtles at the drone hovering above them at a breakneck velocity, and the low hum of the UAV’s propellers cut to a mechanical shriek as his shell crashes into it. 

It’s not until his little brother begins to fall back to earth does Leon really come to terms with where he is and what he’s just done. 

Blood rushes past his ears, his heart rate spiking as Mikey pings off a fire escape and carreens towards the ground. 

He’s distantly aware of the alarmed noises coming from the others over the deafening flutter of his pulse. He leaps off the nearest wall and does an upward dive into the air, catching Mikey mid-plummet. He curls around him protectively, absorbing the stinging aftershocks of impact as they bounce off the ground and come to a skidding halt. 

The floor stable beneath him again and Mikey safely in his arms, Leon tentatively raises his head. He is immediately faced with three sets of wide eyes, his brothers in varying states of shock. 

Leon flinches and recentres his body over his little brother when the drone crashes beside them in a shower of sparks, shielding him from any further debris. 

Then? 

Silence.

Mikey’s head pops out of his shell. “Yo!” He cries, sounding more than a little miffed at being pitched like a baseball. “What gives, Leo?”

Leon winces. He glances at the others, who look to have the exact same question on their minds. 

Leo stares at him, his mouth agape. 

Heat rising to his face, Leon gets to his feet and offers a hand to Mikey. After a brief moment, his little brother takes it, his eyeridge knitted together in confusion. Leon pulls him up.

He clears his throat. “I am… so sorry. That... that was a purely instinctual response.”

Donnie’s the first to snap from his stupor. He takes a step forward and crouches down to examine the fallen drone.

“Huh.” He utters thoughtfully. “Did you usually use Angelo as a projectile weapon in the past?”

Leon sinks into himself a little. Donnie’s not wrong, exactly. He just… that’d never been the way he had thought about it. When he and Mikey had fought together, it’d been as natural as breathing. They had known each other so well, had trained together for so long, that communication had no longer been necessary. When they went to battle, they were a dynamic extension of one another — barely a word or look exchanged between them, and they would be moving in sync. Playing off their respective strengths, perfectly in-tune. 

“He could float.” Leon reasons weakly.  

Mikey’s demeanour immediately shifts. He jumps up and takes hold of Leon’s shoulders excitedly. 

“I could FLY?”

Leo glares at him, his eyes blazing with either brotherly jealousy or protective anger. Leon isn’t sure which, and he doesn’t really want to find out. He gently takes Mikey by the lip of his shell and carefully lowers him back to solid ground before brushing the dust from his shell. 

“Float.” He repeats, his voice strained.

They hear a ‘crack’ beside them, and he peers down to see Donnie’s already gone full tech-vulture mode, stripping the drone for parts. Some things don’t change. 

Undeterred, Mikey waves his arms out to Leon, jumping from toe to toe like he does when he wants Raph to pick him up. 

“Toss me again!” He says, a look of intense determination crossing his face. “I gotta work this out!”

“NO!” Raph scoops him up and holds him away from the older slider. “You are not a baby bird. We are turtles, and we Do Not toss little brothers in this timeline.”

Leon didn’t think it was possible for him to feel chastised by a seventeen year old, but it seems the powers of big-brotherhood transcend the time-space continuum. 

He’d always known that Raph had to actively refrain from using his full strength against them, but it hadn’t been until Leon matured into his height and strength that he realised how much consideration was behind doing so. On more than one occasion Leon would have to remind himself to hold back to make sure he wasn’t hurting Casey or other humans half his size. To be aware of simply how much space he took up compared to others. To remember not to throw a turtle that has yet to master the powers of levitation. 

Leon flinches at the burst of light and static at his feet, electronics sparking. Donnie curses and shakes his hand.

“Can you quit messin’ with that?” Raph barks, his voice taking on a stressed edge.

“And leave the precious fruits of Leo’s efforts to waste?” He exclaims dramatically. “Do you know how much the GPGPUs on these things cost?”

“The— no, Donnie, I don’t. Stop it.”

“Okay, guys, I hate to cut in on the fun, but.” Leo stops. “Oh my god—”

The team spins around to him worriedly. 

A grin splits across the younger slider’s face as he points towards a rat in the gutter, struggling to drag away a pizza slice twice its size.

“It’s Splinter 2.0.”

Leon can sense Raph’s rising agitation, his ninpo sparking just below the surface of his skin. He should probably put his rebellion leader face on and direct this ship somewhere before Raph surrenders to the Cain instinct.

He’s distracted when that prickling tingle at his neck returns with a vengeance - the feeling of eyes on the back of his head. He shifts his gaze up subtly, catching a flash of movement at the corner of his peripherals. 

Leon’s head snaps up to the roof to just barely capture a glimpse of the eyes watching him dart out of sight. 

A wave of ice slithers beneath his shell, a sudden burst of adrenaline crackling at his nerves. 

The others haven’t caught on. Raph’s managed to finally usher them forwards without having to incite violence, but Leon’s going to have to disappoint him by hanging back for this.

He takes hold of his wrist before he can leave with them. 

“Something up?” Raph asks. 

“I… Yeah. I think I might need to go home.”

It's almost sad how easily the lie slips from his lips. 

“Oh.” Raph’s features turn sympathetic, and Leon’s almost aggravated by how quickly Raph takes him at face value for no other reason than him being a little more jumpy than usual. How much he intuitively trusts Leon. 

Then he gets angry at himself for being annoyed at his brother, who’s done nothing but be heart-wrenchingly kind to him. When Leon’s the one that has misled them into thinking he’s worthy of deserving that treatment in the first place. 

Raph glances back at his departing brothers, “Do you want us to come with?” He asks, his concerned furrow deepening.

Leon shakes his head and waves him off. “No, I don’t want to hold you up. You guys go ahead, I can head back on my own.”

He frowns, hesitating. “If this is about Mikey…”

Leon shakes his head.

“It’s fine, he’s okay, no one’s mad about it.” Raph emphasises, voice going a little quieter when he adds, “You just surprised us a little, ‘s all.” 

Leon’s gaze drops. That’s all he seems to be doing at the moment. Surprising them. Freaking them out. Scaring them. 

“It’s not just that, it’s… I’m kinda overwhelmed? Everything’s a bit much right now.” He confesses, injecting a modicum of truth into the lie. “I don’t want to get one of you hurt because I can’t control my impulses. I… I think I need time to process some stuff.”

Raph looks conflicted, snaggletooth worrying at his lower lip. “You sure?”

Leon’s heart clenches. This is the Raph he remembers from so long ago. 

He may have surrendered leadership to Leo, but he remains acutely attuned to his self-appointed roles as eldest brother. Looking at their dynamic from an objective, third-person point of view, it would probably come off incredibly strange. Having this teenager trying to take on the big brother role for a middle-aged mess of a turtle. Raph always had to grow up faster than the rest of them, taking on the mountain’s share of responsibility so his brothers could still be kids. Leon hopes he can ease some of that load from him. 

Leon smiles. “I survived an apocalypse, Raph. I’m pretty sure I can handle a trip home by myself.”

After a moment, Raph nods. 

“Keep safe.” He mumbles, unable to help himself.

Leon pulls him into a quick side-hug, and with that, they part ways. 

Leon waits a moment for Raph to turn the corner and disappear out of sight with the others, then takes another moment to feel guilty about being glad he’d convinced Casey to go home earlier today and get some sleep, because there’s no way he would have agreed to leave him behind.

Leon didn’t think he could sink any lower down this deep, dark hole he’s gotten himself into, but by god, he’s found a way to magic up a shovel and dig, because here, what he’s doing now — refusing to direct them to the source of their troubles; his incapability to admit to what he’s doing… this isn’t just lying to the ones he cares about. This is active deceit. 

He swallows the thought down each time it bubbles up. He tells himself it’s for their safety, but the terrible truth is that he just wants them to still be able to smile when they look at him. 

His family, those that had been left, had become so… solemn in his timeline. He had disappointed dad and Raph by never being able to live up to the leader he could be before they died. Betrayed them by not trusting in them like they had him. And Leon… he buried himself in work. Smothered out every emotion by whole-heartedly dedicating himself to the cause. 

He had been so caught up in trying to command the resistance — planning rescue missions, organising weapon and supply lines, gathering intel, trying to manage all the disputes between the different sectors and clans… The resistance required so much of him. He’d never become estranged from his brothers, but it was a simple fact of Leon’s life that his relationships were secondary to his duties as leader. A lot of the time he spent with his family became purely work-related. Moments where they’d usually talk things out or do bonding activities devolving to discussions about wins and losses and how to make their system more efficient. How to save as many people as physically possible. 

It wasn’t until the godsend that was Casey, that Leon had finally been forced into some semblance of balance, but by that point, it was already too late. 

Leon is not the same. He knows, because he looks at Leo, and he feels so incredibly disconnected from this boy he used to be. His peppy impulsiveness and endless quips. The performative ego held up by flashy boisterousness. All he can think is that he killed this kid, too. Quietly buried, some point between the midst of the war and the minutes after leaving dad buried under that pile of rubble. 

He doesn’t want these kids to change. 

It’s less agonising to pretend that nothing between them had gone wrong, but he’s sure he hadn’t been imagining the undercurrent of targeted resentment from Donnie, after he’d caused everything to end. Whether it be for the deaths Leon had inadvertently caused, the constant workload he was demanding from him, or just the whole situation in general, Leon still isn’t certain. All he knows is he doesn’t want to experience the pain of his silence, his tired disappointment. Mikey had aged so quickly, and he still isn’t sure whether that was due to the powers he was forced to use draining away his lifeforce, or the hell that Leon had thrust upon him. Both, probably. 

He wants his brothers to be able to see him one last time, untainted by the knowledge of who he really is, unaffected by the strain that frayed away at the bond that was once bound so tightly around all of them. If they knew the real him. Who he had become. They would never be able to love him in the same way. And Leon… He wants just one more day where he can be included in this family, and know that they’re not treating him like this to make him feel nice — acting as they always have out of some misplaced sense of pity. 

It’s selfish. It’s irrational. It’s taking advantage of their obliviousness. His family would never have let this fly in his own timeline. He knows this, and yet he still can’t bring himself to divulge to his baby brothers the calamities he’s to blame for. He doesn’t want them to fear.  

He’ll tell them eventually. He can’t hide forever. He just… 

He wants a little more time.

Leon takes a deep breath, exhales. One problem at a time. That should’ve been enough time to convince their tail that he’s split off from the group. They’re unlikely to wait to see what Leon’s up to. They won’t risk losing the prizes Big Mama is offering so much for. 

Leon makes his way up the side of the building, his thoughts whirlpooling. 

As an ally, Big Mama had proven to be both a formidable strategist behind the scenes and a powerhouse on the battlefield. As his enemy? She’s a total nightmare. Damn Big Mama and her fucking contingency plans. 

Or had Leon been the contingency plan? He thinks he remembers Casey mentioning that the random yokai attacks have been going on for a couple of weeks now. Her plan to use Leon against his family had sorely backfired on her, if so.  

Leon knows she’ll have more tricks up her sleeve, but for now, this has been Leon’s daily routine: spend time with Casey. Eat dinner. Force his reluctant student to go home. Brush his teeth. Wait for the others to go to sleep, or be otherwise preoccupied. Sneak his way to the streets and patrol the neighbourhood for bounty hunters. 

The same pattern would follow if his brothers decided they wanted to rise to the surface to stretch their legs. Leon would keep watch from a safe distance, ensuring that any yokai that dared to follow would face his wrath, and the others would remain none the wiser. Morning would approach, and Leon wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw them disappear safely into the tunnels. 

You may be thinking, hey Leo, that’s a fucked schedule. When the hell do you sleep? The short answer is he doesn’t, really. The longer answer is fifteen-minute floor/couch power naps that accumulate to an average of about two hours per day ever since he’s gotten back, and he’ll acknowledge his judgement and mental cognisance could be a little fried from the lack of proper rest.

Reaching the top of the building, Leon hops over the guardrail and lands silently onto the roof. He races after the others, leaping across to the next building and tucking into a forward roll to absorb the impact. He gets to his feet and quickens his pace to a sprint, vaulting over AC units and pipes — closing the distance between himself and whoever is shadowing his brothers.

His pulse is a loud drum in his ears, the rhythm accompanied by the rapid thud of his feet against the rooftops and the sharp puffs of air through his nose. The idea of a hunter with their weapon pointed at his brothers, waiting for one of them to get into their scope so they can make the shot, makes Leon’s stomach churn. His desperation to reach them seeps into his movements, shifting from graceful flips and showy somersaults to a man on a mission; hurdling over obstacles and plunging across buildings in the most direct fashion possible. 

She wants them alive, Leon reminds himself. The bounty on their heads will only go to those who successfully manage to capture them. 

The thought does not placate him. 

He drops to the next roof, a couple feet lower, and there they are.

They. Three bounty hunters. More than Leon’s used to having to deal with at one time, but still a number he should have no issue handling. What he finds concerning is the idea of hunters willing to team up and split the reward - a development that is either a reflection of the rising bounty on his brothers’ heads, or the spreading rumours of the risk dealing with the brothers’ newest guardian poses to the job. 

One of the hunters leans over the railing, leering down at the young turtles below them. He’s taller than Leon, but his physique is nothing but skin and bone, almost translucent in colour — purple-blue veins and elastic fibres visible to the eye. Two sets of arms protrude from his body, bearing four daggers that he spins absentmindedly between long fingers. Besides him stands what can be most aptly described as a land-walking shark, his thick neck supporting a large, toothy maw and a massive spiked mace slung casually over his shoulder. 

Leon takes a quiet step forward, and the third hunter’s furry ears twitch, a growl rumbling low in her throat as her head twists towards him. She bares her sharp teeth at the sight of him, hackles rising as she lowers into a defensive crouch. 

Alerted, the others spin around. They brandish their weapons the moment he’s spotted, leaping forward to surround him without so much as a word of warning. 

Leon slowly unsheaths his sword as they form a ring around him, like predators circling their prey, watching him carefully, eyeing up the threat he poses, waiting for the perfect opening to strike. 

He releases a long breath, a focused poise flooding through him, washing away the distress. 

“We all just gonna dance around in a circle and strike menacing poses all night?” Leo asks lightly. “Can we hurry this along, please? I’ve got other places I’d rather be.” 

He twirls his sword in his hand, inviting their attack with a showy flaunt of his blade. 

Let's do this, you bastards. 

Shark-man takes the bait, swinging his mace at him with a heavy grunt. 

Leon swiftly dodges out of the way, faster than they expect, and slices his blade across the thick tissue of his back. 

The others waste no time in joining the attack. 

It’s certainly different, fighting armed and often armoured bounty hunters, rather than the terrifying mass of metal and flesh the Krang inhabited. The hunters are just as willing to kill him, but compared to the horrors Leon’s used to, this is child’s play.

The furred yokai comes at him with sharp claws extended. Leon kicks her in the face, and she ricochets off the roof’s railing and crashes to the ground. 

The second hunter lashes at him with his daggers, and Leon briskly parries the multiple arms. He forgets in the heat of things that he can’t rely on his prosthetic to tank some of the damage, and an edge of a blade cuts into his arm. It’s only shallow, but Leon curses; yet another injury he’s going to have to find a way to hide before he gets back. He’s still in the process of relearning how to fight without his dominant arm. It’s not fun getting used to the change in mobility. Things that were once so easy for him have suddenly become this big hurdle to climb. 

He swings his sword in a wide sweep - the added length of the blade putting distance between them as the yokai is forced to jump back. Only for Leon to have to immediately roll away as the shark’s mace slams into the ground, cracking into the concrete hard enough to make the ground shake. When he pulls it back up, there’s a sizeable crater in the floor where Leon once stood.

“Big stick you got there.” Leon says lackadaisically. “Do you think you're maybe compensating for something?”

“I’ll enjoy scooping the meat from your shell when I’m through you.” He snarls. 

With that, he brings the mace down again, and Leon spins out of the way, slicing his massive arm as he pivots around him. Sharky staggers back, his hand flying to wrap around the deep laceration. 

“With all those teeth, you’d think you’d have more bite than bark.” Leon notes. 

He doesn’t have time to revel in his opponent’s frustration. The furred yokai lunges towards his head. She’s fast. Leo just barely manages to duck in time.  

“Ooohh, so close.” He taunts with a sly grin.

She growls and surges forwards. Leon dances away, under the claws swinging at him, and slashes his sword across her stomach. 

She falls to the ground, her arms clutched around her belly. 

The shark attacks his back with a roar, his mace striking through open air as Leon dodges to the side and slams his elbow back, cracking him across the jaw with the hilt of his sword. There’s a crunch of bone, and when the yokai lurches unsteadily, Leon rotates around, plunges his sword through his heart and twists. 

The mace clangs heavily to the floor, slipping from his loose grip. Leon withdraws his sword, and his enemy collapses. 

He doesn’t feel remorse. These hunters were dead the moment they went after Leon’s brothers.

The remaining yokai hesitates, the daggers aimed at him faltering, his footing adjusting nervously like he’s not sure if  he wants to try it. Leon’s eyes narrow. When the bag of bones surges forward, Leon pulls back and brings his sword down with force, lobbing one of his arms clean off. 

The yokai screeches. 

He takes a step back, one of his arms clutched around the bleeding remains of his arm, fear forming around the whites of his eyes. He procures a sphere from a pouch attached to his belt and throws it to the ground, causing a blinding light that burns into his retinas. 

Leon flinches, momentarily blinded, his hand rising instinctively to protect his eyes. He blinks after a moment, the afterimage of the flashbang etched into the back of his eyelids. By the time the white spots clear from his vision, the yokai is gone. 

A rippling flow of fabric catches at the corner of his peripherals, and Leon’s gaze follows for a moment, darting over to the roof of a neighbouring building. 

Leon freezes.

The air is dead still; a lull in the eye of the coming storm. Pale bandage wrappings, loose and frayed tails of purple cloth and an achingly familiar cape twist and dance in the wind, defying the complete absence of a night breeze. 

A haze surrounds the slightly transparent figure, his face further obscured by his hood, the sheen of his projected visor barely visible. 

Leon’s heart catches in his throat, his lungs constrict. He feels numb to the rest of the world — his entire existence narrowing down to the spectre standing on the other roof, his head raised towards a moonless sky. 

Leon takes an unsteady step forwards, pulse stuttering. Hot steam emerges from one of the roof’s vents, hot air meeting cool, and a heavy mist envelopes the apparition.

After a moment, the fog dispels, and so too, does the phantom. 

A burst of red hot agony erupts from his right shoulder, snapping Leon from his trance. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, spins around and without aiming, he skewers his attacker. 

The blade pierces directly through the yokai’s neck. 

He stares at Leon, his pupils blown wide, and Leon stares back in equal shock. 

He withdraws his sword, watching in horror as a river of red gushes from the wound. 

Leon can’t break his eyes away, a visceral grief buried deep within him — wrapped tightly around his very soul, locking him into place, entrapping him to the sight before him. 

The yokai brings his hands to the wound, the liquid seeping over his fingers and trailing down his arms. He opens his mouth, and an awful gurgling sound emits from his throat, the blood pooling into his lungs. 

It’s not until the hunter slumps forward, collapsing at his feet, that Leon is released. 

His breaths hitch, his chest heavy, his hand sweaty and shaky around the maskless grip of his sword. The shock is kicking in, drowning out the waves of pain radiating from the dagger embedded into the back of his shoulder. 

A heavy droplet of water falls upon his head, the beginning of a cascade of rain drizzling from the clouds. 

Leon takes one shaky step back, then another.

He runs. 

- - - 

Repo Mantis’ salvage yard has a quiet, eerie stillness to it during the night. Piles of steel and rubber are scattered around the dirt, towers of car skeletons stacked on top of one another cast long shadows over the junkyard. Raph keeps having to dodge hunks of unrecognisable metal littered across the ground as they make their way deeper into the dump. He can practically see the active restraint Donnie is displaying in stopping himself from diving into the veritable treasure trove of spare parts. 

They come to a halt in the middle of the tip, their resident mantis nowhere to be seen. 

“So… where’s Repo?” Mikey asks.

“That is an excellent question, Michael.” Donnie turns to Leo. “Maybe our fearless leader has some suggestions? How exactly do you expect us to flush a mantis out of this dump?”

Leo folds his arms and presses a hand to his chin, thinking for a moment. 

He glances at Repo's tow truck, and his eyes light up. 

He presses his hands together, his impish smile widening. 

“Ooh ho ho hoh, I have the perfect plan.”

Raph drops a shoulder, leans down to Mikey and whispers, “See, when he says it like that, it makes me worried.”

Leo hops up onto the back of the truck, “Donnie, put on a banger for me.”

“A bang— Oh.” Donnie smirks, tapping at his bracer. “For once, I like where this is going.” 

He activates his stereo; two speakers popping out from his battle shell. The opening instrumental of Shrek 2’s ‘Holding Out for a Hero’ begins blasting out at full volume.

“Oh, excellent choice, Dee.” Leo takes hold of one of his katanas and when the intro hits, he passionately sings into the hilt like it’s a microphone. 

His brothers watch on, captivated by his voice. Leo’s always been the family’s karaoke champion, but it’s hard to resist the pull of a soundtrack that has no business being as incredible as it is. 

“Late at night, I toss and I turn and I dream of what I neeed.” He draws out the note, his eyes closing as he dramatically presses a hand against his chest. His eyes flash open, and he points at his twin. “Hit it!”

The combined force of their ostentatious theatrics unites as Donnie hops on top of the truck and activates a bright array of disco lights that beam across the scrapyard. 

Mikey laughs and joins his brothers on top of the vehicle, bouncing in tune to the fast-paced, upbeat tempo. Raph crosses his arms over his chest and watches them with a fond smile, his head nodding along to the beat. Donnie dances as Leo goes for it on the vocals, and Mikey spins around in the background, adding his own razzmatazz to the display.

“Raph come on!” Mikey calls. 

It’s impossible to resist the request. Raph hops up, and their collective jumping through the chorus shakes the entire truck. Raph can barely hear himself think over the orchestrals kicking in and lighting up his veins. His heart swells up with something undeniably good and warm as his own laughter rings in his ears. 

“I need a hero! I’m holding out for a hero ‘til the end of the night—”

They’re having so much fun they barely notice when Repo crawls out from one of the mountains of scrap like a cockroach. He races up to them, his usual grey-black pompadour replaced by an unstyled, greasy mess atop his head — his antennae skewed and tank-top inside-out like he’s just woken up. 

“Hey, hey, hey!”  He yells. “What the hell do you kids think you’re doing!”

“Ah, Mantis. Just the bug we were looking for!” Donnie yells over the music. 

“Hold up a sec, this is the best part!” Leo calls. 

“Did’ja just tell me to WAIT for you to stop dancing on my truck? Are you idiots aware you’re trespassing right now?”

Mikey clings to the back of Raph’s shell. Raph jumps off the truck and rubs the back of his head sheepishly. 

Leo belts out the final part of the chorus, then somersaults down as the song cuts out. 

“We have some questions for you.” He says breathily. 

Repo’s big eyes goggle at him, his jaw slack. 

Leo places a steadying hand against Repo’s car as he pants. He holds up a finger. “Give me a second.” 

Donnie swings his legs over the side of the vehicle and lifts the stone into view.  “Would this happen to look familiar to you at all?”

Repo’s mouth clicks shut as his gaze flits between Donnie and the rock, his expression a balanced amalgamation of confusion, irritation and unimpressed antipathy. 

“If this is a sales pitch, it blows.” 

Leo releases a deep exhale, then leans back against Donnie’s shins. “Do you really think we’d be dumb enough to sell this back to you?”

“Back?” Repo’s eyes narrow. “Listen turtles, here’s the deal. One - I don’t do returns. Two - I ain’t never seen your pretty little rock. And three,” He clicks his tibial spines together threateningly. “If you keep on giving me no good reason for youse being here… I’m gonna start considerin’ bodily harm.”

Disappointment creeps into Leo’s expression. “So you mean to have us believe you’ve never seen THIS guy.” He throws out an arm, gesturing behind him. 

Repo peers over his shoulder, the agitated line between his brows deepening. “Is this some kinda joke? Am I supposed to be seein’ something here?”

Donnie, Leo and Mikey twist around to face the empty space where Leon would usually be

“Where’d big Leo go?” Mikey asks, a tinge of anxiety in his tone. 

“Oh. I thought you guys already would’ve figured…” Raph pauses. Oh right. Attention span. They’d all gotten pretty caught up in the moment, and Leon tends to hang in the background. Not to mention that Raph’s the only one that really keeps track of these things. It probably shouldn’t be a surprise to him that they hadn’t at all noticed his disappearance. 

“He told me before we got here that he was going to head home.” He explains. 

“And you didn’t think to stop him?” Leo stresses. “We’re doing this for him and he just bails?” He scans his brothers’ calm faces. “Why am I the only one mad about this?”

“I mean… He’s old, he’s tired, he’s in all likelihood clinically depressed and we’ve been taking him on a tour around the city for the past four hours.” Mikey notes. “I’m kinda amazed he didn’t dip earlier.” 

Leo releases a frustrated groan. “Y’know, scientists should try inventing a new me that’s unburdened by the horrors of existing.” He turns to his twin. “Donnie, your thoughts?”

“Unrealistic.” He states bluntly. “Suffer like the rest of us.”

Repo coughs loudly.

They turn back to him. The mantis glares them down. 

“If you deadbeats don’t get off my property in the next twenty seconds, I’ll sic Mrs. Nubbins on you.”

Raph holds up a placating palm. “Wh— hold on now. Let’s not be rash.”

“Ten.” Repo growls.

“You said twenty!” Mikey cries. 

“Nine.”

Leo hums thoughtfully. “So the vibe I’m getting here is that you don’t know about the yolked, one-armed turtle.” 

“Leo.” Raph sweeps him into his arms and they book it out of there.

They successfully avoid being mauled by Repo’s cat. Once they’ve safely made it out of the scrapyard, they stop to congregate around an old bus-stop. 

“Well, that was fun.” Leo says. “Where we at, Don?”

Donnie pulls up his tablet and turns it around to show the team. 

Hypno-Potamus + the worm
Draxxy <3 - note to self; don’t let Michael steal stylus
Repo Mantis ?
Señor Hueso ← No dice on attempted murder (unless you count killing it with the pizza) *badum tss* - note to self; stab Nardo next time he tries to steal stylus
Random Mugger #237

“Dang. Okay, gotta admit – scoreboard isn't looking too good at the moment.” Leo mutters. 

“Considering the fact we didn’t really get a solid answer out of him, I’m going to go ahead and jot him down as a potential slaying mantis.” Donnie says, adding the note onto his pad in a neat scrawl. “Follow… up. required.” 

Leo plops down on the kerb and stretches his legs out. “If we can’t find who mind-blasted him, how are we supposed to figure out how he got here?” He grumbles. 

“Beats me.” Donnie replies. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the theoretical implications of time travel, I mean, this totally goes against the chronology protection conjecture – the chances of this all working out, of having splitting histories forced into one continuancy... It would make more sense if there were multiple parallel universes, but then that opens up a whole other chasm of issues surrounding quantum relativity-”

His brothers stare at him.

“Could you elaborate in english?” Mikey asks. 

“No. I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain quantum physics to you all right now.” He states bluntly. That sinks in for a moment before Donnie belatedly adds, “I didn’t mean for that to come off as demeaning, I just know Mikey likes arts and crafts.”

Their little brother nods understandingly. “I appreciate that.”

The sky lights up in a flash, and a moment later the dull roar of thunder reverberates in their chests. Heavy drops of water begin to fall from dark, low clouds — the storm setting in. 

“Alright. I’m calling it. We’re done for tonight. We should quit while we’re still ahead.” Raph comments. 

“Yeah, sorry Leo. I’m seconding that sentiment.” Mikey agrees.

“I concur. I’d rather not get my equipment drenched.”

“But we haven’t even-” Leo sighs. “Ugh, fine. Tell you what, I’ll meet you guys at the Lair, I’ve got somewhere I want to stop off at first.”

Raph can’t say he’s a fan of the idea of Leo splitting off from the group. They haven’t had an unprovoked yokai attack for over a week now, and he’s more than a little unnerved by the sudden peace. He also can’t help but fret over a brother that often forgets he no longer has the power to portal himself out of the trouble he’s constantly getting himself in. 

“You’re not planning on looking into anything by yourself, are you?” He asks.

“Nah, just gonna swing by a friend’s, promise.”

Leo picks himself up and begins making his way down the street.

Anxiety settles low in Raph’s belly at the sight of him leaving. “Keep your phone on.” He calls. “If we don’t see you by three, I’m coming after you!”

“Chill, Raph. I’ll be fine.” He throws up a hand and waves as he walks away. 

- - - 

A heavy deluge of water thunders against the rooftops, the streets outside gleaming, reflections of neon lights blurring in the puddles forming below. 

Casey lays on his too-soft bed in the middle of his too-empty bedroom and looks from the rain beating against his window to the ceiling fan, slowly twisting above him. 

He’s tired. He needs to sleep, but each time he closes his eyes, rest evades him — his thoughts churning over in his mind, unable to be silenced. 

It’s over. Leon made it home. It’s all Casey’s ever wanted for him, and yet, ever since he’s returned, he’s been… different.

Leonardo is either stoic in the face of adversity or actively laughing in the face of it. Casey has seen him cry a few times after his mom and Donnie died, and tear up in that gritted-teeth sort of way when he’s in a lot of pain, but that’s it. Or, it had been, right up until Casey came to the Lair a couple hours earlier than planned and heard what sounded like muffled sobs through the dojo door. 

Casey had knocked, and the noise had stopped. He’d asked his sensei if everything was okay, and after a second he cheerily responded that it was. 

Okay. Maybe Casey had misheard. Maybe what he thought was crying was suppressed laughter at a text Donnie had sent him or some stupid video on his phone or something like that. His voice hadn’t really sounded like he’d just been crying, so he had let it go. 

Then, another day, Casey had been heading through the tunnels linking to the Lair. He had turned a corner, and there Leonardo was, crouched against the wall, head in hand, definitely crying. Casey had stumbled, his foot splashing into a damp puddle, and as soon Leonardo heard him, he shot up, dusted himself off, and offered to help him work on his footwork during training. This time his voice sounded distinctly thick, and his eyes were visibly red. 

Casey, again, had asked if he was okay. If he wanted to talk about anything. 

Nope. 

Same instantly cheery demeanour, with a pep in his step to match. 

Two times in his first week back? Understandable. The initial culture shock had gotten to Casey too. Even now, a couple months after the war’s end, there are times he’s overwhelmed. This world is a ceaseless onslaught to the senses — the new, alien variety of aromas assaulting his nose, the range and sheer amount of food available, the billboards and bright, flashing advertisements filling every corner of the city, screaming for his attention. Everything illuminated in a dizzying array of neon lights. Only in the heat of battle had Cassey experienced a New York so loud. Only here, the noise doesn’t end. The music, the crowds, the traffic. The constant barrage of sound is incessant, even in the ungodly hours of the morning. 

All this he’s still trying to become accustomed to, and Leon has three to four more dead family members than Casey had to deal with navigating on top of that bombardment. 

But stumbling on him five times in a single week, each time with Leonardo pretending like nothing was wrong? That’s more than a coincidence. It is the start of a very concerning pattern. 

A red flag, if you will. 

See, Casey had let himself grieve. Half his time getting to know Raph had consisted of him sobbing into his plastron until he had nothing left to release. He and Leo had taken comfort in one another’s presence, being the only ones that truly knew. April, Mikey, even Donnie, had offered their shoulders for him to cry on. Casey doesn’t understand why Leonardo doesn’t allow himself to do the same. 

The last time he had watched Leon’s face shift - the distress melting away, replaced by a half-smirk (one that had to be fake, but would’ve fooled Casey had he not seen it take form), Casey had sat him down as if Leonardo was the student between the two of them. 

He had told his sensei in no vague terms that he had both seen and heard him crying, that Casey was there for him (even if all Leonardo seems to be interested in doing at the moment is pushing him away), that he loved him, that he was starting to get legitimately worried, and that if he wasn’t going to talk to Casey, he should at least talk to someone.

Nothing. 

Leonardo had deflected like hell with jokes. Which isn’t anything abnormal for him, but this was a serious talk with a capital ‘S’, and he usually understands when he needs to dial it back for those. 

He acts like what Casey sees happens on a different plane — another reality. Like he can push this smiling gratefulness he has for his new life to the forefront and hold everything else underwater until the bubbles stop. It’s distressing. He wonders whether Leonardo understands he’s drowning himself in the process. And that’s even more distressing, because what if he does? What if he just doesn’t care anymore. 

Casey’s never seen him like this. He doesn’t know the truth behind the tears, but he thinks he knows what this is.

Leon’s shutting him out. 

It hurts. 

After so long thinking he’d lost Leonardo forever. So soon after getting him back… He feels like he’s being forced to live a life he never wanted. And he hates himself for resenting any outcome so many people had to die for. 

But, Leonardo and his family are responsible for making his life something more than just escaping death. They’re the only reason he had a childhood — his memory interspersed with moments like… Like laughter and cards and singing around a warm fire. Like pretending to be heroes going out on a grand adventure as they scavenged through garbage for scrap. Stitching together ridiculous, gaudy costumes and acting out Lou Jitsu skits. Having Master Donatello read him philosophical theories and ancient history facts as bedtime stories. Falling asleep atop of Leonardo’s shell - the closest thing to a home Casey’s ever had. 

He deeply misses that. So much so sometimes that a small part of him wants to go back. 

Spirits. Does that make him a monster?

He just… He thought they’d both been fighting for a world where they could heal together. Casey doesn’t have any desire to see what this timeline has to offer him. All his life, he and Leonardo have been the ones to look out for one another. He’s never needed anything more than that. He just wants to have that connection again.

Is that too much to ask?

“Casey.”

He jumps, his arm reaching for the hockey stick hidden beneath his bed.

“Hey! It’s just me.” The turtle at his window whispers.

Casey squints into the dark. “Leo?” 

He lowers his weapon, his body slumping back into his bed.

Leo enters his room with a slightly guilty smile. “Sorry.”

Casey deflates. “It’s fine. Wasn’t like I was sleeping anyway.” He runs an appraising eye over him. “What’re you doing here? If April’s parents find you here—”

“Relax. They won’t.” He gestures to himself. “Ninja, remember?”

Casey hums a doubtful note. 

“I brought you something.” He says, pulling out a miraculously non-soggy pizza.

Casey sits up with a frown. “Where were you keeping that?”

Leo pats the pouch attached to the side of his belt. “First aid supplies.”

“Isn’t that for emergencies?”

“Being hungry is an emergency.” Leo replies, deadly serious. 

“Um… no, I’m pretty sure it’s not.” Casey takes the slice and has a bite. “Starvation – maybe.” He concedes after a moment.

Leo settles into the beanbag by his bed. “Clearly you haven’t seen your sensei when he’s hangry.”

What? Casey gives him an odd look as he chews. They had no food like… all the time. And his sensei had a bad habit of giving away his portion whenever they managed a successful supply run, but never once had he allowed his emotions get the better of him because of it.  

His mind however chooses to latch onto the other aspect, a sharp pang of envy rippling through him. The slice lowers in his hands, a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. “You guys went out with him tonight?” 

Leo leans back, placing his hands behind his head. “Yep… Kind of. He totally ditched us towards the end.”

That strikes Casey as odd. And a little concerning. Leon never bails out on missions, not unless something drastic has occurred.

“Which is so rude by the way.” Leo goes on, “The whole reason we went out in the first place was to find out who mind-blasted him. He could at least put a little enthusiasm into helping us find answers.”

Casey’s nose wrinkles. He honestly can’t say he cares how Leonardo got here. More than that, he’s got this weird superstition that if he looks into it, either Leonardo will disappear again or they’ll discover it’s not real somehow. And Casey doesn’t think he’d be strong enough to handle that. 

There’s a brief pause, Leo pondering over something in the darkness for a moment.  

“He can be really scary when he wants to be.” He admits quietly. 

That… isn’t how Casey would describe Leonardo. 

“Thought we were going to have to dig a hippo-sized grave for a second there.” Leo mutters under his breath.

Casey’s shoots to his feet. “He tried to kill someone?” He yelps.

Leo’s surprised by the intensity of his reaction. “No. He was just… angry. Very, very angry. I mean, I’m angry at Hypno too, but he was on another level.”

Casey plops back down to the bed. Layers of unsettling emotions pass through him. None of this sounds like Master Leonardo. Leonardo knows how to keep his cool. To a degree, he hadn’t really had a choice when it came to putting his personal grievances aside for the sake of everyone else. He’d been the leader of an entire resistance. Part of that role is putting up with people that you were bound to be at odds with on some points.  

Leo takes in his pinched expression. 

“What? Is going all Terminator like that out of the ordinary for him?” 

“Uh, yeah. He’s…Leonardo doesn’t… He wouldn’t lose it like that. He’s… Well, he’s like you. He doesn’t show that he’s mad at his enemies - he laughs in their faces. He makes jokes, he tries to make things less serious - less scary. He doesn’t— I’ve rarely seen him devolve into rage.” 

Rarely. He’s seen it once. Maybe twice. And never at Casey himself - hence why he’d been so shocked when he’d been the target of Leo’s fury after they’d lost Raph to Krang. 

Casey’s brows pull together. “What did Hypno do?” It must’ve been something dire to elicit that kind of reaction from Leonardo.

Leo looks at him, confused for a moment, before a flash of understanding passes behind his eyes. “Right. He helped steal the key for the Foot. Forgot you weren’t there for that part.”

Casey mulls that over for a couple of moments. It explains a lot, actually, but even so…

“It wouldn’t have just been Hypno he was angry at.” Casey murmurs. 

Leo’s head tilts. “What do you mean?”

Leonardo thinks he’s subtle, but it’s heartbreakingly obvious to see what’s going on. 

It’s simple. He’s alive. He can’t bring his family back. Knowing these two facts simultaneously is slowly killing him. 

His sensei’s life has become defined by the traumas he’s experienced. He’s lost a little… a lot of himself in surviving the things he’s been through. And that’s just something he can’t heal from. Casey knows, because he can’t either.  

He rakes a hand through his hair and brings his knees to his chest. “No matter how many times I tell him it's not his fault, he still blames himself.”

Leo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. After a long pause, he posits in the blandest possible tone, “What if it is?” 

Casey’s gaze snaps to him.

“His fault, I mean.” He adds, as if Casey’s silence is a sign of him needing clarification, rather than, y’know, anger, shock, a general aura of being appalled. 

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.” Casey mutters with a scowl.

Leo rises to his feet. “You didn’t know about Hypno, you didn’t know about the Foot, you didn’t even know I was the one that lost the key — did he tell you anything about what happened before he sent you back to fix all his mistakes?”

A defensive anger rises in his chest at the vitriol in Leo’s words, though he can’t refute their accuracy. Leonardo had never told him about how the apocalypse started, a conscious decision that Casey now suspects is associated with some deep-rooted shame within him. He only has a vague concept of how Raphael and Splinter had died, but he knows the way it had changed Leonardo. He’s seen through Leo what his sensei had been like before it’d all gone downhill. Casey had been there for Master Donatello’s death, but he’d been much younger than he is now, and there had been very limited discussion or reflection on how the mission had gone so wrong. His sensei is the only narrator left alive, and some stories are too painful for him to dig up. 

He knows Leonardo as much as he can bear to be known. 

That might be enough for Casey, but it’s not for Leo. 

“He thinks a lot of things are on his shoulders. It doesn’t matter how many people are involved. How many things go wrong. How futile it would be to try and stop it. He always believes he’s the responsible party.” Casey fixes Leo with a glare. “Just because he thinks it, doesn’t make it true. It doesn’t make him right.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Casey's mind stutters. “Because he’s a dumbass!”

Leo’s eyes go round, his mouth falling open. 

He’s only able to really process what he’s said after the fact. As soon as he does, he shrinks into himself, adding belatedly, “Sometimes.”  

“Wow.” Leo utters, truly amazed. “The perfect, upstanding, hero-worshipping student, insulting his master. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I can insult you right now if you’d like.” Casey grumbles. 

A sudden realisation hits him with a jolt. He abruptly sits up.

“Is that what you’re scared of?” He asks. “That you’re to blame for all this?”

The room goes very quiet. 

Leo approaches him, takes two fingers and gently flicks his head. 

“Get some sleep Case.”

Casey rubs his head, and when he looks up again, Leo’s already hopping through his window to the fire escape outside.

“Leo—”

He throws up two fingers, smiles with all teeth, “Peace!” And backflips out of there. 

Casey stares into the night, listens to the deluge of rain drowning out the faint wail of sirens in the distance.

“Dumbass.” He murmurs. 

He’s trying to lay back and relax to the sound of the calming ambience, when suddenly—

THUD, CRASH!

His eyes fly open, and Casey is immediately on his feet. His heart racing to a sprint, he snatches his hockey-stick from beneath his bed and rushes to the door.

That came from April’s room. 

- - - 

April’s foot taps along to the fast-paced beats blasting through her earphones. The music combined with the six cups of caffeine are the only threads keeping her tied to the land of the living right now. Which is where she needs to be, because midterms are coming up, and there’ll be hell to pay if she fails.

Her focus slips when Mayhem goes from purring away on her shoulder to having his hair standing on end, his hackles rising as he hisses at something at her window. She pulls out an earphone bud and investigates. 

April draws in a sharp breath, her eyes widening and pen dropping from her slack fingers.

There, on her floor by the window, is a very wet, very exhausted turtle, bent over in an odd position and bleeding all over her freshly vacuumed carpet. The wind blows in a small torrent of rain through her open window. 

Mayhem hops off her when she races over to him. A hand plasters over her mouth in shock when she sees the knife handle emerging from the back of his right shoulder. A handle. Because the rest of the blade is embedded inside of him. Which is why he’s not leaning back against the wall. 

“Oh my god.” She breathes, “Oh my god, oh my god—”

“Relax. I barely feel it.” Leon mumbles. 

She’s not convinced. Especially when he shifts slightly, resulting in a grimace that tells her he most definitely feels it. 

“RELAX?” April exclaims loudly, immediately wincing at her own volume. 

She can convince her parents to take in an orphaned future-boy after a city-wide disaster. She's less confident in her ability to explain the giant, bleeding turtle in her room. 

She closes her window, blocking out the howl of the storm outside and lowers her voice to a stressed whisper, “Dude. There is a knife in your shoulder. Knives are not supposed to go in shoulders.”

Leon closes his eyes against the wave of pain radiating through him. Rain he’s collected trickles down his face in little rivers and drips from his chin. 

“I’m very aware of that right now.” He grits out. 

April’s hands hover over him. She may be panicking a little. “God. Okay. Oh fuck, should I pull it out?”

“No!” He whisper-hisses, jerking away from her.

“Why not?” 

“Because April,” He spells out. “As soon as you take out the plug, the red liquid won’t stay inside anymore.”

“Don’t patronise me, I’m trying to help you.” She shoots back. 

“I’m not…” He stops, lets out a harsh breath, “I’m kinda stressed right now, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you… When did the… How did—” She stutters, then stops, pinches the bridge of her nose. Deep breaths, April. 

“What. Happened.”

Leon swallows. “Mugger got me.” He replies quietly. 

Her eyes boggle at that. “This was done by a mugger? Why did a mugger attack a six foot plus turtle? How did a mugger manage to land a hit on you?”

“I wanted his knife.” Leon replies even quieter.

“So you LET him stab you?” She exclaims, struggling to control her volume.

Leon shrugs, wincing at the movement.

“My shoulder. My knife now. Them's the rules.”

April stares at him. 

She is not qualified to deal with whatever this is. 

“I’m getting Casey.” She deadpans. 

“Wait!” He bites, his voice strained.

April holds.

“Please don’t tell Casey. He’s already got enough on his plate. I don’t want him to worry.”

She hesitates. 

April hates to admit it, but she can see where he’s coming from. Casey has been dealing with a lot of late. Actually, scratch that. He’s been dealing with a lot his whole life. He’s just not been handling it as well as he usually does at the moment. His nightly capers to visit his sensei have been making him look even more haggard and exhausted than usual, which, if you asked her a week or two ago, April wouldn’t think possible. April loves hanging with the guys too, but there’s a balance to it. It’s an unfortunate reality that sometimes surface-life responsibilities trump spending time with family. Though, sometimes she gets the sense that he would be better off without those responsibilities. 

Casey knows exactly what’s expected of him, and April wouldn’t be so certain of her doubts about his place up here if he didn’t exceed those expectations as often as he does. He’s got the book-smarts to match his street-smarts — clearly Donnie’s influence. He must’ve imposed the importance of a good education on him from a young age, even at the end of the world, when such things would be considered unimportant. Maybe that had just been Dee’s way of connecting with him. He’s got a creativity to his ideas and an emotional maturity that can only be born of Mikey’s tutorage. And Casey is incredibly obvious in all the ways he tries to emulate his sensei — from the red stripes painted across the eyes of his hockey mask, to his good heart. The result of her family’s parentage is a hella athletic, wholesome genius, with a byproduct of him looking like a little punk due to the shit he’d been through. 

This unfortunately also makes him physically unable to fit in any one group or niche, and he kinda intimidates other kids his age by how independent he is, which is stupid, because Casey is a fucking angel, and April will take her bat to the face of anyone that says otherwise. But she can’t deny that he struggles to open up to people outside his family. He’s introverted. He neither needs, nor really desires friends, and the other kids can sense that. He’s one bad day away from disappearing back into the tunnels forever and outright refusing to leave Leonardo’s side. 

If Casey learns his sensei’s been hurt, no one’s going to be able to drag him away from the Lair, and she knows how important it is to Leon that Casey has a real chance at being… well. Anything other than a turtle. 

Privately, she thinks it has more to do with Leon wanting to make sure Casey doesn’t turn out like him.

“I’ll call Don, then.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, then has to keep her arm extended out of the way when Leon lurches forward to swipe it from her. 

His eyes clench shut in pain when the movement pulls at his back, and he settles back against the wall heavily, resorting to look at her pleadingly. 

“I’d rather my brothers not know about this either.”

April’s brows rise. She has to wonder what kind of mess occurred in his past for him to be convinced that this isn’t something worth kicking up a fuss about.

April gnaws at her lip as she worriedly looks over the stream of red trailing down his shoulder. She still vividly remembers seeing her little brother after the battle, unconscious on the med-bay bed, his battered and bruised form smothered in casts and hooked up to various machines. 

“You’re sure about this?” She asks, apprehensive. 

“Yes.” He confirms immediately, his gaze hard. “Please, April.”

Unease coils in her stomach. She crouches into a squat, arms hanging loosely over her knees. She huffs. This whole situation on her hands is incredibly suspicious. And Leon’s being anything but forthcoming with information. If it were anyone else, April would refuse. She hates secrets. She’s a terrible liar. She hates drama, and having your family keep things from one another is the surest road down that path. 

But, here’s the thing.

The average New Yorkian has nightmares about the portal that ripped open the fabric of the sky and reigned down destruction on them. April’s different. She can’t get the image of the fissure closing out of her head. That threshold between their world and the prison dimension constricting around the Krang’s mothership until there was nothing but heat and light as the world lit alight is forever burned into the back of her eyelids. She’ll never forget the noise from her coms unit clipping to a dead static — the last thread between her little brother and his family, abruptly and ruthlessly cut off. She hadn’t been able to look away, even as the embers and ash rained down upon her, the sky dimming to a dull, heavy grey. 

Team Leo is up two for two in terms of sacrificing himself to save the world. 

She figures she owes him at least this much. 

April sighs, her head dropped to her chest. “Fine.” 

Leon slumps slightly, the air leaving his lungs in a deep, relieved exhale. “Thank you.”

She gestures to his shoulder. “What’re we gonna do about this, then?”

Her medical knowledge is limited to ice-packs and wrapping sprained ankles, neither of which are going to do jack for Leon’s shoulder. If his plan was to find someone to play doctor, he climbed through the wrong damn window. 

“If you can find me some needle and thread I can stitch it up myself.”

The blood drains from April’s face as a fresh wave of horrified awe that only this man is capable of inspiring washes over her. 

“Uh. No.” She enunciates as plainly and clearly as can be. 

Leon’s brow furrows, “Why not?”

“I don’t know Leo, could it have something to do with me feeling some type of way about watching you rip your plug out and sewing yourself back together?”

“Okay, I’m beginning to regret the use of the word plug.” He mutters under his breath.  “Look. It’s not like I can go to a hospital. If you don’t want to see me do it, that’s fine. I’ll just grab the kit and be on my way.” 

He wraps a hand around her floor lamp and pulls himself up, adamant on getting this done one way or the other. 

April rises with him, alarm surging through her. She lifts her hands, “I’m not so sure that’s a good—”

He stands steady on two feet, takes a step forward and—

Immediately crashes to the ground, taking the light down noisily with him.

“Idea.” 

Her arms drop. 

April openly gapes at the idiot sprawled across her carpet. 

She jumps at the sound of a scuffle from down the hall. 

Leon groans and crawls clumsily towards ?? April has no idea what this man is doing. He is a disaster of an enigma. All she wanted to do tonight was study. She has exams next week, how is this her life?

The thump of rapid footsteps rises in volume as they approached her room. Leon just barely makes it behind the door before it flings open, revealing a wild-eyed, dishevelled Casey - his hockey stick wielded in a white-knuckled grip. 

Let her paint a picture for you. April stands in the middle of her room, her back ramrod straight, hair frazzled, her face unable to settle on an appropriate expression. There’s a fallen lamp next to her. Mayhem stands frozen on her bed. Leon’s hiding behind the door Casey’s holding open. A storm rages outside.

He looks at her, totally mystified. “Are you okay?”

A brief pause.

“Yep!” She responds cheerily, her voice pitched too high. “Yeah. Yes. Everything is totally okay in here, I—” She points at the floor, “Lamp.” Makes a falling gesture with her arm, then points to herself. “Me. Clumsy. Ha!”

He blinks. 

Good going, April. Way to be Normal. 

“Oh.” Casey utters. His hockey-stick lowers as he nods jerkily. 

She can’t tell if he’s gullible, too trusting for his own good, or if he’s just going along with April’s oddness for her sake. Though, to be fair, the stabbed, post-apocalyptic veteran turtle hiding behind her door is his pseudo-father. Casey’s bar for Normal behaviour is probably lost somewhere towards the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

“You’re sure you’re okay, though?” He checks.

April confirms this with a fervent nod. “I’m all good, Casey.” 

They both stand there awkwardly.

Casey has dark bags beneath his eyes. The spike of adrenaline has run its course, and it bleeds out of him to make room for bone-weary exhaustion. 

“Sorry, did I wake you?” She asks.

“No, I’ve… been having some trouble sleeping of late.” 

April looks him over, eyeing him with a little more scrutiny this time. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just… I’ve had on my mind, y’know.”

“I know.”

Usually she’d invite him inside to sit on her bed so they could talk. Or they could just chill out and listen to some music as she painted his nails. She can’t very well do either with his sensei standing behind her door, bleeding out all over her carpet, can she?

The silence between them stretches a beat too long.

“Sorry to barge in on you—” Casey apologises, taking a step back out to the hallway. 

“Nah, it’s all good, you were just worried. I ‘preciate it. I’m glad you have my back.” She says sincerely. 

He ducks his head with a nod, colour rising to his cheeks. He points to the door. “Okay, well, I’m gonna-”

“Yeah! Night Casey, try to get some rest.” 

Casey gives her a small, comforting smile. “I will. Thanks ‘ril.”

The door closes, revealing a very pale-looking Leon behind it.

She waits a couple moments for Casey to return to his room before approaching the slider. 

This ragged, worn-down mess of a man is not the hero she had imagined from all of Casey’s stories. The one that took on armies single-handedly, fought back the krang, led them all to victory. He actually reminds her more of her Leo - or at least, the small glimpses she’s gotten a snapshot of him when he has his guard down. That fatigued edge to his face is just way more prominent here - a sharper clarity to his sadness that also isn’t hidden each time he’s the centre of attention. Leon’s been both those people at some point though, hasn’t he? 

She places her hands on her hips. “This is the worst. I can’t believe you just made me lie to the nicest person I know. I feel terrible.”

“You never had to say no to him after he used his puppy eyes on you as a kid.” He croaks. “Trust me, you could feel worse.” His head lolls back, thumping lightly against the wall. “First aid kit?” 

She releases a tired breath. “In the bathroom. Do you reckon you can stay conscious long enough for me to-” 

Mayhem blinks from existence, and a moment later reappears on her bed with the medkit. 

“Good boy.” She praises him with a scratch behind his ear before reaching over and presenting the first aid kit to Leon.

Leon sends her a grateful look as he takes it, placing it on the ground and zipping open the pouch. He cringes at each shift of his shoulder, and April takes the kit from his hands and begins pulling equipment out. 

“I’m gonna need you to pull the dagger out for me when I’m ready.” He tells her. 

April makes a face. “I’m going to have to do all of it, Leo. You’re not gonna be able to reach ‘round and get it.”

He frowns, realising that she’s right. He can’t do it alone. Not with one arm, definitely not with the wound situated where it is.

“I can coach you through it.” He pauses, glimpsing up at her. “You’re sure you want to do this?” 

He asks that like she has any other option. He refuses to seek help from anyone else, and it’s not like she can just leave him like this. Well… She could, theoretically. But she won’t. This is Leonardo, her little brother, and she is April O’Neil. 

“You know me. Always up to learn something new, right?” 

- - -

Leo had thought he’d gotten over his guardedness around his older counterpart. Had thought, being the key phrase here. Because now he’s come home and had to face the fact that he’s snuck off again without telling anyone. No. Worse, he did tell Raph, which means he’s also lying about sneaking off, and somehow the only one that’s left to cover for him is Leo. 

It’s clear that Leon doesn’t want to hurt them. He’s been acting downright maternal, if anything, which is so weird, in so many ways. The others seem to intuitively trust and like him, to a point that his brothers almost seem to enjoy hanging out with him more than they do the younger slider. Even Donnie seems to prefer this version. Leo gets it. Leon’s cool and nice and free with his affection without feeling the need to ruin the moment by making his family endure his dumb jokes. But it’s hard for Leo to like him when Future Handsome Amazing Leo seems just as uninterested in liking him in return. 

Which is… fine. 

It’s not like Leo needs to be loved by everyone. It just kinda sucks to have that invisible barrier between them and also begin to see hints of why Casey hero-worships Leon so much. Not to mention that no one else can pull off the one-arm, only pants, straight outta dystopia chic Leon’s got going on and look good doing it. Not even Leo. 

No, he’s not bitter about it. 

What bothers him more is the depth of sadness he catches behind his eyes when he looks at his family. The details are in the negative space, the truth within the questions he refuses to answer. The emptiness of his ninpo, his energy duller than even Leo’s. In the aversion of his gaze - for all his height and power, unable to find the strength to look at those he loves. The sudden absence of the masks around the hilt of his sword. Leo’s starting to think that maybe…. Maybe it’s a good thing that he refuses to tell him anything, because those things alone terrify him. To look upon himself and know that this is a potential future. Leo feels compelled to run, to get as far from this place as possible. To take his family and hide in some New Jersey backwater for the remainder of their days.

Leo’s attention peaks at the sound of footsteps past the Lair’s entry. He switches on a light.

“Why, hello there.” He greets their resident runaway. 

Leon looks soaking wet and miserable, a new compression sleeve wrapped around from the nub of his arm to his shoulder. 

“Who’s this creeping in way past curfew?”

“I’m too old for a curfew.” Leon replies. He sounds as tired as he looks. 

He walks towards the couch Leo’s dragged here and sets a dagger down beside him. “For you.” 

Leo regards the weapon with disdain. “Don’t think you can get out of this by giving me cool shit. I’m not as easily bribed as my brothers.”

Leon frowns. “They’re gifts, you stupid fruit. Why do you think every act of kindness has an agenda behind it?”

Leo’s woefully shorter than the older slider, but he rises to his feet to meet him at his level, poking an accusatory finger into his chest. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how unhelpful you were today.”

Leon waves his hand away. “Notice would imply you don’t watch my every moment like a hawk and over-analyse every move I make.” 

“Well obviously I wasn’t watching you close enough. Where’d you go? Clearly, it wasn’t home.”

Leon’s expression is purposefully blank, Leo thinks. It only serves to irritate him further. 

“I didn’t realise I had to report everything I do.” He salutes him lazily. “Captain, permission to go to bed?”

“Denied.” 

Leon breathes a quiet scoff and turns to leave.

“Raph’s been worried sick.” Leo tells him, unable to mask the anger in his voice. 

The older slider pauses.

He turns his head over his shoulder and asks quietly. “Where is he?” 

“Asleep, because someone was kind enough to inform him you were staying with Casey tonight.”

Leon stiffens. “Why would you say that?”

“Why would I lie, you mean?” He snaps. “I don’t think whatever it is you’re up to is worth the stress you’re causing him.”

Leon refuses to face him. 

Leo asks him again. “Where were you?” 

“You’re right.” He replies monotonously. “It isn’t worth stressing about.” 

He takes a step forward to leave without sparing Leo a backwards glance. Leo’s not sure why that stings so badly. 

Frustration finally boiling over, he storms after him. Leon should be able to see him coming, but he doesn’t fight the younger slider when he reaches up and grabs the lip of his plastron. Doesn’t move a muscle in retaliation. There’s not so much as a blink from him until Leo’s slamming him into the wall. 

A sharp hiss falls from his lips as his shell collides with the hard surface, his features pinching together in pain, his face paling. 

Leo pauses, the pressure he’s placing against his chest easing slightly as his surge of anger bleeds away. 

He can’t have pushed him that hard… 

He doesn’t have time to contemplate the thought, because in the next moment Leon’s gaze is meeting the fire in his own. Those all-seeing eyes bore into him, like every one of Leo’s defensive pretences are completely transparent to him. 

Leo withers beneath the look. It makes him want to tuck away into the safety of his shell.

The thing is, Leo’s used to people taking him for all he is at first glance — the lenient, laid back, open-book jester. It’s a disarming persona, one that’s gotten him far in terms of charming his way out of bad situations. He’s the showboat, the overconfident boaster, the face-guy. That works for him. Very few people look past that unassuming surface, and that makes it all the easier to manipulate them without them seeing what’s going on behind his eyes. 

His loud, bright obnoxiousness puts a target on his back, and he likes it that way. Maybe he wants the danger firing his way, and not his brothers’. Maybe he just grew up attention-deprived. He’s worn this façade for so long that even his family don’t know the difference. The humour-laced deflections and easy air of indifference have become so common-place that they’ve all come to expect it. Leo’s mastered the mask so well that it's become his face, and it’s so convincing that sometimes he finds himself drowning under the very narrative he’s created. 

Leo’s the team’s spirit. He pumps them up, he’s the enthusiasm that binds them together. He doesn’t do vulnerability. Putting voice to his insecurities would only give them more power. The others can confide their troubles, garner comfort and closure from the inner circle of love between their family. Everytime Leo tries to open up, the words get lodged in his throat. He can’t risk the opinion of those closest to him changing. Leo’s already so shaky in his position on the team that the very concept of them thinking less of him for his weakness… He can’t. The only option he has is to act like there’s no issue to fix in the first place. 

But Leon doesn’t have connotations or misguided beliefs to fall back on. He already knows exactly who Leo is. Even if he’s different now, he was him at some point. All the things he wants to conceal… Leo can’t hide behind his humour, can’t cower beneath his anger.

Leon tilts his head just slightly, and he’s so used to the older slider’s gaze being constantly downcast, his head turned away. It’s not until now that Leo’s able to recognise his pupils are surrounded by a slightly darker shade of green than his own.

“You...” Leon frowns, “Are you okay?” 

Leo swallows, his stomach churning. He says that, and all Leo can hear is there’s something wrong with you. 

There’s something wrong with you that’s also wrong with me.

Leo’s nictitating membrane slides down, the third eyelid whiting out any emotion present in his eyes - shutting Leon out. He pulls away. 

“If you make any of my brothers worried again, me and you are going to have a problem.” Leo coolly informs him. “Tell us where you’re going next time.”

He doesn’t wait for Leon’s response before he leaves. 

Chapter Text

A bulky mask fills his swimming vision. It has a complex myriad of metal parts fixed around a respirator, the two metallic filters jutting out from his jaw, completely obscuring the lower half of his brother’s face.  

“Thanks for the jump, Leon. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take it from here though.” 

Leon’s attention zeros in on the baritone of the modulated voice. He knows it well. After what he’d loathingly dubbed as The Spore Incident, Donnie had flat-out refused to continue breathing in the raw, noxious atmosphere. 

“What?” That’s his own voice, distant and groggy. He’s on the ground. Who knows how he got there. He has a vague recollection of teleporting them across the city, his body shaky and sick from the exertion. Using his powers without the help of his odachi tends to sap his mystic energy faster than the others, but he shouldn’t be feeling this drowsy. His head feels like it’s full of cotton wool - the world muffled, blurred around the edges. 

Donnie is crouched over him like a protective gargoyle. He cranes his neck back, opening up Leon’s view to the burgundy red sky, streaked with a maelstrom of bullets and laserfire. There are buildings on fire all around him, some of which are in the process of collapse - judging by the sound of distant rumblings. Hot wind whips against his face, carrying the thick acrid smell of burning metal and ash. Mikey’s chains dance destructively in the distance. For all his power, Leon knows with an impending sense of doom that he won’t be able to hold off the legion of Krang ships approaching overhead. 

His sudden awareness of the precarious operation he’s lost control of slams into his chest with a sickening cacophony of emotions - too complex and intense for him to navigate in his current state. They aren’t going to make it. His brothers might, but April and Casey aren’t going to have enough time to get the civilians out of the city. All those years, trying to survive - everything they’ve done to get this far… As soon as those people- those kids are recognised as part of the resistance, they won’t be considered for the labour camps. Won’t even be worthy of mutation into canon fodder. They’ll be vaporised, like they had never existed in the first place. 

Donnie however, the hard-headed pragmatist, the condescending, sharp-witted voice of facts and harsh truths in Leo’s ear, he stands over him, and the look on his face is not of a turtle who’s lost all hope. The visor around his eye is running logistics, rapidly scanning through numbers. 

He tilts his head towards the Krang’s mothership. The Technodrome. 

Leo knows instantly the plan forming behind his eyes, the realisation filling him with a cold, biting terror. 

His heart leaps in his chest, and he wraps his metal hand around his wrist, iron tight. 

“Don’t even think about it.” He growls. 

Donnie looks back down at him. He doesn’t even try to deny it. 

“And miss my opportunity to pilot an alien spaceship?” He huffs, the sound like static through his mask. “I think not, dear brother. I didn’t waste a lifetime parsing through mediocre sci-fi novella to let this chance slip through my fingers. I’d let you have the honour, but I’m afraid your little mind might get lost up there.” 

The stream of calculations projected towards the side of his eye stops, the visor around his eye dimming to a purple glow. He has his results.

“No.” He declares with a note of finality. If there’s any waver to his voice, the mask covers it. “It has to be me.” 

Leo tightens his hold on him. Donnie’s fingers find his metal ones. “Anyone else would probably do it wrong.” He adds an afterthought, tone dripping with his usual casual air of arrogance. 

“Donnie.” He tries to get up, but his muscles are like sludge, weak and noodly. He’s distantly aware that he’s far calmer than the situation calls for – relaxed and sleepy in the middle of a warzone. 

“I’ve given you a mild sedative.” Donnie explains calmly. “The same kind you slip into my tea when you want me to rest.” He knew about that? “For someone that isn’t tired, it’d barely register, but we both know you’ve been running on empty for longer than what should be rationally possible, even by our standards. So, when it knocks you on your ass, you can sleep soundly knowing you’ve only got yourself to blame… I mean, you can think of it as payback. I’m petty enough for that.” He sighs, dropping the pretence. “Really though, I did it because you’re woefully predictable, and I’d rather you didn’t mess up my plan by coming after me.”

Leo should have seen this coming. It’s exactly the kind of twisted shit his brother would pull out at the last minute. 

“No one that’s stepped foot on that ship has come out alive.” 

Donnie holds his gaze steadily. His dark eyes shine in the firelight, unfaltering and alight with a conviction that Leo hasn’t seen in him for years. “I know.” 

A cold shard of ice strikes Leon in the chest. For a moment, the world lowers to a dull buzz between his tympana. The ice spreads through him, rendering him numb to all sensation. His pulse thuds a loud, unsteady rhythm against his ribcage. 

There’s gotta be another way, if he’d just give Leo a second to think— if he could just wait for him to come up with something else…

“I can work something else out.” Leon insists, “I know I’ve let you down so many times. Too many times. But please, please trust me, just this once.”

The lids of Donnie’s eyes lower, his expression sad, or pitying. Leon can’t quite tell anymore. 

Donnie lifts his hand to his face, and there’s a hiss of air as he pulls away his mask, revealing the sheen of thick scar tissue stretching from his tympanum to his lower jaw. He sets it carefully by Leo’s head, and when he speaks, the layer of emotion usually buried beneath the quiet crackle of his voice modulator is distinct without the barrier of metal obscuring it. 

“Let me make one thing crystal clear to you. I’m doing this because I trust you. You’ve never let me down. Not once. Not in any way that matters. There’s no other person better suited to save what’s left of this world. That’s not a well-considered opinion. It’s an objective fact. You’ve proven that, a thousand times over.” 

Leo’s jaw works, but no sound comes out. At long last, Donnie has rendered him speechless. 

Donnie scowls at the shock in his expression, “I didn’t think this was even something I had to say aloud, but I suppose now I should’ve…” 

He’s surging forward before Leo can form a reply, wrapping around him in a solid hug. He squeezes Leon tight, and it feels like a punch to his stomach. This is one of the few occasions in his life Leo can recall his twin being the one to initiate the contact. 

Their childhood seems so far away now. A small, insignificant ripple in a pool of forgotten memories. The last he remembers them like this, they’re fourteen, encircled by their family, crooning softly as they squish their dad between them. If only they could stay like this forever.

They’re nineteen, and Donnie’s physically dragging him away from Raph’s corpse, deaf to the raw screams escaping unbidden from his throat. If only Leo had trusted his older brother. If he had just let him catch the key… 

They’re twenty-two, Leo’s the face of a whole resistance, and he’s hiding in some dark corner of the base, breaking down in his remaining brothers’ arms because he hadn’t been able to save his friend. She left behind a little boy. He’s barely old enough to walk, and Leo can’t help but feel more responsible each time he looks at him. If only he’d been stronger, smarter, faster. Maybe then the boy wouldn’t have had to grow up without his mother. Leo should’ve been able to stop this. 

They’re twenty-nine, and Donnie’s fresh off his reconnaissance mission. He takes one look at Leo’s amputated arm and the first thing he does is keel over to vomit. He wipes furiously at his face before he stumbles over to embrace him - gingerly at first, then so tightly Leon can hardly breathe. If only they’d been together. Perhaps none of this would’ve happened. 

They’re thirty-something, and have successfully fought off a small battalion. Leo had only lost five men, and Donnie’s only burned off the lower half of his jaw. He’s only deaf in one ear. Only, Donnie says as he embraces him. Only. As if he’d been convinced all their last moments would be of agony. He tells Leo he would think it a blessing (if he believed in such things), considering the force they had been up against. Leon is unable to find solace in his words. 

In retrospect, this would’ve been the moment to make it explicitly clear to his brother that they were more than just numbers on a board. That each and every person had more worth than their utilitarian value. Why did he not do that? It would’ve taken him only a moment to state it, to tell him he was so much more than what he could provide to them. This was it, the turning point for them, where the seed of doubt sprouted in Donnie - the one that whispered to him that Leon prioritised the end goal over his brothers. And all Leon had done was sit there in his arms. If only he still had the energy to argue. 

“There’s still so many things I wish I could fix.” Donnie rumbles into his shoulder. “If only we had a little more time…” 

He never finishes that thought. Leon will spend the rest of his life trying and failing to finish it for him. 

There are long fingers sliding between the joints of his prosthetic. 

He hears a quiet, “I’m sorry.” 

And for a moment, he’s paralysed. The world must truly have ended, because Donnie never apologises. Not to Leo. 

Then, there’s a click, and his whole arm goes limp — the grip he has on his twin falling away as it drops like led. The sudden dead weight of the heavy metal pulls him back to the ground. 

Leon stares at the limb in dumb shock. 

Donnie pulls away, takes a step back, and everything else comes rushing back in, too fast, too loud. His heart pounds wildly, hard and painful and nauseating. Leo tries to speak, but nothing comes out. His brain utterly useless in its inability to find the words to stop him from leaving. 

Donnie reseals the mask over his face, then takes one last glimpse at Leo, his eyes brimming with tears. There’s something in his expression that Leon had always struggled to interpret. Couldn’t decipher until the day it all finally ended, when Leon found himself adorning that same look. It was acceptance, in a sense, but also fear. A part of him not wanting it to end. Not like this. Not alone.  

He stands strong against the scorching wind, and the cloth hanging off him dances wildly around him - his cape, bandage wrappings, the purple bandana wrapped around his arm. Donnie looks to the sky. He tightens his grip around his bō-staff, then in a blinding purple flash, he’s gone. Rocketing upwards to the mothership floating above their heads. 

Leo reaches for him weakly, the image shuttering, dark spots filling his vision. He tries to hold onto consciousness for as long as possible, but his mind is slipping, his traitorous body giving out on him. 

I’m sorry. 

Leon jerks violently upwards, his eyes opening to a sudden darkness. His heart beats a jackrabbit’s rhythm beneath his ribs. His head throbs, the apology thudding against the wall of his skull.  

His world slowly reorientates itself, that hollow void in his chest expanding outwards with each shaky breath. 

The room is cool and silent bar the quiet sounds of the turtles sleeping around him. 

At once, a wave of emotion rushes over Leon, a harsh swell of anguish and deep regret in a current so strong it threatens to drown him, much like it had when it occurred back then. Leon hunches over himself and tries to smother a messy sob into his palm as a thick stream of tears run down his face. 

A dream. Or a memory. The distinction there no longer matters. The most pivotal moments in his life no longer exist in this timeline. The losses he suffered only persist within his own mind, a comfort as much as it is a curse.

His hand reaches instinctively for his sword hilt. A sword that he no longer he no longer has to carry everywhere he goes. Where— 

Alarm spikes through him. He fumbles for the cuff of his pants, yanking desperately up at the fabric until it’s bunched up as far as it’ll go. There, wrapped just above his knee, are two masks. Purple and red. Material proof that his brothers had existed. That this isn’t just Leon going insane. He tightens his hand around the bandanas. It’s times like these he wishes he could have them closer to his chest — on his arm where he could see them twenty-four seven. He can’t just go around with them hanging out in the open like that anymore. It’s more than a reminder for Leon now. It’s an omen. A neon-bright, flashing billboard pointing directly towards Donnie and Raph’s deaths. 

He rocks slightly in the foetal position he finds himself in. 

“Fuck.” He chokes out quietly, almost a laugh. 

This all so fucked. Having to create a new, separate life that is foreign, unfamiliar, uncomfortable without the people that had once made up the four corners of his soul. 

He buries his face into the fabric bunched at his knees for a moment, trying to catch his breath. 

Raph, Mikey and Leo remain blissfully asleep beside him, and Leon is overcome with a sudden desire to draw them into his embrace and hold them securely, safe and warm and happy, like dad had once done when they were still small enough to fit into the palm of his hands. 

He is not so selfish as to wake them from their rest. They struggle enough trying to get in a healthy number of hours without Leon burdening them with his problems. They should all be sleeping in proper beds, really, but the layout they’ve got here saves the trouble of having to sprint to someone’s room in the dark when they start screaming, and there’s no mattress that accommodates the size of four growing turtles and one full-sized one, so the ground it is. 

Leon sighs. He can’t say the set-up isn’t effective. The steady flow of their breathing does usually help him calm down. Tonight though, he finds it to be altogether too quiet.  

He doesn’t want to be trapped alone in the dark with his thoughts. 

He’s a little tired of going through if only’s. 

- - -

Donnie loves the garage. 

Sure, he’s known for occupying his free time in his lab or with his head buried in a book, filling his brain with as much knowledge as he can possibly absorb, but there’s something addictive about the repetitive, mindless work. The type he can do while putting his music as loud as possible, until he can feel it vibrating through his bones, drowning out the thoughts clawing for his attention. Serving the double purpose of exhausting his body and yielding results that serve to better protect his family. An overall productive waste of his energies. 

He kicks a panel off the turtle tank, watching as it slides off the top of her. He doesn’t hear it crash to the floor, the beats bouncing around the soundproofed room drowning out all noise.

He repositions himself over the next panel and flips his welding mask back over his face - his warm breaths fogging the screen. He fires up his plasma cutter and gets back to work. The sound of screeching metal joins the deafening racket. Sparks fly, filling his vision. 

He finishes one edge and pulls away, flipping up his mask as he admires his handiwork. Only then does he feel the niggling prickle at the back of his mind, like eyes on the back of his head. He turns around. 

His heart jumps at the sight of a dark figure watching him from the dark corner of his work desk. He startles, a full-body jerk of surprise, damn-near falling off the tank as he scrabbles to re-establish his footing. 

“Shelldon!” He yells, “Turn down the jams to twenty percent!” 

His tympana ring in the sudden quietness of the room. 

Leon is leaning against a wall in some dark corner of the room, his figure shrouded by shadow. He offers a sheepish wave, his face adorning the expression of a child caught red-handed doing something they shouldn’t. 

“What is wrong with you?” Donnie snaps. 

Bad question. Simultaneously too broad and too complex. Donnie would be better off asking him for an excel sheet of his issues, sorted numerically by importance then alphabetically to cut down the amount of time he has to spend scrolling through the page. 

“Sorry.” Leon apologises. He does that all the time now. It’s unnerving. Unnatural. A faint smile bows his mouth. “Should’ve knocked, huh?”

“Yes.” 

Donnie exhales, his shoulders slumping as his heart rate comes down. “Shelldon should’ve given me a warning, at least.”

The metal sea turtle hovers overhead. His rectangular pupils narrow. “Hey! It’s totally not my fault. He activated my silent protocol!”.

“What? How did you–” Oh. Right. Future brother. Leon probably knows his way around most of his protocols. Traitorous future Donatello and his tendency to give away his secrets to his brothers. Donnie rubs at his temples. He’ll have to add changing all his passwords to his to-do list. 

Donnie eyes him warily. Who knows how long he’s been standing there. Donnie doesn’t know if he should be flattered or creeped out. 

“Have you been… watching me while I work?” 

What else would he be doing? Sleeping on his feet with Donnie’s electronic dance and dubstep turned to the max? Highly improbable. But he can’t devise any other reason he would stick around. Leo has an extremely limited interest in his science and inventions, with the cut-off point for his curiosity being around the same point they stop serving him a function. 

Donnie slides down off the tank and lands to the ground. Leon steps forward, away from the darker purple lighting at the edges of the room into the bright glow of his workspace, revealing the compression brace strapped around his shoulder. 

He scowls, arms crossing over his chest. “What happened this time?”

“What?”

Donnie gestures towards his general vicinity. “Your shoulder.”

Leon rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “Yeah… I slipped from a roof on the way home last night.”

He hums. “Would’ve thought you were lighter on your feet than that.” 

Yes. Donnie is well aware of Leon’s unprecedented ability to sling bullshit.

“Must be getting old.”

Donnie’s seen him train with Casey. His accumulated years have made his fighting style shift slightly more towards a bruiser — heavier, sturdier, more defensive… It reminds him a little more of Raph, now that he thinks about it. Strong enough to smash concrete with his fist, but still cunning enough to lie, scheme and manipulate his way out of discussing the messes he gets himself into. Leo hasn’t slowed down a bit. 

“Sure.” He drawls, unconvinced. Truly incorrigible, his brother is.

“Or… Maybe I was distracted by this—” It’s a clear ploy to distract and redirect the conversation away from him. An admittedly effective one, at that. 

Donnie’s heart stops the moment he lays eyes on the processing unit. His eyes light up. “OhmiGOSH is that… it can’t be… the TPRAXIS Titan VII graphics card?” 

Leon’s smile only widens. Donnie springs forward and swipes the processor from his hand. His whole body is practically vibrating with energy. He looks it over, his other hand uncontrollably bouncing up and down as he paces excitedly. 

“This is… this is the latest model — the specs on this thing are ridiculous! Twenty-five billion transistors, deep learning architecture, 150 TFLOPS of horsepower, 16-phase DrMOS power supply with integrated real time current and thermal monitoring capabilities…”  

He stops for a moment to turn back to gawk at an amused Leon with disbelief. 

“It literally just came out on the market - there’s only a handful been sold. How did you get this?”

“I have my ways.” He replies cryptically, a sly smile spreading across his face. 

Donnie’s struck by the look. He’s sometimes just so… so Leo. He wonders if the older turtle knows it – that he isn’t the shadow of his former self he believes himself to be.

“You stole it.” Donnie states flatly. 

Leon opens his mouth. Closes it. 

“I stole it.” 

A slow grin spreads across his mouth. “I never thought I would ever say this to you, but you are officially my favourite brother.”

Leon positively beams back at him. “You want to plug that into your motherboard right now, don’t you?”

Donnie nods, attention returning to his prize.

“I can keep pulling off those panels if you want.”

It’s not a difficult job, and Donnie finds himself half-awarely agreeing to whatever Leon says as he turns over the GPU in his hands, his mind running through fresh possibilities for machine learning.

Leon laughs quietly, soft in a way that would suggest he finds Donnie’s hyperfixation endearing somehow. Weird. Out of character. Not important. TECH BABY. 

Wait. One arm. 

Donnie holds long enough to ask. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Dee. I got this. You taught me well.”

That’s all the confirmation he needs. He redirects Shelldon Leon’s way in case he finds himself in need of aid, then sets into installing a new processing unit. 

By the time he has his systems booted up again, Leon’s already taken apart half of the tank’s upper shell. It’s quite the pleasant surprise. Usually Leo’s so bored in here he ends up falling asleep against Donnie’s shell and drooling all over his shoulder. The exact opposite of helpful. 

Leon catches sight of him watching from below, and he pulls Donnie’s welding mask off his head and tosses it down to him before gracefully hopping down himself. 

He lowers himself before him, taking a seat on the floor next to where Donnie’s standing, and wipes at the thin layer of perspiration dotted across his forehead. 

“There any reason why we’re pulling off these panels?” 

“Why Leo, I’m so glad you asked.” This is usually when Leo’s face drops - the moment he realises he’s just triggered one of Donnie’s infodumps. Leon however, leans forward, his elbow resting against his knee. “I’m making room to retrofit my masterpiece with an improved, military-grade armour plating, specially crafted by moi to be both stronger and lighter by combining a truly beautiful amalgamation of molybdenum alloy, bullet-resistant synthetic fibre composite, and carbon nanotube aggregate.”

“Carbon nanotube… Isn't that, like, insanely good for conducting electricity? Why add that?”

Donnie blinks at him for several seconds, honestly staggered by the fact that Leo is A; listening and B; actually absorbing the information well enough to form coherent, reasonable and relevant questions. 

“Yes…” He recovers after a long moment. “Yes it is. I’m pairing it up with the front and rear end conductor rods I’ve installed for electroshock defence.” 

“I thought she already had exterior shielding?”

He nods. “Sure. But this stuff will protect us even when the shields are down. Resistant against direct collisions, small arms fire, and… crushing force.” 

Leon hums a thoughtful note. “That’s incredible, Donnie.” 

The compliment has him conflicted. One side of him is basking in the validation from an adult figure, the other is pushing against the warm and fuzzies of that by reminding him that this is Nardo of all people — his annoying twin, and someone that up until now he never would’ve pegged as a responsible father figure. He and Donnie have an enjoyably competitive dynamic, which tends to make any of Leo’s expressions of love come off as abrasive and underhanded. He usually doesn’t genuinely praise Donnie unless he’s literally dying, and throwing that anxiety into the clash of emotions in his chest is not helping. 

“Did you expect any different from me?” Donnie replies brusquely. Best to move on. He points to the bolt cutter lying on the ground beside the slider. “Pass me that, would you?”

Leon’s right shoulder juts out automatically. He stops, blinking at the absent limb for a brief moment before he twists across to grab hold of the tool with his left. 

Donnie is once again left to ponder over how old that injury is. He’s the team’s scientist, not their doctor, but you’d be surprised how often those two roles overlap. The stump had looked scarred over and old the last he’d seen it. One would hypothesise that Leon would be accustomed to life without the right limb by now. But the observational data he’s gathered totally rejects that concept. Leon keeps doing this; reaching out as if the arm is still there.

He waits until it happens again before he poses the theory to him.  

He’s back to working on the tank again when it does. Leon is passively observing from behind, and Donnie pulls away for a second to point at a tool on the nearby table. 

“Wrench. 19mm.” 

They’ve already passed about a dozen other tools between them before he asks for this one, each without incident. But this time, the error repeats. His shoulder tenses. He blinks. Readjusts. 

When he returns, offering him the tool, Donnie hesitates. 

“You’re struggling without it.” 

Leon’s brow furrows. He glances back to the table, then down to his stub. Understanding dawns on his face as his gaze falls upon him again. 

“I lost the arm years ago, Dee.”

“I mean your prosthetic.” That’s the second, far more likely hypothesis. Muscles around an amputation tend to atrophy over time from disuse, but to Donnie the muscle in the older slider’s right shoulder appears even denser than that in his left, as if he’d been constantly lugging something heavy on the severed side. 

Leon startles, his eyes widening, mouth parting open.

“You had one before, right?” Donnie can only assume that he’d been the one to design the replacement for him, though he can’t imagine why he’d make something so heavy and disproportionate. Unless, of course, it was done on Leon’s request. 

The slider’s expression shutters, “I’m not going to ask you to—”

“You don’t have to.” Donnie counters. 

He wants to do this. He likes feeling useful. It kind of hurts when his brothers choose to rely on the unpredictability of magic over his tech. Not to say he doesn’t understand. Facing mystic problems often requires mystic solutions, after all, but this is one thing magic can’t replace. Another area where his technology isn’t a totally redundant factor. 

As far as he knows anyway… Between the mystic powers and Drax’s mutagen they could all sprout wings tomorrow and Donnie would just have to deal with it. 

“I started drawing up plans the moment Leo noticed the tiny electrodes embedded in your stump. The targeted muscle reinnervation is the hardest part of the procedure, and since future me was kind enough to sort that out, it should be an easy enough job to refit anoth—” 

The words die in his throat when Leon takes a step forward and pulls him into a tight embrace.

He endures having his lungs squeezed for at least fifteen seconds before he wheezes. “Can I have my wrench now?” 

They spend a surprising number of hours just… hanging out. Working together. Donnie’s heart picks up with excitement each time Leon shows an interest in one of his inventions. He can’t help it. No one but Casey has shown this much rapt attention to his work. His brothers appreciate the products of his works, certainly. They can follow along with the practical application, but they don’t really understand the process, and it’s nice to have someone that can half keep up with the technical jargon that he throws at him. It makes him feel seen and acknowledged in a way he usually just… isn’t.

It’s also kind of astonishing how good Leon is at finding his way around the shop. He tells Donnie that practically all his knowledge has been absorbed via osmosis through him. And he doesn’t even sound bitter about it. The slider is still not so keen on the maths behind the engineering, but he’s got a steady surgeon’s hand, and it’s impressive how efficiently he’s able to take things apart. He’s a hands-on learner, and Donnie files away this information for later because he keeps finding himself thinking where has this dude been all my life? And the obvious answer is right by Donnie’s side. He just needs to devise a way to drag Leo kicking and screaming back into the lab. It’d be nice to have someone else in this house capable of alleviating Donnie’s uneven workload, even if it means teaching him to fix something as basic as a broken dishwasher. 

There’s only one thing about this that’s unsettling to Donnie. Every time he turns around to ask for a tool or check how Leon’s going or tell him that I can feel you staring at the back of my head you weirdo, it’s to Leon’s open expression of affection. 

It’s strange, coming so easily from Leo. Not unwelcome, he supposes, but strange nonetheless. There’s no statistical model Donnie can construct capable of revealing the sequence of events that have made Leon this way. And Donnie knows if Leo’s older counterpart is anything like he is now, the likelihood of Leon freely talking about what’s hurting him sits around the 0.05th percentile (i.e.; fat chance), but Donnie he would like to think he can make a pretty accurate inference here. 

He’s surfed the dark web. He’s consumed all the post-apocalyptic media. He’s experienced the start of one himself. He’s not oblivious. He just isn’t sure how to handle Leon, because most of the time, he’s fairly decent at acting like nothing’s wrong. That is, if you’re able to ignore the jumpiness - his survival instincts off the shits, and his total inability to sleep… And his habit of giving away all his food to Raph, and the way he keeps creeping around and watching his brothers from the darkness, and this new tendency to gather odd bruises that he refuses to tell anyone about, and- you know what, no. Donnie takes it back. You’d have to pretty fucking blind to not see that something’s wrong with the guy. 

It has to do with them. An idea that is more concretely cemented in Donnie’s mind with each kicked-puppy look he sends their way and every flare of alarm he catches in Leon’s eye whenever he thoughtlessly gives away more information than he intends to. What Casey once told him pushes to the forefront of his mind. Donnie, you were the most brilliant, innovative mind of all time. The little boost to his ego had distracted him at the time, but now it’s all he can think about. You were. Not are. 

Were.  

All his compiled bits of data, collected over the entirety of his interactions with Leon, with Casey, with the Krang, fit together with a nearly audible click. 

When he spins around to find Leon staring at him instead of focusing on his task for the seventh time, Leon ducks his head, his hand rubbing against his thigh. “Sorry.”  

Donnie turns back to his work. He doesn’t turn his equipment back on. 

“How did I die?” 

The air goes very still. He thinks Leon may have stopped breathing behind him. 

It takes too long for him to respond. The silence in those moments is telling. 

“I won’t let it happen again.” His voice is hoarse, distraught. No louder than a whisper. 

That confirms it, then. No more ambiguity about the issue. Now Donnie can tackle the problem like any other. 

“Was it natural causes?” Highly unlikely, but he might as well go ahead and eliminate the outliers right away.

“No.” 

Donnie nods. He’d only be so fortunate. “Okay… So, I’m sincerely hoping that there isn’t a chance of the event repeating, but just for the sake of preparedness—”

Leon cuts him off, “It’s not going to happen.” He sounds more sure of himself this time, his voice harsher, snappier. 

Something vaguely desperate stirs in Donnie’s chest, unfamiliar and unsettling, a restless frustration thrumming through him. He hates being out of the loop. Imagining the worst case scenario and then formulating incredibly complex, high-tech responses to those scenarios is kind of his thing.

 “Fine. I don’t need the details. Just…” He trails off, the words sticking to the back of his throat. Why do you keep looking at me like that? How long have you been like this? How fresh is this grief? “When?” 

Except, no. Leon can’t know that either. He doesn’t even know his own age. He rephrases, hoping at least for an approximate number. “How long ago?” 

“Four years, nine months, nineteen days.”

Donnie whips around.

Leon looks as if someone has kicked him in the gut, his lips parted, eyes shining and wet. 

“More or less.” He adds quietly. 

The initial shock dispels, leaving Donnie to regard his brother wearily. He wonders what day he’s up to on the dead Raph calendar. Probably not a good idea to pry open that particular casket with Leon as fragile as he is right now. 

“You have a very odd preference for the things you like to keep to track of.” 

Leon doesn’t reply. Donnie assumes this will be all he’ll be getting out of him for now. He won’t force his brother to divulge more than he’s ready to give, and he’s already made more progress within the space of this small interaction than he’s made over the course of Leon’s entirety of being here. 

A couple of minutes later, he speaks again. 

“We had a plan.” 

For a moment, Donnie has no idea what he’s talking about. 

“A civilian evac.” He goes on, a preternatural calm to him. “New York was an active warzone, and we’d formulated a way to muster hundreds of people out of the city. Nowadays that probably doesn’t sound like much, but… this was closer to the end. There weren’t a lot of people left.”

A deep heaviness settles against his chest. Donnie doesn’t interrupt, allowing the story to flow freely from his brother. 

“It’d been a long shot from the start. You’d always been against the idea… I went ahead with it anyway. Save as many people as physically possible. That’d always been the motto. But…” His hand tightens into a fist, his expression bleak. “Things got messy. Really messy. We had the defence to fight off the Krang’s ground troops, but your sensors picked up their ships’ approach. We’d been counting on them being unable to locate our position underground.” He shrugs, wincing at the movement. “Somehow it got through, and there was no way we’d be capable of combating that kind of firepower… We needed a way to divert their attention before it was too late.” 

Leon’s eyes cast downwards. His adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. He fills his lungs again. 

“You ran your calculations… I guess that’s all it came down to. The numbers. You knew you had the capability to stop what was about to happen, and…” A long pause. “I can’t say what was going through your mind exactly - you’d know better than me - but none of us would've been able to live with ourselves if those people died, knowing we hadn’t stepped in when we could have. I know that much.”

“What exactly did I do?”

Leon huffs a disbelieving, almost amused breath, like there’s an aspect to this that astounds him, even after everything he’s been through. 

“You infiltrated a mothership.” 

Air catches in Donnie’s throat.

“The mothership. To this day I’m still trying to wrap my head around how you were able to find a way to sneak past the Krang’s defences. Whatever you did, it allowed you to take control of the Technodrome long enough to pilot her and about a dozen other ships by extension.”

Donnie goes still, expression calm despite the lingering sensation of having been delivered a solid blow. Slimy, viscous muscles slithering over him, crawling under his shell, reaching in, writhing beneath his skin—

“What you did that night became legend.” There’s a slight shift to his tone, as if he’s reciting a passage from old mythology. “The ships came to a halt, and silence hung over the resistance like a guillotine. Then. The blade dropped. Plasmafire lit up the night, like stars falling to earth. The earth shook as the collisions of heat and light felt all across the ruins of the city…”

“You unleashed a wrath upon them they’d never before experienced… A small taste of their own medicine.” He says, one corner of his mouth lifting in the barest ghost of a smile. “Downright humbled the arrogant motherfuckers. I wish I could’ve seen it.”

Why hadn’t he? Where was he? Why had Donnie been alone?

A different question falls from his lips. “I didn’t make it out of that ship, did I?”

The wistful colour in Leon’s eyes dim, any trace of a smile slipping away. 

“We knew it was over when the Krang reasserted control over the airspace… Mikey and I could sense you were still alive, but…” 

His breathing goes uneven, his frame growing more tense and his demeanour more distraught with every word.

“They kept you. For weeks. I assume they wanted to… extract information from you. About us. About the resistance. About how to take down the safeguards you’d installed… We had to shut down a lot of your systems. Most of our division heads were ordered to lie low for the time being. It hadn’t been necessary, in the end. We needn’t have bothered. The Krang never found us.” His gaze darkens, something akin to pride burning between the flames of anger and despair in his eyes. “You didn’t give those bastards a single thing.” 

His gaze dips, and Leon shakes his head, his hand grips tightly to the fabric at his knee, clenched with such violence that the knuckles are pale with blood loss. 

“We tried everything. There was no getting back into that ship.”

Donnie can’t help but respect his older counterpart for being able to keep his mental walls up for as long as he had. He can’t imagine being stuck in that ship. Kept alive for who knows how long, imprisoned, tortured. His body slowly weakening, the connection to his brothers flickering out, dying, decaying into the heart of that machine.

“I wasn’t…” His mouth feels dry, the words lodging in his throat. His eyes feel hot. “It ended at some point, right? I wasn’t… Right to the end, I wasn’t still—”

A muscle ticks in Leon’s jaw. “No.” 

A small mercy, Donnie supposes.

“You’d been a hero to the resistance for a long time. We should’ve known the Krang never would’ve let you go down quietly…” A tremble of barely restrained rage moves down Leon’s spine. “Once they realised they weren’t going to get any information out of you, they used you for another means. A warning to the rest of us. A reminder of what happens to those who defy the Krang.” 

There’s a falling sensation within Donnie’s gut. This… It’s worse than he had imagined. What his brothers had been forced to witness, what they head to be endure-

“By the time they were broadcasting it, I couldn’t-” Leon’s voice cracks. He sucks in a teary breath and shakes his head, his gaze dropping to his feet, unable to bring himself to meet Donnie’s eye. 

He doesn’t need to be a genius to put together the rest of it. Leon had tried to reach him, ultimately to no avail. A stinging sensation pricks at Donnie’s eyes. His brothers would deny it, but Donnie’s not so narcissistic as to cry over his own death. To see Leo like this though. To know how his family would have suffered after the fact…

He can’t think of an appropriate response here. Not a single logical comfort comes to mind. Flowery words would feel so flimsy and superfluous in the face of what his brother has experienced, so Donnie just lets the statement hang there, cold and heavy in the air. The stretching quiet becomes oppressive and thick with unsaid things. 

“You piloted that ship.” Leon murmurs after a long moment, cutting through the silence, collected enough on the outside that not even Donnie would be able to detect the turmoil buzzing below his skin. 

Donnie’s brow furrows. “Yes. You said that already.” 

“No. You. Here. In this timeline. Dad said so.” 

“Oh.” He utters unintelligibly.

Leon’s hand tightens around his thigh again, fingers digging into the fabric above his knee. “...What was it like?” 

He’s not the first person to ask. There’s a high likelihood he won’t be the last, either. It’s just another glitch in the software - a notification error. Every time he tries to close out of the horrible experience, it gets brought back up again. 

“At first? Disgusting.” 

Leon’s head lifts at that, confusion knitting his brow.

“There was no control panel. No way I could see to interface with the ship. No way except to integrate with it.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Yeah.” Donnie gravely confirms. “It’s as gross as you think.” 

His skin prickles at the memory. The mucilaginous tentacles had slithered over his sensitive shell, slick and warm and pulsating, tugging at individual nerve endings and sending waves of revulsion through him. The tendrils crawled into his tympana, under his shell, sunk into his flesh like a writhing, burrowing leech. His feet lifted from the ground as the ship established contact, explored him, embraced him. Then, he’d been wrenched downwards, the machine of metal and flesh swallowing him whole. 

He fights back the urge to gag. “It’d been everywhere. A gelatin-like substance. A slime… a sickening cradle of viscera. My whole body was covered in this creeping, crawling, stinging infestation.” He shudders. He’s been granted the unique privilege of remembering that particular sensory nightmare for as long as he lives. “I felt it tunnelling beneath my skin, latching onto vascular tissue.” 

Leon reaches forward and takes hold of his arm, halting his subconscious movement. The pressure of his grip is firm, solid, grounding. Donnie glances down to take note of the fresh scratch marks across his forearms, marring the old. It can’t be helped. 

“It probably only lasted a couple of seconds.” He leaves out the part about it feeling like an eternity to him. “Then the connection between myself and the ship was established.” Like the satisfying flash of light made by circuits connecting in utter darkness, the machine coming to life around him. “Everything kind of… faded away after that. My body was still there, but it just… it wasn’t important anymore. My mind wasn’t constrained to it. I wasn’t just controlling the ship. I was the ship. And for a moment, that… It had been amazing.” 

An understatement. It’d been euphoric. A seamlessly intertwined and perfectly harmonised fusion of biology and technology. The raw power and endless knowledge at his fingertips instantly intoxicating. It required no more than a thought for the weapon capable of obliterating civilizations to respond to his command. 

“Then?” Leon prompts quietly.

Donnie swallows. He shrugs. “Then came the terror.” 

It’d been a rapid and perverse twist of his hubris. The barrier between his own mind and the mothership had blurred. Merged. It’d been akin to looking up at the stars, staring into the countless lights sprinkled across the black emptiness of the void. The vastness grew, deepened, darkened the longer he dared to look upon it, invading his mind, making him realise the true scale of the expanding universe. How puny and insignificant he was in comparison. He’d peeked behind the veil beyond himself, beyond the evils of the Krang — their destruction and genocide, to catch a glimpse of the very limitations of his own being. To his placid ignorance in a black sea of infinity. It filled him with a helplessness, a dread that to this day, Donnie struggles to find the words to describe. 

“There was a… melding, of sorts.” He worries his hands together. “It was as if I’d stepped on a mental landmine, with the subsequent explosion being an overwhelming, all-consuming blast of information - a millenia condensed within the space of a few seconds. I was slammed with a barrage of visions. What felt like vivid, waking dreams, but must have been memories… Not mine, but her’s.” 

“The Technodrome?” 

Donnie nods jerkily.  

It was the chief aspiration of science and theory to uncover the unknown, and Donnie had always aimed to fulfil that ambition. Right up until he’d unlocked a terrifying reality - something that should have remained incomprehensible. It’d been blinding and beautiful and terrible all at once, and now he feels as though he can never close that box back up. He can never return to the privilege of blissful unawareness that the rest of the world basks in. 

“What did it show you?” Leon asks after a long moment.

“It’s… difficult to explain. It was an unstoppable flurry of images. Of conquering planets, sapping them of all life until the worlds were nothing but dry, depleted husks. Erasing their cultures, their history, their very existence. Smothering out one light in the sky at a time, as if they’d never been there in the first place.

“Annihilation.” Donnie summarises. Earth came so close to it, and no one but Donnie knows it. “That’s what I saw.”

Dismay colours Leon’s face. And why wouldn’t it? Donatello has just told him his dead brother’s final moments of freedom were spent experiencing an existential dread beyond imagination. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. He forgets too often that sometimes people ask for answers they don’t really want to hear. 

Leon sucks in a breath, his expression clouded. “I… I’m sorry. No one ever mentioned—”

“No one else knows.” Donnie interjects. 

That’s not completely true. His family knows the nice, surface-level information. He’d shoved his utter glee of the concept of becoming a spaceship into Leo’s Jupiter-Jim-loving face, and Raph had commended him for saving Mikey, even though their plan had catastrophically fallen apart. As for everything else… Donnie’s pragmatism has always ruled over him, but every once in a while he can’t stand it. He blocks it out. He loses himself to his own easy little world, confined by the four walls of his garage, surrounded by his weapons, his tech, his tank. Lets his anxiety and intrusive thoughts slowly drain away under the force of the music pumping through his brain. 

“How have you not told anyone about this?”

Donnie’s eyes narrow. How? Leon has a lot of audacity asking him this after all that he tries to hide from them. 

“With intention.” Donnie enunciates clearly. “A follow up, on purpose. Vigilantly. Enthusiastically. Intensely. Deliberately. Need I go on?”

Leon stares at him, mystified.

Donnie scrubs a hand over his face. He’s really going to have to spell this out, isn’t he?

“Look, a lot of shit went down. Raph’s shell got cracked, he was mind-controlled and blinded in one eye. We had to use my escape pods, which are only reserved for the most dire of situations. Mikey and I almost got crushed, the three of us fell from over two-thousand feet. Leo got stuck in a prison dimension, and Mikey nearly killed himself when he ripped open the material of reality to pull him out. It was a Bad Time all round. One that none of us have really recovered from. We’ve all got our own issues to deal with. Raph had a panic attack the last time he accidently hurt me during training. Mikey gets nightmares, but that’s hardly surprising when the rest of us do too. I have no clue how Leo’s holding up half the time, and he sure as hell isn’t helping matters by trying so hard to keep up his class clown act that no one can find the heart to point out how obvious it is he’s hurting. None of us can eat calamari anymore. Personally, I prefer not to dwell on it. Especially when I’m trying to work.”

Because he has to work. He has to wear himself down to the point of exhaustion. He has to distract himself from the paranoia churning around his mind somehow. Maybe if he just keeps working forever, he’ll never have to think about it again.

“That’s… understandable. But, whatever’s plaguing you - it shouldn’t get to hurt anymore. And if it is, you shouldn’t feel like you have to shove it down just because the others are going through something similar.” 

Does he really believe that? Is that not exactly what Leon does? Bar Casey, he lost his whole life the moment he returned to the past, and yet, every day, without verbal acknowledgement or complaint, he allows his past to loudly haunt him. And he does so in silence, burying down the pain for their sakes. Which makes him either incredibly non self-aware, the biggest hypocrite in the tri-state area, or… the worst option out of the three - do as I say, not as I do. He knows exactly how terrible an example he’s setting, and doesn’t want them following in his footsteps because he’s a good person and a loving brother and a dickhead with a massive stupid fucking martyr complex. 

“Donnie… We won. You won.” He says it like it’s supposed to comfort him, as though Donnie’s a scared kid that can’t understand there’s no longer any monsters hiding under his bed. 

He isn’t scared. Scared is sitting in his tank with his little brother, waiting to be crushed. Scared is seeing Leo’s throat in Raph’s hold, the spikes emerging from their older brother’s deformed arm posed to kill. Scared is being pinned beneath Leon’s weight, a sharp blade pressed to his throat. 

Horror … Horror is realising the Krang are still out there, and that every person on this planet - his family included, have their head in the clouds and their feet glued to the ground. 

Frustration boils low in his stomach. “The key still exists.” He grinds out through his teeth. 

Donnie has it stored behind a tightly sealed barrier, but it persists, nonetheless. There’s no destroying it. 

“The Krang still exist.” 

They're stranded - their mothership cleaved between two dimensions, their leader imprisoned, but Donnie’s caught a glimpse of their hive mind. These losses will not cripple them. 

“Each world in every solar system resisted, and every time, resistance was met with massacre.” 

To be defeated by those the Krang consider lower than sub-beings to them - a bacteria growing in some backwater corner of their universe… They’ll be back. And maybe it won’t be tomorrow, or the day after that, or next week, or ten years down the line. But they will come back. And when they do, they won’t be ambivalent cosmic gods sneering down at their subjects. They’ll be furious, vengeful.

They’ll come straight for Leo. 

Donnie digs his nails into his palms. “The only thing we managed to do was slow them down.”

It’s always been a point of contention for Donnie. It’s hard to be overjoyed by their success after everything he’s seen. How is he supposed to celebrate in these conditions? He doesn’t much feel like dazzling his arms around and yelling Hooray! The end of the world has been postponed! Let us rejoice in blissful ignorance! Not that the others are going around throwing parties or anything. His family is simply glad it’s all over. They want to heal. They want to move on. And it seems especially cruel - even to Donatello - to impart his pragmatism onto them. 

He’s settled to just do the necessary doomsday preparations in the background, as he’s always done. 

Leon is pale, his jaw tense, gaze locked to his own thigh, a point just above the knee, and goddamnit, Donnie’s really dropping the ball tonight. He’s too busy trying to ward off the extreme anxiety to follow the one-two-three of empathy right now: one, refrain from offering unsolicited advice. Two, make eye contact. Three, try not to shit all over their life’s work—

“Not to say that all your efforts were totally useless-” 

Leon shakes his head, his features tight and pensive. “No. I… I get where you’re coming from.” 

Any lingering agitation instantly dissipates. Of course he would. He’s the only one left in the universe that could understand. Donnie had only seen an overhead glimpse of the fire, destruction and death imparted by their enemies through the Technodrome. And that had been enough of a look for one lifetime. Several of them, in fact. Leon though… he had lived through that. Lost his family to it. Had very nearly given his life in an attempt to stop it.  

“I’m not going to tell you your fears are unfounded, but…” He hesitates. “Do you mind if I take your hand for a sec?”

Donnie pauses at the request. His hang-ups have always been more texture-based than touch-averse, but he appreciates that Leon’s taken the time to check. He nods, his curiosity winning out over his apprehension.

Donnie’s hands are calloused and covered in light strips of pale - little shadows of cuts and burns from years of metalwork. Leon’s hand is in worse shape, the scars no more numerous, but etched deeper into the skin. He gently pulls Donnie’s fingers to the pulse point at his neck, just below the curvature of his jaw. 

“You feel that?” He asks.

The rapid-fire tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump hammering below his fingertips is difficult to miss. Donnie frowns thoughtfully, “Is this your elderly attempt at telling me you’re about to have a heart attack?”

Leon looks at him, confused for a moment, before it dawns on him. “Wow. Okay, no, that is not the point I’m going for here… In my defence we did just discuss our big bad alien overlords descending upon us again and my whole body goes through a pretty terrible, shitty kind of dysfunctionality whenever that topic is brought up.” 

Donnie mulls over his odd wording there. “Pretty Terrible Shitty Dysfunctionality. You know, most people use the abbreviated form for that. Saves time.”

The corners of Leon’s mouth quirk up a tick. “Yeah, but that cuts out the fun of plausible deniability.”

Donnie suppresses his own smile. No, we do not laugh at Leo’s morbid humour. Do not encourage him. 

He takes a few deep breaths, and Donnie’s half-impressed, half-concerned by just how quickly he’s able to slow his heart rate. The how and why of that. 

“Seriously Dee, look at me.”

He does, his head lifting, dark irises meeting green. 

“As long as that’s beating, I’m gonna do everything within my power to keep you all safe. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets, you won’t have to go through it alone. I’m not going to lose any of you, ever again.”

If it were anyone else, Donnie would find it difficult to believe. This, however, is Leon. The guy that stopped the Krang’s cosmic cycle of death. Out of all Donnie’s visions from that cursed ship, he had seen not one person ever accomplish what his brother had. It’s more difficult not to believe him.

Leon’s hand falls away, “You won’t die. Not while I’m still breathing.” 

He can’t argue with a pulse. Donnie feels the steady rhythm pumping beneath his fingertips, and for once, he has full certainty his brother means it. It doesn’t dissolve his anxiety entirely, but it does unravel the tight knot in his stomach. 

The atmosphere has grown heavy around them. Leon lightens the mood with a smile. 

“Twin’s prerogative.” He says, before gesturing to his heart. “You can even cross it if you want.”

Donnie’s face scrunches up, his hand withdrawing. “Senility has made you disgustingly sappy.” 

Leon sits back and sighs dramatically, his eyes going skyward. “Will I ever catch a break from the rampant ageism in this household? I was a highly respected leader not all that long ago, you know.”

“Sure grandpa.” Donnie replies dryly. “Let’s get you back to bed.” 

Leon responds with a short, amused exhale through his nose, the corners of his mouth curving upwards. His head tilts towards the tank. “Should we finish this up first?” 

Donnie offers a faint smile of his own. 

“I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

For all his talk, Donnie is the first to fall asleep. 

They’re both looking over his schematics of the tank — a stack of blueprints so long and detailed they spread across the floor of the garage. There’s a period where he quietly sits up against Leon’s back, letting him analyse the designs to his heart’s content while he adds little details to his drafts. After finally revealing a little of the truth that had been weighing down on him, he feels lighter… calmer than he has in a long time, the music turned down real low, his brother safe and breathing at his back. Donnie must feel similarly, because within minutes Leon feels the pressure of his form slump against his shell. 

He looks around, warmth resonates through him when he’s met with the sight of his brother’s face pressed against his carapace, out cold. Without thinking, Leon reaches back, his fingers taking hold of the lower edge of his mask. He hesitates a moment before he gently lifts the fabric up, revealing his brother’s big, familiar forehead. An even bigger expanse without the eyebrows he’d gotten Mikey to permanently affix with a tattoo pen. Light humour wells up in Leon’s chest at the sight. 

Asleep, with all his expressive features smoothed out, Donnie already looks more youthful. He lacks the prominent wrinkles - born from stress, age, and years without proper rest - that once crinkled his brow and the outer corners of his eyes. The pale scars marring his jaw are gone. His skin has yet to dull. 

Leon’s hand tightens around the purple mask, his smile slipping. He’s so, so young. 

He takes a glimpse at the heavy battle shell settled over Donnie’s back. He still hasn’t seen him take it off. In fact, from the look of the bruises where the weight of it digs into his shoulders, Leon’s beginning to believe he never does. 

He didn’t use to do that. Not even during the apocalypse. Or at least, not when there was no imminent danger, when he was within the confines of his family in a reinforced bunker lined with his tech. 

But there’s nowhere this Donnie really feels safe, is there? What he’d seen on that ship… To know there is a legion of Krang still out there… Their history - likely older than the age of their universe - of planetary conquests, of war and genocides and misery, the end of multiple worlds, beamed directly into his mind. 

Leon’s Donnie saw that. 

And if the Donnie here is so paranoid he can’t bear to loosen his defences, even in the safety of his own home… If he’s convinced the Krang won’t be stopped, then that must mean Donnie had died with those same fears. 

That’s…

Every time he thinks it can’t be any worse than it already is, that all his horrors are already dead and buried. Every time, life finds a way to reveal devastating proof that he’s wrong. 

Leon’s pulled away from his grim thoughts when Donnie, still deep asleep, makes a small chirp. 

He can’t be comfortable in that position. 

Leon wipes the moisture from his eyes then very carefully manoeuvres him over his good shoulder, making sure not to jostle him awake. He stands with a quiet grunt, his knees clicking from having been seated on the hard ground for so long. 

He makes for the door, then stops when he passes Donnie’s monitor, the blue light of the screen cast over them, calling to him. He glances at his brother, still passed out over his shoulder, then to the computer, tantalisingly close.  

He shouldn’t.

He takes another step towards the exit.

He’s clacking away at the keyboard mere moments later, inputting passwords that Donnie won’t change for years.  He quickly scans through the information Donnie’s been sifting through, searching for any mentions of Big Mama. There’s surprisingly very little information on her. She must be lying low. Or, at least, low enough to not be a blip on Donnie’s radar. The Hidden City runs on an entirely different network to the surface. Who knows what she’s up to underground. 

He’s thorough. He scrubs any threads that may lead back to her if pulled. There’s a fair few of them, yet to be linked back to the woman… or Leon. Scans of suspect yokai passing between the Hidden City and the surface. Police reports of malformed clothed and armed animals discovered dead on Manhattan rooftops. He pauses at the news of a reopening for the Grand Nexus Hotel. Big Mama’s clearly been making enough money doing whatever it is she’s doing to rebuild. Leon and his family evidently are only one part of her plan. The polish to her little battle arena. 

The details on Big Mama are a small drop in a sea of detective work. Donnie’s been a busy boy. Leon has enough of a conscience to feel bad about sabotaging his efforts. Another classic brotherly betrayal. 

When he’s done, he carries Donnie back to the living room and gently sets him down between Raph and Mikey, leaving the purple mask between Donnie’s fingers. 

He places a hand against his shell and straightens, arching his back with a sigh. He’s unlikely to find sleep again today, and he fears what visions might greet him behind closed eyelids. He settles for simply watching over his brothers. 

By all rights, Leon should be eternally grateful to be here. He doesn’t want his brothers to feel like they’re making him miserable when they’re around him, but he can’t stop the edge of grief that socks him in the stomach each time he sees them. 

Sometimes it feels like if Leon gets too close, if he touches them, he’ll stain them. All the horrors of his life might spread from him to them, infecting them like some kind of necrotrophic pathogen. Like the disappointments, the failures, the ghosts and ghouls wrapped around his head will transfer over somehow. 

Not that this younger version of his family isn’t without their own hang-ups, but… They’re cleaner than him — this older, grimier version of Leo, with all his rough edges and emotional baggage. 

He hadn’t felt like this before, in his own timeline. Everyone there… They were the same as him. Damaged goods, dragging their broken hearts behind them, desperately holding on to what they had left. 

“Blue.”

Leon turns to see Splinter standing at the top of the stairs. He glances down once more at his brothers, then walks up to meet pops at the entrance, not wanting to risk waking them with loud conversation.

“You’re up late.” Dad notes quietly, more observation than it is criticism. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” He whispers. 

He hums. “That seems to be going around a lot of late.”

Leon leans against the wall by his side, and the both of them peer down at the pile of turtles asleep in the middle of the room. 

“They’ve been through a lot.” Leon murmurs. 

Splinter is quiet for a moment. 

“Not as much as you, I suspect.”

Leon eyes him uneasily, then makes a low noise in his throat, neither agreement or refutal. “It’s not a competition.”

“You’re still hurting.” Another astute observation. 

Leon bites the side of his cheek. He really doesn’t want to go there. There’s already been enough horrible revelations in this family for one day. 

He plays it off, side-stepping pops’ concern. “You know what they say in showbiz.” He flicks his mask tails off his shoulder and bats his lashes. “All the brightest stars have to burn.”

Dad cracks him across the back of his head with his tail. 

“Ow.” His expression of pain would be more convincing if he weren’t also trying to smother a snicker. 

“You have changed very little.” Splinter grumbles. 

His face drops slightly at that, gaze drifting to the slider sprawled across the floor. 

There’s something oddly endearing about Leo. In his easy smiles, vibrant eyes and poor jokes. In how widely he gestures, how casually he talks, his voice lighter, brighter. In just how hard the kid is trying. 

He looks far more… colourful. Lively. So much so it’s difficult to believe the kid is him sometimes. If… if he is- if he was, then where had Leon gone so wrong? He would never blame this kid for what happened, but he can’t help but separate the two of them in his head. Leo had accomplished all that was required of him - he would have willingly given his life for his family, and Leon would like to think he would’ve done the same, but… he hadn’t. Which makes them fundamentally different, somehow.  

He doesn’t think there’s much of Leo leftover in him. 

The silence stretches, punctuated by Raph’s snores. 

“Why did you make me leader?” He queries softly. . 

Despite all his complaints, all his reluctance, his fighting and hiding, he’d never openly questioned his father. By the time he came to care about the why of it all, it’d already been too late to ask. 

Splinter looks startled for a moment, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. 

He recovers after a moment, his eyes falling to the younger slider. 

“I was wrong.” 

The solemn admission hits Leon like a ton of bricks. He doesn’t even disagree, but it’s unavoidably painful hearing the truth from his father. He’d thought he had long grown past his need for validation. Thought he’d buried that part of him that craved to show dad, to show himself, that he’s capable, competent, worthy enough to be considered a Hamato—

“You were wrong.” He parrots, his voice sounding strange and distant to his own ears. “For choosing me?”

He flinches when Splinter immediately cries out, firmer and far louder than either of them expect, “No!” 

Leon pushes himself off the wall, his head whipping towards the pile of snoozing turtles. 

By some miracle, they remain dead to the world, not a twitch in response to the noise. 

Splinter releases a breath, his chest deflating. 

“No.” He repeats, his tone hushed. “I was wrong to ever doubt you, Leonardo.” 

The words bleed into him, seeping through his pores and settling heavily at the base of his heart. God. For all his years, he really never moved beyond his hunger for approval. 

“The young turtle down there?” Dad gestures with a nod of his head. “He is a cocky, impulsive, loud pain in my neck, but he is also perceptive and shrewd and surprisingly good at pulling his team together when necessary.” He sighs. “He is, at times, a fool. But when his head is clear, his decisions are sensible, strategic, and sound. And they are always made for the benefit of his family. The foundations for leadership are there. They always were, and I wanted to show that your brothers, me— all of us, we had faith in your potential, even when you had little faith in yourself.” 

A muscle in Leon’s jaw ticks. “You offered me an opportunity.” 

To prove himself. Something that Leo had always yearned for, right up until the chance to do so was dropped right into his lap.  

Splinter inclines his head. “Of sorts.”

“Heh.” Leon rubs the back of his neck. “You probably already know, but uh. I didn’t really make good on that offer.” 

As in, he ended the world and got his family killed. Not exactly what one would denote as proving themselves, unless of course they wanted to prove they were a total fucking disaster.  

Dad’s ears drop, his eyebrows coming together, the vertical lines between them deepening, and Leon is inconveniently reminded of his counterpart — Splinter’s son, who also had turned away from the opportunity to prove himself right up until he was trapping himself inside a prison dimension with an enemy hellbent on killing him. 

He is reminded of Splinter handing over his teapot, the last piece of dark armour he’d sworn to safeguard, with the full knowledge of the mortal danger it would unleash, understanding with perfect clarity the ways in which it would betray his ancestors’ cause, to save his boys. He is reminded, too late to withdraw his own comment, that this is the man that chose his sons over the world, and was forced to watch, powerless to interfere, as Leo laid down his life for that world no more than two years later.

Yeah, you self-centred asshat. Leon berates himself. Dad probably already knows.

“I will… What is the term you boys use? Have to take the L for that one.” 

Leon rubs a hand across his face. “Dad—”

“I didn’t exactly foster self-confidence. Perhaps if I was a better sensei, a better father… If I had shown more care, you— he wouldn’t have…” His voice cuts off.  

Leon looks at him, his brow furrowing. He’d never really seen this side of his dad when he was younger. This lack of trust in his own ability to parent them. His regrets. It’d probably always been there, but Leo hadn’t been looking for it. He’d just… resented whenever Splinter hadn’t had the answers. The times he hadn’t been there to guide or show attention to him or his brothers. 

He shouldn’t have expected his dad to be some invincible, all-knowing, perfect entity. He’s a person. Sort of. A little rat man of a person, but a person nonetheless. It’s not that dad was ever incompetent or lazy. Not exactly. He’s a son of first generation asian immigrants, turned action star, turned gladiatorial slave, turned mutant, trying to raise four teenage sons who each had their own emotional and psychological needs before the mess with the Krang (Leon only has Casey to handle, and he’s struggling enough with just the one kid). He’s honestly impressed his dad is managing it all as well as he is. 

He admires Splinter. When dad made that deal with Draxum, he could have bolted as soon as he got loose. But he saved Leo and his brothers, took them in, sheltered them, fed them, loved them. When someone gives you your life like that… You can’t help but feel you have to give some part of it back. 

It’s half the reason Leon feels he has to do this. Not just to protect his brothers, but pops, too. The woman Hamato Yoshi loved, the one he intended to marry, to spend the rest of his life with, had betrayed him, broken his heart, and imprisoned him. Leon had never forgiven her for that, even after they had become reluctant allies. 

He won’t let her hurt him again. Leon doesn’t want Big Mama to even be a thought in Splinter’s mind. 

He studies dad’s downcast expression. The one Leon had put there. 

He clears his throat. “I’m not blaming you.” 

“I know.” Splinter interjects. “But to be asked to take on such responsibility so suddenly… I should have spoken with you and your brothers first. I threw the role at you when I should have eased you into it.” 

“I…” Leon pauses, his gaze drawn back to the other slider. He’s experienced the heaviness of that burden, seen its weight from more than one perspective. He’ll concede to dad’s point here, for Leo’s sake, if nothing else. 

“Maybe, yeah. That might’ve helped.” He side-eyes Splinter, “I still would’ve found a way to be an insufferable little shit about it though.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” He agrees. 

From there they fall back into a comfortable silence. 

Dad, deep in thought, interrupts it a couple minutes later. “Casey told us tales of the resistance.”

Leon pales, his body going frigid. 

“Oh?” Elaborate on that. 

Splinter hums. “It’s strange, but… I felt great pride hearing about the man you have become.” 

His mouth goes dry. For a long time, hearing those words is all Leo strived for. Now… to be honest, he’d prefer dad to snap at him, push him, admonish him. He doesn’t know why exactly, he just does. He doesn’t want to be praised, or comforted, or reassured. He wishes dad wouldn’t say shit like that, because there’s really nothing in Leon he should feel proud of. He’d rather dad deck him in the jaw, lay him out on the floor. At least the pain would feel deserved. 

“Casey’s good at talking me up.” He murmurs. 

“The boy looks up to you.”

“Hm.” 

Dad lifts a brow. “Maybe a bit like how you all used to look up to Lou Jitsu?”

Leon leans into that, more comfortable with the focus diverted away from him. “Used to?” He nudges Splinter and sports a soft grin. “You really think I could ever live up to Lou Jitsu levels of greatness?”

Splinter scoffs. “Never.”

He releases an amused huff, his smile cracking wider. 

Then dad has to go ahead and ruin him by adding, “You’re already better than he could ever hope to be.” 

Leon’s smirk crumbles, his heart clenching viciously, something hot and unpleasant sparking in his veins. 

Why is he angry at that? Why can he not just take the praise for what it is? Why does every word of love from the people he cares about have to be tainted by his past? He understands all too well the gravity with which Splinter says this. Lou Jitsu was an onstage persona - the unstoppable action hero, the kung-fu diva, the superstar heart-throb. His dad fully believes Lou Jitsu is who he was at his best, before Big Mama and Draxum. Before his self-proclaimed downfall. 

He can’t bring himself to argue, or to explain all the ways this isn’t true. He can’t even manage a simple thank you, a tactic he usually would fall back on to quickly dismiss any soldier that applauded his efforts.

“How is Casey, by the way?” Splinter asks without looking at him, blind to his internal struggle, as eager to move on from the maudlin moment as Leon is (thank god).

He rolls with it, grateful for the change of subject.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…”

- - -

Raph, who has been an early riser all his life, wakes to the sound of Donnie’s incoherent sleep-mumbling. He looks blearily around the room, counting off his brothers. 

Four, including himself. 

Good.

He sits up and is stretching himself out when it hits him.

Five.

He’s missing one. Leon’s usually disappeared by the time he wakes up — an even earlier riser than Raph is, if he manages to sleep at all, but it still worries him to not have him present. He didn’t see him come home last night. 

He stands, pushing down the fear, and goes directly to the niche that Leos are now known to occupy. 

Leon is right where he expects to find him, holding an impressive pose in the middle of the dojo. He’s upside down in a one-armed handstand, his eyes closed, the weight of his uneven bulk perfectly balanced on two fingers. 

He’s meditating. An activity that Leon seems to enjoy - weird considering how much the younger slider loathes sitting still, though Raph can imagine how such a change might’ve come about. Leo used to get carried away with fun, indulgent ideas all the time, but he’s been far more subdued since taking on leadership. It’s kind of a shame really. Leo’s laissez-faire carefreeness had always made Raph feel less pressured, and he doesn’t know how to do the same in his place. 

Maybe after years of trying to control the flurry of chaos around him, a little controlled stillness is all Leon wants.

“Morning.” Raph greets.

“Mornin’.” Leon replies without so much as a twitch, as if he had known he was there the whole time. He opens his eyes. “Care to join me?”

Raph obliges, sitting cross-legged beside the slider. 

“Did you hurt yourself again?”  He asks, gaze fixed to the brace strapped around the shoulder of his amputated arm. 

“It's a little stiff.” Leon answers nonchalantly. 

It’s hard to see how that’s possible with the limited movement or strain he puts on it, but then again, Raph’s no physiotherapist. It would be rude to call him out on it if what he says is true. 

Leon slowly falls forward then rolls neatly back to his feet. He looks at Raph and quirks a lopsided smile. 

“Wanna wrestle?” 

Raph blinks. Leon knows as well as the others why he tends to sit on the sidelines of their sparring matches. The last time he tried facing Mikey on the floor, he struggled to do so much as lift his hands in defence. Raph… He’s terrified  he’ll wake up one day, stuck in that dreamlike state again, paranoid of that nameless influence pulling him back under. He’s scared of himself. Everything he does is shackled down by that fear. 

Leon’s smile weakens, “Do you trust me not to hurt you?”

Raph’s jaw goes lax. He replies as soon as he’s capable of forming words again. “‘Course I do.” 

That’s not the issue here. He doesn’t want Leon thinking he’s the reason for his hesitation here. 

“Cool.” Leon says, relaxed and easy in a way that makes it seem like he’d asked full knowing what Raph’s answer would be. Then he digs in, with pinpoint accuracy. “And I trust you to not hurt me.”

Raph’s throat goes dry, his stomach twisting. “How?”

“Because you know how to control yourself.” He offers a small grin. “And I sparred with you when you were much bigger than you are now.”

His eyes blow wide. “I get bigger?” 

“Dude, you’re gonna be a tank.” 

That’s… a lowkey terrifying thought. He’s large enough as it is. It hasn’t escaped his notice that he’s been gaining inches with each passing year, but he’d assumed that it would stop at some point. 

Raph examines Leon with a quiet frown, his fingers pressing together anxiously. Leon knows what it’s like to lose control, and Raph doesn’t want him to take this the wrong way, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand- “how do you trust yourself?”

“Hm.” He sits back, thinking for a moment. “It’s not really me I believe in… Honestly, sometimes I’m scared I’ll lose myself again. But, then I’m reminded that I’m not under my enemy’s command anymore. And I know that even if I got out of hand again somehow, one of you would be able to snap me out of it.” His gaze drops to the floor, and he chuckles dryly, “I guess I trust that you guys will be able to handle me more than I trust myself.”

It’s both concerning and heartwarming that he has that much faith in them. 

Leon’s eyes lift to meet his own, and he cringes at his own inadvertent advice. “Sorry, probably not what you wanted to hear…”

“I… no, It’s—” Raph stutters, struggling to find the words. 

It helps more than Leo and Mikey reassuring that he’s a good brother, that he didn’t do what he’d done, that he would never hurt them, that it wasn’t him (because he knows he hadn’t been behind the wheel, but it had still been Raph’s fists, his strength, his fury). It does more to ease the tightness in his chest than Donnie assuring him there were no traces of the Krang in his system (because sometimes he thinks he can still feel the tendrils of their influence crawling under his skin). 

He rises to his feet. “Let’s rumble.” 

Leon smiles, then he moves into a defensive stance, bouncing from toe to toe. “Don’t you go easy on me now, Raphie.”

It’s difficult at first to allow himself to make an attack, but Raph quickly finds he doesn’t need to hold back. Leon can take his hits. He’s the same height, if not a little taller, than Raph is, and it seems likely that as soon as he’s back to full health, they could very well be in the same weight class… almost. Leon’s sturdier than Leo is - has far more mass on his bones and knows precisely how to throw that extra muscle. 

He also discovers Leon’s shoulder is a lot more tender than he lets on, and Raph resorts to doing his best to avoid putting pressure on it where he can.  

They’ve already gone a few rounds when Leon manages to catch him in a tight hold - pretzeling him into an uncomfortable position nigh-impossible to wiggle out of. 

“Tap out.” He suggests.

Raph stubbornly refuses, writhing in his hold. He glances back long enough to see a mischievous grin spread across Leon’s face, then his fingers are mercilessly digging into his most ticklish points, around his neck, under his arms, on the underside of his knee. 

He can’t breathe, his uncontrollable laughter catching painfully in his chest. “This-” He’s stopped by another bout of giggling. “This is…” He can hardly get a word out. “Cheating!” He finally wheezes.

He struggles to push Leon off of him, his strength turned to jelly under his assault. 

“S-stop—” He begs, tears springing to his eyes. The force of his laughter is hurting his sides, his muscles shaking and seizing. 

“Tap out.” Leon repeats, his voice light and teasing. 

Raph yields with three loud thumps of his hand against the floor. 

The torture stops, the slider pulling away and looking altogether far too pleased with himself, a gleeful look to his eye. 

He rolls over to sit on his knees, his hands fisted against the ground as he attempts to suck lungfuls of air back into his starved lungs.

He points a finger at his evil gremlin of a brother. “Do Not. Do that again.” He rasps. 

Leon rests a hand against his chin and purses his lips. “Can you really ask me to do that? Is tickling an illegal move?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since now. Raph is banning it.” 

“Alright, fine.” Leon whines, petulant. “Big brother rules - I’ll surrender my best moves.”  

He allows him to breathe for a couple more moments before he asks, “Another round?” 

Raph eyes him with wary caution before slowly rising to his feet. Ninth time’s a charm, right?

They circle each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Raph darts forward, feints right, then reaches for a grab on Leon’s plastron. Leon takes hold of his shoulder and falls backward, using their combined momentum to pull him forwards and throw him over his head. Raph rolls across the ground behind him. 

He’s back up in an instant, then charges forward, catching Leon off-guard and wrapping a thick arm around his waist. The world turns sideways, then he’s slamming his shell into the ground. The air goes out of him in a rush, then Raph’s clambering on top of him, a dizzying excitement rushing to his head as he manages to pin the slider to the floor while he gasps for breath. 

Leon doesn’t give up that easy. He wriggles like a worm beneath him, searching for a way to free himself, when suddenly his grappling comes to an abrupt halt. 

No longer thrashing around, Raph can feel that the whole room around them is shaking slightly. Particles of dust fall from the ceiling, disturbed by the vibrations from above. A shiver runs through Leon, easily missable were it not for the fact that Raph is pressed into him. That actually draws his attention to just how tense Leon is, his whole body coiled up tighter than an ignition coil, lithe muscle standing out starkly from his skin. 

The slider suddenly wraps his legs around Raph’s torso and before he has a chance to process that movement, he’s being flipped over, Leon easily reversing their positions and okay, maybe he didn’t have him pinned as securely as he thought—

Leon cages him in with his arms, his eyes wild and bright and a thousand miles away. 

A few breathless moments pass, and the rumbling around them stops. Leon takes Raph in, and an utterly bewildered look overtakes the fear in his expression, as if… as if he doesn’t recognise him? 

He’s looking at his eye. Raph resists the self-conscious urge to cover it. His brothers assure him it makes him look badass, but Raph can’t help the hot flush of disgust that rolls over him each time he passes a mirror. But Leon has never shown neither obvious aversion nor avid interest in it before — beyond troubled concern, that is, so why…

Then, Leon is on his feet and pulling him up with him with unrestrained urgency and wow, Raph is not used to being lifted this easily, this boy is strong. 

“Leo, what—”

Leon’s breaths are shallow and panicked as he presses his hand firmly against his plastron. He drops his head to watch it settle against his chest, and he wonders if Leon’s trying to search for a pulse - a fruitless endeavour with the thick layer of his shell. His hand shifts slightly to the right of his heart, in line with where he knows the crack at the top of his carapace is. He smooths over that area, like he’s trying to search for some mark or imperfection that’s no longer there. 

Raph’s eyes flick back to Leon’s glassy and unfocused gaze.

He gingerly takes hold of his brother’s shoulder, “Leo?” 

His worried tone finally cuts through the haze, and Leo returns with a shudder, his vision snaps back into focus. 

He blinks away the moisture, his eyes dropping to the calloused hand resting against Raph’s plastron. A look of recognition passes his face, which is followed by a slow, dawning horror. 

Not terror, not dread, but sadness, underpinned by a peculiar form of forlorn longing. 

They’re both startled back to reality by the sound of the younger turtles’ approach.

“—should watch closely,” Leo’s voice filters through the screen door, “I'm going to show you how to totally wreck your future.” 

“Do you ever repeat your thoughts in your head before you say them out loud?” Donnie asks.

The screen slides open, and they all freeze at the sight of him and Leon in the middle of what Raph can only imagine looks like some kind of odd, melodramatic scene. 

Leon rips himself away from him. His head lowers to the ground, and he takes one last furtive glance at Raph before he’s making his way for the exit. 

“We’re done for today.” He tells the others monotonously on his way out.

“Say what?” Mikey yelps. “You haven’t even run us through—”

Leon’s already gone.

“Stretches…” 

Mikey’s head swivels back to Raph. “What was that?” 

Raph looks helplessly between his brothers’ dumbfounded expressions.

“I dunno.” He tries to go over the events in his head to pinpoint when exactly it had gone wrong. “We were just wrestling…” 

“You agreed to spar with him?” Leo asks, his voice small — equal parts proud and hurt.

“He agreed to spar with you?” Mikey hops in, tone far more cheerful.

Donnie shushes them. “We could do with an explanation first.”

“I had him pinned-” They aim to avoid doing that with Leo, but his issues are entirely different to Leon’s, “Then…” He thinks, turning over the little details he can remember. “The ground was rumbling a little.”

“From the train line?” Donnie asks.

Raph nods. “Yeah, and he…” he shrugs weakly. “I lost him for a second.”

The room goes quiet. Raph doesn’t have to explain any further than that. They all know what he means. They’ve all seen Leon’s eyes go distant, a shutter falling over his expression, his mind trapped between his own timeline and the present. Raph thought he was getting better. But it seems like everytime he thinks they’re taking a step forward, it’s immediately followed by another two steps back. 

Leo cuts into the silence. “He had another cowabummer?”

“We are not calling your traumatic flashbacks cowabummers.” Raph growls. 

“Wow, we’re just saying the quiet part out loud now I guess.” Donnie mutters to himself.  

“Okay, relax.” Leon drawls. “It’s no biggy, we’ll just add whatever happened here to the list. No smashing stuff, no loud, sudden noises, no drones, no magic hands, no theme parks, no big dogs, no creeping up on him unannounced, no winking-”

“And no, what, trains?” Donnie interjects. “Need I point out our current lodgings lie below a live subway system?”

“I don’t think just avoiding everything is gonna help-” Mikey notes quietly.

Leo’s hands settle against his hips. “Well by all means Miguel, feel free to sit him down and get him to follow through with some good ol’ CBT.” 

Mikey looks away, his expression darkening, bandaged hands curling into frustrated fists.

Leo exhales, his shoulders dropping. “Look, he’ll… He’ll work it out. Eventually. We just need to give him time.”

“How do you know?” Raph asks. 

“Because he’s a Leo, and bottling it up until we figure it out or the problem solves itself is kinda what we do.” 

He says it like it’s a joke, except it’s exactly what Leo does. It’s how he approaches his insomnia, nightmares, panic-attacks and anxiety. The training until his fists are cracked and bloody and this new desire he has to go out on patrol on his own. They’ve each tried to get him to open up about it, but every time it’s the same response. Light-hearted deflections with groan-inducing puns or teasing remarks. 

It hurts to think that Leo might be afraid his brothers would think less of him were he to share his troubles with them. And it’s worrying that Leo believes Leon is doing the same thing; burying and suppressing the uglier sides of himself as deeply as possible.

Raph folds his arms over his chest and exchanges a worried look with Donnie. “That’s a comfort.” he mutters under his breath. 

“And none of y’all see any problem with that?” Mikey asks incredulously, his arms gesturing out widely.

Leon raises his hands in surrender, “Tell you what, if I’m wrong — if something like this happens one more time, we can talk about staging a family intervention.”

Raph and the others are hoping something like this will never happen again. 

When the team unanimously agrees to Leo’s compromise, it’s because deep down they know it will. 

- - -

Leon has his good days. 

Like when he’d walk into a room to find Casey slouched on a beanbag with a game tablet in his hands, wearing the biggest, fluffiest socks Leon’s ever seen - clearly Donnie’s, if the way the two toes dangle loosely where Casey’s feet end were any indication. His brothers and April surrounded him, watching him play over his shoulder, everyone talking over one another to give him advice - five backseat drivers yapping into his ear. Casey hadn’t seemed to mind, his tongue stuck out in concentration as he leaned side to side in tune with the character on his screen.

Mornings cooking with Mikey, reinvigorating Leon’s long lost appetite and his buried love for food. Relaxed movie nights where Splinter took his spot on the couch and everyone spread out across the floor. Less relaxed board game evenings that started fun before they devolved into Leon mediating because Leo has a brutal no quitter attitude and Donnie has no qualms beating him into the ground by bankrupting him of all his monopoly money. Which ultimately culminated into the family waiting to see who was going to leap for whose throat first, and Leon would really rather not be a witness to any more throat incidents. 

Full meals and time spent with family helps boost Leon’s energy and rejuvenate the sad state of his body.

His mind isn’t so ready to be dragged back into the parameters of good health. 

He can’t get it out of his head. Sometimes when he looks, it’s like he’s seeing double. Like two different timelines flicking over his eyes - two pictures superimposed over one another. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees their faces. A dream of two decades. And every time he opens them, he grows more aware that it’ll never be the same. All these happy memories from his past… they’re tinged in blue. Every time his family treats him with love and tenderness it arouses a kind of poignant sadness that he struggles to block out. 

He wants it so desperately it hurts, but he can’t return to what once was. He can’t cope with them treating him like he’s still their’s, like he’s still family, when the truth is he can never go home again. 

Everything about him reminds me of you, but he isn’t you.

Casey had been right about that. About these people that are his family and somehow also distinctly not his family.

He’s closer to them than he’s been in decades, and yet they seem so very far away from him. He can’t ignore it. Can’t turn away from it. It’s a painful sinking feeling, something that grows worse and worse the longer he’s here, like a snowball rolling down a hill.

When he isn’t haunted by their faces, he feels like a ghost in his own house. Some days he’s convinced that he had died in that blast of molten heat, and is only here existing as a phantom in what used to be his life. A dead man walking a sunlit grave. 

He wants to be happy. He does. He’s just… tired. 

He hasn’t figured out how to quell that aching void left by those he lost. It’s probably not possible, and Leon really doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go on knowing that. 

He has to try. 

They would want him to try. 

So, Leon trains to keep his skills sharp. He meditates to settle his troubled mind and his fried nerves. Most importantly of all, he avoids uncomfortable confrontations by doing his best to maintain distance from Leo when he can. 

Usually if he didn’t want to brood in self-loathing all day he would just, y’know, not sit and stare at his reflection. Keep himself busy somehow. Now he has more free time than he knows what to do with and a mirror running around the Lair that he is at constant risk of running into. A panel of glass so clean and smooth and flawless that each time he looks into it he’s reminded of how old and fucked up and stained he is in comparison. And sometimes he has to bite down on the unwelcome, intrusive urge to punch at it until it shatters. 

Leon’s a strange coward. He’s survived thousands of battles, commanded his closest friends and family into the jaws of death, and yet he can't stand to do so much as be alone in a room with a sixteen-year-old armed with two swords and a dogged determination to poke his nose into his business. 

He had expected the kid to want to corner him when the others weren’t around so he could interrogate him or something, but he must have really freaked Leo out somehow during their last encounter because he seems to be following the same avoidant strategy Leon is. 

He has the exact opposite problem when it comes to Casey — yet another spanner in the works. The kid’s clearly exhausted trying to balance things, and Leon’s angry at himself for the hard spot he’s put him in, effectively allowing him to be torn in two. He wants to be able to support him more with his life topside, but between Big Mama’s bounty hunters, his underground family and his own exhaustion, he hasn’t really had the time. His heart twists painfully at that. The fact he just can’t stop letting his own troubles cut into his ability to help Casey. 

He feels sorely inadequate in the face of all the things the kid has done for him in his life. When he’d been blinded by his self-doubt, whenever he’d gotten close to losing himself, Casey had been there, keeping him hanging by a thread. After the breakdown of communication in his family, when Leo had thought it easier to handle on his own - when he had never felt more distant from those he cared about, it was his connection with Casey that brought him back, opened his heart and allowed Leon to let himself feel again. Sometimes raising that kid was the only thing that came between him and the persistent agony that came from living in a world so unforgiving. And in his darkest hours, after his greatest defeats, he’s pretty sure the only thing that kept him moving forward was his deadset desire to give the kid some form of future worth living.

Leon’s aware if things keep going the way they are, matters are only going to get worse. One of them is going to have to give in, and Leon knows it won’t be his kid. 

The younger-self mess has Leon stumped, but Casey, at least, he has a plan for. 

He asks Raph if he’d let him borrow some of his clothes, and the big guy generously hands over a hoodie and some boots without preamble. Later, Leon steals one of Leo’s caps and adorns a face mask to complete the not-quite disguise, and sets out to the surface. 

It’s the first time in what feels like decades that Leon’s climbed to the surface without his sword strapped to his back. He feels naked and vulnerable without it, but his whole uh… situation draws enough attention as it is. 

Though, it is pre-invasion New York he’s talking about here. There’s a good chance people will hardly care enough to give his green skin and hunchback a second glance. Donnie’s also offered him a scrambler for any cameras he might come across. It's nice having the genius back in more ways than one. It’s a terrible thing to rely on his own half-assed handiwork.

It’s so bizarre to be able to leap across the city without having to fear the watchful eyes of the Krang above him. There’s something to it that Leon desperately missed, trapped underground under constant danger, with hundreds of people relying on him to somehow not break under the pressure. His chest feels light as he jumps from building to building, and he barely notices the twinge at his shoulder when he lands. 

It’s rush hour below him, the city absolutely bustling with people - the streets filled to the brim with swimming crowds. Leon’s seen more humans within the timeframe of this short trip than he has over the last two decades. Leon had become accustomed to knowing every person he came across in his timeline, and having people know him in return. He was used to the whispers at his back as he walked through the base. Used to having to bat off the hero-worship of those that’d been recruited into the resistance, or tolerating meetings with rivals-to-reluctant-allies that only worked with him because they had a mutual enemy. 

Now, he looks down at a sea of unrecognisable faces, and he finds himself feeling more isolated than ever before. There’s a loneliness to the freedom. Leon had never considered that until now.  

He wonders if this is what Casey had been talking about. 

Leon tracks his phone to central park, and finds the kid seated under a tree, gazing up at the canopy of leaves swaying in the breeze. He’s casually dressed in a big, loose graphic tee, baggy pants and timbs. Anyone would mistake him as your average, everyday teenager. 

His hockey stick rests against the tree beside him, and Cassandra’s mask lies in his hands. He glimpses down and brushes a thumb across the red stripes painted over the eyes. He looks tired. The kind where if he has been sleeping, it hasn’t accomplished any rest. The kind where you force your eyes to close, even though the thoughts are racing around your mind too fast and loud for you to actually replenish what little energy you have. Leon knows that kind of tired. He doesn’t like how it looks on Casey. 

Leon sticks the loose arm of his jumper into the pocket and approaches him. Casey’s jumpy. The second Leon’s within striking range of him, he has the spiked club of his hockey-stick pointed to his chest.

He raises his hand and flashes a warm smile, hoping that it’ll reach his eyes. “How was school?”

“D- Sensei?” Casey’s guard lowers. His eyes dart around, searching for danger. “What’re you doing here?”

“Got something to show you.” Leon replies cryptically, “Come on. Grab your stuff.” 

He begins walking, and after a moment, Casey scrambles to collect his things and jogs after him. 

When he catches up, Leon takes the bag from his shoulders and slings it across his good arm. 

“You didn’t answer my question before.” 

Casey looks up at him, lost. 

“How was your day?” 

“Oh.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and shrugs noncommittally. “It was fine.” 

Informative.

“Any new friends?” He prompts.

Casey’s jaw is tight. “No.” 

“Any new enemies?” 

The kid looks away. Leon’s joking, sure, but Casey’s silence is unnerving. He’s quiet and reflective by nature — by no means the loud, exuberant child Leo had been around his age - but there’s usually something he wants to talk to Leon about. 

Leon can’t help but feel responsible for the kid’s inability to reintegrate. The Krang hadn’t helped, sure, but… He’s the one that hadn’t been able to save Cassandra. The one that had broken his promise to her by taking Casey in as a soldier when he was so young. The kid was too close to him — too close to the resistance by extension to avoid such a position. 

This is what their planet had become. What Leon had made it. A savage hunk of rock where children were forced to fight monsters as soon as they were old enough to wield a weapon. Training Casey to know how to defend himself had been protection in itself, but that doesn’t stop the guilt from eating Leon up. He’d asked a child to put his life on the line, to go up against virtually unbeatable forces, numerous times. And Casey… he always stepped up to the challenge. He’s fearless. Tenacious. He doesn’t know when to give up, and that had made him unpredictable and dangerous; one of the greatest assets to the resistance. 

Leon doesn’t have to be a genius to know that warfare screws with a kid’s head. He at least had the privilege of what the world had been like before the Krang. Casey didn’t know a life where he didn’t have to be constantly alert, on the move, looking for the next danger. Leon thought… He’d wanted to give Casey back what he had taken from him. 

It’d been a naive wish. One that lacked understanding for what Casey had been through. Leon sees that now. 

“It’s not fair.”

Leon agrees, though he’s not sure what exactly Casey is referring to here. 

“They don’t know the sacrifices that were made so they could live.” He says bitterly, “no one knows that you’re a hero.”

It’s not really something that bothers Leon. Quite the opposite, actually. Fame and recognition is something he had once seeked desperately, right up until the point he achieved it. After the novelty of it had worn off, he kind of just wanted to crawl into a dark hole with those he cares about and be forgotten about by the rest of the world. The obscurity is one of the best parts of the past. He supposes it must all seem terribly abstract for Casey though, to see his sensei - that was once recognised as the shining beacon of the resistance — fall so quickly into irrelevancy; to be forced to hide away his entire existence from the people that once relied on him to save it. 

Leon inclines his head. “They don’t. They can’t know that. But you do.”

“Sure, but… I’m just one person—”

He smiles, a quiet contentment rolling through him. “That’s fine with me”

The scowl lifts from Casey’s expression, and Leon nudges him gently. “You’re a hero too, y’know.” 

He saw the shaky footage of Casey flinging missiles back at the Krang - Mikey’s moves, Donnie’s tech, all that training and situational awareness that Leon had drilled into him coming to life to protect those in need. 

“Does it make you mad that the whole world doesn’t know it?”

Casey’s eyes lower. “No.”

Leon nods, and they continue on. 

It’s just this side of overwhelming to be swept up in the crowds of the city. Leon can spot the tourists from the locals by those that bother to give him a second glance. He’s not used to travelling on the ground during the day, and he finds himself sticking as close to Casey as possible, worried he’ll lose him to the sea of people flowing around them. 

They’re almost there when Casey stops him, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a side-alley. 

“I— we need to talk about something.”

Leon blinks at him, put off by the sudden grimness in his tone. Alarm bells go off in his head, unease prickling at him. A perfectly justified reaction, he thinks. When has we need to talk ever been followed by happy news? 

“Okay?”

Casey takes a deep breath. “It’s… It’s about Leo. This timeline’s Leo. I mean— it’s also kind of about you, obviously, but… Um.” He clears his throat nervously, gathering himself. “Do you think you could try, like… forgiving him, maybe?”

His heart sinks. Leon had thought he’d been a little more subtle with his aversion to the kid. Apparently not so. He’s not sure Casey’s fully aware of what he’s really asking from him here. To forgive Leo wouldn’t just be to forgive Leo (and really, he doesn’t even hold a grudge against the kid), it would mean letting go of that past version of himself. The one that had destroyed the world. And Leon’s not sure he’s ready to do that quite yet. 

How would that conversation even go, anyway? 

Hey my guy, sorry I’m being such an asshole. The only memories I have of you is of you ruining my life and getting my family brutally murdered before my eyes, but don’t worry about it. It’s a me thing not a you thing. Don’t worry about the whole accidentally contributing to the release of the Krang thingy. It was no biggy and had no lasting consequences on me as a person. Promise.  

Somehow he can’t see that smoothing over well with his angsty teenage self. 

“I… I’ve gotten to know Leo pretty well now-” Casey goes on, undeterred by his pensive silence. “And… He made his mistakes, but I really do think he was doing his best at the time. I know you still feel guilty and ashamed of what happened. That’s probably the reason you never told me, but… You’ve gotten so far, and you would never have made it back here if it weren’t for that guy you were back then. The guy that made you who you are now.” 

Casey has his heart in a vice grip, squeezing tighter and tighter with each terrifyingly precise insight, leaving Leon feeling stunned and stripped bare. It’s not a pleasant feeling. 

“I just… I don’t think Leo lacks, in any way. And I wish you saw that, too.”

“I do.” He replies. It’s not even a lie either, because this Leo isn’t him, is he? He’s the perfect child. He saved the world. He’s a martyr, and a leader, and the sibling to three living brothers, and an uncrushed father, and all the other things Leon could never live up to. He isn’t the one Leon believes is lacking. 

“He would forgive you too, y’know.”

Leon releases a disbelieving huff, doubt flickering in his chest. He genuinely has no idea what Leo thinks about him. Everyone expects them to be the same person with the same mind. Expects Leon to know how to comfort him, and he just… doesn’t. He can understand the edges where he and Leo overlap, but there’s a wide empty space between them that’s just a total goddamn mystery to Leon. 

“I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it, but the thing between me and Leo is… it’s complicated.” 

It’s made more complex by the fact that emotional vulnerability has never really been a talent of theirs. Leo’s got high walls built up, and Leon’s got thick barriers of his own. They’re going to need to either lower their guard around one another or break those walls down if they want to get down to the root of the problem — something neither of them feel inclined to do, and it’s highly unlikely a simple conversation is going to get them there. 

Casey studies him with a troubled look. 

Leon sighs. “There something else on your mind?”

“I… Master Leonardo, are you okay?”

Leon stiffens, his mouth opening slightly before he closes it. Casey’s asking again. Casey, who had never gotten to know his mother because Leon hadn’t been fast enough to save her. Casey, who he raised and taught to be a soldier and a killer, who is an excellent fighter and who saved the world and who quietly insisted he would help Leon in any capacity he could even after Leon had tried to push him away. Casey, who lost his childhood to a war caused by Leon’s own immaturity. 

His throat feels raw when he swallows. Leon staves off the emotion clawing at him. Tears would only hurt Casey further. A lying smile, hidden well enough, only ever hurts himself. It’s an easy choice. 

The corners of his lips quirk up. “‘Course I am, kid. Got everything I’ve ever wanted, haven’t I?”

Casey closes his eyes and slumps against the wall with a sigh that sounds more weary than relieved. 

“What?” Leon chuckles. He jabs him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get a move on. We’re going to be late.”

“Late?” Casey echos, his brows pinching together. “You still haven’t even told me where we’re going.”

“Training.” He answers shortly. 

“But… Couldn’t we do that back at the Lair?”

Leon’s smile widens. “It’s not that kind of training.”

- - -

They reach their destination at the top of a building. A turf field fills the rooftop, providing an impressive outlook of the city from the stands. A bunch of kids around Casey’s age, if not a little older, are spread out across the sidelines, slipping on their cleats and shin guards or huddled in little groups with their friends. 

“Sensei? What is this?”

Leon chucks him a hockey-stick. He catches it, the furrow in his brow deepening as he inspects what must appear as no more than a very unimpressive twig compared to his modded weapon. 

“Tryouts.”

Casey’s eyes snap back to him, his mouth falling open. 

“Alright, first things first. Hand over your weapons.”

He does so after only a moment’s hesitation, passing Leon his own hockey-stick, the pins attached to his ears, the kunai strapped to his waistband, the shurikens and tetsubishi hidden in his pockets—

Leon doesn’t pry into why his student feels it necessary to carry an arsenal into his classes. He feels uncomfortable himself without the throwing knives holstered to his thigh, hidden by his pant leg, but honestly, Casey. “How do you manage to get past the metal detectors at your school?”

“Donnie.”

He releases a deep sigh. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Casey passes over his last throwing star, then stops. “Okay. I’m ready.”

He holds out his hand.

Casey adorns an innocent expression. “What?”

He opens and closes the hand twice, giving his student a flat look. Casey groans and reaches behind his neck, pulling his hair aside and unlatching the chain wrapped around his throat before depositing it into Leon’s waiting hand. 

Leon pockets it, then holds out his hand again. 

Casey stares at it, nonplussed. “That’s everything I got.”

Leon rolls his eyes before kneeling down to pull out the knife slipped into the liner of his boots. 

Casey visibly deflates. 

“That’s my lucky knife.”

“It’s our lucky knife.” Leon corrects. 

He scowls, then turns, glancing anxiously at the kids warming up on the field. 

“Any advice?” He asks, looking to him for instruction as if he has ever played or watched this sport. 

Leon places his hand on his hip and shrugs. “Have fun.” 

Casey glowers at him for a long moment. “That’s it? That’s your guiding wisdom?”

“Yep.” 

“That’s terrible. It doesn’t help me at all.”

The blow of a whistle rings out in the air, and Leon grins and slaps him encouragingly on his back. “Go get ‘em, kid.”

- - -

Casey has a very loose understanding of the rules of hockey and he doesn’t have the cleats for the turf, but what he lacks in knowledge and equipment he by far makes up for with a good eye, speed, accuracy, and the aerobic base to keep on running when the other kids begin to tire. It helps that his hockey-stick is practically an extension of him at this point. 

He’s also working astonishingly well with his teammates for someone who’s never played the game before. And Casey seems just as surprised by that fact as Leon is. 

After setting up a play that allows his team to score, one of the seniors comes over and ruffles his hair in thanks - the action so easy and friendly and familiar in a way that’s so completely opposite to his encounters with the other kids at his school that Casey has to pause to blink for a couple seconds while his brain reorientates itself. 

Pride swells in Leon’s chest when Casey inevitably scores his first point, and the kid stops for a moment immediately afterwards to look up at the stands. His eyes find Leon’s, and he tucks his stick under his arm and places both hands out, bending his fingers into a claw shape and pulling them towards him, before placing his index finger to his dominant eye, then curling that hand into a fist and gesturing outwards with his thumb. 

Want to see another one? 

Leo smirks. In response, he points towards himself lazily, waves his hand and puffs his chest out.   

Cocky. 

Casey throws his head back and laughs, totally oblivious to the strange looks his teammates give him as they return to their starting positions. 

He does, as it so happens, score another one, and the opposing team picks up pretty quick that Casey is a player they need to be covering. It’s not long before a kid twice his size is getting up in his space and attempting to push him off the puck. Leon isn’t at all worried. He is well aware of something that no teenager down on that field is. Casey is his mother’s son. He’s a Jones, and all Jones have a bit of a maniacal streak to them, just waiting to leap out. 

Casey responds appropriately when the kid starts getting too rough, aggressively shoving back with a strength that no one is expecting from a frame as wiry as his. His bigger opponent doesn’t like that at all, and resorts to the cheapest move in the book. He reaches out for Casey’s hair, and yanks. 

Leon leans forward, a rush of anger flooding through him. 

Casey throws his elbow back, catching the asshole in the jaw, and Leon can hear the resounding crack from where he’s watching in the stands. The kid immediately crumples to the ground. The referee, in what is either an impressive display of ambivalent incompetence or a malignant attitude towards teenagers, has yet to touch his whistle, and Leon cackles at the outright look of shock on the other players’ faces as Casey ploughs ahead and smashes the puck into the back of his opponent’s net. 

He ends the session covered in far more dirt, scrapes and bruises than he started, his face flushed, with a beaming smile that reaches from ear to ear. 

“Spirits… That was so sick!” He exclaims, totally elated, adrenalin still running high. 

“Yeah it was, you did amazing out there.” Leon grins. “What did the coach say?”

“The who?”

“The coach.” He points back to the field. “The guy in the red baseball cap.”

“He said I’m in?”

A flare of happiness for his kid rushes through Leon. “That’s great!” 

“Sweet!” Casey replies, caught up in his sensei’s excitement for a moment, before he pauses. “Um, why though?”

The question pulls out another laugh from him. That Casey would be this happy simply from a single training match. “It means you made the team, Case. You can come back next week if you want.”

His mood lifts again. “Oh!” 

Leon shakes his head fondly and claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. I’ve got a place in mind where we can celebrate.”

- - -

The sun lies low over the cityscape, the sky awash with orange-pink fading into muted purples. Traffic moves at a snail’s pace below high-rising skyscrapers, red tail-lights lighting up the streets. He and Casey sit perched on top of a building, their legs swinging freely over the railing. From this height the crowd looks like ants, tens of thousands of people going about their evening, oblivious to the cavernous war they’d been so close to falling into. 

Leon had missed this view. He’d missed this city, his home, sprawled out before him as it once was, untouched by the Krang. They watch as the sun slowly dips below the horizon, simply enjoying one another’s presence, here, alive, whole, revelling in the relative quiet at the top of the world.

Casey perks up at one point, his hand flying to the zipper of his bag. “I totally forgot, I’ve been meaning to give you this—”

He pulls out a long shawl of blue, knitted fabric from his bag, passing it to Leon. It has been mended, cleaned, but there’s no mistaking what this is. In Leon’s hands is a scarf that Raph had made for him a long, long time ago. 

“I found a piece in my pocket the night after…” Casey falters. After their fight down in the tunnels. “I went back to look for it later, and Raph helped me put it back together.” 

Leon’s completely still, his eyes glued to the scarf. 

Casey ducks his head and fidgets with the edge of his shirt. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He kicks his brain back into gear, shakes his head and somehow manages to speak past the thickness in his throat. “Thank you.”

Leon brushes his fingers over the fabric. Another little piece from his past. He wishes he could sincerely describe to Casey exactly how much this means to him, but no explanation would do justice to the emotion filling his chest. The kid probably already knows, anyway. 

He winds the scarf around his neck, slowly and softly as if it might tear or combust or disappear if handled incorrectly. 

“Would it really be so hard to tell them the truth?” Casey asks softly. 

Leon sits up a little straighter, the movement of his fingers freezing, jolted out of his reverie. 

He clears his throat. “Donnie knows.” 

Casey’s head lifts, startled by Leon’s admission. “How much?”

“Some. Enough.” About the same as Casey does. 

He frowns. “And the others?”

It had been a universally understood rule during the apocalypse that keeping secrets was an excellent way to get yourself and your team killed. Keeping all your thoughts and intentions laid out on the table kept everyone on the same page and stopped stupid shit from falling out on the battlefield. But they’re not in the apocalypse anymore. The same rules don’t really apply here. Sometimes a white lie is the only way to keep the people you love from knowing the dark choices that you’ve been forced to make — protects them from the things you’ve had to see, stops them from being hurt by all the horrible things you’re still trying to process. 

“Some truths are better left buried.” Leon says quietly, his gaze returning to the city laid out beneath them. 

The joints in Casey’s fists crack as he tenses his knuckles. “You can’t stay stuck like this.”

Leon looks down at him with a baffled expression. “What?”

Casey’s eyes are downcast, his jaw working nervously, mouth pursed tightly. “You keep carrying around your past like it’s some chronic illness the rest of us might catch. You act like if you bury that viciousness and anger and grief deep enough, you’ll be able to go on living a normal life, but there’s no hole deep enough for that. I know. I’ve tried. If you can’t face what happened… If you try to hide it forever, you’ll never be able to heal.” 

The silence stretches onward for a few moments, and Casey shifts uncomfortably. 

“You’re right.” 

The kid’s head swivels up to gape up at him.

Leon concedes the point, because it’s true. Casey is right. 

The thing he doesn’t realise however, is that Leon doesn’t really have any interest in healing. He misses his family. The version of them that he’d gone through everything with. The ones that knew him - that perceived him better at times than he was capable of knowing himself. He really lost… everyone. There’s no coming back from that. He doesn’t know if he wants to recover from that.  

Of course, he can’t say any of this. White lies n’ all.

He releases a long breath. “You’re right about a lot of things, Case.”

He needs to segway this line of thought into a different direction, and though Leon had wanted to have this conversation in a slightly less suffocating atmosphere, now’s as good a time as any. 

“I’ve been thinking over what you said…” Obsessing over it, the issue filling every blank space he had in his mind. “And I… I wanted a better life for you than endless fights and subway lines and sewers, but I can’t force you into shoes that just won’t fit. I don’t have a right to dictate what your life is.” 

He’s done that for far too long. Casey’s whole existence now, it feels like. 

“I’ve been doing some backwork. The hockey game wasn’t just to get you to blow off some steam. I’d like it if you still had a connection to some part of life up here.” The option to make friends, to have people in his life that lied outside the trauma of his childhood. 

“I also talked to Donnie, and he said he’d be happy to continue teaching you what you’d need to know if you ever decided you wanted to pick up a normal life again. And dad and the others gave the okay for you to stay at the Lair.” Asking permission had been more a polite formality than a necessity. Casey spent more than half his time there already, and Leon had realised very early on that his younger family were long-past already adopting the kid as a Hamato. 

His heart tosses around beneath his flesh as his kid gaps at him. Why is Leon so nervous? This is what Casey wants. He’s expressed that much, very clearly, multiple times. 

“After what you’ve been through… If you don’t want to go to school, if you want to stay with me, that’s your decision, and I should honour that—”

Casey interrupts him by raising a hand, his features pinched together, his expectations tempered with a careful wariness. “Wait, you… you’re not messing with me right now, are you? You’re being serious?”

Leon stops. Setting all this up and not following through would be a needlessly cruel prank, even for him. “Um, yeah? Why would I—”

Leon lets out a yelp when Casey disregards all situational awareness to practically throw himself at him. He catches him around his shoulders and pulls him away from the building edge because they are sitting on the top of a skyscraper right now.

Casey buries his head into his shoulder, happiness trembling through every inch of him.

As fruitless an endeavour as it is to try and change Casey’s mind at this point, Leon feels the need to explain. “It’s not the resistance, but there’s still dangers associated with being around us.” Being around me. “It’s not a stable life.”

Casey doesn’t hesitate, pulling back to lock eyes with him. 

“I know the risks. I want to face them with you.”

Leon manages to slowly nod, a shaky smile spreading across his face. 

“Okay.”

He silently notches this down as another one of the good days.

Chapter Text

He sends Casey home to sort things out with April and her family. He wishes he could thank them in person, but April’s parents have yet to meet them in this timeline, and he doesn’t want to make things more complicated than they already are. 

When he returns home, he immediately checks on his brothers. They’re all accounted for, sleeping in their usual pile in the living room. 

Leon lowers himself to the floor with an exhausted exhale. His mood has been significantly brightened from his day out, but the lack of rest is beginning to catch up with him. 

He feels a little drunk on the happiness, muscle relaxed and heart soft and open, a quiet contentment thrumming through him. It honestly scares him a little. He doesn’t trust it. The joy in his life is always so temporary. He’s half convinced the universe keeps him around just to punish him for every slice of satisfaction he greedily chews down on.

He’s afraid of when — not if — when it will be torn away from him again. And he’s too busy being in his own head about that to be capable of truly cherishing where he is. He can’t help it. His brain has become hardwired to expect the worst - to be prepared for the next terrible event that’ll send him on a downward spiral. 

He should be enjoying the simple pleasures of being able to lay down and relax, but all he can think about is the moment he’ll be forced to move. 

That’s what his life has been reduced to. Survival instinct. Fight or flight. He can’t remember how to sit still. 

He’s brought out of his thoughts when he looks down to find Mikey blinking blearily up at him. “W’t time s’it?” He croaks. 

Leon smirks and places a gentle hand over his head. No fever, just warm from sleep. 

“Too early.” He rumbles. The sun passed over the horizon less than an hour ago. An inverse ass crack of dawn for a nocturnal turtle.  

Mikey rubs the sleep from his eyes and leans into his hand. Leon lifts it away when he twists and rolls onto his stomach. “Do you think.” His brows furrow. “Would you mind if…” He trails off, his eyes lowering to the floor.

He raises a brow at Mikey’s uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Whatever it is, it’s fine Mikey. Just go ahead and ask.”

Mikey fidgets with the bandages wrapped around his fingers. His voice is small and tentative when he asks, “Could you tell me a little bit about what I was like?” 

He blinks. 

It’s a considerably milder reaction than the time Raph had asked him the same question. He’s not sure whether this is a byproduct of him having a greater bank of fond memories to draw from or simply because it’s Mikey - his curious, inquisitive little brother with an unmatched openness and an outstanding ability to be vulnerable and process complex emotion and who’s clearly been trying so hard to walk on eggshells around Leon. 

“You could float.” He says after an extended pause. 

Mikey pouts, disappointed. “You already said that.” 

“I did, didn’t I?” Leon cringes at the reminder of the little brother projectile incident. It’s hardly the first time he’s tossed his younger sibling into a potentially life-threatening situation. He crosses his legs and hums thoughtfully. 

“You had splinter’s hair.” 

Mikey’s face slackens, genuinely shocked that he’s going to reveal more than a little joke. That Leon’s taken his question in stride rather than brushing it from his shoulders. “I’m going to have hair?”

Leon nods, his face very serious. “Massive sideburns.” Mikey’s eyes widen as he brings his hands to his cheeks, trying to feel for any baby hairs that might’ve sprouted there. Leon makes a face, scrunching up his nose. “It’s gonna be gross.”

Mikey pauses and scowls, “That’s exactly what a jealous hairless turtle would say.” 

“Maybe so.” He chuckles quietly.

Mikey brings his elbows forward and rests his chin in his hands. “What else?”

Leon thinks, and for once the words flow freely, naturally. “You would cook for the resistance after a tough fight, when the rest of us were so exhausted we could barely lift our arms. You remembered the birthday of soldiers that probably considered you to be their weird, yoda-jesus. You took up chores and odd jobs when people around base were already too swamped with work to keep up. You hand-stitched clothes and obsessively collected whatever little salvageable cultural remnants remained in the rubble.” 

“You were the greatest mystic warrior this world has ever known, and that alone made everyone look up to you… But you were powerful because you never wielded that against people. Beyond the grief and the anger you must have felt… every time, you chose empathy.” 

None of them, not one person in the world, had ever seen all there was of Leon. No one except for Mikey, who at some point had laid eyes on every single component that made him who he is. His emotions at their rawest, his strengths, his weakness, his ugliness, his numerous and spectacular flaws. Mikey had seen it all, and not once had he flinched away from him. 

“If you were there, people knew it was going to be okay. You were the light that drove out the darkness. No matter how many times we were knocked down, you were the first to wipe the blood and dirt from your face, spit out a tooth, and rise for another go.” That was always Mikey’s speciality. It was easy to see him as a sweet, optimistic, angelic thing, but in truth, he’s a doggedly ferocious, restless force of nature, fighting tooth and nail every step of the way, to the point of irrationality — giving them just enough to keep them holding on to nothing. “You reminded us of who we are, where we came from, what we were fighting for. You were the resistance’s inspiration. Its spirit, its soul—”

He sees Mikey’s face sometimes, and it’s like he’s back in those final moments again, with Michelangelo’s form cracking at the edges as the portal flickered to life. He had every right to hate Leon for what had happened, for what he had asked him to do, and yet, to the very end, he looked into his eyes, and all he could feel from Mikey was love and warmth and affection. 

“You were hope.” 

The room is unbearably quiet. Leon holds his breath as that sinks in. He knows it’s a lot. Probably too much for his little brother to process. A puzzle with missing pieces and torn edges. An incomplete picture painted with Leon’s own fond biases. 

“Deadass? I sound awesome.” Mikey declares. 

The nervous energy that’d been bubbling up in his chest immediately releases in the form of a soft laugh. 

“You are.”

- - -

“You can’t look until I’ve attached it.” Donnie announces.

They’re in his lab, Leon laid out in a reclining chair, Leo keeping a close eye on his vitals as Donnie begins hooking up wires and miniscule electrodes to his stub.

Sitting to his left, Casey pats his shoulder and grins. “You’re going to love this, sensei.”

He returns the smile. “You guys are killing me with anticipation.” 

“I want a metal arm.” Leo says, his tone edging playful petulance. 

“If you chop a limb off I’ll consider giving you a replacement.” Donnie replies monotonously. 

Leon grimaces. “I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

“It wasn’t a suggestion, to be clear.” Leon nudges Leon and slides his goggles over his eyes. “Quit moving.”

Leon lays his head back as they talk amongst themselves. He’s only half-listening, the majority of his focus taken up by the ambient soundtrack Donnie has playing, the volume low enough to fade into background noise. He’s pretty sure the playlist has been selected for his benefit, helping to quieten his mind and soothe his frazzled nerves. 

He’s used to having to carry conversations, pumping up resistance fighters with motivational speeches and negotiating terms with sect leaders. After a certain length of time it became wearing, exhausting. Turns out being the centre of attention isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be. It’s nice to be able to sit back and let it all flow over him for once. 

His attention is pulled back into the limelight when Leo asks Donnie, “You have a theory, don’t you?”

“Always.” Donnie drawls. “My knowledge spans a very broad range though. You’re going to have to be a little more specific here.”

Leo nods Leon’s way, “About how he got here.”

Okay, now Leon’s definitely not going to be able to tune this discussion out. The pressure against Leon’s stump stills as Donnie pauses. 

“It’s been on my mind.” He admits coolly, oddly reluctant. Donnie loves each and every opportunity to demonstrate his intelligence. He’s usually chomping at the bit to info-dump his thought process. 

Leon leans forward slightly. “I’d like to hear it.”

Donnie immediately pushes his chest back down. “I’m not sure you do.” He warns grimly. 

“Uh, I would.” Leo chimes in.

Donnie ministrations have come to a complete halt at this point, his brain churning. 

“I need to know.” Leon says quietly. “Please.”

Donnie flicks his goggles back and leans away from him with a sigh. 

“Mikey didn’t survive opening that gateway, did he?” 

Leon’s heart stops, the colour draining from his face. His eyes jump to Casey and Leo, “Did you—”

Donnie cuts him off, “They didn’t need to. When he opened the interdimensional portal to save Leo... Raph and I saw how accessing that kind of power ate away at him.”

Leon’s chest tightens. To a certain level, he’s glad that these kids are aware of this. It had taken far longer in his own timeline to understand how taxing Mikey’s power could be on his body - the mysticism feeding on his ninpo like extreme cardio on fat, burning away at the energy stores until they were fully depleted, then digging further into  muscle, stripping him of his strength, turning on his body and sapping his lifeforce. Leon chalks it up to equivalent exchange. There had to be costs to being the most powerful being on the planet, even for Mikey. 

“I only got a fractional taste of it,” Donnie continues, “and even then - even between the three of us - it was almost too much. I don’t know how strong your Angelo was, but I have some serious doubts in his ability to harness that level of raw, uncontrolled, mystic energy without it destroying him in the process.”

“Wait.” Leo shoots gim a sharp look. “Mikey died opening the portal in your timeline?”

Ice fills Leon’s veins, guilt hitting like permafrost in the pit of his stomach. They don’t talk about this. It’s the one topic they’ve both silently agreed to steer away from. 

He averts his gaze, which is decidedly the wrong reaction when Leo abruptly rounds on him. “Did you know that could happen?” He barks. 

Leon… He hadn’t gone into the fight with it as a final resort, if that’s what Leo meant. It wasn’t plan B, C, or Z. The concept hadn’t been so much as a whisper in his mind until it was too late. Until there was no plan at all. It was more like finding themselves unexpectedly approaching a platform, the train approaching at a breakneck speed, and realising that the final destination was no longer a choice. The finish line was in sight, and their final sprint was reduced to nothing more than a desperate scrabble to make something of the death they were about to face. His idea was a far-fetched, impossible irrationality. Leon didn’t even know if it would work. But he understood the bleakness in Mikey’s voice when he said it’ll take all I have. 

“Yes.” He answers honestly, his voice no stronger than a dry rasp. He had instantly known what his little brother had meant by that. 

“Why did you let him do it?” Leo bites, his throat tight, eyes shining behind the anger.

“You think he wanted to?” Casey snaps.

Leon lifts his free hand, gesturing for him to stand down. He grits his teeth and tells Leo the only thing he knows to be true, “We had no other choice.”

“You…” He stops, the tightness in his features falling away to a slow dawning horror. “You didn’t just allow it, did you? You ordered it.”

The lab descends into a deathly silence, the tension pressing on them like rocks against his chest, the increasing pressure slowly crushing him, pulling the air from his lungs. 

Leo surges forward and gets into his face, his arm flying forward and taking hold of where Leon’s plastron gives way to his collarbone. With the wires precariously hanging from his stub, there’s very little Leon can do to avoid him. Casey steps forward, and Leon looks past Leo to settle his gaze on Casey. He shakes his head minutely. Don’t. 

“Look at me!” Leo snaps. 

Their eyes lock. His mind is filled with cottony static. He forces himself to count each beat of his rapid heartbeat in a futile attempt to slow it. He knows this feeling. Fight or flight. He’s exposed and vulnerable and they’re seeing far too much of him. 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” His voice is harsh and demanding, but his eyes are desperate, pleading. 

Please, please tell me I’m wrong. 

Leon wants to. He wishes he could. 

He can’t.

Leon just looks at him. That’s all Leo can ask of him. That’s the only request he can follow through on. 

“That’s enough!” Donnie interjects. 

Leo’s hand tightens around his plastron, his eyes going icy. His frame is perfectly still, a dangerous energy radiates from him. The promise of violence, like hackles rising on a feral dog. “He got Mikey killed.”

Casey makes a furious, low noise in his throat and takes a threatening step forward, disregarding Leon’s instruction. He has to put a stop to this before it gets ugly. 

“We had to end it.” He forces out, each syllable feeling oddly forced, as though he’s speaking from ten feet underwater. His heartbeat pulses in his ears. 

Breathe, he tells himself. In, out. Calm down. 

“We had to make it all end so we could begin again. I knew that. Mikey knew that. If there was any other way, we would’ve done it… There wasn’t.”

That’s what Leon keeps telling himself, anyway. There was no scheming, no fighting, no begging their way out of the path they’d found themselves on. Nothing they could’ve done to lift that boot held over their necks. Mikey pulling open that portal was their only chance. He has to believe that. He has to. Leon’s always had one foot in the grave, but for that to be anything other than the god honest truth would truly kill him. 

Leo pulls him closer with a scrutinising gaze that is flat and unyielding, like if he looks deep enough into Leon’s eyes, he’ll see the lies floating around in the dark pools of his pupils. His teeth are clenched together so tightly Leon can hear the sound of grinding enamel. 

“If you wanted your brothers to die to save the world you should have set an example by sacrificing yourself first.” 

The vitriolic words cut Leon short, stiffening his spine and piercing through his heart like an arrow, just as Leo knew they would. 

Casey launches at Leo, tackling him to the floor with a savage growl. 

Leon is paralysed, his stomach roils and his breath catches in a spasm, his hand trembling. Leo’s phrasing was carefully selected, with sharp spines and hooked, barbed edges designed to slice into his most vulnerable areas and stay there, digging in deeper with each passing second, too painful to acknowledge, too embedded to dislodge.

Leo and Casey grapple with one another on the ground, a wild tangle of arms and legs, Leo attempting to deflect Casey’s flying fists as he spews curses at him. He’s never seen his student this livid. Leo’s giving nearly as good as he’s getting, clawing at Casey’s hair and kneeing him in the stomach. 

Donnie’s tech-bō powers up and cracks a sizable dent into the ceiling above them, causing the eruption of pandemonium to fizzle out in a shower of dust and rubble. 

“Rule number one of being in here!” Donnie loudly announces. “My lab is not your dojo. You want to start shit?” He flings a hand towards the door, “Do it outside!” 

Leo gets up, coughs a single puff of dust, takes one last furious furtive glance at Leon, then squares his shoulders and storms out. 

Casey remains panting on the floor, looking thoroughly dishevelled. His face is red, his hair a total mess, the white particles of plaster stark against the dark colour. 

Donnie sighs. “Casey, can you wait outside and make sure he doesn’t come back in until I’ve finished up here? I’m working with some pretty fine calibrations here that require a lot of focus. I can’t deal with…” He gestures to the door, “That right now.”

Casey pauses, his eyes settling on Leon. He stands, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away. 

He faces him squarely, presses his thumb under his chin and flicks it forward, shows an open palm, then touches the tips of a bent hand and draws it down his shoulder down twice like he’s brushing dirt from his shirt.  

Not your fault. 

He signs it again, firmer, emphasising the movement with a shake of his head, his eyes hard. 

Leon stares blankly back at him for a moment, tears welling in his eyes. 

He nods. Just once. 

Only then does Casey go. 

Donnie quietly resettles on his right side and continues his work. Leon’s legs twitch. The silence rings around his ears. It’s just this side of unbearable. 

“I would have.” He blurts. 

Donnie’s hands slow as he tries to decipher what he means by that, then stop completely when it clicks into place, his head dropping to Leon’s shoulder. 

“If I could’ve sacrificed myself in his place—”

“You would have.” He finishes with an exhale. “I know.” 

Several breaths caress the skin at his shoulder, then Donnie pulls away, and sets back to work. “We all know,” He mutters quietly under his breath, more frustration than despair in his tone this time round. “That includes Leo, by the way. He’s just too angry to see it right now.”

Leon’s eyes drop to his fingers, flesh and blood, splayed out limply on the examination table. Alive, strong, useless.

“Hm.”

“Back to what I was trying to explain before we were so rudely interrupted…” 

Leon clears his throat. “Your theory?”

“Mmhm. I figure Mikey would have sent the two of you back together if he had the power to. He wouldn’t have risked having you drop three months forward, after the invasion. What would be the point of that? It makes no sense.”

Leon’s also been pondering... It would’ve been far too late for him to make any difference in stopping the Krang. He can only imagine the hellish scenario of having to go through the war a second time had his family failed to stop them. Mikey never would have done that to him. Not intentionally. 

“Then how?”

“If magic is even remotely related to physics — unlikely but possible — then that would mean ‘Master’ Mikey would’ve been carrying what I can only assume is a near-incalculable amount of power within his being… And, again, I’m no expert on the mystic stuff, but when you have an accumulated stored energy potential like that? I mean, you can’t just stop a nuclear reactor- not that I’m saying Mikey will go nuclear on us. I’m not even sure you can compare the power of mysticism to the energy output of, say, uranium or plutonium, but—” 

Leon’s brain tunes out from Donnie’s tirade as the gears begin turning in his head. 

Stored energy. He hadn’t even considered that. He remembers Mikey’s form, disintegrating away into yellow embers, like the remaining heat and glow of a fire that had already gone out. The gust of wind flowing outwards from him, like a burst of compressed air. 

“A residual time-gateway.” Leon says distantly. 

“Essentially? Yes.”

Leon nods slowly, wets his dried lips. “That… makes sense.” He thinks he might be sick.

“You don’t sound all too happy about it.” Donnie points out.

“I’d thought maybe…” His throat bobs as he swallows. 

Mikey used to have visions. 

At first they thought they were simply dreams. Night terrors. Then, one day, one of the nightmares Mikey had told them about… Leon found himself in it, playing out the beats, knowing exactly how it would end, unable to stop the outcome. They figured out over time they were only glimpses of what could be. There was nothing they could really do about it, no way to change the future before it was already happening, but Mikey saw it, sometimes weeks before. 

Between Leon leading the resistance, Donnie keeping tally of their losses, and Mikey trying to warn them of a future already predestined to occur, any conversation inevitably revolved more around death than life. It’s sad and tragic, but when he thinks back on it, what Leon feels is vexation. That they squandered the little time they had left together working on overtime in a fruitless endeavour to stop a force that would inevitably kill them all anyway. 

And perhaps Mikey had felt the same, because over time, as their numbers dwindled and the battles worsened, he talked about his dreams less and less. It was a quiet withdrawal, an easily dismissable ripple in a tsunami of chaos hitting them from all sides. Leon had entertained the thought that his little brother had stopped being plagued by his visions altogether, but… after everything that transpired… Leon keeps getting stuck on those final moments. The seconds before Mikey’s time gateway burst to life. 

There had been no fear, no hesitation, no regret from his little brother. He felt steadfast determination and a level-headed composure emanating from him, but never surprise. For one so inquisitive, there had been not a single line of questioning — not so much as a twitch of his brow ridge. Almost like he’d already been prepared for it to end.

Leon had spent many hours mulling over that odd detail. He thinks back to each and every time he caught Michelangelo staring sadly at the purple and red wrapped around the hilt of his sword, the little pieces of his brothers that Leon keeps on him at all times. He can’t dispel the image engraved into the back of his mind of Mikey sitting over a fire, an orange mask burning away into ash. Leon hadn’t thought about how it’d gotten there. He’d been too occupied at the time trying to save it, burning his hands in the desperate process. He’d been too late. The material had already been ruined beyond repair. He’s always too late.  

Leon had thought… what, exactly? That Mikey never stopped having those visions? That he had forseen what was going to happen and had some grand mystical plan in place to counteract a fate that within their lifetimes they’d never before figured out how to beat? That his acceptance to it all wasn’t resignation to his own death, but a sign that he somehow, some way, had found a way out? 

His gaze lowers. 

Hope can be an incredibly powerful weapon, but when the illness is terminal, when the fight has been fought and long lost, when reality feels like an inconvenience that is far more comfortable to ignore. There comes a point where hope becomes denial. 

His brothers are gone. 

They’re not coming back. 

Leon has to cement this narrative in his head. He has to force himself to come to terms with it. 

“I don’t know what I thought.” He says finally, his voice so quiet he has to wonder if Donnie even heard him. Leon won’t be repeating himself if he hadn’t. 

Donnie responds after a long moment, just as quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Leon’s not prepared for it. The apology slices deeply into him, reopening old scars. His gaze snaps back up to Donnie. 

“Never apologise to me.” He croaks. The anguish in the plea breaks through before he can smother it. 

Donnie examines him for a moment, looking down at the top of his head with a baffled look, an odd tightness to his lips as if he’s trying to work out what he’s thinking. Leon kind of feels bad for reacting like this. It’s nothing more than an expression of sympathy, a neurotypical statement that his twin has learnt to adopt for the sake of comforting his brothers, because emotion and vulnerability comes as intuitively to him as it does to Leo (that is to say, not intuitively at all). He can’t know what an apology from him means to Leon. 

“Alright, weirdo.” Donnie murmurs, simply chalking it up to another one of his weird quirks. He pushes Leon’s head away from him, the action far softer than their usual rough-housing. “Don’t look. I’m not finished yet.”

He allows his face to be turned away, grateful for the opportunity to mask the tears he feels coming on. He feels emotionally exhausted. He hasn’t even managed to get the arm on yet. 

Donnie continues tinkering with the sensors for a bit, then something cool and tight is being moulded around his shoulder.

“Sit up a bit.” Donnie instructs. 

He does so, and a strap is pulled across his chest. “Arm up.” Donnie winds it beneath his armpit and around his back. He flinches when Donnie pauses for a second, his fingers pressing over the exposed scar near that shoulder. Leon’s lucky he heals quickly. The puckered skin fades into the background of marred skin. Donnie elects not to mention it, moving on to attach the strap to what Leon has to assume is some sort of belt or buckle at his shoulder. 

“Breathe in.” Donnie pulls the brace taut on the inhale, not so tight that his lungs can’t expand, but to a comfortable snugness, Enough that the weight hanging loosely from his right shoulder feels firm and secure. 

“Alright, here we go. Moment we’ve been waiting for. I’m going to activate it. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Donnie pulls up his tablet and begins running his code. Leon can pinpoint the exact moment the arm comes to life, the dull feeling of the examination table coming into focus beneath him, artificial sensors lighting up like real nerves would. His finger twitches. 

“Sweet sassy molassy, we are officially online.” Leon can hear the pride and excitement shaking in his voice. “Thou may now gaze upon thy masterpiece.”

He looks down at the arm and his breath catches in his chest, his brain short-circuiting for a moment. 

This prosthetic hasn’t been forged in Raph’s image. It’s a balanced parallel to his left arm. He thinks about lifting the arm like he would his own, and it immediately responds, rising, each component interlocking and interacting flawlessly in tandem with his thought.  

The design feels more… alive, somehow. The way it flows, metal plates moving over one another like a wave, the light refracting off the deep obsidian as he carefully manoeuvres it. He’s used to having a heavy, bulky, jagged weight dragging down on his shoulder. A physical reminder of what he’d lost - who he was trying to live up to. This prosthetic carries none of that weight. It feels impossibly light; flawlessly balanced, every gear and piston oiled and smooth. 

“It’s beautiful.” He breathes. 

Too beautiful. Leon is overwhelmed by the sense that he’s somehow devaluing Donnie’s art simply by merit of it being attached to a body so broken.

Dee beams back at him as he happily rocks back and forth. “As much as I’d love to, I can’t take full credit. Mikey did the finishing touches.” He gestures to the thick yellow stripes painted in perfect symmetry to the markings on his left arm. 

He feels an odd sensation in the wrist, and he twists it downwards, jumping slightly when the action causes a panel to click and slide back. He sees the spark reflected in the metal before the bright orange heat plumes outwards. 

Donnie dives forwards, yanking his arm sideways before he can set his head alight. The moment his wrist is jostled out of its downward position, the panel slides closed, the hiss of gas falling silent. 

“Woah!” Donnie yelps. “Okay, maybe don’t trigger the advanced functions inside?”

There’s an opportunity here to point out that A; this is technically Donnie’s fault because accidentally activating the dangerous weapon strapped to him is very on brand for Leo, and B; that his brother just blasted a hole through the ceiling of his own lab to deter a fight, so a little fire in here should be fair game. Both topics are likely to incite an argument so instead he elects to focus on what he believes is the most pressing detail here. 

“You gave me a flamethrower?”

“A good flamethrower is an arm necessity. We should all have one, in my opinion. Of course, I couldn’t give it too much power. Didn’t want all my brilliant plans foiled by thermodynamics — fucking entropy, am I right? So, it’s only really useful for short-distance combat. That said, I think you’ll find it… effective, regardless.”  

Leon gawks at him. “Donnie… That’s unhinged.” He glances down at the arm again, a smile breaking across his face, “I love it.”

- - -

Leo is falling. 

The skyscraper’s windows are whipping past his vision as he reaches terminal velocity, the roar of wind and rush of adrenalin past his tympana blocking out all sound, his heart in his throat as the hard concrete rapidly approaches, too fast, too soon. 

He hits the ground, but instead of splattering against it, he’s swallowed up by the gravel, his world descending into an inky blackness as the scene shifts, and Leo’s suddenly falling through the abyss, in an expanse of space so cold and empty not even the distant light of a nearby star reaches it. He collides against floating debris, reigniting the agony from pre-existing injuries he’d been so diligently trying to ignore. He can taste iron in his mouth, hear the dull roar of blood rushing past his tympana. The coldness of the void seeps into his bones and the weight of the atmosphere crushes against his chest, syphoning the oxygen from his lungs. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. 

This is what his life has culminated to. He’s going to die here, and a part of him wants it to end. He’s played his part. He’s done his job. He’s not even fighting it. As far as he’s concerned, he was killed the moment that portal closed. This is just the in-between. 

He falls. It’s a long, painful in-between. The Krang won’t allow the pain to stop. Not while it can still be prolonged. He wants him suffering to his final gasp. 

Tears turn to ice against numb cheeks as he clings to the faded photograph, pulling the last visage of his family tightly to his heart. His shell bounces off another meteor, and this time he hears a distinct crack before the pure white pain bursts into his vision. A bright red eye framed by a metal, skeletal face burns into him, promising vengeance. His oversized spiked fists lift into the air and Leo clenches his eyes shut as they come down. 

His entire body shakes with the force of the impact, jerking him awake. Leo’s drenched with sweat when he sits up, his heart straining against his ribcage. He reaches for his back, feeling for the fissure in his shell. 

You think you’ve won, you wretched little pest? 

Bile rises in his throat. He’s lucky he hasn’t been eating as much of late, otherwise he likely would have up-ended his stomach onto the floor. 

He reaches for the knife strapped to his belt, tightens his clammy hand around it and pulls it close to his plastron, then he moves into the process of stopping his heart from trying to escape the cage of his chest and hide in some dark corner like Leo wants to. He breathes deeply, counting off each inhale and exhale in threes, tries to relax aching muscles, stiff and tender from unconsciously clenching up so tightly.

He glances at his brothers resting besides him. He’s grateful that his nightmares are silent. He doesn’t have to be embarrassed by the way his whole frame trembles, all stuttering breaths and shaky hands. The feeling of that cold void of death looming over him doesn’t rouse anyone else from their sleep. The extent of its creeping tendrils never leave the confines of his own mind. 

His heart eventually slows. He may not be able to proactively tackle the monsters posed to ambush him from the dark corners of his mind, but Leo’s a practised professional when it comes to dealing with the fallout. For tonight, though, he knows he’ll be resigned to waiting for the oblivion of sleep that will not return. His knuckles sting as he idly plays with the knife Leon had given him, it’s a good knife, okay? The movement pulls at cracks acquired from hours of expelling his anger in the training room. 

He regrets his words, curses his sharpened tongue. Leon’s the only reason Leo would never be forced to make that same choice. Every choice that he made saved Leo from becoming him. He owes him for any peace he enjoys now, and Leo will never be able to repay that debt. 

Leon is right. He knows this with depressing certainty. It wouldn’t hurt so much if he wasn’t. 

If there was any other way, we would’ve done it. There wasn’t.

He just… He hadn’t even looked like he cared when he said it. He’d been so detached, so resigned to the fact. Leo knows that’s not true. He knows he’s in pain. But at the time it’d made him even angrier than he already was. That he would willingly let Mikey go, just like that. 

Leo wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. Not here, not in any timeline, in any universe.

Except he did. 

He’s scowling at the ceiling when he hears someone shift. 

He tenses, his eyes flicking across the room. There he sees Leon carefully detaching Mikey’s monkey grip from his arm and reattaching him to the next closest victim; Raph. Then, he rises to his feet.

Leo closes his eyes as he turns, feigning sleep. He has to strain to hear the light tread of his footsteps as he heads for the door. Only once he’s certain that the older slider has left the room does Leo dare to open his eyes again. 

He does what any self-disrespecting turtle would do were they to witness their older self exhibiting incredibly suspicious behaviour. He stands up, shakes out the phantom ache in his limbs, and follows him.

The others assume Leon wants to play house - that he’d rather settle down and retire than go on fighting. But Leo knows that desire to be involved, that need to keep a watchful eye on his family and be in control of the chaos is more than a compulsion for Leon. It has seeped into his very bones, becoming woven into the very fabric of his being. Leon goes out more than he’s willing to admit. Leo’s felt the hair-raising prickle at the back of his neck when they patrol the surface. Swears he’s seen the whites of a nictitating membrane watching them from afar. Leo has half the mind to confront the decrepit bastard and tell him to stop being such a creep. 

Leo tails him to the surface. It’s not far past dawn. A dim, hazy blue fills the streets as the blood red sunrise slowly rises over the buildings and beams early morning rays into the city. It’s more quiet than usual during these early hours, but Leo’s never known New York to be silent. He’s grown used to it - the never-ending crowds, sirens, traffic. Even at five in the morning, the city is awake with life. It’s comforting. So distant from the cold, soundless void that plagues his sleep. He doesn’t want an existence without the noise. 

He remembers looking down at New York from the prison dimension, watching as the portal slowly slid shut. It had looked so incredibly beautiful. Just a dying kid’s sentiment, maybe. Taking what he thought would be his final glance at his home. 

There’s a strange sour nervousness fluttering in his stomach as he watches Leon disappear behind another street corner. The kind of emotion that rattles around your chest when you’re knowingly doing something you probably shouldn’t. Like eating the last of Mikey’s strawberry jam when he was asleep, or sneaking out past curfew, or using up the last of the hot water in the shower before the others had their turn. 

He’s tried to follow Leon before, with very little success. The guy knows how to fade into the shadows, Leo will give him that. He’s never actually made it past the surface without losing him. He always seems to know when he’s being tailed — hypervigilance being another byproduct of surviving a Krang apocalypse, Leo supposes. This morning though, Leo’s keeping his distance, keeping his footsteps silent, and keeping his head down. 

Leo traces Leon’s path around the corner. He has him. He’s sure of it- 

His shell is smashed against the wall as something heavy and solid rams into him. Leo flinches at the glint of silver as a hammer is thrust at his face. He yelps, retracting into his shell as the blunt weapon cracks into the wall, missing his head by millimetres. 

Leo takes the knife from his belt and slices upwards, the blade glancing off a massive furry arm. The yokai hisses and pulls away from him. Before he can follow up his attack, someone else is grabbing the bull by his horns, yanking him away from Leo and cutting a line through his midsection.

The yokai screeches, the hammer falling from his grip as he places a hand over his stomach. He takes one look at his opponent, a tall, intimidating red slider, and retreats. 

There’s a fraught pause as Leon turns back to him. He sheathes his sword. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Leo’s already in a sour mood. Leon demanding to know what he’s up to when he is the one clearly doing the shady shit is not helping matters. 

“What am I doing here?” He repeats, affronted. His eyes flick between the red on Leon’s hands, the wet glistening trail of blood smeared across the ground. Too much blood. Cold dread churns in his stomach, the roil sending a splash of acid towards his throat. “What did you do?” 

Leon’s eyes dip to the floor, taking in the incriminating scene. “He’ll live.” 

“You gutted him!”

“Oh please. I nicked an artery, at best.” 

Leo stares at him like he’s a mad man. “Uh, yeah-huh, Leo—” he’s honestly not sure if he’s just pretending to forget this little fact or if he’s legitimately suffered permanent brain damage during the apocalypse, because, “Sliced arteries tend to kill people!”

“He’s a hunter. I lended him far more mercy than he deserved.”

“A hunter? What…” He stops, his breath catching in his throat. 

The lack of yokai attacks, the abrupt quietness during patrols stemming back Leon’s first appearance, all those weird injuries he kept accumulating and refusing to talk about - Leo knew it, he fucking knew it, but at the same time god, he’s so unbelievably stupid, how had he not put this together earlier? 

“This is what you’ve been doing?” Leo hisses. He pauses, paranoia rearing its ugly head. “Is this why you’ve been bribing my brothers? Do they know about this? Have they been keeping this from me? Am I—” 

“No.” Leon cuts him off. “No one knows but me.”

Leo needs a moment to take that in. 

“You lied to us.”

A muscle in Leon’s jaw ticks. “No, I just… I didn’t say..” 

“Lying by omission is still lying! And don’t tell me you don’t know that because I do it all the goddamn time and I know exactly what I’m doing!”

“If you know that then you should understand that my only intention here is to help you. Every decision I make here is one that you would yourself if you had been through the things I have.”

Leo’s blood boils at the comparison. 

“Y’know what? I am going to study every single thing that makes you you and find a way to steer away from being that.” He’ll make Leon his fulcrum point by which Leo can position himself in direct opposition. 

Leon looks deadly serious when he simply and sincerely replies. “Good.” Like this is exactly what he wants. Like Leo is already playing into his hands. 

Leon’s self-loathing shines through on even the brightest of days, and usually that would incite sympathy, but all Leo feels is rage. All that self-doubt, the hatred and the guilt, he was supposed to figure out how to deal with it. 

And it feels incredibly juvenile, like he’s no more than a small child screeching out it’s not fair, but Casey promised him that Leon was a hero. And Leo had been desperately holding onto hope that one day his problems would simply disappear and he’d become this person that was worthy of the weight placed on him. Leon was supposed to be better. 

I'm supposed to get better.

And what’s worse is that he seems to be resigned to living like this. He broods in dark corners and doesn’t snap or yell or scream at him like Leo wants him to. More often than not, he’s the friendly presence in the shadows that makes easy conversation with his brothers, laughs with them, listens to them, gives them advice when they’re upset, handing over the validation they crave so deeply without hesitation or derision. He seems to have endless patience for Leo. He’s never upset with him. Leon’s ruthless when he needs to be, but he cares. He’s so achingly gentle with him, and Leo can’t fucking stand it. 

“No. Not good — bad. See? I’m doing it already. If I keep this up long enough maybe I’ll never end up like you.” He points a thumb towards himself. “Maybe I’ll be able to look back and not hate this version of myself so much.”

Leon frowns, the line between his brows deepening. “I don’t hate you.”

“Right.” He scoffs. He’d seen the fury burning in his eyes when they’d first met. Felt the heat of the rage pouring off of Leon when he’d attacked him. It doesn’t matter that Leon had been half out of his mind. The animosity had been real. 

But sure. Let’s roll with that. This is a great opportunity to catch Leon in the midst of yet another lie. “Because I wasn’t the one that fucked things up, was I?” 

He was. They both are, but Leon acts so high and mighty all the time that Leo is scrabbling with unsheathed claws to drag him back down to earth with him. 

“I succeeded where you failed.” 

Leo would never have been able to do so were it not for Leon, were it not for him sacrificing everything he had left to send Casey back. He knows this, and yet still the venom flows from his mouth. Leo has no desire to stop it.

“I got the key back. I stepped up when I was needed. I stopped the Krang.” 

Be angry at me, be angry at me, be angry at me. 

He jabs a finger into Leon’s chest, his eyes filled with a cold, righteous resentment. “I saved my family.” 

Leon is scarily calm. 

Or at least, so it would seem to anyone that didn’t know him. Behind his surface composure, a frigid aura of fury billows around him like a cloak, the only outward sign that he’s been affected by the words in the wide flare of his nostrils, the white-knuckled clench of his fist.

He rises to his full height, practically towering over him, far more imposing than Leo expects, the back of his mind ringing danger. Leon’s glower is icy and sharp, voice low and brokering no argument when he speaks. 

“Here’s how things are gonna go.” He outlines stonily. “You don't bring up my family. Ever. In fact, we can keep our shared histories to ourselves and mind our own damn business. How’s that sound?” 

He holds his gaze for a few more moments, his jaw stubbornly set. 

“Go home, Leo.” He growls, and it’s an order, a command for him to follow like a dog. The thought only fuels the heat of that burning rage in Leo’s belly.

Their spat is interrupted by a metallic clink of something rolling across the gravel and stopping at their feet. Simultaneously, they both blink at one another, then look down. Sitting innocently between them is a cylinder, no larger than the cans of red bull Donnie dumps into his iced coffee, the hyper-caffeinated freak.

He looks back up at Leon. “What is th—”

There’s a spark of light, then Leo’s seizing, a sharp pain bursting from his brainstem and transforming the world into an agonising blaze of white. There’s nothing but static for a few seconds. It passes, and the first thing he’s aware of when his blotchy vision clears is that Leon managed to catch him before he could slump to the ground. 

Leo pushes him away and presses a palm over the white hot agony radiating from the back of his head. He winces when he feels the hot tender nub at the base of his neck. 

“The hell was that?” He asks weakly. 

Metal rasps on metal as Leon unsheathes his sword again, wordlessly bringing him up to speed that they’re being ambushed, idiot. Keep up. 

“EMP grenade. Someone just deactivated your subcutaneous tracker.” He hisses. 

Leo presses a palm to the uncomfortably hot pressure pushing against his eyeballs. “My what now?” 

His mind ticks over, pushing past the haze of pain to really process that. Freaking Donnie. He drops his hand and glances at Leon. His prosthetic hangs limply from his shoulder, dead weight. Shouldn’t Leon have a tracker as well? He doesn’t look to be hurting at all. Meanwhile, Leo’s neck is burning something chronic. 

“Get up!” Leon snaps. 

There’s a note of urgency to the order this time. One that sounds startling similar to the panicked voice screaming from the back of his own mind. He obeys it instinctively, leaning against the wall for support as he claws his way to his feet, his knees watery. He fumbles for the blades strapped to his back, forgetting for a moment that he doesn’t have his katanas. All he has on his person is Leon’s knife. He pulls it from his belt, the weapon feeling small and weak in his hands. 

Leon spins his sword, deflecting a volley of projectiles. His eyes drop to inspect one that lands by his feet.

Tranquiliser darts. “More hunters?” Leo exclaims. What is happening right now? 

Several yokai surround them, blocking the exit at the end of the alley, he looks up and finds more looking down from the rooftops. There’s no way out. 

Leon turns back to look at him, then his eyes widen, his face contorting with fear. “Watch out!” 

Before Leo can so much as blink, Leon is leaping towards him and throwing him to the ground. He hits the floor hard, and by the time he manages to collect himself and scramble back to his feet, it’s to the sight of Leon’s flesh and blood arm between Gus’s sharp teeth, the great mammoth of a dog thrashing Leon around like he’s his own personal chew toy. Leon flails wildly, trying vainly to pry open the vice grip of Gus’s locked jaw as he shakes his head around, smashing him between the wall and the gravel. There’s a crack of Leon’s head against the curb, then his eyes are rolling to the back of his head, his whole body falling limp. 

Leo hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s glued to the spot like a deer in headlights. 

Gus finally releases Leon from his maw, the puncture marks from where he’s sunk his teeth into Leon’s arm bleeding sluggishly as he takes hold of the metal arm and lifts his unconscious body up for display. 

“Come quietly or I’ll tear his throat out.”

That snaps him out of whatever trance he’s found himself in, his hand tightening around the knife as he glares daggers at Big Mama’s oversized mongrel. “That’s a little intense, my guy.” 

“I mean it!” He snarls, spittle flying from his mouth. 

Leo swallows back the heartbeat thudding around the walls of his throat. He’s outnumbered, outmatched, with nowhere to go and the older slider’s life on the line. 

Damnit. 

Leon’s knife drops to the gravel with a clatter. 

- - -

Leon is a little tired of waking up in new and horrible locations. The first couple of times it happens is at least interesting. The novelty of it wears off after about the twentieth. 

Leo is shivering on the other side of the dark, damp cell, refusing to acknowledge him. The silent treatment is usually Donnie’s thing, though Leon supposes in this case it’s appropriate. For Leo, getting caught up in this is a bad stroke of piss-poor luck. He’s understandably infuriated with Leon and the situation at hand for a plethora of sensible reasons. To Leon though, this is Thursday. Just another routine bout of fuckery in an astronomically long line of screwups. 

This is his fault. He should have been paying attention to his surroundings. He was clumsy enough to be tailed by a kid, allowed himself to be distracted by Leo’s resentment, and now they’re both fucked. 

Leon’s flick his eyes towards Leo again. He’s curled over himself, his teeth chattering. 

The sight sends a pang through his heart. Leo is his… Something. He’s everything Leon had wanted to be. More than that, as much as the kid hates him, they’re family, and Leon has precious few things left to call his own. He has to safeguard what he has left. 

Leon’s arm aches as he reaches up and unfurls the scarf from his neck. He walks over to where Leo is moping and deposits it over his head. The kid sputters when the fabric droops across his face, his head whipping up to shoot him a confused glare. Leon responds by returning to his own side of the cell, and not a word is uttered between them as Leo begrudgingly wraps the warmth around himself. 

Leon sits down and stretches his legs out with a sigh. He spends his time trying to come up with a plan as he tinkers with the sensors in his arm, trying to search for a mechanism to reboot the damn thing. He hasn’t had it long enough to go over any of the user settings with Donnie. Idiot. That’s the first thing he should have done. 

Leo’s silence lasts for about another hour or so before his apparent need to process shit with poorly timed humour inevitably beats out his anger.

“I guess you could say we’ve been… disarmed.” 

A joke. Leon doesn’t reply. Can’t say he’s in a joking mood right now. 

“Would you say my future will not be all right?”

Leon pulls his hand away from the prosthetic to rub the pulsating throb at his temples. He’d had this ludicrously optimistic New Year’s resolution to cut down on all the cranial trauma. His current concussion-induced migraine is telling him it’s going about as well as anyone else’s New Year’s resolution. He’d probably been actively setting himself up for failure by even trying to strive for that. 

“Do you think we could use a hand?” 

Irritation needles its way under his skin. Leon knows what this is. He is well acquainted with Leo’s tendency to revert to spewing out quips and one-liners and pulling out the clown costume to hide his fear. Leon never thought he’d have to be on the other side of it. It’s not as fun or effective as he thought he made it out to be.  

“What about an army?” He waves his arms obnoxiously.

Leo is just seeking to make this situation out to be less dire than it really is, Leon understands that. He can see how this might be a stressful situation for him and he gets that humour is his coping mechanism, but good fucking lord boy, you better find another one—

“Ah, ah? Do you not find me very humerus?” 

Leon snaps. “Can you wipe that smirk off your face and take this shit seriously?” 

Leo stiffens, shutting down, his stupid grin dropping away and the mirth in his gaze drowning in a pit of ice-cold water in a way that instantly tells Leon he’s gone too far and said something disastrously out of pocket. 

“Kid? Leo, hey, I didn’t…” 

Christ. He didn’t mean to tear him down like that. He doesn’t even know what he said. 

He doesn’t get the chance to apologise. The cell door rattles and swings open, then four heavily armoured yokai march into the room. Leon jumps up, crossing the cell to stand in front of Leo, who’s already risen to his feet. He places his functional arm out, either to block the guards from reaching the kid or to stop Leo from lashing out. He’s not sure which is more likely to occur, honestly. 

He’s not sure what he’d do if a fight broke out. The guards are armed to the teeth. Leon’s weaponless. He still might have a good chance of taking them down. He doesn’t know where he is, he’s dizzy, he doesn’t have even the slightest semblance of a plan. Not to mention he doesn’t want Leo caught in the fray if things go south. He needs more time. 

One of the yokai lifts a pair of handcuffs. 

“Turn around.” He orders. 

Leon glares him down for a moment, before reluctantly obeying. Leo sends him a sharp look. 

“Do it.” Leon pleads in a hushed tone. Fighting isn’t going to help them right now. He has to see that.  

Leo backs down, reluctantly turning and allowing the guards to pull his arms behind his back. They’re rougher with Leon, his cheek colliding against the cool brick wall as the guards hold him down and wrench his shoulders back. The handcuffs click tightly around his wrists. It’s uncomfortable to have his left arm linked to the inactive prosthetic, the dead weight awkwardly pulling at him. 

He jerks to attention when Big Mama enters the cell, her assistant trailing behind her. Beside him, Leo straightens and squares his shoulders, the splitting image of Leon’s younger days as a resistance leader, standing proud and brave in the face of danger. Like a goddamn fool. 

She wiggles her fingers at them in a petite wave. “Hello Leo. Hello Leo.”

“Sylvia.” Leon greets dryly. 

Leo’s head whips towards him, then back to Big Mama. “Sylvia?”

Her smile sharpens, her arms returning behind her back, and she turns to her assistant. “Where’s the rest of them?”

“These two were the only ones we were able to obtain.”

“I wanted all of them.”  

“Hold on, hold on, give us a sec.” Leo turns to him. “You’re telling me our greatest yokai nemesis is called Sylvia?” 

“That’s what you’re hung up on here?” Leon hisses. 

“I mean, I could’ve been killed by what is essentially an eldritch god, feared by all the universe, named Krang Prime. You’ll have to forgive me if I consider the spider-lady with a name picked out from Karen’s girl-boss guidebook a bit of a step down for me.”

“You can call me Big Mama. Anything other than that, anything less polite than that, and I’ll treat you as an impudent child.”

A frown creases Leo’s brow. “Don’t you already do that?” 

Ignoring him, she turns back to her assistant. “I don’t even know if my fluffy-wufficus is attached to this one.” She grouses. 

Leo makes an offended noise, though Leon can tell the offhand comment stings, feeding right into that voice at the back of his mind telling him he’s dad’s least favourite. The least important. The least likely to be missed. 

Big Mama lets out a deep sigh and rests a hand against her hip. “No matter.” She leans down to Leo’s height, “Are one of you going to tell me where daddy dearest is hiding or would you rather we do this the fun way?”

Leo’s face scrunches up. “What’s our dad got to do with this?”

Her brow furrows, equally perplexed. Then her eyes slide over to Leon, and her entire demeanour lights up with wicked, unadulterated glee. 

“Oh,” She gasps, dainty fingers rising to cover her mouth in mock-shock and sympathy, “Has he not told you yet?” 

Leon refuses to acknowledge the confused glances Leo throws his way, choosing instead to glare a hole through Sylvia’s head. She brazenly steps forward and places a hand against his cheek, her sharp nails grazing his jaw.

“My, my, I knew that you managed to break free from my grasp, but truly Leo, what have you been doing all this time? Playing house? Keeping secrets?” Her eyes slide over to Leo. “Trying to act like you’re still him?” 

He clenches his fist, focuses on the sting of metal cutting into his wrist as he strains against the cuffs. 

She pulls away from him with a light chuckle. “I appreciate your little attempt at stoicism but your silence here is very telling. You are going through quite the resplendent midlife crisis here, aren’t you? Pretending that you could ever be young and alive and whole again. Dear, oh dear, what must it be like, to survive all those battles, to achieve so much in your life, when this little fool has done so much less and yet he can sit happy and free from your life of sorrow? You would think that one would begin to question whether those accomplishments could provide the same sense of fulfilment. If those losses still held the same significance they once had. Did they truly need to occur? Could you have stopped them?” 

They’re only questions. He thinks he might prefer torture. She can’t know his history. No one in this timeline truly does. Not even Casey. But fuck does she have him pinned. Is Leon truly this transparent?  

“Uh hello?” Leo speaks up. “Hate to interrupt your evil monologue here but is anyone going to explain to me what’s going on right now? What hasn’t he told me?”

“Leo.” He bites. 

“Don’t admonish the poor lost darling. He has a right to know his own business, don’t you think?”

Leon bares his teeth. “Are you here for intel or are you just going to keep wasting your time toying with us?” 

She grins. “Big Mama is a multi-tasker.” She pulls a knife from her belt. The very same that had been stuck into his shoulder. The one that Leo never went anywhere without, despite his supposed resentment towards Leon’s gifts. “Why so eager to move on from the topic? Might it have something to do with the state I found you in, fresh from hell, arm smouldering, moments away from stepping off a high rise?”

Leo’s eyes dart towards him, wide and shocked. Leon looks away, incapable of meeting his gaze, the shame pulsing hot through him. 

“Yes, your self-preservation instinct is a little skew-whiff. How am I to barter for important information when all I have to offer in return is something so worthless to you.” There’s a click of heels against the stone floor as Big Mama takes a step closer to Leo. Ice settles in his gut as she presses the blunt of the knife against the kid’s face. “This one, though. He’s so young. Untainted by what you’ve had to witness. The things you’ve done. Surely he has some value.” 

She knows Leon won’t crack under threat of pain or death. She believes she can use Leo for leverage. The revelation takes hold of his chest, constricts his lungs. His throat clicks as he swallows down something thick and unpleasant, something sour and tasting perilously similar to the fear that had raced through him when he laid eyes on Donnie for the first time. Someone so familiar and yet so out of place, youthful and alive and with Leon’s sword pressed to his throat, threatening to extinguish the life Mikey had returned to him. 

Leon is going to have to play this smart. Thinking quickly to salvage the incredibly finite amount of control he has over this perilous scenario, he does the one thing that comes naturally to him.

Talking shit. 

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you.” 

She pauses. “What is?”

“To assume I give a crap about what happens to him.” 

Her eyes narrow. The knife falls away from Leo’s face as she points the sharp tip towards Leon. “He’s you.”

“Yeah.” He laughs, the noise devoid of any humour. “I know you’d like to think of yourself as a woman who’s very capable of reading others, but I’m afraid I’ll have to inform you that you’re a couple hundred pages short of the book. Y’see, he may be an annoying, egotistical, self-centred little shit, but I can assure you, he’s nothing compared to me. A true natural fucking disaster, worse than any pitiful tornado, earthquake or flood this world has ever laid witness to. No, actually I’m more like a meteor. An extinction event. I unleashed the Krang onto this world. I’ve destroyed the lives of millions of people just to stand before you now. I’ve sent the people I love most in this world to their graves for nothing more than a small possibility of success.” He grins a razor-sharp smile. “I sure hope your plan doesn’t hinge on me hesitating to let this kid die.”

The stunned silence that follows feels heavy. Leon focuses on keeping his breaths steady. He has to make this believable, has to maintain that mask of impassivity. 

“Excuse me?” Leo squeaks.

“You said it yourself.” He goes on. “Zero self-preservation instinct. The way I see it, this dimension is better off without the two of us.”

Leo openly gapes at him for a few seconds, before his head whips back to Big Mama, “Disrespectfully, I disagree with him.” He stresses. 

“Really?” She smirks, thoroughly amused by the whole show. “Even after that splendiferous little speech?”

“He’s overexaggerating.” 

“Probably.” She concedes with a purse of her lips. “Why don’t we find out?”

“What?”

She has a knife to Leo’s throat in the next moment. Leon’s breath freezes in his chest, like liquid nitrogen on dry ice — cold from the inside out. 

She eyes him with a wicked smile. “You don’t care, correct? So, I suppose that means you wouldn’t mind if I disposed of the little cretin right now?”

His stomach clenches around the fear fluttering in his gut. He tells himself to relax. He needs to keep a cool head. This is a game. A rigged one, sure, but Leon knows its tricks. He understands Sylvia’s rules. She’s bluffing. Big Mama doesn’t murder kids. Strange line to draw, he knows. But it’s true. He’d stake his life on it. 

Which… is kind of exactly what he’s doing. 

“Please, go ahead. Make my day.” He drawls, feigning disinterest, maintaining his façade of placid passivity. 

She frowns, her lips thinning, and Leon may have severely miscalculated here, he may have just gotten the both of them killed, because even if he makes it out of here there’s no way he’ll be able to return to his family knowing he’s the reason another one of them has died-

The blade falls away, and it takes everything within Leon to not release a deep sigh of relief. 

“Fascinating.” She muses. “However, I’m not so sure I should trust your word.” 

The relief is short-lived. The knife is now pressed against his own throat, the sharp sting pushing in deep enough to draw blood. 

“NO!” Leo yells, raw panic breaking through his voice. The intensity of the kid’s reaction startles him. 

The pressure eases, though the sharp edge of the blade remains where it is. Sylvia leans in close to his ear, cheek to cheek, “He doesn’t seem to agree with your apathetic sentiment.”

Leon’s upper lip twitches. It wants to curl into a sneer so badly. 

“We’re not the same person.” He repeats, his voice low. “Call it wisdom with age.” 

She leans back and hums thoughtfully. 

“Very well. It’s decided then. I only need one of you. As does the rest of the world.” She points a finger in Leon’s direction, “You will fight in my Nexus until you break,” her finger shifts to Leo, “And you will remain imprisoned with him, forced to endure his slow death, knowing there’s nothing either you can do about it except to tell me about my little scruggly-muffin. How’s that sound, hm?” 

Leo shakily falls back against the wall. 

“You can’t do this.” He breathes, his voice strained. 

“Oh, but here’s the most fantasmical counterpoint to that my little turtley-boo.” She grins. Gods, Leon had forgotten how comically villainous she can be when she’s in the mood for it. “I can. And I believe I will quite enjoy it.” 

Chapter Text

The guards free them when Big Mama leaves. Leo watches their every movement with a sharp, unwavering glare, his eyes following their backs as they pull away and exit the cell. 

As soon as the door slams closed, leaving the two of them alone, Leon gravitates towards Leo, intending to check if Big Mama’s left any trace of a wound on his neck. He gets perhaps a step towards him before Leo meets him halfway with a set of knuckles to his jaw. 

The punch isn’t as strong as Leon knows it could be (Leo could probably lay him flat on his shell if he really wanted to), but it still clocks his head to the side, springing forth a round dull ache that’s as painful as it is jarring. Leon feels it reverberate through his throbbing temples, in his mouth, his teeth. He tastes iron, thinks he might’ve bitten his tongue. 

Leon doesn’t lift a finger in retaliation. He probably deserved that one. 

“What the fuck was that?” Leo hisses. 

Leon rolls his jaw. He can already tell there’s going to be an impressive bruise colouring that side of his face, just in time for his arena debut. It’ll help with the story they’re trying to sell to Sylvia, at the very least.

“Me, saving your ass from being used as a bargaining chip or being forced to take part in the Nexus.” He spits blood. “You're welcome, by the way.”

Leo’s gaze darkens. “Yeah, I gathered that much, asshole.”

Leon lifts a brow ridge. Really? He wonders when that had happened, if that had happened. 

Halfway through his shit-talking? After Big Mama had held a blade to his throat? Or maybe he hadn’t figured it out until the door closed behind them, the moment after his fist met Leon’s cheek. Perhaps he’d had some faith in Leon’s good will from the start, and knew what he was going to do before it’d even been an idea in his own mind. Doubtful. The look of betrayal in Leo’s eyes had looked undeniably real, though Leon supposes he’s not the only one capable of putting on a good show.  

“Did you think, even for a second, about what that means for you?” Leo asks, his expression open and furious as it is imploring.

For him? 

Leon stares at him blankly. That’s what he’s angry about? 

Honestly, the idea of him getting hurt hadn’t concerned him. His mind was more preoccupied with endeavouring to ensure the others didn’t get involved. Letting these kids down eventually had always felt like an unavoidable inevitability, but he had wanted to get in fast, help out where he could, provide security and some form of support, then get out, keeping the pain as far away from them as possible. 

To say Leon hadn’t thought about their current predicament would be uncharitable. For a long time he had existed in a world that had not allowed for the perpetuation of action without the consideration of consequences. He’d gone through the possible scenarios in his head. Ever since he first encountered Big Mama in this timeline, he had imagined something like this might happen. He’s not downplaying the threat Sylvia poses. He’d just… kind of anticipated going out as a bad bitch. He’s positive that any one of his days dealing with the krang would in all likelihood be far worse than any cruelty Big Mama could throw at him in her nexus. 

The problem is, he’d never considered that Leo would be here too. And that wild card is messing with his pre-established plans for appropriate Big Mama-related disaster response.

“Of course you didn’t, you— goddamn…” Leo stops, inhales, eyes closing as his chest expands, his mouth pulling into a thin line. Then his lungs deflate as he releases a deeply frustrated breath. 

Leo opens his eyes. He starts again. “Explain it to me. Everything. Starting from why she wants dad.”

Leon takes a seat on the ground and pulls his dead arm into his lap. He feels this might take a while. 

“She wants a new champion.”

“You weren’t good enough for her?”

Leon ignores the jab, shaking his head. “She said she needs a legend for her revival that both the surface and the Hidden City recognise. Dad’s the only one that ticks those boxes… Or at least, used to check those boxes. I’m pretty sure Lou Jitsu’s movies are considered to be 80s cult classics nowadays. Her reasoning there is a little flawed. I don’t think she’s going to tell us her true intentions.”

Leo rolls his eyes. “Nooo, Big Mama? Having an ulterior motive?” He drawls. 

“Yeah. Who would’ve guessed.” Leon replies, matching his dry tone. “My thinking is that she wants him back in more ways than one.”

Leo frowns, his arms folding over his chest. “Go on.”

“By my estimate, she and Lou dated for at least a good ten years-”

Leo’s eyes boggle, “Ten years?”

“Pretty sure, yeah. Then she forced dad into fighting in the arena for what I estimate to be roughly another five.”

The kid’s eyes grow wider. “She WHAT?”

“Dude, how have you not put this together yet? The last Lou Jitsu appearance was in ‘98.”

“I knew she put him in the Nexus pit, I just… I didn’t think it was for that long. Dad always seemed to know enough about the Hidden City to give the impression that he wasn’t in a cage that whole time.” 

Leon points at him. It surprises him how despite the time between them they still manage to follow the same line of thought sometimes. “Yeah, that’s the thing. I don’t think he was.”

Leo frowns. “So they… what? Worked things out?”

“It’s more likely that dad bartered for privileges as her champion. That might’ve been the only way he was capable of seeking out a deal with Draxum. My point is, she never lets anyone out of her hold. She lures men in and eats them whole. But she liked dad enough to give him that bit of leeway. I think she…” 

Leon’s reluctant to apply the concept of love here. He’s not sure Big Mama’s capable of that. Love requires vulnerability, selflessness, empathy, emotional intimacy. Her version would be diluted and transactional. Any connections she makes are usually at the behest of when they can most conveniently be exploited for her own benefit. Any love she feels is overpowered by her own self-aggrandisement and the needs of her business. But perhaps… he has to consider the possibility that having dad as her Nexus Champion was her own sick, twisted form of her treasuring him. Lou had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had responded by locking him down tight. 

“She’s attached to him, in her own way.” 

Leo’s face twists. “Complete and utterly betraying someone that genuinely loves you in the worst way possible by kidnapping and imprisoning them for years and then doing the exact same thing to their sons isn’t what I’d call a healthy basis for a relationship. Not really a good plan for trying to get back together with your ex either.”

He shrugs. “No one’s going to accuse them of having a healthy relationship. I’m just pointing out the discrepancies in the narrative she’s trying to pull together here. I could’ve been her champion when she found me. I’m a decent enough fighter. It really wouldn’t have mattered that much. But she’s fixated on this idea of Lou Jitsu. She's obsessed with it. She’d do anything to achieve this grand concept she has of him in her mind, going so far as to lose money by wasting resources and putting rich bounties on our heads. He’s been hidden underground all this time, and she’s seen a way to have him again.” 

“That’s not going to happen.” Leo states, leaving no room for argument. 

“No. It’s not.” 

This, at least, they can agree on.

“And you— after…” He hesitates, not quite prepared to broach that subject. “After she found you. What happened?”

 “Not much.” Leon keeps it brief. It’s not really a moment he wants to dwell on. “She knocked me out, took me back to her place. Stitched up my wounds then threw the gemstone on me and sent me on my way.”

“You remembered everything?”

Leon shakes his head. “No, not everything. I was… confused. Lost. I thought I was still in my timeline. I didn’t think… I didn’t know I was attacking you in any way that was real. I only had a few brief flashes of lucidity. I wasn’t lying about that.” 

“But you remember Big Mama? You were aware of what the crystal was- what it did. You remember following us to the surface and watching over us whenever we went on patrol. You remember taking down the yokai that tailed us. You knew who was sending the hunters the whole time and you chose not to tell us about it.”

Leon swallows, his eyes flicking to the floor. This day has been coming for a long time now. Leon had thought he could talk his way around it, manipulate the facts, sabotage any from discovering the truth, but there’s only so large a web you can weave before you become entangled within it. He only wishes Leo hadn’t gotten wrapped up with him.

He slowly nods. “Yes.”

Leo’s hands clench and unclench. Leon’s half convinced that he’s about to receive another sock to the jaw, but the kid turns away from him, paces to the other side of the cell, his shoulders trembling slightly from the rage thrumming through him. 

He faces him again, his features pulled tight. Angry- yes, undoubtedly, but there’s a pull to his mouth, a sorrow behind the red in his gaze. He’s disappointed, and that makes it hurt worse — the fact that Leo ever liked him enough to even have any respect to lose. 

“Interfering with the yokai attacks without telling us, I could’ve forgiven, but this? Lying to your family, to your team, ever since you got here — watching us run around in circles when you knew exactly what was going on. Donnie barely came out of his lab, he spent weeks on end, trying to figure it out, and you just let him go through that?”

He didn’t let him do anything. He’d tried to drag his brother away from his investigation, but Donnie will do what Donnie wants to do. He always thinks his way is the logical way, the correct way, the only way. Leon had never been able to curtail that. 

“I had to protect you.” 

Leo flings his arms out, gesturing to the walls of the prison surrounding them. “Real amazing job you’ve done here, Leo! Outstanding work, really. I’m feeling sooo protected right now.”

“I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this.” Leo’s face sours, and Leon powers on before the kid can open his mouth to respond. “That’s what I’ve been trying to avoid, I’ve been trying to keep you all safe, if you’d just stayed home—”

“And who’s keeping you safe?” Leo shouts over him. 

Leon’s heart stutters. He pauses, frowns. 

The kid should be either furious or apathetic. Concern is an outlier that doesn’t belong in this equation. Leon doesn’t know what to do with it.  

“I don’t need protection.” 

He’s the leader. He’s supposed to look after his family, no matter what. He doesn’t need anyone to take care of him. 

“Because you’re just that invincible? The greatest ninja alive?” Leo spits. 

Leon stands, his shadow falling over Leo as the words punch their way out of his chest. “Because I don’t want it.” 

Shouldn’t want it. Can’t. 

He’d rather die than have another person try and protect him again.  

Something gives way in Leo’s expression, the taut line between his shoulders slumping as some of that anger crumbles to helplessness. 

Leon releases a long breath and practically collapses back to the floor. He feels wrung out, spent. Exhausted. 

“Just… relax. We’ll figure this out. All I need is some time.”

Leo’s shoulders immediately lock up again. “Relax?” He echoes, his voice shrilly. “You’re telling me to relax?” 

Leon braces himself. 

“You show up from the future, kidnap and try to kill me, and you know what, I would have been okay with that- I would have been able to deal with it. But then you flip my life upside down, you become a better brother to my brothers than I could ever hope to be—” 

He blinks. He’d expected the anger, the annoying I told you so righteousness, but he hadn’t anticipated… What even is this? Jealousy?

“—Running around being a suspiciously good person, being everything I want and simultaneously fear, and I was handling things perfectly well before you showed up, but for whatever reason, you’re here, and we all want you to stay so I’m supposed to just be able to process all this. You’ve got no boundaries, no communication skills, nothing to lose, we all have to treat you like you’re an armed bomb and now I’m the one that’s going to have to watch you fucking detonate. And keeping this all from us was so incredibly vital to you that you had rathered we both explode before trying to get a smidgen of goddamn help, because even though you’re supposed to be the best leader in history, apparently self-destruction is so much easier than talking to your team and dealing with the aftermath—” 

Leon releases another breath, allowing his younger self to continue his rant. Get it out of his system. To be fair, Leon’s overdue for this lecture, and Leo has every right to be the one to give it. Most people say sorry when they learn about less than half the shit that made Leo Leon, and he can’t really blame them because were he in their shoes, he’d do the same thing. Every night he’d go to bed and think, well at least I’m not Leonardo Hamato, and this kid is the only person in the world who can’t even do that. 

Leon’s ruined his life twice (thrice?) over now. His family has been killed, his home destroyed, and now he’s at threat of having to run the Nexus gauntlet again. 

He’d drop down to the knees and yell up to the heavens, Why Gods? Why me? But he imagines a thunderous voice replying, There’s just something about you that pisses me off. 

And the only response Leon would have to that would be, Yeah, fair enough.  

He sits back on his haunches as Leo continues his tirade and chuckles weakly. 

“—So you see, I can’t relax, because you… What the hell are you laughing at?” Leo snaps, pissed.

He takes one glance at Leo’s angry, baffled expression, and it only makes him chortle harder. He has to look away. 

“Sorry.” He sniffs, wipes at the moisture in his eyes. He’s managed to calm himself down to a giggle, then he makes the mistake of looking at Leo’s petulant glower, and it makes him lose it all over again.  

This is all so hilariously, nightmarishly surreal. He presses his palm over his face. 

His reaction is a little manic. He probably needs to go for a psych eval. Or get punched in the head hard enough that he loses all memory of the past twenty years. He’s gotta be freaking the kid out, but he thinks it’s better than the alternative. 

If he didn’t laugh, he’d probably scream.  

- - -

After profusely thanking and saying goodbye to April’s parents, with a promise that he’d come visit, Casey returns to the lair with his worldly possessions shared between his and April’s shoulders. It’s a small load. Two duffel bags full of clothes and weapons and a couple other knick knacks without any real utility but Casey had grown attached to regardless. Little things he’d picked up around the city, or had been gifted to him by April or the turtles. 

They step through the threshold of his new home to find Donnie, Mikey and Raph murmuring quietly to each other. The atmosphere feels palpably tense, the mood in the air morose. 

“Sup guys!” April calls.

The brothers twist towards them, Mikey hopping up and racing towards him. “Casey!” He stumbles as Mikey leaps into his arms, clinging onto him.

Casey tightens his grip around his duffel bag with one hand and wraps the other around Mikey. “What’s going on?”

Raph’s right behind him, his frame tense and worried. “Has either of the Leos tried to contact you at all?”

“No…?” Looks between their anxious expressions, a growing unease settling over him. “Why?”

The feeling only increases when no one answers, the trepidation seeping through the skin and settling into the marrow of his bones.

“What happened? Is something wrong?”

Donnie briefs him. “They were both gone when we woke up. Your Leo left his phone here and our Leo isn’t picking up. Leo’s tracker seems to be malfunctioning because I can’t get a read on his location, and neither of them were kind enough to help me out by leaving any kind of informative message—” 

“None that we can find, anyway.” Mikey mumbles into his shirt. 

“And now Raph is freaking out.”

“Raph is not freaking out.” Raph snaps. “Raph is being very calm and reasonable about the current situation on our hands.”

“Oh, silly me. You’re right. Ripping the couch to shreds earlier because you thought your massive brother might be hiding beneath it was the definition of calm and reasonable.”

“They could’ve just gone out for a couple of hours.” Mikey suggests.

“Those two? After their little performance yesterday?”  Donnie asks wryly. 

April grimaces. Casey had already spent a good chunk of time venting to her about last night when he’d gone back to pick up his stuff. 

He crosses his arms, his lips thinning into a worried line. “Yeah, I’m sure they’re chumming it up out there.”

“Really not helping Don.” Raph grits through his teeth. 

Leon said he’d be there to help him get settled in. His sensei can sometimes disappear without notice, but it’s not like him to flake out on pre-established plans. He fidgets with the strap over his shoulder nervously. 

April pats his back comfortingly, her eyes flicking between the other turtles. “We’ll give it a couple hours, yeah? Give ‘em the benefit of doubt before we go full-on panic mode.”

Raph has a large hand pressed against his chin, his brow fixed in a deep furrow, eyes distant. April’s gaze settles on him. “Right big guy?”

He jumps a little, pulled from his thoughts. “Mm? Uh. Yeah, right.” He nods distractedly.

She places a hand on Casey’s shoulder and shoots him a reassuring smile. “Come on. Lets get your room sorted.”

He hears Mikey tentatively speak as they walk away, “Maybe they resolved their differences and are having some bonding time?” 

“Uhh, dubitable scoff. I wouldn’t count on miracles.” 

“Donnie.” Raph chides.

Casey prays that Mikey’s right, but he can’t ignore Donnie’s rationalism. Leon’s been trying to avoid his younger self when he can, even Casey can see that. He understands why, though he wishes it wasn’t so. He’s been through so much. Casey can’t imagine where his mind could be right now. How is anyone supposed to process what he’s been through?

Spirits. What’s he doing out there with Leo?

What could his sensei possibly be thinking right now?

- - -

Why did he wear tighty-whities for the first eighteen years of his life? 

Leon watches as Leo walks back and forth across the cell, his hands fisting and flexing at his sides in a subconscious display of furious internal energy. 

Seriously. Why did he think this was a good look? Why did dad let him run around like that? Or April? Or Hueso, or Draxum, or- Honestly. He had at least four layers of quality control there. Why did it take an apocalypse for him to find a decent pair of pants?

Leo turns on his heel, circling around to do another lap of the cell. He’s been doing so for what feels like the past half hour. All his pacing is setting Leon’s teeth on edge.

He huffs quietly and begins fiddling with his arm again. He’s been at it for a couple minutes when Leo speaks up. “Do you even know how to fix that thing?”

Leon eyes him for a moment. “I’ll let you in on a secret…” He sticks his tongue between his lips in concentration as he reaches around his back, his fingers pushing up a piece of metal plating. “You stick around Donnie for long enough,” He weedles his fingers through some wiring, rummaging around the inner mechanics, “you pick up a trick or two.”

You go on without him for long enough… 

His fingers graze over a button, and he presses down on it. He withdraws his fingers, hearing the faint whir of gears as the metal plates click into place, then his arm is jerking awake, going from a numb, dead weight to something alive. 

You end up having to figure out how to service your own damn arm. 

He clicks his tongue, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Bingo.” He looks up and wiggles his metal fingers at Leo. 

“Hooray.” Leo drones in the least enthused tone possible, then turns away to continue his pacing. 

Leon sighs, his arms dropping back into his lap. 

“We’re going to be fine.” Leo mutters to himself, “It’s going to be okay. This is no biggy. Raph will bail us out—”

Leon had thought so, too. A long time ago. That his big brother was unstoppable. Unkillable. That he’d always be there for them. Leon remembers the last time he’d seen his Raph. His brother’s eyes staring motionlessly at nothing, unmoving. A dark bleeding hole through his heart.  

The ground beneath his feet had been more alive than his brother, trembling and quaking violently as the cavern ceiling above threatened to collapse. Street lights swayed back and forth, rubble and debris rained down upon them, smashing into nearby buildings, kicking up dust that coated his lashes and filled his lungs. The sound of metal grinding against metal and shattering glass had filled every corner of his awareness. 

He thinks he vaguely recalls Mikey’s screams. Sobs. They could’ve been just as easily his own, or any other number of yokai being crushed by their world crumbling around them as they attempted to flee to the surface. Leon can’t be sure. He only remembers staring at his big brother’s chest in disbelief, waiting for it to rise. Just once. 

It had to rise. He couldn’t leave Leo like this. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t good enough, strong enough to be leader yet. Leon would never be. That’s the point. He needed his big brother, so Raph couldn’t go. 

Donnie had rapidly rattled off his diagnostics with increasing detachment. Cracked carapace, severe penetrating cardiac trauma, critical blood loss… Leo, he… he has no pulse, I’m picking up on zero brain activity—

The words had rang loud between Leon’s ears. He’d reached forward, took hold of Raph’s shoulders. Still warm. Not long gone. Wake up. He’d shaken him a little, as if he’d been in no more than a deep slumber, as if the haemorrhaging hollow in his chest was no more than a blemish. Please Raph, you’ve gotta wake up. 

A part of him wants to grab this kid and shake until his brain is rattling back and forth between the walls of his skull, until his mind reorientates itself into understanding that Raph might not be here forever. You can’t keep relying on him to clean up your messes. This is how you’re going to lose him. This is why he died.

“Raph isn’t going to bail you out.” He states abrasively. The words he’d drilled into his own brain, far too late. Words he wishes he could’ve told himself sooner. 

Leo freezes, his shoulders trembling slightly. 

Leon bites his tongue, digging his teeth into the cut he’d opened when Leo had socked him in the jaw. He’s just a kid. He’s just a scared kid. 

Leon lowers his eyes, lowers his voice, lowers to the floor, slumping against the cold wall. “He can’t always be there for you.” 

He needs Leo to know this, because if that anchor he relies so heavily upon is ripped away from him, Leo is going to be horribly, irreparably lost at sea, and he’s never going to be able to find his way back to land. 

Except the words don’t hold as much weight for Leo as they do for him, do they? This kid saw his brother get captured by the Krang. Fought him whilst he was possessed, something not even Leon thinks he’d be capable of. Leon’s the only one here that hadn’t been able to take on the leadership mantle until Raph was dead. 

But he’s also the one that’s survived the majority of an apocalypse without him. 

He swallows. “No one even knows where we are.” He mutters. No phones. No trackers. No trace. The electromagnetic pulse had taken care of that. 

“And whose fault is that?” Leo finally snaps back. 

Leon’s shoulders sag, the guilt pressing down on him. A well-earned accusation, though it stings to have his younger self detest him in this way.  

“It is what it is.” They’re here now, and Leon knows from experience that when he gets himself into a shitstorm as bad as this one, you have to drop your grievances at the door. They can come back to pick this up later. Leon intends to try and make this up to the kid, but right now they’re better off - more clear-headed - without that extra weight. 

Leo isn’t so ready to leave the baggage behind. 

“No! It isn’t! None of this needed to happen! It is what you made it to be and I’m going to strangle you for it!” He sounds half-serious. They’re both aware Leon would let him, and perhaps that’s the only reason why Leo holds back. 

“How many times have you already been in a situation like this, Leo?” He knows full well that despite his young age, Leo has seen the inside of a cell far more than once. “There’s always a trap, a cage, an ambush, a waiting mouth waiting for you to fall into its jaws or a decagon of tentacles threatening to squeeze you until you pop. And you know what? Brothers or no, you will always find a way to weasel out of it.” 

“Really.” Leo says flatly. “Please, enlighten the class, how are we weaselling our way out of this one, Master Leonardo?” There’s venom to the title, his voice dripping in sardonicism. 

“You’re going to portal us out of here.”

Leo falters, thrown off his rhythm. He stops and stares at him, waiting for a punchline that will not come. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t have my odachi anymore.” He points out. 

“You don’t need them. Never did. They’re a convenient conduit for your ninpo, but they were never the source of your power.”

Leo’s mouth twitches into a frown as he considers this. “If you’re so wise, why don’t you do it?” 

Leon clenches his jaw. His skin prickles, a potent cocktail of irritation, despondency and shame injecting its way into his bloodstream. “I can’t.” 

“Well, how am I supposed to do it?” 

“Just.” Leon takes a deep breath, releases it, then points down to the floor. “Sit.” He orders. 

Leo narrows his eyes at him and does nothing, seeming to have his own little internal dispute with himself for a bit before he finally, begrudgingly plops down to the ground. Leon counts it as a win, considering how badly he responds to any authority figure that isn’t Raph. 

He allows the kid to get comfortable before he speaks again. “Breathe—”

Leo cuts him off. “Is this going to be like a meditation thing? Because I am not good at that-”

“You will learn to be.” Leon says calmly but firmly, in a manner he knows Leo’s hyperactive mind will respond to. “As soon as you can find it within yourself to shut up and listen.”

“Maybe I’d be more receptive to shutting up and listening if you were capable of giving directions more elaborate than sit and breathe.” His voice lowers in register, mocking Leon’s slightly deepened voice. 

“Do you want out of here or not?” He asks flatly. 

Leo’s mouth clamps shut.

“Close your eyes and try to sync up with my breathing.”

He glares at him for another moment, then lets his eyelids fall. Leon inhales and exhales slowly, and he waits until the kid’s picked up his rhythm before he speaks again. 

“Now, I want you to try and find your core.”

“My core?” Leo repeats. “Like my abs?”

“No. Your core, like your centre. That pool of energy buried deep within you. That’s what we’re going to be tapping into.”

“Mmhm. Mmhm. M’kay. Yeah. My core.” Leo is silent for a couple of seconds. “Yeah. Problem. I don’t think I have one of those.”

“You’re a Hamato. You have one.”

“Well, if I do, I don’t know how to crack that bad boy open.”

Leon rubs a hand across his face. “Just… Think of somewhere you’d rather be.”

He snorts. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down, boss. I would rather be literally anywhere than stuck in this deathtrap with you. The bar is on the floor.”

Leon ignores the jab. “It doesn’t have to be a physical place. They can be thoughts, or memories, or emotions. It doesn’t matter. Whatever resonates with you the strongest.”

Leo releases a long-suffering huff, then, (oh so reluctantly) he complies, his brow furrowing in concentration. 

“Family, safety, home.” Leon prompts.

He allows the kid to take this in for a few moments before he says, “Repeat it.”

There’s an annoyed twitch of Leo’s brows, then he stiltedly repeats after him. “Family. Safety… Home.”

Leon nods. “Good. You’re going to take those memories, those thoughts, those emotions, you’re going to bundle them up, and you’re going to wrap them close to you.”

He watches as Leo’s near-constant movement and fidgeting stills to no more than the slight rise and fall of his chest. He waits a few more minutes, enough time for him to get a strong grasp on it before he asks, “Do you have it?” 

Deep within his own subconscious, Leo, for once, doesn’t speak. The only sign he’s heard Leon’s question at all is a minute nod of his head.  

“Good. That’s good. You’re doing great.” He praises. Positive reinforcement is good. Positive reinforcement is key. He crouches down, his voice lowering. “Now that you’ve got that place, those people, that feeling in your mind, you’re going to let it all flow through you like a wave.” 

Leo’s brow deepens as his breaths come out slightly heavier, beads of sweat breaking out across his head. The blue markings of his carapace faintly glow. 

An odd sensation takes hold of Leon’s chest. Something like amazement, something dangerously close to pride. He’s got it. 

“Tug on that string connecting you from here to there. Pull.”

For a moment, the room seems to spark with energy. He can feel the rush of power rising from the floor, the slight gravitational pull towards him. He can smell the ozone in the air. His scarf billows around Leo’s neck, stones and dust rising into the air. 

That’s it, Leo, that’s it. He can feel himself practically vibrating with excitement. It’d taken him years to master this, and yet here he was, barely pushing sixteen, and about to pull off his very own portal jump. 

For the first time in what feels like months, something besides desperation sparks in Leon’s mind. It tastes almost like hope. 

It’s all going swimmingly, better than he could have imagined, right up until Leo’s breath hitches. 

That’s all it takes for all that beautiful work to come crumbling down. 

The neon dulls, the room dims, the stones fall. Leo’s eyes snap open, his focus lost. He growls, slamming a fist against the ground. “This is bullshit!”

He stands and turns away from Leon, crosses his arms across his plastron and stares at the bars of the cell.

“I can’t do it.” Leo says, voice quiet, like he doesn’t want to be heard at all. “I’m useless.”

Leon’s a little shaken by it all. How close he’d been to pulling it off, followed by how vitriolic this little tantrum of his is. It’s an old insecurity, one Leon hasn’t unearthed for quite some time now. Since Raph’s death, he’s always felt the burden of responsibility, but he’s gained respect through the years. He doesn’t have the time nor the energy to doubt his importance to those that rely on him, and his problems have far overshadowed his ability to give a shit about the opinions of others that might think him incapable. 

He’s proven himself competent without the constant backing of his brothers. Leo though… he believes he needs his brothers. He’s not used to having to rely on himself. He usually has his big tough energy kaiju of a big brother to support him, or a mastermind at his behest, or an absurdly powerful little brother hanging off his shoulder. To this day, even after what he’s been through with the Krang, this kid is still trying to convince himself that he’s more than just a burden to his family. 

The toxic dependency. His inability to believe in himself. It’s getting in the way. It’s holding him back. 

The kid’s suffering from chronic emotional abandonment. All he needs is a bit of validation. A bit of positive reinforcement and he’ll be malleable to practically any suggestion, pliant beneath Leon’s hands. He should say something encouraging. Something along the lines of, ‘Hey, don’t say that’, and ‘it was your first try. Don’t beat yourself up’, or ‘you did well. Far better than I did on my first try’, or even ‘you’ll get it eventually, kid’. 

If it were April, or Casey, or any of his brothers, the encouragement would have naturally flowed from him. Easy and simple and as second-nature as the breeze through the trees.

Instead, Leon opens his mouth, and before he can stop himself the words are tumbling out, harsh and angry.

“Get over yourself.”

Leo's head turns towards him. “What?”

This would be an excellent time to backpedal. 

Leon does not do that.

“You heard me.” He knuckles down like an asshole, enunciating each word for good measure, just in case Leo hadn’t gotten it the first time. “Get. Over. Yourself.”

All that pent-up frustration, the accumulation of two-decades’ worth of repressed emotion comes rushing to the surface, snapping his iron self-control like a fine-toothed twig. 

Leo wanted the truth? Well here it is.

“You may be able to hide behind your humour and jokes and your shitty, cocky, egotistical attitude when it comes to the others, but you can’t pull that shit with me. I know you. I know that deep down, you believe you’re nothing. That you’re a burden to your family. That feeling of inadequacy is so consuming, you let it overcome your better judgement. You let it shape you.” 

His stomach churns sickeningly. He should stop. He needs to stop. But he can’t close the floodgates now. The venom continues to flow from his mouth, and Leo had done this, released the ugliness inside of him that he’d worked so hard to lock down tight, but Leon’s not even looking at the kid as it rushes out of him. 

“You are pathetic, and not even the kind of sweet, idealised pathetic that would make others take pity on you. No. You are a bitter, obnoxious, desperate brand of pathetic, and you know it. You already have everything anyone could ever ask for, and yet you would still do anything — you would risk it all to hell — just to prove yourself. You can’t be anything but the best at everything you do, as soon as you do it, because anything less wouldn’t be good enough. Wouldn’t make up for the fact that it’s you.” His voice cracks. He can’t hide it. It gives him away. “And the saddest part of it is that even when you are unequivocally acknowledged as the best, when you receive the praise you so badly yearn for, when the world turns to you for answers, reveres you as their hero, it still won’t be enough. Perfection will become the bare minimum requirement, and you will never be able to meet it.” 

A life of desperately copying Raph, copying dad, trying to mimic every figure of leadership he’d ever come across in his life, trying to be that force that could keep his people alive, to be someone worthy of the faith he’s been given, praying that it wouldn’t be too disastrously little. 

“That feeling, those insecurities? If you can’t get a handle on them, they will cripple you.” Figuratively. Literally. “They’ll get people killed.”

There’s a few moments of nothing but harsh, raw silence. 

Then, smoothly, unflinchingly, Leo responds. 

“Like your brothers?”

Leo looks up, his eyes blazing. The unsettled feeling in his stomach shifts to a sharp ache that drags the air from his lungs and makes him feel light-headed. Leo’s seeing far too much of him. It feels like he’s being flayed open by his gaze, like the kid is digging around in his guts, and fuck, he wants out. He wants to be somewhere else. Anywhere but here. 

If Leon could phase through the floor and sink down into the earth, he would.

“You’re mad at me.” He claims with unwavering certainty. “You always have been. I’ve felt the undercurrent of your resentment ever since you got back here.”

Discomfort swells through Leon. To think that he’s responsible for making Leo feel a semblance of the guilt that he does, that how he’s acting makes him thing that Leon blames him for how his life panned out-

“You can barely stand to even look at me most days, and I get it. I do. After what I did, I probably even deserve it-” 

He cuts him off with a stern, “No.”  

Leo’s face contorts, the irritation twisting into confusion. 

“I’m not mad at you.”

It’s not Leo’s fault he can’t look at him without seeing dad’s blood-matted fur, the horrible wheeze leaving his throat. Can’t be around any of them without being hit with flashes of Raph above him, a spike through the space his heart used to beat. Donnie’s scarred jaw, pain in his eyes each time his teasing smirk pulled at his lips. April’s reassuring smile, not quite meeting her eyes. Mikey’s blazing light, seconds before it was snuffed out. 

He can’t pretend that the past is done, that he’s finished with the hurt it’s caused, he can’t look at Leo now and not mourn who he might have been. 

“I was never mad at you.” 

He gazes down at Leo. He’s gone pale. Moisture clouds his eyes, the pool slowly rising, threatening to spill over. It’s infuriating. It’s insanity inducing. He’s so tiny. He’s so goddamn little. He should be playing video games and eating pizza and riding skateboards and terrorising his brothers. But Leon was that kid, and if Leo doesn’t deserve his derision, then neither does he, and Leon’s felt this way about himself for so long that to feel any differently would be to lose his identity. He wouldn’t know what to do with the leftover pieces. He wouldn’t recognise himself. 

He’s mad he killed them. Not just his family, but the world. People he didn’t even know. Children he’ll never meet. He turned everyone and everything to dust because he was too damn conceited, too self-absorbed, too thick-headed to consider the repercussions of his actions. He could say that, but it wouldn’t quite be the full truth, would it? The worst part of it all is not even that is at the root of what enrages him. His selfishness reaches down so deep that being the cause for the end of it all isn’t what makes up the essence that is Leon’s despair. 

“I’m mad I couldn’t die with them.”

He wanted out a long time ago. All he wanted was to be as far away from this as possible, dead and gone and buried alongside his brothers, but now he’s smack bang in the middle of it again. All because for some reason, despite the fact he should have been the first in a grave, each and every time he’s been the lucky soul to make it. Forced to go on because regardless of how burnt out and broken down he is, that’s the right thing to do, that’s the only way he can honour those that sacrificed themselves for him. 

He should have died, he should have died, but for some reason he hadn’t. No matter how much he wants it to be over, it can’t be. Death is a mercy the universe will not grant him, and it feels like some divine injustice that he has no choice but to continue.  

The cell door rattles, and with terrifying insight into the deepest darkest part of Leon’s soul, their conversation is over. The guard that enters a moment later looks between the two of them, perplexed by the fraught bubble he’s found himself in. 

His eyes lock with Leon’s. “It’s time.”

Leo doesn’t move a muscle when Leon steps forward to follow the guard outside. Doesn’t so much as make a peep. He simply sits there with tear streaks staining his cheeks, and stares in shock. 

That, or he simply doesn’t care what happens to him anymore. 

Leon can relate to that.

- - -

Take the grievances. Put them in a bag. Leave them at the door.

It’s time to go to work.

Leon tries to memorise their path as he’s led through dark, empty halls. 

It’s not an easy job. He’s well-accustomed to having to map out tunnel systems. Has been doing so since he was a kid, but this place is long and winding and has zero waymarkers and doesn’t make a damn lick of sense. Leon has a strongly-worded complaint he’d like to send to the nutcase engineer that designed this labyrinth. The layout fucking sucks. Then again, this is a prison of sorts. It’s probably purposefully made that way. 

They turn another corner and go up a staircase that leads into another sterile void of a hallway. It’s going to be difficult to navigate his way back to Leo. More so when he finds himself getting shoved into an elevator. 

The guard pulls a card from his chest and scans it against the control panel before punching in a number. Leon eyes the key with interest. Is it just for the elevator, or would he be able to get through the doors too? How many barriers is he going to have to bypass here?

The elevator dings and the doors open to a room that is dimly lit and bare. The guard leads him to the centre of the room, drops the bag from his shoulder, then turns to him.

“Strip.” He orders.

Leon looks down at him with tired eyes. He has large, pointed ears, a bushy tail, a thick burgundy fur coat and sharp eyes with yellow sclera. He’s a red fox yokai, perhaps mixed with a little something extra. He’s taller than other canids Leon’s crossed paths with, but he’s got that same build. Lithe muscle that would indicate he’s more agile than he is strong. Not all that intimidating, though there’s very little that intimidates Leon these days. 

“Wow. A guy usually offers to hunt down dinner for me first.” The joke is weak, even for him. Subdued. He struggles to drag the humour into his voice. 

“Now. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Leon studies the guard for a moment. He could take him down easily, but he has no way of knowing if he’d be able to get back to Leo before his enemies did. Nor does he know the extent of defences Big Mama has equipped in response to the likely case of rebellion. He has no way of guaranteeing Leo’s safety here.

“Demanding.” Leon mutters under his breath. 

It’s not like he has all that much to lose. He removes his kneepads, leans down to rip off his compression socks, unbuckles his belt, pulls down his pants and leaves the clothes in a pile to his side. 

When he looks up he finds the guard’s eyes dialled in on the tattoo flowing down his left leg. A japanese dragon coils around the entirety of the limb, stretching around the oni mask on his thigh, and disappearing behind the petals of a chrysanthemum that peek out from behind his calf. The sleeve is pulled together with a background of swirling waves and clouds that leaves no patch of his leg bare. 

Leon clears his throat.

The guard’s ear twitches, his eyes snapping back up to Leon’s eyes. 

“Those too.” He grumbles, gesturing to the red and purple masks tied around his other thigh.

Leon tenses. 

He knows the others had found it morbid. His need to capture some form of those he lost before every last fragment of their existence died and decayed away. His inability to move on, to grow and change from the person he was when he was with them. Leon has to make himself look at them. He has to face them. He won’t let himself forget what he’s done. He clings desperately to that darkness. He has to hold himself under this mental state. It’s the only way he can still feel close to them. 

“No.” 

The guard approaches to rip them from him. The second his hand grazes his leg Leon wraps a metal hand around the yokai’s throat and takes him to the ground. An alarm blares, the room bathing in red, and suddenly the walls are shifting, panels falling away to reveal an array of weapons aimed towards him, posed to fire. Leon eyes the defensive measures, his heart racing in his chest. Not scared. Excited. This is where he feels most alive now, right on the precipice of death. 

“If you refuse to comply, we can end this very quickly for you.” The guard rasps, his tone impressively level for the position he’s been placed in, like he’s reading from a script. 

Leon wonders how many people have retaliated like this. How many chose a quick death in the privacy of a holding area over the barbarism of the arena. 

He refuses to budge. 

“I’ll comply with everything else, but this is a non-negotiable. Whether I go in with them or I die here, the masks stay with me.” 

There’s a few moments of stifling stillness. 

Then, a click. The alarm falls silent, defensive measures power down and slot back into the wall. Leon stands, releasing the yokai and backing away. 

“Very well.” The fox hisses through gritted teeth as he stands unsteadily to his feet. 

He collects himself, brushing away the dirt he’s collected from the ground, then reaches into the rucksack that’d fallen from his shoulder and holds out a neatly folded piece of clothing.

Leon takes it into his hands after a moment, the fabric satin soft and cerulean blue. He unfolds the garment, lifting it up into the light, and blinks. 

It’s a short kimono, with silver seigaiha flowing down the upper sleeves, fan-shaped waves of an open sea. He turns it around, his breath catching. The Hamato crest fills the back. 

It’s bold and lustrous. Loud, is the first thought that comes to mind; impossible to ignore. Sylvia knows Hamato Yoshi. Had spent a good fifteen years with dad before she’d thrown him into her fighting pits. She knew about his ancestry, and she doesn’t want Leon hidden. This isn’t just theatre bullshit for the sake of theatre bullshit. She wants him advertised to the city, a bright beacon that draws his family towards him, like flies to the sweet nectar in a venus trap. 

“Put it on.” 

It’s not a request. Leon’s hands tighten around the silky fabric for a few more seconds before he reluctantly complies. He lets the fabric fall from his right shoulder, not wanting the thin fabric to get caught in the mechanics. With some luck, it’ll slightly obscure the crest without breaking Big Mama’s silent rules here too. He tucks the drooping sleeve under his belt, out of the way.  

The guard hands him another piece of clothing the same colour. “Pants too.”

He eyes them with distaste. “I don’t suppose I can keep my own? I’m pretty attached to those.”

The guard stares unblinkingly back at him. 

Leon sighs, taking the pants from him. “Course not.” He mutters. 

The hakama ends just below his knee, with deep slits cutting into the side of each pant leg, the impossibly soft fabric held together with ribbons. The tattoo running down his left leg can be seen beneath. A detail that would seem intentional on Big Mama’s part had she known he had a tattoo styled in a similar theme to the concept she’s going for here. 

The clothing is light, soft, loose and flowy. There’s nothing here that would protect him from a hard collision with the floor or the sting of a blade. It’s flashy simply for the sake of flashiness, from ninja turtle to show pony. 

“Follow me.” The guard orders. 

He’s led down a dark passageway. Dark handprints line the walls, bloody stains sliding down the walls. Leon grimaces. Well, at least now he knows if he’s victorious he’ll be exiting the same way he comes in.

The guard stops when they near the end of the hallway. End of the line. 

“Your weapon will be waiting outside.” He explains. “There’s no incapacitation here. Victor has to secure the kill.” 

“And if we both agree to surrender?” Leon asks. 

“Then you’re both agreeing to lose.” 

Great. Conscientious objection means suicide. All the more reason for him to be in here and not Leo. 

“Do try not to die.” The fox adds as an afterthought. 

“Put on a good show, you mean?” He replies bitterly.

He shrugs. “Boss’s orders.”

Leon grinds his teeth together. Yes, well, it wouldn’t be much fun for her if he perished right away, would it?

He leaves the guard behind, following a dark trail of glistening red that leads up to the light. The muted roar of the crowd grows clearer and louder as he reaches the mouth of the tunnel, where the noise hits him like it’s a physical force, vibrating through his frame and resonating in his chest. It’s overwhelming. He can barely hear himself think. 

He squints as he steps through the threshold, the floodlights temporarily blinding him. 

His breath catches in his throat when his vision clears. The arena is massive, surrounded by elevated audience stands that are filled to the brim with a sea of screaming yokai. Neon lights circle the arena, beaming down on him, designed to expose every detail of the fight, no cut ignored, no death gone unseen. Further up, watching over it all, is Big Mama’s personal luxury viewing box, lit with glowing green crystals and fire bowls placed along the walls. 

The arena roof curves over the top of the stands, but opens up in the centre, revealing a cavern ceiling directly above him. Leon recognises the spiralling rock formations holding it all together, the light pollution that shines up from below, revealing the staggering grandeur of the sprawling cavern around them. They’re in the Hidden City. Someplace high up, considering how close they are to the rocks. 

His chest tightens, a shiver running through his frame. The last time he saw the Hidden City, it was coming down on top of his head. 

Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. 

Really not the time to be thinking about that. He swallows thickly, returning his focus to the arena. It’s not a clear field like he’d expected. Pillars line the perimeter — some chipped and broken from prior battles. The remaining standing ones could work for cover from ranged opponents. In the middle of the arena sits a vast pool of water. It’s difficult to tell how deep it goes from where he’s standing, but it does appear to be under some sort of whirlpool effect, the surface ripples being pulled downwards in a circular motion towards the centre of the pool.  

His sword lies in front of him, lying on a stone stand. As soon as he steps forward and takes it, the column rumbles and slowly lowers back into the ground and the iron gate he’d entered through falls closed behind him. No backing out now. 

Big Mama’s voice booms over the loudspeakers. “Welcome back one and all to my long awaited, my new and improved, my fantabulous, my magmarvellous… Battle! Nexus!” 

A wave of heat presses in as jets of flame surrounding the field burst to life in a flashy display. The crowd goes wild. 

“For our special opener, without further adieu, I present to you a turtle out of time, a man from another world, coming to you straight from the hellish maw of the Krang, your newest challenger…” 

The cavern ceiling above is suddenly obscured by a massive projection, spanning across the sky of the arena. The cameras settle on Leon.

“Ryūsei!” 

Leon looks up at the screen as the kanji subtitles appear in bold beneath him, 流星. 

He cringes, his hand tightening around the grip of his sword as a hot wave of embarrassment rushes over him. He regrets ever opening his mouth earlier. 

He imagines that Big Mama’s thoroughly enjoying herself up there. Making him dress up, toying with his family, getting away with whatever she damn well pleases. He wonders if she finds herself funny. 

Leon’s about to show her how hilarious he can be. 

Beneath the roar of the crowd, he can hear something heavy slamming against the massive gate to his right, hard enough that with each bang the floor shakes beneath his feet. Leon takes a step back, his heart rising to his throat. Whatever he’s about to fight, it’s big. 

“And for his opponent tonight, a being unearthed from the very heart of the Hidden City, born from the tears of the Great Crying Titan, the unstoppable, imperfenetrable Iron Warden!” 

The gate is lifted, and from the depths of shadows emerges a creature of earth and stone. Legs like colossal columns of rock shake the ground as it lumbers forward. Its arms are just as solid - so heavy the creature is bent over like a gorilla, its thick hunchback is lined with moss, the majority of its weight resting against its fists. The rock and granite falls away to vine-like roots towards the centre of the warden’s chest, and the dark ironbark looks as gnarled and ancient as the rest of it. Immense horns curve out past each behemoth shoulder and curving upwards to a sharp point. Miniscule eyes are dotted on either side of its face. 

He can hear the delighted grin in Big Mama’s voice when she declares, “Let the games begin.”

Leon does a flourish of his sword, letting the screaming cheers settle into his veins. He’s always been a performer. He’s plasters on a sharp grin. He’s not here to die. He’s here to show these people a good time. 

His opponent lumbers towards him, bringing its fists together and slamming them down over his head. Leon leaps out of the way, and the impact of the creature’s boulder-like hands leaves craters in its wake. It swipes at him as Leon dances around, seemingly determined to rip him limb from limb. He wonders if he could offer his flesh arm instead of losing the one Donnie’s gifted him and chuckles lowly at the mental image of him waving his arm around to the behemoth like a dog with a stick. 

The creature takes hold of a fallen pillar and thrusts it towards him, lightning quick. Leon lifts his arm in front of his face, and the marble cracks against metal, the vibration flowing up the arm and ringing through his frame. 

Leon shakes it off, rolling his shoulders. “That’s all you got?” He yells up at it. “Come on. Vamonos. Give me a challenge.”

The creature falls to all fours and charges towards him, its horns primed to skewer him. Leon doesn’t flinch away. He tightens his grip around his sword and sprints at the charging beast, his heart jackhammering against his chest as the beast rapidly approaches to meet him, getting closer and larger until it’s filling Leon’s vision. He leaps upwards just in time to feel the blast of air of the solid mass hurtling beneath him, his sword catching the creature’s shoulder as he spins. 

He lands neatly, pivoting back around to face the creature. It screeches to halt, feet digging into the ground, leaving a whirlwind of dust in its wake. It huffs furiously when it realises it has missed its target, shifting back around to glare Leon down again. There’s a chunk of stone removed from its shoulder, proof of Leon’s blade striking true, but no blood, no sign that the injury is slowing the creature down. Maybe that’s all the creature is. Rock and stone and granite. He hopes not. Leon is more likely to blunt his blade before he’s able to chip down the colossal creature. 

Leon takes a step back, his heart booming against his chest. That’s when he feels the sting radiating from his inner thigh. He pauses, looks down, and his eyes meet torn fabric and red. Shit. His eyes flick to the curved tip of the beast’s horns, where a touch of blood adorns the left. He must’ve nicked him. Leon hadn’t even felt it. 

The monster rears up to attack again, and Leon might be panicking, just slightly. 

Can’t think. That’s okay. Rely on survival instinct.

Leon turns and thrusts his sword at the creature’s face. The sword flies through the air and lands true, embedding itself into the thick keratin covering across its head. The creature blinks once. This is the only sign that they even noticed the blade. Leon no longer has a weapon. 

Survival instinct bad. 

Fuck it. Moving on to plan C. 

Cardio. 

Leon runs. 

The monster races after Leon, slamming it’s fists towards him, threatening to flatten him if he’s a millisecond too slow. For something so large and lumbering, it’s terrifyingly fast. The impact leaves craters in its wake, sending Leon stumbling around like a drunkard as the earth shakes underfoot. 

Each step is an aching pulse. His inner thigh throbs, searing and stinging, and he can feel the blood trickling down his leg, warm and wet, like he’s wetting himself very slowly, and shit, shit, shit, this is not good.  

This is usually where Mikey would magically apparate into existence and save him from disaster. But he doesn’t. He can’t because Leon’s Mikey died two decades forward into a bifurcated time branch that Leo successfully snapped off by saving the world. 

There’s another impact, too close. The violent rumble of the ground trips Leon up, and he stumbles right into the path of a stone fist. The air is punched from his lungs as a solid wall of knuckles slams into his chest. He finds himself lying in a shallow pool of water, blinded by spinning lights. His next inhale is a horrible wheeze. His diaphragm spasms. He’s half-convinced he’s drowning before he processes that his head is above the waterline. It’s like his lungs have been placed in a tight clamp, his chest contracting painfully as he tries and fails to pull in air. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. 

He rolls to his hands and knees. The position probably isn’t helping his attempts to desperately suck in oxygen. There’s an odd sound ringing in his ears, like the rush of a stream, a waterfall- He looks to his right, where the pool of water darkens and deepens, the flow faster, swirling towards a wide open chasm in the very centre. Like a hole in a sink. 

He looks up, ice filling his veins as he’s met with the sight of the warden towering over him, a great mountain posed to crush him. The creature’s beady eyes narrow in on him, its other fist rising to pulverise Leon into mush, and Leon doesn’t even think - he rolls to his feet and thrusts his metal fist towards the one coming down on him. 

CRACK

A shockwave reverberates through Leon’s spine as chips of rock crumble beneath the metal of his arm, a wave of water is thrown from the epicentre of impact. The creature flails backwards, its pained shrieks drowned out beneath the sea of exhilarated screams from the crowd above them. Cheering, whistling, booing, it’s too much. Leon can’t parse it out, it’s all just noise. 

He hunches over, placing a hand against the hard centre of his plastron. He’s not used to taking hits hard enough to wind him. He’s unable to really process what’s happened until his brain registers the rock debris scattered around him. He looks up, finding the creature laid out on the ground, half an arm shattered to pieces. 

The tight clamp around his chest has loosened slightly, but he still finds himself struggling to get a proper lungful of oxygen into his chest. Leon, bent over and breathless, stares at his work in shock. He did that. Just punched a massive boulder to smithereens. Leon gazes down at the prosthetic resting over his knee with renewed appreciation. 

“Donnie… you absolute… evil genius.” He breathes shakily. “I love you.” 

The creature gets back up, recovering far faster than the first time Leon lost an arm. Not fair. The warden stands to its full height, and releases an ear-splitting roar. 

Leon straightens, stumbling backwards slightly as a wave of dizziness hits him. He groans and presses his fingers into his palm, gestures for a time-out. “Can I have a second?” He calls.

Because the universe hates him, only keeping him around because it enjoys having a miserable little lad to inflict further suffering upon, he does not, in fact, get a second. The creature staggers into another charge. Leon freezes, his focus zeroing in on its chest as it races towards him. Some of the debris from its arm has chipped away the fragile root system there, exposing something green and pulsing in the centre. 

Water splashes over him as the warden closes the distance, and Leon blinks, adrenalin kicking back in and forcing him into motion. He barely manages to roll outside the creature’s path of destruction in time. 

Leon curses, heart thundering and blood roaring past his ears. 

He may have a plan. 

He gets out of the water and races towards one of the columns lined around the perimeter of the arena. He can feel that the warden’s following from the way the tremble beneath his feet increases in intensity with each limping step. By the time he reaches the nearest pillar, it's practically on top of him. Leon runs full speed at the column, using the momentum to run up the vertical surface and flip backwards off of it. He lands on the creature’s shoulder, and he holds tight as it crashes straight through the pillar, sending marble flying into the stands. While the warden is still disorientated, he climbs down to the roots at its chest, pulls his metal arm back then sinks it into the green centre. 

Through the warm, wet, viscera, he can feel something soft and pulsing beneath his fingers. He grips tight, and rips the fleshy sphere out from its chest, pulling a thick spatter of bodily liquids out with him. The creature shrieks, its palm finding Leon and swatting him away. 

He bounces off the solid ground, brain rattling around in his skull from the rough landing. He’s momentarily dazed, white spots clouding his vision as he attempts to gather his bearings again. 

By the time he finds his way back to his feet again, it’s to a rare absence of noise. The stadium has gone quiet. For a moment, all he can hear is the noise of the flags flapping in the wind. 

Leon feels something beating in his hands. He glances down at the green sphere, recognising it for what it is. 

A heart. 

The creature slowly puts a hand over its chest, looks at him one final time, the life draining from its eyes. He falls. 

The crowd erupts into thunderous applause 

- - -

Leo tugs dejectedly at the scarf wound around his neck. 

He’d thought… He hadn’t believed that any variation of himself that had gone through the version of events Leon had, walked the same path, knew the mistakes he’d made… He didn’t see how anyone that truly understood him wouldn’t end up despising him. Before he met Leon, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine a scenario in which every interaction with his older self didn’t devolve into a screaming match. That had been the basis from which Leo’s guardedness, his suspicion around Leon had been born, and every act of kindness from the older slider had only fed into it. He’d thought it’d been an elaborative front, that Leon had been using every inch of his self-control to not unleash his rage upon Leo for his brother’s sake. 

And yet Leon had only ever reached out to Leo and his family with heart and guidance and care. Each time they had been faced with danger, Leon had placed himself in front of Leo. He magnetised it back towards himself. He had never treated Leo as if he was worth less than him. 

And now there’s a chance he’ll never see him again. 

He’s seen Leon fight. It’s a very low chance. But the potentiality is there all the same, and he doesn’t think there’s any way he could’ve had a worse final interaction with a man that had only ever wished to protect them. Granted, he went about it shittily, but Leo can’t deny that his intentions had been good, sincere, but so blinded by fear and pain that he would destroy himself pursuing this one goal in the process.  

A frown pulls at his mouth as Leo pulls the aged, torn photograph from where it's hidden beneath his plastron and carefully unfolds it. On one side is Leon and his family. Their family. On the other — the key, sketched perfectly from memory. 

It’s always struck Leo how eerily accurate the drawing is. It makes him wonder how long ago Leon had seen the artefact. The memory dilutes, decaying over time, but this object has always remained unaltered in Leon’s mind. He rubs a thumb across the paper. It feels cursed, almost. As though that image – that moment had imprinted itself into his DNA, becoming an afterimage burned into the back of his eyelids. Did Leon see the key every time he closed his eyes? Did he have nightmares about it? 

I’m mad I couldn’t die with them.

It’s not anger towards Leo he’s feeling.

It’s guilt. 

That’s why he allows himself to be a punching bag. That’s why he doesn’t ever fight back. That’s why he would die to protect them. Why he’d been ready to jump off that building the second he realised the world had been saved, his mission complete.

The realisation hits the bowl of acid in his stomach and sits uncomfortably in his gut, like pizza fished from the sewers or sour blue milk from the Hidden City. 

The cell door rattles, and Leo scrambles to his feet. 

Leon enters a moment later, drenched, bruised and bleeding. His metal arm is covered in some kind of green goo. Leo looks at him, and the whole speech he’s been mulling over in his mind, the conversation he’s rehearsed over in his head what feels like a million times over crumbles to pieces. 

“What the hell are you wearing?”

Leon doesn’t respond. He’s not even sure he heard him. He takes a brief glimpse at Leo, as if he needs to confirm to himself that he’s still unharmed, unchanged from the last time he’d seen him. Then he limps to a dark corner of the cell like an abused dog slinking off to lick his wounds. 

If he thinks he’s getting away that easy, he’s got another thing coming. Leo follows him, his heart jumping when the older slider’s knees buckle the moment he reaches the wall. 

He closes the distance between them, catching him beneath his arms before he can collapse to the floor. The bigger slider is not light, but Leo manages to slowly guide him to the floor, propping Leon up against the wall. 

Leon’s eyes drop to his thigh, and Leo follows his gaze to the blood leaking sluggishly down his leg, and knows that whatever conversation they need to have will have to wait.

He begins pushing the pant leg up, then pauses a moment to stare at the tattoos coiling around his leg. 

Later. That’s going to be another discussion point for later. 

Leo lifts the pant leg up as high as it’ll go, exposing the deep cut that runs from Leon’s knee to the middle of his inner thigh. He doesn’t have anything with him capable of cleaning out the wound. He might be able to slow the building though. 

“We need to wrap this with something…” He mutters. 

He looks around for a moment before his focus zeros in on the purple and red mask tails peeking out from the side slits of the other pant leg. He’d been wondering where Leon had been keeping those. 

He gestures towards Raph’s mask. “Can I use this?” 

Leon’s still looking at him with this strange look, like he can’t quite understand why Leo’s helping him. His eyes flick towards the mask tails, his metal arm moving to cover them protectively. 

“I’d rather you not.” 

“Why?” Leo asks, exasperated. “I’m not removing it. I’m just tying it around the other leg.”

He pauses, his head ducking a little sheepishly. “Don’t want to bloody it.” He mumbles. 

“You don’t…” Leo exhales frustratedly. The mask is a mess. The fabric is old and faded and the tails are tattered. But he doesn’t particularly want to poke at Leon’s patience by pointing out the poor state of the last remaining piece of his big brother. “It’s already red, we can wash it later.” He reasons. 

Leon doesn’t answer. His metal hand tightens around his leg.

Leo shakes his head a little, then releases a sigh. “Fine.” 

He lifts his arms to remove his own mask. 

Leon watches him, a little stunned, his jaw slack. It's the expression he has whenever anyone does anything that might imply they care about him. Leo wonders if he’s even aware of it, and that leads him to really hoping he doesn’t do the exact same thing, because it’s very sad, and very transparent. 

“M’sorry.” Leon murmurs. 

He waves off his apology and begins winding his mask around his leg. “It’s a piece of fabric.” 

“No, I…” He inhales sharply when Leo’s hand grazes over the wound. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.” 

Oh.

“I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. It was an incredibly immature and shitty thing to do. It wasn’t right.”

He doesn’t respond. He can feel Leon trying to catch his gaze, his head lowering slightly. Leo keeps his head down. 

“I’m… I wish I could take it back. I want you to know that it wasn’t—” 

He cuts him off with a tight pull of the bandana around his leg. Leon winces and makes a weak, pained noise in the back of his throat, his hand snapping forward to wrap around Leo’s wrist. His hand is large, practically engulfing Leo’s arm. Despite the pain he’s in, his grip is surprisingly gentle. He doesn’t push his hands away. He just holds tight, like he’s looking for a lifeline.

“Good?” Leo asks flatly.

Leon nods his head, his expression tight. 

“I think I need to lie down.” He admits. 

He does so immediately after announcing the fact, releasing Leo so he can stretch out across the cold hard floor. He’s looking pretty pale. Probably just light-headed from the blood loss. 

He finishes tying off the makeshift bandage, then he sits back on his heels and checks over his work. Not great. Better than nothing. He scans the rest of him over for injuries. Small cuts and bruises. Wounds that, with Leon's healing factor, will likely heal over by the next morning. 

“Thank you.” Leon says quietly. 

Well and truly past the point of not talking about this, Leo soldiers through the bundle of nerves fluttering in his stomach and asks brusquely, “Do you really blame yourself?” 

Leon glances up at him.

“For losing them?” Leo clarifies, as if that wasn’t already clear.

“Wouldn’t you?” He asks softly. 

It’s a question and an answer, one that obscures the query he’s thrown back at him. Leo can hear it in his voice. Don’t you blame me?

Leo bites into the soft flesh of his cheek. 

“That's a lot of crippling guilt to carry with only one arm.” He says after a long moment - a nonresponse that’s just playful enough to lessen the taut tension in the cell. 

He huffs and lifts his metal prosthetic. “Got two now.”

There’s a beat of silence. Leon meets his gaze, and whatever he sees in Leo’s expression makes his eyes soften and his demeanour turn serious. 

“Look… Sometimes, things happen to us. And we’re not good at dealing with it. Sure, we’re good at ignoring it. Repressing it. We can fight through the pain like it’s no one’s business. But… I’m beginning to realise the more we do that, the worse it gets. We wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn't lied to you. To all of you. What’s happening here, it’s on me… I guess I can add this to all the things I wish I could’ve done differently now.” 

Leo imagines he has an exhaustive list - one that he’s honestly not all too keen to have read out to him. 

”I… It’s hard for me to not be harsh on you. I don’t do it because I hate you. I just…” Leon falters, mouth twitching into a frown. “I don’t want you to suffer like I have. I don’t want you to regret.”

He frowns. “Regret what?”

Leon looks back to the ceiling, away from Leo. 

“Everything.” 

Leo looks at him, studies him, the hard lines of his face, the weariness and pain in his eyes. 

“What you said about me… About us.” His gaze drops. “You weren’t entirely wrong.” 

Leon sits up at that, a deep, disturbed furrow lining his brow, pain in his eyes that has nothing to do with his injury. “That wasn’t— I didn’t…” He takes a breath. “There were elements of it that were true, but you… you’re not pathetic, Leo. You did what I couldn’t. I’m unbelievably grateful for that. You’re the first thing to ever make me feel even a modicum of real pride to be… well, me, I guess… To the point that it's hard sometimes for me to believe we’re even the same person.” 

Leo goes cold. He means it. The years have been long and painful in between, but their faces still move the same way. They know one another’s tells. He absolutely means what he’s saying. But that can’t be right, because Leon survived an apocalypse, he knows how to command a room with no more than his presence, he managed to inspire thousands of people to fight an unbeatable enemy. He’s a resistance leader and a war hero and the greatest ninja the world has ever seen. There’s no way he could possibly consider Leo better than him.

… Right? 

“I don’t have all the answers.” Leon admits. “I spent the first quarter of my life getting into trouble, and then spent the rest trying to make up for my mistakes. Which may just make me the least qualified person in the world to be giving you advice, but it also means I’m a goddamn master at clawing my way out of the holes I’ve gotten myself into.” 

Leo purses his lips, then sits down before him. “Alright. What do you propose?”

“From what I’ve seen so far, there’s no way we’re going to be able to fight our way out of this. This place is designed to hold the most dangerous prisoners in the Hidden City. There are too many defensive measures installed for us to dodge, too many gates, too many hallways. We’d be locked out and shot down before we got anywhere. We’re up high somewhere, though I wouldn’t be able to pinpoint where. I might be able to get a better idea if I can get a look down the big gaping sinkhole in the centre of the arena.”

“Oh. Yes, why of course. The big gaping sinkhole…” Leo pinches the ridge between his eyes. “Do I even wanna know?”

Leon shrugs lightly. “It’s just another part of Big Mama’s wacky, zany, arena funtimes. Don’t worry ‘bout it. That’s my job. My point is that our escape routes are going to be limited. Jumping ship probably isn’t going to be an option, unless you feel like becoming a splatter of mush across the ground.” 

“My dude, you are making the situation here sound bleak.” 

Probably because the situation here is bleak, and Leo appreciates his sudden surge of honesty, but he really would’ve liked to hear that they had slightly better chances than what Leon’s making them out to have.

“Keep your head up kid. It’s not the worst stitch we’ve been in. Not having much to work with just narrows down our options. Strips the plan back to square one until we think of something else. For now, I’ll help you get your ninpo back into commission, focus on staying alive, and in the meantime you’ll train until you can bust out a portal.” 

Leo tilts his head slightly. “That’s it?” 

“That’s all there is to it.” He replies, as if the plan he’s outlined here doesn’t place the fate of both their lives into Leo’s hands. Hands that are known to fumble the bag in ways that often lead to disastrous consequences.  

“We’re going to get out of here, Leo.” He lifts a fist. “Capeesh?”

Leo eyes the hand. Leon’s not like him. Not when it comes to this. He looks into his eyes, scans his features, and he can tell his confidence isn’t just false bravado. When he says they’re not going to be undone by the goddamn Nexus after everything he’s been through, Leo believes him. 

He lightly bumps his fist against Leon’s. “Capeesh.”

Chapter Text

Leo sits cross-legged, his mind as clear as can be in this dark, dank, drab cell, and attempts to pull ninpo from his core. The energy ebbs in and out, singing through his veins, pooling into his grasp before slipping away again, like liquid through his fingers. He’s been at this for hours. His head aches and his body feels raw from the constant power pulsing through it. He’s all crackling energy with no direction, like a live wire on a circuit. A burnt out ignition coil. 

He’s determined to get this. He needs to get this. He grits his teeth against the electricity pulsing through his body. 

“You’re shaking.”

Leo swallows down his frustration. “Really? Thanks.” He says sarcastically. “I hadn’t noticed.” He blinks his eyes open, his concentration broken, and releases an irritated huff at the brooding concern rippling across Leon’s features. “I haven’t had an iced coffee for over twenty-four hours. I’m dying over here. Do you think the insomnia maintains itself?”

Leon grimaces. “I’m limiting your caffeine intake when we get back.” He says, as if Leo’s crippling caffeine-addiction is their problem here, rather than, y’know, whether they’ll ever be able to make it back home in the first place. 

“I would rather suffer the cruel, unshakeable chokehold of my sleep paralysis demons.” Leo hisses. 

“Could cut down your screen time, too.” Leon adds belatedly. 

Leo ignores him with a huff, closing his eyes and trying to get back into the zone. 

Inhale, count to four— no, five. Exhale. Think of somewhere you’d rather be. 

Anywhere but here. 

Home. 

The huddle of pillows in the centre of their living room. Leo’s favourite material possession lies between them - a blanket, poorly stitched together with an ugly amalgamation of pinks, golds, reds and blues; the product of young, inexperienced, three-fingered hands and wool scavenged from around the city. Warm, woollen… A little scratchy, but he’s willing to overlook that, if only because it’s Raph who made it for him.

Inhale for five. Exhale for five.

Family. 

Mikey, not yet tall enough to reach the ledge that Raph’s helped him hop up onto, his overalls and gas mask absolutely covered in spray paint, his bright giggles filling the tunnel as he excitedly sprayed the walls in broad, colourful, sweeping strokes, his mural slowly coming together, beautiful and bright and emanating warmth. The blast of Donnie’s electronic beats, capable of being heard from all the way on the other side of the house through a thick layer of sound-proof acoustic foam, signifying his presence - loud and obnoxious. The smell of him after a long day in his workshop working on his newest invention, a waft of motor oil, metallic fumes and burnt rubber clinging to him, comforting in its familiarity.

Inhale. Exhale. 

Safety. The space between his big brother’s arms, his solid bulk big enough to block out the rest of the world. 

Inhale.

Leon’s voice. His own voice, deepened, darkened, hardened. Bundle it up. Tug on that string. 

Unbidden, the scene in his head shifts. Leo’s hold slips. 

The air rushing past his ears, stomach dropping out from under him as he falls. The deep chasm of his brow, his forehead wrinkled from age, displeasure, worry, confusion. I don’t hate you.

Exhale.

The atmosphere, freezing and empty and lifeless, his breath being stolen from his lungs with each hoarse rasp he tries to take, his limbs numbing, thoughts slowing. Crows feet crinkling the outer edges of his eyes, the waterline full to the brim with tears, the look given to Leo being so resigned. A lost, abandoned kid in a world he can no longer call his own. 

I’m mad I couldn’t die with them.

Leo’s eyes snap open. 

Leon, who’s apparently been watching him this whole time, because what else does he have to do in this stupid cell, says (very unhelpfully, Leo should add). “It’s an internal block.” 

He releases a loud groan, his meditative posture slackening as he slumps across the floor, drained. 

“What does that even mean?” He whines. 

“It means that the power to pull off a jump is there, but there’s something in that subconscious of yours that’s stopping you from doing it.”

“Get over myself, right?” He mutters. 

It’s a little vindictive. Leon winces at the reminder. “I could have phrased that a lot better.” He says, a strained tone to his voice, the undercurrent of a stiff apology.

His chest rises and falls from the floor as he heaves a great sigh. If he knew how to do that — understood what was blocking him, none of this would be a problem, would it? 

“Why can’t you do this?” He asks, hoping that Leon will actually give him an answer with a little more detail this time. Something he’ll be able to analyse and learn something from. 

Leon looks away. One of his cheeks hollows slightly, like he’s biting into the flesh. 

“Our ninpo…” He thinks for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “It’s an innate power, but it’s not something we can just pull up through stubbornness and sheer force of will. It’s… spiritual. To harness it you need to be in tune with yourself, your emotions… You need to be able to trust and rely on that connection you have with your brothers.”

Leo processes that, rolling the words again in his mind, reading into it. His brothers. Family that Leo realises for Leon, both exist in another dimension and are dead. 

Pretty hard to get more disconnected than that.

His gaze returns to Leo, and he must catch the flash of understanding that passes across his face, because he simply agrees. “Yeah.” And offers a small shrug, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “I’m a lot more blocked up than you are, kid.”

He studies him for another moment, then shakes his head. “I don’t get it. I trust my brothers.” 

“So maybe it’s a different issue. I don’t know, Leo. I had to work a lot of this out as I went, and my problems were a hell of a lot more different compared to whatever you’re dealing with.”

“Helpful.” He mutters under his breath, even though he knows this isn’t Leon’s fault. Not really.  

The frustration is getting to him, hindering his progress. He can’t do this anymore. He needs a break. He releases a tired sigh, his chin lowering to rest against his plastron. 

He stares at the ground for a minute or two, contemplating taking a nap, when suddenly his attention is drawn back to a question that had been lying in wait since Leon’s return in his fancy new royal clown suit. 

“When did you get that?”

Leon’s eyes follow Leo’s, dropping to his leg. His brow furrows. “I told you what happened. Have you forgotten already?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m talking about the massive snake-dragon sleeve wrapped around your leg, not the minor flesh wound.”

There’s a pause as Leon’s gaze dips down again, soft amusement dancing in his eyes as he huffs out a laugh.

“You should’ve seen Raph’s arms. Mikey went absolutely ham on them… They were awesome.”

Leo’s face lights up for a moment, a wave of delight rushing over him at the thought of Raph, the span of his massive arms wrapped in a one big beautiful interlinking tattoo, as intricate and meticulously applied as Leon’s, the scars covered over by the work of his little brother’s steady hand. 

Except, he thinks, his mood sobering, Mikey’s hands aren’t steady anymore, and they’re not sure they ever will be again. Raph isn’t here, and the one Leon’s talking about is long gone. Any colourful artwork that once adorned his arms has been reduced to dust, along with everything else in that timeline. 

Whatever Leon sees in his expression causes his smile to no longer reach his eyes. He sits down, settling in besides him, his arms pressing into Leo’s, sharing his warmth.

He turns to look at him, suspicion rising from the softness in the action. Leon doesn’t react. He rests against the wall, leaning into his shoulder slightly, his eyes sliding shut. There’s not a lot else to observe in this tiny, dark cell of theirs, and Leo’s grown tired of counting rocks, so instead he takes the chance to look at Leon. Between the ribbons tying together the side slits of his pants are red and blue masks tied around his leg — the fabric previously hidden from the others, but always guaranteed to be attached to his body. Leo looks over to the bold, swirling lines covering the skin of the other leg, and it’s more refined than he’s used to, but still so very Mikey, he’s surprised he hadn’t recognised his little brother’s work the first time he laid eyes on it. 

A thought occurs to him, and his eyes lower to the scarf. He takes the material between his fingers. Warm, woollen… A little scratchy. 

Not everything from Leon’s timeline is dead and gone. Not all has been reduced to ashes. Trace elements remain, wrapped around Leon’s person, woven into his skills and habits and speech patterns, churning around in his mind and his heart. He’s far closer to them than he believes. 

“I don’t suppose we should pin our hopes on anyone getting us out?” Leo murmurs. 

Leon’s eyes open, and he’s able to meet his gaze only for a quick moment before he’s looking away again, his jaw tightening.

Leo takes that as a solid no. 

He prods. “Do Mikey’s space-time powers hurt him every time?” 

Leon’s eyes snap back to him, his gaze hard. He shakes his head. “Accessing that kind of power… it’s costly. Eats into his lifeforce every time he taps into it.”

He jumps up, a cold flush of fear rushing over him. “Say what now?” 

Leon waves his hands, quick to clarify, “No, no. His usual powers are all good. They’re just like ours. He’s fine… Just so long as he never does something like that again.”

Leo stares at him with wide eyes, his heart rate increasing with each passing second. “Does this not seem like a predicament, a quandary, a conundrum, a prison he might try to break us out of again?”  

Leon opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I mean… I hope not.”

“Leo!” He shouts. 

“He’ll be fine! I already told him not to use his mystic hands again, and everyone else is aware that it’s not good for him. They would stop him if he tried. Casey’s gonna be there too, and he…” He comes to a halt mid-sentence, his face frozen. Leo wonders if he’s having a stroke of some kind, which he really hopes is not the case, because they have enough problems on their hands as it is,  “Gods. Casey. I told him I would meet him tomorrow- today.” 

Leon deflates, the back of his head thumping against the wall. “He’s going to besides himself-”

Leo gapes at him. “Um, Casey is at home, where I would like to be, safe and warm and in a house with a hot shower with fantastic water pressure and food in an easily accessible kitchen. I’d ask that you kindly redirect those concerns to me.”

Both their heads swing to the door as it rattles, the sound of a key entering, a lock turning, before the door swings open to reveal the guard waiting on the other side. 

He only has eyes for Leon.  “Time to go.”

Now, Leo’s not sure how the Nexus works, but from his brief stint with dad… he’s fairly certain most fighters only compete in one rodeo per day. 

“He’s going back in?” Leo asks, taking a step forward, anger coursing through him. “He just fought!”

The guard’s eyes settle on him, regarding him almost boredly, “You mean the big opener? Yeah. He survived. Good for him.” He drawls monotonously, before turning back to Leon. “Follow me. It’s time for the meat of the night.” 

“The meat being me, I suppose.” Leon replies dryly. 

“Out. Now.”

Leon’s eyes narrow, looking almost petulant as he glares down at the guard. Like a moody teen who’s been grounded, rather than a middle-aged turtle who just found out he’s about to return to his second fight-to-the-death of the day because Sylvia is hell-bent on seeing how much pressure she can apply before he’s crushed by it. 

Leon twists around as he leaves, trying for a confident grin. Knowing his own true smile, Leo is wholly aware the look is for his benefit alone. It feels oddly patronising, like he’s a dog getting a pat on the head before his owner leaves to go get hit by the morning bus. 

The door slams shut behind them, then Leo’s alone once again. 

He settles back against the wall. He should try to portal again, or try and listen to the movement of the guards outside, or attempt to formulate some sort of plan. Do something — anything other than sitting idle. The moment he allows his mind aimlessly wander, deprives it of external engagement or focus, it will turn on him. The darkness will creep in; the doubt, the fear, the questioning of his own abilities, the thoughts of Leon not coming back. It manifests as a swirling sickness low in the pit of his stomach. 

His head snaps up when he hears the door being unlocked, far too soon. Another guard enters, different to the one that usually comes for Leon. They have sleek, deep blue fur, a heavy build, and four long ears that are pulled back by a headband. 

Leo’s stands to his feet, his hands tightening into fists. 

“Are you ready to tell us where Lou Jitsu is yet?”

He’s a little offended that they felt the need to wait until Leon was out of the cell before sending someone in to interrogate him. Then again, Leo’s seen the big guy in action. Maybe having seen how he fights in the arena has made the guards think twice about the shit they’re willing to pull in his presence. 

Leo scans the yokai. “What, no torture devices to help you draw a confession out?” 

“Big Mama was very clear. So long as you cooperate, no one will lay a hand on you. You tell us where we can find Lou Jitsu, and the unpleasantries can stop.”

“You expect me to believe you’ll just let us go the moment I rat out the rat?”

“No. But your clone out there wouldn’t have to fight anymore—”

“Not a clone.” Leo mutters under his breath. 

“You could have a nice room—”

“Oh boy, a luxurious prison cell? How could I possibly refuse?”

There’s a dull thud at his feet as a guard tosses a single waterskin and half a loaf of bread to the ground. He levels Leo with a sharp glare. 

“And I’ll give you his share of those.”

Leo’s eyes drift from the guard to the floor, then back up to the guard again, a slow grin stretching across his lips. “I’m gonna keep it one-hundy with you, buddy. I’m not snitching.”

Their gaze is cold. “So honourable, to protect your father like this. How unfortunate that it’s at another’s expense… I wonder, when his head rolls, will you regret your decision?”

Leo stiffens. 

At his silence, the guard shrugs. “Up to you. It’s no skin off my back.” Then, to Leo’s surprise, he turns and starts walking away, “Just keep in mind the conditions I’ve laid out for you.” 

The prison door opens from the outside, another guard holding it open for him. He exits, turning back to Leo before it closes to grant an ominous farewell. “Enjoy your night. I’ll be seeing you again tomorrow.”

The room descends into darkness. 

- - -

The boredom is torture in of itself. It presses down on Leo’s mind like a physical weight. He tries conjuring up a portal again, which turns out to be a fruitless and infuriating endeavour. He can feel the energy sparking through him, but for whatever reason, it slips away before he can get a good grasp on it. 

Leo has to work this out. Because as embarrassing as it is to have been turtlenapped again, it would be infinitely more embarrassing to die here. Donnie would never let him live that down. He doesn’t know what he’s doing though. He needs Leon here to help guide him, except Leon’s out in the arena probably getting his shit kicked in. It’s unfair. Leo would much rather be having his shit kicked in right now. At least his mind would be occupied. If he sits in this cell any longer, he’s going to start naming the rocks in here, and then Leon won’t be the craziest asshole in the family anymore.  

He can’t help but feel that if it were any of the others in his place, they’d know what to do. Raph would probably power up and punch through the walls like they were nothing but flimsy pieces of cardboard. Mikey would probably be able to pull the door from its hinges just as easily with his chains. Donnie wouldn’t so much as blink at this predicament. He’d likely have some kind of super tech science thing like a box of pure radiation that would somehow get them all out scot free. Or he’d just call on his ninpo and rain unholy hell on this place. Leo’s the only one that’s weak. Powerless. Useless in this situation. 

He slumps against the wall. A sick, directionless frustration gnaws at his stomach. Or perhaps that’s just hunger… He can’t recall the last time he’d eaten something. 

He eyes the loaf of bread on the ground for a few moments before he reaches it over and picks it up, dusting off the dirt and taking a nibble. Only a small one. It’s hard to stop himself from taking a larger bite. There’s a strong urge at the back of his mind – a gremlin screaming at him to tear the loaf apart and shove it down his throat before anyone returns, but he swiftly silences that little cretin. He’ll give the rest to Leon (because the loaf is stale, and dusty, and very likely full of maggots, which Leon would probably view as just another source of protein, the freak). 

He imagines the guard wouldn’t have given him his share even if Leo had told him where to find dad. Doubts he even had a second serving on his person. This was another one of Big Mama’s games. A way to increase tension between them — forcing two starved dogs to fight over scraps. 

He tucks the rest of the loaf into the folds of Leon’s scarf and returns to his staring contest with the opposite wall. It feels like Leon’s been gone for quite some time now. He doesn’t know exactly how long. It’s impossible to keep track of the passing minutes here. He’d sleep away the hours, but every time he tries to settle down the dark thoughts push their way in. Leo’s nerves are flayed raw from the restlessness. He can’t focus. Can’t train. Can’t do much of anything but count down the seconds, waiting for someone he’s not certain will return. 

He jumps up when the door finally opens, a sigh of relief leaving his lips at the sight of Leon’s silhouette being pushed into the cell. 

The door closes again, and the room returns to total stillness. For a few moments he waits for Leon to announce some terrible joke about his victorious return. The older slider remains entirely silent. Leo finds it especially odd when, after waiting for what must be up to a full minute, he finds Leon hasn’t moved a single muscle. Hasn’t so much as twitched. In the dim light, he looks strikingly like a statue, dead-still and carved out of stone. His clothes have a strange shine to them, like they’re wet. 

A little perturbed by the behaviour, Leo stands and carefully approaches him. 

“Leo? You good, bud?” He asks tentatively, a slight shake to his voice that he refuses to acknowledge. “Haven’t died on your feet now, have you?”

He doesn’t receive a response. Leon doesn’t look like he’s even heard him, his eyes unfocused as he stares into the middle distance. 

It’s not until Leo’s an arm’s length from him that he sees it — that sheen to Leon he’d absently noticed in the dark hadn’t been water or sweat, but blood. 

Leo’s heart drops into his stomach. Caution is thrown to the wind as he closes the space between them, his hands flying towards Leon’s clothing, his movements frenetic as he yanks the kimono down from where it’s hanging to his shoulder. His breaths stutter in his throat as he rapidly scans him for a haemorrhaging wound hiding beneath the fabric, something that would explain such a copious amount of—

Leon takes his wrist into a tight hold, putting a stop to his frantic flailing. Leo’s eyes are horror-wide and wild when his head snaps up to meet the emptiness in Leon’s gaze. 

“It’s not mine.”

His thoughts screech to a halt for a split second, confusion ignited by the cold emotionlessness in Leon’s voice. The complete and utter hollowness to him. Leo’s eyes dip back down to his body, not quite believing it, eyes blinking furiously like the image before him will change. 

But Leon’s right. Not one drop of red appears to be his own. He’s not bleeding to death or anything. Leo would laugh if the circumstances were less horrific. For once, Leon says it’s nothing and actually means it. More news at seven. 

Leon releases him, and Leo takes an unsteady step backwards. 

He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting to be met with when Leon returned. The hopeful part of him had been holding out for a turtle that was a little bruised and battered and entirely flippant about it, perhaps with a joke readied at the tip of his tongue. Other times unwelcome gory images flashed by his subconscious; deep wounds, broken bones, severed limbs. His imagination could get pretty creative when it came to tormenting himself, but never once did it venture towards Leon being covered head to toe in his opponents’ viscera.  

It comes as a sudden and visceral realisation — the fact that Leo knows hardly anything about Leon’s history. Doesn’t know a thing about what he’s truly suffered. The things he’s had to do to survive.

The memory of his confrontation with Hypno comes to mind. Another of the bull yokai Leon had slashed across the stomach… I lended him more mercy than he deserved. Leo had been horrified at the pool of blood leaking into the gravel. But Leon hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t so much as blinked. The only emotion emanating from him something like a fiercely brutal protectiveness, like a wounded wolf snapping at anything that came near her pups. Leon held so much love, so much gentleness within him when he was interacting with his family, but here he became something else.

That contrast, that darkness that lies just below the surface. It terrifies him. Not because it’s Leon, but because he looks at the older slider, blood-soaked, exhausted, at the very end of his broken and frayed rope, and knows this could so easily be him. Whatever makes up the individual components that makes them Leo is of the same cloth, the same stitching, formed by the same hand. Any ugliness he sees in Leon is within himself. He has that capability running through his blood. Leo has yet to succumb to it, but they’re infected with the same disease. 

Leon slowly pulls the kimono back over his shoulder and lowers himself to the ground, his eyes distant. 

Leo grimaces, grabbing the waterskin from the floor and passing it over to him. The older slider pauses, hesitation clear in his eyes before he reluctantly accepts it, taking a ridiculously tiny, measured sip before offering it back to him. Leo scowls at the waterskin, more irritated than impressed at the high amount of self-control it must’ve taken for him to not drain the whole thing immediately. 

It’s going to be like that then, is it? Rather than take the water, Leo rummages for the loaf of stale bread hidden in his scarf and hands it out for him to take. “Swap.” He says. 

Leon regards the loaf emptily for a moment. 

“I can’t take this.” He says hoarsely. 

Agitation prickles at his neck. “You’re twice my size. You’ve been fighting all day. You’re recovering from injuries and being severely malnourished not all that long ago.”

“I’m used to it.” 

“Just take it.” He growls, shaking the loaf at him.  

Leon stares at him for another moment, then reaches forward and drops the waterskin into his lap. 

Leo glowers at him. “I’m not drinking that unless you take the shitty bread.”

The staring match continues, the both of them holding out for a minute or two before Leon finally gives in. He wipes his bloody hands down on a clean section of his clothes, then takes the loaf. The bread looks comically small in his hands, and becomes smaller still when he breaks it in two, passing the other half back to Leo. 

“You’re gonna need strength too.” He points out. 

The agitation writhing under his skin heats to a frustrated anger. God, why are they like this? Leo imagines this is very much not the type of discord Big Mama had hoped to elicit when she limited their rations.  

He swipes the stupid hunk of rock-hard bread with a huff and takes an overexaggerated bite before chewing obnoxiously in the older slider’s direction. Leon seems a little happier for it, his features going from broken and defeated to an exhausted neutral as he chews down on his own piece. 

- - -

Leon spends what he suspects to be the early hours of the morning gripping onto the bandanas wrapped around his leg, praying for the oblivion of sleep he knows will not come. From the sounds of the uneven breathing behind him, Leo isn’t faring much better. Leon hasn’t informed him of what happened in the arena, but between the gruesome evidence on him and his stilted, unsettled demeanour, he’s probably able to put two and two together himself. 

The Warden had only been the opener to the night. The showy starter. The rest of the night had been a figurative and literal bloodbath. He hardly remembers what had occurred himself, his brain blacking out most of the details, leaving him with only vague recollections of blood, screaming, the roaring crowd ringing in his ears. The yokai opponents hadn’t given Leon as much trouble as the behemoth he’d faced first up, but never had he felt a surge of triumph or vindication from winning a fight. Arena masters sent in anyone from slaves and prisoners like him, to out of work soldiers and well-paid mercenaries. Their background mattered little. As soon as they were on that stage, they became nothing but puppets and props perpetuating the gratuitous violence required for Big Mama’s play. 

He stares at the dried blood on his hands. It’s all over him, really. They can’t afford to waste the small amount of water they have to wash it off. He’d tried using a combination of spit and dust, to very little success. He’s not sure why he bothers. All the world’s oceans wouldn’t be capable of clearing the deed from his skin. 

The Krang, he’d never felt any mercy for, but the rivalling clans, the humans, the yokai… He’s still haunted by their faces. He’d thought it’d get easier with time, but regardless of the necessity of the act, no matter how little choice he has in the matter or how detestable the enemy, every life he takes causes a wave of revulsion to wash over him. Every time, without fail, the guilt pulls him down, eats away at him, leaves him feeling obscene, evil, repugnant. 

He doesn’t brace himself for it anymore. He closes his heart off to it, shuts down. Internally, the emotion is raw and viscous and rips at his chest, but externally he’s simply reacting. Sometimes he feels like he’s watching himself from above, observing his actions as they play out before him. 

He tells himself he had good reasons. That he does what he needs to do to survive. You tell yourself that enough, and the unimaginable becomes normal, the hideous becomes tedious, the unforgivable becomes routine. 

The hours drag on at a snail’s pace, and Leon feels the fog gradually lift from his brain, the shutters pulling back, rousing him from his dissociative state. It’s not a pleasant transition. 

They’re given no further food or water, nor anything to occupy their minds with. He and Leo talk for a while when it becomes apparent that neither of them will be getting any sleep. 

Leo tries to teleport again, to no avail. Leon keeps telling him he’ll get it, but… He’s young.  Not to say these kids aren’t absurdly strong — the true baptism of fire that had been fighting off the Krang Invasion had them coming out of the flames more in tune with their ninpo than Leon’s brothers ever could have been at their age. Even still, it doesn’t feel right to place all the pressure on Leo’s small shoulders again. He’d barely gotten out alive last time. 

Leon needs to work out a plan B. 

Having the same guard escort him through to the arena could work in his favour. He’d been pretty interested in his tattoo, though whether that was simple aesthetic intrigue or whether it was something more would require further investigation. Maybe he would work that angle. The last time he had tried toying with someone he was a lot younger and a lot prettier, but even if he can’t win the guard over, it might be enough just to get close enough to him to snag his keys without drawing attention. 

He would need more intel before trying to pull something like that off, though… Blind spots in Big Mama’s surveillance, weak points in her defence, exfil locations. He could potentially use himself as a distraction. Even if it means he’s only able to get the kid out—

“Did you really not have anyone in the apocalypse? No special someone? Is our game really that bad?”

He glances up at Leo. Their gaze meets. “Okay, one, I was extremely busy, you know, leading the entire resistance—” 

Leo rolls his eyes. 

“And two…” He says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “I never said I didn’t have anyone.”

Leo perks up like a dog at the sight of a squirrel, his back straightening. “Oh? Do tell.”

His mouth quirks up a tick. “No.”

“Was it a human or a yokai? Were they tall? Were they super attractive? Tell me they have good teeth, please.”

“God. You are so superficial.” Leon mutters under his breath.

“They’re hot, right?” 

“No was not code for ask me more, Leo.”

Leo purses his lips, the thoughts ticking over behind his eyes. Leon sighs. The kid’s bored out of his mind, and he has just presented him with some juicy gossip. It’s almost cruel – like taunting a starved dog with a particularly meaty bone. 

He doesn’t see Leo figuring this out any time soon (he may be skilled at reading others, but he’s a complete idiot when it comes to analysing himself), and strangely enough, Leon’s not really sure it’s his place to tell him. They’re stuck in this cell with nothing else to occupy them though, and he knows Leo’s just going to continue pestering him until he coughs up an answer or keels over and dies in that arena… And maybe it’ll help Leo wait it out in here while he endures that hellscape up there if Leon gives him something to mull over. Now’s as good a time as any, right?

“I…” The words stick to the roof of his mouth, get lodged at the back of his throat. 

The blockage between his thoughts and the words he’s trying to form is… an odd phenomenon. It’s not like Leon’s ashamed. He’s just never admitted this to anyone before. Never had to. It’s simply who he is — the telling of which is either glaringly obvious, not necessary, or, more often than not, not relevant. Leon always had a million different things on his plate to attend to, and anything that wasn’t helpful to accomplishing the mission at hand was, frankly, nothing more than a waste of his precious time. 

And now, between his fights, all they have is time, and Leon’s beginning to think that maybe time being in short order hadn’t been a reason for his silence at all, because for some reason a strange nervousness overcomes him. Leo's eyes are boring a hole into him, and he feels utterly ridiculous. This doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s hardly a drop in the water compared to the rolling waves of shit they’re drowning in right now. Why can’t he just—

He takes a deep breath, releases it, and says it. 

“I don’t like women.”

Leo stares at him, his expression unreadable. The silence between them hangs on a cliff that Leon feels like he’s dangling from. He shifts, uncomfortable. The words are out there now, floating in the air. They no longer belong to him. There’s no taking them back. It’s down to Leo to decide– 

“You’re a misogynist?”

What.

“What.” He utters. The tension dispels into confusion. He squints at Leo for a moment, parsing that response out. 

“Wow.” Leo exclaims loudly, disbelievingly. “Wow. Shame. Shame! Shame on you.”

Another moment of deep bewilderment, then it clicks into place. “Oh my god.” He breathes.

The door behind them rattles. Leon stands up, his pulse jumping. Leo, meanwhile, stays exactly where he is, more concerned with misinterpreting Leon’s statement than whatever’s waiting for him on the other side of the cell.

“What would April say? After all she’s done for you? She would kick your ass—”

The guard that enters blinks at Leo for a moment as he rambles on, his brows drawing together. He shakes his head, then his eyes settle on Leon and he gestures for him to leave. Leon follows after him without preamble because yes, yes please remove him from this situation.  

“Leonardo Hamato, women are the backbone of our society. How could you even say that…”

“I’m leaving now!” He calls over his shoulder. 

- - -

Casey is worried. 

He is worried because Donnie is worried. 

The softshell paces back and forth, his dark brows pulled together into a deep frown, the furrow of his brow showing through his mask. Casey doesn’t like it when Donnie is nervous. When the smartest, most level-headed person in the room is unsettled, it’s in your best interest to also be a little concerned. He’d grown up with that being a basic survival instinct. When Master Donatello says a situation is bad, you listen. When Master Donatello scratches at his arms and goes real quiet, you hope to hell that a bomb isn’t about to get dropped on the base you’re squatting in. 

“Would Leon take him for any reason?” April asks, seated on the couch. Her phone has been permanently fixed to her hand for the better half of the day. She’d already scrolled through the entirety of her contact list, getting in touch with any relevant party to see if there was someone that had heard anything from either of them. Nada.  

“What?” Casey says. He knows she’s just running through hypotheticals, grasping for potential answers, but even still, his face twists at the implication there. “No, no he wouldn’t—”

“He’s one of the only people that would’ve known about Leo’s tracker.” She tries to reason. “I don’t want to believe it either, but we can’t eliminate the possibility of him still being influenced by the stone we found on him—”

Casey shakes his head. “He wouldn’t.” He looks between her and the turtles, heart fast in his chest. He would’ve known. He would’ve seen it. He can discern the difference between the nightmare they ran into down in the tunnels and his sensei. Their last day together — that was all Leonardo, Casey knows it.

“We trust him.” Raph states. 

“The stone’s locked down behind nine layers of titanium. He’s not under its influence.” Donnie agrees. 

The room falls back into an unsettled silence as they all think. Casey thinks April might suggest something else, because for a moment her eyes light up, like she’s remembered something important. She remains quiet though, her hands nervously rubbing together as her brows pull together. She catches her lips between her teeth, worrying at the skin.

“Maybe this is some kind of training exercise?” Mikey tentatively suggests. 

Casey rejects the idea immediately, “Master Leonardo wouldn’t take Leo without telling us. He knows how scary it is to have a brother disappear on you.”

Mikey’s face falls, and guilt pangs in Casey’s chest. He doesn’t want to shoot down Michelangelo’s optimism, but there’s a time to be real. Donnie passes where he’s seated on the floor, his hands clenching and unclenching before his pacing suddenly pulls to a halt. He plops down onto the floor, a purple light washing across his face as he pulls up projections on his wrist-tech and begins tapping away at calculations that Casey only vaguely understands. 

“He was stabbed.” April blurts.

The room freezes in their tracks, everyone’s heads immediately swinging towards her. 

“Sorry, what?” Mikey squeaks, voicing the sentiment ringing around the room. 

She grimaces, her eyes dipping to the floor. “Last week. The big guy was stabbed in the shoulder. He didn’t want me to tell any of you about it, but—”

Casey stops her, his mind racing because he remembers this. “That bang in the middle of the night, when I came to your room…”

“He was there.” She admits, her voice getting quieter as she ducks her head. “Behind the door, actually.” She glimpses up, continuing when she sees the confusion awash across each of their faces. “He didn’t say who got him. Well… actually, no. He said it was some mugger, but we both knew that was a lie.” 

A thousand questions whiz past Casey’s brain, the solid weight of them bouncing around the walls of his skull. Why did Leon lie? What did he have to hide? Why hadn’t he trusted him? Is this why he’d tried pushing him away? He knew his sensei had been actively keeping something from him, but for him to drag April into it… And why had she willingly gone along with Leon’s nonsense — covered for him, even — when she knew it was bullshit? The worried taste in Casey’s mouth takes on a sour, fluttery note. 

“Was he okay?” Is the first question that leaves his lips. 

April nods. “Yeah, I stitched him up. He seemed to be doing a lot better after that. Insisted he go home in the rain. I wasn’t able to stop him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Raph asks quietly. He doesn’t look angry or disappointed. Doesn’t even seem particularly shocked to Casey. He’s just… sad.  

April’s mouth falls open, and for a moment nothing comes out. It closes again with a click, then she throws up her arms. “I don’t know! I guess I thought… Gee, here’s April O’Neil. Good ol’ April, staying out of the situation for once, mindin’ her own business when her big brother asks, keeping her nose out of it. Good for you, April! I didn’t think he was- I mean, he was just… I don’t know what he was doing.” She stutters, her hands going to her hair, raking through her curls. 

A sudden realisation slams into Casey, causing the breath to catch in his throat. “When did the yokai attacks stop?”

The team looks at him, confused by the change of subject. The chasm of Raph’s brow creases. “Uh… Feels like it’s been a while now. It was a couple of weeks ago, right?”

The others nod.

“Before or after we brought Leon in?” Casey presses.

A slow understanding dawns across each of their features. 

“After.” Donnie states, his jaw tightening. “Definitely after.”

“Holy…” Mikey breathes. 

“We split into two teams.” Raph announces, firm and straight-forward. 

The room’s eyes turn to him. 

“Donnie can go through his teck stuff—” 

Donatello is already on top of it, tapping at his tech-brace and pulling up screens, thoughts running behind his eyes at a million miles per hour. “I can hack any nearby cameras, alter my search algorithms to incorporate related keywords across social media, reassess the data I’ve been running for Leon. Potentially update it.” 

Raph nods. “Great. You can keep in touch with us while we go to the surface. Search Leo’s usual spots—”

Casey cuts in, “I know some areas Leon used to visit when things were rough.” 

“Perfect. We can look through the places Leo habits too, see if we can find either of them at any of those, and on the way we can ask if anyone’s seen either of ‘em—”

As they continue bouncing ideas around the room, ironing out a solid plan, grounding them all to a mission to focus on, Casey’s hit with an inexplicable swell of relief for Raph’s presence. This turtle that early on Casey had only known as the legend his sensei’s prosthetic had been based on. The hero that his hero looked up to. 

And in a way it’s a horrible sense of relief, because prior to all this, Casey had been so incredibly glad that Leonardo was the one that always came back to him. He could never say it to his sensei’s face — not with his survivor guilt running rampant, not when it was about his brother, but Casey thinks he would’ve chosen anyone else, anyone at all, to die in Leonardo’s place, if it had to come to that. It’s an awful realisation to come to. He detests himself for thinking it. Leonardo would never want it, but were it up to Casey, he would feel all the same. 

Now he hangs off Raph’s every last word, clutching onto them like they’re a lifeline, and he feels terrible for it. 

He didn’t know Raph. 

Casey’s grateful he’s here. 

- - -

They give him a new set of clothes before he’s sent into the arena again. Exactly the same design. He’s happy to shed the bloodstained, ripped and tattered threads, but he has to wonder just how many copies of this costume Big Mama had made. If it correlated at all to how many fights she betted on him winning, or if she just whipped him up a new set each night he survived.  

His name is announced to even greater applause than the night prior, nothing more than evidence of his entertainment value to the blood-thirsty masses. He picks up his sword, heart beats rapidly against his chest as the gates are lifted, revealing his opponent for tonight’s opener. 

His brain function stutters to a halt when the beast prowls out from the darkness. The creature creeps forth on four legs, its frame solid, great spikes protruding outwards from its back. Nestled in the middle of its back between the spikes, lining the creature’s spinal column, are crystals, the same shade of icy blue as the creature’s predatory eyes. Two great tusks jut out from its lower jaw, one chipped and broken. Its tail, flat and paddle-shaped, lies low, brushing cautiously across the ground.

Memories break through the fog of his mind, of the creature whining softly as Mikey tended to her leg, kind and gentle as he pressed a generous amount of gauze into the wound, of Casey clambering up her back, the beast holding patient and still as the small boy pulled at her spikes and curiously poked at the soft blue glow of her spinal crystals, of the monster fighting alongside him during the war, savage and brutal as she ripped through the Krang’s defences. 

Her name slips from Leon’s lips. “Mojo?” 

Her movement falters a moment, her head tilting slightly at the name. Leon sees the intelligence behind her eyes as she eyes him warily, her mind ticking over. She hasn’t attacked him yet. A good sign, but if he doesn’t play his cards right, this stalemate will very quickly go south.  

“Mojo girl. Hi.” He greets nervously. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

He raises a placating hand, stance lowering slightly to make himself smaller, eyes lowered as he carefully approaches her, the way one might quiet a spooked horse. Or how he thinks someone might quiet a spooked horse. Spirits, Leon doesn’t know. He grew up in a metropolitan sewer system. His experience with horses is very limited. But he knows Mojo. She’s a big, beautiful sweetheart, so long as he can prove to her he doesn’t mean her any harm. 

“I know you don’t remember me, but we were friends once.” He declares nervously, head rising a little to meet her gaze. 

She gives a low growl, her hackles raised, eyes darting to the sword in his hand. Leon follows her gaze, his brow furrowing. Leon stops in his tracks, the makings of a half-assed plan forming very quickly behind his eyes. 

“You don’t like this?” He asks, considering briefly the dangers associated with what he’s about to do, “That’s fine. I didn’t need it anyway.”

To prove so, he pulls his arm back and tosses the blade over her head, all the way to the other side of the swirling pool. Mojo’s eyes follow the blade, the growling rumble vibrating through her chest lowering to an uneasy grumble.

“See?” His voice snaps her attention back to him. Her eyes settle on him, icy and piercing. Leon swallows, a flush of hot and cold passing through him, legs shaking slightly as he waits another moment for her to register him as a non-threat. “We’re cool, right?”

He takes another step forward, his eyes flicking up a moment to see her lips pull back slightly, baring her teeth at him. Leon stills again, heart hammering against his chest. 

“Alright. It’s alright.” He croons, ducking his head, submitting, making himself as small as possible. “It’s scary, right? All these people screaming at you, keeping you locked up, hurting you…” 

She goes quiet, listening to the softness in his voice, uncertain of what to make of it. Leon continues to gradually edge towards her, inch by inch. 

“You just want the pain to stop, for the world to go quiet for a bit, for all of this to go away.” 

He slowly reaches up blindly towards her, flinching when he feels a strong force of cool air flowing over him and catching at his clothes as she releases a great huff. 

“All you want is to go home, right girl?” He says quietly. “Just like me. We’re not so different, huh?”

The light dims, Mojo’s shadow falling over him as she inspects his metal hand, before lowering further to sniff him, the massive tusks protruding from her lower jaw gently nudging against his open palm. 

A smile splits across Leon’s face at the familiarity of the gesture. He doesn’t think. Only vaguely registers the gasps and murmurs of surprise that sound around the stadium as he reaches forth to scratch at her chin. 

His eyes lift, his smile stretching wider when he’s met with her big, doofy grin. 

“Hey there stranger, it’s been a long time, yeah?” He scritches his nails across her jaw. “Who’s a good girl?” He coos. 

Her tail thumps against the floor, the ground shaking with each beat of the massive paddle. 

The fragile extension of trust between them is swiftly shattered when an ear-piercing shriek blares across the stadium. The intensity of the high-pitched sound immediately causes a sharp pain to burst to the forefront of his brain, threatening to burst his eardrums. He yells and drops to his knees, his hands slamming his hands over his tympana in a desperate attempt to block it out. 

Mojo yanks away from him, rising to her full height, her hackles rising. 

“Mojo!” He shouts over the shrill, his eyes widening, “Mojo, no! Wait—”

She bellows and rears up on her hind legs, threatening to bring her weight down and crush him beneath her feet.

Gods, being trampled to death is not how he wants to go. 

He winces as he pulls his metal hand away from his tympana, the full force of the shrill funnelling back in through his ears, drilling into the soft tissue of his brain. He lifts the prosthetic towards her, twisting his wrist downwards until a panel clicks and slides backwards. The bright spark is followed by a blinding heat as the orange blaze of fire plumes outwards from his arm and licks at Mojo’s front heels. 

She staggers backwards, falling back to all fours a safe distance from the flames. Leon deactivates the flamethrower, lowers his arm, and the shriek blasting through the stadium finally cuts off, turning the painful pressure filling the space of his skull to a cottony tinnitus. 

Mojo huffs furiously, her eyes wild, spikes rising from her back. She paws at the ground, upturning dust as she glares him down, a deep growl rumbling from her throat. Leon’s mind races, brain thrashing desperately for an idea, a solution that will be able to salvage this mess. 

“No— no.” He says firmly, like he’s trying to talk down a dog rather than a beast four times his size. His eyes flicker back to the sword discarded behind him. A mistake. The moment his eyes leave her, she darts forward. 

He pivots, heart in his throat as his foot slides across the ground, turning before he slams down hard against the pavement and leaps for the sword. Mojo spins with an agility that Leon is not expecting, her great, paddled tail coming around and clubbing him squarely in the chest. His vision blurs, his arms flailing uncontrollably in the air as he’s sent flying across the arena.  

He crashes headfirst into a pillar. 

His vision explodes with a bright white that envelopes his senses. For a moment the shock blankets him, leaving him disorientated, off-balance, the world swaying back and forth nauseatingly. Then the pain rushes back in, sharp and needlike, crackling like static electricity beneath his skin, radiating outwards from an epicentre of fire at the back of his head. Everything’s fuzzy, and he can’t tell if it’s from tearing up or because he can’t open his eyes properly. 

He tries to straighten from his slumped-over position, which turns out to not be a great idea when the earth turns to quicksand underfoot. Leon catches himself on his knees, his eyes squeezing shut as he raises his hand to the pulsating throb at the back of his head and wills the spinning to stop. His fingertips are met with something warm and wet. Not a promising sign. 

"Ow." He breathes. Potentially an understatement.

He brings his hand to his nostrils when he feels something tickling his upper lip. Also wet, and Leon knows that sure as hell that isn’t water.

He looks up, still a little dazed. He thinks he might have been thrown all the way to the other side of the arena. His chest feels a little funny. There’s a chance he’s simply knocked the bruising he suffered to his solar plexus from the last fight, but there’s a small chance that it’s something far worse. He takes an experimental deep breath in, nerves on edge as he awaits the sharp ache of his lungs colliding against cracked ribs, or something equally as gruesome. He blows out a relieved sigh when the organs expand and deflate without issue. A minor head wound, he can deal with. Cracked ribs and punctured lungs? Yeah, not so much. 

Mojo roars at him from across the stadium, and the crowd screams in delight. Leon winces, the noise increasing the painful pressure pushing against his skull. His heart stutters when he sees her brace her solid legs against the ground, head lowering and eyes glowing neon. She breathes in deep, and the crystals on her back begin to brighten; little blue fires sparking to life down her spine. 

The temperature suddenly drops, and the sudden flush of fear of what he knows is about to follow is enough to reboot Leon’s brain into functionality. 

“No!” He shouts, cold air filling his lungs as he scrambles to his feet. “Bad girl— bad girl!” 

It’s too late. Mojo lifts her head, a low rumbling bellow shaking through her chest, then a blinding light is bursting outwards from her. A blizzard of white forms around her, and in the next moment the force of the frigid gust is slamming into Leon, threatening to throw him off his feet. 

He lifts his prosthetic over his face in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the sudden visceral onset of frost hammering into him — watches with narrowed, stinging eyes as icy tendrils spread fractals across the metal of his forearm like frozen lightning. The storm immediately seeps numbness into his veins and stiffens his muscles, making the pain all the more acute as he braces against the wall of ice. Leon feels terribly exposed, his eyes watering, skin prickling from the frost, toes and feet turning to stiff icicles.

He lowers his arms when the blizzard diminishes to a biting cold, taking in the new scene before him. The arena has turned to white, snow dusting the ground, the swirling pool in the middle of the arena frozen over — transformed into a shining pane of glass. The bright lights of the arena bounce off the ice. But there’s something else that catches his eye, a different glint — a strip of metal lying just at the edge of the frozen waterline. His sword. 

Mojo huffs, a thick puff of steam exhaling from her nostrils as she paws at the ground, her body squaring up towards him. Leon’s next breath catches in his throat, pulse tripping over itself as adrenaline pumps into him, warming his blood. He’ll die here if he doesn’t force his aching limbs to do something, fast.

She surges into a charge, massive claws digging into the now frozen-over pool, and Leon races towards the ice to meet her. His legs feel numb and lethargic, but he forces them to push forward as fast as physically possible, no concern for grace, blood pounding in his ears, brain trying to thump its way out of his skull as he sprints towards his discarded blade. He swoops down and snags it from the floor without slowing. 

The moment he hits the ice he drops to his knees, sliding below Mojo’s legs and thrusting his sword upwards. The force of their opposing barrelling momentum sends the blade slicing through her vulnerable underbelly, easy as butter. 

He hears something heavy collapse behind him, but Leon’s still sliding, unable to get a grip on the ice. He looks up, heart jackhammering against the cage of his chest as the cavernous hole in the dead centre of the arena rapidly approaches.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He tries to dig his heels into the slippery ice. It’s useless. There’s nothing to hold onto, nothing to slow his approach. He’s about to become intimately aware of what’s on the other side of that hole. 

He feels his feet fall out over open space, his stomach dropping. He lifts the metal arm and punches it through the ice, finally yanking his momentum to a halt. 

He lies still, his legs dangling in the air, and for a moment all he can do is close his eyes and breathe until his heart ceases threatening to climb its way out of his body through his throat. Only once his pulse has slowed considerably does he chance looking down. 

Around the edge of the pit icicles have formed where water used to fall. The chasm below is long and dark. He feels almost as if he’s peering down a massive telescope. At the very end of the peephole, he can see the grey slate and colourful lights of the world below, shops and fields and buildings that are all very slowly moving beneath him. Except that… That can’t be right. This is the Hidden City… Sure, there’s a lot of mystic trickery going on down here, but this is an underground civilization, deep within the open arteries of the earth – the grotto as wide and cavernous as it is high. Leon had it in his head that they were in some kind of massive, dystopian high rise or something. The ground shouldn’t be visible below, and it definitely shouldn’t be moving, unless—

His breath catches in his throat. He digs his fingers into the frosty surface, the ice cracking and breaking beneath his fingers as he claws his way back towards a solid surface, away from the open chasm. 

The arena is flying over the earth. 

This whole thing — Big Mama’s new and improved Battle Nexus. It’s an airship.

He struggles to process that, unable to shake the glacial numbness that’s still clinging deep to his bones. He may need to scrap a few of his earlier plans. This… Complicates things. 

He slips and staggers back to the water’s edge, rising shakily to his feet once he reaches solid ground again. He lifts his chin from his chest, rising from where he’s hunched over his knees, and his stomach sinks at the sight before him. 

Mojo is collapsed on the floor, watching him, her hackles lowered, tail unmoving, a horrible, pained wheezing leaving her throat. Leon looks at her, and sees not a beast, not an enemy, but a scared, hurt, innocent creature. 

A coiling sickness churns in his gut as he slowly approaches, as careful and considerate as he’d been when she posed a far greater threat. When it’s clear she doesn’t have the strength to snap at him, he places an unsteady hand on her, eliciting a whine from the back of her throat, fear in the whites of her eyes. 

Guilt pierces through his chest. He wishes he could tell her it’s okay, that she’ll be okay, but the lie lodges in his throat. It’s too late. There’s no escaping this. No going home. Not for either of them. She considers him for a long moment, then her head slowly lowers, exposing her neck. 

Leon’s hand tightens around the hilt of his sword. He understands. 

“I’m sorry.” He chokes out. 

With that, he shoves his sword into her throat, slitting the thick artery open. 

He tries to make it a quick death, as painless as possible. She jerks, yelps, and Leon tosses his sword to the ground, placing his hands over her, trying to reassure — provide some semblance of comfort before she fades. 

“I’m sorry,” He repeats, quiet and low, his throat unbearably tight. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. 

He rubs a comforting hand against her jaw as he feels the life leave her, her eyes dulling, body going lax and still.

He vaguely registers the announcement of his victory. His pulse pounds in his head, his hands shake, voices are screaming at him from every direction, and he’s deaf to them all. His heart feels unbearably heavy, weighing down his chest as blood spreads across the floor of white at his knees. He feels disorientated; numbness that’s far more than a result of the cold. Tears… happen to him, the wetness rolling down his cheeks, unbidden. He cannot stop them. Can’t find the energy to wipe them away.  

The sudden onslaught of fatigue goes straight to his bones, saturating his mind. He longs to escape, from further than just here. A way away from the thoughts keeping him feeling so trapped, from the sickness clenching around his gut, eating away at his chest. He gathers together the scraps of his remaining strength to rise to his feet. He turns away from the dead creature and trudges mindlessly back towards the arena gate, waiting for it to lower so he can return to his cell. 

The bars however, remain firmly secured. 

Big Mama’s voice rings out through the arena. “Who’s ready for the next round?” 

The crowd roars. 

- - - 

Leo only gets a few minutes respite after Leon leaves before a guard is ambling into the cell again. The door swings shut behind him, leaving Leo feeling alone and isolated. The same question is posed. Leo knows what they want. 

“My answer isn’t any different.” He declares, strong and clear and leaving zero room for creative interpretation.  

Fear sparks through him when the guard crosses the room to tower over him, his hands clenching tightly, breaths leaving him a little faster as he gears up for a fight. He’s surprised then, when the guard doesn’t raise a fist. 

He doesn’t pull out a weapon. Doesn’t spit in his face. He simply crouches down to Leo’s height, and waits. The resultant anticipation as the man looms over him is somehow worse than the guard simply hitting him. Leo is overwhelmed by an urge to run, cower, hide. He stamps down on the fear, straightening his posture and glaring directly into the guard’s eyes.  

“You know,” He muses, “if you think we’re not giving you any choice here, you’re dead wrong. You could stop this. Right here, right now. You could put an end to things before they get messy. You have that option.” 

Leo turns his head away.

“Or,” He says softly, creeping closer, “you could let this continue.” 

Leo presses himself further into the wall when the yokai gets right up into his face, so close Leo can smell his rancid breath — feel the puffs of warm air hit his cheek. A chill races up his spine, disgust curling low in his gut. 

“You could go on, knowing that every time he returns, limping, bleeding, dying, that you’re the cause for it.” 

Leo’s gaze snaps back towards him, steely-eyed and angry, devoid of any humour. A smile tugs at the yokai’s lips, pleased to have finally gotten a noteworthy reaction out of him. 

“Maybe you could ignore it for a while. Pretend it isn’t happening – close your eyes, press your hands over your ears, block it all out. Tell yourself that it isn’t your fault…” He leans in even closer, his voice lowered to a whisper, like this is a secret held only between the two of them, “But you and I both know that one day he isn’t going to come back. And when that happens, deep down, you’ll know exactly who’s to bla—”

Leo surges forward and thrusts his forehead into the guard’s. Their skulls meet with a resounding crack, and the yokai staggers away from him. 

For a moment Leo’s dazed, his brain sloshing around in his head as he blinks away the stars filling his vision. He presses a palm against the wall, steadying himself against the sway of the world. Admittedly, not his smartest move, but damn if giving into that intrusive urge wasn’t satisfying. 

The guard growls, his hand pulling away from his face to reveal a bloody brow. Leo reaches instinctively for the swords strapped to the back of his shell, and- oh. Right. No weapons.   

The guard steps forward and throws a punch, and — so much for no hands being laid on him — Leo ducks under his fist. He jabs him in the stomach then slips behind him, into the open space of the cell. He’s not about to let himself get boxed into a corner again. 

The yokai pulls a baton from his belt, his face red with rage. Leo blocks his next swing with his forearm. A sharp pain  arcs up his arm as metal collides into bone. He steps into the guard’s space, takes hold of his vest, twists his shell towards the yokai’s chest, then kicks his leg backwards as he pulls hard, clipping his ankle out from under him and lifting from the ground before he throws him over his shoulder and slams him back into the floor. 

He immediately straddles the guard, holding his arm tightly behind his back with one hand as he searches his pockets for a key with the other. Any exhilaration at the possibility of getting out dies in his chest when he comes up empty. 

The world goes sideways as a solid weight crashes into Leo and pins him to the ground. He doesn’t remember hearing more guards coming in, but he feels the weight of them pressing him into the floor. Leo squirms, kicking and shoving. “Get off!” 

 He’s forced onto his plastron, then a knee’s being pressed into the back of his shell, directly over a healed crack. 

The pit of his stomach bottoms out, a scream lodging in his throat. He feels the storm rolling in on his psyche, his panting going broken and ragged as his body turns numb. The pressure increases, the knee grinding deeper into his shell, pinning him more firmly into the ground, intensifying his panic. The room begins to blur, the voices of the guards fading into an indiscernible background buzz, a shadow of red light falls over him – a mechanical eye leering down at him, grinding him into the dirt, forcing the air from his lungs. 

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore. He’s already dead. He’d come to terms with that – knew it the moment he told Casey to close the portal. He hadn’t run from it. He’d done his job, and for the first time, he’d done it well. It’s over. He’s died, and his family is safe, and beyond the fame, the glory, the recognition, that’s all he’s ever really wanted. He should be satisfied with that much. He keeps trying to tell himself again and again, with each hit, every piece of debris he crashes through – dead, dead, dead. Get it through your thick skull Leo. You’re already dead. 

He isn’t ready yet. 

God, fuck, he’s so selfish, such a coward, he can’t even do this with dignity. He can’t breathe and he’s cold and scared and alone and it hurts.

He wants to live. 

It’s in his head, Leo knows, he knows, but that head is currently being pressed into the dust and swimming from the dizziness and dehydration and exhaustion. Black spots are filling his vision and there’s nothing but static and the roar of blood rushing between his ears. He needs to breathe now or he’s going to pass out, but each time he tries the attempts catch in his chest—

He stops struggling, his body falling limp beneath their hold. The tinnitus in his ears reaches a fever pitch, the ache in his back throbbing in time with his frantic heartbeat. He counts himself through another twenty seconds of wheezing against the floor, struggling to suck oxygen into his lungs, before the pressure finally moves off of him. 

Between his heaving gulps of air, he doesn’t see the guards leave. Doesn’t register that he’s alone again, crying into the dirt until the room is dark and silent and he can no longer hear any movement outside. 

- - -

The panic gradually passes, though he can still feel its effects lingering on him, clinging onto him like a leech, draining him of energy. Leo sits there for hours, consciousness fading in and out as he shakes, floating just above the realm of cognizance, his mind buzzing, waiting for that door to open again. 

He’s managed to lift himself from his stupor by the time Leon returns.

His ‘uniform’ is just as bloodied and tattered as it had been before he’d left, though this time the rips are in new locations — one long slice through the sleeve of his kimono, another down the side of his leg, cutting the ribbons holding together the slit in his pants loose. The placement of the red splatters across the fabric have changed too. Looks like Big Mama’s given him a new set of clothes to messy. 

The older slider seems subdued, sluggish, like when torpor knocks at their door in the middle of winter. His eyes look even more glazed-over than before. He doesn’t look at Leo when he stands up. Doesn’t acknowledge his presence at all, even when Leo steps into his space. The sight of someone other than himself in need of help has Leo feeling more connected, more grounded to the present. 

“Hey.” He greets. He’s not really sure how to approach him when he’s in this… switched off, distant, post-bloodbath haze. “You good my dude?” He asks, using a softer tone than he’d usually address the other turtle with. 

He watches on, his concern mounting as Leon simply focuses on breathing, not responding to him at all. Leo’s scowl deepens at the faint clacking sound coming from him, recognising the noise immediately. Leon’s teeth are chattering. 

The sluggishness is beginning to make more sense. He’s cold. Now that Leo’s looking for it, he can see the paleness in his face, his lips taking on a slight tinge of blue. The slight quiver to his frame isn’t him trembling from shock – he’s shivering. 

“Leo.” He calls more firmly, the worry taking on a tighter grip around his throat. “Answer me.”

When he continues to stare unseeing ahead, Leo lifts a hand and lightly slaps his face. Leon blinks, his head jerking back. Some awareness returns to his eyes, his gaze flitting around the room as he takes in his surroundings.  

“What happened?” He asks. Well, it’s more of a demand really. Anxiety swirls nauseatingly around the pit of his stomach. He’s worried, but he’s also sick of being left both literally and figuratively in the dark. 

“Bit chilly out there.” Leon says finally, so quietly Leo has to strain to hear him.  

“Chilly.” Leo repeats, frustration creeping into his concern. He could have deduced that much on his own.

“Got flung across the stadium.” He adds monotonously, like he’s reading out specials from Run of the Mill’s Pizza menu. “Thought I was flying for a good second there… Right up until I slammed into the pillar.”

“No jests this time?” He asks, aiming to warm the frigid atmosphere a touch. The last time Leon recounted his fight, he hadn’t been able to go through five consecutive sentences without inserting a dumb pun. 

Leon gives a small shrug. “There’s only so much humour you can milk out of things trying to kill you.”

“Or you’re losing your touch.”

Leon doesn’t provide any response. He looks the part of a man at the end of a very long, very frayed rope. Leo’s almost worried if he tugs too hard, he’ll come apart.  

Something at the corner of his eye captures his attention, and his hand reaches automatically for the dark patch at the base of Leon’s skull. Leon jumps when he brushes fingers against it. His skin radiates cold, and Leo’s hand pulls away sticky and red with blood.

“Your head’s bleeding.” He murmurs faintly, his mind taking a moment to truly process the dire seriousness of that observation.

“Hm?” Leon hums, appearing to barely register the words. His focus is ebbing in and out like waves. 

Leo’s chest clenches, panic flushing through him. He takes hold of his shoulder — ensuring Leon remains steady on his feet as he pulls him down to examine his head. Finding the source of the problem isn’t difficult (there are some advantages to being bald), but Leo’s at a loss for what to do when he’s faced with the dark, purpling bruise that’s formed around the bleeding wound at the back of his head. His heart stutters in his chest when he pulls Leon back to find his eyes have already slipped closed. 

“Leo! Hey!” He calls, alarm and anxiety causing his voice to come off harsher than he intends. “Look at me.”

Leon’s eyes are heavy-lidded when they crack open, but his gaze locks with Leo’s, immediate and only slightly wavering. 

“You’re bleeding.” He repeats more urgently, showing Leon his blood-stained fingers. 

Leon blinks slowly at the hand in front of his face, far more calm than Leo feels. 

“Huh. Would you look at that.” He notes absentmindedly. 

“You didn’t know?”

“Eh.” Leon shrugs. He stands a little straighter, shaking himself from his daze. “Everything’s a little hazy to be honest.”

“That’s usually a good indication of a head wound.” He says pointedly, a weary concern colouring his tone. 

Leon exhales a laugh, half shudder and half shiver. “I’ll live.”

Leo bites back a snarky response - something about him looking like he’s ready to be lowered into a grave - and points to the floor, “Sit.” He orders, their positions reversed to the day prior.

He doesn’t put up much of a fight. The floor is probably exactly where Leon wants to be right now. He looks up once he’s cross legged on the ground, shoulders still shaking slightly from the cold. His eyes squint a little as he cranes his neck back, his eyes scanning over him in a way that makes Leo’s skin prickle uncomfortably. “Did something happen to you?”

“What?” Leo blanches. Leon can’t possibly know about the guards. Can’t know how weak he’d been—

“You’re…” His mouth twists, features pinching together. “I don’t know. You seem shaken.”

Leo presses his nails into the palms of his hands. A voice is screaming from a dark corner of his mind that this would make the older slider think less of him. 

“You’re projecting.” He deflects. “And also bleeding all over me, which, yaknow, may have something to do with it.”

Leon’s brow wrinkles, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. He thankfully doesn’t push the subject. Which is good, because they have much bigger things to be worried about right now. Namely, getting Leon warm somehow. 

Leo takes his scarf and wraps it around Leon’s neck, then tucks himself beneath Leon’s left arm, ignoring the sweat and the dirt and the blood as he sidles up against his side. Leon looks down at him with an odd look, a deep crease forming between his brows. 

“This is cosy.” He murmurs, the briefest shadow of that old humour of his edging it’s way back into his voice. “I suppose you don’t hate me then.”  

“I thought you hated me.” He snaps back. He snatches Leon’s flesh and blood hand, taking it between his own and angrily rubbing some warmth back into his frozen digits. “It was an appropriate reaction. Only Mikey makes friends with people that hate him.”

A loose smile tugs at his lips. “True.”  

His eyelids slip closed as he leans into Leo, stealing some of the heat radiating from him. The intensity of his shivering eases after a few minutes, his breathing gradually evening out as he slumps more and more against him. Usually these would be promising signs, but between his head wound and the possibility of him falling into brumation, the last thing he wants is Leon getting so relaxed he falls unconscious. 

He jabs his fingers into his ribs, right where he knows his old wound is. Leon startles, his eyes snapping back open.

“Don’t go to sleep.” Leo orders. 

“I wasn’t.” He argues, rubbing his side. 

Leo glowers at him. If Leon has a concussion he needs to be kept awake for at least another three hours. And if the cold is causing his body to initiate brumation he needs to be kept awake for… a lot longer than that, probably. 

“So supposedly Big Mama wants a new champion to sell tickets and restore her rep, right?” Leo asks, hoping that the conversation will keep his mind occupied. 

“Hm.”

“But you think the real reason she wants dad is because she’s… I don’t know, lonely?” He asks, probing for some kind of motivation here. “She knows her ex won’t fight again. Not for her, and definitely not without any incentive. And so her solution here is to kidnap her ex’s sons to extrapolate his location and blackmail him.”

“I guess.”

Leo scowls at Leon’s lack of contribution. He’s going to need to kick up the ante to rouse some participation out of Leon’s near-catatonic state. 

“Why don’t we just set her and daddy-o up for like… Tuesday date nights.”

There’s an obvious tick in Leon’s jaw, his lips pressing firmly together. Got him. 

“What?” Leo asks, prodding a stick at that hornet’s nest, “He’s clearly still down bad. Down horrendous. Diabolically down-” 

Leon cuts him off with a growl, “I get it.” 

“My point is, dad was ready to forgive her even after she locked the whole city in a snowglobe and re-released Shreddie… Granted, she’s terrible, but technically we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. She’s practically our really shitty mother.”

Leon grumbles, agitation panging at his temples. “Let’s get one thing straight. If anyone’s our shitty mother, it’s Draxum.” 

“And Mikey was able to get him to chill out, why not her?” 

He groans. “Because that would be… the worst polycule in existence. Gods, imagine even being in the same room with that… Nightmare blunt rotation.” Leon mumbles, his voice lowering to no louder than a whisper as he nuzzles into his scarf and begins to drift off.

Leo digs his elbow into him. “No sleeping!”

He shakes himself awake, his chin pulling away from the comfortable fabric. “I’m not.” He mutters. 

“Prove it. Give me an actual reason.”

He sighs heavily. “Because Draxum is capable of being half-reasonable around dad, he’s able to apply reason, but Sylvia’s attachment to him… It’s downright toxic, and it always will be.” 

Leon’s eyes slowly draw closed as he mulls that over for a moment. Leo nudges him. “Elaborate please.”

Leon’s expression darkens, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Any genuine love she could’ve had for dad would’ve been conditional. Only holding up so long as he did everything she wanted. Maybe she was just stringing him along for her plans initially, and then later on, when it started feeling like something more than that, when the emotion became too all-consuming, she decided she would lock him away. Keep him to herself forever. Or maybe it was simply a case of her getting bored one day, or her commitment issues sending her into a rage the moment dad popped the question. I don’t know. We probably never will. What I do know is who she is. What she is.” 

“And what’s that?”

“A business woman. And a damn good one, at that.” 

He shifts against Leo, burrowing further into his side, seeking out warmth. “Go on.” Leo prompts, pushing lightly at his head, urging him to continue. This is worse than pulling Donnie’s teeth. 

Leon exhales against him. “She views the world as a system of transactions. That’s just her nature. Always has been.” There’s a strange note to his voice, almost like he pities her, even after all this, after everything that she’s put their family through. “Her relationship with dad was only worth as much to her as what she could get out of it. Fame, money, attention. The moment it became more than she felt it was worth, more than she could handle—”

“She put an end to it.” Leo finishes for him. 

“No.”  

He pulls his head back to look up at Leon, his brow ridge pinching together.  

“If she could have ended it, dad would never have stepped foot into that arena. He would never have met Draxum, and yes, as much as I loathe to admit it, like you said, we never would have come to be.” 

Leo slowly nods, following along. After all these years, this relentless obsession with Lou Jitsu, the bounties on their heads, the two of them being locked away in this cursed cell. These are not signs of a woman who has put her past behind her. 

“She never ended anything.” Leon mutters, the words weighing down the corners of his mouth. “She altered the terms of the deal.” 

Chapter Text

Leo wakes to the feeling of a hand gently shaking his shoulder. 

He jerks forward, eyes snapping open to darkness, his hands flying for his own raw throat as he gasps for air. He scratches, mindlessly digs at the skin as though he can reach through and dislodge the blockage. It feels as if his lungs have been placed in a tight clamp, his diaphragm spasming painfully with each shallow breath, his empty stomach threatening to upchuck bile. 

Pressure wraps around his wrists, pulling his fingernails away from his neck. A muffled voice reaches him, “-eo, hey! Let go. You’re okay.” 

Leo feels very inclined to snap that ‘No the fuck he is not’, can’t they see he’s suffocating here? But the voice by his ear is kind and the grip around his wrists firm— grounding. Despite his lungs protesting otherwise, he’s inclined to believe it. Leo holds onto that presence; the promise of another person so close. 

He’s alive, he can breathe, he’s not alone. 

The pressure around his throat finally releases, and his chest convulses as he sucks oxygen into his starved lungs. 

“Good, Leo.” The presence says softly, the approval going straight to his head, pulling him up from the depths. “That’s it. I’ve got you. Let go.” 

Leo sinks into the voice. Sits there for who knows how long, sweating, shaking, spinning those thoughts on repeat as he tries to swallow down air — alive, can breathe, not alone, and the whole time the solid presence next to him murmurs soothing words of encouragement, loud and bright enough to burn away the afterimage of the nightmare. 

Slowly, when he’s calmed to the point that his head has cleared and his heart is no longer pounding between his tympana, his dim surroundings come back into view, the world around him sharpening in clarity. 

Leon sits besides— well… beneath Leo, really, the way he’s slumped over his lap. He glances up at the older slider, his memory of the night prior rushing back to him. 

“Your head–” Leo croaks out, straightening and wincing at the pull of his muscles that the movement elicits. 

His whole body is sore from overexertion – a consequence of both the constant tension of sleep and the panic that’d locked up his chest. 

“I’m fine.” Leon reassures him with a small smile– and how does he do that? How is he able to conjure forth that expression with such ease? After everything he’s been through? That he is still going through? Leo doesn’t have the energy in him to try and plaster on a false grin at this point, and here Leon is, the softness of his smile reaching the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. 

More experience inspiring hope in hopeless situations, Leo supposes. 

“I managed to stay awake.” Leon says. “Promise.”

Leo relaxes minutely at that, his weight sinking more heavily into the floor. Leon peers down at him with that look of concentration he gets when he’s taking inventory, puzzling him out. Leo withers a little beneath the gaze. Now that he’s overcome his terror, embarrassment takes its stead.  He scrubs an arm across his wet cheeks then plops his head down between his hands, hiding from Leon’s gaze. 

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep.” He mutters. The nightmares are getting worse. More frequent. It seems every time he closes his eyes of late, it’s the same.

Leon’s face twitches towards Leo for a moment as the older slider gives him a quick, sidelong once-over. “I thought at least one of us should get some beauty Z’s.” He nudges him lightly. “And you definitely need it more than I do.”

Leo scoffs and lifts his head long enough to give him a playful shove in the shoulder. It’s far too weak to come close to shifting Leon’s weight, but Leon goes limp, letting Leo push him back to the ground beside him. Leon’s considerably warmer than the last time he’d checked. Seems far more coherent now, too. Both good things. 

“Whatever old man.” Leo barks without any real bite. “You’ve hit your head one too many times.” 

Leon sucks air between his teeth. “That’s a low blow. You know I can’t defend myself against that one. Kissing hard objects at high velocities is my forehead’s favourite pastime.”

Leo shakes his head, his lips twitching into a smile. “Idiot.” 

He knows what Leon’s trying to do here, trying to pretend everything’s as it should be. It doesn’t quite work, but things feel less oppressive than they have, with Leon nearby. He doesn’t know how he’d do this alone. Is grateful for the reprieve provided by the familiar bickering — for what little normalcy it offers, so far from the comfort of his brothers. 

He mood sobers at that thought, his mind unhelpfully reminding him where he is. For a time, bar the tandem rhythm of their breathing, the room is silent. The cell is dark and dank as ever, the sour, damp, mouldy smell about as appealing as it’d been in the sewers. 

When Leon speaks again, his voice is quieter, as though speaking too loudly will shatter the air between them. “Another nightmare?”

He should’ve known Leon wouldn’t let him get away without talking about this. Old bastard. 

Leo delays answering by rubbing a palm over where his own fingernails had dug into his neck. For a moment he considers making a joke of this somehow. Waving the whole cowerbummer event off like he always does. And maybe on another day — a brighter one, with a more put-together Leo and surrounded by a more mentally stable family – he would. But tonight… Tonight he is tired, and it’s so quiet here. The world is dim; not a single slither of light between himself and Leon. Lying to himself has always felt so goddamn pointless, and the hardest truths are so much easier to dispel in the darkness.

“I fall.” 

The confession sounds impossibly loud to his own ears. 

There’s a long pause, then, when Leo fails to elaborate, the words forming and drying on his tongue. 

“Hm?” He feels more than hears Leon hum the curious tone. 

He feels the older slider shift,turning towards him, his eyes drifting towards the dark space where he’s lying. Leo swallows, apprehension falling over him. He’s never told anyone this before. At first he thought that it would eventually disappear so long as he didn’t give it voice. And when it didn’t… It wouldn’t be the first secret that Leo would be taking to his grave.

Leo clears his throat and tries again. “Everytime I go to sleep… I fall.” 

He stops, because, yeah. That’s it. That’s the main issue, but it’s not enough. It contextualises absolutely nothing for the second party, but Leo is struggling to find the foundational words that give rise to that horror — I fall. 

Graciously, Leon doesn’t butt in. Just waits patiently for Leo to continue. Leo imagines he’s probably done something like this before. He rubs a thumb into the middle of his hand, forcing himself to go on — start where most people would — from the beginning. 

“I’m in Manhattan and Draxum is holding me over the side of that building.” He says slowly, and the words he starts forming feel more like termites coming out of his throat than sound. “Then there’s the feeling of weightlessness, the roar of wind in my ears, and the windows are whipping past me, and the ground is closing in too fast, and I don’t have my swords and Raph isn’t there. He never comes to save me. He’s never there to cushion the blow or clean up my mess or fix my mistakes.”

It’s strange for the words he’s kept so close to his chest for so long to suddenly be out in the open, hanging in the air rather than sitting like locusts feasting away at his innards. It still feels raw, stomach-churning, but it’s already better than keeping the pent-up swarm inside of him. 

“Then, the sequence changes up, and instead of me, it's Raph dangling by the leg from Draxum’s vines, or Mikey, or Donnie, or Casey or April, and I’m in Raph’s shoes. I’m the leader. The decision-maker. The responsible one. And every time, I’m the one that lets them die.”

Leon shifts slightly against him. Leo bites his lip, guilt pinging at him. This isn’t supposed to be about the older slider, but at the root of it all, it’s always been Leo’s fears against Leon’s history. How can it not be? 

“Next I’m standing on that building, looking up at the Krang ship, watching as the portal closes.” He swallows back the shame of what he’s about to admit, thick in his throat. “And I’m so goddamn relieved that it isn’t me that’s closed it. I don’t… I don’t have to go through that again. I never had to in the first place. I’m safe and I’m so happy.” 

He clenches his eyes shut, anger rising from that deep well of self-hatred in his stomach. 

“Right up until I realise that, if not me, then it’s someone else. One of my brothers. Casey. April. Dad. Fuck, even some well-meaning innocent Joe selfless enough to understand that the whole world means more than just one person. And it makes me feel like the bottom detritus of all matter to have ever felt a modicum of comfort that our roles had been switched.”

Leon makes a small noise, vaguely similar to a protest, but he holds himself back before it can fully form. Instead, he places a warm hand over where Leo’s nail is digging into his palm. Leo allows the contact, releasing a deep exhale.

“It always goes back to the falling.” Leo continues. “Draxum dropping me from that building, or slipping on the Technodrome and watching my brothers die as I descend back to New York, or…” He hesitates, a faint tremor running through his frame. “Or neon red eyes. Claws and metal and weightlessness and the freezing cold. Plunging through rock and debris in the suffocating vacuum of nothingness with… with him.”

Leon gives a squeeze of his hand, pulling him back before he loses himself to the memory. Leo clears his throat – regrets it almost when the grounding comfort of the hand falls away. 

“Sometimes it's just one of those things, sometimes it’s all three at once, blending into one another. All I know for sure is that the moment I close my eyes, it’ll be a never-ending plummet. And it’s… it’s not the pain of hitting the ground that scares me.” Leo chuckles a noise too brittle and weak to resemble humour. “Death would almost be a relief at that point… It’s just that— that purgatory which makes things worse. Everything stuck in free-fall — stomach in my chest, heart in my throat, unable to think, unable to breathe. I’m just…  There’s nothing I can do. It won’t end until I open my eyes, but as soon as I’m awake-...” He trails off, his hands tightening around one another. 

“You feel just as helpless.” Leon murmurs.

Leo’s head snaps towards him. Leon lays in the dark light, hands behind his head, staring up at the brick ceiling. He turns towards him with a small smile. “You’re not. Trust me. It just feels that way sometimes.”

Leo thought this kind of vulnerability would be nauseating — humiliating. Belly-up, neck bare, dangerous. But Leon understands. He can sympathise, perhaps better than anyone else in the world. That’s the one good thing about knowing yourself. There’s no reason for Leo to hide from him – nothing he has done in his life that is any worse than what Leon has already been through. They will always share more similarity than difference.

Perturbed, Leo looks away. How can Leon be so calm here? So rational? All Leo has to do is sit in this cage, and even then, sometimes it feels like the four walls are folding in, dark and heavy and oppressive, crushing him. How can you not feel hopeless in this situation?

“With the portal situation…” Leon deliberates, his arms crossing over his chest. “Do you think… I dunno, I’m just spit-balling here — maybe you’re scared of trying.” 

He wants to feel offended by the quasi-accusation. The implication that he’s not putting his all into this – that he does have the power and capability within him, but can’t get over this inane mental block. He wants to be mad. Instead, he just snorts. 

Of course I’m scared of trying. 

“I don’t know if I have it in me to save us.” Leo confesses. The evidence of what he’s capable of is right in front of him, but what if Leo can’t live up to– to that. To the greatest ninja the world has ever seen — the last shining ray of hope in an apocalyptic wasteland. It feels arrogant and narcissistic to even consider it, which is everything Leo’s been trying not to be ever since the whole Krang disaster began. Leon stepped up to lead a world on the brink of death. How is Leo expected to compare, when the here and now is terrible enough?

Leon’s the strongest person he’s ever met, and yet he’s also suffered through more than Leo thought any one person could handle whilst still remaining halfway sane. Leo’s scared of himself. Of what he could become. Of what he might not. The fear is consumptive – corrupting everything it touches, colouring the good to bad and the bad to contemptible. If he’s honest with himself, he has no trust that Leon’s dependence on him isn’t a waste of both their precious time. 

“Not trying would be easier.” Leo says on an exhale. It’s confusing. Surely nothing could be worse than sitting with his own inadequacies and losing everything as a result, but… “If I do try, and I fail—”

If he puts everything he has into this — risks it all, then has the fallout become a direct reflection of his inability—

“You become me.” Leon summarises.

Leo freezes. It isn’t meant to be a jab at him. Leon seems perfectly accepting of it, but Leo regrets putting the suggestion into his head all the same. He immediately wants to refute it, because Leon is so much more than just his failures, but he can’t find the words. Doesn’t know how to clarify. Can’t think of a single shitty thing to say. He exhales harshly, lungs burning through the silence.

He jumps a little when Leon reaches across to pat his shoulder. He’s so much nearer than he was before. Leo doesn’t remember closing that distance. “You’re allowed to be afraid.” 

Leo stares at him, then scoffs. “You’re one to talk. You’re never afraid.”

Leon surprises him when he laughs, the noise sharp and loud in contrast to the stifling quiet. “Christ… You really have no clue, do you?” 

Leo frowns at him, lost. “What?”

“Me being older doesn’t make me any less you.” Leon says wryly. “There’s some stuff you just don’t grow out of. Most days I still feel like the same dumb kid as I always was.” 

“Oi!” Leo exclaims.

Leon continues, ignoring the protest. “My point is… Not a moment passes where I’m not terrified.” 

Leo turns to stare at him in disbelief. He’s joking, right? No one would describe Leon as stable, per say, but the older slider holds himself with confidence – he always feels larger than life when he’s in a room, the way he’s able to command respect from people with his presence alone. Leon has a way of making others feel comfortable and safe under his watch. Leo would’ve never guessed…

“Every second of every day I’m scared shitless of losing everything all over again.” Leon admits, and… oh—

Oh. 

Leo realises (again, again, again) that there is so much misery to Leon he still doesn’t know. More than just losing his family – an entire turbid history roiling just below a calm surface. So many things that are bigger and more terrible than Leo’s worst experiences. And he will never know all of it. He’s not so cruel to ask about it — request Leon live it over in his mind again for no other sake than knowing.

And sheesh, he knows Leon’s only trying to help but this is really not helping his intrinsic dread around having the capacity to be everything Leon is, for better or for worse.

“Fear is normal — healthy, even.” Leon says, like he hasn’t just dropped a bomb that Leo’s going to have to mull over for weeks. “No one has the right to criticise you for feeling what you feel. Just… be careful that it doesn’t stop you from living in the moment.”

Leo considers that seriously for a moment. “I don’t want to live in this moment. I want to be home. Muy rapido, preferably.”

Leon gives him a rueful grin. “Get us back there, then.”

“Yeah, sure, not to worry,” He bites sarcastically, swinging his arms out wide, “let me just whip out my mastered swordless portal powers and get us right on out of here.” 

“I’m ready whenever you are.” 

“You know I’m not ready.” Leo grouses, because Leon’s sat through his attempts every day for the last… however long it’s been since they were first thrown into this cell. “I need real, actual training. From like… someone other than myself, I don’t know, a tortoise on the top of a mountain or something.”

Leon huffs a laugh. “This isn’t Kung Fu Panda.” 

Leo crosses his arms. “Clearly. Grand Master Oogway would be far more help than you.” 

“Well that’s just an unrealistically high standard you’re asking me to live up to.” Leon pouts.

Leo shakes his head, muttering under his breath quietly. “Yeah, that’s exactly how I feel.”

Not quietly enough. Leon perks up, brow ridge furrowing. “What was that?”

He looks away, considering for a few moments whether or not he should repeat himself. He taps a finger anxiously against his own arm, a different question coming to mind, unbidden. “What if I’m not enough?” 

Silence. Then, Leon’s voice in the dark, soft and sympathetic. “Leo—”

Leo grits his teeth, frustrated by the tone. He’s not fishing for empathy here. He didn’t ask for the sake of throwing himself a pity-party — doesn’t want to be treated with kid’s gloves. He’s just trying to be rational about this. This is a realistic concern to be having. “You’ve seen me fight,” Leo points out, “If I never get my powers back, I’ll be too weak to lead. I won’t be able to protect them. I’ll be nothing—”

Leon sits up sharply, a deep furrow forming between his brows, newfound gravity to his tone when he asks, “Do you think I’m weak?” 

Leo stares at him, eyes wide as he leans back a bit. What kind of question is that? 

“No?” He answers slowly. “Why would I think that?”

Leon ignores him, barrelling forward with his own question. “Is Casey or April?”

Leo stares at him, appalled. “No. Of course not.”

Leon nods, satisfied. “Your powers are a tool — a powerful one, at that, but they’re not what makes you strong. They’re not who you are. Dad chose you to be leader because he believed in you. And the others went along with it because they trust you.” He stresses, poking Leo’s plastron. 

Leo chews at the corner of his lip. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Leo had always been the one seeking attention, reassurance, validation growing up. One of the ones Raph counted on to make new problems, not solve them. He still doesn’t know how to make the tough decisions, provide the right answers, pull everyone together to form a cohesive unit. How to be someone worth their trust.

Leon takes hold of his shoulder, pulling him back to earth before Leo can fall down that negative spiral, then – as if he can hear exactly what Leo was thinking (and it’s almost disheartening to know that Leon can guess, lending credit to the fact he’s wasted so much of his life agonising over this) — he says. “I don’t want you to look to me, or Raph, or dad, or… freaking Jupiter Jim. You don’t have to be the best in the world. You don’t have to prove anything. You’re their brother. All you have to be is right there with them.”

Leo stares at him, taking that in, trying and failing to will himself to believe it. Leon makes it sound so easy. Too good to be true. Surely, surely there’s more to it than that. “I want to be more.” He says quietly, the words falling from his lips before he has the time to really consider forming them. “For them. I want to be better.”

Leon releases a sigh. “You’re already enough, Leo. They would go anywhere you lead without question.” He pauses, then amends. “Okay, maybe with some mild complaints, but my point stands. They never followed you because you could jump through portals… They follow you because of this—” He reaches over and flicks Leo on the upside of his head. 

“Ow.” Leo protests, rising to his elbows and rubbing a hand over the spot. 

“And because of this.” Leon presses firmly against his chest. 

Leo freezes, his eyes dipping to where Leon’s warm hand is placed right over his heart. He stares for a long moment, slowly coming to terms with the fact that this is, if not the first instance, then surely the longest period of time he and Leon have found some middle ground of understanding — engaged in kind words of encouragement and soft, casual contact for no other reason than because it’s comforting. Similar to any hug or pat on the back that Leon would freely administer to Casey or April or Dad or any other one of his brothers without a second thought. It isn’t until now that Leo truly realises how much he’d been missing out on — how much he’d envied not just Leon for the attention, but his family, too.

He’s almost disappointed when Leon’s hand finally falls away. 

Leo watches silently as the older slider settles back down to the ground, his arms rising behind his head as he lays down, back popping quietly as he straightens himself out with a groan. “Don’t worry so much about it, kid.” He says, his eyes slipping closed. 

“A portal would help us get out of here, though.” He murmurs.

Leon rolls his head in a round-about approximation of an agreement. “That much, I’ll admit, is true.” 

With that, the cell falls back into a comfortable silence. 

Leo eyes off the spot beneath Leon’s left arm for some time, deliberating over whether he should make a move or not. It’s cold in this hellhole, especially with his shell pressed against the stone floor, and Leo’s learned from the last night or two that close proximity with Leon tends to fight back the worst of that chill. The older slider runs surprisingly warm. 

He gives in to the compulsion and hesitantly scooches forward, freezing in place when Leon cracks one of his eyes open halfway. Leon eyes the uncertainty in Leo’s posture, any emotion beyond dead tired in his expression unreadable. Leo’s about to awkwardly pull back away from the inches of leeway he’d been closing between himself and Leon over the last minute or so when Leon suddenly reaches out. Leo blinks as the metal arm reaches around his back, Leon’s eyes shutting once more as he pulls Leo close.

It almost comes as a shock, just how comfortable he is with Leon taking that action. The speed in which they’ve overcome differences Leo would’ve thought insurmountable. There’s always been a side of him that’s looked up to Leon, but after their first meeting, his presence had always seemed to come with specially designed fish-hooks, perfect for lodging right in Leo’s brain and wreaking havoc. He’d struggled to imagine a world where he got along with the guy, let alone liked him as a person. 

They lie in the darkness for a while, the cool weight of Leon’s metal arm keeping Leo pressed close to the warmth radiating from his plastron, their breaths slowly evening out. Leo’s eyes grow heavy with the calm and the heat, but he’s unable to still the swirl of thoughts circling his mind. 

“If I work it out…” He murmurs against Leon. “Even if I manage to teleport... What if I can’t get you out too?”

Leon leans back a little, regarding him with bleary eyes and a look that’s torn between startlement and muted amusement. “That’s something that bothers you?” 

“Of course it bothers me!” Leo shoots back, and it’s only once the words are floating in the air does he have the wherewithal to be embarrassed by the immediacy in which they were punched out of him. His cheeks heat at Leon’s surprised, slightly abashed expression. “Don’t look so shocked.” He mutters. It bears questioning. It’s Leon’s fault for pulling self-sacrificial stunts all the time — the infuriatingly empty-headed martyr (and God, that thought makes him feel far too much like Raph). Leo has no assurance that Leon won’t just keel over and die the moment Leo’s safe. “Casey would murder me if I came home empty-handed. The rest of them probably wouldn’t be all that pleased, either. We don’t leave family behind.” 

Leon blinks, seemingly stunned by the declaration. Why is it always such a surprise to him that people give a shit?

Leo lifts a brow. “Staying behind wasn’t your plan B, was it?”

Leon shakes his head, then lays his head back down, arm resettling over Leo. “Whatever happens, I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

Leo frowns and props himself up on an elbow. “You’re evading the question.” 

“There is no plan B, Leo.” Leon replies. Firm, confident, eyes ever so casually averted. “This is it.” 

Leo stiffens, the concept instantaneously, hideously corrosive to his insides. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed Leon would have at least some semblance of a back-up plan. It just doesn’t seem like himself to place his own life in someone else’s hands. His voice is dry when he utters. “Well that’s not terrifying.” 

“It’s a lot to be putting on your shoulders, I know. I’m sorry.” 

Leo grimaces. He wasn’t looking for an apology. “How do you know I’ll be able to work it out?” He asks, pressing for something more substantial — something that explains the faith that Leon is placing in him, for whatever reason. 

Leo feels Leon’s plastron expand as he takes a deep breath. He releases his answer on a tired exhale. “I just do.”

He must, is what Leon means. There’s no other option, is what Leo hears. He scowls. “What if I can’t?”

“You can.” Leon replies with not a trace of hesitation. “You will. I believe in you.”

Leo’s first instinct is to laugh – expel that cold, self-deprecating feeling in his chest, but the way Leon says it… Simple and sincere. It’s not fair. They’re not playing on the same ground. Despite never truly voicing it, this kind of unconditional trust in Leo’s ability is always something he’s secretly yearned for, so badly, and Leon knows it. He must know it. But at the same time, he doesn’t sound like he’s lying. Leon — who has seen the outcomes of every one of his worst decisions.

“You–” Leo starts. Stops before something like ‘you shouldn’t’ or ‘please don’t’ can leave his lips. Instead, he says, a slight frown on his face, almost dumbfounded. “You actually mean that, don’t you?”

Air hits the top of Leo’s head as Leon releases a huff. The older slider curls a little tighter around him then mumbles. “Go to sleep, Leo.”

He lays still beneath the stiff, heavy weight of Leon’s metal arm, shocked into silence for a good minute, no quip or joke coming to mind capable of dispelling the embarrassment of feeling so seen. There’s no way he can casually brush off Leon’s blind faith without coming off as a complete asshole. 

In the dim light, Leo stares at the long slashes through Leon’s plastron, the countless chips and cracks in places where Leo has none, the gnarled scarring around the connection between his shoulder and prosthetic, and wonders how someone who’s gone through so much because of him can still have hope in him. 

Before he can think better of it, Leo’s hand is rising to trace over one of Leon’s scars — his finger tracing over where it stretches across his left side to where the damage bites into the keratin bridging his shell and carapace, following all the way to the end at his abdominal scutes. It’s probably his deepest scar. Though healed now, the cut is shallow enough to have drawn a fair amount of blood when it was fresh. 

“What’re you doin?” 

Leo jumps at the low register of Leon’s voice. There’s more mild curiosity than annoyance to his tone. Leo snatches his hand back all the same. He makes a conscious effort to avert his eyes, though he can feel Leon’s half-awake gaze on him, waiting for an answer. 

Leo shrugs, and for a complete lack of a better excuse, says. “Your arm is cold.” 

The complaint is quiet and half-hearted at best. Unconvincingly, as far as Leon should be concerned, but without another word, the cold metal pulls away as Leon shifts onto his plastron. He repositions Leo with a couple nudges — seemingly well-practised in the art of manoeuvring a heavy arm and a smaller brother around for optimal comfort, and the next thing he knows the warmth of Leon’s left side is practically plastered over Leo. 

For a couple of seconds, Leo’s unable to untense. He hadn’t realised just how on edge he’d been since that whole disaster with the guards — the sensation of pressure against his shell a little too reminiscent of a nightmare lingering at the corner of his consciousness. 

“I don’t think I’m getting my pants back.” Leon notes forlornly.

The comment hits him completely out of the blue. Leo blinks, his train of thought stuttering to a halt. 

“You mean the shitty, grubby, worn-out patchwork of cloth that was tacky and gross from dried blood?” He asks, brows furrowing. 

Leon confirms, sad and wistful. “Those were my favourite pants.” 

Leo twists his head around slightly to stare at him. “They were your only pants.” He points out.

“I miss them.”

Leo, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, releases a silent sigh and slumps into the floor. 

He used to find it annoying — this obsessive preoccupation Leon has with the possessions of his past. He didn’t understand why he’d want keepsakes from the post-apocalypse. Leo has his own material attachments, of course. He misses a lot of things. His phone, his skateboard, his nintendo switch. He misses the smell of Mikey’s pancakes in the morning, fighting with Donnie over the best game controller, practising pro-wrestler moves with Raph, the sight of dad passed out on the living room chair. He misses wide open skies and the feeling of sunlight on his face. He misses not having to feel like this crushing, oppressive pressure every second of every day.

Leon’s been bereft of most of these things for the majority of his life. All he misses is his gross, torn-up pants from a broken future.

Leo thinks he gets it now. This need to have something tangible that maintains his connection to where he’d come from — some loose thread keeping him attached to the memories of when his family was still around, even if it’s nothing more than a scrap of dirty cloth. 

Leo yearns for a return to the life he can see waiting for him. Leon’s used to mourning the memories of things long past. 

“Least you got to keep the masks.” Leo murmurs.

Leon is silent for five, six, several seconds. Longer. Long enough Leo’s half-convinced he’s already fallen asleep, then there’s a soft rumble. “Hm.” A quiet, sombre agreement.

A calmer quiet settles in after that. Leo’s surprised to notice he’s gone completely lax under the warm bulk pinning him against the floor. It’s almost pleasant now that he knows the pressure isn’t isn’t going to crush him into powder. Going back to sleep strikes a particularly unappealing concept right now, lest he be pulled back into the red eyes and metal claws lying in wait beneath his eyelids. But he can’t help but admit he feels safer here, bracketed in by Leon’s arms. 

His eyes slip closed.

- - -

It has been a very long day. 

God, what fight number is he even up to now? Fifth? Sixth? Tenth? One of those. All he knows for sure is that this is the last day of round– no, that’s not right. Last day round day– no, round round done done– agh.

“Last fight of the day.” Leon growls through his teeth, the breaths leaving his chest in harsh puffs. 

Big Mama has been noticeably upping the ante with the number and strength of Leon’s opponents each time he steps out into the arena. Leon’s not sure if it’s for the sake of entertainment or some sort of progression system for the Nexus’s champions. It’s just as likely she’s doing it just to increase the amount of pressure he’s under — stacking even more weight atop a fragile, wire frame that’s already rusting away from exhaustion and hunger. 

It’s fine. Leon’s surviving. All he has to do is get through the rest of the day, and then he’ll be able to spend the rest of the night enjoying a nice stale piece of bread. And by enjoying, he means hating so much it makes him want to kill people. 

Yes, harness that bread-loathing energy Leon.

Having an overabundance of deliciously prepared food over the last couple of weeks has really spoiled his post-apocalyptic tolerance for persisting on whatever is available.

Leo, at least, has been two full orders of magnitude less irritable since he and Leon’s last honest conversation, which is good, though he had been in a mood this afternoon for some reason. He gets this look, this burning unblinking glare that’s sullen and bratty and Leon doesn’t know what to make of it at all. He hadn’t said a word as Leon left the cell for his fight, and he can’t quite wrap his head around why Leo would still be angry at him after all the progress they’d made the night prior. 

Leon’s feeling a little disgruntled about this whole situation himself, though he suspects it’s for entirely different reasons to Leo. Namely, the giant fucking worm currently causing havoc below ground.

He’d thought the first creature he’d faced had been bad in terms of destroying any semblance of solid, flat ground, but this is chaos. The inner bounds of the once-pristine arena has been reduced to ruin. The tundra from the day prior has melted to form small pools, like an ice-rink left to melt. Scorched stone and half-cracked pillars stick out of the ground at odd angles. 

The earth rumbles underfoot. Flecks of dirt and stone clatters across the floor. Ripples form in the puddles of water around him. Leon twists his head over his shoulder, his heart rate spiking when he catches sight of the massive wave of displaced dirt and rubble closing in on him. His breath catches, and it’s only a lifetime spent fighting in post-apocalyptic ruins that saves him from tripping over a boulder and being turned to minced turtle meat. He curses under his breath and runs faster. 

The deep, low rumble grows louder and louder. The cheers of the crowd quieten in anticipation, which really doesn’t help to ease the sick pit at the bottom of Leon’s stomach any. He can feel the vibrations of the ground beneath him – an earthquake chasing him, rising in magnitude as it nears, until the earth is shaking so viciously he can’t regain his footing. 

He stumbles, his hands touching the ground for a moment, dives to the side, then in a split second, the rolling thunder beneath him explodes. A geyser of earth and stone sprays ten, twenty, thirty feet into the air as the colossal, worm-like creature pierces through the once-solid ground he stood upon less than a moment ago. Leon’s heart slams against his ribcage as he witnesses the massive, swollen, segmented mass of flesh rising up until it towers over him, at least two stories tall — forming a long shadow and partially blocking out the arena lights. The head curls back down, revealing two eyes, reduced to small, dark, spots. Its jaw opens, throwing wide the gates to a cavernous maw full of rows and rows of pointed teeth. A high-pitched shrill strikes the air. 

Leon winces, recoils. He curls over himself, his free hand flying up to cover his right tympanum as his head explodes with pain, eardrums fit to burst. The shriek stops, and Leon looks up, a sharp ringing static lingering in his mind. He scrambles to his feet when the head plummets, the blades in the creature’s mouth approaching at a dizzying speed. 

Leon leaps out of the way, just narrowly dodging the rings of spinning teeth and swinging his sword against the monster’s form as he goes. He slices, his blade collides with the creature’s body, then the hit glances right off of it, the shell plating akin to steel armour.

The worm, as far as Leon can tell, is entirely unaffected by the attack. It disappears from sight, the last of its body returning underground. 

Huh. Well. This isn’t going to work. 

Back to running it is. He sprints as fast as he’s able as the earth shakes below foot, until his body is begging for a break, his lungs screaming at him to slow down, struggling to draw in another breath, then he runs some more. 

Congratulations, Leon. Achieving the textbook definition of going nowhere fast. He wants to growl out in frustration. There are obstacles in every direction. He can’t fight this thing head-on. Can’t hide. Think Leon. 

The creature attacks from below – an ambush predator. Fossorial. Piss poor eyesight, probably. But it’s still tracking him down somehow, even whilst below the earth, which means it’s likely reliant on vibration or sound. God, this would be a perfect time to learn to fly. Or make portal – which, at this point, is within the same range of possibility as Leon spontaneously sprouting some wings. Not helpful. Vibrations, though? Maybe he could use that to his advantage.

No better time than the present to test a theory, right?

He scoops a sizable boulder from the ground then with a grunt, pegs it at an unstable pillar on the other side of the arena before skidding to a sudden halt. The boulder smashes to smithereens against the surface of the column, and the gravity of the blow sends the whole thing tumbling down, sending a shockwave across the earth as it collides with the ground.

As predicted, the creature erupts from the ground, ungodly maw shredding through the broken remnants of the pillar, practically reducing the stone to dust. 

Then, it stops, mouth locking shut.

Leon holds his breath as its head slowly swivels in his direction. He’s standing right in the middle of the arena, clear as day, vulnerable, not a single obstruction between himself and the jaws of death. His heart hammers rapid-fire against his ribcage, sweat trickling into his eyes, frame shaking with small tremors as he tries to hold himself still as possible. Time moves like molasses, slow and thick and excruciating.

The creature’s gaze moves right over him. An ecstatic thrill rushes through Leon, head to toe.

It can’t see.

Leon’s excitement dims a bit when the creature slithers forward – not directly towards him – but close enough in that direction to be unnerving, its long, segmented body going on and on as it gradually pulls itself from its hole. It looks across the field, up towards the crowd. Searching for a sign of its prey, Leon realises. Confused by the ruckus of clapping and screaming and stomping feet.

He takes in the creature with wide eyes. It’s the first time he’s gotten a good look at the whole thing, its form fully unearthed. Its body is segmented into distinct tagmata; striking Leon as more insect than snake, contrary to the way it seems to move. He’s already confirmed the exoskeleton is too tough for the weak calibre of his blade’s steel, and the segments of the creature’s tegmen overlap like scales, so trying to wedge his sword between the grooves is going to be a no-go. 

The last of the creature’s body rises from the soil, the tail flicking straight up – dark and twitching in a deeply unsettling manner, reminding Leon of sawfly larvae. The final segment takes on a different appearance compared to the rest of the body — softer, smoother. Less protected? A potential target for attack. The only one that Leon can identify at the moment, though he can’t guarantee taking that course of action will do any more than piss the creature off. 

The creature’s head swivels around for a few more moments, searching. Then, two long, thin, appendages rise like tentacles from the back of its head, emerging from where they’d been previously hidden – sat flattened against its neck. A shiver runs through him as dozens of smaller, thinner sensilla open up either side of the appendages, forming densely feathered antennae. 

There’s a loud thump as the creature’s body falls back to the floor, antennae touching the ground in front of it. An alien clicking noise emits deep from its throat as it slowly moves towards him, the immense size and weight of its body bulldozing through any obstacle in its path. 

Leon wavers, takes an unsteady step backwards, ice settling low in his gut. He readjusts his grip on his sword. “Oh, come on. You can’t just sprout new eyes.” He hisses through his teeth, indignant. “That’s cheating.”

The creature slithers ever closer, antennae displacing stones and spraying water into the air as it sweeps across the earth. Leon keeps still and squints as flecks of dust are blown towards his face. Hold, hold. He counts to five on an inhale. Counts to five on the exhale. 

The tips of the antennae’s sensilla, white and long and hairlike, touch the ground before Leon’s feet, less than an arm’s length away. 

Leon strikes. 

His blade slices cleanly through one of the antennae, and Leon immediately grabs hold of the remaining sensilla as the creature jerks away — ripping him from his feet and launching him up into the air as it screeches a horrible-high-pitched whine, revealing hundreds of teeth as its mouth cranes open wide. Leon’s prepared for the sound this time, but he still can’t stop his wince as the scream slams against his eardrums, into his mind. 

He releases the antenna with a woop once he’s over the top of the creature’s head. He lands on the creature’s neck, then he’s riding down the wave of its body, sliding down the creature’s length as it rises up off the floor, snapping and writhing. Gravity pulls him upwards as the creature dives back down and tunnels into the ground. He leaps as he approaches the end of its body and slices his blade clean though the worm’s tail, the soft skin parts like warm butter.

Even underground Leon can hear the creature’s howls, the noise ripping a grim sense of satisfaction from him. Just as he thinks he’s in the clear, though, the remaining length of the creature’s body smashes into his plastron, knocking the breath out of him and sending him careening sideways. 

Flipping backwards, he tries to right himself, automatically overcompensating for the weight of his heavy prosthetic. Except, his right arm isn’t as heavy as it used to be, is it? Donnie has access to high grade materials and no life-or-death time limitations weighing down on his shoulders in this timeline. The metal is lighter, more balanced – designed less for brute power and more for blending into everyday life, and Leon knows this, but he’s not used to it yet. He tilts too far to the left. He remembers too late. Realises he’s made the mistake with that sickening this is going to hurt pit in his stomach and the record-scratch of stupid, stupid, stupid—

He lands wrong. His leg twists. He screams. 

For a short moment, panic envelopes his senses. The strongest of resistance fighters rarely died on two solid feet. Contrary to what most people would expect, it’s not one, big glorious fight that takes them down, though that can certainly happen. It’s the war of attrition — the simple mistakes. The smaller, lesser injuries that are gathered over time — fractured bones and torn ligaments and muscular contusions. The things that can only be healed by slowing down and giving the body ample rest. Two things that cannot be afforded in a world ceaselessly under siege, where the only thing keeping you alive is being on the move and constantly alert. 

He forces himself to calm down. One catastrophic thought at a time — he’s not a dead man yet.

Leon sways to his feet. It’s a little painful, his knee burning alight with a deep ache, but he can straighten it without it catching or locking. He’s a tiny bit dizzy and his vision is slightly blurry and he only feels slightly nauseous, and okay yes, maybe he is downplaying it a little, but hey. He can stand, and when he takes an unsteady step forward, the joint doesn’t buckle beneath his weight, so it can’t be all that bad. Nothing a comfy nap and a cold pack of ice can’t fix. Neither of which are available in the little prison he and Leo reside in. This is fine.

Ripples form in the puddles around his feet, that low, rumbling tremor below his feet rising in tempo once again. Leon needs to move. He takes a step, limps for another three, then, feeling a little more confident with the stability of the joint, he breaks into a run. It hurts – aches something chronic, but he’s almost giddy with relief at the evidence of his mobility. If he can move, he can fight. 

The issue still stands, though. Cutting off bits from the top and the bottom of this worm isn’t going to do any permanent damage. He can’t mortally wound the thing, the steel of his blade too flimsy to make a dint in its thick, toughened plates of armour. And to continue experimenting with any new plan of action requires provoking the creature out from its hole — putting himself in danger in the process. 

Leon’s head pounds with the tell-tale sign of a migraine. The cheers and applause from the crowd drum against his tympana, drowning out the sound of his own thoughts. Leon clenches his jaw and weighs up the worth of just screaming at the top of his lungs for everyone to shut the hell up for a minute at the risk of being swallowed whole by an ugly, raging snake-worm— 

Wait, hold on… Now, there’s an idea. 

Not a particularly good one, granted. He’d have to make it past a deep well of teeth designed for ripping rock and stone to shreds, which is… insane. Borderline suicidal. Leon’s just desperate enough to try it. 

He skids to a stop, wincing when his knee twinges at the sudden pivot, then launches himself at the rising mound of displaced earth moving towards him. His feet slam hard against the trembling floor, beckoning the creature closer. A noise like thunder fills the arena, then, just as the earthquake reaches its crescendo, he springs off a boulder and jumps as high as he can. The worm punches through the earth, meeting his trajectory through the air. Leon lands with two feet between its sightless eyes, then uses their combined momentum to somersault directly upwards — flipping backwards as the creature’s maw opens wide, and for a few seconds all he can see is a tooth lined interior of flesh. 

With a resounding gasp from the crowd, Leon dives straight down, between the cavern of blades, through its throat, into the abyss. 

He lands with a splash inside a dark, wet, meaty cavern – warm and viscous and stinking like death. Thick liquid pools around his ankles, acidic and stinging at his flesh. Leon immediately gags at the sour scent burning his nostrils and the back of his throat. 

“Ugh. I’m just going to tell myself this is purple Jell-O.” Leon holds back another gag and tries his best to avoid sucking in any more of the steaming bile as he flicks the gelatinous liquid from his sword. He grimaces at the stinging pain reaching up his feet and around his ankles, the digestive fluids slowly eating away at the skin. He really probably should’ve more thoroughly considered the logistics of this plan before diving right in.

Whatever. He’ll just have to work harder to get out of here faster. Leon’s not opposed to that. Wielding his sword, he hacks into the muscular lining of the creature’s stomach. 

He yelps when the wall of flesh surrounding him on all sides contracting around him, the creature screeching and thrashing in pain. He only barely manages to catch himself before he falls face first into the digestive fluids, eyes clenching shut as his hands slide through slimy viscera and hit the meaty surface below. 

When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted by the haunting image of a skull, partially submerged and with its empty sockets staring back up at him. Leon shoots up, his heart racing in his chest, and yanks his hands and sword from the plum fluid just as the burning irritation begins to travel up his left arm. With a grimace, he nudges the bones aside with a light kick and watches as they float away. 

“Sorry buddy.” Leon mutters. He needs to get out of here before he joins them. He plants his feet, squares his legs and brings down his blade once more.

Despite his best efforts to keep upright, the creature’s thrashing immediately throws him off balance. He bounces off muscular walls, cutting and slicing as he collides against the flesh. The creature’s ear-piercing shrill reverberates around the stomach’s confines. Dark, purple ooze pours out from the creature’s wounds and mixes with its stomach juices, the amalgamation of which seems to cause some kind of vile chemical reaction – gas-filled bubbles rising to the fluid’s surface and popping. Leon tries not to think about it. Tries not to think at all. There’s only one way out of this, and it requires about as much intelligence as it took to get in here in the first place.

There’s no finesse to it. It’s ugly and brutish and nauseating. His one saving grace is that there’s no eyes or cameras in here to witness the utter chaos. Small mercies. 

He doesn’t know which way is up, down or sideways. He’s lost. He’s dizzy. He’s going to hurl. He swings his blade mindlessly, indiscriminately, eviscerating the creature’s innards, razing the inner lining of muscle like a blade through canvas. The flood of blood continues to rise. 

Finally, the flailing and screaming stops, leaving nothing but the ringing in his ears, the muted uproar of the crowd outside and the glug, glug, glug of blood flowing into the cavern. 

Leon leans a shaky hand against one of the fleshy walls and releases a deep exhale. It’s done, he thinks. It’s over.

Effectively fucking jinxing himself, apparently, because no more than a split second later he’s whisked off his feet again. A startled squawk escapes him as a wave of purple juices envelops him. The powerful current throws him down, sending him spiralling along the grotesque curve of the creature’s throat like some kind of sick, twisted waterslide. 

A burning sting bursts from his shoulder as the flood shoots him out of the worm’s mouth, fabric and flesh catching on sharp teeth as he’s thrust back into the blinding spotlight. Leon’s shell skids across the ground, the world whirling around wildly until his momentum finally comes to a halt. 

A hush blankets the crowd, all of them frozen in shock— bewilderment, maybe. They likely presumed Leon dead the moment he’d disappeared into the belly of the beast. 

He doesn’t look up at the big screen looming over the arena and broadcasting this whole shitshow, but a manic giggle bubbles up and out of his chest at the thought of what kind of wretched picture he’s painting. Here lies Big Mama’s Nexus champion, flat on his shell, arms splayed, vision spinning. Battered, bruised and dripping in blood and bile and bodily digesta. He’s suffered a long life on undignified victories, but this might rank first above them all. 

It’s kind of funny. Here he is at his rock bottom, and all he can do is laugh. He cackles, and after a few moments the manic noise dies down into a chuckle, and then as his mind begins to work with coherence of thought, his chuckles bleed into silence. 

Fuck.

Eventually — after regaining some grip on reality in his own personal little pool of sick — he sits up. 

The arena erupts into a cacophony of deafening cheers. 

Head pulsing, Leon lets out a tired groan and — because he really doesn’t think he can get any more pathetic at this point — he crawls over to the nearest puddle and uses the semi-clean water to scrub the burning sensation from his skin and clear out the gunk from the ridges of his prosthetic. 

Feeling marginally better, he rises and surrenders his weapon — throwing it to his feet. A moment later, there’s the sound of clinking chains as the heavy iron exit gate slowly rises. Leon eyes the colossal worm, already half-buried in the dirt, one last time — half expecting the creature to give him one last surprise. It remains motionless. Dead. Leon finally turns his back on it. 

He catalogues the day’s injuries as he limps his way across the dilapidated arena towards the exit. The stinging at his shoulder is uncomfortable, but it’s tolerable. The spark of pain that shoots up his fingers when he flexes his hand is the more pressing issue. The swelling around his wrist has come down, though the bruising is still deep and vivid. It’s the pain that worries him — the deep tingling discomfort that suggests a worse injury. He should probably get Leo to strap some kind of splint to it, but he needs to prioritise getting his leg checked first, and between that and his shoulder… he already hates the idea of projecting that he’s in poorer shape than Leo can already see. 

Leon makes his thoroughly underwhelming exit from the arena, walking into the dim hallway that leads back to his cell. Darkness envelopes him as the gate falls shut behind him. 

The bloodstained corridor feels like a tomb, offering little relief beyond muffling the screaming masses outside and being, well — an exit from the chaos of the ring. It always makes Leon feel uneasy, but tonight he feels something more. A prickle at the back of his neck. Queasiness in his gut. A chill settling in his bones. The creeping sensation of being watched in the dark. Deeply unsettling, given this is only supposed to be a retirement gate for the night’s victor, and in Leon’s experience, they never afford more than one of those at one time. 

He stops, then grumbles to no one in particular — the whole world, really,  “Can we not? Can I get a fucking break?” 

He’s greeted by a deep, feminine laugh — the sound unsettlingly familiar. From the shadows, multiple long, spindly legs materialise into view, six red eyes following suit. Big Mama’s true form, dark and imposing, lowers from the ceiling on a silk thread. 

Leon tenses, a spark of rage lighting in him — fire and brimstone clawing beneath his skin. He’s having a hard time with as little as keeping himself upright right now, but he’ll fight if he has to.

His frown deepens when Sylvia extends a damp washcloth towards him. “Hot towel, sweetums?”

Leon’s brain stutters over the words, his eye twitching as he regards the offering with cold distaste. Manipulation tactic is the first explanation that screams at him. “Bribing me now, are we?”

She purses her lips. “Very well, I suppose if you’re not interested—”

Leon yanks the towel from Big Mama before she can tuck it away. He glowers at her as he wipes the remaining slick from his arms and face, making it clear that he’s not so stupid as to believe this is an act of kindness for his benefit. 

Sylvia grins widely in return. “Woof, that’s a mean look. Why the hostility, my dearest? You could put an end to this caboose and cadaddle any time you please.” She flips onto her feet and lands silently in front of Leon, blocking the corridor. “I would usually provide far swankier lodgings to my champions, worlds away from that drab cell of yours. If you were so inclined to cooperate, you could even win yourself a hot shower.”

He drops the towel from his face and looks ahead, staring straight through Sylvia rather than meeting her eye. Whatever she’s here for, he isn’t interested. “Let me pass.”

She steps back and opens one of her arms out, folding to the demand with suspicious immediacy. “As the victor wishes.”

Leon is incredibly doubtful that it’ll be this easy, but he takes his chances — eyeing the woman sceptically as he limps past, body tense, fingers clenched tightly around the towel. He’s unsurprised when she calls after him once he’s got his back to her, though her words still manage to stop him cold. 

“You care about him a lot, don’t you?” Big Mama observes, a note of mysticism to her tone. Leon freezes, his brain giving way to some strange sort of stressful buzz. Sylvia hums to herself. “You would’ve conceded far sooner without him here.”

Leon’s palms begin to sweat, shoulders subconsciously drawing tighter as worry pools in his chest. “You’re wrong.” He answers monotonously. “I’m stubborn. And notoriously difficult to kill.”

“Mmh, but you’re also voluminotably tired of all this, are you not?” 

Leon twists back around to shoot a glare at her. 

Big Mama, back in her human form, leans against the corridor wall and inspects her manicured nails, the bridge of her glasses resting low on her nose. She lifts her gaze with an upward quirk of her lips. “Forgive me, that was brazen of me.” She drawls, sounding anything but apologetic. “Though, honestly dear, even if I didn’t pick you up from the building where you were…” She clears her throat and twiddles her fingers, “staring into the void, so to speak, anyone who’s gone through a dark spell would be able to recognise that look in your eyes.” 

“Don’t pretend you know anything about me.” Leon spits. 

Sylvia rolls his eyes. “I don’t need to pretend, angel cakes. You already told me everything weeks ago.”

A single blow, and all the fire in Leon’s veins turns to ice. The amulet, the darkness clouding his will, the inky black blank in his memory from that day. He’s a fool. Of course she would have extracted information from him before sending him on his way.

Vitriol bubbles up, churning in his gut. He doesn’t have the energy to protest. Leon exhales. “What do you want?”

“Why, my dear, it’s what I’ve always wanted.” Sylvia smiles sweetly. “For all of us to be one big happy family.”

Leon’s eyes narrow. “You’ve come to the wrong turtle. I’ve got a bad track record for maintaining one of those.”

“The people waiting for you back at your home would beg to differ, don’t you think?” Sylvia purses her lips when he grits his teeth and refuses to grace that with an answer. “The ground rules remain unchanged. Tell me where they’re holed up, and your stay here will be far more pleasant. Both you and the boy’s.”

Leon averts his gaze, his anger simmering to a boil. 

“Although…” Big Mama muses, pushing away from the wall and pulling her arms over her head in a deep stretch. “Ahh, if you keep insisting that you’re not the talkative testudine to parley with, I suppose I could always go to a… younger, fresher source of information.”

Leon’s mind snaps to Leo lying beneath his arm in that dark cell — tired and cold and hungry and too goddamn small. Leon’s only source of comfort, the bright shining light at the top of the bottomless cave, the saviour of this timeline.

He doesn’t hesitate, lurching forward and growling a low, animalistic noise as he takes hold of Sylvia’s collar. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Leon’s hold is depressingly weak — the motion causing the gash at his shoulder to flicker alight with a burning pain. His muscles are far too overworked from the day to assert any power over someone as strong as Big Mama. They both know it, but she stills in his hold all the same, grinning maniacally. More amused to have gotten a reaction out of him than she is worried about the aggressive position.

She tuts, looking down her nose at Leon as though he’s an impudent child throwing a tantrum. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, my little champion.” She coos, patting his cheek, tone condescending. Leon rips himself away from the contact with a sneer. “I only tease. I’ve never actually intended on seriously harming the boy.” 

Leon wavers, takes a step back. “You sent me to kill him.” He growls. 

“On the contrary, I sent you to run home to daddy and capture the big cheese. My plan has never strayed from its true course. It was you that snapped from your programming and wasted time attacking small fries.” She crosses her arms and huffs, adding as an afterthought, “though perhaps that was on me for assuming a man that’s been the harbourer of pandemonique chaos for the last three decades of his life would be able to carry out a straightforward task.”

“Are you really blaming me for not living up to the brainwashed zombie expectations you had for me?” Leon exclaims, baffled. 

Big Mama flaps a hand at him. “Don’t worry yourself with the past, twinkle-toed toots. You’re doing much better now, fighting, surviving — you’re playing this whole game beautifully. Better than my wildest of dreams, honestly. I didn’t know you had it in you. The ferocity, the remorsavagery, the bloodthirsty ruthality of it all.” She fans herself. “My Nexus has never been so positively woozy-faddled.”

Leon’s brow twitches. He brings a hand up to rub circles into the worsening painful pulsing at his temples. “Is there a point to this conversation?” He groans. “Or are you just here to gloat with your fake words?”

“I’m earnestly commending you for playing your part so well.” She smiles sharply. “As for why I’m here… I’m afraid to inform you that your next match will be your last.”

Leon’s hand falls away from his face. He stares at her, trying and failing to comprehend the outright audacity of the woman before him. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“A threat?” She gasps dramatically, false offence painting her features as manicured nails rise to clutch at her chest. “Heavens no, that’s a vulgar way to put it. You see, I merely mean to inform you that I have a friend visiting tomorrow evening. She’s quite the warrior herself, and requested a match with the greatest swordsman I had available.” 

Leon numbly processes the implications there for a couple seconds. You care about him a lot. Knowledge is power to Big Mama — she wouldn’t give it away freely. She’s divulged her awareness of Leon’s motivations for a reason. Sylvia wouldn’t declare she doesn’t plan on hurting Leo if she foresaw Leon staying here longer. Why remove one of the biggest incentives for one of her dogs to keep fighting? 

The chilling truth settles in with stark clarity. “You’re asking me to die.”

Sylvia taps an index finger against her cheek and gives an exaggerated furrow of her brows. “Mm, I think it’s more like ordering, but yes, essentially.” She chirps, not bothering to sugarcoat. They’re both perfectly aware of what kind of person she is. “You get the jist. Kick-off, take the fall, hold the bag, bite the bullet. Whatever you’d like to call it. As much as I believe in my friend’s abilities, I would so hate for her to lose.”

If Leon were free to act as he pleased, if he had strength in his body and a sword in his hand, if he didn’t have another life depending on him, he thinks he would refuse on principle and then burn this whole ship-arena-graveyard to the ground, even if it meant taking himself with it. 

“And if I kill this friend?” He asks stonily. 

Big Mama’s smile gets a little meaner, the look in his eyes darkening, going from indifferent coolness to ice. “You’ll regret it.” 

Now that is a threat. Leon holds her gaze, thoughts accelerating through his mind in a dizzying whirl. Grim determination tightens his jaw as the reality of the situation sinks in. The fog that’d been clouding his path ahead for days dissipates at once, his next course of action becoming clear. 

“Fine.” He says impassively. “You can have it your way. I’ll do as you ask.” A hint of delight sparkles in Big Mama’s eyes as they widen slightly. Leon shoots down her satisfaction before it can settle in. “But only if you let him go home.”

A fleeting shadow of disappointment crosses her features. The look is promptly swept up by loud laughter. “My silly lollipop lambchop, do you really think you’re in any position to bargain?”

Leon grimaces. She’s right. He’s no longer a resistance laying down the terms of a negotiation. He’s on Big Mama’s home ground, at a significant disadvantage, trying to play chess against an opponent already holding all his pieces. There’s no strategy he can employ here that will allow him to make demands. 

So he won’t demand it. 

Ignoring the twinge of pain in his leg and swallowing down the shame and dishonour, Leon lowers himself to the ground, dropping to his hands and knees. He drops his gaze, then leans forward, and bows down until his head is pressed into the floor. 

He swallows the shame and dishonour of the action. Leo, young, proud, stubborn, willing to hold his head high until the very end — he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t want this, would see it as an affront to their pride. Leon doesn’t care. He’s fought for too long, lost too much to be above bringing himself down low. 

“Please.”

There’s a long, stunned silence. Leon doesn’t move an inch, even as his leg screams in protest at the position. 

Finally, Big Mama sighs. “As nice a view this is, I really thought you of all people would be the last to resort to begging.”

Leon grits his teeth, digs his fingers into the gravel. “I started this.” The words feel like sandpaper in his throat. His past, his mistakes — this should be his punishment, his atonement. “Let me be the end of it.”

There’s a palpable shift in the air, the atmosphere thickening oppressively as he waits. 

“No.” The answer is blunt. Final. 

Leon’s shoulder’s slump, his heart sinking and a fresh wave of helplessness engulfs him, the pressure at the top of his head compounding with the weight of his slackened form. 

“As much of an irksomely obstinate obstacle you’ve been, I’m not just doing this to spite you. There’s no sense in killing the boy, but I still need him. Releasing him would yield me no benefit.”

Despair gives way to a surge of anger, frustration, rage. Leon’s head lifts in a sharp motion. He fixes her with a fierce glare. All of this pain for what? The very foundations of her plan are broken, cracked beyond repair, but she’s too deceived by her own self-delusionment to see it. 

“You really think this will work?” He snarls. “You think you can kidnap one of Lou’s kids and he’ll just come rushing back into your waiting embrace?”

She crouches down to his level, unphased by his glowering. “Oh, at first, my snuggle muffin beefcake will be livid, unquestionfathomably. But with time, given the right attention, he’ll come to understand that I never truly intended on harming his little slider. He’ll still have four sons — his real sons. The ones from this timeline. He’ll still have his life. I’ll give him comfort, riches, affection, and he’ll get over any transgressions he feels he’s suffered.”

Leon can’t tell if she’s lying to him or herself anymore. Sylvia doesn’t love the way most people do. There’s no conventional give-and-take pattern in her world. She gets everything she wants, expects devotion and respect without any reciprocity. She doesn’t give to anyone unless it’s public and conspicuous enough that others will see her as admirable or virtuous. Her love is transactional. Her only enduring loyalty is to herself. She’ll grow bored the moment Splinter doesn’t provide a use to her.

Big Mama presses her hands to her chest. “I take him back and eventually he will realise everything he’s been missing out on all those years in the sewers.” 

Leon scowls, face curling up in disgust. “A manipulative eight-legged narcissist plagued by commitment issues and an uncontrollable thirst for power.” 

She grins, sharpened white canines glistening. “I’ll miss our little chats, truly.” She stands, leaving him kneeling on the ground, then begins walking towards the light of the arena on the other side of the corridor, her heels clacking against the stone floor. 

“Do remember to try to put on a good show, Ryusei.” She calls over her shoulder, all of that false, optimistic cheer returning to her voice. “It’d be a downright shame for this big bang to end in a whimper.” 

- - -

If someone had asked Leo a week ago to pick out a single word to describe how it’d feel to be captured and imprisoned by Big Mama, he’d probably reply with that’s an awfully ominous question, don’t you think? Followed by his next best answer, terrifying and nostalgic(?) and whoops that’s three words. Dull is the last thing that would’ve come to mind, and yet somehow, here he is, bored out of his mind. 

Leo spends most of his hours alone trying to find some way to activate his ninpo again, though he never really makes much leeway in terms of progress. It’s an exercise more in frustration than anything else. He can’t figure out what’s holding him back — his fears, his self-doubt, the stress? It certainly doesn’t help that the last time he used a portal, it was to lock himself inside an inescapable dimension on the other side of space with the same demon that plagues his nightmares every night. 

He manages to spark up a bit of energy, feeling static in the air as dust and rock vibrate around him, but it’s not good enough. His concentration just isn’t there. Each time he attempts to fall into a focused trance, he’s disrupted by the buzzing of a fly, the distant dripping of water droplets, the uncomfortable pressure of the hard concrete beneath his ass. More distracting is the hunger growing in the empty pit of his stomach, sitting beside its equally lethal twin, restlessness. 

Leo relaxes from his meditative position with a deep sigh, falling backwards to rest against his shell. He can’t stop thinking about Mikey’s ramen — boiled pork chyashu, grilled to crispen up the fat then shredded, nori paper, spicy chilli katsuobushi fish slakes, big slices of white and green onion, an egg cooked to perfection, freshly-made noodles moulded to perfect thickness, all boiling away in a delicious broth. He can practically smell it. 

His stomach grumbles. Leo grumbles back at it. 

He gives up, unable to focus like this with this physical pain pinging in his gut. He keeps half an ear out as he dozes, drifting in and out of unconsciousness, awake enough to be aware of the footsteps passing outside the cell, not bothering to keep track of much else. 

The guards come to interrogate him again. He fights back, of course — even manages to get a few good licks in before he receives a punch to the teeth for his efforts. Still worth it. It’s the most eventful activity of the day.

Unfortunately, it also gets his blood up enough that once they’re gone and he’s left to his own devices for the rest of the night, he can no longer force himself to relax. His eyes keep flicking to the cell door. Not out of fear of someone returning to kick his shell in, but in concern that someone won’t return at all. It’s the subconscious equivalent of continuously opening and closing the fridge door in a five family household — aware of its contents, paranoid that it might be gone the next time he checks. 

He can’t rid that creeping feeling that moves up his spine the longer Leon’s away, worrying at the base of his skull and whispering into his ear that the guards are right. That Leon won’t come back. 

The fighting is starting to get to Leon. He can claim all he likes that it doesn’t affect, but Leo can see the toll it’s taking. It’s more than just the injuries. It’s the look in his eyes, the numbness to his expression. That ability he has to just… shut himself off in a way that honestly kind of terrifies Leo. He’s still him though, underneath that front. Leo can tell he’s hurting. 

Leo jumps to his feet when he hears the telltale click of a lock opening, his heart racing as the door creaks open.  Concern and palpable relief fight for dominance in his chest when Leon comes tumbling into the cell, tripping over the lip of the entrance and crashing heavily to the floor. 

Leo blinks, a wave of shock and terror vaguely registering at the corner of his mind as Leon lays there in the dirt without so much as twitching a muscle. His clothes are ripped and dusty and absolutely drenched in some kind of gross, violet paste. A dirtied washcloth is clenched in his hand. Leo resists the temptation to prod Leon’s (not lifeless — surely not lifeless) body with his foot.

“H-hey.” He calls, his voice wavering. “Are you dead?” 

Leon’s eyes crack open, then languidly slide over to meet him. “This is a very difficult time for me. Please turn away.” He answers hoarsely.

Leo pointedly Does Not do that. He clears his throat and tries to settle his nerves. If Leon’s got energy enough to complain, he’s probably not at death’s door. Leo crouches down beside his prone form, and that’s when the stench hits him — sour rotten eggs and copper. He cringes, but remains where he is. He grew up in a sewer. A bit of offensive stink isn’t going to bowl him over. “D’you need a hand?”

Leon clenches his jaw and rolls over, and the air catches in Leo’s throat. The fabric at his left shoulder is torn, hanging loosely. Beneath it, a bleeding gash is etched into his skin. He tries to imagine what kind of beast could’ve caused a wound like that — how it’d caught Leon off-guard. 

“Tell me that wasn’t another arm pun.” Leon forces out through gritted teeth.

“Nah, I’m not that cruel.” Leo replies, his eyes running over the older slider’s body, searching for any other obvious signs of injury. “You okay?”

Leon responds with a slow blink, then releases a long sigh. “Just need a minute.”

Leon’s tone is nonchalant, but Leo can tell his mind is elsewhere — his gaze distant, lost in a labyrinth of his own thoughts. Lines etch the corners of his eyes and crease his forehead, and there’s a subtle but perpetual tension in his posture, though it’s possible the latter has more to do with Leon trying to mask his pain from Leo, the idiot. 

Leo frowns, then leaves for a moment to grab the waterskin. Once he returns, he pushes the water into the older slider’s hands. Leon doesn’t even fight him this time — taking it without comment and pulling some deep, long swallows before he passes the waterskin back to Leo. He accepts it, taking a sip for himself and scowling at the ashy aftertaste. He doesn’t want to think about what milky, grey cave-bottom they’re pumping this water from. Leo takes another measured sip, ignoring the silty thickness of it. He’s well aware he’ll die if he avoids it entirely. 

He lingers at Leon’s side, waiting, half-concerned the old man will keel over and kark it the moment he looks away.

Leon eyes him with an inscrutable expression, his brows furrowed. “A’right.” He mutters, finding the strength to push himself into a half-seated position against the wall. “If you’re gonna hover, you may as well make yourself useful.” He nods at his leg. “Grab hold of my calf.”

Leo shoots him a bewildered look. “What?” 

Leon lifts a brow. “My leg.” He clarifies, as if Leo’s confusion stems from misinterpreting Leon and not just the peculiar nature of the request.

“Yeah, I'm aware of what a calf is, abuelo. I’m familiar with basic anatomy.” He fires back curtly. “That’s not what I—” 

Leon releases a weary exhale. “Just humour me, yeah?” 

Leo zips his lips shut. He wants to grouse about Leon being vague and how Leo hates that shit because it makes him more worried than if Leon would just outright tell Leo what this is all about in the first place, but the request had been polite enough and quite honestly Leon looks like hell. The old man is probably as disinterested in having this argument as Leo is, so he keeps his perfectly logical reasoning to himself and folds his hands around his damn calf, bracing to endure the horrors of whatever it is that Leon’s done to himself today. 

He cringes when he encounters the cold, slimy substance still coating some of Leon’s lower half. With a fair bit of trepidation, he asks. “What is this?”  

Leon shrugs. “Purple Jell-O.” 

Leo stares at him. 

“You don’t wanna know.” Leon adds, swiftly pressing forward before Leo can utter a word of confusion. “And FYI, it’s the other knee.” 

Leo clicks his tongue in annoyance and switches over to the tattooed leg. “Should’ve said so before. What is it that I’m actually supposed to be doing—” 

He stills at the odd sensation stinging at the palms of his hands. 

Very calmly, without flinching, he inquires. “Leon. Why is the not-purple Jell-O burning my skin?”

This time, Leon’s immediate answer is direct and to the point. “Because they’re digestive fluids.”

Leo rips his hands away from Leon’s leg with an undignified yelp. Well. That explains the smell. He proceeds to retch.

“God, what is wrong with you?” He cries between breaths. “Why, why are you always covered in some kind of—” He shakes his head, raising a hand to his mouth. “Y’know what? No. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to think about it.”

“For the record, I’m not exactly enjoying this either.” Leon replies dryly, somehow far less dramatic, despite still being relatively covered in the stuff. He reaches over and tosses the towel he’d arrived with at Leo’s face. “Here, princess. You can use this as a barrier.”

Leo catches the washcloth with a scowl. 

Leon manages half a smile. “Imagine it’s a nice exfoliating bath scrub.” 

Leo pulls a face. It’s a tall order, especially considering the dry, flaky and irritated state of the skin around Leon’s ankles and feet. “Clearly you’ve not had a skin-care routine for decades.” He replies tersely, reaching forward and taking hold of Leon’s leg with the towel.

“Try and gently pull my shin towards you.” Leon directs, “Keep an eye on the knee.”

Leo does as he asks, pulling his leg towards him, only to be struck by nausea again as the joint audibly clicks. He freezes, his head swinging up to look at Leon. The other slider gives a slight wince, but appears otherwise unphased.

“Did that not hurt?” Leo blurts. 

Leon sends him an odd look. “Did what not hurt?”

He stares at him in disbelief. “Your knee is clicking.” Leo stresses. 

“Oh.” Leon waves off his concern. “That’s normal. Don’t worry about it. Do it again.”

The older slider sounds genuine, but there are anxious internal alarms going off between Leo’s ears — an unsettling harmony of bells singing liar, liar, pants in purple green goo. 

“Uh, I would rather not.” Leo exclaims, even as his hands remain right where they are. 

Leon’s expression falls. “Please. I need to check this.”

Leo averts his gaze, his brows furrowing. Damn it. He caves embarrassingly quickly, gently bending the leg back and forth, wincing at each rusty door hinge noise that the joint makes. 

He must be looking a little green around the gills, because Leon speaks up. “Don’t throw up on me. Think I’ve already had my fill of stomach acids today.”

“Why does your leg sound like pop’s back?”

“Because we’re related to him. It’s an age thing. Pull my shin towards your chest a bit and put some pressure into it.”

Leo grimaces, sparing Leon an odd look before he returns his focus to the leg.

“Does it feel loose at all?” Leon asks. 

Leo frowns. “No.”

Leon reaches down, feeling around the muscle, then releases a relieved breath. “It’s not a tear. Or, at least, there’s enough still attached down there for me to work with. Ligaments can be tricky.”

Leo finally pulls away, the heavy pressure on his chest lightening a bit at the diagnosis. He leans back with an unimpressed quirk of his brow. “Is this what you’re giving to the crowd out there, oh Champion? An old man's symphony of creaky hinges and popping joints?”

Leon lunges forward with a speed Leo is not expecting given his damage. He yelps as the metal arm is hooked around his neck in a loose headlock. “Who’s old?” 

It’s not fair. Leo can’t fight back without being at risk of worsening his wounds. Leo shoots him a petulant look and answers. “You are, gramps.”

Leon’s grip tightens ever so slightly, and Leon playfully rubs his knuckles against Leo’s scalp. Leo loudly vocalises his displeasure — complaints that go wholly ignored. He twists and squirms in Leon’s hold, when, out of the blue, the older slider freezes. Leo goes alert in turn, squeezing his way out of Leon’s suddenly lax hold and whipping his head towards the cell door. 

He jumps again when Leon takes a firm grip of his chin and pulls his face back towards him. His gaze is sharp, searching. He tilts Leo’s head slightly to the side, his eyes looking down, his expression darkening. “What’s that?”

Leo blinks, completely lost for a moment, caught in the whiplash of the sudden chill in the air. Then, the realisation of what it is Leon’s looking at hits him. He stiffens, a tight pressure taking hold of his chest. Leo grabs Leon’s wrist, tries to yank his grip off of his face. Leon holds strong, not allowing him to pull away. 

“It’s nothing.” Leo snaps. 

Something akin to distress flashes briefly through Leon’s eyes. Leo can spot it lying under the surface, some defensive instinct, a bear who sees her cub being prodded at. “How’d you split your lip?”

Leo refuses to answer, continues to fight Leon’s hold, no longer caring if he hurts the bastard in the process. Leon resists his attacks, his eyes travel further down. No, no, no. The half-formed protest on Leo’s tongue dies when Leon tugs down his scarf, revealing the watercolour wash of mottled purple and blue bruising around Leo’s neck. 

His eyes flick up to meet Leo’s, and for a second his heart freezes under that murderous look. Leo’s never actually had the displeasure of being on the other end of it before.

“Have they been hurting you while I’m out there?” The way he asks it, hollow, alarmed, angry, suggests Leon already knows the answer. Leo doesn’t respond — doesn’t provide any argument or explanation against the implications already racing through Leon’s mind. 

“What happened?” Leon presses when he tries to avert his eyes.

“Nothing. I can handle it.” Leo spits out the two answers quickly, cringing when he realises one completely contradicts the other. 

“Leo.” And he hates it, the tone of his voice, the way he knows Leon won’t let this go, because Leo wouldn’t — not if it was one of his brothers. 

“Forget about it.” Leo says more firmly, taking the scarf and hastily tucking it back around his neck. They both have their own worries — Leon far more than him. He doesn’t want to add to that. Being an even bigger burden through all this than he already is would be worse than dying, at least to Leo. “It’s fine”

Leon stands with a suddenness that startles him, his fists clenched, a fine tremor between his shoulders. “It’s not fine!” He shouts. Leo flinches at the vehemence of the response, looking up at Leon with wide eyes. 

For a brief eternity, that’s all he does, just stares blankly at Leon, head void of any semblance of thought. Then, the shock wears off. His cheeks heat, shame taking root, accompanied by a sharp jolt of resentment that fills him up, prompting to stand up to halve Leon’s height over him. 

What does he have to be upset about? That Leo got into a fight with some guards? That he refused to open his mouth and give them everything they were after? Was weak enough to get hurt in the process? It’s not like he enjoys being interrogated, but he can handle it. Suffering a few pointless jabs in tolerant silence should be a breeze, especially compared to the hell that Leon is having to face. 

“Why are you getting pissy with me over this?” Leo exclaims, his gaze angrily boring into the older slider. “How is it fine for you to take hit after hit in the Nexus, come back to the cell every single night black, blue and bleeding, but the moment I take the lightest amount of heat from the inside, it’s unacceptable?”

Leon shakes his head in tight-lipped frustration, his eyes clenching shut. “You’ve got to tell me when these things happen to you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Leon echoes, baffled. He’s still got that sour expression stuck on his stupid face. He looks like he’s hurt, the bastard. “So that I can…” He trails off, his brow ridge drawing taught, pensive.

Leon’s voice crawls up Leo’s spine, lingering all around him. He’s feeling stressed. Pressured. Embarrassed. Maybe if he’s angry back, this feeling will go away. 

“So you can what?” Leo snaps. “It’s not like you can do anything about it. What power do you think you have here? Look at the state of you, old man. You can’t even protect yourself.” 

Leon tenses, and even immediately after the fact, Leo can acknowledge that it was a low blow. Regrets saying it with each passing second. This is the most difficult part about this whole situation for Leo — the knowledge that Leon’s out there fighting for his life while Leo’s in here, trying and failing to pull off the one thing that could help them. But at least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel for Leo; a chance at grasping for control over his future. It’s not the same for Leon, who has no other choice than to survive. 

“I can take it out there.” Leon states slowly. “I can shoulder the load. I’ve been doing this my entire life. I can tolerate anything. Sylvia could tear me apart piece by piece and it would be fine. I’d be okay, so long as it meant knowing you were safe and sound in this hole where you don’t have to see—” 

He cuts himself off, covers his eyes with his hand, his fingers digging into his temples. 

They lapse into a period of suffocating stillness. Leo watches him, the anger slowly dissipating in his chest. Suddenly the aggression from earlier feels a lot less hostile, and a lot more like Raph protective stink. Leo deflates, taking in the droop of Leon’s shoulders, the exhaustion in his eyes, devoid of any cheer Leo’s accustomed to seeing him faking. He just looks… tired.

You wake up.

You feel just as helpless.

It’s strange how often Leo forgets. That they’re the same goddamn person. 

He’s not the only one that feels powerless in this situation. 

Leo’s the first to dispel the motionlessness between them. He takes a step forward, stooping to pick up the towel from the floor before he stops in front of Leon. 

Leon frowns down at him, but he doesn’t resist or object when Leo takes hold of his arm — allowing the younger slider to pull him back down to a seated position on the ground. No fight left in him to argue, maybe. Leo settles behind him, takes a firm hold of the top of his carapace, and begins to roughly scrub the towel over the exposed area of his shell.

Leon appears stunned for the first couple of hard swipes of the washcloth over his shell, his posture incredibly stiff, hardly budging at all from Leo’s aggressive motion. Leo continues without acknowledging the sudden shift in attitude, and eventually his initial shock fades, the tension and anger waning, his form slackening under the relaxing scrub. 

Leon finally asks. “What are you doing?” 

“What d’you think?” Leo replies candidly. He and his brothers do this all the time. “You smell terrible.” He adds, in lieu of explanation. 

Leon pauses, his head turning towards Leo slightly. “They’ll hose me down and give me a new kit before the fight tomorrow.”

He’s well aware. It’s an interesting image to picture — four yokai circled around Leon with fire hoses and blasting him at full pelt. He’d laugh if he didn’t feel so horrible about it. “Keepin’ you pretty for the cameras.” Leo suggests with distaste. 

After a long moment, Leon offers a half-shrug. 

“Doesn’t mean I should have to put up with this for the rest of the night.” Leo mutters, though he’s more worried about the potency of the acid and the chances of it eating away at the keratin of Leon’s already battered shell.

“I can fight my own battles, you know.” Leo tells him quietly. “Besides, this is nothing. Donnie hits harder.” 

Leon remains a big, silent, ruminant rock under his ministrations. That big stupid brain of his brooding away. Leo, understanding the futility of intervening in his cycle of self-destructive moping at this point, allows it. They kind of suck at communicating most of the time anyway. And when they don’t, Leon’s the one giving the motivating pep talks. 

Leo contributes what little assistance he’s capable of providing — he scrubs away at the sting. Eases the burn in any way he can without uttering another word.

Chapter Text

As far back as Donnie can remember, he’s loved fixing things. 

The process of disassembling parts, troubleshooting, and methodically reassembling a working product has always been gratifying in its own right. Something about fostering a new fondness and understanding for the machine he alone has breathed fresh life into. Yet, no task or machine has ever rivalled the bright, overwhelming emotion that burst from his chest the very first time he repaired the family TV. 

He can still vividly recall the way dad smiled after he’d enthusiastically showed off his hard work—soft, proud, crow’s feet wrinkling. The way dad had placed the soft pads of his hand atop Donnie’s head and crooned, “good work, Purple.”

Donnie can’t remember being as pleased with himself as he had at that very moment. The fact that dad had proceeded to swipe the remote from his hands and dive into his armchair without a second glance is a superfluous, unnecessary detail. The paternal validation hit powerful as a drug directly to his bloodstream. Embarrassing? Perhaps. But from that day forward, Donnie chased that high. 

They were all still kids—five, six and seven years respectively—when his brothers began bringing their broken toys to Donnie, palms up, eyes pleading, lips quivering. 

“Dee, fix?”

Donnie became incredibly efficient at putting axles back on toy cars, meticulously sticking torn pages of comic books back together, reconnecting the Wi-Fi, sewing the eyes back onto ripped plushies, reattaching broken Atomic Lass and Jupiter Jim figurine parts, repairing appliances after training got slightly too rowdy. With each success, his brother’s confidence in him grew. His sense of pride expanded. It all became rather intoxicating for a little Donnie, so used to being the weakest, the slowest, the most fragile, the strangest outcast in a family of outcasts, to suddenly feel so appreciated—so needed. 

Donnie loved it. He thrived under the attention. He could absorb information at a rapid rate and apply the theory with skill and creativity. His hands were deft and steady and knew exactly which piece went where. When things broke down or they scrounged something old and metal and dead, Donnie could always come up with an idea as to how it could be given new life. He was sharp, reliable, gifted, intelligent. The most intelligent. 

Donnie could fix anything. 

And then, one fateful day, Mikey had come to his room, utter devastation on his face, a bundle of feathers cradled between his hands. Donnie hadn’t thought to ask how a dumb flying rat managed to get itself lost in the sewers, too transfixed by the way Mikey held out two shaking palms and presented the small, broken pigeon to Donnie. 

With big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and a quivering shake in his voice, he begged, “Dee, fix.”

And Donnie, of course, with the heavy burden of being the only one in the family with half a functioning brain cell, had to explain. Had to search for words that would make his sweet, soft-hearted little brother understand that he couldn’t make a bird (yes, even one that looks like it’s just sleeping in his hands) fly again. Donnie had to watch Mikey’s face fall as he explained—in the least callous manner he was capable of—that there’s just some things that Dee can’t fix. Was forced to witness his little brother’s crestfallen expression deepen, his sniffles turning to sobs as Donnie firmly reiterated, over and over, in no uncertain terms, that this was beyond his ability, that some things were simply unfixable.

The ache was indescribable. Despite all his tears, Mikey had never so much as hinted that he felt a modicum of disappointment towards his brother. To Donnie though, in one single moment, he’d been tipped from his pedestal—failed to live up to the precious faith placed on his shoulders. He had become abruptly, irreparably fallible again, and worst of all, broken his brother’s heart in the process. All it took was one stupid dead bird. 

A near decade later, and Donnie’s still running from that moment. He can’t let it come to that. He won’t. He refuses. 

Donnie’s eyes feel scratchy from hours staring at screens, his body jittery from the caffeine, brain raw from sleeplessness. 

The others haven’t even tried convincing him to lie down, caught up as they are looking for leads on the surface themselves. Any effort to put him to bed would be for naught, regardless. Donnie can’t sleep. Not beyond the interspersed minutes he passes out (on the sofa if he’s lucky, but usually with his cheek pressed to the desk next to his keyboard) while he waits for an algorithm to run. Anything more than that would be a waste of precious time. 

Besides, some of his best work is done sleep deprived. Most of it, actually. 

It would chafe on Donnie’s pride, to have the team blindly searching the city when he has specifically designed systems just for this purpose, but it’s better than watching them all anxious and aimless — Raph pacing circles around his lab, Mikey similarly unable to sit still. Both brothers are highly distracting, and yet still less piteous than the sight of Casey crouched in some dark corner of the room with his head in his hands, greasy hair clenched tightly between his fingers, foot tapping nervously against the floor while April sits beside him, one hand rubbing his back and the other clenched in her lap, her mouth pulled into a worried frown. 

At the very least, Casey seems to have forgiven her for withholding knowledge about Leon’s harmful nightcaps. To blame just her wouldn’t be fair or logical by any measure. There has always been something off about Leon. They’d all seen the weird injuries, his avoidant behaviour, the grief that followed his every action, accumulating like a nebulous cloud overhead. They’d all taken part in allowing him to dismiss them, even when they knew he was lying. 

Having the others benched with nothing to do presented a significant problem to his work-flow. Having Raph run them through dead-end after dead-end isn’t much better, but it keeps them occupied and out of Donnie’s mask tails. Besides, it’s much easier to hold onto hope when you’re not stuck on your ass feeling completely useless. 

The more hours tick by though, the further bleak pragmatism creeps into Donnie’s mind. Everyone is sombre, quiet, and hyper-focused in their attempts to locate the guys. They’ve already circled back five or six times to rest or refuel, each time empty-handed. It’s been over eighty-six hours now. Donnie knows exactly how unfavourable those numbers are for the prospective wellbeing of a missing person. He’s the least spiritual person he knows, and even he’s holding out for a miracle. Yet, morale does not suffer. No one breaks under the stress mounting with each second. Instead, they draw together, moving through their search with a fierce kind of desperation, a united front—too stubborn, too unwilling, too much of their hearts in this to accept defeat.

Red light spills across the dark room as a pop-up blinks on his monitor: SEARCH RETURNED [ 0 ] RESULTS. 

It’s the fifty-sixth time he’s read this message, successful searches that led to dead ends not-included. Donnie stares blankly into the screen for a moment, frustration and despair welling up in his throat. 

His fist slams into the desk. His fingers clench, tighter and tighter against the helplessness overwhelming him, grasping for the immaterial. Irrational. 

A repairable problem, he thinks—endeavours to convince himself, fingers flying across the keyboard. It’s difficult in more ways than one. It doesn’t help that neither of those fools took their damn phones. GPS tracking, wi-fi triangulation and IP address tracking have been a no-go from the beginning, making Donnie’s job exponentially more difficult. He’s got multiple programs monitoring social media platforms, filtering out the chatter for any mention of a giant one-armed man-turtle and his smaller identical twin. Ditto for the city’s surveillance footage. They’ve even mobilised some of their contacts in the hidden city to expand their search where Donnie’s digital reach falls short. There’s little Donnie can do to further improve his recognition algorithms or broaden his surveillance width without upgrading processing power—a task that would require more time than he’d like to throw to the wind without assurance it’d produce results. 

It simply doesn’t make sense. Magical portals notwithstanding, they can’t have just vanished into thin air. Granted—that Donnie would fail to procure a single public record of his brothers’ existence since their disappearance isn’t a mathematical impossibility, but the odds are unlikely enough that he’d sooner blame it on some kind of system error. That, or something more nefarious like—

Donnie freezes.

Nagging doubt prickling at his neck, he checks for user logins from the past few weeks that don’t line up with his own digital footprint. He finds nothing suspect, but it’s possible they wiped any tracks clean. He pulls up code files he hasn’t touched recently and cross-references the checksum to previous versions he’s confident he hasn’t altered.

The flighty motion of his hands goes still when they fail to match, his body going cold. Someone’s altered his code. 

Not a hacker, surely. Donnie’s firewalls are impenetrable. There’s no way to break in from the outside—not without leaving a hint of trespass. He kicks himself for not paying mind to such a glaringly obvious possibility with more severity sooner, but it had been such a ludicrous notion from the beginning that Donnie’s pride stopped him from sparing a thought to consider it. He spares a very serious moment now, and the more he investigates, opening his eyes to the negative space, the more illuminating the gravity of the situation becomes.

File after file missing. Several threads of painstaking detective work cut free. Evidence of phantom data injections flooded seamlessly with the real information, causing deliberate misdirection.

He clacks away at the keyboard with a viciousness the inanimate tool hardly deserves. There’s only one person he can think of that would have the means and the motive to do this. Donnie doesn’t want to believe it, but he thinks of the digitised failsafe he set up to divulge every last important access protocol to those he trusts most the moment his heart stops beating. He thinks of the shadow that often occupied the doorway to his workshop, of Shelldon’s indignant squawks when Donnie accused him of not acting as he’d been programmed. He thinks of the dream-like sensation of weightlessness and a blanket being pulled over his shoulders before he returned to the blankness of slumber.  

Confirming his suspicions is as easy as a quick check of his system logs. He pulls up the access activity from that night, and there is no further denying it.

It’s a solid punch to the gut.

“I knew I should’ve changed those passwords.” He grumbles, self-chastising, because this is in large part, his own fault. He knows his brother, and though lacking his usual flair, this is exactly the sneaky, underhanded sabotage he would expect from Leo. And yet still, he cannot stave off the sinking feeling of betrayal.

It is, however, the closest Donnie has come to uncovering the truth, and that knowledge alone is enough to galvanise his exhausted mind into action. He downs another energy drink, ignoring the shaking of his hands as he follows a trail of voided information. He will find Leo. Both of them, then kick their sorry asses to kingdom come. 

He’ll fix this.

- - -

The discordant rattle of the chains rings harshly with each heavy step Leon takes towards the muted screaming of the crowd outside. 

The iron wrapped around his wrists and ankles are a new touch; an ‘extra precaution’ after the guards found a certain red fox yokai with his own handcuffs locking him to a shower pipe.

Leon’s fun little escapade around the Nexus’s holding area hadn’t lasted as long as he might’ve liked. It’d been exhilarating, alarms blaring as he sprinted through hallways bathed in red searching for potential exit, only to discover that the passages beneath the arena are practically a labyrinth. There had been nowhere to run, no unlit corners for him to disappear into, functionally reducing Leon to a single, unarmed, lost and exhausted turtle against fifty assholes with super-tazers. 

Not the greatest of odds even on a good day, and Leon is far from performing at his best. It had been a poor plan, poorly executed. The night had ended no more painful than any other, but at least time he got the grim satisfaction of finally getting to fight pricks that deserved the pain he could dish out. That alone, he would argue, is worth the consequence of aching muscles and bindings chafing uncomforting against his scales.

His predicament however, remains two-fold, and despite all his puzzling over the upcoming fight, he has yet to come up with a solution that would address both aspects of his problem: his own immediate survival in the arena, and a viable escape for Leo. There has to be a solution, but so far all his endless circling has yielded is metal around his neck and mounting dread in his gut.

Leon squawks and nearly stumbles over the chains linking his ankles when the guard following close behind gives him a harsh shove. He recenters his balance, managing to avoid falling on his face, and jerks his head over his shoulder to snap icily. “Do you mind?” 

The guard is the largest yokai Leon’s encountered thus far, the twisted horns adorning his head very nearly scraping the stone ceiling above them. The oversized brute’s beady eyes narrow, the silver ring hanging from his nose swings when he grunts. “Walk faster.” 

As if it’s not abundantly apparent that having his limbs constrained by iron weights is hindering his motion. 

“Didn’t they tell you?” Leon quips. “We turtles are all about taking things slow. Gives assholes like you all the more time to you know, shove us around, breathe down our necks, fly spittle at the back of our heads, stink up the place—”

Pain explodes from his jaw as he receives a sharp elbow to the jaw. Leon staggers, but manages to keep himself upright. A moment later, he tastes copper; blood pooling in his mouth from a bitten tongue. He spits, then straightens his shell.

He doesn’t spare the guard another glance before shuffling down the passage. They’re treating him rougher because he’s gotten under their skin. He’s made them feel a semblance of the humiliation and smallness that every other prisoner on this ship experiences on a daily basis, and now they’re lashing out at him because they’re stupid and weak and most importantly, because they’re scared of what he’ll do next. 

His prowess in the arena hasn’t escaped their notice. They know he’s endured these conditions for longer than any of them could possibly fathom. Even now, shackled, bruised, and beaten down in what is, by all accounts, an unwinnable bitch of a predicament, he’s nothing but spitfire and teeth. Leon doesn’t need the extra push to step foot back into the arena. In fact, there’s a sizeable part of him that would much rather be out there in the ring than curled up next to Leo on the cold floor of their cell. 

There is an undeniable madness to refusing to give in under the circumstances, but he hasn’t completely lost it yet. Has some loose screws up there, maybe, but after everything he’s been through, he’ll be damned before he lets Sylvia of all people to be the one to break him. 

Besides, a fight to the death in the Nexus feels… not good, exactly, but mechanical. Familiar. A microcosm of Leon’s routine apocalyptic schedule, stripped back to its barest essentials—where he doesn’t have to worry about paperwork, or orders to give, or recruits to select, or people to manage, life or death missions every week, lives in his hands every second. The pressure has always been unrelenting and absolute, but this time if he ends up making a mistake in the field, no one will end up kicking the bucket except him. Here, he’s forced to switch off everything that isn’t immediately imperative to staying alive. 

It’s nice. For half a day he doesn’t think about the past, or all his innumerable fuck-ups, or the people he left behind. There is no anxiety at the forefront of his mind that can outcompete his adrenaline-fueled fight response for survival. 

He can slice without second thought at man after monster, cut through flesh, sinew, bone. Watch as they fall, weapons clattering to the floor. No one he loves has to get hurt. Here, in this world, there’s no Leo, none of his family’s screams, none of their blood. No grieving what could have been. All the things he will never be. Those he couldn’t save.

When he manages to make it back to his and Leo’s cell, each day a little worse for wear than the last, it’s almost a comfort. Partly because the bleeding heart behind Leo’s nonchalant exterior is never more evident than when he is cussing Leon out while he patches up his wounds. Partly because the downtime forces him to recognise that ever since he’d retired from his role as resistance leader, Leon hasn’t been getting worse. It only felt like his mental health had been on a rapid decline because for once in his life his mind had the peace and time to process all the things he’d rather not think about.

The Nexus, as it so happens, has become a very effective avoidant mechanism. It puts Leon back into his most functional state. Which… isn’t really functional at all in the long-term. Leon’s not used to thinking within that frame. Less than a year ago, existence and stability in the long-term was a far too idealistic and fantastical concept for him to afford. 

Yes, grim, but maybe that’s why he’s been relatively ambivalent about this whole ultimatum Sylvia’s handed him. After all, this is hardly the first time he’s been backed into a corner. Leon may be exhausted – weak from a lack of food and water and a solid nine battles’ worth of injuries, but if she’s expecting him to just lay down quietly and croak, she’s got a hell of another thing coming. 

Leon winces as strong fingers suddenly dig into the flesh of his shoulder, the chains at his back jingling and the ache at Leon’s temples pulsing as he is yanked to a halt. 

“Don’t try anything.” The bull hisses into his ear, before he stoops down low to release him.

Leon regards him with his driest look. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

A click, a key turning, a rattle, clink, clink, clack. Once at his ankles, once at his wrists, one final time at the collar around his neck. The manacles fall to the floor in a noisy heap. Leon feels twice as light but no freer. 

Leon’s rubbing circulation back into his arm when the gruff voice sounds from behind him again. “One last thing.” 

Leon sighs, the exasperated push of breath long and slightly painful as his diaphragm presses against bruised ribs. 

He’s in the process of turning around, a biting remark on the tip of his tongue when he becomes cognizant of motion—the black arc of a baton swinging towards his head. 

Leon thinks bastard, and the next thing he knows his vision is exploding with stars. He crumples to the floor.

From there, time and space become vague, disjointed concepts—a kaleidoscope of images and sensation falling in and out of focus. His tympana are ringing. Head trauma numero three is turning out to be a real doozy. He doesn’t recall being hauled back up to his feet, but he finds himself stumbling from a void of darkness to blinding light. It’s pure muscle memory that has him following an established routine.

A wall of noise hits him from all sides, so cacophonous Leon can feel it down to the marrow, overwhelming the ringing in his ears and beating a painful, splintering drumbeat against the fragile walls of his cranium. Leon lurches forward unsteadily. Colour and sound swim around him, disorientating, nauseating. Leon takes his position, his left hand wrapping around the hilt of a sword. By the time his mind manages to weave the world back into a semblance of coherency, it’s to a thunderous peak of cheering. He winces, eyes falling shut under the fresh wave of nausea that crashes over him. 

Thoughts return, slow and thick as molasses.

He stands at a corner of the once pristine Nexus arena grounds, now reduced to rubble and dirt. They’re screaming his name. Not Leon, of course. He doesn’t exist here, in this reality. Here, he’s simply his sword. He is Ryūsei. A lifeless, ancient rock from another world, hurtling through space, burning up, threatening to destroy anything in his path or crumble and break upon collision. 

“And Ryūsei’s opponent tonight…” The ruckus around the stadium gradually dies back down as the announcer’s voice booms. 

The floodlights suddenly dim, leaving a lone spotlight to highlight the swirling pool of water in the middle of the field. He should probably be more worried about fighting Sylvia’s death omen after being given what felt like a fucking lobotomy, but right now all he can feel is the relief of not having a thousand watts of light beamed directly into his face and a million fans screeching into his ear.

Beneath the sound of the announcer, Leon hears a barely audible mechanical hum—low and whirring, like one of Donnie’s robots powering to life. Suddenly, his legs are shaking, knees struggling to keep him upright, and it’s not until he’s fighting equilibrium to avoid crashing to the ground that he realises it’s not the steadiness of his footing threatening to give way, nor is it his body that’s shuddering. It’s the floor itself. 

“A Nexus All Star, the feared maiden of Menhit, the Hidden City’s own shining Mare of Diomedes…” As the announcer speaks, the edges of the chasm in the centre of the pool fall away, the rush of the water falling down the sink amplifying as the hole widens. From it, a silhouette rises with the mist. 

It faintly registers that this is far more show than they’ve put on for any of his other lowly competitors. It’s a level of effort and pizzazz that demands attention, drawing all eyes to the foreordained champion and away from the bloodthirsty fans’ obsession with Ryūsei – the lowly underdog who’s about to puke his guts up on the field. He’d probably feel embarrassed by his own lackluster entrance and insulted by the clear favouritism on display here were it not for the fact he doesn’t feel much else except nauseous right now. 

Leon squints. He can just barely make out broad shoulders, two short, curved blades, a humanoid figure with a body of lithe muscle.

“KING LAMPON!”

Leon’s senses erupt with pain once again as the crowd comes alive and the full weight of the Nexus’s floodlights beam down upon them — the sound and light surrounding him, all-consuming and inescapable. He cringes, eyes instinctively squeezing shut against the sharp, stabbing discomfort in his eyes, his hands coming up to cover his tympana as the audiences’ screams take a battering ram to his already tender brain.

This is it. He’s going to hurl in front of an audience of thousands. For the second time within a span of twenty-four hours. The fight hasn’t even started yet. 

Leon wills himself to swallow it back and eases open his eyes. It’s not pleasant, but his vision eventually adjusts. He can’t say the same for the pounding at the back of his head. Exhaustion, bruising, concussions, the aftermath of a few hundred volts of electricity seizing his muscles. His body certainly doesn’t lack reasons for its aching. 

Come on Leo, do what you do best—showy and annoying. Flap like a peacock, dance like a bee. 

“Gugh.” He groans, feeling every year of his age. 

He brings a free hand to his temple. It comes away clean—a welcome surprise. His head has bled enough blood for two lifetimes in the last week alone.

When he finally lifts his gaze, his eyes meet gold—lustrous metal catching the rays of light, adorning the pauldron strapped to one of her shoulders, wrapped in tight, scaled cuffs around muscled forearms, reflected in three-fingered talons wrapped around twin blades.

The whole look this Yokai has going on strikes Leon as awfully garish for what is essentially a deathmatch in the dirt, though he can hardly complain—standing on the other side of the arena with a silk kimono and his thighs out—rocks from glass houses and all. If he were a glass half full kind of guy, he’d say that the scene they set makes for quite a glamorous deathbed.

Lampon jumps down from her platform, her boots splashing into the shallow pool of water below. 

She approaches, far smaller than Leon expected, her footing cat-light as she sizes him up. A long hood sits over a white mask with crimson markings. The angles of the mask are sharp, menacing, reminiscent of a skull— bold red lines imitate the ridge of her brow, disappearing into the dark of her hood. Large red eyes the shape of Big Mama’s betray no emotion, whole and blank and shining under the arena lights. Leon can read nothing from her but a battle-ready focus and a fierceness that promises a punishing fight. There’s faint screaming from Leon’s hindbrain advising him to settle down into some kind of defensive posture, but there’s a louder thought that suddenly cracks through the forefront.

“You’re like me.” Leon blurts. 

Her mask tips, appraising him head to toe. “I doubt that.” She replies huskily. 

Leon finds nothing to suggest otherwise: shell, plated plastron, three fingers. She’s wearing very little in regards to armour; the golden pauldron secured to her shoulder fastened with a single broad strap that runs across her plastron. Her scales are hidden behind dark grey bindings and a high collar, but the outline of her lithe figure reminds him of Leo’s—his own, as a teenager.

He tilts his head at her as she begins to circle him, predator hunting prey. 

In all his years, he’s never met another turtle. Yokai are a diverse group—he’s come across people that look like all manner of reptile, but not once has he come across another mutant like his brothers. He would’ve noticed. He would’ve remembered. 

“I mean no offence to thy king, but are you, perchance, bald under there?” He calls.

The question is met with stony, silent contempt. Okay. A different approach. “What are you doing here?” 

How the hell did you get caught up with a maniac like Big Mama is the implied query there, but somehow Leon doubts that will be well received.

Lampon slides her foot back slowly, stance lowering. “Right now?” She asks, perfectly relaxed, her motions perfectly controlled and dexterous as she flourishes her blades. “Theriocide.”

“Ah.” Leon watches her closely. There’s a tingling, crackling pressure in the air that registers as danger in Leon’s reptilian hindbrain. “And if I were to tell you that some kind third-person spectators may be either too homeschooled or too concussed to know what that means…” 

She stops her circling, straightens. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

A blur of motion. It’s only instinct that has Leon throwing up a guard and bracing his core. Blades sing and sparks fly when their steel meets, the force ricocheting painfully up Leon’s left arm and vibrating in his teeth. 

Alarm crawls up his spine. In the time it’s taken him to blink, Lampon has managed to close the distance separating them. The strike is solid — far more powerful than he might’ve expected, and now that Lampon has breached his space, she doesn’t let up, as fleet-footed as Mikey when he still had two heels on the ground. Her falchions are shorter than any traditional sword, and her slighter frame paired with swift footwork sends a barrage of consecutive cuts and swipes so incessant that Leon struggles to keep pace, his stupid blunt brute of a sword big and unwieldy in the face of her speed. 

They fight, a vicious blur of two bodies, Lampon’s advance and Leon’s dodge, Lampon’s thrust and the sharp sting of her blade across the flesh of Leon’s forearm before he finally parries and sends her a step back.

Leon pauses, huffing, heart pumping, blood singing through his veins, adrenaline muting his headache. “Alright King, you’ve got my attention. I’ll play ball.” He changes his grip around his blade. 

This time, when Lampon lunges forward, Leon meets her midway. He deflects her under-swipe, forcing an opening and drawing first blood from her side. The slice is shallow. 

Leon darts forward, slicing down again, trying to capitalise while her guard is low, but Lampon makes no sign of even having felt it. She parries, then twists, viper-fast, one blade tucking backwards in her hand before she swings wide from the side. Leon pivots hard and dodges backwards, his heels skidding across the dirt as he drops back into a guard. 

Lampon barely pauses to breathe. She swings her blades in a flashy flourish, throwing the hilts up and catching them in reverse grip, thumbs curling over the pommels as she settles into another stance. “Y’know, it’s hard these days to find a swordsman that can keep up with me.” She says, her tone dry and bored. “When Big Mama threw me a bone here, I thought I might actually have a challenge for once.” 

Irritation plucks at a tense muscle in his neck. She’s got talent, he’ll give her that much. Though he is a little dubious as to how much of that is natural. He’s rarely come across someone this fast, let alone someone who can lay down blows this powerful. It spells trouble for Leon. He’s worn down. Already struggling to keep up. 

“I have to admit, I’m somewhat disappointed.”

Leon’s left hand tightens around the leather hilt of his sword. “A little early to be making judgments, no?” 

The red eyes of her mask turn towards him. “To you, this is a nightmare you wish to escape. For me, it’s a home. I grew up learning to appraise an opponent by the first lick of their steel. Trust me, old man, you do not measure up to the rumours.”

Leon watches as she rolls her shoulders and cricks her neck, her posture limber and relaxed like this is nothing more than a warm-up to her. Leon would almost be offended by the casualness of it all were it not for the feeling of her gaze on him behind that mask, eyes intent on the slightest opening. 

Her composure sure does speak of experience, though she sounds young enough to still be in college with April in this world. Strong and healthy enough to be a perfect candidate for the resistance, in what was once Leon’s. Did she really grow up here? In the undercity? Or was she raised imprisoned— another messy familial bond of Big Mama’s. It would certainly explain her aptitude in the arena.

Leon should be on his guard, mind clear and focused, but every time he looks at her, he struggles to suffocate his pity, the questions circling his psyche. Why are you here? Who did this to you? 

“Haven’t you heard of giving a guy a little time to come out of his shell?” He quips.

Leon jerks back when Lampon surges forward, arm rising just in time to bear the brunt of her blow as he rushes out, “I think I should be afforded one free terrible pun without retaliation per head trauma,” he pushes her blades away and swiftly follows up with a riposte, “it’s only fair.”

Lampon parries, eyes narrowing in a subtle wince from the weight of his swing. She aims low — knows she’s deadliest the closer she is to the ground, where any other opponent would be dead. He flinches and jumps back at the sudden heat that erupts from his leg, taking a shallow slice that’s more pressurised air than blade, splitting the threads of his kimono and cutting through scales just above his knee. 

Leon bites back a hiss, his arm shooting out with a wide haphazard swing, forcing space. Lampon pivots back with far more grace, her eyes already searching for the next opening. On Leon’s part, he doesn’t know which opponent is worse — the one before him, or the vertigo. His vision spins, his world shifting on its axis. 

Lampon is certainly proving that she’s not in the mood to be reasoned with. Every attempt Leon’s made to convince an opponent that there is a third option that involves neither fighting nor dying has resulted in failure, and he simply does not know enough about this girl to try and put forth a solid argument. Every personal hint Lampos deigns to grace him with is an impossibly small drop of information in a raging sea that Leon is currently drowning in. There’s little logic to diving deeper when his life is dependent on keeping his mind focused and his head afloat. 

Leon takes an unsteady step backwards, chokes back another untimely wave of nausea and tries for a distraction. 

“And what about those rumours? Tell me. What have they been saying about me?” He huffs, trying his level best to keep up a convincing guard while he swallows down the thick sourness pushing at the back of his throat. “Only the nice things, please. I’ve been having a rough go of it lately.”

“... Very well.”

He flinches when he spots Lampon pushing off her back foot, his sword immediately at the ready. She advances on him, a blur of silver and gold. Leon darts in and back, each thrust and parry a whirlwind of movement—blinding flashes of silver and gold as the arena’s spotlights glint across the metal. 

“They say Ryūsei is a newcomer to the scene with the skills of a veteran. Composed under pain and pressure, bearing a cool and sharp-witted confidence—-one born of experience, as opposed to arrogance.” 

Leon throws himself sideways in a manner that’s more drunken stumble than dodge, narrowly avoiding a downward blow that would’ve lopped his good arm off were he a millisecond slower. Leon hits the ground hard, his heart slamming into overdrive as he feels the rush of wind and specks of dirt spray across his vision. 

“As beautiful as he is haunted.” Lampon announces with another downward strike. 

“Weird and off-putting way to compliment a guy, but I’ll take it.” Leon remarks as he rolls out of the way of the stab, his brain rattling around in his skull as he rotates. He hops back up to meet the whip of her other sword slicing through the air towards him. 

Lampon goes on, “a ronin that fights like he has already survived several hells. A master swordsman that could rival the greatest.”

As soon as Leon’s got his balance, he brings up his sword in a guard, keeping low to the ground, using his weight and gravity to protect himself from the next blow while he regathers his wits. 

“And yet…” She pauses for a particularly vicious swipe at his neck. Leon blocks, a shriek of steel scraping steel. “Somehow, not a single person has heard of him before. A complete Nexus nobody, in every sense of the word…”

Leon blinks away the sweat catching in his lashes. His lungs expand, forcing new air into his lungs, forcing the old out. His arm aches as again and again Lampon’s blades slams into his own, wearing him down. 

“No history.”

She leans forward, shoulder dropping, one of her blades swiping low. Leon reads the motion, jumps, then immediately swings his blade up to parry her next blow. 

“No origin.” 

Electric streaks of heat race up Leon’s nerves until his entire arm begins to tremble. Several cuts burning with the salt of his sweat and pulling with each motion of his muscles. 

“No family.” 

The pain pulsing through Leon fades to a dull roar, a wave of raw emotion drowning out the agony. He spins out of the way of her strike then sweeps his blade in an arcing blow at Lampon’ head. As she dodges it, Leon brings his sword back, takes the hilt between two hands, and brings the blade down.

Momentum comes to a crashing halt, a shock screaming up his arm as Lampon drops to a knee and blocks the blow with both swords, paired silver raised above her in a protective X. Blank red eyes peer up at him through the cross of their blades. 

“That’s a nasty look,” Lampon’s head tilts a fraction, “struck a nerve, did I?”

Leon squares his jaw and pushes harder against her guard. “Sounds to me like your dearest Sylvia hasn’t been very forthcoming with you.”

Lampon doesn’t budge an inch. “She isn’t interested in revealing what hole she unearthed you from. The myth is far more compelling, I suppose. Ryūsei — her own bright star, fallen from the heavens.” 

He would hardly call where he came from heaven. “If this is leading up to a punch-line where you call me Angel…”

She huffs through gritted teeth, her breaths strained. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d sooner call you a ghost.”

He jerks when Lampon’s steel unlocks itself from his own with a screech — the resistance pushing against him falling away with a suddenness that has him stumbling forward. 

Lampon rolls to the side, smoothly dodging the downward arc of his sword. Leon knows this feeling—when he’s exhausted and hurting and gives his all to win and throws defence to the wind. Foolish, amateur, fatal. 

The sting of impact reverberates up Leon’s arm as his blade buries itself firmly into the ground. 

The crowds’ screams reach a fever pitch, ringing between his tympana as he plants his feet and tries to yank his sword free. The blade stubbornly refuses to budge, and too fast do Lampon’s blades return, snaking towards his throat. 

Leon’s entire being goes taught with fear. He reacts without thought, his fingers releasing from the hilt of his sword, his neck instinctively pulling into his shell at the very last moment. 

He does not see the arc of her swing. Only hears the whoosh of wind as her blade slices the air where his head had resided, feels the sharp sting of flesh just above his brow. 

Lampon yells out in frustration, then there’s a heel hooking around his ankle and the world’s equilibrium shifts — the dark giving way to momentum and impact as he’s forced flat to the ground. His head pops out to blinding arena lights and Lampon’s blades whirling back for a finishing blow. Leon tenses, his arms immediately rising to protect his head.

He catches one of the blades in a metal hand. The other glances across the plates of his outer forearm and plunges into the keratin of his shell. A guttural scream bursts from his lips, his eyes widening as he feels the blade pierce through to the soft tissue below his ribs. 

Leon’s eyes squeeze shut against the pain. He blindly grasps out with his free hand, his fingers finding purchase in the fabric of Lampon’s high collar. He sharply yanks it, pulling her in as he smashes his head forward. 

A short thrill of exhilaration strikes through him when he hears a satisfying crunch. 

The weight pressing down on him disappears as Lampon’s head snaps back. The moment he senses the weakened hold, he pulls at her sword, relinquishing the weapon from her grip and throwing it to the side. Leon hears it clatter to the ground somewhere to his left and fumbles for the other blade—the one still stuck in the keratin of his plastron. Yikes. 

Between the pain and the imminent threat of a pissed she-devil rising back to her feet, Leon doesn’t have the space to think. He wraps both hands around the handle and rips the sword from his body with a sharp cry, nearly doubling over in the process. 

The white noise between his tympana rings loud. It feels like there’s a bubbling cauldron of lava erupting beside his stomach, the throbbing heat radiating outwards. Lightheaded and dizzy, Leon sways. Lampon’s bloodied blade shakes in his grip as wet heat trickles down his brow, mingling with sweat—salt and copper prickling at his eyes. He blinks away the blurriness and glances up.

The air is punched from his lungs as a weight slams into him. Leon’s world tilts sideways, the newly obtained blade slips from his weak fingers, the raw wound below his ribs screams as his shell is reacquainted with the floor. 

Fear arcs through him with the impact. Through the haze of pain, Leon’s first instinct is to locate a fallen weapon. With both of them unarmed, this fight is going to devolve into a mad scramble for whoever can obtain the sharpest object to stick the other with first. It’s what any smart non-krang enemy would do: eliminate the most immediate threat to their life via the quickest and easiest means necessary. It’s what Leon would do. It’s what he is doing.

It is not what Lampon does.

The moment Leon takes his eyes off her, she pounces, catching him mid-twist with a lock of her thighs around his left arm. Leon blinks, then she’s rolling sharply away from him, forcing the arm into a painful deadlock, leaving no leeway to struggle. 

He strains, but any violent motion threatens to detach his shoulder from its joint. The ache of the stretch worsens with each second. It’s the longest break from potentially killing blows they’ve had since this fight started. 

“We can stop this. I can help you.” He gasps out. “You don’t have to do this, you’re more than this.”

She pauses for a split second, her head lifting slightly. Her mask is cracked— one of her red eyes shattered. The split reveals golden markings around a sharp amber gaze that narrows at his words. “More than what?”

“A tool.” He hisses, gambling his own grievances, searching for an echo of understanding behind her eyes. “A prop. A plaything made to shine for her amusement.” 

There’s a long beat where Lampon is perfectly still. Leon tries to buck against her grip, but the angle is all wrong. Her hold doesn’t shift so much as a millimetre. She presses her boots into the weeping wound in his side. 

Leon’s world drowns beneath the wave of agony. He screams.

When his mewling dies down, she speaks, pushing past the sharp buzzing in his head, her voice low— breathing composed as if holding Leon down isn’t difficult at all. “You know what the difference between you and I is?” 

Alright. Not exactly the response he’d been aiming for. Between the straining of his arm and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, Leon’s mind is drawing a blank. 

Another flare of pain rises from his side as she digs her boot in deeper, pushing for a response.

“Dazzling charm?” He wheezes.

The deep chuckle resonating in her chest vibrates against his arm. Leon flexes his fingers, eliciting protest from the tendons in his wrist. “Not quite.” 

What is this girl’s deal? Leon presses the back of his head into the ground, eyes clenching in discomfort. He rattles off whatever comes to mind. “Multiple, compounding concussions? A hyperfixation with the colour gold? A bigass chin? The ability to call killing a man ‘asserting my girl power’? A really intense manicure job?” 

She hums. “No.” 

Leon squirms. The wound in his side joins the chorus of agony as Lampon presses down harder with her boots, halting his movement. 

“You’re really drawing out the suspense here.” He manages weakly. 

“A functional sword arm.”

Leon’s immediate thought is how vehemently Donnie would defend the work of scientific genius attached to Leon’s shoulder, which is the fourth hint now that the effects of Leon’s repeated head trauma are really starting to kick in (not that Leon’s counting)—

He is violently yanked from the depths of his wandering mind by a sickening pop. 

His vision fills with white. 

A loud, high-pitched noise fills the space between his tympana. It takes three seconds for Leon’s brain to register it as a scream, and another five for Leon to recognise it’s his own. His senses are enveloped by an electric heat that engulfs his shoulder, leaving his body locked in a state of rigid-limbed agony, his nerve endings igniting a firework of sparks behind tightly clenched eyelids. 

He doesn’t notice when Lampon releases him—is hardly aware of the coolness of the dirt as he writhes like a worm, mindlessly trying to escape the sensation, metal fingers in a death grip just above the shoulder.  

He cracks open an eye and peers up to see Lampon squatted down close, coolly observing him.

“Maybe there is a part of you that lives up to the stage name…” 

Lampon’s voice barely reaches him between the incomprehensible chanting of the crowd and the wildfire igniting his senses. Leon cries out when she gives his shoulder a pat, igniting another barrage of agony that drowns out his thoughts and leaves him shaking. 

“Y’know, the thing they don’t tell children wishing upon shooting stars is that they’re nothing more than ancient bits of debris. Destroys the fantasy of it, doesn’t it? That these bright, shining symbols of prosperity flying through the sky are just fire and rock—material vaporised in the atmosphere, lucky to touch the ground before it’s turned back to dust.” 

He counts his breaths and grinds his head into the ground, tries to pull himself from the tides of pain radiating from his arm, his skull, below his ribs. He needs to get it together. He needs to think. 

This involves processing the increasingly apparent reality in which his arm — the real, flesh and blood, good one — won’t move. The sensation shuddering through him is both fire and ice. 

The arm is still there. It’s still attached. Leon can see it. Dangling uselessly from the joint. There’s an odd tingling sensation in his fingertips. He can see it, he can feel it. 

His brain suggests dislocation. Leon suggests his brain shut up, given that he now has more pressing concerns to prioritise, like how Lampon is standing up and moving away, probably to collect her swords so that she can put him out of his goddamn misery. 

His fear is muted by the pain shooting through him, pulse after pulse, like drums being bashed repeatedly over his head. It’s making it hard to form a plan, much less move a single muscle. Everything aches, mentally and physically. Shit out of luck, this time. 

Lampon returns, the permanent scowl of her mask floating above him. “You’re broken. Undisciplined. Past your prime. This is your indictment. She sees no further potential in you.”

A sharp scream rips free from his throat when Lampon’s boot slams into the wound below his ribs, the force of the kick flipping him onto his shell. 

“That is the difference between you and I, Ryūsei.” 

He… goes away for a moment. Just lies there, shaking and breathless. The burn in his arm and his side is still there, but muted. Distant. Like his head has been dunked underwater, the noise of the crowd muffled and indistinct, replaced by static. He has a vague feeling that this spells danger for him, medically speaking, though he’s not in a state to recall the exact term for his symptoms. 

He flinches at the sudden glint of light in his periphery.

There’s a millisecond delay between his brain and the correlated processors in his arm. Leon’s so focused on the sharp silver flying directly towards his face that it barely registers as his own movement when the metal hand shoots up and catches the blade centimetres from his flesh. 

He sharply inhales as the chaos of the arena comes back into focus. The mechanics inside his arm whir under the force of Lampon’s strength bearing down on him. Her glare is piercing, illuminated by a primal intensity—a beam of gold that slices through the cacophony of light and noise around them. It settles on him with a laser-like focus, stripping away any semblance of safety or sanctuary. 

Leon winces under the strain as she pushes down harder, her blade biting deeper into the metal of his hand. His eyes squeeze closed. Panic clenches around his heart as his chest and back muscles shiver under the exertion, threatening to give out. 

Lampon zeroes in on the weakness, driving down with all her weight. Leon gasps. Each and every muscle in his body aches, pushed to the point of exhaustion.

“Give in,” she snarls, “there’s no shame in falling to my blade. Retain some semblance of honour and die with dignity.” 

His eyes slide open… Honour? 

An inexplicable sense of giddiness breaks through the waves of pain—delirious glee that snags his diaphragm in a tight grip and shakes. 

Dignity?

A loud bark of laughter bursts free from the bars of his teeth. The noise is shaky and wheezing, the pressure of Lampon’s strength bearing down on him thinning the air in his lungs. The cackling has him feeling lightheaded and even more out of breath, but there’s little he can do to stop it. Lampon blinks, her domineering aura wavering at his reaction, and fuck, that’s funny. Leon laughs harder at the look of slack, utter bafflement plastered across once sharp features. 

“Have you seen me?” He asks with near-hysteric and earnest curiosity. “What gave you the impression I have any of that left to lose?”

His laughter dies off when she presses down harder, the air catching in his throat. 

“What purpose is there to prolonging your life for a few scarce moments? Your sword arm is useless. You can’t fight.” She sneers, as if this is something that matters to him, as if he wouldn’t crawl on his hands and knees to—

Ah. But this isn’t about him, is it? This is about Lampon. Her pride. Her glory. She won’t strike him down like this. Not in front of her audience, not in front of her patron. She wants a proper victory. A kneeling surrender. Not an ugly, scrabbling slay in the dirt. 

How ironic. An ugly death is all Leon has come to expect from his life.  

“It’s over.” She spits. “Accept it. I’ve won.”

Leon imagines it. Following Big Mama’s orders. His blood splattering the ochre ground below him, dark stains that will remain until the boots of other fighters kick dirt over it. The idea fills him with nothing but exhaustion. The passage of time has never been kind to him. Surely this would be easier—no more hurt feelings, no more living dread for the fate of this world…

His eyes dip to the purple and red masks tied around his dislocated arm, brushing against the dirt. 

Leon stops.

“You’re right.” He agrees blandly. 

Lampon falters. The moment the realisation registers behind Lampon’s eyes, Leon grips the blade in his hand with all the strength Donnie’s prosthetic has bestowed upon him. 

He parrots her words, “I’m shameless. I’m nobody, from nowhere. I’m, by every definition of the term, a loser.”

He slowly pushes himself off the floor. Lampon’s boots skid in the dirt as he forces her back, inch by inch. The motion pulls at his shoulder, pouring fuel on the wildlife engulfing his left arm. Lampon staggers, head dropping and arms shaking as she tries with all her strength to hold him down. 

“All true.” The steel between Leon’s fingers begins to dent and warp beneath the pressure. “There’s just one teeny tiny crucial detail you failed to take into consideration.”

There’s a loud metallic whir and a creak of the gears in his hand before the blade finally crumples under the pressure. Lampon gasps, her shocked gaze darting up at him, her pupil blown wide. She takes a step back, her grip slackening around the warped weapon. Leon lets the sword clatter to the ground, then steps forward and shoots his hand out to grasp Lampon by the collar before she can retreat. When Leon looks into her eyes, he sees fear. 

“I’m an ambidextrous loser.” 

The wound at his side screams as he lifts and bodily throws her across the arena. 

She doesn’t go far, somersaulting in the air and tumbling to the ground. Leon, lightheaded and vision spinning slightly, holds his bad side with his good arm and languidly makes his way over to where his sword is buried into the earth.

His legs are a little shaky, but each step forward is more confident than the last. With the blade before him, he takes a deep breath, wraps his metal fingers around the blade’s hilt. 

There’s a voice at the back of his head—cynical and contemptuous, whispering that is yet another exercise in futility. She is younger, stronger, healthier than him. Leon shakes his head. Precision beats power. 

With one, great, adrenaline-fueled tug, he rips the sword from the ground. 

When he turns back to Lampon, she is scrambling for her other blade. She’s faster. Leon readjusts his hold on the grip, tries to detach himself from the agony rippling through his shoulder and the growing numbness of his left fingers as he lowers into a defensive stance. Timing beats speed. 

Her desire for the win burns far greater than his own. Yeah, well. She’s never been exposed to the perks of being a washout screw-up, has she? The world sharpens as the whites of his nictitating membrane slide over his eyes. 

He’s no stranger to the concept of survival over victory.

- - - 

Donnie jerks awake at the feeling of a vibration buzzing against his cheek. 

He blinks blearily, head lifting to look around the room, momentarily disoriented. His workshop is dark, his monitor asleep. Dad’s dressing gown slips from where it’d been placed over his shoulder.

A frisson of anxiety rushes through him as he glances down to purple light blinking from his wrist-tech—the notification that awoke him. He can’t have passed out for longer than an hour or two. His head feels like it’s full of wool and his eyelids are heavy, his body signalling its desire to collapse back against the desk. Donnie swipes the drool from his cheek and turns back to his monitor, wincing when the light immediately burns into his corneas before he’s able to turn down the screen brightness. 

The notification leads Donnie down what he can only define as a sordidly clandestine rabbit-hole. He applies several… less than legal strategies to bypass several security measures before he’s finally able to land at the very bottom of the well with a single link—rather innocuous looking for a resource that required specific decryption keys to detect. 

Donnie accesses the link with a foreboding pit in his gut—hopeful and anxiety-ridden by the thought of what that hope might do to him if his efforts have led him to yet another failure. 

The feed begins to play. 

At first it’s difficult to comprehend what he’s seeing. 

Two forms move together in a wild flurry of motion, a distance away from the camera. Their weapons clash, silver singing as they dance across a mosaic of fallen, weathered marble columns and uneven ground. The dirt has eroded away in places, exposing patches of underlying material that glints with a metallic sheen under the amphitheatre’s spotlights—more metal than bedrock. In the centre of the war-torn battleground, a large pool of water flows towards a swirling centre.

At the bottom of the stream layout, a timer. Twenty-three minutes, sixteen seconds and counting. On either side of the clock, names, one highlighted in a banner of gold—Lampon, the other, in cerulean blue. Ryūsei.

The smaller opponent’s footing stutters for a second—a reaction of pain, blood drawn. A rise of shock and alarm prickles on Donnie’s clammy shoulders. This is no high school performance in a run-down theatre. 

They block the next attack, retreating towards a wall. The camera pans out further, revealing a crowd. The height between the epicentre of destruction and the audience stands is cavernous, and large sections of outer walls which have all but crumbled away. 

The opponents come to a sudden halt; their blades caught in a deadlock. The view switches to a different camera, a closer angle. Donnie’s been subconsciously leaning towards the monitor, drawn physically to the edge of his seat. The new perspective fills his vision. The air in his lungs freezes, his heart drops, horror takes hold. 

He’s found him. 

There is no satisfaction, no sense of accomplishment to the discovery. Leon is alive, barely, and it’s clear that this status is on the imminent verge of deteriorating. 

Leon looks beyond exhausted. His body is a medley of scrapes and bruises. Blood drips from a cut on his head, running over his brow ridge, catching in the fabric of his mask and rolling down his cheek like tears. A shivering cascade of terror crashes through Donnie at the sight of even more red flowing freely from Leon’s side, staining the blue of his robes and dripping down a bare leg. 

His cozy, loose clothing has been swapped out for a mockery of a hakama, exposing the shaking in his muscles—bulk that looks so lithe and defined it could be sculpted from marble. Malnourished, Donnie’s mind supplies. Fat reserves burned away to practically nothing, the body not far off from beginning to eat into itself. Donnie’s fingernails dig crescents into the palms of his hands. Catabolysis. 

Leon’s veins and arteries are visible to even the camera’s resolution, snaking down his forearms into his hands. Severe dehydration, like a bodybuilder right before a major event—the cut of their body accentuated to the eye, but the athlete is barely able to stand due to the physical punishment inflicted upon the body. 

Leon’s opponent slides bloodied blades away from his sword. The rhythm of the fight picks up again. Donnie’s foot bounces up and down, his knuckles white where he’s clutching the arms of the chair. 

Leon fights brutally—wielding his sword like it’s an extension of his prosthetic. If Donnie wasn’t a nervous wreck, he’d be impressed by how quickly Leon’s mastered control of the new arm. Granted, Leo’s been swinging with both hands for as long as he’s been able to lift a sword, but Donnie had still predicted the integration process to take far longer than this… He’s used to seeing Leon as a leftie—fighting solely with… 

With an arm that now hangs loosely at his side. 

Donnie squints. The shoulder joint looks wrong. The limb is completely slump as he dodges yet another attack. Dislocated, he realises with another hot-cold shiver of panic.

The horrible pit in his stomach grows. Donnie’s thoughts race faster, synapses sparking like fireworks. Leon will undoubtedly be in immense pain fighting as he is, and he needs to do something that will end this fight and end it quickly. Shock and adrenalin are beautiful, powerful forces of biochemistry, right up until the second their effects wear off and you pass the fuck out, which in Leon’s case will be equivalent to death. 

He needs to find out what—where this is, but he finds himself paralysed, equally enraptured and disturbed by the sight before him. He hangs on the precipice of action and inaction, helpless and captivated. All he knows for certain about anything is the information presented before him, and all it’s telling him is that Leon is about to die and Donnie will be incapable of fixing anything—

Leon’s opponent slices at the air and catches one of the tail ends of the red and purple masks tied around Leon’s leg as he kicks backwards. Donnie’s awareness sweeps over the tattoo sleeve, information that is both new and entirely unimportant right now. Donnie’s more interested in the masks—recognises them from the family’s first encounter with Leon, wound around the grip of the sword that had been posed to murk him. Difficult image to forget. 

What plants a seed of dread in him though is the blue wrapped around Leon’s other leg. Now that Donnie has noticed it, he cannot stop noticing it. 

The facts lay before him, plain. Leo was with Leonardo. Leo is no longer with Leonardo. Leo is not here. Leo is nowhere to be seen. Dead, deceased, another ghost that Leon has tied to himself. 

Donnie squeezes his eyes against the moisture forming there. No. His breaths are leaving his lungs too fast, thin and shaky. He digs his teeth into his lip and shakes his head. He can’t make baseless assumptions and fall into a panic. He takes a slow, stuttering breath. He can’t focus on the negatives. This is Schrodinger's cat. Either Leo is fine, or he isn't. He can’t know until he knows.

The action of looking away from the fight so he can pull up the stream’s details on another monitor is more difficult than it should be. It’s nonsensical. The end of this fight will not be dictated by whether or not Donnie sees it, and yet he feels responsibility to Leon to watch. If he lays his attention elsewhere, all his progress will be lost. Leon will disappear again, or fall to his opponent’s blade, and Donnie won’t see how they murdered his brother, and somehow that would render this whole experience as even more unjust. 

His eyes dart between both screens as he scans through a goddamn advertisement for Big Mama’s Battle Nexus revival with a detached sense of disbelief. It’s all so loud, so public, so obvious. Here Donnie was, labouring through days of fruitless investigation, slamming into dead-end after dead-end, and all he had to do was tune in to the Hidden City’s biggest new attraction? The knowledge fills him with a deeply confused frustration and a deeper sense of loss. He can’t have missed this. How did he miss this?

Leon makes a sweeping blow that misses its target, then staggers, wincing. Blood in the water. His opponent advances on his weakness, their sword slicing through the air. A breath catches in Donnie’s throat, his stomach flipping. Leon leans back at the last possible moment and the blade skims across his plastron. 

Leon catches himself with the prosthetic and kicks his opponent in the stomach hard enough to send them stumbling back. Then, bruised and bleeding and looking like a stiff wind could topple him, using his sword as a crutch, he props himself back up. 

His opponent is already on their feet, making their way towards him. Leon does not flinch away. With a terrifyingly single-minded focus, he staggers forwards to meet them. 

The next clash of their blades is brutal, ugly, technique on both sides suffering from exhaustion and injury. Leon’s opponent is blatantly attempting to attack the vulnerability on his left side. Leon simply uses the predictability to his advantage, pressing forward, bearing down on his smaller opponent with all his strength. Their left foot slips a fraction—a fraction of an inch on uneven ground, and that’s all the opening Leon needs. Without warning, he swiftly pulls his sword back, throwing his opponent off balance, then twists. 

His blade slices through their side. The arena goes silent. 

Immediately Donnie is up, his chair rolling backwards. His palms slap against the desk, heartbeat going off like a jackhammer.

A weapon slips from a lax grip. Leon’s opponent falls to their knees, fingers brushing over the wound. 

The hushed tension among the crowd gives way to a burst of energy. A raucous eruption of cheers break out across the arena. Donnie’s caught between elation and dismay. There’s a tightness pressing against his chest—the urge to scream or punch the air in celebration or cry.

Leon’s chest rises and lowers as he heaves rough breaths through his nose. He watches his opponent passively, his expression empty, gaze unwavering. It fills him with a terrible sense of unease. Donnie can’t remember a time he’s seen Leo so physically quiet—so lifeless. 

Leon’s blade lifts for the killing blow. Donnie doesn’t blink. Every muscle in his body clenches. 

A split second before Leon can bring his sword down, an object whizzes past the camera, fast as a bullet. Gasps ring out across the crowd as it collides with Leon and explodes outwards in glistening threads of white. They snap to Leon’s form in an instant, wrapping around his limbs like rope and smashing him to the ground. 

The rope-like substance constricts, limiting Leon’s thrashing. His panicked efforts only ensnare him further. 

Another figure enters the frame. Donnie recognises her instantly. The arena fills with uproarious outcries—booing and heckling as Big Mama crouches over Leon’s opponent, her bulbous abdomen curled downwards, hiding them from view. 

Donnie’s stomach clenches. The audience is enraged. Their show disrupted moments before its penultimate climax, due process broken, bets lost, bloodlust unrealised.

The feed glitches, cuts to black.

Donnie stares into the darkness, his vision blurring, the room silent bar from the rapid thudding of his heartbeat, the shortness of his breath. His knees feel like jelly, and suddenly he’s sitting on the floor. 

His stomach contracts, watery, acidic bile burning the back of his throat, and his body is scrambling for the trashcan beneath his desk before he can make the active decision to do so. 

- - - - - 

Leo is in his usual brumation stupor when the tremors of the arena reach him—the ground rumbling from what is either a very destructive fight, or a roused crowd. It’s got to be a lot of activity to carry this far down. 

He sighs. Just when he’d thought he’d managed to sleep into blissful unconsciousness, he’s back. Freezing cold, neck aching, side of his face numb from where it’d been pressed against the stone. He shifts, trying to settle against the vibrations shaking the wall. It’s not helping quell the anxiety beneath his skin.

A couple minutes pass. Leo counts them out, breathing in and out slowly, trying not to get his hopes up, trying not to think at all. A task that used to be far easier when he was averaging fourteen hours of screen time and god he misses his phone—

Leo startles at the sound of the cell door swinging open with a grating screech. He rises to his feet, hand lifting to shade his stinging eyes as he squints into the sudden blinding light. 

A pair of guards greet him by hurling a hefty, white bundle into the room and gracelessly tossing it to the floor. It collides against the stone with a heavy thump, stirring up a cloud of dust. 

With that, just as abruptly as they intruded and without so much as bothering to spare Leo a second glance, the guards turn heel and leave, slamming the door shut behind them. 

“Hello to you too.” He mutters.

Apprehensive, Leo stares down the mummified package they’ve left him with. He half expects it to burst and release a spawn of wasps that will lay eggs in his eyeballs and feast on his face. Being quite fond of his eyeballs and face, he approaches the bundle with a healthy amount of wariness—balanced on the balls of his feet to spring back if necessary.

It’s difficult to make out in the dark, but the closer he gets, the less and less the material encasing the package resembles mummy wrappings. The way it catches the small bands of light beneath the cell door, delicately woven and almost transparent… it’s more like an expensive silk. He notices a very subtle motion to it too—a faint rise and fall that’s paired with a soft rasping noise that sounds almost like—

Heart skipping a beat and stomach dropping to his feet, Leo abandons all caution and practically dives to the floor. The thick web coating sticks and clings to his fingers as he fervently scratches at it, his nails sinking into the thick layer of gossamer and ripping it apart until the metallic smell of blood fills his nose and the figure beneath is revealed. Leo stops.

No, no, no, no—

Leon’s eyes are closed. Leo cradles his head between his hands, swiping a thumb over the blood smeared across half his face. He looks deathly pale. Deathly. Leo’s hit with the memory of being pressed against the wall, hot breaths against his cheek. You could go on, knowing that every time he returns, limping, bleeding, dying, that you’re the cause for it.

“You’re breathing.” Leo tells an unconscious Leon, mentally shaking himself. “Old boy’s still kicking, right?”

Slightly paranoid that he’s hallucinating the rise and fall of Leon’s chest, Leo slides a shaky hand down to his neck, and yes, there. Leon’s pulse is weak and thready, but the relief is immediate. 

He’s a mess, as usual—his body a patchwork of blood, bruises, sweat and… spiderwebs, carrying all the grim connotations associated. Leon’s lower half is still encased in the stuff. Big Mama’s work. Leo lets go of his face to reach for his left shoulder. Maybe if he can get a good hold he’ll be able to yank him out—

Leo places a hand over the shoulder, feels the unnatural slope of it beneath the fabric, then freezes. The instant he applies investigative pressure, Leon gives a violent, full-body jerk and gasps sharply, eyes flying open, wide and sightless. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Heart racing, Leo leans back and raises his hands in surrender as a disorientated Leon frantically wrestles against his bonds, face creased with pain. “Stop! You’re going to make it worse!” 

Leon gives a shudder then blinks, a slow recognition dawning behind his eyes. 

“Leo?” He croaks.

Leo hangs his head and presses a hand over his chest, trying to calm the rapid, painful thud of his heart against his ribcage. He closes his eyes, trying to mask the sudden surge of relief. Leon has survived another night and he’s here and it’s always like a sudden burst of sunlight in the darkness. This place is a lot easier when he has Leon to talk to. Even if he hadn’t grown attached, Leo would be driven to keep him alive if only to avoid another hellish solitary hour in isolation. 

Leon clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Leo interjects with a sigh. “Don’t apologise, that was my bad.” He looks up, his focus returning to the awkward angle of Leon’s arm. “Your shoulder…”

Leon lets his head fall back against the stone and releases a long, weary breath. “Looks worse than it is.” 

There is not a bone in Leo’s body that believes that. The fact that he’s even bothering to try to lie about it motivates enough of a vindictive streak in Leo to challenge him on it. “Prove it.” 

Leon cranes his head up off the ground and squints. “What?”

“Simon says lift your arm over your head.”

Leon’s eyes narrow. He lies still for a moment, then, eternally stubborn, his metal prosthetic rises. Even with the wrong arm, he only gets about half-way before he releases a little back of the throat noise and winces. The arm drops to hold onto his side, his eyes clenching shut as he presses the back of his head into the ground and pants through the pain.

Leo curses and flies into action, ripping through the spiderwebs constricting Leon’s lower half. Leon fumbles to help, his legs shifting under the webbing, metal arm pulling at the threading around his plastron. 

“What the hell happened out there?” Leo hisses. 

Leon replies weakly. “Think I made our wicked queen matron mad.” 

“Big Mama?” Leo pauses, glancing up from the torn webbing around Leon’s legs. “Usually I would say up-top, but as your unofficial doctor I’m going to refrain from high-three and fist-bump related territories.”

Leon manages to huff out half a laugh before he cringes again, his metal hand darting back to hold onto his side. Leo’s eyes follow the motion and he stills at the sight of red seeping through silver fingers. Putting two and two together he realises that this is the source of all that blood he found coagulating on Leon’s legs and staining the spiderweb he’d been peeling off of him. 

Alarm bells sound in his head. Leo’s no medical professional but it reads as a worrying volume of blood to be on the outside of Leon’s body. Suddenly the weak pulse and the pale skin and the whole corpse vibe Leon has going on makes a lot more sense.

“Move your hand.” Leo orders. 

Leon’s eyes are half-mast like he’s on the brink of drifting back into a senseless haze. “Nah. I’m not fallin’ for it.”

Leo squints. “What are on about?” 

“You didn’t say Simon says.” Leon mutters, bafflingly. 

Leo releases an agitated noise and forces the prosthetic out of the way. It’s not difficult. Leon’s disconcertingly compliant beneath his hands. 

He sucks in a sharp breath when he pulls up the sliced fabric and lays eyes on the true extent of the injury. The wound isn’t wide, but it’s about as deep as he feared—cracking the tough protective shell of his plastron. Leo carefully slides a hand underneath him, checking his shell for an exit wound. Fortunately, he finds nothing, though that hardly improves Leon’s prognosis.

“Please tell me you haven’t punctured a lung.” Leo says, voice edged with panic, though he’s fairly certain he’d be able to hear it in Leon’s breathing if his lungs were getting filled with fluid.

Leon responds with a dorky, lopsided smile. “Internal organs are overrated.”

“Hate to ‘well actually–’ you, but I think the importance of internal organs have been rated pretty fairly. Y’know, I don’t think anyone’s writing bad Yelp reviews about their functionality… unless you’re lactose intolerant or have an appendix issue. Or really bad acne. Is skin an organ?” Leo mentally kicks himself. He’s distress-rambling, a behaviour notorious for being helpful for no one and nothing.

“Skin is in fact an organ. And I would argue there’s more people than that.” Leon replies. 

Leo slides a hand down his face. Stressful. This is stressful. Have I always been this wilfully stupid? “Leo. Leon. It’s me. The voice of wisdom from your past. Listen to me. You might’ve hit something vital. The blood loss alone—”

“I would already be riggin’ my mortis.”

Leo stops cold. “Excuse me?”

All guile has faded from Leon’s expression. Cold metal fingers take hold of his wrist in a loose grip. “If this was somethin’ that could’ve killed me, I would never have made it back here, trust me.”

Leo stares at him, his throat tight, the icy grasp of Leon’s hold spreading outward. 

“I heal fast. Benefits of mutation. I’ll perk up in no time.” Leon says evenly. “I just… need to rest a while.”

Leo looks away, the hollow words doing nothing to warm the cold tremor coursing through him.

Leon’s dislocated shoulder can be set aside for a moment. The actively bleeding hole in Leon’s side on the other hand is not something they can simply wait out.  

Leo scans the empty cell for a solution he can find more agreeable. His eyes catch on the silky strings of spiderweb surrounding Leon. He kind of regrets pulling the stuff off him now. Sure, it’s gross, but at least it’d been doing a half decent job of keeping the wound covered and… 

His mind’s reeling grinds to a halt. 

Yeah, okay—it’s definitely not ideal. Leon will not be pleased, but he’s not seeing anything else within his vicinity that could help.

Leon squints up at him when he unlatches himself from his grip to reach over and begin winding clumps of webbing around his fingers. 

“Do I want to know?” Leon muses.

Leo looks from Leon to the web in his hand, back to Leon. “We’re going to use her… uh, gunk to… well… plug the hole, comprende?”

Leon eyes the webbing with a grimace. “First, let’s ditch that word. Not a fan of that word. And second—”

“Which word? Gunk or hole?” Leo asks, before pressing the web directly against his open wound. 

Leon jolts with a yelp, his metal fingers latching back around his wrist in a bone-crushing grip. Leo winces, but otherwise bears it without complaint, using his other hand to finish packing the sluggishly weeping gash. He then collects more webbing around his fingers and more intricately guides it around Leon’s scutes to hold the seal in place. Temporary bandage, hurrah.

“Are you okay?” Leon eventually grits out, forcing Leo to pause for a second to gape at the gall of such a question.

“Aren’t I supposed to be asking that?”

Leon shakes his head. “No, I— did anything happen today?”

Leo stares at him. He doesn’t even know how to react to such a critical deprivation of self-awareness. 

“You’re for real a broken person.” He mutters on an exhale. 

Leon’s features pinch together. “Did anyone come while I was gone?” 

Leo dismisses the needless concern with an exasperated sigh. “No one came.” He says, before redirecting focus to his messy web-bandage tapestry. 

Damn, Mikey’s Picasso hands would probably be a lot better at this… 

The grip around his wrist tightens marginally, Leon’s tone sharpening in its insistence. “Are you lying to me?”

He scoffs, annoyed now. “What, you can’t tell?”

“Leo.”

Leo briefly drops the attitude to cast a stern look at Leon. “It’s the truth.” He states firmly.

Leon searches his gaze for a moment. Whatever he finds there must satisfy, as the hold he has on Leo slackens as he sinks back to the floor, eyes returning to the ceiling. Leo’s finishing attaching the last few threads of webbing to a corner of his plastron when Leon scrunches his face. “This is disgusting.” 

Leo tries to brush the rest of the webs off his hands. The threads collect any dust on his palms and roll into a dirty clump, sticking to his fingers. The tensile strength of the stuff is a lot stronger than he’d expected. 

“I had to sleep up against you last night when you were coated in smelly viscera of unknown origin.” He replies dryly. “You don’t get to complain.”

Leon scowls. “It’s my stab woun— argh!” He releases his wrist to take hold of Leo’s shoulder as Leo tries to gingerly prop him up against the wall. “What are you doing?”

With Leon’s assistance, Leo manages to lift him into a seated position. 

“It’s going to be a lot easier for me to pop your shoulder back in like this.” Leo explains once he’s upright. More stability and leverage for Leon, more gravity assistance and access to maneuver the joint for Leo. Less painful for both of them. 

Leo’s reaching for the dangling limb when the metal arm thrusts back up, extending in front of Leon to keep Leo at bay. “Wait!” Leon exclaims sharply, his voice strained. “Wait, just… hold on a sec—” 

Leo stops.

“Hah…” Leon shudders. He looks worryingly pale, like he’s about to be sick. “It’s…” He meets Leo’s eye, and if he’s about to say it’s fine, Leo swears, he’ll— 

The intensity of his weary frustration Leo’s exuding must be palpable because Leon hesitates, then his prosthetic drops back into his lap. “Yeah. Okay, it’s bad.” 

Leo lifts a brow ridge and gestures to his arm. “May I?”

Leon concedes with a jerky nod.

As gently as he can, Leo takes hold of his wrist. It’s only then that he notices how tense Leon is. It’s barely discernible in the dim light—the subtle tremors shivering through him, the way his muscles strain with each breath, the clamminess of his skin. He’s hunched over slightly, like even with the wall supporting him, he’s fighting to hold himself up. It makes him come off smaller, more fragile—an impression that is at complete odds with what he knows of Leon. 

Damnit, having some pain relief on hand right now would be an honest godsend. 

Fat chance, Leo. He thinks grimly. They’re not about to oh so kindly hand over an uncracked bottle of Ibuprofen when they refuse to toss so much as a block of ice at their heads for the swelling. 

This whole process sucks when muscle relaxants are available. It’s going to suck exponentially more so if he can’t get Leon to relax a bit. 

“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t agree to.” Leo tries. “We can go slow.”

Leon snorts, his voice is still shaky. “What is this? High school prom?” 

As if either of them had so much as touched the traditional education system and all its associated events with a ten-foot pole. “Given how crazy rigid you are right now, it might as well be.” Leo snarks back. 

Leon's expression dips into irked territory before levelling out again as he releases a deep breath. 

“Have a little faith in me.” Leo grouses. “You’re perfectly aware I’ve already done this like, twice.” Another side-effect of having three accident-prone brothers.

“I’m perfectly aware that the only reason you’ve done it twice is because you messed up popping Donnie’s arm in the first time.” Leon retorts, before muttering more quietly. “Who am I kidding, this is karma.”

“As if I make that mistake a third time.” He reasons, mustering up a strained smile. “Come on, have some faith. What are the chances of that?”

“Just because you know how to do it wrong doesn’t mean you know how to do it right—” Leon breaks off in a hiss when Leo lifts his arm a fraction, every muscle clenching up against the motion. “Stop stop stop!” He blurts.

Leo freezes. Leon’s eyes are clenched shut, the muscle in jaw prominent from how tightly he’s clamping up.  

He’s unsettled by how affected Leon seems to be about this. Despite how evasive the older slider can be, he’s never been one to shy away from the gorier elements of receiving aid. More than once has he seen Leon’s features twist with the vestiges of pain, but each time, he’s been swift to cover up his pain… Then again, if Leo only had one arm left, he'd probably be a little more sensitive about people yanking that thing around. 

“What’s up?” He edges.

Leon cracks open an eye and chuckles nervously. He gives a little shake of his head. “Just… how about you give me a count?”

“Sure.” Leo replies with put-on casual confidence. “Let me align it first?”

Leon swallows, nods, then his eyes slip closed again. He takes in several steady, calming breaths.

“Don’t pass out on me.” 

Leon grimaces. “No promises.” 

This time, when Leo carefully maneuvers Leon’s arm, he meets no resistance. Slowly, he pulls the injured limb gently forward and downward, stretching it to its full extension, then moves the arm away from his body, rotating it externally to line up the ball of his arm bone to the shoulder socket. Leon pants against the wall, his face awash with pain. Leo waits until his breathing has levelled out to a meditative rhythm, each muscle beneath his fingers relaxed, the tension in his shoulder loose.

“Good. On three, then?” He asks quietly.

Leon gives the smallest of nods.

“Three.” He says, then with pressure and a quick, precise motion, the joint slips back into alignment with a distinct, audible pop. 

Leon inhales sharply, his brows pinching tightly together for a moment. 

Leon’s face slackens as the immediate pain subsides into a dull ache, the tension melting away to a fatigued but unmistakable relief. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking as though emerging from a fog. He releases a long exhale and, in the soft tones anyone else would use for endearment, says, “I knew you were going to do that, you brat.”

“You’re welcome.” Leo retorts as he carefully pulls the sleeve down from Leon’s arm.

He probes around the shoulder, checking the damage. All things considered, the dislocation seems to have been relatively clean. It’s difficult to make sense of in the dark, and Leon isn’t helping by only signalling his pain through tension and faint, back of the throat noises, but he seems relatively relaxed when Leo gently palpates the muscles around his shoulder. There’s still a lot of swelling around the shoulder itself and the upper arm, which is to be expected. He avoids that area. He doesn’t need to be a mind-reader to know it hurts. If Leo had to guess, he’s probably torn some tendons. 

Leo double-checks the joint’s stability and range of motion, shifting and rotating the arm with slow motions to assure himself that he’s done the job properly, then gingerly setting the arm down. He frowns at the way it hangs at Leon’s side. He needs to immobilise the limb somehow…

Leo frees the kimono sleeve Leon usually keeps tucked into his belt, then, with a harsh tug, tears the fabric from its stitches.

Leon gapes at him. “What was that?”

“Me being incredibly intelligent and resourceful.” He replies, before grabbing the sleeve on the other side and ripping that off too. “You’re doubly welcome.”

Leon watches quietly as he takes the two ends of the fabric and ties them together. 

“Lean forward a bit.” Leo instructs, placing a hand between his shell and the wall and gently guiding him away from it so he has enough space to fit the tied sleeves over his head.

Once it’s in place, he helps Leon gingerly place his injured arm into the makeshift sling. 

“There.” Leo takes a step back to admire his work. 

The discolouration around Leon’s shoulder joint is already more pronounced than it was a couple minutes ago and the flow of blood from the gash above his brow remains an alarming sight, though Leo knows head wounds tend to run a red river even when they’re not immediately life-threatening. The webbing around his side at least seems to be holding firm—no sign of blood staining through. 

“You look ridiculous.” He remarks with more levity than he feels. 

“Thank you.” Leon responds, and the level of earnest gratitude in his voice gives Leo the impression he’s referring to more than just the sling. 

The air between and around them still smells metallic. Leo’s stomach rolls queasily. 

“Anything I missed?” He asks.  

“You’ve done plenty.” Leon huffs, which is a little worrying considering it’s not an outright no.

“I strive for excellence.” Leo deadpans. “Come on, what else hurts? Head? Shoulders?”

“Knees and toes.” 

Leo swings his head back to stare at the ceiling. Do not attack the turtle that can’t stand on two feet because he’s taking beatings for you. He takes a deep breath before addressing Leon again. “Stop being difficult and answer the question.” 

“I did. You want me to pinpoint just one?”

Leon responds to Leo’s proceeding glower with a low chuckle. “It’s fine. I’ll live.” 

The way he says it, soft and casually dismissive… It’s obviously meant for Leo’s benefit—meant to reassure, to lessen. All it really succeeds in doing is winding the knot of worry in Leo’s chest all the tighter.

“How’s the portal progress going?” 

Leo glares at the brusque subject change. 

Leon arches a bloody brow. “That bad, huh?”

He settles against the wall next to Leon and draws in a breath, letting it slide regardless of how lousily obvious Leon’s being. “I got a few specs of dust floating again.” He grumbles. 

Yes. Right before he was hit by the memory of cold weightlessness, metallic boots crushing his shell and gateways to the Prison Dimension. Figures Leon would be stuck in perilous peril with the one ninpō-user in the family who is completely defective. 

“... That’s something.” Leon replies, his tone deliberately optimistic.

Leo rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thank goodness, I’ll be able to razzle dazzle this cage clean with my subpar mystic mojo.” He wiggles his fingers. “Big help that’ll do us.” 

“The fact you’re able to output an effect on the surrounding environment is proof the juice you need is there. The time will come when it all comes together. It’ll just click. You’ll see.”

Leo lets his head fall against the stone with a gentle thunk. “Mind if I throw you a question?”

“Ominous that you’d ask,” Leon draws out, “shoot.”

“How old were you when you first portalled without the swords?” 

Leon pauses. “Y’know, it’s hard to say. Twenty-five? Twenty-six, maybe?”

Nearly a decade older than Leo is now…How the hell does he expect him to figure this out that much sooner?

Leo clears his throat. “How’d you do it?”

Leon stiffens. “It’s… not a nice story.”

Why does that not surprise him? 

“Is it ever?” Leo drawls.

Leon’s head rolls over to glance at him. “I’d need to give you some context.”

Leo opens out his arms, his hand bumping against Leon’s shell. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m here all day.”

Leon closes his eyes and re-settles against the wall, his metal arm folding beneath the sling and loosely cradling the wound at his side. “And I vote the rest of it would be better spent curling up tight and saying night night.”

“Come on,” Leo goads, “please? It could help me.”  

Leon cracks open an eye and gives him another long, considering look, before he finally gives in with a long, exasperated exhale.

The silence stretches onward for a few moments, and Leo shifts uncomfortably, opening his mouth to speak. Leon shuts it down immediately. “I’m thinking about how to word it.”

Leo waits. 

“Okay, so…” Leon begins uneasily, “the Resistance wasn’t always this well-oiled, unified front against the Krang,” his brow wrinkles, “I mean, we were hardly ever that coordinated, but back when we were just a ragtag group of survivors, we were in something of a rocky alliance with the EPF. We didn’t have much to offer at the time, though we did happen to come across a lot of Krang technology and artefacts no one else could get their hands on at the time—”

Leo lifts a hand, feeling lost already. “Woah, woah, slow down—the EPF?”

“Right, sorry—the Earth Protection Force. Some…” He waves the metal hand vaguely, “secret, scientific, intelligence organisation from the old world that had been tasked with dealing with mutants.”

Leo blinks. “Us, you mean? You brokered an alliance with the scary government authorities set up to ‘deal with us’?” He asks incredulously, throwing up finger guns.

Leon winces. “In my defence, I assumed with the world being invaded by extraterrestrials, their focus would shift to the bigger priority.”

“Ohhh, right— the introduction of the alien enemy. The ones that would’ve validated any unsavoury assumptions these people had about non-humans. That made them chill. Yeah, that makes total sense.” He says sardonically. 

Leon frowns. “Look, I’m not any less naïve than you are. I had the same thoughts going in, obviously. They hated our guts—weren’t all too fond of the yokai in our ranks either—all the same to them, I guess. Bunch of bigots.” He sighs. “But, they had resources and shelter, of which we were always falling short of, and not making use of the offer was going to lead to more lives lost. We weighed the pros and cons of cooperating with them, and the balance tipped enough in their favour that cooperating seemed like the lesser evil.” 

Alright. Fair. He supposes he would have to concede there. “Enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Leo recites glumly.

Leon looks away. “I figured the chance of betrayal was low, partly due to our reputation, partly because despite being known for protecting mutants and yokai, we always had a larger percentage of human civilians in our camp. Declaring war on us would not just stretch their offensive resources thin, which was already at its limits against the Krang—-who were always the far greater threat, but it was just plain bad optics. I assumed if any schisms came to light, if I caught so much as a whiff of harassment between their people and ours, I’d be able to shut that shit down.” Leon huffs. “And for a while, it was fine. Granted, we never ran smoothly. Working with us bruised the EPF’s pride and moral sensibilities big time. There was never any mistaking who we were. What we were.”

Leo presses his mouth into a firm line. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“Things only soured from there, and after a couple of tense months and more than a few blow-up arguments, April spared us from having to make direct contact with them by playing middleman.” Leon scowls. “I guess that should’ve been a red flag, but we made sure we had our bases covered. The location of our meetings were always held in neutral, above-ground locations, with one of us keeping an eye on April in case they were spotted by the Krang, or, y’know, the EPF decided to stab us in the back…” 

“Comforting thoughts.” Leo comments drily. “If you were so paranoid about something going wrong, why not just end it?”

“I was paranoid about a lot of things back then.” Leon dismisses, his expression going sombre. “Although, yeah, this agreement of ours, more than most. I was planning to discuss breaking off the deal with the group after one of April’s meetings. Only, when April came back, she was alone and in a total panic. Apparently Mikey was listening in from a distance when she lost comms with him. Just, poof, gone, completely disappeared off the face of the map. Even Donnie couldn’t get a pin on him. The EPF agents claimed they had no involvement—told her they didn’t even know he was there. Kicked up a whole stink about a breach of trust.”

Leon chews apprehensively at the side of his cheek. “You didn’t believe them.”

Leon scoffs, a sliver of past anger shining through. “Fuck no. Mikey had an uncanny ability to just know whenever Krang were on our tail—he would’ve at least had time to shout if it was them. And I already didn’t trust the EPF bastards as far as Casey Jr. could throw ‘em—who was a toddler at the time, by the way. I kept the communication line between us open long enough to be able to track them back to their bunker after the next rations trade.” Leon’s expression darkens. “What I saw inside was…”

Leo can see the tension creep up Leon’s spine. He gives a shudder and shakes his head. 

“The whole time, the same experiments they’d been conducting on the Krang, they were using on mutants and yokai. We were never people to them, we were all just… data. Subjects to test on. I saw people strapped to tables, hooked up to machinery, poked and prodded and pulled apart like insects, frozen behind glass. Research, torture, didn’t look to me like the EPF knew how to discriminate between the two. I descended through the whole base, freed who I could, left those who were beyond saving—” 

“Alliance over at this point, surely.” Leo remarks with more levity than he feels, his jaw tight.

Leon inclines his head. “Dead in the water. And that was well before I scrape the bottom of the bunker.” The metal of his hand creaks as his fingers tighten. He speaks haltingly, “I come across this… it looked like an operating theatre. I see Mikey, unconscious, strapped into this… I don’t even know— machine, I guess, needles pushed into his skin, extracting his blood…”  

Leo can sympathise with Leon’s anger. Even knowing this is a future that will never occur, the thought of it being a possibility is… distressing, to say the least. The idea of any version of Mikey subjected to something like that rankles.

Leon releases a breath. “I see my little brother, and I just…” his hand opens, “blank.”

Leo’s concerned confusion must show in his features. Leon attempts to clarify. “Like, I don’t think, I don’t breathe, physically I don’t feel much of anything except for static at my fingers and the hot rush of my own blood and… I— I can’t…” Leon shakes his head, “one moment we’re at the very bottom of the most fortified bunker on earth, then I blink, and suddenly he’s in my arms and we’re home.”

Leo tilts his head. “You portalled?”

Leon shrugs, eliciting yet another wince. “Must’ve.”

“You don’t remember?” 

Leon pauses. “I remember flashes—seeing Mikey, freeing him, lashing out at people crowding around me, people yelling at me, shouting coming from me as they tried to take him from my arms—medics, presumably. I remember passing out.” 

Leo rubs a knuckle against his chin. If creating his own portal demands summoning more energy than Leo’s been capable of mustering so far… he can understand why trying to portal both himself and Mikey for the first time might’ve drained Leon flat. Nonetheless, Leon’s account doesn’t really offer Leo any clues as to where he might be going astray. 

“You said it requires focus.” Leo points out.  

“Yeah?” Leon frowns. “It was Mikey. I was livid. I wanted him safe. I couldn’t have been more focused.”

“But you…” Leo opens and closes his hands, “blanked out. How’d you figure out how to do it on command?”

“Well, to start I had to piece together what happened back there. Don’t get me wrong—it took me a long time before I could make regular, reliable jumps. Knowing I could do it was just the first step.”

Leo crosses his legs, props his elbow against his thigh, rests a cheek against his hand, and thinks.

Leon’s experience runs contradictory to the conscious efforts and meditation that Leon had been trying to drill into him to calm his mind and direct his flow of ninpō. He speaks as if it’d been a reflex—sudden and uncontrollable, born from desire and an eruption of emotion rather than balance. And if that’s true… Maybe all Leo needs is a good push? Preferably one that doesn’t require becoming a horror story’s final girl.

“Was Mikey okay?” Leo asks after a long moment.

Leon nods. “He woke up before I did, actually. He was fine—a little shaken, frustrated about being caught off guard like that, but physically they hadn’t done anything he couldn’t heal from.”

From what he can gather, Mikey had been unconscious for the majority of the ordeal, which offers a flicker of solace. Leon, in stark contrast, was subjected to every harrowing second. Leo had only gotten the incredibly shortened, probably censored, second-hand abridged version of his experience, and even that makes his stomach churn to think about. 

“Were you okay?” He edges.

“Me?” Leon pauses, mulling it over as if this line of questioning is completely new to him. “I mean… I was disturbed by what I saw in there. Like, hah—talk about nightmare fuel, right? My brain was running speed strats through those hallways in my sleep for weeks. Mostly though, I think I was just plain pissed. The number of people I put at risk—that ended up getting hurt because of me for nothing more than a string of stupid decisions.” His shoulders slump. “I should never have allowed the EPF to have any contact with us in the first place.”

Leo shakes his head, his brows wrinkling. “You can’t have known.”

“It was my job to know.” Leon growls, before adding more quietly. “I should have checked.”

Leo presses his lips tightly together and opts out of that argument. He doesn’t see it going anywhere productive any time soon. He rests his hands behind his head and slouches against the wall. 

“Well, you weren’t lying. That story was definitely somewhere south of light-hearted.” Leo says ruefully.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Leo hums out a noise of half-hearted agreement.

Time passes. Leon’s eyelids gradually droop, his breathing deepening. 

Leo, selfishly not wanting to be left alone with his thoughts so soon, and for lack of anything better to talk about, wonders aloud. “D’you reckon the Mad Dogs have figured out where we are yet?”

There’s a shift in the rhythm of Leon’s breathing, then a long pause, the silence hanging on some sort of cliff. 

Leo shifts nervously. He sneaks a sideways glance at Leon’s expression, which betrays nothing past contemplative—eyes downcast, his features slightly pinched. 

“We’ve been over this.” Leon says slowly.

“Been over what?” Leo furrows his brow, unsettled by the sudden dip in his mood. “I was just asking—”

Leon holds onto his wounded side and shifts towards him—away from the light beneath the cell door, shadows obscuring his face. “Is this what’s holding you back?”

Leo stares at him with stunned dumbfoundment. “What?”

“This… This uncertainty—is this just another thing that’s stopping you from—” 

Leo lurches to his feet. “You think I want to be trapped here like some damsel in distress? I’m trying, okay? I’ve spent days concentrated solely on getting us out.”

Leon shakes his head. “No, you haven’t. You’ve been distracted… because of me, because of them.” He somehow manages to sound guilty about it. “The fact you’re even asking—”

“Why are you so against accepting their help?” He fires back.

Leon stops, his brow furrowing, he opens his mouth. Closes it. Struck dumb like he hadn’t expected the tables to turn against his brilliant, wise advice. 

This time when Leon looks away, the ghost of some old pain stirring in his face, Leo presses. “After everything I—we endured… Didn’t we learn? Isn’t… Is that not the one take-away we got from all the shit we had to go through? That we don’t have to do this alone. That no matter what happens, no matter how dire things become, they’ll have our backs. They’ll be there for us.”

Leon’s mouth twitches in that way Leo’s does whenever they touch on something that holds some personal significance before he’s able to smother the conflict warring in him with a smile. “Has it ever occurred to you before that I might not have been lucky enough to come across the same lessons you’ve been afforded in this timeline?”

Leo blinks. He doesn’t know how Leon has turned this around to being his problem again, but just this once, maybe there’s truth to it. Maybe this has been Leo’s problem all along—directly equating Leon’s struggles with his own. There are similarities. Parallels. The desire to prioritise protecting his family, balanced against a need to prove himself that has a tendency to cloud his better judgement. But Leon takes it to the extreme. Arrogant in his actions, his skill, his experience. Unable to consider the potential outcomes of his overprotectiveness with any clarity. So consumed by fear and grief that he’s willing to sacrifice everything—ruin himself in a desperate bid to seek what he sees as the only solution. 

Leo doesn’t know why he always assumed he’d just one day outgrow all his worst qualities. Like magic. Like a coming to age, where everything that was undesirable would shed away like old skin. Leo averts his gaze, pained by the revelation. “Has it occurred before…” He echoes hollowly. “Of course, you’re right, how ridiculous of me to not see it,” He bites sarcastically, “because you’ve always been soooo forthcoming when it comes to talking about yourself. You’re just one big happy open book—”

“I just told you something personal about myself.” Leon argues.

“Only so I might have a better chance of getting us out,” Leo retorts, “and getting even that much was like yanking teeth.”

“You know as much about me as I can bear to tell you—”

Leo scoffs. “Which is hardly anything at all.”

“You should be thanking me for that.” 

“For what? Becoming the world’s most difficult, secretive asshole?” Leo snaps at him.

“For refusing to cut myself open just so the people I love most can see the ugliest sum of my parts!”

Leo stares at him in disbelief. The room goes terribly, awfully quiet. 

His mind churns. What does Leon think they could dissect that they’re not already aware of? That doesn’t already exist in Leo? He wants to criticise, to lecture, to somehow form a debate impossibly convincing enough to snap Leon from this decades-long pattern of self-delusionment before—

“We’re not the only ones at risk here” Leon states.

Leo’s inclined to keep arguing at this point, but the tension in Leon’s voice gives him pause. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks cagily.

Leon massages his temples. “Do you not see what Big Mama is doing here?”

“Putting on another sadistic show for her own amusement, what’s new?”

Leon levels him with a steely look. “Leo, what is dad?”

What kind of question is that? “A telenova-addict and borderline agoraphobic single father going through a very belated midlife crisis.” He retorts smartly.

“Be serious.”

“I’m being perfectly serious.” 

Leon shifts, wincing when the movement pulls at his side. He breathes out slowly, then asks again. “What is he?”

Leo takes note of the emphasis on the what in equation here, and answers cautiously. “... A rat.” 

“Yes. So, from Big Mama’s perspective, what do you think that makes us?”

Well… following that line of logic. “Turtles?” 

“No.” Leo sees the arm in the sling shift, rising towards Leon’s face. He’s about to dive the space dividing them when Leon flinches and releases a hiss, abandoning the motion.

“Stop moving around!” Leo snaps. “You’ll undo all my hard work.” 

“I didn’t mean to— ow, damnit.” He lets his arm settle back into the sling. 

Leo looks at Leon’s scowling, half-pouting face and rolls his eyes. He sinks back to the floor, dropping his weight against Leon’s right side.

“Listen, we are the cheese in the trap.” Leon stresses. 

Leo gives a dubious hum. “Rat or not, I’m pretty sure dad would more likely be tempted by samosas than cheese—” he hesitates when Leon levels him with a look, a blanket of unease settling over him. “You think Big Mama wants them to break us out?”

“I think she wants them to try.” Leon mutters.

It’s a little convoluted for a premeditated plan, in Leo’s opinion. He can think of several easier ways of tricking dad into doing something he doesn’t want to do. Leo convinced him to sneak them into a midnight screening of Fast Five when he was seven years old by lying about it being a re-release of Lou Jitsu’s Teriyaki Shakedown. And he knows for certain Donnie has squeezed at least two tablets out of him through phone scams alone. It’s really not that hard.

“If she wanted them here, she could have sent an invitation. Why invest in all the theatrics?”

“Because it’s Big Mama.” Leon answers simply, “And because there’s no purpose to advertising your trap is a trap. Whatever all of this is, it’s by design.”

“So, what? She’s luring them into a false sense of security?”

A grumble. “I’ve made a hell of a lot more mistakes confident and angry than I have otherwise.”

“They’re smarter than that…” Leo asserts with more confidence than he feels. 

The concept has as much worrying merit to it as the rest of the maudlin thoughts in Leon’s head. When confronted by a challenge, Raph will charge in head-first, Mikey will razzle-dazzle, Donnie will threaten the continued existence of the tri-state area with a solution more explosive than it is effective, and April will be saddled with thinking up a way to put one of her million industry certifications to use to clean up the mess. Their best chance is that Casey and pops will be present enough to direct the chaos.

Leo rubs a hand against his temples. “I hope.”

- - - - -

Donatello breaks the grim news by showing them a number of advertised ‘highlight’ reels showcasing Leon’s Battle Nexus fights.

An ill concept, brutal in the straightforwardness of Donnie’s approach, but the context is necessary. Casey had steeled himself for the worst after seeing Donnie so visibly rattled. In retrospect, he has to accept that he and the others probably would’ve found it difficult to wrap their heads around the gravity of the situation without it. At least they’ve been spared the unfiltered experience that Donnie faced, watching the fight live with no guarantee of sensei’s survival. Casey can’t imagine having to stomach it; all the gory details placed under a glorified, objectifying, consumeristic light, without knowing that much. 

It still doesn’t make it any easier to see Leonardo hurt—every flash of his anguish sending tremors through them. To have to watch as he slaughters his opponents. 

The thing is, it’s no wonder that he’s good at this. Excels, even. Sensei lived in a world for a longer period than Casey’s been alive where violence was often the easiest answer, the correct answer, and the only answer. And now he’s trapped in a repeating microcosm of that world where the rules of survival are exactly the same. 

There’s remorse, of course. Always is with Leonardo. But there’s also that dead-eyed look—the same numb expression he gets when it all goes bad, when they lose people, when he’s given all he’s got and needs to pull through for the mission.

Casey assesses the room from his seat on the floor. Mikey had long looked away from the screen, his expression a dazed contortion of confusion and horror, eyes shining with unshed tears. Raphael has an arm around his little brother, his features dark, a slight tremor in his hands. Master Splinter hovers in the doorway, mute and listless. Donnie isn’t even watching anymore—his eyes glued to the glow of his tech-watch—utilising every spare moment they have to research, strategise, run logistics. Casey is unsurprised. Data collection has always calmed him during tumultuous missions.

They’ve only made it through a third of the twenty-minute video before Raph rumbles. “We’ve seen enough,” his voice raw with emotion. “Turn it off.”

No one objects. Donatello reaches over and shuts down the feed.

The proceeding silence is absolute. It feels like a graveyard in here. Casey would know. He grew up in one. 

“It’s not what you think.” Casey insists, voice unbearably loud in the wake of the room’s silence. That person on screen, that warrior…Ryūsei does not resemble the brother they know and love. They’re frightened and disturbed, both for Leonardo, and—Casey fears—of him. “He’s not… This isn’t him.”

“No one said anything, Casey.” April tells him quietly.

“But you’re thinking it.” He snaps.  “I see it. Something’s wrong here. They must have something on him. Sensei wouldn’t—”

“No. He wouldn’t.” 

The room’s attention swivels back towards Donatello.

“That much is glaringly obvious.” He mutters. “If you’re reading distress from the room, it’s not because any of us think Leo has turned into a psychopath overnight. There’s any number of theories that could explain this—maybe he’s been brainwashed again. Maybe he’s had a major psychological break after having to listen to Big Mama speak at him all day with her fake, condescending voice and her stupid, made-up words. Maybe Leo’s being held over his head as blackmail—I mean, that one seems most logical—” 

“Logical?” April repeats, incredulous and appalled. 

“For Big Mama…” Splinter says gravely, “yes. This does not fall outside the bounds of what she is capable of.” 

Donnie looks up. “Point being—we don’t have enough evidence to form a valid hypothesis right now, and as far as I’m concerned, when you’re stuck in a flying iron kill or die cage and your only defence is the sword in your hand, things are bound to get messy.” 

Mikey scrubs an arm across his cheeks, removing any wetness there and sniffs. “How do we free them?”

Casey glances around, taking in the gears churning behind the eyes of each of them. 

They’re not… panicking about this, he realises, astonished. It’s as if the wildfire that he feels raging inside of him has already burned through the room with such fury that naught has been left but ashes. A calm vacancy in its wake—a grim resolve to change the outcome they’ve been dealt. 

Casey, meanwhile, still feels a little like someone just pulled the Earth out from under him.

“I’m so glad you asked.” Donatello replies, flicking the projector back on and pulling up blueprints of a massive airship, complete with promotional photos of the Battle Nexus at the screen’s edge. The information is comprehensive, all written out, dot point format. There are multiple maps and flowcharts. Casey would be impressed if he wasn’t aware of the positive linear relationship between Donnie’s stress levels and his quantity of hyper-fixated research.

Donnie begins. “The ship has five levels. Or six, if you want to include the envelope—”

“The envelope?” Mikey repeats, casting him a confused glance.

“Big balloon.” Donnie explains shortly, using a laser pointer to point out a wide-shot photo of the ship from ground view. From the dim blurriness of the photo, Casey can barely make out a tall metal framework surrounded by what resembles an enormous, white, over-inflated donut. “Full of helium, or hydrogen, or some other nonsensical, unscientific Yokai magical element that’s able to keep the blimp buoyant. Whatever, five layers, top to bottom—the arena, the entertainment centre and amenities,” He lists, highlighting the areas on the whiteboard. He circles around the next two layers, “The bottom three levels are a total enigma to the public sphere, but if I was engineering this beautiful monstrosity, these areas would be prime spots for utility and maintenance. Think engine rooms, propulsion systems, flight controls, power sources, all the high-tech, interesting stuff—”

“And the very bottom?” Casey asks.

“The hull provides integrity to the ship’s structure and is the most important element of its weight distribution. It’ll consist of the heaviest, strongest materials and as such,” Donnie slaps a hand against the whiteboard, “if there’s a holding area, it’s going to be here.”

Raphael straightens, his eyes lighting up. “You think that’s where Big Mama’s keeping our boys?” 

“That’s my well-informed estimation.” Donnie replies. 

April chews at her lip, her eyes moving from image to image. “This is great ‘n all, but how are we actually supposed to get onboard?” She asks.

The room’s attention swings back to Donnie again, who falters.

“Well…” He runs a hand across the back of his neck in a way that makes him look younger and more unsure than the turtle Casey remembers. “Tickets are sold with the coordinates to where the ship will land to drop off and pick up patrons. Which would be the easiest way to sneak in, were it not for the fact that the location changes every day and the tickets have been sold out for weeks…” He looks away sheepishly. “I haven’t had a lot of time to look into this. I’m still working on securing a ticket by other means.”

“Oooorr… we could just hop on?”  Raphael suggests.

“Uh huh.” Donnie replies, his sardonic tone returning in force. “That sounds like a rock solid plan with no chance of catastrophic failure. Sarcasm, by the way.” 

Mikey waves him down. “No, he’s onto something. Let him cook…”

“You can fly.” Raphael says, gesturing to his battle-shell. “If we got high enough, couldn’t you just drop two of us into the arena?”

“You mean the veritable death pit?” Donnie stresses, voice cracking. “You think crashing that party is a good idea? Through the proverbial front door, no less?”

“Maybe if we go all in on being loud and flashy, we’ll be so overt, it’ll flip around to being covert again.” Mikey says with a level of levity to his voice Casey didn’t think possible given the seriousness of the situation

Donnie’s ire shifts. “Michael, my darling brother, I love you, but we’ve been over this. Just because rhyming conventions sound better doesn’t make the bad idea hold more validity.”

Mikey scowls. “I’m putting in real effort to keep our spirits up and you’re just gonna jump on my flow like that?”

Raphael interrupts before the argument can devolve further. “Okay, Raph’s getting a strong veto vibe from the room for going in from the top, so why not make them come to us.” He points at one of the photos of the blimp. “Pop that balloon like a piñata, grab the Leo candy, then we bounce.” 

Donnie lifts an unimpressed brow. “Detonate the ship our brothers are stuck on then comb through the rubble? Brilliant, Raphael, truly.”

“Okay, so the plan has some wrinkles that need ironing out,” Raph retorts grumpily, “I don’t see you offering up an alternative.”

Donnie gives a haughty sniff. “My alternative is a work in progress.”

Casey’s neck is starting to twinge from swinging his attention back and forth between each brother. He shoots up a hand, drawing all eyes in the room.

“Case, we don’t do that here, remember?” Mikey tells him, not unkindly, “collaborative space. Chip in whenever you want.” 

Right. Though, given the chaotic nature of this discussion he can’t help but think the old designated talking stick would be an improvement. Casey lets his hand fall back to his lap. “Infiltration point aside, could you get us up there?” He directs at Donatello.

“Scoff. Don’t insult my intelligence. Of course I can.”

“I don’t see the problem then.” Raphael crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m open to other suggestions but with our main idea guys down for the count and the clock ticking… Raph’s leaning hard into busting in and smashing heads to get our guys out asap.”

Donnie presses two fingers against his temples. “The problem is never our ability to land ourselves into trouble, it’s the total lack of intel as to what manner of trouble we’ll be landing into. I am not in the business of punching hornet nests with my bare knuckles. Defying logic and living to tell the tale is Leo’s defining trait, not mine. And there’s two of them now, so there’s well and truly enough of that going around…” He pauses. “Or, y’know, there will be, when they’re back here.”

April crosses her arms. “Can’t deny that busting in guns blazing isn’t exactly what Big Mama would expect out of us.”

“M’kay, yeah,” Michelangelo sucks his teeth, “but… Time sensitivity doesn’t really call for a delicate touch.” 

“Exactly, we can’t just sit on our hands here.” Rahael argues. “We can take Big Mama on ourselves.”

Master Splinter’s bushy white brows furrow, his expression turning severe, “No, Red. She will destroy you. You cannot one-man-army this—”

“Well, if we’re counting the odds, there’s actually six of us…” Donnie corrects under his breath. 

Raphael clicks his fingers, lighting up. “Yeah! And we’ll be two more than six once we’ve freed our boys.” 

Assuming Leo and sensei are fit enough to fight. Casey thinks morosely. Last they could tell, sensei was still kicking, but he’s clearly hurt, and they have less certainty around Leo’s fate. Mikey argues they would simply know if he was gone. Casey is inclined to agree, given that it’s Mikey, and because Casey’s witnessed himself how a significant change in lifeforce between the brothers can affect them emotionally.

“There will be guards and chains and traps.” Master Splinter states lowly, with a heaviness to his tone that stamps down any rising enthusiasm. “And the defensive measures will not end there. Not by a long shot.”

Mikey rises to his feet, bristling, “We’re not giving up on them just because it’ll be dangerous—”

“That is not what I’m saying.” Master Splinter interjects, “I want my sons back as badly as any of you. I feel their loss just as deeply, but I know that woman, I know this place.”

Mikey’s chin drops to his chest, his shoulders slumping. 

Casey takes in the glassiness of Splinter’s gaze and frowns, hit with the sudden realisation that despite having been fortunate enough to meet Leonardo’s father, he still knows nothing of Master Splinter’s origins. 

The topic rarely comes up in casual conversation, for one, and he’s reluctant to pry, respectful of the sanctity of memory for those who’ve passed. All he used to know of Splinter came from old-world relics of Hollywood action star Lou Jitsu and the tales the brothers used to tell him as a child of Yoshi—father to the heroes of the Resistance and scion of an ancient ninja clan who vanquished their evil foe, the Shredder. Details of how Master Splinter evolved to become the man—the rat he is today have been completely shrouded in myth, buried in the annals of legend. 

Casey sees the haunted look in Master Splinter’s eyes, feels the uneasy stillness of the room, and it registers that this omission had probably been an intentional one.

Master Splinter steps forward, cupping Mikey’s face between his hands and gently lifting his head back up. “I do not wish that fate upon our Leos for a millisecond longer than they have already endured. We will get them out.” He vows. 

Mikey nods with a determined gaze.

“But we must not jump in without thinking.” Master Splinter stresses, exchanging glances with the rest of the room. “Doing so will save no one.”

“Fair point,” April concedes at length. “All the more reason for us to take an itty bit of time to brainstorm.” When no one else speaks up, her gaze then shifts towards him. “Any bright ideas, Case?”

He straightens, blinking. “Uh.” He will never get used to those he once considered responsible adult figures with all the answers to life suddenly turning to him. Flustered, he tries to recall the last mission he went on that had any resemblance to something like this. Such instances are very few and agonisingly slow to come to mind.

“Well… one time we toppled a skyscraper downtown so that Master Leonardo could sneak into a detention camp and save all those families…” 

The room’s reaction consists of silence and expressions ranging from shock and horror to begrudging approval. Ah, right. He tends to forget how much more serious large-scale destruction like this was considered in the past. 

Casey lifts his hands and quickly explains. “Lower Manhattan had been cleared of civilians at the time—the only things crushed under the debris would’ve been Krang… That kind of thing wouldn’t work nowadays,” especially given how densely populated the Hidden City is, “but maybe some kind of distraction would help?”

Donnie brightens. “I’ve got the perfect thing for that.” He says, a familiar mad genius shine to his eyes that elicits a tremor of trepidation in Casey.

Raph shoots him a sideways glance and cocks his brow. “Seriously? You’re not gonna fill us in?”

April rises to her feet and approaches the board, squinting at one of the photos in the bottom corner. “Dee, what’s this hanging off the sides of the ship?” 

Donnie frowns, then sidles up next to her and flips his goggles on, magnifying the blurry photo. “Looks like rope.” He says. “Must be the mooring lines they use to secure the blimp to the ground when it lands. Usually they’re reeled in when the ship’s airborne…”

Raphael stands. “What area of the ship are they attached to?” He asks, an edge of urgency to his voice.

Donnie lifts his goggles up, his brows scrunching. “Would have to be one of the lower levels, why do you…”  Then, there’s a sudden, electric shift—Donnie’s eyes widen, a bright spark of realisation. “Oohhh…” 

From there, they hatch a plan. 

The team pulls in, tight-knit as they discuss each of their objectives, each person adding a pointer here or there. Their unity is stark in the wake of all the past week’s unpleasantness. Of course, Casey knows this closeness and focus was likely bred from the trauma of the Krang invasion, but he can’t help but be settled by it. This is what he’d been looking for—a semblance of hope capable of pulling his mind from the doldrums of inaction.

The group breaks apart the moment they’re satisfied with their hastily formed rescue mission. Casey, who has never kicked his habit of keeping his hockey stick and mask within reaching distance at all times, is left alone with Donnie for a couple minutes while the others leave to gather their weapons and any other equipment they’ll need. 

It’s kinda odd, the way Casey’s mind just switches off for a few minutes—stress overload, maybe. Is that a thing? He feels like that must be a thing. That, or it's just his training kicking in. The way Master Michelangelo used to run them through mental composure and bodily relaxation exercises before a big mission. 

Donnie is back to his desk, goggles equipped, soldering iron hot in hand, multiple arms sprouted from his battleshells and working away. Casey considers asking whether the circuit board should be smoking, or that many sparks should be flying, or if perhaps Donatello shouldn’t be yanking at the wires of potentially live explosives as viciously as he is. 

Casey ultimately thinks better of it, instead asking, “Is— is there something bothering you? Y’know, besides the obvious.” Not exactly a safer topic, but at least Donnie will be less likely to assume he’s questioning his engineering skills. 

For a while there’s no response. Casey’s half reminded of the old days when Master Donatello took off his mask (and hearing aids by proxy) and anything quieter than a loud yell struggled to reach him. Casey’s more convinced that the Donatello of today has simply chosen to neglect to answer. But then the motions of Donnie’s hands slow to a halt. 

For a long moment he stares unseeingly at the tangle of coloured wires.

“Nobody’s asked why it took me so long to find them.” 

Casey blinks. He supposes given recent revelations, it might appear a valid criticism to make, but never once had it materialised in his mind. If Master Donatello was having technical difficulties, there would undoubtedly be a good reason for it—one that was more than likely beyond Casey’s understanding. 

Almost as if in response to his line of thinking, Donnie continues sardonically. “Kind of difficult to miss the giant prison-arena floating in the sky.”

He shifts, uncomfortable. “None of us figured it out either. And everyone knows how hard you’ve been working.”

“I don’t blame myself. I never would’ve overlooked something this obvious unless my view was obscured.” Donnie states, his gaze finally rising to meet his own, his eyes steely. “Someone breached my systems.”

“That’s possible?” He asks, unable to recall a time the Krang or their agents were able to breach Donnie’s impenetrable security. 

“Not from outside this lair.” 

There’s no accusation in Donnie’s tone, but the silence that follows is expectant. 

Casey stares back, a tight knot of discomfort tightening in his stomach, a spark of anger igniting in his chest. 

He can’t say he’s surprised. It falls in line with all the other dumb lengths Leon has gone to to shield them from his own messes. That said, Casey’s still furious about it. Furious that this is just another achievement to jot down on Leon’s ever-expanding resume for his role as selfless guardian angel (consequences redacted). Another lie to add to the never-ending pile. Another abandonment of trust. Furious because he can’t truly be mad at Leon because he isn’t here to be mad at, and because the worry inside his chest burns far fiercer. 

“Huh. You didn’t know either.” Donnie muses, his frown deepening. “Considering I can fathom no reasonable explanation as to why he would sabotage his own brother like that, not to mention himself, twice-over, I was hoping you’d be able to shed some light on the issue.” 

“Um.” Casey utters, caught off guard by the request. He’d thought it was rather obvious. “He’s… you know. Protective. I mean, clearly, whatever this is, he didn't want us involved.”

“Yes, I gathered as much, but why? We’re clearly not helpless. It’s not like we didn't, oh, I don’t know, save the world less than six months ago. He’s seen that we can change our futures. Sure, he’s lost us once before, but need I remind him that this was during the apocalypse. The circumstances nowadays are strongly in our favour. Surely he has at least one iota of trust for our own self-preservation skills here. There’s gotta be a better explanation than that.”

Casey scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s complicated.”

“Attempt to enlighten me.”

Casey blanches. “I— I don’t fully understand him myself, honestly. I can’t really… I mean, it wouldn’t be right for me to assume. His reasons are probably going to vary wildly depending on the person—” 

Donnie leans forward, setting the tech in his lap to his side to address him directly. Casey finds his eyes trained on him. They feel like weights, pinning him in place with enough leverage to elicit the urge to squirm. Casey finds himself wishing he hadn’t stayed at all. Master Donatello never initiated this much eye contact unless it was serious. 

“Stop dancing around the point, Casey. You know what I’m asking and you’re the only one alive that has the insight of past experience to answer it.” 

He pales. Donnie doesn’t try to stop him when he stands and turns away, creating some distance. Retreating. “Aren’t there more important things to talk about?” He asks, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. 

“Yes. Certainly.” Donnie answers easily. He steeples his fingers together. “Right now I want to talk about this.”

Casey considers leaving. Answers related to his past have never brought anyone peace of mind. 

Though, something tells him peace of mind is not what Donnie is searching for here. 

Casey releases a sigh, resignation flowing through him. He won’t run from this anymore—this veiled avoidance that has become the heart of their conflict with Leon. They do not want to be coddled and protected. They want the truth.

He averts his gaze to a dark corner of the workshop. It’s easier this way—like he’s talking to someone else. 

“In the resistance days, you two were inseparable. I mean, everyone in the family was close-knit, but most days, for better or worse you were practically attached to the hip.” 

Casey remembers those days fondly. When Leon would stretch himself across the pile of duvets and pillows they’d set up in Donnie’s workshop, teaching Casey how to fold paper planes then tossing them at Donnie’s head as he worked. When they returned home from a mission beaten and exhausted and yet somehow found the energy to take turns entertaining Casey—bored and restless from days trapped within the safety of the bases’ four walls—with old-world stories and dances until he fell asleep. When they’d risk a trip to the surface just to escape it all for a moment, rest against one another’s shells and watch the moon.

He remembers how they had moved together as a unit—in battle, in walking shoulder to shoulder through the base, in the infinite ways they’d pissed each other off just to distract the other for a moment from the stress or pain.

“Leon was our leader. Mikey balanced him. April was his compass. You were his closest counsel.” 

“Sounds exhausting.” 

Casey shoots daggers over his shoulder.

“What? Leo falls under several virtuous definitions. A listener is not one of them.”

“He listens.” He asserts. 

“Mm. Doesn’t sound like him.” 

“I’m not painting him in golden light for you. The problems Leo has now, Master Leonardo still had back then. But he has always listened.” His gaze returns to the dark. “Sometimes he doesn’t let it sway his decisions when he should, but he doesn’t forget the words.” Takes it to heart, laughs it off when it hurts. “If there were persisting issues—if he needed insight or honesty when his judgement was clouded by his emotion, you were the one he turned to.” 

Donnie hums a skeptical note. “One can’t help but point out that he doesn’t turn to anyone anymore.” 

“Yeah.” Casey agrees sadly. “Not like before.”

“So, what changed? Leon’s never said anything outright, but I always get the sense there was some kind of disagreement between us.”

Casey stutters on that. There’s truth to it, in a sense, but…

“It’s… It’s not that simple…” He closes his eyes and releases a breath. “The decision to wall yourself off from everyone you love can’t be based solely on a single, destructive event…”

“We didn’t argue?”

“No, you definitely argued.” He can say that much with confident certainty. “Your roles as resistance leaders led you to ram heads all the time. Sometimes Leon ceded to your advice. Other times you’d both scream until you went hoarse, go to bed for the night, then wake up the next day and somehow find your middle ground. The only times I can remember you both being too stubborn to agree, the topic was so unimportant that it didn’t even matter. It never devolved to outright hostility. It just felt…”

“Standard?” Donnie suggests, confirming Casey’s suspicions that they’d been this way since they were toddlers.

“Normal.” He agrees. “Like brotherly squabbles. Personal spats that you’d both forget within a week. Nothing that ever pushed you apart, or threatened to demoralise the resistance.” 

“So us constantly being at each other’s throats all the time had absolutely nothing to do with him avoiding talking tactics with me now.” Donnie says, tone bone dry. 

Casey turns back towards him, his heart panging. “It wasn’t constant… And I don’t think he’d ever avoid you because of that. You have to understand, most of us clung to Leon’s instruction like a lifeboat. He was rarely ever defied, not because he was some tyrant that we all feared, but because we always knew he had our best interests at heart. He never wanted power. He wanted the world to survive. He wanted his family to be able to live in it. He tried with everything he had to keep us safe, and you…” He glances up at Donnie, hesitating. It’s somewhat difficult to bring up what sounds so much like a criticism with someone he respects as much as Master Donnatello. “You disobeyed his orders all the time. Habitually. More than anyone else I knew. Right up until the end. And after…”

Casey’s at a loss for words—at least, at a loss for good enough words to succinctly describe the terrible significance of after in a way that makes sense to Donnie. He brings his hands to his face, rhythmically rubbing his skin to help himself think. 

“So, he doesn’t like that I shot down some of his moronic plans?” Donnie asks with a wild gesticulation of his hands. It might as well have been a slap, the way it jolts Casey out of the flow of his thoughts. “He’s bitter that I didn’t fawn over him like some sycophantic? That’s his reason for putting Leo in danger? He’s that petty?”

Casey takes a confident step into Donnie’s space, indignation hitting the back of his throat. “Do you really think that lowly of him?”

Donnie’s mouth clicks shut.

Casey sighs, the fight draining from him just as quickly as it had risen. “He never took your disregard as a slight, but that doesn’t mean he was entirely unaffected by it, either.”

Donnie scratches at his arms with a disgruntled, almost petulant expression. “Why should I let myself be held responsible for transgressions I haven’t even committed yet?”

He still doesn’t get it. “It’s not all about the disagreements, Donnie—”

“What exactly is his problem, then?”

Casey throws his hands into the air. “I don’t know, it’s not like he walked around advertising it! Whatever was happening between you had been going on for longer than I’d even been alive, and by the time either of you had the heart to address it, it was already too late. What happened broke him. It took us years to get him to talk about anything other than logistics—”

Patience at its limit, Donnie interjects sharply, “Speculate for me.” 

Casey stops. There is an idea there, lying dormant at the back of his mind—one Casey would much rather leave buried. This is the worst possible time to be having this conversation. If they can’t bring Leon back and this never gets resolved Casey will yet again be the vessel for suffering needlessly shared between past and present for Donnie. When he’d already committed to keeping that gateway closed for good.

But if he were in Donnie’s position… He would want to know.

“He doesn’t want to burden you with himself again, he…” Casey’s gaze drops to his feet. “He thought you resented him.” He manages, the truth of it scraping up his throat on the way out.

The temperature in the room drops. Donnie’s anger dissolves, temporarily forgotten. Casey glimpses up, catching sight of Donnie’s blocky brows slanted with sadness, his mouth downturned.

Immediately regretting having spoken, Casey attempts to backtrack. “To be fair, I think he had a tendency to think pretty much everyone resented him to some degree for what happened to Master Splinter and Master Raphael and every other horrible thing happening in the world—” He winces at Donnie’s increasingly crestfallen expression—not helping, not helping. “And the volatility of your interactions with him at the time probably really didn’t help convince him otherwise.” Spirits, he’s bad at this. He continues, words rushed. “But— but according to Commander O’Neil, you two never did run all that smoothly, and even though you weren’t always friends, you were always brothers, and regardless of how bad it got, you remained one of the only people he could trust to set him straight when he doubted himself—” 

“And then I went against his wishes and perished in the process.” Donnie finishes quietly. “That’s what this is? He thinks I don’t have the strength to support him or the faith to go along with whatever he says so he babies me to avoid a repeat?” 

“Faith? No— Donnie, no matter how many times you disobeyed an order, regardless of whether or not you claimed to believe in him— none of that mattered in the face of how it ended… His actions don’t stem from spite or a lack of belief in us. If he did have feelings of inadequacy for anyone, it would be toward himself. Now that I’m older I get that leading the Resistance must’ve taken a heavy toll on his conscience, but he… He was handling it, you know?” 

As a child, Casey had been awestruck by it. It seemed inconceivable that a single person could bear such immense pressure, process all the losses and pain on a daily basis and still remain functional. Yet somehow Leon hardly ever appeared affected by any of it. Regardless of the insurmountable odds, he simply kept rising, forging ahead, taking care of whatever needed to be done. 

“It wasn’t until we lost you…”

There’s a heavy pause. Casey doesn’t want to think of the after. The guttural grief and rage that encapsulated Leon, choked out all remaining joy that once accompanied his conversations. The months of emptiness that followed. Some days it felt like he and Mikey and April were the only things left in the world that kept his soul tethered and his body dragging behind. 

Casey’s throat clicks as he swallows. “It wasn’t just that you were gone. With time, I think he could’ve processed that. It was your willingness in the decision—the choice… If everything Leo potentially stood to offer to the future wasn’t enough to convince you to stay and keep arguing with him, then he wasn’t worthy of any of it at all.”

Donnie looks away, his mouth downturned, finger tapping against his thigh. It’s a distasteful answer to him, unjustified by reason, unneat, the furthest thing from satisfying. And yet, he does not contend it. Casey knows the feeling. It hits too close to the ugly truth to be speculation. 

“What a dumbass. I wouldn’t have…” Donnie looks down, his hands tightening in his lap, voice lowering to a murmur. “I would never resent him.”

It feels oddly selfish, but years after Master Donnatello’s death and decades into the past, Casey’s immeasurably grateful to be able to hear what he’d always known from the turtle himself. He reaches across and takes hold of Donnie’s shoulder. 

They both jump a little at the sound of someone knocking at the door, their heads turning towards the entry. They exchange glances, then Casey pulls away, returning to his seat.

“You can come in!” Donnie calls, foregoing his usual password routine.

Raph pokes his head in. “We’re ready to head out.”

“We’ll be right there.” 

Donnie gathers his tech, shoving explosives into a duffel bag. Casey cringes. 

He clears his throat. “None of that was said to defend what Leonardo did, by the way. We have every right to be angry at him for keeping things from us. It was wrong of him to sabotage your ability to help him and land Leo in danger in the process. I’m with you when it comes to all of that, I just… I don’t think we can ignore what he’s lost.” 

There is likely nothing they could’ve done to stop him, is what Casey finds to be the most maddening fact of all. They can’t protect Leon from something that’s already occurred. The apocalypse. An event so big and devastating and all-consuming that even Casey, raised in the aftermath, cannot imagine the magnitude of such a change. The past clings to Leon, shapes his decisions, his nightmares, his very being. Casey knows better than anyone that you can’t pull someone from a fire and expect them to forget the smell of smoke. 

Donnie doesn’t glance back. “I understand.” He slings the duffel bag over his shoulder and rises to his feet. “And as it goes with most of life's problems, this one can be more or less solved with approximately fifty-three pounds of high-powered explosives.”

Casey eyes him with mild concern. “More or less.” He echoes, then grabs his hockey stick and follows after him. 

- - - - -

Leon wakes to a low, distant rumbling reverberating the walls—the sound of the arena stirring to life. He cracks open gritty eyes, stiff and momentarily disoriented. His body drenched in sweat as if he’s been sleeping in a furnace—warmth he fears is more related to the pounding pressure in his head and the ache in his bones than the heat stemming from Leo sitting up next to him. 

His gaze drifts to the loaf Leo’s nibbling away at. Despite living on nothing but stale bread, the sight of the damn thing still makes him hungry. He knows when injured, he burns more calories to maintain functionality, but it’s galling to be so weak after only a few days on meagre rations. Whatever the circumstance, it’s food. Any flavour is better than the pennies he’s been tasting with every swallow. 

He tries to get up, then quickly abandons the notion when his body makes him violently aware of all the aches he hadn’t felt at the time yesterday. A common occurrence, to be struck in the heat of battle and note nothing of it until much later. 

“Good morning dirtbag nation.” Leo announces, falsely chipper. He picks out a mouldy spot from the bread and flicks it to the floor. “Is something I might say, were it still morning.” Leo turns to him, offering Leon the remainder of the loaf. “You slept through most of the day.” 

Leon stretches, wincing as blood-crusted wounds shift and several joints pop, then takes the damned bread. 

“You didn’t wake me again.” He replies hoarsely.

Leo snorts derisively. “Jeez, sorry for making you miss out on some enthralling hours of sitting in the dark and marinating in self-pity while I shift dust around.”

Too tired and groggy to think up a suitable comeback, Leon simply hums a neutral note. He weakly pushes against the ground with his prosthetic and gingerly sits up, cringing when the motion manages to jostle every bruise and wound. 

Leo gives him a proper look-over as Leon fills his mouth with stale bread and chews mechanically. His eyes trail across him, taking inventory—lingering on cuts, landing hard on the dark blemishes around his shoulder and ankle. Leon doesn’t remember being this annoyingly attentive. He wonders if he somehow landed in an alternate timeline where he adopted Raph’s propensity for mother-henning. The concern is heart-warming. And the attention is nice. But the back of his neck is starting to prickle with discomfort under the weight of his scrutiny. 

He drops the bread into his lap and lightly pushes Leo’s head away with the palm of his metal hand. “Quit gawking at me like that. It’s bad enough you calling me old and decrepit. You don’t have to treat me like I’m falling apart.”

Leo dodges his hand and grumbles something undoubtedly unflattering under his breath.

“What was that?” Leon asks lightly.

“Finish your loaf.” Leo says reproachfully. 

A sickeningly fond emotion spreads through Leon’s chest. He quirks a half-smile, then takes an obnoxiously large bite, wincing when his exaggerated chewing pulls at sensitive skin. His whole damn face throbs. 

Unmoved by his theatrics, Leo leans forward to place an open palm against Leon’s forehead. Leon’s jaw motions pause as Leo holds it there for a couple seconds, his expression turning grim. 

His hand falls away. “You’re sick.” 

Ah, right, the fever. Naturally, this was bound to happen sooner or later. He can fight through the haze of pain and exhaustion right up until his dismissal for Maslow’s whole ass stupid triangle knocks him on his ass. Can only stretch his body so far before it snaps back and punishes him for the strain.

Leon swallows and grins at him, all teeth, then puts on his best Californian surfer accent. “Thanks bro, you’re totally gnarly too.”

Leo glowers back at him. Their staring contest lasts until his jaw aches with the stupid smile. Leon lets it drop. Tough crowd. Not his best work. “Joke. That was a joke. You know how it is. I jokes to copes.” 

Instead of responding, Leo elects to turn his head to stare broodily into the middle distance. Leon side-eyes him. No snarky comeback? No quick-fire insult? No lightning wit? Unsettling. He shuts up and lets Leo be. As out of character it might be, the kid has every right to some aloof rumination. 

Leon glances up when Leo springs to his feet and turns to confront him with a resolute intensity.

“I’m volunteering to fight today.” 

The words reverberate off the stone walls. The bread Leon’s chewing turns to ash in his mouth. 

Leon swallows thickly. It takes all his control to keep his voice quiet and calm. “You won’t.”

Leo puffs up in irritation. “Why not?” 

Leon sits still, elbow on his knee, forehead in his hand, staring exhausted at the floor. Maybe on another day, having not run several rounds of death and fighting for his life the night prior, he could think up a response that will satisfy Leo without giving away just how fucked he is. But today… today is a wash. His head hurts too much. He’s sleepy and irritable and every muscle is complaining from being constantly overworked. Everything’s sore, lately, like Leon only exists between moments of pain. It’s exhausting. This is all so damn exhausting. 

“I’m older than you.” He manages.

“We were born at the exact damn time.” Leo counters.

“You know that’s not what I— argh, whatever, it doesn’t matter. My point is, she won’t let you.” 

“Oh, suddenly the big evil capitalist spider lady in charge of a criminal empire is against minor league death battles.” Leo’s says sardonically. “You’re making shit up, you can’t know that!” 

He does, is the problem. Sylvia has had this planned out for a long time—potentially from the beginning, from the very inception of his stage name. He’s her meteorite, designed to spark and shine, leave a blazing beacon of light in the sky, then burn up and crash to the Earth. Lampon had that right. Ryūsei wasn’t created to last, and Big Mama isn’t about to let him off the hook without fulfilling every contract in that namesake. 

Though, if Leo learns about that, he’s going to be even less inclined to roll over and let this go…

Leon’s brows pull inward. “I’m not saying you’re not capable, but…” He glimpses down at Leo. He looks painfully young without his mask—his expression open and lost, his face marred with none of the wrinkles or scars that Leon wears. He’s already been through far too much for someone so young. Leon exhales, “you’re still a kid.”

Immediately, he knows it’s the wrong thing to say. Leo’s scowl deepens. He snaps, “and you’re being an arrogant man-turtle baby!” 

“I can die content with that.”

“I don’t want you to die for me!” Leo yells, bluntly unveiling the elephant in the room. His eyes dip somewhat sheepishly, his jaw tightening, his fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t get it. You’ve already accepted to doom yourself to this, but you don’t know what it’s like being stuck here. You’re trapped, but you… you don’t know what it’s like to be powerless—you can’t understand what it is to spend days on end, trying and failing to do the one thing that could save us, having to watch you return worse off each time because— because of…” His voice cuts off, his expression crumpling.

A guilty pang spreads through Leon’s chest. This is exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. He softens his tone. “She won’t let you, even if you volunteer.” 

Leo goes completely, perfectly still. His voice turns cold. “Tell me what happened yesterday.”

Leon grimaces, hit with the memory of the arena’s charged atmosphere after Sylvia had stepped in—the sense of being trapped within the eye of a storm, the primal frenzy of the crowd crackling around him. He’s astonished Big Mama hadn’t had a riot on her hands. Lampon must deeply matter to Sylvia for her to risk the reputation of her own business for her, though Leon is certain the fallout from that chaos will inevitably land on him.

Leo looks like he’s about to shake him, injured shoulder or not. There’s an impatient, anxious tension to his voice. “Leon.”

He exhales. “Sylvia stopped the fight.” 

For a moment Leo just teeters there in confusion. “Wh— that’s not… Big Mama doesn’t interfere with the Nexus. She’s never interrupted before—”

“I wasn’t supposed to win.” The words leave him without thought, without foresight. 

“Supposed to…” He echoes, eyes narrowing. Leo stares at him for a few seconds as he realises what that means—what Leon expects him to do. He can see the second Leo pieces it all together, his eyes darkening, expression hardening. His voice goes deadly calm. “When were you planning on telling me this?”

Leon grimaces. He places a metal hand against the floor and tries to stand, gasping as pain erupts from his side. When he sways, Leo shoots his arm out, steadying him. Leon squeezes his eyes shut and breathes through the lightheaded, nauseous feeling spinning around him. Shit. Not a great way to instil confidence. 

Leon clears his throat. “I can do this.”

A noise breaks free of Leo, too pained and incredulous to be a laugh. “No, you absolutely cannot. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re all out of heroic stunts, bucko! Your ankle is badly sprained, you have a gaping hole in your side, your good shoulder is dislocated and the fleshy portion of the other one is still healing from being knifed,” Leon opens his mouth to interrupt Leo’s rapidly expanding list, but Leo ploughs through before he can get so much as a sound out. “And No, I have not forgotten about that. Your shell is cracked—I could practically hear your ribs grinding together as you slept. Ribs are not supposed to do that, Leo.” 

“I’m aware, thanks.” Leon utters tonelessly. He doesn’t need to be reminded how horrible he feels.

Leo flails at him. “This can’t last for much longer. You can’t last. You were held together by loose threads before you even stepped foot into that ring—weeks of running your own stupid ass ragged. Fighting, barely sleeping, drawing away Big Mama’s goons from us. All this could’ve been avoided if you just stopped being so goddamn stubborn and actually shared your problems with the team, and even now you’re still…” Leo stares up at him in disbelief, rendered breathless. “I’m still doing it.” 

Leon releases a shuttered breath and tries to turn away from him. Leo stops him halfway, placing a hand over his plastron. Leon hangs his head, eyes dropping to his feet.

Leo ducks into his line of vision and peers up at him, brows furrowed, eyes assessing. “Don’t you want to be free of this nightmare?”

Leon straightens, riled. “Of course I do.” It’s what he’s always wanted for himself—for them all to be happy and healthy and safe. It’s all he wants for them—to be the kids Leon and his brothers never had the chance to be. 

“Then hell, Leon, what is this for you? Punishment? Retribution? Some twisted deep down desire you still have to prove yourself the champion?” He asks with a familiar burn of anger in his voice, the one that appeared when he was at his most cutting. “Is this the result of me? Without Casey sent on a mission to break me free of my own shitty stagnation, this is what I become?” Leo’s hands are shaking, his voice tightening, each word enunciated with vicious precision. “An old, sick man, making the same mistakes, never learning—-just running in circles, convinced that the only way he can escape is to become some… martyr of his own story. Easier to stand the thought of his own death when he can rally and chase it down himself.”

A cold pit opens up in Leon’s gut. He bites down, tries to bottle away the emotion. 

“That’s not what this is.” The rebuttal sounds weak, even to himself.

Leo searches his eyes, the hardness in his expression cracking. “Don’t do this. Please, don’t be that. Don’t make me that.” 

Leon swallows, the lump in his throat thick. He looks at Leo, less than an arm’s length away, and waits for the words to arrive—I’m sorry I led you down this path, I’m sorry I made you think I changed the past—you and your brothers will always be the only ones who can shape the future, I’m sorry, don’t hold out too much hope for me, I’m sorry, I was always going to find the worst way to disappoint you, but that’s not you—it’ll never be you. Something. 

Something. 

“Leo…”  Is the first word on the scene. It doesn’t bring any friends. 

Leo steps back, all the fight draining from his limbs. 

Leon twists towards the door and removes his makeshift sling. He winces as he tests the motion in his arm. It’s… not ideal. Sore. The ligaments and tendons holding the joint are undoubtedly damaged. Hurts like hell no matter how he moves it. 

With Leon’s back to him and the heaviness felt between them, it’s easy to think that Leo’s thrown in the towel. A fool’s hope, really. Leon was never very good at letting things go. 

When Leo’s voice sounds again, it’s more subdued than he can recall hearing it in a long time. Maybe ever. 

“You still matter to them.”

Leon goes cold, all other thoughts grinding to a halt.

He hears Leo shift behind him. “You know that, right?”

A lump forms in his throat. It would be difficult not to notice, what with the way dad looks at him with the love he’s always yearned for, the way Raph is still so caring, so gentle with him—like he still deserves that kindness. How Donnie is so straightforwardly honest in that way Leon’s never been able to hide or turn away from, and yet also so attentive—willing to forgo food and sleep if it meant he could build something that could help Leon. It’s impossible to ignore when Mikey looks up to him like he keeps the night bright by holding up the stars and the moon, and it all makes Leon want to recoil, scream, tear his eyes out. They treat him as if he’s their own and it’s all he’s ever wanted and it’s a fantasy too good to be true because somewhere along the line Leon blinded them. 

Splinter made him leader, Raph staked everything on him, Donnie trusted him, Mikey followed him to the ends of the Earth. He was responsible for keeping everyone fed and happy and safe and alive, and he failed. They don’t see that he killed them. Not here, not now, but he did. He had. And Casey might have it in his head that he’s atoned for that by saving this timeline, but it doesn’t erase Leon’s. There’s a physical presence of it—the sense of not belonging, omnipresent, even now. He’s not sure he fears the Nexus more than he fears living out the rest of his life as the patron saint of the worst possible outcome. 

Dust falls from the ceiling as the rumblings above them grow louder. Leon doesn’t look back, for all the ways looking at Leo might undo him right now. He crosses his legs into a meditative pose and tries to quiet his mind. When the time comes—the cell door swinging open, two guards entering, cuffs in hand—Leon doesn’t fight it. With some difficulty, he rises to his feet. He’s about to take a step towards them when Leo latches onto his wrist, stilling him. 

Leon takes a breath and looks down at the kid, placating words at the tip of his tongue, then. Stops. 

Leos’ face has a flayed vulnerability—something so raw and terrible that he flinches to see it. Leo doesn’t say a word, but Leon locks eyes with him, and all he can see is Casey, his arms wrapped around his back, clinging, desperate. I can’t lose you too. For a moment, time moves around him. Leon is frozen in place, unwilling to move. 

The moment passes though, as it always does, and he gathers his wits, places a warm hand over the kid’s and gently pries his hand away. He moves towards the door, generating space between them, then turns his shell to the guards and with a wince, holds his arms behind his back—the new angle setting his shoulder alight with pain. Leo watches silently as heavy steel is wrapped around his wrists and ankles, cool against his flushed skin. Each cuff locks tight with a click. 

It dawns on him that if there were any time to dispel some lasting wisdom to his younger self, it’d be now.

How ironic it is that Leon’s mind could not be more blank. Typical, really. Over a decade of rousing speeches to the Resistance, and yet here he is at the end of his rope, and he has nothing. What can he say to this Leo, that by all accounts has accomplished all that he has not? What wisdom does Leon have that isn’t going to sound like a pile of hypocritical and patronising bullshit—something Leo’s more likely to punch him for than take comfort in. Leon’s a lake, as wide and deep as it is empty, any life lessons or valuable philosophies sitting as detritus at the very bottom. But he needs to say something. He’d want to hear something.

Only one thought floats to the surface.

“You matter to me.”

Leo is motionless, his eyes turning shiny with unshed tears. Leon regrets hurting him all over again, but it’s worth telling himself that, at least once. 

The guards turn Leon around and guide him out of the cell.

- - - - -

Leo stands there, shell-shocked, listening as the footsteps recede and the rattle of chains fade. It’s only once he’s completely enveloped in silence that reality sinks in. He might never see Leon again. 

Leo pounds a fist against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the heat prickling at his eyelids. Bastard. Fuck him. Fuck him. What right did he have to waltz in and insinuate himself into their lives, charming his family, protecting them, showing his brothers all the ways in which he’s a strong and capable leader and Leo’s not, winning them all over, making Leo care about him. All his life Leo’s been waiting for someone to just accept him as he is and… 

Why? Why’d he have to say that? He’s never…

Leon isn’t one to let on more than he means. He always knows something Leo doesn’t—he knew he wasn’t going to make it out of this. He knew. Leo wishes he could feel betrayed, but all he feels is the sinking, leaden weight at the pit of his stomach, as if the ground is giving way beneath him. 

Realising that Leon had been willing to jump on a grenade for Leo from the very beginning only maddened him. He’d never ask someone to walk through fire for his sake. Why wasn’t he worth the work it took for Leon to piece himself back together? Why wasn’t his family enough to make him want to fight with everything it took to live? 

People with fevers can still function, yes, but survive the Nexus? With Leon’s injuries? In the wake of one of Big Mama’s murderous moods? 

Okay, now he’s panicking. He should have stopped him. Why didn’t he stop him?

Leon’s expecting him to leave him behind. It’s difficult to be optimistic in light of that. 

Leo jumps at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the cell. He scrambles up and scrubs the tears from his cheeks. 

Strange. It’s far too early for the guard on watch to be making rotation, far too soon for Leon to have returned. Something must be wrong. Leo tries to quell the barrage of hypotheticals that rush through his mind—the line separating hope and heartbreak far too thin.

The cell door swings open. Leo takes a step back, pressing against the wall when three large yokai enter the room. The largest takes one look at him and tips his head towards the hallway, “change of scenery, turtle. You’re coming with us.”

The sudden change of routine is unnerving. Leo bristles at the authoritative tone, but he’s inclined to go along with the order. Leon might’ve resigned himself to dying in this pit, but Leo’s not giving up. There’s gotta be a better chance of rescuing him out there than stuck here in the dark. 

Leo peels himself off the wall. They don’t even give him the grace of walking out of there himself—taking him by each arm and ignoring his protests. His legs feel stiff and weak as he tries to get his legs beneath him as they practically drag him out. 

He cringes at the brightness of the fluorescent lights in the hallway, stumbling around like a newborn foal as he tries to keep up with the guard’s rapid pace so as to not be dragged across the floor. Ninja reflexes usually saves him from the humiliation, but he finds himself weak and uncoordinated from days on end stuck in cramped conditions in the dark on minimal rations and sleep.

Their twists and turns come to a halt at an elevator at the end of the hallway. When the door opens, it does so with a slow, groaning creak that reverberates through the corridor. He’s shoved into the interior, which is cramped and dimly lit—the claustrophobic size not conducive to four oversized yokai, who squeeze in tight, their shoulders cramming him in. The guard in front punches in the number to the top floor. There’s a shudder, then a lurch in his stomach as the elevator ascends.

Ding, the doors open and Leo is jostled out into an even brighter hallway. He’s pulled forward, each step marked by the heavy thud of his anxious heartbeat. The decor up here has far more grandeur than the lower levels—the wallpaper draped in gold and the length of the floor a glossy, reflective laminate in a sickly shade of chartreuse. He’s led up a spiralling staircase—the distant sound of cheering screams slowly filtering in louder the higher they rise. 

At the next door, the guards stop. The big guy in front knocks against the wood.

A woman’s voice calls from behind it. “Enter.”

Leo is dragged inside, and the arena’s noise hits him at full volume. His attention immediately is pulled to the front of the room where a glass balcony provides a full view of the Battle Nexus. They’re perched above the audience stands. The majority of the arena below is obscured by fog. Hanging on wires above, a circle of wide flatscreens play Hidden City commercials. Freaking sponsors for the death pit. Never say they do shit any different down here.

The rest of the room is not large, but luxurious in its contents. The polished marble floor shimmers with veins of gold and red. The ceiling above is a sprawling fresco of mythic scenes, framed by gilded corners. A chandelier hangs from the centre, its cascading prisms casting geometric shadows of light around the room. A counter lines one of the walls, filled with pyramids of champagne and snacks. Leo would be disgustedly impressed by the opulent gaudiness of it all if the assault on his eyes wasn’t giving him a sensory overload headache. In the middle of the room sits an ornate crimson throne facing the arena—the height of its back obscuring Leo’s view of the person seated. 

The guard’s vice grip cinches around his forearms. He staggers as he’s dragged beside the throne. His struggles increase when he spots chains embedded into the floor next to it. To no avail. He’s not strong enough. 

They yank him down to his knees and hold him there with a tight grip of his neck, forcing his head down as another guard makes work of securing the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. In his peripherals he partially sees the purple heels of the person seated next to him, their legs crossed daintily. The steel is squeezed tight enough to cut off circulation, then the locks click shut. 

The guards pull away, stepping back, and Leo raises his head. 

Big Mama gasps dramatically when his eyes lock with her’s, a hand rising to her mouth. “Turtley-boo, scramulent to see you again. Welcome to Big Mama’s private box.”

Leo tenses, his hackle rising. She sits perfectly at ease on her throne in her classic, high-fashion attire. “Don’t you already have a dog guy to sit at your feet?” He grits out.

She waves him off. “Gus is tending to other matters. And you’ve been such a humble guest, I thought it pertinent to treat you with the best seat in the house.”

Leo churns this through his brain with rising alarm. “You’re using me in your rat trap?”

“Heavens, no,” Big Mama replies, “I need only you to observe as your champion down there is torn limb from limb-itty limb.” She twiddles her fingers with a bright smile.

Leo lunges at her, rising maybe an inch before the restraints violently yank him back to the floor. She watches with mild amusement as he strains against them for a few seconds. They refuse to budge, anchoring him solidly in place. Leo slumps forward, panting and defeated. 

“What exactly are you hoping to get out of this?” He asks coldly.

“Entertainment, monetary value, reputation, revenge, a thorn removed from my side, a random variable removed from the board. Really, the question should be what does Big Mama not get out of this?”

Leo bares his teeth. “You let him die, Splinter will never forgive you.”

Big Mama laughs. “Funny, the you a couple decades from now recited nearly the same words.”

When he doesn’t respond, seething silently, her eyes slide back over to his, curious. 

She sighs—long and exasperated as if Leo’s the one inconveniencing her here; just some other burden she has to deal with. ”I suppose I have the time spare to humour you… After the fizzywinkle your family affair left my business in, I required a restart. And for my newest Battle Nexus, I needed to create a splenderific champion to dizzle-dazzle the Hidden City and revitalise my reputation. I hit a predicament however when I learned the pickings have only gotten slimmer since our last debacle. Of my options, Lou Jitsu stood out as the ideal, but I had no guarantee he would refrain from repeating his past failings by being a bore and playing pacifist. Of course, a ‘murderize or be murderalized’ rule could be introduced to negate this flim flam, but I still needed to track down my Battle Nexus All Star.” 

Leo eyes her icily. “Yeah, so you sent people after pops. Skip. I was there for that, y’know, being hunted for sport. Literally.”

She ignores the comment. “My dearest Lou so rarely shows his face. Before you pee-wee testudines apparated in my hotel, there were many years I thought him dead. He’s grown craftier with age—more secretive. I just can’t understand why he wouldn’t give me a second chance.”

“Well, you did kidnap and imprison him after he proposed to you. I’m no relationship expert but I dunno, that does tend to sour your long-term prospects.”

“Oh, pish posh. You’re too young to know the complexities of such things. I was only following my nature. I’m well aware Lou would never set foot back into the ring on his own terms, but there is always a way… Enlightenment showed itself to me in the form of your glorificiously arrogant older self. How flagrantly he ran around the surface—coming out every night, getting in my way time after time. What better way to pull daddy dearest back into my embrace than to make us one big happy family. I could take you as a consolatory, fantumptuous arena clown in the meantime, and the rest of the stragglers would come running—”

There’s a swell in the uproarious screaming from the crowd. Leo tunes out the rest of Big Mama’s evil monologuing as Leon’s face appears on the circle of screens hanging above the arena. Leo scans the ring’s floor, quietly fuming when he spots Leon on the far-right side, a distance from where the great cloud of fog has gathered. Even from up here, Leo can see how bad a shape he’s in. 

“—But who would’ve thought that little old you could be such a ferocious, bloodcurdling warrior? Certainly not me. And yet, the others never came. My, I almost felt sorry for you. Night after long night of savagery—Lou’s beloved son in perilous danger. All of it broadcast secretly, but not so secretly that the smart, funny one wouldn’t be able to figure it out. Surely you weren’t all that dull.”

The low voice of one of the guards sounds from behind them. “Ma’am. The cryogenic containment chamber has been lifted. She should be waking now.”

Big Mama brings her hands together. “Fantabulous!” She turns back to address him. “You know what I thought? Perhaps my fuzzy-mufflewunkins isn’t taking me seriously. Maybe he doesn’t believe I would really kill one of you. I mean, surely he would be here by now if he saw Big Mama as a real threat,” her tone lowers, “and to be perfectly honest, I am sick. And tired. Of waiting.” 

The horrible feeling in the pit of his gut worsens, his stomach knotting into tight, painful coils. Leo squints into the fog apprehensively. He can see refractions of shadow and reflected light but not much else. From what he can see of the shadowed outlines though… whatever’s in there with Leon, it’s big. 

“So,” Big Mama says, perking up cheerily, “either you tell me how to tempt daddy dearest to my humble holdings, or we both watch this fight play out to its gratuitous finale.”

Leo feels his chest go tight with anger. She’s bluffing. She couldn’t stop this fight even if she wanted to. Not again. The audience wants blood, and if they don’t get it tonight heads will either turn to her, or leave entirely. She won’t risk that loss. 

She hums as the silence stretches. “Just a quick little reminder that I win either way. I still have you, after all. Regardless of Lou’s lacking paternal abilities I do ever so doubt he’ll let you be sacrificed twice over.”

Leo digs his fingernails into his palms, his knuckles whitening with the force of his frustration. His skin feels too tight; the constricting steel restraints a relentless, gnawing reminder of how helpless he is to alter or control this situation.

“I’ve met some pricks in my lifetime, but you lady, take the goddamn cactus.” He sneers. 

She tuts. “Please. All I do is put the horrors on display and charge for the seats. The rest of this crackadoo is of no one’s making but your own.” 

Leo’s about to bite out a scathing curse when he catches a glimpse of a tendril whipping outwards, pink and veiny, swiping blindly through the fog. 

Leo freezes, struck with a rush of heat that quickly turns to an icy numbness, as though his body is switching between extremes of fury and horrified shock. 

He can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think beyond it’s impossible. Bouncing from disbelief and dismay because this can’t be real. It can’t be him. Not after everything Leo had done… He can’t have escaped. 

Big Mama giggles at his reaction “Oh, yes, I’ve heard on the rumour mill that you two have history. Don’t fret. It’s not you she’ll have her eye on today. Well, technically it is, but,” she waves a hand, “you get the gist.”

- - - - -

The pain at Leon’s side worsens with each consecutive step. Everything, everywhere, hurts. His body moved on autopilot. He gets the impression that if he were to stop, he wouldn’t be able to go again.

Big Mama makes no appearance, but her will is clear to Leon. There are no more showers, no opportunities to escape, no new uniform, no fanfare. This is no longer a performance. He’s led straight to the elevators. 

He must be in somewhat of a dissociative, fugue state. He doesn’t remember getting out of the lift, or the guards releasing him from his bonds. His head throbs in rhythm with the stamping and screaming of the crowd above him as the hallway slants up—a heartbeat tempo, growing louder and louder, faster with each passing beat. The lights along the corridor leading up to the arena flash. Leon’s vision flickers—a crimson garnish that strikes metallic reflections, entering and receding, a distorted fracture in the distance. The hallway moves, a sideways jerk. Or perhaps it’s Leon that moves. The specifics are unimportant. Bright holes are tunnelling through the edges of his vision—blotchy like flame against the back of paper. 

The hallway wavers as he progresses, then it falls away entirely to blinding light and the drum rolls of thunder—sound and vibration that he feels in his very bones. He squints into the loudness of the world as his moniker is announced to the screaming crowds. The lights of the arena are harsh and stinging. Leon breathes unevenly, his stomach threatening to upturn at any moment. 

A dense fog blankets the arena, concealing any view of his opponent behind a curtain of white. The crispness of the air up here is a welcome relief against his flushed skin, the shift offering brief clarity of mind. He navigates through the haze to the weapons rack and retrieves his sword. The deep slice in his metal palm from Lampon’s blade makes it difficult to get a comfortable grip on the handle, but the routine is familiar, grounding. 

The fog is already beginning to dissipate. The arena lights beaming down on them is not helping with visibility. Leon can see a single blinking yellow orb shining from the centre of it and shadows shifting as it moves forward. 

The announcer's voice booms through the arena. “The great AKKOROKAMUI DEIMOS!”

The what.

Gasps ring out across the audience as the mist clears. Leon sees a massive, pulsating brain sat upon a body of tendrils, its flesh sickly pink and veins twitching with a disturbing rhythm. Leon’s heart skips a beat before lurching painfully into pounding.

The solitary, glowing sclera shifts, her slit pupil locking in on him. Leon’s blood runs cold from the sudden snap in the air—the chilling, deadly intent. Her wide, jagged maw splits open. When she speaks, her voice is not the melodic, chilling whisper he remembers. It’s rougher, the eerie smoothness harshened by rage. 

“YOU!”

The intangible, shuddering wave that rolls through him pins him in place, leaving him cold and breathless, like a spear quivering in a corpse. Horror is the closest word for it. Pure and unfiltered. 

“No.” He whispers, taking an unsteady step back. It’s not possible. She shouldn’t be here. They won. They drove them out. This world is supposed to be safe. 

He startles at the sound of clattering at his feet. Glimpsing down, he discovers his sword in the dirt. A second later, he feels it. The sudden, encompassing shock all down his prosthetic—phantom nerves lighting up in agony, near crippling him with the sudden onset of pain. No, no, no. Leon clamps a weak hand around the metal and claws at invisible flesh—phantom muscle, ligament, tissue, bone, his nails scratching uselessly at the metal coating. 

A shadow falls over him. His breath leaves his lungs choppy and shuttered as past and present eclipse. His head rings with the shrill of an enraged, inhuman screech, then.

Impact.

His shell cracks against a wall, the collision shuddering down his neck and spine. Whiplash. Crushed rock rains down on him. Next comes the hurt. His chest feels like it's in a vice grip. He’s winded, struggles to breathe, and when he does manage to suck a gasp into his lungs, it’s more thick dust than air. His mouth tastes like dirt, grit and copper and his whole body is shaking, fear an uneven lump in his throat.

“You wretched little pest.” She snarls. “You destroyed EVERYTHING!”