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There were many things that could lead a turtle to stray from the path of duty.
Not Leo, of course. His brothers were an unruly bunch, unable to focus on any tedious task for long. That was with ritual katas and meditation, for the record- he couldn't imagine what they'd be like, raised like normal teenagers. Leo couldn't imagine what he'd be like, raised as humans were. He thought it was bad to dwell on it- whether he'd be happier or not was irrelevant, and it was not conducive to a positive attitude.
Sometimes, he'd have a dream of what it'd be like. He had pale palms, tan arms, and dirt-caked black boots. Other humans in green-spotted pants and tan t-shirts would talk all around him. He looked on, curious and craving, but he could never put understanding to the words they said. He could never speak, etiher, as though he was always doomed to an unsatisfying isolation. The sour mood followed him all throughout the day, infecting his brothers like a disease.
His book warned him about this- "your attitude will affect you team's performance, and positive attitude is a choice", it had said. They may not always view him as a leader, but there was no doubt that he affected his team as a leader did, and his attitude was infectious. Maybe the persisent determination to work and train annoyed his team, at times, but it was better than the doom and gloom.
Leo realized he was staring at the ceiling and violating his own vision of his life. The same future vision that had saved him from his... unsatisfied and unsatisfying hole, two years ago. He did, of course, have a perfectly good reason for this.
There was a persistent moral dilemma that had been bothering him for the past year. Or, really, for the past half-year.
You see, Leo was currently 16 years old. He and his brothers had been going out to brawl foot-clan grunts and aliens on the damp and dirty New-York streets for a year, now. By all measures, his life should be satisfying, as he had a purpose beyond training over, and over, and over, while his yearning for human experience grew and grew. He defended New York- it was his meaning. Yet, there was something vaguely... bad, about it.
Today was their birthday. The day before their birthday, Leo had incidentally become divided from his team while fighting some foot ninjas. He had noticed something strange about a few of the foot ninja- they were moving more erratic, more sloppy, less robotic than usual. The idea that the foot may be making steps in the intelligence of their robots was alarming, so Leo wanted to isolate a ninja and see if it was truly something on the inside. What he found at first was truly scary- the robot seemed like oil to his blade's river-like fluidity, proving Donatello's mid-battle assumptions to be likely.
Finally, after what felt like ages of fighting, once his shoulders were burning with strain- his blade slashed the ninja. The cut was just as deep as he intended, surprisingly intentional even with his physical state, a homeage to his tireless training. His eyes, however, were not as fine-tuned as the rest of his body- and so, he didn't pinpoint the robot's own unusual exhaustion. He was not able to recognize humanity until its red warmth splattered across his plastron, his sensei's blade, the wall next to him, the wall across from him, the floor beneath him.
Leonardo prided himself on being prepared for anything. And so, his plastron clean, he walked back to his brothers. They had tied up three men in foot-ninja garb and were able to find out that the shredder was running low on resources, and was calling in backup from the Foot in Japan. Donatello praised him on the way back to the lair, commenting on Leo's useful bilingual nature. Raph grumbled about it a bit, but entertained a discussion about the possible attack plans they could enact with their new knowledge. Michelangelo was unusually quiet.
The smell lingered.
Was it worth it?
He wasn't sure. He doubted it.
They had asked about their (friend)coworker. Leo's brothers didn't know half as much japanese as he did, so he glossed over the question, and he saw the worried looks shared between the three at the non-answer. They were not the Foot's best, clearly. Their lack of ability to defend themselves against Leo... did that make their lives any less valuable? Did that man deserve to die, just for being weak against sharpened steel?
Perhaps he'd been wrong not to consider that, one day, they wouldn't be at the bottom-rung. He'd failed to consider ethics, and he'd failed to examine the situation with the care that it deserved- that all of his rivals deserved, at the end of the day. Analysis was at the heart of battle tactics. He'd fought like a barbarian, and that man had not deserved to die.
Did Mikey know?
His little brother was dumb in some places, but all-too-smart in others. He'd learned when to be quiet, when to reduce his judgements to simple and subtle staring. Too perceptive for his own good.
Maybe he'd tell master Splinter. Maybe father would banish him from the lair? Perhaps Leo would deserve it. He didn't want it, obviously, but did his quality of life matter more than that man's existence? He was protecting people, that man was only worsening the world. He was one more gear in the monstrous machine that was the foot, an adversary to be sliced down like any other enemy, right? a threat? Did Leo need to put down his blade and let more lives be taken whenever faced with a human adversary weaker than him, just to leave his blade clean?
It was an insurmountable trolley problem, but one that he'd already solved, whether or not his brain was involved in the process. His instinct made the decision for him as easily as breathing.
Leo's stomach hurt, bad. It was an hour and a half past his usual breakfast-time, now. It hurt worse than hunger usually did, a gnarly ache deep in his lower-plastron, as though his intestines pumped acid. This did not tempt him to get up- punishments existed for a reason. This was just the punishment from his body. The selfish heart in his ribs hoped this pain would replace a punishment from his father, whatever that may look like.