Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Leo was cold. 

He was cold and tired and something inside him was broken. Maybe a lot of things were broken in him. 

But he had done it. He had saved the world, New York, his family. 

And maybe that’s all that mattered. It didn’t really matter that Leo floated aimlessly, somewhere between falling and rising. (If there was gravity, Leo wasn’t sure how it worked.) 

It didn’t matter that everything inside him hurt, it didn’t matter that his eyes stung with tears and grief, heavy and thick. The grief hurting him more than any broken bones would. It didn’t matter that he could feel his ninpo, steady but waning, trying to pull him somewhere. Anywhere but here. It didn’t matter that Leo could feel a steadily growing hole where he swore his soul was. A hole that was cold and too deep for Leo to ignore but so steady and slow that found it hard to notice but at the same time he did. He did, he did, he did—

Leo floated, broken and tired. 

He closed his eyes and waited for death. He was ready for it, in one way or another. Leo was ready for death. He wasn’t happy with it, no he wouldn’t ever be happy with it but he could accept it. Leo could accept death. Then…then he would at least be with his ancestors and Leo could be content with that. Because then he wouldn’t be alone. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, he didn’t want—

…being alone was probably the worst. Leo hated being alone and now Leo was going to die alone. Alone, alone, alone, alone—

(He—) 

No family, no friends, just zero-gravity and his murderer. 

(He didn’t want—) 

So…

He didn’t really expect to feel the sun against his back, warm, pulsing and molten gold. Tasting sweet. Reminding him of marigolds and dew in the rising vanilla cherry dawn. Happy, loving, entirely familiar. 

(He, he was—) 

Leo turned, eyes heavy and blood leaking from the cuts and blistered flesh. He ached, his bones creaked and felt too old for his broken, bleeding body. Too old, too young, too much anything really—

He reached for the sun, his hand moving in slow desperation and flickering, precious hope. The sun felt like home, it felt like family. Like everything Leo wanted at the moment. 

(He didn’t want to be alone, don’t leave him alone, don’t leave him—) 

Something else reached for Leo. Solid, sparking red grasped for him and Leo choked on emotion. He knew that color, he knew that mystic—

It was Raph, it was—

Savage metal shrieked, a burning scarlet eye scorched into his shell. Death clawed at his back and made a grab for Leo. 

Death wanted Leo to come back. It wanted—

( No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO—) 

Leo didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to go back to being alone and hurt. Leo wanted to be okay, he wanted his family. He didn’t want to be alone, Leo didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t want to be alone—

Leo shook. 

His brothers pulled. The Kranng brushed against him. Death touched him and wanted him back. Death wanted him back, Leo didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want to go back, he didn’t want, he didn’t, he didn’t he didn’thedidn’thedidn’thedidn’theDIDN’TDON’TMAKE HIM—

Leo freaked. 

Hot and white, panicked and too strong for his body. 

(NO PLEASE, DON’T MAKE HIM GO BACK, PLEASE—) 

His ninpo surged, Mikey’s portal wobbled, pulling at Leo, pulling at his Ninpo . Something was trembling under his skin, roared and shrieked and panicked right alongside him. Something inside him was burning. 

Red. Orange. Purple. Blue. 

Leo screamed, everything went white and suddenly.

Hɘ wɒƨ ʇɒllinϱ.

—||—

(Leo was falling. Leo's head tumbled this way and that. Mixing all around and jumping up and down and doing the shimmy tango with knives and half-empty gatorade bottles. He felt wrong, every part of him getting mishmashed and thrown in a blender only to come out the same but different. Different, different, different. 

Leo felt different and he didn’t even know why.

Leo couldn’t even remember why. ) 

—||—

Leo came to very slowly. (Leo? Was his name Leo? It sounded familiar but…not at the same time. Like maybe he should know it but he didn’t. He felt woozy and he wasn’t sure if Leo was his name.) 

His body hurt, he was cold and wet(rain?) and his head was too full. 

Leo didn’t know where he was. 

Leo twitched before opening his eyes. 

Leo felt…small. He didn’t know what it was but he felt different then before. (Before? What was before? It was hard to remember. His head was so full and he felt so small. It scared him.) 

It was raining. Cold water fell onto his face and slid into his eyes. He blinked to make it go away but more fell in anyway.

Leo moved to sit up and made a hurt, strangled sound, falling back down immediately. That only made it hurt worse .

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. 

“Blue?” 

Leo (Blue?) opened his eyes again, squinting against the rain. He…he knew who that was. Maybe. 

(His insides were hot, burning and buzzing with things Leo couldn’t really remember. Like all his blood was rushing and his brain was playing catch up. He felt like had to do something, get somewhere, escape something—) 

Somebody had scouched over to him, green with rectangle purple marks on his arms, legs and face. His eyes looked familiar. 

He knew who this was, he knew—

“...Pu’rple?” His throat hurt, it felt all bad and squished. 

Purple looked scared, he was shaking and Blue wanted his twin to stop looking so scared, it made Blue scared and Blue didn’t wanna be scared. (He didn’t think he was Leo. Even though he kinda remembered that name from somewhere and it felt a little like his name, it didn’t feel like his name as much as Blue did. So…so, so Blue was Blue now. It made the most sense and anything that made less sense was too big and scary for the turtle at the moment so..

…so he was Blue now. And that was that.) 

“..wha’ happ’ened..?” Blue mumbled, his brain was fuzzy and there were too many thoughts. Too many big scary thoughts that he didn’t understand. Too big for him. No. Blue was too small and he didn’t understand why they were so big and why there was so many. So, so so, so— so Blue just wouldn’t. 

Purple swallowed and looked around. (Was he looking for Red? Blue remembered Red, he was big and strong and super cool. Where was Red?) 

“...you’re hurt…” Purple scooched closer and looked like he wanted to touch Blue but he didn’t. 

Yeah. Blue was hurt. So hurt. His blood was all hot and his insides hurt and his outsides hurt. So much hurting. He didn’t want to be hurt anymore. Blue wanted to stop being hurt, he wanted—

Blue could smell blood. He didn’t like it. He wanted it to go away. 

Purple made a high, scared-y noise and looked around again. 

Blue’s face scrunched up, feeling sad and scared and very hurt. 

He wanted Red. He wanted his big brother. (There was someone else too. A littler one, with wide eyes and paint like blotches. Blue loved him too. He loved Orange. Where was Orange, where was his little brother?)

The rain was cold. Blue was hurt and he didn’t know where Red and Orange were. His head was so full of too many things and he didn’t know what had happened to make him so hurt. 

He…he didn’t want to be scared anymore. 

…he..

…please.

Chapter Text

Things had been…calm lately. 

Not completely quiet but not as loud and adventurous as it had been their past. Donnie and his brothers had recently finished wrapping up some loose ends with a new gang that had mossyed in from Burlington Vermont. It wasn’t hard to guess what they wanted. Any leftover technology that was still circulating from when The Foot was creating alien enhanced weapons, a place in the mostly unstable gang hierarchy, remnants of adventures that left sharp and deadly tokens behind. 

There were a lot of things New York had to offer. 

But the fresh meat (Raph’s words, not his) dealt with drugs and child trafficking and none of the brothers liked that. It was quick work, nothing too hard, just tedious and long. 

Now that it was mostly over Donnie had time to go back to his inventions. He made some adjustments on the Turtle Copter and decided he would redo the armor plating, to something stronger but lighter. He soon lost himself to his work. 

Hours passed and he was just about to pull himself away from his work when an alarm from his wrist watch, the one connected to his computer and all the sensors he had meticulously placed around the city, went off. A slow, near silent beeping. 

A strange energy fluctuation. Perhaps even portal energy. 

Donnie put his tools away and went to go find Leo. 

—||—

“Portal energy?” 

Donnie nodded, looking over the larger analysis on his computer. It wasn’t like anything he had seen before. 

“Yes and it's different then anything I’ve tracked, though it does look similar to the fluctuations of the War Staff…” He muttered the last part to himself, looking over readings again. 

“Do you think it's anything dangerous?” Leo asked, his tone serious. The brothers didn’t have the best track record with portals, of any kind really. One example was the War Staff, while not exactly a portal it did transport them somewhere else. The War Staff was incredibly dangerous, especially if in the wrong hands. If this thing had similar energy…

“I’m not entirely sure Leo but it would be good to check the site. Even if who or whatever came out has moved it, I can still get a better reading on the leftover energy and better determine where it came from,” 

Leo hummed, thinking what Donnie said over. 

“Let’s get up there as soon as possible,” 

Nothing good really came from portals. 

—||—

Donnie grabbed equipment and Leo grabbed Mikey and Raph. They all headed up to the surface. 

It was somewhere around 2am and it was pouring rain. Silvery sheets wetting them instantly and dragging the tails of their down with cold water. They stepped out and onto the street, sliding the manhole cover back over easily and smoothly. 

It was dark, only dim, yellow lights lit the street and the occasional beam of car front lights cut through the silvery haze. The drone of rain, the hard pitters, drowned a lot of sounds out and muffled just about everything else. 

Not exactly perfect tracking weather but that hardly mattered to them. A little rain never hurt anyone. 

They moved quickly, Donnie’s tracker showing where the energy’s origin was. 

It didn’t take too long to find it. 

—||—

The alley way looked like any other alleyway. Dirty, full of trash and holding an almost sinister, ‘come get mugged’ vibe to it. 

His tracker let out a satisfied beep and that’s when Donnie knew they were in the right place. He tucked the tracker into his belt. They began to search the alley, carefully turning over trash bags and glancing inside the dumpsters. 

Donnie was looking through a swath of bulging black, trash bags when he heard it. 

A chirp. A watery, quiet, scared and hurt chirp. Donnie froze and looked at his brothers. They had all frozen too, their whited out eyes wide and their bodies stiff. 

Was there an animal somewhere? (It was hard to tell with the rain but there…might’ve been the stench of blood, the rain was letting up, becoming lighter and softer but he still couldn’t quite make it out. He really was getting old.) 

“Did anyone else hear that?” Mikey whispered after a moment. 

“Yeah…” Raph whispered back. 

“It came from over here,” Donnie kept his voice low and moved to the far side of the alley. His brother fell in around him.

Carefully, slowly Donnie and Leo removed the garbage and casted off plywood to the side. 

Then.

Hissing . 

They both froze for a second, exchanging glances. Behind them Raph and Mikey pulled out their weapons in case it was anything dangerous. (Somehow Donnie doubted it. The noise was too defensive and low for it to be anything but a fear response. And it had a specific tenor that only really came from small animals, the lungs too small to make anything more impressive. 

It could be a cat. 

But somehow Donnie doubted that too. Cat’s don't usually sound like that.) 

The hissing was similar to the chirp, watery, scared, hurt. It wobbled but held long. 

Donnie pulled out his bo to move the last piece of garbage. (You could never be too careful.) 

A flash of green and purple and a head snapped around the end of his bo. The wood cracked and splintered under the force and Donnie yanked his bo back out of surprise. A body flew out with its head. 

Donnie stared, his eyes going wide. The first thing he saw was how small it was, it would probably barely reach his knees and the second thing he saw were the holes. So many, all perfectly the same size and shape, peppered like bullet wounds all over the small thing’s body. All crusted with half dried blood and impossibly deep. 

The head unlatched itself from his bo and scrambled back, the hissing following it. 

Finally Donnie saw it. Saw both of them. 

Mutants, so small and so hurt. 

One of them, the one that had bitten his bo, was a darker green. A tanner looking plastron(?) and hands and feet aching similar to Donnie and his brothers. It had geometric patterns lining its(his?) body. All purple and rectangular. 

The other one, was obviously so much more hurt then his(they can’t be an it , they just can’t be) companion. His body was twisted, his leg swollen and probably broken. There were gash— cuts just about everywhere. Long thin ones, short wide ones, ones that looked mangled and too big for his small body. There was a mess of dark purple bruising on the small mutant’s shoulder and neck, distinct and purposeful. (He was a lighter, almost lime green, but he looked pale. He had obviously lost a lot of blood. There were two bright red marks slashed over his eyes. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, quivering and pained.) 

(The lime green one looked asleep or more accurately half dazed and passed out with pain. But it was hard to tell from his vantage point, he really hoped he was just asleep. He didn’t like to think if it was something else.) 

“Dude…” Mikey rasped out. “They’re kids,” 

Yes. The two mutants were absolutely children. Donnie could see it in the way their heads were a little too big for their bodies, their legs were long for the rest of them but still stubby and babyish. He could see it in the roundness of their faces, the large, wide eyes of the darker green one and the still developing lisp of the lime green one’s shell. 

(The observation about the shell was something Donnie pushed down, he would have to look into it later but that was not the point at the moment, the point was the kids were hurt and they needed help— badly .) 

Donnie was only stunned for a second. After that second he smoothed out his face, making sure it was as friendly and open as possible. He crouched down on the ground, getting as close to their level as possible. (They were kids. What happened to these kids?) 

“Hello,” Donnie spoke softly, keeping his voice light. “My name’s Donatello, my brothers call me Don, what are your names?” 

(Somewhere behind him Leo was discussing something with Raph, Mikey on standby, he didn’t pay them any attention.) 

The darker green of the two reluctantly stopped hissing, the sound being pulled back into his trembling throat. The little one’s expression twisted in something confused and hair trigger thin. His eyes would flick up at Donnie for a moment before looking away again. The silence lasted a minute and that was fine, he needed the kids to feel safe. (Although he was really worried about the injuries, it would just be worse if the kids fought him. He needed them to be calm.) 

The kid’s expression jittered with nerves but some of it had eased, if only barely. He swallowed heavily and his eyes flicked around almost madly. 

“...Purple,” The darker green one—Purple—said, keeping his arms wrapped fully around the lighter green one protectively. 

Donnie blinked. “Purple? Your name’s Purple?” 

The kid bit his lip and nodded slowly, a guarded look in his eyes and body posture. 

Donnie smiled warmly. “That’s a very nice name Purple,” 

(Was it a name he came up with himself or was it a name given to him?) 

Something bewildered flickered across Purple’s face and he shrugged limply. Still guarded. He kept glancing around, looking for something or someone. Donnie honestly couldn’t tell. 

“And…the name of your friend?” Donnie probed gently. 

Purple looked down and away. He pulled the other closer, curling protectively around him. The other made a sudden pained chirp at slight movement and Purple’s eyes flinched, the panic in them bright and tinted with dark worry. 

His breath hitched.

(The kid’s guard evaporated almost instantly, sucked up into the worry for the other. Donnie ached for them.) 

“...Blue..” He sounded close to tears. 

Purple and Blue. How…interesting. 

“It’s very good to meet you two,” 

Purple still looked like he was struggling with something. When he moved Donnie got to see the perfectly shaped holes on the underside of his arms. He really didn’t like how perfectly round they were. 

“I’d like to help you, if that’s alright?” Donnie asked calmly, keeping every panicked and angry feeling out of his voice. He didn’t like how hurt the kids were. “I can help make it stop hurting if you like,” 

Purple inhaled sharply and glanced up at Donnie, something desperate in his face. He opened his mouth but nothing came out but a wet chirp. He pressed face to Blue’s and nodded slowly. 

Donnie’s heart broke. 

“Mikey,” Donnie called out, keeping his voice soft for kids. Mikey turned, Leo and Raph had moved further out of the alley to continue their rapidly evolving discussion. Hopefully it wouldn’t turn into an argument. (It probably wouldn’t, Raph and Leo hadn’t had a serious fight in years. Turns out passing twenty-five really mellowed a turtle out.) 

“Can you take care of Purple?” 

Mikey smiled and nodded. He put on a bright reassuring smile and crouched down next to Donnie. 

“Hey little dude, my name’s Mikey,” Mikey said, his tone warm and light. He glanced over the Purple’s condition and hid any wince before the kid could see it. He remained sunny and calm, projecting nothing but certainty. “Those look like they hurt a lot, can I take a look?” 

Purple swallowed and glanced around, still looking for something. (Donnie had to wonder who or what he was looking for.)

(It could be a searching behavior. Searching for the enemy and fleeing before they could hurt you again. Donnie sincerely hoped it wasn’t that.) 

“Hey it's okay if you’re nervous, being hurt can be scary. You’re so brave for holding on so long,” Mikey said, a smile in his voice. 

Purple blinked, his velvet brown eyes going wide. “...brave..?” 

“Yeah! Super brave!” Mikey said brightly. 

Purple’s head sinked down, a blush going across his face, turning the scales a muddy, maroon color. He held onto Blue tighter, curling more around him, hiding his face just a little. 

The action was cute but Donnie really needed to get a look at Blue's injuries and it would be hard with Purple curling around him like that. 

Mikey caught his eye and nodded imperceptibly. 

“Hey, do you think you could let go of Blue? Just for a few minutes,” 

Purple’s eyes went wide and he shook his head, holding onto Blue even tighter. Blue let out a strangled gasp and Purple flinched hard, easing up on his grip as soon as his nerves would respond to him. His eyes flicked up to Mikey, scared and pleading. 

“Me and my brother just want to help make you two feel better,” Donnie explained calmly. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure nothing happens to you. Everything going to be okay,” 

Purple froze, his breathing shaky and inconsistent. Slowly, very, very slowly, he nodded. He untangled himself from Blue, almost going back to hugging him a few times before he actually let go. Like he wasn’t really sure if he should be letting go at all. (Seriously, who hurt these kids?)

 The kid was sitting right next to Blue but Purple looked like he wanted to do nothing else but hold onto the other. It would be endearing if it was so heartbreaking. 

“Good job, you’re doing so well,” Donnie praised gently. 

Purple blushed muddy maroon again, head sinking into his shell again and turning away. (Well, Donnie would guess what was on his back was a shell. It was flat and roughly textured. Moss like. It was hard to tell exactly because it seems the clusters of holes were much thicker and denser on his back.) 

Mikey scouched a little closer and brought out a roll of bandages and the whips they all used to clean injury sites. 

“Alright little dude, can I see your arm?” 

Donnie smiled at his brother and turned his attention to Blue. 

Donnie could tell he was in a half asleep state, twitching and whimpering occasionally. The injuries looked so much worse up close. Deep purple and black bruising, leaking cuts and what looked like multiple breaks in certain places. Donnie checked his neck, nothing seemed too damaged. He was breathing mostly fine, so Donnie didn’t think there were any broken ribs. 

Donnie continued examining the injuries, cataloging them and what would be needed to treat them. He was turning Blue’s arm over, checking out a long trail cut when he saw it . On Blue’s wrist was a blue triangle, so stark and perfect that it couldn’t be natural. Like a tattoo or…

Donnie frowned and looked over the other arm. 

Instead of a triangle there was the roman numeral for 2. This one didn’t look like a tattoo, it looked like a brand. 

Donnie’s frown deepened, a flicker of anger flaring up inside his chest. Who was branding kids? Mutant kids no less. Where did they come from? Why were they named after colors? Why did so many of their wounds look so clean and purposeful? (Donnie didn’t like the picture that was unfolding in his mind.) 

He shook his head lightly and went about tending to the poor kid’s injuries. Or at least the one he could with materials he had on hand. He would need to get them back to the lair and he would prefer not set the arm or leg in a dirty alley way, full of bacteria and literal garbage. He also wanted to get them on a round of painkillers and fluids. A lot of the wounds needed stitches too. Donnie checked over Blue’s shell, there was a hairline fracture but it didn’t look too bad. It should heal fine as long as any stress or pressure stays off of it. Maybe some epoxy resin around a particularly chipped section…

How did these kids get so injured in the first place? 

Donnie finished up with what he could and noticed that Mikey had finished a good bit before him and was entertaining Purple with a heavily modified version of one of their adventures. Making wide gestures and using silly, goofy voices for their enemies. 

Donnie smiled, it looked like Purple was enjoying it, if the sparkle in his eyes was any indication. 

Carefully, Donnie picked up Blue, mindful of his injuries. 

Almost immediately Purple’s head snapped towards Donnie, his eyes wide and filled with panic. 

Mikey rushed to intercept before it got too bad. 

“Hey, hey it's okay buddy. We’re just going somewhere a lot better than a dirty, stinky alley way, there’ll be blankets and hot cocoa and TV!” Mikey proclaimed, a wide smile on his face. 

Purple frowned, eyes still filled with panic. His breath shuddered in and out of him and he kept glancing around. Again, like he was looking for someone. 

“We’re all going, together. I can carry you there, it’ll be super cool,” Mikey was still crouched, smiling wide and reassuring. 

Considering that the hole clusters were also on his legs, he wouldn’t be walking anywhere. Donnie was surprised he wasn’t in more obvious pain. (Mikey had done a good job wrapping the wounds, most of the holes would need a stitch or two but the current bandages would keep pressure on them and keep out bacteria. It was all he could do at the moment.) 

With a trembling nod, Purple let out a breath he was holding. 

Mikey took that as his que to pick him, mindful of the injuries covering most of the little guy’s body. 

Both of them were so small, they could fit into the crook one one arm easily. (Though, him and brothers had grown quite a bit since their teenage years, so really it could’ve been them. Still. They were so small.) 

When the kids were settled, Donnie and Mikey made their way over to Leo and Raph, it seemed whatever talk they were having was winding down. 

Leo turned, a flicker of worry darting across his face before it smoothed out in a calm sea of fondness and thought. 

“Do you think we’ll need to contact Leatherhead?” Leo asked Donnie. 

Donnie nodded. “Yes it would be best to have a second pair of hands for the next part. And…” Donnie paused, thinking something over. “Maybe having somebody else to watch them would be good too.” He would contact April and Casey but Donnie didn’t know how the kids would react to humans. It was best to play it by ear at this stage. 

Leo nodded back. “Let’s get them back to the lair,” 

Purple was staring at them all with wide eyes, always flicking over to Blue before back to the larger turtles around him. Donnie could see Purple trembling slightly in Mikey’s arms. He was curling up, making himself small. 

Donnie frowned as they made their way back to the lair. 

Where did the kids come from? Who or what hurt them? Why were the ones on Purple so… specific? Why did Blue have the roman numeral for 2 branded on his wrist? Did Purple also have a numeral brand and a colored shape on his wrists? He’d have to ask Mikey. 

They made their way back to the lair and Donnie had too many questions and not enough answers. 

Chapter Text

Purple didn’t know what was happening.

He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know how he got here and he barely even knew who he was. 

All he knew was that Red and Orange were gone and Blue smelt like blood and pain. 

(Purple knew he was hurt too, like someone had stabbed him with a pencil over and over until he resembled green swiss cheese. He felt it but he could ignore the pain long enough to help Blue. That was more important. It would always be more important. ) 

His head was full, stuffed full of too many things. It was hard to talk. His mouth felt so small and the words he wanted to say were too big. His throat was all scratchy and the idea of talking was almost painful. Just a constant track of nuhuh and nopes. Because, because, because—it…

Making little noises was easiest. 

(In the alleyway, Blue had started to fall asleep, his adrenaline wearing off. Purple had promised him he would protect him while he fell asleep, his brother still hurt and bleeding. Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding . Purple wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. If he did it right. At the time. All he could think was: Am I doing it right? ) 

They had been found by a bunch of other turtles. Big ones that looked super strong and scary. But they smelled friendly enough. 

The one with the orange mask, Mikey (the name sounded familiar but Purple wasn’t sure why. It was one of those big thoughts that were too big for Purple, who felt too small) had cleaned the bleeding holes with wipes that smelled like chemicals and an antibacterial. He had then wrapped them up tightly with bandages. Telling him he was ‘doing such a good job’ and ‘being so brave’ the whole time. Purple wasn’t sure what to think about it. (It made his insides feel all…warm and squishy-squirmy.) 

The one with the purple mask, Donatello or Don, (who also had a familiar name for an entirely different reason) had fixed up Blue. Purple was happy Blue was getting fixed up but also super wary about these big turtles. Because, because—

Because what if they wanted to hurt Blue? What if they were…were like the…the things that had hurt him? What if they were going to put Blue back in the dark, floaty place? What if they couldn’t get him back? What if—

…

Purple had lots of questions but his mouth was too small for the too big questions and big words.

So he watched and that would have to be good enough for now.  

—||—

“So Purple,” 

It was Mikey. 

Purple blinked slowly and looked up at him, watching him closely. (They were now walking through the sewers, to the big turtle’s lair. That also seemed familiar for some reason but, again, Purple wasn’t sure why.) 

“How old are you?” Mikey asked, still smiling. He smiled a lot, Purple noticed. 

Purple opened his mouth and then closed it after a second. Because…that was…a good question. Purple wasn’t sure. He knew he was small but he also knew the big thoughts were very big. Bigger then how small he was now. And that had to mean something. 

Purple frowned and thought to himself. Really though. How old could he be? He knew he was the same age as Blue. That was super obvious for some reason, but he also knew that he was older then Orange but younger than Red. So…how old was Red and Orange? Purple knew how to do mathematics. He could see all the little numbers floating around in his head and how they fit together and how they didn’t. He knew the math but he didn’t know the rest of the equation. 

How old was Blue? Because if he knew how old Blue was then he would know how old he was. It made sense. 

But Blue was sleeping and…well…he didn’t want to wake Blue up. Blue was hurt and sleeping promoted healing and all the other things and….

Purple tried to count the too big numbers floating around in his too big memories. 

Purple would just use logic. He was good at logic. (It was his job. His purpose, his place. It was all those things and more. ) 

He wasn’t…bigger than ten. Because…because then he would be taller. He knew that. So smaller than ten. Nine? No. He felt smaller than nine. Eight…? 

Purple’s brows furrowed and presented his hands to himself. Counting the digits. Three on one hand and three on the other. Three plus three equals six so…so he must be six. 

(His thoughts were big, too big for six but Purple felt just the right amount of small for six. So he would just be six for now until he found out how old he actually was.) 

If he was six that meant that Blue was six too. Because they were the same age. Yes. That made sense. 

“Six,” Purple said with as much confidence as he could muster. Because he was too small for anything bigger than ten, so he had to be six. Nothing else made sense. 

Mikey had a weird look on his face but it soon disappeared and he smiled again. 

“Six huh? That’s a big number,” 

…no it wasn’t. 

“How old is your friend?” 

Purple frowned. No. Blue was his brother. They kept saying Blue was his friend, while that was true they were brothers . That felt just as big and important as being friends. 

He needed them to know that they were brothers. 

Purple shook his head. “No,” 

Mikey blinked. “No?” 

Purple squinted his eyes and chirped. Because family. 

Mikey’s eyes widened for a second. “You guys are…family? You two are brothers?” 

Purple nodded, satisfied. Good. It was good Mikey understood family chirps. 

And…

“Six,” Purple pointed at the lime green arm that was peeking out from Don’s hold. 

“Your…brother’s six too?” Mikey had that weird look on his face again. It was funny. Purple didn’t know what it meant. (It was also a little annoying. He kinda wanted him to stop. Because. Ew.) 

Purple nodded. 

Mikey hummed weirdly and then smiled again after a second. “Then you guys are kinda like twins huh?” 

Purple huffed and crossed his arms, making a face. He felt…weird about that. Not…bad but…not good either. He didn’t mind it but…

 (Something about that felt right and at the same time one of his big thoughts didn’t like it so much. But the rest of the big thoughts loved it. So Purple didn’t know what to think. So..so, so so he would just…be okay with it? Yeah. Yeah that didn’t sound so bad.) 

Purple curled up tighter and hesitantly nodded. Because…if—if he was six and Blue was six then…then sure. They could be twins. He was…yeah. Twins. They could be twins. 

Mikey mumbled something above him and Purple paid him no mind. He was getting tired. He could close his eyes for a second right? 

That should be okay…right? It, it it should be. 

Purple closed his eyes and fell asleep far too quickly for his taste. 

And woke up much too late. 

Chapter Text

Purple fell asleep somewhere along the way back to the lair. 

Donnie couldn’t help but feel grateful for that. The kid definitely needed to rest. 

Donnie with the help of Mikey (who was the second medic when needs be) got the kids sufficiently patched up and put on a line of fluids, pain killers, antibiotics and a mild sedative. The extra sleep could only help in this situation. (And it would give Donnie and his brothers time to discuss what steps they were taking next.) 

He would need to restock on sutures soon. The amount of thread it took to close every individual hole peppering Purple’s body was astonishing. There were over thirty of them. Donnie had, unfortunately, counted them all. 

And Blue…

Well Donnie wasn’t sure how he was alive. With the combination of blood loss, pain and inflammation of some of the wounds—Blue should’ve been in shock hours ago. (Whatever had hurt him had meant to. Deliberately and cruelly.) 

Donnie highly doubted Purple had the ability to treat his or Blue’s wounds. 

The amount of bruising on Blue definitely should’ve leant towards more broken bones but the worst state any of his bones were in was a simple and easy fix break. The shell was honestly the most concerning when compared to the rest of the bone breakage. 

Some things just weren’t adding up. The kids had a lot of scars. Ones that looked like they should've been built up over a lifetime of dangerous living but apparently they were both six. 

The brands both of them had. Blue had the roman numeral for two on his left wrist and Purple had the roman numeral for three. That implied there was a number one. Maybe there was even a number four. (How many…mutant kids were out there that Donnie didn’t know about?)

Blue had a perfectly equilateral blue triangle on his right wrist and Purple had a rectangle that started a third way down his forearm and stretched up and into his palm. It, of course—was purple. Just like his name. 

It…Donnie didn’t like it. It was too…specific. There was something he was missing. Something…

Hm.

Regardless, Donnie finished up with his meticulous notes on the kids’ conditions. He shut his computer down and checked both solution bags, they should run dry in an hour and a half or so. The sedative would wear off in two, maybe three and a half hours and Leatherhead would arrive at the lair in around an hour. 

Time. Donnie had time. 

He went to go find his brothers. 

—||—

“Hey Don,” 

Raph was leaning against the counter, a very familiar brand of beverage in his hand. (He looked stressed but then again—weren’t they all?) 

“Wanna beer?” Raph asked casually, 

Donnie wrinkled his nose at the offer. While yes, he did enjoy a cold one once and while, now wasn’t really the time. Ever since they passed 21 Raph could be seen sipping on one pretty much all the time. It wasn’t like one would get him drunk—no their metabolisms worked too quickly for that—it was more that Raph said he enjoyed the slight buzz and feeling of it in his hands. (It wasn’t like the buzz lasted long, it would usually be gone thirty minutes to an hour after the drink—at least in Donnie’s experience.) 

Now was not an exception, apparently. 

“No thanks,” Donnie turned down softly, the image of the two kids popping up in his head almost instantly. “Besides, should we really be drinking alcohol with kids around?” 

(Should they move the beers in the fridge? A thought for later.) 

Raph’s eyes widened for a second. “Oh sh*t, I didn’t…” Raph stared at the can sitting comfortably in his hand. A second passed before he set it down on the counter, making a ‘ tck’ against the countertop. He glanced at it before looking back at Donnie, something tense and stressed about the lines in his face. 

“I…didn’t think about that,” 

Donnie huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, even if they are sleeping…” 

Raph had that look on his face. The slightly guilty, frustrated one. He made it a lot when talking about the dead pigeons he found and the kids he saw at work. 

There was a moment of silence, Raph drummed his fingers against the counter, his can sitting untouched. Donnie wasn’t even sure if he looked back at it again. 

“Leo’s tellin’ Master Splinter about them,” Raph noted gruffly, still looking away. 

Donnie nodded. Good, it wasn’t like they were planning on keeping Blue and Purple a secret anyway. 

There was more silence. 

Donnie glanced around the room. 

“You think they got any family?” Raph asked, his tone subdued. Donnie recognized it. It was hard not to. 

Donnie frowned. “I…I don’t know Raph,” A moment of silence, heavy and almost sad. It stretched and it lasted a little too long. Donnie counted the seconds, he wished he hadn’t. “I hope they do,” 

Raph was staring at the ground, expression complicated and thoughtful.

“Yeah, me too,” Another stretch, Raph’s drumming fingers kept at it before stopping abruptly. Raph’s brows furrowed and he was staring off at something Donnie couldn’t see. “At least they got each other though, right?” Raph said, his tone hard to place. 

Donnie nodded again, slowly and methodically. “...right,” 

He sincerely hoped they had family. He really, really hoped they had family. 

Because almost everything else about them leads him to believing they don’t.

—||—

Donnie would need to get a new bo. Purple had chomped almost completely through the wood. It was splintered and cracked and essentially unusualable in the state it was in. There would be no fixing it either. The force of Purple’s jaw had nearly split the wood in two.

(He hoped the kid didn’t have any splinters in his gums, Donnie didn’t even think to check for slivers. And even if he did, he wouldn’t think to check in his mouth. ) 

Donnie gently put the bo down. He’d had it for a long time, at least this one in particular. It was a great weapon, just the right height, flexibility, strength but apparently not durability because it couldn’t stand the force of a six year old’s jaws. It was…actually quite impressive. Donnie wondered what Purple’s bite force was. 

It could’ve been due to the kid’s species. He would need to start looking into that. Was it ethical to test that? 

…well…it wasn’t like that had stopped him before. 

Hm. A thought for later.

—||—

Donnie went back to check on the twins—Mikey had informed him of their ‘twin status’ a little after Purple had managed to fall asleep. 

The two were still sleeping, which was expected with the sedative working its way through their systems. He checked over their bandages and nothing had bled through. 

Donnie thought for a full five minutes before he did it. He was…he didn’t feel…bad. (Well maybe he did. Just a little. But it…the curiosity was an absolute force. It made his eyes stare long and his hands itch to do just about anything. Anything at all. So he…) 

He took a small sample of blood from each of them, just in case. It…would be good to see where they came from. It would be good to see what made them them and to see how they came to be. It would…

(Donnie wanted to know. It was a vicious feeling. Usually it was only helpful but now it just made his insides squirm. Again, he felt a little bad about it but his questions were just piling up and he needed an outlet. He needed to know. It was childish but it was all he could really do at the moment.) 

At least that’s what he told himself. (Truthfully Donnie had a suspicion, a terrible black tipped suspicion, about the two and he…really hoped he wasn’t right about it.) 

He ran the blood. 

Leatherhead would be arriving soon, he had to talk to his brothers before then. 

(::) 

Purple woke up slowly. Very fuzzy and very comfortable. 

He blinked slowly, staring up into the ceiling, wondering where he was. Purple stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t recognize it. He didn’t…wait…

Purple blinked again. Confused. Where…where was he? 

Purple sat up slowly and stopped when he felt a twinge in his arm. He blinked again again and looked at where the twinge had come from. 

He frowned. There was…something in his arm. He looked at it harder, it was under his skin and connected to a tube that was also connected to a bag of fluids. Purple thought about it for too long before his mind came up with the correct name for it. 

An IV. 

A special straw-like thing that’s used to give your body (or his body in this case) the essential things it needs. Things like water, medicines, or vitamins. A direct line to your body to speed up the healing process. Your body can get what it needs quickly, even if you're not eating or drinking. An intravenous catheter, his too big thoughts supplied helpfully, which only caused Purple to frown harder. 

Was he sick? He didn’t feel sick. He also wasn’t in any pain. Purple looked down at the bandages and wondered if he was hurt. He didn’t feel hurt but the bandages had to be there for something. Could he be hurt but not feel it? That…made some sense but—

O-oh—he—he remembered . 

Purple remembered . 

He—

Tall, gleaming metal. Burnt pink, yellow eyes, too many teeth. A chuckle, a laugh, a sneer that felt like a white hot brand. Heavy footsteps, a single burning red eye. 

The ship. Masses of writhing flesh, sharp, ridged ends. Blood leaked down his legs and pooling under his eyes. A connection. Too much for him to stand for more then a second but he had to stand for more then three. 

Then.

Blue(L e o ) was gone. 

Trapped. Hurt. Alone. Gone. 

Purple( Do n n i e ) wanted him back. He wanted his twin back, he wanted—

Purple stumbled and fell out of the bed. The blanket tangled in his legs and IV ripped free. He barely noticed. 

He rushed to the other cot and peaked over the side. 

And there he was. Blue was there. Sleeping. Purple paused and looked him over carefully. Just to make sure. He also had an IV in his arm. He was also also covered in bandages. He had a big, fluffy blanket over him, so it was hard to see anything else. 

Purple’s expression scrunched. Okay…so..Blue was okay. Not. Gone. He was here. (Good. That was good. Purple didn’t know what he’d do if Blue was gone.) 

And they were in the lair of the bigger turtles. 

Purple looked over Blue one more time. He wanted to stay and protect his brother but he also had to explore. Because, because, what—what if there was something bad? He had to know about it, so he could protect Blue from it. He had to. If Blue couldn’t do it, he had to do it. That’s just how it worked. 

And he also wanted to find a snack. Purple was hungry. 

So, almost reluctantly, Purple left Blue’s side. He put all his weight on his legs and winced. Ow. Ow, ow, ow. His legs hurt. They didn't hurt before? Why were they hurting now? 

(Maybe there was a sedative. His too big thoughts pressed against his brain and it made him dizzy. Midazolam, Chloral Hydrate, Ketamine, Dexmedetomi—

Purple couldn’t remember which one could be used on him. Because some bigger part of him was sure it was one of them. Purple didn’t understand it. Even if a part of him did.) 

…nevermind. He had to go find all the hidden things.

Purple wandered out of the room. Assuring himself he would only be gone for a little bit.

—||—

It was big. That’s the first thing Purple noticed. 

The second thing was that it had a lot of stuff. So many stuffs. 

He poked around the couches, the chairs, a collection of comics that someone had left out. He poked around the TV a little longer than everything else. He pulled back off and used his claws to take all the screws out. Purple spent a little bit of time messing around in the wires and memory chips. Just trying to remember how it all worked, because he did remember but it was still foggy. When he was satisfied, he put everything back the way it was and lumbered off to poke around something else.

Purple eventually found himself in the kitchen. Because he knew what a kitchen was. 

It looked like any other kitchen he had seen. (Purple didn’t remember seeing any other kitchens besides this one but the concept of kitchen was ingrained in his mind. His too big thoughts understanding it perfectly. It was pretty confusing but Purple just went with it. Because that was the only thing that made sense at the moment.) 

There was something up on the island counter. Curiosity peaked, Purple scrambled up the bar stool, his legs shaking with a dull and annoying ache, and shimmied over the counter marble to the thing. 

Purple grabbed it. 

It was a can. An open can. 

Purple sniffed the top of it. Purple pulled back, his nose scrunching up. And ew . (It smelled like…bread but not. Sour-ish and yeasty. Gross.) 

Purple stared at the can for a long time, reading everything that was on it. 

On the front it said: 

Rusty Rail Brews

(ABV): 4.2%

12 fl oz (355 ml)

And on the side, back area it said: 

‘Iron Can Lager is a no-nonsense, 

easy-drinking beer brewed for those who want 

refreshment without the frills. Smooth, light, 

and always ready for the next round.’

Ingredients:

Water, Barley Malt, Corn Syrup (for brewing), Hops, Yeast.

Brewed and canned by Rusty Rail Brews, Flat Rock, MO.

Government Warning (USA):

‘According to the Surgeon General, 

women should not drink alcoholic beverages 

during pregnancy because of the risk of 

birth defects. Consumption of alcoholic 

beverages impairs your ability to drive a car 

or operate machinery and may cause health 

problems.’

987654321098

Please recycle this can after use. Every can counts!

(There was also a nutrition label but Purple didn’t really understand it. Nor did he really care for it.) 

Purple frowned. Okay, so it was a drink. 

A weird, bread smelling drink. With alcohol in it. (Purple wasn’t sure if he remembered what ‘alcohol’ was. He…did this ‘alcohol’ have another name? Would Purple understand what it was if he knew the other name?) 

Purple looked over the can again, more curious about what it tasted like and why it ‘impairs your ability to drive’ and causes ‘birth defects’ in pregnant women. (He wasn’t sure what a pregnant woman was either but…it sounded familiar.) 

Well Purple was pretty sure he didn’t drive and wasn’t a ‘pregnant woman’ so…

He took a sip. 

He almost spit it out immediately. 

Ew. 

Gross. Purple did not want any more. 

Who would drink this? 

He held the can at a distance, glaring at it disdainfully and decided right then and there that nobody else would have to drink something so gross . Ew, ew, ew. 

Purple put the can on the edge on the counter, made sure it wouldn’t fall and then shimmed down the same bar stool he shimmed up on. 

He slipped the gross canned drink off the counter and found the sink. (His legs hurt and so did his arms and his shell. His shell hurt the most. Ow. He wanted it to stop hurting, why was it still hurting—) 

He made sure it was all dumped down the sink before he put the can back on the counter. 

Hm. What now? 

Purple looked around the kitchen and lit up when he saw it. There was a refrigerator! That usually meant food! Purple wanted something squishy to eat. If it went ‘crunch’ it would be even better . 

Purple finangled the refrigerator door open and—

—felt his face drop in horror. Because there was more canned drink. 

Purple dutifully spent the next couple minutes dumping every single one he could find down the sink. A pile of empty beer cans accumulating on the counter. (He wasn’t sure where the garbage can was and even if he did find it he wouldn’t throw them away because it was a good thing he was getting rid of the drinks. He wanted the big turtles to see how good he was.) 

After that he looked back in the refrigerator. 

He took every food out and sniffed each one until he found the one he thought would be tastiest. 

Purple found himself sitting on the floor with a plastic box full of pre-cooked shrimp.

He popped one his mouth and rocked back and forth. 

Yummy. 

This was much better than the weird bread smelling drink. 

(He should probably get something for Blue, when he wakes up. Blue liked strawberries, Purple thought he saw some of those in the refrigerator. 

He would get them later, he just wanted to enjoy the shrimp he had now.) 

Purple ate another one. 

Delicious. 

(::) 

His good friends the turtles had called him to their lair. They sounded worried, voices pitched and sounding unsure about themselves. 

And Leatherhead was not one to say no to his friends in need. 

It had been many years since they truly needed help from one another but he still found himself tinkering with Donatello from time to time. It was a meditative sort of activity that Leatherhead found himself enjoying every time. 

So he couldn’t help his surprise when Michelangelo had informed him that they had found two very young mutant turtles. (Apparently they weren’t exactly sure with one of them but it was the only guess at the moment.) 

He had requested assistance with their state of injury and to have one more set of eyes on them. 

(Leatherhead could not help but wonder if there was another reason as well.) 

So Leatherhead agreed, giving his estimated arrival and went about preparing. 

It didn’t take exceptionally long to find everything he needed.

—||—

When he arrived in the turtle’s lair it was unusually quiet. While yes his friends had grown quieter over the years, they tended to still be loud and rambunctious in their own home. 

But there was no yelling or indigent cries as things were broken. 

Strange. But not alarming.

Leatherhead quietly searched the rooms one by one until he came to the kitchen. 

He wasn’t expecting to see anyone—let alone one the children Michelangelo had spoken of. (Because surely it couldn't be anyone else. It was the only thing that made sense.) 

The child was happily eating directly out of a box of pre-cooked shrimp. By the looks of it he had eaten a very large portion of it too. There was also a large pile of what looked like empty beer cans on the counter portion next to the sink. Which was somehow even stranger then the mutant child. 

(The child was wrapped tightly in off-white, his arms, legs and chest. There were even a few twineing around his neck. The off-white creating great contrast between the dark green, purple of the child. It was…a little off putting.) 

As soon as Leatherhead stepped in the kitchen the child’s head snapped up to greet him, his red-brown eyes going wide. (Strange, Donatello’s eyes were the same color.) 

The child had completely frozen, he didn’t even appear to breathe. 

Leatherhead smiled kindly, knowing his appearance could be quite disturbing, especially to someone so small. 

“Hello there, little one,” Leatherhead said softly, he glanced at the plastic container sitting in the young one’s lap. “I see you have found something tasty to eat, would you mind telling me about it?” 

The young turtle inhaled sharply and narrowed his eyes, bringing his legs up to his chest and clutching his prize possessively. 

Leatherhead lowered himself to the ground and set his case to his side. He continued to smile amiably. 

He waited. 

The young turtle held his glare remarkably long, Leatherhead was surprised to see he didn’t even blink once during the entire period. 

Eventually, after a couple of minutes, the little one blinked and huffed. His brows furrowed and stared down at his stolen meal. 

“...shrimp,” He said seriously and firmly. 

Leatherhead nodded along. 

The child’s eyes darted around, nose scrunching up before smoothing out again. He held his shrimp a little closer. 

He looked up again, deeply suspicious.

“... mine,” 

Leatherhead almost wanted to laugh. He nodded again. 

“Of course,” 

The child squinted his eyes at him, tense and wary. 

He stared for another long stretch. Leatherhead continued to smile softly and made himself as posturally open as possible. 

Minutes ticked by. 

The lights buzzed with electricity. The refrigerator hummed quietly. It smelled of disinfect, dirt and freshly unpackaged gauze. It smelled of the turtles. It also smelled of the little one, whose scent he was slowly disentangling from the layers of thin drugs and antibiotic cream. 

(He wondered what happened to require that much medical intervention in the first place. It made him ache to think about it.) 

The child stared for a minute longer. 

Then: blinked. 

The young turtle huffed and looked away, making a series of annoyed and confused clicks under his breath. 

Leatherhead felt his smile widen just a bit. It was admittedly very adorable. 

Leatherhead continued to sit quietly. 

The child picked up a shrimp, eyes flicking up and down in the same second, and then he pushed the pale pink thing into his mouth. Chewing angrily. 

He picked another one up, glanced up again before shoving the boiled decapod in his mouth. Chewing just angrily. 

This continued for several minutes. 

Leatherhead did not move. 

The child, after a long moment of deliberation, shuffled a pace closer to Leatherhead. He looked away just as he stopped moving, eyes still narrowed suspiciously, glaring at one particular point on the floor. 

The young one ate another shrimp.

A minute passed. He moved a pace closer, he glared at another offending spot on the floor and ate another shrimp just as angrily. If not more so. 

The little one moved closer. Eyes flicking up, assessing, before flicking down again. 

He ate another shrimp. He moved closer. 

This process repeated until the small turtle was directly at Leatherhead’s side. The alligator felt himself warm, happy that the child was comfortable being this close. 

Still, Leatherhead did not move. 

The child ate another shrimp. He stared, his gaze surely burning holes in the turtles’ kitchen floor. 

Another minute passed. 

The child, hesitantly, leaned against him, pulling his knees up and balancing the near empty plastic container on them. The child’s eyes were gaining distance, a sad sort of distance that didn’t fit a face so young. It made him ache at the sight of it. 

The little one twitched into tense shoulders and the plastic container nearly slid off. It didn’t but it was a precarious thing. 

Leatherhead still did not move. (He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did.) 

The child ate the last shrimp in the container, no longer chewing angrily just…slowly and deliberately. He swallowed just as slowly and he continued to stare into the ground. 

Leatherhead did not move. 

The child moved his knees even closer to himself, the empty container sliding off in the process. The little one did nothing to stop it. He slowly untensed, his muscles becoming loose and despondent. 

He curled into Leatherhead’s side, his eyes glassy, watery and entirely too sad for someone so small. 

Then, after a long, heavy minute: 

Sniff. 

Leatherhead blinked and felt his worry grow into something more complex, aching and somber. 

The child curled further into himself, allowing his weight to fully sink into Leatherhead’s side. 

The little turtle sniffed again, lip wobbling, eyes scrunching up miserably. 

“...little one?” Leatherhead asked, his voice so soft he barely heard it himself. 

The turtle tucked his head in his knees, making himself painfully small. 

Something delicate inside Leatherhead broke at the sight. 

“...I m’iss…R’ed…a’nd Or’ange…” He mumbled wetly to himself.

Leatherhead, just as slowly as the child had moved to his side, set a hand on his back. Careful of the pressure. 

“It’ll be okay,” Leatherhead said softly, he wasn’t sure who Red and Orange were but they were obviously important to the little turtle. Maybe even family. “Wherever they are, I’m sure we’ll find them,” And he meant it. 

And with that the little curled up even further…

And cried.

Chapter Text

Leatherhead sat the little one down onto the counter and filled a glass with water. 

He handed the glass off and he had to encourage the child to drink slower. He did not choke but Leatherhead still worried. 

After another refill of water the child looked up at him with big eyes. Every time Leatherhead went to meet his eyes, the young turtle’s eyes darted away. He would then look back as soon as he thought Leatherhead wasn’t looking. It was quite amusing. 

Eventually Leatherhead just smiled softly and said: 

“If you have questions, you may ask,” 

The little one waited a long time before nodding slowly. He waited even longer to ask. 

“Are you a crocodile or an alligator?” The child fiddled with the glass. (It was a plastic cup, none of the turtles regularly used china for obvious reasons.) 

Leatherhead pretended to think about it for a few minutes. 

“What do you think I am?” He asked in good fun. 

The child huffed and frowned, brows scrunching up in a very thoughtful expression. 

“Alligator,” He said with all the seriousness in the world. 

Leatherhead blinked, a little surprised he got it correct. 

“What gave it away?” Leatherhead asked. 

“ Scoff,” The little turtle actually looked offended. “Your snout is wider,” The ‘then a crocodile’s’ was heavily implied. 

Leatherhead got a little more surprised. 

“Do you know a lot about crocodiles and alligators?” 

The little one’s face scrunched up again and he thought about something for a long time again. 

“No,” He said, as if it was obvious. There might’ve even been a little bit of sass in the statement. 

Leatherhead huffed out a laugh. “I see,” He said warmly. 

The child grumbled and let out a series of irritated clicks and churrs. 

Leatherhead huffed and found himself a glass of water as well. 

(::) 

“Leatherhead I’m so glad you’re—oh,” 

Donnie blinked, actually a little startled. There, sitting on Leatherhead’s arm was Purple. The very same Purple that was covered in stark white bandages and should very much be still asleep. 

What? How…? 

Purple looked at him passively, his face almost entirely blank. Leatherhead looked to be in good spirits. 

“Donatello, it is good to see you old friend,” 

Donnie glanced from the little mutant to the larger one that held him. “Good…to see you too,” 

Was he missing something? The sedative should have knocked the kid out for hours. He had triple-checked the dosage—as he did with everything. He had measured the amount against the typical human child and accounted for the probability that children had faster metabolisms than the average human. 

Had the child's body metabolized it faster than what he predicted? That shouldn't be feasible. Even if Purple had some kind of exceptional tolerance, the sedative was specifically designed to account for variables like body weight and metabolic rate. 

And Purple wasn’t very large for a six year old, in fact he was probably on the small side when it came to the human measurement bell curve for that age range. 

Did he have some rare genetic anomaly that made him resistant? Or was it his mutation? An ever evolving part of it? (Was it something specially spliced into his genome to create a more robust product?) 

(The thought that the two were made in a lab, grown, created, poked and prodded with needles and instruments that should never be near a child . It…it made him sick. It made him angry. 

It made him sad. 

It made Donnie want to help more than before.) 

Donnie took a deep breath, reigning in his anxieties and questions. He could freak out later. 

“I…you’re awake,” Donnie noted, turning his attention to Purple. 

Purple’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

Donnie almost wanted to laugh. He was happy Purple didn’t seem all that afraid anymore. 

(The memory of Purple, curled protectively around his brother. Letting out little cries and chirps, body peppered with perfectly drilled holes, it…it made something twist inside him. 

He didn’t like it.) 

“Yes, I found him eating someone’s shrimp on your kitchen floor Donatello,” Leatherhead said like a proud parent about their kid that had gotten the winning hit in Little League. 

Donnie had to think about it for a second and when he did he snorted, the image of Purple eating Mikey’s shrimp filled his mind. 

“Mikey’s not going to be happy about that,” 

Leatherhead hummed. “I expect not,” 

Donnie allowed himself a small laugh, glancing to the side for a moment. 

If Purple woke up so soon then Blue could be waking up soon as well. It was a disheartening thought but Donnie was already thinking of ways to compensate. 

Leatherhead said something else, in a warm, soft voice and Donnie smiled, replying in kind. Purple was staring at him the whole time, face almost entirely blank. It could’ve been funny if Donnie was in a better mood. But he wasn’t so instead he worried and he worried a lot. 

Minutes passed.

He had to go check on Blue. To see if he had woken up or not. Leatherhead took to distracting Purple with Mikey’s collection of games. (Donnie was so grateful for his friend. He wasn’t sure what they would do without him honestly.) 

Donnie went, not seeing two, sharp little eyes following him as he went. 

—||—

Donnie lifted the solution bag an inch before putting it back down. It was on the last dregs of the slurry and Blue was still asleep. (If Donnie wasn’t an atheist he’d be thanking God for that.) 

But why though? Both kids had received the same amount of drugs, yet here was Blue, still out cold, while Purple was in the other room, perfectly lucid and awake enough to have eaten all of Mikey’s shrimp he was saving. It didn’t really…

There was always the possibility that the kid’s injuries and overall exhaustion from whatever ordeal he had gone through made it more difficult for his body to exit REM. It made sense—different levels of stress and damage could easily result in varying recovery times. (But Purple was also injured. Though in a different way he was still injured.) 

Though maybe Blue was built differently than his brother. (If you were going to enhance one, why not enhance the other? That part didn’t exactly make sense to him.) 

Donnie sighed deeply to no one in particular and let his mind run rampant. 

Maybe Blue possessed a unique metabolic rate, one that processed the drugs more slowly, extending the sedative's effects. There could be variations in their genetic expressions—enzymes and proteins that interacted differently with the chemical compounds introduced to their systems. Blue’s cells might have a higher resilience to foreign substances, slowing their absorption and prolonging his unconscious state.

Maybe Blue's neurological architecture was different. Enhanced synaptic plasticity or altered neurotransmitter levels might render his brain more susceptible to longer and more complete sedation. His endocrine system could also be a part of it—with hormonal fluctuations affecting his body's response to the drugs.

Maybe even Blue's immune system reacted differently. Maybe it identified the sedatives as foreign invaders and worked more aggressively to neutralize them. This internal defense mechanism could be slowing down the overall process.

It was… there could be so many things. So, so many things. And if Donnie was right about them…

(It couldn’t be good.) 

Donnie stole another sigh to himself and cracked his fingers and then his wrists. Wincing slightly— he really was getting old. 

Donnie stood and checked the solution bag again. For no other reason beside that he could. There was still a little left. 

His eyes moved slowly to Blue’s face. Watching him for a minute. Analyzing. 

The red slashes over his eyes were bright and saturated, very and highly unique. The yellow arrow-shaped patterns on his legs were interesting and also highly specific. The blue shell was also highly unusual for turtles, most weren’t this…brightly colored. Pigmented. It could easily be a mutation but it could also be something else. 

Maybe he was a genetic combination of a couple different turtle species. The red marks could easily be lifted from a red-eared slider. The yellow arrowhead patterns could hint at a mix with an eastern box turtle, which often had similar designs and patterns of a similar color. Though extremely simplified in this case, Donnie could still see the resemblance. 

The lime green scales could be found in a couple different species. Maybe a green sea turtle? Though the shade did look really similar to Leo’s scale color…which was..interesting. Leo’s was a little darker but Donnie knew that a lot of animal species grew into the colors they have as adults. Pale colors darkening and losing other ones all together. (Leo was a lighter shade of green when he was younger.) 

Blue-tinted shells were rare in the animal kingdom. Maybe the shell was a blended mix of different turtles? Maybe there was some splicing from a reptile, Donnie knew reptiles sometimes had brighter colors then turtles did. That would also explain the claws and sharper teeth both Purple and Blue had. More pointed and deadly then the blunter ones Donnie and his brothers had. 

(Western pond turtles sometimes had bluish hues in their color palette. Maybe there was some of that as well.) 

It was all very…concerningly well thought out. Donnie didn’t want to think about it that way but it was hard not to. Everything was adding up in a disgustingly clear way. It made sense. Too much sense. 

Maybe…maybe Blue and Purple were… made. Not in the way Donnie and his brothers were but on purpose. But spliced, grown and abused in a sterile white environment, surrounded by cameras and people in lab coats with clipboards. He didn’t…

Donnie didn’t like it. How could he? There was nothing to like about this situation. 

Donnie wanted to bury his head in his hands. He wanted to. He really wanted to but he didn’t. He pointedly did not. 

He—

…wait. 

Donnie blinked slowly, recognizing the feeling of being watched. Donnie turned his head to the source. 

Mostly hidden by Blue’s cot—was Purple. His wide red-brown eyes peeking up and over the side. (Was it just him or were his and Purple’s eyes almost the exact same color?) 

Oh…hm. How did… 

(Where was Leatherhead?) 

Purple was different then Blue. In a lot of ways. He had a soft shell—which he had confirmed when Purple was still sleeping. Under the holes Donnie saw a lot of…complex patterns. Specific discoloration and shades of moss green that made it look like there were hearts and stars and swirls and waves on his shell. Again. Patterns. 

He could be primarily a softshell turtle. Because of the shell. Softshell turtles are known for their speed and agility in water. They’re also known for their streamlined bodies and quick, agile movements. Which Donnie could see definite remanence of it in Purple’s more lithe build, which was obvious in spite of his age—which should’ve made it hard to pinpoint those kinds of things.

Purple’s claws and teeth were somehow sharper than his brother’s. His claws were almost black, though Donnie hadn’t paid as much attention to them as he wanted to. Soft shells had claws but not like that. Maybe he was spliced with a reptile too, that certainly explain a few things. 

For all he knew there could be some snapping turtle in there as well. That would explain the abnormally strong bite. (Most turtles had a strong jaw strength but most couldn’t snap wood in half with it.) 

The markings…he had no idea where those could’ve come from. Maybe they were aesthetic. He…

(He ignored that they looked a lot like his Qi patterns. It just… it couldn’t be that. Could it?) 

Donnie wanted to sigh but he didn’t. 

Instead he smiled at Purple, shoving all of his running, paranoid thoughts down. 

Purple met his gaze steely and unwavering. 

“Hey,” Donnie said, his voice a lot calmer than he felt. “Where’s Leatherhead?” 

Purple blinked slowly and then chirped. 

Which approximated to ‘ therenotheregonewentsomewhereelse’. 

Donnie slowed, parsing through the meaning in his mind. (He understood the noises but it had been a long time since he’d needed to decipher them. He's sure he would get used it as time went on.) 

“He…left?” Donnie’s brows furrowed, just a little confused. He…left? But…

“Bathroom,” Purple mumbled so quietly that Donnie barely heard it. 

“Oh,” Donnie almost wanted to laugh. “I see,” 

Purple stared at him. Donnie stared back. (It was unsettling how the ominous black pieces kept clicking together. Creating an image that made Donnie’s stomach roll and his emotions twist. Maybe they were…maybe…) 

Donnie pursed his lips into a thin line and thought about it for a few more second before he actually asked. 

“Purple…where did you come from?” 

Purple paused. He didn’t blink, he didn’t move and Donnie wasn’t even sure he was breathing. (It didn’t look like it anyway.) 

Eventually Purple’s brows furrowed, wrinkling the purple markings around his eyes. 

“...not…here?” Purple said, his voice was so quiet, Donnie had to strain to hear it at all. 

Well… yeah, Donnie knew that but…

He waited for Purple to get his thoughts together. 

Purple was picking at the hem of the blanket, brows furrowed and beak twisted into a delicate frown. “And… and away? Not…” He frowned deeper and when he opened his mouth again it was to a string of confused and pitched chirps and clicks. 

Which approximated to something like: ‘Notheregonetherenotheredarkbadbadbadbadhurtscaredotherbalegonegonegonebadnotinthebadplacehurtcan’trememberconfusedbadbrothersgonewherebale’snotherecan’trememberwheretheywentwherewherewhereWHEREWHEREWHERE—’. 

Donnie blinked hard and swallowed thickly. That… oh. (It was...difficult to grasp everything but it was coming easier. It was merely a matter of remembering which lighter sounds and emphasized hard sounds went where and how the pitch and order played a role. It wasn't that complicated, but then again it was instinctual to him. So maybe that didn't count as much as he thought it did.) 

“You…” Donnie faltered. What was he supposed to do with that? He didn’t…

Purple was all scrunched up, eyes squinted and watery. He was pressing his face next to his brother’s and gripping the blanket on top of Blue. Worried and scared to hell and back. 

Donnie could relate. He could relate too much. 

…

The pieces kept clicking together. Those black, vile painting pieces. He…it made him mad. It made him sick. It made him want to hit someone. (He didn’t like violence in that way but for the kids he knew he’d make an exception.) 

Donnie stared and Purple stared back. Their eyes the same color and Donnie wondering how he could’ve missed something so severe. How they all could’ve missed something so severe. He…

…he could hear Leatherhead in the other room. Voice low and tinted with worry. He should probably do something about that before it got out of hand. Shouldn’t he? 

—||—

It was late when the blood sample of the two came back. Donnie hesitated before reading it and even when he did, it didn’t make him feel any better.

It... he was right . The worst possible scenario, and he was right. They were…

Clones. Not exact ones but... still.

A 72% and 67% genetic match, respectively. To him and to Leo. Purple to him and Blue to Leo. The symmetry was... disgusting. Somebody had made them—

He scrolled further down the page, his eyes catching a section of text in the middle of the blood analysis. His stomach churned uncomfortably as the words took shape, each one of the words only solidifying what he already was dreading. What he was already thinking.

‘Analysis confirms significant homology between the subjects’ genetic material and known DNA profiles of the potential donor individuals ("Donatello" and "Leonardo"). Of particular note are the alignments in the mitochondrial DNA sequences, suggesting an enhanced genetic similarity. Markers corresponding to specific traits found in Donatello and Leonardo’s genomics, including ocular melanin density (blue for Leonardo, red-brown for Donatello) and cranial structure (notably in the frontal lobe configuration), match the clones at a 72% and 67% rate. Anomalies in limb morphology and adaptive resistance mutations further indicate accelerated genetic modification protocols.’

Donnie swallowed thickly and tried to blink, he tried to look away. It was all..it was…that... they were…

Oh. No wonder he had…

72% and 67%.

He had to tell his brothers. He had to tell Sensei, he—

This was... incredible . Terrible but incredible . Somebody had taken their blood and attempted to make Donatello and Leonardo-inspired clones . Specimen. People. Children. And they had succeeded as far as Donnie knew. He…

(They didn’t look like them exactly. Different turtle species, possibly spliced with other turtles and reptiles but close enough in resemblance to share certain traits. How did he not see it before? Blue had the same eyes as Leo. Purple had the same eyes as him. Blue had a similar scale hue to Leo. Purple had…mannerisms, that Donnie distinctly remembered having when he was younger. Too specific and intricate to be anything else.

 It was all very... sudden .)

He—

—wait. If Purple and Blue were his and Leo’s clones then…

Where were Mikey’s and Raph’s clones?

The realization hit him like an anchor thrown from a slippery deck. Cold and completely tidal. Merciless and drowning. If someone had gone through the trouble of creating clones based on him and Leo, then it stood to reason that there were more. Two more , to be exact. It made sense. It made too much sense. 

(The four of them were a unit. A squad. A complete set. Who was Mikey without Donnie and who was Raph without Leo? It was…) 

His thoughts raced so fast he could feel his eyes buzzing. Piecing together fragments of possibilities and implications. It was—it could be that—  

Mikey and Raph—where were their clones? Could they already be out there, somewhere, under the same sinister design? Under the same thumb Purple and Blue were before? Going through whatever torment Purple and Blue went through. If he was any sicker, any less angry and years less experienced—he would probably start crying or maybe even throw up a little. 

They had missed something, hadn't they?

He knew it. He knew not to trust the silence. Quiet was never exactly good to them. He was just a little ashamed that it had taken him this long to notice. Because he….

Donnie's mind whirled with the gravity, the weight, of the situation. Now the only question that really, truly mattered was…

What... what were they going to do now?

Two timɘ. Ƨtɒγ ꟻɿiɘnbƨ. ꟼɿodlɘm tʜɒt γoυ ɔɒn't bɘʇɘnb.

Chapter Text

There were two turtles in the crater. 

At approximately 0427 hours, there was a large energy disturbance around 3.7 miles away from Facility 12B lab. Personnel was dispatched and Agent John Bishop followed out of a deep curiosity and a deeper paranoia. 

Nothing good came from energy surges. 

They arrived in a truly impressive stint of time and approached the hole blown out of the rock. 

And there was a mostly green form in the center of it. On closer inspection the form was holding what looked like an engorged and unnaturally large box turtle shell. The mostly green form itself presenting its own spiked shell and a tail that looked too large for the body it was attached to. 

How…strange. Equipment was jammed into place and Bishop took it upon himself to explore the figure (and subsequently the shell it held) himself. 

Richards and Wells, two other agents who did their jobs to the exact letter and tilted font, followed behind him. Silent as they should be. 

As he slid down the crater, not 3 feet deep, he got a better view of the figure. Which appeared to be around the size of an Irish wolfhound or a smaller Great Dane. It was difficult to tell at a glance. 

A turtle. As much as it made his lip curl with the thought, it was a turtle. Questions sprung forth instantly and he let them wash over him. Where had it come from? Was the shell it was holding, another turtle? How did they arrive here? What did they have to do with the energy disturbance?

He approached carefully, watching the shaking figuring with growing interest and bewilderment. He noted the abundance of dull ridges on it’s scales, the lighter green those scales were, the hardy shell on its back and the cuts and scrapes that the mutant turtle was sparing no amount on, along with the barely scabbed over cut and cracked shell lisp that looked like it came from extreme blunt force impalement. (Shrapnel or a falling pipe perhaps?) It all cut for an interesting picture.

The eye wound was certainly unique. 

The mutant turtle was huffing and puffing, fear heavy in each breath that came in and out of its small lungs. Anxiety as well perhaps. 

As he stepped closer he also noted the appearance of two pairs of bull red diamond patterns close to the bottom left of the mutant turtle’s eyes. 

And it was crying. Big gulps of shuddering sobs, that were pressed flat and whiny. Bishop found his curiosity and mild disgust growing. 

He looked down and his shadow cast long over the trembling turtle. 

Bishop watched no small amount of amusement as the mutant turtle tensed, noticing the shadow that fell across it. 

Richards and Wells fell in line two steps behind him and Bishop hardly noted their presence. 

He watched keenly as the turtle blinked slowly, eyes huge and grossly wet from tears, and shakily looked up at him. Clutching the shell closer to its chest. There was the unmistakable smell of burning flesh coming from the two turtles. From which one exactly? Well Bishop would put his lot with the box turtle the other was holding. 

It’s lip wobbled and Bishop, with practiced precision, kept his expression from curling anymore. 

The sounds of wet crying made him want to dislocate the jaw making them. 

“Hello,” He introduced himself neutrally and kept his shoulders stiff, hands clasped behind his back. “My name is Agent Bishop and—” 

The turtle wailed. “He w-won’t, won’t WAKE UP!” 

Bishop blinked, offence twitching through his overshot nerves. He opened his mouth but the thing kept going. (Richards and Wells shifted subtly behind him but didn’t do anything else.) 

Heaving wet and ugly and so utterly childish. 

“H-he won’t—and–and I do– don’t know what to do!” It choked on the dry air of Nevada and whined, ready and thin. 

Bishop’s nose wrinkled as he listened to it sob and cry about something. His eyes drifted down to the unmoving shell in the blubbering creature’s arms. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his mind already pulling up ideas, plans, connections—slotting them all carefully into places and piecing together how best to use this. 

“Who.” Bishop cut through the animalistic chittering and chirping that the…child(?) had dissolved into.

The turtle’s breaths continued to come in huge, desperate gulps and Bishop watched with slitted eyes. 

There were a few seconds of heavy breathing and its eyes darting around, hands tightening around the shell before it answered. 

“M’y…’m broth’r,” The turtle trembled and if it had quills they would be rattling against each other. It shifted slightly, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to show Bishop the shell or not. “He, he’s bleedin’ and, and it was burnin’ ‘im a-and,” The turtle sniffed loudly, eyes still cloudy and wet. “..an’ and, um,” 

Blood was caked and half-dried around it’s left eye, deep gouges as if another animal had gotten too close. Though even that comparison fell short. The skin was puckered an ugly pink color. Infection maybe. 

“What was burning him?” Bishop asked coolly. As much as he hated to admit it, he was curious about the two. 

The injuries, the disturbance of energy, the smell of burning flesh accompanied but dull light that Bishop had begun to notice coming from the dark of the box turtle’s shell. He was curious. Those questions wouldn’t be answered if he didn’t dig deeper. (The thought that they were in some way related to the Turtles was starting to eat away at him and he couldn’t find it in himself to dismiss the thought. Not entirely at least.) 

The turtle swallowed and breathed through its mouth that showed off an impressive array of teeth. Its eyes stared into the shell, its brow furrowed. “H-he wasn’t ‘supposed to…b-but Blue was go-gone a…and, and, and, and…” The turtle trailed off and finished whatever was left of the sentence with a miserable sounding chirp. 

Bishop withheld a grimace. Some part of him was frustrated at the lack of an answer but the other part of him knew that somehow, someway he would get the answers he wanted. 

Bishop looked over the two coldly and came to a decision. One he knew he had already come to as soon as he saw what they were. 

“I can help your…brother, it wouldn’t be difficult,”

The turtle gasped unnecessarily and its eyes snapped up to him, eyes so unnecessarily hopefully. 

“Y’you, can?” 

Bishop hummed tunelessly and nodded carefully. “Of course, all you have to do is come with me and be as quiet as you can be,” 

The turtle swallowed, eyes wide and nodded so quickly it would’ve given Bishop an unneeded headache. 

But at least the turtle’s mouth didn’t open.

—||—

It wasn’t that difficult to extract the other turtle from its shell. 

And Red, the name the snapping turtle mutant had given Bishop with downcast eyes and a cowed tail, had been right to some extent. 

There were burns. Not any he had seen before, completely composed of perfect squares of bright yellow-orange light, stacked, covering the hands and reaching to nearly the elbow. Resembling gloves in a way. The burns radiated intensely and were excruciatingly hot to the touch. They were unnatural. The energy the injuries were giving off were tracked as the same energy readings they picked up around the crater.

With every new crumb of information, Bishop found himself craving the answers even more. And there was a part of him that was resigned to…perhaps playing house until he got the answers he wanted from the two of them. 

As the wounds were treated it was confirmed to be a box turtle. Just as he suspected based on the lisp of the shell and how it came together when the turtle tried to hide itself. It was also much, much smaller than the other turtle. It couldn’t have been three feet tall standing. While the snapper brushed the bottom of Bishop’s ribs. (If he were to measure their height that way.)

The box turtle had woken up briefly while they were applying disinfectant and took more than a few moments to surrender to the sedative they administered, the bubbling and wretched cries of pain and fear going with it. They had to use a double dose for a creature of its size. Another interesting thing Bishop carefully tucked away.

An hour or so passed and they treated the snapper as well, putting it briefly under—which took nearly three times the sedative thought needed—to make the analysis of the eye wound easier. Which was a whole new level of interesting.

Bishop had to wonder where they came from. He had to. There was a threat here. To his country he served and to his own curiosities. To them and more. 

They must be related to the Turtles somehow. 

And he was going to find out how. 

—||—

After being treated and instructed to not pick at the wrappings, the two…children were let loose into a reinforced observation room and given what was deemed “Child and Turtle Friendly Food” which just turned out to be vitamin packed gelatin, with a select amount carbohydrates, amino acids, fats and proteins with a pathetic amount of grape flavoring in it. 

Bishop watched from the deck, knowing he would go in after sufficient time watching them interact alone with their jello. You could learn a lot from something like that. 

—||—

At initial time of 00:07 RED and ORANGE did not touch the jello, only took to staring at it suspiciously. 

At 00:14 the two approached it carefully. 

At 00:17 RED is observed to be smelling the jello. ORANGE is watching from behind the back of RED. 

At 00:23 the two are observed to be talking quietly to one another.

At 00:24 ORANGE is observed eating the jello with the plastic spoons provided.

At 00:27 RED is observed eating the jello with the plastic spoon provided. 

…(Further observations detailed in Logbook 4-8-7B….) 

—||—

“So…” Bishop sat from across the two mutants, each had their own chairs and were glancing around. Bishop could feel the nerves the snapping turtle was giving off. He would be lying if he didn’t find it slightly amusing. The smaller one seemed to be oblivious to the bigger one’s anxiety. Again. Amusing. 

“Before we give you anymore jello—” 

“Jello!” The box turtle crowed happily, wiggling in its seat. 

Bishop resisted the urge to pinch his nose. “Yes, jello,” 

“Mhm!” The orange speckled one nodded vigorously. It paused for a second before it snapped its head around to address its companion. “You like jello?” It asked with a tone of reverence that Bishop just didn’t understand or care for. 

“Mmmmhhmm,” The snapper nodded slowly, gently scratching at the bandages on its forearm. Bishop’s eye twitched under the glasses. “Red likes jello,” 

“ I like jello,” Bishop immediately corrected before he could stop himself. 

“Huh?” The bigger turtle stared at him like he’d just told him something fundamentally confusing to existence itself. 

Bishop couldn’t resist pinch his nose this time, the bridge of his glasses ticking up with the force of it. “It’s not Red likes jello, it’s I like jello. Using the third person to refer to yourself is not only grammatically incorrect but grossly informal,” 

The snapper stared at him, barely a thought behind his eyes. A full ten seconds passed before it said: “Okay,” Taking what Bishop said at face value but not understanding it in the slightest. 

The snapper paused again before it said, “...Red likes jello,” Very quietly to itself. 

“ME TOO!!” The box turtle cried out with a smile so wide it hurt Bishop’s face to look at it. 

Bishop sighed a sigh that went all the way down to his bones. If he didn’t believe they were some form of ‘child’ before he certainly believed it now. 

He stopped himself from correcting the snapping turtle again because he had a feeling it wouldn’t go anywhere useful. 

“Yes, yes we all like jello,” Bishop replied dismissively. “But if you want more,” Two pairs of eyes snapped to him hungrily, one vibrating and one eerily still. “Then you’ll have to answer my questions first,” 

The box turtle was nodding before Bishop even finished talking. He waited for a second just to make sure they were paying attention before he started. 

He would start with a simple one. “Where did the two of you come from before you arrived in the crater?” 

Four large eyes blinked at him and then after a moment or two, their brows furrowed as well. 

“Ummmm,” The larger mutant mumbled, fingers twiddling in a repetitive circular motion. His brow furrowed further, eyes growing distant. “...bad,” 

Now that was interesting. “Bad?” Bishop probed, eyes not moving from the pair but seeing every scrap of white that covered their very strange injuries. 

“Mmmmmm,” The snapper nodded. 

“It was soooo big,” The box turtle tacked on, nodding all the way. “And, and, and lots of eyes and, and, and, and, and,” The smaller mutant continued to stutter as he worked to remember. “Blue trapped it with the uh—the, the thing and, and—” 

“It was bad,” The snapper interrupted, expression grave. 

“Yeah!” The smaller mutant swayed back and forth, face twisted with worry. “Really super bad!” 

“As you’ve said,” Bishop droned, wondering about what the box turtle meant by eyes. He also picked up on the name Blue. It was mentioned before. “And who is Blue?” Based off of the familial way the name was referenced in and the corresponding color it was, made him out to believe it was a part of this…family unit they had picked up. 

(Was there a Purple as well? Was this some strange reflection of the Turtles themselves? Were they related? If so, how? When? Who had they eloped with to have children in the first place? Were there more? Turtles often laid clutches in the hundreds. Were their hundreds of infant mutant turtles running around? 

And then there was the matter of the different species the two were. Was there an adult female alligator snapping turtle and ornate box turtle that Michelangelo, Raphael and possibly even Leonardo had sex with? Was that even possible? Bishop was under the assumption that hybrid species were sterile. How would the eggs be fertilized in the first place? 

And while cross species fraternizing wasn’t unheard of, most cases were man made or facilitated. Would the Turtle’s human minds made that sort of cross species mingling possible? Wanted even? While the exact species of the Turtles was ambiguous at best, Bishop had made a couple guesses over the years. Red-eared sliders, common box turtles but really it was impossible to tell. Every time he had the chance to run a blood analysis it came back inconclusive.

And yet these two presented so strongly that it was easy and discernable to tell their species. It was…confusing to say the least. Currently they were running blood samples to see how related they were to the Turtles but at the moment Bishop had his theories.) 

“Lil’ brother,” The snapper nodded sagely, snapping Bishop out of his own thoughts. 

“Mmmmmhm,” The smaller mutant nodded along. 

So Blue was now confirmed to be a…brother. Fascinating. 

But he had to ask. “Do you happen to have another brother…a…Purple, perhaps?” 

The box turtle nodded, it seemed it never stopped. “Yeah! Purple! He’s real smart!” 

“Is he?” 

“YEAH! Super duper smart!” The orange speckled turtle threw its arms wide and the seat rocked with the movement. “Like, like numbers and, and electricies and, and he builds sooooo COOL!!” 

So Purple was the “smart” one as well. A direct inheritance of IQ no doubt. Bishop had to wonder how much was passed on. The inference of “builds so cool” implies the existence of technologies and possible mechanical systems that this Purple had produced. A taught skill or something inherit? 

He would need to dig deeper to find out just how much was passed onto the Turtle’s offspring. (And how they came about in the first place. Whether that be through typical animalistic reproduction or with an artificial womb of sorts.) 

“Roomba,” The larger mutant nodded along with what its brother was saying. 

…right. Roomba. Whatever that meant. 

He looked at them carefully. At their bandaged cuts and ointment smeared bruises. Their miraculous and frankly disturbing appearance in what would colloquially be known as the middle of nowhere was only adding to the mystery. Strange energy and stranger injuries on juvenile turtle mutants. Still so utterly fascinating. 

“And where are they? Purple and Blue that is?” 

The two froze, eyes going wide. 

“Ummmm,” The box turtle was wiggling significantly less. “Ummm,” It said with growing uncertainty and panic. “...uuuuuuUUUUMMM—” 

“Gone? Uh, not, here? Where are—” The snapper was twitching, eyes frantic. It let out a chirp that didn’t sound all that happy. It stumbled out of the chair, almost tripping and started looking under the table and chairs. Chirps falling quicker from its beak, as its eyes started to fill with tears. 

The smaller one was already crying. “I–uh—um,” He chirruped and hiccuped in one breath and was shaking. “U-uh, umm,” It screwed its eyes shut and pressed its hands to where its ears would be, head shaking as big fat tears spilled down its cheeks. “No, no, no, no, no, no no, no, no, no, no, no—” 

Bishop watched with increasing disgust as the mutants started crying, tears and snot and piercing wails that did nothing to improve his headache. His lip curled and he could barely stop it from doing so. 

The snapper obviously didn’t find its brothers and it looked up in alarm at the increasingly distressed young turtle noises the other was producing. It scrambled back up and over the seat and pulled the smaller into its chest. It closed its eyes and started churring, tears still streaming down its face. Bishop thought it sounded a little forced but he honestly didn’t know a whole lot about mutant turtle noises. 

Bishop watched for a couple minutes as they cried themselves out, not moving an inch. He had to wonder, how could he use this? 

They had to be related to the Turtles somehow. It was the only possible explanation at the moment. With these two here and the other two elsewhere, how could he bridge the gap? 

There was a good possibility that the Purple and Blue (thoroughly uncreative names. He expected creatures named after Renaissance artists to have a better handle on what they named their offspring.) were still with the Turtles. And there could always be more, depending on how the copulation and birthing process worked, there could be more infant turtle mutants. Again, turtles laid eggs in the hundreds. Bishop had a good reason to worry. 

How could he convince these children to show him where their home was? Sure over the years Bishop had located the Turtles’ residence several times before but Donatello had become increasingly well-adverse in hiding their abode from him and anyone outside their tight knit circle. So he didn’t have the exact location on file anymore and that made it significantly harder to keep tabs on them. 

And to have the children of the Turtles…

Well it seemed he had leverage. 

“I can help you find your brothers,” He cut through the soft whining and pleading clicks. 

The two were breathing sharply and the smaller one had retreated back into its shell. A very typical behavior for a box turtle to exhibit. Especially one so young.

The snapper was looking up at him, still watery from tears, beak quivering. It sniffed loudly and made a desperate sort of warble. 

Bishop tactfully didn’t change anything. Not his body language, not his expression, not the way his hands were folded carefully over the stainless steel table. Nothing. 

He could use this. He could use this in a way he never could with the Turtles. 

“I don’t understand noises,” He said slowly, carefully. Making sure the snapper and the box turtle understood. “I will respond to English, French, Mandarin, Spanish, Arabic, Portuguese and Greek. Do you understand?” 

The snapper swallowed and its breath hitched. It nodded slowly. 

Bishop looked at the creature coolly and raised an eyebrow. 

The snapper whimpered slightly and pulled the trembling shell of its brother closer. “...um…y-yes,” 

Bishop hummed soundlessly. “Good,” He said after a moment. 

The larger mutant’s tail curled up, emulating a smaller frame in the chair. 

Bishop stood smoothly and walked around the table just to the left of the two mutants. The alligator snapping turtle looked up at him, nerves rattling around and out through its clenched hands and watery eyes. 

“I will help you find your brothers, all you have to do is help me first. Does that sound fair Red?” 

“Um…” The mutant blinked slowly, breathing still unsteady. “...mhm,” It nodded. 

“Good, and I hope you and your brother remember that. Because it will be very, very important going forward,” 

The turtle mutant nodded, curling up tighter around its brother’s shell. “..mhm…” It mumbled quietly. 

Bishop eyed them for a few more seconds before nodding and turning to leave. 

They would have their jello. 

Bishop had things to plan. 

Chapter Text

Specimen ID: MT-073-A i.e “Red”
Species Classification: Chimera chelydra sapiens (Provisional)
Common Designation: Mutant Humanoid Alligator Snapping Turtle
Age: Estimated 7.2 years
Sex: Undetermined, male suspected (Specimen exhibits underdeveloped gonadal structures; further endocrinological testing required)
Date of Examination: X2/07/20XX
Location: Facility 12B – Biogenetics Division, Sublevel 4

Specimen MT-073-A displays a unique fusion of Macrochelys temminckii (alligator snapping turtle) physiology with juvenile hominin traits. At 7.2 years of age, the subject exceeds the average size metrics for both species independently. Standing at 137 cm (approx. 4’6”), and weighing 54 kg, it demonstrates significant hypertrophy, particularly in axial musculature and the caudal appendage.

The specimen’s body features several non-random, high-contrast dermal markings —notably symmetrical red diamond shapes below each eye, as well as geometric marks on both wrists. The ones located near the eyes and the one located on the left wrist appear to be organic in origin, with no signs of scarring, tattooing, or external application. The one on the right wrist shows signs of traumatic scarring. 

—

The tail is notably disproportionate relative to overall somatic growth. Measuring approximately 92 cm in length and showing signs of myoseptal thickening, it appears to be maturing faster than the rest of the musculoskeletal structure. Its mass distribution has caused observable gait instability, especially during rapid directional changes. Histological scans show high densities of fibrocartilaginous nodules interspersed with ossified segments—suggesting either abnormal growth signaling or a delayed regulatory mechanism for limb scaling. Further observation required. 

Specimen has tripped or entangled itself with the tail on at least four occasions during locomotion tests (see Incident Log MT-073-A-4c).

—

Unlike pure M. temminckii, which lacks true teeth and utilizes a powerful beak, MT-073-A has developed partially mineralized dentition embedded along the anterior ridge of its upper and lower jaw structures. There are approximately 18 conical protuberances in early-stage calcification, resembling human milk teeth in morphology but with more keratinized sheathing—likely an adaptation for prey manipulation rather than mastication.

This dental development does not correlate precisely with human pediatric milestones. At 7.2 years, human children typically have 20 primary teeth, with mixed dentition emerging. MT-073-A appears delayed in eruption pattern but may be following a non-human timeline governed by its hybrid nature. The keratinous beak is still the dominant feeding apparatus. 

Of particular note is a pronounced snaggle tooth—a single, conical incisor-like structure erupting obliquely from the right lateral quadrant of the upper jaw. This tooth extends approximately 1.9 cm beyond the lip line and is prominently visible even when the mouth is closed. It appears non-symmetrical and may be the result of developmental misalignment or isolated hypertrophic signaling.

Dental x-rays indicate that additional teeth may be forming subdermally but are not yet erupted.

—

Coloration across the carapace and exposed skin regions is a muted, olive-green base with diffuse gray-brown marbling. Notably, the carapace has been replaced or modified into a low, semi-rigid dorsal ridge covered in interlocking scutes. These scutes are partially segmented, allowing for limited spinal flexion while preserving structural protection.

Cervical and thoracic regions are covered in irregular dermal spines averaging 1.5 cm in length, increasing in density along the upper back and shoulders. These structures are keratin-based and likely serve both thermoregulatory and defensive functions. Dorsal ridging is most pronounced along the vertebral line, echoing juvenile snapping turtle morphology.

—

In addition, the specimen possesses distinct dermal markings as follows:

• Facial Region: Two small, symmetrical bull red diamond shapes—each approximately 1.7 cm in diameter—are located just below and slightly lateral to the outer canthi of the eyes. These markings are sharply defined, equidistant, and appear to be part of the skin’s natural pigmentation. They do not fluoresce under UV, suggesting a genetic origin rather than external alteration.

• Left Wrist: A perfectly square marking, bull red in color, measuring exactly 2.5 cm x 2.5 cm. Dermatoscopic analysis confirms epidermal pigmentation not consistent with the facial diamonds. More akin to a tattoo rather than naturally occurring marks.

• Right Wrist: A stark, linear brand forming the Roman numeral “I” (1). Unlike the other markings, this symbol displays clear signs of cauterization or intentional scarification—possibly inflicted by external agents. Collagen density and skin folding patterns suggest the mark was made when the specimen was under 2 years of age.

These markings may hold symbolic, tribal, or classification significance, and are under ongoing semiotic analysis (see file MT-073A/Symbology-Hypotheses.pdf).

—

Neuroimaging and tissue biopsies confirm that MT-073-A possesses a brain nearly identical in structure and volume to a human juvenile's (approx. 1,100 cm³). Cortical folding, hemispheric organization, and Broca/Wernicke area activity are all within expected ranges for a child of comparable human age. Despite its hybrid morphology, cognitive tests suggest full understanding of human language and abstract reasoning.

The specimen is capable of articulate speech, though it exhibits grammatical inconsistency, particularly in tense and pronoun usage. Notably, MT-073-A frequently refers to itself in the third person (e.g., "Red is hungry" or "Red don't like that"), which may be symptomatic of incomplete linguistic modeling or a behavioral artifact of hybrid social cognition.

In addition to verbal communication, the specimen regularly emits a range of animalistic vocalizations , including low-frequency hissing, guttural growls, and brief chirp-like clicks. These occur both involuntarily during emotional agitation and voluntarily during mimicry or attempted intimidation. Acoustic spectrograms show that these sounds occupy frequency bands consistent with chelonian and reptilian communication, suggesting vestigial reflexes or alternative emotional expression pathways.

—

Although the specimen exhibits certain instinctual responses (startle reflex, prey-pursuit behavior, vocal threat displays), its psychological and social profile is unmistakably sapient. It demonstrates problem-solving ability, language comprehension, empathy, and preference-based decision-making. It is notably tactile and appears to derive comfort from repeated textures or sensory patterns.

Vocalized communication—though eccentric—is consistent and responsive. Specimen has initiated contact using human language and has demonstrated an ability to read simple symbols and follow multi-step instructions. Emotional responses are complex and show signs of mood variability, possibly suggesting higher-order self-awareness.

—

Specimen MT-073-A presents an unprecedented fusion of reptilian and hominin developmental traits. While physical anomalies such as the enlarged tail and misaligned dentition pose biomechanical challenges, cognitive development is highly advanced. Continued linguistic monitoring and behavioral mapping are recommended. Specimen is not currently considered a containment risk, but acoustic startle responses and instinctual vocalizations may necessitate further desensitization protocols.

Specimen remains compliant and communicative under current handling protocols.

…(continued on page 57…) 

—||—

The connection between Red, Orange and the Mutant Turtles on file, Raphael and Michelangelo was confirmed. 57% and 74%. 

Too high to be traditional offspring in the bounds of the animal kingdom but not completely impossible in the realm of science and mutagenic biology. Mutated DNA and possibly reproductive organs may play a role, making such extremes possible. Even with the species difference, mutated biology and genetics may make those differences in gene presentation and biological presentation feasible and even practical to the Turtles’ continuing lineage. 

Further testing required. 

—||—

During a routine eye check up on Red, the tissue around the eye was healing but the eye itself was showing early signs Trauma-Based Cataracts , Red had an adverse reaction to a statement Dr. Normm had said during the prep phase of the check up. 

“You don’t have to tell me. I’ll just look at it myself,”  

…(full conversation report acknowledged in Medical Logs 37…) 

Response was immediate. The mutant began to show signs of traumatic association most possibly due to the phrase. Those words were documented under potential triggers. Further research and investigation needed to see the full extent of the association. 

A licensed psychologist with practice in emotional and mental pediatrics was brought on briefly under NDA to explore the association. Below is a summarized transcript of Dr. Raine’s notes on the session. She implied that more would be necessary to further understand the situation and traumatic associations.  

—

Isabella W. Raine

Session Type: Initial Play-Based/Art-Facilitated Trauma Assessment

Date: X2/15/20XX

Session Duration: 0047

Presenting Concerns: Possible trauma-induced physiological symptoms (eye trauma/cataracts), observed dissociative and avoidance behaviors in prior medical encounters.

Age (approx): 7

Species/Class: Mutant child, alligator snapping turtle 

At the start of the session, Red entered the room with curiosity but clear caution. He responded minimally to my introduction, but accepted the art materials offered without resistance. He briefly attempted to eat one of the crayons—likely out of sensory exploration or instinct rather than outright defiance or rebellion. I gently redirected him and noted that he complied easily when boundaries were offered calmly.

He settled into the space, sitting on the couch with a drawing board on his lap. He appeared particularly interested in the texture of the carpet and my red glasses, which he stared at multiple times throughout the session. When I asked how he was feeling, he answered “okay,” but did so while breaking two crayons. He didn’t seem upset—more like he was testing pressure, seeking the "right" way to leave a mark. 

When I asked about his recent medical experience, particularly what he felt during the eye exam incident, he immediately tensed. His breath hitched, and he clutched the crayon tightly. His tail curled inward around him, a protective gesture, and he said, “Um…scary? …Hard to breathe.” This was the first real emotional disclosure of the session.

His voice was quiet, withdrawn, and his eyes didn’t meet mine. But his honesty, even in that limited phrase, spoke volumes. I reassured him that it made sense to feel that way, especially when our bodies are trying to keep us safe. He responded with a nod and went back to his drawing. Avoidance through action—but still engaged.

As the session progressed, I guided him gently toward describing the imagery he was working on. The drawing itself was abstract but emotionally intense: a vaguely humanoid figure scribbled in grey, a red, circular mass where a face might be, yellow eyes, and jagged mouth shapes. A pink mass in the chest suggested something emotionally charged.

When asked about it, Red said quietly that he had “seen it before,” then physically closed in on himself, his shoulders hunched and his tail curled tighter. His voice dropped and he attempted to describe the size of “it” with his hands but gave up. He whispered that it was “bad. It hurt Blue a lot and tried to keep him in the prison place.”

He showed clear signs of somatic recall here. His breathing became uneven, and his voice faltered, yet he still attempted to name the memory. I noted both his bravery and his limitations: the memory was accessible enough to disturb him, but not yet safe enough to articulate…

…(fully written notes accessible in Neurological Assessment Log book 02…) 

—||—

A full mental health and emotional evaluation may be necessary to continue.

—||—

Specimen ID: MT-092-B i.e. “Orange”

Species Classification: Terrapene ornata sapiens minor (Provisional)

Common Designation: Mutant Humanoid Ornate Box Turtle

Age: Approx. 5.1 years

Sex: Indeterminate, male suspected (External sexual characteristics not fully developed; hormonal screening pending)

Date of Examination: X2/07/20XX

Location: Facility 12B – Biogenetics Division, Sublevel 4

Specimen MT-092-B is a hybridized organism displaying both Terrapene ornata (ornate box turtle) and human juvenile traits. It stands approximately 91 cm (3'0") tall and weighs 17.2 kg, placing it below average size metrics for both baseline humans and suspected turtle-human hybrids of similar developmental stage. Limbs and torso proportions are humanoid in configuration, though with notable reptilian scalation and carapacial structuring consistent with terrapin morphology.

The specimen is ambulatory, bipedal, and fully capable of object manipulation, communication, and self-care tasks, albeit with occasional clumsiness associated with its reduced limb length and minor coordination delays. 

—

The dorsal shell (carapace) is fully integrated into the skeletal structure, covering approximately 70% of the back and extending just past the iliac crest. Unlike MT-073-A, this carapace is domed and moderately flexible at the edges. Its surface is marked by distinct, silhouetted square patterns, each measuring between 4–6 cm in width and possessing a subtle orange-tinted glow under bioluminescent screening (most prominent at 420–460 nm wavelengths).

The specimen’s scales are a dark, saturated green with subtle dark mottling and lighter marbling. The scales appear smoother and finer than those observed in other turtle-based hybrids. Scales on the hands and forearms show mild keratin reinforcement but retain full tactile sensitivity.

MT-092-B displays naturally occurring, symmetrical yellow-orange circular and elliptical markings across several key body regions. Pigment cell biopsies indicate that these markings are melanin-inhibited regions with high xanthophore density, closely resembling color distribution patterns found in ornate box turtles. 

• Facial Region: Two prominent, partial circular markings overlap with the lateral periorbital area on each side of the face. When the eyes are closed, the circles form fully—giving the visual impression of “cartoon-style rosy cheeks.” These are neither raised nor scarified, and pigmentation is dermal, not surface-applied.
  
  

• Limb Joints: Similar yellow-orange circular markings are visible on both shoulders, knees, and outer thighs. These range from 3–6 cm in diameter and exhibit faint iridescence in low-light environments. They appear biologically integrated and show no sign of pathological skin change.

• Left Wrist: A perfectly symmetrical yellow-orange circle (2.5 cm in diameter) is located on the dorsal surface of the left wrist. Pigmentation is smooth, uninterrupted, and uniformly saturated. Dermatoscopic analysis confirms that this circle is close to the top scaled layer and showing signs of external tattooing or application unlike the other markings MT-092-B has presented. 

• Right Wrist: A sharply defined brand in the shape of the Roman numeral “IV” (4) is present. This mark appears to be the result of intentional cauterization—raised and fibrotic, with skin deformation consistent with early-age scarring (likely inflicted between ages 0-1). Unlike other dermal markings, this brand is clearly artificial in origin and suggests classification, ownership, or series-based experimentation.

These markings may be symbolic identifiers akin to those seen in Specimen MT-073-A, and are undergoing comparative semiotic analysis under Directive MT-Series Symbol Cohort.

—

Neurodevelopmental scans confirm a fully functional hominin-equivalent brain (volume approx. 980 cm³), with particular hypertrophy in areas associated with language acquisition, emotional processing, and sensory integration. 

Speech production is advanced for age, particularly in vocabulary breadth and contextual relevance. Unlike Specimen MT-073-A, MT-092-B demonstrates correct pronoun use, flexible grammar, and multi-clause sentence formation. Despite this proficiency, MT-092-B still exhibits age-typical speech traits, such as simplified sentence structure during high emotional states, occasional overuse of certain words or phrases, and childlike speech cadences. These patterns appear developmentally normal and consistent with a human child in the 4.5–5.5 year range.

The specimen presents a mild stutter when emotionally heightened or over-stimulated, which often leads to rapid-fire speech interspersed with involuntary animalistic noises. 

These vocalizations resemble high-pitched chittering or trilling, produced via soft palate modulation. They have no known semantic content but appear to function as emotional discharge or affiliative bonding behaviors.

Specimen is highly social, tactile, and verbally proactive. Approaching both handlers and inanimate recording equipment with enthusiasm. It displays a strong preference for physical contact, often reaching out to touch hands, clothing, or exposed skin of nearby individuals. This behavior appears benign and amiable rather than territorial or dominance-seeking.

Emotional regulation is developing, though the specimen shows signs of overstimulation in high-energy contexts. Specimen engages in extended verbal exchanges with minimal prompting and has been observed maintaining one-sided dialogues with reflective surfaces and unresponsive instruments.

—

MT-092-B is considered extremely sociable and emotionally expressive. In both structured and unstructured environments, the specimen actively initiates conversation with nearby personnel, including other specimens. It demonstrates understanding of tone, sarcasm, and rudimentary humor.

During observation periods, the specimen has been recorded maintaining extended monologues with facility staff, furniture, and reflective surfaces. These interactions are often punctuated by physical gestures such as tapping, waving, or attempting to hold hands.

Specimen demonstrates a low threshold for excitement, which correlates directly with its vocal tics and physical restlessness. Calming stimuli (e.g., warm ambient lighting, soft textures, rhythmic audio) reduce this effect significantly.

—

When compared to MT-073-A (chelydrid-hominid hybrid), Specimen MT-092-B demonstrates:

• Superior verbal dexterity

• Lower mass and physical robustness

• Reduced instinctive threat response

• Higher social-seeking and contact-dependent behavior
  
  

There are currently no signs of aggressive reflexes or defensive posturing. Specimen does not respond to common predator stimuli and seems to lack fear conditioning toward larger entities.

…(continued on page 35…) 

…

—||—

The cameras and microphones positioned in their current confinement room caught a conversation between the two of them. They spoke about dreams. Mentioning notably the “the monsters”, “the dark-spacey prison place”, and “losing Purple and Blue”. There was an emotional lapse that lasted close to thirty minutes before they fell asleep, intertwined in most-likely self-soothing and regulating tactile stimulation and contact. 

…(further observations and symbolic analysis acknowledged in Neurological Assessment Log Book 04…)

Chapter Text

It was dark. The lights were turned off and Red and Orange were supposed to be sleeping. That’s what it meant when the lights were off. They were supposed to be sleeping.

Not yet though. He was tired and but not in a sleepy way. Red didn’t understand it. Deep in his bones he did but…

“Red?” 

Orange’s soft voice touched the air and Red rested his head on Orange’s. Red would say they were turtle piling but…

(There wasn’t enough of them for that.) 

“Hm?” He replied just as softly. Red waited, a low rumble going through his chest. 

It was a couple more seconds before his little brother said anything else. 

“Do…are…” His brother swallowed, curling tighter, Red hugged him closer in response. Orange’s breathing sounded uneven. Unhappy. Red could feel it. “...are we gonna get back Purple and Blue? And…and see them again? Cause…cause I-I really miss ‘em and, and…um…” He sniffed, shaking a little. “..I…” 

Red took his own uneven breath, he didn’t know. He honestly didn’t know. Nothing really made sense anymore. (If it ever did make sense.) 

He gripped his little brother tighter, feeling heat pulse under his scales and Orange’s glass bottle breathing. 

“I’m...er…” Red swallowed thickly, feeling his ribs creak. It was dark, pitch dark. He couldn’t see much of anything but the soft glow from his little bro’s shell was enough to let him see how wet and shiny his brother’s eyes were. Tears. He had to look away. He didn’t want to cry himself. (Even if he felt like it. Even if he already was.) 

“...Red thinks so, yeah,” He wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. 

“Really?” 

“Mhm,” His gut turned squirmy and he focused on the way his bones were moving against everything else. Skin and guts and whatnot. “...Bishop said he’d help,” 

There was a beat of silence. 

“...I guess,” 

It was dark in the room. So dark you couldn’t see your own nose and Orange’s shell only did so much. It was soft light but it was warm. 

It was quiet in the room. 

They fell asleep and Red’s lips tasted like salt when the lights were turned back on. 

—||—

Orange had weird dreams. Faces and places and things. Things he didn’t understand and places he knew but didn’t at the same time. It was weird. He remembered them but…not at the same time. It rolled around in his brain and made up feel like down and right feel like the other way you could go. 

His thoughts were big. Emotions were bigger. Everything inside him felt too big and too small at the same time. But everything felt…right. Okay. Good, just…good, in the dreams. Right was right and left was left and up was up and down was down. It made sense. He closed his eyes and everything made sense. 

And when he woke up nothing made sense anymore. Everything was wrong and the air tasted weird and his fingers didn’t work like the way they were supposed to. He woke up and stared at the wall, hugging Red like he’d always done and he wondered. He remembered and thought and did none of that all at the same time. 

It was confusing. 

Was it always this confusing? 

He didn’t know. He didn’t. In the dreams it didn’t feel confusing. Nothing was…

…

He woke up. 

And was glad his arms had stopped hurting so much. 

—||—

There were times where Red had to talk to people he didn’t know. Granted he didn’t really know anyone in this place but still…it was…weird. And…and now was one of those times.

Red was in a room. A room with nice carpet, with funny patterns and nice looking couches. (He wasn’t sure why he knew what a couch was, he just knew he knew what a couch was. It…didn’t make sense but…but it didn’t...have too? Maybe? He wasn’t sure.) 

He was sitting on the couch with a board on his lap (that’s where paper and crayons went) and there was another person sitting on the other couch. She introduced herself as Ms. Raine. She was nice. 

He was also given some paper and crayons to draw with. (He almost ate the crayons at first but Ms. Raine stopped him before he could do that. He didn’t know you weren’t supposed to eat them. Why would they look so tasty if you weren’t supposed to eat them?) 

She explained why she was there and Red didn’t really understand it a whole lot but she said he would get jello afterwards so Red was willing to try. 

“And how are we feeling today?” She smiled at him and her pretty red glasses caught the light in the room. Red really liked her glasses. (They reminded him of someone. Someone nice, with dark hair and a loud voice that made him feel really safe. She was nice. Whoever it was. That was just something he knew. She was nice. And she had red glasses too.) 

Red shrugged and scribbled another line down. He’d broken two crayons trying to figure out how hard he should press to get the color down. “Okay,” He mumbled. 

“That’s good, did anything interesting happen today?” 

“Took ‘m blood,” His brow furrowed. “Didn’t like that,” 

“I see,” She said softly. 

It continued like that for a little bit, nice questions that Red could easily answer. But then came the harder stuff. The stuff that made him remember when he really didn’t want to. 

“Do you remember how you felt the other day, in the doctor’s office? With your eye? Can you tell me in one word or picture what that felt like?" 

Red’s breath hitched and he frowned, the crayon creaking in his gripe. (He didn’t want to break this one, he really liked the color.) He didn’t want to remember, he didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t—

“Um…scary?” He shifted a little bit in place, his tail curled around him. “...hard to breathe,” 

Ms. Raine had a big fluffy sweater on, Red kinda wanted to touch it. 

“Scary makes a lot of sense,” She leaned forward a little bit, her clipboard balancing on her knee. “It’s okay to feel that way when something doesn’t feel right or safe. And when it’s hard to breathe, that tells me your body was really trying to protect you,” 

Red’s brow furrowed and he nodded. He went back to his coloring, trying to focus on something else. 

After a few seconds she continued. “You said it felt hard to breathe. Was that like a tight feeling in your chest,” She gently touched her own chest before her hands went back down to her lap. “Or like you were trying to hide away from something? Sometimes our bodies remember things before our brains do. That’s not your fault.”

Red took a deep breath and nodded. He tried to remember without remembering too much. (He didn’t know brains did that. That sounded complicated. Like a Purple thing to know about.) “Um…like…” He tapped his claw gently against the paper. 

The picture was something he didn’t understand. It was a mass of grey scribbles in a vaguely human shape. There was a long thing coming out the back and red circle, the color looping over and over in tight, thick circles, where the “face” probably was.  There was also a mass of pink crayon in the chest area. It had what looked like yellow eyes and a bunch of mangled triangles in the shape of a mouth. 

Red didn’t understand it but it made him feel queasy just looking at it. 

He looked away from it for a second to gather his thoughts. “...both? Hard to breathe but…but I wanted to get away too. Like, like it would come back and, and take Orange too,” He took another deep breath and shrugged. “I dunno…’s hard to remember sometimes,” He muttered while picking at the paper on the crayon. 

She glanced down at the drawing for a moment before looking back up at him. “It’s okay for memories to be hard to hold. Sometimes our brains only let us see pieces at a time, especially when they’re trying to keep us safe. You’re doing something really brave by trying at all,” 

Red blinked, a little confused then nodded, feeling a little weird at the praise. He felt all warm and it made him sway a little bit in the seat. He shifted, the couch folding nicely under his weight. His tail gently wiggled, like it was happy with him too but it stilled after a moment and the confused, warm feeling faded. 

“Um…okay,” He still didn’t know how to respond honestly. 

She looked down to the picture again, studying it closely. “That thing in the picture…the part with the red face and yellow eyes—does it remind you of something you’ve seen before? Or maybe something from a dream?”

The air in Red’s lungs shuddered in and out of him as he gripped the crayon tighter. The wax creaked more intently this time. “...um…” He looked down at the picture, shoulders curling inward and his tail doing the same. “..yeah…Red’s seen it before…” In flashes of light and panicked thoughts and blood trailed down from his shoulder. The one that still ached but…didn’t hurt so bad anymore. 

“It was…um…” Red set the crayon down and tried to quantify the size with his hands. But he couldn’t seem to be able to. He swallowed thickly and thought back. Past the haze and confusion and tittering, scrambling instincts. “Bad,” That felt like an understatement. “It uh…hurt…Blue a lot and, and…tried to keep him in…in the prison place,” 

She looked at him, all fluffy, cozy sweater and pretty red glasses. “Thank you for telling me that, Red. That sounds really scary, not just for you, but for Blue too. You said it tried to keep him in a prison place…can you tell me what that place looked like? Or what it felt like?”

Red frowned picked his claws against each other. His brow furrowed and he tried to measure what it was, what it felt like in his mind. In his chest and lungs. But it was big. Too big. The thoughts were too big and he was too small. 

But he tried anyway. “Um…dark, like, like space but…but not,” He remembered flashes, yellowish, gold light, Orange did that. His awesome little brother did that. He remembered being sad and scared and aching not just on the outside but the inside as well. Hurting but…but on the inside. He remembered looking through the light like a window and seeing things floating around and lights in the distance like stars. 

He remembered seeing Blue. Hurt, bleeding. His little brother bleeding. And, and the thing. Dark and evil and bright dark evil red, red, red and metal . It was evil. He knew that. But he wasn’t sure how to say it. ( Because it was too big and he was too small, too small, too small, too small, too weak—) 

“And, and it wasn’t ‘possed to get out but…but it did,” He looked down at the picture and gnawed on his cheek, brows furrowed. 

She hummed gently, fingers methodically flipping the pen through soft loops and arcs. Red watched for a moment, drawn in by the repetitive motions. 

“You said it wasn’t supposed to get out…but it did. That sounds really important. Can you tell me more about what happened when it got out? Or how you knew it wasn’t supposed to?”

Red brought his eyes away from the pen and shrugged. Again. Flashes, memories that were too big. They jumbled around and bumped into each other like…cars? (What was a car?) 

So he just shrugged, more of a limp then anything and picked up his crayon again. Wondering if he should use a different color for the background. “...just wasn’t supposed to,” There was something else. Something made of wood that smelt really weird. Like bad thoughts and bad choices. 

She hummed again and nodded calmly. “Alright, it’s okay if you don’t know or if you can’t remember,” 

But he did know and he did (sorta) remember. He just…didn’t know how to say it. Too big words. Too big thoughts and not enough room to use them. 

So he just sighed and nodded anyway. Just cause he could. He picked up the dark blue crayon and scribbled in the background. He’d add the weird not stars later. 

“If you could put that thing in a box, what kind of box would it need? Big? Heavy? Locked? Or maybe something more magical? We can build a pretend one if that helps you feel more in charge,” Ms. Raine said, tone amiable. (He wasn’t exactly sure what the word meant but…but he’d heard Purple use it before...probably…he wasn’t sure but it seemed right to use it anyway.) 

He frowned and paused to glare at the grey, metal bad in the picture. You’d need the biggest, strongest box ever. 

But…

“..it was already in a box,” He replied, tone subdued. “...the prison place was the box…and, and it got out,” He gripped the crayon tighter and resumed his scribbling reinvigorated. Trying to distract him from the thoughts. (Big, big, too big thoughts.) 

She nodded along with his words. “It got out even though it was supposed to stay locked away. That must’ve made everything feel less safe. Like it the rules broke, right?”

Red swallowed, feeling heavy. Angry, confused. His tail twitched and lashed once against the back of the couch. He gripped the crayon tighter until heard it crack. He flinched at the noise, mind filling with prickling static. His breath hitched, he was stuck somewhere, someplace. Somewhere, someplace and he didn’t understand. 

A low rumble rolled out from his throat and he hunched down. The line that split the dark blue crayon in two visible through the paper. His eyes burned and he felt himself shiver. 

(Was he back? Was he back? Was it back? Was the icky feeling back? The bad? Would he hurt his brothers again? He didn’t want to hurt his brothers again.

He, he didn’t—)

Through the haze he heard: “Red, sweetie? Could you look around the room for me? Can you tell me five things you see?” 

He frowned and forced his eyes up and looked around. Shaking. “Um…” He felt a little silly. (Scared, some part of him was scared.) Couldn’t she see everything in the room too? His eyes looked for something interesting to draw her attention to. What was cool enough for that? “..um…the…carpet? The…um the couch? Your couch?” He glanced down. “...’m picture?” 

She nodded. “That’s good, really good,” 

He felt a flicker of warmth, it faded quickly but his tail twitched anyway.

“And one more thing?” 

“..um...the, uh, crayon?” He felt bad about that. He set it to the side, wondering if he’d break all the crayons that way. 

(Shaking. Scared. Was it coming back?)

“Good job, well done Red,” She looked down to the crayon, smiling in the kind of way you expect vanilla cake to smile if it could smile. “Crayons can be a little dramatic sometimes, huh?” She said, her tone light. Playful maybe. “They break, they crack, but they still color. Kind of like feelings—they don’t stop working just because they get loud,” 

He looked at the crayon again. The cracked line still visible. Technically, he could still use it. If he wanted to. 

( Was it—?)

“..I guess,” He mumbled, not entirely understanding. Feelings were weird and complicated and very much something Orange understood a lot better than he did. 

“We can save the broken crayon or trade it out, whichever feels better. But I think that crayon still has some fight in it, don’t you?” She said, tone still playful. 

He shrugged. (There was something, in the back of his mind, shoved under thoughts and memories and feelings. Orange kept all the broken crayons and melted them down, turning them into new crayons. Clumsily made and wrapped in white printer paper. It was stark. The memory, thought, impression. Burning against everything else. Feeling so colorful when everything else felt gray.) 

“That’s okay if you’re not sure. Sometimes feelings don’t make sense right away, and that’s alright too. They still matter, even when they’re quiet,” 

(He didn't want it to come back.)

His brow furrowed, not knowing how to respond. So he just shrugged again.

She made a soft sort of sound that had Red glancing up and watching her movements. Maybe it was a laugh or sigh or…something else. He honestly couldn’t tell. “You did a lot today, Red. More than most grownups could. I think your brain and body deserve a break, don’t you?”

He frowned, gnawing on his check again and his tail shifting behind him. “...okay,” 

She smiled at that and looked down at the picture, expression thoughtful. “How about we give the picture a name before we take a break?”

( He didn’t…)

He nodded after a second, task successfully set. 

He stared down at it, at all the lines and colors and feelings that itched at him when he looked at it. At its scribbled forms and hazy memories. He wasn’t good at naming things but…

(He…)

(…please.)

“...dead and rotting,” He waited for a beat before adding in a low growl. “..forever,” 

Yeah. Yeah that was a good name, wasn’t it?

The snapper didn’t notice her slightly wide eyes at the name, or the meticulous notes she took in between breaths and statements. He didn’t notice the camera watching quietly or the three separate tape recorders hidden around the room. He didn’t notice any of those things. 

He wasn’t supposed to.

And it wasn’t like he was focused on it anyway. 

Everything was too big and he was too small. Too much and too little. 

Everything. Was too little. Too big. All at the same time.

So he didn’t notice.

And that was that. 

(Please don’t come back.)

—||—

This time the jello was green. 

Red didn’t like green jello as much as the purple kind. 

—||—

“—and, and at first it was—wow, cause like we did really get there but, but, we weren’t there until after the thingy and, and we did the, the thing and there were like sooooooooo many clothes. Like, like so many. And, and there were so many colors and different kinds of clothes and, and, and…” 

Orange wiggled as much as he could. Mr. Doctor guy was checking his arms, apparently the burns were healing, which was good, because they hurt a lot. Or…like, did. ‘Cause…cause they weren’t as much anymore. 

Mr. Doctor guy unwrapped the bandages and Orange had to look away, the smell of pale ink paste that made all his cuts and burns sting but apparently helped, filling his nose. 

“And, and um, there were hats and shoes and scarves and, um…um…” Orange’s brow furrowed, confusion eating away at him. “Um..what’s…what’s a scarves?” 

Mr. Doctor guy looked up at him once and Orange thought his eyes were a very nice shade of blue-green-brownish-hazel-maybe a little bit yellowish. The human guy sighed in a sort of good natured-ish way and continued his work. 

“Its scarf, singular,” He corrected. “And it's…a kind of fabric you wrap around your neck for warmth or as a layer on top of everything else you’re wearing,” 

Orange nodded along. That made sense. “Okay, um,” He thought back, trying to remember. “And, and we weren’t actually there it was a, a um…uh…a magic thing,” 

Mr. Doctor guy raised an eyebrow, hands moving carefully and very, super practiced. Orange kept going.

“It was like…evil but…but not evil music. And, and it made us think we were in a uh—um, a, a um…clothes...place? Yeah, clothes place and we were getting and taking and wearing so many clothes and, and it was really cool but, but the evil hippo guy was, was not nice and, and he was trying to steal um…um…” Orange trailed off, trying to remember the word. “Steal a—uh, a thing. A very important thing…and uh, we got out by, by hitting the, the music thingy and, and we stopped him!” Orange nodded fast, wiggling as much as Mr. Doctor guy would let him. 

“Did you?” Mr. Doctor guy asked in a…distracted (that was the right word, right?) kind of way. He was carefully spreading the pale pasty stuff on his arms and Orange whimpered at the touch. It burned and stung and, and, and…and did not feel good. “Your arms are healing quite well… surprisingly well even. I still can’t believe the two of you have triple the average stem cells without any signs of fibrosis or cancer…” 

Orange blinked, confused. “What’s…um…what’s fibrosis?” And cancer as well. He didn’t know what either of those meant. Or were. Or, or, or um…was?

“Excessive tissue growth, characteristically maladaptive and sometimes leads to dysregulated differentiation as well,” Mr. Doctor guy mumbled back, looking, again distracted but…but in a different way? 

He finished with the paste (Orange dutifully keeping his arms stiff and still, even if it felt weird to do it) and started wrapping them with new bandage stuff. 

“...um?” Orange asked, wiggling his toes when his fingers couldn’t be wiggled properly.

“Ah it's…” He paused, like…like he was thinking of a way to say it. “Where your body starts generating and propagating cells in areas that they shouldn’t be. Hair growing in your organs, bones growing where your muscles should be growing. That sort of thing,” 

“..o…oh,” Orange muttered, feeling a little queasy. That…um…sounded not good. (Even if he didn’t fully understand it. It still sounded Bad. Like, like capital B bad.) 

Mr. Doctor guy laughed a little. “Yeah, it's not pretty,” He finished wrapping, tucking and tying the end bits. “And definitely not painless either,” 

“Um,” Orange brought his arms back to himself. “And, I…have that?” He asked nervously because…because… bad. Y’know?

Mr. Doctor guy shook his head lightly. “No, despite everything showing you should you…don’t. You and MT-073-A are remarkably stable genetic anomalies, I would say well done but you most likely didn’t have anything to do with it and you probably don’t understand what I mean by that anyway,” 

“Mmmmm,” Orange thought about it, relieved he didn’t have…hair growing in his squishy bits. (Did he have hair? He didn’t think so. But he should. That would be so cool.) “Nope,” He popped the ‘P’, fully able to wiggle and sway in his seat as much as he wanted now. 

“I figured as much, I wonder if there are anymore like the two of you? Such a fascinating find that would be…” 

“Huh?” 

“Nothing,” Mr. Doctor guy brushed it off neutrally and sounded very reasonable about it as well. Very, very reasonable-ly. “I still have to check that cut on your calf, by now the scar tissue should’ve formed completely but it’s impossible to tell with the two of you honestly,” 

Orange paused, words floating around in the air but none of them really sticking. So he just blinked and then smiled, kicking his legs a little hard. “Okay!” 

Mr. Doctor guy sighed and Orange had to wonder why, because he didn’t have hair in his lungs. And that was a good thing. 

—||—

“...um, Red?”

“Hm?”

“Do…do you think all…the…the tests are…are really helpful? To…to finding..um…I, I know Mr. Bishop said they were and, and, and I think some of them are and stuff and, and I don’t really know anything about science-y stuffs but, but…um…” 

“...” 

“...Red?” 

“..um…I…I dunno big man. Red…Red thinks they are…” 

“Really?” 

“...mmm…mmhm,” 

“..oh…um…okay, then I guess it’s okay..” 

“...” 

“...” 

“...”

“...Red?” 

“..yeah?” 

“Do…do…remember what the…the sun feels like?” 

…

…no…he didn’t.

—||—

…

…

˙pᴉp ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɹǝɥʇᴉǝu…

—||—

Orange sat in the chair he always sat in when Mr. Bishop asked him questions. He swung his legs and glanced around. The walls were still suuuuuper boring. Like they always were. 

Mr. Bishop sat on the other chair, on the other side of the table, with a paper and pencil and his super cool sunglasses. Orange thought they were super cool. He asked once if he could wear them. Bishop just made a…face and then didn’t talk to him for a little bit. Orange didn’t get it but he didn’t get a lot of things so, so, so, so it was probably fine anyway. 

Orange said hi. Mr. Bishop didn’t say hi back. He always did that. He was weird like that. (Weren’t you supposed to say hi to people when they said hi to you? He’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do.) 

“So Orange,” Mr. Bishop’s face did the weird wrinkle thing it did. Orange was pretty sure it was an unhappy sort of wrinkle. He did that a lot. “Was it warm where you lived? Or cold? Did it smell like metal, or more like dirt? Or garbage perhaps,”

“Ummmmmmm,” Orange’s brow furrowed and his legs stopped swinging so he could think. He frowned, flashes of things and places and all the confusing bits…

Orange hummed real hard, wiggling in the seat. Because he just had to move, he just had to. “Warm? But…but cold too but only sometimes,” He paused and tried to remember how…home…smelt. “Like uh…” Orange held up his hands and tried to make the smell with them. It didn’t work very well. “Like um…like throw away stuff. Garbage yeah but, but also um…oil? And, and, and, um…” He trailed off, getting confused himself. 

Mr. Bishop nodded slowly and his glasses did the glint-y glint they did under the lights. Orange still wanted to try wearing them. 

“Interesting…” He said suuuuuuper slowly. Like, like he was…thinking? Or making notes? But in his brain? Like…the thing Purple did sometimes. The brain notepad thing? “You said warm and cold. Was it colder near the walls? Or when you walked far away from your bed? Where you slept,”

Orange hummed again. Big and long and big. He frowned harder. It was hard to remember, everything was so hard to remember. “...um…it was cold away from my bed,” Because beds were warm and so were rooms but other places weren’t as warm as beds and rooms. 

Bishop didn’t move very much. Sometimes Orange thought he stopped breathing. But he did breathe. Everyone did the breathing thing. 

“Did someone build your room specially warm for you? Like…a family member or friend?”

Orange swayed in his seat and lulled his head back, fingers twitching. “Ummmm, I think…it was, was um,” He let his head lull forward again and thought the color of the table was boring. Almost more boring than the ceiling color. It was all so boring.  “...I helped,” Because he remembered that bit. “And…and I think…Dad helped too? And, and Red and Blue and, and Purple,” They all helped. He remembered that part too. “Lotsa help,” 

(He remembered Dad. Warm and nice and big nice warm hugs. He couldn’t…remember it super well. He couldn’t remember him super well but…but he had good feelings about him. So…so that had to mean something. It had to. ) 

“Fascinating,” Mr. Bishop said in the way that Orange knew he was making brain notes. “It certainly sounds like your whole family worked together to create a warm environment for you,” He said it weird, like the idea was gross or something.

Orange just shrugged. Because that’s what made sense. And nothing about it made sense to him anyway. Because that all made sense. Super sense. Like nothing at all. Makes sense right?

“What kind of things did your…dad do best? The most proficiently,” 

That was a big word.

Orange flexed his fingers in and out, starting to sway from front to back because that was different then side to side. “Um…he makes good soup,” Good soup for sick days and when you’re feeling all yucky on the inside. “Hot soup,” He nodded softly to himself, because saying that felt really good. The best.

Mr. Bishop made a small noise. Like what Orange said was really, really interesting. He didn’t get it. But he didn’t get a lot of things. So it was okay. The okay-est.

“And what was the soup typically for? Was it a regular occurrence or for special occasions?” 

“Ummm,” He thought back. Flashes of shell rubs and head pats and big fluffy blankets and milk and cake and cookies and fur and nice skritches under the chin and hot cocoa and, and something else. Fluffy but…not. He, he couldn’t quite remember. “For sickies,” 

“...sickies,” Mr. Bishop repeated slowly, voice curling around the word. Orange didn’t get that. Because sickies was a perfect fine word to use. “So he made you soup whilst you were sick,” He more of said then asked . 

“Mmmmhmmm,” Orange nodded the appropriate amount. 

There was a second where Mr. Bishop didn’t say anything but then after that he did and he said it in that weird way he did sometimes. “Did you ever give him anything when he wasn’t feeling good?”

“Oh um,” Orange blinked. Memories and thoughts and feelings, all mashed together like mashed potatoes, expect Orange didn’t really remember what mashed potatoes were and everything sort of was swirling together and getting really, really confusing and, and, and, and, and it was —

Was—

Something? Maybe?

“...sometimes? But, but not like…soup, um…like um…” He tried to remember the phrase. “...alone time?” He said it, voice tilted just slightly. Because he remembered things but…but he really didn’t. 

He didn’t know why Mr. Bishop was asking him questions but, but, but it was probably okay right? Because he was helping them find Purple and Blue. So, so, so, it had to be helping somehow right? (But he felt weird about it, because something felt weird, something felt off, something felt wrong—) 

“And what did you do when your…dad was having alone time? Did you spend time with one of your siblings or possibly another family member?” He said it weird again but, but why did it sound weird to him? He…

(He didn’t know.) 

“Um…” He didn’t know it was…a long…time ago? (Was it a long time ago? It felt like it. But at the same time…not.) “Sometimes I’d um play with Red or, or Blue or…um…not really Purple, he’s busy with his…um…electricies most of the times but, but sometimes him too…um…and…um..” He tried to remember a face, a name. Anything really but it was hard to when everything felt so scrambled. “And…um..other people?” He didn’t remember.  

Mr. Bishop nodded slowly after Orange’s little spiel, he looked at him and Orange thought he should really put a cat poster on the wall. (What was a cat? Or poster even? But…but a cat poster still sounded like a good idea.) 

“And these…other people. Did they live with you or did they live elsewhere and visit from time to time?” 

“Ummmm…visit,” Orange nodded to himself, proud for remembering that bit at least. 

Orange felt like Mr. Bishop’s eyebrows moved a little bit. But. Just a bit. He bet they moved just a bit. It’d be neat if they did. Y’know. Just a bit.

“Could you tell me what they looked like? Or what they were like? Knowing what they look like may help in finding your bothers,” 

Orange froze for a second. “Um,” Right. That’s what they were doing. He…he almost forgot. How could he forget? “...ummmmmm…” He couldn’t remember, he couldn’t remember, why couldn’t he remember—

So he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “APRIL!!!” He didn’t know where it came from, only that it came from somewhere. 

Orange didn’t notice that Bishop paused for second, no— froze for second because he continued smoothly onward like nothing had ever happened. 

“April?” Mr. Bishop asked just as smoothly as he moved on from his little pausing–freezing moment. Which Orange did not not totally notice but only a little and on the side and stuff. “That’s a very pretty name. Do you remember anything else about her? Possibly what she was to you and your brothers?”

Orange blinked…remembering that…that yeah. April was a name. (He knew that name. Deep down, deep in his guts, his bones, he knew that name. Knew her. Family, friend, confidant. Everything, everything else and more. More, more, more, more but he couldn’t remember—) 

“...warm,” He said. The feeling, the thought, the memory of it all surfacing for just a moment. Just a second. Something good and warm and nice and safe tucked in a little ball of marshmallow fluff, tucked safe and gentle under his ribs. Under his heart and lungs. It was good. Something about the name April— was good. That was the glimpse he remembered. “She’s…she’s warm,” 

(Where did she go? Why can’t he remember her? Why…why did it hurt to try?) 

“Warm? That’s very interesting,” Mr. Bishop mused. He waited a second or two before he continued. Orange rubbed the pads of his fingers together ‘cause that felt cool. “And was she friends with your dad? Did your brothers know her as well?” 

“Ummm..yes? Dad knows her,” He clicked his nail-claws together and that felt cooler than rubbing the pads of his fingers together. A flicker of a touch. A hug. A head pat. A high five. He remembered like the desert remembered the ocean. Washed and gone. Bits and pieces, where and there at the same time. Here but…not. “And yeah, she played with us sometimes,” 

(Bits and piece and flickers and flashes and there's and not there's and, and, and, and—

Everything was wrong. Everything didn’t fit and he didn’t remember, why can’t he—) 

Candy red glasses. Dark, curly hair, shining eyes like the lights of a train. Here and there. Nail polish, fabric softener, lilac perfume, tall heels, a laugh, a smile, a room full of blankets and pillows, meals snuck under the crack of the window, whispered funny phone calls, plastic wrap over cookies, salicylic facial cleanser, liquid foundation, body glitter, hand lotion, pencil skirts and yellow leggings, marked up Percy Jackson books, stupid ugly throw pillows, a knife disguised as a pen, a well used bat, a crane license, a smile, a laugh, a name, a MEMORY, HE REMEMBERED, HE REMEMBERED, WHY CAN’T HE REMEMBER—

His breath hitched, eyes wide, he remembered, he remembered but why couldn’t he actually remember—? 

“Does he?” The words cut through the haze and Orange was shaking. “Did he know…April before you came around or after?”

( He can’t remember, he can’t remember. It was slipping away, away, away. It was gone, gone, where did it all go? Why did it—

Why couldn’t he—)

“U-um. Mmmm…uh…um..” He, he didn’t know. He didn’t— “…I dun’no…” He shrugged limply, hands fiddling. Feeling buzzy and bad and just…not good. 

“Hm,” Mr. Bishop said, like it was super, super interesting and Orange just didn’t know why. 

(Why didn’t he understand, why didn’t he remember—?)

(Why can’t he—?)

“And your...dad named you…Orange?” He asked, like he wasn’t actually asking and just making sure Orange knew or something. Orange didn’t get it. But, but…he didn’t get a lot of things did he?

Orange nodded, still feeling weird and buzzy and just overall very not good. (Bad.) ‘Cause, ‘cause he did right? Why would his name be Orange if his Dad didn’t name him?

“Fascinating,” Mr. Bishop did a sort of slithery whisper that had Orange wiggling and shifty shifting in a different, not so good way in his chair. Bad. “Hilariously uncreative and unpredictable, I would expect nothing less of Michelangelo,”

Orange startled into a half jump up from his seat, a happy chirp-gasp spilling out lightning fast. Buzzy-bad getting squished just as fast. Excitement like a fork to an outlet. “I KNOW THAT NAME!!” The chair almost tipped over.

Mr. Bishop looked at him and it was hard to read his face, like normal. “Do you?”

“Yeah!” Orange smiled, because he did, he really, really did. “It’s—um…um,” He knew the name but…but not…

“Your…dad’s name?” Mr. Bishop asked all weird and all searching like. 

He didn’t know the name but, but only a little. Like, like he’d heard but…not known it? But that wasn’t true either. ‘Cause he knew the name but everything else was kinda…weird. Jumbled. Wrong. 

“…maybe,” He mumbled to himself. “…I think so..” Because, because that had to be it, right? It was a name that felt like Orange but bigger and cooler, with, with so many good memories and bright and awesome feelings attached. Identity, maybe. His but…bigger and…not at the same time. So, so...that could be a dad name right…? His…Dad’s name…?

(But that was wrong right? Was it…was it wrong? Was he getting something wrong??)

Mr. Bishop nodded slowly and Orange settled a little with the new information that…that had to be right…right? 

Orange fiddled his feet and hands together, staring down into his lap, swinging his legs. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. 

Up. 

And down. 

It…it was right, right? He wasn’t…wrong? Right? (Then….then why did it feel wrong? Even just a little? Why…?) 

“Hm,” Mr. Bishop hummed, sounding thoughtful but in a…pokey, spikey, snake-y way. “And is Michelangelo Red’s dad as well?” 

Orange opened his mouth only to close it. Because…because… no. (But…yes? In a way?) Michelangelo was his big, super special but still very much confusing name. Not Red’s. He had a different one. 

So Orange shook his head. (But…but they had the same Dad. He knew that…kinda…maybe…

…wait…was…was that right? He…he didn’t know. Why— why didn’t he know?) 

“Curiousier, and curiouser,” Mr. Bishop muttered under his breath but not really. He paused and looked at Orange, all thoughtful and cautious and all that. But in the weird pokey way Mr. Bishop always was. “So that would make…Raphael, the father, wouldn’t it?” 

Orange perked up. Another familiar name!! “Ummm…maybe,” He shrugged. ‘Cause that sounded more like a familiar but not quite his name that was more of Red’s then his anyway. “Sounds important,” 

“Important?” 

“Yeah, important,” He repeated diligently. ‘Cause it was. 

Mr. Bishop’s glasses did the glint-y glint again. “I…see,” Another pause of spikey looking and spikey pausing. “Wouldn’t that make you cousins , instead of brothers?” 

Orange froze. He didn’t know what a…cousin was but-but-but Red wasn’t a cousin. He was his brother. His super duper awesome brother! The only he had left right now—he, he— he wasn’t—

“N-n… no,” Orange muttered, stiff and confused and just— no. “Red’s my brother,” And Mr. Bishop had to know that. He just had to. They said it and everything. 

A second, then two, then: 

“Right. Brothers, forget I mentioned cousins then,” 

Orange kept tense, twitched and then slowly relaxed, nodding scared and thin. “Yeah, brothers,” ‘Cause they were. (What were they if they weren’t brothers?) “Not…cousins,” 

“Of course,” 

“Mmhm,”

Orange fiddled with his hands, picking and sliding and rubbing. He swayed and kicked his feet. Because he had to move, he just had to. 

“And…do the names…Leonardo and Donatello mean anything to you as well?” 

Orange lit up, excited about all the things he was remembering. He beamed and a chirp spilled out anyway. “Yeah!” 

Mr. Bishop smiled subtly, more of a twitch then anything but Orange caught it anyway. 

“Perfect,” 

Chapter Text

After multiple tests the energy from the crater, the energy disturbance was confirmed to be Mystic Energy. 

Magic. 

Bishop found this equal parts, infuriating, fascinating and concerning. Infuriating because mystic energies were notoriously annoying and difficult to work with and track. Fascinating because that same energy, maybe even the source of that specific frequency of it, was emanating near constantly from the ornate box turtle. A different kind of energy was radiating from the snapper, close in frequency but still different enough to note and be curious about. 

And it was concerning because whatever it was exactly had transported the two, through quantum folds and little spacial cracks and into the Nevada desert, away from wherever they were before. 

Teleportation. Dangerous and riveting all at the same time. Bishop was, using no small amount of discretion in using it, bewitched. 

The two, artificial offspring, or at the very least clumsy clones or the result of extreme cellular division—theoretically, there wasn’t enough evidence for that one at least—had miraculously managed to tear apart the fabric of reality only to mash it back together until they were somewhere else entirely. 

Fascinating, concerning and infuriating all at the same time. 

The connection and harnessing of mystic energies was as well as documented as it could be when it came to the Turtles. And the children, their children, had inherited to an enormous degree. Applicable and accessible at the age where higher thought was barely usable. 

Bishop really had found himself a double rainbow. 

He had already planned tests, he would enact them in a couple days and it would take a couple more days to prepare them but to find out the secret behind near organic, voluntary teleportation would be an insurmountable resource. To him. To his country and fellow country men. He had a couple other tests to do in the meantime.

There was a code here. A secret. A puzzle. A goddamn crossword. 

And he was going to figure it out. 

—||—

Benzodiazepine. 3.7 mg. Combined with a hybridized, extremely low dose non-depolarizing relaxant and muscle inhibitor agent. Intravenously administered and the snapper was left half lidded and barely moving. Not unconscious. No. Bishop wanted to see how the mutant would react. 

(The muscle relaxant was only there to stop any obstructive movements, other than that moving was a none issue.)

It lay, stomach first, on the table, limbs bound—something special for the tail—and a short, simple muzzle that would prevent any more obnoxiously loud noises. Though with the drugs it might not even cry out. Whether or not it would feel pain was…up for debate at the moment. 

It blinked slowly, groggily. It kept making…confused chirps and soft vocalizations. Bishop, while he didn’t appreciate them, could ignore them. 

Bishop hummed, satisfied. 

Two on staff orthopedic surgeons bustled around, with the attending nurses and the pathologist on stand by, ready to package the taken sample for testing. 

Bishop watched, close but not close enough to interfere with their work. 

The turtle’s shell had been punctured originally. They expected it not to regrow at all but with close observation, members had noticed a slow regeneration of the lost shell. It was hypothesized that Red had a mutated kind of mesenchymal stem cell at his disposal that allowed the keratin–bone-like structure to regrow itself in a way that it just didn’t and shouldn’t in turtles. 

It was a fascinating theory. 

It needed confirmation of course, so they planned to take just a little “off the top”, so to speak.  Both from the spines of the shell and the ridge. Bishop wanted to know if they regenerated differently. 

So here they were. With a drugged turtle and preparing staff. 

And Bishop watched. 

The snapper made another confused chirp, trying to move but giving up quickly. It would be more amusing if it wasn’t so pathetic. It moved its head as much as it could, eyes looking around hazily. Bishop would guess that it could barely see any details of what was happening around it, more movement and light levels then anything else.

 It warbled sadly. 

It must be looking for its brother.

Bishop’s mouth twitched. 

A smaller, autopsy bone saw whirred to life and it dug into the ridge, the response from the turtle was immediate. It chirped again, confused at the sudden noise and then alarmed as it felt the saw slowly cut a piece free. It tried to move, weakly and scared, chirping and vocalizing a little more incessantly and more and more alarmed. Still muddled and muffled through the mouth bit. 

Beads of blood welled up and dripped from the incision. It didn’t take long to cut free the needed piece. Barely larger than a quarter. It was caught and put aside quickly. 

They quickly moved on to drill a guide hole into the chosen and marked spike they were going to remove. 

At this point the turtle was crying and making a sort of distressed quacking noise softly, rabbit panicked and quick. Any shaking was rendered inconsequential and non-obstructive by the drugs but Bishop was sure the snapper would be trembling or even thrashing violently if it could.  

It whimpered and clicked with its soft palate and whined faintly through the tears, eyes shut tightly. Tense but again—not enough to be of any problem. 

With the guide hole finished, a bone chisel and mallet meet the area with firm but carefully applied force. 

The mutant flinched lightly with every hit, a slight thing that Bishop doubted anyone else really noticed. 

It whined, its tail shifting under its confinement along with its arms and legs. 

The whine was annoying but at least it wasn’t screaming. Bishop had the drugs and the muzzle to thank for that. 

More pearls of blood were encouraged from each careful tap and soon enough it was ready to be removed. Tactfully removed to avoid damage to the root of the spike and any splintering that could happen if they weren’t careful. They packaged the sample and set it aside like the ridge piece had been. 

The areas were cleaned and a topical antibiotic was applied to both surgery sites before covering to prevent inflammation or infection. They would check on the sites in the following days to see how and if any new growth was being prompted in the removed sites.

The turtle’s breath hitched every couple seconds and tears were pooling under its head where they could. Bishop watched them bubble up and spill over. His eyes moved to the rest of the staff, cleaning up and removing the IV from the turtle’s arm. 

He walked over, looming over the shaking and crying thing. He debated it for a second before he placed his hand on top of the mutant’s head. He didn’t move it, he didn’t pet, he simply—let his hand rest. 

The snapper froze for a second at the contact and its breath hitched again, sharper and even more desperate somehow, before it tried to press its head into his hand. Asking for more. 

Bishop’s nose wrinkled at the slow, agonized motion but he kept his hand there. Watching as the turtle blinked blearily, with tears still spilling over, and tried to lean into whatever contact Bishop was giving it. Whimpering and making a low chittering noise. If Bishop listened closely he could hear an even lower rumble that resembled a sort of purr that tremored under all the other noises. The mutant often did a version of it when being tactile with the other one. It made him wonder if it was contented noise or something it derived comfort from. 

Disgusting but also…

Fascinating. 

—||—

The two turtles were reunited when the layover from the benzodiazepine and hybridized NMBA had worn off sufficiently. 

Red did not remember what had happened, only that his shell ached and hurt and there were patches on it now that smelt like chemicals and sharp, antibiotic paste. He left them because that’s what he’d been told to do. (And they hurt.)

He hugged Orange for extra long that night. 

—||—

“Now…Ms…Isabella Raine..? Was it?” 

“Dr. Raine actually, but yes,” 

“Of course, Dr. Raine,” Bishop paused, looking at but not necessarily looking through the paperwork he had before him. “What is your impression of MT-073-A?” 

Something in her face flickered but Bishop didn’t quite catch what it was. “My impression? Red is very clever for his age, intuitive. He’s protective of his brother and cares very deeply for him,” 

Bishop nodded like that meant something. 

“And he’s been very deeply traumatized by something. It’s in my professional, pediatric opinion that the sort of treatment he’s been put through isn’t helping. I believe that a strong, reinforced ability to choose would go a long way—” 

“Dr. Raine,” Bishop cut in. “I believe we have you under contract to assess the mutant and gather information from it. Not give it a treatment plan,” 

Her eyebrows twitched, lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line. “With respect, Agent Bishop, psychological assessment and treatment planning are not mutually exclusive. Observation without understanding leads to misinterpretation—something I assume your department would prefer to avoid,” 

Bishop looked up, eyes half lidded. “Your assumption would be correct, Dr. Raine. We here want to…” He paused for a second, just enough for the moment to trickle a little deeper. “ Understand anomalies. Genetic or extraterrestrial,” 

She nodded, expression two shades from grave. “Yes, I…understand that to be your goal but If I’m to gather any meaningful information from Red, then I need him to trust me. It’ll be hard for him to trust any adults if some are kind to him and some are…mistreating him,” 

Bishop hummed, watching the woman in front of him. “Unfortunately with the circumstances, mistreatment as you call it, is our road to understanding them and any others potentially like them,”  

(And these turtles couldn’t stop him like the Turtles he knew. They couldn’t advocate. They didn’t understand how to make him stop. It was the familiar feeling he’d always chased with the Turtles but never seemed to be able to grasp because of them. This was opportunity. This was chance. 

Bishop knew this wasn’t justice, this wasn’t redress, and he knew intimately it wasn’t any form of twisted or vindictive karma the universe was spitting back at him.

This was recompense.

They’d stopped his research, his supply of resources and even his reputation at times before he managed to get it back. 

The Turtles had stopped him time and time again, costing him millions, and ruining nearly every plan he tried to start and failed to finish because of the Turtles. 

He was curious but that didn’t mean he wasn’t petty.)

The woman’s eyebrows twitched again, glasses glinting low under the light. “Then let me be perfectly clear. Red is not an anomaly to himself. He’s a child . He speaks in metaphors and imagery when his words fail him. He reacts to memories with his body instead of logic, as most children do. He is traumatized ,”

Bishop had to suppress a smirk. Only letting cold indifference slip through the mask. “I’m well aware of the symptoms of trauma it displays,” 

She made a small, aborted movement and her lips pursed. “If he stops talking to me, Agent Bishop, you won’t get him to speak to anyone. Not without breaking something you can’t measure in lab numbers or fix with sutures,”

Bishop raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It hasn’t shown any typical signs of psychological or physical breakdown, Dr. Raine. MT-073-A talking is a vital aspect of this research, Doctor. Worrying about how upset it's going to be at the end of the day isn’t something conducive I’m afraid,” 

She took a controlled breath, expression all cold fire and heated iron. “I was brought here to assess his mental state and access to his own emotions and memories. I’m telling you plainly—access depends on trust. If you burn that bridge, you will lose the only reliable entryway for what he knows. That’s not sentiment, Agent Bishop. That’s logistics, that’s a fact, ” 

Bishop’s mouth twitched. “And I find that perfectly reasonable, Dr. Raine. And I’m not asking you to burn any bridges and neither are we looking to either. All we want is understanding and to build relationships with the unknown. And being an unknown puts MT-073-A into a position of greater intrigue. You can’t tell me you’re not curious of where MT-073-A came from,” 

“My work doesn’t begin with what makes a child interesting. It begins with what makes them safe . Once Red feels safe, I imagine his origins will become much easier to talk about,” She stated plainly but not without steel. 

Bishop imagined she might’ve rolled her eyes if she was any less professional and composed. Perhaps it was the way her fists clenched and eyes narrowed, he wasn’t entirely sure but it was entertaining nonetheless.

“Safety is an important feeling,” Bishop nodded slowly. “That I can agree with but I need you to remember what you’re here for. As you said—assessment. Evaluation. Understanding what makes it feel safe is a critical part of that,” His words are subtly sharp, pointed at the edges and by the way she bristled—in a way that was masked as shifting in place—she noticed how sharp his words were too. “But we’re after genesis, Dr. Raine. Does that make sense?” 

She stiffened, eyes bright and razor-edged. “Genesis is a story . You can’t uncover it like a bone at a paleontological site. You have to let it be told. And children don’t tell stories to people they’re afraid of,” 

Bishop nodded along, as diplomatic as he could be. As he should be. “I’m well aware of how difficult fear makes it convey information properly and effectively. But that’s what you’re here for isn’t it? To create a place where MT-073-A feels…comfortable sharing that story?” 

“I am creating that space. But trust isn’t just a tool I use—it’s something he’s watching everyone for. He sees when it’s genuine. He also sees when it’s being used against him . That distinction may be the difference between speaking and shutting down permanently,” She said, voice cutting. 

“Of course Dr. Raine,” Bishop replied coolly. “But the perceptiveness of MT-073-A isn’t what’s being called into question. It’s whether or not it trusts you. That’s what you're for. Trust and comfortability. It’s what we hired you for or did you forget that in the few short weeks you’ve been under contract?” 

“If your concern is whether or not he trusts me,” She said slowly, carefully. Controlled but no less prickled at the edges. “Then I suggest not undermining that relationship consistently in the room next over. Trust is slow. Fragile. And if you break it, I won’t be able to put it back together,”

Bishop looked at her, at the woman he hired and the woman that had all those neat little notes written up and stored away. Waiting to be scanned and put into the system. She knew why she was here and she knew that he knew. If that part wasn’t abundantly obvious at this point.

But he doubted she would stay hired for much longer. These ones seldom are. 

(He had gotten enough out of her already. He saw the way her lip curled whenever she handed over something that was supposed to be confidential. Bishop took them every time with a polite smile and firm nod and every time he could see what was boiling under her composed and warm exterior.

She cared. 

And it was that care that got him exactly what he wanted.)

“But you’ve earned MT-073-A’s trust enough, yes? The reports you’ve given are quite thorough. I’m afraid I don’t understand why any more caution is needed when the results speak for themselves,” 

She twitched. Subtly. He doubted anyone else would see it, he doubted she even noticed it herself. “Because trust doesn’t equal control, Agent Bishop. He trusts me enough to speak—but not enough to give away everything. If I push now, that trust collapses,” She took a quick breath, face twisting slightly. As if pained. “The reports are thorough because I’ve prioritized stability over speed. I could’ve forced more in less time, yes, but the fallout would’ve made everything after unreadable and too closely guarded to truly get anything of worth,”  

“Would it?” Bishop didn’t ask but he phrased it like he did. 

“Yes,” She said firmly, her words heavy and her jaw tight. “It would . Red isn’t a complicated lock you pick and shove tracing needles into until it opens. He’s a child. A frightened one. And yes, he’s a mutant, and yes, he’s survived things that should’ve killed him—but he is still a child ,”

Bishop looked back at her and smiled something cold and professional. Token and practiced a million times. “I beg to differ on that note Ms. Raine,” 

Her expression darkened. “ Dr. Raine,” 

“Of course,” He said neutrally. “Apologies, Dr. Raine,” 

He never cared much for the phrase of ‘you could cut the tension with a knife’ but it was a good description for the little charade happening in front of him.

“You study behavior, yes?” Her eyes were stormy behind her red framed glasses, expression nothing sort of deadly and hostile. “You should know that condescension doesn’t breed compliance. It breeds resistance. Especially in children. Especially in professionals,”

Bishop gazed at her, at her sharp tone and shaper demeanor. This was getting nowhere. “I think we’re done here Dr. Raine,” He stood smoothly and gathered up his paperwork in one fell swoop. Words abrupt, causal, rehearsed. “I won’t keep you any longer,”  

Her eyes narrowed, eyebrows knit and she stood just as smoothly. She adjusted her glasses in a way that could only be described as dignified and elegant. Bishop could appreciate the technique. 

“You can’t deconstruct a mind and expect it to thank you afterward,” She said, expression tight and unpleasant. 

He smiled, faux and canary. “Gratitude breeds care Dr. Raine,” He gave her one last glance, hand on the door knob. “And I don’t work in care and I think we both know that. Have a good afternoon Ms. Raine, I hope you find whatever fulfillment you’ve been searching for,” He opened the door and stepped through, mind already pulling up what was next on the schedule. 

But he did hear one last that thing before the door fully slipped closed: 

“…And I hope you find whatever’s left of your soul,” 

The smile went a little wider, the words singing in the air. 

If he had one, he was pretty sure he had lost it a long time ago. 

Because in matters of war and national security—there wasn’t much room for one anyway. 

…

—||—

Dr. Raine was quietly let go the following day, NDA firmly in place and legal penalties hanging over her head. She would either keep quiet or damn her and her family to something worse than just meager jail time. 

Red used to see her three times a week. 

But now there wasn’t anything to fill that block anymore. 

He got his blood and tissues taken twice as much to compensate. 

(He cried twice as much too.)

Chapter Text

They wouldn’t have done it. 

Bishop knew the Turtles wouldn’t have been able to do it. Looking at the pictures taken of the brands of the two infantile mutants, the way the scar tissue folded delicately, deliberately—making an undeniable shape that was identifiable even at a glance—he knew the Turtles wouldn’t have been able to do it. Do something like that. 

Brand. Children . 

It’s something Bishop himself would hesitate to do to his own kind. And with how heartfelt and…family focused the Turtles themselves were, he knew that they wouldn’t have done that. 

His theory of their relationship was near flawless except for a few key details. 

And the brands were one of them. 

He could only assume Blue and Purple were the two “numbers” between the snapper and the box turtle. A fully marked and engineered set. 

Bishop had thought about cloning the Turtles at times. It was difficult not to at some points. Their mutated DNA made them faster and stronger than the average person and their shells protected their necks and spine—a human’s most delicate and vital part of them. Obviously they were a good genome pool to draw from. 

But there were drawbacks. The energy, time and resources that would go into making them never fully justified the end result or what could come of it. He would never really know if they would stay loyal to him. Cloning in completion would often lead to a near exact temperament and conflict style. Something he wasn’t too keen on replicating in some of the Turtles’ cases. 

Donatello would be an easy yes for the most part. He was much more even tempered than the rest of them, sans Leonardo in some cases. The intelligence would be both a boon and potential threat and the turtle himself lacked the drive to hurt people when needs be. So there would be hesitation in those areas.

Raphael would be too bull-headed. Dog trodden and fire-willed. It would make it difficult to control whatever came from him.

Michelangelo would be a wild card. Unpredictable and bouncy in a way that would make him hard to control. Prone to rebellion and most of his reasoning—from what he’d seen—was “because it would be funny”. No good in a soldier or a weapon that Bishop would want to utilize. 

Leonardo….well. He was an interesting case. Pragmatic, self driven, skilled in anything he well and truly picked up. Thoughtful and strategic to a fault. There would be no doubt that a clone from him would be useful but his loyalty could be twisted against Bishop all too easily if he wasn’t careful. A glass cannon if he let it be one. 

All in all—clones were something he’d thought of but not put much stock into. 

But…seeing Red and Orange had made him question if someone else already went for it. 

It was a thought that had begun circulating. 

It would explain a lot. The extreme healing, robust physical forms, even the different species. If the Turtles themselves were cloned, or at the very least used as a main repository for DNA, and Red, Orange, Purple and Blue came of it? That would explain the names, simple, easy, objectifying. It would explain the brands. Numbered, a part of a unit but adjacent in personhood to cattle or livestock. It would explain the injuries. Numerous, oddly specific but healing in a way that shouldn’t be biologically possible by any means. 

It would even explain the mystic potential the two of them had. If the cloners had figured out a way to amplify the energy in the two for easier and more hand-heavy use? It was a weapon that didn’t need a pocket to be concealed or a sheath to be held in. 

It would explain just about everything. It explained everything that his original idea of it didn’t. 

But that didn’t mean that his original idea didn’t have any merit. 

If he were to guess, he would say that the Colored Unit was cloned but found in early, early infanthood by the Turtles. Then raised for however long it took for the Turtles to foster stable, loving relationships and memories with them only for them to be taken—or at the very least Orange and Red were taken—back by the ones that made them. 

To be used and tortured and for their panic to activate their mystic powers. Leading them to teleport away from their original creators. 

And right into Bishop’s hands. 

It made sense. It made a delicious, horrifying amount of sense. 

He had to admit he was a bit jealous of whoever had the technology and resources to do such a thing. A foreign country? An independent party? 

Regardless it was this thought that stabilized in his mind because it made far more sense then the Turtles’ finding more mutant turtles willing and wanting to propagate with. 

Because if there were female turtles running around he would have noticed, documented and analyzed their threat levels already.

But there weren’t.

So this was his new idea. 

And it made sense. 

A calming, good amount of sense. 

So it was the one he moved forward with. 

—||—

The coffee they had was bitter. Of course all coffee was bitter but this was cheap bitter, the kind that stuck to the roof of your mouth and made your teeth stain brown. He didn’t drink it often but there were times where he found himself with one in hand. 

His peers and colleagues milled around him, drinking teeth staining coffee and nibbling on granola bars. Though one in particular stood out to him. One he’d been wanting to talk to for a good long while up and to this point and now the opportunity had presented itself.

Funny how these things seemed to work sometimes.

“Dr. Bowe,” Bishop greeted smoothly, nodding in a polite hello. 

The man blinked and looked up from his position hunched over a stack of charts. There was a half empty cup, ringed and rimmed black. It must’ve been filled a couple times. 

“Oh—uh,” He blinked again, a little frazzled. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes flashed contemplative. “Sorry…John…was it? You’re heading the Sunset research, correct?” He reached out to shake hands and Bishop obliged. 

Bishop let himself down into the chair across from the man and nodded calmly, placing his filled cup down beside him. “Just call me Bishop,” He said amiably. “And yes. The Sunset research is my prerogative at the moment. You’re apart of the main well-being team,” 

Dr. Bowe nodded. “I am,” He smiled slightly. “Charming creatures, aren’t they?” 

“Very,” Bishop hummed. 

“They really, really are,” Dr. Bowe’s eyes went somewhere else for an enthused moment before returning, something respectfully giddy coming back with it. “MT-092-B takes the antibiotics injections like a champ,” His eyes twinkled. “I’ve seen adults complain more about a saline drip, then he does about severe third degree burns,” Dr. Bowe praises conversationally. “Honestly I’d love to know more about them as a potential species but…ah well…” He broke off wistfully. 

“So they’re healing well I assume?” He knew how well they were healing but personally thoughts and insights weren’t included in lab reports and medical charts. 

Dr. Bowe nodded. “Very. The regenerative rates are exceeding projections, even for enhanced phenotypes.” He absentmindedly took a sip from his coffee, nose wrinkling at the taste but it smoothed out just as absently. “I’ve stopped trying to predict scar formation—at this point, it’s practically decorative,” He smiled like he made a joke, laughing a little to go along with it. “It’s hard not to want to open one up and… see how the pieces work. Obviously not literally…but, ah–well, you know what I mean,”

Bishop hummed tuneless. He let the silence hang for a moment, thinking, before he said: “And…what would you think if there were more?” 

The other blinked, eyes wide. “More?” He laughed. “Well honestly I…well…hm,” His eyebrows furrowed. 

“Hypothetically,” Bishop tacked on easily. 

“Hypothetically…” He mused for a moment. “Well…from a medical standpoint, that would be fascinating. A wider genetic pool might show us what’s standardized versus individualized. Are they anomalies or an actual species? Something wholly unique? That sort of thing,” His eyes glittered with his words and a curious smile played on his lips. “Honestly with more data points under observation I’d have more work then I could handle but I’m sure specimen processing and biochem would go crazy,” His eyebrows went up, eyes amused, and he drank from his paper cup again. 

The Biochemistry department was feral, even Bishop had to acknowledge that.

Bishop took his own cup, mirroring a quick sip. He set the cup aside, idly wondering when they would get new coffee in the lounge. This stuff simply wasn’t cutting it. “And…what about in a more…public area of interest? Purely speculative of course but…I would like to know your thoughts, as a professional and a skilled care specialist,” 

“I’d get something published,” He said quickly, enthusiastically. “We’re talking about unprecedented regeneration rates, neurologically complex juvenile behavior, and fully integrated hybrid physiology ,” He shook his head, a little disbelieving. “You don’t get two like them by accident. If there are more, someone meant for them to be something. I mean, forget CRISPR —this is something else entirely,” 

Bishop made an encouraging noise and Dr. Bowe kept going. 

“And public interest?” He laughed a little manically into his cup. “Military would foam at the mouth. Pharmaceutical could chase the regenerative angle. Pediatrics might wet themselves over the healing rates. And the media? Well…” He set his cup down, eyes turning over easy. “Have you seen them? Adorable,” 

Dr. Bowe paused for a moment, mulling something over. “Though personally, I think MT-092-B would break live television within five minutes. But it’d be a hell of a five minutes, I’d try to burn it on tape for my grandkids. They’d eat that shit up,” He blinked, momentarily embarrassed. “Ah, Sorry that was crass,” 

Bishop waved him off. “I don’t mind, as long you remain professional when working,” 

Dr. Bowe nodded reasonably. “Of course, sir, that I understand,” He paused. “Again sorry,” 

Bishop smiled and waved him off again and Dr. Bowe smiled wryly in return before he set his expression, becoming thoughtful once again.

“And if there were more?” He made a soft sound, partially in awe and partially in doubtful musing. “Gee, I’d say breeding programs honestly. Find when maturation hits and load them up with aphrodisiacs. As far as I know, the breeding season for turtles is once a year but if we can get more than one clutch from each?” He said, tone still enthusiastic and mellowed by convention. “Phew—I’d put my investment in that,” 

Bishop was honestly and genuinely surprised. His eyebrows went up a smidge. He hadn’t expected that. 

“We’d need to monitor hormone levels first, of course. See if there’s a puberty marker—growth spurts, aggression, scent changes, maybe even coloration shifts. Like reptiles, but with…human parts mixed in,” He smiled, eyes sharp and loaded into the distance. “Let’s say you get four breeding pairs from the first generation,” He mused softly, keenly, dangerously. “Each pair produces, say, five viable offspring per clutch, with four clutches a year. That's almost a hundred and sixty in just two years ,” 

“That’s…a lot,” Bishop said carefully, mind running numbers and possibilities. 

“It is,” Dr. Bowe affirmed. “A whole managed population of…of well super soldiers,” His fingers twitched violently and his words started coming out faster. “And if we tracked traits over generations? MT-073-A’s aggression could be inheritable . And maybe even MT-092-B resilience as well. We could isolate temperaments, even cognitive thresholds. Breed for task-specific roles—scouts, tacticians, field medics. Like breeding specialty dogs. Gun hounds, sled dogs, coke sniffers, that sort of thing but with something that stands on two legs instead of four,”

He hummed, thoughtful, manic, ravenous in a controlled, on the lid sort of way. “And maybe we wouldn’t even have to wait for it to happen naturally . If we can isolate the reproductive genes and splice them early, we could accelerate maturation in-vitro. Twenty years to develop a soldier? Try five,” He looked almost dreamy, excited in a frothing at the mouth sort of way. A kid with too many markers, an off-white wall and an unattending babysitter absorbed in their phone. “Five years for a battlefield-ready organism. That’s the kind of timeline that gets funding,”

Dr. Bowe leaned back in his chair, near empty coffee cup in hand. He took a long gulp and placed the cup down louder than necessary. 

Bishop blinked slowly, watching the man unravel was funny in its own way. “You got your degree through military service, correct?” 

“Sure did,” The other said, nodding. “Army. Three tours before they bumped me into research and trauma ops. I liked it, honestly. The clarity. You either fixed someone, or you didn’t,” He tapped the rim of his cup, expression nostalgic and simple. “No paperwork, no politics. Just blood, bone, and timing. It was…calming, if that makes any sense,”

“I’m sure it was,” Bishop replied. There was a reason Dr. Bowe was hired and this was one of them. 

“I…liked it. What they gave me. Structure, purpose, a good scalpel. And in return I gave them fifteen years and a body count I’m not allowed to talk about,” He shrugged, eyes mirthful. “I miss it sometimes. The simplicity. This?” He gestured lightly to the files. “This is just the same work in better lighting. I guess that’s something I’ve always appreciated about it,” 

Bishop remained quiet, watching carefully. 

“Honestly?” Dr. Bowe said after a pause, tone contemplative and verging on respectful. “Those two are tougher than half the soldiers I’ve triaged. MT-092-B took a cauterization like it was a flu shot. And MT-073-A? He didn’t even flinch when I re-wrapped his shoulder last week,” He paused again. “Even time I see them, they flinch a little less, I have no idea if it’s inherit or them just getting used to the pain but either way it's impressive,” 

“How is their progress by the way? Last I was informed they could be off a number of pain medications and antibiotics within the next two weeks,”  

Dr. Bowe nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Yup, that’s right. They’re healing remarkably well. I thought we would have to worry about MT-073-A’s shell segments but nope. It’s healing well, it's slow progress but it's progress. Consistent, even, admirable progress, even. The antibiotics are mostly prophylactic at this point, and pain response has dropped to what I’d classify as manageable baseline,” He rattled off matter of factly. “Honestly, I could wean them both off half their regimens tomorrow, but I’m spacing it out. No need to shock the system,”

That was in line with what Bishop had seen and read as well. 

Dr. Bowe paused, frowning slightly. “Their pain profiles are strange though,” 

“Strange?” Bishop asked lightly. 

“Yeah strange. Physiologically, they should be showing higher indicators. But either their nervous systems are dampened, or they’ve already adapted—maybe neurologically pruned response pathways?” He mused, humming softly. His expression turning into something almost impressed. “And if it’s adaptive? That’s a kind of trauma response I’ve never seen before. Disturbing, but…” He paused for a good five seconds before continuing, looking eerily pleased about something. “ Efficient, ”

Efficient. That was a good word to use. The two mutant’s biology was…efficient. (And he had to know if Blue and Purple’s biology were as well and how they were so efficient when the Turtles just…weren’t.) 

Bishop hummed and let the man talk. The curious and half manic rambles were more informative than any medical charts or bio-markers labs would be. Numbers were good. Cold hard facts and color coded reports were even better. Information was what he dealt with. But unknowns? That is where he thrived.

That. 

Is where he got his soul from. 

Or whatever was left of it anyways. 

Chapter Text

Red and Orange were in a room. 

A big round, featureless room. It was tall and there weren’t any windows. 

Nobody told them what was happening. 

“It’s so big,” 

“Hm?” Red blinked and turned to Orange. His little brother was looking around, eyes wide and shiny with curiosity. He was smiling. It made Red smile too. 

“The room,” Orange pointed up and Red looked up. And yeah. It was big. 

“Mmmmmm,” Red nodded, tail thumping the ground lightly. “Whadd’ya think it's for?” 

“Huh?” Orange asked. 

“The room,” Red repeated. 

“Oh,” Orange said shortly. “Ummmmmm…” He tapped his chin and he rocked back and forth on his feet. “I dunno, something…um…big?” 

“Hmm, that makes sense,” Red nodded, because it did. 

“ Good morning specimens MT-073-A and MT-092-B. Today we are going to be testing a few things, so wait for a couple minutes while we get that ready,” A voice spoke up from an intercom somewhere, pleasant but flat. “ You’ll get your pick of jello afterwards,” 

Orange gasped. “JELLO!!??” 

Red snickered because Orange reeeeally liked jello. Red did too. It was all….sweet and nice and… (And it was the first nice thing he could remember after the crater and after everything bad happened and after everything was hurting and, and, and…) 

(..and…

…

He couldn’t remember.)

“WE GET JELLO!!?” Orange jumped on the balls of his feet, hands flapping and wiggling. Excited trills and chirps spilling out. 

Red’s tail thumped a little harder. (But…but he was a little worried too. Because… what, what were they gonna do? Was it bad? Good? Was it…was it gonna hurt? Red didn’t want it to hurt, he didn’t…) 

He glanced up, waiting for the mysterious voice to answer but nothing came of it. 

Orange glanced around wildly. “What’do you think were gonna do?” 

“Ummm..Red thinks…” He thought about it for a second. “...running?” 

“Uhhh—maybe!” 

Red hummed and looked around again, seeing if anything was happening. 

Soon they both heard a distinct click-click noise and a little hatch over on the far side opened up and something walked out.

A dog.

“Ooooooo,” Orange oo’d and ah’d appreciatively. “That’s um…a…” His brow furrowed. “Ummmm,” 

“Doggie,” Red supplied helpfully, he was curious but…but wary too. It was a big dog. 

Orange gasped happily. “Doggie!” Orange began to hop over, eyes sparkling. “Hello doggie!” 

But the dog growled when Orange took another step, teeth bared and eyes like tinted glass. (Where had he heard that? Why couldn’t he remember?) 

Orange froze. He blinked, confused. “Umm…it's okay doggie,” He walked closer, a little slower, no longer hopping. Red could see how nervous his lil’ brother was getting. 

Red followed closely behind Orange, eyes tracking the animal and fidgeting with his hands.

The dog continued to bare its teeth, ears pulled back. A low growl tumbling out and through the air and feeling distinctly like rough, gravely things and stuff you kept locked away in a kitchen drawer.

That was a bad sound. Red recognized it as nodon’ttouchmebadwaitforsomethingthreat?threat?protectfollowfollowfollownonononono. 

Bad sound. A threat. (Red knew threats .)

He grabbed Orange and pulled him back, trying to keep his feet steady. He didn’t slip but that didn’t mean he almost did. 

“Wh—” Orange wiggled in his grasp. “It’s okay! He’s just–um—anxious!” 

Red didn’t know what that word meant. 

“Not safe,” Red mumbled, scared and worried. He drew back, pulling Orange with him, tugging and wanting to get away.

“No, it’s okay—” 

But then another beep echoed through the room and the dog bolted at them. 

Red yelped and dove out of the way just in time, Orange went stiff in his grasp. The dog scrambled back up and pushed off of the ground, after them. 

Red hoisted Orange above his head and ran, tears gathering in his eyes. He squeaked as he avoided another bite from the dog. It barked at them, loud, loud, loud, loud—

Red whined and ran faster. Feet hurting and fear in his lungs.

Orange was crying. “What’s wrong with doggie—what’s—” He chirped, shrill and confused and scared. His little brother was scared. “Why’s—why’s he—” He chirped again, looking back at the dog when Red couldn’t. 

Red kept running. 

It didn’t take long for them to be backed into a corner and by then Red’s lungs hurt and squeezed and his legs were shaking and he felt so cold and hot and, and not good and the dog stalked closer, growling so loud, loud, loud—

He was scared, so, so, so, so scared. 

Was he—was he gonna die ? Was Orange going to die? 

He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want Orange to die. He, he wanted Purple and Blue back. He wanted to stop hurting, to stop being achy all over and, and—and—

The dog jump and Red hit—

— It was bright and warm and protective and filled with memories and love and panic, panic, panic, panic, panic—

The dog yelped and flew backwards, crumpling instantly. Twitching, once, twice and then finally: still.

The dog went still.

Red’s breath hitched, eye wide and tears streaming down his face. The red light around his hands was dimming fast but Red could still feel the— warm, warm, warm, warm, good, family, warm, PROTECT— of it. He shook and a low warble came out of his chest and through his throat. 

Orange was perched, clenched and scared, on his shoulders, shaking just as much and crying even more. His breath hitched as well. 

They stared at the dog and waited for it to get back up. ( Would it, would it, would they—

Were they safe?)

But it didn’t. 

“...d-doggie?” Orange’s voice trembled so much it was more of noise than a word. 

He ambled down from Red’s shoulders, shaky but firmly placed, and moved to take a step closer but Red flinched and his hand snapped out to stop him. ( Dangerous, dangerous—it was—

Was it safe? Were they safe? He didn’t know.)

Orange glanced up at him and Red shook his head mutely. It…it wasn’t safe. It-it couldn’t be. Not yet. 

Orange looked at him, watery and wet, for a long minute or two before he nodded, still shaky and scared. 

(Red was too. Shaky and scared. Was he ever anything else?)

Red pulled his little brother closer and Orange went easy. Red’s legs shook and he let himself fall to the ground, staring at the crumpled form of the dog the whole time. 

Orange curled up in his lap and Red curled around him, protective. Shaky. Scared.

They stayed like that for a while, quailing, sobbing, confused. Until: 

“...huh. Alright then. I…guess you two get some jello now,” 

But Red didn’t want Jello anymore. 

He just wanted to stop being scared. 

(Please, please, he didn’t want to be scared anymore.)

  —||—

“...do you think the doggie was scared too..?” 

“...” 

“...I…I think it was…I…I bet they were mean to it too,” 

“...” 

“...Red?” 

“...hm?” 

“I— I—” A sniff. “ I wann–hhaana go h-home–” 

Crying, desperate, scared. 

“ I w-wannahha go hooome—” 

—||—

Red was awake with Orange secured in his arms and crying his little heart out. Red was crying but more quietly, actively trying to stop them from leaking out. He was trying to be brave. Trying so hard to be brave for Orange. He had to, he had to, he just had to—

But.

 He…he wanted to go home too. 

They both did. They...

They just wanted…

…

—||—

They did more tests like that one. More scary ones, each one more and more scary than the last. Dogs, and needles, and electricity wires and underwater for too long and choking on gas and moving boxes for hours and hours and bleeding feet and hot coals and fire and cold air and too long sleeping and tapping with sharp things and digging holes and getting bit by snakes and spiders and frogs and bees and plants and fishes and getting pushed over into a too deep pool below and please, please, please, pease, please, please, please, please stop it hurts, please just stop, PLEASE PLEASE IT HURTS PLEASE I CAN’T I DON’T WANT TO ANYMORE PLEASE JUST STOP PLEASE—

Orange stopped asking why they were in rooms and stopped talking about how cool they were. It was too scary. So when they were in a new room, Orange just hid behind him and Red got ready to hit whatever the scary thing was. 

Red was scared. 

But he could be brave for Orange.

He would do anything for Orange. 

—||—

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, BRING HIM BACK PLEASE—

—||—

They took Orange away from him. They took Orange away from him. 

They took Orange away from him and locked him in a dark room without Orange. 

Red pounded and hit the walls and the door and cried and cried and cried and cried—

He can’t—he can’t—he can’t—h-he—

Everything felt icky and sharp and stuffed full of bad and he couldn’t breathe–

He hit and screamed and cried because it was scary, scary, scary—

He was alone—he was—

He wasn’t—it hurt so much—

He didn’t want to be alone again—

He didn’t want to be with the big scary gum monster again, with the teeth and tendrils and brain stabbing and—

It hurt and it hurt and it hurt—

It made his brain all fuzzy and bad and confusing and everything was WRONG and, and, and, and—

Icky and bad and scratchy and achy and hurts and hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, IT HURTS—

—||—

…

…

…

…

…it's been so long. 

—||—

He scratched and cried and hit and kicked and punched and howled and CRIED—

The— good warm good family protect— tried but it wasn’t working—

Everything was too fuzzy and achy and bad and—

—||—

It smelt like blood. Like vomit and urine and fear. 

It smelt bad. 

But Red could barely notice. 

He just wanted out—

—||—

… please…

….

…

…

…

…

…

—||—

…the door opened. 

—||—

Orange crashed into him and Red sobbed, holding him tightly. Orange was a flurry of shaking and chirps and cries and Red held him close. Holding him and petting and churring and chirping and quacking and trembling and wailing with relief—

They were back together. They were back together—

—||—

Never again, never again, never again, never again, never again—

—||—

Again, again, again, again—no—no–no n-no—PLEASE NO NOT AGAIN PLEASE—

—||—

He pounded and kicked and howled—

—||—

He cried he cried he cried he cried he cried he—

—||—

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—he CAN’T—

—||—

It was dark…

…

…

It was dark. It was so…so dark. 

He couldn’t see. 

B-but he wasn’t there—

He knew Orange wasn’t…he wasn’t…

..he..he wasn’t…

Red felt sick. Churning and turning and prickly sick. 

He was aching and hurt and he just wanted his little brother back. 

…

H-he…he just wanted—

…

…

There was a noise. A big…loud noise. One that he could hear…even…even when it was so quiet and he couldn’t hear anything else. 

It…it was muffled but…but he could tell it was loud. An…alarm…maybe…?

He…he…

He didn’t know…he…

He just wanted Orange back. He…

...

He just wanted his brother back.