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Chapter Text

In a flash of light, Leo falls. He can feel himself hurtling towards the ground, blinded, and dreads the impact 

Only, it never comes. Between one moment and the next, his view changes from the starless city sky to a view of the street from a nearby rooftop. He stumbles slightly, feeling a rush of vertigo as he tries to regain his balance. 

That was—strange. How did he get here? One moment, he was falling. The next, he was on his feet, his vision shadowed at the edges. 

He shakes his head. Whatever. Figuring it out could wait. He needed to get back into the game. 

Only, when he reaches to pull out his swords, he’s stopped at the sight of two big human arms instead of the green he was expecting. Leo stops, pulling them down to stare at the gloved hands. 

He flexes his fingers—his five fingers—and jolts when he hears someone call his name. 

“Leo! Where are you, bro?” 

Instinctively, he calls, “I’m here,” and finds his voice is wrong now, too. He covers his mouth, as if that will stop the wrongness from coming out, but his hand meets a barrier of resistance. 

His head, he was—he was wearing something on his head .

Leo rips it off. In his hands (not his, they were wrong, so wrong ) was a shiny red helmet, gleaming menacingly against the city lights. 

In the reflection, Leo could see a face. 

A square human face, with surge green eyes and a streak of white amidst black locks. 

Damian knows instinctively to shield his eyes when the flash occurs. Because despite whatever could happen to his body, vision was much more important to preserve. It was an easy choice. He lowers his arms quickly the moment he feels it subside, blinking spots from his vision. 

He is no longer out on the street with Batman, facing the false warlock. Instead he was perched on a fire escape, tucked away in an alley. Damian pushes to stand with the express intent of orienting himself, only to nearly fall head first the moment he’s upright. It’s with quick reflexes that he reaches and grabs onto the stairwell. It was not a death drop, but he certainly would’ve broken something.

But now he puzzles, because why had he nearly fallen? Learning and understanding his centre of balance was one of the most basic of basics, something he learned the moment he could walk. It takes a lot, such as an injury to the head, to throw that off. 

A piece of the puzzle falls into place when he turns his head away from the drop to his hand still gripping the rusted railing. He pulls himself up completely, forgoing the perch for the wider net of balcony to stand in. His eyes stay on his hands, large and dumb and green as they are. They’re knotted up in the wraps of a fighter, bearing also elbow pads when he looks. 

A glance down at his body makes it all even stranger. On his chest was something hard and immovable, like armour. He could feel something on his back weighing him down, and he could distinctly feel the metal grating on his mostly-uncovered feet. 

“Robin!” 

Damian’s head snaps up at the sound of Batman’s voice. No, Father’s . His voice holds an uncertainty that has something lurching in his chest. He twitches towards it, wanting to reassure him that he was fine. Instinctively he reaches for his grapple, before remembering that there was all… this …going on and he likely wouldn’t have one to—

Oh. It was just, it was on the other side of his… his belt. A belt. Very much not his. 

Well, it would have to do. 

There Tim was, arguing with a… turtle. Some hybrid species that had more brains but about the same temper as Killer Croc. It was dressed battle-ready too, wielding sais as if it—he, she, they?—knew their way around it intimately. 

They had a far more extensive vocabulary than Croc, that was for sure. Tim was getting the dressing down of a lifetime as the turtle continuously attempted to maim him. He’d been forced to crack out his staff just to avoid getting stabbed. 

Then, as he was in the middle of parrying an attack, the world whites out completely. When he’s finally able to see again, he’s in the air, throwing what looks to be some sort of chain and sickle. In order to not go splat, he continues the motion, keeping a firm grip on the chain as it snags on to the rooftop it’d been heading for. 

He grunts when the momentum of the chain snagging yanks at his arm. It takes as much strength he can muster to keep a firm hold on the chain as he swings. 

Tim lowers himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding a collision between his hip and a trash can. Planting his feet on the ground isn’t as graceful as he expects it to be, but he pushes that aside to instead head back in search of the turtle. 

“Robin!” 

His instinct to jerk towards the sound of Batman’s call is not one he likes to think about. It wasn’t his title, hasn’t been for awhile now, but it didn’t fail to prick his ear. 

Tim hesitates for only a moment. If something was wrong with Damian, B could likely use some backup. 

He runs towards where Batman and Robin are huddled together on the road. 

“Hey B—”

“Batman!” 

Tim stops, his steps stuttering when the unfamiliar voice calls out so seriously. He glances across the street towards the new voice, everything halting completely when he sees yet another turtle, this time wearing purple. 

What is going on?

“Raph?”

Mikey calls out to his brother unsurely. His brain has suddenly gone sideways up, somehow teleporting (without even trying to this time). 

His feeling of weird and off only grows as Raph across from him blinks and shakes his head, as if also disoriented. Was he teleported too??

When Raph meets his eyes though, he doesn’t respond. His eyes go all wide while his brows furrow. 

“Wh—Ti—Uh, Red Robin. Did you just get transported too?” Raph(?) strides forward, glancing around as if searching for a threat. He comes in so fast and so wrong that Mikey can’t help but take a step back, dodging the hand that was to land on his shoulder. 

Not Raph frowns, his hand hovering in the air. “Red Robin, what’s—?” His (not) brother pauses then, seeming to only now notice something was off. He inclines his head to meet his eyes now that they were close. 

Mikey takes another step back, then another. He books it out of there, jumping the next rooftop over. Worriedly, he glances behind him, but his incorrect brother doesn’t follow him. 

He skids to a stop on a ledge, searching the streets below. The spooky dude in the cape was huddled around his sidekick on the ground. Oddly, as Mikey looks at them, he’s reminded of Wingnut and Screwloose. 

Focus, Mikey, focus. 

He sticks to the rooftops as he looks for his other brothers. Hopefully they weren’t wrong too…

“Donnie? Leo!” He calls once. Then again, “Leo! Where are you, bro?”

Mikey jolts when he hears someone call, “I’m here.” It wasn’t Leo’s voice. 

Still, he follows it. What he finds instead of his brother is a huge guy, holding a red helmet in his hands and wearing wayyy too much leather. 

The guy looks at him sharply when he lands, eyes a green not unlike Raph’s. Except maybe… glowing? 

Mikey chuckles awkwardly, swinging his arms. “The name Leo common down here in Jersey?” 

The strange guy straightens up the moment he hears that. He squints at Mikey, eyeing him over carefully. 

Then, hesitantly, he asks, “Mikey?”

Chapter Text

Five minutes earlier…

“And what does this have to do with us, exactly?” 

“Raph,” Leo starts, sighing. 

“What? Seems like these freaks in spandex got it all covered. I’d hate to step on any toes.”

“Raph, you love to step on toes,” Donnie interjects dryly. “As for your question—“

“—the answer is, we should offer help should they need it. It’s called being kind.” 

Donnie clicks his tongue, fiddling with his scrapheap tech. “The real answer is that my scanner picked up a trace of mutagen in the area. The flashy wizard is unrelated.” 

“Isn’t it kinda fun to watch?” Mikey asks, peeking over the edge of the roof. “I wanna know how the pros do it.” 

Leo crouches down beside his youngest brother, observing. “They do seem highly skilled for a group of humans. Have we ruled out superpowers?”

“I think it’d be fairly obvious if they were on the same level as Superman.” Donnie pauses. “But I haven’t ruled it out, no.” 

“Whoa!” Mikey gasps, catching their collective attention as he lurches forward. “Did you see what Batdude just did? That was so cool!” He grins wide, enraptured by the scene below. A rough hand pats his shoulder, joining him at the edge. 

“I missed it. What happened?”

While Mikey and Raph watch over the fight, Leo peers over Donnie’s shoulder. The display admittedly didn’t make much sense to him, but he could guess based on how centred the blinking dot was that they were fairly close to the suspected mutagen. 

“We’ll have to do a sweep of the surrounding area,” Donnie notes. “It could be in one of these buildings, for all we know.” 

“What’s the chance that it’s laid in plain sight on a feathered cushion for us?” Leo intones. His taller brother snorts. 

“With our luck? One in one hundred.” 

“I thought so.” He sighs. “Okay. Mike, Raph.” He nods them over, putting his hands on his hips. “We’ll start with a sweep of the alleys. Spread out, but keep your T-phones handy. And stick to the shadows.” 

“You got it, Fearless Leader.”

“Right on!” 

“You betcha.” 

He nods, firm. “Good.”

Twenty minutes earlier…

“‘Wing, Hood, Double R, we need some reinforcements for a magic situation.”

“Got it. Location?”

“You’re asking me… why?”

“Uh oh. Magical mishap? Should I get Zee on the phone?” 

“Location is west of Upper East Side, couple blocks away from Miller Harbour. You’ll know it when you see it. Hood, you are on the list for any medium-large to apocalyptic level threats, in case you forgot. And no; I’m trying to contact her now.”

“What the hell is a medium-large threat?”

“If you’d bothered to read B’s threat scale, you’d know.”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are if you believe I would willingly subject myself to that thing. I like reading. But that thing is long and dry. Like a saltine. Do you want me to die choking on a saltine?”

“If it’ll get you to stop complaining.”

“Oracle, is there any info you can give us on what we’re stepping in to?” 

“Right. Well, I caught a minor disturbance about half an hour ago, and sent Batman and Robin to check it out. From what I can see, there’s only one person involved. But whoever they are, they’ve got some pretty nasty magic.”

“Mind-altering?”

“Not that I can tell. So far, they’ve managed to rip up all the surrounding concrete to use as projectiles.”

“Ahh. Ground-breaking.”

“… It’s lasting a bit too long for my liking, hence why I’ve called in the cavalry.”

“I’m crossing through Robinson Park now. ETA should be in ten.” 

“Roger that.”

“Stop.” 

Batman steps in front of Robin, using his adult form and dark cape to cover the boy still on the ground. He looks to either side of the street, where two humanoid turtles have emerged. They carry weapons, tucked away in belt straps reaching across their shells.

He uses his height advantage to appear looming in attempts to make them think twice about approaching him further. 

“State your identity and purpose.” 

Both creatures look at him with brows furrowed. He’s not sure how much clearer he needs to be. That was pretty straightforward.

The taller one, off to his left, takes a step forward, looking torn. It stops when he widens his stance. 

The smaller one, clad in an orange bandana to rival the former’s purple one, is suddenly clutching at its head like it’s feeling it for the first time. 

“Am I green???” The turtle in orange asks incredulously. Its young voice throws Bruce off a little. How old was this turtle? 

The turtle in purple sneers. “What, haven’t looked in a mirror all your life?” Its nasally voice oozes condescension. 

The latter scoffs in outrage. “Look who’s talking!” 

The tall turtle shuts its mouth with a snap, frowning. 

Bruce’s attention is pulled from the arguing when he feels Robin shift behind him. He turns slightly, looking at the boy. 

“Robin, stay back. We’re dealing with unknowns here.”

Robin doesn’t appear to be listening. He stares, slack-jawed, at the scene before him. Bruce has half a mind to pull him back, but there’s something happening. He wants to find out what. 

Robin mutters then, in complete bewilderment, “What in Newton’s Law…?” 

…

?

“Mikey?” He takes faltering steps forward. “And…” Bruce watches anxiously as Robin walks up to the taller turtle. Its glare has turned on his boy, now. It could snap at any moment. 

And just like he predicts, the turtle snatches Robin by the front of his suit, hoisting him into the air. Bruce is running forward, close enough when the turtle hisses, “Give me back my body, pretender.” 

Bruce snaps his hand out grab at the turtle’s wrist, growling at it to “Let go of Robin.” 

The turtle is frozen with a struck face, no longer looking at Robin but him. It left Bruce with questions, even if he kept his grip steadfast. 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” the turtle in orange cuts in, coming in quick. “B, it’s me. It’s Red Robin.” The young voice that speaks to him is at odds with the words that form to hit his ears. He stares at the turtle, eyes narrowed. 

“Give me a definitive reason why I should believe you,” he demands. 

The small turtle immediately responds with, “Code B3S5.” 

Bruce feels himself bristle a bit. 

As if reading his thoughts, the turtle starts, eyes wide, “Identification code R-74-R.” 

He lets go of his hackles upon hearing that, mollified, until,

“Father, it is I as well,” comes the taller turtle, “Your son. Code B3S5, identification R-08-15.”

Okay. That was… both proper codes from his sons. His sons who were turtles. Somehow. 

Bruce turns his gaze back on Robin, taking a closer look with fresh eyes. Upon closer inspection, the boy’s demeanour was far from Damian’s confidence and certainty. The boy blanches under his scrutiny, ducking his head until it’s practically receding into the collar. 

“Who are you.” 

“I’m— I’m—“ The voice of his son trembles. Bruce watches him visibly swallow, before, “My name is Donnie. I don’t know what’s happening.” 

“Your consciousness has invaded Robin’s body.” The face of his son grimaces. Nodding to Damian, his son sets the boy down, though careful to watch his body language in case he bolts. Gesturing to the turtle entities holding Tim and Damian’s consciousness, he asks, “Is one of these your original body?” 

The mystery invader gingerly points to the body Damian now inhabits. 

“Hybridized turtles,” Tim notes in that distinctly younger voice, “I met another one earlier. That one was in red. Wielded some sais.”

“You ran into one,” intones Bruce. Tim shrugs and nods. “Why didn’t you report it?” 

“I was a bit preoccupied with not getting stabbed. They’re deceptively fast, for turtles.” 

The mystery consciousness chimes in then, informing them, “While we’re technically genetic hybrids, our creation was a method entirely unrelated to gene splicing.”

“Yeah?” Tim raises a brow. “And what method was that?” 

The mystery boy’s mouth opens to respond, but immediately cows upon noticing he’s got the attention of all three vigilantes. He laughs nervously. 

“I feel like… I shouldn’t answer that…”

“Why?” Damian presses, glaring, arms crossed. “Have something to hide?”

“If you look at it one way, we all have something to hide—“

“Donnie?!”

Leo could count on his human hands (which he had now, for some reason) the number of times he’d encountered magic. Arguably on his turtle hands, depending on how you felt about the use of chi. 

He was not very fond of the instances when they occurred. See: cultists reviving their worst enemy and simultaneously ripping open a hole to the underworld. 

Swapping bodies with human vigilantes in a city they’ve never been to before was solidly swinging into the ‘dislike’ column. 

He swings down along with Mikey (in the body of a skinny, shaggy-haired human) using the grappling hook mercifully affixed to his belt. Down below, Donnie and Mikey (but not Mikey, because his little brother was to his left. Gah!) stand close with the mysterious Batman and his sidekick Robin. It sends his heart into a bit of a stir, seeing them so out in the open like that. 

The four on the ruined street glance their way as he and Mikey land. He watches them through the helmet (because it seemed important to wear) as they straighten, all except the little boy who stays with his shoulders at his ears. 

Batman watches them approach, his face impossible to read through the cowl. 

His brothers, though, will always be easy to read. Donnie(?) watches them like a hawk, wearing a menacing glare that scrutinizes their every move. (Not) Mikey wears a plastic expression, frozen in place as it processes the information in front of him. 

Not Mikey gives a flat laugh. “This just keeps getting better and better.” 

Meanwhile, the actual Mikey looks absolutely delighted. “Dude, is that what I look like to other people? I have such squish-able cheeks…!” He gushes over himself, pressing his gloved hands to his face in awe. Not Mikey looks visibly disturbed by this, his expression melting into one of abject horror. 

“What is happening to my face. What is happening.”

Leo clears his throat. Eyes draw back to him. 

“Hood,” Batman greets without a lick of inflection. 

He shifts on his feet, feeling a bit like he’s being dissected. Batman cut an intimidating figure, even at Leo’s newfound height. 

“B… Batman.” His hesitancy has him sweating. Did the man think he was this ‘Hood’ guy? No, definitely not. Right?

Batman gestures to his sidekick, who stands in the middle of everything rather awkwardly. “Robin was just telling me something interesting.”

On cue, Robin steps forward, shoulders shrugged up to his ears. He plays with the fingers of his gloves as he confesses, “My name is actually Donnie. It seems my mind has been transplanted from my body to this one. I don’t really know why.” 

His heart skips a beat the moment he hears Donnie’s name. So that’s where he was. But where was Raph? 

He realizes after a second that Batman and likely two of his team members (in his brothers’ bodies) were looking at him expectantly for an answer. To confess his identity so openly had him jittery, but he really didn’t have much of a choice. The secret had already been revealed. 

Leo takes a breath. “I’m—“

The leader is abruptly interrupted by a clang. He stops and glances back, along with everyone else, to the alley just off to their left. 

Someone hisses in pain, audible, then— “Oh shi—!” Before several more crashes and bangs can be heard. Whoever it was, it sounded painful. He and Mikey wince at every crash. 

His heart goes for another marathon when Raph emerges from the alley, wincing and rubbing his head. He very sternly has to remind himself that likely wasn’t his brother, to stop himself from running over. 

Not Raph stops a good distance away, looking them all over. With an airy sigh, he props his hands on his hips and says, “That has got to be my worst dismount ever.” 

Batman doesn’t twitch even once. “Nightwing?” 

Not Raph grins. “In the flesh,” he replies. Then pauses, tilting his head. “Scales?”

Not Donnie seems to lose his patience, gesturing as he hisses, “Nightwing, get over here.” Not Raph complies easily. 

Their little congregate is getting bigger, but they were still missing some, namely Raph—“Red Hood.” 

Leo hesitates, noticing Batman’s attention back on him. “Where is he?”

Frowning, he resists the urge to puff up. This guy was awfully demanding. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, “but we’re missing a brother as well. Why don’t we spread out and search for the both of them?” 

Batman only grunts in reply. He shifts to the side, calling for “Oracle.” There is only silence in response, but it doesn’t seem to faze him or his team. 

Mikey leans in close. “What are they doing?” 

“I don’t know,” he whispers back, “Just keep watching.” 

Donnie joins them at their side in the brief pause, glancing up at them warily. Despite the foreign face, the expression is all Donnie. It brings Leo to smile, just a little, even with the circumstances. 

“Nightwing’s body was last seen close to the fight,” Batman informs. “That was eight minutes ago.”

His voice alone commands you pay attention to him. It has this no-nonsense inflection, with an edge of high expectations for good measure. But unlike someone like Master Splinter, who always found an opportunity to impart a piece of wisdom, it was just all command all the time. 

Suffice to say, Leo won’t allow this guy to walk all over them. His brothers were his team, his responsibility. Not Batman’s. 

He crosses his arms over his chest. “My brother knows how to remain unseen. Your typical methods likely won’t work.” 

Donnie nods, adding, “And considering he doesn’t have his phone on him, we have no way to contact him.” 

“I may have a solution.”

All three turtle brothers jump, to varying degrees of height. Mikey slaps a hand over his ear, looking around. 

“Dudes, I’m hearing voices!” His mild distress has Leo placing a calming hand on his shoulder, despite his heart also racing. 

“Oracle,” Batman acknowledges the voice, ignoring their collective surprise, “What did you have in mind?” 

“Well, it’s simple. If his consciousness is in Nightwing’s body, he’ll have access to comms. All I need to do is reach out.”

Donnie’s eyes widen in understanding. “Right! If you’re all hooked up to the same frequency, we should be able to get ahold of Raph no problem!”

“There is a problem, though,” Leo interjects. “Raph is a very suspicious guy by nature, twice that when it comes to humans. There’s no way he’ll react well.”

Not Mikey pipes in then, brow raised. “Is there something wrong with the suit’s tracker?”

“Oracle is experiencing some interference,” Batman answers. “The comm line is our quickest option.”

“What does ‘comm’ stand for?”

“Communications,” Donnie answers Mikey quickly, before plowing on, “If you’re going to use it to contact him, it’d be best if we’re included as well.“ 

Leo nods his agreement. “He’s more likely to answer if he thinks it’s us.” It was also the best way to maintain some semblance of control over this issue. Letting Batman and his unknown number of resources handle something like retrieving his brother…it didn’t sit right with him. Their reputation for helping Gotham was one thing, helping some unknown mutants was another entirely. He needed to remain cautious and alert. 

The Bat simply grunts, while this enigmatic ‘Oracle’ gives their own assent through the earpiece. 

Donnie rightfully points out that “We’re still in the middle of the street. Perhaps we should move?” A glance around proves that, while there weren’t any people walking by to see them, they were still fairly out in the open. Nodding, Leo nods towards the rooftop. 

“We should move to the rooftops—“

“Head for the roofs—“

He and Batman stop at the exact same time, looking at each other with equally unreadable expressions thanks to their respective headgear. But underneath the dumb red helmet, Leo narrows his eyes. 

“Rooftops?” Not Raph chirps, “You got it.” He hightails it out of there, pulling out the grappling hook from Raph’s belt and using it to zip up towards the closest building. Not Donnie follows suit, rolling his eyes before grappling away.

Leo pulls out the one clipped to this body’s belt. He’d already made note of it, but it was best to use it considering he wasn’t sure how this body would handle climbing his way up. 

It was a lot more advanced than their own, he’ll give it that. The thing was compact and sleek. A design that has the actual Donnie visibly salivating over it. He blushes when Leo nudges him, muttering a sheepish apology when told to get a move on. 

Leo watches him go, then turns to see what the rest are doing, but—

“Yo! I’m missing a chuck! Where’d it go?!” Mikey approaches Not Mikey, in obvious distress. Just like he pointed out, Not Mikey is very obviously lacking one of the nunchucks in his belt. But he doesn’t seem to get the fuss, frowning and eyeing Mikey’s hovering hands. 

“I think I might have left it back there.” He jabs a thumb behind him. 

“Well go get it?!?” Mikey flails his hands wildly. It looks odd, feels odd, to attribute Mikey-isms to a completely different face. Just like how it was odd to look at his brother’s face and not quite recognize him. He still couldn’t quite believe it; the oddness had yet to truly sink in. 

“How old even are you?”

“Huh?” 

Leo finally steps in. “Mikey, if you want to grab your nunchuck, go.” His little brother looks at him with a pouty lip, but trots off to find his missing weapon. He keeps a keen eye on him, frowning just a fraction as he disappears into a neighbouring alley. 

Not Mikey shakes his head with a sigh and follows after everyone else with his grapple. 

It just leaves him and Batman standing there. He has a feeling the man has something to say, but waits for Leo to make the first move. 

It’s nearly impossible to get a read on him. He stands completely still, his body swathed by his pitch black cape, essentially hiding any tells that might give him away. His mouth stays in a firm line, cutting off any chances of guessing his expression while the rest of his face remains entirely hidden. Even his eyes are hidden, shielded by white lenses like the domino-shaped masks the others wear. 

Leo didn’t like it one bit. 

“Donnie,” the man suddenly rumbles, which Leo refuses to admit startles him, “Mikey, Raph. Do I want to guess what your name is?” 

Leo suddenly frowns. Did he…? There was no way he could guess their namesakes with that information alone. That would be ridiculous. 

Batman leaves it at that, turning away just as Mikey bounds up. 

“I found my nunchuck! I also found this!” 

Leo gets a blurry object shoved into his face, clinking against the helmet. He goes cross-eyed trying to look at it before just pushing Mikey’s arm back. A transparent, orange-tinted gem quickly comes into focus, about the size of a turtle finger. His first thought is that it’s quite beautiful. 

His second is, why isn’t it reflecting light? 

Mikey twists his hand, showing it to Leo in as many angels as possible. But despite there being a street lamp shining from above, there isn’t a single twinkle of the light bouncing back. 

It’s almost like the gem absorbs light itself. 

“That’s interesting,” he says earnestly, “We should show it to Don.” Beaming, Mikey grapples to catch up with everyone else. 

Leo casts a furtive glance Batman’s way, but the man remains passive. 

He just decides to go on ahead. 

Chapter Text

The seven of them stand coalesced together on the rooftop of an apartment, overseeing the road where police cruisers have now parked. Officers walk around, attempting to inspect the scene as much they can. Given that what was left was all broken and crumbled asphalt, they wouldn’t gather much. 

Leo pulls back from the ledge as Batman starts talking. 

“Oracle is ready.” His teammates all stand at his side, filed in a line. 

Unlike them, he and his brothers stand staggered. Even when he walks up to join them, they become more of a tightly formed semi-circle than an assembly line. He glances at Mikey and Donnie, making sure they’re all set, before nodding his assent. “We’re ready.”

Oracle’s voice comes in crisp in his ear. “Okay, connecting you to the Nightwing comm line in three, two, one…” Silence follows. He’s not sure what he was expecting, maybe a click or a beep. But when nothing comes, and he gets expectant stares, he realizes that that’s his cue. 

“Raph?” He calls, “Raph, it’s me… Leo.” Turning half away, he ignores that feeling of exposure, and the weight of Batman’s stare. 

Mikey abruptly cuts in, much to his relief. “Dude, where are you? This isn’t Invasion of the Bodysnatchers, we’re gonna have to give these bodies back.” They pause, waiting. 

Nothing. 

Donnie sighs. “Not enough? Fine. You tried to make us orange juice using your sais one time and it squirted right in my eye from 16 feet away.”

Still nothing. 

“You make fun of Captain Ryan, but don’t think I don’t notice that you steal my mint condition issues.” 

Zip. Zilch. 

“Oh oh!” Mikey exclaims, “One time, you made out with an ant—“

“Alright, ALRIGHT! I GOT it! Assholes.”

Three matching grins, looking at each other as they share a couple of high fives. Leo is the one to stop and finally ask, “Where are you?”

“… Just in some building,” Raph mumbles, sounding far more pouty than Leo is used to. 

Donnie’s harrowed sigh is staggering. “Well could you come out here, please? We have things to discuss.” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Now, you idiot?”

“Keep your shell on, I’m comin’.”

Watching his own body walking around without him in it was not on Dick’s list of plans for tonight. He figured patrol, wind down, and maybe squeak out a movie night while he was still in town. 

It was incredibly jarring to watch his body—which was a disorienting thing on its own—as it walks away from him and glares at him from afar. 

He offers the body double a smile, waving. “I’m Nightwing,” he greets cheerfully, “That’s my body you’re in.” 

The response he gets is crossed arms and a deeper glare. Joy of joys. 

“Okay, we’re all here,” Jason’s body double says, placing his hands on his hips. 

“Well, not all, ” Damian’s body double points out. Dick finds his gaze stuck on him, noting how even the way he speaks has changed. His accent has disappeared, the inflection completely off. 

B clears his throat to gather their attention. “Yes. Red Hood’s whereabouts are still currently unknown.” He abruptly stops, his sentence halting, listening to what Dick can only assume is Oracle. His mouth opens to ask, “Oracle, can you—” but appears to be cut off from the other end. The body doubles begin snickering, much to Dick’s curiosity. 

“What did Oracle say?” 

B gets that look on his face, the one where it looks like he sucked on a lemon, and a grinning Damian body double informs them that “Red Hood has made it to a safe house and, in his words, ‘will send Batman’s ass to space if he thinks there’s a chance in hell he’s going out again tonight.’” 

Tim sighs off to his right. “At least we know his wits are still intact.” 

“He’ll be listening in, so we will proceed.” 

The Jason double nods. “I guess some introductions are in order. I’m Leonardo, and these are my brothers Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo. We’re from New York City.”

Damian hums, giving the doubles an appraising look. “The Italian renaissance.” 

Michelangelo smiles a rare Tim smile, soft and fond. “They’re our dad’s favourite.” 

Tim is the one to ask what they’re all thinking, “Why are you in Gotham if you live in New York?” 

Leonardo glances at his brothers. “It’s, well…”

“It’s a long story,” Raphael answers snappily. His scowl has barely budged since he arrived. Dick recalls them saying he was the most suspicious of people, which so far seems to be true. His stance is completely stiff, arms crossed firmly over his chest. Dick wonders idly if this is what finally gives him forehead wrinkles. 

Batman grunts, in that ‘I will accept your answer for now but will come back to it later’ way. “I’m Batman.” He ignores the ‘obviously’ that gets interjected by Raphael. “This is Nightwing, Robin, and Red Robin. As well as Red Hood and Oracle on the other line.” 

Leonardo copies his brother, crossing his arms. “Interesting names.” His tone is a thin veil, barely hiding the under layer of judgement it carries. 

Bruce recognizes it just as much as he does, and informs the other, “We don’t give out personal names on the field.” Donatello is the only one who seems to, if not appreciate, understand the importance of the rule. (Maybe Michelangelo too, but he seemed preoccupied with searching Tim’s utility belt). Raphael didn’t hide his skepticism one ounce, scoffing to himself. With Leonardo it’s hard to tell, given Jason’s helmet. But his silence doesn’t feel positive. 

“It’s smart,” Donatello acquiesces, turning towards his brothers. “A secret identity would be a must-have, if you’re a human vigilante. Getting personal and professional life mixed up could potentially be dangerous.” 

“Oh!” Michelangelo’s head snaps up. “Like in Arachnid-Man, where his girlfriend Maya Jack gets tied to the top of the Chrysler Building because Squidnaut figured out they were classmates!” Dick blinks. He could’ve sworn he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. 

“Yes, Mikey, exactly like that.” 

“We’ll deal with that later,” Leonardo dismisses. “We need to talk about the wizard.” 

“Warlock,” Damian interrupts, garnering their attention. “It was a warlock.” Impressive as ever, he doesn’t balk under the four stares directed his way, holding his head high. 

“The warlock started off as a small disturbance initially,” Batman explains. “We assessed him as a low threat, and were prepared to just have Robin and I handle it. However, he possessed far more skill than he let on, and so we called in Red Robin, Nightwing, and Red Hood as reinforcements.” 

“His threat level increased when he started using the road as ammunition,” Damian sniffs, arms crossed. His disdain presented very differently in this form, much to Dick’s amusement. Less like a prince alphabetically itemizing your faults, and more like a teenager who’s decided your entire existence is cringeworthy. 

“… Yes. The warlock became increasingly frustrated with our efforts, which led to him releasing a spell prematurely.” 

“Wait, prematurely?” Donatello frowns. “This wasn’t the intended effect?” Damian shakes his head. 

“Just before it was cast, there was a disturbance. It caught the warlock’s attention, and he lost control of the spell.” 

“Which direction was he facing?”

“He’d been facing us, until he turned to look behind him,” B turns to Tim. “We weren’t able to see what he was looking at.” 

“You said…” All attention turns on Michelangelo. He stands there, touching his fingers together sheepishly. “You said he looked behind?” His brothers turn to him, wearing various befuddled expressions. Donatello in particular looks incredulous.

“Mikey…” He calls warningly. “What did you do?” 

“I didn’t ‘do’ anything!” The other defends, “I was just swinging by, and…!” And the rest can be assumed from there. The warlock gets distracted by something behind him, and fumbles the spell. Simple cause and effect. 

“MIKEY!” Both Raphael and Donatello shout at the boy, who shrinks under their collective irritation. The only one to not shout is Leonardo, who just heaves a mechanical sounding sigh and places a tired hand on his helmet. 

“Okay… so we know the how,” he breathes out tiredly. 

“The question is ‘why.’” The four brothers glance at Tim. He clarifies, “Why were you in the area in the first place?”

“We…”

“We were looking for something.” Donatello speaks for his brother, who seems to hesitate on giving an answer. An answer that obviously doesn’t satisfy Tim (or Batman), as he then asks, 

“What were you looking for?” 

His own voice bites out across the rooftop, “None of your business, skippy.” It’s admittedly a bit funny to watch Tim frown, mouthing the word ‘skippy’ in confusion. Raphael doesn’t seem the tiniest bit amused. 

Nor does Batman, as he reigns in the conversation. “We’ll have to run some diagnostics to understand exactly what we’re working with. In the event that we can’t reverse it ourselves, we’ll call in an expert.” Dick doesn’t miss how the four brothers share glances, wearing similar frowns. 

Donatello asks, “What… kind of diagnostics?” 

“We’ll run some cognitive tests, fitness assessments, a general health examination. Just to begin with.” 

“Hah!” Raphael barks a laugh, smiling maliciously. “Gonna keep us in cages? Poke and prod at us ‘till we pop?” 

Dick frowns at the accusation, stepping forward. “Whoa whoa, hold on, that’s not what—”

“You can shove it,” Raphael hisses. “All of you. Take your merry band of spandex and get lost.” 

“You are foolish if you think we will let you go.” 

Dick swears he sees an eye twitch as Raphael stares hard at Damian. “… Excuse me?”

“The vessels you are stationed in are our bodies. We cannot allow you to run off with them and do as you please. You will come with us.” 

He watches his own face get redder and redder by the second. Which is, wow. He hadn’t realized his face could turn that red. 

“Honestly. Do you really believe we would risk our wellbeing over simple scientific curiosity?” Dick winces. 

“Okay, Robin, that’s not—” Too late. Raphael stalks away from the group, fists clenched and shoulders fraught with tension. He doesn’t leave the rooftop, but he breaks from the group far enough to not hear them and to not be heard. 

A look at the other three doesn’t show much of anything good. Michelangelo and Donatello look visibly unsettled, refusing to look in their general direction. Meanwhile Leonardo has his head hung. 

“… I’ll go talk to him.” He heads in the direction of Raphael. Donatello and Michelangelo stay, though they still won’t look them in the eye. 

Damian bristles at the awkward tension now hanging in the air. “ What? Nothing of what I said is untrue. It would benefit neither of us to go our separate ways.” He shrugs his arms up, looking incredulous. And while Dick understands the problem clear as day, his Robin is obviously genuinely confused. It wasn’t malicious. 

“It’s not that simple.” Donatello keeps his gaze low, but speaks to them with a hardness in his tone. Like his words came from the heart, and he knew them to be true, but still found it hard to look them in the eye as he said it. “Unfortunately, the problem is... it's just how we are, isn't it? It’s, uh, difficult to trust—very difficult, actually. I mean, it’s not something we just... do. And, well, there’s been a... a history of, you know... and, I suppose, after all that, it does make it hard to... trust at all. It's just, uh, a bit tricky—”

“We’ve had really bad experiences,” Michelangelo explains solemnly, tapping his toes into the ground. It breaks Dick’s heart a little bit.

“That—it’s—yeah…” Donatello deflates, suddenly seeming exhausted. “So, for our safety… we have to be cautious.”

“We understand,” he assures, “And I can promise you that we have no intentions of treating you lesser-than. Right?” He turns to stare his family down, attempting to communicate with his smile ‘if you mess this up, I swear I will release enough blackmail on all of you to make a grown man cry.’ Thankfully, his very wise family catches on. 

B grunts an affirmative, Damian ducks his head but nods, and Tim simply responds with “Of course.” The tentative smiles he gets from the two boys is worth it. 

Leonardo and Raphael join them then, the latter looking marginally less angry than before. The former has a comforting hand placed on his brother’s shoulder when he says, “We’ll go with you.” 

Dick beams, relieved. “Great!”

“I’ll bring two cars around.” 

“Oh no, don’t worry,” Donatello assures B, “We’ve got our own ride.” 

Tim raises a brow, “You do?” Michelangelo beams wide in response. 

“Yeah! The party wagon!”

…

“Come again?”

Chapter Text

“Soooo.”

“Mikey…”

He holds out an invisible microphone for his brother, wearing an impish grin. “D to the T, how does it feel to be the shortest of them all?” 

“I will skin you alive.”

“Come on! It’s not every day we get bodysnatched and end up as completely different people.” 

Up at the front, driving the party wagon, Leo frowns. “When did you even watch that movie?”

“I didn’t.” 

“I don’t feel anything, because being short is not that big of a deal!” The van goes quiet. 

“… Says the shortie.”

“I swear to—” Thumps and shouts can be heard in the caboose, which Leo diligently keeps a half eye on as he focuses on the road. His attention splits further when he glances over at his quiet brother, who keeps his gaze out the window. 

Chancing it, he asks, “How you holding up?” It’s quiet enough that the two roughhousing in the back don’t catch it, but loud enough for Raph to hear. 

His brother grunts. “It’s weird and I hate it.” 

“It’ll take some getting used to.” Leo drums his fingers against the steering wheel, listening to the added beats it produces. 

“I don’t want to get used to it,” Raph grumbles. 

“You understand why I agreed though, don’t you?” 

The turtle slumps a bit more in his seat, watching the scenery go by. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Leo huffs a sigh. 

The Batmobile cruises ahead of them, the red taillights a beacon in the otherwise unlit underground they drive through. 

Leo points out that, “Batman’s a part of the Justice League. He can’t be all that bad.”

“He could be that bad, you don’t know.”

The leader rolls his eyes. “What I’m trying to say is, this isn’t like past experiences. We have a bit of info on them. So it’s not like we’re going in blind.” 

Donnie chooses that moment to pop his head up from the back, the Robin costume askew and hair rumpled. “Technically speaking, we have information on the Justice League. Batman is one of the more elusive members, so what we have is fairly limited.” 

“… Yes, thank you, Donnie.”

“Just saying.” 

Mikey comes in, wrapping his arms around Raph from behind as he interjects. “Dude, anything goes wrong, we ninja their faces off then get the shell outta Gotham! They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Another hefty sigh from Leo. “Let’s just… see how it goes.”

Do-dee-do-dee-do-d-do-d-do!

Damian frowns, feeling a vibrating against his side. To his right, Tim turns to look at him. 

“Why did your side just ring at me in 4-bit?”

He shoots Tim a glare. “I know as much as you do,” he answers irritably while reaching to pat at his side. He fumbles blindly in the dark, searching for the source of that noise. A minute later, it goes off again. Tim is quick to grab it. 

They squint in the dark at the object in his hand, until Tim turns on the light. In his hand seems to be some sort of tiny replica of a turtle shell, fitted with a screen on the flat side. 

“No way.” Tim laughs a little, turning it over in his hands. Dick turns to look back at them at the sound of excitement. 

“What? What is it?”

Tim holds up the device for Dick to see. “I think they made their own smartphones.”

“Really? Let me see.” The device gets handed to the front seat, where Dick turns it over a couple times just as Tim did. He hums pleasantly. “Staying on theme. I like it.” Tim rolls his eyes. 

“Of course you do. Now, give it.” He reaches forward to grab it back from Dick, only for the device to be pulled further from his reach. 

“Hold on, looks like it’s a text.” Dick pushes Tim’s hand away with his free one, eyes glued to the screen. “‘How’s it going? See any killer clowns?’” Another chime. “‘Red says hi Bee Tee Double U.’”

“Oh my god,” Tim groans, pained, “just say it normally.”

Dick ignores him. “It says it’s from ‘That Puckhead.’”

Bruce, still looking at the road ahead of them, hums. “An ally of theirs.”

“Way to say ‘it’s their friend’ in the most normal way possible, B.” Dick gets a grunt back. When the unfamiliar, chubby-cheeked face of Tim appears between the front seats, Dick nearly jolts in surprise. 

“Another hybrid animal?”

“It’s possible.”

“From the way they spoke, it didn’t seem like they’d choose to have a lot of contact with humans.”

“You’re right. But on the other hand, look at this wallpaper.” He holds the phone up for both backseat passengers, sliding the notifications out of the way to reveal a bright and smiling red headed girl alongside a dark haired boy who seemed to be mean-mugging the camera. Both are freckly-faced, and look roughly the same age. 

“Huh. I stand corrected.” Tim’s eyes scan over the faces, committing them to memory. 

“Put the phone back,” Bruce rumbles, catching everyone’s attention. “We’re coming up on the cave now.” 

“Whoooooaaa…”

Mikey spins in a slow circle, mouth agape. The Red Robin cape twirls around him in swathes of dark fabric. 

He keeps spinning, while his brothers simply walk. It’s only when his circles start to go a little too wide that Leo stops his brother with a simple hand placed on his head. 

Quickly recovering, Mikey smiles wide, thrusting his arms in the air. “This is so cool!!” He rushes on ahead, much to his brothers collective amusement. 

A fair distance away, Batman calls, “Everyone,” they suppose as a way of calling them over. 

Batman stands in front of what looks to be a supercomputer that Donnie immediately starts salivating over. Many screens line the wall, varying in size, with an almost 180 degree panel of buttons and keyboards. His hands itch to play with it. If only Batman weren’t in his way. 

“Now that we’re in a secure location, we’re free to discuss more openly.” Batman nods to his team, who have congregated by his side. “Starting with introductions, we have,”

“Dick,” He gives a nonchalant wave, leaning against the computer behind him.

“Damian,” Standing beside him, Robin lifts his chin.

Red Robin has his arms crossed over his chest, his expression flat. “Tim,”

Batman pulls off his cowl to reveal a tired-looking middle-aged man.  “And I’m Bruce.” 

“Bruce,” Donnie echoes flatly. “As in Bruce Wayne?” Leo and Raph both whip their heads in Donnie’s direction, but the man just sighs. 

“Yes.” 

“So that makes you Dick Grayson,”

“Yep.”

“And you Damian Wayne.” 

“Naturally.” 

“And I’m sorry, you’re—?”

“Tim Drake.” 

Donnie puts a tired hand to his head. “Hah. It figures that a bunch of billionaires make up Gotham’s heroes.” 

“Wait, he’s right?” Raph asks incredulously, pointing at his brother. 

“I’m afraid he is.” The four turtle brothers turn at the new voice. An elderly man stands off to the side, back straight and dressed in a crisp tailcoat. “Alfred Pennyworth, at your service. I oversee things here at Wayne Manor.” 

The four of them can’t help but stare. Manor. This guy lived in a manor.

Just what did they get into?

“Hey old dude, I’m Michelangelo! But you can call me Mikey.” Their most sociable brother barrels through the revelations like they’re nothing. Like they weren’t in the presence of someone with more money than they could ever dream to have. 

They swear Alfred’s moustache twitches on his rather stony face. “… Well met, Michelangelo.” 

“That aside,” Bruce steps in, “I’d like to—”

“A hem. ” Everyone’s eyes draw back to Alfred, who is giving Bruce a lethal side eye. The turtle brothers watch with keen eyes as Bruce, Batman, seems to cow under the old man’s stare. 

“I’d like… to… show you to your rooms.” His faltering words end with an awkward, grimacing smile that looks like it physically pains him. Dick and Tim off to the side barely try to conceal their snickers. 

Mikey lights up, while Raph and Leo exchange glances. Something unspoken passes between the two, while Donnie has other concerns. 

“Um actually, before that, I’d like our things back.” He looks from Bruce to the other three, playing with the fingers of the Robin gloves. 

“Oh right!” Dick reaches for his sides, pulling out the sais strapped to his belt and Raph’s T-phone. This prompts the others to do the same, holding out the items to their respective owners. 

As Damian hands Donnie his bo and his phone, Tim makes a noise. “Oh right. Your phone was going off earlier.”

Donnie raises a brow. “It was?” He turns his phone over, turning it on. He scans the messages keenly, before snorting and rolling his eyes, turning the screen off. 

The only one who remains empty-handed is Leo. He looks visibly discomfited, hugging his arm in a self-soothing manner as he watches his brothers get their things returned. His expression only smoothes out when Bruce’s eyes turn on him. 

“We’ll get your personal belongings tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

Something is… not exactly settled, but feels less uncomfortable than before. He misses his phone, sure. But that wasn’t what he felt incomplete without. 

“Thank you.”

Donnie is acquiring armfuls of their equipment, including the smoke bombs they keep stashed in their belts. 

“What are those?” Tim asks as he watches Donnie continue to pull things from Mikey’s belt stash. 

“Proprietary,” is all he answers, turning to deposit the smoke bombs in Raph’s arms. 

“They look like eggs.” 

Popping up from who knows where, Mikey grins. “ Smoke -filled eggs.” 

“Smoke-filled—?” Donnie walks off without answering, joined by Raph as they walk back to the van. As soon as Mikey thinks they’re out of hearing range, he whispers to Tim, 

“They let us disappear whenever we want, and then reappear, like wa-poosh!”

“Mikey!” The boy ducks his head, grinning, before running after his brothers. 

“They’re ninjas.” 

The expected stares Tim gets aren’t nearly as judgmental as he thought they might be. 

He comes in closer, leaning in to whisper. 

“They carry shuriken and smoke bombs in their belts. They wield sais and nunchucks and the like. Need I say more?”

Dick hums, tilting his head to make it less obvious that he’s staring over at the turtle brothers. “Jay says he had two katanas strapped to his back. Nicely made, apparently.” On a smaller screen of the batcomputer, one that can easily be hidden if they all crowd together, is a couple images of a katana. The hilt is wrapped in black, with an intricate hand guard that almost looked like petals. 

“Huh. A symbol?” 

Dick nods at the Batcomputer. “That’s what B’s trying to figure out.” From his fixed point at the computer, Bruce grunts an affirmative. His thoughts seemed to be fixated on something. What that was, Tim wasn’t sure. 

“Heads up,” Dick murmurs, “They’re walking back.”

“And you’re sure it’s secure?” 

“Leo, if anyone so much as tampers with the thing, I’ll know. I have it connected so it sends notifications to my T-phone, like a Ring camera. It’ll be fine.” 

There’s a unsatisfied twist to Leo’s mouth as he takes in that information, much to Donnie’s chagrin. But it was just unreasonable to have Leo take post in the party wagon just on the chance that someone would try to go through their stuff. As if Donnie didn’t have layers upon layers of security measures rigged to the thing already. At that point, it would just be excessive. 

Aside from that, he was pretty sure it was bad practice to display such an obvious amount of distrust with your tentative allies. Doing it secretly was fine, Donnie had no qualms about that. But he’d like to at least keep up a show of good faith. 

The four at the computer turn to look at them nearly all at the same time. A subtle tell, Donnie observes. These guys like to keep keen eyes on their surroundings. 

Bruce’s eyes sweep over them in a quick manner (as if assessing, Donnie notes to himself) before he tells them, “When you’re ready, we’ll head upstairs and show you to your rooms. It’s been a long night.” 

“We’re ready.” “I’m ready.” “Yup yup! Ready!” “… I’m ready, let’s go.” The turtle brothers talk over each other in a jumbled mess, not even pretending to consider Bruce’s question before answering. Unlike their swift response, they receive only a raised eyebrow in return. 

Raph bristles immediately at the look, snapping “What?” When the man fails to make any further comment. 

“You need to get changed first. No suits are allowed upstairs.” 

Donnie, along with his brothers, glances down at his borrowed body. The Robin suit sits rather comfortably on him, even if the cape was a little distracting. But changing hadn’t even occurred to him.

“Right,” he sighs. “Where do we do that?” Tim straightens up, gesturing for them to follow as he begins to walk away. 

“I’ll show you. Come on.” 

They’re brought into a locker room, where they’re told to simply deposit the suits in the hamper and put on the clothes left behind. Except for Leo, who is told they’re finding some spare clothes for him to wear. (Something Donnie mentally notes; Red Hood doesn’t have any spare clothes here. Very curious). 

After they spend a reasonable amount of time figuring out and getting dressed into their respective clothing, and an unreasonable amount getting Mikey’s head out of the arm of his sweater, they leave the change rooms feeling covered and cozy. Donnie can’t help but run his hand along the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt as he walks out. It was unfairly addictive. 

Maybe he should try and find sweaters that would fit over his shell after this. That would be pretty awesome. 

Dick is waiting for them when they emerge. He’s the only one there, excluding Bruce sitting at the supercomputer. 

Wearing a bright smile that still looks odd on Raph’s face no matter how many times you see it, Dick walks up to them. 

“I’ll show you guys to your rooms. It’s easy to get a bit lost here.” 

Leo nods, curt. “Thanks.” Dick simply beams at them and walks on ahead. 

The ridiculous amount of stairs is a hilarious precursor to the experience that is Wayne Manor. They exit through an entrance hidden behind a clock, let out into a study made of shiny, polished wood and expensive-looking furniture. He looks around with thinly veiled awe, and knows without even looking that his brothers are doing the same. Everything, even down to the smell, was just… fresh. Plush. He didn’t know how to describe it, but the furniture was bullying him for living in a sewer just by standing next to it. 

Dick leads them out of the study and down the halls, which are just as grand (if not more so). The path he leads them on is winding and, try as he might, Donnie gets a bit turned around at the fourth turn while attempting to make a mental map of the floor plan. There are an unnecessary amount of stairs, and he has entirely lost the plot, but Dick eventually stops outside a door. 

“These next four rooms are yours to stay in. Feel free to just pick whichever, they’re all pretty much the same.” He gestures down a good length of the hall, where several more doors stand with fairly wide spacing in between. 

“Thanks.”

Dick pats Leo on the shoulder, still wearing that same friendly smile. “I’ll leave you to settle in. If you need anything, just come find one of us. My room is upstairs.” He points them in the direction of the stairs up, while Donnie mentally jots him in the ‘not out to kill us’ column. They’re left there, watching Dick walk away and eventually disappear around a corner. 

They stand in stilted silence for a minute, before Mikey suddenly can’t take it anymore and busts through the first door. 

“Let’s check out our new digs!” 

The ‘new digs’ consist of another very nice room. Spacious, for one thing. It also carries the theme of feeling extremely expensive. The bed—a four poster, king size—has blankets in a rich, dark colour in intricate detail. It matched the window, which was framed by a thick curtain. The outside held no light, not even from streetlights (how far from the city were they?) so the room was instead bathed in a warm glow by a table side lamp. 

Raph whistles low. “This is blood money rich.” He’s drowned out by Mikey, who launches himself onto the bed stomach first. 

“This is so. awesome.”

The door to the room shuts with a click, with Leo firmly pressing it shut. His grave expression has Donnie immediately on edge. 

“I need to tell you guys something.” 

A little while earlier, before the swap…

“Why can’t we have more rogue street magicians instead of world-ending crises?” 

Leo mumbles to himself, looking down at the street below. The fight was slowly ripping up more and more of the road, used as concrete bullets to throw at Batman and Robin. They held their own, flipping and dashing out of the way before either could get seriously injured. 

He finds himself drawn to the battle. The synergy that didn’t falter between the two heroes, like every move was second nature to them. That kind of balance doesn’t come from thin air; it’s forged through trust, through countless hours of training to hone your skills. It took him and his brothers a long time before they reached that level of fluidity. 

Between one second and the next, Leo’s awareness buzzes, itching at his senses. He tenses, that uncanny feeling of being watched washing over him. Twisting around, Leo readies his swords. 

“Show yourself.”

The sounds of the fight behind him continue as he waits two seconds, then five. 

A ninja in all black rushes out from their hiding spot, launching to the next rooftop over. Leo doesn’t hesitate to give chase. 

They make it a couple of buildings over before the mystery ninja finally stops. Leo holds his swords at his sides, looking over his adversary carefully. Why did they stop?

“Finally decided to face me instead of running away?” The ninja wears full garb from head to toe, covering everything but their eyes. Leo scans for some kind of symbol, a marking of a clan, but finds nothing. 

From the shadow, more ninjas emerge. Varying in shape and size, wielding various weapons, but all in the same black garb. 

His adversary had gone for backup. 

Leo steels himself, standing tall. “Didn’t think so.” 

They come at him fast, weaving together like the heads of a serpent in attempts to surround him on all sides. Nothing is spoken; they let their blades do the talking. 

Leo is hardly given a chance to think. They come at him, and it’s just one blade after the other. However, despite the barrage, they fail continuously to land a true blow on his body. 

It’s just when he locks blades with another, in a furious battle of strength, that he gets knocked off balance. 

Literally. 

One of the bigger ninja comes barreling in, his frame twice the size of Leo’s, and checks Leo with full force. He goes flying—unable to do much else besides fall—and starts plummeting to the ground. 

The starless sky is the last thing he sees before his vision goes white. 

“So you’re sure it wasn’t the Foot?” 

“It wasn’t,” Leo assures firmly, shaking his head. “They didn’t bear any clan crest, and weren’t even in red.”

Mikey, who has since sat up to sit cross-legged on the bed, wonders aloud, “Maybe they’re just trying to expand their ninja wardrobe.” 

“Maybe Karai finally realized that wearing red isn’t exactly stealthy,” Raph tacks on, arms crossed. Their leader simply sighs.

“I’m telling you it isn’t. I’m sure of it. Their fighting style was… different. It barely resembled Japanese ninjutsu at all.” He shakes his head, frowning in deep thought. “It was something else.” 

Donnie taps his chin, pacing the room slowly as he turns that information over. It was doubtful that Karai would suddenly switch the way the Foot fought, considering she was as much a loyalist for tradition as Leo was. If it wasn’t Japanese, then…

What was it?

“So we have a mysterious, new clan of ninja at play.” He pauses in the middle of the room, with his brothers all looking his way. Surreptitiously, he glances at Leo, who narrows his eyes. “Maybe—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Batman—”

“Donnie—”

“—might know something about them.” Leo groans, thunking his head on the door. “Think about it, Leo. If we haven’t seen these guys before, maybe they stick to Gotham. If there’s anyone who will know about this turf, it’s Batman.” 

“No, no, we don’t need Batman,” Leo dismisses. “We can handle this ourselves.” 

“To be honest,” Raph says, “It seems like a Gotham problem to me. Let them handle it.” He fakes checking his nails, wearing an air of indifference. Mikey shuffles up to him on the bed, peering around his shoulder. 

“Raph choosing to not fight? Are we sure your brain didn’t get swapped out too?” 

He swings his arm around to trap Mikey under, ignoring his little brother’s squawk as he noogies his head. “That doesn’t mean I’m not totally gonna hand their asses to them if I run into them. The only one who can beat up Leo is me.” 

“I’m touched, Raph,” Leo says in his flattest tone. His answer is a roguish grin, aimed directly at Leo. 

Waving a dismissive hand, Donnie moves on. “Raph’s violent tendencies aside, I’m most concerned about the mutagen. We can’t just leave it out there.” Leo nods. 

“Agreed. We’ll have to go back to search for it.”

“How are we gonna do that when our every move is watched like a hawk?” Raph asks. “They’re not just gonna let us leave whenever we want.” He finally lets Mikey go, who had been tapping out on his arm with increasing ferocity. Mikey flops back on the bed, huffing. 

Their leader rounds closer, naturally gathering them as a sly expression crosses over his face. 

With full-chested confidence, Leo tells them, “They can try to stop us. Whether they succeed is a different question entirely.”

Chapter Text

For a brief, floating moment, Jason has no idea what’s going on. What day is it? Who knows. What time? Who cares. All that matters is drifting back to sleep and getting fifteen more hours…

Then the burden of thought returns to him, and he remembers that he isn’t in his own fucking body. 

He lifts his hands, and sees dappled green. 

Fucking— “God da—” He doesn’t manage to finish his sentence. His throat squeezes around nothing, suddenly spasming as he struggles for air. Jason sits up then, forgoing any pretences of sleeping to clutch at his aching throat. 

For a couple of minutes, he just sits there, wheezing and occasionally coughing. An odd tickle sits at the back of his throat, one that doesn’t go away and even gets worse when he tries to clear it. 

He sits there for a long time, wondering just what the hell that was. Did he sleep funny? Was he catching a cold?

His ears catch a distant chime from his computer in the next room. Standing, he walks out to check his messages. 

‘Alfred will swing by in an hour.’

Frowning, he shuts his computer down, rather than answer. It wasn’t like Bruce was making a suggestion . He’d already decided it would happen, so it wasn’t like he wanted Jason’s approval. 

In the bathroom, he’s faced with his new look in the mirror. A soft ovalish head, wrapped in a blue bandana. Blue eyes stare back at him in the mirror, which match  the deep sea more than the sky. 

Staring at himself while simultaneously not recognizing anything about him leaves all kinds of squirming discomfort in his chest. He would move his hand, make a face, and not fully connect that he was the one doing it. 

When he looks a bit closer, he sees scars. A different array than he was used to, that usually littered his arms and torso. 

His hand grazes over his throat. Three long slashes stretched from one side of his neck to the edges of his shelled chest. A nasty injury. His sore throat made a lot more sense now. 

Small nicks here and there, all looking like they came from blades. The shelled part of his body is not unscathed either, bearing both shallow and deep scratches. 

The thing he expects the least is stepping to leave the bathroom, and feeling his leg buckle under him. 

Jason catches the door frame with a grunt, causing a slight twinge in his throat. But it’s overshadowed by the sudden ache in his knee. He looks down, and narrows his eyes at the faded brown knee pad he hadn’t bothered to take off last night. It comes off with some finagling. 

He isn’t surprised, but he does sigh.

Those three slashes on his throat matched the ones on his knee. The same enemy, looking to destroy from top to bottom. 

Gritting his teeth, Jason moves out of the bathroom and over to the kitchen. 

The first thing he does is flip on the electric kettle sitting on the counter. Hopefully by drinking something warm, he could ease the ache that was his larynx. 

The second thing he does is make sure all of Leonardo’s stuff is gathered. He hadn’t bothered taking off all the padding or the bandana, but he’d set the swords and other equipment aside. 

He knew his text to Dick would likely be shown to the others, but that was sort of the point. There was something to the swords, some sort of story there. They were well crafted; slender yet sturdy katanas that fit well into the grooves of his palms. 

The hand guard was a bit of a mystery. A blacksmith wouldn’t add it for a bit of flair. No, there was a purpose. It was a sign. 

Good thing he could leave that up to the annoying ones. 

His attention is pulled away when he hears the kettle click off. Favouring his better knee, he walks over and puts together a nice cup of English Breakfast (which Alfred had gotten him hooked on, the sly devil). 

He barely waits a minute for the tea to steep; he needs that hot liquid now .

It’s with immense relief that he takes his first sip. Like magic, the warmth eases the strained grooves of his throat. The drink washes over him like a balm, and he can only sigh. 

Jason sips at his tea and allows himself to zone out completely. Enjoying the lasts of his freedom before he’s taken to the manor, to be holed up there for the foreseeable future. Goodbye, late night chili dogs and general gastronomic liberty. Goodbye, privacy. 

Hello… Wayne Manor. 

Alfred comes one hour on the dot. Jason can see the car pull up through his window, sleek black and obviously freshly waxed. 

He suits back up with all the little things that get tucked away in pockets, like the weird egg things. Everything gets slotted into place as he remembers them. The swords he doesn’t strap on, because it would be rather awkward when getting into the car. 

Jason stares at his clothes for a minute, then decides, ‘fuck it,’ and tries to put them on. The guy is only a little over five foot, so it shouldn’t be too hard. 

Unsurprisingly, the biggest hurdle is getting his hoodie over the shell on his back. It takes a fair bit of reaching his arms back at awkward angles, but once he’s gotten it over the lip, it falls perfectly into place. 

Pants are a bit more awkward. Number one, below the shell or on it? Number two, if he went under the shell, how the hell does he account for the amount of extra space left in his sweatpants?

In the end, he just shimmies his pants over the shell. He still has to tie the drawstrings really tight, but less than how much of the waist he’d have to fold inward if he left it below. 

He slings the scabbard over his shoulder, and leaves his safehouse (locking it all down before he goes). 

Alfred, smart man that he is, parks as close to the side alley as he can get. It allows Jason to simply slip out the side door and hop in. 

“Hello… Master Jason.” The man’s tone is prim as always, if a little bemused. Jason doesn’t blame him; being an anthropomorphic turtle is definitely one of the more weirder things to happen to them. 

Jason is happy to see him all the same. “Hey, Alf.” He sets the swords aside as he tries to figure out putting on a seatbelt. “How’re things at the house?”

Alfred patiently waits for him to buckle in, before pulling out into the street. “Everyone is a bit out of sorts at the moment,” he admits. “Master Bruce had a bit of a scare this morning.” Jason can’t help but grin. 

“Really? What happened?”

“Well…”

“Morning, Alfred.”

“Good morning, my boy.”

His ward shuffles into the kitchen, hair mussed and eyes barely open. Alfred shifts what he’s doing, setting down his whisk in search of a mug. By the time Bruce slides his way onto the breakfast nook’s bench, Alfred is handing him his cup of coffee. 

Bruce hums gratefully, grasping the mug close as he takes a deep inhale. 

Alfred returns to his whisk and bowl, smiling just a bit. 

Barely twenty minutes pass before Young Master Damian enters the kitchen. His green fist rubs at his eye, ridding himself of the dregs of sleep. 

“Good morning Father, Alfred,” he greets them politely. It is a very curious thing. His manner of speech is distinct, which he kept. However, Donatello’s voice held a nasality Master Damian’s simply didn’t. Youthful in an alternative way he wasn’t accustomed to hearing. 

“Good morning to you, Master Damian,” he responds in kind, turning over the batter in the metal bowl. It was time to set the skillet out. 

He can’t help but pause when there’s no response from Bruce. The sudden clack of ceramic has Alfred glancing over to the table where Bruce sits. The boy stares with eyes wide open, face frozen in bewilderment, as he stares at the anthropomorphic turtle across from him. Alfred can see the pieces slot back together in his mind, smoothing his expression over as he clears his throat. 

“Yes. Good morning.” He hides his slip up well. That, and Master Damian was more willing to ignore such things when it came to his father. 

Alfred turns away from father and son, his lips curling.

Jason huffs a laugh. “Sounds about right.” The cityscape passes by at a calm pace, a steady thrum when he glances out the window. In really no time at all, it would turn into the large lawns and fancy houses of Bristol. 

He sighs. “So, how did the interrogation go?”

“I halted that process in its tracks before it could begin.” Yikes. Sounds like Alfred wasn’t in the mood for Bruce’s shit either. “So we have yet to truly glean anything from our guests.” 

“That won’t last long.”

“Indeed.” 

“This is the worst day of my life.” 

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“You’re really gonna say that to me? Right to my face?” 

“Raph, you’re being dramatic.” 

“Touch that thing and tell me again I’m being dramatic!” 

Watching with keen eyes, Raph inspects his brother’s face as he picks up the fluffy cardigan thing that Alfred guy had left for him. Unfortunately, it is genuinely awful. One of the worst things he’s ever felt. 

Leo doesn’t so much as flinch, turning the cardigan over in his hands. When they meet eyes, he lifts an eyebrow. 

“You’re being dramatic.”

He huffs in exasperation, throwing himself back on the bed in defeat. 

Donnie twists around from where he’d turned away to put on a shirt. He walks up to them, reaching out to feel the cardigan. 

“I think it’s shearling,” he hums thoughtfully. From his position on his back, Raph glares. 

“Whatever it is, it deserves to be burnt.” 

Mikey army crawls his way over on the bed just to feel the cardigan. 

“It’s so fluffy .” He strokes it with his hand, fascinated. 

“I’d imagine it would be, if it’s real.” 

“What’s the difference?”

“Real shearling comes from taking both the wool and skin of a sheep.”

“AUGH?!” Leo and Mikey both rip their hands away, staring in horror. 

“Of course, it could be fake shearling. But given that these people are rich, I wouldn’t bet on it.” Donnie lets go of the cardigan with much less vigour, gaze impassive. Everyone now gives the cardigan a wide berth, eyeing it sideways, which Raph finds thoroughly vindicating. 

“… Well,” Leo sighs after a moment, “you can just wear the shirt they gave you. You don’t have to wear the sweater.”

“Yeah? Not so dramatic anymore, am I?” Mikey pats him on the shoulder from behind, wearing a sympathetic expression. 

“Nah, bro. You’re still dramatic.” Raph grabs his little brother’s hand, bending it back until— “OW! Mercyyyy!!” He lets go with a huff, turning away. 

The shirt left for him was a band style tee, promoting the Black Canary world tour. He would never admit it, but he was actually pretty pumped. Black Canary merch was pretty hard for him to come by. Any posters were usually not in good quality when he found them, and he couldn’t even hope to find a shirt that fit over his shell. 

It was good to know that this Nightwing guy didn’t have entirely awful taste. 

“Leo, why does that… not look like this guy’s clothes.” Mikey catches his attention, turning to see his little brother squinting at the eldest over the edge of the bed. 

And yeah, the clothes left for Leo didn’t look like they belonged at all. Last night, the guy was out in full leather. Brown leather jacket, black leather gloves, all of it. With that and that thick metal dome on his head, it didn’t exactly communicate ‘I like turtlenecks’ in its presentation. 

Leo glances down at his outfit, inspecting his attire, and Raph smirks as a thought comes to him. 

“It suits you, though.” His older brother looks over at him, already suspicious. He grins wider. “It’s like… classy nerd.” 

“Oooh, yeahh!” Mikey sits up, smiling. “You’re, like, a professor of psychology or something!” 

“Yeah, all you need is some glasses.” Leo looks increasingly unimpressed with him, which only makes him more delighted. 

“Hey!” Donnie protests suddenly, “That’s my desired aesthetic, okay? Leo can’t have it.” 

“Sharing is caring, Einstein.” 

“I’ll share my foot up your a—”

“Hey guys?” Someone knocks at the door. “You in there?”

Collectively, they glance at each other, silently arguing on who would open the door. Leo sighs, turning and cracking open the door. 

“We’re here.”

“Oh, great!” Raph shivers, getting the heebie-jeebies as he hears his own voice talk. Unable to help himself, he steps up to peer around Leo’s shoulder. His own face smiles back, the traitor. “Did you guys want to come down for breakfast? Alfred made pancakes.” 

“Oooohh, pancakes?!” Mikey shoves his head under Leo’s arm to peer out at Dick. “Now you’re speaking my language!” 

Dick grins. “Alfred makes the best pancakes. Get ready to have your minds blown.” 

“I’m so ready!!”

“We’ll be out in a minute.” Leo smiles politely, shutting the door on Dick before turning around. “You guys finish getting dressed. Make sure you have your stuff on you. Or at least hidden out of sight.” 

Although Raph has the intention of doing just that, he still remarks, “Bit paranoid, Fearless?” He’s grabbing his T-phone as he says it, stuffing it into the pocket of his pants. 

Leo crosses his arms. “I prefer the word ‘vigilant.’” 

“Whatever keeps your shell on at night.” He snickers when Leo purses his lips in annoyance. It was somehow just as satisfying to see it on Red Hood’s face. 

They all grab (or hide) their stuff, sharing a nod with their leader when they walk up. Dick is waiting for them when they open the door, leaning against the wall as he frowns down at his phone. He keeps tapping frustratedly at his screen, exhaling harshly through his nose before trying to tap at it again. The expression melts away when he looks up at them, slipping into that easy-going smile he always seems to wear. 

“Ready? Great, I’ll show you the way to the kitchen.” He nods for them to follow, and they fall into step around him. 

The silence only lasts about ten seconds until Mikey blurts, “So how does it feel to be a turtle?” He sidles up to Dick’s right, peering at him curiously. 

“A bit odd, if I’m honest.” Raph can’t see his expression from behind, but his tone remains light and friendly. “Still trying to get used to the hands.” He sees, from his position at the back of the group, Dick holds up his hands and wiggle them. “I tried to do a handstand earlier, and I barely lasted a minute!”

He can hear Donnie’s frown in his voice. “Why… were you doing a handstand?”

“To see if I could,” the man replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“… Well, the hands are probably not the reason you couldn’t hold a handstand.” 

“It’s because of the weight distribution of the shell.” Donnie’s walk visibly stutters, thrown off by Dick’s answer. He speeds up to match his step. 

“… Yeah, it is. You’re likely not used to it, so it’ll sort of be like relearning how to do it.” Dick nods. 

“I’ll need a little bit of practice, and then I’ll be able to hold one again, no problem.” 

“No doing weird things with my body, happy feet.” Dick glances back at him, meeting his glare with an impassive stare back. 

“Nothing wrong with a little gymnasticism, Raph!” Mikey swings an arm around his shoulder, jostling him, while he’s still in his stare off with Dick. 

“Gymnasticism isn’t a word.” 

“Your face isn’t a word.”

“Hey??”

“Talk shit, get hit, Dee.”

The squabble gets abruptly halted when Dick turns to face him fully. “How about this?” There’s something about his expression, on his own face, that just irritates Raph even more. But he listens anyway. “Every time you scowl, I get one hour of practice.” 

…

Raph’s scowl deepens. “That’s a terrible deal.” 

Dick shrugs, nonchalant. “You don’t want me doing gymnastics as you, and I don’t want to develop forehead wrinkles early. Seems fair to me.” 

“How old are you, like forty?” 

“I’m thirty-one!” Raph snorts. 

“Suuuuure.” But he has to admit, a part of him wants to accept. Maybe it’s the guy’s cockiness; he’s soooo sure that Raph won’t be able to help himself, and will just start racking up hours by the dozen. Jokes on him, though, because he’s not about to be beaten. “Alright, whatever.” He grins sharply down at the man. “But better prepare to be stiff as a board, ‘cuz I don’t lose.” 

Irritatingly, Dick only shrugs it off, smiling. “Whatever you say.” He turns to continue walking, casual as can be, when,

“That’s one hour, by the way.”

“Wh—?! Hey!!”

“Fhese awr wheally goof, whister ow’ ood!”

Mikey gets several hundred looks in his direction, including from the old dude who makes expressions with his moustache instead of his face muscles. But he couldn’t just let these pancakes be! Why aren’t his pancakes ever this awesome? 

“I believe it would be wise, Mister Michelangelo, to keep one’s food in one’s mouth. Lest someone else lose theirs.” 

“Fhaddya mea’? Isff in ma—oh.” As he’s speaking, chewed up pancake falls out of his mouth and onto his plate. He sees a couple of bat grimaces, while Donnie and Leo both facepalm.  

Someone kicks his shin. He yelps just as Raph jeers, “He’s saying don’t be disgusting, stupid.” Pouting, Mikey kicks him back. 

“Shut up!” They glare at each other, zaps sparking in between. Both ninjas feel an itch of challenge, but they’re halted in their tracks. 

“There will be no horseplay at the table.” Alfred is suddenly looming over them, frowning disapprovingly. Both Raph and Mikey duck their heads on instinct, getting a surreal sense of deja vu as they look up at the old man. 

“Sorry, mister old dude.” 

“… Sorry.” 

Mikey spoons up his clump of chewed pancake as Alfred walks away. It was still good, even as mush. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick leans over to Raph, just to say, “That’s two.” His brother slams his fists against the table in outrage, but shrinks when he casts a wary glance in Alfred’s direction. 

Dick grins at Raph. “Keep it up, and it’ll be three.” Mikey witnesses his brother’s face fight to remain neutral, the muscles in his forehead twitching. 

He says, as calmly as possible, “I hate you.” 

Mikey can’t help but snicker; Dick’s grin widens in response. 

From across the table, Leo clears his throat. His eyes are set on Dick, doing that thing where he holds himself all proper and stiff. “When will my stuff be returned?” 

Humming, Dick glances over at Alfred. “Alfie, you picked him up this morning, right?” 

“Indeed I did, Master Dick.” The man nods, turning back to Leo.

“So you’ll get your stuff back today. Jay is—”

“Right here.” Everyone, including Mikey, is drawn to look over at the kitchen’s doorway. There stands that Red Hood guy in Leo’s body, looking particularly grumpy for so early in the morning. He did the exact same thing the others have so far, which was squeeze themselves into any type of clothing they could. It’s pretty funny, actually. Mikey would pay to watch the process of getting their clothes over their shells. 

But what’s important—particularly to Leo—is the swords hung on his shoulder. There’s no mistaking the way his brother’s eyes latch onto them, like a moth to a flame. He pushes out of his chair, approaching the Red Hood guy and either not noticing or not caring how closely he’s being observed. 

Red Hood slides the belt off his shoulder, holding it out for Leo. Mikey can’t help but watch, his pancakes forgotten for the moment as his big brother takes his swords back with gentle hands. There’s the slightest click as Leo pushes the hand guards up with his thumb to inspect the blades. They must be fine, because he lets them slide back into place with a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you,” he tells Red Hood. The guy’s expression shifts slightly, looking off to the side in discomfort. 

“Yeah,” is all he says in return, like he didn’t know what to say. He doesn’t linger on it, though. His gaze shifts back to settle on Leo, something slotted into place. Suddenly, Leo’s getting his equipment back. His T-phone, smoke bombs, shuriken, even his grapple hook. “Here’s the rest of your shit.” 

Leo fumbles, struggling to keep everything in his arms. “Th- thanks.” The guy grunts, passing him by to sit over at the island counter. As if on cue, a plate of pancakes is placed in front of him. 

“Thanks, Alf,” he sort of mumbles. With Leo’s voice, it was sort of hard to tell. 

“You’re very welcome, Master Jason.” The old dude responds. Then, “Now, I understand you’ve just had your belongings returned, Mister Leonardo, but I’d ask that you keep your weapons out of the kitchen.” 

Leo stops mid-step while trying to smuggle his stuff over to the table. He looks sheepish, similarly ducking his head under the old man’s scrutiny. “Right, sorry.” Very carefully, the stuff gets set by the door, taking the extra second to prop his swords against the wall. He returns to the table with just his phone, instantly glued to it.

“We’ll have to stop by the party wagon to drop off your equipment.” Donnie cuts his pancakes into perfectly even pieces as he points it out. While Leo nods absently in agreement, Dick perks up. 

“That’s great. After breakfast, we can all head down to the Batcave together and—” Dick is cut off by the clattering of silverware on ceramic as Mikey stares at him in awe and delight. His brothers around him all look at Dick with varying incredulous expressions.

“It’s actually called ‘the Batcave’?” Raph stares in disbelief, with a layer of disgust to his tone. His incredulity pales in the face of Mikey’s excitement, though. 

“I knew it! I told you guys, Doctor Namenstein never gets it wrong,” he gloats proudly, ignoring his brothers’ collective eye roll. Unable to contain himself, he leans closer and closer to Dick. “So, do you have a Batsub? A Batcopter? A Batcycle?”

Although he shifts back to avoid their foreheads colliding, Dick continues to smile at him instead of getting annoyed. “We also have the Batmobile.” He looks incredibly pleased to be sharing this information, just like how Mikey is incredibly pleased to be hearing it. 

He squeals, flapping his hands. “This is so awesome! I knew someone out there had to share my creative genius!” 

“Careful,” Red Guy—Jason, or something—quips, “he won’t be able to fit through doors if his head’s too big.” He shoves a forkful of pancakes in his mouth, pretending as if he hadn’t said anything. 

Mikey gasps loud, looking back at Dick. He clasps his hands under his chin. “You came up with it?” The man’s expression turns incredibly gleeful.

“Yep. Before I came along, nothing had a proper name.” The man sighs woefully. “It was so sad and dreary.”

“So—so if Batman is swimming, does that make it Batswimming?” Dick tilts his head. 

“Uh—”

“Or, or, if he burps, is it considered a Batburp?” 

“I don’t—”

“OH! I know! How about—” 

Chapter Text

Everyone stands more or less congregated in the cave, with a silence that’s only broken by occasional far-off drips of water. Tim stands by Bruce with his arms crossed, overlooking their guests with a critical eye while the latter types away at the batcomputer. 

Rather than sleeping, he’d wanted to do a full anatomical analysis, hoping to figure out just what kind of turtle he was. However, next thing he knew, he was waking up slumped over his desk at eleven in the morning with a really bad crick in his neck to the sound of Alfred knocking on his door. 

But today, they were going to get some answers. The tests would include a health checkup— a baseline for the turtles, to compare and contrast with themselves— with some physical and mental tests to try and identify where the switch has occurred. Obviously, it was their consciousness that had been displaced. But if they could determine how their functions have changed, then they could determine if they could reverse it themselves. 

Bruce would do literally everything before contacting Zatanna. 

A laptop is pushed into his hands. “Take that with you, so we can document results,” Bruce instructs. He is quick to tuck it under his arm with a nod, as Bruce turns to the group. 

“We’ll move over to the medical wing for the first half of the tests.” There’s no hesitation from their group, pivoting to head in that general direction as instructed. Tim only notices the turtles standing stock still because he’s at the back of the group.

Michelangelo crosses his arms with a downturned look. “Only if you say please,” he counters imperiously. Everyone stops, Dick, Damian and Jason glancing back. 

His brothers stand tall on his either side, wearing similar expressions of defiance to contrast Bruce’s neutral stare. Raphael’s is the most blatant, carrying with it a heavy amount of disdain, while Leonardo and Donatello share a more subtle look of distaste.

Tim watches as Bruce considers them with a thoughtful glint, before he—astonishingly—relents. 

“Would you please join us over in the medical wing?” He gestures to the medbay, somehow managing to keep a straight face all the while. Michelangelo exchanges meaningful glances with his brothers, wordlessly communicating something between them, before he looks upon Bruce once more. 

“We shall,” he acquiesces in what can only be described as a child’s approximation of an English accent. Though Raphael rolls his eyes, he guides Michelangelo by the shoulder as the four brothers turn and head over to the medbay. 

The rest watch them go, disappearing through the doorway. 

“Who knew it was that easy,” Dick wryly comments. With an eye roll, Jason strolls away, following after the turtles. 

Bruce’s eyebrows twitch downwards. “What do you mean?”

“Father, please.” Damian shakes his head, tired. “This situation is fatiguing as it is.” 

Dick’s expression twitches, attempting to suppress a grin. Tim, for his part, has to stop himself from laughing, especially because the kid seems entirely unaware of how fucking funny he just was. He watches Dick try to sling an arm around Damian. For a second, Tim can see his older brother realize with horror that he can’t comfortably reach Damian’s shoulders. He takes it in stride though, instead choosing to wrap it around his back to lead him into the medical wing, his impish grin sliding back on. 

His snickering dies down as Bruce joins beside him, looking puzzled. 

“Tim?” He asks, clearly hoping to get an answer. 

Too bad Tim doesn’t feel like giving him one. 

With a pat to Bruce’s arm, he feigns sincerity to get the man moving. “Come on, B, let’s go. Can’t keep everyone waiting.” Thankfully, Bruce doesn’t protest, mostly seeming to just quietly puzzle as they walk. 

They enter just in time to witness Donatello smack Michelangelo’s hand away from touching a defibrillator. Tim watches with an uncanny feeling as his own face pouts. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. 

The laptop gets set to the side, opening up so that Tim can start creating new files for the turtles. He frowns as his huge fingers press down on multiple keys at once, messing with the password he’d been trying to type. He tries again using only his fingertips, which seems to work. 

“We’ll start with checking BPM,” he notes out loud. Several new patient records are created, denoting who is in what body at the time of recording. 

“What’s a BPM?” Michelangelo asks off to the side. 

Donatello is quick to respond. “It means ‘beats per minute.’ They’re going to check our heart rate.” Tim listens only halfway, typing as fast he can with his stupidly large fingers. He pauses when Donatello suddenly shouts, “Oh! Wait!” Before running out of the room. 

Tim glances up from the laptop. The brothers don’t seem particularly fazed, shrugging off Donatello’s sudden departure. Which is all Tim needs to simply go back to creating the rest of the patient files. 

Donatello comes back carrying a brown leather bag, skidding to a stop to hold it up. “I have some of my medical devices in here.” The contents clang around a little as he holds it up, smiling proudly. 

Damian, standing beside Dick, crosses his arms. “We have more medical equipment than you could possibly fathom. What could we need from your little bag?” 

Astonishingly, Donatello doesn’t seem the slightest bit insulted. He actually grins, unclasping the metal fasten to dig his arm into the bag. “Sure, you could have as many medical devices as you want, but do you have… this?” He produces an odd-looking stethoscope, holding it up for everyone to see. 

“A stethoscope?” Tim asks flatly. “Yeah. We have a couple of those.” 

“This isn’t just a stethoscope!” Donatello clicks his tongue, waving his finger disapprovingly. “This is a specially-built, one-of-a-kind, stethoscope for turtles!” 

“A turtlescope!” Michelangelo interjects. 

Donatello nods agreeably. “A turtlescope. See, regular stethoscopes for humans work fine. But they have difficulty going through the solid bone of a plastron.” As he talks, he walks up to Dick to knock on his chest. It makes an almost wooden sound, the thick layer of bone. “So in order to have it work for our needs, I modified a regular stethoscope into a super one! With its extended hearing range, I can hear my brothers’ heartbeats perfectly.” 

His voice has gone completely animated, talking fast and excitedly about his creation. Using large gestures with his hands as he talks, and circling steps around the room to look at everyone. It’s clear how much his inventions mean to him. And his brothers know it too, judging by the way they’re watching him with small smiles. 

“That’s very resourceful,” Bruce compliments. Donatello beams. 

“Why, thank you! Now we can proceed with the physical. I just need to… hm… yep, there we go.” He fumbles a bit trying to put the earpieces in, but figures it out just fine. “Alright!” He holds the diaphragm up. “Who’s first?” 

When did this become Donatello performing the checkup? Tim glances between him and the others. 

Jason, who has been sitting quietly off to the side, asks with a raised brow, “Do you even know how to use that?” 

“What? Of course I do.” Donatello frowns a bit. “I’m the one who does the yearly checkups for these bozos.” He jabs a thumb behind at his brothers, who all look vaguely insulted. So he’s the family doctor? Something to note…

Michelangelo is the first to stop frowning, leaning his arm on Donatello’s head with a grin. “Yeah, he’s the one who goes all mad scientist and jabs us with mysterious needles.” The latter glares at his brother, pushing his arm away. 

“I keep telling you, they’re not mysterious! They’re to prevent deadly illnesses that you’ll no doubt track in with you, Mikey.”  

“Hey! You callin’ me a disease magnet?!” 

Donatello taps his chin. “Hmm, let me think. How many times have you picked something up off the ground or fished out of a dumpster and tried to eat it? Oh, yeah. A LOT!” His shout seems to physically push Michelangelo back with its sheer intensity, making him fall back to his other brothers. As if it had never happened, he turns back towards them, smiling pleasantly. “Any volunteers?” 

Biting the bullet, Tim raises his hand. “I’ll go. But I’d like to ask you some questions.” He catches how Donatello’s smile goes wooden for a second, before smoothing out. 

“I’ll answer to the best of my ability,” he hedges. “Now, come sit.” 

“Breathe in deep… and then slowly breathe out.” 

“…”

“Wow. You’re at 95 beats per.” 

“I drink a lot of caffeine.” 

“Ah, that explains it.” 

“How old are you?”

“… We’re 18.” 

“You’re all the same age?”

“We’re from the same clutch, so yes.” 

“Same clutch… what species—?”

“It’s a bit up in the air, but we most closely resemble the diamond back terrapin. Lift your sleeve.”

“… How could you not know? You said last night that your DNA was a mix of a turtle’s and a human’s. Were you also spliced between a tortoise and a sea turtle?” 

“Stop talking for a second. Breathe normally.” 

“…”

“… The nature of our mutation was caused by something very unstable. We were normal tortoises, but as we are now, we can hold our breath underwater for upwards of fifteen minutes. By all scientific accounts, it should make no sense. And yet here we are.” 

“…” 

“…”

“… You said… ‘mutation.’”

“… Yes. We are mutants. Blood pressure is 123 over 77. I would keep an eye on that.”

“Thanks… how were you—”

“I need you to open wide. Say ‘ah.’”

“But—”

“Say ‘ah.’”

“… Ahhhhh.” 

“You never answered my question.” 

Donatello glances over at him briefly, but it doesn’t last long as he focuses on pressing the end of the turtlescope to Dick’s chest. For a second, Tim is sure he’ll have to try again. 

“Technically, you didn’t ask it,” he retorts, knowing full well that he shut Tim up. 

But a second later, he sighs, as if he’s releasing something heavy.

“It’s a substance known as ‘mutagen.’” 

Tim exchanges blank looks with the others, confirming they did not recognize the name. Bruce doesn’t seem to either, but he listens with intense focus. 

“It’s a glowing ooze that has DNA-altering properties. Functionally, it can fuse two or more species together into a singular entity.” Donatello pulls the diaphragm away, calling out “50 beats” for his brother. Tim jots it down. 

Bruce is frowning. “It was created to mutate people?” Watching as Donatello rolls up Dick’s sleeve. 

“Yes,” he shrugs, “and no.” 

“Ohhhh snap,” Michelangelo whispers to his brothers, “he pulled a—!” But they quickly shush him. 

“Like I said, it’s incredibly volatile.” Donatello shakes his head. “It’s never been known to work the same way twice.” 

Leonardo interjects, “It’s essentially Russian roulette. We were mutated, and we have our wits intact—”

“—Some of us more debatable than others,” Raphael says in Michelangelo’s direction. 

“—But the mutation can sometimes mess with your mind. You can’t think straight.” 

“Or you’re left only with pure animal instinct,” Donatello adds. “125 over 67.”

Jason asks, “How is it made?” He’s watching Donatello closely, just as they are, with a heavy amount of apprehension. 

He visibly hesitates, glancing over at his brothers. “It’s…”

“Made…”

“From…”

“Worm whales!” Michelangelo finishes. Tim doesn’t miss how both Leonardo and Raphael give him a side eye but say nothing. 

Dick pushes the penlight Donatello was holding away from his mouth. “I’m sorry, you said ‘worm whales’?”

“Yeah! And it comes out of their—” Michelangelo starts to gesture at his chest, only for Raphael to smack his hands down. 

Their eldest blinks blankly. “I can’t tell if you’re lying to me or not.” He doesn’t put up a fuss as he’s made to open his mouth again, Donatello shining the penlight once more. 

Michelangelo preens. “Dude. I am amazing at that.” 

Damian, who has remained rather silent, asks what they’ve all begun to wonder. “How many of you are there?” 

And Donatello? He confirms what they were all suspecting. 

“More than you’d think.”

These ‘guests’ of theirs, they certainly know how to irritate. 

Father and Drake spend upwards of an hour attempting to gain as much information as they can, with varying levels of success. Some are answered, while some become lost behind their poor attempts at smoke and mirrors. This Michelangelo character in particular, it seems to be all he is made of. Damian hesitates to say there is any substance. 

And he supposedly wields nunchaku? How absurd. 

There is that nagging voice, though. The one that sounds suspiciously like Richard, telling him to withhold his immediate judgments. Because he may discover something unexpected. 

“Haha! Lookit this, hahaha!”

He highly doubts it. 

The fool is doing something peculiar with his hands, up ahead with his brothers as they all walk towards the sparring mats. Something like holding his hands with his fingers interlocked, except two which wiggle out on either side. 

He glances down at his hands curiously, but quickly looks away with a scoff. 

The turtles sit at the edges of the mat on their knees in matching seiza. He meets eyes with Michelangelo when he sits opposite to them, remaining unreactive even when the other smiles at him. 

“You got somethin’ to say?” Raphael prods with narrowed eyes. The most appropriately cautious out of all of them, it seemed. 

Well, since he asked... “Why are you in Gotham?” He zeroes in on Leonardo and Donatello shifting about nervously. The silence stretches as he waits for their answer, watching as they grow more and more uncomfortable. 

“We have… reasons…” Leonardo keeps his gaze cast to the floor, his hands rested stiffly on his legs. 

“What are they?” 

“They’re… very good reasons…” 

“I’m all ears.” 

“The reason… is…”

“The reason is it’s none of your BUSINESS!” Raphael explodes, eyes blazing. He refuses to squirm under the intensity of Richard’s rarely-seen rage, especially considering it wasn’t even truly Richard. This person seemed quick to anger, to snap defensively. Much like a certain zombie Damian knows. 

“If it’s for a good reason, then surely you’d be able to tell me.” He meets Raphael’s eyes unblinkingly. “It shouldn’t be that hard, should it? Unless you have something to hide—”

“Who’s ready for a good old-fashioned workout!” Damian is suddenly hit with several pounds of turtle, barely managing to stay upright. He shoots Richard a glare for interrupting his interrogation, but the man is unrepentant, with a wide and shining smile. 

“It’s not just a workout, it is to test our strength and distinguish any changes to our abilities.” 

Drake sits on Richard’s other side, sloping lazily to the floor. “It’s a glorified workout.”

“You—”

“Gremlin.” Clearly Todd craves a second death, seeing as he decides to interrupt Damian. “It’s a workout routine.” He sits a good distance away from them, back hunched and legs crossed. A terrible posture to hold. What Mother saw in him as a pupil, Damian will never know. 

He lifts his chin. “It would be a waste of my time trying to explain the intricacies to an ape like you.” 

“Sure would,” Todd answers uncaringly, much to his surprise and annoyance. Usually the oaf can’t help but retort against a slight at his expense, like he’s physically incapable. But this one seems to have just bounced right off him. Damian refrains from retorting when Father joins them. 

He carries a Wayne tablet with him, likely to document their results as they proceed with the testing. When his gaze sweeps across all of them, Damian straightens fully. 

“We will go one at a time, starting and ending with endurance. I will document as we go, so simply focus on the tasks at hand.” His gaze lifts to glance over at the turtles, where Donatello has raised his hand. “Yes?”

“Exactly what are you documenting?” He holds Father’s eye without hesitation, lowering his hand back to his lap. Father gazes back shrewdly. 

“… We will be looking for the levels and limits of your current capabilities, and comparing them with past results. This way, we will determine whether there’s been any significant changes since the swap.” Donatello’s forehead crinkles as he frowns. 

“You keep a record of individual strength?” 

“Yes. This is so we can keep a close eye on progression and setbacks.” 

Damian catches a grumble from Raphael; “A very normal thing for a family to do.” He doesn’t so much as flinch when Leonardo elbows him in the side.

It seems as though every one of them is determined to keep a tight lid on their true intentions. Raphael is the most explicit and forthright, while Donatello skirts on the edge of an answer without giving anything he wants to hide away. 

Leonardo is an abysmal liar. He couldn’t even come up with a small white lie to hold off Damian a minute ago! Perhaps that would be how he gets his answers. If he just pricked the balloon hard enough so it would pop…

Or he could try Michelangelo. He seemed an individual who would let something slip once his guard was down. If Damian endeared himself enough to gain the other’s trust, maybe he would reveal something crucial! It couldn’t be hard. One could say it might even be easy. 

All he would need is to find his moment. 

Bruce, from beginning to end, writes every little detail he notices. And with eight people to document, he writes for awhile. 

When it comes to Leonardo, it is plain to see that he is used to working with a lighter body. Due to the amount of muscle mass Jason has built, certain techniques require some tweaking in order to make work. He notes that while it does throw the young man off, he is quick to adapt and adjust accordingly. 

Raphael carries himself confidently throughout his entire test. He conducts his tasks with aggressive vigour, a stubborn set to his jaw that is very familiar on Dick’s face. Although, Bruce notes, his flexibility test is taken with a certain level of caution. Which… is admittedly hilarious, considering how many times Bruce has seen Dick bend and twist in all sorts of unnatural and fascinatingly disturbing ways. 

It’s most obvious that there will be a significant change for Donatello. Becoming a whole head shorter is bound to throw off one’s equilibrium, and it shows. It’s clear he’s not quite sure how to handle this body. His speed is significantly decreased from Damian’s average, and the weights he reaches for far too heavy for Damian’s age. It’s almost like watching gears turn, witnessing Donatello attempt to adjust. 

Michelangelo makes full use of his, and Tim’s, abilities. It doesn’t even seem to give him pause, going from one test to the next completely unfettered. In the middle of his strength test, he decides to balance the weights on the backs of his hands. And succeeds. It isn’t so much the show of strength and balance that surprises Bruce—though it does get written down—but the complete and utter lack of concern over the danger such an act brings. Furthermore, the only member of his family who seems even remotely perturbed is Leonardo, who tiredly tells him to cut it out. 

Bruce underlines several times that muscle memory is the key to answering his question: what exactly has changed? The constitutions of their bodies remains the same from before the swap, which leads him to believe the true change is the brain. This is further backed by the fact that while their voices did not switch, their manner of speaking did. Given that knowledge of speech and articulation is stored in the Broca’s Area of the brain, he feels pretty confident about this conclusion. 

But a brain swap. That… could potentially be fixed without the use of magic. If he recalled correctly, there was that device they’d confiscated after that incident with Clark. It wouldn’t take much time to zeta over to retrieve it. 

He’s relieved to see his sons taking the swap in stride. Of course there was no doubt they would, but it was nice to have that reassurance. 

Dick watches everyone deflate over several hours of tests. His own brothers included, who have all been subjected to Bruce’s rigorous methods at one point or another. He can’t help but snicker as even Damian, strong-willed boy that he is, seems to melt closer to the floor as if to become one with it. This may earn him a swift kick to the shin, but he regrets nothing. 

He takes this opportunity to observe the turtles in their more unguarded state. The perfect sitting posture they’d all organized themselves in was abandoned for leaning against each other or, if you’re Michelangelo, laying on the floor. Raphael uses Michelangelo as a backrest though still manages to keep everyone within eye line. All the while, Leonardo and Donatello speak quietly to each other, inclining their heads just enough that Dick can’t read what they’re saying. 

Completely on accident, he catches Leonardo’s gaze. They lock eyes and, since they do, he offers a smile. Leonardo doesn’t react in the slightest, though he doesn’t tear his gaze away. The expression held on Jason’s face isn’t outright hostile, but bathed in a heavy dose of caution. Eventually his eyes tear away when Donatello taps him on the arm, startling as if he’d been lost in thought. 

It’s odd watching Jason and Damian whisper to each other conspiratorially, even though he intellectually knows it’s not them in there. Both everything he’s ever hoped for, and the stuff of nightmares. 

At Bruce clearing his throat, everyone looks up. 

“That will be all for now. You may go.” 

“Thank fuck. ” Both Raphael and Jason groan out in exasperation, only to meet each other’s eye to look the other over critically. Dick outright laughs at the exact same time Michelangelo does, both of them obviously finding glee in the competitive edge lining their brothers' stares. 

Still lying down, Michelangelo inches over to him like a slug, grinning. “Bet you five bucks they duke it out by the end of the week.” 

Dick grins wide. “I give it three days.” 

“Deal.” He holds out his hand and Dick shakes it. The feeling is very odd, shaking someone’s hand with only three fingers. At times, it feels like he’s missing something, similar to how someone missing a limb can still occasionally feel it. That feeling had severely messed with his equilibrium when he’d tried his usual morning practice. But he was very curious to see how long it would take for him to get used to it. 

Michelangelo retracts his hand and, after only a beat, asks, “Did your parents name you Dick on purpose?” 

This makes Dick snort. Normally people ask this question maliciously, thinking they’ve got a good joke on him or something. The way Michelangelo asks it is genuine like he’s sincerely just curious. 

“They named me Richard,” he explains. “Dick is just a nickname. English wasn’t their first language, so they didn’t know. By the time someone pointed it out, it was too late, I already knew that as my name.” 

“Ohhhh.” He nods earnestly, and Dick can’t help but smile. “So, your parents were immigrants?” Michelangelo asks, once again completely genuine without any undertones. 

“Nope.” Dick smiles. “They were circus acrobats. The Flying Graysons.” The sting, although not completely gone, is a lot gentler now and gets overshadowed by his fondness for the memories. 

He flinches back a bit when the younger boy sits up to get right in his face, with sparkles in his eyes. 

“The circus?!” Dick nods. “Whoaaaaaa…” He sits back, giving Dick some space. His grin is absolutely blinding. “That’s so cool! I wish I was in the circus.” 

With a quirk of his lip, he tilts his head. “How come?” It’s worth it to watch the way Michelangelo throws his arms up incredulously, scoffing. 

“Dude! All those stunts?! They’re so cool! And you get to travel all over the place. I’ve never even been to Wisconsin! Do you know how sad that is??” 

He has to twist his mouth a certain way in order to not smile, but it proves difficult. “No?” 

“Me neither!” Michelangelo throws his arms up again, this time in defeat. “I don’t even know what I’m missing, but I bet it’s awesome.” 

This kid is hilarious. He reminds Dick a bit of Wally, though without the speed force to chalk up some of his hyperactivity. That was all personality, here. 

As he leans back on his hands to get more comfortable, he guesses, “so you and your brothers don’t travel that often, huh?” 

The other matches his pose, blowing a raspberry. “No. I’m lucky if we even get to drive out of the city. Sometimes we go upstate, but rarely.” Upstate? Wonder why they were there. “We’ve never even left the country! Oh, except for when we ended up in feudal Japan, and that time we all were vampires in Transylvania. And I guess there was also that time we were in space… does that count? Oh, and…” 

Dick listens to the continuous ‘oh and’s’, the kid listing places he and his brothers have somehow been. Logically he knows the lives of mutant turtles can’t exactly be normal, and logically he knows that the number of impossible things he’s experienced in his many years of vigilantism could also happen to other people as well, he still can’t quite discern if Michelangelo has a crazy active imagination or if all these things really happened and they just somehow never caught wind of it. Worms the size of whales that lactate a gene-modifying substance? Spontaneous vampirism in fictional character Dr. Frankenstein’s castle? It was almost so absurd you couldn’t make it up. 

“But Canada? I’ve never been to Canada!” He’s still going, jumping to his next train of thought, “At first, I was like, ‘ew, Jersey?’ but then we got here and it was like whoaaaa!! And I realized, Gotham’s crazy, ya know?” 

Dick smoothes a smile over his face. “Yeah. I get it.” 

Whatever the truth was, they’d definitely figure it out. 

Chapter Text

Escaping that Splinter-forsaken cave makes Raph understand how Rapunzel must have felt escaping her tower. He wanted to just run out of the freaking mansion and kiss the ground. 

… Except he still had to prove that they were the normal ones in this equation. Frolicking like an angel in the grass was decidedly not a sane activity. 

They wander their way back to the bedrooms, just to hole up in one and sit around the room. Leo is the only one who doesn’t sit, deciding he’d rather pace instead. 

He’s just about to ask if his brother has ants in his pants, when he finally decides to speak. 

“Now that we’ve got some free time to ourselves, we should use it and investigate.” Mikey immediately groans from where he’s lying on the bed, splayed flat on his back.

“Dude, can’t we just chill? Those tests sucked out all of my energy.” 

“No, Mikey—”

“—Like a vampire.”

“… No, Mikey, we can’t just ‘chill.’ We need to do reconnaissance. Since we’re going to be here with these humans for however long, the last thing we need is to be caught off guard. We need to understand our environment.” His voice takes on that Sensei tone, the one he uses when he’s trying to sound serious. Trying his absolute best to project the same authority their father had, even though it mostly just grates on Raph’s ears. It wasn’t that far off from his Leader tone, but showed up ten times more these days. 

He’s actually in agreement for once, though, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

Mikey rolls over on his side to pout at them sideways. “But I thought we were gonna look for the mutagen—" He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as they all quickly shush him. They all glance towards the door, as if someone was going to burst in and go ‘aha!’ 

Leo relaxes fractionally, turning back towards them. He gives Mike a quick glare. “We are,” he insists. “Tonight. We’ll go after dark, when no one is paying enough attention to notice we’re gone.”

Donnie cuts in, perplexed. “Are you saying we’re sneaking out?” 

Leo shrugs. “In a sense, yes. But it’s not like they’ve specifically barred us from leaving.”

“But planning to leave in such a covert way means that we're essentially sneaking out.” 

Leo puts his hands on his hips, raising an eyebrow. 

“Do you want to be the one answering questions on where we’re going? Because I sure don’t.” Donnie’s response is to sigh, which is close enough to a concession from him. 

From where he sits on the floor, his back pressed against the side of the bed, Raph tries to move things along. “So what’s the plan?” Leo’s relief comes in the form of a nod, visibly shifting back gears.

“We split up. Each person gets a floor, and we explore from top to bottom. Then, we meet back here and discuss what we found. Raph, you take main floor, as well as checking outside. Donnie, you get second. Mikey, third. I’ll take fourth and fifth.” They all nod as they’re given their assignment. He ends it with, “Text if anything comes up.” Donnie slowly raises his hand. “Yeah, Donnie?”

He lowers it, joining his two hands in his lap. “Are we purposefully leaving out attic and basement? And… cave, I guess?” Leo’s eyebrows knit just a bit in thought, but he shakes his head. 

“For now, let’s just stick with the main floors. If we really don’t find anything, we’ll revisit it.” There’s a contemplative pause. He sees Leo take a breath, his brain no doubt moving a mile a minute as he thinks. “But as for the cave… I’m not sure we can go about that undetected. They seem to like tight security. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are some surveillance cameras.” 

“There are,” Donnie answers immediately. “I could see a few while we were down there. They’re hidden quite well.” 

Mikey reaches up to sling his arms over Donnie’s shoulders, hanging off of him. “But not hidden well enough for our Dee!” Though Mikey is essentially crushing him, Donnie smiles. He gets that mix of shy and proud on his face like he always does when he gets complimented. 

With his own private smile on his face, Leo pipes in to say, “We’ll table it for now.” He gets no protest from Raph, or the other two, so he quickly moves on. “Everyone clear on what to do?” 

“Yup!”

“Mhm.”

“Loud and clear.” 

“Good.”

It’s an ordeal in itself to navigate down to the first floor, but he manages. The rooms he checks are large and empty. Decorated—so obscenely rich looking it disgusts him—but unused. This remains a fact when he stumbles across not one, not two, but three ballrooms.

Checking every room takes a stupid amount of time, but only because he keeps discovering more. Every twist and turn seems to reveal something new. But he can’t find anything overtly suspicious, so he moves on. 

The fresh air is nice. A little nippy thanks to the clouded sun, but one hundred times better than being smack dab in the centre of the city. That stank followed you everywhere, especially in the sewers. 

He notices the front is enclosed with a large stone brick wall, with sleek black metal bars for a gate. It’s formidable, though likely not anything that would withstand a battering ram move by a mutant like Slash. Considering the place belongs to literally Batman, he hopes he’s wrong for once. He passes by trimmed hedges and flowerbeds lining the manor walls. It’s pretty, and looks well-maintained. 

All of it does, both inside and out. Back when it was just the six of them living on a farm, getting the place spotlessly clean was impossible (and mind-numbing). They came to a tentative chore chart—including cleaning and maintaining the chicken coop that always smelled no matter what you did—but it was a struggle to maintain. 

Unlike the farm, this place doesn’t seem to have anything out of place. Not even a single stray blade of grass missed by the lawn mower. It stays this way the entire walk around the side of the house. Thanks to its size, it’s a bit of an ordeal. 

“Rich people,” he mutters to himself. “How did we get mixed up with rich people?” 

The backyard has a couple of things he can see at first glance. A massive pool, patio, a shed, and a barn. Casting off into countless trees, densely packed and looking to go on for awhile. 

The pool is nice, and he’s sorely tempted to jump headlong for a swim. But the barn sticks out more; Leo would definitely want to investigate it. 

He wanders in that direction, when he hears a sharp whistle, followed by a voice. 

“Ace! Come!” A familiar voice calls way ahead of him, followed by a dog’s bark. Raph walks a little further, following with a curious edge. 

He’s rounding a bump in the building, about to see who it was he heard, when a hulking form of a dog appears. Tall, with lithe limbs on a short, black silky coat. Thin ears stand proud, the tips flopping ever so slightly with its trot. 

They both pause, staring at each other. The animal bristles subtly, the fur on its spine raising. But ever so carefully, Raph crouches, holding out his hand. 

“Hey, buddy,” he greets softly. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt ya. I’m a friend. Promise.” 

The dog has an eery sort of stillness, like he’s measuring Raph. His big black eyes seem to stare through his human surface, almost as if he can tell who’s really underneath. Raph keeps his hand out, hoping his previous turtle status works in his favour for once. 

After a considering moment, the dog walks up and leans in to sniff his hand. It’s a very thorough check, with Raph occasionally feeling the cold and wet nose trail towards his arm, before it licks his palm. 

Seems like he passed the test. 

He can’t help but grin, reaching forward to tentatively stroke the dog’s head. His hand smoothes back the ears for a brief moment, quickly popping back up the second they’re no longer pinned. The dog seems perfectly content to receive some head rubs, leaning into it just a bit. It drifts close enough that he can stroke at its sides. 

He’s never really pet a dog before, unless socking Razhar in the face counts. Probably not. He thinks he might remember how people in movies do it, but there was a chance he could be horribly wrong. Still, he feels like he should try. 

Slowly, he starts scratching his blunt nails against the dog’s side. He scratches up and scratches down, a little surprised but relieved that his head isn’t immediately bitten off. 

Rather than that, the dog groans, an odd creaky sound, and he’s quickly retracting his hand when the animal collapses onto its side with a heavy whumpf . It looks at Raph expectantly, lifting its hind leg. He grins. 

“Alright.” 

Several minutes later, he’s shifted to better pet the dog’s underbelly, using both hands as the big lump lays back on the grass. A couple of times, its tried to push itself into lying completely on its back. But with its big, heavy limbs, it just falls back onto its side. Eventually, it just stops trying.

“Titus!” Someone calls. The same voice he heard earlier. “Titus?” The dog lifts its head up, ears perking. 

Raph doesn’t even have a second to decide how he’ll handle this, before Donnie’s turning the corner with that kid Damian inside. It takes a moment to clock the difference, mostly because the kid isn’t wearing that downright snobbish expression he’s regarded them with up until now. He looks startlingly normal. The hard edges come a second later, and Raph bristles readily. 

“What are you doing?” Damian asks with a downright accusatory tone. His hands clench at his sides. 

The way he talks makes it seem like he’s caught Raph doing something terrible . He tenses at the tone. “Petting. Heard of it?” Even still, he retracts his hands, feeling self-conscious. The dog—Titus, he guesses—pushes to stand and lumbers over to Damian’s side. 

Rather than answer him, the boy looks down at his dog and says, “I’d expected better from you, Titus.” The dog doesn’t really seem to care, sitting proud at the boy’s side. 

Pushing himself to stand, he’s able to marginally relax once he’s not in such a vulnerable position. He brushes the grass off his pants before folding his arms across his chest. 

Damian mirrors him, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “What are you doing out here?” Raph scoffs. 

“Didn’t realize I was on house arrest,” he remarks dryly. “Can’t a guy explore?” 

“‘A guy’ can. But you are not that.” Raph tenses, opening his mouth to retort. But Damian smiles, and he pauses. “You are a guest. If you’d wanted a tour, you should have just said so.” It’s not a friendly smile. It’s full of teeth, like he wants nothing to snap and bite. On Donnie’s face, it’s a clear sign of danger. Damian, unperturbed, slides past him with his head held high. “This way.” He doesn’t look back. As if he’s sure Raph will follow. 

Without anything better to do, Raph follows. 

Look, it’s all very strategic, okay? Justice League or not, he doesn’t trust these guys as far as he can throw them. If he can keep them in close proximity, they won’t have a chance to pull something. Do that long enough, they’ll have this situation sorted, and they can all move on and pretend the other doesn’t exist. 

“You’ve already seen the pool,” Damian says dismissively. “I assume, with your mixed turtle nature, that you’ll have no problem helping yourself to it. There are changing rooms just inside.” His tone makes Raph itch. Not even Leo, at his most condescending, had Raph wanting to pitch him into a tub of cacti. But he was sorely tempted. 

“You’re the one with a ‘mixed turtle nature’ now,” he points out, staring holes into Damian’s head. “Don’t you think you should be talking to yourself?” The glance he’s given is sidelong, with a look that could peel paint. He’s not ashamed to admit that he’s been on the receiving end of that look from Donnie a couple times, which is why he knows it well. 

The little snot doesn’t even acknowledge what he said. He just moves on. 

“What’s up with that?” He asks as they move closer to the structure. It was nicer looking than their own, with fresh paint and everything. 

Damian gestures to the barn dismissively. “That is where animals that cannot be allowed in the house live.” 

His imperial tone has Raph holding back a growl. “I. Know. What. A. Barn. Is,” he grits out. His hands clench into fists at his sides, gritting his teeth hard enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if they crack. 

The kid stops walking to glance back at him then, looking over his stiff and barely concealed rage with a critical eye. 

Then the kid smirks. He smirks.  

Oh, that little rugrat’s lucky he’s not still punting size. Just you watch, he—

“My apologies,” he replies, sounding anything but apologetic. “I’m still not sure what level of education you equate to. We have a cow, that is all.” And like nothing happened, Damian continues walking. Putting a tight lid on his simmering dislike, he follows. 

“Not much option for formal education when you’re a mutant turtle,” he retorts. “Why do you have a cow?” 

He can hear Damian’s eye roll even without seeing it. “If you must know, she’s a rescue.” Raph pauses. A rescue cow? “She was raised in a slaughterhouse. Destined to become packaged meat on a shelf.” His stride loses some of its fire, while Damian’s seems to gain it. This time, it’s the kid clenching his fists, tightening his hold on some well and true deep anger. 

Raph winces. “… I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you apologizing?” Damian snaps, “it’s not as if you put her there.” 

… He’s right. But suddenly he’s thinking of the chickens back at the farmhouse, and he starts to feel a tiny bit queasy. He thinks he understands Damian a bit, if just for this one thing. 

Raph marvels at how this switched up so fast. First it was Damian enjoying taking the piss out of him, now it was this awkward moment of maybe too much realness. He wants desperately to just go back to before. At least it’s something he’s familiar with. 

“… Can I meet her?” He can tell easily that Damian isn’t expecting that, with his quick frowning glance. Hell, Raph wasn’t expecting it either. But he finds that he stands by it, and doesn’t take it back. 

Damian seems to consider this, turning away slowly. “… You may,” he shockingly agrees. “But if she finds you at all upsetting, I will dispatch you so fast you will not have time to even blink.” 

He holds back a snort. Like hell he can. “Fine by me.” 

Raph never thought he’d get to meet a cow, but seeing one up close and in person is now in his top five experiences. When he holds out his hand for her, she takes a moment to consider him before nudging her large nose into his hand. He can’t help his smile; her nose is smooth and fuzzy. 

Off to the side, he can feel Damian watching him. It doesn’t dampen his mood, but he does remain conscious of it. Rather than address it, he asks, “What’s her name?” He glances over at Damian while smoothing his hand down the bridge of her nose. 

The boy assesses him quietly, eyes unable to keep from drifting to the gentle hand he’s using to pet the animal. Adjusting his stance, he replies simply, “Batcow.” 

Raph blinks. “Batcow?” Maybe he didn’t hear right. 

“Batcow,” Damian confirms. He seems almost proud, holding his head up with chin high. 

He quickly turns his head away, holding back a grin. This kid names things just like Mikey.

As he returns to petting Batcow, he hears a rolling clucking noise off to his far right. It sounds odd enough that he looks over, just as Damian does. 

A turkey, of all things, saunters its way out of a far stall. Damian, for his part, seems exasperated as he sighs, “Jerry, you know you’re not supposed to be in here. Go home.” ‘Jerry’ seems unreceptive, preferring to bob his way around the barn. 

Eventually he asks, “is Jerry a rescue too?” 

The kid’s silence seems more like he’s weighing Raph’s intentions rather than considering his answer. After a moment, he quietly replies, “Yes.” Rather than say anything, he nods. 

It’s a shockingly kind gesture from the boy who’s done nothing but spew insults since they met last night. Raph figures the kid is just an asshole, but if there is anything you can trust, it’s animal instinct. So if Batcow and Jerry trust the kid, maybe he isn’t so bad.

“Stop, stop. You’re petting her entirely wrong.” 

Raph still sort of wants to punt him though. 

Elsewhere, in the manor…

“YES! Eat shell, sucka!” 

Tim grunts, leaning away from Michelangelo (“Dude, just call me Mikey!”) to avoid another shoulder check. His character on screen is still spinning on its tires, falling behind from first to seventh in five seconds flat. 

“I thought you said you’ve never played Krazy Kart 8,” he grumbles, watching his kart accelerate forward at an agonizing pace. 

“I haven’t!” Meanwhile, Mikey zooms ahead in first place, swerving and drifting like he’s been playing for years. “But my bros and I have the original Krazy Kart, and I’ve played that thousands of times.” 

Go figure. “Does the original game have Crystal Circuit?” 

“Nope!” 

Of course. Of course he challenges someone who’s just naturally gifted at Krazy Kart. Tim has half a mind to shoulder check Mikey back. Just to, y’know, even the odds. 

“My hands are cramping,” he complains. “How do you do this? There aren’t enough fingers for all these buttons!” 

Mikey snorts. “I dunno, bro. Just lock in?” He doesn’t notice Tim stop driving, too focused on finishing the final lap to catch the head slowly turning in his direction. 

Between one moment and the next, controllers are thrown to the floor and someone is shrieking. What results is a slap fight none would suspect to come from two trained individuals. 

Tim has no regrets. 

Chapter Text

Night falls, and the noise of the manor quiets to nothing. They all listen for footsteps outside their door and above their heads; nothing. Even still, Leo is insistent they hug the shadows as they head down to the Batcave. 

Donnie could point out that, in a house this large, they have no real way of knowing if anyone was still awake without checking every single room. It’s larger than some malls. 

He could point that out, but he gets partway through his sentence when Leo shoots him a withering stare. So Donnie wisely shuts up. 

Oh, the things he could create if the had this kind of space and money at his disposal. Things that seemed destined to stay forever on paper, made into reality. Although, admittedly, it was kind of fun to come up with ways to hide his creations around the city. But the idea of the resources he could get alone has him salivating. The fact that Bruce Wayne uses none of it, and keeps himself restricted to a cave system (on purpose ) has Donnie weeping at all the wasted potential. 

He should be grateful he gets to see it at all. He just needs to keep telling himself that. 

“What was the key to getting in here?” Leo asks once they’re standing in front of the grandfather clock. He rubs his chin as he squints thoughtfully, trying to remember. 

With a hand fisted in Mikey’s shirt to prevent him from wandering, Donnie points out, “They moved the hands of the clock to ten forty-eight.” Which seems ridiculous, at least to him. If it were his choice, he’d involve multiple layers of biometric scans (and probably a few more non-biometric ones). Not something as flimsy as a specific time on a clock . 

Raph, with his arms crossed over his chest, asks, “What’s so important about ten forty eight?” The three of them watch as Leo pulls open the glass case to the clock face. He starts turning the large hand with his finger. 

“Gee, that’s a good question, Raph,” Donnie says animatedly. “Why don’t we forget this, turn around and march upstairs to ask one of them?” He meets narrowed eyes unflinchingly, smiling just a bit too wide in the way he knows unsettles them. 

“Why the hell’re you so pissy? I can’t ask a single question?”

“No.” 

Leo hisses at them, “Would you guys quiet down? This isn’t the time for chatter.” He turns his attention back to the clock face after shooting them a glare—green eyes seeming a little greener than before, weirdly—and stops when something clicks. Taking a step back, Donnie’s brother sizes up the grandfather clock carefully before reaching to pull at its edge. The thing shifts easily, taking with it a part of the wall to reveal the cavernous staircase downward. “Okay,” he breathes, relieved. “Let’s go.” 

The very minimal lighting as they make their way down has Donnie gripping the railing just like last time. It’s even worse going down than up. When you go up, at least you can catch yourself pretty easily if you trip. Falling down is just asking for disaster, one that ends in bumps and bruises. And he can get a lot of those now, with his squishy human body. 

Thankfully, even when Mikey bumps into him from behind, he doesn’t fall down the stairs. They make it just fine, and Donnie can breathe a sigh of relief. 

They’re all a little startled when some lights turn on rather suddenly, but quickly realize that they’re the automatic kind and continue their route to the van. On their way, they pass the life-sized T-Rex model and giant penny, marvelling at it once again for its sheer absurdity in contrast with the rest of the cave. 

Mikey thinks it’s the best thing since pizza gyoza. 

Navigating their way out of the tunnels and back into the city is simple enough with the GPS in their phones. After a while of driving in the dark, they emerge onto an empty road in Otisburg. From there, it’s just a matter of navigating the streets—and crossing a bridge—to reach the Upper East Side. 

As they’re turning from Dillon Avenue, Donnie glances over at the mutagen detector only to do a double take. He sets his phone down, picking up the device with a frown. 

“Something the matter, Dee?” Mikey asks off to his left. He can feel his brother shift closer, peering over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, look.” He holds up the device for Mikey to see. His brother squints. 

“Uhhh… not sure what I’m supposed to see, gotta be honest.” Donnie huffs, leaning forward and tapping at the blinking dot. 

“See this? This is what we’re following. The faster it blinks, the stronger the signal.” Mikey’s forehead crinkles in a frown. 

“But it’s blinking slow.” 

“Ex actly. It wasn’t like this yesterday. Which means something must have changed in the couple of hours we were gone.” Pulling the device back into his lap, he stares at it. Just last night, the signal was strong enough that it blinked in half second intervals. Now, it was barely managing a sluggish beep every four seconds. “This isn’t good…” Donnie raises his hand to rub his head absently, but flinches when his fingers meet locks of soft hair. Oh right, that whole thing. He lowers his hand back to his lap. 

From the front, Leo asks, “Is everything alright?” He keeps his eyes diligently on the road, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. It reminds Donnie that technically he’s supposed to be navigating, and he grabs his phone once more. 

“Not really,” he admits. “I’ll explain once we get there. Turn left onto Rudolph Drive.” 

They stop a street away from the site of last night’s fight, and hop out to continue on foot. 

“So, what’s the problem?” Leo stands at the front of the group, his head on a swivel as they navigate through back alleys and side roads. Raph encases them from behind, keeping Donnie and Mikey in the middle. 

He can’t help but sigh. “The signal is getting weak. I’m not sure what happened, but I’d say we don’t have very long until the traces of mutagen disappear completely.” The expression on Leo’s face is pensive, but he only hums in thought. 

He backs away from the mouth of the alley. “Let’s go, then.”

It’s entirely natural that they shift their attention to climbing upwards. There are less obstacles, and they won’t have any chance of running into anyone on the way there. Leo goes first, shifting the straps of his scabbard to better sit on his back. Even after adjusting the clasps to fit to his bigger body, they’re still not quite right. 

They watch as Leo crouches down to leap up. A simple jump should allow them to get a foothold on the dumpster and use it as a springboard for the windowsill above. They’ve done it thousands of times, and there was no indication that this would be any different. 

So, imagine Donnie’s surprise when Leo not only fails to clear the distance between the ground and the top of the dumpster, but misjudges where his feet will go and rams his shin into the dumpster’s edge. He winces as Leo’s face slams into the dumpster lid, before going still. 

They all glance between each other, wearing similarly wary expressions. Mikey is the first one to approach. “Leo…?” 

All of a sudden, Leo sits up. They all jolt back slightly, but watch as he touches his nose. His fingers come away with blood—in stark contrast against his pale, scarred hands—and he frowns at them. “Ow.”  

Raph scoffs a laugh, now that he’s seen Leo’s alright. “What the shell was that? Didja forget how to jump?” Leo glowers down at him.

“No, I didn’t.” They watch as Leo pushes himself to stand, wiping at his nose with his wrist. He smoothes out his expression into something neutral, but his hands are clenched at his sides. 

His face—or, more accurately, Jason’s—is an intimidating thing to be faced with, especially towering over them with his broad shoulders and thick limbs. It doesn’t help that his face is now smeared with drying blood, and there’s something just on the edge of threatening in his eyes. Donnie takes a second longer than he’d care to admit trying to find his voice. 

“It’s—well, just like I explained earlier today, your equilibrium is all off. You’re compensating for a shell that is no longer there, so your balance is bound to be a little off.” With a sheepish smile, he adds, “And we’re used to the strength that comes from being mutants. There are bound to be differences.” 

For a stretching moment, Leo is silent. Donnie watches his eyes trail away, unreadable, before settling on the fire escape on the adjacent building. His brother says nothing as he takes a step back—already adjusting to his different weight, he can see it in the silent way he calculates his jump—before launching across the small gap. The clang of his landing is a lot heavier, but he lifts himself up with ease and starts walking up the steps. 

There’s no calling in to question what they, as individuals, are able to do. What Leo is able to do. Donnie’s eldest brother is extremely capable; he’s faced down entire armies all by himself, and he’s led them into battle when all hope seemed lost. Hell, he faced the Shredder alone not once, not twice, but several times and lived to tell the tale. But something about this experience is rankling him, and it’s frankly hard to watch. It was reminiscent of the days after waking from his coma. 

Donnie bites back a sigh. 

They all follow suit, climbing up the fire escape rather than scaling up the side of the building like they usually would. Leo is waiting for them, the Gotham Knights hoodie he’s wearing blowing with the wind. 

The three of them stop when he looks back. His expression is no longer forcibly blank, which—he doesn’t know about his brothers, but—has Donnie’s shoulders relaxing. His brother’s fine. 

He jerks his head imperceptibly. “Let’s go, ninjas.” 

He takes a running start, and leaps to the next building. Donnie exchanges glances with his brothers, and matching grins slide onto their faces. 

There’s nothing left. 

They find the building with the signal. Leo says it’s where he initially was before he chased after the mysterious ninjas. Upon entering, it’s plain to see even with little to no lighting that it’s been cleared out. 

Only trace amounts of mutagen in a vat remain, which is what keeps Donnie’s signal alive. The glow in the otherwise dark of the building tells him as much. 

“I can’t see shit.” Somewhere off to his right, Raph complains. There’s a clang, and he curses up a storm under his breath. 

Using the screen of his T-phone as a source of light, Donnie shines it on his brother. “Could you be any louder, Raphael?” His brother stands there, shaking his arm out from hitting it against something. He squints at the pale light. 

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll make sure the whole neighbourhood hears you squawking when I ring your neck.” Donnie watches him fish out his phone and turn up the brightness, only to turn it back down when it blindsides him. 

Somewhere deeper into the room, Leo snaps at them to “Just find the stupid light switch.” They go simultaneously quiet. 

He walks about the room, his phone in one hand. Even though it’s hard to see, he makes his way to the vats. Globs of mutagen lay about its bottom, likely left behind after the vast majority was drained from the container. He reaches for his belt, initially fumbling when he remembers he’s wearing a sweater, and pulls out a squeeze dropper. Just enough to get a sample…

“Ah! Got it!” He gets only that second’s warning from Mikey before the lights come on. With a wince, he shuts his eyes, seeing only blocks of light when he opens them again. 

“A bit more warning next time, thank you,  Michael.” 

“Sorry!” 

As soon as he blinks the lights out of his eyes, he takes a chance to get a good look around. Five vats sit lined in a row in front of him, only some with trace amounts of mutagen. They’re tall, but not especially wide. It strikes him, after a moment, that they’re the perfect size for a human body. 

He shakes his head. Gather the sample first, speculate after. 

It’s just as he’s trying to figure out how to open one of the vats that there’s the sharp whistle of a ninja star flying through the air. Donnie jolts, whipping around to look at the source. He catches Raph and Mikey doing the same in his peripherals, realizing the source of the sound came from Leo. 

Leo, who’s looking up at the rafters with a critical eye. His arm still extended from throwing the star, he frowns up at the shadows as they split apart to reveal a looming figure. 

Batman stands far above them, holding his cape up in front of him with Leo’s thrown ninja star embedded in the fabric. With his other hand, he plucks it out. 

“You followed us.” Leo glares up at Batman. Outwardly, the Bat doesn’t react. 

However, he does say, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” In a menacing, low baritone. It sounds more like a threat than a question, effectively sending chills down Donnie’s spine. 

“Yes. I’m pretty sure we’re doing something that’s none of your business—” Leo stops short when Batman jumps down from the rafters, landing with very little sound as his cape moves like fabric ink around him. The way he approaches feels like he’s squaring for a fight, and Donnie finds his hands itching to grab his bo. A glance at Mikey and Raph reveals they’re thinking of doing the same. 

Leo’s face is steely as he looks at Batman head on. It must be a lot different, Donnie thinks, when you’re the same height as someone you’re facing off against. Often times, they have to look up to meet someone’s eye, but not here. Batman and his brother are on equal standing. 

“It is my business,” Batman insists. “These are not your bodies, you have no right to walk about in them as you please. In doing so, you are putting us all at risk.” 

And that’s when Donnie realizes he’s an idiot. 

Because, duh . They have disguises for a reason . Otherwise, they’d be jeopardizing their civilian lives every night. It was superhero rule number one. And yet here the four of them were, jumping across rooftops with the faces of Bruce Wayne’s children. Just, you know, one of the most influential men in the State. 

Stubbornly, Leo persists in his argument. “We know what we’re doing. We’re not so careless that we’d get ourselves caught by walking around. How do you think we survived the past eighteen years?” 

“Sheer luck.” Donnie grimaces, watching Leo’s jaw tense. Then, in a tone that brooks no argument, Batman tells them, “We are going back to the cave.” 

Suffice it to say, they have a few opinions. 

“?! Like HELL we are!” Raph shouts, bearing his teeth. 

“Yo, what??” Mikey looks at the rest of them, his brows raised in worry. 

Donnie narrows his eyes. “You can’t just decide that for us.” His hand clenches around the dropper tightly. He can’t leave without that sample. 

“This is not up for discussion. You four are entirely unprepared for Gotham at night. You’re not even wearing armour to protect yourself in case of an attack.” He and his brothers shift on their feet uneasily. That was something they couldn’t argue; they no longer had their shells to protect them. Without even really thinking about it, they’d left in hoodies and sweatpants. Things that definitely wouldn’t withstand a slash of a knife or the whack of a lead pipe. Batman gestures to them, his cape swishing with the movement. “All of this is unnecessary risk. Not just for my team, but yours as well.” 

From a couple feet away, Donnie watches Leo silently take in these points. There was undeniably some truth to them, even if none of them liked it. He could practically see the gears turning in his leader’s head as he deliberates carefully. 

“Give us twenty minutes,” he finally says. “We still have more to investigate here. I’m not going to simply leave without checking it over.” Batman stares at Leo for a long time. It’s not easy to tell what’s exactly going on in his head, but Donnie’s sure he’s thinking over Leo’s words carefully. 

“… Ten minutes,” he rumbles. There’s another tick in Leo’s jaw as he works it. 

“Fifteen. Final offer.” 

Batman grunts. There’s another moment of pure silence—considering it, perhaps—but: “Fifteen minutes,” he agrees. A fraction of the tension releases, but doesn’t completely dissipate. At least Leo doesn’t look like he’s ready to start throwing punches (and how odd is that? He gets prickly when his authority is called into question, sure, but to get angry enough he becomes physical?). From his belt, Batman procures four masks. He offers them to Leo, handing off a small bottle along with it. “Put these on,” he says. “It will provide at least some cover.” Leo takes the offered items, glancing up at the man unsurely. He nods the three of them over, handing them each a mask. 

Donnie takes his, along with the bottle Batman handed over. He opens up the bottle to get a sniff, blinking when it burns his nose a little. Alcohol and… something. He can’t put his finger on it. 

“Is this adhesive?” He glances over at Batman, who hasn’t stopped watching them the entire time. 

He grunts what Donnie thinks is an affirmative. “Similar to Spirit Gum.” 

Well, good enough for Donnie. If this is the typical stuff they use, it shouldn’t be too harsh on their skin. Still, he decides to be the one to apply the adhesive to the masks. Knowing Mikey, he’ll somehow manage to get it everywhere including his eyes. 

Once the masks are on, they spread out in search of clues. Donnie finally takes the time to get the samples from the vats. He gets a couple test tubes filled with the leftover mutagen, then starts looking elsewhere. 

A couple feet away from the equipment, he finds a charred spot of concrete. He kneels down and pushes his finger through the soot, rubbing it between his fingers. Looking closer, there seem to be little flakes amongst the char. 

“They must’ve burned any physical evidence before they left,” he mutters to himself. He wipes away the soot on his pants, standing and taking a look around. 

“Anything on your end, Donnie?” Leo asks from across the room. 

“Some,” he hedges, glancing surreptitiously at Batman. “You?” 

“Just empty filing cabinets.” 

“Well, I’ve got nothing from any of these shelves,” Raph calls. He emerges with a sour face, brushing off his shoulders. “Either they didn’t use ‘em, or they cleaned up good.” 

Donnie frowns, crossing his arms. They know how to hide their tracks, whoever they are. Paper trail gone, and not a machine in sight he can use to retrace their steps. It’s all incredibly organized. 

Leo glances around with a frown. “Mikey?” No response. The three of them exchange similar concerned looks. Wherever their brother was, there was bound to be trouble. “Mikey!” 

Thankfully, he calls back a second later. “Uh… back here!” His voice echoes from deeper in the building. When they follow the sound, they find an open door to a hallway. 

Instantly, they’re hit with a wave of smell . Donnie slaps a hand over his nose and mouth, hit with sudden nausea. Beside him, his brothers gag before following suit. 

“Ugh…” Raph‘s groan comes muffled from behind his hand. “It reeks of piss and shit.” 

“God, that’s just—that’s just awful.” Understandably, Leo looks a little green. Donnie can’t blame him. He already wants to leave, even though he’s sure there are answers to some questions here. 

He glances down each end of the hall. “I thought the place smelled off… but I wasn’t expecting this.” 

“Mikey!” Raph shouts, “Where the hell are ya?!” 

Down the hall, they can hear a faint, subdued, “Over here.” They exchange quick glances, but walk towards it. 

They find Mikey inside a room of ice box containers. Tens of them, lined neatly in storage shelves all through the length of the room. The temperature also notably drops once they’re past the threshold. 

Mikey sits strangely still on the floor. In front of him is an open cooler, which he stares at. He doesn’t even glance their way as they enter. 

Leo tries calling their baby brother’s name. He remains still and quiet, as if he didn’t even hear them. Not even as they get closer, stopping to peer over his shoulders. 

Immediately, they realize why he wasn’t responding. 

They’re quiet for a long, painful moment. Words don’t feel quite right for what they’re seeing. 

Raph is the first to break it. “Are those….?” But he trails off. 

“Rats?” Mikey guesses. He sighs. “Yeah.” 

Frozen rats, neatly lined up within the freezer box. No space is wasted. At least twenty rats kept in there, while excess space is filled with bags of packaged ice. Perfectly preserved for… for…

“What about the other rooms?” Donnie finds himself asking. He’s mortified, but he wants to know. No, not wants, needs.

“Empty,” Mikey responds hollowly. Donnie releases a breathe he didn’t even realize he was holding. “Mostly, anyway. You can smell it without even going in.” 

He bites back a grimace. Yeah, that was pretty bad. It was bearable in here, only thanks to the cold. 

But Mikey isn’t done. “They forget to take their shackles with them.” He says it so plainly, so evenly. Perhaps it’s the shock. It sounds like the numbness is setting in. 

Shackles. Vats of mutagen. Frozen rats. It didn’t take a supercomputer to calculate that math. 

“Okay,” Leo says. Then he says it again. “Okay.” He says it one more time, for good measure. “… Okay. I think… we’ve gotten all that we can from here.” None of them point out the shake present in his voice. If they did, they would have to admit that theirs would be too. 

Their leader puts a gentle hand on Mikey’s shoulder. For the first time since they entered, he looks up. His brows are knitted, easy to tell even with the domino-shaped mask. 

“Are we just gonna leave ‘em here?” His voice doesn’t quiver, but it’s a near thing. Just his quiet, still appearance makes it feel like he could shatter with one touch. 

Leo isn’t immune to it either. One look from Mikey, and he immediately softens. “I’m not sure what we’d even do with them, buddy.” He switches his touch on Mikey’s shoulder to card his fingers through his hair. The long, dark strands comb easily through his fingers. He stops when he reaches the ends, down by Mikey’s shoulders. 

It seems to do the trick. Sniffing, Mikey gently shuts the case to the freezer box. He’s very careful when he sets it back on the shelf. Leaning into Leo’s hand, he stands and follows them as they leave the room behind. 

Batman is waiting for them, when they enter the main room. They stay huddled together, with Mikey tucked under Leo’s arm and Raph resting his on Donnie’s shoulder. If he notices the somber air around them, he doesn’t mention it. 

The Batmobile is apparently parked close to the van, so it isn’t a hardship to walk there. They still stick to side streets and dark alleys, largely because walking down the sidewalk alongside Batman was a surefire way to attract attention. He asked Leo to pull his hood up, which he did. But mercifully, the streets are fairly empty. 

Batman seems convinced they’ll peal off in the other direction if he doesn’t watch them. They get to the van and he tells them to wait, and then stands completely still. Donnie’s starting to think he might just keep them there all night, when the Batmobile suddenly turns a corner and drives up to them. 

Donnie wonders for a moment, did he bring someone with him? Were they just waiting in the Batmobile this entire time? But then he opens the door on the driver’s side and steps in. That’s when Donnie realizes—

“He has a self-driving car.” He stares in complete shock. “I can’t believe it. He has a self-driving car.”

“Donnie?” He turns to Raph, grabbing his arms to shake him. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?!” 

“I- I dunno, Dee.” Raph’s eyes are wide and are looking down at him like he’s crazy but he doesn’t care. He’s busy trying to figure out what it would take to convert all their vehicles to be entirely self-driving. Sure, the Shellraiser has an auto-pilot ability but it still required some amount of intervention. And it definitely couldn’t be called to your location, what the hell that’s so—

He’s suddenly being pushed by the shoulders into the van. “Alright, Donnie, you can brainstorm it on the drive back.” Donnie doesn’t protest, crawling to his seat and reaching for the notepad on the floor to flick through and start drafting. He hears the others pile in, the van door shutting before the engine starts. Looking at his empty hand, he realizes he’s missing something crucial. 

“Hey, does anybody have a pen?”

Bruce is not put out that Donatello stays in the cave instead of following his brothers. He isn’t. It just means he has to work a little more cautiously while he’s down here tonight. No big deal. 

He switches on the garage camera for the tenth time since he’s sat down. Hard to see if there’s any movement from the angle, but the van (the thing they call ‘the party wagon’) remains still and unassuming. 

His first guess is that the teenager’s analyzing the samples he collected from the abandoned lab. Some glowing substance he scooped into some test tubes. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s curious. Could it be the mysterious mutagen they mentioned earlier today? Was that too much of a leap? 

He sighs, finally pulling off the cowl so he could set it on his desk. It didn’t feel right to leave. If it weren’t for his sensors alerting him of movement in the cave, he wouldn’t have known they’d ever left. Now he has to stay here and make sure nothing is tampered with. 

… Well. He has another reason for staying down here now, anyway. 

From his belt, he produces a four-pointed shuriken. Simple in make, but deadly in the right hands. Just like the katanas, they have a symbol painted black on each side. Something like a flower, but similarly adjacent. There are five petals, each with holes in their centre. It’s surrounded by a thick banded circle. 

He can’t shake this feeling. A sense that this isn’t the first time he’s laid eyes on this symbol. 

Chapter Text

Now that he’s a turtle, Dick’s choices for exercise are severely limited. It sucks, and it’s not even really about the exercise thing; they have all they could ever need within the manor. 

But going to the gym was an excellent excuse to get out of the house. 

When he stays in Gotham—in Wayne Manor—long enough, he starts to go a bit crazy. Maybe it’s the long, echoing halls, or maybe it’s the company (because he loves his family, he really does, but he left this house behind for a reason). And now he’s about to be in Gotham for the foreseeable future until they get this whole body switch fiasco sorted. 

Yaaaaaay…

Still, exercise is exercise. And if he doesn’t work out his excess energy, he’s going to actually start climbing the walls. Then they’ll have another chandelier incident, which nobody wants, least of all Alfred. 

So, Dick sucks it up and heads to the cave. 

All is quiet when he makes it down, which isn’t surprising. It’s rare to see anyone up (aside from Alfred) before at least eleven. But there’s a jitter deep in his bones, so he’s up two hours earlier. 

Dick starts with a warm-up stretch, popping tunes into his ears (because the cave’s silent drip-drip would make him go crazy). He’s still surprised to find how flexible he actually is with this shell on his back. Folding into a backbend is awkward, but not impossible. 

He avoids the trapeze for today. Partially, it was because he knew he wasn’t yet used to how different it felt to move. But technically, he’d also struck that deal with Raphael. He had a feeling the other would want proof he’s keeping his word. 

Switching to pushups, he snickers quietly. 

Somehow, they’d managed to run into quite the group of personalities. Michelangelo is a fine example. Excitable and strange, but not entirely clueless. His eyes can take on a rather sharp quality, if you’re looking for it. And he certainly knows how to get people off track. Either that, or he seriously just switches his train of thought that fast. 

(“We need to ingratiate ourselves with them. Learn as much as we can.” Bruce regarded him seriously, after explaining he was suspicious of their motives for being in Gotham. This was after they’d finished running the tests. “Michelangelo might very well be our ticket to finding out the truth.”

With a snort, he’d patted his father’s shoulder. “If you want to decipher him, you can certainly try.”) 

Raphael wasn’t too difficult to understand. At least, for the most part. The protective anger was familiar, like a worn out hat. But he has a sneaking suspicion there’s an incredibly gentle side to him (or maybe that’s just Dick’s wishful thinking, wanting a second chance so bad it hurts). 

Making that deal with him was a bit of a gamble, but he’s nothing if not a risk-taker. A little healthy competition goes a long way. It’s helped him, in the past, break the ice when tensions were high in a group. It’s how he got his little brothers to engage with him. Why wouldn’t the same rulebook work here?

Leonardo was keeping them all at a distance, that much was clear. The most amount of personal preference he’s shown was towards his belongings being returned; a ripple of emotion that swept across his face when he had his swords back in his arms. In the face of everything else, he was stoic. 

With his brothers, he seems incredibly attentive. And in turn, they seem to trust him implicitly. ‘Leader’ in every sense of the word. Dick didn’t even have to guess, because he could see it. Had been it. But it just seemed to never turn off, for this kid. Dick gets exhausted just looking at him. 

Donatello… he admittedly doesn’t have a good read on. Incredibly smart, enthusiastic when it comes to his work, but incredibly cagey and critical at times. He’d given them a fair bit of information to work with, yet none of it revealing too much on themselves or why they were in Gotham. A smart tactic to give them just enough to satiate, especially with his brothers’ help. 

Hopefully with time, they’ll be more willing to place trust in them. There’s not much else to do, really, when you’re stuck in each other’s bodies. Dick already had to call out on paid vacation time back in Blüdhaven. 

For the next hour, Dick works through his reps thoughtlessly. When he starts to get too lost in his head, he decides it’s time to hit the showers. 

It’s when he’s walking over, that he hears a loud bang. Dick stops, lowering his towel from his head as he slowly glances over towards the cars. The modified Volkswagen the turtles brought in sways back and forth like someone’s in it. 

Is there someone in it? 

He decides to investigate. At worse, it’s one of his family (likely Tim, or Bruce) and at best it’s one of the turtle brothers. Though he feels like he would have noticed if someone came down while he was working out. 

Just as he’s close enough to take a peek inside, a flurry of paper hits the narrow window. He pauses, reassessing his approach. 

There’s wordless, muffled cursing coming from inside. The vehicle rocks for a couple more seconds, before the van door slides open with a slam. Donatello stands in the car doorway, black hair a tousled mess and eyes a little crazed. He glowers intently at Dick. “Does this place have replacement parts for a microscope?”

“Uh…” Dick blinks. “We might.” 

Despite his tempestuous demeanour, his words are very polite. “Can I use some? I’ll pay it back.” 

Dick bites down on his amusement. “Sure, come with me.” With a hand wave, he walks away from the cars. He hears the van door slam shut, and the scuffle of shoes following after him. 

They don’t join at his side. Rather, they stay behind him. At first he thinks it’s his pace, but when Donatello slows down as well to match his lax pace, he realizes his assumption is wrong. 

Okay, new strategy. 

“So, what are you working on?” He looks at Donatello to hopefully catch his eye. This works, and soon they’re matching pace. 

“… Just science stuff,” he mumbles, glancing off to the side. His fingers play with the long sleeves of his shirt, toying with the seam. “I was working on something else, but I hit a wall.” 

Curiously, he asks, “what other stuff?” 

Donatello meets his eyes for just a second. Sheepishly, he looks away. “I wanted to recreate Batman’s self-driving feature from the Batmobile,” he admits. 

Dick tilts his head. So he’s the family doctor, programmer, and possibly mechanical engineer…? Oh, and with an interest in science. 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” he admits. He comes by it honestly; knowing enough to maintain the Wingcycle does not a mechanical engineer make. “But I could help you with the science stuff.” 

He looks up at Dick with mild surprise. “Really?” 

“Yeah, I’m fairly good at it.” He shrugs with a grin. “At least, that’s what my grades in high school say.” 

“What’syourfavourite?” Donatello suddenly asks, his words fumbling together. His cheeks pink immediately, as if he’s embarrassed. 

“Hmm,” Dick thinks out loud. “Probably between physics and chemistry.” 

“Really?” Green eyes gaze curiously at him. “I didn’t think you’d be into chemistry.” 

He shrugs. “Why not? You can create some pretty cool things with chemistry.“ 

Donatello grins. Maybe it shouldn’t be shocking, but it is. Damian Smiles (patent pending) aren’t so rare these days, at least not to him. But it was the person behind the smile that made him stop a little. 

“I agree,” he says like he’s divulging a secret. “I tried recreating Arachnid-Man’s webs one time. It’s a load of crap.” 

Suppressing his grin—he didn’t want it to seem like he was laughing at him—he hums. “Oh really?” 

“Yeah. There are different formulas depending on where you look, but no matter how you slice it there’s no way to make thin adhesive that needs to both be strong enough to withstand a lot of weight and soft enough to hold a person in the event of a fall. It would harden in the cartridge before it could even be used! So, you would need it to function like a cement mixer with in the cartridge, but make sure it can…” Donatello pauses, trailing off with a lost air. When Dick looks at him questioningly, he laughs sheepishly. “Usually someone stops me by now.” He’s fidgeting again, his shoulders hunching like he’s folding in on himself. 

“No, I’m listening,” he reassures, noting with a hint of satisfaction that Donatello straightens up again. “It actually reminds me of a conversation I once had with Tim. He spent the better half of two months trying to create a real lightsaber.” 

Donatello snickers. “That’s not possible.” 

“You try telling that to a fifteen year old hopped up on too much soda,” Dick rebuts wryly. He’s pleased to see the other looking more comfortable now. More sure of himself. The dark cloud that clung to him since exiting the van seems to have dissipated. 

Changing the subject, he asks, “So what parts are you looking for?” He leads them to look through bins of labelled spare parts. From copper wire to motherboards, they have it all. 

Donatello peers into one of the labelled bins. “One of the lens is cracked. And the fine focus joint is rusted beyond all repair.” 

Maybe they could take one apart to use for spares. Or, better yet, he could just give them one. It’s not like Bruce can’t buy more. “Well Donatello, you’re in luck. We’ve got spares aplenty.” He pats him on the shoulder before turning to looking for the shelf of full-sized equipment. As he’s peering into a rubber bin, his attention is pulled away by movement. 

“Just call me Donnie.” He wears a shy, lopsided smile. 

Dick grins back. “You got it, Donnie.” 

Dick tries subtly asking several times what he’s working on as they search for spare parts, and he’s subtly redirected every time. They discuss what high school was like, in which Donnie sounds excited and downright awestruck at all the things Dick got to do at Gotham Academy. 

“So you’re self taught?” 

“For the most part.” Donnie shrugs. “Master Splinter taught us basics, but I was more interested in learning than my brothers so I sought stuff out on my own.” He’s sorting through a bin when he says it, likely not even realizing. Dick, however, pauses for a brief moment as he takes it in. 

Keeping his tone purposefully light, he asks, “Master Splinter?” But it’s for naught. Donnie’s movements freeze, like he’s playing back through their conversation. 

Donnie’s sigh is very controlled, keeping his gaze focused on the bin. “… Our father,” he eventually says, sounding reluctant. Clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. 

He decides to just leave it at that. Dick goes back to searching, letting the first thought that comes to mind spill out. “Having gaps in your education can be tough. I remember having trouble keeping up with American history at first.” From his periphery, he sees Donnie look over at him. 

“You’re not American?” 

Dick grins. “Nope. I was born in a hospital in Turkey while Haly’s was performing there. Then, I went wherever they went.” 

Discarding his earlier discomfort, he turns to face Dick with full interest. “I’ve always wondered how things like that work, legally speaking. There had to have been places you couldn’t perform due to passport restrictions.” Dick shrugs. 

“Things were different back then.” Or so he’s told, anyway. Not like he can remember it. “But you’re right. Ultimately, that’s how I ended up in the foster system here, rather than returning to the troupe after my parents died. That, and there was an active murder investigation going on at the time.” He says it dryly. Even if he wouldn’t trade in his current life, he’s still a little bitter that they kept him away from his first family. But what’s a nine year old to do besides let it happen?

… Well. He knows what he did. But that’s beside the point. 

After that, Donnie gets a little quiet. People usually do when you bring up dead loved ones. Truthfully, he prefers it over the simpering sympathy that’s just hot air. At least then, he doesn’t have to reassure them yes he’s alright, it barely even stings now, he’s living his life to the fullest. 

He has to shake his head of that train of thought. No use feeling sorry for himself. It didn’t matter in the long run, anyway. 

Donnie makes a small, pleased noise. “I found them.” He digs his hands into the bin searchingly, tilting it precariously on the edge of the shelf as he stands on his toes. Dick sees a disaster waiting to happen and steps in. 

“Here, why don’t we take this off the shelf to get a better look?” He’d hoped to play it casual, but a sour look appears on Donnie’s face. 

“This is so humiliating,” he mutters. Dick’s sure he’s not meant to hear it, so he doesn’t say anything. He sets the bin onto the floor, stepping back to lean against the shelf so Donnie can dig his hands in and grab the parts he needs. 

Donnie parses through everything very quickly. It’s clear he knows what he’s looking for, taking only under a minute to pick out what he needs. When he sits back with a satisfied grin, Dick can’t help but smile as well. 

“Find everything you need?” Green eyes snap up like they forgot he was there. The kid clears his throat, his cheeks dusting a light pink. 

“I did.” With a heft, he picks the bin up. “It’s amazing. With these parts, I can be a bit more confident in my results, thanks to their high quality. I won’t have to replace them for awhile.” It’s with a stubborn grunt that he pushes the bin back onto its shelf, before Dick can even try to offer help. He dusts his hands with a sigh, picking up his handful of microscope parts to cradle in his arms. 

“You replace them often?” He guesses. They walk out of the storage room together, walking a roundabout trajectory back to the cars. 

Donnie hums in affirmation. “That’s what happens when you acquire everything secondhand; everything you own is already halfway broken.” It feels like he wants to sigh again, the way he talks. He just looks so resigned, so tired, like he’s constantly fighting a losing battle. The look is ill-placed on the face of a fourteen year old, even when you know it’s spoken by an eighteen year old. 

Was Dick so worn down at that age? He’d felt like his life was just beginning, searching for independence away from Bruce and the weight of Robin. Learning how to spread his wings wider with no one restricting them. It’d been a long time since then, but how was Donnie sounding exhausted with life when it was only just beginning? Why was he so tired? 

Questions, questions, but no answers. 

“Still,” he counters lightly, “you have to be resourceful to create something new out of broken, thrifted items. Creative, too. I think that’s really impressive on its own. You should be proud!” Donnie turned to look at him as he spoke, wearing a look of vague bemusement that quickly turns shy. His mouth twists like he’s trying not to smile, glancing away. 

“I am.” They walk in comfortable silence, with Donnie looking like he’s contemplating something. Dick, for his part, is content to let the silence be. But then he speaks again, like he’s decided on something. “I don’t actually mind using… ‘ thrifted’ junk to make things,” he admits gently. “It’s like a challenge.“ 

Dick smiles softly. “You sound exactly like Tim.” He watches Donnie’s eyebrows shoot up, expression surprised. 

“I do?” 

“Yep.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, nodding his head. “He also likes a good challenge. Once he sets his mind on something, he won’t stop until he’s satisfied.” Leaning in, he half jokes, “I have the bite marks to prove it.” 

Donnie’s puzzled laughter is immensely satisfying. “Bite marks?” 

“I tried to get him to go to bed.” Tim’s jaw snapping at him like a rabid shark will never not amuse him. But he also learned a lesson that day to never try the direct approach again. “I’m pretty sure I almost lost my finger that day.” He’s pleased to watch Donnie snicker, even at his expense. Especially after witnessing that peek into exhaustion he carries. He decides it’d be nice to see it more.

They arrive at the van, where he opens it to let Donnie set down his armful of stuff. The smile he sends Dick’s way is friendlier than before. Lighter. 

“If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m always around.” Donnie laughs softly, like he said something funny. 

“Thanks.” He crawls into the van, shutting the door as Dick stands on the other side. For a moment, he watches the movement inside curiously, but ultimately decides to leave it alone. He still needs to shower. Then, maybe, something to eat. 

Some time later, after his shower, he emerges into the cave proper to find- “Oh, Jay.” He pauses in drying his hair, letting the towel rest on his head. His brother pauses mid-step. “G’morning.”

“Afternoon, Dickface,” comes his greeting. Green hands rest on hips, expression flat. 

Unbidden, his eyes fall to Jason’s throat “Is it already?” He asks faintly. “I didn’t notice.” 

He remembers the initial alarm upon seeing the body littered with scars. On Jason he was used to it, sure. On all of them, really; it came with the job description. But he’d had to cover up his initial surprise the other day when Jason walked into the kitchen with the three deep gouges across his neck. Leonardo’s neck, he means. It was a deeper green than the rest of his emerald skin, and it looked old. Faded by a couple years, at least. Which meant he’d gotten it at, what, sixteen? Seventeen? It was a disturbing thought, twice that when you notice how deep the scars truly are. That wasn’t any old scar.

That was an intent to kill .

The thought still makes him a little nauseous. He doesn’t want to think about how it must have looked fresh. Nor does he appreciate the overlayed image of Tim, broken and bloody and terrified and so young.

Doesn’t matter who did it. Dick would still like a couple rounds alone with them, make them see how it feels. 

“Yeah. The whole house is awake now.” Jason’s voice abruptly pulls him out of his thoughts. His brow is raised like he can tell Dick’s mind is elsewhere, but he doesn’t mention it. 

He grasps at the ends of his towel, feeling vaguely disjointed. “Is that why you’re down here?” 

When Jason looks off to the side, but doesn’t confirm nor deny, he laughs. 

“Whatever,” his brother grumbles. Dick decides to leave it be. 

“Were they all having breakfast without me?” He continues towelling his hair, giving his hands something to do. Jason grunts. 

“Last I checked, Timbo was trying to figure out how to hide in his shell.” Dick pauses, hands hovering over his towel. 

“Can he do that…?” Can Dick do that? What a fascinating yet vaguely disturbing thought. Now he kind of wants to try. 

Jason simply shrugs, apparently not sharing his sentiment. “We’ll see eventually.” 

He should hurry up and see Tim’s progress, then. And grab something to eat. 

“Alright, see you later?” Dick nods his head towards the gym, assuming that’s where his brother’s trying to go. He gets waved off. 

“Yeah yeah, see ya.” Jason walks off, still favouring his right leg over his left. Hm.

He makes his own way, climbing up the stairs two at a time to leave the cave as his mind races. Just as he reaches the top, he realizes. 

He never did figure out what Donnie needed the microscope for. 

Chapter Text

A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried —

"Silence! To your seats!"

Jason settles further into his seat with a drawn-out sigh. The cushions allow him to melt, becoming one as he flips to the next page. 

Jane Eyre was one of those stories that he never grew tired of. He could always go back to it and enjoy it like it was the first time, which didn’t always happen with books he’s read. Some stories made it hard to pick back up, but not this one. It was always like an instant transportation; he felt like he was right there in Lowood. 

He figured so long as he was stuck here, might as well take advantage of the material available to him. There were his copies back at home, sure, but he hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to bring them. 

Flipping another page, he readjusts his leg over his knee. He bounces his foot lightly as Jane begins to speak, —

The far door swings open suddenly. Jason already has his place bookmarked and knife at the ready, listening as it clicks shut and someone sighs. It’s more instinct than anything else, because as complicated as his feelings are about this place, it is incredibly secure. The only people to be wary of were its inhabitants. 

His question of who is answered when his own face rounds the corner. He— doesn’t really know what to feel. It’s uncanny how he knows very well the face in front of him, and yet he doesn’t quite recognize it. Honestly, he could’ve gone this entire process without having to literally face himself. Because he hated it. 

“Oh.” Leonardo lifts his eyebrows in light surprise when he realizes Jason’s there. Then he’s looking askance, avoiding his gaze altogether. “Sorry. It was empty in here when I came in yesterday, so I thought— um, never mind, anyway.” The kid clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ll be… going.” He turns to leave, and Jason’s about to let him. But, actually — 

“It’s fine.” Jason purposefully opens his book and glues his eyes to the pages. In his periphery, he sees Leonardo pause. “I came in here to do the same thing.” 

In spite of his feelings, there were things he wanted to know more. 

Maintaining the facade of reading, he watches Leonardo so very obviously deliberate on whether to stay or go. His feet shuffle on the spot like they’re trying to keep up with his mind. But, evidently, staying wins, and Leonardo gingerly settles on the other loveseat. 

The minutes tick by, in which Jason does actually continue reading. He gets a page and a half in before he decides Leonardo’s uncertain fidgeting is too pitiful to ignore any longer. 

He lowers his book into his lap. “You can pick out anything you want. I guarantee there’s something you’ll like out of the hundreds of books.” Jason watches Leonardo tap his feet idly on the floor as he glances around. Mostly joking, he asks, “you can read, right?” 

Leonardo sputters. “Of- of course I can read!” He sounds offended, but it does the trick of loosening up his stiff shoulders. Jason shrugs innocently. 

“I thought it was only fair to ask. Your brother didn’t know what Fahrenheit was.” He sees Leonardo grimace. 

“Mikey?” He guesses, but Jason shakes his head. 

“Raphael.” This only makes the other press his hand to his face in a facepalm, seeming embarrassed. 

“I swear to… okay, fine.” The kid sighs. “But we do know how to read.” It seems important to him that he gets that across, so Jason just shrugs and accepts it. 

Leonardo gets up and starts to roam. Scanning the bookshelves, occasionally pulling something out to check it. He steers clear of the rolling ladder, opting to look only at the books within his reach. Jason’s content to leave him alone, returning back to the passage in his book like reaching for an old and worn hat. 

An untold amount of minutes pass before Leonardo returns with a slim, blue book. Though he couldn’t see it as the kid kept trying to find a comfortable way to sit and read, as soon as he pulls it up to open, Jason sees it. 

“That’s a good one,” he finds himself blurting. His own unnatural blue-green eyes glance over at him, before Leonardo is pulling back the cover to glance at the cover of Watership Down like he hadn’t seen it when he picked it. “It’s a really good story,” he reiterates, confidently this time. 

“Oh,” Leonardo mumbles, looking a bit lost. “I just thought… the description was interesting.” He says it sheepishly, like he was no longer confident in his choice. But Jason just said it was a good choice. 

“I think it’s worth a read.” Whatever his opinion is good for. If Leonardo wants to find a different book, that’s none of his business. 

But, after a considering moment, Leonardo sets his eyes on the pages and begins to read.

They sit in pure silence, only incrementally broken by the shuffle of a page being turned. Jason goes back to Jane Eyre, immersing himself back into the pages. He’s sure time passes, but he barely notices it. 

It’s only when his phone buzzes in his pocket that he reluctantly tears his eyes away from his book. 

It’s from Dick. 

‘B just got back from JL storage. He wants to try something.’

Jason sighs through his nose. That was quicker than he thought. To be honest, he’d expected finding the damn thing would take a bit longer, but maybe he should be glad. They could get on with their damn lives, should it work. 

Pocketing his phone, he glances over at Leonardo for the first time in possibly over an hour. 

The kid is completely zeroed in on his book. He sits tucked into the corner of the sofa, reading in utter captivation. There’s a bit of a frown to his brow as his eyes scan the pages. Although he looks physically tense, he seems fully immersed in his reading. Honestly, Jason is a little surprised. He hasn’t seemed that enthusiastic about reading, so he figured the book would quickly get set down. But there the kid was, proving him wrong. He wasn’t actually wrong, though — the book was incredibly good. So, in a way, he shouldn’t be surprised. 

Leonardo flips to another page, and Jason clears his throat. Nothing. That furrow deepens, shifting to hold the book closer. 

Jason tries again. “Hey.” He actually has to clear his throat again, this time to fix the catch in his voice after he speaks. Even going a while without using it seemed to trigger the body’s old injury. 

The kid’s head jerks up in surprise, his frown quickly turning confused before smoothing out. He clears his own throat (perhaps out of habit). “Yeah?” 

He watches Leonardo shift to a stiff upright position. “We’re wanted in the cave.” 

“For what?” 

Slipping his bookmark into place, he explains, “Bruce thinks he might able to switch us back.” Leonardo’s eyebrows shoot in at that. 

Watership Down gets set on the couch (without so much as a bookmark). “Really? How?” 

Jason is quietly in pain over it. “Superman once got swapped with a civilian using this machine. It was in Justice League storage.” He has to ask. “Did you just lose your spot?” 

“Huh?” Leonardo glances down at the set aside book then back at him. “No, I remember the page I was on.” 

“Gotcha.” If he says so. 

Leonardo absently scratches at one of Jason’s old forearm burns. “So, this machine will switch us back?” 

“… Probably.” The kid immediately frowns. 

“Wait, ‘probably’? You guys don’t even know?” His tone is suddenly accusatory, matching the look of anger he’s sending Jason’s way. Jason can’t say it isn’t fair. 

Still, he explains. “It’s a little bit different since it was caused by magic.” Fucking wizards. “So, it’s not a guarantee. It’d be better if we had a magic user do it.” 

Leonardo’s frown gets deeper by the minute. “So why don’t you?” 

Wryly, “Bruce wants to try this first.” He feels a sense of mutual understanding when Leonardo scoffs at that. Him too, kid. Him too. 

“Well, whatever,” Leonardo dismisses. “Let’s go.”

Bruce briefly explains the machine’s function to the turtles. 

“- Superman and the civilian were able to switch their minds back with the flick of the lever,” he asserts, gesturing to the machine’s lever. From his spot, Jason sees the four brothers glance between each other. 

Michelangelo sounds like he’s grinning when he says, “Crazy that Superman got brainjacked.” 

“Not so ‘Man of Steel,’ is he?” Raphael crosses his arms. With major amusement, he watches Bruce silently remind himself to have patience, keeping his expression blank. To his left stands Donatello, who has silently listened to Bruce’s explanations. 

He hums in thought. “It’s worth a shot.” This, it seems, is what causes Leonardo to voice his concerns. 

“Donnie, we don’t even know how this device operates. It we swapped because of magic, then logically magic should fix it.” Jason watches Donatello toss his head back in an eye roll. 

“Leo, please — You know how I feel about ‘magic.’” 

Michelangelo shifts to lean on Leonardo. “I say we try it. I mean, we’ve done it bef—” His brother clasps a hand over his mouth, muffling the rest of his sentence with a look of warning. Raphael, to the other side, looks vaguely uncomfortable. 

“Fine,” Leonardo concedes in a harsh tone. “We’ll do it.” Though he still looks wholly and truly against it, he allows Bruce to start setting up the machine. His brows seem permanently knitted, scowling as every one talks around him. Jason simply watches him with mild interest because after sitting in companionable silence for few hours, he’s curious to see where this will go. 

“I want to go first,” Michelangelo blurts amidst all the conversation. “I want to be zapped like Frank!” Who the fuck is Frank?

“Absolutely not.” “No way.” “Not a chance in hell.” All three brothers protest vehemently in quick succession, while Michelangelo’s expression falls into a pout. This quickly devolves into an argument with everyone, including Jason’s own brothers, about who will go first. 

Damian, at some point, steps forward and announces loudly, “I will be the first to go.” Jason watches Dick turn a paler green, protesting immediately. 

He decides to interject, then, to back up Dick’s argument because like hell. The glare he receives after he says, “let the adults handle this, gremlin,” is thoroughly unwarranted, in Jason’s opinion. 

This goes on for a couple more minutes, until it seems like Leonardo has had enough. 

“Stop.” He projects his voice loud enough to grab everyone’s attention, which it does. It’s silent in the cave as everyone looks over at him. His frown has disappeared. “Enough arguing. I’ll do it.” There’s finality in his tone, along with something else. 

Despite him calling for no more arguing, his brothers are immediately all talking over each other to dissuade him. 

“It’s fine,” he tells them a bit quieter. “As the leader, it should be me. Donnie, you said it would be fine, right?” 

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then it’s fine.” Then Leonardo smiles, soft and reassuring. It’s the first time Jason’s seen it, or anything other than a calculating stare or displeased frown. It makes his own face look horrifyingly young, and he has the sudden urge to tell the kid to cut it. 

He doesn’t. 

The smile fades away into smooth blankness as he turns to meet Jason’s eye. It feels like he’s being assessed and for a second, he wonders why, when he realizes this is Leonardo waiting for a token of protest. And yeah, he doesn’t necessarily want accidental electrotherapy, but he finds he has little protest to give. Not when it feels like he’s looking at Dick at his most protective.

“Let’s get on with it.” Leonardo stares at him a second more, then nods. 

“Why’d you say yes?” Tim asks him this as they set up a couple chairs. He’d been fiddling with the machine alongside Bruce for a bit, but obviously felt the need to check on him for whatever misguided reason. 

Jason raises a challenging brow. “Was there a reason to say no?“ 

“No, there isn’t,” Tim answers quickly. “It just seemed… decided for you, so I thought…” He trails off, glancing off to the side with a tinge of guilt. Suddenly realizing, Jason snorts. 

“You guys thought I’d raise hell over it.” It’s all but confirmed when Tim’s glance slides his way only to quickly avert. He knows he should feel angry, usually would, but frankly he’s a bit amused. He leans back in his chair. “Sorry to say, Timmers, but I’m not particularly bent out of shape about it. No Jason haymakers today.” A crinkle appears in Tim’s brow, a protest immediately following. 

“That’s not—”

“It clearly doesn’t matter as much to me as it does them.” Though he can clearly see the annoyed flash across his face over being interrupted, Tim follows the nod of Jason’s head to the huddle off to his right where the four brothers have been muttering to each other for the past several minutes. The three listen raptly to whatever Leonardo’s saying. 

Tim notices it too. “It feels like he’s the oldest. They seem to defer to him a lot.” 

Jason recalls Leonardo referring to himself as ‘the leader.’ So all he says is, “yeah, feels like.” 

By the machine, Bruce turns and clears his throat. “Everyone, into positions.” He pauses for a moment. “Please.” Everyone but Jason and Leonardo step back, joining at the taped line a few feet away. Nodding, he glances between them. “Are you two ready?” He and Leonardo both say yes. “Alright. Switching it to active in three, two…” Jason takes a deep breath. “One.” The lever makes a loud clank as Bruce flips it to the upright position. He can hear a faint hum — 

Then, Jason’s no longer in the cave. 

Suddenly, he’s in deep space, and the glass of his helmet splinters and cracks open. He tries to gasp for air even though he knows it’s useless, you can’t hope for air in the vacuum of space—

Except he’s not in space. He’s standing in the cold as a man in metal armour towers over him, his breath puffing out as his heart hammers in his chest. The man in armour raises a fist donned in metal claws and swings down—

And his breath is stolen from him, watching a body drop in a free fall from the highest building, coming closer and closer and—

And he’s back in the cave. He thinks. All he knows is he sees green palms stretching from his body to brace against the floor, and someone’s calling his name. It doesn’t matter. He’s just trying to convince air to return to his lungs, because he sort of needs it to live dammit. 

When he finally gets his wits about him, he’s able to look up and see his family hovering by him. They’re wearing similar concerned frowns, asking him again if he’s alright. 

“Just dandy,” he croaks. God, he needs some water- oh. 

He gets handed a glass. Downing it in one to, he heaves a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Tim answers absentmindedly. He helps Jason up, helping him sit back in the chair as he continues to reel a little from the tightness in his chest. 

Jason rubs at it (but all he feels is plastron) as he speaks. “Something went wrong.” Obviously , he doesn’t say. “It was— that wasn’t swapping us back. That was something different.” 

“What happened?” Someone asks. Bruce. 

He shuts his eyes, trying to recall. “I was— I think I was in space. My helmet was cracking, I was definitely going to die.” If he thinks about it enough, he can almost recall the sudden rush as air escaped him. The weightless, hopeless feeling of floating. “Then someone was in front of me. I couldn’t see his face. But he had a metal helmet and claws—” A voice interrupts.

“What did you say?” He, as well as everyone, glances over, eyes landing on a stricken-looking Donatello. Michelangelo looks a little haunted. Donatello confirms again, “you said metal claws?” There’s an anxious edge to his voice. Something like alarm bells goes off in Jason’s head. 

He confirms it. “Yeah. I was in the cold, and he stood over me and swung.” Donatello lifts a hand to start biting at his nails, eyes flicking all over the place as if thinking. His brother gently pulls his hand down, holding on firmly. Something like dreads starts to creep into the painful tightness in his chest. “Why?” 

His question goes almost completely ignored. Instead, Donatello asks, “did- did you see anything else? Was that it?” It’s like he’s wishing for a ‘no’. Aching for it. 

He feels a bit like a criminal for not giving it to him. “I saw a body.” And it — “It was falling. Like someone threw it.” His own gut twists as he watches Donatello and Michelangelo go simultaneously sickly pale. It only gets worse, with Michelangelo pressing his hands to his mouth to suppress some kind of choked noise, and Donatello losing the battle to support his body with his legs under him. 

Dick, very obviously distressed, rushes forward. “What? What is it?” He takes a knee, resting his hand on Donatello’s shoulder as he tries to get a good look at his face. 

It’s only then that Jason notices that Leonardo is gone. Raphael, too. He glances over to meet Tim’s eyes, asking his question silently. His brother presses his lips into a flat line. It isn’t good.

“We’ll… halt this for now,” Bruce announces stiltedly. “Dick, could you…?”

He doesn’t even need to finish. Without another word, Dick eases Donatello to stand, gathering Michelangelo with his other arm, to lead them away. They disappear around a corner, still Jason gives it another half a minute before he asks. 

“It wasn’t good,” Tim answers morosely. “Whatever it was. You both started convulsing at the same time, and were unresponsive when we called you. Then you fell out of your chair, and Leonardo fell back and nearly hit his head.” His brother rubs his arm, as if trying to chase away a chill. By the way he chews on his bottom lip, Jason knows it’s bothering him. 

Damian hands him some more water. He takes a thankful sip. “Leonardo left immediately upon recovering. He did not seem in his right mind, so Raphael went after him.” Not in his right mind…? Something about that made Jason uneasy. Or maybe he just didn’t want to know if his hunch was correct. 

Damian glances sideways where Dick disappeared with Donatello and Michelangelo, adding, “but that was not before insisting that those other two stay put.” 

Jason holds on to his water tightly, wondering what was going through Leonardo’s mind right now. Anger? Fear? He also sort of didn’t want to know. 

What a mess this day has become. 

“Leo! Leo?” Dammit, where is he? “Leo!” 

Raph runs around wildly, trying to find his wayward brother. Even though he’d been right behind him, his brother had managed to disappear faster than you could say pizza. 

In normal circumstances, this made sense. He wasn’t Splinter’s successor for no reason, you know? 

But right now, he’s got the build of a damn rhinoceros. How did he get away so fast?!

So he’s running around like a loon, calling out for his stupid older brother. It was bad enough to watch him writhe like he was in pain, to have to see him scramble out of his chair like something was chasing him. But now he was hiding somewhere, alone, dealing with the aftermath of a thing Raph still doesn’t fully understand. 

“Mister Raphael, Is there something I can help you with?” 

Alfred appears out of thin fucking air, and he does not shriek. He doesn’t.

He presses his hand to his chest as he eyes the guy warily, feeling how it thumps like it’s trying to break out and run away. “Christ on a stick,” he breathes. “What the hell are you?” 

The old man remains unfazed. “Merely a butler, sir.” Raph scoffs at that. 

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Now that his heart’s calmed down, he lets himself take a look around. He’d done a wild chicken run straight out the gate, searching for Leo without really much of a plan. But since he asked… “Have you seen my brother?” 

He doesn’t have much hope. If Leo didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be. 

“If you’re referring to Mister Leonardo, I believe he is in the backyard.” 

Uh- “What?” 

“I believe he is getting a dose of fresh air. Perhaps you should do the same.” The old man then turns and leaves, claiming he has work to do. Raph blinks dumbly, watching him go. 

Well, that was unfairly easy. “Should’ve asked him before running around like an idiot.” He grumbles to himself, but heads for the backyard. 

Just like Alfred said, he finds Leo outside. His brother sits on the stone step by the door, shoulders hunched inwards and head lowered. Though he immediately turns and looks up when the door opens. 

“Hey,” he softly greets. His brother doesn’t respond at all. There’s a blank, strung out look on his face. It hits Raph dead on—his brother shouldn’t have that expression on his face, it wasn’t right—and he knows in that moment that he can only wait. 

Sitting beside Leo, he places a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder. The muscles jump at the touch, but he doesn’t shrug off Raph’s hand. 

They sit together and breathe. It was the easiest thing to do, but still so important. Sometimes Leo couldn’t complete that step. Not on his own. (But you would still find him trying, squirrelling himself away where no one can see). 

Five minutes have passed, when Leo finally speaks. 

“I…” His expression twists painfully. “…I was dying. I could feel… I could feel my body breaking.” 

Raph frowns, holding Leo’s shoulder a little tighter. “Breaking? Breaking, how?” His brother shakes his head. 

“I don’t know how to explain it. Just that I was hurt, and afraid. And I could hear this… laughter. ” He watches Leo’s expression shudder, an odd gleam in his eyes before he squeezes them shut. “I think… it was a memory.” 

Raph frowns. “But that’s never happened to you before.” When could that have possibly happened? How did he not notice something like that?

Leo denies it with a short shake of his head.   “It isn’t mine.” 

‘It isn’t mine.’ ‘It isn’t mine,’ he says. What the hell does that mean?

He thinks back to earlier, calling to Leo only to realize his brother couldn’t hear him. How Jason’s family was doing the same, calling for Wayne to shut the machine off. Just like Leo, Jason seemed to be somewhere else entirely, his chest rising and falling way too fast. 

Ohhh. Ohhhhhh.

Leo cuts through his realization, voice strained. “Then I blinked and I was in total darkness. It was so quiet. I…” With a twist in his heart, he watches his brother grimace, seeming unable to complete his sentence. His chest was rising heavier again, like it was a Herculean effort. Not hyperventilating, but far, far worse. 

His brother was an untold pillar of force. Unmovable and sturdy, like a mountain, but as swift and as effortless as a breeze. On good days, Raph believed he was the best of them. On bad ones, a complete moron. 

Right now, he felt like neither. The way he spoke, the jittery quality to his movements, it scared Raphael. For the second time in his life, he’s reminded that life is fragile, and Leo isn’t exempt. 

“There was just so much dirt,” he murmurs shakily. “I kept digging, but it was never enough. So I just kept choking on it. I felt like I was gonna suffocate, so I dug faster, and faster , but it was useless, and I—” 

“Whoa, whoa, Leo, calm down.” He hushes his older brother gently as his speech starts winding into a tight, frenetic frenzy, getting a look in his eye that Raph really didn’t like. It honestly seemed like Leo would jump up again and run, or do something equally reckless. The white-knuckle grip he had on nothing make his scarred fists tremble with force, and that weird gleam was back in his eye. “It didn’t happen, remember? You’re okay.” 

“It did happen,” Leo snaps at him, far harsher than he’s ever heard. “Are you even listening?” It’s so accusatory, so sudden, that Raph falters, though he wants to say ‘of course I am.’ His brother frowns at him, angry, before all at once it crumbles away. He watches Leo lower his head into his hands, clutching it tight. He doesn’t say anything more. 

Raph gives Leo’s shoulder a hesitant squeeze. Asks, “Leo, are you okay…?”

And in a tightly controlled voice, his brother hisses out, “I’m fine.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t care what they say. We’re not doing that again.” 

Mikey quietly fidgets with the lightweight crystal in his pocket, pressing his thumb into the ridges as he watches Raph and Donnie converse in angered hisses. It’s been going on since they all returned to their room. Their anger bounces between each other like they’re playing volleyball with it, but it’s definitely not fun like volleyball. 

“I know, Donnie. I know.” Raph smoothes his hair back as he runs his hand over his head. There’s a tired edge to his voice, but he doesn’t disagree. Meanwhile, Donnie gestures wildly as he paces the room like a caged— well... 

“How could I be so stupid? Not checking the machine first, I basically have no one but myself to blame!” He laughs without humour. “I just put our lives into the hands of a middle-aged man who dresses in a Bat suit! Luuudicrously stupid! Stu-pendously stupid!” 

He finds it in him to speak up. “You’re not stupid, Dee.” 

His brother pauses mid-step. For a second he worries he might’ve said the wrong thing, or maybe put himself in the line of fire, but Donnie smiles. “You’re right, Mikey. I’m not stupid.” He says it in a pleasant, calm tone, that quickly explodes. “THEY’RE the absolutely moronic, imbecilic, brain-dead—”

Raph catches Donnie by the shoulder, cutting over his ranting. “Donnie. Can’t you see that Leo’s trying to sleep?” They all glance over at their eldest brother, who lays in the large Queen-size bed on his side facing the wall. He hasn’t moved once, not even to shift, since he and Donnie got here. Mikey wasn’t even sure he was actually sleeping. His brother was too still, too rigid. 

In any case, there was no way he, the chronic light sleeper, stayed asleep through Donnie’s angry tirade. 

His genius brother deflates with an exhale. “Sorry. You’re right.” Suddenly, he sounds as exhausted as Mikey feels. Internally, he wished he had the ability to wring his brain out like a sponge. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have to deal with all the bad memories leaking out. 

“What do we do now?” His voices comes out weak, but still catches the attention of his red and purple brothers. Just a little harder, he presses his thumb into the pointy end of his crystal. (The crystal was a nice shape. Easy to hold in his hand, and felt smooth to the touch). 

They look at each other, and Donnie sighs. 

“Nothing much, I suppose. We still can’t go home like this.” He lifts his brown, five-fingered hand to stare at, wiggling them a little. His frown returns as he lowers it. “But we’re still not using that machine again. I don’t care how much ‘The Batman’ demands it.“ 

Mikey really didn’t want to use it either. Sharing your scariest memories with someone… it wasn’t that he didn’t like Tim, because he did, but he didn’t really want anyone seeing the worst times in his life. He barely likes to think about it. That time was way better spent eating pizza and playing video games, anyway. 

Donnie goes for the door. “Well, I’m going to continue working on those mutagen samples. I’m only two fifths of the way through them all.” The door barely makes a sound when it opens, which still fascinates Mikey. Everything he knew usually creaked on its hinges. 

But that’s a good idea. An activity! He should find an activity, like skateboarding. Oh man, he wished he had his board. All the railings here would be perfect for grinding along. 

He hops up, hands still in the pouch of his hoodie. Raph raises an eyebrow. “Where’re you going?” Mikey shrugs off the suspicion easily. 

“I’m bored. Maybe I can beat their high score on pinball!” He waggles his eyebrows, because he has hairy ones to do that now, and Raph’s suspicions seem to ease. Before he goes, though, he realizes that his red brother isn’t moving from his spot. He seems fairly glued to his seat on the edge of the bed. 

“Gonna stay here,” he mutters, “maybe update Casey and April on what’s going on.” His T-phone gets turned over in his hands absently. He won’t look Mikey in the eyes, resolutely staring at the wood floor like it's got something interesting. It doesn’t. He checks. Casting a glance over to Leo, he sees that his big brother still hasn’t moved. 

He accepts it easily with a smile. “‘Kay! See ya, Raph.” 

“See ya.” 

He actually forgoes beating their high scores on pinball, though he’s sorely tempted. But that temptation is washed away entirely at the idea of running into any of the Bat guys at the moment. 

And it wasn’t like he was upset with them! Sure, the whole thing with the switchtron was… but he didn’t think that was their fault. 

It was more… well. These guys seemed to like asking a lotta questions, and if they asked who exactly it was falling from a building in Leo’s memory, he didn’t think he could keep his stuff together and answer like anyone wanted him to. They’d want the truth, and his brothers would want them to have anything but. Mikey mostly wanted to move past it all (and never be reminded of that lifeless body, hearing it hit the ground, ever again). 

He decides he wants a swim. Because why not, y’know? 

Mikey tiptoes down the stairs, hoping to find the outdoor pool Raph told him about. Though he finds himself turned around once or twice, he finally locates the back doors and all but throws them open. 

A pool! It was nice and spacious like he’s never seen before. 

“Canonb—!” He takes a running head start with his heart set on jumping in, but remembers at the very last second that he’s got his phone in his pocket. Donnie boy’s promise to maim him if he irreparably destroys his T-phone while they’re away from home comes to mind—particularly, he promised that all his high scores will be erased from existence. Does he even know the amount of sleep Mikey sacrificed to get some of those?! The monster! 

So, he pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it on the stone brick pavement. He hears the shell of his phone clack with his crystal and winces, but figures it should probably be fine. 

With a running leap, he shouts “CANNONBALL!” just before hitting the water. 

It’s weird. For the moment that he’s under water, sinking deep before surfacing, he can feel the pressure all around him. But when he surfaces, and everything is still, he feels… nothing? Not no-thing, but the water is oddly still and quiet in a way he isn’t used to. Floating there, feeling the ripples but not feeling them, it’s empty. He can’t feel the tremors all the way down to his toes like he should. 

Was swimming always this boring for humans?

It’s so… lonely. 

But the water still feels nice, and he still doesn’t want to go inside, so he stays. 

It’s as he’s swimming in a back float, marvelling to himself how wet clothes feel like an anchor dragging him down, when his purple brother’s off-kilter voice drifts in from the edge of the pool. 

“What on Earth are you doing?” A glance up gives him a view of his upside down brother, with Damian behind the wheel, scowling down at him in confusion. 

A bit confused himself, he laughs and replies, “swimming, little dude. You ever try it?” 

“I can see that you’re swimming,” Damian answers snappily. “But why are you swimming in your clothes?” 

Mikey rotates onto his stomach, shifting to swim upright. “Was I s’posed to get naked?” 

“No! Just—” There’s a wordless huff of frustration from Damian, and Mikey hides his impish grin under the water. “Drake has swim trunks. You could have worn them.” 

“I coulda,” he acquiesces. “But when you’re hit with sudden inspo, you just gotta go for it. Y’know?” Evidently the little dude doesn’t know, as he shakes his head in wonderment. 

“I don’t understand you.” 

Mikey sighs wistfully, letting his head tip back and his overgrown dark hair dip back into the water. “They rarely do. They rarely… do…” He imagines he’s like a mysterious figure in the rain with a dark and gritty past, that the main character is too intimidated to speak to. 

“Is there something wrong with you?” 

Nevermind. Illusion shattered. 

Mikey gives him a stern glare. “Bounces off of me and sticks to you.” The kid’s face can only be described as ‘flabbergasted.’

“What?” he asks incredulously. 

“What?” he parrots back. 

The sheer amount of incredulity on this, what, twelve year old? Something like that? Is giving Don a serious run for his money. He should run another bet, but this time for how many looks of horror he can extract from his brother and Damian. 

Man, he’s gonna make bank .

“Since you seem disinclined to leave the pool, I shall provide you company.”  

“Hm?” He glances over to see Damian sitting down at the edge of the pool, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his ankles. “Oh, thanks, little dude.” Though he didn’t really need it. 

The kid makes a sour face, he thinks at the nickname, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead he watches as Mikey floats around a bit more, brick red eyes following his every move. 

It continues to be like that. Silent. He feels how the eyes continue to observe him, like a heavy weight on his mind. Though he would’ve been fine in silence on his own, when someone’s there it just feels weird. 

“Uugh, the sound-feel is so empty.” He swishes around aimlessly, enjoying how the water feels as it threads through his fingers. 

There’s a palpable hesitation from the edge of the pool. “… The ‘sound feel’?” He sits upright again. 

“Yeah! The womwomwomwomwomwomwom.”

Damian looks at him like he’s insane. And yeah, maybe he is! But not about this. 

“C’mon,” he encourages. “Put your hand in the water. I’ll show you!”

The look Damian gives him is dubious, but he still sticks his right hand in the water. Without moving closer, Mikey pushes at him small waves of water. Not breaking the surface, but creating a little ripple in the process anyway. He watches Damian’s expression morph from skepticism to wonder, no doubt feeling the low pressure of womwomwomwomwomwom.

It feels so good to be proven right. Is this how Leo always feels? 

“… I see.” Damian leans a bit forward, sticking his other hand in to join his right. Through the warped underwater image, Mikey can see him wiggle his fingers. “I understand now. What you were describing was your ability as a turtle to sense vibrations in the Earth.“ Mikey grins. Heck yeah! That vibro-nonsense Donnie’s always talking about! 

“Without it, it just feels like the water is missing something.” He floats closer to Damian, watching the kid nod distractedly. 

“It’s incredibly strong under water. I’m sure Drake would froth at the mouth over learning this informa—HEY!” Damian is quick, but Mikey is quicker. With a yank, he pulls the kid into the water by his wrist, laughing as he pitches in head first. There’s a lot of flailing, and then a lot of cursing as soon as Damian surfaces. 

“ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY BRAIN DEAD?!” Mikey laughs. Now he sounds exactly like Donnie! But, oops, now Damian’s mad. And he knows this, because not five seconds later he has to dodge grappling hands trying to choke him. 

Thankfully, he’s an expert ninja. He only gets his head shoved under once! (Who’d have thought that hair is an excellent way to grab people?) 

Damian chases him around the pool for some time, spewing death threats like they’re vomit and he’s got the stomach flu. He’s not expecting Mikey’s Corkscrew 5000, or Blue Lagoon Typhoon, so he always falls just short of grabbing him. 

This kid is hilarious! 

That Michelangelo is infuriating! 

Now, thanks to him, Damian is forced to return to his room to change clothes after that unexpected dip. He has half a mind to grab the itching powder he knows Richard has hidden in his closet. See how that fool likes it. 

But, if he thinks about it, there are far better options within the cave. The fool won’t even know what hit him. 

Just before he leaves his room, he scoops up the fluffy ball of black and white fur and gives it a kiss on the head. Alfred the Cat gives a low murr, lifting his head and yawning sleepily. But he simply sets Alfred back down on his favourite sun spot and whispers him goodbye. He lingers long enough to watch him flip onto his back, exposing his white belly to the sun peeking in from the window. Smiling, Damian closes his door (but leaves a sliver open for Alfred). 

Descending to the cave, he catches the tail end of what sounds like a furious argument over the batcomputer. Whatever it was, the screen turns blank just as he pushes off of the stairs. 

“What’s going on?” He asks Richard rather than Father, who sits at the computer with a tired expression. 

“Oh Dami, hi,” Richard happily greets. Then he snorts. “Bruce just got off the phone with Zatanna.” 

Damian raises a brow. “And what did she say?”

“Well, she scolded Bruce for about twenty minutes.” Bold of her. “And she explained that the machine never would’ve worked, since it’s a misfired spell. That apparently changes fundamentally how the spell works, like mixing up a chemical formula.” Richard shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ve known her for years and still can’t really tell you how any of it works. But long story short, we have to wait for her to get here.” 

Damian didn’t like that tone. “And when will that be?” 

Richard winces. “By the end of the week.” His spine snaps straight at that. A week? There was no way he just said a week.

“I do not accept this. A week? She’s gotten here the same day previously.” 

“She’s across the world on a mission right now, and has stressed very clearly that she needs to see it through.” Damian throws his hands up in exasperation. 

“I can’t believe this. What about the city? Who will cover our patrols?” He does not appreciate Richard’s sideways look. 

“Bruce has been fine doing it so far. He was doing this way before he met any of us, you know.” But Damian is having none of it. 

“Not even Batman can be everywhere at once,” though he knew Father would still try. “Zatara must cut her mission short.” 

Richard places a comforting hand on his shoulder, smiling. “Baby Bat, it’ll be okay. Worse comes to worst, we’ll call in the cavalry. Sound good?” 

He huffs. They could do better simply on their own without ‘the cavalry’ that are currently all busy elsewhere. Who needed them? Certainly not Damian. 

“Whatever.” He has more pressing matters at hand. “Now, give me your worst ideas to exact vengeance on someone.” 

Richard’s answering grin is both promising and frightening.