Work Text:
The humid June night presses against April's antique shop windows like a sweaty palm. Inside, the air crackles with ozone and desperation. Leo, his blue mask soaked with sweat and blood, trembles as he tries to push himself upright against April's restraining hands.
"Leo, stop!" April hisses, her voice tight with panic. "Your shell's cracked!"
But Leo's eyes lock onto the nightmare unfolding before them—Shredder's armored form materializing from swirling smoke, his footfalls echoing like tomb doors slamming as he advances toward the fallen turtle leader. The villain's bladed gauntlets gleam under the flickering emergency lights, poised for a killing thrust. A blur of brown fur intercepts. Splinter's walking stick whistles through the air, striking Shredder's shoulder pauldron with a crack that echoes like splitting bone.
"Face me, Oroku Saki!" the rat master snarls, his whiskers bristling.
But Shredder merely pivots, contemptuous. His armored fist slams into Splinter's ribs, lifting the old rat off his feet. Splinter crashes into a display case, shattering glass and ancient pottery. As Shredder raises a gauntlet to impale the gasping sensei, Leo roars—a raw, guttural sound—and hurls himself sideways. His shoulder collides with a towering mahogany cabinet. It teeters, groaning, then collapses like a felled tree between Splinter and Shredder. Leo crumples, unconscious, before he hits the sawdust-strewn floorboards.
"Door! NOW!" April screams, pointing to the steel walk-in cooler at the shop's rear.
Mikey's orange mask snaps toward her. "Move your shells!" he yells, already darting forward.
Raph—red mask askew, knuckles white on his sais—snarls but grabs Splinter's arm. Donnie, limping badly, uses his bo staff like a crutch as Casey Jones hoists Leo's limp form. They scramble, a chaotic tumble of limbs and shells. Mikey wrenches the cooler door open, its hinges shrieking. April drags Leo across the threshold as the others pile in, the metallic clang of Mikey slamming it shut echoing like a death knell. Inside the frigid darkness, their panting breath plumes in the icy air. Raph presses his ear to the door.
"Cops," he mutters. "Whole army of 'em."
Outside, sirens wail as tires screech to a halt.
The humid June air inside the cramped cooler tastes like stale metal and fear. Through the fogged porthole window, Leo watches Shredder’s armored hand rise—a silent command. Below, Foot ninjas melt into the antique shop’s shadows like ink dropped in dark water, leaving only dust motes swirling in the weak light. But Shredder pauses. His helmet tilts fractionally toward their hiding place; Leo feels the gaze like a physical weight, a predator tasting the terror of cornered prey.
With a grunt of effort, Shredder drives his boot into a massive oak apothecary cabinet. It screeches across the floorboards, slamming against the cooler door with finality. Sealed. Then, gloved fingers pluck a cylinder from his belt—sleek, cold, ominous.
Mikey’s breath hitches. "Dudes… is that—?" His voice cracks, sixteen years old and trembling.
*Clink.*
The device hits the floor, rolling lazily past a toppled suit of armor. Instantly, thick, acrid white smoke erupts, swallowing Shredder’s silhouette as he strides to the far wall. Fist cocked back, he punches through the faded floral wallpaper and crumbling plaster. A guttural *hiss* fills the shop—the sound of escaping gas, sharp and hungry. The rotten-egg stench of mercaptan floods the cooler’s vents, choking, invasive. Shredder vanishes into the smoke just as wood splinters near the entrance—the first NYPD boot kicking through the front door.
Silence. Thick. Suffocating.
Then—
The world detonates.
A deafening *WHUMP* slams the cooler door like a giant’s fist. Blinding, furious orange light explodes through the porthole, bleaching Leo’s vision. April’s shop—her grandfather’s dusty ledgers, the jade Buddha, racks of yellowed National Geographics—vaporizes in a roiling fireball that punches through the roof. Brickwork disintegrates. Outside, parked sedans lift bodily onto sidewalks three blocks away, alarms wailing into the night.
Inside the cooler, the turtles flinch as one. The concussion wave rattles their skulls, teeth clicking together painfully. Heat radiates through the steel walls, searing their skin even through their shells.
Leo staggers, vision swimming. Suddenly, Raph isn’t just recoiling beside him—he’s coming apart. Skin sloughs off his brother’s face like wet paper, revealing glistening muscle and bone beneath one wide, terrified eye. Donnie’s shell cracks open like an egg, spilling coils of steaming intestine onto the cooler floor. Mikey screams silently, mouth a ragged hole as his limbs twist into impossible angles. Blood, thick and hot, sprays Leo’s face, tasting of copper and decay. He gags, the gore pooling around his feet—
"Leo!" Donnie’s voice cuts through the ringing silence, sharp with worry. "Focus! You’re swaying!"
Leo blinks. The cooler swims back into focus—intact, cramped, smelling only of gas and fear. His brothers stare at him, unharmed but pale. No blood. No viscera. Just the pounding in his own skull and the deep, radiating ache from the crack spiderwebbing across his plastron. The hallucination fades, leaving only the echo of terror and the very real tremble in his hands.