Chapter Text
Leonardo winced as the needle penetrated the green-scaled skin of his arm, pointedly looking away and gulping thickly as blood ran down the short line and began to fill the attached test tube. Donatello smiled sympathetically, quickly pulling out the needle and placing a cotton ball and a bandage over it in quick succession. Then he patted this arm comfortingly, noting that it was shaking slightly, and spun around in his chair to label the tube of blood. The oldest mutant turtle, still sitting on the examination table, cradled his now-bandaged arm to his plastron.
“So what’s this for anyway?" Leonardo asked in a strained voice as he closed his eyes, exhaling shakily, willing the room to stop spinning.
“Oh, just a standard check-up,” Donatello replied, his tone casual. “Well, as standard as checkups on four almost-not-teenagers-anymore mutant turtles can be. Don’t worry—I’m checking mine too. And I’ve already gotten the others. Yours is just the most difficult to get.”
With Master Splinter away in the Battle Nexus visiting with the Daimyo and not due back for another two days, and Raphael topside “busting heads” with Casey, the lair had been unusually quiet. Michelangelo was practically fused to the television, which had left Donatello the perfect window to finally conduct a long-overdue check-up on his oldest brother—who, true to form, had made it as difficult as humanly (or mutantly) possible.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Leonardo demanded, somehow managing to sound offended even in his current state. He cracked one eye open to squint at Donatello. “I’ll have you know that—as in most things in our lives—I’m a model patient.”
Donatello nearly snorted. Model son. Model student. Model brother. Model warrior. But model patient? Yeah, right.
“You’re joking, right?” Donatello said dryly, arching a brow. “I can’t think of a single time in our lives you’ve been a model patient. I’ve had to drag you kicking and screaming like an infant for a bandage.”
For as long as Donatello could remember, Leonardo had loathed anything to do with being treated for sickness or injury—needles being his greatest aversion. The oldest of the four had, early on, become an expert at masking his hurts from both their father and his brothers, usually to his own further detriment. And, of course, that stubborn streak had led to some… interesting challenges over the years.
There was the time Leonardo hid in the ventilation ducts for hours, forcing Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo, and even Master Splinter to split up and search for him, all to avoid getting stitches on his arm. Or the time he barricaded himself in his room for three days straight, claiming he needed “spiritual focus” when he actually just had the flu and refused any form of treatment or coddling. And who could forget the time he swiped a shot of adrenaline from the laboratory to charge headfirst into an ambush while suffering from what he could only describe as the mutant equivalent of the plague?
This stubbornness when it came to medical treatment had turned what should have been a routine check-up into a prolonged battle of wills between Donatello and Leonardo. Normally, Donatello lost these battles; there was always something bigger on their plates, from war-hungry aliens trying to conquer the galaxy to humans spilling unstable mutagen down their sewers. But for once, life was not in immediate chaos. Things were—if not peaceful—at least stable. So he had pestered his oldest brother until he finally, reluctantly, agreed.
Leonardo cracked open one eye, looking a shade or two off his usual green. “I wonder why that is.”
"Still not fond of needles, are we?" Donatello asked in a light, teasing tone as he placed the blood-filled tube on the rack, the label reading “Leonardo—[Date] [Time]” in his hurried handwriting.
Leonardo managed a self-deprecating chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’d think after taking a katana through my shoulder, a little needle prick wouldn’t bother me.”
Donatello’s face fell slightly at the reminder of Leonardo’s grievous injury at the hands of Karai during the final confrontation with the Shredder. He had been attempting to defend their already fallen master when he heard his oldest brother utter a terrible gasping moan. From where he stood, all he could see was his oldest brother’s katana protruding from the back of his shell, blood spilling onto the cold floor as he collapsed. He remembered vividly that at that moment, he thought his oldest brother had died, that he had lost him forever and could only watch helplessly, unable to run to him and hold him as he waited for his own death.
“Yeah, well… Some things never get easier,” Donatello said quietly, his fingers lingering on the edge of the test tube rack. The weight of the memory pressed against his chest. What bothered him most was not the memory itself; it was how unbothered his oldest brother seemed by it now.
Leonardo frowned deeply, concerned. Despite the lingering queasiness, he reached out, gently taking his younger brother’s hand in his own, offering a comforting squeeze. It often amazed the younger mutant turtle how effortlessly his oldest brother could read others, especially his brothers, to the point where it appeared as though he could read minds.
"We did everything we could, Donnie," Leonardo said, his voice both firm and gentle. "I still think about that day, too. But not as often as I used to. When I did, it made me build walls I didn’t need—walls that hurt both you and me. And... well, I’m sure you remember how I was back then. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, little brother."
Donatello remained silent for a moment, his eyes tracing the lines of the test tubes on the rack, deep in thought. His voice grew quieter, more introspective as he described, "I think about it too, Leo. Sometimes... it keeps me up at night. Not just our final confrontation with the Shredder, but everything—our battles, our injuries. Seeing our blood spilled so many times, knowing what we've all been through. Even something like this—collecting our blood to prevent us from missing something that could hurt us." He gestured to the blood-filled test tubes with his brothers' names scrawled across them. "It's difficult. But you're right. Building walls around ourselves won't do any of us any good."
Then, with a small, almost hesitant smile, Donatello decided to break the tension. “But yeah, you were a real ass back then,” He added jokingly, bringing a small smile back to his oldest brother’s face.
Leonardo's smile broadened as he leaned back on the examination table, suddenly reminiscing, "Remember the first time you got your hands on that unused phlebotomy kit from the tunnels under the hospital? You were so excited and asked me to be your first guinea pig. I’d never been pricked with a needle before, but I didn’t think anything of it and just said yes without a second thought.”
Donatello chuckled, the memory lighting up his eyes. “Oh, I remember! I spent nearly half an hour trying to figure out how to find a vein!”
Leonardo snorted, shaking his head. “And then you poked me like five times before actually managing to get one.”
“When I finally did manage to get it, you were so calm about it at first. You were all cool and composed, like, ‘No big deal,’ and then… The actual sensation hit, and I saw your face go pale. You looked down, saw that needle in your arm, and—”
Donatello clapped his hands over his mouth, bugging his eyes comically wide, then dramatically removed his hands, spreading his mouth open, doubling over, and pretending to vomit on the laboratory floor.
Leonardo burst into laughter, a rare sound that made Donatello smile softly. Usually, when his oldest brother laughed, it was quiet, almost as if he were trying to hide it, and he would even raise a hand to his mouth as if it were unbecoming for him to be seen smiling. In recent years, this was not as common, and moments like this, where the oldest mutant turtle laughed freely, looking more light and at ease than he had as a child, became more frequent.
“Raph wouldn’t let me hear the end of it for weeks,” Leonardo groaned as his laughter faded, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “I was subjected to every gross variation of my name imaginable: Barf-O-Nardo, Fearless Hurler, Leo-Vomit-O. You name it!”
Donatello turned back to his cluttered workstation, taking a bottle of water and a chocolate chip cookie with massive chunks of chocolate in it wrapped in plastic wrap, and handed both to Leonardo. “There, drink this and eat that, and go take it easy for a while. Doctor’s orders. Maybe you can get the remote from Mikey and watch some television.”
Leonardo took both obediently but raised a brow at the cookie. Donatello huffed out of his nostrils but obligingly took the cookie, trading it for an apple, to which his oldest brother gave an approving nod. Then the latter mimicked rubbing it off on his plastron before taking a loud bite, his exaggerated gesture drawing an amused eye roll from the former.
Donatello stepped away from his workstation, snapping off his gloves and unwrapping the cookie. He took a bite and, with his mouth full, called over his shoulder, “Go rest—no training today! I mean it, Fearless Hurler! If you end up hurling on the mats, it’s on you.”
“Yeah, yeah," Leonardo said, tossing the apple into the air, catching it one-handed with ease, and taking another bite as he ambled toward the door. Just before stepping out, he paused, glancing back at his younger brother. "And, uh... thanks for taking the time, Don. I know I'm not always the easiest patient."
Donatello, who had been tidying up, met Leonardo's eyes. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he nodded. "No, you’re not. But you’re still my brother. And that’s enough for me.”
With a small nod in return, Leonardo left the room. The quiet acknowledgment between them settled things, at least for now. As he made his way down the hall, he could already hear his youngest brother's boisterous laughter echoing from the common area.
As soon as Leonardo stepped into the common area, Michelangelo perked up from where he was sprawled on the couch in front of the entertainment center, surrounded by television screens casting a bright glow on his features. Klunk, his orange-haired cat, lay comfortably on his plastron, purring softly, eyes half-closed, and tail flicking lazily.
“Hey, Leo? How was it?" Michelangelo called out, not looking away from the numerous television screens at first. Then, his green-hued mischievous gaze glinted at his oldest brother as he added with a smirk, “Did you hurl?”
Leonardo took a seat in the small space Michelangelo had left for him, wincing slightly as he gripped his now bandaged arm with his free hand. “Nope, no hurling, sadly. Just feeling a bit lightheaded. Doctor Donnie’s orders are to take it easy today.”
As if on cue, Klunk suddenly jumped from Michelangelo's plastron to sit on Leonardo’s lap, walking in a circle before settling there while purring. The oldest mutant turtle laughed, petting the cat, who continued to purr while rubbing against his fingers. The orange cat sniffed curiously at his bandage, nose twitching before deciding it was not worth further investigation and snuggling back into his lap.
“Traitor,” Michelangelo pouted before he grabbed the television remote and began flipping through channels at lightning speed. “So, what are we watching then, big bro?”
“I don’t mind just watching whatever you’re—” Leonardo started, but Michelangelo cut him off, leaning in.
“What. Are. We. Watching?” Michelangelo insisted, his green-hued eyes gleaming with determination.
Leonardo blinked, then hesitated before he said, “I think I saw Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon while you were flipping through channels at lightspeed.”
“Perfect! We’ll watch that! I’m making snacks! Do you want snacks? I’ll get you snacks—”
Before Leonardo could respond, Michelangelo had already leaped off the couch, startling Klunk, who meowed in protest. He chuckled softly as he watched his youngest brother dash to the kitchen, already rattling off a list of possible snacks.
Normally, this would be a simple process for Donatello: run the usual tests, make sure there was nothing wrong with his brothers' or his own overall health, and then call it a day. But the nagging thought at the back of his mind would not leave him alone. It’s been long, too long, since I’ve run the more extensive tests on him, He thought, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the edge of the workstation.
The blood Donatello had on file for his brother was easily three years old, maybe more. With a quick glance toward the closed door, he pulled out the old vial of blood from the storage unit, labeled with a date that suddenly seemed like a lifetime ago. Placing it next to the fresh sample he had just drawn, he felt a familiar, uncomfortable itch—the same sense of urgency that had driven him to dismantle household appliances to see how they worked when he was younger. He needed to compare the two samples.
As the machines in the laboratory hummed to life, Donatello found himself zoning out, his mind drifting back to everything they had endured over the past few years. The countless battles, the near-death encounters, the scars, both visible and invisible, that had been etched into them. Leonardo, most of all, had changed. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. But as he ran his hands over the various dials and buttons, setting the machines in motion, he wondered… How much had he really changed?
The first set of results began to trickle in, and Donatello scanned them absentmindedly at first, expecting nothing unusual, just routine data. But then, something caught his eye. He blinked and leaned closer to the screen. His heart skipped a beat. This… this was not right. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he began cross-referencing the new data with the old. The differences were subtle, imperceptible to the untrained eye, but they were there. Genetic markers, enzyme levels, protein expressions… All just slightly off. The kind of deviations that did not occur naturally, not even over several years.
A sick realization dawned on Donatello as he pulled away from his equivalent of a microscope as if it had burned him, his stool screeching across the floor as he stumbled back. His breath hitched in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears. He gripped his head with his hands, his expression one of horror, his eyes wide and unseeing.
"No, no, no," Donatello whispered pathetically to himself in denial, suddenly tempted to throw the enhanced microscope he had spent countless hours building from scraps and modifying for his more advanced needs into the wall.
Donatello’s mind raced, cycling through countless moments with Leonardo—moments that felt so real, so irrefutable. He saw his oldest brother's rare, genuine smiles and heard the quiet laughter. He remembered the feel of his hands' rough calluses when he clapped him on the shoulder after a spar. The silent comfort in the way he would pour him a cup of tea during long, solitary nights at his workstation.
Leonardo… Donatello’s oldest brother, the one he had fought beside, bled beside, loved with every fiber of his being… was not… had not been… And for how long? Days, weeks, months, or even years? The questions gnawed at him, each one more unbearable than the last.
And then Donatello heard it.
From just beyond the door, the unmistakable sound of laughter floated in from the common area. Michelangelo’s voice, bright and carefree, mingled with Leonardo’s deeper, familiar tone. They were joking about something, their voices carrying a warmth that normally brought him comfort. But now… now it felt like his oldest brother’s katana blade twisting in his gut.
Donatello’s stomach churned as he listened to the voices outside. He covered his mouth with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh God…” The words slipped from his lips, barely more than a broken whisper. Fear, anger, and—above all—betrayal swirled within him, threatening to overwhelm every rational thought as he tried to piece together what to do next.
Unsteady, Donatello crossed the laboratory, each step feeling heavier than the last. Reaching the lockbox where he stored the precious medicines painstakingly salvaged or swiped in desperation, he placed his hand on the biometric scanner. The click of the lock disengaging seemed unnaturally loud in the silence of the laboratory.
With trembling fingers, Donatello retrieved a delicate glass vial and syringe. He filled the syringe to the precise dosage line, his hand shaking so much that he had to raise it to his eyeline, focusing intently as he flicked the needle to clear any air bubbles.
Leo doesn’t like needles. He’s afraid of them. The thought surfaced unbidden in Donatello’s mind.
It was a brotherly concern, one that had always weighed on Donatello as the de facto doctor of their family. He had never wanted to be the source of his oldest brother's fear or pain, and whenever he had to administer a shot or take his blood, he felt a twinge of guilt.
But Donatello could not think that way now, not with so many unknown variables. The safest course of action, he reasoned, was to sedate his oldest brother when the opportunity presented itself. The alternative—a direct confrontation—seemed too dangerous. His skills, formidable as they were, paled in comparison to his, and even with his youngest brother’s help, the odds of subduing his brother in a fight were slim.
With the syringe in hand, heavy with the weight of what it represented, Donatello slowly returned to his workstation. And so he waited—forced to bide his time, the sedative vial and syringe sat in front of him, gleaming in the dim light of the lab.
Leonardo had drifted into a light sleep on the couch beside Michelangelo, Klunk nestled on his plastron, purring softly. A blanket was draped across his midsection, cascading down his legs. His youngest brother leaned on his shoulder, still sound asleep, snoring softly with his arms wrapped tightly around his arm, squeezing it as if for comfort. The numerous television screens in front of them were nothing but static now, casting an eerie, flickering glow across their prone forms on the couch.
Leonardo, despite being awake, remained motionless, lids gently closed, and breath steady and even. His finely tuned senses never fully rested as an instinctual alertness nagged at him, alerting him of an intruder, a shift in the environment, or something out of place. He reached out with his senses, and it came to him—a subtle disturbance in the air, a faint ripple of movement almost drowned out by the crackling static from the televisions. It was faint but unmistakable; someone highly trained was nearby, moving with the precision of a shadow.
An intruder?
Then, Leonardo felt it: someone closing in, too quickly. His heart rate quickened as he prepared to defend himself, his training kicking in automatically.
In a flash of instinct, Leonardo tensed, eyes snapping open, and in one fluid motion, he threw all of his weight backward. The couch flipped over with a heavy thud, tossing both him and his youngest brother, along with his startled cat, who hissed and spat as the world turned upside down. The presence beside them stumbled back, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden, unexpected move. Then he propelled himself away from the overturned couch, using the momentum to land on his feet in a defensive stance, muscles coiled and ready to spring.
“Michelangelo!” Leonardo yelled, his voice cutting through the static-filled room, a sharp command meant to rouse his brother from sleep and alert him to the danger.
Michelangelo, who had been blinking blearily and mumbling about Leonardo being a big-footed oaf for knocking them over in what he initially thought was an accident, suddenly found himself on his feet. His lingering sleepiness disappeared in an instant as instinct took over, and he hovered slightly behind his brother, ready to attack if he gave the word.
“Lights!” Michelangelo commanded, the room instantly brightening in response. In the back of his mind, he sends his thanks to his genius older brother for finally listening to him regarding this much-needed upgrade. But as the voice-activated lights flickered on, casting harsh illumination across the room, his gratitude quickly vanished. “What the—?”
"Don," Leonardo said in a soft, perplexed voice as his posture untensed, wondering if this was just some practical joke gone wrong. He even managed a quiet chuckle, though it came out sounding more nervous than anything. “Don, what the shell are you—”
"Michelangelo, I need you to step away from Leonardo right now," Donatello said urgently. He stood several feet away, his free hand raised in a placating gesture, yet the syringe in his other hand gleamed ominously, a terrifying contradiction. "I know this may seem like a shock, but he isn’t who you think he is."
Michelangelo scoffed, disbelief dripping from his voice. His eyes darted nervously between the needle and his science-minded brother. “Don, if anyone’s not acting like themselves, it’s definitely you, buddy! You’re freakin’ us out.”
"Donny—" Leonardo began again, but the look Donatello gave him was unlike anything he had ever seen in his younger brother's eyes. There was anger there, yes, but beneath it, he saw the deep hurt and fear simmering, and it immediately silenced him.
Michelangelo’s voice was strained, a rising note of panic as he tried to make sense of the scene. “What the hell is your problem, Don? It’s Leo. Our brother—”
“That isn’t our brother!” Donatello snapped, his voice trembling with a mixture of rare fury and abject terror. He took a half-step back, as if the person in front of him were venomous.
Leonardo blinked, his entire posture shrinking under the sudden, absolute hostility. The rejection was immediate, sharp enough to make his heart feel physically clenched and shattered. He could barely breathe the word out. "What? Donny—"
Donatello refused to meet his gaze, fixing his eyes instead on the wall just past the clone's shoulder. "Be quiet—now! Stop pretending! Whatever you are, whatever calculated deception you’re planning, I will not let you lie or wriggle your way out of this. Do you hear me? If you know what's best for you, you will be quiet and still!"
“Donny!” Michelangelo erupted, his body instinctively shifting to place himself, shoulders squared, between his two brothers. Donatello had never, ever spoken to anyone, much less Leonardo, with such vitriol. "Don't talk to Leo like that! Like he’s... like he's a monster!"
"Because that is a monster, Mikey!" Donatello shouted, pushing past his own emotional dam. The syringe in his hand wobbled dangerously, his grip compromised by the sheer force of his tremor. "That’s not Leonardo! That’s not Leo, our fearless leader, our brother! That’s… that’s a clone! A perfect, meticulously crafted clone!" He gasped out the word, heavy with all the dark implications of genetic tampering, the memory of the subtly fractured protein expressions seared into his mind. "He's an impostor! A lie, a ghost, a puppet someone put here!"
Leonardo stared at Donatello, who was pointedly not looking at him now, in pure shock. His mind struggled to process what he had just heard, that word echoing in his head. Clone? The word conjured horrible images in his mind: dark laboratories filled with stasis tubes containing the disfigured bodies of old foes floating in strange liquids. Their forms were mutilated beyond imagining, tampered with in ways no mortal should ever endure. And the second they were freed from their confinements, they were ready to kill, merciless and mindless, driven by something inhuman.
In that moment, a memory flashed in Leonardo’s mind: his own reflection staring back at him from one of those glass tubes, his three-fingered hand pressed against the cold surface. He exhaled shakily, forcing the image away. No, He told himself, I’m not one of those things. I would know if I was. This has to be a mistake.
Michelangelo actually laughed, the sound strained, bordering on hysteria. “And you say I read too many comic books!”
“This isn’t a joke,” Donatello said, his voice steady but tense with the weight of the situation. “I’ve run all the tests, Mikey. Again and again. The results are conclusive. That thing in front of you isn’t our real brother. It may look like him and even have his memories, but it’s not him. Now, get away from him!”
“Stop it!” Michelangelo cried, shielding a still-numb Leonardo with his body. His hand found his oldest brother’s wrist, gripping it tightly in a desperate attempt to ground himself. “You’re wrong! He is our brother! We’d know if he wasn’t! We’d feel it in our bones—we’d know!”
“Mikey—” Donatello started, his tone softer but no less resolute as he took a step forward, the syringe gripped tightly in his hand.
“No! I won’t let you hurt him! You just stay away,” Michelangelo shouted, suddenly regretting that he had left his nunchucks in his room. The only small comfort was that his two older brothers were similarly unarmed, aside from the one sharp syringe.
“I won’t hurt him unless I have to,” Donatello replied, forcing a calm into his voice that he did not feel. His gaze flicked to the clone, eyes hardening with a resoluteness he wished he did not need. "Believe it or not, I don’t want to.”
Neither do I. But I will if I have to. The thought hit Leonardo like a tidal wave of glacial water. His eyes, fixed on his brothers, suddenly went flat, like emotionless, reflective blue glass. His jaw locked, and the internal voice, cold, metallic, and precise, was not his voice, and yet it was absolutely in his mind, overriding everything. Orders are orders. Eliminate the threat. Go for the throat. Choke him out fast. Smash his head against the wall—make it look like an accident. He never found anything. Clean. Efficient.
Leonardo’s body jerked as if struck by an unseen blow. He staggered, one hand flying to the side of his head as white-hot pain lanced through his skull. “What the hell was that—” He gasped, voice cracking as he pressed his palm harder against his temple.
“Leo?” Michelangelo turned halfway, panic flashing across his tear-streaked face.
Leonardo’s chest rose and fell unevenly. For a heartbeat, he looked like a stranger in their brother’s skin. Then, slowly, his features softened—the steel melting, even if the edges still trembled.
“Mikey…” Leonardo rasped, his voice soft but edged with sudden exhaustion, like the words were a physical struggle. He reached out and placed his palm over his youngest brother’s wrist, where his brother clutched him, making the contact warm and desperately real. “Let him through. I don’t want us to fight. Not any of us.”
He looked at his other younger brother, his eyes begging for understanding past the immediate fear. “Mikey, please. I… I understand why Don’s doing this. He’s just trying to keep us safe. We all want the same thing. Trust him, okay?”
Michelangelo’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened, as though he could hold onto the moment, hold onto him.
“No! No, we don’t want the same thing!” Michelangelo choked out, his voice rising in raw panic. “He’s going to take you away! He’s going to hurt you! You’re—you’re real, you’re here, you’re alive—and our brother—and he wants to hurt you.” His gaze snapped to Leonardo, pleading, tears spilling freely now. “Tell him, Leo! Tell him you’re our brother! Tell him!”
Leonardo’s gaze flickered, softening at the edges, but uncertainty bled through the blue. “I…” He swallowed, his voice trembling. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Mikey.”
Then the door slammed open with a crash just as Donatello was about to advance again. Raphael stormed in, Casey following closely behind. Both were coated in grime and sweat from their patrol, their entrance a jarring disruption to the fraught scene.
“The hell?” Raphael exclaimed, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the chaotic scene. Without missing a beat, he slid both sai from his belt, their polished blades glinting menacingly in the dim light.
“Whoa, Donny!” Casey barked, lifting his hockey stick defensively. “Easy with the needle, man!”
Raphael and Casey moved swiftly, their bulk forming a solid barrier between Donatello, Michelangelo, and Leonardo. They stood back-to-back, their stances rigid and alert, eyes darting between the three brothers.
“Someone explain right now,” Raphael demanded, his voice low and edged with a steely resolve. His eyes flickered to the syringe still raised at his oldest brother. “And Don, I love you, bro, but if you don’t lower that syringe right now, I swear I’m gonna break it over your giant head!”
Donatello took a deep breath, his eyes filled with a mix of desperation and frustration as he reluctantly lowered the syringe to his side. “Raph, please, I know this looks bad, but it’s Leo. He’s—”
“Liar!” Michelangelo spat, lunging forward with uncharacteristic fury, his fists clenched tight. “Don’t listen to him! He tried to—"
“Hold on, Mikey!” Casey grunted, catching Michelangelo mid-lunge, holding him with a firm grip. “Don’t do anything stupid!”
Leonardo dashed to where Casey was holding Michelangelo, placing himself in front of his younger brother and trying to reach him through the chaos. “Mikey, don’t do this! Don’s right! We need to—”
“No!” Michelangelo cried out, still struggling against Casey's hold, his voice cracking with desperation. “Leo, I can’t... I can’t believe it. I just—”
“Hey! Back off—right now!” Raphael roared, his voice cutting through the fragile tension. He pointed an accusatory finger not at Donatello, but at Michelangelo, who was still rigid with defensive panic. “I don’t need any more outbursts like that from anyone! We’re probably gonna have enough with me. Now I’m gonna say this one more time, and that's it: Someone explain what the hell is going on right now before I get really mad!”
Donatello looked at the clone, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck strained. He hesitated for a heartbeat, expecting to see defiance or programmed anger on the clone’s face. Instead, he met a pair of resigned, exhausted eyes that gave him a stiff, almost sacrificial nod. Donatello's resolve wavered for the first time since he'd seen the genetic data, a wave of sickening doubt washing over him. He closed his eyes, then opened them, his gaze hardening back into scientific necessity.
"Leonardo’s a clone,” Donatello stated flatly, the sentence a clinical verdict on a biological catastrophe.
Michelangelo flinched as if struck across the face, his entire body tensing in a final, agonizing spasm of denial. For a moment, it seemed like he would lash out, teeth gritted so hard it looked painful. Instead, his whole body seemed to instantly deflate and crumble, as if the truth itself were a physical weight that had knocked the fight, the denial, and the very air from his lungs.
Casey Jones, slack-jawed in profound shock, loosened his defensive grip on the youngest mutant turtle. His massive, muscular arms, usually so strong and certain, lowered to his sides, limp.
“You’ve gotta be jokin’,” Casey muttered, his voice barely more than a scratchy whisper. His gaze flickered to the oldest mutant turtle, trying to reconcile the unwavering leader he knew with the cold accusation hanging in the air. How many battles? How many times had they saved each other's lives? How could that same brother be anything less than real?
Raphael, ever the initial skeptic, scoffed brusquely. “Leo’s not—he’s not a damn clone! For fuck's sake, we’d know if he wasn’t—!” But the protest died in his throat. The disbelief in his eyes curdled, mutating into something darker, more dangerous, and more uncertain, as he pivoted to face his oldest brother. “Leo?”
“Raph,” Leonardo began, his voice cracking, barely more than a whisper. He exhaled shakily, then shook his head helplessly, the words he needed to say slipping through his fingers like sand. “I don’t know. I don’t feel any different. I feel like myself.” The internal voice flashed a warning: Liar. What was that voice just now? Not yours, that is for sure.“But… I suppose if I was… made, that would be the point, right? To feel… real.”
Raphael paled, a sickened, nauseous expression twisting his features. His fists clenched, trembling with the suppressed rage of betrayal, then unclenched as the raw horror took hold. He stared at the face he knew, the honest confusion in those blue eyes, and realized the impostor was telling the truth as best he knew it.
“Fuck…” Raphael muttered under his breath, a sound heavy with the weight of the entire nightmare.
Donatello forced himself to speak, his voice thin but driven by logic. “He’s a clone. I don’t know much more than that—just that he’s a clone with our brother’s memories. I don’t know how he’s programmed or by whom, which is why we need to act now, before some latent programming kicks in and—”
“What, you think Leo’s gonna go full-on Shining on us? Try to hack us to pieces with his katana or somethin’?” Raphael shot back, his voice a desperate, enraged roar. “If he wanted us dead, he would’ve just stopped savin’ our shells every mission! He wouldn’t bother deflectin’ an arrow or let us drop next time we fall!”
Donatello held his ground, his expression pained. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to explain. He may not even know it. Something we say or do could trigger a response, like flipping a lethal switch inside him. That’s why we need to subdue him now, before it’s too late! It’s the only way to be sure!”
“Guys,” Leonardo said quietly, his hand still covering his eyes as if trying to physically suppress the pain. “Please, just stop.”
Michelangelo, wide-eyed and grasping for any alternative, piped up, “Maybe this is another mind game—an illusion like the ones those Foot Mystics tried! Maybe someone’s just trying to get us to turn on one another!”
Donatello shook his head, the movement tired and final. “No, Mikey. This isn’t that. This is real, okay? I need you both to understand that. I can’t handle this alone. I need both of you with me on this to keep us all safe. We have to face the truth, no matter how hard it is.”
The tension in the room was a crushing weight. Leonardo stood motionless, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He interjected quietly, his voice hollowed out. “Don, do you have something to keep me secure? A containment unit of some kind?”
Donatello flinched, his breath catching in his throat. “Yes, I have one ready in my lab. It’s as comfortable... and humane as possible under the circumstances.”
“Okay,” Leonardo said, his voice composed but utterly devoid of hope. He took a steadying breath. “Okay, then do what you have to do. Sedate me. After that, get me secured and run whatever tests you need.”
“Leo, no!” Michelangelo exclaimed, lunging forward in alarm.
“Don’t,” Leonardo interrupted harshly, the familiar name a shock to his system. He paused, his voice softening, heavy with sorrow. “Don’t call me that. I’m… I’m not him. You have to accept that. I’m just another threat, and you have to...” His composure wavered, and his voice cracked. “I heard a voice in my head. It told me to… to bash Don’s brains in. Not to kill, just to knock him out and hide whatever he found. Stage an accident. Whatever it was, it probably would’ve told me to go after Mikey next.”
Donatello felt his carefully constructed composure shatter. His heart felt like it had crumbled to dust. His analytical mind screamed that this confession could be a manipulation tactic, a programmed way to earn their trust by exploiting their emotions. But all he could see was the fear in the eyes of the imposter, who looked exactly like his oldest brother.
“I just… I just want you to know that I’m sorry,” Donatello said, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m sorry if you really are just some unwitting being with my brother’s memories who’s only scared and confused about what I’m going to have to do…”
“Don’t be sorry, Donny. I know how difficult this must be for you, and I’m so proud of you,” Leonardo replied, the words selfless and devastatingly sincere. “You’re just protecting your family.” Though he tried to remain stoic, a single, glistening tear slipped from his blue-hued eye and trailed down his cheek. “Please, just… get it over with.”
Raphael, who had been silently watching the entire exchange, took one step forward, his face a mask of grim, heartbroken determination. “I’ll do it,” He said quietly, his voice raw. He reached out and placed a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, stopping him from moving closer to the clone. “Just show me where I need to put it, Don.”
Donatello blinked rapidly, the tears blurring his vision. He nodded numbly and handed the syringe to his older brother, his hands trembling violently. “Here,” He whispered, the single word barely audible.
Raphael took the syringe, his jaw set. Then he looked into the clone’s eyes, those blue-hued eyes that had always pierced through him, whether in reprimand or the warmth of a rare smile, and for a moment, he froze. His grip on the syringe tightened, his knuckles white.
Leo's always hated needles, Raphael thought suddenly, a small, agonizing detail that broke the wall between the clone and the brother he knew. He remembered the flinch, the small crack in the stoic facade.
“I’m sorry, Leo,” Raphael muttered under his breath.
Leonardo nodded slightly, his body tense but accepting. “I know, Raph. It’s okay,” He replied, offering a small, strained smile that did not reach his eyes. “Just… take care of them. And try to find me. The real me, I mean.”
Not the objective. He is gone. Long gone. The mechanical voice coiled like barbed wire through Leonardo’s mind, sharp and cold, amplifying the pain. You should have listened. Staged an accident. Knocked the two younger ones out. Erased the result. Saved yourself the trouble. But you crave trouble, don’t you? His breath hitched. They will not find him. They cannot find him. Do you understand? The voice pressed on, mocking and clinical. Of course not. They made you too soft. Too spoiled—
“Shut up,” Leonardo hissed under his breath, a sound too quiet for anyone else to hear. His hands were shaking violently now, not from fear, but from the sheer effort of holding himself back. It felt like invisible hands were pressing into his brain, threading strings through his limbs like a puppet.
Leonardo forced his feet to stay rooted to the floor, his jaw locking so hard it sent a sharp pulse of pain through his skull. His breath came out in short, sharp bursts. He dug his fingernails into his palms, grounding himself in the sting.
Raphael’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly as he stepped closer. He did not know what was going on in his oldest brother’s head; he just knew what he had to do. His hand tightened on the syringe.
“I’ll find you," Raphael said gruffly, the promise delivered not to the room but straight into the clone’s terrified blue eyes. It was a vow made for the real Leonardo but offered as a final, aching courtesy to the one standing before him.
In one swift, efficient motion, Raphael injected the sedative. The needle barely grazed the muscle of Leonardo's shoulder, and the plunger was depressed with a decisive, agonizing finality. Leonardo flinched, a primal, involuntary spasm, but remained silent, his eyes locking with his younger brother’s. The clone’s body began to sag, the unnatural tension that had been holding him rigid finally yielding. His vision blurred at the edges, the frantic fight against the internal voice suddenly silent, replaced by a heavy, cottony void. The last thing he saw before everything dimmed was the pain etched deep into his younger brother’s face, a mixture of agonizing anguish and grim, devastating determination.
“Raph…” Leonardo whispered, his voice fading, dissolving into the heavy air. His eyelids grew too heavy, fluttering once before finally shutting.
Casey, who had been standing silent witness, moved immediately. He lunged forward, catching the weight of the unconscious turtle before he could hit the hard concrete. His massive, muscular arms wrapped securely around the back of the shell and then the bend of the knees, lifting the clone entirely.
"Gotcha, Leo," Casey murmured, his usual loud bravado absent, replaced with an unexpected, profound tenderness.
Donatello, his face streaked with the tears he could no longer hide or control, inhaled a ragged, painful breath and wiped his eyes with the back of a trembling hand.
“We get him secured in the containment unit,” Donatello managed, his voice hoarse but regaining a thin thread of scientific resolve. The tears were done, replaced by a cold, desperate pragmatism. “Then… then we run the tests. And then… we figure out what to do next.”
The only sound in the lab was Michelangelo's small, wounded sob, muffled against Raphael’s shoulder. Raphael stood motionless, clutching the empty syringe with his white-knuckled hand and staring at the spot where his brother, no, clone, had just stood.