Chapter Text
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Leo strode into the ring, and the cheers of the audience welcomed him.
The fighting cage was round, set up on a circle of raised concrete so the crowd could have a better view. The rough concrete ground, stained with sweat and blood, was cold under Leo's feet. Electronic Wellspring lights glared down on him, harshly bright. Beyond the chainlink walls of the cage, various yokai and humans waved their drinks, hooting and laughing. Accentuated by the occasional holler, boisterous clamor filled the air of the Nexus fight club.
The sound was music to his ears. Or tympanum. Whatever.
Leo turned around to his escort, chuckling lightly. “C’mon, you guys. We were just scuffling.”
The brute grunted. “If you’re gonna fight, you’d better do it where the folks can watch.” He slammed the door shut. The grate thudded into the doorframe, becoming one with the rest of the cage’s fencing.
Leo rolled his eyes, gaze lolling to the other side of the ring. His opponent—the one he had been arguing with moments before—scowled as she was shoved into the cage by an escort of her own. Entering the ring, Cassandra glowered as he threw her a smirk. “Sorry, Cass. Didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand.” Leo flexed one of his hands, his knuckles wrapped in combat bandages. “Or, you know, out of fist.”
He cackled at the joke that was only funny to himself. Cass just gritted her teeth. “You wanna play, Hamato?” She tilted her head with a scoff.
He cracked a grin and motioned to the crowd outside the cage. “Just giving the folks what they want, hermana,” he said, basking in the audience’s roars.
Cass rolled her shoulders. She had removed her leather jacket, but Leo had opted to keep his bomber on. The blue jacket—along with his ever-present grin—was part of his iconic look now. He wanted the crowd to remember him. He and Cassandra circled each other, and Leo let the audience’s cries feed him.
Then he darted forward, jabbing experimentally.
Cass ducked, then met his eyes with a hard glare. She swung at him with a right hook, which Leo moved to block with his forearm. He realized it was a feint a second too late—Cass’s backhook took him to the skull powerfully. Cheers and hoots erupted from the crowd as Leo retreated backwards. He clutched his head, but stayed on his feet. Kicking already, huh? For someone who hadn’t wanted to enter the cage, she was sure as hell ready to fight.
Leo panted, sweat rolling down his neck.
Then he snapped his head up, meeting Cassandra’s death-stare with a wide grin. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he drawled. The audience roared with approval, the sound addictive. Cassandra simply narrowed her eyes.
Leo lunged at her, throwing a slug with his left—she blocked with a grunt, so he started jabbing at her abdomen. The hoots and cheers increased in volume as Cass rushed to block the punches. She fended off several strikes frantically before dodging backwards, stance low.
Cass shot a dirty look at him, then darted forward with catlike speed. Leo swept her ankles and she stumbled—but then immediately pounced towards him with a swing at his shoulder. Leo parried, and they exchanged a series of blows, Leo grinning the whole time. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a drug. It was intoxicating.
He snatched up her right hand—assuming it was her dominant—and twisted her forearm, earning him a pained cry from his opponent. Cass scowled through her grimace, then raised her other fist. She swept away Leo’s defense, suddenly swinging in for a sharp uppercut.
From the level of agony that shot up Leo’s jaw, she was a lefty. Shit. He recoiled, but Cass didn’t relent, launching a weighty side kick into his abdomen. Leo folded over and stumbled backwards.
He backed into the edge of the cage, listening to the delighted whoops of the audience beyond. Red-hot pain seared through his body, and it felt like he was swimming in the stuff. Pain was good. Pain was better than thinking.
Pulse thundering like war drums, Leo wheezed, and felt coppery warmth flood onto his tongue.
He closed his mouth and spat out the blood, letting the thick liquid fall from his mouth. It splattered, marking the concrete between his feet under him with a rich shade of red. It probably looked pretty badass—so Leo furthered the effect by throwing Cass a confident smirk.
“That all you got?” he teased, letting smugness leech into his voice.
She glowered, raising a fist. Leo laughed dryly, feeling the ache of pain running through his body.
He was probably gonna regret that.
///
That’s new. Donnie squinted at the black dot in the distance, hands clenched around the grip of his submachine gun.
He pulled out his scope and mounted it on the gun. It was designed well—as all of Donnie’s tech was—and it easily slipped on with a light click. He propped the machine pistol’s barrel on the rocks.
The ever-present magenta clouds rumbled softly. Donnie gripped the cylinder, zooming in. In his current tucked position, his shoulder bag rested on the dirt, full of the metal scraps he had scrounged up earlier. The speck had caught his attention just as he was about to leave. It was worth checking out before he returned underground. The black dot in the distance, somewhat obstructed by the mountainous terrain, marked the horizon like a blemish.
Through the scope, he could just barely make out a dark mass. Across the barren ground—dyed warm hues by the pink sky—he noticed an unmistakable silhouette. 14…15…Donnie sucked in a sharp breath.
16 Kraang hounds, clustered in a pack.
Approximately, Donnie thought. It was hard to tell, with their forms writhing around in a dense camp. Holy truffle mac n’ cheese. That was a lot of those creatures in one spot. Should the guards be worried about it?
Donnie twisted his head to the nearby spot up the hill, where six guards surrounded the Gate. He squinted to read their expressions from his hiding spot. None of them seemed to have noticed the dark speck, simply standing around the silver shed-like structure as usual. One turned towards his direction, and Donnie flinched, shrinking lower into the rubble. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to have noticed him.
Donnie let out a breath. The only legal exit out of the underground city was the elevator within the Gate. His secret passageway to the surface wasn’t supposed to exist—though he was unsure what the repercussions would be if it was discovered. The government’s power was purely survivalistic—all tax money went towards protecting the city, researching the Kraang, and keeping Defiance’s citizens alive.
A shrill screech tore through the air.
Shit. Donnie stiffened, grabbing his gun. In a swift motion, he dropped his scope, whirled around, and snapped his machine pistol into position. He leveled the barrel at the source of the sound—a Kraang hound, farther away than Donnie thought, but alarmingly close nonetheless.
The creature was sprinting across the plain, and as Donnie aimed, it launched itself at the Gate.
It flew towards the soldiers at guard with insane speed, letting out a yowl. One of the guards screamed as the hound landed on him, a blur of thrashing claws. The soldiers cried out in alarm, scrambling to their comrade.
One whipped a gun from her vest, shouting an order. She pointed her pistol at the large hound, but hesitated. Donnie could see why—she didn’t have a clear shot.
But Donnie did.
Donnie gritted his teeth, crosshairs still trained on the Kraang beast’s glowing pink eye. It writhed on the guard’s shoulders, a horrifically twisting mess of claw and tooth.
Oh, hell. He couldn’t possibly fire. Shooting now would blow his cover, jeopardize his shelter, and not to mention expose him to the enemy hound.
But if the guards died, the Gate would be breached.
Donnie shook his head. No, that wouldn’t happen—from a logical standpoint, six armed guards was more than enough to kill the hound. Donnie tried not to think of the pack in the hills several hundred meters away. But by any calculation, firing wasn't worth the risk.
Still, his hands shook.
Donnie clenched his jaw and lowered his gun. No—He couldn’t afford to think like that. Everyone was out for themselves. Not my fight. Not my job.
The guard let out a guttural scream, sending a chill down his spine.
Donnie scrambled backwards on scrabbling feet, fear bringing him to his senses. If the hound spotted him, he was dead meat. He turned on his heel and dashed away, sliding down the slope. Trying to ignore the panicked shouts and cries of the guards, he sprinted low, stumbling in the dust, pulling the submachine gun to his chest, scanning for the tunnel entrance frantically.
When he spotted the slit in the ground, Donnie dived into it as quickly as he could and sent his gun and bag down first in order to fit. As he dropped in, his softshell scraped the dirt painfully. Donnie set his jaw, managing to wriggle through. He wasn’t nearly as small as he used to be.
He popped through and ended up in a dark space. It was pitch-black, but Donnie knew the small slate-grey cavern from experience.
He paused for a moment to catch his breath. The hole was tight, but it was better than it being so big that hounds could use it. Defiance would have been flooded by attacks a long time ago if that was true. Releasing a sigh, Donnie scooped up and collapsed his SMG, folding the gun into a pack that he could strap to his shell. He threw his shoulder bag back on, metal pieces inside clattering against each other.
The tunnel was dark, but Donnie knew it well, keeping his hand on the wall as he walked. The black path was steep and long, hardly big enough for his adult form. Each step tilted on the inclined ground. He made his way slowly through the winding corridor, heart still racing.
Even when Donnie was in his teens, hunting for scraps practically every week, he had only witnessed one attack from a Kraang hound. Even then, he had fled before getting a good look at the creature. What were the chances of an attack happening on Donnie’s first visit in over a year?
He did the mental math. It was low.
As the corridor deposited Donnie on the south end of the cavern, he ran statistics over in his head. Offenses from the Kraang hounds weren’t supposed to be that common. But as Donnie made his way into the city, he came to a troubling conclusion.
The attacks were increasing in frequency.
///
Mikey took a quiet breath and stepped back to admire his handiwork, listening to the quiet chatter of passersby on the street below. The brick wall in front of him was covered with paint. The mural featured an object of folklore—flowers, with various colors blossoming from the center in waves.
The city of Defiance was dark—as it always was—and the artwork was illuminated by a trio of lanterns Mikey had filled himself. He picked up one of them so he could raise it to the wall. Wellspring sloshed around inside, casting a pale glow on the work.
Mikey ran his eyes over the four hues present in all of his murals—the ones that always showed up in his dreams, and that he wore in a bead necklace. He didn’t know what they meant, but years of mystic practice had taught him not to disregard dreams.
His hand drifted to his pocket, and he pulled out the ring from within. The emerald ring had been easy to pickpocket from the Nexus fight club, but Mikey was starting to regret doing so.
The emerald was large, almost comically so. It would be incredibly risky for him to pawn off. He had swiped it from the betting bowl, too, so its owner would likely be a frequenter of the fight club.
And, therefore, much more inclined to fight.
Mikey let his gaze roll upward, to the sky of the city—or rather, the ceiling. Defiance was humid, and Wellspring—the glowing liquid from Lake Defiance—couldn’t evaporate into the sky when it remained underground. Thus, it condensated on the rocky surface above and trickled back down on stalactites. When the liquid collected, it formed little droplets of light above.
Mikey thought of the stars that Ma always used to talk about. They must have looked something like this.
He heard a rustle of movement and immediately snatched his mask from his waist, throwing on the ram-themed gas mask, whirling around alertly. Mikey paused. His eyes landed on the figure climbing on the platform—one of the younger kids. The ten-year-old popped his head up, his large brown eyes twinkling under a mop of fluffy dark hair. “Uncle Mikey!”
Mikey softened, lowering the mask. “Casey.” The boy had been one of the first children that Mikey took in, and he held a special place in his heart.
The kid scurried up to him and admired the mural. “Wow,” he said “It’s so colorful!” He spoke with a childish lisp—likely a result of his baby teeth falling out.
“You like it?”
Casey nodded enthusiastically.
Mikey gave him a warm laugh. “Wanna see something cool?”
“Yah!” Casey hopped in excitement. He watched, eyes wide, as Mikey spun dramatically, flourishing his geometric shawl like a cloak. Mikey placed one of his hands on the mural—the center, where it was dry—and winked.
He channeled his energy, and the paint began to glow brightly, responding to his mystic. Light streamed from the whole mural in rainbow hues.
“Woah,” Casey cooed.
Mikey laughed, and pulled his hand away. The light didn’t stop, still charged with mystic energy. It began to fade naturally as Mikey turned to the boy at his side. Casey was grinning, pure glee on his little face.
Mikey crouched down to his eye level. “You like it?”
“Yah,” the boy laughed. “How do you do it?”
Mikey wiggled his fingers dramatically. “I’m strong. I got magic hands.” The light gradually faded, as did the glow cast on Casey's face. Mikey’s mystic was quite proficient, so the stunt had taken little to no effort. There were times that Mikey didn’t understand his mystic abilities, but it wasn’t something you understood. It was something you felt. Mikey ruffled Casey’s hair. “You’re strong too, Case.”
Casey looked up at Mikey, eyes wide as saucers. “Really?”
He laughed. “Yeah. You’re super strong. I have a feeling you’re gonna be our saving grace someday.”
As he watched the boy giggle, Mikey realized it felt like a bit more than a feeling.
///
Sprawled out on the side of the street, Leo could see the stars.
His gaze rolled around, and he took in the Wellspring droplets on the ceiling of Defiance. He opened his mouth. Maybe one of them would fall in. He giggled to himself. No, that was silly. He had been living here since he was 9, and had never actually witnessed the drops falling.
Leo smiled at the stars—he felt good. Lying out on cobblestones extended his midsection, stretching his aching abdomen. He took another drink from his flask, relishing in the sensation of rushing blood. His phone buzzed, but Leo ignored it. He was counting the stars. Raph said Pops would talk about the stars often.
Ugh. Raph. Leo frowned at the thought.
He suddenly felt incredibly stupid to be lying on the dirt path like a stoner. He was supposed to be better than that, right? He was supposed to be useful, competent—not some lounging idiot—not some discarded drunkard—not some worthless piece of trash left on the road like goddamned litter—Leo scoffed to himself, forcefully. Like he was trying to banish his own thoughts.
He decided he wouldn’t think about Raph. Leo knew he was a loser. No point trying to be something you weren’t. He let a blissful smile slip back onto his face.
The stars looked nice.
After losing count several times, Leo had gotten to 13 stars when something fell on the ground next to him. The drop of Wellspring landed on the road next to his head, splattering on the stone. A bit of it hit his cheek.
Leo blinked. Then he burst into laughter, the gut hurting from the force of the guffaws. “No way,” he wheezed to himself. “Would you look at that?” It was stupidly funny. Well, not that funny—but everything felt a little funnier when you were on this much booze. It also made it far easier to sleep. Leo’s giggles gradually melted, and he lounged back onto the road. What were the chances of that?
Suddenly, the ache in his side spiked, and he doubled over. But he kept grinning, letting out a gleeful laugh through the burn. Almost immediately after he bent over, he unfolded to take a deep swig from his flask. The liquor seared his throat, distracting from the pangs in his midsection.
Leo finished downing the buzz, then cackled to himself. Fuck yeah. The pain felt raw and sweet, intoxicating in its own way. Leo tossed the empty flask down, and it clattered on the pavement. He wanted to go to the bar.
He could use another drink.
///
Raph hit the light switch, and the pipe lights buzzed to life. Wellspring trickled into them until the running liquid illuminated Raph’s apartment. He doffed his ballistic vest, dropping it to hang next to the door.
As he opened the fridge, he dialed Leo. The phone began the process of letting out three long rings.
Raph put the phone on the counter and peered into the fridge. Save for a carton of artificial milk and two cinderplums, it was empty. He sighed. He would need to go to the store.
The second ring chimed from the phone, and Raph stretched out, muscles sore from fighting. A Kraang hound had stumbled on to the Gate, so Raph’s unit had had to take care of it. It wasn’t a surprising occurrence, but according to other squadrons, it was the third attack in a week. Raph’s job usually consisted of standing guard for long hours, so the frequency had been worrisome.
The dial tones paused, then an automated voice sounded from the device, sending Raph to voicemail—as per usual. He waited for the beep before he started talking.
“Hey, Leo.” Raph rubbed his eyes. He had done these every week for a year, and they all blended together in his head. It had gotten to the point where Raph just rambled about whatever was on his mind.
“There was an attack today. It wasn't a big deal—just one hound. I took care of it. Ya know, like a boss. Lotta smashing.” Raph paced around his small kitchen as he spoke. “Wasn’t hard, but Officer Yuichi said his unit got like, two attacks in the past few days too.”
Raph scanned at the pantry, regarding its contents. Maybe he could have a snack. “It’s weird as heck.”
Raph glanced at the phone, biting his lip.
What could he possibly say that would make Leo come back? It had been four years since Leo had run away. Raph would have thought his brother good as dead—like the rest of them—but he heard talk on the streets about his brother’s merc services. The Hamato name was somewhat infamous, and it wasn’t Raph’s fault.
Raph sighed. “That’s all,” he muttered, feeling like he was talking to himself. How long would it take him to fix his relationship with Leo? He was the only family Raph had left.
God, he had messed up. He and Leo always argued, but last time must have gone too far—apparent by Leo’s disappearance. Raph should never have retaliated.
He picked up the phone, adding one more message before he ended the voicemail.
“Come home, Leo.”
He turned off the phone with a light click.
///
Donnie squinted into the microscope, scanning the petri dish. Within was a piece of dead Kraang parasite. Donnie adjusted the focus, if only to give the impression that he was doing something.
Donnie was no biologist—the clump of cells meant little to nothing to him. The fact that he lacked any real education didn’t help. In his two years of working here, Donnie had made little to no progress on the cure. But the state kept him employed—intellectuals were hard to come by—expecting him to sit in front of an incredibly uninteresting microscope. Donnie fiddled with the focus knob, and his mind wandered to that afternoon.
16 hounds in one group. Was that a lot? Donnie had only really seen the creatures close up twice—both times during scrap runs above Defiance, the second one just that afternoon. And—implied by the presence of guards—hounds stumbling upon the Gate wasn’t a rare event. But Donnie could tell something was different. They shouldn’t be this frequent.
The Kraang hounds were creatures Donnie knew little about. There had apparently been other creatures when the Kraang force first came to earth—the foremen of the invaders, and various grunts. Tales of Invasion Day were few and far between, told by elders. Donnie wasn’t entirely sure about the implications of increased attack frequency, or hounds gathering in packs.
Did they have some kind of leader?
The security guard strolled past his lab, and Donnie glanced up to look at him. The wall separating them was made of glass, allowing the guard to monitor Donnie’s activity. The guard passed through periodically—about a few times a day—and likely expected Donnie to be at the microscope.
Donnie waited until the guard was out of sight. Then, he released a relieved sigh.
He pushed against the table, sending his chair rolling backwards. He drifted to his second desk—the one that held his tech.
Donnie picked up the tech-bo on his desk, along with a screwdriver. He unscrewed a plate and scanned the wiring. It was working fine, but Donnie worried about the wires melting together.
He reached across his desk, where his shoulder bag sat next to a messy pile of scraps. Donnie rummaged through the stack and frowned. None of them were thin enough. He moved to his shoulder bag, which held the few scraps he had collected during his surface visit last lunch break. Donnie poured out the bits of metal, brow pinched.
He didn’t have enough. Donnie scowled, letting out a huff.
Being a scientist was a nightmare in this hellhole of a city. He had been working here since he was 16, and had done little of significance. Not only had he made zero discoveries for the cure, but his engineering work was also stunted. He only made two major inventions during his time in the lab—his SMG and tech-bo. Supplies were near impossible to come by, and the government already gave him whatever scraps they scrouged up. Donnie had resorted to hunting on the surface, like he used to do back when he was a teen in Defiance, with nowhere else to find resources.
Donnie leaned back and sighed. He needed a smoke.
He left his lab, finding his way to the balcony. His lab was on the fifth floor of the state-owned building, along with four other labs. Donnie had never seen people in the other labs, but he could tell that a few of them remained in use. Outside, Donnie lit a cigarette. He took a pull, then leaned on the railing.
“How’s your evening, Doc?”
Donnie would have jumped in shock at the voice a month ago, but now he simply shrugged. “Well enough.” He turned his head upward to the roof of the fifth floor behind him, where Angelo was perched.
Angelo had his mask on, per usual. Curling ram’s horns coiled from the top of it, and the pointed horn tips framed the mouth area, which resembled that of a gas mask. He wore a holographic piece of fabric as a shawl, the center draped over his head like a hood. He assumed a relaxed posture, swinging his legs underneath him. Donnie had first run into the mysterious man a couple weeks ago, and now he kept on showing up on his smoke breaks. “Guess that’s all you can ask for, huh?” Angelo chuckled lightly.
“In this god-abandoned city, perhaps,” Donnie remarked before drawing on his cigarette again. Other people appreciated Defiance, but Donnie hadn’t grown fond of it yet. The woes of being a scientist.
But it was better than nothing. Donnie had lived in the city for five years, and hadn’t been able to make anything but trinkets during the first three—all his resources had come from surface scrap hunts at the time.
Plus, his job was cushy. As long as he kept coming up with good excuses to avoid working on the cure, Donnie had a steady flow of supplies and a place to work on his tech.
“Defiance isn’t all that bad,” Angelo chirped, voicing Donnie’s thoughts. “We’ve got light, air, and food. There’s no place safer on earth, I think.”
Donnie pulled his cigarette from his mouth, exhaling. There was one place that hadn’t been bad. “I’ve lived on the surface before. It’s fine up there.”
Angelo peered down at him. His mask was lit up from the inside, so from a distance, it looked like he had glowing eyes. From this vantage point, however, Donnie could see a pair of round eyes through the eye-holes. “You’re talking about Oasis, right?”
Donnie had lived in the bustling refugee hub with his dads since he was 8. “Yeah.” Before the attack, the town had been flourishing.
“That town was doomed from the start, Doc.” Angelo shook his head dejectedly, pausing his leg swings.
Donnie frowned. “Don’t say that.”
“You know it’s true,” Angelo’s tone was glum. “A long life isn’t possible upstairs.”
“At least it’s a life.”
Angelo paused. He was quiet for a moment, the hissing of air through his mask the only thing Donnie could hear. “You’re right,” Angelo muttered finally. “I guess, in the end, we’re all just trying to live.”
Donnie nodded, subdued. A comfortable silence followed as he puffed on his cigarette. He had lived in many places when he was young—Defiance, a small camp with his birth brothers—but Oasis was the one that felt the most like home. After fleeing the village after the attack, Donnie had never really felt that again. Except…he glanced up at Angelo. Donnie knew he probably shouldn’t be talking to a stranger on the roof, but something about him felt safe. Familiar.
He felt like home.
Angelo perked up. “You’re not a bad guy, Doc.” He fingered one of his bead necklaces. “I’d hate for something to happen to you.”
Donnie stiffened. “That’s ominous.”
Angelo chuckled. “I’m just sayin’, I’ve got connections.” Donnie relaxed at the sound of his laughter, still frowning. “If you ever need help, find the old hag in the alley next to the poisons shop. Tell her that the amber angel told you to go there.”
“Fancy title.”
“I’m a fancy guy.” Angelo tilted his head. “But don’t waste my time.”
Donnie furrowed his brow. He didn’t know this guy. They were just strangers talking on a balcony. For all Angelo knew, Donnie could be a serial killer—and vice versa. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Be so kind.”
Angelo chuckled. “I’d like to think I’m a kind person.”
How can someone be kind in this city? Donnie bit his lip. Kindness was what got you killed. Angelo seemed like a bleeding heart—kind with no rhyme or reason. In a way, it inclined Donnie to distrust him—or trust him with his life. He was either a fake or a pure, transparent stand-up. “Only fools are kind.”
“I’m sure you’re kind too, Doc.”
Donatello knew this wasn't true. “I am not.”
Angelo paused, looking contemplative. “Everyone has kindness in them. I see it.” He started rocking his legs again, and they swayed at Donnie’s eye level. “You can be kind too, if you let yourself be.”
Angelo swung his legs in unison, turning the motion into an gracefully arching leap. He landed lightly on the railing, without a single stumble.
Donnie regarded him for a moment, almost waiting to see if Angelo would get unbalanced and fall. He didn’t. “That’s a nice sentiment,” He responded.
Angelo looked back at his companion, and Donnie swore he was smiling under that mask. When he spoke, he sounded like he knew something that Donnie didn't.
“It’s the truth. I’ve seen it.”
He turned around, then jumped off the building.