Chapter Text
It was never quiet within the Faraday cage. That's what he likes to call it. Ironically the interior was covered in circuitry that buzzed, hummed, and screeched throughout the night. An unfortunate mutant with all the intellect, and none of the control over his own, being laid sprawled out onto the cold, wooden floor. He associated the screams of the currents passing through coil whine with the frequency of his own mind.
With his eyes closed, annoyance became a sort of meditation. Donatello had built a home in a cage, and like Sisyphus, welcomes acceptance as a new means to carry on. To carry on building, destroying, starting, and finishing projects that would not serve anyone else but himself. Over and over until he couldn't improve it anymore. His critique called it selfishness, while his contempt called it revolt. He'd think of his brothers and jolt while the floor vibrates. Heavy copper pipes shuddered against the walls, releasing a violent hiss that brought his mind back from wandering.
Donatello rose with the sun. The beams of light covered his cracked shell, which he could feel throughout his body. Donatello didn't do much research about the two suns that were in this planet's solar system, but though he couldn't prove it, he was sure one of them emitted pain reducing properties. He kept one window open to let the healer in. That one ray of stable light looked out of place in his dreary, wet and unpredictable atmosphere he surrounded himself in.
There were a lot of things Donatello did not yet understand about this new world, and was eager to figure it out. Because everything was new he had essentially created his own metric system for explaining the natural setting of this planet. The very air he breathed was heavier. Earth was loud but this planet never rests. Somehow always, talking, singing, rushing. He could feel but not explain that the new world breathes.
A quick neck Crack, and arm stretch was the beginning of his ritual. There was a time when Donatello could get up at any hour and begin working, but now his body slowed. His joints popped the further he stretched towards the ceiling. And his eyes, decorated with wrinkles of age, needed time to adjust.The taste in the air was akin to pennies and burnt hair. A deep breath of oak, metal, and minerals was an olfactory reminder of the present. Which he liked more than being reminded of the past.
With the steel staff right next to him. He propped himself up with it, slightly trembling from his weight. like a growing tree in this unfamiliar landscape. In a way, his silhouette matched the scenery. He was a natural and super natural being surrounded by the super natural. Wires that aren't neatly organized, hanging like loose vines from the roof. The "circuitry" is everywhere, etched into the stone, growing through the walls, and pulsed through the very air he breathes.
The “Mother tree” He built his shelter was actually a type of plant similar to the fagaceae with obsidian bark. The rings of the trees held conductive silver and lead. Its leaves fell like glass rain, and chimed like silver coins when the wind came. The air was ionized as well, which caused tiny prickling sensations in his shell. He could take this if it meant he'd have water once the storm comes. It would triple into the heating system, purifying it, and drop into whatever system he wanted it in. The wind followed by the rain was not a pleasant time, but the trade off was fair enough.
Luckily for Donatello the wind was not here yet and he could begin his work. He had a new project in mind. He always has new projects. Most of his projects were ones of protection against, now, very expected invaders. They came at dusk usually, when the wind wasn't so strong.
Donatello was quite impressed with their determination. The trip to his hideout is not an easy journey. The new world, while beautiful, could be very hateful. Traveling even with equipment could be one of the most dangerous things one could do, yet they persist. He had respect for that. It reminded him of Leonardo. Never really thinking it through, just doing. Always in motion, until he was forced to stop. Regardless of his affinity for their efforts, Donatello had to be that force to stop them.
He was very aware of the thieves and their motives. Sometimes after beating them until they could hardly walk, he'd ask them why. Donatello never liked their answers. It always was centered around greed and learned helplessness. He was well aware that his inventions could be very useful for their small villages or armies. The mutants on this planet were survivors, not scientists. Because this planet is a graveyard of Krang technology and unique ores, the currency isn't gold or paper …it’s innovation and power. It was clear that innovation was power, and he was the only one to have skill in it. So as he sat down in his chair, that was squealing from his weight, a new idea emerged.
He'd let them in.
If power is what they wanted, then they'd have to prove that they could handle it. Donatello was a lean and short turtle in his adolescence, but now stands at 7 feet tall, still lean but with built muscle. In his fights with intruders and thieves he'd rely mostly on his staff, which just was a tightly compacted machine with different functions. In order to beat it, you have to be smart. He never met one smart enough yet. But with the arrival of more women scavengers, he was hopeful he'd find one.
The native mutants spoke other languages than just English. He predicted that his brothers had taught some English because though they spoke in broken sentences, they understood Donatello's words and warnings. But more than words, they understood action.
It was a fool's game to go outside or completely open his gates. So instead he set up an atmospheric gauntlet. Donatello learned to work with the environment, not against it. For this, he had to go higher up into the mother tree. Donatello had strung wires made of a rare, vibrating silver alloy between the jagged metal branches. Careful and gently he did this, his way of communicating reassurance with the tree. He predicted that the ionized wind of the planet will blow through branches. Not just whistle, a hum in a mathematical sequence the first ten digits of Pi expressed in musical chords. To a scavenger, it was a haunting, metallic wail that set their teeth on edge. But to a mind that understood harmony, the wind was an obvious shouting coordinate. a rhythmic pulse of 'Long-Short-Short' that beat like a mechanical heart against the atmosphere.
Once a scavenger follows the sound, they find that the ground, and moss covering it has changed. Instead of a random glow, the moss pulses in a specific direction. However, the path is flanked by Tesla-Cylinders which are rusted Krang pillars that will arc 50,000 volts at anything with a racing or palpitating heartbeat. A giant bug zapper for the unworthy and scared. This mechanic was built a while ago, but essentially Donatello turned old karang pillars into a massive heart rate monitor.
As he climbed down the tree, instead of gearing up or getting tense he sat. And waited. Donatello allowed himself to feel but not wander into his thoughts. The humming and hissing continued as background noise. The cold staff rested on his right shoulder and had a familiar navy blue cloth wrapped around it. A symbolic statement of the loss, that he swore he'd never face again. He remembered in a clouded memory when this bandana caught flame. When it dropped to Donatello's feet, and the moment he picked it from the rubble. Out of all the extraordinary inventions in Donatello's collection, this ragged, burnt and worn down cloth was the most valuable.
The whistling outside got louder, the interior fought the wind from outside. A smirk came across his face as he wondered if anyone was crazy enough to show up now.