Colors
:::
By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
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It was the fourth Christmas they'd spent together, deep in the chilly, dank sewers of New York. It would be pleasant this year, despite their surroundings. Hamato Yoshi, known to his four young sons as Splinter, had worked hard to make sure that their little hideaway was as home-like as possible.
Their first year there, he had built a door, tables, a metal fire pit - the sort of basics they needed. He had continued adding to that, scrounging for supplies to build whatever he couldn't find in the junkyards and landfills. Eventually, they had a working electric stovetop, running water, and oil lamps.
By their second Christmas, he'd constructed little cots for them in a corner of their home, separated by a paper screen he'd decorated with sweeping calligraphy and a shower of inked cherry blossoms. Each cot had a pillow and a pile of soft blankets to ward off the chill. He'd scavanged toys, even penned and illustrated storybooks for them, in English and Japanese, to help them learn to read.
As they grew and learned, they began to develop distinct personalities, and so he turned his efforts toward ensuring that each son was allowed to flourish in his own way. He knew it was important for the boys to learn to be individuals, even as he taught them to work and think as one.
He'd noticed very early on that Donatello was an intellectual. Though only a toddler, the smallest of the brothers was inquisitive and observant. He had picked up language at an impressive rate, and by the age of three, he was already absorbing mathematics at a frightening speed. For Donatello, Splinter had fashioned building sets and made up word games and math puzzles, which his little student whizzed through almost too quickly for him to keep up.
Leonardo, eager and studious, was enamoured of Splinter's Japanese origins. Of the four of them, Leonardo was the only one who had not only picked up the Japanese language effortlessly, but had requested in his oddly serious, lisping way that he be taught to write in kanji, something the other three were not keen on. He'd taught Leonardo Japanese calligraphy, origami, and tea ceremonies. For his eldest son, he had carved a little tea set with which to practice his technique.
Though much less inclined towards seriousness than his twin, Raphael was also passionate and enthusiastic. Sadly, he was most enthusiastic about coloring, which had made for many a startling sight until Splinter taught him that India ink is not for painting little brothers' faces with. Sensitive and more emotionally aware than his brothers, there was certainly an artist within him. For Raphael, Splinter had picked through the wastebins outside schools for their paints and crayons and colored paper, and had framed out a special 4'x4' space on the wall for his creations.
Michaelangelo was, perhaps, the only one of his brothers who would be perfectly pleased with a ball of string to play with. However, Splinter had only to experience the rambunctious baby of the family getting hold of a ball of string once to know that was not an option. Instead of spending countless hours untangling the entire household (including its other occupants), he channelled Michaelangelo's energy into physical games. He fashioned him a jumprope, scrounged up a basketball, and had even consented to teach the three-year-old to walk on his hands, which little Michaelangelo had taken to with surprising ease. Some days, it was hard to get him to walk around the right way up.
This year, however, Splinter had discovered and labored over what he was certain would be his sons' favorite gift thus far. He had gotten them each a small gift, of course (a Lego set he'd gathered over many months of foraging for Donatello, a rudimentary koto carved for Leonardo, a hand-made coloring book with blank pages in the back for drawing for Raphael, and a fire engine for Michaelangelo that had a siren that still worked), but the heavy, boxy monstrosity that he'd spent four months learning to repair and clean and connect to the outside world would undoubtedly steal the show.
He was right.
From the moment he'd turned on their new television, he knew there would be trouble. They had been content to sit, mesmerized by the colors and sounds, for about five seconds before the noise started.
"Sp'inter! Wa's dat?"
"Why are dey pink?"
"Ponies! Sp'inter, wanna pony!"
"Vroom! Vroom! Look, dey have cars like me!"
As he turned the dial, hoping for a child-suitable program that would engage them long enough for him to clear up the ribbon strewn about the place, Splinter caught sight of something quite amusing.
Apparently, someone had seen fit to bring a phenomenon he'd previously known to be entirely Japanese over to the States. Interestingly, they chose to recast and rescript it almost entirely, instead of simply dubbing as they had done with films in the past. Shaking his head, he pointed to the television.
"Watch this, now, my sons. It is a show about brave warriors who fight evil and drive big machines."
"Like cars," Michaelangelo queried, his blue eyes wide and wondering as he gazed up at his father, clutching his new fire engine possessively.
"Yes, my child. Like cars. Sit here and watch. I will be keeping an eye on you, so do not fight, do not wander off, and do not paint on the television, Raphael."
Trying to pout and look innocent at the same time, Raphael turned back to the television with a mumbled "Yes, sir" as the teenager in red shouted "It's morphin' time!"
Splinter shook his head again. At least they were quiet.
:::
"I wanna be Red Ranger!"
"I'm the oldest, Raphie, I get to be Red Ranger!"
"But I like red best! You don't even like red!"
"Do too!"
"Do not!"
"Do too!"
"Do not!"
"Do too!"
"Do not! You said you don' like red 'cause o' when Mikey fell down an' he was leakin' red all over! You got sick an' Daddy made you lay down!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
As the two eldest of his sons continued to argue, Splinter sighed and sipped his tea. He would have stepped in had Michaelangelo not chosen that moment to pipe up.
"Donnie can be Red Ranger," he squeaked excitedly, eager to begin playing. Donatello, half-hiding behind the couch, shook his head when his brothers turned to regard him critically.
"I don' wanna be Red! I wanna be Blue Ranger," he mumbled almost silently.
This put Leonardo in a quandry. Blue was his favorite color, and he really wanted to be Blue Ranger and the leader, but everyone knew the Red Ranger was the leader.
He really didn't like red.
"Who can I be," Michalangelo stepped in again. Before any of his brothers could reply, he shouted, "I wanna be the Pink Ranger!"
Hiding his chuckle with a soft cough, Splinter resumed his crossword, keeping both ears and one eye trained on his rambunctious children.
"You can't be Pink Ranger, Mikey, you're a boy!"
Michaelangelo pouted. "I know, but I c'n pr'tend. 'cuz, 'cuz, I wanna be the Orange Ranger, but dere's no Orange Ranger, so I gotta be Pink! 'Cuz pink is almost orange, right, Raphie? More'n red is, an' you don' wanna be Pink Ranger, right?" Here the hyperactive turtle paused, peering at his older brother suspiciously. "Or do you?"
Whether it was the pursed lips and quivering finger Michaelangelo pointed at Raphael, Raphael's expression of absolute disbelief, or the sheer confusion on their brothers' faces, Splinter couldn't help but laugh outright.
Ever the practical one, Leo stomped over to his father and gazed up at him analytically. "Sp'inter, you can be our Zordon, 'kay? You hafta give us our colors."
Setting his pencil down, Splinter regarded his sons carefully. "If you are pretending to be Power Rangers, perhaps you could pretend there is an Orange Ranger, Michaelangelo." As his youngest son's face lit up, he continued. "Donatello, I believe you are far more wise and intelligent than the Blue Ranger on the television. Perhaps you should choose a color more to your liking, rather than choosing blue simply because you believe you must." Flushing deeply, the child prodigy nodded. "Leonardo and Raphael..."
Leaning back in his chair, he beckoned them over, placing one hand on each of their heads. "The two of you are equally strong and capable. I see no reason why you cannot both be Red Rangers."
"Dere can't be two Red Rangers, Daddy," Michaelangelo cut in, looking about as exaspirated as any four-year-old would be when faced with such a silly, adult remark. Grown-ups just didn't get it.
"I see," Splinter said softly, looking down at the two before him. "Then I suppose Raphael must be the Red Ranger, and Leonardo the Blue Ranger."
Raphael grinned triumphantly, turning to tease Leonardo, when he saw the tears in his brother's eyes.
"Leonardo," the aging rat began, bringing both hands to rest on the eldest turtle's shoulders. "The Red Ranger is not the leader because he wears red. He is the leader because he can be nothing else. You cannot pretend to be someone you are not, my son. You should not wear red any more than Donatello should wear blue." Reaching up to rub the back of Leonardo's head as he always did to soothe them, Splinter smiled. "Simply be yourself, Leonardo. That is all you can do."
Rubbing his eyes determinedly, his son drew himself up and straightened his shoulder. "Yes, Father. I will."
:::
If he had thought that was the end of Power Rangers drama, Splinter was in for a rude shock.
It was later that afternoon, when the children were supposed to be napping, that he heard hushed whispers and giggles, followed by rustling paper. There was a little squeak of excitement, followed by three harsh shushing sounds, and more rustling paper.
Peering around the screen that cordoned off their bedroom, he spied Donatello, lying on his stomach on his cot, drawing something on the blank pages of Raphael's coloring book. Every so often, Raphael (who was sitting cross-legged on the floor) would take up a crayon and nudge Donatello over so he could draw, shading in something here, something there. Leonardo, kneeling at the head of Donatello's cot, would point and shake his head, whispering instructions like "the wings should be bigger," and "make it a katana". At his elbow, bouncing with barely-repressed energy, Michaelangelo occasionally muttered "bigger," "more fire," and "can you make it jump".
"The four of you are supposed to be sleeping," he said sternly, masking his twitching whiskers with the sleeves of his kimono as Raphael slipped off the cot with a yelp and Michaelangelo dove for his own covers. Leonardo simply bowed his head, apologizing and curling up on his cot without protest. Donatello belatedly slammed the coloring book shut, scattering crayons across the stone floor.
Splinter raised an eyebrow, nodding to himself as Raphael and Donatello snuggled down into their respective pillows. He walked back to his armchair silently, pondering what to do about this newest development.
It was simple enough to get hold of the coloring book once the boys were distracted by the newest episode of Power Rangers wherein the Pink and Blue Rangers switched minds (the things children will believe, honestly). Flipping through it, he smiled to himself. Before he'd even made a conscious decision, he pulled out a few sheets of blank paper and a pencil and quickly traced over the drawings, even going so far as to copy the childish, handwritten labels.
'Terbo Trusterz', indeed. He made a mental note to work on Michaelangelo's spelling as he continued to work.
:::
"Sp'inter, can I have a bo-torch," a small voice spoke up behind him.
It wasn't the voice, so much as the question, that alarmed Splinter into nearly dropping the pot of broth he was setting on the stovetop. Carefully steadying the heavy cookware, Splinter turned and regarded Donatello with keen eyes.
"You mean a blowtorch, my son. And no, you may not. They are dangerous, and I am certain they do not make them small enough for you to lift. Why do you ask," he inquired off Donatello's crestfallen look.
Hands linked behind his back and nudging at the floor with the toes of one foot, Donatello was the picture of childhood innocence. Perhaps not unwisely, Splinter was suspicious.
"I wanna build somethin'," the tiny turtle spoke up, biting his lip. "Somethin' too big for my Legos an' blocks," he added defensively.
Having something of an inkling of what Donatello was after, Splinter crouched down and hugged his son. "Perhaps, for Christmas, you will get something even better," he hinted before nudging Donatello out of the kitchen.
From outside, he heard the youngest brother wailing, "But Cricksmicks is too far awaaayyy," before he was silenced by Leonardo's firm "not that far, Mikey, we can wait."
Splinter certainly hoped so.
:::
"Hi-ya!"
"Wah!"
"Take that, Pillow Monster! Yah!"
Of all the things he disliked about Power Rangers, perhaps his least favorite was the way each Ranger felt the need to wail like vengeful spirits when they fought. Perhaps he was simply prejudiced, but there was no such show of needless aggression in the art of ninjutsu. Not to mention, it inspired even more riotous noise in his home.
The four boys had, in a fit of ingenuity, decided that in order to make their play-time more realistic, they needed a real monster to defeat.
Donatello had quickly suggested they use a pillow, since they wouldn't break it and make Splinter mad at them (and he had stifled a laugh when he overheard that, because as amusing as it was, it also meant they were learning to think ahead). Grasping the idea, Leonardo had insisted that Splinter help him attach a pillow from the rafters by Michaelangelo's jump-rope, which was tearfully sacrificed with promises to retrieve it after their game was over.
Raphael had drawn a mean monster-face on his own pillowcase (which Splinter had cringed over, but since they had been well-behaved recently, he let this one indiscretion go) and adorned the pillow with it triumphantly. As a finishing touch, Splinter bunched up a bit of cloth on each side of the pillowcase, tying a bit of twine around each bundle to make two little tentacle-looking arms.
The boys had been pleased with their monster, and had proceeded to run around it in circles, batting at it with their little fists and proclaiming that they, the Power Rangers, would stop its evil plan.
It was times like this that had inspired Splinter to create a portfolio of drawings of the boys, sketched quickly while the memory was fresh. He knew that a day would come when he'd be dealing with four tall, stubborn, emotional teenagers, and he would be forced to pull out his pictures to remind himself not to crack them over the heads with his walking stick.
As it was, he was content to sit, watching, waiting for his boys to wind down so they could be put to bed.
:::
"Zordon, come in," Michaelangelo shouted, writhing on the ground theatrically as his brothers giggled, buried under their couch-cushion-rock-slide. "Zordon, come in!"
Sighing, Splinter turned the page of his scavanged newspaper. "Yes, Orange Ranger, I hear you."
"We need more power to break the rocks or we'll be squished! Help!"
Sipping his tea, Splinter nodded. "Very well, Orange Ranger." As he scanned the sports section disinterestedly, he reached over and flipped their new kitchen light on and off. The giggling from beneath the mound of cushions increased in volume, and the little hill of cracked leather quivered. "I am gathering the power from the lair and sending it to you. Good luck."
From within the couch-cushion-tomb, Leonardo's voice interjected, "S'not The Lair, it's the Command Center."
Refraining from rubbing his temples, Splinter hummed to himself. "Perhaps, as you are a new team of Power Rangers, you should have a new headquarters."
"Yeah," came Raphael's contribution, "we can have an even better place than on t.v.! With secret doors an' a moat an' stuff!"
As the boys agreed, Splinter gave the lights a final flicker. "I have sent you The Lair's power, Rangers."
"Ta-da! Thanks, Zordon!"
As the children tossed couch cushions everywhere, Splinter sighed again and turned to the business section.
Kids.
:::
The darkness of the sewers was never a problem for Splinter - the rats who now shared his DNA had long-since adapted to their environment, and had shared their gifts with him generously. He had a multitude of senses to aid him in his endeavors, and it was fortunate, because he had only a few hours to set everything up before his sons would rise.
Creeping into their home, Splinter laid the last of the set down by it's mates. It had taken him very little time to find the supplies. Crafting his sons' gifts to fit their desires had been a bit...trickier. Leonardo's wings and Raphael's flamethrower had been particularly challenging, but as ever, overcoming the challenge had left him feeling fulfilled.
As he plugged their first authentic Christmas tree (which was a little bent in places and sporting bare patches where many plastic needles has been ripped out) into the outlet, he could hear the sounds of his children stirring.
Michaelangelo was the first out of bed - Christmas Day was, perhaps, the only day the youngest turtle was up before his brothers. When his sleepy gaze fell on the large, garishly-orange object near the tree, he let out a such a gleeful shout Splinter was certain all of New York had heard him.
"Guuuuuuuys! Wake up, wake up, wake uuuuuup!"
Scurrying from their beds, the other three boys tumbled into the living area, eyes wide and gleaming joyfully at the sight.
Donatello was the first to rush forward, opening the little purple cardboard door with the lightning bolt painted on the side. Splinter had made sure to include a dashboard with plastic buttons and knobs of all sizes, each one placed precisely where his son had drawn them.
Donatello ran his fingers over the buttons reverently, turning his head to look up at his father. "You built us Zords," he breathed. By now, his brothers were examining their own creations, giggling and squealing as they cavorted.
"Is that not what Zordon must do," Splinter replied teasingly. "After all, what are his Rangers without their Zords?"
Donatello's grin was wider than Splinter had ever seen it as he continued his methodical examination.
His drawing had been simple and well-labelled, which made the actual thing easier to construct. A large cardboard box with a slightly domed "roof," a windscreen made of plastic wrap stretched over a wire frame, a little seat made from a smaller box reinforced with thin plywood, and four large cardboard circles attached to the outside with brads so they could be spun. the body was painted purple, with yellow lightning bolts here and there.
Leonardo's was similarly simple, with a rounded front, long wings bent carefully in places so it could "flap," and a long katana painted on one side. He had no top to his, but he had the same windscreen and seat his brother did, and a little plastic steering wheel that was once the rear tire of a human child's tricycle.
Raphael's had been quite difficult. His design had been that of a lion, his box having front paws attached to make it look like a big cat about to spring. A smaller box attached to the front served as a head and mouth for the lion, and between the cardboard teeth was a paper towel roll, orange and red spears of construction-paper flame erupting from the lion's jaws. His Zord was bright red, and had a long tail made of rope, frayed at the end to look like a tuft. He, too, had a windscreen, steering wheel, and seat.
Michaelangelo's, however, had been both difficult to make, and amusing. His Zord was a large turtle, simply a round dome with little feet sticking out of the sides, a head poking out from the front, and a bitty, pointed tail in the back. Mikey sat himself in the very middle, no windscreen to protect him, with a simple joystick to maneuver his turtle (which, from what Splinter could gather from the drawing, was supposed to be a hovercraft of some kind) and a big, red button labelled 'Terbo Trusterz'. The difficult part had been the orange flame design that covered every inch of the thing.
Months of labor and planning, hunting and salvaging, aches and pains, and he was fairly certain it would just mean more noise and rambunctiousness. But sitting there in his chair, watching the four boys tumbling about to fight their Pillow Monster, only to race back to their Zords to pretend to zoom across the sky, he could only feel that it was worth it.
:::
"Hey."
Glancing up from his cup only briefly, Leo continued to whisk the powder deftly. "Hey."
Flopping heavily onto the kitchen chair across from his brother, Raph set something down on the table delicately. Leo's lips quirked upwards.
"You still have that thing?"
"Yeah. I still have everything Splinter ever gave us. You don't?"
Which was a silly question. Of course he did. His old, wooden tea set was scratched and dented, the scrolls he copied his first kanji on were yellowed with age, his koto was missing strings and hadn't been played since he was eight years old, but he still had it all. Even the old paper screen that used to serve as their bedroom walls was propped up against one wall of his room.
"You remember these?"
Looking up from his tea again, Leo peered at the pages of Raph's old coloring book.
There, in bold blue letters, were the words "Bloo Egal Zord".
"Oh, man, I'd forgotten about that. We must have drawn those years ago," Leo breathed, reaching out to trace the words. And underneath them was- "My Zord."
"Yeah. I thought for years Splinter must have had some kinda ESP or somethin'," Raph said bemusedly. "I guess he snuck the book out and copied our little blueprints."
"Hmm."
"Whatcha doin', bros?"
Glancing up at Mikey, the two eldest teens grinned. "Hey, Pink Ranger. Lookin' good today," Raph teased.
"Aw, man, are you ever gonna forget that," the orange-clad turtle griped, sitting down heavily and letting his head fall into his arms tiredly. "I was four."
"So was I," Leo reminded him, "and I still thought it was weird."
"Oh, shut up, Leo," came the muffled reparté.
Raph snorted. "Witty as ever, Mikey."
The conversation lapsed into tense silence. Raph flipped through the book, smirking at some things, grimacing at others. Leo sipped his tea, eyes staring into nothingness as he thought. Mikey dozed lightly, too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer.
The sound of a door opening and closing, however, brought all their heads up and their eyes to their brother, who was striding over to them, his face a mask of tension and concern.
"He's doing fine," he said without preamble. "The crackles are much less pronounced, his fever's broken, and he's much more responsive. He'll be okay," Donnie finished, collapsing into the chair Raph kicked out, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.
Almost imperceptibly, the atmosphere of forced normality shattered. Mikey let his head fall to the table again with an audible thunk, laughing breathlessly. Leo set his teacup down, the bitter liquid sloshing as his hands shook. Raph sighed, rubbing his eyes roughly with the heels of his hands. "Christ," he groaned, slumping back in his chair.
Donnie huffed a chuckle, looking up. "We need to be careful, though. I have no idea how susceptible we are to pneumonia, or even what kind of pneumonia it is, so don't go poking around in his room without a mask on, wash your hands up to the elbow before coming out, and tell me if you start feeling even a little under the weather," the young genius finished sternly.
As his brothers nodded their assent, Donnie caught sight of the book in front of Raph. "Is that what I think it is," he asked curiously. When Raph slid it over, he paged through it quickly until he found a picture of a bright purple machine, every button and dial meticulously labelled. "Wow. Look at that, I spelled 'ignition' wrong," he snickered, grinning.
Mikey peered over his shoulder. "Ha! And you say my spelling is bad."
"It is, Mikey, and the fact that you're gloating over spelling better than a four-year-old doesn't help your case," Leo said absently, his brow furrowing. "What do you think happened to those things? I lost track of them after The Foot trashed The Lair."
"Dunno," Raph grunted, getting up to pour a glass of milk. "But what would we use them for now? Ain't we a little old for Power Rangers?"
:::
Splinter smiled tiredly from his armchair as his sons crowded around their television set, popcorn and pizza lying within arm's reach. Every once in a while, he'd clear his throat, and four heads would whip around to inspect him for any signs of illness. I would have been heartwarming, had it not been so tiresome. He was getting older, yes, but it wasn't as though he was old.
"Shhh! Guys, shut up, it's coming on!"
Explosions lit up the screen as the Power Rangers: S.P.D. theme-song started.
"I still say the original was way cooler," Mikey said offhandedly, picking up a slice of pizza.
"The special effects are a little better in this one," was Donnie's rebuttal.
"Puh-lease."
"Would you two clowns shut up so we can hear?"
Smiling to himself, Splinter sank back into his chair. He thought of the drawings in his study, thought of the little Zords, now faded and dented, tucked away carefully in their storage closet, the Pillow Monster that had been their adversary for so long sitting in the pilot's seat of the HoverTurtle Zord. His smile widened.
"No! Not the Green Ranger!"
"Will you knock it off, Mikey? You're getting popcorn everywhere!"
"Everyone knock it off - I'm trying to watch this."
"Oh, shut it, Blue Eagle."
Splinter chuckled.
Kids.
:::
END
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A/N - Okay, so, originally planned as a short little drabble of an argument between Twee!Turtles about who gets to be which Ranger, it kind of...exploded. Anyway, you can blame my sister for this rambling bit of insanity - she mentioned something about the turtles being Power Rangers, and suddenly, there was this. So...yeah. *points as Plus2-minus1-brilliance* Blame her!
Speaking of which, Kaijuu, you had better be happy with this - it took me until a quarter to two in the morning to write!
I was thinking of writing something more about the Zords being put to good use, but maybe that'll come in a sequel or something. Who knows?
As ever, please review! I want to know how badly you hate me for this!
Peace!
Akiko =)